Against the backdrop of this age, only the Storm Dragon King was the true, eternal destiny.
Gendry looked at these dragonseeds. They might have been bastards, Blackfyre descendants, or members of families bound by marriage, such as House Hightower.
Sadly, they had all turned to ash. Of those before him, he recognized only Young Griff.
Gendry leaned on Lady Justice. The sword aura he had swung moments earlier had also cleaved many of the statues in the House of Black and White in half.
The gods' heads rolled wildly down the steps. This time, Gendry really was going to become a Godsblasphemer.
But that was nothing much to his bloodline. After all, Durran Godsgrief had cursed the gods outright, placing him among the most hot-tempered of the ancient bloodlines.
"The mighty House of Black and White, cowering like this! Are there any Faceless Men left?" Gendry roared, his voice bursting like thunder above the House of Black and White. "Who else?"
He was ready. If the Faceless Men were willing to sacrifice themselves, he would not hesitate to slaughter every last one.
There was also the roar of the Magic Dragon Balerion, a dragon's bellow like a thunderclap.
The Magic Dragon's roar shook the entire Isle of the Gods. People saw only dragonfire surging up, followed by the devastating destruction of the House of Black and White.
But no one dared take a step forward and provoke the storm's wrath.
Gendry looked around. He knew there were indeed few killers in the House of Black and White. Its training was a textbook example of elite education.
Judging by Arya's experience taking part in the Faceless Men's team-building activities in the original story, only a dozen or so Faceless Men had appeared.
Now, counting those put out of action in Westeros