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

Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, stood tall and stiff, staring at the door to the great hall. The muffled sounds of voices came from behind its thick door, punctuated with frequent bursts of the King's laughter.

"Should I go now, Mother?" asked the girl at her side, whose blonder hair she was twisting nervously with her slender fingers. "I know children aren't allowed in the Small Council meetings."

"This isn't a gathering of the council, Myrcella," Cersei replied, looking down at her only daughter and smiling. "Lord Varys has brought word of your brother from across the Narrow Sea. He has news for me, and I have questions for him."

"Then it is true, Mother? Edric is coming home?"

Myrcella looked at her mother and the Queen caught a sudden glimpse of Jaime in her clever green eyes. It made her breath catch and the only way she could prevent the swell of tears was to avert her gaze to the gloomy, torch-lit corridor that led away from the Throne room.

At ten years old, her youngest son had won the archery contest at her father's tourney in Casterly Rock and decided that he did not want to live in the shadow his older brother would cast from his seat on the Iron Throne.

Instead, he would take his winnings and set sail across the Narrow Sea on a ship bound for the Free Cities. Cersei had objected of course—as any mother would—arguing that as a prince of the realm, Edric's place was in King's Landing. But it was all for naught. Robert loved the idea of having a sellsword as a son and gave his blessing.

Cersei pushed the door open and together they walked into the great hall. Oil lamps burned brightly casting a vigorous orange glow that fought against the encroaching shadows. Their light revealed colorful banners flowing across the walls where the skulls of Targaryen Dragons once hung.

The men stood as their Queen entered.

All of them but her Lord Husband. "Sit down," Robert ordered, as she circled the table to the chair that had been left for her.

The men waited for her to sit before lowering themselves into their own chairs. Last of all, Myrcella settled in the chair next to her mother, her inquisitive eyes roaming the faces of the Small Council. Cersei laid a hand on her arm, drawing comfort from the softness of her skin, as she, too, looked at the seated figures.

Robert was to her left, his fatty bulk so tightly packed into the high-backed chair that it seemed the arms would snap off at any moment. Once upon a time, he had been a handsome, clean-shaven man, with rough and hard hands. He was strong and powerful, muscled like a maiden's fantasy. She had been wet between the thighs the night of their wedding, but that was the only night she was ever aroused by him. Years of excessive drinking and feasting had turned him into a fat disappointment of a man, always red-faced under his beard and sweating through his silks.

To her right was Ser Barristan Selmy's empty seat. Ser Barristan had been Edric's private master-at-arms and under her orders had been sent to Essos to protect him.

Jaime should have trained him, Cersei thought bitterly. From the moment he could talk, Edric had talked of nothing but becoming a great swordsman and she knew Ser Barristan would work tirelessly to give Edric the best training possible. When she realized that Robert was going to grant the little bastard his wish she cast aside her pride and begged and pleaded for him to allow Jaime to train Edric.

Cersei knew Jaime could never claim their children as his own, it would put their entire family in danger. But he could have helped by making sure her husband's bastard was weaker than their boys. That he would stop Edric from outshining their children!

But of course, Edric was a natural with a blade. Cersei hated to admit it, but Robert's son was exceptional at everything he did. Even as a babe, he was talking and walking months before any babe Grand Maester had ever seen. The only thing he ever had trouble with was his letters.

Strangely, he seemed to have the same affliction Jaime had suffered from when it came to letters.

Cersei hoped Jaime could make swordsmanship another weakness for the bastard, yet her begging to Robert had been useless. She'd debased herself to that fat oaf for nothing!

Edric proclaimed that Jaime could not be the one to train, because one day he was going to best his "uncle" in a tourney and take Jaime's title of the greatest swordsman in Westeros.

Jaime had been amused and promised the bastard he would make sure not to lose the title until Edric came to take it from him. Robert, half in his cups had laughed and named Ser Barristan Selmy as Edric's master-at-arms.

"If the boy wishes to best the Kingslayer, Barristan the Bold is the only one who can teach him how."

Cersei turned her gaze to the other members of the Small Council. They were the men who were supposed to help her Lord Husband rule the Seven Kingdoms, but she could hardly believe the useless simpletons before her were the men her Lord Husband chose.

Varys, seated next to Ser Barristan's empty seat was the Master of Whispers. A title Lord Varys had held during the Mad King's reign. Robert was a fool not to have the cockless spy's head put on a pike.

Next to the bald eunuch sat Renly. Her Lord Husband's youngest brother, and Master of Laws. Cersei could hardly keep from laughing whenever she thought of the irony. A pillow-biter like Renly as the Master of Laws?

The rest of the Small Council was nowhere to be seen. Littlefinger and Grand Maester Pycelle were elsewhere in the Red Keep, and Stannis Baratheon the supposed Master of Ships had skulked back to Dragonstone.

"Lord Varys, I was informed that your little birds have brought news of my son?"

"Yes, wonderful news I'm glad to say, Your Grace." Lord Varys replied, looking around at the table. "While we are all deeply saddened by the passing of Jon Arryn, there is a light in this dark hour. Prince Edric writes that Mereen has hired the Golden Company to defend their city."

Hands clapping together brought all the eyes in the room to Myrcella. It had been three years since she'd seen her younger brother. Cersei plastered a fake smile on her face. She hated how close Myrcella and Tommen were to Edric. They had no clue the danger he put them in.

Her Lord Husband's booming laugh filled the room.

King Robert had joined in the clapping, as did the rest of the Small Council, following their king dutifully. "Edric's going to smash those sackless shits!" the king was grinning. "They're going to sing songs about my son! A Prince of Westeros taking a ship bound for the Free Cities with his horse and sword, spending his time warring and whoring!"

Cersei glared at the fat King. She stood up and grabbed Myrcella's hand pulling her from the room. He poisons everything good to me, she thought, hatefully. Had her Lord Husband even noticed Myrcella in the room before he spoke? Warring and whoring was no talk for a Princess to hear.

Besides, Edric was only three and ten, hardly even a man. That won't stop a whore from spreading her legs for him, a foul voice whispered in Cersei's ear. She gripped Myrcella's hand tighter.

Edric was Robert's son, who's to say he had not inherited the fat oaf's addiction to fucking whores and birthing bastards? Babes that would one day have a claim to her children's birthright.

"Send word to my son, Spider!" she heard Robert order from outside the room. "Tell him that after he crushes those dragon lovers to meet us in Winterfell!"

Cersei pursed her lips. Jon Arryn had been asking questions that he shouldn't have, and she was glad the man was dead. As always, Robert ruined her happiness by declaring Ned Stark as his next Hand and his plans to ride north to offer his friend the position in person.

Dragging her and her children with him.

Gods did she hate that man!

If she was lucky, before Edric could return he would be killed in battle. Cersei smiled as she led Myrcella through the Red Keep. No matter how skilled with a blade he was, Edric was still only three and ten. The Golden Company was considered the finest and most powerful company of the Free Cities.

Surely they could do what a dozen catspaws couldn't and kill him?

|GOT|

Everything was pain and darkness and all Edric could hear was the hollow sound of his own breath against the inside of his helmet. He tried to remember where he was and how he'd gotten there, but his thoughts seemed hazy and random.

The dark and wet muddy ground sunk beneath his foot as he tried to get to his feet.

No warning, just a flash and screaming in his ears. Something big and heavy came in from overhead, and he tried to move, knowing he couldn't avoid the blow entirely. And then a blinding pain and suddenly he was back on the ground and confused about where he was.

The afternoon air was thick with dust and screams, blood and war cries, flashing blades, and piercing arrows. So much blood had already been spilled that in places the desert sand had turned to red mud.

Edric had long since lost his formation and it felt like he was alone with nothing but his sword and shield. The smallest person on the battlefield, He was of average height, though well-muscled. His tanned skin was caked in blood and dirt.

He was the youngest soldier on the battlefield, and today's battle was only serving to strengthen his reputation.

A desperate sellsword lunged at him with his spear, but Edric was faster; he was always faster. The shield in his left hand knocked the spear away and the tip of his sword passed through the sellsword's neck.

Before the spearman's headless body collapsed to the ground, Edric sent another sellsword to whatever god they prayed to by slicing him cleanly in half at the waist. The four swordsmen left out of the half dozen that had first surrounded him, rushed with their shields raised, their weapons flailing. Edric charged at the closest man, ducked under his swinging sword, and crashed into the man's shield with such force that the sellsword's feet left the ground.

It was a moment's work to cut the other three down. He sliced at the knees of the first, cut through the torso of the second, and cleaved off the head of the third.

Edric's hands and arms were covered in his enemies' blood. There was a cut on the upper right arm of his tunic, a clean slice through the fabric. He didn't recall receiving it and didn't care. There was only one spot that could kill him, and his arm wasn't it.

From the east came a low rumbling sound. Edric didn't waste time to see what had caused the sound—it was all too familiar. He snatched up two of the dead sellsword's bodies and ducked down behind them.

Moments later the sky darkened. Like rain, hundreds of arrows fell on the battlefield.

Protected behind the flesh of his enemies', Edric smiled. Only a truly foolish or desperate leader would order his archers to take such action at this stage in the battle.

As the last of the arrows thudded into Edric's meat shields, he dropped the bodies and began to run. For as far as a human eye could see, the bodies of the dead and dying littered the sand. The air was laced with the metallic tang of blood, and filled with screams and cries and panic-filled prayers.

He jumped over bodies, skirted around dead and dying horses, and—without slowing—slaughtered every member of the Golden Company in his path, regardless of whether the man was fit enough to hold a weapon.

Another rumble, another barrage of arrows was loosed.

Edric took shelter behind the corpse of a half-dead elephant, tucking himself against its bronze armor plating. The stench of the animal was almost strong enough to block out the smell of human blood, and the ground shook from its desperate pain-filled roars.

A massive arrow, fired from one of Qyburn's scorpions stuck out of its chest. The Golden Company hadn't been ready for that, Edric thought imagining the look on Harry Strickland's face when the Captain-General saw the line of miniature and mobile ballista pointed at his famed war elephants.

Then the arrows fell, and the elephant shuddered, bellowed one last time, and was still.

Harry Strickland would be already planning the Golden Company's retreat, Edric knew. The coward would flee from Mereen and hide behind the walls of another Free City.

In terms of numbers dead, the Golden Company had already lost. They were remarkable warriors, highly trained and well-equipped, but the Golden Company was unprepared to face Unsullied.

Edric's army was smaller, nowhere near enough to stand against the ten thousand men that marched beneath the Golden Company's solid gold banners. This battle had been decided by the waves of freed slaves who would rather die free than return to a life of bondage. They had evened the odds and overwhelmed the Golden Company from behind.

He didn't know for certain how many of his men had fallen, but Edric strongly suspected that by now more than a few thousand had walked the short agonizing path to the afterlife.

But the gods that ruled the afterlife would have to wait a long time before they greeted Edric again. He would not die this day.

And the Golden Company would not survive to fight another day, not under Harry Strickland's command.

Edric broke his cover and raced to the enemy's encampment as his motley army pushed forward. A frenzied cry rose in the air, and the Golden Company archers began to shoot at will, no longer waiting for orders.

Again, this was a good sign. An arrow bounced off his armor and less than a minute later he was too close to the Golden Company's pikemen for their archers to fire.

Half a dozen sellswords rushed him. Edric tensed his muscles and lifted his shield. He was knocked to the side as a colossus of a man barged past him, bull-rushing the Golden Company.

"Bad fighting, good dying!"

Edric watched as Belwas, a gap-toothed eunuch with a huge chest and a massive belly lashed out with his fists crushing the heads of two pikemen. He wasn't surprised by the show of strength, Belwas was three times his size and had to weigh more than twenty stone.

The Golden Company came at him with swords, and Belwas attacked them with a speed and fury the sellswords could have never imagined from a man his size.

Now desperate and mindless of their own men, the archers unleashed another thick cloud of arrows and Edric moved in front of Belwas. He held his shield up and covered the giant pit fighter as best he could.

"That's all they get!"

Edric glanced behind him. An arrow was stuck in Belwas's massive belly. Then it fell out and revealed a small wound. 'Must've been a ricochet,' he thought as Belwas slapped his belly and charged forward again.

The sellswords of the Golden Company—with their "word as good as gold"—launched themselves at the pit fighter with swords and spears. Edric knew that they were almost broken. They were tired, terrified, and weak.

Just a little more...

Then a loud voice bellowed, "Enough!"

Edric stopped, his body drenched in sweat and spattered with blood. He heard the voice boom out once more as the sound of drums filled the air.

"We yield! Enough!"

Edric turned in a slow circle. There was so much destruction and death around him that the fields outside Mereen looked like a dense field of scarlet flowers. Around the battlefield, the Golden Company's bannermen lowered their golden banners and raised white flags.

The remaining sellswords encircled Edric, their weapons at the ready. They were out of reach of his sword, four or five men deep.

He knew they would not attack. If they did, they would die. He knew it, and more importantly, they knew it.

"Your commander has ordered a surrender."

Edric felt his shoulders sag as Ser Barristan Selmy appeared at his side. They had been separated during the fighting and the old knight looked just as tired as he did.

"Lower your weapons," Ser Barristan ordered.

Then a parting appeared in the crowd, and a portly man, with a big round head, grey eyes, and thinning grey hair brushed sideways to cover up a bald spot strode through.

"I am Harry Strickland, captain-general of the Golden Company—"

"Kneel," Edric said, pointing the tip of his sword at the dirt between the captain-general's feet. "And tell your men to drop their weapons, or we'll kill the rest."

With only a moment of hesitation, the leader of the Golden Company dropped to his knees and lowered his head. Then he looked around at the men still alive.

"Drop your weapons."

The sound of spears and swords hitting the ground was almost deafening. Edric pointed to one man at random, an archer.

"You. Water. Now."

The archer stumbled backward into his colleagues, then pushed through them and ran.

"Raise your right hand, sellsword," Edric told Strickland. "Spread your fingers."

Trembling, the leader of the Golden Company did as he was told. Edric's sword flashed, and Strickland's left thumb fell to the ground. The man screamed and doubled over, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. A red stain appeared on his tunic—

Edric's eyes snapped open. He grimaced wryly as he sat up, inhaling deeply. That's the third night this week, he swallowed heavily and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He was pretty sure he had PTSD, not that such a thing existed in Westeros.

"Bad dream?"

"Shit!" Edric flinched and reached for the dagger beneath his pillow. His eyes darted around the room searching for whoever spoke. He sighed when he saw the eight-year-old girl with mousy brown hair wearing a simple brown dress and a scarf over her head standing a few feet away from his bed. The girl had the look of a pioneer child, but it was her eyes that gave her away. Fire-red and filled with flames.

"Mother," he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable using the name of Hestia's Westerosi aspect.

"Hello, Edric," Hestia smiled.

"What's happened?" Edric asked. He had one hell of a blistering hangover and he rapidly blinked his red-rimmed eyes to ease the blur. "It's been eight years since we last saw each other."

Hestia walked over to the small hearth in the corner of the room. "Do you still remember that day, Edric?" she asked. "What we last spoke of?"

Edric rose up on his elbows and looked at the goddess of the hearth. "How could I forget?"

THEN.

Edric lay shivering in bed, clutching a kitchen knife to his chest. He was fighting crashing waves of despair. His skin was pallid, and dread clouded his chubby face.

He breathed a deep sigh, then silently looked around. The room, overcome by darkness, was completely silent. The rest of the room was close to pitch black. If his eyes weren't adjusted to the darkness, he probably couldn't even make out his own fingers. While moonlight peeked through the cracks in his curtains to illuminate his bed, th

At four years old, or four name-days as they called it in this new world, Percy, or Edric as he was now called, his twenty-square-meter room was far larger than what a toddler needed. It contained a full set of furniture—a closet, a desk, a table, and so on—but somehow looked deserted. The chamber was simply too spacious for him.

I'm scared, Edric whispered in his mind, and his body shrank into itself as if to vanish.

He wasn't scared of the dark, and he was used to sleeping alone, too. One word to the maid waiting in the adjacent room and she would stay by his side the entire night. But that wouldn't nearly quell the fear that nested in his heart.

Edric gripped the handle of his blade, a paring knife pilfered from the kitchen when the maids weren't watching. It was the best he could manage in the way of self-defense.

Riptide was gone, and even if he still had his sword, his body was too small and weak to lift it.

Being a child again was the worse!

Edric was not Percy Jackson. He was not the warrior who saved Olympus or the hero who could defeat Titans. He was small and weak and vulnerable. Anyone could walk right into his room and murder him if they wished. He didn't even have the Curse of Achilles anymore because his new young body had never bathed in the River Styx.

No, Percy Jackson was dead and gone. He was Edric Baratheon now, third-in-line to the Iron Throne of Westeros.

Edric jumped as the door to his room opened. "I didn't call for anyone," he said, hiding his knife underneath his pillow.

"Hello, Edric," a familiar voice said from the darkness.

Edric sat up on his bed. Floating in the darkness were two small flames. "Hesti—"

"Shhh," a finger pressed against his lips. "Names have power, Edric. You know this."

"Of course," Edric nodded. It was one of the first things he'd been taught when he arrived at Camp Half-Blood.

He felt the mattress shift as Hestia sat down on the edge of the bed. "How have you been?" the goddess asked.

Edric wanted to laugh. How had he been? "I'm stuck in the body of a child," he said, lifting his tiny arms. "The last four years have been hell. All I could do for months was cry or soil myself!"

"A small price to pay for your life, don't you think?"

Edric wasn't so sure. Yes, he was alive, but he was also living in a world far more brutal than the one Percy Jackson. "Why did you send me here?" he asked Hestia.

"My brother would have killed you—"

"There was nowhere else I could hide from him?" Edric asked. He motioned vaguely to the bookshelves he knew lined the walls of his room. "Take a look at any of those books. It won't be hard to find a story about one of the many, many tragedies of this world. And I have no way to defend myself! I can't even control water anymore!"

He couldn't see her, but somehow he knew Hestia was smiling at him. "We chose this world for a reason, Edric. There is an enemy of the gods stirring and this world needs your help."

"So sending me here wasn't just about protecting me?" Edric asked. "The gods need my help again? This is another quest?"

"Not us, Edric. It's the mortals that are suffering," Hestia corrected. "Many of my sibling's counterparts have not been present in this world for many years."

Mortals, of course, Edric sighed. It was just like in his world. The gods did what they wanted and their mortal children suffered the consequences. "Who is this enemy?" he asked.

The bed shifted again as Hestia suddenly stood. "I'm sorry, Edric," she said. "My brother is looking for me. I have to return to Olympus. I don't know when I will be able to return."

"Wait, what am I supposed to do?" Edric sat up. She couldn't just say something like that and then leave without explaining.

"Set sail for Valyria's doom," Hestia told him. "You'll find what you need there. And be wary of Winter, Edric!"

Edric flopped back on his bed as the two floating fires vanished. Hestia was gone and he knew that he wouldn't be able.

That night he had a vivid dream.

It was snowing in a forest, and two beautiful animals, a grey wolf, and a golden lion, were fighting over a dead stag. The lion reared up and slashed the wolf's snout with its huge claws. The wolf barked and bit the lion's legs. As they fought, the forest was covered in darkness, and a monstrous roar came from somewhere high above the earth, making the animals fight harder.

Edric ran toward them, knowing he had to stop them from killing each other, but he was running in slow motion. He knew he would be too late. He saw the lion lung forward, its fangs aimed at the wolf's open neck, and he screamed, No!

NOW.

"Are you here to tell me who this enemy is?" Edric asked. It was a question that had not only been plaguing him for years but had also been the driving force behind a lot of his decisions. From leaving Westeros to deciding to staying in Essos and form a Sellsword company to keep his fighting skills sharp before the "enemy" arrived.

Hestia ran her fingers along the sword leaning against his bed. "Brightroar?" she asked, before nodding and smiling. "Did you find something else in the Doom?"

Edric nodded. The Doom had been hell on earth, but he had found what Hestia wanted him to find. "This world's River—," he cut himself off when Hestia glanced at him. Right, names had power. He couldn't say anything that any god might hear that would make them think he wasn't from this world.

"The sword is important as well, Edric," Hestia said, looking away from the sword and walking closer to the bed. "You must take it with you when you go north, Edric."

"North?" he asked, adjusting the blanket covering his nakedness. With mortal women, he had never been this uncomfortable. "The enemy?

"Yes, they have struck and winter is almost here," Hestia said, then she frowned. "I must go."

"Wait—" Edric reached out to stop her, feeling a sense of deja vu.

Hestia vanished in a blink. There was no blur of speed or wind displacement, she was just simply gone, as if she had never been there in the first place.

"Prince Edric!"

Edric's head throbbed as Ser Barristan knocked loudly on his room's thick wooden door. "Be with you, Ser Barristan!" he called out before the pounding on the door could persist.

"My prince, Lady Kinvara is here and begs urgent audience."

"You told her I had left orders not to be disturbed?"

"Yes, my prince. She insists."

"Very well," Edric sighed. "Send her in."

The door opened and Lady Kinvara was let in, holding a silver tray with duck eggs, bacon, and wine. She was a beautiful woman; slender, graceful, and taller than most women with full breasts, a narrow waist, and a heart-shaped face. Her long hair was the color of deep burnished copper, unsettling red eyes, and pale, unblemished skin.

Lady Kinvara waited until the door had closed behind her before she spoke. "My prince," she said, bowing her head to Edric. "pardon for disturbing your rest. You received a message from King's Landing."

"What happened?" Edric asked as he threw the covers off his naked body and climbed from the bed. His bare legs nudged another pair of bare legs. The woman beside him was young, tall, and slender, her nut-brown tan skin glistened even in the morning shadows of his bedroom. She groaned and turned over on her belly with her bare butt in the air.

Kinvara took his hand, unbothered by his nudity. "There was grievous news, my prince. Jon Arryn is dead."

Edric's eyes found her, and he could see that she could see how hard it took him. In his youth, Edric had been practically raised by Lord Arryn. While his mother doted on his siblings and his father whored and drank his way through kingship, Lord Arryn acted as a father figure.

"Jon..." he whispered. "Is this news certain?"

"It was the king's seal, and the letter is in the king's own hand. I saved it for you. He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain."

"That is some small mercy, I suppose," Edric said as he walked to the bathroom, which was merely a stool and a large bowl of water in front of a mirror.

"The king rides for Winterfell, my prince. He would like for you to join him there instead of sailing for King's Landing."

Splashing water on his face, Edric grimaced at his reflected image in the mirror and he licked his pale lips, feeling the lines where they had cracked again and again under a ruthless foreign sun. Three years of that same sun had tanned his skin to the point that when he smiled his teeth were white against his deeply tanned face. With his long black hair—usually combed back and tied in a ponytail—he looked more like a savage than the handsome prince he had once been. And perhaps he was a savage, there was little room for modern morals in Westeros.

"Did you inform Ser Barristan?" he asked, walking back over to the bed, he threw the covers over Kayla's naked body before following Lady Kinvara who was setting the tray of food down under a persimmon tree that grew in the terrace garden.

"There was a message for him as well, my prince," Lady Kinvara said, then she asked. "Would you like to break your fast on the terrace?"

"Please."

Edric wasn't exactly starving, but he knew this was probably going to be one of his last decent meals before he set sail. And as he learned on his voyage across the Narrow Sea to Essos, even Lannister gold only went so far when it came to food on a ship.

As a cool blue dawn broke over the city, Edric walked out to the terrace and looked out at the city. To the west sunlight blazed off the golden Temple of Graces, and etched deep shadows behind the stepped pyramids of the mighty.

The Great Pyramid shouldered eight hundred feet into the sky, from its huge square base to the lofty apex where Eric kept his private chambers surrounded by greenery and fragrant pools. Meereen had a score of lesser pyramids, but none stood half as tall.

From where he stood he could see the whole city: the narrow twisty alleys and wide brick streets, the temples and granaries, hovels and palaces, brothels and baths, gardens and fountains, the great red circles of the fighting pits.

Up here in his garden he sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world.

But I'm not a god.

Which was fine with him, there were enough gods in the world already.

Lady Kinvara had told him of the Lord of Harmony, worshipped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, she said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that lived upon them.

Westeros had its seven gods.

The red priests believed in their two gods.

The Dothraki their horse god.

The drowned god of the Iron Born and so and so forth.

I need to focus on the enemies of gods, Edric reminded himself. Whoever this enemy was, they were obviously coming from the North. Where his father was now traveling to ask Lord Stark to be the next Hand of the King.

Was it coincidence or fate?

Either way, he couldn't stay in Essos any longer.

"Kinvara, have Ser Barristan find us passage on a ship. I want to be sailing for Westeros as soon as possible."

Huge time skip I know! One day I might add more chapters with a whole backstory but for now, I'm just gonna use flashbacks.

PS: I'm using the aged-up Tommen from the show. Television shows aren't allowed to show sex scenes with characters younger than 16. This means that's how old he was when he married Margaery he would have been 13 in Winterfell.

Next Chapter: WINTERFELL

THANKS FOR READING!