Chapter 130: Dragonstone Prepares to Attack Storm's End
The Narrow Sea, Dragonstone, Dragonstone Castle
"Bang—!"
A wooden game piece flew through the air and struck Davos Seaworth squarely on the head.
The "Onion Knight" winced as a sharp sting spread across his scalp. It had been many years since he had felt anything there, and the sudden warmth brought a strange sense of nostalgia.
"So what you're telling me…" said slowly, his voice trembling despite his effort to stay calm, "is that you returned alone… while chose to remain behind?"
Though he tried to suppress it, the anger in his tone was unmistakable.
At that moment, Stannis realized something he had never expected—
He had grown dependent on that woman of flame.
Melisandre had once sworn to him that she would return safely, and that she would sacrifice the one with Dragonlord blood to the Lord of Light, summoning a true demonic dragon for him.
Over time, her words had taken root in his mind. He had begun to believe—truly believe—that he was the prophesied savior.
And now—
That guiding voice was gone.
The loss left him unsettled. Uneasy. Afraid.
Stannis understood his own limitations well. With the forces he currently possessed, taking King's Landing would already be a near-impossible task.
Yet he had no choice.
Everything was prepared. If he did not act now, he would lose everything.
His bannermen followed him for profit and opportunity—not blind loyalty. And the vast debt he owed to the hung over him like a noose.
If he failed to claim the Iron Throne—
ruin was inevitable.
"Your Grace," a red-haired youth spoke up. He appeared no older than sixteen, yet his presence was firm and composed. "Since Lady Melisandre has her own plans, we must focus on what lies before us—taking King's Landing and freeing its people from deception."
"Your Grace, Ser Roy is correct," another older knight added. "We no longer have the luxury to concern ourselves with her affairs."
"Indeed—"
"We must act—"
Voices rose across the Painted Table chamber.
Davos stepped forward as well.
"Your Grace, we now have both fleet and army. The time has come."
Still, he couldn't help but feel surprised.
He had been gone only a short time, yet this red-haired knight—Roy—had somehow gathered so many warriors to Stannis's cause.
It was beyond expectation.
"Your Grace," Roy continued, "I believe this Aegon Targaryen is much like us—someone who has obtained extraordinary power. Though the dragons here differ from those of our world, the ability to transform into one resembles the Dragonstones of Elibe."
Roy claimed to come from another continent—Elibe—and several others shared similar origins. Some, however, claimed entirely different worlds.
These individuals had appeared during Stannis's time in Braavos and along his travels.
After learning of his cause, they had chosen to follow him—out of what they called knightly honor.
At first, there had been only a handful.
Now, there were more than twenty.
"When I was in Tyrosh," Davos added, "I saw people with abilities similar to Ser Roy's. Some could even manipulate corpses. I believe this phenomenon may be connected."
"They must be using magical artifacts," said an elderly woman.
, a withered witch, stepped forward.
"This world is changing. My crystal ball has shown visions—dragons, and even a Demon King. These things suggest forces beyond our understanding have entered this world."
Davos studied her quietly.
She carried an aura eerily similar to Melisandre's.
"Your Grace," Niime continued, "power is increasing across this world. I question whether we are even in the same realm anymore. Perhaps… we have come to the world where dragons fled."
Her words unsettled many in the chamber.
"Your princess allowed me to study several texts," she went on. "This world's Valyrian civilization bears similarities to the dragon civilization of our own. I suspect the dragons came here first—and were later controlled by the Valyrians, giving rise to the Valyrian Freehold."
"Grandmother Niime," Roy asked, "can we return home?"
Hope filled the room as all eyes turned to her.
After a moment of silence, she answered:
"That answer likely lies in Valyria itself. But it is a dangerous place. The Stone Men carry greyscale, and the land rejects outsiders."
She paused.
"However… I have begun researching a cure. If I can heal the princess, then perhaps we may one day explore it safely."
"Then we must first help His Grace reclaim his throne," Roy declared firmly. "Once that is done, we can pursue the truth."
"That is my oath," Stannis said solemnly. "On the honor of House Baratheon. Help me claim the Iron Throne, and I will see you sent to Valyria."
His words carried weight.
That was why they followed him.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Roy turned toward the Painted Table.
"We now have sufficient forces. What we lack are supply bases. Therefore—our first objective should be…"
He pointed.
"."
Stannis nodded slowly.
"You are correct. Dragonstone alone cannot sustain us. Storm's End is our ancestral seat. Though Renly ruled it for years… no one knows it better than I."
His gaze hardened.
"But it will not fall easily. That fortress has never been taken by force. Even I once relied on it to withstand the armies of the Reach."
He frowned.
"And we lack sufficient siege engines."
Though he knew hidden passages and weaknesses, time had passed. There was no guarantee they still existed.
Taking Storm's End would not be simple.
"Do not worry, Your Grace," Roy said with a faint smile.
"We have… a secret weapon."
Stannis looked up sharply.
"With it, we can strike directly—eliminate the enemy commander and take the castle from within."
"A decapitation strike…" Stannis murmured.
Then—
for the first time—
a spark of excitement appeared in his eyes.
"Roy… your powers truly are extraordinary."
He paused, then added quietly:
"I wonder… if I might one day wield such power myself."
He had seen their abilities firsthand.
Roy's divine weapon—the Binding Blade—was like the legendary Lightbringer itself.
Stannis had once held it.
But it had remained silent in his hands.
No power. No reaction.
As if it were nothing more than an ordinary sword.
And that—
stirred something deep within him.
After all—
the blood of the stag still ran in his veins.
And like any warrior—
he longed to stand on the battlefield,
blade in hand,
and carve his own destiny.
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