I don't own Percy Jackson, it belongs to Rick Riordan and A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thones belongs to George R. R. Martin, as well as any other items that appear here, credits to their respective creators
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"Characters speaking"
"Character thinking"
"{Characters speaking in another language}"
This idea for the what if came from reading Sea Dragon, only instead of being Harry Potter x ASOIAF/GoT, it will be Percy Jackson x ASOIAF/GoT
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Late 298 AD
In the north, Winterfell, the ancient fortress and ancestral home of the Starks, of gray stone and eternal snow, vibrated with unusual urgency as it teemed with activity as King Robert Baratheon and his entourage approached. The news of his visit, precipitated by the death of Jon Arryn, and it was estimated that the royal entourage would arrive in four to six moons, but House Stark left no room for unforeseen events.
Catelyn Stark supervised the preparations with the precision of a noblewoman born for duty, together with the servants she walked corridors and rooms, inspecting tablecloths, tapestries and the layout of the rooms because every corner had to reflect the dignity of the North and the hospitality of the Starks. No detail was too small when it came to receiving the King and the rest of the royal family of the Seven Kingdoms.
Eddard Stark, on the other hand, lived the wait with mixed emotions, because the prospect of reuniting with Robert, his old friend from youth and foster brother, awakened in him memories of another time that caused him a slight melancholy that he did not dare to confess out loud.
They haven't seen each other in years since the Greyjoy Rebellion, when they were still fighting side by side for a kingdom that seemed to be reeling under the weight of ambition and blood spilled by the foolish and arrogant Ironborn. Not to mention that before that, their friendship had suffered deep cracks, opened by the tragedies of war, of Princess Elia's murdered children and, even more, the death of Lyanna, his sister, whose memory was still frozen in the depths of his heart.
On this visit, however, Ned harbored a quiet hope that time had healed old wounds, that he and Robert could, at least for a moment, speak again like the brothers they once were.
Striding through the vast stone halls and out into the bustling courtyard, Eddard Stark watched the preparations reach their highest point. Winterfell, which was normally quiet in its routine, was now in a frenetic bustle, as servants, guards, and more moved with purpose.
Some hunters rode on horseback, their bows on their shoulders and their dogs barking impatiently, ready to go into the wolfswood in search of fresh game for the welcome feast, while the young servants crossed the courtyard with their arms laden with white and perfumed linens, destined for the royal apartments, as the scent of freshly baked bread, cut wood, and wet leather wafted through the air, mingling with the unmistakable smell of the northern cold.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, with his grayish beard and his voice rough as the winter wind, barked orders to the guards with more energy than usual, while his words echoed against the stone walls, full of urgency and authority, as he corrected postures, adjusted positions and fine-tuned the discipline of the guards who will receive the king's entourage.
Overwhelmed a few moments later by the intensity of the moment and seeking a moment of both clarity and peace, Ned left the bustle of the courtyard and made his way to the Godswoods. There, among the hundred-year-old and equally thousand-year-old trees, along with the constant murmur of the leaves, he found the only place that still offered him peace.
But as the Northern Warden walked among the trees, his thoughts turned to his children. Robb had grown strong and increasingly determined, slowly becoming a worthy heir to the Stark legacy, with the strong, level-headed bearing and seriousness of one who was already beginning to understand the weight of the responsibility of being the future lord of Winterfell, although a part of Lord Stark thought that his son should spend less time with Theon, who shows no interest in learning how to rule a kingdom despite the pride with which he spoke of being heir to the Iron Islands.
Sansa, on the other hand, was a mixture of contrasts... years ago, her daughter used to get lost in songs of chivalry and love stories between noble women with knights, princes or nobles, fascinated by the pomp and supposed splendor of the south.
However, since Jon's disappearance, Ned had been more aware of the rest of his children, which had led him to make sure that they did not ignore their northern roots as Septa Mordane was trying to do with his daughters, although this had caused some tension in their marriage Catelyn who wished for all her children to marry nobles from great Southern houses.
But in no way was it possible, his children were from the north and even if it happened, it would only cause problems with the northern lords because Rickard Stark had ignored everyone by seeking marriage alliances in the south for his children, at least Robb had to marry a northern lady to calm the discontent that still lingered, even if it was not openly expressed.
So because of Lord Stark's vigilance and attention to his children, his daughter Sansa had begun to visit the Godwood with some regularity, seeking solace among the trees and under the impassive gaze of the whitebarked Weirwood.
In that silent place, she seemed to have forged a deeper connection with the ancient traditions of the North... and even so, her enthusiasm for the imminent royal visit was impossible to ignore, Sansa talked incessantly about the Queen, about the dresses she would wear, about the possibility of meeting the young Prince Joffrey. In each word you could guess the excitement of a girl who dreamed of the golden halls of King's Landing.
"That damn illusion," thought Ned with a hint of sadness and annoyance about the illusion that was subtly separating his daughter's heart from the cold and sober North where she was born, undermining her attachment to it.
It didn't help that both Robb and Sansa were already of marriageable age and part of the lord of House Stark wished that another sudden winter would appear as if it had appeared out of nowhere two years ago, although it was brief and unusually mild; for it was possible that Robert would offer Eddard that Sansa to become the wife of his heir. And since Robert was the king, Stark couldn't easily refuse, nor did it matter that he preferred his daughter to stay in the North if Robert wanted to unite their families (Note 1).
But Sansa was not the only one with such beliefs about the south, Bran also awaited the arrival of the King with an impatience that was difficult to contain while his thoughts were full of jousts and tournaments, of knights resplendent in their armor and swords that glittered in the sun. His son spoke of nothing but the tales of the Kingsguard: the seven sworn protectors of the throne, heroes of song and legend, whose exploits populated his childhood dreams and being able to see them with his own eyes seemed almost a miracle.
On the other hand, Rickon, the youngest of Ned's sons, was still a small child, but he already showed the fierceness of a young wolf, his energy was inexhaustible while he ran through the stone corridors as if the castle were his own, and he defied anyone who tried to impose limits on him. Catelyn said he was a wild spirit, and Ned, though he sometimes sighed from fatigue, could not help but be proud of his youngest son.
But it was Arya who troubled Eddard the most, she as wild as Rickon, she rejected every attempt to become a lady, even by the standards of the North, neither embroidery, nor dresses, nor etiquette lessons could tame her. His daughter's strong opinions and desire to learn to wield a sword, as well as to fight like a knight instead of using a needle, only deepened her rebelliousness.
Too often there was something about her that was eerily familiar, something that made Lord Stark's skin crawl every time he watched her, Arya was too much like her aunt Lyanna... and also her uncle Brandon, with that same wolf's blood roared in her, which howled with impatient force to live according to her desires, without being accountable to anyone.
It was precisely this resemblance that would not let the Warden of the North rest in peace, for Ned could not forget how his brothers ended. Lyanna dead in a distant tower, who ran away with Prince Rheagar in order to avoid engagement to Robert, nor how Brandon ended up, hanged by the mad king in an act of brutality while trying to save his father, with their deaths finally igniting the fire of rebellion against the reign of Aerys Targaryen.
However, to Ned's relief, his daughter Arya had calmed down somewhat since the arrival of the direwolves, with Nymeria seeming to be able to channel some of the untamed fire that burned in his daughter's heart, though the girl remained stubborn and rebellious, there was a new stillness to her, a bond with her wolf that helped her find balance.
Still, Eddard Stark kept wondering how to tame the wild blood that seemed to run stronger in Arya than in any of his other children. It was wolf blood, as wild as Lyanna's and Brandon's... he didn't want to lose her... Ned didn't want to lose another child.
And thinking about Jon was like pressing on a bone that was still broken, an old wound that never healed, almost ten years had passed since that cursed day and the memories still cut like a freshly sharpened blade. When chaos had descended on Winterfell without warning, like a storm breaking the sky in the middle of dawn when the daily harmony of the castle was brutally broken.
Ned clearly remembered what had happened, that sudden sound... that high-pitched, dry, unnatural noise that he could still hear in his nightmares. A rumble unlike anything I'd ever heard before, as if the world had held its breath for an instant... and then it would have broken.
But when she was finally able to get to Jon's room to check on him, she found it empty, not empty like a young man who has gone to training leaves it, empty as ghosts leave it, disordered as if someone or something had been there in a hurry or violence... and worst of all... it was completely devoid of answers... his son had simply disappeared.
They searched for many moon cycles, sending horsemen to the far reaches of the North, through forgotten roads, remote villages and snowy cliffs, some rode even beyond the Wall in the face of the possibility that the savages had found it even though it was impossible for them to reach Winterfell. Lord Stark had also sent ravens to the other lords of the north, but they found no trace, nothing and no one offered a clue, no trace remained... it was as if Jon had dissolved into thin air, as if the wind itself had claimed him for itself.
Eddard Stark shook those thoughts from his mind before falling down that slope again as he has done a few times since Jon disappeared and with a deep sigh, he settled into his favorite spot within the godswood, where the gnarled roots of the great weirwood seemed to form a natural seat, old as winter itself and he sat quietly, letting the freshness of the place envelop his body and mind.
He placed Ice on his lap, the Starks' ancestral sword, as imposing as the legacy it represented, its Valyrian steel reflecting the filtered light that filtered through the crimson leaves of the weirwood, creating silver flashes in the still air.
With slow, meditative movements, Ned began polishing the greatsword with a soft cloth, but it was more than just cleaning: it was an act full of meaning, his father doing it after each execution, or after days of difficult decisions... a ritual of men from the North... of Stark men.
At that moment, all was calm as the godswood kept its usual solemnity, only interrupted by the rustle of wind-swaying leaves and the distant murmur of the water of the hot spring. Ned closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be carried away by the unalterable peace of the place, there he could breathe.
But after a while, the earth shook... at first it was only a slight shudder, almost as if the forest had exhaled, but in a matter of seconds, the ground beneath his feet vibrated with increasing violence. The roots of the weirwood crunched like old, fragile bones, strained under the weight of something that seemed to come from deep under, the trembling expanding like ripples in the water, shaking the air and destabilizing the stillness of the sacred place.
A flock of black crows emerged from the trees like a living arrow, squawking in alarm as they disappeared into the gray sky. Ned stood up in an instant with his heart racing, Ice still in hand or at least he tried, because he had to hold on to the tree until the tremor stopped.
But once the ground stopped shaking and he was able to stand, without wasting a moment Lord Eddard Stark broke into a run, leaving the Godswood with urgency reflected in every step. The sacred calm of the place had been abruptly broken, replaced by a growing roar that spread throughout Winterfell that as the Warden of the North approached the busiest courtyard of the ancestral fortress, the sounds of chaos became clearer, louder and more anguishing.
Screams rose like echoes of alarm within the walls, bouncing off the walls of ancient stone. The guards shouted contradictory orders as they attempted to impose order, but from the top of the battlements, several men pointed anxiously toward the horizon, specifically to the east.
Although it took Eddard a long moment to realize the situation on the battlements while also trying to impose order, he only did so after ordering one of the guards to check on his family, to which the man immediately obeyed.
Then, without stopping to ask what the guards saw to the east, Ned made his way toward the walls, his cloak of fur fluttering behind him like a long shadow, stirring in haste, climbing the stone steps with long, determined strides, his heart still shaken by the recent tremor that had revived the memory of his son's disappearance with rawness.
Without stopping to ask what the guards saw to the east, Ned made his way toward the walls, his cloak of fur fluttering behind him like a long shadow, driven by haste, climbing the stone steps with long, determined strides, his heart still shaken by the recent tremor that had harshly revived the memory of his son's disappearance.
Stark quickly shook his head, expelling the thoughts that threatened to distract him, because it was not the time for doubts or regrets, he had to focus on the present. But when he had finished climbing the stairs, he advanced to the battlements, looking for the source of all the uproar, but what he found when he looked beyond the walls took his breath away from both surprise and confusion.
Where moments before there had been only an open field covered in light frost, now stood an imposing four-tiered structure. No bricks were distinguishable, the walls were perfectly smooth, of a light brown tone, almost clayey, as if they had been molded in one piece.
The building was completely out of tune with the architecture of the North or the rest of Westeros, and yet it had an unsettling beauty, various crystals adorned the wall that caught and reflected the sunlight, a staircase that led to a raised front door, though Ned was not sure, but he thought he saw another entrance that seemed half-buried in the ground, as if the building had sprouted from the ground. (Note 1)
But that wasn't there before... it had come out of nowhere.
Either way, Lord Stark shook those thoughts from his mind, and without wasting any time once more, Ned hurried down from the battlements, immediately made his way to the armory, and shouted in a firm voice, "Men, to me!" without bothering to choose the men-at-arms who would accompany him, but his order was clear.
A unit of guards formed almost immediately, their movements disciplined but tense, answering their lord's call with the efficiency that only years of training and duty as Winterfell guards could forge.
Then they cautiously left the fortress and advanced towards the structure until they stopped about twenty paces from the entrance, while the air was dense, heavy with uncertainty, as if the world was holding its breath at whatever was inside that building that appeared out of nowhere.
But from one moment to the next, the entrance door at the bottom of the stairs opened wide, effortlessly visible, as if driven by an invisible, but astonishing force, it was then that a man appeared.
He was tall, broad-shouldered and decisive, he walked with a confidence that was not arrogance, but certainty. He was bare-chested, revealing muscles marked by constant training, his hair was black hair and carefully trimmed, and in one of his hands he held a sword of strange design, opaque golden in color.
But it was her face that paralyzed Ned, because when he saw her face... and those purple eyes with a slight shade of gray, for an instant time seemed to stop for Lord Stark who held his breath.
The man's face, his features... they were painfully familiar.
The northmen who accompanied him also noticed the features of the stranger, which caused an echo of recognition ran through them, the man had an undeniable air of his lord, a resemblance so marked that some stopped without thinking about it.
The resemblance was such that he appeared to be a Stark... except for the eyes, but his face was more defined, more symmetrical, as if the blood of the north had been refined. It was like looking at a younger Lord Stark... and, in the eyes of all, better looking.
But for Ned it wasn't just a look-alike, for him, it was like looking at Jon... seeing her bastard son become an adult, and in her mind, caught between logic and disbelief, there was only one idea: That man couldn't be Jon... or could he? (Note 2)
Then the man looked at Eddard Stark and recognition flashed in the stranger's eyes, his hardened expression changed to the surprise that went through him like a gust that ended up lowering his sword while his lips parted while his voice, barely a whisper revealed his own surprise and disbelief, breaking the tense silence and paralyzed the Warden of the North even more.
"Father?"
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10 years ago... for the Starks
The mid-morning sun barely managed to break through the thick canopy of the forest that guarded the surroundings of the Wolf House as the light filtered in faint golden beams, drawing capricious shadows on the damp earth. The air, dense and heavy with persistent moisture, clung to the bark of the trees with the same stubbornness with which a forgotten memory clings, but there among the whispers of leaves and branches that swayed as in an ancient ritual, Lupa, the wolf goddess, watched her pack and the last child in her care.
Her eyes, golden as the gold of dawn and as old as the myths themselves, rested intently on the black-haired demigod in the clearing, a boy who had turned nine years old just a few weeks ago, although his gaze seemed to know more than his age should allow. His name in the mortal world was Percy Jackson, but in this savage sanctuary, the language was of little value unless it was necessary or earned.
At that time for the wolves, he was just the son of the sea, the pup of Neptune, a child scarred by salt, water, and storm. But that boy had been under Lupa's tutelage for more than six moons, since his father brought him to her to train him, to harden him, to forge his spirit in the crucible of the toughness of her pack and discipline... and above all to observe him, to discover what the offspring of the king of Atlantis was really made of.
Now the young half-blood stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the gazes of the pack members. Not only the magical wolves born in ancient forests that the Roman goddess had taken under her wing over the centuries, but also those Lupa held dear, the blessed demigods and legacies who, out of loyalty, debt, or a simple desire to belong to her pack, had received her gift.
Although some of them were no longer fully human, had crossed that threshold of no return and permanently adopted their wild form mixed with the divine, others retained the ability to change into their human form, as if Lupa's blessing had not yet decided their final course or they were clinging to their human side.
But all, without exception, were her, part of her legacy, part of her power.
One of the members of the pack, Marcus, a legate from Mars with eyes that glowed with fury in battle as if he were one of his grandfather's Greek sons, grunted an instruction and instantly Percy obeyed, turned his body quickly, lowered his center of gravity followed by dropping to the ground, rolling on the moss in a fluid way.
Then, in a single movement, he stood up upright, as if combat or training were as natural to him as breathing.
"Again" Marcus ordered, in a voice laden with authority.
Percy snorted, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, but he didn't protest, he never did, he just threw himself back into training with the same determination as always, without giving up, without fear and with a stubbornness that, even for a goddess like Lupa, was fascinating, since he seemed to be on par with that of the demigods of millennia ago. (Note 3)
Meanwhile from the shadows, Lupa continued to watch him while his large paws moved with an almost unearthly stillness on the damp earth and moved a little closer to study the young demigod. From her position, she could see Percy move his head, his eyes adjusting to the situation, as if he already knew or at least had an idea of what Marcus was going to do, before the legacy of Mars made its next move.
It wasn't just instinct that guided the young demigod, but it was clear that he had a lot of potential, more than any other demigod the goddess had to train in several centuries.
The air changed slightly, an almost imperceptible vibration indicating the presence of the wolf-man approaching him. Percy didn't need to be touched to react when Marcus performed a feint to hide the real punch, spun on his heels with an astonishing speed for his age, even if he was a demigod, and blocked the attack that the grandson of Mars had prepared.
Marcus stepped back, smiling with a wolfish expression on his face, as if he'd found something that amused him in training.
"This pup..." Lupa thought to herself, observing the young demigod closely. "He perceives more than he should."
The goddess had long since noticed that Percy's sense of smell was not just good, it was extraordinary for a half-breed, second only to the wolves of the pack, but with proper training he could match them, but the boy could also sense changes in the air with an accuracy that could rival the younger members of his pack she blessed, or half-blood children of Jupiter two or three times his age.
Neptune's son smelled the sweat that flowed from the bodies, while his eyes of a deep bluish green like the waters of a virgin river or parts of the ocean that have not been touched by mortals, did not miss a detail, not every small gesture or every change in the environment.
That child was not human, but neither could he be considered simply another demigod because he was the son of a major god, one of the three great, in his Roman form: Neptune. However, despite the weight of his inheritance, the sea cub did not boast about it, did not speak more than necessary and sometimes even seemed mute, not like the first days when he ended up under the care of the goddess when he didn't speak because of the sadness he felt at the memory of his mother, but as if he had understood that words were an expendable resource in the herd.
He also absorbed every lesson like a dry sponge, every technique, every trick, every combat move that was taught, only needing a correction or two from time to time as Lupa and his wolves made sure to temper him with the harshness of discipline.
But as the goddess Lupa watched him from his place under the shadows of the trees, a silent question crossed his immortal mind "How many gifts has Neptune bestowed upon him?"
The boy was still too young to know exactly what traits he inherited from Neptune beyond his physical appearance, but some traits were beginning to show, but only time would tell if:
Did he only inherit mastery over water and climate, like other of his children?
Or something deeper, weirder?
The strength to lift entire trees as if they were toothpicks?
A born intuition?
Sharp instincts of a hunter like those of Orion, the ancient Greek son of Neptune?
The gift with horses?
Or perhaps something even wilder, more primitive, like the animal or monstrous instinct that some of the most feared children of the king of the sea have?
Be that as it may, the boy was a diamond in the rough, unpolished, with no defined form, no muscle memory for combat, no experienced or perfected instincts, but with an undeniable brilliance that only the eyes of a goddess accustomed to fighting, training, and teaching could detect with certainty.
But Lupa couldn't help but wonder how skilled that child would be when he reached the age of an adult man, "Will he become a true warrior?" And along with that reflection, another thought was born, full of disdain, but tempered by all her years of experience. "If the pup had been born Greek, he would have been a waste... he would have withered away in that orderless camp of that lazy centaur... more given to playing nursemaid than to discipline... Chiron may have wisdom, but for centuries now he seems to have stopped knowing how to forge character with iron" thought the wolf goddess.
But the failings of the legion members over the past centuries also came to mind, from the pale reflection they had become, causing her to growl, which halted the training of the son of Neptune, while the boy, like her wolves, turned to look at her.
Lupa shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, when a pang shot through her. It wasn't pain, exactly, but a faint sensation, like a tug on the invisible threads that connected her essence and her domains. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like a leaf trembling just before a storm arrives.
Her ears pricked up instinctively, but the sounds of the forest continued: the rustling of leaves, the creaking of distant branches, the steady rhythm of life within.
Yet it was clear to her that something had happened, not a threat... or at least not yet, but a disturbance, so she focused on perceiving what it was, soon recognizing a faint magical current in the forest, a crevice, a presence… something had entered her territory without permission.
A low growl came from his throat from the wolf-goddess and at the sound of it, both Percy and the others tensed instantly, their bodies ready for anything.
They didn't need words to know the meaning of the growl of the mother of Rome's founders
"Keep training" Lupa ordered
Marcus nodded without making a sound, while another member of the pack, Helena, a blessed werewolf, born on the Roman side, but with some Greek blood by one of her great-grandparents, discreetly approached the boy, her position clear, she would act as a sentinel, in silent shield.
Without emitting any more signals, Lupa entered the forest, her footsteps as silent as the shadow of a cloud sliding through the trees as she went to look for the source of the disturbance of her domain and if anything had dared to break the harmony of her dominion, she would find it and tear it to pieces.
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That place was sacred because Sonoma Valley had belonged to the pack for more than eighty years, ever since the old Wolf House was reduced to ruins by a raging fire that devoured wood, some stone, and memory.
But since then, mortals were unable to understand what dwelt there and simply stopped coming, because their senses, however dull they are from centuries of the 'advance of human civilization' and which could no longer grasp the presence that extended among the trees, only knew, in some primitive corner of their almost lost instinct, that this place was not for them.
The trees were tall, thick, but only a few that had been born long before the herd claimed the valley; others had grown under her shadow, but over time, all had become intertwined with Lupa's power, adapting to her, turning the valley into her territory, her domain. The forest surrounding the ruins of the Wolf House may not have been, in human terms, an ancient forest, but it felt that way, not because of the age of its trees, but because it became part of the wolf goddess's domain. (Note 4)
Under her paws, the land became more fertile, yes, but also wilder. The small creatures learned to be silent when the wolves passed, the roots twisted towards the surface, as if seeking to catch intruders while the branches grew dense, forming a thick and tangled canopy that protected the secrets of the place like claws ready to close on whoever did not belong.
That forest did not offer shelter to those who were not welcome, because it was an extension of her, of her herd.
It was her territory and through it, Lupa advanced with a firm step, without haste, but not carelessly, her walk was that of a creature that did not need to run to dominate because at every meter she traveled, the silence of the forest spoke to her, not with words, but with subtle signs that she had learned to read since times that men had already forgotten and could only mistakenly imagine what they were like.
Foxes, nervous creatures by nature, were restless in their burrows as if they were agitated by unseen presences. Even the tiny insects on the ground moved urgently, as if fleeing from a storm that had not yet been born in the sky.
All that told him the same thing... something had happened.
Lupa knew how to distinguish with the same ease as the goddess of the hunt the traces left by the common monsters that from time to time, came too close to the territory, such as Griffins, manticores or even some solitary empusai, because they all left a particular signature: Unique aromas, magical residues, recognizable patterns… they always left some kind of trace
But this was different; it wasn't anything she'd encountered before… yet she followed the trail in silence, descending into a small, fern-covered ravine. The ground there was damp, dark, cold, heavy with moss, and marked not by claws or hooves, but by something more recent.
They were footprints… small and human… without shoes and Romulus and Remus's adoptive mother wrinkled her nose; they were the footprints of a child.
The possibility crossed her mind like lightning through the clouds: Had another god come to leave her a new puppy?... Like someone who delivers a load without wanting to look her in the eyes? Was that a weak god who feared her too much to appear in person?
It wasn't impossible... It had happened before.
It didn't quite convince her, but Lupa resumed her pace, the trail was clear and recent, guiding her through torn bushes and broken branches, but she immediately realized that the vegetation became denser with each step, as if nature itself was trying to hide what had happened there... more alive, more alert... and that put her on guard.
It wasn't just the humidity or the shadow that she felt, but it was something else, a latent force... wild and ancient magic.
Either way, Lupa continued to follow the trail, but attentive to anything as the marks guided her through some torn bushes and small broken branches, each sign reinforcing the certainty that something or someone had passed through there recently.
Then she saw him.
At first, it was nothing more than a silhouette in the forest shadows, a small bundle of dark, matted hair as Lupa could make out a few twigs in his clothes and hair, skin so light it stood out against the damp earth, and he was on his back, crouching on what looked like a moss-covered stone.
He didn't smell like a monster, nor like a demigod, but there was something about his smell... out of place and it wasn't because of fear that she could smell emanating from him. It was not something that put her on guard, but it was not familiar either... something that the wolf goddess could not fully recognize.
The foster-mother of Romulus and Remus advanced without the slightest sound until she stood behind him, but the child turned suddenly, as if he had sensed her presence, and when their eyes met for an instant, he screamed in fear
"AAAAHHHH! The boy's cry was short and sharp as he leaned back, pushing himself against the stone as if hoping to merge with it to save himself from the huge wolf in front of him.
The goddess observed him carefully, noticing that his eyes were young and of a very peculiar color, a shade between violet and the gray of a storm, they looked at her full of terror.
And then, she felt it... a small spark, but clear, an almost imperceptible vibration that spread through the invisible fabric of her domain like a leaf falling in the middle of a calm river, causing a single wave, faint but undeniable.
That child had a connection to his sphere of power, however small it might be
"Interesting," Lupa said, her voice charged with power even though her voice was barely a breath in the air.
The boy froze, but his eyes widened even wider, if possible, as if he wasn't sure what he heard really happened, if he didn't know if he should run away, talk, or just stop breathing.
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Note 1 : In case anyone has forgotten, the story of "A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones" takes place in a medieval world, where marrying a 15 or 16-year-old girl to a man who is twice her age, a man who is her father's age or who is older than her father, it's not something out of this world.
As you know the ages and dates of Game of Thrones differs from the books, Jon and Robb are 16 years old when the series begins while in the books they are 14. So I'm going to alter some things as well, ages and dates, etc. Please don't complain too much because it's a fanfic, and fanfics wouldn't exist if the source material was followed to the letter.
Robert's arrival happens like in the series, but the rebellion happened before, Jon was born before Robb, etc. At the moment these are the data during the arrival of the royal family in Winterfell:
Robb is 18 years old
Theon is 20 years old
Ned is 38-39 years old
Catelyn is 37-38 years old
Sansa is 15 years old Arya is 13 years old
Jon is a few months older than Robb, but he end up on earth so...
Note 2 : Imagine that the house is like Sherlock's from the Elementary series, The Brownstone, at least on the outside.
Note 3 : If you haven't noticed by the way Ned thinks of Jon, I'm going to make him Ned and Ashara's son, it's also another reason why Jon was born months before Robb in this fic
Note 4: Several times throughout the books the smells that Percy may smell during his searches are highlighted, as well as how observant he is at times
Note 5 : The Wolf House is supposed to be in Sonoma Valley, but here the very presence of the goddess Lupa scared away the mortals, allowing nature to reclaim the valley.
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If you are interested in reading more chapters of this fanfic or the other fanfics, before they are published here on fanfiction, AO3 and Wattpad
You can do it on P*t*e*n: Xifos&Gladius
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