(POV: Third Person — Five Years Later)
The Red Keep had changed.
Or perhaps it was Steffon Baratheon who had changed, for the halls no longer seemed so vast, nor the courtiers so clever. Their whispered intrigues, their painted smiles — he could see through them now as easily as one saw through a glass of watered wine.
He was five years old, and already he understood that power did not come from crowns or swords alone.
Power was built — stone by stone, secret by secret, bond by bond.
And he would build it well.
---
(POV: Steffon Baratheon)
The sun blazed down on the training yard, where knights drilled and shouted, the air filled with the scent of sweat and steel.
Steffon watched silently, seated under the shade of an old oak. His green eyes — sharp, unblinking — took in every movement, every mistake. He was no fool. Raw strength alone would not be enough. He had seen too much already.
Strength. Cunning. Loyalty. Charm. All must be mine.
He had made his decision.
Steffon stood tall before the King and Queen, his voice calm and clear.
"I have chosen my teachers," he said.
Cersei leaned back lazily, her green eyes gleaming with mild amusement. "Have you now?" she purred. "And who might they be, little prince?"
Without hesitation, Steffon replied:
"I wish to learn governance and law from my uncle Stannis."
A faint shift in the room — a tightening, barely visible.
"And politics and noble demeanor from my uncle Renly."
Robert let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Seven hells, boy, before you know it, you'll be preening like a peacock!"
Steffon ignored the jibe, his green eyes unwavering.
"And I want to master the sword under Lord Commander Barristan Selmy," he continued, "and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer."
(POV: Stannis Baratheon — Later That Evening)
Stannis found himself summoned — not by Robert, nor by any council, but by a child.
He sat stiffly across from Steffon in the dimly lit solar, the boy already poring over scrolls and maps, his tiny hands steady as he traced the borders of the Stormlands and the Reach.
"I want to know how to rule," Steffon said without preamble. "Not just win battles. I want to know how to hold a kingdom."
Stannis stared at him.
For a moment, he saw not a child, but something older, something ancient in those green eyes.
"You begin with duty," Stannis said at last. "Everything else — love, loyalty, victory — comes second to duty."
Steffon nodded solemnly, as if he had already known the answer.
---
Renly smiled easily as he lounged on the velvet cushions, watching his young nephew approach with that same serious glint in his eyes.
"If you want to win over lords and ladies alike," Renly said, swirling a goblet of wine idly, "you must master not just the laws of the realm — but the dance of court."
He leaned forward, tapping Steffon lightly on the forehead.
"You must move like a noble. Speak like one. Smile like one. Make them believe you were born to be loved and followed."
Steffon listened without blinking. Not one word wasted, not one lesson missed.
---
Barristan Selmy trained him with the patience of a knight who had seen dozens of kings come and go. He taught him honor, balance, when to strike, when to defend.
Jaime Lannister taught him differently.
"Forget honor," Jaime said, his voice smooth as silk. "Win. That's all that matters. Victory forgives everything."
Between the two, Steffon learned both the shining blade and the poisoned dagger — and when to use which.
---
(POV: Third Person — Steffon's Thoughts)
Stannis for duty.
Renly for love.
Selmy for honor.
Jaime for victory.
He would master them all.
He would forge himself into the king Westeros did not deserve — but the king it would kneel to all the same.
The world was still sick, still broken.
But he would heal it.
Or he would burn it to the ground and rebuild it in his image.
---
(POV: Third Person — The Hand's Solar, Red Keep)
The air in the solar was thick with parchment, dust, and the muted scent of old oak. Sunlight poured through the high windows, catching on the golden pin of the Hand of the King, gleaming proudly on Jon Arryn's chest.
The Lord of the Eyrie was a tall man, aging but still imposing, his blue eyes sharp as winter skies.
He sat at a broad table littered with reports from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Reach — and beyond.
Before him, standing with hands clasped behind his back, was Steffon Baratheon.
Five years old, yet standing straight as any grown squire, steady under the gaze that had broken many older men.
Jon studied him for a long moment, curious.
The boy had asked for an audience, formally, through a squire. No whining, no tears, no mother pushing him forward.
Alone. Direct.
At last, Jon leaned back in his chair.
"You wished to see me, young prince?" he said, voice low and measured.
"Yes, Lord Hand," Steffon said. His tone was calm, respectful, but lacking the simpering deference Jon often heard from children raised among sycophants.
Jon arched a brow. "And what matter brings you here?"
Steffon did not fidget. He did not shift his weight from foot to foot.
"I wish to learn the ways of the court," he said, "not from books or tales, but from watching those who govern the realm. I would ask to serve you as a cupbearer."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown.
Jon's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. He had been Hand for over five years now. Cupbearers came and went — pampered boys from minor houses sent to gather favor, to gossip, to spy.
Few sought the post themselves — fewer still spoke so plainly.
"And why me, boy?" Jon asked. "You are your father's heir. You could demand a knight's tutelage or a lord's patronage."
"I will be a king one day," Steffon said simply. "A king must understand the realm. Its laws, its people, its weaknesses."
There was no arrogance in his voice. Only certainty.
Jon Arryn, who had raised Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark both to manhood, felt a curious pang — half pride, half unease.
This boy was dangerous.
But perhaps in a way the realm needed.
Jon thought of Robert, already sliding into indulgence. Of the court, already sinking into greed and petty scheming. Of Cersei's cold beauty, of her father's iron will from the shadows of Casterly Rock.
Perhaps — just perhaps — this boy could be molded into something better.
Something stronger.
Jon set down his quill.
"You may attend me," he said at last. "As my cupbearer, and as my student.
But know this, Steffon Baratheon — service to the realm is a harder burden than a crown of gold. Are you prepared to endure it?"
"I am," Steffon said, bowing his head.
A true bow. Not the mockery courtiers gave when they thought no one watched.
Jon nodded, a flicker of respect passing over his worn features.
"Then come," he said. "There is much to learn."
And so Steffon Baratheon, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, entered the game of thrones — not as a king, but as a cupbearer, carrying wine and water, and gathering secrets like a patient spider.
(POV: Third Person — Robert and Steffon, Red Keep Solar)
The late afternoon sun bled through the tall windows of the royal solar, painting the stone walls in heavy streaks of gold and red.
The smell of summerwine hung thick in the air, mingling with the scent of old leather, parchment, and the lingering smoke from the brazier.
King Robert Baratheon lounged in a heavy oaken chair, one booted foot resting lazily atop a nearby stool, a goblet of wine cradled in his large hand. The years of war and rule weighed heavily on him, but today there was a different light in his eyes — the sharp gleam of memory.
Across from him, Steffon Baratheon sat quietly on a carved wooden bench. Five years old, but he held himself with a stillness that even grown men lacked.
He did not fidget.
He did not look away.
He listened.
It had been Robert's idea, after all:
"A man ought to know his father's stories," he had said, voice roughened by years of too much loss, too much drink.
And so Robert spoke.
"I was barely eight years old when my father, Steffon, sailed across the Narrow Sea," Robert said, swirling his wine absentmindedly. "Mad King Aerys sent him off... chasing after brides with Valyrian blood. Some fool's quest to save the Targaryen line."
He snorted, a humorless sound, thick with old bitterness.
"Never made it back. A storm caught his ship off Shipbreaker Bay. Dashed it against the rocks before he could even see home again. We found wreckage. Nothing more."
Robert paused, staring into the depths of his goblet as if he could find the past hidden there.
"After that..." His voice roughened. "Lord Jon Arryn took me into his care at the Eyrie. Raised me alongside young Eddard Stark."
He shifted slightly, his knee cracking with age.
"Your uncle Stannis stayed behind," Robert said, a shadow passing over his face. "Storm's End needed a lord, even a boy lord. Duty fell to him. Cold and thankless, like everything Stannis touches."
He shook his head, a glint of grim amusement passing briefly through his eyes.
"The Vale was a good place to grow, though. Stone, sky, honor... clean air and harder men. Jon Arryn taught us loyalty, taught us duty. He was a second father to me — and a better one than some ever get."
He lifted his eyes to Steffon, the moment stretching between them.
"You'd have liked it, lad," Robert said. "None of these painted courtiers and whisperers we have here. Just honest steel and colder truths."
Steffon absorbed every word, every flicker of regret and pride that crossed his father's weathered face.
He had seen the court's games already — the smiles that hid knives, the flatterers and spies that filled the Red Keep's corridors.
But this...
A place where loyalty meant something.
Where duty was not a word but a life.
It stirred something deep within him.
When Robert finally grew quiet again, lost in the fading light of sunset, Steffon rose smoothly to his feet.
The moment was right.
"Father," he said, voice steady and clear. "If I am to be a true knight — and a true king — I must learn from the greatest."
Robert grunted, dragging himself back from memory.
"Aye?" he said, curious. "And who's that, then?"
"Ser Barristan Selmy," Steffon answered without hesitation. "The finest knight in the realm. Barristan the Bold."
Robert laughed, not cruelly, but with something like real warmth.
"You've sharp eyes, boy," he said, leaning forward. "No better knight lives. Honor and steel in one man."
Steffon stepped closer and knelt, lowering his head in a single fluid motion.
"I ask you, Father," he said, the words ringing clear in the quiet chamber, "let me be squired to Ser Barristan. Let me learn as you once did under Lord Arryn — through service, and through duty."
The brazier crackled softly as Robert stared at his son, long and hard.
The boy's back was straight. His head bowed not from fear, but from choice.
Robert saw himself — and yet something more. Something harder.
Sharper.
"You don't ask for small things," Robert said at last, a rough smile curling his mouth. "No fine toys, no tournaments. You ask for a burden."
He sat back, exhaling slowly.
"Very well," Robert said. "I'll speak to Barristan. If he'll have you, you'll have your place."
Steffon bowed lower, hiding the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.
The first step on the long road was laid.
And he would walk it.