Chapter 54 – You Still Owe Me a Kiss
"You are my dearest friend, Steffon. There is no one I trust more than you."
The King's voice was low, his violet eyes distant as though staring into the past. He ignored Tywin's look of displeasure and went on:
"Your father, Lord Ormund Baratheon, gave his life in the War of the Ninepenny Kings to defend the honor of House Targaryen. Your mother was my aunt. You and I have been as close as brothers."
Hearing the King's heartfelt words, Steffon felt a rare wave of emotion.
He lifted his head, looking at the man before him — a man of his own age, but already frail and shriveled like a withered elder. "I still remember you on the battlefield, Your Grace," Steffon said softly. "Fearless, standing tall, cutting down your enemies."
"You remain broad-shouldered and strong… but look at me — I am an old man now."
Aerys waved a hand dismissively, though a flash of helplessness passed through his violet eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he let out a weary sigh. "Rhaegar is eighteen now. When I was his age… he was already able to walk on his own."
Tywin's brows twitched at the nonsensical remark, but Aerys pressed on.
"Steffon, I have a task for you."
"You need only command, Your Grace."
The mighty Lord of Storm's End bent at the waist, his throat tight. It pained him to see his friend reduced to this shadow of the man he had once been. Someday, he thought grimly, he too might be so old he could not even walk unassisted.
With Robert's temperament, by that time, there would probably be bastards scattered across the Seven Kingdoms. Stannis… well, that boy would likely still be scowling at the world.
"You saw it for yourself," Aerys said bitterly. "Without dragons, even the Northern savages dare threaten me before the Iron Throne!"
His jaw clenched, his hands gripping the chair. He still had not calmed from what had transpired earlier.
"By Targaryen tradition, Rhaegar should wed his sister. Yet now, we cannot even find a suitable bride of our bloodline. If this continues, I fear we will lose the purity of our line forever — and we may never hatch dragons again."
He rubbed his temple, his tone grim. "So…"
Tywin's golden brows rose slightly as Aerys continued:
"I want you to cross the Narrow Sea, Steffon. I have heard there are still noble families of true Valyrian blood in Essos. Find me a maiden of high birth and pure heritage. Bring her back to wed my son."
"What?"
Steffon was stunned. He had not expected this request. Essos was vast — how could one man find a maiden of perfect Valyrian descent? He might be gone for years, perhaps five or more. And if his ship were caught in a storm… what of his three children?
"Your Grace, I—"
Before he could refuse, Aerys cut him off sharply. "Complete this task, Steffon, and I will name you to the Small Council!"
The King's gaze softened, pleading now. "You are the one man I can trust, my truest friend."
Looking into those desperate, burning violet eyes, Steffon found that his refusal caught in his throat.
He drew in a long breath, squared his shoulders, and said loudly:
"You may always trust in Baratheon, Your Grace!"
Seven Hells!
Tywin's hand twitched toward his sword belt. The fool!
This wasn't just a mission — it was a ploy to keep Rhaegar unwed, to dangle the prospect of a political marriage forever out of reach.
'Small Council seat,' Tywin thought bitterly. 'Why not just say you'll give him my Hand's chain while you're at it?'
He forced himself to remain calm, his face like stone. Years of discipline kept his temper in check, but his green eyes had gone cold.
Tywin knew Steffon too well — they had been cupbearers together in King's Landing, had fought side by side in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Steffon was open, generous, kindhearted… and hopelessly soft-eared.
Seven Hells, the man had no sense for politics.
But Tywin said nothing more.
Even if Cersei could not be queen, there would still be ways to strengthen House Lannister's claim. And who said the Queen must be a Targaryen bride?
That, he thought, would be a matter for the future.
---
"Mount their heads on every city gate, Ser Manly," Aerys ordered coldly. "Let all who would defy the Iron Throne see what fate awaits them."
He gave a final glance toward Ser Lance. "I am tired. Take me back to my chambers."
The Small Council was thus adjourned.
Before the stunned eyes of Steffon Baratheon, Ser Lance strode forward, one hand resting on the hilt of Dawn. With the other, he scooped the King up like a sack of grain and slung him over his shoulder.
Steffon's eye twitched.
But when he saw Aerys' serene expression, the faint smile on his face — and the fact that no one else, not even Tywin, seemed surprised — he kept silent.
When they had left the hall, Tywin lingered for a moment, gazing at the Iron Throne.
Something about this council session felt… incomplete.
What was it that was missing?
He frowned, but no answer came.
White Sword Tower
In the quiet chamber of the White Sword Tower, a beautiful young girl carefully unwrapped the bandages from her brother's wounds. She sprinkled the maester's medicine with painstaking care, then gently wrapped him in fresh linen.
Her touch was so soft that Ser Arthur Dayne hardly felt any pain at all.
"You're going to make a wonderful wife someday, Ashara," Arthur said suddenly, watching his sister's focused expression with a rare sense of sentimentality. "Sometimes I wonder if you weren't born in the wrong place. A gentle girl like you… one hardly finds such softness in Dorne."
"You're wrong, Arthur." Ashara smiled faintly at the praise. "Princess Elia is far gentler than I am.
"If you hadn't sworn yourself to the Kingsguard, perhaps you might have married her by now."
"Marry her?" Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "Spare me. Better the company of Dawn than a wife who can't even hold a blade."
"Oh, speaking of Dawn—" His smile faded, a faint crease forming between his brows. "I heard that boy, Lance, has returned, hasn't he?"
"Yes!" Ashara's violet eyes lit up at once. She stood and spun in a playful twirl, showing off the soft lavender gown she had just put on.
"Tonight, at the Red Keep, His Grace is holding a grand feast to celebrate the Kingsguard's triumphant return. Nobles from all across the Seven Kingdoms will be there!"
"Ser Lance will be there too. He'll like this dress, don't you think?"
Arthur did not object to her excitement. Dornish women were known for their passion, after all — if anything, his sister was the oddity. At eighteen, she was still a maiden.
"I suspect he'll like the beauty wearing the dress even more," Arthur teased, raising a brow. "If you wore nothing at all, he might be very pleased."
"Shut up!"
Ashara gave a mock gasp, scandalized, and smacked his bandaged shoulder. Arthur winced, baring his teeth in pain.
Laughing, the girl lifted her skirts and ran toward the door. "Enjoy lying here, Bearer of Dawn— you won't be dancing at the feast tonight!"
Her silvery laughter rang down the corridor as she vanished from sight.
"Oi!" Arthur called after her, shaking his head helplessly. "Tell that boy to return my sword!"
"I know!" came her cheerful reply, drifting back from the stairway.
But Ashara's eyes, the color of crushed violets, were still filled with the image of a tall knight charging beneath the moonlight.
In her ears, she could almost hear that unforgettable voice once more:
"Remember — you still owe me a kiss."