…
They passed through the outer grounds, the laughter and music of Highgarden fading behind them. Then, without warning, the air changed.
The sounds of the festival—the chatter, the songs, the distant cheers—seemed to dim, as if swallowed by something unseen.
Mors slowed. His instincts screamed.
He turned his head slightly, voice tightening. "Barristan… we're surrounded. Brace yourself."
Then the air tore—
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Dozens of crossbow bolts sliced through the dusk from every direction, their steel tips catching the last traces of fading light as time seemed to slow.
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Mors saw the bolts as if they were moving slower than they really were.
They were coming from every direction. No gaps. No clean path to cover. No time to counter.
'I can probably live through this with my aura. But Barristan can't,' he thought, cold and fast.
He didn't waste breath on another warning.
He seized Barristan by the collar, hauled him sideways with brutal force, and drove them both into a roll.
"Ahh—dammit all!" Barristan hissed as they hit the dirt.
They slammed to a stop behind a low rise. Mors glanced down. Two bolts had found Barristan anyway—one buried in his lower back on the right side, another in the back of his thigh.
Too close.
In that same instant, Mors's eyes caught a thicker clump of brush off to the left. He dragged Barristan up by the belt, flooded his aura into raw strength, and heaved—hurling Barristan toward the cover before the knight could even protest.
Then Mors broke in the opposite direction at a sprint, angling straight toward the men who'd fired.
More bolts screamed toward him.
He dove forward into another roll. He felt fabric tear. He felt the bolts glancing off his aura. They probably thought he wore armor beneath his clothes. He didn't feel blood, but he was getting hit too much, he knew he'd be bruised.
He came up with blades in his hands—Crocea, his Valyrian steel dagger, in one fist and his castle-forged sword in the other—and crashed into the nearest shooters like a storm front.
After that, it was killing.
He didn't let them reload. He slit throats with the dagger. He took heads with the sword. When a man dropped, Mors dragged the body in front of him and used it as moving cover, then flung it into another archer to break his aim.
They wore dark cloaks. Their faces were covered. But he could see their eyes.
He saw fear.
'Good,' he thought. 'You should be afraid. This was a mistake.'
A flash of red lit the sky behind him, overtaking the clouds. Moments later came the sounds of panic—screams, shouting, the distant crackle of flame. It was coming from the direction of the tourney grounds.
'A fire… a distraction,' Mors realized grimly.
He didn't turn. He couldn't afford to… Distraction was death.
Steel flashed at his side. He twisted, cutting through a raised crossbow and the hands holding it in one motion. Another man lunged. Mors pivoted, let the strike pass, and put his dagger up under the jaw and out through the throat in a single drive.
From the corner of his eye he caught movement toward the brush where he'd thrown Barristan—and fighting. Barristan was up, bleeding, blade drawn, holding a line with members of the Eclipse Guard. They looked battered. Outnumbered. They'd clearly been engaged before the bolts ever flew.
'Seven hells. This much noise and nobody's here yet? Where is everyone?' Mors thought, anger spiking.
More bolts came.
He burst forward with aura-fed speed when he could. When he couldn't, he braced and let the outer layer of his aura take the impact. But they kept coming and he could feel that fatigue would kick in if he kept tanking them.
"His armor keeps turning the bolts! Fall back!" one of the cloaked men shouted in another language.
Low Valyrian.
That narrowed it.
Mors slipped under a wild slash, cut across the attacker's thigh to drop him, then drove the dagger up under the chin to finish him. Then turned and impaled another on his sword.
Suddenly he felt a cold prickle run down his neck.
"I am so sorry…" someone said, lamenting in broken Westerosi.
Mors spun.
A heavy bolt was already mid-flight, aimed straight for his chest. He whipped his dagger into the shooter's eye and, in the same motion, snatched the bolt from the air with his free hand.
He glanced at the bolt in his palm. The tip wasn't common steel; the metal rippled faintly and a sour, oily smell clung to it—almost fishlike.
Valyrian-tipped. Poisoned.
But the danger didn't pass.
"I am sorry…" another voice said softly, in broken Westerosi.
'Behind—?' Mors's mind barely formed the thought. He wrenched his blade from the corpse and turned to meet the next volley.
The bolts struck the sword, shattering the blade and deflecting the shots enough to alter their paths.
It wasn't enough.
Then the pain came.
"Ahh—" Mors snarled as the two bolts slammed into his chest—one around his left shoulder, just above the heart, and one on his left abdomen.
"I'm sor—" The last began to say but was impaled by the bolt Mors was holding in his left hand.
At the same time.
"Ha! It worked!" someone crowed in Low Valyrian.
"Why didn't it go clean through?" another demanded while reloading his crossbow.
"I don't care. He's hurt, fire those special bolts. It's not just those sorrowful bastards who has them."
At that moment Mors had realized.
The first few volleys hadn't been meant to kill him—they were meant to lure him into comfort.
They'd studied him. They knew what he could do.
He could see it now in their formation, in the timing of every shot. They'd come prepared—contingencies in place for the man they knew wasn't easy to kill.
He'd shown too much before, and now they'd built a trap around it.
'They came to kill me,' he thought grimly. 'This wasn't random—it was an execution.'
He didn't have time to pace himself.
He burned it.
He dropped into overdrive—flooding his aura, forcing power into speed and violence.
The world sharpened into clarity.
He swung down, shattering the embedded bolts—leaving only jagged inches protruding—then moved.
Before the nearest man could even draw breath, Mors was upon him. The Sorrowful Man dropped before he could utter a word. Mors rammed the jagged hilt of his broken sword into the man's throat, stepped past him to seize his weapon, sidestepped another shot, and took the shooter's hands off at the wrists. Then he turned and split a third attacker from collarbone to hip.
The sword stuck, then snapped.
'Seven hells—I should've never left Solaris behind,' Mors thought, fury sparking through the haze.
Fine.
He hurled the broken lower half; it smashed into another man's face with a dull crack. Mors drove a kick into the man's knee, sending it sideways, then ripped a blade from a fallen body and kept moving.
He could feel something working at the wounds with the bolts. A burn. A crawling numbness.
Poison.
The sensation started—then ebbed, faded, and finally stalled.
Oberyn's training. Years of slow-dose work. You don't fear poison when you live with poison.
Mors vaulted over a lunge, landed behind the man, opened his spine, recovered his Valyrian dagger from the dirt, and cut his way back toward Barristan.
By now the number of attackers had thinned. He could hear the clatter of armored boots rushing toward them from deeper in the grounds.
'Reinforcements—finally.' He thought.
"Your grace!" Barristan called.
Mors turned.
Barristan was hobbling toward him, still fighting, still swinging, but pale. The bolts were still in him. The skin around the wounds was already going gray.
'The poison,' Mors realized, a sharp stab of worry cutting through the adrenaline.
"Barristan, I'm hurt, but I'm standing," Mors said, his voice low and commanding. "Focus on yourself. I order you not to die."
Barristan blinked at that—surprised by the tone, maybe even amused for half a heartbeat through the pain—then straightened on instinct. "Yes… yes, Your Grace."
It had only been minutes.
Then Oberyn and Manfrey crashed in with a wave of guards and two full ten-man units of Spears of the Sun. The newcomers hit the remaining attackers like a hammer. The cloaked men began to break.
Oberyn and Manfrey went straight to Mors.
"Brother!"
"Mors!"
He must've looked worse than he felt. His clothes were torn through in a dozen places where bolts had hit and glanced. His front was blood-wet. His hands and face were smeared with other men's blood and black grit. He looked less like a king and more like a weapon that had just been used.
"I'm fine," Mors said. "Help me pull these bolts. Then let's see to Barristan—he's been poisoned."
Oberyn reached for one of the bolts in Mors's front, tugged it free, and hissed when he saw the head.
"Valyrian tips…" he muttered. He sniffed, then scowled. "This is manticore venom."
His tone hardened. "Whoever sent them knew exactly what they were doing."
"Yes," Mors said quietly. "This was a trap."
Mors was already moving toward Barristan, forcing his aura outward—pushing healing and resistance into the older knight's body, buying him time against the poison.
Manfrey kept watch nearby while Oberyn worked, carefully tending Barristan's wounds. After a tense moment, Oberyn exhaled in relief.
"Good. This one isn't manticore venom—I've got just the thing."
He reached into his satchel, produced a small vial, and handed it to Barristan. "Drink this. Slowly."
"Brother, let me—" Oberyn began, but his Mors spoke first.
"Oberyn. Manfrey," Mors called, still standing where he was. His voice was low but steady, carrying the weight of exhaustion.
They hurried over.
"What is it, brother?" Oberyn asked, eyes still scanning for danger.
Mors drew in a slow breath. "Hold me."
Both men froze.
"What?" Oberyn asked. "What do you mean?"
"I can't hold on much longer," Mors admitted quietly. "But I can't show weakness… not here."
They understood immediately. Oberyn slipped an arm around his brother, while Manfrey moved to Barristan's side, making it look as though they were tending to the wounded knight.
"Wait here," Manfrey said, glancing around. "I'll bring something for you to sit on."
A moment later, he returned with two stools. Mors and Barristan sat, Oberyn keeping a steady hand on Mors's shoulder—outwardly a gesture of comfort, but in truth, the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
Mors took a slow breath. "How was the situation back there? How's the family?"
Oberyn, still tending to Mors's wounds, replied, "They're safe. Arthur, Garth, and Daro are with them—each has their guard squad in place. Fires broke out suddenly; it was strange. There was even an attempt on Mace's life, though it felt too clumsy to be real. That's when Malora approached us, worried, saying you needed help. Manfrey and I quickly gathered men to find you, in case something was truly off. Jorran and Cale left your children under Arthur's protection and came with us."
Mors smiled slightly at that, fondness in his eyes. "Malora, huh?"
Oberyn then asked thoughtfully, "Do you have any idea who tried to kill you?"
"I do," Mors said, feeling strength return to his voice. "There were Sorrowful Men among them, and I heard others speaking in Low Valyrian."
Oberyn looked up sharply. "Sorrowful Men? That explains the manticore venom."
"Low Valyrian?" Manfrey repeated under his breath.
Barristan, sitting nearby, added, "Then they're most likely from the Free Cities. Doesn't sound like Westerosi killers to me—but someone here could've hired them."
At that moment, Jorran and Cale arrived.
"Your Grace," Cale said, stepping forward, "the area's been cleared. We managed to capture a few men—they've been taken for questioning."
"Good," Mors said. "Make sure you confirm that everyone else is truly dead. If any Sorrowful Men are still breathing, I want them alive."
Jorran blinked. "Sorrowful Men! Pardon me, Your Grace—"
"None of that, Jorran," Mors interrupted, his tone softening. "We've known each other too long for titles."
Cale nodded. "By your will."
The two men bowed and departed.
Mors turned to Barristan. "How are you feeling?"
"Much better, Your Grace," Barristan said, his color slowly returning. "It feels as though the poison's stopped spreading."
"Good," Oberyn said, binding the last of Mors's bandages. "But that's just the antidote working. You'll be weak for a while. Rest for at least a week."
Barristan shook his head. "I'm a Kingsguard. I rest only when I know my king is safe."
Mors gave a quiet chuckle. "And your king is safe. So now, it's your turn to rest."
He rose, steadying himself until the dizziness faded, then looked around at the others, who had also stood.
"Come," he said firmly. "We've work to do—and a lion to interrogate."
Barristan seemed ready to argue, but caught Mors's look and relented with a nod.
Manfrey was watching him with a strange expression.
Mors noticed and raised a brow. "What?"
"Are you going like this, Your Grace?" Manfrey asked, gesturing at Mors's torn and blood-stained clothes while deliberately emphasizing the title.
Mors glanced down, finally taking in the state he was in. "Ah. Right."
He exhaled through his nose, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'll borrow one of the men's leather armors for now."
Oberyn grinned. "Oh, I thought he was angling for another title—something like the Bloody Dragon!"
Manfrey chuckled. "Hmm. Personally, I'm more partial to the Bloody Sun."
Mors rolled his eyes at the two of them. "Idiots."
Manfrey cleared his throat. "Right. Let me go help you find some armor."
He turned and hurried off to fetch a set from one of the guards.
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Mors stood ready with Oberyn, Manfrey, and Ser Jorran and Ser Cale of his Kingsguard. Ser Barristan, despite his wounds, refused to leave his side. Their men stood in formation, awaiting the return of a small party sent ahead.
Moments later, four guards came running toward them, carrying a long object draped in a black cloth. One stopped before King Mors, panting.
"Your Grace—as ordered, we retrieved your spear," he said, presenting it as if in ceremony.
Mors smiled faintly and took it. "You have my thanks. All of you."
He pulled away the cloth, revealing Solaris, and gripped the familiar shaft with both hands.
"From this day forward, no matter where I go," Mors said, his tone solemn, "Solaris will be with me."
He caught Oberyn's mischievous smirk out of the corner of his eye. The Red Viper was clearly about to say something inappropriate.
Mors turned and pointed. "Don't."
Oberyn raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "All right, all right—I'll save it for later."
Manfrey just shook his head with a small smile.
Mors rolled his eyes. "Let's move."
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They marched across the common grounds, torches flickering in the night as they led the way. The air still smelled faintly of smoke from the earlier fire. Panic lingered; Reachmen guards were out in force, struggling to maintain order after the chaos of the assassination attempt on King Mace Tyrell.
Mors's host reached the western pavilions near the Rock's encampment. Lannister guards stood at the perimeter, blocking anyone not sworn to the Rock from passing.
"Halt! No one enters," one guard called, not recognizing Mors in his battered leathers.
Ser Cale stepped forward. "This is King Mors of Dorne. He comes to see King Jaime on urgent matters."
The guard's eyes widened. He exchanged a nervous glance with his companion just as more Westermen guards appeared, drawn by the sight of the large Dornish host. A Lannister captain approached quickly.
"King Mors," the captain said, bowing. "I've sent word to inform His Grace, King Jaime. We meant no offense, but we've been ordered not to allow outsiders within the camp. Please—wait here a moment."
Mors studied him. The man's stance was disciplined, but not hostile. "Very well," he said. "It's a small matter."
"Your understanding is appreciated, King Mors," the captain replied, visibly relieved.
As they waited, movement caught their eyes—banners approaching from the direction of the commons. Instinctively, Mors's host shifted formation, ready in case of another ambush. But as the group drew closer, they saw the sigils of House Stark, House Arryn, and House Hightower.
King Denys Arryn, King Brandon Stark, and Ser Baelor Hightower were at their head.
"Mors!" "King Mors!" they called out as they approached.
Their expressions were tense but softened in relief upon seeing him alive.
"Mors, we came as soon as we heard," Brandon said, his voice warm but edged with anger. "Ambushed by cowards! You look well enough, aye?"
"Goodbrother," Baelor added, "we were told the attack was meant for you. We rushed over the moment we heard."
Denys shook his head. "To think they would strike during a tourney—an insult to every crown here. Even that farce of an attempt on King Mace… a distraction, nothing more."
Mors nodded, his expression calm but his eyes cold. "Yes. It was all carefully planned. Had it been anyone else, they wouldn't have survived."
Oberyn's tone was sharper. "That's right. You should've seen the state of his clothes—he hasn't looked this torn up since the war." His fist clenched at his side. The jest couldn't hide his anger.
Brandon's gaze hardened. "Do you think this was the Lannisters?"
Before Mors could answer, he saw Jaime Lannister approaching from across the field. He lowered his voice. "I wasn't sure before… but now, I doubt it. Let's confirm it ourselves."
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Jaime arrived moments later, flanked by his own men. "King Mors," he said, relief clear in his voice, "I'm glad to see you safe. When I heard the commotion and couldn't find you, I feared the worst."
Mors, Brandon, Denys, Oberyn, Manfrey, and Baelor exchanged quick glances. They could read the sincerity in Jaime's eyes.
"Yes," Mors said evenly. "But it was close."
"Close?" Jaime frowned. "What do you mean?"
"As Ser Barristan and I made our way here for our planned spar, we were ambushed on the path," Mors said, watching Jaime carefully.
"Ambushed?" Jaime's eyes widened. "Seven hells—you don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?"
Mors held his gaze. Then he shook his head slowly. "I wasn't sure before. But I can tell now—you didn't."
For a moment, the tension broke.
Jaime exhaled, shoulders easing. "Then what's next? Do you need my help?"
Mors nodded. "That's appreciated. But first, we should see to King Mace. As the host, he may need our aid."
Jaime straightened. "Then let's go. I'm ready."
Together, their hosts turned and began marching toward Highgarden.
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The kings, Prince Oberyn, Prince Manfrey, and a small escort of guards were granted entry into the carefully secured halls of Highgarden.
Inside, they found King Mace Tyrell—gorging himself nervously on a plate of roasted meats. As the group approached, Lord Leyton Hightower stepped forward.
"King Mors, I'm relieved to see you safe. Is it true? Were you ambushed as well?"
Before Mors could reply, Mace finally noticed them and launched into his own heroic retelling.
"Brother Mors! Kings Brandon, Denys, Jaime—so good to see you, all well and safe! Dreadful business, dreadful! To think they tried to kill me in my own home!" Mace exclaimed, oil glistening on his lips. "But they had another thing coming, oh yes they did! They barely raised their weapons before my legendary prowess sent them running! I was quite the champion in my youth, you know, before the duties of lordship forced me to abandon my dream of winning every tourney in Westeros. Why, for this—"
"Seven save us…" Oberyn muttered under his breath.
Before Mace could crown himself his own Queen of Love and Beauty, Lord Leyton cut in smoothly. "I'm sure everyone is, ah, enthralled by your courageous retelling, Your Grace, but perhaps the kings would rather know if there is something they can assist you with?"
"Oh! Foolish me, of course, of course," Mace said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "My nerves are still a bit on edge, you see—having a blade so close, staring death in the eye…" He sighed dramatically.
Mors, Oberyn, Manfrey, Brandon, Denys, and Jaime all exchanged glances—speechless.
"But I'm no coward! That's why—" Mace began again, only to be cut short by a sharp thwack to the back of his head.
"Enough, you oaf!" snapped Lady Olenna Redwyne, eyes flashing. "We don't have time for your nonsense. You weren't the only one whose life was targeted tonight. A real assassination attempt occurred on King Mors—right here, in the heart of the Reach, under our very noses!"
Mors blinked, impressed by how quickly Olenna's network had learned of it.
"What?" Mace stammered, rubbing the back of his head. His eyes darted between his mother and Mors in disbelief.
Mors sighed but nodded. "That's right. It was a deadly attempt. There were over fifty attackers, including Sorrowful Men. Some used crossbows fitted with special bolts—Valyrian steel tips coated in manticore venom. And I heard several speaking in Low Valyrian."
The chamber fell silent.
Olenna's eyes widened as she studied Mors, noting the faint traces of exhaustion beneath his calm. The others—Leyton, Baelor, Jaime, Denys, Brandon—looked equally stunned.
Mace blinked several times, his face turning a deep shade of red as the comparison dawned on him—his "heroic" tale suddenly paling beside Mors's ordeal.
Brandon exhaled. "This…" he began, then stopped, utterly at a loss for words.
Olenna recovered first. "You were the true target," she said softly. "The fire, the farce of an attack on Mace—it was all a distraction. But by whom…?" She lowered herself into a chair, deep in thought.
Mors inclined his head. "Whoever they were, they failed. But we came to see if we could help."
Mace opened his mouth, but one look from Olenna silenced him.
Lord Leyton stepped in. "For now, all we can do is keep the people calm while we complete our sweep of the castle. Whoever planned this likely had accomplices. If any of the attackers were captured, any information you can share will be invaluable."
Mors nodded. "Very well. We'll return to our camp and send word if we uncover anything."
After brief farewells, the kings departed together. Mors and Jaime exchanged a final nod, agreeing to reschedule their sparring match for another day—one without fire, poison, or assassins.
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A while later, in the Martell pavilion at the heart of the Dornish camp, Mors was being hugged fiercely by Ashara, Malora, and Alyssa. The three clung to him tightly, fear and relief written across their faces as they took in the shredded remnants of the clothes he'd worn when he left, now lying torn across the floor.
"Sunny… I—" Ashara tried to speak, her voice catching in her throat.
"Shh," Mors murmured, holding her close. "It's all right. You know it takes more than that to bring me down."
"Waaah! They tried to take my Morsy!" Malora wailed, squeezing him harder.
"I'm just glad you came back to us," Alyssa said, composed as ever, though her hand rested protectively on Malora's shoulder.
"My sun, whoever they are—we can't let them go unpunished," Ashara said, her voice trembling but her eyes hard as steel.
"If I ever see them, I'll gut them myself!" Malora cried, then suddenly stopped mid-sob, her expression lighting up with a strange sort of determination. "Fortunately, I always spy on Morsy when I get a chance! Oh, I'll make sure I do it much, much more now! Hehe, not one moment will escape me!"
Mors, Ashara, and Alyssa looked at Malora with deadpan expressions of exasperation, a bead of sweat slipping down each of their faces.
"Lora, there's no need for that, you know how it tires—" Mors began, but didn't finish.
"Goodbrother!" a voice called from outside—Allyria's, urgent and alarmed.
Mors and Ashara exchanged a worried glance, immediately pulling apart as he opened the pavilion flap.
"Ria, what's the matter? Did something happen?" Mors asked, stepping toward her.
"Mors—have you seen Lyanna?" Allyria blurted, her eyes wide with panic.
"What?" Mors frowned, confused.
"Benjen's outside—Lyanna's missing!" Allyria explained hurriedly.
Mors's eyes widened, and Ashara gasped. Alyssa's expression hardened, while Malora stepped forward and wrapped Allyria in a quick hug, trying to calm her trembling hands.
Without another word, Mors turned and rushed outside.