DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS OR GAME OF THRONES
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|WINTERFELL

The North went on forever.

Edric knew the maps about as good as anyone, but weeks of travel on the uneven trail that passed for the Kingsroad north of the Neck had brought home an important lesson; that a map was one thing and the land quite another.

After arriving in Gulltown, he and Ser Barristan had ridden past the Mountains of the Moon, over the Frey's bridge at the Twins, and caught up with the King's procession at Moat Callin before heading into the North, where the climate grew colder and snowier despite it still being summer.

Edric shivered atop his horse, blowing into his cupped hands to warm his gloves and keep his fingers from going numb. His fur cloak provided a degree of protection against the cold—but after spending most of his life in King's Landing and the last three years in Essos—the harsh weather was brutal.

At least the air is fresher in the north, he supposed. King's Landing always had the faint smell of shit in the air, and Meereen hadn't been any better.

Behind him, Edric could hear the commotion that came with a King's procession. Men shouting and horses snorting, the rattle of wagons, and the groaning of the queen's huge wheelhouse.

He glanced over his shoulder. His green eyes squinted as ice-cold flakes blew against his face. A river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong filled the Kingsroad. Bannermen and knights, sworn swords, and free-riders with a dozen golden banners that whipped back in forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of House Lannister.

Over the heads of the knights, Edric could see the wheelhouse his mother and siblings were riding in, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses.

He turned forward in his saddle. This was the furthest north he had ever been, and compared to the stifling atmosphere of King's Landing, the North might as well have been on another continent. He didn't understand why anyone would want to ride in a cramped wheelhouse when they could be on horseback.

In King's Landing and most of the Free Cities, houses and people were stacked practically on top of each other. Like a 21st-century city made of stone. The North was what Edric imagined the American frontier from his world looked like three hundred years ago.

A few man-made structures here and there, but mostly open land.

West of the Kingsroad were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east, the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched as far as his eyes could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread rings around holdfasts built out of wood and stone.

Still, I'd like to get to Winterfell sooner rather than later, Edric thought, as another wind chill shivered down his spine. While the North had its charms, he wanted to get out of the cold and into a warm bed, preferably one with his warm girl in it.

In the 21st century, having sex at thirteen years old—three and ten name days as it was called in Westeros—was usually frowned upon; practically taboo depending on where you lived and how you were raised.

That didn't matter much here.

Laws and social constructs from the 21st century didn't belong in Westeros. Edric had learned quickly that if he didn't adapt, and lose more than a few of his civilized morals, his life would be a short and painful one.

Seven hells, by Westerosi law, I'm practically a man grown. Not that age interested Edric much, as despite physically being thirteen, mentally he was over twice that age.

If he wanted to have sex, then he'd have sex.

The last thirteen years for him had been...trying to say the least.

He was a bastard in Westeros law. Now, if he had been born a commoner, his life would have been much, much harsher. Luckily, his father had been the king and to anyone in Westeros, his life was a dream. As third-in-line to the Iron Throne and a member of the royal family, the world was his oyster.

And perhaps it was, but being Prince came with a price. Edric had lived his entire life with the shadow of an early death hanging over his head. As a prince, he could have squandered his days away doing nothing. However, if he did, then he would surely die an early death.

Instead, he worked. He studied. He trained. And he fought. Edric did everything he could to make the realm view him as someone who could be a great king, and prepare for the inevitable war brewing.

With so much work and worry, he had to find an outlet. A vice. He didn't want to drink excessively or do drugs. Both would hinder his mental faculties. So he chose sex.

He let out a sigh, watching as his breath became visible in the air. It was cold in the North and only growing colder.

"Need another fur, nephew?"

Edric turned away from the sprawling lands of the North and looked at the man riding next to him.

Ser Jaime Lannister, tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore golden silk, high black boots, and black satin riding furs. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of House Lannister was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance.

His thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone, but Tommen wasn't going to complain. He would be damned if he would give his "uncle" that satisfaction.

"I'm fine, uncle," he replied, with a smile.

Jaime wasn't really a bad person—minus the sister-fucking, of course—but other than that, he was alright. And that didn't matter much anyway. Not when the supposed "rightful" royalty of the Seven Kingdoms had been marrying sister to brother for centuries. Never mind the fact that before he was Edric Baratheon, he had worshipped gods who practiced incest.

After learning to adapt to the loose morals of Westeros society, Edric got on pretty well with the Kingslayer. His "rivalry" was a well-crafted ploy that he created when he was younger. By pitting himself against his uncle and claiming that one day he would be the finest swordsman in Westeros no one questioned it when he trained with Ser Barristan religiously.

All they saw was a young boy trying to become a legend like his uncle.

"By the looks of it we'll reach Winterfell by midday," Jaime said, pointing at the castle in the distance. Winterfell was a huge castle complex spanning several acres and protected by two massive walls.

The castle was massive as far as northern castles went, but still minuscule when compared to the size of King's Landing. Seven hells, this is it, Edric swallowed the ball in his throat and he didn't take his eyes off Winterfell again until they were riding through the castle gates.

Whatever Hestia had warned him about, he would find it here.

King Robert rode hard until he was at the head of the column so that he was first through the gates, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard.

Edric rode in behind Joffrey and Sandor Clegane. Even though he was only a few seconds behind King Robert, by the time he was through the gates there wasn't a single person standing. Everyone had bent the knee for their king.

King Robert gestured silently with his hand. Lord Stark rose to his feet and Edric got his first good look at the man. The Warden of the North had a long face and long brown hair. His closely-trimmed beard was beginning to grey, making him look older than he was.

While King Robert and Lord Stark had their reunion, Edric vaulted off his horse and walked back toward the gate. The queen's wheelhouse was too wide to pass through the castle gates so she would have to enter Winterfell on foot.

He waited for the wheelhouse door to open, then held out his hand to help his "mother" down the steps. Queen Cersei gave him a beautiful but brittle smile, and Edric was reminded of his plans for her. As a pretty noblewoman, she was going to be useful in the future to gain allies against this mysterious enemy, but he had to keep her under control.

Looping his right arm with the queen, he held his left out to help Myrcella out of the wheelhouse. She was just as beautiful as her mother. Edric led them to Lord Stark who knelt in the snow to kiss the queen's ring, while King Robert embraced Catelyn Stark like a long-lost sister.

Then the children were brought forward. Joffrey, the arrogant little shit that he was didn't even bother trying to hide how bored he was. Sansa was too moon-eyed to see it, but Robb did and his jaw clenched to hide a scowl.

Can't have that, Edric thought. He wanted to be on good terms with the Starks before he returned to King's Landing. The nightmare he had the night after Hestia first visited him in this world played through his mind. A lion and a wolf fighting over a dead stag. The Lannister and Starks at each other's throats.

"Take me down to your crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects," the king demanded.

Lord Stark called for a lantern. The queen had begun to protest. "We've been riding since dawn, my love. Surely the dead can wait?"

Edric sighed as Robert looked at his wife, then turned away heading for the crypts. Ser Jaime quietly took his seething twin by the arm and led her inside. Joffrey followed on their heels with his faithful hound trailing behind him.

"You know, I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell," Edric said, breaking the tense air in the yard. "In the south, the way they talk about the Seven Kingdoms, it's hard to remember the North is as big as the other six combined."

Catelyn did a slight curtsy. "I trust you enjoyed the journey, my prince?"

Edric laughed. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?"

"Likely they were too shy to come out," Robb jested. "Southron kings are a rare sight in the north."

Edric snorted. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, in summer!" he put one hand out to catch a few falling flakes in his palm. Even after thirteen years he still couldn't believe seasons could last years in this new world.

"Late summer snows are common enough," Robb smirked, and asked, "I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild."

"The Others take your mild snows, Stark!" Edric swore. "What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think."

"Winters are hard," Robb admitted. "But the Starks will endure. We always have."

Edric nodded and pulled his leather riding gloves off. He reached out to grip Robb's hand in a firm shake. "Well spoken, Robb," he said. "I hope we get along as well as our fathers do."

Next to Robb, a small brown-haired girl scowled as she tried to look around the yard. "Where is the imp?"

Lady Stark gasped, and Edric frowned.

"He'll be here for the feast, Arya. You can see him then."

"Really?"

Edric kneeled in the snow. "I'll have him escort you to your seat, my lady," he promised.

Any little thing he could to endear himself to the Starks would make his vision less likely to come true.

|GOT|

There were times—not many, but a few—when Robb Stark wished he was a bastard. As he watched his half-brother Jon fill his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A bard was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but up at the table where Robb was sitting his voice could hardly be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast for the king. Robby's brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, his lord father had allowed each child a glass of wine, but no more than that.

Down there on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon from drinking as much as he had a thirst for.

Robb settled back in his place next to Theon. Despite being near enough to speak with the royal children, he'd barely spoken a word to them. He had sated his curiosity about the visitors when they made their entrance.

His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the green of her eyes. His father helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but the queen never so much as looked at him. Even at sixteen, Robb could see through her smile.

Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a great disappointment to Robb. His father had talked of him often: the peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Robb saw only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups.

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster. Bran had to urge him on when he stopped to visit their bastard brother Jon at the benches. Robb himself followed close behind, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Robb had noticed the shy looks she gave him and the timid way she smiled. He decided she was insipid but he smiled and didn't let his show.

Sansa was paired with the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. The prince had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blonde curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Robb did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.

Robb was more interested in the pair that came behind the prince: the queen's brothers, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp; there was no mistaking which was which. Ser Jaime Lannister was the twin of Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, and a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his house was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back.

Arya was escorted by the other brother. Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Lord Tywin's brood. All that the gods had given to Cersei and Jaime, they had denied Tyrion. He was a dwarf, barely as tall as Arya, struggling to keep pace on stunted legs.

The last of the royal family to enter was the only one Robb thought he could stand. Edric was thirteen, three years younger than Robb and the crown prince, but taller than either, to Robb's dismay. His arms and chest were corded with muscle. With his thick black hair, Edric was everything Robb's lord father had said the king was supposed to be. If not for his eyes, I'd doubt he was a Lannister at all, Robb thought.

After all had been seated, toasts were made, thanks given and returned, and then the feasting began.

The king was having a grand time. Robb could see him sitting on a table halfway down the hall, drunk and with his arms around the waist of a serving girl. The poor girl went red-faced as the king smacked her ass and laughed.

"Is it true?"

Robb turned to glance at his sister, Arya, glad for the distraction from the king's foolery. He couldn't believe that was the man his father had followed into two wars.

She was looking at Edric with wide-eyed wonder. "Do they really call you the rouge prince?" she asked. "Like Daemon Targaryen?"

Oh no, Robby frowned. The king's hate for House Targaryen was well known, and to compare one of the princes of the realms to a dragon—

Thankfully, Edric hadn't seemed to inherit his father's hate. The prince laughed and shook his head. "I've never heard the whispers myself," he said with a shrug. "But I guess they could be true."

Arya frowned, obviously disappointed by the answer. However, she recovered quickly and leaned over the table. "Then is it true you've been to Essos?"

"I have," Edric answered. "In fact, I was there just a few weeks ago."

"What about the Doom?" Arya continued. "Did you really sail there?"

Robb shifted in his chair, leaning closer so he could hear better. He'd heard the rumors as well. That the king's son had followed in Gerion Lannister's footsteps and left the king's landing to search for Brightroar, the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Lannister.

Edric nodded. "First place I went after leaving King's Landing," he said.

Next to him, Robb heard Theon snort. The prince had heard it as well and glanced their way.

"Something to say, Greyjoy?" Edric asked.

"You shouldn't be telling lies to little girls, my lord," Theon said, smirking over his cup of wine. "They might start believing them."

"Who says I'm lying?"

"No one, " Robb kicked Theon in the shins under the table. Edric was still looking at them, and thankfully, he hadn't seemed to take offense to Theon's remark.

Then Arya had to go and ruin it by asking, "You're not lying, are you?"

Seeing the skeptical look on her face, Edric ruffled her hair as he stood up. "Don't worry, I'm not lying. And if you get up early enough tomorrow, I'll show you the proof."

"Proof?" Robb couldn't help but ask. His mother would have his hide if he was as disrespectful to the prince as Theon, but even he couldn't deny how farfetched the story sounded.

"Ser Barristan and I were stuck on a ship for weeks, and we couldn't find time to train on the Kingsroad, so he wants to practice in the yard tomorrow," Edric said, clapping Robb on the shoulder as he passed. "I hope to see you there, Stark."

Robb couldn't believe it. He had just been invited by the prince to train with Barristan the Bold. "I'll be there!" he called out as Edric headed to the main doors of the Great Hall.

Next to him, Theon scoffed. "I still think he's lying."

Robb rolled his eyes. "I'll guess we'll see tomorrow," he said, wondering what kind of proof the prince had to prove he had really sailed to the Doom of Valyria.

CHAPTER 3 IS HERE!

Also, I was asked a question in PM and decided to answer it here just in case anyone else was wondering. Cersei doesn't know that Percy is a bastard. The only people who know are Jaime, Tywin, and Percy himself. She doesn't like Percy because she believes he is Robert's son and she never wanted to give Robert children.

Maybe if he was Joffrey's twin she would love him, but after years of shitty marriage, right now she only sees him as an extension of Robert who she hates and a threat to her and Jaime's children.

THANKS FOR READING!