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CaveLeather
The fighting on Dragonstone raged on.
As time passed, the shouts and clashes inside and outside the castle showed no sign of weakening. If anything, they grew fiercer.
Corleone, Gendry, and the knight who called himself "Ilen" moved through a quiet inner-keep passage.
Ser Ilen was in bad shape.
His thigh wound had been crudely bandaged with a torn cloak, yet dark red blood still seeped out with every step. Corleone walked half a pace behind him, watching the man's pale face and the heavily notched sword in his hand. He was pushing forward on nothing but raw willpower.
Corleone shook his head. No saving him.
With his own surgical expertise, he knew the knight had taken several mortal wounds. The fact that he could still walk this far and speak was a medical miracle.
Gendry followed, still gripping the awkward longsword. His mind was stuck on the brief, bloody slaughter in the corridor. Corleone's sword work had left him stunned.
From the broken conversation between the two men, he had learned the girl they sought was King Stannis's daughter—a true princess.
Protecting the princess… The thought felt heavy. Gendry's grip on the sword tightened, as if the word itself gave him something an apprentice blacksmith was never meant to have.
"Ahead… left turn…" Ser Ilen gasped, voice hoarse. "Room at the very end… cough!"
A violent coughing fit cut him off. His body swayed.
Corleone steadied his arm. Ice-cold and clammy—no need to guess how much blood he had lost.
"Save your strength, knight. Just point the way."
His tone was flat, no concern in it.
Following Ser Ilen's directions, they entered a small courtyard. Toppled statues lay shattered on the ground like an ominous sign. In the center was a patch of blackened blood, a few mismatched helmets scattered around it. Fighting had clearly passed through here before moving on.
At the far end stood a small cottage, door shut tight.
Ser Ilen's eyes lit up. He pulled free of Corleone's grip and stumbled forward, hammering the door with his sword hilt.
"Shireen, my lady! It's me—your uncle Ilen! Open up!"
Silence.
He knocked again, panic rising. "Shireen! Open the door—quickly!"
Still nothing.
Behind him, Gendry's heart climbed into his throat.
Too late?
Corleone leaned in, studying the door. No pry marks. He sniffed lightly at the crack. Blood-scent was only outside. Inside—nothing but a faint, bitter medicinal smell.
"Stand back," he said coldly.
Ser Ilen froze, then understood and stepped aside.
Corleone turned sideways and drove his boot into the door.
The old wood groaned, the latch snapped, and the door flew inward.
They entered first.
The room was dark. Only faint torchlight from the courtyard slipped through a narrow, high window, barely sketching the outlines inside.
A narrow wooden bed against the wall, stiff coarse sheets. A crooked table, two stools, a low wardrobe. Bare stone walls. For a Baratheon "princess," it was stark.
Yet on the corner table lay neat rolls of parchment covered in crooked writing and a heavily worn book. The air smelled of herbs and sulfur—the same medicinal tang Corleone had caught outside.
But none of that was the striking part.
Leaning against the wall by the bed were two things that did not belong in a child's room: a finely made steel antler helm, branching tines gleaming even in the gloom, and an enormous two-handed warhammer that looked to weigh thirty or forty pounds.
Warrior's gear. Completely out of place.
The room itself was empty.
"Shireen, my lady?"
Ser Ilen's voice shook. He dragged his ruined body inside, eyes wild, but found no sign of her.
Maybe from blood loss, or guilt, or despair, he suddenly dropped to his knees.
"No… no, I told her to stay here and wait for me…"
Gendry stepped in behind them. His gaze went straight to the antler helm and the warhammer. Drawn like a moth to flame, he walked over and brushed his fingertips across the cold metal tines.
A strange heat ran up his spine, as if something long asleep inside the steel had stirred. His blood felt like it was beginning to boil.
He looked at the hammer—the tool of a blacksmith's trade—and felt an odd familiarity. He bent, gripped the haft, and lifted. Heavy, far beyond any tool he had swung, yet somehow… not impossible.
Corleone stayed in the doorway. Unlike Ilen, he did not rush to search. His eyes moved slowly across the room, [Insight Lv3] picking up details others would miss: the writing tools, the strange armor and hammer.
Finally his gaze settled on the narrow bed. Near the inner edge, the sheets were pulled taut, as if something pressed tightly against the bedboard.
By now Ser Ilen was unraveling. Kneeling, he whispered to the empty room, voice thick with self-reproach. "I was wrong… I never should have left the stonemason's tower… I should have come sooner…"
Corleone raised a hand, cutting off the pointless regret.
He took two steps forward, stopped at the foot of the bed, and spoke quietly.
"Come out, Shireen, my lady."
Ser Ilen's head snapped up, staring at Corleone in disbelief, then at the space beneath the bed.
Gendry froze, sword half-raised.
Still nothing.
Corleone sighed and tried again. "We mean no harm. There's a knight named Ilen here—he fought with his last breath to reach you. If you don't answer, I'll have the strong young man behind me flip this bed over. That might scare you, and it will make noise that could bring the wrong people running. Your choice."
Silence.
Then a soft rustling.
Under three pairs of eyes, a small head emerged.
A girl, no more than ten. Small face, pointed chin, large wary eyes in the dim light. But the most striking thing was the gray, stone-like rough patches covering her neck, one cheek, and the back of one hand—greyscale.
It made her delicate features unsettling.
Yet when her gaze found the blood-soaked knight kneeling on the floor, those large eyes lit with pure joy.
"Uncle Ilen!"
She forgot her fear and scrambled out, stumbling into his arms.
"My lady… you're safe… thank the gods!"
Ser Ilen clutched her, a flicker of color returning to his face. Corleone knew it was only the last flare before the end.
"Your face… you're bleeding so much!"
Shireen reached for him, then pulled her hand back, afraid of hurting him, tears trembling in her eyes.
"Just a scratch. Nothing serious."
He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace.
"These two… are my friends. They helped me fight off the rebels so we could get here."
He looked at Corleone and Gendry, expression complicated. He still didn't know which side they were truly on, but right now they were the only hope he and Shireen had.
Shireen turned and studied them. Corleone's cold, indifferent gaze made her shrink back. But Gendry—sturdy, not much older than her, with an honest, slightly bewildered face—eased her fear a little.
Especially when she saw the warhammer in his hands.
"That's… my hammer."
She pointed, voice small but proud. "And the helmet. I begged Father for a long time before he had them made like the books showed."
"But Father said a Baratheon's courage isn't in armor—it's in the heart."
She repeated the words like a charm, and some of the terror left her eyes.
Gendry felt the hammer grow warm in his grip. He set it carefully back against the wall and rubbed his palms on his thighs. "S-sorry, I just… it felt…"
He ran out of words.
"Do you like them?" Shireen asked, innocent.
On this night of slaughter, only talking about her "toys" seemed to give her any peace.
"I… I'm just a blacksmith's apprentice. At least I was. I've hammered plowshares and patched armor, but I've never seen anything like…"
He trailed off again.
"This was made after Robert's Hammer," Shireen explained patiently. "The books say Great-uncle Robert used one just like it when he was young. They say he swung it at the Trident and broke Prince Rhaegar's breastplate and all his ribs, then took the Iron Throne."
She spoke of blood and death like a child telling a fairy tale—because that was all it was to her. Most people who had never lived through war saw it the same way.
Gendry stood very still. The words—Robert, the Trident, the hammer—struck something deep in his chest. A strange, warm flutter ran through him, as if a faint bloodline memory had stirred.
He looked at the antler helm, then at the girl who might be his cousin, and felt a storm of emotions he had no name for.
Ser Ilen saw it, but his time was almost gone.
He could feel the cold creeping up his limbs, consciousness fraying.
He took a deep, painful breath that cleared his head for one last moment.
"Ser." He used the formal address without thinking.
Though Corleone had claimed to be "Davos's man," the sword work in the corridor had already told Ilen otherwise.
"I still don't know your true name."
Corleone met his fading gaze and answered after two heartbeats.
"Corleone. Vito Corleone."
"Corleone…" Ilen repeated, then gave a broken, bloody laugh. "Heh… I knew it. I knew it! You're the one who killed Axell with a single stroke! The whole island was talking about it—three seconds, no armor, no weapon!"
"That loudmouth was always bragging about his swordsmanship… hahaha!"
His words grew clearer, as if death itself had granted him this final clarity.
"If I remember right, that loudmouth was your uncle."
"Pah!" Ilen spat. "A follower of that Light nonsense isn't worthy of the name Florent! If it weren't for my sister Selyse and little Shireen, I would've—"
He stopped, remembering.
He looked up, expression deadly serious, and gripped Shireen's hand tighter.
"As you can see, Ser Corleone, I'm finished."
"I'm a knight. I swore to protect King Stannis Baratheon and his blood with my life. I've done everything I could. Now this is my last request."
He turned his head with difficulty, looking at Shireen—tears streaming, clutching his hand—and his eyes were full of a father's love.
"Shireen, my lady… she is a rare light in this dark world. Kind. Clever. Even with her illness and loneliness, she never stopped dreaming of better things."
"King Stannis loves her—I believe that. But his path has gone wrong."
His voice dropped. "Before I left, I heard the red woman whispering to him… that at the decisive moment he should sacrifice the king's own blood for victory…"
Shireen shuddered violently.
Corleone's eyes stayed calm, but grew colder.
"His Grace still hesitates. He loves her. But that woman and her fire visions…"
Ilen's words came faster, breath failing. "The castle is falling. I don't know if he's safe. But here… it's no longer safe for Shireen. If the red woman learns she's still here, she won't waste the chance to complete her ritual…"
With the last of his strength, he gently pushed Shireen's hand toward Corleone.
The effort finished him. His body began to sag.
"Take her away, Corleone… No matter which side you're on, get her off Dragonstone, away from that woman's sight. Protect her…"
His eyes were glazing, yet he forced them to stay on Corleone. "For the sake of how I shielded you earlier… please…"
The final word left his lips. The light in Ser Ilen's eyes went out.
He slumped against the cold stone wall, still half-kneeling, as if guarding what mattered most even in death.
His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Uncle Ilen! Uncle Ilen!"
Shireen threw herself onto his cooling body and sobbed.
In this cold world, this childless knight who had loved her as his own had been one of her few sources of warmth.
Now even that was gone.
Corleone watched in silence.
The knight's blood spread slowly across the stone, mixing with dust.
The girl's broken cries echoed in the simple room while distant battle still rumbled outside.
He remembered how Ilen had stood in that corridor, roaring for him and Gendry to run while he held the line.
A true knight. Oath-bound until the end.
For the sake of how you protected me with your life…
Corleone sighed inwardly.
In King's Landing, everything was trade. But this pure, life-given guardianship—even when given to someone else—was worth respect.
He stepped forward, crouched until he was eye-level with the weeping girl, and spoke softly.
"Shireen Baratheon."
She looked up, tear-streaked, at the stranger her uncle had entrusted her to.
His eyes were deep and black. No fear, no pity, no disgust—only clear, bottomless darkness.
"Your knight did his duty. He bought you time with his life. But time is still running out. We have no luxury to grieve. The Redwynes—or worse—could find this place any moment."
Shireen's sobs quieted, fear and confusion in her eyes.
"I give you two choices."
Corleone held up two fingers. "First—I take you to your father, King Stannis. But that means finding him through a castle and battlefield full of enemies, and facing the red woman who may want to use your blood for victory."
"Second." He lowered one finger. "Come with me and call me… Godfather."
Both children stared.
Westeros had no such title. Only the old "godparent" who stood witness at a naming and promised the Seven the child would be raised in the faith.
"If you choose the second," Corleone continued, "here and now, with the fallen knight and his honor as witness, I will regard you as my own."
"My sword will swing for you. My wisdom is yours. I will keep you safe—not only off this island, but from anyone who would ever harm you. Until you are grown, or until you no longer need it."
He paused, gaze steady on her small, scaled face. "As your godfather, it is my duty to show you the world as it truly is—beautiful and cruel alike. You will learn. You will grow. You will understand that your name carries both glory and danger."
"And you will give me—your godfather—unconditional trust and respect."
The room was utterly silent except for the distant roar of battle.
Ser Ilen rested against the wall, as if still listening.
Gendry held his breath.
Shireen looked at this cold, honest stranger—different from everyone she had ever known. No warmth like her uncle, no stern love like her father, no simple kindness like Ser Davos. He was obsidian-cold. But in his eyes she saw no lie.
His promise was blunt, almost harsh. Yet it felt more real than any pretty vow.
She remembered her uncle's last words.
"Take her… protect her…"
She thought of her father, whose eyes had grown more feverish since the Blackwater, who sometimes looked at her scales with an expression that frightened her.
And the red woman, whose gaze always made Shireen feel like a thing that could be burned at any moment.
A girl not yet ten, forced to choose between blood and a stranger's shield.
The weight of the game of thrones pressed down on her small shoulders.
At last she wiped her face hard, scales scraping skin. She straightened, still trembling, and met Corleone's dark eyes.
With a soft thud she dropped to one knee.
"In the name of the Seven, in the name of my father Stannis Baratheon, I ask for your guidance and protection… Godfather!"
Her young voice rang through the stone room.
A child, in the darkest hour, choosing her own new fortress.
Corleone looked down at her—fear and forced courage in her eyes—and his face remained calm. He slowly reached out and laid his palm gently on her scaled head. No hesitation, though the risk of greyscale was real.
"I, Corleone, accept you, Shireen Baratheon, as my goddaughter. From this moment, your safety is my responsibility. Your enemies are my enemies. Witnessed by the dead, this oath holds until one of us ends."
No ceremony. No septon's blessing.
On this war-torn night, in a humble room smelling of death and medicine, a strange new bond was sealed.
Corleone withdrew his hand. "Rise, Shireen."
She stood and moved to his side. Something felt different. A strange sense of safety wrapped around her.
Corleone's gaze lingered on Ser Ilen's body, then shifted to Gendry's sturdy frame and honest face, then to the antler helm and warhammer against the wall.
A bold thought flashed through his mind.
"Gendry."
"Uh—yeah?"
The sudden call snapped Gendry out of his daze. He looked at Corleone, then at Shireen, and immediately dropped to one knee. "Me too? Okay, Godf—"
"I'm not talking about that."
Corleone gave him a flat look and pointed. "Go put on that helmet. And pick up the hammer."