Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, plot, or anything else of the Game of Thrones/ASOIAF series.

I'm sorry for just how long it took to get this one out, I got sidetracked with some other stories that I am working on, including a certain Prince of Summerhall. I hope to be releasing them in the coming days, but in the meantime, here's more of Steffon.


-King's Landing-

Steffon

He sat in his tent, a gold monstrosity in his opinion, emblazoned with many black stags, a gift from his parents upon his return from Dragonstone. In contrast to the tent, more a pavilion really, the furnishings were simple. An armor rack stood in one corner, with a small table and chest for cleaning supplies for his armor. Next to that stood a weapons rack, with two heater shields, one the simple black stag on gold of his father's house, and the other the silver stag on blue of his personal sigil. There was also a blunted tourney sword, and his own sword; Hurricane.

"Mycah! Where is that pauldron?" Steffon shouted over his shoulder for his squire.

"Here your Grace, I was just making an adjustment to it." The young man said as he walked from the corner and moved to buckle the last piece in.


-Castle Darry-

"Your Grace." There was Ser Alyn Turnberry. "They've have found her."

Steffon let out a sigh of relief. "Good, have Jon notify Lord Stark, tell Ser Roland to recall the men."

"Very good your Grace." Ser Alyn sped off into the darkness. Steffon turned and set out to return to the castle. He turned from the main path however, and wandered into the camp. He soon found the area belonging to the Silver Cloaks, and within that space, his tent. Two Silver Cloaks stood by the fire outside of it, and beside them, a peasant boy with a long gash on his face sat as a young man bent over him, treating the wound. The two knights bowed their heads as he approached.

"We've kept him here as you ordered your Grace." Said the knight on the left. "And Ronnel's looking him over."

"Thank you Ser Justin." Replied the Prince before stepping over to the fire. "How is he Ronnel?"

The young man looked up. He had sandy blonde hair, and intelligent hazel eyes stood prominent on his freckled face. His family, the Conways, were sworn to the Hightowers of Oldtown, and like many of his family, had been training to become a Maester. Ronnel had not liked this of course, for he had yearned for a life of adventure, and after forging five links, a chain he still kept around his left wrist, he left the Citadel to seek his fortune. Within a year, he wound up as part of the Silver Cloaks, with the position as the company's healer. "It is funny." He had said to Steffon. "The silver link represents healing, and here I stand, healer for a silver Prince."

The twenty year old stood up at this time. "He has nothing to fear at this point, he will bear a scar, but not one such as that which you bear on your cheek your Grace."

"Very good, keep watch over him, the rest of the men will be returning soon, but I must sort this whole situation out with my father. Worry not, Mycah, you're safe now."

"Thank you m'lord." The boy muttered.

Steffon left them, and soon he was in the halls of the castle. It was then that he encountered Ser Barristan Selmy. The old knight had a saddened look on his face. "Your Grace, your mother has been worrying about you, and your father too, though he would not admit it."

"Odd, though I have been putting out fires my dear elder brother knows full well he caused. Where is my father, Ser Barristan?"

"Follow me."

The Lord Commander soon knocked upon a door and a loud "Bugger off!" could be heard. Steffon ignored this, and pushed the door open.

The King rose from his chair beside the bed with anger on his face, sloshing wine on his doublet as he did so. "I SAID...oh," He turned away. "It's you."

"Yes, me." Steffon replied bitterly. "I was wondering if you had already passed judgement before I could return to say my piece, and I proved right."

"Your piece!? What do you mean?"

"Joffrey was threatening the boy as Arya and Sansa Stark looked on. Before I could interfere, Arya defended her sparring partner and Joffrey turned the blade on her. It was then that the direwolf grabbed his sword hand. The younger Stark scared off the wolf as I got to them. Joffrey ran off to mother at that, Arya ran after the wolf, and I sent Mycah to my tent while I brought the Lady Sansa back to the keep." His father acknowledged this with a nod as he became engrossed in thought.

After that, the King had stormed off in the direction of Joffrey's chambers, Ser Barristan had attempted to accompany him, but the angry ruler had refused this protection. His father then had strong words with Joffrey, and the Crown Prince had immediately known Steffon had interfered. This would taint their relationship.


-King's Landing-

Steffon now lifted his arm so his squire could strap on the last of his pauldrons. He was dressed in the likeness of his Silver Cloaks. He wore a long dark blue gambeson, and had a long hauberk of chain mail, leaving a coat of plates on his chest and thighs, and shining plate armor that covered his arms, shoulders, knees, and lower legs. He also wore a typical quilted surcoat, emblazoned with a silver stag, and a shining steel armet helm.

The Prince collapsed into his chair as Mycah finished. He made a great clanking as he leaned back and took a sip from his water goblet. It was then that Jon walked through the tent's flaps.

"You look like a knight." The newest Silver Cloak commented.

"If only." Replied the Prince.

The Bastard was skeptical. "You're a Prince, whether you like it or not, and Princes should not be fighting in melees and tourney's"

"Baelor Breakspear fought in a trial by seven at the Tourney of Ashford Meadow, as did Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, both my ancestors." Steffon pointed out as he fiddled with a strap.

"Didn't Breakspear get his head smashed in by his brother?" Asked Jon.

Steffon opened his mouth, then closed it. He then nodded and said; "Fair point. But, my brother is a craven, and I will have six Silver Cloaks with me, that should please you, and the seven fighters will please Septon Tristifer." The Silver Cloak's Septon was a jovial man, but had been a sergeant in the army of Steffon's grandfather. After nearly losing his right arm in the assault on Pyke, he had become a septon to live out the rest of his life in peace.

He addressed Jon once more. "Why won't you join us? You don't have to be a knight to compete."

"I don't believe in fighting in tourneys. I don't want a man to know what I can do, I want him to be unaware of my skills in battle."

Steffon held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, though I don't believe we will have a battle for you to surprise someone with your magnificent skills with the blade in quite some time."

Suddenly, horns began to bray, calling the competitors to the field. Steffon rose, and threw his coif over his head. Mycah held out his shield, and he placed his left arm through the straps. With Mycah carrying the great helm, Steffon took the third weapon from the rack, a warhammer, a one-handed one, but still with weight akin to that which his father had bourne when he was young.

The other Silver Cloaks were leaving their tents now, and the seven formed about Septon Tristifer. The Septon held a bowl in one hand and was tracing a red seven-pointed star upon their foreheads, delivering a blessing.

"I shall pray for you, oh great knights, a prayer that the Warrior above grants you all strength of arm in order to defeat all foes which come against you. I hereby bless you in the light of the Seven."

Mycah then placed the armet helm upon Steffon's head, the familiar weight resting upon him. The Silver Cloaks mounted their horses, seven knights together in a line. Ser Roland was to Steffon's left, and Ser Alyn to his right. The other four Silver Cloak knights were Ser Arthur Gladden, a former hedge knight, the oldest of the Silver Cloaks, Ser Martyn Payne, a distant cousin to the King's Justice, Ser James Mertyns, a nephew of the Lady of Mistwood, and Ser Harys Flowers, a bastard from Golden Grove. The Knights were armed mostly with swords, the only exception being the morningstar flail of Ser James, and Steffon's warhammer. Tempest had trappings similar to that of Steffon's surcoat, but they were checkered with blue and silver.

The Knights entered the field and took their positions, their competitors doing the same. Steffon flicked down his visor, his world becoming reduced to only that which was directly in front of horns brayed again, and as his spurs tapped Tempest's flanks, as his mount surged forward, as all of the fighting men on the field let out great shouts, Steffon could not help but think to himself.

My, but my nose does itch.


Sansa

"He is just like the King when we were young." Murmured her father next to her as Steffon unhorsed one of his opponents. The Prince had caught the man in the ribs with his warhammer, most likely breaking a few ribs.

The Silver Cloaks had formed a wedge, supporting one another as they smashed through their competition. The discipline of the formation was working well, but eventually one of their number fell, and another one was unhorsed.

One fighter approached the Prince, grabbing the reins of his warhorse, one to be struck down by Thoros of Myr with his flaming sword. The horse was under control once more, but the wildfire had caught the trappings of silver and blue. The horse bucked, sending the Prince tumbling from the saddle. She saw the horse run to the fence line, where Steffon's squire, her sister Arya's friend, beat out the flames with a blanket that soon caught fire itself.

If only my Prince were as brave as he. Thought Sansa as Steffon leapt to his feet, turning to face an opposing knight. His warhammer lunged, and the rim of his opponent's shield was hooked by the weapon's head. Steffon ripped the other knight's guard open, and delivered a brutal head butt, the two helmets colliding with a clang! The dazed man fell, and the warhammer smashed against his breastplate, putting him out of the fight.

The Prince was quiet, he was always polite with her, seemingly an embodiment of chivalry, but on this field, he fought as if he was in a tavern brawl. He was swinging his warhammer everywhere, connecting with many of his foes. His shield, feet, and head were all used as weapons as the bookish Prince showed that he was truly the son of Robert Baratheon.

Sansa recalled tales of the chivalry and gallantry of the South, and Ser Lyonel Baratheon was known to knock the crests off the helmets of his foes during tourneys. Ser Lyonel's descendent now imitated his forebear, Sir Patrek Mallister's eagle, Ser Perwyn Frey's two towers, and Ser Hobber Redwyne's grapes were all flung to the commons.

Only eight of the some forty original competitors remained at this point, one of them being Prince Steffon, and another one of his silver cloaks, a man with an owl painted on his shield. The Prince and his Knight stood close together, as Thoros of Myr lunged at a nervous looking Ser Horas Redwyne, his sword burning bright.

Her Prince, Joffrey was looking on with boredom, he feigned a yawn as the fight continued. His younger siblings however, Myrcella and Tommen, were looking on with a mixture of fear and excitement as their older brother dispatched another foe.

Within minutes the melee was reduced to two fighters, the Silver Prince, and the Red Priest. They squared off, circling each other like sharks. Steffon rose to his full height and clashed the hammer to his shield.

"Come closer wizard!" He called to the Red Priest, waving his hammer toward his chest as an invitation. "I fear no flame!"

The bald man laughed off his threat. "You will learn then, Young Stag!"

Steffon charged the priest and caught the flaming sword with his shield. He ripped the shield to the left, but that only loosened the sword enough for Thoros to withdraw it and back away. Steffon tossed the burning shield to the side, clenching his left hand into a fist.

The Prince went on the attack once more, but after a few strokes, slipped and lost his balance. The Red Priest was on him in a moment, but showed fear in his eyes as his strike was knocked aside by Steffon's flailing arm, followed closely by his legs being swept from under him as Steffon regained his control.

The next thing Thoros knew, he had a dagger against his throat. "Yield wizard." He said to him.

"I yield." he croaked, and Sansa and her father clapped loudly for the Silver Prince.

The jousting resumed after the melee, and Prince Steffon once more distinguished himself until he came against Ser Loras Tyrell. Four times the two thundered down the field towards one another, and four times Steffon's lance cracked and splintered off of Ser Loras, with only three lances touching the Prince. On the fifth pass, the excitement was at it's pinnacle as the two came charging down the lists again. Sansa was torn as the gallant Reachman and the quiet Prince neared each other. Ser Loras proved the better though, as Steffon's lance made contact, it greatly bent, but not to the point of breaking, while the Knight of Flowers made contact with him straight in the chest, sending him flying to the dirt.

Once the Prince was relieved of his armor, he returned to the stands to watch the remaining jousts. He missed Ser Barristan Selmy being unseated by Ser Jaime Lannister, but he sat next to Bran as Sandor Clegane and the Kingslayer got into position.

"Enjoying yourself my Lady?" He asked her, accepting a cup of wine from a servant.

"Yes your Grace, the competition has been nerve wracking." She responded, remembering her manners.

"And what of you, young Bran?" He asked her brother, who could not have been happier at the grand display of chivalry before them, he had talked of little else when the tourney had been announced.

"It's great! It's everything like I imagined, though I wish Ser Barristan hadn't lost." The little boy had been made Ser Barristan's squire and was enjoying every moment of it.

The outrage following the next pairing, Ser Loras versus the Mountain, had left Steffon furious, he muttered something under his breath about the Martells before leaving them to return to the Red Keep. His mood changed almost instantly smiling and patting Bran on the back as he stood, and bowed his head as he placed a kiss on Sansa's hand. "A pleasure, as always my Lady." He said before he turned and walked away to where their brother Jon waited with the rest of the Prince's Silver Cloaks.

A soft voice spoke in her mind. "Maybe I picked the wrong Prince…"