It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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Age: 21
Sworn To: Targaryen
Born to: Baratheon
Location: Storm's End
Title: Noble
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Joined: 26-February 18
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Last Seen: Jul 14 2018, 11:51 PM
Local Time: Jul 16 2018, 12:40 AM
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Steffon Baratheon


My Content
Apr 1 2018, 11:25 PM

Steffon was laughing, he was laughing in a manner he hadn't felt in months, from his belly. The man next to him had just told a joke that had his side contracting and threatening to pain him. The young knight clasped him on the shoulder, "That's too good!" He knew he would likely repeat it later, if only to his father, Robert would like it. He took a mouthful of ale from the stein in his hand, still laughing as he wiped water from the apple of one cheek and walked from the group of men continuing with their conversations and laughter.

While still nursing his splitting side, a younger man walked in that usually produced a grimace from Steffon. His sister was betrothed to Samwise, someone that he honestly was likely to like if he wasn't singularly responsible for his sister's future happiness. Argella was the baby of the family, despite there being a younger brother for both of them. She was the apple of her fathers eye, the groomed lady to carry her mother's graces forward, and the girl Steffon had spent his developing years chasing tides with.

Before he could turn to leave, the other man noticed him. He knew it was too late to leave without a word or two when both their brows shifted in acknowledgement. What else were you to do? He crossed the room in a few paces, "My dear... future good-brother," He called, raising his glass, "How goes you? Here for a reprieve from the mid-day sun? I know they keep saying that winter is creeping in, but the heat remains brutal here in the south during the high noon." Steffon was always easy with conversations, except with Elinor lately, and could probably talk a fish out of water if he tried. Except he did try that once to no success, due to Argella's pleading for him to attempt.

Steffon walked from the Arryn's side towards the table inside the tavern crowded with bawdy men, he grabbed a cup and filled it with ale. He topped off his own too. And brought it back to the other lad, using his left hand to motion to the table nearest them, "Since one only comes to a place like this to drink and chat, let us do both before we join the rest. You're going to need to be a few cups in to handle these men. Watch out for that one," He pointed to the potbellied, long haired lord that had made the joke that tore his side, "He has a wicked sense of humor." Steffon took his place on the wooden stool, took a sip from his cup, and placed his rough hands on the table, "Were you in the yard today?"

Mar 26 2018, 11:04 PM
Steffon stood with a thin-line where his mouth would generally be open, smiling, and displaying the teeth the Gods had given him. Elinor was walking away from him, as she seemed to so often do as of late, and he was left to stand there. Watching her, and biting the inside of his lip to keep his tense jaw from allowing any unsavory comment to slip. He liked it better the way it used to be, when he would bite his bottom lip while staring at her rear when she left his side. He, at times, supposed he still could but her mood soured his desire.

The wine in his left hand even seemed soured as he raised it to his mouth, sipping from the red liquid as her shadow disappeared around a corner. Steffon remained, almost still aside from the draw of his chalice upwards, and sipped that dry, puckering wine. He did so for longer than he likely should, given his position and reputation at court. He was not supposed to sit in his mood, that was left for weaker men, the men that could not rouse a jovial jest and entertain the rest. So, he pulled himself together, with his free hand adjusting the dark velvet tunic that outlined in golden thread his frame beneath.

When he turned on his heel, the oiled leather reflecting the glow of light enough to catch his eyes, he almost trampled his sister. "ar-Argella," His voice boomed over her, alarm present, "You can't just pop out of nowhere like some kind of imp." His hard line had already softened, as it usually did upon his sister's sighting. Though, his eyes narrowed, one corner of his mouth drawing back at his crude choice of wording. They were gathered after all for his Uncle Tyrion's trial, and he was oft to be called an imp due to his stature and wit. Steffon piped up, continuing on to try and dismiss his other growing concerns with the impending trial, "What do you want?"

She always wanted something, ever since she was a child, and their house had always given it. No matter the cost. "Out with it, it's always something," He gave her a hard time, the kind only a brother could freely give. And then, as a small jest he asked, "Shouldn't you be doing... something other than loitering here anyway? Like fetching your brother better wine?" Steffon raised his chalice, sloshing it's contents near her nose.

Mar 14 2018, 11:40 PM
The sweat dripped from his forehead, sword in hand helped him feel steady, yet his weakness still rattled his movements. His father looked from in front of him, clasping him on the shoulder in pride. Steffon knew it would be time, but it was hard to believe it would ever be as good as before the war. His blue eyes drifted down, from his father's warm face, to his leg that had been brutalized. He gave a nod, the admittance of defeat of a burning wound for the day. It ached with every movement, the cut that had been at the base of the thigh having managed to even scrape the bone beneath the muscle. He was lucky to have had a leg attached, luckier to avoid infection on the journey home, and luckiest at the progress he had managed in such a small amount of time - but none of that made it any easiest.

He had been a promising knight, a glory building behind his name to rival his peers and the shadows of histories. He had time to regain that promise, to build anew with it. He knew this, but it still stung. He breathed heavily, "How about another cup instead of another round?" His eyes shifting beneath his heavy brow as he shrugged his father's hand from it's proud grip. "My ego is as bruised as the leg beneath this armor," He managed a chuckle, "I hear a cask is good for that. " It was not broken at least, that was something he acquired from both his parents, their ego and their will to mend it.

He led the way before his father could answer, doubting an objection was likely to come from the larger Baratheon. He set his sword next to the post of the yard, it was nothing special, not like his own. This own was worn, with a fading leather grip on its handle and a blade so chiseled with time it was a wonder it stayed balanced. His was a grand thing in comparison, with its gold filigree and ruby hilt, and yet it was plain in most regards for a fine knight's weapon. From the yard they walked a few paces, into the mending and changing room of the warriors that trained there. He reached for the pitcher in the corner, pouring the glasses for them tall with the sweet aroma of the red liquid, something that promised a relief from the heat of the yard in the chilled air outside.

He took his first sip, leaning against a small table about the height just above his thighs, his finger tapping the side. "To be true, my ego is taking more than just a hit in battle. How did you deal with mother icing you out when you were young?" He asked, boldly, frustration releasing in his tone and haste, "That is all I seem to be dealing with in Elinor's presence, do you know if she was this way while we were gone to everyone, or is it really just me she hates so much right now?" In truth, it wouldn't have mattered. It she had given this attitude to either of his siblings or mother they would have handled it with a remark of their own. And gossip was less tolerated in the keep of his mother, she had fought to keep whispers from her walls to protect her interests.

His brows furrowed, knitting together in the middle, "How long did you have to deal with it from mother? I can't imagine what she will be like if she weds with this fury of hers building. And I can barely get her to be in the seat next to me, the same room as me," He vented, not as though all hope was lost, but as a confused son looking for some kind of help.

Mar 14 2018, 11:16 PM
It was the pit in his heart, the one that formed when his uncle was even mentioned in relation to those terrible events, that ached in that moment the King announced his jury. He thought of Tyrion, with his short curling hair and impish smile, the one that had cracked jests and smirked nothing but kindness in his direction. He was the man that had given him his first cup, and who had run after skirts and expected all men to do the same. He, he had displayed so much goodness in tiny ways, but those ways stood taller than his stature even. So still, it was a surprise to him to hear his uncle murmured of this treason, especially the less it stayed a hushed. He thought it perhaps not impossible, but unlikely. The little man had always showed him to be a good one, and he was family, that's what you hoped for then, right?

Steffon had arrived in the Capitol only days before, barely settled in, and hardly in the way of things. He stood in the courtroom, crowded in with the other High Lords and their ladies. Many of them had their face in stern lined mouths, displeased with there even being a trial. Others, seemed to twist their eyes to narrow, as if the sentence had already been passed. He stood in the mix of them all, his father to his right and his mother beyond him, her hand clutched Robert's arm. Hands tight around his large forearm, trying to him her rush of power. She would sit on the jury, she who had always hated her little brother, she who was always hard to hide her disdain for his mention of a name in his family household. She once chided his Maester in his inclusion of your uncle, as if there was no room for him among Steffon's memories.

The young buck stood with his chest squared, emulating the stoic nature of his passed grandfather, gracing his peers with a pragmatic expression of indifference. His nostrils wanted nothing more than to flare, to call in objection the inclusion of his mother's judgement, but how could he do such a thing? It would embarrass the Lady of the Stormlands, his own mother, and insult the King for his decision. He didn't think he could stand by and hope the gods would ring true in their justice and prove him innocent if he were, they were never easy beings for something like that,

As the announcement wrapped up, and the King returned to the complaints of the people and giving his thoughts to the smallfolk, Steffon's father sighed It was no secret that Robert had never enjoyed this aspect of ruling, perhaps, his son had often thought, he might actually be glad he had lost the almost war to skip out on this duty. Had he challenge the King, truly, for Lyanna Stark's hand, there was no telling who would had won to claim the woman and the throne. As a well tutored student of war and history, Steffon thought it would have been an even match, and as a son, he thought he might have won. What a shamble that would have made of the realm.

His mother had released her excited grip, disbanding from her husband and began her graceful exit from the room. Steffon followed the red ripples of her skirts across the floor, "Mother," He called from behind her, gently. He offered her his arm as an escort, "I know its near midday, where wine and food will surely begin to set up on the tables lining the great hall, but would you mind a walk with your son?" He asked, as evenly in tone as he could muster, hoping he might feign a normal agenda while in the presence of so many others.
Mar 9 2018, 08:25 PM
The thought was something he never would have imagined. He, Steffon Baratheon, was nervous to speak with a girl. To be fair, it wasn't just any girl. It was the one that had stolen his heart at such a young age, the one he pined over and pleaded for the hand of, only to gain it and turn it away from his own palm. 'She's never going to even hear me out,' Elinor, for all her patience, had little listened to him over the two weeks journey to the Red Keep. In truth, he felt she had barely tolerated to be near him.

To say her ability to reserve herself around him caused him anxiety would be an under-statement. The she-wolf had found a way of making his heart beat faster even from not glancing his direction, something he thought impossible of any woman or man. And he, as best as he did try, could not seem to overcome it. He couldn't shake the dissatisfaction.

Once, they had been so close. As children, they had played beside each other. Practiced in the yards of Winterfell and prayed and bathed in the Godswoods, they had chased Robb around with wooden swords and balled snow to throw at the youngest of her siblings. As young adults, they had flirted and courted, dancing through the courts of the Capitol with all the grace the realm had to offer. In the recent year, they had made promises to one another, proclaimed their deep affections and hopes for their union. And now, now he felt as though he stood atop a mound of dirt, stripped of the seeds and nutrients, where nothing would grow.

His father had assured him that with time, she would come around. The fight that lodged this wedge between them was small, and by his accounts, ought to have happened sooner than later least he want a warrior bride or lamed responsibility. Each time Steffon thought of the fight in Essos, the rounds of the hills they trampled soldiers on, with men wounded and blood abundant, he knew he had made the right choice. Had he let her go, she would be gone, and not for her lack of ability, but for the draw of war. The gods would have punished him worse than the leg that supported him now, aching with every step.

Yet still, he couldn't believe he was nervous to approach her. Never had he been, even as a boy so love-sicken he wrote a sonnet for her, one properly discarded into the hearth once some clarity was granted. "Elinor," He called to her backside,she stood some paces in front of her. Steffon took a breath, a small chuckle releasing from his mouth, "May I have a private word?" His words felt as if they echoed on the decorated walls of the welcoming feast. While the event was not a joyous one, the King had spared no expense at gathering the lords and ladies of his kingdom, rewarding them for their loyalty and service. The sconces on the walls illuminated the fine hall, casting their gentle light on the details of each person's attire and accessories. Steffon's own tunic, a solid velvet blue, appeared as dark as the sea at midnight. A color that might have matched his eyes if the clouds of the storm gods had ever clouded them, or so his mother had said when she presented it to him. A fine thing, with silver threads creating patterns at the boarders, lending shape to his muscular build.

He placed his hand out, tapping the back of her elbow, "I have something I'd like you to consider." His voice trailed, giving a small pause, "Nothing for me, of course," He felt the need to declare, as if it might help persuade her to at least hear him out,"But for the better of the realm...?"

His mouth drew another pause, opened slightly and edging, "Well, alright, I don't know if that's true. But, will you come with me? I'd rather not discuss this with as many eyes and ears tuned to us." His eyes looked to the left, his head nodding just gently enough to sway the hair attached, to the direction of the courtyard entrance.
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