AN: So, here we are again with a fresh update, the first in a while, and the first of the new year! Hope you all enjoy the chapter. It took me a while to write this, in part because I had to go back and reread what I had already done. Still I got it done, even if I did allow myself to be distracted a few times. I think I published three new teaser stories, which I may or may not continue, whilst I was working on this. Classic procrastination!

Still, it's here now and I hope it doesn't disappoint. Thanks a lot those of you who have stuck with the story, and thanks for those who continue to support me and message me, it does help to get my arse moving when I'm prompted every now and then.

Other than that, I hope you enjoy the chapter and leave a review. Also please feel free to check out my other stories, they are of varying quality and length, but who knows you might find one you like, or not. You won't know unless you try.

Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson or Game of Thrones.

Edited: 10/05/2023

( - )

(Last Time)

"They'll believe what we tell them," Ivar shrugged, before, without another word he thrust his sword forward and through Viserys's throat, killing him in an instant.

"Lord Ivar, the remaining traitors are dead." One of his men said, marching over to Ivar with a bloodied blade.

"Good, now it's time to arrange the corpses and send a missive in Oberyn's name to his brother requesting reinforcement to stop a terrible coup against the Crown," Ivar said softly, pulling his sword out of Viserys's throat with a wet, squelching sound.

Overhead, the golden-eyed hawk let loose a single cry, before without another sound it took to the skies and flew out of one of the windows and off in the direction of the Vale.

( - )

Chapter 24

( - )

(Within the army's camp)

"To the king, to Tytan the Blessed!" Matthias, the newly named knight, and long-time swornsword of Tytan Baratheon, roared. His voice was slightly slurred, and the cup of wine in his hand sloshed ruby-red liquid all over the floor and his arm as he thrust it into the air in a toast. "To the Mountain King!"

"To the Mountain King!" His drinking companions roared back jovially, dozens of them wearing the now familiar golden tabards of the king's personal legion, the Goldcloaks. With dozens more wearing the liveries of other lords, those loyal to the king, the ones that had promptly answered his call to arms.

"The Earth Shaker!" Luke, another one of Tytan's men shouted.

"The Oncoming Storm!" Martin tagged on, joining his brothers in arms, even as all around him men drank and celebrated their recent victory over the Vale. Women screaming and shouting in delight, and men laughing and calling out more and more toasts as the wine and ale flowed freely.

The entire camp was celebrating.

After a long day of toil, digging out and imprisoning the few survivors of the king's wrath, they were all in the mood to celebrate.

They had approached the day thinking that they would be engaged in a bloody and brutal siege, as they attempted to penetrate the supposedly impenetrable fortress, the Eyrie.

Instead, however, King Tytan Baratheon, the first of his name and king of the Seven Kingdoms, had shown the world his power and destroyed not only the citadel but the mountain upon which it had sat. Hence one of his new monikers, the Mountain King.

Roaring with laughter, and patting the meaty thigh of the half-naked woman that was currently sprawled across his lap, Matthias grinned. The woman was a camp follower, and a whore who like many of her fellows was plying her trade as the men celebrated their victory. Suffice it to say, tonight was going to be a good night!

( - )

(With Tytan)

Sipping from a goblet of wine, Tytan, unlike his men held court over a lot more civilised celebration.

It was not what he truly wanted to do, as he would rather be out there in the main camp with his men, drinking and celebrating, but unfortunately, it was not to be. He had duties to fulfil as the king.

Glancing sideways at Jamie, as the powerful lords around him toasted and made polite conversation, some of the minor lords in the tent joined in the free-flowing conversations. With them no doubt hoping to use the opportunity the celebration offered them to network with more powerful lords, lords that they would never normally be able to interact with in such an informal setting. Tytan could at least content himself in the fact that his Uncle Jamie looked as miserable as him.

Though whether that was because Jamie had to deal with his father's supercilious presence, or because Cersei wasn't here to keep him company, Tytan didn't know.

Taking another sip of his wine at that thought, and continuing to make half-hearted small talk with his future father-in-law, Mace Tyrell, Tytan sent Jamie a speculative look at that thought.

Was their sordid relationship still continuing?

Honestly, he didn't know. He had been so busy consolidating his kingdom that he had not had the chance to speak to, or even see, his mother in a long time. Nor had he been around the two of them whilst they were interacting. He had been remiss in his obligations to his family.

That said, should he even care if their relationship had survived his father's death? It didn't hurt him or affect him in any way if it did. Nor did it really bother him, being a Greek Demigod and then living in Tartarus, had somewhat desensitised him to many things that others would deem as deeply inappropriate, such as incest.

He had no interest in it himself, nor did he understand the fascination. He certainly held no attraction for his sister, and would not bed her even if she pleaded with him too, not that she would. After all, unlike their parents, Tommen and Myrcella at least had grown up to be comparatively normal and well-rounded human beings. It was a shame Joffrey had not turned out the same.

No, the very thought of being with his own sister in such a way sickened him. That said he would not judge his Uncle and Mother, the heart wants what the heart wants after all, and love is an ever-dangerous and fickle thing. So long as it remained hushed up, and didn't impact on him and his dealings, he didn't care.

Catching Jamie's eye, his Uncle glanced over at him, a wry smile spread across his face as he saw the blonde man roll his eyes.

He understood the action completely. Mace Tyrell was a tiresome, bumbling bore. How a man such as him was born to a woman as acerbic and sharp-tongued as Olenna Tyrell, he would never know. Nor could he work out how a woman as charming and precocious as Margaery was begotten from him.

Loras he could at least understand. The curly-haired fop was a naive, arrogant, narcissist through and through. A well-suited partner to Tytan's equally conceited, useless and hapless Uncle, Renly.

Still, both Mace, his son, Loras, and Renly were all essentially harmless. So long as you keep an eye on them, and keep them in line when they stray, they were not too much of an annoyance.

His other Uncle though, Tytan mused as he saw Mace drift away and approach a distinctly unamused-looking Tywin, was more of a problem.

Stannis Baratheon was probably the most capable of the three Baratheon brothers, and the bastard had turned traitor and gone and sailed off with all haste to Essos to join the upstart Targaryen girl, Daenerys, the vaunted 'Mother of Dragons'.

Now that had been a shock to the system, his Uncle whilst not pleasant, had been staunch in his duty to the Crown and to his family. It was one of his main redeeming qualities.

But still, a beautiful woman, and infatuation, could do funny things to a man's head. This Red Priestess he had heard reports of, was likely the one that had turned his head by whispering honeyed lies and promises into his Uncle's ear. Twisting and manipulating the man into turning his back on his king and kingdom.

Shaking his head at that, Tytan took another sip of his wine. That was something he could deal with later. He had his Small Council up and running now, and had secured the Vale.

In fact, all that was left was for Ivar to report back on whether his venture with Viserys had been successful, and that he had indeed gathered up any potential traitors as planned, and disposed of them. After which his kingdom would be secure.

Only then, when his position was fully consolidated and solidified, would he be able to focus on other things that required his attention.

The first and foremost thing was his upcoming nuptials with Lady Margaery Tyrell, a political marriage to a girl he barely knew. This was certainly something he would need to attend to before the marriage took place, if he were to marry someone, then he wanted to make sure he knew the girl at least.

After that, or during his courting of Lady Margaery, he would then need to see to the arrangements, or more likely foist the arrangements off onto someone else, for arranged marriage he wanted setting up between Robb Stark and Myrcella. Again for political reasons, and to tie House Stark and thus the North, closer to his family.

Following on from that he needed to continue building up his navy, both to protect the Narrow Sea and his kingdom's trade route, both of which were currently being predated by pirates originating from the Stepping Stones.

On top of which, building up his navy would be useful, as it would also aid in his hopes of preparing an invading armada, one that he would need to put together in order to attack, and then conquer, the Stepping Stones and put an end to the current onslaught of piracy and privateering that currently plagued the Narrow Sea and the Seven Kingdom's coastline.

Still, he thought as he took another sip of wine, settling back into his chair as smartly dressed lords and their retainers continued to circulate around the tent, drinking, laughing and talking, he had time now.

No longer did he have the threat of rebellion to deal with, nor did he think he would have to worry about it anytime soon either, not after the display of strength he had unleashed earlier today.

The Mountain King. The Earth Shaker. Those were the names the common soldiers had started to call him, and already they were gradually circulating through the area, and to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Soon enough the entire world would hear about the fall of House Arryn and the destruction of the Eyrie.

Smiling at that thought, a blonde figure across the tent suddenly caught Tytan's eye.

"Joffrey," Tytan called, his voice easily audible over the rest of the hubbub in the tent, the other lords quieting down respectfully as he did so, even as Joffrey froze, his green eyes wide as he looked across the room and locked eyes with his now unarmoured, dark-haired brother. "Come over here, it has been too long since last we spoke."

Under the eyes of the lords in the tent, there was nothing the nervous-looking Joffrey could do, other than accede to his brother's request.

The thin blonde, who looked practically frail when compared to his larger, boarder-shouldered, older, dark-haired brother, hurriedly crossed the tent as he shuffled over to where Tytan was still sitting.

Now, Tytan normally would have stood up and walked over to his brother, after all, he disliked the idea of sitting around drinking and lording it over and commanding others. He had always been a man of action.

On top of which, it was that kind of thing that had ruined his father, Robert Baratheon. Turning him from a proud and victorious warrior king to a fat, drunken, whore mongering tub of lard.

Not that Tytan could say much about the whore mongering without being a massive hypocrite, after all back before he had become king, and whilst he was still trying to find solace and comfort in the pleasures of the flesh after his time in Tartarus, he had frequented many a brothel.

Still though on this occasion, he had no choice. The use of his powers to such an excessive degree had worn him out. He had not exerted himself like that for a very long time, and certainly never before in this world. Both because he had never had a reason to, and because until recently the magic of this world had been too meagre, and his own powers had been too weak, to pull off such a feat.

Fortunately, though the magic of this world had been reignited, and was growing stronger all the time, strengthening supernatural beings like Leaf, and himself as it did so.

That said, despite his growing strength he had still pushed himself too far. His aching arms, legs and stomach could attest to that, after all at present he doubted he had the strength to even stand up right now, let alone walk.

One did not simply destroy a mountain without consequences.

"You called for me…, your Majesty…?" Joffrey asked falteringly, his voice laced with a slight hint of fear as he gave Tytan a low, courtly bow the moment he came to a stop in front of him.

The other lords in the tent watched this interaction for a moment, before going back to the conversations they had been having previously. All save Tywin who kept this gaze on his two grandsons, barely paying lip service to grouchy looking, Lord Royce, one of the main Vale Lords that were contending to be the next Warden of the East and Lord of the Vale.

"Yes," Tytan replied, his smile softening as he looked up at his younger brother. "It has been too long since I've seen or spoken to either of my brothers, not since I sent you off to become Tywin's heir, and Tommen off to become Renly's. How have things been going?"

"W-well, Tytan," Joffrey replied, with a bob of his head, his narrow, pale face even more pallid than usual.

Tytan had to hold back a sigh at this. It appeared his brother was now terrified of him.

"Good, and have you been learning a lot from Tywin, about what it means to both be a lord and to be a man?" Honestly, he hoped his grandfather had straightened his twisted little brother out some. If he hadn't then Tytan would be worried about Joffrey ever gaining any real power.

"Yes!" Joffrey almost shouted. But after seeing a few sharp gazes thrown his way he quieted down some. "I mean yes, grandfather has been quite particular in how his heir and the future Lord of Casterly Rock should act."

"Good," Tytan nodded again, noting as he did how Jamie was listening quite intently into the conversation. "I had hoped he would imbue some of his… wisdom and self-control into you. The last thing I wanted to hear was that you had slaughtered another cat, or even worse caused pain or hurt to one of your future subjects."

It was blunt and to the point, but then it had to be. Joffrey needed to know that he couldn't continue to act like a maniacal little shit, not if he wanted to step into a position of power and become the Warden of the West.

As king, Tytan couldn't, and wouldn't tolerate Joffrey abusing or terrorising those that he ruled over, and he needed his brother to know that.

Tytan had had Gregor Clegane gelded and sent to the Wall for doing just such a thing, a harsh and brutal punishment. But one that would pale in comparison to what he would have to do to Joffrey, after all, examples had to be made, and Tytan would need to make it clear and plain that not even be related to him would protect you from the King's Justice.

Joffrey nodded at that, his pallid face taking on a slightly greenish hue as he did so.

It appeared his brother had gotten the gist of what he was trying to get across.

Smiling at this, Tytan gestured for a nearby servant to refill his wine goblet and bring his brother one. Now that the unpleasantness was over, they could at least make small talk and at least try to repair the rift between them, as brothers should. It would be the only chance they would have for a while, as soon the army would break up and he would return to King's Landing, and Joffrey would likely be taken back to Casterly Rock.

( - )

(At the Wall)

Pulling his thick, fur cloak tighter around his body, to protect him from the freezing cold wind, Ned Stark watched on stoically as a line of black-cloaked brothers of the Night's Watch, filed tiredly into the courtyard of Castle Black.

All of them had thick beards and shaggy hair. Snow and frost noticeably clung to both their hair and their cloaks.

From a distance, all the approaching men looked monstrously fat, but as they shambled out of the icy tunnel and into the busy, bustling courtyard, Ned quickly realised that their bulkiness had nothing to do with their weight, and instead was due to the number of layers they were wearing underneath their black, reinforced leather breastplates.

The sheer amount of layers, Ned imagined, was just as much for warmth as it was for protection. Steel was a scarce and expensive resource in the far north, and also, in the frigid, freezing far north metal could be as much a burden to upkeep as it was a boon to wear in combat.

Already he had noticed that he needed to oil his sword several times a day just to stop it from sticking in its sheath, and he had taken to leaving his castle-forged armour back in his bunk when wandering about and had instead adopted the reinforced leather armour that most of the garrison wore.

His plate armour and chainmail were heavy at the best of times, let alone in the stamina-draining cold of the far north. As well as that, the cold, seemed to cling to it like nothing else. On top of which, the air up in the north was as wet as it was cold, meaning that rust was a real issue.

In the far north, the cold and the uncompromising weather was as big an enemy as the Wildings and whatever else lurked out there beyond the Wall.

Frowning at that thought, Ned's mind drifted back to what Jeor Mormont had told him when he had first arrived, about how the White Walkers were not only real, but were active and walking south, creating a legion of undead beings and forcing the wildlings that lived beyond the Wall south as they continuously advanced towards the Wall, and realms of the living that lay behind it.

A part of him wanted to proclaim Jeor's words as madness, the Wight Walkers were a legend after all, a folktale told by old women to keep their offspring, and their offspring's offspring in line.

But he knew the Lord Commander too well to stay that, that and he had seen the king playing with his magic. The man wielded the elements like a child would a toy.

To not believe in the mythical and unnatural at this point, would be the height of foolishness.

Shaking his head at that, he looked away from the returning patrol for a moment and instead over at the rest of the courtyard. Already he could see that preparation was underway for the Night Watch's last and largest foray beyond the Wall for the foreseeable future.

Jeor had told him that he wanted to leave in two days and that he would be leading it himself as he went to try and capture a Wight and bring it back to Castle Black; as living, or rather un-living, proof that he could present to the king and his Court.

Ned shook his head at that. Jeor's plan was a bold move, very bold, and honestly, he did not envy the 'old bear', or the thousand or so men he would be taking with him beyond the Wall.

Already Ned had looked out at that cold, inhospitable land from the very top of the Wall, and he had heard tales of what it was like out there.

As low and dishonourable as it sounded, Ned was honestly glad that Jeor had commanded him to stay at Castle Black and assume leadership whilst he, the Lord Commander, was beyond the Wall. It was a great honour and a great responsibility, but one he was more than happy to accept, especially as he had no experience of the wild, untamed lands out there.

Ned was proud to call himself a northerner and knew himself to be a harder, tougher man than many of those down south, it came with living in a harsh environment like the North. But there was the North, and then there was the True North. The land beyond the Wall, where giants and mammoths supposedly roamed, and the mythical White Walkers made their lair.

He was a proud man, but he was not a fool. An unprepared man would meet his death out there in the frozen wastes, and an inexperienced one would slow down an entire patrol and potentially either get them killed or be left behind to die so that the many could save themselves.

Pushing those grim thoughts out of his head for now. Ned instead looked back to the hundred or so brothers of the Night's Watch that were now gathered in the courtyard. The large gates behind them closed with a deep, shuddering 'boom', even as the gathered men began to pull off the fur hoods and hats they had been wearing to cover their shaggy heads and the cloth they had wrapped around their faces to protect themselves from the cold, biting wind.

Wading forward through the crowd of men, the smell of stale sweat and piss strong, Ned could see other brothers, those who had not gone with the patrol, welcoming their friends and comrades back jovially.

Smiling slightly at this display of brotherhood and comradery, Ned scanned the crowd too. His grey eyes noted the behemoth of a man in their midst, who like the others was pulling off some of his frost-covered layers.

That was a man that he recognised.

Gregor Clegane. The man was as large and imposing as Ned remembered him being the last time he had seen him, some seventeen or eighteen years previously. If not somehow more so, with the former knight having grown a long mane of shaggy, unkempt black hair, and a thick dark beard that went down to his mid-chest in that time. All of which, when added to his black leather armour, fur cloak and the many layers he likely had on underneath his armour, made him look truly colossal.

Narrowing his eyes at this, Clegane, somehow sensing his gaze, looked up. Pitiless black eyes locked with stoic grey for a moment, before the larger man gave him a nasty smile, revealing his yellow-tinged, gnarled teeth, even as the man began to shove his way through the crowd of men and approach him.

"Stark!" Clegane barked, the men around him moving swiftly out of the hulking man's way as he walked. "Never thought I'd see someone like you up here, in the arsehole of Westeros!"

"Clegane," Ned nodded curtly. Pushing back his distaste over the monstrous former knight as he took a step forward to meet him. Propriety demanded that he at least be civil, or at least until given a reason to act otherwise.

This man had already been judged. He had been caught looting, raping, and just generally terrorising the peasantry, several years ago by the then Crown Prince, Tytan. After which he had been sentenced by the Prince, who had stood in for his father, and subsequently taken the black, though only after the Prince, in an act of either spite or ruthlessness, had had him castrated for his crimes.

"So what did you do then?!" Clegane asked bluntly, his brutish features twisting into a nasty smirk as he brushed snow and frost off of his cloak, and then spat on the floor, not far from Ned's feet.

Ned scowled at this, his teeth gritting as he found himself having to look up at the significantly taller, and bulkier, man. "I chose to take the black, to maintain the honour of my House, and pay for the mistakes I committed." He wouldn't give the other man the satisfaction of hearing him admit to treason.

"I see," Clegane chuckled nastily. "The high and mighty, honourable Lord Eddard Stark, taking the black like a common criminal. How the mighty have fallen..."

"That's enough, Clegane." Another voice interrupted, cutting Ned off before he could snap at the dangerous man in front of him, his white-knuckled fist gripping the hilt of the sword at his side tightly as he fought the urge to draw steel on the now 'peak-less Mountain'.

Looking at the speaker, a smile instead broke out across Ned's face as he saw that it was his brother Benjen approaching. The taller man looked haggard and tired, his face was slightly gaunt and his hair and beard were as scraggly and unkempt as the rest of the men who had been on patrol.

Despite that though his sharp grey eyes remained the same, as too did his smile as he brushed passed the scowling Clegane with barely a glance and instead approached Ned.

"Ned, I'm both glad to see you, and heartbroken," Benjen muttered, as he threw his arms around his brother and gave him a brief, but tight hug. "I heard about what happened."

Ned could smell the stench of stale sweat and dried blood on his brother, but he honestly didn't care. No, at present he was just glad to be seeing a familiar face.

"Urgh!" Clegane groaned in disgust, his face twisting into a look of distaste as he roughly shoved his way passed the brothers, his fun spoilt. "Spare me this horseshit."

Releasing Ned, Benjen sent him a quick smile. "Ignore Clegane, the man is a turd and a rotten one at that. Watch out for him though, he's a hateful beast, but a dangerous one. Still, he's a good fighter too and is definitely useful to have on a patrol. The bastard seems to get off on killing, and seems to vent all his anger and frustration on any Wildling unlucky enough to come within reach of his sword."

"Sounds like he's trouble," Ned muttered, sending a scowl at the large man's back as he shoved his way through a few more brothers and then entered the castle's marginally warmer great hall.

"He's alright. He's just bitter, and angry. But then again that describes most of the men up here at the Wall. The man has at least enough sense to know not to attack or kill any of the brothers up here, not unless he wants his throat slit in his sleep." Benjen replied, his lips curling into a bitter smile of his own as he saw the look on Ned's face in response to his words. "Ned, most of the men up here are criminals. Villains that committed a crime, and got sent here by the Crown Prince's, or well I suppose the king's draconian laws."

"Is it really that bad?" Ned asked a frown on his face. He knew that he had sent a couple of hundred men up to the Wall in his time as Warden of the North, but still, he had at least thought that some, like Benjen, Jeor and Jon, would have been brought here by a sense of honour and duty.

"There are currently about seven thousand or so men all told up here, Ned. Spread across six of the castles. Our numbers are larger than they have been in centuries. But of those men, about six thousand five hundred odd are criminals, or are desperate men who chose this life as they couldn't survive any other way." Benjen continued on grimly, looking around at his smiling and laughing brothers. Their mood was good now, and their spirits high as those that had returned had not taken any losses and had instead returned with some fresh meat and new tales to tell.

Soon enough though, the cold and the monotony of the Wall would bring them back down again.

"Should I be worried?" Ned frowned his gaze on the men now too.

"No. I find that as long as you act decently to them, and don't throw your weight or lineage around, you'll rub along fine. If you do start lording it over them, or act like a prick. Well, accidents do happen up here." Benjen muttered, pitching his voice low here as he saw Jeor striding over to them, no doubt hoping to get a report from the Head Ranger, which happened to be him, Benjen.

"You speak as if from experience," Ned replied, following Benjen's gaze, before he smiled and sent the burly, old, Mormont man a nod.

"Well, let's just say a few odd accidents have happened over the years. The most recent was when Alestor Thorne, a nobleman, and a turd of a nobleman at that, 'accidentally' slipped and fell off of the Wall and down to the tundra below." Benjen pressed on, his scowl dark as he remembered the fallout or rather lack of fallout that had followed Thorne's fate. Sure the man had never been popular, but still, he would have thought at least someone besides Jeor and his commanders would have cared. "To make matters worse, they never found the body…"

"You think he became a Wight?" Ned asked sharply.

Benjen stiffened at that immediately. His expression was suddenly tight and very serious. "You already know then…?"

"Jeor told me when I arrived," Ned replied softly, even as the man himself came to a stop in front of them.

"Benjen!" Jeor said gruffly, clapping the other Stark on the back. "I'm glad you made it back. Sorry about this Ned, but I'm going to need to take him for the moment. You can catch up later, but for now, I need a report on what's going on beyond the Wall!"

"Of course." Ned nodded, stepping back and giving his brother a nod, even as Jeor ushered him away, the two of them already talking in hushed tones as they headed for the castle and the Lord Commander's office.

Watching them go for a moment, the sound of approaching footsteps soon caught Ned's attention as he turned around and caught sight of another familiar figure approaching him.

The man approaching him was taller than he remembered and looked older and rougher too. With him now sporting a thick, scruffy beard and a mane of curly black hair, the dark colours clashing with his almost ghostly pale skin and solemn, grey eyes. A pure white Direwolf with red eyes could be seen loping along at his side.

"Jon," Ned muttered, his eyes locked on the nervous-looking man in front of him.

"Lord Stark," Jon Snow replied with a nod, his gaze trailing over his father's face for a moment.

Taking a step forward Ned grabbed the slightly smaller man and brought him forward into a crushing hug. It was an affectionate gesture, far more affectionate than he had probably ever been with the boy before, but honestly, he didn't care. Just like with his other children, he loved him, and he was just glad to see him.

Blinking back his shock and surprise, Jon slowly brought his own arms around his father. His tired, gaunt face settled into a puzzled, but happy expression as he basked in the warm glow of being hugged by his father, the man who had raised. The same man that had promised him that he would tell him all about his mother, the next time he saw him.

( - )

(In Winterfell)

Currently, he was sitting in his large, almost throne-like chair at the high table in Winterfell's great hall, his eldest brother, Bran, the eldest sister, Sansa, and his mother sitting around him, eating and making polite conversation with the other men and women at the table. His friend, Theon Greyjoy sat at his right hand, beside the ruddy-faced Rodrik Cassel, whilst on his left sat Maester Luwin and his mother.

Taking all this in, Robb Stark found his gaze continually travelling down from the high table where his family and high-ranking retainers were sitting, and instead down to the lower tables.

His blue eyes trailed over the minor lords and ladies he could see feasting on those tables, alongside other lower-ranking retainers of House Stark and their children. All of whom had arrived to take part in the first proper feast he had thrown since becoming Lord Stark, and first taking his oaths of fealty from the other Lords of the North.

Watching the happy, or at least content lords and ladies for a moment, those that were important enough to be invited to the feast, but not important enough to sit at the high table. His gaze soon trailed to the end of the room and landed on an animatedly talking figure that was sitting there, beside Sansa's friend, Jeyne Poole, and his own sister, Arya.

It was Roz, the former whore, and the current handmaid to Lady Catelyn Stark. The former whore also happened to be the mother of the king's bastard child.

Robb took a gulp of beer from his flagon at that thought, his blue eyes resting on the redhead as she continued to laugh and talk with Jeyne, her baby noticeably absent.

He already knew that the babe was sleeping in the upper rooms of the keep under the watchful care of Old Nan.

Taking another sip of beer at that thought, his eyes remained locked on the oblivious former whore.

Upon learning of her existence, Robb had not known what to do. He didn't want to send her away, as that would be a death sentence for a young woman with a baby. That said, he was also worried about what would happen if he kept her around.

The Tyrell girl, Margaery was set to marry the king and become the new queen. Neither the girl herself nor her powerful family would tolerate the existence of a bastard child. Certainly, not one that was born before her own children.

There was a reason after all why bastards were looked down on, and disliked by the nobles. And that was due to the ever-present fear that they could one day usurp the trueborn children of their birthright. That and the shame it brought on both the parent and their significant other. It was why his mother had hated his bastard-born brother, Jon.

Eddard Stark had been betrothed to her, not married, but still betrothed, when he had erred, and lain with Jon's mother whilst out on the campaign trail. Despite that though his mother had hated the sight of Jon, and had done all she could to keep him out of sight, and to quash any ambition he might have had.

It wasn't right, but it was a fact of life.

Unfortunately, that meant that Ros's child would have a hard life.

At present, he, or rather his mother and Luwin, had managed to hide the girl's paternity. But eventually, if her features bred true, then they might not be able to hide it.

Already rumours were circulating amongst the keep's servants, after all the king had cut a striking figure, and had easily recognisable and memorable features, especially his eyes.

Robb took another drink of his beer at that thought.

The truth would soon get out if it hadn't already.

Which of course put him in a quandary.

Tytan had already sent an official, and initial, proposal of marriage between Robb and his younger sister, Myrcella, making clear to all and sundry that Robb was in his favour, and that he wanted to strengthen the connections between their two Houses.

This had helped to elevate House Stark's status, especially in the wake of what happened to the former Lord, just as it had helped to solidify Robb's own position in the North.

Already he was drafting a soon-to-be official and open, response to the missive, welcoming the offer, and making his own counteroffer that Princess Myrcella could ward in Winterfell until she came of age, giving them both a chance to get to know one another before they wed. It was a condition Tytan had insisted upon, that and that she was happy with the match when the time came.

An odd demand, but one Robb respected and could appreciate, all the same.

He had two sisters too, after all.

All of that however could be undone if the news came out that they were sheltering the king's bastard. With both the Tyrells and the Lannister likely being the most angered by the child's existence.

In fact, it was possible that pressure could be put on Tytan to cancel the marriage offer, which would be seen as a shameful insult to House Stark, and a sign of their plummeting favour.

This, in turn, could destabilise the North, and put into jeopardy the growing trade they had started to have with the Southern kingdoms. A trade that was being helped along by 'the Imp' Tyrion Lannister's river/ canal project and the new roads that Tytan had been having built to better connect the Seven Kingdoms.

At the same time, however, Robb had gotten his measure of Tytan. The king came across as a fair and decent man. He was ruthless to his enemies, yes. But he had honour too, the way he had treated Eddard Stark's unknowing treason, proved that much. As too did his decision to not disgrace, or remove, House Stark from their position as Warden of the North for their part in Varys, Pycelle and Baelish's plot.

Tytan came across as a decent man, just like his father, the former Lord Stark. As such Robb strongly suspected that like Eddard Stark, Tytan would be kind to his bastard child, and would take care of her. This of course could make things even worse, or at least it would annoy the Tyrells more, and seeing as House Stark was sheltering the child it could make them the best target for the ruling House of the Reach to vent their frustrations on.

In the end, it came down to how Tytan would handle the situation once he found out, and he would eventually.

Would he be strong enough to not cave in under the political pressure being heaped on him by his soon-to-be wife's family and his grandfather, Tywin?

Would he be bold enough to not just sweep this issue under the proverbial rug and pretend it didn't happen, bury his head in the earth and allow whatever may happen to happen?

And finally, would he be honourable enough to, if not legitimise his daughter, then at least treat her with the same kindness that Ned Stark had treated his bastard son with?

Honestly, Robb didn't know what would happen and that made him nervous.

Taking a sip of his beer, Robb started slightly when he felt Theon nudging him in the ribs. A frown passed across his face as he turned to look at his friend, only for his frown to turn to a look of confusion as he saw a servant wearing the livery of House Stark enter the room, a small missive clutched in his hand as he jogged up to the high table, his gaze fixed on Robb.

"What do you think has happened?" Theon muttered from beside him. "It had to be important to warrant it being delivered to you in the middle of a feast!"

"I'm not sure," Robb replied softly, his gaze and the gaze of many others, tracking the nervous-looking servant as he headed around the high table and then promptly gave the missive to Maester Luwin to read and then give to Robb, as was proper.

With the Maester in question unrolling it. Completely unperturbed by Robb's gaze as he instead scanned the missive quickly, his jaw going slightly slack, and his skin a slightly pallid colour.

"What is it?" Robb asked, pitching his voice low as he noticed that, although many in the room had gone back to their previous conversations, some of the lords, ladies and retainers gathered were still watching them.

"The Eyrie has fallen," Luwin replied, pitching his voice low as well, so only Robb and those in the immediate vicinity could hear him.

Catelyn Stark took a sharp intake of breath at the news.

Robb however frowned. "Already, did they surrender? The last I heard the king and his army had only just arrived and set up their siege lines, and that was only a few days previously?" Surely it wasn't possible for Tytan to have successfully besieged the impenetrable Eyrie. No, from what Robb had heard, the only way to take Eyrie was to starve them out over many months, and even that might not work.

"No, my lord, they've not surrendered, the Eyrie has literally fallen. The king used his powers, the blessings he has received from the Seven Divines to slight the entire citadel. The Eyrie and the mountain upon which it sat, they are no more…"

Robb didn't know what to say to that, neither did the others listening in.

Instead, there was only silence as those present digested just what Luwin had just said.

( - )

(With Tytan)

Settling back in his camp bed, currently swathed in blankets and furs, Tytan finally let himself relax. From outside his tent, he could still hear his men celebrating, and drinking and laughing, but for the moment he didn't want to join them.

His celebration with the High Lords and commanders of his army had drained him mentally, and the bellyful of wine and food had added to the exhaustion his previous exertions had wrought upon him.

He was tired, despite that though he couldn't sleep, even when he really needed to. Tomorrow they would be breaking camp, and his army would be dispersing. Many of the lords would be taking their men home, whilst he would be heading back to King's Landing with his swornswords and a contingent of his retainers and some of his Goldcloaks.

The rest of his Goldcloaks meanwhile would either return to their base at Harrenhal, under the watchful eye of their Lord Commander, Beric Dondarrion, or stay here in the Vale with their relevant captains, making sure to keep order in the land, whilst the rest of the lords followed him back to King's Landing so they could squabble, and petition him over who would become the next Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. Even as the minor nobles, knights and their soldiers, along with his Goldcloaks, kept an eye on the Mountain tribes, and made sure the rule of law was still upheld in the Warden's absence.

Shifting about to try and make himself more comfortable, Tytan soon paused as he heard a light, almost inaudible, thud at the back of his tent. The thud soon being followed by a very faint rustle as something crept around the edge of his tent, bypassing the guards he had at the flap with ease, before then sneaking inside.

The figure was little more than a shadow as it crept through the large tent.

Sitting up slightly in his bed, Tytan made sure to keep an eye on the lithe figure as it approached. His sea-green eyes stayed on it, even as it stepped into the light that came from a nearby, smouldering brazier.

Shining, faintly glowing golden eyes locked with sea green ones.

It was Leaf.

Watching the elf-like being closely as she started to approach. Tytan found himself entranced. She had altered her form again. She was taller now, close to six feet, just a little shorter than him. Her skin and hair were the colour of burnished bronze, and her arms and legs seemed to ripple with tightly corded muscle with every move she made. She moved like a warrior and had the lithe, strong build of one.

Focusing on her face, he could see an almost predatory look on her mature features as she approached. Her feet barely caused a sound. Her slightly altered form was very similar to the one she had taken to wearing for quite a while now. It was entrancing. Only now she looked more mature, like a twenty-year-old woman in her prime, only one with golden eyes, bronze skin and hair, an inhuman beauty.

She was as fascinating now, as she had always been.

"Leaf," He said softly, a sudden heat rushing through his body, and his loins stirring, at the sight of her. He could almost feel the magic that flowed through his body, the magic that was bound to his Demigod soul, calling to her. "This is unexpected."

"Perseus, your man, Ivar, was successful," Leaf said softly as she continued to approach. "He is already returning to the capital, he'll be meeting you there."

"Good," Percy said softly, barely taking in a word she said as she continued to prowl towards him. The wild, intoxicating scent she gave off; pine, freshly fallen rain, the smell of a verdant forest in summer, it filled him with a sense of wonder, longing, and hunger.

He could almost feel his soul singing out in joy as she reached his bed and continued forward, now crawling forward on her hands and knees, her golden, feline eyes locked on his own.

"What have you done?" Leaf asked softly, as she came to a stop just in front of him, forcing him to sit up as he soon found her face mere inches from his own. He could feel the heat emanating off of her body, and her warm breath intermingling with his own. "The energy of the world, of nature, it clings to you now more than ever. It is almost like is singing, crying out in joy as it flows through you. It feels like you have somehow, awakened."

"It's been a busy day," Percy breathed, his breath becoming slightly rougher as her wild, earthly magic started to intermingle with the energy that he could only just now feel rolling off his own form. The two magical energies, one as wild and unpredictable as the roughest oceans, mixed and intermingled with the other one, the one that was more primal, but just as fierce and unpredictable as his own.

Reaching up his hand, Percy cupped her race for a moment, before he moved his hand up, entwining it in her bronze, leaf-strewn locks.

Leaf let out a sharp intake of breath at that, her golden eyes dilating for a moment before she moved forwards. Her burning hot lips met his, even as her arms moved around him, her weight and momentum bearing him back onto his bed as she hungrily, almost savagely, kissed him.

Their magicks merged and wrapped around one another, even as Percy rolled over so he was on top of Leaf, bearing down on her, all thoughts and feelings of tiredness and exhaustion disappearing in an instant as he instead lost himself within Leaf's invigorating warmth. The elf's strong, bronze hands pulled him closer as he tugged at the little clothing she still wore, her long, powerful legs wrapping around him as they continued to kiss.

As the two immortal souls, for just a moment, became one.

( - )

AN: So things are moving ahead. With the Westeros storyline stabilising somewhat, which will give me time to play around with Percy's character in King's Landing, as he starts to re-associate himself with who he was before, and balances running the kingdom, maintaining connections with his difficult family, raising a dragon, creating a connection with a woman he is to marry, and dealing with whatever it is him and Leaf are. So yeah things have stabilised but I've plenty of things I want to develop, interactions I want to play with and whatnot.

That said things in Essos and beyond the North will be kicking off soon. After all magic is returning to the world much faster than it did in canon. Spurred along as it is by Percy's presence. Plus as I've said before, I've taken some poetic license as far as the other magical creatures in the GOT verse go. Plus I will be playing around with some Song of Ice and Fire book series plotlines that interest me. As this world is a mixture of the Television show (minus that gods awful eighth season) and the books.

On top of that we have things brewing in Winterfell, which will involve the Stark children and other characters in a peripheral sense which will eventually expand to include the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. That and there is still some stuff I want ot explore in the aftermath of the Eyries destruction and in Dorne.

So yes, a lot to play around with and do. So I'm afraid this story won't be ending anytime soon, or at least not until I reach the end of my plotline, and finish playing around with and exploring my ideas for the series.

I'll admit I had to hold back my desire to publish another story as I was writing this one. With the other story focusing on an OC Vampire Lords from the Elder Scrolls, and bringing in themes and plotlines from the Underworld film series and the Von Carstein storyline in Warhammer Fantasy. That said I preserved and resisted. After all I've already got enough stories to be getting on with.

Other than that, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you didn't, well thanks for reading anyway.

See you all later.

Greed720.