Early morning.
The sea mist had not yet fully dissipated when the The Queen of the Arbor lowered a few rowboats.
The small boats cut through the gray water, heading toward the main pier of Dragonstone. Their bows were carved with the grape cluster sigil of House Redwyne, and the oars were painted gold and white, signifying they were ceremonial craft built specifically for formal occasions.
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Horas Redwyne stood proudly at the bow. Beneath his deep green velvet cloak, his steel armor was polished to a brilliant shine.
He deliberately straightened his back, striving to mimic the posture his father, Lord Paxter, assumed when receiving vassals—chin slightly raised, gaze fixed straight ahead.
However, the index finger of his right hand, which gripped his sword, kept tapping the hilt unconsciously, betraying his nervousness.
Sitting opposite him was a sixty-three-year-old knight, Ser Desmond Redwyne.
Unlike Horas's opulent attire, Desmond wore a set of well-maintained but old-fashioned plate armor. On the breastplate, the edges of House Redwyne's sigil had been worn smooth and shiny by the passage of time.
His white hair was trimmed very short, and wrinkles creased his face.
A pair of still-sharp eyes gazed at the approaching pier. As a professional and experienced old knight, he was constantly assessing every potential hiding spot for a threat.
"Remember your manners, Horas."
Seeing the boat was about to dock, Desmond spoke in a harsh tone, even carrying a hint of a lecture: "We are here to negotiate on behalf of House Redwyne with House Baratheon, not to start a fight."
"Let the other side speak first. Observe, then respond. Do not be in a hurry to state your position, but our stance must be firm, for we are the party in the superior position."
"I know, Uncle." Facing his instructions, Horas's tone sounded somewhat impatient. "Father already explained all of this before we left."
19
"What your father explained was to me."
Desmond frowned and corrected him: "He only sent you here to learn how to negotiate with an enemy. Therefore, I will be the primary speaker today, and you will simply sit by and observe."
"Remember, negotiation is not a duel; the winner isn't the one with the loudest voice. We must listen for the holes in the opponent's words, and more importantly, discern where their bottom line lies from their expressions and demeanor."
At those words, Horas's finger tapped even faster, and a trace of irritation and impatience surfaced in his eyes.
It was always like this.
He was already twenty-five years old, had participated in three minor naval skirmishes, and commanded five longships!
Yet in the eyes of this old man and the other elders of the family, he, Horas Redwyne, was forever treated as a child in need of instruction, never trusted to complete anything independently!
Learn.
Learn my ass!
Amidst Horas's sour expression, the rowboat gradually docked.
The Dragonstone guards on the pier wore armor, and nearly all of them bore injuries, yet their posture remained upright, and their spears were held quite steadily.
However, they showed no hostility, merely lining up in silence, their gazes wary as they watched the small boat slowly arrive.
"Welcome to Dragonstone, gentlemen."
Ser Gerard, who had been waiting there for a long time, stepped forward. Without any pleasantries, he said straightforwardly: "Please follow me. The lords are waiting in the main hall for the meeting with you."
Horas was the first to disembark. Seeing that Ser Gerard had the sense to greet him first, he nodded with satisfaction, his neck tilting even higher.
However, Desmond, following behind, shook his head and let out a soft sigh.
This boy is still not mature enough.
The group walked in silence until they reached the Dragonstone reception hall.
A long table was set in the center with two high-backed chairs on each side. When Horas and Desmond were led in, the other party was already seated.
Like them, there were two people.
The first to catch the eye was a young man in bright silver plate armor. On his breastplate, the gilded crowned stag sigil remained striking even in the dim light.
He had thick black hair, deep blue eyes, and a very rugged facial structure.
The moment he saw this face, Horas's heart gave a sudden leap.
It was too similar.
He looked exactly like the portraits of King Robert Baratheon he had seen before!
Beside that man sat a man in his twenties with black hair, wearing simple leather armor under a dark gray cloak. His appearance was unremarkable, and he seemed quite calm.
Behind Horas, Ser Desmond's footsteps faltered almost imperceptibly.
The old knight's gaze lingered on Gendry's face for a moment. Clearly, he also recognized what this face and the armor he wore implied.
If nothing was amiss, the "Robert Baratheon" the soldiers had seen on the battlefield must be this man.
"Welcome, representatives of House Redwyne."
It was Corleone who spoke.
He stood up with leisurely movements and gave a slight, standard ceremonial bow that was neither humble nor arrogant.
"I am Al Capone, a free mercenary from Essos, currently employed by House Baratheon as a military advisor."
Corleone deliberately bit his tongue to give his Common Tongue a slight exotic accent, gesturing with his hands: "This is Ser Gendry Baratheon. He is of the blood of King Robert Baratheon I and the nephew of King Stannis Baratheon. He is representing His Majesty Stannis in these negotiations."
Hearing Corleone's introduction, Horas and Desmond both raised their eyebrows simultaneously.
Gendry Baratheon?
It seemed he was likely a bastard of that whoring king. This wasn't surprising; after all, it was said Robert's seed was spread across the Seven Kingdoms, nearly rivaling the legendary Garth Greenhand of the Reach!
But then again, given Stannis's personality, the fact that he would legitimize his brother's bastard and even grant him the Baratheon name was truly mind-boggling.
Despite the shock, Ser Desmond was the first to regain his composure.
He took a step forward, placed his right hand over his chest, and performed an equivalent standard knightly salute.
"I am Desmond Redwyne, cousin to Lord Paxter Redwyne."
His voice echoed in the hall: "This is Ser Horas Redwyne, the second son of Lord Paxter, and the representative of House Redwyne for these negotiations."
Following Desmond's introduction, Horas followed suit with a bow, trying to make his movements look solemn.
However, he noticed that when Desmond said the words "second son," a trace of elusive light flashed in the eyes of that mercenary advisor named Al Capone.
Was he mocking him?
Damn it!
A flush rose to his face, and he shot an annoyed glance at Desmond.
Did he fucking have to introduce him so clearly? Couldn't he just say I'm the son of Paxter Redwyne?
"Please, sit."
Corleone keenly caught the change in Horas's expression. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly as he gestured with his hand.
The four of them took their seats.
The long table was wide, leaving at least six feet of safe distance between them—convenient for conversation while ensuring neither side could suddenly lunge and cause harm.
The sea breeze drifted in through the broken window frames, fluttering the banners on The Walls.
Corleone clapped his hands.
An old steward emerged from the shadows carrying a wooden tray. On the tray were two pieces of freshly baked rye bread.
And a small dish of coarse salt.
According to the ancient traditions of Westeros, once a guest accepted the host's salt and bread, the "Guest Right" took effect. The safety of the visitor under the host's roof was sacredly guaranteed.
And vice versa.
The steward first brought the tray to Horas and Desmond.
Ser Desmond carefully inspected the bread and salt, then tore off a small piece of bread, dipped it in a bit of salt, placed it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
Horas did the same.
The bread was coarse and had a bitter taste.
Hmm... there seemed to be a hint of mold. It appeared the food shortage on Dragonstone was severe.
While swallowing the bread, Desmond was constantly calculating in his mind.
The ritual was in effect.
Corleone leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the table in a relaxed posture, and smiled: "Now then, under the witness of the Old Gods and the New, let us begin this dialogue, gentlemen."
"First, allow me to express gratitude on behalf of King Stannis Baratheon for Lord Paxter Redwyne's willingness to negotiate."
"Choosing dialogue over bloodshed in war is a wise move."
Hearing this, Ser Desmond cleared his throat and spoke a step ahead of Horas: "Lord Paxter likewise treasures the lives of his soldiers."
"The Redwyne Fleet has completed its total blockade of Dragonstone. We have two hundred warships and over six thousand sailors and soldiers."
"Your food reserves won't last a month, while our supply lines can stretch from The Arbor all the way to King's Landing. In this situation, continued resistance will only lead to senseless death."
Horas listened quietly and nodded. He remembered his father had indeed said these things, but in his view, it would be more persuasive if he, as his father's representative, said them himself.
He opened his mouth, preparing to add something, but Desmond once again beat him to it and continued: "Therefore, the Earl has proposed honorable terms..."
"The usurper Stannis Baratheon must renounce his claim to the throne and go to The Wall to join the Night's Watch, serving the realm for the rest of his life to atone for his sins."
"All defenders may leave freely after laying down their arms without fear of retaliation, and the bloodline of House Baratheon..."
""
His gaze swept over Gendry, and he hesitated for a moment before speaking: "When the time is right, perhaps Lord Paxter will petition the Iron Throne to allow him to inherit Storm's End."
This promise was clearly made on the fly, and coming from someone of Desmond's status, it was hardly convincing.
Horas opened his mouth again, intending to speak in his own name to add weight to the promise.
However, before he could make a sound, Desmond had already turned to Gendry: "Are you willing to accept these terms?"
Hearing this, Gendry's eyes were vacant, and he only gave a slight nod, not having spoken from start to finish.
"Regrettably," Corleone answered for him from the side, "His Majesty Stannis cannot accept these terms."
"Why?"
Desmond asked, his tone still steady but carrying an imperceptible pressure.
"Because His Majesty Stannis has committed no crime and has no need for atonement."
Corleone tapped the tabletop and said firmly: "He is the legal heir of King Robert. According to the inheritance laws of Westeros, in the event of King Robert's death without legitimate offspring, the throne should pass to his younger brother."
"Furthermore, the parentage of Joffrey Baratheon is in question. This is something I believe House Redwyne has also heard rumors of."
As soon as these words were spoken, Desmond frowned, and Horas, using this opening, finally found a chance to interject: "You have no evidence whatsoever to prove that, and currently, we are the ones in control of the situation!"
"Yes." Hearing this, Corleone seemed to only just notice Horas's existence. He nodded with a smile: "We are all very aware of political reality, but reality isn't necessarily justice, nor is it necessarily eternal."
"Otherwise, the Targaryen dynasty would still be ruling instead of being overthrown by King Robert Baratheon."
At these words, Desmond's frown deepened. He stared into Corleone's eyes and questioned: "Are you implying that House Redwyne supported a usurper?"
"I am stating historical facts."
Corleone maintained his smile: "Every house has made choices at historical crossroads. House Stark and House Arryn both chose King Robert and thus became the pillars of the new dynasty."
"And now, your House Redwyne also faces a choice: whether to continue supporting a king of potentially impure blood, or to reconsider what constitutes true legal succession."
"House Redwyne is only loyal to..."
""
Horas wanted to say something to retort, but Desmond had already spoken again: "House Redwyne is loyal to the Iron Throne!"
"We are loyal to the legitimate monarch. Currently sitting on the Iron Throne is His Majesty Joffrey I. He was crowned by the High Septon and recognized by the Small Council. That is the reality!"
"Reality changes," Corleone said nonchalantly. "Like the tides, it has its ebbs and flows. A clever captain doesn't park his ship on the rocks during low tide, nor does he stay away from the harbor during high tide."
"That's true..." Horas thought the metaphor was excellent. He was about to express his agreement when Desmond responded coldly:
"House Redwyne has made its living on the sea for hundreds of years. We know how to read the tides better than anyone, and right now, the tide is clearly not on Dragonstone's side."
The negotiation proceeded for about half an hour, the time gradually slipping away under the meaningless arguments between the two.
Horas finally realized something was wrong.
Whenever he wanted to speak, Desmond was always half a beat faster. Whenever Corleone raised a point, it was always Desmond who refuted it first.
And he, Horas Redwyne, the nominal representative of House Redwyne, was sitting there like a decoration, only able to listen.
What confused him even more was Gendry Baratheon.
That young man hadn't uttered a single word from beginning to end, simply sitting there quietly with his hands on the table, occasionally taking a sip of water.
When Desmond spoke, he listened intently. When Corleone responded, he also listened intently.
No impatience, no attempt to interject, not even any display of emotion.
It was very strange.
If Gendry was truly the representative of House Baratheon, why wasn't he participating in the negotiation at all?
If he had no say, why was he sitting here?
If he had the power but wasn't speaking, what was he observing?
Horas's gaze lingered on Gendry's face for a long time, his brow furrowing deeper. That face, so like Robert's, was young and determined, but in his eyes, there seemed to be a kind of... vacancy?
No, not vacancy!
It must be something deeper. As a representative of House Baratheon and a heroic warrior who slaughtered enemies on the battlefield, he couldn't possibly be this simple!
Look, those eyes are slightly narrowed; he must be judging the situation... yes, definitely!
"Is it not over yet?"
Gendry, who had almost fallen asleep, snapped back to his senses. Listening to Corleone and Desmond drone on and on, he felt like he was sitting on pins and needles.
Participating in this kind of negotiation was, for someone as poorly spoken as him, far more exhausting than swinging a hammer all afternoon!
"Didn't we agree I'd just show my face for appearances and then we'd eat?"
"Sigh, I haven't been getting enough to eat lately; I'm practically starving to death."
Thinking of the scent of bread, he swallowed hard and forced his drowsy head to perk up slightly.
Hobber didn't keep his eyes on Gendry for long, instead trying to find an opportunity to interject amidst the verbal sparring between Corleone and Desmond.
Finally, taking advantage of a gap in their conversation, he cleared his throat and prepared to speak: "Regarding this point, I think..."
"There is nothing to think!"
However, Desmond interrupted him again: "We hold the absolute advantage, Al Capone. House Redwyne never haggles!"
"The Lord's command is for Stannis to Take the Black and head to the North, returning Dragonstone to the Crown's control. I will accept nothing else!"
As soon as these words were spoken, Hobber's face turned completely red.
This time, Desmond had not only interrupted him but had also denied him his right to speak in front of the other party.
This had gone beyond the scope of 'guidance'; it was a public humiliation of his dignity as a representative of House Redwyne!
Corleone watched this scene, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes.
He turned to Gendry and said in a voice light but loud enough for everyone to hear, "Do you have anything to add, Lord Gendry?"
"Ah, is it time for food..."
?
Hearing Corleone's inquiry, Gendry almost blurted it out, but fortunately, he came to his senses before speaking and quickly corrected himself: "I only follow King Stannis's decision!"
Just that one sentence.
Then he fell silent again.
Seeing this, Desmond seemed to lose his patience. The old knight stood up and shook his head in disappointment.
"It seems we cannot reach a consensus."
"The Redwyne Fleet will continue to besiege Dragonstone. When the food runs out, you will make a more realistic choice, or starve to death."
"Hobber, let's go."
After saying that, he turned around, preparing to leave.
However, Hobber sat in his chair and did not move.
His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, feeling the blood rush to his head and a buzzing in his ears.
Time and again, time and again.
Always being interrupted, always being spoken for, always being treated like a child who needs to be led by the hand.
It was like this at The Arbor.
It was like this in the fleet.
And now, in such an important negotiation, it was still like this!
Desmond had even reached the door before he realized Hobber hadn't followed.
He looked back, his brow furrowed as he said sharply, "Hobber, didn't you hear me? It's time to go!"
This tone was not one of consultation or inquiry at all; it was more like an order to a subordinate.
Hobber slowly raised his head and looked at Desmond.
The old knight stood at the door, backlit, his face in shadow, but his figure was still upright, like an insurmountable mountain.
He glanced back at Corleone, whose eyes seemed to overflow with mockery.
He then looked at Gendry, that Baratheon who clearly had the right to speak but chose silence.
Hobber suddenly seemed to understand something.
It wasn't that Gendry lacked a voice; he was using silence to express something else—trust.
He trusted Capone to represent his interests, so he didn't need to speak.
But what about himself?
He didn't trust Desmond to represent his interests, yet he had been deprived of the right to speak all along.
"Hobber!" At that moment, Desmond's voice became even harsher: "Stand up and follow me. That is an order."
An order.
From childhood to adulthood, it had always been this damn commanding tone.
He took a deep breath, suppressing all the dissatisfaction in his heart, and silently stood up.
After all, as a mere second son, what could he do even if he was unhappy?
Seeing Hobber's movement, Desmond's brow relaxed slightly. He turned around, preparing to push open the heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall.
Just then.
"Intending to leave just like that, without our consent?"
Just as Desmond's hand was about to touch the doorknob, Corleone's voice suddenly rang out.
The voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the empty Great Hall.
Desmond stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around, his face full of vigilance and dissatisfaction: "What do you want to do?"
"I'm telling you, we are protected by Guest Right. I don't believe Stannis would let you act recklessly!"
Hearing his non-threatening retort, Corleone sat in his chair, leaning back slightly in a very relaxed, almost lazy posture.
But those black eyes were incredibly sharp, staring intently at Desmond as he said nonchalantly, "I'm not a Westerosi."
"In our Essos, we don't care for nonsense like Guest Right."
As soon as these words were spoken, Desmond's expression changed instantly: "What do you mean?"
I mean," Corleone slowly sat up straight, his gaze moving from Desmond to Hobber and back again, "before you stepped onto this island, you should have assessed the risks, shouldn't you?"
"After all, this is the enemy's base, and..."
"
As he spoke, he paused, a half-smile playing on his lips: "With Ser Hobber as a hostage, I think we'll have even more leverage to negotiate with Lord Paxter. He surely wouldn't just watch his own son die on this island, would he?"
A blatant threat!
Desmond's right hand instantly moved to his sword hilt, his voice incredibly stern as he rebuked, "You intend to detain us?"
"I'm telling you, doing this is meaningless. Lord Paxter will never yield because of this. Our fleet will only tighten the siege on Dragonstone, and you will all starve to death on this island!"
"Is that so?"
Corleone's tone remained flat.
He stopped looking at Desmond and turned his gaze to Hobber.
The young Redwyne stood where he was, his face pale, his right hand also on his sword hilt, but his posture was stiff, clearly in the midst of a fierce internal struggle.
"Ser Hobber," Corleone said softly, his voice carrying a hint of regret and disappointment, "it seems your status in your father's heart isn't very high."
Hearing this, Hobber's body gave a sudden jolt.
Desmond, meanwhile, hurried to roar, "Shut up!"
"Don't listen to him, Hobber! He's trying to drive a wedge between us!"
But Corleone ignored him completely and continued speaking, each word striking Hobber's heart like a hammer: "What a pity."
"Though I am but a farmer's son, my father... he was willing to be beaten to death by a landlord for stealing an apple for me."
"That was many years ago."
He paused for a moment, his gaze distant as if reminiscing: "Later I thought, if only I had been more useful, perhaps my father wouldn't have gone to steal, and wouldn't have died."
"But the fact is, he was just a poor farmer, and I was his son, his only son, so he had to protect me, even if it cost him his life."
After saying this, Corleone withdrew his gaze and looked back at Hobber.
This time, his eyes held an attitude almost like pity: "But you are different, Ser Hobber. You are the second son of House Redwyne."
"You have an older brother, Ser Horas Redwyne, who is the hope of the family, the future heir."
"And you... you are the spare."
"Like an extra sword; it's good to have, but it doesn't matter if it's gone."
"You're lying!" Listening to Corleone's increasingly excessive and blatant remarks, Hobber shouted back in rebuttal, but his voice was trembling.
"Am I lying?"
Corleone spread his hands nonchalantly: "Then please tell me, why is it you sitting here and not Ser Horas Redwyne?"
"Why are you the one risking your life to step onto an enemy island while he enjoys himself in the safety of King's Landing?"
"Why is it that every time you want to speak, Ser Desmond interrupts you and answers in your stead?"
With every word spoken, the trembling in Hobber's body grew more intense.
Corleone, meanwhile, stood up leisurely and walked slowly toward the other end of the long table, stopping a few paces from Hobber to say something startling: "Because you are not important, Ser Hobber."
"You are a sacrificial pawn. If the negotiations fail today and you are taken hostage, what do you think Lord Paxter will do?"
"He will feel pain, he will feel anger, but in the end—he will calculate the cost. Trading a second son for Dragonstone might just be worth it."
"But think again, if it were Ser Horas Redwyne who was detained? He might stop at nothing, who knows?"
"Sigh..."
""
With a sigh, Corleone turned around, his back to Hobber, and made a waving motion as if shooing away something unimportant: "It seems capturing a useless waste like you wouldn't be of much use anyway."
"You may go."
The word "waste" stabbed deeply into Hobber's heart.
His whole body began to shake violently, his teeth grinding together, and his eyes instantly became bloodshot.
"Who... who are you calling a waste!"
Desmond saw that Hobber's state of mind was wrong and immediately stepped forward, blocking the space between him and Corleone, while reaching out to grab Hobber's arm: "Enough!"
"Hobber, don't listen to him! We're leaving! Right now!"
But the usually obedient Hobber suddenly flung his hand away, staring fixedly at Corleone's back with eyes that mixed anger, humiliation, and a bottomless well of pain.
Corleone didn't look back, only continued to speak, his voice carrying a faint mockery: "Am I wrong?"
"From the beginning to the end of the negotiation, have you said a single word? Have you had any decision-making power?"
"Ser Desmond thinks for you, speaks for you, and makes decisions for you, while you are nothing more than an ornament sitting there, pretending to be important."
He slowly turned around, looking at Hobber with a calm gaze: "Leave while I haven't changed my mind, boy. We will hold Dragonstone to the end."
"Unless... you become the firstborn, then you will be of use to us."
Firstborn! Firstborn!!!
The word exploded in Hobber's mind like a curse.
Why can't I be the firstborn?
If I had been born first...
If that fellow Horas...
Suddenly, a bold thought that he had never dared to think through flashed across his mind.
If Horas were dead, if his brother were gone...
Then he would be the firstborn, the heir, his father's only hope!
The thought was so terrifying, yet so tempting; once it surfaced, it was impossible to shake from his mind!
Hobber's face turned deathly pale, then flushed with a sickly red hue. His breathing became heavy, and the veins on his sword-hand bulged.
Desmond saw the look of madness flashing in Hobber's eyes, and the old knight's heart tightened. Though he didn't know exactly what he was thinking, instinct told him he had to get Hobber away immediately.
"Enough! Hobber, we're leaving!!"
Desmond reached out again, this time with force, practically dragging Hobber toward the door.
"Stand up, Hobber!"
"I command you in your father's name! We must return to the ship at once!"
Command.
Again, a command.
It was always commands!
Hobber was dragged into a stumble for two steps by Desmond.
He turned his head, looking at Desmond's anxious and stern face, and at the hand tightly gripping his arm.
In this moment, all the suppression, all the resentment, all the humiliation converged into a dark torrent.
Why do you always get to command me?
Why do you always get to make decisions for me?
Why must I always live in my brother's shadow?
Why can't I be the firstborn?!
In an instant, Hobber's gaze changed.
The struggle and pain vanished completely, replaced by a cold, hollow, yet exceptionally steady madness.
Desmond's heart skipped a beat, sensing something was wrong, but he was already too late to react.
Hobber's left hand suddenly grabbed Desmond's wrist, and his right hand drew his sword with a speed beyond imagination, a speed unlike his usual self.
A flash of sword-light.
Desmond didn't even see what happened. He only felt a chill in his chest, followed by agonizing pain.
He looked down and saw the tip of a sword protruding from his chest, the blood-stained blade shimmering with an eerie light.
He looked up at Hobber.
In the old knight's eyes, there was no anger, no hatred, only deep shock and...
...sorrow.
Hobber looked into Desmond's eyes, at the face that had taught him, restrained him, and protected him since he was a child.
His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he said nothing.
He simply gave his wrist a twist, stirring the blade and shattering the heart.
Desmond's body gave a violent convulsion, and then all strength drained from his limbs.
He slumped down as Hobber let go of the sword hilt.
The old knight fell to his knees and then forward, blood pouring from his chest and quickly spreading across the floor.
The reception hall fell into a deathly silence.
Only the sound of blood dripping could be heard—drip, drip.
Hobber stood there, looking at his hands, at the blood-stained sword, and at the corpse on the floor.
There was no expression on his face, and his eyes were hollow.
Corleone walked over slowly, showing no surprise at all; instead, he smiled and clapped for Hobber: "Breaking old rules is the beginning of establishing a new order."
"You made a decision for yourself for once. Very brave."
Hearing this, Hobber slowly raised his head, his eyes gradually focusing on Corleone's face.
In those eyes, there was fear and remorse, but more than that, a twisted, almost liberating peace.
"I killed my uncle."
"Yes."
"The gods will curse me."
"Perhaps."
Corleone took a piece of cloth from his pocket and handed it to Hobber: "Wipe your hands, and then we need to talk about what to do next."
"After all, you need a new ally now, and I have what you need."
Hobber took the cloth and mechanically wiped the blood from his hands. His movements were stiff, but his gaze was gradually becoming sharp.
"What do you want?"
"I want to leave Dragonstone alive," Capone said. "And you want to become the true heir of House Redwyne. Our goals do not conflict; in fact, they can complement each other."
He paused, looking into Hobber's eyes: "But first, we need to deal with Ser Desmond's body and fabricate a story."
"Then, you need to return to the The Queen of the Arbor and tell your father one thing..."
""
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