(POV: Third Person — Jon Arryn's Solar, Red Keep)
The Small Council had long since ended.
The courtiers had drifted back to their pleasures, the scribes to their ledgers.
Only the work of ruling remained — dry, thankless, endless.
Jon Arryn sat at his desk, a thick ledger open before him, but his eyes were not on the parchment.
They were on the boy standing quietly near the door.
Steffon Baratheon.
Jon motioned him forward with a slight lift of his hand.
"Come," he said.
Steffon obeyed without question, moving with the easy, quiet grace that had already set whispers stirring among the court.
Jon studied him for a long moment — not unkindly, but with the weight of a lifetime's experience in reading men... and boys.
"You listened well today," Jon said at last, folding his hands atop the desk.
"I am your cupbearer, Lord Hand," Steffon said politely.
Jon allowed himself a faint smile.
"Yes," he said. "And yet you listened better than many who claim seats at my council table."
Steffon tilted his head slightly — not enough to be insolent, but enough to suggest careful thought.
"It seemed important," he said simply.
Jon leaned back in his chair, studying the boy.
"You noticed the divisions," Jon said, more statement than question.
"I noticed," Steffon admitted. "That Grand Maester Pycelle speaks much, but says little. That Lord Varys speaks little, but says much."
Jon laughed quietly — a low, approving sound.
"And what of your father?"
Steffon hesitated, the perfect measure of a boy unsure whether he should speak freely.
Then, carefully:
"My father... is a hammer," he said. "Strong. Heavy. Not made for fine work."
Jon's smile faded slightly.
"You are sharper than you pretend to be," he said softly.
Steffon lowered his eyes, offering a boy's half-shrug.
"I only wish to learn," he said.
Jon studied him for a long time, the room heavy with unsaid words.
At last, he nodded.
"Good," Jon said. "You must learn. This realm needs men who see clearly. Not just warriors, but rulers."
He tapped a finger against the heavy ledger before him.
"Power," Jon said, "is not held by those who shout loudest. It is held by those who endure longest."
Steffon lifted his gaze — and for a heartbeat, Jon Arryn thought he saw something in the boy's green eyes that did not belong to a child.
Something old.
Something inevitable.
He pushed the thought aside.
"Come to me each week," Jon said. "Not just for council meetings. We will study together. Law, history, the ways of the court."
Steffon bowed, low and formal.
"I would be honored, my lord."
Jon Arryn watched him leave, the door closing softly behind him.
For the first time in many years, a flicker of true hope stirred in his old heart.
Perhaps the realm is not lost yet, Jon thought.
But another thought whispered after it, colder and harder:
Or perhaps it is already beyond saving — and that boy will be its last king.
(POV: Third Person — White Sword Tower, Red Keep)
The practice yard behind the White Sword Tower was small, walled in high white stone, hidden from the eyes of the court.
It was not a place for tourneys or pageantry.
It was a place for discipline, sweat, and blood.
Steffon Baratheon stood at its center, a blunted practice sword clutched tightly in his hands.
His black hair clung to his forehead, his green eyes clear and sharp beneath the morning sun.
Across from him, armored in simple mail and white tabard, stood Ser Barristan Selmy.
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Barristan the Bold.
And today, Steffon's teacher.
It feels almost right, Steffon thought as he shifted his stance slightly, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. Almost like the fields of Halann.
There, he had worn plate heavier than any Westerosi steel.
There, he had broken armies with sword and spell alike.
Here, he was five years old again.
Small. Light.
But the muscle memory — the instincts — remained, buried deep in the soul Castellos had carried into this world.
He knew already how to hold a blade.
How to kill.
But today, he would pretend to learn.
Just as he pretended everywhere else.
"Grip tighter," Barristan said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, measured, no sharpness to it.
He adjusted Steffon's hands on the hilt, nodding approvingly when the boy obeyed immediately, without complaint.
"Footwork is everything," Barristan continued. "A man's sword is nothing without his stance."
He demonstrated — one step forward, shield tight, blade low.
"Again."
Steffon mirrored the movement perfectly, his small boots whispering across the stone.
Barristan's pale blue eyes narrowed slightly.
The boy moved too well.
Not with the clumsy eagerness of a squire desperate to impress, nor the showy pride of a pampered prince.
He moved with efficiency.
With knowledge.
Barristan said nothing. Yet.
"Attack," Barristan commanded.
Steffon lunged — not wildly, but with clean, economical precision.
The wooden blades met with a sharp crack, the force of Steffon's blow surprisingly strong for his small frame.
Barristan deflected it easily, of course — but he felt it.
A bite of true intent behind the swing.
They circled.
Barristan feinted low; Steffon parried high, adjusting too fast for any novice.
Barristan smiled faintly, unseen.
This one has the making of a killer, he thought. Not just a knight.
Without warning, Barristan pivoted — a real blow, heavier, faster.
Steffon stumbled, barely blocking — but he did block.
The boy's eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee, sword still between him and danger.
Perfect reaction.
Not a child's panic.
A soldier's instinct.
Barristan lowered his own blade, nodding once.
"Good," he said simply.
He stepped back, offering a hand.
Steffon took it, rising smoothly to his feet.
There was sweat on his brow, but no fear in his face.
Only hunger.
For mastery.
For victory.
Later, as he watched Steffon run through footwork drills alone, Barristan found himself frowning slightly.
The boy learned too fast.
He adapted with the kind of sharp, brutal efficiency that only came from real experience — not just talent.
Too early, Barristan thought. Too young.
He remembered Rhaegar Targaryen, solemn and grave beyond his years.
He remembered young Arthur Dayne, whose sword was a living thing in his hand.
Steffon was not yet them — but the seeds were there.
Dangerous seeds, if left untended.
Or perhaps... saviors, if properly nurtured.
Barristan folded his arms over his chest.
Time would tell.
As he moved through the drills, sweat trickling down his back, Steffon allowed himself a small, grim satisfaction.
Barristan was suspicious, yes.
But suspicion was not fear.
Not yet.
Steffon would learn all they could teach.
He would master every form, every trick, every weakness they exposed.
And when the time came — when the real war came —
he would be ready.
Westeros would not be saved by honor.
It would be saved by strength.
And if strength meant deception — so be it.
POV: Third Person — Steffon's Chambers, Red Keep, Late Night)
The Red Keep slept uneasily under the silver eye of the moon.
The distant murmur of the Blackwater Bay was the only sound beyond the thick stone walls.
In a modest chamber high in the Tower of the Hand, Steffon Baratheon sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes half-closed, a single candle guttering beside him.
Before him, laid out carefully, were the tools of his silent labor:
A thin dagger of castle-forged steel.
A strip of old parchment, stolen from a forgotten shelf.
A shallow bowl of water, reflecting the trembling candlelight.
Simple things.
Yet in the right hands, even simple things could shape the world.
It is weaker here, Steffon thought grimly as he exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing.
In Halann, magic thrummed in the very stones, sang in the blood of men and elves alike.
Here... it was a dying whisper, a flicker of light nearly snuffed out.
But it was not dead.
Not yet.
And he would find it.
Steffon took up the dagger, its blade flashing briefly in the candlelight.
Without hesitation, he drew it lightly across his palm — a shallow cut, just enough.
Blood welled up, dark and hot.
He let three drops fall into the bowl of water.
They spread out in lazy crimson tendrils, swirling silently.
Steffon closed his eyes, reaching inward — not to prayer, not to gods, but to the old channels of power carved into his soul in another life.
He whispered a word.
Not in Westerosi tongue.
Not even in Valyrian.
A word older than either — from a time when men spoke to stars and stone alike.
The water shivered.
The candle guttered, the flame shrinking, struggling.
Steffon opened his eyes — and smiled, cold and sharp.
The blood had not dispersed.
It floated in the water, pulsing faintly like a living heart.
Primitive. Crude.
But it answered.
The magic of this world was weak — but it was obedient.
Steffon dipped his fingers into the blood-warmed water, stirring it once.
He focused, narrowing his mind to a single point:
Power.
Enemies.
Opportunity.
Images flickered at the edge of vision — too fast, too blurred to seize.
A stag, crowned but bleeding.
A lioness snarling behind a mask of gold.
A spider weaving a web of smoke.
A white, dead thing marching beneath a blackened sky.
Steffon snapped back, panting quietly.
The water stilled.
The candle's flame returned to normal, dancing gently.
It is still possible, he thought, wiping his cut hand clean and binding it tightly.
The magic was dormant, but not gone.
With time, with study, with patience, he could rekindle it.
And when he did...
Not even dragons would match him.
Not the Spider.
Not the Lioness.
Not the dead kings of ice.
He would be the architect of Westeros's rebirth.
Or its conqueror.
Whichever the gods preferred.
As he blew out the candle, plunging the chamber into darkness, Steffon smiled to himself in the silence.
The game had begun.
And now, the real weapons were waking.