Chapter 130: Robert!
The timing of the Redwyne fleet's assault was impeccable.
With absolute control over the sea lanes—and guided by the distant hand of that old lion in King's Landing—they struck at the exact moment Stannis's forces were exhausted, driving a blade straight into the weakest point of Dragonstone's defenses.
The outer defenses collapsed almost instantly.
Resistance shattered into fragments, scattered across the castle like broken glass. The soldiers of Dragonstone had no choice but to fight where they stood, each group isolated, each battle its own desperate struggle.
In a narrow alleyway, five of Stannis's soldiers pressed their backs against the cold stone wall, forming a half-circle defensive line.
They were all wounded.
Their armor was cracked, their breathing ragged. One man's arm hung limp at his side—clearly broken. The others weren't much better.
Facing them—
Twelve soldiers of House Redwyne.
Well-equipped, disciplined, clad in deep purple armor that shimmered faintly under the torchlight.
They didn't rush in.
Instead, they advanced slowly, tightening the noose—spears and blades pressing forward, compressing the defenders' space, seeking to win with minimal losses.
"Give up," one of the Redwyne captains sneered, tapping his sword rhythmically against his shield. The sound echoed like a heartbeat, pounding against the defenders' nerves.
"Stannis has already lost. There's no point in this."
"Drop your weapons. Kneel. I guarantee you'll live."
The men of Dragonstone said nothing.
But in their eyes—
There was no surrender.
Only the stubborn resolve of cornered beasts.
They were the ones who had stayed after the Blackwater. The ones who had chosen Stannis even after defeat.
The leader—a grizzled veteran with a face full of stubble—spat on the ground and laughed harshly.
"Afraid to fight us, are you? Hah! No wonder the grapes of the Arbor can't grow real men!"
"Come on then, you bastards!"
"ROAR!!!"
The five men shouted as one.
The Redwyne captain's face darkened.
He raised his hand, about to order the final assault—
When suddenly—
A heavy, slow set of footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley.
And beneath it—
The unmistakable scrape of metal dragging across stone.
Both sides turned instinctively.
From the flickering shadows, a figure emerged.
Tall. Broad. Powerfully built.
Each step steady.
And above his head—
A pair of antlers.
Jagged. Majestic.
The unmistakable sigil of House Baratheon.
In his right hand, he dragged a massive warhammer, its rough head grinding against the stone floor, throwing off sparks.
For a moment—
The air froze.
"King… Robert…" one of Stannis's older soldiers whispered, dazed, as though witnessing a legend reborn.
Even the Redwyne captain felt a chill crawl up his spine.
That helm.
That hammer.
Robert Baratheon's legend was no mere tale.
Seagard. Summerhall. Stone Sept. The Trident.
Victory after victory.
And in the final battle—
One blow.
One hammer strike.
And Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen, sealing Robert's claim to the Iron Throne.
"…Don't play tricks," the captain snapped, forcing down his unease. "Stop right there, boy—or I'll kill you first!"
Robert was dead.
Killed by a boar.
That was fact.
As several Redwyne soldiers began to close in, Gendry tightened his grip on the hammer.
The antlered helm weighed heavily on his head, narrowing his vision.
The armor—taken from Ser Edric—didn't quite fit, but it would do.
His heart thundered in his chest.
But strangely—
He wasn't afraid.
There was only a strange, surging heat rushing through his limbs.
As if every muscle, every drop of blood in his body—
Was yearning for battle.
"Kill him!" the captain barked.
Three soldiers lunged forward, spears leveled.
Through the narrow slit of his visor, Gendry watched the spearpoints rush toward him—
And Odin's voice echoed in his mind:
Don't think. Just swing. Like you're hammering iron.
Horizontal. Vertical. However it feels natural.
Gendry roared.
Not like a warrior—
But like a smith driving his hammer down.
His body twisted, power flowing from his core through his shoulders and arms—
The hammer swung.
Upward.
Violent.
Brutal.
CRASH!
The first spear shattered instantly.
The hammer smashed through the soldier's chest without slowing, crashing into the second man behind him.
Bones cracked.
Bodies flew.
Neither even had time to scream.
The third soldier froze in terror—
Too late.
The hammer came back around in a sweeping arc—
EIGHTY!
The blow crushed into his ribs, caving in armor and bone alike.
He dropped, screaming.
Three men down.
In an instant.
Gendry stopped, breathing hard.
Under the helm, he blinked.
I… killed them? Just like that?
But there was no nausea.
No dizziness.
Only—
A raw, exhilarating rush.
As if he had been born for this.
The hammer smashing armor, breaking flesh—
It felt eerily similar to forging steel.
"…This thing… feels incredible!"
A wild excitement surged through him.
The hammer felt perfect in his hands—far better than the clumsy sword he'd struggled with before.
Odin hadn't lied.
"King Robert!"
"King Robert has returned!!!"
The soldiers of Dragonstone erupted in ecstatic disbelief.
The antlered helm.
The warhammer.
The overwhelming strength—
To them, it was undeniable.
The spirit of their king had returned.
A miracle.
A blessing.
"FOR KING ROBERT!"
"FOR KING STANNIS!"
The grizzled veteran roared first, charging forward with renewed fury.
The others followed.
The tide turned instantly.
The Redwyne soldiers faltered.
Between the terrifying "Robert" before them and the desperate soldiers behind, their formation collapsed.
What followed—
Was slaughter.
Gendry became a storm of iron and blood.
His swings were crude—
But devastating.
Each strike carried crushing force.
A shield was smashed—man and shield driven to his knees.
Another tried to flank him—
The hammer's shaft slammed into his face, dropping him instantly.
With Stannis's men rallying behind him—
The last Redwyne soldier, the captain himself, found himself trapped.
He dropped to his knees, trembling.
"I su—"
CRASH.
The hammer fell.
Silence.
The alley stank of blood.
Gendry stood there, drenched in it, alongside four surviving soldiers.
They stared at him in awe.
Reverence.
Almost worship.
Trying to glimpse his face beneath the helm.
Gendry turned slightly away.
What now?
Then he remembered.
He took a deep breath, forcing down the nervous thrill.
Raising the blood-soaked hammer, his voice rang out through the visor—
"Soldiers… are you tired?"
The four battered men straightened instantly, roaring with everything they had left:
"NO!!!"
Their voices tore through the smoke.
Gendry's blood surged.
He slammed the hammer down and shouted:
"Then follow me!"
"Kill every last one of those bastards!!!"
—
At the gates of the main keep, the battle raged even fiercer.
Ser Andrew Estermont fought like a man possessed.
Over fifty, hair graying—
Yet still standing like iron.
His armor was soaked in blood—some his, most not.
Fewer than ten knights remained with him.
All wounded.
All exhausted.
But still holding.
He hadn't come here blindly.
Originally assigned to defend the outer walls, he had realized quickly—the castle would fall.
And worse—
He had heard whispers.
Melisandre's followers were moving.
Their target—
Princess Shireen.
Stannis was too consumed by war and prophecy to notice.
But Andrew Estermont would not allow it.
Not after everything.
Not after following Robert from Storm's End to King's Landing.
Not after witnessing the birth of the Baratheon dynasty.
He would not let that innocent child become fuel for madness.
"Push forward!" he roared, cutting down a spearman. "We must reach the keep!"
"Don't let those fire-crazed lunatics get to the princess first!"
"YES, SIR!"
"Protect Princess Shireen!"
But just as they neared the gates—
"Watch out!"
Arrows rained down.
From both sides.
Indiscriminate.
Two knights fell instantly, pierced through the throat.
Even the pursuing Redwyne soldiers scattered.
Then—
Footsteps.
From the shadows.
Figures emerged.
Dozens.
Clad in dark red.
Flame sigils gleaming.
They surrounded Andrew and his men.
At their head—
A mounted knight in silver armor edged with flame.
He removed his helm.
A gaunt, hollow-eyed face.
"Ser Godry Farring."
Andrew's grip tightened on his sword.
"State your purpose," Godry said coldly. "Why are you abandoning the battlefield and advancing inward?"
"Don't play dumb!" Andrew snapped. "What are you doing here?!"
"You've poisoned the king enough—now you're after the princess too?!"
Godry didn't flinch.
"The Lord of Light shows us the way," he said calmly.
"Only through sacrifice can victory be achieved."
Andrew's voice trembled with rage.
"She's a child!"
"You'd burn her alive?!"
"For the greater good," Godry replied. "Her blood… is power."
"That's not sacrifice."
"That's murder!"
Andrew raised his sword.
"As long as I live—"
"You will not touch her!"
His knights roared in agreement.
Godry sighed.
"Then die."
The battle exploded.
Steel clashed.
Men screamed.
Andrew fought like a lion—
But numbers wore him down.
One by one, his comrades fell.
His arms grew heavy.
His vision blurred.
Still—
He fought.
Because once—
He had fought beside a man.
A king.
A legend.
A man with antlers on his helm and a hammer in his hand—
And when that man charged—
Victory had always followed.
"If only…"
"If only King Robert were still alive…"
His vision swam—
And then—
Through the chaos—
Through the flames—
He saw it.
Antlers.
Moving closer.
Not a dream.
Not an illusion.
Real.
He was coming.
Ser Andrew's heart slammed violently against his ribs as his eyes snapped wide open.
From the shadows beyond the gate—
A figure stepped forward.
A stag-antlered helm.
A massive warhammer.
Striding out of darkness like something pulled straight from legend.
Behind him followed several soldiers in familiar armor—wounded, battered, yet roaring with renewed fury as they charged straight at Godry Farring's men.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered—
Was the figure at the front.
The antlers.
The gait.
The sound of the hammer dragging across stone.
For a fleeting moment—
Time itself seemed to rewind.
Godry Farring noticed the disturbance as well. He turned sharply—and froze the instant he saw the "antlered warrior."
His heart skipped.
What the hell is this?
Robert Baratheon has been dead for nearly two years!
He shook his head hard, forcing himself back to reason, about to issue orders to split his forces—
Too late.
The antlered warrior moved with terrifying intent.
Ignoring all others, he charged straight toward Godry.
There was nothing elegant about his movements—no knightly finesse.
Almost clumsy.
But fast.
Relentless.
Overflowing with raw power.
Two of the Queen's Men rushed to intercept—
They were smashed aside like straw.
Godry's face twisted in alarm.
That strength—
He drew his sword at once and spurred his horse forward to meet the charge head-on.
A fatal mistake.
In the blink of an eye, the antlered warrior was upon him.
Gendry's armored foot slammed against the ground—
And he leapt.
Fully armored.
Warhammer raised high.
A brutal arc of death carved through the firelit air.
Godry's pupils shrank. He raised his blade to block, trusting in his skill and finely crafted armor—
CRASH!
CRACK!!!
The hammer came down.
The silvered helm—
And the skull beneath it—
Burst apart like a melon.
Blood and brain matter exploded outward.
The body, half a head remaining, swayed—
Then toppled from the saddle.
Silence.
For a heartbeat—
The battlefield froze.
Friend and foe alike stared, stunned.
Gendry landed heavily before the fallen horse, breathing hard.
Through the narrow slit of his helm, he glanced at the shattered remains.
His grip tightened on the hammer.
His legs ached—he had poured everything into that strike.
But the result—
Far exceeded expectation.
He lifted his head.
Met Andrew's stunned gaze.
Then swept his eyes across the shaken ranks of the Queen's Men.
And then—
He did something that made Andrew's chest tighten, his vision blur.
Gendry slammed the blood-dripping warhammer down against the ground.
THUD!
Then he raised his free hand, clenched it into a fist, and struck his armored chest—
"HA!!!"
Andrew's lips trembled.
A thousand words choked in his throat—
But in the end, he dropped to one knee and roared hoarsely:
"Long live King Robert Baratheon!!!"
That cry broke everything.
The remaining Queen's Men collapsed in spirit, throwing down their weapons, surrendering in panic.
A civil clash within House Baratheon—
Reversed in an instant.
All because of a helm—
And a hammer.
—
Above the battlefield, Odin stood silently, watching.
Seeing Gendry's performance, he gave a small, satisfied nod.
The boy might not be particularly sharp—
But he followed instructions perfectly.
That alone made him useful.
"Godfather."
At his side, Shireen looked up at him, confusion in her eyes.
"If you knew what the helm and hammer could do… why didn't you take them yourself? Why give that chance to him?"
Odin paused for a moment.
Then he chuckled softly, reaching out to pat her head.
"I can't swing something that heavy, little Shireen."
"And besides…"
He lifted his gaze, looking down at Gendry—now standing in the glow of torchlight, surrounded by kneeling soldiers, basking in their reverence.
His eyes grew thoughtful.
"In this world, there are always those meant to stand in the sunlight."
"Those who sit the Iron Throne… those who stand in council chambers… those who receive glory."
He paused.
"And then there are those who decide where that sunlight falls."
"Glory in the light is fleeting."
"But responsibility in the shadows…"
He let the words linger.
"…that is eternal."