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Chapter Text

Hallis thought nothing of it when the crash of waves resounded through the Wolfswood. He was too tired to give a damn. He’d fought for House Forrester in three wars, now, two of them against the Ironborn. Some foolish part of him had believed, when Robb Stark marched south and he was left behind as part of the token force at Ironrath, that he wouldn’t have to fight in the War of the Five Kings. He had been a fool.

He was a soldier only under the loosest definition of the term. Hallis had a farm near Ironrath, a wife, three daughters, a son, and seven grandchildren. For most of his life, he’d worked on that farm from sunup to sundown, or huddled in the Glovers’ wintertown at the base of Deepwood Motte during long, cold winters. But seventeen years ago, the Mad King had burned Lord Stark and his heir, so Hallis had been levied and marched to war. He fought at the Battle of the Bells and on the Trident, being sent home when the war was over and Robert Baratheon sat the throne. When Balon Greyjoy rose up the first time, he’d once again been levied, and been assigned to a scouting contingent under Lord Gregor Forrester, his liege.

Hallis fought at Pyke, went home once again, and got too used to peace. His relatively old age (he was only five-and-forty, with only a dash of grey in his hair and beard, and anyone who called him an old man could fuck off) and experience had gotten him the cushy posting at Ironrath, overseeing a guard contingent, while all the full-time soldiers marched south to fight for the Young Wolf. He’d gotten to see his wife most nights, and had frequent news of his son, who marched with Robb Stark and Lord Gregor.

It had been too late for the Forresters’ steward to do anything by the time Deepwood Motte was taken. They were just as helpless when Winterfell, Torrhen’s Square, and Moat Cailin fell. In a fit of desperation, Hallis had been commanded to take twenty Forrester men and slip through the woods to Deepwood Motte. Their orders were to hide in the Wolfswood around Deepwood Motte, foraging and hunting to survive, harrying and killing the Ironborn at any opportunity, and sending information back to Ironrath. The Forresters, sworn to House Glover, wanted to ensure that the women and children of their lieges that had been taken hostage were safe.

That had been many moons ago. The only halfway exciting thing that’d happened since was when Cregan, an overeager boy of eight and ten namedays, had been so swift in his attempt to slice open the belly of an Ironborn who’d slipped into the woods for a piss that he’d cut the poor squid’s cock off. Hallis had laughed so hard that he’d barely been able to silence the man before his screams attracted too much attention. Otherwise, he was bored out of his mind. There were a few score other Northmen in the woods, from House Glover and the houses sworn to them, but not enough to launch an attack. No reinforcements were coming. An occasional game of cards in the woods did not an army make.

Hallis missed his Lya. He missed their children. He’d been hiding in the woods for his youngest grandson’s first name day. He missed feeling warm. All the while, the squids had been feasting and raping behind the walls of a Northern castle, and he could do nothing. He did not consider himself an angry man, but the simmering, impotent rage was starting to get to him.

Such a loud wave this far from shore was unusual, but not interesting enough to divert his attention from his task. Hallis and Cregan, the once-incompetent boy, were conducting the latest survey of Greyjoy forces at Deepwood Motte. Their black and white clothing, marked with the tree of House Forrester, had been left at Ironrath. Both man and boy wore dark green cloaks over boiled leather, with tunics below that, though the black and white tree was sewed above their hearts. All of it was too dirty to have much color left anyway. Both scouts were lying prone on their stomachs on the edge of the treeline, allowing bushes and leaves to hide their position?”

“What can ye see, laddie?” Hallis asked quietly. Beside him, Cregan shifted slightly to get a better view. He had the black hair, olive skin, and grey eyes of countless northmen, and was even starting to approach competence with the sword at his belt. Hallis liked the lad.

“Two patrols- no, three. Two men each. Axes, swords. No bows. Same as always.” The last was muttered with the barest hint of annoyance, quickly silenced by a glare from the older man. “I ken, I ken. It’s just-”

“Nothing changes, until it does. At the Trident-”

“I’ve ‘eard all about the Trident already, old man,” Cregan laughed.

“And ye’ll ‘ear about it again until ye ken what ye can and cannae survive,” Hallis hissed. He was about to give the lad a clout on the ear when a flash of color drew his eye. Their banter instantly fell silent, both soldiers following the new development.

A man dressed in shining armor- a bright orange that Hallis associated with the Dornishmen on the Trident or House Hornwood- was sprinting out of the woods, directly towards the farthest patrol from Hallis and Cregan. He had no words to describe the armor itself, as it seemingly consisted of only a chestplate, strange helmet, and greaves. There was some sort of grey and orange sigil on the chest, with intricate designs on the back, but he was too far away to see the details. Whoever the man was, he was an idiot. He seemed to purposefully be making as much noise as possible, only managing to reach the patrol before they could draw weapons by virtue of his speed. Hallis didn’t know anyone who could run that fast.

With two strokes of his sword, the two Ironborn were dead, both of their throats gushing blood. By now, the other two patrols had taken notice of the newcomer, and drew their weapons to face him. Hallis could only watch with awe as the man slew all four men in under fifteen seconds, even though the two patrols were separated by thirty feet or more. Cregan was already on his feet, but Hallis grabbed the boy’s ankle before he could run off.

“‘E’s a messenger of the Old Gods! ‘E ‘as to be!” the boy whisper-shouted. Hallis just snorted and pushed himself to his feet.

“The Old Gods don’t send messengers. That’s a sorcerer, or a witch. Not a god. Whatever ‘e wants, it cannae be good for us.” Agents of the gods were for Andals and their nonsensical Seven. There were heroes in old First Men tales, aye, but the gods had nothing to do with it.

“‘Ow no?”

“Watch, laddie.”

The sorcerer certainly seemed to have more guts than brains. Hallis didn’t want to charge Deepwood Motte when the idiot was likely to get himself killed. Despite the fact that he’d just cut through six men faster than an axe through a tree, he was now running directly at the gate, which couldn’t be good for his chances of survival. He seemed to be running at a normal speed now, giving the squids time to run down the hill, towards the interior side of the gate. The idiot slowed his run, and by the time the gates opened, he was still fifteen feet from them. What must have been fifty squids charged towards the man, and he ran headlong towards them in return.

Ironborn and newcomers alike were brought to a halt by the sudden revolt of the Northmen still left in the castle. Watching the castle’s servants rise up against their tormentors, Hallis couldn’t keep a proud smile from his face. His people were strong. They didn’t break under the squids’ boots. The man in orange used the distraction to start fighting, and Hallis could hardly breathe.

“By the gods…” Cregan whispered. Hallis grunted in agreement. The stranger could fight. He was a whirlwind, cutting through men like grass, his sword meeting no resistance from Ironborn leathers, dodging what he couldn’t block, sending men flying with a kick or a punch. He was the most impressive soldier Hallis had ever seen, and he’d watched Robert Baratheon cave in the Silver Prince’s chest. The stranger, though, reminded him much more of Thoros of Myr on Pyke, and his flaming sword.

He made a strange gesture with his hand, extending an open palm towards an Ironborn. Unless Hallis’ eyes were deceiving him, water burst from the man’s hand, catching a squid in the face and leaving him sputtering. The man’s sword pierced his throat before he could drown. More and more water spewed from every exposed inch of skin, washing away the blood on his arms and crashing in sheets, whips, and waves into the Ironborn. The stranger was a force of nature, quite literally. Water personified.

“Couldn’t the Rhoynish do that? Me ma used to tell stories, b’fore the pox took ‘er, and she said the Rhoynar fought the dragons with water. They used to-”

“Hush,” Hallis ordered. The boy looked crestfallen to be interrupted, but they couldn’t afford to divide their attention. Thankfully, Cregan stayed silent. Besides, Hallis wasn’t convinced. Hadn’t the Children of the Forest had water magic too? What would a Dornish wizard be doing here? “Go back to camp. Gather the men.” He needed no further prompting, and was off like a bow from an arrow.

Hallis watched as Glover men- the rather large party led by a fellow veteran named Elric- joined the fray, firing arrows at the Ironborn. The stranger fought through the gates, and more of the scouts and skirmishers Hallis had spent months getting to know left the woods. His sword was in hand now, and the old soldier was admittedly itching to join the fight. Northmen inside the castle were gathering up weapons, those outside the castle were slaughtering the squids trapped between them and the stranger. They could win this battle, could free the prisoners.

Cregan returned with Hallis’ men. Sixteen of the original twenty were left, and they needed no encouragement to fight. Hallis only had to draw his sword and point it at the castle for the charge to begin.

The Forrester men shouted and ran, with cries of “Ironrath!”, “Forrester!”, “Stark!”, “King in the North!”, and even their own first names. They crashed into a small contingent of Ironborn fighting desperately against some Glovers, flanking the squids. They were swiftly wiped out to a man, and Hallis clasped hands with Elric.

“Who the fuck’s the magician?” his friend asked without preamble, shouting over the din of steel. Hallis just shrugged and joined the push through the gates, sticking close to Cregan’s side. The boy was still green enough to worry him, and of an age with Hallis’ youngest daughter. Neither had even been wed yet. If Betha had been born a man, she would be fighting and dying in the mud, just like Cregan. The thought chilled Hallis to the bone. It would break his heart to see the lad die.

Thankfully, the battle was all but won. Northmen easily followed the path that the stranger had opened up, uniting with revolting Glovers and fellow scouts alike. The sun lowered, the battle raged. Cregan stayed alive, though two of Hallis men fell. As hours passed, the Forresters grew closer to the top of the hill, where the Glovers’ keep was. The stranger was there, fighting off five men at once. He was bloodied and bruised, his armor too dirty for Hallis to see details, but even now, the stranger was the greatest warrior he had ever seen.

A swipe from a Greyjoy axe forced Hallis to jump backwards, and he found himself with his back against a hard metal surface. Turning to look over his shoulder, Hallis was shocked to find the stranger fighting at his back.

“Who do you think you are!” he yelled at the stranger, speaking in the voice he used for lords and knights, rather than other smallfolk. Hallis turned away, parrying a downward blow from a Greyjoy axe, then lashing out and separating the squid’s head from his neck. “The Children’s magic is gone from these lands, boy.” 

“Percy Jackson. Stannis sent me,” the stranger replied, as if that explained anything. His accent was strange, and he had a family name. Perhaps he was a Rhoynish lordling after all. “I’m not from around here.” A squid charged at Hallis, too quickly for him to survive. For a moment, he was sure his life was over. But out of nowhere, a three-pronged spear appeared in Percy Jackson’s hand, then buried itself in the Ironborn’s throat. Just as quickly, the spear flew through the air, into Jackson’s hand. Hallis looked at the man- a boy, really, younger than his eldest daughter, if the flash of green eyes and a short black beard through the helmet was any indication of the rest of his face- with newfound respect.

“I’m Hallis. I suppose if you keep fighting like that, we can figure out who you are later.”

If Percy Jackson replied, Hallis did not hear it. They were separated by the battle, though it was swiftly won. He watched from afar as Elric bent to speak to Jackson after he collapsed, and as Glover men carted him off to the maester. By then, Hallis had bigger problems. Three of his men were badly wounded, and one more had been killed. Cregan was being acclaimed as a hero by his peers, though the boy was only smiling sheepishly at the praise. Apparently, he’d saved a serving girl from an Ironborn axe.

Ravens went out after night fell. Northern soldiers helped pick up the pieces. Ironborn were burned in a mass grave. Through it all, the strange man slept away the day, recovering from what seemed to be exhaustion. Hallis envied him.

He did not see Percy Jackson again until the celebratory feast. He hadn’t even known the lad was awake until he walked awkwardly into the hall, seeming much more human in homespun clothes. Without a helmet, Hallis could see his face more clearly. His estimate from the battle held up. He doubted he was older than four-and-twenty, though the beard had grown a bit more while he recovered, and added a few years to his appearance. Jackson’s arms and legs were covered in burn scars and the remnants of cuts alike, and his eyes seemed to glow in the dark feast hall. Hallis avoided looking him in the eye.

Of the Forrester men, only he and Cregan had been invited. The boy for his newfound hero status, and Hallis himself for being the commander of the force. He chatted with Cregan and Elric, keeping half an eye on the high table, where Jackson sat with the Glovers. He was the only man in the hall not drinking ale, and seemed severely uncomfortable with all the pomp and circumstance. Hallis couldn’t blame him. He wondered if the man wasn’t as highborn as his sharp features and well-made armor made him seem, or if he was simply a rarer thing than gold: a humble lordling.

Jackson slipped from the hall in the midst of the feast. Cregan did not chatter about the battle, as Hallis had feared he would. The boy had become more solemn after his first pitched fight, something larger than a skirmish in the woods. As he sipped his ale, Hallis weighed his gratitude for the lad’s maturity with his mourning of innocence lost.

“Say, laddie,” he said, after a sullen silence went on for too long. “Ye live south of Ironrath, nae?”

“Aye. Me pa and me brothers are on the farm, about a league to the south.”

“We live half a league south of you, then. When we get home, I’ll introduce ye to me daughter.” That got Cregan’s attention, and they spent the rest of the feast talking about Betha. Hallis, like any parent, delighted in extolling his children’s virtues. Cregan, like any lad of his age, delighted in daydreaming over a pretty lass.

He saw Percy Jackson once again, the following morning, as he rode off to the coast. Rumor said that he’d called on the sea to smash the Ironborn ships. After what he’d seen, Hallis believed it. Whether or not the rumors of him fighting for Stannis and taking both King’s Landing and Storm’s End were true was a different story. Even so, now that he and his men were stationed at Deepwood Motte permanently, there was plenty of time for speculation and gossip. Ironrath was considered less important to defend than the Glovers’ seat, and it remained vulnerable to Ironborn raids. Hallis could only hope the King returned home soon, and shored up the defenses. If the squids pushed far enough inland to reach his family… no. He wouldn’t let that happen.

When the strange lordling returned several weeks later, offering to help hunt down the surviving Ironborn and build new defenses against them, Hallis was almost glad to see him.

Chapter Text

Outside the walls of Sardeis, Lydia, Seleukid Empire (disputed territory)

Summer, 215 Before Common Era/97 Seleukid Era/1931 years Before Aegon’s Conquest

In all his years as a soldier, Lysimakhos had never seen anything like this. The armies of King Antiokhos had besieged Sardeis for nearly a year. The traitor Akhaios was on the verge of surrender. As a heavy horseman- what would have been called a hetairos under Alexandros Megas- in the armies of King Antiokhos, there shouldn’t have been much for Lysimakhos to do. Not that there was ever much to do during a siege, but the cavalry were even more bored than the infantry. Today was an exception.

“What the fuck happened here?” Lysimakhos’ commander was a cranky old man named Sokrates, from his own native city of Antioch on the Orontes. Lysimakhos didn’t like him all that much, but the old soldier had earned his respect. He was the only one in their ile who could see through the Mist. Lysimakhos himself was a son of Hermes, and had often found it useful over the years to have someone to back up his wild explanations for monster attacks and the occasional quest. This, however, was not a monster attack.

Four of the ile had been slaughtered in their sleep. Not killed, not even executed, but slaughtered. The inside of the tent, which was located near the edge of the siege camp, was covered in blood and gore. The four men had been practically hacked to pieces. If the scene had been even slightly more brutal, the demigod would have dubbed it a monster attack and hunted down the beast. But these cuts were too clean, the outside undisturbed. This was done by a man, and one who wanted to send a message at that. From how one of the dead men- a friend of his- had been torn limb from limb, the assailant clearly had superhuman strength.

“It must have been one of my people, sir,” Lysimakhos admitted to his commander. Sokrates had woken him just as rosy-fingered Eos began to touch the sky, dragged him to see the disgusting mess, and then pulled him aside to talk. From the look on the old man’s face, it was obvious he’d already come to that conclusion. “No mortal man has that strength.”

“The King wants that city. If this is a prelude to an attack from the traitors…”

“No, we’re facing away from the city. This is one attacker from outside Sardeis. They want to get my attention.” And the other demigod, whoever they were, had most certainly succeeded.

“Then this is your problem. I expect you to deal with it,” Sokrates warned.

“Believe me, sir. I will,” he promised.

Lysimakhos snuck outside the camp that night. The patrols were on high alert, on the orders of the King himself, but Sokrates had ensured there was a gap he could slip through. He brought both his kopis made of mortal steel and the one of Celestial Bronze he kept hidden from his mortal comrades. He found a suitable rock outside of camp, out of sight of patrols, sat down, and waited.

It took a few hours before his adversary showed himself. The man lacked the muscular build of a warrior, though his well-made armor tried to hide it. He wore a set of armor that wouldn’t have been out of place in King Antiokhos’ camp, except for the faintly glowing Celestial Bronze of his cuirass, and the kopis made of the same metal. Clouds obscured the moon, but from the flash of silver under the man’s helm, Lysimakhos never would have known. He’d seen those eyes a dozen times before. This was a child of Athena. Unremarkable, except for the fact that the man looked to be around his own age- remarkably old for a demigod- and Lysimakhos had never met him before.

“I don’t recognize you from the agoge,” he said to the stranger. The man cocked his head in thought, then shook it.

“On Mt. Pelion? No, I’m from Neapolis. My mother was Athena, not Minerva, but I was educated in Rome regardless. The barbaroi have been experimenting with magic, you know? I’ve learned a great deal that the old horse wouldn’t dare teach,” he sneered. Lysimakhos stood from his stone. He did not take insults against Chiron lightly. The ‘old horse’ had raised him from the age of eight to the age of fifteen, and shaped him into a warrior as great as any at the agoge. He owed Chiron a debt that could never be repaid, and this Athenides spat on it.

“Do you have a name, oh great sorcerer?” Lysimakhos asked, bowing mockingly.

“Kleon. And you are?”

“Lysimakhos of Antiokhea, son of Hermes,” he replied.

“Perfect. My information was correct, then,” Kleon gloated.

“Information?”

“I needed a child or grandchild of Zeus, you see. Blood for a spell. My own, as a child of Athena, is too dilute to use. The King of the Gods has no living children, unfortunately. But another grandchild’s blood, from a different divine parent, would be sufficient when combined with my own. I was told I could find a child of Hermes with Antiokhos’ army. One of the Alexandrian demigods you fought at Raphia remembered you. I need only a cup’s worth, cousin. Surely you will not deny me that?” The sorcerer pulled a short, gleaming Celestial Bronze xiphos from his belt, grinning sadistically. This man really loves to hear himself talk, Lysimakhos realized. He was probably inexperienced in war despite his age, filled with battle-lust and devoid of the reason his mother’s blood ought to have given.

“Answer me this, cousin. Whom do you serve?” Lysimakhos asked.

“King Ptolemaios, of course. This spell could win any war he wishes to fight in an instant” Lysimakhos snarled and spat on the ground. He’d already fought one war against the damn Egyptians, and it had ended in disaster. Over a hundred thousand men had met in battle at Raphia. Too few had walked away.

“I won’t bow to a gods-damned sisterfucker, or help his lapdog undermine my King,” he swore. Lysimakhos drew his own bronze kopis, and left the steel in its sheath. “If you want my blood, take it.”

Kleon was only too happy to oblige him. Thankfully, Lysimakhos’ assumption was correct. The son of Athena was skilled, and fought in what was likely a Roman style, but he had no real practice in combat. Certainly not against another demigod, with strength equal to his own.

Kleon lunged and chopped with his blade, expecting his strength to be enough. Lysimakhos parried nimbly and flicked his wrist, shoving his opponent back. Kleon snarled like a wolf and tried again, and again, and again. Nothing worked. The occasional blow hit Lysimakhos’ armor, but even the mortal steel held firm. Kleon knew how to attack viciously, but not how to break through a defense. Finally, Lysimakhos grew tired of playing with his food. Kleon overreached, trying to decapitate him in one blow. The son of Hermes was shorter and faster, so he ducked under the blow, caught Kleon’s wrist, and pulled him off balance. Kleon stumbled as Lysimakhos smoothly stood upright. He brought his blade down on the Neapolitan’s sword arm, cutting it off midway through the forearm.

Kleon screamed in shock and pain, even as Lysimakhos tossed aside the severed hand and the sword it still clutched. He grabbed onto the Athenides’ bronze chestplate, breaking the leather ties with one tug, and tearing it off the pathetic excuse for a warrior. With his enemy’s stomach exposed, Lysimakhos drew his steel kopis and buried it in Kleon’s gut. He took a step back from the dying man, and glared down at him contemptuously. To Lysimakhos’ surprise, there was manic laughter in those Athena-gray eyes.

“Is that enough blood for your spells?” he asked the sorcerer. Kleon tried to laugh, but with the sword still in his stomach, it came out as more of a pained gasp.

“I have learned,” he wheezed, “magic you could never dream of. With this spell I could have opened a gateway to Tartaros, wide enough to swallow armies.” Kleon spat blood, and smiled with red teeth. “But I have enough strength left to open a door between worlds large enough for one man.” Lysimakhos was already scrambling away from the dying demigod, but it was too late. “Incantare: exsilium,” Kleon said, in the Romans’ tongue.

In an instant, the world disappeared. Everything was a blinding green, and then Lysimakhos found himself somewhere else. He was standing in a room of fused black stone, lit by torches that did not flicker. To his left was a pile of ashes, mixed with more identifiable remains. There were bones that looked human, the burned husk of a massive, gold-ringed horn, and tiny, shiny, black bones of some sort of winged beast. What in the name of the gods…

To his right was an even stranger sight. A man stood there, dressed in flowing robes, with a small bowl of what looked like blood in one hand, made of rippled steel. By far the strangest part of the scene was the man himself. He had silver-white hair, yet seemed younger even than Lysimakhos, who was not even thirty. His eyes, blown wide with fear, were an inhuman shade of violet.

Barely restraining his panic, Lysimakhos pointed his Celestial Bronze kopis, now the only blade left on his person, at the strange man. He dropped the bowl of blood in shock, and raised his hands in a universal gesture of surrender. Behind the man were two equally startled-looking men with leather and iron collars around their necks, flanking a heavy iron door. Slaves, if he had to guess.

“Who are you! What is this place?” he demanded of the stranger. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the man responded in a language other than Greek.

“Ñuha brōzi Haegon issa. Sparos…” He trailed off, still staring at Lysimakhos. “Udririzi Valyrio ȳdrā?” Apparently there was a language barrier here. The stranger spoke what sounded like two or three other languages, but Lysimakhos recognized none of them.

“A door between worlds…” he muttered to himself, still speaking Greek. At the stranger’s blank look, he tried again in the Syrians’ language. “Do you understand me?” he tried. He asked again in the tongue he’d learned while stationed in the city of Tyros, but the purple-eyed stranger just shook his head sadly.

Whatever that damned man had done to him, he’d certainly been sent very far from home. Lysimakhos didn’t think he’d ever met a man who didn’t at least recognize the three most common trade languages spoken in the east of the Great Sea. He was in a foreign land, surrounded by barbaroi, and doubtless would have a difficult road ahead of him if he sought to return home. Thankfully, Chiron had trained him well. And if the relatively unphased nature of the man in front of him, and the bowl of blood, was any indication, this was a place of magic and learning.

Lysimakhos gave up on trying to communicate, doubting the handful of words he knew in a few other tongues of Anatolia and Persia would make any difference. Instead, he put away his sword, and settled for the most basic exchange of ideas he could. He tapped his battered chestplate with one finger.

“Lysimakhos ho Antiokheus,” he said. It had to be repeated a few times, but eventually the man smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

“Haegon Belaerys,” the stranger said, tapping his own chest. He turned, excitedly barking orders to the slaves. They opened the door and rushed out, Haegon following close behind. He beckoned Lysimakhos to follow. After a moment’s consideration, and the unfortunate realization that he had no other choice, he did.