The Black Stag: A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfiction
Summary: Robert and Cersei were able to conceive a son, Steffon, heir to the Iron Throne. Rated M.
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire nor Game of Thrones
Chapter Seven
Aegon Targaryan trusted no man more than Jon Connington. Jon had been his father in all but name, his teacher, his confidant, and his playmate when he was a boy. Jon was the closest thing he had to family in the known world. Even now, travelling to Pentos to finally meet the other two remaining Targaryans, Aegon knew in his heart that he could stand the shame of kinslaying if it meant protecting Jon. He had heard often enough that his father had been fond of Jon as well. It was with this knowledge and his own familiar love for the red-headed man that he named him his Hand of the King in a small ceremony before they set sail.
It was also because of this love that he agreed to meet with Arianne Martell. And when he did, he was pleasantly surprised to see such a beauty. Though older than he thought his wife should be when they were first wed, and even a few years older than Aegon himself, she was comely and within her flowed a sensuality that even the best whores couldn't hope to match. How much of that was natural or an act put on for his benefit he didn't know.
The way she would rest her head on his shoulder and cozy up to him during their nights at sea kept Aegon's mind at work long after he retired to his chambers. And his thoughts of her bordered on sinful. But she was to be his wife and nobody had the right to question a king's desire for his wife. Nobody had the right to question a king's desire for anything.
It was only the word of Jon advising him not to sully the honor of the only major Westerosi house backing his return to power that kept Aegon from simply claiming what was his like he had with some notable maids in his service over the years.
Unlike his enemies, the Usurper and his pet wolf, kingship was Aegon's by right. He was the son of Rhaegar Targaryan. In him flowed the blood of three-hundred years of kings and queens. In him flowed the blood of the dragon.
But Jon had made sure Aegon knew more about the ruling than who had the better claim. Aegon knew several languages, including the variation of Valaryian closest to that spoken by his ancestors. He knew poetry and writing. He knew fishing and hunting. He knew how to mend wounds. He understood the Faith of the Seven. He knew what it was to go hungry for a day. He knew what it was to to work with the common people. But, most of all, he knew how to fight. Since he was old enough, Aegon favored nothing more than his sword. If allowed, he would practice his drills from dawn until dusk, only stopping due to a stern word from Jon or a gentle reminder from Duck that too much training could be harmful. All those things he knew and practiced because it was his duty as a king. He practiced the sword because he loved it.
Aegon and his followers, composed of the Golden Company and his original retainers, had decided to land days outside of Pentos to avoid a panic in the city thinking the fabled militia had come for war. They would march in an orderly manner with their banners matched by flags of parlay until after they had concluded their business in the city. Only when Aegon was reunited with his family would they fly the Targaryen banner proudly once again.
As the camp set up around him, Aegon found a small clearing to work on some of the finer points of his swordsmanship. He started practice with the basics that Duck had taught him when he was barely old enough to hold a wooden blade. He finished with the more complex attacks that Duck said would catch most of his opponents off guard.
Aegon's style was harsh and focused heavily on attacks, He favored quick, strong strikes to his opponent's vitals. He charged with a ferociousness that befit someone who called a dragon their sigil.
"You've talent, Your Grace," the voice of his intended broke through his concentration. Princess Arianne stood a few feet away from Aegon, her arms crossed across her chest and her eyes dancing merrily.
"Thank you, Princess," Aegon said. "As I should. All kings should be talented with a blade."
"I've never known my father to engage in martial activities," she continued. "He's been confined to his chair for most of my memory. My uncle, though, is one of the fiercest warriors alive. He prefers the spear."
"Prince Oberyn, correct?"
"You've been studying, Your Grace," Arianne noted with approval. She moved closer, snatching a cloth from the ground and ran it over Aegon's face.
He snatched the cloth from her, maybe a bit too harshly, and smirked back. "Lord Jon thought it wise to know as much about your house as possible. After all, my own mother was a Martell."
"Indeed, she was," Arianne noted. "All my life, I've been told stories about Princess Elia Martell and how the Lannisters set their mad dog on her. Uncle Oberyn considers it the greatest tragedy in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."
"He would be right," Aegon noted with conviction lacing his voice. "Tywin Lannister will pay for his crimes. As will Gregor Clegane. And then we will kill the Usurper and his bitch Cersei and Ned Stark and the Crown Prince and all the rest of them that oppose my rightful place on the Iron Throne. Fire and Blood, Princess. It's more than my house words."
"Indeed, Your Grace."
"Now, did you have a reason to seek me out during my practices?" Aegon asked.
"Yes, Your Grace. Lord Connington has sent for you. He wishes for you to clean up and prepare. We enter Pentos today."
Aegon nodded, turning on his heel and briskly walking back to his tent.
After cleaning himself and changing into his best clothing, a crimson velvet doublet adorned with onyx gemstones marking the eyes of a dragon embroidered in the fabric, a pair of grey breeches tailored to hit his legs perfectly, and a black cloak with the three-headed dragon vibrant on its outside, Aegon pulled himself into his most royal pose and made his way to his horse.
The ride to Pentos was short and anti-climatic. Aegon rode in the middle of the pack next to Jon, only their clothes differentiating them from the mercenaries they rode with. Aegon chafed under the reasoning of this decision. His banner should be flying proudly at all times, not hidden away until Jon thought it prudent. When Aegon came into this throne, he would make sure the dragon banner was never hidden again.
The procession through the streets was met with a sort of fearful curiosity as the people of Pentos stayed clear of the Golden Company as they passed, but made sure to poke their heads out of their doors and windows and watch.
Eventually, the company made its way up a large hill to stop in front of an ornately built building, overflowing in opulent wealth. It stood three stories all adorned with gold, the two upper floors each having a balcony overlooking the sea and each bedecked with golden statues depicting nude women lewdly displaying their bodies for viewing pleasure.
In front of the manse waited the widest man Aegon had ever seen. AEgon could see in his youth how he may have been considered handsome, but any attractive qualities in his face and body had turned to mushy fat in the years since. His stomach was so large it hung out maybe a foot from his waste and only the reflection catching off the metal of the belt gave Aegon any idea of its color. It was gold as well.
His hair was blonde and thinning at the top, retreating from his temples and slicked back with some sort of strong smelling perfume. His beard, as Aegon could see, was covered in oil and forked at the end.
Standing at his side was another plump man. He was bald and the robes he wore were a rich lilac color. Unlike the first man who wore a broad smile, this man was staring almost impassively at the company.
Harry Strickland, the commander of the company, held up a weathered fist and the presession stopped. He stepped down from his horse and cracked his neck, his men following suit. Jon and Aegon met with Harry in front of the procession and the three men stepped forward to greet their hosts.
The lilac man separated himself from his partner, bowing deeply to Aegon.
"Your Grace," he began in a soft, high voice. "It does my heart good to see you again after all these years."
He rose from his bow and extended both hands, catching Jon's proffered one between both. "Lord Jon. I hope you are well."
Jon nodded in greeting and turned to Aegon. "Your Grace, may I present Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers."
Aegon's eyes narrowed. "You bring in front of me a man who sits on the Usurper's council? I have no kind words for Robert Baratheon's lackeys."
There was a flash of surprise in Varys' eyes. "I apologize for my position, Your Grace. Some of us had to make… unsavory decisions since the fall of your family. Had I not, I would have been killed."
"Lord Varys is a friend and ally, Aegon," Jon said, placing a calming hand on Aegon's shoulder like he did when Aegon was a boy. "He was the one who orchestrated your removal from King's Landing. He is the reason you're alive."
Aegon didn't respond, but he nodded in greeting.
Jon stepped forward and motioned for the other man. "And may I introduce our host, Magister Illyrio Mopatis."
The rotund man bowed as low as his belly would allow. "It is a great honor hosting you in my humble manse, Your Grace."
Illyrio rose from the bow with a great deal of effort. "And allow me to introduce you to your uncle and aunt, Viserys and Daenerys."
Aegon raised a curious eyebrow as two figures emerged from Illyrio's manse. The first was a young man, lean and gaunt, with a hard look in his eyes. The second was a young woman, by far more beautiful than any Aegon had seen before.
"Your Grace," Jon said. "We will leave you to get to know your family. Varys and I have matters to discuss."
…...
Jon watched, from one of Illyrio's balconies, with something akin to fatherly worry as Aegon and his relative talked for the first time. Truth be told, he didn't quite like the idea of involving Viserys or Daenerys in their plans for Westeros. Viserys, in particular, had too great a claim to the throne himself for Aegon to be truly secured in his right by the time they took the damned thing. But Varys was right. Aegon would want to fight in the war to come and there was no guarantee that he would survive. All of Rhaegar's closest friends, like Arthur, were dead and Jon wasn't the swordsman he had been in his youth. They needed a contingency. While Jon would have vastly preferred Rhaegar's son on the throne, any carrying Rhaegar's blood was better than the man who killed him or his offspring.
Next to Jon, Varys surveyed the scene with the same calculating look he always wore when he wasn't playing the part of a simpering fool.
The two men were silent for a long moment, both lost in their observations, before Varys spoke up. "Is he ready?"
Jon pondered the question. He had trained Aegon since birth in all the skills Jon knew Rhaegar possessed. And he had made sure that the boy knew the hard work of the commoners. But he also knew Aegon was proud in a way Rhaegar never was. "He is trained, for sure. He knows all the courtly disciplines and is more deadly with a blade than any two men in the Golden Company. But he is headstrong and proud. He wears his arrogance like an armor and thinks the world owes him his crown because of who his father was."
"And I'm sure you haven't disavowed him of that notion. After all, who loved Rhaegar Targaryen more than you?"
Jon ignored the dig. He was too old to care what the world thought of him. Let the Spider talk, it mattered not. "With the proper guidance it can be contained, of course."
"Of course. And I'm sure he has named you his Hand."
"He has."
"A wise choice. Your last time holding the office ended in such an unfair manner. I'm sure this time will be different."
Jon snarled, but otherwise kept his composure. This was what Varys was obvious he was trying to determine the kind of man Jon became in the years since they have seen each other and how that man may have raised the future king of the Seven Kingdoms.
"And what of Baratheon's son?" Jon asked. "How does the Usurper's heir measure in comparison to our true king?"
Varys was quiet for a moment as he seemingly gathered his thoughts. "Steffon is a bright boy. Smart for his age. Smart for any age, really. He is well read and well spoken. He is only now starting to take his martial practices seriously, but from what I gather he is performing well, though I doubt he will ever match his father. He has also taken an interest in politics. He now attends and even participates in the Small Council meetings and his advice is wise beyond his years. Jon Arryn taught him well. And, from what I gather, he is an excellent cyvasse player. Almost unbeaten."
Jon frowned. "So, he excels at a game. What of it?"
"He is still young, but he won't be green forever," Varys responded. "Imagine if he turns that talent to battle tactics or manipulation. The boy has more potential than we would have hoped or wanted. If you wish to end his threat, do it before he realizes that potential and becomes this generation's Tywin Lannister."
Jon's frown deepened. Another Tywin Lannister, but holding the throne, was not an enemy any sane man wished to face. Tywin Lannister didn't need to beat you on the field of battle. He won before you even arrived. And given the Baratheon superiority in numbers, any man with even a small ability in strategy would be almost insurmountable. It only hardened Jon's resolve that they needed to strike quickly and decisively. Whatever approach they made toward taking the throne needed to happen before Steffon Baratehon came into his own.
…...
Steffon carefully studied the board in front of him as he did every time he played the game. He enjoyed playing, it helped clear his mind and relieve him of his burdens. He would prefer playing against his uncle Tyrion, but any opponent in a pinch would do. Except Joff. His younger brother had no patience for the game and even less when he realized Steffon was going to win. Joffrey's favored tactic would inevitably shift to derogatory insults in an effort to throw Steffon off his game. It rarely worked to do anything other than annoy Steffon and double his efforts to win as quickly as possible.
Steffon's current opponent, Lady Olenna, didn't speak much during the game. She didn't need to. So far, she had seen through and countered accordingly the first three traps Steffon attempted to set for her. He could have beaten her on this turn, but he wanted to prolong the game and explore her weaknesses. She felt the need to test him when they last spoke and he felt the need to return the favor now. He was sure she wasn't as good as his uncle; that much was obvious from the way she could only keep on the defensive since Steffon started his attack. But she was better than almost anyone Steffon had played before and he was certainly pushed to his limit. Lady Olenna certainly lived up to her reputation.
It also didn't help that Lady Margaery was watching the game. His future wife was also silent, but her eyes followed each move made by Steffon or her grandmother with rapt attention. Steffon had to admit, he was impressed. When they met, Steffon thought her clever, sure, but nowhere near the level of intelligence she was displaying at the moment. He would have considered her more like her father or even Ser Garlan. But it was obvious from her body language that she was a student of her grandmother and was hiding a mind equal to many of the maesters in the kingdom. It intrigued him.
Steffon resumed his focus on the game and moved again, his dragon taking a significant strategic position on the board. Inwardly, he smirked. Lady Olenna would be hard pressed to defeat this latest move without sacrificing too many of her pieces in the process. The game was over when she realized it.
The moment game a minute later when she sighed and tipped her own king over, signaling her surrender. Despite her loss, the old woman smiled through her gums and missing teeth. "Well played, My Prince. It seems the rumors of your abilities were not unfounded. It has been a while since I've been bested in this game. Only my grandson, Willas, has been able to beat me with any regularity and those victories aren't often."
"You played well, Lady Olenna," Steffon replied with a sincere smile. "You beat my first three traps perfectly. I believe this game was more won on luck than anything else."
"Humility doesn't suit your stag features," she responded with a chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. "Now, you've spent enough time with an old lady. Why don't you escort my granddaughter on a walk. Take that pious knight of yours with you if you must."
Lady Olenna rose from her seat and hobbled her way out of the hall, leaving Steffon sitting there with Lady Margaery and only the presence of Ser Bonifer at the door to maintain some sort of proper decorum.
Still, Steffon rose and offered his arm to Lady Margaery. "Shall we?"
The two exited the hall and entered the gardens, Ser Bonifer following closely behind.
Steffon glanced at the young woman on his arm. "Did you enjoy the game, Lady Margaery?"
Margaery chuckled. "The two of you play at such a high level. I was terribly confused."
Steffon frowned. Though she was smiling and words sounded sincere, they didn't match with the image of the girl paying rapt attention to the game as it was played. She was lying and Steffon would prefer her to tell the truth if they were to have any sort of relationship going forward.
Steffon had watched his parents enough to know that they couldn't stand to be in the presence of each other for any longer than a meal. How they managed to have four children was beyond him. Yet, because of these observations, Steffon was determined to have a different relationship with his wife than his father. He wasn't stupid. His marriage would be political and it was possible that genuine feelings of love would never grow between Lady Margaery and himself. But. they could at least have a relationship built on trust and respect. And that involved a degree of honesty.
"I doubt that," Steffon answered. "You watched that game as someone who understood exactly every move that was played. Why, then, do you feel the need to conceal that from me?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered, for a time longer than Steffon was comfortable, until Lady Margaery spoke again. "My apologies, My Prince. I was taught that men would prefer I keep my observations to myself."
That sounded closer to the truth, but it still irritated Steffon. Mayhaps some men preferred women to be silent and obedient. And he was sure that many of those men were of the nobility. Noble ladies had a, frankly awful, part to play in this society and it often didn't leave room for improvisation. But, Steffon was still young and had only recently began to notice the opposite sex. He was hoping to make his own decision on the type of women he liked. He was sure it wouldn't be the passive or quiet type.
"Some men, sure," Steffon said after a minute. "However, I don't think I'll be one of those men. I would prefer the truth."
"Men say they want the truth. They hardly ever mean it," Margaery responded with a huff.
She was silent for the next few turns around the garden and steadfastly refused to even look Steffon in the eye.
Maybe a softer approach was necessary with Margaery, Steffon realized as they spent another turn around the garden in agonizing silence. Her response was truthful, but also filled with more emotion than anything he had heard from her in their limited interactions up to this point. It was a shame that emotion was anger. And, still, Steffon felt that maybe a gentler prod would do more to help bridge the distance between the two. He could admit a truth of his own and use it to make her more comfortable with him.
"My lady," he started, softening his voice and stopping the two in their tracks. He turned to her and gently placed his hands on her arms. "I apologize if I angered you. The truth is that you're the first lady I have ever spent any time with. Having been engaged since birth, I've never needed to interact with the opposite gender outside of my mother and sister and my courtly duties. I simply hope that from now on you'll feel free to speak truthfully to me."
Steffon noted with inward glee at the flustered and confused look that spread across the girl's face. It was obvious that whatever she expected it wasn't an honest declaration.
"You need not apologize, My Prince," she said after a minute. "When my mother and grandmother instructed me on how to be a wife for the Crown Prince, truth was not something they figured would be appreciated."
"Then we should start small. When we're alone like this, please call me Steffon. Or, if you wish, Steff," he responded with a small smile.
"Then I insist you call me Margaery."
The two shared a companionable stillness, only the sounds of the garden's birds could be heard.
Margaery turned to look at Steffon. "In the spirit of truth, you could have beaten my grandmother two turns earlier. You were testing her."
"I was," Steffon laughed.
…...
The next day Steffon made his way to the front of the RedKeep, dressed in the only Lannister colored doublet he owned. He even went ahead and had the maids tie his hair back in an elegant knot. He was surprised at how much the Crown Prince he looked when he put forth the effort. And with his father conspicuously absent, it fell on him to represent his family and the throne. Anyone lesser would have been considered a grave insult to his grandfather.
Lord Stark stood next to Steffon, radiating discomfort at the approaching Lannister party. Steffon hadn't seen his grandfather in years, and knew even less about the man's relationship with Lord Stark, but he could reasonably guess that it was frosty as his grandfather's relationship with anyone else. Next to him, Uncle Jaime tried to portray his usual nonchalance, but he was too stiff for that to be believable. The only one who seemed to be cheerful about his grandfather's visit was Steffon's mother who wore a smile wide and full.
Behind him, his siblings fidgeted nervously. Joffrey was a young boy when Lord Tywin last visited probably didn't remember much about the Lord of Casterly Rock. Myrcella and Tommen hadn't even been born yet. Steffon had travelled to Casterly Rock three years ago, so he had a much better understanding of his grandfather. Even though Steffon had been a boy, his grandfather was cold and distant. He only questioned Steffon when he needed to teach a lesson. Steffon doubted very much that the man grew kinder with age.
As usual, Steffon could feel the calming presence of Ser Bonifer standing among the rest of the Baratheon contingent, but even this was undercut by the presence of Joffrey's sworn sword, the Hound.
Needless to say, Steffon was on edge as the Lannister party approached, his grandfather at the head of the party.
As his grandfather approached, Steffon took a moment to truly observe the man. He cut an imposing figure, wearing the finest clothing possible colored to his family's legacy. Though bald, he wore mutton chops on each cheek that still maintained their golden hue. His eyes were green and piercing and as he drew closer it was obvious that he was analyzing Steffon in the same way Steffon was analyzing him. The look on his face was cold and calculating.
When he was only a few feet away, Lord Tywin dismounted his horse and stepped forward. Steffon, who knew his place well, stepped forward to meet him.
"Lord Tywin Lannister," Steffon began in a clear and commanding voice. "On behalf of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Steffon of the House Baratheon, welcome you to King's Landing. You and your men will be escorted into the capital, given proper accommodations, and your horses and supplies seen to."
Lord Tywin didn't respond. He merely leveled Steffon with another calculating look before handing his horse off to one of the Lannister soldiers and walking away.
The rest of the party rushed to walk with the Lord of Casterly Rock as he made his way into the city, but Steffon stood rooted to the spot as he stared after his grandfather. There was a commanding presence in his grandfather's eyes as if his word carried more weight than any law Steffon's father could mandate. Steffon had been in the presence of commanding men before and he was sure to in the future. But Lord Tywin was something different. And that commanding presence was bothersome to Steffon because he still hadn't figured out why his grandfather had come to the capital.
Steffon's mother had stated that her father was in the capital for the tournament and to celebrate Steffon's upcoming nameday. Yet, that didn't feel right to Steffon. The mighty Lord Tywin wouldn't deem a tournament nor his grandson's fourteenth nameday as an important enough reason to leave Casterly Rock. So, logically, there had to be something else. Something that Steffon wasn't seeing.
End of Chapter Seven
Author's Note: So, I wanted to take this moment and, once again, thank everyone for reading this work. I also thought I would address some of the more common concerns people have found with the story and, perhaps, justify some of my decisions moving forward.
I have been asked why it seems like Steffon doesn't have much going for him. If you find Steffon to be boring, then I apologize. I will admit that when I started this work, I didn't want Steffon to be overpowered or a Mary Sue/Marty Stu. So, I tried to tone down his more notable characteristics. This seemed to have backfired because now it seems that people find Steffon to be lacking any sort of distinguishing quality.
For these people, I offer this explanation. Steffon was born premature and with what we would call asthma. Therefore, he was never going to be the warrior his father is. And he is small, but only for a Baratheon. I imagine his father's robus genes would have landed him somewhere around average height, maybe a bit shorter because he has yet to reach his growth spurt. But, with training under the knights he has, Steffon has improved to a capable fighter. He is not great yet, but he is certainly better than the rank and file of his father's guards or the City Watch. I would say that he could probably now fight Robb Stark more fairly than the utter asskicking he got earlier in the story. With time, hopefully, I will continue to show Steffon's improvement as a swordsman.
Steffon's actual abilities are more confined to cerebral pursuits. He is very much like his uncle Tyrion in this regard. By the time of the story, Steffon has already finished his lessons with the maesters, but he never had a problem with letters or sums. In a modern setting, Steffon is the kid in class who seems to effortlessly get As or Bs. These things don't necessarily translate well into the text because I don't feel like having Steffon rattle off random facts about Westeros. Nobody likes a know-it-all and there is enough of his father in him that he would find doing so distasteful.
Finally, Steffon is a tactical prodigy. He understands the game of cyvasse on an almost intrinsic level and his skills in said game are among the elite. However, Steffon is still very young. While his skills may one day translate to political and strategic manipulation, he needs time to learn. Steffon may be one of the more naturally gifted people in the country, but he is surrounded by people who have been playing this game longer than he has been alive. He'll get there, but it won't be overnight and it won't be easy.
Hopefully, that clears up Steffon's character concept and I'm truly sorry if I have failed to deliver on those ideas. I will strive to do better moving forward, but please don't hesitate to contact me with ways in which I might improve.
I was also hoping to address Steffon and Margaery's relationship. Both of them are young and inexperienced when it comes to the opposite gender. For Steffon, at least, this is his first meaningful contact with a girl that isn't family or a servant. There are bound to be some misunderstandings. This is also A Song of Ice and Fire. Even the most loving relationships aren't exactly Byron or Keats. Steffon and Margaery will get to a point where they find love, because frankly I want to write a bit more romance than I see in Martin's original text. But, don't expect a relationship filled with flowery prose or anguished declarations in the rain. That isn't how these relationships work.