The Black Stag(Remastered)
Summary: King Robert and Queen Cersei manage to conceive a true heir to the Iron Throne. This is the story of Steffon Baratheon. Remastered and re-edited for plot pacing and character consistency. Rated Mature.
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire
Chapter One
The hall was large and looming and an impressive sight, bedecked in banners of gold and black and all adorned with the prancing stag of his ancestors. There was a large, oaken long table placed in the middle of the marble floor and each seat at the table was set with the finest china and chalices made of gold and silver and both were outfitted with onyx gems. Further enhancing its majesty, the hall was bathed in a pale green glow, lighting the entire room in ethereal wonder.
In truth, it reminded young Steffon Baratheon, the Crown Prince of Westeros, of the great hall in his family's ancestral seat of Storm's End, yet somehow more majestic. There was a feeling in the air around Steffon of magic and wonder, yet also of fear. It was somehow both awe-inspiring and terrifying and left Steffon without a notion of how to proceed.
Despite its resemblance to Storm's End, Steffon was sure he had never entered this room in his life.
"Come now, boy, I didn't summon you here for you to gawk at the hall. Take a seat close to me so that we may have a conversation."
A gruff, but not unpleasant baritone seemed to be summoned from the void itself. The voice seemed to resonate from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing off the walls and the floors and the ceiling, but never losing its clarity or consistency or tone. Even after a few seconds, it was still as rich and full as it had been when it first reached Steffon's ears.
Steffon blinked and scanned the hall, looking for the source of the voice, when he noticed a pale, translucent figure sitting at the head of the table.
The shade, for lack of a better term, was tall and full-figured, broad chested and muscular. He wore his hair, black like the night, long and his beard matched. In fact, this shade could pass as a twin of Steffon's own father, King Robert. He wore plate armor befitting a warrior and the yellow vestments of House Baratheon. Across his chest was a black stag that shimmered in the glowing lights still dancing around the table.
"Tell me, boy, have you figured out who I am?"
Steffon was taken aback by the statement, but deemed his best course of action was to answer the shade. He scanned the shade again, making note of the distinguishing characteristics it possessed. The shade wore the colors and symbols of his house, so he would be a Baratheon. And his near identical resemblance to Steffon's father would indicate someone in their direct line of ancestry. The most telling feature, however, was the lack of one of his hands.
As a young child Steffon had been enthralled with his father' tales of their famous ancestors, so he thought himself well-versed in the subject and there was only one figure from his ancestry who fit such a scenario.
Steffon nodded. "Either a fever dream or the legendary Orys One-Hand."
A ghost of a smile passed the shade's lips as he raised one of the ornate goblets to his mouth and drank deeply. "They told me you were smart, boy. I'm glad to find it's true."
"They?" Steffon responded with a raised eyebrow. Has this shade been appearing to others? "Who are they?"
"There are many over here, boy, who speak to me. Yet, even in my state, I understand them little and could describe them with even less detail."
"The gods, then? The seven or even the old ones?"
"Seven, Trees, Fire, Drowned, these are all just terms for something humanity cannot possibly understand. Whatever created reality as you or I understand it is far beyond our comprehension or even that of any holy men you've met. They are simply that. Despite what you've been taught, death does not make you omniscient. I have no more understanding of the questions I pondered in life than I did while I was alive. I have simply been granted a bigger picture."
"A bigger picture of what?"
"A choice that needs to be made. A choice that can only be made by one of my line."
"Why your line?" Steffon pondered. "Are we the center of some kind of prophecy?"
"Hardly," Orys scoffed. "Prophecies are not literal and should not be considered as such. Often prophecies only come true when the men involved see to it. The reason my line can only make this choice is because it was my mistake that placed reality in this situation."
"And what mistake was that?"
"Long ago, I sat my dragon half-brother on a throne he had no right to possess. I helped him subjugate a land."
The shade, if he spoke true, confirmed a long held rumor that Orys Baratheon and Aegon Targaryean were the product of the same father. Orys was, outside of the dragons, probably the key reason the Targaryen dynasty formed in the first place and the first Hand of the King. And, since the forming of the dynasty, the Baratheons and Targaryens had been allies up to and including Steffon's own namesake and his close relationship with the Mad King. But, Steffon's father had rebelled against the throne. He sat as king. The Targaryen dynasty was no more.
"If you speak true," Steffon began. "Then you should be pleased to know that the Targaryen dynasty no longer exists. My father, Jon Arryn, and Eddard Stark saw to that when they rose in rebellion. My father sits on the throne in King's Landing."
"Aye, he does," Orys continued. "And I once thought to come to him with this request. But, your father is too rageful. Your uncles are either too stubborn or too silly. I have judged them unworthy."
"And my siblings?"
Orys was quicker with an answer. "They too are unworthy."
"But, I'm worthy?"
Orys didn't respond for a moment, but looked hard at Steffon. To his credit, Steffon didn't flinch or falter. He returned the look with a leveled one of his own.
"There is a storm coming, boy. I don't know what it is, but I know it's coming. And it will be cataclysmic. It must be stopped for the world to survive."
Steffon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And you believe that I'm capable of saving the world?"
"You are my blood," responded Orys with finality. "The rule of dragons has ended. They have their uses, but the world needs a stag to save it from the coming darkness."
There was a blinding, nausea inducing light and the shade vanished, leaving Steffon alone in the ornate hall.
Steffon Baratheon awoke with a jolt, heart beating rapidly against his breast bone and body covered in a slick coat of sweat. His hair, black and tangled, stuck to his forehead and his blue eyes were wide with alarm.
He took a few calming breaths and managed to run a hand through the damp mess on top of his head, a habit of nerves. He sat straight up in his bed, hand clutched to the linen of his sleeping shirt as he aired the cloth out from his chest. The birds outside his room were chirping and there was sunlight streaming in through the window on the other side of the room, but these pleasant sounds of the morning did little to calm his rapidly beating heart or racing mind.
If it was more than a simple dream, this shade left him with some cryptic task and vague notion of some cataclysmic disaster. There was hardly anything to go by.
He could always simply ignore the dream, as Pycelle had advised with his nightmares when he was younger, but something in Steffon told him that would be a mistake. For now, Steffon could hope to be more involved with the running of the kingdom.
He rose from the bed and stumbled sleepily over to the mirror placed above a desk and dresser in the corner. The mirror had once been placed on the other side of the room, but Steffon's mother, Cersei had the room reconfigured once he was deemed old enough to be separated from the nursery and her chambers. It was probably the last time she had taken an interest in Steffon's wants or desires.
The mirror itself was decorated with dragons around the outer casing, a remnant of a different time when a different crown prince lived in these chambers. Still, Steffon liked the mirror and he decided that this one act of rebellion would not incur the wrath of his father.
For approaching four and ten name days, Steffon still looked young. Unlike the robust virality of his father and uncles, Steffon had been born two moons early and lacked their intimidating size and strength. Yet, the Baratheon genes were strong and Steffon still approached an average size for any other boy around his age, if on the skinny side.
There were bags under his eyes, as he hadn't gotten much sleep in the last few days, and the normal sheen of his hair was dull instead. It would also need to be cut soon, he mused, as he idly brushed a loose strand from his forehead. The mess was mopped and hung in loose curls framing his face, as he preferred, but since he was expected at court today, he would need to at least tie it back less he incur the wrath of his mother. The woman was usually coldly indifferent to his presence, but she could be downright cruel when he upset her in any way.
If one were to look at the royal family, Steffon and his father would stick out from the lot with their black hair and blue eyes. Jon Arryn once mentioned that Steffon looked like a miniature version of his father. His father had complained that he looked more like a younger Uncle Renly. Uncle Renly said to be thankful that he didn't take more after Uncle Stannis.
Steffon chuckled at the memory, but the laughter died in his throat at the thought of Jon Arryn. The now former Hand of the King had been like a grandfather to Steffon and he missed his presence dearly.
The funeral for the Lord Hand had been a somber occasion. Lysa Arryn, the widow, had barely been seen since and had kept their sickly son, Robert, away from much of the proceedings. The child's namesake, Steffon's father, had raged and only calmed down after an extended hunt from which he returned with two adult stags and a downed eagle with which he intended to honor his foster father.
Jon Arryn had been a kind and stabilizing force in Steffon's life, always free to dispense wisdom or help the prince with his problems. The man had been like a grandfather to Steffon, mirroring the relationship Steffon's father had with the man while he fostered in the Vale years ago. And it was a stark contrast to the cold and demanding Lord Tywin Lannister, his maternal grandfather, who Steffon had visited just after his tenth name day and who made sparse trips to the capital in the years since.
There was a polite knock at his doors. "My Prince, your parents are requesting your presence."
The voice of Ser Bonifer Hasty, Steffon's own sworn sword, carried through the wood in its typical reserved and deferential fashion. Opening the door, Steffon nodded to the older knight who stood outside, eyes alert for any potential danger to his charge.
Uncle Jaime once japed that Ser Bonifer reminded him of a stork and Steffon hated that the comparison was apt. The knight was a thin man with a pointed face and long limbs. Yet, despite his advancing years, he was still one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms and capable of facing down scores of younger soldiers. What he had lost in speed and strength, he made up for in battlefield knowledge and experience.
Hailing from the Stormlands, Ser Bonifer's family House Hasty had been sworn to Steffon's father, and later Uncle Renly, for generations. The man was loyal and took his vows seriously, even if he spoke with more piety than Steffon would have liked.
Steffon had been raised in the Light of the Seven, like his father and grandfather before him, but he was never one for religion, unlike his guard who seemed to base his entire life around devotion.
"Ser Bonifer," Steffon greeted. "How are you this morning?"
"My Prince," Ser Bonifer responded with a formal bow. "I am well this morning. And you?"
Steffon shrugged. "As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. Give me a few minutes to bathe and change my clothing and then I can go meet my parents."
Ser Bonifer nodded. "Be swift, My Prince. The Father Above may have endless patience for his children, but the same cannot be said for your parents."
Steffon chuckled at the jape and closed the door to his room, begrudgingly deciding to heed the advice of his guardian.
…
Properly bathed and clothed, and with his hair pulled back to prevent a fight with his mother, Steffon left his room only twenty minutes after Ser Bonifer had originally come to fetch him.
The pair walked in silence for a moment, down the long stretch of hall that separated the royal chambers from the rest of the Red Keep, until Steffon was assured that they were alone. He needed to ask his guardian something personal and it would not do for the staff of the keep to see the Crown Prince acting vulnerable.
Letting his shoulders fall from the normally polite posture he carried himself while walking the halls, and feeling every bit a boy of only three and ten years, he slowed his pace to a stop and turned to face the older knight. Since coming into his service, Ser Bonifer had been a source of comfort and wisdom and a teacher and mentor when his father, uncles Tyrion and Renly, and Jon Arryn were unavailable.
"Ser Bonifer," he started. "Does it get easier?"
The knight's normally hard eyes grew soft and he stopped in place, placing a comforting hand on Steffon's shoulder. "Look to the Mother for comfort and the Crone for wisdom, My Prince. They shall not lead you astray. Even so, I have found that loss does not get easier with time. It simply gets different. You will learn to manage your grief."
The answer was measured and practical, something Steffon had come to expect from the solemn old knight, but it gave him a measure of comfort. "You've lost someone in such a manner, ser?"
"I am old, My Prince. I have lost many. Some hurts are different, but painful still."
For a moment, there was a faraway look in Ser Bonifer's eyes as he spoke. Steffon was tempted to ask for further clarification, but thought better of it when Ser Bonifer steeled his gaze once more and his posture suggested that he was ready to serve as Steffon's silent guardian again.
The rest of the walk to the smaller dining hall the royal family occupied while not hosting one of the various lords that stopped by the keep was made in a comfortable silence.
Sitting at a long table in the center of the room were his parents, King Robert and Queen Cersei, and his younger siblings Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. They were joined by his uncle Jaime, two other members of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Meryn Trant, and Sandor Clegane, the sworn sword of Joffrey.
Clegane, known as the Hound, gave both Steffon and Ser Bonifer a withering glare as they walked by, amplified by the uglhy scar covering one side of his face. Ser Bonifer and the Hound had a contentious relationship as Ser Bonifer thought the Hound nothing more than a common thug and the Hound found Ser Bonifer to be overly pious and condescending. In truth, their relationship mirrored the relationship between their charges. Steffon had never been on good terms with his younger brother Joffrey and any extended period of time spent together led to insults volleyed between the two brothers.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, gave the Crown Prince a small smile as he passed. Though not particularly close, as Ser Barristan's sense of propriety meant he kept a familiar distance between himself and the royal family, the Lord Commander was never unkind and a source of comfort for Steffon knowing that his father was protected by the greatest knight that ever lived.
"Father, Mother," Steffon greeted as he sat down at the table next to Tommen. He ruffled the smaller boy's hair affectionately before reaching forward and filling his plate with warm, wheat bread and a few pieces of bacon. Flagging down a passing servant, he ordered a dark ale and some fish before turning back to his parents.
"We've been waiting for a while now, Steffon," his mother noted with disdain as she glanced at him from behind her upturned nose.
For years now, Steffon and his mother hadn't been particularly close. He had fond memories of her in his childhood, but with each successive sibling born to his parents, their relationship turned colder. These days, it seemed like Steffon and his mother could not even be in the same room with each other without Cersei's cold insults and Steffon's sarcastic responses.
"Apologies, Mother," he answered as calmly as possible, knowing that she wouldn't have chastised Joffrey for a similar offense. "I felt it prudent to bathe and clothe myself properly. The Crown Prince cannot be seen to be anything less than impeccable."
His mother didn't respond, merely humming before turning to fuss with Myrcella's braid.
"Steffon, will you be ready to leave at first light?" His father asked, draining a large goblet of wine. "We leave for Winterfell in the morning."
"Yes, Father."
"And when we get back, I'll write to Highgarden and have that Tyrell girl come to the capitol. It's past time you got to know your intended bride."
"I still cannot believe you are going to wed your heir to that simpering fool from Highgarden," Cersei snorted dismissively. "He should wed a noble from the Westerlands. My father could send a list of suitable brides fit to be the next queen of the realm."
"Quiet, woman!" Robert barked, turning sharply to his wife. "Jon Arryn was like a father to me and he set this pact up to ensure the safety of the realm. I will see it honored."
The two stared at each other for a moment before Cersei rose from her seat and motioned for her three younger children to follow her from the room, Uncle Jaime and Ser Maryn following suit.
"I'm sorry you had to see that Steffon," his father said. "Yelling at her is not kingly."
Steffon didn't respond. He didn't have to. Both he and his father knew that would hardly be the last time one of the pair yelled at each other.
The pair were silent for a moment before his father drained another goblet and spoke again. "Steffon, be kind to the Tyrell girl. It may save you the trouble I have in my own marriage."
Jon Arryn had brokered a pact between the king and Lord Mace Tyrell, of Highgarden, right after Steffon's birth to wed the prince to Lord Tyrell's youngest child and only daughter. The two were close in age and the lady Margaery's status was elevated enough for a prince that no person in the realm could grumble. Furthermore, it helped close the final wounds left over from the rebellion.
It was an open secret that King Robert despised the lord of Highgarden. After all, Mace Tyrell claimed the only victory over Steffon's father during the rebellion, even if that victory was mainly achieved through the military brilliance of Randyll Tarly.
Lord Arryn had to apparently assure Steffon's father for hours that this was the best course of action. Robert had originally wanted his heir to marry one of Eddard Stark's daughters, should he have any. But, Jon Arryn made valid points. The Reach wasn't fully supportive of the throne, while the North would never rebel while Eddard Stark lived.
Taking a moment to favor his son with a small smile that Steffon had seen less and less in recent years, the king rose from the table, nodding to his son, and left the room with Ser Barristan trailing behind.
Steffon and Ser Bonifer were left alone in the room for a moment, until the short form of Tyrion, Steffon's favorite uncle, took the seat across from the prince. The dwarf was smiling and his mismatched eyes shone with mischief as he ordered his meal. In his hands he held the board and the pieces for the game Cvyasse.
Cvyasse was a ritual the two had shared since Steffon began learning his letters and numbers. Not only did it serve to bond the two together, but Steffon took to the game with aplomb and learned more about tactics from trying to outsmart his uncle than any of the books his maesters put in front of him. But it was also during these games that Uncle Tyrion would prod Steffon with questions about politics or philosophy or any number of topics Steffon figured the older man wished he learned in.
Though he had an abysmal record against the older man, he had begun to win games with more frequency over the last year or so. A fact that Uncle Tyrion noted with pride.
"Nephew, good morning," he greeted, setting the board in between the two. "And good morning to you as well, Ser Bonifer."
Ser Bonifer nodded politely, but didn't respond. It was no secret he disapproved of the dwarf's tendency toward drink and lechery, a fact he wasn't able to hide by the quick sneer that overtook his features when Uncle Tyrion drained an entire wine goblet in one go before pouring himself another and repeating the process.
Uncle Tyrion quickly set the board up and made his first move with Steffon quickly following suit. The two continued in silence for a moment longer, both engrossed in the game before them, until the older man decided to broach this day's topic.
"What do you think of your father's idea to name Ned Stark the new Hand of the King?"
Steffon raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize that my father sought your counsel on matters regarding the realm, Uncle."
"Hardly," Uncle Tyrion scoffed. "I would wager your father would prefer me and the rest of my family laying in a ditch. But, what other reason would he have for traveling that far north and taking the entire royal retenue with him? Kings don't often make social calls."
Steffon nodded. "True enough. And who else would he choose without Jon Arryn around? Though I believe my mother would prefer your father or brother."
"Both poor choices, I think."
"I agree," Steffon responded. He waited a moment, until it was clear that his uncle expected him to continue. "Uncle Jaime lacks the temperament. He's just as smart as mother, but he's never been serious enough. He only cares for the sword. And grandfather doesn't have my father's trust like Jon Arryn did. His advice could be the most prudent advice in history, but my father would chafe against it."
"But you think your father will listen to Ned Stark?"
Steffon rubbed his chin in thought as he stared at the board in front of him. He was silent for a moment, as he moved a dragon into place. "Possibly. Who knows what my father will listen to on any given day. However, we do know two things. First, my father does not like to rule. It's sad, but Jon Arryn did most of the ruling while he was alive. Second, from his stories it's clear he adores Ned Stark. If anyone in the realm can convince my father of anything, it's Ned Stark. I have no reason to believe that they, at least, will be against each other."
Tyrion smirked at that. "But others will be?"
Steffon nodded. "King's Landing is a pit of snakes. It's full of schemers and liars. I know Uncle Stannis will resent the fact that he's not being asked to be the Hand. He'll sulk, but he'll do his duty when asked. Mother will try and undercut Ned Stark. Varys will plot as will Littlefinger and even Uncle Renly. But, none of this is new."
"Very Good, Steff," Tyrion responded with a smile and a nod."That was the conclusion I came to as well. And to see a man like Eddard Stark dropped into this pit of snakes might spell his doom. From what I understand Lord Stark is much too honorable to plot and scheme like the rest of them."
Steffon conceded that point with a wave of his hand. "Then, perhaps, you should befriend Lord Stark and tutor him in the ways of lying, Uncle."
"I am hardly a liar, Steffon," Tyrion answered.
"Hardly a liar, indeed," Steffon chuckled. "You're as great a liar as any of them."
"You hurt me, Steffon," Tyrion answered with mock horror and a hand placed against his chest to emphasize the point. "It's a well known fact that I'm only this little because I'm crushed under the weight of the truth."
Steffon merely shook his head in fond exasperation. "As you say, Uncle."
Tyrion frowned and drained another goblet. "Three and ten, is that the age the backtalk begins? I remember when you were a small child and you would follow behind me and beg me to teach you the secrets of the world. What happened?"
Steffon leveled his uncle with a flat stare. "I grew taller than you."
Tyrion threw his head back and laughed, before returning his focus to the gamer in front of him. "So you did. Let's return to this game, shall we?"
…
Sitting in his chair on a balcony overlooking the Water Gardens as was his custom, Doran Martell planned his next move very carefully. Though he rarely, if ever, played cyvasse, there was a board set up in front of him and he toyed with the pieces occasionally as he contemplated his theories and strategies and counterstrategies and counters to his opponents strategies. He was a patient man, learned and wise, and willing to wait years, even decades, to see his plans come to fruition.
There were those of a more impulsive nature, like his brother, that would accuse Prince Doran of being too weak and even indolent because he preferred caution and planning. But, they failed to see the big picture and Doran cared little for their present opinion of him. They would realize soon enough that he was right.
Today, the table in front of him was empty save for the cyvasse set and a letter that Doran had been waiting on for a long time, ever since the day his sister had been murdered at the Red Keep.
The letter itself was filled with the usual greetings and status reports on the subject, but also with words that Doran had waited almost two decades to read: He is ready to take what is his. The words were vague, as they had to be for such a delicate matter, but they meant more than enough to Doran. It meant that his long years of planning were finally ready to pay off.
It was only fortuitous that his brother was visiting the Water Gardens when the letter arrived.
"Hotah," he called out to the guard. "Send someone to find my brother and tell him that I have urgent news and need to see him right away."
Doran didn't need to wait long, for soon after his command the doors to his balcony opened and his younger brother sauntered in.
Despite the large age gap between the two, the brothers were close. And they shared similar features, though age and gout had left Doran more of a shapeless mass than his still fit brother. Doran was envious that his brother still possessed the physical grace of a young man even though he had passed his fortieth nameday.
The Red Viper, as he was known, nodded to Doran as he entered the room and sat down across from his brother in the only other seat present. He reached forward and poured himself a glass of sour Dornish red that Doran had been sipping on for the better part of the day.
Sipping on the drink, Oberyn leaned forward and raised a questioning eyebrow at his brother. "I must admit, I was shocked that you sent someone to fetch me, brother. Normally, you wish for no one to interrupt your "thinking"."
Doran chose not to rise to the disdainful tone of Oberyn's voice, instead he motioned with a weakened hand to the table between them. Idly, he picked up an elephant piece from the board in front of him and used it to nudge the letter toward his brother.
"Read that and tell me what you think," he commanded the younger man.
Oberyn rolled his eyes, but complied and scanned the letter. After a moment, he put the letter down and turned to his brother, his hands shaking. "This can't possibly be what I think it is."
Doran smiled and nodded in approval, glad that his brother had caught on so quickly. Too many thought Oberyn foolish because he was quick to anger and quick to act. Doran knew better. Oberyn was just as smart as Doran himself, but let others see a rash fool. It was all part of the act he put on so others would underestimate him. Like Doran himself, who played more criplled than he actually was, Oberyn played lustful and rashful so that the other players would see him as nothing more than a hothead. Like the animal that gave him his moniker, Oberyn preferred to lie in wait and strike when his opponent let their guard down.
"If Connington speaks true, then the boy is ready to become king. The Golden Company is marching toward Pentos to unite the true king with his uncle and aunt. From there, Illyio Mopatis will provide them with the ships they need to cross the sea," Doran said.
"And when they land?" Oberyn prompted.
"The time to avenge our sister will be at hand."
Despite owning a cyvasse board, Doran never enjoyed playing the game itself. There were too many variables when he played an opponent. And Doran Martell never played a game he could lose.
End of Chapter One
Author's Note: So, first and foremost, I want to offer my apologies to everyone that had been following the original version of this story. Life has a way of getting in the way of writing. That being said, this new version has a much more crystalized plot and many of the problems I found with the past version have been fixed. So, hopefully, this makes up for the months I've been away. I'll be leaving the original version up for a bit so that my previous readers can find this new version.
To all the new readers, sit back and enjoy the ride. I hope you enjoy it. As always, please leave a review if you enjoy the work, have questions, or just want to comment on what you think will happen next.