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The coastal road south of Storm's End stretched empty under the afternoon sun, heat shimmering off packed earth that wound through rolling hills dotted with scrub grass and wind-bent trees. Lord Steffon Baratheon sat astride his destrier at the head of his column, three hundred mounted knights arrayed behind him in disciplined formation, their Baratheon banners snapping in the salt-laden breeze.
They'd been waiting since dawn.
"Movement on the southern road, my lord," called one of his outriders, cantering back from his forward position. "Large party. Royal banners visible."
"Finally," muttered Ser Harbert Grandison from Steffon's left, the elderly knight's weathered face showing relief. "Another hour in this sun and the men would start grumbling."
"Let them grumble," Steffon replied, though he felt his own relief. The royal progress had been delayed twice already—once by flooding in the Reach, once by King Aerys deciding to extend his stay at Highgarden by three days. Coordinating a rendezvous with a king who changed plans on whim was an exercise in patience. "Signal the column to dress ranks. When the king arrives, I want us looking like proper escort, not a band of road-weary travelers."
Orders rippled down the line. Knights straightened in their saddles, checked their armor, adjusted banners. Within minutes, the Baratheon force presented the image of martial readiness that Steffon had cultivated throughout his lordship—disciplined, professional, prepared.
The royal column came into view gradually, resolving from heat shimmer into solid reality. At the front rode Kingsguard in their white cloaks, led by Lord Commander Gerold Hightower on a grey destrier that matched his armor. Behind them came the royal wheelhouse, ornate and cumbersome, drawn by eight matched horses. More Kingsguard flanked it, along with royal household knights bearing Targaryen banners.
And behind the wheelhouse stretched a train that seemed to go on forever—noble retainers, servants, supply wagons, spare horses, camp followers, and the hangers-on that accumulated around any royal progress like barnacles on a ship's hull. Hundreds of people, perhaps a thousand, all traveling at the pace of the slowest wagon.
"Seven hells," Ser Harbert breathed. "That's not an escort, that's a migration."
Steffon had to agree, though he kept his expression neutral. He'd known the royal party would be large, but seeing it stretched across the landscape drove home just how unwieldy this entire enterprise had become. Moving that many people through the southern kingdoms required advance planning, careful logistics, and enormous expense—expense that would ultimately fall on the lords whose lands they crossed.
The Kingsguard column reached them first. Lord Commander Hightower raised his hand, bringing the lead elements to a halt. His weathered face, framed by white beard and helm, showed the careful assessment of a man who'd spent decades evaluating potential threats.
"Lord Steffon," Hightower called out formally. "Well met. His Grace will be pleased to see Storm's End's escort has arrived."
"Lord Commander," Steffon replied with equal formality, guiding his horse forward. "Storm's End stands ready to provide safe passage through the Stormlands. My men are at His Grace's disposal."
"Your arrival is timely," Hightower said, his voice dropping slightly so only Steffon could hear. "We've had... incidents along the road. Nothing serious, but the king grows concerned about security. Your reputation for maintaining order will be welcome."
Incidents. Steffon filed that away for later inquiry—the Lord Commander wouldn't mention such things casually. "My men know these lands. We'll ensure the remainder of the journey proceeds smoothly."
The royal wheelhouse drew alongside them, its carved and gilded exterior looking increasingly battered from weeks of travel. A window opened, revealing Queen Rhaella's pale face framed by silver-gold hair. She looked tired, Steffon thought, though she offered him a gracious smile.
"Lord Steffon," she said, her voice carrying the musical quality all Targaryens seemed to possess. "Thank you for coming to meet us. The journey has been pleasant, but we'll be glad to have Storm's End's protection for the final leg."
"Your Grace," Steffon replied, bowing from his saddle. "Storm's End is honored to provide escort. We'll have you safely to Summerhall within three days."
"Summerhall," Rhaella repeated, something complicated flickering across her features. The ruins of the once-great palace where so many Targaryens had died in fire—not exactly a cheerful destination, but the king had insisted on visiting the site. "Yes. Three days. His Grace will be pleased to arrive."
The window closed, and Steffon turned his attention to the rest of the column. Behind the wheelhouse came more carriages carrying Prince Rhaegar and other members of the royal household, various high lords and their retinues who had joined the progress at different stages, and the endless train of support that kept such a massive undertaking moving.
He caught sight of Prince Rhaegar through a carriage window—the prince sat reading, absorbed enough to seem unaware of the movement around him. Even in his early twenties, with marriage and duty already shaping his life, Rhaegar retained that otherworldly stillness inherited from his bloodline—beautiful, distant, and quietly unsettling to those who did not know him.
A rider broke from the column—one of the royal household knights wearing Targaryen colors. "Lord Steffon! His Grace requests that you ride alongside the royal wheelhouse once we're underway. He wishes to discuss the route ahead."
"Of course," Steffon replied. It was a practical request—the king would want details about the road conditions, potential stops, and local considerations. Aerys had always been methodical about such things during his travels.
"My lord," Ser Harbert said quietly, moving his horse alongside Steffon's. "We should integrate our men into their column before we proceed. And I'd like to inspect their current security arrangements—if the Lord Commander is concerned about incidents, I want to know what we're dealing with."
"Agreed," Steffon said. "Take half our knights and coordinate with the Kingsguard. Establish proper outriders, rearguard coverage, and wagon security. I'll ride with the king's party and discuss arrangements with His Grace."
Ser Harbert departed to organize the integration, and Steffon guided his horse toward the royal wheelhouse, positioning himself where protocol dictated he should ride as escort commander. Around him, the massive column lurched back into motion, continuing its slow progress northward through the Stormlands.
Three days to Summerhall, Steffon thought. Three days to ensure smooth passage, coordinate with the royal household, and manage whatever "incidents" had the Lord Commander concerned.
And after Summerhall, the return journey north—where Robert would join them, eager to prove himself, still hoping for a marriage that Steffon increasingly believed would never happen.
The sun beat down on armor and banners as the royal progress continued its ponderous march. Steffon settled into his saddle, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility that came with serving House Targaryen.
It was going to be a long three days.
They made camp that evening in a broad meadow beside a stream, the kind of location that would have been idyllic if it wasn't being trampled by a thousand people and twice that many horses. Steffon watched with professional assessment as his men established proper perimeter security, something that had apparently been lacking in the progress's previous arrangements.
"They've been setting watches, but only at the camp's edge," Ser Harbert reported, gesturing toward the perimeter. "No scouts beyond visual range, no patrol rotation, just static guards who could be easily avoided by anyone with basic woodcraft. It's a miracle they haven't had more problems."
"What kind of problems have they had?" Steffon asked.
"Minor thefts from supply wagons. A servant girl accosted by someone who vanished before guards arrived. Horses spooked in the night by sounds that might have been animal or might have been something else. Nothing serious individually, but taken together..." Ser Harbert shrugged. "It suggests someone's been probing their security, testing responses."
"Bandits?" Steffon suggested, though he didn't believe it.
"Bandits would have struck by now if they thought the target was vulnerable," Ser Harbert replied. "This feels more like reconnaissance. Someone watching, learning patterns, waiting for... something."
Steffon frowned, scanning the darkening treeline beyond their camp. The Stormlands had its share of outlaws, but organized reconnaissance suggested something more sophisticated. "Double the watch tonight. I want scouts a mile out in every direction, rotating every two hours so they stay alert. And I want anyone approaching this camp challenged well before they reach the perimeter."
"Already arranged, my lord," Ser Harbert confirmed. "The Kingsguard approve—Lord Commander Hightower said he's relieved to have someone taking security seriously."
Which was a polite way of saying the previous security had been inadequate, Steffon thought. He wondered who'd been responsible for it and why they'd done such a poor job. Incompetence? Or deliberate negligence?
He pushed that thought aside as a servant approached, bowing deeply. "My lord, His Grace requests your presence in the royal pavilion."
Of course he did. Steffon had been expecting the summons—the king would want to discuss the route ahead and ensure security arrangements met his expectations.
"Lead the way," Steffon said.
The royal pavilion dominated the camp's center, a massive silk structure with Targaryen dragons embroidered across its surface. Kingsguard stood at every entrance, their white cloaks ghostly in the fading light. Inside, the pavilion was divided into sections—sleeping quarters for the royal family, a dining area, and a receiving space where King Aerys II Targaryen currently reviewed maps with several of his advisors.
The king looked up as Steffon entered, and Steffon was relieved to see Aerys appeared composed and alert. His silver-gold hair was properly dressed, his purple eyes clear and focused, and he stood over the map table with the bearing of a man firmly in control of his faculties.
"Lord Steffon," Aerys greeted him with a nod. "Good. I wanted to discuss the route ahead before we retire for the evening."
"Of course, Your Grace." Steffon approached the table, noting the maps showed the coastal road north toward Summerhall. Several markers indicated their planned stops.
"Lord Commander Hightower tells me you've already improved our security arrangements," Aerys continued. "I appreciate the thoroughness. We've had minor incidents on this progress—nothing serious, but enough to be concerning. Proper vigilance is always warranted."
"My men know the Stormlands well, Your Grace," Steffon replied. "We'll ensure the remainder of the journey is secure."
"Excellent." Aerys studied the map again. "Tell me about the roads ahead. I understand there's a shorter route through the hills, but you've recommended we stay on the coastal road?"
"The hill route is indeed shorter," Steffon confirmed, "but the roads are narrow and the terrain makes security more difficult. With a column this size, the coastal route is more practical. We'll reach Summerhall with perhaps half a day's difference, but with much better control over our surroundings."
"Sound reasoning," Aerys agreed. "We'll proceed as you recommend. Now, there's another matter I wanted to discuss with you."
Steffon waited, curious about what would follow.
"Your family," Aerys said, his tone shifting to something more conversational. "You have three sons, don't you? Robert, Stannis, and Renly."
"Yes, Your Grace," Steffon confirmed, wondering where this was leading.
"Robert is being fostered at the Eyrie by Lord Jon Arryn, I recall. How does he fare?"
"Very well, Your Grace. Lord Arryn speaks highly of his progress in both martial training and leadership."
Aerys nodded thoughtfully. "Good. Strong young men are the realm's future." He paused, studying the map again before continuing. "Have you sent any betrothal proposal to Lord Rickard Stark regarding his daughter, Lyanna?"
Steffon kept his expression steady. "Yes, Your Grace. A formal proposal was sent, but Lord Stark has not yet replied."
"The North moves slowly in such matters," Aerys observed, though there was something in his tone that suggested he was thinking beyond simple marriage negotiations. "They're... traditional people. Cautious about southern alliances."
"Lord Stark considers all matters carefully," Steffon agreed.
"Indeed." Aerys's purple eyes settled on Steffon with a clarity that was almost unsettling in its precision. "Tell me, Lord Steffon—what do you make of what the North has been producing? . I speak of Arthur Snow specifically. I have seen his skill with my own eyes."
Steffon kept his posture respectful. There was no point pretending otherwise; the king remembered every moment of that duel in the Red Keep courtyard.
Aerys continued, tone thoughtful rather than suspicious. "He defeated young Jaime Lannister with almost casual ease. A display far beyond the training of any regional master-at-arms. And when I offered him a place in the Kingsguard, he declined." A faint, curious smile touched his lips. "That… technique he used. The way he calmed my mind for a moment. I still cannot say precisely what it was."
Steffon inclined his head. "Your Grace, Arthur Snow's abilities are extraordinary. But you know that better than any."
"Extraordinary, yes—but also controlled," Aerys mused. "He showed no arrogance. No hunger for position. Only discipline. That interests me far more than rumors whispered in taverns. A man with such skill who remains loyal to his liege lord is either a rare blessing… or something we must understand in order to use properly."
Steffon measured his words. "The North has always produced capable fighters, Your Grace. Arthur Snow may simply be the most gifted of them. As for Lord Stark—he would never permit anything disloyal to the crown."
"Of that I am aware," Aerys agreed calmly. "Rickard Stark is cautious, structured, and predictable. Men like that do not encourage chaos." His gaze drifted briefly, then sharpened again. "Still, what the North is cultivating—whatever training produced Arthur Snow—it warrants attention. Not suspicion. Understanding."
Steffon nodded. "If Your Grace wishes, I can inquire discreetly. Nothing that would alarm Lord Stark, merely… questions asked through proper channels."
Aerys considered this, then gave a single approving nod. "Yes. Knowledge, Lord Steffon, is a king's strongest armor."
He paused, his expression turning measured rather than dismissive.
"That won't be necessary yet," Aerys continued. "Lord Rickard will answer your marriage proposal in due time, and when he does, that exchange may offer its own avenues for understanding. Until then, our attention belongs to this trip and ensuring it proceeds without complication."
"Of course, Your Grace." Steffon bowed.
"Thank you for your thoroughness with security, Lord Steffon. It's good to have Storm's End's reliability supporting us." Aerys returned his attention to the maps, clearly dismissing him politely.
Steffon retreated from the royal pavilion, feeling considerably better about the situation than he'd expected. The king seemed clear-headed and rational, focused on practical matters rather than paranoia or suspicion. Whatever tensions might exist in King's Landing, on this progress at least, things appeared stable.
He found Lord Commander Hightower outside, inspecting the Kingsguard watch rotations.
"Lord Steffon," Hightower greeted him. "How was your meeting with His Grace?"
"Productive," Steffon replied. "The king is pleased with the security improvements. We discussed the route ahead."
"Good." Hightower's weathered face showed approval. "His Grace has been in excellent spirits this entire progress. It's been... refreshing, after some of the tensions at court."
Steffon noted that carefully. So there were tensions in King's Landing, even if the king himself seemed stable on this journey. "The change of scenery perhaps does him good."
"Perhaps," Hightower agreed noncommittally. "In any case, your presence has been reassuring. Storm's End's reputation precedes you."
They discussed security arrangements for a few more minutes before Steffon returned to his own section of the camp, where his men had established proper order and discipline. Here, at least, things made sense. Commands were followed. Security was maintained. Duty was clear.
He would complete this escort mission successfully. He would keep the royal family safe. And he would deal with whatever complications arose—including Robert's inevitable disappointment about Lyanna Stark, and the larger questions about what was truly happening in the North.
The king's interest in Northern developments was understandable from a governance perspective. A lord paramount improving his forces' capabilities did merit attention, even if that attention was analytical rather than suspicious.
But for tonight, Steffon would simply ensure proper watches were set and that Storm's End's reputation for reliability remained intact.
Some responsibilities were straightforward, even when political currents ran deep beneath the surface.