The Storm Prince

The sound of singing metal rang through the air as Steffon jerked left to avoid Ser Barristan’s sword. He tried to ignore it, knowing the old knight had requested the presence of additional swords to help him practice.

“When you’re in the midst of a battle, the slightest bit of inattention can cost you. Ignore the sounds of others, focus on your opponent.” Ser Barristan suddenly lunged, wooden sword held above Steff’s shoulder blocking another sword from Ser Aron.

The two men stepped back from each other, and Ser Barristan turned his blue gaze to Steff. “Focus too much, and you lose sight of what is happening around you.”

Ser Barristan hadn’t needed to explain; Steffon was determined to be the best warrior he could be. He eagerly took to his lessons, finding the rhythm of a fight almost calming.

As pleased as Steffon had been to start his sword lessons, the queen had been just as displeased. She had roared her anger at the King, his Hand, even at Uncle Jaime when he had dared to tell her that this was a good thing for the prince.

Only Steffon’s intervention had kept her anger at bay, begging his mother to let him begin his training so he could become a knight like his golden uncle; and who better to train the prince than Barristan the Bold. That had calmed her ire, though she was still displeased at Robert insisting on the lessons in spite of her worries.

Mother’s attention had soon drifted, as the maester declared her third pregnancy. They celebrated, and Lord Arryn had seemed relieved at the continuance of the Baratheon line.

Joff had been slightly displeased, understanding that a new babe would take most of their mother’s attention. He had been on the verge of a tantrum before Steff had quickly nipped his worries in the bud.

“What about you Joff? Should I be displeased at all the attention you receive from mother?” he teased, ruffling his golden hair.

“No!” the boy had replied, face scrunched in consternation. “You’re my brother.”

“Hmm, and soon we will have a new sibling. It’s not so bad, I promise. And,” Steffon added, green eyes sparkling, “you can protect them with me. Just like I do you.”

Joff’s eyes had lit up at the thought, and when their mother had birthed first Myrcella, and then Tommen the year after, the young prince had sworn to be their shield.

Following in his older brother’s footsteps, and with two younger siblings to protect, Joffrey had asked to begin his sword lessons as well. Steffon was seven, taller and bigger than his younger brother and of an age to begin practicing how to joust, and Joffrey was determined to catch up to him.

Mother was busy with Cella and Tom –and how he had felt ash in his mouth at the thought of his brother’s name—and Joffrey had convinced father that he too was of an age to begin. His brother was joyous when the King approved his lessons. Joff had very nearly been denied, but he argued fiercely and was most determined to be the best. Uncle Jaime had been amused when his nephews had declared that they would be knighted at a younger age than he had been, arrogantly telling them that they could only hope to match up to his skill.

Ser Barristan disagreed, and he put the two through their paces. Despite being royalty, the older knight was unwilling to go soft on either of them. Steffon had spent the last two years working on his foot placement until it came to him much quicker, and he cursed his bulky frame. Harry Potter had been slender and excelled at duels with quickness. Joff was more likely to be the lankier of the two, and Steff had been learning to use his bulk to his advantage while not letting his speed suffer.

Steff was thankful when Ser Barristan tapped him quickly on the shoulder and left thigh with his blunt blade. Wincing lightly, he returned his sword to the rack, eagerly gulping the water skin a page handed to him, hair plastered to his face.

“You still favour your right side,” Ser Barristan remarked. “Your lunges will become noticeable if you stick to a set pattern.”

Stifling a groan at the reprimand, Steffon nodded in acceptance. “Grand Maester Pycelle says I shall have healed completely in a sennight.”

He felt the knight’s appraising look, and chancing a glance away from Joff’s lessons, he saw Barristan give a short nod. “You are young yet, my prince. There is enough time to learn to fight through the pain.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best Ser,” Steffon quipped.

“Just as well, else we might have to return wooden swords,” he added.

“Perish the thought Ser,” Steff laughed. “Joff would crow over my return to the basics until his dying breath.”

Ser Barristan chuckled softly, eyes scanning the courtyard. They watched as Ser Aron swiftly disarmed Joff, a frustrated expression on the boy’s face. Ser Aron had placed a hand on Joff’s shoulder, rotating his arm to correct him, and Steffon watched the determined look in his eyes.

“He’s determined to best Uncle Jaime. Knighted as young as Daemon Blackfyre if you believe Joff’s words.” Steffon chuckled.

“The prince is certainly determined,” Ser Barristan agreed, as Joff made his way over, jerkin drenched in sweat.

“Aye.”

It had been slightly surprising, how much effort Joffrey was putting into his lessons. The younger child had taken his words to heart; Joff was early for every lesson and very rarely complained of the strenuous pace Ser Aron and Ser Barristan set. Joff’s temper had also cooled somewhat, given the energetic boy now spent a good portion of his time swinging a wooden sword, and he had railed when Mother attempted to cancel his lessons on seeing the motley of bruises that littered his legs.

“You are improving,” Steffon told him, walking toward the keep so they could wash up before dinner.

“Ser Aron says I needs must learn to be more patient,” Joff muttered, a pleased look at the compliment.

Chuckling, Ser Barristan added “Master the basics first, Prince Joffrey, else you will continuously err.”

Joff took his advice with a solemn nod. The younger boy idolized Ser Barristan, and had been gleeful upon learning that he consented to teach the two of them at the same time. The Lord Commander was often busy, being the king’s principal guard and in command of his brother’s, but the knight insisted on training them himself. Joff had vowed not to disappoint his knightly master, and Steffon often saw him practicing his footwork before bed.

Their dinners were spent pestering the knights around them for war stories. Steffon knew battle, had dreams of the horrors that war caused, and he had no doubt that fighting with steel was just as horrifying as magic, perhaps more devastating, considering the close encounter of swords. Yet still they persisted; asking Ser Barristan about the War of the Ninepenny Kings, badgering Uncle Jaime about the Ironborn, asking Lord Arryn about the many Blackfyre rebellions he had witnessed.

The only topic they steered away from was the Rebellion. Steff was still sour over the thought of what had come after, and Ser Barristan and Uncle Jaime had been Targaryen men. But it was the king’s favourite topic, the only war he had truly fought in, and the man was always eager to recount it. As distasteful as he found it, Steff was intrigued at the thought of all those soldiers doing battle, the different tactics they would have had to employ.

In addition to his lessons at arms, Steffon had begun his formal training in the ways of kingship. No maester could truly teach Steff how to properly govern, but they expanded his lessons to include knowledge of all Seven Kingdoms. Steff’s brain was filled to the brim with names and sigils, who wed whom, which kingdoms allied with each other during times of war, and all manner of agreements between the crown and the lords paramount.

It was maddening.

Between lessons in the maester’s hall and the sparring grounds, Steff felt as if he rarely had time to absorb the lessons of being king. He was a pampered heir, he would reluctantly admit. More akin to a younger Draco Malfoy, but that a lifetime of memories as a downtrodden orphan kept the pomposity that came with his station at bay.

A moon prior to Joff’s sixth nameday, Steffon had escaped the madness of the castle.

His lessons were complete for the day, Ser Barristan had given them the day to rest, and while Joff spent time brushing up on his histories Steffon rushed to the city for some relief.

It had been a glorious experience; wearing a rough-spun cloak, hood drawn, he had darted across the secret passages until he found one that led to an alley just off Fishmonger Square.

The sheer number of people had startled him at first, but Steff had quickly acclimatised to the chaos of the city.

A cacophony of voices reached his ears; merchants and vendors peddling their wares, knights cutting across to the Street of Steel to upgrade their armour or purchase new pieces, arguing as they went about Lord Rosby’s tourney.

King’s Landing was dotted by buildings; taverns, whorehouses, rows of what he would consider homes for the usual courtiers that flittered about court. Further back he saw larges manses for the more established members, homes he knew his mother and father’s family both owned in the city near the Old Gate – though they no longer had need for them.

It had taken several more visits before Steffon had first set foot in Flea Bottom.

His excursions had always led him to Fishmonger Square, and the young prince often meandered along the streets until he made his way to Visenya’s Hill, the Great Sept looming over top. Steffon had never been the most devout, but his presence at the sept had been necessary for the blessings of his younger siblings.

Flea Bottom had never crossed his mind – not until the boy had decided to follow the Street of Sisters to the Dragonpit. Father had never let him travel there, and Steffon knew better than to ask.

The stench had increased the further he walked and he wrinkled his nose at the thought. King’s Landing smelled like shit; it was something he had always known, living with it as long as he had, but Flea Bottom seemed to be the centre of that shit pile, and Steffon was beginning to see why.

Children ran wild in the streets as he curiously entered the neighbourhood. Though, that was being generous – it was hardly standing, the buildings so close together Steff was certain there was no space between them but for the darkest and grimiest of alleys. Places where all manner of unspeakable things took place, if his mother was to be believed.

Seeing it with his own eyes, Steffon could certainly believe so. It was darker than the rest of the city, drenched in tangible despair. Never had he seen so many people living in abject squalor, but his father’s subjects did not all share the same lives.

Where he had seen vendors peddling their wares along the guarded streets, here he witnessed young children selling their bodies, unsavoury men lingering too close. From the corner of his eye he witnessed a fight, bloody and violent like he’d never seen. There were no gold cloaks to break up the fight, but Steffon spotted one a few paces ahead, a woman held in his grip.

Several children skilfully weaved in and around the crowd forming, and a rough shove knocked Steffon against a wall, bodies pressed tightly as people scrambled to avoid the wild swinging of the man’s knife. He was tall and lithe, stringy brown hair plastered to his head with sweat, mouth pulled back in a snarl. He clearly knew how to use a knife, his grip suggesting previous experience, but Steff could see the sheer rage in the man’s muddy eyes, blood pumping as he struck without a care for any innocents.

He was fighting a man much shorter than him: scrawny with close-cropped black hair. He was missing a finger on his left hand, but he did not let it deter him as he swung a knife at his assailant, right hand sailing to land a punch square to his stomach.

He was mouthy too, and though Steff could barely make out the other man’s words over the shouting of the crowd, he saw the taller one snarl in rage, knife flashing quicker as he lost control.

At that moment, Steffon realized two things; they were fighting to the death, and Steff had the unfortunate luck to be right in the shorter man’s range. The crowds jostling had pushed him forward, and he flailed in an attempt to stay out of the way. Though his frame was sturdy, the crowd outnumbered him. The flash of steel just missed his head as he threw himself to the ground, scrambling to get up.

This is not what I had in mind, he thought in panic.

A hand grabbed his elbow and yanked him to his feet. They didn’t let go, and Steff was dragged along the crowded street before his helper elbowed his way to freedom. There was an empty alley up ahead; chancing a glance behind he saw the crowd begin to disperse – the gold cloaks were swarming the area, swords out as they battered the people around them, and Steffon saw blood before he was dragged through the alley to a smaller side road.

Yanking his hand free he whirled on the person before freezing.

It was a boy; around Steffon’s age, tall and broad with coal black hair and stormy blue eyes. He had soot on his face and callouses on his hands – had he been clean and with green eyes instead of blue, Steff would have felt as if he was staring at a distorted reflection. He didn’t look exactly like Steff, but there was an undeniable relation between the two.

Another Edric Storm, he wondered.

“Listen,” the boy began, “if you’re wantin’ to hang around and be smacked all over the place, go right ahead. Them gold cloaks will gut you without a word unless we leave right now.”

He was gaping, Steffon knew, and all his tutors would have reprimanded him for his behaviour.

“Who are you?” Steffon blurted out.

The boy in question stiffened, a frown coming over his face. “Yer a lordling,” he said brusquely. “What’s a lordling like you doin’ in Flea Bottom?”

Frowning, Steffon watched as the boy looked around the alley before moving forward. Walking quickly, he fell in step with him. “I lost my way,” Steffon said casually.

Snorting, he muttered, “Nearly lost yer life too, I’d bet, sneaking around when ye ought’ta stay away.”

“What’s your name?” Steffon tried.

“Gendry,” he answered, looking at Steff in suspicion. Steffon wisely kept quiet, guessing the other boy was waiting for him to pass judgement.

“Harry,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. Gendry would not recognize him, but he might notice their similarities, so Steff kept his hood up. They were walking along the alleyways of Flea Bottom before Gendry led him to a main roadway; houses lay next to taverns, rundown with broken windows, and Steff could see dirt and grime on some of the windows.

“S’pect its not wha’ yer used to,” Gendry stated, weaving around beggars and cutthroats with ease.

Steffon was ill at ease, seeing all this. He had lived a privileged life, he knew, but the state of Flea Bottom was disheartening. They walked past a girl, only a few years older than the two of them, leading a man by the hand into a building, and Steffon swallowed his revulsion at the sight.

“Has it always been like this?” he asked lowly. Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of neglect from the crown. His father wasn’t the best ruler, he knew, but surely Lord Arryn would have done something.

King’s Landing was the epicentre of Westerosi politics. The King’s court was housed here, yet all Steffon saw was a city falling into disrepair. There were far more people located inside this part of the city than elsewhere, and these were the smallfolk his family was meant to aid.

Gendry snorted in derision, “Them lords don’t care fer us.”

When have the powerful cared for those they consider beneath them?Might makes right, he thought, and Westeros was a classic example of that.

They were coming upon the Street of Looms before Steffon decided to take his leave. Gendry would be cut down if he attempted to enter the keep and he was not keen on having his mother learn of his newest pastime.

He watched the boy walk off, steps quick as he lumbered his way back to Flea Bottom. Once he was certain Gendry had left the street, Steffon darted across to Shadowblack Lane. Following the twists up the hill, Steff curved away from the path to the keep’s gates, passing along the inns and taverns before he found the small pathway that would lead him back to the bowels of the keep.

He had managed to travel around the city for two moons before he had been spotted. 

Lord Varys had his little birds, flitting about the city and bringing word back to their patron, yet Steffon was horrified to note that it had been Ser Barristan to notice his wanderings.

He had spent two moons learning as much of the city as he could. He was often in Flea Bottom, cataloguing the state of disrepair, or simply walking about the city, learning as much information as he could. Most times, Steff had his hooded cloak with him – it had taken a fortnight before he realized that most would not recognize him, and that traveling hooded was more like to bring unwanted attention.

He’d seen Gendry once more, a week into his wanderings, and he had been pleasantly surprised to learn that the boy was an apprentice at Tobho Mott’s shop. There was nothing he could do for his father’s unclaimed bastard, but he was glad the boy had something he enjoyed.

Steffon avoided gold cloaks, avoided cutthroats and dodged the wandering hands of snatchers in the city, yet it was as he walked past the Mudman’s Sorrow that he realized he was being followed.

There was no invisibility cloak here to hide him – nor would it be useful in such a crowded environment – yet noticing the blue eyes of the old knight Steffon lamented his situation.

Ser Barristan moved swiftly to a twisting alley that would lead to The Hook, and a sharp glare caused Steffon to follow after him as quickly as he could.

He would pay for this, he knew, though it depended on whether the knight would inform his parents or mercilessly drill him in the yard.

Steffon was uncertain over which option he would prefer.

Pulling the hood of his cloak on, Steffon saw the knight fall into step with him, eyes cautiously looking around them for any sign of a threat. Chancing a look at the knight, Steff held back a wince. Ser Barristan looked upset, jaw set and lips pressed into a firm line – as far as safety had gone, Steffon had thoroughly broken all protocol. It would be a wonder if he were ever allowed to leave the keep again, even with an escort.

Wisely, the prince held his tongue as Ser Barristan led them to the gates of the keep. He seemed unwilling to unmask Steffon, and they walked casually amongst the courtiers traveling in and out of the keep, a quick glance at Ser Barristan allowing them to pass unassaulted.

He was led to the holdfast, still cloaked and taken to his rooms where he was ordered to clean and make himself presentable. Servants had readied a tub of water, and Steffon’s heart sank at the realization that someone had noticed his absence.

Swallowing back his anger at the censure, Steffon had dutifully set about cleaning the dirt from the city. A black and gold doublet was laid out for him, the crowned stag stitched onto the brest, black breeches and boots to go along with it. He quickly ran a brush through his thick hair, thankful that it was more cooperative than his previous hair.

A pair of guards were standing outside his room, all wearing the Baratheon livery, and Ser Arys was waiting to escort him. The prince gave the white knight a short nod, allowing him to lead the way.

The wound their way through the halls of the holdfast, passing Ser Preston on the drawbridge as they walked to the Great Hall and moving quickly to the throne room, courtiers bowing as Steffon passed. A public reprimand, he thought. Father must be upset.

To his surprise, Steff was lead to the small council chambers located just off the throne room. Ser Arys knocked thrice before opening the door and ushering Steffon inside, turning to stand guard outside.

Oh, I shall never recover from this latest blunder, he thought morosely. Uncle Stannis awaited him, flanked by Ser Barristan and Lord Varys. They were a motley group – three men he would never think to be working alongside each other making common cause.

Taking the chair Uncle Stannis nodded at, Steffon calmly slid into his seat, spine ramrod straight and face cleared of emotion. He had been reckless, he knew, but he would not allow them to run roughshod over him.

Uncle Stannis looked unimpressed, brows furrowed and eyes dark – Steffon could practically hear his teeth grinding. Lord Varys wore a grim look on his face, though he could not be sure of the sincerity on his face; he’d heard tell that the man had been a mummer before joining Aerys’s court, and Steff was inclined to believe the rumours.

Ser Barristan had the most peculiar expression – the old Stormlands knight had oft stared at Steff oddly, as though lost in reminiscence. His gaze was tinted with grief as he looked at him, green eyes locked on blue, and Steffon felt dread curl up in his stomach.

He remained silent – a stubborn part of him that was equal parts Cersei and Robert and undeniably Harry refusing to give in – and waited for his Uncle to speak.

“Prince Steffon, you gave us quite the scare this evening.” Varys simpered.

“It was not my intent to do so, my lord” Steffon replied.

“Spare me your excuses,” Stannis growled. “Have you any idea what could have occurred? The danger you brought upon yourself?”

Steffon tilted his chin up proudly, eyes locked upon his uncle. I was careful, he wanted to rage, though Stannis’s next words deflated his pride.

“What would become of you should an enemy to the crown claim you as hostage?” Uncle Stannis continued coldly.

Pursing his lips, Steffon lowered his eyes as he stared aimlessly at the table.

He had been careful, had carried a knife around with him and was certain to avoid as many of the dangers as he could, but that was not enough he knew.

“Your gallivanting around without a care, much as your father did in his youth, could have dire consequences for those around you.” Uncle Stannis ground out.

Steffon felt his jaw tighten in fury, green eyes cold as he looked as him. Stannis looked satisfied that his insult had landed, and Steff swallowed his anger. He had thought himself above the careless whims of youth, of being ruled by his emotions, but Steff was learning to his detriment that he had not removed the impulses that had governed Harry Potter.

“I was not gallivanting uncle,” he replied sharply. “Nor did I consider my wanderings something little to be demeaned.”

“Your wanderings were careless and everything Robert would have –”

“I am not my father,” Steffon seethed, rising to his feet, palms flat on the table. Lord Varys was shuffling about, perhaps seeking to intervene, and Ser Barristan was moving closer to Steff’s side. He had eyes only for his uncle, spots of colour high on his cheeks, and Steffon was viciously satisfied to note that Stannis was angered as well.

“My lords–” Varys attempted to interrupt.

“…and for all your dislike of him, nuncle, you seem keen on comparing me to the king you consider to be failing at his duties.”

“And what would you consider a prince who mingles with the smallfolk and cares naught for the life others would die to preserve?” Stannis replied scathingly.

Steffon felt Ser Barristan stiffen, hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. Lord Varys was nervously tittering, eyes darting between Stannis and Steffon.

“What is a prince if he does not know his subjects?” Steffon retorted.

The air was tense and the silence could be cut through with Valyrian steel. Stannis was grinding his teeth furiously, and a petty part of Steff hoped he would grind them to dust.

“Perhaps it would be best to reconvene at another time,” Varys suggested. “I find that cooler heads make for better conversation.”

Without waiting, Steffon turned sharply and stalked to the exit, startling Ser Arys as he hurried outside for some air. Both knights were shadowing his footsteps as Steffon led them to the godswood. Rarely did people enter this part of the keep, preferring the many walkways of the gardens to the open space overlooking the bay. There would be whispers of the crown prince seeking the godswood, and Steffon knew that he would have to visit the castle sept and make a show of his devotion.

The air in the godswood was cooler, a breeze from the Blackwater ruffling his curls as Steff sat stiffly on the bench, carrying with it the cloying scent of lavender and lillies. He was seething, pride smarting from the insults Stannis had paid him.

What does he know, he thought viciously, he who rewarded the man who fed them with his choice of fingers.

Stewing in his anger, he ignored the crunch of footsteps until he felt the man take a seat.

“Forgive my insolence, Prince Steffon, but I daresay you have upset your uncle.” Varys said.

Smothering the scoff that dearly wanted to emerge, Steffon remained quiet.

“He worries for you,” Varys told him, “and Lord Stannis was quite, fearful, I should say, over your wellbeing.”

“I suppose you did what you could to alleviate his concerns, my lord.” Steffon said dryly.

“Naturally,” Varys replied lightly, “though I find that some can be unwilling to listen.”

They were silent for quite some time; Steff glanced around the godswood and noted that they were alone but for the white cloaks of the Kingsguard at the entrance. The spymaster was too wily to allow himself to be watched, and Steff was almost certain that the godswood was truly devoid of any possible listeners.

“Who do you serve, my lord?” Steffon asked after some time. “Knights serve their lords, servants are sworn to keeps and Houses, all are beholden to the King.” Turning his head to gaze at Varys, Steffon pierced him with his emerald gaze. “Who does an eunuch from Essos serve?”

“I serve the realm,” Varys said solemnly, “at the king’s pleasure.”

Lips twisted, Steffon felt Varys’s gaze on him when he replied, “Protector of the Realm.”

He had perhaps said too much. The eunuch was a dangerous creature, he knew, aware of the secrets of all those in his vicinity and unearthing them as they became useful to his plans.

“I have watched kings and princes for nearly five-and-ten years,” Varys began quietly.

“Not quite so long in the eyes of others,” Steffon muttered, gaze drawn to Ser Barristan’s cloak.

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Varys pursed his lips. "Often, I find that treading the path of the past can be a soothing endeavour.”

“Shall we let history repeat itself, my lord?”

“Did you not know, my prince? History is remade in the image of the victor.” Varys smiled.

Steffon’s mouth twisted in agreement, green eyes unseeing as he thought of past histories.

Varys had risen to his feet, arms tucked into his velvet sleeves. “A parting gift, Prince Steffon.”

Steffon glanced at the eunuch, noting the solemnity that lined his face. Lord Varys was an accomplished mummer, but for once Steff did not feel as if he was seeing the mask presented to the world. It was a mask still, he knew, but one that was far more vulnerable than he expected.

“A wise man would build on the past, yet know when it is necessary to remake the mould beneath the glory.”

“That was almost blunt, my lord,” Steffon quipped.

A smile was his only answer, bright and false as all things were in this city. A spider never truly rests, and as Steffon dismissed the bald eunuch, his thoughts fell on the city once more, haunted as they were by ghosts.

It would take several weeks before Steffon felt comfortable enough to enter the city. Uncle Stannis had been stiff in his greetings for a sennight and the boy had been equally immovable. They had neither apologized nor acknowledged what occurred between them, but at some point Stannis had seemingly moved on; Steffon did not expect the man to truly have forgotten – he held onto such grievances far more than was healthy.

In response to his defiance, Ser Barristan had increased his hours in the training yard. They were far more brutal, the knight driving him harder after remarking on the likelihood of Steffon refraining from his travels.

Steffon often went to bed on trembling legs, arms aching from the repetitive patterns Ser Barristan put him through Miraculously, his parents had remained uninformed about his excursions, and Steff remained quiet for the most part, only speaking up to assuage his mother. One of her handmaids had found Steff in his bath and feared the boy dead.

Cersei had raged at Ser Barristan, at Robert, at Steffon himself when he told her he requested the increased lessons. Even Joff was not spared her rage when the young boy piped up about his desire to spend more hours on the sparring grounds.

Steffon had not breathed a word of complaint about Barristan’s lessons; the strenuous work had driven him to the point of exhaustion and alleviated his nightmares for the first few days. They had returned with a viciousness that often left him breathless.

It was the same scene most of the time, the crowned head of a creature of ice, blue eyes gazing malevolently in the distance. Once, he’d dreamt of a clash of armies, blood sprayed on the pristine snow, watching helplessly as the fallen soldiers rose and attacked their own, eyes glowing blue.

He woke from those with his magic crackling beneath his skin, surging, but not yet accessible to him. He felt a sense of loss keenly in those moments – awake and plagued with thoughts of ice creatures, smallfolk and kingdoms of enemies – he mourned his inability to wield it as he once had been able to. It was always there, just out of reach, and Steff had spent countless nights frustrated at the reality.

Magic had not completely died out in Westeros, but it was sparse and not nearly strong enough.

At times, he wistfully thought of how life might have been had he lived during the Age of Heroes. Perhaps they were not wizards like those he had known at Hogwarts, but Bran the Builder, Durran Godsgrief, Garth Greenhand and Lann the Clever were larger than life figures that he would swear held a touch of magic to them.

The nightmares held sleep at bay, and Steff was utterly exhausted by the end of his day. Thankfully, they had slowed in frequency after the first week, and Steff was able to sleep through the night more oft than not.

Ser Barristan had been concerned over his appearance yet Steffon’s stubbornness had won out. He had pushed himself in his lessons and pushed forth his plan to continue to visit the city. The knight had stared at Steffon before nodding his assent, removing the guards Uncle Stannis assigned and agreeing on the condition that Barristan accompanied him.

Father would not know, he was certain; Uncle Stannis and he clashed far too often and the king was like to ignore his heir’s wanderings if Stannis made him aware simply to spite his brother.

Lord Arryn was the other option, but Steff was disinclined to listen to the Lord Hand and knew Ser Barristan would defer to father.

They had set off three weeks after his talk with Lord Varys, Steff finally adjusting to the rigors of his new schedule. Much of his time was spent wandering Flea Bottom; he’d not seen Gendry again, and the thought of a guarded nobleman had scared off some of the inhabitants. Though they wore hooded cloaks, the old knight’s sword was a visible deterrent.

They had been walking along the Street of Sisters this day, cloaks discarded as Steffon had wheedled his way to the Sept of Baelor. The king had been in the midst of entertaining and had waved Steffon off. Mother would most likely be furious when she realized, but for now Steff moved without a care to the Dragonpit, Ser Barristan to his left and several guards lurking in the shadows.

The Dragonpit was a ruin; an ancient relic of a time when dragons roamed the skies and magic was not a complete mystery, when Targaryens had lived amongst the clouds and earned their reputations as gods amongst men.

Steff missed the thrill of flying, had felt the short moment of joy flying on dragonback brought Harry Potter.

That the Targaryens had lost their dragons did not surprise him. A dragon is not to be chained, and except for their time in the Triwizard Tournament, dragons in the magical world had freely roamed their reserves.

“What would have become of this place,” Steffon mused, “had Aegon the Unlikely been successful at Summerhall?”

The clinking of armour alerted him to Ser Barristan’s movements before he felt the knight behind him. He no longer tensed at the intrusion on his space, Barristan having been a part of his life since his rebirth.

“Rebuilt, I’d imagine. Or perhaps they would do away with it.”

There was a note of hesitance in his voice as Steffon gazed up at the blackened spears that had once formed the dome. “Speak freely, Ser, for we are alone at the moment.”

He had warily glanced around – as if he could spot Varys’s little birds – before answering, “Is it wise, Prince Steffon, to openly admire Targaryen relics?”

“Mayhaps not, though we can hardly do away with something of this size,” he said wryly. “Dragon skulls can be hidden, but the Targaryens built this city Ser, and it is not something one can easily forget.”

Not when the king himself used Targaryens to make his claim, he thought. If there was one thing to be said of the man, Robert Baratheon was determined to ignore all that came with the former dragonlords.

“Tell me of Prince Rhaegar,” Steffon requested. He would not have a better opportunity, he knew, nor was he like to hear an unbiased account of the Last Dragon, but Barristan was his best option at knowing of the man the realm had loved.

The knight looked surprised and then wary at his request, but Steffon refused to give in under his gaze.

“The Prince is long dead, Your Grace.”

“Aye, but I would have the truth of him. I am not my father to rage about him.” Steffon told him.

Ser Barristan was quiet for some time. Steffon allowed him to gather his thoughts, knowing the Kingsguard would not deny him, not when Steff had shown himself to be far more reasonable concerning his Valyrian relations.

“He was a quiet prince,” the knight told him, voice soft in reminiscence. “Gentle and bookish. He was not fond of fighting, though he wielded sword and shield and excelled at it. He excelled at all of his pursuits, truly, but he was more fond of his harp.” The knight cleared his throat, eyes fogged with memories of the past.

“You mourn him still,” Steffon noted.

“There are a great many who mourn what could have been.”

Ser Barristan’s blue eyes had cleared, gazing at Steffon with a clarity that startled the younger boy. He opened his mouth, though Steffon waved off any words. Truth was not something the prince was freely given, and he cherished it more as Steffon than he had as Harry.

“I should like to head back, Ser, else Joff will hoard the desserts.”

Ser Barristan merely inclined his head, turning to lead them back to the keep.

He had heard the whispers during his time in Flea Bottom, had seen the merchants of Visenya’s Hill utter foul curses at red cloaks and gold cloaks alike, lamenting the loss of the dragons in their cups.

Usurper, they called his father. Quietly in the streets of King;s Landing, but the epithet remained. Robert was beloved of those he gave his coin to, but their disdain would resurface when the coffers ran dry and they remembered. It was Rhaegar they loved, their Silver Prince who sang so sweetly for them, his final song a tragedy capped by the drunkard sitting atop his throne.

Steffon’s eighth nameday was celebrated with a massive feast, the nobles of court bringing gifts to garner favour with the crown prince. Lord Rykker gifted him with a set of hunting knives from Tobho Mott’s shop, a book from Lord Stokeworth on Aegon the Unlikely’s Treatises, several gifts of gold. Lord Staunton had returned from a voyage to the Free Cities and brought Steff a cyvasse board, a popular game amongst Volantene nobles.

The king had insisted on a joust, a gathering of mainly Crownlands and Stormlands noblemen and knights from the Reach and Riverlands, all keen on testing their mettle and winning the generous purse the crown was offering.

Joff and Steff had sat in the Royal Box, eagerly watching the knights breaking lances against each other. Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan had entered the lists, and the two princes were enthusiastically cheering the Kingsguard as they tore through the lists. They had broken six lances against one another in the finals, and on their seventh pass, Ser Barristan had thrust his lance in the space beneath Uncle Jaime’s elbow, catching him square in the side as he sent the golden knight spinning into the dirt. Steffon had watched as Joffrey leapt to his feet in joy. Mother had been sour over Uncle Jaime’s loss, but Steff had dutifully kept his brother close by and well away from her angry scowls.

The queen had planned for seven courses; a thick soup of venison with a crusty hot sweetbread, salads of spinach and apples with crushed pine nuts sprinkled on top. Lamprey pie followed, honeyed ham and buttered trout, carrots and mushrooms seared in lemon sauce. There was a roasted pheasant, stuffed full with sour cheese from Essos. By the time dessert had been served, lemon cakes and fireberries and a baked pie smelling strongly of cinnamon, Steff was full to the brim.

It was just his luck that he had left the feast about an hour into the dancing. There was wine aplenty, the liquor flowing from the king’s cellar, Dornish Red and Arbor Gold and sweet Summerwine. Steffon’s presence would not be necessary for the court to continue their celebrations, and he and Joff were hustled off to bed by one of the maids. Ser Arys and Ser Boros followed after, each posted at the prince’s doors now they had moved out of the nursery.

They had walked past a servant with a plate of leftovers, presumably carrying it to the kitchens.

“What’s to be done with the remains?” Steff suddenly asked.

The servant looked flustered, “My Prince?”

“The leftovers from the feast,” Steff added, “what is to be done with them?”

“Th-they are to be t-thrown out, Prince Steffon,” the man said nervously.

Steffon frowned at the notion of wasted food, remembering the half-starved people he had met in Flea Bottom. The man was fidgeting, face pale and arms trembling as he held the food.

“Give it to the smallfolk,” Steff ordered, green eyes glinting in determination.

“M-my prince?” the man asked, voice wavering.

“Have it handed out to the people of King’s Landing. There is no need for them to starve while the royal family throws such lavish feasts. It would be a waste of perfectly good food.”

The maid was looking at him queerly. He cared not for her thoughts, these were to be his people and he would not have them starve. Memories of Christmas dinners with the Dursleys flashed through his mind, and Steffon set his jaw in determination.

“Tell the rest that the food is to be distributed, else I shall be greatly displeased,” Steff warned.

He waited until the man gave a nod of assent, bowing with the dishes in his arms, before Steff tugged Joffrey along to their rooms.

“Why did you do that?” Joff asked curiously as they entered his rooms. They had dismissed the maid, as Steff insisted on seeing his brother to his bed.

Joffrey stood before him, head tilted as he waited for Steffon to answer.

“Would you like the people to go hungry, Joff?” Steffon stared silently at his brother, grabbing the younger boy’s hands. “We are princes of the realm. These people, all of them, are our people, and it is our duty to care for them.” They of all people could not afford to have thousands of displeased smallfolk on their hands.

“A king should be like a father to his people,” Joff added softly.

Smiling, Steffon squeezed his hands. “Just so.”

“You are more of a king than he is,” Joff said, green eyes solemn and earnest.

“Hush,” Steff whispered, “lest they think we two plan treason.” Giving the smaller boy a smile and ruffle of his hair, he left Joffrey to rest, Ser Arys standing outside his door.

Steffon’s actions had not gone unnoticed, not that he expected otherwise.

Lord Varys had looked oddly at him the next day, a knowing smile on his face, and Steffon was uncomfortably reminded of their conversation in the godswood.

Look all you want, my lord he thought, straightening his spine. I’ve nothing to hide.

“Prince Steffon!” an oily voice called out, stopping Steffon as he walked to the training grounds. Ser Boros was shadowing him, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he stared impassively at the person.

Turning, he saw an unfamiliar man with lightly greying hair escorting Lady Arryn, his plum doublet going nicely with her sky blue gown. His eyes were gray-green, a cheery look to his face that belied the glint of something else in his gaze. Raising a brow, Steff stared at the man.

“My Prince,” Lady Arryn simpered, watery blue eyes turned in adoration to the man beside her. For once, Lady Arryn was not walking with her young child; she had refused all care for her son Robert and was always found near the boy. “Might I introduce Lord Petyr Baelish? He fostered at Riverrun and is a dear childhood friend.”

Smiling thinly, Steffon greeted the man. “From the Fingers, yes?”

There was a flash of displeasure in Lady Arryn’s gaze, though Steff was far more interested in the man before him.

His smile was entirely false as he replied, “Yes, a lowly part of the Vale, unfortunately.”

“Well met, my lord.”

“Petyr will be joining the council soon,” Lady Arryn boasted. “He has proven himself ever skilled with commerce.”

Looking at the smaller man, he stared at him in surprise. “Oh? My congratulations, Lord Baelish, it seems King’s Landing could use a man of your talents.”

Lord Baelish laughed him off, though his eyes did not smile. “Tis nothing, my prince. I am happy with my lot in Gulltown, an appointment to the council is not what I am here for.”

Lord Baelish walked alongside him, Lady Arryn on his other side and Ser Boros bringing up the rear. The man appeared pleasant, but something about him bothered Steffon. It was the eyes, most like; quite unnatural for someone so pleasant to not have feeling in his eyes as well.

“What brings you to the capital, Lord Baelish?” Steff asked. They were near the training grounds, and he was eager for a spar against Ser Aron.

“A meeting with Lord Arryn regarding finances,” Baelish smoothly said, a slight smile on his face. “Though I have been here for nigh on a year now.”

“Oh?” Steffon quirked his lip in amusement, “I am surprised we have not crossed paths beforehand.”

“An unfortunate error on my part,” Baelish added with a deprecating chuckle. “We have all heard of the good prince, even in the Fingers.”

And now we get to the heart of the matter, he thought.

“I hope you are not disappointed,” Steffon drolly stated, at the threshold of the training grounds. The sound of metal clashing against each other was like home to Steffon, though he doubted the man in front of him had ever held a sword.

“Not as of yet. My Prince,” Baelish bowed, a slightly mocking smile on his face, though he appeared pleasant to anyone else.

Smiling thinly, Steffon dismissed the two, turning to pick up a blunt sword.

The last thing he saw was the hint of a mockingbird, stitched onto the breast of Lord Baelish’s doublet.

Three moons before his ninth nameday, Steffon began to attend small council meetings. Cella and Tom were still in the nursery, being two and one, and he and Joff attempted to spend as much of their spare time with the young ones. Between lessons with the maesters, squiring for Ser Barristan, and his inclusion into the small council, Steff barely managed to find time for his youngest siblings. Joff was his most frequent companion, and it was only a matter of time before the younger boy began to join him in meetings to learn how the realm was being governed. 

To his dismay, Steffon had been forced to realize exactly how much work the small council did on the King’s behalf. Logically, Steffon had known his father was lax in his duties, but he did not expect that the man showed up to meetings only when Lord Arryn managed to convince him to attend; and that, according to Uncle Stannis, was rare still.

When Steffon had entered the small council and declared his intention to attend as many meetings as he could with his busy schedule, Uncle Stannis had given a sharp nod of approval.

Lord Arryn had been baffled, and Steffon was unwilling to allow anyone to attempt to dissuade him. “I am the Crown Prince, my lords. I would be remiss in my duties if I remained in ignorance of how the kingdom is governed. I should think that my interest in learning my future responsibilities would be to your benefit.”

Uncle Stannis had clearly approved, as had surprisingly Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys.

“It gladdens me, my prince, when the young are attentive to their duty.” The Master of Whispers craftily included.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the old maester wheezed, adjusting his massive chain. “Such interest is to the benefit of the realm.”

The matter had been settled, and Steffon was introduced to the efforts of the small council to govern Westeros after two wars in the span of six years.

It was not going as smoothly as he thought.

Perhaps it was the paranoia that came with his station, or merely lifelong experience of being kept in the dark, but there were certain things he knew that others would not wish a prince to be aware of. The business of the small council was one of those things.

A king leaving his kingdom in the hands of his advisors was practically unheard of, and Steffon was seething at the thought of his father’s carelessness.

Had you not wanted the throne, Father, perhaps you should have worked to avoid it, he thought darkly.

Aerys Targaryen had left the realm with a full treasury. He had been mad, but the man was not overly frivolous in his spending.

Only nine years had passed since Robert Baratheon’s coronation, and already the crown was millions of dragons in debt. Much of that debt was owed to Casterly Rock – and how Steffon had raged at the thought – with the rest made up of loans from Highgarden, the Faith, and the Iron Bank, smaller loans from other Houses as well.

Lord Arryn had no explanation for the crown’s debt beyond, “What Robert wishes to spend, he will. None can gainsay the king in this matter.”

Steffon had stormed to his father’s rooms in a rage, ignoring the guards’ call of warning.

He stalked past the king’s solar, useless thing that it was, and the sound of moans coming from beyond the curtains deepened his rage.

Had he been thinking properly, Steffon would most likely have avoided this course. But he let his fury consume him, caring not for the consequences of disrupting the king.

Yanking open the curtains, Steff tapped his foot impatiently, a short shriek from the whore alerting his father to his presence.

Robert fumbled for covering; the sheets lifted to the whore’s chest as Steffon stood there, a cold look in his eyes, apathetic as his father grabbed at a dressing gown.

He stared at his son in a rage, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Father,” Steffon said coldly, “I thought we could have a small chat before luncheon.”

Stormy blue eyes stared angrily at Steffon, but the boy remained unfazed. They were bloodshot, and the stench of wine let him know that the king had begun his drinking earlier than usual.

“Leave us,” Robert called, waving off the whore.

Steffon turned sharply on his heel, feet leading him to the chair in front of his father’s desk. There were stag heads on the wall, relics from the king’s previous hunts. Baratheon black and gold dotted everywhere, with tapestries of battles and hunts to imprint his presence in the royal apartments.

His father heaved himself into his seat, pouring himself a cup of wine. Part of Steffon bemoaned the state of the man; no longer was he the chiselled warrior king that had tossed his sons into the air, he was now better referred to as the Whoremonger King, steadily growing in fat.

Steff ignored the whore as she made her way out of the room, withholding his snarl of disgust as he saw the king track his eyes after her.

“What now?” Robert asked, gulping at his wine. He had poured a cup for Steffon, but the boy refused to drink on principle. I’ll not become a drunkard like you, he thought.

“The realm is in debt, Father,” Steffon said pleasantly, green eyes cold, “millions of dragons.”

Scoffing, the king took a sip of his drink. “Counting coppers, that’s what you came here for?”

Steffon had to remind himself that he was only eight; eight and not fully in tune with his magic and completely dwarfed by the king in front of him. There was no point of being angry, the man simply did not care, but thousands had died to put this bloody crown on his head.

“You are the king,” Steffon pressed. “Counting coppers is part of your duties,” he mockingly added.

“That’s what the small council is for,” Robert waved away.

“The small council can only do as the king wishes,” Steffon stressed.

“Aye, and if the king wishes to throw a tourney than they had better indulge him. What is the point of being king if you cannot hold tourney’s as you like?”

“You had a full treasury,” Steffon hissed, unable to contain his rage. “Aerys left his coffers full and you’ve gone and squander—”

A sharp sting cut off the rest of his words, and Steff reared back in surprise. The king’s eyes were stormy, anger clouding them as he raised a pointed finger at Steffon.

His father had never raised a hand to him, but he should not have been as surprised as he was. The king was drunk, bereft of his entertainment and listening to his heir speak of the glories of the Targaryen king.

“Never mention that man,” Robert seethed. “Sit on the council all you like, what the King wills the Hand will see to it.”

Steffon raised his chin in defiance; eyes cool as he looked in at the drunkard that had sired him with thinly veiled disgust. “By your leave, Your Grace.”

Robert had just waved him off when Steffon exited the room, cheek purpling. His mother would no doubt rage at the man, but Steffon could not be bothered to deal with either of them.

He spent the following weeks sitting at the king’s seat in the council room, face stoic as the lords looked warily at him. All who questioned his injury were told it came from an overly enthusiastic spar, and an angry Joff had agreed to pass on the lie.

They all knew, the lords having heard that he emerged from his father’s apartments with a swiftly reddening cheek, but none had dared to bring it up. Only Lord Arryn, and he had given up when faced with hard green eyes.

The council members took to discussing the governance of the realm as if he were not present. Steffon had a quill and sheafs of parchment next to him, quickly jotting down notes on all manner of business as he gazed at the people around him.

They spoke of trade agreements, taxation, the king’s newest tourney, and the summer harvest and food distribution, roaming bandits in the Riverlands. Town charters were discussed and tabled for later perusal, merchants asking the crown for loans to expand their ventures.

It had taken four kingdoms united in common cause to place his father on the throne, the alliance that had broken the Targaryens, and still Steffon could not see evidence of it. Not in King’s Landing, nor anywhere the king’s favour was present, but for his affections and reminiscence.

The council consisted of his uncles – Renly promising to join them as soon as he was through with his lord’s progress – and former Targaryen Kingsguard, Maester, and Master of Whispers. Lord Arryn was the only member from the Rebellion, and Lord Baelish had been assisting the council.

Three Stormlanders, two Valemen, an Essosi, and a maester who might as well have been from the Westerlands; there was nothing but affection for his father tying the North to them, and the Riverlands were involved only by blood ties. No seats of honour at the king’s table for his closest allies, no positions for the only kingdom that had come out in force for their liege. Lord Stark might look upon Robert Baratheon as a brother, but his bannermen had not reaped any rewards from that affection.

Nor had those of his father’s former enemies. The Reach was underrepresented, not a single House holding a position of prominence at court but for Ser Arys, and Dorne had been placated by Lord Arryn, but not brought back into the fold. The Crownlands had a Kingsguard, but none of the lords of the Narrow Sea were flourishing as they had under Targaryen rule.

It was alarming, how fractured the realm seemed. There were Lannisters in every position he could think of. Squires, pages, courtiers; everywhere he looked in the castle he saw a sea of veritable gold. It was a disaster in the making, and Steffon was baffled that Lord Arryn had allowed it to occur, knowing the dangers a king faced when reliant on meagre alliances.

This is what they wish me to inherit, he thought darkly. A realm fracturing at the seams, held together only by affection for the man they remembered the king to be.

There was much and more to be done; the council could discuss the realms governance, could plan as they wished, but Steffon would have to put his own plans in place to secure his rule.

“Come on Joff,” Steffon shouted. “Loser shall waive his dessert privileges for a moon.” 

Laughing at the look on his brother’s face, Steff dug his heels into the flank of his horse, Twitch responding with enthusiasm. The spotted palfrey had reminded him of Pig’s enthusiasm, and Joff had declared it a twitchy beast. The name had stuck, and the poor filly did not respond to any other name.

Grandfather Tywin’s invitation to the Rock had come years earlier, eager to meet the legacy of his House. It had taken Lord Arryn the better part of a year to plan the royal journey, as the court itself would reside in the keep for six moons, and Mother had waylaid any arrangements until Tommen’s second nameday.

Steff had complied with his mother’s orders to change into a clean doublet, Baratheon gold with the black crowned stag stitched onto the breast, and with a matching set, Joff and he had quickly set off.

Casterly Rock loomed in the distance, glinting gold under the glittering sun, the two brother’s gleefully riding full speed toward the gates of the Lion Mouth and the King’s party. Ser Arys and Ser Boros rode alongside the brothers, restless from long hours spent in the queen’s monstrous wheelhouse. Myrcella and Tommen, at four and three, were kept close to mother, but Joffrey and Steffon were older and bigger, able to sit a horse for hours and unwilling to remain cooped up when the possibility of exploring the Westerlands presented itself.

Shouts rang out along the line, knights urging their mounts into position as the two princes reached the king’s side. Robert Baratheon had gained weight in the past few years, but the man was content to sit a horse and enter the Rock as expected of a warrior king.

Steffon trotted his horse to the king’s right, slightly behind his father as Joff mirrored his action. Sending the boy a slight smirk at his loss of dessert, he looked forward to see the honour guard Lord Lannister arranged.

Scores of Lannister men lined their path, helmets on and red cloaks swaying in the evening breeze.

The Lion’s Mouth was everything Uncle Jaime had said; tall and strong, it was a veritable fortress that was wide enough to allow twenty men to ride across. He itched to race Twitch up the steps, rough at the bottom before smoothing out into crafted stone.

Lord Tywin and his household awaited them at the top, the sea of golden heads lead Steff to assume he would meet the entirety of the Lannister family, all bowing at once as the king came upon them.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tywin began once ordered to rise. “Welcome to Casterly Rock.”

“Lord Tywin,” Father grunted, setting off to greet the rest.

The king was in a surly mood, one like to endure until the feast that night, and the queen breezed forward with a slight smile, Myrcella and Tommen clinging to her skirts.

“Father,” she said pleasantly. “It is good to see you well.”

“Cersei,” Tywin responded, a slight tilt of the head to acknowledge her greeting.

“Steffon. Joffrey. My loves, come meet your grandfather.” Mother beckoned them forward, and Steffon got his first look at the man Westeros feared.

Tywin Lannister was tall and slender for his age, with broad shoulders and blonde whiskers. His eyes were a piercing green, lighter than any of theirs, with flecks of gold visible.

“Grandfather,” Steffon murmured with a slight bow, Joff doing the same from his left. They made a striking pair, he had been told, these brothers of black and gold; both tall but Steff broad where Joff was slender, similar piercing eyes of Lannister green and a synchronicity to their actions that spoke of a closeness between the two.

Lord Tywin did not smile, from what he knew of the man, but Steff saw his cold gaze thaw slightly as he looked upon his grandchildren. There was a hint of the barest smile as Cella curtsied and Tom clumsily copied his elder brothers.

They were met with the other Lannisters of Casterly Rock; Uncle Kevan and his wife Lady Dorna, their children Lancel, Martyn and Willem, Lady Darlessa and Uncle Tygett’s son Tyrek, Aunt Genna with Lord Emmon and their sons Cleos, Lyonel, Tion and Walder. Shyly hidden behind Aunt Genna was a little girl they introduced as Joy Hill, Uncle Gerion’s natural daughter.

Steffon had pleasantly greeted them all, an extra smile on his face for little Joy, who seemed a sweet child. Joff had warily introduced himself to the other children, Tyrek and Red Walder being of an age with him.

Behind them, dwarfed by the people in front, stood Tyrion Lannister. Short, with stunted legs, Tyrion was nothing like he expected. Steffon had heard much about the youngest Lannister sibling from both Mother and Uncle Jaime – differing accounts that he had sifted through. She disliked her brother on principle, and Steff had told Joff to ignore her words, laced as they were with disdain.

“Uncle Tyrion,” Steffon greeted. Yanking Joff forward, he felt Tommen toddle over to him, forcing Mother to let go of the boy. Cella was to his left, hand clinging to his doublet, and Steff sent a smile down at the little princess.

“Nephew, be welcome to Casterly Rock,” Tyrion said with an exaggerated bow. Cella and Tom began to giggle, and Steffon sent a thankful smile at his uncle. “And who might you be?”

“This little princess is Myrcella,” Steffon introduced, “Joffrey and Tommen to my right.”

Tommen gave Tyrion a wide toothy smile, and Joff allowed himself a brief smile and a murmur of “Uncle,” before grabbing onto the wandering child.

A shadow fell over them, and Steffon saw his uncle with a suddenly bright grin. Please let it be Uncle Jaime, he thought, though his hopes were dashed immediately.

“Sweet sister, I cannot believe four well-mannered children came out of you. Something in the water down at King’s Landing,” Tyrion beamed.

Joffrey bit down on his lip to keep from smiling, and Steffon could only imagine the look on his mother’s face.

“Still around, are you,” Cersei responded coolly.

“Little brother,” Uncle Jaime interjected, “have you come to greet your favourite brother?”

“For there to be favourites there would have to be more than one of you,” Uncle Tyrion quipped, before moving forward to greet his brother.

“Come along children,” Mother called.

They were led inside the keep, the monstrosity that was Casterly Rock laid bare before them. Everything was gold; the walls were covered in it, the trinkets, the lamps were tinged gold. Lannister lions were carved in gold, placed at every corner.

Hear me roar, Steffon thought wryly.

Their rooms were splendid; not as spacious as the royal apartments in the Red Keep, but large enough for them to feel comfortable and not slighted. Gold was all over the room, decorations of red carrying the golden lion. The bedding had been done in red and gold, and Steffon was strongly reminded of the Gryffindor common room but with an abundance of wealth on display.

The presence of the court necessitated their stay in apartments reserved for the royal family, and Steff was placed next to Joffrey, with Myrcella and Tommen in the rooms closest to theirs.

The evening’s feast had been magnificent; Grandfather Tywin had spared no expenses, showing off the wealth of the West with an array of meals. Pumpkin soup and Mother’s favoured creamy chestnut soup, with smoked duck breast and lentils, roasted heron, Gammon steaks, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs. There was a large boar with an apple in its mouth, skin crispy and gleaming with sauces; platters of meat surrounded it, venison, pies of bacon and onions, skewers of chicken seared in honey and garlic. There were varying wines across the room, Arbor Gold and Dornish Red, a sweet Summerwine and Iced Wine for the king to drink.

Steffon sat beside his brother with Lancel to his left. He had been given a cup of Dornish Red; the sour taste filling his mouth, as he took small sips in between bites of buttered quail.

Uncle Tyrion had joined them when the dancing had begun, entertaining the younger children with ribald tales. Steffon and Joffrey were expected to dance with the daughters of their grandfather’s bannermen, and he took to the task with a polite smile on his face. He had opened the dance with Myrielle Lannister, a tall lady several years older than him. Joff had been dancing with the niece of Ser Benedict Broom, and cousin Lancel had been enticed into a dance with a maiden from House Jast.

Seated next to his uncle, Steffon hid a sour look behind his glass of wine as he noticed the king’s attentions. Lord Tywin was sitting stiffly next to the king, completely unbothered by the shameful display next to him. King Robert sat in the seat of honour, a cup of wine in one hand and a serving woman’s bosom in the other. Mother had left the high table to share a few dances, taking a turn around the floor with Uncle Jaime and cousin Daven, but she had endured the king’s wandering attentions in front of her family’s loyal bannermen.

Joff was sitting stiffly next to him, smile wiped from his face as he noticed their father outwardly shame his wife.

“Don’t look so surprised, brother. He’ll not hide his whoring here,” Steffon said bitterly.

“He is in her family home, seated next to his goodfather,” Joff hissed in reply.

Uncle Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flickered toward the two, wry smile on his face. “Worry not, dear nephews. Our king can do as he pleases; so long as there are three of you to secure the legacy, his goodfather will turn a blind eye.”

Curiously, Steffon tilted his head toward his uncle, noticing a flash of disdain as he looked at the high table. “Outwardly shaming the Lannister name warrants nothing from Lord Tywin?”

Uncle Tyrion laughed sardonically, face pulled in a wretched smile. “Mayhaps he will order the king to clean out the drains of King’s Landing, that seems a favoured method.”

Joff choked on his sweetmilk, laughter making him spray milk. Steffon threw a handkerchief at him, laughing alongside Uncle Tyrion who looked especially pleased at the reaction.

They spent the remainder of the night in their uncle’s company; Tyrion was full of wit and a treasure trove of historical facts. That he seemed inclined to tell stories of famous knights only endeared him to his adventurous nephews, both boys spending the night roaring in laughter at the various tales.

Lord Tywin’s solar was an intimidating room, gold and red flashing in his sight with none of the comfort the Gryffindor common room had provided. 

This was the first time he had entered the solar in the moon’s turn they had been here. Much of their time was spent with their Lannister cousin’s, Uncle Kevan having brought his brood to reside at the Rock for the duration of the king’s visit and Aunt Genna gladly leaving the Riverlands for home.

He had enjoyed his time with them, though he still spent the most time with Joff. Lancel was his elder, but the boy was far too arrogant for Steffon’s taste, and he far enjoyed his time with the younger twins Martyn and Willem.

Lord Tywin was standing standing over a table, a map of Westeros placed on it. It was similar to those used when planning military campaigns, and Steff felt a thrill of excitement upon seeing the pieces denoting the Great Houses.

For all that Tywin Lannister was a monster, he was a brilliant tactician, and Steffon was determined to learn as much as he could.

He remained silent, knowing that patience was the key when it came to the Old Lion, eyes studying the map to make sense of the pieces.

There was a trout in the North: that was the first thing he noticed, as out of place as it was. The Vale held a stag and wolf piece in the midst of falcons. The Rebellion, he thought. There was a lack of trout pieces in the Eyrie, and with a frown Steffon noticed that Riverrun held only trout pieces. There was a wolf in the Stormlands, and sweeping his eyes south, Steffon noticed dragons and lions in the capital. There was a distinct lack of the Martell sun, and the roses were centred in Highgarden.

This is before the Rebellion, he thought with dawning realization. When Grandfather was still Hand and Westeros had not yet gone to hell.

“What do you see,” Tywin’s voice cut in.

Frowning, Steffon studied the board, recalling his lessons and everything Uncle Stannis had told him of the Rebellion.

“This is before the war,” he offered, “years, at least.”

Tywin remained silent, and Steffon racked his brain for any insight he could give. Pointing at the Vale, “Father and Lord Eddard Stark were fostering with Lord Arryn, creating the alliance between three Lords Paramount and cementing it with Father’s betrothal to Lady Lyanna.

“Lord Stark’s elder brother Brandon was betrothed to Lady Catelyn Tully, so that brings the Riverlands into the alliance.”

Looking once more to the capital, Steffon picked up one of the dragons and turned it northward. “If I were the king, I should worry about four regions entering into an alliance with one another.”

Tilting his head, Steffon glanced at the southern regions of Westeros, hiding a frown as he stared at the roses. Lord Tywin had not yet spoken, and Steffon took that as encouragement to continue.

“Highgarden has historically been loyal to the Targaryens,” Steff began.

“Loyalty can be easily lost,” Tywin countered.

“Not always,” Steffon returned, frowning as he glanced once more at the Riverlands. “Unlike the Riverlands, House Tyrell owes their hold of the Reach to the Targaryens, and there are several houses with competing blood claims. The Tully’s have never had to contend with a unified region.”

“They owe their position to the dragons,” Tywin simply said.

“Loyalty can be easily lost,” Steff shot back. “Especially under pressure from an alliance between two of its neighbours.”

Grandfather had given him a curt nod, before gesturing once more to the map. He tapped his finger on the Westerlands, hand skimming the lion pieces placed there, before piercing Steffon with his gaze.

“You have two pieces to offer, an heir and a daughter.”

Clear contender for Father of the Year, he thought sarcastically.

“Join the alliance of lords,” Steffon offered immediately.

Seeing his grandfather’s raised brow he elaborated, “There are two regions bordering the West.” Pointing to the capital, Steffon tapped the lion. “The Reach are loyal to the dragons, and they would not dare attack the home of the Hand. A powerful group of four lords bound by blood and affection would be able to.”

Grandfather Tywin continued to stare at him, and Steffon had the feeling that he was missing something.

Staring once more at the board, he tried to remember what he knew of the Houses in question. Lord Stark had younger sons available for an alliance, but grandfather would feel insulted at such an alliance. There was Uncle Jaime, but only House Tully had daughters of marriageable age. He winced lightly, knowing Lady Arryn and imagining her married to his uncle.

No, he thought. That’s not right. Lord Tyrell had daughters, older than his mother and uncle, but they had married within to strengthen their position.

The Martells remained unattached to any other kingdom, having been loyal to the crown once brought into fold, and it suddenly hit Steff like a bundle of bricks.

“The crown,” he whispered. “You wanted mother to be queen.”

Looking at his grandfather, Steffon noted that the man continued to remain silent as he picked up a trout and brought it to the West.

“The Prince was not betrothed, not yet. If Mother became his wife, you would have to work to eliminate any threats to her position.” He pointed at the trout he had just moved. “Lord Tully’s daughters would be split between the North and West, leaving him unable to move against either.

“You would destabilize the alliance,” Steff said admiringly. It was brilliant: a foot in each camps, and Tywin would nip any treasonous whispers before they became a force like the Rebellion.

“Four kingdoms tied by blood would isolate the Arryns from any plotting if you remained tied to the crown,” he continued. It was all coming together now, and as horrifying as it had seemed, a part of him admired the level of planning that would take.

It was bold, doing something like that in the open. These alliances could not be hidden, and his grandfather had been shrewd enough to see it for what it was.

“Why Lord Arryn?” Grandfather asked.

“He stood to gain the most,” Steffon mused. “No alliances writ in blood, but two fosterlings who viewed him as another father. One of which was a potential candidate for the throne should there ever be another Great Council. A betrothal for Uncle Jaime would rob him of a chance to tie himself by blood.

“But,” he added, finger pointed at the capital as his hand picked up a lion piece, moving it deliberately to the Vale. “Should the crown alliance fail, Lord Arryn had an heir, a potential alliance that would tie five kingdoms by blood, leaving the king’s only allies to the south, and even then,” he shrugged, “loyalty can easily be lost. Especially in the face of a large threat.”

There was silence in the room, and Steffon looked at Lord Tywin. He had an approving glint in his eyes as he nodded at the prince.

“Marriages, blood,” Tywin stated. “They are the cornerstones of alliances in our world. Trade and wealth counts, but men would rather fight when there is a personal stake in a cause.”

Grandfather waved his arm at the map, gesturing to the North. “The death of their liege lord and his heir ensured that the North would answer their lord’s call.” Pointing to the Stormlands, “The dishonour of a betrothal, ties of kinship between two young lord’s.”

He understood, had witnessed the aftermath. Steffon only existed because of the success of the Rebellion. Joff and Cella and Tom only existed because of the Rebellion.

Westeros had been irreparably changed, and it all came down to a few marriages.

“You are the crown prince, Steffon.” Grandfather told him. “Your marriage will carry your reign, for good or ill. Your father had the allegiance of four kingdoms, and he bought the West with marriage.”

Frowning, Steffon gazed down at the map, mind lost in thought.

It had bothered him – still did – to see women referred to as a commodity. He could only imagine Hermione’s reaction to Westeros, or her horror at how Steffon himself was adapting to the culture.

She would flay me alive, he thought sadly.

“I cannot ignore the alliance that brought Father to the throne.”

Lord Tywin gave him a nod of acknowledgement, pointing to the capital once more. “Some alliances are writ in sword and spears, others by quill and raven.”

They had spent more time together after their initial meeting. Steffon had seemingly passed whatever test his grandfather had deigned to hold, and the man had begun to rigorously tutor Steffon in the realities of kingship. Tywin’s years as Hand to King Aerys had been to Steffon’s advantage; his grandfather had made most of the decisions of the kingdoms, and was eager to ensure his blood continued on the throne 

Joff had joined them from time to time. Grandfather had looked in askance when the blond had first come to the solar with him.

“He is my brother. I would have him learn alongside me. If I am to be king, he shall be my hand.”

They had seen the Old Lion smile for once.

The boys usually sparred in the training grounds with Willem and Martyn, and Aunt Genna’s sons Tion and Red Walder were always willing to join them. Lancel had deemed himself too old to play at swords with boys, and Joff had taunted the boy for his fear of being bested by younger squires.

Ser Barristan had journeyed to Casterly Rock with them, leaving Ser Mandon with the Lord Hand.

In the midst of his lessons at-arms with the old knight, his tutoring with the maester had been instead taken over by his grandfather. They would remain at Casterly Rock for another moon turn, the Kingsguard already preparing the logistics of their departure.

Lord Tywin’s lessons typically occurred standing over the map of Westeros or seated at his table for a game of cyvasse. Grandfather was not overly fond of the game, but he had decided it was passable for teaching tactics, often quizzing him on past kings.

They had been sitting for hours; Steffon had spent the day drafting trade agreements between the Crown and the North. He had told grandfather of his hopes for an enlarged royal fleet, and the possibility of increasing trade with the North would allow him to bring them back into the fold.

They had spent the past sennight looking over the plans for the fleet; Harry Potter had not been overly aware of the world around him – a fact Steffon had often lamented – but his memories had provided vague recollections of improved trading vessels.

A galleon, it had been called, though Harry had preferred to refer to it as a pirate ship.

The plans had originally been drafted in the Red Keep, sheafs of parchment scattered about Steffon’s desk with drawings he had made. Bringing them to Casterly Rock had been difficult, as had keeping them secret in the keep, but Steff was certain Tywin Lannister’s self-interest in seeing his blood on the throne would secure his assistance.

It had paid off. Grandfather had overlooked the plans with his maester before giving Steffon an approving nod.

“This will change things,” he had said. “A costly endeavour, to be sure.”

Steffon had soured at that point; Aerys Targaryen’s treasury had not survived Robert Baratheon’s exorbitant lifestyle. Coin had been spent on frivolities, and Steffon would have the difficult task of seeing to it that they had what was necessary to build new ships.

“Aegon the Unlikely,” Lord Tywin stated.

Frowning, Steffon looked up at the man, cursing mentally when his inattention cost him a horse.

“They called him half-a-commoner. He had spent enough time around the smallfolk that he worked to improve their lot in life.”

“What did that cost him?” Grandfather asked, eyes not leaving the board.

“His lords bannermen,” Steff stated, moving a trebuchet in place. “They disliked the new laws that lessened their power.”

“His biggest failing?” he next asked.

Staring down at the board, Steffon pondered the question as he made his next move. “He allowed his children to break betrothal agreements with three Great Houses,” he stated softly.

Aegon V had married for love, and allowed that sentimentality to rule his decisions regarding family. Steffon did not blame the man, not truly – it was a noble endeavour, allowing his children to marry for love – but his actions had allowed his house to flounder.

“If a man cannot control his own family, what hope does he have of controlling his bannermen?”

Steffon hid the wry smile on his face.

“His lords did not fear him,” Lord Tywin pressed. “A king cannot afford to show weakness.”

“Is love a weakness?” Steff asked. “A man cannot rule on the basis of fear alone.”

“The masses are best ruled by fear; it is all they will respond to.” Tywin declared.

Chewing on his lip, Steffon pushed his army forward. “Until they decide there is something worth the price. Love wins devotion far better than fear,” he countered.

Scoffing, Lord Tywin moved his cavalry forward in response, angling them to circle his left flank. “Rhaegar was well loved and he lies beneath the Trident. What has that love gifted him?”

“Eternal devotion,” he stated evenly. Steff moved his trebuchet, risking a part of his army to corner his grandfather.

“Do not look to your predecessor in these matters,” Grandfather warned. “Rhaegar fought with the love of the smallfolk and he lost his war.”

Am I to look to your example, then, Grandfather, Steffon thought grimly. Lord Tywin was an able administrator, but the man had made far more enemies in his time as Lord Lannister.

Rhaegar Targaryen had proven himself a well-loved fool, insulting the lords of the kingdoms with his crowning at Harrenhall. Tywin Lannister was a butcher despised by the greater portion of the Seven Kingdoms. Robert Baratheon had the adoration of the smallfolk, the respect of several kingdoms, but he was squandering their loyalty.

Be a bit of each, and neither at the same time.

“Rhaegar Targaryen shirked his duty,” Steffon replied curtly.

Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands had died for it. Hadn’t that been what they muttered across the kingdoms? Father is the only one like to believe the worst of the man, Steffon thought bitterly.

Steffon knew the rigours of duty; he had done everything that was expected of him, in both lives. Had walked into the clearing and willingly surrendered himself to death. Had sat amongst men far older than him attempting to learn more than they wished in a bid to secure his family’s reign.

He would never have done as the Silver Prince had, shaming his wife and inciting a rebellion – not with the lines so clearly drawn and a madman on the throne.

No. Rhaegar had been adored by the people, yet chose his personal desire over the lives of thousands.

“He played the game of thrones and lost.” Tywin responded, eyeing Steff as if he were a particularly interesting creature. “When you play the game of thrones, you either win or you die.”

Bile filled his throat at those words.

Bad enough he enjoyed his time with his grandfather, but Steffon could not escape the reminders of all the man had done to secure his blood on the throne. Countless innocents murdered, babes born of the Sack of King’s Landing sporting the blond hair of the Westerlands.

“Is it truly so necessary?” Steffon questioned.

“You of all people cannot afford to lose the game.” Pausing, Tywin stared at him, green eyes locked onto his. “Should you waver in your convictions, think on what shall become of your family should you lose.”

Unbidden, thoughts of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen came to mind. A little girl with half a hundred wounds inflicted on her by a mad dog, her mother raped and murdered and brother utterly unrecognizable.

Tywin Lannister merely stared at him; green eyes cold, as if he knew exactly what thought had crossed his mind.

They were set to leave the West in a few days; the king had tired of the whores and serving women available in Casterly Rock and was eager to return to his keep. No doubt, Lord Baelish would have a fresh selection available for him. 

Steffon had quite thoroughly exhausted himself.

There had been plans to make regarding King’s Landing, letters sent to his grandfather’s lords bannermen. Worst still was the fierce argument that had broken out between Steffon, and his mother. They had spent days arguing over his invitation to Uncle Tyrion to return to the Red Keep alongside them, and she had been none too pleased.

Tyrion had proven himself a brilliant individual, stunted in growth and spited for it. Steffon had found his uncle amusing, witty, and quite thoroughly depressed. There was nothing for him anymore at the Rock – not with Lord Tywin hovering disapprovingly – and he had extended an invitation to have the man join them at the capital.

Cersei had stalked toward her eldest son, fury written all over her face.

Wisely, Steffon had ducked into his grandfather’s solar for his evening lessons. He would face censure for this, yet he was determined to see it through. At least it will not be a public dressing down.

“Prince Steffon,” Grandfather called.

He was displeased, Steff knew. His tone of address made it clear, and Steffon rigidly sat in the chair across from Lord Tywin. Green eyes stared blankly into his eyes, and Steffon found himself wondering if the man had a touch of magic in him. Snape would be jealous of his mask, he thought.

“Lord Tywin,” Steffon replied calmly, no longer the young grandchild eagerly learning at his grandfather’s feet.

“What is the meaning of this invitation?” his mother hissed. The queen was unable to hide her disdain for her youngest brother, and Steffon felt a stab of pity for his uncle. He would have to endure her for quite some time now, he knew.

“Cersei.” He said her name calmly, not even looking at her, and Steffon could feel his mother deflate. Would that he had the same power over her, his life would be short several arguments.

“Explain,” he stated.

Chin raised, Steffon squared his shoulders as he stared at his grandfather. “Lord Tyrion has ably restored Casterly Rock’s sewage system. I merely ask for his expertise in the capital.”

A scoff of disbelief met his ears. When he did not add anything else, Steff heard his mother laugh. “You want the little imp to clean out the gutters? I suppose that is all he can be counted on.”

He felt his jaw twitch; schooling his features to not show the anger at his mother’s dismissal of her brother, of her denigrating his worth. They despised one another, but Uncle Tyrion did not deserve her scorn merely for existing.

“The sewers?” Grandfather’s brow was raised in question.

“King’s Landing smells like shit,” Steff stated bluntly, “and you can smell it quite far out. No other city in the kingdoms smells like that.”

“No other city has the population,” Grandfather corrected.

“The Free Cities are far larger,” Steffon argued, “and like to smell as roses. It is the capital, for Seven’s sake.”

“That monstrous lecher –”

“Is a Lannister,” Steffon stressed, turning to glare at his mother. “You have spent my entire life telling me of the greatness of this House, mother. I should like to see it contribute to the kingdoms.”

Tywin remained impassive, and Steffon turned to give him his final argument, though there was no true need of it. King Robert had agreed, his father having taken a shine to the dwarf, and Steffon knew there was no denying the king. Not when the man in question could almost drink him under the table.

“You yourself gave him control over the sewers here. None of the Targaryens saw fit to improve their city, and it has gained quite the reputation. I will not rule over a pile of stinking shit Grandfather. Should he succeed, Uncle Tyrion will have done what generations of Targaryen kings have been unable to.”

He had him. Mentioning Lannister supremacy was a guarantee of his agreement, though Steff kept from crowing in success.

“How long do you expect him in the capital?”

Stifling his smile, Steffon did not turn when he heard his mother’s outraged cry, nor did he flinch when she slammed the door shut. There would be hell to pay for this, but Steffon did not care at the moment. Things were beginning to look up.

He and Lord Tywin had spent that evening bargaining over Uncle Tyrion’s stay and what would be expected of the Rock. His uncle had received a far more threatening speech, one on the behaviour befitting a Lannister.

Steffon had been unable to contain his smile; the ships had the potential to work, with massive profits expected according to Maester Creylen, and there was a possible solution for the city’s drainage issues. He could go back to King’s Landing and finally begin his work.

Joffrey crashing through his door caused him to jerk upright in bed. There were tears streaming down his face and a horrified look in his eyes, and Steffon felt his good mood evaporate.

“Joff?” he called.

The young boy ignored him, slamming the door shut and sliding the bolt in place. He crashed into Steffon’s desk, eyes wild, and he grew alarmed.

“Joff! Joffrey!” he yelled. Shuddering, the younger boy only dived into his bed, clinging onto Steffon as he never had since he began learning the sword. He didn’t know what had so obviously distressed his younger brother, but he swore to destroy anyone that had dared to harm him.

“Joff,” Steffon coaxed, “what’s wrong little brother?”

At those words, Joffrey began shaking his head, muttering “no, no,” and Steff pulled the boy closer to him.

“Joffrey,” he said softly.

Trembling, the eight-year-old stared at Steff, a desolate look etched onto his face. “I saw them,” Joffrey whispered.

They were ever vigilant, for the walls had ears; even here at Casterly Rock, where Lord Tywin reigned supreme and most would never dare attempt anything. Half the king’s court had accompanied them, little birds always fluttering about.

Before he could ask for more information, the blond put his mouth to Steff’s ear. “Mother and Uncle Jaime,” Joff breathed. “It-it was like Father and his whores, and they mentioned a—”

Steffon pressed Joffrey to his shoulder, cutting off the rest of the boy’s words. His heart was hammering in his chest, certain he could hear it.

They would not be so stupid, he desperately thought.

“Joff,” he breathed in a panic. “Where? Where was this?”

“The bowels,” Joffrey sobbed. “I wanted to explore the Rock one last time be-before we had to leave.”

Sucking in a breath, Steffon tried to calm his racing heart. There were no guards posted there, he remembered. If there were, Mother and Uncle Jaime were Lannisters, and none would dare question them in their own home.

“Was there anyone with you?” Steffon pressed. “Did anyone see you Joffrey?”

Joffrey shook his head in reply, and Steffon barely kept from slumping in relief. That was good: the others were unaware as of yet.

For how long, a dark voice whispered.

“Joffre–”

“We don’t look like Father,” Joff whispered shakily, breathe coming in gasps. Steffon’s stomach twisted at those words, at the possibilities it laid before them, at the dangers of what his little brother had discovered.

He could see it; Joff had always looked far too much like a Lannister. When Myrcella and Tommen had entered the world looking every inch a Lannister, Steffon had not questioned it. They all had shared the same Lannister green eyes; there had been no contesting their relation.

Joffrey was breathing hard, eyes blown wide in panic. “W-we don’t—Cella and Tom and I, we don’t look like you or Fathe—”

“Hush,” Steffon urged. “I’ll hear none of that from you.” Seeing the younger boy open his mouth, Steffon pressed a fierce kiss to his forehead. Grabbing Joff’s face, his eyes bore into similar green orbs. “You and Cella and Tom, you are my siblings. No—listen to me!” he snapped.

“You are my brother – you and Tommen both. And Myrcella is my sister. I will kill anyone who tries to harm you.”

It terrified him, how far he was willing to go. Yet Steffon was certain of his words, meant to honour this one vow above all else. Father would kill them; Father, who had celebrated the deaths of small children that threatened his crown, would slaughter these children he once thought of as his.

I would kill him for them, he thought. He knew it, knew deep in his bones that he would wade through all seven hells for his younger siblings.

They were his family: his to love, his to protect, in a way that Harry Potter had never had before. Steffon Baratheon had the family Harry Potter could only dream of, and he was determined to keep it at any cost.

Three days later, Steffon rode out of Casterly Rock alongside his brother. He had kept Joffrey busy their last days, the two princes venting their anger in the training yard. 

Uncle Jaime had kept himself busy, unknowingly preventing an ugly accident from occurring.

They were riding for home, turning what had been an enjoyable reprieve into a nerve-wracking departure. Casterly Rock had taught them many intrigues, but King’s Landing was a nest of vipers waiting to pounce on the first sign of weakness.

Danger awaited them. Glancing once more at his grandfather, Steffon swore to put his lessons to use.

He would play the game of thrones, and he would make sure he came out the winner.