"YOU CAN'T PROTECT ME FROM EVERYTHING!" Elia's voice cracked like thunder, and suddenly the entire hall was silent.
She stood there, trembling—from emotion or her weak lungs, Kael couldn't tell—and her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"You can't protect me from the king. From politics. From fate. From—from *life*, Kael. I'm not made of glass. I'm not some treasure you can lock away in a tower and keep safe forever. I'm a person. A princess of Dorne. And if my marriage can strengthen our house, protect our family, give us leverage in the realm—" Her voice broke. "—then I'll do it. I'll do what needs to be done. Because that's what we do. That's what Martells have always done."
"You could die," Kael said, and his voice was raw. "In childbirth. The maesters said—"
"The maesters say a lot of things. They said I'd die as a baby. They said I'd never see my fifth nameday. They said I'd never survive to ten." Elia lifted her chin. "I'm fifteen. Still here. Still breathing. Still refusing to give the Stranger what he wants."
"Elia—"
"No." She crossed to him, took his hands. "Brother. Twin. Listen to me. I know you're scared. I know you see things—futures, possibilities, dangers that the rest of us can't see. But you can't let fear control you. You can't let it make you hold so tight that you suffocate the people you love."
Kael felt something in his chest crack. "I just—I can't lose you. I won't survive losing you."
"You won't lose me. I'm your twin. Your other half. No matter where I am—King's Landing, Dorne, the far side of the world—you won't lose me." Her grip tightened. "But you have to let me make my own choices. Even if they're dangerous. Even if they scare you. Because that's what love is. Letting go even when every instinct says hold tighter."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Kael looked at his twin—fragile and fierce and so impossibly brave—and felt every future he'd been trying to prevent collapse into this single moment.
*She's right. Gods help me, she's right. I can't save her by caging her. I can only love her and trust her and be there when she needs me.*
*But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for the crown prince.*
"If he makes a formal proposal," Kael said slowly, "we negotiate. Hard. We demand protections. Guarantees. Uncle Lewyn in the Kingsguard. A Dornish guard for Elia's household. Regular visits home. Medical support. Everything we can possibly extract to keep her safe."
"Agreed," Doran said immediately.
"And—" Kael's voice hardened. "—if I even suspect she's being mistreated, being neglected, being put in danger—I'm going to King's Landing. And I'm bringing her home. Crown prince or no crown prince. Iron Throne or no Iron Throne."
"Kael—" Neria started.
"Those are my terms," Kael said flatly. "Take them or—or tell me to leave. Because I won't pretend to be reasonable about this. Not about her."
The room was silent for a long moment.
Then Elia laughed—exhausted and real.
"You're impossible," she said.
"I'm protective."
"Same thing with you." But she was smiling through her tears. "All right. We negotiate. We demand everything. We make Prince Rhaegar work for this match if he wants it. Deal?"
"Deal."
Neria stood, and her voice carried the weight of command. "Then it's settled. If Prince Rhaegar makes a formal proposal—and only if—we negotiate terms that protect Elia, strengthen House Martell, and give us leverage at court. Until then—" She looked at each of them. "—we proceed with the Stepstones campaign. We build our strength. We prepare for whatever's coming."
"And what *is* coming?" Oberyn asked. "Because everyone's been dancing around it, but something's happening. Something bigger than pirates and marriage proposals. I can feel it."
Doran and Kael exchanged glances.
"The realm is unstable," Doran said finally. "King Aerys grows more paranoid by the month. The great houses are positioning themselves for—something. War, maybe. Or succession crisis. Or simply the chaos that comes when strong institutions begin to crumble."
"And we're preparing," Kael added. "Taking the Stepstones gives us strategic position. Strengthening alliances gives us support. Everything we're doing—the marriages, the military campaigns, the political maneuvering—it's all preparing for the storm."
"What storm?" Oberyn pressed.
"The one that's always coming," Lewyn said quietly. "The one that's been building since Summerhall. Since the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Since—" He paused. "—since the dragons died and took the realm's stability with them."
The words settled over the room like ash.
"Then we'd better be ready," Mellario said, speaking for the first time. Her hand rested on her swollen belly—protective, maternal. "For whatever comes. For our children."
"We will be," Neria said firmly. "House Martell has survived worse. We survived the Conquest. The rebellions. The droughts and plagues and betrayals. We'll survive this too."
"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken," Elia murmured.
"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken," they echoed.
---
**Later - The Water Gardens**
Kael found Ashara by the fountains again. She was becoming predictable in her habits, which should have annoyed him but instead felt comforting.
Predictable meant safe. Meant she'd be where he expected when he needed to find her.
She looked up when he approached, and her expression was worried.
"I heard," she said. "About Prince Rhaegar. About Elia."
"News travels fast."
"Servants gossip. And I'm—" She paused. "—I'm worried about you. About what this means."
Kael sat beside her, and for a long moment, he just watched the water. Clear, clean, moving in patterns that made sense.
"I'm terrified," he admitted finally. "Of losing her. Of not being able to protect her. Of watching everything I've been trying to prevent happen anyway."
"You can't control everything, Kael. You can't prevent every bad outcome just by being strong enough or fast enough or clever enough."
"I can try."
"And you'll break yourself trying. Is that what you want? To shatter yourself into pieces because you couldn't save everyone from everything?"
"If it keeps them alive? Yes."
Ashara was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: "What happens if you fail? If despite everything you do, despite all your gifts and planning and desperate effort—what if Elia marries Rhaegar and it goes wrong anyway?"
*Then I'll burn King's Landing to the ground. I'll kill everyone who hurts her. I'll become the monster they're afraid I already am.*
"I don't know," Kael said aloud.
"That's a lie."
"Yes. It is." He turned to look at her. "I'll do whatever it takes. Become whatever I have to become. Break whatever needs breaking. Even if it destroys me."
"And what about me?" Ashara's voice was small. Vulnerable. "What happens to me if you destroy yourself saving everyone else?"
The question hit Kael like a physical blow.
"I—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to leave you. But I can't promise I won't. I can't promise I'll survive whatever's coming."
"Then promise me something else."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll let me stand with you. That you won't try to protect me by pushing me away. That if you're going to face this storm—" Her hand found his. "—you'll let me face it beside you. Because I'd rather be there, in the danger, with you, than safe and alone somewhere you think is better."
Kael felt his throat tighten. "That's not safe. That's not—"
"I don't want safe. I want *you*." Ashara's violet eyes were fierce. "I want the prince who tells me impossible truths. Who fights like gods trained him. Who loves his sister so much he'd burn the world to keep her safe. I want that person, with all his broken edges and desperate plans and certain doom. Because he's *real*. And I'd rather have something real that might end badly than something safe that never really begins."
"Ashara—"
"Promise me."
"I—" Kael took a breath. "I promise. I won't push you away. I won't try to protect you by leaving you behind. If you want to stand with me—gods help me, if you're that brave or that foolish—then I'll let you."
"Good." She leaned against him, and her voice was softer now. "My father's letter arrived this morning. He's agreed to the match. With conditions, of course—he wants to meet you, make sure you're not secretly terrible, ensure the marriage contract favors House Dayne appropriately. But—" She looked up at him. "—he's agreed. We can marry. If you still want to."
"If I still want to?" Kael almost laughed. "Ashara. You're the only good thing in my life that I didn't have to fight for. You're the one person who sees me—really sees me—and doesn't run screaming. Of course I still want to."
"Even knowing I'm going to stand beside you in whatever's coming? Even knowing I'm not going to let you face it alone?"
"Especially knowing that."
She kissed him then—soft and sweet and tasting like salt from tears Kael didn't realize he'd been crying.
"Then we're agreed," she said when they broke apart. "We face the storm together. Whatever comes."
"Whatever comes," Kael echoed.
They sat there by the fountains as the sun climbed higher and Sunspear woke to another scorching day. Somewhere in the palace, plans were being made for the Stepstones campaign. Somewhere in King's Landing, a prince was thinking about a princess he'd never met. Somewhere in the future, battles waited to be fought and choices waited to be made and endings waited to be written.
But for now—just for this moment—Kael let himself have this: Ashara's hand in his, the sound of water, the warmth of sun on his face, and the particular peace that came from knowing he didn't have to face everything alone.
*It won't be enough*, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. *You're still going to fail. Still going to lose people. Still going to watch futures you can't prevent unfold in blood and grief.*
Maybe.
Probably.
But he'd face it with Solemn Vow in his hand and Ashara at his side and the unwavering certainty that some things—some people—were worth fighting for even when the mathematics said you'd lose.
---
**275 AC - The Stepstones, Six Months Later**
The island was called Bloodstone, which should have been Kael's first clue that this would be a terrible day.
His second clue was the fact that they'd been landing troops for three hours and hadn't encountered a single defender.
The pirate fortress—more of a ramshackle collection of buildings than an actual fort—stood silent and empty on the rocky cliffs. No guards on the walls. No arrows raining down. No defenders charging out to repel the invaders.
Just silence.
"I don't like this," Arthur Dayne said beside him. Arthur had insisted on coming—"Someone needs to make sure you don't die doing something heroic and stupid"—and had brought a contingent of Dayne household guards with him.
"I don't like it either," Kael agreed.
They stood on the beach—black sand, volcanic rock, the kind of terrain that made marching in armor absolutely miserable—with two thousand Dornish soldiers behind them. The fleet anchored in the bay. The Martell banners flying proud in the salt air.
And nothing. No resistance.
"They fled," Oberyn said, appearing from wherever he'd been scouting. At sixteen, he was already impossible—fast, deadly, and convinced of his own immortality. "There's fresh provisions in the main hall. Fires still warm. They left recently. Maybe hours ago."
"Left to where?" Kael asked.
"Deeper into the islands. Toward Torturer's Deep or the Whores."
The Stepstones were a maze of rocky islands with cheerful names like Torturer's Deep, the Whores, Skullfell, and Kael's personal favorite: Last Refuge. The pirates had been hopping from island to island for six months now, always one step ahead of the Dornish forces, never committing to a real fight.
It was brilliant strategy, actually. Bleed the invaders. Stretch their supply lines. Make them garrison every island they took, thinning their forces.
"They're not fighting us," Doran said from behind them. He'd come too, despite his worsening gout—sitting in a sedan chair carried by four strong men, but *there*. "They're waiting for us to overextend. Then they'll hit us when we're weak."
"So what do we do?" Prince Lewyn asked. He'd been leading the main force—five thousand men split across multiple islands—and coordinating with the fleet to ensure supplies kept flowing.
"We force them to fight," Kael said.
"How?"
"We take something they can't afford to lose."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"The Grey Gallows," Kael said, pointing to a map one of the soldiers was holding. "It's the largest fortress in the Stepstones. Central location. Deep harbor. Whoever holds it controls the shipping lanes. If we take that—"
"—they'll have to respond," Doran finished, seeing it. "Because if they don't, they lose their power base. Their legitimacy. Their ability to extort passing ships."
"Exactly."
"It's also the most heavily defended island," Lewyn said. "We've scouted it. Three hundred men at minimum. Stone walls. Ballista emplacements. Underwater chains across the harbor entrance. Taking it would cost us—"
"—less than this war of attrition is costing us," Kael interrupted. "Uncle. We've been at this for six months. We've taken a dozen islands, and the pirates just keep fleeing. Keep making us chase them. At this rate, we'll spend years and a fortune clearing the Stepstones. Or—" He tapped the map. "—we take the Grey Gallows. Force a decisive battle. End this."
Lewyn studied the map, then Kael, then the map again.
"You're proposing an assault on the most fortified position in the Stepstones with—what? A thousand men? Two thousand?"
"Five hundred," Kael said.
"FIVE HUNDRED?"
"Commandos. Fast, light, skilled. We don't try to take the walls. We infiltrate. Take the fortress from the inside. Open the gates. Let the main force pour in."
"That's suicide," Arthur said flatly.
"That's *necessary*."
"Kael—"
"Arthur. Listen." Kael turned to face his friend. "We can't afford a long campaign. Every month we're here is a month Dorne is weakened at home. A month we're spending gold we don't have. A month closer to—" He caught himself. "—to whatever's coming next. We need to end this. Decisively. Now."
"And if your five hundred commandos die?"
"Then we'll have died doing something that mattered."
"You're talking about yourself. You're planning to lead this."
"Of course I am."
"Kael—" Arthur's voice was tight. "Do you know what Ashara will do to me if I let you die in the Stepstones? She'll murder me. Slowly. With that embroidery needle she carries. In places that don't heal quickly."
Despite everything, Kael smiled. "Then you'd better come with me and make sure I don't die."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's the best I can offer."
Doran cleared his throat. "Brothers. Perhaps we should discuss this with cooler heads. Make a proper plan. Consider—"
"There's no time for considering," Kael said. "The longer we wait, the more entrenched they become. We move now. Tonight. Before they realize we've changed tactics."
"Tonight?" Oberyn's grin was feral. "Oh, I like this plan. Can I come?"
"No," Kael said.
"But—"
"You're sixteen."
"So were you when you killed your first pirate captain!"
"Which is exactly why I know sixteen-year-olds have no business running commando raids on fortified positions."
"Kael—"
"Oberyn. No."
Oberyn's expression turned mutinous, but he subsided. Barely.
Prince Lewyn was studying Kael with an expression that was equal parts pride and dread.
"If we do this," Lewyn said slowly, "if we commit to this plan—I'm coming with you. I won't let my nephew walk into the Grey Gallows alone."
"Uncle—"
"Non-negotiable. You want five hundred commandos? I'm one of them."
"Me too," Arthur said. "Obviously. Someone has to keep you alive long enough to marry my sister."
"And me," said a new voice.
Everyone turned.
Areo Hotah stood at the edge of the group, his poleaxe across his back, looking like a mountain that had decided to go for a walk.
"Captain Hotah," Doran said. "Your duty is to protect Mellario. She's back in Sunspear with our new son. You should be there. Not here."
"My lady insisted I accompany you, Prince Doran. She said—" Areo Hotah's expression didn't change, but something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "—she said you would do something stupid without proper supervision. And she was correct. This plan is very stupid."
"Then why do you want to come?" Kael asked.
"Because stupid plans require the most protection. And because—" Areo Hotah's gaze found Kael. "—I have watched you train for a year now. I have seen what you can do. And I think perhaps you can make this stupid plan work. But only if you have people around you who understand how to not die stupidly."
"That's the most pragmatic endorsement I've ever heard," Arthur muttered.
"I am a pragmatic man."
Doran sighed—the particular sigh of older brothers who'd spent their whole lives trying to talk younger brothers out of terrible ideas and failing every time.
"Fine," he said. "You have your commando raid. You have your five hundred men—I assume you're taking volunteers from the best fighters we have?"
"Yes."
"And you have your leaders—Uncle Lewyn, Ser Arthur, Captain Hotah, and you. The four most valuable fighters in our entire force, all putting themselves in the most dangerous position possible." Doran's voice was dry. "Mother is going to kill me when she finds out I approved this."
"Then we'd better succeed," Kael said. "So she has to be proud instead of angry."
"Pride and anger aren't mutually exclusive with Mother. You know this."
"Then we'll deal with it after we win."
---
**That Night - Approaching the Grey Gallows**
They came by sea, in small boats, under cover of darkness and storm clouds that made the night thick enough to cut.
Five hundred men. The best Dorne had to offer. Volunteers all. Some from great houses, some from common backgrounds, all united by one thing: they were willing to die if it meant ending this war.
Kael sat in the lead boat with Arthur, Lewyn, and Areo Hotah. Solemn Vow was strapped to his back, wrapped in oiled cloth to keep the salt spray off the Valyrian steel. His heart was pounding—the serum gave him enhanced cardiovascular efficiency, but it didn't make him emotionless—and his enhanced vision picked out details in the darkness that normal men couldn't see.
The Grey Gallows rose from the sea like a broken tooth. Stone walls. Watch towers. The glow of torches behind the battlements.
Three hundred defenders, the scouts said. Maybe more.
Against five hundred attackers who were about to do something impossibly dangerous.
The boats slid through the water like ghosts. No oars—they'd used the tide and current to drift in, silent as prayer. The only sound was the soft lap of waves against hulls and the occasional whisper of men checking their weapons.
"There," Lewyn whispered, pointing.
The sea gate. A small entrance on the north side of the fortress, used for bringing in supplies. Underwater most of the time, only accessible at low tide.
Which was now.
The boats grounded on rocks. The commandos disembarked into knee-deep water that was cold enough to make teeth chatter. They formed up quickly—no talking, just hand signals—and began moving toward the sea gate.
Kael led. Because of course he did. Because that's what the Echo did—went first, took the risk, cleared the path for everyone else.
His enhanced vision mapped the terrain—rocky, treacherous, easy to slip and break an ankle if you weren't careful. His enhanced hearing caught sounds from above—guards talking, the sizzle of torches, someone singing a bawdy song about a merchant's wife.
The sea gate was exactly where the scouts said it would be. A wooden door, reinforced with iron, set into the stone wall at water level.
Locked, of course.
Kael examined it for approximately five seconds, then drew Solemn Vow.
"Cover your ears," he whispered.
Arthur, Lewyn, and Areo Hotah pressed hands to their ears.
Kael struck.
The Valyrian steel blade cut through the lock like it wasn't there. The door swung open with a creak that sounded like thunder in the quiet.
Everyone froze.
Above them, on the walls, silence.
Then: "OI! Did you hear something?"
"Just the waves, you nervous git."
"Sounded like metal."
"Everything sounds like metal when you're three cups of rum deep. Come on, shift's almost over."
Footsteps moving away.
Kael let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Inside," he whispered. "Fast and quiet."
They poured through the sea gate like water through a crack—five hundred men moving with the practiced silence of soldiers who'd drilled this a hundred times. The passage beyond was dark, narrow, carved through solid rock. It led up—stairs, steep and slippery—toward the interior of the fortress.
Kael went first. Always first. Solemn Vow drawn now, the blade catching what little light filtered down from above and throwing it back dark and strange.
At the top of the stairs: another door. This one wasn't locked.
Kael eased it open—slow, careful—and found himself looking into a storage room. Barrels, crates, the smell of salted fish and stale beer.
Empty.
He gestured. The first wave of commandos flowed in, took up positions, secured the room.
"So far so good," Arthur whispered.
"Don't," Kael said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like 'so far so good.' That's how you jinx operations."
"I don't believe in jinxes."
"Start believing. We're in the middle of a commando raid on a fortress with three hundred hostiles between us and success. Everything is a potential jinx."
Arthur's grin was visible even in the darkness. "You're superstitious. That's adorable."
"I'm practical."
"You're adorable."
"Both of you shut up," Lewyn hissed. "We're in enemy territory. Save the bickering for when we're not about to die."
They moved deeper into the fortress—through storage rooms, past empty barracks, up more stairs. The layout matched the maps they'd captured from other pirate strongholds. Every fortress in the Stepstones was built to a similar design—concentric defenses, with the most valuable resources (commanders, treasure, supplies) kept at the center.
Which meant they needed to reach the center.
Which meant fighting through whatever stood between them and there.
Kael rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a pirate.
The man was young—maybe twenty—carrying a crate of something that smelled like spoiled meat. He looked up, saw Kael, and his eyes went wide.
His mouth opened to scream.
Kael was faster.
Solemn Vow took him through the heart—quick, clean, silent except for the wet sound of steel entering flesh. The pirate's eyes rolled back. He fell, and Kael caught him before he could hit the floor and make noise.
"First blood," Arthur murmured.
"Won't be the last."
They left the body and kept moving.
More corridors. More stairs. The fortress was a maze—deliberately confusing, designed to turn any interior assault into a nightmare of getting lost and ambushed.
But Kael's enhanced mind tracked their position relative to where they'd entered. Created a mental map. Led them deeper without hesitation.
Behind them, the five hundred commandos followed—a silent snake of armed men, all trusting that the Echo knew where he was going.
*I hope I know where I'm going*, Kael thought.
They reached the central courtyard without encountering more resistance. But the courtyard was a problem.
It was open. Fifty feet across. Completely exposed. And on the far side: the main keep, where the pirate commanders would be sleeping.
Between them and the keep: guards. Lots of guards. Twenty at least, standing around a fire, drinking, laughing, completely unaware that five hundred armed men were hiding in the shadows waiting to kill them.
"We need to cross that courtyard," Kael whispered. "Fast, before they raise the alarm. Ideas?"
"We could fight them," Oberyn suggested.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"Oberyn," Lewyn hissed. "I thought I told you to stay with the boats!"
"You told me a lot of things. I'm very good at selective hearing."
"When we get home—"
"We'll have a conversation about my terrible life choices. Yes, yes. But right now—" Oberyn grinned. "—we have guards to kill. I suggest we do that before they notice the five hundred armed men lurking in the shadows."
"He has a point," Arthur admitted.
"He should not be here," Lewyn said.
"But I am. So let's make it worth it." Oberyn hefted his spear. "How about this: I create a distraction. While they're distracted, you lot sprint across the courtyard. By the time they realize what's happening, you're in the keep."
"What kind of distraction?" Kael asked suspiciously.
"The kind where I kill some of them very loudly and run away very fast."
"That's a terrible plan."
"It's the best we've got unless you want to try sneaking five hundred men across an open courtyard without being noticed."
Kael looked at the courtyard. At the guards. At the keep beyond. At the absolutely impossible logistics of moving that many people without being seen.
*Damn it. He's right.*
"Fine," Kael said. "But you stay with us once the distraction starts. No heroics. No running off alone. You create chaos and then you fall back to our position. Understood?"
"Understood!" Oberyn's grin could have lit the fortress. "This is going to be fun."
"It's going to be dangerous."
"Same thing."
Oberyn moved before anyone could stop him—quick and quiet, circling around the courtyard perimeter, using the shadows and crates and debris as cover. He got within twenty feet of the guards before anyone noticed him.
"Hey! Who's—"
Oberyn's spear took the speaker through the throat. The man went down choking.
The other guards stared for one frozen moment.
Then they started shouting.
"INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS IN THE COURTYARD!"
Oberyn laughed—bright and mad and absolutely delighted—and killed another guard before they could draw weapons.
"NOW!" Kael shouted.
The five hundred commandos burst from their hiding spots and sprinted across the courtyard.
It was chaos. Beautiful, deadly chaos.
The guards tried to form up, tried to respond, but they were surrounded, outnumbered, completely unprepared. Some fought. Some fled. Some died before they realized they were in danger.
Kael led the sprint toward the keep, Solemn Vow cutting down anyone who got in his way. Arthur was beside him—Dawn glowing white in the firelight, taking heads and arms with surgical precision. Areo Hotah's poleaxe swept in great arcs, each swing dropping multiple enemies.
They reached the keep entrance in less than thirty seconds.
The doors were already opening—more guards, responding to the commotion, pouring out to defend their commanders.
Kael met them head-on.
The first three died before they cleared the doorway. The next five tried to form a shield wall and got torn apart by Areo Hotah's poleaxe. The ones behind them saw what was happening and tried to close the doors.
Too slow.
Kael was already inside.
The interior of the keep was barely lit—just a few torches, long shadows, the confused shouts of men waking to find their fortress under assault. Kael's enhanced vision adapted instantly, turning the darkness into merely dim light.
He saw them coming before they saw him—five guards, charging down the main corridor with swords drawn.
His Taskmaster gift catalogued their movements. Saw the slight telegraphing in their stances. Saw the openings.
Solemn Vow became a blur.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
They fell.
"UPSTAIRS!" Lewyn shouted from behind him. "The commanders will be upstairs!"
Kael took the stairs three at a time—his enhanced body didn't fatigue the way normal bodies did, could push harder and longer without breaking. Behind him, the commandos were securing the lower floors, eliminating resistance, establishing control.
At the top of the stairs: a door. Heavy oak, reinforced with iron.
Locked.
Kael struck—Valyrian steel cutting through the lock like paper. The door swung open.
The room beyond was spacious—clearly the commander's quarters. Rich furnishings. Expensive rugs. Maps on the walls showing the entire Stepstones archipelago.
And standing in the center, wearing nothing but sleeping clothes and holding a sword: the pirate lord.
He was older than Kael expected—fifty at least, with grey in his beard and scars that suggested a long career of violence. His eyes were hard, calculating, assessing.
"The Echo," the pirate lord said. "I should have known. They said you were too young to lead an assault like this. Too inexperienced. Too—" He shrugged. "—too soft. Dornish princes don't get their hands dirty, they said."
"They were wrong," Kael said.
"Evidently." The pirate lord shifted his grip on his sword—good steel, well-maintained. "This fortress is lost. I accept that. My men are dying downstairs. I accept that too. But before you kill me—" He smiled. "—let's see if the stories are true. If the Echo really is the finest swordsman in Dorne."
"I don't need to prove anything to you."
"No. But you want to. I can see it in your eyes. The desire to test yourself. To find out if you're really as good as everyone says." The pirate lord moved into a ready stance. "Come on, boy. Show me what you've got."
Kael should have just killed him. Should have been practical, efficient, ended this quickly.
But the pirate lord was right. Part of him—the part that was still Kunal Marathe, the doctor who'd never known violence before dying—*wanted* to test himself. Wanted to know if he was really as good as the stories said.
"All right," Kael said. "Let's find out."
They fought.
And oh, the pirate lord was *good*. Old, yes. Past his prime, yes. But experienced. Skilled. The kind of fighter who'd survived decades of combat by being just a little bit better than everyone he faced.
He came at Kael with combinations that were textbook perfect—high-low-thrust, feint-reverse-cut, everything executed with the precision of someone who'd done it ten thousand times.
Kael's Taskmaster gift drank it all in. Learned it. Replicated it.
By the twentieth exchange, they were evenly matched.
By the fortieth, Kael was better.
"Impossible," the pirate lord gasped. "You're—you're learning my style. In the middle of the fight."
"Yes."
"That's—how?"
"Gift from a god," Kael said. "Or a curse. Depending on your perspective."
He pressed the attack, and now it was the pirate lord who gave ground. Who struggled to keep up. Who found his perfect technique turned against him.
"You're a monster," the pirate lord said, and there was something like awe in his voice.
"I'm just very good at what I do."
"Too good. No one should be—"
Kael's blade took him through the heart. The Valyrian steel slid in smooth and quiet, and the pirate lord's eyes went wide.
"Good—death," he managed. Then fell.
Kael stood there for a moment, breathing hard, looking down at the body.
*That's the problem with being good at violence*, he thought. *Eventually you forget why you're doing it. Forget that every life you take is a person with stories and loves and futures that end because of you.*
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!