Dragonstone.
Standing at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, it was originally a refuge for the Targaryens fleeing Valyria and later became the starting point for the Conqueror's Dynasty.
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After House Targaryen conquered The Seven Kingdoms, this place was designated as the traditional fief for the heir to the throne, carrying the title "Prince of Dragonstone."
However, after the War of the Usurper, this place was granted to King Robert Baratheon's second younger brother, Stannis, by the victor.
To Robert, this might have been a reward for service and a settlement, but in the heart of Stannis Baratheon, it was an insult.
He viewed his elder brother's move as a deliberate slight, completely ignoring his merit in holding Storms End.
At this moment, inside the Stone Drum, the very core of this castle, Stannis Baratheon sat behind a massive stone table.
He wore a plain dark grey coat embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, but the stag was encircled by raging flames.
The former Lord of Dragonstone had a face of sharp angles, rigid and severe; beneath deep-set eye sockets were perpetually furrowed brows and tightly pursed thin lips.
Since he could remember, smiles seemed to have vanished from this face.
Currently, his gaze was fixed intently on the stone table, on the map of Westeros carved and depicted in extreme detail.
His finger traced the vast area north of The Neck, where the Direwolf sigil of the "King in the North," Robb Stark, had originally been marked, now roughly crossed out.
But there was no joy in his eyes; instead, they revealed a hint of solemnity and anxiety.
Beside Stannis stood a woman.
It was late autumn, and the sea breeze poured in through the open window, carrying a bone-chilling cold.
Yet, the woman seemed completely oblivious to the cold.
She wore only a thin crimson robe, the soft fabric clinging to her, outlining graceful curves, as she stood barefoot on the icy floor.
A mane of copper-red hair draped over her shoulders like a burning waterfall; her skin was pale to the point of transparency, and a necklace set with a ruby hung around her neck, the gem appearing to flow with blood under the firelight.
Faced with such a stunning beauty, Stannis had no inclination to look at her.
His gaze remained fixed on the map, on the narrow stretch of sea between Dragonstone and King's Landing.
"There is still no reliable news of the grain ships from Braavos."
"The men sent out report that patrols along the coast of the Westerlands have tightened considerably lately."
Stannis's voice was as hard as his face, grinding his teeth, making the line of his jaw even sharper: "The grain we have stored is only enough to last for less than two months."
As he spoke, his finger pressed heavily on the location of Dragonstone, as if to push it into the stone table.
Listening to Stannis's complaint, Melisandre moved with slow, graceful steps, her bare feet making almost no sound on the stone surface as she came before him and reached out a slender, pale hand to gently stroke Stannis's tense cheek.
"I have seen it, my King."
She whispered as always, her crimson eyes seeming to flicker with flames: "I have seen the shadows of sails, a fleet crossing the mist, carrying golden grain and all the supplies you require."
Melisandre's voice seemed to carry magic; with a slight pressure of her fingertips, she gently turned Stannis's face toward her, forcing him to look directly into her red pupils.
"But you, Your Majesty, you must look further, higher than these mundane grains and swords."
"When the long summer ends and darkness and cold descend, the world needs its savior, The Prince Who Was Promised, Azor Ahai, destined to be reborn since the day the stars bled!"
"My Lord has shown me that it resides within your soul and bloodline!"
Saying this, she picked up a model carved with the Direwolf sigil from the corner of the table and snapped it in half with a slight effort of her fingers.
"The false king Robb Stark is dead, and soon, the other two usurpers are destined to meet failure and death."
"Their rule is built on the quicksand of lies and desire, destined to collapse."
"And you, Stannis Baratheon, the Iron Throne belongs to you by law; you were born to be king, not out of mortal political inheritance, but carrying the supreme mission of purging the world's darkness!"
"Dragonstone is not a cage; it is a sanctuary where you temper your divinity and wait for the horn to sound!"
Listening to Melisandre's words, Stannis's ink-dark blue eyes gazed at the massive torch ahead, which had been kept burning perpetually at Melisandre's request since they arrived at Dragonstone.
The fire burned fiercely in the stone basin, making popping sounds; the light stretched and distorted the shadows of everything in the room, casting them on the walls and the stone table carved with the map, like countless ghosts dancing silently in the shadows.
In truth, he always maintained a hint of skepticism toward Melisandre's claims about prophecies, rebirth, and the destined king.
But it was undeniable that this woman... possessed real magical power.
He pulled slightly away from Melisandre's hand, though not roughly, his voice remaining stiff and cold: "I hope your flames have not seen wrongly, Lady."
Just then, a flurry of hurried footsteps broke the silence in the hall.
A knight clad in chainmail walked in quickly and knelt on one knee: "Your Majesty, there is urgent military intelligence to report."
"Speak."
"Just now, a merchant ship flying a Black Hand flag docked. The person claimed to be an envoy sent by Tywin Lannister, requesting an audience with Your Majesty."
"An envoy from Lannister?"
Upon hearing this, Stannis's gaze instantly became incredibly sharp.
Only a few days ago, his hand of the king, Allister Florent—that slippery fellow from Brightwater Keep—had actually openly proposed at a meeting that he should abandon his legitimate claim to the Iron Throne and make peace with Tywin Lannister!
And the condition was to retain the titles of Lord of Storms End and Lord of Dragonstone, and to marry his daughter, Shireen, to that "Prince Tommen" who had no Baratheon blood at all!
A complete humiliation!
This was simply a total betrayal of the law and justice he had upheld all his life!
Alester, who made this suggestion, was immediately ordered to be locked in the Dragonstone dungeon.
But only a few days later, a Lannister envoy had arrived?
Such a coincidence?
Without any consideration, Stannis ordered almost without thinking: "Kill him!"
"Cut off his head, put it in a box, and send it back to Tywin Lannister."
"Tell him that Stannis Baratheon knows only one way to deal with usurpers, and that is war."
His command was clear, cold, and beyond question.
This was both a warning to the Lannisters and a tough stance toward any potential waverers within his own ranks, reminding them that there was absolutely no possibility of peace talks.
Melisandre stood to the side, the mysterious smile on her face not changing in the slightest, offering no opinion whatsoever on Stannis's order.
However, the knight, who usually never questioned the execution of Stannis's orders, hesitated for a moment this time.
Lifting his head, he mustered the courage to report to his king: "But... that person came with Ser Davos... no, it should be said... this... I can't say for sure either."
"You had better see him first, Your Majesty."
Hearing this, Stannis's brow furrowed even deeper, and he felt a surge of anger in his heart.
After the Battle of the Blackwater Rush, Davos Seaworth had been thrown into prison by him; he had only been released for a few days, and he had already joined up with a Lannister envoy?
While Stannis was somewhat undecided, Melisandre, from the side, very naturally commanded the knight: "Let him in."
"Also, bring up Allister Florent."
Receiving her command, the knight directly bowed and walked out of the hall without a word.
Seeing this, Stannis looked at her with great dissatisfaction.
Since this woman's arrival, this behavior of overstepping her bounds to issue orders on his behalf had happened several times, and was even showing signs of worsening.
Even more displeasing to him was that his own soldiers seemed to follow Melisandre's orders more and more.
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
He stood up and stared straight at Melisandre, questioning: "Davos Seaworth has colluded with the enemy and committed treason."
"The evidence is that he brought a Lannister dog onto my island and allowed him to stand before me."
"Take his head along with that of the reckless fellow and send them back to King's Landing to Tywin. That is my command, and the only answer for traitors and lobbyists."
Saying this, Stannis paused, his gaze filled with doubt and warning: "Also, what is the meaning of bringing up Allister Florent?"
"Do you think you can already change my orders at will and decide who should appear in my hall?"
Facing Stannis's wrath, the faint, mysterious smile on Melisandre's face did not change at all; she only tilted her head slightly, her red hair sliding down her shoulder.
"Beheading, my King," she spoke, her voice still incredibly pleasant: "is a far too merciful and swift end for traitors."
"Servants of darkness fear the fire; the flames of the Lord of Light can burn away their sins and lies, purifying their souls."
"At the same time, it can offer the best sacrifice to my Lord R'hllor, serving as a warning to those soldiers who are still wavering in the shadows and harboring delusions."
"Why waste such a precious opportunity?"
Hearing the word "burn," Stannis's brow furrowed even deeper.
Since this woman came to Dragonstone with her prophecies, every once in a while, one or two people would always be sent to the pyre, turning into charred remains.
What made him even more uneasy was that even his wife, Selyse Florent, who devoutly believed in the Seven, had become one of Melisandre's most fanatical followers, constantly speaking of "the will of the Lord of Light."
And now, this woman was even starting to directly interfere with his orders!
Stannis took a deep breath; he walked around the stone table and came before Melisandre, the two of them very close.
He was much taller than her, and the shadow he cast almost enveloped her entirely.
"Listen clearly, woman," Stannis's voice was extremely low, but full of warning: "Next time, before I issue a clear command, do not speak, and certainly do not make decisions for me."
"I allow you to serve your god and provide your advice, but I am the King, the executor of the law, the adjudicator of life and death, do you understand?"
He did not roar, but he drew a line with this, asserting that his authority was not to be infringed upon.
Melisandre looked up at him, the smile on her face finally fading a bit, but it was not out of fear.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
She said softly, then took half a step back, no longer arguing about the method of disposal, but the previous instruction regarding bringing up Allister Florent had clearly already been passed down through the knight.
Hearing this, Stannis stopped looking at her, turned back to sit behind the stone table, his hands clenched into fists on the cold tabletop, trying to use his willpower to suppress the churning irritability in his heart.
He felt as if he were standing between two cliffs: on one side were the law, tradition, and the justice he firmly believed in.
On the other side was the eerie power brought by this woman, the burning prophecies, and the increasingly fanatical atmosphere.
And he, between these two cliffs, was walking on a tightrope.
Before long, footsteps sounded again, approaching from a distance.
The doors were pushed open, and the knight from before entered first, stepping aside to make way.
Then, a figure stepped into the hall enveloped by the flickering light of the eternal fire.
Stannis raised his eyes to look.
He saw the newcomer was of average build, neither particularly burly nor appearing weak, wearing a simply styled dark long—
robe, rather than armor.
He walked with composure, his back straight, with a very appropriate smile on his face.
At first glance, this was entirely an ordinary young noble from the Westerlands or the The Riverlands, well-educated and proficient in etiquette.
But..
Stannis's brow instantly tightened, his gaze locked firmly on the position of the man's left chest.
There was embroidered a pattern he had never seen in any family genealogy or heraldry book.
A pitch-black palm, fingers spread, as if about to seize something.
No border, no auxiliary patterns, just a solitary Black Hand.
Corleone stopped about ten paces from the stone table, the smile on his face unchanged, his right hand over his chest, bowing slightly forward, performing a standard noble greeting that could serve as a textbook example.
"It is a great honor to be able to set foot on Dragonstone and meet you here, my Lord."
"Your title is wrong, boy!"
However, before he could finish, the knight who had led him in had already taken a step forward and shouted harshly: "Standing before you is the sole legitimate heir to the Iron Throne, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of The Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the reincarnation of the legendary hero Azor Ahai, His Majesty King Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name!"
Whoa~~~
Corleone maintained his slightly bowed posture; after hearing this long list of titles, he couldn't help but complain to himself.
That title is certainly long enough.
Do all the fellows who land on Dragonstone like to use such a long string of titles? Don't they get tired of reciting them?
But clearly, Stannis behind the stone table seemed perfectly at ease with this introduction.
As if every one of these titles was naturally meant to be attached to him.
Those severe eyes coldly scrutinized Corleone, and he commanded in a hard tone: "Kneel, Lannister lobbyist."
"Swear fealty to your King, admit your crimes of past loyalty to the usurper and his accomplices; thus, I may consider not sentencing you to death."
Well, thank you very much.
Hearing the other party's merciless opening gambit, characterizing him as a criminal to be judged and "mercifully" stating he wouldn't be sentenced to death, Corleone felt a wave of internal criticism.
I'm not that idiot Davos Seaworth, who went to great lengths to save you only to have you cut off three fingers before being given the chance to swear fealty.
Are you insane?
However, the appropriate smile on Corleone's face did not change in the slightest; he only spoke slowly: "I am very sorry, my Lord."
He deliberately repeated the previous title, ignoring the knight's correction and Stannis's command, his tone even carrying a hint of regret: "I am not unwilling to call you Your Majesty."
"It is simply because, in this land nowadays, kings seem to be dying one after another; if I may be so bold, I do not believe that insisting on calling oneself king is a good omen."
The words fell.
The hall of the Stone Drum fell into silence.
Only the seemingly eternal fire burned in the basin, the popping sounds sounding particularly harsh.
The guards froze in place, their eyes wide, almost unable to believe their ears.
The face of the knight who had led Corleone in turned bright red; his hand went to his sword hilt, yet he dared not draw it without a command.
Damn it... I should have known better than to bring this fellow in!
But who could have imagined that this envoy sent by the Lannisters would be so bold as to come to Dragonstone alone just to provoke their King?
If you want to fucking die, don't take me with you!
Behind the stone table, Stannis Baratheon's face darkened.
This Lannister dog actually dared to use such a malicious and ominous metaphor, linking "King" with "death," and saying it openly in front of him!
This was no longer an offense; this was sacrilege, a curse and a mockery directed at him!
Unforgivable!
He did not look at Melisandre, nor did he seek anyone's opinion, directly issuing the simplest and most direct sentence: "Burn him."