Fury And Pride | Myrcella Baratheon x Male!OC Fanfiction | Game Of Thrones AU

The Colors

The morning sun filtered through the windows of the bedchamber, bathing the room in a soft, golden light. The second prince staggered out of bed, groaning as the events of the previous night flooded back to him.

His head throbbed like a thousand drummers, his mouth drier than a desert, and every muscle within the boy's pubescent body ached as he stumbled to the washbasin, splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to fully wake himself up.

His dark locks were a tangled mess, eyes of stormy blue all rimmed with red, and bile remains on high tide within his throat.

Gods, I look like death warmed over, he thought to himself, trying to straighten his disheveled locks with his fingers.

More water did he splash on his face, hoping it would mayhaps alleviate the pounding in his head, but it only made him feel a little less nauseous, and he fumbled through his drawers to find some clean clothes to replace the current ones which smelled horrible of ale, puke, and a woman's perfume.

After several minutes of searching, he managed to find a set of clothes that didn't look completely disheveled, and he pulled on the tunic and trousers, struggling to tie the knots of his tunic with his hands shaking all over as though he was as ancient as Grandmaester Pycelle.

Finally, he staggered to the door, bracing himself for the day ahead.

Despite his condition, Steffon knew that he had matters of both great importance and interest that could not be ignored nor swept under the rug (he means his king father's upset), and one such obligation was his daily training session with Maxir.

With a groan, he made his way down to the training yard, his footsteps heavy and his head still being hammered by the Seven.

Steffon stumbled into the training yard and stopped in the door, having nearly stumbled for the second time.

On the far side of the yard was where the sight of several stoic and familiar faces gathered together, mayhaps to worsen his hangover.

His father, King Robert, stood with might as well be the entirety of his Kingsguard. Next to him was Robert's squire, Lancel Lannister (also Steffon's cousin who was only a few years his senior) and Lord Commander Barristan The Bold.

Standing slightly to the side, was his smirking Uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister, the golden lion of the Kingsguard and infamous Kingslayer, watching with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

The gods are mocking me, Steffon thought. Waking me up early to have such a distinguished audience as this?

He met his father's gaze and saw only disappointment, and when he glanced at his golden-haired uncle, feeling his gaze upon him, and he could sense the amusement emanating from him.

Gods, it's all too much.

Steffon found his own feet taking him to Maxir, and he couldn't help but choke out a jape, attempting to mask his embarrassment with humor.

"I've either been appointed a fool or a mummer without mine own authority, out here in the light of day," he whispered to his sworn shield and sword instructor then. "Seven Hells. Why don't you just put me in Moon Boy's ensemble and be done with it?"

"Enough chatter!" King Robert shouted, his voice booming across the spacious courtyard. "I've been waiting long enough, boy. Let's start the training. No more delays!"

Steffon, attempting to make light of his situation, turned to his father and scoffed. "I'm certain this is some sort of punishment. Word does travel between birds and rats around here. But oh, to be put through the paces of training like a green squire, in full view of the Kingsguard and the King himself!"