"What the hell are you panicking about!"
Paxter Redwyne glared at his subordinate, voice sharp with irritation. As Earl of the Arbor, he had never lost a battle in his life and placed absolute faith in his fleet.
Back when Robert Baratheon launched his rebellion, Paxter had kept Storm's End bottled up for nearly a year. Only the Targaryens' defeat in the war forced him to abandon the siege and bend the knee—not because his men failed, but because his allies did. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Arbor fleet had shattered the Iron Fleet at the Battle of the Fair Isle. Even though Stannis had been in overall command, Paxter still credited the victory to his own ships.
Even now, with his eldest son held hostage by Tywin Lannister, Paxter had never once lost his composure. After all, the Lannisters had almost no naval power left—only the Redwyne fleet remained.
"Easy. Speak slowly."
Hobber Redwyne, the second son, spoke far more gently than his father. He was always careful to cultivate a likable image, hoping to win the same loyalty his late cousin Renly had once commanded. A faint smile played on his lips as he teased, "Don't tell me Robert Baratheon crawled out of his grave and wiped out our men."
The messenger froze. "You… how did you know, young master Hobber?"
"What?"
Both father and son stared, eyes wide.
"Explain. Now."
Paxter's voice cracked like a whip. The messenger snapped to attention and blurted out the report: "The forward command post says the garrison launched a counterattack from the inner courtyard—small force, but vicious. Then the men started shouting about a ghost… a giant in an antlered helm swinging a massive warhammer, smashing through everything in his path."
Paxter sat motionless in his chair, face unreadable. But when the messenger said "antlered helm," the old earl's bony fingers tightened on the armrest.
"Describe the man," he ordered.
"Tall, my lord. Half a head taller than Ser Hobber. Heavy armor, huge antler helm, and that warhammer—Gods, one swing and shields just… exploded. Men and plate both crushed flat."
"His face. Did anyone see his face?"
The messenger shook his head. "Helmet was closed. Only a slit. But some of the older men… they said he looked like… like…"
"Like who?"
The messenger swallowed hard. "Like King Robert Baratheon."
The cabin fell deathly silent. Only the creak of the ship and the sound of breathing remained.
Hobber was the first to react, barking a short, nervous laugh. "Ridiculous! Robert's been dead two years. His bones are dust by now—he's not climbing out of any grave to fight!"
"But…" the messenger's voice trembled. "The men started whispering that King Robert's spirit had returned to fight for his brother. And the man… he really does look just like him. Some of our troops are already starting to break."
"Impossible!"
Paxter shot to his feet, face like thunder. "Absolutely impossible!"
He strode to the porthole, his thin frame silhouetted against the candlelight, the red cloak snapping in the sea breeze.
"There are no such things as ghosts. This is Stannis's trick! He found some bastard or sellsword who looks like Robert, slapped armor on him, and sent him out to scare idiots. I heard the dwarf pulled the same stunt at the Blackwater—and it worked. Clever. Very clever."
He turned, eyes sharp on his son. "But it is a clever trick. Hobber, take my guard and every archer we can spare. Do not close with him—rain arrows until that antlered helm is pinned to a spear and brought back to me."
"Yes, Father!"
Hobber snatched up his helmet and followed the messenger out.
The next two hours brought nothing but disaster.
Hobber's force met ferocious resistance. The "antlered ghost" seemed to have an uncanny sense for weak points, striking wherever the Redwyne lines shifted. Worse still, the Dragonstone garrison's morale underwent an impossible transformation. Men who had been starving, exhausted, and ready to collapse now fought with suicidal frenzy, screaming:
"For House Baratheon!"
"King Robert fights with us!"
Wave after wave of reckless charges. No tactics—just pure, mad desperation. And that madness spread like wildfire.
The first routed troops appeared on the beach—fifty Redwyne soldiers throwing down their weapons and scrambling onto any boat they could find. The provosts shot a few deserters, but more joined the flight. Panic rippled through the ranks. Every returning soldier babbled like a madman:
"King Robert's spirit is back!"
"We're fighting the dead!"
"It's a curse! We're being punished for rebellion!"
Rumors twisted and grew with every telling. Some swore the ghost was immune to steel, that arrows bounced off him. Others claimed his warhammer burned with green ghost-fire. Still others said one roar from him could stop a man's heart.
Paxter stood on the command deck of the Queen of Thorns, watching through a Myrish far-eye. He saw his own banners falling. He saw Dragonstone soldiers retaking a section of wall. And then, for one frozen heartbeat, he saw the figure on the broken battlements—antler helm raised high, warhammer gleaming.
The shape… the stance…
It looked like him.
Too much like him.
Even Paxter felt a cold thread of doubt.
"Father!"
Heavy boots thudded up the ladder. Hobber returned, armor scored with deep gashes, left arm bandaged, face pale with fury. He hurled his helmet onto the table.
"We can't hold them! It's not that we're losing—it's that the men won't fight! Every time I order a charge they start shaking. Archers won't draw. Even the knights are steady, but the army's broken. We can't win a war with just knights."
Paxter set the far-eye down and stared out at the sea for a long moment. The three great crimson sails overhead snapped in the wind. Golden oars lay ranked along the hull. This was the strongest warship in the Seven Kingdoms—the living symbol of two centuries of Redwyne power.
And now it could only sit here and watch its army unravel.
"Where is that Vito Corleone bastard?" Paxter asked suddenly.
Hobber blinked. "What?"
"Vito Corleone." Paxter tapped the window frame, eyes narrowing. "If this is a trick, he's the one who planned it. Stannis couldn't come up with something this theatrical. I've heard the stories about that man. He's dangerous."
"He didn't just want to win—he wanted to win beautifully, with the smallest cost for the biggest gain."
Paxter turned to his son, voice steady and cold. "We walked right into it. That man knew Tywin would throw him away the moment he set foot on Dragonstone. He made a deal with Stannis the instant he arrived. He let us break the outer walls, let us think victory was certain, let us spread our forces thin… then at the perfect moment he unleashed that ghost and shattered our morale."
He laughed, short and bitter. "It's been a long time since I met an opponent this good."
Hobber's face had gone white. If everything his father said was true, how the hell were they supposed to beat a man who planned this far ahead?
"Father… what do we do now?"
"Retreat." Paxter's voice was ice. "Pull every man we can still save back to the boats. Abandon everything we've taken."
"But Father!" Hobber's voice cracked with frustration. "We've already paid in blood! And Lord Tywin's orders—"
"Tywin wants Corleone dead. He doesn't want the entire Redwyne fleet and its best troops buried on Dragonstone. If we throw away everything here and still fail to kill or confirm that man's death, Tywin will decide we're either incompetent or deliberately saving our strength. Either way, your brother pays the price in the Red Keep."
Hobber's face drained of color. He wanted to argue, but the logic was iron.
Paxter stepped to the rail and looked out at the burning island, a thin smile touching his mouth. "Besides… who says we lost?"
The order went out by flag and fast boat. Redwyne forces began an orderly withdrawal from the castle, falling back to the landing craft and returning to the fleet. It was ugly—some units were pinned and mauled, others trampled their own in panic, valuable equipment was abandoned—but most of the army made it back.
Inside the great cabin of the Queen of Thorns, Paxter gathered his senior officers around the chart table. Candlelight flickered across the inlaid pearl walls, throwing his thin shadow long.
Six ship captains and two knights stood waiting.
"How many did we lose?" Paxter asked calmly.
A knight answered. "Four hundred dead or missing, six hundred wounded. The worst hit was Ser Hobber's first landing company—more than half casualties. We also lost thirty scaling ladders, two siege towers, and most of the supplies we put ashore."
"The fleet?"
"Fleet is intact. Only a few landing boats sunk during the withdrawal."
Paxter nodded. Acceptable losses. The fleet—the true heart of House Redwyne—remained untouched. As long as the ships sailed, the Arbor would always have a seat at the table.
"What now, my lord?" an old captain asked.
"Stop all landings. Bring every man back aboard." Paxter's finger traced a circle around Dragonstone on the chart. "Re-form the fleet. Establish three concentric blockade lines around the island. Any vessel that tries to leave or approach—sink it on sight. No warnings."
Hobber couldn't stay silent. "Father, we already breached the outer wall! Give me another push and I swear I'll have Stannis and that antlered bastard in chains inside three days!"
Paxter's gaze was cold. "You want to spend Redwyne blood to win Tywin Lannister a prize? Even if you took the castle in three days, how many men and ships would we have left? Have you done the math?"
The rebuke was public and merciless. Hobber's face flushed, then went pale. He bit his tongue.
An older captain stepped in quickly. "A siege is the safest course, Ser Hobber. Dragonstone's granaries won't last a month. We sit offshore, lose no more blood, and still win."
"More than that," Paxter said, eyes glinting. "Tywin wants Corleone dead. A blockade guarantees he dies on that rock. And there's something else…"
He looked around the table. "Horas is still in the Red Keep."
The name made every man stiffen. Everyone knew Paxter's eldest son was a hostage wearing a smile—insurance that the Arbor would stay loyal.
"If we throw everything into a bloody assault and still fail to kill or confirm Corleone's death, what will Tywin think? That we're incompetent? Or that we deliberately preserved our strength? Either way, Horas suffers."
Hobber's face went even whiter. He was the one who had sailed with his father, the one fighting beside him—yet in his father's eyes, only the eldest son seemed to matter.
Paxter didn't notice. His finger circled Dragonstone again. "We send daily ravens to King's Landing. Tell them the fleet has the island sealed tight—no bird flies in or out. Explain that Stannis's fanatical resistance would cost unnecessary lives, so we chose the wiser path to preserve the realm's naval strength. And while we're at it, we politely request resupply."
He smiled thinly. "Two hundred ships. Thousands of sailors. The daily grain bill is no small sum. The Hand will approve it—because he needs this fleet at full strength, he needs the Redwynes loyal, and we're giving him exactly what he asked for while saving our own men and letting the royal treasury pay for it."
"In the end, we might be the real winners of this war."
A low murmur of approval ran around the table. This was why House Redwyne endured—because they always found the favorable wind in any storm.
Hobber still wasn't satisfied. "What about that… ghost?"
"Does a ghost swim?" Paxter asked dryly. "Tell the men we respect the spirit of House Baratheon's late king. We will not attack. Instead, we extend the most courteous invitation for King Stannis and his 'royal ghost' to come out and parley. If they have the courage to show themselves…"
His eyes turned cold as winter steel. "Reach out to whatever eyes we still have inside the castle. I want to know exactly how much food is left, how many meals they eat each day, how often they shit. Hunger is the best pry-bar in the world. The first man who trades a comrade for a crust of bread starts the crack—and the whole wall comes down after it."
"A ghost may not need to eat… but living men do."
The plan was perfect.
Flag signals rose from the Queen of Thorns. The great crimson sails swung, golden oars shipped, and two hundred warships began to move, forming a living cage of wood and canvas around Dragonstone.
At the same moment, inside the Stone Drum's uppermost chamber, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Stannis Baratheon stood with his back to the room, staring out at the re-formed fleet's lights now linking into a bright chain that stretched from horizon to horizon, leaving no gap.
His face was even paler than before. The wound on his forehead had been re-bandaged, but every breath still brought pain.
"They're forming a blockade," Ser Gerald said hoarsely. "Completely abandoned the landing. Pure siege. Very clever. Very… Redwyne."
As one of the old knights who had endured the siege of Storm's End with Stannis years ago, Gerald knew Paxter Redwyne's style all too well. This felt exactly like that long-ago encirclement.
"Clever?" Stannis didn't turn. His voice was bitter. "It's the act of a coward who won't fight face to face and uses hunger as a weapon instead. How long can our food last?"
Gerald answered quietly. "Rough count—fewer than a thousand fighting men left. The granary was burned. At minimum rations we can hold twenty days. If we cut further, maybe a month… but the men won't be able to lift their weapons."
Stannis said nothing. He simply watched the ships circling like sharks.
"Good news is the Redwynes have pulled back," Gerald continued. "We control the entire castle again. Wounded are being cared for, breaches are being repaired. Morale is high—they believe King Robert's spirit is protecting us."
"That is not a spirit," Stannis said stiffly. "That is Gendry. Gendry Baratheon."
"Yes, Your Grace. But to the men he is the symbol of King Robert. That is enough."
Stannis turned, blue eyes sharp. "Where is Ser Corleone?"
"In the armory with Gendry. He said he was going to teach the boy some… fighting techniques."
"Techniques." Stannis repeated the word with dry sarcasm. "He used a blacksmith's apprentice to rout an army. That is not technique. That is sorcery."
"You used sorcery once yourself, did you not?"
The calm voice came from the doorway. Corleone stepped inside, still wearing the blood-stained leather armor, face as composed as ever. His black hair was damp with sweat, but his eyes were bright and alert.
"People believe what they want to believe," Corleone said, walking to the window to stand beside Stannis. "Your soldiers want to believe King Robert has returned because it gives them hope. The Redwyne men want to believe it's a ghost because it explains why they lost without having to admit they were outfought."
"So this was all part of your plan," Stannis said.
"Part of it." Corleone was honest. "The rest was luck. Gendry has more talent than I expected—both for fighting and for performance. He seems to know instinctively how to become the center of attention on a battlefield. I've never met King Robert, but from everything I've heard, that boy is his father's son. Honestly, your entire House Baratheon should have joined a mummer's troupe."
"The Redwynes have us bottled up," Stannis said, still staring at the sea. "Can your magic conjure food?"
"No."
"Then we're all going to starve in twenty days."
"Sooner than that." Corleone raised an eyebrow. "I just finished another inventory. Part of the grain in the stores has already gone moldy. Eating that will kill you faster than hunger. Ten days at most before we face a real crisis."
Stannis's expression darkened further. This siege felt even more dangerous than the one he had endured at Storm's End years ago.
Sea wind blew in through the window, carrying salt and chill. In the distance the Redwyne fleet's lights formed a glowing chain that locked Dragonstone in a perfect cage.
"Shireen is with you, isn't she?" Stannis asked after a long silence.
He didn't wait for an answer. "I'll have Davos take you both out—if the channel is still open."
"Take care of her for me."
Corleone studied the king for a long moment, then shook his head. "Save it. Paxter won't even let food through. You really think he'll let people out?"
Stannis fell silent. He knew Corleone was right, yet as King of Dragonstone he had no answer.
The two men stood side by side, similar in height, utterly different in presence. Stannis was a drawn bow, ready to snap. Corleone was still water—surface calm, depths moving.
"Have you ever been hunting, Your Grace?" Corleone asked suddenly.
"What are you getting at?"
"The smartest hunter doesn't chase his prey across the hills. He finds the path the prey must take, sets his trap, and waits patiently."
Corleone watched the distant lights, mouth curving. "Earl Paxter is that hunter right now. He's set his trap on the sea—a trap that looks perfect. And now he'll put all his attention on it—checking the nets, watching for fish that might break through, calculating how long he has to wait. He'll forget one thing…"
"The hunter can also step into someone else's trap."
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly."
Corleone turned. Firelight from the hearth danced across his face, leaving half of it in shadow. In that moment Stannis saw something in those black eyes—something bottomless, as if the entire world were merely a chessboard.
"Paxter wants to invite us out for a parley, doesn't he?"
Corleone raised a hand, fingers slowly curling as if closing around the firelight itself. "Then we accept."
Stannis's gaze sharpened.
"But the time, the place, and who attends from each side…" Corleone's voice was quiet, certain. "We decide."