The air in the hall felt like it had turned to stone.
Stannis Baratheon sat behind the massive stone table, his deep-blue eyes locked on the bold number written on the parchment. Ten thousand pounds of wheat. He couldn't look away.
His army had how many men left? Twenty-three hundred, maybe fewer. For a so-called king, the number was a brutal joke.
After the defeat at the Blackwater, most of the Stormlands lords and knights had sworn to him as the last true Baratheon. For a short while his forces had swelled past twenty thousand—mostly knights and free riders. It had felt like victory was already in his hands. King's Landing's garrison had been tiny by comparison.
Then everything collapsed. He had sailed back to Dragonstone with barely two thousand men and a broken fleet. Now the Lannisters had the island under tight blockade. Grain was running out fast. Stannis had even started wondering if he should abandon his stronghold and look for another way out.
Ten thousand pounds of wheat, at half a pound per man per day, would feed his army for nearly ten days. For men who hadn't eaten properly in two months, it was almost a miracle.
But nothing in this world came free. Stannis knew that better than most.
"How much do you want, Vito Corleone?"
His voice echoed through the hall. He didn't use the title "ser." It was a small, deliberate signal. Until he knew exactly what this man wanted, no extra respect would be given.
"You know the current market price hasn't dropped, my lord," Corleone answered calmly. "Since the war began the Riverlands have been burned to ash, the Reach's grain routes are blocked by fire, and Lord Tywin has imposed strict controls on King's Landing to keep the city stable."
"Official price is three copper stars per pound, but that's only on paper. On the street it's already one silver moon per pound—and it's cash only. No credit, ever."
A sharp intake of breath ran through the hall.
One silver moon per pound. Ten thousand pounds meant ten thousand silver moons—over three hundred gold dragons. That kind of money could keep a minor noble family comfortable for a decade in peacetime, or hire a hundred mercenaries for a full year.
And right now it only bought ten days of food.
"Fair price," Stannis said after a long silence. He nodded to a knight beside him. "Tell Ser Axell to bring three hundred gold dragons from the treasury."
He didn't haggle. He simply rounded up, voice flat. Neither man bothered arguing the small difference.
The side door opened. A middle-aged man walked in—broad-shouldered, wearing the standard armor of Dragonstone's garrison with the crowned stag on his breastplate. He looked nothing like his older brother Alester Florent. Where Alester had always been calculating, Ser Axell Florent's eyes burned with fanatical certainty.
As castellan of Dragonstone while Stannis served as Master of Ships in King's Landing, Axell had run the island for years. After the Blackwater disaster he had personally arrested his own brother for trying to negotiate with the Lannisters and thrown him in the dungeon.
"Mmmpf! Mmmph!!"
Alester thrashed against his gag the moment he saw his brother. The muffled screams were pure terror. He knew Axell too well. For the "purification of the Lord of Light," Axell would sacrifice anyone—even his own blood. He had already suggested burning Alester more than once.
Axell didn't even glance at his brother. He bowed slightly to Stannis. "Your Grace."
Then he walked straight to Corleone and handed over the heavy coin purse.
The gold dragons clinked loudly inside the leather. Corleone weighed it in his hand, a small smile touching his lips.
Greedy bastard, Stannis thought with disdain.
Then Corleone flicked his wrist and tossed the purse right back to Ser Axell.
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at, Vito Corleone? You think my offer is too low?"
"No, no, my dear lord," Corleone said, voice almost gentle. "I told you—this is a gift. Ten thousand pounds of wheat. Completely free."
Free.
The word hit the hall like a thunderclap. Even the guards stared.
"Gift?" Stannis repeated, voice growing colder. "In my life, every so-called gift has carried the highest price tag of all. What do you really want? Are you here to convince me to surrender and accept the usurper's legitimacy with grain?"
"If that's your game, the answer is no. Never."
His voice rose to a low roar.
Corleone simply shook his head.
"No, Your Grace. No conditions at all. This wheat is proof—proof that my supply lines are real, that my promises aren't empty words, and that everything I say next rests on something solid."
He took one step forward. His voice suddenly sharpened, each word landing like a hammer.
"What we're going to discuss… is a monthly shipment of one hundred thousand pounds of wheat."
"One hundred thousand?!"
The hall erupted in shocked gasps.
That much grain meant every soldier, craftsman, sailor, noble, and commoner on Dragonstone could eat until they were full. No more nights of gut pain keeping men awake.
But Corleone wasn't finished.
"Not only that," he continued, eyes sweeping the stunned faces. "Medicine. Clean bandages. Wool for warmth. Tung oil and timber to repair ships. Even…"
He paused for effect, letting every ear strain.
"Weapons. Armor. Warhorses. Ships. Whatever you and your army need, Vito Corleone can get it. Remember this: if someone else is willing to sell it, the Black Hand will sell it. If someone else is too afraid to sell it, the Black Hand will sell it anyway."
The impact was bigger than everything before. Monthly grain was already life-changing. But weapons and armor? That shifted the entire balance of the war.
With steady supplies Stannis could field nearly ten thousand men. He wouldn't be trapped on this rock anymore.
Ser Axell's breathing quickened. His eyes blazed with a mix of holy fervor and raw survival hunger as he looked at Stannis.
"Such a large deal…" Stannis finally spoke, voice low and controlled. He stared at his own hand gripping the arm of his chair, knuckles white. "Ser Corleone. Do you understand what you're saying? Monthly shipments of a hundred thousand pounds of grain and other supplies—right under Tywin Lannister's nose—to his greatest enemy?"
He leaned forward, eyes like storm clouds. "Are you mad, or do you think I'm a fool? Or is this Tywin's trap? Send harmless grain first to build trust, then poison a later shipment? Or hide warships among the merchant vessels and land troops to wipe us out in one stroke?"
The mood in the hall shifted fast. The guards' hands tightened on their sword hilts. Even Ser Axell spoke up.
"The flames show me the truth, Your Grace. This man's words are wrapped in shadow. His gifts may be the bait that leads to ruin. The enemies of the Lord of Light always wear the faces of friends. I say burn him now."
"Burn him!"
"Burn him!"
The chant rose. Boots and spear butts hammered the floor.
Stannis stared at Corleone but didn't give the order yet.
Corleone didn't flinch. He simply stood there, half his face in firelight, half in shadow. When he spoke, Presence rolled out at full strength. His voice carried quiet, unshakable confidence.
"I never promise what I can't deliver, my lord."
The words were simple. No grand oaths. Just a flat statement. And somehow they rang true.
Stannis studied him for a long moment. The hall held its breath. Waves crashed against the cliffs outside—the endless heartbeat of Dragonstone.
Melisandre watched Corleone with new interest, red eyes unblinking.
Finally Stannis's gaze sharpened. He still didn't fully trust the man. But he was willing to test him.
"Ser Axell Florent," Melisandre said suddenly, her voice cutting like a blade.
Axell dropped to one knee.
The red priestess pointed without hesitation. "Burn him."
She wasn't pointing at Corleone. She was pointing at Alester Florent.
Alester thrashed wildly, eyes wide with horror. He understood now. He wasn't dying for treason. He was dying so Stannis could show this outsider the price of betrayal or games on Dragonstone. A chicken slaughtered to warn the monkey.
Axell's face lit with sick, fanatical joy. "As you command, my lady. The Lord of Light will witness this purification. The traitor's flesh will turn to ash. If any part of his soul remains, it will be cleansed in the flames."
He stood and signaled the guards. They dragged the now-sobbing Alester out. His legs had given out completely; a dark stain spread down his breeches as he lost control of his bladder.
As they passed Corleone, Alester twisted his head, eyes full of terror and hatred, as if blaming him for everything.
Corleone met the look with perfect calm. No pity. No disgust. Just the detached gaze of a surgeon examining a specimen before the first cut. Alester's fate had nothing to do with him.
Axell glanced at Corleone as he passed, cold warning in his eyes: this is what happens to those who deceive or waver on Dragonstone.
Stannis never took his eyes off Corleone, watching for any crack in that calm mask.
There was none.
Corleone simply stepped aside politely to let the guards pass, like a host making way for servants at a feast. Then he turned back to Stannis and gave a small, respectful nod.
"Guest follows host, my lord. I'm honored to witness Dragonstone's justice."
His voice was steady. His eyes clear. That unshakable calm was more unsettling than any fear or anger could have been.
It meant the man had iron control over his own emotions—and that made him dangerous.
Outside in the courtyard, flames roared to life. The light spilled through the high windows, casting twisted shadows across the hall. Alester's screams carried inside, long and ragged, mixed with the crackle of burning wood and the smell of roasting meat.
Even Stannis's jaw tightened. Every time he heard men burn, something inside him died a little more.
Only Axell looked content, lips moving in silent prayer as he watched from the window.
Melisandre stared into the fire, red eyes reflecting the flames.
When the last scream faded, Stannis spoke again.
"Ser Vito Corleone. You saw what happens here. On Dragonstone, the price for deception, wavering, or betrayal is fire. It doesn't matter if the man is my former Hand or a nameless soldier. The same flames will consume anyone who tries to play games with me or use my desperation for their own ends—whether they come from King's Landing, Casterly Rock, or anywhere else."
Firelight danced across Stannis's hard face, carving it into something almost inhuman.
The test had begun.