**The Blackwater Bay - Approaching King's Landing - 99 AC**
Perseon Velaryon stood at the prow of *Sea Dragon*—his father's newest flagship and his own proudest achievement, even if no one knew it—with one hand gripping the rail and the other shading his eyes against the morning sun.
He was two years old. He looked four. He thought like seventeen.
Being a reincarnated demigod was *still* weird.
"Perseon, step back from the edge!" Laenor called from somewhere behind him. His older brother had appointed himself chief worrier, a role he took very seriously despite being only five.
"I'm fine!" Perseon called back, in the clear, too-articulate speech that made maesters write concerned notes to each other. "The sea wouldn't let me fall!"
"The sea doesn't have hands!"
*Want to bet?* Percy thought, but kept it to himself. He'd learned, over two years, that there were things you could say and things that got you dragged to maesters for examination. Claiming the ocean would catch you definitely fell into category two.
Still. It was *true*. He could feel the water beneath the ship—every current, every wave, every fish within a hundred yards. The Blackwater Bay knew him, recognized him, responded to his presence like a dog greeting its master.
It was the only thing keeping him sane in a body that still couldn't read properly and tired after running for more than ten minutes.
*Two more years until full memories,* he reminded himself. *Balerion said five years. I'm almost halfway there.*
Except that was a lie. The memories had been coming back faster than Balerion promised—fragments at first, dreams that felt too real, then full scenes playing out behind his eyes when he touched water. By eighteen months, he'd remembered everything. His mom's apartment. Camp Half-Blood. The wars. Annabeth.
*Especially* Annabeth.
Who was currently in King's Landing with her sister-who-wasn't-really-her-sister, and he hadn't seen either of them in person for over a year, and the mental connection they'd established as newborns had a *range limit* that nobody mentioned, and—
"You're thinking too hard again," Laena said, appearing at his elbow like a silver-haired ghost. His sister was five, whip-smart, and had recently decided that managing Perseon was her new favorite hobby. "Father says thinking too hard makes your face do that thing."
"What thing?"
"The scrunchy thing. Like you're trying to math."
"I like math."
"Nobody likes math. You're weird."
"You're weird."
"I'm *eldest*," Laena corrected with the authority of someone who'd been born seven minutes before her twin and never let anyone forget it. "That's different."
Perseon looked up at his sister—*up*, which was annoying, because in his past life he'd been over six feet tall and now he was maybe three feet if you counted generously. Laena had their mother's coloring, silver-gold hair and purple eyes that missed nothing. She was going to be terrifying when she grew up. She was already halfway there.
"Is Mother back yet?" he asked.
"Just landed. I saw Meleys circling." Laena pointed toward the city, where a red dragon was indeed spiraling down toward the Dragonpit. "Typhōnas will want to follow. You should probably be ready."
"I'm always ready."
"You're two."
"So?"
Laena sighed in the particular way that suggested she was resisting the urge to push him overboard. "Fine. Be weird. See if I care."
She stalked off toward where their father was consulting with the ship's captain—a grizzled sailor named Ser Joreth who'd sailed with Corlys since before any of the children were born and treated the Sea Snake's suggestions with the reverence most people reserved for gods.
Perseon returned his attention to the water, reaching out with senses that shouldn't exist but definitely did. Beneath the ship, he could feel the currents—the complex interplay of tide and wind and depth that made sailing either easy or suicidal depending on whether you understood them.
*Sea Dragon* understood them. Because Perseon had *designed* her to understand them.
Well, technically Corlys had designed her. But Corlys had designed her based on Perseon's "suggestions," which had been Percy's memories of modern naval architecture translated into something that could be built with Westerosi technology and wouldn't get him burned as a warlock.
"Put the masts here, Father. The wind flows better."
"Make the hull deeper here. The water wants to push there."
"If you angle the rudder like this, she'll turn faster."
Corlys had tried half the suggestions as a test, found they worked better than they should, and implemented the rest with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered that his two-year-old son was apparently blessed by sea gods.
Which was *technically true*, just not the sea gods Corlys thought.
The result was a ship that sailed like a dream—faster than anything else in the Velaryon fleet, more stable in rough water, able to tack closer to the wind than physics should allow. The captains attributed it to Corlys's genius. Corlys attributed it to Perseon's gift. Perseon attributed it to growing up with Poseidon's power in his veins and a childhood spent on Long Island Sound.
"PERSEON!" Laenor's voice, sharp with genuine alarm.
Perseon turned and immediately saw the problem.
Typhōnas.
His dragon—now nearly the size of a small horse despite being only two years old—was perched on the ship's highest mast, wings spread for balance, head swiveling as he tracked Meleys's descent into the city.
*Oh no.*
"Typhōnas, stay!" Perseon called, putting everything he had into the command.
The dragon looked down at him. Blue-green eyes met sea-green eyes. A moment of perfect understanding passed between them.
Then Typhōnas *launched*.
"NO!"
But it was too late. The dragon dove off the mast—not falling, *diving*, like he was plunging into water instead of air. Those distinctive ray-like wings spread wide, catching wind, and suddenly Typhōnas was *swimming* through the sky toward King's Landing and the red dragon he'd decided to follow.
"FATHER!" Three voices—Laenor, Laena, and Perseon—in perfect unison.
Corlys appeared from the captain's cabin in seconds, took one look at the dragon-shaped dot rapidly approaching the city, and said something in High Valyrian that Perseon was pretty sure translated to "Oh fuck."
"He went after Mother," Laena said helpfully.
"I can *see* that." Corlys turned to Perseon with the expression of someone who'd aged five years in five seconds. "Can you call him back?"
"He's not really a 'call back' kind of dragon," Perseon admitted.
"He's *your* dragon. You're bonded. Command him!"
Perseon closed his eyes and reached out with that connection—the thread of power and understanding that linked dragon and rider. Found Typhōnas's mind, bright and fierce and absolutely convinced that following Meleys was the most important thing in the world right now.
*Why?* Perseon sent.
The answer came back in images and feelings rather than words: *Sky-sister. Fire-sister. Must find. Must protect. Must—*
*Rhaenyra and Annara,* Perseon realized. *He's going to them. To Syrax and Brightfire.*
"I can't stop him," Perseon said, opening his eyes. "He's going to the twins. To their dragons."
Corlys looked like he wanted to throw something overboard. Possibly his son. "The dragons haven't seen each other in over a year. If they meet without riders present—"
"They'll be fine," Rhaenys said, appearing from below deck where she'd been changing out of riding leathers. She'd clearly caught the tail end of the conversation. "Typhōnas has been fretting since we left Driftmark. Let him reunite with his clutch-mates."
"They're not actually clutch-mates—"
"Tell *them* that." Rhaenys moved to the rail beside Perseon, watching the dragon's rapidly shrinking form. "Those three have been connected since birth. Forcing separation was probably cruel. We should have—"
She stopped, and Perseon felt rather than saw his mother's attention shift to him. "What?"
"You knew," Rhaenys said slowly. "You knew he'd do this. That's why you've been at the prow since dawn. You were *waiting* for him to break."
Perseon tried to look innocent. It was hard when you had the mental age of seventeen and your mother was one of the smartest people in Westeros.
"I felt him getting restless," he admitted, which was technically true. "Dragons know things. He knew we were close to King's Landing."
"And you didn't think to *mention* this?"
"Would it have changed anything?"
Rhaenys opened her mouth. Closed it. "No. Probably not." She sighed, pulling Perseon against her side. "You're too clever for your own good, little prince. Just like your father."
"I'm nothing like Father," Perseon protested. "Father plans things."
"And you?"
"I react to things."
"That's somehow worse." But she was smiling, and her hand was gentle on his silver hair. "Come on. We're docking in an hour. You should change into something that doesn't smell like sea spray and questionable life choices."
"My life choices are excellent."
"You let your dragon fly away without you."
"That was his life choice, not mine."
Laenor appeared, dragging a set of formal clothes that probably cost more than a small house. "Mother said you have to wear these. And the stupid shoes."
"I hate the stupid shoes."
"Everyone hates the stupid shoes. That's why they're stupid." Laenor thrust the clothes at him. "Now go change before Father decides we're all disappointing him."
Below deck, in the cabin he shared with his siblings, Perseon stripped out of his salt-stained tunic and started the complex process of looking like a Velaryon prince instead of a ship rat who happened to have dragon blood.
The formal clothes were *awful*—all tight collars and silver buttons and fabric that didn't *move* right. But appearances mattered in King's Landing, and his father had spent thirty minutes this morning explaining that they were visiting the Queen and Grandmother, not playing in tide pools.
Perseon had agreed. Mostly because arguing would have taken longer than compliance.
He was fastening the stupid shoes—leather and silver, designed more for looking impressive than actually walking—when the cabin door opened and both his siblings crowded in.
"We need to talk," Laena announced.
"I'm getting dressed."
"We've seen you naked. Get over it." She plopped down on his bunk with zero ceremony. "What's happening with you?"
Perseon froze mid-button. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." Laenor closed the door and leaned against it with the paranoia of someone who'd learned to have sensitive conversations away from servants. "The ship design. The dragon behavior. The way you *talk*. Maesters think you're a prodigy. Father thinks you're blessed. But Laena and I think—"
"You're *weird*," Laena finished. "Not bad weird. Just... different weird. Like you know things you shouldn't know."
Percy's heart rate spiked. This was bad. If his siblings—who loved him, who were loyal to him—noticed something wrong, then others would notice eventually. And that led to questions he absolutely couldn't answer.
"I'm smart," he said carefully. "That's not—"
"Smart kids don't design ships that sail better than ones built by master craftsmen," Laenor interrupted. "Smart kids don't predict weather patterns that surprise storm-watchers. Smart kids don't look at the ocean like they're *reading* it."
"The ocean talks to me," Perseon said, because that much was safe. "I can feel it. Hear it. It's—it's my gift."
"From the Valyrian gods," Laena said, in a tone that suggested she was reciting rather than believing.
"From *somewhere*," Perseon amended.
His siblings exchanged one of those twin looks—the silent communication that made everyone else nervous because you couldn't intercept it or predict it.
"We're not going to tell anyone," Laenor said finally. "Whatever you are, whatever's *different* about you—you're our brother. That comes first."
"But," Laena added, "if you're in danger, or if something's wrong, or if you need help—you tell us. Immediately. No trying to handle it alone."
Something warm and painful lodged in Percy's chest. These were his siblings. Not by blood from his first life, but by blood in this one, and they *loved* him. Enough to notice when something was wrong. Enough to confront him. Enough to promise protection without knowing what they were protecting him from.
"I promise," he said, and meant it. "If something's wrong, I'll tell you."
"Good." Laena stood up and ruffled his carefully combed hair, making it stick up in ways that would horrify their father. "Now finish getting dressed. We dock in half an hour and you look like a drowned cat."
"I do not."
"You really do."
They left him to finish dressing, and Perseon stared at his reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall. Silver-white hair, now properly styled. Sea-green eyes that marked him as *other* even among Valyrians. Two years old but already tall for his age, built lean like swimmers rather than broad like fighters.
He looked like a Velaryon. Acted like a Velaryon. But *was* he a Velaryon? Or was he still Percy Jackson wearing a Velaryon's face?
*Both,* he decided. *I'm both. And I need to remember that.*
The ship entered King's Landing harbor with all the ceremony befitting a Sea Snake vessel. Trumpets announced their arrival. The harbor master's boat guided them to the royal dock. Guards lined the pier in Targaryen crimson and black.
And standing at the end of the dock, silver hair gleaming in morning sun, was his mother and—
Perseon's breath caught.
Two dragons.
Meleys, magnificent and crimson, crouched on the stone with the patient authority of a creature that had been alive for decades and saw no reason to rush anything.
And Typhōnas.
His dragon had beaten them to the dock and was currently *showing off*. As Perseon watched, Typhōnas executed a barrel roll through the air, his ray-like wings moving in that distinctive swimming motion, before splashing down into the harbor water and vanishing beneath the surface.
"He can swim *underwater*?" Corlys said faintly.
"Apparently," Rhaenys said, sounding equally surprised.
Typhōnas burst from the water like a dolphin—because of *course* Percy's dragon had picked up dolphin behaviors, that was just perfect—and landed on the dock with a spray that soaked the nearest guards.
"Sorry!" Perseon called, not particularly sorry.
Typhōnas shook himself like a wet dog—because why *wouldn't* a dragon do that—and bounded toward the ship, chirping that distinctive water-dripping sound that meant *Mine! My human! Where is he?*
The gangplank was barely secured before Typhōnas was scrambling up it, webbed claws finding purchase on wet wood, tail lashing for balance. He reached the deck, spotted Perseon, and *tackled* him.
Two years old and already as big as a horse. This was going to be a problem when he hit puberty.
"Missed you too," Perseon gasped, pinned under seventy pounds of excited dragon. "But you saw me this morning. It's been like an hour."
Typhōnas made an aggrieved sound that clearly communicated *An hour is too long* and proceeded to lick Percy's face with a tongue that tasted like seawater and fish.
"Your dragon has no dignity," Laena observed.
"He has plenty of dignity. He just chooses not to use it."
Corlys, already ashore, was deep in conversation with Rhaenys and—Percy's throat tightened—Queen Alysanne.
His great-grandmother had aged visibly since he'd last seen her. She was thinner, paler, moving with the careful precision of someone whose body had started betraying her. But her eyes were still sharp, still warm, still *present* in a way that mattered.
"Lord Corlys, you've brought all three children," Alysanne was saying, her voice carrying across the water. "How wonderful. I've missed them."
"They've missed you, Your Grace." Corlys turned back to the ship. "Children! Down here! Now!"
Laenor and Laena descended the gangplank with practiced grace—they'd been doing this since they could walk. Perseon followed with less grace and more determination, Typhōnas glued to his side like a scaly shadow.
Alysanne's face lit up when she saw them. "Look how you've grown! Laenor, you're nearly tall as your father. And Laena—when did you become so beautiful?"
"Tuesday," Laena said seriously, which made Alysanne laugh.
Then those faded purple eyes landed on Perseon and his dragon. "And you. The sea prince and his impossible dragon."
Perseon bowed—he'd been practicing, and he was getting good at it. "Your Grace. It's an honor."
"The honor is mine, young prince." Alysanne reached out a weathered hand, and Perseon took it gently. Her grip was lighter than he remembered, more fragile. "Walk with me? I'd like to hear about your voyage."
She didn't wait for an answer, just started toward the waiting carriages with Perseon's hand in hers. Typhōnas followed, occasionally chirping at Meleys, who ignored him with the patient disdain of an aunt dealing with an overexcited nephew.
"Tell me," Alysanne said quietly, once they were out of easy earshot. "How much do you remember?"
Perseon's heart stopped. "Your Grace?"
"You heard me, child." She kept walking, kept smiling, but her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "I'm old. I'm dying. I don't have time for games. So I'll ask again: how much do you remember?"
For a frozen moment, Percy considered lying. Deflecting. Playing dumb.
But this was Alysanne Targaryen. The Good Queen. The woman who'd flown her dragon into danger to protect smallfolk. Who'd negotiated with the Faith to allow women more rights. Who'd stood beside Jaehaerys for fifty years and matched him wit for wit.
She *knew*. Somehow, she knew.
"Everything," he whispered. "I remember everything."
Her grip on his hand tightened. Not painful. Reassuring. "Good. That makes this easier." She glanced back at where Corlys and Rhaenys were managing the other children and luggage. "The twins?"
"Them too. We... we've been communicating. Mentally. The bond goes dormant at distance but reconnects when we're close."
"How close?"
"Same city, usually. Same building is better."
Alysanne nodded like this was perfectly normal information to receive about her great-grandchildren. "And you're here to see me. To say goodbye."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Perseon said, because lying to someone who could see through him was pointless. "Mother said you weren't well. That you'd asked for family."
"I'm dying," Alysanne said bluntly. "My body is failing in small ways that will add up to large ways soon enough. The maesters give me months. I give myself weeks." She stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "But before I go, I wanted to see you three. To know for certain what I suspected."
"What did you suspect?"
"That you're not just *gifted*. You're *changed*. You came into this world carrying something—memories, power, purpose—that doesn't belong here." Her eyes searched his face. "Am I right?"
Percy thought about Balerion. About falling toward Tartarus. About choosing death and rebirth over a future that was already written.
"Yes," he said. "You're right."
"Thank the gods." Alysanne let out a breath that sounded like relief. "I was afraid I was going mad. That age had finally stolen my wits along with my strength." She squeezed his hand again. "Come. Let's get you settled. Then tonight—after the formal dinner, after your father stops fretting—we'll talk. All three of you. Properly."
"Does King Jaehaerys—"
"Know? He suspects. But he's too busy being *king* to trust his instincts, and I've spent two years deflecting his concerns." Her smile turned sad. "Let me have this, child. Let an old woman understand the mystery before she goes."
"You're not old."
"I'm ancient. There's a difference." She released his hand as they reached the carriages. "Now go be a normal two-year-old for a few hours. I'll send for you after dinner."
Perseon bowed again and climbed into the carriage with his siblings, who immediately demanded to know what the Queen had said.
"She asked about the voyage," he lied smoothly. "And told me to behave at dinner."
"That's boring," Laena pronounced.
"Your entire existence is boring," Laenor added.
"At least I have an existence. You're just spare parts."
"We're twins. We're *both* spare parts."
"That doesn't make it better."
Rhaenys separated them before the argument could escalate into violence, and the carriage began its climb toward the Red Keep.
Through the window, Perseon watched Typhōnas and Meleys follow at a lazy glide. His dragon was singing—that distinctive chirping-whistling sound—like he was happy to be here, happy to be close to his clutch-mates again.
*I'm coming,* Percy thought toward the mental space he shared with Annabeth and Calypso. *We're here. Finally here.*
He felt rather than heard their response—a pulse of recognition, of welcome, of *finally*.
Tonight they'd talk. Really talk, for the first time in over a year.
And Alysanne would listen.
Because apparently being a reincarnated demigod wasn't strange enough—now they had a dying queen as their confidant.
This was either going to be brilliant or disastrous.
Knowing his luck? Probably both.
---
**The Red Keep - Royal Apartments - That Evening**
The formal dinner was exactly as tedious as Percy remembered formal dinners being, which was to say: incredibly tedious.
He sat between his mother and Laenor at the long table in the Queen's private dining room, picking at roasted duck and honeyed vegetables while adults discussed politics, trade routes, and the general state of the realm. Across from him, King Jaehaerys held court with the comfortable authority of someone who'd been doing this for fifty years.
To the King's right sat Viserys and Aemma with their two-year-old twins. Rhaenyra wore a dress of midnight blue that made her look impossibly regal for someone who could barely use utensils properly. Annara wore matching silver, and her grey eyes kept finding Percy's green ones across the table.
*This is torture,* Annabeth's thoughts filtered through their reconnected bond. *Actual torture. I've fought monsters. This is worse.*
*At least you can sit still,* Calypso—Rhaenyra—added. *I keep wanting to fly away. Why do humans sit in one place for this long? It's unnatural.*
*Because politics,* Percy sent back. *Also manners. Which apparently matter.*
*Manners are a social construct designed to bore children into submission.*
*That's... actually probably true.*
Alysanne, seated at Jaehaerys's left, caught Percy's eye and smiled. Just slightly. Just enough to say *I know you're dying inside, but survive another hour.*
Percy tried to smile back but probably just looked constipated.
"Perseon," his father said, pulling his attention back. "What do you think about the proposed harbor expansion?"
Everyone turned to look at him. Including Jaehaerys.
Percy wanted to sink through the floor. This was a *test*—Corlys liked to do this, drop questions on him in front of important people to show off his "prodigy" son.
"The eastern harbor?" Percy asked, buying time to organize his thoughts.
"Yes. Master Korwin suggests extending the breakwater by three hundred feet and dredging the channel deeper to accommodate larger ships."
Percy thought about it. Not with the mind of a two-year-old, but with Percy Jackson's memories of harbors and tides and the way water moved around obstacles.
"The breakwater extension is good," he said carefully, keeping his language simple enough to pass for precocious rather than impossible. "But the dredging is wrong. If you make the channel too deep there, the current will shift. Ships won't be able to dock safely in high tide."
Silence.
Master Korwin, a squat man with elaborate chains signifying his expertise in maritime engineering, stared at Percy like he'd just spoken Dothraki.
"That's... actually correct," Korwin said slowly. "I hadn't accounted for the tidal surge during spring moons. How did you—"
"The sea talks to him," Laena said helpfully. "He's weird."
"I'm *gifted*," Percy corrected.
"Weird and gifted aren't mutually exclusive."
Jaehaerys was watching this exchange with undisguised fascination. "You can predict tidal patterns, young prince?"
"I can feel them," Percy said, which was true. "The water shows me where it wants to go. If people build things that fight the water, the water wins."
"Sound philosophy," Jaehaerys observed. "Perhaps we should consult the sea prince before approving harbor expansions."
He said it lightly, almost joking, but Percy caught the undercurrent. The Old King was *testing* him. Seeing if he'd show off more, reveal more, prove whatever suspicions were forming behind those calculating eyes.
"I only know King's Landing waters, Your Grace," Percy said carefully. "Other harbors are different."
"Modest *and* wise. You're full of surprises."
*Retreat,* Annabeth advised. *You're showing too much.*
*I'm answering his questions!*
*You're answering them like an engineer, not a toddler. Scale back.*
Percy ducked his head and focused on his plate. Let the conversation shift to other topics. Tried very hard to look like a normal two-year-old who'd gotten lucky with one clever answer.
The rest of dinner passed without incident. The twins were excused early—claimed to be tired, which was code for "bored beyond endurance." Percy wanted to follow but knew it would look suspicious if all three mystery children left simultaneously.
Finally, *finally*, Alysanne rose. "I'm afraid I'm not as young as I once was. Husband, would you mind if I retired early?"
"Of course not, beloved." Jaehaerys stood to kiss her forehead with a tenderness that made Percy's chest hurt. "Rest. I'll join you soon."
"Take your time. Finish your wine." Alysanne moved toward the door, then paused. "Perseon, would you walk with me? I'd like to hear more about Driftmark."
Every adult at the table stiffened slightly. This was irregular. Queens didn't usually request the company of two-year-olds for evening strolls.
But nobody said no to Alysanne Targaryen.
"Go ahead," Rhaenys said, though her eyes were questioning.
Percy slid off his chair—still too short to do it gracefully, which was annoying—and followed the Queen from the room. Behind him, he heard Jaehaerys say something about indulging grandmothers, and the conversation resumed.
In the hallway, Alysanne moved faster than he expected, her hand firm on his shoulder as she guided him through turns and corridors with clear purpose.
"Where are we going?" Percy asked.
"The library. Private section. I've already arranged for your cousins to meet us there."
"Does King Jaehaerys—"
"—know I'm meeting with you three? He suspects I'm up to something. But my husband learned decades ago not to question my private projects." She glanced down at him. "You'll tell me the truth tonight. All of it. No evasions, no half-answers. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good."
The library's private section was accessed through a door hidden behind a tapestry—because of course it was, this was a fantasy medieval castle and secret passages came with the territory. Inside, the room was small but warm, lined with books and lit by a dozen candles.
And sitting on cushions near the fireplace, looking simultaneously too young and too old for their bodies, were Annabeth and Calypso.
Percy's throat closed.
It had been over a year since he'd seen them in person. They'd grown—both of them tall for their age, silver-blonde hair catching firelight, purple eyes too aware. Annabeth—Annara—wore grey that matched her eyes. Calypso—Rhaenyra—wore gold that made her look like a sunset.
"Hey," Percy said inadequately.
"Hey yourself," Annabeth said, and then she was moving, crossing the room in three quick steps to tackle him.
They were two years old. They barely came up to Alysanne's hip. But when Annabeth hugged him, Percy felt seventeen again—felt like he was standing on the pier at Camp Half-Blood, holding Wise Girl while she explained some architectural detail he'd never understand.
"Missed you," he whispered into her hair.
"Missed you too, Seaweed Brain."
Calypso joined them, wrapping her arms around both of them, and suddenly they were all tangled together—three kids who'd been gods and heroes and monsters and victims, now trapped in toddler bodies and trying very hard not to cry because crying was for babies.
Except they *were* babies. Technically.
"Ahem," Alysanne said gently. "I hate to interrupt, but I'm on a schedule. The dying kind of schedule."
They separated, reluctant, and moved back to the cushions. Alysanne settled into a chair with the care of someone whose bones hurt.
"Now then," the Queen said. "I'm going to ask questions. You're going to answer them honestly. If I think you're lying, I'll know, and we'll start again. Agreed?"
"Agreed," they said in unison.
"First question: Who are you? Not names—I know your names. But who are you really?"
Percy exchanged glances with the others. Annabeth nodded slightly—permission to start.
"We're reincarnated," Percy said. "From another world. We died there and were reborn here."
"Another world," Alysanne repeated. "Not heaven or hell. Not the lands beyond the Sunset Sea. An entirely different *world*."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"How?"
"A god helped us," Calypso said. "Balerion, Valyrian God of Death. He offered us a choice: die in our world or die and be reborn in his. We chose rebirth."
"Why?"
"Because Balerion needed champions," Annabeth continued. "He's been watching this world for centuries, watching the Dance of Dragons play out in infinite variations. Always the same result: catastrophic war, fifty thousand dead, dragons extinct, magic fading. He wanted to change that."
"And he thought three—" Alysanne paused, studying them. "Three *what*, exactly? What were you before you were children?"
"I was a demigod," Percy said.
Alysanne blinked. "A... what?"
"Half god, half mortal," Percy explained. "My father was Poseidon—the god of the sea, earthquakes, storms. Where I'm from, the gods were real. They walked among mortals, had children with them. Those children inherited powers."
"Powers," Alysanne repeated carefully.
"I could control water. Create earthquakes. Breathe underwater. Talk to horses and sea creatures." Percy's voice was matter-of-fact. "I fought in two wars—first against the Titans, then against the giants. Both wanted to destroy the world. Then I fell into Tartarus."
"Tartarus?"
"The deepest pit of the underworld. Where monsters go when they die, where the worst beings are imprisoned." He met her eyes. "I was falling into the pit, and Balerion caught me. Offered me this."
Alysanne turned slowly to Annabeth. "And you?"
"Daughter of Athena—goddess of wisdom, war strategy, crafts." Annabeth's voice was steady. "I was an architect, a strategist. I fought in the same wars. Designed the new Olympus. Perseon fell into Tartarus with me because he wouldn't let me face it alone."
"Olympus," Alysanne said faintly.
"Home of the gods. A palace that moved—sat above the highest point of Western civilization. New York, in our time."
"This is..." Alysanne stopped. "Continue. You chose this? Why?"
"Because falling into Tartarus wasn't an accident. The Fates had cut our threads. We were dying anyway." Annabeth's jaw tightened. "Balerion offered us a choice—oblivion, or life again. We chose life."
"And you?" Alysanne turned to Calypso.
"Titaness," Calypso said quietly.
"Meaning?"
"Before the gods ruled, there were the Titans. Older powers. They fought the gods for control and lost." Calypso's voice was barely above a whisper. "My father was Atlas. He held up the sky as punishment for leading the rebellion. I... I helped him. So I was imprisoned for three thousand years on an island as punishment. Alone. No escape. No release. Until Balerion offered me freedom through death. I took it."
Silence.
Alysanne sat very still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.
"Three thousand years," she said finally. "You were imprisoned for *three thousand years*."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And you—" She looked at Percy and Annabeth. "You fought against monsters."
"Titans first," Percy corrected. "Then giants. The gods were mostly useless. We did the actual fighting."
"Accurate," Annabeth agreed.
"This is..." Alysanne stopped. Started again. "This is the most insane thing I've ever heard. And I've lived through fifty years of Targaryen family drama, which is *saying something*."
"We understand if you don't believe us," Annabeth said carefully.
"Oh, I believe you." Alysanne leaned forward. "Because I've been watching you three since you were born. I've seen those dragons hatch in unison. I've seen the way you look at things—calculating, measuring, *remembering*. I've watched Perseon redesign ships and Annara correct maesters and Rhaenyra..." She paused. "What is it you do, child? What's your gift?"
"Survival," Calypso said simply. "I endured three thousand years alone. I learned patience, strategy, how to wait for opportunities. How to never give up, even when giving up would be mercy."
"Seven hells," Alysanne breathed. "You're not just champions. You're *weapons*."
"We prefer *heroes*," Percy said. "Weapons get used by other people. Heroes make their own choices."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!