10th Moon of 295 A.C.
The sun was setting in the sky as fresh colors brushed upon an artist's canvas and to his chagrin, the prince had been stirred from his well-deserved slumber, rubbing his eyes while seagulls terrorizing Blackwater Bay made sounds that the gods created to torture weary men, had torn the prince from his well-deserved slumber.
Above him, a mural depicting legendary heroes from his childhood watched as Steffon groaned like an old floorboard while getting to his feet in search of a drink. He snorted, his voice taking a disdainful tone. "Don't hold your breath or you'll find yourselves sorely disappointed. I'll have no hand in slaying dragons or ice demons, claim no castles through cunning, nor will I serve thunder to my enemies. I'm a prince and nothing more."
Rolland, if you had someone bring in wine while I slept, I'll dance at your wedding, he thought before spotting a tantalizing flagon atop a chest where a Myrish hanging mirror hung from the wall. Steffon thanked the gods as he sat down while promising to cry the loudest at his sworn sword's funeral as well.
His mouth was drier than the Dornish deserts, assuming there was more than one. While pouring the red liquid, the prince said, "The gods knew what they were doing when they put the idea of wine in man's head, it's drinkable sex, I say!" He held the cup to his chest like a mother would her child before taking a long gulp, savoring the delectable flavor dancing across his tongue.
The Baratheon prince sighed, taking his seat in front of the mirror, and met his own gaze in its reflection. He was going to attend court soon and while he would love nothing more than to write it off, that simply wouldn't do, the prince had ambitions. His dark hair was disheveled from tossing and turning from the heat of this baker's oven Aegon chose for his capital and his eyes were bloodshot like a drunkard's, the second mentioning was more of an observation than a complaint.
He grimaced at the poor beginnings of facial hair. I'll have to shave sooner or later, but not today. I have no interest in giving myself a thousand cuts at the moment. Instead, he grabbed a comb and scissors before turning back to the looking glass and water-filled basin. He submerged his head fully in the lukewarm water and ran a hand through his hair shaking it all out so that even the ends that would tickle his armpits as he slept were good and wet.
Only once he began to run low on air did he pull back out of the water, nearly jumping out of his skin at the amused voice that filled the room from behind. "For a moment, I thought you were trying to drown yourself."
The Black Prince instantly recognized the owner of the voice and turned to see a fair-haired man who looked more or less the same since Steffon had last seen him. His hair was golden as the gold of his home, Casterly Rock, and his eyes were still the same shade of green like his mother's, and the same mocking smirk plastered on his face that men and women alike often accused the prince himself of having.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I suppose. It wasn't much of a secret that Prince Steffon's uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister was said to have forever dishonored himself when he ran Aerys the Mad through with his sword while his father's men sacked the old king's city. In the eyes of many, his uncle held one of the worst reputations of any knight in Westeros, comparable to the likes of Gregor Clegane as Ser Jaime had the reputation of a man who swore sacred vows to a king, and then shattered those vows by killing said king but to Prince Steffon, he was just his uncle who helped him with his training at arms and kept his lips sealed whenever he snuck off.
Still, with him being a pariah with a stained reputation, people expected the man they called the Kingslayer to go back to Casterly Rock and Grandfather Tywin, who wanted his golden heir back, but Jaime surprised everyone and chose to continue his Kingsguard duties and for the life of him, Steffon couldn't understand why. Mayhaps it was out of spite or perhaps a sense of duty to protect his future nieces and nephews, the princes and princesses of the blood, but whatever it was, his Uncle Jaime was still here and if he was bothered by his brothers' hateful looks, he didn't show it.
Give him a white horse and he'll be a knight in shining armor just like the ones in fairytales, he thought dryly, watching the white lion eye the stacks of books assorted in various spots on the floor, nearly tripping over one here or there.
"Uncle Jaime," he said, panting for air, "I don't think I need to explain the purpose of a closed-door to you, do I?" The prince and the kingsguard stood vigil for several moments, still and stone-faced as statues while laughing green eyes bore into those of placid indigo.
The kingsguard laughed. "You know, that lesson always seemed to slip my mind as a boy. Quite odd, isn't it?" he said, as the prince used the comb, pulling back all his hair so that it would reach its full length at the bottom of his shoulder blades.
"Well, grandfather will arrive soon enough, mayhaps he can spare the time to re-educate you," said Steffon with a flat expression after catching a good look at himself and giving his sharpest grin to the man in the mirror. Gods, he was handsome.
"I'll pass, but you have my thanks," Jaime rolled his eyes. "I knew Tyrion meant it when he claimed he would steal you away from swords and I, but this is ridiculous! You've been home almost a moon now and no one has seen you since the feast and here you are, lounging about in this labyrinth you call a bedchamber with a thousand books.
That caused him to pause. Almost a moon? No, there's not a snowball's chance in the seven Hells that so many days could come and go so quickly without me noticing or was there? He wondered, knowing that considering that he sometimes forgot to take his meals, weeks slipping his mind wasn't completely out of the question.
He opened his mouth to reply but his uncle silenced him with a raised hand. "Spare me your apologies, nephew, it's not me that's upset with you. Cersei and Jocelyn, however, are different matters entirely," he laughed before stepping closer as if to share a secret. "I heard from Tyrion that they're quite cross with you for one reason or another, it's the only thing they agree on these days."
Truthfully, Steffon was only half-listening until his uncle stopped speaking. He regarded the white knight with an expression that greatly resembled displeasure. "Ser Jaime," he said, "I don't think I need to explain the purpose of a closed-door to you, do I?" The prince and the kingsguard stood vigil for several moments, still and stone-faced as statues while laughing green eyes bore into those of placid indigo.
There was a smirk threatening to appear on Jaime's face, he knew it. "His Grace has charged me with the duty of guarding the crown prince, what I did to earn such a heinous task still eludes me."
A stubborn part of him wanted to correct his uncle and explain that the passageways were more than mere rumors, but he kept such things behind narrowed eyes. "Tommen's outsmarted you too many times for my father's liking, eh? I can't say I'm surprised, I used to run circles around you and your sworn brothers from dawn to dusk as a boy."
They stared at each other for a moment before Jaime finally pulled back and muttered, "Well played, nephew, well played indeed."
Steffon snorted. As he walked to embrace his uncle, he said, "It's good to see you, Uncle Jaime."
"Yes, it's been what? Almost nine years now?" the Lannister asked, taking a step back to appraise Steffon with a glint in his eye. "Gods, let me have a look at you. I don't think you even reached my knee, last time I saw you, and now the Mountain will look like a small hill in your presence by the time you're a man grown!" The knight gave him a teasing wink, "And that jawline, even a fool could tell where you got that from. You're welcome by the way."
The prince rolled his eyes at his uncle but kept a true smile plastered on his face. "Do I? I'll be sure to thank Great-Uncle Tygett when he arrives with the Lannister party."
"Enough small talk," he laughed with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Storm tells me you're attending the king's court today?"
"I am." Prince Steffon nodded rigidly, "I've been gone far too long and it's best to get a feel for where nobles of court's loyalties lie. Now leave me so that I may dress, unless you wish to see your prince's cock."
His uncle laughed and spun on a heel as he retorted. "No thank you, my prince, I could simply go to the nursery if I had a desire to see a tiny cock. Do hurry and dress, will you? I have duties to attend to unlike some people within the Red Keep."
The prince made a move to reply but thought better of it, instead of commanding his uncle to have servants prepare his bath. The servants entered and made for his bath chamber at a brisk pace and in several minutes, he noticed the smell coming from his bath chambers. It was a hint of lavender and chamomile oil that was immersed in his tub. He discarded his tunic and breeches and went to the tub where hot steams were coming from the warm water.
Steffon glanced down at himself and saw some of the scars that littered his body. There was a burnt scar from when he had taken a candle to his wrist in one of his darker moods, several faint gashes he had earned fighting one of the savages of the Mountain clan, and countless other scars that he did not care about to remember at the moment.
He laid at rest in the tub, the warm water, and oil cleaning away all the filth and dirt. He shut his eyes for a moment for that was all he could afford at the moment. Realms gathering for a tourney and feast, countless plots to get a firm hand on the throne through a prince or princess of the blood, every lord bickering, looking at House Baratheon with envy but what did it matter when they would bicker one way or another.
Almost every day since his return to the capital, the prince's father would send a member of the kingsguard to escort him to his solar for the reason of what Steffon could only rationalize as father-son bonding where they would drink and for hours on end, speak on several surface-level topics, nothing of true substance. His father would ask of the tourneys he won and the women he bedded, little else was asked of him by his father but every once in a while, Lord Arryn would question him.
The inquiries were aimless at first glance, but when he answered, the lord hand would ask additional questions that built atop each other, something that reminded the prince of his lessons with Ondrew when the maester would pick his brain about everything from hypothetical battles between commanders that lived millennia apart to his interpretations on various myths and legends known around the world. And at the end of it, Steffon was left needing two stiff drinks, one to quench his thirst from talking himself tired and another to soothe his throbbing head but that was a topic for another time.
Everyone had told him since childhood that impressions were everything and Steffon began to believe it as well. And with it being his first time interacting with the court, everything from his mannerism to his parlance had to befit that of a crown prince. With a bored expression, he dressed in a gold and black tunic that stopped just below the knees, across the trimming it was studded with rubies that shone in the light and it felt comfortable enough to move in. His inky locks in a loose and messy bun today, letting several out-of-place strands fall to where his neck and shoulders met. Swinging whenever a gentle breeze passed through his dark hair, the sweet smell of vanilla. The black of his doublet enhanced his appearance with the way its color contrasted with his fair-skinned complexion and deep tanzanite eyes.
The storm prince stood and made his way out of the chambers with his sworn shield companion and kingsguard uncle at his back and slowly but surely, his mind drifted towards a phrase he had heard once or twice as he eyed the wooden doors and cobblestone walls and hanging ornaments around the castle. It's here, he thought, it has to be here somewhere.
The histories written by the Citadel spoke of how the Red Keep went from the wooden shack known as the Aegonfort to a castle made of pale red stone that sat atop Aegon's Hill, overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush but what they didn't mention for one reason or another was that beneath the Red Keep and Aegon's Hill lied a network of secret passages and tunnels. Maegor the Cruel had them built as a contingency if he needed to make a quick escape if his enemies ever trapped him. The tunnels were also rumored to be full of traps. Some tunnels were of stone, while others were earth supported by timbers that were centuries old. Some of them were so small that a man finding a way to crawl through was a physical impossibility and some passed close to other rooms in the Red Keep, allowing a hidden person to eavesdrop on conversations.
A secret passageway leading from the Maidenvault to several other places across the castle was found by Steffon as a boy, all of which the young prince used to dodge lessons and evade whichever kingsguard was given the unfortunate task of watching over him but now, thinking of the locations besides the one was impossible with the fog plaguing his mind.
He remembered one thing though, a phrase. Court nobles often said that the Red Keep had eyes and ears, something interpreted as a forewarning against speaking casually where Varys the Spider might be listening in to add something to his intricate web of information gathering. Steffon knew that the true meaning was far older than the Myrish eunuch but for all the trouble they brought to Westeros' shores, the likes of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel were smart in ways many overlooked, always planning things for the next generation whether their plans came to fruition or not.
Still, he could find ways to find the hidden passageways. He could carry incense and watch to see if the smoke tugged towards the wall, take notice of any candle flame that flickers like there was a draft in a sealed room, measure rooms and hallways to find unexplained voids, find ancient maps and diaries, think carefully about old stories and songs that might contain hidden truths, tap the walls to test solidity, follow rats and cats and mayhaps even leave tasty morsels in closed rooms to see if a rat finds it, then figure out how the rat got in.
Yes, that's it. There are probably dozens throughout the Keep, perhaps a few in the Holdfast, thought Steffon, moving through Maegor's Holdfast at a brisk pace, wearing down the leather of his pacing boots, ignoring whatever lord or lady trying to impede his path and introduce him to their empty-headed daughters and boot-licking sons as he pushed his mind to remember where every lord or lady stood during the Rebellion whether they were of a great house or lowly ones, he tried to remember what side they chose as best as he could while wondering whether or not the court was being held at the moment until he came across the first servant he saw in several minutes. "Pardon me—"
The servant turned and squeaked in alarm upon seeing him. They dropped the bundled of clothing they had in their arms and fell sharply to their knees, head bowed low as they began mumbling, "My prince, I didn't see you there, I am so sorry Your Grace, please forgive me, Your Grace, I am your humble servant, Your Grace—"
"Can you slow down and breathe for a second?" asked Steffon, amused. "You've only so much air left and at that pace."
The servant froze like a startled deer noticing a predator, but took the suggested second to catch her breath and managed to stutter two more words out. "…Y-Your Grace?"
"That was quite the response," replied Steffon, chuckling. He leaned down and helped the young woman to her feet. She trembled under his hand like a frightened animal, giving credence to his private jest about deer and wolves. He began to pick up the clothing on the ground, and the girl squeaked again.
"Your Grace, you mustn't—" she then clamped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide.
Gods above, woman, I'm not going to harm you, he thought in exasperation, keeping the words to himself for fear of the poor girl believing it was some drawn-out, cruel joke. Steffon rolled his eyes and looked up from the floor, curiously. "Surely you need help?"
"Your Grace?"
"I believe 'Steffon' would suffice if you don't mind," he corrected with a small smile, hoping to ease her worries with a bit of humor. He stood and passed the bundle, now all collected, to the maid who took the fabric instinctively, despite staring at the tall blood royal with comically large eyes.
"Your Grace, Prince Steffon," she began the girl, her voice a bare whisper.
"So, that's a no on calling me by my name, then? I suppose that should've been expected." Steffon reached back and scratched at his neck during a pause, clearing his throat, "Well, I'll take what I can get Listen, I'm at a bit of a loss so to speak, are you aware if Lord Arryn is holding court in the Throne Room, at the moment?"
The girl fell into a curtsey and nodded frantically at the same time. "Of course, Your Grace, Prince Steffon."
Steffon stared at the girl and waited.
She stared back and waited.
Finally, he broke his silence and asked, "So…Lord Arryn is holding court, then?"
She squeaked again and blurted, "The lord hand started not long ago. Two floors below, down the hall and then a left towards the large doors on the left, Your Grace, Prince Steffon."
"Right, thank you…" Steffon hesitated, looking down at the girl, waiting for her name. She truly did look at him like prey caught in a predator's sight. He sighed, giving her a tiny, dismissive wave.
His uncle waited until the girl was out of earshot to speak.
"Well then, that was an interesting spectacle. Not even a moon has passed since your arrival and the servants are already blushing, stuttering messes in your presence," he laughed even more so when the prince's ears and cheeks reddened. "I'd advise you against telling Cersei about this...experience, she'd have the poor girl flogged for having a prince help her."
The prince argued back with a quick reply, "She didn't ask for my help, I helped her of my own volition."
"I doubt the queen will see things from your perspective, my prince," Ser Rolland added his voice to the conversation, and Steffon couldn't help but sigh in exasperation for a second time, was every single action or inaction subject to judgment here? He already knew the answer and it soured his mood tremendously. Steffon remained quiet as he and his guards traversed the labyrinth that was the Red Keep, following the directions of the spooked maid from Maegor's Holdfast.
Soon, they found two large doors made of wood and bronze. One of the guards at the throne room doors goggled at the group as they approached, blinking, and nudging at his fellow guard with his elbow.
"What?" the other guard moaned, turning away from where he was peeking at the latest petition inside through a crack in the door. His fellow guard was still staring, and the man turned, only to squawk in surprise. "Prince Steffon!?"
Steffon nodded, somewhat amused. "Open the doors, please. I intend to attend my father's court."
"Yes, my prince," They each pulled a door open and Steffon strode through with his sworn sword and kingsguard at his back. and when the wayward prince, his baseborn sworn shield, and oath-breaking uncle entered the large, cavernous room everyone in the throne room turned to look at Steffon as he walked in, and he basked in the glow of their eyes. Lords, ladies, knights, smallfolk, and servants all stood around the throne room, some in chairs and others standing near the edges.
A faint sense of dread and dread flooded the prince as his practiced mask nearly cracked beneath what felt like hundreds of eyes turning to him, waiting for something. A greeting, a witty remark, a magic trick, he didn't know and tried his best to appear uncaring of such things as he parted the crowd like the Grey King supposedly parted the Sunset Sea and made his way to one of the massive arches and columns below the towering vaulted ceiling where he could observe everything.
After moments of silence seemed to pass, hushed whispers began to erupt and glances were thrown his way by eyes of all every type; kind ones, unkind ones, inquisitive ones, disinterested ones, and lustful ones. He tries to only pay attention to the aforementioned one but sighed nonetheless.
The nobles of court were without a doubt unaccustomed to his presence in the capital and rightly so, he had been living in Runestone after all. And with the fact that he had maintained his absence for another two weeks after arriving in King's Landing, the Baratheon prince knew that the lords and ladies would gossip about the reasons for his past absence.
Ignoring them, his eyes moved to the opposite end of the entrance where his father's chief advisor, Lord Denys Arryn sat atop the Iron Throne, which was raised dais climbed up to by two sets of wide steps of rough black stone, upright and solemn-faced as he nodded along to the group of men standing in front of him and the king's seat. Somehow, Denys Arryn had noticed his presence and eyed the crown prince like the falcon on his sigil, appraising him through shrewd eyes that held an inquisitive glint.
Steffon met his stare out of spite, stubbornness, and inquisitiveness of his own. Since the moment his father pulled him into the small council chambers, Lord Arryn had been keeping an eye on him and the prince still couldn't figure out why or what was going through the man's head. A strange feeling in his stomach told him that it wasn't good either that or he needed to find a chamber pot.
He remained in his spot near the column, being sure not to fidget or seem uninviting for as prince, he refused to approach to find friends in court. Atop that twisted, mangled, monstrosity of ancient blades fused in the Black Dread's flames, Lord Denys almost looked like a king with the way he seemed to carry himself and how he spoke, voice ringing out through the quiet Great Hall as he settled disputes of both the highborn and lowborn, disputes that could be described as either being of the utmost importance or petty squabbles being entertained for entertainment purposes.
Steffon looked to the window above and behind the throne, light was streaming into the throne room and casting a rainbow light on the heir of the Iron Throne and others. He turned his eyes up into the shafts of light and closed them, keeping that way for a moment or two.
Let's see, let's see, he mused, the North was fully behind Eddard Stark after the murders of their previous liege lord and his heir but when father rebelled he was still Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and some houses chose Aerys despite that. Houses Cafferen, Fell, Grandison, And Connington were either staunch loyalists or turncloaks.
The situation in the Vale was not dissimilar from the one in the Stormlands as the Corbrays of Heart's Home and Graftons of Gulltown were originally against the rebellion but switched over, mayhaps they were only backing the Mad King in the first place out of a sense of distrust in Lord Denys' abilities at the time. In the Crownlands, Houses Crabb, Velaryon, Brune, Bogg, Celtigar, Ryger, and Mootoon remained loyal to House Targaryen.
His mind drifted to the Riverlands. Darry and Goodbrook were loyalists through and through, the Lychesters were divided between the rebels and loyalists, while the Freys remained neutral until father killed Prince Rhaegar at the Trident. And to my knowledge, the Reach remained firmly behind House Tyrell who managed to do as little as possible as loyalists and it's clear which side House Martell and by extension, Dorne chose.
He sighed, his hand going down to rest on the pommel of his sword, his fingers toying with the jet black stag on the pommel, making their way down to the blue diamond eyes of the animal. The sword was a nameday gift for the prince from his Uncle Stannis after his original sword had been damaged during a skirmish with a group of unkind clansmen and was useless for battle.
"Don't tell me you're bored already, my prince," a woman's voice addressed him with an amused tone.
Steffon's eyes opened again and looked down, the suddenness of the voice almost catching him off guard. Looking up at him through dark eyes, stood a dark-haired and comely girl around his age, freckled with teats bigger than melons.
He gave a pleasant smile for good measure. "Oh, not yet, I've another hour or two left in me." He chuckled to himself, trying his damndest not to look at the woman's cleavage, not when she was looking, at least. "Forgive me, my lady, I don't believe I caught your name."
"I'm Bethany of House Blackwood, my prince." she smiled and curtsied low, it was a skillful one, he supposed, as far as curtsies went.
"A pleasure to meet you then, Lady Bethany," he replied with a gregarious smile, grabbing her hand and placing a chaste kiss upon her knuckle.
He and Lady Bethany continued to exchange pleasantries for a while as she whispered rumors about this lord or that lady and the general response to his presence within the capital. The entire time they spoke, the prince couldn't help but feel like the girl was angling herself for him to get a good look at her chest and he'd be a liar to claim he hadn't looked once or twice or eight times. Whether the Riverlander was sowing the seeds to proposition him soon was pulled back to recesses of Steffon's mind when Bethany's father approached to introduce himself, sending his daughter away so that he and the prince could converse.
Looking up at him through dark eyes, Lord Tytos of House Blackwood was a tall, thin man sporting a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, a hook nose, long hair, and surprisingly, a magnificent raven-feather cloak. From what he knew of him, the Lord of Raventree Hall appreciated honor and chivalry.
"A good evening to you, Lord Blackwood."
"And a good evening to you, my prince. I saw you sparring earlier with my sons," he replied with a silver chalice in his hand, "you're a fine warrior, were you knighted during your stay in the Vale?"
"No, Lord Royce and Ser Samwell both tell me I'll need another year or two to further hone my skills as I grow."
"Well, you'll be knighted soon enough, mayhaps by Ser Barristan or by your royal father, the king himself. I remember seeing your father on the Trident, fearless and ferocious. It was like watching a raging bull wreak havoc with the way he wielded that hammer.
It took everything in Steffon to not sigh. His father, the Demon of the Trident was one of the fiercest warriors the seven kingdoms had ever seen and to be compared to him, especially while unknighted was a feat in itself but his and Lord Tytos' conversation was growing tedious and tedious conversation would get him nowhere. Fortune did favor the bold, after all.
"Speaking of your sons," he began, watching the raven-haired lord intently, "the fifth one, Alyn, I think, how old is he?"
There was a flicker of something in Tytos' black eyes, something that seemed to lighten them a shade or two for one moment before they darkened once more. If Steffon had to guess, he was seeing curiosity or something else entirely.
Either way, the raven lord's response came slowly as the morning sun in winter. "Alyn is five going on six now, his nameday is just around the corner. Why do you ask?" He finished with paternal protective instincts taking over and causing his words to sound like that of a man forgetting his station and disrespecting a prince of the blood. Only five or so seconds went by before the Lord of Raventree Hall realized his mistake and went to smooth things over, though Steffon didn't view it as a slight.
"Forgive me for my loose tongue, Your Grace, I meant no disrespect," he started slowly, a good deal of fear in his eyes. "With the countless deaths I witnessed within my household during the last two wars, I've grown somewhat overprotective of my children."
With a dismissive wave of his hand, the prince finally spoke. "All is forgiven, my lord, I know you meant no harm. I only asked because I meant to extend an offer for young Alyn to serve as my squire, what with my nameday tourney approaching I'm afraid I have no squires and thought your son would accept the proposal." He made a face that to onlookers could be seen as hesitation. "I understand if you'd prefer your son to serve someone with an actual knighthood or simply a man from the Riverlands."
The look on Tytos Blackwood's face was almost enough for Steffon to split at the seams from laughter for all the court to witness as he almost choked on wine. "N-No!" he sputtered, forgetting himself a second time, recomposing a second later. "Forgive me, what I mean to say is that Alyn and the entirety of House Blackwood would be honored for him to serve as your squire, Prince Steffon."
Soon, Lord Tytos' least favorite person in the world, Lord Jonos Bracken, the head of House Blackwood's eternal rival approached and made polite conversation with him while making jabs with Lord Tytos whenever possible and the Lord of Raventree Hall was not one to back down from a Bracken. Where Tytos Blackwood was tall and thin, Jonos Brack wasn't as tall but he was thick in the shoulders and arms with coarse brown hair and brown eyes.
"I heard a rumor that your cousins through your father's mother would be attending yours and Princess Jocelyn's nameday festivities, my prince?" Jonos inquired in a careful tone, though his eyes held something within them.
"They are," he nodded, "my Great Grandfather has confirmed it."
Lord Tytos sighed. "I thought as much, by the Old Gods and the New, I pray that those vagabonds on the Stepstones leave them be."
"What vagabonds are there on the Stepstones that weren't there before, my lord?" Steffon carefully raised a dark brow.
A look of fear and surprise took over the faces of Blackwood and Bracken, both going pale as milk. "Truly, you haven't heard the whispers coming from the Stepstones?"
He shook his head.
"I heard from Lord Redwyne a fortnight ago that on the Stepstones, sellsails and pirates are forming some sort of kingdom of their own." Jonos confessed, "There are conflicting rumors of the whole thing. Some say that Salladhar Saan is the mastermind behind it all, preparing to declare himself King of the Narrow Sea.
A red-faced Lord Bracken glowered at the notion before adding his coppers to the conversation. "I've spoken that hail from the coastlines of Essos say it's that ironborn hellspawn, Euron Greyjoy, though some with more rational minds whisper a confederacy of sorts is being formed, it's not good for Westeros either way."
House Blackwood and House Bracken existed within an old and bitter feud that originated one way or another, depending on who you asked. Still, there was not much that the lords agreed on but it was clear as day that they agreed that whatever was going on across the Narrow Sea wasn't good for Westeros, and oddly enough, that made Steffon somewhat fearful.
When the night had finally come to seize the day, Prince Steffon returned to his chambers after finishing his evening meal and conversing with a small sum of lords and ladies, something which he surprisingly enjoyed. As Lords Blackwood and Bracken traded barbs throughout the night, the prince extended the same offer of the Lord of Stone Hedges son serving as a squire just to spice things up between the bickering lords. He learned a great many things at court, though their truth was up for discussion.
Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken bickered incessantly and traded barbs until their tongues tired, Lady Eleanor was sleeping with her brother's wife, and so much more.
A three-tone tapping sound came at the chamber door and without thinking, Steffon called for whoever it was to enter. He would need to nip such habits in the bud as soon as possible. He was in the capital now. Rolland came through the doorway, dressed in rough cloaks and what seemed to be for peasant's gear.
"Rolland," he addressed the man, an eyebrow raised in a silent question he was yet to ask, "what fresh hell is this and why is it in my rooms of all places?"
"These are our disguises," the knight answered with a quizzical stare. "If you're going to rub elbows with the lowest of the low in King's Landing, you might as well look like you belong. It's hard enough as it is with all that giant's blood in your veins."
"Those are rags, ser," corrected the prince with a deep-set frown. "You couldn't find anything better than soiled rags? A simple tunic would've served just as well, I'm sure."
The Bastard of Nightsong regarded his prince with a flat stare and sighed. "Fine, wear a tunic, the plainest one you have, and by that I mean one that only a landed knight could afford."
He shivered at the thought of wearing clothes of such poor quality. He dismissed Ser Rolland so that he could prepare and legged it into a pair of trousers and pulled on a pair of soft, leather boots after them.
Rolland nodded, approving of his appearance. "You look as poor as can be my prince, the spitting image of Trystane Truefyre!"
"Then come along, Ser Perkin the Flea, there's much to do and only so many hours in the night."
Getting out of Maegor's Holdfast proved simple enough with whatever idiot cloaked in white Steffon had outwitted. Outside the safe walls of the Red Keep, the first thing Prince Steffon noticed was the pungent stench.
It seemed to fill the air itself, clung to silk and wool alike, rooted itself beneath the skin, and lingered for days, and it was hard to tell exactly which cause of it was more revolting, the people or the animals. The city of red brick and stag was magnificent
"Is this the scent of freedom?" Steffon spoke softly to Rolland, barely above a whisper.
"This is the smell of shit," came the stormlander's reply, his eyes darting to every dark shadow.
"So freedom reeks of shit, then?"
"More often than not, freedom's a beautiful but shitty idea, my prince," Rolland grunted back.
When the duo entered Flea Bottom, Ser Rolland's hand rested firmly on the hilt of his longsword, knuckles clenched around the yellow nightingale adorning it.
"Calm yourself, Rolland," chuckled Steffon, "We're in no immediate danger."
"Horeshit," cursed his sworn sword, "I spoke with one of the knights from the Reach, he mentioned some madman at Oldtown slicing people to pieces like a godsdamned butcher, if there's one in Oldtown, there's one in King's Landing."
"Quite a few leagues between King's Landing and Oldtown, but perhaps you're right." A silence fell over them as they navigated shit-stained cobblestones before the crown prince spoke again, "So, I've been thinking we spend an hour or two rubbing elbows with lowlifes, sneak back into the Red Keep and don our ordinary clothing and then stroll right out and find my companions at the tavern. Thought?"
"A sound plan, but remember," he paused, "This won't be like the other taverns in the city. It's a rough place, with rough men. If they discover you hold coin, or if they decide they like your cloak more than they do their own, they might very well decide to take it from you. Have a mind toward that. And, Steffon, do be sure to keep your hood up when you play. A sight of those eyes and they may remember that they have very little to lose. Give me your word that you won't draw attention to yourself."
"Fine, Rolland," the prince acquiesced after a moment or two spent pondering whether or not to lie, "you have my word, sir, I'll seem like one of the smallfolk tonight."
Js: Its nice that the crown prince has actual friends and that Domeric Bolton is actually still alive. #Fuck Ramsay. I'd always preferred a good Domeric x Sansa pairing over whatever Sandor fics are out there. I personally find the Hound x Sansa to be a strange and uncomfortable couple. Not to mention unfeasible considering just how much weight the Stark name has. Speaking of Stark, am I the only one not that fond of Bran and Robb? I dunno, I find Bran povs boring and his I see everything to be frustrating. Robb is also the maker of some horrible decisions... though I wonder if that's has been the decision from the inception of his character.
Superficially he has the same honor values of his father Eddard but it becomes increasingly clear that he takes after his mother more than people thought. In comparison Jon proves himself more and more that he's Eddard writ small despite being his nephew by blood. Is Baelish in this fic? Because he gets away with a lot with that Lyssa plot armor.
一 I think Domeric and Sansa are gonna be paired in this when the time comes for marriages and whatnot. I've always been against Sansa being with Sandor since in the books she's 11 and 13 in the show, while Sandor's in his late twenties to early thirties when they first meet, plus with him being a landed knight, no one would let him marry Sansa, the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North. I'm not fond of Robb and Bran for different reasons. Bran's just a little boy who's a pawn in the game of higher forces, his humanity (in the books) is literally being slowly darkened by the Children and Bloodraven (assuming that's even him and he's not being warged like an animal.) With Robb, he's the headstrong kid that makes so many mistakes based on his rose-tinted view of Ned. As for Jon (Book!Jon), I liked his character when he was finally coming into his own as Lord Commander. Baelish is still here as Master of Coin, he just hasn't shown up on screen and no one's aware of the scheming yet but for how he meets his end, I've got like three ways for him to die depending on how fast Steff finds out about what he's doing.
HouseDaynelover4ever: Nice chapter dude! Glad the right scene came out as well as it did.
一 Thanks dude, I just checked out your twelfth chapter, it's good to see that Ceresa's character is being fleshed out more.
Donny Donuts: Are you writing Jocelyn to think she's clever, but is actually not or are you writing her to actually be clever? She comes off like someone who thinks she is much smarter than she is. Absolutely no subtlety in trying to get the answers she wants.
一 Jocelyn's smart for her age but like Cersei, she's not as smart as she thinks she is and with her lack of subtlety she doesn't feel the need to be subtle and guarded around people she trusts (Ser Ronnet, Artys, Steffon).