Chapter 135: Gendry Baratheon!
The ashes scattered in the wind, blending indistinguishably with the dried and fresh blood across the platform.
The tattered red robe lay collapsed on the ground like a shed husk, marking the end of an era of fanaticism and obsession.
Odin lifted his gaze toward Stannis Baratheon.
The King of Dragonstone stood there, barely able to remain upright even with Ser Gerald's support.
His face was pale, a dark scab clinging to the wound on his temple, and beneath the broken plates of his armor, his undershirt was soaked through with blood. His breathing was shallow and strained, each breath tugging at his injuries and twisting his already tense expression further. Bloodshot veins filled his deep blue eyes, leaving him looking utterly exhausted.
He had just watched Odin kill a man before him, ending Melisandre's so-called miracle of immortality, yet he made no move to uphold law or justice, no declaration of guilt.
He simply watched in silence as the red-robed woman who had bound him with fire and prophecy, who had given him hope and burdened him with endless struggle and sin, turned to ash.
His gaze lingered on Odin for a moment, complex and unreadable, before shifting past him to the young man standing behind, still wearing his helmet, clearly at a loss.
Stannis drew a breath, the effort costing him, followed by a cough. He raised a hand, signaling Ser Gerald to loosen his grip, forcing himself to stand straighter despite the sway of his body, trying to maintain the dignity of a king.
"Come here, boy."
The words were meant for Gendry.
Gendry stiffened. Through the slit of his helmet, his eyes flicked toward Stannis, then instinctively toward Odin, uncertainty flashing within them.
Odin met his gaze and gave a slight nod.
With that silent permission, Gendry steadied himself, took a breath, and walked forward step by step, dragging his warhammer until he stopped a few paces away.
Stannis studied him carefully, his eyes pausing briefly on the antlered helmet, something flickering deep within—perhaps memory, perhaps pain, perhaps both.
"Remove your helmet. Let me see your face."
It was not a request.
Gendry hesitated.
The helmet had become a shell, something that gave him courage and a borrowed identity, something that allowed him to hide behind the illusion of Robert instead of facing his own blood and the man before him—his uncle.
Removing it meant facing everything.
He glanced once more at Odin, who stood with arms crossed, expressionless, as though this moment belonged solely to Stannis and Gendry.
Gendry clenched his teeth.
He raised both hands, grasped the cold metal, and lifted the helmet free.
The firelight was dim, but it was enough.
The face revealed beneath was young, his thick black hair matted with sweat and dust. His features were strong—broad brows, a straight nose, a firm jaw—but it was his eyes that drew attention.
Blue. Clear and bright, like the Narrow Sea beneath summer skies.
Ser Gerald Gower's eyes widened.
The older knights stared in shock.
Too similar.
Stannis gazed at him silently, as if time itself had overlapped before his eyes.
He saw Robert—young, laughing, full of reckless strength, lifting a warhammer at the Trident.
He saw Renly—handsome, graceful, charming.
And this boy before him…
He carried both.
Robert's blood. Renly's shadow.
But not Stannis.
That thought stirred something quiet and painful within him.
Among the three Baratheon brothers, he had always been the outsider.
Robert was bold and charismatic, Renly beloved and radiant, and Stannis… rigid, unyielding, dutiful, unloved.
Even in appearance, he did not belong.
And now, at the brink of ruin, seeing his brother's blood made flesh again only deepened that feeling.
"So alike…" Stannis murmured. "No matter how many times I see it."
His gaze dropped to the warhammer in Gendry's hand.
He recognized it.
"Does it suit you?"
Gendry tightened his grip, glanced down at the weapon, then answered honestly, "It does, Your Grace."
His voice was rough, his eyes conflicted.
He knew who he was now. Robert's bastard.
And the man before him… his uncle.
Yet that same uncle had once treated him like livestock, draining his blood.
They stood facing each other, neither skilled with words, the cold wind passing between them.
Finally, Odin broke the silence.
"I think we should set aside this touching family reunion and focus on something more urgent—like how we're getting off this island alive."
The words snapped everyone back to reality.
Stannis turned to him, stubborn as ever. "Dragonstone has not yet fallen. Baratheon soldiers will fight to the end under their king's banner."
It sounded resolute, but hollow.
Odin's lips curved faintly.
"With what you have left?"
His gaze swept over the wounded knights, the handful of survivors.
"Redwyne's fleet numbers in the hundreds. Thousands of troops have already landed. Your defenses are broken, your command shattered, your men either dead, surrendered, or scattered."
He spread his hands.
"Fighting to the end won't win you anything. It will only wipe out the last blood of House Baratheon."
No one could refute it.
Even Stannis said nothing.
The wind grew colder.
At last, after a long silence, Stannis looked back at Odin.
"What do you suggest… Odin?"
He understood. Tywin had already abandoned this man. And yet Odin remained.
That meant he had a plan.
Odin did not answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at Gendry, then at the knights.
"At the Battle of the Blackwater… how did you lose?"
The question struck like a blade.
Memories surfaced.
Wildfire consuming ships. Chaos at the walls.
And then—
A single man wearing Renly's armor.
A ghost returned.
Morale shattered.
Armies collapsed.
All because of an illusion.
"You want…" Ser Gerald began, eyes widening as realization struck.
Odin smiled.
"If they could break you with Renly's ghost… then it's only fair we return the favor."
He glanced at Gendry.
"And this ghost… is far more convincing."
Silence.
Then understanding.
If Robert Baratheon appeared again on the battlefield…
The effect would be devastating.
Gerald's breathing quickened. "Your Grace… it could work!"
Hope ignited.
All eyes turned to Stannis.
He stood there, pale, rigid.
"You would have a bastard wear my brother's helm… and pretend to be king?"
His voice cut through the air.
"This has no honor."
The hope died instantly.
But then—
"Knock."
The command came again.
Gendry blinked.
Stannis raised his sword, holding it upright before him.
"Knock. Before your king."
Gendry's heart pounded.
He looked at Odin.
A slight tilt of the head. Do it.
Gendry stepped forward, set his hammer down, and dropped to one knee.
The platform fell silent.
Stannis placed the blade above his head and spoke, his voice steady and commanding.
"In the name of the gods, old and new… I, Stannis Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, do declare—"
"Gendry, son of Robert Baratheon…"
The blade lowered, touching his head.
"I strip you of the stain of bastardy."
"I name you trueborn of House Baratheon."
"I will have it proclaimed across the Seven Kingdoms."
"From this moment onward… you are Gendry Baratheon."
The words echoed.
Gendry slowly lifted his head, blue eyes filled with shock.
And something heavier.
A name.
A weight.
A destiny.
From a nameless blacksmith's apprentice struggling at the bottom of King's Landing, a disposable pawn bought and sold at will, Gendry had, in the span of days, become a prisoner, a warrior, an imposter—and now, upon this blood-soaked terrace where the smoke had yet to clear, he had been granted, by the hand of a king famed for his severity, the once-unreachable name of Baratheon.
He rose slowly, feeling as though even the ground beneath his feet had changed.
The antlered helmet lay quietly at his feet. No longer merely a prop for deception, it now seemed to carry a weight that truly belonged to him, as if some thread of blood had finally connected.
Stannis Baratheon sheathed his sword and let his gaze pass over Gendry, then over Odin, before turning toward the island below, where battle still raged.
His face remained pale with exhaustion, but in those deep blue eyes, something had rekindled—a desperate, all-or-nothing resolve.
"Now," he said, his voice low but steady, "let us discuss how to make King Robert Baratheon fight for his kingdom once more."
___
Aboard the Queen of Arbor.
Inside the vast cabin, candlelight flickered across pearl-inlaid panels, casting shifting reflections.
Paxter Redwyne sat in a carved oak chair, his narrow shoulders slightly hunched out of habit. His thin frame and balding head, with its carefully combed wisps of orange hair, could not conceal the wear of years and sea winds.
"Father, the third wave has fully landed," reported his second son, Hobber Redwyne, a young man of about twenty.
Plain-faced, with orange hair and a freckled square jaw that lent him a somewhat dull look, Hobber stood in the center of the cabin, his armor gleaming, his face flushed with the excitement of early success. "The eastern wall has been breached. The defenders have fallen back to the inner ward. Easier than expected."
Paxter lifted his eyes, calm as a still sea. "Do not celebrate too soon, my son. Things that come too easily often bring unforeseen trouble."
His voice was dry and even. "Stannis Baratheon is not a man who collapses at the first line of defense. At the Blackwater, he lost three-quarters of his army and still managed to regroup and hold Dragonstone for months. He is not easily defeated."
Hobber waved a hand dismissively. "That was then. Now he's abandoned, his men are starving. What morale could they possibly have?"
Paxter did not argue, only allowed a faint smile to form. Whatever Stannis might be, Paxter trusted his fleet absolutely.
Nearly six thousand men had landed.
Stannis had, at most, two thousand.
The advantage was obvious.
"And what of that man… Odin?" Paxter asked suddenly.
Hobber's expression tightened at once. "No sign of him. We've searched the captured areas. Either he's hiding in the inner keep… or he's already dead, and the body's gone."
His fading tone betrayed his own doubt.
"Continue the search," Paxter ordered without hesitation. "The Hand has given explicit orders. That man must die."
"Yes, Father." Hobber nodded, then frowned. "Why does Lord Tywin Lannister value him so much?"
"Because he is a farmer's son who, in mere months, built a stable power base in King's Landing."
Paxter rose and walked to the porthole. Beyond it, Dragonstone's silhouette loomed, flames lighting the night sky.
"Tywin tolerates useful tools, but not tools with wills of their own."
"This Odin not only seized control of the slums, he reshaped them according to his own design. He established order, distributed food, opened clinics, even created a strange kind of loyalty. People obey him not only out of fear, but out of gratitude."
Hobber frowned. "Isn't that a good thing? A stable King's Landing benefits everyone."
"It benefits King's Landing," Paxter replied calmly, turning back, "but not the Lannisters."
"Tywin wants absolute control. He wants everyone to believe that all order in Westeros comes from House Lannister—from him."
"But the order Odin built in Flea Bottom is his own. It suggests something dangerous—that perhaps the world does not need the Lannisters to function."
He paused, then added, "Worse still, he transformed the most chaotic slum in the Seven Kingdoms into the most orderly district in the capital… in a matter of months. If he continues…"
Understanding dawned in Hobber's eyes. "So Tywin has to kill him."
"Not just because he is a threat," Paxter said, nodding, "but because he is a bad example."
He looked at his son steadily. "Remember this, Hobber. We are not just fighting for House Redwyne. We are fighting for the Lannisters. Odin must die, and his corpse must be confirmed. Otherwise, your brother will not be safe in the Red Keep."
"I understand, Father," Hobber said, lowering his head.
Since the war began, his twin brother, Horas, had been held in King's Landing as a hostage. It was the reason House Redwyne had not joined Renly earlier. After Renly's death, Hobber had been allowed to accompany Petyr Baelish to Bitterbridge, while Horas remained behind as leverage.
A useful arrangement.
One that ensured Paxter's obedience.
Yet a flicker of resentment passed through Hobber's eyes. He and his brother had been born on the same day. Why was Horas the heir? Because he had come into the world ten minutes earlier?
His jaw tightened.
Unfair.
Even the useless heir of House Tarly had been forced to take the black by Randyll Tarly so the younger son could inherit.
Why not him?
Before that thought could settle, hurried footsteps sounded outside.
A messenger burst into the cabin without permission, his face deathly pale.
"My lord… urgent news… from the front…"