Author Notes:

Sorry to have kept everybody waiting for so long. I've been insanely busy recently (and will probably be busy again very soon), but wanted to keep the rust off. I haven't forgotten about my other stories.

Also, apologies in advance for canon errors on either side of the crossover.

The Witch Queen and the Hegemon

The brightest Westerosi religious scholars have long suspected that the gods are actively malevolent. Not just a little amoral, either; those bastards are out to get you. None of that Leibnitzian "best of all possible worlds" weaksauce in Westeros. No, sir.

This realization usually comes in a series of steps rather than an epiphany. It's the little things, really: the gods' penchant for killing off morally upstanding lords while protecting scheming weasels, for inserting gratuitous episodes of sexual depravity solely for their titillation value, for creating unrealistically sociopathic people to populate Westeros, for conjuring up zombie armies waiting beyond the Wall to eat everybody…

Fair criticisms? Perhaps.

But most Westerosi – the cheerfully illiterate, child-abusing, silent majority who do not spend their time angsting about dystheism – would at least agree that the gods keep Westeros interesting.

It was perhaps with this lukewarm acceptance in mind that R'hllor, the Red God, Lord of Light, reached out and snatched the aiùa of Peter Wiggin.

That's what they called souls in Peter's universe, apparently. Aiùas. Or would call them in a few thousand years. Whatever. R'hllor considered bickering about terminology rather ungodlike.

In another time and place, Peter Wiggin might have made history in three ways: as the brother who'd helped shape Ender Wiggin into the xenocidal mess that he was, as the young man who'd brokered world peace as Hegemon, and as the old statesman who'd laid the foundation of an interstellar empire.

But R'hllor had decided that Peter Wiggin, the Boy-Who-Would-Be-King, would get his wish for despotic power. And then some.

With a twitch of his intangible fingers, R'hllor destroyed the soul that would have become Joffrey Baratheon.

Just squished the little bastard – metaphorical and literal – like a kid popping bubble wrap. Joffrey Baratheon, a.k.a. Joffrey Lannister (and a lot of other, less polite titles), would never exist.

R'hllor replaced Joffrey's soul with an altogether more interesting sadist.

Peter Wiggin – soon to be Peter Baratheon – would not bring any of the experiences he would have accumulated on Earth with him to Westeros. No. R'hllor wanted to keep the experiment pure. Whatever memories Peter would have, he'd get in Westeros.

And then things got a lot more serious.

Third Year

Cersei didn't recall why they'd named him Peter.

Robert always claimed that it had been her blasted idea, while Cersei believed that it had been Robert's. And for once, Cersei wasn't trying to convince Robert that he had a stake in his son. That's just what she remembered. Nor could either of them quite understand why the Maesters had been so particular to spell "Peter" with an "e" instead of a "y" on the few official documents that bore Peter's name. It had just looked right.

For Cersei, those morsels of strangeness neatly summed up her frustrations with her son. Everything about Peter Baratheon was a puzzle - but the sort of puzzle that you don't want to finish, because you're afraid of what the picture will look like.

Except that you just can't help yourself.

Peter crawled earlier than most children. Walked earlier. Spoke his first words long before any Maester had predicted. When Peter started reading histories before most children could talk, Cersei suspected that her son had either inherited his grandfather's intelligence, or that there was something wrong with him. The gods' punishment for his unnatural parentage.

The Maesters assured her that Peter was fine.

She chose to take their word for it. Chose to. They had not convinced her. True, the weight of evidence was on the Maesters' side, but Cersei rarely trusted facts over her own intuition. It's just that the alternatives were worse.

When Cersei saw Peter toddle through the Red Keep in his cloth-of-gold doublet - saw the way Peter bore himself like a stunted little man instead of a boy – she had to tamp down the urge to vomit. He was acting like Tyrion. A bloat-headed manikin, like the creature who'd killed –

And she'd always stop herself when Peter smiled at her, and shouted "Mother!", and bounced across the room to hug Cersei like a toddler should. (It was always "Mother"; Cersei's tenure as mamma had been as brief as Peter's baby talk stage, and sorely missed).

So very proper. Too proper.

It wasn't until Peter's third year that Cersei learned with a mixture of relief and horror that he really, really wasn't.

She found the cat's body under Peter's bed. It had been pregnant. Peter had opened the stomach and removed the uterus – four roundish membranes that would have been kittens, connected at their pinched ends like links of white, veiny sausage.

Peter must have washed the body. Only a dab of blood spoiled the linen he'd wrapped it in. The cat's head was pointed backwards. He'd twisted its neck.

"The anatomy books were right, Mother!"

His enthusiasm was real enough. But it was not scientific curiosity; Cersei was no fool.

It was Cersei's first experience with what would become Peter's favorite trick. Her son showed his emotions the way a conjurer waves a cloak. They were real, yes; but they weren't the whole story.

Cersei felt her hand tremble when she slapped him. This, too, was a first – the slap and the fear both. She tried to keep her voice level as she explained – through clenched teeth - what would have happened if Robert had found out.

The child's smirk was Tyrion's smirk. As if Cersei was the stupidest person in the world.

"But father wouldn't have found out, Mother. He doesn't pay attention."

This was true, and she slapped him again for it. Tears appeared in Peter's eyes, then. His little fists clenched even as his mouth wobbled. And Cersei felt that sinking feeling as she watched herself wrap her arms around him. Heard herself shushing him.

"Never again," she said. "Do you understand, sweetling? You can't be seen doing these things."

"But I wasn't seen—"

Her hand tightened on his shoulder. The shushing became a hiss.

"Never. Again." she said.

Peter's lips pursed. Frustration. It was Cersei's own gesture; one that Peter had learned while watching her from the cradle as a baby. Before he'd started talking, and cutting apart cats.

She would later wonder whether he'd thrown it out deliberately.

"I…have to, Mother," he said. "You don't understand."

It had come out as a whisper. Emotionally open, as she'd always wished he would be. And manipulative even in his openness. This, too, she realized.

Cersei tilted his face up to meet her eyes. Wiped away the forming tears, so that they wetted the edge of her red sleeves into a deeper purple. Mother and son.

"A king doesn't have to do anything, sweetling. As I said: never again."

She recognized the internal contradictions of her statement. It was intentional. A line that she'd dared her son to cross. He did not.

Three months later, a servant found a skinned rat buried in one of the gardens. Peter pleaded ignorance. It was the first and last time anyone discovered a body.

Fifth Year, or Thereabouts



Myrcella kept having accidents.

This, in and of itself, was not necessarily a surprise. Very young children often had accidents. Cersei remembered all too well the stories of children who'd scalded themselves in fireplaces when their nursemaids weren't watching. Or ate something that they weren't supposed to. Or fell down steps.

But she'd also remembered the way that Peter had glared at Myrcella when she'd rocked in that abominable antler-decorated cradle as a baby. And Cersei remembered the cat.

"She will never replace you, sweetling. You know that?"

"I know, Mother."

"I love you more than anything, sweetling."

"I know, Mother."

"But don't be so sure I'd still love you if you did something to Myrcella."

Peter's eyes did not widen. Instead, his brows furrowed in an admirable display of puzzlement. Too quickly and too perfectly, as if he'd practiced it. She only saw the hint of a twitch as Peter's fingers tightened against the gold-and-crimson embroidery of his tunic.

"Mother! I would never hurt Myrcella."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Myrcella's clumsiness soon vanished. Cersei spent more time with Peter. And all was still right with the world.

Later, Fifth Year

When Tommen was born, Peter rolled his eyes and complained how boring his new brother was. Cersei breathed a sigh of relief.

Seventh Year

"Hidden writing isn't my area of expertise," said Pycelle. "You really should find someone else if you—"

"I don't trust Varys."

Pycelle shrugged his hunched shoulders.

"Few do."

He took the book. Sigils shaped like wheel spokes and pitchforks filled its parchment in tiny, neat rows. Along with some rather disturbing anatomical drawings. At least the branching series of lines on the twelfth page was recognizable as a family tree of some sort.

"Where did you find this?" Pycelle said.

"In his room."

"I'll need a while to copy it," he said.

"Peter's gone hunting for a few days with his father. Take your time."

Pycelle returned the book two days later. His decryption took another month. Cersei had the grace to smile and nod while Pycelle blathered on about the frequency that letters appear in Westerosi script, how Peter had chosen multiple sigils to represent a single letter, how he seemed to have chosen a few sigils to represent words or ideas…

...and on, and on…

"So you can read the notebook?" Cersei said at last.

"The first half, yes. Moderately interesting. Political notes, mostly – the Prince seems to believe that Westeros will be unstable without the dragons. Expects a war coming. Lots of contingency plans. Has a few, er, unusual recommendations. Advocates a Tyrell alliance, for one thing. That's the family tree you noticed. It provided me with the first cribs."

"And the…drawings?"

"Had nothing to do with the text. Misdirection."

Cersei traced her fingers around a candlestick. They gave the slightest tremor as the tension released. And then a thought occurred to her.

"You said you could only read the first half," she said. "How long before you've decrypted the second?"

Pycelle frowned, and scratched the inside of his gray robe.

"That…would take a very long time."

"Why?" she snapped.

"It seems to be written in another language. One that he's invented."

Ninth Year

Tywin's letters had expressed interest in the wunderkind that Cersei had raised. Peter, for his part, had insisted on meeting his grandfather. They'd both received their wishes when Tywin had paid one of his rare visits to King's Landing.

Cersei stood in the hallway the whole time, locked out. Pacing. Her shoes clip-clopped on the floor. And all the while, her heart was hammering with cold adrenaline.

She knew it was a stupid reaction. It kept hammering.

The door creaked, and Cersei nearly jumped. And then, the heavy oak doors swung open. A very pale, shaken-looking Peter Baratheon bid his grandfather a quick goodbye and headed for the dining hall.

So…Peter had been Peter, and had bitten off more than he could chew. As usual. Cersei ground her teeth and resolved to have another talk with him.

But Tywin Lannister's own expression was a bit odd. Not puzzled, exactly…and not quite worried either. Just odd.

"The boy should sit in on Small Council meetings," Tywin said. "I'll try to arrange matters. You'll nudge Robert toward it on your end."

Cersei couldn't quite stop herself at that.

"He's a young boy, Father. I don't even sit on the Small Council meetings."

Tywin's smirk was faint as usual, but visible.

"Then you should appreciate my decision," he said. "I'm sure you'll hear everything that happens from Peter, thanks to that hold you've got over him."

A pause. A frown.

"You will follow my instructions," he said.

"Of course, Father."

Thirteenth Year

The hunting trip hadn't exactly gone well.

Her fat idiot of a husband had enjoyed every minute of it, of course. Went on and on about the way Peter had ignored the damp, and had laughed at Robert's dirty jokes, and had even told a few of his own that Robert hadn't heard before. (Which suggested to Cersei that Peter had invented them on the spot). The boy clearly needed a whore or two. Getting antsy. Ha-ha.

Cersei felt her gorge rising at that.

Peter hadn't talked much at dinner. Cersei caught up with him later in the hall. He was scratching a fingernail along a lion tapestry as he marched to his room.

"So," Cersei said. "Your father seemed quite taken with your…humor."

She'd put a lilt in her voice. Peter stopped, but didn't turn around.

"That makes one of us," he said.

"He wanted to get you a whore."

"So I heard."

Peter still hadn't turned around. She could only see the back of his head and leather jerkin – still narrow in the shoulders, like the boy he was, but stained with four days of mud. She noticed tracks on the Myrish rug.

"My, my, sweetling. You don't sound pleased with your father's offer. Though I'm sure you gave him a different impression during your trip. Since you want to be like him, I would have thought that you'd jump at the chance—"

"Is that all there is to Father?" Peter said.

"I…what?"

Peter gestured out a window. Rain pludded against those tiny, precious panes of glass as the ground below the Red Keep turned to mud. He wiped his nose.

"The hunting trips," he said. "The jokes. The drinking. The whores. Isn't there anything more?"

Cersei blinked, and then turned away to the window. She rested her elbows on the alcove and admired the way that the grass almost glowed green in the rain. Her sigh condensed into a cloud.

"There was, once," she said.

"You asked me to ingratiate myself with him."

"I didn't ask you to become him!"

Peter shrugged those narrow, boyish shoulders. Water drip-drip-dripped onto the Myrish rug from hair that had clumped after four days without bathing. Cersei pursed her lips.

"I need a vice," Peter said. "He likes those."

He'd omitted the "Or hadn't you noticed?", but Cersei could read between the lines enough to hear it.

"How convenient for you," she said.

Another shrug.

"Heavy drinking loosens lips. A whore I only need to visit once and get it over with."

There was something about the way he'd said it. She remembered a young Lannister girl telling herself something similar on her wedding night, when her husband had staggered in stinking of drink. Just get it over with.

"Once? Don't act like a cold-blooded schemer with me, sweetling."

"Once. And I'm not acting."

She forced out a laugh. It carried a nasty edge. That part, she didn't need to force.

"Oh, I'm sure. Peter Baratheon, the detached genius! Oblivious to women's charms! And I suppose you don't care about a pretty wife, either."

He did turn around then, and met her eyes. Not challenging or confrontational. Just serious.

"Mother."

"What?"

"Make the best political marriage possible. That should be the only consideration. I want you to promise me that."

"An easy thing for a man to ask, since he doesn't have to be faithful. But still a stupid one."

"Even so."

That sinking feeling again. If he was serious…which was impossible. He was beginning to change physically already. He was just getting to that age. All there was to it. But then again, when had her firstborn ever been normal?

"We aren't discussing it now," she said.

Peter turned around again, waved aimlessly, and opened the door to his room. The door shut.

Later, Thirteenth Year

Falconry. That was his new obsession.

Cersei had to keep herself from rolling her eyes when she saw the white specks of bird dung on Peter's floor. A falcon's skeleton hung from his ceiling on strings, poised in flight. Black and white striped feathers had been sorted into boxes. Each bore a tiny label. Piles of correspondence to master falconers lay in other piles on the floor.

Peter's book was on the table. He'd written the thing in less than a month. It was almost three hundred pages long, in tiny, fastidious script. A flock of herons glided along one panel. They flew in an arrow formation above green waves.

It was a gentle illustration. Like a watercolor.

The text was a bit less gentle. Peter had sorted his information into such finicky divisions and subdivisions (complete with arguments) that it would have made a Maester go cross-eyed.

"And why exactly have you written this monstrosity, sweetling?"

"For Father."

Cersei wasn't sure whether to cackle in glee or wince. She ultimately did neither, but waited for the inevitable.

And the inevitable came in a few days.

Peter later growled that he wasn't quite sure why he'd hoped that Father would like his gift.

"It was my own fault for expecting Father to appreciate the book instead of laughing at it."

Still Later, Thirteenth Year

A fortnight later, Peter "sneaked" out to a brothel, with enough muted fanfare that even his father would have had to be blind and deaf not to know about it. Cersei later learned that Peter had chosen one of the chattier whores, just to make sure. He returned stinking of her.

Robert was delighted. He spent the entire evening trading dirty jokes with his son, who managed a lopsided smile. Cersei glared at them both. Robert only laughed harder at that.

Later that night, Peter scoured his body for three hours in the bath, after he was sure that the King had gone to bed.

Cersei heard about it from the maid she'd bribed to keep an eye on him.

And he wouldn't meet his mother's gaze at dinner for a week afterward. She'd tried to coax him to look at her after the first two days, feeling that he'd suffered enough, but it didn't matter. His only comment about the experience came a month later. It was, to Cersei's eyes, typical of him:

"The girl was so stupid, Mother."

Fourteenth Year

Cersei only heard about one other occasion when Peter visited a brothel.

Baelish told her about it. Baelish relished telling her, in that sighing, mincing way of his – the way he got when he knew somebody owed him a big favor.

Peter Baratheon had asked for five or six of the whores' bastards.

NOT for sex.

Oh, no.

He'd wanted to raise them in isolation, hoping to learn what humans' "natural" language would sound like without parents to teach them. Peter had suspected it would be the language of the Children of the Forest, but he couldn't rule out the Old Tongue—

Cersei held up a hand and asked Baelish to stop talking. And then she had a very quiet, very angry meeting with her son.

She'd kept the secret of his parentage for longer than she'd had any right to expect. Perhaps it was the fact that Peter was so popular with Robert and the others. That he could impersonate a normal young man most of the time.

And he needed to keep impersonating a normal young man. For both their sakes.

She wondered later whether it had been a cry for attention. Or boredom.

Fifteenth Year

He was talking about history again. He did that a lot.

Cersei smiled, and cut her apple, and pretended to be interested.

She was not an uncultured woman. Cersei understood that history had its uses. It provided analogues from time to time. Object lessons. But Peter didn't see it that way. He treated his history books as a series of mistakes to be corrected ("The writer was employed by Daeron, Mother. His bias is so obvious! I mean, how could he have quoted a long speech that one man supposedly said to another in a meeting that no one attended?") Pycelle had once grumbled that Peter did not learn – he argued.

Cersei allowed her eyes to wander to the green columns that formed the windows, and the vines that crawled up their sides. Gauzy curtains flapped in the wind. The air carried the sounds of ocean waves, and the smell of salt.

"More grapes, Mother?"

Peter pushed the bowl across the table. It squeaked, which might have broken Cersei's concentration if she hadn't been so good at this.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. Where was I again?"

"The conversation between Aegon III and the Ser Druyl," she said with a smirk.

"Oh, right. As I was saying…"

It was a game they played. Peter knew that his research bored her, and Cersei knew that he knew. She paid just enough attention that he couldn't trip her up. She often wondered whether he even cared, or whether he was just as indifferent to it as she was. This was possible. His voice lacked the fire she'd heard when he talked about butchering animals during a hunt. Or about his talks with Varys and Baelish.

It was the subtext that counted. Cersei's boredom was a small sacrifice that she gave to Peter, like an offering of blood to the Red God. A sign of devotion. Genuine devotion – not the kind she had to fake when she visited the temples.

And Peter's revealing that he needed that level of devotion from Cersei was Peter's sacrifice to her.

Cersei would help him rule Westeros someday.

Wishful thinking? She didn't believe so.

She was fairly certain that Peter would listen to her – not because he respected her intelligence (although he should have), but because she'd sunk her emotional hooks so deeply into him that even his frightening intellect couldn't reach them.

So Cersei chewed the apple, and let her son's words wash over her like a warm stream.

Later, Fifteenth Year

"Don't joke about him like that," Cersei said.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, and twitted her with another barb about Peter. His own son, technically. The joke was like his others – clever and forgettable.

She slapped him.

They spent a few moments bickering before getting around to screwing each other's brains out. Jaime made fun of Peter a little less often after that. Not much. Just a little less.

Jaime still thought the kid was a creepy little bastard. Something about the way he smiled.

Sixteenth Year

Peter seemed to go through hobbies more rapidly by his sixteenth birthday. He sometimes reminded Cersei of a snowball rolling downhill – the more he picked up, the faster he tried to gobble whatever was left.

This time, it was genealogy. Inheritance. Peter had always showed a disturbing tendency to group people and livestock in the same general category, so Cersei supposed it made sense that he'd start looking at noble bloodlines like a horse breeder.

It was only when Peter suddenly grabbed her in a hallway, and pulled her through three of the Red Keep's secret passages, that she started to think things through. And worry.

Peter must have discovered the passages a long time ago. He moved quickly, guiding her by hand around the traps. Her shoulders brushed against stone walls, and then timber.

"Peter. What is this all about?"

"Wait."

They kept moving.

The musty smell of the cellars filled her nostrils. Peter led them inside one of the dragon's skulls, still navigating by touch. Moist. Mildewed. Completely dark. She could only sense her son from his breathing and a faint trace of body heat.

Speaking of which, she was cold. And irritated. And her heart was hammering at a few thousands beats a minute.

"Well?" she said.

Please, please don't let it be-

"Two questions, Mother: Who was my real father, and what steps will we take to keep it secret?"