Chapter 1: Prologue: Davos I
Chapter Text
Davos Seaworth was already at a loss for words when his evening began. The Sept on Dragonstone, the place where Aegon the Conqueror had prayed, had been defiled by the Red Priestess Melisandre and the Queen’s Men. Standing on the beach of Dragonstone, when blood had already been spilt over the gods Davos had worshipped all his life, he wasn’t sure what to think of the man he followed. Stannis Baratheon was the one true King of Westeros, but watching him stand beside the Red Woman as she chanted before a Nightfire, surrounded by the torn-down statues of the gods, he seemed less a King and more a common heretic. But Davos owed him everything, and the world had many gods, even if the Red Woman disagreed. Melisandre planned to burn the statues, he knew, as an offering to her God before the war for Stannis’ crown began in earnest. Davos only hoped no further blood was shed. Maester Cressen and those who fell defending the sept were already bad enough. He needed to find his sons in the crowd of nobles from the Narrow Sea, and ensure the elders did not do anything treasonous or stupid.
Before he could, Melisandre’s chanting was interrupted by a flash of light from the heavens, bright enough to turn night to day. Davos, assuming it was part of the ritual, looked up to see what new trick she had. He was entirely unprepared for what he saw, but took no comfort in the look of shock on the Red Woman’s face. For a moment, three human figures stood out against the bright glow in the sky. The light faded, and Davos lost sight of them. Only the nightfire illuminated the sands of Dragonstone, and these people were far too high up to be touched by its light. Davos felt the familiar creep of fear when more and more stars seemed to be blocked out, and a great rhythmic whooshing sound slowly grew louder.
The crowd of nobles fell completely silent, stepping farther away from the nightfire and the desecrated statues of the Seven as a shape straight out of histories and nightmares descended from the sky. A slate-gray dragon, all claws and scales, was lowering itself to the ground. Melisandre had gone paler, while Queen Selyse shouted the Lord of Light’s praises.
“R’hllor has sent us a dragon! Fire made flesh! Lord of light, protect us! Lord of light, we thank you!” Melisandre and Stannis seemed less convinced than the Queen. Even from the distance he was at, Davos could see his King grinding his teeth. The nightfire flared with each flap of the dragon’s wings, growing brighter as it descended.
Davos could do nothing but stare as the dragon landed on the sands, letting out a bone-chilling roar. He looked behind him, heart soaring to see most of his sons safe and healthy -Daven was behind Stannis, as befit the King’s squire-, before returning his attention to the beast like a man bewitched. The crowd was now in a ring around the great beast, and Davos found himself uncomfortably close to its ten-meter bulk. Half the crowd fell to their knees, and the sour scent of piss filled the air. Davos was just grateful he wasn’t the one who’d wet himself. Stannis, the Red Woman by his side, stayed on his feet, glowering at the dragon. It roared, then lowered its head. Two previously hidden figures slid down its scales, and Davos heard himself gasp when the fire finally illuminated their faces. They were a man and a woman, maybe twenty years of age. They were dressed in clothing that Davos had never seen before, and wore beaded necklaces. The woman was strikingly beautiful, with golden curls cut through with a streak of grey, and a sword made of bone clutched in her hands. She stood like a warrior, and Davos had no doubt she knew how to use the sword. Her eyes, steel-grey, seemed to almost glow in the roaring firelight.
If the woman looked dangerous, the man by her side was terrifying. His leaf-shaped sword was a faintly-glowing bronze, and his eyes gleamed sea-green. For a moment, Davos thought he was one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. He had the look of the former King in his prime: jet-black hair, tall and imposing, armed and clearly deadly. He had the same grey streak in his hair as the woman, in the same exact shade and position. It made them both look more than human, wise far beyond their years. Davos took an involuntary step back, but only succeeded in bumping into another member of the crowd of nobles.
The dragon roared again, and the man touched its side, his eyes narrowing. The woman grabbed his hand with her free one and he squeezed it back. Clearly, they were married. The dragon let out an almost canine snuffling sound, then began to change, horrifyingly, the scales and horns rippling as it shrunk. Within moments, the dragon was just a man. He was taller than either of his companions, somewhere between pudgy and muscular, broad-shouldered and intimidating. He had Yi-Ti features, and was dressed like his companions, though he wore a rich purple cloak, and lacked their necklaces. The green-eyed man’s hair fell below his ears, but his shape-shifting companion’s hair was close-cropped. Davos noticed that while the two men had tattoos on their forearms, the details of which he was unable to see from this distance, the woman had none. A bow was slung over the larger man’s shoulders, and unlike his companions, he carried no sword or knife. Even so, Davos was under no illusions that this man wasn’t just as dangerous. He could turn into a dragon.
The Red Woman spoke first, while the three new arrivals seemed to take in their surroundings.
“You stand before Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Lord of Storm’s End, the Prince Who Was Promised, Azor Ahai Reborn, chosen of the Lord of Light, the one true God. Identify yourselves, and kneel before your king. Why do you carry a false Lightbringer? What manner of Valyrian blood magic is this?” The green-eyed one opened his mouth to speak, but the woman laid a hand on his chest, and he closed it. They exchanged words briefly in a language Davos did not recognize. When they were done speaking, the man spoke to the shape-shifter in a different, equally unfamiliar language, just as briefly. The three nodded at each other, and the woman cleared her throat to speak.
“My name is Annabeth of the House Chase, Architect of Olympus, daughter of grey-eyed Athena, Goddess of Wisdom. This is Frank,” she gestured to the shape-shifter, “of the House Zhang, Praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, son of Mars, God of War. And Percy,” this time she gestured to the green-eyed one, “of the House Jackson, Savior of Olympus, Prince of Atlantis and the Sea, former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, son of Poseidon, God of the Sea. You all seem to be mortals, we have no quarrel with any of you. Let us go on our way, so we can find a way home. I don’t know where this place is, and I suspect we’ve been taken from our own world. We just want to go home.” Davos had never heard of any of those gods, but with the power that seemed to radiate off these people, he believed they were who they claimed to be. Perhaps Percy’s father was the Sea God who had fathered Durran Godsgrief’s wife, or even the Merling King that the Velaryons worshipped. The God of War and the Goddess of Wisdoms could be allusions to the Warrior and the Crone, though Davos had never heard them referred to by these names, nor heard of the Seven having children- aside from the Mother and Father. This was all too complicated for him, he was no Maester.
“You dare!” Melisandre’s lips pulled back over her teeth, and the shadows seemed to darken around her, even as the flame flared. “You claim descent from false gods! There is only one god, and King Stannis is his chosen champion. You are either liars, frauds, or servants of the Great Other. The Lord of Light smiles upon dragons, but not this magic.”
“I don’t know who you are, Lady, but I promise you we’re telling the truth. Can we go?” the green-eyed one- Percy Jackson- seemed to be done letting his wife speak for him. Although, since she didn’t seem angered by his words, maybe she was simply done talking.
“You may not!” Stannis finally spoke, keeping his hand close to his sword. “Who are you, one of my brother’s bastards?”
“I have a lot of Uncles, but I don’t think you’re one of them,” Jackson said. His accent was strange, even more so than that of the woman, but his disrespect was completely unacceptable. Stannis seemed to agree with Davos’ disdain, his jaw getting even tighter.
“You will address the King as Your Grace, or not at all,” Axell Florent shouted. The three newcomers scowled, but the shape-shifting man tried his hand at speaking regardless.
“Your Grace, we don’t want to fight, or to insult your god.” His pleas fell on deaf ears, as the Red Woman sauntered forward.
“You have given insult regardless, Frank of the House Zhang. You have fire within you, I can smell it. You may not be the son of any true god, but you have the flames of life in your bones. The Lord of Light has blessed you.” The pronouncement shocked the shape-shifter into silence, and he exchanged a weighted glance with the other two. The Red Woman had moved on from him, however, and was approaching the so-called Prince of the Sea. “But you- you two have no fire. You, Percy Jackson, smell of salt and sea, earth and horse. There is no fire in you, only waters that seek to douse our nightfire and plunge us all into darkness. And you, Annabeth Chase, have a power in you, yes, but not that of R’hllor. It must therefore be that of the Great Other”
“I’m glad we pass your test, ma’am,” Jackson said. Davos didn’t know what ‘ma’am’ meant, but it sounded like it was supposed to be a term of respect. Melisandre only raised an eyebrow, and the nightfire flared. The flames moved, curling around her hands. Shadows around her deepened into nearly solid forms as the fire grew brighter. The three so-called children of gods a few steps back, Frank Zhang’s eyes going wide with fear.
“You have passed no tests. You are a heretic and an enemy of R’hllor, Lord Jackson. As are your wife and companion, if they stand by you.”
“Lord Jackson? Wife?” Frank echoed, a grin tugging at his lips. Percy and Annabeth exchanged amused glances, but Melisandre was not laughing. The fire shot forward from her hands, and Percy had barely enough time to shove his two companions aside before it struck him in the chest. Despite them flanking him, he was able to send each of the two flying several meters with only a half-hearted push from one hand. Davos would have been awed by the inhuman display of strength alone, but it was the fire that seemed to shock the Red Woman. Percy Jackson did not burn. The strange shirt he wore burnt off quickly, and his trousers began to smoulder, but the heavily-scarred skin of his chest only seemed to turn red under the stream of fire. If nothing else, this man was a warrior. No one else could have that many scars. It was a miracle he was still alive. Melisandre shouted something in Valyrian, and the fire increased in heat, causing Jackson to take a step back. Davos could feel it, even from a considerable distance. He had no idea how Percy was still alive. The now-shirtless man winced from the pain, but managed to take several steps forward. Frank nocked an arrow on his bow, aiming it at the Red Woman, but the arrow disappeared in a gout of flame as soon as it was loosed.
Another two tongues of the nightfire broke off, curling towards Annabeth and Frank. At that, Percy’s expression changed from mild annoyance to fierce anger. The flames still in mid-air were met by spurts of water from the nearby sea, gouts leaping from the waves to intercept the fire before it could harm his companions. He leapt forward faster than Davos could track, and his sword flashed in the firelight. The Red Woman gasped as the point of the strange blade exited her back, and Jackson seemed equally as shocked. He wrenched the sword from her chest, examining the blood-soaked bronze with a mix of horror and confusion as Melisandre collapsed to her knees. If not for the sword, Davos would never have been able to tell she was bleeding. The red of her robes matched the color of the bloodied blade exactly.
“Huh. Guess she wasn’t mortal. I wasn’t really expecting that to work. Never seen a monster with human blood before.” He seemed to be talking to himself, but the crowd was unamused by his commentary. His chest was now splattered with the Red Woman’s blood. His companions attacked instantly once the flames dissipated, with Frank loosing another arrow and Annabeth leaping forward with her bone sword, just as terrifyingly fast as Percy. The arrow hit the Red Woman in the chest, and not a heartbeat later, Annabeth’s sword cleaved the witch’s head from her shoulders. Even as the head fell to the ground, it collapsed into dust, the rest of the Red Woman’s body following it. The three children of gods- for surely, they could be nothing else- seemed completely unfazed, as if this was only another day for them. The crowd of nobility, finally broken from the shock that had begun less than three minutes prior, went into uproar all at once. Queen Selyse fell to her knees, wailing. The crowd pressed in, while the three interlopers moved closer together, standing back-to-back against the countless swords now aimed at their faces.
The green-eyed man bent the seawater to his will, using it to magic the blood from his sword before it curled around him like a snake. The angry red of his half-burnt chest quickly faded back to Jackson’s normal deep tan. Frank turned into a snarling bear, and the woman briefly kissed her husband’s cheek before raising her sword. Davos was not sad to see the Red Woman go, but seeing her replaced by other magicians was not what he had hoped for.
Just before the royal court and the godlings met swords, Stannis shouted with the voice of the King he was, somehow managing to be heard over the sound of armor clattering and swords being drawn from scabbards.
“ENOUGH! Stop this madness!” The King drew his own sword, even as the nobles of the Narrow Sea fell to their knees. Stannis stepped forward, pushing through the crowd until he was mere feet from the people who had just killed the Red Woman. “Your powers cannot be denied, Lord and Lady Jackson, Lord Zhang. Melisandre spelled her own doom when she was foolish enough to strike you. Anyone who starts a fight they are unprepared to win has no place among my advisors. Perhaps the Red God is not all she claimed him to be. Be welcome to my court. In the morning, we will discuss what will be done. Ser Axell, find the Lords and Lady suitable rooms. Or do you prefer Prince, Percy Jackson?” Stannis’ voice betrayed no distress, despite what these three had done to the woman who drank poison and survived without a scratch. The bear changed back into a man, but still looked just as fierce.
The son of the sea god opened his mouth like a fish, but once again allowed his wife to speak for him when she touched his arm. What an odd man, allowing himself to be led by a woman. After seeing her decapitate the Red Woman and move that quickly, however, Davos wasn’t sure he’d want to contradict her either.
“His Highness will be addressed as a Prince of the Sea is due. His father, Lord Poseidon, is King of the Sea,” she demanded. The woman may only be a princess by marriage, but her voice was proof she was used to having her orders obeyed.
“So be it, Princess. You will be considered diplomats of a visiting Kingdom. And you, Lord Zhang?” Annabeth blinked at being called princess , and her husband had to hold back a chuckle, but thankfully the shape-shifter was the one with Stannis’ attention.
“Praetor Zhang is fine, Your Grace.”
“What does this word mean?” The King demanded. Davos could see now that Zhang was a slightly awkward man, now that the fighting had ended, but he still carried himself like a commander.
“The Twelfth Legion is run by two Praetors. I am one of them. It’s a military rank,” he explained. He seemed to have an accent slightly different from his companions, but more similar to the Princess’ than the Prince’s.
“Ser Axell, see their Highnesses and Praetor Zhang to suitable rooms.” Stannis ordered.
In less than five minutes, Davos’ entire world had been turned on its head. Even as the crowd of nobles muttered amongst themselves, and many of the Queen’s Men mourned the loss of their King’s favor for the Red God, Stannis turned on his heel and strode off towards the castle. His crown glimmered in the now-dimming firelight, but men-at-arms still rushed after him, to ensure he was protected. Davos wasn’t sure it would make much difference. The three youths met Ser Axell and a small contingent of men-at-arms with all the silent, straight-backed dignity Davos was used to seeing in hardened warriors. They allowed themselves to be led towards the castle as well, but did not put away their weapons. The married ones walked hand in hand, with the shapeshifter close on their heels. Davos turned away as soon as he could bring himself to. He had to go to the desecrated Sept, then to the half-forgotten shrine to the Merling King in Dragonstone’s port town. He had candles to light to the Warrior and Crone, and a sacrifice to make.
Chapter 2: Percy I (We Purposefully Vaporize a Witch)
Summary:
By demigod standards, his life was boring. Percy loved it. Naturally, it couldn’t last.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Percy had been having a good day. Hell, he’d been having a good two years. He should’ve known his luck would run out eventually. After he, Annabeth, and Grover had finished their road trip to New Rome, he’d begun his career as a college student. He’d eventually decided on a marine biology major, and was even getting pretty good grades. He spent the school year at college, and the summers and breaks with his Mom, Paul, and Estelle, or at Camp Half-Blood. He was happy, somehow. Percy had never expected to make it to sixteen, but his nineteenth and twentieth birthdays had passed without any quests, particularly infuriating divine visits, or world-shattering threats. He was a junior in college now, on track to graduate from NRU. He’d never been to one school for this long before, it was nice. He shared an apartment with his girlfriend, who he was madly in love with, and had learned the art of cleaning to Annabeth’s exacting standards. By demigod standards, his life was boring. Percy loved it.
Naturally, it couldn’t last. His first mistake was leaving New Rome, even if it was with Frank and Annabeth. Annabeth’s father had been very insistent in recommending a new restaurant in San Francisco. Hazel was at Camp Half-Blood, visiting Nico, and Mr. Chase was visiting Magnus in Boston, but both encouraged the three of them to go regardless. They’d barely sat down when all the mortals around them froze suddenly. An old woman at the next table over paused with her fork still in mid-air. A waiter kept pouring water long after the glass was full. Percy wasn’t even surprised when it happened, he was just disappointed. He’d made it to twenty, things were supposed to be easier for demigods after that. He rarely even had to deal with monsters anymore, they were all terrified of him. At least they’d all brought their weapons.
With a long-suffering sigh, Annabeth stood up, grabbing her drakon-bone sword. Percy uncapped Riptide, and Frank readied his bow. They all waited, silently, for whatever shit was about to go down. A green glow from outside was the first sign that their assailant deigned to give. Warily, the three demigods made their way through the restaurant to stand on the sidewalk outside. The whole block seemed to be frozen, cars idling in the middle of the road, birds hovering in mid-air as they flapped their wings lazily. Some scrawny kid with brown hair, green eyes, too many freckles, and an Imperial Gold sword was standing at the other end of the street, smiling menacingly.
“Percy Jackson!” he yelled.
“...yes?”
“Fuck you!” Percy blinked. He looked over to his girlfriend, who was studying the man carefully. Frank nocked an arrow, but didn’t attack, waiting for Percy’s signal. Monsters usually went on rants about how Percy’s dad had wronged them, or how good demigods tasted. This sort of theatrics was rare, usually from low-level gods or Titans. Even then, such a succinct and to the point piece of pre-fight banter was almost refreshing.
“Do we know you?” Frank asked.
“Shut up, Roman. I’m here for these two. I’ve been waiting for you to leave that stupid camp for months ! I’ll finally give you what you deserve!” Never mind, he definitely had a penchant for the dramatic.
“Look man, I don’t know what I did to you-” Percy began, but the man cut him off with strained laughter. He pulled what looked like a stack of notecards out of his pocket with his free hand, and began leafing through them.
“You don’t know! You blew up the Princess Andromeda , with all my friends and siblings on board. You slaughtered us in Manhattan, hunted us like dogs after. Left those of us who wouldn’t bow and scrape for forgiveness to the wolves. You killed Kronos, and kept the gods in power, in spite of all the terrible things they’ve done.” Percy wasn’t sure if this guy was on the verge of tears, about to kill him, or both, but he was definitely a demigod who’d fought for Kronos. And the only one Percy knew about who hadn’t rejoined the camps was…
“Alabaster Torrington,” Annabeth said from next to him. Frank clearly didn’t recognize the name, but kept his bow at the ready regardless.
“You’re a son of Hecate, right? We did a favor for your mom a couple years ago, we’re on good terms! Kronos lost the war. There’s no need for this,” Percy said, “the amnesty offer still stands.”
“You ruined my life. You killed my friends. There is every need for this. If I killed you, you’d just wind up in Elysium, celebrated as heroes for eternity. I won’t allow that. So I’m going to send you to where even the gods can’t reach you.” Percy rolled his eyes, and got into a fighting stance. Torrington put the cards away, seeming to change his mind about something as he spoke.
“There’s no need to be that dramatic, dude. It’s just Alaska.” Sure, the gods couldn’t reach there, but it wasn’t that bad. With Gaea and Alcyoneus gone, it might even be tolerable.
“Not Alaska, Jackson. Honestly, I’m not even sure where you’ll end up. I don’t care. This’ll be the last we see of each other. Incantare: exsilium. ”
Before it happened, Percy’s brain was helpful enough to supply a translation. Incantation: exile . Alabaster’s eyes flashed, and the unnatural green that filled them was suddenly all around Percy. For a moment, he could see nothing but the green, and panic began to set in. Where was Annabeth? Frank? Was he dead? But as quickly as it had appeared, the odd light faded. What replaced it was far worse.
Percy was hundreds of feet in the air, above a beach, on the coast of an island that looked straight out of a Wii Sports Resort/Lord of the Rings crossover. He had enough time to catch a glimpse of a smouldering volcano, rolling hills, a crowd below him, and a gargantuan, intricate castle, before all illumination faded and he was plunged into darkness. The sky went from daylight-blue to pitch-black in an instant, with the stars and moon making themselves visible a moment later. The wind was already whistling in his ears as he fell, and he lost his grip on Riptide. No worries, it would return to his pocket soon enough. Something grabbed onto his hand, and even blinded by the wind, he recognized the feel of Annabeth’s grip. Thank the gods she was here too- wherever this was. He gripped her hand back, still desperately trying to get his bearings. He had no idea how to skydive. They were above a beach- if he could get a grip on the water, he could cushion their fall. But where the hell was Frank?
Frank, it seemed, was being smarter than him. A small bird streaked past him, diving from above far faster than a human could fall. It spread out its wings, and began to rapidly grow larger and darker. By the time Percy and Annabeth slammed into Frank’s back, he was a dragon, easily as big as Festus. Slowly, carefully, Frank lowered them to the ground. Percy was too winded to say much of anything, but he patted the dragon’s back in an approximation of thanks. He and Annabeth shifted around until they were sitting on Frank’s back as if he were a horse, rather than a dragon. His girlfriend squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture, while he observed all he could about their surroundings. The air smelled of salt and sulfur, a strange mix he hadn’t been exposed to since Mt. Saint Helens. The salt was presumably from the sea, and the sulfur… well, hopefully this wasn’t Tartarus. As Frank descended, Percy began to make out more and more of the castle. It looked to be made of hundreds of stone dragons, carved into any number of configurations and contortions to shape all the towers and walls a castle could need. It was creepy as fuck.
The place only started to seem creepier when they finally landed, Frank letting out an Earth-shaking roar. Riptide once again in his hand, Percy slipped off Frank’s back, Annabeth joining him moments later. She looked beautiful in the flickering firelight, but that was the last thing on Percy’s mind. They were standing in front of a massive fire, surrounded by a crowd that looked straight out of Medieval Times. They all had animals emblazoned on something, were armed with swords, dressed in armor and weird-ass clothes. Closest to the fire were a man and woman, both gaunt in their own way, wearing crowns shaped to look like flames. Behind them was a pile of large wooden statues, seemingly about to be fuel for the fire. Next to the man was an auburn-haired woman all in red, ethereally beautiful, but incredibly creepy. Something about her seemed more than human, and Percy didn’t like the way she looked at him at all . The court jester, too, seemed wrong . The hairs on the back of Percy’s neck stood up when he looked at the man, tattooed in motley and dressed in patches.
Frank roared again, and the air started to smell like piss. He might’ve scared these people a bit too much. Percy couldn’t feel the Mist around them like normal, this place must not have it. Or maybe Alabaster, a son of Hecate, had swept it away somehow. Maybe this was all one big trick of the Mist. Percy laid a hand on Frank’s side, trying to silently communicate to him that the dragon-form was maybe a bit too much, especially with the dragon-shaped gate of the castle glaring down at them. Annabeth, with her sixth sense for his mood, squeezed his hand in reassurance. Gods, Percy loved her. Frank thankfully took his cue, and shifted back into his regular human form. He looked as confused as Percy felt, while Annabeth was clearly still taking everything in. The woman in red called out to them before they could get a handle on what the fuck was goung on.
“You stand before Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Lord of Storm’s End, the Prince Who Was Promised, Azor Ahai Reborn, chosen of the Lord of Light, the one true God. Identify yourselves, and kneel before your king. Why do you carry a false Lightbringer? What manner of Valyrian blood magic is this?” Percy considered his vocabulary to be fairly impressive for a guy with dyslexia, but he didn’t understand most of those words. He looked to Annabeth, but she just shrugged. At least she was confused as he was. She spoke quickly and quietly to him in Ancient Greek.
“ This seems like the medieval period technologically, but I don’t recognize those titles or locations. And they seem to think we’re demons or witches. I think Alabaster sent us to a different world, maybe a different universe. Can you still feel your powers?” Percy nodded. The ocean was nearby, and he could feel it. Worst-case scenario, he could call up a wave and sweep the three of them away.
“I can, but it’s a bit muted. Feels like Alaska, oddly enough.” He whispered back. The looks of confusion from the people surrounding them were reassurance that they didn’t speak Ancient Greek, even if this weird island did know English.
“Good. Follow my lead, maybe if we talk big enough, it’ll impress them. Then we can make friends and go home. No need to fight the mortals, even if the Mist doesn’t seem to exist. Maláka , I should’ve said all this in Latin. Can you fill Frank in on the plan?” Percy was proud of himself for coming to the same conclusions as his girlfriend, at least.
“You got it. If this goes to shit, I love you.”
“Love you too, phykios,” she replied. He turned to Frank, switching to Latin.
“Annabeth wants us to follow her lead, she’s gonna try to impress these people into not killing us.” Frank rolled his eyes, and his hand moved ever so slightly towards his bow.
“That might work, we’re very impressive people. I trust her.”
“Can you fly us out if we need an exit?”
“ I can turn into an elephant and trample all these people if we really have to, but I’d rather not .”
“ Yeah, me neither .” He nodded to Annabeth, and she set her jaw with her usual bright-eyed determination. The three demigods nodded at each other, and Annabeth cleared her throat.
“My name is Annabeth of the House Chase, Architect of Olympus, daughter of grey-eyed Athena, Goddess of Wisdom. This is Frank of the House Zhang, Praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, son of Mars, God of War. And Percy of the House Jackson, Savior of Olympus, Prince of Atlantis and the Sea, former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, son of Poseidon, God of the Sea. You all seem to be mortals, we have no quarrel with any of you. Let us go on our way, so we can find a way home. I don’t know where this place is, and I suspect we’ve been taken from our own world. We just want to go home.” Everything his girlfriend said was true, but it made Percy sound far more impressive than he felt. He supposed that was the point.
“You dare!” The woman’s lips pulled back over her teeth, and the shadows seemed to darken around her, even as the flame flared. That wasn’t a good sign at all. “You claim descent from false gods! There is only one god, and King Stannis is his chosen champion. You are either liars, frauds, or servants of the Great Other. The Lord of Light smiles upon dragons, but not this magic.” Lovely. Religious fanatics, who seemed to have actual power no less.
“I don’t know who you are, Lady, but I promise you we’re telling the truth. Can we go?” Percy yelled back.
“You may not!” the crowned man shouted. Percy didn’t like how close his hand was to his sword. “Who are you, one of my brother’s bastards?”
“I have a lot of Uncles, but I don’t think you’re one of them,” he bit out. There was no way this guy was Hades or Zeus.
“You will address the King as Your Grace, or not at all,” one of them shouted.
“ Your Grace , we don’t want to fight, or to insult your god,” Frank begged. The woman in red kept walking forward regardless.
“You have given insult regardless, Frank of the House Zhang. You have fire within you, I can smell it. You may not be the son of any true god, but you have the flames of life in your bones. The Lord of Light has blessed you.” Frank looked over at Percy, eyes wide with shock. His friend may not have had his stick anymore, but Percy knew that phobias didn’t go away that easily. If this woman could sense the remains of that spell within him, how powerful was she? “But you- you two have no fire. You, Percy Jackson, smell of salt and sea, earth and horse. There is no fire in you, only waters that seek to douse our nightfire and plunge us all into darkness. And you, Annabeth Chase, have a power in you, yes, but not that of R’hllor. It must therefore be that of the Great Other.” Detecting all of Percy’s powers that easily was equally impressive, even if he was a bit offended at being told he smelled like a horse. He tried, for everyone’s sake, to stay respectful.“I’m glad we pass your test, ma’am,” Percy said. The woman kept walking, and the fire behind her moved . Leo could create flames, but this woman could warp them. Streams of fire wrapped themselves around her hands and wrists like snakes, but she seemed completely unbothered by the heat. Percy kept a level head. He’d beaten worse than whatever this woman was.
“You have passed no tests. You are a heretic and an enemy of R’hllor, Lord Jackson. As are your wife and companion, if they stand by you.” Wife? They thought he and Annabeth were married? All they’d done was hold hands- how backwards were these people? He wasn’t complaining, Percy absolutely wanted to marry her and knew she felt the same, but it was still a strange assumption to make for a couple just barely out of their teens. And how could he be an enemy of a god he’d never even heard of?
“Lord Jackson? Wife?” Frank echoed, a grin tugging at his lips. Percy and Annabeth exchanged amused glances, but the woman took their momentary distraction as an opportunity. Fire shot out from her hands, and Percy shoved aside his friends before they could get hit. He was fireproof, while Annabeth wasn’t, and Frank was terrified of it. He’d take the brunt of the attack. His shirt burned off, and the fire slowly grew more and more uncomfortable, but it was nowhere near as bad as the lava the Telekhines had thrown at him. He tried to stagger forward, but the woman shouted in a language he didn’t recognize, and the flames’ pressure on his chest increased. The pain was becoming noticeable, but he took several steps towards the woman, Riptide still clutched in his hand. The stream of fire from the bonfire to Percy’s chest, pausing only to eddy around the woman’s hands, split into three. Tongues of flame reached out towards Annabeth and Frank. That, Percy could not allow.
He tugged on the place behind his belly button where his powers lay, and two streams of water rose from the nearby sea to hit the flames. Fire and water met in mid-air, turning to harmless steam. His friend and girlfriend (wife, whatever) were safe. Before the woman could react, he charged forward, plunging Riptide hilt-deep into her heart. She gasped, and he yanked the blade back out even as the flames faded back to nomal.
“Huh. Guess she wasn’t mortal. I wasn’t really expecting that to work. Never seen a monster with human blood before,” Percy muttered to himself. It was a bit disconcerting to be sure. Before he could finish off the woman, or decide to spare her, his friends moved. Frank’s next arrow lodged itself in her chest, and Annabeth came flying from over Percy’s shoulder, landing behind the kneeling woman, and slicing off her head in a single stroke. He had to admit, it was insanely attractive. The woman’s head was turning to gray dust before it even hit the ground, and her body followed. It seemed like she was a monster, then. Odd that her dust was gray instead of yellow.
Annabeth was definitely trying not to stare at him while he was shirtless, but there was enough going on that her attention was split. Percy caught a glimpse of a jester out of the corner of his eyes, and to his shock, the man did not seem to be alone. Behind him was a towering figure, easily seven feet tall, with a hand on the fool’s shoulder. The figure had the gray-white skin of the drowned, dressed in rags, with long black hair covering its face. Water seemed to be pouring off every surface of its body, though the water disappeared before it touched the ground. Percy blinked, and the thing disappeared.
Within moments, the stunned crowd recovered its wits seemingly all at once, and a hundred swords were drawn from scabbards all at once. Percy was relieved to see, at least, that they were regular steel, and that some of the crowd seemed far less enthusiastic about avenging the strange woman than others. The more fanatical devotees pushed their way to the front, and Percy saw a man with an onion on his chest staggering backwards, pushing a bunch of teenagers who looked just like him away from the demigods. He really didn’t want to have to kill any parents in front of their kids today, or kids in front of their parents, but Percy was rapidly losing hope that this would end any way but a full-on battle. The demigods stood back-to-back, and Percy pulled from the nearby sea in a last effort to scare these people into submission. He took the opportunity to wind the seawater around his scalded chest, and to clean Riptide of the deeply unsettling blood the woman had left on it. Frank turned into a huge grizzly bear in seconds, and Annabeth kissed his cheek. They both readied their swords, prepared to fight, or to flee.
“ENOUGH! Stop this madness!” The King drew his own sword, even as the nobles of the Narrow Sea fell to their knees. Stannis stepped forward, pushing through the crowd until he was mere feet from them. “Your powers cannot be denied, Lord and Lady Jackson, Lord Zhang. Melisandre spelled her own doom when she was foolish enough to strike you. Anyone who starts a fight they are unprepared to win has no place among my advisors. Perhaps the Red God is not all she claimed him to be. Be welcome to my court. In the morning, we will discuss what will be done. Ser Axell, find the Lords and Lady suitable rooms. Or do you prefer Prince, Percy Jackson?” Percy did not mean to stumble into a massive political and religious dispute, he’d really just wanted a good lunch. He opened his mouth to say that he really just preferred Percy, but Annabeth lightly touched his arm, and he held back.
“His Highness will be addressed as a Prince of the Sea is due. His father, Lord Poseidon, is King of the Sea,” Annabeth demanded. She was having fun with this, Percy could tell. He was less amused by the technicality, and sent up a silent prayer to his father that he wouldn’t be struck down for his insolence. Yes, his dad had told him he was a prince, but it still didn’t feel right. Hopefully, being a Prince would be enough for the King to keep them alive.
“So be it, Princess. You will be considered diplomats of a visiting Kingdom. And you, Lord Zhang?” Annabeth blinked at being called princess , and Percy couldn't help but laugh softly. She walked right into that one.
“Praetor Zhang is fine, Your Grace,” Frank demurred.
“What does this word mean?”
“The Twelfth Legion is run by two Praetors. I am one of them. It’s a military rank,” he explained.
“Ser Axell, see their Highnesses and Praetor Zhang to suitable rooms.” The rude man- Ser Axell- gave his king a stiff nod, and gestured for the demigods to follow. They did so, warily, keeping their swords out. The dragons in the stonework were even creepier up close. When the massive gates swung open, four guards fell into step behind them, and another two flanked Axell. Percy wasn’t sure if it was a sign of respect or distrust. Either way, he’d be careful.
As they walked farther into the castle, Percy was stunned by how literally every surface was shaped like a dragon, or some too-familiar mythical creature. The smell of sulfur got stronger the closer to the volcano they got, and didn’t abate in the least when they entered one of the keeps. Whoever had built this place, they’d nailed the creepiness factor. He’d never heard of any island in the world with a castle like this one, let alone one where the inhabitants spoke English with a British accent. A castle like this would be a marvel on a worldwide scale. He could see Annabeth examining the stonework with awe, even as she examined their guards with a watchful eye. Eventually, Axell stopped outside a door.
“Would the three of you prefer separate chambers for Your Highness and Praetor Zhang, or shared ones?” He sounded deeply pained to be making that offer, and Percy could see the hate in his eyes.
“Shared.” They all said in unison. None of them felt like being split up with all this weird shit going on. Axell nodded, and he and the guards led them to another door. They were ushered inside, and blissfully left in privacy. There were two beds, an empty fireplace, and a window looking out over the beach. The room had two desks and a rug, it seemed to be the kind of place a couple of siblings would sleep. None of them were eager to go to bed just yet. Annabeth poked her head out the window, leaning back in and drawing the curtains shut. Percy assumed she was checking for any dangers outside. Frank’s eyes kept flicking to the door. His paranoia must have won out, because when he spoke, it was in Latin.
“ What’s to stop them from killing us in our sleep?” he asked. “ These people don’t seem to like us very much.”
“Nothing. We’re not sleeping tonight. We’ll study this world until the meeting with the King tomorrow. I don’t want to negotiate without a level playing field.” Annabeth said.
“Great, more homework,” Percy muttered. Despite the snark, he agreed. There was no other way to go about this.
“I don’t like it either. I doubt they have the printing press here, quill-written cursive is terrible for my dyslexia.” she said. They all sat on the rug at once, keeping a hand on their weapons. No one was sure what to do next. Annabeth tucked her head against Percy’s shoulder, and he took some comfort from that, at least. At least they were together, despite the… change in locale. They’d been through Tartarus. Medieval Dragon Volcano Place couldn’t be that bad comparatively.
“Are we going to address the elephant in the room?” Frank asked, gesturing between Percy and Annabeth.
“ You’re usually the elephant in the room, Frank,” she said.
“Very funny. I didn’t know you two got married? Why wasn’t I invited!”
“We didn’t. I let them make an assumption. Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake. It's also probably for the best we don’t tell them our parents weren’t married. Unless we learn something to the contrary, we should assume they’re full-on Middle Ages Catholics. Inquisition and all, since apparently they don’t have a problem burning people alive. ” Percy mock-pouted at his girlfriend’s pronouncement.
“I didn’t know our marriage was a mistake, dearest wife.” Sounding sarcastic in Latin wasn’t easy, but Percy had gotten the hang of it. Frank cackled, until Annabeth silenced him with a glare.
“I called you a prince, which you are. I would’ve commanded some respect as a lady, but a princess carries more weight.”
“Damn. Just using me for my title and prestige. I see how it is. This is the most romantic proposal I’ve ever heard.”
“Glad you understand. Plus, with the way some of them were staring at us, I think we’re all going to get a lot of propositions, for marriage and… otherwise, pretty soon. Frank, probably best you pretend to be married. I’m sure Hazel won’t mind. ”
“ I miss her already.” Gods, Percy hadn’t even considered what Frank must be dealing with. Sure, he was friends with Percy and Annabeth, but he was now the third wheel. He hadn’t meant to make things awkward.
“I know, buddy. Me too. But she’ll be fine, it’s our asses that are about to get thrown into the fire. Literally.” Percy muttered.
Only moments later, there was a knock on the door. Annabeth took her head off Percy’s shoulder, and they all gripped their weapons a little tighter.
“Enter!” Percy called out. The door opened, and two women in what he could only describe as servant’s garb hurried inside, keeping their heads down. Neither seemed much older than Percy, but one had silvery-white hair in spite of her youth. Odd. The other woman carried a bundle of firewood, and they quickly and efficiently made a fire in the fireplace. Percy was grateful for the warmth in such a cold and dreary place, but he hated being doted on by servants . Was this what being a prince entailed? The demigods watched them warily as they built the fire and checked over the beds, none of them trusting that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate trick. One handed Percy some sort of linen shirt, which he gratefully accepted and slipped on. The woman was careful not to meet his eyes, however, which was definitely disconcerting. Annabeth seemed disappointed at Percy putting a shirt back on, but it was less awkward this way. When the women were finally satisfied with their tasks, they stood by the doors and bowed their heads towards Percy and Annabeth.
“Is there anything else you need, Highnesses?” That was… very weird to hear.
“No, thank you both,” he said. “What are your names?” They blinked in shock, as if no one had ever bothered to ask them that before.
“My name is Aly, My Prince.” The white-haired one said. “This is Elinda.”
“Thank you, Aly,” Annabeth said. “Does this castle… what is this castle called?”
“Dragonstone, Highness.”
“Does Dragonstone have a library? Some sort of learned man?” Aly tilted her head in confusion before she replied.
“Yes, Princess. There’s a library in Sea Dragon Tower, with Maester Pylos. If I might ask…”
“Ask anything, Aly. it’s alright,” Annabeth assured her. Percy hated that these people were so scared of them, but Annabeth seemed to be doing a good job of assuaging any fears.
“Is your mother really the Crone?” She sounded… hopeful, almost. But scared too.
“I think my mother would take offense at being referred to as old. My mother is Athena, the goddess of wisdom. But in my experience, almost any god imaginable is real, if people still believe in them. Who is this Crone?”
“One of the Seven, Highness. The aspect of the Seven who one prays to for wisdom or guidance.”
“And the other aspects?”
“Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Stranger.” Annabeth muttered something to herself about triple goddesses and different pantheons, before smiling at Aly.
“Can you have us escorted to this Maester Pylos, please? We have a lot of questions.”
A trio of guards arrived soon after the two women took their leave, both with stags embroidered on their chests. Maester Pylos turned out to be a relatively young man, not much older than Percy, dressed all in gray with a chain around his neck. His library had a bunch of ravens above it, and was well-stocked with scrolls and books in a language Percy didn’t recognize.
The three demigods stayed up the entire night pestering Maester Pylos with questions. It was past midnight in this strange new land, which they learned was called Westeros, but it had been closer to noon in California, so they weren’t very tired to begin with. Pylos gave them a crash course on thousands of years of Westerosi history, with a particular focus on the last twenty years. Annabeth asked any question she could think of about the current state of the continent, its lords, and the motivations of the various sides in war.
They learned about the recent death of King Robert, who’d deposed the Targaryen dynasty. The King outside was Stannis, who had the best claim (if the accusations about the King’s children were to be believed, which it seemed like they were) but the smallest amount of forces. Pylos described him as fair, just, and honorable, if nothing else. He explained about the Queen’s Men and King’s Men, and the recent conversion of the King to the faith of the Lord of Light. Apparently the woman they’d killed was a priestess. Percy didn’t care much for that ‘one true god’ bullshit, so it was no great loss as far as he was concerned. She’d seemed like a fanatic, and she had tried to kill him. They’d interrupted a burning of statues torn from the local Sept, a shrine of the Seven. Hopefully their arrival would inspire Stannis to be somewhat more tolerant of different gods.
As the night went on, Annabeth began drawing up her own, highly-accurate map from those they were presented with, with all the labels in Greek. She went about marking the various regions with basileos or tyrannos depending on their ruler. Dragonstone, their current location, was given the basileos designation, as were the North and Riverlands. The Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands and Crownlands were marked tyrannos . The Vale and Dorne were both left blank, to show their neutrality.
“ So… this Stannis guy is alright then? ” Percy asked in Latin when Stannis was marked with basileos . Pylos seemed fascinating by the language he was speaking, but was polite enough not to ask.
“ Seems so. A bit harsh, but if what this guy’s saying is true, he probably has the best chance of victory with our help. Besides, we’d have to steal a ship to leave, or fly off on a dragon. That would be… messy. The people here saw us appear from thin air and use our powers already. No need to waste that. And, with the right plan, this Stannis guy has a better chance to win than the others.” Annabeth’s plan seemed to revolve around impressing the locals enough to win their aid, rather than going on a quest like they were used to. Percy had to admit, it was a very nice change of pace. Frank seemed to be in agreement as well, and their lessons on Westeros and Essos went on.
In Percy’s defense, he really did plan on pulling an all-nighter. But when they went back to interrogating the poor Maester, and Percy laid his head on Annabeth’s shoulder, and the only light in the room was a couple of candles, who could blame him for drifting off? Percy didn’t even notice that he’d been falling asleep, but he immediately recognized a demigod dream. Percy found himself floating beneath the ocean, surrounded by nothing but clear blue water. The figure from the beach was in front of him, long, stringy hair floating about its face, pallid skin even creepier under the water. The faintest rays of sunlight from above weren’t enough for Percy to make out any other features.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Percy asked. The figure cocked its head at him.
“Who are you ? What do you want?” it repeated. Its voice was a baritone gurgle, as though its mouth was full of water. Nothing should’ve been able to make that sort of noise while submerged. Percy knew immediately that this was a god. Thankfully, it continued talking, and saved him from making a fool of himself. “I heard your woman’s introduction, Percy of the House Jackson, son of the Sea God. But I have no son. My only daughter was stolen from me long ago. Who are you to claim my domain?” Percy gulped. Inter-pantheon diplomacy wasn’t his strong suit.
“I’m sorry, my Lord. My father is Poseidon, the Greek sea god. I think my friends and I come from a different world. I didn’t mean any disrespect. But… how did you hear? Was it the jester? Is he a servant of yours?” The god’s black hair moved enough for Percy to catch a glimpse of an eye as blue as the shallow sea, before another lock drifted to cover it.
“He drowned. He is mine.” That answer was both creepier and less cryptic than Percy expected. “I have never heard of this Poseidon. You are no Rhoynish water-witch.”
“I don’t even know what those words mean, Lord. What can I call you?”
“You are an insolent and presumptive one, Percy Jackson.”
“So I’ve been told, Lord.”
“I can admire your directness. I am Old, godling. I have had many names, many faces, and many roles. For the Sistermen, I was the Lady of the Waves, and my husband was the Lord of the Skies. The First Men, before they abandoned us for those trees, thought me the Sea God, and my wife the Goddess of the Wind. To the Ironborn, I am the Drowned God, and my enemy is the Storm God. I am all of these things and none. My husband, my wife, my foe, is all of those things and none. I am more than you will ever fathom. And you are nothing.” Another flash of pale blue eyes, and Percy suddenly felt the weight of the sea pressing down on his shoulders, uncomfortably similar to the Sky he’d once held. He was usually immune to the pressure changes that came from being underwater, it was a supremely strange sensation to be suddenly subjected to it. It lasted only a moment, then it was gone. The god looked at him with what seemed to be curiosity, and made a watery gurgling noise that Percy recognized as laughter. “You do not drown.”
“I told you. My father is a sea god. I can breathe underwater, control liquids. No, I don’t drown.” The god laughed again, and a chill went up Percy’s spine. Some part of him had feared drowning since Alaska. Could this god kill him that easily, even in a dream? “I don’t want to fight you. I just want to go home.”
“You agreed to help Stannis Baratheon.”
“We did, yes. We won’t survive long here without allies.”
“No. You will not.” Struck by another of his characteristically stupid ideas, Percy decided to try making a new ally.
“Is there anything my friends and I can do for you , Lord? Tell others of your power? Retrieve an item of some sort, maybe in exchange for being sent home?” The god studied him for a few moments before speaking.
“That is not within my power, godling. I do not know if it is possible. But you do amuse me. There has not been a mortal of your power or impertinence in this world since Brandon. Your companions are much the same. Regardless of what the foolish Ironborn think, I do not need their sacrifices, and I care nothing for the pleas or complaints of mortals. The Drowned Men are not truly my servants. Nor is the Crow’s Eye, who fancies himself the godliest man on the seas. One who is mine, who is dead but can never die, is a rare thing indeed. You will never be one of my servants.” At that, Percy let out a sigh of relief- as much as something was possible when breathing water. “But I ask that you stop the last of my blood from killing each other. I do miss my dear Elenei. Her line may be tainted by that damned Durran, and the Valyrians, but it is her line nonetheless. All gods abhor the kinslayer.” In his experience, that wasn’t precisely true. Gaea was his great-grandmother, which made the Giants his half-great-uncles. Percy had killed plenty of them and gotten a pat on the back for it. He’d killed at least two of his half-brothers, and fought a war against his grandfather. Maybe the gods of this world had less messy families than the Olympians did.
“And who are the last of your blood?” Percy asked. The god only laughed again.
“Ask your woman, foolish godling. She will know. I will not kill you, this is the most intriguing thing to happen since those annoying Flames finally burnt out. Balerion was such a pain in the ass. Awaken, and learn.”
The god snapped its fingers, and when Percy woke, he could still taste the sea.
Notes:
Ancient Greek:
Phykios: an epithet of Poseidon. A loose equivalent to Seaweed Brain, the use of which here is inspired by the incredible fic The Marble King by lammermoorian
Malaka: A curse word
Basileos: King/Emperor
Tyrannos: King with no claim to rule
Chapter 3: Annabeth I
Notes:
This is mostly logistics, I surprised myself with how little dialogue there was. Next time, we'll check back in with Davos, for Stannis and the Lords' view of wtf is going on.
I have a tumblr where I talk about this fic (and my others) now!: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jainasoloswife
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Percy woke from his dream, Annabeth had heard enough about this place to recognize the god he hurriedly described. As he recounted every part of the dream to her, Frank, and Pylos, both she and the Maester made the connection to the parent of Elenei, wife of Durran Godsgrief- the ancestor of the Durrandon Kings, and therefore the Baratheon Lords. The gods of this world did not want Stannis and Renly at each others’ throats. Annabeth dismissed the Maester, and the demigods returned to their rooms to await their summons by the King. Aly and Elinda brought them a light breakfast of strange medieval food just as the sun began to come up, and the demigods gratefully wolfed down their portions.
Annabeth had hoped their parents existed in this world, that Athena or Poseidon or even Zeus could send them home, but she knew it was a vain, foolish hope. Percy had described the sea as feeling beyond his father’s reach. None of them could manipulate the Mist, which didn’t seem to exist at all. The Olympians had given no sign of their displeasure with anything they’d done. Percy was contacted by a local deity, rather than Poseidon, who was doubtless worried for his favorite son. Annabeth had even tried to quietly swear an oath on the River Styx, just to hear the thunderclap such oaths always drew out. After she threw a crust of bread into the fire, she prayed.
She’d promised to properly marry her boyfriend, in the eyes of gods and mortals alike, as soon as possible once they returned home. She’d meant it, too. Hopefully, it would stop Poseidon from killing her as soon as he learned she’d been claiming to be a Princess of Atlantis. Alas, the skies had stayed blue and silent. Annabeth would be just one more false royal, it seemed. This continent had enough of those already, one more wouldn’t be anything special.
Although, as she was quick to inform Percy, they were technically married by Athenian standards. Cohabitation was the greatest part of marriage in Ancient Athens, and they’d been living together since they moved into college. If Poseidon lost his shit, she could argue the technicality. Besides, the god of the sea had forgiven his favorite son for sitting on his throne before, and grudgingly came to approve of Percy and Annabeth’s relationship. He would surely forgive this too. She was not, however, stupid enough to put on a crown, or have Percy do the same. Some risks, even she didn’t want to take.
“I can’t believe this,” Frank muttered, after Percy had laughed and declined to make a sacrifice of his own. “I thought finding you two in the stables was bad. You’re going to be even more insufferable now.” Percy had blushed prettily while Annabeth cackled with laughter, but neither of them denied it. She could tell he was as pleased by this as she was.
Mere minutes after their breakfast was finished, a knock on the door sounded, and four men-at-arms entered. The demigods were led in silence to the central keep of the castle, and up winding steps to the highest floor. Annabeth marvelled at the gargantuan table in the center of the room, painted and sculpted from wood, showing Westeros as it had been in Aegon’s day. Pylos had told her about this place. The maester was sitting near Skagos, gazing out the window and over the sea. Stannis was seated near Dragonstone, unsurprisingly, with Axell Florent to his right by the Vale. A man whose sigil was a black ship with an onion on its sails sat near the Stormlands, while a variety of other lords, marked with a seahorse, crabs, colorful swirls, a telescope, a swordfish, and a few others without sigils, sat around the table. Three seats were left open, directly across from the King. Oppressive silence reigned as the demigods took their seats: Percy in the middle, flanked by Frank and Annabeth. Stannis seized the three of them up in the light of day, looking between them with a mix of scorn and interest.
“You will tell me who you are, what you want, why you’re here, and who these gods of yours are. Melisandre attacked you, I will not begrudge actions taken in self-defense. She should have known better than to start a fight she could not win. I allowed you the night to acclimate yourselves, and Maester Pylos tells me you have used it well, but I will know everything about how you came to be in the skies above my island, and I will know it now.” Stannis was a hard and bitter-looking man, but he spoke with the authority of one who was used to being obeyed, without the haughtiness she expected.
“The three of us are demigods, children of a god and a mortal. We come from a world different to this one, although there do seem to be some similarities. An old enemy of ours caught up with us, and cast a spell that sent us here. I think the intent was to make sure we could never return home. Our gods don’t seem to exist in this world, and yours don’t exist in ours. You are as in the dark as we are, Your Grace,” Frank answered.
“Yet you claim to wish to help me? Melisandre declared me to be Azor Ahai reborn, and it was her holy mission to serve my cause. Yet the three of you had never even heard of Westeros before last night, by your own admission.”
“It’s in both of our interests to see Westeros united and stable,” Annabeth argued.
“And why is that?” Asked the seahorse-marked Lord. A sigil-less man who shared his silver hair and general appearance sat to his right, and Annabeth realized these must be the Velaryons. Pylos had mentioned their crucial support of the Targaryen dynasty. Annabeth drummed her fingers on the table, and started to recount the history the demigods had spent the night learning. Only Lord Monford, however, had the Valyrians’ unnatural purple eyes. Annabeth had many questions about the genetics of this strange ethnicity, but they could wait.
“Alright. Here’s what I’ve learned, correct me if I’m wrong. You, Stannis Baratheon, are the late King’s brother. You allege the Ling’s three children are bastards born of incest between his queen and her brother, which, ew. From what I’ve heard, I believe you. And from the stories of his brutality, this Joffrey sounds like a terrible King anyway. Your brother got the throne by overthrowing the three-hundred year old Targaryen dynasty, who conquered the continent with their dragons. Robert’s claim derived from your Targaryen grandmother and his military skill. Any mistakes?” She directed the question to Pylos, who shook his head.
“None, princess.”
“Good. Your brother Renly has allied with the richest and most populous region of this continent, declaring his own claim with no legal justification. He’s well-liked but inexperienced. You’re experienced but not well-liked, and have the fewest troops. The Lannisters have the Crownlands and their home Westerlands. The Northerners want independence, and have two Kingdoms. The Vale and Dorne are neutral.” Annabeth pointed out each kingdom on the table as she spoke.
“Every child on this island knows all of this,” Axell Florent spat.
“Yeah, well, yesterday I was designing a palace for my uncle, the god of war, so cut me some slack if I’m not up to date on the politics of a new continent. Stability here is in everyone’s best interest, especially ours. If we help you win this war, you’ll give us all the resources and knowledge we need to find a way home. Do we have a deal, Your Grace?” After a long moment of silence, Stannis nodded. Half the room seemed to slump their shoulders in relief, and the other half raised their hackles. Annabeth ignored them both. From the flinch that Axell gave off suddenly, and the way Percy tensed next to her, she guessed he was using his patented, Lupa-issued wolf stare on the asshole.
“We do, Your Highness. In exchange for your magic tricks, the three of you shall be treated as any other noble commander in my ranks, provided you prove yourselves. Regardless of your sex.” There was another ripple of discontent at that, but Percy’s grunt of approval and Annabeth’s own tight smile silenced it.
“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to send your forces, led by me, Percy, and some of your trusted commanders, to siege Storm’s End. At least one of those commanders will be Lord Velaryon. Percy will take the castle using his powers, and you and Frank will land inside the curtain wall, along with me. That little stunt should prove our usefulness. Renly will send his forces to meet you. You’ll have a parley, no doubt. You guys do that here, right?” Lord Velaryon seemed shocked by this pronouncement of what he would do, but from the way he leaned back in his chair, he had no complaints.
“We do, though I will not parley with my brother while he takes up treasonous arms against his rightful King,” Stannis said.
“Then you’re throwing away a key opportunity, Your Grace,” said the onion-ship guy. Stannis ground his teeth, but said nothing outwardly denying the man’s statement. Annabeth noticed the fingers of one hand were stunted. Was that a birth defect, or was he maimed?
“Which do you value more, pride or victory?” Percy asked. Stannis grimaced, but inclined his head in acknowledgment of the point.
“Taking back my castle was my plan as well, though I admit I’m curious to see if you can achieve this. The Red Woman had a vision of Renly’s death, and the fall of Storm’s End.”
“No, we don’t want him dead. That’s the worst-case scenario. If Renly dies, your possible forces are divided. Plus, Percy had a dream from one of the local gods, your ancestor, who doesn’t want you killing each other.” Annabeth’s pronouncement sent another ripple of interest and confusion around the room, but Pylos gave his confirmation, and it was silenced.
“I was under the impression that the three of you had no stake in the goings-on of this world, and none of the attachment to prophecy that the Red Woman had. It was almost enough to make me start to trust you,” Lord Velaryon remarked with a smirk. Percy laughed and shot him the same grin that always made Annabeth weak in the knees.
“The god of prophecy and his oracle are close personal friends. All our lives have been guided by prophecy too many times for our liking. I acknowledge the power of prophecy, Your Grace. In this world, however, we have no prophecies. Apollo isn’t here, and I have no idea if you are this… Prince That Was Promised. Honestly, I don’t care. I just want to go home.” The defeat in her boyfriend’s voice was heart wrenching, and Annabeth squeezed his thigh under the table.
“Then what would you have me do?” The King demanded. Annabeth took a deep breath, and continued to recite her plan.
“Frank will turn into a dragon, and fly you to Storm’s End after we lay siege to it. The Tyrells, Targaryen supporters in the last war, will be awed. Renly will be surprised, if nothing else. Use Frank as a symbol of legitimacy. Even once he turns into a human again, it’ll have shock value, and demonstrate the power at your disposal. Parade around us and the Velaryons. I’ll forge armor and weapons for the three of us to make our identities clearer to his party. I understand your nobility puts a great deal of emphasis on houses- their sigils, their history, all that. I can work with that. Houses Jackson and Zhang will stand behind you, on your world’s terms. Storm’s End is by the sea, Percy can use that for shock and awe too. Act like a Targaryen, like a King. The Reacher Lords were Targaryen loyalists, even if the Stormlords weren’t.
“With a dragon and three demigods, plus making him your heir and your Hand, you can get Renly to swear to you. That gives you the Stormlands and the Reach. Work together rather than killing your brother, Your Grace. Take the capital, end the Lannisters’ reign. However, there will be no mass executions, no raping, reaving, looting, sacking, burning, or murdering by your troops, or we’ll take care of it ourselves. All three of us are experienced commanders, and can help, in addition to using our powers to assist with attacks by sea, and invigorating your forces. Frank can greatly improve your land forces by training them, and Percy can make your ships run smoother than they ever have.” Stannis looked closely at both of her companions, and they nodded their confirmation of their skills. If any of the Lords of the Narrow Sea had complaints about her plan, they kept quiet.
“And the North?” swordfish-guy asked. That was Lord Bar Emmon, if she was remembering correctly.
“Cut a deal. Sounds to me like their independence is justified at this point. You have a common enemy in the Lannisters. If you can get the Starks to agree to fight with you, taking King’s Landing together will have a lot of weight. If not, sending them Joffrey’s head and their hostages will be a necessary gesture of goodwill. But even though we’ll help you depose the murderers, we won’t help you put down a revolt by an oppressed minority region. Nor will we subdue any particular religion, or promote any other. That’s not our problem,” Frank said. None of the three of them were big fans of subduing revolts of independence when they were completely justified. Their aid would only go so far.
“I will not give away half my Kingdom to a Usurper, no matter what you and your gods have to say about it,” the King bit out.
“Then you won’t have our help securing that half of your kingdom. Like I said, not our problem. But we will help you against the Lannisters,” Annabeth said.
“And in exchange for your assistance, what do you want? Aside from just going home.” This was from the man to Lord Velaryon’s right, the sigil-less one who Annabeth assumed was his brother.
“Oldtown,” she deadpanned. Stannis snorted with laughter, but he did not sound amused.
“An entire city? I might have given you a small keep for your services, if you achieve all you can say, but House Hightower has not as of yet been attainted. If I followed your plan, they would likely be rewarded for their services. Lord Hightower has not come down from his perch for years, but the Fat Flower’s wife comes from his house. Oldtown would thrive with Renly as Hand and heir, and Margaery as his wife.”
“No, I just need access to its libraries and learned men. Plus the ones here and at the Red Keep. We want to go home, Your Grace. We all have lives and families to return to. Frank has a wife, Percy and I have parents and siblings. We have friends and responsibilities. This world is not our problem. We’ll help you only as far as we need to. We won’t compromise our morals or principles to give you a leg up. Quite frankly, this whole monarchy thing is a terrible idea,” Annabeth explained. Stannis considered it for a moment, as his Lords watched him carefully.
“Your gods are detached from the affairs of mortal men?” The King asked. Annabeth laughed without humor.
“You have no idea. I can, however, give you and your people knowledge. Better city designs, medicine, science, that sort of thing. My mother is the goddess of wisdom. Our world’s technology is far better than yours, I’ve learned a great deal about a great many topics, and I never forget something once I’ve learned it. Some of this knowledge can be passed on to your people as well. In exchange for certain other concessions, of course. Lands, incomes, more independence and distance from outside constraints. You understand.” The demigods wouldn’t actually have any use for a castle, servants, or farmland, but they had no idea how long they would be here. Setting up a base of operations that didn’t smell like Tartarus or involve the Queen’s Men staring over her shoulder might not be the end of the world, and Percy had pointed out that they were more likely to seem trustworthy if their motives had the appearance of being less than altruistic. People were always more willing to accept selfishness than charity as a motivation. If Annabeth had just said she wanted to stop people from dying of disease that was easily preventable, she’d never have been believed.
“Perfectly,” said Stannis.
“I’ll also need access to your forges for a couple weeks, to make us all weapons and armor. Our styles are very different from your own, and none of what we brought with us can harm mortals.” Annabeth had her drakon-bone sword, and honestly she had no idea if it could hurt mortals, but she didn’t really want to find out. Percy only had Riptide, and while Frank had a bow, all his arrows were tipped with Imperial Gold. They’d agreed that, while none of them wanted to hurt or kill mortals, they had the potential to end a bloody war much faster by taking a handful of terrible peoples’ lives. Some, like Gregor Clegane, definitely deserved to die.
“What will the two of you be doing while your wife is wasting my time in the forge?” Stannis asked Percy. Annabeth ignored the thrill that being referred to as married sent through her spine.
“Making sure your army and navy are competent,” Percy said.
“Are you implying that they aren’t already?” Axell Florent shouted, his face turning red. Percy rolled his eyes at the man.
“I’m stating it outright. I know everything there is to know about every kind of ship ever made. Yours could use some work,” Percy drawled. Stannis ground his teeth so loudly Annabeth could’ve sworn she heard a cracking sound, but he nodded his agreement.
“Aye. Talk to Lord Velaryon. You will have access to the metal you need, and will be assigned servants as befits visiting nobility of your station. As foreigners, you owe me no fealty. I am not your King. But know this: disloyalty, treason, or sabotage will not be tolerated. You may not burn, Percy Jackson, but you do bleed. You will be my guests only so long as you uphold your end of our agreement, and violation of it will be met with the punishment for treason. As my Onion Knight will tell you, I reward loyalty and punish crime in equal measure. Do not do anything foolish.” Annabeth nodded her agreement. That was, by demigod standards, relatively fair. Ser Axell snorted, jabbing an accusing finger at Annabeth.
“She killed a Priestess of the Lord of Light, Your Grace. These people are heretics, foreigners, and sorcerers. They should all be put to the sword, if they will not burn. Do not renounce R’hllor now.” Stannis waved a hand dismissively, attention turning back to the Painted Table.
“I gave my devotion to the Red God, good ser, because Melisandre promised she could bring me my throne. If she lost her life to a trio of striplings, clearly she could not deliver on those promises. Perhaps these three can, perhaps not. Either way, I will not place my faith in gods to do what only men can accomplish ever again. Men win thrones, Ser Axell. Swords, and fire and blood. The Praetor, Prince, and Princess have pledged me their swords, I will not break faith with professed allies. Nor will I convert to the worship of their parents, or ban the worship of the Red God. You may continue your prayers to R’hllor, but do not expect me to do the same. And do not persecute the followers of the Seven either. There are too many gods on this island.” The King stood, and walked to the window, gazing out over the sea. Everyone in the room took that for the dismissal it was. Ignoring one last glare from the Castellan, the demigods hurried out of the Chamber of the Painted Table, and began to get to work.
-
While Percy and Frank made Stannis’ army as efficient as possible, Annabeth put some of her less-used skills to work. This was a world that ran on image and circumstance, and the demigods would need to do the same if they wanted to survive. With Frank and Percy’s input, she was able to weave banners for their ‘houses’ in a manner of hours, shocking the locals with how quickly her hands moved over the loom. Percy just smirked and watched proudly, while Annabeth reveled in being able to weave again. The result was two banners, one for House Zhang and one for House Jackson- which she was a member of now, apparently. Frank chose a purple field, blazoned with a golden laurel wreath and the crossed spears of Mars below it, also in gold. Purple was ridiculously expensive dye in the ancient world, but apparently here it was more abundant. She was informed by Pylos that houses Dayne and Dondarrion used purple in their banners, and the uniforms of their men-at-arms.
Her and Percy’s new sigil was easy to come up with. The banner was Camp Half Blood orange, the same shade as the shirts they’d spent much of their lives wearing, with a silver owl clutching a dark blue trident in its talons. The colors clashed rather garishly, yes, but there was no better symbol for their House. Besides, if she and Percy were going to play the game that these people seemed so invested in, they might as well do it well. As soon as the sigils had been designed, all the strange medieval clothing they were given was covered in it- either by Annabeth’s hand or by Aly’s. The girl seemed to have been assigned as their primary servant, likely because of her Targaryen-silver hair. Annabeth strongly suspected that she was a dragonseed, in all likelihood seen as closer to the gods than the non-Valyrian Lords were. Frank and Percy had each been given a squire as well, with a handful of additional female servants for each ‘House’. It was deeply awkward, but the demigods slowly became accustomed to it. Frank seemed to be fairly comfortable in the colors of the legion and his father’s symbol, while Percy seemed thrilled to be wearing the familiar orange, and a sigil that united the two of them. With any luck, her mother wouldn’t kill him for wearing an owl. He had, however, kissed her deeply when she suggested it, so clearly he didn’t mind. Annabeth would be lying if she claimed not to take any joy from wearing a trident either.
Far more important than weaving herself and her friends banners, however, was making them weapons. She’d thought herself a terrible smith until she saw just how slow the mortal blacksmiths were working, even with regular steel at their disposal. It took them hours to do what Beckendorf, Leo, Nyssa, or even Harley could’ve accomplished in seconds. Most of the smiths worked in two- or three-man teams, one person striking the metal with a hammer as others held it in place and shaped it. As a child of Athena, Annabeth’s focus was in architecture and sculpture, but she had learned to forge weapons and armor too. She’d worked with Celestial Bronze back at camp, and was laughed at by the Hephaestus kids for how clumsy and slow her work was. Now, surrounded by mortals and working with steel, she was stared at in awe. Annabeth could do the work of three people on her own, far faster and smoother than mortals. Her demigodly strength allowed her to work the metal with ease. Steel warped under the lightest touch, practically bending itself into the shapes she imagined. Intricate designs appeared with a modicum of effort. Dye bonded to the steel far quicker than it normally would, with brighter colors as the result. She used the basics of Hephaestus Cabin-style forging she knew to enchant the steel. It was nothing compared to Celestial Bronze, Imperial Gold, or Bone Steel, but every kid in the Camp Half Blood forges could make even mortal metals lighter, stronger, and more durable than normal. The blades she made were sharp enough to shave with (as tested by Percy, who refused to grow a beard on the grounds he would look too much like his dad), and would only rarely need to be honed or sharpened. While still heavier than Celestial Bronze, it was lighter than normal steel, with plate able to stop a longbow’s arrow, and blades that could cut through stone. Annabeth really didn’t think it was all that impressive, but Frank assured her it was abnormal even by demigod standards.
She, Percy, and Frank easily fell into a routine. Annabeth spent her days making proper weapons and armor for the three of them, then collapsing into bed next to Percy when the sun went down. Her boyfriend/husband spent his own at the docks, making friends with sailors and the Velaryons, improving Stannis’ ships. Some days, he helped her in the forges, providing a second pair of hands when she needed it. His resistance to heat was invaluable. Frank drilled the sellswords and conscripted men in proper Roman discipline. On occasion, he too helped with the weaponry, as his powers as a child of Mars gave him some control over the weapons and armor closer to completion. The three of them took meals together, sometimes with the rest of the nobility in the great hall. At night, they each filled the others in on what they’d learned and accomplished, and polished off their plans for war.
After a few days without getting their throats slit, the demigods agreed to be moved to separate chambers. Their new rooms had solars and baths (thank the gods), with more servants doting on them. Annabeth had gathered that, despite the luxury of their original room, Ser Axell had meant its ‘sparseness’ as a slight. Clearly, he wasn’t used to living with a dozen siblings in a cabin for a decade. Now, however, she and Percy had a suite to themselves, and Frank had his own right next door. When she wasn’t in the forges or the library, Annabeth was planning the war in her new solar, or washing away the soot she tended to accumulate after hours in the forge. Even though Dragonstone had no running water, Percy was able to use his powers to easily fill baths for the two of them and Frank, which the servants seemed incredibly grateful for.
They made a mistake, however, three days after being given their own rooms. Not long before the sun was to go down, Annabeth stumbled back into their room, dreading a dinner with the nobility. She was exhausted from hammering metal all day, and knew that Percy and Frank almost certainly were too. The three of them had done more manual labor since arriving here than they had in years, but no one else was trusted enough to hand over their tasks to. Her wonderful boyfriend, however, surprised her with a picnic basket stuffed with food stolen from the kitchens. Clad in orange-dyed linen shirts and leather breeches, they made their way to the west-facing docks, hand in hand. Both of them had gotten used to the castle’s layout, and were able to do so without a guide, despite the constant offers from servants and knights to show them around. Annabeth wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be an attempt to spy on them, get into their pants, or both, but she was tired of it.
Passing through the main courtyard of the castle, they walked past fifty or so men praying at a nightfire, led by Queen Selyse. R’hllor’s worshippers had lost some of their fervor since their priestess’ death and their King’s apostasy, but they remained loyal to the Queen, and to their god. None of them did more than tolerate the demigods’ presence, and Axell Florent in particular absolutely hated them. Percy steered her along the edge of the courtyard, as far as possible from the glares of the worshippers, and she allowed him to do so. The wind, however, was not in their favor. A sharp gust came off the sea, causing the fire to flare and the smoke to be blown directly into Annabeth’s face. For a couple of seconds, it was just a mild annoyance. Very quickly, however, her chest began to tighten. She took deeper and deeper breaths to try to fill her lungs, but nothing seemed to work. Fighting down a panic, she grabbed Percy by the forearm and dragged them both out of the smoke, still gasping for air. He was clutching his free hand to his chest, wheezing just as badly as she was, and the naked panic in his eyes broke her heart.
Under the watchful and silent eyes of the Queen’s Men, they stumbled through the rest of the courtyard, still wheezing, until they all but stumbled into the man with the onion-sailed ship on his doublet. Percy had told her about the man: he was apparently named Davos, and he was friendly to him.
“Your Highnesses, are you alright?” He asked with concern. Annabeth just shook her head, and Percy managed to wheeze out the word sea . After a moment’s hesitation, Davos threw one of each of the demigod’s arms over his shoulders and hurriedly led them the rest of the way to the docks. It took no more than a couple of minutes, but Annabeth’s breathing only marginally improved. She was starting to get lightheaded, and the panic was becoming harder to keep down. As soon as the ocean was in sight, Percy pushed himself free of Davos and grabbed Annabeth by the hand, taking another couple of steps towards the water. Immediately, a massive wave swept them into Blackwater Bay, leaving Davos behind on the shore, doubtless shocked but still dry. As soon as they were underwater, Percy formed a bubble around them, just like he had at the Sirens’ Island, and under the lake at Camp when they’d first started dating. He closed his eyes in concentration, and Annabeth could practically feel the air getting cleaner, as the scent of smoke in her nose was replaced by salt. After another minute, her breathing finally steadied, and Annabeth was able to take gulps of clean sea air without feeling like her chest was in a vise, and only like Hannibal the Elephant had decided to sit on her.
“The fuck was that?” Percy coughed again, stuck his head out of the bubble, and took a deep breath of water before re-entering the bubble. He took another rattling breath, but it sounded easier for him now. Annabeth, who had no such healing powers, was still wheezing rather pathetically, trying to fill her stubborn lungs with air. She couldn’t speak clearly enough to answer him, but she already knew the answer. Gods, what she wouldn’t give for nectar or ambrosia right now. Percy rubbing circles into her back was soothing, but didn’t help with an asthma attack. When she finally was able to breathe deeply again, tears stinging her eyes from the oxygen deprivation, she collapsed onto the bottom of the bubble, wrung out and exhausted. A passing fish tentatively approached her, but it darted off when Percy laid down next to her, still breathing more deeply than normal. She’d noticed the occasional pang in her chest or difficulty breathing over the past few years, but it had never gotten this bad before.
“Do you remember how, when we got back from the Pit, Will told us to avoid any lung irritants?”
“Yeah…”
“The fires at camp are smokeless. We’ve been surrounded by smoky hearthfires for a week now, and we haven’t been eating any godly food like he prescribed. I think we’ve both got asthma, or at least we will if we’re not careful.” Every meal in the great hall, every hour in the forge, every physically exerting activity they’d had to do to prepare for a medieval war, had been made worse by the thick black smoke of the nightfire. Percy groaned, and buried his head in his hands. Come to think of it, it was probably worse for him than it was for her. They’d both been in Tartarus, and he could heal with the sea, but Percy had been surrounded by cigar smoke for a good chunk of his childhood. He might’ve been at risk for a while. Her boyfriend offered her a hug, which she gladly accepted, and they stayed in the undersea bubble in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he spoke.
“Did you see them?”
“The Queen’s Men? Reaching for their swords? Yeah. I did.”
They were careful to avoid the nightfires after that, for several reasons, and made sure to stay close to windows in the larger halls. It took two days before they went back to their work. Annabeth kept a scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth at the forge, even if it was incredibly uncomfortable. Percy made a habit of drinking seawater, in the hopes it would help his lungs. Annabeth wished eating olives could have the same effect on her.
A week after the incident, Percy and Annabeth had remained as secluded as possible, trying to rest and avoid the Queen’s Men. They’d had another couple of attacks each, but without the massive amount of smoke inhalation, they were far easier to deal with. Without inhalers in this world, however, they had no way to actually treat their symptoms. Frank, however, was having none of it. He came to their room one day, still drenched in sweat from his training, and surveyed his surroundings with a raised eyebrow. Maps, books, and papers covered every surface, with designs for everything from the swords she was making to sewage systems. Percy was looking over a blueprint for a ship, while lying down on their bed with his head in Annabeth’s lap. She had a tome on the history of Westeros open, and was struggling through the dense script.
Frank coughed to get their attention, and Annabeth waved him in.
“Are you guys alright? The servants and men are starting to talk, you know. Something about how the power of R’hllor stole your breath.”
“Did you explain to them that-”
“Yes, Percy, I did. I told them you two walked through the worst of the Seven Hells and survived. That shut most of them up, but since these people see disabilities as cursed anyways…” Frank trailed off, not knowing what to say. Annabeth groaned, and shut the book she’d been reading. The Dance of the Dragons wasn’t going to be of much help to her now.
“Then we need to show that we’re strong. When’s dinner?” Frank smiled and smoothed out his shirt. The cloth was linen, dyed the same rich purple as his banners, with the golden laurels and crossed spears he’d taken as a sigil stitched over his heart.
“Twenty minutes. Come on, show the Queen’s Men that you’re not dead. And yes, I know you’ve been doing your forging and ship stuff the past week, but that’s bare minimum for these people. They’re surprisingly like the Senate back home, image is everything.” Percy groaned in annoyance, but Annabeth just nodded her agreement. He was right, of course. She’d been scared shitless by the revelation of just how badly Tartarus had scarred her, but they couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of these people. So she and her ‘husband’ dressed in their court-appropriate finery, and walked with Frank to the great hall. As they always did, the murmurs of conversation fell silent when the demigods stepped into the room. They took the seats that had become customary at the King’s high table, despite the glares of the King’s Men. To her surprise, however, it was Pylos who engaged her in conversation first.
“Princess, you’ve spent so much time studying the histories and stories of our people. What of yours?”
“My what?” She asked between mouthfuls of stew.
“Your people’s stories,” the Maester clarified. They’d drawn the attention, by now, of Lords Velaryon, Sunglass, and Bar Emmon, as well as Aurane Waters and Davos. Annabeth paused, thinking it over.
“Well… that’s complicated. The mortals in my world have written plenty of stories, and there’s many to tell about the gods as well.”
“Are your mortals’ stories not about the gods?” Lord Sunglass asked, scandalized. Percy chuckled, but allowed Annabeth to answer. He was too busy gulping down seawater and trying not to freak out over how much alcohol was in the room.
“Some are, some aren’t. The gods that Percy and I’s parents are, they’re called the Olympians. They were worshipped about three thousand to two thousand years ago, in a place called Greece, and all the many lands it conquered. We’re Greek, my mother and Percy’s father are Greek gods. Our mortal parents are from a country called America. Many other peoples have their own gods, and most people today don’t believe in any god at all.” That scandalized absolutely everybody.
“Praetor Zhang is not one of these… Greeks?” Pylos asked.
“No, I’m Roman. Well, my mortal mother is from a nation called Canada, just to the north of America. But my divine father is Roman. The Romans built a great empire, they conquered Greece and adopted its gods, under different names. My father is the Roman god of war, Mars. The Greeks call him Ares. The Greeks and Roman gods are similar, but not identical.” Annabeth nodded her agreement, and was thankful he’d left out the ‘legacy of Poseidon’ bit. That would’ve been confusing.
“My cousin’s father is a Norse god, from a different group. I’ve met Egyptian gods before as well. It’s like… imagine that Percy and I are Ghiscari, Frank is Valyrian, my cousin Magnus is from the North, and these siblings we met once are… I dunno, Yi-Ti or something. Does that make sense?” She asked.
“It does. So this language you speak is… Greek?”
“Ancient Greek, yes. The modern nation of Greece speaks a different version of the language, and mostly worships the god of the Christians. That’s Earth’s largest religion, Christianity. It replaced worship of the Olympians in Rome. We all speak Latin too. Latin was the language of the Romans, Frank speaks it intrinsically. Percy picked it up when he was with the Legion, but we’re all fairly certain he’s some sort of Roman legacy on his mom’s side too, he learned it too fast. I’ve been living in New Rome for two years, so I learned Latin the old fashioned way.” She did take pride in that. The Latin alphabet was just as difficult for her to read, whether it was in English or Latin.
“So, do your Greeks have any stories of your gods you can tell?” Aurane asked with a laugh.
“I can think of a few,” Percy mumbled. No doubt, many of those were about the two of them. Annabeth laughed, but looked to the King for approval. He gave a gruff nod.
“Go on, then. I confess I’m very curious.” Annabeth smiled thinly, and thought for a moment about what the best introductory option would be. She decided that these people still needed to understand how dangerous the demigods were. They’d come to see her and Percy as vulnerable, and that couldn’t be allowed. So Annabeth began the story that would illustrate the rage of Poseidon and the cold cunning of Athena better than any other.
“Tell me about a complicated man, Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy…” Annabeth recited an English translation rather than the Greek original, as these people needed to understand what she was saying, or else the purpose would be defeated. It lasted nearly half an hour, with the entire hall falling silent as she recited the poem. Even Percy and Frank stared open-mouthed at her. Annabeth’s perfect memory was almost always a boon, but it was rare that she got to show off like this. Finally, the first book wound down. “...he slept the night there, wrapped in woolen blankets, planning the journey told him by Athena.” She ended the story to thunderous applause, and smiled weakly, taking a sip of (fresh) water offered by Percy to ease the pain in her throat. She’d barely touched on what Athena and Poseidon had been up to, but there would be time for that. No doubt, the recitations would continue on other nights. Demand seemed to be high.
She was not bothered again by the Queen’s Men, or by a major asthma attack, for several more days. Her work at the forge continued, and she recited another two books at subsequent court meals. Percy was becoming more and more close with the Velaryons and Ser Davos, while Frank was drilling the sellswords and peasants into a unified fighting force with typical Roman efficiency. All the while, Stannis planned and prepared, and the war in Westeros dragged on. Just two days before her crafting was to be finished, however, Axell Florent and two of his men walked into the forge. The other smiths had eventually come to pay Annabeth no mind, and she’d come to consider some of them friends. They all looked with apprehension at some of the few men who still wore the fiery heart instead of the prancing stag. The Queen’s Men, still stewing in their misery, had become a nuisance to every reasonable person on the island, and they were walking straight towards her. Annabeth put down the half-finished sword she was making, still glowing from the heat, and pulled her scarf down below her mouth.
“Can I help you?” She asked drily. Axell smiled cruelly, and pointed an accusing finger at her.
“You. You killed Melisandre. She was a priestess of the one true god.” Annabeth rubbed the soot from her hands and rolled her eyes. She really didn’t have time for fanatics right now. She knew the man was important, she just didn’t care about what he had to say. In the weeks since their arrival, religion on Dragonstone had proved to be a jumbled mess. Stannis had quietly walked back his conversion to the Lord of Light, and the statues torn from the Sept were replaced there. The Queen fumed and yelled, but it seemed the King had never been a true believer. Many servants, Lords, and knights had asked the demigods about their parents, and she’d heard rumors that worship of the Olympians had begun despite Percy’s own advice to the contrary. The Merling King, some obscure local deity, apparently had also seen an increase in worshipers. Despite all the turmoil, the Queen’s Men stayed fervent in their devotion to the late Melisandre and her Lord of Light. As their influence waned, however, she had had less and less reason to fear what they might do. None of the demigods feared a knife in the dark from Stannis any longer. The fanatics might, however, be crazy enough to try something anyway.
“She tried to kill my husband. It’s not my fault she didn’t know what she was getting into.” Axell turned red from more than just the heat of the flames.
“You may not burn, but you are too weak to handle smoke, the product of fire. You are an enemy of the Lord of Light,” one of the men said. Waving a hand dismissively, Annabeth drew herself up to her full height, and tried to look as dangerous as possible. With a half-finished sword in her hand, it wasn’t difficult. The three men took a few steps back before they caught themselves, and Annabeth began her story as she drew her new dagger from her belt, and began to sharpen it.
“You know, there was a Titan called Hyperion, he was the Lord of the East. Titans are an ancient race of evil gods, overthrown by the Olympians like my mother. They tried to tear down Olympus a few years ago, and Percy led the war against them. Anyway, this Hyperion guy. He glowed, looked like the sun actually. His armor, skin, everything. Golden and glowing. His skin looked like it was fire itself. He was the father of the moon and sun gods.” All the blood had run out of the man’s face, and he and his followers were glancing at each other.
“W-was?” one of the men asked. Annabeth grinned viciously, seizing her opportunity.
“Was. You see, he fought with Kronos, the King of the Titans and Percy's grandfather, in the Second Titan War. Percy and I were sixteen when Hyperion led a chunk of the Titans’ forces against us. My husband defeated him. He was banished back to the lowest depths of Hell, Tartarus. When my husband and I were there, he was destroyed again, for good this time. The god of the Pit, Tartarus himself, wiped him from existence, and another Titan. Percy, Frank, our friends, and I have all fought Giants, Tartarus’ children, and won. So tell me, Ser Axell. Why should I fear one Lord of Light, when I’ve already seen one destroyed, and my husband was able to defeat him four years ago? How much more powerful do you think we’ve grown since then?” Annabeth was exaggerating, of course. Dozens of demigods, Hunters, and nature spirits had worked together to defeat Hyperion. Annabeth had spent most of the Tartarus encounter running from the protogenos of the Pit. But the Queen’s Men didn’t need to know that. She and her friends would survive in this world only so long as they were respected, and to be respected, they must be feared.
Ser Axell and his cronies ran. They likely would have called it an organized retreat, but they left the forge so quickly that the other smiths jeered and laughed. Addam, the chief armorer for the castle, granted her a rare smile. She grinned at him in return and got back to work.
The next day, after weeks at the forge, her work was complete. She’d endeavored to make all three of them weapons and armor that suited them best, trusting demigod speed and strength to make up for the weaknesses of Classical armor compared to full medieval plate. For herself and Percy, she’d made hoplite armor like they had had at Camp Half-Blood, tailored to their specifications. They both had cuirasses, greaves, and Korinthian-style helmets. She’d refrained from adding any ridiculously-colored plumes at Percy’s request, but the cuirasses were both richly colored. She’d dyed most of the metal Camp Half-Blood orange, with their house sigil on both of their chests. The owl retained the steel’s natural sheen, with the trident dyed a rich blue. Percy’s cuirass had waves etched closer to his waist both on his chest and back, with a large trident over his spine, all in blue. Annabeth had instead used olive branches, with the aegis on her back. Her recreation of Medusa’s head was horrifying enough that the other smiths had all blanched when she finished it. The steel was magiced, and would hopefully hold up well enough that she wouldn’t need to repair the intricate designs very often. It had been shockingly easy to make, but that didn’t mean she wanted to go through it again.
At Frank’s request, his armor was simple Roman legionary gear, unadorned aside from his purple cloak. He’d gotten a galea and lorica segmentata , just like he wore at Camp Jupiter. As his bow was already to his liking, and arrows were a dime a dozen, Annabeth had only had to make him a simple gladius for a weapon. She doubted it would see much use. The point of all this fancy armor, after all, was to win fights with intimidation and reputation rather than having to kill any mortal soldiers.
She and Percy, however, needed more comprehensive weaponry. Both their alleged royal status, and lack of weapons dangerous to mortals, meant Annabeth had had to make them blades. For her boyfriend, she’d forged a three-foot xiphos, much longer than was typical for such a blade, but exactly the same length and proportions as Riptide. She’d etched the hilt with entwined olive branches and waves, but otherwise left the blade alone, aside from its magical strengthening, of course. Maybe she’d make him a trident someday, if he ever decided he wanted to use one. His resemblance to the Merling King might win some more respect from the Lords of the Narrow Sea. Her own weapon was the best replica she could make of her old dagger, long since lost to Tartatus. An 18-inch triangle of steel, she shaped the pommel to look like an owl’s head, and carefully wrapped the hilt in leather. Scabbards were easy as well, leatherworking had turned out to be well within Athena’s wheelhouse, far more so than Hephaestus-controlled forging. Simple metal sheathes adorned with worked leather would suffice for all three blades.
Annabeth appreciated that, if nothing else, she had all the skills needed to thrive in this hellish place. She’d always taken pride in a job well done, especially in creating something wonderful and important. Making weapons and armor was very different from designing palaces for the gods, but she could see why the Hephaestus kids liked it so much. From what they’d told her, the other demigods had found a similar sense of odd fulfillment in their own work.
With the help of Aly and a couple of the other servants, she had all three sets of armor, and both blades, carried back to her room, where Percy and Frank were waiting for her. As soon as Annabeth dumped their armor and weapons on the floor, Percy and Frank grinned at each other like kids on Christmas and began sorting through the pile and strapping on their respective gear. Annabeth laughed, dismissed the servants, and joined them. Seeing herself and her friends armored in their new gear, dressed like the Greek and Roman soldiers that they were, adorned in their sigils, she could almost believe that they were the medieval royalty they claimed to be. This War would be different from everything else they’d been through. There were no monsters, only sparse gods, and very few of the people they’d come to rely on.
Notes:
The lines Annabeth recites are the first and last lines of Emily Wilson's translation of Book One of the Odyssey. Even though this is technically taking place in like 2013 for her and this translation didn't come out until 2018. Sue me, it's the only copy I had on hand.
Is Annabeth maybe a bit of a forging Mary Sue? Maybe. Idc, she deserves to be a badass.
The post-Tartarus tag is coming in handy. I do have asthma, and smoke fucking sucks.
Ancient Greek + Latin:
Protogenos (pl. protogenoi): Primordial. For example: Gaea, Nyx, Tartarus, Chaos. Those guys.
Xiphos: the leaf-shaped type of sword that Riptide is. They were usually small knives, Riptide's unusually long for one, but whatever
Galea: the classic Roman infantry helmet
Lorica Segmentata: segmented armor. The classic Roman infantry armor.
Chapter 4: Davos II
Summary:
For the third time in as many days, Davos woke to the sound of screams.
Notes:
I have a tumblr now, for updates and expanded author's notes! Check it out!
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jainasoloswife
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For the third time in as many days, Davos woke to the sound of screams. The demigods didn’t even seem to realize they did it, but scarcely a night went by without the Jacksons shouting in their sleep. Too often, it was names he didn’t recognize, or in a language he didn’t know. The bits and pieces he was able to make out didn’t let him sleep any easier. Davos almost would’ve preferred this castle to be more like the Red Keep, where the greater part of unsavory nighttime sounds would be the moaning of whores and whatever hapless lords had paid for their presence. Despite the Jacksons’ obvious and public adoration for each other, the castle had been spared having to listen to their… marital activities, thank the Seven. The nightmares, however, were another matter entirely.
The most concerning part, by far, was that they didn’t even seem to notice. The demigods had arrived on Dragonstone a week ago, and at least eight of those nights, either Annabeth or Percy had screamed in their sleep. The following mornings, they’d been present for their duties, either working on the docks or forging, without the slightest hint that they’d even lost sleep. Praetor Zhang seemed unconcerned, as did the servants. Davos did not ask what horrors they must have seen, and they did not offer answers.
Davos had grown accustomed to this, and many other oddities that the demigods seemed to have, since they’d arrived. He’d spent most of his days on the docks, overseeing what ships in His Grace’s fleet were under Davos’ own supervision. The new Prince had the same assignment, under the bargain the demigods had struck with the King. It was a fascinating experience. Despite his godly parentage and royal title, Percy Jackson seemed to gravitate towards the smallfolk and common men-at-arms working the docks, along with those closest in status to the lowborn: Aurane Waters and Davos himself.
He didn’t mind the company, oddly enough. He’d expected to fear the demigod, after seeing how quickly he and his companions had dispatched the Red Woman, but a few days working alongside him had shown that the fear was misplaced. He was mostly harmless, with a few exceptions. The man who was foolish enough to… lust after Annabeth Jackson within her husband’s earshot lost three teeth for it, and Jackson didn’t bat an eye before or after punching him in the mouth. In fairness, if anyone had talked about his Marya like that within Davos’ earshot, he likely would have done worse.
Yet after a couple of weeks, the common men seemed comfortable enough around the Prince to engage him in casual conversation, much of it about gods. The divine had been a common topic of conversation on Dragonstone of late. Lord Sunglass had quietly had Aegon’s Sept restored, and its battered statues returned, yet many of those who had strayed from the Seven had not yet returned to their light, while not cleaving themselves to R’hllor either.
“What do you know of the Merling King, My Prince?” Asked Lord Velaryon on a calm day by the docks. The sea had seemed far more agreeable since Percy Jackson had arrived.
“Merling King?” The demigod asked.
“The ruler of the seas, traditional patron of my house. He bears a trident and has the tail of a fish, and guards sailors on their journeys,” Aurane Waters explained. The Bastard of Driftmark was frequently found in his brother’s company, or that of the Prince. He seemed to have befriended him, along with the crew of many of the ships, although he spent much of his time aboard his brother’s own silver-hulled flagship, Pride of Driftmark , or the ship of his own that Lord Monford had been kind enough to entrust to his command, the Seahorse.
“Huh. Sounds kind of like my brother Triton. But he doesn’t exist here. Interesting coincidence though.”
If the Prince believed he was ending speculation about himself with this statement, he was deeply in the wrong. Over the following days, as he worked more and more closely with the sailors, they only became more curious. Regardless of religion or nationality, sailors were a superstitious lot by nature. That interest grew nearly feverish when Percy Jackson arrived at the docks several days after that accompanied by a dozen mule-drawn carts, filled to the brim with everything the sailors had spent months begging Stannis for.
“Fresh supplies, courtesy of the King,” Jackson said with his usual nonchalant grin.
“But… these are for the Queen’s Men only!” Davos said
“Not anymore.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness!” One of the Velaryon men said, dropping into a bow.
“Uh… no. It’s Highness, isn’t it? That’s the right title, isn’t it? I’m no god.”
“But you are the brother of the Merling King. And your wife is the daughter of the Crone, your companion the son of the Warrior,” the Velaryon gushed. Percy laughed in response.
“That’s not quite true, and even if it was, I’d really rather you just call me Percy.” Aurane scoffed, clapping the demigod on the shoulder. Davos noticed the bastard’s trueborn brother watching carefully from astern.
“The Prince has a big enough head as it is, Edric. There’s no need to inflate it further,” the bastard said. The Velaryon man- Edric, apparently- bowed his head slightly.
“As you say, m’lord.”
“What’s wrong with my head?” Percy asked incredulously. Davos would never have dared insult royalty in such a way, but the demigod seemed more amused than annoyed.
“Let’s just say it’s obvious that the Princess is Wisdom’s daughter, my Prince.” Jackson rolled his eyes, but did not contradict the bastard’s comment.
The turning point came on a day like any other. Davos, the Prince, and the Bastard of Driftmark stood on the end of a pier, comparing notes and ideas on the ships that patrolled the gullet. From where they stood, several of Stannis’ finest ships were visible out on the sea, running drills and practicing. Percy had been laborious in his implementation of constant drills and practice maneuvers, enough to win even Sallador Saan’s approval. Even from a hundred meters, all three of the men heard the cries of “man overboard” from the deck of Fury . Davos cursed and prayed to the Seven, knowing that there was nothing any of them could do. Percy had no such qualms. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he leapt into the waves, and instantly vanished from sight. The only sign he’d ever been there at all was a slight ripple moving out towards the ship in the distance.
“Did he just…” Aurane trailed off before he could articulate what, precisely, Percy Jackson had just done.
“Aye. I think he did.” Davos said. Mere moments later, the water itself seemed to shove two men out onto the dock. Both the Prince and the knight- a man in House Chyttering’s colors stupid enough to wear chain mail to sea. The man did not seem to be breathing, and Percy quickly laid him out flat on his back, removing his helmet.
“Does he require the kiss of life, Jackson?” Aurane asked cautiously. The Prince tilted his head in confusion, while running his hand slowly down the chest of the man in a strangely intimate gesture. Only then did Davos notice that both of them were completely dry.
“You mean mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? Yes, normally. But…” Slowly, he drew his hand back up towards the knight’s mouth. Seawater spewed out his mouth, and with a painful-sounding gasp, the man lurched up so quickly he nearly broke the Prince’s nose. Somehow, Jackson moved quick enough to avoid it, and just chuckled good-naturedly. “Are you alright? I haven’t done that in a while.” The knight stared at the Prince in shock for a moment, before nodding weakly. He was obviously struggling to speak. “I don’t know if I believe you. Go, see the Maester. Davos, can you…”
“Yes, My Prince. I’ll bring him.” The cheering and clapping of the men on the docks was almost loud enough to drown out the clamor of thoughts in Davos’ head.
That same evening, Davos found himself in the King’s solar, by Stannis’ own request.
“Ser Davos. You’ve been spending time with these… demigods?” Stannis, as always, spoke without preamble, small talk, or formality. He did not even bother to look up from the documents he was reading.
“I have, Your Grace.”
“And what have you learned?”
“They’re good people.” That much, Davos knew, was true. He had not seen much of Annabeth or Frank, but Percy Jackson was one of the best people he’d ever met, and Davos doubted he would marry or befriend those who were untrustworthy themselves.
“Is that all?”
“Is there a more important piece of information to have about a potential ally, Your Grace?” Finally, Stannis turned his attention from the papers, and looked Davos in the eyes. He ground his teeth before speaking.
“No. I suppose not. But tell me everything regardless.”
“They prefer the company of smallfolk and common soldiers to the nobility. They are all seasoned warriors, scarred and skilled. Their powers are undeniable, and without precedent. They empathize deeply with bastards, cripples, and the weak.” The King waved a hand in dismissal.
“My Lords claim they are stuck-up, half-mad, prone to spouting incomprehensible nonsense, over-eager, and more interested in books than bloodshed.”
“All true, My King. They seem reluctant, but willing, to fight.”
“As all good soldiers should be. You have spent more time with the Prince, on the docks?”
“Aye. He has taken a liking to my elder sons, and befriended them. The ships seem to come alive when he steps on the deck, I’ve never seen anything like it. The rigging moves of its own accord, the hulls clean themselves, holes are patched. Fish all but swarm whatever ship he’s on, he claims he can talk to them. And he’s stronger than ten normal men.”
“Ser Axell believes I should have them all killed. He and some of the others have urged me to call another Red Priest from Volantis, and return to the ways of the Lord of Light.”
“I’ve heard some calls for the same, Your Grace.” Indeed, he had, mostly from Ser Axell. He’d tried to speak to the Jacksons about it, but after seeing them struggling for breath in the courtyard, in plain view of the Queen’s Men, decided they needed no reminders of the animosity held by R’hllor’s followers towards them.
“What do you think, Ser Davos?” Stannis asked.
“What do I think? My Lord, I’m just-”
“The only man who has ever shown me the loyalty I am owed. The Lords of the Narrow Sea owe fealty to Dragonstone, they’ve followed me so far, but they’re all dragon lovers. Robert kept the Dornish and the Tyrells at arm’s length for far too long, but he was right to beat the Velaryons down. Viserys Targaryen is dead, but his sister Daenerys yet lives. Given half the chance, every lord on this island will stab me in the back and crown that little girl. They’re loyal, yes, but not trustworthy.
“The Stormlords follow Renly. Every single house in my homeland has betrayed me, except for House Seaworth. I can excuse the Westerlands lords who follow the Lannisters, they are only obeying their liege lord. If they believe Joffrey to be trueborn, they even think they’re on the right side. The Northerners may be insolent in declaring independence, but Stark and Tully are closely bound by blood, and Robb Stark’s revolt began in an attempt to free his father. If the Northmen, Rivermen, and Westermen bend the knee, I can forgive them. Once Tywin Lannister’s head is on a pike, alongside his children, they will be welcomed back into the fold. But the Reach and Stormlands have no recourse. They know Renly to be the false king, regardless of Joffrey’s birth. They are grasping and puerile, with no sense of duty or loyalty.
“I may have to make Renly my Hand to stitch this realm back together, but I will tolerate no challenges to my birthright, Ser Davos. I am the rightful King. I do not want it, but it is mine, so I shall take it nonetheless. None of the men sworn to me care for duty, or donor, or loyalty. Only for themselves. None but you.”
“I- thank you, My King. That’s kinder than I deserve.”
“It is exactly as you deserve. I would make you a Lord if I could, and I might yet. When that grasping fool Varys is dead, for all his many crimes in the service of Joffrey Waters, I want you to be my Master of Whisperers. I’d make you Master of Ships, but the Velaryons will expect it, and Renly will have to be my Hand to avoid war. It is only right, though. The heir should always be Hand. I should have been Robert’s, if Renly is my heir, he will be Hand. But I wish to have at least one man I trust on my Council.”
“I-”
“Am not qualified? You have more claim to the position than most. You were a smuggler, you retain many connections among the lowlifes and criminals of a dozen cities. Most of the sellswords in my fleet are here because of you. You have a trustworthy face, many friends, and can be inconspicuous and persuasive. But most importantly, I trust you not to put a knife in my back. I spent years watching the Spider spin his webs in King’s Landing. I will not allow another to take his place. No, I have made my decision. Will you honor it?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Davos inclined his head in respect. I owe this man everything, yet he keeps giving me more. My father was a crabber. All this from onions, and one man’s honor.
“Then your work begins now. The Princess Annabeth and the Praetor Frank. Tell me of them.”
“Your Grace, I cannot read. How can I-”
“One does not need to read in order to speak. You will learn. But first, tell me what I wish to know. That is the role of a Master of Whisperers, I believe.” Davos did as his King asked, yet felt oddly like doing this duty was a betrayal.
-
The day after Annabeth Jackson finished the demigods’ armor and weapons, half the castle gathered to watch them be tested. Nobody had ever seen armor or swords quite like what she’d forged, and Davos had already heard whispers from the servants about how terrifying the design on the woman’s back was. The stories didn’t do it justice. The horrifying, monstrous, snake-haired head carved into the back of her armor scared him down to the marrow. Thankfully, she stood aside, and allowed the men to fight the first bout.
Percy Jackson and Frank Zhang were the best warriors Davos had ever seen. He’d watched more than a few tourneys in his day, and seen countless soldiers train. But these two made it seem like an art, while Jackson’s wife watched with close scrutiny. The new weapons and armor that Annabeth had recently crafted for them gleamed in the sunlight, the intricate designs and strange armor almost seeming too beautiful to risk in combat. Both men moved with speed and strength almost beyond comprehension, and a crowd quickly accumulated to watch. Davos found himself enraptured as orange, purple, and bare steel shimmered and flashed.
Blades and men alike moved too fast for Davos to see the intricate designs he knew were there, but he’d seen the armor the day before. He’d tried, in his new position as Master of Whisperers, to ask the smiths just how the Princess had made weapons and armor so quickly. Despite having witnessed it themselves, they professed to be just as confused as he.
When the bout was done, neither man even looked all that tired. Their weapons and armor were undented, even though the ground beneath their feet was cracked. Jackson pulled his friend up to his feet, but there seemed to be no enmity between the two. They were both sweaty, but the Prince dried them off with a touch on Zhang’s shoulder. She kissed her husband soundly, and Davos looked away. Did these people have no shame? Grabbing someone by the armor straps and kissing them was not proper, even for a married couple. The demigods were strange, but if they could deliver on even half of what they promised, it would be easily excusable.
The Lords and men-at-arms were all muttering to each other, and Aurane Waters appeared out of the crowd next to Davos.
“If she can fight half as well as they do, the three of them together could conquer the world. We just might win this war after all, Ser Davos.” He turned to the bastard with narrowed eyes.
“His Grace will win his throne, yes. That was never in doubt,” Davos lied, instinctively grabbing the pouch around his neck. It would have been incredibly difficult to defeat the Tyrells’ and Lannisters’ armies in the field, but with these demigods, they might have a chance. When Davos looked back at the demigods, however, his jaw nearly fell from his skull. Frank Zhang was peeling off his armor, wincing with pain as he looked at a cut on his arm. Percy immediately began to apologize profusely, and Annabeth called for boiling wine, needle, and thread, but Frank brushed it off.
“It’s not deep, it’ll heal soon. Don’t worry about it.”
And, true enough, even as Davos watched, the flow of blood slowed and stopped. Almost as fascinating as how quickly the man healed, however, was his blood itself. Even from a distance, it seemed to shine, even glimmer as though filled with flecks of gold.
-
Several days later, at a meal in the Great Hall, Davos frowned as a small group of men, mostly Dragonstone and Driftmark levies along with some of the minor Narrow Sea knights, walked to the hearth before eating. Each of them threw in a scrap of their food, muttered something, and went to sit back down.
“Oh fuck no,” the Prince shouted. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
“We’re praying to the gods of Olympus, Holiness, as the Princess said one does. Poseidon, Athena, and Mars. Like Odysseus of old, or the dining pavilion at Camp Half-Blood” a minor landed knight he vaguely recognized- Davos thought he was sworn to Bar Emmon- said.
“Yes, that’s how someone prays. It doesn’t mean you should ,” Annabeth said, slowly, as if teaching a child to count.
“We should not pray to the gods who sent us our salvation?” The knight asked, confused.
“ Di immortales . I was really hoping to avoid this shit,” Percy bit out. The confusion this statement garnered led him to gesture towards Frank vaguely, while rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
“Okay, look. Our parents do not exist in this world. There is nothing to pray to. Even if they did , there’s no reason to pray to them,” the big one, Frank, explained. Percy nodded his agreement, and took a deep draught of what Davos knew to be seawater before he elaborated.
“The gods are assholes. My dad’s my favorite of the bunch, but they suck. Our gods do, anyway. As far as I know, all the gods of this world are real, and I’m sure they’d prefer your prayers. The Olympians can't hear you, don’t waste your breath.”
Davos may have respected the lack of fanatical behavior, and certainly held any man who rejected power or worship in high esteem, but the knights and men-at-arms who’d decided to sacrifice their meals made no such discernment. Despite the demigods’ own words to the contrary, more and more of them lined up, and scraped a portion of their meals into the flames.
“He is the messiah!” Percy said, devoid entirely of context.
“No he’s not, he’s a very naughty boy,” his wife said, in a strange, false accent, her voice unusually high-pitched. All three of the demigods laughed, and ignored the strange looks they received.
-
The feast was the closest Dragonstone ever got to what might be considered revelry . Stannis did not allow prostitution on his island, and as such the men remained chaste towards the serving girls, but in all other regards, it was a normal celebration. From his vantage point at one of the higher-ranking tables, but not the King’s table itself, Stannis looked almost comically stoic amidst the celebration.
Davos couldn’t help but be surprised when he saw the Prince refill a goblet of… was that water? Even stranger. The man had a well-known distaste for all things alcoholic, and had been known to drink seawater on occasion, but doing so at a feast seemed to be taking it a bit far.
“I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair,” sang one of the bards playing in the hall. The Prince grinned at his wife, who playfully swatted at his arm in return. Davos averted their eyes as they kissed, however briefly, unable to shake the feeling that he was intruding on a moment too private for a feast.
Davos was able to eat with his eldest sons in contentment for nearly an hour, before the musicians’ choice of song sent the hall into chaos.
“A bear there was-” began the bard, and almost as one, the crowd shouted out the next lines.
“A BEAR! A BEAR! All black and brown and covered with hair!”
Praetor Zhang smiled mischievously at the Prince, then got up from his seat. He turned into a massive brown bear, to the roaring approval of the crowd. The bards played louder, as most of the hall laughed or sang. Davos enjoyed the moments like this, when the humanity showed from below the highborn shell. It was probably the presence of all the smallfolk soldiers. The bear-Preator stood on his back two legs, waddling comedically towards Princess Shireen, and offering her a paw.
“They danced and spun all the way to the fair!” Giggling, the Princess took the bear’s paw, and the shapeshifter picked up the girl and spun her around, even as she laughed harder. Stannis was watching carefully, the corner of his mouth turning up in a rare half-smile. The Queen was staring with abject horror, but seemed too shocked to do anything about it. The Prince and Princess of Atlantis seemed just mildly amused, leaning against each other and speaking too quietly for him to hear over the roaring of the crowd.
Davos wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Shireen this happy. He loved the Princess like she was his own daughter, but her greyscale and her father’s tendency to isolate himself had left her detached from most of the typical societal goings-on. She was a sweet, shy child, looked down upon by most, but beloved by all of those who got to know her. She was lonely, without friends her own age- there were few children in Dragonstone’s castle. Shireen usually preferred a book to a feast. It was good to see her enjoying herself for once, and being treated like the Princess she was, rather than a disease.
When the song ended, bear-Frank bowed deeply to the Princess, who giggled and curtsied. The bear returned to human form, and sheepishly took his seat next to Percy, who clapped him warmly on the shoulder. Shireen only stood on the dance floor for a moment before Lord Celtigar’s younger son offered her his hand. The next round was taken by Justin Massey, and the round after that by Davos’ own son Devan. At the end of the night, when the Lords finally went to bed, Davos could’ve sworn by the Old Gods, the New, R’hllor, and the Olympians, that Stannis whispered his thanks to the Praetor, just barely audible in the quieting hall. Thanks uttered not as a King, but as a father.
Notes:
Much of Stannis' conversation with Davos is paraphrased from one that takes place in ACOK
"He is the messiah!" "He's a very naughty boy!" Is of course from Monty Python's Life of Brian, one of my favorite movies, and a scarily accurate portrayal of how religions start
Frank and Shireen's dance here is meant to be a parallel to Renly and Brienne.
Percy is, ofc, deeply traumatized by Gabe, and uncomfortable around alcohol- plus drinking seawater for his health. This has the unfortunate side effect of further convincing the Westerosi of his godhood.
Chapter 5: Percy II (I Conquer an Unconquerable Castle)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
On his last day on Dragonstone, Percy woke to a room that contained, thank the gods, only him and Annabeth. It had taken weeks (and several very awkward situations) for the servants to finally get the message that, no, they did not need help to dress or bathe, and should not be present in their rooms first thing in the morning. Percy was perfectly capable of undressing his girlfriend on his own, thank you very much. That particular awkward situation, the night before, had probably, finally, convinced Aly to let him and Annabeth handle domestic duties on their own.
He’d made friends on this island, though he would not be sorry to leave it behind. The volcanic air was awful for his lungs, and only gulping down seawater had prevented another asthma attack. Annabeth hadn’t been so lucky, and had found herself gasping desperately for air on several occasions. Hopefully, leaving the island for greener pastures would help somewhat. It was a five-day trip to Storm’s End (though with Percy there, he was sure he could make it in three), and once there, the war would truly begin.
Stannis was bringing five thousand men to lay siege to his ancestral castle, along with many of his lords and knights. Percy was incredibly relieved to hear that Queen Selyse and Axell Florent would be among those left behind on Dragonstone, though he’d be sad to leave the Princess Shireen. She was a cute kid, and deserved far better than she got. Most of the lords here treated her like shit, and Percy was fairly certain he’d never seen her smile before the feast the night before.
Thankfully, Davos and Aurane were among those setting out with the fleet. Aurane was a bit of a prick, but he reminded Percy of a Hermes kid. Always up to something, and not exactly trustworthy, but dependable in his own way, and fiercely devoted to his brother. Percy enjoyed his company, if nothing else. Davos was much more reliable. He was a good man, and probably the only person on the island who gave a shit about Shireen. That much alone would’ve gotten him into Percy’s good books.
Aside from their weapons, armor, and a few sets of clothes, none of the demigods had much luggage to bring aboard. They’d been given cabins on Fury , and Percy was excited to be back at sea, even if this ship would be a shithole compared to the Argo II. After hours upon hours of nobles and soldiers boarding Stannis’ fleet, they finally set sail. Immediately, he felt the same sense of perfect navigation that the seas back home granted him. No sooner did he wonder how far King’s Landing, Storm’s End, or Braavos was than his brain helpfully supplied the answer. The ships he’d been working so hard to perfect ran smoother than he could have imagined, and the rigging of Fury moved to his whims without most of the crew needing to do anything at all. It felt incredible, and that night, he slept better than he had in weeks. They might be on a different plane of existence, but he was at sea, with Annabeth. That was about as close to home as he could hope for.
On deck, the next morning, he was joined at his lookout by the King himself.
“Never in my life have I seen Shipbreaker Bay this calm. The men whisper that your presence is a good omen,” Stannis remarked gruffly.
“That’s probably true, Your Grace. I’m keeping the sea calm on purpose,” Percy explained.
“Is that not difficult?”
“My father likes to say that the sea does not like to be restrained. This is no exception. But the god and I have an understanding, I think. It’s the skies I’m worried about.”
The boundaries of that understanding were tested in his dreams that second night at sea. Once again, Percy found himself floating in the depths of the ocean, with this realm’s strange god before him.
“You dare to control my home waters?” It rumbled. Its hair floated about its head, and when bright blue eyes became visible, they flashed with anger.
“Not control! Just smooth a bit! To stay alive!” Percy said hurriedly. The god’s watery laugh rang through his mind.
“I will not kill you, whelp. Not while my blood is aboard your vessel.”
“You killed Stannis’ father,” Percy said, before he could think better of it. He’d asked about Patchface after his last godly dream, and learned the story of Steffon Baratheon’s untimely demise. For a being that claimed to want its bloodline to survive, it was awfully willing to kill Baratheons.
“That was my wife. She is… more temperamental than I,” the god said.
“Then how can I appease you people! Is there a quest I need to go on or something?” Percy demanded. The god’s attention seemed to harden, turning from water to ice.
“There is no prayer or worship I desire, Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon. Many of this world’s gods enjoy blood sacrifice, but I never have. Your gods may expect quests and worship, I care not. The seas are my domain, not the land, or any of its concerns. Humans make use of my realm, but they are not welcome in it. Your father is wise, I do not appreciate being restrained or made use of. But nor can I be appeased with a slab of meat or a few drops of blood. The seas are wild, uncompromising, and loyal only to our own. Those who are foolish enough to think they have mastered the waves are the first to die under them. Do you understand me, godling?” It was strange, to meet a god, a being of unfathomable power, so alike and different to the Olympians at the same time. No god Percy had ever met would deny worship, or an offer for a good old-fashioned useless quest. Much of what this god said, however, could’ve been taken straight out of Poseidon’s mouth. It was almost comforting.
“I do, actually. I know exactly what you mean. I’ll let the waves act normally.”
“Good. You are powerful, boy, but do not think you can stand against me. My servant will be watching you, even on land. This is not your home, and I am not your father. Now: sleep.” The god snapped its fingers, and the sea melted away.
Images flashed, one after another, through Percy’s dreams. He saw Camp Half-Blood, scrambling to do something. Poseidon yelling at Hecate, while Athena glowered beside him. Mars walking through the Forum in New Rome as Hazel spoke to him hurriedly, running alongside the god to keep up with his much longer strides. His mother and Paul, trying to put Estelle to bed, while obviously exhausted and worried themselves. Lou Ellen, Hazel, Malcolm Pace, and a few children of Hecate, hunched over books of magic. Just for a moment, he was in Cabin 3, sitting on his bed, with Grover next to him. The satyr made eye contact with Percy, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“Huh? Grover, I can’t hear you,” Percy shouted.
His best friend stood up, gesticulating wildly and clearly speaking very fast, but Percy couldn’t hear a thing. Before he could try to figure out how to ask Grover to write this shit down (as if that would be any better), he woke up with a gasp, Riptide clutched uselessly in his fingers, still in pen form. Instantly, Annabeth sat up and drew her dagger in one fluid motion. Only after surveying the cabin they’d been given did the demigods lower their weapons. Percy lowered his head onto her lap, and she carded her fingers through his hair. They’d both gotten used to waking the other up in the middle of the night, screams tearing from their throats.
“Bad dreams?” she asked softly.
“No, good ones. I saw home. I think my empathy link is still open.” The grin that lit up Annabeth’s face almost made this entire adventure worth it.
“Tell me everything.”
-
Percy relinquished his control over the currents the following day, but thankfully, the waves stayed relatively calm, even if the fleet’s progress was slightly slowed. Frank had been spending much of the trip as an eagle or a dolphin (he sheepishly explained that the ships were meant for people much shorter than him, and he kept banging his head on doorways), and happily told Percy and Annabeth that the skies and seas seemed to be clear of normal and supernormal disturbances, meaning he hadn’t woken any local monsters by helping the ships along.
Despite the battle-ready state of Stannis’ fleet, there was still apparently enough downtime for noble passengers to cross over between the vessels. Stannis frequently hosted his Lords for meals and for counsel, either over meals or simply on the foredeck. Aurane Waters and Monford Velaryon found him after one such conversation, and the three sons of the sea chatted for nearly an hour before Monford returned to his ship.
“I forgot to ask, Jackson. You’re not Valyrian, are you?” The Bastard of Driftmark eventually asked. He laughed in reply.
“Valyria doesn’t exist where I’m from. My mom’s from a city called New York, my dad’s a Greek god. We don’t have silver-haired people before old age.”
“But, your hair. Are you sure?” Aurane pointed to Percy’s gray hairs, and the demigod touched them, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes? Annabeth and I got these streaks from holding up the sky. Is a gray streak a Valyrian thing? I thought it was just white hair.”
“White, gold, or gray streaks are not unheard of. I suppose you’re right. Although, eyes as striking as yours are a somewhat common Valyrian trait as well.” Aurane smirked slightly, leaning against the ship’s rail in a way definitely designed to show off his biceps. Was he… flirting? What the fuck? Everyone here thought Percy was married. He was basically married.
“Interesting. I had no idea. I thought purple eyes were the Valyrian standard?” Percy said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.
“My father had purple eyes. Lucerys Velaryon. He was a good father, but a terrible lord. Raised me alongside my brother while feeding all the Mad King’s worst impulses. Purple eyes aren’t everything.” The Bastard sounded almost defensive by the end of his spiel, and pushed himself off the railing. He carefully schooled his expression back into its carefree smirk before he spoke again. “If you’d ever like more… lessons the ways of this world, you know where to find me. My door is always open.” Aurane winked at him, then saunted off to do… whatever it was he did all day. Didn’t he have a ship of his own to command?
“He’s cute,” came Annabeth’s voice in Greek from next to him. Kronos’ left nut, she was incredibly quiet, even without the invisibility cap.
“Aurane? Yeah, he is. Knows it too. He flirts with everything that moves. Even if he does it really, really weirdly.” Percy scrunched up his nose, and Annabeth laughed at him for some reason. Percy didn’t know why she laughed at him about half the time, but he liked the sound too much to care.
“He just flirts with you , Seaweed Brain.”
“Huh?”
“Huh?” She mocked. “Are you always this oblivious? The one time you actually pick up on when someone’s flirting with you, and you miss that he’s not doing it to anyone else?” A few years ago, during the whole Rachel fiasco, Annabeth would’ve been genuinely furious at him for being so oblivious. Now, her amusement was obvious.
“But- I’m taken! He knows I’m taken, everyone does!” Even to his ears, the excuse sounded weak. Aurane was a bastard, born out of wedlock. The same as Percy, Annabeth, and Frank. No doubt, he thought little of the power of marriage. Percy, on the other hand, had very little love for people who cheated on their partners.
“Damn right. But sleeping with demigods in a world like this? That’s a status symbol. They’re willing to risk getting stabbed, apparently,” she said bitterly.
“Gods, I hate this place. Everyone wants power, all the time. Have they been flirting with you too?”
“Frank has it worse than either of us, since Hazel isn’t here. A couple people tried to flirt with me, once or twice. That Massey idiot. I did some tricks with my knife and he left me alone,” Annabeth informed him matter-of-factly.
“I’ll break his face,” Percy promised, already reaching for his sword, even though he had no idea where Justin Massey was.
“Percy, I already hinted I’d cut his dick off. It’s fine.” He cackled, of course he should’ve known Ananbeth had it covered.
“I love you. If only Aurane were that easy. I kinda like the guy. As a friend!” He quickly assured her.
“ Just as a friend?” She teased.
“Yes, just as- you’re messing with me.”
“Am I? Maybe you should prove it.”
“Prove what?” Percy asked, trying desperately not to smile.
“That he’s just a friend.”
From anyone else, Percy would be fuming with anger over the blatant jealousy and demanding possessiveness. But from Annabeth, with that particular glimmer in her eye and the beginning of a smile on her lips, he knew it was all just a game. Percy returned the grin, and took another step closer to her. Annabeth wrapped her arms around his waist, until they were practically pressed against the sheer strake. Over her shoulder, Percy could see Aurane pretending not to carefully observe them. So, naturally, he leaned forward and kissed his girlfriend.
Gods, Percy loved this woman. Girlfriend seemed such a small, trivial thing to call someone he’d saved the world with (twice!), fallen into Tartarus for, and who had literally tethered him to mortality before they’d even started dating. If these past few weeks had taught him anything, it was that Percy could absolutely get used to thinking of Annabeth as his wife.
-
Storm’s End was an oddly beautiful castle, if imposing from the waters below. Perched atop high, rain-lashed cliffs, Percy could easily see how no army had ever taken it. He, however, wasn’t an army. One person, with the right tricks up their sleeve, could get into the castle. Eighty feet of stone, the color of Annabeth’s eyes, made up the walls that faced the sea. Inside another layer of walls stood the castle’s only tower, crowned by battlements, hundreds of feet above the sea. Percy would give just about anything for Blackjack, or even a lift from Frank, but showmanship was part of the task here. It was still daylight, and the ringing of the castle’s warning bells could be heard even from a distance, as the fleet came in sight of the castle’s defenders. Tiny figures scurried across the walls. He took a deep breath, and stepped to the edge of the Fury.
“You know your task, Prince?” Percy checked his armor straps and scabbard one last time, before nodding to Stannis.
“I do, Your Grace. Take the castle.”
“And my brother’s bastard. His looks are the proof I need of Cersei’s crimes.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let a kid get hurt.”
The King nodded sternly and stepped back to join the crowd of onlookers, all waiting to see what Percy would do. Frank was closest to him, probably readying himself to turn into a dragon again, for the King’s grand entrance. After the traditional kiss for luck from Annabeth, Percy leaped off the ship’s deck and into the waves. Immediately, the water invigorated and revitalized him. It didn’t feel quite the same as it did back home, but he was used to that by now. Westeros was always just a little bit weird.
Percy willed the currents to propel him towards Storm’s End, and for just an instant, he could’ve sworn he’d seen the unearthly blue eyes of the Drowned God flash in the dark. Thankfully, he wasn’t smited, so presumably it was acceptable. When the image faded, the seafloor became visible. Shipwrecks littered the aptly-named bay, and there was even something that looked startlingly like the skull of a dragon. Hopefully that wasn’t a bad omen for Frank or something. When he reached the point where the wall met the sea, Percy allowed the water to give him all the strength it could, holding back the waves from flowing.
Percy pulled in that place behind his navel, and a gargantuan wave carried him up. He burst through the surface of the water, which was rapidly scaling the walls of the castle. He concentrated, and a spout of seawater raised him even higher, above the walls, above the battlements, above Storm’s End. It’s beautiful up here, Percy thought, his ADHD taking over. To the west, the Stormlands were all hills and forests. To the east, the sun shone over the Narrow Sea. It truly was gorgeous, but he needed to focus . The water guided him to the top of the battlements, and he drew his sword just as he landed gracelessly atop the castle.
Two men were standing there, crossbows in hand, gawking at him. They wore the Baratheons’ crowned stag, but these were Renly’s men, not Stannis’. Despite the deal the demigods had made with the King, he didn’t really care about this world’s politics. He didn’t want to hurt random mortals. He had to get home, but the less blood he spilt to do it, the better. Some people deserved death, sure. Gabe had, it sounded like this Joffrey did. But these men didn’t. Percy drew himself up to his full height and resisted the urge to cough, reciting what he’d been told to.
“My name is Percy Jackson, Prince of Atlantis and the Seas, son of Poseidon, the god of the sea. In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, put your weapons down. I won’t hurt you if you surrender.” Thank the gods, they did as they were told, and quickly dropped to their knees with muttered ‘m’lords’ . Percy hurried to the nearby trapdoor, rushing down the narrow, winding stairs, and into the tower. A few men tried to stop him, though most of the defenders had rushed to the walls when the fleet arrived. Percy quickly disarmed those he saw, or whacked them on the side of the head with his pommel. The servants stayed out of his way.
By the time he reached the Great Hall, the castle’s defenders were starting to gather there. Their obvious leader was a bald man with a thick, pointy red beard, and two white feathers on a brown field emblazoned on his chest. Cortnay Penrose, Percy remembered. The castle’s Castellan. What an unfortunate title for people to have. Percy could barely stomach saying it without vomiting, and knew Annabeth had it even worse. The two sides faced off uneasily: Penrose and thirty soldiers on one, Percy on the other. Wait- was that a child? Tucked behind Penrose, standing next to the Lord’s Seat, with a kid-sized warhammer in his hand, was a child. He had oversized ears, but otherwise looked quite a bit like Stannis and Shireen. Edric Storm, Robert’s bastard. The key to Stannis’ plan .
“Who are you?” Penrose demanded. He seemed to notice Percy eyeing the kid, and extended an arm in front of him protectively. Percy readied his sword, but made no move to attack.
“King Stannis sent me. I’m not from around here, you wouldn’t recognize my name. But you can call me Percy. I’m a demigod, Prince of Atlantis.“ The Baratheon men laughed, and with a gesture from Cortnay, charged forward. Percy whirled and ducked, slamming the flat or pommel of his xiphos into anyone who got close enough. The outside world became a blur as his battle-ready brain took over, and within moments, ten men were unconscious on the ground in front of him. Breathing deeply, Percy extended a hand towards the barrels against the far wall, near a table that had been propped against a door. Water burst from them, raised into the air. Percy made a fist, and pulled it towards his chest. The water rushed through the Baratheon men from behind, soaking them to the bone. Percy willed it to wash over him, leaving him completely dry, before forming a wall directly behind him. Once the water touched his skin, he stopped breathing heavily.
“Do you surrender?” Percy asked calmly. If this castle fell, King’s Landing would be next, and then Annabeth would have everything she needed to figure out a way home. All this guy had to do was surrender. This war didn’t matter anyway. Still, Penrose hesitated. He could see the tip of the man’s sword wavering, however, and the kid cowering behind him. Percy always hated how easily he inspired fear in people. He could only imagine how he looked right now, standing in front of a frozen wave with unconscious bodies at his feet. But that couldn’t be helped. Demigods as powerful as him always inspired fear.
“My men cannot stand against you. But… The boy. Edric. Please, I love him as if he were my own. He’s a threat to Stannis. Your King will kill my foster son. Are you a father, Your Highness?” Percy’s heart hurt from the sincerity in the man’s voice, the pleading in his eyes. Bob had made Percy and Annabeth promise to tell their children about him. Sons and daughters . But seriously, what kind of fucked-up world was this where that was a normal question to ask twenty year olds? His mom would flay him alive if he got Annabeth pregnant before they graduated. Thank the gods for IUDs.
“No, not yet. But I am an older brother. I understand. I won’t Stannis hurt Edric Storm, I promise. I swear it on the- shit, that doesn’t mean anything to you. Besides, Stannis needs him alive.” Penrose nodded heavily, and threw down his sword.
“In that case, My Prince. Storm’s End is yours.” With an ear-ringing clang, the rest of the men dropped their weapons, nearly as one. Edric, still clutching his warhammer, narrowed his eyes at Percy. He took a few steps forward, like he meant to pick a fight. Gods, how old was this kid? Twelve, maybe? Percy had been going on quests already by that age. Had he really been that young? Before Edric could do anything stupid, his foster father laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s over, Ned. Your uncle is an honorable man. As is the prince, I hope.”
“I try to be,” Percy snarked. Grumbling, Edric dropped his warhammer. Finally, the unmistakable, bone-chilling sound of Frank’s roar sounded, rocking the castle to his foundations. Percy tried not to wince, recalling the Battle of Manhattan all too well. He looked pointedly at Cortnay. “The courtyard. Which way is it?”
His face rapidly paling, the Castellan led Percy out of the hall, through a few other floors, and eventually, into Storm’s End’s massive courtyard. Frank was circling the castle, as men in black and yellow watched in awe and fear. Dragons in Westeros, for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. All because of Frank’s powers. The men fell to their knees, one after another. Even if he didn’t recognize the liturgies, Percy knew prayers when he heard them. Percy was soon the only one left standing. Stannis carefully dismounted from Frank’s back, sword at his side and crown on his brow. He was the image of a King. Catching Percy’s eye, he strode towards him and Penrose, who bowed his head. Percy pitied the Castellan. A few minutes ago, he’d been proud and fierce. Now, he was kneeling in the mud, head bent, shivering with barely-repressed fear.
“Your Grace. Storm’s End is yours, provided Edric Storm remains safe,” Penrose said.
“Indeed, as it always should have been. My nephew will suffer no harm from me,” Stannis assured him. “Rise, Ser Cortnay. I expect a report on the state of my castle.” With shaky knees, Cortnay rose to his feet.
“Do you mean to strip Lord Renly of his title, then?” He asked.
“If he bends the knee, he can keep Storm’s End. If not, I will grant it to my daughter, in addition to her title as Princess of Dragonstone. Until I meet with my brother and set terms, I will rule from my family’s seat. Perhaps, if the boy proves loyal, I will legitimize Edric Storm as Lord Durrandon of Storm’s End. Now, Percy, kneel.” Percy blinked in shock, having been focused on Frank, who’d transformed back into a human, and was walking towards them.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m doing you a great honor, Prince. Kneel before your King. You as well, Praetor.” Warily, a hand still clenched around his sword, Percy knelt. After a moment, Frank knelt beside him. He stiffened briefly as the flat of Stannis’ blade touched his right shoulder, but quickly realized what was going on.
“Prince Percy of the House Jackson. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to rebuild the downtrodden. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to act always with wisdom. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face Death with honor. Rise, Percy Jackson, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Operating completely on autopilot, and completely devoid of any idea what the fuck to do, Percy rose to his feet.
“Your Grace, I don’t follow the Seven. I don’t-”
“By all the gods boy, you have no idea what I have just done for you. Even the Northmen accept knighthoods from their Kings. Will you accept this honor, Praetor, or show me further disrespect?”
“I accept, Your Grace,” Frank murmured. Percy just stood there, completely dumbfounded. He was a knight now? As if being a Prince wasn’t insane enough.
“Good. Jackson, go see to it that the gates are opened. My men are waiting.” With that, the King turned his attention back to Frank, who was still kneeling patiently. Damn Romans and their damn formalities. “Praetor Frank of the House Zhang. In the name of the Father-”
Still not sure what precisely the fuck had just happened, Percy walked towards the gargantuan castle gates. It was small consolation that the men there looked even more shocked than he did, though they were still staring at Frank, likely just as surprised about him no longer being a dragon as they had been about the presence of a dragon in the first place.
“Open the gates,” Percy ordered, as soon as he was close enough to be heard. The men scrambled to obey. When the huge wooden doors swung open, the neatly arrayed rows of Stannis’ troops immediately began to file in. Near the frontmost ranks were Annabeth, Lord Velaryon, Davos, and Aurane, along with the other nobility Stannis had brought to the siege.
“How did it go?” Annabeth asked him, once she’d kissed him on the cheek and slung her arm around his waist.
“I think Stannis just knighted me,” Percy mumbled.
“The last thing you needed was more titles,” Aurane quipped. The two demigods ignored him, and Percy allowed himself a moment to delight in the glint in his girlfriend-wife’s eyes. He could tell she was taking in the architecture of the castle, and was already fascinated by it.
“So, Wise Girl. What’s next?” He asked, as the Baratheon men raised Stannis’ personal sigil over the castle walls.
“Now that you and Frank are knights? Everything’s going according to plan. We just have to wait around for Renly to show up, and if he surrenders, we’ll be home in no time. You okay?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
She rested her head on his shoulder, and they watched as the gates were closed once again. Frank finally joined them, and together, the three demigods watched the castle prepare for what would be a- hopefully brief- siege. Stannis seemed in his element here, at home amidst the carved stags and harsh lines that dominated Storm’s End.
“Me too, love. But we’ll have to make our home here for now,” Annabeth murmured.
“As long as we’re together. And Frank’s here,” Percy added. He didn’t want his friend to feel left out.
“Nice save, Percy, I appreciate that,” Frank said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Any time, man.”
Notes:
Bi Percabeth supremacy. As anyone who’s ready any fics of mine knows, I’m absolutely incapable of writing cishet people. Since these two are canonically a gross PDA couple, I'm having fun depicting them that way.
We don’t actually know shit about Aurane except that Cersei thinks he’s hot and he chooses to rip her off and become a pirate. I’m expanding on his character a bit: definitely selfish, but he and Monford have a good relationship. Apparently not good enough for him to fight for Monterys, but in Aurane’s defense, the kid was six and had to bend the knee to Joffrey too. I depict him here as being intensely proud of his heritage to try to make up for his bastardy, hence the weird flirting where he espouses the greatness of Valyrian blood to try to get in Percy’s pants. This was written to be intentionally odd. Aurane sees himself as the scion of a great people, speaking with an equal. Percy also is closely tied to the sea and more than human- Valyrians see themselves as superhuman as well.
I know Cortnay Penrose is known for his badassery in the books, and absolutely tearing Stannis a new asshole, but again, all we really know about him is that he’s considered a good man and cares deeply for his ward, Edric Storm. I can’t imagine he’d be stubborn enough to still not surrender in this situation, provided Edric’s safety is guaranteed.
The dragon skull Percy sees on the seafloor is, of course, Arrax. Poor baby.
I had to write about half the knighting ceremony, we only get up to the Maid's bit in the Hedge Knight. if there's a longer version in the show i couldn't be assed to look it up.
Next chapter: Catelyn I. The infamous parley will go a bit differently with the castle having fallen already.
Chapter Text
The messenger’s arrival at Bitterbridge sent Renly’s camp into uproar. No one had expected to hear of Storm’s End falling in a lightning raid. Half the so-called King’s army had made haste for Storm’s End as soon as the news arrived, as the other half remained behind. Losing one’s own castle was always humiliating. Losing a never-before-fallen castle while abroad, feasting, made one look foolish. The young King had lost much of his jolly, unflappable demeanor on the ride to his castle. No doubt he had felt invincible, standing at the head of the largest and most well-fed army in the country, unbloodied by the war that had ravaged Cat’s homeland. The first blow had now been struck against Renly, from an unexpected quarter, and it had left him shaken. His Queen, Margaery Tyrell, had been far more deft than her husband, and maintained her queenly courtesies even as the King ranted and denounced his brother.
The rumors of a dragon and gods being involved only made Renly look desperate, in Cat’s view. Doubtless, he’d spread them himself to soften the blow. It was completely preposterous. An unconquered castle had fallen, on Renly Baratheon’s watch, to his own brother, while he usurped a crown that by any metric did not belong to him. Cat had little reason to care for the games the Baratheons and Lannisters played, she just wanted her daughters back and her sons safe. Even she could admit, however, that the fall of Storm’s End was extraordinary, as was the parley about to occur outside its walls.
She’d arrived to Bitterbridge expecting to treat with Renly, the Baratheon brother with the larger army, to forge common cause between him and her son. They both hated the Lannisters, but out of the three Kings nominally at war with the Throne, only Robb had spilled any lion’s blood. Bitterbridge had only solidified Cat’s first impression: Renly was a boy playing at war. His knights were those of summer. Stannis, for all his faults, had been smart enough to attack something. Unfortunately, he’d gone after the wrong enemy. Cat had half a mind to chew both brothers out and send them to bed without their supper until they agreed to work together again, but nothing inflated a man’s ego more than a crown on his head and an army at his back.
Cat and her guard, Hallis Mollen, were the second party to reach Storm’s End’s gates. The rest of Cat’s guards remained in Renly’s camp, leaving Hallis the honor of carrying the Stark banner. Cat knew she was in no danger here, the guard was a formality. No one could possibly be foolish enough to attack during a parley, it went against the laws of every god and man she knew of. The two brothers had agreed to a parley far enough from the walls to be out of archery range, while Renly’s bannermen went about setting up siege lines. Half his troops are the same men who laid siege to this castle, sixteen years ago. Cat thought bitterly. Renly almost starved to death in Storm’s End, still a boy. Stannis held his ancestral castle for a year, until Ned lifted the siege. What fool would bring war to their home so readily?
She had expected to find Stannis outside his gates already, perhaps with an honor guard made of the houses of the Narrow Sea. In her most indulgent moments on the road from Bitterbridge, she’d wondered if the alleged dragon or rumored Rhoynish water witch would be there. She didn’t believe the rumors, of course, but they were intriguing. Before Storm’s End fell, Stannis had been denounced by Renly and the Lannisters as a heretic, a convert to the strange Essosi religion of the Lord of Light. Now, the Lords of the Reach and Stormlands whispered of stranger, even more foreign gods taking up residence on Dragonstone.
The Marcher Lords had used the tales of a massive waterspout appearing during the castle’s fall to fuel their usual anti-Dornish tyrades. A third son of House Swann had told a very long, very boring tale of the magic that Nymeria had brought from Essos. Allegedly, there had once been a group of Rhoynish warriors who could bend Mother Rhoyne to their will, and had played havoc with the armies of Stormlords during their countless wars against Dorne, until a few hundred years ago. Catelyn wasn’t sure if she believed it, but the tale of heroism, magic, and Nymeria was exactly the sort of thing that both her daughters would have liked. Even so, magic had long since departed from the world. Valyria was gone, the dragons dead, the giants, Children of the Forest, and Others were hidden away, if they had ever existed at all.
To her surprise, Stannis was not waiting at the gates of his reconquered castle. Instead, there were three men and a woman, all heavily armored and armed, sat astride horses. Two of the men, she recognized by their sigils. The man dressed in teal and silver with a seahorse on his chest. Monford Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark. An interesting choice- the Velaryons had been the closest allies of House Targaryen for four hundred years. But then again, Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly had fought viciously for the Mad King, and now they served Renly. Even Robb’s forces from the Riverlands had some Targaryen loyalists among them, most notably among House Darry, which had remained loyal to the end.
The next man was harder to recognize, but she made the connection quickly. A black ship with onion sails for a sigil and noticeably short fingers could only be Davos Seaworth, the same Onion Knight who’d saved the life of Stannis and Renly alike. Ser Davos held Stannis’ banner in his intact hand: the Baratheons’ black stag on gold had been quartered with the Estermonts’ sea turtle and the Florents’ fox. Lord Estermont and Lord Florent both marched with Renly, and Cat absently wondered what they would think of their grandson and goodnephew respectively daring to use their sigils. The same banner hung atop the highest tower of Storm’s End, though the rest of the castle was decorated in the typical black-and-gold. The two remaining members of Stannis’ party were entirely unfamiliar to her.
Catelyn could’ve been convinced that the man was one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, if not for his eyes. He wore strange armor, stranger than Catelyn had ever seen, yet it matched nearly perfectly with that of the woman next to him. An odd helmet was held under his arm, just above an even odder-shaped sword. The woman had an identical helmet, but carried only a dagger. The highlights on their armor differed, but it was obvious they’d been forged as a set, despite the sigil being one she was entirely unfamiliar with. No house she’d ever heard of had a blue trident clutched in the talons of a grey owl on orange. Minor landed knights, maybe? No, that still left too many questions unanswered.
While the man had the Baratheon good looks, height, build, and hair, his eyes were a vivid sea-green instead of Robert or Stannis’ blue, and he looked about Renly’s own age. He was certainly no more than five-and-twenty, but his eyes seemed far older. He looks like Robert’s trueborn child, Cat realized. This man is every inch what a Baratheon King should be. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella were bastards born of incest, so Stannis had claimed. The letter had arrived too late for her to read before leaving Riverrun, but Renly’s men had whispered of it on the march from Bitterbridge.
As for the woman… she could be Visenya, or Nymeria come again. A woman, armed and armored, as deadly as she was beautiful. Golden curls streaked with grey, elegant and perfectly intact armor, steel-colored eyes, and she sat astride her horse like a woman born to it. Arya would have loved to meet her, Cat thought with a pang. Arya, who’d been missing since Robert died. Arya, who was wild and insufferable and who she loved with her whole heart, a prisoner of the Lannisters.
The man and woman’s skin were both tanned, though not deeply enough to mark them as Dornish. They shared grey streaks in their hair, but not the silver-white that would have marked them as Targaryens. Between them, on the patches of visible skin, were more scars than Cat had ever seen. Burns streaked up and down the man’s arms, which were left bare. Both their faces, necks, and arms were covered in more mundane scars, including some that looked horribly like claw marks. Orange fabric peaked out from under the two’s cuirasses, and they both wore simple breeches under their vambraces. Who were these people?
“Lady Stark?” Lord Velaryon asked, polite surprise in his tone. “I was not expecting to see you here. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I did not expect to be here, my Lord. My son, King in the North, sent me as an envoy to both Baratheon claimants.”
“A most diplomatic answer. The Young Wolf will not bend the knee?” Velaryon said carefully. This is a smart man, Cat realized, far smarter than he would let on. I shouldn’t underestimate him .
“That is a discussion for another time, and another place,” she replied. Ser Davos and the two strangers watched her carefully.
“Indeed it is, my Lady. Though I must admit I’m curious to hear the answer,” came a voice from her left. Catelyn turned to see Renly riding up to their small gathering, a wide grin back on his face. He’d dressed for battle, in his flawless green armor, with his Rainbow Guard behind him. Brienne the Blue, the Maid of Tarth, carried Renly’s banner. Thankfully, to avoid confusion, he’d used a gold stag on green- the colors of Highgarden. Loras Tyrell, the Lord Commander, rode by Renly’s side. She heard snickers from the strangers, and when Catelyn turned to look, they were pointing at Loras’ rainbow cloak and giggling. The man said something to the woman in a strange language, and replied in the same tongue. Catelyn knew she should be offended at mockery of the rainbow, the holy symbol of the Seven, but their laughter seemed more akin to mild amusement than true scorn. Even so, Loras fumed silently.
“His Grace King Robb seeks a military alliance against the Lannisters, the real enemy. This squabble between brothers harms us all,” she pleaded. This was all foolishness, pure idiocy.
“Hm. And where is my dear brother?” Renly asked.
“His Grace will be here soon,” replied Lord Velaryon. There was a glint in his purple eyes. He’s planning something.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my castle? I’ve never seen such armor or sigils before.” Renly directed his newest question to the two strangers. Cat, too, wanted to hear the answer.
“I’m the one who took this castle, and this is my wife, she made the armor,” said the man casually. His vowels were strangely rounded, an accent Catelyn had never heard before, but which was still very different from the language he’d spoken to his wife. Cat wasn’t sure which statement was more incredulous, that this random foreign hedge knight took Storm’s End, or that a woman was such a skilled smith. Unless… no. That is not possible.
“You took the castle? What, by yourself?” Loras Tyrell asked haughtily. He laughed, as if he’d made some clever joke.
“Yup,” the man said, popping the p. Renly’s men started laughing, but despite the man’s casual demeanor, Catelyn was not amused. Something in his eyes told her he wasn’t lying.
“How, through sorcery? I’m afraid tales of Bloodraven’s witchcraft are just tales , good ser. You cannot win a kingdom with tricks,” spat Robar Royce.
“Not witchcraft. Not tricks. Powers.” That sparked another round of laughter, until the man aimed a finger above Renly’s party. Without warning, water spewed from his flesh, streaming from the tip of his finger and forming a faint mist in the air. He moved his arm back and forth, allowing the water to drizzle across all present. The laughter fell silent immediately, and no one could do more than stare in awe. He lowered his hand, and the stream ended. The man and his horse were completely dry. Cat licked away the water from her lips, and found it tasted of salt. The man and his wife seemed deeply amused by the situation, while Velaryon and Seaworth were smug. Bryce Caron drew his sword in a ring of steel, shoving aside his orange cloak.
“Dornish cur! I knew there was witchcraft afoot! Your Rhoynar magic did not save you from the dragons, and it will not-” The foolish lord was interrupted by his horse, who whinnied and bucked, throwing the man to the ground. Damned Marchers. They never did learn to set aside their grudges. As Parmen Crane helped the sopping wet Lord to his feet, the horse trotted up between the two parties, and began scratching in the mud with its hooves. Cat watched, stunned, as it sketched out a rough trident, then galloped off into the wilds. She stared open-mouthed at the strange man, who was staring even more intently at the horse. Hallis Mollen swore softly behind her, and Cat felt her blood run cold. Whoever these people were, they were powerful . Maybe the rumors weren’t so far-fetched after all. Renly and the rest of the Rainbow Guard waited in silence, until the man turned his attention back to them.
“Let me introduce myself properly, then. I’m Percy Jackson, and this is Annabeth Chase. We’re demigods, one of our parents were gods, and the others were mortal. We don’t come from this world, and no, I’m not Dornish. My father is Poseidon, God of the Sea, King of Atlantis… and Lord of Horses.” His wife spoke next, her accent slightly different from her husband’s but just as odd.
“My mother is Athena, Goddess of War, Crafts, and Wisdom. Rather than insulting us, you should remember your courtesies, my lords. My husband is a Prince of Atlantis, and a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, in addition to a dozen other titles that would mean nothing to you.” Silence still reigned, as everyone present processed that truly insane information. The whispers are all true, then. Is there a dragon hiding somewhere? It was Renly who broke the silence. His voice was still strong and jaunty, but Cat could see the fear in his eyes.
“Lord Caron. Apologize to the Prince and Princess,” the King ordered. Caron did as he was told, but was clearly furious about his sudden and unexpected lack of horse. As the only one present without a mount, he looked patently ridiculous. Cat seemed to be the only one who noticed or cared, however. Maybe too many years in the North had hardened her tastes away from ostentation and frivolity, but everything about these Stormlanders and Reachermen seemed to be as garish as possible. They took themselves seriously, but no others did.
“So. Does this mean you have a dragon somewhere? And why, exactly, has my brother dared to be late to a parley with his King?” Renly demanded. The foreign Prince flashed a lopsided grin that could make a Silent Sister swoon, and jabbed his thumb behind him, towards the castle.
“Both those questions will be answered any second now.”
Catelyn had had just enough time to process the horrifying implications of that statement when she heard it. A great and terrible screech rent the air, followed by the slow flapping of powerful wings. From behind the gargantuan walls of Storm’s End, a ten-meter long dragon rose into the air. Cat made the sign of the Seven over her heart, and heard muttered prayers from one of Renly’s men. Hallis Mollen, to his credit, stayed perfectly still and deceptively calm. All the horses grew skittish as the dragon ascended, with the exception of those ridden by the so-called demigods.
The great beast rose above Storm’s End’s tallest tower, before circling the castle several times, roaring at random intervals. Renly’s army ran around the siege lines like startled ants, and Cat could hear a mix of cursing and shouting from the distance. Stannis has a dragon. A full-grown, slate-gray, magical beast. Aegon conquered six kingdoms with three. How much can Stannis do with just one, two magical demigods, and the same supporters? Cat suspected she did not want to know the answer. Robb. I must tell Robb, he has to bend the knee. The Lannisters are doomed, we must not be next.
Finally, terrifyingly, the dragon flew towards the gathered adversaries. It landed off to the side of them both, roaring once more. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Cat could have sworn she felt the heat radiating off the beast’s scales. The dragon was no less terrifying up close. Her horse snuffed and flicked its tail, but thankfully did not buck her off.
“Where in the Seven Hells did you find a full-grown dragon, brother?” Renly called out. His fear was more evident now, but he hid it well. Oh gods, the dragon has a rider. Catelyn hadn’t noticed, but Stannis Baratheon was sliding down the dragon’s neck, crowned and armored just as his brother was. Seeing them side by side, it was easy to see why so many had bent the knee to a younger brother. Stannis was older, homelier, harsher, crueller. Where Renly was shining gold, Stannis was hard, cold iron. Even so, the elder brother had an aura of power to his presence that could only come from arriving to a meeting on dragonback, escorted by children of gods from another world. Stannis walked the few paces from his dragon to his bannermen, before turning to face Renly and speaking.
“This is Ser Frank Zhang, though he prefers the title Praetor. He appeared in the sky above Dragonstone, along with the Prince and Princess here, a sign from all the gods of their favor towards my cause. They have their own language, older and stranger than Valyrian, but I’ve made sure they learn the word dracarys. This is your final chance, Renly. Bend, and I’ll ensure you receive your due. Storm’s End, the Handship, a position as my heir until a son is born to me. All your men- traitors to the last- will be pardoned, their crimes forgotten. Resist, and you will die a traitor’s death, be it in dragonfire or by the noose.”
The dragon’s scales rippled, and seconds later a man was standing in its place. She could see little of him under the odd, segmented armor and helmet he wore, but from his size alone, he seemed terrifying. Another demigod, Catelyn reasoned. Seven save us. He walked to stand beside Percy Jackson, who smiled at the man. Bryce Caron dropped to his knees first.
“All hail Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Nightsong is yours, Your Grace. House Caron stands with you. I pledge myself, my sword, my house, my banners, and my honour to you. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Stannis said nothing, did nothing in response to this momentous event. He only stared at his brother, hand inches from his sword. Renly whirled around in shock, staring open-mouthed at the man who had been a member of his Rainbow Guard just moments before. Guyard Morrigen was next, slipping off his horse and kneeling in the mud, green cloak splattered with dirt, and reciting the oaths of fealty a Knight said to a King. Loras Tyrell moved to draw his sword, as if to strike down the traitors, but Renly’s hand stayed him. Slowly, as if every movement was painful, Renly Baratheon dismounted. Loras stared in shock, but Renly did not acknowledge his rumored lover. Renly removed his crown, and set it at Stannis’ feet, then unbuckled his scabbard and did the same.
“I, Prince Renly of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, swear fealty to the one true King, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Storm’s End is yours. I pledge myself, my sword, my banners, and my honour to you. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” Every word seemed to cause him pain, but Renly spoke regardless. In silence, apart from the creaking of their armor, the other five members of his guard dismounted, knelt, and swore their oaths. Even Loras Tyrell, whose shoulders were shaking with his anger, followed his former King’s lead. When it was done, only Cat and Hallis remained ahorse, out of the group of ten that had ridden from Renly’s camp. Stannis picked up Renly’s jade-and-gold crown from the mud, clenching it in his fist. The sword he handed to his brother, who took it in his hands without rising. Drawn up to his full height, with eight proud southern nobles kneeling in the mud before him, having secure two kingdoms without a drop of blood, Cat could almost believe that Stannis Baratheon would be a good king.
“Rise, all of you. Your treasons are forgiven. Be welcome to the King’s peace. I extend to you the hospitality of Storm’s End, which shall be under my direct command until the Red Keep is retaken, at which time it will revert to its rightful Lord, Prince Renly of the House Baratheon.” His brother had knelt in the mud before him, but Renly rose at Stannis’ command. Not a hint of satisfaction showed on the King’s gaunt face, only grim determination. He had just changed everything, and didn’t even enjoy his victory. “Lord Renly, I will proclaim you my Hand and Heir on the morrow, in the great hall of our forefathers. I expect your presence, and that of your family and bannermen.”
“Your Grace,” Renly bit out. Stannis barely gave his brother enough time for the acknowledgement before he continued.
“Tell your men what has happened here today- those both here and elsewhere. You may enter the keep, along with your nobles, and leave the soldiers outside. I want oaths of fealty and bent knees from all Great Lords within your host. Starting with your wife, the Princess Margaery, and her family. Tear down those gods-damned siege lines and start preparing a proper camp. We prepare to march on King’s Landing. My men will garrison the castle.” In a daze, Renly nodded, shaky even after he returned to his horse. Stannis turned his attention to Cat, and she almost flinched under its weight. “Go back to your son, Lady Stark. Tell the Young Wolf I expect him to bend the knee.”
“King Robb will have terms-”
“And they will be negotiated. The North and Riverlands have been wronged by the Throne, and borne the brunt of this war, aye. But he will bend the knee, or he will lose his head. Go back to Riverrun. After I take King’s Landing, I will send an envoy along with your daughters, and Joffrey Waters’ head.”
To her shock, Cat found she believed every word. The giant of a man turned himself into a horse, which Stannis hopped onto, and trotted back towards his castle. Lord Velaryon and Ser Davos followed closely behind, with the Prince and Princess behind them. In a fit of madness, Cat dug her heels into her horse’s side and charged after them.
“Your Highnesses! Wait!” Thankfully, the Jacksons turned around, both wearing eerily similar expressions of puzzlement. Catelyn slowed her horse, ignoring the glare Hallis was leveling her with as he brought his horse alongside hers. From the corner of her vision, she saw Renly and his guard slowly returning to their war camp.
“Can I help you, Lady Stark?” the demigoddess asked, not impolitely.
“You march on King’s Landing next?” She nodded slowly, waiting for Cat to get to the point. Her and her husband had piercing gazes, eyes that seemed to almost glow in the shadow of the castle walls, and Cat had to fight the urge to turn and run. “Please, my daughters. Sansa and Arya. They’re hostages of the Lannisters, and terrible things happen during a siege. I need- I need my children back, Your Highness. They’re only babes still. Ensure they are safe, and I will be forever in your debt.”
The woman’s gaze softened, and her husband nodded in understanding. It was truly terrifying how quickly these two could go from seeming incredibly dangerous to incredibly human.
“We’ll do it, no debt necessary. What do they look like?” the Prince questioned. Holding back tears of relief, Cat hurriedly described her girls. She could practically see the Princess Annabeth filing the information away in her mind. Cat may have been raised to worship only the Seven, but there was no doubt in her mind that these two striplings were telling the truth of their origins.
“Thank you. Thank you both, so much. You promise to keep them safe?” Something raw and pained flashed through the man’s face, but he schooled his expression and nodded slowly.
“If at all possible,” he clarified. Catelyn supposed that would have to do.
“If they’re in the city when we take it, I’ll make sure Sansa and Arya come to no harm,” Annabeth said. Smiling, Catelyn thanked them again and finally left Storm’s End behind her. She would have to make directly for Riverrun, and it was a long journey. Robb had much he needed to hear.
Notes:
Percy and Annabeth’s convo in Greek went something like this:
“Hey look, rainbows! Think he’s queer too? I thought they were all super homophobic here”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Loras Tyrell. He’s definitely gay, but the Seven use rainbows as a religious symbol.”Percy can canonically summon seawater, and does so several times in BOTL (both with and without seashells), only for this power to never be used again.
I HC the Jacksons (as in Sally and Percy not Percy and Annabeth) as having pretty thick NY accents, which completely befuddles the Weterosi. Davos commented on their accents as well, in an earlier chapter. He finds Annabeth’s more general American accent odd, as well as Frank’s Canadian one.
I know Frank’s been very background for a while, but I promise that’ll change! Training troops in roman military tactics and shapeshifting upon request is very boring to write. Frank’s got some chapters coming, and plenty of great moments. Davos III is next though.
The march from Bitterbridge to Storm's End likely took about a month. The idea that, in canon, Cat went this entire time without hearing the rumors of Joffrey's bastardy is completely insane. She would've likely been travelling at least somewhat near the other ladies- she's the dowager lady paramount/queen mother of a great house, born to one Lord Paramount and married to another. She's not a common camp follower trailing the army at a distance. So here, she's a bit better informed about the goings-on in the world. people love to gossip, especially the Tyrells and their bannermen, and especially if the gossip is batshit insane.
We don't actually see oaths of fealty in canon, so I made some up. I don't like them much but eh, they do the trick for more impromptu settings like this.
It surprised me to learn that Renly and Stannis aren't really referred to as Prince during Robert's lifetime, just Lord. I'm using them a bit more interchangeably here.
Chapter 7: Davos III
Notes:
This is now officially part of a series! In addition to outlining all 23 chapters of this fic, I outlined a part 2 in its entirety, and have vague outlines for a P3 that aren't yet on a chapter-by-chapter basis. This fic *will* be finished, as will parts 2 and 3. The series is titled Ostrakismos (ostracism). I almost titled it Exsilium, but Ostrakismos means basically the same thing and sounds cooler.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It only took a few days after Renly bent the knee for everything to go to shit. The Lords of the Reach and Stormlands spent a full day bending the knee to Stannis and pledging their loyalty, though often through gritted teeth. While certainly awkward, that day had been one of triumph. It was the aftermath, the merging of Stannis and Renly’s cobbled-togther courts, that caused chaos.
None but the Florents had seen fit to convert to the Lord of Light, yet Lord Alester did so with a fervent devotion, in the name of his absent niece. To his chagrin, many of the houses that had converted to the faith of R’hllor were now uncomfortable with the Red God with Melisandre dead and Queen Selyse on Dragonstone, yet too prideful to slink back into the loving arms of the Seven. Worship of the Olympians, despite their children’s complaints, proved a refuge. Several houses of the Reach and Stormlands, too, began sacrificing parts of their meals to the gods which had sired the conquering heroes, while still keeping to the Faith. Since Percy, Annabeth, and Frank staunchly refused to share details of the worship of their parents, or to construct temples to them, their devotees were limited to scraping a portion of each meal into the fire, or perhaps discussing the stories the Princess had sung of. She had recently completed her recitations of the story of the hero Odysseus, and was now recounting the final days of the Trojan War.
Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Mertyns, Lonmouths, Bar Emmons, Velaryons, Celtigars, Fells, Costaynes, and Mullendores adopted some Olympian traditions. The Velaryons had taken to referring to their traditional Merling King as Triton, and his worshippers along the Narrow Sea had followed suit. Meanwhile, the Sunglass, Hightower, and Beesbury families, along with many other lords of the Stormlands and Reach, saw both the Lord of Light and the Olympians as mere blasphemy. The occasionally-heard toast ‘to the gods, Old, New, and Olympian’ was met with jeers from the men of Oldtown and the other devout followers of the Seven. King Stannis permitted all faiths in his realm, to the grumbling of the Faithful and the joy of the followers of R’hllor and the Olympians. Percy, Frank, and Annabeth seemed extremely apathetic to the whole thing.
Davos could understand why the demigods wanted little to do with their parents. While grey-eyed Athena had been a patron of Odysseus in the stories, Poseidon was cruel and murderous, driven only by vengeful rage for a monstrous son. The Jacksons freely admitted that they too had fought Polyphemos, without any curse being brought down upon them by Poseidon. That discussion had ended abruptly, however, when the Princess mumbled something about arai to her husband, and they both fell silent.
The Olympians seemed to be creatures of ego and vice, relying on mortal men to do their bidding, and lashing out at the slightest insult. Davos suspected none would worship them if not for the terrifying power of their children. And so, in an effort to appease the parents of the three most dangerous people on the continent, and in the hopes of currying some of that favor for themselves, grasping fools prayed to absent gods.
It was, on occasion, easy to forget the power the three striplings wielded. Ser Frank was a quiet, reserved man despite his hulking size and great skill at arms, more inclined to moping over the wife he was forced to leave behind, Hazel, than bothering the serving girls, as almost any other man would have done. The man-who-was-a-dragon had a well-known distaste for cheeses and milk, claiming it upset his digestion. Annabeth Jackson, on the other hand, refused to let anyone consume the slightest bit of dairy made from milk that had not been boiled and allowed to cool. Her wits and blades were sharp, but a spider was enough to send her into hysterics.
Her husband was at times the most dangerous man Davos had ever encountered, and at others reminded him of his own eldest son. He is as fickle and as reliable as the sea. Hopelessly besotted with his wife and devoted to his friend, yet entirely uncaring when it came to Stannis’ cause. A dangerous combination, that. Loyalty to people, yet none to ideals. Although, that was not exactly true. The Stormlanders and Reachermen quickly learned what all those on Dragonstone had already. The demigods were wont to be in good humor, and took no offense at jokes at their own expense or even that of their godly parents. The slightest insult or infraction towards women, a mention of the duties of smallfolk, or of the necessities of war, had been known to lead to threats and shouting matches. The Prince had had to break several more noses since he’d arrived on Storm’s End, and his wife had shattered the wrist of a man who tried to grab her. Idiots, all of them.
Regardless, the demigods’ unpredictability was only one of the problems plaguing Storm’s End. The Tyrells and their bannermen were furious at Renly and Stannis alike, and it worried the King. Davos, as Master of Whisperers, had been put in charge of finding out what the Reach lords wanted, and how to prevent them from getting it. It turned out they wanted nearly everything they could get.
Davos quickly learned that every man-at-arms, servant, and maid in Storm’s End wanted to be his friend. He’d feared it would be difficult to gather whispers on the Tyrells and their bannermen, as Stannis had asked of him, but the opposite proved to be true. Every member of the household old enough to have lived through the Siege, a considerable portion, he soon learned, owed Davos their life, and despised the Reachermen, though they remained loyal to Lord Renly. The same lords that had once feasted outside Storm's End’s walls now whiled away their days within it, while the host prepared to depart for King’s Landing. Thank the gods Mace Tyrell remained at Highgarden. His daughter Margaery, and sons Garlan and Loras, however, had come along with Renly’s host. Paxter Redwyne was still at the Arbor, refusing to call his banners while his sons were hostages of the Lannisters, but Randyll Tarly had taken to sleeping with his sword Heartsbane, lest a servant with a long memory come upon him in the night.
Despite Davos’ fears, his King had been right. He was rather good at cultivating sources. He heard whispers of discontent, how Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon had been arguing for days, and Princess Margaery was barely succeeding at keeping the peace. Garlan appeared to be acting as the level-headed amongst the Tyrell party. A few Fossoways had been speculating rather loudly that Mace Tyrell might withdraw his support from Renly if he didn’t get to keep the Handship. One of the lady’s maids saw Randyll Tarly sneaking a mistress into his chambers. All the servants who hadn’t interacted with the demigods were terrified of them, and all those who had reported that they were the nicest lords they’d ever met.
Despite the change in scenery and company, much of the daily routine at Storm’s End was the same as it was at Dragonstone. Davos missed Princess Shireen, but her absence was probably for the best. Ser Loras had, according to the servants, taken to insulting the would-be heir he had replaced, though never in Stannis’ hearing. The King spent most of his days hunched over a table in his solar, planning the upcoming attack on King’s Landing, along with the demigods, the Narrow Sea Lords who he thought of as marginally more trustworthy, Renly, and the key military minds of the Stormlands and the Reach. Davos had, thankfully, been exempt from most of these meetings. They were tedious and contentious, according to the cupbearers. When he wasn’t meeting with his councilors in the Lord’s Solar, Stannis was wont to do so in the great hall itself. The very first day this occurred was when tensions, simmering since Renly grudgingly bent the knee, flared up publicly and brutally. Davos, Lord Monford, Aurane, Lord Massey King Stannis, and the demigods were already present when Renly arrived with two of his Rainbow Guard (now merely considered colorfully-dressed sworn swords, with the exception of Loras Tyrell, who had been granted a white cloak by Stannis), Randyll Tarly, and Matthis Rowan.
“Brother. I see you’re in my chair,” the Prince said, bright grin back on his face. One might think he was Baelor Hightower, with how many Reach Lords he surrounds himself with, and his complete inability to stop smiling long enough to take something seriously.
“You will address me as Your Grace, Renly, and show me the respect I am due in my own hall,” Stannis growled. As far as Davos knew, the brothers had not exchanged more than a few words since Renly bent the knee outside the castle’s walls.
“I thought this was still my castle? I surrendered my crown, yes, but I am still Lord of Storm’s End,” Renly said cheerily. Beside him, Loras Tyrell was standing proudly, hand near his sword, as if daring the King to say otherwise. Percy and his wife just exchanged an amused look.
“You were never a king. This castle should always have been mine,” Stannis said calmly.
“But it isn’t. Robert gave it to me, and sent you to dreary old Dragonstone.”
“The King is the Lord of whatever hall he finds himself in, and is due the highest honors available,” snarled Alester Florent, as he slid into the hall.
“So that will be here, then, until after your pets take King’s Landing for you? Why not return to your island?” Matthis Rowan jested.
“Excuse me, pets?” asked Frank Zhang.
“Would you prefer attack dogs, Praetor?” Loras spat.
“I could turn into a dog, yeah,” the tall man said, almost sadly. Dressed in a purple doublet with laurels and roses stitched onto the breastplate, the Praetor looked royal, but not dangerous. Still, everyone present knew what he could turn into, and most had seen him spar with his blade, which was attached to his hip even now.
“That’s not what I- never mind. I’m still the heir!” Renly blustered.
“Indeed you are, according to the laws of gods and men,” Stannis admitted, “until a son is born to me.”
“Since not even your wife can tolerate you long enough to give you a son, Your Grace, I’m sure I’ll be warming the Iron Throne soon enough. Young Edric here might be your proof of Joffrey’s bastard birth, but the rest of the realm only sees a reminder of your shame. What fool would so happily remind the realm that his brother broke in his marriage bed before he did?”
“Mind your tongue!” The King yelled, but Renly waved his hand in dismissal.
“What, will you tear it out? Or kill me, and become a Kinslayer? It’s not my fault I have such a pretty young wife, and yours is made of naught but ears and spite. I’m sure Princess Margaery will be bearing heirs to the throne shortly, sons to inherit after me.” Renly looked particularly smug at that pronouncement, but if the rumors that half the realm had heard were true, Davos thought that was rather unlikely.
“A son might have been born to you, if Ser Loras were capable of carrying a child. Then again, he would likely be beyond your interests,” Stannis quipped. Davos had to stop himself from releasing a rather undignified snort that would have been very unbecoming of Lord Seaworth, Master of Whisperers. Aurane Waters had no such restraint, and chuckled, before saying something to his brother in High Valyrian. Lord Monford only smiled. Brienne the Blue’s cheeks turned a dark red, and smoke practically poured out of Loras Tyrell’s ears. Renly seemed momentarily at a loss for words, and Annabeth seized the opportunity to speak.
“How young?” The Princess’s voice was sweet and cheerful, but Davos saw the dangerous gleam in her eyes. Renly, however, must have missed it. He just puffed up proudly, and his smirk broadened.
“I beg your pardon?” Renly seemed genuinely confused, but kept up his forced good humor.
“How young is your wife?” Percy asked, voice strained with anger.
“Five-and-ten. Her nameday is in a month,” Loras answered.
“Remind me how old you are?” Frank asked slowly.
“One-and-twenty.”
“And you’re having sex with a fifteen year old,” the Praetor stated, as if speaking to a child.
“Yes?”
“I thought the age of adulthood was sixteen, here,” the Princess said, in a low, dark voice.
“It is, but it’s not unheard of for highborn to be wedded and bedded before that date,” Lord Velaryon explained. “I thought the two of you married on Percy’s sixteenth nameday?”
“We were both sixteen! Annabeth is a month older than me, not six years! And the-” Percy trailed off, but the message was clear. The demigods had very different views on the appropriate age for marriage. To them, Renly was bragging about fucking a child.
“I really don’t see the problem here. A kingdom needs heirs, and spares. A first son for the Throne, a second for Storm’s End, at the minimum. Even my dearest brother understands the importance of sons. Shame he doesn’t have any.” Renly’s smug look seemed to be Stannis’ final straw.
“SILENCE!” Stannis roared, rising from the Durrandons’ ancient throne. Even while being blatantly disrespected by his brother, the King’s voice was commanding enough to bring silence to the hall. Annabeth drew her knife, and hurled it between Renly’s feet. The pampered prince flinched violently, taking a couple of quick steps away from the blade, which was still vibrating, buried two inches deep in the stone floor.
“If you lay a finger on that woman before she’s an adult- a real adult, not sixteen- I’ll aim about two feet higher next time. Understood?” Renly nodded meekly, but behind him, Lord Tarly scoffed.
“It is well-known that women must be married young, when they are most fertile, and before they become slaves to their lusts,” the Marcher Lord drawled. “Any capable man should be able to keep his wife well under control regardless of her age, but the more time to birth heirs, the better.” The floor shook beneath their feet.
“Frank?” Annabeth said slowly.
“Yes?”
“Remember that power you wanted to try out?”
“Uh-huh. I see what you mean. Sure, why not.”
Tarly’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t yet reach for the sword on his back. Davos was overcome with the sudden urge to beat the everliving shit out of something, to go to war, to kill and maim and conquer. He gripped the pouch around his neck, shoving down the impulses, but it quickly dissipated. Renly gasped, as if he’d just been allowed to suck in a breath after too long underwater. Tarly, however, was becoming red-faced and sweaty.
“Sorry about that,” Frank muttered sheepishly, “still trying to get this under control.”
He raised a hand and pointed it at the Lord of Horn Hill, the demigod’s eyes seeming to flash with red. Tarly shouted with rage, then cowered with fear. His eyes went wide, and he grabbed for Heartsbane, backing away from Frank.
“No!” He shouted, but he seemed to be yelling at nothing. “Get back!”
Finally, Tarly drew his sword from its scabbard, but it did not stay in his hands. He swung it wildly, back and forth in the air, as the other Reacher Lords watched in horror. After a few moments of this, the blade stopped moving, and Tarly appeared to be fighting against the sword’s motion. Then, without any fanfare, it flew out of his hands and across the hall, twisting in midair. The hilt of the greatsword landed, neatly, in the outstretched hand of Frank Zhang. The man looked as subdued as ever, but the red glint was still there, behind his eyes. Despite the fact that Heartsbane was as long as he was tall, the Praetor held the sword with ease, in a single hand. Percy whistled appreciatively, while Annabeth smirked. Lowering the sword, the red light faded from Frank’s eyes. Tarly immediately regained his composure, but seemed no less distraught upon finding his sword in someone else’s hand.
With a grimace, the demigod hurled the ancient blade to the ground. It slid across the floor, stopping just at Randyll Tarly’s feet. Heartsbane slowly floated into the air, then into its scabbard. Annabeth’s dagger removed itself from the ground, and shakily floated into the woman’s hand. She sheathed it with a smirk. No one moved, except for Percy clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder.
“Y’know, that would’ve been really useful to know about a couple of wars ago.”
“Yeah. It would’ve. I know you said Clarrise could do some of that, but it’s not as easy as it looks.”
Stannis slammed the heel of his palm into the arm of the hall’s throne, and the demigod’s conversation trailed off.
“A useful skill indeed. One that will prove its usefulness when we take King’s Landing. Renly, I believe you have preparations to see to.”
Pride once again stunted, Renly and his shaken entourage quickly departed the hall, to see to the plans that had been painstakingly made. It took several more weeks for the preparations to be finalized, thankfully without any major incidents.
In the end, the plan to take King’s Landing was a simple one, for what would no doubt be a great battle. Reports from castles in the Crownlands said that Tywin Lannister had brought twenty thousand men out of the Riverlands and into the city and its environs, to defend against a siege. Even so, they were outnumbered by the five thousand Stannis had brought, and the hundred thousand that had sworn themselves to Renly.
Stannis would take the fleet up the coast, moving at a slow pace to keep time with the rest of the army. Between the Velaryon fleet, sellsails, and Salladhor Saan, Stannis would be able to bring thirty thousand men by sea, along with both Jacksons and Davos himself. He was careful to intersperse houses loyal to him and to Renly, leading to a strange combination of Hightowers and Bar Emmons, Morrigens and Tarlys, Velaryons and Swanns amongst the men at sea. Ser Imry Florent had argued that he should be given command of the fleet as Lord Admiral, but Stannis refused him.
“That right,” he stated firmly, “goes to my Master of Ships, Lord Velaryon.”
Lord Monford had smiled broadly, and stood a bit straighter.
“You honor me, Your Grace, but I would be foolish not to share command with a Son of the Sea God, the brother of my House’s patron.”
And so it was decided that Percy Jackson and Monford Velaryon would jointly lead the attack on Blackwater Bay.
Renly’s host would travel more directly, by land, up the coast and to King’s Landing. They were expected to encounter heavy resistance only upon reaching the city, but would be difficult to keep in line before then. Stannis gave command roles to Alester Florent and Frank Zhang, in addition to Renly, Matthis Rowan, and Garlan and Loras Tyrell. Davos hoped that the presence of a human dragon would keep the ambitious Reach lords in check.
Storm’s End would be held by five hundred men, all sworn directly to Dragonstone. Edric Storm and Cortnay Penrose stayed behind, although a minor Florent cousin was left as well. The King was taking no chances, at Davos’ own suggestion.
On the day the fleet departed, a gorgeous morning near the middle of seventh moon, Davos stood at the prow of his Black Betha, alongside his son. Even from a distance, he could make out the gleam of the Jacksons’ orange armor on the deck of Fury, the broad silver hull of Pride of Driftmark, and the blue sails of Aurane Waters’ Seahorse. The weather was clear, with a strong wind blowing them northwards. The seas were calm, aside from a light current. Davos Seaworth had hope.
Notes:
Frank does stuff! What, precisely, did he just do? You'll have to wait until next chapter to find out :)
Next chapter will be Percy III (I Become a Religious Icon). The first half will take place during the demigods' time at Storm's End, and will show both the lead-up to and aftermath of their throwdown with Tarly. Sam's father is a real piece of shit, and told Brienne in canon that getting raped would be good for her. The second half of next chapter will be Percy's POV of the attack on KL. After that are Tyrion I and Frank I.
Both Percy and Annabeth have a great many opinions on toxic relationships, especially a too-old person pining after a too-young person. Again, next chapter. Wouldn't have made sense for Davos to be present for that.
Divergences from canon! Obviously, Renly is alive. More notably, Tywin's battle plans are different. Without Renly dying, Tywin doesn't try to go west, he instead retreats to KL, seeing the major threat it faces. This means the Battle of the Fords never happens, and Robb is currently running around the Westerlands having a grand old time. The impacts of this will be explored in detail for a great many chapters.
Davos would make a great master of whisperers, and especially in SE. The aftermath of the Siege and the impacts it has on Stannis' psyche are explored a lot, but the only other perspectives we get of it's effect on people are from Donal Noye and Davos, who wasn't there for most of it. The servants at SE absolutely hating Tyrells and Rowans in particular (and Redwynes, and all the other lords who starved them for over a year) seems reasonable.
The demigods just deciding to describe anyone that's dating back on Earth as 'married' is starting to make things difficult to explain. Wait until they have to teach the Westerosi what a divorce is to make some of their backstories make sense without making themselves seem like sluts. That should be fun.
Chapter 8: Percy III (I Become a Religious Icon)
Notes:
This chapter takes place concurrently with, and beyond, the events of Davos III, roughly from June-July 299.
CW for ASOIAF/GOT canon-typical everything, including attempted (non-graphic) SA of an unnamed character, copious violence, really fucked-up views on sex and sexuality, and the like.
I also have two fantastic beta readers now; Scribe_Kitsune and SZ9. Their AO3 pages can be found here:
https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe_Kitsune/pseuds/Scribe_Kitsune
https://archiveofourown.org/users/SZ9/pseuds/SZ9In addition to reminding me of the basics of grammar and preventing any major fuck-ups, they're both absolutely incredible authors. Go check their works out!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Calling yourself the Warrior’s Son is heresy! The Stars and Swords were disbanded under Maegor, and it is an insult to the Faith for a blasphemer such as yourself to claim to bear their holy burden!”
“I’m not the figurative son of your Warrior, I’m the literal son of Mars. Rome has, like, three war gods. It’s a different pantheon, from a different world.”
“The Seven are the only true gods!”
“I know for a fact that’s not true, but you can believe whatever you’d like. Can you do me the same courtesy?” Frank said calmly.
Percy sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He’d been listening to variations on the same conversation since the Tyrells had arrived at Storm’s End. This time around, his and Frank’s sparring had been interrupted by some Septon- he couldn’t tell which, all the crystals and threadbare robes made them look too alike- who decided to engage the Praetor in a theological debate. Frank’s policy was to try to be nice to them, and respect the local religion. Annabeth’s was to let the Olympians’ new worshippers handle the arguments. Percy’s preferred method was to ignore them all.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t working. Percy didn’t even want any of these people to worship their parents in the first place, but the more people that scraped food into the fire each night and bowed to the demigods in the halls, the angrier the followers of the Seven got. They called themselves the Faithful, which was just… so fucking pretentious. The devotees of the Lord of Light were somehow even more annoying, but at least they were smart enough to realize that their tiny numbers meant they should keep to themselves. The arguments were fucking exhausting, and had left the demigods constantly on edge. When the time finally came for him to sleep that night, he was asleep in seconds, face buried in Annabeth’s hair.
Percy had learned the hard way that demigods dreams in Westeros were different from those back on Earth. Nine times out of ten, if he’d had a demigod dream, it was about the gods. He’d be unwittingly eavesdropping on some meeting, or seeing a divine event from the past or the present. If his dreams didn’t star gods or Titans, they invariably starred demigods, monsters, or the Oracle. Sometimes they were cryptic, and often terrifying, but they usually made sense. In this new world, none of the rules he’d gotten used to still held true. Tonight’s dream was proof of that.
There were three dragons, all with three heads. One was black, and in the strange logic of dreams it seemed to be made of pure obsidian. Another had a red body and middle head, but one of its heads was orange, and the third was yellow. Each of them had a claw clutching marionette strings, dangling the third dragon, made of cloth and wood, on strings. The cloth was red, but the wood beams below, barely visible through gaps in the fabric, were made of polished ebony. A crowd was cheering for the dragon puppet, though its words were indistinct. Percy saw row after row of pure-gold men, with a red griffin at the front, all waving their swords and shouting. He reached for Riptide, hoping he could kill the griffin and the dragons- he’d had bad experiences with both- but a pale hand grabbed his wrist.
“This is a dream, godling.” Percy looked up from the creepy puppet show, and nearly screamed. The man was as pale as Nico, gaunt, thin, and tall, with long white hair and a missing eye. The eye he had left was crimson, and he had a wine stain birthmark across his face and neck. A hood was pulled over his head, and when the man blinked (winked?), just for a moment, Percy saw a third, wide-open eye in the middle of his forehead. He flinched, and the man laughed. “I have been watching you, Percy Jackson, ever since you arrived here. I must say, your arrival was not expected.”
The cheering crowd faded away, and suddenly Percy was standing on a ridge. A battle was raging below, with some banners showing a red three-headed dragon on black, and others a black three-headed dragon on red. The strange man was still there, but now he was cloaked in black and hooded, with a single-headed white dragon blazoned on his chest. A tall, bone-white longbow was clutched in his hands. Percy frowned, examining the man more closely. He didn’t seem like a god, there wasn’t enough power in him, but there was something… off. Something old and dark thrumming below his skin.
“You’ve been… watching me,” Percy said cautiously. He didn’t fear whoever this was, but he was concerned. Divine attention had never once been a good thing in his life.
“Aye. You’re a dangerous and unpredictable one.”
“But you’re not a god.” He was sure of that now. Something inhuman lurked in this man, but he was a man- or had been, once.
“No. I’m the Three-Eyed Crow.”
“Then how are you watching me?” The man smiled, and it looked like the slash of a knife across his face.
“With a thousand eyes and one.” The pale being laughed, as if at some private joke. Percy didn’t get it.
“Can we skip to the part where you tell me what you want, please?” This world’s beings had a formula to their dream-conversations. Cryptic introductions, waxing poetic, and then finally getting to the point. Percy just wanted to skip ahead to the important shit. The battle continued below them, but a few hundred men carrying more of the bone-white longbows were ascending the ridge towards them. They were led by a duplicate of the man in front of them, though he had both eyes.
“I follow older gods than yours, Perseus. Gods of stone, forest, and stream. The Three-Eyed Crow retains the memories of all of history. I can see past, present, and future, everywhere the Weirwoods grow, and some places they do not. Terrible things are coming from the North. Have you heard of the Others since you arrived here, boy?”
“The ice zombies?” The Three-Eyed Crow’s laugh was as cold as his smile. “I do not know what a zombie is, but yes. The undead creatures of cold and darkness. Even you will not survive them. This world will be torn between the living and the dead, and the dead will win.” Well that doesn’t sound bleak at all.
“Great. So I have to save the world. Again.” Percy was no stranger to impossible wars against ancient enemies. But he’d really been hoping to be done with them. Getting home would be difficult enough without having to save every living thing on the planet from the Others.
“There are other plans in motion to ensure the living win this war. Plans that have been building for eight millenia. Before your arrival, we still needed to survive. This is a warning, Perseus Jackson.” The archers spread out across the ridge, the only land not stained red with blood and covered in dead bodies. The other version of the Three-Eyed Crow pointed to the largest of the black-dragon banners, and shouted out orders. As one, the company nocked, drew, and loosed. “A hundred years ago, I thought I won the largest war I would ever have to face. I was wrong. I knew nothing, then.” The archers continued firing, and Percy watched in horror as a boy no older than twelve fell over, dead, below the massive banner. An older man who looked quite a bit like him shouted, and both Three-Eyed Crows smirked. “This war still is not over. The black dragons survive, and will bring death and destruction to the realm again.”
“Dude. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The older pale-haired man, the one with the badass sword and dragon-shaped armor, was pierced by seven arrows in quick succession. He too, fell, and another boy picked up his sword, until he was struck down as well. Only then did the archers lower their bows. Both versions of the Three-Eyed Crow watched the scene with grim satisfaction.
“Do you know what this battle was, boy?” he snarled. The man’s eye flashed, but Percy was not afraid.
“I don’t, I’ve only just started learning your world’s history. My- Annabeth would know.” It wasn’t his fault that he had ADHD and dyslexia, and reading old history books in cursive was the opposite of his idea of fun. At least Annabeth had the eidetic memory going for her on that front. Percy could barely remember all the myths that had literally defined his life for the last eight years.
“I have no doubt. This is the Redgrass Field, where I ended a war and saved the realm,” the Three-Eyed Crow boasted. There was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. Percy followed his gaze to see the army below starting to fall apart, although a rather large man in yellow and red with a winged horse on his chest was making his way towards them.
“You killed a father and his two children,” Percy spat. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”
“I killed my brother, yes. It is not the worst thing I’ve done, and I do not regret it. You will have to do worse before you can win these wars.” Percy took a deep, shuddering breath, to avoid punching this being in the face.
“How old were they?”
“Twelve.” Well isn’t that just lovely. The same age I was when all this shit began.
“Then I won’t do worse,” Percy said. No matter what happens, I won’t lower myself to kill children.
“You are about to sack a city, Perseus Jackson. What do you think happens when men with swords in their hands and their blood up burst through a city’s walls?” Percy gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He knew what happened when cities fell, they’d struck a deal with Stannis to try to prevent that.
“I’ve read the old stories . I’ve met Hecuba of Troy, learned what happened to that city when it was sacked. I won’t let it happen here.”
“Books and tales do not make a soldier, godling. Your confidence is unearned.”
“I’ve fought in wars to save the world, twice.” How dare he? Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
“And I have heard your stories, carried to me by the wind. The armies you led were tiny, not even an entire vanguard in a true battle. You’ve never besieged a city. You fight monsters out of legend, not smallfolk levied by their lords to fight battles they care naught for. You are Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, not Theon Stark.”
“I don’t know who those people are,” Percy bit out. How many times did he have to say it?
“The point, my Prince, is that you have no idea what you have set into motion. There will come a day when you must fight creatures out of legend again, yes. But do not think for a moment that this war will be the same as those skirmishes you’ve fought before. You will see terrible things. Your soldiers, and those of the enemy, will do terrible things.”
“And I’ll stop them,” the demigod declared.
“Not even a god can control the whims of a hundred thousand men, in a city with five times as many. You can do little and less.”
“Then I’ll do whatever I can. Stannis hanged rapists among his own men during the last war.” If I have to kill someone, I’d rather it be a rapist.
“Aye, he has more honor than most, and more cruelty. It takes cruelty to win a war, Perseus. You must do what you must to hold the realm together- regardless of the consequences.”
“So you want me to let the soldiers rape and murder their way through King’s Landing?” Letting a city of half a million people be raped and put to the sword wasn’t worth the price. He’d stay in Westeros forever if it meant avoiding that.
“Aye, if you must. Do not waste time or energy on the insignificant. There is a greater war than this coming, the same war I tried to end this day. And, of course, the war between the living and the dead. The Lannisters are nothing, a pale reflection of the lions they claim to be. Their gold mines are dry, their children all mad. Tywin Lannister is as cruel as my father, and though he has more cunning, he thinks himself smarter than he is. The Young Wolf will shatter their armies, the Stags will burn their castles to the ground.”
“People matter, dumbass.”
“Yes, they do. But what matters more, boy: honor or lives?” Percy scoffed at the Three-Eyed Crow, whose past self was by now engaged in a duel with winged-horse-guy.
“Lives, obviously.”
“Then heed my warnings. To save the realm, there is no place for honor. My nephew banished me to the Wall for choosing the realm’s safety over the superstition of Guest Rite. But I prevented another war. I do not regret it.”
“You violated xenia?” Tantalus had been sentenced to the Fields of Punishment for that. The Greeks and the Westerosi didn’t agree on much, but they both held hospitality to be sacred. It was one of the few things Percy appreciated about this place. Even Medusa and Nyx hadn’t upheld the sanctity of xenia, and they were of the Greek world .
“I do not know this word.”
“Hospitality,” Percy explained. “Not killing people who you invited into your home.”
“Yes, I promised safe passage to a Blackfyre, and had him killed. It prevented another rebellion, but it did not end the threat entirely,” the being explained slowly, as if Percy was an idiot.
“The Blackfyres are these black dragons you hate so much?” he asked. Finally, the being seemed to approve of something he said.
“They are. If Daemon’s blood steals the throne, you will not be able to hold the lords of Westeros together when the Long Night comes.”
“So you did all this to tell me to kill people and let them die, so your grudge can be vindicated?” The man shrugged, and turned his attention back to the battlefield.
“If that is how you wish to see it, I cannot change your view. But the Blackfyres are a scourge. Only through peace can we survive the Long Night. The Prince that was Promised is of Aerys and Rhaella’s blood, not Daemon’s or Aegor’s.” The winged-horse-guy flicked his wrist, and the past version of the Three-Eyed Crow screamed as blood blossomed over his eye. The one Percy was speaking to grimaced and looked away.
“I still don’t know who any of these people are. I can barely read the cursive you guys use here.”
“You will learn. When you do, you’ll have a decision to make. Be warned. Do not let doing what is honorable stay your hand from doing what is right. Do not forget the threats to the North. And do not forget that the Black Dragons come again,” the being said, voice dripping with condescension.
“Forgive me if I’m not exactly inclined to listen to advice from a bird. Maybe if you said ‘nevermore’, I’d pay more attention. You’re not even a god, I don’t have to listen to you.”
“You are a strange one, godling,” the Crow laughed.
“I’m told my sarcasm is one of my better features.” Mostly by Annabeth, which wasn’t quite the same, but whatever.
“Hmph. I will allow you to wake- but do not forget what I have told you.”
The being waved his hand, and the scene disappeared. The rest of Percy’s dream was blissfully normal, by demigod sensibilities. He relaxed on a beach for a while, content in Annabeth’s arms, until it all went wrong and he found himself fighting a horde of golden men in the Pit, Hyperion’s laughter ringing in his ears. When he woke, drenched in sweat, throat raw, and lungs spasming, it felt strangely familiar.
Naturally, he told Annabeth about the dream as soon as they were both awake. She was able to identify some of the figures in the dream, and the warnings that the Three-Eyed Crow (who was apparently called Bloodraven, an even more pretentious moniker) had made. With the siege of King’s Landing on the horizon, they had other priorities, however.
It was during one of the demigods’ rare evenings to themselves that Frank voiced a question which had been gnawing at the back of Percy’s mind for some time now.
“Has anyone else noticed it’s not as tiring to use their powers here?” the Roman asked slowly. Percy nodded in agreement, as did his partner. Conjuring seawater had once made him pass out for hours at a time, unless he had seashells to help him. It still took concentration, but summoning a few mouthfuls whenever his chest started to seize up was becoming easier.
“I have. I’m not sure what to think about it,” Percy said.
“I am. I think it’s just because we’re getting older,” was Annabeth’s casual response.
“Is it really that simple?” Frank said skeptically.
“It’s like Heracles, or the original Perseus, or Theseus. Those demigods were insanely powerful,” his partner explained.
“But they were all children of the Big Three,” Percy pointed out. “Or Zeus and Poseidon at least.”
“Yes, but it’s not just that. They lived well into adulthood, that’s why they were so strong. Achilles’ mom was a minor goddess. You were supposed to die at 16. Frank, your stick is burned up, you should be dead. And statistically I should’ve died a long time ago. We’re all members of the Seven, we’re among the most powerful demigods of our generation, if not our millennium. And we’re getting older. I think… I think there’s a bit more godliness in the seven of us than in most demigods. And I think, now that the world’s a bit safer and more of us get to live past eighteen or so, we’re going to see a lot of people start to get really powerful. All the demigods around our age are probably going through bursts of power right now too.
“The oldest demigod I’ve ever met who wasn’t, like, risen from Tartarus is Luke. He was a really good swordsman, but all that power he had? Hermes kids may not be super flashy, but they can be strong. He was already nineteen when he stole the Bolt, Percy. He was a skilled enough thief to rob two of the three most powerful beings in existence. We’re older than that now. I don’t think his strength and his age were unrelated. Ours aren’t either.” Annabeth allowed them all to process the many, many implications of that statement for a few moments, before Frank broke the silence.
“So you’re saying we’re just going to keep getting stronger.” The Roman sounded about as skeptical and worried as Percy felt, which was a relief.
“Within reason. None of us are gods, and we never will be, unless Zeus decides to change that. But the feuds of a bunch of middle-aged and elderly children of the Big Three caused both World Wars, and a ton of other major conflicts besides. For the next few years, we’re probably just going to grow in power until we hit a plateau, of sorts. That’s my theory anyways, I could be wrong. But I’d bet that I’m right.” Since Annabeth usually was right about this sort of thing, Percy nodded his agreement.
“Huh. Cool. Any chance you can figure out how to make Nectar and Ambrosia, if we’re so close to gods now?” he asked. Will had demanded that Percy, Annabeth, Nico, and himself all eat some godly food at least once a week after getting back from Tartarus, to prevent any long-term effects. Since he had asthma now, Percy figured it was already too late for that, but having the ability to heal major injuries would be invaluable… especially with the attack on King’s Landing looming in the near future.
“I wish, Seaweed Brain. You’ll just have to keep yourself from getting blown up. Frank, you’ve never used too many Son of Mars powers, right? Mostly just done your shapeshifting thing, and used your natural talent for weapons and battle?”
“Aside from when I got his blessing, yeah.”
“You might be able to have some control over weaponry, or affect people’s emotions. Ares- and some of his kids- can make people really pissed off, or inspired, or fearful. It’s useful for a soldier. You could, maybe, move weapons around, make them useless or stronger. You were helpful in the forges!” Annabeth suggested.
“That was different, I was relaxed, not fighting,” Frank explained.
“Then practice, maybe it’ll help,” she suggested.
“You might have a point. Reyna mentioned that some of the reservists- retired legionnaires- are pretty powerful, but I haven’t seen many of them fight,” the son of Ares said.
“The Greeks haven’t had anyone above twenty-five or so for a few decades, but Malcolm told me a story once about a brother of ours making a child for him and his boyfriend from their thoughts, like Athena. Otherwise, Athena doesn’t really have any flashy powers that might grow with time. Maybe I’ll get smarter? The last children of Poseidon I’m aware of were Andrew Cunningham and Chester Nimitz. Obviously they just got more powerful with age, but Big Three kids are different,” Annabeth pondered.
She had that really attractive look on her face that meant she was thinking about something complicated and important, but Percy refrained from kissing her, if only for Frank's sake. He wasn’t sure how he felt about growing even more powerful than he already was. Would he burn up from channeling too much power? Would the gods smite him for being too much of a threat? Would he ever live a normal life? All Percy really wanted out of life was to graduate college, settle down with Annabeth, find a decent job working with marine life, and have a couple non-mythical pets and non-mythical children. He’d give up all his powers in a heartbeat for that life.
“So basically, we have no idea what might happen, but anything’s possible?” Percy asked. That seemed to be their usual status.
“Pretty much.”
His partner’s theory was proven correct a couple of days later, when Frank successfully levitated the Valyrian greatsword Heartsbane across a room, and scared a sexist prick in the process. It was morbidly satisfying, if a terrifying confirmation. Another day after the confrontation with Tarly, while the demigods were training in Storm’s End’s yard, they were found by one of Renly’s guards- the only woman, Brienne the Blue- and a good-looking man with a mop of brown curls that Percy recognized as Loras Tyrell’s brother, Ser Garlan. The two of them stood together nervously on the outside of the yard, waiting to get their attention. After she’d knocked Percy into the dirt once more, Annabeth gave it to them.
“Lady Brienne. Lord Garlan. How can we help you?”
“I wanted to apologize on behalf of my father’s bannerman. Lord Tarly is a great military mind, but he is…” Garlan trailed off, searching for the right word.
“An asshole,” Percy offered.
“He does not believe women are capable of fighting. Not all of us sworn to Prince Renly feel the same,” Brienne proudly stated, head held high.
“I figured as much. Is he an asshole to you too?” Annabeth asked.
“He has said… uncouth things,” Brienne half-whispered, eyes not rising from the dirt. Even so, the tears at the corners of them were obvious, and Percy had to shove down a well of anger before he caused another earthquake. Randyll Tarly reminded him far too much of Gabe.
“If he says them again, I’ll break his jaw for you,” Frank offered. His friend wasn’t often violent outside of battle, but Frank was muscular enough to make good on his threat.
“The offer is appreciated, but unnecessary. If possible, however, you would honor me with a spar, Praetor Zhang. I typically duel several opponents at once, but with your skill, I am sure that would be unnecessary.” Garlan had certainly earned his moniker of the Gallant, if nothing else.
“I’d like that,” Frank said with a smile.
“Brienne, if you’d like to join me…” Annabeth offered.
“It would be a great honor, Your Holiness,” Brienne said with a bow of her head. Annabeth winced, and Percy could see the moment she remembered that Selwyn Tarth was among the supporters of the Olympians.
“You don’t need to call us that,” Percy pleaded. “We’re not gods.”
“No, but you are their children. Their voices. My father wishes for our house to pay our respects to the god of the sea, Your Holiness. Tarth is an island, we are in need of Poseidon’s blessings.”
“I can’t bless anything. My father doesn’t exist in this world.”
“I see. My apologies for the improprieties, Your Ho- Highnesses.” Brienne didn’t sound convinced in the least, but he’d take whatever concessions he could get.
“You have nothing to apologize for. And I’d still like that spar,” Annabeth grinned.
Percy observed the first few rounds of sparring rather than joining immediately, but was glad he did. Frank and Garlan traded jokes and pointers while they sparred, and quickly formed a friendship. They seemed to bond over despising Randyll Tarly and missing their significant others; Garlan never shut up about his wife Leonette. Annabeth and Brienne’s practice rounds soon became common practice, in the time they had left in Storm’s End. The two got along brilliantly, with the blue-armored warrior seeming to take inspiration from a woman who could fight as brilliantly as Annabeth did, and Annabeth in turn appreciating having some martially-inclined female company.
Percy occasionally found himself wishing that all the women of Westeros had been given an education on feminism, if only so Annabeth didn’t have to have so many inane conversations with ladies of the court about how odd it was that she fought, and that her mother was a war goddess. One such conversation, held with Margaery Tyrell a few days later, was particularly distressing. She’d managed to find the demigods late in the evening, alone in Storm’s End’s library, when most of the rest of the castle had gone to sleep. She exchanged pleasantries with the three of them for a few minutes about their research, before she finally got to the point she was trying to make.
“It was noble of you to seek to protect my virtue, Princess, but I assure you there was no need. I am a woman grown.” Percy groaned and let his head drop into the book he was reading. The demigods’ spirited defense of Margaery in the face of her way-too-old husband had become the talk of the castle, and Percy supposed it would be rather too much to hope she’d be a bit grateful.
“My Lady, you don’t need to go anywhere near him if you don’t want to. I meant what I said. It’s just gross,” he said calmly.
“But I do want to. I wish to do my duty, and to bear heirs for the throne,” the teenager said cheerfully. Annabeth scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Margaery asked, all wide-eyed earnestness. Percy couldn’t tell if she was a fantastic actress or genuinely believed this bullshit. He wasn’t sure which option was worse, given that she was only a kid. Percy wasn’t even 21 yet, and had seen friends and family die when he was younger than Margaery, but this woman still qualified as a child. Green as summer grass, the Westerosi would say.
“Because you’re fifteen years old?” Frank said rhetorically.
“I am a princess, and the realm is at war. Securing the line of succession could save lives. Surely you understand this?”
“It shouldn’t be your job to pump out babies before you’re even an adult!” Annabeth shouted.
“But it is. I intend to do my duty to my lord husband. Unless you mean to keep me away from Prince Renly for your own ends?” It took a moment for the insinuation to click, but when it did, Percy wasn’t sure if he wanted to vomit or laugh. He chose the latter, if only out of nervousness.
“You’re a child. Why would we- I- no! What the fuck?”
Margaery narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, examining Percy’s face closely. He felt deeply uncomfortable, as if he’d suddenly been stripped naked and shoved in front of a microscope. She seemed offended by his laughter, which only made him want to vomit more.
“It would not be unheard of, Your Highness.” The relief in her voice was clear, even if she sounded surprised at his truthfulness.
“It would for us. I know it seems like you’re stuck with Renly, or that he actually loves you, but you’re still just a kid,” Annabeth spat.
“I assure you, I am under no illusions that my husband loves me as a husband does a wife. That honor belongs to my brother. You do not need to pretend otherwise. And Loras is only a year my senior,” Margaery pointed out.
“That’s really not much better. You’re being used.” Frank’s tone was gentle, but Percy knew him well enough to hear the anger and frustration beneath it. This is like arguing with a brick wall .
“I’ve been in your shoes before, and in Loras’. I understand. You might be pissed off at us now, but you people really need to learn what age of consent means,” Annabeth said.
Finally acting her age, the princess huffed and stormed off, somehow maintaining a dignified poise while doing so. Percy wrapped an arm around his partner’s shoulders, and she leaned into the touch, sighing in relief and exasperation.
“That went well,” Frank muttered.
“We had to try,” Percy said dejectedly.
It had taken years of distance and aging, but he and Annabeth had both eventually accepted that they were very close to being victims. They’d had many long, difficult, and tearful conversations about Luke and Calypso over the last couple years, and come to some very painful realizations together. It wasn’t easy to watch something so similar playing out now.
If the rumors were true, then Loras had likely been sleeping with Renly since he was thirteen or fourteen, despite the Prince being five years his senior. Percy, at fourteen, had been guilt-tripped by an immortal Titaness older than humanity itself. Calypso had fallen in love with him because of her curse, but cursing him for not staying with her, when he had a war and Annabeth to get back to? Trying to get a fourteen year old to stay fourteen forever and marry her? He’d thought it romantic, once. Calypso had been one of his biggest what-ifs, in his darkest moments when he regretted all the friends he’d lost and all that he’d been through. He could’ve stayed on Ogygia, and avoided it all.
But those were the idiotic musings of a groomed child, and he was well beyond that now. Percy was incredibly grateful she and Leo had eventually broken up, or else he would’ve had to resist the urge to stab the Titaness for what she’d done to Annabeth in the Pit every time the survivors of the Seven had a reunion.
Annabeth had had a childish crush on Luke since she was old enough to know what a crush was. It would’ve been harmless, if the creep hadn’t reciprocated it. When Percy and Annabeth were kids, before Luke died, he’d been jealous of her crush on the man seven years her senior, and considered him an actual romantic rival. Thankfully, Annabeth got over her feelings, and adopted a more fraternal view of the son of Hermes. Luke, on the other hand, had used his dying breath to ask a sixteen year old girl if she loved him. It was only Luke’s sacrifice that kept Annabeth from realizing how creepy that had been for several years. Now, both of them were older than Luke had been when Percy arrived at Camp Half-Blood, and they understood how fucked up that had been. Luke was given a hero’s burial, one fitting for the hero of the prophecy, and promised Elysium. It was only after she’d turned nineteen that Annabeth reminded Percy that, in Ancient Greek, the word ‘hero’ often just meant ‘demigod’. Luke was the hero of the prophecy, but he was not a good man. They’d both stopped mourning his death long ago.
Annabeth and Percy had needed years to untangle the complicated web of emotions their abusers had left them with, and to fully internalize the difference between healthy and unhealthy relationships. He just wished he could do the same for Margaery and Loras Tyrell in a fraction of the time.
Unfortunately, their days in Storm’s End were numbered. Far more quickly than he expected, the fleet was leaving for King’s Landing, with Percy, Annabeth, and many of the King’s troops on board. Frank was left with the ground forces, no doubt as assurance against betrayal. Percy missed his friend dearly, but trusted that he’d be safe. Renly was creepy, arrogant, and a piece of shit, but he wasn’t truly dangerous. Frank also had a good percentage of the troops he’d trained in the Legion’s tactics with him. If the worst came to pass, they would keep him safe.
The journey was a simple one, but was not easy. Percy learned, over the course of a few days, the extent to which he could manipulate the waves and currents into remaining favorable without provoking the local god’s wrath. It turned out to be a literal lifesaver. He could feel the sea and sky struggling against him, trying to form a vicious maelstrom that would threaten the fleet, but Percy held it at bay enough to protect Stannis’ ships, and everyone on board. They arrived safely in Blackwater Bay, and before long, Stannis was ordering the fleet to blockade King’s Landing while they waited for the armies to arrive.
The waiting was, in fact, the hardest part. It took three days before the lookout reported Renly’s banners on the southern bank of the Blackwater Rush. The interim had been spent in an uneasy Mexican standoff, with neither Stannis’ forces nor the Lannisters within the city making any moves against the other. They were just far enough out from shore that the red-sailed ships on the Blackwater Rush were visible, but well out of range of any sort of weapons. The plan was to wait for Renly’s portion of the army to surround the city before either group began to make their moves.
In addition to the gold cloaks, there were at least twenty thousand Lannister men in the city, led by Tywin Lannister himself, defending the city. This battle would be larger than any Percy had ever participated in, but if he wanted to get home, they needed to secure King’s Landing. The Lannister fleet was waiting on the Blackwater Rush. Stannis’ army would be landing on the shore in two contingents: one on the north bank of the river, in front of the Mud Gate, and the other north of the city, along the Rosby Road. The group landing on the Rosby Road, made mostly of sellswords and Reachermen, would be attacking the Iron Gate and Dragon Gate. Percy, Annabeth, and Stannis would all be assaulting the Mudgate, along with Stannis’ own levies, those of the Narrow Sea lords, and some of the more loyal Stormlords. Renly’s forces, which included the rest of the Reachermen and Stormlords, as well as Frank, would be attacking the remaining four gates: The Old Gate, Gate of the Gods, Lion Gate, and King’s Gate. Once they’d arrayed themselves according to the plan, Stannis’ troops would land, and the city would be assaulted from all sides at once. With a hundred thousand troops, Stannis reasoned that it was better to divide them, widening the front lines, rather than consigning most of his soldiers to be in the back ranks, unable to fight. The Lannisters likely had no more than thirty thousand, and chokeholds would only be to their advantage.
When the signal finally came- a flaming arrow shot into the sky by Frank- Percy turned to Stannis, standing grimly at the bow of his ship.
“I’m gonna scout ahead, get rid of any surprises,” Percy said. Imry Florent snorted disdainfully, gesturing at the city.
“Their forces are miniscule, Your Grace. We should attack now, and crush their forces on the river, before Renly takes the city. It is still daylight, they cannot hide from us now.” Stannis ground his teeth, but nodded tightly at Percy.
“You have command, Prince.”
Percy managed to restrain himself from blowing a raspberry at the grumbling, uptight Florent. Instead accepted a kiss from Annabeth. He patted his pocket, silently telling her that one of the gold drachmae they’d had on them when they came to Westeros was there. She did the same with her own pocket. This world was not theirs, but just in case, it was always best to keep Charon’s toll on hand. He kissed her one more time before donning his helmet and once again leaping off the Fury’s prow, into the bay.
Immediately, he knew something was wrong. There were no fish in the bay, and even less when he approached the mouth of the river. The water felt… off. Polluted. Toxic. He’d felt this before, or a variation of it, though it had been years. Not since waking up in Poseidon’s palace after blowing up the Princess Andromeda had he been around this stuff underwater, and felt the horrific environmental impact it had. Greek fire. Grover would be proud of me for worrying about the fish.
A metal chain lay across the riverbed where the Rush met the Bay, coated in Greek fire. Thin streams of viscous, green liquid pooled under the chain, sloughing off the links and on to the riverbed. On either side of the river, up on the shore, Percy could see newly-built watchtowers, the chain running down from them into the river. His blood ran cold as he realized what would happen: Stannis’ fleet would sail into the river, the chain would rise, ignite, and burn them all. Carefully, Percy reached into the pocket of his breeches, and withdrew Riptide. He uncapped the pen, swimming slowly towards the chain. There was a 50/50 chance this would cause the whole thing to ignite, but he had no other choice. Riptide would cut through mortal steel like butter, but if it sparked, he’d be roasted alive. Even his resistance to heat wouldn’t withstand Greek fire.
Percy concentrated, and after a moment the supremely odd sensation of actually being wet crashed over him. He wore his armor over a sleeveless orange tunic and breeches, but even under the armor he could see his clothes were soaked with water. The first time he’d discovered that he stayed dry underwater, in the Mississippi River after blowing up the St. Louis Arch, Percy had learned that anything he touched was dry and flammable, unless he willed it otherwise. Hopefully that applied to Greek fire, and not just the regular kind.
Percy brought Riptide down on the chain, and the Celestial Bronze cleaved through the steel effortlessly. Some of the sickly green liquid stuck to the blade, but hopefully it would magic away when Riptide returned to pen form. He dropped his sword into the muck, and was just about to return to the fleet and give the all-clear when he felt it. There was more Greek fire seeping into the river, and it was coming from above him. Looking up, Percy saw five ships, closer to the mouth of the Rush than the rest of the Lannister fleet. Even from this distance, he could sense that they were hulks at best, half-decrepit and barely staying afloat. He could scuttle them with a touch, or sink them with a wave of his hand. If not for the trail of green slowly spreading out from the foremost ship, he would have.
All of them are filled with the stuff. Beckendorf and I only used a few jars to take down the Princess Andromeda. Those ships have enough to level a city. He couldn’t let that happen. There was a good forty feet of water above him, and he was standing in a brackish estuary. It wasn’t ideal, but he could make it work.
Cursing in English, Greek, Latin, and Greek again for good measure, Percy swam quickly to the mouth of the river, and out into the bay. He planted his feet in the muck, took a deep breath, and pushed. The tug behind his navel grew until it hurt, but he gritted his teeth and pushed past it, pushing at the water. A flash of blue in the murky depths and the sound of watery laughter was the only commentary the Drowned God saw fit to provide for his endeavor. Thankfully, there was no resistance.
Slowly, the water in front of him moved back. A forty-foot high wall, stretching across the bay, formed. Blackwater Bay parted, and Percy had a brief and hysterical moment of feeling like Moses in the Red Sea, before his concentration was wrenched back to his work. He stood just within the eastern side of the now air-filled chunk of bay, pulling whatever power he could from the water. The western side of the parting kept moving away from Percy, into and up the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. The wall grew into a gargantuan wave, leaving the riverbank dry as it swept into the Lannisters’ Greek-fire filled ships. Centuries of refuse and wreckage were exposed to air for the first time as the river, estuary, and sea become, however briefly, bone-dry.
He concentrated, splitting the current into two parts. One of the ships moved farther up the river, towards the Lannister fleet. He didn’t want to burn all those people alive, but he could already feel them rowing rapidly upstream to try to escape his wave. The fire-filled hulk would just speed them along. The other four were carefully, meticulously, washed ashore on the southern bank. Only when all four of the ships were several dozen meters from the shoreline, all blissfully unexploded, did Percy allow the wave to recede, and the Bay to fill with water once more. Upstream, he faintly registered a deep boom as the fifth ship exploded. Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to do that. Wait… shouldn’t I be dead?
The detonation seemed to have been triggered by a projectile of some sort, probably from the walls, since Percy hadn’t sensed anything ram into the hulk. The eruption of green fire was just how he remembered it, but with much less force. As near as he could tell, the Lannister fleet was only lightly damaged, and the city walls were mostly untouched. Good. I’m not a mass murderer.
Percy’s new theory was that his head truly was full of kelp. Greek fire had nectar and lightning as key ingredients, he knew this. It was Greek. Whatever this stuff was may feel and act alike, but it wasn’t true Greek fire. It was destructive and dangerous, yes, but not to nearly the same degree. Even so, destroying the chain and the hulks was the right call. Who knew what could’ve happened otherwise? Even now, green flame burned on the surface of the river, cleanly separating the Baratheon and Lannister fleets, and providing an opening for Stannis’ troops to land unmolested.
His work done, he swam towards the northern bank of the Blackwater, making for the city. Above him, landing craft were deploying from Stannis’ feet, and thousands of pairs of feet leapt from their ships, onto the shore. The siege of King’s Landing had begun. So much for having the command. I would’ve told them to wait a bit longer.
When Percy’s head breached the surface of the river, Annabeth was waiting for him. There was no time to talk before she was pressing a round shield into his hand and pulling him towards the Mud Gate. A few men hailed his arrival with shouts of ‘Poseidon!’, ‘Jackson!’, or ‘the prince!’, but many more just ignored him, too focused on their goal. Stannis’ men were already swinging a battering ram into the gate’s doors, even as arrows were fired down from the walls and boiling oil poured onto the attackers. Annabeth caught a crossbow bolt on her shield, grimaced, and pulled it out of the wooden circle.
The battle was horrific. The smells, the screams, the blood and death. Swallowing down his bile, Percy squeezed his wife’s hand, and waited for the gate to fall. He hoped Frank was having better luck to the west. In the meantime, Percy drew his still-unnamed steel sword, and took comfort from the fact that the dagger in Annabeth’s hand was still clean.
It took a few minutes, but eventually, the wood splintered, and Baratheon men swarmed through the open gate, crashing against a shield wall of Lannisters. Percy was too far from the front to do any good, not that he was exactly comfortable with slaughtering mortals anyway. It took long minutes for him and Annabeth to finally make it inside the gate, as the Lannisters were slowly pushed back, until they shattered all at once. With a shout, the entire army surged forward, breaking off into alleys and side streets, chasing down whatever red-and-gold-cloaked men they could find. Three massive trebuchets, which were probably used at some point while Percy was underwater, were swarmed over by the Baratheon army, and abandoned by their crew. At some point, Ser Davos bumped into Percy, a sword clutched in his good hand, before he was swept away by the rush of battle, no doubt looking for his King. Percy had lost track of Stannis long ago.
In his push forward through the front lines, Percy stopped in his tracks. He heard screaming. Female screaming, even above the normal shouts of battle. He exchanged a glance with Annabeth, who titled her head in the direction of an alley. Raising his sword, he led the way towards the alley in silence. They needed no words to communicate at this point.
At the far end, three men in Baratheon black and gold were laughing and fumbling at the ties of their breeches. A young woman was backed up against the wall, screaming for help. Percy’s vision went red, and before he knew what he’d done, all three men were lying dead on the ground, and his blade was covered in their blood. He’d told Stannis that he would kill any men who raped or looted, and Percy had meant what he said. Annabeth grimly stabbed the only man still twitching, and helped the trembling woman to her feet, murmuring reassurances. Oh. Was his first thought, when the red seeped out of his vision and dripped off his sword. Numbly, Percy wondered how he’d ever forgotten that mortals could be monsters too. He’d helped his mother kill Gabe when he was only twelve years old. Was this any different?
After that, the killing was easier. Percy would’ve likely been scared over just how simple it was, but there was no time to process it. The city’s defenders were pushed back far quicker, with two demigods leading the charge. The Red Keep slowly grew larger, looming above them all. Everything began to blend together, the familiar dance of battle. Killing to avoid being killed, with Annabeth at his side, leading the charge against seemingly endless opponents. Aurane appeared out of the crowd long enough to stab a goldcloak through the chest before he could kill Percy, earning him a nod of thanks before they both leapt back into the fray. The bastard had apparently gotten his brother’s permission to wear Velaryon-colored armor, although the typical white seahorse on teal had been reversed on his chestplate, instead displaying teal-on-white. Percy had been under the impression his sort-of-friend was commanding a ship, but then again, the troops had mostly disembarked.
As the battle went on, Percy’s breath began to catch in his chest, his lungs burning as he tried to gulp down air thick with blood and ash. His efforts to fight through the pain only made it worse, and a glance at Annabeth showed her struggling to breathe as well. Aurane looked between the two of them and shouted something that couldn’t be heard over the roar of swords, but they both got the message. Percy and Annabeth moved back into the Baratheon lines, allowing the front to overtake their position as they caught their breath.
Before long, Percy saw the king. Stannis led from the middle but had enough skill to cut down any Lannister men that got within his reach. He held up a fist, bringing his men to a halt, and pausing in his advance long enough to gather together all the closest Lords and highborn knights.
“Men! To the Red Keep! Princess, with me. Prince, secure the River Row and the Street of Steel. Lord Morrigen, take the Muddy Way. Lord Bar Emmon, secure Visenya’s Hill. Move!” The King’s tone left no room for argument. Battle cries of men rang out, shouting the names of their lords or homes, as they split into their assigned groups. Annabeth grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He couldn’t see much of her face below the helmet, but her gray eyes were filled with worry.
“Be safe?” she pleaded.
“Always, Wise Girl. I’ll see you soon. Be careful.” Percy pressed their helmeted foreheads together in the battlefield equivalent of a kiss. Despite all the blood and gore on their armor, it felt like coming home.
“Take Aurane with you. He’ll watch your back,” Annabeth muttered, pulling back far enough to tug at the straps of his armor. They both knew his cuirass was perfect, but it was a force of habit at this point, tradition more than anything.
“And my ass?” Percy asked with a wink.
“Shut up. Go save some lives. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
They parted ways, each heading to a different battlefront that needed them. Fighting without Annabeth at his side had always felt deeply wrong. They were as in sync on the battlefield as they were in everyday life, and had been watching each other’s backs and flanks for years. Aurane was a poor substitute, but he was skilled enough with a sword that neither of them were badly wounded as they waded through the ranks of Lannister men, slashing and stabbing and killing. Even so, Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly, awfully wrong.
Only when the first gout of jade flame appeared on the horizon, accompanied by a boom heard even above the din of battle, did Percy realize how truly fucked over they were.
Notes:
This version of the battle of the blackwater happens several weeks earlier than in canon. In Canon, Stannis’ fleet is waylaid by a horrific storm on the way north. This doesn’t happen, thanks to percy. Originally, Stannis’ forces besieged Storm’s End for a few weeks after Renly died, waiting for Cortnay Penrose to surrender, which he did not. Without that delay, they were able to leave faster. Reasons for why other parts of the battle have gone differently will be explored in the coming chapters.
Imry Florent is a fucking idiot.
Next up: Tyrion I. That'll be the last of the chapters to take place both before and during the Battle of King's Landing, and will show how things have changed in Joffrey's court as a result of the demigod's arrival. After that is Frank I, then Annabeth II. After that, we have a new POV!
Chapter 9: Tyrion I
Notes:
This chapter takes place roughly from May-July, 299. The timeline should be relatively clear from the reports that come in. Aside from the changes addressed in this chapter, everything else plays out as in canon. Tyrion marries off Myrcella to Dorne, orders wildfire production, befriends Bronn, fucks Shae, does the thing with Cleos Frey and the mummers, throws Pycelle in jail for a bit, all that fun stuff. Only changes from canon are addressed. This is the chapter where canon really starts to be taken out back and shot.
Thanks are due to my incredible beta readers
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rather unusually, Varys was the last to arrive to the Small Council. Tyrion had found himself growing surprisingly fond of the perfumed spymaster during his tenure as Hand of the King, and although Varys was unpredictable, he was not known for his lack of punctuality. Cersei, Grand Maester Pycelle, Littlefinger, and Tyrion were already at their places. Joffrey, thank the gods, had not seen fit to grace the Small Council with his presence that day.
As Varys glided into the room, his sense of distress was unmistakable. Littlefinger, always jibing at the eunuch, only gave Tyrion a weighted glance, before returning his attention to Varys’ entrance. The two schemers’ constant grasping was starting to get on Tyrion’s nerves. Keeping the Seven Kingdoms together was hard enough without fighting the enemy within.
“Is there a reason you have seen fit to arrive late, Lord Varys?” Cersei asked haughtily, taking a sip of her wine. She was dressed as regally as always, resplendent in a gown of red and cloth-of-gold, but Tyrion knew his sister well enough to see the strain in her eyes. No doubt the separation from our dear brother is getting to her.
“News from Storm’s End, my Queen. It has fallen,” Varys announced without preamble. That got everyone’s attention. Pycelle sputtered out nonsense, Cersei was aghast, and Baelish showed polite surprise. The castle had never fallen before, not in 8000 years. The last Tyrion had heard, Renly held it, while his men marched up the Rose Road. Robb Stark was too far to take the castle, even if he had a conflict with Renly. It certainly couldn’t have been Tyrion’s father, who was still in the Riverlands. Stannis was on Dragonstone, with only a few thousand men.
“To whom?” Tyrion asked, careful to keep his voice level.
“Stannis, though the details of how are unclear, cloaked in nonsensical rumors. It is always difficult to get word from Dragonstone. I confess I dismissed much of what I had heard lately as outlandish, but now…” Varys trailed off, looking as though he was pondering his words.
“Cryptic as always, Lord Varys,” Baelish remarked drily.
“Yes, is there a point here somewhere?” Cersei snapped.
“Gods and dragons,” Varys said calmly.
“Come again?” Tyrion asked. There was no way he’d heard that correctly.
“The reports say that a child of a sea god rode a wave into Storm’s End, and took it bloodlessly. Stannis then flew into the castle’s courtyard on Dragonback.”
“Utter nonsense,” Pycelle dismissed, with a wave of his hand. It sounded fantastical, almost comedic, yet nobody was laughing. Varys looked almost nervous.
“Naturally, Grand Maester. Even so, Renly seems to be marching on Storm’s End with part of his forces, while the rest continue down the Rose Road,” Varys reported. So, if nothing else, those who were closer to Storm’s End put stock in these ridiculous stories. Unease gnawed at Tyrion’s stomach, but he had more pressing matters to address, like finding which of his fellow Councilors was a pawn for Cersei. Tyrion cleared his throat, then washed away its sudden dryness with a gulp of wine, before speaking.
“Yes, well, for now, it is in our interest for Renly and Stannis to fight. No doubt, the elder brother knows the castle better than the younger ever will. These stories can be neither proven nor disproven for now. We have other matters to address. For starters, the price of bread…”
It was about a month later, early in sixth moon, when Tyrion realized he could ignore the problem no longer. He had already begun abstract preparations for a siege, such as increasing food stores and commandeering Cersei’s wildfire from the Alchemists, but some part of him held out hope, until Varys delivered another report from Storm’s End.
“My spies in the Tyrell army witnessed the whole interaction. When Renly arrived outside the castle, he was met in parley by a pair of these godlings, along with Lord Velaryon. Catelyn Stark was also in attendance, as a neutral party. Stannis then arrived on dragonback, and the dragon turned into a man in strange armor. Renly bent the knee to the elder brother, and Lady Stark left. Stannis makes ready to march and sail on King’s Landing.”
“So the Baratheon brothers are united against us?” Cersei yelled shrilly, as if that wasn’t what Varys had just spent minutes explaining. The eunuch simply folded his hands into his sleeves and inclined his head. His usual thin smile had been replaced by an equally small frown, his brow furrowed slightly. The expression looked oddly familiar on the man, but Tyrion didn’t care to ask why.
“We should seek other alliances, then. The Stormlands and Reach are lost to us,” Baelish offered.
“Myrcella’s betrothal to the Martell boy-” Cersei began, but Tyrion cut her off, slamming his goblet against the table. He almost wished Baelish had been Cersei’s informant, so Myrcella could have been betrothed to sickly Robert Arryn and his forty thousand swords.
“Is not enough. The Reach and Stormlands combined have a hundred thousand men. Stark has forty thousand. The Westerlands have fifty, the Crownlands have fifteen- a third of whom fight for Stannis, and Dorne likely has at least thirty- which have stayed out of the war, but will not join it. Mathematics say we will lose this war without fresh swords.”
“If I may, my Lord Hand. I believe I can bring the Vale into the fold,” Littlefinger said. All eyes turned to him, and Tyrion suddenly became acutely aware that the Master of Coin had steered this conversation precisely how he wanted to. Tyrion cursed his own foolishness. Baelish was a Valeman himself, he certainly still had ties there.
“Lysa Arryn is Catelyn Stark’s sister, she would never condone the Vale fighting against her kin,” Pycelle blustered. Privately, Tyrion was not sure he agreed. Lysa had not seemed particularly sane when Tyrion had seen her last, though she certainly had no love for Lannisters. She had, however, chosen to flee to the Eyrie rather than allow Stannis to foster her son. Perhaps she hated Dragonstone as much as she hated Casterly Rock. Lord Royce and Ned Stark had been childhood friends, perhaps Runestone would stay out of the war. Bronze Yohn could always cite the distant Stark-Royce blood ties as a reason for not fighting against the Young Wolf, but that excuse would not avail him against Stannis and Renly.
“Lady Lysa and I are childhood friends, among other things. I could persuade her to marry me, and bring her forces into the war on our side. I can take ship for Gulltown within a sennight,” Baelish said. Tyrion wondered who, precisely, Littlefinger thought he was fooling. His boasts about taking both Tully girls’ maidenheads were well-known in the capital. Then again, as much as Tyrion hated to admit it, that was a point in the bookkeeper’s favor.
“My Lords, perhaps I was not heard. Renly and Stannis march, united, for King’s Landing. They wield dragons and magic. This is the greatest threat the realm has ever faced,” Varys declared. As one, the Councilors turned to stare at him. I have never heard him speak with actual passion.
“Preparations for the defense are already underway. There is little to be done, if the stories are true, besides what we already are doing. Baelish, go to the Vale. Win Lysa’s hand, and her swords. The Crown will see you rewarded if you do. You are dismissed.” The proclamation left a bad taste in Tyrion’s mouth, but his hands were tied. The other Councilors stood, bowed to Cersei, and took their leave. Tyrion returned to the solar that had been Ned Stark’s, and worked until Varys knocked on his door, not long before supper.
Tyrion listened as the eunuch told him of his childhood, of being a slave and a mummer, until he was sold to a sorcerer. Of his castration, his manhood thrown into a brazier, and the voice that spoke from the flames. For a few moments, after the tale was through, the only sound was the distant noise of the city. Varys was waiting for a response, watching Tyrion carefully all the while.
“Why have you told me this?” he finally asked.
“Magic is an evil thing, my Lord. If Stannis has sold himself to some dark god, I will do everything in my power to see him dead.” Varys swore. Gods help me, I believe him. And he believes this horseshit about godlings and dragons.
“And if he just found an egg in the Dragonmont? Stannis has been brooding on that island for a year, there was time enough to hatch one. His grandmother was a Targaryen, he has it in his blood,” Tyrion mused. Of course, the dragon was reported to be large enough to ride. It took years for that size to be reached. Regardless, he wasn’t quite ready to throw aside all he knew of the world and accept the possibility that all Varys’ spies said was true.
“Dragons have done terrible things to my ancestors. It’s a miracle they survived long enough to birth me, for all the good that did them. We of the Free Cities remember the power of Valyria, Lord Hand. Those of sound mind hope to never see its like again.” Tyrion recalled that Varys was from Lys, the city which had turned on the Dragonlords after the Doom, and slaughtered many of the world’s surviving dragons. He felt a pang of sympathy for the great, lost beasts, and idly wondered what it would be like to see one flying over King’s Landing again. In all likelihood, you stunted fool, it would be the last thing you ever saw. You are a lion, not a dragon, and a half-grown one at that.
“In Westeros, we think of Aegon’s dragons first. There was no Valyrian slave empire here,” Tyrion reminded him. “Dragons have done good as well as evil.”
“No, there was no slavery in Westeros. Merely the Field of Fire, Maegor the Cruel, and a dozen other calamities inflicted by dragonriders on the populace. Dorne burned under dragonflame for years. Killing each other was the best thing the Blacks and Greens ever did. What would King Joffrey do with a dragon, I wonder? What will Stannis? It is for the best that they are dead. It is a power beyond mortal men. Valyria paid for its hubris, as did the Targaryens. I would not like to see House Lannister burn next.” Tyrion hid his face with a sip of Arbor Gold, while he pondered how to respond to that. Joffrey with a dragon. He would be Aerys the Third in truth. Stannis was a cold man, but not a butcher. Joffrey, though… Joffrey was a monster. Tyrion had spent his whole life dreaming of seeing a dragon someday, yet he would rather jump from the highest point of Casterly Rock into the sea than watch what his nephew would do with one.
“Yet your little birds claim Stannis’ new allies are neither mortal nor, in one case, male,” he said eventually. Varys smiled politely, but did not allow the topic to be changed.
“If you wish to argue semantics, Lord Tyrion, I can fetch Pycelle for you. I hear he just received a wonderfully dry tome on the changing of the Bastard Valyrian tongues from the Citadel.”
“You’re being purposefully obtuse.”
“And you are being purposefully blind. The histories paint glorious pictures of the dragons, but if you’ve seen Harrenhal, you know the truth is otherwise,” the eunuch said. Tyrion felt his blood go cold at the reminder of that horrible castle, with its towers like melted candles. He had never seen it himself, but pictures in books had chilled him enough.
“It makes no matter, regardless. The dragons are dead, despite all attempts to remedy that fact,” Tyrion said, unable to keep a note of sorrow from his voice.
“You have studied those attempts?” the Spider asked.
“I was rather fascinated by dragons in my youth. Some say Aegon the Unlikely caused the fire at Summerhall because he was trying to revive dragons. Of course, there was Aerion Brightflame, the idiot who drank wildfire. If only Aerys had spared us all and tried that course of action.” Something twitched in Varys’ pale eyes, but he quickly schooled his expression once more. The perfect mummer, almost all of the time. Does he regret all he did for the Mad King? For Robert?
“You believe Stannis cannot have a dragon because all prior plans to revive them came to naught,” Varys summarized. Tyrion spread his hands in a gesture that would have appeared grandiose, had he been twice as tall.
“I could not have put it better myself. Magic is long gone from this world.”
“I have only just given you proof to the contrary,” Varys argued.
“And in that selfsame tale, you professed to be drugged. Thoros of Myr loved to claim that flaming sword of his was the Red God’s magic, but we all know he just dipped it in wildfire and set it alight.” The spymaster bowed his head in acknowledgement of the point, but did not concede the greater argument.
“My Lord, I have heard many preposterous stories over the years. Prophets, acts of gods, grumpkins and snarks. But this… never before have I heard the same preposterous story, so many times, from so many sources. All are in complete agreement as to the broad strokes, even if the details change slightly. There are too many to claim to have witnessed these people firsthand. Do not dismiss this. The truth is not always obvious. If it was, I would not be of much use to you.” Tyrion sighed, and drank deeply.
“I believe you, Lord Varys.” To his shock, he found that he meant it. “I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do about it.”
Indeed, there was not much to be done. An army of 100,000 men marching on King’s Landing was a big enough threat without three godlings, even if one of them could become a dragon. Tyrion was already trying to make a paltry number of goldcloaks, sellswords, and Mountain Clansmen into a proper fighting force. Wildfire helped, but his plans would not be enough. He spent a month slaving away, trying to keep King’s Landing from falling apart, while shoring up its defenses. He sent Septons to preach that Stannis had renounced the Seven, and instead invented his own gods. Few, however, were willing to believe this, when the Hightowers marched in the Baratheon army.
Two days after Myrcella left for Dorne, and the food riots that departure sparked, Tyrion watched as his father rode into the Red Keep. Beside him was his Uncle Kevan, and behind the two brothers was an army of twenty thousand Lannister men. Despite Robb Stark invading the Westerlands and destroying Stafford Lannister’s force at Oxcross, Tywin had led his men to King’s Landing. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch held Harrenhal with five thousand men, while the Riverlands were otherwise abandoned in favor of holding the capitol. Tyrion could imagine the redcloaks were already digging trenches, requisitioning housing, and shoring up the defenses on the walls. The men were desperately needed, Tyrion just wished someone else had been commanding them.
Handing his chain of office to his father in the courtyard of the Red Keep, as Tywin was welcomed by Joffrey, Tommen, and Cersei, was one of the hardest things Tyrion had ever done. Thankfully, his father waited until the two of them were alone in the Hand’s solar to chew him out. For what, exactly, Tyrion wasn’t sure, but he knew there would be a scolding. Nothing he did was ever good enough. He could only hope that his lord father hadn’t discovered Shae.
“This city has gone to the dogs under your watch, Tyrion,” began the man infamous for letting his dogs run loose across the kingdoms. Putting a white cloak on Sandor Clegane instead of Barristan Selmy was the stupidest decision Cersei has ever made.
“Joffrey-” Tyrion started, but he was unsurprised when his father did not let him finish.
“Is a boy! You were sent here to keep him in check! The Dornish alliance was deft, I grant you, but if we do not hold King’s Landing, we cannot hold the realm. Doran will not send us his spears besides. You have bought neutrality, not spears, with my granddaughter’s life.”
“I’ve already been making preparations to ensure the city does not fall. Ensuring Sunspear did not bend to Stannis was among them. Baelish is forging an alliance with Lysa Tully as we speak.” Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not shout or break anything, which was better than Tyrion had expected.
“And the rest? This city is not prepared for a siege. The people are already half-starved,” his father spat. Tyrion scoffed.
“Perhaps if Clegane had not burned half the Riverlands, more food would be available to the citizens of King’s Landing,” he drawled.
“If you hadn’t allowed yourself to be captured by a woman, I would not have had to wage war on her house,” Tywin shot back.
“Of course, this entire kingdom falling to pieces is my fault. Not Stannis’, or Jon Arryn’s for dropping dead, or Cersei’s for fucking Jaime-” this time, his father’s hand strikes Tyrion across the face, rather than slamming into the desk. He had long ago learned not to cry out, though the blow hurts nevertheless.
“Those filthy lies have done enough damage to our house without you repeating them,” Tywin growled.
“Yes, of course. Lies. That’s what they are.” His sarcasm was ignored. Instead, Tywin began pacing across the room, acting as though he had not just punched his trueborn heir in the face.
“Robb Stark reaves through our homeland. The Baratheon brothers march on King’s Landing. I will have to send Tommen to Harrenhal to ensure the heir to the throne remains safe. And yet your defense is made solely of wildfire and savages.”
“By all means, father, your support will be crucial in the upcoming siege,” Tyrion conceded.
“Support? I am the Hand of the King, the Warden of the West, and the Lord of Casterly Rock. You are a stunted fool who has survived this long only because my blood runs through your veins. You have had some small amount of success during your tenure as Hand, yes, but it ends now. You may serve as Master of Coin while Baelish is in the Vale. But your reign over this city ends today.”
Tyrion’s father was true to his word. His privileges as Hand were immediately revoked, much to Joffrey and Cersei’s satisfaction. At least he still had Pod and Bronn under his command. Despite his condemnation of everything Tyrion had done since the day he was born, his father did not truly overturn all that much. The only truly significant change in policy was the increase of Tyrion’s tax on prostitution, and a change in the tactics of wildfire. Tyrion had been preparing for a mostly naval defense of the city. Stannis had support from the Velaryons, and if the rumors of a water-godling were true, then he would be a fool not to attack from the sea. Trenches were already being dug to defend against an attack by land, but aside from scouring the riverbank outside the Mud Gate, there was little to be done to prevent an attack from Blackwater Bay.
His father was lenient enough to allow Tyrion his chain boom, and to load five decrepit hulks with jars of wildfire, floating on the Blackwater Rush, ready to be floated downriver and into Stannis’ fleet. Each of the ships, however, was only half-full. Tyrion had his doubts about the efficacy of such a decision, but he was ignored. Instead, his father sought to use the Alchemists’ Substance to defend against an attack from the west as well.
On Tywin’s orders, small ditches were dug before the walls of the city, though never before the gates, and always at least a hundred paces from the walls. Four or five jars of wildfire were placed in the ditches, then covered in a shallow layer of dirt. Wisdom Hallyne assured the small council that a warhorse riding over such a trap, a siege engine rumbling across the field, or even the thunderous footfall of a group of heavily-armored soldiers in the vicinity, would set off the traps. A cache of wildfire found under the Dragonpit was devoted to the Hand’s pitfalls, while much of the new production was arranged atop the walls, ready to be thrown down.
The logic behind the revised deployment was, in Kevan’s explanation, to funnel any of the Baratheon’s forces to the gates, rather than the walls.
“We have thirty thousand, they have a hundred,” he said to Tyrion during one of countless War Councils, where only the Lannister men left in the city (namely Tyrion, Tywin, Kevan, and his son Lancel) were in attendance, alongside some of the major Westerlands lords and Ser Jacelyn Bywater. “If they get over the walls, we’ll be overwhelmed by their numbers. But if we make the walls too dangerous, and force the army to focus on the gates-”
“They will fall,” said Ironhand bluntly.
“Yes, they will fall,” Kevan admitted. “But their numerical advantage will be less of a danger.”
To his annoyance, Tyrion agreed.
“My little birds have carried more word from the Stormlands and Dragonstone. All the rumors have been confirmed, yet again,” Varys reported dryly, at a Small Council meeting two weeks later. “Stannis sails for King’s Landing, while Renly marches. The godlings are with them, split between the two forces.”
“This is simply impossible,” Tywin declared. He had refused to even entertain the idea of such a thing, as had Cersei and Joffrey. Tyrion wished he could have their confidence.
“I wish I agreed, Lord Hand. The reports say there are three of these so-called demigods. A man named Frank of House Zhang, who uses the title ‘Praetor’. My little birds tell me he appears YiTish, is a formidable warrior who spends his days training Stannis’ army, and can change his shape into different creatures. He is Stannis’ dragon, and has been knighted by the so-called King. The other two are of a House Jackson- a married couple, not siblings,” the spymaster said calmly. Tyrion wondered what degree of patience it took to tolerate Tywin Lannister’s Handship for over twenty years, even if it was on-and-off. Varys had served since Aerys’ day, and still remained an enigma to the court.
“A woman has caused all this?” Pycelle asked in surprise.
“An extraordinarily beautiful and dangerous one, or so my sources say. This ‘Annabeth Jackson’ is apparently a skilled craftswoman, who forges weapons and fights better than any man. Her husband, Percy, claims to be a Prince of the Sea, in addition to a knight, citing his divine father’s status as a King. He can control and create water,” Varys reported.
“And is, let me guess, a deadly warrior?” Tyrion asked drily.
“Extremely,” Varys confirmed. Tywin scoffed, annoyance written across his features.
“The Asshai’i mages are said to be capable of glamors, they can change their appearance, though it is an illusion only. Many Dornish women know how to fight, and the Rhoynar had an army of water mages in Nymeria’s day, though they were believed to have died out a few centuries after her landing in Dorne. I am far more inclined to believe that a few Essosi with some weak amount of magic have decided to seek their fortune in Westeros than I am to trust this nonsense of gods from other worlds,” the Hand said.
“I agree, Lord Hand, but even so, they are dangerous.”
“Many things are dangerous, that is a meaningless non-statement. I expect better from you, Varys. Onto more serious matters. Have you discovered why so many of my men have been disappearing?”
“I have. They are deserting, being murdered, or both.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Pycelle asked. Tyrion had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
“The Sack looms large in the memories of many, Grand Maester. And few see any glory in the upcoming battle. They believe it to be a doomed endeavor,” the eunuch explained. Tyrion silently toasted doomed endeavors. This battle would be nearly impossible to win, no matter how prepared the Lannisters were.
A week later, when Stannis’ fleet appeared, just on the edge of the horizon, the city’s bells rang out a warning for a day and a night. Yet to Tyrion’s deep annoyance, they simply waited there, no doubt for Renly’s forces to arrive. Days later, when the other half of the Baratheon army arrayed themselves outside the walls of King’s Landing, the city’s defenders unanimously understood that the battle was about to begin. Tyrion was, to his shock, once again deployed to the front lines. He, Pod, and Bronn were sent to the Mud Gate by Lord Tywin.
“Make use of your tricks and chains,” his father ordered him. “And take Joffrey with you. Don’t let him fight, just leave him up on the walls. That idiot boy would get himself killed in a real battle, but he should be farthest from the thick of the fighting there.” Tywin, meanwhile, took up command at the Lion Gate, on the west side of the city. Kevan led a detachment at the Dragon Gate, to the north. Left in the mud, babysitting a boy king. What an honor.
Stannis’ fleet made no movement towards the city, even as a flaming arrow shot impossibly high into the air from Renly’s forces, and the sounds of battle began to filter over from the west. An early skirmish, no doubt, as the wildfire mines hadn’t gone off yet.
“Why aren’t they doing anything?” Joffrey asked petulantly, waving a gauntlet hand at the fleet.
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Tyrion admitted. “Perhaps Stannis wishes to allow Renly to bloody his nose first.” The Hound, always by Joffrey’s side, snorted with laughter. Pod, always by Tyrion’s, just rocked back and forth nervously. The men began to laugh and joke about Stannis’ uselessness, but Tyrion had a terrible feeling about all of this. There was something terribly wrong here. He was missing something.
What, precisely, that was, became obvious moments later. The men atop the falls fell silent at once as the river began to move of its own accord. First, the flow stopped running into the sea. Just downriver of the winch towers, the key to Tyrion’s chain boom, the river began to move against its current. It began to pick up speed, splitting in two. On one side, Blackwater Bay remained static, split off from the Blackwater Rush by a perfectly flat wall of water. On the other, a massive wave sped up the river, leaving the riverbed bone-dry behind it, and overflowing the river’s banks as it gathered more and more strength and speed.
Gods help me. Varys was right. No mortal man could do this. We are doomed. Quickly, the river wrapped the wildfire hulks into its embrace, and began moving them upstream. The wall of water broke into two parts. The larger of the two maneuvered four of the wildfire hulks towards the river’s southern shore, away from the city walls. The smaller of the two, however, was pushing the fifth hulk directly upriver, towards the impotent Lannister fleet.
“Scorpions! Target that ship! Don’t let it strike our fleet!” The crewmen hurried to obey Tyrion’s orders, and after a few missed shots, one of them struck the deck of the rapidly moving hulk.
The ship exploded in a torrent of verdant fire, thankfully before it could crash into the Lannister ships arrayed on the Blackwater Rush. Sandor Clegane turned coward and ran, a Hound with his tail between his legs, and told Joffrey to fuck off. Tyrion would have been impressed if he wasn’t so furious. Stannis’ ships deployed their cargo of soldiers, and through it all, the river never stopped moving. Tyrion couldn’t hold back his laughter as he saw his chain boom laid across the bed of Blackwater Bay, cut neatly in two. Another trick, rendered useless by divine intervention. The Three Whores, massive trebuchets that they were, hurled stones and wildfire at the black-and-gold sails floating calmly in the bay. Too few struck their mark, however. It was not nearly enough to make a difference.
When the four remaining wildfire hulks were thoroughly beached, the river receded back to its natural state. Tyrion, and half his men, let out a sigh of relief. If that was what the godling could do in the water, what will he do to our men when he leaves it?
Once the river stopped moving, Stannis’ landing craft finally began to creep forward. Tyrion’s men fired at them from the walls, and did some damage, though it was obviously not going to be enough. A phalanx formed up just within the gate, and boiling oil was readied to drop on the men as they landed on the shores.
Even before the gate fell, a Lannister messenger appeared, whispering words into Joffrey’s ear. The King had been growing paler and paler as the skirmishes raged, and his eyes were fixed now on the black-clad that could only be Stannis Baratheon, standing near the water’s edge, below black-and-gold Baratheon banners. The boy tore his gaze from his so-called uncle, however, and began to follow Lancel down from the walls.
“Where do you think you’re going!” Tyrion shouted.
“To the Red Keep, as my royal mother commands. To… better oversee the defense from a central location,” Joffrey said. It was a flimsy excuse, and the men were shooting each other nervous glances that showed they did not believe it. Joffrey didn’t seem to care.
“You fool! The men need to see their King fighting with them! Your grandfather-”
“Is not here. Best of luck to you, Uncle,” Joffrey smirked. He was gone moments later, the messenger following close behind.
The Mud Gate was broken within ten minutes of fighting. By then, Tyrion was already down from the walls, trying to keep his men organized from atop his mare. He shouted himself hoarse to be heard over the din of battle, yet it wasn’t enough. Slowly, inexorably, they were pushed back. Stannis’ lines pushed past the trebuchets, then Fishmonger’s Square, and began to fight their way up the Muddy Way and River Row.
Tyrion led from the rear, though he had little choice. Stannis’ men were surging through the Mud Gate, and although there was no sign of the demigods yet, he was sure they were coming shortly. If the gods were good, the dragon was with Renly’s army. He beat the hastiest and most organized retreat he could, leading his men up the Muddy Way. Hopefully, they could meet up with some Lannister reinforcements and push back the invaders. In his bones, however, Tyrion knew the battle was lost. That impression was only solidified when Lancel Lannister, the stupidest of his cousins, appeared at his side. Both men were ahorse, and his cousin was much younger, yet Lancel still towered over Tyrion. The younger man looked exhausted, already covered in blood and dirt. Tyrion dreaded his news before he even opened his mouth.
“My Lord! Your father reports that Renly has breached the Lion Gate. He orders you to bring the King to him immediately,” Lancel panted.
“The King has gone to hide behind his mother’s skirts, cousin.” Tyrion said brightly. He smirked as Lancel paled in surprise. I may be in for a world of trouble for allowing Joffrey to run off, but at least I didn’t fuck the Queen. “Lead me to Lord Tywin. I hope he has a plan.”
The two cousins, Bronn, and Podrick Payne rode up the Muddy Way until it reached the King’s Way, then pushed their horses as hard as they could down the King’s Way, where Lord Tywin’s banners were flying near the guildhall, far from the frontlines. Just as Tyrion rode up to his father, and opened his mouth to ask what the new plan was, an explosion sounded in the distance.
Notes:
Next time: the long-awaited Frank I, which will be followed by Annabeth II. These two chapters will be 100% devoted to the Battle of King’s Landing. The aftermath will be covered, for starters, in a new POV after Annabeth II.
Comments are my lifeblood and my motivation.
Chapter 10: Frank I
Notes:
Midterms are done, and I'm back on my bullshit. Thanks for sticking around to 50k words!
Pull up a map of King’s Landing, dear readers. You’re going to need it for this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Frank Zhang loosed his arrow, and tried not to scream in frustration. He had no particular attachment to the arrow, dipped in tar and set alight, which was now soaring hundreds of feet into the air, far higher than was possible without a demigod’s inhuman strength. High enough to be seen by the fleet of ships waiting on Blackwater Bay. It had been his responsibility to send the signal which would start the battle, and now that he had done so, the blood of King’s Landing was on his hands.
Frank must have been the most useless son of Mars to ever live. He had the power to turn into a living weapon, and couldn't bring himself to use it. The people of this strange world that he’d been thrown head-first into feared and respected dragons for all the blood they could spill. Frank’s only role on this battlefield was to be the dragon they expected, and he refused to use it. So instead, when his arrow flew and the Baratheon/Tyrell armies began to roar with bloodlust, when he took to the skies as a thirty-meter winged lizard, he did not turn his fire on the men below. Compared to Clarisse, or even his Roman half-siblings, he knew he was a martial disappointment. But Frank had feared fire for too long to be careless about roasting human beings alive.
It seemed, thankfully, that the sight of him was enough. As Percy split the river and bay in the distance, Frank watched the Baratheon armies advance on the gates, and Lannister men throw down their arms and run. Easily a quarter of the redcloaks, and even more of the mercenaries, lost their spines at the sight of a dragon. Some of their comrades cut the traitors down, others allowed them to run. He imagined he could feel the fear and panic in the city grow when a ship exploded on the Blackwater Rush. Thankfully, it was the only one.
Even so, the fighting began in earnest. Lannister outriders rode out from the gates, skirmishing along the main roads with Tyrell forces while the river moved unnaturally. Frank swooped down, breathing fire over their heads, and roaring as loud as he could. The Lannister horses, spooked, bolted back for the city. The roads were left open, and the attackers continued their march. Frank flew back and forth across the western side of the city, blowing fire on occasion to scare the Lannisters into submission. It wasn’t particularly difficult work, but every sword thrown down by a redcloak was a life saved. The occasional scorpion bolt or arrow sailed up from the city walls towards Frank, but none ever came close. These people had zero experience targeting airborne enemies, thankfully for him.
Within fifteen minutes of the battle beginning, the Lion Gate was breached. Frank could see from above that Stannis’ troops had broken down the Mud Gate, and the Iron Gate to the north of the city was under attack. Dragons were useless in close-quarters combat, or in an urban area. The Gate of the Gods and King’s Gate were assaulted as well, though only the King’s Gate was breached. Frank was far from surprised; it sat along the river, and Percy’s stunt with the water must have scared them shitless.
Only once troops were flooding the Lion Gate and King’s Gate alike did Frank see Tarly give the order to storm the walls. Reserves began to advance, seeking no doubt to broaden the front lines. Ladders and siege towers were slowly rolled forward across the tourney grounds, towards the stretch of wall closest to Visenya’s Hill. Frank began to descend towards Renly’s lines, ready to turn back to a human and lead the charge from the ground. He was useless in the air now, he’d done his part. He could only hope Percy and Annabeth were having the same success.
The first explosion was the worst of them. Frank wasn’t sure what caused it. It could have been a siege tower rumbling over the wrong spot, or a group of horsemen riding too loudly, too close together. Whatever the cause, the explosion itself was impossible to miss. Hundreds of men were obliterated in less than a minute, the entire force assaulting the walls between the Lion Gate and the King’s Gate, only so much ash. It started with a relatively small flash of green light, killing a relatively small few dozen, only to set off a chain of secondary explosions that turned the Tourney Grounds into a massive crater. The column of green flame was so bright that, even as a dragon, Frank had to avert his eyes, and it reached far enough into the air that he was certain it could be seen from anywhere in the city. Greek fire. How did they get it in this world?
He’d been free of his gods-damned stick for years, but he still felt bone-deep terror at the rush of heat from the jade fire. He managed to fly a bit higher, away from the flames, getting control over his pounding heart before he lost his shit hundreds of meters above the ground. The damage was even more visible from above. A large chunk of the attacking army, gone. A larger one, badly wounded. The walls remained untouched, and were now entirely unassailable. The Greek fire mines had been laid far enough from the walls to avoid damaging them, and to kill their assailants early. A clever tactic, but a brutal one.
When the explosions stopped, the screams began. Frank stared helplessly at the carnage from above, and the still-intact swathes of land before the rest of the walls. Now that he was looking for it, there were some areas of upturned earth amongst the trenches. If Hazel were here, she could have easily manipulated the earth into spitting out the containers of Greek fire. Fuck, he missed his girlfriend. It was difficult not to be jealous of Percy and Annabeth, when he watched them take comfort in the other’s presence like always, posing as husband and wife. His friends had been lucky enough to be sent here together. Percy was one of Frank’s best friends, and he and Annabeth had gotten closer, but part of him wished that the son of Hecate hadn’t doomed him to being a permanent third wheel. Maybe it was cosmic retribution for Percy’s awkward position on the quest to Alaska.
If Hazel had really been here though, Frank knew he would’ve wished she wasn’t. He’d happily suffer being without her if it meant she was safe, back in New Rome, not stuck on a battlefield in a different dimension. She’d have been more than able to take care of herself, cutting down enemies on the back of some horse she’d probably manage to befriend, but he still felt better knowing his girlfriend didn’t have to put up with this world’s bullshit bigotry. I’ll get back to her, someday, he told himself. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t. For now, he had to figure out a way to avoid losing another thousand men to the Greek fire. Percy, if he were fighting on this front, probably could’ve made a small earthquake and detonated the bombs remotely. But he was already in the city by the looks of things, too far to be of any help.
Renly’s forces, meanwhile, were panicking. The commanders were clearly trying to corral the troops onto the roads and off the farmland, funneling them into the gates. This was what the Lannisters wanted. Gaps were opening in the lines, and the redcloaks inside the walls fought with renewed vigor.
Cursing to himself, Frank swooped down and landed amidst the chaos, just outside the Lion Gate. He returned to human form just before he hit the ground, appearing in full Roman armor, the lorica Annabeth had made him. His bow was across his back, his gladius by his side, and his Praetor’s cloak over his shoulders. Every time I change form, I’m grateful I get to keep my clothes.
The circle of men that had cleared to allow him entrance looked dazed, most were covered in ash or soot. In the distance, green fire still burned. Looking at the men’s faces and banners, he recognized some of those who had served Stannis at Storm’s End. Men who Frank himself had trained in Roman tactics and coordination
“Soldiers! FORM RANKS!” A few hundred scattered men started organizing into rows, with others turning to see what the fuss was about. Others looked pained, conflicted, or confused. Still more continued pouring into the gate, charging indiscriminately into the city. From the sounds of battle and Frank’s rapidly-growing sense of it, he could practically imagine the entire city. Percy, Annabeth, and Stannis’ forces fighting their way to the Red Keep. The Lannisters making a hasty retreat. Tyrell and Baratheon men warily avoiding the land in front of the walls as they attacked the western gates. The Iron Gate falling to Stannis’ men, with more troops entering the city from the north.
No. I’m not imagining it. I can see the battle. Feel the terror and panic. Ares was a god of war for its own sake, yes, but Mars was the god of war for the sake of peace. Frank’s brothers were the gods of fear and terror. He’d known that he could influence emotions related to battle, but it seemed like at this scale, he could feel them as well. Annabeth was right. We’re getting stronger. Frank hefted his bow, and the men he had organized cheered. The rest, ignoring him, pushed on.
“Praetor Zhang! It is good to see you, my friend.” Frank turned to see Ser Garlan Tyrell, one of the commanders of the attacking forces, walking up to him, along with a guard made of several men wearing the colors of various Reacher houses. Friend might be a slightly generous description, but Garlan was likely the Westerosi he’d become closest to. They’d sparred frequently, both at Storm’s End and on the march to King’s Landing. Frank considered him to be a well-meaning and honorable man.
“Ser Garlan. Have there been any other explosions?”
“Not yet. Wildfire is a terrible thing.”
“Wildfire? That’s what you call it? Never mind, it’s not important. We need to keep your men off the fields, and keep them on the roads.”
“The men haven’t routed, but it’s chaotic in the ranks,” the young lord confided.
“We can change that. Come on.”
Frank had learned, years ago, at the beginning of his Praetorship, that being a commander was akin to herding cats. Amongst the demigods of New Rome, it was more like herding cats that could speak and listen, but cats nonetheless. Here, in Westeros, the soldiers had far less discipline. He and Garlan spent half an hour corralling the remaining Tyrell troops outside the walls, but Frank still winced at every dull boom, every pillar of green fire. Thankfully, they were rarer, and most were smaller. He managed to count four explosions, only one on the scale of the first, but thankfully the death toll seemed smaller after the first. With the sheer explosive power behind this wildfire, however, it was impossible to know for certain. Frank doubted there would be an accurate casualty count until the day was over.
“Is there any way you can destroy them remotely, Praetor? With your powers to control weapons?” Garlan suggested at one point. Frank did try, but magical explosive goop seemed to be outside his wheelhouse. It might have been possible if he could actually see the damn things, but the wildfire- which Garlan informed him was stored in pots- was buried under the soil. Frank had only ever tried to control proper weapons before, and only those he could see. After a couple of attempts, Frank had to admit that it was beyond him.
“Maybe Percy could, with an earthquake. But the risk is too high, he might bring down the city walls. We’ll have to dig up the pots after the battle ends.”
“Then we’ve done all we can. Come, Praetor. We should properly join the battle, inside the walls.” Frank swallowed heavily. He’d been trying to avoid direct confrontation since he got here. He’d never killed another human before. He was fairly sure Percy and Annabeth had fought demigod traitors during the Battle of Manhattan, but he’d never asked if they’d killed them. Frank had, thankfully, never been in a position where he’d had to choose between another human’s life and his own. But his mother had been a soldier, fighting for Canada overseas. If she could do that, then he could fight for demigods so he could install a more just King, and ensure their ability to go home.
Abandoning the city’s exterior, Frank and Tyrell led the remainder of their forces into the Lion Gate, advancing towards the city center until they reached the front lines. Despite his moral reservations, Frank moved himself to where the fighting was thickest, and drew his gladius. This battle would be fought no matter what he did. It would be cowardly, un-Roman, to sit it out when others were fighting and dying. When a Lannister man charged him, Frank dodged his clumsy blow and stabbed the soldier in the heart- a clean, even blow. Annabeth’s gladius cut through the man’s chestplate like butter, and when Frank drew out his blade, it was as red as Lannister armor.
Frank shouted, and five swords were torn from the hands of their Lannister wielders, flying off to the side and burying themselves in the wall of a house. He felt exhausted by the mostly-accidental use of telumkinesis, but it was deeply satisfying to see the world changed so directly, and so bloodlessly, by his hand. Another ten or so troops threw down their swords and ran at the sight, along with those he’d disarmed, and Frank managed to disarm nine more before he became too drained. The men he was leading charged forward, and Garlan gave him a nod of respect. Frank smiled grimly back from under his helmet, and stepped away from the body still bleeding out at his feet.
The whistling of an arrow was all the warning Frank had, and he threw up his Praetor’s cloak on instinct. The arrow burst against the magic fabric before it could pierce Garlan’s head. Frank quickly shot the archer himself, and the man tumbled from the rooftop he’d been using as a nest. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered with a gladius half the time, he was a much better archer. I’ve killed two men now. Horrifically, it felt no different from cutting down monsters. War is in my blood, I suppose. Father would be proud of me, whatever that’s worth.
“My thanks, Praetor. That is an impressive garment,” his friend said.
“No problem. I almost forget it can do that half the time, but it certainly comes in handy.” The clatter of hoofbeats interrupted them, and a messenger on horseback pushed through the crowds of Frank’s men, dismounting and bowing in front of Garlan.
“My Lord, Praetor, the Lannisters managed to hold the West Barracks. They’re pushing for the Gate of the Gods with a few thousand men. Tywin, Tyrion, and Kevan Lannister are with their forces,” the messenger in Rowan colors reported breathlessly.
“Is the false King with them?” Garlan asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, Ser.” Garlan’s eyes remained narrowed, and Frank could sense his determination. He lowered his voice, speaking to the Tyrell knight in a hushed whisper.
“Garlan, let them run. We need to secure the city,” he reminded him.
“That’s Tywin Lannister, his brother, and his son! If we kill them, the war is over,” Garlan hissed back.
“And if we don’t secure King’s Landing, the sack will go on longer. Besides, it’s Joffrey who the Lannisters use for their claim.”
Frank could feel the bloodlust of the attacking army, pounding in the base of his skull like a drumbeat. He absolutely refused to let it get out of control. He was Roman, godsdamnit. He was disciplined, and so were his soldiers. They were better than this, if only he was there to command them. He took a deep breath, and tried to send feelings of discipline and order. He knew calm was out of the question, but if he could make people panic, maybe he could make them fall into line as well. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.
“You’re right. Prince Renly wants the Red Keep secured, he’s making his way there now. I love my brother, but Loras is no commander, and Randyll Tarly is taking Rhaenys’ Hill. We should get to the Keep, and ensure Renly’s safety,” Garlan reasoned. Frank didn’t particularly care about his reasoning, but he agreed with the end goal. Besides, if he knew Percy and Annabeth, they were probably already attacking the Keep.
“Lead the way.”
Notes:
Let’s talk wildfire. So, in canon, Tyrion finds a stash below the dragonpit bc a whore and her client fell through the rotting floorboards. This is, of course, a portion of Aerys’ collection. Wildfire grows more unstable and dangerous the older it gets, which is part of the canon danger behind all of Aerys’ still being under the city; it’s harder to move and even deadlier than it was back in 283.
Unlike in canon, the wildfire in this battle is not limited to the river. As discussed in Tyrion I, the five decrepit ships are only half-full, with Tywin diverting the other half of the newly-produced (and therefore weaker) wildfire to be thrown from the walls like boiling oil. The mines outside the city walls, however, are made entirely of Aerys’ sixteen year old wildfire.
This is why the explosions outside the walls were so massive, and why they cause an unexpected chain reaction. Yes, the explosion at the end of Percy III and Tyrion I is the same as the first one Frank witnesses in this chapter. It’s meant to give both the reader and myself a solid milestone, so the battle can be kept track of more easily. It also, of course, was meant to keep the reader in suspense as to whether the city was gonna blow the fuck up or not. No, the city has not (yet) blown the fuck up. However, Aerys’ wildfire stashes remain buried under the streets, walls, and major buildings. Only the dragonpit has been cleared, Jaime remains the only man living who knows about the extent of the stashes.I would also like to make it 100% clear that this is NOT an ascension fic, and the Olympian gods will NOT be forming anew in Westeros thanks to their new worshippers. I’m trying to make that clear in the writing (the latter will be explicitly stated in an upcoming chapter), but if that’s what you’re here looking for, I’m sorry to disappoint. Narratively and thematically, that just doesn’t interest me in this circumstance. This is a fic about people, and what they do with the power they wield. The demigods will get stronger, but they will not become gods, or all-powerful. The Olympian religion will grow, but it will just be a religion.
Next time: Annabeth II, and the fall of the Red Keep.
Chapter 11: Annabeth II
Summary:
The Battle of King's Landing ends.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The battle raged, and Annabeth carved through Lannister men like the hero out of myth she was. The Red Keep loomed above the city, slowly growing larger as she, Stannis, and his retinue fought their way up Aegon’s High Hill. Time blurred. The battle-ready instincts built into her blood took over. There was nothing but the flash of blades, the scream of dying men, and the bursts of blood. Swords bounced off Annabeth’s armor, her helmet, her dagger. She killed tens of men without flinching. After a while, one bled into another- often literally.
Once King’s Landing fell, and Stannis was properly crowned, the war would be all but over. She, Percy, and Frank would be able to go home. When the Red Keep was taken, she would find the Stark girls, and fulfill her promise to their mother. Everything she needed was almost in reach. She just had to wade through Lannister blood to get it.
She lost track of where she was, after a while. Annabeth detoured down a side street to save the life of a baker, then down another to stop a robbery. By the time she returned to the main road, she’d lost track of Stannis. Unbothered, she pressed on, fighting with men she didn’t recognize. The Red Keep grew ever closer.
“Princess!” Annabeth slammed her dagger’s owl-head pommel into the side of a goldcloak’s head. As he crumpled to the ground, she turned to face whoever the fuck was stupid enough to call for her during a fight. Justin Massey was running towards her, looking even paler than usual.
“What is it?”
“It’s the Prince, Your Highness. He’s wounded. Badly.”
The battle was forgotten in less than a heartbeat. None of this really mattered anyway, the only reason Annabeth was fighting was so she could go home. None of it mattered without Percy. He was her best friend, her most trusted comrade in arms, the person she had every intention of spending her life with. ‘Boyfriend’ or ‘partner’ didn't even begin to cover what he was to her, even ‘husband’ seemed too small. She didn’t need a piece of paper from a mortal court, or Hera’s approval, to prove her love. ‘Soulmate’ felt closer, but it would have implied they were made for each other, that they hadn't built their love against all odds. The only terminology that mattered was that he was hers, and she was his. They had not gone through two wars together just for him to bleed out in another dimension, immeasurably far from home, because of human conflicts.
She sheathed her dagger and ran after Massey, following the knight deeper into the Baratheon lines, and down several streets. Annabeth’s blood roared in her ears, even as Frank’s roars sounded in the distance. I never should’ve left him. Splitting up was a terrible idea, we always fight better together. If he dies on me, I’m gonna kill him. Will he even go to Elysium if he dies here? Gods, she hadn’t gotten the chance to marry him. Sure, it was just a piece of paper that she didn’t need , but she still wanted it. Had wanted, some part of her mind whispered . No, she couldn’t think that way. He was wounded, not dead. She was probably better at healing than any of the idiots here. He’s not dead. I would know if he was dead. Whoever had hurt Percy would not survive the night, she’d make sure of it. Annabeth would carve their hearts from their chests herself. But revenge could come later, healing was the priority. She’d only turned 21 a few days ago, and Percy was still 20. He was too young to be fighting in his third war, bleeding out in an alleyway.
Even if he was fine, she still might kill somebody. Annabeth hadn’t felt this level of blood-boiling fury since Luke had trapped her under the sky. They were supposed to be retired . They were supposed to be living their happily ever after, free of demigod bullshit. While this technically qualified as free from demigod bullshit, it was not the peaceful retirement Annabeth had come to enjoy. Multiple universes seemed to be conspiring to stop her and Percy from having a moment’s peace, but she would claw it from the cold dead hands of the Moirai if she had to. She, Percy, and Frank would go home, alive and intact. Percy would have only a flesh wound at the most, easy to heal with water. And this would just be one more unpleasant story to tell their grandchildren.
When Annabeth’s impromptu guide finally stopped running, the alley they were in was full of bodies. None of them were in Percy’s orange armor, and none were moving. She moved deeper into the alley, searching for whatever she’d missed. Nothing jumped out at her. Where the hell was Percy?
“Where the fuck is Aurane? He was supposed to keep an eye on him,” Annabeth asked, turning back to snap at her guide. Waters was at least mildly reliable, and far more trustworthy than Justin Massey.
“I’m afraid your husband and the bastard are far from here, heretic,” Massey snarled. Annabeth cursed herself for her stupidity. It was a fucking trap. Am I really that predictable? She turned around, entirely unsurprised to see fifteen men in a variety of house colors, all with their swords drawn. They were blocking the exit to the alley, and slowly moving forward. Massey was at their head. A few were in Florent colors, others in Baratheon, Massey, or Sunglass regalia. Half wore the flaming heart of the Lord of Light on their doublets.
“You killed a Red Priestess, and ensnared the King with your magics,” one of the Baratheons yelled.
“And after you killed her, you prevented the King from rejoining the light of the Seven,” a Sunglass said solemnly.
“Seriously? The Faithful and R’hllorites both want me dead this badly?” Her attackers did not respond, only advanced warily. Clearly, they were far from confident in their victory. Good. They’re right to be scared. “You malakes know you’re not getting out of this alive, right?”
None of them replied. Justin Massey charged forward, and as their blades met, a deep boom sounded in the distance. Annabeth’s demigod brain, wired for battle, distantly registered a plume of green flame beyond the walls. More wildfire. That’s not good. Thankfully, Massey was equally distracted, and she dragged her dagger across his throat. Two of her attackers ran off while Massey’s body collapsed to the ground. The rest were far more hesitant to attack her after watching her best one of their own so easily. Frank’s roar ripped through the city, and Annabeth grinned sharply.
A Florent-garbed man with a flaming heart on his doublet charged forward anyways. Annabeth ducked under his first swing, plunging her dagger into his leg. He, too, collapsed, roaring with pain. The next attack came from three men at once, and Annabeth was forced to utilize her armor to survive, catching several blades on it. When the fight was done, she had several new soon-to-be-scars dotting her arms and legs, but she was the only one left alive. She heard another explosion just as the last attacker- a Sunglass knight- gurgled up a bubble of blood and died. I hope Frank’s okay.
Annabeth tried her best to wipe some of the blood from her armor as she made her way back towards the front lines. The second she stopped fighting, the world had come rushing back in, and it was brutal. Every cut hurt. Her lungs were seizing up and burning, and she couldn’t quite get in a breath. Her armor, perfectly fitted to her body, felt too tight and loose at the same time. She couldn’t get in enough air to run, and was instead forced to walk her way up Aegon’s High Hill. She missed Percy. Even though Massey had been lying, he easily could’ve been dead in some other alleyway.
Thankfully, by the time she reached the top of the hill, the Baratheons had already pushed their way to the gate. Stannis and Renly were standing a few feet apart, with Loras Tyrell, Matthis Rowan, and Randyll Tarly off to Renly’s side. All five lords were surveying a quartet of men battering away at the Red Keep’s gates.
“Princess. Kind of you to rejoin us,” Stannis said humorlessly.
“I had some trouble along the way from some of your men,” she spat. Thank Apollo, her lungs were functioning enough for her to speak without gasping for air. Though, with how full of smoke the city was, she doubted that would last. Fuck. I really miss Percy. Her partner had a talent for giving the world’s most comforting, bone-crushing hugs. She’d give anything to fight with him during this battle, smelling sea air instead of the iron tang of blood. She missed all her fellow demigods. Frank, Hazel, Nico, Clarrise, Piper. Any of them would’ve been wonderful to have with her. Her brother Malcolm would’ve won the whole war by now. But she missed Percy most of all, despite the fact she’d seen him the most recently.
“Dissension in the ranks, brother?” Renly asked cheerfully. Loras snickered next to him. Stannis ignored them both, looking to Annabeth with confusion.
“Followers of R’hllor and the Seven who seemed less than pleased that I was still alive after killing Melisandre and not converting you back to the Seven,” she explained.
“My apologies for their behavior,” the King said grimly. Annabeth gave her most ruthless smile. She had to put on a show for the locals, after all. They’d never respect her, or see her as more than Percy’s wife, if she couldn’t lead men, and kill them, better than any of these lords. Thank the gods, she absolutely could. If she had to pretend to revel in that fact instead of hating every drop of mortal blood she spilled, so be it.
“No need. They tried to kill me. They failed,” she said matter of factly, tossing her dagger in the air and catching it. Renly paled, but regained his composure soon enough.
“Why are you here? I thought my dear brother would have had your brilliant strategic mind securing the city,” he quipped.
“I need to find Sansa and Arya Stark,” she said. Another pass of the battering ram. More splinters in the massive doors. Another Baratheon man killed by a Lannister crossbowman from atop the gates.
“Ned’s girls? Why are they so important? The Young Wolf will bend the knee with or without them,” Rowan asked. To the man’s credit, he seemed more curious than annoyed.
“Because I promised I would. That means something to my people.” She may have been smart enough to avoid swearing on the Styx- regardless of the actual power, or lack thereof, it would have- to protect the girls, but that didn’t mean she had any intention of letting them die.
“Stark eyes and Stark honor both. Spare me, I’ll go mad if you start raving about winter,” Renly laughed. Stannis did everyone the favor of resolutely ignoring his brother, though Annabeth could hear the King’s teeth grinding.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” She asked the prince.
“Perhaps, but I’m the heir to the throne.”
“Enough of this! We are all adults, not bickering babes. These petty arguments will not be occuring during a battle under my command, is that understood?” Stannis snapped, clenching a fist around the hilt of his sword.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Renly demurred, with a shit-eating grin.
Then, the gates burst, and hell broke loose. To her shock, taking the Red Keep was a bloodbath, not a battle. Many of the Lannisters were already dead when the Baratheons poured in. Infighting. Some of them probably wanted to surrender. Servants were completely absent, likely hiding away somewhere. None of the redcloaks had the ornate armor she’d been told to expect from Lannister commanders, only the standard wear she’d gotten used to while carving a bloody path through the city. In another circumstance, Annabeth would have admired the architecture of the keep, or the ornate tapestries covering the walls. Now, it was all she could do to keep from splattering blood on the no-doubt-priceless works of art.
Though the absence of the enemy leadership remained conspicuous, the brothers remained mostly silent as they fought their way through the Red Keep. Having both served on Robert’s Small Council, they both knew their way around far better than Annabeth did. She allowed them to lead the way. Before long, they were standing before the most ornate, tallest set of doors she’d yet seen in the Keep, made of oak and bronze. Renly stood aside, gesturing at the door with both hands and a broad smile. Stannis nodded to two men in Velaryon colors, and they pushed open the massive doors.
The stories did not do the Iron Throne justice. Along the walls were various tapestries of battles and hunts, below high, narrow windows. Pillars lined the path from the doorway to the throne. It’s not a throne. It’s a monstrosity. On Olympus, the gods each had thrones made to suit them in their twenty foot tall forms, and specified to their domains. The Iron Throne dwarfed them all. It was asymmetrical, looming over the royals and their retainers slowly making their way towards it. Annabeth followed just to Stannis’ right, equal parts awestruck and horrified.
Atop a platform, the throne’s staircase began to rise. The twisted, wrought-iron stairs stretched up twice the height of a grown man before finally beginning to resemble a chair. To the sides of the stairs, behind what passed for a seat, and atop the whole damn thing, swords jutted out. Some were caked with dried blood. All looked sharp enough to draw more. Through the windows behind the throne, the hulking chair cast long, jagged shadows across the room. An evil thing. A throne for a conqueror, made of the swords of his enemies.
Stannis and Renly stood, side by side, at the base of the stairway. They both had their loyal followers behind them- which, under the circumstances, included Annabeth on Stannis’ side. Unfortunately for the King, Lord Velaryon and Ser Davos both remained with the fleet, as they were unsuited to land combat, which left Stannis without his most trustworthy supporters. He had only her to give weight to his words, despite her lack of actual loyalty to the man. Renly glanced up at the throne with hunger in his eyes, then to Annabeth with abject fear. Finally, his gaze settled on Stannis, and he affected faux joviality. Renly stepped aside, and inclined his head to Stannis.
“Go on, brother. Sit on the blasted chair. I won’t stop you.”
“You cannot stop me, Renly,” Stannis reminded him, already walking towards the steps.
“It’s a damned ugly thing anyways,” Renly muttered. Privately, Annabeth couldn’t help but agree. Even so, there was a powerful feeling evoked by watching Stannis, armored and armed in plain black mail, ascending the steps forged by his ancestor. When he reached the top, he turned, and, without hesitation, sat down. The room held its breath.
Stannis did not bask in the feeling of satisfaction finally sitting the Iron Throne must have given him. The tightness in his shoulders did not even lessen for a moment. He simply sat, glared down at his brother with his head held high, took a single breath, and stood. The assorted nobles and men-at-arms knelt when he sat the throne, and were still scrambling to their feet when he finished descending it. Annabeth watched the entire scene play out with interest, but did not kneel.
“There is still work to be done. The city is not secure yet. There will be time for ceremonies later. Maegor’s Holdfast must be taken,” the King declared.
Annabeth had read about Maegor’s, the castle-in-a-castle with only one way in or out. A drawbridge, suspended over a dry moat filled with swords, where Helaena Targaryen, her daughter Jaehaera, and Ser Alfred Broome had all met their deaths during the Dance of the Dragons. The drawbridge was raised, naturally, and Renly began cursing viciously when he saw it up. The doorway, typically the entrance to one end of the bridge, was open to the air. One slip, and it would be a long way down to the swords below. Stannis started grinding his teeth again, and Matthis Rowan started calling for ladders and rope. No. That’ll take too long, if it works at all. Bickering began between Renly and Stannis’ bannermen over the best way to get into the Holdfast, but she wasn’t listening to any of it.
“I can make the jump,” Annabeth yelled over the clamor. The arguments fell silent, and everyone turned to stare at her.
“Are you mad, Jackson?” Loras asked incredulously.
“Shut the fuck up so I can concentrate,” she hissed. Loras, thankfully, obeyed.
Annabeth took a breath, eyeing the sword-filled moat before her, and the wall of wood across the other side. She clutched her dagger more tightly, then flipped it around to a reverse grip. She narrowed her eyes, focused on the raised drawbridge across the moat, and ran. As her foot hit the end of the stones, she leapt with more strength than any human could muster. For a moment, she was weightless, suspended in the air over hundreds of blades. Then, she slammed into the vertical drawbridge, and buried her dagger up to the hilt in the wood.
Dangling from the wood with only her dagger to support her, Annabeth finally thought of a name for the thing. “Onyx,” she muttered to herself, even as she cursed her ADHD. “Talon.” Swinging up her free hand, she punched a hole into the wood, then used it as a grip, ignoring the splinters that filled her hand. Shouts of alarm could be heard from the other side of the bridge, but she ignored those too. Scaling the vertical bridge was difficult with one dagger and one fist, but she managed to make it to the top. A couple well-placed slashes from Onyx later, and she’d opened a gap large enough for her to fit through. After that, swinging herself up, through the hole, inside Maegor’s, and down to the stone floor was easy. A few swipes of her blade later, and those guarding the winch were dead. She quickly lowered the bridge, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the shocked look on the faces of the soldiers on the other side.
Despite the assorted holes in the wood, and one triangular section missing entirely, the bridge was still structurally sound, and easy enough to cross if one watched their step. Hundreds of men rushed over the bridge, Stannis and Renly at the forefront of them all. The King gave Annabeth a short nod of respect and thanks just before he passed by her, which Annabeth returned. Stannis and his party turned a corner, Annabeth just behind them, and they encountered the first redcloak guards. Defeating them was easy- they were likely still scared shitless about Maegor’s being breached en masse for the first time- and Stannis left most of them alive. The last of them, the King disarmed himself.
“Where are Cersei and Joffrey!” Stannis demanded, holding his blade at the redcloak’s throat.
“The Queen’s Ballroom, m’lor- Your Grace. With the Ladies of the Court, and Ser Ilyn,” the man stammered.
“Good man. Take him away, ensure he is treated well.” His order was obeyed, and Stannis trudged on to the ballroom. Annabeth stayed by his side. If the ladies of the court were there, presumably Sansa and Arya were among them. It was a lead, if nothing else. She’d almost done it. The battle was almost over. She’d be back in Percy’s arms soon. They reached the massive doors of the Queen’s Ballroom shortly, after cutting down a few more men, and Annabeth was entirely unsurprised to find them barred.
As soon as Stannis’ men had forced the doors open, they both lost their heads to a single swipe of a massive broadsword, already covered in blood. A tall, thin, pock-marked man entered the hallway, holding a six-foot, gunmetal greatsword, rippling and razor-sharp. Valyrian steel. Letting instinct and training take over, Annabeth charged forward, diving under the man’s guard and stabbing him in the side of the leg. He roared with pain, but something about the sound was wrong . Looking up at his face, Annabeth realized he was missing his tongue. They traded blows while Stannis and Renly shouted orders, and she soon found the two of them surrounded by Tyrell and Baratheon men. Annabeth caught one of the man’s swings on her dagger, and, to her shock, the magicked steel chipped. I just named the damn thing. Now I’ll have to fix it. Losing patience, she swept his legs out from under him. Before she could finish the job, Loras Tyrell darted forward, cleanly chopping the man’s hand from his arm.
Loras kicked away the hand in disgust, while Stannis bent to pick up the Valyrian greatsword.
“Ice. The blade of House Stark. That was Ilyn Payne, Lord Stark’s executioner. Take this to be cleaned and prepared. I will have it returned to Lord Robb along with his sisters. Take Ser Ilyn into custody.” His men scurried to obey the order, while Renly eyed the barely-open doors thoughtfully.
“Did anyone else see that?” Renly asked nervously.
“I did. The blade was already red,” Annabeth murmured. Fearing what she’d see, but having no other choice, she sheathed her dagger and pushed open the doors. The Queen’s Ballroom was a bloodbath. On one side, nearly forty well-dressed women, along with a handful of very young and very old men, lay dead from a variety of brutal wounds, ranging from decapitations to blades through the stomach. Blood pooled on the floor, and if Annabeth had been any less of a hardened soldier, she would have retched. Chief among the dead was a woman with rich golden curls, a tiara, and a red slash across her throat, sitting in an ornate chair at the head of the table. The blood from her throat had covered her entire upper chest, dress, and much of her hair. There was a mad smile on her lips, and her eyes were likely a bright emerald, before death glassed them over.
“By all the gods,” Loras whispered. The boy was pale and wan, sword hanging by his side instead of raised in his usual perfect form. Annabeth couldn’t blame him.
On the other side of the room from the massacre, dozens of women in servants’ garb huddled together, weeping silently. Near them were men dressed as musicians, and even a jester. They all had the vacant stares of trauma survivors, though some could not take their eyes off the dead nobles.
“Cersei bloody Lannister,” Renly grit out. “Killed by her own executioner.”
“What happened here!” Stannis thundered. All the survivors flinched, nearly as one, and Annabeth had to resist the urge to slap the King for his tactlessness. One of the women stood, albeit somewhat shakily, and looked Stannis in the eye before responding.
“She said if she couldn’t rule, then we were all better off dead. The Queen ordered Ser Ilyn to kill all the other noble women, then her, when the Red Keep’s gate fell. He cared nothing for us,” she said. The woman- scarcely more than a girl, really- did not seem overly distraught about the death of her Queen, although her eyes were kept carefully away from the massacre. She was much shorter than Annabeth, with dark hair cut just below her ears, a jeweled necklace around her throat, and an accent the demigoddess had never heard before.
“Is Sansa or Arya one of these bodies?” Annabeth asked her companions quietly. Renly shook his head grimly.
“I only saw them a couple of times, and these are… rather disfigured, but no. The Starks are likely still alive,” Renly told her.
“I know where Sansa is.” The same servant who had spoken earlier said calmly.
“What’s your name?” asked Annabeth.
“Shae, m’lady. I’m Lady Stokeworth’s maid. Lady Sansa’s chambers are in the next hall over, three levels up. One of the fools whispered something to her when the gates fell, and she left. She’s likely there,” Shae explained quickly.
“Thank you,” Annabeth said softly.
“Where is Cersei’s bastard?” Stannis asked, not bothering to conceal the harshness in his voice. Shae flinched away, but replied anyway.
“He was here for a moment or two, then he left. I’m not certain.”
“And Arya?” Annabeth asked.
“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” said Shae. “I’ve never seen her.” Well that’s not a good sign.
“Thank you regardless. Maybe Sansa will know.” Ignoring Stannis and Renly’s men as they began to search through the bloodbath, and identify the deceased, she left the ballroom in a rush. Following Shae’s directions, it was only minutes before she reached the hallway she’d been directed to.
“Sansa?” Annabeth called out. “Sansa Stark?”
None of the doorways gave any reply. Annabeth opened one, and found only an empty room. The one across the hall was a storage closet, the one after that had the cramped design of servant’s quarters. Finally, she reached a room where the lock had been broken open. Grasping Onyx , Annabeth slowly pushed open the door, and gasped in shock. On the floor, sprawled out and glassy-eyed, was the boy that could only be Joffrey Baratheon.
The boy king’s golden crown lay forgotten in an ever-growing crimson pool. The blood was seeping into his curls, turning them from a gold just like his dead mother’s to bright red. A coat of red, or a coat of gold. Wasn’t that how the Lannisters’ song went? Lodged in the side of his neck, just below the jawline, was the handle of a small knife. What could only be his tongue was lying a few inches from his mouth, severed by the blade when it pierced his throat.
Standing over his body, shaking with adrenaline, was a young girl. Her hair was auburn, but the bloodstains on her hands, chest, and hem were crimson. The dress had likely been gray, once, and a muddy white cloak was clenched in her fist. She’s probably barely older than I was when I went on my first quest. If she did this, he deserved it.
Annabeth suspected she already knew the girl’s identity, that red hair and those sharp blue eyes were familiar, even without the wolves on her clothing. But she had to ask. Carefully, slowly, she removed her helmet, and sheathed her dagger. The girl’s eyes widened, but she did not move. She didn’t flinch, and held Annabeth’s gaze.
“Sansa Stark?” The girl drew herself up, stuck out her chin, and nodded, with perfect court manners. She was still shaking, but that would continue until the adrenaline left her system. “My name is Annabeth, your mother sent me. Where’s your sister?”
Notes:
Translations:
Greek Translations:Malakes: basically ‘fuckers’
Onyx: talon, fingernail, clawAN:
The proceedings in the Queen’s Ballroom happen slightly differently than in canon due to:
- The earlier occurrence of the battle
- The presence of Tywin, Kevan, and the Lannister army
- The speed at which the city falls- and the fact that it actually does
The contents of Sansa’s ACOK chapters in the ballroom are functionally untouched. Cersei still gets drunk and gives the same speech about how Sansa should get used to using her tears and sex as weapons, and how she can expect to be raped, and how Cersei brought Ilyn Payne to kill them all. However, since Lancel spends the battle with Kevan, a random redcloak takes his place (as seen in Tyrion I). Instead of storming out to Martin-knows-where, Cersei stays and is killed.Comments and kudos make my day! Thank you all so much for over 15k hits, nearly 700 kudos, and over 200 bookmarks!
Next time: Sansa I
Chapter 12: Sansa I
Notes:
The response to this fic continues to just blow me away, thank you all so much. The outpouring of kudos, comments, and bookmarks always makes my day.
My amazing beta readers, Scribe_Kitsune and SZ9, have as always made this chapter far better than I planned it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Sansa Stark?” The woman asked, and Sansa could do nothing but nod meekly, too shocked to speak. She was still shaking. Why was she shaking? “My name is Annabeth, your mother sent me. Where’s your sister?”
“The Lannisters don’t have her, she’s been missing since the day they captured me. Are you with Stannis?”
“I am, but it was your mother who asked me to find you and Arya. You killed Joffrey?” A lady’s armor is her courtesy. If I remember that, I’ll be alright. Arya. Arya had always wanted to fight, to fill a man’s role, to play with swords rather than sew. She’d always had dirty, ruined dresses, preferred the company of their bastard brother Jon to Sansa herself, and ran away from her lessons. Sansa had poked fun at her sister, calling her Horseface, and lost herself in tales of knights in shining armor rescuing princesses. She had been content in the knowledge that she was a proper Lady, and Arya was simply worse at it.
Now, being saved by a woman who was even more dirty and covered in blood than Arya had ever been, with the same piercing steel-grey eyes that Arya, Jon, and their father shared- a woman who fought for a King’s army, at that- Sansa could not help but wonder if Arya had been right about the world all along. She would have loved to meet this Annabeth woman, if only she were here. No. If she were here, she’d have been tormented alongside me. I can only hope she still lives, and managed to escape the city. Besides, the songs had been right about most of it. They’d only gotten the gender wrong. Below the blood and dirt, Annabeth’s armor was flawless. She was undoubtedly beautiful, even with the streak of silver in her hair. And she had rescued Sansa, when no one else had done more than offer the occasional kindness.
“I did, my lady,” were the only words that actually passed Sansa’s lips.
“May I ask why?” Annabeth said, voice full of kindness. She set her helmet down on Sansa’s bed, devoting her full attention to the still-trembling girl.
“He- he tried to- he said-” Sansa gulped, averting her eyes, and forced the words out. “He said if he was going to die tonight, he wanted to have me first. And then he was kissing me, and there was a knife, and I-” Faster than she could blink, the armored woman had Sansa wrapped in strong, solid arms. Ladies weren’t supposed to wear bloodied armor, carry daggers, or be covered in scars, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care. The woman was holding her tightly enough that Sansa felt safe, gently rubbing her back and murmuring reassurances, but loosely enough that Sansa could easily push away if she wanted to. Sandor Clegane’s cloak fluttered from her fingers as she hesitantly, then gratefully, returned the embrace.
“It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe. You protected yourself, even when you shouldn’t have had to. We’ll get you back to Riverrun. I swear on the River Styx that you’ll get back to your mother,” Annabeth whispered. Some part of Sansa noticed her strange, foreign accent, but she didn’t particularly care.
“M- my mother sent you?” Sansa asked, her mind working slower than her ears.
“I met her at Storm’s End. She asked me to bring you and Arya home. That’s exactly what I intend to do. Can you walk, Sansa?”
“Yes, of course. I am unhurt,” Sansa assured her. Although with all the blood on me, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
“Then come with me, let’s get you out of here. You should grab a change of clothes, too.” Annabeth broke their embrace, and Sansa took the chance to look down at herself. Her dress was completely ruined, soaked through with blood at the hem, and on the arms and chest. Even her hands were stained red. Too late, the sight of her bloodied hands, and the pool surrounding Joffrey’s corpse, reminded Sansa of her horrific final conversation with Cersei Lannister. The Queen had said she would have Ser Ilyn kill all the ladies in the ballroom. Thankfully Ser Dontos had gotten her out before anything could happen, but there were others! The ladies of the court may have been a bit stupid sometimes, but they deserved to live.
“I have to warn them. Cersei- the Queen- she’s going to kill them all!” Sansa shouted. Annabeth winced, putting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder.
“She already did, Sansa. I’m sorry. Come on, there’s no reason to stay here.”
“My Lady-” she began, still processing the news that Cersei and the ladies were dead, but Annabeth gently interrupted her.
“Please, just call me Annabeth. Where are your fresh clothes?” Sansa pointed to a chest that contained some of her dresses, and Annabeth walked over towards it. The woman looked at her own bloody arms, then over to Sansa, Annabeth’s gaze landing on where she’d smeared even more blood onto Sansa’s dress. “Sorry about that,” she muttered, before picking up the entire chest with one arm, grabbing her helmet with her free hand. Sansa stared, both at the impressive feat of strength, and the very distracting way Annabeth’s arms rippled when she hefted the chest to one shoulder. Sansa swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. She’d never seen a woman with such strength. Few men possessed it, and even fewer women. Even so, Annabeth was gentle as she guided Sansa into the hallway, and towards one of the empty rooms down the hall.
“Do you have a House, m- Annabeth? I’ve never seen your sigil before,” she asked conversationally. It was habit, at this point, to make idle conversation when walking through the halls of the Red Keep. Only the circumstances had changed.
“Chase by birth, Jackson by marriage. If you’re going to use one, I’d prefer Jackson- that’s the sigil I’m wearing. Everyone here just calls me Princess, it’s annoying.” Princess? Did I hear that correctly?
“Y- you’re a Princess? Of where? Surely not Westeros?” Sansa asked incredulously. Annabeth just chuckled, finding an empty, unused and leading Sansa inside.
“That is a very, very long story. One I promise I’ll tell you,” she said. “I married into a royal family.” Sansa’s head was still spinning from all the revelations of the last five minutes, and all the events of the preceding twenty. Despite that, it was courtesies and customs that pushed their way to the forefront of her mind.
“Do royal marriages not retain their birth names where you hail from? Should you not be Princess Annabeth Chase?” she asked. Once more, the Princess laughed without malice or cruelty. How long has it been since someone laughed in Maegor’s out of simple joy? Sansa liked her laugh.
“My last name is whatever I want it to be, and I’ve wanted it to be Jackson since I was twelve years old. Where I come from works a bit differently than what you’re used to, Sansa.”
“And where is that, Your- Annabeth?”
“You’ve never heard of it,” she said, smiling as if at some private joke. Annabeth- who was a Princess- had no sooner set down Sansa’s chest and placed her helmet beside it than a half-dozen armed men stormed into the room. Sansa yelped, ducking behind the woman who’d saved her, only to recognize the one at their forefront. She’d never met Stannis Baratheon, but he had Robert’s eyes, and Annabeth inclined her head towards him. His attention fell on Sansa for only a moment, and he said nothing before returning it to Annabeth.
“Where is Joffrey Waters?” the new King asked, voice sharp and eyes cold.
“Dead,” the Princess said simply.
“By whose hand?” he asked. Annabeth hesitated, just for a moment, and Sansa forced the words out of her throat.
“Mine, Your Grace.” In the dead silence that followed her statement, Sansa’s thoughts ran wild. Would she be executed for what she’d done? Sent to the black cells? Instead of ordering her taken away, the King just looked to Annabeth, and his brow furrowed at her nod of confirmation.
“Hmph. I suppose his life was yours, as payment for your father’s. You will be returned to your family, Lady Stark, along with your father’s blade. Where is your sister?” he asked. Sansa blinked, but spoke.
“She hasn’t been seen since the Lannister coup.”
“That is unfortunate news. I will send a messenger when court is to convene. I expect the presence of both of you, as well as Praetor Zhang and Prince Jackson,” he ordered, this time to Annabeth.
“Understood, Your Grace,” Annabeth said, with none of the deference that should be expected of a lady of the court. Then again, she was clearly no normal lady. Stannis and his retainers were gone moments later, but before either of them could speak, two more unfamiliar men burst into the room, wearing odd armor, with helmets tied to their belts.
Sansa instantly recognized the black-haired, green-eyed Knight in armor identical to Annabeth’s as her husband. He seemed just as bloodied as his wife, as did his companion. Jackson- Sansa did not know his first name, and thought she’d faint if she thought of him as ‘the Prince’- had his arm over the shoulder of a taller, burlier, foreign-looking man, with even stranger armor and a purple cloak. Both men appeared unhurt, and seemed to be embracing while walking simply out of friendship.
The second the Jacksons’ eyes met, however, the Prince’s purple-clad friend was practically forgotten. Sansa felt as though she was intruding on a deeply personal moment just by watching the two stare at each other, visually scanning for injuries with pure love in their eyes. Sansa’s parents had looked at each other like that, once. She would never see her father again, thanks to Joffrey. But I killed him. He’ll never take anyone’s father away again. Sansa wondered what her mother would think about what she’d done. She seriously doubted Catelyn Stark had ever killed a man. Could Sansa still be the perfect lady, after she’d betrayed her family, murdered her tormentor, and gotten her father killed? Would her mother ever forgive her, now that she’d never be able to look at Ned Stark like he’d hung the stars in the sky again?
Ignorant to her inner turmoil, the spouses flung themselves into each other's arms, kissing each other deeply. Sansa, more uncomfortable by the moment, looked away before they broke apart.
“Are you two alright?” Annabeth asked, her voice even softer than Sansa had heard it before.
“Yeah, we’re okay, Wise Girl. Are you?” her husband replied, in an even stranger accent. Everything about them was strange, it seemed.
“Barely a scratch on me. Some idiot Queen’s Men tried to assassinate me, they told me you’d been hurt. Took them out without too much trouble,” Annabeth assured him.
The Prince blanched, cursed, and pressed a kiss to his wife’s (miraculously blood-free) forehead. They pulled apart, and Annabeth hugged the other man as well, although without nearly as much intimacy as she’d displayed with her husband. She did quickly kiss his cheek, though the gesture seemed fraternal to Sansa. The foreign-looking man just smiled by way of reply.
Still hugging the taller, purple-clad man, Annabeth pulled an arm free from their embrace and extended it towards her husband. Chuckling, the Prince went willingly, and all three of them shared a hug. Sansa blinked back tears, struck by memories of her childhood, which she quickly buried. When the three strange warriors finally pulled apart, Annabeth saw fit to introduce them to Sansa.
“Sansa, this is my husband Percy, and our friend Frank Zhang,” she said. “Please just call us by our first names. The formality is exhausting after a while.” Sansa nodded, unsure how well she would be able to comply with such a strange request.
“This is Sansa Stark?” the Prince- Percy- asked. He was looking for something in Sansa’s face, now, and taking note of all the blood on her dress.
“I am she, Prince. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Annabeth’s husband smiled, and stuck out his hand towards Sansa, holding the palm sideways, as if he wished to clasp her forearm, the way she’d seen warriors do. Furrowing her brow, Sansa curtsied in reply. He laughed, before looking at his wife with that same adoration in his eyes.
“Kai he alelphe?” he asked. Sansa did not recognize the language, but Annabeth responded in the same.
“Oukhi hedo,” the Princess said sadly.
“Maláka. Heures ton basilea leonton?” Percy said, and Sansa knew the viciousness of a curse in the first word, even if she did not know its meaning.
“Nai, Sansa ton ephoneusen,” Annabeth answered. Sansa’s head snapped up when she recognized her name. Both Jacksons took notice, though it was Frank who spoke next.
“Quod puella fēcit?” This language sounded different, but it was still beyond Sansa’s knowledge. She spoke only Andlish, the Common Tongue. She could sing a handful of songs in Valyrian, but this language was definitely not Valyrian.
“Linguam graecam cognōsce, Francisce. Loquī in duābus linguīs incommodus est,” Percy said, his tone obviously teasing, even in the new language. His wife glared at him, but there was no hate behind it, only mild annoyance.
“Omnēs iam linguam latinam congnōscimus,” Frank snapped, but another glare from Annabeth silenced what sounded to Sansa like the start of a rant.
“Sansa rēgem cultellō interfēcit, quod eam temptābat rapere. Rēx Lannisterorum, neque Stannis neque frater suus.” Annabeth said rapidly. Both men went pale, and their eyes flicked to Sansa, full of a strange mix of pity and pride.
“Are you alright, Sansa?” Percy asked her gently. Sansa managed to nod, and the bloodsoaked Prince frowned. “We’re all… absolutely disgusting right now, right?” That earned a silent chorus of nods and grimaces from Sansa, Frank, and Annabeth alike. “Why don’t I clean off what I can, then we’ll leave you to get changed.” Sansa nodded again, expecting Percy to pull a rag from somewhere.
Instead, he held out his hand, palm facing upwards. Water seeped from his skin, pooling into a rough globe shape in his grip. Even from a couple paces, Sansa could smell the salt.
“How- what- I-” she stammered.
“You didn’t tell her?” Frank asked jovially. Sansa was still staring at the water in Percy’s hands.
“There wasn’t time. Sansa, remember how I said where I come from is a long story? The three of us are demigods, one of our parents was a god. Not the gods you know, however. We come from a different world, we were sent here by an enemy magician. We’re working for Stannis so we can get access to the knowledge we need to go home,” Annabeth explained.
After what she’d just seen, and the day she’d had, Sansa believed her. She watched in awe as Percy pulled water from his skin into his other hand as well, before running them both over his wife, keeping his skin a few inches away from hers. The water soaked up all the blood, grime, and dirt, leaving Annabeth dripping with salt water, but clean. Percy periodically flicked his wrists, and the now red-and-brown water on his hands shot into a basin in the corner, before summoning clean water once again. The whole endeavor took perhaps fifteen minutes, but Sansa was too fascinated to complain. When Percy was done, he tapped his wife on the nose, and she instantly became bone-dry.
He slowly and cautiously repeated the process on Sansa, who was fascinated by the entire thing, before cleaning Frank, and finally himself. The saltwater did not leave any residue on her skin, though her dress was still darkened with bloodstains. It wasn’t quite the same as a proper bath with soap, more like how she’d felt after swimming in the godswood pools as a child, but it was more comforting for it. Sansa felt safe with these strange, powerful, kind people.
Once they were both clean, Annabeth kissed her husband again, and he laughed quietly when they pulled apart. Frank rolled his eyes so hard Sansa couldn’t help but giggle, and gave a long-suffering sigh.
“We’ll step outside for a few minutes so you can change, Sansa,” he offered. She smiled gratefully, and quickly dressed in a clean Stark-gray dress that was just a bit too small on her, managing to mostly tie the laces by herself. She stepped out into the hallway, and was immediately frowned at by Annabeth, who redid the laces properly for her, and tutted at the too-short hem and sleeves. Perhaps we have more in common than I’d thought.
Moments later, a messenger in Baratheon black and gold- without even a hint of Lannister red- came to summon them to court. Flanked by demigods from another world, Sansa walked the too-familiar path.
It was almost sunset by the time Sansa, Percy, Annabeth, and Frank entered the Throne Room. The hall was filled with knights, men-at-arms, Lords, and a large number of prisoners in red, gold, and even a few in white. The prisoners were heavily guarded, a few were bound, gagged, and kept on their knees. Sansa recognized some faces, and her stomach churned at the sight of Ilyn Payne, missing a hand and looking dead on his feet.
As King Robert’s gaunt-faced brother slowly ascended the steps, crown on his brow, it was Prince Renly who shouted out his titles, looking as though he’d swallowed a lemon and standing at the base of the steps. Sansa had not been kept informed of all the goings-on of the realm, but even she had heard of Renly’s brief attempt to crown himself King, before bending to Stannis. Now, the rumors about magic being involved made much more sense.
“All hail Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
When Stannis sat his throne, the entire room bent the knee at once. Sansa, heart pounding so loud she could hardly hear herself think, kept her eyes on the ground as she knelt, praying not to be noticed by the new King. Even so, it was hard not to notice the three demigods beside her remained standing. At a signal from Stannis, everyone rose once more.
“As my first act as King,” Stannis declared, voice booming through the hall, “I name my brother, Prince Renly of the House Baratheon, my Lord Hand, and confirm him as my heir, until a son is born to me. Prince Renly remains Lord of Storm’s End. My daughter, Princess Shireen, shall remain the Princess of Dragonstone.
“Joffrey the Falseborn is dead! Cersei Lannister ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to slaughter her and all the ladies of the court she could gather together rather than be captured alive. She, too, is with the Silent Sisters now. Tywin and his brother and son have fled the city, off to continue their treasons. Those who bent the knee to the Lannisters, and are guiltless of other crimes, will be forgiven if they pledge themselves to me, Robert’s true heir. Those who continue to bend the knee to Tommen Waters and Tywin Lannister will meet a traitor’s death.”
The procession of Lords took so long that Sansa’s feet ached from standing. Most of the captured Knights and Lords chose to bend the knee. A few of the Westerlanders- a Brax, a few Baneforts, a Marbrand- chose the sword instead. They were beheaded, their bodies dragged from the hall. Sansa managed not to gag, though there were murmurs of discontent in that strange language from her companions.
The ceremonial kneelings continued aside from those interruptions. Beside her, the Jacksons spent both shifting back and forth, fiddling with the hems of their clothes, and occasionally muttering to each other and Frank. They looked even more bored than Sansa felt, although Frank was impressively stoic for the entire proceedings. Shockingly, when the kneeling ended and twilight had passed, none of the demigods had partaken, and King Stannis seemed unbothered by that fact. Sansa, too, had been ignored by the court.
“To the Kingsguard, I name Sers Andrew Estermont, Loras Tyrell, and Guyard Morrigen. I name Ser Robar Royce Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The remaining three seats shall be reserved for a Dornishman, Riverman, and Northman,” Stannis declared. Bran wanted to be a Knight of the Kingsguard, Sansa remembered. Hopefully she’d get to see him again soon. Her thoughts drifted to Winterfell as countless minor nobles and bannermen were knighted. Eventually, the knightings ended, and silence fell once again.
“Lord Monford Velaryon, come forward,” the King ordered. A handsome, silver-haired man in fine dress did so, and knelt at the foot of the throne. Sansa stared in shock. She’d never seen a Valyrian before. “For your unwavering loyalty to the one true King of Westeros, I name you Master of Ships. Part of the fleet captured on the Blackwater Rush will be given over to Driftmark, as commendation for your acts of valor during the battle.” Thanks were offered from the kneeling Lord, before the King dismissed him.
“Ser Davos Seaworth,” he called next. A plain-looking man came forth and knelt. Sansa did not know his house name. “You replace the treacherous Varys as Master of Whisperers. The Spider seems to have fled the city, and a reward will be offered for his capture. I charge you, firstly, with locating and apprehending the traitor.”
“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” Lord Davos promised, a thick accent marring his words. The rest of the Small Council was filled uneventfully.
“Ser Aethan Celtigar. I name you Master of Coin.
“The Masteries of Law and War will be left open, to be offered to Kingdoms that have not yet knelt.”
“Lady Sansa Stark!” Stannis called, to her shock. Every eye in the room turned to her. Sansa blinked, and it was Joffrey atop the throne, Cersei sneering at the foot of the dais. She blinked again, and Annabeth’s calloused hand was resting on Sansa’s shoulder, silently offering comfort. When Sansa stepped forward, curtsying at the foot of the throne, Annabeth walked with her, just to Sansa’s right.
Sansa was used to being looked at with pity, contempt, and amusement by the Lannisters’ court. Those in Stannis’ barely seemed to notice her when Annabeth Jackson was by her side. Instead, all eyes were on the Princess, filled with either fear or the kind of respect Sansa had only ever seen given to her father. I don’t blame them. She’s certainly worthy of their adoration. The older woman’s presence at her back was a balm, a reminder that Sansa wasn’t doing this alone.
“Your Grace,” she said politely, careful not to meet Stannis’ eyes.
“Your brother, Robb Stark, is in open rebellion against the Iron Throne,” the King declared. Sansa said nothing, understanding innately what came next. She would be beaten, or held hostage, regardless of the Jacksons’ promises. “But he will be offered the chance to bend the knee and give up his crown, as he has only fought the Lannisters, not my own men. Joffrey treated the Houses Stark and Tully with dishonor, yet more proof of his bastardy.” Annabeth huffed quietly at that, but Sansa was too shocked to wonder why.
“I thank Your Grace for your mercy. I had no part in my brother or father’s treasons,” she said hurriedly.
“Your father was an honorable man, and he supported my claim. He was no traitor. And you, Lady Sansa, avenged his death by killing Joffrey Waters.” Murmurs went around the court at that, and Annabeth squeezed Sansa’s shoulder again. It was all she could do not to ask for another hug in front of the King and Court. Annabeth’s husband pushed his way out of the crowd, coming to stand on Sansa’s left, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. A guard of my own, a Prince who seeks to protect me. The thought was a strange one, and Sansa stifled a laugh. She wondered what had become of Sandor Clegane after the battle. He had appeared in her rooms, raving about fire, and extracted a song from her at knifepoint, then fled.
“I did,” she confirmed, setting more whispers alight. Stannis raised a hand for silence, then gestured off to his side. A knight stepped forward, holding a thin, wrapped bundle in his arms, longer than Sansa was tall. He unwrapped it, revealing a hilt and scabbard Sansa had seen a thousand times before. For her entire childhood, her father had wielded Ice to deal justice in the North. Ser Ilyn Payne- who was still bound and kept at swordpoint off to the side of the Throne Room- had used it to behead her father, then kept the blade after. The knight partially pulled the sword from its scabbard, just far enough for Sansa to see the Valyrian Steel’s ripples.
“I return Ice, your family’s blade, to House Stark. Bring it to your brother as a sign of my goodwill when Praetor Zhang returns you to Riverrun. Remind him that those who keep their oaths are rewarded, and those who break them punished.”
“I will deliver your message, Your Grace,” Sansa said. Then, Ice was being pressed into her arms, and the Jacksons carefully led her back to the spot they’d commandeered.
The final part of Stannis’ inaugural court session was the only one that Sansa remotely enjoyed, however cruel it may have been. Many of the figures she’d grown to be terrified of during her stay at the Red Keep were brought before the Throne, pronounced guilty of treason, and decapitated by Stannis’ headsman. Ilyn Payne, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard had been awful people, and Sansa was not sorry to see them die, even if all the blood was an unnecessary reminder of earlier. At the pleading of his father, a Stormlord, Ser Balon Swann was spared from the sword, and sent to the Wall instead for his support of the Lannisters.
After the executions, it was over. The King descended the throne with his head held high, crown gleaming in the firelight, and unflinching in the sight of the bodies before him. Sansa could not help but notice, however, that while the new King’s sword was clean, his hands were streaked with blood that dripped languidly onto the melted blades of Aegon’s enemies. The Iron Throne had cut Stannis Baratheon.
The next days passed in a blur. Frank matter-of-factly informed her that he could shapeshift, and had spent the Battle of King’s Landing in the form of a dragon. Sansa didn’t believe him until he turned into a dog and licked her face until she was crying from laughter. Annabeth, adamant about her intentions to see Sansa home safely, volunteered to go along with Frank, Sansa, and two envoys to Robb from the King to Riverrun after a sennight.
“Frank and I are really just dropping the three of you off before we come back, but I want to make sure you’re alright,” she explained. “I have a lot of research to do in the libraries here once things calm down, but I’m sure I’ll see you again when the war is over.” Sansa hoped it was true.
While Stannis’ court settled into the Red Keep and the city began to rebuild from battle, Sansa was free. One or more of the demigods was almost always with her, though Sansa felt no threats from them. She instead got the distinct impression that they were happy to be around someone without a strong opinion on the Olympian religion she’d begun to hear about, and who was willing to call them by their first names. In turn, she appreciated having them to glare at any opportunistic courtiers who began asking intrusive questions. It was like having Robb around, almost, or Jory. Sansa strongly suspected that all three of the demigods had younger siblings of their own, back home in their world.
It was during a brief walk in the gardens, without any of the demigods around, that the pattern changed.
“Lady Sansa!” Prince Renly greeted, giving her a winning smile. His wife, the Princess Margaery Tyrell, had not yet arrived in the city, and the Prince seemed to be spending most of his time alone without her there. His only frequent company was Ser Loras Tyrell, his sworn sword of the Kingsguard, who even now was by his side.
“My Prince,” Sansa said with a curtsy. When Renly offered her his arm, she blushed and took it, allowing him to lead her through the gardens. They chatted idly for a few minutes, before the Prince asked.
“Tell me, my lady. Have you ever seen Highgarden?”
“I have not, but I hear it’s beautiful,” she replied.
“Oh, it’s the most gorgeous castle in Westeros. Beautiful gardens, wonderful food. It’s warm and sunny most of the year, nothing like your frozen North,” Loras chimed in. Renly smiled fondly at his sworn sword, though Sansa frowned at the venom with which Loras spoke of her home. As incredible as Highgarden sounded, she’d come to miss Winterfell more and more these past days. The closer her return to Riverrun became, the more she craved it.
“It sounds like quite the place,” she said diplomatically
“Lord Tyrell’s heir, Willas, is still unmarried. I’m sure-” Renly was saying, before he was interrupted by a new voice, as Percy Jackson stepped into their path seemingly from nowhere.
“What exactly are you sure of, Renly?” Percy asked, all the usual lightness gone from his tone. He was smiling, but it was a predator’s smile, with a hint of teeth and a levity that did not reach his eyes. In the sunlight, under dappled leaves, Sansa almost thought his sea-green eyes were glowing softly, or roiling like waves. Renly dropped Sansa’s arm so quickly that her feelings were almost hurt, and he took a few steps back. Confused but largely unbothered, Sansa looked between the two princes. Despite the hate with which he stared at Renly, Percy’s gaze softened when it moved to her. That feeling of safety settled over her again, and Sansa moved to stand by his side. She’d learned that Percy was ignorant to the ways of Westerosi highborns, preferring his own customs, and was not surprised or put off when he placed a hand protectively on her shoulder instead of linking his arm through hers, as was standard for a lord escorting a lady.
“Prince Jackson! I was-” Renly stammered, though he was not given a chance to finish his sentence.
“About to sell a girl into marriage with your wife’s family, to make a political alliance?” Percy growled. Loras rolled his eyes, though Renly went pale.
“I was merely-”
“Shut the fuck up before I make sure you never talk again,” her protector ordered, and Renly stood ramrod-straight.
“Yes, My Prince,” the heir to the throne said quickly.
“You can fuck off now,” Percy said with faux lightness, and sighed in relief when Renly and Loras all but ran off. He moved so that he was facing Sansa instead of standing behind her. “That motherfucker. Trying to sell you off. How old are you, thirteen?” he asked her. Sansa blinked in surprise, but was comforted by the warmth that had returned to his eyes.
“Two-and-ten, my Pri- Percy. I turn three-and-ten in a handful of moons. I appreciate the defense of my honor, but there was nothing untoward about such an offer. I would be delighted to see Highgarden, or to marry Ser Willas. After I go home, of course,” she amended. It was all true. She wanted to return to Winterfell and see her family again, but she would have to marry someday. Even Annabeth, a seasoned and accomplished warrior, was married.
“That decision should be yours. When you’re an adult. He’s just trying to use you as a pawn, a tool in his games. Slimy piece of shit,” he spat. Percy accompanied Sansa for the rest of the afternoon like a dutiful hound. He never stopped her from going or doing what she wanted, and his company was as pleasant as it always was, but he glared with particular harshness at anyone they passed in Tyrell colors, always causing them to scamper away.
Sansa didn’t quite understand where all his anger was coming from, but as she was leaving for Riverrun the next day, she chose instead to appreciate his company. Percy was, despite all his foreignness and power, a kind and humorous man. His wife seemed to be his favorite topic of conversation, when he wasn’t asking about Winterfell and the North with genuine curiosity.
“I really want to meet these Manderly people,” he had said at one point, then laughed at the comment. No explanation was offered, and Sansa was too confused to ask. She joined all three demigods for dinner that night, in the suite that had been set aside for the Jacksons in the Red Keep. Sansa’s new rooms- she had avoided the ones where Joffrey died- were on the same hall, and Frank’s were next door. She had learned that Frank had a wife in the other world, who he’d been separated from by the sorcerer’s spell, and so his rooms were his alone. She thought once more of her mother, and the Stark family sword that had now tasted the blood of one of its own, currently wrapped up amongst Sansa’s few possessions in her rooms. At least Frank has a chance to see his wife again.
The next morning, Sansa, Stannis’ two envoys, and Annabeth watched as Frank turned from a rather normal, if tall, human into a ten-meter dragon, big enough to seat all four of them and clutching their chests in his claws. Annabeth just laughed at their shocked expressions, then helped them climb onto Frank’s back.
“Ready to go home?” the Princess asked her, as she settled in behind Sansa on dragon-Frank.
“Absolutely.”
Taking off was a terrifying, magical experience, and flying even more so. Annabeth tightened her grip on Sansa, keeping her secure, but made none of the screams of fear that the Lords behind her did, only laughing silently at their misfortune. Eventually, Lord Randyll Staunton and Ser Lomas Estermont quieted, and the flight became peaceful. For the first time since her father’s death, with the wind in her hair and King’s Landing a distant speck behind her, Sansa felt free.
Notes:
Translations:
Kai he alelphe? - And the sister? (Greek)
Oukhi hedo - Not here (Greek)
Maláka. Heures ton basilea leonton? - Fuck. Did you find the lions' king? (Greek)
Nai, Sansa ton ephoneusen - Yes, Sansa killed him (Greek)
Quod puella fēcit? - What did the girl do? (Latin)
Linguam graecam cognōsce, Francisce. Loquī in duābus linguīs incommodus est - Learn Greek, Frank. Speaking in two languages is annoying. (Latin)
Omnēs iam linguam latinam congnōscimus - We all speak Latin already (Latin. duh.)
Sansa rēgem cultellō interfēcit, quod eam temptābat rapere. Rēx Lannisterorum, neque Stannis neque frater suus. - Sansa killed the King with a small knife, because he tried to rape her. The Lannisters' King, not Stannis or her brother. (Latin)My Greek translations were put together with the help of several dictionaries and several more charts. My greek vocabulary is pretty good for, like, political and historical stuff, but my grammar is basically non-existent and I had to look up a few words here. I usually use Greek or Latin for a couple words here and there in this fic, but since Sansa has absolutely no idea what's being said, I expanded it. I did take a few years of Latin in high school, and I'm more confident (though not 100% so) in those translations.
Sansa is an incredibly unreliable narrator, by the way. She has a massive crush on Annabeth with no idea of how to process that, and has just gone through a LOT.
Comments are my lifeblood, even if I can't reply to them all.
Chapter 13: Tyrion II
Notes:
Sorry for a long wait and then a short chapter, I’ve had a busy couple of weeks, and I was focused on finishing off another of my fics. This chapter takes place in late July 299.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The coronation was a simple, solemn matter, made yet more dreary by its surroundings. We stand in the ruins of Harren’s Folly , Tyrion thought. Kings who dare to face dragonfire do not do well in such a place. Yet when Tyrion’s father placed a paltry crown on the head of Tommen Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and so on and so forth, the weary Lannister men cheered halfheartedly. Joffrey had not been loved, but Tommen was doted on- and far easier to manipulate. The boy king cried through the entire ceremony, not for Joffrey, or even his mother, but for the cats he had left behind in the Red Keep.
Cersei had ignored Tommen, and Joffrey had tormented him. Tyrion was far from surprised at his nephew’s reaction. He himself did not shed any tears for his sister’s death, or for Joffrey’s. The aftermath of the Battle of King’s Landing would reverberate through the history books for hundreds of years. Tyrion would never be able to forget the fantastical things he saw, and House Lannister would likely never recover. Even the small amount of vindictive joy he felt from watching everything Cersei and his father had built collapse was undercut by the sheer terror of watching the Blackwater Rush flow backwards.
It had been five days since the city’s fall. Four and a half of those were spent on a grueling journey to Harrenhal, one which left all the surviving soldiers exhausted despite the fact that the overwhelming majority of the troops had simply been sailed up the Blackwater and into the God’s Eye by commandeered barges, ferries, and fishing boats. Many of the troops, however, had been recalled from castles in the Crownlands, and had been force-marched to make it alongside those who had traveled by river. Nonetheless, Tywin had insisted on an immediate coronation, and so that was what he got.
The news had come to them en route to Harrenhal that Cersei and Joffrey were dead. Stannis wasted no time in sending out notifications about the start of his reign, and some of those ravens flew to castles along the Lannister army’s evacuation route. According to Stannis, Joffrey was killed while trying to rape Sansa Stark, and Cersei had herself butchered by Ilyn Payne, along with most of the ladies of King’s Landing. Tywin had raged for hours, declared it all lies and slander, and insisted that Stannis had executed them. The men had largely taken his position, and decried the ‘massacres’ Stannis inflicted on innocent noblewomen, the blood he stained Sansa Stark’s hands with.
Privately, Tyrion knew it was true. He knew Cersei, and he knew Joffrey. He’d been the one to wrangle them in those difficult first weeks and months, before Tywin arrived to take back the Handship. Tyrion had been the one to lead Sansa out of the Throne Room after Joffrey had her beaten. He’d endured a lifetime of slights from Cersei. He knew the cruelty she was capable of, the monstrosities Joffrey had inflicted. Stannis’ story was, in all likelihood, the complete and total truth. Not that Tyrion would ever be able to breathe a word of it, of course.
When the ceremony was over, Tywin Lannister summoned the surviving leadership of the Lannister army to a meeting. Tyrion and Lancel were included by dint of having the name Lannister. Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane, the butchers who held Harrenhal while Tywin was in King’s Landing, were in attendance as well. His father and Kevan, the army’s actual surviving leaders, sat at the head of the table; Kevan to the right of his older brother. Addam Marbrand, the only person at the table who Tyrion actually respected, represented the highest-ranking nobility that had made it out of King’s Landing. There were other lords and knights, of course, but none that were particularly skilled or smart.
“Report,” Tywin demanded, when everyone had sat down. Uncle Kevan cleared his throat first.
“About five thousand men made it out of King’s Landing with us. Another two thousand, which we had stationed in the Crownlands, joined us,” he said.
“I had five thousand with me here,” Clegane rumbled. “A hundred of those are mercenaries. Qohoriks. Bloody Mummers, they’re called.”
“Another three thousand men are occupying various castles in the Riverlands for us, and I expect we’ll find another two thousand or so stragglers from King’s Landing,” Kevan continued.
“Seventeen thousand. Our entire army is seventeen thousand,” Tyrion said hollowly. “That’s not even enough to beat Stark. We could recruit the Golden Company, and be forever hated as the house that brought the Blackfyres back to Westeros.”
“They’re contracted to Myr at the moment,” Addam Marbrand pointed out. “But Dorne and the Vale remain unbloodied.”
“We sent Littlefinger to the Vale to forge an alliance with Lysa Arryn. I doubt he’ll follow through now that King’s Landing is gone, but we can send a raven regardless. Myrcella’s betrothal was enough to buy an armistice, not the Martells’ aid. They’d never fight alongside Lannisters,” Tyrion said, barely holding back hysterical laughter. This was all just too absurd.
“Perhaps this may be time to sue for peace,” Addam suggested. “Or an exchange of hostages, at least.” I’d nearly forgotten. Jaime is his best friend.
“There will be no surrender. Stannis and Renly’s armies are likely still securing King’s Landing. Where are the Starks?”
“Roose Bolton marches east along the north bank of the Red Fork with Red Fork with ten thousand men, freeing small holdfasts as he goes. Many of his men have stayed behind to help secure the larger keeps. The scouts report he’s moving slowly, and bleeding men rather rapidly,” Clegane informed them. Tyrion’s brow furrowed, but Tywin looked pleased. Something’s going on. What aren’t they telling me?
“Robb Stark and Brynden Tully remain in the Westerlands after Oxcross. I believe the last report said he’d stormed The Crag, and his lords are raiding mines and farms. He’s believed to have about six thousand men in the Westerlands as well. The vast majority of Stark’s forces in the field are Northmen, with most of the Riverlords securing their own keeps, or bringing in the harvest,” Kevan added.
“And our holdings?” Tyrion asked, curious despite himself.
“Despite Bolton’s best efforts, much of the southeastern Riverlands remains under our control. The northwestern Crownlands as well, most of those castles have a small force of redcloaks alongside their local garrisons, to prevent surrender to Stannis. We took most with us on the way here, but the castles are, for now, under our control. Rosby, Stokeworth, Duskendale, Hayford, and the like,” Kevan said. We’re doomed, then.
“Then we can still win this war,” Tywin declared triumphantly. Tyrion was relieved that he wasn’t the only one looking at his father like he’d gone mad.
“The stories were all true! How can we fight a dragon?” Lancel exclaimed, voice cracking.
“Am I the only Lannister left with functioning eyes? Think! What did the dragon do!” Tywin shouted. As Tyrion had not been present for that part of the battle, he just took a sip of his wine. Kevan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while Clegane glared at them all. “Nothing! It did nothing. Not one of our men was killed by the dragon. It blew some flames in the sky, but not one of them touched the ground, and it disappeared halfway through the battle. It's not real! They have a water witch, yes, but the dragon is a mere illusion.”
The room erupted into chaotic shouting, only to be shocked into silence by Tyrion posing a question.
“Does anyone know,” he asked, “why the Jacksons and Zhang fight for Stannis?” There was, as he expected, no response. “Then perhaps their allegiance is bought, they could be no more than sellswords. Depending on how honorable they are, it is possible House Lannister could buy their allegiance.”
“‘Perhaps’, ‘possible’, ‘ depending ’ . We have no Master of Whisperers, our spies in the capital are likely dead, and Robb Stark is raiding our bannermen’s treasuries. No, there are simpler, more reliable options,” Marbrand countered.
The next two hours were spent debating precisely what those simpler, more reliable options consisted of. Only the entrance of Harrenhal’s decrepit old Maester- Tyrion would be entirely unsurprised to learn he’d been here since the days of Mad Danelle- brought about a pause in the arguments. The Maester handed Tyrion’s father a letter, sealed in green wax. The Lords were silent while he read, a process which took several long minutes. When his father was done with the letter, Tyrion witnessed the scariest thing he’d seen in his life. Tywin Lannister laughed.
“Stark has secured The Crag, and lost the Twins,”
“How did we conquer the Twins?” Kevan asked, sounding even more shocked than Tyrion felt. The Freys’ castle was famously difficult to conquer, and it was at the far northern edge of the Riverlands, well away from Lannister lines.
“We did not. The idiot boy married the Westerling girl, the older one. The Freys have left his service.”
“We know this… how?” Tyrion asked, mind racing. If this was accurate, it was useful, but still not enough to win the war. Stark was still no real threat compared to the Baratheons.
“Sybell Westerling. She claims that when the castle fell, she maneuvered her daughter Jeyne and the Stark boy together. He was wounded, and since the girl had some medical knowledge, Lady Westerling suggested she care for him. She says that she only hoped that Stark would spare the rest of the castle’s inhabitants if they kept him happy. Regardless of the truth, the idiot boy married Jeyne after he slept with her,” Tywin recounted. How very Stark of him, to marry an unimportant girl after taking her maidenhead.
“Lord Gawen is still a prisoner of the Starks. I imagine he can’t be happy about this, but the Westerlings only have a handful of men. This is a great victory,” Lancel announced brightly. The idiot boy looked around in confusion when nobody clapped or cheered.
“Robb Stark still holds Jaime. Losing 3500 men will not doom Stark. You’re barely smart enough to be a cupbearer, cousin. Don’t try your hand at strategy,” Tyrion informed him. Lancel blustered and sputtered, but Tyrion wasn’t paying attention to his cousin. Gods, Jaime. I’m so sorry. “Without Sansa or Arya Stark, we have nothing the northerners want. The only way to free Jaime is to win this godsdamned war. And what of Stannis and his 100,000 Reachermen and Stormlanders? The Starks are not the real danger,” Tyrion heard himself say. It was the truth, as much as he hated to admit it. There was no way his brother came out of this war alive.
Out of his entire fucking family, Jaime was the only living one that Tyrion actually loved. Cersei’s death would no doubt shatter him, but Jaime was strong. He would survive his twin’s death, and Tyrion doubted Jaime would lose any sleep over the death of his eldest son. Joffrey had been a monster, and Cersei a vicious, vindictive fool. And now, with the war all but lost, Jaime would continue to rot in a cell until it was completely over. And when he has no further use as a hostage, Robb Stark will lop off his head, for what he did to Ned and the crippled boy. Tyrion would never see his brother again. He would be the last of his siblings, one day in the near future. Assuming, that is, I survive the war myself. A prospect looking less likely with every passing moment.
“Renly does not want to fight for Stannis, the Tyrells don’t want to fight for Stannis, and Rowan, Tarly, and Redwyne don’t even want to look at him. Given time, they will turn on each other,” Kevan argued. Tywin drummed his fingers on the table a few times, turning his attention to the map at Westeros on the wall.
“Clegane. Head North. Burn everything from the God’s Eye to the Neck to the ground. Take five thousand men and the Brave Companions. You can keep eight hundred men. Do not let the Starks take this castle. Kevan, Lancel, Ser Addam, prepare the rest of the men. Leave only a skeleton garrison behind. Lorch, hold Harrenhal. We make for home, by way of the Gold Road. We cannot allow Robb Stark to roam free through the Westerlands. We must secure them, then raise another host. The scattered remnants of Stafford’s Oxcross army should be enough to hold the passes until Tyrell and Baratheon kill each other,” Tywin declared, as if it were obvious.
“And what will you have me do while this genius plan is enacted, father?”
“Stay alive, stay useful, and stay out of my way. Is there anything else? No? Then you are all dismissed.”
“We must surrender, this is not a fight we can win.” Tyrion hardly realized the words had come from him until after he’d said them. In an instant, everyone in the room adopted an impassive mask. Everyone save Gregor Clegane, who looked as though he was imagining all the ways he could murder Tyrion (and no doubt they were as myriad as the stars in the sky), and Tyrion’s father, who was glaring at Tyrion with enough intensity to burn a hole through his forehead.
“All of you who are tall enough to see over this table, get out,” Tywin ordered coldly. The others scrambled to obey the order, leaving Tyrion alone with his father. The past week’s series of disasters had removed much of the fear Tyrion had once felt for the man, leaving only a mix of pity and desperation. He is a drowning man, and I’m close enough for him to grab. “I knew you were a dwarf, a drunk, and a fool, but the fact that you were a coward seems to have escaped me.”
“Coward? Your daughter and grandson are dead. Half our army is gone. Every kingdom in Westeros is against us, there are no allies left to be had. The war is over!”
“While I live, this war is not yet lost. Leave me be. I have letters to write.”
“Of surrender, I hope,” Tyrion muttered. He’d thought himself too quiet to be heard, but was disabused of the notion when his father hurled an empty goblet at him. Tyrion avoided wincing, but he did have to wipe the blood from the new cut on his forehead before it dripped into his eyes.
“To allies,” Tywin snapped. “Make yourself useful if you wish to continue counting yourself among them.”
Notes:
This chapter serves to provide updates on a grander scale. Obviously, not much happens. If something occurs in canon, I’m really not going to touch on it very much, just assume it goes as it does in the books. Jon and Dany’s storylines will be relatively identical to canon for quite a while, neither of them will show up until things start to change. I did want to give an explanation for the whole Jeyne fiasco, and dismiss the love potion theory, however.
Winterfell has fallen to Theon and the Ironmen are currently raiding the North (since that’s what prompted Robb to sleep with Jeyne). Ramsay has retaken + burned Winterfell. However, the Lannisters don’t know any of this yet. Their sources in the Westerlands are more reliable than those in the north. My logic is essentially this:
The ravens from the North about the sack flew first to Riverrun. The maester there sent a raven to the Crag, to inform Robb. Robb sleeps with + marries Jeyne. Sybell sends a raven to Tywin at Harrenhal. This entire process takes about a week. We’ll see Cat’s side of things next chapter, in Catelyn II.Ravens, naturally, fly at the speed of plot. Armies move at the speed of plot, and ships sail at the speed of plot.
Upcoming chapters: Catelyn II, Davos IV, Percy IV (I Meet a Crazy Old Lady), and Annabeth III
Chapter 14: Catelyn II
Summary:
Catelyn reunites with her daughter.
Notes:
Holy fucking shit! 1000 kudos! You guys are fucking amazing, thank you for all the support.
This chapter takes place like right after Annabeth II, in Late July 299.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
No one had believed Cat and Hallis Mollen when they returned from Storm’s End with outlandish tales. Robb was away in the Westerlands with Uncle Brynden, and Edmure found the stories amusing at best. He stopped laughing when the raven came from Winterfell. Bran and Rickon, dead. The castle burnt to the ground. All because of Theon Greyjoy, the child Ned had raised. Cat spent nearly a week in a daze, surviving only on the hope that the Jacksons would uphold their promise, until the day a dragon appeared in the sky above Riverrun.
When she heard the beating of wings and the cries of ‘Dragon!’ from the walls, Cat leapt from her father’s sickbed and ran as fast as she could to the gates. By the time she arrived, out of breath and with her skirts torn, Edmure was already shouting orders to a row of soldiers, and bows were being drawn. Above the walls, she could see the slowly-growing form of the grey dragon she’d seen outside Storm’s End.
“Don’t shoot! Edmure, please. That’s the dragon I told you about. They have Sansa and Arya.” Her brother’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but he relayed Cat’s orders. Up on the walls, Robin Ryger commanded that the bows be lowered, and he was obeyed.
“Lower the gate!” Edmure shouted, when it became clear that the shapeshifter would land across Riverrun’s currently-dry moat, rather than within the walls. As the portcullis raised and the drawbridge lowered, all Cat could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Sansa and Arya are right there. They’ll be in my arms in moments. And it would be up to Cat to inform them of their brothers’ deaths. A fresh wave of grief crashed over her, but she forced herself to keep her back straight. This is a reunion, a happy occasion. At least two of my children will be returned to me.
Cat elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, standing beside her brother and Wendel Manderly. Almost all the high-ranking Northmen were away in the Westerlands, raiding castles and smashing armies, while the Riverlords had returned to their keeps, defending against Lannister incursions and rebuilding their scorched lands. The greeting party was small, with only a few other Lords waiting closest to the gate. Edmure looked askance at his sister for daring to intrude, but said nothing, for which Cat was grateful. She would not be denied the opportunity to see her children, not when she’d just lost two of them, and a fifth was still away in battle.
By the time the drawbridge had fully lowered, the dragon- Frank, if she remembered correctly- had landed across the moat. Even as she watched, the great beast morphed into the armored man she’d seen at Storm’s End, with four figures beside him. Before Cat could say or do anything, the smallest of the dragonriders was dashing across the bridge. Cat was running across the drawbridge before she could think, and mother and daughter met in the middle, throwing themselves into each other’s arms.
“I missed you so much, mother! I never should have left Winterfell, King’s Landing was awful, the Lannisters were horrible, I had to watch them kill father, and I had to kill Joffrey when he tried to kiss me, and it was terrifying. I’m never leaving the North again,” Sansa babbled. Cat just held her daughter close and cried. Her daughter had just confessed to killing a King, and Cat couldn’t care less. All that mattered was that her baby was alive, and safe, and with her again.
“I missed you too,” Cat choked out.
“Princess Sansa, it’s lovely to meet you. Come inside, both of you,” Edmure called out from behind her. Sansa pulled out of Cat’s arms enough to peer over her mother’s shoulder. Gods, she’s gotten so tall. When did she grow so much?
“Uncle Edmure?” Sansa asked. Neither of the women moved.
“Yes, that’s him. Your grandfather is here too, and Robb will be back shortly with your great-uncle Brynden,” Cat confirmed. She swallowed, and looked back at the group of envoys from Stannis. Arya was much shorter, so she hadn’t thought much of not seeing her right away, but… “Where’s Arya?” she asked.
“She’s been missing since they captured Father, the Lannisters never had her,” Sansa cried.
Cat felt half of her fleeting hope drain away, and held her remaining daughter a little bit closer. She had one more child safe today than the day before. That was a blessing, not a curse. Arya was missing, not dead. She could still be alive- she had to be.
“We’ll find her, sweetling, even if we have to turn over every stone in Westeros,” Cat vowed.
“But what if she’s-”
“She isn’t. She can’t be,” she insisted. Sansa nodded, head still buried in Cat’s shoulder.
“How are Robb, Bran, and Rickon?” her daughter asked. The girl looked up at Cat, hope shining in her eyes, and it was enough to break her heart all over again.
“We- we should discuss them later, when the formalities have been observed,” she deflected. Annabeth Jackson took that opportunity to step forward from the group, speaking loudly enough to be heard within Riverrun’s walls.
“Lady Stark, it’s good to see you again. We’re sorry for not sending a raven, but King Stannis preferred that his envoys deliver the news of King's Landing’s fall themselves. Joffrey is dead, and Stannis has been crowned. Cersei Lannister ordered the slaughter of the Red Keep’s noble ladies, including herself, at Ilyn Payne’s hand. May I introduce Lord Randyll Staunton and Ser Lomas Estermont, the King’s ambassadors. He hopes to find a bloodless resolution to the North’s declaration of independence,” the demigoddess said with the utmost formality. She’d adapted well to the speech of Westeros since Storm’s End, and her foreign accent was less pronounced. Despite her formality, the slightest bit of a smile shone in her steel eyes. Cat knew Stannis’ embassy was important, but at the moment, all she cared about was her daughter.
“Thank you,” she breathed, “you kept your promise. Thank you, Your Highness. I am in your debt.” Annabeth only smiled warmly.
“Like I said at Storm’s End, there is no debt. Sansa’s a wonderful person, it was a pleasure to meet her. You’ve raised a very brave and very strong woman, Lady Stark. You should be proud.” The demigoddess paused, reaching for the massive sword slung over her back. Cat hadn’t even noticed, but now that she was holding it out towards Cat and Sansa, it was unmistakable. “This was recovered from Ilyn Payne after I killed him. His Grace wanted it delivered to Robb Stark, as a gesture of goodwill.” Cat stepped forward to take Ice from the demigoddess, and once she did so, walked back to the portcullis of her home, with her daughter under one arm, and her dead husband’s sword clutched in the other. Sansa was shaking, but Cat hardly noticed. She was too.
When she and Sansa passed under the gate, Cat felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. She’s safe. My baby is home. Winterfell’s walls hadn’t been enough to keep Bran and Rickon safe, but Cat still felt better with Sansa behind Riverrun’s defenses. She kept walking until they were nearly halfway across the courtyard, only then realizing she wasn’t being followed. Cat turned to beckon the four envoys into the castle, but they were lingering on the threshold, several swords and spears pointed at the waiting dignitaries. Annabeth was talking in low, placating tones to Edmure, who was too busy scowling at her to listen.
“Let them in! Offer them bread and salt!” Cat cried to her brother. Edmure looked between Sansa, who was still bundled in Cat’s arms, the two demigods, standing side-by-side with stiff backs but soft eyes, and the two nervous-looking envoys. His eyes narrowed, and he addressed the demigods.
“Who are you? How did you get here? What do you want from us?” Edmure asked, as if Cat hadn’t been telling him about the demigods for weeks. Frank Zhang rolled his eyes, and muttered something Cat couldn’t hear.
“They’re the ones I told you about, Edmure. Princess Annabeth Jackson and Praetor Frank Zhang,” Cat explained.
“That tells me nothing,” he snapped. Annabeth looked sideways at the shapeshifter, and nodded sharply. The princess took a deep breath, and launched into her story, projecting her voice. It boomed across the courtyard, rising and falling with a well-practiced cadence and rhythm that drew Cat into the tale.
“We come from a world different from this one, in another reality. We call our world Earth. On Earth, there are countless gods, belonging to countless pantheons, much like here on Planetos. Almost all of the inhabitants of Earth, some seven thousand-million people, believe that gods don’t exist, or that only one god exists, or maybe a single pantheon of them, though which depends on who you ask. The truth is much more complicated. Every god that has ever been believed in, in my world, exists- or did, at one point. Even gods can be forgotten. Nothing lives forever.
“Three thousand years ago, in a land called Greece in this language, my gods- the Olympians- were worshipped. In the Greek tradition, the Olympians are the youngest of three generations of gods that have ruled the world, each overthrowing its parents. Their worship, and their stories, were never forgotten, becoming foundational to thousands of years of societies, even when the gods changed. The Greek pantheon was adapted, in time, to another nation, called Rome. The gods’ names and personalities changed, though the stories remained the same. Today, the Olympians have both Greek and Roman aspects, each god with two forms. Those gods still exist. Though few still hold faith in them, their influence on the world’s cultures has been immeasurable. Sometimes, the gods have children with mortals, just like they did in the old myths.
“Frank and I, as well as my husband, Prince Percy of Atlantis, and most of our friends and family back home, are children of gods and mortals. My mother is Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, war, and crafts. Frank’s father is Mars, the Roman god of war. Percy is the son of Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea, earthquakes, and horses, and King of Atlantis and the Seas. He’s back in King’s Landing, a city that he nearly single-handedly took using his powers over the sea
“Before the Olympians ruled the world, there were the Titans. The Titans’ king, Kronos, was a brutal tyrant. He received a prophecy that his children would overthrow him, so when each of his six sons and daughters were born, he swallowed them alive, rather than let them grow to be threats. His wife, Rhea, saved the life of their youngest son, Zeus, by replacing him with a rock. Raised in secret, Zeus went on to free his siblings and lead the war against Kronos. The First Titanomachy was bloody and hard-fought, but the Olympians won. Zeus became the new King of the Gods, the god of thunder and the sky. The Titans were imprisoned in Tartarus, the deepest part of the Underworld, or elsewhere in the world. Their palace on Mount Othrys was torn down, and their armies scattered. The Olympians ruled uncontested for millennia.
“The world moved on, and the Olympians were no longer worshipped, though their influence remained. Their children moved into hidden camps, as the focus of Olympus’ power shifted with the center of global power. We demigods are hunted by monsters, and few of us survive to adulthood. Monsters prefer to kill us before we grow too powerful for them. Sometimes, they’re just hungry, and a young demigod is an easy snack. In the old times, when the Mist between the divine and mortal was thinner, mortals could see and fight monsters as well. Now, demigods have to train on our own if we hope to stay alive. Greek and Roman demigods were kept in separate camps. We often waged war on each other, until the gods made us forget each other a few centuries ago.
“Nine years ago, the Titans began a resurgence, trying to overthrow Olympus. There was a prophecy that the war would be ended by a child of the eldest gods, who would make a decision to save or destroy Olympus. Percy was that hero, though the choice was not his in the end. The war waged for years, Percy and I both fought on the side of the Olympians, leading the Greek demigods in battle. Eventually, five years ago, the Titans were defeated. Percy personally slew one Titan, as did his Roman cousin Jason, son of Jupiter- Zeus’ Roman aspect. Kronos was destroyed for good, his essence scattered too thinly to ever reform. Percy and I fell in love over the course of the war, and we married at its end. Frank was brought to the Roman demigods’ camp not long after the war ended, and trained in the ways of the Roman Legions.
“Unfortunately, not all the demigods fought for the Olympians. Many of the minor gods sided with the Titans, as did their half-mortal children, and the Titan armies were led by a son of Hermes, the messenger god, named Luke Castellan. He was a friend once, before he betrayed us all. He suffered for that choice, and it was his death that ended the war.
“There was another war, a year later, against Gaea, the goddess of the Earth, the Titans’ mother. She and her younger children, the Giants, tried to overthrow the Olympians. Hera, the Queen of the Gods, brought the Greek and Roman camps together to fight the Giants. Frank was one of that war’s heroes- there were seven of us, chosen by another prophecy, and two others who were absolutely crucial to its success. Percy and I, Frank and his wife Hazel, Jason, Piper- daughter of the Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite-, and Leo- fire-wielding son of Hephaestus, Greek god of the forge- were the Seven of the prophecy. Nico, son of the Greek god of the dead, Hades, and Reyna, daughter of the Roman war goddess, Bellona, united the Greek and Roman camps against Gaea.
“We won, of course. Eventually, Frank and Hazel became Praetors- the two elected leaders of the Roman demigods. We all devoted a few years to our studies, to trying to live our lives in peace. It wasn’t always peaceful, but the past three years, at least, have been calm.
“A few moons ago- about four, now, one of the demigods from Kronos’ army returned: Alabaster Torrington. He was a son of Hecate, who the Romans call Trivia: the goddess of magic. After the Second Titan War, he was exiled. Hecate cut a deal with Zeus: her son’s life in exchange for his exile from the demigods’ camps. Many of the traitors were welcomed back into the fold, but Alabaster was left on his own, cut off from those who he hated. He spent years stewing in his hatred, planning his revenge on the ones who defeated the Titans. Kronos was evil and vicious, but the gods are not perfect either, and most of their demigod children have a grudge or two against our parents, myself included. Alabaster expanded that grudge to the demigods who fought to preserve the world, rather than burn it down, and to Percy in particular.
“He found the three of us when we were outside of New Rome, the Roman demigods’ city. We’ve lived there for a couple years now, it’s the only truly safe place for demigods. Percy, Frank, and I are all friends, the two of them in particular are very close. They went on a quest together during the Giant War and became like brothers. We fought, but Alabaster is a skilled sorcerer, and none of us know more than rudimentary magic. Frank’s wife Hazel is a daughter of Pluto- the Roman aspect of Hades- and is an incredibly powerful magic-user, in addition to having powers over the Earth and the dead. She was even dead herself for seventy years before she was revived. Unfortunately, she wasn’t with us at the time, so we had no way to defend against his magic. Alabaster cast a spell, and exiled us to this universe.
“We appeared in the sky over Dragonstone, and only avoided turning to paste on the ground because of Frank’s shapeshifting powers. We’ve been trying to get home ever since. Stannis promised us access to this world’s libraries and stores of knowledge in exchange for helping him gain his throne, so we’ve been fighting for him.
“We’re not here to force a religion on you, even though some of Stannis’ men have begun worshipping the Olympians against our wishes. We won’t force you to bend the knee to Stannis either. Your cause is just, my lords. I sympathize with your plight, and all that you suffered at the Lannisters’ hands. Neither I, nor Frank, nor my husband, have any desire to fight you. We will help Lord Staunton and Ser Lomas Estermont negotiate on behalf of Stannis, however. Any knowledge you might have of other worlds, or of magic, would be appreciated as well.
“This is not our world, my lords, and this is not our war. The three of us have fought too many wars already. Percy was offered godhood, and he turned it down in favor of a long and quiet life. The two of us have siblings and parents back home, both mortal and among the gods and demigods. Frank has Hazel waiting for him, and the Roman camp to lead. We all have friends, allies, family. Studies to complete and lives to live. Demigods live dangerous lives. We are constantly being attacked by monsters, but none of us like killing mortals. All we want, my lords, is to go home.”
When it was over, a hush fell over the crowd of soldiers, all of whom had been hanging onto the woman’s every word. Perhaps there would have been those who called her story preposterous, denounced the demigods as heretics or lunatics, but none dared to say as much aloud. They were smart enough to recognize when a crowd’s sympathies had been swayed. Watching Frank Zhang turn from a dragon to a man had also disabused many of their doubts. Cat looked at her brother with pleading eyes, but he was already inclining his head to the demigoddess.
“Be welcome to my father’s keep, Princess, Praetor, Ser, my lord. You have my thanks for my niece’s safe return. Utherydes, fetch bread and salt. Stannis’ envoys will have to wait until my nephew’s return, but accommodations will be found for them. Until then, we will have a meal fit for their station, yet appropriate for times of war.”
Bread and salt was offered, and Cat led Sansa farther into the keep. Sansa explained, piecemeal, what had happened to her. She left out the details Cat knew must be horrific, of Ned’s death and the torments that horrible Lannister boy must have inflicted. She spoke instead of the messages Stannis had told her to convey, the incredible things she’d seen during her last week in the Red Keep, the kindness that the strangers from another world had shown her. Cat listened, and her heart broke. Thank all the gods for Percy and Annabeth Jackson.
Cat had been staying in her childhood bedroom in Riverrun, having refused the apartments that had been her mothers, which were her right as the most senior of the Tully women. Some part of her brain, ever-focused on the logistics and details of running a castle, had already decided that Sansa would be given Lysa’s old rooms. The rest of her was trying to soothe her daughter’s hurts, saying all the right things at all the right moments.
It was only hours later, when she’d finished brushing her daughter’s hair like she did as a child, and shooing away the maids and Edmure, that the first thing Sansa said to her clicked in Cat’s head.
“Sansa, did you say you- you killed Joffrey?” she asked carefully. Her daughter went even paler than normal, and immediately started to babble. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry mother, I had to, he-” Cat shushed her gently, but allowed Sansa to cry. Oh, my baby girl. Where did it all go wrong?
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’ve killed too,” she admitted. At Sansa’s look of shock, she explained; “On the High Road to the Eyrie, there was an attack by the Hill Tribes… I understand. I’m so sorry. None of it was supposed to be like this. You were supposed to be safe and happy, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We failed you, Sansa. I’m so sorry.” They cried together, for a few minutes, and Catelyn couldn’t bring herself to be anything but grateful.
“Mother? What won’t you tell me about Bran and Rickon?” Sansa asked, when her sobs subsided to sniffles. A fresh wave of guilt crashed over Cat, but she managed to get the words out. Sansa deserved that much.
“I’m so sorry, Sansa. There was- an attack on Winterfell. Robb sent Theon Greyjoy to the Iron Islands, as an envoy to his father Balon. But Theon betrayed us, and the Ironmen attacked the North. Theon took Winterfell, and he burned it to the ground. He- he killed Bran and Rickon. And Ser Rodrik. The Boltons said almost none of the smallfolk survived.”
They grieved together, then. For Ned, for Bran and Rickon, for still-missing Arya, and for the childhood Sansa had lost. It was better than crying alone.
-
The dinner was exactly as Edmure promised. The lords were in attendance, though many of them were away in battle, or defending their own keeps. The princess told a story about a battle against some creature called a Chimera, in a faraway land called St. Louis. Even Praetor Zhang seemed to have never heard it before, and was as engrossed as Cat was in the tale. Lord Ryswell protested such a nonsensical story, and some of the more pious Riverlords condemned the promotion of foreign gods. In return, Frank Zhang told the story of him, his wife, and Percy Jackson venturing to a Land Beyond the Gods, where they defeated giants and ghosts. Not everyone was as interested in the stories as Cat was. Sansa, however, was paying rapt attention, never taking her eyes off the still-armored woman.
“I really must insist we begin negotiations at your earliest convenience,” Lord Staunton protested.
“I can’t speak for my King. King Robb and my Uncle Brynden will be here, once the King’s healed from the wound he took at The Crag. Then all the Starks and Tullys but Arya and Lysa will be together, and we can proceed,” Edmure said with a grin.
“Reuniting families is important to our people. I sincerely hope they’ll get here safely, and that Arya’s okay,” Annabeth said placatingly. Cat suddenly found herself absolutely desperate to change the subject.
“You said you have family at home, Princess?” Cat asked. Jackson sighed, rubbing at her forehead, and took a small sip of her wine.
“I have two mortal half-brothers, my mortal father, my divine mother, and several demigod half-siblings. As well as Percy’s mother, mortal half-sister, and step-father, of course. My cousin, Magnus, is the son of a god from a different pantheon. His life is… complicated, but we’re close. I miss him, I miss my friends, I miss Percy’s mom. My demigod brother, Malcolm, was always my second-in-command. It’s strange waging war without him,” she said, with a war-weary sigh. Cat couldn’t even begin to keep such a convoluted family tree straight in her head, so she didn’t bother. She instead watched the demigods’ conversation closely, trying to gather what she could of their character.
These people had saved her daughter, and if their stories were to be believed, had saved their world several times. But their real motivations and desires remained a mystery, unless she took them at their word. Cat no longer believed in selflessness. She believed that they wanted to go home, and that they served their world’s gods, but not that they would help Westeros out of the goodness of their hearts.
“At least you have Percy,” Frank grumbled, a hint of jealousy in his voice as he poked at his food.
“And for that, I am forever grateful,” Annabeth said gently, squeezing her friend’s arm. She spoke softly in that language Cat didn’t understand, and Frank managed a half-smile.
“What’s your wife like? The other Praetor?” Edmure said, with a wink and waggled eyebrows. Frank didn’t seem to notice.
“Hazel isn’t called Praetor because she’s my wife. She earned it in her own right, there are always two of us. It’s not hereditary, it’s a military rank. She’s the daughter of Pluto, the first one New Rome has seen in centuries. She can raise the dead, sense precious metals and gems, and control the earth. She died saving the world from Terra- or Gaea, whatever-, long before I was born, but her brother Nico saved her from the Underworld when the Doors of Death were opened, during the Giant War. Hazel came to Camp Jupiter, and quickly became among the legion’s best.
“She’s powerful, incredibly so. Most animals dislike her because she smells like death to them, but horses always love her, and she loves them. She’s a skilled cavalrywoman, and wields a cavalry sword. She learned magic from Trivia herself. Hazel’s brave, and terrifying on the battlefield, but she’s the kindest and warmest person I know. I… I miss her.” The hulking, foreign-looking, battle-scarred demigod now just looked like any other tired soldier, prematurely aged. How old is he, I wonder? Twenty? Not much older than Robb, surely.
“We’ll get home, Frank. You’ll see her again,” Annabeth assured him. The room had gone quiet, only to be filled with a loud and timely rambling speech from Ser Estermont about the virtues of King Stannis.
For all their power, and all their divinity, they are still human, Cat realized. Edmure might have been expecting a bawdy tale, but he’d instead received a tale so sweet that most men had no interest in it whatsoever. The look in Frank’s eyes when he spoke about his wife, the eyes of a man who had toppled the Earth goddess herself, who could turn into a dragon at will and do any number of other great and terrible things, had been familiar. It reminded Cat of how Ned had looked at her, once. Now, Ned’s bones were on their way to Riverrun, his sword was waiting upstairs for Robb’s return, and half their children were dead. The world Ned built was falling apart: the Hornwoods and Boltons were fighting, while his eldest son waged war, and his best friends were dead. Cat was left to pick up the pieces.
-
It was easier to work through her grief with Sansa there. Her daughter was different, now, and being her mother required more work. She could throw herself into being a mother, trying to forget the children she’d lost. Cat’s daughter was twitchier, always afraid of what lurked around the next corner. She jumped at loud noises, and shied away from knights in armor at first glance, until she took a second look. Cat leapt at the opportunity to sew her and Lysa’s old dresses into Sansa’s size, hoping she would take comfort in silks and rich colors as she always had. Sansa only seemed to relax, to feel safe, in Annabeth Jackson’s presence.
Edmure’s invitation, two days after Sansa’s arrival, was a welcome distraction from Cat’s ever-growing hatred of Joffrey and Cersei Lannister. Her thoughts were often consumed by all they must’ve done to make Sansa like this.
“I want to pay the Kingslayer a visit,” Edmure said to her, “and I want you to come with me. He hasn’t heard the news of King’s Landing yet. I want you to be there, after what he did to Ned.” Cat jumped at the chance, but had one suggestion.
“Send him a bottle of celebratory wine, first. Say it’s because Robb took The Crag. I have a question I wish to ask, and I want his tongue loose enough to tell the truth.”
After the Kingslayer’d had the bottle for an hour or so, brother and sister stepped into Riverrun’s tower cell. Jaime Lannister was no longer the handsome, strapping knight in bright white armor. He had a tangled beard, prisoner’s clothes, and his hair was matted and ragged. The bottle of wine was almost completely empty, and he took another sip.
“Your lover and bastard are dead, Kingslayer” Edmure said without preamble. The Kingslayer’s face contorted in hatred, before it settled into a sneer of contempt.
“You’ll have to be more specific. I’m afraid if you mean the dear Lady Minisa, that news is decades stale,” the Lannister taunted, with just a hint of a grin. Cat could see the fear in his emerald eyes, though. He believed them, so he was making a child’s jokes to try to avoid it. Jaime Lannister had been little more than a boy when Cat and Edmure’s mother, Minisa, had died in the birthing bed. To her knowledge, they’d never even met.
“Your sister,” Cat clarified, needlessly. “And your bedmate.”
“Yes, I fucked Cersei, at every chance I had since we were children. What of it?”
“She lived a golden whore and died a yellow coward,” Edmure said primly. “At her own hand, no less.”
“Lies,” Jaime spat, but his hands were shaking.
“Stannis took King’s Landing. You are no longer of any use as a hostage, since my daughter has been recovered. Even Tywin Lannister is on the run now,” Cat said. The prisoner took another sip of the wine, then flung the bottle into a wall.
“None of it matters, now. Your blasted family won’t survive the hellfire my father will rain down on you,” he slurred. Edmure started to say something, but Catelyn stopped him. She had a more important question to ask.
“Tell me, Kingslayer. How did my son come to fall?”
“I flung him from a window. All to protect a secret that the whole of Westeros learned in the end. Tell me, Lady Stark. Has King’s Landing burned yet?” A chill ran up Catelyn’s back at the surety that question carried, but he did not elaborate, and she was too furious to ask for clarification of an inane, irrelevant question.
“You were a knight, sworn to defend the weak and innocent.”
“So many vows, they make you swear and swear.” Jaime raved a while longer. About Mad Aerys and the Sword of the Morning, how much he loved his sister and hated their son. At the end of it, Cat grabbed the Kingslayer’s chin, and forced him to look into her eyes.
“You are a sad, broken, pathetic man. No one is coming for you. There is no one left to care. You fathered only bastards, your very name is synonymous with all that is dishonorable and vile. When the war is over, Robb will take your head for what you did to Bran, and for your many other crimes. You will have a pauper’s grave. You are nothing.”
Cat turned and left the tower cell without another word. She had nothing more to say.
-
Five more days passed. Stannis’ envoys lingered, but there was no one for them to negotiate with, so they mostly spent time sparring and reading. Annabeth and Frank kept themselves busy as well, often with Sansa. Cat shuddered to think what she was learning from two warriors, but if it kept her daughter safe, she didn’t particularly care.
But eventually, the time came for the two demigods to leave, while the two envoys stayed behind. Cat wasn’t there for most of the farewells and goodbyes, but Zhang and Jackson pulled her aside briefly, before they left.
“If Stannis makes peace with the Starks, and you fight the Lannisters together, we’ll be back to help,” Frank Zhang promised.
“And, regardless of what Stannis does, we’ll bring you Arya if we find her. Right now, this isn’t our war to fight or to end, but I do hope you’ll find a path to peace. Hopefully we’ll meet again, Lady Stark,” the princess said, offering a hand in peace. Cat took it gladly.
“I sincerely hope we do, Princess.”
“Please, call me Annabeth.”
“Best of luck, Annabeth.”
“Likewise.”
Shortly after, Zhang turned into a gigantic eagle, scooped up his friend, and flew off into the morning sun.
Notes:
Sorry for the wait! I’ve had a busy few weeks, and will have a few more. Finals season is a bitch. I have, however, written some scenes for future chapters, and refined + expanded outlines for the rest of P1 and P2 of Ostrakismos. Some of the dialogue from Cat and Jaime’s conversation is (obviously) taken from ACOK and the GOT show.
Look, I love Edmure, but he is a little bit stupid sometimes.
My policy of "everything ASOIAF happens as it did in canon unless I say otherwise" continues. I'm not here to rewrite canon scenes, which is why Dany won't be getting a POV chapter until Part 2, and why I only summarized Cat's grieving and the convo with Jaime. The big takeaway is that she did not set him free. From here on out, though, the Stark/Tully bloc has been introduced to the demigods too, so canon can be taken out back and shot. I've made a lot of (spoiler-ridden) family trees for this fic, and a few maps. I may start sharing those maps on my tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jainasoloswife) to help you all keep up with what's going on.
So. Why did I give you all 1500 words of PJO/HOO recap, combined with basic history? A few reasons. First of all, I know a lot of you have only read PJO, not ASOIAF or seen GOT. I try to provide in-text explanations on the ASOIAF setting for that reason, but PJO stuff needs the same. It's also partially so the readers can see how the westerosi perceive the demigods. They don't have the full story, and they don't have our perspective of it. The Westerosi only know what the demigods have told them, and they've tried to make themselves seem as impressive as possible. The irony is that Annabeth's working so hard to make them sound like epic, mythical heroes, when if she just told the truth plainly without any rhetorical flourishes, it would accomplish the same effect. They underestimate themselves, nobody else underestimates them.
As always, thank you to my commenters and my beta readers. I’m fascinated by all your theories. Some of you have made predictions so accurate I’m scared you’ll think I stole the ideas, some of you are way off the mark, and most are somewhere in between. Keep them coming!
Next chapters are:
- Davos IV (July-August 299)
- Percy IV (I Meet a Crazy Old Lady) (Aug-Sept 299)
- Annabeth III (Sept-Oct 299)
- Interlude: The Exile (Sept-Oct 299). One guess who The Exile is.In Earth/PJO terms, 299 AC = 2014 CE. The prologue of this fic takes place in Third Moon 299/March 2014. I’ve tried to use character birthdays as a benchmark- Annabeth just turned 21, Percy turns 21 in Percy IV, and Frank turns 20 in Chapter 20. That was unintentional, promise. I actually moved the chapter order around after I chose which one his bday would be in.
Chapter 15: Davos IV
Chapter Text
Davos was profoundly unsurprised to learn that the work of governance never stopped, even with two of the demigods away at Riverrun. Governance was, perhaps, too strong a word for what his duties as Master of Whisperers had consisted of of late. It felt far more akin to parenting, though Davos could not recall his own sons ever being quite so quarrelsome as Stannis and Renly Baratheon.
He’d learned to read by now, and was dutifully piecing together a spy network as best he could, but Davos was still hopeless when it came to court politics. I’m a smuggler at heart. I can lie, sneak, and steal with the best of them, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to scheme. Renly, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his own schemes. The first few days of Small Council meetings were plagued by constant objections from the Prince. Renly wanted his Rainbow Guard acknowledged as equal to the Kingsguard, despite Stannis poaching a few members. The King graciously allowed him to keep the remainder as sworn shields, if they so wished. Renly wanted his control over Storm’s End secured, and Stannis’ men removed. This request was ignored. His attempts to secure his place in the line of succession above any sons Stannis might have was similarly refused, although with Queen Selyse still on Dragonstone, Davos wasn’t sure why Renly was so worried.
Stannis’ patience was most obviously tested by the attempts of Renly and Ser Garlan to advocate for a different Small Council. The Tyrells wanted Baelor Hightower to be Master of Coin, Paxter Redwyne to be Master of Ships, Matthis Rowan to be Master of War, and Loras Tyrell to replace the Royce knight as Lord Commander of the King’s Guard. That particular meeting ended with a shouting match loud enough to be heard in Duskendale.
Davos was new to politics, but he was not a stupid man. Nothing will get done if this keeps up. Renly still sees himself as the heir-in-waiting, the true power behind the throne. Stannis would have to disabuse his brother of that notion if he wanted to be able to plan the rest of the war, and not just agree on the minor details of rebuilding the mildly-damaged city. Davos knew that his king lacked allies, but there were a couple of people he could count on to help shut Renly up. What good is a Master of Whisperers, if not to put an end to plots against the Crown? The only thing standing between Renly and the Iron Throne was Stannis. All it would take was a ‘sudden sickness’, a knife in the dark. Davos would not allow that to happen to the man who’d given him everything. And so he tried his best to scheme.
There was only so much adapting to his new position that could be done in a couple of weeks. Davos had heard stories of Varys the Spider, his ‘little birds’ and his preternatural ability to know what was going on all across the world before anyone else. He’d heard rumors of tunnels in the walls of the Red Keep, secret to all but a few. Of vast networks across the city, and across the realm. Eyes and ears everywhere. Even in Flea Bottom, children grew up hearing stories of Brynden Rivers.
“You’ll be fine, sweetling. This is nothing. I remember the Sickness,” his old and decrepit grandmother had told him once, when Davos was still a boy, stuck in bed with a nasty stomach flu. “When men fell like flies, and half the city was dead or dying. It started like the flu, it did. Just a fever and chills. We thought we’d be fine. Then came the lumps, the bruising, the bleeding sores. Your fingers turned black and you vomited blood. Then, you died. So many died in the spring. My brothers, my father. The King. We’d never eaten better than under Daeron’s rule, but the Sickness killed him too, and his sons. The fires burned day and night, on top of the hill. Bloodraven burned the dead with wildfire. Even the smoke was green.”
“Bloodraven? Who’s that?” Davos had asked. He was missing teeth, and his favorite stories always involved heroes with interesting names, not tens of thousands of rotting corpses. His grandmother had sighed, and ruffled his hair, tutting affectionately.
“He had a thousand eyes and one. He saw everything, and the whole realm feared him. And when little boys named Davos didn’t drink their broth, so they could get better, he’d come and take them away in the night.” Davos had giggled, until his laughter became a cough, and his grandmother forced him to drink more soup.
The Onion Knight had no desire to become a ghost story, a tale to scare little children. Bloodraven had been exiled to the Wall, in the end. He’d broken Guest Right and been sentenced by his own blood, the King whose throne he had secured. That, too, was a cautionary tale for children. The septons preached of Aegon the Unlikely, who purged corruption from the realm. I am not Bloodraven, nor am I the Spider. I seek only to serve my King. Davos had no little birds, and only the normal two eyes. But he did have many friends in low places.
Salladhor Saan was still in the city, his sellsails augmenting Stannis’ ships until the King was certain that Dragonstone and Driftmark controlled the waves, not the Arbor. With the Redwynes’ children freed from their sells, it was only a matter of time before Lord Paxter bent the knee, lending his fleet to Renly’s cause. The sellsails were more than willing to talk to Davos for a pint of ale and a bit of conservation. Decades of smuggling meant that Davos knew nearly everyone else in the profession within the city, and through Salladhor’s fleet, he knew he could contact many of his friends across the narrow sea. The surviving servants of the Red Keep had none of the automatic gratitude to Davos that those of Storm’s End had, but many had developed a hatred of the Lannisters, or a distrust of Renly from his time in Robert’s court.
Davos’ sons had friends of their own, and within days, they became his most trusted and versatile sources. Davos did not have the Spider’s web, but he was far from blind, and his network would only grow with time, effort, and the Crown’s money. Eventually, he realized the way forward, and put a plan into action.
With his wife and friend away, Percy Jackson could invariably be found in one of three places. He spent his days either practicing in the training yard, where he dismembered straw dummies and sent seasoned knights sprawling into the dust, debating strategy and planning the war with the King’s top generals, or out in the city, helping to clean up the rubble. Still more comfortable with smallfolk than lords, the Prince had endeared himself to many of the city’s orphans with displays of strength (what he called picking up huge chunks of broken stone and tossing them into piles), creating small statues in the streets from ice (which appeared from the demigod’s own flesh), and recovering lost toys from the riverbed. Davos’ spy network was almost nonexistent, but he still had friends in Flea Bottom. All of them were more than happy to sing the praises of the strange princeling.
Aurane Waters’ habits were much more predictable, and just as widely known. He’d taken it upon himself to ‘ensure the quality of King’s Landing’s brothels had not fallen’, when he wasn’t discussing the future of House Velaryon with his brother. Davos had been incredibly annoyed to learn that the bastard bore a striking resemblance to Rhaegar Targaryen, causing those at court who were old enough to remember the Silver Prince to stare or whisper behind his back. His ego doesn’t need any more inflation.
After Annabeth Jackson and Frank Zhang had been gone for nearly a week, Davos was able to gather Percy and Aurane in his rooms late one evening. He knew better, by now, than to offer the Prince any alcohol. He’d only go pale and withdrawn into himself. Instead, the three men sipped on tea, chatting idly while the other two waited for Davos to bring up their real reason for being there.
“I find myself in need of a favor, to better secure our King’s reign,” he began. Percy immediately set down his tea, devoting his full attention to Davos.
“Sure, what’s up?” he asked, in that strange terminology the demigods so often used.
“I believe that would be the ceiling, Jackson,” Aurane said drily. Percy rolled his eyes and punched the bastard in the shoulder. Davos tried not to laugh, and managed to succeed only by biting down on the inside of his cheek.
“Shut up. What favor dost thou requirest, Lord Seaworth?” Percy drawled, tipping an imaginary cap. Davos cleared his throat, launching into the speech he’d prepared.
“Your support for the reign of Queen Shireen, should our King die before the birth of a son. It need not be legitimate, only-” Percy cut him off with a casual wave of his hand and an emphatic nod of agreement.
“It is legitimate. I’d rather have Shireen than Renly. She’s a good kid, and he’s an asshole. I’ll do it for free,” he said calmly. Davos focused on stopping his jaw from hitting the ground.
“Thank you, my Prince, but I wish only to discourage the Tyrells from attempting to poison the King to accelerate Renly’s ascendance,” Davos assured him, though the demigod seemed unconcerned.
“You want us to be ‘overheard’ discussing our support for her, then?” Aurane asked, taking another sip of his tea.
“If you would be so kind. The King, of course, rewards his loyal servants.” Davos had fully expected to have to grant Percy some sort of reward as well, giving something to Aurane was no trouble. Bastards aimed for the stars, it was true, but their expectations were usually low.
“There is only one additional thing I wish of His Grace. He has been far too generous to me and my Lord brother already. My nephew Monterys shall want for nothing,” the bastard said, a touch of wistfulness drifting into his voice.
“And what is it that you want, Ser?” he asked.
Davos listened as Aurane quickly explained his request, and nodded stiffly when he was done. Percy watched the exchange with wide eyes, but said nothing.
“The King has no reason to refuse, and every reason to accept. I will see it done.”
“Then the Princess shall have my most vocal support,” Aurane promised.
Both men were true to their word. The next day, Percy and Aurane were overheard complaining about Prince Renly, and Percy was reported to have said that, where he came from, women and men had equal rights of inheritance.
“I’d rather fight for a kind little girl than an arrogant, entitled man,” were the words being whispered among the knights and lords alike by the next morning. Renly was far quieter at that afternoon’s council meeting than usual. Immediately after the meeting, Davos pulled the King aside and asked for Aurane’s request to be granted. Stannis agreed, though not without questions.
“The Prince’s declaration. This was your doing, Lord Davos?” Stannis asked slowly.
“It was, Your Grace,” he confirmed.
“I made the right choice,” Stannis said quietly. “Your loyalty is appreciated. Though the Throne is Renly’s by right, should I die,” he reprimanded. Davos winced. His King was known for his honor, but what was the point of making a smuggler his spymaster if he didn’t want anything remotely underhanded to occur.
“I only wished to prevent the Tyrells from accelerating your demise, Your Grace. It doesn’t matter what’s true. Only what they believe,” he argued.
Stannis watched him carefully for a moment, his face only just visible over the small mountain of papers on the King’s desk.
“You have a knack for court, Lord Davos. Don’t let it change you. I still have need of a smuggler’s mind.”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
-
Frank Zhang returned from Riverrun the next day, with Annabeth Jackson on dragonback. Davos was careful to not be present for their welcoming. No amount of gold could have persuaded him to see the Jacksons reunite after a week apart. He was, however, in attendance at that day’s court. All three demigods were in attendance, as were the Small Councillors, and of course Stannis himself.
Davos had been around for two of Stannis’ courts. He was holding them far more often than was normal, while the city remained in tatters, and the people were most in need. Already, Davos had noticed how much more orderly and restrained they were compared to the handful of Robert’s that he’d seen. The very first petitioner at King Stannis’ third court, however, had already sent the room into uproar. She was a middle-aged woman, one of countless smallfolk in the city, the kind of person Davos had been surrounded by his entire life. Her request, however, was anything but standard.
“We’ve seen the dragon and the Prince, Your Grace, and heard the tales of the Princess. We ask your leave to build a shrine to the Olympians, who saved our city from the Lannisters,” she asked. Immediately, half the room started shouting her down, while the other half yelled in support. All three of the demigods looked absolutely stunned. The shouting and arguing continued until Stannis finally raised a hand, and the Throne Room fell silent.
“How many of you are there?” the King asked. “Who want this shrine built?”
“Three hundred, Your Grace,” the woman said. Another round of murmurs went off, this time interrupted by Percy Jackson.
“This is a very bad idea,” he said slowly, every word deliberate. Annaveth and Frank nodded their agreement.
“Your Holiness?” the woman said with confusion. Percy squinted looking at the woman more closely.
“It’s… Jessamyn, isn’t it? From down by the docks?” The woman- Jessamyn, apparently- lit up, nodding and smiling enthusiastically.
“Yes, Holiness! You remember me!” The Prince smiled, while the rest of the court watched the conversation play out.
“I remember teaching your son to fish last week, yes. And you no doubt remember that I ask everyone to call me Percy. I’m not holy. Please don’t worship us, or our parents.”
“But… they’re gods?”
“From another world,” Frank explained gently. “They can’t hear you here.”
“I wish to show my respect regardless,” she insisted.
“And my mother really doesn’t need any worshippers,” Annabeth muttered.
“But-”
“Enough of this! My subjects may worship who they please. Princess, assist the worshippers- do you have a name for yourselves?” Stannis barked. Jessamyn flinched, and Annabeth looked furious. Another round of murmurs and arguments started up, until Stannis asked for silence once again, this time by stamping his foot into the throne.
“Hellenes, Your Grace,” Jessamyn said. Percy scoffed angrily, rubbing at his sinuses.
“Di immortales. I said that’s what my people call ourselves, in our language. You don’t have to- it’s not- that’s like calling yourself, I dunno, Braavosi if you aren’t from Braavos. It just doesn’t make sense,” he argued. Davos couldn’t help but agree.
“Is there a better name, my Prince?” the woman asked, completely genuine. The demigod, victor of a hundred battles, just blinked.
“Well, no, but… Annabeth? Frank? Help me out here.”
“I agree. This is a bad idea. It’ll be too easy to be disrespectful, plus it’s just pointless,” Frank confirmed. Annabeth’s mouth had set into a firm line, and she seemed to have no further commentary.
“Then the Princess shall provide her much-lauded expertise to ensure the shrine is built according to the standards of the architect of the gods themselves. That is a command from your King,” Stannis said, staring pointedly at Annabeth. After a moment, she nodded in acquiescence, and the King continued to address Jessamyn. “Permission to build your shrine is granted, and ten gold dragons from the royal treasury will go towards its construction, along with Annabeth Jackson’s time. Next petitioner.”
The next several petitioners had only the most boring of requests, until finally a finely-dressed, good-looking man of middle age stepped forward from the crowd. A murmur went up among the courtiers, and the man bent the knee in front of the Iron Throne.
“Your Grace. On behalf of my father, I pledge House Hightower’s loyalty to you.” The Hightowers? Those, like Davos, who had not recognized the man before, were certainly interested now. Something about the knight’s presence gave Davos a bad feeling. There was something at play here, but he did not understand it yet. Stannis merely regarded him with his usual cold interest.
“Ser Baelor. I was not aware you had set sail for King’s Landing. Was it a Redwyne ship you arrived on? Lord Paxter only entered the war after the city fell and his sons were freed, merely a week ago. It takes far longer to sail from Oldtown,” the King said. Baelor Hightower. Davos had heard of him, the heir to Oldtown, renowned for his good looks and his honor.
“My father Lord Leyton is known for his foresight, Your Grace,” Ser Baelor said enigmatically. “As is my sister Lady Malora. I have come to ensure Oldtown’s trade is not disrupted by the war, and that we are as prepared for winter as we can be.”
“Surely your father told you that Prince Renly’s request to seat you on the Small Council was denied. Ser Aethan Celtigar was named Master of Coin,” Stannis remarked.
“Perhaps the Mastery of Law would be better suited for someone as educated as Ser Baelor,” Renly suggested, from his place at the base of the throne. From across the room, Monford Velaryon met Davos’s gaze, and made a show of rolling his eyes. We’ve been over this already.
“That seat is being left open, to be granted to Dorne when their oath to the Crown has been renewed, as you well know, brother. I fully expect Prince Doran to fill the seat himself within the year.”
“I am aware, Your Grace, and I can think of none more suited for the job. Nevertheless, I have come to speak with Lord Velaryon and Lord Aethan. Trade waits for no man, and I fear what may become of Oldtown and The Arbor’s shipments if Lord Velaryon’s ships are not there to defend them from pirates and Ironborn,” Hightower explained.
“The Redwyne fleet is more than capable of defending the Reach by sea,” the King said.
“Indeed it is, although much of our trade passes through the Stepstones, historically guarded by the Velaryons and the Dornish. Furthermore, the Redwyne fleet will no doubt be crucial for the capture of Lannisport. Redwynes in the Sunset Sea, Velaryons in the Narrow Sea. Such a partnership has kept our waters safe for centuries, I would not see it collapse now. Simple diplomacy, Your Grace, will keep my city fed.”
“It is as you say, Ser. I wish House Hightower the best of luck in its economic endeavors,” Stannis said drily. He had yet to master the art of faking sincerity that seemed like second nature to most of the courtiers.
“I’m certain the three of us can find a time to meet this evening,” Lord Monford offered, and Lord Celtigar voiced his agreement.
Baelor smiled, bowed, and left with a swish of his cloak, but the uneasy feeling in Davos’ stomach did not fade.
Davos had been remiss in not seeking out the Bastard of Driftmark immediately after his request was fulfilled, although he’d had quite a bit on his mind since then. Aurane finally cornered him in the hours after Baelor Hightower’s unexpected arrival.
“Well, Lord Seaworth? Have you done as I asked?” Aurane asked cheerfully. Davos sighed, and gestured for Aurane to follow him. When they’d reached his office, Davos took a piece of parchment from the top of his desk, sealed with Stannis’ sigil.
“I have indeed. Congratulations, Ser Aurane Velaryon. Your writ of legitimization has been signed by His Grace,” Davos informed him.
“My brother will be glad to hear it, he has a fief in waiting for me,” the now-former bastard declared haughtily.
“Oh?”
“The ruins of Spicetown and High Tide, along with the rich lands surrounding them. Monford wishes the port and castle rebuilt, to revitalize House Velaryon’s role in the kingdom.” Pride was dripping from Aurane’s voice as he extolled the virtues of his domain. Davos fought not to roll his eyes. He did like the man, but by the gods he made it difficult sometimes.
“The wealth of the Sea Snake, come again? Your fortunes have not risen quite so highly,” Davos mused. Aurane just smiled and winked.
“Not yet, my friend. Not yet. House Velaryon has weathered countless storms. This war shall be no different.”
“The war is almost over,” he reminded Aurane.
“I made the mistake of saying that to Annabeth Jackson the other day. She told me about a war in her world, a century past. It was so devastating they just called it ‘The Great War’. Apparently, when it started in the seventh moon, the generals assured their kings that the war would be over by the new year.” It was not often that the demigods spoke of their world’s history, beyond their gods and legends. Despite himself, his interest was piqued.
“Was it?” the spymaster asked.
“It lasted four years. Twenty million dead. Four empires shattered,” Aurane said, as if reporting on the weather. Davos leaned back in his chair, trying to wrap his mind around such numbers.
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“If she was lying, she was very good at it. Wars never end as soon as we’d like, Lord Davos. My brother chose the right side in this one, but we do not expect our loyalty to go unrewarded.”
“Your house has a seat on the Small Council, new ships, trade agreements, and a legitimization,” Davos reminded him.
“How did you put it? ‘The wealth of the Sea Snake, come again?’ We are Valyrians, my friend. The last of the Valyrians, aside from the stuck-up Volantenes, Lyseni whores, and those damned Celtigars. The Dragonlords are dead, but if Valyria cannot rule the skies any longer, it will still rule the seas.” If it wouldn’t mean insulting a crucial ally, Davos would have scoffed.
“Valyria’s been gone for three hundred years. Your ambition may be boundless, but reality has a way of catching up.”
“The tides wax and wane, so too do the fortunes of my House. But, if you’ll forgive the word play, High Tide is nearly upon us. But rest assured, my friend. The King has our loyalty.”
Aurane stood, inclined his head in respect, and turned to leave, clutching the writ of legitimization in hand. Dear gods, Davos thought, once the newest Velaryon was gone. What have I done?
-
Marya, my beloved,
I’m writing this in my own hand, if you can believe it. They’ve taught me how to read. I’m not sure how much news you’ve received, but Stannis has taken King’s Landing, and placed me on the Small Council. The city is still a dangerous place, but it is rapidly becoming safer. The godlings that I’m sure you’ve heard tale of are good people, and they consider me a friend. Our sons are all hale and healthy, they made it through the Battle with accolades and acclaim. Bring the boys, come to Court. Devan misses you. I miss you.
I promised when I left home that it would not be forever. A family reunion is past due, my love. I hope to see you shortly.
Davos had only just finished writing his letter when the sounds of shouting began to carry down the hallway and into his rooms. He threw down his quill and ran out into the corridors, following the sounds of arguing. The shouts began to coalesce into the familiar cadence of Percy Jackson screaming at the top of his lungs, matched by Randyll Tarly’s hoarse bellow. Pushing through the crowds of men-at-arms and courtiers, Davos found the source of the scene.
The Jacksons were both shaking with anger, shouting at Randyll Tarly, with Matthis Rowan standing off to the side. Garlan Tyrell stood in the midst of the four, seemingly trying to keep the peace.
“They’re right, Randyll. Your strategy would get us killed. There’s no need to be cruel simply because their plan is more sound,” Lord Rowan was saying.
“Coward. You take their side, now, out of fear. They can’t even handle a basic question without losing their tempers. They know nothing of supplying an army. These are children, Matthis, not soldiers! Impotent children with magic tricks!”
“My lords, let us-” Garlan said placatingly, but he was ignored.
“Grovel? Beg? Go back on our word?” Tarly shouted.
“Watch your tongue, that is the son of your liege!” Rowan snapped.
“Mace Tyrell is the only man alive weaker than her! If the two of you had done something other than feast at Storm’s End, none of this would have happened!” Tarly shouted, gesturing at Annabeth. The woman went for her dagger, pulling several inches of cold steel out of the sheath before she stopped herself from drawing it fully.
“Weak? I’ve seen things you can’t even fathom, you little-” Annabeth’s next words were a snarl in the demigods’ language, though the hatred behind them was obvious in any tongue. Percy spoke to her in their language, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder, then turned burning green eyes on Randyll Tarly.
“Get out. Now,” he hissed, in a voice like the crashing of the waves. Whatever Tarly was about to say was interrupted by Ser Garlan, who grabbed the older man by the elbow and half-dragged him away, even as Tarly tried to push the knight away. Neither of the Jacksons moved, just stared intensely at the empty corridor. The spell was only broken when a statue toppled, shattering against the ground, and the Red Keep itself began to shake with the force of Percy’s rage.
“My Prince. Percy! The walls are shaking,” Davos cried out, praying that he would not be struck down for his insolence. Somehow, he broke through Percy’s haze, and the shaking stopped. Percy ran his free hand over his face, while his wife leaned a bit more into his side, grinding her teeth together.
“Sorry. So sorry. Fuck, I really hate that guy,” Percy muttered, more to himself than Davos.
“May I ask what just happened?” Davos said carefully.
“Lord Randyll said that one or both of us must be infertile, due to the fact that we share chambers and I’m not pregnant,” Annabeth explained, dangerously calm. “He claimed that since we will never have children, and he has a son and daughter, he was more qualified to send people to their deaths. Boys, most of them younger than us. Condemned for his ego.” Her eyes blazed with anger, and her hands were clenched into fists, but Davos could see a glimmer of fear behind the fury. Her husband squeezed her shoulder, but his lips twisted into a snarl.
“Asshole. He wanted to march on the Westerlands in force, from all directions, with as many men as he could gather. With him in the vanguard, of course. A stupid quest for glory, it would get tens of thousands killed,” Percy growled
“I apologize for him. He’s always been overambitious. Now-”
“Lord Rowan, I’m going to have to ask you to kindly fuck off now,” Percy interrupted, his tone like ice. “I think my wife and I need to talk.”
Lord Rowan managed a slight tilt of his head, and no one objected to the Jacksons leaving in stony silence.
Notes:
Finals season can gargle my metaphorical balls. So sorry about the delay in posting, but jfc I’ve been so busy. Let’s talk about this chapter.
The Great Spring Sickness hit the realm in 210 AC, and Davos was born before 260. It’s reasonable to me that his grandma would have lived through it. This is mostly an excuse for me to confirm that the Sickness was bubonic plague, which may or may not be relevant to the story later, and to throw in a Bloodraven mention, which also may or may not be relevant later.
Baelor ‘Brightsmile’ Hightower, his father Lord Leyton, and his sister Lady Malora ‘The Mad Maid’ are all absolutely fascinating characters that I’m sure we’ll see in TWOW. They’ll all be relevant to this series in different ways.
Aurane continues to be a somehow-charming weirdo, and now he’s been legitimized. Surely this won’t end badly.
The Olympian Religion begins to spread to the smallfolk! This was inevitable. Divine and/or theological consequences (or lack thereof) will be discussed next time, but I would like to reiterate that the demigods will not be ascending in this fic, and the Olympians will not be appearing in Westeros due to worship of them. That’s not the story I’m trying to tell.
Honestly, for the setting, it would be absolutely shocking to others that Annabeth isn’t pregnant. Explaining what an IUD is to the court would be both a waste of time and a breach of privacy, hence Tarly’s assumption. Succession and heirs is a perfectly normal thing for ASOIAF people to worry about, even if Tarly’s being a dick about it. Although, given all the shit their bodies have been through, Percy and Annabeth are both genuinely concerned about their ability to have kids- which both of them want at some point in the future. Tarly’s attempt to send teenagers to die pointlessly for a war that doesn’t matter to them also struck a bit too close to home.
Next chapters:
16. Percy IV (I Meet a Crazy Old Lady)
17. Annabeth III
18. Interlude: The Exile
19: Catelyn III
20: Frank II
Chapter 16: Percy IV (I Meet a Crazy Old Lady)
Summary:
Percabeth and Politics
Notes:
Finals season is done and I’m free to write!
The mind-blowing amount of engagement this fic has gotten (1400 kudos! Holy shit!) has left me vaguely considering making a discord server. Is there any interest in that?
This chapter takes place from August 4- early September 299
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I think I like being married to you,” Annabeth said quietly. Too quietly, even for the single yard of distance between them as they stood side by side in front of their dresser.
Percy looked up from the clothes he was folding, the latest of many such gifts from various courtiers. He and Annabeth now owned more clothes with embroidered waves, olives, owls, tridents, and owls holding tridents than either of them knew what to do with. Annabeth had finished folding a pile of tunics, but instead of putting them in the drawer they were both standing in front of, she was staring down at the pile, her hands clasped on top of it, refusing to meet his eyes.
Percy’s heart immediately shattered. They’d been in Westeros for five months now, and things had only just calmed down enough for anybody to stop and think for a moment. Annabeth was the strongest person he knew, but even demigods were susceptible to mortal insecurity. Percy silently damned Athena and Frederick Chase for saddling his love with a lifetime of feeling unwanted. He could be earnest, and reassure Annabeth that he loved her more than anything, that all the times they’d talked about getting married one day hadn’t been meaningless.
If he did, however, there were even odds of Annabeth retreating into her shell, going down a rabbit hole of what-ifs and even-thoughs that wouldn’t do anybody any good. Instead, he scoffed, adopting a teasing tone.
“You think? I, for one, fucking love it.”
“Shut up, Seaweed Brain. I know we’ve talked about it a lot…”
“But?” he prompted.
“Are you sure you like all this?” she said, gesturing broadly at their room, located on one of the higher floors of the Red Keep. Annabeth’s drakon bone sword hung on the wall next to Percy’s still-unnamed steel xiphos. Onyx sat side by side on a table with Riptide, still in pen form. Against one wall, two dummies were dressed near-identical sets of orange armor, still pristine even after the Battle of King’s Landing. Blackwater Bay was visible outside the window. Tapestries hung from the walls alongside the banner of House Jackson, and a thick, plush rug covered much of the floor. The still-unmade bed (they refused to let servants change the bedding when they were perfectly capable of doing so themselves. More or less.) was more than large enough for the both of them. Their adjoining solar contained two desks, several books on architecture and magic that they hadn’t had time to get through, one gargantuan tub (Percy’s favorite part), and a roaring fireplace. Beyond that lay the hallway, and Frank’s rooms directly across from their own. In short, it was theirs, familiar despite its foreignness.
“You mean living together, working together, and fighting together?” he said, extending a finger with each item on his list. “Nothing’s different from New Rome, there’s just a new title. A title I really, really like,” he emphasized with a grin and a leer. Annabeth rolled her eyes, but blushed and finally met his gaze. Will her eyes ever stop taking my breath away? He doubted it. Percy had the sneaking suspicion that his life wouldn’t quite feel complete until he was holding a child with steel-gray eyes.
“It is nice to be able to call you my husband, even if we aren’t properly married yet,” she admitted with a small smile. Percy reached for her hand, and was relieved when she threaded their fingers together and squeezed gently.
“I know exactly what you mean, wife.” Annabeth smiled- a real, genuine smile- and Percy knew he was on the right track. “Hopefully Hera doesn’t get too mad at us for this,” he said. Giving Annabeth the opportunity to rant about Hera was guaranteed to distract her from whatever was on her mind.
“I’m more worried about your father smiting me for claiming to be a Princess of Atlantis. Hera might like us more if we get married.”
Even through the vindictiveness with which she spat Hera’s name, Annabeth was still smiling. She tugged gently on his arm, leading Percy towards their couch. He smiled, happily allowing his partner to use him as a human pillow. Once Annabeth’s head was resting on his chest, both of them curled at awkward angles that neither minded, Percy spoke again.
“Well, when we get back, we’ll just have to find out. And my dad’s a hard-ass, but he does like you, you know,” he assured her, scratching at her scalp.
“What about that Oceanid he tried to set you up with? What was her name?” Percy grimaced while Annabeth cackled maniacally. Two years ago, Percy had gone to Atlantis to catch up with his divine family. He’d been shocked to find a random sea-nymph in the seat next to him, being doted on by his father while Triton tried not to laugh. The only consolation had been that the Oceanid was clearly as uncomfortable with the whole thing as Percy.
“I don’t even remember, that was the most awkward family dinner of my life. Triton and Kym still haven’t stopped making fun of me. Rhode ended up sleeping with her when it became obvious I wasn’t interested. But that was a couple years ago, he’s come around. Mostly.”
“Mhm. If you say so. Between him, Apollo, Hestia, and Artemis, I think we can avoid getting smited by Hera. They all like us. And when we have kids, we’ll offer sacrifices to your grandmother instead of Hera. She’s the Titaness of Childbirth.”
“Rhea? I’ve never even met her.”
“Nobody hates Kronos or loves her family more than Rhea. She’ll like you,” Annabeth pointed out. She has a point.
“You’ve really planned this out,” Percy realized, grinning down at the incredible woman in his arms. She smiled back at him, then leaned up to kiss him.
“Of course I have. I wasn’t going to let some stupid divine grudges get in the way of a life with you,” Annabeth murmured.
A few hours later, wandering the halls, Percy came to a decision. He had, before their exile, had plans. A vague timeline, even, for how he’d wanted to do things. But Alabaster Torrington had thrown it all into disarray. All he, Frank, and Annabeth had now was each other. One of his plans could either wait until they’d found a way to return home, plus a few months (an impossible-to-determine amount of time) or could be moved forward by about nine months. I choose to keep living my life, and to do it with her.
It was August 4th, 2014- or, as the Westerosi called it, the fourth day of the seventh moon, 299. He had two weeks. It would be enough. It took him another twenty minutes to find Frank, who seemed to be explaining the finer points of Roman battle tactics to one of the Hellene Lords.
“I need a favor. I’ll owe you forever if you can help out.” The words spilled out of Percy’s mouth all at once, but Frank seemed to understand his meaning.
“Of course, what is it?”
“I need you to keep Annabeth distracted for a few days, I have a few things to take care of in the city.” Frank’s eyebrows slowly raised, until he broke into a grin and got up to pull his friend into a bone-popping hug. “Do you think you can manage it?” Percy asked worriedly, his head still pinned against the much taller man’s shoulder.
“Absolutely. It’s about time, too. I’m happy to help,” Frank assured him.
The next few days were a blur of preparations, both in the demigods’ personal lives and in terms of their responsibilities to Stannis. Everyone was in agreement that Stannis would have to march west, uproot the Lannisters from the Riverlands, seize the Westerlands, and break down the gates of Casterly Rock to end the war. Tywin Lannister, still at Harrenhal according to the latest reports, was not making arranging his death any easier. Some of the commanders argued that he was preparing to march west, but there was disagreement over whether his death or capture would cause the rest of the Lannister forces to surrender.
Between devoting men-at-arms to rebuilding King Landing’s defenses, trying to figure out how to feed 150,000 men, and planning a military campaign on the scale of the First Crusade, there was too much going on for the demigods to begin their research. Unfortunately, one of the librarians informed them, the Red Keep’s library had been purged of information on the ‘Higher Mysteries’ by King Baelor, hundreds of years ago. The Citadel had suffered a similar purge, but they were more likely to find what they needed in Oldtown than in King’s Landing. There was no chance of returning home any time soon.
The city itself was changing by the day. More and more city blocks were being pieced back together, and the crowds which gathered to watch whenever any of the demigods pitched in grew daily. Percy kept a hood up and dressed in civilian clothes when he entered the city for his errands, putting on a terrible British accent to pass as a local. After some advice from Davos, he started using a Dornish accent instead, which just sounded vaguely Spanish to his ear. Percy’s Spanish was terrible, but growing up in El Barrio allowed him to at least replicate a Puerto Rican accent. It felt vaguely wrong, but since everyone who saw his black hair and bronze skin immediately assumed he was from Dorne, it was the only way he could avoid attracting attention. Since it seemed to work, allowing the most conspicuous person in King’s Landing to disappear into crowds, he must’ve been doing something right.
Sacrificial tripods and wine stains from pouring libations (the godsdamn Hellenes were paying too close attention to Annabeth’s ever-rarer storytellings) became more common sights. The sight of a dozen rose banners approaching the city, however, was anything but normal. Sentries atop the walls spotted them first, while all three demigods were practicing their swordplay in the Red Keep’s yard. Servants hurried to inform them that they needed to wash up and change, as their presence would be required at Court.
No sooner had Percy, Annabeth, and Frank taken their places in the Throne Room- very nearly the last to arrive- than the herald announced the arrival of the Tyrell delegation.
“Presenting Princess Margaery Tyrell, Crown Princess of Westeros, her father Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, and his mother Lady Olenna Redwyne Tyrell,” the herald cried out.
Renly swept down from his seat near the foot of the Throne, smiling broadly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Margaery’s answering warm, shy grin was a bit more genuine, but Percy could see the tightness around her eyes when they flicked towards himself and Annabeth. I’ve scared the shit out of a child, he thought, but it might have saved her life. Dying in childbirth was not a pretty way to go.
Renly embraced his wife, then gently kissed the back of her knuckles. They walked hand in hand to Renly’s seat, where a smaller wooden chair carved with roses waited beside it. Ser Garlan stepped forward from the crowd to stand beside his father, while Ser Loras moved forward from the ranks of white-garbed Kingsguard to stand guard behind his sister and lover.
“Be welcome to King’s Landing, Princess, my Lord, my Lady. I will now accept the oath of fealty from you directly, rather than from your sons, Lord Mace, now that you are here to offer it,” the King demanded. Loras Tyrell shifted uncomfortably, and Garlan looked nervously at his father. All at once, Mace exploded with fury, jabbing a finger at Renly as he ranted.
“I was promised the Handship in exchange for my allegiance, Prince Renly. If I will not be given the seat that is rightfully mine, then I will withdraw my swords, my grain, and my daughter’s hand from-” the aptly-named Fat Flower was yelling by the time Renly started shouting over him.
“How dare you-”
“The Heir must always be Hand-” Stannis contributed at the top of his lungs.
“Septon Barth, Otto Hightower, Cregan Stark-” someone corrected. Garlan buried his head in his hands, then looked pleadingly at Frank, who just shrugged. The court quickly devolved into a screaming match between the brothers (arguably the most brotherly Percy had ever seen them act), with frequent contributions from their friends and allies. It lasted about twenty seconds before Olenna Tyrell whacked her son across the knees with her cane, causing the Lord to cry out in pain and surprise.
“You would go to war against gods, so that Renly’s arse can warm the throne a few decades earlier! Stannis is as likely to sire another child as I am, and he’s so tightly wound he’s going to work himself to an early grave. Renly will be King, and you will be Hand. Have patience you insolent dolt! If I didn’t watch the maester pull your over-inflated head out of my loins, I’d never believe you to be my son,” Olenna Tyrell shouted at her son. Percy had to bite down on the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood to avoid laughing. The look on Mace Tyrell’s face was absolutely priceless, and the entire room had gone silent. Stannis was fuming with rage, gripping the Iron Throne so tightly that blood leaked out from between his white knuckles.
“I do not appreciate being spoken of in such a manner, Lady Tyrell. You would do well to remember that speaking against your King is punishable by death,” Stannis reminded her coldly.
“What will you do, kill me? And leave this blustering fool in charge? I think not. You may not like me, Your Grace, but you do need me. I am utterly immune to the King’s Justice, and fully intend to make use of that fact. You will hear from me exactly what I think, not the adulterated and censored drivel your sycophants feed you,” she scoffed.
“I like her,” Annabeth whispered mirthfully in Latin. Frank chuckled in agreement, while Percy fought to keep a smirk off his face. Unfortunately, Frank’s laughter drew the attention of the diminutive old woman. Her eyes were sharp, albeit mildly terrifying. Percy was suddenly and rather painfully reminded of Mrs. Dodds, better known as the Fury Alecto.
“You must be the godlings I’ve heard so much about,” Olenna said drily.
“Yup. That’s us. Percy, Annabeth, and Frank, your not-so-local demigods,” Percy said cheerfully. Frank punched him in the arm, but Percy didn’t pay him any mind. He knew better than to break eye contact with a predator.
“You’re prettier than half my granddaughters,” the old lady said to Percy. Aurane’s bark of laughter was audible from across the room.
“Thank you? I think? I’ve only met one of your granddaughters, so…” he trailed off, having no idea how to finish that sentence without insulting somebody. Thankfully, his beloved, badass partner stepped forward.
“What my husband means to say is that he’s very flattered,” Annabeth said cheerily. Approximately nobody believed this, but Percy smiled and nodded anyway.
“Hmph, and you listen to your wife. You’re smarter than my granddaughters too.”
“Are you all quite finished with the tomfoolery?” Stannis asked.
“I was quite enjoying the tomfoolery, actually,” Percy muttered under his breath. Olenna waved off the king, still laser-focused on the small cluster of demigods.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve had any intelligent conversation. You, pretty one. Tell me: what the devil are you three doing fighting for that dolt instead of carving out your own kingdom?” Being referred to as ‘pretty one’ was a bit of a shock, considering Annabeth was in the room, but it wasn’t the first time someone had called him that.
“I’d be a terrible King. Annabeth would make an excellent Queen, and I’d conquer the world if she asked me to, but she hasn’t. Yet. We made a deal: our swords for the knowledge we need to go home.” Annabeth looked at Percy with an amused half-smile.
“Would you really?” she asked in Greek.
“Of course. Is this you asking? Because I’d be happy to build you an empire or two for our anniversary,” Percy said, only half joking.
“I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary. If I ever do want to be a queen, we’ll build that empire together,” she smirked.
“As you wish, your highness,” Percy replied, bringing her hand to his mouth. He kissed her palm, and didn’t release her hand after lowering it. Too late, he realized the entire room was watching them. Olenna just tutted and shook her head.
“Idealists and romantics. These are the best soldiers you have?”
“I watched her leap across the moat around Maegor’s and open the drawbridge. He parted Blackwater Bay, and he turned into a dragon. They are the greatest warriors to ever exist, grandmother,” Loras Tyrell admitted through clenched teeth.
“Then why aren’t you married yet, Shapechanger? I have several relatives who have Hightower blood, whose dowry would include scholarly tomes on all manner of magics,” she demanded of Frank. The Roman paled under Olenna’s sudden attention, but he managed to speak calmly.
“I am married. My wife isn’t here, she wasn’t with us when we were cursed into exile,” he said. Percy squeezed his shoulder with his free hand. Frank seemed to appreciate the comfort, at least. I never could have done this without Annabeth. I don’t know how he does it.
“I don’t appreciate attempts to poach them from my service, Lady Olenna,” Stannis ground out.
“You obviously have nothing to worry about. They’re loyal. And what is a YiTish shapechanger doing with a Dornishman and a Westerlander?” Percy sighed and rubbed his temples.
“We come from another world, remember?”
“With your utter lack of proper clothing, that is painfully obvious. As is your ability to completely miss the point. These two are married, that much is obvious. Young fools. They can’t keep their hands off each other.” Somehow feeling chastised, Percy removed his hand from Annabeth’s. Olenna chuckled to herself. “But you cannot seriously claim that you’re fighting with them just because you’re… friends?”
“We’d say former questmates. But yes, we’re friends. Is that so hard to believe?” Annabeth asked.
“Questmates?” Olenna asked, sounding genuinely confused rather than sarcastically so, for once.
“Companions?” Percy offered. “We’ve… accompanied each other through great trials.”
“So you fuck him and he fights for you,” Olenna surmised calmly.
“Grandmother!” Garlan shouted. At his brother’s side, Aurane was now doubled over with silent laughter. I swear I’m gonna kill that man, Percy thought.
“Dear gods, no,” Frank said, horrified. Percy wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or offended.
“His house is not sworn to yours? You have no family relation to each other?” the old lady demanded, seeming to refuse to believe it. Stannis looked on, seemingly both bemused and curious, from atop the throne.
“Not as such, no. Gods aren’t really related, though Frank’s ancestor… it’s complicated. The short answer is no,” Annabeth explained.
“And your wife?” Olenna asked of Frank.
“She’s my cousin. Not by blood, not really. But her father is my uncle. Sort of. Even though they’re Roman. I think of her as a cousin, which is what counts with Olympian relatives,” Percy admitted, bemused. Olenna threw up her hands in triumph.
“See! Was that so hard? He’s married to your cousin, that’s why you fight together.”
“You know what? Sure,” Percy said. He didn’t have time or energy for this. The King seemed to agree, finally speaking up to end the back-and-forth.
“You have two choices, Lord Mace. Kneel or die. Forget the demigods, I will remove your head myself,” Stannis promised. Despite speaking quietly, every person in the room hung onto every word.
Mace Tyrell looked from the King atop his throne of swords, to his son in law, to each of his three present children in turn. He began to sweat when Stannis rose from his seat, and Percy was starting to get nervous by the time the corpulent lord glanced his way. Finally, after a very pointed cough from Olenna, Mace Tyrell lowered onto one knee and recited the oath of fealty.
-
They’d tried to make the eighteenth of August a happier day in recent years. Percy’s seventeenth and eighteenth birthdays were spent mostly wallowing in guilt. In the months before his nineteenth birthday, Malcolm dragged him aside and threatened to gut Percy ‘like the fish he was’ if he didn’t give Annabeth a good anniversary celebration. Clarisse, apparently, gave his girlfriend the same treatment. On his twentieth birthday, their fourth anniversary, most of the reluctance had faded, and they managed to spend most of the day happy. For his 21st birthday- their fifth anniversary- Percy was determined to make it a good day.
Waking up in Annabeth’s arms was already a good start, as was her agreement to go along with his plans for the day. Once they were out of bed and properly dressed, the butterflies in his stomach began to kick in. Thankfully, Annabeth unintentionally provided a distraction from worrying over his plans.
“I’ve been working on your gift, but the crafting magic won’t stick,” his partner admitted. “I need another couple of days, and it’ll be ready. However…” she then promptly ran out of the room, before running back in with a blue cake, covered in blueberries and frosting. “Happy birthday, Percy,” she said with a small smile.
Frank followed behind her, holding a wrapped parcel. The three of them demolished the cake in less than five minutes (it was fucking delicious, even though it was sweetened with honey instead of sugar), after which Percy opened his gift from Frank, an extremely detailed nautical map of the Narrow Sea, including currents and tides. His natural sense of nautical direction was weaker here, and it took all Percy’s restraint not to immediately examine every detail. He thanked his friend profusely, then dug out his gift to Annabeth from under a couch cushion. She rolled her eyes, but still gasped when she saw what it was: a tome on Valyrian architecture, complete with drawings.
“Where did you even find this?” she breathed.
“The city has a couple of bookshops, one of them imports from Essos. Do you like it?”
“It’s incredible, thank you.”
The rest of the morning all but flew by. It was only a couple hours later that Percy ducked down to the kitchens to make the closest thing to Earth-lunch he could manage before Annabeth decided to try her hand at it. It only took twenty minutes, but even so, he knew better than to trust Annabeth with cooking anything. She’d run away from home at seven years old, and spent the rest of her life eating from Camp Half Blood’s magic plates. Percy, on the other hand, had two decades of cooking and baking lessons from Sally Jackson herself. When lunch was ready, he and Annabeth walked to the stables, carrying their food in a sack. They rode outside the city walls, south into the Kingswood, for about half an hour, until they reached a glen Frank had stumbled on during his time with Renly’s armies.
Percy spread out a blanket he’d stashed in a saddlebag, and told the horses to go wander around for a little while. The look of pure joy on Annabeth’s face when he opened the sack of food to reveal cheeseburgers (sadly without tomatoes or ketchup, since this continent only had ‘Old World Foods’ according to Annabeth, but oh well), was already enough to make his day. They both ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, but Annabeth soon looked at Percy suspiciously.
“Jackson.”
“Chase.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips, which was far less intimidating while she was sitting down.
“Nothing! I tell you everything.”
“Mhm,” she said, obviously unimpressed. Percy snapped his fingers in realization.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you: you’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.” He had genuinely been meaning to tell her ever since they’d gotten to Westeros, but it had kept slipping his mind. Annabeth’s eyes widened in horror.
“Percy! Are you insane? The- Oh. There are no gods here,” she said as she realized the same thing he had. There was no risk of starting another Trojan War for daring to proclaim someone greater than a god, no egos to step on.
“I’ve been waiting years to tell you that without starting a war,” he admitted.
“You’ve met Aphrodite,” she deflected, looking away.
“And she looked like you.” Annabeth blushed but could not be distracted or dissuaded.
“Stop stalling. What did you do, Seaweed Brain?” she demanded, glaring at him again. He couldn’t help but think she was adorable, when she pouted like that, but he knew better than to say as much.
“Why do you think I did something?” he asked incredulously. Annabeth didn’t dignify that with a response, only raising one eyebrow. Percy huffed, considered making a terrible sex joke, and decided against it when his partner’s other eyebrow raised. “It’s not fair that you can read my mind.”
“I can’t read your mind, Percy. But I can tell you’re nervous. And you’re a terrible liar.”
Percy sighed, and nervously rubbed the back of his neck. He stood up, pacing back and forth for a few moments, while Annabeth watched curiously. Fuck it, he thought. I didn’t really have a good segue for this anyway. He turned back towards the love of his life with a sheepish grin, and reached into his pocket to remove a small box, flipping it open. Inside was a simple gold band, embedded with a pearl Percy had found on the bottom of Blackwater Bay, flanked by tiny diamonds. The Westerosi didn’t use rings for weddings or engagements, so Percy’s request, funded by his not-inconsiderable funds of gold (apparently victorious knights got portions of the spoils) hadn’t seemed abnormal to King’s Landing’s best jeweler. Annabeth’s eyes widened even as he got down on one knee, and she leapt to her feet.
“Annabeth Chase-”
“Yes,” she blurted out.
“I had a whole speech! I was gonna do this when we graduated, but that’s clearly not going to happen for a while, and now-”
“Don’t care. The answer’s yes. Shut up and kiss me,” she demanded, eyes already shining with tears. Percy felt a smile starting to grow on his face, but he refused to get up.
“I didn’t even ask you a question yet,” he insisted.
“Fine, if you insist. Go on, ask,” she said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Annabeth Chase, love of my life, you mean the world to me. There’s no one else I’d rather have watching my back, by my side, or in my arms. Will you marry me?” I wonder how many times I’ve dreamed of asking that, he thought dimly. Annabeth’s smile quickly grew to match his own as the tears spilled over from her eyes. Percy’s own vision was suspiciously blurry. Maybe he needed glasses.
“Of course I fucking will, now get over here,” she said, eyes bright with delight despite the tears streaming down her face.
Slipping the ring onto her finger and kissing his fiancée senseless made Percy happier than he could ever remember being.
Several hours later, they returned to King’s Landing with messy hair and wide smiles. Much to his displeasure, Garlan Tyrell was waiting for them just inside the gates of the Red Keep.
“Prince, Princess,” he greeted.
“Ser,” Percy replied, as he leapt down from his horse.
“There’s a meeting. Ser Davos has requested your presence, my Prince.”
“What about Annabeth?” Percy demanded, refusing to let go of her hand.
“Lord Monford believes that putting the Princess and my grandmother in the same room would be a dangerously volatile combination,” Garlan said sheepishly, “I believe the exact words were ‘they’d tear each other to pieces and bring the keep down on our heads.’”
“He has a point,” Percy’s newly minted fiancée admitted, “and I’ve got your birthday present to finish off anyway.”
“I’ll see you later then,” he begrudgingly agreed.
“You’d better,” she said with a wink, and sauntered off.
“Is Tarly going to be there?” Percy asked quietly.
“Lord Randyll is no longer held in favor among my family,” Garlan said cryptically. Percy couldn’t say he wasn’t happy to hear it, and followed the knight to a room in the keep he was unfamiliar with. Eight people sat around a table, with two empty seats for Percy and Garlan on opposite sides. Tyrell bannermen sat on one side, and those loyal to Stannis on the other. Percy took his seat between Frank and Monford Velaryon. He knew he was still grinning like an idiot, but he didn’t care. He was engaged! To Annabeth Chase! He’d grin all he liked.
“What is this?” Percy whispered to Frank.
“An attempt to keep the peace,” Monford answered, loud enough to be heard by all, “between Baratheon and Tyrell.”
“Aitne?” Frank interrupted excitedly, ignoring the assembled Lords entirely.
“Ita vērō,” Percy confirmed, and his friend grinned. Before Frank could offer his congratulations, Monford Velaryon pointedly cleared his throat. Percy mouthed ‘sorry’, and focused his attention on the rest of the attendees.
“To speak for King Stannis, we have myself, His Grace’s grandfather Lord Alyn Estermont of Greenstone, Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark, Praetor Frank Zhang of New Rome, and Prince Percy Jackson of Atlantis,” Davos introduced them.
“And for the Reach, House Tyrell, and Prince Renly are myself, Lord Matthis Rowan of Goldengrove, Ser Baelor Hightower of Oldtown, and Lady Olenna Tyrell of Highgarden and the Arbor,” Garlan said in turn.
“Does House Tyrell need two representatives here?” Lord Monford asked.
“I speak for my brother, Ser Willas, heir to Highgarden, who rules the castle in my lord father’s absence. My grandmother… speaks for herself, as always,” Garlan said sheepishly.
“And your father, Lord Mace?” Davos questioned.
“Will do what we tell him to, after that stunt,” Olenna said gruffly. Percy hoped she was right.
“Margaery is currently keeping him occupied,” the younger Tyrell explained.
“You seem to value directness, my lady, so I hope you’ll forgive my being blunt. House Tyrell has everything to gain from poisoning His Grace. We would like to prevent this from happening,” Davos stated, to a general chorus of agreement from the Stannis-backing side of the table. Percy just watched the proceedings carefully, as did Frank. The praetor was wearing the same face he did in the Senate, a blank mask of polite interest. Olenna Tyrell just huffed.
“Because that wouldn't be obvious at all. No one could possibly benefit more from King Stannis’ death. We’d be the only suspects. I’d have to be an idiot to poison the King. My head would be removed from my shoulders long before my great-grandchild could sit in that chair. You all called me here to make sure I wouldn’t poison him?”
“And to ensure that House Tyrell doesn’t plunge the realm into yet another Civil War,” Lord Estermont said, speaking for the first time.
“Bah. Peace is profitable,” Olenna countered.
“Where I come from, they say ‘if you can’t make money during a war, you just flat out cannot make money’,” Percy declared solemnly. Frank turned slowly in his chair to stare blankly at his friend.
“Did you just pass off a quote from The Legend of Korra as ancient wisdom?” Frank asked in baffled Latin.
“I did, and I will again.”
“I can respect that,” Frank admitted.
“Even in another language, these two gossip like fishwives. It’s infuriating,” Olenna said to her grandson.
“Grandmother, please.”
“Prove yourself to be smarter than your idiot brother, and explain to these fools why Willas, you, and myself don’t want another war,” she demanded.
“The Reach can bring one hundred thousand men to arms. That means one hundred thousand fewer workers, but the same amount of mouths to feed. Those soldiers have to be equipped, fed on the road, their injuries must be treated, their weapons maintained, and their families at home need to avoid starving without their husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers there to work the fields,” Garlan explained.
“My mother was a soldier, she died to save her comrades. My father is the god of war. I know how war works, My Lady. Where I come from, things work differently, that’s all. I’m thrilled that war profiteering is less of a problem here. It still exists, I’m sure, just on a smaller scale.” Frank replied.
“My Lady, regardless of your wishes to avoid war, you will need to be more polite with His Grace if you wish to survive,” Davos interrupted, changing the subject before they could get too off-track.
“Stannis Baratheon does not scare me. You lot don’t scare me. You, turtle man. You look even older than I am. Who was King when you were born?” Olenna snapped. Lord Estermont drew himself up higher in his chair. An ancient, white-haired man, covered in wrinkles and liver spots, his eyes nonetheless remained clear and sharp.
“My name is Lord Alyn Estermont, as you well know. I have six-and-eighty years. Aerys I was King.”
“213 AC? You are ancient. Then you remember Maekar better than I, though no doubt you remember less of Aerys II. Those were Kings to fear. Bloodraven was dangerous enough to scare even my father. I was raised under the dragons. Prancing deer don’t frighten me,” the tiny old woman snipped.
“I was at the Wendwater. I fought in both the Fourth and Fifth Blackfyre Rebellions, I doubt any man alive can say that,” Estermont riposted.
“Walder Frey was a squire in the Third, and fought in both the Fourth and Fifth,” Baelor Hightower said helpfully.
“He did, and he was as useless against the Band of Nine as he was against the Targaryens. I remember the Dragons, Lady Tyrell. Both of them. And you’re right, the Targaryens were mighty indeed. But do not forget that my grandson Robert toppled their dynasty, and Stannis held Storm’s End against you, Lord Rowan, when he was scarcely more than a boy. You are fools if you do not fear him, even without the aid of our esteemed guests,” Lord Estermont warned.
“Your other grandson is on the Kingsguard, is he not?” Garlan inquired.
“Andrew will defend his cousin to the death,” Estermont confirmed.
“Perhaps he will indeed, if he has your spine,” Baelor chimed in.
“Stop simpering. It’s not a good look on you, boy.”
“Diplomacy never did any harm, Lady Olenna,” Monford said evenly.
“Your father was an arse, Velaryon, and you’re a hemorrhoid. You! Left! Bring me a plate of cheese. I can tell we’re going to be here for a while.”
“I’m sorry… is your name Left?” Percy asked the guard who Olenna had gestured to.
“My name is Erryk,” the guard said sadly. “This is my brother, Arryk. Lady Olenna calls us Right and Left.”
“I can’t tell the damn fools apart. At least you could do me the favor of shaving that ridiculous mustache after you bring my cheese.”
It took another two hours to hammer out terms, by the end of which, Percy had a blinding headache. In the end, both parties agreed to keep their respective loose cannon in check, and avoid another war.
Two days after that, Annabeth finished his birthday present.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, I was trying to remember the stuff Leo and Tyson taught me, and it was tough to get the magic right, but it’s working now.” She was rambling nervously. It was absolutely adorable, but Percy still hated seeing her nervous.
“Annabeth, relax. I’m sure I’ll love it,” he said, squeezing her hand. The ring on her finger was a comforting and exhilarating reminder of all that they meant to each other. Percy twisted the metal band a few times, fighting back a goofy grin, before he released her hand and allowed Annabeth to give him his gift.
Percy’s prediction turned out to be absolutely correct. Annabeth produced a delicate-looking bracelet of woven silver, clasped with an intricately carved anchor. It fit his wrist perfectly. He was already smiling when Annabeth turned the bracelet to show him the trident all but hidden within the silver rope.
“There’s a latch under the middle tine,” she said, pointing it out.
Percy dug a fingernail under the tine, and the bracelet immediately began to expand, chunks of metal folding out from the rope. It reminded him of how Tyson’s watch-shield had worked, back before the manticore ruined it. Within seconds, Percy was holding a gleaming seven-foot trident of tempered steel, carved with intertwined olive branches and waves. The cord of silver remained on his wrist through it all, only the trident decoration had disappeared.
Awestruck, Percy took a few steps back and gave the trident a few experimental swings and thrusts. He’d never used one before, but he’d been meaning to learn for years. Something in the handle seemed to call to him, allowing incredibly precise control.
“There’s a small tube of water embedded in it,” Annabeth explained, as if she was reading his mind. “So you can call it back to you, or control it from a distance. There’s an internal latch that can be controlled by turning a pocket of water to ice, expanding it. It’ll return the trident to your bracelet if it’s within a few feet of it.”
Percy swallowed down a lump in his throat, and tested the latch. Sure enough, he only had to freeze a few drops of water and the entire trident folded up and fell into the bracelet. Annabeth stepped back into Percy’s space, and he pulled her even closer. He folded her head under his chin and enjoyed the closeness for a moment. Her arms wrapped around his waist as his settled on her back, and even in a strange new world, Percy felt right at home, perfectly content in her embrace.
“I was hoping it would remind you of home,” she said, muffled into his shirt. She turned her face up and looked him in the eyes, earnest.
“It does. It looks just like dad’s. He and Triton have wanted to teach me for a while now. You really know the way to a man’s heart.” He said, tilting his head down and softly looking back at her.
“With sharp objects?” Annabeth joked, attempting to jab a finger into his chest. Percy caught her wrist and couldn’t help but laugh, burying a hand in her hair to pull her into a kiss.
“Exactly. Right between the ribs, with a sharp object,” he said, once they’d broken apart. Percy ran a hand over her curls, briefly pausing to wrap her gray streak around his fingers. They had come so far since Mount Tamalpais, and he couldn’t wait to go further. Percy wanted to do everything with her. She sighed contentedly, and buried her face in his shirt again, relishing in the warmth.
“Happy belated birthday, my love,” she whispered.
“I love you, Wise Girl. Thank you.” he whispered back. Not to keep their love a secret, but because this was just for them.
“I love you too, Seaweed Brain.”
-
Days and nights passed, and Percy dreamed. Not much happened by day. With Robb Stark still away from Riverrun, Stannis’ ravens to his ambassadors there were returned with only perfunctory updates. The Lords and demigods couldn’t start planning the Westerlands campaign without knowing what Robb Stark would do. Research wasn’t going anywhere while they were stuck in the capital, and keeping Tyrells and Baratheons from killing each other wasn’t a full-time job, despite appearances to the contrary. Aside from hanging out with his fiancée and friends, there wasn’t all that much Percy was actually needed for.
He wondered if his boredom was the cause of the dreams. Unlike that night at Dragonstone, he didn’t see entire tableaus, nor could anyone see him. The dreams only granted him glimpses of Grover, sometimes only just the satyr’s face. Even so, it was comforting.
Days turned to weeks. August turned to September. Percy learned to use his trident. He avoided Olenna Tyrell like the plague. He and Annabeth began to settle into their rooms properly. His fiancée grumpily designed a small shrine for the Hellenes, beautiful in its simplicity. Annabeth and Frank became obsessed with cyvasse, which as far as Percy could tell was just fancy chess.
Eventually, the monotony was broken by the ever-vivacious Aurane Velaryon, formerly Waters, sitting across from Percy and Annabeth during a dinner.
“I have joyous news, Jackson,” he announced.
“You’re finally getting out of my hair and going back to Driftmark?” Percy quipped between bites.
“Not yet. I’m betrothed!”
“You found someone willing to tolerate you? Who?” Annabeth asked. The knight completely ignored her sarcasm.
“My brother arranged a match with the daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell, Nymeria Sand. Born of the Red Viper and a noblewoman of the Old Blood of Volantis. Her dowry includes gold, settlers, and materials to rebuild Spicetown, soon to be our domain,” he gushed.
“And have you ever met this woman before?” Percy asked carefully. Westerosi marriages were weird .
“No, but she is said to be extraordinarily beautiful, and skilled with knives,” he said dreamily. Percy rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t exactly fault Aurane’s taste in women.
“I thought Dorne hadn’t bent the knee yet,” Annabeth pointed out.
“They haven’t, yet,” he confirmed with a wicked grin. “My brother made separate arrangements.” Percy and Annabeth exchanged worried looks. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“You sure you’re ready to settle down, Velaryon?” Annabeth asked, changing the subject before they could start unravelling that can of worms.
“For a beautiful, dangerous woman of old and distinguished blood, my dear Princess, I would do anything,” Velaryon said with a wink.
“Aurane…” Percy warned him, but Annabeth waved him off.
“No, Percy, it’s alright. I understand. Nymeria sounds like a wonderful woman, maybe I should get to know her myself. She certainly sounds more… appealing than Ser Velaryon here,” Annabeth said nonchalantly. Percy knew she was joking, just trying to get on the knight’s nerves, but Aurane had no such knowledge.
Percy chuckled at Aurane’s wide-eyed expression, which was quickly replaced by a glint of amusement. Percy had made no secret of his bisexuality while in Westeros, at least to those who wouldn’t want him dead for it. It wasn’t like he’d be sleeping with anyone but Annabeth anyways, so reacting with amusement to Aurane’s flirting instead of anger was harmless.
Ever since Percy had punched the dude on Dragonstone who’d been gross about Annabeth, however, everyone was too terrified to flirt with her. His fianceé’s threatening of the not-so-dearly departed Justin Massey with castration helped too. None of the women of the court had flirted with her the way some of the men had with him and Frank. Nobody in Westeros had ever bothered to question Annabeth’s sexuality when she was happily ‘married’. Even in another universe, people suck.
Back at Camp, it had been a running joke that Percy’s only real competition for Annabeth’s affections was Piper. Percy would’ve found it hilarious if he didn’t know it to be true. Annabeth wasn’t exactly pining over the other woman, of course, but Piper’s crush on her was obvious. Piper was still happily dating Shel the last he’d heard, but he knew better than to give Annabeth a reason to leave him for the daughter of Aphrodite.
“Well then, Princess, you are more than welcome to do so,” Aurane laughed.
“You really ought to consider loyalty to your spouse,” Percy snapped. “I think Cersei Lannister is proof that nothing good ever comes of cheating. Will Nymeria tolerate your whoring and flirting?” Percy could tolerate a great deal of shittiness, but people cheating on their spouses really pissed him off. Maybe it had something to do with belonging to a whole species born from infidelity, frequently punished for their parents’ sins. Sue him.
“Jackson, don’t be so Andal. She’s half Dornish and half Valyrian. Her father has no wife, a long-term paramour, and eight bastards. I would be shocked if she wasn’t bringing at least one paramour to court with her. As long as the children are mine, I’m sure that both of us will be free to pursue both others and each other to our hearts’ content.”
“As long as you talk it over with her,” Percy grumbled.
“If it eases your conscience, I assure you, that will be the first thing we do. It likely would have been the second anyway,” he joked.
“In that case, congratulations,” Annabeth offered.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have moral quandaries over the strangest things, but have no trouble sweeping whole armies out to sea?” the Westerosi asked.
“Yes,” Percy deadpanned.
“Well then, as long as I’m not the first. I hope to see you both at the wedding. I want to incorporate some of your people’s traditions.”
“Is her father coming?” Percy asked him, to avoid having to explain what a wedding ring was. That would raise awkward questions.
“Once Prince Doran and King Stannis sort out the details of kneeling, I’m certain that Prince Oberyn and the Dornish contribution to the Kingsguard will set sail from Sunspear with my Lady Wife aboard. Just don’t tell Davos. I’d like to surprise him for once.”
Percy and Annabeth exchanged a patented ‘we are so going to talk about this later’ look. Aurane kept raving about the betrothed he’d never met, with occasional interjections from the Jacksons, for twenty minutes. All things considered, Percy had attended stranger dinners.
Notes:
Everyone say thank you to my beta readers for finding no less than a half dozen incomplete sentences, and to SZ9 in particular for spending a half hour making sure the Percabeth bits were fluffy enough.
As many of you guessed, the crazy old lady is in fact Olenna.
Maybe one of these days Stannis will realize that having all the mouthiest people in Westeros in his Court is a bad way to keep things orderly.
Was a Percabeth proposal in my initial outline? Nope. The characters made me do it. They’re such an obnoxious PDA couple and they’re madly in love and I love them both. I despise writing proposals, weddings, and funerals. Since this is ASOIAF there’ll be a lot of the latter two, so I’m training myself by writing a proposal even though I would prefer to skip over it.
Demigods with ADHD and the months of logistical prep that go into planning a massive medieval army’s movements do not mix well. A lot of these past chapters have shown them to be really badass and collected. I wanted to reiterate that these are, in fact, college students with a ton of trauma. Percy desperately uses humor as a coping mechanism, Annabeth is deeply insecure, Frank is still a bit awkward and lonely.
Have some scraps of Latino!Percy, as a treat. I personally am a Latino!Percy truther, but in my attempt to stick to canon I’m just gonna leave it heavily implied instead of stated outright. I’ve already made him a bit darker-skinned and with curlier hair than canon, but then again, he’s supposed to look Greek, so it’s not that far off.
Walder Frey’s history with the Blackfyre Rebellions was borrowed from The Weirwood Queen, one of my all-time favorite fics. Go read it. A lot of the characterizations in that fic have permanently changed how I view characters, and therefore how I depict them in this. Yes, that is a major hint for the future of this series.
Y’all i fucked up. I assigned Frank an October bday without realizing he has a canon one in June. I’d planned for Percy to bake him a cake and buy him a bow made of goldenheart wood when he turned 20, so pretend that happened back on June 5th, somewhere around Percy II-Davos III
Translations:
Aitne? - did she say yes?
Ita vērō - yes (with emphasis)Next up:
17.Annabeth III
18.Interlude: The Exile
19.Catelyn III
20.Frank II
21.Sansa II
Chapter 17: Annabeth III
Chapter Text
The early days of September were a blur of war plans and court politesse. Annabeth was still partially in a post-engagement daze, going through her days by instinct while basking in her joy. She’d known intellectually that Percy wanted to marry her, and had every confidence that they would spend their lives together, but emotion won out over reason in this circumstance. Nothing had changed about how they interacted with each other, but the ring on her finger was a promise that they’d make it home, that they’d survive this awful place.
There was still planning to be done for the war, but that only took up so many hours of a given day. Being at court seemed to consist mostly of courtiers vying for the King’s favor, while those with official positions tended to their duties and those without entertained themselves with garden strolls and luncheons. The demigods, stuck in an awkward in-between place of high military ranks and no formal roles, were left in the middle. They had much to do in theory, but there was little which specifically needed their attention in practice.
Without any actual research to do, returning home was still an abstract hope. When the politics and religious conflicts became too much, Annabeth found other ways to occupy her mind. She went with Percy and Frank into the city, trying to guide the direction of the Hellenes’ new religion for the better. They’d given up on stopping it, and had mostly resigned themselves to its existence. Annabeth felt a duty to ensure that the religion she’d unintentionally helped to create did not, at the very least, dissolve into a death cult.
On occasion the three of them went out hooded and cloaked, or with Frank trotting at their heels in the form of a labrador, using fake names and accents to learn how things really were. Percy and Annabeth could disappear into crowds as a Dornishman and Westerlander, but a two-meter YiTish man was a rarer sight in King’s Landing. Luckily, Frank appreciated the opportunity to get head scratches from passers-by and avoid awkward stares for a couple hours. It seemed from snatches of overheard conversation that the people tended to have enough to eat, no one had particularly strong opinions on Stannis, everyone hated the Lannisters, and the new religion was controversial.
Back in the Keep, she finally fixed Onyx, and made all three demigods signet rings with their house sigils. She had copious amounts of sex with her fiancé- by far the most effective yet least productive method of distraction. She and Percy went on ‘proper’ dates when they could. And, against her wishes, she designed a shrine for the local Hellenes. She kept it simple out of deference to the necessity of medieval construction techniques, despite how much it grated on her to do so.
Annabeth was no longer the wide-eyed sixteen year old who desired nothing more than her mother’s love, however. Getting to rebuild Olympus had been wonderful, but she was no longer sure if it qualified as an ‘honor and a privilege’. She’d gotten to fulfill her dream, and build something permanent, but the gods were fickle and unappreciative, wishing only to see monuments to their own vanity that would stand for eons. Once, Annabeth would have happily glorified the gods in stone. Now, she had a difficult time giving a fuck. She didn’t hate all the gods; only Hera, Zeus, and Ares really deserved her hatred, but she didn’t like any of them very much either.
Even so, her pride stopped her from half-assing the project. Devoid of sculpture, the shrine was a small temple of the prostyle layout, dedicated to Poseidon, Athena, and Mars. Annabeth had made some sketches of possible reliefs and paintings, but doubted they’d be made any time soon. So far, only the foundation had been laid, out of pale yellow stone. She estimated the rest of the structure would take six or so months to complete.
She drew up a few ideas for overhauling Flea Bottom, but such large-scale urban planning was completely impossible with current technology and resources. Aurane’s request to help with the design of Spicetown, however, was perfectly feasible. Annabeth laid out the new city according to the Hippodamian plan, with wide streets, a central agora for the market surrounded by public buildings, roads leading to High Tide and Hull, theaters, and temples for four different religions. Annabeth had incorporated motifs and structures from the book on Valyrian architecture as well, although not much of it was achievable without dragons and bloodmagic. Percy had some input on the design of the docks, and between the two of them, they’d been able to turn in a design to Aurane within a week.
Even so, there still wasn’t enough for her to do. Annabeth drew, wrote, and designed incredibly fast compared to mortals, and she was bored easily. The tomes in the Red Keep’s library were lackluster even by Ancient Greek standards. She would’ve killed for the Mouseion right now, let alone the New York Public Library.
“I could write a fucking book about all the medical topics alone that they don’t know here,” she complained to Percy after another unsuccessful hunt for codices on magic. Or engineering. Or astronomy. Or ancient history. Or the local gods. Or anything remotely useful to their quest to get back home. There were so many questions she had about this place, and none of them had any real answers. Why were the seasons so strange? Why were the Andlish and English languages identical, despite their wildly different origins, to the point where Andlish contained loanwords from languages like Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Persian? How did the magic of this world work? What did Alabaster do to them? And how could they get home?
Oblivious to her internal monologue, Percy got right to the heart of the most immediate problem. When she was young, she’d pretended to be annoyed at his blunt-force response to intellectual dilemmas. Now, she knew that if she took a few seconds to expand on her musings, Percy would happily indulge her ramblings. And, sometimes, she needed Percy to keep her grounded.
“So why don’t you?” he asked, smiling slightly. Annabeth blinked in surprise. It was an excellent question. She had a photographic memory. She was an architect, not a doctor by any standards, but she’d completed the K-12 curriculum, taken two and a half years of college courses on a variety of subjects, and read every book she could get her hands on. So much of what was basic, universal, everyday knowledge on Earth were novel miracles here. So why shouldn’t she share what she knew?
“Have I told you today that I love you? Because I really, really, do.” She didn’t give him a chance to reply, just kissed her partner on the cheek while he smiled dumbly, dork that he was, and ran off to find parchment, a quill, and ink. She spent the next five days at her desk in her and Percy’s solar, asleep, or in the library. She woke each morning in bed, but only because Percy moved her from the chair she would inevitably pass out in. She really needed to marry that man.
After a few days of work, her book wasn’t quite done, but it was close, already containing several hundred pages of cramped, hurried, occasionally misspelled handwriting. As a daughter of Athena, Annabeth’s writing went as supernaturally fast as her designing. Even though her dyslexia remained a problem, her ink never smudged unless she wanted it to.
She opened the text with a treatise on basic anatomy (thankfully the Citadel didn’t ban dissection, so she had stuff to work with), germ theory, and the existence of cells. The necessity of medical ethics came next, with many words of warning from ways the humans of Earth had gone wrong. After that, antibiotics seemed to be most important. She didn’t know exactly how to make them, but she wrote about penicillin, what little she knew of the discovery of antibiotics, and suggested experimentation to derive liquids from mold, to be tested in makeshift petri dishes. That prompted a ten-page expansion on proper lab safety protocols, and another fifteen on the scientific method.
Disinfectant, proper hygiene, disease transmission, pasteurization, clean water, and very basic vaccines (such as the use of cowpox pustules to inoculate against smallpox) were all lumped together with disease transmission, and how to prevent it. The dangers of lead and arsenic poisoning went along with the perils of addiction in a section describing the many ways humans of Westeros were fucking themselves over. Sections on existing diseases such as the bloody flux, consumption, the pox, and the disease that plagued Westeros during the Great Spring Sickness identified them as dysentery, tuberculosis, smallpox, and a deadly mix of Pneumonic and Bubonic plague. She recommended treatments where possible, and provided methods of alleviating pain where she could not, such as with cancer and diabetes.
Genetic inheritance and sexual health were likely to be the most controversial portions of the text, but they were too important not to include. Everything from the dangers of incest to how pregnancy and STDs worked needed to be explained to these people. Identifying postpartum depression could save lives, as could explaining that intersex or trans people weren’t demons or insane, actually.
She managed to finish off a brief overview of major mental health issues, including depression, anxiety, ADHD, dyslexia, PTSD, BPD, and head injuries, before she had to come up for air. Some of these, like PTSD, she knew were already somewhat acknowledged yet were without names. Soldiers just came home broken, sometimes. This had been known for as long as there had been wars.
On the fifth day of constant work, she put down her quill, stretched, and yawned. She’d been hunched over her desk for hours, and the sun was low on the horizon. Percy came into the room mere moments later, carrying a tray of food. She smiled gratefully and devoured it while Percy flipped through the stack of parchments. Two and a half years of living together at college had inoculated Percy to Annabeth’s essay-writing habits. Compared to their final exams at the end of sophomore year, this really wasn’t even that bad. It was early October, and had everything gone normally, Annabeth would currently be studying her ass off for her first round of senior year midterms. It felt nice to stick to some sort of schedule.
“I can’t read any of this, but I’m in awe of you,” Percy told her when she was done eating. Annabeth hummed in thanks, dragged him to the couch, put her head in his lap, and immediately passed out. She woke up in bed, wrapped in Percy’s arms, using his chest as a pillow. The sun was just beginning to stream through their windows, and she felt human again. A job well done was always a unique kind of satisfaction, but knowing that the proper dissemination and use of her still-incomplete text could save millions of lives only heightened the feeling.
“What did I miss?” she asked, when Percy was properly awake. She’d made no move to get off his chest, only able to tell he’d woken by the subtle change in his breathing and the hand gently scratching at her scalp.
She was thrilled to learn that she had missed approximately nothing of substance in the five days she’d spent in the library. The plans for war drew closer to completion, some lords of the Reach were sucking up to Percy, and there was still no news from Riverrun. Sunspear, however, had officially bent the knee, accepting Stannis’ offer. Prince Oberyn Martell was en route to King’s Landing, along with his daughter Nymeria, who would be wed to Aurane. The Prince himself was taking up the position of Master of Laws in his brother’s stead, while the Dornish knight Daemon Sand was taking the offered Dornish seat on the Kingsguard. According to Davos, Oberyn’s paramour Ellaria Sand and Nymeria’s handmaid Jennelyn Fowler were joining the Dornish retinue. Aurane sounded positively delighted about his betrothed’s imminent arrival.
The scribes and low-level maesters who started to read over her text were puzzled by most of her assertions, with one man quite loudly arguing in favor of the existence of the four humors. Annabeth had proceeded to systematically tear his worldview to pieces, until he was left in tears at the sheer grandeur of the universe, while Percy and Frank tried very hard not to cackle at his misfortune. She decided to give her work a break after that, and was present for Stannis’ war councils the next day.
Annabeth’s return to court created no small stir. Murmurs followed her, both in the training yard and the halls.
“Half of them thought you were pregnant and the other half thought you were dead,” Aurane cheerily informed her in the corner of the Throne Room. “You aren’t, are you?” Velaryon and Seaworth remained her and Percy’s closest ‘friends’, if they were being generous. Garlan Tyrell was still close to Frank, though he was currently standing behind his father, on the other side of the room.
“No,” she bit out, and returned her attention to Mace Tyrell, who was loudly singing the praises of Athena before the court, for the wisdom she had given Annabeth in revolutionizing medicine so quickly. Tarly seethed among the assembled courtiers, but he had the sense to keep quiet, unlike the maester that had just spent ten minutes calling her text the work of demons.
“Fucking kolakes. The Reacher lords all hated us two weeks ago,” Percy grumbled from beside her. Frank snorted with laughter. Percy had apparently taken advantage of Annabeth’s time writing to begin to teach Frank Greek. He was a quick study, and had already picked up on some over the years. Its similarly to Latin didn’t hurt.
“What does that mean?” Davos asked. Annabeth didn’t hold a grudge towards the Spymaster for digging for information. Even so, they’d been extremely careful not to teach any Greek or Latin to the Westerosi. Having the ability to speak in secret around the locals was invaluable, especially due to how many secrets they were carrying. All it would take was somebody picking up a few words to know that Percy and Annabeth weren’t really married, for example. Their reputations would never recover. The Greek alphabet was similar enough to the Latin one, used in Andlish as well, that there was little chance of keeping it secret. Even so, writing all their notes in Greek, aside from being easier for their dyslexia, helped to add another layer of confusion to the language.
Percy met her eye, and they silently debated the matter for a few moments, while Lord Tyrell switched to a report of his available sources. Percy titled his head slightly, and Annabeth nodded.
“It means bootlickers, lickspittles, kiss-asses,” she explained. “In the Hellenistic Kingdoms, there weren’t formal ministries like you have here. Nobility just kind of… hung around, and got assignments from the King. Actually being employed was considered dishonorable, so it was polite to call these lords the Kings’ friends, or sometimes his relatives if they were really important. They weren’t exactly popular, however. A lot of people preferred to call them bootlickers, or parasitoi- parasites,” Annabeth hurriedly corrected, cursing inwardly. “Ones who eat from the table of another.”
“Informal appointments, people who just help out without a specific title? Sounds like you three,” the legitimized bastard said with his characteristic dry wit. Annabeth had to admit that he had a point. She, Percy, and Frank were essentially philoi at the court of Basileos Stannis Baratheon. Hopefully they wouldn’t be elevated to pateres or adelphoi. Annabeth wasn’t sure she could handle the responsibility.
-
Annabeth had never been plagued by demigod dreams to the same extent as Percy, or the other children of the big three. The gods of this realm had taken no interest in Wisdom’s Daughter. For better or for worse, that was changing. She dreamed, one night, of great and terrible things. Cities of stone, filled with pyramids and bathed in fire. Three massive dragons, their roars and flames intermingling. A young girl with silver hair, those same dragons, no more than hatchlings, perched on her shoulders.
The scene shifted from desert to tundra. She stood in the snow, as an army of dead men marched by, cold and inevitable as the sunset. At their head, pale white men and women that moved silently, dressed in armor of ice, rode atop white spiders. Despite their unearthly appearance, they were beautiful. The beings almost reminded Annabeth of empousai; they superficially drew her in, but more primarily terrified her. Percy had told her, once, that Thanatos had been too pretty, enough to make him obviously not human, despite how appealing he was. Death had its own sort of appeal.
One of the beings- Others, she was sure, at the head of the pack, had a thin black circlet fused into the icy flesh of his head, coated in a layer of frost. Annabeth’s heart leapt into her throat. She’d never seen anything like this in Westeros, monsters that made her blood run cold as ice and dredged up her deepest, most instinctual fears. She’d thought- or maybe just hoped- that those had been left behind on Earth, and in Tartarus. The crowned one suddenly turned its pale, glowing blue eyes onto Annabeth, and she woke up screaming.
Percy woke when she did, of course. They’d shared a bed nearly every night for three years, they were no stranger to each others’ nightmares. He didn’t pry, just offered what comfort he could. She didn’t offer any information to correct the assumptions he was doubtlessly making. Tartarus or Manhattan. Those were her usual nightmares. Or else a fight with a god that would go wrong, a giant or a Titan that was just a little bit faster. Percy skewered by Ares on the beach. Thalia, decapitated by Atlas on the mountain. Gaea sucking them all into the Earth. This time, there had been no gods in her dream, or vision, or whatever it was. But Annabeth had forgotten just how massive this world was, how many ordinary people and monsters it had in it. And all those people were in terrible danger.
-
“Lannister goes West!” Matthis Rowan bellowed as he entered the war council, waving a piece of parchment. “The scouts report Harrenhal is held by a skeleton garrison. Tywin Lannister’s army is on the move.”
A plan solidified quickly after that, based on the bones that had already been set in motion. One army would move north through the Crownlands, taking Lannister-occupied castles as they went, forcing them to bend the knee to Stannis. Once they were secure, the army would move west, taking Harrenhal, and hopefully meeting with the Stark-Tully army- assuming they’d manage to cut a deal by that point. A second, smaller army would follow Tywin Lannister’s heels, chasing him back into the Westerlands, then entering the Lannisters’ homeland from the undefended south. The only decision left of consequence; who would lead each army, was now the greatest point of contention.
It was, however, extremely likely that one or more of the demigods would be sent away with at least one of the armies. Renly tried to get one under his own command, but nobody was stupid enough to think he’d get it. Likewise, Stannis could not abandon court to Renly’s control while he led the war from the frontlines. It would almost certainly fall to trusted lieutenants to leave. Annabeth had too much she needed to accomplish before that. As soon as possible, she arranged for a private meeting with the King.
“How much do you know of the Hellenes, Your Grace?” As an opening move, it was a weak one. Best to let Stannis stew a while before she got to the point.
“Your people, or those who worship your mother and her ilk?”
“The latter,” she clarified.
“I know their numbers are only growing, both at court and in the city. The High Septon has come to complain, but they are largely loyal to your family, and to me by extension. They do not listen when you tell them not to worship your gods, but they hold your foreign values as their own,” he said, with only a dash of disgust.
“Such as?”
“Individual liberties, whatever that means. Higher ages of marriage. To approach sex the way the Dornish do, with legal recognition regardless of whether partners are married or not, or of the same sex. Peace, or so you claim, despite being the daughter of a war goddess. Charity and compassion. Am I missing anything?” Stannis was notoriously hard to read, his taciturn and stoic reputation well-earned.
“That about covers it, as far as I know. How would you like to make me- and the Hellenes- very happy?” Annabeth prompted. Stannis sighed, sensing that the point was being reached.
“What do you want, Princess?”
“Ban marriages under the age of sixteen. Smallfolk usually marry around twenty anyways, it’s really just the nobility that weds children.” Stannis ground his teeth, but did not dismiss the idea out of hand.
“Why would you want such a thing?”
“To avoid anyone else going through what my husband and I both did,” she said, allowing some of her fury to leak out. Stannis raised an eyebrow.
“Is your marriage not a happy one?” He said in shock. Annabeth waved a hand dismissively, understanding his error.
“Ours is a love match, as you call it- which is really the only type of marriage my people have. That being said, I spent my early adolescence being pursued by a much older man, who nearly killed me while claiming to love me. At two-and-ten, I would have accepted his suit because I did not know any better. Percy was courted- thankfully unsuccessfully- by a millennia-old goddess in love with a boy of four-and-ten. Your society regularly selling young women off to old men so they can secure alliances is far too similar to my own background for my liking. Do you not see the problem with this?”
“Marriage alliances keep the peace,” Stannis said stubbornly. “This war will likely not end without one.”
“The Lannister-Baratheon marriage brought war to Westeros. So did the Stark-Baratheon betrothal, Rhaenyra’s marriages, Duncan Targaryen’s, and countless more. Children deserve to grow up, at least, before they’re sold off. I am not saying there is a need for it to apply retroactively, as that would cause as many problems as it might solve. We actually ban ex post facto laws where I come from. You can allow betrothals for minors to secure your alliances if you must, just let kids come of age before you have your truly disgusting bedding ceremonies. I’d ask you to ban those too, but…”
“Both the Faith and the Old Gods require them,” he finished.
“Still disgusting,” she muttered.
“And you believe this would… win the support of your followers? Support that I already have?”
“For now. They’re loyal to you because they think we are loyal to you. If we aren’t, then neither are they.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Stannis said coolly.
“It can be. That depends on how many children you force into a lifelong marriage. I’m really tempted to go and force the High Septon to allow divorce. How many people in this country are trapped in loveless or abusive marriages? I’m sure my mother’s followers would love to hear about that…”
“So they would. I will sign the decree. But it will not be popular,” he warned her. She was absolutely delighted when almost no Lords truly cared, since weddings below 16 were already frowned upon. She’d only formalized custom, but doubtlessly saved lives in the process, and in exchange, she, Frank, and Percy made sure to mention the importance of not sexually abusing children more often. It was only when Stannis summoned the three demigods to his solar a week later that she realized she’d made a mistake.
“To House Jackson, I intend to grant Rosby, its castle, and its environs. To House Zhang, I grant Stokeworth, its castle, and its environs. All taxes and honors due to the lords of Rosby and Stokeworth will be due to Lord Percy Jackson and Lord Frank Zhang. Taxes will be owed to the Crown. Inheritance of the fiefs will pass to your descendants,” he declared unceremoniously. Annabeth immediately began silently cursing her damned pride. Of course Stannis was afraid of the power they wielded. Hadn’t he been overstepping their deal for months?
“Woah woah woah. I’m sorry, what? You’re giving us castles?” Percy stammered out.
“Both Houses are extinct after the massacre in the Queen’s Ballroom. Houses Jackson and Zhang have served me loyally, and I could ask for no better bannermen,” the King explained. He was right, of course. Tanda, Falyse, and Lollys Stokeworth were dead, as was Lord Giles Rosby. The succession was entirely unclear.
“I’m a Prince of another realm, Your Grace,” Percy tried to deflect.
“Are you the Crown Prince?”
“No, Triton’s the heir,” he admitted.
“And how many others are in line for the throne between you and the Merling King?”
“...a lot,” Percy said with a wince.
“Then you will certainly never inherit the realm, even more so because your father is immortal. You are being granted a fief of your own, to be ruled by your children after you. Why would you deny such an honor?”
“We don’t want it. We are not your bannermen, and we are not staying in this world,” Frank growled.
“Your return could take years, in the interim-”
“We need to be in Oldtown. We made a deal,” Annabeth insisted, slamming her fist into the table. Stannis ignored the gesture, and his tone remained calm.
“And if you cannot return home? If all your searching is for naught?” The question- one she’d refused to seriously consider even in her darkest moments- hit her like a knife in the back.
“Then we’ll figure that out when the time comes,” she said shakily.
“Accepting these titles is an order from your King. You cannot simply exist here like hedge knights, accepting my hospitality and gold with no official duties or responsibilities.” Annabeth couldn’t restrain an indignant laugh at that assertion. It was idiotic to believe that Stannis would have taken Storm’s End or King’s Landing without them. “It is unpredictable, unseemly, and dishonorable for all of us. Rosby and Stokeworth are critical suppliers of food to King’s Landing, and I trust you three will not let smallfolk starve. You will take up lordships and become my bannermen.” With all the oaths that entails went unsaid. Stannis wanted them at his beck and call, bound to serve and obey. They were loose cannon, and he wanted them tied down. Godsdamnit, I’m using nautical metaphors. I’m spending too much time with Percy.
“You are not my King. You’re an ally. We don’t serve kings where I come from,” Percy tried to argue. Annabeth didn’t disagree, but she doubted this argument would go anywhere. She’d made a mistake, and plans to correct it were already swirling through her mind. Her nails dug into her palms as she frantically tried to work through her anger at herself and at this grasping, insecure fool of a king and find a godsdamned solution. This was starting to be reminiscent of her blessedly sparse encounters with Zeus, paranoid and blue-eyed as he was, but she reminded herself that Stannis was nowhere near that level of power. He was just another mortal man with delusions of grandeur, ones that she admittedly had had no small part in feeding. She could do this. She had to. She’d handed the King of the Titans the knife that took his life. Surely she could outsmart Stannis Baratheon.
“Ne yankee fuerīs, Perse,” Frank hissed in Latin. “Huic mundi necesse sunt suōs rēgēs et dominī.”
“I’m a Mets fan!” Percy yelled in indignant English. Unable to help herself, Annabeth started snickering, until the King’s annoyed coughing interrupted her. She winced, and put her court mask back on.
“Perhaps this discussion can be completed after the castles have actually been captured?” Annabeth suggested, trying to play for time. A delaying tactic would let her clean up this mess and reassert the demigods’ independent authority. “This is a pointless discussion while they’re under Lannister control.”
“Indeed. The campaign for the Crownlands and Harrenhal is of the utmost importance. But make no mistake, Princess. This conversation is not over,” Stannis promised. To her great regret, Annabeth believed him.
Notes:
Translations:
Greek:
Mouseion: in this context, the Library of Alexandria
Philoi: friends
Pateres (fathers), and adelphoi (brothers), were both honorary titles occasionally given to very important Hellenistic courtiers
Basileos: KingLatin:
“Ne yankee fuerīs, Perse. Huic mundī necesse sunt suōs rēgēs et dominī.”: Don’t be a Yankee (as in a stereotypical American), Percy. This world needs its kings and lords.Do I think Percy is actually a Mets fan, despite fanon saying he is? No. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Up next:
18.Interlude: The Exile
19.Catelyn III
20.Frank II
21.Sansa II
Chapter 18: Interlude: The Exile
Notes:
This takes place sometime in early October 299 AC
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Is that supposed to be our host?” The boy quipped, staring up at the statue with skepticism in his purple eyes. “From what I remember of my youth, it’s a rather inaccurate likeness.”
“It is rude to disrespect a man in his home,” the older man chided gently, though he silently agreed with the assessment. The statue was life-sized, standing in a marble pool, depicting a naked youth holding a bravo’s blade. Though the man it depicted was now rotund and had likely held nothing sharper or more dangerous than a steak knife for many years, he had to admit that there was something familiar about the likeness. Perhaps it was the shape of the cheekbones, or the eyes. No matter its familiarity, the prominence of the (admittedly well-crafted, yet horrible to look upon) statue drew the eye. If nothing else, morbid curiosity forced the man and his son to examine it.
“As you say, father,” the stripling said with a cheeky smile.
Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin’s Roost, former Hand of the King to Aerys II, and now merely an exile, ruffled his foster-son’s dyed blue hair. His son scowled, trying to make the blue locks look somewhat neat again while Jon chuckled. For a moment, the scene was so normal that he was shaken by it. An exile and a failure did not deserve this kind of life, to love another man’s son so dearly.
He had first met the boy, his beloved Rhaegar’s boy, twelve years before in this very manse. Now, twelve years later, Aegon VI Targaryen, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, was as tall as Jon himself. For over a decade he had lived as Griff the sellsword, and the King of Westeros had lived as his son, Young Griff. Never once had they been summoned back to Pentos, where the Spider and the Cheesemonger had hidden Aegon for five years after smuggling him from King’s Landing.
If only you could see him now, Rhaegar, Jon thought. Would you be proud of him? Would you thank me for keeping him safe, or curse that your boy calls me father, and I call him son? It did not matter now. Rhaegar was dead, his little girl was dead, even that damned Elia was dead. But Aegon lived, thanks to two of the people who Jon liked and trusted the least, and to his own efforts. He would not throw the boy’s life away now.
“Magister Illyrio will see you now,” one of the household slaves said in Pentoshi Valyrian. There were no titles, names, or formalities. Their identity was unknown to all but the Magister; such secrecy was necessary to protect a prince whom the world believed dead. Aegon thanked the slave in the same tongue, and Jon followed in his ward’s footsteps. All these years in Essos, and he had never quite gotten used to slavery. Thankfully, Aegon was repulsed by it despite his upbringing on this continent. His son tolerated Illyrio Mopatis, but was too smart to trust him.
Runners from Mopatis were not uncommon for the crew of the Shy Maid, the old poleboat which sailed Jon and Aegon up and down the Rhoyne. They and their crew; Haldon Halfmaester, Septa Lemore, Yandry and Ysilla the Orphans of the Greenblood, and Rolly Duckfield the knight, had dwelt there for years. Aegon was instructed in the history of both Westeros and Essos, as well as the intricacies of the Faith of the Seven. He could fluently speak Andlish (with Jon’s Stormlands accent, to his amusement), High Valyrian, Pentoshi, Tyroshi, Myrene, and Lyseni tongues, along with sailors’ trade talk, and had a conversational familiarity with Braavosi and Rhoynish. He knew how to rule, fight, and lead. Dispatches, supplies, coin, and information were acquired when they stopped in small Rhoynish towns along the Rhoyne. Oftentimes, a messenger from Illyrio, their sponsor, awaited them.
A little over a month had passed since the harried messenger found Jon by the docks of a riverport near Ghoyan Drohe. He had refused to say anything but that the Magister needed to speak to Griff and Young Griff at once, in Pentos. The Shy Maid was to remain behind. And so Jon had taken his ward and a pair of horses, and they’d ridden for Pentos at once. They had had no news, no explanations, and no additional information since then. Jon had considered many possibilities for their summons. His first theory was that something had happened with Viserys and Daenerys, Rhaegar’s siblings. The messenger had at least been willing to tell Jon that Viserys was dead and Daenerys missing, but even he had not known the cause of the summons.
The slave led father and son to a grand (Jon would say ostentatious if he wasn’t trying to be polite) study. The doors, flanked by unsullied slave-soldiers, swung open from within. Illyrio Mopatis sat behind a gilded, ornate desk. Jon’s nose was assaulted by too-strong perfume even before he’d stepped fully into the room, and he was entirely unsurprised to see the man standing off to Mopatis’ side.
“Lord Varys. Your presence here is a surprise,” Jon said coolly.
“The situation has changed rather drastically. An attack on Westeros is now feasible, if you can match the strength of those who hold King’s Landing now,” the Eunuch said with a slight incline of his head. He bowed more deeply to Aegon while the two men took their seats across from Illyrio. “Wonderful to see you again, Your Grace. The last time, you were but a babe being smuggled from King’s Landing.”
“I owe you my life, Lord Varys,” Aegon replied politely. Jon glanced to the side, and saw the wide-eyed shock in his son’s eyes. He had no doubt it mirrored his own. Aegon glanced back, silently asking what the fuck was going on. Jon wished he knew.
“Who, precisely, holds King’s Landing?” Jon felt compelled to ask.
“Stannis Baratheon. Robert the Usurper was killed in a hunting accident, and his children by Cersei Lannister are actually the bastards of Cersei and her brother the Kingslayer. The Lannisters held the city for a time, and now Stannis has seized it, with… unexpected help,” Illyrio informed them.
“The Usurper is dead! This is wonderful news!” Aegon shouted, but Jon could barely hear him. The bells were ringing in his mind again. Always those damn bells. Robert Baratheon, the man who had hidden from Jon in a brothel and crushed him in battle, was dead. The man who had caved in Rhaegar’s chest with a warhammer, who had orphaned Aegon, was dead.
A heady mix of relief and regret coursed through him. Robert was dead, and Jon could not be happier to see his former liege lord go. Yet some small, selfish part of him had wanted to avenge Rhaegar personally. The Usurper had died in a hunting accident. Such a man did not deserve a quiet death. Jon would never have his revenge- Rhaegar’s revenge. Putting Aegon on the Iron Throne will have to be revenge enough. Jon could live with that, or die with it if he must.
“What help, Varys?” Jon snapped.
“Beings of extraordinary power, from another world.” Jon burst out laughing, while Aegon regally chuckled. Varys only smiled blandly. “I’m quite serious, I’m afraid.”
“Why are you here, my Lord?” Jon asked pointedly.
“Because, rather unfortunately, His Grace King Stannis wants my head, and he is ambivalent about whether it is still attached to my neck. My little birds remain in place, but they have not been able to provide much insight about these… demigods.”
“Demigods?” Aegon asked slowly. Varys gave that saccharine smile of his, and launched into a fantastical tale about two young men and one woman who had come from nowhere and conquered the city almost on their own.
“I watched from outside the city, Your Grace. One of them split the Blackwater in two, another can turn into a dragon. And if what my little birds tell me is true, the third is the most dangerous. I’m afraid they speak and write not one, but two languages foreign to this world amongst themselves. Some of one can be deciphered by my little birds, but the other is too strange. I know only what the court knows, their private conversations are secret even to me.”
“What good are you then,” Jon snapped. Aegon raised a hand, and Jon inclined his head in a silent apology.
“What my foster-father means to say is that there must have been a reason for our summons, Magister. What might it be?”
Illyrio Mopatis looked at Aegon with hunger in his beady eyes. Jon had seen many men look upon boys with desire, but this was different. There was greed, but no lust. It took him a moment for him to find the memory, but once he did, Jon wished he hadn’t. Illyrio Mopatis looked at Aegon the same way Aerys had looked at wildfire. Jon wondered, not for the first time, what precisely a Magister of Pentos and a spymaster had to gain from supporting the Targaryens so staunchly.
“We have a plan, my boy, that can get you your throne back. Westeros is still at war, and nobody loves Stannis Baratheon. He is stubborn and unyielding as iron, and twice as cold. You are the blood of the dragon. The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. We can help you take advantage of this chaos. There is a vacuum that only you can fill,” Illyrio said.
“Might I assume you have a price for this… help? Likely an outrageous portion of my Kingdom?” Aegon prodded. Jon felt a swell of pride at his boy’s astuteness, but said nothing.
“I am a merchant, my boy, not a king. Although, the opportunity to expand my business to Westeros would not be remiss,” the Cheesemonger hinted. Varys kept a straight face, though Jon could practically smell his smugness, even over all the perfume. Jon felt a flash of pride when Aegon smiled blankly, not betraying a hint of his inner emotions. The boy was an excellent negotiator and politician, even if he was prideful at times.
“Perhaps an appointment at Court, then. Say… Master of Coin? Your expertise would be invaluable in bringing Westeros into an age of prosperity,” Aegon offered through gritted teeth. It was what the slaving bastard had been looking to hear, Jon knew, but that made it no easier to offer. One less Small Council seat to barter away. One more slaver in King’s Landing. But if Aegon were to sit the Iron Throne, he would need the help of the Cheesemonger and the Spider.
“Oh yes, I believe that would do quite nicely,” Illyrio chuckled. He shouted out an order in Valyrian, and two slaves carrying a long, black box rushed into the room. They set it on the desk between Illyrio and the two Griffs. Jon eyed the package skeptically.
“Go on. Open it,” Varys said. “It’s the first step in the plan.”
Tentatively, Aegon stood, and removed the lid, setting it on the desk. He pulled away a few layers of cloth, and gasped. Jon’s hand crept towards the sword at his hip, wary of what trick was contained within. Yet when Aegon reached inside, he pulled out a sword made of rippling black steel. It was a hand-and-a-halfer, a bastard sword, made of steel shot through with ripples. Valyrian steel. Jon hadn’t seen Valyrian Steel in person for many long years, but even a fool would recognize this blade. The crossguard was decorated with snarling dragon heads on each end, the hilt wrapped in black leather, and the pommel set with a massive ruby.
“Blackfyre,” Aegon whispered, “the sword of kings. How did you…”
“I’m rich, my boy. Even Blackfyre had a price,” Illyrio chuckled. Aegon removed an ornate leather scabbard from the box, and slid the blade into its sheath.
“Thank you, Magister, for returning my family’s sword to its rightful bearer. But how, might I ask, is this supposed to secure me the Throne? It didn’t do Daemon Blackfyre any good.”
“Magic is an evil, unpredictable thing,” Varys spat with vehemence Jon had never heard from the spymaster, “but dragons in the hands of Targaryens have done more good than whatever fell sorcery these demigods bring from another world.”
“Dragons are dead and gone,” Jon hissed.
“Not so,” Illyrio corrected, and Aegon started chuckling hysterically. Jon could hardly blame him. “I gave Daenerys Targaryen three dragon eggs, long since turned to stone, upon her marriage to Khal Drogo. Now, the Dothraki Khal is dead, as is Viserys Targaryen. But the last I heard, Daenerys lived. She is- or was- in Qarth. With three young dragons.”
Jon wasn’t sure whether to believe such lunacy or not, but even he had seen the red comet in the sky. He and Aegon exchanged another look, and the boy shrugged. If nothing else, they’d gotten Blackfyre out of this lunacy. Varys and Illyrio were greedy and untrustworthy, but they were neither fools nor madmen.
“Daenerys is now a childless widow with three dragons. She can only ride one of them herself. With Viserys dead, she has no one else who has the blood of the dragonlords. But you, Your Grace, can claim a dragon, and with it, the Throne. I detest magic, but I would rather you wield it for good than the demigods wield it for evil,” Varys suggested, allowing Aegon to fill in the blanks.
“You want me to marry my aunt, and claim a dragon as dowry,” Aegon asked, in a tone so flat it might not have been a question.
“Why not?” the Cheesemonger shouted, startling Jon and Aegon into jumping. “Your claim is stronger than hers, for all that she is a rare beauty. A dragon is your birthright, just like that sword, and that throne. Go to Qarth, or wherever she may be. Find Daenerys, marry her, make her your queen. You will be the first man to ride a dragon in a hundred and fifty years, and you will have the Seven Kingdoms as bride-price, not to mention the most beautiful bride in the world. Three dragons will be more than enough to kill three demigods.”
“A sword is not enough to make the girl wed him, especially not if she seeks to put herself on the Iron Throne,” Jon pointed out, “We need more to bargain with.”
“Am I not worthy enough of a prize, father?” Aegon joked, flashing Jon a bright smile. You remind me so much of him, sometimes. He looked just like Rhaegar.
“Your Grace’s desirability aside,” Varys said with a chuckle, “you need not enter Qarth as a beggar. Had your father persevered, he would no doubt have wedded you to Daenerys anyway, to strengthen your claim, and ensure the blood of the Targaryens remained pure. We will see Rhaegar’s wishes through.” The Eunuch was obviously making that up, but to his credit, Jon suspected he was right. Rhaegar likely would have done so. “There is a ship waiting in the harbor. It will take you to Volantis, where the crew of the Shy Maid will meet you. A runner is being sent to tell them to sail down the Rhoyne.
“The Golden Company is encamped to the east of the city. You will take command of the Golden Company. Payment is being provided by Magister Illyrio, and of course they will want reward upon arrival in Westeros. Lands, lifted exiles, and the like. Your foster father served with them for five years, his connections will be crucial in verifying your identity and ensuring the smooth handover of command. In Volantis, you and the Golden Company will either take ship to Qarth, if news from the docks says Daenerys remains in the Queen of Cities, or you will sail to wherever she may be now. You will present her with an army, a husband to both solidify her claim and reunite her with the last of her family, and therefore the means to go home. In exchange, you will claim one of her dragons, and you will conquer the Seven Kingdoms as husband and wife,” Varys finished smoothly. Illyrio was silently fuming, though Jon could not figure out why.
“What of Dorne?” he asked. “Have we any allies let in Westeros, or merely foreign invaders and Blackfyre exiles?”
“Dorne stayed quiet in the war, and they will likely bend to Stannis to avoid being drawn into it. Rest assured, my lord, that I am actively working with several allies, old and new, to lay the groundwork for the Targaryens’ triumphant return,” Varys said. “Dorne will of course rise to secure the rule of Elia’s son.”
Father and son shared another silent conversation. Jon could see the wheels turning behind Aegon’s eyes, the boy calculating his path to the Red Keep. Jon had many questions left to ask, but his son did not give Jon the chance to ask them.
“When do we leave?” Aegon asked excitedly.
Jon sighed, resigning himself to this path. He wasn’t quite certain of its success, but despite having raised the boy, Aegon was his King. He could see the glint of hope in his son’s- Rhaegar’s son’s- eyes. No doubt, the promise of a gorgeous woman to marry, a dragon, and a kingdom would have swayed any sixteen year old. Jon could only hope that his dreams would come true.
Notes:
The Exile’s identity is revealed! I know this chapter will make no sense to those who haven’t read the books. I’m alright with that. Read the wiki (or the books) if you need to, but these characters are all very important.
Next up:
19. Catelyn III
20. Frank II
21. Sansa II
22. Percy V (secondary title is a spoiler)
Chapter 19: Catelyn III
Chapter Text
Nearly two months passed between the departure of Frank Zhang and Annabeth Jackson from Riverrun and Robb’s return. Occasional, fragmentary reports reached the Tully’s castle of the Stark forces scouring the Westerlands, usually accompanied by trains of wagons heavy with gold, or droves of cattle stolen from Lannister ranches. Randyll Staunton and Lomas Estermont, Stannis’ envoys, found themselves relegated to preliminary conversation with Cat and Edmure, much to their displeasure.
Cat would reluctantly admit to herself that the negotiations were pointless without her son’s presence, but never to the envoys themselves. Her father was dying, two of her sons were dead, Robb was wounded at The Crag, and Arya was missing. If the slow pace of negotiations allowed her to spend time with Sansa and care for her dying father without risking war, she would happily let them drag on.
Robb’s arrival at Riverrun should have been purely a triumph, a reunion between brother and sister a year in the making. Instead, it was tainted by the recent news of Robb’s marriage to Jeyne Westerling, and the subsequent departure of the Freys. Even so, Robb and Cat’s Uncle Brynden had a hero’s welcome to Riverrun, but the triumph came to a halt when Robb spotted his sister at the front of the crowd, to Cat’s right.
The elder of the two siblings broke into a boyish grin, smoothly getting down from his horse and running over to Sansa. Cat’s daughter was already laughing, tears in her eyes, when Robb pulled her into a hug and spun her around. When the King finally put down his sister, his crown was crooked and his face flushed with joy.
“Look at you! You’re almost as tall as I am!” He shouted, putting his hands on Sansa’s shoulders. “You look just like mother.”
“Aye, she does,” the Blackfish huffed. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Princess. The news of your return was so nonsensical that we weren’t sure whether or not to believe it.”
“Please, Ser, we are kin, and there are too few of my blood left,” Sansa said with a princess’ manners, “you must call me Sansa. My return to Riverrun is a complicated story, but one which you will hear soon enough.” Brynden threw back his head and laughed at his great-niece’s demeanor, but gave her a hug of his own, kissed Catelyn on the forehead, and grasped Edmure’s forearm.
“Robb,” Cat scolded without anger, “aren’t you going to introduce us?” She gestured toward the small group under a seashell banner: one pretty young woman with deep olive skin who was smiling shyly, a woman closer to Cat’s age a shade darker than her daughter, one mustachioed knight in armor, and two young children, one boy and one girl. The Westerlings, now Cat’s family by marriage. Her son went red from embarrassment, but quickly recovered his composure.
“Right. Yes. The pleasantries. Mother, Uncle Edmure, Sansa, this is my wife, Queen Jeyne Westerling, her brother Ser Raynald…”
The introductions and welcomes went on for a while longer, but before too long the crowd dispersed. The next order of business involved informing the King of all that had transpired in his absence. Edmure led his nephew, niece, and uncle to the room currently being used for frank, family-only discussions. There had been an awful lot of those lately. He and Cat then proceeded to tell Robb of every fantastical thing that they’d seen since Storm’s End. He’d received news of the fall of King’s Landing, but had believed the news of the demigods to be rumor and myth.
“This is real? It sounds like a story out of the Age of Heroes,” Robb asked, when the story was done.
“It’s real,” Sansa confirmed quietly. Robb sighed, slumping into his chair. His crown lay on the table before him, beside a map of Westeros covered in tokens. Roose Bolton’s force in the eastern Riverlands and Robb’s at Riverrun were surrounded by the Lannisters leaving Harrenhal, the Baratheons in King’s Landing, and even the Ironborn still holding Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, and Torrhen’s Square. He spared a glance at the map and snorted.
“At least the Lannisters are doomed, they can’t win against a man who can turn into a dragon. Did the envoys really bring us back Ice, too?”
By way of answer, Catelyn stood, walked to a low table against a wall, and retrieved the blade. She reverently passed her husband’s sword to their son, who stood and unsheathed it in one motion..
Cat’s sons- son, now- may have had her coloring, but with Ice in his hands, Robb was the spitting image of his father. He held the blade aloft before him, as if six feet of Valyrian steel weighed no more than an overlarge stick. Her boy stared grimly at the sword for a few moments, as if it was a duty he was burdened with. Ned had made that same expression countless times. Robb carefully returned Ice to its scabbard, then placed that scabbard beside his crown.
“I will have to thank King Stannis for returning the blade to the Starks. And for killing Joffrey,” he said offhandedly. Cat winced, unsure of if she should correct him, but Sansa took matters into her own hands.
“I killed Joffrey,” she said in a steady voice.
Robb’s gaze snapped to his little sister, blue eyes wide with shock. Sansa held her head high and did not tremble, having gotten used to scrutiny over the boy king’s death these past months. Her mask had been successful in fooling the Riverlords, but Cat saw her daughter’s guilt, fear, and anger in her wide, teary eyes and trembling lip. Robb must have too, because instead of criticizing or interrogating her, he stood and embraced his sister tightly, as if she was all he had left of home.
“I’m very proud of you, and I’m very sorry,” Robb said into her hair. Sansa began to weep, then, and Cat moved so that she could rub her daughter’s back, as she had when Sansa was still a little girl. Before she’d taken a life and lost a father. At some point, Edmure and Brynden had ducked out of the room, and Cat was grateful for it. Robb met her eyes over Sansa’s head, revealing them to be glassy and bloodshot.
“Mother… Bran and Rickon…” he whispered, before his voice broke off.
“I know, sweetling,” she murmured, and then both her remaining children were weeping in her arms.
Catelyn wondered if it made her a terrible person, to celebrate that her son could still cry. It was better that he was mourning than dead, like Bran, Ned, Rickon, and Arya. What was left of her family had reunited, with a new member as well. Perhaps Cat would be a grandmother soon. She could only pray that Robb and his pretty new wife hadn’t doomed the North with their love. With Stannis consolidating power in the east, Robb had thrown away the support of the Freys. Cat would have understood if he’d made a more powerful marriage, but instead he’d tied himself to the scion of a dirt-poor enemy house.
Robb did an admirable job of fending off Stannis’ ambassadors as long as possible. He received them before the court, of course, and reaffirmed their guest right and diplomatic status, but the King made no move to indicate the details of his stance on Stannis for over a week. Eventually, however, the principal lords held a meeting with the envoys. When they emerged, Robb was grim-faced and Edmure pale.
“Stannis and I have a common enemy. My father supported his claim. I see no point in shedding Baratheon blood at the cost of Stark lives. They will inform their king of a non-aggression pact between us. We can focus our military efforts on the Lannisters,” Robb informed his war council. Brynden took the opportunity to provide a report on the Lannisters’ positions.
“The Mountain has left Harrenhal with 5,000 men, heading North. Tywin Lannister marches west with 11,000. Amory Lorch holds the castle with a skeleton garrison.”
The need to hunt down Tywin Lannister and protect the Riverlands from the Mountain were immediately and universally agreed upon, although it took time to determine how this would be done.
Over a handful of days, Robb’s plan for the remainder of the war coalesced. Lord Bolton and 8,000 of his 10,000 men would march on Harrenhal, already near to their position, leaving the Lannisters without a foothold in the Riverlands. The remaining 2,000 would be recalled to Riverrun, under the command of Robett Glover, along with 4,000 men from the nearby Riverlords. Once they arrived, the soldiers under Glover would be joined by 3,000 of their countrymen men under Rickard Karstark and lay siege to Moat Cailin from the south, while the Crannogmen showed them how to slip through the Neck and attack the castle from the North as well. The Moat had never before fallen from the south, but now, without the Crannogmen’s support, and with an encircling siege, it could not stand.
The Riverlords, aside from the 4,000 recalled to Riverrun, would be allowed to remain at home and defend their lands from reavers, while the remaining Northmen stayed at Riverrun, ready to respond to Tywin Lannister. As soon as his destination became clearer, Robb would lead 15,000 men against the old lion.
“Send a raven to Lord Manderly,” Robb added to the long list of instructions he was giving the maester. “Have him regroup his forces from the Hornwood. Have him reinforce them with fresh troops from White Harbor, and secure Winterfell’s ruins. The Ironborn still threaten the North, and the war in the south is winding down. We must be unified, strong, and on solid ground to negotiate. Winterfell must be rebuilt. His men and the smallfolk- have them brought back from the Dreadfort- should begin winter preparations, gather the harvests, and fell trees in the Wolfswood to begin rebuilding.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maester said, and hurried from the room. It was only moments later that a guard ran in, out of breath and pale-faced.
“Your Graces, milady. The Hound is outside the gates, and he has a child with him who he claims is Arya Stark.”
The entire council made it to the battlements in mere minutes. The portcullis was up, drawbridge was down, and a dozen bowmen had arrows knocked and drawn. Across Riverrun’s moat stood a massive armored man, with a burn scar covering half his face. Cat would recognize Sandor Clegane anywhere. And, sure enough, he had a struggling girl pressed against his chestplate, with a vambraced forearm across her stomach and a knife at her throat. Even from a distance, Cat could recognize her youngest daughter. Cat felt her heart pounding in her throat. She hadn’t seen Arya since the King left Winterfell, what felt like an eternity ago now. She’s grown, Cat thought absently, though not by much. What have they been feeding her?
“Mother! Robb! Kill him! He killed Mycah, I don’t care if I die, just kill him!” Arya was shouting, trying to get a hand around Clegane’s massive arm and failing.
“Stark! I’ve come a very long way for this, but I’ll cut her throat if you don’t hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” Robb shouted. Cat suspected she was the only one who could hear the tremor in his voice. Jeyne stood by her husband’s side, one hand on his arm and the other over her mouth. “What do you want, Clegane?”
“I want to eat, drink, and kill. You’d have had me executed on sight if I showed up without a knife to the girl’s throat. Swear on your precious northern honor that you’ll let me fight for the Starks, unharmed, and I’ll give you your sister.”
“He’s on my list! He needs to die! Let me kill him!”
“You want to fight? For Winterfell?” Cat asked skeptically, unable to take her eyes off her daughter.
“I don’t care who I fight for, as long as I get to. The chance to kill my brother makes the deal sweeter. Swear it, Stark! Or the girl and I both die.”
“Robb, swear it! It’s Arya!” Sansa hissed. “The Hound was always kind to me,” she added more softly. Robb swore and ground his teeth, but it was clear that he was only ever going to make the right decision.
“I swear by the old gods and the new that you, Sandor Clegane, may serve as a man-at-arms of House Stark for as long as you so desire, and that I will not intentionally inflict harm upon you, or order another to do so.” Robb gestured, and the bowmen lowered their weapons, as did the knights in the courtyard below.
The Hound gave a horrible, half-melted sneer, and practically shoved Arya towards the lowered drawbridge. He pulled a thin sword from his belt and tossed it after her, then stormed off towards the soldiers’ tents outside the castle. Arya shouted, grabbed the sword, and might have charged after her former captor if Cat hadn’t shouted her name.
With just a hint of reluctance, Arya stuck the thin sword into her belt and walked over Riverrun’s drawbridge, quickly joined by five Stark and Tully guards. The family ran down the stairs, and Cat was the first to sweep her daughter into a hug, which Arya returned. Even dressed in filthy boy’s clothes, it was a delight to see her in one piece. Sansa, too, was allowed to embrace her sister, and a thousand silent apologies passed between them.
“We thought you were dead,” Sansa admitted, and Arya snorted with laughter.
“Not today.”
Edmure and Brynden were introduced, although Arya could figure out who they were easily enough.
“I’m not talking to you,” Arya spat to her brother, though Cat could see the emotions welling up in her eyes. Anger was not chief among them. Her son was disappointed, though he did not seem surprised.
“Alright then. How about some food?” Robb offered instead. This, Arya was unable to refuse, and she allowed herself to be lead into a dining room, where chicken, bread, water, and mashed turnips were delivered from the kitchens. Arya quickly began to eat, while the Starks and Tullys watched with horrified interest. It must have been months since Arya’s last proper meal. No one was willing to interrupt. It took five minutes for the girl to speak, and it was to Jeyne when she did.
“Who are you?”
“Jeyne Westerling, Princess. Your goodsister,” the Queen replied.
“Hmph,” Arya said, and shoved a drumstick in her mouth.
“Arya,” Robb began cautiously, while his sister continued to eat, “what happened to you?”
Arya swallowed down a gulp of water and took in a deep breath, then gave an accounting of her adventures so quickly that Cat could barely separate the words. The pain in Arya’s voice was clear regardless, however.
“A Black Brother brought me out of King’s Landing, his name was Yoren. He cut my hair and told me I was a boy and said my name was Arry. We left the city but the Lannisters attacked us because they wanted Gendry dead, and Yoren died, but we escaped. Amory Lorch found us and the Mountain’s Men put the others to the question because they were looking for Beric Dondarrion, but we didn’t know where he was. They brought us to Harrenhal and the Lannisters showed up after King’s Landing fell. Jaqen helped Gendry, Hot Pie and I escape, and the Brotherhood Without Banners found us. Harwin from Winterfell was with them, so was Beric Dondarrion, but he’d died and come back several times. The Brotherhood found the Hound and they had a trial by combat for Mycah, but the Hound won and killed Dondarrion, but Thoros brought Dondarrion back. They let the Hound go and they were going to ransom me to you but I escaped and the Hound found me and brought me here anyway.”
Everyone took a few moments to try to figure out what Arya had just said. It sounded borderline nonsensical to Cat, but the parts she did understand were horrifying. Her daughter had been witness to torture? Held by the Lannisters at Harrenhal? Who was this Jaqen person?
“Arya,” Cat asked eventually, fearing the answer; “what was the list you were screaming about?”
“The Mountain. The Hound. Meryn Trant. Dunsen. Amory Lorch. Polliver. Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler,” she recited dully. “It’s a list of the people I’m going to kill. Joffrey and Cersei were on it, but I heard they died. Did you really kill him, Sansa?” Arya questioned eagerly. Sansa managed a strained smile, while Cat stared in horror. Brynden looked impressed, and Robb just seemed resigned.
“I did. And Meryn Trant is dead as well, though not by my hand.” Arya seemed satisfied with this revelation, and returned to eating ravenously.
“I’ll kill him, you know. The Hound. I never swore any oath. You should’ve let me die,” she said to her brother through a mouthful of food. Robb sighed with the exhaustion of a man thrice his age.
“I burned the Westerlands for your life, Arya. Your survival is worth far more than Clegane’s death.”
Arya looked at her brother properly, then, and Cat saw Ned’s ghost in her eyes. The girl practically leapt across the table to wrap her arms around Robb’s neck, and seemed content there for the moment.
“Perhaps you would like a bath, Arya? And a dress?” Cat offered. Maybe Arya’s taste in clothing had changed from being at Court. Her daughter’s huff proved her hope to be vain.
“I’ll take that bath, but I want breeches. And you’re not taking Needle, Jon gave it to me.” Jon Snow? The bastard gave her that sword? Cat opened her mouth to speak, but her uncle silenced her with a glare.
“Come off it, Cat. She’s been living on the road and pretending to be a boy for a year. You can’t blame the girl for feeling safer with breeches and a sword,” the Blackfish added. Arya’s grin told Cat that she’d found a new favorite relative.
On her way to bed that night, Cat was surprised to find Jeyne Westerling outside the rooms that she and Robb shared. The young woman was standing awkwardly, seemingly unsure what to do with herself. From the rather awkward conversation the two women had had a few days ago, Cat knew that her son and his wife shared a bedroom, unlike most highborn lords and ladies
“Is aught amiss in your quarters, Your Grace?” Cat asked. The young queen made a shushing gesture, then blanched when she realized what she’d done. Jeyne then beckoned Cat closer, and spoke in low tones.
“Nothing’s wrong, just… look for yourself.”
Bewildered, Catelyn watched as her gooddaughter slowly opened the door to her and Robb’s rooms. On the bed that had once been Lysa’s, all her living children were sleeping. Robb, still dressed in court finery, was fast asleep, with Grey Wind curled over his feet. Arya was tucked under one of his arms, with Sansa’s head on his other shoulder. The two sisters each had an arm thrown atop the other, over Robb’s chest. Her heart warmed at the sight, and she took a moment to revel in it.
“I’m sorry, Lady Stark. I don’t mean to intrude. This is for them, I’ll sleep in other chambers tonight. It’s just… Robb looks happy. We love each other, I try to bring him what comfort and happiness I can, but his family- your family- is everything to him. He’s a Stark down to his bones. The absence of his sisters, the loss of his brothers… it shattered him. He’s been so tired lately, he barely sleeps. It’s a relief to see him like this, without the weight of a crown. Tonight, he should just be Robb, Sansa and Arya’s brother. Not the King in the North.” Jeyne trailed off, still peering through the doorway. Cat gently pushed the door shut, refusing to wake her children from their rest.
“Robb could not have asked for a better queen, or a better wife,” Cat told her honestly.
“I know you do not mean it, my lady, but thank you nonetheless,” Jeyne said, not unkindly. Cat considered her words carefully.
“As King in the North, perhaps he could have made a better alliance. But as Robb, I’m glad he found you,” she said. That seemed to mean quite a bit to the young queen, who smiled widely and bid Cat goodnight. The two women went their separate ways, then, and Cat slept soundly that night.
The next morning’s war council had an entirely different mood, with Arya returned home.
“Ned’s girls are free, Your Grace. Let me take the Kingslayer’s head before I depart for the North,” Rickard Karstark asked almost immediately.
“If I did, the Lannisters would lop off Harrion’s. The Kingslayer will face northern justice, but if his freedom can buy the lives of captives, then I will gladly exchange him for my bannermen,” Robb snapped, and that discussion was ended. Lord Karstark’s son and heir, Harrion, was still a Lannister captive in Harrenhal, along with many other Lords of the North.
The next day, Robb called a council of all his lords in Riverrun’s great hall. Sansa, Arya, Cat, and Brynden all sat to his left, while Edmure sat to his right with Jeyne and Raynald Westerling, who had proven to be a dear friend to Robb, as well as Rickard Karstark, Dacey Mormont, and the Greatjon; three of the North’s most vicious warriors.
“I intend to inform the Baratheons that I am willing to negotiate terms for a reunification of Westeros,” Robb announced without preamble. The hall practically exploded with jeers and shouts.
“By all the gods, is the King the only man here who has any brains? You’re all prideful fools, the lot of you. I’ve seen more war than any of you, and I don’t want to see any more,” the Blackfish shouted over the din.
“We made you King! You would throw away your crown?” Greatjon Umber was yelling.
“If it would save the life of a single one of you, I would melt it to slag in a heartbeat. Winter is coming, my lords. Pride is for spring,” Robb said calmly.
“You would make us kneel before southron cunts!”
“Stannis worships foreign gods!”
“What have the Baratheons ever done for us!”
The shouting grew nearly unbearable, until no one individual voice could be heard amongst the fray. Robb sighed, snapping his fingers. Grey Wind perked up, reluctantly moving from his spot by the fire to sit by Robb’s side. A moment later, the dire wolf let out an ear-piercing howl, and the room fell silent. Robb allowed the silence to continue for a few seconds before standing up from his seat. Every eye followed him. With Ice on the table before him, a wolf the size of a pony curled around his feet, and a crown of bronze and iron swords perched on flame-red hair, Cat’s son looked like the King of Winter he was. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of an authority that had been purchased with blood.
“My lords. I would not have us starve. We marched from Winterfell to rescue my father. My father is dead. Rescuing my sisters became the goal then, and now they are safe. I will fight to the death to protect the Riverlands, whether or not they bow to me, but once the Lannisters are driven from Harrenhal, there is no land left to secure. Why go on fighting? What is the point?
“I have seen sixteen solstices, my lords. I have become a king, a lord, and a husband only within the last cycle of the sun. There have been three wars in my lifetime, and I am but a young man. Most of you have fought valiantly in all three, and some of you fought in the Stepstones, against the Ninepenny Kings. Many of you have lost sons, brothers, fathers. I will never know my grandfather or uncle because of the Mad King, and Joffrey took my father from me.
“I am no coward, and I am not without my pride. My sword has tasted the blood of Lannisters before, and there are more lions to root out of my mother’s homeland before I can return home. But I wish for all of us to go home. I want my sisters to see Winterfell again. To give my brothers and father a proper funeral, and return them to the crypts below Winterfell, where they belong. I want a bountiful harvest and an easy winter. I wish for my children to grow old in the halls of my fathers, though I do not expect that I will live long enough for my hair to grey.
“You all crowned me, you swore to obey. This is my will. I will not bend without terms that will see the North and Riverlands through the winter, that will restore the damage done. I will see Tywin Lannister dead, sow his fields with salt, and see his son dead for throwing my brother from a window. And when it is done, even if I lay in an unmarked Westerlands grave, I will see my bannermen survive.”
For the first time in the sixteen years since she’d become Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn had the pleasure of watching the Lords of the North rendered speechless. Even the quarrelsome Riverlords had little to add. Jeyne Westerling was smiling with pride, Edmure seemed grimly determined, and Brynden Blackfish had a broad, roguish grin. One by one, the lords of the Trident and the North pounded fists on tables or boots on the stones, until Cat could barely hear herself think, and Robb’s path was secured.
Catelyn’s father died peacefully, in his sleep. The funeral was solemn, though far from unexpected, and Edmure quietly became Lord of Riverrun. It pained Cat to see her little brother grieving, even missing all three of his attempts to light their father’s funeral pyre. Without her children, she wasn’t sure if she’d have handled it much better.
The lords who attended the funeral left Riverrun soon after. Less than two days after Hoster Tully had reached the bottom of the river, a rider came bearing ill news.
Cat was all too familiar with the spot of land known as the Teats, the Mother’s Teats, Barba’s Teats, or Missy’s Teats, depending on who you asked. It belonged to the Blackwoods now, and had since the reign of Aegon the Unworthy, but they’d once been Bracken land. Every year when she was a girl, the Bracken and Blackwood lords would come to Riverrun, argue over the obscenely named hills, and annoy Hoster Tully. Every year, the Bracken plea would be ignored, as there was no good reason to hand them over. The two houses had an infamous feud that was directly responsible for the Blackfyre Rebellions, but Cat had rather hoped there would be no further blood spilled.
Unfortunately, her hopes were dashed. Jonos Bracken had seized the hills by force on the way back to Stone Hedge from the funeral, and Blackwoods had retaliated. 50 men were dead, and Robb was furious. Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Jonos Bracken were summoned to Riverrun with very stern letters, and thankfully arrived within the week.
“The- good gods, are they really called that? The Teats were given to House Blackwood,” Robb said slowly, when the two feuding lords knelt before his throne. At his right, Raynald Westerling looked as though he were struggling not to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation. Cat, standing with what passed for a court, could hardly blame him. She had spent two hours explaining the Blackwood-Bracken feud to Robb soon after he’d first been crowned, and they’d both walked away with headaches.
“By the Targaryens, and they’re all dead. It was Aegon IV, he never passed a good law in his life,” Lord Bracken argued. Tytos opened his mouth to continue the argument, but a stern look from Robb silenced him. Cat’s son spoke instead.
“Aye, the Unworthy earned his moniker, and if we ignored every law and proclamation from Aegon to Aerys, I’d spend the next twenty years trying to codify them anew. The North and the Riverlands are independent now, but we recognize the Kings of the Seven Kingdoms from Aegon I to Robert I. For the Riverlands, the Seven Kingdoms’ laws apply from the Burning of Harrenhal. For the North, it applies from when Torrhen knelt. We additionally recognize Stannis Baratheon as the true king of Westeros, though he has no authority over the North or Riverlands until and unless those kingdoms, under the auspices of their King and Lords, choose to kneel. Am I perfectly clear?” Robb asked rhetorically.
“The Old Gods be praised for your wisdom, Your Grace,” Blackwood simpered. Bracken snarled in response.
“Wisdom comes from the Crone, and justice from the Father. Neither can be found here,” he shouted.
“Your king and lord can both be found here, and you swore an oath to obey his rulings,” Edmure reminded his bannerman. Although Jonos Bracken stormed out of the hall, there was no blood shed in the process. Two days later, Riverrun received word that House Bracken had withdrawn bloodlessly to its lawful borders.
House Stark was stitched back together over a dinner table. All the surviving Starks and Tullys, with the exceptions of Lysa and Benjen, and the inclusion of Jeyne Westerling, were eating a rare private meal in Robb’s solar. Sansa and Arya exchanged stories, Robb and his wife stared lovingly at each other, speaking in low voices, and the Tullys discussed the Blackwood/Bracken dispute. Cat’s daughters had become nearly inseparable since their reunion, and Arya had been eager to hear about Annabeth Jackson, the female warrior-princess. Cat suspected her younger daughter was still training with the bastard’s sword, and perhaps even getting instruction from the Blackfish, though she’d been unable to prove it, and hadn’t decided what to do if she did. Sansa’s hatred of all things unladylike had faded, though her own ladylike demeanor had not.
The idyll was interrupted by a maester barging into the room, not even bothering to knock. A scroll was clutched in the harried man’s hand, and Cat could make out the teal wax of House Manderly. Before anyone could ask what exactly he thought he was doing, the maester spoke hurriedly.
“Your Grace! A raven from Lord Wyman! Your brothers live! Prince Rickon was found between Winterfell and White Harbor with his wolf and a strange woman. They say Prince Bran lives as well, though he has set out to go Beyond the Wall with Lord Reed’s children and a stable boy. And… they say it was Ramsay Snow who burnt Winterfell, not Theon Greyjoy. Survivors of the Manderly army led by Ser Rodrik Cassel in the defense of Winterfell confirm it. ”
The maester kept speaking, something about the Manderlys securing Winterfell in Robb’s name, killing the renegade Bolton men, and causing the bastard to flee. Catelyn only distantly registered the information. Robb, Sansa, and Arya’s glee, Brynden and Edmure’s identical grins, and Jeyne’s mix of guilt and joy were even less relevant.
All my children are alive, she thought, as her eyes welled up with tears of relief. Bran was heading Beyond the Wall, but he was alive. Rickon was in the care of a trusted bannermen, and she had her three eldest all under one roof. They were alive, and as safe as could be expected, and Robb was married and a King and Arya had a list of men and women she wanted to kill. Her children would never be the same, but they were alive.
Celebration quickly turned to planning for Rickon’s safety, finding Bran, and the hunt for the bastard of Bolton, but Cat couldn’t stop smiling long enough to contribute.
Notes:
One more happy chapter for the Starks, before reality returns. I seem to have developed a habit of writing stark cuddle piles in all my ASOIAF fics, and I don’t regret it. Hopefully Arya’s recounting helps explain what happened to her. Essentially, the same thing as in canon, except since Bolton doesn’t hold Harrenhal she was never his cupbearer, and just used Jaqen to escape the Lannisters. I thought about making her be Tywin’s cupbearer but decided against it.
All the BWB stuff happened like in canon, but instead of Clegane bringing her to the Twins, he brought her to Riverrun. Don’t worry about the timeline. This is why Arya hasn’t had a POV yet, it’s been too similar to canon. That’s the same reason for Jon (Snow) and Dany not having POVs, nothing at all has changed. All three of those characters will have POVs in Part 2 of the series. This was the last chapter with large chunks smoothed over because it happens largely the same in the books. If it’s on the page, it’s all AU from here. Jon’s story will pick up in Part 2 from the battle at the wall, and Dany’s will pick up from the Siege of Meereen.
Up next:
20.Frank II
21.Sansa II
22.Percy V
23.Catelyn IV
24.Annabeth IV
25.Frank IIII split Frank III in half (the first portion is now Annabeth IV), hence the increased chapter count.
Also- I published a Percabeth Tolkien AU a few weeks ago, go check it out!
Chapter 20: Frank II
Notes:
Oct 299 AC/2014 CE
I get so many comments speculating about stuff I’ve already (not that subtly) revealed. I have a feeling if you guys reread Percy III after this chapter, you’ll find some much-desired answers.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the form of a red-tailed hawk, far above the bustle of King’s Landing, Frank watched Randyll Tarly march out of the city gates with 15,000 men. If he’d had a mouth instead of a beak, he’d have been smirking. The latest ravens from Riverrun had confirmed that Robb Stark had no intention of going to war against the Baratheons. With that front secured, the war council’s plans were finally going into motion. Tarly, accompanied by Ser Tanton Fossoway of the red-apple branch of the family, would be chasing after Tywin Lannister, hugging the southern border of the Riverlands.
Being given command of such a large force was typically an honor, though in Tarly’s case, it was more of an exile. Nobody expected him to catch up to Tywin before Robb Stark could, since Riverrun was so much closer to the Lannisters’ path back to the Westerlands. Tanton Fossoway, the Knight of Cider Hall, was the brother of Garlan’s wife, and Tarly’s unofficial babysitter. No, the cantankerous lord was being sent away from court, the so-called greatest commander of his generation only given a tenth of his liege’s army. It was not a glamorous assignment.
Frank, too, would soon be leaving the capital, with 8,000 Baratheon and Tyrell soldiers. His assignment was to march north through the Crownlands, seizing castles as he went, before turning northwest and laying siege to the Lannisters’ small garrison at Harrenhal. Lord Velaryon had called it a copy of Criston Cole and Aemond Targaryen’s campaign, and advised them against another Fishfeed. Frank had no doubt that they would be smarter.
Garlan would be coming along with him, to command the contingent of Tyrell men. Percy and Annabeth, however, wanted to stay at Court an extra few weeks, to ensure they weren’t schemed against. Helping Stannis prepare another 40,000 men to march on the Westerlands was, no doubt, an added bonus. Either way, they’d promised to meet Frank at Harrenhal. Frank would’ve appreciated having one, or both, of his friends with him on campaign, but he understood their reluctance. He wouldn’t want to give up any time with his partner, either.
He missed Hazel more than he’d ever thought possible, her absence worse than a missing limb. But if she was back on Earth, as safe as a demigod could reasonably be, he would try to be content. Wishing for her to be in danger just so he could be less lonely was horribly selfish. Regardless of logic, the thought of his girlfriend moving on or presuming him dead kept Frank up at night. Then again, there was a real chance he would never go home again. It wasn’t fair to expect her to wait for him for a lifetime. Seven months had already passed, and they were no closer to finding a way home. He wouldn’t want Hazel to wait for years or decades, instead of trying to find happiness again.
Annabeth waited for Percy for eight months, some evil part of his mind whispered. She knew where he was after like a week, sane-Frank hissed back. He wasn’t jealous of them, really. He just missed Hazel. Frank allowed himself a mournful caw, before diving back down to the Red Keep. He wanted to get some more practice in with the goldenheart bow Percy had given him for his birthday. If he was to head out on campaign, he’d need the practice.
He was unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the Sparrows on the last stretch of his flight over the city. The Sparrows, ascetic zealots who followed the Seven, had begun to enter the city while the Lannisters still controlled it. Their numbers had increased as more and more of the beggar monks had decided to come to King’s Landing and protest Stannis’ perceived apostasy. For now, although their gatherings of brown-cloaked beggars were large enough to see from above, they were mostly harmless.
Thankfully, it seemed as though syncretism, the sheer grandeur of the demigods’ displays of power, a ‘pliant’ High Septon, and pure exhaustion from a long war were keeping the fanatical followers of the Seven at bay for now. The current leader of the Faith had been chosen by Tyrion Lannister, and was trying desperately to prove his loyalty to the new regime. While unable to outright condone the new religious developments, he’d avoided condemning them either.
Annabeth’s most recent estimates pegged the number of Hellenes in the city at a few thousand. They’d started building a second shrine, pulled a few ‘priests’ from somewhere, and engaged so heavily in syncretism that Frank wasn’t sure where the alleged Greco-Roman religion ended and the faiths of Westeros began. The demigods had told some myths from Earth, and some stories of their quests, in an attempt to guide the new religion enough that it didn’t engage in human sacrifice or any similarly fucked-up shit. They’d been cautious about explaining traditions and beliefs, as most of the actual beliefs of the ancient Greeks and Romans were severely outdated, and while they wanted to change the world for the better, they didn’t want to impose a new belief system either.
The results had been predictably complicated. While many lords and smallfolk had adopted Hellenic ‘traditions’, it mostly just involved scraping some food into a fire or pouring out libations for prayers, and, on occasion, accepting the demigods’ progressive views on sexuality and gender. As a rule, the Hellenes were supporters of Stannis, for better or for worse. The nobility, with more exposure to the demigods, tended to be a little more vocal in their beliefs, and a lot less genuine.
From what Frank had observed, probably about 70% of so-called Hellenes just kept praying to the Seven under new names. The Father became Jupiter, the Crone became Athena, the Smith became Hephaestus, and so on. Whether Greek or Roman names became preferred seemed to be a coin toss. Those who followed the Merling King- mostly sailors down by King’s Landing’s docks, had almost universally taken to calling their deity Triton, and the Moon-Pale Maiden Artemis, although very few had adopted Hellenic traditions. The Velaryons, however, combined both with the Faith of the Seven. Their House had always walked a fine line between the devotion to the Seven necessary for almost any noble house south of the Neck and old Merling King traditions. Adding a Hellenic flare to it all was comparatively easy.
Still, nothing was simple, and too much was still up in the air.
“So if people keep worshipping the Olympians, are they going to, like, appear? Don’t the gods derive their power from worship?” Frank asked his friends a few hours after returning to the Red Keep. Annabeth gave a long-suffering sigh, putting down the tea she was drinking and looking up from her manuscript.
“It’s complicated, no mortal can totally understand it. But the chicken and the egg both came first. Basically every religion back on Earth’s gods actually exist, yes, but it’s partially because the stories created them and partially because they created the stories,” she explained.
“How is that possible?” Frank asked. To his shock, it was Percy who responded.
“Don’t think about it too hard. The gods are more like concepts than like people, or so she’s said to me before. Kronos and Rhea didn’t give birth to the elder gods so much as dream them up. Sometimes physical features are ‘inherited’: I have my dad’s eyes, which he gets from Rhea, and Apollo gets his eyes from Kronos. All the Hermes and Athena kids have shared features, but none of the Aphrodite kids look alike. Gods can make their physical forms absolutely whatever they want. If they have shared traits, or pass on shared traits, it’s a choice, not a genetic quirk,” Percy said. He’d make a good teacher, Frank thought absently.
“For once, I agree. Don’t think about it.” The two men stared at Annabeth in shock, but she waved them away dismissively, and kept talking. “Our brains aren’t made for understanding the divine. There’s too much mortal in us. If enough people here worship the Olympians, then maybe in a hundred years, they’d actually exist. But a few thousand worshippers won’t bring our parents to us. Besides, their power is closely tied to their place of origin. That’s true for all gods.” Annabeth turned to her fiancé/husband, her typical thoughtful expression on her face.
“The deity you keep encountering seems to be particularly powerful in Shipbreaker Bay. It mentioned the Valyrian gods have faded- I’d bet anything that happened when Valyria was destroyed, even though some people still worship them in Volantis. We know how important the Ancient Lands are to the Greek and Roman gods, we were almost sacrificed because of it. The Egyptians are still based out of Cairo. And Brooklyn, I suppose. The Norse are in Boston, but with ties to Scandinavia. You met an Etruscan god once, still hanging out in Etruria.” Frank blinked in surprise. He’d only heard a couple of these stories, and very much wanted to know about the rest. For now, though, he still wanted an answer to his question.
“So since this world has no Greece or Rome…”
“It can’t have Greco-Roman gods either,” Annabeth confirmed.
“Is it bad that I find that reassuring?” Percy grumbled. Frank huffed a laugh.
“Maybe it is, but I agree with you,” he admitted quietly.
Stannis made the proposal during a war council meeting.
“I have a solution, Prince, Princess, Praetor. The… dilemma over your castles may have a simple solution.” The Jacksons exchanged glances, then looked to Frank for confirmation. Their synchronicity would’ve been creepy if it wasn’t so useful, so the Roman inclined his head in agreement.
“We’re listening,” Annabeth said cautiously.
“Shireen is unmarried. Our alliance could be secured- without bending the knee- if she were to marry a son of House Jackson,” the King proposed. From the set of Davos Seaworth’s jaw and the tension in Monford Velaryon’s eyes, Frank could tell this was not a very popular idea. Renly, however, looked delighted. “She is already preparing to come to King’s Landing.”
“I’m already married,” Percy said with a snort of laughter. Frank realized Percy’s mistake a second after he finished speaking. Stannis can’t possibly be dumb enough to offer this. Can he?
“You misunderstand. Your son should marry my daughter. No doubt, you will have an heir.” Absolute silence followed for about three seconds, before Frank’s friends exploded with anger.
“If a child of mine were to fall in love with Shireen, I’d be happy for them. But I will not treat my hypothetical child as a bargaining chip for your games,” Annabeth snarled, pushing her chair back so quickly that it flew across the room and into the wall, where it promptly shattered into splinters. Her eyes flashed with anger, burning with a cold hatred that Frank hadn’t seen from Annabeth in years. Percy stood up a moment later, leaving hand-shaped indents where he’d been gripping the wooden armrests of his chair. His face was stony and impassive, but his shoulders were shaking with repressed emotion. He entwined his fingers with Annabeth’s, and somehow neither broke the other’s bones. When the Jacksons stormed out of the room, Frank followed warily. He hadn’t seen either of them this angry since the war with Gaea, and it terrified him.
Frank would rather be alongside their anger than facing it. Either way, he agreed with them. Stannis was one conniving son of a bitch. They’d all known he was trying to bind them to his cause more thoroughly, but apparently he hadn’t understood just how much the Earthlings hated arranged marriages. Within minutes, the demigods had reached the Jacksons’ rooms. Frank hurried to open the door so that Percy didn’t tear it off its hinges. All three of them quickly entered, and Frank closed the door behind them.
“That motherfucker. Where does he get the audacity? Who the fuck does he think he is?” Annabeth raged, pacing back and forth. Frank stayed several paces away, out of range of her knife. Not that he doubted Annabeth’s ability to throw it with deadly accuracy, if she so chose.
“The king,” Percy drawled. His partner scowled at him, and he quickly raised his hands in surrender. “We put him on a throne, gave him a crown. It’s gone to his head.”
“The problem,” Frank cut in, “isn’t that he forgets who he is. He’s the King. He could have anyone on this continent killed, except for us.”
“He’s forgotten that we aren’t Westerosi. Or human,” Annabeth added.
“He’s testing boundaries, seeing how much he can get away with,” Frank agreed. “I’ve seen the same thing in the Senate before. We made an agreement, but he’s trying to find out how flexible it is. The proposal probably isn’t even completely serious.”
“Then we should remind him of our deal,” Percy said. Frank could’ve sworn that when his friend grinned, green eyes flashed like the beacon of a lighthouse. If Frank thought that Percy looked scarily like his father in that moment, the resemblance only grew as the demigods helped each other into full armor and weapons. Soon enough, Percy was dressed as a hoplite with his trident in hand and a sword at his hip, helmet tied to his belt. With a few days’ stubble and a stupid hat, it would’ve been easy to mistake him for Poseidon if not for the streak of grey in his hair. Annabeth was in her own Greek armor, and Frank in his Roman legionnaire armor, with his purple Praetor’s cloak. A simple, flashy plan was thrown together in moments by the old friends, and with that, they were ready.
Together, Frank, Percy, and Annabeth walked from their apartments to the Throne Room. With each step Percy took, the Red Keep rattled around them. Tremors rippled through the floors and a dry rain dust fell from the ceilings. Servants and soldiers scattered as they approached, clearing a much larger path than was strictly required for three people to fit down a hallway. Wherever the sharped point of his trident touched the stone floor, cracks radiated outwards in starbursts.
When they reached the Throne Room, it was clear from the crowd outside that Stannis was holding court. They’d taken long enough seething and dressing in armor that the meeting must have ended. The great doors were closed, though a swift kick from Percy opened them with a boom.
Every eye turned to the intruders, though they kept walking towards the Iron Throne. Faced with Percy and Frank’s wolf stares, learned at Lupa’s feet, the crowds parted before them. Soon, there was nobody but the Kingsguard between the demigods and Stannis Baratheon. The son of Mars felt for the individual components of the hulking, towering throne. They say it’s made of the thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies. If that’s true…
Frank grinned to himself when his telumkinesis seized control over many of the Iron Throne’s swords. He’d been practicing his powers in between sparring sessions with Percy, Annabeth, and Garlan, but it was nice to see all his hard work pay off bloodlessly. More swords than he’d hoped had been melted beyond the point where his powers recognized them as weapons, but there were hundreds of sharp, sword-shaped protrusions, and all of them were under his influence. He pulled ever so gently, and the entire thing shook. Stannis nearly toppled from his seat, only preventing a fall by grabbing onto the armrest of the Throne. Blood welled up between his fingers. At a hand sign from Percy, Frank stopped his party trick. The son of Poseidon took only a few more steps forward, each one shaking the ground, before he stopped at the foot of the Throne. Annabeth and Frank, flanking him, kept hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords.
“What is the meaning of this!” The King bellowed.
“A reminder, Stannis, that we aren’t your subjects. We’re not beholden to you,” Annabeth snarled.
“The heretics have come to seize the crown for themselves!” Came a cry from the crowd. Frank wasn’t sure who’d said it, but it didn’t matter much.
“Is that what we’re doing?” Percy asked with false surprise. He looked at Annabeth with bafflement that reminded Frank alarmingly of Han Solo before he starts shooting stormtroopers. I’m thinking in Star Wars references. I’ve spent too much time with Percy.
“That’s not what I’m doing. Is that what you’re doing, Frank?” Annabeth asked rhetorically.
“Not at all,” he replied, leaning into the Inglorious Basterds routine. “Should we? Seize the throne?”
“You’d look really good in a crown,” Percy mused.
“Thanks,” Frank deadpanned.
“No problem, man. I did mean my wife, though.”
“It’s probably for the best that I stick with laurels, since I already owe my allegiance to a queen,” Frank replied.
“You what?” Percy shouted, nearly choking on his own spit. Frank blinked in surprise while the Court and King watched the exchange with bated breath.
“I’m Canadian,” he reminded his friends.
“So?” Percy asked.
“Canada is part of the Commonwealth. The Queen of England is also the Queen of Canada,” Annabeth informed him. At least some Americans know about the rest of the world.
“That’s dumb,” Percy surmised. Frank agreed, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“It is, but not all of us live in a Republic like you Americans. I, technically, am a subject of Elizabeth II,” he explained. Murmurs went up from the Court at that, and Frank realized they were undermining their point. Thankfully, Annabeth caught on.
“And Jupiter?” she asked.
“Fuck Jupiter. He’s even more inbred than the Queen,” Percy quipped. Frank just glared at him.
“So are we, Percy,” he deadpanned. Percy scrunched up his nose in disgust, but didn’t deny it. His grandparents were siblings, and their parents were arguably either siblings or mother and son, depending on who you asked.
“What is a Republic?” Some brave soul in the audience asked. Frank thought he recognized Monford Velaryon’s voice.
“Both amazing and terrible. You should try it sometime,” Annabeth replied.
“So does this mean we’re not making you queen, milady?” Percy quipped, dipping his head to Annabeth in a shallow bow. She grinned, segueing the moment back into what they’d came here for, and turning her attention to the King.
“Nope. We’re just here to reaffirm the terms of our alliance. Terms that do not allow for you to barter with a hypothetical future son of ours.” The last few words were practically a hiss, but they carried through the hall.
“You have no right to make demands of your liege,” Stannis told her warily. He still towered over them on the Throne, but with blood still oozing from his palm, the kingly aura had been broken.
“You are not our liege, and you never will be,” Frank reminded him.
“We’ll be holding on to Rosby and Stokeworth though. As recompense for the disrespect you’ve shown us,” Annabeth said cheerily.
“We’ll pay taxes, so the people of King’s Landing don’t starve. But we’re not kneeling to you,” Percy completed.
“How dare you!” One of the Florents shouted. Frank couldn’t remember his name, and didn’t care all that much..
The sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard, however, drew Frank’s attention. One of the Baratheon soldiers had drawn his sword, though he’d made no move towards the demigods. The son of Mars flicked his wrist, and the blade flew from the guard’s hand, landing at Frank’s feet.
“We agreed to fight on your side in this war, except against the Starks, in exchange for giving us access to the knowledge we need to go home. That’s all. Swear to honor that agreement, and we’ll do the same,” Annabeth demanded cooly. She’d be a good Queen, Frank thought to himself. For the sake of the Westerosis’ sanity, he’d never share that opinion with Percy, lest he get ideas .
The tension dragged out for a few long moments, but eventually, Stannis relented. Maybe it was his honor, or guilt at going back on a deal, or just fear of what the demigods could do. No matter why he’d made his choice, it had the necessary results.
“I swear it, by the gods old, new, and Olympian,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Swear it on the River Styx,” Percy demanded, pointing his trident at the King. Stannis hesitated, but after a moment, obeyed.
“I swear it on the River Styx,” he repeated. No thunder boomed, but Frank couldn’t help but worry that the lady of the river would hold the King to his oath.
“I swear on the River Styx to uphold our alliance to the best of my ability,” Annabeth said. Percy repeated the oath, as did Frank, though the Roman swore on the Black Stone instead.
Though the three demigods shared a room and slept in shifts that night, no knives came in the dark. Everyone gave the demigods a bit of a wide berth for a couple days, but they were still present for the usual war councils and preparations. They made an effort to be as respectful as possible to Stannis, and it was easy to show to Renly that the reaffirmation of their deal only made the demigods more likely to side with Stannis against him, not less. Oaths extracted at the point of a weapon were common among the lords of Westeros. Soon enough, things were back to normal, or at least seemed that way. The Velaryons and Davos were once more spending time with Percy, and Garlan with Frank. Annabeth was too buried in her book to make new friends, though she often sparred with Brienne of Tarth, Renly’s sworn sword.
When Shireen arrived from Dragonstone a few days after the confrontation, no mention was made of the aborted attempt at turning her into a Jackson. The demigods, and Davos, happily welcomed the sweet little girl to Court, and she was equally thrilled to see the Onion Knight and her one-time dancing partner. Unfortunately, she didn’t come alone. Queen Selyse came to King’s Landing with her daughter, as did Shireen’s strange fool. Percy had told Frank that Patchface was some sort of servant to the Drowned God, though Frank didn’t quite believe it until he started reciting creepy-sounding rhymes at dinner.
“Fool’s blood, king’s blood, blood on the maiden’s thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye, aye, aye,” the fool chanted from his perch atop a table, all while dancing what looked to be an off-kilter jig.
“How pleasant,” Aurane Velaryon muttered. The demigods, far too used to prophecy, just exchanged exhausted looks.
Frank stood beside a great white tree while the dragons danced. Thirteen marks in the white bark bled the same crimson as the tree’s leaves. Demigod and weirwood alike lay in the shadow of a massive black castle, taller than many skyscrapers, with towers like half-melted candles. A dragon so huge it blotted out the sun flew a thousand feet in the air, tangled with a red, snake-like beast. Frank had read of this battle, but had not expected to see it in his dreams.
He watched as the two dragons plummeted towards the lake, and as the rider of the red one leapt from his mount’s back, plunging a sword into his gold-armored foe. Only when all four of them crashed into the water did Frank feel a presence beside him. He was not at all surprised to see long white hair and a wine-colored birthmark out of the corner of his eye.
“My great-grandfather and his nephew. Generals in the last war between dragons,” the man said. Though the lake was still roiling, huge waves crashing into the shore, a strange silence had fallen over Harrenhal. Frank tore his eyes away from the battlefield, and turned his attention to his visitor.
“Percy told me about you. You’re the Three-Eyed Crow? Lord Bloodraven- Brynden Rivers?” he asked. The answering smile was a gash as red as the weirwood’s scars.
“So they called me.”
Frank blinked, and Bloodraven changed. For an instant, the mostly normal sixty-something man was replaced by a thing so old it was practically a walking corpse. Papery skin fell over a skeletally pale frame, who was entwined so deeply into a bone-white tree that it was hard to see where human began and tree ended. Roots grew through one leg, one even poked out of his empty eye socket. His skin was as pale as the tree, and silvery hair must have been four feet in length. He blinked again, and the Three-Eyed Crow was once again replaced with Brynden Rivers.
“Remember, Fai Zhang. When the dragons dance, men are merely ants under their boots. You do not understand the power you pretend to wield, and it will be your death if you do not learn,” the long-dead spymaster warned. Frank fought to keep the surprise from his face. Nobody’s called me that since my grandmother died. How does he know that name?
“I’ve fought monsters before,” the demigod said instead. Bloodraven’s laugh was the papery rustle of dead leaves and the caw of a crow all at once.
“Perhaps. But you have never fought a dragon. No man living has.” Frank rolled his eyes at the dramatics.
“The dragons are dead,” he reminded the old man. Bloodraven shook his head, a sardonic smile on his face.
“No. There are seven dragons left in this world. One red, one false, one hidden, one chained, one black, one bright, and one white.” The demigod frowned to himself, trying to piece together what he knew of this world with the seer’s new information. Red dragons were Targaryens, and black dragons were Blackfyres, but the rest of it made little sense. Besides, if only one of the seven was specifically called black, then why was only one called red? Shouldn’t the other six all be red? Or was there more than one Blackfyre left? In that case, why weren’t more than one referred to as black?
“Literal dragons or figurative dragons?” he was forced to ask.
“A good question for a dream,” Bloodraven laughed. “Figurative. Seven are left with any real claim to the dragon’s blood. The Baratheons, Tolands, Martells, Hightowers, Velaryons, Plumms, Tarths, Penroses… they all have a few drops of it, all descend from Aegon the Conqueror. But true dragons, be they red or black? Only seven.”
“You’re the white dragon?”
“I am,” Bloodraven confirmed, tapping the white dragon on his chest. “It was once my sigil. Though most would call me a crow these days,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. Frank didn’t trust the man’s smiles. They were plentiful, but always humorless.
“You wouldn’t keep warning me about dragon fights if this was all figurative. There’s real dragons out there too, aren’t there?” Frank questioned, a shiver running down his spine even in a dream-state. We swore to stay out of the war with the Starks and Tullys. We never said anything about Targaryens.
“Three survive, in addition to the dragonkin monstrosities in the ruins of Valyria. Dreamfyre’s eggs were stolen by Elissa Farman two hundred and fifty years ago. They hatched in blood and fire mere months past. And one day, when they’re large enough to ride, they will fly over Westeros, carrying three of my kin on their backs.” This time, the smile was triumphant.
“Which three will become riders? Are they all one of the seven Targaryens you listed?” The son of Mars demanded, already running contingencies and plans through his mind, Gods, we’re so fucked if Targaryens invade with three dragons.
“Aside from their mother, the Red Dragon? Truly, I do not know. I know that each of the three will have one true rider and one false. Someone will seek to steal each of them, and will fail. But three people with the blood of the dragon will tame them, and when they do, only you could stop the reconquest. You must not do so,” Bloodraven warned.
“It’s not my problem. I don’t honestly care if there’s a Targaryen restoration after Percy, Annabeth and I go home,” Frank said honestly.
“And if it occurs while you’re still here?”
“I don’t know,” Frank sighed, rubbing at his sinuses. One felt nothing in dreams, but he was getting a headache anyway.
“Aegon conquered Westeros because he knew that his blood would bring the dawn. Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa have both been born again, and both are of Aegon’s blood. The restoration of my family to its rightful place is necessary to defeat the Others. Do not stand in their way when the time comes,” the seer warned. Brynden Rivers snapped his fingers, and Frank woke up drenched in sweat.
Thankfully, he had enough time to tell his friends about the dream before he left for the war. Annabeth jotted down every detail he could remember, and immediately declared her intent to look for answers in the history books. Frank doubted she’d find any. Thankfully, since he was leaving that day, the daughter of Athena put her research on hold long enough to say goodbye. She and Percy helped Frank with his armor, as despite being a knight, nobody had been willing to squire for him. His friends walked with him to the courtyard, where Garlan and other Reach and Stormlands nobility already waited atop horses. Percy gave Frank a hug, Annabeth kissed his cheek, and they both wished him luck.
“We’ll see you at Harrenhal,” she promised, and Frank squeezed her arm in farewell.
“Bring a cyvasse board,” he told Annabeth, and she chuckled. The two children of war gods had been playing strategy games together for years. Back on Earth, they’d play chess whenever Percy and Hazel got too absorbed in a conversation about horses, a not-infrequent occurrence for their incredibly ADHD partners. They’d each tended to win about as much as they lost. Here, without a chess set available, they’d switched to the Essosi game of cyvasse instead.
A horse was brought for him to use, and he clambered onto its saddle. Horses always reminded him of Hazel, and a pang of loneliness and worry shot through him. Gods, he missed her so fucking much.
“Ready to send the lions running home with tails between their legs?” Garlan asked cheerfully, shaking Frank out of his misery. Not trusting his voice, the demigod just smiled at his friend, and they left the castle riding side by side.
Notes:
Not quite a translation, but telumkinesis means control over weapons. Telūm is Latin for an offensive weapon. My beta reader suggested I provide that explanation.
A lot of shit just happened, and it probably could’ve been done in separate chapters, but then I’d never finish this fic.
Up next:
21.Sansa II
22.Percy V
23.Catelyn IV
24.Annabeth IV
25.Frank III
Chapter 21: Sansa II
Chapter Text
Sansa had spent countless hours since Robert Baratheon’s death wondering, imagining, hoping for the chance to see her sister again. To piece together what they’d broken, to ensure that the pack survived. Neither the Seven nor the Old Gods brought her comfort any longer, but her daydreams of reunions were the closest thing the once-pious girl had to prayers. From the moment Annabeth Jackson had rescued her, Sansa had known that Arya would love nothing more than to meet the warrior woman from another world. It was a relief to know that her predictions had been correct. Thankfully, killing Joffrey had won Arya’s forgiveness for Sansa’s lies about Nymeria and Mycah, while the younger of the two sisters was absolutely obsessed with the demigoddess.
“She’s a woman? Who fights? Like the Dornish?” Arya rattled off excitedly. Robb was off somewhere with his wife, and mother was lecturing Edmure on the need to marry a Frey girl. Sansa and Arya were currently under the careful but hands-off supervision of the Blackfish- neither mother nor Robb trusted anyone but family with their safety. Uncle Brynden hadn’t even bothered to make Arya try to sew, much to her delight. Sansa was stitching herself a Stark-grey gown with red direwolves, one that actually fit after months of too-small clothes in King’s Landing, while Arya practiced with a much larger Needle. Sansa knew nothing of swordplay, but she could tell that her sister’s Water Dancing had much refined over the last year.
“She’s not Dornish, but her husband is. They fell in love while fighting a war together. She took Maegor’s Holdfast almost by herself. They said she leapt across the moat and cut down the drawbridge.”
“The drawbridge to Maegor’s? Over the spikes?” Arya asked. Uncle Brynden’s brow was furrowed, likely trying to picture the moat in question from his last visit to the Red Keep.
“I didn’t see it, but she did save me from Joffrey,” Sansa gushed.
“Didn’t you kill Joffrey?” she said, with an air of skepticism that left Sansa confused.
“Yes, but-”
“Then how did she save you?”
Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes. Annabeth had gotten her out. She was a hero, a knight out of the stories without the spurs. Why was that so hard to understand?
“She killed Ilyn Payne and took Ice from him,” she tried. At this, Arya’s skeptical expression morphed into one of respect. Finally. The Blackfish watched the exchange carefully, but said nothing.
“Can you train me to be like her, Uncle Brynden?” The little warrior pleaded. The old knight ruffled Arya’s unbraided hair, wisely leaving Sansa’s careful work alone. She was wearing Northern styles once more, but it had still taken quite a bit of effort.
“A warrior such as that is a once-in-a-century event for us mortals, little one. But I can try.”
Sansa had believed her Uncle to be jesting, until the sound of wood against wood caught her attention several days later. Frowning to herself, Sansa diverted from her intended course, pausing outside the door from which the clacking sounds emanated.
“High, right, down, high, riposte. Good, again! Keep your fingers loose, don’t lock your wrist. High, right, down, high, riposte.” Uncle Brynden’s voice kept shouting out orders, followed by the rhythmic clash of wood on wood. Overcome by curiosity, Sansa pushed the door open. Arya turned at the creak of hinges, failing to block a blow that landed on her wrist, and knocked the wooden sword from her hand. The girl scowled, temporarily ignoring Sansa to rub at her wrist and glare at her instructor. To Sansa’s surprise, Arya made no noise of complaint and did not protest the indignity. She picked the training sword back up, settling back into a stance that Sansa assumed had some meaning or another. The Blackfish nodded slightly, a gleam of pride in his eyes, and resumed his attack. This time, Arya did not miss her parry.
Sansa cleared her throat, to no avail.
“I’m busy,” Arya huffed.
“You’re… playing with sticks?”
“I’m training the princess. The first and most important lesson we’re going over today is how to avoid distractions in battle. Would you like to join?” Uncle Brynden offered, pointing to another training sword leaning against the wall.
“I thought you were joking about the training,” Sansa remarked, eyeing the wooden blade uneasily. The room reeked of sweat, and both her relatives’ hair was plastered to their foreheads and necks. How long had they been at it?
“Don’t tell mother,” Arya pleaded, when she saw her sister’s hesitance. Sansa blinked in surprise at the genuine fear in Arya’s face.
“I’m not going to tell mother, Arya.” Obviously.
“Why not?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips. Brynden rapped her knuckles, and Arya corrected her posture before she hit herself with the wooden blade.
“Because you’re sisters, and sisters stick together,” their uncle instructed.
“Mother and Aunt Lysa don’t. Uncle Edmure says she’s crazy.” Arya’s description, while crude, was not inaccurate.
“Your aunt is… unwell.” The concession seemed to pain the Blackfish, and he shifted uncomfortably.
“If you’re not going to tell mother, then why are you still here?” Arya demanded.
Sansa’s hand flexed around the memory of a knife, a torrent of hot blood, golden curls and a golden crown. Uncle Brynden must have taken Sansa’s silence as nervousness, because he gestured to a training sword against the wall.
“Would you like to learn, child? It cannot hurt to know how to defend yourself.” Sansa had spent enough time at Joffrey’s Court to recognize the glimmer of controlled fear in the old knight’s eyes.
“I think perhaps I’ll watch for now,” she conceded.
It was something like a tourney, without the horrific deaths that had marred the only actual tourney Sansa had attended. Brynden chided Arya when she made mistakes, but praised her improvements. They dueled back and forth across the room for what must have been an hour, punctuated by occasional suspicious glares from Arya while Sansa embroidered.
“What?” Sansa eventually hissed, when she grew tired of the glares.
“Aren’t you going to scold me? Call me Horseface? Throw a mudpie?”
“It was you who threw mudpies!” Sansa shouted before she could think better of it. She schooled herself into a courtly mask, pointedly ignoring Brynden’s silent shakes of laughter. “You may do what you like. I won’t stop you.”
“Since when?” Arya shouted.
“Since they killed father! Since our family was split up and tormented!” Arya was looking at her as though she’d just declared her heartfelt belief in grumpkins and snarks. “I missed you,” she admitted quietly, “while I was in King’s Landing. I missed you, and I’m sorry.” The Blackfish grumbled something approximating approval. Arya’s mouth opened and closed like the fish on their mother’s banners.
“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” she settled on saying. “I’m sorry about the mudpies. And the sheep dung. And ruining your clothes.”
Arya hesitated, then put down her sword long enough to give Sansa an awkward hug. They’d embraced since their reunion, of course, but only jointly with Robb or their mother. Sansa returned it, grateful for the peace. The Blackfish chuckled, and obliged Arya when she returned to the swordplay.
The sisters’ peace lasted a few days. Arya and Sansa spent more time together, though nearly always while doing different activities. Sansa eventually made the fatal error of mentioning the Freys to Arya.
“So that’s why mother and Robb convinced Uncle Edmure to marry a Frey girl yesterday. You’ll still have to marry Elmar, but since Robb married Queen Jeyne-”
“I still have to what?”
“The betrothal was initially called off, but they renegotiated.”
Apparently, that hadn’t been the source of Arya’s confusion. It had not occurred to Sansa that nobody had informed her sister of the betrothal. Arya stormed out of the room in a blur, Sansa all but running after her nervously, until finally the girls found their eldest brother.
“Robb!” Arya all but screamed down the hall. Robb smiled warmly, some of the exhaustion lifting from his eyes. Grey Wind’s tail wagged happily, though Raynald Westerling gave the direwolf a wide berth, standing on Robb’s other side. Arya shoved her goodbrother aside to get to her real brother.
“Arya, I’m supposed to meet with Lord Blackwood,” Robb said gently.
“You were just in a meeting!”
“With the envoys from Stannis, yes. Can this wait?”
“Why does Sansa say I’m betrothed?”
“Oh. Nobody told you,” Robb said hesitantly, looking away with guilt in his eyes. Raynald Westerling shifted awkwardly. Arya Stark became the first person to punch the King in the North in the stomach, and not lose the offending hand. She did not, however, succeed in breaking her betrothal to Roose Bolton’s squire.
Sansa, Arya, and their mother stayed out of the way in the handful of days after Robett Glover and his men arrived. Soon after, he was heading north with Rickard Karstark to lay siege to Moat Cailin. Only a handful of days after that, Robb and Uncle Brynden marched off to intercept Tywin Lannister, leaving Edmure in charge of his castle. Many heartfelt farewells and well-wishes were had, and Sansa went through them in a daze. Her mother was white-knuckled for three days before Robb left, practically clinging to her son at every opportunity. He could die in this battle, and we all know it.
Sansa kept herself busy by shadowing her mother, learning to run a castle from the acting Lady of Riverrun firsthand. Arya, on the other hand, threw herself into her swordplay, daring to practice in public.
“Are you all too cowardly to fight a girl!” she shouted one afternoon at the assembled guardsmen, each of whom had refused to spar with her. Sansa had been strolling along the tops of the walls on her way back to her room from a meal, careful to avoid the tower where Lannister prisoners were kept. It was rather ridiculous, the tiny little girl shouting at grown, armed, and armored men, and leaving them all terrified. Arya was still far shorter than Sansa, though she had managed to put a bit more muscle and fat on her bones since coming to Riverrun, thanks to mother’s fretting.
“Aye, they are. But I’ll train with you, little wolf.” The woman who yelled back at Arya was a couple of years older than Robb, brown-eyed, black-haired, as bulky as the Blackfish and tall as Sansa. The bear on her tunic was an obvious identifier, but Arya had only paid a minimal amount of attention to the lessons of the Maesters.
“Who are you?” Arya asked.
“Jorelle Mormont,” the woman said. “I hope that twig of yours can withstand a battle-axe.”
Arya’s answering grin was quickly followed by a vicious attack. Sansa shook her head fondly and carried on her way.
News of Robb was scarce, but when a raven came from Winterfell, Sansa fought not to cry. She had not believed herself capable of such searing hatred for someone who did not serve the Lannisters. Even Roose Bolton had denounced his bastard’s actions and sworn to return the smallfolk to Winterfell, yet Lord Manderly’s men still had not found Ramsay Snow. The Manderlys had written to report that they had begun to rebuild the castle, and had reformed Rodrik Cassel’s scattered forces, but it would take some time to repair all the damage the fires had done.
Sansa missed her home dearly, all the more because it would never be the same. She’d spent her childhood dreaming of leaving the dreary North for the beautiful south, and now that she was in the south, all she wanted was to go back North. Riverrun, at least, was better than King’s Landing. Being here, among her mother’s family, made her feel settled in a way she’d only associated with Winterfell in the past. Robb had been born here, her mother had grown up within these walls.
Sansa had the Stark name, but she had the looks and blood of the Tullys as well. Uncle Brynden had a warm heart below his gruff layers, and a great deal of paternal kindness for a man without children. Uncle Edmure spent less time with Sansa and Arya, but she loved him all the same for his fierce devotion to Houses Stark and Tully. The direwolf flew above the castle walls, Grey Wind prowled the courtyards, Robb trained with Ice and Arya with her Needle. Mother chided, familiar guardsmen stood outside doors. She was not a prisoner, but a princess. Riverrun was not Winterfell, but it was becoming a home.
Not all of Riverrun’s occupants were as happy to be there as the Starks were. Lady Sybell Westerling, the Queen’s mother, seemed to do little but complain. She woke up, made the Queen her possets, complained, and went to sleep. Both the Westerling boys were with Robb, but Jeyne and her sister Eleyna both seemed to be getting sick of their mother’s constant annoyance.
Sansa found Jeyne Westerling atop the battlements one morning, staring wistfully to the southeast, along the tramped-down earth left by Robb’s army. Despite spending a few weeks eating just a few seats down from the Queen at the high table, Sansa hardly knew the woman. With her husband gone, Jeyne preferred to spend her time in Riverrun’s library, usually reading medical tomes and histories of beloved queens, like Alyssane, Betha Blackwood, and various River Kings’ wives that the library held stories of.
“I hope Robb, Ser Raynald, and Grey Wind are okay,” Sansa said to break the silence. With the loss of Lady and the absence of Nymeria, every surviving direwolf was a precious piece of home.
“I’m certain the wolf can take care of itself,” the Queen scoffed. Sansa was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice.
“You don’t like him?” she questioned, leaving a silence for the older woman to speak into.
“He killed a knight of my family’s household who I’d known all my life,” Jeyne admitted, voice breaking. Sansa felt a pang of empathy alongside a flash of annoyance.
“I thought Nymeria, Arya’s wolf, was a vicious beast when she bit Joffrey’s hand. My wolf, Lady, died for it. I blamed Arya. Now, I wish she’d gone for his neck.” That managed to get a chuckle out of Jeyne, though it was watery.
“The realm would have been spared a great deal of blood.”
“Grey Wind is as much a part of Robb as Bran, Rickon, or Arya. The wolf is loyal to him, and if you provide him the opportunity, Grey Wind will defend you just as fiercely as Robb would,” Sansa said gently. Gods, I miss Lady.
“I- I don’t know how to forgive the wolf.”
“If you can forgive Robb for leading the attack, then forgive Grey Wind for following, sister.”
The title felt strange when used for anyone but Arya, yet Sansa knew she had to try to make an effort to welcome Jeyne to the family. She had her brothers, sister, and mother for company, but Lord Gawen Westerling was still on his way from Seagard, where he’d been kept prisoner after Robb captured him in an early battle. Sansa knew too well what it was to be in a foreign castle, no matter how kind it seemed to be,
Besides, Jeyne’s fate was not unlike what Sansa’s would be. She was to be married to a Lord one day, and be Lady of a keep. It would not be King’s Landing, nor Highgarden, nor even Winterfell. But that was still her destiny. Once, that was all Sansa wanted. A loving husband, a castle to oversee, children to adore. Now, for the first time in her life, Sansa had no idea what she wanted.
Did she want to be the Lady of a castle like her mother? Or would she wind up like Cersei, furious at her husband to the point of murder, a drunkard and a madwoman. Arya’s dream was more akin to that of a hedge knight than a lady. That, Sansa knew, was not her desire. Princess Annabeth lived with the comforts of a castle and the habits of a warrior like the Blackfish. She didn’t believe she wanted that life either, although Sansa knew she had no real choice in the matter. One day, her husband would be selected.
She had heard, of course, Lord Karstark’s frequent boasting that his son and heir, Harrion, would make a fine match for Sansa. Robb had, thankfully, only responded thus far with platitudes. Harrion Karstark was still a prisoner of the Lannisters at Harrenhal, delaying the need for Sansa to make up her mind about the possible suit. Lord Karstark was now marching north, and Robb marching south. For now, Sansa had time. And while Jeyne did not love her husband’s direwolf, Sansa saw the dawning of understanding in her eyes. The princess bowed to the queen, and left to find her mother.
The Stark women’s worries were answered by the next afternoon. Ravens came from High Heart, followed within hours by messengers from Robb’s host. His victory had not been complete, but it had been substantial. Robb’s forces had caught up with the Lannisters just west of High Heart, and the battle had been swift. Fifteen thousand men fought under Robb’s banner, and they’d forced Tywin Lannister’s eleven thousand to hasten their flight. Instead of marching west towards the Golden Tooth, the Lannisters’ surviving eight thousand were running south, to the Gold Road.
Though the Starks had failed to inflict the desired amount of casualties, they had defeated Tywin and killed Lancel Lannister with minimal casualties. Robb, Uncle Brynden, and the Westerling men were hale and healthy. No one Sansa knew personally had even been hurt. There was some grand strategic maneuver that Robb had pulled off, but Sansa did not understand it. She had no head for the military arts. She understood perfectly well, however, that Robb did not wish to intrude upon the Reach’s lands, not while Randyll Tarly was already marching to intercept the Lannisters. A king’s duty is to his people. Father would be proud.
By the time the messengers arrived, Robb was already marching back to Riverrun. For the first time in over a year, everything seemed to be going well.
Notes:
I'm gonna be travelling for a couple weeks, and I won't be able to write while I'm gone. Have this chapter to tide you over. In good news, the next chapter (Percy V) has been about 30% written for a couple of months.
Chapter 22: Percy V (I Slay the Kraken)
Notes:
This chapter takes place from late October to early November 299 AC
Because I’ve seen some confusion in previous chapters, let me make clear that 299 AC (in Westeros) is directly analogous to 2014 CE (on earth). This fic assumes that Percy was born in 1993, TLT took place in 2005, TLO took place in 2009, HOO in 2010, etc. Basically, the original canon timeline, before Uncle Rick decided the books take place ‘whenever you’re reading them’. Time in Westeros doesn’t move faster than it does on Earth. For Hazel, Sally, Grover, and everyone else still on Earth, it’s October-November 2014.
The only discrepancy is timezones. Percy, Annabeth, and Frank were eating lunch when they got sent to Dragonstone, where it was night. San Francisco is GMT -7. So if it was around 1pm when Alabaster zapped them, let’s say Dragonstone is roughly analogous to Central European Time (GMT +2), with Oldtown on the Prime Meridian (GMT). They lost nine hours: they left San Francisco at 1pm on some random day in March 2014, and arrived in Westeros at 10pm, on the same random day in Third Moon 299.This chapter is long and eventful. Grab a map and some popcorn.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The courtiers had only just stopped treating the demigods like lepers, and even that had taken quite a bit of subtle groveling, being very visibly kind and warm to Shireen, and proving their worth in the training yard. Percy couldn’t say he regretted losing his temper with Stannis, but in hindsight, he probably could have been more tactful. Annabeth had suggested the two of them work harder to seem honorable, so that their harshness would be excused as the natural reaction of a foreign code of honor.
It took a week of being extra chivalrous, chatting up Olympian lords, and talking quite a bit about how relationships worked on Earth (without revealing that Annabeth wasn’t married to Percy, nor Hazel to Frank). Things with Davos were still awkward, but his friendship with Aurane had been repaired.
The underlying argument over Rosby and Stokeworth, despite being nominally resolved, still stewed under the surface. Once the report on Frank and Garlan Tyrell’s steady progress in conquering the Crownlands was delivered, Renly saw fit to dredge the issue back up at a war council meeting, filled with most of Stannis’ military leaders and top lords.
“It would seem that Praetor Zhang and Ser Garlan have seized your castles. Perhaps you would like to visit them to assert your control?” the Hand prodded.
“I trust Frank’s choice of castellans,” Percy said, proud of himself for not reacting to Luke’s last name. “Is there any other important news, Lord Hand?”
Renly cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Yes, well, the Hand is functionally the Lord of King’s Landing, and as such I frequently meet with the Lord Mayor, the heads of the Guilds, and-”
“With respect, my Prince, please get to the point,” Aethan Celtigar, Master of Coin, said drily. Renly flushed, but carried on.
“The Builder’s Guild reports that there are some two hundred jars of wildfire underneath the Dragonpit,” Renly said all at once. The room fell deathly silent, aside from the sound of Stannis’ teeth grinding. Two hundred jars was enough to level several city blocks, at the very least. Percy was embarrassed to find himself hanging on to the Hand’s every word. He hated when Renly was worth listening to. “Apparently, the stash was discovered not long before the Lannisters lost the city, when some whores and their drunken clients fell through rotting floorboards. Tyrion Lannister had the jars removed for his defensive measures, but they were so unstable that there wasn’t enough time to complete the job.”
“Why is this only being brought to my attention now?” the King bellowed.
“Everyone who the Imp told has fled the city or been killed. We only know now because one of the workers who lived near the dragonpit wished for the removals to continue, and filed a request with the Builder’s Guild,” his brother explained. Stannis’ nails dug into the arms of his chair.
“See to their removal and disposal at once,” he ordered. Renly nodded sharply, already having expected the command. For once, the brothers seemed to be in agreement.
“How long has this arsenal been there?” Monford Velaryon asked.
“The alchemists estimated about twenty years, due to its volatility. Naturally, when I fetched a pyromancer to ask about the damn stuff, he happily told me all about it.”
“Some project of the Mad King, then. Remove what remains and ensure there are no more pots under the Dragonpit that the Lannisters didn’t find. No Targaryen ever had enough wildfire.” Stannis grumbled.
“Didn’t one of the idiots drink the stuff, thinking it would turn him into a dragon?” Renly laughed. Annabeth, seated to Percy’s right, spoke for the first time.
“Prince Aerion Targaryen, better known as Brightflame. He was the son of King Maekar, and an older brother of Aegon V. I believe, Prince Renly, that that makes him your great-great-uncle,” she pointed out. Once she was done talking, Percy tuned out the history discussion. If Annabeth wasn’t contributing, he didn’t really give a shit. It was hard enough to keep Earth and mythological history straight, adding Westeros to the mix was just too much.
“Wonderful. Thank the gods he never sat the throne,” Matthis Rowan quipped.
“His infant son was passed over in the Great Council which crowned Aegon the Unlikely,” Baelor Hightower said thoughtfully.
“Yes, a lad with the unfortunate name of Maegor. Whatever happened to him?” Monford Velaryon mused.
“Fled to the Free Cities with his mother, Princess Daenora. Lys, most likely. If the gods are kind, he died young, poor, and childless,” Ser Baelor said.
“Perhaps we should return to the state of the war being fought in this decade. It is my understanding that the Jacksons will soon be joining Praetor Zhang in securing the Riverlands?” Stannis asked rhetorically. Percy sat up a little straighter, bringing his attention back to the meeting.
“The sooner this war ends, the better,” he said emphatically. The King seemed to approve.
“How fares Robb Stark?” he asked the Master of Whisperers.
“He kicked Tywin in the arse at High Heart, Your Grace. Sent him scurrying south, right into Lord Tarly’s path. He’s got men heading north to deal with the Ironborn problem, though I’m unsure how they expect to take Moat Cailin. In all likelihood, the western coast of the North will be plundered and raped until the Lannisters are defeated,” Davos reported. Percy stiffened in his chair, and heard Annabeth’s sharp intake of breath next to him. What the hell was Davos talking about?
“Plundered and raped?” he echoed.
“Balon Greyjoy may style himself a conqueror, but the Ironborn are raiders. Glorified pirates, really. The North bleeds, and Stark is anxious to return home,” Aethan Celtigar said casually. Percy had known that the Ironborn raided ships and coasts, and that they’d seized key northern castles and burned Winterfell to the ground. He hadn’t quite put those pieces together before now, however. He, Annabeth, and Frank had discussed the Greyjoys’ campaign months ago. At the time, they’d come to the (very reasonable) conclusion that if Balon Greyjoy sought to be King of the North, he would be running his new territory the way House Hoare had once ruled the Riverlands: as typical feudal lords, if in a constant state of occupation. The idea that conquerors would destroy the land and people they wanted to rule hadn’t crossed their mind.
“What if the raids could be stopped?” Percy blurted out, before he thought about this too hard. Annabeth’s hand settled on his thigh under the table, giving it a light squeeze. Percy shot her a grateful smile. She knew him well enough to tell what he was planning.
“By us? I expect Stark would kneel, and hundreds of lives would be saved. But we have no fleet in the Sunset Sea. The Redwyne armada is here, and even if they sailed for the west, it would take a very long time, and likely end in defeat without reinforcements from Driftmark, Dragonstone, and Lannisport.” Monford was the first of the Lords and knights to answer Percy’s question. The Lord of Driftmark had remained amicable towards the demigods throughout the recent drama, and Percy trusted his judgement.
Percy slumped into his chair, running a hand through his hair, then dragging it down his face. He saw Annabeth’s resigned yet proud expression through his fingers, and forced a crooked grin to his face.
“I’ll take care of it,” Percy said emphatically, squeezing his wife’s knee. Annabeth removed her hand from his leg, interlocking their fingers under the table. He decided to enjoy her presence while he still could.
Nobody needed to ask what Percy meant. His promise was accepted, and the council moved on to other topics.
When the meeting was over, Percy immediately found a few moments alone with Annabeth.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked her. His fiancée grabbed him by the front of his doublet, pulling Percy into a kiss that left him seeing stars.
“Go be a hero,” she whispered into his lips, “just check with the sea deity first. It’s best not to step on any toes. If you pull this off, you’ll save a lot of lives, and get us home faster. How could I not approve?”
Percy wasted no time in taking her advice. He shed his court attire in favor of his preferred tunic and drawstring pants, the closest this godsdamn universe had to casual clothes. Once he’d changed, it was simple enough to walk to the sea-facing wall of the Red Keep and leap over the edge.
He landed in Blackwater Bay, pulling the currents to himself and swimming away from shore. Within minutes, King’s Landing was out of sight, and there was only water as far as he could see. Percy dove until the sun was barely visible, and waited. It didn’t take long for the deity to find him.
“What do you want?” it asked him, floating just out of reach.
“I’m going to go to the Sunset Sea and destroy the Ironborn fleet, unless you have a problem with it,” Percy said. He didn’t care about the god’s opinion, but if a quick check-in could avoid him being smited, then so be it.
“Do as you will,” said the water-filled voice. Percy blinked in surprise at the nonchalance.
“You’re fine with me killing a ton of your worshippers?”
“They kill each other in greater numbers than you ever could. Pay the iron price, godling, and be done with it. If you are capable of killing them, they do not deserve life.” Percy couldn’t have identified what changed, but the deity seemed to become more masculine. “What is dead may never die,” it rumbled, and disappeared into a burst of bubbles.
Preparations for his departure started the next morning, and took less than a day. Annabeth ensured his armor, trident/bracelet, and steel sword were in mint condition, then sat down with Percy and Monford Velaryon to chart the best course from King’s Landing to the Sunset Sea. The Ironborn were known to hold three Northern castles: Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, and Moat Cailin. The Motte sat not far from the coast, just south of Bear Island. Farther south, Torrhen’s Square was inland, though it lay on a lake that was connected to the sea by a river. While Moat Cailin was not coastal by any definition, it was only twenty miles from the Fever River, which connected to the Saltspear, which connected to the Sunset Sea. Percy was confident he could walk through the marshes of the Neck without issue, and much faster than any mortal.
The nautical chart Frank had given him for his birthday, combined with Percy’s slightly-reduced sense of navigation, made the route simple to find. Percy would swim from King’s Landing to the north, leaving Blackwater Bay, then turn back westward at the Bay of Crabs. He would enter the Trident at Saltpans, swimming upstream until the river split into three. Percy would take the Blue Fork past Fairmarket and the ruins of Oldstones, only exiting the river when he reached the headwaters at Hag’s Mire, another marsh. It was 50 miles from there to Seagard, and therefore Ironman’s Bay, but that wasn’t a problem for a demigod.
Once he’d reached the Sunset Sea, Percy would start with the northernmost castle and work his way south, clearing out Ironborn as he went. He didn’t expect the trip to take more than a few days, with the overwhelming majority of that time being spent trekking through Hag’s Mire. All things considered, it was probably the most straightforward quest he’d undertaken.
Traveling light was easy, when he had no need for food or water. Fishing in both the sea and rivers would be effortless, and Percy was no stranger to eating seafood raw. Uncooked fish and ambrosia were the only two types of food served in Atlantis. Percy’s visits to his paternal family were relatively infrequent, only a couple times a year, but he’d still developed a taste for sashimi. Sue him. Other demigods might tease him for it, but since Percy could say ‘the deceased former sun is my brother-in-law’ completely truthfully, his diet was hardly the strangest thing to come of his time spent in his father’s kingdom.
All he really needed to bring was weapons, armor, and his signet ring to send letters with. There were no bags that needed to be dragged along. Percy would leave the next day. That evening was for him to say his farewells.
The most important of his goodbyes was, obviously, Annabeth. They hadn’t spent more than a few weeks apart since defeating Gaea, and there was no way to know how long this quest would take. Back on Earth, even when separated, they could use Iris Messages to keep in contact.
For now, they were enjoying the time they had together. Annabeth was sitting against the headboard of their bed, hair still damp from a bath. Percy leaned back against her chest, allowing himself to bask in her warmth, while she carded fingers through his hair. Neither of them had bothered with a shirt, but Percy wasn’t tempted to move. Lack of access to her preferred shampoo meant that his fiancée no longer smelled like lemons, but the smell of Annabeth underneath sword oil and leather was still the same. He loved her so fucking much.
“Do you have to leave?” Annabeth asked quietly, bringing Percy out of the half-asleep daze he’d been in.
“I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t. These people are brutal, and I can stop them with barely any effort at all.” Annabeth sighed in resignation. He knew she understood the necessity of the quest, but that didn’t mean either of them liked it.
“I know. I’d go with you, if I could,” she said with a kiss to his hair. Percy couldn’t help but smile.
“Frank needs you, Stannis needs you. Just… try to stay alive, Wise Girl,” he pleaded.
“You’d better keep yourself in one piece, Seaweed Brain. No self-sacrificing bullshit,” Annabeth warned, poking him in the shoulder. Percy rubbed it dramatically, and could practically sense his wife rolling her eyes.
“I’m not cruel enough to subject Hades and Charon to your wrath, love.”
Annabeth chuckled and gently pushed his shoulders forward, bending awkwardly to press an open-mouthed kiss to the small of his back, still overly sensitive even after so many years without the Curse. He suppressed a shiver, and leaned back into Annabeth’s arms, gently pushing her upright. His partner wrapped her arms around him, pulling them closer together, and his back came to rest against her chest. He sighed in contentment, happy to stay like this forever.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“However long it takes to beat the Ironborn and make sure the Northmen recover. Hopefully not too long, you’d know better than me,” he replied. Annabeth hummed thoughtfully, probably calculating travel times in her head.
“I’ll see you in the Riverlands, when this is over, and you’ve saved a whole country from crazy Vikings,” she promised. Even though Annabeth couldn’t see it, Percy grinned.
“Hey, I married a crazy Viking,” he quipped.
“Not yet you haven’t,” Annabeth shot back.
“We’ll have to fix that when we get home.”
“If you’re going to die on me, at least let me be a widow.” Percy felt his partner cringe at the morbidity of her own joke, and turned in her arms to give her a bone crushing hug.
“If Titans, Giants, and Protogenoi couldn’t kill us, mortals don’t stand a chance. Besides, I’ll be at sea the entire time,” he reminded her.
“I know. I just hate when we fight apart,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“I hate when we fight, period,” Percy grumbled. He shifted so he was leaning back against Annabeth again, his head resting on her shoulder, giving him a very close up view of her face from an incredibly awkward angle. He didn’t mind. His wife’s arms looped around his waist, and he traced circles on her knee.
“We’ll retire when we get home,” Annabeth declared. She had a soft smile and a faraway look in her eyes, probably putting together a twenty-year plan for their life back on Earth.
“Retirement before we even have a real job. Sounds perfect. Maybe Camp Jupiter has a praetor pension plan or something. I should talk to Frank about that.” He’d only been a Praetor for, like, a day, but Frank and Hazel wouldn’t care. All at once, the smile on Annabeth’s face disappeared, and all the energy seemed to go out of her.
“I’m so tired, Percy,” she said, voice shaky with unshed tears. Percy squeezed one of the hands resting on his stomach, and lifted the other to his lips.
“I know, my love. I am too. We just have to keep going, one foot in front of the other. Like the Pit, but with better food,” he joked. He was rewarded with a watery chuckle.
“Stay here? For a few more hours, at least?” she pleaded.
“Of course. You’re stuck with me,” he swore. That had never been a question. This was his bed too, after all. ”Gods, I don’t even know what I’ll do when we get back. We’ve already missed two semesters of college.”
“I’ll cajole my mom into paying me in mortal money- not just drachmae- for all my work on Olympus, and get New Rome to finish my degree on the portfolio’s basis or something. I can work freelance for a little while. Maybe even build a proper town in Camp Half Blood, so we don’t have to go all the way to California every time we want a night’s rest without worrying about monsters.” Annabeth’s tone had shifted into thoughtfulness, with just a hint of hope underneath it. Percy couldn’t help but smile at her ever-genius plans for their future.
“I could teach at Camp,” he added.
“As long as you stay away from archery,” Annabeth said with a devilish smile.
“That’s rich, coming from someone who hits one target a year. Other than that, I think being a stay at home dad is enough excitement for me for the next few decades.”
“We’ll have to wait a few years for that phase of your career, Seaweed Brain,” she laughed, poking him in the side.
“I know, I know,” he relented.
“And I have a three-child maximum, so I don’t know how many decades of stable employment you thought you were gonna get out of parenting, but-” Percy turned to look directly into those gorgeous gray eyes, putting a finger to her lips before she could ramble any more.
“Annabeth. As long as I get to spend my life with you, I’ll be happy.” His wife’s eyes welled up with tears again, and she leaned forward so their foreheads were pressed together. Percy awkwardly turned and shifted until he was straddling her lap rather than lounging against her chest, and draped his arms over bare shoulders.
“Then you’d better fucking survive or-” Percy cut her off with a kiss, only pulling away when he was absolutely certain he wasn’t going to be threatened.
“Your point is made, agape mou,” he said fondly.
“Just… stay safe. Come back to me.”
“Always,” he promised. She kissed him then, lips salty with silent tears, but he felt her smile nonetheless.
His departure the next day was straightforward. Annabeth, Davos, and Aurane came to the docks and said their goodbyes, before Percy unceremoniously leapt into Blackwater Bay. As he shot northwards at supersonic speeds, the son of Poseidon couldn’t help but laugh with joy at the freedom brought by the sea.
Percy loved Frank like a brother, but not even Zeus’ absence could make the son of Poseidon enjoy flying. Being on dragonback was somehow even more nausea-inducing than his singular experience on a plane had been, and unsurprisingly more choppy than the Argo II. Percy missed the Roman, but he held no such sentimentality towards crossing the continent on Frank’s back, a thousand feet in the air. He’d much rather swim. Thankfully, this quest benefitted from travelling by water.
When Percy finally strode out of the water at Hag’s Mire, only a few hours had passed. The transition from salt to fresh water slowed him down, but not by much. Making sure his passing didn’t cause any fish to implode had been the hardest part.
The fifty-mile hike through bogs and swamps was significantly less enjoyable than swimming had been. Even walking across the surface of any water he encountered like a Greek Jesus, it took him three days to traverse. Stopping at ponds to grab meals was the only tolerable part of the trip. He slept at the bottom of a small lake on the first night, at least until he was startled awake by a particularly rude pike, who had apparently decided his left hand was a tasty meal. The water healed the wound almost instantly, but it still hurt like a motherfucker.
The cheeky bastard ended up being Percy’s breakfast, and he slept in makeshift shelters on dry-ish land the next two nights. When Seagard finally came into view, Percy breathed a sigh of relief. He spent the first ten minutes of his time in the Sunset Sea scrubbing stubborn mud from places where absolutely nothing should be clinging to him, except Annabeth.
It was easy to tell once he’d left Ironman’s Bay and entered the Sunset Sea proper. The water felt older here, much more like an ocean than any body of water he’d seen on the eastern side of Westeros. It was invigorating. His sense of navigation seemed to work far better on this side of the continent, and he gleefully swam towards Deepwood Motte. The waters grew steadily colder as he went, not that it made any difference to Percy.
Deepwood Motte, the seat of House Glover, was an old wooden castle, sat atop a hill in the Wolfswood. Unfortunately, it was also five leagues inland. The Ironborn ships, by necessity, remained on the water or beached on shore, separating the remaining crew from their compatriots occupying the castle. As far as Percy could tell, there were fifteen ships at sea, and another ten on the beach. He decided to begin his attack by propelling himself aboard the largest of the longships, to the shock of the crew. Percy was already armed, but the ten men still manning the longship had to scramble to grab their weapons. Percy made no move to stop them.
“Look, everyone can go home without a scratch. All you have to do is surrender, and stop all the theft, rape, and murder,” Percy offered calmly. His sword was in one hand, but he kept both his palms clearly visible, and his hands above his head.
“Try and stop us, charlatan,” one of the Ironborn called, inspiring howls of laughter from the crew. “I don’t know how you pulled that trick off, but it will be the last thing you do.”
“Any last words?” one particularly ugly raider asked.
“O Lord, bless this Thy hand grenade, that with it Thou mayest blow Thine enemies to tiny bits, in Thy mercy,” Percy intoned solemnly. Percy had asked his dad before; and apparently invoking Jesus was fine if he was quoting Monty Python. The Ironborn, humorless philistines that they were, just seemed confused.
“What?”
Percy made a fist with his free hand, and the longship off the bow and to port was hit by massive waves from three sides at once, fracturing into pieces, which quickly began to sink. Most of the crew were able to jump overboard and swim for other ships. Most of them.
“Surrender. Please,” he begged.
Percy wasn’t sure why he bothered. The crew all charged at him, shouting war cries, swords and axes waving. He sighed, stepping back into the sea. Destroying the ships was even easier from below the waves. All fifteen were flotsam within a few minutes. It was exhausting, but being in the sea gave him the energy he needed to keep going.
“Thy foe, who being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it,” Percy said to himself. A passing fish looked at him curiously, but didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t like how quiet the sea life was in this world, it was freaky.
The same wave that carried him to shore smashed the ten beached longships against the rocks. Percy felt the handful of bodies- guards, most likely- dragged into the sea alongside the ships’ ruins. He tried not to pay them any mind.
The jog through the Wolfswood was cold and miserable, though it didn’t take very long. Percy could usually run a consistent 20 miles per hour, even in full armor. Thankfully, he was still in shape. Snow sprinkled the ground, though not much had reached below the thick cover of pine trees, and it seemed as though it hadn’t snowed lately. On occasion, he encountered deer or elk, and once or twice, an Ironborn scout walking to the coast. Percy took no chances, and killed the raiders quickly and quietly. There were a few instances where he could’ve sworn he saw men dressed in silver and red, but they always seemed to disappear back into the trees when he blinked.
As trees thinned and the castle slowly came into view, the Ironborn became more numerous and harder to avoid, even as the sun sank low in the sky. Finally, at the edge of the tree line, Percy gave up on stealth. There were about fifty feet between the trees and the oval-shaped wooden palisade, and three different patrols of two men each within the area Percy could see. His gaze landed on several bloodstained patches of grass or snow, and a few arrows sticking out of the wall. They’re still dealing with Northern skirmishers. Maybe Percy would have some reinforcements.
Drawing his sword, Percy sprinted from cover, leaping towards the closest patrol. He cut them down with ease, purposefully making as much noise as possible. He successfully got the attention of the other two patrols, then ran for the main gate, which was flanked by two more guards. Percy paused long enough to kill the patrols–none were good enough fighters to take on superhuman speed and reflexes–before charging the gate.
The castle’s garrison was, by now, reacting to the very obvious threat he posed. As Percy walked towards Deepwood Motte, what must have been two or three hundred men streamed out of the various wooden keeps, homes, and buildings that lay within the Motte’s wooden palisade. They ran down the hill towards Percy, shouting all the way. He just sighed and hefted his sword, already mentally exhausted.
“This would be a really stupid way to die,” he said to no one in particular. The plan had been to get everyone outside the walls, then pick off enough that the remaining force wouldn’t be difficult to deal with. Percy could literally summon seawater from his bare skin and whack people with it, he wasn’t particularly worried about a bunch of mortals. Even so, he’d underestimated how many men those longships could hold.
The gates opened, and Ironborn came pouring out. Percy ran forward, and readied himself to strike the first blow, but to his surprise, a scream of pain sounded from inside the castle. As the Ironborn ran down the hill, unarmored men and women were bursting out of the structures they’d just vacated, wielding everything from knives to what looked like makeshift cudgels. Even from a distance, Percy could see broken chains on the wrists of some of them. These were the Ironborns’ prisoners, using his distraction to fight back against their captors. And if Percy didn’t do anything, they’d be massacred.
The nearby Ironborn looked uneasy, but when Percy swung his sword, it was still met with an axe. He fell into the rhythm of battle, wielding his sword and summoned water with equal ease, barely noticing the occasional cut or bruise on his arms and legs, until an arrow whistled past him and struck a man in Greyjoy colors in the forehead. Unable to help himself, Percy turned around, deeply unsurprised to see several dozen men under a tattered Glover banner melting out of the woods. Arrows rained down on the Ironborn, thankfully missing Percy.
Within moments, the Northmen and Ironborn had engaged each other directly, with Percy carving a bloody swathe into the castle. He burst through the gates, alleviating the pressure on the revolting thralls where he could. Many died, but the Ironborn were being attacked from all sides, and more groups of Northmen were entering the fray. As Ironborn fell, Northmen grabbed their weapons, and fought ferociously. More and more scouts and skirmishers left the woods as the battle dragged on, and the sun sank below the horizon.
At some point, Percy found himself back to back with a heavily bearded man wearing dark green clothing, marred only by the white tree on black sewed over his heart. He wielded a hand-and-a-half sword, skewering any Ironborn who came too close. Percy had, by now, mastered the art of summoning seawater from his palm, freezing it, and hurling icicles with his powers. It was bloody, and so exhausting, but effective.
“Who do you think you are!” the man shouted at Percy. The man paused briefly to chop the head off an Ironborn before speaking again. “The Children’s magic is gone from these lands, boy.”
“Percy Jackson. Stannis sent me,” he yelled back. “I’m not from around here.” Another of the raiders, this one wielding two axes and chainmail armor, charged towards the northman. Percy quickly activated and hurled his trident, catching the Ironborn in the side of the neck, then pulling on the water in the trident’s shaft, summoning it back to his hand.
“I’m Hallis. I suppose if you keep fighting like that, we can figure out who you are later.”
Percy lost Hallis in the melée, but he was fairly sure he’d survived.
When the sound of steel on steel finally faded, leaving only the groans of the wounded in its wake, the adrenaline in Percy’s system finally failed him. Boneless and exhausted, covered in both his own gold-tinged blood and the dark red of mortals, the demigod slumped against one of the castle’s surviving wooden walls. His vision swam, and black tinged the edge of his vision when Percy tugged at nearby snow to cover his wounds. It melted into fresh water on contact with his skin, providing some relief to the cuts he’d sustained, but not nearly enough. None of them were anywhere near life-threatening, nor had any blades pierced Annabeth’s magical armor, though they were distractingly painful nonetheless. Bodies of Ironborn and Northmen alike were scattered throughout the castle.
Each breath was ragged and painful. No matter how hard he tried, Percy couldn’t seem to get in a satisfactory amount of air. Even the deepest breaths didn’t come close to filling his lungs. His chest ached, but he had bigger problems. As he returned his trident to its compact form and pulled off his helmet, Percy distantly noted that he was far, far warmer than he ought to be. Snow around him turned quickly to water, then to steam. I may have overdone it a bit with my powers.
Percy wasn’t sure how long he just sat there for, but eventually, a leather-and-mail armored northman with an axe at his belt took notice of him.
“You alright there, lad?” he asked in a thick Scottish- no, Northern- brogue. Percy flashed him a bloody smile and a thumbs-up.
“I’m doing great,” the demigod slurred. He tried to open his mouth to speak again, but darkness rushed up to meet him.
When Percy awoke, he was dressed in a thin shift, buried under several blankets, covered in bandages, and too exhausted to move. He probably should’ve been worried about how normal waking up like this was for him, but such was the life of a demigod. Percy tried to curse, but all that came out was an undignified groan of pain.
“When the Maester reported that a foreigner had taken King’s Landing for Stannis with water magic, the Ironborn called him a liar. I didn’t believe the tale either. But I suppose you proved us all wrong, Your Highness,” said a voice off to Percy’s side. He managed to turn his head, and was met with the sight of a woman maybe a bit more than five years older than him, sitting at a desk across a bare wooden room. She hadn’t looked up from the parchments she was perusing. “I am Sybelle Glover, the Lady of this castle. Since our Steward was killed by the Ironborn during your liberation, you are now under my protection. He was a Manderly, albeit distant to the main branch, so thank you for that diplomatic headache. Our casualties were high, but the castle is free. You have my gratitude for the safety of myself and my children, but do not expect me to bow down to your gods.”
Percy laughed weakly, which quickly devolved into a cough.
“Don’t worry. I’d rather you didn’t,” he rasped. “Saltwater?” Lady Sybelle looked up from her papers long enough to fix Percy with a critical, analyzing look, then broke eye contact.
“I’ll have some brought after you’ve answered my questions. Who sent you? Why help us?”
“Stannis did. I helped you because it was the right thing to do. How long was I out?”
“Nearly a day. The Maester said your wounds healed faster than any man he’s ever seen, and every time he tried to clean the blood away with water, your skin knit itself back together. He said your blood has flakes of gold in it, and it left a rash on his fingers. You destroyed a fleet effortlessly and carved through the Ironborn like a knife through butter. You barely had any actual wounds, and seemed to have collapsed mostly from exhaustion, though you were hot as coals to the touch. My surviving household guards were able to break free of their confinement thanks to your distraction, and retake the castle.
“Some of the men say you’re a Child of the Forest, wielding the Hammer of the Waters, but you’re much too tall. Others claim you’re a Rhoynish water-witch, but unlike them, I have met Dornishmen, and your accent is nothing like theirs. Your skin and hair may be dark enough, but if the Dornish still had water-witches, we would have lost Robert’s Rebellion. No, you introduced yourself as Percy Jackson, the same name in the letter the Maester received about the Fall of King’s Landing. Your armor-” at this she gestured to the scrubbed-clean pile of Percy’s armor and weapons leaning against a wall, “bears House Jackson’s alleged sigil, and you wear the same on a signet ring.”
“Sounds like you already know who I am.”
“I know who you claim to be, and what you have allegedly done. That does not mean I know who you are.”
Percy lifted one of the bandages on his arm, and was relieved to see only a pale scar remained where an Ironborn axe had nearly sliced his bicep in two. Groaning, he sat up in the bed, shuffling until he was leaning against the wall, and began taking off the clean bandages that still dotted his arms and legs. He left the red-stained ones on, for now.
“I’m the guy who’s getting rid of your reaver problem.”
“This is not the only castle under the Ironborn’s thumb,” she pointed out.
“As soon as I’m done here, I’m going to Torrhen’s Square, then Moat Cailin.”
“‘Done here?’” Sybelle asked.
“Healed, back in my armor, and with a letter sent to my wife so she knows I’m alive. I’ll be back once those castles are free, to make sure you’re doing alright. Now that I know what I’m dealing with, I can be more strategic with my powers. I won’t overdo it again.”
“There are 2500 Ironborn in Moat Cailin, boy.”
“I’ve faced worse odds,” he snapped. 2500 was… a lot. But if there was a similar proportion of Northern scouts, and nearby swamp water? He could handle it.
“If you didn’t just single-handedly destroy a fleet, I would call you an overconfident brat. Seeing as you did, however, I’ll provide you with what you need and bid you good fortune.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he said softly. It was probably best not to piss his host off too much.
“A celebratory dinner will be held shortly. You are welcome to join us.” Percy’s stomach rumbled on queue, and he smiled sheepishly. “Your armor has been buffed and cleaned, though your tunic and breeches were not salvageable. You’ll find a fresh set under your armor.”
Sybelle Glover left without another word, and Percy dragged himself out of bed. Plain, simple clothes were exactly where she said they’d be, and Percy quickly dressed himself. He considered going to dinner in full armor, but decided against it. The risk of spooking one of the skittish Northmen was too high. Instead, Percy settled for pulling on his swordbelt and ensured his trident/bracelet was still on. It only took a few seconds of wearing the new breeches for Riptide to appear in the pocket. No longer feeling quite so naked, Percy went down to dinner, following the sounds of food and celebration.
To his great relief, he was offered bread and salt at the door. Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped through the door of the feast hall, all Percy could smell was the sour reek of ale. He’d known the Northmen preferred it to the wine which was popular in the south of Westeros, but he hadn’t expected anything like this. There were around sixty people in the hall, and not one was without a horn in their hand. The hall smelled exactly like Gabe had, like the Pit. Percy didn’t drink, wasn’t comfortable around drunks, and couldn’t stand the smell of beer. Too many bad memories. His oldest scar, a jagged cut along his shoulder blade from a bottle hurled at his back, throbbed in time with the music being played on a lute by a boy dressed in black and white.
He wanted nothing more than to leave, but all eyes had landed on him the second he stepped through the doors. Percy had no choice but to smile and take his seat by Lady Sybelle at the high table. He was given a whirlwind of introductions: Gawen and Erena Glover, Larence Snow, various soldiers and scouts from Houses Glover and its vassals, grateful household servants, curious would-be intellectuals… it was all just too much.
Percy snuck out of the feast as soon as he felt it was polite, practically sprinting for the squat tower where the maester was still patching up the wounded. He did his best to help clean and suture wounds for a little while, then penned a quick letter to Annabeth, assuring her that he was alright, and that Deepwood Motte had been freed. If the maester was perturbed by Percy writing in a completely foreign script, he made no mention of it. The letter was quickly sealed, using orange wax and Percy’s signet ring, and sent off to King’s Landing.
He stumbled off to the bed he’d been given, and immediately fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep. When morning came, and he felt less dead on his feet, Percy was loaned a wonderful mare and sent off to the sea with House Glover’s best wishes and a small escort, after promising to return shortly. The trip was slower than running would have been, but far less exhausting. He waded into the surf and swam south, to Torrhen’s Square.
Thankfully, the lake that Torrhen’s Square sat on only held three longships, with another two on the shore, in the castle’s shadow. Percy once again offered surrender, and was once again refused. This time, he brandished his trident instead of his sword, and summoned a massive wave to destroy one of the other ships.
Percy caught a glimpse of his reflection, clear as day in the wall of water he pulled from the sea. With a trident in his hand, a few days of dark stubble on his face, and wearing a hoplite’s armor, Percy looked almost exactly like Triton, if his brother had legs instead of tails. No, he realized, as he used the wall to smash a longship’s mast to dust, I look like Dad. Percy had absolutely no idea how to feel about that.
He’d spent years dreading becoming like his father. Poseidon was among the more caring gods when it came to parenting, but Percy wasn’t stupid. He’d read the Odyssey. He was Poseidon’s favorite son, and was spared from his darker nature. But the sea was unpredictable and violent, and his father was not a good person. When Percy inevitably died, he feared for all the mortals who would drown in his father’s storms, or be killed by his earthquakes. Percy had accidentally blown up a volcano at the ripe old age of almost-fifteen. When his father was truly angry, Poseidon made the Mt. Saint Helens eruption of 2008 looked like a child’s temper tantrum.
Here he was, son of the Stormbringer, killing mortals by the dozen with his powers, barely breaking a sweat. As long as he made sure to splash seawater over himself once a minute or so, Percy barely even felt any strain. Would his father be proud of him for this? Would his mother? Was he a mass murderer, killing on a whim?
The two longships on the rocky beach had cast off, sailing directly towards Percy. He stood alone on the deck of a ruined longship, with the splinters of the other two already below the waves. As far as he could feel, no sailors had survived his attack. What have I done? And why didn’t I care at Deepwood Motte?
Shouting in helpless anger, Percy slammed the butt of his trident into the ruined deck. He wasn’t surprised when the weapon tore through the wood effortlessly. What did surprise him was the jangle of metal from below his feet. He’d believed the ship to be empty of Ironborn, that they’d all rushed onto the deck in their attempts to kill him. With a wave of his hand, the decking tore away from the hull, careening out into the lake, leaving only a handful of planks behind, all of them under and around his feet.
To Percy’s relief, there were no Ironborn left belowdecks. To his horror, the clattering of metal had been caused by what they’d left behind. Chains, collars, manacles. There must be hundreds of them. Half the hull was filled with everything a slaver could ever need to force Northern smallfolk into thralldom. All rational thought was drowned by his anger, and the instincts etched into his brain took over. When the battle-lust faded, he was standing on the shore, Torrhen’s Square behind him. He could sense the remains of all five of the Ironborn ships at the bottom of the lake.
He was not a murderer, and he wasn’t doing this for fun or sadism. Throwing the raiders back into the sea was necessary. It was justice. Maybe, one day, he’d internalize that fact enough to stop panicking at the sight of red blood on his sword.
Percy’s musings were interrupted by an arrow flying past his ear. There were still the occupiers to deal with. A handful of archers stood atop the castle’s thirty-food walls, sending arrow after arrow towards him. Percy dove back into the water, then summoned a massive wave, riding it over the top of the wall just as he had at Storm’s End. The wave swept the archers off the battlements, leaving Percy facing about a dozen very surprised raiders. He dispatched them quickly, though another twenty or so had exited the square, stone keep by then.
Percy was debating how best to handle this when he noticed the wooden gate, directly behind him, was shaking, as if being battered from the outside. Percy turned and hurled his trident, sending it directly into the plank of wood barring the gates. It broke into pieces, and by the time he pulled the weapon back to his hand, dozens of men in green and brown were charging the Ironborn lines.
The battle was over swiftly, a resounding victory for the North. There had only been fifty Ironborn in the castle, though they’d been more careful with their prisoners, and the massive walls had given them a huge advantage against House Tallhart’s remaining forces. The captive Tallharts were set free, as well as the many servants and smallfolks taken as thralls. Some had been sent off to the Iron Islands already, but thankfully, many more were still in the castle.
Percy refused all offers from Lady Berena Tallhart to join the celebrations, though he did give her news of her nephew, Larence Snow. He sent another letter to Annabeth, spent the night at Torrhen’s Square, and left for Moat Cailin the next morning.
The swim to Moat Cailin was mostly uneventful. Re-entering the Saltspear was easy, and the salt water was like a breath of fresh air. Percy swam east, to the Fever River, which would bring him to Moat Cailin. At the mouth of the Fever, the Iron Fleet was waiting.
Percy counted 95 ships, floating in the estuary. Most were heavily crewed, others seemed to be offloading supplies to send upriver to Moat Cailin. These ships, unlike the longships he’d dealt with previously, were actual galleys. They had both abovedecks and belowdecks sections, with dedicated oarsmen and soldiers alike.
Percy would have to kill a great many people to destroy this particular armada. Maybe a week ago, that would have bothered him. Now, he had no sympathy for the raiders. If they had to die to save countless people from slavery and rape, so be it. Percy steeled his nerves, and began planning his attack.
Even from underwater, the flagship of the fleet was easy to spot. It was the only one with a massive kraken on its prow. Percy leapt from the water, landing nimbly on his feet amidships. There were immediate shouts of alarm from the crew, and the sound of dozens of swords being pulled from scabbards. There were about twenty armed men on the deck, but Percy ignored them all, searching for the captain amongst the crowd. It only took a couple of seconds to spot the Ironborn’s leader. He was built like a bull, wearing a fearsome tentacled helmet, and chainmail over leather. The captain drew his own longsword, leveling it at Percy.
“Go back to the Watery Halls, Deep One. We are all drowned here,” he yelled.
“I’m not a Deep One. My name is Percy Jackson, and I’m here on behalf of King Stannis. This is your first and only opportunity to surrender.” The ring of Ironborn surrounding Percy laughed uproariously, and the Kraken-helmed man took a huge step forward.
“Then, Percy Jackson, this ship will be your grave. I am Victarion Greyjoy, brother to King Balon. I will not suffer insolent fools on my Iron Victory.”
Percy pulled his steel sword from its sheath, entering a combat stance. He didn’t have to wait long for Victarion to attack. The brute swung his sword horizontally, trying to hack Percy in two. He parried the blow, trying to twist his sword to disarm Victarion. Although the man was much older, he was a skilled duelist, and leapt out of range before Percy could complete the maneuver. The captain struck again, wielding his blade with two hands, feinting for Percy’s shoulder before trying to stab him below the cuirass. He batted aside the blow with ease.
This time, when Percy stabbed at Victarion’s eyes, he called on the sea. The winds began to pick up as the duel continued, and the ship rocked with growing waves. Before long, even the seasoned captain was staggering around the deck, and heavy sheets of rain brought Percy extra strength and stamina. The Iron Captain lunged for Percy’s thigh, but the demigod blocked the blow with his greave. With one quick movement, Percy slashed through Victarion’s overextended guard, cutting from his right shoulder to his left hip. He fell in two pieces onto the deck. With a howl of the winds, Percy blew the remaining crewmen into the water.
Percy allowed the rain to continue long enough to heal his bruises, and to wash the blood from his sword. He couldn’t help but laugh once the wind had faded and the sky was clear, even though the other Ironborn ships were preparing to ram their now-empty flagship. He’d call the sword Kataigis. Hurricane, the storm that blew down from above. Plus, it doubled as a synonym for battle and a sex joke. Percy was a very mature, fully grown, trustworthy adult. No longer able to put off dealing with the rest of the fleet, he scrambled up the mast, getting the highest viewpoint he could of the Saltspear, the Fever, and the Neck.
From his perch atop the Iron Victory, Percy looked out over the 94 ships of the Iron Fleet, and took a deep breath, then another. The tugging feeling under his navel grew until it was a sharp pain, but he ignored it. The waves grew higher with each inhale, until they were lapping at the feet of sailors. Shouts of alarm carried over the water, but he paid them no mind. A breath, and the waves were crashing onto the decks hard enough to splinter railings. A breath, and the fleet was taking on water. A breath, and the winds howled. A breath, and the sky turned gray. A breath, and the few sailors left were swimming for shore. A breath, and Iron Victory was the only ship left above the waves.
Percy dropped to one knee, suddenly unable to stay on his feet for another moment. He screamed, and the Iron Victory turned to driftwood around him, dropping Percy, mercifully, under the sea. He hung there in the water, allowing it to rejuvenate him, for what might have been hours. Slowly, the pain in his gut faded, and the exhaustion in his bones was washed away. His camp necklace drifted out from under his cuirass and tunic. The beads managed to bring a weak smile to his face. I miss Annabeth.
“You have done well, godling,” said the deity’s watery voice. With a herculean effort, Percy dragged his head up, meeting the ice-blue eyes of the Drowned God. “You paid the Iron Price. Many have returned to my Halls.”
“How many died?” Percy made himself ask.
“There were a thousand men on the Iron Fleet. 800 were drowned. Another 200 are swimming for shore. If they arrive intact, the Crannogmen will take them prisoner. Some of the Drowned may wash ashore, and rise again as true Servants.” I’m a mass murderer.
“Sybelle Glover said there were 2500 Ironborn in the castle,” he said weakly.
“1500 in the castle, 1000 on the ships. I have not had so great a Drowning since Lannisport,” the god said, with what sounded almost like relish.
“I thought you didn’t care about sacrifices or prayer,” Percy hissed.
“The Sea God and the Lady of the Waves do not. The Drowned God thrives on them. My nature is different, this close to the Iron Islands.” All Percy’s lethargy was gone, replaced with burning anger.
“So all this was, what, a ploy to get me to kill people for you?” he shouted. All the nearby marine life took off, making a break for the western sea. The Drowned God was unperturbed.
“Not at all. I have never lied to you, godling. I have no need to. If I wanted the fleet gone, I would have pulled them under the waves myself.” Percy growled in frustration. It took all his self control not to draw Riptide and run the god through with it.
“What are you?”
“I am who I am,” the god said, and disappeared once again. Percy was left alone in the sea, surrounded by the destruction he’d wrought.
The raiders had been kind enough to form a makeshift path through the bogs, from the Fever River, looping around to the Kingsroad northern side of Moat Cailin. Percy jogged down it mindlessly, killing the occasional Ironborn he came across without issue and tossing the corpses to the waiting crocodile-looking things in the swamps. He was fresh out of fucks to give, and tired of being a plaything.
After his brisk twenty-mile jog (only interrupted to nap in a pond once) was done, Percy found himself in front of the ugliest, most run-down building he’d ever seen. Having grown up in 1990s New York, he thought that was saying something. The three moss-covered, tilting, battered-looking towers that remained of Moat Cailin’s original 20 towers were surrounded by occasional chunks of what was probably a huge wall, once. The three towers were positioned around the causeway which snaked through the Neck, and was technically part of the Kingsroad, though it was ten thousand years older than a united Westeros. Percy considered himself to be a decent enough strategist, though his tactics usually involved small bands of demigods, not medieval armies. Even so, he could see how no army had ever taken Moat Cailin from the south.
From his very dignified vantage point in a bush about half a mile north of the towers, Percy could see that the ruins were absolutely crawling with Ironborn. 1500 didn’t seem that far off, and there was absolutely no way he could handle that on his own.
“When in doubt, put on a show,” he said to himself. Moat Cailin was surrounded by swamps, which provided plenty of water for him to work with. It took some sneaking and finagling, but Percy was able to get within the old curtain wall without much trouble. Once dusk fell, he used his powers to create random peaks and valleys in the swamps, each about six feet tall. He pulled mist from the bog water, shrouding the whole area in the stuff. To the castle’s defenders, it looked as though an army was approaching through the swamps. It was, luckily for them, just Percy, hiding in a bog, concentrating so hard he felt as though he was about to have a stroke.
Only when a few hundred of the defenders had taken up positions atop chunks of the wall, and wasted countless arrows on piles of water, did Percy make his move. He relinquished control over the swampwater and mist, focusing on dragging a wall of water through the castle. A hundred or so Ironborn were swept away, getting buried in the muck of the Neck. He pulled a few more tricks that killed small chunks of Ironborn, but he would be shocked if there were less than a thousand in the castle. He still had, however, a couple more tricks up his sleeve.
Percy silently thanked Malcolm for convincing him and Annabeth to watch Avatar: The Last Airbender a few years ago. He gathered as much water to himself as he could, and although the contaminated freshwater did little to give him energy, he was able to pull off his plan. When Percy rose from the swamp, he hung in the middle of a water-mech, like Aang during the siege of the Northern Water Tribe, adding about ten feet to his height and making him look like a monster out of myth. Although Percy no longer had the concentration to actually move the limbs around, it had the intended effect of making hundreds of the castle’s defenders run away screaming, though many of the screams fell silent almost as soon as they’d passed beyond Moat Cailin’s walls.
Percy allowed his water-mech to fall away, and crept towards the closest group of scared-shitless Ironborn. There were five of them, huddled in a circle, brandishing axes at every shadow. Percy was able to kill them quickly and quietly. He spent hours circling the ruins, ambushing whoever he could, and flushing out Ironborn with tricks and bursts of water when he ran out of targets. He accumulated enough bruises and slowly-bleeding gashes that he knew Annabeth was gonna be pissed, even if some of the new scars would make him look really badass. Eventually, however, he had no choice but to throw in the towel.
There was still much for him to do if he wished to properly retake the castle, but Percy was too tired to continue. Maybe if he had ambrosia, he could’ve gone on a little longer, but he’d promised Annabeth that he’d try to make it home. Dying from overusing his powers in a swamp would be a really embarrassing way to go. He could rest, then keep whittling down their numbers later. He had the presence of mind to walk fifty yards or so, hiding somewhere he doubted the Ironborn would find him if they went looking for the ‘monster’. He let out an exhausted breath, leaning his head back on a rotted tree. He hadn’t even closed his eyes for more than a few seconds when he felt a hand on the front of his shoulder.
Percy drew Kataigis in half a second, leapt onto his attacker, pressing his forearm into their throat, and pointing the blade between their eyes. To his shock, it wasn’t an Ironborn. The man was tiny, maybe around Hazel’s height, very old, and heavily bearded. His face was smeared with mud, and though he had a two-pronged spear on his back, a knife at his belt, and scaled bronze armor, his hands were empty of weapons. A crannogman, Percy realized, and let the man go without a word. He tried to apologize for attacking him, but was too tired to form the words.
“Rest, my Prince. We’ll take it from here,” the man said. He was helpless to do anything but close his eyes.
Once again, he awoke in a sparse room. This time, he was still in his armor, there were several men inside, and the walls were made of stone, not wood.
“Prince Perseus Jackson of New York, I assume?” At Percy’s nod, the short man bowed deeply. “My name is Jeor, I serve Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. We’ve been expecting you. My Lord bids you welcome. It’s only been a couple of hours. Your tricks allowed us Crannogmen to flush out the squids from the castle. Those who did not fall to our poison darts fled into the swamps, and will be killed by nature. Rickard Karstark’s men will be here to secure the castle within the week, though they believe they’re coming to take it.”
“How do you know all this?”
Jeor handed Percy a letter, wrapped in oilcloth and sealed in green-gray wax. He opened it, and was immediately shocked by the form of address.
To Be Delivered to:
Ser PERSEUS JACKSON THALASSOGENES of New York, Prince of Atlantis and the Sea, Lord of Rosby, Hero of Olympus, Former Praetor LEG XII FVL;
Son of POSEIDON KRONIDES , God of the Sea, King of Atlantis, Lord of Horses, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, and SALLY JACKSON of New York, the Clear-Sighted.
Your Highness,
My name is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch and the Neck. I understand if you have not heard of me since your arrival in our world, my people are oft forgotten by Westeros at large. I am what is known as a Greenseer, what you might call an Oracle. I am not as strong as my son, Jojen, but I can see much of what occurs in Westeros through the Weirwood Trees. I commend you and your compatriots on all you have achieved here, and wish you the best of luck in returning home. I have seen that the three of you are honorable and trustworthy, and will not turn on the North. I shall keep you and your Annabeth’s secret, though be warned that other Greenseers may know it. Many things are visible through the Trees.
The Neck was formed eons past, when the Children of the Forest brought down the Hammer of the Waters. Ask any Crannogman or Northman at Moat Cailin, and they will tell you the story. This place may be inhospitable to those who do not know its ways, but you are a child of the seas. The swamps will be kinder to you than to others, though I would advise against wandering through them. Here, on the edge of a land as magical as the Neck, a man as filled with magic as yourself may experience visions and dreams much more strongly than in the rest of Westeros.
The Trees have shown me that you wish to see the Ironborn’s thralls freed and resettled, a worthwhile goal. My men are at your disposal. Rickard Karstark is proud and brash, but he despises slavery as much as any Westerosi, and hates the Ironborn yet more. He will be at Moat Cailin shortly after my own men arrive. He can be trusted, though his grief for his sons cripples him still.
I do not have the answers you seek, and cannot help you find your way home. For that, and the favor I must ask, I apologize. Eddard Stark was my closest friend, and it pains me greatly not to join his son Robb’s war against the Lannisters. The Crannogmen are not skilled in open warfare, or overly familiar with lands outside of the Neck, though I have little doubt a warrior such as yourself could put a small band of Crannogmen to good use. Greensight is cryptic and vague, though I can see that your journey will bring you North once again, before you depart this realm entirely. When it does, I ask you, out of the human decency I know you possess, to watch over Jon Snow.
Lord Eddard and I made a promise to Jon’s mother. I cannot tell you who she is, but we swore to keep Jon safe. Staying in the Neck has been my way of doing so: the knowledge of his birth will die with me, now. So it must be. A storm is brewing in the East, and Jon must remain ignorant of his parentage if he hopes to weather it. Even so, I ask that you keep an eye on the boy. He will rise high, and you will surely meet him. Evil things stir beyond the Wall, and Jon is the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. He is much like you: a boy thrust into war too early, with the skill at leadership of one thrice his age. I suspect that protecting him will be no hardship. Jon is a talented swordsman and strategist, and you will likely become fast friends.
It goes without saying that you can repeat none of this. Burn this letter after reading it, Your Highness. Even hints of what I have told you could spark a war. And beware your dreams. Be mindful of the thin line between reality and fantasy, madness and genius, dream and waking, god and monster. You arrived in our world at a difficult time, yet I cannot help but be glad that you have. We shall not speak again. Winter is coming.
With Luck,
Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch
When Percy was done parsing through the dense cursive, he read the letter again, then a third time for good measure. To his dismay, the words weren’t changing (much), and Jeor was still patiently waiting for him to finish. Percy decided to, for now, put aside the issue of how Howland Reed knew his and his father’s epithets in Greek, how he knew Latin abbreviations for ‘Legiō XII Fvlminata’, and exactly how much the Greenseers could see. Instead, he decided to focus on one problem at a time.
“Who the fuck is Jon Snow?” Percy asked tiredly.
Notes:
I’m sorry this took so long. I spent like 10 days on vacation, and was unable to write at all when I was away. Then, as soon as I got back, I got the worst cold I’ve had in years and was too busy puking my guts out to write, THEN when I started properly writing, a bunch of new scenes and expansions popped up that forced me to write them. Plus my original outline assumed the Iron Fleet used thralls as oarmen, which was me fucking up my lore, and I had to rewrite some shit.
Anyway, Percy is… alive? He’s doing fine. Ish. In case it wasn’t obvious, he has two coping mechanisms atm: sarcasm/humor/exaggerated confidence and sex with his wife. It’s almost like removing Percy “I love my friends and my mom” Jackson from his home isn’t gonna be too great for his mental health. His new attempt to distract himself by being useful is… certainly a choice.
I’ve been worried about making the demigods seem too OP for a while now. I really, really don’t want this fic to turn into a wank where the demigods just steamroll their opponents effortlessly. This chapter serves as a reminder that yes, they’re powerful, but they are not gods. Overuse of power has consequences. Percy’s working himself to exhaustion a bit too much.
Also: Percy does, in fact, know who Jon is, he just doesn’t remember at the moment because he’s exhausted. Sansa definitely mentioned him at least once during her week spent under the demigods’ protection in KL, but she didn’t talk about him very often, and Jon is a very common name. Howland is also being very, very obtuse in his writing. Once Jeor reminds him (Ned Stark’s bastard, NW member), Percy will remember. That’ll happen off-page tho. I also just realized that there’s probably going to be a lot of theories about Jeor being Howland Reed. Jeor is not Howland Reed. Jeor is a random OC I made up for this chapter who is exactly who he claims to be, and whose name was practically picked out of a hat.
Yes, the interchangeable use of wife/fiancée/partner to describe Annabeth in Percy’s internal monologue is intentional.
Translations:
- Protogenoi (Gr): primordials
- Agape mou (Gr): my love
- Kataigis (Gr): Hurricane, but also figuratively a few different kinds of gusts, including a battle, or a ‘burst’ of passion. Hence the sex joke, though it covers any strong emotion.
- I am who I am (Heb): not really a translation, but I stole this from the Tanakh, and thought it was worth noting. In Hebrew, it’s אהיה אשר אהיה, which is what G-d says Their name is when Moshe Rabeinu asks in Shemot 3:14. I’m not trying to imply that the Drowned God/Lady of the Waves/Sea God is HaShem. I did, however, want to convey the sense of this particular deity being far beyond mortal comprehension. Its motives and goals will remain a mystery throughout the fic. It simply is.
- Thalassogenes (Gr): Sea-born
- Kronides (Gr): Son of Kronos
- LEG XII FVL/Legio XII Fvlminata (Lat): Twelfth Legion, armed with lightning. This one should be fairly obvious and I’ve used it several times, but I do have a reason for bringing it up. I’ve been remiss in this fic so far, I usually use v and i exclusively in Latin, no u or j. So far I’ve stuck to the latter but not the former, mostly bc I’m more used to writing Latin by hand than I am typing it. I’ll be better about my orthography going forward.Up next:
23. Catelyn IV
24. Annabeth IV
25. Frank III
26. Davos V
27. Tyrion III
28. Frank IV
29. Epilogue - Percy VI
Chapter 23: Catelyn IV
Notes:
November, 299 AC
Sorry for the delay! I’ve been doing a lot of work on future installments of this series: polishing off outlines, fleshing out plans, filling in plot holes, deciding on final pairings for the starklings, creating a cohesive and in-depth timeline, doing worldbuilding, jotting down years worth of ideas, and choosing who’s gonna kick the bucket in the assorted big-ass battles. Part 2 is my favorite of the three, with all the biggest twists and goings-on. I also published an alternate POV for the Battle of Deepwood Motte, which you can find as the second part of this series. Many more side stories are forthcoming.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Catelyn watched, for the third time in her life, as the Stark-Tully armies returned to Riverrun. While a strategic loss, in which Robb had failed to achieve his goals, High Heart had still been a substantial tactical and personal victory. Tywin Lannister had been sent running scared, with his tail between his legs. Defeated by a sixteen year old boy in open battle. The Whispering Wood had been against Jaime, and Roose Bolton had been the northern commander defeated at the Green Fork. Now, none could deny that the Young Wolf could best the Old Lion in combat. For a force made largely of Northmen, who still worshipped the Old Gods, to defeat Seven-worshipping Westermen so close to the place where Andals had once slaughtered Children of the Forest and First Men, and where the stumps of weirwoods they’d cut down remained to this day? Tywin’s reputation would never recover.
2000 Rivermen had not returned to the castle, but were instead continuing southeast to meet up with Randyll Tarly’s army and continue the pursuit. Robb had ordered Jonos Bracken to take command of the force, a pretty exile for the troublemaker Lord. Bracken would have to ride from Stone Hedge with a small guard, meet up with the larger one, be functionally subservient to the equally-disdained Lord Tarly, and chase the Lannisters across the Riverlands. It would not be pleasant, and certainly remind the Brackens not to start foolish fights.
Cat had been the one to inform the Kingslayer of his father’s defeat. Jaime Lannister had raged in his dungeon, but months of captivity had left him drained and impotent. He’d probably have to be moved back to a tower cell before he wasted away. Perhaps he should be allowed to die in a tower, after trying to kill Bran in one. She’d speak to Robb and Edmure about it. Her brother was standing just to her left, and her son had ridden through Winterfell’s gates just as she thought of him.
As always, Robb rode at the head of his army, with a crown on his head and Ice on his back. Raynald Westerling, the Queen’s brother, rode at his side, carrying the royal banner. The two young men traded jests as their horses slowed. They’d been good friends since Robb’s return from the Crag, but fighting side by side seemed to have solidified their bond. In the absence of Jon Snow and the Greyjoy traitor, Robb had found another brother.
Better a trueborn goodbrother by his side than a bastard who shares his blood. Theon Greyjoy had betrayed the Starks. Jon Snow was wasting away at the edge of the world, bound to the Night’s Watch, where he was no threat to Robb. Cat wouldn’t put it past the bastard to run from the Wall and try to take Winterfell from her son, regardless. She would not begrudge Robb another, more trustworthy brother-in-arms. But by all the gods, if he had to marry for love, why couldn’t the woman’s house have had more than fifty swords?
Nearly as soon as he’d dismounted his horse, Arya raced into her brother’s arms. Robb laughed good naturedly, spinning Arya around once before setting her back down. Sansa’s hug was slightly more formal, but Cat could see the tears in her daughter’s eyes. Jeyne Westerling tried to greet her brother similarly, but Eleyna pushed the Queen out of the way to pester Ser Raynald with questions. Once siblings had all been reunited, Jeyne walked up to her husband. Robb unslung Ice from his back, handing it to his squire- yet another Westerling- who ran off to deliver it to his rooms. Sybell Spicer had chosen not to attend.
“My Queen,” Robb said cheekily, bowing his head slightly to his wife. “I’m back in one piece, as promised.” Jeyne huffed and rolled her eyes, looking like the sixteen year old girl she was for a brief moment, rather than the Queen of Winter. Robb’s answering grin took ten years off of his appearance as well. Jeyne seemed to consider something for a few seconds, before stepping forward and kissing her husband deeply enough to make Arya gag and Cat look away. When she stepped back, both the King and Queen were red in the face.
“I hope, dear sister, that I won’t be receiving a similar greeting. A simple ‘hello’ shall suffice,” Ser Raynald jested. Jeyne grinned, slapping her brother on the arm. They’re all so young. Cat was saved from having to contemplate how horrifically young Robb and his goodfamily were by the arrival of the rest of his commanders. Uncle Brynden, Wendel Manderly, Greatjon Umber, Maege and Dacey Mormont, Tytos Blackwood, and Jason Mallister rode into Riverrun’s courtyard. Older, more experienced warriors, who’d kept her son safe through another battle.
Grey Wind plodded into the keep alongside the lords, making his way to his master’s side. Robb buried a hand in the fur of his wolf’s neck, while he clasped his wife’s in the other. Cat’s son was already making conversation with Edmure, getting a report on the state of the castle. He was distracted when, to Robb’s visible shock, Jeyne hesitantly reached out a hand towards the direwolf. Grey Wind watched the Queen’s hand carefully, but did not move away. The wolf allowed himself to be scratched on the chin, and Jeyne smiled shily.
“I didn’t trust him much either, but he saved my life from a Marbrand knight,” Ser Raynald admitted. “Lancel Lannister might have escaped if Grey Wind hadn’t cleared my path.”
“You killed Ser Kevan’s son?” Cat said in disbelief. Such a thing was unthinkable. House Westerling had served the Lannisters since the very first King of the Rock, Loreon Lannister, had defeated the Hooded Kings of House Banefort thousands of years ago. Ever since, the Westerlings had owed allegiance to Casterly Rock rather than the Banefort or Castamere, which had frequently squabbled over The Crag. Jeyne and Raynald’s grandfather had fought alongside Lord Tywin when the Reynes and Tarbecks revolted.
She had not grasped the weight of the Westerlings’ defection until now, as the heir to The Crag grimly explained how he’d decapitated his rightful lord’s nephew. She was almost grateful when the conversation ended, and the Lords moved into the castle.
With Cat’s careful assistance, Robb had proven as canny a negotiator as he was a general, turning a solar into his own personal battlefield. Her son had spent three days winning concessions from the Baratheon envoys in exchange for giving up House Stark’s right to continue to claim the title of ‘Prince of Winter’, in the Dornish fashion; which he had never had any intent on doing in the first place. Another day was spent on whether or not House Tully would be Princes of the Trident, or just Lords Paramount of the Riverlands. Cat and her brother spent an evening laughing and reminiscing over goblets of wine after that issue was finally settled. The Tullys had never been royalty, and Edmure had no illusions that he would wear a crown. Even so, every demand the Stark-Tullys made was another point that the Baratheons had to concede or parry.
“What is to stop you from marching back south and reclaiming the Kingdom of the Trident?” Lord Staunton had asked.
“Starks do not fare well south of the Neck. When this war is over, I will happily live out my days in the North,” Robb promised. Thankfully, the envoys seemed to believe him.
Stark and Tully both agreed to bend directly to King’s Landing, with a return to the titles and statuses they’d had before the war: the title of Lord with the rank of Lord Paramount, the status of House Stark as Wardens of the North, and the standard changing of family names upon marriage (rather than a retention of the bride’s original name for royal marriages). Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Sansa would be Lords and Ladies once more, not Princes and Princesses. Queen Jeyne Westerling would be Lady Jeyne Stark.
In exchange for the expected concessions, Robb had secured several boons. He’d exempted the Riverlands from ten years of taxes to the Crown, and the North from five, with no levies raised from either for ten years. The Kingslayer would remain in Stark/Tully dungeons, to be executed or ransomed as Robb and Edmure wished.
Stannis’ promised seats on the Kingsguard would be filled by Lucas Blackwood and Ser Wylan Manderly, son of Marlon. The young Blackwood, a devout follower of the Old Gods, had nonetheless agreed to accept a knighthood in order to fulfill his duties. Cat’s uncle Brynden had been given the promised Small Council seat, becoming Master of War for the realm at large. In truth, Stannis would have given out the Small Council and Kingsguard seats anyway, and exemptions from levies and taxes were standard for regions wronged by the crown. Yet Robb had positioned his lords to be grateful for the relatively minor boons. Functionally, however, all three men would be hostages in King’s Landing, for Robb’s good behavior.
The exchange of hostages would be a mutual one. By far the most ostentatious part of the agreement had been a betrothal. Against Catelyn’s advice, Rickon was to be wed to Princess Shireen Baratheon. The couple would be made Lord and Lady of Moat Cailin, unless Shireen ascended the Iron Throne, in which case Rickon would be Prince Consort. The dowry included food from the Reach that the North would need to survive the winter.
“A third son for an only daughter?” Brynden had scoffed when the deal was proposed to the family.
“No. A third son for two kingdoms. For peace,” Robb said.
“Every last one of Ned’s children is marrying outside the North or unable to marry, save Sansa. You will have to make a very, very good match for her. A Northern one,” Cat warned.
“I know, but it cannot be helped,” Robb sighed.
“You are building your rule on a foundation of sand,” she retorted. “Harrion Karstark and Smalljon Umber are worth considering for her hand. As for Rickon, a Manderly or a Bolton, perhaps, if Lord Roose has a daughter.”
“Do you think I want this for him, mother? The Baratheons demanded a marriage. Stannis has no ties of his own except to the Florents, Renly’s Tyrell marriage is a hindrance more than a boon. Shireen’s marriage to Rickon ties the King to Stark and Tully by blood. The North gets to eat, and gains the Crown’s armies to defend our borders. Either Rickon marries the Princess, or we have to put down the Ironborn and Lannisters ourselves.”
Unfortunately, her son had a point. Robb had neither wanted nor tried to fully withdraw his men from the war. The agreement made clear that Northern and Riverlander soldiers would assist Stannis’ armies when they marched on the Westerlands, though Stannis’ demigods would help clear out the Mountain’s Men from the Riverlands, and the Ironborn from the North. It was a fair deal, an alliance in function and bending the knee in name.
The lords accepted the deal with a minimum of complaints. Robb had already convinced them, actually following through was simple enough. Without Stannis actually present, there was no one for Robb to bend the knee to. When the campaign for the Westerlands began, Robb would kneel formally. Lord Staunton and Ser Lomas Estermont simply went from envoys to ‘honored guests’ until they could be sent back to King’s Landing. Robb’s crown, and the circlets of his wife and sisters, went into a trunk, to be sent back to Winterfell. A piece of parchment was affixed with seals, and letters were sent out. Without real ceremony, King Robb II Stark became Lord Robb Stark. ‘Your Grace’ became ‘my Lord’. Edmure became, nominally, an equal rather than a subject.
Cat was relieved by the change. It was dangerous, being a King. Men did terrible things for a crown and a fancy chair. She’d watched the realm torn apart over who called themselves King three times. She would rather her son kneel and suffer some minor humiliation than Cat’s grandchildren suffer the fate of little Aegon and Rhaenys, or even Balon Greyjoy’s older sons. Cat had not wanted Robb to be King when she set out from Winterfell, she’d only wanted to bring Ned, Arya, and Sansa back home. Her husband was lost, but her daughters were safe. There was no point in lingering further under prideful delusions.
Robb seemed happier, without the weight of iron and bronze upon his brow. He had borne the burden well, and kept his back straight, but there was more laughter in her son’s eyes when he did not wear the iron spikes of the Kings of Winter. Hopefully, he would stay that way for many years to come. I wonder what Bran and Rickon are like, now? Is Bran still the excitable, curious boy he was before his fall? Is Rickon still wild and carefree? Robb, Sansa, and Arya had changed so much, with only glimpses of her children visible through the heavy burdens of adulthood, prematurely borne. Cat hoped that her younger sons had not changed too much, but doubted that being forced to flee from one’s burned home was conducive to a happy childhood. If I ever see Theon Greyjoy again, I’ll swing the sword myself, First Men rites be damned.
Less than a day after the announcement of Robb bending the knee was sent out to the realm, three ravens arrived in quick succession from Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, and Moat Cailin. It turned out that the deal struck with Stannis had been fulfilled, at least in part, pre-emptively. The demigods- one demigod- had already freed the North from the Ironborn. Ser Estermont was smug, Sansa awestruck, and the leadership was terrified.
“He destroyed the Iron Fleet? By himself?” Robb interrogated the Maester. He’d asked variations on the same question a dozen times now.
“He did, my Lord. Lady Glover, Lady Tallhart, and Lord Karstark all confirm it.”
“I wish we’d had the boy at Pyke,” Uncle Brynden muttered.
“Where is he now?” Cat asked. The demigod was a deadly weapon, thankfully on their side, but still dangerous. He, his wife, and his friend had saved Sansa. By her daughter’s account, Percy Jackson was kind and warm. He had a younger sister of his own, and treated Sansa like one. Annabeth Jackson had avenged Ned, and Frank Zhang had brought Sansa back home. A one-man army sits in the North’s oldest, strongest castle. The western coast is vulnerable. We rely on him for security now. That was neither sustainable nor desirable. The man she’d met outside Storm’s End, the one who’d played tricks with mist and horses, had wiped out a fleet. Cat had grown used to thinking him as simply the husband of Sansa’s savior. Now, it was impossible to forget that he’d taken Storm’s End single-handedly.
“Lord Karstark reports that, after the Northern soldiers reached Moat Cailin, he set out for Deepwood Motte. His stated purpose is to shore up defenses against the Ironborn and defeat those who remain on Northern shores,” the Maester said.
“And what of Riverlands shores?” Jason Mallister grumbled. Seagard had long been the Riverlands’ first line of defense against the Ironborn.
“A smaller Iron Fleet is in everyone’s interest,” Cat reminded him. Lord Mallister nodded in concession of the point.
“But why does he believe it to be in his?” Robb wondered, drumming his fingers on the table.
Perhaps, Cat thought, he is simply a good person. She wasn’t sure if she believed in such a thing any longer.
Howls in the night had been commonplace to Catelyn for nearly two decades. The Wolfswood near Winterfell was aptly-named. Tonight, however, the wolves were particularly insistent. Rumors about a massive pack of man-eating wolves had abounded in the Riverlands since war began. Cat hadn’t believed them, but this many howls was starting to lend credibility to the idea. Cat huffed, giving up on sleep and throwing aside the furs. She went to her window, but could see only forest. She pulled a robe on over her shift, throwing her door open.
Jorelle Mormont of Bear Island, a hulking yet surprisingly pretty woman who preferred battle-axes and armor to embroidery and dresses, was Cat’s guard that night. Security had been tighter in Riverrun ever since the Imp’s ruse with the mummers, and highborn warriors were often most prepared for guarding their lieges. When Cat opened her door, the warrior turned around to face her, grimacing in the candlelight.
“Wolves keep you up, Lady Stark?” she asked.
“So they have. Come, I want to see them,” Cat said. The other woman laughed and shook her head.
“Never let them tell you you aren’t a real Stark, my Lady. Only your family would want to see predators in a forest at night, even if it is from atop the walls. It is from atop the walls, yes?”
“I’m curious, not foolish,” Cat assured her. There was something nagging her about the howling, and she needed to figure out what it was. Thankfully, the walk to a small walkway between portions of the keep was short, and the two women joined two Tully men outside. Both soldiers inclined their heads, but did not disturb Cat or Jory. Both women were too busy scanning the open plain past the portcullis, across the moat, and beyond the camps containing thousands of Northern and Riverlander soldiers.
Thankfully, it was a clear night with a full moon. In the moonlight, only vague shapes were visible, prowling outside the soldiers’ camps. Guards in the camps and on the walls alike looked skittish, though the wolves did not seem to be stalking them. They seemed to be waiting for something, pacing back and forth expectantly. I’ve been in the North too damn long, treating wolves like people. They’re beasts.
From the middle of the pack, one dark shape plodded towards Riverrun’s walls. Even in the moonlight, it was remarkable. Closer in size to a horse than a wolf, the beast could easily have been saddled and ridden, like the wargs of old. The massive wolf reached Riverrun’s drawbridge, threw back its head, and let out a long, mournful howl. Even from atop the walls, golden eyes gleaned in the moonlight. Cat’s escort let out a shocked, surprisingly ladylike gasp.
“Is that a direwolf? I thought Grey Wind was in Lord Robb’s rooms. How did he get outside the walls?” Jorelle Mormont may have been dumbfounded, but Catelyn was able to put the pieces together.
“Go wake Arya,” Catelyn ordered, unable to hide her smile.
“All due respect, Lady Stark, but I’ve been sparring with the prin- with Lady Arya. She’ll stab me if I wake her at this hour,” Jorelle said gruffly. Cat chuckled at the painfully accurate description of her daughter’s atrocious sleeping habits.
“Tell her that Nymeria’s come back,” she suggested. With a nod and a lopsided grin, the warrior went to obey.
A Lord’s work was never done, and even while at Riverrun, Robb dictated the path of the war, spending hours reading and dictating letters. Jeyne had become his scribe, offering advice and information that her husband readily accepted. When the Dreadfort’s Maester Wolkan reported that Winterfell’s smallfolk had been returned to their home, escorted by Manderlys, it was Jeyne who suggested a census be taken of the survivors. Ramsay Snow, unfortunately, had still not been found.
In the wake of Victarion Greyjoy’s death and the loss of the Iron Fleet, Balon Greyjoy had fallen to his death on Pyke. His brother Euron now claimed the Driftwood Crown, while Aeron and Asha Greyjoy fled the Iron Islands, and Theon in the Dreadfort’s dungeon. The Crag, located so close to the Iron Islands, had been a target of their raids for centuries, and Jeyne had much to say on the matter.
“Euron Greyjoy was the mastermind behind the burning of the fleet at Lannisport. I lost an uncle there,” the new Lady Stark said sadly. “He is ruthless, vicious, and feared the world over. Balon could be beaten into submission. Euron will continue the war until his dying breath.”
“She speaks true,” Lord Mallister admitted. “He is a dangerous foe.”
“Then it is lucky we have cultivated an ally who wipes whole fleets from the waves,” Robb said with a grin. “Send a raven to Lord Karstark at Moat Cailin, I wish to ensure the Prince will not abandon the Sunset Sea now.”
It was not the only raven sent to Rickard Karstark that day. Robb gave the order to split his forces, sending 2000 men under Robett Glover to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, by way of White Harbor. 3000 remained with Lord Karstark. It had been easy, even for the Northmen, to grow too focused on the five warring Kings in the south. It took a raven from Castle Black, from Maester Aemon Targaryen, and wasn’t that an occurrence straight out of the history books, to turn the North’s eyes to the Wall once again. An army of 100,000 wildlings were marching south, and the Night’s Watch did not have the numbers to stop them.
Cat saw Robb’s concern for Jon Snow in the set of his jaw and furrow of his brow, but his orders were level-headed and logical. She could only hope 2000 armored horsemen would be enough to turn the tide of the battle. The North had too few men to spare.
By far the least pleasant correspondence that Robb maintained was with Walder Frey at the Twins. Cat, Robb, and Brynden had already cajoled Edmure into agreeing to marry a Frey woman, but a date for the wedding had yet to be set. It took much negotiation before a day early in the next year was agreed upon. Robb hoped to bring a few thousand men with him, supplement them with the Freys’ troops, and finally hunt down Gregor Clegane. The latest reports had him and his 5000 men burning their way through the northern Riverlands, not far from the Twins.
With Tywin Lannister running back west, Gregor Clegane was now the greatest threat to Cat’s two homelands. Even so, Walder Frey had grumbled and whined about sending his recently-returned men back out to fight. Only when Robb agreed to bring Arya along, so that she might meet her betrothed, did the Late Lord Frey acquiesce. Elmar Frey would have to be fetched from his place as Roose Bolton’s squire, but he would be in attendance.
With the end of the wars finally in sight, Catelyn actually found herself looking forward to something as peaceful as a wedding, even if it did mean she’d have to tolerate Walder Frey’s disgusting excuse for company. He is a disgusting old man, but I think I’m more than capable of surviving my own brother’s wedding.
Notes:
Nothing ominous to see here. Nope, nothing at all.
Everybody's sending their annoying lords to go chase down Tywin. This amuses me, and certainly has zero political ramifications.
Somebody smarter than me needs to come up with a simpler way of saying 'Stark-Tully' that doesn't refer to both houses being sworn to Robb, thanks.
Up next:
24. Annabeth IV
25. Frank III
26. Davos V
27. Tyrion III
28. Frank IV
29. Epilogue - Percy VII adore writing Cat, she has so much love and is simultaneously such a hater, whip-smart and often relegated to the sidelines, respected by all and ignored when it matters the most to her. Unfortunately, this is the last of her POVs for Part 1. Only Frank has more than one POV remaining, actually. Annabeth IV and Frank III were initially going to be one chapter (Frank III), but I'm really glad I split it up.
Now that Robb's knelt, POV restrictions no longer apply. GRRM never writes from the POV of any of the claimants to the throne (Joffrey, Tommen, Robb, Stannis, Renly, Balon, fAegon), or the biggest schemers (Baelish, Tywin, Bolton, Varys). Instead, he picks a character or three in their orbit to show what they're up to. The exception to this rule, ofc, is the Targaryens- Dany (and Jon) get POV chapters (though fAegon doesn't- another point against him being a Targ). Robb is no longer a King, and is now eligible for POVs of his own! Assuming he lives long enough to get one, that is. Renly's knelt, but he will not be getting any chapters, because I don't want to give him one. Davos will continue being our eyes on Stannis (and Renly), Dany and Jon will get chapters in Part 2. I break GRRM's rule only twice: one schemer will get a POV in P2, and one claimant will give up their claim in a POV chapter, also in part 2.
P2's gonna have several new POVs, lots of titles/epithets rather than names, cover nearly three years of time rather than just under one, and have 34 chapters. I'm really, really excited for it.
Chapter 24: Annabeth IV
Notes:
Nov-Dec 299 AC
Fun fact, this chapter was not originally supposed to exist. Then I realized making Annabeth’s last POV for P1 be halfway through was a disgrace and I split Frank III into two parts. This chapter contains the first half of the original Frank III, with some additional Annabeth stuff. The story is better for it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Annabeth stayed in King’s Landing long enough to receive Percy’s letters assuring her of his safety, send a reply to Moat Cailin, and learn that the Starks had bent the knee. It took about two and a half weeks, none of which were enjoyable. She hadn’t gone this long without sleeping beside Percy since they’d started college. Annabeth woke several times a night, her throat raw from screaming, images of dead friends still visible when she blinked. The other half of her bed was empty and cold, and she hated it.
The servants started to give her a wide berth after Percy left. The old soldiers among the Lords and guards seemed sympathetic, but most of the younger men began to turn up their noses at her. With her husband gone, and screams of terror emanating from her room in the night, no doubt they thought she was some hysterical woman not worth listening to.
In all fairness, Annabeth knew she looked like shit. She wasn’t sleeping much, and even with this world’s shitty mirrors, the bags under her eyes were clear enough to her. Davos, Aurane, Stannis, Baelor Hightower, and Monford Velaryon still sought her counsel, as did the more devout of the Hellenes, but she was clearly on the outs. The Florents, several of the Reach houses, the Sunglasses, and the others who were more loyal to Renly or the Seven than Stannis or the Olympians were giving her the cold shoulder. More of her time was spent sparring with Brienne of Tarth, or writing her book. Her trip to the front lines couldn’t have come at a better time.
Frank and Ser Garlan had already secured Hayford, Rosby, Stokeworth, Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, and Sow’s Horn. Most had surrendered without a fight, and added their levies to Frank’s, though she’d heard reports of some bloody skirmishes with Lannister men who’d survived King’s Landing, brown-robed holy men fleeing the Riverlands, and some of the smaller Crownlands houses who’d thrown their lots in with the Lannisters. The growing stories of Faithful fanatics were worrying, but far from surprising. To them, she, Percy, and Frank were heretics, if not devils incarnate.
Percy’s stunning victory over the Ironborn certainly garnered admiration and respect at Court, especially among those already inclined in favor of the demigods, but it didn’t win the goodwill that the Jacksons had hoped for. Maybe it was the fact that Percy’s actions benefitted the North rather than Stannis, maybe it was fear, or maybe their awe of Percy didn’t extend to his wife. Whatever the reason, Annabeth was treated with bountiful courtesy and respect, but no more than that. It scared her more than she wanted to admit. Genuine respect was a powerful thing, soldiers who loved their commander could turn the tide of wars when faced with a less motivated enemy. If her presence was only tolerated rather than enjoyed, then she was in danger from those who viewed her as an inconvenience rather than an ally.
At least, if nothing else, she wouldn’t have to worry about fighting the Starks, now that peace had been made. Sweet Sansa, far too sad for her age. Catelyn, her fierce and sharp mother, dedicated and driven in a way that Annabeth could only hope she would be able to give to her own children some day. She’d never met wild Arya or Robb, the tactical genius, but she really didn’t want to go to war with them. If only Shireen hadn’t been the price.
She understood that marriages were how deals were sealed in this world. An exchange of hostages, a merging of bloodlines, all that. It was as old as humanity. But Shireen wasn’t even twelve, and she’d just been sold off like cattle for an alliance. It made her blood boil with reminders of being treated like a bargaining chip or an object by Luke, by her mother, by so many people over the years. Shireen deserved better. Rickon Stark deserved better. All the Westerosi did. But she’d already burned the entirety of her political capital to prevent her own non-existent child from being married off- and there were far worse fates than marriage to a girl as kind as Shireen in this world.
Even if she’d had the capability to stop Shireen from being married off, she wasn’t sure if she would actually do so. The alliance was important, Shireen’s role in it was pivotal, she understood that. Besides, she’d already gotten marriages below the age of sixteen banned. Rickon was four years old. Insanely young to be married off, that meant he had twelve years to wait. Shireen was ten, and wouldn’t be married until she was older than Annabeth. Small mercies.
For now, Annabeth could only focus on what she was capable of changing: the war. She was a warrior, a general. She filled a few saddlebags with supplies, put a roughspun hooded cloak over her armor, strapped Onyx and her drakonbone sword to her belt, and tried to leave the city at dawn. She’d told those who needed to know when she was leaving, but she didn’t want to make a scene. She needed to ride straight up the Kingsroad, where she would meet Frank’s army east of Harrenhal. There was no need for a fuss. Naturally, one was made for her.
“Your Holiness!” the self-appointed priest begged. He was a wealthy member of the blacksmiths’ guild, and had, a year ago, been known as Ser Jon Steelmoot. During one of Percy’s earliest excursions into King’s Landing, he’d taken one look at the armor Annabeth had crafted and immediately decided she was, in fact, half-goddess. He now went by Diomedes Steelmoot, and had dropped the ‘Ser’, as he no longer believed in the Seven. Now, instead of fine doublets, he wore chitons modeled after a piece Annabeth had sewn Percy for Court.
‘Diomedes’ led many of the sloppy prayers at the half-completed temple Annabeth had designed, frequently ‘preached’ on street corners (which really just consisted of relaying butchered versions of myths), and absolutely refused to listen to anything the demigods told him. Annabeth found his company distasteful enough when he wasn’t running alongside her horse as she tried to make it to the city gates. Now, he was drawing a crowd, and the distaste turned into annoyance. How did he even notice me? Why was he here?
“I told you not to call me that,” she replied, trying not to sound haughty.
“Princess! Why do you leave us?” he cried. Murmurs followed the odd pair as Annabeth rode down the main street.
“Please, for the love of the gods, just call me Annabeth,” she called over her shoulder.
“I can’t do that, Princess. It’s not proper.” She briefly debated spurring on her horse and leaving Diomedes in the dust, but that would just be a dick move. She had to tread carefully with the Hellenes.
“I’m not abandoning you. You were doing just fine before I showed up- I haven’t even done anything to improve your life. Frank needs my help, you don’t, so I’m leaving the city. That’s all,” the demigoddess assured her self-appointed priest.
“Is it true that lead is poison!” Diomedes asked.
“Yes, and so is arsenic. Don’t give pregnant people alcohol either.”
“So you have said. You have doubtless saved many lives,” he fawned.
“Look. I understand what you’re doing. I get it, really. But this worship doesn’t do anyone any good. I’m not a god. My mother is, but she’s not here, and she’s kind of an asshole. I’m not completely human, but I’m still mortal. Don’t worship me,” she pleaded.
“I wouldn’t dare! I worship the Olympians!” the priest shouted. Annabeth could see the gate now, she was almost free.
“No, you don’t. You worship the ideas you’ve cobbled together from a few stories I told, which were passed around and misinterpreted, with the Seven and the Merling King and a bunch of other local religions,” she said calmly. Diomedes’ smile only grew.
“Your humility is a virtue, Princess. When will you, the Praetor, and your husband return?”
“When we need to.” In truth, she didn’t know.
“Praise be to Zeus!” The priest spread his hands and looked up at the sky with a smile. Annabeth whirled her horse around, fury making blood roar in her ears.
“Zeus is a rapist and a murderer,” she said, deadly calm. Diomedes only seemed confused by this.
“Is he not your grandfather?”
“He is, and he killed my grandmother. Goodbye, Diomedes.”
“Safe travels, Princess!”
Her travels were not safe. A group of bandits waylaid her not far from the city, after nearly a day on the road. From their tattered red gambesons and chipped weapons, she figured them for surviving Lannisters from the Battle of King’s Landing. She dispatched a few and scared off the rest. The second group of attackers was far more coordinated.
Two dozen knights passed her on the road, coming from the north while Annabeth rode up from the south. None of them bore sigils, which immediately set Annabeth’s instincts on edge. Sure enough, just as Annabeth was passing them by, they attacked. Defeating them was difficult, but not impossible. When they were dead, and Annabeth only had a few new cuts and bruises and a dead horse to show for it, she went through their things. The handful of sigils and signet rings she found among their effects indicated that they were all from various Crownlands houses- ones sworn to Stannis. She didn’t believe that the King had sent these knights after her, but someone had. She placed the evidence in her saddlebags, loaded up one of the knight’s horses, and carried on.
She was only a few hours from Frank’s camp when she spotted a group of brown-robed travellers on the Kingsroad. Her armor was now in saddlebags, so she pulled her own light gray cloak to fit looser around herself, glad that she’d tied back her hair ahead of time. It was better to pass as a man, in situations like this. There were about twenty of them, all wearing the same homespun cloaks and hoods. Annabeth had every intention of riding past them and carrying on with her life, but they had other ideas.
“Hail, stranger!” the man at the head of the party shouted. Annabeth, not wanting to be seen as rude or attacked, brought her horse up to a halt.
“Well met,” she replied, putting on a Crownlands accent and pitching her voice lower. “May I help you, sers?”
The group’s leader threw back his hood, and Annabeth had to bite her cheek to hold back a gasp. He had a seven-pointed star carved into his forehead. The wound was still scarred and inflamed, clearly recently self-inflicted. More of the party pulled down their hoods, and she was unfortunately unsurprised to find that every one of them had the sign of the Seven carved into their chests or foreheads, sometimes both. Like the Andal invaders of old, she realized. These are zealots of the worst variety. Every single one carried a weapon, despite Maegor the Cruel having banned holy men from carrying a blade. Annabeth was rapidly starting to regret reading up on Westerosi history and law. It was important, and often fascinating, but it just led to one headache after another.
“You are a knight, leaving King’s Landing?” the leader asked. Even without her armor, the sheathed sword by her side must have given her a martial silhouette. Annabeth nodded heavily enough for it to be seen despite the hood. “I am Septon Artys. Tell me, does the heathen King Stannis still sit the Iron Throne?”
“He does, hence my departure from the city. Forgive me, Holiness, but I did not know the Poor Fellows had been reformed,” she said carefully, keeping her voice low and rough.
“Stannis follows the demonic Red God, and allows sorcerers, heretics, and demons to run rampant in his court. He is no true King, he and his false High Septon have no authority over the Faithful. We are but humble Sparrows, and we answer only to the Seven.” Annabeth hummed noncommittally.
“You do not answer to a King? Or support one’s claim?”
“The young King Tommen is still a child, not guilty of his family’s sins. If he were raised in the arms of the Faith, he could be a true King,” Artys said. Annabeth swallowed deeply before the man started monologuing again. “Will you join us, Ser…”
“Andrew Waters.” Annabeth smiled to herself at the joke. Aside from sounding like her actual name, Andrew was derived from the Greek word for ‘manly’. Not that these people would know that, despite the similarity of languages. As for Waters, well, her husband was the son of the sea. Artys sniffed derisively.
“Even bastards may wash away the sin of their birth in the light of the Seven,” the fanatic offered, almost kindly.
“I’m afraid the life of a hedge knight allows me to serve the Seven more directly. Rest assured, I give half of all my tourney winnings to the Faith,” she lied smoothly. Her heart was racing, but thankfully her lungs still worked. Artys nodded along.
“May the Crone light your way, Ser,” the Septon said. Annabeth returned the benediction, and dug her spurs into the horse’s side. The so-called Sparrows passed her by, and the rest of the journey was uneventful.
The Tyrell camp seemed to sprawl out across entire acres of land, eight thousand men on the west side of the Kingsroad. Golden rose banners flapped in the wind, along with the sigils of Hightower, both green and red apple Fossoways, Rowan, Redwyne, and several other Reach houses. Atop the command tent, a purple banner fluttered, the golden laurels and crossed spears clearly visible.
With her hood down and hair free, the Tyrells recognized her and let her pass. Many of the horses seemed skittish, but perhaps that was the stink of blood still on her armor. She was unimpeded on her ride to Frank’s tent, and handed off her horse to a stable boy. Annabeth slung her saddlebags over her shoulders, walking into the tent and dropping them inside. Frank and Garlan Tyrell were bent over a map on a table, both in full armor. The two men looked up and drew their swords at the sound of her armor clattering in the bags, but sheathed them with smiles when they saw who she was.
Frank crossed the tent in a handful of steps and nearly crushed Annabeth in a hug, which she happily returned.
“I missed you too, but I need to breathe,” she wheezed. Her friend released her, sheepishly retreating to the table.
“I’m glad you made it,” Frank said.
“Welcome, Princess. We were just finalizing plans for departure, organizing the men for the march to meet with Roose Bolton,” the Tyrell said. He looked far more exhausted than Frank, but there was a lightness to his posture.
“How many men do you have?” she inquired.
“Eight thousand, plus a few hundred. We lost some in taking the Crownlands castles, but replenished an equal number from their levies. Lord Bolton’s armies should double ours,” the knight said. He smiled broadly, then clapped Frank on the shoulder. “I’ll allow you two to catch up.” After a few seconds, Garlan left the tent, and Annabeth occupied the chair that he’d been standing in front of. Frank settled into his own abandoned seat.
“Is eight thousand enough to take Harrenhal? If what they say about that place is true…” Annabeth wondered aloud.
“With Bolton’s men, it should be. Probably. There’s always the dragon strategy,” Frank said with a weak chuckle.
“I wish Percy were here. The cavalry would probably be more obedient if he was,” Annabeth muttered, wiping a hand over her face.
“Yeah, you two have been practically joined at the hip. Being apart can’t be easy,” Frank replied, not meeting her eyes. There was more than a touch of bitterness to his tone.
“Gods, Frank, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. We all got so focused on trying to get back home that neither of us just stopped to ask how you’re doing with…”
“Without Hazel?” he finished, not bothering to hide the tears in his eyes.
“Yeah. Do you want to talk about it?” she offered, reaching over to squeeze his arm.
“It fucking sucks.” Annabeth waited for Frank to speak his mind, and eventually, he did so. “I just… I miss her so much. She’s my partner, you know? We were Praetors together, we went on our first and only quests together, we even used to guard Caldecott Tunnel together. It feels awful doing all this without her here, but at the same time I’m glad she’s not going through this shit with us.” The hardened warrior was crying freely now, and Annabeth wished she could hug her friend in spite of the awkward positions they were both sitting in.
“It’s definitely less safe here than on Earth, which I didn’t think was possible,” she said wryly. Annabeth settled for dragging her chair over towards Frank’s, which he seemed to appreciate.
“Yeah, this place is awful. It’s somehow so white that they barely even have racism, oddly enough,” he laughed.
“I can’t say I understand, but I sympathize.”
Frank sighed, unclasping his lorica segmentata and letting the torso armor fall to the floor. Once it was gone, he promptly face planted onto the table, obscuring the western chunk of the Riverlands. Annabeth patted his shoulder sympathetically, and Frank hauled himself back up to a more normal sitting position after a few seconds.
“I know, and I appreciate it. I just… it’s been, what, eight months? Nine? That’s how long Percy and Jason were missing for. Don’t tell the Westerosi, but I’m probably not even Praetor anymore. If Hazel was smart about it- and she always is- she’d have gotten my replacement installed early, so she didn’t have to suffer through what Reyna did when Jason was gone. And I…” Frank trailed off, looking more hopeless than she’d seen him in years.
“You’re not replaceable, Frank,” Annabeth insisted.
“I should be. The Legion is a machine, each part is replaceable.” She scoffed and punched her friend in the shoulder.
“You’re not a machine, you’re my friend. First of all, you’ve clearly spent too much time with Leo. Second, do you think Hazel’s going to replace her co-Praetor, or her boyfriend?”
“Both,” Frank admitted. “Nine months is a long time. She probably thinks I’m dead, and I wouldn’t even be able to blame her.”
“Nine months might be enough time to accept that you’re dead, but Hazel is not the kind of person who would mourn, move on, and start a new relationship that quickly. Besides, she’s the most powerful sorceress I know, and she spent sixty years doing absolutely nothing in Asphodel. Hazel knows we’ll find a way home, and she knows you’re worth waiting for,” she assured him. The platitudes might have sounded empty if Annabeth didn’t wholeheartedly believe them. She knew Hazel better than anyone except Nico, Frank, and Percy. The daughter of Pluto was not the type to get over a dead boyfriend ever, let alone in less than a year.
“I hope you’re right, but there’s just no way to know. Part of me will always wonder.”
“Did you two talk about marriage?” Annabeth asked in Latin. She couldn’t risk them being overheard.
“I mean, in the abstract, sure? In the forties, marrying your high school sweetheart was the norm, she’d have married Sammy Valdez if she stayed in New Orleans. Now… you and Percy are the exception. We’re both open to it, but we agreed to wait until we’ve graduated and our terms as Praetor have run their course to be sure. We’ll talk about it again after that, which should be in five years. Four, now,” Frank corrected.
When they’d been attacked by Alabaster, Frank was a sophomore at NRU, and Hazel technically a senior in high school, although since legionaries didn’t go to high school, and the first chunk of her education was about 70 years out of date, it was all complicated. Besides, the new semester had started, back on Earth. Hazel should’ve started NRU by now, Frank should be a junior, and Percy and Annabeth should be seniors. It was odd to think that, by the time Hazel would graduate, she and Frank will have been together for eight years.
“I’ve known you two since, like, two days after you got together. You love each other. Hazel is not going to give up on you that easily. Are you planning on finding a new partner here, since it’s been nine months and you have no guarantee of seeing her again?”
“Of course not!” Frank snapped, visibly offended at the very idea.
“Then you have to trust she’ll do the same.”
Frank nodded, and took a deep, rattling breath.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” he said quietly.
“Any time,” she assured him.
“So. How was the trip up?” Frank said, changing the subject with all the grace of a charging elephant. Annabeth’s expression darkened, and she told him about the knights and the Sparrows. The Roman’s eyes grew steadily wider as she spoke, until Annabeth was unsure if he was in the process of turning into a fish.
“Well,” he summarized, “that’s not good.”
If they were anywhere but Westeros, the two demigods likely would have shared a tent, though obviously kept to separate bedrolls. Legion barracks and Camp’s cabins were both co-ed, and neither demigod wanted to sleep without someone else there to watch their back. Frank and Garlan were clearly good friends, but Annabeth neither knew nor trusted these people. She didn’t want to be medieval-racist, but she only rarely met a Reacher lord who she liked. Most seemed more devout than was average for Westeros, richer, more pompous, more grandiose, and more focused on the glorified aesthetics of war than its realities. That was all without mentioning their loyalty to Highgarden, and therefore Renly.
Friendships were so gendered and formalized in this world that several people had already assumed that Frank was romantically involved with Annabeth, Percy, or both. Meanwhile, it had taken a year and a half of dating for Hazel and Frank to do more than make out (which Annabeth only knew the timing of because the poor girl had blushed for a week), and three full years to move in together, despite both having access to spacious Praetor’s accommodations for most of their relationship. The idea of Frank cheating on his girlfriend with Annabeth of all people was absolutely ridiculous, but reputations were everything in this world.
So, despite being among each other’s best friends, being very far from home, and surrounded by possible enemies, there were several tents between Frank’s and Annabeth’s. That didn’t stop Frank from barging into her tent at the asscrack of dawn, tossing a hunk of bread and an apple at her face. Annabeth only was able to catch the breakfast with the aide of demigod reflexes.
“You’ve gotten too used to sleeping in with Percy,” he quipped. “Let’s go, Princess. We’re moving camp.”
It took the better part of a day for the Reacher army to make it to the Northmen’s encampment, a few miles south of Darry. It was almost done being packed up, the men ready for the next march. Garlan and the demigods were quickly escorted to what was left of the command tent, and assured that all 7,000 Northern soldiers were ready, and were aware that Robb Stark had bent the knee.
The leader of the northern army was a mostly unremarkable man, with almost no distinguishing features apart from his eyes. They were gray, but unlike those of Annabeth and her siblings, the northman’s eyes were cold, pale, and lifeless. Just looking at him made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. The pink surcoat over his mail, adorned with a flayed man, didn’t make him seem any more welcoming.
“Ser Garlan Tyrell, Praetor Frank Zhang, and Princess Annabeth Chase, I assume?” Annabeth nodded, and the pale lord smiled thinly. “I am Roose Bolton. Harrenhal awaits.”
The best thing Annabeth had to say about Roose Bolton was that he was, most of the time, quiet. The march to Harrenhal (which quickly became a grueling ride for Annabeth, after her bad ankle started to act up) was slow and arduous, with 16,000 men in tow. The commanders rode at the head, making conversation and planning for the assault. Bolton’s second in command was one Helman Tallhart, the Master of Torrhen’s Square. He was immensely grateful to Annabeth, since Percy had recently liberated his home, but was still deferential to Bolton.
Tallhart was a boisterous man, who spoke often with Garlan Tyrell, while his commander only spoke to plan for the siege.
“You believe you can take the castle alone?” Bolton asked in the command tent, after the first day of marching had come to an end. The Gods’ Eye was only a day and a half away, and the plan for taking the behemoth of a castle wasn’t finalized.
“Harrenhal has bowed to dragons thrice. It will do so once again,” Garlan declared. Bolton seemed unconvinced, and those pale eyes landed on Frank.
“You are not Aemond One-Eye, you are not the Rogue Prince, and you are certainly not Aegon the Conqueror. I’ve heard what you did at King’s Landing. Scaring armies is one thing. Can you melt a stone castle, ser?” Frank sat a little straighter, and his jaw hardened with anger and determination.
“If I have to, but I won’t. The sight of a dragon in the sky will be enough, and I can land inside the walls if I need to. It worked at Storm’s End.” Tallhart huffed in acknowledgement, but Bolton still looked wary.
“Threats are only believable so long as they are, occasionally, carried out,” he advised.
“Frank’s one of the best warriors I know. If he flew the two of us inside Harrenhal, we could take the castle while the troops cut off Amory Lorch’s retreat,” Annabeth pointed out.
“Is this how Stannis plans to win his war? Three godlings and armies he never uses?” From another man, the question would have been followed with a laugh, or at least a disbelieving snort. Bolton betrayed only the slightest curiosity. He reminded Annabeth, oddly enough, of Enceladus.
“So far, it’s won him half the realm, in only one major battle,” she reminded the Northman.
“His strategy must change. He has armies. Ten thousand swords are more reliable, more versatile, and more durable than one godling, and he has fifteen times that at his disposal. All the greatest generals in the realm are at Stannis’ court, and this is what he comes up with?” Bolton scoffed.
“Don’t be a backseat driver. We’re winning, lives are being saved, and the army is more than capable of handling the war without us. We cut a deal, and gave Stannis some help. We could all die tomorrow and he’d still win,” Frank snapped.
“What does Lord Tarly have to say about this strategy?” Annabeth winced at Bolton’s question.
“He was sent to hunt down Tywin Lannister after a difference of opinion,” she hedged.
“And Prince Renly?”
“Is not skilled in war,” Garlan said diplomatically.
“I see,” Bolton said, after a moment’s silence. “Very well then. Onwards to Harrenhal.”
Harrenhal looked exactly as the books described it. Even from a distance, the five remaining towers looked like melted black candles. Even damaged, the towers were so ridiculously tall that they would not have been out of place in New York. I’m glad Percy isn’t here. This might’ve conjured up some bad memories. One of her partner’s earliest non-demigod traumas, aside from Gabe, was watching the Twin Towers collapse as a third grader. He’d already been kicked out of several schools by then, so Sally had sent him to one in Brooklyn that managed to catch a glimpse across the East River from the higher floors. That was, to Annabeth’s knowledge, the only school Percy had ever been pulled out of rather than expelled from.
She and Frank exchanged a look as he got off his horse, preparing to turn into a dragon. No words were exchanged, but Annabeth could see in her old friend’s eyes that he didn’t want to burn down this castle any more than she did.
It turned out that, this time at least, Frank’s powers were enough. The Lannister garrison consisted of only a hundred men, and the handful guarding the gate fled at the sight of a dragon in the skies. The redcloaks flung open the main gate, ran to the now-redundant Northern siege lines, and immediately surrendered. Nobody wanted to be trapped inside the castle if it burned. Roose Bolton smiled cruelly and spurred on his horse, leading the Northmen through the open gates. Annabeth and Garlan rode just beside him.
The Northern cavalry made it into the main courtyard of the castle before the rest of the garrison could respond. After that, the Lannister resistance was short, fierce, and doomed. The dragon in the sky turned into a golden eagle, dove towards the ground, landed in a whoosh next to Annabeth’s horse, and shifted back into a man. She dismounted after that, and went about helping where she could.
Ten minutes after Frank took to the air, Annabeth watched as four men in Bolton livery dragged a piggy-looking man into a courtyard. His breastplate had scrollwork that Annabeth might have admired if it wasn’t splattered with blood.
“My lord! We’ve found Ser Amory Lorch,” one of the men reported. Bolton’s cold eyes roved over the weeping, mud-and-blood covered knight. Amory Lorch, the man who stabbed Rhaenys Targaryen fifty times because she kicked him, Annabeth remembered. “Shall he be moved to the dungeons?” the soldier asked. Bolton gave one sharp shake of his head, and the soldier drew a sword. Lorch shouted and begged, but Annabeth and Frank didn’t stop the northman from taking off his head.
The next few hours were a blur. Thirty Northern and Riverman prisoners were freed from Harrenhal’s dungeons, including both Wylis Manderly and Harrion Karstark, the heirs to White Harbor and the Karhold. Lord Medger Cerwyn and several Freys were also freed, though the Freys seemed anxious to return to the Twins. They were obviously still angry about Robb Stark’s spurning of their Lord by marrying Jeyne Westerling. The castle was scoured for supplies, remaining Redcloaks hunted down, and assorted Northern banners hung alongside the golden rose on green, black stag on gold, and Stannis’ quartered personal sigil.
“Who gets Harrenhal now?” Frank asked the Northern commander as the three leaders settled into what had once been Harren Hoare’s solar. Garlan, Tallhart, and the freed Northern Lords were due to arrive any moment, so the next stage of the campaign could be agreed upon.
“It is still in the hands of the Crown. Why, do you seek the castle for yourselves?” Bolton said casually. Though phrased as a question, it sounded much more like a suggestion.
“I’m already Lord of Stokeworth, and Annabeth is the Lady of Rosby. We don’t need more castles,” Frank deflected.
“Are you, now? And who are your heirs?” Bolton leaned forward, clearly invested in the answer.
“We don’t have any. All three of us have siblings, but none are present in this world. If something were to happen to Percy and I, or to Frank, the castles would default to the Crown.” Annabeth was getting very tired of explaining to every new person she met why she didn’t have kids yet. Were noblewomen really expected to give birth before they were even seventeen in this world? She’d gotten a law to ban the practice passed, and even she could scarcely believe it.
“Then your House is in peril,” Bolton observed.
“I’m more concerned with getting back home than building a future in Westeros, Lord Bolton. Besides, you need to have something worth passing down to your children first, right? I wouldn’t want to bring a child into the world if I wasn’t prepared to raise them. Doesn’t winning this war take precedence over the future?” Frank’s rhetorical question was answered by a sharp shake of the Northman’s head.
“My legacy is all that matters. My son Domeric is dead, and my bastard revealed himself a madman, who will be found and killed by Lord Manderly any day now. I have no heir. House Bolton shall have to start anew, or eight thousand years of Red Kings and Lords of the Dreadfort end with me. I can only hope that my wife, the Lady Walda Frey, bears me a son.” Is that really all he hopes for in life? I’m not sure if that’s sad or touching, somehow.
Annabeth could empathize with Bolton, to an extent. She’d always wanted to build something permanent, to see her legacy enshrined in stone for a millenia, to have the ripples of what she had done pass down through the generations. To build a new Parthenon to inspire architects for the next two thousand years. Her lifelong dream had never seemed so petty before. Roose Bolton didn’t care about his sons- which was admittedly for the best in Ramsay’s case. He only cared for the idea of legacy. Is this what I sound like? Annabeth wanted to raise buildings, not kingdoms. She wanted to inspire, not possess. No, her goal was a righteous one. But Bolton would drive himself to misery.
“There’s a poem, on our world, about a great King who lived three thousand years ago. It describes a ruined, gargantuan statue standing in the empty desert. ‘And on the pedestal, these words appear: my name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains.’ Be mindful, my lord, not to become Ozymandias,” Annabeth warned. Bolton chuckled, like an old man amused by the folly of youth. Everything this man did was starting to get on her nerves.
“A pretty bit of poetry, but poor advice. If you still know Ozymandias’ name after three millennia, he must have been truly great indeed,” he observed.
“Is that really all you wish for? Greatness?”
“Not at all, Princess. I wish to keep my House alive. Surely, you would despair at the thought of being the last Jackson. And you, Praetor; do you wish to be the end of the line of the Zhangs?” Bolton demanded. His questions were spoken as softly as his commentary on the weather or orders to lop off a head, but the command in his voice still shone through.
“I guess not,” Frank was forced to admit.
“That is only natural. The North was struck with a terrible sickness about thirty years before the Rebellion. Almost every House was decimated, the Watch was crippled, countless villages and holdfasts were left abandoned. Many of our noble lines remain dangerously scarce, with Houses teetering on the edge of oblivion. The practice of sending spare sons to the Watch, as the southerners send theirs to the Faith and Citadel, had to be abandoned. I have spent my life fighting to keep House Bolton alive. I will not stop now.” No matter what went unsaid, but Annabeth saw the cruel Lord’s ruthless determination in his pale, dead eyes. Thankfully, the other Lords soon arrived, and the meeting began in earnest.
Notes:
The demigods being platonically physically affectionate with each other is so important to me
The Sparrows are becoming a thing a bit earlier than in canon, but with all the religious fuckery Stannis has going on, I figure that backlash from the Faithful is reasonable. In canon, the Sparrows grew popular based on anti-Lannister sentiment after the Red Wedding and the pillaging of the Riverlands. Here, while they still dislike the Lannisters for what they’ve done to the Riverlands, much of their hate is directed at the Baratheons. Gotta earn that religious conflict tag.
Roose Bolton arrives! Annabeth and Frank experience another side of the North.
I don’t say this enough, so thank you all for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown this fic. You have no idea how much all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions mean to me. From consistently longwinded analyses to strings of heart emojis, even if I don’t have the time to reply, I appreciate them all.
Curious what Annabeth and Percy’s armor looks like? Need a map to understand wtf is going on? Interested in behind the scenes explanations and rants that I never actually post bc I have like three followers? Check me out on Tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jainasoloswife.
Up next:
25. Frank III, where we’ll wrap up in Harrenhal
26. Davos V, where the Dornishmen finally arrive
27. Tyrion III, where we check back in on the Lannisters
28. Frank IV, where certain things happen
29. Epilogue - Percy VI (We Pick Up the Pieces)
Chapter 25: Frank III
Chapter Text
“My cousin ate her own fingers! Winterfell was burned to the ground, Bolton men turned on the Starks! And you have nothing to say for yourself!” At the booming of the usually-quiet Wylis Manderly’s voice, Frank sighed and looked up from the cyvasse board. Annabeth, sitting across the small table in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, looked equally annoyed. She pushed a stray silver curl behind one ear, titling her head towards where Wylis Manderly and Roose Bolton were arguing across the hall. Frank, much to his chagrin, got the silent message.
He stood up from the table, smoothing down his pourpoint and making his way across the gargantuan hall. In the week and a half since Harrenhal’s capture, the freed Northern captives had been brought up to speed on the goings-on in the world. The demigods had been expecting Ser Wylis to take the news of Ramsay Snow’s actions badly, and had been worried it would come to blows. Now, Frank knew the fears had been warranted.
Holding together Stannis’ fledgling alliance was far from easy, but it remained vital to their future. Percy, Annabeth, and Frank were only fighting for the King because he’d promised them access to Oldtown’s libraries once the Lannisters were defeated. They needed the libraries to figure out a way home. The promise was moot, however, if the Hightowers resumed their hostilities with Stannis’ branch of House Baratheon. Since Lord Leyton Hightower’s daughter was married to Lord Tyrell, therefore making Margaery, Garlan, Willas, and Loras Tyrell Leyton’s grandchildren, the Tyrell-Renly and Renly-Stannis alliances needed to be held together. Renly would likely turn on Stannis without the Stark-Tully swords secured by Rickon and Shireen’s betrothal, the only faction more inclined to back the elder brother over the younger.
Only his three years of experience dealing with the senātvs Romae Novae kept Frank from being overwhelmed. Unfortunately, he understood perfectly well that the only way he could ever see Hazel again was to keep the most quarrelsome and prideful group of humans he’d ever encountered from fighting each other. It was not an easy task. He and Annabeth had been settling disputes between the Tyrell and Stark-Tully men for a week, with Garlan’s help. Many held grudges from Robert’s Rebellion, others still wished for Robb Stark to wear a crown, even more were just drunk and bored with sitting around Harrenhal. Arguments between Lords were less common, though not unheard of.
“Ramsay is on the run, and the men foolish enough to follow him are dead. I have never condoned his actions, Ser,” Bolton was saying as he came into Frank’s view. The creepy-ass motherfucker was sitting calmly at one of the hall’s countless tables, pink-cloaked guardsmen seated to either side. Wylis Manderly stood atop an upturned bench across the table, a loose semicircle of his own soldiers behind him. The bulky Manderly knight was towering over the thin Bolton, though both men had hands on their swords. Frank was still five meters away from the Northmen, and neither had noticed his presence.
“He will rot in the worst of the Seven Hells for this. As will you,” Manderly snarled, pointing a meaty finger across the table.
“My bastard may be a brute, but at least he is northern enough to follow the Old Gods,” Bolton said drily, and took another bite of his stew. Before anyone could do something stupid, Frank held out his hand. Wylis Manderly’s sword and scabbard trembled under the knight’s hand, then tore off his belt, out of his grip, and flew across the room. The scabbard landed neatly in Frank’s palm, and he dropped the merman-engraved sheath to the ground. Every conversation in the hall fell silent, and every eye turned to him.
“Both of you, go cool off,” he ordered. His tone left no room for argument. Bolton nodded in acknowledgement, finished off his stew, and left the hall, walking away from Frank. Manderly, still grumbling under his breath, walked towards the Roman, picked up his sword, and left in the other direction.
“Nice work. Hopefully that lasts until we’re deployed again,” Annabeth murmured from beside him. Frank nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn’t heard her approach.
“Hopefully,” he agreed.
Harrenhal was putting everyone on edge. The burned castle was dark, gloomy, damp, and yet still thrummed with power. Weirwood was used for floors, beams, rafters, and furniture as casually as oak or spruce in other castles. Magic was stronger here than anywhere in Westeros Frank had visited. Frank’s telumkinesis was getting easier to use by the day. Annabeth’s ideas for fixing the ruined castle flowed constantly, and she was always tinkering with armor and weapons, each more intricate and durable than the last. The constant low-level displays of power were easier, and the demigods had earned the respect of their troops without even meaning to.
On one of the first mornings in Harrenhal, the two children of war gods had sparred for nearly an hour, just inside Harrenhal’s outer walls. When they were finished, the ground was cracked below their feet, they were both covered in gold-flecked blood, and a crowd of hundreds had formed. Frank’s attempts to demoralize Annabeth or move her weapons around had been less than fruitful, likely due to her own connection to weaponry and strategy cancelling out the newer applications of his powers. It turned out that beating the shit out of people was a practically guaranteed way to win over Westerosi. The fact that Annabeth defeated him in nine bouts out of ten was not ignored by the sexist pricks either.
No longer interested in cyvasse, Frank’s feet led him outside of their own accord. Lost in thought, he didn’t realize where he was going until he was standing before the gigantic Heart Tree, buried deep in the castle’s godswood. Thirteen scars were clustered around the carved face, still blood-red after a hundred and fifty years.
Being under the tree’s anger-filled gaze felt very little like Bloodraven’s attention had, in that horrifying dream. Instead of seeking his help, the Weirwood seemed to despise Frank’s presence. Foreigner, Roman, demigod, fire-child. He could’ve sworn the words were whispered on the wind, though it was only the rustle of blood-red leaves. You do not belong here. Your gods have no place here. Frank rolled his eyes at his overactive imagination, and ran through sword drills under the tree’s leaves. He was getting better with his gladius, though he still favored the bow.
The sun was low in the sky when Annabeth approached him. Frank wiped some of the sweat from his brow and sheathed his sword, but when he turned to his friend, all her attention was on the Weirwood. She was frowning at the angry face like it was a problem to be solved, or an enemy to be laid low.
“Can you feel that?” he asked her. Annabeth nodded, but didn’t look away from the tree.
“There’s power in these trees. This one more than most. And that island… the base of my skull hums whenever I look at it.” Annabeth pointed towards the Isle of Faces, visible in the fading sunlight. The walls of the godswood were partially broken from dragonfire, and the Weirwood sat atop a hill. From where they were standing, the Isle was just visible as a smudge on the horizon. As usual, his friend was right. Just turning his head in that direction made Frank feel wrong.
“I don’t like this place one bit. It’s exactly like the dream Bloodraven showed me.”
“Then we’re both in luck,” Annabeth said. She pulled a partially-unfurled raven scroll from a pouch at her belt, handing it to Frank. He glanced down at the parchment, noting the grey seal of the Starks before he even opened it.
“Orders from Robb?” he asked.
“For Bolton, anyway. He can’t exactly order us around. But I doubt anyone’s staying here much longer.”
Thankfully, she was correct. A few days later, Roose Bolton and Robett Glover marched south with their seven thousand Northmen, to join the chase for Tywin Lannister. Robb Stark had made clear that he didn’t expect a force from Harrenhal to actually catch up to the Lannisters, who were currently near Stoney Sept, but he still wanted an army capable of sealing off Deep Den and the Gold Road, while Tarly blocked off Crakehall and the Ocean Road. A larger force would make its way to Riverrun, then secure the Golden Tooth and River Road. All three roads led to Casterly Rock, and the three armies: Reach, Riverlands, and North, would secure the three routes to the Westerlands.
It was a good plan, if only for its simplicity. It reminded Frank of the Union’s Anaconda Plan in the American Civil War: strangling the enemy systematically and from the outside in. With the aid of the Redwyne and Velaryon fleets coming in from the Sunset Sea, and with the addition of the larger Baratheon and Tyrell armies, it might even work.
Robb had invited Frank and Garlan’s army to make their way to Riverrun, and join with the main Stark army there. Garlan and the demigods, the defacto commanders of the army and a truly amazing band name, had decided to take him up on the offer. Five hundred Tyrell and Stark men would be left in Harrenhal to secure it. The freed prisoners from Harrenhal would be brought with the army to Riverrun. There was just one detour that two hundred Tyrells in Harrenhal and three thousand Starks in Riverrun had to make first.
In the same letter, Robb had announced the upcoming wedding of his uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, and an as-yet-undetermined Frey of the Crossing. The wedding of a Lord Paramount was not an everyday occurrence, and as such, he’d invited dignitaries from among his allies. The Starks would be bringing three thousand men along with their dignitaries, with the intention to join up with the Freys’ 3500 swords and any forces brought by allies, so that Gregor Clegane and his five thousand raiders could finally be hunted down after the wedding.
“You should come to the Twins! I’m sure Lord Stark would like to meet you both in person. And your assistance against the Mountain would doubtlessly be appreciated,” Wylis Manderly insisted at one of the last meals before the Tyrell army left. The ‘merman’ was seated directly across from Annabeth. Frank sat to her left, and Garlan to his. Annabeth smiled politely, but declined the offer.
“I have to stay here and secure Harrenhal, then meet my husband at Riverrun. But you’re right, this is a good opportunity. Frank, how would you like to go to the wedding?” she switched tacks quickly enough to impress any sailor, shifting herself so that Frank could see her pleading eyes and desperate smile while the Northern knight could not. The Roman stifled a laugh at the ‘Princess’ and her distaste of formal events in any dimension. Just to piss her off, Frank pretended to think about it.
“I’ve never been to one before. Aside from my own, of course,” he said with a shit-eating grin.
“I’m sure ours are very different from your Roman customs. What was your wedding like?” Garlan was catching on to the joke, but he’d accidentally just dug Frank a deeper hole. Having absolutely no idea how he was supposed to describe a wedding that had never happened, Frank panicked and thought of Alaska.
“Cold,” he blurted. Annabeth barely had time to laugh at him behind her hand before Ser Wylis diverted his attention to Garlan.
“You should attend as well, Ser Garlan! Feasts are uncommon in wartime, we must enjoy them while we can.” As if to prove his point, Wylis finished a chicken leg in three bites.
“I believe my father might take offense to that assertion,” Garlan chuckled.
“He really feasted outside Storm’s End during the siege?” Harrion Karstark asked. The heir to Karhold was among the invitees, and was itching to take the fight back to the Lannisters after being captured at the Green Fork.
“My father is not known for his… moderation. In anything,” Garlan admitted.
Unfortunately, Frank had no easy way out of the invitation. He, Garlan, and two hundred of their men would meet Robb Stark and his men at Fairmarket, which was being held by a token Lannister contingent. Once Fairmarket was recovered, they, Wylis Manderly, Harrion Karstark, Helman Tallhart, Catelyn and Arya Stark, and Edmure Tully would go to the Twins. Annabeth had managed to convince the Northmen that her talents were better spent helping to repair Harrenhal for a couple more weeks, before heading to Riverrun with the other 7800 Tyrell soldiers. Frank would meet her there once the wedding was over, and Percy was due to arrive at the Tully’s castle… eventually. There had been no word from the Son of Poseidon for a few weeks, which was, in theory, good news.
“Leonette’s pregnant.” Frank slowly looked up from the sword he was sharpening. Ser Garlan Tyrell the Gallant, brilliant warrior, commander of thousands of men, and Frank’s best friend in Westeros, was pacing back and forth in Frank’s room like a nervous teenager. In fairness, he is only 22. Frank hadn’t even heard him come in.
“Elaborate?” he said, perhaps a little stupidly.
“My wife, Leonette. She’s a red-apple Fossoway, we fostered in Oldtown together, my best friend, love of my life..”
“Yes, I know who Leonette is. I’ve met her, she’s a lovely woman. I meant elaborate on the whole ‘pregnant’ thing. When did you find out?” Frank asked, setting aside his gladius.
“Just before we left King’s Landing. She’s probably about four months along now,” Garlan explained, collapsing into a chair.
“Congratulations, seriously. That’s amazing news. Look, not to be rude, but… it’s been two months. Why not tell the Court? Isn’t that what noble pregnancies do here?”
“No one cares about a second son’s child,” Garlan laughed. He tapped the two roses on his tabard for emphasis. “I have no lands, nothing to inherit. If I’m very lucky, Willas will keep me around as a well-paid advisor, perhaps make me a landed knight. My eldest son might be master-at-arms for his cousin, while the rest will be sent to the Faith or the Citadel. It would only have brought attention to Margaery and Renly’s… ban.”
“So why tell me now?”
Garlan sighed and scratched at his beard. Suddenly, he looked too small for his armor.
“Because we march back off to war in a few hours. I’ve always thought I was a brave man. Everyone calls me ‘the gallant’, even if my brother did make that up. But now… I’m terrified. I want to go home, Frank. I want to meet my child.”
Frank frowned, comparing what he knew of this world’s timeline to that of Garlan’s life.
“This is your first war, isn’t it?” the demigod realized.
“I was old enough to fight in the Greyjoy Rebellion, I’d just turned twelve. For better or for worse, I was a squire to Baelor Hightower when the Ironmen attacked Lannisport. Lord Redwyne sent ships for the war, but Uncle Baelor remained in Oldtown to ensure the Ironborn didn’t strike there next. I spent the rebellion shining my uncle’s armor and practicing in the yard. He knighted me three years later,” Garlan explained.
Twelve years old isn’t old enough to fight, he was still a child, Frank thought, reflexively. He’d grown up in a military home. But at both demigod camps, children as young as twelve were sent on quests or began active combat duties with the Legion. Jason had been training since he was two, and considered a legionnaire while running messages and shining armor for ten years. Percy had arrived at Camp Half-Blood at twelve, and was immediately sent out on a quest alongside Annabeth, who was the same age. Maybe we need to change how things are run once we get home. The Greeks had always had such short life expectancies that only children were left alive to fight. The Romans had no such excuse.
“So, back at King’s Landing…” Frank prompted.
“That was my first battle. My first kill.”
“I had no idea, I’m sorry. It was mine too.”
“Surely you must have killed in your previous war, the one against monsters and gods?” Garlan asked, seeming more curious than nervous.
“I’ve been fighting since I was fifteen- five-and-ten, but I’d never killed a human opponent,” he confirmed. The knight laughed drily.
“Then perhaps our worlds are not so different. Your skill at cyvasse would indicate you and the Princess played the game before.” Frank allowed his friend to change the subject, however awkward of a segue was.
“We have a similar game back on Earth, it’s called chess. The pieces are different, but the principle is the same. Annabeth and I used to play back home.”
Gods, Frank missed New Rome. Moving from castle to castle and tent to tent didn’t leave enough time for anywhere to feel like home. The praetor’s residence back in New Rome had been actually lived in. There’d been a mix of Chinese and Cajun spices in his cabinets, cookware left over from when the house had been Jason’s, a well-used chessboard on his coffee table, a rack for his bow, Hazel’s hair products in his shower even though they technically lived apart. The two houses provided to praetors were directly across the street from each other, and Frank had lived in his for longer, so it was de facto their house rather than just his . More than he would admit, he wanted to go home. He’d fight Stannis’ wars for years if it meant he got to wake up next to Hazel one more time when it was all over. Shit. I never thought I’d understand why dad and Venus have a thing. Love and war aren’t so different.
“Teach me,” Garlan asked excitedly, breaking Frank out of his thoughts.
“I don’t have a set here, and we’re about to leave,” he deflected.
“Write the names on stones with charcoal, if you must. Draw the board in the dirt. I would like to sharpen my mind without bloodying my sword.”
When the request was phrased that way, Frank could hardly refuse.
Two hundred men on horseback were able to make it from Harrenhal to Fairmarket relatively quickly, with the aid of a few boats sailing up the Blue Fork. By the time they arrived, Tully banners flew over the town’s scorched walls. By Frank’s estimation, it was about a week into the year 300 AC, or 2015 CE. Stark and Tully men, a handful of whom Frank recognized from his trip to Riverrun, escorted Frank, Garlan, and the Northmen to the town’s Guildhall. The freed prisoners were quickly split off to meet with their men and, in some cases, relatives.
Fairmarket was a lively town, with a population far larger than he would have expected. To his surprise, ‘towns’ in Westeros often had populations in the tens of thousands, while ‘cities’ had hundreds of thousands of residents. Fairmarket, a medium-sized market town by Westerosi standards with 30,000 inhabitants during peacetime, was larger than London in the days of Richard the Lionheart. King’s Landing, with half a million inhabitants, rivalled Rome at the height of the Republic. Some of the Free Cities allegedly had three or four million residents, though most were enslaved.
Despite Fairmarket’s size, the guildhall was small and simple. No keep loomed over the town, and no lord ruled over it. It sat on Tully lands, paying taxes directly to Riverrun- taxes collected in this very building. Frank passed by countless Northern and Riverlander lords wearing their sigils- and a few ladies of House Mormont- before the party reached the Starks. Four people were having a small lunch around a table. Despite only having met two of their number, Frank recognized all four at once. Against the wall, another Mormont woman- he believed this one was Jorelle- stood guard with a Mace in hand.
The beautiful red-haired woman in a grey woolen dress was, of course, Lady Catelyn Stark. Frank knew her already. Beside her sat her brother Lord Edmure Tully, who he’d also met previously, and was the spitting image of his sister, if significantly less pretty. Across from Lord Edmure sat a young man who could easily have been his son. They shared the same red hair and blue eyes as Catelyn, with nearly identical rust-colored short beards. The younger man’s face was harder, more angular, and longer, even beneath his facial hair. Though he no longer wore a crown, his back was straight enough that Frank could tell he was used to one. Robb Stark’s direwolf-embroidered doublet, of course, was the biggest giveaway as to identity. The little brown-haired, grey-eyed girl beside him in a slightly muddy grey dress could only be the infamous Arya Stark. Despite her darker hair, skin, and eyes, she looked like her brother and sister. Frank had hoped he’d get to meet her.
Robb Stark was the first to notice their arrival. Frank watched sharp eyes flick from the two gold roses on Garlan’s doublet to Frank’s foreign features, purple cloak, lorica segmentata, and laurel-and-spears sigil above his heart. Sometimes, it’s nice to be recognized.
“Praetor Zhang, I presume? And Ser Garlan Tyrell?” That got the attention of the rest of Stark’s family. Frank bowed his head in greeting.
“That’s us. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark. Your reputation as a warrior and strategist precedes you. It’s good to see you again, Lady Stark. I’ve heard a lot about you, Lady Arya,” he said with a smile. “All good things. Your sister says you have a sword, perhaps you’d like to practice?”
“From the son of the Warrior- or rather Mars, forgive me; that is high praise indeed,” Lord Stark said. “I must thank you for bringing my sister home, and for your kinsman’s liberation of the North from the Ironborn. I’m sure Lady Arya would love the opportunity to practice with you, so long as it does not distract from her studies.” My kinsman… does he mean Percy? Since the Westerosi believed Frank was married to Percy’s cousin, it was an accurate description. Percy’s practically family anyway.
“I’m not a Lady!” the girl cried. Frank had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. She was self-serious in the way only ten year olds could be.
“Sansa told me you’d say that,” he joked. Catelyn Stark smiled beatifically, while her daughter huffed in annoyance.
“Aye, it’s her favorite thing to say,” (Jorelle?) Mormont said gruffly. Frank heard Garlan stifle a laugh, but he paid his friend no notice. Arya only seemed to get more annoyed.
“I believe you, Lady Mormont. Is Lady Sansa here?” the demigod asked.
“No, she’s at Riverrun with my lady wife and Ser Brynden. Sansa understandably feels safer within our family’s walls, the Blackfish is Riverrun’s castellan while Uncle Edmure is away, and Jeyne… is best kept away from Freys,” Stark explained.
Frank nodded his understanding, and resolved to shut up and allow his friend to introduce himself. Before Garlan could take his turns with the pleasantries, two wolves the size of Lupa herself slunk out of the shadows and started sniffing at Frank’s face. He grinned, scratching the closest wolf behind the ears. One of these must be Grey Wind, which makes the other… Nymeria?
“My apologies for Grey Wind, Praetor. He’s very curious,” Robb said hurriedly, already rising from his seat. Frank waved him down with a grin, and reached up to take off his helmet.
“There’s nothing to worry about, my Lord. Grey Wind was wondering why I smell like both an animal and a two-legger,” he explained. Only after the words left his mouth did he realize that would be a very odd question for someone unfamiliar with the Twelfth Legion.
“How do you know that?” Stark demanded. He phrased that question weirdly. Does he understand his wolf too?
“I can understand wolves. All Romans can, we’re trained by Lupa, the she-wolf goddess who raised our people’s founders. Nymeria is bored with this and wants to hunt, but Grey Wind is explaining to her that they can only eat the blood-colored horses,” he translated.
“Nymeria can talk?” Arya said excitedly.
“Arya…” Edmure Tully warned, though he too was smiling.
“It’s okay, My Lord. She can’t really, but she can communicate. It’s in the body language, twitches of the ears, that sort of thing,” he tried to explain, gesturing to the relevant parts of the direwolves. The two canine siblings were engaged in rapid conversation with each other about how the two-legger could understand them despite not having a dream-bond like the wolf-pack. Frank resolved to brush up on his Wolf and figure out a way to properly talk back to them. The direwolves were smart, but Lupa and her pack were a cut above the rest, and it was clear that conversing with Nymeria and Grey Wind would be much harder. “Congratulations on finding her, by the way. Sansa had mentioned she’d been let free in the Riverlands.”
“Can you teach me the wolf language? Do you know the princess? Is it true women in your world fight? Is your wife really back from the dead? What’s it like to fly? Can you turn into a wolf?” Arya’s questions came rapid-fire, and Frank gave up on giving comprehensive answers after a few minutes. Only two or so weeks until the Twins. Maybe if I can teach her how to properly use that sword, she’ll be a little less curious about my life story. Some part of him already knew it was a futile hope.
Notes:
This chapter felt so much longer than it turned out to be, I have no idea why. I don’t think there’s any non-cognate translations this time?
Just as a reminder, all travel in this fic happens at the speed of plot. I’ve done a lot of research and have many, many meticulous notes. Calculating travel times is where I draw the line. I’ve got a timeline, I’m gonna make the movements adhere to it rather than the other way around, bc I’d go crazy otherwise.
Speaking of timelines: in canon, the Purple Wedding happens on the first day of 300 AC. We’re now past that point. By this time in canon, Sansa’s in the Vale, the Red Wedding is a few months past, Tommen is king, etc etc.
Thank you to Jenna for reminding me that Frank and Percy both speak Wolf, and suggesting I make use of that. She did so many many moons ago, long before she was my beta reader.
Up next:
26. Davos V
27. Tyrion III
28. Frank IV
29. Epilogue - Percy VI
Chapter 26: Davos V
Notes:
December 31st, 299 AC- January 2nd, 300 AC
On Earth, that’s 12/31/2014 to 1/2/2015
For reference, the Purple Wedding occurred on 1/1/300 in canon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Davos stood on the docks of King’s Landing and watched as the orange-sailed ship grew steadily closer. He’d spent countless hours of his life on these piers, usually bringing some illicit goods in or out of the city. He’d spent even more time on hidden beaches and coves, with enough money to bribe the Gold Cloaks and enough goods to feed his family for a few days. Now, he stood at the right hand of the King, with Gold Cloaks providing their escort, and every Small Council member in the city in their party.
Autumn storms had delayed travel in the Narrow Sea, preventing Prince Oberyn Martell from arriving in King’s Landing sooner. It was the last day of 299 AC, and much of the city was already celebrating the new century. Davos’ wife and younger sons had only arrived in the city weeks ago, despite being ready to depart House Seaworth’s estate for months. Having Marya, Steffon, and little Stannis around made life in the Red Keep much more bearable. He’d grown weary of sleeping alone.
Things had been quieter since Percy Jackson’s departure from the city, and even more so since the other demigods left. Court seemed to let out a breath with them gone, though it made Davos more nervous. He couldn’t help but like them, despite their foreign ways. Refusing to marry off an unborn child was foolish for a prince, but as a father, Davos could sympathize. If the Jacksons and Zhangs cared for their actual future children half as much as they did the simple idea of one, then the next generation of demigods would grow up very happy indeed.
The only other man in the city who could call Percy a friend, Aurane Velaryon, stood next to his lordly brother a few men down from Davos. The former bastard didn’t look nervous in the slightest, yet his eyes never strayed from the approaching Dornish ship. The ship that, in addition to bringing Master of Laws Oberyn Martell and his household, carried Aurane’s soon-to-be wife, Nymeria Sand.
Court was not the only part of King’s Landing that had changed. The homes and walls had been mostly repaired, and trade at the docks was at a normal level for autumn. There were a surprising number of ships of Essosi design, many more than usual flying Pentoshi colors. Something to discuss with Lord Monford, Davos noted. His contacts were all warning him of the spike in smuggling from Essos, and Pentos in particular, but it had proven nearly impossible to put a stop to. Even with all his knowledge of how the smuggling game was played, Davos hadn’t actively been a smuggler for a decade. Gold Cloaks, however, were just as susceptible to bribery as ever. A problem for our new Master of Laws to deal with.
The Red Viper himself was the first to disembark from the Dornish ship, once it had docked. The slew of introductions that followed was all but ritualized, and Davos did not need to say a word. Prince Oberyn knelt before the King in his brother’s stead, then was bid to rise, and the most important among the Dornish party were introduced, then the Small Council was introduced to the Dornish. In addition to Oberyn’s bastard Nymeria, and Daemon Sand-the bastard of Godsgrace and the Dornish appointee to the Kingsguard- there were several Dornish nobles, ranging from the Knight of Lemonwood and the Lords and Ladies of Salt Shore, the Hellholt, Blackmont, and Kingsgrave to his paramour, Ellaria Sand, natural daughter of Lord Uller, two of her children by Prince Oberyn named Loreza and Dorea, and yet another Sand Snake, Tyene.
After nearly a half hour, Davos was reasonably certain that he remembered most of their names. He certainly kept track of the important ones. Probably. Davos wasn’t quite sure what to make of the Dornishmen. He’d been to Planky Town and Sunspear a score of times, but never for lordly reasons. He knew intellectually that the Dornish allowed women to rule, and practiced gender-blind primogeniture, but seeing so many Ladies introduced as rulers in their own right was still a surprise. Princess Annabeth would have loved to see this. Shame she isn’t here.
At the suggestion of the Master of Coin, the party walked and rode to the Red Keep, rather than using wheelhouses or palanquins. Ser Aethan wanted to demonstrate to the Dornish that King’s Landing had been swiftly and effectively rebuilt, that the people were well-fed thanks to consistent shipments of grain from the Reach and Crownlands, and that there was no risk of food riots like those that had torn the previous High Septon to bits. The Baratheons were not the Lannisters, and King Stannis knew how to run his city. The King had approved the idea, and so far, all was going according to plan. The escort of Gold Cloaks and Baratheon soldiers hadn’t yet received anything worse than a bit of minor heckling.
The King and Prince Oberyn continued to exchange pleasantries for the first few minutes. Aurane and Nymeria Sand walked arm-in-arm, perfectly chaste and courteous, with Tyene Sand at her sister’s side. The betrothed pair spoke just quietly enough to not be overheard, no doubt getting to know each other a bit before the wedding. At least they’re smiling. That marriage should be happier than Stannis and Selyse’s, if nothing else.
Davos was taken by surprise when the Red Viper broke off his conversation with Aurane, and spoke to the former smuggler instead.
“Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. I almost didn’t believe that His Grace could be cunning enough to make a former smuggler the new Spider,” the Dornishman chuckled. Davos felt his face heat under his beard, but he didn’t disagree with the assessment.
“His Grace is full of surprises, Your Highness,” Monford Velaryon said. There was a smile on his face, but his voice was strained. Davos still wasn’t sure what the Lord of the Tides thought of him. He considered Aurane a friend, but Aurane got along with everyone. Monford was far more reserved than his younger brother, but just as calculating.
“Indeed. There are many strange rumors afoot, it’s hard to tell what to believe these days,” Prince Oberyn drawled.
“You wish to ask about the demigods,” Davos said bluntly. The Prince shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal.
“No, I’ve heard plenty about Percy and Annabeth Jackson, and Frank Zhang. I’m much more curious about the consequences of their presence.”
“Consequences? I assume you don’t mean securing King’s Landing with ease,” Davos retorted. The demigods may be blunt, and their foreign ways often got in the way of Court’s functions, but Davos found himself appreciating the breath of fresh air more often than not.
“No, though giving Tywin Lannister a swift kick in the balls was much appreciated. My ship passed through Tyrosh and Pentos on the way here. The sailors in Essos talk of how the Andals and their strange seven-faced god have gone mad. How the Lords are on the verge of a religious revolt, desperate to cast off the yoke of foreign sorcerers. Strange cults to the Olympians are appearing in cities and towns all along the Narrow Sea, often sponsored by Lords on the western shore. The Golden Company is in Volantis, preparing to help the Ghiscari crush the last Targaryen in Meereen. You are supposed to be the Master of Whisperers, Ser Davos. I would know what you think of this,” Oberyn asked.
The crowds now were quieter, the group of nobles and guards now in the shadow of Aegon’s High Hill. The peace gave Davos a few much-needed seconds to compose his thoughts. He was no good at political posturing. Tell enough of the truth that he won’t catch me in a lie, assuage his fears enough that he’ll stay loyal, but stoke the fear enough that he doesn’t grow complacent. Luckily, the truth satisfied his requirements.
“The Golden Company has always tried to kill Targaryens. Lords will always complain. I am aware of the dissenting voices in the realm, Your Highness. But this… widespread revolt you fear is simply not a danger. Renly’s supporters have fallen in line. There are still fanatical worshippers of the Seven. I myself do not follow the Olympians. There have been a handful of violent incidents against the demigods, particularly the Princess. But not since King’s Landing fell,” Davos assured him.
The spymaster wasn’t sure where the Red Viper got his information from, but it was completely divorced from what Davos’ own contacts had to say. He had friends in every port on the Narrow Sea, with them and their friends now making up the backbone of his network. All anyone could say about Varys’ system was that he used ‘little birds’, whatever that meant. Davos preferred to take advantage of the seedy underbelly present whenever humans could be found. Of course, he and his contacts paid off their share of merchants, servants, and soldiers, but that kind of relationship took longer to build. At least, that’s what he was told. Why isn’t there a Citadel for spies? How does anyone learn how to do this?
“The realm is utterly secure, Prince Oberyn. The Riverlands are almost entirely back in Tully control, Tywin Lannister is on the run,” Aethan Celtigar chimed in. Stannis, who had been walking at the head of the party, ground to a halt and spun on his heel to face the Dornishman. His guards and councillors stopped moving, obeying their King’s implicit order.
“I intend to lead an army into the Westerlands myself. As soon as the army outside our gates is finished preparing, and the Starks have killed Clegane, we will march on Casterly Rock,” the King swore. Prince Oberyn’s cavalier smile slowly widened into a genuine grin, then a joyful laugh.
“I intend to come with you. I want to watch when Casterly Rock is split like an egg,” he said. His adult daughters nodded their agreement, and Nymeria deigned to elaborate.
“House Martell is owed justice for my aunt and cousins.” Aurane’s hand tightened slightly around her arm, but she paid him no mind. The Sand Snake had eyes only for the King, and there was righteous anger burning in their depths.
“Amory Lorch is dead. Annabeth Jackson, Frank Zhang, Garlan Tyrell, and Roose Bolton took Harrenhal mere weeks ago. Bolton had Lorch beheaded,” the King informed them. Of course, the Dornish have been at sea. They haven’t heard the news. The entire Dornish retinue seemed pleased by the news, Prince Oberyn most of all, but he was far from satisfied.
“Clegane, Lorch, and Tywin all should have been beheaded as soon as my niece and nephew were presented to your royal brother wrapped in red cloaks.”
Stannis ground his teeth, and resumed walking towards the Red Keep. The entire party moved with him. Oberyn Martell gracefully hurried forward to walk by the King’s side, so that the conversation could continue.
“I never agreed with Robert’s decision to pardon Lord Lannister’s crimes, but he was the King. I am King now. His treason shall not go unpunished,” he hissed.
“Treason? Against you?” Oberyn scoffed.
“And Robert, for conspiring to unseat his rightful heir in favor of Lannister bastards,” Stannis amended.
“One of those Lannister bastards is to wed my nephew.”
“I am aware. I cannot force you to turn over a child, but I hope you are aware that Trystane Martell will never be allowed to press a claim on the Throne,” the King warned, his tone growing colder. The Dornishman didn’t back down. His daughter, Tyene, seemed almost gleeful.
“In Dorne, it would be Myrcella’s claim that took precedence. If one existed. No, we do not hurt little girls in Dorne. It is shameful that the same cannot be said of King’s Landing,” the blonde bastard practically cooed.
“Things have changed,” the King declared.
“Have they? We’ve passed statues of both Daerons, Baelor, and three different Aegons since leaving the docks. I’ve counted no less than a dozen three-headed dragons carved on buildings. Not everything changes.” Oberyn Martell pointed to a statue of Queen Alyssane as they passed it, to emphasize his point. The rest of the council had, by now, stopped even pretending to do anything but listen to the conversation.
“You said yourself that Daenerys Targaryen is surrounded by angry slavers on the other side of the world. The dragons are dead and gone,” Renly pointed out.
Lord Monford and Prince Oberyn exchanged unreadable looks. Despite the opaqueness, something about the glint in the Red Viper’s eyes made Davos nervous.
“Prince Oberyn, what sword is that? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Renly said. Not the most subtle of subject changes, but it does the trick. Indeed, the hilt and pommel visible on the Red Viper’s belt was ornate and intricate. The pommel was shaped like a starburst, or perhaps a Martell sun. Isn’t he known for using a spear? The Dornish didn’t typically favor the sword, with the notable exception of…
“I have,” Lord Monford said, “at Harrenhal. It’s Dawn.”
“I was unaware a Martell could become Sword of the Morning,” Aethan Celtigar said rhetorically. The King had, thankfully, allowed the conversation to move on. They were practically at the Keep now anyways. Stannis would still have to make Prince Oberyn the guest of honor at tonight’s dinner, then see him in every Small Council meeting for the foreseeable future.
“I’m but a courier,” the Prince laughed. “Lady Allyria Dayne asked me to keep an ear out for her errant nephew, Lord Edric, and her betrothed, Lord Beric Dondarrion. There have been many strange rumors of the Lightning Lord in the Riverlands. I am to deliver the sword to Edric, and when he is knighted, he’ll be the Sword of the Morning,” he explained.
“I thought only a Dayne knight deemed worthy could wield Dawn?” Davos asked.
Every boy in Westeros dreamed of growing up to be Sword of the Morning, and all but one grew up to be disappointed. Davos had been raised on the tale, along with those of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, Aemon the Dragonknight, Florian the Fool. Brendun Dayne, the founder of the House, had come from north of the Red Mountains, following a star as it fell from the heavens. He crafted a milk-pale sword from the fallen star, always strong and always sharp, and the rest was history.
“Quite right, Ser Davos. But the only current Dayne knight is Ser Gerold of High Hermitage, and Lady Allyria, as the eldest living Dayne and castellan of Starfall, has the authority to keep the family blade out of her… reckless kinsman’s hands.”
The party finally passed through the Red Keep’s gates, and not a moment too soon. Davos was anxious to return to his quarters; this conversation was giving him grey hairs. His son Dale, who typically lived in a house of his own out in the city, was visiting the Keep. He’d brought along his pregnant wife, the soon-to-be mother of Davos’ first grandchild. With Marya, Stannis, Steffon, Devan, and Dale all in the Keep, Davos might actually feel sane and relaxed for the first time in what felt like years. I’ll plead illness and skip the formal dinner. Anything to avoid another verbal duel.
Just as he was about to make his great escape, using what Percy called an Irish Goodbye, a strong grip appeared on his shoulder. Turning slightly, Davos was unsurprised to see the Prince of Dorne holding him back, smiling coyly.
“Lord Davos, I would appreciate if you could alert me when the demigods return to King’s Landing. I would very much like to meet them. And Lord Bolton as well. Amory Lorch’s killer will be showered with honors by my brother,” he said.
“Of course, Your Highness,” Davos lied, and left.
Spending the evening with his family rather than at a diplomatic dinner succeeded in making Davos feel like an actual human being, which was much-needed to endure the following day. In the morning, the very first day of 300 AC, Ser Daemon Sand said his vows before the Iron Throne, and rose as a knight of the Kingsguard. That afternoon was the wedding.
He’d attended a handful of highborn weddings, and all were functionally the same. Only the cast and location varied. This wedding took place in the Red Keep’s sept, with a good portion of the Court’s lesser nobility in attendance, and part of the Small Council. Stannis was there, but he didn’t seem particularly happy about it. The marriage of two bastards was not a momentous occasion, and this one was only so high-status because both Aurane and Nymeria were related to members of the Small Council.
Nymeria Sand’s maiden cloak, decorated with suns, spears, snakes, and tigers, hemmed in orange and yellow, was removed by the Red Viper. Aurane replaced it with the teal and silver of Nymeria Velaryon, a seahorse emblazoned in the center of the new cloak. Davos had to admit they made a handsome couple. The Dornishwoman was slender and tall, with amber skin, purple eyes so dark they were almost black, and sharp cheekbones. Her new husband was taller, broader, and paler, with silver hair, grey-green eyes, and a short beard. The image of a beautiful noble couple was admittedly undermined by the way the newlyweds looked at each other. The closest approximation Davos could think of was that the Velaryons of High Tide were examining each other the same way Mace Tyrell looked at a side of roast boar. Such brazenness certainly had no place in a sept, even one in a place as foul as the Red Keep.
It was a relief when the couple slipped away from the feast, held in one of the Keep’s lesser ballrooms, after only a few minutes. They returned with clothing slightly rumpled and hair somewhat askew, but overall seemed impressively put together. Davos rolled his eyes, and Marya huffed with amusement. No doubt she would’ve recounted the tale of their own wedding, had Devan not been present.
The bride and groom used a sword; a well-crafted wedding gift from Aurane’s new father-in-law with a seahorse pommel, to cut open a modestly sized wedding cake, and release the pigeons within. After that, the feast began in earnest. The bride and groom were perfect hosts, making their rounds as necessary and holding court from the high table when it wasn’t. Oberyn Martell and Monford Velaryon, who in theory should have been seated on opposite sides of the married couple as each of their closest relations, were hunched over together in a corner, talking quietly. Scheming was the word that came to mind.
The terms of the marriage had been generous. Dorne was giving the new House Velaryon of High Tide a sizable amount of gold and resources. The Martells had facilitated the movement of a few thousand Dornish smallfolk to rebuild the long-ruined castle, and to resettle the ruins of Spicetown. All this for a pair of bastards, one of whom hasn’t even been legitimized? Lord Monford had still funded a much larger portion of the project, secured Aurane’s position as a Captain in the Velaryon fleet (which was functionally the Royal Fleet for the moment), and had of course given the land to his brother in the first place. Spicetown would never again thrive as it had in the days of the Sea Snake, and High Tide would never be as grand as it was before the Triarchy put Driftmark to the torch. The treasures of Corlys Velaryon’s Nine Voyages were lost. But with time and money, some portion of the former grandeur could be restored.
Eventually, the groom himself graced Davos with his presence. Marya had just gotten up to dance with Dale, and so Aurane fell gracelessly into her empty seat.
“Lord Davos.” Aurane took a sip from his goblet, which he had somehow managed to avoid spilling a drop of. He didn’t seem drunk, but he certainly wasn’t sober.
“Ser Aurane. Congratulations on the beautiful bride and wonderful wedding.”
“Thank you, my friend. I would have liked Percy to be here for this.”
“I’m sure he feels the same. Friendship means a great deal to the prince,” Davos assured him.
“He may not have appreciated all the drinking,” Aurane joked, and took another sip. Davos nodded in agreement.
“Did he ever tell you why he hates alcohol so much?” he asked.
“No, but I doubt it’s a happy story. And seeing as this is my wedding, I hereby decree that all stories told will be happy ones. Now if you’ll excuse me, my friend, I believe it’s time for the bedding.”
The day after the wedding, a ship arrived from Oldtown. The Citadel was not particularly happy about Pycelle’s execution, but at the Hightowers’ insistence, they sent a replacement anyway. The new Grand Maester’s name was Willifer, and he’d formerly been the Archmaester of Governance. Willifer was a man of perhaps five-and-fifty, who had the good looks and sharp mind which Pycelle had so obviously lacked. His hair was greying, but still mostly brown, and fully present. He wore more links than Pycelle had, though he favored the same drab grey robes of the Citadel. Davos didn’t trust the sharp gleam in his eye, but it would take some time before he could get to know, and hopefully understand, the new member of the Small Council. Now, only Brynden Tully was missing from Court.
The Small Council meeting held immediately after the Grand Maester’s arrival was the calmest yet. Renly still made japes at his brother’s expense, but no longer commented about how he was more suited for the throne. Davos’ spies indicated that the Tyrells had lost their patience with Renly. Olenna Tyrell had been observed berating her son for his schemes, and informing him that House Tyrell would not be getting itself involved in yet another foolish war, just a few weeks ago, by a chambermaid. Letters had indicated much the same. That front, for now, was safe.
With the issue of port taxation addressed, the meeting slowed for a few moments while the assorted members organized their agendas. The King spared his daughter a rare smile while she refilled his cup. Although Renly was displeased about his competition for the title of heir sitting in on small council meetings, none could deny Princess Shireen the title of Royal Cupbearer. It was traditional for the king’s young children, male or female, to hold it.
Shireen was as dutiful and diligent at the role as she was everything else, ensuring that most Councillors were well-plyed with wine, and her father’s cup of water was always full. Stannis did not drink often, and certainly not during Small Council meetings. At the recommendation of Annabeth Jackson, all the cups were free of lead, and the water was allowed to boil, then cool. Though Davos missed the sweet taste imparted by lead drinkware, the near-miraculous ability to consistently drink plain water without sickness was proof enough of the demigods’ scientific knowledge.
Shireen had made friends with both of the King’s squires since her arrival at the Red Keep; Davos’ son Devan, and her bastard cousin Edric Storm. Devan and Robert’s bastard were of an age, only two years older than Shireen. Although Stannis did not care for his bastard nephew, he had sworn to keep the boy safe, and there was no place safer than by the King’s side. Edric was, additionally, living proof of Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella’s bastardy. Davos admired his King’s mercy and deftness, a rare display on both counts.
“Lord Velaryon,” the King prompted, “you had something to report.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the Master of Ships replied. He bowed his head, cleared his throat, and began.
“The Velaryon and Royal fleets, including ships captured from the Lannisters, have been both spotting and seizing an increasing amount of suspected smuggling vessels in the Narrow Sea and Blackwater Bay.” Most eyes in the room flicked to Davos. “Reports are the same from Crackclaw Point to the Broken Arm, at least where we have enough ships to patrol. Ships of Essosi make try to sneak past patrols, or smuggle in goods within legitimate shipments. We’ve caught some, but most of the smugglers either have their wares too well-hidden, dump them overboard, or both.
“Merchant vessels with illegal goods hidden among their legitimate cargo are much harder to estimate, but blockade running, both successful and attempted, has tripled in the past three moons.” The Lord of the Tides sounded increasingly concerned, but his voice was steady. Of the Small Council, only Aethan Celtigar seemed to grasp how much of a problem this is.
“Lord Velaryon is correct. Essosi- particularly Pentoshi- ships are unusually common in Westerosi ports, particularly during a time of war. My contacts report the sailors seem normal, but they’re certain illegal activity is increasing. Salladhor Saan, at least, denies any knowledge of this. Many of the other Essosi sellsails, particularly the Myrish, have had their contracts cut now that we control the Royal, Velaryon, and Redwyne fleets. Despite this, illegal goods have not been more prevalent on the market,” Davos explained.
“What sorts of goods are most frequently smuggled?” Renly asked. Davos was impressed by the intelligence of the question, and gave a detailed reply.
“Weapons, valuables, grain, specialized exports. Anything with high import or export fees. From Essos? Myrish glass, carpets, and lace, weapons of various sorts for outlaws and wildlings, Lysene dye and perfume, Volantene wine, spices from the east, Qohorik steel and timber…”
“Anything worth having,” Aethan Celtigar summarized. Davos gestured in concession of the point.
“And what have you been finding, Lord Velaryon?” Stannis asked.
“What little we have found is mostly normal. Cheese, wine, lace, fur, carpets, glass. Lots of weapons, armor, and mail, in Westerosi style. But most oddly, the last ship we captured had three chests of these. My brother caught the crew throwing a fourth overboard.” Lord Velaryon reached into a pocket of his breeches and pulled out a small bag. He tossed it onto the table, and the familiar plinking of metal on stone sounded. “The rest have of course been added to the treasury, minus the customary finders’ fee for the sailors and House Velaryon, though they will have to be melted down and recast first.”
The bag landed near Prince Oberyn, who opened it and dumped the contents onto the table. A dozen or so coins fell out, and one rolled to a stop in front of Davos. He frowned down at the unremarkable gold dragon. Essosi use Westerosi currency sometimes, this isn’t strange. But Prince Oberyn was holding up one coin to the light, eyes narrowed. The dragon was facing Davos, just like the one on the table, meaning it was the face side which troubled the Prince. Aethan Celtigar, Willifer, Stannis, and Renly were all examining other coins, and all seemed troubled. Davos flipped his over.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure what was wrong. The coin showed a man with typical Targaryen features and a crown, but then he saw the fault. He could, after all, read now. There has never been a King called Daemon III. This is Blackfyre gold. While rare, coins with the faces of Blackfyre pretenders were known to exist. Most were in Essos, minted by the Golden Company from spoils of war and used to pay their soldiers. No new faces had been produced since the death of Maelys the Monstrous, and before Maelys, none since Daemon III, who’d died at Wendwater Bridge seventy years ago. Still, the exile sellswords went through a rotation of their pretender kings, from Daemon I to Maelys.
Golden Company coins were known to be of exceptionally poor quality. Sure enough, when Davos bit the coin, it didn’t dent in the slightest. Probably bronze mixed with gold. Davos grabbed another coin off the table, and was unsurprised to find it clipped. Still, someone would accept it.
“This is odd, perhaps, but not out of the bounds of normalcy,” Davos said.
“I agree, but the smuggling increase on its own would be concerning,” Monford added.
“Why can’t anyone tell us what’s going on?” Renly sighed.
“Dockworkers and city watchmen the world over all have one thing in common, my Lord Hand: they love gold. Bribery will keep any mouth silent, unless we offer a bigger bribe, which will just encourage them to lie. I was caught several times, but not often by smuggler’s standards. My career continued.” Davos chuckled to himself, but only Renly laughed.
“Then accepting bribery shall become punishable by death, rather than ignored,” the King ordered.
“Your Grace… every bureaucrat in the realm would have to be strung up,” the Master of Coin said slowly. Davos heard his King’s teeth grinding from down the table.
“Then they all ought to be replaced,” he growled. “Penalties must be harsher if this smuggling is to be prevented. I will not tolerate injustice or thievery, and I certainly will not allow the Golden Company to buy their way back to Westeros.”
“Nor will Dorne,” Martell promised. “The Blackfyres and my family have never gotten on well.” The enmity between Reacher Lords and Dorne had practically started the Blackfyre Rebellions, and House Yronwood, the Martells’ oldest rivals, had consistently sided with the pretenders. At least all the Black Dragons are dead.
“I don’t care if these are petty cutpurses, smugglers, the Triarchs preparing an invasion, or Daemon Blackfyre himself back from the dead. Prince Oberyn, your first responsibility as Master of Laws is to ensure those who enforce it are not themselves criminals. Lord Monford, keep hunting these smugglers down. Lord Davos, find out who’s behind this.”
The order was final, and none contested it. Months of rule had not made Stannis any less just or harsh, but it had made him somewhat more reasonable. He could only run headlong into reality so many times before it affected him. Prince Renly broke the silence with an unnecessarily loud slurp of wine.
“Does anyone have any good news?”
“I received an offer last night. The messenger came from the Eyrie.” Stannis’ words sent mutters around the table. You couldn’t have opened with that, Your Grace?
“No doubt Littlefinger still has hundreds of thousands of the Crown’s dragons hidden away,” Renly muttered. Davos only knew Petyr Baelish by reputation. Lords who actually knew the man seemed to like him, but the smallfolk despised Littlefinger. He owned brothels all over Westeros, had a gift for producing money from thin air, and was a cunning businessman. He had no real friends and countless enemies whose fortunes he’d forcefully acquired.
“There is no proof that Lord Baelish is a thief, though it would not surprise me. Regardless, he has committed no crime I am aware of, aside from serving Joffrey Falseborn. He should have bent the knee sooner, but the delay has not yet been an active hindrance,” Stannis mused.
“Sparing him for that crime seems a reasonable price for the Vale’s allegiance,” Lord Velaryon suggested. The King nodded slowly.
“I agree. Still, the influence he suddenly has over Lysa Arryn is troubling. They never seemed particularly close while Jon Arryn was Hand.”
“Just because you didn’t notice, brother, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” the Hand teased. Stannis shot his brother a dirty look, and for a moment, they reminded Davos of Dale and Matthos.
“Whether Lysa Arryn or Petyr Baelish give the orders, the Vale commands forty thousand swords. If they wish to bend to their rightful King, I shall not stop them. Robar Royce’s presence at court guarantees Runestone’s good behavior. In fact, Lord Commander Robar should be at the next meeting of this Council. Now that his homeland has bent, excluding the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard from the Small Council no longer serves a purpose.”
“I agree. The Vale should be allowed to bend. Spare the coin-counter, save the realm,” Prince Oberyn drawled.
“So be it. Is there any other correspondence we should be aware of?” The King directed his question to the new Grand Maester, who had so far been silently watching the proceedings.
“A letter from the Wall, Your Grace,” the Maester reported. He held up a tiny scroll, sealed in black wax. At the King’s nod, he cracked the seal and read it aloud. “Wildings at the gate. Realm in danger. Send all the help you can to Castle Black.” All the Lords shifted uneasily, and Davos’ blood ran cold as the wall. “It is signed ‘Maester Aemon Targaryen of the Night’s Watch’.”
That particular revelation led to stunned silence, until Prince Oberyn began to cackle. When he regained control of himself, the Dornishman wiped away a tear from his eye and muttered something in Rhoynish.
“It would seem Daenerys is not the last dragon after all. Though without reinforcements, that may not be true for long,” he added in the Common Tongue. Stannis leaned forward in his chair, pointing a finger in warning at his newest Councillor.
“Careful, Ser. Maester Aemon is my kin. I will tolerate no disrespect towards him.”
“Kin? He’s, what, grandmother’s uncle?” Renly scoffed. The King’s fury turned on his younger brother, now.
“You may not remember grandmother Rhaelle, but I do,” he hissed. “She was a good woman and a princess of the blood. Two thousand swords will be going to Eastwatch, led by Lord Bryce Caron. That is your King’s decree.”
Stannis stormed out of the room with all the fury of a true Baratheon, and the meeting was over.
Notes:
I completely forgot that Davos invited his wife and younger sons to court, so I’m shoehorning them in now.
Oberyn, Ellaria, Nymeria, Tyene, and the little ‘uns have arrived! There’ll be plenty of Martell shenanigans in future installments. Ik that Nym canonically fucks a pair of female twins, and otherwise we know rather little about her love life. She’s bi in this, and Aurane is pan.
I know I’m fucking with the Dayne/Dawn lore. I don’t care, I refuse to force myself to write Darkstar. Gerold Dayne exists bc Edric’s too young to fulfill his plot responsibilities without the timeskip? Too fucking bad, Edric gets them anyway. Besides, I’m specifically making P2 take place over 3 years to get closer to the 5-year timeskip’s prospective ages. Ned’s a much more interesting character than Gerold “I am the night” Dayne, and he’ll be showing up a lot.
The list of Dornish nobles who arrive with Oberyn is borrowed from canon, though they came by land rather than ship. That seemed like a rather foolish delay to me. Similarly, Maester Aemon’s message to the realm is quoted directly from canon.
We don't actually know when Rhaelle Targaryen died in canon, but I've always liked to think Stannis knew her. Robert would've have, fostering in the Eyrie, but Stannis might. We never do learn how he actually feels about the Rebellion or the Targaryens. Jon suspects Melisandre of wanting to burn Aemon, but Stannis' thoughts remain opaque. Besides, this is a very different version of Stannis than what we see in ADWD. He has the realm, but he's been forced to deal with politics and court, where his usual style just isn't working, and even his famed stubbornness is starting to meet its match. I don't think Stannis is a Targ sympathizer at all, but I do think he probably had a lot of complicated feelings about the Rebellion. He only ever did what his older brother told him to, and he suffered for it.
Up next:
27. Tyrion III
28. Frank IV
29. Epilogue - Percy VI
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