295 AC
Stormclouds, black and angry, congregated above the lands he surveyed from the tower which held his bedchambers. Prince Steffon gazed out the colored window-panes with a bored expression marring his features while thunder rumbled in the skies. In his mind's eye, he imagined a brawny man, dark-haired and fierce-eyed, swinging a mighty hammer against demons of ice and snow, striking them down like a wrathful god of storms with each thunderclap. He sat across from a table made from hard, black wood that came from a tree in the North, painted over with the dull-gold color of bronze and engraved with the runic language of the First Men.
For seven years he had fostered at Runestone. For seven years he had changed little by little into someone his younger self was unlikely to recognize and begrudgingly acknowledged that his father had a hand in it. The unbridled fury and stinging bitterness he felt as a young boy at the very mention or thought of his father had long since faded into a slightly obscuring mist in his mind along with the occasional sensation of burning resentment.
Steffon truly believed House Royce to be a gift sent from whichever singular god or group of gods pitied him, they were the family he wished for in King's Landing. He loved his trueborn family, let anyone who claimed otherwise burn in the Seven Hells, but denying the fact that the Royces began to mean more to him over the years served no purpose other than delusion. Bronze Yohn was like a second father to him, the man who took that boisterous little brat who rode up to his castle gates seven years ago and taught him what it was to be a man, to find his center and wield his anger rather than be wielded by it. And his lovely lady wife, Alysanne of House Royce of the Gates of the Moon was a kind woman, shrewd by nature and to him, more of a mother than the one who birthed him fifteen years ago.
The Royce boys, he had come to see as brothers in everything except blood. Heir to Runestone, Andar Royce, the mediator amongst their little group and the one who often got them out of trouble, was like an older brother in the way he always seemed to have wise words at the ready. Robar was closest to Steffon, his drinking partner and one who often got them into trouble whether it be with whores, cutthroats, or mountain clansmen. Lord Yohn's third son, Waymar was a graceful and slender loner. He was sorely missed inside the Gates of the Moon after riding north to join the Brotherhood of the Night's Watch.
The identical twins, Astella and Rowena, were far too young for the Baratheon to know in a meaningful way but they were a sweet pair of girls who he adored nonetheless. Ysilla, however, he knew very well. She was beautiful and sweet and shrewd and perfect, a lovely lady who had him smitten since the age of twelve. After his discovery of the fairer sex, Steffon had done some of the most foolish things imaginable in hopes of gaining Lady Ysilla's affection. The Tourney at Greenstone when I tried riding that old warhorse in the joust and got knocked on my arse by Beric Dondarrion, for example, he cringed at the memory.
Ysilla of House Royce seemed oblivious to the prince's attempts for her affection, a fact which left him with an ever-constant churning in his stomach he called ambivalence.
"Both the highborn and lowborn would have you believe the flames of war and rebellion that ravaged Westeros were ignited with Prince Rhaegar's kidnapping of Lyanna Stark acting as the first sparks, an admittedly less examined event in comparison to the aforementioned was the Defiance at Duskendale," Maester Ondrew said, trailing off to see if he had Prince Steffon's attention. He did not, though through no fault of his own. Ondrew had come to be regarded as one of the sharpest minds in the Realm. He was a man with so few intellectual equals that he could count them on a single hand without using all five fingers. The Prince, in his opinion, was a budding intellectual even a blind man could see that. He possessed a flair for economics and politics with martial prowess all of which would help him in kingship one day, yet he was cursed with the stubborn habit of daydreaming.
Steffon's eyes, a piercing indigo-colored nod towards the fourth of valyrian blood in his veins, regained their observant gleam and came to life when he finally leaned forward to speak. "I was under the impression that you were to teach me the histories and facts of the Seven Kingdoms I would rule one day, not mere speculation, or am I missing something?" Many would have found his words distastefully rude, he preferred to call it bluntness. He admired the maester for his keen mind and hunger for knowledge but Ondrew had a tendency of turning lectures into rants and inserting his own beliefs in the gaps where facts belonged but the question of which isolated event could be named the first sign of smoke in a great fire that would ravage Westeros was truly thought-provoking.
Damn you, the prince glared when he saw the maester's smile widen much too for his liking.
"Then tell me, my prince," Maester Ondrew spoke at a snail's pace, pouring himself a cup of Arbor Red after nonverbally offering one to Steffon who declined with a shake of his head, he preferred Bloody Marae. "Which event in the Realm's vast history do you deem the event that marked the coming end of House Targaryen's reign in Westeros?" And just like that, he had walked into a trap. The Baratheon sat there for a moment, slightly calloused hands supporting the weight of his chin as he pondered silently.
Most lordlings would surely agree that it was an even split between Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark and the executions of Rickard Stark and his heir, Brandon as they gave easy answers that required very little thought. Steffon, however, did not have the luxury of lackadaisical thinking associated with lordlings, not in the great game, the great game was horrifying and he had much to lose.
The image of a dark-dressed king appeared in his mind's eye, pale of complexion with a lean build, he wore a simple and unadorned yellow-gold circlet and sported a joyless face. Yes, that marked the beginning of the end in 153 AC. Steffon released a long-held breath.
"The Dragons," he answered and patted himself on the back when the old man's gaze turned curious. "House Targaryen was doomed the moment their last dragon died, a sickly and small, misshapen thing with withered wings."
Ondrew's eyes stayed on those of the crown prince as he took a deep gulp of Arbor Red. "The Targaryen dragons died out nearly one-hundred and fifty years ago."
He inclined his head. "An inarguable fact, but if you look at the concessions made during the reign of Aegon the Unlucky and those who came after, you would see how the death of the last dragons set a precedent for how the Targaryens were forced to behave; Daeron the Good's tactic of wedding his sister to Maron Martell to bring them into the fold is something that would not have happened had they still possessed dragons."
The Maester took another sip of wine, going further by sloshing around the drink for a moment before. Then he looked back up, an eyebrow raised. "And what would you consider the cause of House Targaryens sudden inability to produce healthy dragons and maintain dominion over them?"
"I won't claim to have anything more than a rudimentary understanding of bloodlines concerning animal husbandry," Steffon forewarned with a serious look in his eye, silencing Ondrew's open mouth with a cold stare, "but the multi-generational practice of incest could not have done anything more than increasing the likelihood of grotesques." The image of his stunted uncle appeared in his head as an example of what he meant. Steffon's maternal grandparents, Tywin and Joanna were first cousins which while not illegal, were far too close in relation to each other in the opinion of some. Perhaps if they had been more distantly related all of their children would have grown to be tall, golden, and beautiful. "This adds to my belief of the lack of dragons being the catalyst of House Targaryen's downfall. Aegon only conquered and held Westeros through the dragons which many see as symbols of power, fear, and prestige all of which were the foundations of their dynasty. It was the only reason we tolerated a family of inbred foreigners with dark moods and a penchant for dabbling in sorcery."
The Maester smiled in approval at his pupil's ability to validate his points through examples of history, though there was still much more to test him on. "Hypothetically speaking, say Aegon the Dragonsbane manages to bring back the dragons and becomes known as the Father of Dragons, what does the layout of Westeros look like in the year 277 AC?"
Such a deviation from the original history was sure to change many things throughout the Realm with its many ripples, he knew. Daeron the Young Dragon would have succeeded where Aegon and his sisters failed and conquered Dorne, likely sparing House Martell, ending the principality set up by Princess Nymeria and granting the title of Lord Paramount, though it's just as possible that a powerful House such as the Yronwoods would have sided with Daeron in exchange for lord paramountcy over Dorne. Baelor the Blessed never succeeds his brother which means the High Septon never gains much influence. Aegon the Unworthy is unlikely to become king which means no Great Bastards or Blackfyre Rebellions.
"Most of our history would have been naught had the dragons never died out, the ensuing ripples ensure the difficulty of accurate predictions," said Steffon, sighing when the look on Maester Olivar's face encouraged him to further explain. "The Young Dragon would have undoubtedly conquered Dorne as their killing of Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys was a one-in-a-million shot, a fluke. Had I been in Daeron's shoes, I would offer lord paramountcy to House Yronnwood or House Dayne in exchange for their support during my conquest and ensure House Martell's compliance by taking several high-value hostages. Without Daeron perishing in the Dornish desert, Baelor and Aegon never rule after him, meaning the Faith wouldn't gain much influence and the Blackfyre Rebellions never happen. If we then jump to 277 AC, the Defiance at Duskendale would never occur because the Mad King never would have assumed the throne during that time since Aegon the Fifth would not need to go to Summerhall and restore dragons to the Seven Kingdoms. My paternal grandparents likely never would have died in Shipbreaker Bay, the rebellion never occurs, my mother and father likely wouldn't marry which also means I wouldn't be here telling you things you figured out long ago."
Without hesitation, a smile graced Ondrew's face, "Marvelous, Prince Steffon! Absolutely marvelous!" He cried out, the half-sarcastic, half-genuine inflection in his voice clear as the blue skies seen overhead in the Vale of Arryn. Steffon nearly jumped across the table to throttle the maester when he saw his eyes light up with amusement and give him a knowing smile. "Now then, recount to me how modern-day Essos and Westeros would look from militaristic, cultural and economic standpoints had Barqa mo Grazdan, Ruler of the Ghiscari Empire formed a marriage alliance with Princess Mariah of Ny Saar in 3,875 BC and combined the Ghiscari lockstep legions with the water magic of the Rhoyne and declared war on the Freehold and won?"
Steffon took a long breath, clasped his hands, and looked back to the storm brewing outside his windows. "There is a large sum of words I could ascribe to you at the moment, but I feel the word 'vexing' may be an oversimplification."
After an hour-long back and forth of hypotheticals based on Westerosi and Essosi history, along with having to explain what he would have done had he been in the same position of various lords, ladies, princes, princesses, kings, and queens throughout history, Maester Helliweg came to his rescue with word from Lord Yohn and Lady Alysanne requesting his presence in the solar. Sweat pooled on his forehead at the thought of Yohn and Alysanne finding out about their skirmish a fortnight ago with some of the tribesmen in the mountains. However, Steffon could just tell by the look on Helliweg's face that it was far more serious. Ser Rolland walked behind him in silence, an ever-watchful sword and shield meant to protect him from harm.
He knocked musically with three at first, a pause, a final two, then was told to enter. Steffon saw Lord and Lady Royce sitting in front of the desk made of the same hardwood as the one in his bedchambers. He sat down in the chair opposite and asked. "You wished to speak with me, my lord?"
"I did, Steff." The Lord of Runestone's voice rumbled like a tremor as he nodded. "A raven arrived from King's Landing in the night."
Steffon let the news sink in for a moment, very rarely did his parents write to him anymore, they did once upon a time, but once he turned twelve the letters stopped. Perhaps they were planning to visit? His nameday was not far off. "A raven, you say, my lord? Does the Royal Family intend to visit Runestone?"
He noted the slight twitch in Bronze Yohn's hand and the almost imperceptible flicker of emotion on Lady Alysanne's porcelain face as her dainty hand found its way into her hair, her natural response to uncomfortable situations. What's going on here? He wondered just before Lord Royce shook his head.
"No, King Robert has decided that it's in the best interest of the realm that...the Crown Prince return to King's Landing and prepare to succeed the throne." The Lord of Runestone responded.
"No." Said Steffon, crossing his arms and immediately dismissing the idea of leaving his home in favor of the viper pit, which was King's Landing.
Yohn felt his eyebrow twitch as the Baratheon's princely entitlement crept back up into his posture and voice. When he had first arrived as a boy of eight, he could practically see it shining through the Young Stag's deep blue eyes.
"Steffon," he leaned forward, "one does not simply refuse a command from His Grace, not even his son and heir."
The rational side of him knew the Lord of Runestone's words to be true, in spite of what he wished. A sense of dread filled Steffon's stomach faster than lightning scorched the earth when he asked the question screaming for release. "When am I expected to be there?"
"A week before your nameday in preparation for the tourney."
"Can they not just wish to see their son, whom they have not seen for almost eight years, Steff?" Lady Alysanne asked kindly, gods bless her. The prince could tell she was doing her best to lighten the mood, it was no secret that he didn't think highly of his trueborn family.
Steffon looked at his foster mother somewhat surprised. "I do not mean to be rude, my lady, but I do not think that my father would simply end my fostering without a reason, regardless of whether he simply wished to see his son or not."
He heard Lord Yohn Royce sigh and he knew he was right. "Your nameday is fast approaching and whilst, I am sure that they wish to see you, Lord Arryn expressed the necessity of the Crown Prince learning to rule from the capital and discussions of undisclosed matters."
The last bit of information shocked Steffon. What could be so important that his father felt it was necessary to end his fostering prematurely to keep him in the city? Were there Targaryen loyalists still planning to sit their wingless, smoke-breathing wyrm upon the Iron Throne? Had Viserys Targaryen mustered up some sense and enlisted the backing of the Golden Company or somehow purchased a few legions of eunuch soldiers from those Slaver Cities further east?
"I understand and I thank you for letting me know my lord, my lady. I am sure my Uncle Tyrion will be delighted to see his siblings again," He began in a vaguely sarcastic tone, "Especially my mother, I hear they were as thick as thieves growing up."
Lady Alysanne gave a soft laugh, as a lady was taught, whilst Lord Yohn gave a booming roar of a laugh. "That is all we wished to say my prince, so unless you have something more to say you are free to go."
Steffon paused, quiet as a sept mouse before he replied. "No, that is all. I'll begin packing immediately." With that, he smiled at them and turned to walk out.
As he walked toward where he knew where Andar and Robar would be, he noticed as the Bastard of Nightsong, his sworn shield, trailed beside him. "Something on your mind, my prince?"
Steffon stopped and looked at his sworn shield. "Yes, Ser Rolland, there is. I won't pretend to be happy about this change in arrangement, I would stay in Runestone until my father keeled over if given the choice, but something's changed, I can feel a storm brewing."
"Nonsense, there'll be no storms when you arrive except for me, Rolland said, laughing at his own joke. "You're far too young to brood so much."
Steffon bristled at the comment, though he kept up his mask of unyielding stoicism. "I do not brood without good reason, I am merely practical. The storm is coming, Ser Rolland but for who and why I cannot yet say." With that, they both went silent and walked the rest of the way to the practice yards in silence. When he arrived he saw both of the Royce boys watching Mychel Redfort and Donnel Waynwood sparring.
"Evening boys, who's winning the fight today?" he asks casually.
Andar who jumped slightly at the Stag's appearance turned his head slightly, "Donnel is winning, as per usual. Mychel just can't seem to wrap his head around the fact that the bigger the man is the harder it will be for him to simply go all in."
"And where did this wisdom in the arts of steel come from, Andar?" Robar asks. "No doubt you'd go swaggering in and be on your arse in a few moments."
"Burn in all seven hells Robar," Andar responded with a barking laugh.
"We all know I'd last longer than either of you, and more than likely come out on top. Donnel used his strength as a crutch, he has so many gaps in his defense he'd be dead if this was a real fight." Steffon said sagely.
"Well we're so very sorry Prince Steffon, Great Stag of Runestone, He who taught the Warrior himself to wield a blade, that we lesser mortals cannot see the weaknesses which you claim," Robar said bowing mockingly.
Steffon punched his friend on the arm and began to tease, "You'd see them too if you stopped making eyes at Juline. If you like her so much, go and speak to her and be done with it."
Robar blushed and said, "Gods, you sound like this one," He said, jabbing a thumb at his elder brother. "Not all of us are princes and lordly heirs who can get away with doing whatever they like. Some of us have to keep our trousers on."
Steffon roared with laughter then, "Come now Rob, have some fun. You are far too serious by half. Perhaps, a little action could improve your quality of life."
Before Robar could respond, Andar began to speak. "Well, what did mother and father want to speak with you about? The way Maester Helliweg phrased it, made it seem like it was something serious. Did you father another bastard?"
"I didn't father the first one, you limp-cocked fool," he said in frustration.
"Yet her sister birthed a dark-haired babe with blue eyes," Robar cut in cheekily.
"Now, now, children," Andar redirected the topic to the main focus, "Can we get back onto the topic at hand?"
Steffon shook his head and took a breath, "My father has decided to end my fostering early and lock me back up in that vulture's nest he calls a city."
Andar and Robar tense and froze in place, as their minds raced to process hundreds of reasons why the King made such a decision. It was unprecedented to foster the Crown Prince of Westeros outside the Red Keep, but with the new regime, traditions were sure to be broken. Ending the Prince's fostering early, though, that meant something serious had happened.
"Did he tell you why?" Andar leaned in, Robar following his lead.
"In so many words, he said it was a matter of the utmost importance that we needed to discuss in person."
"Well, that's fucking vague." Blurted out Robar, crying out in pain as his elder brother's elbow slammed into his side.
"You're both worrying far too much," Andar added, playing the role of the voice of reason. "Is it so out of the question that the King simply wishes to see his son after eight years now?"
"Yes." The eldest Son of Runestone cringed at his impulsive brother's inability to keep his mouth in check, "He could have come to Runestone within the last eight years, but he fucking didn't. Now he wants Steffon for something."
A wave of relief washed over the Baratheon, knowing that someone saw things from his perspective."My point exactly!" He nodded his head, "He wouldn't just end the fostering because he wished to see me, he could have visited." Andar rolled his eyes and Robar decided to ask the question that loomed over his and his brother's heads.
"When are you expected to return?"
"Roughly a week before my nameday," Steffon responded.
"And how are you feeling about all this, Steff?" Andar asked, he had always been the voice of reason and most introspective amongst Bronze Yohn's sons. While Robar and Waymar had acted as the headstrong jester and prideful loner, respectfully.
He didn't immediately respond, instead of gathering his thoughts for a moment and then said, "Nervous. I admit, I am quite nervous. I've not seen any of them for seven years, and to be fair, corresponding by raven is not the same as speaking to someone face to face. What if it turns out I'm some kind of disappointed? What if I don't like them?"
The Royce boys scoffed at the notion.
"You're the Prince Steffon of the House Baratheon! Who could not like you?" Andar asked incredulously. "You're the perfect prince, everyone knows that. They'd have to be blind, stupid, or both not to be proud of you."
"Andar's right, your parents will be proud of you. I know they will. And you will get to see your sister again." Robar responded.
"Aye, that is true," Steffon replied, skillfully suppressing a frown. It wasn't as if he hated his sister or anything like that, but Jocelyn had been a controlling one when they were children, and she had treated him like one would any other tool. With such drastic changes in how he interacted with people and viewed the world, Steffon was sure there would be friction between him and his sister.
"Care for a bout before we have to go inside, Steffon?" Andar asked, refocusing the thoughtful prince.
He was silent a moment before he shook his head. "No, but thank you for the offer, but I need to speak to my uncle. Any idea where he is?"
Both boys were silent a moment and then Andar responded. "More than likely at the Flying Falcon."
"Thank you," Said Steffon, as he turned to walk off in the direction of the inn. He walked through the winding pathways of Runestone greeting various people he passed with Rolland as the night began. After much walking, he entered the Flying Falcon, and after a glance found his uncle, a short and stunted figure at the bar, he walked over and called for an ale.
He sat next to his uncle and said, "I trust you have heard the news, uncle?"
His uncle was always a jester and a drinker, his pale-blond and black hair had always stood out on him, it was rare to see a Lannister without the hair of pure gold. His mismatched green and black eyes were filled with amusement, frustration, and so many other things. "Yes, King Robert has ended your fostering prematurely. A rather suspicious thing, wouldn't you agree?"
Steffon frowned slightly, "I would. The very mention of it makes the hairs on my neck stand up. There's something we don't know about yet."
"Yes, and to top it all off, I'll be forced to sit at the same table as your mother. The gods truly love a good jape." His uncle took a swig of ale and then responded. "Though, I am curious about what you believe is happening in the capital."
"Several things really, all without evidence." He admitted and took a swig of his own, "Perhaps Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen have smartened up and found someone to back their invasion, someone like the Martells? It's also more than possible that the Princes of Dorne are plotting and scheming this very moment to kill us all with the most gruesome, slow-acting poison known to man. The joys of sharing blood with Tywin Lannister!"
"Plots and schemes are the same things," Tyrion said into his cup with a smirk, eyes twinkling with mirth at his nephew's twitching eyebrow, before they turned serious. "You know what awaits you in King's Landing, yes? It won't just be your family, the King's Court will cling to you like ticks on a dog's arse the second they spot you. They'll approach as often as possible for all manner of favors, big or small, and offer whatever they believe will entice you in return. Are you prepared for all that?"
"I am certain of it." The Crown Prince said with a nod, eyes glowing with assurance.
"Very good, nephew, just remember that there are no true friends in King's Landing, only those who wish to ride your coattails as you rise or step over you as you fall." His uncle said before he finished his drink and left Steffon with his thoughts.
Later that night, Prince Steffon packed everything he had brought with him or accumulated over the years. He sent a glance towards the window as pale light briefly illuminated the sky and a blade of lightning was flung down from the heavens, splitting a tree in two. Thunder rumbled like a thousand war drums a second later and Steffon's mind returned to his musings of the Storm God. If thunder heralds the arrival of a Storm God, could it be said that it also heralds the arrival of a Storm Prince? He wondered. Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky followed by the rolling of thunder a second later, he had his answer.