Chapter 124 — The God of Dragonstone
The air inside the hall seemed to freeze.
Stannis Baratheon sat rigidly behind the stone table, his deep blue eyes locked onto the number written on the parchment. For a long time, he did not look away.
Five thousand kilograms of wheat.
How many men did he still have?
Two thousand three hundred… perhaps even fewer. A pitiful number for a "king"—almost a mockery.
After the disaster at Bitterbridge, most of the Stormlands lords and knights, along with a portion of the Reach nobility, had once rallied to him as the last Baratheon. At his peak, his forces had swelled to over twenty thousand—knights and mounted retainers filling his ranks, his banners riding high with confidence.
At the same time, King's Landing had only a few thousand City Watch.
By all rights, that battle should have been an easy victory.
Instead, it became a crushing defeat.
He returned to Dragonstone with barely over two thousand men and a hollow fleet—his army reduced to less than a tenth of its former strength.
Worse still, under the Lannisters' blockade, Dragonstone's food stores dwindled by the day, with no hope of replenishment. If this continued, even Stannis had begun to consider abandoning the island altogether.
And now—
Five thousand kilograms of wheat.
At 0.25 kg per man per day, it could sustain his army for nearly ten days.
For soldiers who hadn't seen proper supplies in two months, this wasn't just food.
It was reassurance.
But at what cost?
Even Stannis knew well—everything in this world had a price.
"What do you want for it, Odin?"
His voice echoed through the hall. He did not use the title "ser." A subtle signal—until he understood this man's intentions, he would offer no unnecessary respect.
"You know the market well enough, my lord."
Odin answered calmly.
"Since the War of the Five Kings, the Riverlands have been reduced to ash. The Reach's supply lines are disrupted, and Lord Tywin Lannister has imposed strict controls to stabilize King's Landing."
"The official price is three copper coins per kilogram. But in reality… wheat now sells for one silver stag per kilogram, paid in full. No credit."
A ripple of suppressed gasps spread through the hall.
One silver stag per kilogram.
Five thousand kilograms meant five thousand silver stags—over three hundred gold dragons.
Enough to support a minor noble household for ten years.
Or hire a hundred mercenaries for a full year.
And now… it bought ten days of food.
"A reasonable price."
After a pause, Stannis nodded slightly and turned to a nearby knight.
"Inform Ser Axell. Have him retrieve three hundred gold dragons from the treasury."
He didn't bargain—but casually shaved off the remainder.
Neither man bothered to argue the difference.
Moments later, the side door opened.
A middle-aged man entered—bearing a resemblance to the bound Alester Florent, yet utterly different in demeanor.
This was Axell Florent.
Where Alester's eyes were calculating, Axell's burned with fanatic conviction.
As Dragonstone's acting castellan, he had governed the island in Stannis's absence. After the defeat at Blackwater, it was he who had personally arrested his own brother and thrown him into the dungeons.
"Mmff! Mmff—!"
At the sight of him, Alester began to struggle wildly, terror flooding his muffled cries.
He knew his brother all too well.
For the sake of "purification," Axell would sacrifice anyone—even family.
Yet Axell didn't spare him a glance.
He bowed to Stannis, then stepped forward and handed the pouch of gold to Odin.
The coins clinked sharply as Odin weighed them, a faint smile appearing on his lips.
Stannis watched with thinly veiled disdain.
Greedy.
But in the next moment—
His brow furrowed.
Odin flicked his wrist and tossed the pouch back.
"What are you doing, Odin?" Stannis demanded sharply. "Do you find my offer insufficient?"
"No, my lord."
Odin's voice was calm—almost warm.
"I said this was a gift."
"…This five thousand kilograms of wheat is free."
Free.
The word hit like a hammer.
The entire hall stirred.
Even Stannis's voice grew colder as he repeated it.
"A gift?"
"In my experience, 'gifts' often carry the highest price."
His eyes locked onto Odin.
"Are you trying to buy my surrender? To make me acknowledge a false king?"
"If so—impossible."
His voice rose into a low growl.
But Odin only shook his head.
"No, Your Grace."
"This wheat comes with no conditions."
"It is proof—proof that my supply lines are real, that my promises are not empty, and that everything I say next is grounded in reality."
He stepped forward.
"What we are about to discuss…"
His voice sharpened, each word striking like a hammer:
"…is a trade of fifty thousand kilograms of wheat—every month."
"FIFTY THOUSAND?!"
Shock erupted.
That amount meant more than survival.
It meant abundance.
No more sleepless nights from hunger. No more gnawing pain in the stomach.
And Odin wasn't finished.
"Not just that."
His gaze swept across the stunned faces.
"Medicine. Clean bandages. Wool for warmth. Tar and timber for ship repairs."
"And even…"
He paused deliberately.
Then spoke, word by word:
"Weapons. Armor. Warhorses. Ships."
"As long as your army needs it—there is nothing I cannot provide."
"Remember this: what others dare to sell, my Black Hand sells. What others don't dare to sell—we sell as well."
The hall erupted.
Food could sustain them.
Weapons could win wars.
With this, Stannis could rebuild an army of ten thousand.
Dragonstone would no longer be a prison.
Axell's breathing grew heavy, eyes blazing with something primal—faith mixed with hunger.
Stannis, however, remained still.
"Such a deal…"
His voice was low, controlled.
Then he looked up sharply.
"Do you even understand what you're saying?"
"Supplying my army—under Tywin Lannister's nose?"
"Are you mad? Or do you take me for a fool?"
His gaze sharpened.
"Or is this Tywin's trap?"
"Poisoned grain? Hidden warships? A fleet disguised as merchants?"
Murmurs spread.
The guards tightened their grips.
Even Axell stepped forward.
"The flames show me shadows, Your Grace."
"This man's words reek of deceit. His 'gifts' may be bait."
"I advise we burn him now."
"Burn him!"
"Burn him!!!"
The chant spread.
Steel rang against stone.
Yet Stannis did not give the order.
All eyes turned to Odin.
He did not argue.
He simply stood there—half his face lit by firelight, the other half swallowed by shadow.
Then he spoke.
Calm.
Quiet.
Absolute.
"I never promise what I cannot deliver."
No oath.
No explanation.
Just a statement—almost arrogant in its simplicity.
And yet…
It carried weight.
Stannis stared at him in silence.
The hall seemed to stop breathing.
Torches crackled. Waves crashed against distant cliffs.
Even Melisandre watched him with new interest.
Did Stannis believe him?
Not entirely.
But for the first time—
He considered it.
And that alone was enough.
Yet Stannis Baratheon was not a man swayed by temptation.
He needed proof.
A trial.
A way to determine whether this man was salvation…
or ruin.
Then—
Melisandre spoke.
"Ser Axell Florent."
Her voice cut through the hall like a blade.
Axell dropped to one knee.
She pointed.
"Burn him."
But not at Odin.
At his own brother—
Alester Florent.
When Melisandre pointed at him, Alester Florent felt his blood turn to ice. He struggled desperately, muffled cries spilling from behind the gag as he tried to appeal to his king.
But Stannis Baratheon did not move.
Not a single motion.
And in that moment, Alester finally understood.
He was not being punished for treason. Not for wavering. Not even for his failed counsel.
He was being used.
A sacrifice.
The chicken meant to frighten the monkey.
He was going to die—not for what he had done, but because his king needed to show a stranger what happened to those who betrayed or tried to deceive him.
Across the hall, Axell Florent's eyes lit up instantly, a feverish gleam of devotion and cruelty igniting within them.
He bowed without hesitation.
"As you command. The Lord of Light shall witness this purifying flame."
"The traitor's flesh will turn to ash, and if any part of his soul remains, it will be cleansed."
He rose swiftly, almost eagerly, gesturing for the guards to drag Alester away.
Two soldiers seized him.
His legs had already given out, utterly limp. A dark stain spread across his trousers, the sharp stench of urine filling the air.
He had lost control.
As he was dragged past Odin, Alester twisted his head with the last of his strength. His eyes—wide with terror and despair—locked onto him.
There was pleading in them.
And hatred.
If not for you…
Maybe I wouldn't be here.
But Odin only looked back calmly.
No pity.
No disgust.
No fear.
No excitement.
To him, Alester was nothing more than an ordinary man—utterly insignificant. Whether he lived or died had nothing to do with him.
His gaze was cold, clinical—like a physician examining a specimen before dissection, considering where best to make the first cut.
Axell followed behind, casting Odin a sharp, warning glance as he passed.
As if to say—
This is the price of deception.
No matter who you are.
Stannis never took his eyes off Odin's face.
He was watching.
Searching for any flicker of emotion—anything that would reveal what kind of man this "Odin" truly was.
But Odin merely stepped slightly aside, allowing the dragged prisoner and the guards to pass, his movement natural and courteous—like making way for servants at a banquet.
Then he turned back, inclined his head slightly, and said in an even tone:
"As a guest, I follow the customs of my host."
"It is my honor to witness the 'justice' of Dragonstone."
His expression was calm. His voice steady. His eyes clear.
Too clear.
That kind of composure was more unsettling than any outburst.
Because it meant control.
Absolute control.
Stannis found it… troublesome.
Soon, a fierce blaze lit up the courtyard.
The firelight poured through the high stone windows, casting twisted, flickering shadows across the hall.
The crackle of burning wood followed.
Then—
The screams.
They went on for a long time.
Even for those accustomed to such rituals, the smell of roasting flesh creeping into the hall made many shift uneasily.
Even Stannis's eye twitched faintly.
Every time he heard a man scream in fire, something within him—something he held onto—felt as though it, too, was being burned away.
Axell was the only exception.
He stood by the window, lips moving in silent prayer, his face twisted with a disturbing sense of fulfillment.
Melisandre watched as well.
Her crimson eyes reflected the flames, unblinking—as though the fire burned not only in the courtyard, but within her very soul.
At last, when the final cry faded into silence, Stannis spoke again.
"Odin."
His deep blue eyes, like the sea before a storm, fixed on him.
"You have seen it."
"On Dragonstone, the price of deception, wavering, and betrayal… is fire."
"Whether one is a Hand of the King… or a nameless nobody."
"The same fire will consume anyone who dares to toy with me, or exploit my circumstances for their own ends."
"No matter where they come from—King's Landing, Casterly Rock… or anywhere else."
The flames flickered.
Light and shadow carved across Stannis's face, sharpening every line.
In that moment, he looked less like a man—
and more like a god of stone and fire.