The dungeons of Dragonstone were damp all year round.
Torches were thrust into iron rings on the walls, their dim yellow light barely dispelling the darkness, yet unable to bring a shred of warmth to those imprisoned here.
Davos Seaworth sat leaning against the cold stone wall, his range of movement limited by handcuffs and leg irons.
He did not try to struggle but simply sat quietly, as if he were back in the comfort of his own home.
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The sound of footsteps echoed.
Heavy and rhythmic, very familiar; even without looking up, Davos knew who these unique footsteps belonged to.
Yet he still stood up immediately, straightened his robes, and looked straight ahead.
Sure enough, Davos saw the man he had followed for half his life, and who had just thrown him into prison once again.
The King descended the stone steps alone, without attendants, and without the shadow of the Red Priestess by his side.
He stopped outside the bars, his deep blue eyes scrutinizing Davos in the gloom, just as they had more than ten years ago when this man first appeared at the long-besieged Storms End with a ship laden with onions and salt fish.
"Your Majesty," Davos spoke first, his demeanor proper.
"What should I call you, Davos?"
Stannis's voice was harsh, seemingly questioning: "A traitor for the second time? Or a self-righteous fool?"
"I only did what I believed was right."
The Onion Knight's gaze was calm, meeting the King's eyes without flinching: "I do not believe that young man should pay the price for a war that does not belong to him; he doesn't even understand why this war began."
"Victory... should not be bought with the blood of the innocent."
"Innocent?"
Hearing this word, Stannis's jaw muscles bulged slightly, and his tone became even more severe: "This is war, and there are never innocent people in war."
"My elder brother won the throne with a warhammer but lost it to wine and lust. Now, according to the laws of the realm, retaking Iron Throne and restoring order to the kingdom is the most right thing to do."
"I never asked for this crown; gold is cold and heavy on the head, but as long as I am King for a day, I have a responsibility."
"To that end..."
At this point, Stannis's voice lowered slightly, but he still spoke firmly: "Some necessary sacrifices are unavoidable."
"Just as the Mad King Aerys believed it was necessary to burn everyone who did not submit to him?"
As soon as these words were spoken, Davos's voice rose sharply.
He looked at Stannis, his eyes filled with a deep, profound sorrow: "Your Majesty, during the time you imprisoned me, I learned to read."
"Although I had to guess many of the meanings in the books by looking at the pictures, I forced myself to read a lot. I read about the glory of the Targaryen dynasty, and I also read about the end of Aerys II."
"The books say that Aerys Targaryen was obsessed with wildfire, believing that burning disloyal subjects could purify the kingdom and that pain itself could bring power."
He became more agitated as he spoke, his voice growing louder: "When you ordered the pyres to be lit and watched those deemed sacrifices scream in the flames, did you also believe that?"
Hearing this, Stannis's expression began to flicker under the torchlight.
Davos's questioning was too sharp, directly piercing the deepest conflicts in his heart.
As the war situation became increasingly unfavorable, he began to rely more on Melisandre's theory that "the Lord of Light needs sacrifices," but at the same time, his pursuit of absolute justice and law lashed him like a whip at every moment.
"Those people, they wavered. They betrayed Dragonstone, they betrayed the law, and they betrayed the King they swore fealty to."
After a long silence, he finally gave an answer that likely couldn't even convince himself.
Clearly, such an answer could not convince Davos either.
"A hungry fisherman secretly hiding a fish that should have been handed over, a soldier weeping because he misses his home and children—those are not betrayals!"
Davos grew more emotional; since the war began, he had never criticized his King like this, but today, The Onion Knight decided to remain silent no longer.
A man of few words, he stood before Stannis, choosing to use language to wake the monarch he considered the wisest in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Your Majesty, I am loyal to you, that has never changed. To that end, all four of my children died in the Battle of the Blackwater Rush."
He looked directly at Stannis, every word dripping with blood: "But I never complained, because I knew that under the leadership of Stannis Baratheon, the hardships were only temporary."
"But now, we are trapped here, consuming hope every day. People are afraid, not because of the enemy, but more because they don't know if they will wake up tomorrow and be branded as heretics and sent to the pyre just because of a word spoken in their sleep or a prayer to the wrong god!"
"Is this the foundation of the kingdom you want? A throne built on fear and ashes!"
These words were so heart-wrenching that Stannis suddenly turned his back, as if he could no longer bear Davos's gaze.
His broad shoulders were stiffly hunched, as if carrying an invisible burden.
After a long time, Stannis squeezed out a sentence harshly, his voice low, sounding more like he was convincing himself while resisting something collapsing within: "Don't compare me to the Mad King, Ser Davos. I am the only lawful heir to Iron Throne.
"I must sit upon it and protect my people. I must."
After saying this, he turned almost hurriedly and strode up the stone steps, his footsteps disappearing erratically into the dark passage.
Watching the King's retreating back, Davos's eyes flickered under the torchlight, yet they seemed to hold not a single spark of light.
"Heh..."
Just then, the dull sound of dragging chains came from the adjacent cell, followed by a short, soft laugh.
Gendry leaned the back of his head against the cold stone wall, staring at the dark vaulted ceiling above, his face full of mockery.
Clearly, he had heard the entire conversation between the two.
He was much younger than Davos, but the experiences of this period made him feel as though he had lived several lifetimes' worth of exhaustion.
"Lawful heir... Iron Throne..."
Gendry repeated these words from Stannis's mouth in a low voice, his tone full of detachment and sarcasm: "Those words sound so nice, just like the tolling of a church bell."
"But the person ringing the bell never asks what the hungry people below are thinking."
He turned his head; although he couldn't see Davos, his words were meant for him.
"Right, Onion Knight?"
"When I was a kid in Flea Bottom, I heard stories about you. They said a smuggler became a knight because of some onions. What a fucking great story."
His voice was muffled; though he feigned lightheartedness, even Davos could tell the lad wasn't in a good mood.
Hearing this, Davos sat down on the ground and replied grumpily, "I told you, I grew up in Flea Bottom too, boy."
"Then you should know even better that in the eyes of the highborn lords, guys like us will always be nothing more than mud that can't be stuck to a wall."
Gendry's head lightly thudded against the wall, his voice beginning to drift: "When I was little, I saw the lords' carriages roll through the Muddy Way, crushing Old Pox-ridden Tom's other good leg, and that carriage didn't even stop for a second before driving off."
He paused, seemingly reminiscing, his tone full of self-deprecation: "Later, I worked the forge in Master Mott's smithy. I know a piece of good iron needs to be tempered a thousand times, but I also know the hammer doesn't ask the iron if it hurts."
"We're probably just chunks of iron on the anvil. The useful ones are forged into the swords they want; the useless ones, or the ones in the way, are tossed into the scrap heap, or... thrown directly into the fire to be burned."
Davos listened in silence.
Having also grown up in Flea Bottom, he could understand all the emotions in Gendry's words—the humiliation and anger of being ignored, used, and discarded at any time by the power high above.
"His Majesty Stannis... he is not the same."
Davos defended: "He may be harsh, he may have... taken the wrong path, but he truly has the law in his heart, and the responsibilities he believes in."
"He is the only lawful heir to Iron Throne; only Stannis can bring long-term peace and stability to this kingdom."
"Haha..."
Hearing Davos repeat those words that were meaningless to him, Gendry laughed again.
Because to him, it didn't matter who was King; at least the King in King's Landing didn't use some terrifying thing to suck his blood.
However, he didn't mock Davos, but instead shook his head and muttered to himself: "I can't fucking believe I actually trusted that woman in red... so stupid."
"She smiled at me, asked where I was from, said my hands were clever. I actually thought she really liked me, but it turns out she only wanted my blood!"
"Gendry from Flea Bottom, actually having such dreams... I must have been truly hungry."
He spoke with mockery on his face, yet his mind couldn't help but recall that night's sensual scene.
Silence filled the prison.
"It is a good thing for a man to have self-awareness," a voice suddenly rang out, calm and clear, like a scalpel cutting open a festering wound, "but there is no need to belittle yourself, Gendry."
Both Davos and Gendry were startled, and they both jerked their heads toward the source of the voice.
Diagonally across from their cells, in that shadowed corner, a figure had been standing quietly at some unknown point.
Following their gazes, the figure slowly paced forward, the torchlight illuminating him from the side, cutting his face into two parts of light and shadow.
He walked neither fast nor slow, his boot soles tapping on the stone floor with a light but weighty sound.
"For a virgin, your performance was impressive enough."
The voice continued: "At least you believed; many people in this world don't even have the courage to believe."
"It's you!"
Seeing that familiar face, Gendry immediately shouted: "You're the one who captured us, Vito Corleone."
Corleone nodded slightly, his movements elegant: "You may call me Sir Corleone. I recently received this title and am still adjusting."
As he spoke, his gaze swept over Davos, only a brief glance, before resting on Gendry.
"Your assessment was quite philosophical, Gendry."
A faint smile played at the corners of Corleone's mouth: "But not accurate enough. It should be said that the highborn lords are like blacksmiths wielding hammers; whether it's the hammer or the iron, they are all just tools in their hands."
"This is reality, because they are not playing the same game as us at all. They set the rules, and we are just expendable numbers within those rules."
While speaking, Corleone turned his gaze to Davos: "What do you think, Onion Knight? Do you think Stannis Baratheon is playing the same game as you?"
"His Majesty Stannis is just." Davos's voice echoed in the dungeon, dry but firm. "He has simply taken on a heavier responsibility!"
"Yes, responsibility, law, duty... blah blah blah, I've heard that rhetoric before."
Corleone interrupted him, his tone devoid of mockery, only a weary realization, as if he had heard these words too many times.
He stared straight at Davos and questioned: "Then tell me, does a man who needs to harm his own brother and rely on sucking the blood of his own nephew to gain power and pursue victory..."
"...deserve to stand under the banners of 'justice' and 'honor' and proclaim himself the benchmark of law and morality for the Seven Kingdoms?"
Upon hearing this, Davos was instantly speechless, his mouth opening and closing for a long time without making a sound.
Beside him, Gendry was completely bewildered: "Who? Who is his nephew?"
Corleone glanced at the simple-minded young man, then looked at Davos, his smile gaining a hint of playfulness: "It seems you haven't told him yet."
"But I'm not here for a genealogy lesson today. Let's talk business."
Completely ignoring Davos's pale face, he refocused on Gendry and asked, enunciating each word: "Do you want to go back to Flea Bottom, boy?"
Flea Bottom.
The word was like a key, unlocking a long-sealed box in Gendry's heart.
His eyes flickered and his Adam's apple bobbed as he remembered the smell of the charcoal fire in the smithy, the lingering scent of mildew in the alleys after rain, and the days spent fighting tooth and nail for half a copper.
But wariness quickly overrode nostalgia.
"I had already returned to King's Landing!"
Gendry's voice rose sharply as he pointed at Corleone and snapped, "If it weren't for you, I'd be working in some blacksmith shop right now instead of being locked in this hellhole waiting to be bled!"
Seeing him so agitated, Corleone merely shook his head slightly, his tone disappointed. "Did you really think that as the bastard son of King Robert Baratheon, you would be safe in King's Landing on your own?"
Robert Baratheon!
Hearing that name, Gendry's eyes widened and his pupils contracted.
Ever since he was a child, he had felt he was different. He was very strong, and despite his low birth, various high lords would come looking for him; even the former Hand, Eddard Stark, had visited him at the smithy.
But he had never imagined that he was actually the King's bastard!
No wonder.
No wonder that woman wanted to use his blood to perform those evil magics.
The fragments of memory were suddenly threaded together; many things seemed to make sense in an instant.
"So those... magics..." Gendry's voice trembled.
"Blood magic requires the bloodline of a true king as a catalyst," Corleone finished his thought for him. "At least, that's what that woman believes."
Hearing this, Gendry gripped the iron bars and shouted a question to the cell next door: "Is what he's saying true? Tell me, Onion Knight!"
However, his only response was silence.
Davos didn't answer, but he didn't deny it either. This tacit admission allowed Gendry to realize the truth immediately.
A surge of heat rushed to Gendry's head.
Was it anger? Or humiliation?
Or perhaps both.
For so many years, he had been a nameless bastard, struggling to survive in the mud of Flea Bottom, and now someone was suddenly telling him his father was a king.
But for Gendry, this bloodline brought him no glory, no castles, and no gold; instead, it brought being betrayed, kidnapped, and used as material for magic time and time again.
And all of this stemmed from a single drunken night of lust by that notorious lecher king in his youth!
"So what?"
Gendry seemed to find the fact hard to accept. His voice was hoarse as he glared at Corleone. "Even if I am the King's bastard, so what?"
"Why should I go with you?"
"You kidnapped us and sent us here as gifts. How are you any different from those people? Don't think I'll fall for it again!"
Watching his hysterical state, Corleone smiled again.
It wasn't a sneer or a smug grin, but rather a very frank smile.
"I admit, when I caught you, I did indeed treat you as an introductory gift for Stannis."
"It's business, Gendry, and I am a businessman."
As he spoke, he took a step forward, the firelight illuminating half his face, which showed no guilt or excuses.
"But now," Corleone continued, his voice lowering slightly, "the gift has been delivered, and the recipient has inspected the goods."
"According to my business principles, if the other party doesn't pay the price, or if I'm not satisfied with the price paid, I have the right to take back my goods and find another buyer—or simply keep them for myself."
Looking at his matter-of-fact attitude, Gendry wanted to argue, to curse, to spit in that calm face.
But Corleone's next sentence caused all the profanities rushing to his lips to get stuck in his throat.
"And... don't you want to see Arya Stark again?"
!!!
The name was like a bolt of lightning, immediately tearing through the darkness before Gendry's eyes.
He lunged at the bars, his hands reaching out and waving wildly. "You know where she is? You've seen her!"
"Calm down, boy."
Corleone's tone remained steady as he spoke very honestly. "I don't know exactly where she is right now, but I know one thing: she owes me a favor."
"In The Riverlands, I helped her and her companions resolve a little bit of trouble."
"She will come looking for me eventually," Corleone continued, his tone full of certainty. "Maybe in a month, maybe in a year."
"But one day, Arya Stark will appear before me to repay the favor she owes. When that time comes, you'll be able to meet, won't you?"
Hearing this, Gendry's chest heaved violently.
Two voices were arguing fiercely in his head. One voice screamed a warning to himself: don't trust him, this man is too dangerous, he just kidnapped you and brought you to Dragonstone!
But the other voice repeated itself, whispering the name "Arya Stark" over and over again.
He still remembered Arya dressed as a little boy, and the flash of pain in her eyes whenever she mentioned her family.
He remembered when he was sold to that red-robed woman by the Brotherhood Without Banners; out of everyone, only that strong little girl had spoken up for him.
"Fine."
After a long while, Gendry took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to jump off a cliff, and nodded heavily. "I'll go with you."
"I'd even accept dying in King's Landing. At least I won't have to lie here waiting for whenever that woman needs King's blood again to suck my blood with those disgusting things!"
"A wise choice."
Corleone nodded with satisfaction, as if another deal had been struck.
However, just then, Davos's faint voice came from the adjacent cell: "Have you both forgotten I'm still here?"
"Conspiring to break out of prison so loudly... are you treating me as if I don't exist, or do you think I'll definitely keep your secret?"
The air in the dungeon seemed to freeze again.
Corleone slowly turned his head to look at Davos.
His expression didn't change, his demeanor remaining very casual. "Ah, if you hadn't spoken, I really would have almost forgotten."
Schwing!!!
The sound of a longsword being unsheathed rang out. The tip of the blade rose to point directly at Davos without the slightest hesitation.
"Then I'll just have to silence you first."
Corleone held the sword, his tone incredibly calm.
"No!"
Gendry, who had previously held quite a grudge against Davos, now immediately lunged forward, reaching out a hand to plead: "Please don't hurt him! Ser!"
"He... he's a good man!"
Corleone didn't turn around, his sword hand perfectly steady. "He heard us."
"I must kill him. You know, boy, being soft-hearted at a time like this will only get everyone killed."
Davos looked at the blade pointed at him, no fear on his face.
Instead, he calmed down and even let out a soft sigh. There was no resistance to death in that sigh, but rather a faint hint of exhaustion.
"Then do it, Ser."
He spread his arms as if embracing The Stranger. "I've already betrayed my King twice anyway. According to the law, I should have been dead long ago."
Seeing this, the corner of Corleone's mouth seemed to twitch slightly.
Then, a flash of sword light.
In that instant, Gendry's heart almost stopped beating. He closed his eyes, not daring to look.
But there was no expected scream or muffled groan.
Only the faint 'tap, tap' of something falling onto the floor.
Gendry opened his eyes to see Corleone deftly sheathing his blade, which was not stained with a single drop of blood.
In the adjacent cell, Davos lowered his head in confusion, looking at his chest.
The pouch that had hung around his neck on a leather cord for over a decade had its cord precisely severed with a clean cut.
Four blackened, withered finger bones, their original appearance almost unrecognizable, were now scattered at his feet.
Touching his neck, Davos could still feel where the blade had passed just now, less than an inch from his throat.
But he was unharmed.
"A man must always look forward, Ser Davos Seaworth."
Corleone's voice rang out, his tone as flat as ever, yet every word struck Davos's heart.
"Sometimes, clinging to the past is like clinging to the wreckage of a sunken ship; you'll be dragged down to the seabed with it."
He paused, his gaze falling on the scattered finger bones. "Loyalty is a virtue, but blind obedience is folly. Staying loyal to a monarch who has lost his own heart is the height of folly."
Hearing this, Davos sat stiffly on the ground.
His hand moved unconsciously, wanting to pick up those finger bones—they were the symbol of his loyalty, the price he paid to go from smuggler to knight.
But his hand stopped in mid-air, trembling, unable to reach down.
Seeing this, Corleone stopped looking at him and turned toward the dungeon entrance, his footsteps clear and steady.
"If you want to watch this kid die on Dragonstone,"
"Or be kept like livestock waiting for slaughter, to be dragged out and have a vial of blood drawn whenever it's needed... then go ahead and inform on us."
By the time he finished, he had reached the heavy oak door and placed his hand on the latch.
Just then.
Suddenly, deafening battle cries rang out from all directions!
Thinking his tracks had been exposed, Corleone instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, but he immediately frowned, realizing something was wrong.
Battle cries of this scale were made by hundreds or thousands of people at once. It would be impossible to mobilize such a large force just to catch one man!
BOOM!!!
Just as Corleone was wondering, a loud crash sounded as the heavy cell door was kicked open from the outside!
Immediately after, a blood-covered Dragonstone soldier stumbled in, his helmet askew and his face filled with terror.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" he shrieked. "A large fleet of enemy warships has landed! Everyone who can still stand, follow me out to meet the enemy..."
His words stopped abruptly.
Because he saw Corleone standing behind the door.
The two of them stared at each other, eye to eye.
The soldier froze.
Clearly, he hadn't expected to see someone in the dungeon who was neatly dressed and looked nothing like a prisoner.
Corleone gave him a slight smile.
The smile was elegant and composed, even carrying a hint of apology, as if to say, "What bad luck, you've come to the wrong place."
Then, before the other could react, he drew his sword, lunged, and withdrew it in one fluid motion.
The soldier's throat was instantly pierced.
His eyes widened as his hands futilely clutched his neck, blood spurting through his fingers before he slumped down, hit the doorframe, and slid to the floor.
The entire process took less than three seconds.
Corleone didn't even give the corpse a second look. He quickly observed the situation; outside in the corridor, footsteps and battle cries were everywhere. Clearly, the Dragonstone army was in total chaos due to the enemy's arrival.
He thought for a moment, immediately closed the still-swinging cell door, bolted it, and then crouched down to search the soldier's body with practiced ease.
Then he stood up and walked quickly to Gendry's cell door, sorting through the keys by the firelight and soon identifying the correct one.
Click.
Corleone pulled the door open and tilted his head at the still-stunned Gendry, teasing, "It looks like our escape plan has to be moved up."
"Bastard."