(POV: Third Person — Small Council Chamber, Red Keep)
The air in the council chamber smelled of parchment and damp wool. The men seated around the long table were not lords or knights, but builders, stonemasons, surveyors, and merchants.
Steffon sat at the head of the table, wearing plain black with a thin gold chain around his throat—a prince by blood, but today a master of plans. He listened as a short, stocky man named Master Runnick outlined the state of the city's foundations in a voice thick with Riverlands burr.
"Streets under the Sept of Baelor are sinking, m'lord. Clay and rot underneath. Markets near Mud Gate are worse—fires every other month. And the gutters..." He shook his head. "They ain't been cleared in three kings."
Another man, lean and sharp-faced, laid out maps. The slums pressed against the outer walls in some places, ripe for fire or worse. Merchants had begun bribing Gold Cloaks simply to guard their shops from thieves—and sometimes from the guards themselves.
Steffon asked precise questions. Costs. Timeframes. Stone supplies. He offered no lectures, no sermons about duty. Only clear direction. The merchants watched him warily at first. When they realized he listened—really listened—their wariness softened into a cautious eagerness.
A city rebuilt was a city ready for trade. And trade meant gold.
Gold that Steffon would control.
When the meeting ended, he appointed a task force of twenty surveyors to map the worst areas. Their loyalty would not be sworn to the City Watch. It would be sworn to the Office of Urban Restoration—a new department answering directly to the Hand... and to him.
The City Watch was a bloated, corrupt mess. Steffon knew it would be foolish to challenge them head-on. So he moved carefully.
He began replacing Gold Cloak captains in the worst districts with men drawn from among the lesser sons of Stormlander houses—boys he had trained, men he could trust.
It was easy at first. A few coin gifts here. Promotions based on "merit" there. No banners raised, no horns blown. Just better men appearing in better places.
Within months, a full quarter of the City Watch would answer to him—not by law, but by loyalty.
And loyalty was the only law that mattered.
The Dragonpit loomed atop Rhaenys's Hill, a vast broken dome of blackened stone and shattered grandeur. No dragon had flown here in a century, and the city had left the ruins to the rats.
Steffon stood before it in the pale morning light, Ser Mandon and Ser Arys at his flanks.
The place stank of ash and mold. Perfect.
He walked the ruined halls, tracing the burned stone with his fingers, feeling the weight of history clinging to the carcass of Valyria's last breath.
He declared it condemned. Then he claimed it.
Under his direction, work began to clear the worst debris, reinforce the cracked arches, and repair the lower tunnels.
It would not become a monument to lost dragons.
It would become the heart of the Order of the Storm—the iron womb of a brotherhood the realm had not yet even seen.
At the same time, Steffon created a new force: the Fire Watch.
Publicly, it was an answer to the growing fires and lawlessness in the poorer districts. A lightly armed patrol force tasked with extinguishing blazes, settling disputes, and maintaining street safety.
Privately, it was something else entirely.
Recruited from the gutters and trained by veterans from the Order of the Storm, the Fire Watch answered only to the Prince's officers.
They carried axes, short spears, and light mail.
Not enough to threaten the City Watch openly.
But enough to crush riots.
Enough to control key streets.
Enough to strangle dissent before it could breathe.
And in their hearts, they bore a new loyalty—not to King Robert, not to House Lannister, not even to the city itself.
To Steffon Baratheon.
And the future he was building from ashes and forgotten stone.
It began with smoke.
Thin, gray at first, rising behind the stonework of a tannery near the edge of Flea Bottom. No one noticed. No one cared. Then the wind shifted, and the flames caught on a row of timbered roofs dried out from a week of sun. Within minutes, the street was choking in fire, and the screams began.
Smallfolk stampeded. Barrels cracked. Roofs caved in with a roar. Fire leapt from window to window, licking at the sky like a starving beast.
But before the Gold Cloaks could even rouse their captains, the Fire Watch was already there.
They arrived in black-and-bronze jerkins, moving in teams. No lords, no banners, no heralds. Just discipline.
Axes split doors to rescue families. Buckets formed chains. Smoke-smothered children were pulled from alleyways and passed hand-to-hand to safety. One Fire Watchman—a boy no older than fifteen—dragged a merchant and his wife out of a collapsed bakery and went back for their daughter.
They lost only one block.
By the time the City Watch arrived, red-faced and shouting, the flames were dying, the people were cheering, and the cloaked figures of the Fire Watch were already fading back into the smoke.
They had no interest in credit.
Their loyalty lay elsewhere.
(POV: Steffon Baratheon — Hours Later, Tower Study)
Steffon read the report in silence.
Bryn Sand's handwriting was crude, but her words were sharp. Her spies had tracked two contacts of Lord Varys—one Essosi, one from Lys—both of whom had used secret tunnels beneath the Red Keep to meet with individuals whose identities did not match any court registry.
The Lyseni had once served the Golden Company.
The Essosi had spoken High Valyrian—and not the proper dialect, but the clipped, guttural tongue associated with the Blackfyre exiles.
Varys hadn't spoken of them in any council. He hadn't declared the visitors. He had hidden them with care.
But the network Steffon built reached deeper than tunnels.
He sat with the scroll open before him, candlelight reflecting off the blade laid beside it. He did not shout. He did not rage.
He copied the critical details in his own hand—clean script, clear language. He included only facts.
Then he sealed the parchment and took it himself to the Tower of the Hand.
(POV: Jon Arryn — Tower of the Hand, Later That Night)
Jon Arryn opened the scroll slowly, reading each word twice.
Across from him, Steffon stood without expression, arms folded, eyes unreadable. Arys Oakheart waited just beyond the door. Mandon Moore stood behind his prince like a drawn shadow.
Jon read the final line and sat back in his chair.
"You're sure of this?" he asked.
"I trust my sources more than I trust the court," Steffon said. "And I believe it's time the Hand of the King knew who else is playing this game."
Jon stared at the wax seal, then up at the boy—no, the man—who now watched him with calm calculation.
"You believe he's..."
"A Blackfyre. Or their tool. The bloodlines align. The contacts confirm it. And the Golden Company has always backed their claim."
Jon was silent for a long time. Then, finally:
"This doesn't leave this room."
"I agree."
Jon looked out the window toward the burning glow still fading in the distance. He said nothing of the fire. He didn't need to.
The city was falling apart—and Steffon Baratheon was the only one trying to hold it together.
Jon nodded once, and set the scroll aside.
"I'll handle Varys," he said quietly. "You... keep building."
Steffon bowed.
And left the chamber with nothing but the sound of his boots on stone and the scent of smoke still clinging to his cloak.
(POV: Third Person — Red Keep, King's Solar, Just Past Midnight)
The chamber was unusually quiet.
Robert Baratheon sat without a goblet in hand, his crown resting on the table beside him. The fire crackled low. His face was shadowed, his beard longer than it should have been, but his eyes—bloodshot though they were—were clear.
Jon Arryn stood beside the hearth, holding the scroll in both hands.
And Steffon Baratheon stood before them, composed, silent, the weight of judgment in his voice rather than on his shoulders.
"You're telling me," Robert said at last, breaking the long silence, "that Varys has been feeding information to Blackfyre agents… in my own city?"
"Yes," Jon said flatly. "His visitors, their origins, their patterns of movement, their absence from court record—it's all there. Steffon's network discovered them."
Robert rubbed his temples, growling low in his throat.
"Seven hells. I always knew that bald rat smelled off."
"He has worked with the Golden Company in the past," Steffon added. "He used that to cover his tracks. Subtle loyalty. Long investment."
Robert stared into the fire, then suddenly stood.
"Where is he now?"
"Still in the Red Keep," Jon answered. "But not for long. He's already received a warning—someone noticed his Lyseni contact vanished. He may try to flee before dawn."
"Then we move before dawn," Steffon said.
Robert looked at his son. For once, not amused. Not patronizing. Just quiet.
"Take him alive," he said. "I want to see the spider wriggle."
They found him in the tunnels behind Maegor's Holdfast.
Dressed in gray, hooded, bare of powder or perfume, Varys ran silently through shadows he thought only he knew. His feet slapped stone, robes catching on old nails. The torches behind him drew closer.
He turned a corner—and met Steffon.
The prince stood still, arms folded, flanked by Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Arys Oakheart, both blades drawn. Behind them, two men from the Fire Watch blocked the path.
Varys froze. His face did not show fear—but it showed understanding.
"You've learned much," he said, voice calm. "Perhaps too much, too soon."
"You gambled wrong," Steffon said. "And you won't gamble again."
Varys turned—fast, desperate—but Ser Mandon was faster. The blade took him through the belly, not the heart. Deliberate.
He fell without a word, and bled like any other man.
(POV: Red Keep, King's Solar — Dawn)
The fire was low again. Robert hadn't moved from his chair.
Jon Arryn returned alone. His face was grim.
"It's done," he said. "He was armed. Resisted. No trial."
Robert said nothing for a long time. Then he exhaled slowly, as if something heavy had been released from his chest.
"He knew too much," he said. "Too much about all of us. Should've killed him when the war ended."
He looked at Steffon, standing again before him. This time, there was no scorn in his gaze.
"You knew before I did. You saw the rot first."
He poured no wine. He picked up his crown and stared at it for a long moment.
Then he said the words like a sentence being passed, not a gift being given.
"You're Master of Whisperers now. But this doesn't go on record. Not yet. Only Jon and I know. That's how it stays."
Steffon nodded once. "It's safer that way."
Robert gave a low, humorless laugh.
"Gods. My own son. Master of spies."
Then he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and muttered, "Don't make me regret it."
Steffon left the chamber as the sun began to rise over the Blackwater. Behind him, the realm would go on believing the Spider had vanished quietly, or died of illness, or perhaps never existed at all.
Only three men knew who had replaced him.