The Red Priestess departed quietly.
Her crimson robes vanished into the dim corridors, leaving behind only silence in the vast, empty Round Table Hall of Stone Drum Castle. The hall, once meant to echo with counsel and command, now felt hollow—filled only with the distant roar of the sea and the relentless howl of the wind.
Alone in that desolate space sat Stannis Baratheon.
Still.
Rigid.
Like a statue carved from cold iron.
"My life has known little joy…"
The thought surfaced unbidden.
It was not self-pity, nor was it regret—just a simple, undeniable truth.
Stannis had never been a man loved by many. His face lacked charm, his voice carried no warmth, and his personality was as harsh and unyielding as forged steel. Where others inspired loyalty through kindness or charisma, Stannis inspired obedience through duty—and fear.
Even his life had reflected that same coldness.
His parents had perished in a shipwreck when he was still young. The memory of the Proud Wind breaking apart against the rocks of Storm's End had never left him.
After that came conflict—between brothers, between ambitions, between loyalties.
And now…
Even thoughts of his own wife and daughter brought him little comfort.
Only a quiet, gnawing pain.
"I never believed in the gods," Stannis muttered under his breath.
His gaze drifted toward the dark, endless sea beyond the castle walls.
"From the day I watched the Proud Wind sink… I swore I would never bow to any god cruel enough to drown my parents."
His fingers tightened slightly.
"And since then, the gods have only proven themselves more cruel."
Whether it was the Faith of the Seven… or the so-called Lord of Light…
To him, there was no difference.
"They are all the same."
He exhaled slowly.
"I do not believe in gods. I believe in necessity."
The only reason he tolerated the Red Priestess was not faith—but practicality.
Her presence inspired fear.
Her reputation alone could shake armies.
And more importantly…
She possessed real power.
That, Stannis could respect.
Yet even with that power, his situation remained bleak.
"I have ships… and little else."
His voice grew quieter.
"Others have more soldiers. More gold. More allies."
His jaw tightened.
"And yet… I am expected to claim a crown."
The irony was not lost on him.
"I never wanted that crown."
He had never been like his brother Robert Baratheon—loud, charismatic, beloved.
Nor like Renly Baratheon—charming, ambitious, adored by the people.
Stannis had always stood apart.
A man of duty.
A man of obligation.
"There are always people who must act," he murmured.
"I have a duty… to the realm. To justice. To my blood."
His hand reached into his coat, pulling out two letters.
One was stained with dried blood.
The last will of Robert.
The other…
A message from a boy—Gendry, the blacksmith.
He had read them countless times.
Committed every word to memory.
And yet, still, doubt lingered.
"Things moved too quickly…"
Before he could act, before he could reveal the truth of the Lannisters…
The secret had already begun to spread.
The game had changed.
"If another can save the kingdom…" Stannis whispered, staring at the letters, "then what is my role?"
His expression darkened.
"Renly has already betrayed me."
"But if I defy Robert's will… what does that make me?"
A usurper?
A traitor?
Or simply a man doing what must be done?
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Who is the chosen one…?"
The Red Priestess claimed it was him.
Others whispered it was another.
Perhaps his nephew.
Perhaps someone else entirely.
"…I need time."
He folded the letters carefully and returned them to his coat.
Different choices.
Different paths.
And each one carried its own cost.
The Vision of Fire
Meanwhile, the Red Priestess walked through the castle corridors, her expression calm but resolute.
To her, Stannis's doubts were nothing more than a temporary weakness.
"He will understand," she thought.
"He must."
In her eyes, Stannis was not merely a lord.
He was destiny incarnate.
The chosen champion of the Lord of Light.
She had seen it.
In the flames.
In the ancient prophecies.
"When the stars bleed and the Long Night falls… Azor Ahai shall be reborn in smoke and salt."
Her lips curved faintly.
"Dragonstone… the land of smoke and salt."
Everything pointed to him.
Everything aligned.
And yet…
There were inconsistencies.
Stannis had not been born on Dragonstone.
But prophecy was rarely literal.
It required interpretation.
And interpretation… required faith.
"I have invested too much to be wrong."
Years of searching.
Years of preparation.
Stannis was her chosen answer.
And she would not abandon that path easily.
More importantly…
He was the perfect candidate.
A man with little to lose.
A lord with limited power.
Someone who would be willing—forced, even—to grasp at faith as a weapon.
"Other lords are bound by old beliefs," she mused.
"The Faith of the Seven… the Old Gods…"
Too entrenched.
Too rigid.
But Stannis?
He could still be shaped.
Still be guided.
"I saw Renly's death in the flames…"
Her steps slowed slightly.
"But not the blacksmith boy."
The future, it seemed, was shifting.
Unpredictable.
Like fire itself.
Flames and Revelation
Back in her chamber, the Red Priestess stood before a burning hearth.
The fire crackled softly.
Alive.
Ever-changing.
She took a handful of silver powder and cast it into the flames.
Then, she began to chant.
"Lord of Light… protect us."
"For the Long Night is coming."
The fire surged.
The flames twisted and danced, forming shapes within the blaze.
Her eyes widened slightly as the vision unfolded.
A hill.
A cold forest.
Men clad in black.
And at their center—
A tall knight.
Commanding.
Defiant.
Standing against an overwhelming darkness.
"Turn…" she whispered.
"Let me see your face…"
But the vision wavered.
Flickered.
And then—
Disappeared.
The fire returned to normal.
The Red Priestess exhaled slowly.
"Not enough…"
Visions demanded sacrifice.
Power required a price.
Even she could not overreach.
"The truth is in the flames," she murmured. "But interpretation… is imperfect."
Still—
Her resolve hardened once more.
"As long as Stannis rises… everything will fall into place."
Faith.
Blood.
Fire.
Those were the pillars of power.
And she would build upon them—no matter the cost.
King's Landing: A City on the Brink
Far away, in King's Landing, another battle was being fought.
Not with swords.
But with survival.
Tyrion Lannister had begun inspecting blacksmiths across the city.
The situation was dire.
The royal fleet was gone.
Dragonstone controlled the seas.
King's Landing was exposed.
"We need chains," Tyrion ordered.
Not armor.
Not swords.
Chains.
Massive iron chains, forged link by link, thick enough to block ships.
It was a desperate measure—but necessary.
At the same time…
Hunger was spreading.
The people were starving.
"You saw their eyes," said Bronn quietly.
"They want to eat you."
Tyrion gave a bitter smile.
"I've done everything I can."
He had opened the forests for hunting.
Sent soldiers to gather grain.
Redirected labor to build fishing boats.
And yet—
It wasn't enough.
"It's never enough…"
He leaned back in his palanquin, avoiding the accusing stares of the people.
Grain was more valuable than gold now.
Without it—
The city would collapse from within.
"And outside…" Tyrion muttered.
"Enemies on every side."
Storm's End in the south.
Dragonstone in the east.
And a mysterious new force in the north.
"We are surrounded."
Bronn shrugged. "Then ask the rich to help."
Tyrion snorted.
"They're worse than the starving."
But then—
A thought struck him.
"The High Septon…"
"And Littlefinger."
Bronn grinned.
"Exactly."
Tyrion sighed.
"The High Septon is greedy. Littlefinger is… complicated."
Still—
Options were running out.
"You think the High Septon will help?" Bronn asked.
Tyrion's expression darkened.
"The gods may be merciful…"
"But their representatives are not."
He glanced out at the starving masses.
Faith did not feed people.
Prayers did not fill stomachs.
And yet—
He had no choice.
"I'll go see him," Tyrion said finally.
"Even useless prayers… might still help us hold the city."
Gods and Men
Across the realm, different people struggled.
A king without faith.
A priestess with absolute belief.
A lord fighting starvation.
Each of them stood at the edge of something greater.
Gods.
Prophecy.
War.
But in the end—
They were all still human.
Bound by choices.
Driven by necessity.
And haunted by doubt.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)