A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I'm really glad you are enjoying it. This is the final installment of The Storm Prince until the sequel Black Lion, Golden Stag is written. Some of the questions you asked regarding the plot and the issue of his magic are answered in this chapter, and there will be a little note at the end of this similar to the answers I've left in comments elsewhere. Cheers!

A few things to clear up the timeline:

Joff is born in early 286, Myrcella and Tommen in late 290 and 291 respectively. I put Steffon's birth at around the end of the ninth month of 284, with Cersei and Robert marrying at the beginning of the new year.

Casterly Rock visit: late 295-early 296

This chapter starts in early 297. Some changes will be made to the canon timeline because of Steffon's existence and the ripples it caused, so things in this chapter will finish off in mid-late 299.

Steffon was feeling frustrated at the slow pace of things.

It would take several years to rework the infrastructure of King's Landing. He had anticipated it taking quite some time; Uncle Tyrion warned him of the time it would take, of the need for skilled workers, a proper assessment of the drainage and finding the tools.

He had known what he signed up for; he just hadn't quite expected to face a wall in the form of the small council.

Steffon had continued his forays into the city. Joff had not asked why he wandered King's Landing with only a small retinue, mostly hidden in the shadows. The prince simply joined him on his excursions, letting their smallfolk see their heir's interest. His pride in the younger boy was tempered by the bitter realization of how necessary such action was.

They had spoken to their people, asking after their welfare and the needs of their poorest subjects. Uncle Tyrion had been with them just shy of a year, unable to truly start his work until he had a better idea of the lay of the land. He had discovered what he would need, could estimate the cost of materials and labour and was reluctant to commit when Steffon insisted on finding the materials from amongst the kingdoms. He had relented in the end, seeing wisdom in putting coin in the back into the hands of their lords. Tyrion spent moons poring over past trade agreements that Steffon brought to him and an account on the resources of each kingdom.

In the meantime, they had begun to make small improvements; people were urged to boil their water to cleanse it of dirt, and Steffon saw marked improvement in their health.

It was a small change, things moving forward incrementally, but any improvement in their lives was met with joy.

Joffrey had followed in his example, ordering the servants to hand any leftovers from his nameday feast out to the poorest areas of King's Landing. Between the two of them, and with four nameday feasts thrown in the siblings' honour, they managed to handle quite the spread of food.

It wasn't enough, not nearly enough for what Steffon wished to do. All they had done was provide temporary relief; clean drinking water and meals from leftovers were all well and good, but their source of water was soiled and many could not afford the price of food. Not with the greatest share being given to the royal court. It had been Joff who insisted on purchasing grain for the smallfolk to be handed out routinely, providing those with the least resources a steady source of food, and even that was a bone of contention between the council and them.

In spite of being filled with all sorts of work, there were large swathes of King's Landing that held folk looking for an honest living. Steffon had hoped the building of new ships and the labour needed for fixing the drains would alleviate that, but the small council was being oddly stubborn about his proposal.

"Prince Steffon," Lord Arryn began soothingly, "while it is a good endeavour, it simply is not feasible at this time."

Steffon gritted his teeth, sounding quite like Uncle Stannis at the moment. The man in question was sitting there calmly, cool eyes watching Steff.

"And why should such a proposal be tabled for another day, Lord Hand?" Steffon asked testily.

"There are other expenses that the treasury must bear," Lord Arryn replied warily.

Scowling fiercely, Steffon glared at the old man. Thirteen years he had been Hand of the King, and still he kowtowed to the whims of his foster son.

"I had thought the point of placing Lord Baelish on the council was to improve the treasury."

Littlefinger jerked slightly in surprise, not expecting the comment. He smiled pleasantly at Steff, a touch of condescension in his voice, "It is a complicated process, my prince, this business of commerce."

"And yet you've managed to ably find coin for the King to host several tourneys," Steff replied scathingly. "Mayhaps your luck with Gulltown has failed you here, my lord."

The man in question blinked, a flash of something crossing his face. Lord Varys was hiding a small smile, eyes twinkling in disguised humour.

"Why ships?" Uncle Stannis asked.

Steffon refrained from running a hand through his hair, a nervous tic that he would have to remove. "We stand to make more coin from ships, uncle."

"These designs have the look of war ships," Lord Arryn interjected, frowning in worry.

"They have the capability, yes," he added smoothly. "The entirety of the Royal Fleet is capable of waging war, Lord Arryn, though that is not the entire purpose. This will be done in large part to replace them."

"Replace them?" Uncle Stannis frowned. "Why should we replace perfectly functioning ships?"

"For faster and sturdier vessels. The fleet will be remade, and the existing ships can be used for extended trade opportunities. Or perhaps a mixture of both considering the dangers of pirating along the Narrow Sea," Steffon outlined.

Uncle Stannis would eventually approve; as Master of Ships he would welcome any opportunity to better his sails. If he spoke with that Onion Knight he liked to take counsel from, Steff was certain the man would agree once he saw the plans.

"A fine idea, Prince Steffon," Pycelle praised.

"If I may," Varys started, shrewd eyes looking upon the plans Steffon had placed on the table. "This will all require a good deal of work, Prince Steffon, and a number of men we might not have."

Steffon cut in before anyone could seize the lifeline Lord Varys provided them. "There are thousands of able-bodied workers within the city who would welcome the opportunity, my lord. Men who would do honest work for a decent amount of coin."

"Coin that we do not have!" Lord Arryn stressed.

At times, Steffon felt pity for Jon Arryn. The man had been an able Hand for some time, keeping things together until he died or the king finally took interest in his kingdom.

All traces of sympathy were wiped away when he recalled that his father had spent a large portion of his life in Lord Arryn's care, and the man had been unable to impress upon the then heir to the Stormlands the importance of responsibility.

"I should think the role of a Master of Coin was to not merely find coin but to ensure it's continued existence in the treasury." Steffon remarked. "If it is proving too difficult, then perhaps we shall need another."

His green eyes were boring into the sky blue of Jon Arryn, refusing to budge an inch. He had spent moons scouring the streets of King's Landing looking for men who could handle the strenuous work required of shipbuilders. Lord Tywin had loaned the crown a few engineers from Lannisport, and he was hoping to convince Lord Manderly and Lord Redwyne to loan them more men. He would need a united council behind him for that.

"That will not be necessary," Baelish hurriedly added. "I am certain I can find the necessary coin, my prince."

"I shall look forward to your progress on that end," Steffon said coolly. Eyes flashing to Jon Arryn, Steff stared down at the old Hand. They had gone back and forth for the better part of a year, each playing a game in their attempts to progress their own vision for Westeros.

"I expect that there should be no further issue finding the coin?" Steffon asked. They were silent, but for Pycelle's huff of agreement.

"Of course, my prince," Lord Arryn answered, false pleasantness in his voice.

Smiling thinly he added, "For the good of the kingdom, Lord Hand. The king's city cannot smell of a sewer, and Father has agreed to the upkeep required." Robert had been rather easy to convince; much like Lord Tywin, mentioning his supremacy over the Targaryens had proven key to gaining the man's approval. Lord Arryn was proving a difficulty.

Steffon was tired of the man's inability to rein in his foster son, of his ineptitude when it came to dealing with the general populace of King's Landing. The Vale Lords adored the old falcon and Steff would grudgingly admit that the man was adept at creating crucial alliances. But Jon Arryn had won a throne and seemed intent on losing it, and not for all the gold in Casterly Rock would Steffon allow any to pull him off his throne.

"My dear nephew, I did not think you the type to trample across the wishes of your mother, but you have proven me wrong," Tyrion grinned, striding into his solar. The desk was large, oak wood stained black, and Steff's stack of parchment was nearly as high as his uncle.

"I should think my invitation to you was proof enough of my willingness to ignore her wants when necessary Uncle," Steffon retorted. He ignored the cup of wine that had been poured for him, gesturing for the serving boy that had followed Tyrion in to leave them. A short glance at Ser Arys ensured that the man would keep others away.

Sighing, Steffon crumpled the letter he had been penning, tossing the ball of parchment onto the desk. Ignoring his uncle's curiosity he pointedly asked, "And what has our dear queen in a fit this fine evening?"

"Your brother, for one," Tyrion replied. Steffon straightened at the flat tone of his voice, recognizing the serious nature of their conversation.

"Joffrey has been rather well behaved Uncle," he said softly. Even with Maegor's paranoia over rats within his own walls, Steffon took care not to speak too loudly lest the spider catch whispers.

"For how long," Tyrion countered. "He insists on coming with you on a progress of the Crownlands—"

"As he should," Steffon pressed. "Second son he may be, but Joff is a prince and the realm should know their princes. Especially those of the Crownlands."

Tyrion stared at him, brow furrowed in thought. "A valid point, yet he has loudly bickered with your mother over the matter."

Sighing, Steffon dragged a hand across his face. It had been a year since their return from Casterly Rock and Joffrey had not recovered from what he learned. He was snappish when speaking with their mother, overly cold with both her and the king, and his fury had spilled into his training. Ser Barristan has realized something was upsetting Joff, but the knight said nothing, working instead to sharpen his skills. Ser Aron had worked to temper Joff's fury into something usable for battle, helping the younger boy keep a handle on his emotions.

Grimacing, Steffon remembered the bout between Joff and cousin Lancel, who had been brought to King's Landing to squire for the king. Lancel was very much a Lannister, and though he did not look like Uncle Jaime, the arrogant smirk he had sent Joff had been enough to cause the ten year old to leave him battered and bruised afterward.

"He is a ten year old," Steffon pointed out. Tyrion did not fall for it, merely shooting him a look of disbelief.

"Perhaps his behaviour could be excused, but that is something that would hurt your efforts with the Lords."

Glaring at his desk, Steffon pondered on his uncle's words. Joffrey was a mess of emotions right now, far more devastated by the truth than Steffon himself had been. They both knew the danger of their situation, but it was far more real to Joff who had a sword at his neck. Steffon would not allow them to suffer any harm, would tear downany who discovered the truth of his siblings, but he could not be there at all times.

Would that I could trust the bloody Spider on certain matters, he thought. That way led to war, and so he would need to gather as many potential allies as he could.

"Joffrey will come with me Uncle," Steff said firmly. "Better to keep him away from the keep until such a time as he is in higher spirits."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes stared shrewdly at him. Could he possibly know? Steffon wondered. His uncle had always been clever, and he had no way of truly knowing exactly how discreet his mother had been.

"High spirits," Tyrion drawled.

Brow twitching in irritation, Steffon motioned for his uncle to follow him to the wall, a map of Westeros pinned to it.

"Absence makes the heart fonder," Steffon quipped dryly. Pointing at The Whispers, Steffon outlined a trail that would lead them to Dyre Den and along the Rosby Road until they eventually came back to King's Landing.

"That will take quite some time," Tyrion noted. "Several moons at least, if you mean to stop at each holdfast along the road."

"I expect it will," Steffon said softly. "Not much has been done to bind the Crownlords to us."

"A folly. Loyal dragonmen all of them, and loyal to the Targaryen on the throne for some years. Especially those in Duskendale, Rosby and Stokeworth," Tyrion added.

Seeing his curious look, Uncle Tyrion launched into his explanation of the loyalties of those lords closest to King's Landing. "Many have kept faith with the throne, declaring for Maegor against Jaehaerys while he was king, fighting off the forces of Rhaenyra. Whoever holds King's Landing is like to have their loyalties."

"Good," Steffon murmured, eyes tracking the eastern crownlands. "Not quite enough though. How many men can they field?"

"A pittance compared to others," Tyrion grimaced. "Lesser power still, when you consider the naval strength of the Narrow Sea."

Steffon gazed at Dragonstone, determined in his course. "We shall have to win them to our side," he whispered.

"I would advise against that, Steffon," Uncle Tyrion warned.

Looking down at the dwarf, Steffon raised a brow. "Can you think of a better way to bring them to us?"

"Anything that does not require placing yourself in harms way," Tyrion hissed. "Bad enough that you will travel, that you insist on taking Joffrey and yourself in the midst of those particular lords is asking for more than your mother's screeching."

"Mother can make her displeasure known all she wishes, her crown rests on the continued goodwill of the lords," Steffon snapped.

"Not just their goodwill," Tyrion rebuked.

Sighing, Steffon dragged himself over to his chair, plopping down onto it as he pulled his cup of wine close.

"The Westerlands is one kingdom, a fine army to be sure but still nothing in the face of the others."

"You don't just have the West, His Grace holds the allegiance of four kingdoms," Tyrion replied.

"Father holds their allegiance, and you know better than I just how swiftly those allegiances can change."

"And yet you depend on the Lords of the Narrow Sea for loyalty," Tyrion remarked dryly.

Steffon sat quietly in thought, brow furrowed as he nursed his wine. Gods, at this rate I am like to take to the drink as my father has, he thought sourly.

"I do not like it," Steffon murmured. "Not at all, though I suppose I cannot begrudge them their allegiances."

"Of course you can. You are the future king, their allegiance is owed to you."

Snorting he said, "I did not take you for an optimist Uncle."

"Only at the worst of time," Tyrion jested. Sobering, he pierced Steffon with his mismatched eyes, a seriousness in them that people rarely saw. "It is a dangerous gamble, placing such resources in their hands. Oh, don't tell me you also take me for a fool nephew."

"Never have I thought that," Steffon said earnestly.

Smiling at him, Tyrion raised his glass in salute, draining his wine in one go. "They block the Narrow Sea, and their hold of improved ships would put them in a better position to do so."

"It's a gamble I will have to take," Steffon said.

"Then let us drink to a successful wager. I rather like my head on my shoulders, do remember that when you are trading words with those prickly lords."

The waves were crashing against the rocks, slowly pulling them in. They had left King's Landing near a week earlier, and Ser Davos had proven himself an able captain when the winds were not favourable.

The Lords of the Narrow Sea awaited them. Sullen most like, but willing to meet with the current princes, they would hold their grudges and smile lest they invite war to their lands.

Uncle Stannis had raged about the lords sworn to him, he knew. Raged about Renly being given his inheritance while he was left on a pile of stone, surrounded by unwelcoming faces. Prince of Dragonstone he was not, and their loyalty was as enduring as their Valyrian ancestry.

He heard the soft scuffles of Joffrey's boots, the younger boy standing to his right. Steffon waited, eyes locked onto the horizon, as the island grew closer.

"Are you certain of this?" Joff muttered.

Lips quirked, Steffon merely stared as the people of the isle became more visible. There were dragonseeds here, countless bastards from innumerable Princes of Dragonstone or their siblings who had sated their lusts among the smallfolk.

"They are not loyal," Steffon softly answered. "Not truly, and never to us. We will have to win their loyalty."

Joff pursed his lips, brow twitching in discontent. "You would give them ships. Ships that could be used for the benefit of Targaryen exiles," he responded.

He knew, had agonized over his decision for a moon before he pushed forth. Uncle Stannis had warned him against it, but he had no cause to complain once the reality of their situation had been laid bare.

"Exiles, with not one whit of knowledge of the people of Westeros. Who would welcome a foreigner?"

"Aegon the Conqueror was a foreigner who united the Seven Kingdoms," Joffrey retorted.

"Not so much a foreigner," Steff countered, "considering his close distance to other kingdoms, and dragons besides. But a girl who knows nothing of her homeland and a prince with possibly a touch of madness; who would dare invite another Mad King back to our shores?"

Huffing a breath, Joff turned to look at him. "I don't like it, Steff," he said quietly.

Smiling wryly Steff replied, "Nor do I, but it is up to us to unite the kingdoms more firmly. They'll see; the days of Targaryen power were waning before the war, and we'll show that we are not Father."

At those words, Joffrey's eyes flashed in anger before he smoothed his face, expression blank. Steffon gave him a small smile and a quick nudge, motioning to the side where Uncle Stannis awaited.

They had docked in Dragonstone's harbour, and a plank was brought to let them down. The moment Steffon's foot touched the rough stone he felt it. Dragonstone felt different. His magic rushed forward in greeting, a sense of familiarity between himself and the latent magic present. It was all Steffon could do not to stumble in front of his Uncle's people.

Seeing Joff's frown, Steffon gave him a quick smile, alleviating his worries. "Sea legs," he muttered, and was pleased to see Joff's smirk.

They were led to the castle itself. The entire isle was thrumming with magic; similar to small sparks he had felt when in King's Landing, but wholly concentrated. Valyria, he thought, the last gasps of the Freehold. Dragon sculptures greeted them, the entire castle littered with stone facades of the creatures alongside stone basilisks, cockatrices, gargoyles, griffins, manticores.

Uncle Stannis's household was arrayed outside, the Lords of the Narrow Sea beside them in places of prominence. They bowed at the sight of the Princes, and Steffon quickly ordered them to rise, eyes scanning the crowd of nobles.

Lady Selyse greeted her husband stiffly, little Shireen next to her with a curtain of hair covering half her face. The greyscale scars, he remembered.

"Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey. My wife Lady Selyse and daughter Lady Shireen."

"Aunt Selyse," Steffon greeted, hearing Joff echo his words. Little Shireen was standing stiffly next to her mother, a shy smile on her face.

Joffrey reached for her hand, bowing to place a kiss on her knuckles. "Little cousin, it is quite wonderful to meet you," he said warmly. Shireen spared a shy look at Joffrey, face flushed slightly as her hair moved, and Steffon was glad the boy did not react to the now visible scars.

"Well met, Prince Joffrey," Shireen said, turning to Steffon with a small curtsy. "Prince Steffon."

"Cousin," he replied, a smile on his face. Lady Selyse held a severe look on her face, lips pursed with a flash of something cold in her eyes, and Steffon had the sudden feeling that his little cousin faced disdain from her own mother for her illness.

Uncle Stannis stood next to an aging lord with a cane in hand, pale of hair with a thin face. Next to him was a younger man, closer in age to Uncle Stannis with Valyrian colouring. Both men wore grey trousers with a sea green doublet, the sea horse of House Velaryon stitched onto the breast.

The Velaryons of Driftmark had long been loyal to House Targaryen. Once, that loyalty might have extended to House Baratheon on account of their shared blood, but the Rebellion had soured whatever affection there might have been.

"Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey," Lord Lucerys greeted. His purple eyes were pale and cold, coolly assessing the two sons of the Usurper. Steffon was surprised to see the older man about; he had heard rumours of an illness that had left him bedridden, but here he stood, tall and unwilling to show weakness in front of them.

"Lord Velaryon," Steffon smiled. "A pleasure to meet you and your heir, my lord."

Purple eyes scrutinized his face, and Steffon kept his expression placid. He smiled slowly, "Yes, it is."

They had moved on after a polite greeting with Lord Monford, Uncle Stannis introducing them to the Bar Emmon, Celtigar, and Sunglass lords, all of them older than Stannis and some of the fiercest in loyalty to House Targaryen.

They feasted in the Great Hall, passing underneath the dragon's teeth, and Steffon was vibrating with the feel of magic throughout. He wanted to explore the island in its entirety, wanted to discover the secrets the Valyrians had hidden beneath the stone. There was no time for that, he knew, nor would he be allowed; ostensibly, he was visiting Dragonstone for a moon so that he and Joff may meet their cousin and see more of Westeros, but there was work to be done to bring these lords to their side, and time for little else.

Steffon was seated next to his uncle, Joffrey on his other side as they were served from platters of food; wine-soaked salmon, honeyed trout with parsley sprinkles, a choice plate of boar, bits of chicken seared in peppercorn. Dragonstone offered a fresh range of fruit as well: berries and melons, blood oranges from Dorne, olives from the Free Cities and barrels of peach from Highgarden. Uncle Stannis had a particularly sour look on his face at the sight of the peaches – a gift from Lord Celtigar – and Steffon shook his head in dismay.

"He can't even stomach food from the Reach," Joff muttered. "How on earth are you to win these people to your side?"

"Wit and charm," Steff grinned. Joffrey snorted, and Steff lightly kicked him beneath the table.

"Are you saying I am without charm, dear brother?" he asked, an imperious look on his face.

"A boar has shown more charm than you," Joff jested, and Steffon felt his hand twitch with the urge to shove his brother's face into his plate of lemonberry tart.

"This is a folly Steffon," Uncle Stannis tried to dissuade him once more, voice hard as iron. "You are seeking trouble."

"I was unaware that it was a folly to mistrust loyal lords," Steffon said with an air of disinterest. They had had this conversation dozens of times since he first struck upon the idea, and they were no closer to coming to an agreement.

Hard blue eyes gazed at him and Steffon refused to flinch. A smile was plastered on his face, masking the sudden discontent between their lord and his nephew.

"They fought against us," Stannis pointed out, "and neither have any like for the crowned stag."

"As did many other Houses Uncle, but we have forgiven them all," Steffon calmly retorted.

Stannis clenched his jaw, and Steffon knew he was thinking of the Tyrells. You cannot alienate an entire kingdom for their loyalty to their king Uncle, he thought sadly.

Mace Tyrell had feasted outside the walls of a starving Storm's End, and Stannis had held both the castle and his grudge against the Reach.

"They bent the knee Uncle. We cannot punish them for choosing their loyalty to their king during the Rebellion. Besides, they have not shown any hint of disloyalty to you."

He had no response to that, and Steffon turned to continue his meal. Joffrey had been listening, eyes tracking across the hall as he appraised the assembled lords.

The time has come for them to cement their loyalty to the king on the throne, he thought.

Standing at the head of the Painted Table, Steffon could imagine the work that had gone into Aegon's Conquest. There was a powerful, heady feeling, standing here where the Conqueror had stood, where his own grandfather of many generations had plotted to bring Westeros under the banner of the red dragon.

The negotiations would go on for quite some time. At least a fortnight, he guessed, locked into heated discussions amongst lords of whom their loyalty was not certain. Uncle Stannis had asked again if he was certain of his course, but Steffon was nothing but stubborn and determined to see it through.

What better way to win their loyalty, he thought than to show them a measure of respect.

Joffrey stood to his right, tall and solid in his gold doublet. Ser Arys and Ser Boros stood behind them, Uncle Stannis to his left. Ser Davos Seaworth was stood next to his uncle in pride of place, and Steffon was certain the prickly lords were bristling at the perceived insult.

Next to Joffrey stood Maester Cressen, old and slightly stooped, a roll of parchment in hand so as to record the proceedings.

The Lords of the Narrow Sea were arrayed in front of him, stood along the Western shore of Westeros.

"Prince Steffon, we shall begin the negotiations," Maester Cressen stated.

Giving the old maester a slight nod, Steffon gestured at the mouth of the Blackwater. "The Royal Fleet numbers at just over two hundred ships, my lords, of which a good portion is provided by your houses. As the Greyjoy Rebellion has shown, the ships are not entirely unfallible."

"We have provided our best ships for the fleet," Lord Bar Emmon stated.

"Yes, there is no doubt of that, my lord. But our best ships cannot hope to compare to what we have in mind for the next fleet we mean to build," Steffon responded.

"These ships have served us well, are better than most can hope for. Why should we rebuild them?" Lord Sunglass asked.

"Not a complete rebuild, my lord. We are speaking of changing the future of seafaring entirely."

They were silent for a moment, looks of scepticism on their faces. Bar Emmon and Celtigar looked on in disbelief; a prince he may be but he was still only two and ten, not like to truly have done anything revolutionary in their eyes.

Joffrey was smirking when Steffon gestured to him, unrolling the large sheaf of parchment that he held so that it was spread across the map. Steffon watched as they leaned over so as to better look at the plans.

Steffon had come up with the original work, drawing upon the memories of Harry Potter to better Westeros. He had spent countless hours with Uncle Tyrion and the engineers from Lannisport, with Uncle Stannis and Ser Davos and their shipwrights seeing how they could possibly create something of this scale. It would dwarf their current ships, would open up more room for storage, and the shipwrights were salivating at the thought of having worked on such a piece nearly as much as Steffon was on the potential changes it could bring.

"This is impossible," Lord Celtigar stated.

"What can you not understand from the plans?" Uncle Stannis grouched. "They have been looked over by dozens of workers and builders. Use your abilities as a seaman my lord, and look at the ship!"

They broke out into murmurs, hands gesticulating as they looked over the ships. It was massive, with less oars and far more sails than their current fleet.

"Why show us these plans? What the Crown wishes to do with their fleet is their concern," Lord Monford asked. Steffon was unsure if it was his genuine interest or if Lord Lucerys was behind the question, but he felt the entire room hold their breath.

"It concerns your Houses as well," Joffrey retorted, "considering that you all have loyally provided ships for the Greyjoy Rebellion. We mean to reward such loyalty."

Steffon felt a rush of affection for his brother; Joffrey had struggled with the truth of things this past year, and he had worried that the boy would give in to his temper at some point. He was glad that despite his internal turmoil and misgivings over this affair he was willing to put his best work forward.

"He speaks true," Steffon stated. "There are several fleets in the Seven Kingdoms, but the affairs of the Crown and your Houses are closely tied. Should one flourish, we will all have to benefit."

They were interested, he saw. Could tell by the way they leaned over to familiarize themselves with the plans, in the way they gestured at one another.

"As the Lords of the Narrow Sea, these plans will be given to your shipbuilders, so that you may build a number of ships. Your current fleet would be used to patrol the Narrow Sea and for continued trade."

At his gesture, Uncle Stannis continued the talks alongside Ser Davos, highlighting the expected capabilities of the new ships. There would be extra coin to be made from potential trade, and Steffon was certain they were interested at the possibilities laid before them.

A part of him wavered over his decision; it was a significant amount of power to hand over to any House, and he had just emboldened several that most likely did not like seeing the crowned stag instead of the three-headed dragon. He could have spelt his doom – his and the rest of his family's – but Steffon had to believe that he had made the right decision.

It had taken well over a fortnight before they came to an agreement. The Lords of the Narrow Sea were a stubborn lot, each of them certain they knew what was best in regards to the fleet. Steffon could not undermine them, not when they had been sailing since before he had been a thought, but the new ships were something none of the lords had seen before yet they all weighed on with their expertise.

Costs of labour and material had been argued for a sennight, each lord insisting on a certain cost from the Crown. They had been in an uproar when Uncle Stannis had let it be known that final negotiations would come from the Lord Hand, including the Crown's portion of payment, and Steff and Joff had been forced to soothe their ruffled feathers at the realization that royal approval had not been given.

Lord Bar Emmon had approved when they had told them to find labourers amongst their smallfolk, with any additional requirements coming from the surrounding Crownlands; the coin would help many families beholden to these lords, and Lord Guncer had declared them pious princes with the Father's favour.

Things looked to be going in their favour. Ser Davos would oversee the construction on Dragonstone once approval had come from the Crown, and Uncle Stannis would return to King's Landing to ensure the Crown's compliance. They were not lacking in wood, and though Steffon had hoped to bring the North into their negotiations, he knew they were unwilling to wait for continued talks before building.

A ship or two, they have wood enough for that, and coin besides, he thought. It would work, and Steffon was eager to see the fruit of their labour.

For the entirety of the negotiations, purple eyes bore into Steffon as Lucerys Velaryon quietly appraised the young prince.

The beaches of Dragonstone were silent at this hour. Steffon relished the quiet, having not truly had time to privately order his thoughts. The life of a prince belongs to the realm, he thought.

It was early still, the sun peaking out from the horizon. It was breathtaking; for all that he had lived near the mouth of the Blackwater, Steffon had not quite gotten used to seeing the sun spread out over endless water. He was beginning to understand why Ser Davos enjoyed his ships so much.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to a visitor, and Steffon saw from the corner of his eye as Ser Arys shifted, alert with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

He continued watching the sea, the water beating against the rocks soothing him. Dragonstone smelt like smoke and brimstone despite the lack of dragons, as if they had embedded their scent on the ground.

Lord Lucerys stopped next to Steffon, watching the waves as he himself did, seemingly content with the silence.

"I knew your grandfather," he began. "Both of them, actually, though I knew Steffon far better. A good and loyal man; I mourned his passing greatly. A shame that we'll not see his like again."

"Dead at the end of a mad journey for an unworthy king and prince," Steffon replied.

Lord Velaryon's lips tightened the slightest bit. "Aegon the Unworthy come again?"

Steffon did not reply, allowing the old man his insult. Aerys, Robert. They were not of the same make, both king's having their own vices.

At his gesture, Steffon waited until Ser Arys had stepped away, giving them some form of privacy.

"You remained loyal to your king, Lord Velaryon, and paid a minor price for it."

"Minor," the old man scoffed, hands tightening on his cane. "It was not for Aerys that I remained loyal," Velaryon stated quietly.

"Rhaegar," Steffon responded with a slight twist to his lips. It always comes back to him, he thought.

"When Aegon the Conqueror united these kingdoms, House Velaryon stood behind him as he was their kin. Just as Jaehaerys and Daeron were our kin, as they were kin to House Baratheon," Velaryon replied.

"What has your loyalty given you, my lord?" Steffon asked sardonically.

Thrice, House Velaryon had provided brides for Targaryens, and each turn had ended in blood.

"Your grandfather would not have remained loyal," Velaryon surprisingly stated.

Steffon turned to him, a curious look on his face as he saw the purple eyes dim. In this moment, Lucerys Velaryon looked old and so very tired. "Don't look so surprised, Steffon would not have stood for the insult paid to his family, not even from the son of his cousin."

"His loyalty did not extend that far?"

"No man would endure such an insult, not when wars have been fought for less," Velaryon countered. "No, it was for Rhaella that we remained loyal."

Surprise filled him at the statement. Rhaella Targaryen was not often discussed. A victim of the actions of her husband and son, killed because she carried a threat to the Baratheon regime.

"The Lords of the Narrow Sea were sworn to the Prince of Dragonstone," Steffon commented.

"We were sworn to House Targaryen from the time of Aenar the Exile. Sworn to the king's heir once Aenys made his declaration. What is a prince to us when he does not spare his lords much thought?"

"You disliked Rhaegar," Steffon noted in fascination. He had always assumed the lords sworn to Dragonstone had kept faith with their prince, had adored the Silver Prince as much as any other.

Velaryon smiled sardonically, "Rhaegar was prone to flights of fancy. Oh, do not misunderstand; he was an able prince, learned and skilled at arms, but he was more Aerys than he cared to admit."

"A madman?" Steffon questioned, slightly aghast at the thought. Everything he had ever heard of Rhaegar Targaryen had pointed to a proper restoration of the glory days, of a man many wished to see crowned. Even at his lowest, Rhaegar was considered lowly for taking Lyanna Stark. Never had he thought the prince's subjects would agree with the likes of Robert Baratheon.

"Madness comes in many forms, most insidious is the one that allows others to die for their delusions."

"Why tell me this?" Steffon asked.

He was quiet for a long moment, to the point where Steffon feared the man would elect to not answer. "For Steffon, for Rhaella, " came the quiet reply.

Lord Velaryon turned to look at him and Steffon did the same, green eyes locked onto Valyrian purple. "I have lost kin in this war, we all have. You are unlike to find many who can say they were untouched by the Rebellion. Already, you have shown yourself a better king than your predecessors."

"You wish for me to be another Jaehaerys," Steffon stated.

"No, not at all," Lord Lucerys denied, shaking his head. "Even the Old King had his faults, had planted the seeds of crises that would see the realm in ruins. You must be better than them," he insisted.

Smiling lightly, "I had the thought that you were very much against me, my lord," Steffon remarked.

"Once perhaps, but you were not at fault for the actions of those before you. Yours is a legacy of blood, Prince Steffon. It is for you to decide what you wish to leave the realm with."

The old man left him with those parting words, a slight bow before making his way back to the castle.

For Rhaella and Steffon.

Steffon simply continued to stare out at the sea. It was restless, a storm clearly brewing. In its depths, Steffon saw the anguish of the past. Argella and Orys, Jocelyn and Rhaenys, Lyonel and Ormund and Rhaelle. Worst of all was his grandfather Steffon; he who had loved his cousins and been ever their champion, mourning what had become of them all. They all paid the price, he thought. House Targaryen had decimated itself and his ancestors had bled for it.

Somewhere in those watery depths, Argilac was laughing himself hoarse. They've paid, he whispered darkly. They have felt our fury. Do not ever let them break us again.

We are all a tangle of alliances, he thought, torn between love and duty and the bonds of affection.

A sense of lightness overcame him at that moment; he had won the Velaryons to his side, had shown trust to those loyal lords and was given a modicum of loyalty in return.

He would not squander it, this gift provided by a man who had loved his cousins.

Their first battle came at them in a flurry of limbs and glinting steel.

They had just left The Whispers, Nimble Dick riding with them for a league as Lord Crabb and his household saw them off. The old castle had been ruined for a thousand years, and none saw fit to restore it. It was a hard place, the lands impoverished, and Steffon had contemplated several different ways to bring coin to the lands. House Crabb sat along the coast, and a possible trading galley from the old fleet could be given to these proud lords.

They had been about a days ride out from Dyre Den when they were set upon. Cracklaw Point was filled with smugglers coves, and Steffon and Joffrey had been urged by their guards to travel with caution.

He had not expected such a brazen attack.

It had been a commotion that drew their attention as they were preparing to set camp, an old farmhand fighting off a rogue bandit. Ser Arys had pulled his sword out, keeping close to the two princes as a gold cloak went to handle the two men.

The crunching sound of gravel was their only warning before several men darted forward. They were dressed in all black leather, chainmail protecting them as they wielded castle-forged steel. A glint of silver came crashing toward him, Ser Arys's sword flashing forward to parry the blow.

Steffon jerked backward, scrambling to reach his sword as Ser Boros pushed Joffrey to him, the two Kingsguard knights working simultaneously against a band of four brigands. They were fairly even matched, Ser Arys fielding two men off while Ser Boros took the other two, but they were not Barristan the Bold and Steff drew his sword in preparation, Joff copying him.

The goldcloak had gone down in a spray of blood, throat sliced and a dirk sticking out of his eye. The man took hold of his knife, boot pressed against the dead guard as they heard the squelch of his eye.

He advanced with a bloody smile, tooth missing and blood dribbling down his chin. Steffon narrowed his eyes in anger, grip adjusting as he nudged at Joffrey. They had fought alongside each other several time, though nowhere near as many as they would need to truly make a fearsome. They were two boys of two and ten and one and ten and unblooded so far. Well, almost he thought.

"I've caught me fresh stag," he growled, face rippling with a gleeful smile.

The man lunged forward, longsword swinging toward his head and Steffon raised his sword to block, arm shaking with impact. It was jarring, having someone attack with strength and not for the first time did Steffon thank the gods for the Baratheon build.

Joffrey swiped across at the man's middle, and the two brothers were off in their attempt to keep themselves alive. A sharp jab to the thigh from Joff saw his thigh pierced, and the man responded with a quick parry and a sharp backhand. Joffrey's cheek split open and Steffon saw red as he moved forward in a flurry.

He was tiring, the bandit suddenly faced with the fury of two boys who had been trained by the greatest knight in the realms since they were five. An overhead swing was deflected and Joff sliced at the man's sword arm, cutting deep. A sharp thrust into the soft flesh of his arm from Steffon, a slice upward across his throat giving him the deathblow as he choked on his blood.

"Prince Steffon!" a knight yelled, the whistle of a blade and years of instinct causing him to fall to the left. A sharp sting across his shoulder blade let him know that he had not been entirely successful. Rolling to his feet, Steffon was greeted to the sight of Joffrey with his blade buried in the belly of their attacker.

The younger boy scrambled backward, face pale and bloodless from shock and Steffon rushed forward as Ser Arys and Ser Boros finished off their opponents.

"Joff," Steffon asked worriedly. His green eyes were wide with shock, a fragile look in them, and Steffon was uncomfortably reminded of the first time he had witnessed a death.

"I killed him," Joffrey whispered, fists clenched in his tunic. "Steff, I killed hi—"

"Look at me," Steffon whispered harshly. He ignored the gold cloaks searching through the bodies and the Kingsguard standing protectively over them. "He was going to kill you Joff, you did the right thing. Do you understand? It was him or you, and he would not have been satisfied with just your surrender."

Joffrey was breathing in shakily, blinking back the tears in his eyes as he nodded in determination. There was a hint of steel in his younger brother's eyes, and Steffon was sad to see the loss of innocence in the once bright-eyed boy.

He hasn't been that innocent child since he discovered the truth, Steffon thought angrily.

"Brigands, pirates most like," a guard called. "They've got gold on them."

"My princes, we should leave," Ser Arys urged. "We are less than a days ride out from Dyre Den, best we continue to ride hard lest we encounter more of them."

Once he was certain Joffrey would not collapse, Steffon ordered them to pack up. "Strip them of all gold and any weapons. We'll carry their loot with us."

"What of Garitt?" one asked.

Turning north, he saw a guard lying on the ground, blood staining his gold cloak. "Bury him," Steffon said softly, "and take note of whether he has any family. They shall know of his bravery."

That and more, he thought. Gold could not give them their lost family member, but if Garitt had left behind any family Steffon would see to it that they received his pay for the full duration of the trip.

It took them the better part of an hour to pack and bury Garitt, the guards saying a short prayer for their fallen comrade.

Steffon held tightly to Joffrey until they were ready to ride, only releasing him so that he could climb Fury before they set off at a hard pace.

The Northern Crownlands had long been neglected; he saw that now. It was one thing to hear and learn of the difficulties that had befallen them, quite another to witness the dilapidated holdfasts and the worn down dirt tracks that passed as a road.

From Rosby to Duskendale the road was well maintained, even further toward Maidenpool. Yet it became narrow and neglected east of Maidenpool, the roads falling apart and only wide enough to allow a horse and a cart to bypass each other.

They were currently at the Antlers, Lord Buckwell offering to host the king's sons as they went about their journey. Ravens had been sent to the lords whose seats were close to Antlers. Byrch and Cressey, Farring and Follard, Harte and Hogg, Pyle and Rollingford; they had come out in force in response to the ravens, eager to have their grievances heard by their princes.

"They have good lands," Joffrey muttered as they sat at the head of the Great Hall. He had taken his lessons seriously before they left King's Landing, spending hours alongside him in the library of the keep learning about the economic value of the Crownlands Houses.

"Arrable land to the north and west, along the border of the Riverlands. They could probably provide food for the their region without interference from the crown."

The eastern Crownlands was the poorest of their region, bandits and pirates making a home in the coves along the shoreline.

"There are several market towns here," Steffon murmured to Joffrey, "a possible trade town can be built from their smaller market villages for goods brought into the Crownlands."

Luncheon had been served; servants were walking about to clear the room of all food and extra guests. The lords were seated at the table with them, their closest knights and advisors spread across the room.

Once the final plates had been removed, the guards of House Buckwell returning to their duties, the Great Hall doors were shut after two of the tables were brought together.

Lord Buckwell had provided a map of the Crownlands for this meeting, his maester spreading across the tables. Joff and he were not here to make promises, not like their trip to Dragonstone, but they were hoping to get a lay of the land and hear the grievances of the lords.

It was far more than they had expected for ones so close to King's Landing.

"There are brigands roaming my lands," Lord Rollingford complained. "They steal my animals and terrorize my farmers."

"Have you lodged a complaint with the Hand?" Joffrey asked. At his negative response, Steffon interjected, "Have a riding of men patrol the farms, my lord. Daily, once in the morning and another in the eve at interchangeable hours so that they cannot expect you."

"What will be done about these brigands?"

"A raven has been dispatched to the capitol," Steffon replied, recalling the letter he had sent to his father after the attack. "The king will see it dealt with swiftly."

The return raven had nearly ordered them to return, but Steffon was even more determined to continue. More problems had made themselves known as they travelled to Antlers; dilapidated holdfasts, partly abandoned land, it was near as bad as Flea Bottom along the coast but that they had turned to brigands and pirates as trade vessels entered The Gullet.

"We have farmers and good land but none to sell it to," Lord Pyle huffed. His maester was a bastard cousin, Denys Waters, and the man was nodding along, mop of brown hair shifting with a non-existent breeze.

"You sell food to the crown do you not Lord Pyle?" Steffon asked, brows raised in question.

"Of course, Prince Steffon. But all food comes mainly from the Reach," he continued, "and we cannot possibly keep up with the demand as they do."

Grimacing, Steffon thought of another way to meet the needs of the Crownlands. They were concentrated mainly along the Blackwater, and he could promise the lords all the ships he wanted to help expand trade.

"What of your fishing barges?" Joffrey asked.

"Moving steadily, Your Grace, we have no cause for complaint there," Lord Cressey allowed.

Jotting down that specific issue, Steffon gestured for Lord Harte to speak. "My princes," he puffed, sweat on his brow from overexertion. Edgar Harte had once been tourney knight, breaking lances with members of the Kingsguard and other courtiers during the reign of Aerys Targaryen, but war and the loss of his favourite horse had soured him to the sport, turning instead to his table.

"House Harte has functioning lands and the people to work them, but our taxes to the crown make it difficult to do the necessary upkeep for the area. Nor can we transport our goods beyond the Kingsroad."

Frowning, Steffon stared at the map, finger resting on Sow's Horn. "Lord Harte, where would you transport your grain to?"

"Why, the eastern Crownlands, Your Grace," he said flustered.

"Dyre Den is a smuggler's haven," Lord Farring interjected. "It's not safe to transport anything there."

The lords began bickering and Steff shared a look of exasperation with Joffrey. It had been like this at Dyre Den, at The Whispers, even Dragonstone had not been immune to the blustering of lords.

"Unfortunately Lord Harte, I cannot reduce your taxation though I shall of course bring your concerns to the council," Steffon interrupted.

Edgar Harte turned a shade of red before he stammered his thanks, sullen in the refusal to lower his costs.

"As to the transportation issue my lord, your keep is close to the Kingsroad and can be sent down to King's Landing for shipment."

"That is the usual business Prince Steffon, however selling out of King's Landing is itself proving costly," Maester Denys added.

"What of Maidenpool?" Joff asked, frowning at the map. "It is fairly close to you."

"Lord Tully imposes his own taxes on shipments out of the Riverlands Your Grace," Lord Buckwell stated. The man looked sour at the thought of paying taxes to Hoster Tully, and Steffon recalled they had fought against each other at Stony Sept.

"Duskendale," Joffrey stated.

Latching onto that idea, Steffon pointed at the harbour on the map. "Aye, Duskendale still has a functioning port, though it does not see as much traffic as King's Landing. It is one possible route for your goods," he offered.

It could work; Duskendale would see use again, and the port would bring more income to Lord Rykker and thus to the crown. They had only the Crownlords paying directly to the throne, and Steffon meant to see them succeed so as to secure the city.

Myrcella let out a squeal of delighted laughter as Steffon swept her into his arms. She had been hard at work, beginning her lessons in embroidery, and Steffon was determined to spend as much time with the youngest children as he could.

"Sweet sister," Steffon grinned, twirling the little girl about, "have you missed me?"

Laughing, Cella squirmed in his hold. "Steff! I-I-I mis—" she broke out into fierce giggles, gasping for breath as Steffon took pity and let her down.

Cella stamped her foot, hands on her hip as she attempted to give him the same displeased look their mother had mastered. It was adorable, and he had to work hard to hide his smile lest she grow angry with him.

Sniffing in feigned disdain she sternly told him, "A lady is not to be dragged about, a princess less so."

Joffrey swooped in to ruffle her golden curls, Tommen dangling from his arms, and Steffon let out a booming laugh at the look on her face.

He had missed them while traveling. Joff and he had spent a moon on Dragonstone before traveling throughout the Crownlands, turning what had been a planned two-moon journey into a near year absence. Cella had grown taller; their mother in miniature but that she always had a pleasant smile on her face, green eyes glinting with mirth. A pang hit him then, at the sight of Tommen's neat curls, face losing some of the chubbiness of the young child he knew.

They had missed their namedays, both Cella and Tom. The little prince and princess were now six and seven; taller and quieter in the moons they had been gone, yet they were eagerly asking after stories.

Joffrey was regaling them with the tale of Lord Hogg and Ser Elwood Harte who had fought bitterly over a merchant's daughter and some manner of insult. They had both been dumbstruck to find the lady in question gone, taking with her the precious trinkets each had gifted her, drowning their sorrows in drink.

"Have you seen Mother?" Cella asked quietly.

Joffrey stopped his next tale abruptly, staring at Cella as if he had never seen her. Steffon glanced uneasily at the door, as if expecting someone to come barging in at any moment.

"Cella," Steffon said, "we greeted them upon arrival. In the throne room, sister."

Joffrey's face was blank, as much as it could be when any mention of their mother came, but his eyes were a roiling storm.

"A proper greeting?" She asked.

"Yes, sister, a proper greeting as befits our lovely Queen from her royal sons," Joffrey spat bitterly.

"Joffrey," Steffon called sharply. Tommen was staring at his siblings in apprehension, and Steffon glared at Joff in response.

"Apologies, sister. I should not have taken out my anger on you." Joffrey offered with a reluctant smile.

Cella remained quiet, looking at Joffrey with a sad look on her face, and Steffon felt a pang of despair. Tom and Cella were so young and had been spoiled by the two of them to make up for the knowledge of their parent's failing marriage. It was so easy to forget that Myrcella was far more observant than she let on.

"You were upset when we left Casterly Rock. There is talk Joff, from the court," Myrcella stressed. "Whatever happened to upset you, move on from it brother."

Joff's jaw tightened in stubbornness, and Steffon shot him a fierce look, shaking his head. He looked sullen, and Steffon worried about the inevitable explosion of Joffrey's temper.

"When did you get so smart," he lightly teased his sister.

"Cella's the smartest," Tommen chirped.

Gasping loudly in feigned horror, Steffon dragged himself over to lie in front of Tommen. "And what of me, my prince? Am I not the smartest person you have met?"

Tommen began giggling loudly as Steffon attacked his sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh as the boy squirmed. From the corner of his eye, Steffon saw Joff giving Myrcella a tight hug, face buried in her curls as he kept Tommen occupied.

It was only once they were seated for the feast, music floating across the hall and the courtiers' murmurs filling any silences as platters of food were passed around, that Steffon brought up their earlier conversation.

"She's right, you know," Steffon said around a goblet of wine.

Joffrey's hand tightened on his fork, the only sign that he had heard what was said. Leaning in close, Steffon stole a grape from Joff's plate, staring at the younger boy with gimlet eyes.

"We are in a dangerous position, brother," he murmured, smile plastered to his face as people came to give their greetings. "We cannot afford disunity amongst ourselves. Not now."

"After everything she has done—" Joffrey hissed.

"Aye, after everything she has done. People will notice – have already noticed – that the queen and her son have had a falling out. There will be questions asked, questions that we do not need others to contemplate."

Sighing, Joffrey turned to look at him; eyes glancing behind to see how close the Kingsguard were standing. "I'll not forgive her actions," he said lowly.

"Nor do I expect you to," Steffon responded candidly. "But for now we must present a united front. We are playing the great game brother, and more than our crowns are on the line."

"Says the prince with his own court," Joff snorted in contempt.

"The difference, little brother," Steff replied amused, "is that my 'court' as you call it is in response to our rather stubborn Hand."

Jon Arryn sat next to the King, his wife beside him with a glum look on her face. "He might prove a nuisance," Joffrey muttered.

"His loyalty is to the king he fostered," Steffon murmured. "What might he do with such information in his hands?"

A small grimace was the only acknowledgement he received, but Steffon knew his message had come across.

He stood to cross the table toward Cella's seat, the young princess deemed old enough to stay at feasts for longer periods of time. "Little sister, would you do me the honour of a dance?" he asked with a gallant bow.

Smiling, Myrcella accepted his hand with a curtsy, gliding over to the centre of the hall. Steffon noted the exact moment Myrcella noticed Joffrey dancing with Mother, a look of relief flashing through her eyes.

"You worry too much," Steffon murmured, twirling her in his arms. He had been a terrible dancer in another lifetime, but lessons had been enforced his entire childhood as Cersei Lannister would not suffer her children to lack in courtly matters.

"You did not hear what they were saying," Cella countered. "Nor did you realize that even Mother does not know why Joff is upset."

"No, I did not. Ten moons has given them enough time to whisper."

Pursing her lips, Cella stepped closer as he spun her in, voice lowered, "Uncle Renly is here with his Tyrell squire, and – "

"Fear not sister," Steffon said with a sharp smile. "I shall be more vigilant." Eyes flashing to the head table, Steff noted Uncle Renly and his former squire seated close to the king.

"May I cut in?" Joff asked. Mother was next to him, hand tucked into his elbow, a content smile on her face. Joffrey was smiling at Cella, and Steffon was relieved to note that it seemed genuine.

"Mother," Steffon gestured with his hand, taking the queen's arm in his. They were playing a lively tune, one from the Reach if he recalled correctly, and Steffon danced in silence as his mother scrutinized his face.

"You've grown," she remarked. It was true, of course. Steffon had returned with less fat on his cheeks and more muscle on his frame, the training from the knights not stopping as the princes went about their journey. Even more telling, Steff was now taller than his mother; inches only, but he was only three and ten and like to continue growing. Mayhaps I'll be of a height with Father, he thought in relish.

"I've been told that is what happens when one ages Mother," Steffon quipped. She smiled faintly, a sharp dig of her nails into his shoulder showing her displeasure.

"When do you plan on making your next journey?"

She had never approved of their plans, and Steffon had spent countless nights arguing with her while attempting to keep silent the true reason behind their sudden need to shore up support.

"Not until the new year," Steffon said truthfully. "I've missed home, and neither Cella nor Tom would forgive us if we missed another nameday."

She had a queer look on her face, a flash of displeasure in her green eyes. "Joffrey will be going with you."

Inclining his head, Steffon quickly glanced around him as he twirled her about the room. They were watching them, the eyes of the courtiers following their movements as they had Joffrey's earlier turn.

"Let them see their princes and remember who holds the crown now."

Bowing, Steffon placed a kiss on his mother's hand before escorting her to the high table. He sat next to Joffrey, Myrcella seated between Tommen and Uncle Tyrion. Uncle Jaime was stood behind the queen's chair, Ser Barristan behind the king. Feeling a glare on him, Steff looked to see Tyrion's mismatched eyes twinkling, glass raised in a toast.

The council had assembled a day after his return, though Steffon did not attend that first meeting, instead spending the day with Tommen in the yard. Myrcella had watched over Tom as he began his lessons at arms, sometimes embroidering in her room as the little prince practiced his manoeuvres with a wooden sword.

He and Joff had taken over Tommen's training for the day, helping the younger boy with his footwork as they instructed Cella on the handling of a dagger under the awkwardly disapproving glance of Ser Arys.

Today was the day he and Joff were meant to update the council on their trip. Ravens had been sent explaining their prolonged journey, but Steffon wanted to give them a clear picture of exactly what was wrong.

If they are like to listen, he groused to himself.

Just three and ten, but Steffon had worked hard to drag Westeros into prosperity. He couldn't tell them he had the memories of a boy who had lived in a time when things seemed impossible, but using that to improve their lives had been his goal, hampered by stubborn lords who seemingly liked the status quo.

They entered the room, Steffon sitting at the head of the table with Joff to his left. Lord Arryn was seated to his right, Baelish and Pycelle next to him with Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly next to Joff, Varys seated between the two brothers. Ser Barristan stood inside the room, eager to hear the report from his squires yet unwilling to sit.

"My lords," Steffon began pleasantly. "It has been quite some time since we last gathered."

"Indeed, my prince. An unfortunately long delay," Lord Arryn responded.

"A necessary one," Steffon corrected.

There was a sour look on his face, and Steffon barely resisted smirking smugly at him. Lord Arryn reluctantly handed over a sheaf of parchment, and looking at it Steffon was relieved to see that Uncle Stannis had upheld his end of the bargain.

I will never doubt the man, Steffon vowed.

"The Crown will cover the cost of a dozen ships, to be spread amongst the Lords of the Narrow Sea. An additional forty ships will be commissioned in this year."

"And the total number of ships?" Joffrey asked curiously, gazing at the figures scrawled on the parchment. Coin enough for several ships, as well as the labour costs.

"A hundred should suffice," Lord Arryn said.

Brows knitted in thought, Steffon glanced at Stannis to see the man grinding his teeth. "A hundred," he stated.

"Yes, we already have four hundred ships, Prince Steffon."

"And these new ships are meant to replace them. Remove the lumber from the ships themselves if you wish Lord Arryn, but a hundred will not suffice. We would severely limit ourselves should we hold only a hundred of this type," Steffon retorted.

"The coin for a hundred ships and labour alone are costly," Baelish interjected, "not to mention the current work being done on the sewers."

"Work that seems to be doing as we intended," Joff stated dryly. "Used to be that you could smell the shit from two leagues out and now it is only noticeable at half that distance."

Uncle Tyrion had done an admirable job in their absences, even with parts of the city under construction. It would take another year, year and a half at most he had estimated, and Steffon was eager to see the full results.

"You increased the tax on the Crownlands Lord Baelish," Steffon frowned, recalling Edgar Harte's complaints. "Where would all that coin be going?"

"To the ships, and a portion to the King's spending," Baelish replied smoothly.

"The king's spending was covered was it not?" Joff asked. "I do recall your ability to come up with coin for Father's tourneys."

"And how much tax is going to the ships? The islands are paying for the cost of several ships themselves," Steffon added. Lord Varys was smiling, he saw, and Steffon and Joffrey stared at Littlefinger in suspicion.

"The cost of material for a large endeavour such as this is quite high," he replied, eyes flashing with unknown emotion.

"Where are you importing the lumber from?" Uncle Stannis asked with his perpetual frown.

"Parts from the Riverlands, the Stormlands and the Reach," Lord Arryn responded.

"And what of the North?" Steffon asked in disbelief. Lord Arryn smiled at him, and Steffon's hand twitched with the urge to throttle the man in realization.

"I am sure Lord Stark would agree to the sale of lumber at cost, especially as the North is filled with forests," Steffon said pleasantly, eyes flashing in cold anger. "Of course, we can also revise their tax agreement for the next year to exchange coin for an equal cost of lumber."

Strike hard and strike fast, and do not let them take you for a puppet, Lord Tywin had told him, and Steffon was frustrated at having to put that to use.

"Revise their tax agreement," Lord Baelish echoed faintly.

"Of course," Steffon said with a shark-like smile. "You have increased the taxes for the Crownlords, and that gold will be put to use on the ships. Lord Stark pays how much in taxes?"

"The North pays around one hundred thousand dragons in taxes, less than others considering their sparse population and harsh lands," Uncle Stannis answered.

"A million dragons in total to the Crown yearly from all the kingdoms," Steffon stated slowly, "and yet you have seen fit to increase their costs Lord Baelish."

"The upkeep required for the kingdoms is costly Prince Steffon, a difficult job for us all," Baelish said.

Snorting, Joffrey replied scathingly, "Then we are wasting millions on nothing, my lords, for there is nothing to be seen."

"Prince Joffrey?" Arryn asked with a frown.

"As you recall, we spent the better part of a year in the Crownlands, my lords," Steffon began. "Beyond Duskendale, the road to Maidenpool requires upkeep. East of Maidenpool is a dirt road that leads to Dyre Den, and the road along the shoreline from Duskendale to The Whispers is practically non-existent."

"Not to mention the rumours we have heard of the state of the Kingsroad north of Moat Cailin," Joffrey added.

"A change to the roads?" Lord Varys asked, brow raised in surprise.

"The Kingsroad is the responsibility of the crown and council in conjunction with the Lord Paramounts, though we bear the greater cost," Steffon responded. "A dilapidated road speaks poorly of the king."

"The Kingsroad has been in that state for years," Arryn protested.

"Then perhaps it is time to rectify the mistakes of the last rulers," Steffon retorted.

The air was thick with tension; if he had thought the moons spent away from King's Landing would reduce the issues between him and the Lord Hand Steffon was sorely disappointed. Jon Arryn seemed to have taken his absence with gusto, and Steffon was here to remind the man that it was to him the council would answer to in future.

I will have to speak to Father before they can sway him, he thought.

"You will be pleased to know, Prince Steffon, that the smallfolk are singing your praises," Lord Varys spoke up.

"Words are wind," Uncle Stannis grumbled, "and their sentiments change with their mood."

Hiding an exasperated smile at his surly uncle, Steffon noticed Joffrey cover his smirk with his hand.

"How many of them are working on the ships?" Steffon asked.

"Hundreds have offered their work as labourers, and several young boys have shown an aptitude for ship building I have heard."

"The smallfolk becoming shipwrights?" Pycelle scoffed.

Yes, and we can make them loyal maesters, Steffon thought. It was something to return to at a later date, but if they truly showed promise he was willing to sponsor them to earn a few links at the Citadel.

"Deckhands mostly," Lord Varys replied. "A number of them are young enough to learn their way about a ship, and they are willing to take the risk of the seas in return for a regular meal and some coin."

"Will we have enough work for them?" Steffon asked, gaze flicking to Stannis.

"Not in King's Landing, there are too many here. But the Crownlords will require deckhands with the influx of ships," Uncle Stannis said.

"Has there been any trouble with the law?" Joffrey asked.

"Not so much, though a city such as this will always have its fair share of brawls," Renly grinned.

"There were bandits in Cracklaw Point," Steffon pointed out.

"A riding was sent out," Uncle Renly informed them, "though I suppose I shall have to make certain it's rooted out."

"Sending the Goldcloaks to Cracklaw Point?" Lord Arryn questioned.

"Not necessarily the Goldcloaks, though the King's Justice will have to be upheld. Especially as there will be a harbour built there," Steffon stated.

Uproar met his statement, Lord Arryn complaining over the cost as the others voiced their opinions.

Stifling a sigh, Steffon snapped, "King's Landing cannot control the only harbour in the Crownlands!"

"There is a harbour in Gulltown," Lord Baelish protested.

"Yes, a harbour in the Vale," Steffon replied scathingly. "A harbour, which pays its taxes to Lord Arryn. A port in Cracklaw Point would see taxes paid directly to the Crown, as well as all tariffs remaining in the area for maintenance."

Lips tightening, the Lord Hand said heatedly, "You would disrupt trade in the Vale Prince Steffon."

"That is not my intention, my lord, nor will that occur. The port will allow for the shipment of goods into the Crownlands, not interrupting trade meant for either Gulltown or Maidenpool," Steffon countered.

"A harbour in the Crownlands is necessary for the expanded trade we are expecting," Steffon added. "King's Landing will not be able to handle the influx of goods should the ships prove able to carry a larger portion of trade."

"They have already proven to do so," Varys interrupted.

Seeing the curious look Steffon sent him, the eunuch smiled enigmatically. "A ship has been completed Prince Steffon, the flagship of the new fleet, and it has proven to carry at least three times as much as the older ships. The builders have called it The Storm Prince," he finished slyly.

Eyes tightening, Steffon nodded in acknowledgement. "How many ships have been completed?"

"Three here in King's Landing," Uncle Stannis answered, "The Storm Prince, King Robert's Fury and Lady Lyanna."

Joffrey jerked, glowering at the name of their ship, and Steffon had to bite his cheek to stop from screaming. How many years would Lyanna Stark haunt their family? Mother must have thrown a fit, he thought, the ghost of their marriage bed. Bad enough Robert had named an older ship after her, now the best of their ships was to bear the name of his lost betrothed. All we need is a ship called The Golden Twins and we shall air all our laundry to the realm, he thought sourly.

"How many others?" Joffrey asked, voice tight with anger.

"One each for the Lords of the Narrow Sea, with their second nearly complete," was the answer.

Mercifully, there were no complaints raised about the Velaryons being given plans to build ships; he assumed Uncle Stannis had bulldozed through their arguments and Steff was grateful for having the man on their side.

"It is nearly time for dinner," Pycelle chimed in.

"Is there any other business to discuss?" Uncle Renly asked.

"I would like to see a new contract negotiation for the North, Lord Hand, Lord Baelish. An allowance of twently thousand dragons in return for its worth in lumber," Steffon insisted.

"Twenty thousand dragons is a lot of money, my prince," Baelish protested.

"Well worth the cost if we are to build forty ships in the next year," Steffon retorted.

"We do not have enough builders to meet that demand," Lord Arryn pressed.

"We have the labourers," Joffrey pointed out.

"A letter to Lord Manderly and Lord Redwyne as well, then," Steff added cheerily. "They have shipwrights that can be loaned to the us for the year."

The Hand had a sour look on his face, and Steffon was filled with smug satisfaction at having gained the upper hand.

Now to convince Father, he thought.

To Steffon's utter surprise, Robert Baratheon had proven relatively easy to convince.

"I beg your pardon?" Steffon asked. He was flummoxed, having anticipated a lengthy conversation – more an argument – with the king.

The king had been drinking, but Steff didn't think his father was deep in his cups. "You can go on with your ships," Father repeated. They were sitting in the king's solar, not a whore in sight, and Steffon was ruthlessly ignoring the last conversation they had here.

"It's not just the ships," Steffon added slowly.

"Aye, Jon has been complaining something fierce. A harbour," he frowned. "You would insult the Vale."

Biting back his scathing retort he instead said, "The Vale will not suffer for the placement of a harbour close by."

Not when I don't intend it to become a large one, Steffon thought. He did not trust Jon Arryn, had recognized that the man was working to the benefit of his king and his kingdom. It was expected for council members to benefit their lands, but Steffon had the sense that the Hand wished for the king to remain reliant on his Lords Paramount.

The better for his Lannister children to be left to the mercy of the Great Lords, he thought darkly. Not while there was breath in his body, and not with a small fleet within reach of Gulltown and able to disrupt their trade should the Vale ever entertain the thought of Rebellion.

"How many ships?" Robert asked.

"At least two hundred," Steffon said, "the better for the fleet to be more balanced. And you won't have to rely on the Redwyne ships," he wheedled.

Scoffing, Robert drank his beer mumbling darkly about prissy grapes. "The dragons men?"

"Uncle Stannis will take care of them," Steffon said smoothly, hoping the king did not notice his nervousness at the thought.

Waving his hand in agreement, the king grunted out a burp. Determinedly ignoring the stench Steff asked, "So we can go ahead?"

"Aye, you can build more of your blasted ships," Robert agreed. "And that harbour, though keep it in The Whispers, the better to not agitate the Vale and keep an eye on those bloody isles."

"Thank you, Father," he said with a sincere smile. This had been the first time they had had an amicable conversation that did not involve the wonders of battle.

"Will you write the letter to Lord Stark?"

"What do you want to write to Ned for?" Father asked quizzically.

"The council has agreed to rewrite his taxes, replacing a percentage of coin with lumber to build the fleet. And a letter to Lord Manderly requesting a few shipwrights," he added offhandly.

"Where is the letter?"

Grinning, Steffon plucked a parchment from the table, highlighting the sections of the contract. "All it requires is either your seal or Lord Arryn."

"I'll sign the damned thing," Robert grumbled, eyes bloodshot. Handing over the contract as well as the letter, Steffon watched as his father scrawled his signature before sealing it with the King's official seal, the same procedure being done for Lord Manderly. A separate parchment was taken, Father including a personal note to Ned Stark, whom he had not seen in eight years.

Grinning to himself in success, Steffon nearly missed what his father said. "She would have loved that, helping the North."

Taken aback, he stared at his father in surprise. "What?"

"Lyanna. A feisty one, she never would have stood for me becoming what I am now," he said forlornly. Steffon bit his tongue to keep the words bubbling at the back of his throat from spilling forth. "You should have been my son with her," he finished.

Fury flashed in his eyes, and Steffon for the first time felt the thrum of his magic outside his nightmares. It was not enough to lash out accidentally, but it yanked Steffon back to reality.

"Of course Father, may I be excused? I would like to send these ravens immediately," Steffon asked coolly.

The king waved him off, a fresh cup of ale in his hands as he stared desolately at the hearth. A whore would cure him of his misery, courtesy of Littlefinger.

What would either of them think, Steffon wondered, if they knew they both wished I were the child of the person they loved?

Snorting at the thought, Steffon rushed to the rookery, Pycelle waiting to send out the letters. He watched him like a hawk, ensuring the man did not break the seal, and only when he saw them fly off did he retreat to his quarters.

He came across a furious Joffrey, the sound of him hacking at his bedpost with a wooden sword drawing him to his rooms. His hair looked dishevelled, armour skewed, and Steffon picked up a bottle of Arbor Red someone had brought up.

"Stag for your thoughts?" Steffon offered, making his way to the cushioned seats in the sitting area. He waited calmly as Joff threw the sword away, taking a pull straight from the bottle as his brother sat beside him. Offering him the bottle, Steffon watched as Joffrey guzzled wine like a seasoned drunk.

"The king has managed to impregnate a serving woman in Casterly Rock," Joff muttered scathingly.

"Ahh, the wonders of King Robert's cock. Impregnating others with surprising ease," Steff quipped.

"Mother had the children killed, the woman sold to reavers," Joff spat bitterly.

Fucking hell, Steffon thought.

"And so you vented your anger at your bedpost," Steffon added dryly.

"No, I nearly broke Uncle Jaime's wrist," Joff retorted.

Ah, that would cause a bit of trouble. He didn't blame the younger boy, not when Jaime had planted three children in his sister who was content to kill the king's bastards.

"Let it not be said that Cersei Lannister would suffer the indignity of bastards," Joff stated ironically.

Taking the bottle, Steffon took another pull as he ruminated on the dysfunctional family he had been born to.

"Why are you upset?" Joff asked.

"Father has told me in his most wretched voice that he wished I was the son of his precious Lady Lyanna," Steffon said bitterly.

"The Gods have cursed us to have to put up with the two of them," Joff replied sourly.

Nodding his agreement, Steffon and Joffrey spent the remainder of the day drinking the bottle of Arbor Red before they ordered two bottles of Dornish wine to be brought to their rooms. Tongues would be wagging they knew, but for once they wanted to mourn the lack of normality in their family in peace.

Uncle Tyrion would gleefully find the two of them in the morning, crumpled together at the foot of Joff's bed, clothes wrinkled and reeking of alcohol as the brothers experienced their first hangover.

It had taken four moons before Steffon began to see the fruit of his labour.

Lord Stark had agreed with the changes to his payment, ordering his people to cut down trees in the Wolfswood, near Karhold and Flint's Cliffs and Bear Island, allowing his bannermen to replace gold with lumber.

The first shipment of lumber had arrived two moons prior, in a Manderly ship alongside three shipwrights from White Harbour. The men were stocky, tall and pale with the colouring of Northmen, and they had been baffled at the sight of The Storm Prince sitting in the harbour. Their bewilderment had lasted for an hour before the glee set in at the thought of working on these ships.

He was certain that the North would begin to build similar ships, and Steffon was grateful they were planning to ensure closer ties to that kingdom.

Lord Manderly had also sent along his second son, Ser Wendel, to oversee Manderly interests at court. The knight was tall and stocky, larger than the average knight, bald head gleaming in the sunlight. He was always present at court, the blue-green of his doublet standing out amongst the reds and golds popularized by the queen.

Steffon had met the man for a private lunch in the royal apartments, the knight entertaining him and Joff with stories of the Merman's court. He was a boisterous individual, and King Robert had taken to him.

Of course, Ser Wendel had been offered a place as an unofficial advisor to the crown, working alongside Uncle Stannis on the building of ships and improvements to shipping.

His men had come at the same time as the Redwyne builders, and Steffon had been thoroughly amused as they seemed to compete over the ships.

The Manderlys had called their first ship The Golden Stag, and Steff had laughed himself hoarse at the look on Joff's face when he realized it was meant to honour Myrcella. The Redwynes refused to be outshone by Northmen and had named their first ship The Prince's Fury.

The Mallisters were expected to arrive any day now, the king graciously agreeing to allow them to build several ships of the new design. "The better to hold those fucking squids in place," he had boomed. Uncle Tyrion had taken advantage of the placement of royal ships along the coasts, scouring King's Landing with Joff to find loyal men to place in Seaguard. Lord Tywin he knew was hard at work, having been the first to see the designs, and Steffon was certain there were several ships docked in Lannisport.

Walking into his solar, Steffon threw himself onto his chair. He and Lord Arryn had reached a shaky truce; unsurprisingly, Steffon's words had proven true regarding the crown's finances. They had shilled out thousands of dragons to pay the labourers for the sewers and the ships and the shipwrights, each of them in turn spending coin at the bars and inns and whorehouses of King's Landing.

The Crown had reaped an increased share of gold, the taxes being owed increasing in the city alone, and from the last Steffon had heard, the road work being done in the Crownlands was driving coin in those regions, as was the prospect of a harbour. Lord Crabb had sent an effusive letter to the king, wishing all the grace of the gods on him and his.

It was not perfect, but he was glad to see a slow change. The Hand of the King had begrudgingly accepted what was happening, and they were finally working on plans to continue this increase, alongside bringing more loyal lords to King's Landing.

His hard earned silence was broken at the sound of a commotion outside his door, his mother barging in past an unrepentant Ser Meryn.

She was seething, green eyes glinting in fury; Steffon knew what had upset her, but he was beyond caring.

"Mother," he said pleasantly, "do sit, I'll have someone bring up a bottle of wine."

"You placed other lords in positions that we could have benefitted from," she shrilled – ignoring him – hands clenched on the chair, as she stubbornly remained standing. "Do you have any idea what—"

"It seems that you are the one with no understanding of the situation," Steffon snapped at her, anger filling him as he stood. "Continue to fill the court with Lannisters as you wish, Mother, and you shall be forced to hold the might of one kingdom against the others."

Stubbornly, she refused to listen to his words. "None can match the might of Casterly Rock."

"The other kingdoms would say different," Steffon retorted.

"My father—"

"—has done us no favours! The Lannisters are despised for Lord Tywin's actions."

"The lion does not bow to the whims of sheep," she said dismissively.

Sighing, Steffon dragged a hand across his face, dropping to his seat. He was only four and ten, and already he grew weary of playing the game. His parents had made things more difficult, spiting those they should have been drawing closer to them and ignoring the ones who helped them to the throne.

Robert had been famous for turning enemies into friends, yet he could see no evidence of it.

"It is Father they crowned king; four kingdoms rose in rebellion and helped place him on the throne—no don't interrupt me! Grandfather Tywin joined the Rebellion late yet he has reaped the greatest rewards."

"As he should," she hissed, green eyes spitting fire, "considering it was he who secured the throne for this family. You would give valuable positions to those savages."

"Yes," Steff mocked, "a crown secured with the needlessly violent death of babes that the other kingdoms curse us for.

Of them all, only the North answered their liege lords call in full, and we have spat on their allegiance and their sacrifices."

"Ned Stark is too loyal to your father," she scoffed.

"To Father, yes, and his bannermen fought alongside the man. But they have not seen any gain for their sacrifices, were not rewarded for Father building his bloody throne on the death of Northmen. They know naught of Joff and I, nothing of the sons of the man they helped crown. I'll not have you put us in danger so you could have golden heads surrounding you at court Mother."

She stared contemptuously at him, and Steffon glowered back at her. Seeing that he would give no quarter, his mother swept out of his rooms, red gown fluttering as she moved.

Groaning, Steffon slumped in place, face buried in his arms as he dreamt of a simple life away from the struggles of kingship.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, he thought resentfully, wishing for a moment that he could drink his way through kingship, as his father was intent on doing.

Steffon knelt at the foot of the Iron Throne, the entire court watching as the High Septon made his way forward.

His knighthood was a spectacle for the masses, their young prince earning his spurs at four and ten. Father was seated upon the throne puffed up in pride, though he had been slightly sullen when Steffon refused his original intent to knight him himself.

"I am Ser Barristan's squire, Father, and I would have him knight me."

Joffrey was brimming with envy, though he was also slightly smug. The little shit. He missed the age where he would be younger than Daemon Blackfyre when earning his spurs, but still held out hope that he would be younger than either Steffon or Uncle Jaime. The golden knight had watched in disbelief as his nephew was told he was to be knighted, and the possibility of Joffrey being knighted just as young had filled the man with annoyed pride.

Father's talk with Joffrey about being knighted had left them both in a sullen mood. Joffrey was determined to be a knight, had worked exceptionally hard during his lessons at arms, and refused the notion of earning his spurs until such a time as he had truly earned it, whether it be in battle or through proficient skill. Ser Barristan had been beaming in pride at the blond, sure of his choice of squire.

The cool touch of the holy oils upon his brow brought him back to the present as the High Septon drew the seven-pointed star on his head. He had given a small sermon, speaking to the crowd of the Warrior's grace, of the honour of knighthood. Steffon had stood vigil in the castle sept, Ser Preston keeping watch over his charge, and he was dead on his feet, awake only through the rush of excitement at what was to occur.

Finally, finally, just as Steff's knees were beginning to feel the floor dig in, Ser Barristan stepped forward. The sound of his blade as he unsheathed it was like sweet music, and Steffon felt a thrum of excitement, his heart racing in anticipation.

This was something he had earned. Not for his name, nor his station as a prince, but a testament to Steffon Baratheon's skill and hard work.

He felt the first tap of the sword on his shoulder, Ser Barristan's clear voice ringing across the room. "Steffon of the House Baratheon, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women."

There was a heaviness to the sword before Ser Barristan lifted it for the final time, a settling of another duty. "Arise as Ser Steffon Baratheon, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

There was a thunderous roar as the court celebrated the moment. Ser Barristan clasped forearms with his prince, and Steffon felt as if he could take on the world. Father was roaring in pride, shouting for the feast to begin and continue well into the night. Mother had approached him, placing a kiss to his cheeks.

"Well done, my love," she smiled. Knowing her, Steffon was certain much of her satisfaction came from having a son knighted at a young age. Younger than Uncle Jaime, even Uncle Renly's former squire Loras Tyrell who had been five and ten when he earned his spurs.

"Thank you, Mother," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheeks.

His siblings rushed over to him, and Steffon paused to accept their congratulations. Myrcella and Tommen were beaming, pressing themselves against him and forgetting the watchful eyes of the court for the nonce. Joffrey gave him a mocking bow, and Steffon let out a sharp laugh.

"Give it a year, brother. I daresay you'll have earned your spurs by then."

Joff preened in acknowledgement. The bloody ponce, he thought fondly. Father's hand gripped his shoulder tightly, the king shaking him as he boomed, "That's my boy! Younger than that bloody rose of Renly's!"

Steffon smiled, basking in the moment. For once, his parents were not at each other's throats, were united in their pride over their son, and everyone was in good spirits.

It'll only last until Joff and I leave a fortnight from now. Best enjoy it while it we can, he thought.

They were to be feasting all day; orders had been made to the kitchens for the king's favoured meats to be readied, platters of trout, chicken, and salmon in addition. The king had been in a generous mood, ordering the bakers in the Street of Flour to craft all manner of confections to be handed out to the people of King's Landing so they may partake in the festivities. The council had managed to talk him down from throwing another tourney, and he had agreed when Steff and Joff decided to expand the fete to all those within the city walls.

Steffon had been congratulated far more times than he cared to remember; courtiers courting the prince's favour, servants of the Red Keep fondly congratulating the prince they had watched grow, merchant's who had managed to gain entrance to the keep on this day.

It was slightly overwhelming, and he was certain such a spectacle was not normal behaviour.

"You're thinking much too hard when there is splendid wine in your vicinity," Uncle Tyrion's voice cut in.

Turning in surprise, Steffon fondly greeted his uncle. "Uncle Tyrion, by all means, help yourself to the king's wine."

"The queen's most like," Tyrion quipped, reaching for a jug of cooled Arbor Red as he slid into the empty seat at the high table. "As I said, stop thinking so much."

"I am not thinking too hard," Steffon retorted.

A snort from his left let him know his sibling's opinion, and Steffon shot them a glare of betrayal. Cella and Tom merely smiled angelically as Joffrey coughed to hide his laughter.

"You are the eldest prince of a new dynasty nephew, and you have shown tremendous martial prowess in addition to your care for their welfare," Tyrion stated. "Allow the people their fun, let them revel in the future of House Baratheon of King's Landing."

Tyrion looked as if he was having the time of his life; wine flowed freely, barrels of it being brought up in anticipation of the celebrations, and he was in good spirits.

"You are nearly a man," Tyrion continued. "All that is left is to introduce you to the wonders of women and you shall be well on your way to being considered a man grown."

Steffon choked on his wine, a sour look on his face as he glowered at his uncle. Tyrion looked entirely unrepentant, eyes twinkling as he continued to sip his wine.

Storm's End truly deserved its name, for what other castle was continuously battered by the sea as it was. It was strong, a veritable fortress, and Steffon thought it would prove a rather difficult castle to take.

They had been there for a moon, the crashing waves soothing Steffon. In their short time there, they had witnessed no less than three storms.

They had set out early, before the sun was at the highest point in the sky. Father and Mother had come to see them off, the king agreeing that they needed to spend time exploring away from their duties. Mother had been sour at the prospect of another near year of travel while she remained at court, but the queen was used to the luxuries of King's Landing, had never enjoyed the Stormlands, and would rather never set foot in the Reach if it could be helped.

Uncle Stannis had merely ground his teeth together when he heard of their final destination for this journey. His hatred of the Tyrell's continued to this day and he was hostile at the thought of Mace Tyrell potentially gaining closer ties to the crown. Bad enough that they had Redwyne men hard at work building the Royal Fleet, he thought dryly.

"Uncle Stannis's heart may fail him should he know what you are up to brother," Joffrey had laughed.

They had taken the Kings Road south to Storm's End, camping in the Kingswood as they went, with the only castle on their way being Bronzegate. Lord Buckler had been sent a raven, warning him of the Princes' retinue to give him time to prepare, and the man had done an excellent job, eagerly feasting his king's sons.

The Stormlords were proud to have one of their own on the throne, and they had been feasting every day for the duration of their stay. Lords across the lands, from those closest to King's Landing, to Marcher Lords, the Lords of the Rainwood, and the Isles of Estermont and Tarth had been present.

They had held an impromptu melee, Uncle Renly present alongside his former squire. The training yard of Storm's End was large, surrounded by the curtain wall on one end.

Ser Barristan had not joined them for this leg of the journey, and Steffon and Joffrey made use of his absence to spar with the fiercely martial Stormlords.

"Win against them and you'll have their undying loyalty," Joff snorted, recalling the stories Robert had told them of his three battles against his bannermen.

"Eh, at least put forth a good showing," Steffon murmured. "Some of these men have enough energy to go ten rounds with a whore."

Ser Rolland Storm had just knocked Ser Brus Buckler into the dirt, the Bastard of Nightsong crowing for his next opponent.

They had gone several rounds with the knights of the Stormlands. A more martial group Steffon had never met; fighting was in their veins, and every knight took great pleasure in a good battle. Little wonder his father had so enjoyed fighting.

Uncle Renly was in King's Landing, having left them after a fortnight. Steff and Joff had seized the opportunity, cozying up to the martial Stormlords. They had flourished under a Baratheon King, and the boys had set out to cement their continued allegiance.

Trade talks were unnecessary, though they had spoken to Lord Estermont. His great-uncle had been eager to bring the new ships to the Stormlands, and Steffon recalled his father approved an improved fleet in the hands of his mother's had docked a ship in Shipbreaker Bay, and Steffon had marvelled at the multitude of sails. They had conceived the idea behind the ships four years prior, and already he could see it being built across the kingdoms. Lord Estermont had named the ship Lady Cassana, in honour of his lost daughter

The man was eager to test the ability of the ships to carry more goods, and a venture to Lys had already been planned.

"Prince Steffon!" Ser Rolland called. His face was covered in pox scars that added to their air of intimidation, though the man was fierce in his loyalty. "Care for another round?"

Laughing, Steffon shrugged off the request. "I fear you might leave little of me, Ser, and I would like to enjoy the planned feast."

"He'd rather be awake enough to drink," Joff jeered, and the men broke out into a gale of laughter at the image.

Steffon was every inch a Baratheon – but for his Lannister green eyes – and these men had fought alongside his father, had been loyal to the Baratheons for centuries and the Durrandons before them. He had the look of the old Storm Kings, and he was determined to remind them of their blood loyalty.

"Ah, I'll have to defend my honour now," Steffon quipped, striding forward with his blade to face the older knight, "lest everyone think me unable to handle my drink after a fight."

This was a different song and dance than the wooing of the Crownlands, and Steff thrilled at the opportunity to forge bonds of loyalty with these men.

He had been feeling restless these past few weeks. Ser Barristan had noticed, coming with them as they travelled the Rose Road to Oldtown. It had been moons since he had left home, since he had seen Cella's sweet smile or heard Tom's gale of laughter. Moons since he had felt his mother card her fingers through his hair in their rare moments of harmony, since he had sat and listened to his father boast of his prowess with a hammer.

Yet the kingdom came before his own desires, before the wishes and vices of his family. Always, Steffon felt the weight of a crown he did not yet bear in truth - not truly, though he did more of the work - and of a sword held steady at his throat. It was fear driving him; fear and love of his siblings that pushed him to always play the game, fear and love for his people that kept him awake some nights, stomach churning at the thought of the multitude of people who would gladly see them toppled from their thrones.

He had felt it, years past in Casterly Rock - the certainty that war was on the horizon. That everything his parents had done would come back to haunt them, would be the hangman waiting for him and Joff and Cella and Tom. Would plunge Westeros into another war that they had been setting themselves up to lose.

Steffon knew war; knew the lengths people would go to for the sake of power and to remove any obstacles, knew how they would fight viciously to cling to life or to respond to all manner of slights - real or imagined.

He had escaped their retinue, riding ahead for some time. Ser Barristan rode alongside him, shedding his white cloak for a simple black one; fine enough to show his nobility but without any distinct markings. Joff had agreed to stay with the others, Ser Arys ever his shadow, as Steff made his way to an inn.

"Your Grace, we will have to announce our presence to the Hightower's," Ser Barristan said lowly.

"I intend to, though we will ride back to join Joffrey. I'd just like to explore without the title for a day, Ser."

He was unconvinced, he knew, but Steffon was grateful he did not put up much of a fight. A stable hand took the reigns of their horses, and Steffon made his way through Oldtown.

It was massive; very similar to what he assumed Braavos was like, all winding roads and twisting canals.

"It doesn't smell like shit," Steff noted. That had startled a laugh from Ser Barristan.

"Nor will King's Landing," he replied.

"How long do you think it will take for years of stench to disappear?" Steff asked curiously.

"Hopefully before the end of my lifetime, my prince," Barristan responded amusedly.

Steff smirked at the thought, walking along the narrow boulevards of the city. They were within the gates, though he could see the Hightower standing sentinel overtop, massive and carved of black stone that maesters insisted was similar to the walls of Old Volantis. There were merchants selling their wares, taverns and ale houses filled to the brim with knights across the Reach, parts of Dorne, the Stormlands and Westerlands, brothels with a stream of customers; it felt just like home.

Rising above a crest was the Citadel; large with pale brick stone, it lay opposite the Starry Sept, upriver from the denizens of the other faiths.

Aegon the Conqueror must have planned King's Landing after seeing this city, he thought.

Steffon could feel the tension from Ser Barristan as they walked toward a bridge that would take them to the Citadel. He would not enter - not without announcing his presence - but he was interested in seeing the wonder of this city. There were cutthroats and thieves all across the city, but their City Watch would be on high alert with a tourney expected. Even more so considering the presence of the Tyrells and their expected presence.

"The largest collection of books in the world, all housed in this building," Steff murmured in awe. It was far grander than the Hogwarts library, and he had always thought that to be the pinnacle of knowledge. "Do you think they have copies of Unnatural History?"

"Only snippets if you believe the tales," an airy voice responded.

Jolting, Steffon turned to the young woman stood beside him. He had ignored her presence; the bridge was far too busy for him to gripe about someone stood so close, and he had not expected her to talk to him.

She was beautiful; brown hair in ringlets, wide doe eyes with a glint of something hidden in their depths, she was what he thought a highborn lady to look like.

"Snippets? That's a touch disappointing," Steff said easily, willing his face not to flush. "I had heard tell that there was an entire copy, hidden from Baelor the Blessed in the name of preserving knowledge." He had not done well with women, though both Father and Uncle Tyrion were keen to introduce him to the wonders of the fairer sex.

"An aspiring maester?" She asked.

"Not quite, though I've learned to have an appreciation for books," Steff stayed wryly, recalling them many attempts to study.

She laughed lightly, and Steffon was certain he was staring at her in wonder. "You seem to know much of the Citadel, my lady," he said curiously.

"My Uncle is a maester. I've had some love of knowledge from a young age," she replied, tucking a lock of her behind her ear.

"Is it true they have ballads of the Kings of Winter?" Steffon blurted out. Flushing, Steff ignored the shuffling movement of Ser Barristan, certain the man was laughing at his plight. Her guards shifted closer, hands drifting to their hilts as his own knight leaned closer.

She smiled, a mysterious glint in her eye. "Many and more, and tales of the Dawn Age if we believe the words of bragging acolytes."

Glancing at the Citadel, her words just reaffirmed his want to visit. What would I see, and what could be found should I have had a cloak, he wondered. Not for the first time, Steffon lamented the loss of his Invisibility Cloak.

"Though, personally I've always wanted to read Lives of Four Kings," she continued.

"The wooing of Dorne," he murmured. She sent him a curious look, and Steffon smiled in reminiscence. "My uncle calls it that; four kings all working to have the Dornish brought into the fold."

"I suppose that is a rather apt name for it," she laughed.

"My lady, we should be heading back," one of her guards whispered, glancing suspiciously at the cloaked Barristan. They were unadorned with any sigil, nothing to show their allegiance to any House.

Steffon watched as conflict raged on her face. Turning, he noted that they had been here for some time; Joff would be about an hours ride from the city now, and he and Barristan would have to leave soon to make it a league before the city walls.

She turned to him with a slight smile, "My family will be looking for me. I shall look out for you at the tourney. Your Grace," she murmured with a curtsy and a smile sent at the knight.

Stunned, Steffon watched as she swiftly turned, skirts fluttering in the wind as she left them. Looking at Ser Barristan, he noted the amused smile on his face.

"She recognized me," he said in surprise.

"You have the look of your father, perhaps she put together what the kingdoms know of you and tales of the King when he was younger."

Mulling over the thought, Steffon couldn't shake the thought that there was more to it than that. Nobody knew he was entering the city early, not a whisper, he thought.

Steffon absentmindedly followed after Ser Barristan as he led them to their horses. There was something oddly familiar about her, as if he had seen her face before. For the life of him, Steffon could not recall where they might have met.

There were many daughters of the Reach – an abundance of highborn ladies – but he couldn't pinpoint which family she was from. As they rode hard to their encampment, Steffon continued to think about the girl with the brown eyes.

He had been lead to his tent, a bath brought in so that he might make himself presentable. His armour was on a table next to the bed, brand new pieces made for him and Joff to enter the tourney; they had ordered identical armour, black plate gleaming in addition to the smoky grey plate with the Baratheon standard Uncle Tyrion had gifted them. Walking out, he saw as the younger prince was assisting the servants with their belongings, resplendent in a gold doublet with the crowned stag. He had wanted to wear a black doublet, but the last thing they needed was someone remarking on a prince wearing bastard colours.

"You seem preoccupied," Joff stated as they prepared to ride out. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys flanked them, a score of knights from King's Landing accompanied as well as a series of knights from the Stormlands that had joined their retinue.

"Just thinking about something I saw," Steff responded quietly. They were about an hours ride from Oldtown, and Steffon and Joffrey spent that time planning their foray into the tourney. They would both join the joust, and he knew Joff was eager to test his mettle in the melee as a mystery knight. They would have to keep the Kingsguard preoccupied so they would not throw a fit over their charges entering such a dangerous competition.

They couldn't understand the necessity behind their actions; they were entering the stronghold of Targaryen loyalists, of people who had bent the knee last, and with that sword held ever closer, Steff was determined to show them that their princes were not to be overlooked.

The Hightower grew taller as they neared the city walls, and Steffon laughed at the look of astonishment on Joffrey's face. "It has to be taller than the Rock," Joff breathed.

Laughing, Steffon straightened in his saddle, removing dust from his shoulders absentmindedly. Scrutinizing his brother, Steffon laughed when Joffrey rolled his eyes with an exaggerated "clean enough for your sensibilities, your grace?

"Aye, though I wonder how you'll fare under the eyes of dozens of ladies."

Seeing the haughty smirk the blond wore, Steffon laughed as he dug his heels into the flank of his horse, the two of them riding just in front of the Kingsguard.

The streets of Oldtown were crowded, scouts having spotted their standard and informed the watch. Steffon watched as the people of the city lined the streets, children waving from the arms of their mothers, countless flowers thrown in the air. He and Joff smiled in return, waving at those whose eye they caught and stopping every so often to bless any children passed their way.

It took them the better part of an hour to make it across to Battle Isle, the Hightower looming over their heads.

Guards bowed their heads as he and Joff rode on, entering the courtyard to the sight of House Hightower and their guests stood outside. The lesser nobles were lined up behind and around the outskirts as their retinue pulled ahead. Banners were arrayed all across, showing the Tyrell Rose and other houses of the Reach.

A stable boy came dashing forward, taking control of the reins of Twitch as he warned him, "He's a bit excitable so take care. A bowl of water and some hay for now, and he'll need to be rubbed down." The boy bowed with a muttered "Your Grace," before Steffon turned to greet their hosts.

"Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey. Welcome to the Hightower," Lord Leyton said with a slight bow.

Smiling, Steffon strode forward as the introductions were made. Lord Leyton had seemingly been shut up in his tower for the past decade, and Steffon hid his surprise at seeing the man walking about, as if he had never stopped running Oldtown. "My wife, Lady Rhea. My heir Ser Baelor and his wife Lady Rhonda." Steffon and Joffrey smiled charmingly, kissing the hands of the ladies they were introduced to.

"Of course, House Tyrell is also in attendance. My goodson Mace and daughter Alerie," he said. Steffon bowed and placed a kiss on Lady Alerie's knuckles and took Lord Mace's greetings with good grace. Turning to the other Tyrells, all breath left him at the sight of the woman standing next to the old crone he assumed was the Queen of Thorns.

Seven hells, he thought.

Joffrey was busy greeting the Lady Tyrell, and Steffon nearly missed the sharp appraising look from the old woman.

"Lady Olenna," he said with a slight smile. "A pleasure to meet you."

Sharp eyes took him in, and Steffon ruthlessly tamped down on his nervousness.

"Yes, I suppose it is, Prince Steffon."

Glancing between the two of them she said brusquely, "well, you certainly take after your parents."

Joffrey's hand flexed slightly, and Steffon shifted with a smile on his face as he prayed they younger boy did not react.

"Our granddaughter, Margaery," Lord Leyton introduced.

Bowing, Steffon lightly gripped her hand before he placed a kiss on her knuckles. He was being too obvious; he knew that even without the amused looks Lady Olenna and Joffrey were sending him. Margaery Tyrell was a vision of beauty, and if their conversation on the bridge held true she was far more intelligent.

"Lady Margaery," he murmured, eyes piercing hers. She responded as she had on the bridge, and Steffon could not keep his mind off her as they introduced him to the rest of the Tyrells and Uncle Renly stepped forward to greet them smirk in place, nor did he when they were shown to their rooms.

Dressing in a fine doublet of cloth-of-gold, Steff ran a brush through his hair, keeping the raven curls neat. A smirking Joffrey entered his room, the boy lounging on a chair as he smugly said, "Your attentions have been wandering for hours, brother, and yet it seems all you needed was a rose to keep you occupied."

Sending the younger boy a glower, Joff merely laughed in response. "Fear not, brother mine, I shall ensure you have time to woo your lady."

Grumbling, he threw a pillow at Joff, "She's not my lady."

"Not yet!" He said gleefully.

Seven save him but he loathed younger siblings at times like this.

"Let's go," Steffon sniffed, and Joff laughingly followed after him.

A servant escorted them to the entrance of the Great Hall, the smoothed walls of the Hightower gleaming in the light. The inner walls were also black, tapestries hanging at intervals of ages past. Steffon itched to look through them, seeing bronze crowns and weapons of the First Men.

The Hightower's were waiting for them, Lord Leyton and Lady Rhea along with his children. The Tyrells were also there, and Steffon found himself escorting old Lady Tyrell as the highest ranked Lady.

"My lady, I believe we are to be partners," he said.

"A fine honour I'm sure," Lady Olenna returned.

They were lead inside, scores of nobles on their feet as Steffon escorted Olenna to the high table. He was seated between Lord Leyton and Lady Olenna, Ser Barristan taking up his post behind him. They were feasted for hours, platters of different foods from across the world making it to their plates. Steffon forced himself to relax, aware of the young lady seated at the table below theirs, yet careful not to arouse the curiosity of the gathered nobles.

"Will you be jousting, Prince Steffon?" Mace asked.

"That is the goal, my lord," he smiled. "Though it seems I shall have to defend against my uncle."

"Yes, Lord Renly has jousted in a few tourneys here in the Reach, as has our Loras," Mace boasted.

Steffon regretted the distance placed between himself and Joff, for he wanted to kick him in admonishment at seeing the look on his face.

"Yes, yes. They will joust and lose their wits in the attempt," the Queen of Thorns quipped. Gazing at him with sharp eyes she stated, "You will be another prince to enter the halls of the citadel."

"Yes, though I've no desire to forswear myself to the order," he jested.

"Not keen on losing out on the pleasures of the flesh I gather," she responded shrewdly.

Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, Steffon ignored the spluttering of Mace Tyrell as he looked at his formidable mother. Joffrey was openly smirking, mouth hidden by his goblet of wine though Steff recognized the mirth in his eyes.

"Far too many things require my attention for me to dedicate my life to their chains, though yes, I imagine celibacy would be a rather unfortunate path for one in my position."

Her eyes were gleaming in interest, and a bit of amusement if he wasn't mistaken.

This was like to be the only chance they had at seeing them without the presence of the king and queen. He was not yet betrothed, though the entire kingdom assumed the honour would go to Sansa Stark. This was their chance at gaining a hold on the crown, and Steffon was more than willing to allow them to play the game.

When the dancing began, Steffon asked Lady Rhea for a turn around the floor as Joffrey escorted Lady Alerie. Always, he remained aware of the Rose of Highgarden in his peripheral, even when he spun around the floor with her mother.

Finally, after waiting a few dances, Steffon approached her for a turn. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies, some of whom shared her features, and he was uncomfortably reminded of the Yule Ball. Why must women travel in groups, he thought.

"Lady Margaery," he bowed with a hand outstretched, "May I have the honour of a dance."

She merely smiled, eyes shining with a secret, and took his hand. Her ladies began to giggle and whisper as they walked away, and Steff valiantly ignored Joff's smirk.

She felt wonderful in his arms, and for the first time, Steffon had to actively work to remember the steps to the dance.

"You seem flustered, my prince," she said coyly.

Miraculously, he managed not to flush. "A smidge embarrassed if we are being honest," Steff said.

"Oh?" They spun in a circle, her eyebrow arched in amusement at his misfortune.

"Quite, I had thought you to recognize me based on my charm but alas, my uncle's presence has foiled my plans," he said dramatically.

Smiling mischievously she replied, "Naturally. One mustn't forget where your dashing looks came from."

Amused, Steffon searched the hall for Renly and found him stood next to Ser Loras. They did look alike, though his Uncle was far more prone to extensive grooming habits.

"We didn't get a chance to finish our conversation," Steff stated.

"No, quite unfortunate. It seems we must save that for another time," Margaery replied.

The last notes of the song played across the hall, the musicians shifting into another tune, one slower and requiring closer contact.

Fuck it, he thought.

Before she had a chance to curtsy, Steffon tugged lightly on her hand, pulling her closer as he swiftly stepped into the next dance. Surprise danced across her face, and there were bound to be tongues wagging. They were close, far closer than their earlier bout and he did not have to wait to speak.

"I think you've rather scandalized the crowd, Your Grace," Margaery said lightly.

"Only your grandmother," Steffon quipped, "though she'll likely recover much faster than any other."

She laughed at his words, mirth visible in her eyes, and he felt a surge of accomplishment. "Oh I don't think my dear grandmama has been scandalized in quite some time," she grinned.

Smiling in amusement, Steffon thought on the sharp-witted lady he had met. "No, I daresay she has not."

They danced around a drunk couple, Steffon leading her to the centre of the hall under the eyes of her family. "Aegon the Unlikely," she suddenly said.

Blinking in slight surprise, Steffon looked down at the lady. "What of him?"

"His treatises on the conditions of the smallfolk are kept in the citadel," she murmured as if sharing a great secret.

"A full accounting?" He asked curiously.

Haughtily tossing her hair, "I should think a prince of the realm working for change would be able to see such work during his visit."

"Naturally," Steff drawled, "for what greater purpose is there than to improve the lives of the people."

Brown eyes trapped him in a serious gaze, altogether more discerning than what he had expected. "Even in the Reach we have heard of the improvements made to King's Landing. Quite the feat," she murmured.

"Not enough," he responded. "Not nearly so, though there have been increasing changes."

They had come to the end of their dance, and Steffon did not dare to push his luck with a third one.

"My lady," he murmured, placing a light kiss on her knuckles.

"Prince Steffon," she curtsied, an impish smile on her face. "I look forward to seeing whether your skills in battle measure up to your legend."

Seating himself next to Joff, Steffon ignored the younger boy's gleeful smirk as his eyes tracked Margaery Tyrell. "Don't drink too much brother dearest," he muttered lowly, "we've a melee to win."

The thrill of battle sparked through him, like calling to like.

Ser Barristan had been disapproving when he saw the pitch black armour they intended to wear to the melee, but he held his tongue and allowed them to compete. Their father would hear about this stunt, but Robert Baratheon was like to congratulate them and grumble about having missed out.

There were forty of them, knights of the Reach and Stormlands, some from Dorne and the Westerlands, and Steffon stuck close to Joff as they eagerly crossed swords with them. Having two mystery knights was uncommon, both dressed in identical armour, and Steffon was certain their hosts knew exactly who was beneath the helms.

Parrying a blow meant for his head, Steffon feinted right before punishing the man with a hard blow to the side of his knee. A quick knock from his pommel ensured he stayed down.

As much as he gained some enjoyment from playing the game, in spite of taking well to his duties, Steffon was at his core a warrior. He had enjoyed the thrill of battle as Harry Potter, and as the son of Robert Baratheon thrived with a sword in hand – exhilarating in the rush he received from fighting as if his life depended on it.

He and Joff stood back to back, hammering at any who sought to eliminate them. Feet firm but steady, follow the swing, he recalled, Ser Barristan's voice ringing through his head as he parried a blow, foot kicking out to trip the knight from House Florent. Joff took advantage of the falling knight, his sword swinging with a punishing hit to his helmet.

Melees were dirty things his father had told him, and Robert Baratheon had gloried in crushing armour with a dulled hammer. Their tourney swords were blunted and heavy, but Steffon did not need a sharp edge to force a yield.

Vaguely, he felt Joff move away from him, two men drawing Steffon to a corner, and he backed away, luring them in. At the sight of a flashing sword, Steff caught the glancing blow, jerking left to force the man's hand into the ground. A hard kick saw him fall into his comrade, and three hard raps to the head saw the Tarly knight unconscious while his friend yielded.

They were down to ten now; he had taken down three, Joff another three plus the Florent they had fought together. His armour was stained with mud, sweat trickling down his neck as he heaved in exertion.

They came at each other with a clash of steel, deflecting a blow into the ground as he jerked his elbow into the knight's arm, pommel to the head taking care of him. Joff had quickly taken care of another, and a knight wearing green plate with two golden roses lunged at him.

Garlan Tyrell, he recalled. He was fast, sword flashing in a dance of thrusts and parries, blows hard but glancing off Steff's shield. Steffon was broader than Garlan Tyrell, and he used the advantage of his size to press forward, swinging hard with an overhead strike followed a sweeping blow across his middle.

They had gone back and forth for some time, Ser Garlan keeping him level before Steffon suddenly pressed forward. He saw the flash in his eyes, the man not expecting the bout of quickness from him, and it was over with a quick riposte that saw his sword at the knight's throat.

"Yield!" he called.

Ser Garlan yielded good-naturedly, the man rising to clasp forearms with him. "Well fought, Ser," he said, making his way off the field.

Standing back, Steffon watched as Joff finished off his opponent. It was just the two of them left, and the crowd was roaring their approval at the sight of two unknown knights.

Seeing Joffrey drop his shield, Steffon barked out a laugh, dropping his in return. He stuck his blade in the mud, hands lifting his helm. The crowd grew louder at the sight of their prince, roars deafening when Joffrey followed suit and removed his helmet.

"Are you sure you want to do this little brother?" Steffon taunted, a grin on his face.

Joffrey merely picked up his sword, blade clanging against the shield as he gave him a shit-eating grin.

They circled one another, green eyes coolly assessing the other's form though they would not find much wrong.

As one they lunged forward, the sweet song of steel ringing throughout the field as they traded blows. Steffon's heart was pounding, the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he parried Joff's blow.

It was as if they were back in the sparring grounds of the Red Keep; Ser Barristan watching on in the distance as his two squires squared off joyfully.

Joff came at him with a quick swipe, Steffon skidding back and slamming the flat of his blade against Joff's arm. His sword rattled, jarring his brother's arm but he did not drop his blade.

Joff was the quicker swordsman, and for all the work Steff had done to balance his speed with his size, his brother used his speed to brutal effect.

A jab found his thigh, Joff's sword surging up to smack hard against his right elbow. Gritting his teeth at the pain – there would be a fresh bruise there – Steffon swung quickly, Joff parrying his blows as he overwhelmed him. Left, right, left, duck, swipe; they continued to trade blows back and forth, a motley of bruises created as each landed a hit yet refused to give in.

Finally, an overhead swing was caught by Joff's sword and Steff grinned as he twisted his wrist to force Joff to drop his blade.

"Yield, brother," Steff panted, sword held at Joffrey's throat. Grumbling, the boy nodded.

"I'll get you next time," Joff promised.

Laughing, Steffon slung an arm across his shoulders. The crowd was roaring their approval, Steffon raising a hand to wave as they stood their, sweat plastering their hair to their heads. Ser Barristan was making his way to them, a proud look on the old knight's face dispelling the air of disapproval he had carried.

"Smile, Joff," Steffon muttered. "We've done what we set out to accomplish."

A smug smirk was on Joff's face, and Steffon laughed as the boy sent a wink at the box holding their uncle.

Steffon had tossed and turned in his sleep all night, pride mingled with worry keeping him awake as he thought on his younger brother.

Joffrey had stood vigil in the Starry Sept, utterly surprised when Ser Barristan had ordered him to prepare for his knightly vows.

"Ser?" Joff had asked in surprise. There was dirt and dust on his face, mud on the shining plate of his armour and utter bafflement as he stared at Ser Barristan, mouth agape.

The old knight merely smiled kindly, a tinge of amusement on his face. "There are several ways to earn your spurs, my prince. Either through the valour of battle, or when you knightly master deems you ready."

"Have I earned it?" Joff asked. There was a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, something Steff thought others would never see. Ser Barristan grew serious, a muted look of pride on his face.

"I have watched and trained the both of you since you were five. You have always put forth the greatest effort in your training, Prince Joffrey. In the Crownlands, you acted with courage, holding true to the vows of a knight of the realm and performed admirably in battle. That alone would have seen many clamour to knight you, and indeed Ser Arys spoke in your favour."

Seeing Joff open his mouth, Ser Barristan held a hand to keep him quiet. Swallowing his instincts, Joffrey held still as the knight continued. "Your refusal to be knighted on account of your deeds spoke well of you, and yet you continued to train hard in the field. Never have you complained of any task we set before you, nor did you allow your emotions to cloud your judgement. I would not knight you if I deemed you unready, Prince Joffrey, but there are few that can wield a blade with as much skill as you and fewer still who remember what it means to be a knight."

"I did not win the melee," Joff countered.

"You lost only to your brother, and for two boys of five and ten and three and ten that is an admirable feat," the knight returned. Ser Barristan was upset that they had entered the melee at all, mystery knights be damned, but he would not allow his anger to darken Joffrey's achievement.

Smirking, Steffon merely watched as an array of emotions danced across Joffrey's face. There was pride in his abilities, joy at the praise from his mentor, and determination.

Nodding, Joffrey smiled sincerely at Ser Barristan, and the old knight merely smiled and stood back as Steffon rushed forward.

"Ah my little brother, the youngest knight the kingdoms has seen in quite some time," Steffon swooned. Joffrey rolled his eyes at his antics, though Steff saw the smile he could not hide.

"You are not upset?" Joff asked lowly, green eyes staring intently into his. There was fear lurking behind the joy, and Steffon pulled him into a tight hug, uncaring of the knights surrounding them or that they were both clad in heavy armour.

"I am fit to burst with pride Joff," he responded quietly. "Truly brother, I cannot think of another who has earned it as you have. Besides," Steff added lightly, "how much of a fuss do you think Tommen will make so that he may join the two of us?"

"Don't tell me you intend to become a braggart?" Joff replied, a small smile tugging on his lips.

"Naturally," Steff exaggerated. "I needs must let the entire realm know that my brother has done what many have not."

Turning to Ser Barristan, Joffrey said, "I suppose we must send a raven to King's Landing informing them so that they might prepare."

"Prepare?" Steff asked.

Seeing the look of confusion on Joff's face, Steffon slung an arm across his shoulders. "Little brother, Aegon the Conqueror was crowned in Oldtown. What better story than to have the second prince of the Baratheon dynasty, the youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre, knighted here."

Joffrey turned to him in slight surprise, and Steffon was gratified to see the flash of understanding in his eyes.

"Can you imagine the look on Uncle Renly's face?"

Joffrey laughed loudly in response as they walked out of the tent to change.

There was no throne room to knight the younger boy, but the septons were willing to allow Joff's knighting to be done there.

The walls were black marble, smooth and undisturbed, with arched windows that let in beams of light. Joff knelt before the statue of the Warrior, the sun shining gloriously on his golden head. His armour had been polished to a shine, smoky grey plate gleaming with the black stag and golden crown, his helmet placed on the floor next to him.

He made quite the vision – the image of the Warrior he heard them whisper – and Steffon watched on in pride as his younger brother was honoured for his achievements. Tyrell, Hightower, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan. Loyal Targaryen men all of them; there was a knight or lord present from each House to watch Barristan the Bold knight Joff.

Ser Barristan unsheathed his sword, and the nobles of the Reach looked on as he placed the blade flat on Joff's shoulder. "Joffrey of the House Baratheon, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women."

Joff's green eyes were gleaming in triumph, a mirror of the look in his own as they locked eyes.

"Arise as Ser Joffrey Baratheon, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Barristan intoned. There was applause from those gathered for the event, and Steffon made his way to congratulate his brother once more. Joffrey and Ser Barristan had clasped forearms, and he could see the younger boy preening at the approval of the knight he looked up to.

"Well done little brother," he murmured, clasping hands with him as he pulled Joff forward. Gaze flicking across the room, he murmured with a laugh, "They certainly did not expect this."

Joffrey flashed a smile at him, genuine and warm before his face closed off.

"Well deserved, nephew," Uncle Renly laughed. "Robert will be beaming in pride at the news. Two sons knighted younger than all others."

Uncle Renly was smiling as Joffrey accepted his compliments, though there was a flash of disquiet in his gaze. Ser Loras stood behind him, a more sullen look that quickly transformed into a polite smile as he stepped forward with his own compliments.

Renly was more rose than stag these days, and Steffon was glad of the opportunity to flaunt their prowess in their face. Highgarden might have their grip on Storm's End, but they would have to be fools to seek to replace the queen with such able heirs.

Dark wings, dark words.

The raven had come in the early hours. Steffon and Joffrey had been in the midst of a spar with Ser Garlan. The second Tyrell son had proven a better sword than his brother, and when watching him fight multiple men off and with his performance in the melee, Steffon and Joffrey had been determined to trade blows with him.

It had been exhilarating, as all fights of pure skill were, the two boys becoming fast friends with the older swordsman.

They were in the middle of one such free spar under the watchful eyes of Ser Barristan when a page came running forward.

"Your Grace, Your Grace!" the boy panted.

A quick twist of his wrist followed by the flat of his blade to Ser Garlan's helmet put the duel to a halt, Steffon raising his shield to stop Joff's strike. Sticking the sword into the mud and dropping his shield, Steffon removed his helmet, hair plastered to his face with sweat.

Frowning at the young boy he asked, "What is the matter?"

"A raven, my princes. Lord Hightower has asked me to call you with haste."

Sharing a troubled glance with Joff, Steffon nodded at the page and began the trek into the castle proper. He kept his armour on, as did Joff, the clinking movements of their steps and those of the Kingsguard following them on their journey.

The page led them to Lord Hightower's solar where he stood waiting for them with Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna. The solar was surprisingly crafted of the same black stone that formed the base of the Hightower. Grey and white veins shot throughout the room, giving it a cool feel topped only by the red and gold furniture.

Lord Leyton stood behind his desk, the maester next to him and Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna stood across. The maester held a scroll that was given to Ser Barristan, the knight confirming that the seal was unbroken. "A raven from King's Landing, Prince Steffon."

Unfurling the small parchment as the others looked on, Steffon shifted to allow Joff to see what was written. It was the small precise writing of Uncle Tyrion, and Steffon felt a sense of foreboding at the words.

Nephews,

The Lord Hand has recently passed. You must make haste for King's Landing. The King wishes to travel North to Winterfell and requires your presence.

Tyrion Lannister

He felt Joffrey stiffen in surprise and Steffon handed the scroll to Ser Barristan to tuck away as he looked at the gathered people with cool green eyes.

"Lord Hightower, I thank you for your hospitality. It seems my brother and I must return to King's Landing."

Surprise flashed across their faces, a glint in the eyes of Lady Olenna as her son asked, "Nothing is the matter my princes, surely?"

Weighing his options, Steff decided that such news was to be known soon. If they don't already know, he thought darkly.

"Lord Arryn has passed," Steffon admitted.

They were surprised, he could tell. Jon Arryn had been old but the man had not seemed too old, still moving about sprightly for one such as him. Even Pycelle was still hobbling around.

There was a feeling of dread pulsing through him, a sense of loss. Not at Jon Arryn but at the situation around them.

The man could have died of old age for all Steffon knew, but he had spent far too many years bickering back and forth with the old Hand over the direction the kingdoms should move to believe the man would simply give in to age.

"We will have to leave immediately," Joffrey said, lips pursed and a blank expression on his face. Lord Tyrell puffed up but a quick rap from his mother's cane kept him quiet.

"Yes, of course. I shall have a groom see to your horses. There is a ship leaving for King's Landing soon."

"That won't be necessary, Lord Hightower. I believe we will keep to the road. If you will excuse me," Steffon smiled politely. Their hosts bowed before Steff turned quickly and made his way to his rooms. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys followed after, and Steffon leaned toward Joffrey to mutter quietly, "Uncle Renly will need to be informed."

Grimacing, the boy gave a swift nod before calling the guards at the end of their hall. Ser Edgar Staedmon was one of Renly's household knights, and Steffon saw him speak quietly to Joff before he took off.

Ser Barristan stood posted outside his door, and it was only that knowledge which kept Steff from causing a ruckus at the sight that met him inside his bedchamber. Seated in a chair near his bed was a woman, older than his mother, with wild silver-blonde hair and eyes of blue fire. Warily, Steffon placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, mindful of the dagger strapped to his thigh.

"My Lady?"

"Harry Potter," she whispered.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon was moving before he noticed, hand at the woman's throat as he pulled his dagger. His skin tingled on contact with her, and he tightened his hand in response.

She merely smiled, the mad woman, and Steffon had the feeling he knew exactly who had taken to his room. The Mad Maid of Hightower, he thought. It fit, her looks akin to those of her family, and Steffon was even more wary for what he knew of her.

"How do you know that name?" Steffon demanded. He had spent years as Steffon Baratheon, as the prince, that the life of Harry Potter was naught more than a lesson to be learned from.

Malora Hightower merely smiled, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of the candle. His hand at her throat did not bother her, nor did she seem worried over the dagger held to her chest.

"The Chosen One," she whispered, a secret dancing in her eyes.

Furiously, Steffon shoved her into the chair, stepping back as he coldly assessed her. She sat there quietly, hands folded in her lap as she stared at him.

"What do you want?" he coldly asked.

Tilting her head, Malora smiled before pointing at the candle. It was not the usual one he had expected; instead this one was made of glass, the light flickering dimly in comparison to a normal candle. Swallowing suddenly, Steffon jerked back in surprise, mind racing.

"The candles have flared only once before, in 284 during a storm. Silent for a hundred years but that the birth of a child should relight them."

"It's flickering," he said flatly.

"Mmm, not quite at full strength are you. That is to be expected," Malora told him, rising from her chair. She picked up the candle, and turned to him, the flicker of red flames creating shadows in her gaze.

"Look into it," she ordered, and for once in his life Steffon could not directly ignore an order. He was curious to know what it might show him, his hand twitching as he felt the tingle of magic.

It was stronger now, stronger than it had been since he had been in the forest; it was both terrifying and wondrous, the thought that he might someday have access to his magic.

The candle held a pale wisp of flame, the colours cycling from white to yellow to red.

Staring into the flames Steffon saw bodies; a river filled with blood, the bodies piled alongside the banks, a man in black with a sword of flames, a woman heavy with child kneeling in a sept, a green stag broken beneath a wall, a castle burning, a city on fire, the sea frothing in anger.

The flames flickered once more, the visions changing. There was a blue winter rose growing in a chink on the wall, a dog barking at a giant before it was burnt, a wolf howling in pain, a pride of lions growling at a bird, the crowned stag surrounded by flames. Overheard was the shadow of a dragon, wings covering leagues as it spat fire at another dragon, black and red flames intermingling.

They fell into sudden darkness as a chill spread throughout. Staring back at him from the black flames was a creature of ice, blue eyes gazing malevolently at him.

Flinching back, Steffon glared wildly at Malora, heart pounding furiously at what he was shown.

"What did you see?" She asked, eyes wide and piercing. "What did it show you?"

"War," Steffon croaked.

They had made it to King's Landing in three weeks, pushing their horses as hard as they could. Steffon had urged them to press forward, eager to put some distance between himself and The Hightower. A small part of him mourned the loss of time to visit the Citadel, but Malora Hightower's antics had made him fearful of the candles igniting in his presence.

The city was still as boisterous as ever, but the keep seemed oddly tense. A sense of foreboding filled Steffon, even as they greeted the king and offered their condolences on the loss of his foster father.

Uncle Tyrion had informed them of their immediate departure. The king had waited long enough for their return and he meant to travel immediately to Winterfell to make his old friend hand.

He was in his bedchamber, the maids having taken the last of his clothes with him for the journey North. Steffon was strapping a dagger to his leg, gathering any parchment that he could not afford to leave behind in the keep when Joffrey stormed into his room, Myrcella following after him.

"Joff, what—"

"Tell me it wasn't you," the younger boy demanded.

Taken aback, Steffon blinked owlishly at him. "What?" he hissed.

"Cella, tell him what you told me," Joff ordered coldly.

Myrcella looked apprehensive as she glanced between her furious brothers. "Lord Arryn was with Gendry," Myrcella said quietly.

"How the hell do you know Gendry?" Steff demanded.

Rolling her eyes, Myrcella scowled at the two of them. "You are not the only one exploring the city brother, don't be such a hypocrite," she added seeing him open his mouth.

"What did he want with Gendry?" Steffon asked, heart racing.

"He was asking about his mother," Cella admitted, a peculiar glint in her eyes. "Gendry told me his mother had yellow hair."

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon glowered at Joffrey. "I was with you for moons, brother, and unknowing of this information."

"Why does he care about Gendry's mother? You're hiding something, ever since Casterly Rock," Cella accused them.

A sheepish look on his face, Joff turned to her, "Cella, we aren't hiding anyth—"

"Don't take me for a fool, Joff, it doesn't suit you," she interrupted scathingly. Turning to glower at Steffon, she continued, "Lord Arryn has been watching Tommen and I for the last half year and spent some of that time in the city speaking with Gendry and one of the whores."

"How do you know all this?" Joffrey asked bewildered.

Sniffing in disdain, she said primly "I've made friends in the city."

They were silent for some time, the three simply staring at one another. He did not want to tell Myrcella, though she was of an age with Joff when he first discovered the truth of his birth. Judging by the look she gave them, Cella was close to figuring it out herself, had most likely realized what they were hiding but could not bring herself to acknowledge it as truth.

"You should finish packing, sister," Steffon said quietly. Seeing her about to protest he hurriedly added, "Not today, but we will tell you everything you need to know."

Pursing her lips, Myrcella nodded in agreement. "I can't know what to watch out for if you insist on keeping me in the dark," she warned, leaving them with those parting words.

As soon as he was certain Cella had left the room, Steffon smacked Joff upside the head. "You could learn to be a bit more discreet," he hissed.

"I panicked," Joff muttered, hand rubbing his head.

"Obviously," Steff drawled.

"Tell me you are not considering telling her the truth," Joff begged.

Forewarned is forearmed, Steffon thought darkly. Cella was right; they were busy gathering alliances, and she and Tommen had suffered for their lack of planning.

"I do not like it, but it is something we may have to do," Steffon murmured. "She's right, we left her and Tommen vulnerable while we played at being princes."

"We were seeking alliances in case something like this happened," Joff hissed.

Whatever response he had was cut off abruptly by the sudden presence of Ser Arys, a page accompanying him.

"My Princes, a small council meeting has been called. The King requires your presence," Ser Arys told them.

Dread curled in his stomach, and Steffon exchanged a worried glance with Joffrey.

They hurried through the keep to the council room, the king for once in attendance. Uncle Stannis was absent, and from what Steffon had learned the man had thrown a fit at the thought of Ned Stark becoming the next hand, taking his ship and his men and sequestering himself in Dragonstone.

"Father," Steffon greeted warily. The air in the room was tense, the council all with varying expressions of disquiet. Ser Barristan looked grave, face pinched in worry, and the king was red-faced and pacing furiously.

"Tell them," he ordered Lord Varys.

The eunuch turned to the two of them, a worried expression that Steffon could not tell the sincerity of. "Daenerys Targaryen is pregnant with the son of a Dothraki Khal," he told them.

Stunned, Steffon glanced at the council to see if this was a jest. This is the last thing we need, he thought in dismay.

"When did she marry?" Joffrey asked.

"The news came shortly after your departure for Storm's End," Littlefinger piped up. Five moons, they had kept this knowledge quiet.

Face tightening, Steffon noted the look on his father's face.

"I WANT HER DEAD!" Robert roared, fist slamming into the table. Fat he may be, but the king still had a certain strength to him, and the lords stared warily at his father.

"Your Grace—" interjected Steffon.

"NO," he spat. "Her and that blasted child and her fool brother." Staring at Varys in anger, the king ordered, "Send someone to take care of them. I'll not suffer more dragonspawn."

"It will be done, Your Grace," Varys bowed.

The king stormed out of the room, Ser Barristan following after him. Slowly, the council dispersed until it was only Steffon, Joffrey and Varys left in the room.

"How likely is it that they are to turn their attention here?" Steffon asked the eunuch.

"The Dothraki do not like the sea, my prince, considering it a poison."

"They'll never make the crossing," Joffrey stated.

"Not of their own volition perhaps, but a child with a kingdom to conquer is a different motivator," Steffon countered, mind whirring with possibilities.

"A band of savages brought to Westeros," Joff scoffed.

"Savages with the backing of a princess," Varys said. Staring at the eunuch, Steffon gestured for him to speak. "Power lies where men believe it to, no more than that. The sea may be a poison, but there is great power in the Targaryen name."

"Enough power to bring them over," Steffon murmured. He knew well the power of the Targaryen name and blood, his father's claim had hinged on that relation, else Ned Stark could have claimed the throne on account of the Northerners grievance.

But killing a child did not sit well with him. He was not his father to wish them all dead, nor his grandfather to do the necessary deed. He couldn't outright order their deaths, but allowing Daenerys Targaryen to live could see his head on a spike.

I swore to do whatever was necessary to keep them safe, he reminded himself, glancing at Joffrey.

"Lord Varys, have your men target the Dothraki Khal," Steffon ordered. The eunuch raised an eyebrow in surprise as he agreed, bowing as he exited.

"Her husband?" Joff questioned once they were alone.

"The Dothraki hold strength in high regard," Steffon recalled from Uncle Tyrion's ramblings. "A khal who dies with only an infant child places them in danger. His people will turn on her as they would never bow to a babe."

It left a sour feeling in his mouth, and Steffon ruthlessly crushed any doubt. He could not afford to second-guess himself in this, not when Joff and Cella and Tom's very lives depended on him.

"Dragons to the East and an enemy in our midst holding a knife to our balls. Tell me, brother, who else shall plot our deaths?"

"Many and more," Steffon replied, "for who plots and plays the game other than high lords in their castles. I've no intention of granting that request."

"And if the Targaryens should turn their gaze westward?" Joff asked quietly, a somber look on his face.

"We throw them back into the Rhoyne and hope the river will succeed where the Doom failed."

"War will come to Westeros," Joff pointed out.

"Aye," Steff responded just as quietly, "and I wil cling to this throne if I must, should the alternative be our heads on a spike. Doubtless the Targaryens would see us buried and forgotten."

"Oh good, I quite enjoy living," Joff quipped darkly.

"You'll have to bind several kingdoms to you by marriage," Steffon stated, staring at his brother.

It took Joffrey a moment to realize what he had said, lost as he was in dark thoughts of their potential future. "Marriage?" he asked horrified.

"No need to be so dramatic, brother, not all marriages are like our dear parents," Steff chided.

"Father is taking the entire family North. He means to get himself a Hand and a Stark bride that he was denied," Joffrey scoffed. "You of all people should fear the binds of marriage."

"I am aware," he drawled.

"Sansa Stark comes with three kingdoms tied to her by blood," Joff noted.

"Kingdoms I would see tied to you instead," Steffon murmured, eyes dark with worry.

"Insulting the North with their daughter being a mere princess instead of queen? That is not like you, Steff."

"The last thing we need is ambitious Roses plotting against us," Steffon said softly. Pulling Joffrey close Steff breathed, "Court her, do what you must to have Sansa Stark wish for a match between yourselves. When you wed her and bed her, the North will be forced to stay their hands and declare any words as baseless rumours."

Joffrey stared at him solemnly, and stood as close as they were Steffon could see the hint of fear lurking in his gaze.

"We do not know what was discovered, but this stinks of something dangerous."

"When you play the game of thrones, you either win or die," Joffrey recited.

"I've no intention of allowing either of you to die Joff. I would salt the earth before that came to pass."

There marks the end of The Storm Prince. A few notes:

Firstly, regarding the lack of magic/Steffon's exploration of his lack of magic, as cravensvt hints at, it was a simple case of complete immersion in the ASOIAF world and the issue of canon Harry's knowledge. Harry enters the world as a babe and for someone who recently died, he seizes the chance at a new life. Of course, the new life he has is not without its own issues, and so he must learn and play the game so he doesn't find himself in situations that are detrimental to his continued health. As the crown prince, Steffon's concerns are at the moment far more mundane, but with the dreams and the end of this chapter we see the beginning of the magical aspect rearing it's head. The sequel will explore that in more depth, trying to see how he is affected by the return of his magic.

Joe Lawyer brought up a good point regarding Harry's lack of exploration/wand-making, something I attribute to canon-Harry's minimal knowledge. He enters the ASOIAF world immediately after his death, so while he knows the basics of wands, he is inexperienced in crafting a wand and whatnot. The issue of how he'll focus his magic (and how much of it plays to the HP magic or the ASOIAF magic) will pop up in the next bit.

Second, I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying the relationships between Steffon and Joffrey, and Steffon and his parents. These will be key to his story. Home of the Brave and feal mentioned his lack of rose-tinted glasses towards his parents/the love-hate relationship with Cersei. For Steffon, I was going with the angle of experience making him wiser. He mentions in the first chapter that in spite of all that they have done, he's been cursed to love them. Robert and Cersei still hold mostly to their canon counterparts, though the changes in their familial relationships are a bit more obvious now. Robert shows more pride in his sons because they are as martial as he was, and he has an able heir and a 'spare' to take over. Cersei, despite her hatred of her husband, does adore her eldest child and is secure in the knowledge that Steffon would not turn against her, but she still contends with the fact that Steffon is Robert's son. Which, as TheLaughingMan1 mentioned, is where the twist in the Black Prince trope comes. Steffon is mentally Harry Potter, and seeing his family has stepped into the role of father figure/mentor/confidant for Joffrey, who in turn becomes his closest advisor as they deal with the shit they were left with.

The Storm Prince was an attempt to create a plausible backstory for the story I originally intended to write. The sequel (Black Lion, Golden Stag) was conceived with the question of how Ned Stark would handle an able and active crown prince that knew the truth of his siblings and did not care beyond wanting to do anything to keep them alive, and Harry became the prince in the story because I love HP and the character has always yearned for family, so it was another angle to explore. The sequel is still up in the air in terms of plot, so that actual question might not be important. However, I did ask three questions at the beginning of this story. Two of them are answered almost fully, but the final question (How does the game change Harry) is the part that's left to tackle.

As Steffon mentions toward the end, he's almost fully become a Baratheon prince and thinks on his life as Harry Potter as a lesson to be learned from. With the resurgence of his magic, the return of the Others, and the very real issues he's now facing in King's Landing and beyond with Stannis missing and Renly possibly angling for the throne, Steffon is going to have to answer the question of who he really is as his two lives clash. Can he be canon Harry and save the world? Is he Steffon, who has retained parts of Harry and made it his own in spite of his upbringing? What does it take for someone like him to survive the Game of Thrones? He's been very good at talking the talk right now regarding how far he is willing to go to keep his family intact, and we'll see his struggle to do what is necessary. Harry Potter (I felt) was very much ruled by love, and Steffon shares that same characteristic when it comes to his family, and he'll be dealing with my favourite quotes from Maester Aemon. What is love compared to duty, and can Steffon kill the boy and let the man live?

Lol, sorry for the mini essay, but hopefully that answers any questions you might have. It will take some time before the sequel is up as I tackle these questions myself and deal with the plot.