CHAPTER 1

Perseus Jackson

Like it sisters, the pool was of no magnificent size, a warm, clear body of water that was fed from the hot springs upon which the castle of Winterfell was built. It felt like a million times that he had done this, knelt by this particular pool, across the godswood from the heart tree, and stared at his reflection in the water. Yet, no matter how many times he did it, Perseus Jackson couldn't seem to stop, probably because somewhere deep down he did not want to accept the image that the pools showed him.

With raven black hair that looked perpetually windswept, high cheekbones, a strong clean-shaven jaw, powerful sea-green eyes and a roguish smirk, Percy had always had a very handsome face. His appeal had only grown as he aged, and with a hard-cut body that had been won through countless divine battles, a whole six feet worth of thick corded, tan, demigod muscle, a mortal woman had once admitted to him that she thought he looked like a god.

The face that stared back at him however, was pale and thinner than it was supposed to be, yet it was undoubtedly in a much better state than it had been when he had first awakened in his chambers in the Winterfell guest house. His build had lost muscle, his limbs were not as strong as before, and his reflexes were somewhat atrophied. But all these were fine; he was already rebuilding his body and with his advanced physiology it would only be a short while until he was as strong as he had been, as fast as he had been. It was the scar that divided his eyebrow into two, that ran from just above it down to the top of his cheekbones, and the grisly hole where his eye was supposed to be that was the real kicker.

Percy had been in a lot of life-threatening situations since he was twelve, but he had always managed to pull through with only some physical and mental scars, whether through luck, skill, his friends, or a combination of all three. Whatever had done this to his eye had better been awarded a medal because it had managed to do what numerous monsters, gods, titans, and giants had not; maimed him permanently. The attack had somehow cut through his left eyebrow, ruined his upper lid, and had continued downwards to damage his eyeball into red pulp. To hear Maester Luwin tell it, nothing had remained of the eye except mangled flesh and crusted blood when he had been brought to Winterfell, and there had been no sign of the ruined eyeball too.

It could have been worse, the demigod thought not for the first time, sighing. The stroke could have divided my skull in place of my eye, probably should be grateful that I'm still alive at all. Still, he could not help but continue to stare at it bitterly, and not only because of the wound, but also because he had no idea of how he got it. In fact, Percy had no idea of how he had wound up buried in snow beside a dead direwolf and its newborn litter, only a short distance from Winterfell. More to the point, his last memories had been of going to sleep in the heavenly arms of one Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano after a night of some truly intense coupling, and he had no idea how in Hades he had ended up in some weird, medieval world, looking like he'd taken a stroll through Tartarus again, and missing an eye. Alien surroundings, missing memories, missing body parts, it reeked of divine meddling, and the thought of it was enough to send him into an intense, bitter rage. The hand that had been tracing the injury dropped and clenched into a fist, and the pool began to roil and boil and froth in response to his emotions.

"Father," he prayed, and despite his rage, his voice was soft and even, deathly. "I've prayed to you for answers every waking moment that I've been here. You never reply, which is weird I'll admit, because you've never completely ignored my prayers before. So I don't know if for some reason you can't hear me, or if something is holding you back from replying to me. But if you can hear me, know this Dad, when I find out who's responsible for this, I'm going to destroy them. Completely, and utterly." He waited for a few moments for a reply, a sign, anything from his father, but got nothing but silence.

"So that's how it's gonna be huh?" He was suddenly weary, and his emotional grip on the pool relaxed as he sighed. He reached for the ground to his left and fished up the eye patch that he had placed there earlier. It was an all black thing, and when Percy placed it over his eye and wound the strap across his forehead and around the back of his head, it fit comfortably and covered the grisly mess that was his left eye. Percy looked at his reflection in the water and thought he looked stupid. He sighed again.

"I know you're there kid." He said loudly without turning from his reflection. "You don't need to try to sneak up on me, I don't bite."

"I wasn't sneaking," denied Bran with a sheepish pout, poking his head out from behind the tree that he had been hiding. His direwolf was at his heels, unnamed and small, shying away from Percy with bared teeth. "I only wanted to see what you were doing."

The demigod turned his good eye to look at him with a small smile gracing his lips. Bran was a boy of seven, an auburn haired, blue eyed squirt that was the third son of Eddard Stark, who was the lord of Winterfell, and whose riding party had chanced upon Percy a short distance from Winterfell, buried in snow and half dead. The boy had been fascinated with him since Percy had awoken and had taken to trailing him whenever he was not busy exploring the rooftops and climbing up the towers of Winterfell. He often asked Percy questions about his out-of-the-blue appearance, where he came from, his magic sword, and most annoyingly, his missing eye. More often than not, Percy's honest replies only stumped him and made him ask more questions. Percy liked him though.

"I was praying." He replied, getting off his knees and dusting off his breeches. Behind him, Bran frowned, squinting at the base of his skull.

"Praying?" He parroted. "But to what gods? Mother prays in the sept to the Seven, and father comes down to pray too, but at the heart tree, to the old gods. Do you pray to the old gods as well?"

"Well, I don't really know of your mother's Seven, and when you say old gods, which ones do you mean? Most gods are old, except the new ones, it's in the job description." Percy smiled at the way the boy's face twisted in confusion at the reply, amused. Truth be told, he had given his honest reply and he had no idea why the boy was so confused by it. But Bran was confused by most things Percy said and it always filled the demigod with mirth the way the boy's face went as he tried to rationalize his words.

"New gods?" Asked Bran, and his face was annoyed now, a childish, churlish expression that had Percy smothering chuckles. "But there are no new gods. There's only the old gods, father's gods and gods in the north, and the Seven, Mother's gods, and the god's of the rest of the realm. Septa Mordane says the Seven are the only true gods, and other gods are false, and that everyone who worships them are sinners." Percy was heading back out the godswood now, and Bran was at his heels, his direwolf following last, at a distance that allowed it to be far away from Percy yet still close enough to Bran. The demigod had no idea why the direwolves shied away from him.

"Septa Mordane speaks as she believes, that doesn't mean she's right kiddo. There are a lot of gods, and a lot of pantheons. Most of them are real, and have enough power to wipe Winterfell off the map as an afterthought." Percy told him. "As for new gods, there are those too. Sometimes, the gods are so impressed by someone that they offer them a spot in their midst, and turn them to gods too." I was offered a spot once, he almost said, but the boy's face was already a visage of doubt and suspicion as he pondered his words, and he decided not to. Saying that probably would not have gone over well.

"But which ones were you praying to?" Bran asked, obviously deciding not to dwell too long on the veracity of the statement.

"My father. I got no reply though."

"The Father? But you said you did not know of Mother's gods."

"I said my father, not the Father, and what kind of god is named the Father anyway?"

"But...your father? I pray with father sometimes, to the old gods, by the heart tree. What gods do you pray to with your father?"

Percy sighed, rolling his eye, and reached out to ruffle the boy's hair.

"I was praying to my father, not with my father, Bran." The boy batted his hand away with a scowl and a pout.

"That's stupid, Percy. People pray to gods, not their fathers. How will your father answer any of your prayers when he can't even hear you." The boy rolled his eyes at him as Percy stopped walking and stared at him, bemused. "You say the most odd things sometimes."

And Bran ran off, his direwolf bounding after him, leaving the one eyed demigod staring in his wake, trying to decide how he felt at being called stupid by a boy only a third of his age, within one week of them knowing each other. At last he shook his head and chuckled.

"Brat."

He made his way out of the godswood, through the main iron gate in the high, moss covered wall, and towards the Maester's turret, above which was the rookery. Winterfell was a huge castle spanning several acres of land that had been built upon hot springs that kept the castle warm, and around a forest that was referred to as the godswood and had religious significance to the people. It was protected by two massive walls of grey granite, though Percy had never been beyond either, and he had been told that there was a village outside the outer wall called the winter town. In the time that Percy had been awake, he had been exploring the castle, looking at the structures, taking note of the lifestyle of its inhabitants, finding enjoyment in watching Rodrik Cassel knock green boys around in the training yards. The castle complex was composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces where melee weapons training and practice took place, and there was the inner ward; a second, much older open space in the castle where archery practice took place, located next to a tower with the top third collapsed inward, dubbed the broken tower. The inner castle had diamond-shaped window panes, and contained the Great Keep, the Great Hall, and a building of some religious worship that Percy had shied away from. Percy had been to the Great Keep which was where his host and rescuer resided, one Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. He had visited the Great Hall also, thrice, when he had been invited to dine with Lord Eddard Stark and his household. The whole castle was a large expanse of space that was even now being prepped for the imminent visit of the king of the realm whose name Percy had forgotten as soon as he heard it. Bran had told him that the Great Hall was used for receiving guests also, and that it was capable of seating five hundred people, which Percy believed. Percy had been to the maester's turret, from there the rookery, and from the rookery he'd taken a stroll to the bell tower which was connected to the rookery by a covered bridge that ran from the fourth floor of the tower to the second floor of the rookery. There were still a lot of places in Winterfell that his two weeks out of coma had not been enough to cover; the abandoned first keep with its lichyard and fearsome gargoyles, the broken tower with its nest of crows, the glass garden that was the castle greenhouse, the library which he'd probably never visit, the guards hall, the dungeons because a medieval castle like this would definitely have some scary cells, and much more that he'd probably never be able, or allowed, to explore. Percy had seen some of the most beautiful things and places in his twenty-one years of life. He'd seen the architecture of gods, visited Olympus in all its divine splendor with the golden palace of Apollo, the white marbled thundering temple of Zeus, the pink hot structure of love and lust that was Aphrodite's abode, and his ex-girlfriend had even had rebuilt Olympus after the destruction left in the wake of Percy's first war. He'd been to the underworld for his experience of majestic, cold, dark halls, went underwater to his father's stunning kingdom of Atlantis with its merpeople and sea-shelled walls, and he'd lived the innovations of the twenty-first century only about every day of his life. Yet there was still something about the grey granite of Winterfell's medieval walls that called to him. He was not some architecture geek like Annabeth, nor could he tell anyone the gross structural deficiencies of the castle - if there were any - but something about how people who did not even have the technological advancement of the water closet building something so strong and large just appealed to him and made him want to see all there was to see. He liked watching the boys in the courtyard fumble their way through sword practice with their trainer Rodrik Cassel, berating and advising, and he liked the quiet calm of the godswood where he could brood and ruminate to his heart's content, and submerge himself in the pools to relax and fast-track his recovery. He liked answering Bran's questions, covering for Arya when she sneaked out of her needlework sessions, giving Jon swordsman tips, and frustrating Maester Luwin the Skeptic with his absurd recovery rate and answers of "Well, that's because I'm the son of a god!"

Percy was still smiling at that particular memory as he wound his way into the maester's quarters, but it dimmed when he entered and saw that he was attending to someone, his body bent over the chair and blocking the demigod's view of who it was.

Maester Luwin was a tireless, small man with grey eyes and thinning hair who had a choker around his neck that he tugged at when uncomfortable or irritated, and donned a robe of grey wool most of the time. The robe had voluminous sleeves which in turn held sewn pockets from which the old man was always drawing things. Luwin had been the one to care for Percy when Eddard's party had brought him to the castle, and for the week that the demigod had been unconscious. Till this day if you asked the man, he'd swear up and down that he had no idea how Percy had survived his ordeal, that all the injuries the demigod had accumulated, together with the undetermined amount of time that he had spent buried in snow should have seen him offed before he was even chanced upon by Jon Snow. Then there was the demigod's recovery rate to contend with, a conundrum which had caused Maester Luwin to tug more on his choker in the course of four weeks than he had in the last decade, and Percy's honest answers of his origins and abilities were always met with indulgent little smiles and discarded as folly.

Percy allowed him to wallow in the misery of his mystery. He was grateful to the man for taking care of him but Luwin annoyed him as much as amused him with his casual disregard for Percy's honest explanations; the old man's study of the "higher mysteries" and natural skepticism causing him to view the demigod as either a particularly mischievous lad who liked tugging at an old man's strings, or a delirious amnesiac whose words were to be taken with a grain of salt. Percy acknowledged that the man's misgivings about him were fair as he was a mischievous person, and he did have a form of amnesia seeing as he had no idea of how he had lost his eye or how he had arrived at Winterfell, but he wasn't about to put his hydrokinesis on display just to satisfy the old man's curiosity and banish his skepticism.

"Hello, old man." Percy hailed from the doorway. "Here for my daily checkup."

The man turned his head to look at Percy for just an instant, a sliver of light hitting his choker just right to make it glint, and the demigod spied a hint of brown hair on the chair in front of the maester as his body shifted slightly to accommodate the motion.

"Oh, its you. Hold on, I'll be just a moment." The man turned back to his patient but the nest of brown hair poked out of his side, revealing a long, young female face that Percy recognized.

"Hey Arya. Let me guess, forgot which end of the needle you were to poke with?" He asked with a knowing smirk and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"I'll have you know that my needlework was acceptable today, Septa Mordane said so, it was the stupid dancing that-ouch!" She yelped at the end and Maester Luwin berated her, telling her to cease her "silly squirming." Percy snorted in mirth, and made his way over to them.

The maester's turret was cluttered as always, and as he maneuvered his way, he wondered not for the first time how the man ever got anything done. Luwin was tending to her scraped knees, he saw when he was close enough, and the girl's wolf pup was in her lap, lapping at her fingers. Percy took in her form, and his lips just had to twist into a light fond smirk at the sight of Arya Stark's signature injury. The little girl saw his expression and frowned at him in suspicious indignation.

"What are you laughing at?" She demanded to know.

"I'm not laughing." His smirk widened.

"Liar!" She accused. "You are too."

"I'm not."

"Are too!"

"Not laughing."

"Yes you are, can see it on your face you big liar!" Her voice was righteously hot, and in the end Percy did laugh and ruffled her hair, in response to which she batted at his arm and pounded a tiny fist into his chest, drawing a round of muttered complaint from the maester.

"Stop laughing at me Percy. Don't you know I'm a lady of Winterfell. I could have you flogged for offense." Percy stared at her for a few seconds in a look of mock horror so outrageous that her face broke and she snorted, turning away from him and letting a few giggles of her own escape. On her lap, her wolf pup with the name that started with an N reached up and licked at her face, and she giggled some more. Maester Luwin drifted away from her, done with her knees and irritated at her constant movement.

"Silly Percy, I could never do that, of course." She said when she had calmed down enough to speak. Percy took the opportunity to ruffle her hair again, and she batted at his arm.

"Of course you couldn't, you're such a nice little girl, and who'd listen to you anyway? Besides, you like me too much." He said, smiling at her. She stuck her tongue at him.

"I'm not nice," she denied. "That's Sansa, and I'm no little girl. Mother says I'm almost a woman grown, so of course they'll listen to me so you better watch yourself Ser. And I don't like you that much."

Percy widened his smile, reached out, and ruffled her hair yet again much to her irritation since she could never catch his arm when he did it.

"Keep telling yourself that squirt. Now get out of here, and don't go adding more bruises to the ones you've already got. Do that, and maybe I'll show you a thing or two about you-know-what."

Her eyes widened in delight. "Really?"

"Sure, why not. Better than all the weird fumbling you normally do anyway." He replied, teasing, and enjoying the way her face flexed as she tried to decide whether to remain delighted or take offense at his opinion of her sword skills.

"I'll hold you to that Percy." She smiled at him at last, wagging a finger, then struck out with a kick at his shin and fled, clutching her pup to her chest. "And I don't fumble!"

Percy chuckled at her retreating visage and, shrugging out of his top, lowered himself into the chair that she had just vacated. Maester Luwin drifted back from where he'd been watching the by-play and offered him a small smile.

"It seems to me that you've taken well to Lord Stark's family."

Percy shrugged and gave a non-committal hum, eyes roving over the aging man as he checked and prodded at his most recent injuries.

"Not so much the parents. Eddard's as stiff as a minotaur's horn, no funny bone in that one's body, and though Catelyn's always been courteously polite, there's no real likeness between us, and I don't much care for the way she looks at her husband's bastard. I like the brats though, they're amusing and remind me of some of the people I know."

"Need I remind you that you're speaking to me of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell? You'd do well to guard your tongue." The maester chided with a warning frown that Percy rolled his eyes at, but the demigod did not say anything else and neither did Luwin for a while. The maester checked and prodded, asked questions and tested soreness, and Percy responded as needed.

"So what's the verdict Doc?" He asked when the old man was done even though he knew that his injuries were as fully healed as he could be. Despite his battered state when he had arrived at Winterfell, the old man had done his best to keep him alive, and when Percy had come to after his week long coma, he had fast-tracked the healing process by submerging himself as much as he could in the spring fed pools of the godswood.

"Well, your recovery has been nothing short of miraculous, young man." Admitted Luwin, tugging at his choker. "When you were carted up to my quarters by Lord Stark I sincerely expected you to die within the hour, at the time even the fact that you were still alive seemed nothing short of a miracle. You had a hole in your eye, three broken ribs, a fractured femur, a dislocated shoulder, a sprained ankle, a hole in your gut, and numerous lacerations." The man shook his head at him, a far away look in his eye. "Now all you need is some more nutrition and exercise and, with the exception of your eye, I expect you'll soon be as fit as you've ever been. One day, you'll tell me how this is all possible, I hope."

"It's the same thing I've been telling you all this while pops. I'm not human, not fully at least. My mother is human, but my Dad's the god of the seas. Exceptional strength, durability, vitality, speed and whatnot all come with the demigod package." Percy told him with a smile and a roll of his eye.

Luwin tugged at his choker with a rueful smile and an exasperated release of air.

"I admit that there are abnormal things about you, but that does not stand as evidence of some sorcery. And the fanciful tale you keep telling me about your father being a god is just so laughably absurd. More than likely you just want to keep your people's knowledge of the healing arts to yourself. Don't think I have not noticed how you always return in a better state whenever you run off to hide yourself in the godswood."

"I go to the godswood to submerge myself in the pools so that I can heal, not to hide some nonexistent secret." Percy sighed, amused and irritated in one swoop.

"Whatever the case, Lord Stark sent word." Said Luwin. "There has been no sign of this Lady of yours, and he's of a mind to stop sending outriders in search of her."

"I'd expected as much, when I got the chance to really sit down and think." Percy admitted ruefully. "When have the gods ever been kind, but given the circumstances, I had to at least try. Still, with no evidence but the words of a delirious man fresh from the sick bed who he did not even know, Stark kept up the search for two weeks. He's a good man, this lord of yours and I owe him one, or two." He shook his head with a wry smile and stood from his seat. "I'll be sure to thank him when I see him, busy as he is with the preparations for the king. Speaking of which, when do you expect this royal procession that has everyone in jitters will arrive?"

"Word arrived just about three weeks ago, and with the size of his host I am of the mind that it'll be at least another three weeks before King Robert arrives at Winterfell." Luwin replied, studying the demigod as he shrugged back into his plain linen shirt and donned his leather jerkin. "Why do you ask, if I may ask?"

"Simple curiosity, I think I'll stay to see what all the fuss is about before I leave."

"Leave?" Luwin was weirdly startled and it caused Percy to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Leave." he echoed. "You've been good to me here, but I can't impose on you forever. And I know there's little chance I find something that Stark didn't especially given how long it's been since you guys fetched me from the snow, and how I'm not even sure that there's something to be found in the first place. But there's a chance that Reyna came along with me and I have to try to find her; who knows, she's like me, so I might as well catch something you Stark didn't. Besides, I'm not from around here and even if I don't find Reyna, I plan on finding my way back because back where I'm from, I have a sister, a mother, a step father, a budding relationship, friends, all the technological comforts of the twenty first century, missing memories to reclaim, and a god or two that I intend to eviscerate."

Percy reached out and patted the maester's shoulder with a commiserating air.

"I'm awesome, I know, and you love me. I like you too pops, but I can't stay here forever, its not my home. I'll see you later."

And Percy made his way out of the maester's turret, leaving Luwin to stare ponderously at his retreating visage.

Next Chapter: Percy makes his way back to New York and eviscerates a god or two :-))