The North was a vast place and largely empty, Steffon Baratheon thought as he surveyed the expansive plain broken occasionally by patches of evergreen forest. Even now in the height of summer there was a little frost he could see in the ground that crackled slightly as his horse named Orys cantered. It was his first time this far North, the wild and unpredictable North, full of never-ending wilderness and deepwood forest and ferocious wolves twice the size of what could be found in the South. No, the North was really no place for Southernors like him, Steffon knew, and he also knew that they were being received out of politeness alone. Even the old Targaryens atop their dragons rarely visited Winterfell. He felt like a stranger, out of place in unfamiliar woods, and he knew that much of the party of Southernors felt the same. This wasn't their land after all.
It was a region that seemed so different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, that Steffon secretly felt the Northerners really did rule themselves and keep to their own affairs despite what fiction they might hold to, to keep the peace. He had heard countless times of his father complaining about how difficult it was to hold and how little integrated it was to the rest of the realm.
In size, the North was just about larger than the rest of the Kingdoms combined. Steffon remembered his old geography lessons that he had endured with Grand Maester Pycelle and thought of as many Northern houses as he could remember. Stark, Bolton, Manderly, Umber, Karstark, Hornwood, Mormont, Dustin, House Reed and the Crannogmen…
Steffon's train of thought was broken by the sudden looming sight of four massive rotund towers as the party of horses, wagons, and carriage came atop a crest of hill and he finally caught sight of the enormous castle complex, nothing comparable to the Red Keep in height but it spanned many acres and was its own self-contained keep and city, the home of thousands of smallfolk. Behind him, his father, the King let out a great shout and bellow of excitement as he caught sight of the fortress that he remembered well from his own youth. This would be the best opportunity to approach him, and Steffon had been waiting for quite some time for the right moment.
Urging his black mare forward, Steffon rode past dozens of knights and a few Kingsguard and soon caught up with his father who was still marvelling at the scene. They were on top a green hill overlooking the Kingsroad and the view stretched many miles to the distant hazy background which marked the edge of the Wolfswood. Steffon shivered involuntarily which made Robert glance at him momentarily.
"Well, is the Northern climate to your liking then? I remember I once visited up here many years ago travelling on this same road on a trip with Ned. Gods must have been nearly twenty five years ago when we were visiting his home together. My first time up in the North. Only then things weren't so bloody complicated."
"And now you plan on bringing him south to King's Landing," Steffon replied and he paused before adding, "But I'm guessing he has few good memories of the place where his father and grandfather were murdered."
His father glanced at him somewhat surprised and also, Steffon saw shame as he averted his face and Steffon knew that he had also inadvertently remembered the Targaryen children.
"Well what are you trying to say boy?"
"Hear me out. I know you haven't seen him for years and he's the only one to be trusted. But he has no history in politics, or understanding of the court. He's a newcomer and his position will be a precarious one if he does not learn and adapt quickly. And the Starks and Lannisters already have a mutual disdain for one another so it will be a challenge to prevent their rivalry from spilling over."
Robert looked back at him incredulously and blustered heatedly. "And so what would you have me do? Concede all power to those Lannisters?! Does it look as if I have any choice?"
He waited for just the right amount of time to display the perfect amount of hesitation, eagerness, and wariness that would be enough to persuade his father. "I think I'm ready to enter politics father. I've passed my fifteenth nameday. Appoint me to the Small Council and I can help Lord Stark navigate his way in King's Landing. I can also try to smooth out tensions between the two parties and I'll report directly to you if there's any trouble. It's high time I found something active to do in court anyways."
Robert took a swift drink from the wine flagon that Steffon knew never left his side at all times of the day and night. His face reddening, Steffon could see he was relenting.
"You've got some strange blood in you boy wanting to go into politics. Alright, I will appoint you to the Small Council to help Ned. Gods know he'll probably need it now that I think about it." Slapping Steffon on the back, Robert chuckled. "But you've some nerve just coming up to me like this. And you'll be able to tell me how he's doing and what the rest of the stink are up to. Give 'em hell for me, eh?"
Then Robert rode off ahead quickly while Steffon decided to fall back with the rest of the party while Ser Meryn overtook him swiftly to catch up with the King. Eventually turning his horse around, Steffon made his way to near the back of the procession that was inching forward at an excruciatingly slow pace. It had been the case the entire journey, where those at the front, having little to do while waiting for the damn carriage to catch up, they would practice swordplay, tell tall tales, and even hunt in the nearby woods of the Riverlands.
It was a large resplendent carriage decked with rubies and fine silken sheets and lace, being pulled by a team of matching stallions, finer than anything the North could ever make and Steffon knew his mother intended to display it as a symbol of wealth and power. It was, he reflected, extremely foolish of her and demonstrated how little she knew of the various parts of the realm and their distinctive attitudes. The Northerners he had ever met in the capital often held its finery and pompous grandiosity in disdain, and these were the wealthy lords he was thinking about. What would the smallfolk think of the King's company riding forth in all their majesty, Steffon wondered? Would they be regarded as superior beings with an aura of mystery, to be obeyed, almost like the gods themselves, or perhaps as arrogant foreigners, parading their wealth and might where did they not belong. But his mother never thought deeply about anything at all. He had tried to urge her that they should keep a lower profile in the North and not draw attention to themselves, for the North was not the Westerlands that respected power and wealth and gold, but she had told him off as usual.
Steffon finally caught sight of his two youngest siblings, perhaps half-siblings for he knew about his mother's long-standing affair with his uncle, but he truly did hope that both Myrcella and Tommen were his full siblings. But it truly didn't matter really, for he would always love them regardless, and he knew the dire consequences if his mothers' secrets were to be revealed. That had been his primary motivation for "volunteering" to help Lord Stark after all, and he suspected the reason for Jon Arryn's death.
Tommen and Myrcella, who had just passed her twelfth nameday before they left King's Landing, rode together on two noticeably smaller matching ponies and they looked extremely bored and weary from the accumulated rigours of travel. While they had all visited Casterly Rock twice before and Storm's End once, they had never been to Dragonstone so they knew little about the miseries of a sea voyage. This was however, by far the lengthiest journey any of them had ever undertaken. It seemed to begin abruptly and carry on without end, until they almost came to forget that they had once lived a sedentary life, cloistered away in the Red Keep. The natural rhythm of the highway and inns and tents roadside came to dominate all their thoughts and memories.
Myrcella and Tommen looked up at him as he approached, manoeuvring his horse to ride alongside them and slowing to a canter.
"Steffon! Where have you been all day? We've been looking for you and mother says you shouldn't stray too far off the Kingsroad like that."
"Well, I was having a word with father about our arrival. We're only a short ride's way from Winterfell, you know. If you follow me, I know a good place where you can see all of it and get a good picture of the surroundings. I know you and Tommen are only allowed out of the carriage for a couple hours per day." He smiled benignly at them both, and Myrcella as usual looked indecisive, half desiring to run off and experience the world on her own terms, but always half-ways at guilt for the fear of disappointing her mother.
"I want to go. It won't take too long to get mother angry right?" Steffon just smiled and he urged Tommen forwards and they rode together chatting about nonchalant subjects. Tommen was quite a naturalist and had been documenting all the various bugs he could find all throughout the journey, and making note of how their species would change as they went father north.
Myrcella meanwhile, he could see by glancing back with a smirk, was looking guiltily back at their mother's carriage but she followed reluctantly after her brothers. A knight approached the three of them but Steffon waved him off as they began to slowly ascend the hill…
"So that's it then." She was keenly surveying the vast expanse of hilly plain before her. "It's vast and somewhat majestic, but a bit rough and plain don't you think?
The castle of Winterfell loomed before them, a mighty, cluttered fortress resting on a hill with a dozen or so towers clumped around its centre, and a clear mud trodden path that led right to its main gate and a few smallfolk were travelling about, avoiding the King's party and quickly bowing half-heartedly only when necessary.
"Northerners have never been known to value ostentation of any kind. I even admire them for that. There's not much room to think about anything here except utility and survival and that is reflected in their customs, their architecture, their manner of speech," Steffon mused as much for his own benefit as for her.
"Tommen no come back here!" And Myrcella was off, riding more swiftly than he would have thought her capable, in fear of their youngest brother's safety who was after all only eight and overly enthusiastic at the prospect of anything new. Tommen had begun to gallop excitedly in the direction of Winterfell, almost losing control of his pony. Steffon watched, whistling a high tune as he gazed amused at the antics of his siblings, feeling a sense of nostalgia for when he too had been young enough to enjoy them. Then he turned away from them to ride back towards the rest of the procession.
(This is an attempted rewrite of the original The Prince that was written just in dialogue, though some things will be changed.)