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 Nine
The winds howled and the night was alive with the sound of petrified animal life as they scurried about the trees. The once roaring fire that promised to keep away the terror of those things his wetnurse told him about, lay all but dormant. A small ember stood in its place, barely providing enough light to bathe its dependents' tents in an ethereal orange glow.
All of them slept. His father. Ser Barristan. Ser Bonifer. Uncle Renly. The score of unlucky guards that had been sent with them to act as nothing more than makeshift construction workers and occasional muscle. They all slept, except for Steffon. He was wide awake and staring hard at the slowly dying ember before him.
He had tried to sleep. For what felt like hours he had laid in bed and stared at the ceiling of the tent. Even from two tents over, though he could hear his father snoring loudly from the wine. And when it wasn't that, it was the muttered prayers of Ser Bonifer as he prepared to end his day. Or the pacing of Ser Barristan on the perimeter of the campsite before his watch ended.
All of it seemed much too loud and unnerving to Steffon and was the cause of his eventual departure from his tent to sit at the fireside.
But there were other reasons as well. The safety of his uncle Tyrion. The probable war that would follow if he were harmed. The danger faced by the Starks in the capital and at Winterfell. Lord Stark was an honorable man, but nobody would call him politically savvy. And his family was the aggressor. They would be skewered under the might of the Crown and the Westerlands, and even his father wouldn't be able to stop it.
The wind picked up again and Steffon shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around him. It was an intense wind and he had only felt one like it once before, on his only trip to Storm's End as a child. He remembered that trip vividly because his father excused himself for over an hour and Uncle Renly made every attempt to keep Steffon away from the tiltyard. It was no matter, he understood they were hiding Edric from him. It was that trip that prompted him to begin to write his half-brother in secret. That, and, the unfortunate situation that was his relationship with Joffrey.
There was another strong burst of wind and the crack of thunder overhead and the campfire went out. Steffon was plunged into a darkness like he had never seen before. A darkness so complete even the stars in the sky did nothing to illuminate the world around him.
Then, as if from the burnt out embers themselves, a sickly green smoke rose from the fires and formed itself into the shape of a person. A ghost or a shade wearing the trappings of Steffon's own house across his chest. Steffon was terrified beyond capacity and tried several times to move, but his body was rooted to the spot. He could feel his breath coming out in ragged, uneven interludes. His pulse was running and the sweat began to pour down his chest in pools, leaving his silken shirt clinging to his body.
"Come now," the shade addressed him in a gruff, but not unpleasant baritone. "Is this how my own blood reacts to be frightened? If I meant you harm, boy, what good do you think running away would do?"
Steffon was surprised that the shade spoke to him in such a manner, further still that it already guessed his actions and motivations. Still, though, he stayed quiet, but no longer tried to flee.
"Tell me, boy," the shade continued in the same no nonsense command. "Do you know who
I am?"
Steffon stared hard at the shade in front of him. The stag adorning his chest, plus the comments made about his blood, confirmed that this was a Baratheon, for sure. This was further confirmed by the massive size of the shade, who if he had been standing would tower well above Steffon and most living men. In the camp, maybe only his father would be of size with the spirit. In fact, the shade and his father could pass for twins. So, someone in his direct ancestral line. As Steffon analyzed the figure before him, the final clue became apparent. The shade was missing a hand.
"Either a fever dream," Steffon commented with a wry smile, despite the terror he felt. "Or the legendary Orys One-Hand, the first Lord Baratheon."
The shade's features softened, though he did not smile. "They told me you were smart, boy. I'm glad to find it's true."
"They?"
Orys waved his other hand. "There are many over here that even in my state I have little way of understanding and less of communicating to one still living."
"And, what, you've come of the Old Gods or Seven?"
"Old Gods, Seven, Fire, Drowned, they're all the same. Simply people trying their best to understand a force in the universe they will never have the ability to comprehend. Whatever it is that created the universe. Whatever it is that allowed me to speak to you tonight, it is far beyond the comprehension of me or you or any of the holy men you've met. Despite everything, I've not become omniscient in my death nor do I have answers that I lacked in life. I've just been granted a view of a bigger picture. In my life I preferred the battlefield or the tavern."
Steffon managed to chuckle at that. "You sound like my father."
"I tried to visit your father, once," Orys continued. "Before he took the life of the Dragon Prince. But, angry as he was, he would have been a poor choice."
"Choice for what?" Steffon asked.
"A favor for a long dead man. When I was alive, I fought beside my half-brother and put him on the throne. As much as my family prospered from this, I fear it was a terrible mistake. Not with Aegon, but with everyone one of his wretched descendants that followed. Do you follow me, boy?"
Steffron bristled at being called boy, but nodded along. If this spirit truly was Orys Baratheon, then he confirmed a widely held belief that he had been the bastard brother of Aegon the Conqueror and one of the key reasons the Targaryen dynasty started in the first place. He had even served as the first Hand of the King. It was through this claim and his grandmother Rhealle that Robert was given the crown after the Rebellion. Still, however, the Targaryens were gone. The only two left were banished to the other side of the Narrow Sea.
"This is a moot point, the Targaryens are no longer. My father rules in King's Landing and I will after him," Steffon answered.
"My mistake was putting a Targaryen on the throne. That family should have never held the realm. Even in their past, they have always been poisoned. They were always meant to rule alongside others. You've been chosen to rectify my mistakes, but that does not mean a slaughter of the Targaryens or an upheaval of the realm."
"Chosen?" Steffon raised an eyebrow in confusion. "As in some kind of prophecy?"
"Hardly," Orys replied. "Prophecies cannot and should not be interpreted literally or as referring to one single person. If they are true, they will find a way without the interference of men. No, boy, I chose you as you are the last of my line with any sort of competency left. My family made the mistake of allowing the Targaryens to sit on the throne and my family shall lead the realm through the trouble it caused."
"If this is true, then shouldn't you have dealt with this during your life?"
"The universe often takes time to react to all events, big and small. The fallout from our actions long ago is only starting to solidify now."
"And why me? Why not my father or either of my uncles or my siblings?"
"I have judged them unworthy," came the simple reply of the spirit.
Steffon didn't have long to ponder that strange response as the spirit continued on.
"Though I know not what is coming, I know it must be stopped for the world to survive."
"And you believe me to be capable of saving the world?" Steffon asked, aghast. His nameday was only a few days away and he would be four and ten. Surely, there were more worthy, more capable people in the kingdoms. The world didn't need a boy. It would need a hero.
"You are my blood."
And with those words, the spirit dissipated into the night leaving Steffon to stare at the spot it once occupied.
Steffon awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding against his chest, and hands shaking in abject terror. He had vivid dreams before. He was sure everyone had. But that dream had felt so real. So real that he was almost certain that it actually happened. But that was absurd, right? He was, as far as he knew, not in possession of any latent magical talent. He wasn't a warg or a greenseer like in the stories his wetnurse told him at night. And, as far as he knew, he wasn't even special as a prince. He wasn't Rheagar. He didn't bewitch any maidens like the Silver Prince. He wasn't a fantasy like his father had been in his youth. So, why would his ancestor choose him? What could he offer?
…...
Five blasted days away from the city and all Steffon had to show for it was the carcass of a small, runted Stag being carried for him by one of the Baratheon soldiers brought along as his protection and a truly unsettling conversation that he still wasn't sure happened. The stag itself was already injured by the time Steffon found it. It was limping on one bad leg, much too fat, half-blind, and slow to learn about the danger it faced. That wasn't true of its children, however, as at least one of the stags was quick-witted enough to escape the onslaught that ensued. The other children died with their father, but Ser Barristen noted that these seemed found more than anything. As if they weren't the children of this stag, merely looking for protection from the colder night airs.
Still, Steffon had bagged not only one stag, but an entire feast's worth and that was all that mattered to his father who crowed to Uncle Renly, through wine soaked breath, about their family and their legacy. By the time he began his story about "making the eight" and how it meant that he had become a real man, Steffon was ready to throw him in front of a boar himself. Gods be damned. He was sure Sers Barristan, Bonifer, and Uncle Renly all felt the same.
As for the dream he had last night… well, that was an entirely different problem. If it truly happened and wasn't a byproduct of his stress or a sign of some form of madness, then he was tasked with saving the world from some yet unknown threat. That brought with it a whole slew of problems. If it were madness then he was dooming the realm to either his rule as he wasted away or Joffrey's and he truly didn't know which was worse.
And, yet, the hunt itself provided exactly the distraction his father had needed. He was no longer in a foul mood and with the tournament for Steffon and Lord Stark only days away, would probably stay that way for a while longer. It would surely make Lord Stark's life easier.
And Steffon's own mood had been lifted somewhat as well, as three days into their journey they had received word that Uncle Tyrion was headed back to the capital. Though Steffon was upset with the fact that he had to win a trial by combat to do so. As much as Steffon was looking forward to hearing how his favorite uncle managed to win any sort of martial challenge, he imagined a mess of Lannister gold and a champion with less than honorable morals were involved, he was mostly just glad that fool Catelyn and Lady Lysa had not killed him. His own feelings aside, they would have been leaving the forest with a country at war and not just some dead animals.
Upon returning to the Red Keep, Steffon whisked himself away to his rooms with Ser Bonifer at his side and a command to return for the fest that night so that he may regale the Royal Court with his exploits hunting.
The two walked in silence for a moment and Steffon kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, lost in thought. With Uncle Tyrion on his way home, it solved the majority of Steffon's problems at the moment. However, he was worried about his grandfather's retribution. Lord Tywin's wrath was legendary, as was his pride, and he wouldn't take this slight lightly. Since Tyrion was out of custody, there would be no immediate response, but it would be foolish for anyone to believe that the Warden of the West would soon forget such a slight against his family. There would be some form of retribution in some way that allowed Lord Tywin to regain his lost sense of pride.
The question persisted as he undressed and proceeded to wash five days of filth and grime off his body. Letting himself soak for a moment in the lavender-scented water that his maids provided to relieve some of the immense tension he was feeling, he let himself ponder the various questions he had been avoiding while out for the hunt.
The first, and most important, was how his grandfather would attempt to protect his honor in the face of this latest insult. Here, Steffon had no idea how to react. It was true that with Uncle Tyrion being released, Lord Tywin would not go to war. But, with the amount of gold owed to the West, Steffon's grandfather could hold the throne hostage until changes were made that he would prefer. The most troubling of those would be, of course, pressuring the king to remove Ned Stark from his post. Steffon doubted that this would be the case, because his grandfather was not known for such risky gambits unless they had almost no chance of failure. His grandfather would plan something else.
His mother would be another issue. The Queen wanted power and everyone could see just how much she hated the influence Lord Stark had on the king. She may use this slight to pursue an avenue to remove Lord Stark and maybe have Lord Tywin, or even Uncle Jaime, replace him as Hand. Steffon knew his father well enough to understand that he could only be controlled by men he trusted. With Jon Arryn dead, and there being little love between the king and Uncle Stannis, Ned Stark was truly the only man in the entire kingdom capable of making his father see reason.
The other nagging problem in Steffon's mind was the conversation he had had with Lord Stark about the death of Jon Arryn. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it. He was consumed with grief and, besides, Lord Arryn had been an elderly man. Many men had lived longer, sure, but many had died of natural causes at much younger ages as well. But if it was simply a natural death, then why would Lord Stark be questioning it at all? He could be grieving, but Lord Stark seemed more like a man to suffer in silence than to question a boy about the death of a man who had been mentor to them both. Did Lord Stark believe something untold had happened to Lord Arryn?
And, if it were only grief, then why was he so interested in that book of genealogy? According to his Steffon's father, Lord Stark had been the more studious of the two and much better at lessons. Still, he was a man grown and genealogy was an odd choice for a random learning desire. Steffon was perceptive, he had seen the look Lord Stark gave him when he questioned the older man about the book. It was if the Hand was trying to analyze Steffon. Whatever the issue, Steffon knew he would need to discuss it with Lord Stark at the earliest opportunity.
All of these problems were now compiled with his visitor last night and Steffon found himself more lost than ever before.
Steffon sank further into his bath water and let out a frustrated groan. All these problems and no solutions came to mind. He wished these matters were like his lessons. He understood those with ease. Letters came easily to him. He could remember Great Houses without much effort. Numbers were more difficult, but he was still far better than any of his siblings. But politicking and the rule of the realm was different. Yet, it was his destiny to rule.
He could choose to rule like his father and delegate to his advisors. But that wasn't Steffon. He had realized long ago that he and his father were different people. And, as much as he hated to admit it, his father wasn't the most capable ruler. No, Steffon needed to be more proactive in his rule than his father.
His grandfather, Lord Tywin, was considered quite an administrator and ruler by all who knew him. And it was well known that he was the true strength behind the Mad King while he was still capable. But Lord Tywin was also cold. In his sparse interactions with his grandfather, Steffon found a man that never smiled nor gave consideration for anything other than what he considered the right course of action. Steffon didn't know if he could be that cold. He could be angry, sure, and he could be rageful. But, to be void of warmth wasn't something Steffon believed he would manage.
It was the same problem with his Uncle Stannis. Another capable ruler without a hint of compassion.
No matter who Steffon chose to emulate, there seemed to be some fatal flaw. Perhaps, then, he should adopt his own method of ruling. Take from the men who came before him and forge his own path as a ruler. But, before this, he would need to learn how to politick. No matter the type of ruler he became, he would never survive in this city without first learning to read the people around him and how to best get them to work for the betterment of the realm.
Tonight, however, he had a more pressing issue.
…...
Dressed in his finery, and with his hair tied back properly, Steffon sat on the dais at his father's right between the king and Lord Stark. Lord Stark's two daughters sat next to him, Arya sullen about, from what he understood, wearing a formal dress. Sansa just seemed enraptured with the pomp and circumstance surrounding her. His other siblings all sat alongside their mother who herself was at their father's left. The rest of the dais consisted of Steffon's grandfather, his uncles, Lady Olenna, and Lady Margaery. His intended gave him a warm smile upon his arrival, but they hadn't had a chance to speak since.
Around the hall, delegations from all over the country had started to arrive for the tournament. There was a large party from the Reach taking up almost half the room and led by a returning Mace Tyrell and his sons, Sers Garland and Loras. Accompanying them were their most distinguished banners such as Lord Tarly and Lord Hightower. The spirit of chivalry was in full effect with the Reachmen as they were often the most present on the dance floor and the knights were making their best effort to dance and flirt with every maiden in the hall not explicitly intended for either Steffon or Joffrey.
The delegation from the Westerlands flew their banners proud as well. Though most seemed put out, and distrustful glares were sent in the direction of Lord Stark and his daughters, they were unwilling to start trouble fearing the recompense of their liege, Lord Tywin. As it stood now, Uncle Tyrion was on his way back to the capital and the tension had simmered enough that all out war had been avoided.
The River Lords had sent a large retenue. Ser Edmure, the son of their liege, well into his cups and making bawdy jokes at any serving wench who had the misfortune of passing by.
The Vale's representatives were few as Lysa Arryn had largely kept her nobles and knights within her borders, but Steffon did see Bronze Yohn Royce deep in a discussion with Ser Bryden Tully, the Blackfish.
Dorne and the Iron Islands had sent no representatives to the tournament, which didn't surprise Steffon. Balon Greyjoy was prickly at best and psychotic at worst. The man was probably holding a grudge since his failed rebellion.
And the less said about Dorne's relationship with Steffon's father, the better.
Steffon had heard from his mother, with a disdainful sneer, when he arrived that the Northern contingent, though small, was on its way led by Robb Stark. They were currently at Moat Cailin, but would arrive well before the tournament began. Though Steffon would not personally be competing in the tournament, he hoped for a rematch with Robb Stark. It was that defeat that spurred Steffon to begin taking his martial training more seriously. He had no doubt that Ser Rodrik was an excellent trainer, but he wondered how that training compared to drilling with both Ser Bonifer and Ser Barristan daily.
Despite the lively conversation going on around him, Steffon was distracted by his racing thoughts. He barely noticed as the courses of the feast were passed under him or as he went through the motions of a dance with his sister, Myrcella, afterwards. He wasn't even sure of how much wine he had drank tonight, just that it was far beyond the amount he usually drank. And as worrisome as that was, it was far from his mind as he stared into the murky depths of his goblet.
"Is something troubling you, My Prince?" a soft, tittering voice asked from above him.
Steffon was pulled from his thoughts to see Lord Varys staring at him, concern written across his face. Steffon was almost convinced it was genuine. But, it wouldn't do for the Crown Prince to be seen as sullen during a feast that was given in his honor. "Nothing serious, My Lord. Just youthful follies."
"A burden shared is a burden lessened, My Prince. Would you like to talk about whatever is troubling you?"
Steffon leveled a flat gaze at Varys. There was perhaps one man in the country Steffon trusted less with his secrets than Varys and that was Littlefinger. The Master of Whispers was mad if he thought Steffon would willingly divulge anything. Besides, Steffon reasoned, Varys was probably only asking for information he either had or was close to acquiring without Steffon's aid.
"No thank you, My Lord," Steffon replied. "It truly is nothing major."
And with that, the rest of the evening passed Steffon in a haze. He had danced with his intended, as was custom, and also with Sansa Stark when it became obvious that Joffrey was not going to. But, he spoke few words to anyone and kept largely to himself. It was a poor showing for the Crown Prince, for sure, but it had to be better than a king calling for a food taster and threatening to burn anyone who looked at him too long.
Slowly, the hall emptied out and most of the guests retired to the rooms provided for them or their campsites if they didn't merit a place in the Red Keep. His siblings, along with the Stark girls, had all already gone to bed largely over the protests of Lady Arya. Despite only being a little over a year older than Joffrey, Steffon was allowed to stay through the feast. It wouldn't do for the Tyrells to see the prince they attached to their prize rose being treated like a child. And this worked out well for Steffon, as it gave him the opportunity to wait for Lord Stark.
Finally, as his father rather tactlessly followed a kitchen girl from the hall, Lord Stark rose from the table and exited. Steffon waited another moment in case Varys' eyes were still on him and followed the Hand of the King out of the hall with Ser Bonifer close behind.
"Lord Stark!" Steffon called, when he was sure that they were alone in the hall save for Ser Bonifer and Lord Stark's captain of the guard, Jory.
The man in question turned around. "My Prince? Is everything alright?"
Steffon nodded quickly. "Yes, My Lord. I was just hoping to have a word with you if you had a moment."
Steffon was hoping his tone was just too cheerful enough that Lord Stark could sense the urgency in his voice.
Lord Stark gave Steffon a questioning look, but nodded nonetheless. "We'll talk in my solar."
All four men walked quickly and quietly up the stairs in the Tower of the Hand to Lord Stark's solar. Steffon motioned for Ser Bonifer to take a post outside of the room with Jory as he followed Lord Stark inside the room.
Lord Stark motioned for Steffon to take a seat. "Is something amiss, Steffon?"
Steffon sighed. "Yes, actually. Forgive me for my impertinence, but I cannot help wonder about your questions about Lord Arryn."
"Go on."
"Again, forgive me My Lord, but do you believe something happened to cause Lord Arryn's death?"
Lord Stark's eyes widened. "Why do you think so?"
"Most people around the keep know that Lord Arryn and I were close. The man was like a grandfather to me, but none of them actually bothered to question what I knew about his death. And, if it was concern, Lord Stark, I appreciate it, but I doubt it."
Lord Stark nodded. "I forget sometimes how different you are from your father, Steffon. You look so much like him. But, you truly shouldn't concern yourself with Jon's death."
"Please, Lord Stark. One day I will be king and if something happens to my Hand, I would wish to know about it."
There was a long pause in which Lord Stark never broke his gaze from Steffon. To his credit, Steffon didn't flinch or falter, but merely kept his gaze even and firm. Finally, Lord Stark nodded. "I don't have all the answers myself, but, yes, I do believe Jon's death was no accident. He was murdered."
The answer splashed over Steffon like cold water. Never could Steffon imagine that someone would have harmed Lord Arryn. The man was warm, compassionate, and a consummate Hand that guided the kingdom for close to two decades and kept the peace despite an insurrection from the Greyjoys. To think that someone would harm Lord Arryn was awful and terrifying. Yet, Steffon knew Lord Stark was no liar. To even make such a suggestion and to the Crown Prince, meant that the new Hand had to be certain that such an event occurred. That left one question in Steffon's mind.
"Do you have a suspect, Lord Stark?"
He nodded.
"And may I ask who?"
Lord Stark paused again and Steffon could practically see the thoughts race through his mind. After another long pause, Lord Stark straightened his back and nodded. " I was hoping I could keep this from you, but you're correct. You won't be a boy forever and one day you will be king. This is something you'll have to face eventually. What do you know of your family's genealogy and history Steffon?"
"This is why you had that book the other night, correct?"
Lord Stark nodded.
Steffon drummed his fingers against the Hand's desk in thought. It was a subject about which Steffon particularly loved learning because it meant his father would be teaching him. And when he was younger, he loved the days that his father would spend time with him talking about their family. "Quite a bit, Lord Stark. I was named for my grandfather, the former Lord of Storm's End who drowned when my father and his brothers were younger. His father, Ormund, was married to Rhaelle Targaryen and served as Hand of the King for King Aegon the Fifth. It was through this marriage that my father was able to claim the throne as it meant he had Targaryen blood. The first Baratheon was a man named Orys, known as Orys One-Hand, who served as the first Hand of the King to Aegon the Conqueror. Some even claim he was the bastard half-brother Aegon himself."
Lord Stark nodded. "And do you know Tobho Mott?"
"The blacksmith on the Street of Steel? Only by reputation."
"Yes," Lord Stark answered and paused. "And you know of your father's proclivities?"
Steffon actually laughed at that. "Of course, My Lord. Though, I do believe Ser Barristan tried his best to shield me from that for most of my childhood."
"Tobho Mott has an apprentice in his shop. A young man named Gendry. I believe Gendry is your father's natural son."
Steffon wasn't surprised. He knew his father had numerous bastards scattered through the land. There was a girl in the Vale, Mya, and, of course, Edric at Storm's End.
"I wish I had known sooner, My Lord. I've been in contact with Edric since my trip to Storm's End years ago. I would have done something for Gendry. But, what does any of this have to do with Lord Arryn's death?"
"Gendry, Mya, and Edric from my understanding all have your father's coloring. As do you. As had every member of your family descended from Orys himself. Until, that is, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen."
The dream Steffon had flashed through his mind and the words from the spector rang through his head. They weren't worthy. And it made sense. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen weren't his father's children.
Steffon felt sick. He had helped raise Myrcella and Tommen. They came to him with their problems and when they were scared. And they adored the king. They lived for the days when he made time to spend with them, as little as they were. And though Steffon despised Joffrey, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, the younger boy wanted nothing more than to be loved and praised by Robert.
Steffon wasn't blind, he knew how his father was. He had seen him even tonight chasing after another conquest. But his mother had always seemed above that. To find that she had not only engaged in affairs herself, but then passed the children off as her husband's was beyond words. If Steffon died, Joffrey could sit on the throne despite not having a drop of Baratheon blood.
Steffon was afraid to ask the question, but he steeled himself. "And the father?"
"I believe it to be your uncle, Ser Jaime."
End of Chapter Nine
Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, everyone. Life has a habit of getting in the way of my writing. So, when I started this story, I was hesitant where to put Steffon's dream as it also seemed like something that could occur in the first chapter. But, I wanted to make sure I established Steffon as a character before I dropped him head first into the plot.