(POV: Third Person — Tower Nursery, Red Keep, Early Morning)
The nursery in the Queen's Tower was still and quiet, untouched by the noise that would soon fill the rest of the Red Keep. The wet nurse slept upright in her chair beside the hearth, her mouth slightly open as the last embers pulsed in the cradle of the fire. Outside, the sky was pale with early light, and the windows were beginning to cast long, soft rays across the stone floor.
Prince Steffon Baratheon entered the room without a word. His cloak made no sound behind him, and he did not spare a glance for the nurse. He crossed the room slowly, without hesitation, and stopped at the side of the carved weirwood cradle where his sister lay.
She was so small. Wrapped in soft green silk, no larger than a bundled loaf of bread, Myrcella Baratheon slept soundly with her tiny fists drawn up under her chin. The golden down on her head caught the light from the window, and her face, round and flushed, was the image of peaceful ignorance. She was not old enough to understand who he was or what her birth meant. To the court, she was a girl, a spare. To her mother, she was a future bargaining chip. To the realm, she was barely noticed. But to Steffon, she was blood.
He reached out, brushing the back of his fingers gently across her cheek. Her skin was warm, delicate as fine parchment, and he watched her stir beneath his touch. For a moment, her eyes opened—blue and unfocused—and blinked up at the blurred shape above her. She did not cry. Instead, one of her hands reached up and closed clumsily around a fold of his sleeve.
Steffon lifted her carefully from the cradle. She was lighter than she looked, softer than any sword or book he'd ever held. He sat down in the chair beside the hearth and adjusted her in his arms until her breathing evened again, small and steady against his chest.
For a while, he said nothing. He simply studied her as the fire crackled quietly at his side. Then his voice, low and steady, broke the silence.
"They won't expect anything from you," he murmured. "Not now. You're a girl. That means they'll leave you alone until someone wants your name, or your womb, or your silence."
His words weren't bitter, only observant—cold truths spoken as softly as lullabies. He wasn't warning her. He was stating the way of things.
"I'll make sure they don't get to you," he said. "You're mine. And I protect what's mine."
He rocked her slowly, not to soothe her—she was already half-asleep again—but as a quiet, rhythmic gesture, like turning the wheel of a thought already set in motion. She would grow in the realm he was already shaping. She would live under the laws he would write. Her safety would not come from guards or mothers or prayers. It would come from him.
He looked down at her as her lips parted slightly in sleep, and for the first time that morning, his features softened. Not into sentiment, exactly, but into something close to it. It was not love, not yet. But it was something far more enduring than affection. It was possession. And commitment.
He stayed there long after the fire had burned down to faint orange ash, and the sun began to climb higher over the city. When he finally rose and returned her to the cradle, she did not stir. He looked down at her for one final moment, then turned and left the nursery with the same silent purpose that had brought him there.
(POV: Third Person — Flea Bottom, King's Landing, Midday)
The stench of smoke, urine, and spoiled meat hung thick over Flea Bottom like a second skin. Mud clung to boots, and the air buzzed with flies, foul breath, and the clatter of pots and curses. No banners flew here, no gold-trimmed cloaks or highborn courtesies. Here, survival was a daily ritual. Pride was a luxury. And children vanished into the alleys like smoke when soldiers passed by.
Prince Steffon Baratheon moved through the filth in silence, his cloak plain brown wool, his boots scuffed to dullness. Only the bearing of his stride marked him as something different—something unnatural in a place that devoured men without names.
He was not alone. Two boys from the Order of the Storm flanked him, just far enough behind to avoid drawing attention, just close enough to act. Their eyes stayed low, their hands close to their hilts. These were not play knights or squires. They were growing into real weapons.
Steffon did not speak as they walked. He observed. A woman shouted over a stolen fish. A man pissed openly against a wall. A boy no older than six snatched a scrap of bread from a market cart and vanished before the merchant finished his sentence. It was chaos, filth, and hunger—what the lords called the "common folk" and forgot between tax seasons.
But Steffon did not forget.
He stopped near a broken fountain, pretending to study a cracked statue of some long-dead septon. His eyes, however, moved carefully across the crowd, until they caught a flicker of motion that didn't belong.
A girl.
No older than eight, dressed in rags, barefoot and small as a whipcord. Her face was smudged, her hair knotted, but her movements were precise. She trailed behind a lumbering fat man with a purse dangling too easily at his hip. Her eyes flicked once to the shadows. Then she struck.
The cut was clean—sharp fingers, practiced grip, no stumble. The purse vanished into her sleeve as the man waddled on, none the wiser.
But Steffon saw.
And when the girl turned to vanish into the alleys, she found herself face-to-face with a boy who moved like a shadow and looked at her not with outrage, but with curiosity.
She tried to bolt. Steffon raised one hand.
The two Order boys flanked the alley before she could take her second step. She froze, wide-eyed, fists clenched.
"What's your name?" Steffon asked, his voice low and calm.
She didn't answer. Her eyes darted between them, measuring her odds. Poor ones.
"You're fast," he said. "You've done that before."
Still no answer.
"Do you want to steal forever?" he asked, taking a single step closer. "Starve in winter? Get caught and lose your fingers?"
The girl scowled, but it flickered—the fear and the pride caught in the middle.
"I have a place," he said. "Not in the kitchens. Not in the mud. A real place. But I don't take people who lie or beg. I take those who see what's coming before anyone else does."
Now she hesitated. Her eyes searched his, confused. There was no pity in his tone. No softness. Only certainty.
"And what if I say no?" she muttered.
"Then you'll vanish like the others," he said. "And no one will ever say your name again."
"And if I say yes?"
"Then you'll never starve again. And one day, they'll say you were with me when the world changed."
The girl looked down at her filthy feet, then back at him.
"My name's Bryn," she said. "Bryn Sand."
Steffon nodded once.
"Not anymore."
(POV: Third Person — King's Solar, Red Keep, Late Afternoon)
The King's solar reeked of wine, sweat, and half-cleaned dogs. The fire had long since died, and two goblets rested on the stone table, one full, one empty. Robert Baratheon slouched in a chair too narrow for his frame, his crown tossed carelessly beside his boots. Across from him stood Stannis, upright and rigid, arms crossed behind his back.
Between them, silent and composed, stood Steffon Baratheon.
Robert's laugh, thick from drink, had just begun to fade when Steffon spoke.
"I want to go with Uncle Stannis to Dragonstone."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Robert blinked once, then squinted at him, unsure whether he'd misheard.
"Why?" he asked finally, scratching his beard. "You want to sit in fog and stone all day, listen to Stannis bark at scribes?"
"I want to learn how to govern," Steffon said. "How to rule by law. Not only by name."
Robert glanced toward Stannis with a smirk.
"Gods," he muttered. "You're starting to sound like him already."
Stannis's expression didn't change. He looked at his nephew, studying him without warmth, but with a long, evaluating stare.
"You think Dragonstone will teach you what court cannot?" he asked.
Steffon met his eyes without flinching.
"I've learned what court teaches. I'd like to learn what it doesn't."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Robert snorted, standing with a grunt and crossing to the window. He waved a hand carelessly.
"If you want to freeze your arse off on a rock and copy ledgers, go ahead. Maybe he'll bore you straight."
"I won't waste the chance," Steffon said.
Stannis turned slightly, considering the boy anew. His jaw worked once, and then he gave the faintest nod.
"I will hold you to that," he said.
Later, when Steffon stepped from the solar, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, he allowed himself a brief moment of stillness. Behind him, the king had already poured another drink. But the real power in the room had shifted.
Robert had given his blessing without thought.
Stannis had given his approval with measured intent.
Steffon would take both.
And on Dragonstone's cold, sharp winds, he would learn the shape of rule not just in theory—but in fire, stone, and silence.