The timing of the Redwyne Fleet's surprise attack was impeccable.
Relying on their absolute control of the sea lanes, and guided by the remote commands of an old lion far away in King's Landing, they struck into the most vulnerable heart of Dragonstone's defenses just as Stannis's defenders were exhausted.
(Please remember the Taiwan Novel Network website to view the fastest chapter updates.)
The outer perimeter of the castle fell rapidly, resistance was shattered into countless fragments, and the Dragonstone army could only fight on their own as best they could.
In a narrow alleyway, five of Stannis's soldiers stood with their backs against the cold stone wall, forming a semi-circular defensive perimeter.
Most of them were wounded, their armor broken, and their breathing heavy.
One man's arm hung limply, clearly broken, and the other four were in no better state.
Their opponents were no fewer than twelve soldiers of House Redwyne.
These warriors from The Arbor were well-equipped, their deep purple armor shimmering under the torchlight.
They were in no hurry to charge, instead closing in step by step, using spears and blades to compress the defenders' space, attempting to trade minimal casualties for maximum gain.
"Surrender. Stannis has no chance of winning, and there is no point in continuing like this."
A Redwyne squad leader sneered, his sword lightly tapping the edge of his shield in a rhythmic beat that made his enemies' hearts thud in time with it.
"Kneel, drop your weapons, and I guarantee you won't die!"
Faced with the demand for surrender, Stannis's soldiers remained silent, but their eyes showed no submission; instead, they revealed a determination like that of cornered beasts.
They were all die-hard loyalists who had chosen to follow Stannis even after the Battle of the Blackwater.
The leader, a veteran with a face full of stubble, spat disdainfully on the ground and mocked, "These softies don't have the guts to fight us! Hahaha, the grapes of The Arbor truly can't brew the iron bones of real men!"
"Come and get it if you have the balls, you bastards!"
"Roar! Roar!!!"
Several soldiers roared in unison.
Seeing this, the Redwyne leader's expression darkened, thinking to himself that persuading these damned fools to surrender was truly a chore.
He raised his hand, about to order the final assault.
Just then.
Thump... Thump...
A series of heavy, slow footsteps echoed from the other end of the alley.
Not only that, but there was also the clear sound of a heavy iron object being dragged across the ground.
Both sides of the conflict involuntarily turned their heads to look.
Deep in the flickering torchlight of the alley, a figure emerged against the light.
He was tall and exceptionally sturdy, his pace incredibly steady. In the dim light, the silhouette of a pair of ferocious and majestic antlers on his head spread out to both sides—the most prominent emblem of House Baratheon!
In his right hand, he dragged a two-handed warhammer of staggering size, its rough head scraping the stone floor and sending off stray sparks.
The air seemed to freeze for a moment.
"King Robert..." an older soldier of Stannis's murmured in a daze, as if seeing a legend manifest before his eyes.
Looking at that antlered helm, the Redwyne leader immediately felt an intense psychological pressure.
After all, King Robert's performance during the war had been far too brilliant.
The Battle of Gulltown, the three victories in a single day at Summerhall, the Battle of the Stoney Sept, and the famous Battle of the Trident—in every campaign, he had been at the absolute forefront.
Especially in that final battle that decided the war, he had truly crushed the long-renowned Prince Rhaegar Targaryen with a single blow of his hammer, securing his path to Iron Throne.
"Just puting on a show," the Redwyne leader steadied himself and sneered, shouting, "Stop right there, boy, or I'll kill you first!"
No matter how illustrious Robert's military achievements had been, the man had long since died under the tusks of a boar.
Watching several Redwyne soldiers close in on him, Gendry gripped his warhammer tightly, feeling inevitably nervous.
The antlered helmet weighed heavily on his head, and his vision was restricted to a narrow slit.
The armor was what Corleone had stripped from Sir Elon; it didn't fit perfectly, but it was barely usable.
He could almost hear his heart drumming in his chest, but strangely, although he was a bit nervous, he felt no fear. Instead, there was a strange, surging heat rushing through his limbs.
It was as if every muscle in his body and every drop of blood in his veins were yearning for the coming battle!
"Kill him!"
Seeing that Gendry was ignoring him and simply walking toward them silently, the Redwyne leader refused to wait any longer and barked the order.
Three soldiers immediately leveled their spears and charged at Gendry in a triangular formation.
Through the slit in his visor, Gendry watched the spear tips rapidly enlarge in his field of vision.
Corleone's previous instructions seemed to echo in his ears again: "Don't think about techniques. Just like when you're normally smithing, just smash it at those guys!"
"Horizontal, vertical, whatever feels natural!"
Gendry let out a low growl. Without thinking, pure instinct suddenly erupted.
It wasn't a warrior's roar, but more like a blacksmith bracing himself as he exerted force.
His waist and abdomen twisted violently, and the power of his entire body poured out along his spine and shoulders to his arms!
The heavy warhammer traced a brutally domineering arc, swinging upward from below!
Bang! Crack!
The first spear that thrust forward snapped without surprise, its wielder's chest crushed. The hammer's momentum didn't slow, solidly smashing the man into the second soldier.
With a dull sound of breaking bones, the two soldiers couldn't even scream before they were sent flying as if hit by a catapult, slamming into the wall and spitting blood.
Such formidable strength terrified the third man, but by then, Gendry had already pulled the warhammer back. Using the rotational force, he delivered a backhanded horizontal sweep!
Eighty!
This blow smashed into the third soldier's ribs. The mail armor buckled deeply, and an unknown number of bones were shattered.
The soldier screamed as he tumbled to the ground.
In the blink of an eye, three men were down—one dead and two heavily wounded.
Gendry stopped his movements, panting slightly. Under the visor, he was a bit stunned.
Killed... Just like that?
But why didn't he feel the nausea or dizziness he had imagined? He only felt a... hearty, dripping sense of satisfaction!
It was as if he were born to wield such a heavy weapon and perform such simple, crude, yet highly efficient destruction.
The feeling of the hammer crushing spear shafts, smashing armor, and destroying flesh held a strange similarity to his memory of using a hammer to forge red-hot iron billets.
"This thing... is truly exhilarating!"
After coming to his senses, a surge of excitement mixed with primal violence rushed to his head.
He looked at the warhammer in his hand. This "toy" Stannis had made for Shireen felt so natural in his grip, its weight distribution a hundred times more comfortable than when he had clumsily swung a longsword!
It's so easy to use. Sir Corleone did not deceive me!
"It's King Robert!"
"King Robert has returned!!!"
The soldiers of Stannis, who had been in a desperate situation, suddenly erupted in roars of unbelievable ecstasy.
That antlered helm, that warhammer, and that unstoppable power instantly overlapped in their eyes with the image of the invincible figure from legend!
This was clearly a divine manifestation—the spirit of the late king returning to protect his loyal warriors!
In an instant, the morale of the five soldiers, who had been on the verge of collapse, soared.
"For King Robert!"
"For King Stannis!"
The stubble-faced veteran was the first to howl, waving his notched sword and lunging recklessly at the Redwyne soldiers, who were in slight disarray due to Gendry's appearance.
The other four also woke as if from a dream, erupting with their final bits of courage and following close behind.
The Redwyne soldiers panicked.
The sudden appearance of the "Antlered Warrior" was not only terrifying in strength but also dealt a severe blow to their psyche.
Faced with an attack from both front and back, although there were only five wounded soldiers behind them, the momentum of the two sides was completely different. Their formation instantly became chaotic.
The subsequent battle was almost a one-sided slaughter.
Gendry was like an armored bear charging into a flock of sheep. His attacks had no technique, but they were heavy, fast, and precise.
Every swing of the warhammer came with the sound of wind; a graze meant injury, and a hit meant death.
As his battle instincts were ignited, he no longer seemed like the green boy who needed Corleone to remind him "not to hesitate."
One Redwyne soldier raised his shield to block and was smashed to his knees, shield and all. Another tried to sneak an attack from the side and was struck in the face by the butt of Gendry's hammer, falling backward.
Stannis's soldiers coordinated with this "Heaven-sent Robert," fighting and killing with all their might.
Soon, the last Redwyne soldier—the squad leader from before—was blocked from front and back by the veteran and Gendry.
His face was full of terror, and the sword in his hand was trembling. He fell to his knees with a thud and cried out, "I surren—"
Bang!
The warhammer fell.
The world... fell silent.
In the narrow alley, only heavy breathing and the thick, inescapable smell of blood remained.
Except for one unlucky soldier who had died, Gendry and the remaining four stood amidst a pile of enemy corpses, covered in blood.
The soldiers gathered around excitedly, looking at Gendry with eyes full of awe and gratitude, their faces filled with a light that was almost religious.
They tried to see the face under the visor, but Gendry turned his head slightly, avoiding their gaze.
According to Sir Corleone's instructions, what should he do now?
Oh, right!
Gendry took a deep breath, suppressing the nervousness and excitement of leading others for the first time.
He had never been good with words, but at this moment, a strange impulse, mixed with the unfamiliar power still coursing through his body, seemed to push him forward.
Suddenly raising the still-dripping warhammer, Gendry's voice came through the visor, sounding full of killing intent: "Soldiers, are you tired?"
He did not state his identity, nor did he say anything extra, just as Corleone had instructed.
Yet with just this simple sentence, the four scarred soldiers straightened their backs, eyes burning with fire as they roared with all their might: "NO!!!"
That roar gathered together, possessing a piercing power enough to tear through the smoke of war.
Their momentum made Gendry feel his blood boil as well. He no longer hesitated, planting the warhammer heavily on the ground and raising his arm to shout: "Then follow me, and kill all those bastards!!!"
In front of the main gate of Dragonstone's inner keep, there was a relatively open area that was originally a square for assembling troops, but now it had become the bloodiest battlefield.
Ser Andrew Estermont slashed left and right, his eyes already red with battle-lust.
He was over fifty, with graying hair and beard, but his body was still as upright as a pine tree. His armor was splattered with blood—some his own, but mostly his enemies'.
There were fewer than ten knights left by his side, all wounded, but they formed a tight circular formation, stubbornly holding off an enemy attack several times their number.
Ser Andrew was no reckless fool who charged blindly.
He had originally been ordered to defend a section of the outer wall, but the sudden landing of the Redwyne Fleet and the rapid fall of several key internal fortresses made him realize that the castle's fall was only a matter of time.
And what made Ser Andrew even more anxious was that he had accidentally obtained a vague but highly credible piece of news.
The fanatical followers of the Red Priestess Melisandre—the "The Rear Party"—were moving in secret, and their target was likely the habitually secluded Princess Shireen!
His Majesty Stannis was preoccupied with the front-line fighting and the Red Woman's prophecies, and might not be able to attend to it in time.
But Ser Andrew, an old knight who had followed Robert from the Stormlands all the way to King's Landing and witnessed the founding of the Baratheon dynasty, would never allow the king's bloodline—especially that kind but unfortunate princess—to become a sacrifice on those madmen's altar!
So he made a prompt decision, leading his most elite squad of knights in an attempt to carve out a path of blood and push toward Princess Shireen's refuge in the inner keep.
They fought as they retreated, battling all the way until they finally neared the main gate of the keep.
"Quick! Charge in!"
Ser Andrew cut down a Redwyne spearman blocking the way and shouted to his subordinates behind him, "We must not let those fools whose brains have been smoked by fire find Princess Shireen first, do you hear me?!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Protect the princess to the death!"
The knights around him were equally scarred, yet their morale remained high as they answered in unison.
They were all devout followers of the Seven in Stannis's army, and they were skeptical and resentful of Melisandre's so-called Lord of Light.
Their loyalty was first to House Baratheon, to their king Stannis, and to those who carried the Baratheon blood—never to that mysterious Red Witch from Asshai!
However, just as they were about to step into the shadow of the castle gate, a sudden change occurred!
"Watch out!"
A sharp-eyed knight let out an exclamation.
Thwip! Thwip!
Over a dozen arrows shot out unexpectedly from the watch-holes on both sides of the gate. Strangely, these arrows did not distinguish between friend and foe, launching a completely indiscriminate attack.
Two knights charging at the very front fell to the ground, struck in the throat, dying instantly.
The Redwyne soldiers who were originally following behind also lost several men in this volley; they dared not charge further and scattered in flight.
Before he could catch his breath, Ser Andrew heard the sound of noisy footsteps.
He looked back and saw many people pouring out from behind the pillars on both sides of the gate, quickly forming a tight circle that trapped Ser Andrew and his men in the clearing before the gate.
Most of these people wore dark red surcoats or armor, and some of their weapons were engraved with flame sigils. By a rough count, there were as many as twenty or thirty of them!
The leading knight slowly urged his horse forward. He was very tall and appeared upright even while seated in the saddle.
He wore a set of extremely well-crafted silver-plated armor with flame-patterned edges that shimmered under the torchlight. It was both magnificent and exuded an inexplicably sinister aura.
Taking off his helmet, he revealed a long, thin, solemn face with deep-set eyes, looking to be about forty years old.
"Ser Godry Farring."
Ser Andrew squeezed the name through his teeth, the veins on his sword-hand bulging.
This man was originally a knight of Storms End, but later became one of Melisandre's most fanatical followers, a core figure of the so-called 'The Rear Party.'
After the war began, Stannis's wife, Queen Selyse Florent, was the first to devote herself to the Lord of Light. The 'The Rear Party' were named for their close unity around her.
But ironically, these people were actually loyal supporters of the Red Priestess Melisandre. They firmly believed that Melisandre's relationship with Stannis was closer than Selyse's, often shouting that the Red Woman was the true 'Queen.'
"Ser Andrew!"
Godry Farring pointed his sword at Andrew, rebuking him from his high horse as if he held the moral high ground: "In this time of bloody battle, you take His Majesty Stannis's loyal soldiers and, instead of resisting the foreign enemy, you charge into the castle interior. What exactly do you intend to do?"
"Stop playing dumb, Farring!"
Hearing this, Ser Andrew retorted angrily: "I'd like to ask what you lot are trying to do!"
"If I remember correctly, your assigned area isn't even here. Is it not enough that you've deluded His Majesty? Now you won't even let the Princess go!"
Hearing Andrew expose his purpose in one word, Godry Farring didn't show a hint of embarrassment. Instead, he looked at him coldly: "Watch your words, Ser Andrew."
"Lady Melisandre is the messenger of the True God. Her prophecies are the beacon guiding His Majesty to the path of destiny. Everything we do is for His Majesty, for the Realm, and to oppose the Long Night that is about to sweep across the world!"
"Horseshit!" Ser Andrew cursed, the tip of his sword pointing at Godry Farring trembling slightly with rage: "Burning your own people to death, using a child's blood for sacrifice—this is your 'method'?"
"We followed His Majesty Stannis to war to uphold the laws and justice of the Realm and to execute those who usurped the throne. I will never allow you to defile honor with such filthy things!"
"Haha!" Hearing this, the corner of Godry Farring's mouth curled into a smirk, as if mocking the other's shortsightedness: "Laws and justice?"
"Let me tell you, when the eternal frost freezes all life, your so-called laws, justice, and honor will all be useless!"
"Only the light and heat of the True God are the sole salvation. And to gain power, there is always a price!"
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice: "Lady Melisandre saw in the sacred fires that the true blood of Baratheon contains ancient power. At the critical moment, the sacrifice of this bloodline will become the key spark to ignite victory and disperse the darkness!"
"This is not murder, Andrew. This is transcendence. It is the noblest sacrifice the Princess can make for her father, for the Realm, and for all mankind."
"Bullshit!"
Ser Andrew was shaking with such rage that spittle flew from his mouth: "She is just a child!"
"You lunatics actually want to tie her to a pyre. I, Andrew Estermont, hereby swear to the Old Gods and the New, as long as I have a breath left in me, don't you dare touch a single finger of the Princess!"
"My sword shall fight to protect her until my last drop of blood is shed!"
As soon as these words were spoken, the knights behind him also raised their swords and roared: "Protect Princess Shireen to the death!"
Seeing them so stubborn, the last trace of patience vanished from Godry Farring's eyes, replaced only by cold decisiveness: "A bunch of pathetic fools who cannot see the truth."
"The true war is in the North, within the darkness. To win that war, necessary sacrifices..."
Including you, are acceptable."
Saying this, he slowly raised his hand: "Since you choose to stand in the path of the Lord of Light, then let the flames purge your confusion."
"Surrender, or die."
"For Baratheon!!" Ser Andrew's roar served as his answer.
Wasting no more words, he suddenly thrust his sword straight at Godry Farring!
The battle erupted instantly.
Ser Andrew was indeed a veteran of Robert's Rebellion; his swordsmanship was steady and seasoned, and he was rich in experience.
With one strike, he forced back a guard beside Godry Farring, and with a backhand, he parried another thrusting spear, hacking left and right with great valor.
The knights under him were also quite brave. Their equipment was better and their individual skills higher; for a time, they actually threw the numerically superior The Rear Party into some disarray.
Godry Farring did not join the fray himself. He reined his horse back slightly, coldly directing his men to encircle them.
The numerical advantage on his side was too obvious, and these followers of the Lord of Light fought without fear of death, even more crazed than their opponents.
As the battle grew more intense, fewer and fewer companions remained by Ser Andrew's side.
His breathing became incredibly heavy, and sweat mixed with blood blurred his vision.
The sword in his hand was still sharp, but his arms were beginning to go numb. The enemies seemed to surge like a tide, impossible to kill them all.
"Ha... ha..."
""
Andrew panted, cutting down another enemy. However, three or four soldiers immediately surrounded him again without fear of death, completely blocking his view of the gate.
Thoughts of despair inevitably flashed through Ser Andrew's mind.
He remembered when he first followed Robert Baratheon in the uprising from the Stormlands; they had faced situations where they were outnumbered more than once.
But no matter how many people the enemy had, they always won.
As long as they charged with that young man wearing the antlered helm and wielding a giant warhammer like a god of war descended to earth—back then, no matter how many enemies were in front of them, just seeing those antlers and hearing the sound of that warhammer breaking the wind filled people's hearts with the conviction of victory and fearless courage.
"If... if only King Robert were still here..."
The enemies in front grew more numerous, and the flash of blades made Ser Andrew feel dizzy.
Waves of vertigo brought on by fatigue and blood loss washed over him.
But in his daze, behind the layered silhouettes of the enemy, in the flickering firelight and shadows within the castle gate, he seemed to see a familiar pair of antlers swaying?
And... getting closer?
Was it a hallucination?
No!
It wasn't a hallucination!
It was real!
Ser Andrew's heart pounded wildly, and he snapped his eyes wide open. He saw a figure wearing an antlered helm and holding a massive warhammer striding out from the shadows within the gate!
Behind this figure followed several soldiers in their own side's armor. Though they looked battered and scarred, every one of them was in high spirits, roaring with weapons in hand as they charged Godry Farring's ranks!
But none of that mattered. What mattered was the figure in front—that antlered helm, that gait, the sound of the warhammer dragging on the ground...
It was as if time were flowing backward!
Godry Farring also noticed the commotion behind him. He looked back and instantly saw the suddenly appearing "antlered warrior," and his heart skipped a beat.
What the hell was going on?
Hadn't Robert Baratheon been dead for nearly two years!
He shook his head, forcing himself to regain his wits, and was about to order his troops to split and intercept...
But it was already too late!
The antlered warrior's target was crystal clear. He ignored all other enemies and strode directly toward the heavily protected Godry Farring!
His movements lacked any knightly grace and even seemed a bit clumsy, but his speed was unexpectedly fast and full of power!
Two The Rear Party soldiers tried to intercept him but were directly knocked aside by his force!
Such strength!
Godry Farring's expression changed drastically. He immediately drew his sword and spurred his horse, choosing to meet the attack head-on.
But unfortunately, this was perhaps the worst decision he had ever made in his life.
In the blink of an eye, the antlered warrior had reached the horse. His back legs kicked off the ground, and Gendry, clad in armor and carrying a warhammer, actually leaped up into the air!
The warhammer was raised high, tracing a deadly arc in the firelight.
Godry Farring was terrified and hastily raised his sword to parry. He had absolute confidence in his fine armor and martial skill.
BAM! CRACK!!!
The hammer slammed down.
The ornate silver-plated helmet, along with the head inside, burst like a watermelon under that massive warhammer!
Blood and brains splattered everywhere.
The corpse, with only half a head left, wobbled and tumbled from the saddle.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment.
Everyone who saw this scene, whether The Rear Party or Ser Andrew's party, was stunned.
Gendry stood before the warhorse. Through the slit of his visor, he glanced at the headless corpse and the burst helmet on the ground. His hand tightened slightly on the hammer, and he only felt a bit of soreness in his legs.
With that strike just now, he had poured in all his strength.
But the effect... was unexpectedly good.
He looked up at the dumbfounded Ser Andrew, then scanned the The Rear Party who were falling into a brief panic.
Then, he made a gesture that made Ser Andrew's blood boil, nearly bringing him to tears.
Gendry took the warhammer, still dripping with blood, and slammed it heavily onto the ground with a dull thud.
Then he raised his other hand, made a fist, and pounded it hard against his breastplate, letting out a roar: "HA!!!!"
Ser Andrew's lips trembled, a thousand words choked in his chest. Finally, he dropped to one knee and let out a raspy shout: "His Majesty Robert Baratheon... Long may he live!!!"
With that shout, the remaining The Rear Party completely collapsed, throwing down their weapons and choosing to surrender.
This internal Baratheon skirmish saw its tide turned by the appearance of an antlered helm and a warhammer.
Atop the castle, Corleone watched all this quietly. Seeing Gendry perform so excellently, he nodded in satisfaction.
Though this lad wasn't the brightest, he excelled at being obedient; as long as you gave him a task, he would complete it to the letter.
Not bad.
"Godfather."
Just then, Shireen beside him looked up at Corleone innocently and asked in confusion: "Since you knew the use of this helmet and hammer, why didn't you win their loyalty yourself, instead of letting that fellow have it?"
Hearing this, Corleone was taken aback for a moment, then smiled and patted her head.
"I can't fight with a hammer that heavy, little Shireen."
"And..."
""
He looked up at Gendry below, who was enjoying the kneeling cheers of the people, and said thoughtfully: "In this world, there are always those suited to stand in the sunlight and receive the people's admiration, like those who sit on Iron Throne or the decent men in the Small Council."
"And for those who receive admiration in the sunlight, their sunlight is always determined by certain people standing in the shadows."
"Glory in the light is fleeting, but the responsibility in the shadows—that is eternal."