Morning.
The sea mist had not yet fully lifted when the Queen of Thorns lowered a longboat.
The small craft sliced across the gray water toward Dragonstone's main dock. Its bow bore the Redwyne sigil—a cluster of grapes—while the oars gleamed gold and white. This was a ceremonial vessel, built for formal occasions.
Hobber Redwyne stood tall at the bow, deep-green velvet cloak draped over polished steel armor. He kept his back ramrod straight, chin slightly raised, trying to copy the commanding posture his father Paxter Redwyne used when receiving vassals. His eyes stared straight ahead.
Yet his right index finger kept tapping the sword hilt—nervous, unconscious.
Seated across from him was Ser Desmond Redwyne, sixty-three years old. Unlike Hobber's finery, the old knight wore well-kept but plain plate, the edges of the Redwyne crest on his breastplate worn shiny by time. His white hair was cropped short, face creased with deep lines. Sharp eyes scanned the approaching dock, constantly assessing every possible hiding place for danger.
"Remember your manners, Hobber," Desmond said as the boat neared shore, voice stiff, almost scolding. "We represent House Redwyne in negotiations with House Baratheon—not to start a fight."
"Let them speak first. Watch. Then respond. Don't rush to stake a position. But our tone must stay firm. We hold the advantage."
"I know, Uncle," Hobber answered impatiently. "Father already told me all this before we left."
"Your father told me," Desmond corrected, frowning. "He only sent you to learn how to negotiate with enemies. So today I'll do most of the talking. You sit, watch, and keep your mouth shut."
"Negotiation isn't a tourney. It's not about who shouts loudest. Find the holes in their words. Read their limits in their faces and posture."
Hobber's fingers tapped faster. Irritation flashed in his eyes.
Again with this.
He was twenty-five. He had fought three sea battles and commanded five longships. Yet in the eyes of this old man and every other elder in the family, Hobber Redwyne was still a child who needed constant instruction—never trusted to handle anything on his own.
Learn. Learn my ass.
In sullen silence, the longboat glided to the dock.
Dragonstone guards lined the pier in armor, most bearing fresh wounds, yet they stood tall, spears steady. They showed no open hostility—just silent, watchful ranks.
"Welcome to Dragonstone, my lords," Ser Gerald Gower greeted them without ceremony. "Please come with me. The lords await you in the great hall."
Hobber disembarked first. Seeing Gerald come forward to meet him, he nodded with satisfaction, chin lifting higher.
Desmond, stepping off behind him, only shook his head and sighed.
Still no maturity in the boy.
They walked in silence to the audience hall.
A long table dominated the center, two high-backed chairs on each side. When Hobber and Desmond entered, the other party was already seated—two men, just like them.
The first to catch the eye was a young man in bright silver plate. On his breastplate, the golden crowned stag of House Baratheon gleamed even in the dim light. Thick black hair, deep blue eyes, strong jaw.
The instant Hobber saw that face, his heart lurched.
He looked exactly like the portraits of King Robert Baratheon.
Beside him sat a plain-faced man of about twenty, black-haired, wearing simple leather armor beneath a dark-gray cloak. His expression was calm, unreadable.
Behind Hobber, Ser Desmond's step faltered almost imperceptibly.
The old knight's gaze lingered on the young man's face. He recognized what that face—and that armor—meant.
If he was not mistaken, the "Robert Baratheon" the soldiers had seen on the battlefield was this very man.
"Welcome, representatives of House Redwyne," said the man beside Gendry—Corleone, speaking with a deliberate foreign accent. He rose smoothly and offered a polite, balanced bow. "I am El Capone, a free sellsword from Essos, currently serving House Baratheon as military advisor."
He gestured. "This is Ser Gendry Baratheon, blood of the late King Robert Baratheon the First, nephew to King Stannis. He speaks for His Grace in these negotiations."
Hobber and Desmond both raised their eyebrows.
Gendry Baratheon?
Likely one of the whoremonger king's bastards—hardly surprising. Robert's seed was rumored to have scattered across the Seven Kingdoms, nearly matching the legendary "Greenhand" Garth of the Reach.
Still… for Stannis to legitimize his brother's bastard and restore the Baratheon name was astonishing.
Though shocked, Ser Desmond recovered first. He stepped forward, right hand over his heart, returning a formal knight's salute.
"I am Ser Desmond Redwyne, cousin to Earl Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor. This is Ser Hobber Redwyne, the Earl's second son and House Redwyne's representative in these talks."
Hobber followed with his own salute, trying to appear dignified.
But he noticed the slight, unreadable gleam in El Capone's eyes when Desmond said "second son."
Mocking him?
Damn it.
A flush rose on Hobber's cheeks. He shot Desmond an annoyed glance.
Did the old man really have to spell it out so clearly? Couldn't he just say "Paxter Redwyne's son"?
"Please, sit," Corleone said, catching the exchange. He smiled and gestured.
The four took seats, the long table keeping a safe six feet between them—close enough to talk, far enough that neither side could suddenly strike.
Sea wind whistled through broken panes, stirring the banners on the walls.
Corleone clapped once.
An old servant emerged from the shadows with a wooden tray bearing two fresh loaves of black bread and a small dish of coarse salt.
By ancient Westerosi custom, once guests accepted bread and salt, guest right was invoked—sacred protection for both sides beneath the host's roof.
The servant offered the tray first to Hobber and Desmond.
Ser Desmond examined the bread and salt carefully, then tore off a piece, dipped it, chewed, and swallowed.
Hobber did the same.
The bread was coarse, bitter… and carried a faint whiff of mold. Dragonstone's larders were clearly running dangerously low.
As he swallowed, Desmond's mind worked furiously.
The ritual was complete.
Corleone leaned forward, hands clasped on the table in a relaxed pose. "Then, in the sight of gods old and new, let us begin. First, allow me to thank Earl Paxter Redwyne, on behalf of King Stannis Baratheon, for his willingness to negotiate. Choosing words over blood in wartime is wise."
Ser Desmond cleared his throat and spoke before Hobber could. "Earl Paxter also values the lives of soldiers. The Redwyne fleet has completed the blockade of Dragonstone—two hundred warships, more than six thousand men. Your stores will not last a month. Our supply lines run unbroken from the Arbor to King's Landing. Continued resistance will only bring needless death."
Hobber listened and nodded. He remembered his father saying exactly these things, but he believed they would carry more weight if spoken by the Earl's own son.
He opened his mouth to add emphasis—only for Desmond to continue first. "Therefore the Earl offers honorable terms. The usurper Stannis Baratheon must renounce all claim to the Iron Throne, take the black, and join the Night's Watch for the rest of his days, that he might atone. All who lay down arms may depart freely without reprisal. As for the blood of House Baratheon…"
Desmond's gaze flicked to Gendry, hesitating a heartbeat. "When the time is right, perhaps Earl Paxter will petition the Iron Throne to let him inherit Storm's End."
The promise was clearly improvised and carried little weight coming from Desmond.
Hobber opened his mouth again, ready to strengthen it in his own name—only for Desmond to turn to Gendry first. "Will you accept these terms?"
Gendry looked bewildered and simply nodded, never speaking once.
"Regrettably," Corleone answered for him, "King Stannis cannot accept."
"Why?" Desmond asked, voice steady but edged with pressure.
"Because King Stannis has committed no crime and requires no atonement. He is the lawful heir of King Robert. By the laws of succession, when Robert died without legitimate issue, the throne passed to his brother. Furthermore, the legitimacy of Joffrey Baratheon's blood remains… questionable. I believe House Redwyne has heard the rumors."
Desmond's brow furrowed. Hobber seized the opening. "You have no proof, and we hold the advantage!"
"Yes," Corleone said, as if noticing Hobber for the first time. He smiled. "We all understand political reality. But reality is not always justice, nor is it eternal. Otherwise House Targaryen would still rule instead of having been overthrown by King Robert Baratheon."
Desmond's frown deepened. "Are you suggesting House Redwyne supported the usurper?"
"I am stating historical fact. Every house made choices at the crossroads. Stark and Arryn chose Robert and became pillars of the new dynasty. Now House Redwyne faces its own choice—continue backing a king whose blood may not be pure, or reconsider what true legitimacy means."
"House Redwyne is loyal only to—" Hobber began, but Desmond cut across him. "House Redwyne is loyal to the Iron Throne! We are loyal to the lawful monarch—King Joffrey the First, crowned by the High Septon and recognized by the Small Council. That is reality!"
"Reality changes," Corleone said lightly, "like the tide. A wise captain does not anchor on rocks at low tide, nor sail away from port at high tide."
"Those words are…" Hobber thought the metaphor clever and opened his mouth to agree—only for Desmond to reply coldly:
"House Redwyne has lived by the sea for centuries. We read tides better than anyone. And right now the tide clearly does not favor Dragonstone."
The negotiation dragged on for half an hour, time dissolving in circular arguments.
Hobber finally saw the pattern.
Every time he tried to speak, Desmond was half a beat faster. Every time Corleone made a point, Desmond answered first.
And he—Hobber Redwyne, nominal representative of House Redwyne—sat there like an ornament, only listening.
What confused him most was Gendry Baratheon.
The young man had not uttered a single word. He simply sat, hands on the table, occasionally sipping water. When Desmond spoke he listened attentively; when Corleone answered he listened attentively. No impatience. No interruption. No visible emotion.
Strange.
If Gendry was truly House Baratheon's representative, why was he not participating?
If he had no authority, why was he even here?
If he had authority but chose silence, what was he watching for?
Hobber studied Gendry's face for a long moment. That face so like Robert's was young and strong, yet the eyes held… not confusion. Something deeper. As the representative of House Baratheon, as the warrior who had slaughtered foes on the battlefield, he could not possibly be this simple.
Look—those eyes were slightly narrowed. He was assessing the situation… yes, definitely.
"Why isn't this over yet?"
Gendry jolted awake, head pounding from the endless back-and-forth. Participating in this kind of negotiation was more exhausting than swinging a warhammer all afternoon.
"Wasn't I supposed to just sit here, then we could eat?"
"Gods, I've been starving lately. I'm getting skinny."
The memory of fresh bread made him swallow hard. He forced his eyes open and tried to look attentive.
Hobber stopped watching Gendry and hunted for an opening in the verbal duel. Finally, during a brief pause, he cleared his throat. "On that point, I believe—"
"There is nothing to believe!" Desmond snapped. "We hold every advantage, El Capone. House Redwyne will not haggle. The Earl's orders are clear: Stannis dons the black and goes north, Dragonstone returns to the crown. I will accept nothing less!"
Hobber's face flushed crimson.
This time Desmond had not merely interrupted—he had publicly stripped Hobber of any speaking authority in front of the enemy.
This had long since passed "guidance." It was outright humiliation.
Corleone's eyes gleamed with amusement. He turned to Gendry and said, loud enough for all to hear, "Lord Gendry, do you have anything to add?"
"Ah, food…" Gendry almost blurted, then caught himself. "I only follow King Stannis's decisions!"
One sentence. Then silence again.
Desmond's patience snapped. The old knight rose, shaking his head. "It seems we have no agreement. The Redwyne fleet will maintain the blockade. When your stores are gone you will choose more wisely—or starve. Hobber, we're leaving."
He turned toward the door.
But Hobber remained seated, fingers white on his sword hilt. Blood roared in his ears.
Again and again and again.
Always interrupted. Always spoken for. Always treated like a child who needed leading by the hand.
On the Arbor. In the fleet. And now, in the most important negotiation of his life—still the same.
Desmond had reached the door before realizing Hobber was not following.
He turned, frowning. "Hobber, didn't you hear me? We're leaving!"
The tone was not discussion. It was a command to a subordinate.
Hobber slowly raised his head and looked at Desmond.
The old knight stood silhouetted in the doorway, face in shadow, posture still straight as an unbreachable mountain.
Hobber glanced back at Corleone—the mockery in those black eyes was unmistakable.
Then at Gendry—the Baratheon who clearly held authority yet chose silence.
Something clicked.
Gendry was not without a voice. He was using silence to express trust. He trusted Capone to speak for him.
And Hobber? He did not trust Desmond to speak for him—yet he had been stripped of the right to speak anyway.
"Hobber!" Desmond's voice sharpened. "Stand up. Come with me. This is an order."
Order.
Always orders.
From childhood until now—always this damned commanding tone.
Hobber drew a deep breath, suppressed every ounce of rage, and rose in silence.
After all, as merely the second son, what could he do?
Seeing Hobber move, Desmond's brow eased slightly. He turned and reached for the heavy door.
At that moment—
"Planning to leave without our permission?"
Just as Desmond's fingers touched the latch, Corleone's voice rang out, clear and calm in the empty hall.
Desmond froze, then turned slowly, face dark with suspicion. "What do you intend?"
"I'm telling you—we are protected by guest right. I don't believe Stannis would allow you to act rashly."
Hearing the empty threat, Corleone leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed, almost lazy. But those black eyes were razor-sharp, fixed on Desmond.
"I'm not a Westerosi. In Essos we don't bother with guest-right nonsense."
Desmond's face paled. "What do you mean?"
"What I mean," Corleone said, sitting up straight, gaze moving from Desmond to Hobber and back, "is that you should have assessed the risks before setting foot on this island. After all, this is enemy headquarters. And with Hobber as a hostage… I think we'd have far more leverage when speaking with Earl Paxter. He wouldn't simply watch his own son die here, would he?"
A naked threat.
Desmond's hand flew to his sword hilt. "You mean to detain us? Tell you, it will achieve nothing. Earl Paxter will never yield. Our fleet will tighten the noose until every last one of you starves!"
"Is that so."
Corleone's tone remained mild. He no longer looked at Desmond. His eyes turned to Hobber.
The young Redwyne stood frozen, face white, right hand on his sword hilt, posture rigid—clearly warring with himself.
"Ser Hobber," Corleone said softly, voice laced with pity and disappointment. "It seems you don't rank very high in your father's heart."
Hobber's body jerked as if struck.
Desmond roared, "Shut your mouth!"
"Don't listen to him, Hobber! He's trying to drive a wedge between you!"
But Corleone ignored him completely, each word landing like a hammer. "What a pity. Though I'm only a farmer's son, my father… he once stole apples for me and was beaten to death by the farm owner."
"That was many years ago." Corleone's gaze grew distant. "Later I wondered—if I had been more useful, maybe Father wouldn't have stolen. Wouldn't have died. But the truth is he was just a poor farmer, and I was his only son. So he protected me, even at the cost of his life."
He looked back at Hobber, eyes almost pitying now. "But you're different, Ser Hobber. You are the second son of House Redwyne. You have a brother—Ser Horas—the hope of the family, the future heir. And you… you're the spare. Like an extra sword. Nice to have, but not having it changes nothing."
"You're lying!" Hobber's voice trembled with rage.
"Am I?" Corleone shrugged. "Then explain why you're sitting here instead of Ser Horas. Why are you risking your life on enemy soil while he lounges safely in King's Landing? Why does Ser Desmond interrupt you every time you try to speak and answer for you?"
With every word Hobber's trembling intensified.
Corleone rose and walked slowly around the table, stopping a few paces from Hobber. His voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Because you're not important, Ser Hobber. You're a disposable piece. If negotiations collapse today and you're taken hostage, what will Earl Paxter do? He will grieve. He will rage. But in the end he will calculate the cost. Trading one second son for Dragonstone… might be worth it. But if it were Ser Horas instead? Maybe he would pay any price. Who knows?"
Corleone sighed and turned his back, waving a dismissive hand as if brushing away something trivial. "It seems taking you hostage would be pointless. You may leave. We will hold Dragonstone to the last."
"Unless…" He glanced back, eyes cold. "You become the eldest son. Then you might actually be useful."
Eldest son. Eldest son!
The words exploded in Hobber's skull like thunder.
Why can't I be the eldest son?
If I had been born first…
If Horas were gone…
Then he would be the heir. The only hope. The future of House Redwyne.
The thought was terrifying—yet intoxicating. Once it surfaced, it would not leave.
Hobber's face drained of color, then flushed with a sickly red. His breathing grew ragged. Veins stood out on the hand gripping his sword.
Desmond saw the madness flickering in Hobber's eyes and his heart clenched. He didn't know what Hobber was thinking, but every instinct screamed to get him out—now.
"Enough! Hobber, we're leaving!"
Desmond grabbed Hobber's arm and pulled hard toward the door.
"Stand up, Hobber! I command you in your father's name—return to the ship at once!"
Command.
Always commands.
From childhood to this moment—always this damned commanding tone.
Hobber let himself be dragged a few stumbling steps. Then he turned his head and looked at Desmond—at the anxious, stern face, at the hand gripping his arm so tightly.
In that instant every suppressed rage, every humiliation, every lifetime of being second-best crashed together into a single dark wave.
Why do you always get to command me?
Why do you always get to decide for me?
Why must I live forever in my brother's shadow?
Why can't I be the eldest son?!
Something inside Hobber snapped.
The struggle vanished. Only cold, empty, terrifying resolve remained.
Desmond felt the change and tried to react—but it was too late.
Hobber's left hand shot out and clamped Desmond's wrist. His right hand drew his sword in a blur—faster than he had ever moved in his life.
Steel flashed.
Desmond never saw the blow. He only felt cold in his chest, then white-hot pain.
He looked down. The sword tip protruded from his breastplate, blood running down the blade.
He raised his eyes to Hobber.
There was no anger in the old knight's gaze—only shock… and sorrow.
Hobber met those eyes—the face that had taught him, restrained him, protected him since childhood. His lips moved, but no sound came.
He simply twisted the blade.
Desmond's body convulsed once, then went limp.
Hobber released the hilt. The old knight collapsed forward, blood spreading rapidly across the stone floor.
The great hall fell silent except for the soft drip of blood.
Hobber stood motionless, staring at his hand, at the bloodied sword, at the body.
His face was blank. His eyes empty.
Corleone approached slowly, no surprise on his face—only a small, approving smile. He began to clap. "Breaking old rules is the beginning of a new order. You made a decision for yourself. That took courage."
Hobber slowly lifted his head. His gaze focused on Corleone.
Fear. Regret. And beneath it all, a twisted, almost euphoric calm.
"I killed my uncle."
"Yes."
"The gods will curse me."
"Possibly."
Corleone took a cloth from his coat and handed it over. "Wipe your hands. Then we need to discuss what happens next. You now require a new ally—and I have exactly what you need."
Hobber accepted the cloth and mechanically wiped the blood from his hands. His movements were stiff, but his eyes were sharpening.
"What do you want?"
"I want to leave Dragonstone alive," Corleone said. "And you want to become the true heir of House Redwyne. Our goals align. They may even complement each other."
He paused, meeting Hobber's eyes. "But first we must deal with Ser Desmond's body and craft a story. Then you will return to the Queen of Thorns and tell your father one thing…"