# King's Landing, 289 AC - The Training Yard
The morning sun painted the Red Keep's training yard in shades of gold and crimson, and the air rang with the clash of steel on steel.
Hadrian Baratheon, almost six years old and far too serious for his age, circled Ser Barristan Selmy with a practice sword that felt both foreign and familiar in his hands. The blade was wooden—they weren't allowed real steel yet—but weighted to match a proper longsword.
"Good," Barristan said, his voice calm and measured. At sixty-some years old, he moved like water, each step precise and economical. "Keep your guard up. Don't telegraph your strikes. Your eyes give away too much."
Hadrian adjusted his stance, trying to empty his expression the way he'd learned in another life. Occlumency had been about shielding the mind, but the principles applied to the body too—don't show what you're thinking, don't reveal what you're planning.
He lunged.
Barristan deflected the strike with minimal effort, the wooden blades cracking together. "Better. But you're still thinking too much. Let your body remember. Trust your instincts."
The problem was, Hadrian's instincts were a confused mess of three different lifetimes. His body wanted to cast spells that didn't exist here. His mind kept reaching for magic that was sleeping. Only his reflexes—honed through years of Quidditch and dueling—remained reliable.
They exchanged a flurry of blows, wood striking wood in a rapid staccato rhythm. Hadrian was fast—unnaturally fast—but Barristan was *experienced*. Every attack was anticipated, every defense perfectly positioned.
"Yield," Barristan said finally, his blade at Hadrian's throat.
Hadrian lowered his sword, chest heaving. "Again."
"You've already gone three rounds. Perhaps—"
"Again," Hadrian repeated, green eyes fierce.
Barristan studied him with those wise old eyes that had seen too many wars. "Very well, Your Grace. But pace yourself. Endurance matters as much as skill."
They reset.
Across the yard, Perseus was making Jaime Lannister work for it.
"Gods!" Jaime laughed, deflecting a strike that came faster than should have been possible from an almost six-year-old. "Where did you learn that?"
Percy didn't answer—couldn't answer, because the truth was he'd learned it in another life, in another world, from the best swordsman at Camp Half-Blood. His practice blade was strange, shorter than a standard training sword, with a leaf-shaped blade that none of the smiths in King's Landing had seen before. He'd insisted on the design, drawn it out with obsessive detail, until the master of arms had shrugged and commissioned it.
It felt *right* in his hands. Like coming home.
He pressed the attack, his movements fluid and aggressive. Where Hadrian fought with careful precision, Percy fought like water—flowing, adaptive, relentless. His blade seemed to be everywhere at once, probing defenses, finding gaps.
"Your footwork is exceptional," Jaime said, genuinely impressed. "I've never seen anyone move quite like that. Where did you—"
Percy ducked under Jaime's guard and tapped his blade against the Kingsguard's ribs. "Dead."
Jaime blinked. Then laughed—a genuine, delighted sound. "By the gods. You actually got me."
"You weren't really trying," Percy said, but he was grinning too.
"I was trying enough." Jaime lowered his blade, shaking his head in wonder. "I need to speak with Barristan. We might need to adjust your training. You're beyond practice swords already."
"I'm almost six."
"You're a prodigy." Jaime's expression grew serious. "Perseus, I've trained with the best swordsmen in Westeros. Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning himself. And at your age—" He paused. "—you're already better than he was. Better than I was. Better than anyone has any right to be."
Percy felt something cold settle in his stomach. He'd been trying to hold back, to not draw too much attention. But the muscle memory was too strong, the instincts too ingrained. When he held a sword—even a practice blade—his body remembered being the best swordsman at Camp Half-Blood. Remembered defeating armies of monsters. Remembered the weight of Riptide in his hand.
"I just... practice a lot," he said weakly.
"You do more than practice." Jaime crouched down, green eyes meeting sea-green. "You move like someone who's fought for their life. Like someone who *knows* battle. That's not something you learn in a training yard."
*Careful,* Hadrian's voice whispered in Percy's mind—not actually telepathy, just the twin-sense they'd developed over almost six years of being inseparable. *Don't reveal too much.*
"I dream about fighting sometimes," Percy said, which was technically true. "About being a warrior. Maybe I just have a good imagination?"
Jaime looked like he didn't believe that for a second, but he let it drop. "Well, whatever the source, you have a gift. We'll make sure you're properly trained. Properly *armed*, when you're old enough." He stood, ruffling Percy's dark hair. "But for now, take a break. You've earned it."
Percy jogged over to where Hadrian was still going through drills with Barristan. His brother looked exhausted but determined, sweat plastering his black hair to his forehead.
"Show off," Hadrian muttered as Percy approached.
"You're the one who's been sparring for an hour straight without stopping."
"I need to be better."
"You're already good."
"Not good enough." Hadrian's jaw was set in that stubborn way that meant he wouldn't be reasoned with. "I need to be able to protect—"
He didn't finish, but Percy knew what he meant. Protect the family. Protect each other. Protect against the darkness they both remembered from dreams and visions—the ice and cold and death that was coming.
"Both of you," Barristan called out, "come here."
They approached the old knight, who stood with his arms crossed, looking between them with an expression that was equal parts impressed and concerned.
"You're both advancing far faster than any students I've ever trained," he said bluntly. "Prince Perseus, your natural talent is extraordinary. Prince Hadrian, your reflexes and speed are unnatural—in the best possible way." He paused. "But I'm worried you're pushing too hard. You're almost six years old. Training is important, but so is being *children*."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Percy said.
"Perhaps because it's true." Barristan's stern expression softened slightly. "I've trained knights for forty years. I've seen young men destroy themselves trying to be perfect. Burn themselves out before they're ready." He looked at Hadrian specifically. "Whatever you're trying to prove, Your Grace, you don't need to prove it at six."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," Hadrian replied quietly. "I'm trying to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
*Winter. The Long Night. The army of the dead.*
But Hadrian couldn't say that. So he just shrugged. "Whatever comes."
Barristan exchanged a glance with Jaime, who'd walked over to join them. Some wordless communication passed between the two knights.
"Alright," Jaime said finally. "Here's what we're going to do. You train for two hours in the morning. Then you have lessons with Lord Arryn. Then you have the afternoon to be normal children—play, read, whatever you want. But you don't train all day. Agreed?"
"But—" Hadrian started.
"*Agreed*," Jaime repeated, with the tone of someone who wasn't asking.
The twins looked at each other, having one of their silent conversations.
*He's not going to budge.*
*I know. But we need more training.*
*We'll practice on our own. At night.*
*Deal.*
"Agreed," they said in unison.
"Good." Barristan's expression was approving. "Now go clean up. And drink water. Both of you are dehydrated."
They were halfway to the keep when a high-pitched wail split the air.
Both boys froze, heads snapping toward the sound. It was coming from the gardens—specifically, from the section where Myrcella played under the watchful eyes of her septa.
They ran.
---
The scene they found made Hadrian's blood boil in ways that were completely inappropriate for an almost six-year-old but perfectly reasonable for someone who'd once faced down Death Eaters and bullies.
Four-year-old Joffrey Baratheon—golden-haired, green-eyed, and already showing signs of the monster he'd become—stood over two-year-old Myrcella, who was crying so hard she could barely breathe. In Joffrey's hand was Myrcella's doll, its head torn clean off.
"Babies don't need toys," Joffrey was saying, his voice sing-song and cruel. "Only big boys like me need toys. You're just a stupid baby who cries all the time."
Myrcella sobbed harder, reaching for her doll. "P-please... my dolly..."
"Joffrey."
Hadrian's voice was cold enough to freeze fire. He and Percy had come to a stop at the garden entrance, both still in their training clothes, both still carrying their practice swords.
Joffrey's head snapped around, and for just a moment—just a brief flicker—there was fear in his eyes. Then it was replaced by bratty defiance.
"She was being annoying," Joffrey said, chin jutting out. "She wouldn't stop playing with this stupid doll. I was teaching her a lesson."
"You were being cruel," Percy said flatly, moving to stand beside his brother. "Pick up the doll."
"No."
"Pick. Up. The. Doll."
"You can't tell me what to do! Mother says I'm a prince and princes don't have to listen to—"
He didn't get to finish because Percy had crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and was now standing over him, practice sword held loosely in one hand. He wasn't threatening—not exactly—but the implication was clear.
"Pick up the doll, Joffrey," Percy repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "Put it back together. Apologize to Myrcella."
"I won't! You can't make me! I'll tell Mother! I'll tell Father! They'll—"
"They'll do nothing," Hadrian said, coming to stand on Percy's other side. "Father doesn't care what we do to each other. And Mother won't defend you. Not against us."
That was true, and they all knew it. Cersei's love for her children was fierce but selective. She doted on Joffrey, her golden boy, her perfect son. But she *worshipped* Hadrian and Perseus—her first sons, her true-born princes, the heirs to the throne. When push came to shove, she'd never choose Joffrey over them.
Joffrey knew it. And he hated them for it.
"Fine!" He threw the broken doll at Myrcella, who flinched. "There! Happy?"
"No," Hadrian said quietly, and something in his voice made even the septa—who'd been watching nervously from the corner—take a step back. "You're going to learn something today, little brother. Something important."
He walked over to Myrcella, who was still crying, and knelt down beside her. "Hey, Cella. It's okay. We're here."
Myrcella threw herself at him, little arms wrapping around his neck. "H-Haddy! He broke dolly! He's mean!"
"I know. But we'll fix it. Percy, do you have the needle and thread the maester gave you?"
"Always." Percy had taken to carrying a small sewing kit ever since he'd discovered that his clothes got torn regularly during training. He handed it to Hadrian.
Hadrian carefully reattached the doll's head while Myrcella watched with wide, tear-filled eyes. It wasn't perfect—the stitches were clumsy, visible—but it held.
"There," he said, handing it back. "Good as new. Well, almost. It's got a scar now, like a warrior. See? Your doll's been in battle and survived."
Myrcella clutched the doll to her chest, her crying fading to hiccups. "Like... like you and Percy?"
"Exactly like us." Hadrian wiped her tears with his thumb. "Warriors get scars. It means they're strong. Your doll's strong now."
"'Kay." Myrcella's lower lip was still trembling, but she was calming down. "Will you stay with me? Keep me safe from Joff?"
"Always," Percy promised, coming over to ruffle her golden hair. "We'll always keep you safe, Cella. That's what big brothers do."
They both looked back at Joffrey, who stood with his arms crossed, face red with anger and humiliation.
"Now," Hadrian said, standing up. "Joffrey. You're going to apologize."
"No!"
"Yes." Percy moved to stand beside Hadrian again, creating a wall of older-brother intimidation. "You're going to apologize to Myrcella. Then you're going to promise never to hurt her again. Or we're going to have a problem."
"What kind of problem?" Joffrey sneered, trying to sound brave and failing. "You'll tell Mother? She won't care! She loves me more than you anyway!"
"We won't tell Mother," Hadrian said calmly. "We'll handle it ourselves. And trust me, little brother, you don't want us to handle it ourselves."
Something in his tone—something ancient and dark and very, very serious—made Joffrey pale.
"You—you can't hit me! That's against the rules! Mother said—"
"We don't need to hit you," Percy said, and his smile was sharp enough to cut. "There are lots of ways to make someone miserable that don't leave bruises. Ways that don't get noticed. Ways that no one can prove."
It was an empty threat—mostly. Neither of them would actually hurt Joffrey. But the kid was four years old and didn't know that. And fear, they'd learned, was sometimes more effective than force.
Joffrey's eyes darted between them, calculating, trying to find an out. Finally, he huffed and looked at Myrcella.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Not good enough," Hadrian said. "Say it like you mean it. And promise not to hurt her again."
"I'm sorry I broke your doll, Myrcella," Joffrey said through gritted teeth. "I promise I won't hurt you again."
"Say 'or else,'" Percy prompted.
"Or else *what*?"
"Or else your big brothers will make you regret it in ways you can't even imagine."
Joffrey's face went through several expressions—anger, humiliation, fear—before finally settling on sullen acceptance. "Or else my big brothers will make me regret it," he parroted.
"Good boy." Hadrian's voice was still cold. "Now go to your room. We'll see you at dinner."
Joffrey fled, his golden hair bouncing as he ran. The septa watched him go with an expression of relief mixed with concern.
"Your Graces," she said carefully, "the Queen won't be pleased if she hears about this."
"The Queen won't hear about it from us," Percy said pleasantly. "Will she hear about it from you?"
The septa looked at Myrcella, who was clutching her scarred doll and had finally stopped crying entirely. Then at the two princes, who stood like twin sentinels, young faces set in expressions far older than their years.
"No, Your Grace," she said quietly. "I saw nothing."
"Excellent." Percy's smile was warm now, genuine. "Thank you for watching our sister. We'll take her for a while. Give you a break."
The septa curtseyed and disappeared with suspicious speed.
Hadrian scooped Myrcella up, settling her on his hip. She immediately buried her face in his neck, still sniffling but calmer now.
"You okay, Cella?" he asked softly.
"Joff is mean," she mumbled against his neck. "I don't like him."
"We know. But you're safe. We won't let him hurt you."
"Promise?"
"Promise," Percy said firmly, falling into step beside them as they walked through the gardens. "Cross our hearts and hope to die, stick a needle in our eye."
Myrcella giggled at the silly rhyme—one Percy had taught her from his old life, though she didn't know that.
They found a spot under a weirwood tree (one of the few in King's Landing, planted by some long-ago king who'd married a Stark), and sat with their little sister between them.
"Tell story," Myrcella demanded, clutching her doll. "About warriors."
"What kind of warriors?" Hadrian asked.
"Brave ones! Who fight monsters!"
Percy and Hadrian exchanged glances. They'd been telling Myrcella stories for years now—carefully edited versions of their previous lives, disguised as fairy tales. She loved them, asked for them constantly.
"Alright," Percy said, settling back against the tree. "Once upon a time, there were two warriors. One had fought dark wizards and—"
"What's a wizard?" Myrcella interrupted.
"Like a maester, but with magic. Anyway, he'd fought dark wizards and won, but it cost him everything. The other had fought gods and monsters, but he was betrayed at the end and fell into darkness."
"That's sad," Myrcella said.
"It was. But then something amazing happened. They were both reborn into a new world, as brothers. And this time, they promised to protect each other and everyone they loved, no matter what."
"Did they keep their promise?"
"They're still keeping it," Hadrian said, pressing a kiss to her golden hair. "Every single day."
Myrcella smiled, content with the answer. She played with her doll while the twins sat in comfortable silence, watching the clouds drift across the sky.
"Haddy?" Myrcella asked after a while. "Why is Joff so mean? Mother loves him. Why isn't he nice like her?"
It was an innocent question. A child's question. But it cut right to the heart of something both boys had been thinking about for years.
"Sometimes," Hadrian said carefully, "people are born with... darkness in them. Not because they're bad, but because something inside them is broken. And if no one fixes it—if no one teaches them to be better—that darkness grows."
"Can you fix Joff?"
"We don't know," Percy admitted. "We're trying. But some people don't want to be fixed."
"That's sad too."
"Yeah. It really is."
---
That evening, dinner in the royal apartments was a tense affair.
Robert was absent—no surprise there. He was probably in Flea Bottom, drunk and buried in some tavern wench. Jon Arryn had been invited but politely declined, citing work in the Tower of the Hand.
Which left Cersei, Jaime (who ate with the family when he wasn't on guard duty), and the four children.
Cersei sat at the head of the table, resplendent in crimson silk, her golden hair caught up in elaborate braids. She was beautiful—everyone said so. But Hadrian saw the calculation in her green eyes, the constant assessment of threats and opportunities.
Joffrey sat on her right, still sulking. Myrcella sat between Hadrian and Percy, happily eating her sweetened bread. And baby Tommen—barely old enough to sit at table—was in a high chair at Cersei's left, being fed by a servant.
"I heard there was an incident in the gardens today," Cersei said, her voice deceptively mild.
Joffrey's head snapped up hopefully. But Cersei wasn't looking at him—she was looking at Hadrian and Percy.
"Joffrey broke Myrcella's doll," Percy said bluntly. "Made her cry. We made him apologize."
"I see." Cersei's expression was unreadable. "And how exactly did you make him apologize?"
"We talked to him," Hadrian said. "Explained that hurting Myrcella was unacceptable. He agreed."
"Is this true, Joffrey?"
Joffrey's face was a study in conflict—wanting to complain, wanting to get his brothers in trouble, but also remembering Percy's threat about making him miserable in untraceable ways.
"Yes, Mother," he mumbled finally.
"And you apologized?"
"Yes."
"Then I see no problem." Cersei took a delicate sip of wine. "Though in the future, perhaps you might come to me with such issues rather than handling them yourselves?"
"We handled it fine," Percy said.
"I'm sure you did." There was something in her voice—pride, maybe, mixed with concern. "But Joffrey is your brother. He deserves gentleness, not threats."
"He was cruel to Myrcella," Hadrian said quietly. "She's two years old. She deserves protection, not cruelty."
Cersei's jaw tightened. This was the impossible position she always found herself in—loving all her children fiercely, but unable to reconcile their different natures. She could see Joffrey's flaws, but she was also his mother, desperate to protect him, to make him into something worthy.
"Joffrey," she said finally, "is this true? Were you cruel?"
"She was being annoying," Joffrey muttered. "Playing with that stupid doll. Making noise."
"So you broke it?"
"It was just a toy!"
"It was *her* toy," Cersei's voice went sharp. "Given to *me* by my mother, Joanna—before she died bringing your uncle Tyrion into this world. I gave that doll to Myrcella. It's irreplaceable."
Joffrey paled. He clearly hadn't known that detail.
"You will apologize to your sister again," Cersei continued. "Properly. And you will spend tomorrow in your chambers, reflecting on why hurting those weaker than you is unacceptable."
"But Mother—"
"*Now*, Joffrey."
Joffrey turned to Myrcella, his face red with humiliation. "I'm sorry I broke your special doll."
"'Kay," Myrcella said around a mouthful of bread, apparently over the whole incident.
Cersei turned her attention back to Hadrian and Percy. "And you two. While I appreciate your protection of your sister, in the future, please inform me of such incidents. Joffrey is my son. I will handle his discipline."
"Will you?" Percy asked, and there was challenge in his voice. "Because this isn't the first time. He pulls Myrcella's hair. He breaks her things. He makes her cry. And every time, we're told to be patient, to be understanding, to let it go."
"He's four years old—"
"And we were four once too. We didn't torture our siblings."
The silence that followed was sharp as glass.
Jaime cleared his throat. "Perhaps we might discuss this later? The children should eat."
But Cersei wasn't ready to let it go. She looked between her sons—her oldest sons, her true-born princes—with an expression that was equal parts pride and frustration.
"You're too hard on him," she said quietly. "Both of you. You're so *perfect*—so intelligent, so talented, so disciplined. And he's just a little boy trying to live up to impossible standards."
"We're not perfect," Hadrian said. "We just try to be decent human beings. That's not an impossible standard."
"You're almost six years old and you sound like a maester." Cersei shook her head. "Where did you learn to speak like that? To think like that?"
*In another life. Fighting wars. Facing death. Learning that cruelty has consequences.*
But they couldn't say that.
"Lord Arryn teaches us," Percy said instead. "About honor and duty and what makes a good person versus a bad one."
"Does he." Cersei's voice was flat. "How educational."
The rest of dinner passed in uncomfortable silence. Joffrey picked at his food, shooting venomous looks at Hadrian and Percy. Myrcella remained oblivious, happy between her protective brothers. Tommen gurgled contentedly.
And Cersei watched her children with an expression that was heartbreak and determination mixed into something complicated and painful.
---
Later that night, after the children were supposed to be asleep, Cersei sat in her solar with Jaime.
"They're going to destroy him," she said quietly, staring into her wine cup. "Hadrian and Perseus. They're going to destroy Joffrey."
"They're protecting Myrcella," Jaime pointed out. He stood by the window, still in his Kingsguard whites, looking out at the dark city. "Which is what brothers should do."
"They're not protecting. They're *intimidating*. They threatened him, Jaime. They threatened their four-year-old brother into submission."
"Would you prefer they'd hit him?"
"I'd prefer they showed him kindness! Patience! Understanding!"
Jaime turned to look at her. "Cersei. My love. Joffrey tore the head off a two-year-old's doll and made her cry. He deserved worse than a talking-to."
"He's a *child*—"
"So are they. So is Myrcella." Jaime's voice was firm. "And between a child who hurts and children who protect, I know which side I'll always take."
Cersei set down her wine cup with more force than necessary. "You don't understand. You've never had children of your own—"
She stopped, because that was a lie and they both knew it. Jaime had children. Two of them. He just couldn't claim them.
"I understand," Jaime said quietly, "that you love Joffrey. That you want him to be good and worthy and everything a prince should be. But Cersei, you can't force goodness into someone. You can't love the cruelty out of them. Either they choose to be better, or they don't."
"He's *four*. He has time to choose."
"Does he? Because from where I'm standing, he's already choosing. Every time he hurts Myrcella, every time he lies about it, every time he expects you to protect him from consequences—he's choosing."
Cersei stood abruptly, crossing to him, her face fierce. "So what would you have me do? Give up on him? Let Hadrian and Perseus bully him into submission?"
"I'd have you love him enough to discipline him. To teach him that actions have consequences. To show him that being a prince means protecting those weaker than you, not torturing them for entertainment."
"Like Robert does?" The words were bitter. "Like our father did? Men in this family don't protect the weak, Jaime. They use them."
"Then maybe it's time that changed." Jaime cupped her face gently. "Hadrian and Perseus aren't like Robert. They're not like Tywin. They're *better*. They could be the best thing that ever happened to this family."
"Or the worst." Cersei pulled away. "They're too clever. Too strange. Too *other*. Sometimes I look at them and I don't see children—I see something ancient and dangerous wearing children's faces."
"That's ridiculous—"
"Is it? They were reading at two. Speaking in full sentences at fifteen months. They move like trained warriors despite only starting lessons six months ago. They *know* things they shouldn't know." Her voice dropped. "Sometimes I wonder if they're even mine. If some witch didn't switch them at birth for changelings."
"Cersei—"
"I carried them for nine months," she continued, her voice breaking slightly. "I birthed them in blood and pain. I nursed them. I held them. And I love them with everything I have. But I don't *understand* them. And that terrifies me."
Jaime pulled her close, letting her rest against his chest. "They're just exceptionally intelligent children. Born to be extraordinary. Like their mother."
"I wish I believed that."
They stood in silence for a long moment, two people who'd broken every rule to be together, raising children who were both theirs and not theirs, trying to navigate a world that was determined to tear them all apart.
"Promise me," Cersei said finally, "that you'll watch them. All of them. Keep them safe."
"I promise." Jaime kissed the top of her head. "I'll protect them with my life. All four of them."
"Even when they're terrible? Even when they're cruel?"
"Especially then." His voice was gentle. "Because that's when they'll need protection the most—from themselves."
---
In the royal nursery, Hadrian and Percy lay awake in their beds, staring at the ceiling.
"We were too hard on him," Hadrian said quietly.
"He deserved it."
"He's four, Percy."
"He's old enough to know not to hurt people." Percy rolled over to face his brother's bed. "We've talked about this. We can't let Joffrey become—" He stopped.
"Become what he becomes," Hadrian finished. "I know. But threats and intimidation won't fix him. They'll just make him better at hiding."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know." Hadrian's voice was tired. "In my last life, I had Dumbledore. He was manipulative and used me, but he also taught me about choices. About how dark wizards aren't born, they're made by a thousand small decisions."
"And?"
"And I think we need to give Joffrey better choices. Not force him. Not threaten him. Just... show him that being kind is better than being cruel."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It probably will be." Hadrian turned his head to look at Percy. "But we have to try. Because if we don't—if we just let him spiral into whatever monster he's supposed to become—we're no better than the people who failed us in our old lives."
Percy was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Okay. We'll try. But if he hurts Myrcella again, I'm dunking him in the Blackwater."
Despite everything, Hadrian laughed. "Deal."
From across the room, in her smaller bed, Myrcella mumbled in her sleep, clutching her scarred doll. She was safe, protected by two brothers who'd died once to save their worlds and would gladly die again to save her.
And in his room down the hall, Joffrey lay awake, staring at his ceiling, nursing grudges and humiliations and the seeds of darkness that were already taking root.
—
# Joffrey's Chambers - That Same Night
Joffrey Baratheon lay in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs, face hot with rage that had nowhere to go.
They'd humiliated him. *Again*.
His brothers—his stupid, perfect, everyone-loves-them brothers—had made him apologize. Made him grovel in front of the servants and that idiotic septa. Made him look *weak*.
He punched his pillow, imagining it was Hadrian's serious face. Or Perseus's smirking one.
It wasn't *fair*. He was a prince too. Mother always said he was special, that he was her golden lion, that he was going to be great. But everyone else just saw him as lesser. The younger brother. The spare. The one who came after.
And they were only older by *two years*. Two years! That shouldn't matter. That shouldn't make them *better* than him.
But it did. Everyone said so. The knights in the training yard whispered about Perseus's unnatural skill with a sword. The maesters praised Hadrian's quick mind. Even Father—who barely acknowledged any of them—would occasionally ruffle their dark hair and call them "good lads."
Father never touched Joffrey. Never even looked at him, really. Just stared past him like he was furniture.
It was because of his hair, Joffrey knew. Because he was golden like Mother instead of dark like Father. Because he looked like a Lannister instead of a Baratheon.
But that wasn't his *fault*. He hadn't chosen his hair color. Why should he be punished for it?
Myrcella was golden too, and everyone loved her. They cooed over her, brought her sweets, called her "little princess" with genuine affection. Even his brothers—his terrible, awful brothers—doted on her like she was made of spun glass.
But when *he* tried to play with her, to teach her things, everyone acted like he was a monster.
So maybe he'd been a little rough. Maybe he'd pulled her hair once or twice. Maybe he'd broken her stupid doll.
She was *annoying*. She cried all the time. She got in the way. She got attention that should have been his.
He was the prince. He was special. Mother said so.
Joffrey rolled over, staring at the shadows dancing on his ceiling from the firelight.
Tomorrow, Mother had said he had to stay in his chambers. Punishment for hurting Myrcella. But it wasn't fair punishment—his brothers had threatened him, and *they* weren't being punished. They got to run around with their swords, acting like heroes, while he was locked up like a criminal.
When he was king—and he *would* be king, somehow, someday—things would be different. He'd make the rules. He'd decide who got punished and who got praised.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd make sure his perfect brothers understood what it felt like to be overlooked. Dismissed. Treated like they didn't matter.
The thought made him smile in the darkness.
Someday.
When he was big enough. Strong enough. Important enough.
Someday, they'd be sorry.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!