251 AC

The rookery was a special treat, a place Steffon was allowed to visit when he had done well learning his letters. Sitting on a stool much too big and too high for him, legs swinging, Steffon peppered Maester Cressen with questions while the latter tended to the birds.

"Are there brown ravens, Maester?"

"No," Cressen replied, before qualifying it with, "At least, I have never come across one in the Seven Kingdoms. But who knows what wonders exist in other lands. There could be all sorts of creatures we could not even begin to imagine."

Steffon chuckled, imagining ravens the color of his mother's eyes, with streaks of blue, his father's blue eyes, of course. No, he decided, it would be better if the raven was white, with alternating blue and purple streaks. It would be such a magnificent raven, the envy of all the other ravens.

"What about white ravens, Maester? Do they exist in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"They do indeed, but they are very special, these white ravens."

"How are they special?"

"Well, they only fly from the Citadel, for one thing. And they only bring one kind of news. "

"Good news?"

"They bring news of the changing of the seasons."

That did not sound like good news to Steffon. He took a big bite of the peach he was holding and asked, "Is the Citadel your home, Maester?"

Cressen shook his head. "No. The Citadel is a special place for learning."

"Where is your home?"

"Storm's End is my home now."

"But where was it before?"

"Somewhere far away," Maester Cressen replied, without further explanation.

Maester Cressen did not like to speak of his life before he became a maester, Steffon had learned, from other questions he had asked the maester before. He quickly changed the subject, asking, "Can I go to the Citadel to learn too?"

"It is only for those learning to be a maester."

"I want to be a maester too. Like you."

Cressen's expression turned solemn. "You cannot be a maester, Steffon. That path is not for you."

"Why not? My mother has an uncle who is a maester. He used to be a prince, but now he is a maester. I'm not even a prince, only the son of a princess."

"Your mother's uncle is a younger son. You are your father's only son and heir. You must wed, and you must father plenty of sons and daughters, to continue the line of House Baratheon."

Steffon pouted. "I don't know if I want to have sons and daughters. What if they are naughty, and don't listen to me?"

Glancing meaningfully at the peach in Steffon's hand, Maester Cressen raised an eyebrow and said, "Oh?"

"I'm not naughty. Mother gave this to me. I didn't steal it, not like last time." He still remembered the feel of the lash on his palm. It didn't hurt, not really; Father had not struck him hard. Steffon had cried, though. Not because it had hurt, but because Father had looked like he was hurting.

A raven arrived, squawking loudly when Steffon came close enough to touch it. Maester Cressen gently caressed the bird and dispossessed it of the scroll it was carrying with practiced hand. The scroll disappeared into one of the many pockets on his robe. He carried Steffon off the stool and said, "Come. We must find your lord father."

Steffon waved goodbye to the ravens. They seemed more interested in the newcomer among them, the raven just arriving from King's Landing, than in the little boy who was leaving.

Father frowned, after he read the letter.

"Princess Rhaelle –" Maester Cressen began.

"I will break the news to her myself," Father interrupted, turning quickly to leave.

"What news?" Steffon asked. The raven came from King's Landing, Maester Cressen had said. Perhaps they were invited to another feast. Mother might not like to go. She had not been too happy about going to King's Landing the last time, even though Steffon had enjoyed that visit very much.

Father hesitated. Maester Cressen said, "My lord, shall I –"

"No, no. I will tell the boy myself. Later," Father said, in a low voice, but Steffon could still hear him.

Boy? What boy? One of Father's pages? But before Steffon could ask, Maester Cressen tempted him with the promise of showing him drawings of white ravens. Steffon promptly forgot all about the letter from King's Landing.

It was late, when Father finally came to Steffon's room. Earlier, Steffon had eaten dinner alone, all by his lonesome self. Well, not entirely alone. His nursemaid was there, but Dalla did not eat with him. She never did.

"Where is my mother?"

"Your lady mother is not well."

"What about my father?"

"Your lord father is with her."

"Can I see my mother?"

"No, not tonight."

"Why not?"

Dalla had no answer.

Alarmed and almost in tears, Steffon demanded, "How ill is she? Is she very, very ill? Is she dying?"

"No, she is not dying. Don't be silly." Dalla came to hug him, but Steffon wriggled free from her embrace.

"Why can't I see her? Why can't I see Mother?"

Dalla would not say. "Eat your dinner like a good boy now, m'lord."

He didn't want to be a good boy. He wanted to see his mother.

When Father finally came, he sat on the edge of Steffon's bed, looking so grave that Steffon promptly burst into tears. "Is Mother dying?" he managed to ask, between sobs.

Father looked shocked. "No, no. Of course she is not dying."

"Dalla said Mother is not well, but I'm not supposed to see her."

"Your mother is not ill, Steffon. She is grieving."

"Grieving?" Grieving is what you do when someone you love is dead, Dalla had told Steffon, after her husband died. But Mother's husband is Father, and Father is obviously not dead. Who else could it be? "Who died?" Steffon asked.

"Do you remember your uncle Daeron?"

Steffon nodded. Of course he remembered. Uncle Daeron was the uncle who had spent the most time with Steffon during his visit to King's Landing. Uncle Jaehaerys was ill and Uncle Duncan kept his distance, but Uncle Daeron took Steffon on a tour of the Red Keep and even played monsters and maidens with Steffon, Cousin Aerys and Cousin Rhaella.

"How did he die?"

"He died a hero, quashing a rebellion."

Eyes wide as saucer, Steffon asked, "A rebellion? Like Grandfather Lyonel's rebellion?"

Frowning, his father replied, "No, not like that at all. Your uncle Daeron died defending the realm from villains who were trying to cause mayhem for the sake of causing mayhem."

"What about his friend? Did he die too?"

"His friend? Which friend?"

"Ser Jeremy." Ser Jeremy had been with them when Uncle Daeron took Steffon on a tour of the Red Keep. Ser Jeremy had tousled Steffon's hair, then asked Uncle Daeron, Is that allowed, tousling the hair of the king's grandson? Uncle Daeron had laughed and said, I don't recall you asking permission when it is the king's son.

"Ser Jeremy? Do you mean Jeremy Norridge? He is dead as well," Father replied. "He was fighting alongside Daeron."

Uncle Daeron and Ser Jeremy had promised to take Steffon hunting, on his next visit to King's Landing.

Dead people could not go hunting, though. They could not go anywhere at all. Dalla's husband could not even come home to visit his children, even when Alla and Allard started crying asking for their father.

Fresh tears assailed Steffon. He buried his face on his father's chest. Father's hand was stroking Steffon's hair as he asked, "Do you want to see your mother?"

Steffon raised his head, wiping away the tears with the palm of his hand. "Can I?"

"Yes. She wants to see you. But you must not disturb her with questions. Or with tears."

"I won't cry in front of Mother. I promise!"

Father said they must make sure that Steffon looked presentable so Mother would not be worried about her boy. "Can you comb your hair yourself, or should I call Dalla?" Father teased.

"I can do it myself," Steffon said, outraged. "I'm not a baby."

After Steffon was done combing his hair, Father took out a handkerchief to wipe the tears from Steffon's cheeks. He inspected his son, dry-eyed now, standing there in his nightshirt, feet jiggling with anticipation.

"I suppose this will do," Father said, but he sounded uncertain.

"Of course it will. Let's go," Steffon said, taking his father's hand and trying to pull him towards the door, impatient to see his mother.

Mother was sitting up in bed when Steffon entered her bedchamber. Her eyes looked red, but she was not crying. Holding out both hands towards Steffon, she said, "Come here. See, I am not dying after all."

Dalla must have told on him. How could she? But if she hadn't, maybe Mother would not have asked for Steffon to be brought to her room. He must thank Dalla later.

Steffon ran to his mother, throwing himself into her embrace. "I'm sorry Uncle Daeron is dead, Mother." He added, "I liked Uncle Daeron. He was nice to me."

Mother kissed him, both cheeks and the top of his head too.

"To bed, young man," Father said, after Mother was done kissing him.

Steffon did not want to go back to his room. "I want to stay with you. Can I, Mother? Please?"

They slept three in the bed that night, with Steffon in the middle between his father and mother. "He made me laugh, Uncle Daeron," Steffon whispered to his mother.

"He made me laugh as well," she replied.

"You shared a cat with him, when you were a little girl. You wanted to name the cat Egg, he said."

Mother smiled, but this smile was different from any one of her usual smiles. "He told you about that?"

Steffon nodded.

He fell asleep holding his mother's hand, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of his mother sobbing. Father had woken up too and left his side of the bed. He was sitting on a chair next to Mother's side of the bed, holding her hand, murmuring something Steffon could not hear. Mother buried her face on Father's chest, like Steffon had done earlier.

Steffon closed his eyes and fell asleep again.

252 AC

It was Steffon's sixth nameday, but his father was not at Storm's End.

"Father has never been away on my nameday before," Steffon grumbled.

Uncle Harbert laughed. "How do you know? How many namedays do you remember having?"

"I remember last year. And the year before that. And -" No, he did not remember his third nameday. Nor his second. And certainly not his first.

"You are six now. Too big to sulk," Mother said.

"I'm not sulking. But where has Father gone?"

"To King's Landing. He has urgent business with the king," Mother replied.

"Is it to do with the new grain tax?"

Uncle Harbert pretended to twist Steffon's ear. "Have you been eavesdropping again? Naughty boy."

Steffon ran in circles, shrieking gleefully while Uncle Harbert tried to catch him. "I didn't have to. They were really loud, those stormlords who came to see Father," Steffon said, after Uncle Harbert finally caught him.

One of the stormlords had been the loudest, and the rudest. "We know the king is your own good-father, Lord Ormund, but you are still Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. It is your duty to convey our strong objection to the king, despite any feeling of kinship on your part. Your late father Lord Lyonel would not have hesitated. He would have been the first to lead the charge against the king's monstrous and malicious proposal, loudly and proudly."

"I know my duty," Father had snapped in anger.

"We mean no disrespect, Lord Baratheon," another lord had intervened, in a more conciliatory tone.

"It has naught to do with kinship, I assure you. I will relate your objection to the king, of course, as is my duty. But I do not see that the proposal is as monstrous or as malicious as you claim it to be. As His Grace stated in his decree, the new grain tax is meant to furnish a fund that will be used to aid farmers when their crops fail, so their family will not starve to death. I have my own concern regarding how fairly and effectively the scheme will be administered, but the intent behind the tax is the king's concern for the well-being of his subjects. There is nothing monstrous or malicious about that."

"To tax us, to tax highborn lords to help these commoners, these …these … lowborn peasants, you do not consider that monstrous, Lord Baratheon?"

"These peasants are also counted among the king's loyal subjects."

"But of course, I should not have forgotten that you spent many years in King's Landing as the king's royal page and squire, Lord Ormund. Your opinion on the matter must have been deeply influenced by the king."

"My opinion is my own. I am my own man, I assure you, not my good-father's puppet, if that is what you are implying."

"Each lord is responsible for the welfare of the people living in his lands. We would never have let them starve. There is no need for this sort of intervention from the crown."

"You know as well as I do that there are some lords who would blithely turn a blind eye to the suffering of their own people."

"Even so, a few rotten apples in the barrel do not justify what the king is trying to do. He is usurping our traditional rights and obligations. Does the king mean to get rid of all lords altogether, and rule the entire realm as if it is his personal possession?"

"His Grace has no such intention, I am certain."

"Perhaps not so blatantly. But is it all that different if he is taking away all our gods-given rights and leaving us with mere titles but no actual power?"

Father returned from King's Landing bringing many gifts for Steffon. Grandmother's nameday gift for Steffon was a leather-bound book about mythical creatures with beautiful but sometimes terrifying illustrations. Aunt Shaera's and Cousin Rhaella's gifts were a set of embroidered handkerchiefs. Aunt Shaera's embroidery was more delicate and detailed, but Cousin Rhaella's embroidery of a trio of jumping stags was the one Steffon loved more.

Grandfather's gift was a pony. A white pony. The pony was wearing a straw hat. Steffon laughed and laughed. Father looked mystified. "The hat is as much a gift as the pony, your grandfather said to tell you. Why the straw hat?"

"He remembered!" Steffon said excitedly, taking the straw hat from the pony and putting it on his own head.

Mother sighed. "My father has been filling Steffon's head with stories."

"What stories?" Father asked.

"Stories about when Grandfather squired for Ser Duncan. Grandfather said you loved those stories too, Mother, when you were a little girl. You were always asking him to tell you more."

"That was a long time ago," Mother said, dismissing the subject, though it could not have been all that long ago, Steffon thought, if Grandfather could still recount in great detail which story was Mother's favorite.

There was no gift from Cousin Aerys, though there was a letter from him telling Steffon all about his new appointment as a royal page. "I am the only one trusted to pour the wine into Grandfather's goblet," he wrote. "The other pages said they have never seen a royal page as accomplished as me."

"As if the other pages would dare tell the king's grandson and the boy second in line to the throne anything different," Father scoffed, when Steffon showed him the letter.

"I'm sure Cousin Aerys is truly accomplished," Steffon said loyally. "Why would the other pages lie to him?"

"To curry favor," Mother said.

"They may not have much choice in the matter. Your cousin is not a boy who takes kindly to being thwarted. He seems to love nothing more than his favor being curried," Father said.

Later, with Steffon sprawled on the floor of his father's solar examining the most terrifying creatures in the book given to him by his grandmother, his father and mother spoke of the news from court.

"Brynden Rivers has disappeared," Father said. "He went on a ranging mission beyond the Wall and never returned to Castle Black."

Mother turned pale. "What about my uncle Aemon?" she asked anxiously.

Father reached out to grasp Mother's hand. "Your uncle is safe. He was the one who wrote to your father about the Lord Commander's disappearance. The Black Brothers have gone on many trips beyond the Wall to look for him, but he seems to have vanished into thin air."

"Maybe he was eaten by a dragon," Steffon interjected.

"There are no dragons. Not anymore," Mother said.

"We don't know what creatures live beyond the Wall. Maester Cressen said so," Steffon said, standing up, still clutching the book in his hand.

"I'm sure Maester Cressen did not mean dragons," Father said, smiling indulgently, tousling Steffon's hair.

"Grandfather said dragons could come back."

Alert now, Father asked, "When was this? When did he tell you this?"

"I remember him telling Mother, last year when we were in King's Landing."

Father shot Mother a dark look. Mother frowned and looked away.

"All this talk of dragon is foolish," Father snapped. Then, seeing the crushed look on Steffon's face, his expression softened. "Forgive me. I have not given you my gift for your nameday," he said.

Surprised, Steffon said, "But I already have your gift. Mother said the cloak is from both of you."

The cloak was a miniature version of Father's best cloak in Steffon's size, made from the same material, with the same cut, color and trimmings. It's only for special occasions, Mother had said, when Steffon asked to wear it to dinner on his nameday. What special occasion? What could be more special than his nameday? You'll see, Mother had replied.

"So the cloak is not a gift from you and Mother both?"

Father and Mother exchanged glances. Father looked embarrassed. "Your mother told you that because she did not want you to think that I had forgotten about your nameday," he finally said, ruefully.

"So you did forget?" Steffon asked, dismayed. It had never even occurred to him that his father might have forgotten. How could he have forgotten? It's not like Father had dozens and dozens of children who were always running around having namedays all year round. One son. He had just the one. Only Steffon. How could Father forget?

"I remember in time to get you this gift," Father said, taking out a wooden box from a drawer and handing it to Steffon. A prancing stag was carved on the top cover, with Steffon's name carved below the stag. Steffon Baratheon, the S and B larger and fancier than the other letters. Transfixed, Steffon slowly traced the letters with his finger.

"Open it," Father said.

The clasp was hard to undo. Father offered to help, but Steffon wanted to do it himself. Finally, he succeeded. Inside, nestled on a black-and-gold velvet cloth, was the gift from his father.

"It's a hunting knife," Father said.

A hunting knife, with SB carved on the hilt. "This is not a plaything. It is a sharp weapon. Remember that," Father said.

Steffon nodded solemnly. He ran his fingers down the hilt, but Father's hand stopped him before he touched the blade.

"Careful," Father warned. "Do you like it?" Father asked, examining Steffon's face.

Did he? He wasn't sure. The gift made him uneasy. It looked like something meant for an older boy, or at least a different kind of boy. Father had never given him anything like that before. Was Father expecting him to be a different kind of boy, now that his sixth nameday had come and gone?

"Well?"

Father looked so expectant, so Steffon gave Father his widest grin and said, "Of course I do. Thank you, Father. But when will I ever use it? You've never taken me hunting."

His father did not go hunting often, and he did not enjoy it like Uncle Harbert did. But Father said hunting was one of the things a lord was expected to do, so do it he must. Only you could make hunting sounds like a tedious chore, Uncle Harbert had said, laughing at Father's grimace.

"I will take you hunting very soon. You're old enough now," Father replied to Steffon.

"He is too young," Mother dissented.

"I was his age when my lord father took me hunting for the first time," Father replied.

Mother did not say anything, but Steffon and Father both recognized that look on her face, the one that said she was not convinced at all. "Rhaelle," Father said, putting his hand on her arm. "You were the one who said our son is old enough to sit beside me and learn how the Lord of Storm's End holds court and dispenses justice."

"That is different," Mother said. "That is –"

Her next words were drowned by Steffon's excited chatter. "You mean I am to sit beside Father in the great hall, when he holds court?"

Father nodded.

Steffon had watched Mother sitting beside Father in some sessions, and sometimes it was Uncle Harbert who sat beside Father. Father did most of the talking, but often Mother would say something too. Uncle Harbert never said anything unless Father asked him a question. Steffon had never seen Uncle Harbert being that quiet at any other time. Usually Uncle Harbert had plenty to say.

Perhaps it was terrifying, sitting up there on the dais, with so many people watching. His initial excitement was fading, turning into trepidation. What if Father asked him a question and Steffon did not know the answer? Or what if he gave the wrong answer, and everyone in the hall started laughing at him? Father would be shamed, and Steffon would be mortified.

"Do you think you are ready?" Father asked, his hands on Steffon's shoulders.

No! I don't want to do it. Not yet.

Steffon wanted to bury his face on Father's chest, like he used to do when he was crying, but he was a big boy now, like Mother said. A big boy would not cry out, "I don't want to!" or "You can't make me!" Those are for little boys, and he was six now, not a little boy anymore.

So he hugged his father and said that of course he was ready. Turning to his mother, he asked, shyly, "Can I wear my new cloak?"