# King's Landing, 289 AC - Six Months Later
The Small Council chamber smelled of old parchment and older men.
Hadrian stood behind Lord Arryn's chair, pitcher of wine in hand, trying to look like a six-year-old boy playing at being a cupbearer rather than someone who'd once been Master of Death and was now dying of boredom.
Perseus stood opposite him, behind Stannis Baratheon's chair, looking similarly restless. His sea-green eyes kept tracking to the windows, to the bay beyond, like he could feel the water calling him.
They'd been serving as cupbearers for three months now—Jon Arryn's idea, a way to educate them in the actual business of ruling while keeping them busy and out of trouble. Robert had agreed with drunken enthusiasm, then promptly forgotten about it.
The Small Council meetings were usually tedious affairs. Trade disputes. Tax collection. Minor lords squabbling over borders. Pycelle would drone on about grain stores. Littlefinger would make veiled references to brothels and coin. Varys would smile and say nothing of substance.
But today was different.
Today, Stannis Baratheon stood at the head of the table, a map of the Sunset Sea spread before him, his face grim as death.
"Lannisport burns," he said without preamble. "Euron Greyjoy—the mad brother who was exiled years ago—returned with a fleet of ironborn raiders. They sacked the city, burned half the Lannister fleet at anchor, and disappeared back into the sea like ghosts."
The council erupted.
"The Lannisters—" Pycelle began.
"—are calling for blood," Stannis interrupted. "Lord Tywin has sent ravens demanding the King mobilize the full might of the realm. He wants the Iron Islands destroyed. Every man, woman, and child put to the sword."
"That seems excessive," Jon Arryn said mildly, though his eyes were sharp. "The crime was committed by Euron Greyjoy and his reavers, not the entire Iron Islands."
"Try telling that to Tywin Lannister," Littlefinger drawled, examining his fingernails. "The man's eldest seat of power was burned. His pride was burned with it. He'll want compensation."
"What he'll *get*," Robert's voice boomed from his chair, "is justice. But measured justice. We're not butchering an entire kingdom because one mad bastard went reaving."
He was drunk—Robert was always drunk by midday—but his mind was still sharp enough when politics didn't bore him. And war, even the prospect of it, always got Robert's attention.
"The problem," Stannis continued, his voice cutting through the chatter, "is that Balon Greyjoy has declared independence. He's crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands—which is absurd on its face, but he's sent reavers up the coast. They're harrying our shipping. Burning fishing villages. They need to be stopped."
"Then we stop them," Robert said, slamming his cup down. "Simple. We did it before, we'll do it again. Stannis, you're Master of Ships. What do you need?"
Stannis's jaw tightened—it always did when forced to ask Robert for anything. "Ships. Men. Supplies. The royal fleet is adequate, but we'll need support from the Reach and the Westerlands. And time to mobilize."
"The Reach will contribute," Pycelle said. "The ironborn have raided their coast as well. Lord Tyrell will be eager to—"
"To show his strength," Varys interrupted smoothly, his hands folded in his sleeves. "And perhaps earn favor with the Crown. How convenient."
"I don't care about their motivations," Stannis snapped. "I care about ships. Fighting ships, with experienced crews."
"What's the plan?" Jon Arryn asked. "Once you have your fleet?"
Stannis moved pieces on the map—small wooden ships painted with various sigils. "We blockade the Iron Islands. Cut off their supplies. Starve them into submission. Then we land troops here—" He pointed to the eastern coast of Pyke. "—and lay siege to their strongholds."
"How long?" Robert asked.
"Months. Maybe a year."
"A YEAR?" Robert's face went red. "I'm not spending a year on this! We crush them quickly and be done with it!"
"Your Grace, with respect, naval warfare is not like a battlefield. You cannot simply charge with a warhammer and hope to—"
"I know that! I'm not an idiot, Stannis!"
*Debatable*, Hadrian thought, carefully keeping his face neutral.
Beside Stannis, Perseus shifted slightly. Hadrian recognized the movement—his brother was thinking, probably about to do something stupid.
*Don't*, Hadrian warned with a look.
*But I have an idea*, Percy's eyes said back.
*We're cupbearers. We pour wine. We don't offer military strategy.*
*But—*
Too late. Percy was already moving, setting down his pitcher and stepping forward to the map.
Every eye in the room turned to him.
"Prince Perseus," Varys said with mild surprise. "How may we serve you?"
"I—" Percy stopped, suddenly aware of all the attention. Then he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin in a way that was pure pride. "I have a thought. About the naval strategy."
Silence.
Then Pycelle chuckled—a condescending sound. "How charming. The young prince wishes to play at war."
"Let him speak," Stannis said sharply, surprising everyone. He was looking at Percy with those intense blue eyes, assessing. "You've been watching me plan for an hour. What's your thought?"
Percy took a breath. "You're planning to blockade the islands. Cut off supplies. Wait for them to starve."
"Yes."
"That won't work."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Excuse me?" Stannis's voice was ice.
"The ironborn are reavers," Percy continued, his voice gaining confidence. "They're used to taking what they need. A blockade won't stop them—it'll just make them more desperate. They'll slip past your ships at night, raid the coast, steal supplies. You'll spend months chasing shadows while your men get tired and your ships need repairs."
"And you know this how?" Littlefinger asked, his tone amused. "Perhaps Prince Perseus has secret experience with naval warfare? A previous life as an admiral, maybe?"
Several council members laughed.
Percy's face went red, but he didn't back down. "I read. A lot. And I pay attention." He pointed to the map. "The ironborn excel at hit-and-run tactics. They know these waters better than anyone. Every cove, every channel, every place to hide. A traditional blockade will be ineffective."
"Then what do you suggest, young prince?" Varys asked, and his tone was genuine curiosity, not mockery.
Percy studied the map, and Hadrian could see him thinking—remembering battles from another life, strategies learned against sea monsters and immortal enemies.
"You need to control the naval passages," Percy said finally. "Here, and here." He pointed to narrow straits between the islands. "These are the primary routes for ironborn longships. If you position heavy war galleys at these chokepoints, you can prevent them from raiding while still allowing your fleet mobility."
Stannis leaned forward, studying where Percy had pointed. "The currents in those straits are treacherous."
"Which is why the ironborn don't expect you to hold them." Percy's eyes gleamed. "They think their local knowledge makes them untouchable. But if you establish permanent stations with rotating crews, maintain a constant presence—"
"They'll be forced to engage or stay bottled up," Stannis finished, and something like respect entered his voice. "It would require significant resources. Ships, men, supplies."
"Less than a year-long blockade," Percy countered. "And more effective. You're not waiting for them to starve—you're forcing them to fight on your terms."
Robert was staring at Percy like he'd grown a second head. "Where the hell did you learn naval strategy?"
"Books, Your Grace. Lord Arryn has an extensive library on military history."
This was technically true. The library *did* have such books. The fact that Percy's actual knowledge came from leading Camp Half-Blood's naval forces against Kronos's army was beside the point.
"It's not bad," Stannis admitted grudgingly. "Aggressive. Risky. But not bad."
"It's brilliant," Jon Arryn said quietly, looking at Percy with sharp eyes. "And exactly the kind of thinking we need."
"He's *six*," Pycelle protested. "Surely we're not taking military advice from a child—"
"I'm taking good advice wherever I find it," Stannis interrupted. "And this is good advice." He looked at Percy directly. "Thank you, Prince Perseus. I'll incorporate these suggestions into the planning."
Percy's face lit up with genuine pleasure—the kind of expression that made him look his actual age for once.
But the damage was done. Every person at that table was now looking at him with new awareness. Assessing. Calculating. Wondering.
Hadrian felt something cold settle in his stomach. They'd talked about this—about staying under the radar, not drawing too much attention. But Percy had always been terrible at keeping his head down.
"If Prince Perseus is offering suggestions," Hadrian heard himself say, stepping forward, "then I have some as well."
*Damn it*, he thought. *Why am I doing this?*
But he knew why. Because if Percy was going to be noticed, then Hadrian needed to be noticed too. They'd always protected each other. Always stood together.
Even when it was stupid.
"By all means, Prince Hadrian," Varys said, his smile sharp. "Please. Educate us."
Hadrian moved to the map, studying the pieces. His mind raced, pulling from memories of war—against Death Eaters, against dark wizards, against enemies who'd thought themselves invincible.
"You need to think about siege weapons," he said finally. "Specifically, naval siege weapons."
"We have scorpions," Stannis said. "Large crossbows mounted on ships. They're effective against sails and rigging."
"But not against fortifications." Hadrian pointed to Pyke. "The castle is built on rocky islands connected by rope bridges. Traditional siege engines won't reach from ships. You'll need something that can fire over distance with accuracy."
"Like what?" Robert asked, leaning forward. "Dragons?"
"Like trebuchets," Hadrian said. "But modified. Lighter. Mounted on large ships—barges, maybe, or converted merchant vessels. You could use them to bombard the castle from sea while your ground forces lay siege from land."
"Trebuchets on ships?" Littlefinger laughed. "That's absurd. The weight alone would sink them. The recoil would tear the deck apart."
"Not if you counterweight properly," Hadrian argued, and now his mind was racing, pulling from engineering lessons he barely remembered, from books on medieval warfare he'd read in the Hogwarts library. "If you mount them on reinforced platforms, use a floating base to absorb recoil—"
"That's impossible," Pycelle insisted.
"It's innovative," Jon Arryn corrected. "And worth exploring." He looked at Hadrian with those knowing eyes. "Where did you learn about siege engineering, my prince?"
"Books," Hadrian said, using Percy's earlier excuse. "And thinking about problems. You always say that war is about finding solutions to impossible challenges."
"So I do." Jon's smile was slight. "And this is certainly an impossible challenge."
"Even if we could build such things," Stannis said, and he didn't sound dismissive now—he sounded *interested*, "the time it would take—"
"Wouldn't be much longer than building a traditional siege camp on those rocky islands," Hadrian countered. "And think of the advantage. The ironborn won't expect naval bombardment. They'll have no defense against it."
Stannis studied the map for a long moment. Then he looked up at Robert. "Your Grace, I'd like permission to consult with the master shipwrights. If Prince Hadrian's concept has merit—"
"Do it," Robert said immediately. "Both suggestions. Naval chokepoints and floating siege engines." He laughed, genuinely delighted. "Gods! My sons might actually be useful! Jon, you're teaching them well!"
"I can only take partial credit, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said dryly. "I think they come by their cleverness naturally."
The meeting continued, but the tone had shifted. The council members kept glancing at Hadrian and Perseus, reassessing. Varys wore a small smile that made Hadrian nervous. Littlefinger looked calculating. Pycelle kept muttering about "unnatural children."
Finally, after another hour of planning—logistics, supplies, timeline—Robert dismissed the council.
"Stannis, stay," he ordered. "We need to discuss command structure. Jon, you too. The rest of you, get out."
As the council filed out, Jon Arryn caught Hadrian and Perseus by the shoulders. "A word, princes. In my solar."
They followed him through the corridors, neither speaking. Hadrian's stomach was in knots. They'd drawn too much attention. Revealed too much. Now there would be questions.
Jon Arryn's solar was smaller than the council chamber, lined with books and maps, smelling of candle wax and old paper. He closed the door firmly behind them and gestured to two chairs.
"Sit."
They sat.
Jon Arryn stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, looking every inch the Hand of the King who'd served three monarchs and survived countless political storms.
"That," he said quietly, "was either very brave or very foolish. I haven't decided which yet."
"We were just trying to help," Percy said.
"Were you?" Jon's eyes were sharp. "Or were you showing off? Demonstrating just how *clever* you are?"
"We weren't—" Hadrian started.
"Let me be clear," Jon interrupted. "What you did today—offering genuine, useful military advice—will have consequences. Every person in that chamber is now reassessing you. Wondering what else you're capable of. What other secrets you might be hiding."
"We're not hiding anything," Percy said, which was technically true if you ignored the fact that they were reincarnated heroes from other worlds with memories of lives they shouldn't have.
"Aren't you?" Jon moved to his desk, pouring himself wine. He didn't offer them any—they were six, after all. "Boys, I've been watching you for years now. Watching how you move, how you think, how you speak. You're *abnormal*. Extraordinarily, impossibly abnormal."
Hadrian felt his heart start to race. "We're just smart—"
"You're beyond smart. You think like trained military commanders. You speak like educated men. You move with the confidence of people who've seen combat." Jon took a drink. "And I want to know why."
The silence stretched.
Finally, Perseus spoke. "What do you want us to say?"
"The truth would be refreshing."
"We can't tell you the truth," Hadrian said quietly. "Not because we don't trust you. But because you wouldn't believe it."
"Try me."
Another silence. Hadrian and Perseus looked at each other, having one of their silent conversations.
*How much do we tell him?*
*As little as possible.*
*He's not going to let this go.*
*I know. But we can't tell him everything. Not yet. Maybe not ever.*
"We dream," Hadrian said finally. "Both of us. Since we were babies. We dream about... other lives. Other worlds. Wars and battles and—" He stopped. "—impossible things."
Jon Arryn's expression didn't change. "Dreams."
"Vivid dreams. Like memories. Of lives we never lived but somehow remember." Percy leaned forward. "I know how that sounds. But it's the truth. Sometimes I dream I'm a warrior fighting monsters. Other times I'm commanding ships in battles that never happened. And the knowledge sticks. Like muscle memory."
"And you?" Jon looked at Hadrian.
"I dream about magic," Hadrian said simply. "Real magic. Not like the maesters talk about—tricks and illusions. But actual magic. Spells and potions and fighting dark wizards." He met Jon's eyes. "I know it sounds mad. But we can't explain it any other way."
Jon Arryn sat down slowly, studying them with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable.
"The maesters would say you're mad," he said finally. "That you've developed some shared delusion. That the pressure of being royal heirs has broken something in your young minds."
"And what do you say?" Percy asked.
Jon was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I say I've been alive for nearly seventy years. I've seen things the maesters can't explain. Magic they insist is dead but still lingers in the world. Dreams that come true. Prophecies that fulfill themselves." He paused. "And I've never met two children quite like you."
"Is that bad?" Hadrian asked quietly.
"I don't know yet." Jon's expression softened slightly. "But I'll tell you this: whatever you are, whatever these dreams mean, you need to be *careful*. The world does not love the exceptional. It fears them. Uses them. Destroys them."
"We know," Perseus said. "We've been trying to be normal."
"Today proved that impossible." Jon stood, moving to the window. "You offered military advice that impressed even Stannis Baratheon. You demonstrated knowledge no six-year-old should possess. Every person on that council is now watching you. Wondering. Calculating."
"So what do we do?" Hadrian asked.
"You continue as you are. You serve as cupbearers. You learn. You observe. But you don't—and I cannot stress this enough—you don't reveal any more than you already have." Jon turned to look at them. "No more impossible knowledge. No more military strategies that should be beyond you. You're clever children, yes, but you must appear to be only *that*. Children."
"Even if we could help?" Percy protested. "Even if we have ideas that might save lives?"
"Even then." Jon's voice was firm. "Because if you reveal too much, if you become too useful, too powerful, too *other*... someone will decide you're a threat. And threats get eliminated."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"Lord Arryn," Hadrian said carefully, "are you protecting us? Or warning us?"
"Both." Jon's smile was sad. "I've come to care for you boys. More than is perhaps wise. You remind me of—" He stopped. "You remind me of what the realm could be. Should be. Smart. Innovative. Kind. But the realm doesn't reward those qualities. It punishes them."
"That's a depressing worldview," Percy observed.
"It's a *realistic* worldview." Jon moved back to his desk, shuffling papers—a signal that the conversation was ending. "Now. You'll continue your duties. But carefully. Quietly. And if you have any more 'dreams' that provide useful information, you'll bring them to me *first*. Privately. Before displaying them to the entire Small Council. Understood?"
"Understood," they said in unison.
"Good. Now go. I believe your mother wanted you for afternoon lessons."
They left, but Hadrian felt Jon's eyes on them until the door closed.
---
They walked through the Red Keep in silence, both processing.
"That went badly," Percy said finally.
"Could have been worse. He could have told Father."
"Would Father even care?"
Probably not. Robert barely noticed them most days. But Jon Arryn cared. And that was somehow more dangerous.
They turned a corner and nearly ran into Uncle Tyrion, who was leaving the library with an armful of books.
"Nephews!" he said cheerfully. "I heard you made quite the impression in the Small Council meeting."
"Word travels fast," Hadrian said carefully.
"Word always travels fast in the Red Keep. Walls have ears. Servants have tongues. Spiders—" He glanced around theatrically. "—have eyes everywhere."
"How much did you hear?"
"Enough to know my nephews are either brilliant or insane." Tyrion shifted his books. "Naval chokepoints? Floating siege engines? Really? Where did you—" He paused, studying them. "Never mind. I don't actually want to know. Plausible deniability is a wonderful thing."
"Uncle Tyrion," Percy said, "are we in trouble?"
"Trouble? No. Danger? Possibly." Tyrion's expression grew serious. "You've made yourselves interesting. That's never safe in King's Landing."
"Lord Arryn said the same thing."
"Then Lord Arryn is wise. Listen to him." Tyrion started to walk away, then paused. "But for what it's worth? I'm proud of you. Both of you. You're exactly what this kingdom needs—intelligence and innovation and the courage to speak up. Just... try not to get yourselves killed for it. I'd miss you."
He left them with that, disappearing into the shadows of the keep.
Hadrian and Perseus looked at each other.
"We really stepped in it this time," Percy said.
"Yeah. We really did."
"Worth it?"
Hadrian thought about Stannis's grudging respect. About Robert's genuine surprise and pleasure. About the way the strategy might actually work, might actually save lives in the coming war.
"Ask me after the rebellion," he said finally.
"Fair enough."
They continued toward their lessons, two six-year-olds who'd just influenced the military strategy of a kingdom, wondering if they'd made the right choice or signed their own death warrants.
Behind them, in the shadows, Varys watched with knowing eyes.
And in the Tower of the Hand, Jon Arryn stared at a letter he'd been writing for three months and never sent. A letter to the Citadel, asking about children with impossible knowledge. About reincarnation. About souls that carried memories from other lives.
He picked up the letter, held it over a candle flame, and watched it burn.
Some secrets, he decided, were worth keeping.
Even from himself.
---
# That Evening - The Queen's Solar
Cersei Lannister sat in her cushioned chair, one hand resting on the swell of her belly—seven months pregnant now, uncomfortable and irritable and deeply tired of being treated like fragile glass.
Across from her, Jaime stood by the window in his Kingsguard whites, his reflection ghostly in the darkening glass.
"They spoke at the Small Council meeting today," Cersei said, her voice tight. "Both of them. Offered military advice that impressed even Stannis."
"I heard."
"Of course you heard. Everyone's heard. It's all anyone in the keep can talk about." Her hand moved in slow circles over her belly—the child within kicked, restless. "My six-year-old sons are advising the Master of Ships on naval warfare."
"They're exceptional—"
"They're *unnatural*," Cersei interrupted, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "Jaime, please. Don't make excuses for them. Not tonight. Just... acknowledge that something is wrong."
Jaime was quiet for a moment. Then: "Alright. Yes. Something is wrong. They know things they shouldn't. They speak like men, not children. They move with confidence that should take decades to develop." He turned from the window. "But they're not dangerous. They're not evil. They're just... different."
"Different how?" Cersei tried to shift in her chair, gave up with a frustrated sound. "That's what terrifies me. I don't understand the difference. I don't know what they *are*."
"They're your sons—"
"Are they?" The words were out before she could stop them, and she saw Jaime flinch. "I carried them. I birthed them. I nursed them through every fever and nightmare. I love them more than my own life. But sometimes—" Her voice cracked. "Sometimes I look at them and I see strangers wearing my children's faces."
Jaime crossed to her, kneeling beside her chair so he was eye-level with her. "Cersei—"
"Tell me I'm wrong," she demanded, tears threatening now—gods, she hated pregnancy, hated the way it made her *weepy*. "Tell me you haven't noticed. Tell me you look at Hadrian's green eyes—eyes like mine but *not* like mine—and don't wonder. Tell me you watch Perseus move with a sword and don't question where a six-year-old learned to fight like that."
Jaime couldn't tell her she was wrong, because she wasn't. He'd noticed. Everyone who spent time with the twins had noticed.
"What are you afraid will happen?" he asked instead, taking her hand.
"I'm afraid they'll be discovered. That someone will realize they're not normal. That the Faith will declare them abominations. That Robert will—" She stopped, her free hand pressing against her belly as the baby kicked harder. "Or I'm afraid they'll discover themselves. Realize they're more than human. Decide they don't need us anymore."
"They'll always need you. You're their mother."
"Am I? Or am I just the woman who birthed them?" Cersei's voice was barely above a whisper now. "Joffrey needs me. He's constant, demanding, always seeking approval. Myrcella needs me—she runs to me every time she's frightened, every time Joffrey's cruel to her. And this one—" She pressed both hands to her belly now. "—this one will need me too, when he comes."
"But Hadrian and Perseus—" She looked at Jaime with eyes that were green fire and fear mixed together. "—they don't need anyone. They have each other. That's enough. Everything else is just... peripheral."
"That's not true—"
"Isn't it?" Cersei tried to stand, accepted Jaime's help with bad grace. She moved to the window, one hand supporting her back, the other still on her belly. "When have they ever come to me for comfort? For guidance? They go to you, sometimes. To Tyrion, when he visits. To Jon Arryn for lessons. But me?"
She stared out at the darkening city. "They're polite. Affectionate, even. They kiss my cheek and tell me they love me and say all the right things. But it feels like a performance. Like they're playing the role of dutiful sons because that's what's expected."
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I? Then explain today. Explain how two six-year-olds offered military advice that made Stannis Baratheon—*Stannis*—admit they were right."
Jaime couldn't explain it. Didn't try. Instead, he came to stand beside her, carefully not touching—they had to be careful in public spaces, even when they thought they were alone.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
"I want to protect them," Cersei said fiercely. "Whatever they are. Whatever they become. They're mine. I won't let anyone hurt them." Another kick, stronger this time. "Gods, this one's restless tonight."
"Boy or girl?" Jaime asked, smiling slightly—one of the few genuine smiles he ever wore.
"Boy. I'm certain of it." Her expression softened, just slightly. "Another golden son. A brother for Joffrey. Someone... normal. Someone I can understand."
There was pain in those words, and Jaime heard it.
"Hadrian and Perseus love you," he said quietly. "I see it, even if you don't. The way Perseus always brings you flowers from the gardens. The way Hadrian reads to you when you're tired. They're not performing. They're just... reserved. Like you were, before—"
"Before what? Before I learned to manipulate and scheme to survive?" Cersei's laugh was bitter. "Perhaps they learned from me too well."
"Or perhaps they're simply cautious. Intelligent children learning to navigate a dangerous world." Jaime's voice was gentle. "Give them time. Give them patience. They're only six."
"Six years old and advising the Small Council on military strategy."
"Yes. Which is why they need you more than ever." Jaime finally risked touching her shoulder, just briefly. "They need someone to keep them grounded. To remind them they're children, not weapons. To love them without trying to use them."
"Unlike Robert, you mean."
"Unlike Robert," Jaime agreed. "Who will absolutely try to use them, now that he knows they're useful."
That was true, and they both knew it. Robert had never been a father to his sons—had barely acknowledged their existence except in passing. But six-year-olds who could offer effective military strategy? That was something Robert understood. Something he could *use*.
"I won't let him," Cersei said, her voice hard now, determined. "I won't let Robert turn them into his tools. Or Jon Arryn. Or anyone else who thinks they can manipulate my sons."
"Even if protecting them means hiding what they are?"
"*Especially* then." Cersei's hand moved to her belly again as the baby settled, finally quiet. "The realm has no right to them. They're my sons. And I'll burn this city to ash before I let anyone take them from me."
It should have sounded like madness. Instead, it sounded like love twisted into something sharp and dangerous.
Jaime recognized it, because he'd felt the same thing when he'd killed the Mad King. When he'd chosen to save a city full of people over his honor, his vows, his very identity.
Some loves made you a hero. Others made you a monster.
Sometimes they were the same thing.
"Then we'll protect them," he said quietly. "Together. Whatever comes. All of them."
His hand rested briefly on her belly, feeling the life growing there—his son, though he could never claim him. Never acknowledge him. Just like Joffrey. Just like Myrcella.
But Hadrian and Perseus were different. They were Robert's, truly Robert's—the black hair proved it, the Baratheon coloring that couldn't be denied. They were legitimate. Protected.
And yet somehow more vulnerable than the golden children ever would be.
"Promise me," Cersei said, turning to face him fully now. "Promise me you'll watch them. Keep them safe."
"I promise." Jaime's voice was solemn. "I'll protect them with my life. All of them. The twins, Joffrey, Myrcella, and this little one when he arrives."
"Swear it."
"I swear it. On my honor as a knight. On my love for you. On everything I am." His green eyes met hers. "They're all precious to me. All of them. I'll keep them safe, or I'll die trying."
It was the most he could offer. The most anyone could offer in a world as dangerous as theirs.
Cersei nodded, accepting his vow. Then she moved back to her chair with awkward heaviness, one hand still supporting her back.
"Send for the children," she said. "All of them. I want to see my family together."
"Even Joffrey?"
"*Especially* Joffrey." Her expression was complicated. "He needs to understand that his brothers' success doesn't diminish him. That we're all on the same side. That family—" She paused. "—that family is what matters most."
Jaime bowed slightly—formal, because even in private they had to maintain some pretense—and left to fetch the children.
Alone, Cersei sat in her chair and stared at the fire, one hand moving in slow circles over her belly.
"You'll be different," she whispered to the child within. "You'll be normal. Understandable. Mine in ways I can comprehend."
The baby kicked, as if in response.
"Or perhaps," she continued, her voice soft now, vulnerable, "you'll be just as strange as your brothers. Just as impossible. And I'll love you anyway. Because that's what mothers do."
Even when they didn't understand.
Even when they were afraid.
Even when love felt like standing at the edge of an abyss, not knowing if the ground beneath would hold.
---
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