Axell Florent's sword came straight for Corleone's neck.
The strike was full power. With thirty years of knight training behind him, Axell knew it would land clean against an unarmed, unarmored man.
The blade whistled through the air. Axell could already picture steel sinking into flesh and the heretic screaming as he dropped.
Stannis leaned forward in his chair, knuckles white on the armrest. Logic told him Corleone couldn't die yet—not before he delivered the plan to save Storm's End. Killing a man without cause also went against every rule of justice Stannis had built his life on.
But he had grown used to letting Melisandre's visions and the purifying flames decide things. The words stuck in his throat for one critical second.
That hesitation was more than enough for a skilled knight.
Corleone's eyes never left Stannis. The king didn't move. No order to stop. No clear intent to intervene.
So that's how it is.
Corleone had spent all this time negotiating like a civilized man, and the moment some priestess muttered about the Lord of Light, Stannis was ready to let his dog kill him?
Soft bastard. No wonder half the realm followed Renly instead of you. No wonder you'll never sit the Iron Throne.
Corleone shifted his weight at the last instant, turning his head and letting the sword graze past his neck instead of taking it clean off. Axell's momentum carried him forward, creating a brief opening.
Corleone didn't retreat. He pivoted on his left foot and drove his right heel hard into the back of Axell's knee.
"Ghh!"
Axell's leg buckled. He dropped to one knee with a heavy crack against the stone.
Corleone had spent ten thousand gold dragons raising his sword skill to Level 4 before fighting the Mountain. He knew exactly where he stood now—better than Jaime had been with two hands, and with Insight, Surgery, and Presence backing him up, he was even deadlier.
Against one Axell Florent? Easy.
The only problem was getting a sword.
The answer was right in front of him.
Axell was still on one knee, sword arm extended and off-balance. Corleone's right hand shot in under the arm, thumb pressing hard into the back of Axell's hand while his fingers dug into the pressure point on the inside of the wrist. At the same time his left fist hammered the outside of the elbow.
Crack.
Axell's fingers spasmed open. The sword was no longer his.
Everything happened in two heartbeats.
Corleone caught the falling blade, didn't even adjust his grip, and used the forward momentum to drive the point straight down into the side of Axell's neck—right where the armor ended and the artery waited.
The steel punched through flesh and tendon, severing the carotid with surgical precision. Blood sprayed hot across the stone.
Axell's body locked up. His eyes went wide. He tried to turn his head, mouth working, but only blood and a wet gurgle came out. Then the light faded. His big frame pitched forward and hit the floor with a wet thud, blood pooling fast and mixing with the piss his brother had left behind.
Dead silence.
The guards stared at Axell's body, then at Corleone standing there with the dripping sword, breathing like he'd just taken a casual walk. Their minds went blank.
That was Axell Florent—Dragonstone's castellan, easily top five in sword skill on the island. Full plate armor. Attacking an unarmed envoy.
And he got disarmed and killed in three seconds like it was nothing.
Too brutal. That wasn't a duel. That was an execution.
Steel hissed free all around the room. Every guard drew his sword. The door guards burst in, spears leveled. More than ten blades and spearpoints surrounded Corleone in seconds.
"Drop the sword, you piece of shit!"
"Kneel! Now!"
"Filthy Lannister dog—you murdered Ser Florent!"
Corleone ignored them all. He let the bloody sword hang loose at his side, tip pointing at the floor, blood running down the steel in slow drips. His eyes went straight past the angry faces and locked on Stannis.
The two men stared at each other. Stannis saw no fear in those black eyes. No apology. Just a flat warning: try me again and you'll die first.
Only after that silent threat did Corleone sweep his gaze across the room. Presence rolled out hard. Every guard felt the sudden pressure.
"I am Vito Corleone," he said, voice clear and loud enough to cut through the shouting. "I trained under Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. I also trained under Lady Brienne of Tarth, the Rainbow Guard. You can ask around in King's Landing—ask how, just days ago, I beat the Mountain, Gregor Clegane, the biggest monster in the Seven Kingdoms, down to his knees and personally cut out that filthy tongue of his."
A few guards gasped despite themselves.
Corleone flicked the sword in a clean arc, slinging blood off the blade.
"Listen up, boys. You're the losers who got their asses kicked and are now hiding on this rock eating seaweed to stay alive. Even if I was naked and you were all wearing that useless tin, I could still cut every last one of you down like cheap cheese on a dinner table."
"Anyone who wants to test that, step forward."
The name and the story of the Mountain landed heavy. The guards hesitated, weapons still pointed but no one moving in.
Then Melisandre's voice rang out again, sharper and more urgent than before.
"Kill him!"
Every head turned. Her red eyes were fixed on the sword in Corleone's hand, panic barely hidden.
Too fast. Too clean. That sword work was far too close to the black-hand rider she had seen in the flames—the one who had beheaded Stannis at the moment of victory.
"The enemies of the Lord of Light are masters of disguise! The strength he just showed is proof he is a heretic!"
She pointed straight at Corleone. "For Stannis! For the Lord of Light—remove this blasphemer now!"
"For the Lord of Light!"
Two young knights, already burning with fanaticism, charged without hesitation. They came from both sides, swords raised, screaming.
Corleone's hand tightened on the hilt—then stopped. He lowered the blade instead.
The two knights' faces twisted with savage joy. The heretic was frozen with fear. Perfect.
"For the Lord of Light!"
"Die, infidel!"
They closed the last few steps, convinced the flames themselves guided their blades.
Then heavy boots slammed across the stone table.
A powerful figure vaulted over it and landed between Corleone and the two charging knights.
The gray wool cloak flared. Underneath was plain mail and leather. Deep blue eyes. The crowned stag sigil.
Stannis Baratheon.
The left knight barely had time to gasp before Stannis's sword flashed and punched straight through his chest, heart and all. The king twisted the blade and yanked it free without even glancing at the dying man.
The right knight froze in shock. Stannis's boot smashed into the side of his knee. Bone cracked. The knight screamed and fell, sword flying from his hand.
Before he could crawl away, Stannis stepped in and drove the bloody sword down through his chest, pinning him to the floor.
The hall went dead quiet again—worse than before.
Stannis pulled his sword free with a wet scrape. He flicked the blood off and looked around at his stunned guards.
"Next time," he said, voice cold and final, "no one moves without my order."
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Swords and spears were sheathed instantly. The guards stepped back, heads lowered.
Stannis turned to Melisandre. Her body was rigid.
"Don't forget, woman," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I am the king."
The words landed like iron. Faith could support the crown. It would never sit above it.
Melisandre trembled once, then bowed her head, red hair hiding her face.
"Of course, Your Grace. Your will is the Lord of Light's will made manifest in this world."
Stannis gave a short nod, satisfied.
He turned back to Corleone, who still stood there calm as ever, sword now resting point-down on the stone.
"Our business isn't finished, Ser Vito Corleone. Rest in your chambers. I'll have water and food sent up."
He gestured for Corleone to leave. No apology. No explanation. Just the matter-of-fact end to the bloodshed.
Corleone dipped his head slightly. He dropped the bloody sword on the floor with a clatter and gave a polite nod.
"As you wish, my lord."
Stannis watched him go, then looked at the blood on the floor and the two new bodies.
"Get the corpses out of here," he ordered. "We've had enough death for one day."