Chapter Text
His father dies in his arms, in the midst of a battle, as men scream and steel sings all around them. His father dies in his arms, and later men will tell him that they will make a song of it: the brave Hand, who died to protect their king; the brave Hand who died in his son's arms.
But his father dies in his arms, and leaves him alone in the world. Alone but for the men from the Stormlands that he's supposed to lead now, through a war for a crown he does not care about, a war for petty kings and petty kingdoms that he cannot care about because his father died in his arms, and no one seems to understand that.
Aerys and Tywin certainly don't-- neither one of them are fond of their fathers. Neither one of their fathers is fighting in this war. Lord Tytos is too infirm, and King Jaehaerys is King, and his father tells him that it is the Hand's duty to counsel the King, and his father commands the great host to battle these Ninepenny Kings to protect his King. But his father, the brave, strong Hand dies in his arms, and Aerys and Tywin still have their fathers. Their old, infirm, sickly fathers, and Steffon is left alone.
Aerys tells him that his father will be honored, that the name Baratheon has forever been etched in glory, that Targaryen and Baratheon will always be brothers, but then shouldn't Aerys be mourning too? If Aerys was his brother, surely, surely, he'd understands...but Aerys doesn't. No one does. Because his father died in his arms, his life's blood staining his hands red, Targaryen red, the same shade of the gowns his mother used to wear when she visited court. The same color of Tywin's cloak, the one that streamed from his back when he knighted Aerys for his valor in battle.
He'd been knighted too. His father had knighted him before the first battle, naming him Ser Steffon Baratheon, heir to Storm's End. He'd been Ser Steffon Baratheon for all of three hours before his father died in his arms and he was Lord Baratheon, and so the men called him, but it's not right.
His father is Lord Baratheon, Hand of the King, but his father died. In his arms. And Aerys and Tywin hate their father's and it isn't fair because they don't understand.
They don't understand what it was like to love your father. To learn how to ride with him by your side, to train with sword, and lance, and morningstar with him as your opponent. They never spent nights in their father's solar, with mead and mutton and laughter and joy.
They covet their father's seats, their thrones and their titles, but Steffon would gladly trade all of that, gladly never be a lord, or a ser even, if it meant that his father wouldn't have to die in his arms.
It is Ser Gerold Hightower, the new Lord Commander, and the new battle commander who places a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder and reminds him of his father's words. His words.
His father dies in his arms and he will not let that be in vain. He will cut down these Ninepenny Kings until his sword drips blood, until these pretenders are vanquished. Were it not for them...
They will feel his fury.