Author's Note: I know, I know, another new one. Sorry, but my muse is a drunken bitch with ADHD and I can't do a damn thing about it. However, that doesn't explain this thing. I read about as much as I drink, and that's an awful lot, and I have enjoyed quite a few of the true-born Baratheon stories on this site and others, so I thought I'd try my hand at it, only with a bit of a twist. I'll let you know now that I've skewed the timeline a bit and made it so that Brandon and Lyanna Stark were born twins, making Lyanna the same age as Robert and made a few modifications to the way sellsword companies work. Anyway, have at it.

Warning: This story will be about as vulgar and gruesome as just about every other one in this fandom, so if you're not into that kind of stuff, I'd suggest you start reading something else. Also, I'm assuming you've got at least the basic knowledge of the Song of Ice and Fire going into this, so if anyone cries spoilers or what have you, I'm just going to completely ignore it. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own shit.

The Windblown Prince

Wyl allowed a smile to tug his lips upward as he watched the banners bearing broken blades receding across the battle-scarred land. He swept off his helm, a snarling wolf with a rack of wickedly-pointed iron antlers curling about its ears, and dismounted his fierce tawny courser whilst his pitch-black hair swung across his back, seeming to flow into the similarly-colored cape.

"Seems like old Mero remembers last time he tangled with us," he noted lightly, though his grey eyes swept across cadaverous heaps of gore the Second Sons left in the wake of their passing gravely.

"He'd be a damn fool to forget t' man what gave him such a bloody big scar on 'im," chortled Hammish, his second-in-command. Ham the Heavy, he was called jokingly, as the man was as thin as a reed and about half as light, though Ham was an excellent scout and a hell of a swordsman.

"We should give him the benefit of the doubt," piped up Yuri the Dornish standard bearer. "He might've left the kettle on the fire and only just remembered." That brought the rest of his companions to laughter, causing the stag sable on white field in his hands to bob up and down in time with their mirth.

Sobering, Wyl nodded his head toward the corpses left behind by their battle. "Let's get these poor fellows sorted and return to camp," he spoke, and several dozen of his men hurried forth at his command. "The Titan's Bastard may well be retreating in order to find reinforcements. Get the injured to Daena and burn the rest."

Wylelm Baratheon, son of King Robert and Lyanna of House Stark, had been fighting in the Disputed Lands since the tender age of four-and-ten, fighting with the Furious Fangs sellsword company since they'd been the Windblown led by the Tattered Prince of Pentos.

Only a few years ago, he had been a lieutenant under the Prince when the Windblown and the Second Sons had met in the Disputed Lands on opposite sides of battle, and the Titan's Bastard had slain his captain. Lesser men would have been routed and killed as well, perhaps captured and sold to the fighting pits in Yunkai.

Wylelm, however, was made of sterner stuff. He'd taken the broken banner from the fallen bearer and rammed it through the Bastard's thigh, deep enough that the cloth which bore a windswept leaf had turned red with Mero's blood, and rallied the remaining Windblown to force the Second Sons into retreat with the banner still lodged in Mero's leg.

Ever since, Wyl had been the captain of his merry band of sellswords, calling themselves the Furious Fangs to honor the Houses of his father and mother.

It had been close to a decade since Wyl had stood upon the soil he'd grown up on, when he had renounced his claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros before gods and men. He had been but two years old when his mother had been taken captive by the Dragon Prince, and though his father and uncle (along with a fair chunk of the Seven Kingdoms) had rebelled to save her it had been for naught. She had died far from home, and all Wyl and his father had to show for her death was an ugly, half-melted chair. When his father had taken the Lannister woman to bride, though, things had gone from bad to worse.

He had been bursting with joy when his step-mother the Queen had presented his father with Joffrey Baratheon, and even more so when Myrcella had been born a few years afterward, but sometimes he would catch Cersei Lannister skewering him with a hateful glare whenever he would play with his half-siblings, though he couldn't for the life of him understand what he had done to her to merit such wrathful looks.

When the Iron Islands had risen up in revolt, his father had once again ridden off, probably happier than Wyl had seen Robert since Lyanna had been taken from them. One night several weeks into the Greyjoy Rebellion, Wyl had awoken to find a sneering face above him, a dagger poised to cut out his heart. Only terror and reflexes beaten into him by Barristan Selmy and Aron Santagar had quickened his limbs enough to escape the killing blow to leave only a scratch across his chest. A beautifully-wrought knife gifted to him by his Uncle Renly, stabbed through the soft flesh beneath the catspaw's jaw, had ended that threat to the young prince's life.

But when the Queen had arrived in Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers later that night, where he had been taken, guarded by half a dozen gold cloaks, Wyl had caught the briefest glint of disappointment when Pycelle had told her that the Crown Prince would be making a full recovery. Once the pieces had fallen into place, Wyl had understood just how tenuous his position was.

A prince he was, heir to that vile throne, but his mother was gone and had never been a queen to begin with. His step-mother, on the other hand, was the daughter of the Westerlands' warden, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and was still fit to bear more of the king's children. From what he overheard, and from what the simpering Master of Whispers had implied, Cersei wanted Joff to sit the Iron Throne, and wouldn't let something as meager as laws of succession deter her from that lofty goal.

At first, he had been furious, full of a black rage the likes of which he had never felt in all his young life and left him trembling from head to foot. By all accounts, he had taken the best of his parents' traits, boisterous and jolly, honorable and righteous, but Wyl had inherited the fury of House Baratheon and the wolf's blood of the Starks of Winterfell as well. He wanted this rebellion to be over so he could ask his father to have Ser Ilyn Payne remove that foul wench's head from her body and mount it on a spike above the Red Keep's walls.

The more he thought about it, however, the less he wanted that to happen. He knew exactly how losing a mother at a young age felt, and he would be damned if he put his beloved siblings through that experience, no matter how wretched their mother was.

But the way Wyl saw it, there were only two outcomes: either he had the queen killed, or the queen had him killed, and he didn't like either of them. So he threw himself into the royal library, searching through dusty tomes and crackling scrolls for some solution to bear itself to him, but none were forthcoming.

When his father returned victorious, he celebrated the quelling of the Iron Islands' rebellion with a massive tourney, and Wyl overheard his father lamenting drunkenly that he'd have sooner just ridden off to become a sellsword than return to that uncomfortable chair if it hadn't been for the honorable Lord Eddard Stark.

The idea burrowed into Wyl's head and didn't leave until a month after Robert's return, when Wylelm Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, had come before the king while he was holding court and asked his father's leave to abdicate his right to the crown and lend his sword to the conflicts in the Disputed Lands.

Wyl had rarely seen Robert so somber when he'd asked why. He had heard from Pycelle of the attempt on Wyl's life, and though Wyl had tried to dismiss the king's concerns, every so often, he would catch his father glancing with a wary suspicion at Cersei.

So Wyl lied through his teeth, saying that Westeros and the Red Keep were no place for him; that everything reminded Wyl of what the price had been for the Baratheon dynasty to rise, and what he had lost in the bargain. Robert had listened intently, and Wyl had been embarrassed to find the king's blue eyes full of unshed tears.

"I understand, my son," Robert had declared after composing himself. "Had your damned uncle Ned seized the throne for himself, I would have taken you away from these kingdoms myself. I'll have everything taken care of. You'll be gone from Westeros as soon as possible."

And within a fortnight, the preparations had been made. With three chests full of armor, clothes, and books, a fresh-forged sword, a sack of gold, and a few other gifts from his uncles and the rest of the Small Council, Wyl had set off from the Seven Kingdoms.

"I'll miss you, Father," he had said solemnly. "Be good to Joff; he doesn't think as often as he should, but he adores you and only wants you to be proud of him. Don't borrow overmuch from your goodfather Lord Tywin. It's bad enough you've got Lannisters crawling all over the Red Keep; we don't need you being in debt to them as well.

"And most importantly," he'd finished, glancing back to where the rest of his royal send-off party stood several dozen feet away, "keep an eye on my dear stepmother."

Robert had nodded, for once stone-sober, and he'd sighed almost wistfully. "Would that I could join you, Wyl. We'd be the greatest sellswords in the world."

"I'll make sure tales of Wylelm the Wondrous reach you before the turn of the moon," he'd jested. "You'll be proud, I swear it."

"I already am, son." They'd shared one final embrace, and then Wyl had left the Seven Kingdoms, hoping that it would assuage Cersei's urge to have him murdered in his sleep.

And so, for nigh on ten years, Wyl drank in the cultures of Essos, sparring with the greatest Water Dancers of Braavos and riding against fierce Dothraki bloodriders, partaking in the pleasure houses of Lys and sampling the tastiest dishes Pentos had to offer. He beheld the greatest wonders and bore witness to the most horrific atrocities, all the while missing his family and praying to every god he knew (and he knew quite a few of them) to keep them safe and happy.

Every once in a while, if he was close to a friendly port or met with sailors of good repute, Wyl would send a letter or six to his kin across the Narrow Sea, asking after their health and regaling them with a few of his more outrageous tales (he knew his father would enjoy a few of them, especially the time he'd fought off half a dozen Norvoshi axemen with his britches around his ankles and a screaming nun in his bed). Sometimes there would even be replies waiting at the next dock, or being handed to him by one of Varys' little birds.

At first, there had been many and more letters full of news, the birth of yet another brother named Tommen, a couple more Stark cousins, Joff making quite the progress in archery, Myrcella growing to become a beauty to rival even her mother. But as time went on, less and less correspondence found him, and before long, they had dwindled to perhaps one every half-year or so, and with perhaps less of a personal tone than they'd once held. Wyl still wrote to his father and siblings, the brother he'd never met, his cousins he only held a dim recollection of, but his life in Westeros had become only a painful memory and his new family needed someone to reign in their less wholesome tendencies.

Later that night, as Wyl received Ham's casualty report for the battle with the Second Sons, a small, copper-skinned youth was escorted into his command tent holding a scroll that bore the crowned stag seal of King Robert Baratheon. It had been nearly three turns of the moon since the last letter, which meant that it was about three months too early to be getting word from his father.

Curious, and with an odd sense of unease in the pit of his stomach, Wyl broke the seal and unfurled the parchment.

Wyl,

I hope this finds you in a better state than I was when I wrote it. We Baratheons have never been ones to beat 'round the bush, so I'll just say it: Jon Arryn is dead. Some devilish sickness or other led him to the Stranger, so quickly I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, and even now I've got some doubts...

We're heading north for Winterfell. I mean to name your uncle Hand. But this hasn't got much to do with you, so why am I writing? I suppose seeing the man who I thought of as a father withering away and dying has got me wondering how mine own son is. I would look upon you once more, see the man you've grown to be.

I cannot help but feel in my gut that I haven't much time left. No matter how I go, I'd like to say that I got to talk with you again. Gods be willing, this gets to you before we head out. If you can, get yourself to Winterfell, and don't be disappointed in the fat drunk your father has become.

I hope to see you soon.

There followed the various titles Robert had been laden with years ago.

Wyl took a moment to process the contents of the letter. Jon Arryn had been the only grandfather he'd ever truly known; Steffon Baratheon had died in Shipbreaker Bay before he'd even been a twinkle in Robert's eye, and Rickard Stark had burned alive in King's Landing when he was but a babe. The Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East had taught him right from wrong, and listened patiently to even the smallest of Wyl's worries as a child. Jon had always seemed as invulnerable and steadfast as the seat of his power on the Giant's Lance. Wyl couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that such a strong and capable man could be brought low by a simple sickness.

He sat for a few more minutes, staring unseeing at the parchment before coming to a decision. He called Ham in and told him of his plans, then sent out orders to have his belongings packed up and ready to move.

After eight long years of self-imposed exile, Wylelm Baratheon was finally going back to Westeros.

After-Action Report: A new challenger has appeared in the game of thrones. Let's see how Wyl does. And for those curious few, Wyl's name is derived from the place of his conception (i.e. under an elm tree near the castle Wyl, seat of House Wyl).

Yes, I know that Lyanna was born roundabout 266 AC in canon, but um...yeah, this is fanfiction, I can do whatever the hell I want. So here, she's Brandon's twin and Ned's elder sister. And once Steffon Baratheon died in 278, Robert had to step up and make a true-born baby, and since they were already nearly of age (both would've been fifteen by that point, and manhood is achieved at sixteen while entering womanhood is as easy as getting one's period), the Starks and Baratheons managed to join their houses. So Wyl is conceived on a sort of honeymoon around the southern bit of Westeros, born in 279, and is just old enough to get fucked by Rhaegar's little scheme.

I've compiled a timeline here for reference.

262 A.C.
-Robert Baratheon is born.
-Lyanna Stark is born.

278 A.C.
-Robert and Lyanna are wed.

279 A.C.
-Their coupling results in the birth of Wylelm Baratheon.

280 A.C.
-Rhaegar Targaryen spirits Lyanna away during the tourney at Harrenhal, setting the stage for Robert's Rebellion.

281 A.C.
-The Targaryen dynasty crumbles, with Viserys and Daenerys being the sole survivors.
-Lyanna dies while captive, leaving Robert to wed Cersei Lannister, and they begin the Baratheon dynasty.

282 A.C.
-Cersei gives birth to Joffrey Baratheon (secretly born of incest).

285 A.C.
-Cersei gives birth to Myrcella Baratheon (secretly born of incest).

289 A.C.
-Robert sets out to quell the Greyjoy Rebellion.
-Cersei conspires to have Wylelm murdered, but he thwarts the attempt and kills the catspaw.

290 A.C.
-Upon his father's return, Wylelm goes and begs the king's leave to abdicate his right to the Iron Throne in order to live as a sellsword and allowing the line of succession to pass to his 'brother' Joffrey.

-Having been outfitted with the finest equipment the Seven Kingdoms has to offer, Wylelm departs from Westeros.

291 A.C.
-Wylelm joins the sellsword company called the Windblown under the leadership of the Tattered Prince of Pentos.

296 A.C.
-The Tattered Prince is slain in battle by the Titan's Bastard, Mero of the Second Sons. Rather than flee, Wylelm takes charge of the Windblown and beats back the opposing sellsword company, dealing Mero a grievous wound to his leg and gaining captaincy of the Windblown.
-Wylelm changes the name of the Windblown to the Furious Fangs.

298 A.C.
-Jon Arryn dies, poisoned with the Tears of Lys by his wife.
-Robert calls upon Wylelm to attend the royal procession at Winterfell, where he will name Eddard Stark Hand of the King.

And there we have it. I've got things shaping up to be quite different from canon events what with a true-born Baratheon with wolf's blood singing through his veins and a few years' worth of commanding experience.

Thanks for reading if you've gotten this far down, and I hope you leave a review telling me if you liked it, hated it, or are currently about to hunt me down and behead me for creating such a travesty to mankind. Have a good day!