10th Moon of 295 A.C.
The hands of Maester Ondrew coiled around the freshly-polished copper instrument that laid patiently on the tray in a serpentine fashion. The Myrish Eye was a groundbreaking tool created by the long-dead inventor, Gylliphos Irraenor, which allowed one to see farther than any man's eye and it would aid him this night. Many hours ago, the sun sank below the ever-present horizon and cast an orange-crimson hue far and wide across the sky, reminiscent of a hearth's crackling blaze over the bay. Night fell soon after and with it came great black branches that sprawled across and traced the blue-black heavens overheard with thick clouds sparsely blotting out stars and sailing right past like ships he watched sail up and down the Narrow Sea from the docks as a boy.
Despite the sun's absence in the capital, King's Landing seemed to favor a mugginess even at the Hour of the Wolf. Ruefully, Ondrew thought back to the forewarnings of his colleagues at the Citadel years prior as he pressed a damp cloth to his creased brow. To him, the capital was comparable to the oppressive heat of a baker's oven with an equally oppressive stench just like Archmaester Jakob had said. Longingly, he thought back to Oldtown; the summer heat was at least merciful there so that the books and scrolls housed within the library could be better protected and the breeze blowing in from the Sunset Sea often brought smells of saltwater and seaweed and fish and fruits and wine from the markets.
Here in the City of the King, a gentle breeze seldom overcame the revolting stench of shit and spoiled fish that seemed to grip the capital tighter than a green boy holding a sword during a war. An inquisitive part of him wondered why the sewer system had not seen a proper renovation since Jaehaerys the Conciliator but he was better off purging himself of such thoughts. The likelihood of the inhabitants of King's Landing being accustomed to the putrid smell was not lost on him, but openly acknowledging such a thing was entirely different, it could kill him!
From deep within a pocket hidden in the great floppy sleeves folds of his ashen robes and withdrew a small comfort he prepared at Gulltown: a silk handkerchief doused in several sweet scents. Ondrew was always tucking things into his sleeves and producing other things from them: books, messages, strange artifacts. He remembered how Steffon's eyes would brighten each time he pulled something new from his sleeves like some kind of wizard in the stories, but now the boy was a pompous and sharp-tongued shit.
He peered through the eyepiece of the Myrish Eye scouring across the Red Keep to find an eagle searching for a meal, occasionally blinking a round yellow eye in his direction. A cauldron of bats weaved out of the reach of invisible swords. The faint but seemingly indefatigable croaking of frogs in a small pond nearby was overgrown with malachite mold, scattered in circles around the swaying lunar reflection. Their melody was carried on by equally indefatigable cicadas and crickets who chirped and chirped and chirped and all this cacophony was hovering over the ground, tangling in the glyphs of the intertwined branches of multiple bushes and gardens.
Ondrew steered his instrument away to a small boat swaying quietly in the dark water. A lone fisherman bathed himself in a lantern's light as he prepared to cast his fishing line while glowing in the dark with a warm, orange flicker. The maester heard the hoot of an owl in the distance and immediately, in the bright light of the moon, a frightened gaggle, fluttering with webbed wings, flashed through the bats. A gust of wind picked up the spicy flavors of ripeness, the orchard, and mixed them with the fragrance of flower beds.
He continued to guide the copper tool through the black sky upon the translucent clear night and spotted the white-gold moon in her eternally stoic grace taking her place upon a dark throne of heavenly finery embedded with jewels of blue and white and silver and gold. It hung high past its peak, slightly rightwards and Ondrew knew that although it was night, it was day all the same as highborn and lowborn alike slept in their beds. He came not for the moon but for the constellations that shone as if they had been dreamed into the blue, playing in the heavens, inviting eye and soul alike to take flight.
Maester Ondrew had forged the first link of his chain in bronze to display his knowledge of astronomy, something which had fascinated him even as a child living on that dreary little island he called home where the dark green sigil depicting a sea turtle blew in the offshore winds. He knew of the Crone's Lantern which was four bright stars that enclosed a hue the color of molten gold. The maester twisted the lens counterclockwise, magnifying the image in his eye as he searched the northern skies for the Ice Dragon, cold blue eyes hungry as it readied to swallow the Stallion that appeared only a few paces away. He spotted a collection of a dozen molten gold and two birthstone-blue stars to the left of the King's Crown and below the Ghost, he knew this one was Donnor the Horned King with his mighty hammer raised high towards the Ice Dragon.
He jotted down rough drawings of the constellations and notes next to each. He made sure to write the current moon, day, and year as well as any peculiar changes he may have noticed.
Amid his note-taking, Ondrew's ears perked up as he heard a rarity outside in the halls, something that he had seldom heard these last eight years. The approaching footsteps had a nostalgic rage to them. Each footfall was spaced far more chaotically than the last, careless and without rhythm booming in his ears like the fury of thunder.
"Fury," he let the word float unrestrained through the summer night air. Ondrew had known only two people in this world who could be associated with fury and Robert was in bed with a whore at this hour. What in the seven hells could have pissed him off so late? He wondered, turning away from the sound and returning to his work. The door swung open with such ungodly force, even a fool could tell that it was an enraged storm prince.
The maester waited for the door to slam shut behind him before speaking. "Have a nice stroll around the city?" He muttered with his eyes turned towards the stars and the midnight blue cradle that swaddled them like a mother would her child. "I had half-expected you to be gone the entire night; mayhaps abed with some lord's daughter and wife by now, you've always been a philanderer."
Prince Steffon spat in retort, "Jikagon qogralbar aōla!" He snarled. Ondrew sighed when the ancient valyrian tongue entered his ear and passed through the other, sailing into the night sky for someplace far away. He harshly whispered another phrase to himself, but Ondrew could still hear the crown prince's near-baritone voice, "Bisa giez sombāzmion's lēda hen ōtor..."
Go fuck yourself! This whole castle's full of sheep…
High Valyrian was a truly beautiful language that even after the Doom of Valyria, still held the fire that once belonged to the dragonlords who spread its influence throughout Essos long ago. Not learning it while studying at Oldtown was something he regretted deeply. He tried to rectify it years ago by studying what few scrolls he could get his hands on, which had been difficult at the Library of the Citadel. House Baratheon's ascension to the Iron Throne had increased his access to tomes, but no matter how many books he read in High Valyrian or its several lower dialects it seemed a fruitless endeavor. Ondrew could understand and even speak bits here and there but had he conversed with a Lyseni simpleton, the dullard might have thought their roles reversed.
"I had one of the serving girls fetch a flagon of that 'Bloody Mareigh' you're so fond of and set it on the table―" The maester was cut off by the sounds of quick movements and even quicker gulps. There was a part of Ondrew that should have been dumbstruck that a boy not yet sixteen could drink like he had walked aimlessly through a desert for seven days and seven nights, but this was not an ordinary boy. This was Robert Baratheon's boy. With each gulp, the bulge in the prince's throat bobbed violently and the liquor drizzled from both sides of his lips, down his jaw, and onto the wooden table where he sat. Drinks like Bloody Mareigh were made to be sipped from small cups, he knew but he chose not to voice it, Prince Steffon would not care.
"Enough drinking for you!" He said, prying away the prince's flagon that he had used as a cup. "I'll not have it said that the next Daeron the Drunken was once under my tutelage."
Misliking that his drink was taken, Prince Steffon tried, rather poorly, to fix the maester with a look of impending wrath if the flagon was not promptly returned.
"You had it watered down." He said in a condemning tone, but just like the prince, Ondrew knew how to play the same subtle game.
Like a mummer, the maester raised his eyebrows and let his jaw go slack. "Truly? I had not known, Your Grace, but I beg for your forgiveness a thousand times over!" Ondrew cried. "And rest assured, I'll make sure that serving girl's flogged for her indiscretion, the blonde wench!" He paused and took note of Steffon's unamused stare, "At least, I think she was a blonde or mayhaps a―"
"Are you finished?" His voice cut like castle-forged steel through butter and Ondrew met his gaze. The prince studied him several moments after with eyes like bottomless pools, he had his father's eyes now. His hollow cheeks and strong jaw clenched taut as a bowstring was reminiscent of Stannis without the teeth-grinding habit. He seemed to favor all the Baratheon men in one way or another; Renly's face, Robert's body, and Stannis' bullheadedness. Ondrew knew Cassana's boys better than anyone else could claim, hells, he half-raised both Stannis and Renly after the Windproud sank in a storm that hit Shipbreaker Bay on a mission to find a bride of noble birth from an old Valyrian bloodline for Aerys' melancholic whelp leaving nothing but a half-mad dwarven fool who swallowed too much seawater as the sole survivor.
"No, but you've always been rather impatient," he laughed much to Steffon's annoyance.
The prince rose from his seat and retreated into the chamber's darkness that swathed him like a child hiding behind the thick velvet curtains of the theatre. Ondrew let his eyes wander the bedchamber, the nameless sentinel was the designated living quarters of crown princes, the room that had seen and overhead the dramas of crown princes; to the highs and lows of emotions, and to the love that dwelt within the chamber. The Silver Prince had been the last to spend an extended time here and now, it belonged to the Black Prince.
"Skoros naejot gaomagon, skoros naejot gaomago?" He whispered in a frustrating tone, pacing back and forth with pent-up, restless energy. "Nyke henujagon syt jēnqa jēdri se skoros gaomas ziry gaomagon? ziry lets ziry mirre jikagon naejot qrugh!"
What to do, what to do? I leave for eight years and what does he do? He lets it all go to shit!
He sighed and began to chide Steffon. "Enough! If you wish to converse and voice a concern, you need to speak in the Common Tongue."
The Baratheon prince's eyes opened and then narrowed in a predatory fashion. Ondrew suppressed a sigh and met his eyes, he could see the storm brewing within them and the growing tension of his muscles. The rational Steffon had fled to somewhere deep in the recesses of his own mind and the irrational Steffon who reverted to his old habits was in the room. His calm demeanor which bordered on aloofness had melted away like ice beneath the summer sun and found itself replaced by the fury attributed to the Baratheons and Durrandons of old and then vanished into thin air.
"I'm curious, did you happen to notice how many Baratheon men the king has guarding the Red Keep's interior and exterior, by any chance?" Prince Steffon asked with his face morphing to give a hint of a smile, but Maester Ondrew was not fooled, the eyes were the windows to the soul and deep within the boy's own, he could see the storm staring back, though the bulging vein and clenched jaw afforded him few favors. "Or, if you didn't notice when we arrived, you're welcome to take a guess."
"I don't recall seeing many when we entered the Keep, I'm afraid, it's not out of the question that they simply joined the City Watch," He replied easily, though inside he was as taut as a bowstring.
Ondrew could see why so many wilted beneath Steffon's gaze as the prince studied him for a second time before rising abruptly with another false smile on his lips, the twenty-second tonight if his sums were accurate.
"You know, I thought the same!" He laughed with a brief hint of black rage. "After all, it would make sense to have Stormlanders and Crownlanders guarding the Red Keep, no? Surprisingly, His Grace elected to have Red Cloaks guard the Keep instead, mayhaps because of the color."
He had a point, Ondrew had to admit. A king having only men loyal to his consort's father guarding his place of rule was, to his knowledge, unprecedented and something that never should have come to be. Hells, Robert was the Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands through being Steffon's firstborn before passing over Stannis and abdicating lordship to Renly to ascend to kingship. And it wasn't so far out of the realm of possibility to say that the Stormlanders were far more partial to Robert, the man who led them through a rebellion and crushed the Targaryens, while Renly was their still-unmarried lord who lacked his brother's martial prowess and larger-than-life charisma and rarely visited his place of rule.
"Just to get you up to speed, my father has elected to have my grandfather's men guard the Keep instead of his own, the City Watch is nothing more than a group of robber knights in all but name, using their connection to the Crown to act with impunity," the prince's voice continued to deepen as the layers of his rage peeled back like an onion. His pacing grew rapid and his indigo eyes cut to a wooden chair in the dark and continued his rant, "And do you know what takes the cake in all this? The seven-times-damned fool of a man's been frivolously spending the Crown's funds, money which we don't have, on tourneys with unrealistic winnings, extravagant feasts, whores, ale brewers, wine sellers all while we keep our heads barely above water in a sea of four million gold pieces of debt which we owe to several fucking parties, the primary of which being my own thrice-damned grandfather!" As the words tumbled out of his mouth, the Baratheon roared like a furious storm, grabbed the lone chair he'd eyed, and flung it against the wall with such strength that it flew like a thrown ragdoll and broke against the wall in a dozen disjointed pieces.
Ondrew's jaw went slack, but not at the boy's hereditary anger or strength. He was not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry or die. He thought his heart might burst right there in his chest but despite what he felt or thought, he sighed audibly and ran a hand through his graying hair. "This is all too big, too much happening all at once." He had thought that allowing Robert to return to the Vale after Cassana and Steffon passed would have been good for the boy and he had continued to believe in that when he took the throne and now, it was coming back to bite him in the arse almost twenty years later with Lord Steffon's namesake.
He needed a way to help fix the mess he felt responsible for, at least, partially. Despite his choices, Robert was a man grown and was meant to hold himself accountable. What has he held himself accountable for since he was a boy? He sighed when he felt like all was lost until a thought crossed his mind when looking at the storm lord's grandson and namesake.
"We should begin with a story. No, we need to begin with a story." Ondrew suggested much to the storm prince's dark and displeased look.
"I'm going to stop you there, we don't―"
"So rude! Where are those princely manners?" He chastised. "Just sit back, relax, and ruminate whilst I illuminate a story of a bygone era. It's a good one, I promise."
"I'm not a child anymore, there's no point in telling―"
"Sit down and let me tell a damn story," the maester hammered the desk with his fist.
Prince Steffon withdrew from the shadows, throwing his hands up, and groaned. "Seven hells, why do you always have to drag me through this drawn-out way of giving me sound council when you can simply be straightforward?"
"Once upon a time," he trailed off to see the prince's focus directed to him and Ondrew laughed. "You're hooked! Even the opening sounds good."
"For the love of the gods can you get on with it already?" Steffon asked peevishly.
"The impatience of those in the springtime of youth," he sighed. "In the Kingdom of Sarnor, the wisdom of Alakead was unparalleled during the reign of High King Soran Amai, but Soran's goodbrother was jealous of him. He asked the High King to dispense with Alakead's services and appoint him in his place. He gave ample assurance that he would prove to be more efficient and capable than Alakead. Before Soran could decide on this matter, this news reached Alakead."
"And do you know what Alakead did?" He asked, smiling discreetly at the entranced look on Steffon's face as he shook his head, no.
Ondrew continued, "He resigned and left. Soran's goodbrother was made the minister in place of Alakead. Soran decided to test the new minister. He gave three hundred gold coins to him and said, 'Spend these gold coins such that, I get a hundred gold coins here in this life; a hundred gold coins in the other world and another hundred gold coins neither here nor there.'"
"The minister found the entire situation to be a maze of confusion and hopelessness. He spent sleepless nights worrying about how he would get himself out of this mess. Thinking in circles was making him go crazy. Eventually, on the advice of his wife, he sought Alakead's help. Alakead said, 'Just give me the gold coins. I shall handle the rest.'"
"Alakead walked the streets of the city holding the bag of gold coins in his hand. He noticed a rich merchant celebrating his son's wedding. Alakead gave a hundred gold coins to him and bowed courteously saying, 'High King Soran extends to you his well-wishes and blessings for the wedding of your son. Please accept the gift he has sent.' The merchant felt honored that the high king had sent a special messenger with such a precious gift. He honored Alakead and gave him a large number of expensive gifts and a bag of gold coins as a return gift for the High King."
Steffon gave a snort followed by an exasperated sigh and smiled. "So this 'Soran' was a fool who gave an even greater fool a high-ranking and undeserved position in his court because of nepotism? Did his queen whisper it as a mere 'suggestion' while between the sheets? I am many things, but a fool who can be led by his cock like a common breeding bull is not one of them." He pulled the flagon towards himself and poured the red wine into a dark and gilded cup.
Ondrew rolled his eyes and continued. "Next, Alakead went to the area of the city where the poor people lived. There he bought food and clothing in exchange for a hundred gold coins and distributed them in the name of the High King. When he came back to town he organized a concert of music and dance. He spent a hundred gold coins on it. The next day Alakead entered Soran's solar and announced that he had done all that the high king had asked his goodbrother to do. The High King wanted to know how he had done it. Alakead repeated the sequences of all the events and then said, 'The money I gave to the merchant for the wedding of his son—you have got back while on this earth. The money I spent on buying food and clothing for the poor—you will get it in the other world. The money I spent on the musical concert—you will get neither here nor there.' Soran's goodbrother understood his mistake and resigned. Alakead got his place back."
Ondrew reached beneath the table and when he came back up, there was a flagon of Pear Brandy in the maester's grip.
"Now then," he said, pouring a generous amount in the cup for himself. "Tell me the moral of this story of kings and fools blurring the lines which separate them meant to bestow wisdom upon you, my prince of storms and fury."
The prince shrugged, sloshing around another cup of wine, and drank again. He was drawing things out in another game. Steffon had always loved games, especially ones where no one but him was privy to the ever-changing rules. Those were his absolute favorites. "I don't know," he said dismissively while tracing symbols on the desk that Ondrew could not make out. "It's in a king's best interest to appoint a fool to positions in his court no higher than his royal fool? Or, mayhaps don't compromise on your councilor's position when a potential candidate relies solely on the fact that you married his sister?"
Surprised wrinkles appeared on the maester's forehead. "What? No, are you simple-minded by any chance? Where in the hells would you get such a stupid idea from? You think compromising on who sits on your council and attends your court won't be something that eventually you will have to do?" He took a sharp intake of breath followed by an onset of anger or frustration, he couldn't differentiate between the two. "Swallow your pride and get that chip off your shoulder, my boy, you're not likely to be the exception to a rule in a game that's been played since before you were a twinkle in your father's eye and will continue to be played after you're dead and gone. The moral is that if a king has even the slightest feeling that he can prevent something from going awry in his realm, then it's his responsibility to do so. The moral is that with great power comes great responsibility."
"Then I applaud you for your exceptional storytelling abilities, you haven't lost a step." He clapped sardonically even when the maester sent him a glare. "Contrastingly, if you dragged our king's face from the breasts of whatever whore he's currently with and told him this moral story we would find ourselves a foot in the right direction."
"What about you?" The maester inquired, noting the surprised look etched on Steffon's face, "How your father conducts himself as king reflects on you for good or for ill and the same applies in reverse. You're bound together until both of you are buried in the ground."
"The fuck we are."
"The fuck you aren't," he retorted. "Eight years you've been away from King's Landing and in those eight years you were never forbidden from returning home or at the very least, sending a raven to see how things were but instead you stayed at Runestone avoiding everyone including your own family because things such as reunions are below Prince Steffon once he's imagined himself slighted in some way or another."
Ondrew sat back and drank another cup of wine while blue-violet eyes narrowed into slits watched him with glare colder than one of the winter's he was a boy.
"I was exiled and for what, because I wouldn't make nice with all the little lordlings?" Steffon said coldly, fists clenched until his knuckles paled. "You truly expected me to come crawling back like some worm after he sent me away because he'd rather drink and whore than raise his own fucking son?!" He hammered with so much force that a crack resembling forked lightning appeared.
Ondrew laughed, not in amusement but unadulterated shock. "Gods be good, Steffon, you were never exiled. Robert had you fostered, I'm sure you know the difference." He took another sip of his Pear Brandy, "Besides, you have a pact."
"There's no fucking pact!" Steffon dismissed him with irritation clear in his voice.
"Of course, there is, my boy!" Ondrew laughed, pleased at how he could still get beneath the prince's skin. "There's a blood pact between every king or lord and his heir."
"Fine, we have a pact." He said with a look similar to one of physical pain at admitting to being wrong, "A pact based on the heir trusting the judgment of his liege and right now, I can name four million reasons not to trust my father's judgment and I'm sure that will only grow with time. So I believe the terms of our agreement have been violated and by that, I mean until he pisses me off, which he's done!"
Ondrew shrugged with an unassuming look and tone. "What are you so upset about?" He asked, thoroughly enjoying the game.
"Have you not listened to a single word I've said thus far?" The prince exclaimed, "Allow me to say it in layman's terms: our incredibly young dynasty that hasn't even reached a quarter-century is at the moment, verging down a path that ends in crumbling like a ruined fucking tower!"
"I believe the appropriate phrase is: 'crumbling like a house of sand' but given the circumstances, your exaggerated parlance can be excused." He sat his cup on the table, "You know with the benefit of hindsight, I don't think you truly understand the concept of 'pissed off.' It's angry."
The Baratheon gave a spine-chilling laugh. "Oh, I know what pissed off is and right now I'm pissed off so as a pissed off person, I'm very aware!"
"You're confused," the maester corrected him almost immediately. "You left home for nearly a decade and now that you've returned, you see everything's falling apart, you're father's the source of it all and now you have questions but you have no idea whatsoever how to ask them. Don't confuse your confusion with anger, my prince."
Ondrew could see from the look in Steffon's eye that he was at his wit's end, the poor boy.
"I'm not confused, I'm very confused," the crown prince whispered, still clinging to what he was taught to see as pride.
"You're confused and you're intrigued, why wouldn't you be? Your father's walking a path that may have him remembered as the second coming of Aegon the Unworthy if you overlook the fact that he succeeded where the Faith and Blackfyres failed. Westeros seems to be crumbling from within and where there's thunder, lightning's sure to follow. Meanwhile, you feel, at least, partly responsible, and I'd call you a liar if you claimed otherwise." The old maester nodded his head in agreement, "My only question is: what are you going to do about it, Steffon?"
Ondrew looked up and over to Steffon and much to his disappointment, he laughed. The prince threw back his head and let out a loud, bawdy laugh as loud as rolling thunder and Ondrew sighed, it was all for naught.
All is lost, he surmised as Steffon crossed his arms over his stomach in an attempt to catch his breath.
There was a reason why Maester Ondrew had chosen to forgo the expected pursuit of Archmaester and leave the Citadel in favor of ensuring that the crown prince of House Baratheon learned all that was required for him both as a prince of the realm and future king. His relation to Cassana had helped, but there was more to it than that. He knew Cassana and Steffon's boys well enough to know that they would've been disappointed in their sons. Robert, the boisterous fool. Stannis, the loyal fool trapped in a perpetual game of catch-up with his older brother. And then there was Renly, the fool with no martial prowess or skill in lordship or ambition outside of maintaining his comforts. Ondrew held a belief that the Baratheons had a certain metal to each of them. Robert was steel, strong and durable but meant for war. Stannis was iron, black and hard until one found how inflexible he was, then his true weakness was exposed. Renly had the pleasure of being copper, pretty to look at but he had few uses. All while they treated each other as if they weren't brothers.
Then Lord Baratheon's namesake had come along and it was at that moment Ondrew had taken a true liking to the boy. He had the potential to be more than his father and uncles. The prince had the potential to be like valyrian steel, like Aegon the Conqueror and Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Daeron the Good had been and like Prince Baelor was meant to be. Maester Ondrew believed that Robert's boy could do it with the proper guidance and if only he was willing to put in the work.
"A city full of lions, vipers, and sheep with a fat stag, all too willing to turn a blind eye to it all as the king," the prince's voice cut through his inner monologue with a humorless laugh, and then, something changed. "I'll not inherit a crumbling cesspit of vipers only to be swept away in the coming storm." He decreed and Ondrew found himself awestruck. To hear the Black Prince speak with strength, true strength, and not that standoffishness he thought was strength was a rarity and he prayed to the gods that it would remain.
"The pact between heir and liege shall remain intact but the terms shall change in my favor," said Steffon with a smile on his face. "With that being said, I'd like to forge a pact with you as well, maester. If you continue to give me sound council, I'll make sure that you become just as fluent in High Valyrian as I." Steffon outstretched his hand as a sign of good faith.
Ondrew was shocked, but he was sure he hid it well enough. He clasped hands with him and gave a shake and said, "I accept this pact, my prince."
"Excellent. Now then, I require ink and parchment for the ravens I plan to send out tonight." He said and for good measure, the crown prince's reserved nature returned to the surface as he nodded. "Oh, I almost forgot, be sure to send word to our mutual friend, the black rat, it's high time I enter this game of thrones. The king's court has grown far too comfortable and forgotten a crowned stag's fury once provoked."
"Of course, my prince. I'll have it ready at once." Ondrew smirked and stood, setting his wine glass on the oakwood desk before leaving the room to which Ser Rolland was safeguarding.
The Stormlander nodded to him in acknowledgment and greeting, inquiring a second later. "A worthwhile talk, maester?"
"I believe so, ser, I believe so," Ondrew gave a good-natured laugh. "As young as they are, young foxes seldom outwit the older and wiser foxes."
Ser Rolland laughed in agreement, "I'll try to remember that when I make it to your age if the gods will it. I won't hold you up any longer."
As the old maester walked the halls of the Red Keep he thought back to his comparisons of the Baratheon boys and metals then he thought of Steffon. We haven't had a king worth his weight in gold since Daeron the Good and even he left much to be desired. You're the crown prince of a very new, very young dynasty and many expect you to be the second coming of your father but you could surpass him.
Author's Note: So in this chapter, Steffon vented a bit in High Valyrian and some of his true thoughts have been revealed. For now, the plan is to write out the actual High Valyrian with the translations below the paragraph but this can always change if there's a better way. I'm hoping to get everyone's take on this: should I write in actual High Valyrian depending on whether or not the POV character understands the language with translations at chapter's end, write it only in English regardless of whether the character understands it, or continue with the method you saw in this chapter?
DodemGM: This was a solid chapter overall. Especially how well you introduced Jocelyn. After years of growing up with the likes of Cersei and Joffrey, while taking care of her younger siblings and feeling abandoned by her father, she finally sees her twin brother only to realize that he isn't what she remembered or expected. It gives this vibe of loneliness. It certainly must have hardened her. Hell, from her point of view is Steffon who feels more of the aggressor rather than her as we let out to believe in his POV.
She also doesn't have any chill. The "golden years" line to Cersei and Artys' looks being a hindrance was savage. She has a sharp mind and tongue, that's for sure. I was expecting her to say something along the lines of "we had foolish and weak kings, now we would have a hand that's both". Or after Cersei said to Joffrey that Tywin served the mad king Aerys, Jocelyn would butt in saying that the roles would be reversed if Joffrey is appointed. But that's just me and my ramblings. Jocelyn has certainly gained my interest, can't wait to see more.
btw I like the calendar system. Not similar to our own and not too different, besides, using the moon is pretty accurate given the fact that the characters always talk about it to indicate the passage of time.
― I'm glad that you like Jocelyn as a character, also, kudos for pointing the fact that she's not exactly the carbon copy (personality-wise) of Cersei that he believes, but she can get to Cersei's level of nastiness if she's pushed far enough. I'm glad you enjoyed the "golden years" comment and her indirectly insulting Artys, whom she considers a friend. I've got plans for her in the future concerning her ambitions her role as Steffon begins to make moves and so on and so forth. Don't worry about rambling, frankly, I enjoy it. Also, definitely keeping the new calendar system, we're gonna need it.
Sparky She-Demon: Fascinating idea! I am loving it!
― Someone's enthusiastic lol. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.
tgfofp: (comment too long to include)
― One of her few good qualities is the fact that she loves her children, but even that's twisted when you realized that she view them (and Jaime) as extensions of herself. She and Robert are incredibly similar in their greed (expressed in different ways), temperament, and entitlement, and you're right, it's easy to see how horrible of a king, father (legally), brother, and husband Robert is once you take away the charisma. Sorry, but I can't reply too much to your comment about marriages to prevent myself from revealing too much but there will be no Baratheon-Martell marriages. Also, really glad that you like Jocelyn because I've got plans for her and yeah, see you next chapter, I hope to impress you again!
kirito emiya: More, please!
― As you wish
Js: What are the chances of Steffon and Jocelyn doing the incest and Cersei be like... shit they really are my kids.
― This story was originally going to be Steffon being the only trueborn child of Robert, but once I came up with Jocelyn, I gave the idea of more incest some serious thought lol with their toxic upbringing + the fact that they have a quarter of Targaryen blood being used as their rationalizations. I may give it more thought in the future...