I followed the steward through the winding corridors, my footsteps echoing against the oppressive stone. The man was a gaunt figure with a face that looked like it had been carved from the same grey rock as the walls, his movements stiff and precise.
Behind me, the scene was absurd. Gareth was practically floating, his nose buried in his ledger as he scribbled calculations. I could almost hear his brain whirring as he imagined the gold flowing from Storm's End to our coffers; he was so focused he nearly walked into a suit of armor twice.
Then there was Olyvar, who wasn't paying attention to the architecture at all. He was scanning every guard we passed, sizing up their stance, the quality of their mail, and the way they held their spears. He had that wolfish grin on his face again, the look of a man who was mentally figuring out which window was easiest to climb.
"So," I said, breaking the silence and looking up at the steward. "How long have you been here? Did you serve under Lord Stannis's father? Any good stories about this place? I heard there's a ghost in the lower levels that only appears during thunderstorms."
The steward stiffened, clearly not used to a prince who treated him like a person instead of a piece of furniture. "Twenty two years, Your Highness," he answered tersely. "As for ghosts, we have no time for such superstitions here. We have storms and we have duty."
"Twenty two years," I mused, popping a piece of imaginary candy in my mouth. "Bet you've seen some interesting things. Like, does the castle really shake when the storms hit the outer wall, or is that just something sailors say to scare the greenhorns?"
The steward glanced back at me, his expression one of profound confusion. He looked at my casual clothes, then at my grinning commander and my drooling accountant, and I could tell he was wondering what kind of madness had been unleashed upon Storm's End.
"It shakes, Your Highness," he replied quietly. "Very much so."
I smiled. "Good. I like things that shake."
The steward opened a heavy oak door with a groan of hinges, revealing a chamber that would have been considered cramped by any noble standard. It was a solid room with stone walls and a bed covered in thick wool blankets, but to me, it felt like a palace.
"Here is your guest room, Your Highness," the steward said, pausing to adjust his collar. "I am afraid it might be a little small for you, but!"
"So big!" I interrupted, rushing past him before he could finish his apology. I didn't stop until I reached the far wall, where a narrow slit of a window allowed a shaft of pale evening light to cut through the gloom. "And there's actually a window!"
I laughed, the sound bright and genuine, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I never had a window in my room in the Red Keep! Just another wall and the smell of other people's cooking."
I leaned against the stone sill, breathing in the sharp, salty air that wafted through the opening. In the Red Keep, windows were luxuries for those who didn't want to be seen, or traps for those who couldn't escape. Here, even this tiny slit felt like a connection to the world.
Behind me, I heard the footsteps of my companions. I turned to see Olyvar and Gareth standing in the doorway. Both of them were watching me with expressions that would have been impossible to find on any other council in Westeros. There was no judgment, no disdain for my outburst just a quiet, almost protective fondness.
"You're a strange one, little prince," Olyvar rumbled, though his grin was softer now. "Most nobles would be complaining about the lack of silk sheets and the draft."
"Let them complain," I said, turning back to the window. "I'll take a draft and a view over a gilded cage any day."
Gareth just nodded approvingly, already eyeing the corner of the room where he could set up his portable desk. "The view is acceptable, Your Highness. Though I suspect we'll need to invest in better candles if we're to do proper accounting in this gloom."
I turned back to the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges. For the first time since I had woken up in this world, the weight of being a prince felt a little lighter. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
***
Back in the relative quiet of his solar, Stannis Baratheon sat hunched over his desk, the same familiar maps spread before him. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across his granite features. He didn't look up when the door creaked open, but he knew the footsteps of his steward.
"How are they settling in?" the Lord asked, his voice flat and humorless. "Did the Prince find the quarters adequate?"
The steward hesitated, his hands twisting nervously behind his back. He swallowed hard, clearly weighing how much of the truth Stannis wanted to hear. Stannis had no patience for embellishment, but what he had witnessed in the corridors was so bizarre it defied standard reporting.
"They... they are settled, my Lord," the steward began, his voice wavering slightly. "But I must confess, I have never encountered a royal party quite like this one."
Stannis finally looked up, his pale eyes narrowing. "Get to the point."
The steward sighed, the sound carrying a mix of exhaustion and bewilderment. "The Prince's companion, the one with the ledger, seemed to be in a trance of sorts, muttering about profit margins and nearly walking into a suit of armor three times. And his commander Ser Olyvar spent half the journey sizing up our guards as if he were planning to take the castle by storm within the hour."
The steward paused, then added in a quieter tone, "But the Prince himself... he rushed into his chamber like a child who had just discovered a treasure chest. He laughed when he saw the window. He told me he never had one in the Red Keep."
Stannis remained motionless, his jaw tightening. The image of the boy the one who had just negotiated a grain contract with the cold calculation of a seasoned merchant suddenly shifting into a child who marveled at a window was... jarring.
"A window," Stannis repeated, his voice carrying a trace of something unreadable. "He had no window."
"No, my Lord. He seemed... genuinely delighted by it."
Stannis turned back to his maps, his expression returning to its usual severity, but the silence that followed was different. "He is a contradiction," Stannis muttered, more to himself than to the steward. "A merchant's mind, a soldier's loyalty in his men, and a child's heart. That makes him either very foolish or very dangerous."
Stannis remained still for a long moment, his eyes fixed on a particular point on the map where the Stormlands met the Crownlands. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look more like a statue than a man.
"What do we know about Prince Vaegon?" he asked suddenly. The question wasn't directed at the steward so much as it was thrown into the empty air of the room. "Truly?"
The steward shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the vagueness of the question. "Not much, I am afraid, my Lord. The official records from King's Landing speak of a son born to Queen Lyanna, but he was... absent from court life. There was no mention of his education, his preferences, or even his disposition."
The steward hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "There were whispers among the servants in the capital, those who came to us in the last few years. They spoke of a child who was simply not there even when he was present. A prince who was treated more like a ghost than a member of the royal household."
Stannis's jaw clenched. He knew what it was like to be the overlooked brother, to be the one who did all the work while others took the glory or the affection. But he had never been erased from existence while still breathing. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
"A ghost who built a granary," Stannis mused, his voice like grinding stone. "A ghost who leads an army of criminals and speaks of profit margins. He doesn't act like a prince. He doesn't even act like a Targaryen."
He looked at his steward, his pale eyes sharp. "Find out what else there is to know. I want to know who taught him to manage land. I want to know where he learned to lead men. And most of all, I want to know why he looks at a window with such wonder when he should be looking at me with ambition."
***
The morning light in Storm's End was cold and grey, filtering through the high windows in pale shafts. I walked beside the steward, my steps light and unhurried. The castle was stirring, the distant clang of weapons and the shouts of guards filling the air.
"You will have breakfast with the Lord and his family today, if that's alright with you, Your Highness," the steward informed me.
I nodded cheerfully. Behind me, Gareth was already mentally calculating what a lord's breakfast might cost, while Olyvar walked with that prowling gait, eyeing every corner of the corridor as if expecting an ambush. I was whistling a tune I remembered from my past life, a casual little melody that seemed completely out of place in these grim, silent halls.
The steward walked beside me for a while, clearly wrestling with a question that had been gnawing at him since last night. "Your Highness," he began carefully, "if I may... who taught you trading and negotiation? Lord Stannis was... surprised by your approach."
I stopped whistling and looked at the man. I didn't feel bitter the bitterness had burned out of me long ago but there was a stark honesty in my memory. I shrugged, my shoulders moving beneath the simple fabric of my grey tunic. "I learned on my own," I answered simply. "I didn't have a teacher, truly. I had to beg just to learn how to read or write."
The steward stopped walking, his lined face twisting with something that looked suspiciously like pity. For a moment, he didn't see a prince or a merchant; he saw the child who had been left in a dark room while the world moved on without him.
I didn't wait for his sympathy. I started walking again, the whistle returning to my lips. "But that's the thing about being ignored," I added over my shoulder. "When nobody's watching you, you're free to learn whatever you want."
"I must say, it's surprising to hear that from a Prince of the Realm," the steward said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. He seemed genuinely unsettled by the idea of a royal learning through desperation rather than tutors and maesters.
"I wasn't a Prince back in the Capital," I replied flatly. "Not really. I was more like a piece of furniture that occasionally needed feeding."
I let out a sigh, one that felt heavier than my body should have allowed. The cheerful facade slipped just enough to show the steel beneath. "Alright, let's not dance around it. I can guess that Stannis asked you to find information about me. So listen well."
I didn't soften the blows.
I spoke about the Red Keep not as a palace of wonders, but as a gilded cage of neglect. I told him about the meals missed because I wasn't invited to the table, the lessons skipped because no one bothered to send a maester to my quarters, and the way the halls felt colder when you knew you weren't wanted. I described the moment I realized that being a Targaryen meant nothing if you had no one to witness it. I spoke about the training accident with Aegon, the punishment from the King, and the long nights locked alone in a servant's room while the rest of the castle celebrated.
I recounted it all with the detached tone of someone describing the weather the rain, the wind, the inevitable decay.
As I spoke, I watched the steward's face. His composed, professional mask began to decompose. His lined features twisted into something between horror and disgust, his skin paling beneath the torchlight. He looked less like a servant of House Baratheon and more like a man who had just witnessed a crime against nature.
"They treated you like... like a common bastard," he whispered, his voice cracking. "But you carry the blood of the dragon."
"Blood doesn't fill an empty stomach, and it doesn't keep you warm at night," I said, straightening my tunic. "Now you know. That's why I'm here, and why I'm not interested in playing games with Rhaegar's court. Now, let's go eat. I'm starving."