Chapter 136: The Hunter and the Prey
"Why the panic?"
Seeing the messenger so flustered, Paxter Redwyne frowned in clear displeasure.
As the Lord of the Arbor, he had never known defeat. His confidence in his fleet bordered on absolute. Back during Robert Baratheon's rebellion, he had held Storm's End under siege for nearly a year. Even though he ultimately had to withdraw and bend the knee after the Targaryens lost the war, Paxter had always considered that failure the fault of incompetent allies rather than his own.
Later, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Redwyne fleet had crushed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle. Though Stannis Baratheon had commanded that battle, Paxter never doubted that victory rested just as much on the strength of his own ships.
Even now, with his eldest son held hostage by Tywin Lannister, Paxter had never once panicked. After all, the Lannisters' naval power now depended almost entirely on House Redwyne.
"Take your time. Speak clearly," Hobber said instead, his tone far gentler than his father's.
As the second son, Hobber Redwyne was always mindful of appearances, eager to win favor like Renly once had. He even allowed himself a teasing smile. "Don't tell me Robert Baratheon has come back from the dead and wiped out our men."
The messenger froze, then stared at him in shock. "H-how did you know, my lord?"
"What?"
Both father and son widened their eyes.
"Explain. Now," Paxter ordered sharply.
"Yes, my lord!" The messenger straightened and hurried through his report. "The forward observers say the defenders launched a counterattack in the inner ward. Not many men, but extremely fierce."
"They say… they saw a 'ghost.' A giant wearing an antlered helm, wielding a massive warhammer, cutting through the battlefield unstoppable."
Paxter remained seated, his expression unchanged, but when the words "antlered helm" were spoken, his fingers tightened slightly.
"Describe him," he said.
"Very tall, my lord. Taller than Ser Hobber by half a head. Heavy armor, a huge antlered helm, and a warhammer strong enough to crush shields—and the men behind them."
"His face?"
"No, my lord. The visor only has a slit. But some veterans say… say his build resembles…" The messenger swallowed. "Resembles Robert Baratheon."
Silence fell over the cabin, broken only by the creaking of the ship.
Hobber was the first to recover, letting out a sharp laugh. "Absurd. Robert Baratheon has been dead for two years. His bones are likely dust. He's not climbing out of his grave to fight."
"But…" the messenger continued, trembling, "the soldiers are saying the late king's spirit has returned to fight for his brother. And… he looks so similar that… some of our men are already wavering…"
"Impossible!"
Paxter shot to his feet, face darkening. "Utterly impossible!"
He strode to the porthole, his thin silhouette trembling in the candlelight. "There are no such things as ghosts. This is Stannis's trick."
"He's found someone who looks like Robert—perhaps a bastard, perhaps a sellsword—dressed him in armor and sent him to frighten ignorant soldiers. I've heard of such tactics before. At the Blackwater, that dwarf used a similar trick to win."
He turned, eyes sharp. "But I will admit, it's clever."
"Hobber, go personally. Take my guard and enough archers. Do not engage him in melee. Cover him in arrows. I want that antlered helm brought back on a spear."
"Yes, Father!"
Hobber grabbed his helmet and left at once.
Yet events soon spiraled beyond all expectation.
Over the next two hours, the Queen of Arbor received nothing but bad news.
Hobber's forces met fierce resistance. The "antlered ghost" was not only powerful but seemed to possess an uncanny instinct for battle, always appearing where the Redwyne lines were weakest, striking precisely when formations shifted.
Worse still, the morale of Dragonstone's defenders had transformed completely.
What had been exhausted, starving remnants on the brink of collapse now fought like zealots.
"For Baratheon!"
"King Robert fights with us!"
They charged again and again with reckless abandon, with no tactics—only madness.
And that madness spread like a plague.
The first wave of deserters appeared on the landing beach. Dozens of Redwyne soldiers threw down their weapons and scrambled for boats, rowing frantically back toward the fleet. The overseers tried to stop them, even shooting a few, but more followed.
Panic spread.
Every returning soldier looked deranged, shouting:
"The king's spirit has returned!"
"We're fighting the dead!"
"We're cursed! This is a cursed war!"
With each retelling, the rumors grew more exaggerated. Some claimed arrows bounced off the figure. Others swore his roar could shatter hearts. Some even said green ghostfire coiled around his hammer.
Paxter stood on the command deck, watching through a Myrish lens.
He saw his soldiers fleeing.
He saw Redwyne banners torn down.
He saw the defenders reclaim sections of the wall.
And then, just for a moment, he saw him.
A figure atop a broken wall, antlered helm raised high, warhammer lifted in triumph.
Even without detail, the shape… the posture…
It was unmistakable.
Too unmistakable.
So much so that even Paxter himself felt a flicker of doubt.
"Father!"
Heavy footsteps approached. Hobber returned, armor scarred, one arm bandaged, face ashen with fury. He slammed his helmet onto the table. "We can't hold them!"
"It's not that we can't fight—it's that the men won't! The moment we order a charge, they start trembling. Archers won't aim, afraid of curses. The knights still fight, but morale is shattered. Knights alone cannot win a war!"
Paxter lowered the lens and fell silent.
The wind tugged at his cloak as the great crimson sails billowed above, golden oars aligned along the hull. This was the mightiest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms—and yet it could only watch as its army unraveled.
"And where is Odin?" Paxter asked suddenly.
Hobber blinked. "What?"
"Odin."
Paxter tapped the window frame, eyes deepening. "If this is a trick, he is behind it."
"Stannis would never devise something this theatrical. It must be him. I've heard of this man—Odin. A dangerous opponent."
A slow smile spread across his face. "He doesn't just want to win—he wants to win beautifully, with minimal cost and maximum effect."
He turned to his son, eyes gleaming with insight. "We've been played."
"He knew Tywin would abandon him. From the moment he landed, everything has been part of his design… no, perhaps even earlier. That armor, that hammer—those cannot be forged in a week."
His excitement grew, like a man finally meeting a worthy rival. "Remarkable."
"He allowed us to break the outer defenses, let us believe victory was near, let us scatter our forces—and then, at the critical moment, unleashed this 'ghost' to shatter our morale."
He laughed aloud. "It has been a long time since I faced such an interesting opponent."
Hobber felt a chill crawl up his spine. If all this were true, how could they possibly defeat such a man?
"Then what do we do?" he asked, pale.
"Withdraw," Paxter said coldly.
"Recall all forces. Abandon the captured positions."
"But Father!" Hobber protested. "We've paid such a price! And Lord Tywin's orders—"
"Tywin wants Odin dead, not the destruction of House Redwyne's army," Paxter cut in. "If we bleed ourselves dry here, the Arbor will become prey for every lord of the Reach."
He stepped to the railing, gazing at Dragonstone with a faint smile. "And who said we've lost?"
The order was given.
Signal flags rose. Boats relayed commands. The Redwyne army began withdrawing. The retreat was chaotic, some units cut down, others trampled in panic, equipment abandoned—but most made it back.
Inside the command cabin, Paxter gathered his officers.
Losses were reported: four hundred dead or missing, six hundred wounded, Hobber's vanguard hit hardest. Equipment lost, but the fleet remained intact.
"That is acceptable," Paxter said calmly. "The fleet is what matters."
"What now?" a captain asked. "Return to King's Landing, or attack again?"
Paxter's finger traced the map, stopping at Dragonstone. "No more landings. Form a blockade."
"Three lines around the island. Any vessel approaching or leaving—sink it without warning."
Hobber couldn't help himself. "Father, we've already breached the walls! Give me three days and I'll bring you Stannis—and that 'ghost'!"
Paxter looked at him coldly. "With whose blood? Ours?"
His rebuke was merciless. Hobber fell silent, humiliated.
A captain intervened, "A siege is safest. Their food won't last a month. We can win without losing a man."
"Exactly," Paxter said. "Tywin wants Odin dead. A blockade ensures he dies here."
He paused, then added quietly, "And Horas is still in the Red Keep."
Silence fell.
Everyone understood.
Paxter tapped the map. "We report daily. Say the island is sealed. No bird escapes. Request supplies. The crown will pay for our fleet to remain at full strength."
His eyes gleamed. "By the end of this war… we may be the greatest winners."
The officers murmured in admiration.
"And the ghost?" Hobber asked unwillingly.
"Can ghosts swim?" Paxter replied dryly. "Spread word. We respect the spirit of King Robert, so we will not attack. Invite him to come out and speak… if he dares."
His gaze turned cold. "And contact any spies still alive on the island. I want to know everything—how much food they have, how often they eat, even how many times they relieve themselves."
"Hunger," he said softly, "is the finest lever. It pries open even the strongest loyalty. Ghosts may not need food—but men do."
A perfect plan.
Soon, the Redwyne fleet encircled Dragonstone, forming a tightening cage of sails and sea.
At the same time, atop the Stone Drum Tower, Stannis Baratheon stood by the window, watching the blockade take shape like a chain of fire across the sea.
"They're forming a blockade," Ser Gerald Gower said hoarsely. "Abandoning the assault. It's… clever. Very Redwyne."
Stannis did not turn. "Clever? No. Cowardly. They dare not face us, so they wield hunger as a weapon."
He paused, then asked, voice cold and steady:
"How long can our food last?"
At his words, Ser Gerald Gower spoke in a low voice, "By rough count, we have fewer than a thousand men still fit to fight. But the granaries were burned… even on minimum rations, we can last only twenty days."
"If we cut further, perhaps a month—but the men will be too weak to lift their weapons."
Stannis Baratheon said nothing.
He simply stared out at the sea, at the warships circling the island like sharks.
"The good news is, the Redwynes have withdrawn," Gerald continued. "We've regained control of the entire castle. The wounded are being tended, the breaches in the walls are being repaired, and morale is high. The men believe King Robert Baratheon's spirit is protecting us."
"That is no spirit," Stannis replied stubbornly. "That is Gendry. Gendry Baratheon."
"Yes, Your Grace—but to the soldiers, he is Robert's symbol, and that is enough."
Stannis turned, his deep blue eyes fixed on Gerald with a trace of displeasure. "Where is Ser Odin?"
"In the armory, with Gendry. He said he was teaching the boy some… combat techniques."
"Techniques," Stannis repeated, a hint of scorn in his voice. "He drove back an army with a blacksmith's apprentice. That is not technique. That is sorcery."
"You used sorcery yourself once, did you not?"
The voice came from the doorway.
Odin stepped in, still wearing his bloodstained leather armor, his expression as calm as ever. Sweat dampened his black hair against his forehead, but his eyes were sharp and bright.
"People believe what they want to believe," he said as he walked to the window and stood beside Stannis. "Your soldiers want to believe King Robert has returned, because it gives them hope. The Redwyne soldiers want to believe it's a ghost, because it excuses their defeat—it means they were not lacking in courage."
"So all of this was your design," Stannis said.
"Part of it," Odin replied evenly. "The rest was luck. Gendry has more talent than I expected—both in combat and in presence. He seems to instinctively know how to become the center of a battlefield. To be honest, I've never seen King Robert myself, but from what I've heard, the boy has inherited his father perfectly. Frankly, House Baratheon might have done well in a troupe of actors."
"The Redwynes have blockaded the island," Stannis said coldly, clearly unimpressed. "Can your 'sorcery' conjure food?"
"No."
"That is most unfortunate," Stannis snorted. "In twenty days, we will all starve."
"Not twenty," Odin said, raising a brow. "I've checked again. Some of the remaining grain is already damp and rotting. Eat that, and death will come faster than hunger. Ten days at most before we face a real crisis."
Stannis's expression darkened further.
Even the siege of Storm's End had not felt this dire.
The sea wind blew in through the window, cold and salty. In the distance, the Redwyne fleet's lights stretched into a glowing chain, locking Dragonstone in place.
After a long silence, Stannis finally exhaled. "Shireen is with you, correct?"
Before Odin could answer, he continued, "I will have Davos… arrange for you to leave. If the route is still usable. Take care of her."
He spoke as if entrusting his legacy.
Odin stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Spare me. Paxter won't even let food in, and you think he'll let people out?"
Stannis fell silent.
He knew it was the truth, and yet there was nothing he could do.
They stood side by side, similar in height yet utterly different in bearing. Stannis was like a drawn bowstring, taut and on the verge of snapping, while Odin was like still water—calm on the surface, with unseen currents beneath.
"Your Grace, have you ever hunted?" Odin asked suddenly.
"What are you implying?"
"The smartest hunter doesn't chase prey across the mountains. He finds the path the prey must take, sets a trap, and waits."
Odin looked out at the sea, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Right now, Paxter Redwyne is that hunter. He's set his trap at sea—a seemingly perfect one."
"And then?"
"And then he will focus all his attention on that trap," Odin said softly, almost to himself. "Checking whether the net is strong enough, watching for movement, calculating how long he must wait… and in doing so, he forgets one thing."
Stannis narrowed his eyes. "Say it clearly."
Odin turned, the firelight from the hearth casting half his face into shadow. In that moment, there was something in his gaze—something vast and cold, as if the entire world were a chessboard beneath his eyes.
"The hunter himself," he said quietly, "can also step into someone else's trap."
Stannis stared at him.
Odin raised a hand, fingers curling slightly as though grasping the firelight itself. "Didn't Paxter intend to invite us out for negotiations?"
He smiled faintly.
"Then we accept."
"But the time, the place, and who attends…"
His eyes gleamed.
"We decide."