Winterfell
Ned I:
The Crypts were cool as they walked down the stairs, Robert huffing as he ordered his Kingsguard to stand outside.
For a moment, Ned thought he had seen a flash of intense dislike in the eldest prince’s green eyes when Robert declared his intention to visit Lyanna’s tomb. It was an odd thing to see in a face so like his old friends; the Robert he had known had held only stunned admiration in his face at the thought of his sister.
He led Robert past the tombs of his kin, leading them to the space that held his father and brother. He lit the sconce hanging between them before turning to Lyanna’s statue.
The only woman ever given a statue in Winterfell’s crypts, Ned came here every so often to place a winter rose in the palm of her outstretched hand. They had not managed to capture his sister’s surpassing loveliness, nor did the cold marble capture her liveliness.
“You should not have buried her here,” Robert croaked, eyes crinkled in muted emotion as he gazed on her statue. “She should have been buried on a high hill, beneath the sun and flowers with the rain to wash her clean.”
“I was with her when she died, she wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father. She was a Stark of Winterfell. This is where she belongs,” Ned countered, grey eyes fastened on the feather Robert placed on her palm. Lya had adored flowers, and if he closed his eyes he could remember her clutching tightly to the crown of roses in her bed of blood.
“She belonged with me,” Robert declared hoarsely, piercing Ned with stormy blue eyes. “I loved her and Rhaegar Targaryen stole her from me. All Seven Kingdoms could never fill the hole that she left behind, not when I should have had her for my wife.”
“You only saw the lady she was, you didn’t see the steel beneath her pretty dresses,” Ned said, recalling his sister’s fierceness. Lya had been lovely and wilful and dead before her time, led by her wolfsblood to an early grave.
“Promise me, Ned!” echoed in his ears, forcing him to turn his gaze to Robert.
“Rhaegar Targaryen is dead beneath the Trident,” Ned told him. “And you’ve yourself three sons to carry your legacy.”
Robert’s face twisted slightly in a moue he had not seen outside. In the courtyard, the king had been openly boastful; the proud Stormlord Ned had been fostered with shining through as he beamed in pride at his children.
“Aye, my sons. A more stubborn pair I’ve not seen in all the kingdoms,” he huffed. “They do everything with a single-minded determinedness from swinging their swords to running my damned council.”
“A boon to the kingdoms,” Ned offered, “if they are so willing to perform their duty.”
Scoffing Robert replied, “More than willing, aye. I never wanted it, this crown. All I wanted was Lyanna; instead I have a cold wife and sons I spend more time having to reign in. Sometimes I think of leaving; go to Essos and live out my days as a sellsword fighting and fucking my way to death. Then I remember who I married, and the thought of Cersei as regent to my son holds me to this crown.”
“I had heard good things of Prince Steffon and Prince Joffrey,” Ned said carefully.
“They are good lads the both of them, sons I can be proud of,” Robert admitted quietly. “But they spend their time pushing the council to frustration, young and eager as they are to remake the world in their image and their grandfather encourages them. They almost did Jon in several times.”
A cold pit fell in his stomach as he thought on what Cat and Luwin had told him. A Lannister plot, he thought, and Ned’s stomach twisted as he remembered the bodies wrapped in crimson, so as to better hide the blood.
“Tell me of Jon,” he urged, wishing to put the ghosts of the past behind him. “How did it happen?”
Robert’s face turned wan, a sad smile on his face as he told him, “’twas old age that took him. The fever burned right through him, but I suppose I should be thankful he held on so long.”
“A fever?” Ned questioned, brow furrowed in thought. What could mimic a fever? If the Lannisters even killed him, a voice whispered darkly, but he was certain they were involved. Few families were as dishonourable as the lions.
“Aye, kept mumbling nonsense by the end of it. ‘The seed is strong’ he would say,” Robert told him. “Ah, I should have let him go years before. Leave him to return to the Vale with his boy.”
“Lysa took him back to The Eyrie,” Ned mentioned, looking at Robert as he scowled.
“Aye, she took the boy with her as soon as Jon passed. I had hoped to have the boy fostered at The Rock, but she disappeared in the dead of the night without so much as a by your leave. Jon’s boy needs a regent and I mean to ward him, not leave him in the hands of a prissy woman to rule through her coddled son.”
“Surely one of the Vale lords would be honoured with the position?” Ned asked, worry churning in his gut as Robert confirmed his fears.
“They can bicker with the bloody woman for that all they want. I cannot ward the boy now his mother has seen fit to leave without my permission. But the Wardenship will go to Jaime Lannister.”
“The Kingslayer,” Ned said aghast, grey eyes cool as he stared at his friend. “You would give that position to a man with no honour?”
“He can have shit for honour all he likes. Jon’s boy is just that, a boy. And not one I’d ever give command of an army to,” Robert huffed.
“The Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale is always the Warden of the East Robert,” Ned argued. “The Knights of the Vale won’t take kindly to the Kingslayer being given the position over one of them.”
“No, but they will accept their king’s word,” Robert responded gruffly. “The boy is young and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie besides. By all the gods, he is not fit to lead a quarter of the realms armies.”
“And the Kingslayer is?” Ned asked. “You would remove the Arryns from a position they have held with their domain and give it to one such as him?”
“Better him than a boy of seven; how can I expect a child to hold the east? Had my Steff been older, mayhaps I would have considered him, but he is young still and learning to rule besides. Perhaps when the boy comes of age I will restore the honour, but I must think of this year and the next what with those damned dragons to the east.”
“Dragons?” Ned asked carefully.
“That damned Targaryen girl is married. Wedded and bedded and with child of a Dothraki savage,” the king near growled. “I should have done away with them when they were like to be less of an issue, but Jon would not hear of it.”
“They are children,” Ned reminded him, hoping the long years since the war would have cooled his anger.
“Children who grow to want a throne they no longer hold. How long until the boy decides to cross the sea with those horselords at his side?” Robert demanded. “They say there are near a hundred thousand of them, all riding under the banner of Daenerys Targaryen’s husband.”
“They will never cross the sea, and should they we shall see them thrown back into it,” Ned promised.
Robert turned to Lyanna’s tomb, a hand reaching forward to cup the sculpture as if he were holding her cheek in hand.
“I swore I would never allow those Targaryens to take the throne. Not after what Rhaegar did to her,” Robert told him, turning back to gaze at Ned. “Jon understood, and now he is gone and left me with these pressing concerns. I need good men about me, men who are loyal and true in these difficult times.”
And now we get to the heart of the matter, Ned thought grimly. He had been predisposed to accepting Robert’s offer, and Ned was more convinced of his friend’s need for help as he heard how the Lannisters climbed in court.
“Eddard Stark,” Robert began, voice ringing with authority. “I would name you Hand of the King.”
Ned knelt in the crypts, the stone eyes of his ancestors watching over him as he looked upon his friend. “You honour me, Your Grace.”
“It’s not meant to be an honour, else I would not have come so far,” Robert grinned. “Come with me down south Ned, to that stinking shithole and run my kingdoms for me while I drink myself to an early grave and you piss yourself battling my sons.”
“Battling your sons?” he asked, face stoic as Robert gestured for him to rise.
“Aye. They’ve not seen proper battle in years, not since those damned bandits in the Crownlands. But they take the small council as their battleground, and you can fight them on it as Jon did, though you are like to get on better.”
Ned furrowed his brow, tucking away those thoughts for a later time. “Why would I get on better with them?”
Laughing, Robert clapped him on the shoulder. “I have a son, you have a daughter. I mean to join our Houses as Lyanna and I might once have,” Robert told him, surprising him with the offer. From the tone of his voice, Ned knew he would not take a refusal very well yet still he hesitated.
Sansa could be queen, he thought, thinking of his little girl who had been a lady since she learned to string her words together. His girl, whom the king wished to tie to one of his sons.
“Sansa is only two and ten,” Ned told him.
“Old enough for a betrothal,” Robert waved him off. “The marriage can wait some years.”
“This is an unexpected honour, Your Grace. May I have leave to consider?” Ned asked. “If I am to make my way South, I shall have to consider the children accompanying me.”
“Aye, think on it and speak to your lady wife. Your daughter can have her pick of them,” Robert laughed. “Either the future King or the future Hand it makes no difference to me – though I would prefer to see her as queen over that damned rose – they will both live in King’s Landing anyhow.”
“Future Hand,” he said, blinking owlishly at the surprising thought.
“The damned boy is his brother’s right hand; closer to him than even we were,” Robert told him as they made their way out of the crypts. “You’ll see more of him than you would like.”
A half-Lannister King, a half-Lannister Hand, and Sansa tied to the both of them, he thought, mind whirring with the possibilities.
“I will discuss it with her,” Ned promised. “We shall have to speak at some point as well, Robert. I cannot come south with things so dire in the North and at the Wall.”
Robert waved him off as Ned knew he would. “It can keep a few days more, though if you insist we can speak on it the day after next. For now we feast and keep merry. Speak to your lady wife and I’ll speak to mine, but I expect an answer before tonight.”
Steffon II:
He was seated at the desk in the rooms assigned to him when he heard the creak of an opening door. Glancing up from the parchment, Steffon smiled as Tommen came barrelling into his room, the younger boy practically flinging himself onto his bed.
“Steff, Father is soon to be looking for you,” Tommen told him, voice muffled by the furs.
“How would you know that?” he drawled, scribbling a note on the banners he had seen. “Father hasn’t returned from his sojourn to the crypts.”
“I heard,” Tommen responded, and Steffon withheld his groan of exasperation. At eight namedays, Tommen had the insufferable habit of not finishing his statements and forcing you to ask him to clarify.
It was a small rebellion on the part of the youngest child who enjoyed knowing things his older siblings did not.
“What did you hear, Tommen?” he asked patiently, green eyes boring into the blond head that rose from his bed. Tommen had an impish smile on his face, and the boy knew Steffon would not hold to any anger for long.
“Father has returned,” the boy said, a dark look flitting over his features so quickly Steffon almost believed he had imagined it. “I heard them.”
“You heard th—” he cut his words short, cursing mentally as he realized just what his brother was speaking of. It was an acknowledged fact amongst the Baratheon children that for all their parents loved them - in the way two people such as Robert and Cersei could love their children - they could hardly stand to be near each other for long before the arguments came.
Oh joy, he thought darkly.
The entirety of the North was gathered to welcome the King and his family and the two were instead spending their moments at each other’s throats for all and sundry to hear.
“How thick do you think these walls are?” Steffon asked dryly, sighing as his door banged open once more.
“Steff,” Cella said, practically skipping inside the room and throwing herself on the bed beside Tommen, golden hair splayed across his cheeks. “I hear you are to be married, brother.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Steffon left the notes he had been writing and made his way to the bed, nudging his sister over so he fell in place next to her, Cella lying between him and Tommen.
“Let me guess,” he said sardonically. “You managed to conveniently overhear Father and Mother.”
“Naturally,” she drawled. “She seems unhappy with it.”
Rolling his eyes at what was surely an understatement – Cersei Lannister was never merely unhappy with things – he poked her side as he asked, “Where’s Joff?”
“Complaining of the cold somewhere in his room,” she replied.
Joffrey waltzed into the room moments later, Ser Arys closing the door behind the prince as he threw himself on Tommen’s other side. “Why must the North be so gods damned cold!” he complained, setting the three of them off in a string of laughter.
“What is it?” Joff demanded, leaning on one hand to glare at them as they failed to stifle their laughter.
“Nothing Joff,” Tommen giggled, face buried in Cella’s shoulder.
“Cold? Really, brother it’s all you’ve complained of,” Steffon told him.
Joffrey had managed to find the time to complain of the cold at least once a day from the moment they set foot in the North, shivering in his silks before they managed to find furs. Robert had nearly tired of his son’s whinging, and would have had he not felt need to complain of the cold himself.
“Ungodly is what it is,” Joff huffed, throwing himself back onto the bed and jostling Tommen in the process.
“The castle is warm,” Tommen reminded him.
They lay there in silence for some time, the fire crackling as Steffon felt calm for the first time since their arrival.
Winterfell was everything he had expected and like nothing else he had seen. Uncle Tyrion was loose somewhere in the castle, he expected, the man like to search out the library and lose himself amongst the ancient scrolls.
Would that I could join him, he thought wistfully. He was resigned to spending his hours mingling with the Northerners and cementing their loyalty to the crown. He hoped these men were like the Stormlanders and more apt to forming alliances over a spar but he doubted it.
“They are expecting us soon,” Cella said, voice muffled as her arm covered her eyes.
“Expecting you,” Joff retorted. “We do not need hours to ready ourselves for a feast sweet sister.”
Grimacing, Steffon rose to his feet, the better to chivvy his siblings from his room. They were a tangle of gold, Tommen’s long locks mixing with Myrcella’s hair as Joffrey poked the squirming younger boy in the side.
“Out, all of you,” he said, lifting Myrcella to her feet when they ignored him. “Mother will be expecting us to look our best so as to better show the North whom they owe their loyalty to,” he mimicked their mother’s haughtiest tone, drawing snickers from Cella and Tom.
Cella planted a kiss on his cheek as she made her way out, Tommen stumbling after her and narrowly avoiding Uncle Jaime in the doorway as Ser Preston followed the youngest Baratheons.
Steffon threw a warning glare at Joffrey – though his brother for once did not have to hide his look of disdain – as Uncle Jaime stepped into the room with an exaggerated bow.
“Prince Steffon,” he said, a mocking lilt to his voice. “The King requires your presence.”
“A moment, Uncle. If you could tell my father I will be along shortly,” Steff responded, turning to face Joff.
“Ready to hear of your pending betrothal brother?” Joff asked as soon as Jaime left the room.
“We’ve just arrived at Winterfell. Even Father would not be so quick to announce a betrothal on the day he introduces us to the Northerners,” Steffon retorted. “He means to tell me to court her most like.”
“And I shall play the Dragonknight to your poor lady. Mayhaps I can convince her you are more Baelor the Blessed than Baelor Breakspear,” Joff laughed, green eyes twinkling in mirth.
“You’ll find yourself on the wrong end of Robb Stark’s sword,” Steffon told him, imagining the baffled looks on the Northerners faces as both brothers courted Lady Sansa.
“Aye, with his sword pitched on the ground. Robb Stark is nothing compared to Garlan Tyrell,” Joff scoffed.
“My, my, brother. Is that admiration I hear?” he said slyly, winking at Joff. “And here I was, thinking it was another rose you had your eye on.”
“Piss off Steff,” he scowled, pulling laughter from him. “You leave the king waiting at your own peril.”
Steffon ignored Joffrey’s mutterings, fixing his doublet as he made his way to the corridor. Ser Arys remained at his door as Ser Boros led Steffon to the King’s rooms. The queen’s chambers were separated from the King’s by a solar for his use, and Steffon had been placed in rooms a floor above, with Joffrey across from him and Cella and Tom next to each brother. Ser Meryn stood watch today, and Steff scowled as he guessed Ser Jaime had left to guard the queen.
We are in Winterfell, he reminded himself. This is not Casterly Rock, where they can hide their secrets. They could not possibly be so careless.
He would have to confront his mother on it, he knew; one day, preferably further into the future when the threat of death by Father's warhammer was not hanging over their heads, and Steffon could let Joffrey yell to his heart's content. He pushed those thoughts aside as he entered the chambers reserved for his father.
The King was already drinking in preparation for the feast, though he had the wherewithal to limit himself so as not to present a drunkard king to his leal subjects.
“You called for me Father?” Steffon asked, face blank as Robert waved him into a seat near the hearth. The King’s chambers were warm, furs piled atop the bed while tapestries of Northern hunts hung from the walls, and Steffon was certain it would be a matter of time before his father had his whores within.
“Sit, we have much to discuss,” Robert told him.
Steffon sat silently, waiting for his father to break the silence. Riding North with Robert had been a harrowing journey; at times the King would perk up at the thought of his friend, but he often fell into sullen silences when thoughts of Jon Arryn plagued him or terrible rages as he thought on Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen.
“Eddard Stark will come south as Hand of the King,” Robert informed him. Steffon did his best approximation of a surprised face, though his father ignored it. “I expect you and your brother to assist him as he sees fit.”
Pursing his lips at the veiled order he instead replied, “I did not think Lord Stark would agree.”
“He would not refuse me,” Robert scoffed. “Even if he spent his years holed up in the North.”
And why would he agree now? Steffon wondered darkly.
He had expected it to be a futile trip, once they had entered the North and Steffon began to hear more of the whispers. Varys had warned the King of increased attacks from Wildlings but Robert had waved it off, sure of his decision to name his friend Hand. It seemed his faith was not misplaced, and Steffon squashed the sense of unease.
The game was changing too quickly for his tastes; it was all too convenient. Yet Robert Baratheon was certain of Ned Stark’s loyalty to him, to the years they had spent together in the Eyrie as brothers.
Even the death of the Targaryen children did not tear apart their friendship once news of Lyanna Stark came, he reminded himself.
Robert pinned him with a stormy gaze and warned, “I will not have you give him trouble, you or your brother. He shall have enough work to do dealing with those damned lords at court, I expect you to make his work easier for him. Perhaps he will whip the both of you into shape, Ned, considering the fine job he’s done with the North.”
“Of course, Father,” Steffon murmured, internally rolling his eyes at Robert’s insistence.
Really, he wondered, which of the Starks is meant to be his beloved?
“I will be announcing your betrothal at the feast tonight.”
“My betrothal,” Steff echoed, blinking in surprise.
“Aye, your betrothal. You are five and ten, old enough to be promised to another,” Robert told him.
“Sansa Stark,” Steffon said. He had not thought Robert would make the decision on their first night – had expected the King to spend the time at Winterfell pushing the two of them together before he announced it – and Steffon’s mind was currently unable to think of any possible way to stop this betrothal from occurring.
“I should have been Ned’s goodbrother, our children bound by blood, but I suppose a Stark bride for yourself where mine own was stolen is good recompense,” Robert responded.
“Joff is sweet on her,” Steffon blurted out desperately, cringing inside at how that might come across.
“The boy’s got good sense,” his father chortled. “She’ll be a beauty in no time.”
Steffon struggled to keep himself from gaping, and his father had caught on to some of his displeasure at the thought.
“Drink,” the king ordered, handing Steff a cup of ale. “You’ll marry Sansa Stark when she flowers and make her your future queen, finally tying the Starks to the Baratheons by blood.”
Steffon swallowed a mouthful of ale, the bitterness not bothering him as he thought on Robert’s words. If only it were as simple as you make it seem Father.
“Have you any word from Uncle Stannis?” he asked.
Robert scoffed, pouring himself another cup of ale. “He ran off to brood on that rock of his, grinding his teeth together over the supposed insult I dealt him.”
“I’m certain he expected to be honoured with the position,” Steffon said delicately. Navigating his father and uncles’ tumultuous relationship was a headache on a good day – and he was not certain of his father’s mood regarding his brother.
“Bah! All Stannis grumbles over is what he feels is his due,” Robert groused.
You took Storm’s End from him and passed him over for a friend you’ve not seen in near a decade, he thought silently, seeing why his uncle would feel anger at the continued slights.
“Will you call him back?” Seeing Robert’s blank look he pressed, “Uncle Stannis is the Master of Ships and has been gone since before we returned from Oldtown. Order hi—”
“I’ll not order him back,” Robert cut in curtly.
“Father,” he tried, but the king was in no mood to listen to his son.
“If Stannis wishes to stay hidden on his island with those lords surrounding him as he throws a fit over nothing then so be it.”
“And the council position?” Steffon asked tersely. Robert would be unmoved on this – that much he knew of his father. Stannis’s stubborn pride was matched by his brother the king’s.
“When we return to King’s Landing, you can discuss it to your heart’s content with the new Hand,” Robert told him. “Now come, we have a feast to prepare for.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Steffon murmured, standing to leave the room after giving his father a stiff bow.
They were expected to enter with the Starks, and Steffon grimaced at the thought of what awaited them when the King made his announcement. He had paced in his room for most of the hour before he was expected and had had to rush to ready himself.
“Smile, brother. You look as if you are walking to the executioners block and not a bloody feast,” Joffrey murmured, smile fixed on his face as they neared the gathering of Starks. He would be escorting Lady Arya to her seat, and Steffon hoped for one irrational moment that the little girl who had muttered so brazenly of the imp would be willing to kick his brother.
“I do not,” Steffon hissed in reply, straightening his black and gold doublet, the stag outlined in green stitiching.
“Not to the rest, perhaps,” Joff snorted. “I’ve spent my entire life around you brother, I am capable of recognizing when you are displeased.”
Pursing his lips, Steffon glanced quickly across the room, seeing the others occupied with greeting his parents. The queen managed to hide her distaste, smiling politely as she stood next to Lord Stark.
“Father means to make the announcement tonight,” Steffon said lowly, lips barely moving.
He saw Joff’s brow twitch in surprise before green eyes pinned him with disbelief. “Already?”
“His bride was stolen from him,” he muttered sourly as he hid his grimace. “He wants the entire North to know Lady Sansa is promised to the Crown.”
To his surprise, Joff laughed lowly. “Plot all you want, it seems even you did not account for Father’s wilfulness.”
Grimacing in acknowledgement, Steffon plastered a smile on his face as they finally approached the Starks. Cella and Tom were stood next to Robb and Bran Stark, both children dressed in their finest cloth-of-gold, Cella’s gown shot through with black and red flowers. Tommen’s doublet was embroidered with the black crowned stag, emeralds stitched in place of its eyes to mimic the stitching on his and Joff’s clothes.
“Lord Robb,” Steffon greeted, a hand held out to the red-haired heir to the North. He was stocky – built more along the lines of his mother’s family from what he had seen of Lord Stark – and shorter than both Joff and himself, a fact that seemed to displease him slightly.
Robb Stark nodded seriously, a muttered “Prince Steffon,” leaving him as they clasped hands. There was an easy smile on his face as he glanced at Myrcella, her cheeks dusted pink, and Steffon withheld the glower he dearly wished to send the Stark heir.
“Lady Sansa,” Joff bowed, brushing a kiss on her knuckles as both parents turned to watch. Father was smirking at the display, no doubt reminded of his words earlier.
Lady Sansa blushed scarlet as she curtsied in greeting, “Prince Joffrey.”
Bloody prick, he thought once more, knowing Joff was enjoying himself. “Lady Sansa, well met,” Steff said as he held her hand gently. Her cheeks remained dusted, and Steffon could agree with his father that Sansa Stark would grow to be a beautiful lady.
Robb Stark glared unhappily at the two princes, watching his sister be charmed before Joff turned to greet Arya Stark.
The younger Stark girl was all Northern, from her dark hair and long face to the grey eyes she shared with her father. There was a slight scowl on her face, one that was removed by her mother’s glare.
A servant came forward to speak quietly to Lord Stark, and at the man’s nod he ran back to the doors. Steffon fell into place behind his mother and Lord Stark, Lady Sansa on his arm. She wore a pretty gown of blue with elaborate embroidering, red hair braided into a crown on her head. Robb Stark stood directly behind him with Cella, Joff and Lady Arya behind them and the Lord Bran and Tommen further back, with Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion bringing up the rear.
The doors to Winterfell’s Great Hall were opened, the raucous sounds from within dimming as they stood at the sight of the king and queen.
This was most different from a Southron feast; at least in King’s Landing, they would put on a show for their king. It was oddly refreshing; the lack of politicking that would be visible from the moment of entry south of The Neck was missing here, though he did not doubt that there were some players of the game in this room. Not everyone is Ned Stark, he reminded himself.
Father led Lady Stark to the high table, and Steffon was slightly grateful that they were not expected to sit there with the Northern Lords. Lord Stark had invited his most principal bannermen to the high table – though he only recognized Lord Manderly from Ser Wendel’s descriptions – and Steffon and his siblings would be seated with the Stark children and the heirs of the North.
The table was long, placed beneath the high table with enough seats to house all the Baratheon and Stark children, another table close by with a dozen more seats for the Northerners.
He escorted Sansa Stark to her chair, Steffon seated next to her as his brother sat next to him. Robb Stark bracketed his sister, Cella smiling from next to him as Tommen and Bran Stark took the remaining seats.
Father sat in the high chair next to Lord Stark, Mother and Lady Stark next to him as a Northern lord sat beside Father. It must have been one he recognized, for they greeted each other as if old acquaintances.
“Is the North to your liking, Prince Steffon?” Lady Sansa asked as the first course was brought out. The King had merely shouted for the feast to begin, unwilling to let a flowery speech prevent him from his ale.
“It’s a beautiful land, my lady,” he replied. Musicians played lively tunes as the plates were served, neatly covering Joff’s muttered, “I wonder what the Northerners get up to under the cover of dark lighting in their feasts.”
Steffon kicked him sharply beneath the table, smiling as he saw Arya Stark catch sight of Joffrey’s wince.
“Behave,” he muttered.
“I suppose it’s not quite what you are used to,” Robb Stark said, blue eyes boring into Steffon’s green orbs.
“Not at all,” he said easily. “It’s much colder than the South, though the rolling hills can be found in the Reach.”
“Have you been to Highgarden, my prince?” Sansa asked, flush firmly in place.
“A stopover on our journey to Oldtown,” Joff interjected, smiling at Sansa. “Unfortunate that, as Highgarden certainly seems a beautiful place.”
There was a wistful smile on her face, and Steff imagined she wished to explore the world beyond the walls of Winterfell. He could relate; as Harry he had been severely limited in his travels, and the opportunity to see more of the world was something he seized in this life, though part of him mourned the lack of opportunity to see Essos.
"It must have been wonderful, seeing all those knights at the tourney," she added, gaze switching between Joff and he as she wondered which brother would answer.
"It was quite the experience," Steff replied, ignoring the muffled snort from his left. "Moreso for Joff than myself, I fear."
Platters of meat were brought out; roast pork, honeyed venison, salted beef stew alongside plates of lemon-crusted trout. It was different fare from the South, where there were varieties of meat, each seasoned with a different spice.
To his amusement, Lady Arya kept Joffrey occupied for much of the feast. The two were speaking of swords of all things, and Steffon bit back a smile at the obvious enthusiasm the younger girl held for all things martial.
“…trained with Ser Barristan,” he heard her say, and Steffon turned to their conversation.
Laughing, Joff replied, “Not when he wakes you at the hour of the nightingale for training.”
“Does he really?” Bran asked, eyes wide in admiration.
Tommen nodded sagely, the younger boy having witnessed their at times punishing training schedule. “A spar first thing in the morning, and training after lessons with the maester.”
“I want to be a knight of the Kingsguard!” Bran declared, eyes wistful.
“Do they have knights in the North?” Joff asked curiously.
“Ser Rodrick is a knight and our master-at-arms,” Arya defended, and Joffrey laughingly raised his arms in deference.
“I meant no offense, my lady,” he told her, smiling in amusement at the look of consternation on her face.
“We follow both the Old Gods and the Seven,” Bran told them. “I can be knighted.”
“Your Ser Rodrick doesn’t follow the Seven though he was still knighted,” Steff pointed out. “It is possible to earn your spurs without standing vigil.”
“Ser Barristan knighted you without standing vigil?” Robb asked, grudgingly curious as he stared at Joff.
“I earned my spurs after the melee at the Tourney of Oldtown,” he told them, the youngest boys hanging on to his every word, though Tommen had demanded a lengthy explanation of the tourney while they travelled north. “Ser Barristan insisted I stand vigil at the sept.”
A flurry of questions came from the youngest Starks, and Steffon and Joffrey indulged the children with tales of their travels as Robb Stark offered an occasional remark. Unknown to Steffon, there was a peevish glare on Lady Sansa’s face directed at her sister, though Myrcella had been watching in amusement as she chatted with the eldest Stark girl.
It was as they were recounting the spar with Ser Rolland that had ended with their father’s cousin Andrew Estermont falling headfirst into a pail of muddied water that the king stood, the hall falling immediately into silence.
“Ah you Northerners do know how to feast,” Father said, patting his belly as the laughter of the lords rang out across the hall. “Aye, ‘tis an honour to be here with Ned after so long, and an honour to announce the joining of our Houses.”
Whispers broke out amongst the crowd, and Steffon could see the flash of surprise on the faces of Lord Robb and Lady Sansa, even as hers changed to excitement in short order.
Ned Stark’s heir is unaware, he thought in surprise. Gods, for all that Robert was not the best of fathers, Steffon could be glad that he at least informed him of this arrangement. The Northern lords all looked stoic, faces unreadable as they waited to hear whether King Robert would demand the heir to the North for his daughter or would claim a Stark maiden for his son.
“To Prince Steffon of House Baratheon and Lady Sansa of House Stark!”
Cheers broke out amongst the crowd as they toasted the two of them, and Steffon sent an easy smile at Sansa Stark, her face flushed prettily in response.
Music rang out through the hall, the tune a lively Northern one he had never heard before.
“Lady Sansa,” he said, getting to his feet before his mother could glare him into action. “If you would do me the honour of a dance?”
“Of course, Prince Steffon,” she responded, clutching his hand as he led her to the space that had been cleared for dancing.
“I’m afraid I have never danced to Northern tunes, my lady,” he told her. “I hope you shall lead me away from any errors.”
Smiling, Steffon glanced quickly around the room - seeing the stares of Sansa Stark’s would-be suitors – before they launched into the dance, twirling about amongst the other pairs lined up. They shared two dances before he swapped places with Robb Stark, each boy dancing with their sister.
“Congratulations brother,” Myrcella said as he lifted her. “You make a pretty pair.”
Steffon smiled sardonically; Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister had made a pretty pair, though their marriage left much to be desired. To be fair, Sansa Stark seemed a much sweeter lady than his mother - if a touch too enamoured with the stories of glorious knights and fair maidens - but Steffon was leery over any betrothal when Renly was so closely tied to ambitious roses.
“Thank you, Cella,” he replied, flashing a smile at his sister.
There were expectations that he would entertain the heirs of the North, and though newly betrothed, Steffon found himself sharing dances with the daughters of Eddard Stark’s bannermen.
It was as he danced with a maiden in a sea green dress with blonde locks that he recalled where he had seen her familiar features. Ser Wendel Manderly had spent enough time speaking of his nieces that Steffon felt as if he should have recognized her immediately.
“Lady Wynafred,” he said, smoothly turning around a stumbling pair. “How fares your uncle?”
“Well, my prince. I believe he plans to return to King’s Landing shortly after your departure,” she told him.
“He has been a welcome addition to court,” he said sincerely. “Managed to liven things up quite a bit.”
Smirking she said, “An unexpected outcome, I imagine. Seven blessings on your betrothal, Your Grace.”
“My thanks, my lady,” he smiled. “I imagine your father and grandfather will be looking to make a match for you what with all the North gathered.”
“An opportunity should arise, I’m sure,” Wynafred responded, curtsying as the song came to an end.
Steffon escorted her to the table of Northerners, and at Robb Stark’s invitation seated himself next to his betrothed’s brother. Joffrey was seated down the table, between an older man he would swear had giants blood and a lady several years older than them dressed in a patterned brown and green gown. They were arguing fiercely over something, and Steffon caught enough of their conversation to know there would most likely be a spar tomorrow.
“Congratulations,” Robb Stark said to him. “It seems we are to be goodbrothers.”
“It does,” he responded, flagging a servant for a cup of wine.
His father was seated at the high table, face pressed against a serving woman’s bosom, and Steffon pointedly ignored the display as he turned to Robb Stark’s companions.
“This is Ser Domeric Bolton, Lord Roose’s heir,” he introduced the pale eyed man next to him. His face was comely enough, and Steffon tried to recall where he had heard his name.
“You squired in the Vale,” he stated, remembering the mention of a Northerner squiring had been an odd occurrence.
“I did, Prince Steffon,” Ser Domeric replied, head tilted in acknowledgement. “I spent several years with Lord Horton Redfort.”
“I’ve not yet had the chance to visit the Vale,” Steffon told him.
“It’s lovely enough, though I shall always prefer home to elsewhere, as I’m sure you can understand.”
Aye, even when home is the pit that is King’s Landing, he thought.
“This here is Daryn Hornwood,” Robb introduced the man with brown hair, an roguish smile on his face as he japed with the man next to him.
“Well met, Prince Steffon,” he greeted, eyes sweeping critically over him.
Steff smiled in response, taking a sip of the Arbor Red as he glanced at Joff.
“How long have they been arguing?” Steffon asked Robb, seeing Joffrey gesture wildly with his hands to raucous laughter.
“A few minutes before you joined us,” Robb told him.
“Is it true your brother was knighted?” Daryn Hornwood asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
“He was. Just before we left Oldtown,” Steff replied, a proud smile playing at his lips. “Joff has always been a good sword.”
“A spar then,” Robb proposed, blue eyes glinting in determination.
“A spar. Are you certain you don’t mind the pounding?” Steff asked lightly, a teasing grin on his face as his eyes flicked to Joff.
Steffon was taller and broader than Robb Stark, more akin to the Demon of the Trident than his mother’s family, and even they were fairly tall as Joff showed.
“We’ll show you how real Northerners fight,” the giant beside Joff boasted.
“You wish Umber,” Joff scoffed. “More like you’ll fall flat after all you’ve drunk.”
“Haha, the prince cannot handle his ale?” Smalljon Umber taunted, a grin on his face as he gulped a mouthful to prove his point.
“Alright then. You and I, tomorrow,” Joff said. “Live steel?”
“Ser Rodrick’s not like to allow it,” Bran Stark piped up. When the boy had joined them he did not know, but Steffon glanced back at the table to see Sansa Stark left to gossip with Myrcella and the other ladies, Arya leaning next to Bran and Tommen.
“There’s no need,” Steff said casually, leaning back in his seat as he sent a mocking grin at Robb Stark. “Tourney swords bruise just as nicely, Stark.”
“You have yourself a match, Baratheon,” Robb said.
Steffon tipped his wine glass at him, smirking in amusement as the other heirs began to take wagers.
It was frigid in the morning, or at least that was what he could gather from Joffrey’s complaints.
“How are you not cold?” Joff hissed in envy, his nose pinked.
“I’ve learned to adapt little brother. Quite the miracle I assure you,” he joked, ignoring the scowl Joff sent as they made their way to the sparring grounds.
They had forgone their usual armour, fighting instead with a thick leather gambeson, the padding enough to prevent the more serious injuries.
“Who all are expected to show?” Steff asked as they trudged through the snow. He had had his morning meal sent to his rooms, the majority of the gathered nobles slumbering past their usual hours. From what he knew, his father had left the feast early in the company of two serving wenches, Lady Stark doing a wonderful imitation of stone as she ignored the king’s philandering ways.
“Every bloody Northern heir and that Greyjoy hostage,” Joff told him.
“He wasn’t at the feast,” Steff noted.
“The lower tables,” Joff replied. “Lady Arya made mention that he was sitting with her brother.”
“Her brother,” he echoed in confusion, before recalling his father’s favourite tale when it came to Eddard Stark. Famously honourable Lord Stark had never given in to his friend’s ribbing and whoring until the war had begun, managing to sire a son on an unnamed woman. His mother assumed it was a Dayne, the deceased sister of the Sword of the Morning, or a camp follower from the Crownlands.
“Jon, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, Jon Snow,” Joff said, pointing to the two boys fighting in the ring.
Ser Rodrick was watching alongside the Northern heirs as a boy who was most definitely a Stark fought against an older, more lithe youth with light brown hair.
Steffon fell into place next to Robb Stark, the others shuffling over to make room for Joff and he to join them.
“How long have they been sparring?” he asked.
“A few minutes, though Jon should have ended it by now,” Robb told him. He was frowning at his brother before he muttered, “an off day.”
No, that’s not it, Steffon thought, following Jon Snow’s form with a critical eye.
“He’s holding back,” Joff muttered in surprise before his eyes flashed in disdain.
“Don’t do anything stupid Joff,” Steffon warned, seeing the angry glint in his brother's green eyes.
They were not in King’s Landing, nor were they like to make things easier for the Snow. Ned Stark’s honour had compelled him to raise his bastard amongst his trueborn children, but Steffon did not imagine that it was taken well. Not when the boy looked more a Stark than his siblings did.
“Come bastard,” taunted the older boy as he whacked his sword against Snow’s wrist. “Not good for much but your pretty hair,” the boy jeered.
“End it Theon,” Robb Stark called out, and after a particularly vicious grin he sprang forward.
It was slightly painful to watch, and Steffon saw Jon Snow’s sword arm slacken enough to take a hit that should not have caused him to drop his sword.
His master-at-arms merely called the end of the spar, a short nod at Snow as the Greyjoy crowed his victory. “Not up for another round bastard? Don’t want to be put in your place?”
Before Steffon had realized, Joffrey pushed forward, sauntering to the centre with all the arrogance the North expected of a spoiled princeling.
“I can do with a spar to warm me up before the other matches,” Joff taunted, green eyes cold as he stared at the Ironborn with a smirk.
Low murmurs broke out as Smalljon barked a laugh, the Northerners eagerly watching Greyjoy splutter in uncertainty.
“Unless you can’t handle a mere boy of three and ten?” Joff goaded. “What do you say, Hound?”
Their mother’s knight had stood at the edge of the sparring yard, his hair mostly covering the burns on his face.
A gift from his brother, it had been rumoured, and Steffon had heard enough whispers in the West of the Mountain to believe he would do so.
“Boy’s more like to piss himself,” Sandor said, spitting on the ground. "Squids are only good for fishing."
Greyjoy’s eyes hardened in angry determination as he nodded his agreement at Ser Rodrick.
“Perhaps another sparring partner, Prince Joffrey?” The old master-at-arms looked anxious, and Steffon watched as Joffrey waved him off.
“Do try not to hold back Greyjoy. My father is not like to harm you for bruises in the training yard,” Joff told him as he chose his sword, testing the balance of several before picking Jon Snow’s discarded blade.
Arya Stark sidled up to him, and Steffon glanced down in amusement as his brother and hers followed after her.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in lessons?” Jon Snow asked her. He was stood awkwardly near them, but not quite part of the gathering.
“Needlework is boring,” she retorted. “I’d rather learn the sword.”
Chuckling softly, Jon Snow mussed his sister’s hair fondly before turning to leave.
“Jon, is it?” Steffon called, seeing the older boy tense in surprise. From beside him, Steffon could feel the anxious glare Robb was sending, his body taut as he awaited some manner of insult to his beloved brother.
“It is, Your Grace. Jon Snow,” he said, bowing stiffly.
Steffon waved off his bow, “Join us,” he said. “I imagine you might enjoy this match.”
The boy opened his mouth as if to protest before Tommen piped up, “Bran says you’re good with the sword Lord Jon.”
“Just Jon Snow, Your Grace,” he replied. His cheeks were dusted pink, and Steffon saw the wary surprise in his gaze as grey eyes flicked to Robb Stark.
“Prince Steffon,” Robb began warily, eyes flitting above his shoulder.
“I insist,” Steffon told them, and they reluctantly agreed as Jon stood stiffly near his younger siblings.
Joff had begun to circle Theon Greyjoy, words leaving him though they were too low for Steffon to make out. Whatever it was had enraged the older boy as he rushed forward with an overhead swing.
Joff sidestepped it, swinging hard to connect with the back of Greyjoy’s leg.
“He’s not much of a swordsman is he?” Steffon asked, watching as Joffrey managed to avoid most of his hits.
“Theon is a better archer,” Robb responded, eyes narrowed at the spar. “But he can typically hold his own with a sword.”
He was toying with him; Steffon had sparred with Joffrey enough to know when the boy took an opponent seriously, and whether it was the taunts of Jon Snow’s bastardy or the arrogance of an Ironborn hostage that had riled him, Joffrey was absolutely punishing in his swings.
Bran and Tommen cheered from next to him, the two boys watching as Joffrey whacked his sword against Theon’s off hand.
Leaning closer to Jon Snow, Steffon murmured, “You were holding back.”
Jon stiffened, face blank as he kept his eyes on the spar. “I’m not sure I understand. I was having an off day,” he said impassively.
“And I am the Stranger come to life,” Steffon snorted, ignoring Tommen’s muffled laughter.
“Septa Mordane would scold you for blasphemy,” Arya told him, grey eyes alight with laughter as she leaned forward to watch Joffrey finally disarm Theon.
“Just as she would scold you for missing out on your lessons,” Robb chided lightly.
The youngest children cheered as Joff leaned forward to speak quietly to the Ironborn, laughing as Theon stormed away.
“Care to try your luck, my lords?” Joff asked, an arrogant grin on his face.
“Let the others get their blood running,” Steffon called, laughing as Joffrey sent an overly exaggerated bow before returning the blade.
“How did I do?” the blond prince asked the youngest boys, basking in their cheerful praise.
Two of the Northerners took to the grounds, their blades clashing ferociously as they fought.
“Who are they?” he asked Arya.
“The younger girl pointed to the taller man with black hair and blue-grey eyes, “That one is Torrhen Karstark,” she told him. “The other Ser Roose Ryswell.”
“Jon,” Joffrey said suddenly, drawing the attention of those closest to them. “Care for a spar later?”
“I could not, Your Grace,” he refused, eyes wary as his long face remained stoic in the face of sudden scrutiny.
“Knock it off Joffrey,” Steffon said, sending a pointed glance at his brother.
“Just wanted to see how he fought when he wasn’t holding back,” Joff stated lightly, eyes gleaming as several heads turned to Jon.
“You were holding back?” Robb asked, blue eyes searching his brother’s face.
“An off day,” Jon replied stiffly, and Steffon sent a glower of disapproval at Joffrey.
The blond seemed to realize the uncomfortable position he had forced the older boy in, sending him a grimace in apology.
Steffon turned back to the spar, hearing Bran and Tommen cheer loudly as Torrhen Karstark punched Roose Ryswell before lashing out with a quick swipe.
“My apologies, Jon Snow,” Joff murmured lightly, as Steffon strained to hear their words. “I meant no offense.”
“There is no need to apologize, Prince Joffrey. I am but a bastard.”
“Better Lord Stark’s bastard than a damned squid,” Joffrey scoffed. “Your birth is no crime, Jon Snow, though the rest of the world will not see it as such.”
Steffon covered a smile as Jon Snow shifted in surprise. Lady Arya was watching his brother closely, eyes narrowed as she waited for some insult.
“I thought all Southroners hated bastards,” she said bluntly, glowering sceptically at Joff.
“Most do,” Steffon agreed. “Complete nonsense, as they did not ask to be born.”
Arya Stark’s wolfed crept forward, nose pressed into Steffon’s hip as he stilled in surprise. Sandor lurched forward, hand reaching for his sword as he warily eyed the massive direwolf. Her golden eyes were fixed on Joff as Bran helped Tommen tentatively stroke her mottled grey fur. The she-wolf pressed once more against him, tongue lolling out of her mouth before she licked his hand in greeting.
“I suppose if Nymeria likes you then that’s good enough for me,” she declared, patting her wolf fondly as she lay down between them.
“Nymeria is meant to be in the cages,” Robb said with a touch of exasperation.
“Wolves are not meant to be caged, direwolves less so,” she responded primly, and Steffon snorted in amusement. That was the most lady-like he had heard Arya Stark sound, and it was outrageous enough to draw their laughter.
“Come Stark, I do believe you promised me a spar,” Steff said.
“Go Steff!” Tommen cheered, and Steffon laughed as Robb Stark’s younger brother cheered alongside him, to the bafflement of the Stark heir.
It was near a sennight into their stay when Lord Stark insisted on a Northern council. Rare were the kings who travelled this far north, though he knew some were probably surprised at the lack of visits from the king who proclaimed Eddard Stark his greatest friend.
Uncle Tyrion would be accompanying them as their unofficial advisor, as well as having been in contact with Lord Manderly for some time. The older man wanted to visit White Harbour after his journey to the Wall, promising his nephews that he would meet them in King’s Landing after they had helped Lord Stark settle in.
They were waiting for the king, the man for once eager to join a council, and Steffon took the empty seat near his father’s, Joff seated next to him. He had spent most of his days on the sparring grounds with the Northern heirs as Joffrey struck up a surprising friendship with Jon Snow. For one memorable moment, his mother and Lady Stark had worn matching looks of disdain as they witnessed Joff go out of his way to include Jon in their gatherings.
The Stark bastard was noticeably uncomfortable, often keeping as far away from them as he could, but Steffon had welcomed the older boy and watched as where he expected Robb Stark to warm even the slightest bit to them, the heir to the North remained suspicious.
“A bastard is a bastard is a bastard,” Joff had told him when Steff spoke to him one night of his actions. “And I,dear brother, shall not be one to scorn him for his birth. Let them stew over that as they want for I do not intend to give him Winterfell, merely someone who will not accuse him of giving in to the supposedly deceitful nature expected of bastards.”
No matter what warning he gave Joffrey – and how Steffon had loathed the thought of reprimanding the brother who had agonized over the truth of his birth – the golden prince was determined in his course. Jon Snow was not someone he would have expected Joffrey to befriend – had expected Joffrey to avoid the bastard for the simple sake of avoiding undue attention – but beyond giving their mother a coronary, Steff was glad to see the two boys genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.
To his slight astonishment, Ned Stark had seemed perturbed with the growing friendship, and Steffon pushed away thoughts of Lord Stark’s obvious dislike for his mother’s House and what it meant for them.
The Northern bannermen were seated at the large table, each lord or lady present with their heir or an advisor in the case of the heirless few as they looked on in slight surprise at their presence here. At first glance, Steffon could not see any noticeable divisions amongst them, though he had noticed that perhaps a few did not see eye-to-eye based on their heirs’ comportment.
“Grim lot these Northerners,” Uncle Tyrion quipped, uncaring of the glares sent from those seated closest.
“I thought you liked your tongue, Uncle,” Joff said lightly, grinning as Lord Umber pierced Tyrion with a fierce stare.
“Would they cut it off?” Tyrion wondered aloud.
Probably send you to be flayed, he thought. How much would dwarf tongue go for?
Lord Stark had proven his mettle as Hand when he managed to rouse the king earlier than Steffon had expected, the lords standing until he seated himself.
“My lords, my ladies,” Robert began, nodding shortly to the two woman who commanded holdings in the North. Lady Dustin and Lady Mormont, he recalled from Bran Stark’s helpful pointers. “This meeting can now begin.”
Steffon stifled an eye roll at the inelegant opening to the meeting, certain they gleaned the King’s lack of care for other meetings from that.
“Your Grace,” Lord Stark began. “Before we begin with our most pressing concern, I believe we can go over the North’s contribution in taxes for the coming year.”
There were murmurs of assent from his bannermen, and Steffon leafed through his parchments to find the agreement he and Uncle Tyrion had managed to wrangle from the council.
“Currently, the North has reverted to full payment in coin, with a three percentage increase in the past year.”
“Three percent?” Joff frowned, a sharp glare at Lord Stark.
“That is the agreed upon payment for the past year to cover increasing costs,” Lord Stark responded.
“I am aware of the changes,” Father surprisingly stated, and Steff shared a quick glance with Joffrey. They had spent less than a sennight in King’s Landing before their journey – a clear mistake, as they had been unable to confirm certain things with the council.
Better for us that we are no longer planning a progress, he thought darkly.
“With winter coming, the increased coin will prove difficult to recover as our harvests take longer,” Lord Stark continued.
“The construction of the ships required gold,” Robert replied, and Steffon had to bite his cheek to keep from screaming in frustration.
Gods, how much money does his lifestyle require? Steff wondered furiously. The King had benefitted from his Master of Coin’s increase in taxes, using the extra coin to invest in tourneys and whores and his drunken nights.
The Northern lords watched their king, eyes dark and unreadable as the man whom they fought to crown dismissed their worry.
“We were led to believe, Your Grace, that the North would cover the cost for the royal fleet in lumber,” came the soft whisper of Roose Bolton, pale eyes focused keenly on King Robert.
Next to him, Lord Karstark nodded in agreement. He was one of the lords paying in wood, if Steffon remembered correctly, and the justification for the increases would seem insubstantial to him.
Joffrey was busy with a piece of parchment, quill moving swiftly as he jotted something down before pressing the ink hard.
Kingsroad? He had written, and Steffon lightly nudged his foot against his brother in thanks.
“Perhaps a slight change,” Steffon offered, glancing about the room. His father’s eyes narrowed a touch, but Steffon pushed through. It had taken them over two weeks to make it to Winterfell from Moat Cailin, and part of that issue had been the dilapidated state of the Kingsroad.
“With winter soon to approach, there will be need for better road conditions. The Kingsroad south of Winterfell is not at its best, and I cannot speak for the road to Castle Black.”
“A travesty that does not deserve to be called a road,” Benjen Stark put forth. Lord Stark's brother looked nearly as grim as he, with streaks of grey in his hair and cool eyes that had flickered with suspicion at the sight of Lannisters. “You’ve not been to the Wall before, but the road is more akin to dirt tracks north of here.”
Murmurs of agreement came from the Northerners as they lamented the state of their infrastructure.
“What does the South know of winter?” a giant lord scoffed, bushy brows furrowed in slight disdain.
“Much less than you lords I gather, but the maesters are predicting a fairly long winter,” Tyrion replied.
“What do they know of the cold?” another grumbled. “They feel only the light chill of a Northern summer.”
“Your plan for the roads, Prince Steffon?” Lord Stark asked, diverting his bannermen’s attention.
“You know the North much better than we,” Steffon said, looking at the map the maester of Winterfell brought forward. “Here and here,” he said, pointing to mountain ridges to the North. “We can find stone quarries.”
“Use Northern stone for the roads?”
“That would help cut costs of transporting the stone across kingdoms, and the bulk of the labourers would come from the North as well I presume?” Lord Robb mused.
“Of course, we would have to send a few engineers from the South to assist in the building. I’ve been told putting stone together is harder than it seems,” Uncle Tyrion japed, and Steffon had to stifle the urge to laugh as he saw the expressions of the Northern Lords.
“There will be no need for that, my lord, Your Grace,” Lord Manderly cut in. “We’ve builders enough in White Harbour.”
“Aye, all we need to discuss is the matter of coin,” Lord Flint added.
Eddard Stark looked impassive as his bannermen began to lobby the king for lessened costs in taxes. Robert would not budge – not when he so thoroughly convinced himself that he needed the extra coin – but he had acknowledged years ago that the Crown would pay for the upkeep of the Kingsroad in addition to the Lords Paramount.
Steffon had given Lord Stark an out with the quarries, and Lord Manderly had limited costs to paying their own smallfolk for the work done. Now the Northerners had to remind the king of his obligations.
Steff ignored the looks from the Northerners as Uncle Tyrion drew a draft of the Crown’s proposed cost for upkeep.
“Littlefinger will not be happy with the increased costs,” Joff muttered.
“Lord Baelish can drown his misery in his whores,” Steffon retorted, causing choked laughter from his brother.
The arguments died down, the Northerners remaining impassive as Steffon wondered at their reaction to the king’s proposal.
Would it kill them to show some emotion? He groused to himself. For all that the Southroners played the game, the North was proving difficult to crack.
An honest people my arse, he scowled, focusing as the room became impossibly tense.
“There is another matter to discuss, Your Grace,” Lord Bolton stated. The man looked enough like his son, but where Ser Domeric had some life in his eyes Roose Bolton had pale, lifeless eyes that stared at you as if there were no thoughts hidden behind them. It was rather unnerving to Steffon, and he shuddered at the thought of Lord Bolton in the same vicinity as his grandfather.
“Aye, the Wildlings,” Father grunted, setting down his mug of ale. “Lord Varys has made mention of some incidents.”
“More than incidents, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont spoke. Bear Island was far enough North that they dealt with threats from Ironborn reavers and Wildlings. “There have been a disturbing amount of raids.”
“How many more raids?” Joff asked. “I imagine they find their way to the North often.”
“A fourfold increase, Prince Joffrey,” Lord Umber boomed darkly. “Last Hearth sees about six Wildling raids a year. We’d already seen twenty with only three moons left of the year.”
“Why come so far south?” Father asked.
“There are rumours,” Lord Stark began delicately, his face grim as he shared a glance with his brother.
“A King-Beyond-The-Wall,” Benjen stated bluntly, grey eyes fixed on the king.
“Someone is proclaiming themselves king?” Steffon asked in surprise.
“There have been several in the long history of the North,” the maester interjected, “though we’ve not seen one for some time.”
“And who’s the shit calling themselves king?” Father asked his face tinged with fury.
This is not good, Steffon thought in alarm. Robert Baratheon was nowhere near fighting fit, but the man would insist on bringing a war against any claiming his title in spite of his disdain for ruling.
“A former brother of the Night’s Watch, Mance Rayder,” Benjen replied quietly.
“What do these kings typically want?” Steffon asked, staring intently at the map of the North.
The Wall was a three-week ride from Winterfell – a fortnight if one made good time – and Winterfell was in no true danger from Wildlings.
“To cross the Wall,” Lord Karstark muttered. “Like as not they will want to claim the spoils of the North.”
“He’s no damned king,” Lord Forrester claimed. “Only a half-wildling they should have smothered at birth.”
Grimacing, Steffon ignored the words in favour of speaking to the First Ranger.
“How many men does Rayder have?”
Benjen Stark’s face turned grimmer, mimicking the look on the faces of the Northerners, and Steffon tensed in preparation.
“At best we assume he has near a hundred thousand,” he told them.
“There are a hundred thousand Wildlings living beyond the Wall?” Uncle Tyrion asked in surprise.
“More than that,” Benjen claimed. “That number is how many of them Mance has managed to gather under one banner.”
Gods, the North was going to shit and Father wants to take their Lord Paramount and leave a six and ten year old green boy in charge, he thought.
Ignoring that he himself was a green boy – and truly untested in battle or ruling – Steffon pressed, “Why now? What is forcing them to gather when they are more like to kill each other on a good day?”
Benjen Stark looked at Steffon, grey eyes searching before he came to a decision. “There have been rumours of dark things rising in the far North. Rangers disappearing without a trace and abandoned villages of Wildlings with no evidence of a massacre.”
“The deserters,” Robb Stark added, a slightly disturbed look on his face. “They all claim to have seen the same thing; the Others and undead beings.”
Steffon felt himself stiffen, his body unnaturally still as he stared almost desperately at Benjen Stark.
Blue eyes flashed coldly in his mind, and Steffon fought to ignore the memory of an undead army marching south.
These dreams can’t have meant anything, he thought anxiously.
The glass candles haven’t lit up in years, he recalled Malora Hightower saying. Magic was returning to Westeros in greater quantities, though at what price he did not know.
“What, those things? Aren’t they tales to scare misbehaving children? Next you will tell us that grumpkins and snarks are like to exist,” Uncle Tyrion laughed.
None of the Northerners were laughing, and Tyrion’s laughter died down suddenly as he stated, “Those things are mere tales.”
“Why do you think the Wall was built?” Daryn Hornwood scoffed, brown eyes glaring at Tyrion in light of his mockery.
“If I could ask Bran the Builder I would, but alas it is just we mere mortals that remain, thousands of years later,” Tyrion drawled.
“Tales they may be yet we have only dark stirrings north of the Wall,” Lord Stark cut in, a frown on his grim face. “Lord Commander Mormont writes of increased sightings for the past fortnight.”
“These raids,” Joffrey pressed, leaning forward to pin Lord Stark with his green eyes. “How far south have they gone?”
“We’ve clashed with a few near Deepwood Motte,” Lord Glover mentioned.
“Aye, and near Torrhen’s Square as well,” a Tallhart added. Steffon could not tell if it was the lord or his brother.
“Just this past sennight there were deserters that managed to escape into the Wolfswood,” Robb Stark told them, river blue eyes dark.
“They are moving quickly,” Steffon noted.
“Raids of small parties can slip by the Watch,” Benjen added. “We’re not as well manned as we were.”
“You can have your pick of any dungeons as we head South Ned,” Father stated. “Should the Wildlings raid again while we are here, a riding will be necessary to root them out. The contract the imp wrote out will be finalized when we arrive at King’s Landing.”
The King stood, the rest of the room rising as Robert made his way outside with Lord Stark, Uncle Jaime following after him.
Steffon lingered as Uncle Tyrion attempted to gain the maester’s attention. “He does remember that as King he can will things done,” Joff muttered. “More so now that his Hand is next to him.
“He must have forgotten after a sip of this ale. Tastes like piss in a bucket,” Tyrion derided.
“Why do you know what watered piss tastes like Uncle?” Steffon asked with a teasing grin, laughing as the halfman waddled away to speak with the maester.
Robb Stark was making his way to Steffon as Joffrey nudged him lightly. “You look pale,” he muttered.
“I’m fine Joff,” Steff replied lowly, ignoring the probing look on his brother’s face. “Gods, you Northerners must hate the sight of ravens.”
“Aye, dark wings dark words in true,” Robb answered. His blue eyes were serious, a hard glint in them as he glanced between the two. “I thank you, Your Graces.”
“What for?” Steffon asked nonchalantly.
“Many would dismiss Wildlings as a Northern threat,” he replied. “I am sure the other lords are glad to see the interest of our royal family.”
“The King is the Protector of the Realm,” Steff stated, “and the North is as much a part of it as the rest.”
Robb Stark gave him a slightly wry smile in response before he bowed and left them.
“Gods, even he has noticed Father’s wandering attentions,” Steff muttered to Joffrey. King Robert would be planning a hunt with his friend, in spite of the dark tidings that had reached them. "Take all the dregs of the dungeons when the Northerners consider serving at the Wall an honourable cause."
“A good thing then, that their prince has shown himself more able and willing to listen,” Joff murmured wittily.
Steffon sent a sharp look at his brother, conscious of the watching eyes.