(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, One Year Later)
The Red Keep had changed little in a year.
The stones still whispered of old blood, the courtiers still smiled their painted smiles, and the kingdom still marched slowly toward unseen ruin.
But Steffon Baratheon had changed.
He stood now a little taller, his face losing the softness of childhood, sharpening into something keen and watchful.
Still young, still smiling — but behind the green eyes burned a mind as sharp as any dagger hidden beneath a courtier's cloak.
And some had begun to notice.
Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, sat in his solar, watching Steffon from across the heavy oak table.
The boy — no, the young man — bent over a map of the Crownlands, methodically marking trade routes, river crossings, and key strongholds with tiny carved pieces of ivory.
He needed no prompting.
No corrections.
Jon had not even taught him this method yet.
He had only shown it once — months ago.
Steffon had remembered everything.
Every lord.
Every levy count.
Every grain tithe and toll bridge from the Reach to the Neck.
Too fast, Jon thought, a cold knot forming in his gut. Too sharp.
It was not normal.
It was not natural.
But it was real.
And Westeros had no time for weak kings.
Perhaps... perhaps the gods had sent this boy for a purpose.
"You learn quickly," Jon said aloud, voice mild.
Steffon looked up, his face open and modest.
"I try, my lord," he said. "There is much to learn."
Jon studied him for a long moment.
"You have learned more in two years than most lords learn in twenty," he said bluntly.
Steffon only inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.
Jon tapped the edge of the map.
"The realm will need you sooner than you think," he said. "And perhaps... it is time you began to see how it truly works."
Steffon's green eyes sharpened — not with childish excitement, but with quiet readiness.
Jon nodded to himself.
"Tomorrow," he said. "You will sit beside me at the council — not as a cupbearer. As an observer."
Steffon bowed his head.
"I am honored, Lord Hand."
Jon saw the flash of something — a flicker of satisfaction — quickly masked behind the boy's serene smile.
He was not fooled.
Not entirely.
But he was impressed.
And that was rarer than fear.
Outside the quiet of the Tower of the Hand, the court whispered of other things.
Queen Cersei Lannister was with child.
Barely showing yet — but the news spread like wildfire through the halls of power.
Some rejoiced, seeing the strengthening of the royal line.
Some plotted already, wondering if a second son might divide the realm's loyalties.
And Cersei herself...
Steffon had seen the way her hand lingered on her belly.
How her green eyes flickered when they rested on him — cold calculation, warm ambition, and simmering resentment all tangled together.
Another pawn on the board.
Another weapon.
Or another threat.
Time would tell.
Let them whisper, Steffon thought as he rose from the map table, hands clasped behind his back. Let them hope. Let them scheme.
He would see them all.
He would outlast them all.
Whether Cersei bore another son, or a dozen, it mattered little.
He was the future of Westeros.
Not by blood.
Not by right.
By will.
(POV: Third Person — King's Solar, Red Keep)
The King's solar smelled of sweat, leather, and sweetwine — the scents of Robert Baratheon's reign.
The King sat sprawling in his carved chair, a battered goblet in one hand, a bored expression tugging at his face as he listened to another minor lord's petition.
The matters of rule tired him quickly.
So when Prince Steffon Baratheon entered, black hair neat, green eyes serious, Robert straightened a little, curiosity sparking.
"You have a request, boy?" Robert asked, voice rumbling with amusement.
"I do, Father," Steffon said, bowing smoothly.
"I wish," Steffon said, "to gather one hundred boys near my own age.
To train together.
To learn arms, horsemanship, and the ways of brotherhood."
Robert blinked at him, then laughed — a great booming roar that echoed off the stone walls.
"A hundred boys?!" he barked. "What's this, lad — you starting your own army?"
Steffon smiled — small, bashful, perfectly rehearsed.
"Not an army, Father," he said humbly. "A brotherhood.
A company to grow together.
So that when I come of age, I will not stand alone."
Robert grinned wider, thumping his goblet down so hard wine splashed over the rim.
"Ha! Gods, boy, you think like a warrior already!" he said, eyes gleaming with pride. "A company of pups to grow into wolves, eh?"
He laughed again, deep and satisfied.
"Aye, you have my leave," Robert said, waving a hand grandly. "Go gather your hundred boys. Train them. Knock the sense into 'em. Gods know the realm could use more lads who know how to swing a sword properly."
Steffon bowed low.
"Thank you, Father."
He turned and left, the faintest glint of steel behind his soft smile.
He thinks it a child's game, Steffon thought as he strode through the Red Keep's corridors. A play company. A harmless whim.
Good.
The less they feared him now, the less they would see the sword he forged until it was too late.
Within a fortnight, letters rode out from the Red Keep, bearing the King's seal.
Summons to the young sons of the Stormlands' proud houses:
Dondarrion.
Penrose.
Swann.
Tarth.
Estermont.
The smaller houses too — Wylde, Caron, Trant, and others — eager to please the King's heir.
One by one, they came:
young boys, fresh-faced, eager, full of dreams of honor and glory.
One hundred boys, pledged to train with Steffon.
To grow beside him.
To see him not only as a prince... but as a brother.
They assembled for the first time in the Red Keep's old tourney yard — dusty and cracked from neglect.
Steffon stood before them in simple black and gold, no crown upon his brow, no heralds at his side.
He looked at them — a hundred faces flushed with excitement and nerves — and felt no kinship.
Only purpose.
These are not boys, Steffon thought. They are stones. And I will shape them.
He would train them.
Forge them.
And when the time came, they would ride for him — not for Robert, not for Cersei, not even for the Seven.
For Steffon Baratheon.
Under the bright sun of King's Landing, a boy smiled among his new brothers.
But behind the smile, a king sharpened his crown.
And in the years to come, when the storm broke over Westeros, these hundred would be the first to ride.
Not for glory.
Not for gold.
For him.
The sun beat down on the cracked flagstones of the old tourney yard.
A hundred boys, armored only in padded jerkins and wooden swords, stood in loose, uneven ranks, sweating and fidgeting under the weight of new responsibility.
At their head stood Steffon Baratheon, black-haired, green-eyed, dressed plainly in a tunic of black and gold, a narrow leather belt cinched around his waist.
He looked over them with a soldier's gaze, not a boy's.
They are raw, Steffon thought. Unshaped. Undisciplined. But willing.
Willing was enough.
Willing could be made into something better.
Something unyielding.
He let them sweat and shuffle a moment longer, feeling the sun burn against their necks, feeling the weight of expectation grow heavy in their young chests.
Then he spoke.
"You are Stormlanders," Steffon said, his voice carrying sharp and clear over the yard. "Sons of proud houses. Sons of stubborn men who bent the knee only after it was broken."
A ripple of nervous laughter.
"You are not knights yet. You are not warriors yet. You are not brothers yet."
He paused, letting the silence settle deep.
"But you will be."
He drew a simple sword — blunted, not ceremonial — and drove its point into the ground before him.
"Today, you are no longer a scattered crowd.
Today, you are the Order of the Storm."
Murmurs ran through the boys — excitement, pride, awe.
Steffon smiled, thin and sharp.
He raised a hand.
"You will swear not to me alone, but to each other," he said. "To stand when others fall. To speak truth when others lie.
To strike when the storm calls you."
He spoke the words carefully, crafting them into something between an oath and a prophecy.
Simple enough for children.
Enduring enough for kings.
One by one, the boys knelt in the dust, their right hands over their hearts, and repeated after him:
> "We are the Storm.
We stand together.
We strike as one.
We fall as none."
Dust rose around them, clinging to sweaty faces and bruised knuckles.
But the words bound them, quiet and firm.
Steffon watched them rise, one by one, brothers now not by blood, but by choice.
From the shade of a stone archway, Lord Jon Arryn stood with arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.
A half-smile touched the old man's face.
Steffon, leading boys in training, forging bonds early — it was good.
Healthy, even.
In a realm growing weaker by the year, a young prince learning loyalty and leadership could only be a blessing.
Jon nodded slowly to himself.
The boy has the makings of a true king.
He did not see the way Steffon's eyes moved coldly over the ranks.
He did not see the calculating gleam beneath the boy's proud smile.
Jon Arryn saw a future ruler — patient, strong, honorable.
He did not yet see the architect of something greater.
Something unstoppable.
As the boys of the Storm chanted their oath once more, Steffon closed his eyes briefly, letting the words settle into the stones of the yard, the bones of the Red Keep.
The Order of the Storm was born.
Small now.
Fragile.
But one day, when the crowns cracked and the old banners burned, they would ride for him.
Not because of birthright.
Not because of duty.
Because he had made them.
Stone by stone.
Word by word.
Oath by oath.