Two days had passed since Stannon started his careful preparations for what he called the "Day of Judgment." Every hour was spent writing and sending messages, each one an important part of his plan. His trusted messengers rode in all directions, making sure his allies, spies, and informants knew their roles. Some letters were written in codes that only the right people could understand, while others were clear orders on what needed to be done before the final moment arrived.
He had already contacted his teacher, Syrio Forel. Syrio stayed close to Robert, keeping him safe even though Robert might complain that he didn't need protection. But Stannon knew better. The Lannisters had already tried to harm his father once, and they wouldn't hesitate to try again if they realized that Robert was alive. Syrio's presence was an extra layer of security, even if Robert refused to admit he needed it.
Stannon, however, was feeling the effects of all his hard work. His back ached from sitting too long, his fingers were stiff from writing too much, and the candlelight flickered as he sealed yet another letter, handing it to a waiting courier. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, stretching his sore shoulders.
A knock at the door interrupted his short break. He straightened up and said, "Enter."
The door opened, and Melisandre stepped inside, moving gracefully. Her red robes flowed around her like fire, and her sharp gaze focused on him as he reached back to rub his sore shoulders.
"My prince, let me help," she said smoothly, stepping closer.
Stannon hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Melisandre moved behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was firm and skilled, easing his tension. Her hands felt strangely warm, as if they carried their own heat.
As she worked, he spoke. "There are other priests of R'hllor like you. Not all of them support me, do they?"
Melisandre paused briefly before answering, "That is true, my lord. Some believe in false saviors."
Stannon sighed, relaxing slightly under her hands. "And what if you are wrong? What if I am not the one the prophecy speaks of?"
Melisandre let out a soft, confident laugh. "You are the chosen one, my lord. I am not wrong. The flames do not lie."
Stannon shook his head slightly. He had seen many people twist their beliefs to suit their desires, but Melisandre's faith in him never wavered.
"What do you think about Daenerys Targaryen?" he asked, bringing up a concern that had been troubling him.
The moment he said her name, Stannon thought about the spies he had lost trying to gather information on her. The cost had been high. His spies had moved through Westroes without much trouble, but Essos had been a different challenge. The Targaryen siblings had met the Dothraki nearly a year ago, earlier than expected. But their deal was not complete yet—because the three famous dragon eggs had not been found.
Stannon suspected Varys was behind this. The Spider always worked in the shadows, and he must have noticed how quickly Stannon was gaining power. If Varys truly believed in the Targaryens, he would be preparing them now. Stannon could almost picture the bald eunuch smiling as he moved pieces on his secret board.
"She is important, but destiny does not favor everyone," Melisandre answered carefully. "She has fire in her blood, but so do you. There cannot be two suns in the sky."
Stannon tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. 'The eggs have not been found yet, which means her true power hasn't begun to grow. That gives us time. But if Varys is pushing her forward, we need to act quickly.'
Melisandre moved to stand in front of him. "You are wise, my prince. The Lord of Light has placed obstacles in your path, but they are meant to be overcome. This is your time."
Melisandre smiled as she continued talking like some scammer trying her best to get the most out of a person. "The flames will guide us."
Stannon nodded, but deep down, he didn't care much about the prophecy neither did he care about the thoughts of the God of Light. What he cared most now was to kick the ass of Lannisters and make future preparations for the Targaryen siblings, oh and also to kill Varys and Littlefinger.
Stannon thought as he enjoyed the soft pressure of Melisandre's hands. The Lannisters thought they were being clever, but their plan was easy to figure out. It was simple, efficient, and under normal circumstances, it might have worked. But this wasn't a normal situation, and Stannon wasn't an ordinary opponent.
Their entire scheme revolved around a fake Stannon. Someone who looked like him—either trained or changed through some trick—would kill Robert in front of everyone. Robert's blood would be spilled, and chaos would follow. The real Stannon wouldn't even be there, but that didn't matter. The Lannisters controlled the story, and they would make sure everyone believed he was guilty.
With Robert dead, Joffrey would become king. The perfect heir, already prepared and waiting for his moment. Cersei would rule from the shadows, Tywin would secure their power with his wealth and strategies, and the rest of the realm would have no choice but to follow.
Stannon could already imagine the rumors spreading across Westeros. "Prince Stannon, greedy for power, murdered his own father." The people would mourn Robert's death. The lords, seeing the Lannisters as the victims, would have no reason to question them. On the surface, the Lannisters would seem innocent, just a grieving family. And Stannon? He would be labeled a traitor and hunted down everywhere in Westeros.
It was a perfect trap, one that would destroy him completely without the Lannisters having to do much. Once he was blamed for the murder, no one would shelter him, no army would fight for him. He would either be forced to run forever or be killed before he could even try to prove his innocence.
A flawless plan—except for one thing. Stannon was still alive, Robert was still breathing, and Stannon had a system unlike anything this world had ever seen.
Stannon's head was full of plans and secrets. Then suddenly, like a spark in the dark, he remembered something very important—something he had almost forgotten.
The egg.
His eyes widened. He stood up from his chair quickly, which made Melisandre step back in surprise.
"My prince?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting. Her voice was calm but curious.
Stannon didn't speak right away. He walked quickly to a stone corner behind his writing desk. In the wall was a chest, locked tight and held together by thick iron bands. It was new—only placed there a few days ago. He knelt down, reached under the desk, and pulled out a small key hidden in a drawer.
Melisandre watched him closely as he unlocked the chest with a quiet click and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside was a dragon egg.
It was greenish-black, its surface rough but shiny, almost like scales from some ancient creature. There were spirals on it and golden spots that sparkled under the candlelight. It looked very old, though Stannon had only just taken it from Driftmark.
"I took it from Driftmark," he said, gently lifting the egg and placing it on the table.
Melisandre stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the egg like a predator staring at prey.
"A dragon egg," she whispered in awe. "Is it real?"
"Unless someone carved it from black rock and painted it for fun," Stannon said dryly, "yes, it's real."
Her voice grew softer. "And yet… it sleeps."
He nodded. "The dragons may be gone, but if one can still be born... the world will change."
Melisandre's eyes lit up in the firelight. "Do you know what you hold, my prince? This is no simple relic. It is a gift from the Lord of Light. A symbol of fire made flesh. A creature of judgment."
"I thought your god was all about fire itself," Stannon sighed as he couldn't help but feel annoyed at the woman woman who attributed everything to God of Light. "Not the things that come out of it."
Melisandre smiled slowly. "Everything comes from fire in the end."
He stared at the egg in silence for a moment. "Can it hatch?"
Melisandre stepped forward and placed her palm gently on the shell. Her eyes closed as she whispered something in a strange, ancient language—it sounded like a prayer or spell.
"The fire inside is not gone," she finally said. "It sleeps… but it's still warm. Like dying embers waiting for a breeze."
Stannon looked at the egg thoughtfully, then said, "If it hatches, I already have a way to control it. You just focus on waking it up."
Melisandre's eyes slowly opened, and her gaze sharpened. "You believe you can command a dragon?"
"I don't believe," Stannon said. "I know."
She gave a slight smile, clearly intrigued. "Then you must be ready to wake it. That will require sacrifice."
"I'm not burning innocents," he said, cold and direct. "Keep that madness for your temples."
"There are other options," she replied. "A ritual. A worthy offering. Someone willing—or someone guilty."
Stannon ran his fingers across the egg's rough shell. It felt faintly warm. "People only speak of dragons in stories now. But if I bring one back, it will change everything."
Melisandre nodded. "And you will no longer need to whisper plans in the shadows. One dragon can silence every doubt."
He stared at the egg. "There's no need to rush. The preparations to hatch it should wait for now."
Melisandre blinked. "You wish to delay it?"
"Yes," he said. "Not yet. I'll tell you when to start the process. Until then, keep it hidden—and keep your mouth shut."
Melisandre bowed her head slightly. "As you command."
She turned to leave, but before stepping out, she looked back one last time.
"My prince… when this dragon is born, it won't obey you because of your name or your position as a Prince," She said once again to remind him.
Stannon didn't look away from the egg. " As I said earlier, I have my own ways."
Melisandre gave a small smile and walked out like a shadow in red, her voice trailing behind her. "Then may the flames favor you, dragonlord."
Stannon stood there, alone again. He placed both hands on either side of the egg, as if trying to wake it by sheer force of will. He could almost see it—black wings tearing through the air, green eyes burning in the dark.
If the Lannisters thought they were the only ones playing the game of power… they were about to learn what it really meant to play with fire.
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Far away in the Crownlands, hidden in a quiet estate guarded by loyal men, King Robert Baratheon was pacing back and forth in his room. He looked like a storm trapped inside a man. His heavy boots thudded on the wooden floor, and now and then he muttered curses. The fire in the fireplace seemed to shake every time he spoke.
"Bloody leeches," he growled, scratching his thick beard. "What am I waiting for? Let me march on them! Let me smash their skulls with my hammer and take back my throne!"
He turned quickly to look at Syrio. "They tried to kill me—me! And now they sit on my throne, drink my wine, and act like they own the place!"
In the corner of the room, Syrio Forel, once the best swordsman in Braavos and now the king's quiet guard, sat calmly. He sipped water as if the storm raging in the room didn't bother him at all.
"Your Grace," Syrio finally said, his voice calm but firm, "your son, Prince Stannon, asked you not to act yet. He is working on a plan. You must wait for him."
Robert turned and glared at him. "Wait? While they crown that golden-haired bastard of Cersei's and spread lies across the realm? And I'm hiding like a beaten dog?"
Syrio sighed. "Even a cat crouches before it pounces. If you go now, you go alone. But with Stannon, you'll have fire behind you."
Robert wanted to shout again but stopped. He stood still, his body shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the anger boiling inside. With a roar, he slammed his fist onto the table. The goblet on it shook and spilled ale everywhere.
"Seven hells," he muttered and dropped into a chair beside Syrio. He picked up the goblet, took a deep drink, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"He better come soon," Robert said, grumbling. "Or else—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He just took another drink.
Syrio looked at him closely. Robert's rage was dangerous—but it came from the right place. "He will come," Syrio said softly.
Robert stared into his drink, almost like he was hoping to see his son inside the cup. After a moment, he grunted. "He was always stubborn. Just like his mother."
Syrio didn't reply. He gave a small nod and said a quiet thank you to whatever god might be listening. For now, at least, he had managed to calm the storm.
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