Chapter 138: The Last Supper
On the deck of the warship Arbor Queen, sailors paused mid-task, their eyes drawn to the longboat returning from Dragonstone.
When Hobber Redwyne stepped onto the gangplank, there was no triumphant glow about him—only solemnity and grief.
His deep green cloak hung heavy in the sea wind, his armor smeared with dust—deliberately so, to mimic the aftermath of a hard-fought struggle.
Behind him came a bound and blindfolded Odin, escorted by two grim-faced soldiers.
Paxter Redwyne descended from the command deck. His sunken eyes swept first over his son, then fixed on the captive. Each measured step radiated quiet authority.
"Father."
Hobber stopped at the proper distance and bowed—formal, but stiff.
"Where is Desmond?"
Paxter cut straight to the point. Two had gone. Two had returned. But not the same two.
Hobber snapped his head up, grief and fury flooding his expression with practiced precision.
"Uncle Desmond… he was executed by Stannis Baratheon!"
A ripple of shock passed across the deck.
Murmurs. Sharp intakes of breath.
Executed? Then the negotiations had failed?
And if they had failed… why bring back a prisoner?
Only Paxter remained unmoved. His gaze sharpened, drilling into his son.
"Explain."
Hobber inhaled deeply, slipping into the story he had rehearsed countless times under Odin's guidance.
"From the very beginning, Stannis was utterly obstinate. He insisted he was the only rightful king and demanded the fleet lift the blockade and swear fealty."
"Uncle Desmond argued his case, citing King Joffrey Baratheon's coronation and recognition by the Small Council."
Paxter nodded faintly. That much rang true.
Encouraged, Hobber pressed on, voice rising with controlled emotion.
"But Stannis wouldn't listen! Ever since that red priestess died, he's gone mad! He called Uncle Desmond a 'traitor's dog' and ordered him seized."
"I tried to intervene—but there were too many of them… They… they beheaded him. Right in front of me."
His voice broke. His shoulders trembled.
The performance was flawless—so much so that even Odin, watching from behind the blindfold, might have been impressed.
"They mounted his head on the gates," Hobber added hoarsely. "As a warning to all traitors."
Silence followed.
Wind howled through the rigging like a mourning dirge.
"…And then?" Paxter finally asked. "How did you survive? And bring back… this?"
Hobber straightened, wiping away nonexistent tears.
"I did not forget my duty."
"After Uncle Desmond's death, I kept my composure. I told Stannis that killing envoys would only enrage House Redwyne further. Then I offered him terms."
He stepped forward, voice firm.
"I told him we were not here to destroy House Baratheon—but to enforce the king's will."
"If he renounced his claim, returned to Storm's End, and swore loyalty to King Joffrey, the war could end with dignity."
Paxter listened, thoughtful.
"He hesitated. But he has no choice. His food is running out, no reinforcements are coming. In the end… he agreed."
"He asked for three days to prepare. Then he will surrender."
A clever lie. Plausible. Elegant.
Paxter nodded slowly.
"…So Desmond is dead," he said at last. "But you completed your task."
His chin tilted toward the captive.
"And this man?"
"Odin," Hobber said quickly, raising his voice for the surrounding ears. "A sellsword from across the Narrow Sea—the one Lord Tywin Lannister wanted."
Paxter's eyes flickered.
"That one?"
"Yes."
Hobber leaned in slightly, urgency flashing in his gaze.
"I failed to save Uncle Desmond… but I brought back the man you needed."
For a long moment, Paxter said nothing.
Then:
"You did well, Hobber."
Praise—rare, and cold.
"Take the prisoner below. Maximum security. No one sees him without my leave."
"As you command."
Odin struggled faintly as he was dragged away, muffled protests escaping him before he vanished below deck.
Only then did Paxter turn back.
"Come. We need to talk."
---
Inside the captain's cabin, dusk gathered beyond the windows.
Paxter stood with his back to his son, staring at the darkening sea, where Dragonstone loomed like a slumbering beast.
"Desmond served me for forty years," he said quietly. "From before I was lord. He fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Helped crush the Greyjoy Rebellion…"
"And now he dies in a siege like this."
Hobber's palms dampened.
"I'm sorry, Father. If I had been more vigilant—"
"Not your fault."
Paxter turned, face carved in cold stone.
"Negotiations carry risk. He knew that."
He poured two cups of golden wine and handed one to Hobber—a gesture so rare it almost felt unreal.
"Will Stannis truly surrender?"
"He will," Hobber replied. "He has no alternative."
Paxter nodded—but doubt lingered.
"You must understand," he said, tapping the table, "this concerns more than our honor. It concerns your brother."
There it was.
Horas.
Always Horas.
"Horas remains in King's Landing," Paxter continued. "A 'guest'—in truth, a hostage."
"If we displease Lord Tywin…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Hobber tightened his grip on the cup.
"But we've already reached an agreement! And Odin—"
"Odin is valuable," Paxter interrupted. "But perhaps not enough."
"Tywin demands absolute obedience."
"If we act independently, even with results, it may be seen as defiance."
Then he stepped closer, voice turning colder still.
"So we may need… a greater sacrifice."
Hobber felt the chill run through him.
"…Meaning?"
Paxter didn't answer directly.
"Perhaps we abandon the agreement. Continue the siege. Starve them out. End it completely."
Hobber's heart sank.
So that was it.
Promises meant nothing. Honor meant nothing.
Only two things mattered:
Tywin's approval.
And Horas's safety.
"Sometimes," Paxter said, "sacrifice is necessary."
Hobber finally understood.
Completely.
"...I understand, Father."
His voice was eerily calm.
"Good."
"Tomorrow we interrogate the prisoner. Extract everything. Then decide."
---
The next morning, Odin was brought in—chained, bruised, seemingly broken.
Yet his eyes still burned.
Within an hour, he had given up the locations of three hidden vaults in King's Landing.
Gold. Jewels. Secrets.
When he finished, he slumped back, drained.
"You'll honor your word?" he rasped.
Paxter smiled faintly.
"What word?"
"Guards. Take him away."
Odin's curses echoed down the corridor.
Paxter sat back, satisfied, fingers tracing the maps.
"This is power, Hobber. Even a dying man can be made useful."
Hobber nodded mechanically.
"And Horas will be safer," Paxter added.
Of course.
Always Horas.
"Tomorrow, we send men to retrieve the gold," Paxter continued. "Then dispose of Odin. Report to Tywin."
He looked at his son—almost warmly.
"You've done well. Once your brother returns safely… I'll consider your place in the family."
Consider.
Hobber nearly laughed.
Instead:
"Thank you, Father."
---
That evening, the captain's cabin was filled with rich food—roasted fish, buttered lobster, fresh fruit, fine wine.
A feast.
But Hobber tasted nothing.
Because now, at last—
He understood everything.
Hobber carved the fish on his plate with mechanical precision, barely tasting a bite, while Paxter Redwyne spoke at length about the future.
A future in which there was always one center—
Horas.
"When Horas returns," Paxter said, draining a deep swallow of wine, his cheeks faintly flushed, "I'll host a grand feast. Every noble in the Reach will see just how exceptional the heir of House Redwyne truly is."
"The etiquette and knowledge he's gained in King's Landing will make him a perfect lord…"
"He's building connections, learning politics, forging alliances. When he inherits, House Redwyne won't just be another Reach house—we'll shape the entire realm!"
"And I even plan to travel to Dorne myself, to arrange his betrothal to Princess Arianne Martell!"
He grew more animated with every word.
Hobber watched his father's excitement… and suddenly asked a question he had never dared to voice before.
"And me, Father?"
"What path have you prepared for me?"
Paxter paused, clearly caught off guard.
For a moment, silence.
Then—
"You will support Horas," he said. "Command the fleet. Handle military matters. You are brothers—twins. You'll support one another."
"Support one another…" Hobber repeated flatly.
"So I live for him. Fight for him. Kill for him. Do everything filthy—so he can remain clean in King's Landing."
Paxter's face darkened.
"Mind your tone, Hobber. Are you questioning my judgment?"
"No, Father."
Hobber lowered his head, sighing softly.
"I only wanted to know my place."
"Your place," Paxter said coldly, "is the second son of House Redwyne."
"That alone is better than most men's fates. You should be grateful—not resentful."
Grateful.
Hobber almost laughed.
Grateful to always be second.
Grateful to always be expendable.
---
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
Paxter, displeased, said no more.
Hobber, lost in thought, said even less.
When the final course was cleared, Paxter wiped his lips and spoke calmly:
"Bring in Odin. It's time to finish this."
---
Moments later, Odin was dragged in.
He looked like a broken man—staggering steps, hollow eyes, as if he had already accepted death.
Paxter sat at the head of the table, every inch the judge.
"Odin," he declared, "you stand accused of treason, inciting rebellion, and opposing the rightful king. By the laws of the realm, you are sentenced to death."
Odin did not argue.
He simply knelt.
Head bowed.
Utter submission.
Paxter ignored him and turned to Hobber.
"You will carry out the sentence. With your dagger."
"This is your achievement. It should be yours to finish."
Hobber said nothing.
He drew the dagger.
Cold steel flashed in the candlelight as he stepped forward.
"Look at me," he said.
Odin obeyed.
Their eyes met.
For a fleeting moment—
Something passed between them.
"Father…" Hobber hesitated, glancing back. "Are you certain? Lord Tywin Lannister might prefer him alive for questioning—"
"Tywin wants him dead," Paxter snapped impatiently. "Do it. Don't make me question your resolve."
Hobber tilted his head slightly.
Took a breath.
Then—
He struck.
Thud.
The dagger plunged into Odin's chest.
Blood spilled.
Odin groaned faintly and collapsed forward, unmoving.
The carpet darkened beneath him.
Paxter frowned.
"Why the chest? The throat would've been cleaner."
"I…" Hobber's voice trembled slightly. "I didn't want to see his eyes."
"Useless."
Paxter shook his head, unimpressed.
He rose, walked over, and nudged the body with his foot.
No response.
"Check him."
Hobber crouched, fingers pressing against the neck.
A pause.
Then—
"He's dead, Father."
Paxter exhaled, tension finally leaving his body. A satisfied smile crept across his face.
"Good. Now Tywin will be pleased. Horas will be safe. And House Redwyne will—"
He stopped.
Abruptly.
A strange, cold sensation spread through his chest.
He looked down.
A dagger.
His dagger.
Driven straight through his heart.
Paxter staggered backward, crashing into the table. Silverware clattered to the floor.
He lifted his head—
And saw Odin standing.
Alive.
Eyes cold.
"You…" Paxter coughed blood, disbelief flooding his face. "How—"
Odin yanked the dagger free and kicked him to the ground.
Blood surged out.
"Feigning death is a skill, Lord Paxter."
Odin crouched beside him, voice calm.
"It requires control over muscle and breath."
He paused.
"I forgot to mention—I'm a healer."
Paxter's strength drained rapidly, life spilling out with his blood.
He turned his head toward Hobber—
His son stood there, expressionless.
"Hobber…" Paxter whispered, barely audible.
Hobber stepped closer.
Knelt beside him.
Looked into his father's fading eyes.
"Don't blame me, Father," he said softly.
His voice was eerily calm.
"I just… really wanted to be lord."
Understanding flickered in Paxter's eyes.
At last.
Too late.
Betrayal.
His lips moved—trying to speak—but only blood came.
Seconds later—
He went still.
Thus died Paxter Redwyne—
Lord of the Arbor, master of the Redwyne fleet—
Slain in his own cabin,
By his son…
And his enemy.