Chapter 127: Landing!
The dungeons of Dragonstone were damp year-round.
Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their dim, flickering light barely pushing back the darkness—offering illumination, but no warmth to those imprisoned within.
Davos Seaworth sat against the cold stone wall, shackles binding both wrists and ankles, limiting his movement.
He didn't struggle.
He simply sat there—quiet, composed—as if he were back in his own home.
Footsteps echoed.
Heavy. Steady. Familiar.
Even without looking up, Davos knew exactly who it was.
Still, he rose at once, straightened his clothes, and faced the cell door.
As expected—
Stannis Baratheon descended the steps alone.
No attendants.
No red priestess.
Just the king.
He stopped outside the bars, his deep blue eyes studying Davos in the dim light—just as they had years ago, when a smuggler's ship loaded with onions and salted fish had appeared at a starving Storm's End.
"Your Grace," Davos spoke first, respectful as always.
"What should I call you, Davos?" Stannis's voice was rigid, almost accusatory.
"A traitor—again? Or a fool who thinks himself wise?"
"I did what I believed was right."
Davos met his gaze without flinching.
"That boy shouldn't have to pay for a war that isn't his. He doesn't even understand why it began."
"Victory… should not be bought with innocent blood."
"Innocent?"
Stannis's jaw tightened.
"This is war. There are no innocents in war."
"My brother won the throne with a warhammer—and lost it to wine and lust. Now, by the laws of the realm, reclaiming the Iron Throne and restoring order… is the right thing."
"I never asked for this crown. Gold sits cold and heavy on the head. But as long as I wear it—"
"I have a duty."
He paused, voice lowering, yet firm.
"And for that… certain sacrifices are inevitable."
"Like the Mad King believing it necessary to burn anyone who opposed him?"
Davos's voice rose sharply.
He looked at Stannis—not with anger, but with a deep, aching sorrow.
"While I was imprisoned, I learned to read, Your Grace. Slowly… painfully. Sometimes I had to guess the meaning from the pictures."
"But I read of the Targaryens' glory… and of the end of Aerys II Targaryen."
"They wrote that he believed fire could cleanse disloyalty. That pain itself brought power."
His voice trembled—not with fear, but conviction.
"When you order men burned… when you watch them scream in the flames—"
"Do you believe the same?"
Silence.
The question struck too deeply.
Stannis's expression flickered in the firelight—uncertain, conflicted.
As the war worsened, he had leaned more and more on Melisandre's doctrine of sacrifice.
Yet the ideals of law and justice he once held so tightly still lashed at him like a whip.
"They faltered. They betrayed Dragonstone. They betrayed their king. They broke the law."
He spoke at last—but even to his own ears, the words rang hollow.
Davos shook his head.
"A starving fisherman hiding a fish… a soldier weeping for his family—those are not traitors!"
For the first time since the war began, Davos did not hold back.
"Your Grace, I have always been loyal. Four of my sons died for you at the Blackwater."
His voice broke, yet remained steady.
"I never complained. Because I believed—under Stannis Baratheon, hardship was temporary."
"But now?"
"We sit here, wasting away. People aren't afraid of the enemy."
"They're afraid that tomorrow… they might be burned alive for saying the wrong prayer… or whispering the wrong dream!"
He stepped forward as far as his chains allowed.
"Is this the kingdom you want? One built on fear and ash?"
That struck harder than any blade.
Stannis turned away abruptly.
His broad shoulders stiffened—as if bearing an invisible weight.
After a long silence, he forced out a reply, low and strained:
"Do not compare me to the Mad King, Ser Davos."
"I am the one true heir to the Iron Throne."
"I must take it. I must protect my people."
"I must."
With that, he turned sharply and left, his footsteps uneven as they faded into the darkness.
Davos watched him go.
The torchlight flickered in his eyes—
But there was no light left in them.
—
A chain rattled in the next cell.
Then came a short, bitter laugh.
Gendry leaned back against the wall, staring at the darkness above.
"'Rightful heir'… 'Iron Throne'…"
He repeated the words mockingly.
"They sound nice. Like bells from a sept."
"But the ones ringing them never ask how the hungry feel below."
He turned his head slightly.
"Right, Onion Knight?"
Davos sighed and sat back down.
"I grew up in Flea Bottom too, lad."
"All the more reason you should know," Gendry muttered, knocking his head lightly against the wall.
"To lords, people like us are just mud."
"I saw a noble's carriage once—ran over Old Tom's good leg. Didn't even stop."
He paused, voice drifting.
"At the forge, I learned iron gets hammered into shape. But the hammer never asks if it hurts."
"We're the iron."
"Useful? We get forged into swords."
"Useless? We get tossed aside… or thrown into the fire."
Davos listened in silence.
He understood every word.
"His Grace… is different," he said at last.
"Maybe harsh. Maybe… misguided. But he believes in law. In duty."
"He is the rightful king."
Gendry laughed again—soft, hollow.
"To me? A king's just a king."
"At least the one in King's Landing didn't try to drain my blood."
He paused, bitterness creeping in.
"I actually believed that red woman…"
"She smiled at me. Talked to me."
"I thought she liked me."
Turns out—
"She just wanted my blood."
Silence settled again.
Then—
A voice.
Calm. Precise. Like a blade cutting into infected flesh.
"Self-awareness is a virtue," it said.
"But there's no need for self-contempt, Gendry."
Both men froze.
They turned toward the darkness.
From the shadowed corner across from their cells—
A figure stepped forward.
Firelight split his face into light and shadow.
Measured steps. Controlled presence.
"Considering you were a virgin," the voice continued evenly,
"you performed rather well."
"Most people never even dare to believe."
Gendry's eyes widened.
"You—!"
"It's you! The one who brought us here!"
The man inclined his head slightly.
Odin.
"You may call me Ser Odin," he said calmly.
"I've only recently acquired the title—still getting used to it."
His gaze brushed over Davos briefly—then settled on Gendry.
"Your reasoning is insightful," Odin said.
"But not entirely accurate."
"To the nobility, both hammer and iron are tools."
"They make the rules. We are merely expendable pieces within them."
Then he turned to Davos.
"Tell me, Onion Knight—"
"Do you truly believe Stannis Baratheon is playing the same game as you?"
"His Grace is just," Davos replied, voice firm despite its dryness.
"He simply bears a heavier burden."
"Ah yes. Duty. Law. Responsibility…"
Odin cut him off—not mockingly, but with weary familiarity.
"I've heard it all before."
He stepped closer, eyes sharp.
"Tell me—"
"A man who murders his own brother…"
"And draws power from the blood of his own nephew…"
"Does he truly deserve to stand beneath the banner of 'justice' and 'honor'?"
Davos fell silent.
He had no answer.
Beside him, Gendry blinked in confusion.
"Nephew? Who—?"
Odin glanced at him, amused.
"So you haven't told him."
"But I'm not here for a lesson in bloodlines."
He stepped closer to the bars.
"Let's talk about something real."
Then, quietly—
"Do you want to go back to Flea Bottom, boy?"
The words struck like a key unlocking something buried deep.
Gendry's eyes flickered.
Memories surged—smoke from the forge, damp alleyways, the endless struggle for scraps.
But suspicion returned just as fast.
"I was already back in King's Landing!"
He snapped, gripping the bars.
"If not for you, I'd be working in a forge—not waiting here to get bled dry!"
Odin shook his head slightly.
"You really think a royal bastard is safe in King's Landing?"
"Royal—?"
Gendry froze.
Robert Baratheon.
The name hit like thunder.
Everything began to make sense.
The visits. The attention. The blood.
"…So that magic…" his voice trembled.
"Requires royal blood," Odin finished calmly.
"Or so she believes."
Gendry grabbed the bars, shouting toward Davos:
"Is it true?!"
Silence.
Davos did not answer.
But he did not deny it either.
That was enough.
Rage. Shame. Something deeper—
All surged at once.
A lifetime as a nameless bastard—
Only to discover his blood made him valuable… not as a son, but as fuel.
"All because some drunken king couldn't keep it in his pants…" he muttered bitterly.
Then he looked up, eyes blazing.
"So what if I am?"
"Why should I go with you?"
"You kidnapped us! You're no different from them!"
Odin smiled.
Not cold.
Not mocking.
Just… honest.
"I won't deny it."
"At first, you were a gift."
"A business decision."
He stepped forward into the firelight.
"But now—"
"The gift has been delivered."
"And inspected."
"If the buyer doesn't pay… or I don't like the price—"
"I take my goods back."
"Simple."
Gendry opened his mouth—
But Odin's next words froze him.
"And besides…"
"Don't you want to see Arya Stark again?"
Silence.
Then—
Explosion.
"You know where she is?!" Gendry lunged forward, gripping the bars.
"Have you seen her?!"
"Calm down."
Odin's tone remained steady.
"I don't know where she is now."
"But I know this—"
"She owes me a favor."
"I helped her once, in the Riverlands."
"And one day…"
"She'll come to repay that debt."
He met Gendry's eyes.
"Maybe a month."
"Maybe a year."
"But she will come."
"And when she does—"
"You'll see her again."
Gendry's chest heaved.
Inside him, two voices clashed violently.
One screamed:
Don't trust him.
The other whispered, again and again—
Arya Stark.
Gendry still remembered it clearly.
When the Brotherhood Without Banners sold him to that red-robed woman, among everyone present—
only Arya Stark had spoken up for him.
"…Alright."
After a long silence, Gendry took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to leap off a cliff, and nodded heavily.
"I'll go with you."
"Even if I die in King's Landing, I'll accept it. At least it's better than lying here waiting for that woman to come back and drain my blood again with those disgusting things!"
"A wise choice."
Odin nodded in satisfaction, as though another deal had just been concluded.
But then—
a voice drifted from the neighboring cell.
"Have you both forgotten that I'm still here?"
Davos Seaworth spoke calmly.
"You're plotting an escape this loudly… are you treating me as if I don't exist, or do you assume I'll keep your secret?"
The air in the dungeon seemed to freeze again.
Odin slowly turned his head toward Davos.
His expression remained unchanged—casual as ever.
"Ah… you're right. I almost forgot."
The sound of steel sliding free echoed softly.
The sword rose, its tip pointing straight at Davos—without the slightest hesitation.
"Then I'll silence you first."
His tone was utterly calm.
"No!"
Gendry, who had just moments ago been resentful toward Davos, suddenly lunged forward, reaching out through the bars.
"Please don't hurt him, Ser!"
"He… he's a good man!"
Odin didn't turn back. His grip on the sword was steady.
"He heard everything."
"I have to kill him. You understand, boy—hesitation at a moment like this gets everyone killed."
Davos looked at the blade aimed at him.
There was no fear on his face.
Instead, he seemed… at peace.
He even let out a faint sigh—one not of resistance, but of quiet exhaustion.
"Then do it, Ser."
He spread his arms slightly, as if embracing death.
"I've already betrayed my king twice. By law… I should have died long ago."
For a brief moment, something flickered at the corner of Odin's lips.
Then—
a flash of steel.
In that instant, Gendry's heart nearly stopped.
He shut his eyes tight, unable to look.
But—
there was no scream.
No groan.
Only a faint, soft sound—
tap… tap…
Something hitting the stone floor.
Gendry opened his eyes.
Odin was already sheathing his sword, the blade spotless—untouched by blood.
In the next cell, Davos looked down in confusion.
The leather cord around his neck—
the one he had worn for over a decade—
had been cleanly cut.
At his feet lay four shriveled, blackened finger bones, scattered across the floor.
Davos instinctively touched his throat.
The blade had passed less than an inch from his neck.
Yet he was completely unharmed.
"People have to move forward, Ser Davos Seaworth."
Odin's voice was calm, as always—but every word struck deep.
"Clinging to the past is like clinging to the wreckage of a sunken ship."
"It only drags you down with it."
His gaze fell briefly on the severed finger bones.
"Loyalty is a virtue."
"But blind obedience is stupidity."
"And serving a ruler who has lost himself—"
"…is the worst kind of stupidity."
Davos sat frozen on the ground.
His hand twitched, instinctively reaching for the finger bones—symbols of his loyalty, the price he paid to rise from smuggler to knight.
But halfway there—
his hand stopped.
It trembled.
And would not move further.
Odin didn't look at him again.
He turned and walked toward the dungeon exit, his footsteps steady and unhurried.
"If you want to watch that boy die here on Dragonstone…"
"Or live like livestock—kept alive only to be bled when needed…"
"…then go ahead and report us."
By the time he finished speaking, he had reached the heavy oak door, hand resting on the latch.
And then—
suddenly—
a thunderous roar erupted from all directions.
Shouts. Clashing steel. Chaos.
For a split second, Odin instinctively reached for his sword, thinking he had been discovered.
But then his brows knit.
Something was wrong.
That level of noise—hundreds, maybe thousands of voices—
No one would mobilize that kind of force just to catch a single man.
"BANG!!"
The heavy door burst open from the outside.
A Dragonstone soldier stumbled in, covered in blood, helmet askew, face filled with terror.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
He shouted hoarsely.
"A fleet has landed—everyone who can still fight, get out there—"
His voice cut off abruptly.
Because he saw Odin standing right behind the door.
The two locked eyes.
The soldier froze.
Clearly, he hadn't expected to see a well-dressed man—someone who didn't look like a prisoner at all—standing in the dungeon.
Odin smiled.
Polite. Calm. Almost apologetic.
As if saying—
What unfortunate timing.
Then—
before the man could react—
draw, thrust, withdraw.
One fluid motion.
The blade pierced straight through the soldier's throat.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
His hands clawed at his neck as blood burst between his fingers.
Then he collapsed, body hitting the doorframe before sliding lifelessly to the ground.
The entire exchange took less than three seconds.
Odin didn't spare the corpse another glance.
He scanned the corridor—footsteps, shouting, chaos everywhere.
Dragonstone was in disarray.
He thought for a brief moment.
Then decisively shut the door again, bolting it from the inside.
Kneeling beside the body, he searched it with practiced efficiency.
Moments later, he rose and moved to Gendry's cell, keys in hand.
A quick glance—
the right one.
Click.
The lock opened.
Odin pulled the door aside and tilted his head slightly at Gendry, a faint hint of amusement in his voice:
"Looks like our escape plan just got moved up."
"Come on, bastard."