(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, White Sword Tower)
The White Sword Tower rose like a blade beside the Red Keep — a gleaming spire of stone, austere and silent, home to the Kingsguard.
It was there, in the council chamber at its heart, that Steffon Baratheon was summoned.
The boy wore a simple tunic of black and gold, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered small and sharp over his heart. His black hair was combed neatly back; his green eyes shone clear and cold.
He climbed the narrow stairs without fear, without hesitation.
When he entered, Ser Barristan Selmy was waiting.
The Lord Commander stood beside the white table, the seven swords of the Kingsguard carved into the stone. His armor gleamed, spotless, and his white cloak fell in heavy, pure folds.
He looked at Steffon without speaking for a long moment, measuring him.
(POV: Barristan Selmy)
The boy was small, still soft in the face — but there was something unsettling about his gaze.
No child's wildness.
No spoiled lordling's arrogance.
There was purpose there.
Barristan had seen it before — in Rhaegar Targaryen, on the fields of Summerhall. In Arthur Dayne, in the halls of Starfall.
He cleared his throat, voice deep but not unkind.
"Prince Steffon," he said. "You have asked to become my squire."
"I have," Steffon replied, standing straight.
Barristan nodded slowly.
"It is no easy path," he said. "You will not be pampered. You will rise early and sleep late. You will bleed. You will fail. And you will be expected to bear it all without complaint."
"I understand," Steffon said.
Barristan's lips twitched — almost a smile, almost not.
"You think you understand," he said. "But you will learn."
He paced slowly around the boy, studying his posture, his hands, his bearing.
At last, he stopped.
"Why do you wish to serve me?" Barristan asked, voice quiet but sharp as a drawn blade.
Steffon did not hesitate.
"Because you are the finest knight alive," he said. "Because you know what it means to serve honor, not ambition. And because I will not rule well if I do not first learn to serve."
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
A slow nod from the old knight.
"You speak well," Barristan said. "Words are wind. Actions prove the heart."
He turned, lifting a plain wooden sword from the rack. He tossed it lightly to Steffon, who caught it two-handed without flinching.
"Strike me," Barristan said.
Steffon blinked once — then moved.
His form was rough — no true training yet — but there was strength in the swing, and speed.
Barristan parried easily, but his arms tingled faintly from the impact.
He pressed the boy back with three blows, fast and heavy. Steffon stumbled, gritting his teeth, but did not fall.
When Barristan stepped back, Steffon straightened, breathing hard but steady.
Good, Barristan thought. Very good.
He lowered his sword.
"You have the heart for it," he said. "Whether you have the spirit and the patience, we shall see."
Barristan turned toward the white table, drawing a parchment from beneath his cloak.
He signed his name with a firm hand.
"I accept you as my squire, Prince Steffon Baratheon," he said solemnly. "Before the Seven and before the memory of those who came before."
Steffon bowed low — not as a prince, but as a squire to a knight.
When he straightened, his green eyes gleamed.
Another step.
Another stone laid on the road to rule.
(POV: Steffon Baratheon — Red Keep Gardens)
The gardens of the Red Keep were near-empty in the fading light, the air heavy with the scent of blooming roses and sweetgrass.
A warm breeze stirred the tall hedges and scattered petals across the stone paths like blood on a battlefield.
Steffon Baratheon walked alone, his hands clasped behind his back, moving at a slow, deliberate pace.
To any who watched, he was merely a thoughtful child — the King's heir lost in innocent daydreams.
The perfect lie.
Inside, his mind was sharper than any blade in the White Tower.
---
It is all theater, he thought as he passed a flowering tree, its branches heavy with pale blossoms. Every stumble, every hesitation — carefully measured, carefully displayed.
They thought he was learning swordsmanship from scratch.
They thought he was absorbing lessons of governance, of noble decorum, for the first time.
They thought he was a bright, serious boy — nothing more.
Fools.
In truth, Steffon had commanded armies before he could legally drink in this world.
He had raised broken empires from the ashes, forged alliances between races that had warred for centuries, stared down monsters and gods alike without flinching.
The basics of swordplay, politics, diplomacy — they were old songs to him, played out long ago on bloodier stages.
When Barristan corrected his footwork, he listened with patience.
When Stannis spoke of duty and law, he nodded with humility.
When Renly laughed and taught him how to smile without surrender, he practiced the expressions carefully, storing them away like weapons in a hidden armory.
All of it was necessary.
A child who knew too much would draw the wrong kind of attention.
Even Robert, with his roaring pride and easy laughter, would grow suspicious.
Cersei, calculating and cold, would see too clearly if he moved too fast.
Varys already had eyes everywhere.
Best they think me slow, Steffon thought. Best they think me earnest, eager, harmless.
He reached a stone bench overlooking a small, rippling fountain.
The water mirrored the dying light of the sky — silver and crimson.
He sat, folding his hands neatly in his lap.
There was no rush.
Westeros rotted on its own.
The kingdoms would fall into his hands like ripe fruit when the time was right.
But first he would build the foundation.
Stone by stone.
Sword by sword.
Soul by soul.
They would call it destiny when it was done.
They always did.
Steffon smiled faintly — a cold, patient smile no child should have worn.
The game was only beginning.
And he had already won.
(POV: Third Person — Small Council Chamber, Red Keep)
The Small Council chamber was a long, echoing room of dark stone and heavier silences.
Sunlight filtered weakly through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the great wooden table around which the kingdom's power was supposed to gather.
Steffon Baratheon stood at the edge of the room, a polished silver flagon of wine in his hands, dressed in simple but finely made black and gold.
The perfect cupbearer: silent, watchful, invisible.
Just as he intended.
---
(POV: Steffon Baratheon — Inner Thoughts)
The Small Council was smaller than its name suggested.
At the head sat Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, his pale blue eyes sharp and weary.
Steffon studied him carefully — the one man here who still carried the weight of duty in his bones.
Beside him sprawled Grand Maester Pycelle, his white beard trailing down his chest like a banner of false wisdom.
Pycelle shifted constantly, a fat fly buzzing around power, whispering half-truths with the solemnity of prophecy.
Further down the table, robed in soft silks and softer smiles, sat Varys — the Master of Whisperers.
Steffon watched him with particular care.
The eunuch radiated a kind of oily calm, as if he already knew the answers to every question before they were asked.
His hands, soft and unscarred, moved like a dancer's, always folding and unfolding with deceptive ease.
And of course, his father, King Robert Baratheon, sat in the tallest chair — or slouched in it, at least, his crown tilting forward on his heavy brow.
Robert looked bored before the meeting had even begun, his great hand drumming restlessly on the arm of his chair.
The Master of Coin was absent — no doubt lost in some ledger.
The Master of Laws — Stannis — was absent too, summoned to Dragonstone for matters of governance.
It made the room quieter.
And more dangerous.
"Grain shipments from the Reach are behind schedule again," Jon Arryn said, rubbing his temples. "If it continues, we will see shortages in King's Landing by winter."
Pycelle gave a wheezing cough that was meant to sound wise.
"Surely the Reach lords would not dare starve the capital," he said, his jowls trembling. "They are honorable men, loyal to the Crown."
Varys smiled thinly.
"Honor is a rare crop these days, my lords," he murmured. "Especially when the harvest is poor and the taxes high."
Robert grunted, waving a hand.
"Send a few ravens. Shake a few purses. Gods, must we waste time on bloody grain?"
Jon Arryn's face tightened slightly, but he said nothing.
Steffon moved quietly from lord to lord, filling goblets, head bowed.
But his ears missed nothing.
The kingdom rotted slowly, from the roots up.
Grain today. Gold tomorrow. Blood soon after.
Robert was still strong, still a hammer if he chose to be — but hammers could not fix broken foundations.
Jon Arryn tried to hold it together with quiet words and careful diplomacy.
Pycelle would sell wisdom by the pound to whoever paid best.
Varys... Varys watched. Always watching. For what, Steffon could not yet say.
He refilled Varys's cup carefully, noting the brief flicker of those sly, lidless eyes over him.
The eunuch was curious — not suspicious yet, but curious.
Good, Steffon thought. Let them all underestimate me.
"Enough of this!" Robert barked finally, rising to his feet with a scrape of chair legs against stone. "I have better things to do than count sacks of barley."
He threw his goblet down onto the table — not hard enough to shatter, but enough to splash wine across the wood.
"Sort it out," he growled at Jon Arryn. "That's why I have a Hand."
Without waiting for dismissal, Robert stormed from the room, his royal cloak billowing behind him like a thundercloud.
The council sat in uneasy silence for a long moment.
Jon Arryn sighed, deeply and quietly.
"Very well," he said, voice low. "We will move forward without His Grace."
Steffon poured the last of the wine, his small hands steady, his face the perfect mask of innocent service.
But inside, his mind worked faster than any man at that table suspected.
The kingdom cracked.
The court rotted.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Steffon Baratheon would be ready when it fell.
And he would be the one to rebuild it.