Chapter Text
Percy hadn’t meant for this to happen. Truly.
Yes, he had agreed to help a doomed world regain its footing in exchange for a quick trip out of the Underworld. Save the world by preventing this one event—all he had to do was ensure the right people lived long enough to sit on the throne.
It would be quick, they said.
Nothing too troublesome for the Hero of the Silver Age, they promised.
There will be dragons, they bribed.
Had he known he was going to be saddled with more than just the responsibility of deterring a catastrophic war and the entire course of destiny with only the somewhat minimal help of his cousin, he would have told that Valyrian god to go take a hike.
Annabeth’s so going to kill him for this.
Alicent was eight moons with His Grace the King’s child—the latest and hopefully last, her father’s wishes be damned; she had given the king more children than Aemma Arryn ever hoped to bear or Viserys knew what to do with—when her two eldest children simultaneously decided to lose their minds.
When the tantrums first started, Alicent had deluded herself into thinking that her two children were simply upset from the lack of attention. Unlike with her other children, this babe was proving to be trouble even before he—for it was most definitely another son—left the safety of her body. Her ankles had swollen miserably large, she hadn’t been able to keep food down for nearly five moons turn, and so Maester Mellos had forced her on bedrest very early on. Where she had yet to leave nearly four moons later, leaving her children to be absolute terrors.
Not that Viserys would know. He spared not a thought to her children, spending the sparse moments he could crawl out of bed with Rhaenyra and her wretched bastard. Well, bastards. There were two of them now—the youngest born only seven moons ago, the exact mirror of his older brother. And the Hand’s eldest son.
Aegon was born a terror. Clingy, and prone to tantrums from the moment he knew that crying would grant him the attention that Alicent knew she hadn’t been able to give him. His temper and tears had only gotten worse with every child Alicent was forced to carry, and the sparse attention that his father had stopped granting him. But it was Helaena that surprised Alicent enough to force herself out of the bed she had been glued to.
Her Helaena was a hard babe at first, but had mellowed out after her first birthday to the point of near silence. The direct opposite of Aegon, her two eldest had never really gotten along. Aegon wanted a brother he could play with, and Helaena rather spent her day watching birds than playing with her annoying older brother. The birth of Aemond had finally provided a healthy balance.
So when a frazzled nursemaid broke propriety to march into the Queen’s bedchamber unannounced, Alicent was too shocked to care much about manners. The young nursemaid—Mara, one of Aegon’s newest—had burst into tears the moment she saw Alicent, nearly throwing herself onto the floor at her feet. Between blubbering sobs and a handkerchief being pressed to stem her tears, the young girl begged for the queen to interfere with her children. Little by little, the story clicked into place, and Alicent…had perhaps never been so horrified.
Ser Criston was helping her stand—well, he was mostly carrying her at this point, for her belly was simply too large—when the doors to her room burst open unannounced for the second time that day. Ser Harrold Westerling came marching in, followed by a hobbling Viserys, who had both of her elder children clutched in each hand. Aegon was babbling up a storm at his father, who actually looked interested for once, and Helaena—Helaena was smiling. A large grin, that stretched from cheek to cheek. Alicent didn’t think she’d ever seen her daughter smile so exuberantly.
At the sight of her and her grossly protruding belly—really, had she known he was going to show up in her chambers she would have at least attempted to look presentable—Viserys dropped both children’s hands to hobble towards her, rancid breath washing over her as he ordered Criston to settle her back down on the chaise.
“Good morrow, husband,” Alicent greeted, dropping a quick kiss on the less disgusting cheek. Truly, Mellos had not been doing a fine job with healing the lesions on the king’s skin. The blisters and rot had begun spreading down his neck, with nought a change despite the constant medications and creams she had forced herself to apply when able.
“Now, what did I hear about our children causing a fuss?” Alicent asked, flashing steely eyes on her two children, both of whom were grinning innocuously. They were even holding hands, a sight Alicent did not think she would ever get to see. Not even at their inevitable wedding, where she was sure she would have to drag Aegon to.
Viserys chuckled, moving to sit across her. “Nothing to worry about, my dear wife. It seems our children simply had a request I was only too happy to grant.”
“A request?” Alicent’s brow furrowed, sparing a glance at the two giggly children. “Of what kind?”
Viserys opened his mouth to answer—
“Father said yes to taking us to Dragonstone,” Helaena interrupted softly, her lavender eyes brimming with life. Her daughter seldom spoke, but when she did she did so beautifully. “To see dragons.”
No. Helaena was too young, too sweet still for a dragon. “Viserys, husband, we have spoken on this,” Alicent panicked. The thought of her pure, innocent Helaena near another one of those violent beasts made her want to vomit. “Helaena is still too young—,”
“Peace, Alicent,” Viserys interrupted with a wave of a wrinkled hand. “Only Aegon will be claiming a dragon. Or another egg, should he wish. But the boy is six, and old enough to try.”
Immediately, all the fight left Alicent, leaving her to sag on the chaise. Aegon’s egg had once been Baelon’s, and had never hatched. Earlier this year, it had begun to turn to stone. Helaena’s did hatch, but the cream yellow hatchling hadn’t survived more than a moon’s turn before succumbing to death. Aemond’s silver egg remains to be seen, sleeping warm underneath his bed.
One look confirmed that her son was happy, the happiest she had ever seen him. Alicent’s heart began to melt. Aegon was so lonely, born with a melancholy no amount of siblings had been able to fix. He had cried miserably when his egg began petrifying, and even more so when Jacaerys’ dragon had hatched.
“Aegon then,” Alicent agreed. Perhaps a dragon was what her son needed most right now, and a dragon would most certainly show her son was the right choice of heir.
She beckoned Helaena closer. “And you, my sweet? Another egg, perhaps?” But her daughter merely shook her head stubbornly. From the corner of her eye, Alicent saw her husband tense in surprise at their daughter’s vehemence. Interesting. Even he didn’t know Helaena was not after another dragon.
“Not for me,” Helaena insisted, pointing a hand at Alicent’s belly. “For my valonqar.”
“But the babe already has an egg, sweetling. You helped choose one moons ago,” Alicent said, confused. Her husband seemed similarly unmoored, though said nothing. The babe’s egg had been chosen from Dreamfyre’s latest clutch by the children themselves—an admittedly beautiful thing, of cobalt blue with copper swirls.
“Hel believes we chose wrong,” Aegon chimed in from next to his sister. He was practically bouncing with glee. Helaena nodded, almost desperately. Looking at her son, she wasn’t sure if he actually believed his sister at all, or if he was just taking advantage of the situation to claim a dragon.
Not that it mattered. Viserys still looked utterly delighted at the chance to visit Dragonstone, strange reasons or no. Especially when Rhaenyra was there visiting her castle and introducing Lucerys to the masses. Alicent sighed. From there, the matter was settled. Viserys and the children sans Aemond would visit Dragonstone in two days' time. Under no circumstances, Alicent had pressed her husband, would they be allowed to stay longer than a sennight.
Aegon returned from Dragonstone with a dragon clutched in his arms—a hatchling no bigger than a particularly skinny hound, its bright golden scales and soft pink wings glittering like diamonds in the setting sun. Sunfyre, the boy proclaimed proudly to anyone who would hear him, the little dragon squeaking his approval. Little Sunfyre would set fire to the curtains in the nursery twice before the moon turned, brilliant golden flames let loose while Aegon clapped with little worry while his nursemaids screamed.
Helaena returned with an egg almost as large as she was, of pale blue and sea glass green with ridges like waves crashing into the shore. A strangely Velaryon-looking egg, Alicent noted with raised brows, something that even her husband and his slight wince confirmed was unplanned. But her daughter had chosen this egg for reasons that neither of her parents could comprehend, or Aegon cared for. Her son got his dragon, and Alicent ended up with a Velaryon colored dragon egg for a Targaryen prince.
Perhaps it was a sign of her son’s future. Helaena had whispered something along the lines of “sea prince” when she dropped the egg off with the Dragonkeepers. As to what it meant, Alicent could only pray to the Seven that it would protect her children.
The night Percy Jackson finally died was as ordinary as it was peaceful. Eighty seven years old and having outlived nearly all his friends, with a full life to show for it—a loving wife, a beloved sister, beautiful children and grandchildren to keep the house alive with mirth and joy. A lifetime of adventures, however big or small; a hero for the ages.
His soul passed through the Underworld with a speed made only possible by the blessings of treasured friends. That, and the uncle-god who wanted him far, far away from his throne room.
Not that Percy could blame him. None of his many trips to Hades’ Palace had ever gone well.
And Percy’s time in the Fields of Judgment had passed quickly. With a quick snap of Nico’s fingers—gone were the wrinkles and sunspots; like this, Nico looked like he did at thirty five and happy—a judgment was made. Elysium, for the twice-damned Hero of Olympus.
“The Isles of the Blessed,” Hazel piped up from next to him, golden eyes blazing with joy. She looked beautiful, with her crows feet and slight gray on cinnamon curls. “For the soul that had found Elysium in all its times in the cycle of life.”
“Go in peace, Perseus Jackson,” finished Bianca di Angelo, older than he had ever seen her get to be.
(The mind of Percy Jackson would never remember all the people he used to be. Time and infinity and Chronos is a concept not even the brightest demigod minds could grasp. Forward, backwards—a never-ending loop. What is, will be; what exists then, begets the now.
Was Perseus Jackson born because of the Great Prophecy, or was the prophecy made because he was to exist? Was Percy Jackson named for Perseus, or was Perseus named for him?
Does it really matter? The soul of Percy Jackson will continue to live on in the stars that bear his name.)
They say that when a person dies and judgment is cast, be it to eternal damnation or peaceful absolution, their soul reverts back to the visage it wore when they were at their happiest. Nico still looked the age when he and Will adopted little Bianca. Hazel grew happier as she aged, because it was a reminder she lived past thirteen. The moment Percy stepped foot in Elysium, the wrinkles faded and his shock of white hair bled to black. His spine straightened, the aches in his back and knees and hips, all the injuries that hampered his life, faded to nothing. In eternity, Percy looked no older than he did the day he married Annabeth.
Jason still looked no older than sixteen, brilliant and golden and so very young.
A crowd had formed on the Square that housed Elysium’s gates. Elysium was beautiful, and everything a hero could dream of. From where he stood, all Percy could see were miles of hills interspersed with palaces and cities, myriad of flowers surrounding them like a blanket. Marble streets and fountains at every turn; restaurants and stores, even an arcade and amusement park or two. A modern Olympus, filled with everything its heroes could ever wish for.
As Percy stepped off the dais, he was swarmed from all sides by happy souls and screaming laughter. Friends he had lost so long ago he could barely remember their faces. But never their names; someone had to remember all those who fell in defense of Olympus.
Beckendorf. Silena, after her second turn in life. Clarisse and Chris, finally together again. The Stoll brothers. Katie, Lou Ellen, Jake. Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew. Leo. Reyna, frozen at seventeen, with eyes that spoke of a lifetime lived. Frank, forever twenty nine and slamming him into a bear hug alongside Jason, their laughter hiding the sobs Percy shed the moment he saw them.
(Sally Jackson had opted for rebirth the moment she entered the Underworld, that much Percy knew. Though her soul was on track for Elysium, Percy knew she would never make it there. Sally Jackson loved life, and she deserved to live it to the fullest far, far away from the games gods play.
From what little Nico knew, her soul had been reborn somewhere in Asia.)
Frank and Jason had won the lottery to be the ones to send him to the Isles. Located in the center of the deepest valley, on a lake so clear it shimmered like diamonds on a sunny day, the Isles of the Blessed glistened into being. Paradise took form as miles upon miles of sandy beaches, resorts and villas dotting every edge. If he squinted, he thinks he might’ve seen a pod of dolphins floating by the northmost edge, alongside a variety of other marine animals that would never coexist together anywhere but in death.
The afterlife was a paradise built on the beliefs of the fallen—those whose greatest wishes were never fulfilled in life. Percy tried not to think about how the souls of fallen demigods greatest wish was to go on an eternal vacation. And maybe swim with sharks and dolphins, untouched by time and mortal fears.
Settling down into one of the many nondescript villas—well, the one he found closest to cabin 3 anyway—Percy threw himself down onto the world’s comfiest bed. Here, Percy could finally be at peace; free from all responsibilities and duties, no sacrifices left to be made. Here, Percy Jackson could settle down and spend time with the friends he had not seen in almost a lifetime, until the day Annabeth, his two children, and Estelle made their way here, too. Though knowing Estelle, it would be a long time before he saw his little sister again. If it were up to Thalia, Estelle would live long enough to replace her as Lieutenant, and knowing Thalia, Estelle was destined to live forever at this rate.
But for Percy, this was the end. Death was the ending to a lifetime of fighting. Death was peace, and in death, he intended to rest.
Except—
No one told him how utterly dull death was.
Everyday was the same day—he’d get up, take a swim with the dolphins and sharks and whatever menagerie of weird, ancient marine creatures littered Elysium’s Lake, and then head off to meet with his less-recently departed friends.
It was fun in the beginning; a lottery system had been implemented to arrange individual ‘catch-up’ days with him, so everyone had an equal chance. He’d go to the arcades and the multiple malls and museums; visit each and every house owned by someone he knew for dinner—which normally ranged from junk food snucked in by a Hades kid to whatever home-cooked meal someone made. Then he’d go home to his overwater bungalow for the night, and pass out till dawn.
And then he’d repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
Jason and Beckendorf, by virtue of being there the longest without rebirth at least once, were most sympathetic. They too, were bored out of their minds and at wits end.
“There’s only so much you can do here, Perce,” Jason had said apologetically, after Percy spent the better part of the morning lamenting over his boredom while sipping on his daily boba.
But while Beckendorf still had Silena to distract him, he and Jason weren’t quite as lucky. Reyna was preparing for rebirth soon, and Leo had been lucky enough to get a job from Hades to oversee Daedalus’ road and bridge constructions. Last he heard from the two crazy engineers, they were in the midst of planning a whole new wing for Asphodel. Percy had offered his own help to his uncle, but had been shot down over afternoon tea with Persephone. Apparently, the Underworld staff of ghouls and skeletons were kind of scared of him, given the amount of times he’d accidentally terrorized them.
And Jason—
Well, the guy spent the first fifty years of his time in the Underworld working. He built statues, volunteered for any available committee; played mediator and kept the peace between everyone. Then, he crashed. Hard. Turns out, working nonstop everyday without gratification could kill even the dead. Now, his cousin just spent most of his days relaxing and catching up on the childhood he never got.
Which brought Percy back to where he was now: bored. Bored and alone because Frank was busy with Hazel, and Jason—his assigned buddy of the day—bailed on him for some reason or another. And a bored Percy was a dangerous, impulsive Percy.
So when a random dragon-lizard looking god from a completely different reality popped in on his doorsteps like an unwanted Jehovah’s Witness, Percy was desperate enough that he didn't slam the door in their scaly face.
Daeron Targaryen was born on the 18th day of the 8th moon, 119 years After Aegon's Conquest. A head of palest silver strands, just like all the queen’s children, except for a single tuft of black hair laid right at the center that set him apart from all known Targaryens. And his eyes shone, not the violets or lilacs or lavender of his siblings, but of purest green. Like his mother’s dress; like wildfire. Green, like the emerald beacon on the Hightower.
And with a first tremulous cry, his dragon hatched.