Ashes were scattered by the wind, mixing with the dried and fresh blood on the platform until they were indistinguishable from one another.
The tattered red robes lay empty and crumpled on the ground like a shed cicada shell, announcing the end of an era of fanatical paranoia.
Corleone looked up at Stannis Baratheon.
The King of Dragonstone stood there, barely managing to remain upright by leaning on Ser Gerald Gower for support.
His face was deathly pale, the wound at his temple had congealed into a dark red scab, and his blood-soaked undershirt was visible through the gaps in his shattered armor. His breathing was shallow and rapid; every intake of air tugged at his injuries, causing his already taut features to contort further.
His deep blue eyes were bloodshot, showing extreme exhaustion.
He had watched Corleone kill a person right before him, ending Melisandre's miracle of immortality, yet he uncharacteristically made no attempt to uphold law and justice by declaring the man guilty.
Stannis merely watched in silence as the red-robed woman—who had once bound him tightly with fire and prophecy, bringing him hope along with endless struggle and sin—turned to ash.
His gaze lingered on Corleone's face for a moment, his expression complex, before slowly shifting to the sturdy young man behind Corleone who was still wearing a helmet and looking somewhat at a loss.
Stannis took a deep breath, an action that seemed to drain much of his strength and triggered another fit of coughing.
He raised a hand to signal Gerald to loosen his grip slightly. He struggled to stand straighter, and though his form still swayed, he tried his best to maintain his image as a king. "Come here, child."
These words were spoken to Gendry.
Gendry's whole body jolted. His eyes peered through the slit of his helmet at Stannis before quickly turning to Corleone, a flash of panic appearing as if he were seeking the man's advice.
Corleone felt his gaze and met Gendry's eyes. He didn't speak, only gave a slight nod.
Having received this tacit permission, Gendry felt a bit more settled.
He took a deep breath and, dragging his warhammer, walked step by step until he stopped a few paces in front of Stannis.
Stannis's gaze swept Gendry up and down, lingering for an instant on the pair of antlers. An unnamable emotion flashed deep in his eyes.
Perhaps it was nostalgia, perhaps it was a sharp pain, or perhaps it was both.
"Remove your helmet. Let me see."
Stannis commanded in a flat tone that nonetheless carried an air of irresistible authority.
Hearing this, Gendry hesitated.
The helmet had become like a shell to him; it gave him courage and a certain illusory identity, while also protecting him to a degree, allowing him to hide temporarily behind the "Phantom of Robert" so he wouldn't have to directly face his complex parentage or the man before him who was his uncle by blood.
Taking it off meant exposing his true self and facing everything head-on.
He instinctively looked at Corleone again. The man was still standing there with his arms crossed, watching from the sidelines with an expressionless face, as if this were strictly a matter between Stannis and Gendry.
Gendry gritted his teeth.
He reached out both hands, gripping the sides of the heavy, cold helmet. His fingers hooked under the edge, and with a forceful lift, the antlered helm was removed.
The firelight on the terrace wasn't very bright, but it was enough for everyone to see the face beneath the helmet clearly.
He was very young, with thick black hair that had been matted down by the helmet, stained with sweat and dust.
His eyebrows were thick and dark, the bridge of his nose was straight, and his jawline was rugged. Most striking of all were his eyes—a deep blue like the clear midsummer sky, resembling the Narrow Sea under the sunlight outside Storms End; they were clear, bright, and filled with a hint of nervousness and bewilderment.
Ser Gerald Gower's eyes widened, and his mouth hung slightly open.
The other elder knights were also shocked, their gazes locked firmly onto Gendry's face.
The resemblance was too strong!
Stannis silently observed the young face so close to him, and it was as if time were overlapping and intersecting before his eyes.
He saw a face always brimming with excess energy and a hearty laugh—the young Robert, the Lord of Storms End who held his warhammer high by the banks of the The Trident, full of high spirits.
Then he saw a handsome, elegant, and cynically gentle face—Renly.
And this face before him, with this thick black hair, these deep blue eyes, and the faint stubbornness in the brow...
He looked like Robert, and he looked like Renly.
He looked like everyone except Stannis.
At this thought, a sense of loneliness swept through Stannis's heart, causing a dull ache.
Among the three Baratheon brothers, he had always seemed like the outlier.
Robert was valiant and boisterous, Renly was handsome and approachable, while he, Stannis, was forever the serious, cold, law-abiding, inflexible, and unlikable "middle brother."
Even in appearance, he did not closely resemble them.
He had inherited more from his mother and lacked the vibrant energy of the other Baratheons.
This difference had invisibly created a rift between him and his closest brothers.
Now, in this moment of desperation, looking at another piece of blood evidence left in the world by his elder brother, the feeling was complex beyond words.
"The resemblance is uncanny..." Stannis sighed softly. "No matter how many times I see it."
As he spoke, his gaze slowly drifted down, landing on the blood-stained warhammer in Gendry's hand.
Stannis, of course, recognized that hammer.
"Does it serve you well?"
Hearing the question, Gendry's grip on the handle tightened.
He glanced down at the hammer, then looked up at Stannis and answered honestly, "It feels right in my hand, Your Grace."
Gendry's voice was a bit dry, and his eyes were complex as he met Stannis's scrutiny.
He already knew he was King Robert's bastard, so the man before him was, in a sense, his uncle by blood.
Yet this uncle had previously treated him like livestock to be bled...
That experience had not been pleasant.
He didn't know what mindset to adopt when facing Stannis; he just stood there holding the hammer, looking back at him.
The two of them, neither particularly articulate, stared at each other as the wind on the platform seemed to grow even colder.
"I think it would be best for us to set aside the touching family reunion drama for now and first consider how to resolve our current predicament—for instance, how to leave this island alive before it completely falls."
Seeing that the uncle and nephew couldn't squeeze out a single word for the longest time, Corleone took the initiative to break the stalemate.
His words were direct and practical, instantly pulling everyone back to reality.
Stannis turned to Corleone. Despite his exhaustion and weakness, his characteristic stubbornness was still etched into his bones. "Dragonstone has not yet fallen."
"The soldiers of House Baratheon will continue to fight to the end under their King's banner and achieve victory."
He spoke with great resolve, but anyone could tell it was more of a declaration—an adherence to his own convictions—rather than a calm assessment of the objective situation.
Upon hearing this, a playful curve appeared at the corner of Corleone's mouth. He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over Stannis's various wounds and the injured knights surrounding him.
"Is that so?"
"With you all in this state?"
As soon as these words were spoken, Stannis's gaze swept over the remaining soldiers on the platform. After the fierce battle, there were fewer than twenty men left.
Below the castle, the assault from the Redwyne Fleet seemed to have slowed slightly, but everyone knew this was merely the brief calm before the storm.
"With all due respect, Lord Stannis."
Corleone shook his head and continued his cold analysis. "The Redwyne Fleet from The Arbor has no fewer than two hundred ships of various sizes. In this surprise attack, the elite soldiers who have landed number at least in the thousands."
"And Dragonstone..."
He spread his hands. "The defensive lines are broken, the command is in chaos, and the soldiers are either dead, surrendered, or fighting for themselves."
"I truly fail to see any meaning in your so-called 'fighting to the end,' other than ensuring the total annihilation of House Baratheon's last bloodline and loyal subjects today."
Corleone's words were ruthless, but they spoke the harsh truth.
Ser Gerald's expression shifted, and several elder knights lowered their heads.
They all knew these facts; the fleet of House Redwyne was famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the largest and best-trained fleet in Westeros.
Since the war began, they had never truly committed to battle, remaining at The Arbor to build their strength. Right now, they were at their absolute peak!
Stannis's expression didn't change, but his hand on his sword hilt visibly tightened. The wound at his temple seeped a fresh bead of blood due to the muscle tension, which slowly trickled down his temple.
He didn't argue, because there was no argument to be made.
The King of Dragonstone looked grave, even showing a hint of powerlessness in this moment.
How could he not know the situation was dire?
It was simply that his pride and duty as a king made it impossible for Stannis to easily utter the words "retreat" or "defeat."
The atmosphere on the terrace became even more oppressive.
Even the most loyal Ser Gerald clenched his fists, despair flashing in his eyes.
They weren't afraid of fighting to the death, but if there were a chance to live, no one would truly be willing to die so easily.
After a long silence, Stannis finally looked up and met Corleone's gaze again.
This time, there was less wariness in his eyes and less of that previous condescension.
"What is the solution, Vito Corleone?"
He knew very well that this man was an envoy for the Lannisters, but Stannis also knew that since the Redwyne Fleet had launched an all-out assault at this moment, Tywin had clearly abandoned Corleone.
Furthermore, the man had just saved him, even if he had also killed Melisandre in front of him.
More importantly, the composure Corleone had shown since arriving on the island and his unconventional way of thinking might be the only chance to introduce a variable into this desperate situation.
And since he was standing here and hadn't chosen to flee...
It meant he had a way.
Or at least, he believed he had a way.
Faced with Stannis's question, Corleone did not answer immediately.
He turned around, his gaze falling on Gendry, then on Gerald and the several elder knights.
"In the Battle of the Blackwater, how did you lose at the final, critical moment?"
As soon as he said this, the expressions of everyone on the platform changed.
That was a nightmare they did not wish to remember.
Ser Gerald's breathing suddenly quickened. He closed his eyes, as if seeing the scenes of that day once again.
Wildfire burned on the Blackwater Rush, the green flames swallowing more than half of Stannis's fleet. On the walls, soldiers fought to the death to breach the city.
But the fatal blow that truly crushed the morale of Stannis's army was Garlan Tyrell donning the late Renly Baratheon's magnificent, gleaming armor!
At that moment, the rumor that "King Renly has returned from the dead to lead a ghost army for his nephew Joffrey" spread through Stannis's ranks like a plague.
Countless vassals and soldiers who had originally been loyal to Renly and only turned to Stannis after Renly's death felt their convictions collapse instantly. They defected on the spot or fled the battlefield, leading to the final, total collapse.
The nobles of Stormlands were already dissatisfied with Stannis's harsh and cold rule; they followed Renly out of love and followed Stannis only because he was the "rightful heir."
The knights turned their lances, no longer charging the walls of Kings Landing but instead charging their former allies.
The chaos spread like a pestilence, and Stannis's meticulously organized assault disintegrated in an instant.
In the end, he was forced to retreat, watching helplessly as a victory that was almost within his grasp slipped through his fingers.
And all of that was simply because one person put on a suit of armor.
"You want him to..." Ser Gerald couldn't help but speak out.
He looked at Gendry, at that face so similar to Robert's, and at the blood-stained warhammer.
A bold and insane idea began to take shape in his mind.
Seeing this, Corleone smiled.
"The effect was quite good, wasn't it?"
"Since the Tyrells and Lannisters could use 'Renly's ghost' to crush your morale, then it's time for them to taste what it's like to fight a 'ghost army' as well."
"Especially since our 'ghost' is more powerful and more legitimate!"
As soon as he said this, the gazes of everyone present focused on Gendry once again!
This time, the meaning in their eyes was completely different!
If news truly spread that Robert Baratheon had returned from the dead... the effect would be a hundred times better than Renly's "rebirth"!
After all, before declaring himself king, Renly was only the Lord of Storms End. Although he was deeply loved by many nobles, his influence was primarily limited to Stormlands and parts of The Reach.
And Robert...
Robert Baratheon the First!
He was the King recognized by everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, the hero who overthrew the Targaryen dynasty, and the most valiant warrior on the banks of the The Trident!
If the soldiers saw Robert's "ghost" fighting for Stannis, what would they think?
Ser Gerard's breathing instantly became extremely rapid. He snapped his head toward Stannis, a spark of fanaticism igniting in his eyes, his voice trembling slightly with excitement: "Your Grace!"
"Perhaps... perhaps this really could work. If the news spreads and the landing soldiers see..."
"...their morale will surely be shaken!"
"We might be able to buy time, or even use the opportunity to create chaos and counterattack!"
As soon as these words were spoken, several other knights nodded one after another, the light of hope rekindling in their eyes.
Everyone turned their gaze toward Stannis, waiting for him to make a decision.
Because he was the King, the embodiment of the law, and the only person who could make a decision at this moment.
The sea breeze blew across the platform, carrying a bone-chilling cold.
Stannis stood there, his face even paler than before. He looked at Gendry, then at the warhammer, and then at the expectant eyes of the knights around him.
Finally, he spoke coldly: "You intend to have a bastard wear my brother's helmet, impersonate the King, and lead my army?"
Stannis's gaze pierced sharply toward Gendry, then swept over everyone else as he barked decisively, "There is no honor in this!"
As expected, Stannis was as stubborn as ever, adhering to his set of standards that were so strict they were almost inhuman.
These words instantly extinguished the hope that had just been ignited.
Unconcealable disappointment and frustration appeared on the faces of Ser Gerard and the others. They knew their King too well; once he rejected something based on "principle," it meant there was almost no room for negotiation.
It seemed they could only fight to the death.
Gerard silently gripped his sword, preparing to fulfill the oath he had once sworn and follow the King to his death.
However, just as this atmosphere of despair was about to solidify...
"Kneel."
Stannis's voice rang out again. It was still a commanding tone, yet something seemed different.
Gendry was stunned and looked at Stannis in confusion.
Stannis did not look at him; instead, he slowly raised his longsword, gripping the hilt with both hands and holding the blade upright in front of him, point down toward the ground.
He raised his eyes, his gaze as hard as iron as it shot toward Gendry, and repeated, "Kneel, boy."
"Face your King."
Hearing this, Gendry's heart skipped a beat!
He seemed to sense something, yet he didn't dare believe it.
He instinctively looked at Corleone again, seeking guidance.
He saw Corleone standing a short distance away with his arms crossed, his face showing no surprise, as if he had expected this all along.
Meeting Gendry's gaze, he tilted his head, signaling him to do as told.
Seeing this, Gendry took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
He looked around and saw a more intense light rekindling in the eyes of Ser Gerard and the others, then met Stannis's deep blue eyes.
He hesitated no longer.
Clang.
He placed the warhammer gently on the ground, producing a dull thud.
Then, Gendry took a step forward and knelt on one knee before Stannis.
His movements were a bit stiff, showing his nervousness, and he lowered his head.
Silence fell over the platform, with only the howling wind serving as the background music for this impromptu ceremony.
Stannis held the sword with both hands, the tip only an inch above Gendry's bowed head.
He straightened his body, his voice exceptionally steady and loud, carrying the majesty of a King: "In the name of the Gods, both Old and New."
"I, Stannis Baratheon the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
"Hereby declare..."
""
His gaze fell on Gendry's bowed head, his voice slightly lower but clearer: "Gendry, who carries the blood of Robert Baratheon, my brother and the late King."
The sword in his hand pressed down slightly, the cold flat of the blade gently touching the top of Gendry's head, symbolizing the granting of protection and responsibility.
"Today, in this place, witnessed by these loyal knights and fearless soldiers..."
"
At this point, Stannis's voice suddenly rose: "By my royal authority, I wash away the brand of bastardy from you!"
"I acknowledge you as a legitimate member of House Baratheon. After today, I will have letters written and sent by raven to the Seven Kingdoms to proclaim your identity!"
"From this moment until the end of time, you shall bear the surname of your father, King Robert Baratheon the First, inheriting the rights and glory of his bloodline, as well as the heavy duty of defending the family, the kingdom, and the law!"
As his voice fell, Stannis withdrew his longsword, pointing the tip back toward the ground.
He breathed slightly heavily; the declaration just now had taken a lot of his strength.
"Rise, Gendry Baratheon."
Gendry Baratheon!
This name exploded in Gendry's mind. He slowly raised his head, his deep blue eyes filled with shock and confusion, yet they seemed to carry a heavy weight.
From a nameless blacksmith's apprentice struggling at the bottom of Kings Landing, a piece of livestock to be used and sold, he had, in a short time, experienced being a prisoner, a warrior, and an impersonator. Finally, on this desperate high platform where the smoke had not yet cleared and the blood was not yet dry, he was personally granted that once-unreachable surname—Baratheon—by a King known for his severity.
He stood up, feeling as if even the ground beneath his feet had changed.
The antlered helmet lay quietly by his feet. Looking at it now, it was no longer just a prop for impersonation, but seemed to truly have some blood connection with him.
Stannis sheathed his longsword, his gaze sweeping over Gendry, then Corleone, and finally toward the small island below where the battle was still raging.
His face was still weary, but in those deep blue eyes, a certain fire of desperation seemed to have rekindled.
"Now."
"Let us discuss how to make 'King Robert Baratheon' fight for his kingdom once more."
The Queen of the Arbor.
Inside the massive cabin, candlelight cast flickering shadows on the pearl-inlaid panels.
Lord Paxter Redwyne sat on a carved oak chair, his shoulders habitually drooping slightly.
He was thin, and the few tufts of orange hair remaining on his bald head were meticulously groomed, yet they still could not hide the marks left by time and the sea breeze.
"Father, the third wave of landing troops has all gone ashore."
The speaker was his second son, Horas Redwyne, a young man of about twenty.
He was plain-looking, with orange hair and a square face covered in freckles, making him look not particularly bright. He was currently standing in the center of the cabin, his armor shining brightly, his face glowing with the flush of an initial victory.
"The eastern wall of the castle has been breached, and the defenders have retreated to the inner courtyard."
"It's much easier than expected."
Hearing this, Paxter raised his eyes, which were as calm as the sea's surface.
"Don't be happy too soon, son."
"Things that are too easy often tend to produce variables."
His voice was dry and calm: "Stannis Baratheon is not a man who collapses at the first line of defense."
"In the Battle of the Blackwater, he lost three-quarters of his army, yet he was still able to rally his forces and hold Dragonstone for months. This man is very difficult to deal with."
However, Hobber waved his hand dismissively: "That was before. Now he's deserted by everyone and his soldiers are fighting on empty stomachs. What morale could they possibly have?"
Paxter neither agreed nor disagreed with his son's assessment; only a sliver of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Although Stannis Baratheon was hard to deal with, he had absolute confidence in his own fleet.
After all, he had brought nearly six thousand men onto the island this time, and what about Stannis?
Two thousand at most.
Six thousand against two thousand—the advantage is mine!
"What about that fellow named Vito Corleone?"
Suddenly, Paxter asked out of the blue.
As soon as he said this, Hobber's expression immediately became serious: "No news yet."
"Our men searched the captured areas but found no trace of him. He's either hiding deep within the inner keep, or he's already dead, his body tossed who knows where."
He said this, but his lowering tone indicated that even he didn't believe it.
"Have the soldiers keep searching."
Paxter did not blame his son but gave a command that brooked no argument: "The Hand of the King has given a direct order; this man must die."
"Yes, Father." Hobber nodded, then asked in confusion: "Why does Lord Tywin place such importance on a person like this?"
"Because he is the son of a farmer, yet in just a few months, he established a very stable power base in Kings Landing."
Paxter stood up and walked to the porthole.
Through the window, he could clearly see the silhouette of Dragonstone castle, with several fires lighting up the night sky.
"Tywin Lannister can tolerate useful tools, but he cannot tolerate tools having their own will."
"And that Vito Corleone, he not only wanted to control that slum, but he was also reshaping it according to his own will."
""
"He established order there, distributed food, opened clinics, and even built a strange system of loyalty. People no longer obey him just because of fear, but also because of gratitude."
Hobber frowned: "What's wrong with that? A stable Kings Landing is good for everyone."
"Good for Kings Landing, but not for the Lannisters." Paxter slowly walked back to his seat, looking at his son calmly: "Tywin wants absolute control. He wants everyone to know that all order in Westeros originates from the Lannisters, from him as the Hand of the King."
"But the order Corleone established in Flea Bottom is 'Corleone's order,' which implies another possibility—perhaps the world can function without the Lannisters."
He paused for a moment and continued: "What's more dangerous is that in just a few months, Corleone turned the most chaotic and filthy place in the Seven Kingdoms into the most law-abiding area in Kings Landing."
"If he continues to live and expand his influence..."
At this, Hobber finally understood: "So Tywin must kill him."
"Not only because he might become a threat, but more importantly, because he is a bad example."
"Exactly." Paxter nodded. "So remember, Hobber."
"We are fighting this battle not only for House Redwyne but also for the Lannisters. Corleone must die, and his body must be confirmed. Otherwise, your brother will be in great danger at the Red Keep."
"I understand, Father." Hobber lowered his head and answered obediently.
Since the war began, his twin brother, Horas Redwyne, had been held as a hostage in Kings Landing. Therefore, House Redwyne did not join Renly Baratheon's army along with the other lords of The Reach.
After Renly's death, Hobber was allowed to accompany Petyr Baelish to Bitterbridge to negotiate with House Tyrell, while Horas remained in the Red Keep as a hostage.
This tactic worked very well, forcing Paxter to do his utmost for the Lannisters.
But...
A trace of resentment flashed in Hobber's eyes. He and his brother were born on the same day; why was the other the heir to House Redwyne?
Just because that guy came out ten minutes earlier than me?
Humph!
Father is too biased!
That useless eldest son of the Tarly family next door was even forced by Lord Randyll Tarly to go to the Wall and join the Night's Watch, clearly intending to pass the lordship to the second son.
Why can't I?
Just as Hobber was feeling indignant, hurried footsteps came from outside the cabin.
A messenger rushed in without permission, his face deathly pale.
"My Lord... the front... there's an urgent report from the front!"