(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, Dead of Night)
The Red Keep slept, but the stones never forgot.
There were passages beneath the castle that no lord had walked in a hundred years.
Vaults and crypts and ancient cellars, built in madness and blood by Maegor the Cruel.
It was into those forgotten depths that Steffon Baratheon now moved — barefoot, silent, a small flickering lantern hidden beneath his cloak.
The guards at the upper levels were few at this hour — drunk, drowsy, or too arrogant to fear.
No one watched a child.
Especially not a quiet one.
Steffon slipped past the main staircases, ducked through crumbling servant corridors, and descended — deeper and deeper — into the cold gut of the Red Keep.
The heart of kingship is power, Steffon thought as he moved, careful to avoid loose stones and creaking boards. And power has roots. Blood. Bone. Memory.
The dragons had ruled Westeros for nearly three centuries — not through politics or gold, but by fire.
By terror.
Their bones remained, buried somewhere in the old vaults.
Forgotten by others.
Wasted by the fools.
But not by him.
He would find them.
He would remember what others had allowed to wither.
The air grew colder as he descended.
The walls changed — rougher, older, the seams wide and uneven.
At last, he reached a heavy door of blackened oak, bound in rusted iron.
There was no lock — only weight and warning.
He pushed.
The door groaned open slowly, ancient hinges shrieking in protest.
Beyond, darkness swallowed everything.
Steffon lifted his lantern.
And there they were.
Bones.
Massive, bleached white by centuries of dust and darkness.
Great coils of spine thicker than a man's chest, ribs like the arches of a fallen cathedral.
Skulls grinned at him from the gloom — fanged, hollow-eyed, monstrous.
The bones of dragons.
The bones of kings.
He stepped forward, slow and reverent.
The sheer size of the skulls dwarfed him.
One bore a crack through its brow — Balerion the Black Dread, slain by time and rot.
Another's teeth had splintered — Vhagar, perhaps, the terror of Dorne.
He walked among them like a ghost.
The magic here was faint — weaker even than he expected — but it was not gone.
The stones remembered.
The bones remembered.
Steffon knelt before the largest skull, setting his lantern carefully aside.
He rested his unbandaged hand lightly against the curve of ancient bone.
He whispered words again — old words, forbidden in any king's hall.
Not to summon, not yet.
Only to remember.
Only to wake what had been sleeping.
The skull beneath his hand seemed to vibrate, almost imperceptibly.
The air grew heavier, colder.
For a heartbeat, Steffon thought he heard something — not sound, but memory:
A rush of wings.
A roar beyond mortal hearing.
The crackle of fire swallowing stone.
He pulled back sharply, breathing hard.
The bones were dead — but the power was not.
It was only waiting.
Waiting for a hand strong enough to command it once more.
Standing in the half-light among the dead kings of fire, Steffon Baratheon made a silent vow:
I will not be a relic.
I will not be a crumbling skull beneath a ruined castle.
I will master the power you lost.
I will forge a new age — by fire, by blood, by will.
No songs.
No dragons.
But the flame would burn again.
He would be the fire.
Steffon drew his cloak tight around him, doused his lantern, and slipped back into the shadows of the Red Keep.
No one heard him.
No one saw him.
By the time the sun rose over King's Landing, the heir to the realm would be back in his bed, sleeping like an innocent boy.
And the bones would sleep again — but not forever.
Not for long.
(POV: Third Person — Great Hall of the Red Keep)
The great hall of the Red Keep was ablaze with light and life.
Hundreds of candles burned in heavy iron chandeliers, their smoke curling toward the vaulted ceilings.
Banners hung from every rafter: the crowned stag of House Baratheon, the roaring lion of House Lannister, the falcon of House Arryn.
The smell of roasting meats, spiced wine, and rich perfumes hung thick in the air.
King Robert Baratheon sat at the high table, crown tilted askew, roaring with laughter that shook the golden plates before him.
At his right hand sat Queen Cersei Lannister, cloaked in green and gold, her beauty untouched by the cares of rule, her green eyes sharp and unreadable.
And stepping forward before the assembled court — dressed in black and gold, a silver circlet with stag's antlers resting lightly on his brow — came Prince Steffon Baratheon, the King's only son and heir.
They see a boy, Steffon thought as he made his way down the long, wine-stained carpet, past knights, lords, and highborn ladies who bowed and curtsied with practiced grace.
They see a son of Robert, a child of the court.
They do not see what I truly am.
And they must not.
He kept his stride careful — a measured balance between boyish pride and respectful humility.
His small hands folded neatly before him.
His green eyes bright, unthreatening, warm.
All a mask.
Behind it, his mind counted every movement, every glance, every whispered word.
Lord Paxter Redwyne, heavy with wine and flattery, bent low before Steffon, murmuring about future fleets and island loyalties.
The tall and cautious Lord Gyles Rosby coughed wetly and bowed, his smile more leer than loyalty.
From the edges of the hall, the golden-haired Kevan Lannister watched carefully, standing beside his own small son, Lancel.
Near the Queen, young cousins of the Rock — Tyrek Lannister and Martyn Lannister — played the part of eager youths, laughing too loudly at minor jests.
Grand Maester Pycelle, wheezing into his goblet, gave Steffon a look of sticky approval.
And above them all, unseen by many but not by Steffon, Varys the Spider drifted along the edges of the hall like a pale shadow, smiling, always smiling.
Robert's booming voice shattered the noise of a hundred conversations.
"My son!" he roared, lifting his goblet high, sloshing red wine onto the table. "Steffon Baratheon — first of his name, heir to Storm's End, heir to the Iron Throne! Gods willing, not too soon!"
Laughter broke across the hall — loud, sycophantic, uneven.
Steffon bowed deeply to his father, every movement graceful and correct.
The lords and ladies raised their cups, offering smiles and murmured toasts.
But in many eyes, Steffon saw it — the glint of calculation.
Ambition.
Fear.
They wonder if I will be strong, he thought. Or weak.
They wonder if they should flatter me... or plot against me.
And most dangerous of all, he felt Cersei's gaze.
Cool. Measuring.
She smiled, sipping her wine — but the smile did not reach her eyes.
No other children yet.
No younger princes or princesses to secure her line.
No secret children of Jaime to hide behind lies.
Only him.
Her future — her very survival at court — balanced entirely on Steffon Baratheon's small, careful shoulders.
And she knew it.
Musicians played a lively, pounding reel; the younger knights danced clumsily with giggling maidens.
The heavy smells of pork and strongwine mingled with the sharper scents of sweat and perfume.
Robert laughed at bawdy jokes, ignoring the murmurs of lords concerned about taxes, raiders, or winter.
Steffon ate little.
Drank less.
He smiled when he should.
Spoke when required.
All while quietly memorizing every shifting alliance and hidden resentment that flared around him.
The court thought tonight was a feast to celebrate the King's heir.
To Robert, it was another night of laughter and wine.
To Cersei, it was a silent battle for control of her only child.
To Steffon?
It was a battlefield.
One he would master — and win.
In time, these lords and ladies would kneel before him not because he wore a crown...
but because there would be no other choice.
The laughter, the music, the clatter of knives and goblets all swirled around him.
And Prince Steffon Baratheon, smiling softly, simply waited.
Waited, and planned.
(POV: Third Person — Queen's Solar, Red Keep)
The feast was dying down, the fires in the great hall burning low.
The stink of wine and sweat and roast meat clung to the heavy air.
Servants bustled about, clearing the wreckage of the night's excess.
The courtiers stumbled homeward, drunk and laughing, or whispering behind hands.
Steffon Baratheon was summoned to the Queen's solar — a rare thing, even in this strange new court.
He obeyed, of course.
Smiling softly.
Moving carefully.
He was dressed now in a simple black tunic, no crown upon his brow, no visible sign of his princely station.
Only a boy, summoned to his mother's side.
Or so it would seem.
Cersei's private rooms were cool, perfumed, and filled with soft golden light from the embers in the hearth.
The Queen herself sat by a low table, robed in flowing green and gold, a goblet of wine cradled lazily in her hand.
She looked up as he entered, her smile smooth and gleaming.
"Come, my sweet boy," she said, her voice warm as honey but sharper beneath.
Steffon crossed the room and bowed neatly.
"You wished to see me, Mother?"
Cersei patted the cushioned seat beside her.
"Sit with me," she said.
Steffon obeyed, folding himself neatly onto the seat.
Small, still, attentive.
Cersei watched him for a long moment — a predator's gaze wrapped in velvet.
"You made quite an impression tonight," she said lightly. "The lords and ladies cannot stop whispering about you."
Steffon smiled — a boy's smile, bright and eager.
"I am glad to make you proud, Mother."
Cersei chuckled — soft, musical.
"Oh, you do," she said. "You do indeed."
She sipped her wine, studying him over the rim of her goblet.
"You are clever," she said, voice musing. "Too clever to be a child for long."
Steffon tilted his head slightly, blinking up at her — the perfect mask of innocent curiosity.
"I only try to listen," he said.
Cersei leaned closer, her perfume sweet and cloying.
"You must listen carefully, my son," she said, voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "This court is a nest of vipers. They smile to your face and sharpen knives behind your back."
She reached out, brushing a lock of his black hair back from his brow.
"You must trust your family," she said. "Trust me."
Steffon looked down, hands folded neatly in his lap.
"Of course, Mother," he said softly.
But inside, his mind was cold and clear.
You fear me, he thought. You fear that I will grow beyond you.
That I will choose others over you.
That I will see you for what you truly are.
He offered a small, careful smile — the smile of a boy seeking approval.
"Will you help me, Mother?" he asked, voice soft.
Cersei's eyes gleamed.
"Always," she whispered. "Always, my sweet boy."
She leaned forward, pressing a kiss against his brow — a queen's blessing, a mother's mark.
But it felt like a brand.
A claim.
A warning.
They sat together in the soft glow of the hearth, mother and son, wrapped in gold and lies.
Both smiling.
Both playing their parts.
Both waiting.
Steffon would grow.
Steffon would rise.
And when the time came, he would not forget tonight.
He would not forget the hand that tried to bind him —
nor the knife hidden in the velvet.