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 Two
Olenna Tyrell's son was one of the most powerful men in Westeros. As the Warden of the South and the High Marshall of the Reach, Mace controlled the largest food sources in the Seven Kingdoms and could field an army larger than any man on the continent. In essence, the Reach was essential for a united Seven Kingdoms.
Naturally, her son was a bumbling fool.
But that hardly mattered in the end, as anyone with half of their wits knew who held the true power in the family. One day, her grandson, Willas, would rule and be able to make decisions on his own that wouldn't immediately cripple them. However, that day was still years off and Olenna had to contend with the less than subtle machinations of her oaf of a son.
It was tiring work.
And that was why she was surprised to see one of his schemes actually bear productive fruit for her and the rest of the family. Her son, in a rare state of political understanding, had engaged his daughter to the crown prince, Steffon Baratheon.
Normally, Olenna would train her granddaughter in flattering the prince while also planning on less savory contingencies in case he turned into his father, or worse his mother. But, all reports of Steffon Baratheon have been of an educated and studious boy. Anything else, like that famous Baratheon temper or Lannister cold cunning, Margaery could stamp out with her kindness.
Now, Jon Arryn was no fool and it only took Olenna minutes to work out his intentions with this match. While "loyal", the Reach had been Targaryen loyalists during the Rebellion and Randyll Tarly had dealt Robert Baratheon his only loss of the campaign, despite what her son boosted. It made sense that Jon Arryn would play on her son's desire for power and prestige. Mace would see it as a boon for his family. The rest of the world would see it as a way to keep the Reach in the fold in case of a problem down the line.
A letter had arrived at Highgarden merely hours before, but Olenna had already called her grandson and granddaughter to her rooms for a conversation.
As whenever she held these conversations with her grandchildren, Olenna sat at her table with a plate of her favorite prunes in front of her. Willas, crippled years ago, sat across from her.
Despite his mangled leg, Willas was as good looking as his father had been in his youth. He was still young enough that a smile could swoon the maids around the castle. More so, though, he was everything his father was not. He was studious and wise, possessing a natural intellect that Olenna believed may even surpass her own. And he was kind and forward thinking, yet capable of pragmatism and even cunning manipulation if necessary.
Margaery, barely five and ten, was already a beauty of some renown, And she was beloved by the populace, with a number of bards around Highgarden praising her in their songs. And she was just as cunning as Olenna had been at that age.
Willas, with his crippled leg resting outward and cane leaned up against the chair he was sitting on, read the letter with a concentrated brow before nodding. "Well, we were expecting as much."
He passed the letter to his sister, who also nodded after reading the content. "I'm to go to the capitol to begin a familiar relationship with the prince and Lord Stark is going to be Hand of the King."
"If he accepts," Olenna responded, hoping to bait both of her prized students.
Willas was the first of the two to rise to challenge. "From everything I know of Lord Stark, he will not refuse. Honor is too important to the North for him to say no and the king was his childhood companion."
"But how honorable can he be? He does have a bastard," Margaery queried.
"Bah," Olenna responded with a shake of her head. Margaery was still young and not privy to some truths of the world. "Men like to think honor is a concept that applies to every part of their being except their cocks. Bastard or no, Eddard Stark considers himself honorable and that honor will drive him to accept this position and do his level best to rule the kingdoms. And every member of that rat council will try to manipulate him to see things their way."
"Naturally," she continued. "Your father will travel to the capitol with you and try to curry favor with the royal family. Your mother will go to see her precious daughter off. And I will go as well."
"Grandmother, you?" Willas replied.
"Of course. It would be unseemingly for Margaery to stay in the Red Keep without a proper escort."
"And?" Willas prompted, though from the look on his face Olenna knew he was following along perfectly.
"And someone will have to work to protect the interests of this family from your bumbling father and the scheming leeches on the council."
…
With the death of Jon Arryn, Steffon's father needed a new Hand of the King, and there was only one man that Robert would allow to replace his foster father. That man was Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. According to the rumor mill that even permeated the self-centered mouths of King's Landing, there was no man with more honor than Ned Stark even with the mark on him due to the bastard he sired.
From the stories Steffon had heard from his father, naturally well into his cups, Lord Stark was a stern man who desperately needed a laugh or a wench, whichever came first. But Ned Stark was also honest to a fault, loyal, and more dependable than any other man Steffon's father had ever met.
The Queen considered the Northerner a fool. In the offhand comments his mother made, Steffon could tell she thought Lord Stark ill-suited to help guide the realm and pushed strongly for her father or brother, Jaime, to be named to the position instead.
Steffon could already see that Joffrey would believe the same as their mother. The younger prince had already taken to calling Lord Stark variants of the word savage, making sure to make these disparaging remarks far away from their father lest he feel the wrath of Robert Baratheon. Steffon was sure that not even Joffrey would be fool enough to speak ill of Lord Stark in their father's presence. Their father was loyal to the people he cared about and both boys had been boxed on the ear by their father when they misbehaved and he could be bothered.
Myrcella and Tommen, both still too young to understand the significance of their travels, were simply giddy at getting to see the world outside of King's Landing.
Steffon, who had been away from home some years previous, was curious as well. His only trip outside the capitol was to the Westerlands to stay with his grandfather and learn at the feet of the mighty Tywin Lannister.
The trip north did wonders for Steffon, who admittedly had always suffered from a case of wanderlust, and he and his horse, Fury, had spent more time away from the wheelhouse than his sworn sword would have preferred. Ser Bonifer was quick to mention that any number of problems could occur on the road and Steffon would be the secondary target of an assassination attempt after only his father.
There were, of course, a number of brigands and thieves on the roads between the main holds of the realm and even the soldiers of the Baratheon family could be convinced to turn cloak if the coin was good enough. But, such a large group of soldiers usually put fear in most bandit groups and Robert Baratheon's anger was legendary. Steffon doubted that anyone would be foolish enough to take the life of the Crown Prince and reawaken the dormant warrior sleeping in the king.
Steffon's father, however, thought it was a grand idea for Steffon to travel by horseback for the majority of the journey and was adamant that Joffrey do the same as they approached Winterfell. On the morning of the first day of their travels, he regaled Steffon with stories of his youth with Ned Stark and the adventures the two shared when they could slip their minders and wander the Eyrie. It was the most Steffon had seen his father smile in a long time.
Steffon had his own reasons for wishing to spend the trip among the rank and file that he privately explained to his protector one night as they stopped to make camp.
"It's no secret, Ser Bonifer, that I am frail for a Baratheon and lack my father's natural gift with fighting. But, one day, these soldiers will be mine and I plan on at least making sure I understand them if I am ever to lead them in battle."
"The realm has seen peace for over a decade, My Prince, and, hopefully, the Father Above will see that never changes. Do you believe you will need to lead an army in the near future?"
Steffon's mind went back to the dream he had a few nights prior and he sighed, "You can never be too prepared, Ser Bonifer. The day may come where we go to war again. I will not be caught sleeping."
Ser Bonifer gave him a strange look, as though he was looking at someone else, but eventually tore his eyes away from studying Steffon and nodded. "As you say, My Prince."
"I would also like to resume my martial practices, Ser Bonifer. I have no doubt that I will be requested to spar with Lord Stark's heir when we arrive at Winterfell. Though I have no doubt I will lose, I plan on making more of a show that I would have even a few days ago."
Ser Bonifer nodded again and unstrapped his sword from its sheath. "We have a few hours until the camp is made for the night. Shall we begin?"
For the better part of the journey, Steffon held to the schedule of riding during the day and training with Ser Bonifer during the evenings. On the nights they stayed at a castle, he would make use of his title and claim the tiltyard for the evening and spar with the master-at-arms of the castle for a change of pace, but they would often just find themselves a field.
It was a slow and sweat-filled process with gaffes aplenty, as Steffon was not naturally inclined to martial pursuits and had avoided them during his earlier youth, but even he could see improvement after the weeks of practice.
"Swordplay, My Prince," Ser Bonifer began, one afternoon in a clearing just north of the dilapidated ruins of Moat Cailin. "Swordplay is about acting and reacting. Most fighters look to the Warrior to give them strength And while he is vitale in battle, I believe the Crone is more important. She gives us wisdom and judgment. These tools, more so than anything else, will be your keys in swordplay."
The older knight motioned for Steffon to take a seat on the grass, while he called a trusted Baratheon soldier over. The soldier, a lad of no more than six and ten, was new, but a decent hand with a blade and a distant relative of Ser Bonifer. More importantly, he was known enough to the knight that he would be trusted not to harm the prince.
"Watch how myself and Allard move," Ser Bonifer instructed.
The two combatants circled each other. Allard's feet crossed over themselves as he swung his sword and waited for an attack. Ser Bonifer's approach kept both feet separate and his body turned to the side as he measured his opponent. And his eyes remained focused, never leaving the form of the younger combatant.
Allard, maybe sensing that an attack wasn't coming, struck first. His initial thrust was brushed to the side by the more experienced knight. He disengaged and attacked again, this time with an overhead slash. Ser Bonifer stepped backward to dodge the blow, but chose not to attack again. Instead, he simply went back to circling his opponent.
Allard followed with another swipe from his blade, Bonifer dodging again. A stab followed with Bonifer swatting the blade away from his breastplate.
The spar went like this for another five minutes, with Bonifer dancing and dodging all of Allard's blows. Steffon's eyes never left the battle and he began to notice that with each swing, Allard began to slow and his breathing grew heavy. Each swing of the sword became more labored and sloppy than the last. Finally, when the lad was panting with exertion, Ser Bonifer parried an overextended swipe and stabbed forward quickly, catching the younger man in the chest. Had the blow been given with live steel, it would have surely killed the young soldier. Instead, it sent the youth crashing to the ground in a heap.
Ser Bonifer, who looked as fresh as when they started, reached down and grabbed the lad by the arm, yanking him to his feet with a smile. He patted the lad warmly on the shoulder and motioned for him to stay close.
"My Prince," he began again, "There were three lessons in that spar that I wanted you to notice. What were they?"
Steffon had the first answer immediately. "You let him beat himself. He tired himself swinging and you waited for the opportune moment to strike."
Ser Bonifer nodded, motioning for the prince to continue.
Steffon thought back on the spar. "And your eyes never left your opponent. No matter what move he made, you never looked away for even a moment."
"Very good, My Prince," Ser Bonifer responded. "Focus in battle is important. If you lose your concentration, you will lose your head. And the final detail?"
Steffon sat back and rubbed his chin in thought. Ser Bonifer had already been over the techniques he used and there was nothing new in his delivery. So, it had to be something else.
Steffon smiled. "You made yourself a small target and you kept a strong base. Allard fought by crossing his feat and keeping himself turned toward you. You kept your body turned and your feet separate from each other."
Ser Bonifer nodded again. "Excellent, My Prince."
Ser Bonifer stepped forward and called out to the camp. "Ser Jaime, if you would be so kind?"
Steffon whipped his head around to see that both his uncles, Jaime and Tyrion, were watching the spar with interest. Upon the summon, both men came over.
"I believe, Ser Jaime, that it would benefit the prince to see how another knight battles. Would you be willing to spar with young Allard?"
The eyes of Steffon's uncle darkened at his name, but he kept that same smug smirk plastered across his face. "I doubt there is much I can teach my nephew that he cannot learn from Bonifer the Good."
Ser Bonifer waved him off, yet there was a disapproving undertone to his voice. "Ser, I insist. You are one of the finest swords alive. The Warrior reborn, or so I've been told."
If possible, Jaime smirked larger than before. "True enough, I suppose."
Yanking the practice sword from Ser Bonifer, Jaime turned to face the young soldier.
Allard, rapidly paling at having to face the Kingslayer, swung his blade in a wild motion. Unlike Ser Bonifer, Jaime didn't let Allard tire himself out. He met the boy's sword hand with his fist, knocking it away, and slapped the boy across the face with the flat end of the practice blade.
His back was turned and he was walking away before Allard hit the ground.
Ser Bonifer frowned at the display, before reaching down and helping the young soldier to his feet. Already, a large welt was forming across his face.
"Go see the maester, Allard. And thank you for your help."
Both prince and guard watched the young man scurry away to the maester's tent for a moment, before Ser Bonifer continued. "Despite his methods, there are still two lessons you can take from your uncle. What are they?"
Steffon was quick with his answer. "The power of reputation. Allard was scared to even spar against someone like Uncle Jaime. The difference in fighting styles. Uncle Jaime didn't wait for Allard to tire himself out, he went straight ahead with the ending blow."
"I am getting old, My Prince. When I was Ser Jaime's age, I too would end fights as quickly as possible. But, I no longer have the speed I once possessed. In order to compensate, I had to become smarter. I had to fight cleverly. At the beginning of the lesson, I mentioned to you two tools that you need to become a great warrior. What are they?"
"Judgment and wisdom," Steffon responded.
"Yes, judgment and wisdom. Judgment allows us to better understand our opponent. Wisdom allows us to know how to use that understanding. Tomorrow, you shall use that understanding against an opponent I've chosen."
Steffon rose from the grass and began walking back to the main camp, Ser Bonifer dutifully falling in step behind him. "Ser Bonifer, how many men in the kingdoms can defeat you?"
Ser Bonifer paused for a moment. "It's a difficult question. I have been a knight for many years and I've managed to survive without much damage. Truly, though, any man is capable of beating any other man if the situation is right."
…
On the morning of their arrival, Steffon paused his horse next to his father and the two of them stared out the vast expanse of the North to the castle looming in the near distance.
"Gods," his father began with a barked laugh and a true smile. "It will be good to see Ned again. I tell you, Steffon, there is no man alive that I trust as much as Ned Stark. In truth, more of a brother to me than either Stannis or Renly. I hope you have the same relationship with his heir, Robb. If you two get on well, we'll have him come south with his stern father and maybe you can break the North in him like I used to with Ned when we were boys."
"Aye, father," Steffon responded with a smile of his own.
The truth of being the crown prince was that Steffon was always lonely. He wasn't close to Joffrey, and his younger siblings were too young to properly spend time together as friends. His most constant companions were an old, pious knight and an often drunk uncle. Steffon craved the companionship his father spoke of when they discussed his youth in the Vale.
Winterfell itself was an impressive sight. Though not as grandiose as Casterly Rock or even the Red Keep, Winterfell was beautiful. It was a massive complex, spanning severe acres with large walls and towers to protect itself from invasion. The town that spawned around the castle was cozy and inviting, exchanging the bustle of King's Landing for more of a quiet charm. And even from a distance away, Steffon could already hear the bustle of the town as they got ready for the royal visit.
The party processed through Winterfell to the expected pomp, the entirety of the house having dropped to their knee in the presence of the king and his family.
As he stopped his horse, Steffon took a moment to analyze the Lord of Winterfell. Lord Stark had a long face and long brown hair. His beard, shaved close to his face, was beginning to gray as well and Steffon would have thought the man much older if he hadn't been aware of his age beforehand.
His wife, Lady Catelyn, like all the Tullys before he was red haired and possessed deep blue eyes. She was as pretty as her husband was solemn.
The rest of the party began entering the courtyard as his father disembarked from his own horse and stood in front of Lord Stark, motioning the man up from his knee.
"You got fat," the king remarked in greeting and Steffon had to stop himself from audibly groaning, even if he couldn't control his eyes widening in stunned disbelief.
There was silence between the two men for a moment before Lord Stark just raised an eyebrow and looked down at the impressive belly of the king himself. Both men then let out booming laughs and Steffon's father pulled the Lord of Winterfell into a brotherly embrace.
"Gods, it's been too long. Where have you been?" The king asked, releasing his friend.
"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours," Lord Stark responded. His voice was a rich baritone, stern and commanding in tone.
As his father greeted the rest of the Starks, Steffon turned his attention to his own family. Joffrey was looking around Winterfell with mild disinterest, as if the castle itself was beneath him. Little Tommen was so enraptured by the sights that he stumbled out of the wheelhouse and only the quicking thinking of Myrcella steadying the young boy stopped him from landing on the ground in a heap. As graceful as ever, she steadied Tommen and smiled brightly when she caught Steffon's eye.
"I'd like to pay my respects," Steffon's father said, motioning for Lord Stark to lead him to the crypts under Winterfell.
A dark shadow crossed the face of Steffon's mother. "We've been riding for a month, my love. The dead can wait."
The King didn't even spare her a glance. "Ned"
Lord Stark favored Steffon's mother with an apologetic grimace, but followed behind the king as commanded.
There was an awkward silence that overcame the gathered parties as the king and Lord Stark left, Steffon's mother in particular looking like she just swallowed a particularly sour lemon.
Feeling the need to do or say something, Steffon approached Lady Stark and took her proffered hand, kissing the knuckles in deference. "Winterfell is truly as beautiful as the stories I have been told. Mayhaps a tour?"
End of Chapter Two
So, it's certainly been a while. Life has a way of getting in the way of things, yes? Still, here's chapter two. Hopefully, anyone who has been waiting for this is not disappointed. Chapter Three will be posted much sooner.