Chapter 129: The Godfather
The battle for Dragonstone raged on.
If anything, the clash of steel and the roar of men only grew fiercer with time.
Odin, Gendry, and the knight who called himself Edric moved through a quiet inner corridor of the castle.
Edric's condition was dire.
His thigh wound had been crudely wrapped with torn cloth, but dark blood still seeped out with every step.
Odin walked half a step behind him, glancing at the man's pale face and the chipped sword trembling in his hand.
He shook his head.
No saving him.
With Odin's surgical expertise, it was obvious—this man had suffered multiple fatal injuries. The fact that he was still walking, still speaking, was already a miracle.
Behind them, Gendry followed, gripping his sword tightly.
His mind was still stuck in that corridor—the brutal, lightning-fast slaughter.
Odin's swordsmanship had shaken him to the core.
Through the broken conversation between Odin and Edric, he now knew—
They were going to protect the daughter of Stannis Baratheon.
A princess.
The thought felt heavy.
It made his grip tighten instinctively, as if the word princess had placed a responsibility on him far beyond that of a mere blacksmith's apprentice.
"Up ahead… turn left…" Edric rasped, coughing violently. "At the end… the last room…"
His body swayed.
Odin steadied him, his hand coming away cold and slick with blood.
"Save your strength. Just point the way," he said flatly.
They followed the directions into a small courtyard.
Statues lay shattered on the ground, broken into pieces like an omen of ruin.
At the center—dried blood.
Scattered helmets, mismatched—clear signs that both sides had fought here before moving on.
At the far end stood a small house.
Door closed.
Edric's eyes lit up.
He stumbled forward, slamming the pommel of his sword against the door.
"Princess Shireen!"
"It's me—your uncle Edric! Open the door!"
No response.
He knocked harder, panic creeping into his voice.
"Princess! Open up! Quickly!"
Still nothing.
Behind him, Gendry's heart tightened.
Were they too late?
But Odin crouched slightly, studying the door.
No signs of forced entry.
He leaned closer, inhaled.
Blood outside—but inside?
Only a faint, bitter scent of medicine.
"Step back," he said.
Edric obeyed instantly.
Odin didn't hesitate.
Bam!
The old wooden door splintered inward under a single kick.
They rushed inside.
The room was dim, lit only by faint torchlight filtering through a narrow, high window.
Simple.
A narrow bed. Rough blankets.
A crooked table. Two stools. A low cabinet.
Bare stone walls.
For a Baratheon princess—
It was almost shockingly plain.
Yet on a small table sat neatly arranged parchment—crooked handwriting scrawled across them—and a thick, worn book.
The air carried a strange mix of herbs and sulfur.
And then—
The most striking sight.
By the bed leaned two objects.
A steel stag-antler helmet.
And a massive warhammer.
Weapons of a warrior—
Completely out of place in a little girl's room.
But—
No one was there.
"Princess…?"
Edric's voice trembled.
He staggered inside, searching desperately—then collapsed to his knees.
"No… no… I told her to stay here… to wait…"
Behind him, Gendry stepped in, immediately drawn to the helmet and hammer.
Without realizing it, he reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal.
A strange feeling ran down his spine.
As if something buried deep in his blood stirred.
He picked up the hammer.
Heavy.
Far heavier than any tool he'd used.
And yet—
Not impossible to wield.
At the doorway, Odin scanned the room slowly.
[Insight Lv3] picked up what others would miss.
The writing tools.
The armor.
The hammer.
Then—
The bed.
Near the inner edge, the fabric was slightly pulled—like something pressed tightly beneath it.
Behind him, Edric muttered in despair.
"I was wrong… I shouldn't have gone so far…"
Odin raised a hand, silencing him.
Then stepped forward.
"Come out, Princess Shireen."
Edric froze.
Gendry turned, tense.
Silence.
Then—
Rustling.
A small head peeked out.
A girl.
No older than ten.
Her face was small, her eyes large in the dim light—filled with caution.
But her skin—
Grey, rough patches covered her neck, cheek, and hands.
Greyscale.
Yet when her gaze landed on the blood-soaked knight—
Her eyes lit up.
"Uncle Edric!"
She rushed forward, fear forgotten.
"Princess… you're safe… thank the gods…"
Edric held her tightly, relief flooding his face.
But Odin saw it clearly.
A dying man's last flare.
"Your face… you're bleeding so much!"
Her small hands hovered, afraid to touch him.
"It's nothing," Edric forced a smile.
"These two… are my friends."
"They helped me fight through."
He looked at Odin and Gendry.
Trust—mixed with uncertainty.
But they were all he had left.
Shireen turned, studying them.
Odin's calm unsettled her.
But Gendry—
Young. Strong. Awkward.
Less frightening.
Then she noticed the hammer in his hand.
"That's… mine."
She pointed.
"And the helmet."
"I begged Father to have them made, just like in the books."
"But Father said… a Baratheon's courage isn't in armor. It's in the heart."
Her voice steadied as she repeated the words.
Gendry quickly set the hammer down, embarrassed.
"Sorry… I just thought it was…"
He faltered.
Couldn't find the words.
"Do you like them?" she asked.
"I… I'm a blacksmith's apprentice."
He scratched his head.
"I've made tools… fixed armor… but this is…"
Still no words.
"It's modeled after Robert's hammer," she explained patiently.
"The books say he used one like this."
"And that Robert Baratheon defeated Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident with it—and won the Iron Throne."
To her—
It was a hero's tale.
But the truth?
Bones shattered. Blood spilled. A family destroyed.
Gendry stood frozen.
Those words—
They stirred something deep inside him.
A connection he couldn't explain.
He looked at the helmet.
At Shireen.
At himself.
Confusion flooded him.
Edric noticed.
But he was running out of time.
His vision blurred. His strength faded.
He forced himself upright.
"Ser…"
He addressed Odin properly now.
"I don't know your real name."
Odin met his gaze.
"Odin."
"…Odin…"
The name meant nothing to him.
But then—
He laughed weakly.
"I knew it… you're the one who killed Axell in a single strike… the whole island's talking about it…"
"No armor. No weapon. Three seconds."
"That fool always bragged…"
"If I remember right… he was your uncle," Odin remarked.
"Spare me," Edric spat. "Anyone who worships that so-called Lord of Light doesn't deserve the Florent name!"
Then—
His expression hardened.
"Ser Odin… I'm dying."
"I swore to protect Stannis Baratheon and his bloodline."
"I've done all I could."
"This… is my last request."
He looked at Shireen.
Eyes full of warmth.
"She is light… in a dark world."
"Kind. Strong. Even in pain, she never lost hope."
"His Grace… loves her. I believe that."
"But… he's losing his way."
His voice dropped.
"I heard the red woman… she spoke of sacrificing royal blood… to win the war…"
Shireen trembled.
Odin's gaze grew colder.
Faith.
The cruelest weapon.
"The king still hesitates… but that woman… those visions…"
Edric's breath grew shallow.
"The castle is falling… I don't know if he's safe…"
"But she isn't."
"If the red woman finds her…"
With his last strength, he pushed Shireen's hand toward Odin.
"Take her… away from Dragonstone…"
"Protect her…"
"Please…"
The light left his eyes.
His body slumped—but remained half-kneeling.
As if still guarding her.
The sword slipped from his hand.
Clang.
"Uncle Edric! Uncle Edric!"
Shireen collapsed onto him, sobbing.
In this cold world—
He had been her warmth.
Now gone.
Odin watched silently.
Blood spread across the stone.
A child's grief echoed in the dim room.
Outside—war raged on.
He remembered the knight standing alone in the corridor—
Buying them time.
A true knight.
For that…
Odin stepped forward.
He didn't pull her away.
He knelt instead—meeting her eyes.
"Shireen Baratheon."
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
Not stopping her tears—
Just reaching through them.
Shireen lifted her head, tears still clinging to her lashes, and looked at the stranger before her—the man her uncle had entrusted her to.
His eyes were deep. Black.
Empty of everything she was used to seeing in others.
No fear. No distance. No pity. No disgust.
Nothing.
Only a clear, unfathomable stillness.
"Your knight fulfilled his duty," Odin said calmly. "He bought you time with his life."
"This is not comfort. It is fact."
He paused only briefly before continuing:
"And time is still passing. We don't have the luxury to grieve. The men of House Redwyne—or… others—could find this place at any moment."
At his words, Shireen's sobbing gradually subsided, though confusion and fear still lingered in her eyes.
"I will give you two choices."
Odin raised two fingers.
"First—"
"I take you to your father, Stannis Baratheon."
"But that requires knowing where he is, crossing a castle full of enemies, surviving a battlefield… and facing the red woman at his side—who may very well intend to trade your blood for victory."
He lowered one finger.
"Second."
"You come with me."
"And you call me… your godfather."
The word stunned both Shireen and Gendry.
In Westeros, there was no such term—only wardens, sworn guardians, or ceremonial sponsors.
But Odin ignored their confusion.
"If you choose the latter," he continued evenly, "then here, in the presence of the fallen knight and his honor…"
"I will treat you as my own."
"My sword will be drawn for you. My mind will serve you."
"I will ensure your safety—not only taking you away from Dragonstone, but making certain that no one who wishes you harm will ever reach you."
"Until you come of age… or until you decide you no longer need my protection."
His gaze settled firmly on her.
"And as your godfather, I will teach you the truth of this world."
"Both its beauty—and its cruelty."
"You will learn. You will grow."
"You will understand that your name brings not only honor, but danger."
"And in return…"
"You will give me your trust. Completely."
Silence fell over the room.
Only distant battle cries remained.
Behind them, Ser Edric rested forever against the wall.
Gendry held his breath, watching.
He didn't fully understand what "godfather" meant—
But he could feel the weight behind those words.
Shireen looked at Odin.
She was not yet ten.
But illness, loneliness, and fear had forced her to grow far beyond her years.
She could tell—
This man was different.
Not warm like her uncle.
Not stern like her father.
Not simple and kind like Davos.
He was cold.
Like the obsidian of Dragonstone.
But—
He was honest.
There was no deception in his eyes.
No hesitation.
His promise lacked warmth—
Yet felt more reliable than any beautiful oath.
Then she remembered.
Her uncle's final words.
Take her… protect her…
And her father—
She knew he loved her.
But ever since the defeat at the Battle of the Blackwater, something had changed.
His gaze burned more with fire… and less with warmth.
And the red woman—
Whenever she looked at Shireen, it felt like being weighed.
Measured.
As if she were something to be used.
A sacrifice.
A child not yet ten—
Forced to choose between blood and survival.
Between love and fear.
The weight of power crushed down on her small shoulders.
Time stretched.
Then—
Shireen wiped her tears.
The rough greyscale patches scraped faintly against her skin.
She straightened, trembling but resolute, and met Odin's gaze.
Then—
She dropped to one knee.
"In the name of the Seven… and in the name of my father, Stannis Baratheon…"
"I ask for your guidance… and your protection."
Her young voice echoed through the stone room.
A child—
Choosing her own shield.
Odin looked at her.
At the fragile strength in her eyes.
At the fear she refused to show.
His expression did not change.
But slowly—
He raised his hand.
Not to lift her.
But to rest it gently atop her greyscale-marked head.
A dangerous act.
Greyscale was contagious.
But he did not hesitate.
"I, Odin, accept you—Shireen Baratheon—as my goddaughter."
"From this moment on, your safety is my responsibility."
"Your enemies… are mine."
"Witnessed by the dead—this oath stands until one of us dies."
No ceremony.
No priest.
No blessing.
Just blood, death, and truth.
And in that war-torn night—
A bond was forged.
Odin withdrew his hand.
"Stand, Shireen."
She obeyed, stepping to his side.
Something had changed.
Something she couldn't name—
But it felt like safety.
For the first time.
Odin glanced once at Edric's corpse.
Then his eyes shifted—
To Gendry.
Broad shoulders.
Square face.
Then to the stag helm and warhammer by the wall.
A thought formed instantly.
"Gendry."
"Huh—what?"
Startled, Gendry blinked, then looked between Odin and Shireen.
Realization hit.
"Oh! Me too? Alright, Godf—"
"I'm not talking about that."
Odin shot him an annoyed look, then pointed.
"Go."
"Put on the helmet."
"And pick up the hammer."