# King's Landing, 286 AC - Six Months Later
The Red Keep was in chaos, which meant it was a day ending in 'y.'
Hadrian Baratheon sat in the nursery window seat, a book of Westerosi history open in his lap that he was pretending to struggle with. In reality, he'd read it three times already. Beside him, Perseus was supposed to be practicing his letters but was instead making a cup of water wobble with barely-there concentration.
"Stop that," Hadrian muttered. "Someone will see."
"No one's looking." But Percy stopped anyway, the water settling. "When's Uncle Tyrion getting here?"
"Soon. Mother said before sunset."
They were three now—had been for almost a month—and the memories were getting stronger. Less like dreams, more like a second set of experiences running parallel to their current life. Hadrian could remember Hogwarts with crystalline clarity now. Percy had woken up last week crying about someone named Annabeth.
It was getting harder to pretend to be normal children.
"Your Grace."
They both turned. A servant stood in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister has arrived. And—" She swallowed. "—Lord Stannis Baratheon and Lord Renly Baratheon. The Queen requests your presence in the throne room."
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances.
*All of them? At once?*
*This should be interesting.*
*Or a disaster.*
*Probably both.*
They followed the servant through the winding corridors. Baby Joffrey had been left with the wet nurses—at six months old, he was still too young for court functions. Which was probably for the best, given what Hadrian suspected this gathering was really about.
Power. Position. The careful dance of families trying to secure their place in a kingdom held together by wine and威threats.
The throne room was already full when they arrived.
Robert Baratheon sprawled on the Iron Throne like a man who'd forgotten it was made of swords. He wore black and gold, his crown slightly crooked, a wine cup already in his hand despite the early hour. Jon Arryn stood at his right hand, gray and dignified as always.
Their mother stood to the left, radiant in crimson and gold, her face a mask of regal composure. Uncle Jaime stood behind her in his white cloak, hand on his sword hilt, looking like a lion pretending to be a guard dog.
And then there were the new arrivals.
Tyrion Lannister was easy to spot—the only person in the room shorter than Hadrian and Percy. At thirteen, he stood barely four feet tall, his legs twisted, his face already showing the sharp intelligence that would define him. He wore Lannister crimson with a lion brooch, and when he saw them, his mismatched eyes lit up with genuine warmth.
Beside the throne stood two men who could only be Baratheons. They had the look—black hair, blue eyes, strong jaws. But where Robert was massive and going to fat, these two were leaner, harder.
The older one—Stannis, it had to be—was in his early twenties, jaw clenched so tight Hadrian worried he'd crack his own teeth. He wore dark blue and gold, stood rigid as a sword, and radiated disapproval at everything and everyone. Beside him stood a thin, severe woman with Florent foxes on her cloak—his wife Selyse, then.
The younger one was a boy, maybe nine years old, with the Baratheon coloring but a softness to his features that the others lacked. He wore Storm's End colors and stood beside a knight with a kind face—Ser Cortnay Penrose, if Hadrian remembered his lessons correctly.
"AH!" Robert's bellow filled the throne room. "There they are! My boys! My heirs! Come here, let your uncles see you!"
Hadrian and Percy approached the throne with careful steps. They'd learned to move cautiously around their father—he was unpredictable when drunk, and he was always drunk.
"Look at them!" Robert continued, gesturing with his wine cup and sloshing liquid onto the floor. "Three years old and smart as whips! Jon says they're reading already! Can you believe it? Reading! At three!"
"Remarkable," Stannis said in a voice like grinding stone. It wasn't clear if he meant it as a compliment.
"They're beautiful boys," the younger one—Renly—said, and his voice was warm. He stepped forward, crouching down to their level with an easy smile. "Hello, nephews. I'm your Uncle Renly. I've been wanting to meet you for ages."
"Hello, Uncle Renly," Hadrian said politely. Percy just stared, which was his default response to new people.
"And I'm your Uncle Stannis," the older one said stiffly, not crouching. "I served as Master of Ships during the war. Now I hold Dragonstone."
"While I hold Storm's End," Renly added cheerfully, which made Stannis's jaw clench harder. "Though technically, I think this one—" He ruffled Percy's hair. "—will inherit it eventually. Being the younger twin."
"Hadrian's the heir," Robert said, pointing at him with the wine cup. "Came out first. By minutes, but first is first. He gets the throne. Perseus gets Storm's End." He paused. "Or maybe Dragonstone. Haven't decided."
"How generous," Stannis said flatly.
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
"Now, now," Jon Arryn interjected smoothly. "We're here to celebrate, not to discuss succession. Lord Tyrion has traveled far to see his nephews—"
"Half-nephews," Cersei corrected sharply.
"Nephews," Tyrion said firmly, and there was steel under his pleasant tone. "If you please, sister." He turned to Hadrian and Percy, his expression softening. "I've brought you both presents. Though I'm told you're too clever for toys, so I brought books instead."
"Books!" Percy's face lit up. "What kind of books?"
"The interesting kind. Adventures. Heroes. Dragons. All the things young princes should know about." Tyrion limped forward—his gait was awkward but determined. "Though I'm told you've already read half the library here."
"We like reading," Hadrian said carefully. "It's better than—" He stopped himself.
"Better than what?" Stannis asked, eyes sharp.
"Better than sitting around waiting for things to happen," Percy finished defiantly.
Renly laughed—a warm, genuine sound. "Well said! Action over patience. I like these boys already."
"Patience has its place," Stannis countered. "Duty. Honor. Discipline. These are what make a prince into a king."
"Or what makes a king into a stick in the mud," Renly muttered, too quiet for anyone but Hadrian and Percy—and apparently Stannis—to hear.
Stannis's face went rigid. "Brother—"
"ENOUGH!" Robert's voice cracked like thunder. "This is supposed to be a celebration! My sons' nameday! My brothers finally visiting! The family together!" He took a long drink. "Can we have ONE gathering without you two bickering like fishwives?"
"I do not bicker," Stannis said.
"You absolutely bicker," Renly replied.
"See?!" Robert threw his hands up. "This! This is what I'm talking about!"
Hadrian felt Percy tense beside him. They'd seen family fights before—in other lives, in other families. The Dursleys had screamed at each other constantly. The gods at Camp Half-Blood had argued like immortal children. But this was different. This was their family, and watching it fracture felt wrong in ways he couldn't articulate.
"Perhaps," Cersei said smoothly, "we might move to the solar? Continue this reunion somewhere more... intimate?"
"Good idea," Robert agreed immediately, already heaving himself off the throne. "Wine! Bring more wine!"
---
The solar was smaller, more comfortable, with cushioned chairs and windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Robert sprawled in the largest chair, already on his third cup. Jon Arryn stood by the window, carefully neutral. Cersei perched like a hawk, watching everything. Jaime stood behind her, hand still on his sword.
Tyrion had claimed a chair near Hadrian and Percy, pulling them close like he could shield them from the tension in the room. Renly sat across from them, still smiling, still warm. Stannis stood—because apparently Stannis didn't believe in sitting—with his wife beside him, both of them radiating disapproval.
"So," Robert said, breaking the awkward silence. "Here we all are. The Baratheon brothers. Together for the first time since—" He paused. "—when was it?"
"The coronation," Stannis said flatly. "Three years ago."
"Right. That." Robert drank. "Well. Better late than never."
"Is it?" Stannis's voice was acid. "You gave me Dragonstone. A rock in the sea with no ships, no trade, nothing but salt and stone. While Renly—" The name was bitter in his mouth. "—got Storm's End. Our ancestral seat. The castle our parents died defending."
"Oh, here we go," Renly sighed.
"Stannis—" Robert started.
"No." Stannis's hand cut through the air. "You gave away our home. To a *child*. To prove a point. To show that you're king and can do whatever you please."
"I gave it to our brother," Robert growled. "To family."
"You gave it to your *favorite*." Stannis turned to Renly. "Tell me, little brother. Did you earn Storm's End? Did you fight for it? Did you hold it during the siege while I starved?"
Renly's easy expression finally cracked. "I was *six years old* during the rebellion, Stannis. What exactly was I supposed to do? Pick up a sword and storm the battlements?"
"You could have—"
"Enough!" Cersei's voice rang out, sharp as glass breaking. "Both of you. This is neither the time nor the place for your grievances."
"The Queen is right," Selyse Florent added, speaking for the first time. Her voice was thin and reedy. "Such displays are unseemly before children."
Hadrian felt Percy's hand find his under the table. They squeezed tight.
*This family is a disaster.*
*Yeah. But it's our disaster.*
*Do we have to keep it?*
*Probably.*
Tyrion cleared his throat. "If I might interject with the perspective of someone who shares no blood with any Baratheon and thus has no dog in this particular fight—" He smiled pleasantly. "—perhaps we could focus on the reason we're all here? The princes' nameday?"
"Yes!" Renly seized the subject change like a drowning man grabbing a rope. "Tell me, nephews. What do you want for your nameday? Swords? Horses? A pet dragon?"
"Dragons are extinct," Percy said seriously.
"Are you certain?" Renly's eyes twinkled. "Maybe they're just hiding. Waiting for the right moment."
Despite himself, Percy grinned.
Stannis was not so easily diverted. He turned his attention to Hadrian and Percy, studying them with eyes like chips of ice.
"You're the heir," he said to Hadrian. Not a question.
"I suppose," Hadrian replied carefully.
"You suppose? Don't you know?"
"I'm three years old, Uncle. I know what I'm told."
Stannis's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Eloquent for three."
"They're advanced," Jon Arryn said mildly. "Quite advanced."
"So I'm told." Stannis continued studying them. "What do you think of ruling? Of being king someday?"
Hadrian felt every eye in the room turn to him. It was a test—he could feel it. Say the wrong thing, and Uncle Stannis would dismiss him as unworthy. Say the right thing, and... what? Earn approval from a man who seemed to disapprove of breathing?
"I think," Hadrian said slowly, "that being king should be about duty. About serving the realm. About making the hard choices because they're right, not because they're easy."
Silence.
Stannis's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. "Duty," he repeated. "Interesting choice of words."
"It's what Lord Arryn teaches us," Percy added, jumping to his brother's defense. "Duty and honor and putting the realm first."
"Does he?" Stannis turned to Jon Arryn. "Teaching them already? At three?"
"They're curious boys," Jon replied calmly. "They ask questions. I answer them. Would you have me refuse to educate the heir to the Iron Throne?"
"No," Stannis admitted grudgingly. "Though most three-year-olds ask about ponies, not political philosophy."
"Most three-year-olds aren't being raised to rule seven kingdoms," Cersei said sharply. "My sons will be prepared. They will be educated. They will be *better* than—" She stopped herself, but everyone knew what she'd been about to say.
Better than their father.
Robert either didn't notice or didn't care. He was well into his fourth cup now, his eyes glazed.
"They'll be fine kings," he slurred. "Both of 'em. Strong boys. Smart boys. Not like—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—not like their old man. They'll be better. Have to be. Can't possibly be worse." He laughed bitterly.
The solar fell silent again, but this time it was the heavy silence of shared embarrassment.
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said gently. "Perhaps you should rest. It's been a long day."
"Long day. Long year. Long life." Robert heaved himself up. "Fine. I'll rest. Someone wake me when it's time for the feast. Or don't. I don't care." He stumbled toward the door, paused. "Boys. My boys. You're good boys. Be better than me. Shouldn't be hard."
Then he was gone, leaving a room full of people trying not to look at each other.
Renly was the first to break. "Well. That was—"
"Pathetic," Stannis finished. "Our brother, the King. Reduced to a drunk who can't even stand straight at noon."
"Stannis," Selyse murmured, her hand on his arm.
"It's true. You all see it. Don't pretend otherwise." Stannis turned back to Hadrian and Percy. "Your father is a broken man. A warrior with no wars to fight. A hero with no dragons to slay. He won his crown for a woman who died, and now he drowns himself in wine and whores because he can't bear to face what his life became."
"That's enough," Cersei said, her voice dangerous.
"Is it? Or is it simply the truth you're all too afraid to say?" Stannis's jaw was set. "These boys deserve to know. They deserve to understand that their father is—"
"Is what he is," Jaime interjected quietly, speaking for the first time. "And we are all trapped in this dance together. So perhaps we might show some courtesy? For the boys' sake if nothing else?"
Stannis and Jaime stared at each other—the disapproving brother-in-law and the Kingslayer who'd saved a city—and something unspoken passed between them.
Finally, Stannis nodded curtly. "For the boys' sake."
"Thank you," Cersei said coldly.
Tyrion hopped off his chair and waddled over to Hadrian and Percy. "Well, that was delightful. Shall we escape? I believe I saw a lemon cake in the kitchens with your names on it."
"Yes please," Percy said immediately.
They fled the solar with Tyrion, leaving the adults to their complicated grudges and unspoken resentments.
---
The kitchens were warm and smelled like bread and honey. Tyrion somehow sweet-talked the head cook into producing not just lemon cakes but also honeyed chicken, fresh bread, and a pitcher of cold water.
They sat at a small table in the corner, away from the bustle of servants preparing the evening feast.
"So," Tyrion said, cutting into a lemon cake with relish. "How are you boys *really* doing?"
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances.
"Fine," Hadrian said.
"Happy," Percy added.
Tyrion snorted. "Please. I've known you only sporadically and I can tell you're both far too intelligent to be 'fine' or 'happy' in this den of vipers." He took a bite of cake. "Try again."
"What do you want us to say?" Hadrian asked carefully.
"The truth would be refreshing."
Percy leaned forward. "The truth is Father's a drunk who doesn't know we exist. Mother loves us but she's—" He fumbled for words. "—complicated. Uncle Jaime's the only one who actually acts like family. And we only meet you once in blue moon, so we don't know yet if you're going to be awful or not."
Tyrion laughed—a genuine, delighted sound. "Gods, you *are* smart. Alright. Fair assessment. Your father is indeed a drunk. Your mother is terrifyingly complicated—I should know, she's my sister and she's hated me since the day I killed our mother by being born." He said it lightly, but there was old pain underneath. "Jaime's the best of the Lannisters, though that's a low bar. And me?" He spread his hands. "I'm a dwarf with too much cleverness and not enough common sense. I read too much. I drink too much. I think too much. And I have a terrible habit of saying the quiet parts out loud."
"We like you," Percy decided.
"Excellent judgment." Tyrion raised his wine cup in salute. "Now. What are you really worried about? And don't say nothing. I can see it in your eyes. Both of you. You're carrying weight that three-year-olds shouldn't know exists."
Hadrian felt something crack in his chest. Because Tyrion was right. They'd been holding it together—playing their parts, being good princes, not making waves. But it was exhausting. Being three years old on the outside while being ancient on the inside was *exhausting*.
"What if we're not good enough?" Hadrian asked quietly. "What if we're supposed to be something—do something—and we fail?"
Tyrion set down his cup, his mismatched eyes serious. "Then you fail. And you get up. And you try again."
"But what if people die? What if we mess up and people *die* because of it?"
"Then people die." Tyrion's voice was gentle but firm. "That's the burden of power, nephew. Every choice has consequences. Every action ripples out. You can't control everything. You can only do your best and hope it's enough."
"What if our best isn't good enough?" Percy asked.
"Then it isn't. But at least you tried." Tyrion reached across the table, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "Listen to me. Both of you. You're three years old. You shouldn't be thinking about duty and death and the weight of kingdoms. You should be playing with toys and eating sweets and being *children*."
"We're not very good at being children," Hadrian admitted.
"I noticed." Tyrion smiled sadly. "Neither was I. I was always too aware, too intelligent, too *different*. It made me old before my time." He squeezed their shoulders. "But here's what I learned: being smart doesn't mean you have to carry everything alone. Being different doesn't mean you have to be isolated. And being afraid of failing doesn't mean you stop trying."
"What does it mean?" Percy asked.
"It means you find people you trust. People who'll stand with you. People who'll catch you when you fall and kick you in the arse when you're being stupid." His grin was wicked. "And lucky for you, you've got each other. Twins. Brothers. That's powerful. That's—" He paused. "—that's everything, really."
Hadrian felt Percy's foot brush his under the table. A reminder. A promise.
*Together.*
*Always.*
"Uncle Tyrion?" Percy asked. "Can you teach us things? Not just letters and numbers. But... other things?"
"Other things?"
"How to see through lies," Hadrian said. "How to know who to trust. How to survive in a place like this."
Tyrion's expression grew very serious. "You want me to teach you the game."
"We want you to teach us how not to be pieces in it," Percy corrected.
For a long moment, Tyrion just looked at them. Then he laughed—but it wasn't a happy sound.
"Gods help me. Three years old and you're already talking like players." He drained his cup. "Alright. I'll teach you. But first, you need to understand something: the game of thrones is not won by being the strongest or the smartest or even the most ruthless. It's won by being the one who survives. Who outlasts. Who's still standing when everyone else has fallen."
"How do we do that?" Hadrian asked.
"You learn to lie without lying. To see without being seen. To make allies without making enemies—or at least, making the right enemies." Tyrion leaned back. "And most importantly, you learn when to bend and when to break. Rigid things shatter. But things that bend? They endure."
"That sounds exhausting," Percy said.
"It is. Welcome to being a Lannister-Baratheon in King's Landing." Tyrion raised his cup again. "To my nephews. May they be smarter than their father, kinder than their mother, and luckier than their poor uncle."
They touched their cups of water to his wine.
And in that moment, in a warm kitchen smelling of bread and honey, an alliance was formed.
Not based on blood alone, but on understanding. On recognition. On three people who were too smart for their own good finding each other in a world that punished intelligence and rewarded blind loyalty.
"Uncle Tyrion?" Hadrian asked as they finished their cakes. "What do you think about the White Walkers?"
Tyrion blinked. "The—the Others? The ice demons from the stories?"
"Yes. Do you think they're real?"
"I think they're legends. Fairy tales to frighten children." He paused. "Why?"
"Just curious," Percy said innocently. Too innocently.
Tyrion studied them with sharp eyes. "You know, most three-year-olds ask about dragons. Or knights. Not ice demons from beyond the Wall."
"We're not most three-year-olds," Hadrian replied.
"No," Tyrion agreed slowly. "No, you're certainly not."
---
The feast that night was lavish—Robert knew how to throw a party, even if he didn't know how to rule. The throne room had been transformed with banners and flowers. Musicians played. Servants carried platters of roasted meats and honey cakes and sweetmeats.
Robert sat at the high table, already drunk, laughing too loud at jokes that weren't funny. Cersei sat beside him, smile fixed, eyes cold. Jon Arryn sat on Robert's other side, trying to keep conversation moving. Stannis and Selyse sat stiff as boards, clearly wishing they were anywhere else. Renly chatted easily with Ser Cortnay, looking like he was actually enjoying himself.
And at a smaller table to the side—not quite high table, but elevated enough to show favor—sat Tyrion with Hadrian and Percy.
"This is brilliant," Tyrion said, loading up a plate with enough food for three people. "I get to sit with the only tolerable people at this entire gathering, AND I don't have to make small talk with my sister. This is the best nameday party I've ever attended."
"It's our first nameday party," Percy pointed out.
"See? Already the best one."
Musicians struck up a lively tune. Some lords and ladies moved to dance. Robert shouted for more wine. Everything was celebration and excess and desperate joy.
But Hadrian watched his uncles at the high table.
Stannis sat rigid, jaw clenched, barely eating. Every time he looked at Renly—laughing, charming, *comfortable*—something hardened in his expression.
And Renly, for all his easy smiles, couldn't hide the way he tensed every time Stannis spoke. The way he straightened his shoulders like he was bracing for a blow.
Brothers divided by a castle and a crown. By favoritism and duty and the complicated mathematics of birth order.
It was familiar in ways that made Hadrian's chest ache. He'd watched families destroy themselves over less. Had seen friends turn to enemies over misunderstandings and pride.
"They hate each other," Percy said quietly, following his gaze.
"No," Tyrion corrected, his voice equally soft. "They love each other. That's what makes it worse. If they hated each other, it would be simple. But they love each other and can't *stand* each other, which is far more complicated."
"Will they ever fix it?" Hadrian asked.
"Honestly? I doubt it. Stannis is too rigid. Renly's too proud. Robert's too drunk to care. And they're all Baratheons, which means they'd rather charge headfirst into disaster than admit they might be wrong." Tyrion took a long drink. "Your family is a magnificent tragedy waiting to happen, nephews. I'd advise you to stay far away from it if you could."
"Can't really do that," Percy said. "We're part of it."
"Unfortunately." Tyrion's expression grew serious. "But you don't have to be consumed by it. You can learn from their mistakes. Be better. Be smarter. Be—"
"Different," Hadrian finished.
"Exactly."
The feast wore on. Robert got drunker. More lords and ladies approached the high table to pay their respects and curry favor. Cersei's smile grew more fixed. Jon Arryn looked increasingly tired.
And Hadrian and Percy sat with their dwarf uncle, eating honey cakes and learning the first real lesson of the game:
Family could be your greatest strength or your deepest wound.
The trick was learning which was which before it destroyed you.
---
Later, much later, when the feast had dissolved into Robert stumbling to his chambers and the guests dispersing to their rooms, Hadrian and Percy found themselves alone with Uncle Stannis.
He'd caught them in a corridor, apparently on purpose, his severe face even more severe in the torchlight.
"A word, nephews."
They stopped. Waited.
Stannis studied them in silence for a long moment. Then: "You're intelligent. Both of you. More than you should be at your age."
"We've been told," Hadrian said carefully.
"Good. Then you'll understand what I'm about to say." Stannis crouched down—awkwardly, because Stannis Baratheon didn't seem built for crouching—until he was eye-level with them. "Your father is not fit to rule. He won the throne through strength of arms, but he's lost the discipline to hold it. He drinks. He whores. He ignores his duties and lets others clean up his messes."
"Uncle Stannis—"
"Let me finish." His voice was stern but not cruel. "You—" He pointed at Hadrian. "—will be king someday. That is your duty. Your burden. And when that day comes, you must be better than Robert. You must be harder. Stronger. More disciplined."
"That's a lot of pressure for a three-year-old," Percy said quietly.
Something flickered in Stannis's eyes—acknowledgment, maybe, or regret. "Yes. It is. But that's the price of the crown. The price of power. There are no children in the game of thrones, only players and pieces. And you must decide now which you'll be."
"What if we don't want to be either?" Hadrian asked.
"Then you'll die. Or worse—you'll become like Robert. A great warrior reduced to a drunk king, haunted by ghosts and failures." Stannis stood. "I don't say this to frighten you. I say it because you deserve truth. And truth is often ugly."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"For what it's worth," he said, not looking back, "you have something Robert never had. You have each other. Loyalty between brothers is rare. Treasure it. Protect it. Because the world will try to tear it apart."
Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Percy immediately grabbed Hadrian's hand. "He's intense."
"He's honest," Hadrian replied. "I think... I think he's trying to help. In his own terrible way."
"By telling us we'll die if we don't become players in his stupid game?"
"By telling us the truth. Which is more than most adults do."
They walked back to their rooms in silence, processing. The feast had been exhausting—too many people, too many expectations, too many adults trying to shape them into weapons for wars they didn't understand yet.
When they reached the nursery, they found Uncle Renly waiting for them.
He sat in one of the chairs, looking younger than his nine years in the low light. When he saw them, he smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Hello, nephews. Thought I'd say goodnight properly. Away from all the—" He waved a hand. "—everything."
"Uncle Renly," Hadrian said carefully. "Are you alright?"
"Me? I'm wonderful. I'm always wonderful." But his voice cracked slightly. "Did Stannis talk to you? After the feast?"
"Yes," Percy said. "He told us we have to be players or we'll die."
Renly laughed bitterly. "That sounds like Stannis. Everything's duty and death with him. No room for joy or laughter or anything that makes life worth living." He looked at them seriously. "Don't listen to him. Don't let him make you into little versions of himself."
"What should we be then?" Hadrian asked.
"Whatever you want. Whoever feels right." Renly's smile was sad now. "You're three years old. You should be playing and laughing and being children. Not worrying about games and thrones and duty."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Percy observed. "But everyone also keeps teaching us about games and thrones and duty. It's confusing."
"Welcome to being a Baratheon in King's Landing," Renly said, echoing Tyrion's earlier words. "Everything's confusing. Everyone wants something. And nobody's honest about what they actually mean."
He stood, came over to them, and surprised them both by hugging them.
"Be good boys," he said softly. "Be smart. Be kind if you can. And whatever Stannis says, don't forget to be *happy* too. Life's too short to spend it being miserable and rigid."
Then he left too, leaving them with contradictory advice and too many expectations.
Hadrian and Percy changed into their nightclothes and climbed into their beds. The room was quiet except for the distant sounds of the Red Keep settling for the night.
"So," Percy said into the darkness. "Uncle Stannis says we have to be hard and disciplined. Uncle Renly says we have to be happy and kind. Uncle Tyrion says we have to survive and outlast. What do we do?"
"What we've always done," Hadrian replied. "We figure it out ourselves. Take the good advice. Ignore the bad. And make our own path."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It probably will be."
"Worth it?"
Hadrian thought about that. Thought about families divided and fathers absent and mothers complicated. Thought about uncles who tried to help in their own broken ways. Thought about a world on the edge of winter and darkness and the choices they'd have to make.
"Ask me again in twenty years," he said finally.
Percy snorted. Then, quieter: "Harry? Do you think we'll ever remember everything? Our old lives?"
"Probably. The memories are getting stronger."
"I don't know if that's good or bad."
"Me neither."
They fell silent, two old souls in young bodies, trying to navigate a world that was equal parts familiar and alien.
Outside, the Red Keep sprawled beneath the stars. In the throne room, Robert Baratheon passed out drunk in his bed, dreaming of a dead girl with flowers in her hair. In her chambers, Cersei Lannister held her golden-haired baby and plotted futures that would never come. In the guest rooms, three uncles tried to sleep and failed, each worried in their own way about nephews who were too smart for their own good.
And beyond the Wall, in the frozen lands where the cold dreamed, the Night King watched and waited and felt the two foreign flames burning in the south.
Pieces were moving. The board was set.
The game was beginning.
And two boys who'd died twice before were about to learn that surviving childhood was sometimes harder than defeating Dark Lords or Titan Kings.
Because at least Dark Lords and Titans were honest about wanting you dead.
Families were far more complicated.
---
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