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Chapter Text

Author’s Note: I don’t own Game of Thrones or any of the characters. I own the story's plot and a few characters, which are my creations.

Summary: Steffon Baratheon, the second son of King Robert I and Queen Consort Cersei, had many names. The Black Lion, The Black Stag - the Black Prince. Ferternal twin brother to Joffrey.

Prologue

The Red Keep - King’s Landing - the Crownlands

282 AC.

The Queen’s labour had been long. The King had gone hunting, stating he would return with the White Stag for his firstborn son. The Queen’s brother, Ser Jaime ‘the Kingslayer’ Lannister, paced outside the birthing chambers.

Jaime continued to pace as Cersei's anguished screams continued. Childbirth was dangerous for any woman. Their own had died on the birthing bed when Tyrion was born.

Their mother’s death had hardened their father. Taking what good he had with her. 

In the birthing chamber. Midwives scurried about the room while Maester Pycelle oversaw everything. 

“Get this fucking thing out of me”, Cersei swore

“Keep pushing, my queen; I can see the head,” Cersei screamed as she pushed. Jaime paused his pacing as the screams stopped. Then a babe cried. The babe was here.

“A prince, my queen. A healthy prince.” The midwives cleaned the babe, presenting him to his mother. The babe was small with tufts of Lannister golden hair. Our little miracle, Cersei thought to herself as she held her and Jaime’s son.

Joffrey was the boy’s name. The pain of contractions hit her once more.

“My Queen, it seems there is a second babe. And they are in just as much hurry as their brother was, if not more,” Pycelle prattled on from between Cersei’s legs.

This babe came quicker than Joff had. Jaime stepped into the room just as the second babe was born. “Another boy, my queen. Another prince. He’s the image of his father.”

Pycelle held up the larger, red-faced, crying babe. The babe was bigger than Joffrey with a thick mop of black hair on his head. The midwives cleaned up the second babe and came forth with the secondborn of the king and queen.

Robert came stumbling into the birthing chamber mere hours later. Covered in blood. “A silver stag for my first……born son. There are two of them.”

“Twins, my King. Crown Prince Joffrey was born first, and not twenty minutes later, the second babe was born. The queen wanted you to name him.” Pycelle explained.

The older babe, Joffrey, was a small, weedy thing. He was all Lannister. The second babe is unnamed as of yet. He was all Baratheon, perhaps with a few features of his mother.

His second son opened his eyes. Purple eyes. Dragon Spawn. The boy was not Rhaegar’s; he was Robert’s.

“His eyes”

“A throwback to your Targaryen grandmother, my king,” Pycelle answered. 

“Steffon’s a fitting name for a Baratheon prince.”

The bells run for several days after the Crown Prince and his twin brother are born. Ravens flew to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, announcing the birth of Crown Prince Joffrey and his twin brother, Prince Steffon of the House Baratheon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Winterfell—the North 

299 AC 

The last days of a decade-long summer were coming to a close. The weather was getting colder, and there had been a flake of snow falling in the last few days. As House Stark's words said. Winter is coming.

Winter was coming indeed. The last winter had been in the year of the false spring in 280. Mere moons before the Rebellion, now known as Robert’s Rebellion, began.

Many had not seen winter in their lives. Having only known the days of summer. It was cold in the North at any time of year, summer, autumn, spring, or even winter.

Many had never known the harshness and desolation of winter. They were children of Summer. 

Prince Steffon Baratheon was one such. He’d been born in the midst of summer a year after the Rebellion. Alongside his older fraternal twin brother, Crown Prince Joffrey.

Despite being born mere minutes apart. Joffrey and Steffon were not close. They had been butting heads from the moment they learned to walk or talk. 

Steffon had not seen his brother for close to a decade. Nine years earlier, Steffon was sent to Foster in Winterfell with his father’s best friend—the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell: Lord Eddard Stark.

Steffon had been accompanied by his father’s cousin, Ser Andrew Estermont, as his sworn shield. Steffon felt homesick at first. He soon made friends with the eldest two sons of Lord Stark’s three sons at the time. Rickon Stark was born a few years after Steffon arrived in Winterfell.

Jon Snow: Lord Eddard’s eldest son, but not his trueborn son, his baseborn son with Ashara Dayne, they whispered, due to Jon’s purple eyes. His second son, Robb Stark, was his son and heir. 

The three were as thick as thieves. The threesome became a foursome when Theon Greyjoy became friends with them. Greyjoy was more Robb’s friend, more so than Jon or Steffon.

Many would be surprised that the bastard son of the Warden of the North, who was the second son of King Robert, was the Prince’s best friend. 

It was a normal day in Winterfell. The training yard was abuzz with activity. The second son of the Warden of the North was at that moment practising his archery under the watchful eyes of his older brothers, Jon and Robb.

Little Rickon was perched on a saddle on a fence, watching as Bran missed time and time again. 

When he missed again. Jon, Steffon, Robb, and Rickon started sniggering.

“Which one of you was a marksman at ten?” Lord Stark’s voice boomed from the ramparts above them. Beside him stood Lady Stark.

Bran took another arrow, nocking it to the bowstring of his bow. “Relax your bow arm,” Robb advised.

“Go on; your father and mother are watching,” Steffon cut in.

“Don’t think so much. Relax and visualise the target in your mind’s eye,” Jon offered thirdly.

Bran steadied his breathing. Steffon noticed Arya in the corner of his eye. Her own bow drawn and poised to fire. Arya loosed her arrow. THAWK. The arrow hit the dead centre of the target bullseye.

All four turned to see Arya behind them with a bow in hand. She mocked, curtsied to Bran. Bran threw his bow to the side and chased after his sister.

“Go on, Bran, faster.” The boys laughed as Bran chased Arya.

Ned chuckled at his children's antics. 

“Lord Stark,” Ser Rodrik appeared behind Catelyn and him on the upper decks.

“Ser Rodrik,” Ned nodded to his master-at-arms. “What news do you have, Ser Rodrik?”

“My lady,” Rodrik bowed to Catelyn before turning back to Ned. Theon Greyjoy stood behind him. “Guardsmen rode in from the hills. They’ve captured a deserter of the Night’s Watch.”

Gods, that was the third one this moon. Ned didn’t like what he had to do. But his father had drummed it into him, Brandon, and Benjen. ‘The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.’ 

“Get the lads to saddle their horses; have Ice brought as well,” Ned relayed his orders to Theon.

“Do you have to?” Catelyn questioned.

“He swore an oath, Cat.”

“The law is law, my lady,” Rodrik added in.

“Surely someone else can do it, Ned.”

“I was taught that a man who passes the sentence swings the sword. I will honour the ways my father taught me, and he by his father. My sons will be the same. Tell Bran he’s coming to.” Ned turned to Rodrik.

"Ned, he's a boy of ten name days. Ten is too young to see such things.”

“He is a Stark and of the North; he will have to learn sooner or later. He won’t be a boy forever. And Winter is Coming,” Ned relayed the House words of House Stark.

Jon smiled as Rickon ran to him with arrows to put back into the barrel where the arrows were kept. Robb and Steffon were gathering more arrows. "Jon, when you are finished there. You, Steffon, and Robb need to saddle your horses. A deserter was captured in the hills. See that Bran’s horse is saddled as well.” Jon nodded.

"Aye, Father," Jon answered, thinking of his plans. He had no desire to join the Night’s Watch as his Uncle Benjen had done. He could remain at Winterfell, serving as master-at-arms, or possibly his father would give him lands of his own. 

 Jon mused as he saddled his horse, Arrax. “That’s the third one this moon.”

"What did you say, Robb?" Jon hadn’t been listening to his brother.

“I said that’s the third deserter that’s been captured in the past moon. Thinking of your lady love again, Jon?” Robb smirked.

“Something like that,” Jon gathered reins in hand before mounting Arrax. Jon was not as frequent a customer as Robb, Theon or Steffon were of the Wintertown brothel.

Two Stark soldiers lead the deserter to the execution block, muttering to himself about White Walkers.

“I know I broke my oath. I know I should have gone back to warn the others. I know I’m a deserter. But I saw them, the White Walkers.” No one said a word as he continued to speak. “Can you get word to my family? Tell them I died with honour and not cowardice and that I’m sorry.”

Ned nodded to the guards to put the deserter’s head over the block. Pulling Ice from its scabbard. Ned knelt.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, King of Andals, of the first men.”

“Don’t look away; Father will know,” Jon advised his younger brother. Steffon stood stoically beside them with his sworn shield not far away. The Black Stag stood with his hand on Red Rain's hilt. The former bastard sword of House Reyne and Drumm had become the Black Lion's sword during a visit to Bear Island. A few years earlier. Iron Born had attempted to raid Bear Island.  Steffon took the sword as spoils of the Iron Price. He, Robb and Jon killed many Iron Born that day. Greyjoy had remained behind in Winterfell, in terms of his hostage. He had to remain in Winterfell. Not permitted to venture beyond Wintertown.  Jon wielded one of the two ancestral swords of House Dayne. He had had Dawn while his younger trueborn cousin Edric Dayne had Dusk.

"Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die." There was a pause before Ned beheaded the deserter with one clean swing of Ice, the Valyrian greatsword that was the ancestral sword of House Stark.

"You did well, Bran." Steffon patted Bran on the shoulder. Steffon and Jon Robb were of similar age the first time they saw an execution.

Ned took no pleasure in taking lives. But sometimes it was necessary. Bran looked a little green in the face as he tended to his horse.

“You understand why I did it.”

“Jon and Robb told me he was a deserter,” Bran answered, his father tightening the girth on his saddle. 

“But do you understand why I had to do it?” Ned questioned.

“Our way is the old way.”

“Aye, the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. My father taught me that, and his father taught him. You’ll do the same with your sons one day, Bran.” Ned answered.

“Is it true he saw the White Walkers' Father?”

“A madman sees what he sees, Bran. The White Walkers have been gone for a thousand years; they are nothing but stories now.” Eddard didn’t know how wrong he was. The White Walkers had returned, as had their puppet master, the Night King.

They rode back towards Winterfell.

Steffon, Robb, and Jon raced ahead of them. Racing each other back to Winterfell. Ned shook his head at his sons' and foster son's antics. 

Coming over a bridge, a dead elk was on the other side of the bridge; it had been gutted. 

“What could do this? Mountain Lion,” Theon guessed.

“There are no mountain lions in these woods.”

“Wolves most likely,” Steffon mused. There was a bloody trail leading away from the carcass of the elk. They followed Ned, who drew his blade. Following the trail of blood to the carcass of the biggest wolf Steffon had ever seen.

It was possibly a direwolf. Direwolves hadn’t been seen south of the Wall in almost a century. 

The direwolf had pups; several yipped, nosing at their dead mother’s teats. 

“It’s a freak.”

“It’s a Direwolf Greyjoy,” Jon corrected his father’s ward/hostage.

“Tough old beast,” Eddard mused sadly as he removed the horn from the direwolf’s throat.

“There are no direwolves south of the Wall.”

"Now there are five." Jon counted, standing up with a pup in his arms. “Do you want to hold it?” Jon handed the pup to Bran.

“Where will they go? Their mother’s dead?” Bran questioned.

“They don’t belong down here.”

“Better a quick death. They won’t last long without her." Theon came forth, all but snatching the direwolf pup from Bran.

“Put away your blade, Greyjoy.” Jon took the pup back. 

“I don’t take orders from you, bastard. I take orders from your father.”

“Please, Father.” Bran pleaded with his father.

“I’m sorry, Bran.”

"Lord Stark, there are five pups—each one for one of the Stark children. The direwolf is a sigil of your house. They were meant to have them. A blessing from the Old Gods, perhaps.” Steffon argued.

“Very well. You can keep them. But you will train them yourselves; you will feed them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves." Eddard gave in by allowing the pups to live and be given to his children.

Robb handed two to Theon and picked up the other two himself. "What about you?" Bran questioned his brother.

“I’m not a Stark. Go on.”

Jon and Steffon began to walk up the hill; something caught Jon’s eye. A flash of white and a silent whimper. Suddenly, he stopped.

“What is it?” Robb questioned his brother as he knelt and retrieved a small albino pup with blood-red eyes.

"Ah, the runt of the litter. That one’s yours, Snow,” Greyjoy ribbed.

Jon ignored the jab from Greyjoy, climbing back up to the road. His direwolf pup is securely in his arms. He climbed into the saddle on Arrax’s back.

His pup barely made a sound as they rode back to Winterfell. Jon thought of names for his direwolf pup. The pup was white as snow and quiet as a ghost. 

"What do you think of Ghost Boy?" Jon questioned the pup. Who cocked his head at the name Jon chose for him?

Ghost it is then. The other five pups were unnamed at this time. His stepmother, Catelyn, was waiting for them when they rode in with the pups. "Mother, we found a dead direwolf and six pups,” Bran told her excitedly.

“That’s lovely, sweetling. I have some news for your father. Ned, this came from King’s Landing.” Catelyn handed the scroll to Ned.

Ned couldn’t believe his eyes. Jon Arryn was dead after taking ill a senight ago. The king was on his way north for one thing and one thing only. To name Ned Lord Hand.

"Father, what is it?”

“Jon Arryn took ill a week ago and died yesterday. The king is on his way to Winterfell." Ned gave them the general gist of the letter from King’s Landing. 

Jon Arryn’s death was no surprise to Steffon; the Old Falcon Lord was getting on in years—he had to be what eighty name days or more. He had been an old man when Steffon’s father had taken the throne, when House Targaryen was deposed after Robert’s Rebellion.

Steffon wondered what his brothers and sister were like. Joffrey had been a sadistic little shit even when they were nine or eight name days. Steffon had little doubt he’d changed much.

Their mother spoiled him rotten. He got away with murder. He’d like to torment their sister and their younger cousins. Steffon had a feeling he had only gotten worse.

Myrcella had been two namedays younger than he and Joffrey; Tommen had been a babe when Steffon left for the North and Winterfell. He wondered what Tommena and Mrycella were like now. It had been a long time since he’d seen his siblings or his mother or father.