The roar of a warhammer tearing through the air still echoed in his ears. At the critical moment, Leo Sangras relied on instinct to dodge a head-shattering blow, but the wound on his left arm sliced by flying stone and the terrifying hammer print embedded in the ground both declared that the newcomer's strength was far from ordinary.
He knelt on one knee, looking up with a mix of shock and fury at the warrior in the antlered helm stepping out from the edge of the smoke and fire.
His ears were filled with the shouts of Dragonstone soldiers: "For King Robert!"
"Robert Baratheon?"
Watching the approaching antlers, Sangras spat out a mouthful of bloody phlegm, the shock on his face quickly replaced by a feral grin: "Bah! Playing ghost!"
As a veteran knight of many battles with exquisite swordsmanship, he didn't believe in rural legends about the return of a dead king's soul at all.
[At this point, I hope readers will remember our domain name, Taiwan Novel Network is super powerful, twkan.com is awesome]
Even the Seven Gods he piously believed in could never dig a man dead for two years out of his grave and deliver him to Dragonstone in an instant!
Impossible!
Absolutely impossible!
After a brief moment of shock, Sangras growled: "I want to see what kind of ugly face you're hiding under that helmet!"
"Argh!!!"
He wasted no more words, his body suddenly springing up as the longsword in his hand drew an arc of light, stabbing directly at the gap in Gendry's visor!
This thrust was both fast and vicious, demonstrating his solid foundation as a knight.
Gendry clearly hadn't expected his opponent to react so quickly. In his previous battles, enemies were either crushed instantly or paralyzed with fear; who would dare to launch a counterattack like this guy!
In his haste, he could only awkwardly raise the hammer's haft to parry.
Clang!
The blade struck the heavy haft, sparks flying everywhere. The massive force made Gendry's arms go numb, forcing him back two steps.
He had fought his way up from the bottom, relying on brute strength and the power of his warhammer. He had indeed smashed many enemies, but the consumption of physical energy was enormous.
After all, this was his first real battle. The hammer that had been invincible against ordinary soldiers now began to seem inadequate before a true master.
Combined with exhaustion, his movements became sluggish, and his breathing grew heavy.
Leo Sangras's swordsmanship, on the other hand, was the orthodox knightly technique passed down through his family line—rigorous and efficient.
He gave Gendry no chance to breathe or utilize his strength advantage, his offensive coming wave after wave.
Swish!
A sword swept across Gendry's thigh; the mail links shattered, and blood seeped out.
Gendry roared, trying to swing his hammer in a counterattack, but the heavy weapon appeared clumsy against his agile opponent.
Sangras easily stepped aside and thrust his sword back toward Gendry's ribs.
Puchi!
The sword tip pierced through leather and mail, bringing a piercing pain.
"Ugh!"
Gendry cried out in pain, the agony in his side making his movements even slower.
"With only this much skill, you dare to impersonate Robert Baratheon?"
Sangras sneered. With his rich experience, he immediately saw that while his opponent had incredible strength, his technique was utterly crude. He used his footwork and speed advantage to constantly circle and probe.
Before long, several more wounds were added to Gendry's body. Though not fatal, blood flowed, his stamina drained rapidly, and the breathing under the antlered helm grew increasingly labored.
The arm Gendry used to swing the warhammer grew heavier, his vision blurred by blood loss and sweat, and a sliver of despair felt in his heart.
Sangras's sword seemed to be everywhere; every parry left his arms aching, and every dodge was half a beat too slow.
"Sir Corleone..." The image of that calm man surfaced in his mind, and he felt a twinge of regret for not listening to his instructions and acting on his own.
But after his shoulder armor was sliced by the blade once more, pain and fear made him roar out involuntarily: "Sir Corleone! Save me!!!"
The roar echoed across the chaotic terrace, even drowning out some of the clashing steel.
Some of those fighting couldn't help but look over.
However, there was no response.
The figure he hoped for did not descend like a god to save him.
Puchi!
In his daze, another sword struck the side of his abdomen. Fortunately, most of it was blocked by the edge of his plate armor, but the blade still cut into the flesh, bringing a burning pain.
Gendry stumbled back, leaning against a battlement, his warhammer nearly slipping from his grasp.
Under the antlered helm, the young face was written with helplessness and fear.
What on earth was he expecting?
Sir Corleone might have already left with Shireen, or perhaps he didn't care about his life at all...
From beginning to end, he was just a pawn—a pawn who acted on his own and landed himself in a death trap.
However, Leo Sangras would not give him time for sentiment.
Seeing his opponent powerless to resist, he gripped his sword with both hands, the tip aimed at the gap in Gendry's visor, ready to deliver the fatal blow.
"It's over, impostor."
"Go down and join the real Robert Baratheon!"
The longsword whistled through the air, stabbing straight ahead!
Gendry closed his eyes in despair, prepared to accept reality.
At the very instant before the sword tip touched the visor!
A gray shadow flashed out like a ghost from among the soldiers who had followed Gendry up and were currently fighting Sangras's men!
The speed was too fast. An utterly ordinary longsword arrived later but struck first, precisely interposing itself between Sangras's sword and Gendry's visor!
Clang!!!
Sangras's certain kill was steadily blocked by this abrupt blade, unable to advance an inch!
The counterforce transmitted through the blade was far beyond his estimation, making his wrist go numb and nearly sending his sword flying!
Horrified, he hastily withdrew his sword and stepped back twice, looking at the newcomer with suspicion.
It was a "soldier" wearing ordinary Dragonstone mail and a surcoat. The armor was even stained with soot and blood, looking completely unremarkable.
But in Sangras's eyes, the way the man held his sword and the position he took perfectly blocked all possible lines of attack!
Not only that, but even more impossible to ignore were the eyes revealed under the shadow of the helmet—cold, calm, without a single ripple.
As if blocking that fatal blow had been nothing more than a casual gesture!
This was definitely not the gaze or skill of an ordinary soldier!
Corleone did not look at the wary Leo Sangras, nor did he spare a glance for Melisandre nearby.
He merely stepped forward and tilted his head slightly, using the corner of his eye to glance at the blood-soaked, gasping Gendry leaning against the battlement.
That gaze seemed colder than the sea breeze of Dragonstone and sharper than Sangras's sword.
There was no concern, only a sort of reproach and scrutiny akin to an executioner's.
The moment Gendry met that gaze through the gap in his visor, he felt as if he had fallen into an ice cellar; even the pain from his wounds seemed frozen.
He opened his mouth but could not make a sound.
Corleone's gaze lingered for less than a second before turning back to fixate on the wary Sangras.
"Weren't you acting quite dashing just now, brat?"
He finally spoke, his voice sounding somewhat muffled through the mask, yet every word drilled clearly into Gendry's ears, filled with undisguised irony.
"And... what were you planning to do for my woman?"
He paused, then suddenly raised his voice: "Idiot!"
The low shout was like a whip cracking against Gendry's heart.
"I told you to gather men to help Stannis, but you insisted on wearing that ridiculous antlered helm and putting on this little play of being a hero saving a beauty."
"Do you really think you're Robert Baratheon?"
"Let me tell you, foolish boy, you're far from it!"
Corleone still had his back to Gendry as he faced Sangras, but his words were like a cold scalpel, precisely dissecting Gendry's ridiculous impulse: "Look at that woman..."
"You're heavily wounded now, bleeding like a stuck pig, barely able to stand. Has she given you a single damn look?"
"Others abuse you a thousand times, yet you treat them like your first love?"
"This is a fucking... a fucking war, not a game for you to play with love and romance!"
Corleone, who almost never cursed, spewed out a string of profanities that all stabbed into Gendry's chaotic mind, tearing his self-importance—born from the battle being too easy—to shreds.
Gendry's body began to tremble violently, not from his wounds, but from an unprecedented shame.
He struggled to turn his neck to look at Melisandre by the wall of fire.
The red-robed woman who had taken his virginity still stood there quietly, her red eyes staring into the void as if listening to the revelations of the flames or waiting for fate's next move.
Her posture was as indifferent as ever, as if the surrounding slaughter and Gendry's heavy injuries had failed to attract her attention.
Just as Corleone said, she... wasn't looking at him at all.
Not even once.
It turned out that his act of risking his life and even defying Corleone's orders was, in her eyes, perhaps no different from the other soldiers dying on the platform—or perhaps even more foolish.
"I..." Gendry's throat choked up, immense shame nearly drowning him.
The soldiers he brought also stopped fighting, staring dumbfoundedly at this scene, watching the hero they considered the "Incarnation of Robert" being so miserably scolded.
However, under everyone's shocked gazes, the wounded Gendry, wearing the majestic antlered helm, actually fell to his knees with a "thud" directly toward Corleone's back!
The heavy warhammer slipped from his hand, hitting the ground with a clang.
He lowered his head, his voice hoarse and tearful: "I was wrong... I'm sorry, Ser!"
Hearing Gendry's sobbing, Corleone took a deep breath, feeling the displeasure in his heart dissipate slightly.
He was, after all, just a child under sixteen. It was understandable to have some special feelings for the woman who took his first time.
But... he had to be slapped awake, or the boy would surely die at a woman's hand in the future.
Then again, dying at a woman's hand was still better than dying to a wild boar...
Ahem, what am I thinking!
Gendry was weeping, and Corleone was in a daze.
This bizarre scene left Leo Sangras completely stunned, followed by a surge of rage at being so severely ignored that clouded his mind.
He was here for revenge, here for slaughter, and these two guys were actually pulling this stunt in front of him?
And... he knelt???
"You still dare to chat!!!"
"Are you two fucking looking down on me too much!!"
"Who's the one in control here!"
Sangras roared loudly, all knightly grace instantly vanishing as he thrust his sword toward the seemingly defenseless Corleone's back!
This thrust was fast and vicious, vowing to run this ghost-playing fellow through!
However, facing this fierce backstab, Corleone didn't even show a hint of panic.
He merely took a seemingly casual step, his body sliding aside by a hair's breadth.
Swish!
Sangras's certain kill missed, grazing the edge of Corleone's mail without even touching his clothes.
Then, without waiting for his opponent to change moves, Corleone's right hand holding the sword flicked backward as if casually.
Puchi!
A line of blood instantly bloomed on Sangras's right forearm!
It wasn't deep, but it burned with pain.
"I'm educating a child."
Corleone finally raised his head slowly, his voice still flat but carrying a condescending impatience: "What the fuck does it have to do with you?"
Seeing this, Sangras was both shocked and enraged, unable to believe he had been injured so effortlessly.
He roared, unleashing the exquisite swordsmanship he had mastered over a lifetime, attacking Corleone like a violent storm!
Thrusting, parrying, slashing, and lifting—he pushed orthodox knightly swordsmanship to its limit, every move lethal.
But Corleone's reaction made every onlooker, including the soldiers brought by Gendry and the surviving subordinates of Sangras, feel their scalps go numb.
Eerie, it was far too eerie!
His footwork involved minimal movement, yet he always managed to dodge every one of Sangras's attacks from the most incredible angles.
His movements didn't look flashy—they even seemed a bit lazy—but they were terrifyingly precise, as if he could predict the trajectory of every strike from Sangras.
At the same time, the longsword in his hand seemed to have a life of its own, constantly lashing out and leaving wounds on his opponent.
Even more suffocating was that while Corleone dealt with Sangras's frantic attacks as if taking a stroll in a courtyard, he continued his verbal assault, still directed at the kneeling Gendry: "'My woman,' is it?!"
Swish!
A sword stroke swept across Sangras's left thigh, bringing with it a spray of blood.
"Trying to look cool, are we?!"
Clang!
Parrying a heavy overhead chop, Corleone used the momentum to slam his sword hilt into the other's wrist; Sangras let out a pained grunt.
"Taking matters into your own hands, are we?!"
Puchi!
The tip of the sword pierced into the gap of the shoulder armor, and blood spurted out.
With every sentence he spoke, he inevitably added another wound to Sangras's body.
The words were a reprimand for Gendry, but the blade fell upon Sangras.
This method of'scolding Gendry by pointing at Sangras,' paired with the complete disparity in strength, created a scene that was both impactful and utterly absurd.
Gendry knelt on the ground, listening to those cold reprimands and watching Sangras struggle in vain under Corleone's sword like a child being toyed with, constantly gaining new wounds.
Recalling how he had been smug about his previous performance, his face burned with shame, and he wished he could bury his head in the stone slabs.
Fortunately, his helmet hid it.
Meanwhile, the surrounding soldiers had long since been staring dumbfounded, even forgetting to fight.
The looks they gave Corleone were filled with unbelievable awe.
What was going on!
This 'companion' who had been unremarkable among them all along was actually this powerful!
That effortless posture, that precise and cold swordsmanship, that composure while lecturing someone while crushing an enemy knight... how was this any ordinary soldier?
This is the fucking Sword of the Morning!
Under this kind of toying, Leo Sangras was now covered in wounds; though none were fatal, the blood loss, pain, and this comprehensive sense of humiliation and helplessness were rapidly destroying his will and stamina.
He had never encountered such an opponent—one whose power was a bottomless abyss, whose indifference was chilling, and whose fighting style was so eerie it made him want to go mad.
"Stop... stop it, Ser! I was wrong! I truly know I was wrong!!!"
Gendry could no longer bear it and shouted with a sob, his head thumping heavily against the cold ground.
Corleone finally stopped his 'lingchi' of Sangras; with a flick of his wrist, the blade swept across both of his opponent's knees.
With a thud, Sangras could no longer resist and collapsed to his knees.
Corleone didn't even give him a glance; his cold gaze swept past the kneeling Gendry and finally rested for half a second on Melisandre's face, which seemed detached from the world.
Keep pretending; I'll deal with you in a moment!
Immediately after, his figure blurred as he proactively charged into the center of the battlefield.
Corleone's target was clear: those person knights clad in red armor.
He knew very well that from the moment the Redwyne Fleet stepped onto Dragonstone, he was already a marked, discarded pawn.
No matter the purpose, Tywin person would never allow him to return to Kings Landing alive, especially now that the mission had 'failed' and Dragonstone was being overrun.
Tywin must not know he was still alive!
He had to kill them all, leaving not a single one!
With the thought settled and killing intent resolved, what [Basic Swordsmanship lv4] brought was no longer simple proficiency in moves; it was a combat instinct integrated into his very marrow.
His sword wasn't as violent as Gendry's, but it was more lethal.
A red-armored knight saw him charging and roared, raising his shield and thrusting his spear.
Corleone's footwork shifted subtly; the spearhead grazed past his ribs, and his longsword pierced precisely into the tiny gap above the shield's edge, through the opponent's throat.
The knight fell.
Another man swung his sword in a horizontal slash; Corleone ducked to avoid it, his sword moving with his body to slice open the man's femoral artery, blood gushing out like a fountain.
His steps were as swift as the wind, and his strikes were simple and ruthless; every sword stroke went straight for a vital point, efficient to a chilling degree.
The remaining person knights tried to form a defensive line, but under Corleone's superb swordsmanship and the cooperation of the morale-boosted Dragonstone soldiers, the formation quickly collapsed.
On the other side, Gendry, covered in blood and with his wounds still aching, stood up unsteadily, leaning on his warhammer.
He didn't look at Corleone, who was slaughtering in all directions, nor did he pay attention to the battles elsewhere on the platform.
His gaze fell upon Leo Sangras, who was not far ahead, having been casually crushed by Corleone and now kneeling in despair.
Dragging his heavy hammer, he walked step by step toward Sangras.
The knight looked up, his blood-stained face mixed with a look of dejection.
Arms, shoulders, thighs, knees... countless wounds had robbed him of most of his fighting capacity, and he no longer had the frenzy for revenge from before.
At this moment, the shadow of death loomed, and the instinct for survival overrode everything else.
He looked at the sturdy young man before him, wearing a stag-horn helmet and covered in wounds yet still standing, and begged loudly: "I... I surrender!"
"According to the rules between knights, a noble has the right to pay a ransom for his freedom. You cannot kill a prisoner who has already laid down his weapons and lost the ability to resist!"
"That... that would be without honor! No chivalry at all!"
His voice carried urgency and even a hint of pleading, trying to use the common rules of Westeros to gain a slim chance of survival.
Hearing this, Gendry stopped and looked down at the enemy who had been so arrogant before; his voice from under the stag-horn helmet was muffled, devoid of emotion: "Yeah... that would be without chivalry."
A glimmer of hope ignited in Sangras's eyes.
But Gendry's next words made him feel as if he had fallen into an ice cellar: "Unfortunately..."
As he spoke, he slowly raised the blood-stained warhammer in his hand and aimed it at Sangras's head.
Thinking of his own stupidity just now and Corleone's cold reprimand, his grip on the hammer handle tightened.
"...I am no knight."
Sangras: "???"
As the words fell, so did the warhammer.
Bang!!!
Leo Sangras didn't even have time to scream before his body jerked and then slumped limply to the ground, red and white matter slowly seeping out from under the deformed helmet.
That exquisite bright red armor and the golden seven-pointed star on his chest looked exceptionally jarring and ironic under the soak of blood.
Gendry let go of the hammer handle, letting the warhammer rest on the ground, and looked at the corpse at his feet, his chest heaving violently.
But he still didn't rest; after a brief pause, he followed closely in Corleone's footsteps, picking up his hammer again to kill the enemies.
When the last red-armored knight was pierced through the heart from behind by Corleone, while a hammer crushed his head and he collapsed into a pool of blood, the slaughter on the entire terrace finally came to a complete halt.
The wind swept thick smoke and the smell of blood across the platform, blowing against the tattered stag banners and the blood-stained faces of the people.
The ground was a mess, corpses intertwined; Baratheon and person were soaked in the same pool of blood, indistinguishable from one another.
Those still standing, besides Corleone and Gendry, were only fewer than ten of Stannis's guards and several soldiers who had followed Gendry up.
Almost everyone was wounded and exhausted.
All eyes, filled with indescribable suspicion, awe, and confusion, shifted back and forth between Corleone and Gendry.
This "ordinary soldier" who had suddenly appeared with strength terrifying enough to crush knights, and that young powerhouse wearing a stag-horn helmet
whose identity was a mystery...
Who were they?
Where did they come from?
What did they want to do?
Ser Gerald Gower supported his body with his sword; he was not lightly injured, but he still tried to straighten his spine, supporting the heavily wounded and weak Stannis Baratheon as they walked step by step toward Corleone.
Stannis's condition was very bad.
His face was deathly pale, the blood from the wound on his forehead had dried on his face, and his armor was broken in many places; he needed Gerald's support to stand steady.
His deep blue eyes were still sharp, staring fixedly at Corleone.
He had guessed the other's identity, but he didn't know why, as a person messenger, Corleone would move to save him.
"You..."
"Why did you save me?"
he asked.
However, Corleone seemed not to have heard the King's question, and didn't even give Stannis a single look.
Under the astonished gaze of the crowd, he turned directly, stepped over several corpses, and walked toward Gendry, who was still leaning on his warhammer with a murderous aura.
Gendry heard the footsteps approaching, his body stiffened slightly, and his head hung even lower.
Corleone stood before him and sized him up.
The blood-stained stag-horn helmet, the damaged armor, the wounds all over his body, and that warhammer that had just crushed who knows how many heads.
"For someone's first time on a battlefield, kid, you did well."
Finally, Corleone spoke, his voice coming through the visor, unreadable.
Gendry felt a sense of relief, but Corleone's next words made him tense up again: "In my homeland, there is a saying."
"It's called 'the first sword after reaching the shore should be used to slay the beloved'."
This sentence was spoken in the Common Tongue of Westeros; the literal meaning was clear, but the combination left everyone present stunned, not knowing what to make of it.
Gendry looked up sharply, his eyes looking at Corleone through the slits of the stag-horn helmet, filled with confusion and unease.
"Ser... I..."
"The meaning is simple."
Corleone looked directly at him and said word for word: "When you have struggled with all your might to crawl out of a muddy pool that was going to drown you and reached the shore, the first thing you should do is not to feel lucky, not to bandage your wounds, and certainly not to worry about those things in the water that distract you, drag you down, or might even pull you back in."
"Instead, you should immediately and without hesitation raise the sword in your hand and completely end the people and things that would make you act stupid at the most dangerous moment!"
"Sever your attachments, sever your weaknesses, and sever all the foolish thoughts that would make you drown again in the next 'muddy pool'."
Corleone's voice was as cold as iron, each word like a small hammer striking Gendry's nerves:
"You almost died here today."
"Not because the enemy was too strong, but because you reached the shore, yet your heart was still filled with the things from that 'muddy pool'."
"Your sword... oh, your hammer, was not swung decisively enough."
"I... I understand, Ser!"
Hearing this, Gendry immediately looked up and straightened his back, promising: "I swear, there won't be a next time!"
"No, you don't understand."
Gendry's earnest look did not satisfy Corleone; his gaze glanced meaningfully toward Melisandre not far away.
Under everyone's suspicious and uncertain gaze, Corleone said solemnly, word for word: "When I say'slay the beloved first,' I mean it literally!"
"So... do it."
"I will be watching you."
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