The Ballad of the Midnight Stag

Chapter One- Stag

The sound of metal boots meeting marble tiles echoed in unison with the clanging of bells throughout the hall as an armored figure made his way towards the throne room. The man's face was strained with the effort of holding back tears as he passed through the double doors of the chamber and cut his way through a crowd of noble mourners.

It was then that he spotted him.

Jon Arryn. Hand to King Robert I Baratheon and one of the most respected men in the realm- dead. The somber whispers of the lords and ladies of King's Landing bounced off the walls of the great chamber as each of the mourners expressed their disbelief in the passing of such a man. Nat could hardly believe it himself as he approached the man's corpse. As is custom in the Faith of the Seven, painted stones decorated the closed eyes of the Lord of the Vale, carefully painted to resemble the deep brown of his eyes in life.

Nat felt his heart lurch at the sight of him. To many, the loss of Jon Arryn was the loss of a great man. The Warden of the East, a war hero, an idol to model one's self after- but not to Nat. To Nat, the loss of Jon Arryn was the loss of family. Nat had been brought up under Jon Arryn's care since he could remember. The man had been there when his own father hadn't, had taught him to ride horses, how to read and write, watched over him as he learned to wield a blade. How could a man so important, so magnificent in character die without warning?

Nat felt his blood begin to boil as his emerald eyes filled with rage. Nat was young, only 17 years of age, but his grandfather had seen to it that he was not stupid. Jon Arryn had been the picture of health for a man of his age up until just days prior to his untimely death. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, Nat could recognize the signs of poison. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Nat whirled around and allowed the lords and ladies of King's Landing the chance to mourn. There would be no more mourning, he swore to himself, until the assassin's head was on a spike atop the walls of the Red Keep. As he exited the room, Nat had already planned to meet with his small network of spies and review their intel from the last several weeks- no stone would go unturned. But that would have to wait, for now, Nat needed to arrange for his things to be packed and ready for a long journey north.

Atop the balconies, another set of emerald eyes were filled with fury. Queen Cersei Lannister followed the figure of her eldest son, Nat Baratheon, as he stormed from the throne room. A foolish display, she thought. One of such high pedigree should never display their emotions before the members of their court.

Cersei glanced back towards the corpse of Jon Arryn. If there was one regret of Cersei's life it was allowing Nat to spend so much time with Lord Arryn. The man was too open, too loving, too weak. Allowing the deceased Hand of the King to spend so much time with her son had allowed some of his weakness to seep into Nat. That would have to be corrected.

"As your brother, I feel it's my duty to warn you: you worry too much, it's starting to show."

Cersei's eyes softened at the sound of the voice. She turned and met familiar green eyes. Ser Jaime Lannister, her twin brother, smiled down at her with that familiar, cutting grin.

"You never worry about anything," she retorted. "When we were seven you jumped off the cliffs at Casterly Rock. A hundred-foot drop into the water and you were never afraid."

Jaime's smile grew wider, "There was nothing to be afraid of until you told father." The knight lowered his voice, "We're Lannisters, and Lannisters don't act like fools."

The corners of Cersei's lips turned upwards at his mocking of their father before her gaze returned to the body of Jon Arryn. "What if he told someone?" she asked.

Jaime followed her gaze. "Who would he tell?"

"My husband."

Jaime shrugged, "If he told the king both our heads would be skewered on the city gates by now; whatever Jon Arryn knew or didn't know died with him. And so, Robert will choose a new Hand to do his job while he's off fucking boars and hunting whores- or is it the other way around? Life will go on."

Cersei looked back at him, "You should be Hand of the King."

Jaime smiled once more, "That is an honor I could do without; their days are too long and their lives too short."

Crown prince Nat Baratheon rubbed his temples as he sat at the edge of his bed. He had just received word from several of his key contacts- both within and outside of the court- regarding his mission to avenge the death of Jon Arryn. Though Nat was an excellent tactician- another product of his grandfather's influence- the Baratheon in his blood groaned at the monotonous nature of scheming. Life would be much simpler if all his enemies would simply charge at him with their swords in hand.

Nat glanced towards the mirror in the corner of his chambers and watched the man in royal robes stare back at him. He looked tired, bags under his emerald eyes and his brow glistening with an anxious sweat. Tired he was. He had spent several sleepless nights since Jon Arryn's death plotting, communicating and gathering information on the mysterious circumstances surrounding the Hand of the King's demise. Nat stood and adjusted the straps on his sheath. Though he felt the wear of consciousness dragging him down, he still cut an impressive figure. Well over six feet tall, Nat's black hair and piercing Lannister eyes intimidated any who dared cross him. Ser Barristan Selmy often commented how much he resembled his father in his prime. His sister disagreed:

Father never smiles, and when he does it's never as pleasant as when you do, brother.

Nat smiled to himself. Even through all the hardships, the ever-increasing role in running the seven kingdoms that he was taking on, at least there was Myrcella to brighten his day.

A knock on his bedchamber's door stirred him from his thoughts.

"Yes? What is it?"

The door creaked open and the comely face of Ser Arys Oakheart peaked into the room. "Pardon me, Your Grace, but your father requests your immediate presence at the city gates."

Nat nodded to the member of the Kingsguard, "Inform him that I'll be there momentarily."

Ser Arys gave a curt nod and left to rejoin the party at the city gates.

Nat threw once last glance at himself in the mirror and frowned. He would need to sleep properly on the journey north, he couldn't present himself so unkempt to Lord Stark and his family.

3 weeks later

"Halt!" cried King Robert Baratheon.

Prince Nat sighed to himself as he watched his father struggle to remove his left leg from the saddle of his horse. The Kingsguard at their flanks stopped atop their horses and watched as their king paced angrily in circles as the rest of their enormous party caught up behind them.

"Seven Hells this journey would be going much quicker if your damned mother could keep up!" he roared.

Nat rolled his eyes, "This journey would be a lot more pleasant if you would refrain from stopping to complain every evening, father."

Robert's blue eyes flashed with fury as he turned towards his eldest son, "You will watch your tone with me, boy, or I swear by the old gods and the new-"

"Settle down, father. We're already well past the Neck; Winterfell isn't too far off, now."

Robert grumbled and marched off as tents went up around them. "I don't see why your mother and siblings couldn't just stay in King's Landing if they were planning on keeping me from a warm meal and sweet wine."

Nat sighed as he dismounted and passed his lead off to one of the royal party's stable boys. Robert was a tragedy in Nat's eyes. He grew up hearing stories of the famous rebel Lord Robert Baratheon's mighty triumph over the Mad King. Of his bravery and daring. But the war broke him as war breaks all. And there he stood, a husk of a man that could hardly lift his hammer from the floor. Nat had loved him once, back when bard's songs held no comparison to his father in his eyes. But no longer. Now all that remained was pity.

Nat waved away the stable boy and made his way towards a lavish tent near the perimeter of their camp. The cloth of the tent was somewhat crooked as the manservants had yet to finish erecting the wooden interior. Nat shooed them off and analyzed the interior of his home for the evening. The tent was ordinarily much larger with fine rugs, lush pillows, and room for a great many people within. Tonight, only the main compartment had been prepared with Lannister red rugs and soft pillows scattered throughout the tent. To the side, servants were rushing about, bringing in roasted quail, duck, and boar alongside a myriad of purple and red wines. Nat flagged down the nearest of them, a stout young man with shaggy hair.

"Y-yes my Prince?" he stuttered.

"Inform the cooks that I'll be skipping a main course and would like my sweets to be brought to the tent for the evening, if you would."

With a curt nod the young man scurried away, quickly followed by the remaining servants leaving Nat alone within the confines of his tent. The prince poured himself a goblet of wine and lapped at it as he began to undo the straps of his ceremonial armor. Though the prince thought himself to look quite dashing in the black steel of the armor it was rather cumbersome to wear, especially over long journeys such as the one he found himself on currently. Despite his discomfort Nat tried to adhere to his mother's philosophy regarding the maintenance of appearances for the common folk and remained determined to wear the armor all the way to Winterfell.

As Nat removed the shin plating of his armor, the sweeping sound of tent flaps being swept aside arose from behind him. Nat made his way towards the far end of his tent where large pillows and wool blankets were piled into a sort of bed with a wave, "This way please," he directed.

Nat collapsed into the pillows and smiled shrewdly as his sweets made their way towards him. The whores wore thin robes that left little to the imagination as they leaned towards the prince with sly smiles.

Nat despised much about his father. From the everlasting stupor he spent his days in, to the decay he had allowed the Seven Kingdoms to fall into, there was very little the prince could understand about the king. The one thing that Nat and Robert Baratheon shared was their penchant for women. Lust was something that Nat understood very well. On his fifteenth name day, King Robert in a rare moment of concern for his son's wellbeing, saw to it personally that his son be made a man. In the King's own words, "No son of mine will be declared a man until he has known the touch of a woman." And as such, Nat had developed a taste for "sweets" as he coded them.

Nat would be remiss should his taste for women become common knowledge among his people and took special care in sneaking his partners into the Red Keep. His most trusted advisors in King's Landing would guide the women throughout the castle's secret passages and into his apartment, a task that often took hours. Though even if his promiscuity were to be unveiled, the prince had resigned himself to only a few choice women, determined to avoid emulating his father too much. Most folk would probably think the whores to be Robert's anyways.

Nat's green eyes traced them hungrily. They didn't quite compare to his favorite whores, but they would do for the evening. The prince was starved and if he couldn't have his favorite meals then a serving of sweets would suffice for now.

The whores were gone before dawn the next morning.

The prince lay in a pile of pillows and blankets, raven hair matted to his forehead and mouth agape. He looked anything but princely stripped of his clothing and reeking of sex. Had his mother been the one to come across him, the prince would get a cold lecture about his duties and their family's public image. Thankfully for Nat, it was not his mother.

"Nat!"

The prince garbled and buried his head below the surface of his pillow foundation.

Myrcella Baratheon picked up a pillow in disgust and channeled the lost strength of their father as she brought it down upon her brother, hitting him directly on his exposed neck. The prince choked and sat up, fists clenched and ready to retaliate. When he found his assailant to be his embarrassed younger sister, he groaned and lay back in his mound.

"Cella, please leave my tent so that I can sleep off all of the sweets I had last night, I'm still quite sick from them," he sighed with a wave.

Myrcella made a face at him and placed her hands at her hips, "Brother, father's already left for Winterfell without you; you need to get up!"

The prince's emerald eyes narrowed, "He's done what?" the prince asked, lifting himself from his bed.

Myrcella furrowed her brow, "Father's left with a third of the party already! He was in a fit when you slept past dawn."

The prince leaned to his left and snatched his trousers. "Then why didn't I wake up with a hammer where my nose should be?" he asked.

The princess clasped her hands together and made circles with her thumbs, "Well, he tried to…mother wouldn't let him!" she said, noticing the prince's rage growing.

The bastard would embarrass us in front of the Starks like this? The gall of that man, he thought.

With his trousers secured Nat rose from his bed and made for his ceremonial armor. He leaned his right arm atop his sister's head, to her chagrin, as he reached down for his gloves. The prince chuckled hearing his sister squirming under his weight.

Leave it to Cella to put a smile on my face, he thought with a grin.

"Thank you for alerting me, little one," he said, poking her nose. The princess blushed and pushed her brother's arm off of her head as he began to strap on his armor. At least their mother would be satisfied now that Nat was awake.

"Cella, alert the stable boys that I need my horse prepared at once, quickly now," Nat commanded. Myrcella nodded and rushed from the tent, her golden dress trailing behind her as she burst through the flaps of the tent.

This entire journey will be an unmitigated disaster if I don't stop that fat old fool soon, the prince thought.

Myrcella weaved carefully through what remained of their camp searching for one of the stable boys to relay Nat's order. The look in her brother's eyes was troubling. He was angry, she could tell. No matter how good an actor her brother was, he couldn't disguise the fury in his eyes no matter how hard he tried. Her mother would call it the 'Baratheon rage' in his blood. Her father and other older brother Joffrey were the same way, though they made little attempt at disguising their anger.

Myrcella thought Nat's anger much scarier than theirs, however. While Joffrey and Robert would unleash their wrath explosively, Nat was much more focused in his wrath. Rather than take it out on whomever was closest, Nat would direct it towards the source. Seeing her brother channel all his rage onto anyone was terrifying indeed. Myrcella would do well to avoid invoking any of it by ignoring his orders.

Thankfully for the princess, the stable boys had already readied Nat's horse. The black steed was muscled and regal, much like its rider. Nat had specially chosen the colt a year ago to match his ceremonial armor.

'He'll go well with my armor… I reckon I'll intimidate any vagabonds atop this fellow, wouldn't you agree?' he said to her. Myrcella smiled at the memory. Nat could be quite scary, but at his core, she knew her brother was a man that enjoyed making people smile more than he enjoyed making them afraid.

"I told you he's ready! I'll have your head if you don't leave me be!" a shrill voice shouted.

Her brother Joffrey, on the other hand, enjoyed quite the opposite.

Joffrey Baratheon was the opposite of his elder brother in physical form as much as he was in spirit. The prince was scrawny with curly golden hair and deep green eyes. His lips seemed to form a thin frown even on happy occasions. Joffrey was their mother's favorite and as such had been spoiled rotten. He had never gotten along with Myrcella or their brothers, but in recent years he had become especially cruel. Luckily, Nat was not above disciplining Joffrey, even if it earned their mother's scolding.

Unfortunately for Myrcella, Nat was not there now.

"Myrcella! What do you think you're doing?" he screeched.

Myrcella shriveled at the sound, "W-well, brother asked me to tell the stable boys to fetch his horse, so I-"

Joffrey bucked his horse before her, sending a surprised Myrcella stumbling backwards. "A woman has no place near stables or stallions! Go back to the carriage with mother and Tommen where you belong," he ordered before galloping away.

Myrcella frowned as she watched Joffrey gallop off after the soldiers following their father. Yes, Joffrey was nothing like Nat at all.

Nat pushed Ser Trot hard along the King's Road as he followed the tail of his father's party. He patted the colt on the side, "Just a bit further Ser Trot and then it's just an easy march the rest of the way," he told him.

The colt was chosen to bear the weight of his ceremonial armor but not quite to charge for miles under its weight. Hopefully he could manage another mile or so. It would be heartbreaking to have to tell Tommen the horse had passed, especially as he had given the colt its name. Nat couldn't help but smile at the memory of his first encounter with the horse.

At Jon Arryn's suggestion, the prince had been searching for a young colt to serve as his transportation during diplomatic trips and ceremonies. 'A king must present himself as one or he is no king at all in the eyes of the people' he had said.

Having agreed, Nat requested to see the young colts that the Master of Horse had been raising. Though the task had little to do with them, Nat had brought along Myrcella and Tommen so that they might admire the young mares and colts in the royal stables. Ser Trot was the third colt that the Master of Horse had brought for Nat to examine; one look at his fine onyx hair and energetic demeanor and the choice was made.

The prince brought his siblings over to admire his new steed and before long Tommen had asked to ride him. Oh, please brother! Father never lets me near his horse, it'll only be just this once!

Seeing the child's pouty green eyes, it was all he could do but to let him ride the horse. But Nat held a semblance of willpower and swore Tommen to just a light trot around the field.

That'll be his name, then! Tommen proclaimed. Just like Ser Pounce…he and Ser Trot'll be good friends, don't you think brother?

No, it wouldn't do to disappoint Tommen by pushing Ser Trot to his death. The colt was strong he knew, that was why he chose him after all, and so they continued on their way, riding another half-day until coming across the sounds of boisterous laughter and music.

Nat found his father alongside a number of their troops gorging themselves on fresh pheasant and quail while a local bard performed a song about the fall of the mad king Aerys II Targaryen. Nat grit his teeth and guided Ser Trot into the clearing where the bard was singing, cutting the entertainment short.

The eyes of every soldier and manservant at the encampment moved between the king and his heir, no one dared move.

Robert put down the quail leg he was working on and stood, belly nudging his plate towards the middle of his table. "Boy, what in the seven hells do you think you're doing interrupting my entertainment?"

Nat's emerald eyes pierced into Robert's blue ones as he enunciated every word, "What am I doing? What are you doing?" Nat spun Ser Trot in a circle and addressed the troops at large. "Is this how we plan to present ourselves to the Starks?"

The hush among the troops only seemed to grow quieter as Nat turned to face the king.

"You mean to ask Lord Stark to become your hand in this sorry state? It's bad enough there are some that still refer to you as the Usurper, would you like to add Fat Oaf to the list!?" he queried.

Robert's cheeks were as red as the wine in his cup. The king kicked his chair behind him and slammed his fists on the table, cracking the wood, "I am your king, boy! I am your king and you will not disrespect me in such a manner again or I'll have your head on a pike, do you hear me!?"

Nat dismounted and bowed, "Of course Your Grace, I'll be waiting at dawn, then."

The prince stormed off, leaving Ser Trot behind for the nearest stable boy to tend to. He had certainly landed himself in hot waters with his outburst, but he couldn't stand for the disrespect his father had shown towards himself, his family, and most importantly the Starks. Nat was still young and years away from ruling. If the Seven Kingdoms were to survive without Jon Arryn, they would need the guidance of Lord Eddard Stark, guidance that would certainly not be received if the king showed up so informally and made a fool of himself.

As the prince made his way to the northern edge of camp, where his tent would be arranged momentarily now that he had arrived, he wondered if perhaps his mother was right about the Baratheon in his blood. Perhaps one day it would be the end of him. He shook the thoughts off and stared out into the darkness.

Somewhere in the distance was Winterfell. Somewhere in the distance was the future of the Seven Kingdoms. For the sake of his family and all the families in the Seven Kingdoms, he hoped that they would arrive soon.

Hello there. It's been quite awhile since I've written anything for this website. I've had this story concept in mind for several months and I figured I should get at least the first chapter up and out into the world to see how it's received. I'd like to make a full book out of this one and have an overarching skeleton made out for it but only if it's received well enough.

Robert and Cersei's first child surviving is a popular concept for fanfiction and one that's always interested me but reading DeadlyMaelstrom711's "Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper" really inspired me to give my own take a try.

I'll be primarily following the cannon of the TV show but descriptions of many characters and places will be primarily based off the Song of Ice and Fire books. There also may be a few characters from the books not included in the TV show that pop up later in the story.

I would highly recommend checking out Trials and Tribulations if you haven't already. It's cohesive and genuinely interesting and still being updated quite frequently. Anyway, let me know your thoughts on this concept and if you'd like to see it continue and I'll respond accordingly.

Have a good one.

-Munch