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CaveLeather
The deck of the Queen of Thorns fell silent as the longboat returned from Dragonstone. Sailors paused mid-task, eyes fixed on the approaching craft.
When Hobber Redwyne climbed the gangway, his face showed no triumphant glow—only grim resolve. His deep-green cloak hung heavy with seawater and dust, armor streaked with deliberate grime. He had staged this look carefully.
Behind him came two Redwyne soldiers flanking a bound, blindfolded prisoner: Corleone. Paxter Redwyne descended from the command deck, his sunken eyes sweeping first over his son, then the captive. Every step he took carried the weight of absolute authority.
"Father," Hobber said, stopping at the proper distance and offering a stiff, formal salute.
"Where's Desmond?" Paxter asked without preamble. Two men left. Only one returned. The math didn't add up.
Hobber snapped his head up, face twisting with perfectly rehearsed grief and rage. "Desmond's dead, Father. Stannis had him executed."
Gasps and curses rippled across the deck. Men exchanged stunned looks. If negotiations had collapsed into murder, why was this prisoner still breathing?
Paxter's expression never changed. He simply locked his cold gaze on his second son. "Explain."
Hobber drew a slow breath, the speech he and Corleone had rehearsed a dozen times ready on his tongue. "The talks started badly. Stannis demanded we lift the blockade and swear fealty to him as the one true king. Desmond pushed back—reminded him that Joffrey had been crowned by the High Septon and recognized by the Small Council. Stannis wouldn't hear it. After the red witch died he grew even more unhinged. He called Desmond a traitor's lapdog and ordered his guards to seize him."
Hobber's voice cracked with practiced emotion. "I tried to stop them. Too many men. They dragged Desmond outside and… they put his head on a spike in front of the castle gates. Stannis said every traitor would see what happens to those who defy the rightful king."
Silence fell. Only the creak of rigging and the slap of waves answered. Paxter stared at his son for a long moment, then asked the only question that mattered.
"And you?"
"I remembered my duty," Hobber said, straightening. "I didn't let rage cloud my judgment. I told Stannis that killing envoys would only harden our resolve. I offered him a way out—renounce his claim, return to Storm's End as its rightful duke, and bend the knee to King Joffrey. In exchange we would lift the blockade and let him keep his lands and title."
Paxter's eyes narrowed, calculating. Hobber pressed on.
"He hesitated. Dragonstone's granaries are nearly empty. No relief is coming. In the end he agreed—three days to prepare, then open surrender. I brought you the one man Tywin Lannister wanted most."
He jerked his chin at the blindfolded prisoner. "El Capone. The sellsword from across the Narrow Sea. The one the Hand ordered us to deliver."
Paxter's pupils tightened. "That one?"
"Exactly."
Hobber's voice dropped. "I'm sorry I couldn't save Desmond, Father. But I completed the mission you gave me."
Paxter studied him for a long, icy beat. Then he nodded once. "You did better than I expected, Hobber."
He turned to the guards. "Lock the prisoner in the brig. No one approaches him without my order."
Corleone was dragged below, struggling and cursing. The moment the hatch slammed shut, Paxter motioned his son toward the captain's cabin.
Inside, Paxter stood at the stern windows, back to Hobber, watching Dragonstone's dark silhouette fade into twilight.
"Desmond served me forty years," he said quietly. "Fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Crushed the Greyjoy rebellion. Never thought he'd die in a skirmish like this."
Hobber kept his voice steady. "I'm sorry, Father. If I had been quicker—"
"Not your fault." Paxter turned, face unreadable. "Negotiations are always dangerous. Desmond knew the risks."
He poured two goblets of Arbor gold and handed one to Hobber. The gesture felt almost paternal—something usually reserved for the heir.
"Will Stannis actually surrender?" Paxter asked.
"He will. He has no choice. I gave him enough dignity to swallow it."
Paxter took a slow sip, eyes never leaving his son. "You understand what this means, Hobber. Your brother's life hangs in the balance. If Tywin decides we went rogue…"
He let the threat hang. Hobber felt the familiar chill.
"I know, Father."
Paxter set his goblet down. "Then tomorrow we interrogate the prisoner, squeeze every last drop of value from him, and decide how to present this to the Hand. Desmond's death is unfortunate, but Corleone's capture buys us leverage. For now, rest. We still have work to do."
Hobber nodded and left. The moment the door closed, the mask slipped. His hands shook—not with grief, but with something far darker.
That night the captain's cabin glowed with candlelight and the smell of roasted fish and Arbor gold. Paxter ate with relish, spinning plans for when Horas returned safely from King's Landing. Every sentence circled back to the heir—his future, his glory, his safety.
Hobber pushed food around his plate, barely tasting it.
When the last course was cleared, Paxter wiped his mouth and said, "Bring the prisoner. Time to end this."
Corleone was dragged in, face bruised, eyes hollow. He looked broken.
Paxter delivered the sentence in a cold, flat voice. "Vito Corleone, you are guilty of treason, rebellion, and defiance of the rightful king. Sentence: death."
Corleone dropped to his knees without protest.
Paxter turned to his son. "You do it. Use your dagger. This victory is yours."
Hobber drew the blade. The steel caught the candlelight.
"Father," he said quietly, "are you certain? Tywin might want him alive for questioning."
"Tywin wants him dead," Paxter snapped. "Finish it."
Hobber stepped forward. Corleone lifted his head. Their eyes met.
In one smooth motion Hobber drove the dagger straight into his father's chest, piercing the heart.
Paxter staggered backward, crashing into the table. Silverware clattered to the deck. Blood poured between his fingers as he stared at his son in stunned disbelief.
"Desmond was loyal," Hobber said, voice steady now. "I'm not. I want to be the eldest son. And you were never going to let me."
Paxter tried to speak. Only blood came out. His legs buckled. Hobber caught him and lowered him gently to the floor.
Corleone stood, wiping fake blood from his shirt. The "fatal" wound had been nothing but a carefully placed bladder of pig's blood and controlled breathing—old physician's trick.
"Nice work," he said. "You almost had me convinced."
Hobber stared at his father's corpse, face blank. "He never saw me. Only Horas. Now there's only me."
Outside, the sea wind howled across the deck. Inside the cabin, the last Redwyne heir wiped his dagger clean and sheathed it.
The game had changed. The board belonged to him now.