Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.
Birth of a Legend
History is written in blood. That is fact. It starts with the blood of a mother's womb, and finishes when blood burns cold or the fire boils them inside the brunt's veins.
This story began like all stories, with the last bloody push and a babe's cry. This babe, though, was no ordinary babe, but the first son of a king. Black hair, the hair of the house of the stag, and eyes Lannister green. He wailed from pain, the small body frail and tender.
Cersei Lannister looked down to her firstborn —A boy who looked just like her father, but carried her eyes, Jamie's eyes— and she hated him. The sight of him did nothing but remind her of the slobbery hands of her appointed husband, a man who called for another woman as he desecrated her maidenhood. A man who would search for whores while the fruit of his seed deformed her body.
She caressed the little one, the midwife pushing it into her embrace. The caress lacked the gentle touch of a mother, and, while nails rasped the delicate skin with enough force to hurt, but not enough to leave a mark, a wail rose once more.
Cersei asked for the babe to be put to his crib, claiming to have gotten tired by the long hours of labor she had gone through to get the little Baratheon into the world. And what was the King doing while she bled and screamed for hours as the spawn forced its way through her womanhood? Hunting, dinking and whoring .
He did show up when the affair was over. Boasting of his success as though fucking her was some task worth of praise. He smiled to the boy, naming their son as though he was the one with claim on it. And, much to her ire, the babe smiled back, a little hand fisting about the man's beard as he gurgled.
How she despised them both.
The boy for not being the fortunate fruit of her lover's seed, and the father for too many reasons to keep count.
...
She called Maester Pycelle the next morning, while her husband snored, too drunk from the celebration of the birth of Prince Hadrian, first of his name. The affair from that point on was as simple as it was heartless. A few drops of slow acting poison was put into a glass of goat's milk (the only milk the babe would ever get, for the queen refused to put her husband's son to her chest).
By the time Robert took the heir of his legacy to meet the hoard of rowdy drunkards he called friends, the prince had a little fever. By night the little one was struggling for his life while the master and healers fussed and tried their very best to keep him alive under threat of death.
The babe that had been born saw his first life cross his mind's eyes as did this one. A life of being an orphan, being reborn with parents. A childhood of neglect in a cupboard, the promise of the pampering life of a prince. He remembered the pain of dark magic burning his flesh as clearly as he could feel the cooling sheets under his tiny body. The tremors of his little body were like a never ending Cruciatus.
The babe who was born was once Harry Potter. Was once a wizard with a soul as kind as it was strong. Was a warrior born to rule. A king that would have brought prosperity, a king that would not have to make his way to the throne through the path of bloodshed.
Hadrian was born to a great destiny. He was meant to be The Prince That Was Promised. A king promised by the gods, a king of legend.
But even the mightiest of legends is born vulnerable, and the small amount of magic in the hero's little body did nothing but buy a few extra hours of agony. Then the blood in his veins grew cold…
And The Wheel kept on spinning.
.
AN: And so Harry dies. This was a tale of unfulfilled prophesies and wasted potential. I hope you enjoyed it! If not? Feel free to rant in your review.