Chapter 137: The Firstborn
Morning.
The sea mist had yet to fully lift as a small boat was lowered from the flagship of House Redwyne. It cut across the gray water toward Dragonstone's main dock, its prow carved with the house's grape-cluster sigil. The oars, painted gold and white, marked it as a ceremonial vessel meant for formal occasions.
Hobber Redwyne stood proudly at the bow. Beneath his deep green velvet cloak, his armor gleamed, freshly polished. He kept his back straight, chin slightly raised, imitating the posture of his father when receiving bannermen.
Yet his right index finger tapped unconsciously against the hilt of his sword, betraying his nerves.
Seated across from him was Ser Desmond Redwyne, a sixty-three-year-old knight. Unlike Hobber's ornate attire, Desmond wore a well-maintained but old-fashioned suit of plate armor. The edges of the Redwyne sigil on his breastplate had been worn smooth by time. His white hair was cropped short, his face lined with age, but his sharp eyes scanned the approaching dock with constant vigilance.
"Remember your manners, Hobber," Desmond said as they neared shore, his tone stiff and instructive. "We represent House Redwyne in negotiations with House Baratheon, not a brawl. Let them speak first. Observe, then respond. Do not rush. But our stance must remain firm—we hold the advantage."
"I know, uncle," Hobber replied impatiently. "Father already told me all this."
"Your father told me," Desmond corrected coldly. "You are here to learn. I will do the talking. You observe."
Hobber's fingers tapped faster. His irritation deepened.
Always the same.
He had fought in three naval engagements, commanded five longships—yet in the eyes of men like Desmond, he was still a child.
Learn?
Learn my ass.
The boat docked.
Dragonstone's guards stood waiting, armored and wounded, yet upright, spears steady. They showed no hostility, only silent vigilance.
"Welcome to Dragonstone," said Ser Gerald Gower, stepping forward without ceremony. "This way. The lords await you in the hall."
Hobber disembarked first, satisfied when Gerald addressed him directly. He lifted his chin higher.
Behind him, Desmond sighed quietly.
Still immature.
They walked in silence to the hall.
A long table stood at the center, two high-backed chairs on each side. Two figures were already seated.
The first was a young man in bright silver plate armor, the crowned stag sigil gleaming on his chest even in dim light. Black hair, blue eyes, a strong jawline.
Hobber's heart skipped.
Too similar.
He looked exactly like Robert Baratheon.
Beside him sat a plain-looking man in simple leather armor and a gray cloak, calm and unremarkable.
Desmond paused ever so slightly.
He, too, recognized that face—and what it implied.
The "ghost" seen on the battlefield…
"Welcome, representatives of House Redwyne," said Odin, rising with measured grace and offering a polite bow. "I am Odin, a sellsword from Essos, currently serving House Baratheon as a military advisor."
He gestured casually. "This is Ser Gendry Baratheon, blood of King Robert, nephew to Stannis Baratheon. He speaks for the king in this negotiation."
Gendry Baratheon.
So it was true—a bastard made legitimate.
Desmond recovered first, stepping forward with a formal knight's salute. "Ser Desmond Redwyne, cousin to Lord Paxter. This is Ser Hobber Redwyne, his second son."
At the word "second," Hobber caught a flicker in Odin's eyes.
Was that mockery?
Damn it.
They sat.
Bread and salt were brought forth. Both Hobber and Desmond partook, sealing guest right.
The ritual complete, Odin leaned forward slightly, smiling.
"Let us begin."
Desmond spoke first, laying out their overwhelming advantage—two hundred ships, six thousand men, total blockade.
Then came the terms.
Stannis must renounce his claim and take the black.
The defenders could leave unharmed.
As for Gendry… perhaps Storm's End, someday.
Even Hobber could tell—that promise was hollow.
Still, before he could reinforce it, Desmond spoke again, shutting him out.
"Do you accept?"
Gendry merely nodded faintly, silent.
Odin answered instead.
"We decline."
"Why?" Desmond pressed.
"Because Stannis has committed no crime," Odin said calmly. "He is the rightful heir. And as for Joffrey Baratheon… his legitimacy is questionable."
Desmond frowned.
Hobber seized the chance. "You have no proof—"
"Yes," Odin said, turning to him with a polite smile, as if only just noticing him. "Reality favors you. But reality is not always justice. Nor is it permanent. Otherwise, the House Targaryen would still rule."
The debate dragged on.
Back and forth.
Word against word.
And Hobber realized something.
He had said nothing.
Every time he tried, Desmond spoke first.
Every time Odin argued, Desmond countered.
He, Hobber Redwyne, sat there like decoration.
Even stranger was Gendry.
Silent.
Watching.
Listening.
No impatience. No interruption.
Why?
Hobber studied him, frowning.
That silence… it wasn't ignorance.
It was trust.
Gendry trusted Odin to speak for him.
And Hobber?
He didn't trust Desmond at all.
Yet he was never allowed to speak.
"Enough," Desmond said at last, rising. "We are done here."
"The blockade will continue. You will either surrender—or starve."
"Come, Hobber."
He turned toward the door.
Hobber didn't move.
His hand clenched around his sword.
Again.
Again and again.
Always silenced.
Always overshadowed.
"Come," Desmond snapped. "That's an order."
Order.
That word again.
Hobber stood slowly.
Desmond reached for the door.
"Leaving already?"
Odin's voice cut through the hall.
Desmond turned, frowning. "What do you intend?"
"Guest right protects us," he warned.
Odin leaned back lazily, eyes sharp. "I'm not from Westeros. We don't care much for that."
Desmond's face changed.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Odin said, sitting upright, gaze shifting between them, "you should have considered the risks before coming here."
He smiled faintly.
"With Ser Hobber as a hostage… we gain considerable leverage, don't you think?"
Silence.
Desmond's hand flew to his sword. "You dare—"
But Odin ignored him.
"Hobber," he said softly, almost pitying. "It seems you are not very important to your father."
Hobber froze.
"Silence!" Desmond barked. "Don't listen—"
But Odin continued, each word striking like a hammer.
"My father was a farmer. He died stealing apples for me."
He paused.
"He had nothing. I was his only son. So he gave everything."
Then he looked at Hobber again.
"You are different."
"You are the second son."
"You have a brother. The heir."
"And you…"
His voice softened.
"…are expendable."
"No!" Hobber shouted, trembling.
"Then answer me," Odin said calmly. "Why are you here, risking your life, while your brother sits safely in King's Landing?"
"Why does Desmond speak for you?"
"Why do you have no voice?"
Hobber shook.
Violently.
Odin stood, stepping closer.
"Because you don't matter."
"If it were your brother captured, your father would burn the world to save him."
"But you?"
He shrugged.
"Perhaps you're worth trading."
Then he turned away dismissively.
"On second thought… taking you hostage isn't even useful."
"You can go."
The word "useless" hit like a blade.
Hobber trembled, eyes bloodshot.
"Who… are you calling useless?"
Desmond stepped in quickly. "Enough! We leave—now!"
But Hobber shook him off.
His gaze locked onto Odin.
Rage.
Humiliation.
Pain.
"Was I wrong?" Odin asked without turning.
"You said nothing this entire time."
"You decided nothing."
"You are nothing but decoration."
He turned back, eyes cold.
"Leave while I still allow it."
A pause.
Then—
"Unless…"
His voice dropped.
"…you become the firstborn."
Firstborn.
The word exploded in Hobber's mind.
Why not me?
If I had been born first…
If Horas were gone…
A thought—dark, dangerous—flashed across his mind for the very first time.
If Horas died… if his brother were gone…
Then he would be the firstborn. The heir. His father's only hope.
The thought was monstrous—and irresistible. The moment it surfaced, it refused to leave.
Hobber's face turned deathly pale, then flushed with a feverish red. His breathing grew heavy, veins bulging along the hand gripping his sword.
Ser Desmond saw the madness flicker in his eyes. A chill ran through the old knight. He didn't know what Hobber was thinking, but instinct screamed at him to get the boy out—now.
"Enough! Hobber, we're leaving!"
This time Desmond didn't just reach—he seized Hobber's arm, dragging him toward the door.
"Move! By your father's command, we return to the ship at once!"
A command.
Always a command.
Nothing but commands.
Hobber stumbled forward a step, pulled along, then turned his head.
He saw Desmond's stern, urgent face. Felt the iron grip on his arm.
And in that instant, everything he had suppressed—every grievance, every humiliation, every shred of resentment—burst into a single, surging darkness.
Why are you always the one giving orders?
Why do you always decide for me?
Why must I live in my brother's shadow?
Why can't I be the firstborn?!
Something in his eyes snapped.
The struggle vanished. The pain vanished.
In their place remained only something cold, hollow—and utterly resolute.
Desmond's heart lurched. He sensed it too late.
Hobber's left hand clamped down on his wrist.
His right hand drew the sword.
Too fast.
Faster than Desmond had ever seen him move.
A flash of steel.
Desmond didn't even see the strike.
Only the sudden chill in his chest—then pain.
He looked down.
The blade had pierced straight through him, the blood-slick steel glinting faintly in the light.
He raised his head and met Hobber's eyes.
There was no anger there. No hatred.
Only shock.
And something deeper.
Sorrow.
Hobber stared back at him—at the man who had taught him, restrained him, protected him.
His lips moved, as if to speak.
But no words came.
Instead, his wrist twisted.
The blade turned.
The heart shattered.
Desmond's body convulsed once. Then all strength drained away. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, blood pouring from his chest, spreading across the floor.
The hall fell into silence.
Only the slow drip of blood remained.
Hobber stood there, staring at his own hands. At the blood. At the corpse.
His face was blank. His eyes empty.
Odin walked forward at an unhurried pace, no surprise on his face at all. Instead, he began to clap softly.
"Breaking the old rules," he said lightly, "is how a new order begins."
"You made a decision for yourself. That takes courage."
Hobber slowly lifted his head.
His gaze steadied on Odin.
Fear was there. Regret too.
But deeper than both was something twisted—something almost like relief.
"I killed my uncle."
"Yes."
"The gods will curse me."
"Perhaps."
Odin took a cloth from his coat and handed it to him.
"Wipe your hands. Then we should discuss what comes next."
"Because now… you need a new ally."
"And I happen to have what you need."
Hobber took the cloth, mechanically wiping the blood from his hands. His movements were stiff at first, but his eyes gradually sharpened.
"What do you want?"
"I want to leave Dragonstone alive," Odin said calmly. "And you want to become the true heir of your house. Our goals don't conflict. In fact, they complement each other."
He paused, meeting Hobber's gaze.
"But first, we deal with Ser Desmond's body… and we craft a story."
"Then you will return to the Arbor… and tell your father one thing…"