# King's Landing, 289 AC - Two Months Into the Rebellion
The training yard rang with the sound of steel on steel, but for once, it wasn't swordwork making the noise.
"Again," Jaime called out, arms crossed, watching with barely concealed amusement.
Perseus nocked another arrow, drew the bowstring back to his cheek, aimed carefully at the target twenty paces away, and released.
The arrow sailed past the target completely, burying itself in the hay bales fifteen feet to the left.
"Gods damn it!" Percy threw the bow down in frustration. "How is this so hard? It's just pointing and releasing!"
"It's about precision," Hadrian said from where he stood nearby, his own bow held comfortably. "You have to account for wind, distance, the weight of the arrow—"
"I know all that! I'm not stupid!"
"I didn't say you were stupid. I said you're impatient." Hadrian nocked his own arrow, drew smoothly, and released. The arrow struck the target dead center, joining the three others already clustered in the bullseye.
Percy glared at him. "Show off."
"I'm not showing off. I'm demonstrating proper form." Hadrian lowered his bow. "You're rushing. You're not letting your body settle before you release."
"My body doesn't want to settle. My body wants to throw this bow in the Blackwater and never look at it again."
Jaime finally laughed. "You know, in all my years training knights and princes, I've never seen someone so naturally gifted with a sword and so utterly terrible with a bow."
"It's a stupid weapon," Percy muttered, picking up the bow again. "If you're going to kill someone from a distance, you should at least have to look them in the eye while you do it."
"That's the point of arrows—you don't have to look them in the eye." Jaime moved to adjust Percy's stance. "Here. You're leaning too far forward. And your elbow is dropping. Keep it up, parallel to the ground."
Percy tried again. This time the arrow at least hit the target—in the outermost ring, but still, contact.
"Better!" Hadrian said encouragingly.
"It's shit and you know it."
"It's better than missing completely."
They'd been at this for two hours now, ever since Jaime had decided that well-rounded princes should know all weapons, not just swords. Hadrian had taken to archery like he'd been born to it—his experience with wands translated surprisingly well to arrows. Both required precision, aim, and the ability to hit moving targets under pressure.
Percy, on the other hand, was fighting the bow like it was a personal enemy.
"I don't understand," Percy said, nocking another arrow with visible frustration. "I can hit someone with a sword from ten paces away if I throw it. I can nail a target with a spear without even thinking. But this—" He gestured angrily at the bow. "—this I can't do."
"Different skill sets," Jaime said. "Throwing relies on instinct and strength. Archery requires patience and precision. Which are not exactly your strong suits."
"I can be patient!"
"You threw a practice sword at a target yesterday because you were 'bored with proper form,'" Hadrian pointed out.
"That was different. The target was asking for it."
"The target was a wooden post."
"Like I said. Asking for it."
Despite himself, Hadrian grinned. Percy had been especially volatile lately—two months of Father being gone, of being cooped up in the Red Keep under Mother's watchful eye, of knowing a war was happening and they weren't part of it. It was wearing on both of them, but Percy had always handled confinement worse than Hadrian.
"Alright," Jaime said, clearly recognizing they weren't going to make more progress today. "That's enough archery. Let's work on something you're actually good at."
"Thank the gods," Percy said, practically throwing the bow aside.
They moved to the horses. The Red Keep's stables housed some of the finest destriers in Westeros, and over the past two months, the twins had been learning to ride properly.
Hadrian was competent—his experience flying on various magical creatures had given him a good sense of balance and the ability to stay calm on moving mounts. He rode like someone who'd spent time on horseback, methodical and controlled.
Percy, on the other hand, rode like he'd been born in the saddle.
"It's not fair," Hadrian muttered as he watched his brother vault onto a massive gray stallion—no mounting block, no assistance, just a smooth leap that had the stable hands shaking their heads in amazement.
"What's not fair?" Percy asked, already comfortable in the saddle, the horse responding to him like they'd been partners for years.
"You can't shoot an arrow to save your life, but you ride like you've been doing it for twenty years."
"I'm naturally talented." Percy grinned, then sobered slightly. "Also, I think it's because horses like me. They listen."
"They listen to everyone. That's what training does."
"No, I mean they *listen*." Percy's voice dropped. "Like they understand. Like they're talking back."
Hadrian studied his brother carefully. Percy had mentioned this before—his ability to communicate with horses, with equines in general. It was one of the gifts that had carried over from his previous life as a son of Poseidon.
"Does it help?" Hadrian asked quietly. "With riding?"
"Yeah. They tell me when they're uncomfortable, when they need to turn, when something's wrong." Percy patted the stallion's neck. "It's like having a partner instead of just a mount."
"That's actually remarkable," Jaime said, having overheard. He was working with Hadrian's horse—a black mare named Shadow—checking her hooves. "Most riders spend years learning to read their horses. You do it instinctively."
"I'm special," Percy said, but his tone was self-deprecating rather than boastful.
"You both are," Jaime replied, straightening. "Hadrian shoots like a master archer. Perseus rides like he was raised by horse lords. You're both advancing in swordwork faster than any students I've ever trained. It's—" He paused. "—honestly a bit unsettling."
"We train hard," Hadrian said carefully.
"You train like you're preparing for a war. Not the Greyjoy Rebellion—a real war. Something bigger." Jaime's green eyes were sharp. "Want to tell me what you're really afraid of?"
*Winter. The Long Night. The army of the dead that's going to pour over the Wall and kill everything unless someone stops them. The political chaos when Father dies and everyone tries to grab power. The truth about Joffrey and the others coming out and destroying our family.*
But they couldn't say any of that. So Hadrian just shrugged. "We're princes. Being prepared isn't paranoia—it's prudence."
"Quoting Lord Arryn now?"
"He's a smart man."
"Speaking of Lord Arryn—" Jaime pulled a rolled parchment from his belt. "A raven arrived this morning. News from the rebellion."
Both twins immediately focused, all playfulness gone.
"What news?" Percy asked.
"The fleet engaged the ironborn at Fair Isle. Stannis commanded our ships. It was..." Jaime's smile was grim. "It was a massacre. The ironborn were destroyed. Maybe twenty ships escaped out of a hundred. The rest were sunk or captured."
"Casualties on our side?" Hadrian asked.
"Minimal. Stannis used the chokepoint strategy—your strategy—and it worked perfectly. The ironborn were forced to engage in narrow waters where their speed meant nothing and our numbers meant everything."
Percy and Hadrian exchanged glances. Their strategy had worked. Had saved lives. Had won a battle.
It should have felt good. Instead, it felt heavy. Like responsibility.
"And Father?" Hadrian asked quietly. "Lord Arryn?"
"Both fine. The King led the ground assault on Great Wyk. Took the castle in a day. Lord Arryn is serving as military governor, managing the occupation." Jaime's expression was complicated. "Your father is apparently having the time of his life. Fighting, drinking, celebrating. He's sent three ravens to the Small Council and all of them mention how much he's enjoying actual battle again."
"Of course he is," Percy muttered. "This is what he lives for. War and glory and not having to think about ruling."
"Perseus—"
"It's true and you know it." Percy's jaw was set. "Father's a warrior who won a war and then got stuck with the prize he never wanted. So of course he's happy now—he gets to fight again, to be the hero again, to pretend he's young and fighting for something that matters instead of old and drunk and disappointing everyone."
Jaime didn't argue. Couldn't argue, because Percy was right.
"The rebellion will be over soon," Jaime said instead. "Another month, maybe two. Then your father comes home."
"And then what?" Hadrian asked. "He goes back to drinking and whoring and ignoring his duties?"
"Probably." Jaime's honesty was almost refreshing. "But that's not your concern right now. Right now, you're children. Let the adults worry about—"
"We're heirs to the throne," Percy interrupted. "Potentially future kings. It is our concern."
"You're almost seven years old—"
"And we're smarter than half the lords on the Small Council. We're better trained than most knights. And we care more about the realm than Father does." Percy's voice was fierce now. "So don't tell us it's not our concern. Everything about this kingdom is our concern."
Jaime studied them both in silence. Then he sighed—long and exhausted.
"You're right," he admitted. "You're absolutely right. And that's what terrifies me." He moved to check the saddles, hands busy. "You shouldn't have to care this much. Shouldn't have to worry about wars and succession and the realm falling apart. You should be playing. Being children. Having the childhood your father never gave himself."
"We're not Father," Hadrian said quietly.
"No. You're better. Which is why I worry about you." Jaime looked at them with something like sadness. "Better people suffer more in this world. They see more, care more, hurt more. And I don't want that for you."
"Too late," Percy said, but his voice was gentler now. "We already see it. Already care. Already hurt. Can't unlearn that."
"I suppose not." Jaime moved to help Hadrian mount Shadow. "Alright. Let's ride. The horses need exercise and so do you. We'll do a circuit of the keep's grounds."
They rode, Jaime on Honor, his massive black destrier, Hadrian on Shadow, and Percy on the gray stallion he'd named Tempest. The morning sun was warm, the grounds were peaceful, and for a little while, they could pretend they were just an uncle teaching his nephews to ride, nothing more complicated than that.
But the pretense lasted only until they returned to the stables and found Joffrey waiting for them.
---
Joffrey Baratheon stood in the stable entrance, arms crossed, face set in that particular expression that meant he was about to make everyone miserable.
At four and a half years old, he'd lost most of the baby softness. His golden hair caught the light like a crown. His green eyes—Lannister eyes—were sharp with an intelligence that could have been useful if it wasn't always directed toward cruelty.
"There you are," he said as they dismounted. "I've been looking for you."
"We were training," Hadrian said neutrally. "As we do every morning."
"Training." Joffrey's voice dripped with disdain. "You're always training. Swords and bows and horses. Like you're preparing for war."
"We are preparing for war," Percy said, handing Tempest's reins to a stable boy. "There is a war. Father's fighting it right now."
"Father's off playing at being a hero while Mother runs the realm." Joffrey moved closer, his chin jutting out in that aggressive way he had. "Which means I should be learning to rule too. But instead, Mother spends all her time with you two. Teaching you. Praising you. Acting like you're special."
"Joffrey—" Jaime started.
"Don't." Joffrey spun to face him. "You're always defending them. Always on their side. Even though I'm—" He stopped himself, but they all knew what he'd been about to say.
*Even though I'm yours. Even though you're my father, not Robert.*
Except Joffrey didn't know that. Not consciously. But children knew things, felt things, understood truth even when no one spoke it aloud.
"You're all my nephews," Jaime said carefully. "I care for all of you equally."
"Liar." Joffrey's voice was flat. "You care about them more. Everyone does. Because they're dark-haired and I'm not. Because they look like Father and I don't. Because they're perfect and I'm—" His voice cracked. "I'm wrong somehow."
The silence that followed was painful.
Hadrian felt something twist in his chest. Because Joffrey was right. He was wrong—wrong in the sense that his parentage was a lie, wrong in the sense that he'd been born into a role he could never safely fill, wrong in the way that doomed princes in stories were always wrong.
But he was also four years old and in pain. And that pain was turning him cruel.
"You're not wrong," Hadrian said quietly, moving closer. "You're our brother. You're Mother's son. You're a prince of the realm. None of that is wrong."
"But I'm not like you." Joffrey's eyes were bright now, suspiciously bright. "I'll never be like you. Everyone sees it. Father barely looks at me. Mother loves me but she loves you more. The servants whisper. The lords compare. And I'm always—I'm always less."
"That's not true—" Percy started.
"Yes it is!" Joffrey's voice rose. "You're both brilliant and talented and perfect! You can fight and ride and shoot! You advise the Small Council! You're everything a prince should be! And I'm just—" He stopped, breathing hard. "I'm just the spare. The extra. The one who doesn't matter."
"You matter," Hadrian said firmly. "You're our brother. You matter to us."
"Do I? Really? Because you never include me. Never teach me things. Never let me be part of—" Joffrey gestured vaguely. "—whatever this is. This twin thing you have. You're always together, always talking in that way where you don't need words. And I'm always outside. Always watching. Always alone."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke.
And the terrible thing was, Hadrian realized, Joffrey was right about that too. He and Percy did exclude him. Did stay separate, stay safe in their twin bond, never letting anyone else fully in.
"We can include you more," Percy said, and he actually sounded like he meant it. "If you want. We can teach you things. Sword work, riding, whatever you want to learn."
"I don't want your charity," Joffrey spat. "I don't want you to teach me out of pity."
"It's not pity—"
"Yes it is! Everything from you is pity! You and Hadrian with your perfect understanding and your perfect skills and your perfect—" He stopped again, fists clenched. "I hate you sometimes. Both of you. I hate that you're better than me. I hate that everyone loves you more. I hate that I'm just the backup prince, the one no one wants."
"Joffrey—" Jaime's voice was pained.
But Joffrey was done. He spun on his heel and ran, golden hair flying, leaving them all standing in the stable entrance, the morning suddenly feeling much colder.
"Fuck," Percy said quietly.
"Language," Jaime said automatically, but his heart wasn't in it.
"He's not wrong though," Hadrian said, staring at where Joffrey had disappeared. "About any of it. We do exclude him. We do make him feel like he's less. And he is—" He stopped. "He is different. And everyone sees it even if no one says it."
"He's four years old," Jaime said, his voice tight. "He shouldn't be dealing with any of this. None of you should."
"But we are." Percy moved to lean against the stable wall. "And it's making him cruel. We're making him cruel by leaving him out, by being better, by existing as this perfect twin unit that he can never be part of."
"So what do you want to do?" Jaime asked. "Include him in everything? Let him see how strange you really are? That will just make it worse."
"I don't know!" Percy's frustration was evident. "But we can't keep doing this. Can't keep pushing him away and wondering why he's turning into a monster. We have to try something."
"Like what?" Hadrian asked.
"Like actually being his brothers. Not just tolerating him. Actually spending time with him, teaching him things, making him feel valued." Percy looked at them both. "He's four. He's cruel because he's hurt. But he's not evil. Not yet. We can still reach him. If we try."
"And if we can't?" Jaime asked quietly.
"Then at least we tried. At least we can say we did everything we could." Percy's voice was fierce now. "I've watched people turn to darkness before. In my—" He stopped. "I've seen it happen. And it always starts with feeling alone. Feeling worthless. Feeling like no one cares. If we don't want Joffrey to become something terrible, we have to make him feel like he matters."
Hadrian thought about Tom Riddle. About how Dumbledore had said the boy might have turned out differently if someone had loved him properly, cared for him, made him feel valued instead of feared.
Maybe it was too late for Joffrey. Maybe the cruelty was already too ingrained, the damage too deep.
But Percy was right—they had to try.
"Alright," Hadrian said finally. "We try. We include him. We teach him. We make him feel like part of the family instead of an outsider."
"Even though including him means hiding less of what we are?" Percy asked.
"Even then. We'll be careful. But we'll try." Hadrian looked at Jaime. "Can you talk to Mother? Explain what we're planning? She won't like it—she's been trying to keep Joffrey separate from our training, keep him 'safe' or whatever."
"I'll talk to her," Jaime promised, though his expression suggested he was not looking forward to that conversation. "But if this goes badly—if Joffrey uses what you teach him to hurt people—"
"Then we'll deal with it," Percy said firmly. "But at least we'll know we tried."
---
# The Queen's Solar - That Afternoon
"Absolutely not."
Cersei stood by the window of her solar, her hand resting on the windowsill, her face set in stone.
"Mother—" Hadrian started.
"No." Her voice was final. "Joffrey is not training with you. He's too young, too—" She struggled for words. "—too volatile. He'll hurt himself. Or worse, he'll hurt one of you."
"He's our brother," Percy said from where he sat in a cushioned chair. "He deserves to learn the same skills we're learning."
"He's four years old—"
"We started training at four," Hadrian pointed out.
"You're different. You've always been different." Cersei turned to face them, her green eyes fierce. "You're controlled. Disciplined. Careful. Joffrey is none of those things. He's impulsive and cruel and—" She stopped herself.
"And what?" Percy asked quietly. "Our brother? Your son? Someone you love?"
Cersei flinched. "Of course I love him. I love all my children. But loving someone doesn't mean being blind to their flaws."
"Then help us fix his flaws," Hadrian said. "Before they become permanent. Before he turns into something we can't reach."
"You can't fix him!" Cersei's voice rose, then she forced herself to calm. She pressed her hand against the window frame. "He's... he is who he is. I've tried to teach him kindness, tried to show him how to be a good prince, a good person. But he doesn't listen. He's cruel to servants. He hurts Myrcella when he thinks no one's watching. He—" Her voice broke slightly. "He's becoming someone I don't recognize."
The admission hung in the air like a confession.
"Then let us try," Percy said gently. "Let us be his brothers. Actually be his brothers, not just people who tolerate him at meals. Maybe he'll listen to us. Maybe having peers—people his own age who care about him—will make a difference."
"Or maybe he'll learn from you how to be even more dangerous," Cersei said, but her voice lacked conviction now. She was tired. Tired and frightened for all her children in different ways.
"We'll be careful," Hadrian promised. "We won't teach him anything dangerous. Just basic sword work. Riding. Things every prince should know."
"And if he uses those skills to hurt people?"
"Then we stop teaching him. And we deal with the consequences." Hadrian moved to stand beside her, looking out the window at the city below. "But Mother, if we don't try—if we just let him spiral—he's going to become exactly what you're afraid of. A cruel prince with no redeeming qualities. And when Father dies, when succession becomes an issue, that cruelty will get him killed."
Cersei was quiet for a long moment, her fingers drumming against the stone. Finally, she sighed.
"You really think you can reach him?"
"We think we have to try," Percy said. "Because he's our brother. And because no one else will."
"I try—"
"You love him too much to see him clearly," Hadrian interrupted gently. "You see the golden boy you want him to be, not the cruel child he's becoming. We see both. And maybe that's what he needs—someone who sees both and still cares."
Another long silence. Then Cersei nodded slowly.
"Alright. You can try. But supervised. Ser Jaime watches every training session. And if Joffrey shows signs of using what you teach him to hurt others—if he so much as threatens a servant—this experiment ends. Understood?"
"Understood," they said in unison.
"Good." Cersei moved to her chair, settling into it with a weary grace. "Now go. Both of you. I need to rest. I've been dealing with petitions all morning and my head aches."
"We'll check on you later," Hadrian said.
They left, closing the door softly behind them.
In the corridor, Percy turned to Hadrian. "You know this is going to be a disaster, right?"
"Probably. But we have to try."
"Why? Why do we care so much about saving Joffrey? He's cruel, he's vindictive, he's—"
"Four years old and our brother," Hadrian finished. "And because I've seen what happens when people give up on children. When they decide someone's irredeemable and stop trying. It creates monsters."
Percy was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're thinking about Voldemort."
"Tom Riddle. Before he became Voldemort. When he was just a boy in an orphanage, angry and alone and convinced he was special." Hadrian's voice was soft. "Dumbledore always said maybe things would have been different if someone had cared. If someone had loved him properly."
"Joffrey has love. He has Mother."
"Mother who's smothering him and blind to his flaws. That's not the same as someone who sees him clearly and cares anyway." Hadrian looked at his brother. "We're probably going to fail. He's probably too far gone. But we have to try. Because if we don't, and he becomes something terrible, we'll know we could have stopped it and didn't."
"That's a lot of responsibility to put on ourselves."
"We've handled more."
"Yeah," Percy agreed. "We really have."
---
# Three Weeks Later - The Training Yard
"No, no, no! You're holding it wrong!"
Joffrey's voice was shrill with frustration, his practice sword gripped too tight in his small hands.
"Here," Hadrian said patiently, moving to adjust his grip. "Relax your fingers. The sword should rest naturally, not be strangled. You're fighting the weapon instead of working with it."
"I'm not fighting it! It's just not doing what I want!"
"Because you're forcing it." Percy demonstrated, his own practice blade moving in smooth, controlled arcs. "See? Let the weight of the sword do the work. Don't muscle through it."
They'd been at this for three weeks now—daily training sessions with Joffrey, trying to teach him basic sword work. It was... not going well.
Part of the problem was that Joffrey had no natural aptitude. He was clumsy, uncoordinated, his movements jerky and unpredictable. But the bigger problem was his temper. Every mistake made him furious. Every correction felt like an insult.
"You make it look easy because you're *you*," Joffrey snapped, throwing down his practice sword. "You're both naturally talented at everything! I'm just supposed to—what? Be magically as good as you?"
"We've been training for almost three years," Hadrian pointed out. "You've been training for three weeks. No one expects you to be as good as us yet."
"Mother expects it. Father would expect it. Everyone—" Joffrey stopped, breathing hard. "Everyone compares me to you. All the time. 'Your brothers are so skilled.' 'Your brothers are so disciplined.' 'Why can't you be more like your brothers?'"
"Who says that?" Percy asked sharply.
"Everyone! Servants, guards, Mother when she thinks I can't hear—"
"Mother wouldn't—" Hadrian started.
"Yes she would! She does! She loves me but she's disappointed in me. I can see it in her eyes every time I mess up, every time I'm not as perfect as you two!" Joffrey's face was red now, tears threatening. "I hate it! I hate being compared! I hate being less!"
Jaime, who'd been watching from the sidelines, stepped forward. "Alright. That's enough for today. Joffrey, go clean up. We'll try again tomorrow."
"I don't want to try again tomorrow! I want to be good now! I want—" Joffrey's voice broke. "I want to be someone people are proud of instead of someone they tolerate!"
He ran, leaving his practice sword in the dirt.
Percy moved to pick it up, his expression troubled. "That went well."
"He's trying," Hadrian said quietly. "He's terrible at it, but he's trying."
"Trying and failing. Which just makes him more frustrated. Which makes him more cruel." Percy looked at Jaime. "This isn't working. We're making it worse."
"Maybe," Jaime admitted. "But maybe it just takes time. He's been coddled his whole life—having to actually work at something, actually fail, it's new for him."
"Or maybe he's just not cut out for this," Hadrian said, and there was sadness in his voice. "Not everyone is meant to be a warrior. Maybe Joffrey's talents lie elsewhere."
"Like what? Being cruel? Hurting people weaker than him?" Percy's voice was bitter. "Those are the only things he's naturally good at."
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it? He's cruel to Myrcella. Cruel to Tommen. Cruel to servants. The only time he's not cruel is when he wants something or when he's trying to impress Mother." Percy threw up his hands. "We've been trying for weeks. Has he gotten better? Has he shown any improvement? Any sign that our attention is helping?"
Hadrian wanted to argue. But the truth was, Percy was right. If anything, Joffrey had gotten worse. More volatile. More resentful. More prone to taking his frustrations out on people who couldn't fight back.
"We need a different approach," Hadrian said finally. "Something that plays to his strengths instead of highlighting his weaknesses."
"What strengths?" Percy asked. "Genuine question."
"He's clever. Manipulative. Good at reading people and saying what they want to hear." Hadrian ticked off points on his fingers. "Those are political skills. Maybe instead of trying to make him a warrior, we teach him to be a—a diplomat. A ruler."
"He's four years old—"
"So are we, effectively. And we're learning to rule." Hadrian looked at Jaime. "Could Lord Arryn teach him? When he returns? Actual governance instead of just swordwork?"
Jaime considered that. "It's not a terrible idea. Joffrey does seem to enjoy strategy when it involves manipulation rather than physical effort. And Lord Arryn is excellent at reading people, understanding motivations. Maybe he could channel Joffrey's... tendencies... into something productive."
"Or teach him to be a better manipulator," Percy muttered.
"Better a manipulator who serves the realm than a warrior who hurts it," Hadrian countered.
"Are those really our only options?"
"Until we find better ones, yes."
They fell silent, watching servants clean up the training equipment. Across the yard, a few knights were running drills. Life continued, oblivious to the fact that three children were trying to prevent a future catastrophe by teaching a volatile four-year-old not to be a monster.
"New message from the rebellion," a servant called, approaching with a sealed letter. "For Ser Jaime."
Jaime took it, broke the seal, read quickly. His expression shifted—surprise, then something like grim satisfaction.
"What?" Percy asked immediately.
"Pyke has fallen. The King led the assault personally. Fought his way to the throne room. The ironborn have surrendered." Jaime lowered the letter. "The rebellion is over. Your father and Lord Arryn will be returning within the month."
Hadrian felt something twist in his chest. Relief that the war was done, that Father and Jon Arryn had survived. But also apprehension. Because Father coming home meant change. Meant disruption. Meant the return of the man who didn't want to rule but had to anyway.
"Is he bringing prisoners?" Percy asked.
"Yes. Balon Greyjoy's sons. They'll be separated as wards—one to Winterfell, one to Storm's End, one kept here. Insurance against future rebellion."
"That seems harsh," Hadrian said. "Taking children as hostages."
"That's how peace works in Westeros. You win the war, you take hostages to ensure the losing side doesn't rebel again." Jaime rolled up the parchment. "One of the Greyjoy boys will likely be fostered to your family. Probably here in King's Landing, under your father's eye."
"Another brother," Percy said wryly. "Just what we need."
"He won't be your brother. He'll be a hostage. There's a difference." Jaime started toward the keep. "Come on. Your mother will want to know. And she'll need to prepare—the King's return means feasts and celebrations and general chaos."
They followed him through the corridors, both lost in thought.
Father was coming home. The war was over. Life would return to whatever passed for normal in the Red Keep.
Except nothing felt normal anymore. Not with Joffrey spiraling. Not with the constant weight of secrets and lies and impending disasters pressing down on everyone.
"Harry?" Percy said quietly as they walked, using his old name.
"Yeah?"
"I miss Camp Half-Blood. I miss when problems were simple. When it was just monsters to fight and gods to defy and clear lines between good and evil."
"I miss Hogwarts," Hadrian admitted. "I miss magic that made sense. I miss knowing who the enemy was."
"Everything here is complicated."
"Yeah. It really is."
---
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