10th Moon of 295 A.C.
He moved left, creating just enough space to let the blade pass a mere hair's breadth from his face before going on the offensive and forcing Robar further and further back. His rune-covered shield colored bronze was held high as a means of defense but when the prince dealt a strong blow against Robar's shield, his descending slash resulted in the longsword cutting through and lodging into the shield.
Yohn's son pulled back to recover his damaged shield but for all the strength a lifetime of training afforded him, it was nothing in the face of that of a Baratheon who ripped the worn shield from his friend's hands and tore his sword free before tossing the shield aside, something that would be claimed as an act of gloating but it was one of sportsmanship, he wanted a fair fight. Once a replacement was in his opponent's hands, he followed up with an unorthodox strike where he rammed the sword's hilt into Robar's chest which knocked the wind out of his form, stunning him.
The match was over when the second son made a side-slash, wild and desperate like a cornered beast with no means of escape or victory. He was open and exposed to a well-timed riposte followed by a disarming that would make even the finest knights of the days long since past.
"How about I rid you of this disgraceful collection of hairs you call a mustache?" Steffon asked, his blade just a finger's length from Robar's throat as he regarded him with a teasing, vainglorious smile. "Or is that dirt on your lip?"
For his humor, the valemen gave a strained chortling noise followed by a sharp look. "Bold words from someone with barely a wisp of hair on his chin!"
"Now that one wounds me, truly, it does." said the prince, a false look of hurt on his face. "Perhaps as much as when I knocked the wind out of you and had you doubling over."
"Have you ever considered forgoing your rights to the Iron Throne in favor of pursuing a living as the royal fool? I can't help but feel your talents would be wasted sitting upon that dusty, old chair instead of telling japes. Now get off me, you damn lummox!" Robar bit back, irritated and weary.
Laughing, he acquiesced with a shrug. "Everyone's so ungrateful for my humor, but I suppose the least I can do is accept your rejection with grace." He helped Robar to his feet, clapped him on the back with good cheer, and sent him back to the sidelines and although he had a dazzling smile on his face, he was tired and sweating right through the clothes beneath his dark armor.
Since the first light of dawn, the crown prince had been in the training yard thrashing men of straw and wood in preparation for those made of flesh and blood until he was damp under his steel plate with his cheeks flushed a deep red. And in a short span of hours, the yard had begun to swell with lords and knights from all over eager to test their might and prove themselves as the second coming of men like Ser Aemon the Dragonknight or Ser Barristan the Bold or Ser Duncan the Tall. Unsurprisingly, Steffon had painted quite the target on his back and he welcomed all who wished to challenge.
A series of spars dubbed "knight of the hill" had seen a boom in popularity since his return to the king's city and little did anyone know that it was Steffon who had been the catalyst to it all days ago when he dragged his friends into the yard during the earlier parts of the morning. The title of crown prince alone afforded him more social clout than many could dream to see in seven lifetimes, he knew, but that also carried the expectation of being chivalrous and charismatic and trustworthy and approachable and martially prowess and gods know how many other things all while possessing a noble demeanor. All who stood in the training yard wanted the bragging rights that would come with beating dozens of men, including the crown prince, in single combat and he would let every one of them come like lambs to slaughter while he gained more clout in the king's court with each thrashing he handed out.
The clang of steel on steel echoed all around him, men cheered out around the ring for him and more action and Steffon lifted his arms and spun in a mock of a great victory. He knew that as crown prince, most of the court's eyes would be on him and when he noticed that his spars had drawn even more eyes to him, the prince would be a liar to say he didn't love the attention.
"Who wants to go next?!" He roared, eyes darting to the sidelines and searching the sigils for his next opponent.
The prince saw flocks of ravens surrounding dead weirwoods, red stallions on golden fields, silver sea eagles on purple fields, black plowmen on brown fields, black portcullis gills over sand, forked bolts of purple lightning on fields of black sprinkled with four-pointed stars, black nightingales on yellow fields, gold lions of fields of red, white crossed quills on russet fields, and others that slipped his mind.
He pointed his sword toward the men around him, eventually stopping on one in particular. The man waved his hands and laughed, begging to be spared a trouncing. "How about you? No! No, get in here!"
His reign as the knight of the hill continued as he vanquished several more knights, some highborn lordlings whose fathers obviously bought their knighthood and others lowborn smallfolk who earned their anointment through living in such a way that their oaths demanded. With precise strokes and sheer skill, he brought them face-to-face with defeat for as long as he could until he was finally bested, something which displeased him greatly.
I could've lasted longer, he snorted like an enraged bull prepared to charge. Fighting round after round against men on fresh legs while I had mere seconds between victories to catch my breath held me back. A knight didn't defeat me, the limitations of mine own body did.
Steffon had fought until he was sweltering in his plate armor, and all he could smell was leather and sweat and it was then that some Blackwood boy, a son of Lord Tytos, who by the look of him, the boy's mother had cuckolded the Lord of Raventree Hall and presented the spawn of a giant as his son.
With his helmet off, he took in a generous amount of air and sighed, thanking the seven that he could breathe air without the smell of steel invading his nostrils as well and watched from the bench as steel met steel. He sat in relative silence focusing on steadying his breath and ruminating on his thoughts and taking a short break, resting sore muscles and recuperating from the sensation of being cooked in his armor, proving to be too much for even the crown prince. He wiped his face of sweat and removed the band of leather in his hair, letting it hang down past his chin.
The prince had risen from his slumber hours before any of these nobles and knights that lived within the Red Keep's walls and when he woke, there was a vaguely familiar tapestry staring back at him from the ceiling, it took him some time to realize he was still in the capital. The skies at the time had been shrouded in darkness and sprinkled with dazzling stars that winked on occasion. He had not slept much, in truth, how could he when there was so much to do, so much to account for, so much to plan? Instead, he fell into brief lapses of consciousness before waking and wandering the night not unlike a ghost while the rest of the city slept.
Silently, he observed other spars being carried out in the training yard, besides his corner of the yard where a large crowd had formed, the training yard was sparse all things considered; a few clusters of nobles and knights sparring and riding in the lists and one squadron of men-at-arms drilling in the far corner. In another section westwards, young squires were engaging in uncoordinated bouts and he smiled at how hopeless he was at their age but further down, he could see lordlings far too old to fight no better than children, they would need blessings from the Mother and the Warrior if they were to survive the wars to come.
He faintly heard his name whilst deep in thought and it wasn't until something slammed into his side with great force. Steffon turned his head to the side, a bruise would be forming where his rib cage lied had he been in anything other than plate.
"Damn it, where have you been these last few days, man? Even when you're with us, you seem a thousand leagues away! We already barely see you as is with you always attending to princely business."
Andar's expression turned into one of glowering before the prince could reply. "What Robar meant to say, as unrefined as his words typically are, is that we understand that with your return to the capital and title as the crown prince has kept you rather busy, we've noticed that you seemed far more stressed than usual and world's away."
Always the mediator, he chuckled at that.
"Enough pleasantries, you prattling hens," he commanded in his more formal tone, "we've known each other a long time and with that being said, Robar has the right of it."
The shocked looks were something he would remember even on his deathbed decades from now.
"Before you ask, no, I did not take a blow to the head that would knock out my wits," he added in between laughs with a raised hand. "I've made some unsavory discoveries since my return to King's Landing and I've been careless in maintaining a sense of balance and for that, I'm sorry."
Robar was the first to find his voice. "And what exactly does that mean?"
"It means that if left unchecked, it could undo all that binds Westeros if the wrong man with the wrong intentions discovers it as well, but I'm unable to divulge more for fear of who else may hear," he growled out, biting back the dark edge in his words but it was no use, they had taken note of it already. Steffon moved to steer the conversation in a lighter direction. "Moving on, I was in the ring awhile, which of these knights is most likely to pose an actual challenge?"
"Ser Artys looks to be something of a natural when it comes to swordplay, he's been winning at the same rate as you and doesn't seem to be losing momentum anytime soon," Domeric practically whispered, though the wind somehow carried his voice. "I even heard from Jayne that he's regarded as one of the best knights of our generation alongside the Knight of Flowers."
Who in seven hells is Jayne? He wondered though Steffon suppressed a snort at the idea of someone being truly better than him. Artys had talent, no one could deny that, but the difference between him and the falcon lordling was too great for him to lose.
He clapped his hands together in finality. "That settles it, then. I'll thrash Artys first and then this Knight of Flowers whenever the Tyrell arrives and for good measure, I'll do the same to any uppity fuck that thinks he'll put me in the dirt."
"Well here's your chance to prove it, Steff." The prince followed the heir to Runestone's eyes to find the sea of knights parted by the shining blade of Ser Artys of House Arryn, gesturing to the inside of the circle with his longsword as a silent challenge and all eyes were on him.
"Quite right, wish me, luck boys." He had Domeric assist him by tying his hair back up before Steffon slipped his antlered helm back on and sprang to his feet, sword and shield in hand, rejuvenated, and confidence in his stride. As he passed through the sea of men and entered the ring, a whistle got his attention as a sword was tossed towards him and one to his friend as well, trading his longsword for a bastard sword.
His sword lowered towards the ground, taking up a defensive stance as he slowly followed Artys in a circle, sweating inside his night-black armor. He saw Jocelyn, Myrcella, and their ladies-in-waiting watching from balconies that overlooked the training yard between their lessons.
How about a show? He asked, giving Artys a once over, apparently he was fashioning, as well as styling himself, as the second coming of his namesake, the Winged Knight. The Arryn wore a blue and white helm fashioned with the steel wings of a falcon in full-spread on each side and polished steel plate over chainmail, the former having a few dents from his last bout.
"Give me your best, Stag Prince," Artys shouted from their opposing sides, "I hear the wildlings in my lord father's domain fear you as some god wielding a hammer, time to prove your mettle!"
They wasted no time coming together in a storm of blows as the deafening cheers erupted. His friend began well and slammed his stomach hard. Continuing on they would exchange many more blows and strikes.
"Knock that golden-haired fuck into the dirt, Steff!" He could hear Robar shout and smiled beneath his helm. Yohn's son had been eager to encourage since they were mere boys learning to fight at Runestone.
"Oh, I will and then some." He took a glance at the position of his opponent's feet and sprang to his feet and drove at him, the longsword alive in his hands. Artys jumped back, parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did he turn one cut than the next was upon him. The swords clanged and clanged and clanged again. Steffon's blood was singing in his veins and thunder rumbled in his mind. This was what he was meant for; he only felt truly alive when he was balls deep in a woman or when he swung a weapon as his life depended on it, that was when he felt like a god amongst men.
While it was true that Steffon was tiring, that mattered not to him, and why should it? He would clip this falcon's wings all the same.
High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon him like a displeased god of storm and sky, raining down thunderbolts upon his subjects as divine punishment until they repented. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together, upswing and he felt the sword's quivering made his entire being quiver, side slash, overhand, always attacking, moving into him, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike, hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster until, breathless, he stepped back and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, and they began to circle each other.
Artys stood tall, not tall as the prince but as tall as his lineage allowed, his eyes watching him warily. "Not bad for someone who showed up to his first lesson in a tunic and armed with a wooden sword, raving about how he was 'destined to become a warrior.'"
He laughed as the image appeared in his mind's eye, clear as day. He gifted the young knight with a cutting smile. "I was about to say something similar, it's not every day someone weaker lasts this long against me. Usually, the sting of our swords clashing or the power behind my strikes forces them to yield with several bruises and the occasional broken bone."
"As if you could," Artys called back and whirled the blade back up above his head and flew at Steffon again, their short intermission proving enough to rejuvenate him, and with a grunt, Artys came at him, blade whirling, and once again, steel rang and sang and sparked and scraped and screamed as the stag and falcon traded blows.
The dance went on for a long time, their swords meeting in the middle of the ring time and time again. Steffon blocked Artys' first blow, holding his rhythm knowing that his friend would move to the side. Artys broke contact and then moved to the right, Steffon saw it, and danced back, leading Artys forward after him. Artys swung his sword, Steffon ducked and then hit Artys on the side. One point to him. Artys grimaced, Steffon danced back again. Let Artys come to him.
Artys followed him, but did not engage, perhaps he would not strike this time, Steffon was willing to wait. They danced around one another, the ground was firm beneath his feet, the courtyard was solid and firm.
Eventually, Artys' patience wore out and he swung his sword. Steffon had expected that he danced back, and again, before initiating a counter-attack, he swung his sword pushing Artys back, until the other boy was on the defensive. Steffon continued his advance, keeping an eye on the line behind Artys, if he pushed hard enough, Artys would be out of the circle, and therefore he'd have lost the bout. It seemed that Artys was aware of this for he stopped retreating and instead turned his focus toward attacking. Their swords thunked against one another. Artys was strong for his age, and Steffon had to remain quick on his feet to avoid being short-changed. He danced to one side, then another, leading Artys, hoping to confuse him and ensure that he couldn't get a firm grip on any single movement of his. Artys followed as expected, and then stopped, he gave a feint and Steffon nearly tripped, at the last moment he stabilized and felt Artys' sword hit him on the shoulder. He grimaced then straightened and went on the attack once more. This time he didn't hold back.
Steffon swung left, Artys moved right, Artys swung right, Steffon blocked. The prince swung right, Artys moved left and swung left, Steffon ducked and hit Artys' chest. This continued for some time, both boys attempting to gain the upper hand on the other, they moved closer to the boundary of the battle circuit on multiple occasions but never strayed out of it. They both knew how to ensure that the fighting didn't stop. The observing knights were watching silently as sept mice or mayhaps, they were as loud as the great storm, Steffon didn't know and he also didn't know how to get out of his situation as he and Artys stood at a standstill, opposing each other with a sword at each other's throat.
"Not bad at all," he acknowledged, pausing to catch his breath for a second, Artys' defeat was on the horizon that much he knew.
"For someone weaker than you?" Artys growled out and at that, Steffon laughed a ragged, breathless laugh.
"For a knight. A green one, but a knight, all the same. Come on, sweetling, the music hasn't stopped playing in my head, what about yours, care to keep dancing with me, or has that frail body started to tire?"
He received a withering glare from the falcon lordling and Steffon rolled his eyes in return. Sure, Artys might have been offended by his remark, but it wasn't Steffon who began the trade of barbs, only retaliated and yet the prince had been the bigger man and extended an olive branch or so he thought.
"I propose a draw, what say you?" Artys inquired and that was a surprise, no doubt about it. No one had ever proposed a draw. A screaming admittance of defeat as he thrashed them as he would a thief that stole his sister's maidenhead? That had come to pass once or twice depending on who he thrashed and what they had done to receive said thrashing but never had anyone proposed a draw of all things, it sounded like madness.
He gave the future Lord Arryn a heated look at his suggestion. "Admitting to a draw when I can still fight several more rounds and your panting like you just walked here from Dorne sounds far too much like admitting defeat for my taste." And for his remark, Steffon received another withering stare to which he shot another heated look towards the heir to the Eyrie spoke.
"Let's speak plainly or not at all, Steff," began Artys of House Arryn, "We're both tired as a whore who's been up fucking since dawn. You, more so than I since you've been out here since dawn. I mean, gods, look at you, you can barely stand."
"Am I? I'm afraid that was unbeknownst to me," his face reddened at that. "Still, I'll not concede so long as my blood runs red through my veins, I'll not concede, not when I can taste victory on my tongue as sweet as pie."
"What you taste is blood from when Hoster Blackwood's mace knocked you across the face and it tastes like pie because you're delirious because you've been forgoing water in favor of wine, you thrice-damned madman," Artys shook his head ruefully.
"Conceding to a draw isn't the same as yielding, my friend, only admitting that you've found someone who can match you."
The Baratheon took his words soundlessly. He was the House Baratheon's first-ever crown prince, a prince of the great and furious storm, son of the Demon of the Trident, grandson of the great lion of the rock, and nephew of the Lion of Lannister. Yielding to anyone except the gods, perhaps, had never been a real option, and yet, agreeing to a draw wasn't the same as yielding, was it?
He removed his greatsword from Artys' throat as the lordling did the same with his longsword. The pair of heirs tapped their blades against the other and nodded as a show of respect before falling to their knees from undeniable exhaustion and soon the cheers had erupted all around him. The prince slipped off his helm to see what looked like all of the court either watching from within the training yard or watching from the balconies above, all of them cheering for their prince, and Artys, of course.
A thought crossed his mind a second later, eliciting a bubble of laughter that did not go unnoticed.
"What's so funny?"
"You hit the ground before I did," he replied. "I'm counting this as a win."
"Gods, do you have to win at everything?" Artys replied, beginning to chuckle. "Jocelyn thinks you're a Faceless Man impersonating her brother, but you haven't changed one bit as far as I'm concerned."
He sent Artys a triumphant smile, laughing even harder at his small victory.
"Don't smile at that, it wasn't a compliment!" shouted Artys, "You're a five-year-old in an overgrown fourteen-year-old's body."
The two stood to their feet in the middle of the field, Artys rubbing his cheek. "Where did you learn that, anyway, that one move you pulled against Brynden Blackwood? You held your sword out from your body and swung it inwards before you tossed the blade, caught it with your off-hand, and slashed across?"
"From an old friend," the prince's expression faltered a bit before he recovered and gave a proud smile. "I saw him do it a couple of times and I guess I just picked it up over time."
He could see the suspicion in his eyes and prayed Artys wouldn't press on, yet he pressed on. "Anyone I know?" he asked.
Steffon shrugged. "I doubt it, he's a traveling hedge knight and I haven't seen him in years."
"Regardless, it's an incredible move." the heir to the Vale of Arryn admitted through gritted teeth, a clear-cut sign of pain as he moved his arm back and forth. "Thought I had you there."
"Nearly. You're a bit stronger than I would've thought for someone your size" Steffon took his words with a chuckle and clapped him on the back. "It's been a pleasure, friend," he turned to Artys, hand extended.
"Aye, it has." Artys happily agreed, shaking his hand before he walked off the field to join the others. Steffon's eyes scanned the yard and he spotted the pox-scarred Bastard of Nightsong meeting his gaze and giving him a nod, which Steffon returned in kind.
"Forgive me, friends but I'm afraid I must depart, something's come up. How about we meet up at a tavern tonight?"
Andar smiled and nodded. "We'll be there."
"Seven hells!" exclaimed Robar, displeased just when the prince thought all was well. "You quit right when I was getting ready to ring your head like a sept bell during our next bout? Unbelievable!"
The heir to Runestone dropped a fist on his little brother's head. "Stop talking, Rob, it's not your strong suit. We both know you'd be getting knocked on your arse from sunrise to sunset before you manage to beat Steff."
Offended, Robar stood and pointed an accusing finger at his brother. "You godsdamned traitor, you know I had him on the ropes!"
"And he had you in the dirt, it was quite funny the first few times." Domeric Bolton added his two copper pennies, "Afterward, it became disappointing."
"Go fuck yourself, Bolton!"
The prince stretched his arms over his head with a smile on his face as he and Rolland headed for the entrance to the Red Keep from the training yard. The pair remained quiet while walking up the stairs leading towards the castle's interior and waiting for the portcullis to raise and bid them entry. He could see the guards dressed in crimson cloaks, mail shirts over boiled leather, and steel caps with lion crests apprehensively. Not that it was without warning, Steffon regarded both of them with a cold stare. Everything was so wrong but he would right those wrongs soon enough.
Once the iron gate reached the top, the prince and his sworn shield walked through side-by-side and it was the Bastard of Nightsong who was the first to break the silence. "There's no need to give them dirty looks, my prince. These men are husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, and grandsons. I'm sure they would not have come to the capital if your mother had not made the request that became a command issued by your grandfather. Refusal would've meant earning the Old Lion's ire."
"Perhaps the crown prince's ire should be a more immediate worry to them," he argued through gritted teeth, his jaw taut like a bowstring.
The knight gave a bawdy laugh that sounded clashing beach rocks to Steffon's ears and then spoke with a mocking tone. "Perhaps it would be if the crown prince proved to be something other than a reclusive giant with a penchant for whoring, drinking, fighting."
At that, Steffon bit his tongue to hold back the venomous words that threatened to spill from his mouth, a courtesy that few received from him. Ser Rolland, though, was different from most he interacted with. He was someone who never shied away from telling the crown prince what he needed to hear and because of that, he was not just a protector, but a friend and confidant.
"I do what I must to seem more personable," the prince explained. "My station adds enough problems as it is since everyone expects the crown prince to be standoffish and vainglorious."
Once again, the prince's companion found some sort of amusement in that. "To be fair, my prince, you are standoffish and you are vainglorious. When we were still at Runestone, I'd find you holed up with several books in your bedchambers like someone had put you under siege."
"Regardless of your insights or my feelings on the matter, I have to seem approachable but beyond reproach. In our world, men only follow warriors, men like my grandfather and father," he said as they rounded the corner and passed lowborn servants and highborn lords on their walk through the king's castle. "Why would the Lords of Westeros follow me when the day comes that my father and grandfather are no longer with us? Why should anyone follow King Steffon of the House Baratheon if he cannot prove himself a warrior?"
His sworn shield had a look of surprise on his face, rarely hearing his prince admit such things. "These highborn lords and ladies will flock from all over to bend the knee and swear fealty to you and you alone. Surely, that must mean something to you of all people!"
"Oaths of fealty, then?" he asked, not caring much about whether or not the Stormlander answered. "Yes, they mean something to me in the same way that coin means something. The fealty of the nobility has a fluctuating value depending on who's knee does the bending. The fealty of a stable and personable lord holds more value than that of a fickle and unpleasant lord."
"You're overthinking all of this, surely you know that?"
"Perhaps I am," he admitted, "but soon it will have been fifteen years since four of our seven kingdoms rose in rebellion against House Targaryen and cast them down."
Ser Rolland brought a hand to his forehead, faint lines starting to form. Either the prince was aging him like milk or the Bastard of Nightsong was getting older. "My prince, they rose against the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen. I would not consider him the foremost example of the relationship between vassal and overlord."
His fists curled into balls of barely contained anger. "And despite those same facts that all of Westeros knows, men and women alike spit the names 'Kingslayer' and 'Oathbreaker' at my uncle."
With tensions still quite high on Steffon's side, the two continued in silence across the drawbridge made of ancient wood. Had they taken the normal route, Steffon would have walked down countless halls where many a lord or lady were sure to spot him and make an introduction of some kind and that was all before he reached the Throne Room where court would be held and he would be swarmed and Prince Steffon was far too tired to face his father's court.
"I'll admit, it was clever to turn the spars within the Red Keep into a melee of sorts with the bragging rights of defeating the crown prince as the prize, but you and I both know that martial prowess won't be enough to turn the tide," said Rolland, interrupting his thoughts.
"That goes without saying, my friend." The Black Prince eyed him from his peripheral vision and chuckled. "Ondrew sent out ravens nights ago and my great grandfather has confirmed that he and House Estermont will be sailing for King's Landing. The Black Rat's peeling back layers of secrets in the king's city as we speak. Everything's working as intended, all that's left is for the founding pieces to arrive and this game of chess can begin."
The mention of the prince's man in the shadows gained Ser Rolland's attention, a dark look appeared on Ser Rolland's face at the mention of Prince Steffon's spymaster-of-sorts. "Keep your wits about you around that man," warned the knight, "he may appear like a harmless codger but harmless men don't become spymasters. Men like him are dangerous, Steffon."
He raised a hand, placing it on the shoulder of his sworn shield. "You're a true friend and I thank you for your concern, ser, I promise to be careful around him at all times."
For a moment, Ser Rolland stared into the crown prince's eyes, narrowing his own as he searched for some sign of dishonesty. Had he been anyone else, Steffon might have taken offense to someone appraising his words for signs of dishonesty with such boldness. A long-held breath was released and the worry lines atop the knight's forehead seemed to lessen if only a little.
"Good, has he found anything useful?"
The prince smiled and nodded. "He's still developing his network but as of now, he's sent word about the High Septons alleged corruption, names of nobles currently engaging in affairs, disunion within the ranks of the City Watch, faint whispers of seedy activity in the underbelly of the capital, and certain preferences of the Royal Septon."
"And which lead will we follow up on first, my prince?" Rolland inquired as they turned just another corner and headed down the wide staircase. He took a moment to think about his answer before his mouth opened. Approaching the High Septon was something that could wait until they gathered more leverage, blackmailing the highborn served no true purpose at the moment, and he would not dream of taking a stroll through the underbelly of King's Landing just yet.
"I promised Andar that our ragtag group of highborn misfits would meet at a tavern and there was mention of gold cloaks drinking at one called the 'Broken Dagger' so we'll begin there," he waved his hand, pushing the thoughts away for now. "I'll mingle with lords and ladies of court later today after a nap and bath. Surely it's noon by now so wake me in, say, three hours."
Ser Rolland took a quick bow, a sign of respect to the servants and nobility observing them in the halls on their way for Maegor's holdfast but it was but an inside jape between Steffon and Rolland.
In his chambers he stripped free of his armor and what clothes he wore underneath and sat on his soft bed for a moment, looking rightwards. He moved his forefinger along the book's worn page and slightly faded words, he would need to procure more black ink to reverse the process. The Five Flames of War: End of an Empire, by Lyserion Belaerys, the greatest of Old Valyria's generals to command legions of men in the name of the Freehold. It was an incredibly ancient book written in the excerpts, the First Commander gave a great amount of praise to the lockstep legions of Old Ghis to the point where he often stated that the locksteps seemed less than human and more like weapons in human form who obeyed orders with such haste that he wondered if magic had been involved to strip them of a man's mind and insert the mind of something more susceptible to commands.
He was sure that the Ghiscari legions were some of the fiercest things to ever come out of the far east and that they would likely give Westeros' knights a run for their money with the absence of calvary but lockstep legions and armored knights were nothing in the face of dragons, of fire made flesh. His Uncle Tyrion had been the one to curate his interest in dragons from a young age, speaking at length whenever the Crown visited Casterly Rock about dragons. Septon Barth's Unnatural History, a book Tyrion read to him as a boy, considered several legends regarding the origins of dragons. The Valyrians on the other hand claimed that dragons sprang forth from the Fourteen Flames, a ring of volcanoes on the Valyrian peninsula. Steffon had never read the book himself, but he vaguely remembered that Barth put forth the theory that dragons were created by Valyrian bloodmages using wyvern stock.
Steffon often wondered if he could bring dragons back into the world seeing as a boy, seeing as he had blood relation to the dragonlords of old. "Through Orys Baratheon and Rhaelle Targaryen, the blood of the dragon flows through my veins like liquid fire but is that enough?" He wondered aloud, indulging his old fantasies. The last of the dragons died out almost one hundred and fifty years ago and they won't return, neither will magic during my lifetime but who knows, mayhaps one of my descendants will prove me wrong.
Still, it's an enticing fantasy. Those were the prince's final thoughts as the darkness took him in its warm embrace.
Author's Notes: Hello, there! Remember that Trueborn Baratheon fic that popped a few months ago but went dead during the summer? That's mine. If you're thinking: "what the hell are you talking about?" well, welcome to my first time writing. Sorry I ghosted, I kinda got swamped with IRL stuff and the growing number ideas giving me grief whilst simultaneously striving towards perfection in my writing, not a healthy mindset, I know. This chapter and the one after are something I'll really need criticism on since it's my first time writing a swordfight after doing some re-reading and also, in the next chapter, Steffon's entering the court and I'm still learning how that works (seriously, how the hell does it work?)
Btw, this chapter and the one after it were originally combined but I split them up because the word count was too much, so expect chapter seven either today or tomorrow after editing's done and I get home.
Sparky She-Demon: Please no incest between Steffon and Jocelyn! There is enough of that going around. I also write for GoT.
— Don't worry, that was a joke. There won't be any incest between Steffon and Jocelyn.
Guest: Lol people are weirded out by incest... for obvious reasons yet the majority of the fandom fuckin love Jon x Daenerys.
— Yeah, it's kinda strange for a fandom where one of the favorite families was known for incest and some of the most highly-regarded fanfics have Jon/Sansa, Jon/Dany, Jon/Arya, Jon/Rhaenys as pairings. I think people are so against it in this one is because those who follow Brewing Storms seem to fall into the niche of favoring House Baratheon and Trueborn Baratheon fanfics.
Js: It's a shame that Tywin won't be showing up soon or at least within the next two chapters to meet his grandchildren. He hated Joffrey to the point of defending Tyrion twice in the show and Tommen is too meek to be a king imo. In a sense, Steffon is the "family legacy" that he wanted in canon before the shit about Cersei's narcissistic incestuous relationship was aired out to the public by Stannis. And Jocelyn is actually a smarter version of Cersei that he wanted.
I really want to see how Cersei reacts when her own father values the Black stags over her precious Golden cubs. Logically she knows Joffrey cant even be considered a worthier heir to the throne but she refuses to acknowledge that Robert's spawn is superior to Joffrey the son of the man she considered a mere extension of herself. Also, how strong is Steffon? In most true born Baratheon fics, the son of Robert are mostly average in battle despite having the man titled as the Demon of the Trident for a father. That guy could lift and casually swing a 30 pound warhammer in a single hand on horseback while grown ass men like Ned Stark could barely lift it with two. Its like Gregor Clegane having a 5 foot midget as a kid. Also Stannis the mannis needs to show up.
— Yeah, there's still some more details of the story I need to solidify before he's introduced but my outline tells me he's scheduled for chapter 14 but Tywin will definitely get more screen time once he does arrive and during the Tourney at Casterly Rock after that. You're right, Steffon's definitely a main piece of Tywin's grand legacy along with Jocelyn as they're both his ideal children, more or less (expect him to sigh a lot and say/think "if only they were Lannisters.") The Old Lion plays favorites and Cersei's gonna lose. her. shit. when it's clear that he prioritizes the Black Cubs over the Golden Cubs, showing them far more attention and basically ignoring her, Jaime, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella. Hell, wait until she see's Tywin smile at Jocelyn.
It's hard to put a gauge on Steffon's strength (like comparing him to other characters regardless of fandom) but I'll say this: Robert was a genetic freak and Steffon's no different. Despite being young, (14) no one around his age can keep up with his strength and can even overpower most people without a lot of effort and as he get's older, he'll get bigger and stronger and deadlier. Worry not, Steffon as a warrior when he gets older will be defined as someone who's unnaturally strong while being oddly fast. It's funny that you mentioned Gregor having a son...but that's for later. The Mannis show up grinding his teeth in chapter 8.
tgfofp: It's not a bad chapter. Steffon seems to have unique traits given the description of his Maester. I would like to see the way he handles the politics and schemes of the Red Keep. Most of the exciting stuff in GoT comes from this and the basic human interactions made harder by people's positions, and very little from the magic aspects and the pressing concern of the upcoming White Walkers.
I also hope to see some of his interactions with his father, mother, Joffrey, and other people in his family. Your story is good so far, but it lacks action and dealings with the different characters. Since Jon Arryn is not the Hand, but his son is, I wonder how things will play out now. I find it incredible that Littlefinger still managed to embezzle so much gold in the presence of a different person acting as the Hand. As far as I remember, Jon was very trusting of Baelish since he was one of his vassal lords, and perhaps his old age made him careless in some matters. His son should have caught him in the act or at least suspected him of misconduct.
Btw, I think it's best for Steffon in the long run to marry Dany. Her, or Margaery, and by extension the Tyrells. In any case, once he is present at the meeting regarding killing both Dany and her brother, he might be inclined to protest against killing a child like himself and ask that she is brought back here instead. A decision like this might change most of her (mis)fortune later on, but it might also mean she will not hatch any dragons. Still, having a Targaryen as a wife will appease most of their supporters and might change a lot of the canon plot.
In any case, marrying his own sister is unfavorable. One reason is the Faith Militant, but also because I personally find it repulsive. Blame my modern sensibilities, but it's a known fact that anything till a second cousin is off-limits. Many different sicknesses - both physical and psychological - can be inherited by the child if both partners share similar genes. That's why, in the current day and age, there are genetic screening tests for couples to judge the risks of several possible inheritable disorders. Of course, sometimes there are benefits to such a union, but the risk is usually too high. Anyway, thanks for the new chapter. See you in the next update.
— I'm glad he comes across as unique! He'll dip his toe into court in the chapter after this one, but very briefly since I'm still learning (and don't really understand it) about how court works, assuming it's not constant gossip between nobles as they drink and joke, while planning someone's demise. As more Houses converge on King's Landing, Steff's gonna be interacting with a lot of people who want something from him. With Denys (someone who's slowly descending into depression and maybe some not so good thoughts) as Hand, he'll have a harder time proving it since there's two black-haired kids so he might not be able to go to Stannis, he may go to Baelish.
Littlefinger being able to pull the wool over everyone's ears honestly isn't all that surprisingly when you acknowledge that Denys sees him as someone that just does his job, Baelish managed to stump Tyrion with how complex the Royal Ledgers were, and most of the highborn don't care for "counting coppers." When Steffon sent the ravens out at the end of chapter 5, one of them flew to Estermont island, inviting House Estermont and his finacial-savant of a cousin to the capital so sooner or later, someone's gonna notice.
There will be no incest between Steffon and Jocelyn and while I can't speak much on who Steffon's gonna marry, pay close attention to the girls who've been mentioned so far. She's there...maybe.
kirito emiya: Bercilak: The Green Knight by Moe Balinger
— At first, I thought you were recommending some version of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight to me but I google'd it and that's more or less what I wanted for Steffon's armor when the war breaks out (one of them, at least.) Give him longer horns and change the color scheme to gold-black-indigo and he's perfect; is that weapon a one-sided axe or is it two-sided? Also, to answer your question about Euron, I completely forgot about him but with some ideas I had regarding the Stepstones, that would be a good place to find him and if Steffon get's the armor, he'll make as many swords and keep a few while selling smaller ones at incredibly high rates.