What happens in King's Landing when Joffrey is not the eldest prince? How does Harry Potter change the game? How does it change him?

It will only be three chapters, starting from the birth of Steffon to a little after the beginning of A Game of Thrones. Almost everything will be book canon, though there might be some show influences. A sequel will follow eventually, though I'm still working on the outline for that.

The clearing was a bit further than he had expected but it would not be long before they realized he had come. His steps crunched along the forest floor but Harry barely paid attention to that. He had been groomed for this, to walk this path to what lay at the end, and as the ghosts of his past walked alongside him he left behind the last shreds of the boy he had been.

Harry Potter had done what was expected of him, to his detriment. The last gift he would grant this world would be his death, a sacrifice to allow them to perhaps win their freedom.

His parents faded slowly, the stone having been dropped somewhere behind him, and Harry walked into his final confrontation with Voldemort alone, as it was always meant to be.

"Harry Potter," the red-eyed monster hissed. "The Boy-Who-Lived, come to die!"

Harry did not rise to the bait. Merely waited for the curse to strike him down. Black surrounded his vision, scores of Death Eaters eagerly awaiting the death of the Chosen One. How they would rejoice at his defeat.

There was momentary silence, the forest holding its breath as green locked onto red. His entire life had been shaped by the actions of a fearful Dark Lord, terrified of someone breaking his power.

Voldemort raised his wand, the ridges familiar from the many years he had seen it in another man's hands.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter."

Mouth twisting, "Tom," he replied with a short nod.

Red eyes flashed in anger before calling out, "Avada Kedavra!"

The green light raced towards him. Voldemort had wrought so much death in his time, so many lives lost to the curling green of death. Green as the eyes the young boy sported.

The last thing the Dark Lord saw was a small smile on the face of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry Potter was dead.

The Red Keep was bustling with activity; servants running to and fro in an attempt to perform as much of their duties as they could. It had been storming for days, rain lashing the windows of the keep. The King had been kept from hunting in preparation for the birth of his heir, and what remnants of the previous regime existed had made certain they did not draw undue attention.

Robert Baratheon had never been the most patient of men, and he had intended to spend the day drinking and morose over the birth of his heir to a woman not his beloved Lyanna Stark.

Jon Arryn had managed to talk his stubborn ward down from his plans, and the young man was instead roped into talk of continuing legacies.

"It is a boy, Your Grace."

Looking down at the child placed in her arms, Cersei Lannister noted a head full of thick black hair and wide green eyes that were staring absently into hers. He was surprisingly quiet, and had it not been for his fierce howling upon birth she would have worried about the child. There was a small tinge of triumph; for all that she despised her husband, the child had her eyes and would forever be a reminder of his mother's house.

"A son, my love." She murmured proudly. She had done her duty to the King and her family; a healthy heir for the kingdoms completing her father's wish for Lannister blood on the Iron Throne.

"Have them ring the bells!" the king called. "They will ring all week to celebrate. A son. A prince for the kingdoms."

The babe simply stared at his mother content to cuddle in the warmth he was surrounded by. Sharp eyes noted the looming presence of his father the king, tall and heavily muscled, blue eyes glowing in pride and triumph.

In this world, as in his last, the child looked like his father but with his mother's distinctive green eyes. He would be surrounded by the red and gold lion, as before, and cloak himself in the stag of his father.

Of course, the babe did not yet know that. He simply slept on; unaware of the importance of his birth, unknowing of how much his existence had changed the Game.

The bells rang loudly throughout King's Landing, the city made aware of the birth of the crown prince. Harry Potter had died and was born again as Steffon Baratheon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Little Steffon Baratheon was much loved by the people in the Red Keep. His father was the king, his mother the beautiful queen, and Steff the handsome young prince. By the time he was two, Steff was walking and talking, memories of another life helping him put his words together. Harry Potter had never had memories of his parents, nothing good at least, and Steffon treasured the awareness he now had. As disconcerting as it had been to find himself once again a child – and with the full memories of a seventeen-year-old wizard – this gave him the ability to bask in his parent's love.

The keeps inhabitants had kept a close watch on the young prince; and while Steffon shamelessly used his mental age to his advantage, it brought forth a slew of comparisons between himself and his predecessor.

Rhaegar Targaryen was a ghost, haunting the keep in ways Robert Baratheon had probably discounted, as he was wont to do. Targaryen sigils had been scrubbed, the dragon skulls hidden from his sight, and yet the whispers continued. The servants were skilled in quieting their mutterings and the Spider had not seen fit to inform the king of his heir's similar disposition to his most hated foe. He had heard snippets of conversation, mutterings between servants and the nursemaids who all assumed that the little prince did not understand their words. Steff was not inclined to disabuse them of that notion.

The Silver Prince had been a brilliant brooding man, prone to melancholy. Steff would never breathe a word of the memories that assailed him, visions of friends and events that dragged the young child into a pit of despair at times.

His first year had been spent adjusting to his new surroundings; his status, his living parents, and mourning the likelihood of ever seeing those he had once lost. This was a new lease on life, and Steffon was determined to be far less broody than Harry Potter had been. And so the young prince smiled and held good cheer to the extent that the servants were calling him the Laughing Storm.

There had been other utterances, far more devastating than his similarity to the Last Dragon. Whispers of dragonspawn and the accursed kinslayer, but Steff ruthlessly ignored those with a feeling of dread in his stomach.

When Steff was not quite one, his mother had been pregnant with her second child. The young boy had watched as the entire keep seemed to coil in tension.

Two moons after his first nameday, his mother announced her second pregnancy. The Lord Hand had been relieved. Two potential heirs in such a short span; it was all that the kingdoms needed to ensure some form of stability. Grandfather Tywin had sent a letter of congratulations and Steff could feel his mother breathe a sigh of relief when it came.

The maids gossiped freely when near his chambers, so Steffon shamelessly learned what they had known. The wizarding world had taught him that information freely given was a useful commodity, and he was determined to be better than his previous self.

His birth had come after the Targaryen children managed to escape, solidifying his father's rule after that particular loss. Yet Steff was only a babe, and there was always uncertainty with young children in their world. Best to have an heir and a spare as soon as possible.

Mother had been steadily growing round in the middle. A baby was growing in her, though the part of Steff that had been Harry Potter flushed in embarrassed horror at what that entailed.

Uncle Jaime had walked him to her rooms, japing as they went, and as the doors were opened by her guards the young boy squirmed out of his uncle's hold and bounded straight into his mother's arms.

Today she was wearing a red gown, loose around her middle to accommodate her growing belly. In little Steff's eyes, his mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and Harry's memories agreed. Lustrous gold hair and gleaming emerald eyes, Steff did not think any of the women in the whole kingdoms could hold a candle to his mother.

"Mama!" he beamed. "Is baby coming?"

Chuckling softly, Cersei smoothed the hair off her son's forehead. "Soon my love," she said, dropping a kiss to his head. "Your brother will join us any day now."

There were some days when Steff thought his mother could barely stand the sight of him. It was subtle, but Steff was no ordinary child. He had lived before with relatives who could barely tolerate him. But then mother would smile at him, press a kiss to his forehead and call him her little lion cub, and he would forget what he saw in those moments.

Steff despaired at the thought. He would always look like the man who sired him, but in this world it seemed to be another type of curse. Instead of the scorn of a bitter man, he had to contend with his mother's discontent with her kingly husband.

A part of him mourned Lily and James Potter, who had so readily given their lives for their only son. Westeros had made him worldly enough to realize that mayhaps he would not have enjoyed parents as much. He had idolized the thought of them before he bitterly learned how flawed in character they could both be.

As beautiful a couple as they were, Steffon had come to realize that his parents left much to be desired. His first year he had spent in ignorance of their true relationship, but a walking and talking Steffon had learned far more than he wanted to. They argued far more than any couple he knew, and entering his father's rooms when he was preoccupied with his whores had scarred the boy and infuriated his mother beyond anything he had seen.

To be fair, he was certain his parents loved him. Cersei Lannister adored her only son; but her love was matched by her hatred of his father, and Steff was Robert writ small but for his eyes, green and glowing with power, suppressed as his magic felt in this land. Robert himself certainly loved him, nearly as much as he could love a person. Rhaegar Targaryen had stolen more than his father's betrothed. He had taken all that Robert had once been, full of zeal and a lust for life, until all that was left was a husk of a man drinking and whoring his way through life in an attempt to recover whatever it was he thought lost.

Steffon was acutely aware of their shortcomings, deadly as they were to his continued health. It seemed as if he had not learned from the past for he foolishly allowed himself to love these two in spite of everything.

A sennight later, Joffrey of House Baratheon would come into the world. Father was riding out in the Kingswood, hunting for the feast and leaving the birth to the women. Uncle Jaime was here, pacing up and down the hall. Odd though his presence was, none would dare tell him his presence was unseemly. The golden knight would hide a wince at each scream that tore through his sister's throat, and only the fact that he held Steffon in his arms prevented him from tearing down the door.

When the maester had bid them enter, Uncle Jaime had brushed the Hand of the King aside, rushing to his sister's side with her son in his arms.

Mother looked exhausted, hair plastered to her forehead, but she was glowing in triumph. In her arms nestled Steff's new sibling. Like their mother, Joffrey had wisps of golden hair and his eyes were the same green as his elder brother. Uncle Jaime placed him on the bed next to Mother, and she pulled him closer so he could better see his brother.

"Steffon, my love, this is your brother Joffrey."

Steff had stared down at the tiny face, heart expanding to make room for the new addition to their family. Harry Potter had never had the pleasure of being an older sibling. Only Dudley, and the less said about his cousin the better. Steffon wanted a brother, another sibling, more than anything else at this moment. As little Joffrey curled his tiny fist around Steff's finger, the young boy swore to love and protect him.

He had been quite thoroughly disappointed in his parents, but Steff made a series of oaths this day. He could not protect Joffrey from the truth, nor would he ever attempt to. Joffrey was the greatest accomplishment of his parents, and Steffon would see to it that the small child never lacked love in his life. He would disappoint his parents, would be disappointed when he realized the truth of them, but he would always have Steffon.

"You must care for him, sweetling," Mother said. "Protect him from anyone who isn't us."

"Always," he swore.

Steffon had kept his promise. Outside of the nurses and his mother, Steff was the most frequent visitor to the young prince. He and Joff had shared the royal nursery the infant prince had taken to the older boy. His first steps had been to Steffon, the blonde teetering on unsteady feet with a wide smile on his face. Joff had been ever near his elder brother, and the younger boy doggedly pursued his steps until he could run around their room after Steff. His second word had been a mangled attempt to say Steff, and the elder prince loved his brother as fiercely as a lion.

Their father had been glad for the birth of another son, another heir to secure his rule. That was it mostly. Oh, Robert tried sometimes. He would walk in to the nursery and attempt to spend time with both princes. Steffon had enjoyed his father's arms as a young babe, the massive man throwing the child in the air or bouncing him on his knee. As Steff had aged and Joff joined him in the nursery, Robert's visits had become less frequent. They saw him when he deigned to visit, but Joff had always cried in their father's arms, the man's booming voice frightening the young child, and Mother had fought to keep them separated. Steff had stuck close to his brother, preferring to keep the younger boy company as their parents ruled.

Joff walking had caused enough problems for the servants. He never settled until he had tired himself out, and the nurses were treated to his thunderous cries when they attempted to curb his activities. The Kingsguard were no better, forced to walk after the two princes once Steffon realized he could order them to allow Joffrey to walk the halls or in the garden. Mother had been furious, but Steffon had felt the twinge of guilt he felt at forcing the knights into the position of glorified babysitters fade when he saw the gummy smile his brother gave him.

Joff grew, and Steffon himself continued to grow in leaps and bounds. In preparation for future lessons, Steffon had been learning his letters in the quiet of the nursery, a desk brought in so the prince could have quill and parchment.

The door suddenly opened, and Steffon barely had time to turn to the door before he was holding a crying Joff in his arms.

Startled, he looked down to the young boy wrapping his arms around his middle, and seeing the tears Steff glared at the nursemaid who brought him in.

"What has happened to my brother?" he questioned coldly.

"M-my prince," she stammered, "the little prince was feeling unwell. He would not say what ails him." The woman fidgeted, and whilst Steffon had normally gone out of his way to be kind, seeing his brother in tears had woken something furious in him, roaring for blood.

"Leave us," he ordered curtly. "Have someone bring food to the rooms, we will be staying here."

Curtsying quickly with a murmured "My Prince", Steff ignored the woman as he hauled his younger brother into his arms, grateful for inheriting the Baratheon build. Already, he was taller than most children his age and sturdy. Climbing into his bed, Steff allowed the younger boy to curl into him. His tears had turned into light sniffles. Steff wiped the child's tears away and attempted to tilt Joff's head toward him. He resisted, face stubbornly remaining burrowed in his side, and Steff worriedly laid his head atop his brother's golden curls.

"What's wrong little fawn?" he asked softly.

Joff was silent for several moments. He was not yet two, but Steffon had noticed that the boy frustrated easily at his inability to properly express himself. It was difficult, and at times it had reached the point of violence, with Joff throwing his carved toys at the nursemaids. His father and mother had indulged his behaviour, but Steff had been alarmed and gently admonished the child. He was patient, far more than a child of three should be and he knew it unnerved some people, yet the memories of Dudley Dursley's excesses and his parent's inability to curb his behaviour forced his hand. Steffon would not suffer to see his precious brother turn into a spoiled brat, nor would he wish a horrifying experience to force him to change his behaviour.

"Yelling," he mumbled.

Stiffening, Steffon calmly asked, "Who was?"

"Fa'der and mother," came the quiet response.

Sighing, he pressed a kiss to Joff's head. He had feared the day when Joffrey began to notice their parents' arguments. They were always loud, arguing fiercely over his father's whoring, his mother's coldness to her husband, and the oft-repeated mentions of the She-Wolf that had been a bone of contention between the two of them for as long as Steffon could remember.

What could he say to Joff? Ignore it? He was unaware of what good would come out of that. Sighing morosely, Steffon merely whispered his love to the child and held him until the servants brought their food.

Prince Steffon's fourth nameday passed in a whirlwind of celebrations far too extravagant for a child his age. Yet he was the crown prince, and the realm sought to curry favour with his father through his gifts.

Alongside his gift of a small pony from the Reach, a chestnut filly with black spots, the Hand had decided that it was time the prince began his formal education. Lord Arryn had entreated the Grand Maester to begin his lessons, and so the man and his acolytes took care of his education as soon as the celebrations ended.

The last thing he wanted was to leave Joff alone for long periods, yet duty had given him the mantle of prince. Steff was determined to be a good prince of the realm, and so he attended his lessons and was an attentive student. The maester and his acolytes had no cause to complain, and Steffon was certain that along with reports to the small council, grandfather Tywin would receive his own. Whether from mother or Pycelle he did not yet know. Perhaps a combination of both, he thought.

Joffrey's upset had lasted only hours before Steff regaled him with stories before bed. They centred on tales of Harry's days at Hogwarts, of mythical creatures such as basilisks and dragons and sphinx, which he learned, all existed in this world as well. The young child's favourite was of the young swordsman trying his luck against a fifty-foot long basilisk.

Joff had been delighted, swearing to their Mother that he would be able to protect her from all manner of creatures. Mother had simply laughed and kissed his golden head.

Father had been amused, and he began to boast of his days destroying dragons.

This was the first time Steffon had heard of his Father's tales about the rebellion. Oh, he knew of it as an abstract topic; the servants were careful not to discuss the events that brought House Baratheon to the throne, and Steffon had been far too preoccupied with his younger brother to look deeper.

The man had been drinking, and Joff's proclamation of his future as a dragon hunter had been the beginning of the end for Robert Baratheon. A lifetime of watching adults, of paying close attention to their body cues proved useful as Steff watched Ser Barristan close off, eyes going blank. Even Uncle Jaime had a sardonic grin on his face, none of the mocking playfulness Steff had come to expect from his uncle visible in his face.

Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan were the last of the Targaryen Kingsguard, the last remnants of Mad Aerys. As Robert boasted about his battle with Rhaegar Targaryen, Steff watched as the two most formidable swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms held back from harming their king.

"What happened to his family?" he unthinkingly asked, interrupting the king's fond recollections.

Father's stormy blue eyes darkened as he replied, "They are dead, and we are all the better for it."

Seeing Steffon's eyes widen, the king waved for his son to come forward, the larger man easily lifting the child onto his lap.

"Every night I dream of the day I caved his chest in. Rhaegar Targaryen was a raping madman. He stole my Lyanna, forced himself-," the king's voice cracked slightly. Despite himself, Steff felt a twinge of pity for his father. "—the world does not need more of those dragons."

Catching his chin, father forced Steff's face up to look into his eyes, glowing green eyes locked onto stormy blue. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Steff said evenly.

Robert Baratheon was not the Dark Lord. Voldemort had relished in death and destruction, simply for the sake of his power. Hearing the man speak of his relish at Rhaegar Targaryen's death, at the death of innocent children younger than him whose only crime was their parentage, Steffon was finding it difficult to remember that his father was different from Tom Riddle.

Grand Maester Pycelle was a rotten old man, of that Steffon was entirely convinced. The man acted like a doddering old fool, constantly shuffling about with his oversized chain of links, but Steff had seen a flash of cunning in his eyes and had never truly felt comfortable around the man. That he was in charge of the ravens only reminded Steffon unpleasantly of Dolores Umbridge, and he had determined that he would never trust someone who could be reading their mail.

Conveniently, Steff ignored the maester's loyalty to House Lannister and his position as Crown Prince removing any true privacy.

He had been three when he began to learn his letters, but Lord Arryn had formalized his lessons after his fourth nameday. At four, they determined he could start his history lessons, and Pycelle was droning on now about the royal family and their lineage as Steff carefully copied down what he said.

"The founder of your house, my prince?"

Frowning slightly at his writing – really, Steff did not enjoy the limitations of his body – "Orys Baratheon married Argella Durrandon."

"The words and sigil?"

"Orys took the Durrandon words and sigil for his own; Ours Is The Fury along with the crowned black stag on a golden field."

"Very good," he praised. No doubt, a raven would be winging its way to Casterly Rock to let Lord Tywin know of the efforts of his prodigious grandson.

"House Baratheon descends from the Storm Kings of Durrandon and took Storm's End as their seat. House Lannister, my prince?"

Screwing his eyes a bit, Steff attempted to recall what he had learned. "Lann the Clever swindled Casterly Rock from the Casterly's and began the Lannister family."

"I wouldn't quite say swindled, my prince—" the man mumbled.

Cocking his head to the side, Steff had to hold his tongue from responding cheekily. No doubt, everything he learned and said was being relayed to others. Mother had been upset when he asked why he had to learn about her house, and Steffon had been careful not to make it seem as if the Lannister name was in any way unworthy or below the Baratheons.

"Are we moving on to lineages, maester?" he asked smoothly.

"Y-yes, Prince Steffon. House Baratheon first. You are the eldest son of His Grace, King Robert, first of his name. The king is himself the eldest son of Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Estermont. Lord Steffon was the sole child of Lord Ormund Baratheon and Princess Rhaelle Targaryen. Lord Ormund—"

Steff's mind blanked at that last addition. Rhaelle Targaryen, he thought. What was it the High Septon had said in his sermons? Accursed is the kinslayer. He knew his uncle had been reviled for killing the Mad King, called Kingslayer by all. But this…

"Who is Princess Rhaelle?" he interrupted.

"I b-beg your p-pardon y-your grace?" Pycelle stammered.

"Princess Rhaelle? Who is she? How is she related to the Targaryens? Is that where father's claim comes from?"

"Y-yes, my prince," he continued. "That is indeed where the claim comes from. Princess Rhaelle was the youngest child of Aegon the Unlikely. Prince Duncan had broken his betrothal with your grandfather's aunt by running off with the peasant Jenny of Oldstones. In return, only after Lyonel Baratheon's rebellion was put down did King Aegon agree to a marriage between Lord Lyonel's heir Ormund and Princess Rhaelle to soothe tensions. Lord Steffon was thus the grandson, nephew, and cousin of kings."

A kinslayer, he thought. Steffon wanted to laugh and cry. Bad enough father rejoiced at the thought of children dying. Robert Baratheon had killed his cousin, rejoiced at the death of his cousins. Had sent Uncle Stannis to kill grandfather Steffon's cousin and her children!

What a family I've been born into, he thought hysterically. Petunia, for all that she had openly despised Harry Potter had never killed her nephew, nor allowed her husband to kill him.

But this is a different world, he thought darkly, and they were all wrong. Baratheon, Lannister, Dursley.

The Crown Prince's inattention is unnoticed, and his lessons continue in the same vein. Steffon dutifully attends them, but his eyes are now opened to what kind of world he is living in, and what his family has done.

There are more atrocities, he knows. More things that are left unsaid but linger in the air. Steffon had once known nothing about his family as an orphaned wizard, but he had no excuse during this life. He was a prince, the prince, and Harry Potter had always been strong-willed and curious when it came to things others sought to hide from him. He would eventually discover what had happened.

It had taken him less time than he thought to discover the scope of the Rebellion. His father for one was far more willing to speak of the war, although Steff shied away from asking.

Surprisingly, his greatest source of information was his Uncle Stannis. Two years younger than the king, Stannis Baratheon was a slimmer, grimmer version of his father. His uncle rarely smiled, was prematurely bald, and perpetually disappointed in his brothers. Father and Uncle Stannis fought almost as often as mother and father did, and mother considered the man to be dour and kept Joff and him well away when she could. Stannis's approval was hard won, but Steff was positive that simply showing interest in his studies improved his standing with his uncle.

He had managed to run into the man in the library, and Steff perked at the thought of asking his questions. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for his uncle's interest in his education, as Stannis often made a point of looking over his nephew's work.

He was in his favourite corner of the library, books piled around him as well as sheafs of parchment. He was meant to be going over his lineages, especially those of the Great Houses, and noticing his uncle turn the corner Steff sent him a small smile.

"Nuncle," he said.

"Steffon," he replied curtly. "What does the old rat have you working on?"

"Lineages," he stated morosely.

Stannis merely smiled grimly. Steffon had to hope his attempt at more information worked. His uncle may not like the trappings of court, but the man was not witless. He despised guile and deception, and Steff steeled himself into his most innocent face.

"The Tully's in particular," he led with a look of consternation on his face..

Raising a brow, he looked at him with cool blue eyes. "What do you know of House Tully?"

"There are five members," he began, attempting to withhold his small smirk. He was not yet clear for his goal. "Lord Hoster is the Lord Paramount. He has a brother, Ser Brynden, and three children: Ladies Catelyn and Lysa, and a son Lord Edmure."

Uncle Stannis gave a nod of approval, and Steffon took that as a sign to continue.

"Lady Lysa is the Lady Arryn, as we've met here in the capitol." Steff barely held in his grimace at the memory of the woman. Weeping, miserable Lady Arryn, he thought who's disdain for her husband was matched by her dislike of Lannisters. "I've not met the Lady Catelyn."

Nodding sharply, Uncle Stannis answered his unspoken question. "No, you would not have. She is the Lady Stark, and Ned Stark has not stepped foot in the capital since the end of the Rebellion."

Frowning in surprise, Steffon quickly scribbled that particular note into his parchment.

"Was she always betrothed to Lord Stark?" he thought out loud.

"To Lord Stark's elder brother," Uncle Stannis corrected. "Though the Rebellion has caused a great deal of change."

Standing, Stannis gave Steffon an awkward pat to his shoulder. "I must go. Continue to do well in your studies, nephew." Turning, the man halted and looked down at Steff with his piercing gaze. "You are the Crown Prince; hesitating to ask the necessary questions will only be to your detriment," he warned.

Flushing slightly, Steffon gave a small nod and murmured his goodbyes. He was certain the man had not known what it was he was looking for, though his uncle might have read something else into his actions.

Lifting the parchment that he had hidden beneath the stack of books, Steffon glanced down at the rudimentary map of Westeros that had been inked onto it. It had been his own handiwork, something one of Pycelle's acolytes insisted on to help remember where each family was located in relation to each other.

The young man could not have known how helpful it would prove to be. Gazing at the map, Steffon could see the lines being drawn.

What was the point of an oath if they could not keep to it? It seems the High Septon uttered words that the nobles were intent on ignoring. Spare the innocent, keep to one bed, and obey your King. He snorted in disgust. It was all nonsense. Men were creatures of violence, delighting in fighting and fucking their way through life until they had sated their lusts. Satisfied the monsters within. It was never permanent, just a continuous cycle of temporary satisfaction until they yearned for blood again.

"As High As Honor," he muttered. For the greater good.

Steffon felt ash in his mouth at that thought.

There was a long road of travel ahead of them, so that Lord Tywin may meet his grandsons, and he knew that he would be forced to interact with the entire council. All he wanted was to hide in his room and avoid his family as he processed his thoughts.

The raven that came from Casterly Rock would aid his efforts. Dark wings, dark words he thought. Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Iron Islands.

In his short life as Steffon Baratheon, the little prince had come to adore the big man who had sired him. His growing awareness of who Robert Baratheon was, what he had done to get the crown, had soured the boy's thoughts, but he still held a kindle of affection for the older man. Robert was rough around the edges, but the man had shown affection with his sons during the times when he could be spared to pull away from his whores and drinks, and while Steff knew his parents had disliked each other—they had all heard the yelling after Edric Storm had been born—and fought as fiercely as two cats, he had been willing to ignore it and focus all his attentions on his brother.

Years later, Steff would be unable to recall what exactly had triggered the argument between his parents, although he knew it had to do with the war. All he could vividly recall were the loud sounds, anger palpable in the air and the sharp smack that rang out.

The king strode out of the room, face thunderous and unmarked and utterly ignorant of the fact that his heir had been standing just outside.

Jaw clenched, Steff fought against the urge to claw at his father, to do something other than hold back the bile that was in his throat, but he was only four and unable to fight. He sent a small prayer to the Gods that Joff was busy in his lessons before making his way inside.

His mother's apartments were usually neat, finely crafted furniture and ostentatious trinkets littering the rooms. Today, many of those trinkets were on the floors, some shattered beyond recognition. Steff walked closer to the woman, her blonde hair covering her face.

"Mother," he whispered.

The queen slowly raised her head, green eyes simmering with fury. There was a darkening bruise on her left cheek, the skin purpling in evidence of the king's fury. Steff stared in horror at his mother.

"Leave me," she hissed. "GET OUT!"

Cringing, the prince turned and ran from the rooms, the look of hatred on his mother's face searing itself into his brain.

Not for the first time Steffon cursed his father, cursed his unfortunate resemblance to the man, and cursed his mother for her inability to see beyond his looks.

Time passed, the King having left for war and taking most of the Kingsguard with him. He had left Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Boros Blount to guard his heirs, as well as a score of knights Lord Tywin had sent to be part of the queen's household.

His mother had apologized with a hug and kiss on the forehead, calling him her precious lion cub, and though Steffon had graciously accepted her apology he had never truly forgotten. All he truly had was Joffrey; Joff and this title and the kingdom he would one day inherit. He would be the best king there could be, better than anything he saw from his father, better than his mother thought she could rule. He would be king and Joff would be right there beside him as brothers.

Nothing like father and Uncle Stannis, he thought darkly.

Stannis had saved the day in Pyke from what the ravens had said, laying siege to Pyke and breaking the Iron Fleet at sea. Mores the pity; he was unlikely to receive true recognition from father.

Steffon had thus spent more of his time with Joff. When he wasn't in his lessons, he was with the younger boy, helping him learn his letters, telling him stories about the Seven Kingdoms that he had learned in his lessons, and playing at swords with him.

His fifth nameday had occurred at the end of the war. Beyond the expectations for a smaller feast in light of the Greyjoy's actions, Steffon had been greeted with dreams that had held him in a vice of terror. Steffon did not know from whence they came, but they differed from his visions of Voldemort.

He was standing on a field of ice as far as the eye could be. The sky was grey and drab, the field empty but for the presence of a vast army. They were human. Had been, he should say, for they reminded Steffon rather horrifically of the inferi he had encountered in the cave.

They were led by a group of men armoured in ice. In the centre, standing tall with pale features and an almost unearthly beauty was what he assumed was their leader. He had horns that spiked into a crown, and as he turned to Steffon he noticed his gaze was blue; endless, vibrant blue that sparked with a malevolence eerily reminiscent of Tom Riddle.

Always, Steff woke with a wordless scream. His magic, which he had always thought lost to him, sparked angrily, a surge of power coursing through him as it reacted to his fear.

He did not know what it was he saw, could not fathom what it was that had evoked such terror in him.

The last time he had felt like this was upon learning of the Dark Lord's horcruxes, and that same soul crushing fear and hopelessness took hold of him now. On those days the visions assaulted him, Steff made his way down the tunnels they had discovered to a rocky shore outside the walls. The crashing noise of the Blackwater always soothed him, and his magic settled far easier in reach of the sea.

The library did not have much information on what he had seen. There were some scrolls and books written in High Valyrian though he was not yet proficient. In his bones, he knew that it – whatever it was – would require some sort of war, his magic thrumming alongside the churning sea as if in agreement. The prince brooded, thoughts wracked with how he could possibly deal with something seemingly dangerous.

When Ser Barristan returned with the king from Casterly Rock, Steff immediately sought out the knight. It was just his luck that he was guarding his father as the man attended a small council meeting to discuss the end of the war. Ser Preston opened the council doors after a slight glare from the prince.

They were clearing up, from the look of things, which suited Steff.

"Ser Barristan." The eyes of the small council were on the prince, and Steffon steeled his resolve.

"Prince Steffon," the knight said kindly. "How may I be of service?"

"I must learn the sword, Ser. Will you take me on as your squire?"

Blinking slightly, the knight looked to his king and Lord Arryn.

"Prince Steffon," Lord Arryn began. "You are still young. There is time left before you must learn to wield a sword."

"I am five, Lord Arryn." He stated calmly, "and a Prince of the Realm, besides. I do not have time for childish fancies, as duty has made me the Crown Prince. I must learn, and I am strong enough for it."

Silence greeted him, although Steffon noticed Lord Varys hiding a slight smile. He hadn't been lying; Steff was strong enough to start his training, tall and broad for his age on account of his Baratheon blood where Joff took more after their Lannister side although he too was tall for his age.

The king stared coolly at him. "A sword, you say?"

"Yes father."

"Why should you wield a sword? You are naught but a child still."

"Noble sons across the realm are wielding wooden swords at my age, as you yourself once had," he answered fiercely. "Why should the Crown Prince be any different?"

"Your gr—" Jon Arryn began.

"Ah, leave it be Jon," the King laughed. Stormy blue eyes locked onto those of his son, and Steffon squared his shoulders in preparation. Father will not deny me this, he thought. Not with how he boasts of his skill.

"You will do everything Ser Barristan tells you to, and you will train in addition to your lessons."

"Yes, father."

"Well, Ser," the king laughed. "It seems as if there is another bold Stormlander to learn the sword."

"Indeed, Your Grace," the knight replied. Ser Barristan looked closed off, eyes lost in thought though the knight was acutely aware of what was occurring around him.

"There you have it, go on boy!"

Bowing to his father, with a murmured "Your Grace, my Lords, Ser" Steffon exited the chambers, waiting until he entered his rooms to let out a whoop of glee. He had almost thought the Lord Hand would put him off until his seventh nameday, but his father's pride won out as he hoped.

Joff entered the room startled, and Steff grabbed the younger boy in a fierce hug, twirling him around the room. The blonde's laughter rang out as he squirmed in his hold.

"I'm going to be a knight, Joff!" he exclaimed.

Laughing, Joffrey stumbled as Steffon placed him on his feet. "Swords?" he questioned.

"Not quite yet, brother." Seeing the mulish pout on the child's face, Steffon attempted to soothe his ire.

"One day soon Joff, you'll start your sword lessons too."