The battle for Dragonstone continued.
As time passed, the shouts and sounds of killing within and without the castle did not diminish in the slightest; instead, they showed signs of growing even more intense.
Corleone, Gendry, and the knight who called himself "Elon" were making their way through a secluded passage in the inner keep.
Ser Elon's condition was dire.
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Although the wound on his thigh had been crudely bandaged with a torn cloak, dark red blood still seeped out with every step he took.
Corleone walked half a step behind and to the side. Seeing the man's deathly pale face and the notched sword he held, it was clear he was moving forward almost entirely on sheer willpower.
He shook his head; the man was beyond saving.
From Corleone's highly skilled surgical experience, this man had sustained at least several fatal injuries. Being able to walk such a distance and still speak was already nothing short of a medical miracle.
Gendry followed behind him, still gripping that longsword that didn't quite feel right in his hand.
His thoughts were a mess, still lingering on the brief, bloody slaughter in the corridor just now. Corleone's superb swordsmanship had left him shaken.
From the intermittent conversation between Corleone and Ser Elon, he knew that the person they were seeking was King Stannis's daughter, a true princess.
Protecting a princess... the thought felt heavy, making him grip his sword a bit tighter, as if the title bestowed upon him a quality that didn't belong to a blacksmith's apprentice.
"Ahead... turn left..." Ser Elon panted, his voice hoarse. "The room at the very end..."
...Cough, cough!"
His words were interrupted by a fit of violent coughing, and his body swayed.
Corleone reached out to steady his arm. His hand touched something cold and clammy; he didn't need to look to know just how much blood this fellow had lost.
"Save your strength, Knight. Just point the way," he said, his voice calm and level, showing no sign of concern.
Following Ser Elon's direction, they entered a small courtyard. Several statues of unknown figures had been toppled and smashed to pieces, like some ill omen.
In the center of the courtyard was a patch of blackened blood, with several discarded helmets of various styles nearby. It was obvious that the battle between attackers and defenders had spilled through here before moving on quickly.
At the far end, the door to the small room was tightly shut.
Ser Elon's eyes lit up briefly. He broke away from Corleone's support and stumbled to the door, rapping urgently with his sword pommel. "Lady Shireen!"
"It's me, your uncle Elon! Open the door, quickly!"
There was no sound from within.
The knight knocked several more times, his voice tinged with panic. "Lady Shireen, open the door, hurry!"
He kept pounding, but there was still no movement inside the room.
Behind him, Gendry's heart began to race.
Were they too late?
Corleone, however, leaned in slightly to examine the door. He saw no signs of it having been forced.
Approaching the door, he sniffed. The scent of blood was confined to the outside; there was none inside. Only a faint, bitter medicinal smell wafted through the cracks of the door.
"Step back," Corleone said coldly.
The knight blinked, then realized what he meant and hurriedly stepped back two paces.
Corleone turned his body and, without hesitation, delivered a sudden, powerful kick to the door.
The old wooden door let out a groan of overstrain, and the latch snapped instantly as it swung inward.
The two of them entered first.
No lamps were lit inside. Only the faint glimmer of torches from the courtyard filtered through a narrow, high window, barely outlining the room's interior.
It was a very simply furnished room.
A narrow wooden bed stood against the wall, covered with coarse linen sheets that had been washed until they were stiff.
There was a small, crooked-legged wooden table, two stools, and a low wardrobe.
The walls were bare of decoration, the grey gloom of the stone itself being the primary color. For a "princess" of House Baratheon, such living conditions could only be described as meager.
However, in subtle contrast to this austerity, several rolls of rough parchment were neatly arranged on the small table in the corner. There seemed to be crooked handwriting on the parchment, and a thick, heavily worn book lay beside them.
The air was thick with a pungent, peculiar scent—a mixture of herbs and sulfur—which was the source of the medicinal smell Corleone had caught outside.
But none of these were the most striking things.
The most prominent items were two things leaning against the wall by the bed.
A steel stag-horned helmet, the buck's antlers branching out to either side, glinting with a cold metallic luster even in the dim light.
And an impressively sized two-handed warhammer, which looked to weigh at least thirty or forty pounds.
This was entirely a warrior's equipment, completely out of place in a young girl's room.
Yet, the room remained empty.
"Lady Shireen?"
Ser Elon's voice trembled. Dragging his heavily injured body, he stepped into the room with urgency, his eyes frantically scanning every corner, but he still found no sign of the girl.
Perhaps due to the blood loss, his mind began to cloud. Overcome with self-reproach and despair, he sank powerlessly to his knees, murmuring, "No... it can't be. I told her to stay here and wait for me no matter what..."
1
At that moment, Gendry followed them inside. As soon as he entered, his gaze was immediately drawn to the stag-horned helmet and the warhammer.
As if possessed, he unconsciously walked over and reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing the cold metal antlers.
An indescribable sensation rose up his spine, as if something he had never known lay dormant within the cold metal, causing the fluid in his veins to begin to boil.
He then looked at the warhammer. This tool of the blacksmith's trade gave him a sense of familiarity. He leaned down, gripped the handle, and tried to test its weight.
It was heavy, far exceeding an ordinary tool hammer, yet he felt as though it wasn't beyond his power to wield.
Corleone stood at the door. He didn't search as urgently as Elon; instead, his gaze slowly swept across the entire room.
The observational skills granted by [Insight Lv3] allowed him to capture things that ordinary people might miss.
The writing tools on the table, the strangely shaped armor, and the hammer.
Finally, his gaze landed on the narrow bed.
Near the inner edge of the sheets, something seemed to be pressed against the bed frame, slightly tugging at the fabric.
By now, Ser Elon was on the verge of collapse. Kneeling on one knee, he whispered to the empty room, full of self-blame: "I was wrong, I was truly wrong. I shouldn't have gone so far from the Stone Drum Tower... I should have come sooner..."
Corleone raised a hand, stopping his meaningless regret.
Then, he took two steps forward, stopped in front of the bed, and spoke softly, "Come out, Lady Shireen."
Hearing this, Ser Elon snapped his head up, looking at Corleone in disbelief, then at the underside of the bed.
Gendry also stopped stroking the warhammer and looked over tensely.
But there was still no movement from under the bed. Corleone shook his head helplessly and continued, "Rest assured, we mean no harm."
"There is a knight here named Elon who has held on with his last breath to come and take you away. If you don't speak up, I'll have to have this strong young lad behind me flip the bed."
"That might frighten you and make unnecessary noise, attracting people who shouldn't be here. What do you think?"
The room was silent for a few seconds.
Soon, a rustling sound came from under the bed.
Under the gaze of the three men, a small head peeked out.
It was a girl, looking no older than ten.
Her face was small, her chin pointed, and her eyes appeared very large in the dim light, filled with a wary expression.
But what was most striking were the large patches of grey, rock-like, rough scales covering her exposed neck, one side of her cheek, and the back of her hand.
This made her otherwise delicate features somewhat unsettling to look at.
However, when she looked up and her gaze passed over Corleone and Gendry, finally landing on the blood-soaked, kneeling Elon, those large eyes immediately filled with joy.
"Uncle Elon!" she cried out, completely forgetting her fear as she stumbled toward the knight.
"My Lady... you're safe... thank the gods!"
Ser Elon was overjoyed, pulling Shireen into a tight embrace.
The little girl's warm body seemed to transfer a bit of vital heat to him, and a hint of color returned to the knight's face.
But Corleone could tell that this was likely a final surge of life before the end.
"Your face... you're bleeding so much!"
Shireen wanted to touch the knight's face but was afraid of hurting him. Her small hand hovered in the air, tears welling in her eyes.
"It's just a small wound, it's nothing."
Elon forced a smile, trying to look relaxed, but his contorted muscles only made the smile seem more bitter and weary.
"These two... are my friends."
"They helped me fight off the rebels so we could reach you."
He looked at Corleone and Gendry with a complex expression.
Though he couldn't be certain if these two were truly friend or foe, at this moment, they were the only hope for him and Shireen.
At his words, Shireen turned her head to carefully observe Corleone and Gendry.
She felt a hint of dread at Corleone's gaze, which was calm to the point of indifference, and she shrank her neck back.
But when she saw Gendry—a sturdy youth not much older than herself, with a face that still held a bit of confusion and simple honesty—her tension eased slightly.
Especially when she saw Gendry holding that warhammer, she blinked.
"That's... my hammer."
She pointed at Gendry's hand and spoke softly, with a hint of childish pride. "And the helmet."
"I begged my father for a long time before he had someone make a set for me based on the drawings in a book."
"But Father said that Baratheon courage doesn't lie in armor, but in the heart."
Speaking of this, the little girl's emotions gradually stabilized. It seemed that only by repeating her father's teachings could she find a sense of security.
Hearing this, Gendry felt as if the warhammer in his hand had become hot. He quickly placed it gently back against the wall and rubbed his hands together awkwardly. "I... I'm sorry, I just thought it was very..."
Not having had much schooling, he was somewhat inarticulate and couldn't find the right words.
Familiar? Heavy?
It seemed to be a bit of both.
"Do you like them?"
Shireen asked, her voice carrying a touch of innocence.
On this night filled with slaughter, it seemed only talking about her beloved "toys" could make her temporarily forget her fear.
"I... I'm just a blacksmith's apprentice."
Gendry answered honestly. "At least I was. I've made farm tools and repaired armor, but I've never seen anything so... so..."
As he spoke, he ran out of words again.
"It's made in the style of Robert's Hammer."
Shireen didn't mock his embarrassment but explained patiently, "That's what the book says. It's like the one Uncle Robert used when he was young."
"The book also says that the great King Robert Baratheon used a warhammer like this to defeat the powerful Rhaegar Targaryen at The Trident, and then won Iron Throne."
She spoke of these bloody past events as if telling a distant heroic tale. Children often find it hard to grasp the harsh reality of the adult world—no, not just children, even many commoners who have never experienced war cannot understand.
They only know that Robert won and Rhaegar lost.
But no one knows that when Robert's Hammer swung down, Rhaegar's breastplate and all his ribs were crushed.
Nor does anyone remember that when King's Landing fell, Rhaegar's wife and children all became victims of a lost war.
King Robert... The Trident... the warhammer...
Gendry stood rooted to the spot. These words hammered against his ignorant heart. Some vague bloodline resonance seemed to stir a strange palpitation within him as he heard the story, as if he had found an indistinct direction for his own life.
He stood dazed, looking at the stag-horned helmet and then at Shireen—this girl who might be his cousin by blood. An unprecedented flood of chaotic emotions overwhelmed Gendry.
Ser Elon keenly sensed Gendry's odd behavior, but his time was running out.
He could feel his body temperature dropping as his blood drained away, and his consciousness was beginning to blur.
He took a deep breath. The movement tugged at his wound, bringing a surge of sharp pain, but it also jolted his spirit.
Elon knew he had to make the most of this final moment.
"Ser," he looked at Corleone, using that formal address for a knight as if by instinct.
Although the other man had previously claimed they were "Davos's men," Elon had been certain since Corleone first displayed his swordsmanship that this man was far from simple.
He looked at Corleone gravely and said in a low voice, "I do not yet know your name... your true name."
Corleone met his gaze and remained silent for two seconds.
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His unique observational ability allowed him to see that the knight's eyes were rapidly losing their luster, yet the meaning of persistence was crystal clear.
"Corleone," he answered frankly. "Vito Corleone."
"Corleone..." Ser Ilyn repeated the name, which was completely unfamiliar to him.
But then, he suddenly let out a low, raspy, intermittent laugh, flecks of blood accompanying the sound. "Heh heh...
I knew it... I knew it!!!"
"You're the one who killed Aethan with one sword! By the Seven, the knights on the island were nearly going mad earlier today, everyone was talking about you!"
"No armor, no weapons, took care of Aethan in three seconds!"
"That fellow bragged every day about how formidable his swordsmanship was... hahaha..."
His words gradually became more coherent, not at all like those of a dying man. It was as if, at the very end of his life, even the Seven had granted this doomed man the chance to speak.
"If I recall correctly, that fellow was your uncle." Corleone raised an eyebrow.
"Pah!" Upon hearing this, Ser Ilyn spat contemptuously. "A bastard who worships that damned Lord of Light doesn't deserve the name Florent!"
"If it weren't for my sister Selyse and little Shireen, I would have..."
He stopped abruptly at this point, as if remembering something.
Lifting his head again, Ilyn's expression became deathly serious. He tightly gripped Shireen's hand, but his gaze was locked firmly on Corleone as he said frankly, "As you can see, Sir Corleone, I am at my end."
"I am a knight. I swore allegiance to King Stannis Baratheon, to defend him and his bloodline with my life."
"I have done all I could... Now, this is my final request."
With great difficulty, he turned his neck to look at Shireen beside him, tears streaming down her face as she tightly held his hand. His eyes held boundless tenderness and reluctance, like a father looking at his daughter.
Or rather, for Ilyn, who had no children of his own, he had long regarded this niece as his own daughter.
"Lady Shireen... she is a rare light in this dark world."
"She is kind, intelligent. Even bearing illness and loneliness, she has never lost her yearning for what is good."
"King Stannis... loves her deeply. I firmly believe that. But his path has strayed."
At this, Ilyn's eyes began to dim, his voice dropping even lower. "Before I came here, I heard that red-robed woman bewitching His Grace. She said... that at the decisive moment of battle, a sacrifice of the King's blood is needed to secure victory..."
Upon hearing this, Shireen's body trembled violently. Perhaps from the terrible implication in the knight's words, perhaps because she could feel the large hand holding hers rapidly losing strength, becoming limp and powerless.
Corleone's calm expression showed no change, yet it seemed to grow a few degrees colder.
Religious fervor breeds the most inhuman monsters, even if in this world, that god might truly exist.
"His Grace... is still hesitating. He loves Shireen. But that woman, and her fiery visions..."
Ilyn's speech grew faster, but his breath grew weaker, clearly beginning to falter and break. "The castle is about to fall. His Grace... I don't know if he is safe."
"But here is no longer safe for Lady Shireen. If the red woman learns the lady is still here, she won't let this chance pass... to complete her ritual..."
With this, Ilyn mustered his last ounce of strength and gently pushed Shireen's hand in Corleone's direction.
This action exhausted his remaining life force. His body began to tilt backward.
"Take her away... Corleone. Whichever side you are on, please take her away from Dragonstone, away from that woman's sight. Protect her..."
His eyes were already beginning to lose focus, yet they stubbornly remained fixed on Corleone. "For the sake of my shielding you earlier, I beg you..."
With the utterance of the final syllable, the light in this Dragonstone knight's eyes was completely extinguished.
He leaned against the cold stone wall, maintaining a half-kneeling posture, as if still guarding what was most important to him, only life had already departed.
The longsword that had accompanied him in battle to the end slipped from his loosened grip and clattered onto the stone floor with a clang.
"Uncle Ilyn! Uncle Ilyn!"
Shireen threw herself onto the knight's gradually cooling body, weeping openly.
Perhaps in this cold world, this childless knight uncle who regarded her as his own had been one of her few sources of warmth.
Now, that warmth too was extinguished.
Corleone silently watched this scene.
The knight's blood slowly spread on the ground, mixing with the dust.
The little girl's broken sobs echoed in the crude stone room, while the distant sounds of slaughter still lingered outside the window.
He remembered the knight desperately blocking the Redwyne soldiers in the corridor, shouting for him and Gendry to leave.
This was a true knight, who kept his vows until death.
For the sake of you shielding me with your life...
Corleone sighed inwardly.
In Kings Landing, exchanges of interest were the norm. But this kind of pure, life-risking protection, even if its object was not him, still deserved respect.
He walked forward. He did not pull Shireen up, but instead knelt down, bringing his eyes level with the weeping girl's.
"Shireen Baratheon."
Corleone's voice was not loud, nor did he try to stop the little girl's crying. He simply called her name softly.
Shireen looked up, her vision blurred with tears, at the stranger before her—the stranger to whom Uncle Ilyn had entrusted her.
His eyes were deep, very dark.
They seemed to hold none of the emotions she was used to seeing in others' eyes.
Fear, distance, pity, disgust—there was none of that. Just a completely clear, bottomless black.
"Your knight has fulfilled his duty, buying you time with his life."
Corleone continued, not offering comfort, merely stating a fact. "But now, time is still passing. We have no leisure left for grief. The Redwynes, or... those others, could find this place at any moment."
Upon hearing this, Shireen's sobs gradually subsided, her eyes revealing a hint of confusion and fear.
"I give you two choices now."
Not giving her much time, Corleone held up two fingers, offering his suggestion succinctly. "First, I take you to your father, King Stannis Baratheon."
But the conditions are: we know where he is, we can safely cross the castle and battlefield swarming with enemies to find him, and we must also face that red woman by his side, who may be planning to use your blood to buy victory."
"Second."
Corleone lowered one finger. "Come with me, and call me... godfather."
The word made both Shireen and Gendry, standing to the side, pause for a moment.
In Westeros, there was no term 'godfather,' only 'god-parent' or'sponsor.'
They primarily served as witnesses and guarantors at a baby's naming day or baptism ceremony, pledging to the Seven on the child's behalf to ensure proper religious education.
"If you choose the latter," Corleone continued, ignoring their confusion, "here, witnessed by the departed knight and his honor, I will regard you as my own."
"My sword shall be wielded for you, my wisdom shall be at your service. I will protect your safety, not only taking you from Dragonstone, but ensuring that anyone else who wishes you harm cannot touch you."
"Until you come of age, or until you deem this protection no longer necessary."
He paused for a moment, his gaze resting on Shireen's face like a physical weight, promising solemnly, "As your godfather, I have the responsibility to guide you in understanding the true face of this world, be it beautiful or cruel."
"You will need to learn, to grow. You must understand that your surname brings not only glory, but also responsibility and danger."
"And you, in turn, must give me, your godfather, unconditional trust and respect."
As his words fell, the stone room became utterly quiet, save for the distant clamor still audible.
Knight Ilyn rested silently against the wall, seemingly listening in silence as well.
Gendry held his breath, watching this peculiar scene.
He didn't fully grasp the meaning of 'godfather,' but he could feel the compelling seriousness and strength in Corleone's words.
Shireen looked at Corleone, her large eyes still glistening with tears.
She was not yet ten, but having grown up in loneliness and illness, she was far more mature and observant than her peers.
She could sense that this person before her was different—different from Uncle Ilyn, different from her father, different from Ser Davos.
He lacked her uncle's warmth, was not as stern as her father, nor as plain and honest as The Onion Knight.
He was cold, like Dragonstone's obsidian.
But he was also forthright. In his eyes, Shireen saw no deceit or evasion.
His promise might seem somewhat unfeeling, but it sounded more reliable than any flowery oath.
Suddenly, Shireen remembered Uncle Ilyn's final words.
"Take her away... protect her..."
She thought of her father again.
Father loved her, she knew. But Shireen also knew that since the defeat at the Blackwater Rush, the look in her father's eyes had become increasingly occupied by flames, growing more anxious, more severe.
Sometimes, looking at the greyscale on her hand, he would reveal a complex emotion that frightened her.
And that red woman. Shireen hadn't seen her often, but the way the woman looked at her always sent chills down her spine, as if appraising an object ready for sacrifice.
A child not yet ten, forced to make a life-or-death choice between the protection of kin and that of a stranger.
The game of thrones crushed the weak. That unbearable weight of life now pressed down with utter reality on Shireen's thin shoulders.
Time seemed to stretch on.
Finally, Shireen rubbed the tears from her face with force. The grey scales scraped against her skin, bringing a slight sting.
She straightened up a little. Though her body still trembled slightly, she forced herself to look directly into Corleone's deep eyes.
With a soft thud, she knelt on one knee. "In the name of the Seven, in the name of my father, Stannis Baratheon, I ask for your guidance and protection."
...Godfather!"
The childish voice echoed in the stone room.
This was a new fortress a child had chosen for herself in desperate straits.
Corleone looked at the girl kneeling before him, at the forced bravery and fear in her eyes. His face showed no ripple, only that same inherent calm.
But he slowly extended his hand. Not to help her up, but to gently place his palm on her head, covered in grey scales.
The action was very dangerous, carrying a high risk of contracting greyscale, but Corleone's movement held not the slightest hesitation.
"I, Corleone, accept you, Shireen Baratheon, as my goddaughter."
"From this moment, your safety is my responsibility, your enemies are my enemies."
"Witnessed by the departed, this vow stands until the life of one party ends."
There was no elaborate ceremony, no blessing from a septon of the Seven.
On this night torn by war, in this small room filled with the scent of death and herbs, a peculiar relationship, transcending traditional bounds, was forged.
Corleone withdrew his hand. "Rise, Shireen."
Shireen stood up as told and walked to Corleone's side. She felt as if something was different.
A feeling named'safety' seemed to envelop her. It was very strange.
Corleone's gaze swept over the body of Knight Ilyn, lingering for a moment.
Then, he turned to Gendry's sturdy frame and square face, and glanced at the antlered helmet and warhammer leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, a bold idea flashed through his mind.
"Gendry."
"Oh, ah?"
The sudden address made the dumbstruck Gendry pause for a moment.
He looked at Corleone, then at Shireen beside him, and suddenly had an epiphany. He immediately dropped to one knee. "Me too, then? Alright, godfath—"
"Not that."
Corleone shot him a look. Raising a finger, he pointed across the room. "Go put on that helmet. And pick up that hammer."