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Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
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Flames still roared in the courtyard. Alester Florent's dying screams echoed through the hall like a warning.
Stannis Baratheon stared at Corleone from behind the stone table, his deep-blue eyes colder than the sea outside. One wrong word and Corleone would burn just like the traitor.
Corleone stayed perfectly calm. He knew the show of force was just theater. Stannis was waiting for a reason to say yes to the deal.
And Corleone was ready. He didn't need to brag. Facts spoke louder than words.
He had come to Dragonstone with three gifts, just as he'd said. The first was returning the "traitors" Davos and Gendry—proof of respect. The second was ten thousand pounds of free wheat—enough to ease the hunger without making Stannis complacent. Now came the third gift, the one Stannis couldn't refuse.
Corleone lowered his head and slowly pulled a thicker roll of parchment from his coat. A guard carried it to Stannis.
"Please accept my third gift, my lord."
Stannis unrolled it. No words. Just a detailed map of the southern Stormlands—from King's Landing to the Dornish marches, from the Shield Islands to Shipbreaker Bay. One castle near Shipbreaker Bay was circled in deep red ink with dense notes.
Storm's End. Stannis's home.
His breath hitched. Right now Mace Tyrell and forty thousand Reach soldiers had the castle surrounded like an iron fist, and the Redwyne fleet blocked the bay.
"Storm's End," Stannis said, voice tight with anger and helplessness.
"Yes," Corleone replied, stepping closer. "Mace Tyrell and Mathis Rowan have forty thousand men camped outside the walls. Their fleet seals off Shipbreaker Bay. Your castellan, Ser Gilbert Farring, is a capable commander, but the castle only has three months of food left. If I were Mace Tyrell, taking it would only be a matter of time."
Stannis already knew all this, but hearing it stated so coldly still hurt.
"So what's your third gift?" he asked, barely holding back his rage. "A map telling me my home is falling? Then you'll charge me a fortune in gold dragons to feed a castle I can't even reach with a single grain of wheat?"
"No." Corleone shook his head. "My gift is the way to break the siege of Storm's End."
Dead silence.
Even Axell Florent, still watching the flames with religious fervor, stared in disbelief. Everyone knew how hopeless the situation was—far worse than when Stannis himself had been trapped here years ago. And this man claimed he could lift the siege?
"Lift the siege?" Stannis gave a cold laugh. "Are you going to single-handedly cut through forty thousand Reach soldiers? Or summon krakens to sink the Redwyne fleet?"
"Wars aren't only fought on battlefields, my lord," Corleone said evenly. "Why is Mace Tyrell besieging Storm's End? Not to conquer it—the castle has little strategic value to Highgarden. He's following Tywin Lannister's orders to pin down the last Baratheon forces while securing a crown for his daughter Margaery."
Stannis raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt. He wanted to hear where this was going.
"Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but House Tyrell is rich and powerful—yet they always seem short on luck." Corleone pinched his thumb and forefinger together in a small, mocking gesture. "Fifteen years ago, when your brother raised his banners and the Targaryens were crumbling, the Tyrells chose the Mad King. Mace Tyrell himself led most of the Reach army and laid siege to Storm's End for nearly a year."
"You remember that famine well, don't you, my lord?"
Stannis's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. He remembered every agonizing day.
"Then the Mad King died on Jaime Lannister's sword and King's Landing fell. Mace Tyrell surrendered to Eddard Stark and kept his lands and most of his army. Smart move. At the start of this war the same clever lord backed your brother Renly and even married his daughter to him. After Renly died he switched sides to the Lannisters fast enough. And now here he is again—outside the walls of Storm's End, fighting a siege he doesn't even understand why he's fighting."
History was a circle. And House Tyrell kept getting pushed back to the same starting point.
Stannis's fingers drummed the stone. "Fate?"
"Exactly. The Tyrells always bet everything on the strongest-looking side before the dust settles. But this time it's different. Mace Tyrell is a good lord, but he's no great commander. He doesn't have the stomach to sail through thick fog. If, while he's sitting outside Storm's End burning through Highgarden gold to feed forty thousand men, his daughter's position as queen suddenly becomes uncertain—what do you think he'll do?"
Stannis leaned forward, eyes sharp. The logic was clean and brutally practical. If Margaery's crown looked shaky, Mace would pull his army back to King's Landing in a heartbeat. He'd been burned once by getting stuck at Storm's End. He wouldn't let it happen again.
This was an offer Stannis couldn't refuse.
Joy started to push aside doubt. He was about to lean in and demand the details when a piercing scream cut through the hall.
"No!!!"
Melisandre's voice ripped out of her throat. Every head turned. Her red eyes were fixed on the courtyard where Alester Florent's body still burned, the flames reflecting in her pupils.
"My lady…" Stannis started, but she didn't hear him. Her gaze was distant, lost in the fire.
In the heart of the flames a vision formed.
Snow. Endless white plains covered in frost and bones. The crowned stag banner snapped in the freezing wind. A figure stood atop a mountain of corpses, sword raised and burning with victory fire. The roar of triumph tore through the long night.
This was the promised victory. The great triumph against the darkness.
Then a black horse burst from the shadows, hooves crushing ice and bone. The rider wore armor dusted with snow, face hidden in the blizzard. In his hand a sword flashed—reflecting the last dying light on the victor's blade.
The sword cut. A head flew from its shoulders. The crowned stag banner toppled into filthy snow.
The rider reined in and turned. His torn cloak lifted, revealing a black hand sigil, fingers spread wide, vanishing into the storm.
The vision shattered.
The fire surged then collapsed, leaving only blackened remains and choking smoke. But the final image—blood, falling banner, black hand—burned itself into Melisandre's soul.
She stood frozen. The sea wind whipped her red hair and robes, but she felt nothing.
The Lord of Light's prophecy… Stannis wins, then dies instantly?
If Stannis was Azor Ahai reborn—the hero destined to defeat the Long Night—how could he be beheaded at the moment of victory?
No. She crushed the thought.
The flames never lied. Stannis had to be Azor Ahai.
So where was the mistake?
Her scattered pupils focused on the man standing in the center of the hall—Vito Corleone. More precisely, on the sigil on his chest.
The black hand.
The fire hadn't shown a face, only the mark. But the timing, the place, everything fit too perfectly. This man had appeared on Dragonstone offering tempting help. Was he here to lead Stannis down the path of "victory equals death"?
"My lady… Melisandre!"
Stannis's urgent voice finally snapped her back.
"My… Your Grace," she said, forcing composure. Everyone had seen her moment of weakness.
"What happened?" Stannis asked, frowning. "You've never looked like that before. What did you see?"
Melisandre didn't answer right away. She couldn't tell him the full truth. She couldn't say, "Good news, Your Grace—the flames show you win, then this man cuts off your head." That would shatter every prophecy and destroy the fragile faith holding Dragonstone together.
She couldn't admit she might have been wrong about Azor Ahai either.
So she had to act. Use her authority as the red priestess. Remove the threat before it was too late.
She looked straight at Stannis, voice calm and factual. "The Lord of Light's flames gave me a new warning in the ashes of the traitor's purification."
Stannis leaned forward, caught between faith and doubt. "What did the flames show?"
Melisandre pointed at Corleone. "This man's path directly conflicts with the sacred road the Lord of Light has laid for you. The help he offers is full of worldly schemes and shadows. It will stain the purity of your mission and lead you astray."
She kept it vague—no mention of snow, beheading, or the black hand. Just "conflicting paths" and "staining the mission."
Corleone's brow furrowed at the sudden accusation. What the hell did I do to you?
Stannis looked uncertain. "Are you certain? Ser Corleone has offered a way to save Storm's End. We should consider it carefully before deciding."
"No, Your Grace." Melisandre's voice turned iron-hard. "Some corruption begins the moment you touch it. The warning is clear and urgent. This man is a dangerous variable—a stain on the holy path."
She turned to Axell Florent. "Ser Axell. You serve the Lord of Light. You hunger for a pure world. Now the Lord speaks through me: remove this variable. Use your sword to fulfill your oath to the one true god."
The command was absolute. For a fanatic like Axell, it was divine law.
Axell didn't hesitate. He didn't even look at Stannis for permission.
Steel hissed free. His longsword flashed toward Corleone in a clean, deadly arc.
"For the Lord of Light!"