**King's Landing, 286 AC**
Hadrian Baratheon was two years old, which meant he was simultaneously too young to understand anything and old enough to understand far too much.
He sat on a stone bench in the corridor outside the royal birthing chamber, his little legs swinging because they didn't quite reach the ground yet. His brother Perseus sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched—they did that a lot, staying close, as if proximity could anchor them to this strange new life.
The screaming had started an hour ago.
"Mummy's being loud," Perseus observed, in that matter-of-fact way toddlers had when discussing things that would make adults uncomfortable.
"Babies hurt," Hadrian replied, with the weary tone of someone who'd read too many books on the subject. Which was impossible, because he was two and couldn't read yet. Except he *could* read, sort of, when the memories flickered through like sunlight through leaves. "Coming out hurts."
"That's stupid," Perseus said loyally. "Babies should just... happen. Like magic."
"Magic doesn't work like that."
"Magic should work however I want it to."
This was an old argument. They had it approximately six times a day.
Uncle Jaime stood nearby, his white Kingsguard cloak draped over his golden armor, looking like a lion trying very hard to pretend he wasn't pacing. He was the only one here—no Grand Maester Pycelle (busy with the Queen), no other Kingsguard (posted elsewhere), and certainly no Robert Baratheon.
Their father was somewhere in Flea Bottom, drunk and buried in a whore, because that's what Robert Baratheon did when things got emotional.
"Uncle Jaime?" Hadrian asked, tilting his head back to look up. "Why isn't Father here?"
Jaime's jaw tightened in that particular way that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "Your father is... attending to matters of state."
"Father's drunk," Perseus said flatly.
"Perseus—"
"He is though. He's always drunk. And he smells like wine and ladies who aren't Mummy."
Hadrian elbowed his brother. They'd had the conversation about saying things out loud versus keeping them in your head where they were safe. Percy was still learning the distinction.
Jaime crouched down so he was eye-level with them, his green eyes—Lannister eyes, same as their mother's—warm in a way their father's eyes never were.
"Your father," Jaime said carefully, "loves you both very much. He's simply... not good with situations like this. Some men aren't."
"Some men are cowards," Hadrian said, and watched Jaime's eyebrows climb.
Two-year-olds weren't supposed to use words like that. Two-year-olds were supposed to say things like "want juice" and "doggy!" and maybe count to ten if they were precocious.
Hadrian and Perseus had been talking in full sentences since they were fifteen months old. The maesters called it remarkable. The servants called it unnatural. Their mother called it proof that her sons were exceptional.
Jaime studied them with that look adults got sometimes—the one that said they were trying to figure out if the children were brilliant or possessed.
"Where did you learn that word?" he asked, though his tone was more curious than angry.
Hadrian shrugged, which was the universal toddler response to questions you couldn't answer. How could he explain that he remembered being someone else? That sometimes, late at night, he dreamed of a cupboard under the stairs and a lightning scar and dying in a forest because love was stronger than death?
He couldn't. So he just shrugged.
Another scream split the air, high and sharp, and Percy's hand found his. They held on tight.
"Is Mummy going to be okay?" Perseus asked, and for once he sounded like the toddler he was supposed to be—small and scared.
Jaime's expression softened. "Your mother is the strongest woman I know. She'll be fine. And soon you'll have a little brother or sister to play with."
"Don't want to play with a baby," Perseus muttered. "Babies just cry and smell bad."
"You were a baby once."
"Was not. Was always this."
Hadrian bit back a laugh. Percy had been getting more insistent lately that he'd always been exactly who he was now. The memories were stronger for him—dreams of blue birthday cakes and water that listened, of a camp by a lake and a sword that turned into a pen.
For Hadrian, the memories came in pieces. A castle made of magic. Friends whose names he couldn't quite remember. A man with a long beard who'd sent him to die. The memories made him angry sometimes, in ways that two-year-olds shouldn't be angry.
"When the baby comes," Jaime said, standing and resuming his post by the door, "you'll both need to be patient. Help your mother. Be good big brothers."
"Will Father help?" Hadrian asked, already knowing the answer.
Jaime's silence was eloquent.
Robert Baratheon had been ecstatic when they were born—twins, sons, heirs to secure the succession. He'd thrown a feast that lasted three days. But the actual *raising* of children? That held his attention for approximately ten minutes before he got bored and wandered off to find wine and women who looked like Lyanna Stark.
Their mother said the name sometimes, late at night when she thought they were sleeping. *Lyanna*. Like a curse. Like a prayer. Like the name of a ghost that haunted their family.
Hadrian knew about Lyanna Stark. Knew she'd been beautiful, had been stolen (or run away—the stories conflicted), had died in a tower of blood and roses. Knew their father had loved her, started a war for her, killed the prince who'd taken her.
Knew their father still loved her more than he'd ever love his living wife or his living sons.
It made Hadrian's chest tight with something that felt like the leftover anger from a different life. He'd had a manipulative old man send him to die once before. He wasn't eager to be overlooked by a negligent father in this life too.
The door opened.
Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled out, his chains clinking, his ancient face arranged in what was probably supposed to be a pleasant expression but mostly looked like he'd eaten something questionable.
"The Queen has been delivered," he announced, in that oily voice that made Hadrian's skin crawl. "A son. Healthy. Strong lungs."
Jaime's whole body tensed. "And the Queen?"
"Tired, but well. She's asking for—" Pycelle's rheumy eyes slid to Jaime. "—her brother."
Something passed between them. Something adult and complicated that Hadrian didn't have all the context for yet, but that made his stomach twist anyway.
"May we see Mummy?" Perseus asked, bouncing on the bench.
"Soon, young prince. Soon. The wet nurses are cleaning—"
"Now," Hadrian said firmly, sliding off the bench. "We want to see our mother now."
Pycelle frowned. "Young prince, it's not appropriate for children—"
"*Now*," Hadrian repeated, and put command into it. Not the voice of a two-year-old, but the voice of someone who'd once led a war against the darkest wizard in Britain. The voice of someone who'd been a Master of Death, even if that title had been revoked by cosmic forces with a sense of humor.
Pycelle actually stepped back.
Jaime coughed to cover what might have been a laugh. "I think we can make an exception. Come on, boys."
He scooped them both up—one on each hip, because Jaime Lannister was the only adult in this entire keep who actually *held* them—and carried them into the chamber.
---
The birthing room smelled like blood and sweat and something floral that couldn't quite cover the other smells. Their mother lay against the pillows, golden hair plastered to her head, her face pale but composed.
Cersei Lannister did not look like a woman who'd just given birth. She looked like a queen who'd completed a task and was already planning her next move.
In her arms was a bundle wrapped in Lannister crimson and cloth-of-gold. A tiny, red, angry face poked out of the blankets, screaming at the injustice of existence.
Jaime set them down carefully, and they approached the bed.
"Mummy?" Perseus said tentatively.
Cersei's face transformed. It was like watching ice melt—the cold, calculating expression warming into something genuine and fierce.
"My darlings," she said, and her voice was soft. "Come meet your brother."
They climbed onto the bed (with some help from Jaime, who lifted them with ease). The baby was still screaming, his little face scrunched up, his tiny fists waving.
Hadrian looked at his new brother and felt... nothing.
No, that wasn't quite right. He felt something. Recognition, maybe. The sense that this was *important*, that this baby would matter, that choices made now would ripple through time.
But mostly he just saw a baby. Red and angry and probably about to ruin their lives in ways they couldn't predict yet.
Perseus poked the baby's cheek experimentally. "He's loud."
"He's a Lannister," Cersei said, with fierce pride. "Of course he's loud. He's announcing himself to the world."
Hadrian studied the baby more carefully. Blonde hair—finally, their mother had gotten her golden-haired child. Green eyes, squinting against the light. He looked nothing like Robert. He looked nothing like them.
He looked exactly like Uncle Jaime.
And in that moment, Hadrian understood something that made his two-year-old stomach clench.
*Oh no*.
He glanced at Jaime, who was staring at the baby with an expression that was hunger and love and guilt all mixed together. Then at his mother, who was looking at Jaime with her walls down, with something raw and desperate in her eyes.
*Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.*
Percy hadn't noticed. He was too busy making faces at the baby, who'd stopped crying and was now staring up at them with unfocused infant eyes.
But Hadrian noticed. Hadrian saw.
And suddenly, with the clarity that came from being two years old on the outside and ancient on the inside, he understood exactly how screwed they all were.
Their mother was having an affair with her twin brother. This baby—this screaming golden baby—was the product of incest. And when people found out (because they *would* find out, because secrets like this never stayed buried), it would destroy everything.
Their house. Their family. The fragile peace their father's war had bought.
*Everything*.
"What are you going to name him, Mother?" Hadrian asked quietly, keeping his voice small and childlike even though his mind was racing.
Cersei looked down at the baby, her face fierce and tender. "Joffrey," she said. "Joffrey Baratheon. Though he's a lion through and through."
Jaime made a sound—strangled and soft.
"A lion," Cersei repeated, looking at Jaime now, her message clear. "My perfect golden lion."
The baby—Joffrey—cooed.
Hadrian and Perseus exchanged glances. They'd gotten good at silent communication, at whole conversations in just a look.
*Did you see—?*
*Yeah. I saw.*
*What do we do?*
*I don't know. But this is bad.*
*Really bad.*
"Aren't you happy?" Cersei asked, looking between them with concern. "You have a little brother now. You'll protect him, won't you? Keep him safe?"
Perseus nodded immediately, because Percy had always been better at automatic loyalty. "We'll keep him safe, Mummy. Promise."
Hadrian nodded too, but slower. Promises were important. He'd learned that in another life. You didn't make them unless you meant them.
But looking at baby Joffrey, at his mother's fierce pride, at Uncle Jaime's naked longing, Hadrian wondered what they were promising to protect the baby from.
The world? Their father? Their mother's choices?
Or the baby himself, from what he might become?
---
They stayed for another hour, until their mother fell asleep from exhaustion. Jaime carried them out again, back to their rooms in the royal apartments.
The Red Keep was quiet this time of night. Servants moved through the halls like ghosts, lighting candles, carrying messages. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear their father's booming laugh—he'd returned from whatever brothel he'd been drowning himself in, probably to celebrate the birth of a son he'd never bother to know.
"Uncle Jaime?" Percy asked, his head on Jaime's shoulder. "Why does Father not like being with us?"
Jaime's step faltered. "Your father loves you."
"But he doesn't *like* us," Hadrian said. "There's a difference."
Jaime stopped walking. He stood in the corridor, holding two toddlers who spoke like philosophers, and something in his expression cracked.
"Your father," he said slowly, "is a complicated man. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to save the princess and live happily ever after. But life isn't a song, and he didn't get his happy ending. So he drinks to forget."
"He drinks because he's sad about Lady Lyanna," Percy said.
"Yes."
"But we're not her," Hadrian added. "We're us. And Mummy's not her. And baby Joffrey's not her. So why does he hate us?"
"He doesn't hate you—"
"He doesn't *see* us," Hadrian corrected. "That's worse."
Jaime looked at them with something like despair. "You're too young to understand this."
"We're exactly old enough," Perseus said firmly. "We're old enough to know Father doesn't want us. And Mummy only likes us because we're hers. And you're the only one who actually—" His voice wavered. "—who actually cares."
Jaime closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were suspiciously bright.
"I care," he said, fierce and quiet. "I will *always* care. You're my—" He stopped. "You're my nephews. You're my family. And I will protect you with everything I have."
Hadrian and Perseus looked at each other again.
*He loves us.*
*Yeah. But it's complicated.*
*Everything here is complicated.*
*I hate this world.*
*Me too.*
*But we're stuck here.*
*So we make the best of it?*
*So we make the best of it.*
They reached the nursery, where two beds had been set up side by side. They'd refused to sleep separately since they were born. The servants thought it was sweet. Their mother thought it was her sons being appropriately close.
Hadrian and Percy knew it was because the nightmares were worse alone.
Jaime tucked them in, which was something their father had never done. He pulled the blankets up, made sure their favorite toys were within reach (a wooden stag for Hadrian, a toy ship for Percy—gifts from Uncle Tyrion on his last visit).
"Sleep well," Jaime said. "Your mother will want to see you tomorrow. Help her with your new brother."
"Uncle Jaime?" Hadrian asked, just as Jaime reached the door. "The baby. Joffrey. He's going to be okay, right?"
Jaime turned, his face unreadable in the candlelight. "Why wouldn't he be?"
Because he looked nothing like Robert Baratheon. Because he was the product of a secret that would burn their world down. Because Hadrian had read books in another life, knew how stories of hidden princes and false heirs always ended.
But he couldn't say any of that.
"Just wondering," Hadrian said instead, small and innocent.
Jaime studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled—sad and tired and knowing.
"We'll keep him safe," Jaime promised. "All of you. I swear it."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Hadrian and Perseus lay in their beds, staring up at the ceiling. Outside, the Red Keep creaked and settled. Somewhere, their father was drinking. Their mother was sleeping. Their new baby brother was probably being fussed over by wet nurses.
"Harry?" Percy whispered, using the name from another life. They only used those names when they were alone, when the memories pressed too close.
"Yeah, Percy?"
"This world is really screwed up."
"Yeah. It really is."
"Our father's a drunk who doesn't love us. Our mother's—" He paused. "—doing something bad with Uncle Jaime."
"I know."
"The baby's going to cause problems."
"I know."
"What do we do?"
Hadrian turned his head, meeting his brother's eyes in the darkness. Green met sea-green, two colors that didn't belong in this world, two lights that burned with foreign fire.
"We survive," Hadrian said simply. "Like we always do. We keep our heads down. We learn everything we can. We get strong."
"And when the bad things come?"
"We'll be ready."
Percy nodded. Then, quieter: "I miss home."
"Which home?"
"Both of them." Percy's voice was small. "I miss Camp Half-Blood. I miss Annabeth. I miss—" He stopped. "Do you ever wonder if they're okay? If we died and they just... went on without us?"
Hadrian thought of Hogwarts, of Ron and Hermione, of Ginny. Of dying in the Forbidden Forest and waking up as a baby in a world that didn't make sense.
"I think they're okay," he said finally. "I think we did what we were supposed to do. Saved our worlds. And now we're... somewhere else."
"Do you think we'll ever go back?"
"No."
"Me neither."
They lay in silence, two old souls in young bodies, trying to make sense of a world that ran on cruelty and politics instead of prophecy and magic.
Though there was magic here too. Hadrian could feel it sometimes, sleeping in his bones. Different from the magic he'd known before, but magic nonetheless. And Percy had made a pitcher of water explode last week when he got angry, so his powers were waking up too.
They'd have to be careful. Magic was rare here, feared. People got burned for witchcraft in some parts of Westeros.
But they'd been careful before. They'd survived impossible things.
They'd survive this too.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Promise we'll stay together? No matter what?"
"Always," Hadrian promised, fierce and final. "We're brothers. Not just because we were born in the same room. Because we chose to be. We die together or not at all."
"Deal."
Percy's breathing evened out first, slipping into sleep. Hadrian lay awake longer, thinking about golden-haired babies and incest secrets and a world teetering on the edge of disaster.
They were two years old. They had no power, no influence, no way to change anything.
But they'd been powerless before, in other lives. They'd been children thrown into wars they didn't start, expected to be heroes, expected to die.
They'd learned. They'd adapted. They'd *won*.
And they'd do it again.
Though this time, Hadrian thought grimly, they were going to do it without manipulative mentors, without prophecies, without destiny pushing them around like chess pieces.
This time, they were going to write their own story.
Even if they had to do it in a world that was determined to break them.
Winter was coming, after all.
But so were they.
And they'd already died twice.
Third time would be the charm.
Hadrian closed his eyes and fell into dreams of lightning and water, of magic and prophecy, of two boys who'd saved worlds and been rewarded with death.
In the morning, they'd wake up as princes of a broken kingdom.
But tonight, just for a little while, they were Harry and Percy again.
Heroes who'd earned their rest.
Even if the universe had other plans.
—
**King's Landing, 286 AC - The Morning After**
Hadrian woke to the sound of Perseus throwing up in the chamber pot.
"You okay?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Percy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking miserable. "Nightmare. About drowning. About Kronos. About—" He stopped. "I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. Neither of them were, really. But they'd learned to function anyway.
A servant came to dress them—they still needed help with some of the complicated buckles and laces. Hadrian tolerated it with British stoicism. Perseus squirmed like he was being tortured.
"Must we wear these?" Percy complained, tugging at his doublet. It was black leather with the crowned stag of House Baratheon embroidered in gold thread. "It's *itchy*."
"Young princes must look presentable," the servant said primly.
"Young princes should get to wear comfortable clothes," Percy muttered, but subsided when Hadrian elbowed him.
They'd learned to pick their battles. Clothing wasn't worth fighting over when there were bigger problems looming.
Like the fact that their new baby brother was the product of incest and would eventually tear the realm apart. But that was a problem for later.
Once dressed, they made their way through the Red Keep's corridors toward their mother's chambers. It was early—the sun barely up, the castle still sleepy and quiet. Most of the servants were just beginning their duties, carrying water and linens, lighting fires.
They passed two Kingsguard on the way. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander, gave them a kind nod. Ser Boros Blount ignored them entirely.
"I don't like him," Percy whispered once they were past.
"Ser Boros?"
"Any of them except Uncle Jaime. They look at us like we're... I don't know. Furniture."
Hadrian understood. In their previous lives, they'd both been looked at like chosen ones, like heroes, like *people*. Here, they were just royal children—important for what they represented, not for who they were.
It made something cold settle in his chest.
They reached their mother's chambers just as the sun broke through the eastern windows, painting everything in shades of gold and red. A servant opened the door at their knock.
Inside, Cersei sat propped up in bed, looking remarkably recovered for someone who'd given birth yesterday. Her golden hair was brushed and shining, her green eyes alert. Baby Joffrey lay in a cradle beside her, swaddled in crimson silk.
"My darlings," Cersei said, her face softening the way it only did for them. "Come here."
They climbed onto the bed—more carefully this time, aware their mother was still healing. Cersei pulled them close, one on each side, and pressed kisses to their dark hair.
"How did you sleep?"
"Good," Hadrian lied.
"Fine," Percy lied.
Cersei studied them with a mother's knowing eyes, but let it pass. "Would you like to hold your brother?"
Percy's nose wrinkled. "He's so small. What if I break him?"
"You won't break him. Here." Cersei carefully lifted the baby from his cradle and settled him into Percy's arms, guiding his hands into the right position. "Support his head. There. See?"
Joffrey was awake, his green eyes—*Lannister* green—staring up unfocused at the world. He made a small noise, not quite crying but not quite content either.
Percy looked down at the baby with an expression of intense concentration, as if holding a baby required the same focus as fighting monsters. "He's weird-looking."
"Perseus!"
"He is! He's all red and scrunchy."
"All babies look like that," Hadrian said, though privately he agreed. Joffrey looked like an angry tomato wrapped in expensive cloth.
"When you were born, you both looked exactly the same," Cersei said, stroking Percy's hair. "Red and scrunchy and perfect."
"Were we loud?" Percy asked.
"Deafening. You especially. Your brother was quiet, but you—you screamed like you were personally offended by existence."
Percy grinned at that, clearly pleased.
Hadrian watched his mother with careful attention. She was different with them—softer, warmer, *real* in a way she wasn't with anyone else. Even with Jaime, there was calculation. But with her sons, her walls came down.
It made him want to protect her, even though he knew she was dangerous. Even though he could see the ruthlessness beneath the maternal warmth.
Love and danger, he'd learned, weren't mutually exclusive.
"Mother," Hadrian said carefully, "Lord Arryn wants us for lessons this morning."
Cersei's expression flickered with something complicated. "Jon Arryn is a good man. A wise man. You'll learn much from him."
"But?"
"But nothing." She smoothed his hair. "Learn everything you can, my son. Knowledge is power. Your father may be king, but knowledge will make you kingmaker."
There was something in her voice—ambition, maybe. Or determination. She looked at them with fierce pride, like they were weapons she was sharpening.
It should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it felt almost... familiar. Like being with Dumbledore, except Cersei's manipulations were honest. She wanted power, wanted her children to have power, and didn't pretend otherwise.
Hadrian respected that, in a strange way.
"Can we visit after lessons?" Percy asked, still cradling Joffrey with exaggerated care.
"Of course. You'll—"
The door exploded inward.
Not literally exploded. But Robert Baratheon never simply *entered* a room. He filled it, overwhelmed it, made the space rearrange itself around his presence.
He was massive—six and a half feet of muscle going to fat, black beard tangled, eyes bloodshot. He wore yesterday's clothes, rumpled and stained, and he smelled like wine and something else that made Hadrian's nose wrinkle.
He smelled like disappointment and broken dreams given flesh.
"CERSEI!" Robert's voice could have shaken the walls. "Where's my son? Where's—" He stopped, swaying slightly, taking in the scene. "Oh. You're already here."
'You.' Not 'the boys.' Not 'our sons.' Just... 'you.'
Hadrian felt Percy tense beside him.
Cersei's face went cold and smooth as marble. "Your Grace. How kind of you to visit."
"Don't start with that," Robert growled, stumbling further into the room. "I'm the king. I visit when I damn well please." His eyes found the baby in Percy's arms. "That him? The new one?"
"Prince Joffrey, yes."
Robert lurched forward, and Percy instinctively clutched the baby tighter. Hadrian moved closer to his brother—a protective gesture that was pure instinct.
Robert didn't notice. He was staring at Joffrey with a mixture of drunk pride and confusion.
"Blond," he said, almost accusingly.
"A Lannister trait," Cersei replied, ice in her voice. "Quite common in my family."
"Not common in mine." Robert squinted at the baby. "Looks nothing like me. These two—" He gestured vaguely at Hadrian and Percy. "—at least they have my coloring. This one's all lion."
The room went very, very quiet.
Cersei's face was carved marble, beautiful and dangerous. "The seed is strong, they say. Baratheon blood runs true. Our older sons prove that. But they also carry Lannister blood. It's not uncommon for—"
"Yeah, yeah. Maester's talk." Robert waved a dismissive hand. "As long as he's mine. As long as he's—" He paused, swaying. "What'd you name him?"
"Joffrey. After your late father."
"Joffrey." Robert tested the name, found it acceptable. "Good. Strong name. Baratheon name." He finally seemed to register Hadrian and Percy's presence. "You two. Why aren't you at lessons?"
"We wanted to see our brother," Hadrian said carefully. "And our mother."
"Hmph. Well, you've seen them. Go on. Jon Arryn doesn't like waiting. Old man gets cranky."
Percy's face set in that stubborn expression that meant he was about to say something stupid. Hadrian knew the signs—had known them across two lifetimes. He grabbed his brother's arm in warning.
Don't. Not worth it. Pick your battles.
But Percy had never been good at staying quiet.
"Don't you want to hold him?" Percy asked, his voice small but pointed. "Your son?"
Robert blinked, as if the concept hadn't occurred to him. "Hold him?"
"He's your son," Percy repeated. "Don't you want to... I don't know. *Know* him?"
Something flickered across Robert's face—guilt, maybe, or shame, or just the exhaustion of a man who'd won a war for a dead woman and was now trapped in a life he never wanted.
"I'm not—" He stopped. Started again. "I'm not good with babies. They're... fragile. Breakable." His eyes slid away from the baby, from Percy, from all of them. "Besides, that's what mothers are for. And wet nurses. And—all of you."
"Fathers are supposed to—" Percy started, but Hadrian squeezed his arm hard enough to hurt.
"We understand, Father," Hadrian said quickly, formally. "We'll go to our lessons now. Thank you for visiting Mother."
Robert looked relieved at the dismissal. "Right. Good. Learn your letters. Your numbers. Your—whatever Jon's teaching you. Duty and honor and all that rot."
He started to leave, then paused at the door. Without turning around, he said, "You're good boys. Both of you. Strong. You'll be—" He fumbled for words. "—you'll be fine men. Someday."
Then he was gone, leaving the scent of wine and wasted potential behind him.
The silence that followed was crushing.
Cersei's face was still marble-smooth, but Hadrian saw the way her hands clenched in the sheets. Saw the flash of something—rage? Grief? Humiliation?—in her eyes before she shuttered it away.
"Give me Joffrey," she said quietly.
Percy handed the baby over carefully. Cersei held her golden-haired son close, her face buried in his blankets.
"Mother?" Hadrian asked softly.
"Go to your lessons," she said, and her voice was ice. "Lord Arryn is waiting."
"But—"
"*Go*."
They went.
---
They walked through the corridors in silence, Percy's face stormy, Hadrian's thoughtful.
"I hate him," Percy said finally, when they were far enough away that no one could hear. "I hate Father. I hate that he doesn't—that he can't even—"
"I know."
"In my last life, my dad was Poseidon. A *god*. And even he showed up more than Robert Baratheon does." Percy's voice cracked. "At least Poseidon had the excuse of being an immortal with divine restrictions. What's Robert's excuse?"
Hadrian didn't answer. He was thinking about the Dursleys, about being invisible, about living in a cupboard while a family went on without him. About Dumbledore, who'd loved him but sent him to die anyway.
About how some people were just... not built to love the right way.
"He's broken," Hadrian said finally. "Father. He's a broken man living in a broken life. He won a war, killed the prince, thought he'd get his happy ending. Instead, the girl died and he got Mother, who he doesn't love. And us, who remind him of everything he lost."
"That's not our fault."
"No. But it's still true."
They reached the Hand's Tower, where Jon Arryn kept his offices. The old man was waiting for them, seated behind a massive desk covered in scrolls and books.
Jon Arryn had been Hand to Robert ever since the rebellion. He was old—in his sixties, gray-haired and gray-bearded—but his eyes were sharp and kind.
He reminded Hadrian of a professor he'd once known. Firm but fair. Demanding but patient.
"Good morning, young princes," Jon said, standing and giving them a small bow. He always treated them like people, not possessions. "I trust you've visited your mother and new brother?"
"Yes, Lord Hand," Hadrian said formally.
"And?"
"He's very... baby-like," Percy offered.
Jon's lips twitched. "An astute observation, Prince Perseus. All babies do tend to be baby-like in nature."
Despite everything, Percy grinned.
They took their seats at the smaller desk Jon had set up for their lessons. He was teaching them letters (which they both already knew but had to pretend to learn slowly), numbers (same), history (fascinating and new), and what he called "the duties of princes."
"Today," Jon said, settling back into his chair, "I thought we might discuss the nature of kingship. What makes a good king versus a bad king."
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances.
"Is this about Father?" Percy asked bluntly.
Jon Arryn was too well-trained to react, but Hadrian saw the slight tightening around his eyes.
"This is about history," Jon said carefully. "About the kings who came before. About learning from their successes and their failures."
"But you want us to learn so we don't make Father's mistakes," Hadrian said. It wasn't a question.
Jon studied them with those sharp eyes. "You're very perceptive for two-year-olds."
"We're advanced," Percy said proudly.
"Clearly." Jon leaned forward. "Tell me, what do you think makes a good king?"
Hadrian thought about Dumbledore, about the Ministry of Magic, about governments that failed their people. "Someone who puts the realm before himself. Who makes hard choices because they're right, not because they're easy or popular."
"Someone who actually cares," Percy added. "Who doesn't just... give up because his life didn't go how he wanted."
The silence was heavy.
"You're speaking of your father," Jon said quietly.
"You asked," Percy replied, chin jutting out defiantly.
"I did." Jon folded his hands. "And you're not wrong. Your father is... a complicated man. He won his throne through strength and courage. He was a great warrior. A great rebel. But being a great warrior doesn't always make a great king."
"Then why is he king?" Hadrian asked.
"Because he won. Because the previous king was mad and cruel. Because someone had to unite the realm, and Robert Baratheon was the one who did it." Jon's expression was sad. "Not all heroes make good peacetime rulers."
"That's stupid," Percy said flatly.
"Perseus—"
"It is! If you're not good at being king, you shouldn't *be* king. Someone else should do it. Someone who actually wants to."
"Unfortunately," Jon said dryly, "succession doesn't work that way. When you're born to the throne—or win it in war—it's yours. Like it or not."
Hadrian felt something cold settle in his stomach. Because he knew what Jon wasn't saying: someday, if things went the way they were supposed to, he or Percy would be expected to rule. To wear the crown their father had won.
And he wanted no part of it.
He'd been the Chosen One once. He'd defeated Dark Lords and mastered Death and saved the world. He was done being special. Done with destiny.
But looking at Jon Arryn's knowing eyes, at the books on kingship stacked on the desk, he realized that fate didn't care what he wanted.
"What if we don't want to be king?" Hadrian asked quietly. "What if we just want to be... normal?"
Jon's expression softened. "Then I'm afraid you were born into the wrong family, young prince. Baratheons are many things, but you're never normal."
"We're not really Baratheons though," Percy said. "Not where it counts. Father barely knows we exist."
"Your father loves you."
"No," Hadrian said, surprising himself with his firmness. "He doesn't. Maybe he wants to. Maybe he thinks he should. But he doesn't. And that's... that's fine. We have Mother. We have Uncle Jaime. We have Uncle Tyrion when he visits. We have you."
He looked at Jon Arryn directly. "You care more about us than Father does. You actually see us. So... thank you. For that."
Jon Arryn's composure cracked, just slightly. His eyes grew bright, and he cleared his throat roughly.
"You boys," he said, voice rough. "You remarkable, impossible boys. You're going to change this kingdom. I can feel it."
"Change it how?" Percy asked.
"I don't know yet. But the gods gave you minds sharper than any two-year-old should possess. They gave you each other. They gave you to a world that desperately needs—" He stopped. "Something better than what we have now."
Hadrian felt the weight of it settling on his shoulders. The expectation. The hope. The unspoken pressure to be more, be better, be the heroes they'd tried so hard to stop being.
*No*, he thought fiercely. *Not again. We're not doing this again.*
But looking at Jon's earnest face, at Percy's stubborn expression, he knew it was already too late.
They'd been reborn into a world on the edge of catastrophe. Been given power they didn't ask for. Been placed in a position to make a difference.
And because they were who they were—because they were Harry Potter and Percy Jackson beneath the names Hadrian and Perseus Baratheon—they'd never be able to walk away.
Even if they wanted to.
Even if it killed them.
Again.
"Can we learn about the White Walkers?" Percy asked suddenly. "The ice monsters from the stories?"
Jon blinked at the subject change. "The Others? They're legends, Prince Perseus. Stories to frighten children."
"But if they were real?" Percy pressed. "If they came back? What would we do?"
Jon studied him carefully. "An odd question from a two-year-old."
"We're advanced," Hadrian reminded him, using Percy's earlier line.
"Right. Advanced." Jon shook his head, but there was fondness in it. "If the Others returned—if the Long Night came again—we would need to unite the realm. Set aside our petty differences. Fight together or die alone."
"Would Father do that?" Hadrian asked. "Unite people?"
Jon hesitated. "Your father united the realm once before, against the Mad King."
"But would he do it again? Now? When he's—" Percy fumbled for a diplomatic word. "—tired?"
Jon Arryn looked at them with something like despair. "I don't know," he admitted. "And that terrifies me more than any legend of ice monsters."
The lesson continued, but Hadrian's mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about the Night King, about the army of the dead that was surely gathering beyond the Wall. About prophecies and chosen ones and wars that were coming whether they wanted them or not.
He glanced at Percy, found his brother already looking at him.
*We have to get stronger.*
*I know.*
*We have to learn everything. Get ready.*
*I know.*
*Because no one else will.*
*I know.*
The silent conversation ended with matching determined expressions.
They were two years old. They were powerless. They were trapped in a family that was tearing itself apart from the inside.
But they'd survived worse.
They'd *won* against worse.
And when winter came—because it was *always* coming—they'd be ready.
Even if they had to do it without a father's love or a mentor's guidance or fate's blessing.
They'd do it the way they'd always done it: together, stubborn, and too stupid to quit when anyone sensible would have given up.
They were Hadrian and Perseus Baratheon.
They were Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.
They were heroes who'd tried to retire and been told by a cosmic entity with a sense of humor that their work wasn't done.
So they'd work.
And gods help anyone who got in their way.
Even if that someone was their own broken father, their complicated mother, or destiny itself.
Winter was coming.
But so were they.
---
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