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Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, Earthshaker, Storm-Bringer, and accidental creator of at least three major nautical disasters before breakfast, had fought titans, giants, and his own siblings with admirable composure.
None of that prepared him for walking into his ballroom and finding it full of ribbons.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Pearlescent blue streamers drifted through the water like jellyfish with organizational skills. Frosted coral pillars—frosted, somehow—lined the walls, shimmering with a soft silver glow. Schools of fish darted in precise, rehearsed formations, weaving between floating crystal orbs that pulsed gently like submerged moons.
Poseidon stopped just inside the arched entrance, trident in hand, crown slightly askew, and blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then, very carefully, he turned around and looked behind him, half-expecting to see one of his brothers snickering in the hallway.
Nothing.
He turned back.
The ballroom was still… festive.
“Amphitrite,” Poseidon said cautiously, the way one addressed either a beloved spouse or a sleeping kraken. “Why does it look like a pod of particularly ambitious sea nymphs attacked my palace with a craft budget?”
Amphitrite, Queen of the Sea, was hovering near the center of the room, directing a pair of nereids who were arguing—politely—about whether the ribbon arch should curve left or right to best complement the current.
She didn’t look up.
“Because,” she said serenely, “it’s for an event.”
Poseidon relaxed a fraction. Events were fine. Gods hosted events all the time. Feasts. Councils. Rituals. Dramatic confrontations that ended with someone being turned into something unfortunate.
He nodded. “All right. What sort of event?”
Amphitrite finally turned to him, smiling sweetly.
“Percy’s Winter Formal.”
The silence that followed was so complete that even the currents seemed to pause.
Poseidon stared at her.
She stared back.
A passing dolphin slowed, sensing divine confusion, then wisely fled.
“…Percy,” Poseidon repeated. “Our Percy.”
“Yes.”
“Our mortal son Percy.”
“Yes.”
“The one who attends a mortal school.”
“Yes.”
Poseidon opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“And the Winter Formal,” he said carefully, “is… happening… here.”
Amphitrite nodded. “In the ballroom.”
Poseidon looked around at the glowing arches, the carefully arranged seating platforms, the enormous banner unfurling near the ceiling that read WINTER FORMAL in elegant, icy script.
“…Amphitrite.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Why.”
She floated closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Because I am not,” she said calmly, “going to let Lindy Carmechian offer her building’s conference room at a discounted rate and think she’s doing all of us a favor.”
Poseidon frowned. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Exactly.”
Amphitrite gestured sharply, and a group of sea sprites immediately began repositioning an ice-sculpted hippocampus centerpiece.
“She’s the head of the PTA committee,” Amphitrite continued, her voice smooth but edged like a blade hidden in silk. “And she smiled at me. The kind of smile that says you should be grateful we’re even letting your child attend.”
Poseidon winced. “Ah. One of those.”
“She suggested,” Amphitrite said, her tone tightening just a touch, “that if we couldn’t contribute financially, perhaps we could ‘volunteer with setup.’”
Poseidon made a low, dangerous sound. Somewhere in the distance, a wave crashed into a cliff out of pure sympathy.
“So,” Amphitrite said brightly, “I told the PTA that the venue would be our family’s historical estate, located on a private island off the coast.”
Poseidon blinked. “You… what.”
“It explains the boat.”
“The… boat.”
“Yes.”
Poseidon raised a hand. “Darling. My love. Light of the tides.” He paused. “You do understand that Percy’s classmates are mortal children.”
“Yes.”
“And that this palace is,” he gestured broadly, “underwater.”
“Yes.”
“And that mortal children,” he continued, “tend to notice when they are submerged beneath several miles of ocean.”
Amphitrite smiled, utterly unbothered. “The Mist will be doing most of the heavy lifting.”
Poseidon hesitated. “And… the rest?”
“Oh, Rhode volunteered to chaperone the trip down.”
As if summoned by name, Rhode—the ever-enthusiastic sea nymph with a clipboard and an alarming amount of confidence—popped into existence beside them.
“I’m great at gaslighting,” Rhode said cheerfully.
Poseidon stared.
Rhode beamed. “Professionally.”
She vanished again before he could respond.
Poseidon rubbed his temple. “Amphitrite. They won’t be able to breathe.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I don’t have enough magical control over my own home to purge the ballroom and back entrance of water as needed?”
“Well, darling—”
“If I can hold that spell for five and a half weeks,” Amphitrite cut in smoothly, “so that you and your brothers could throw your Centennial Blackout Rage Fest, then I can handle four hours with a group of teenagers.”
Poseidon flinched.
“That was one time,” he muttered.
“And the throne room still smells like smoke,” she replied.
He sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that accepted not just defeat, but inevitability.
“…Do I have to wear a suit?” he asked.
Amphitrite laughed.
“That’s so cute,” she said. “No. You’re not chaperoning.”
Poseidon frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you would absolutely egg on a child to spike the punch bowl, declare it a ‘rite of passage,’ and then start reminiscing about your youth.”
“I was very popular,” Poseidon protested.
“You would make it incredibly awkward for everyone,” Amphitrite finished sweetly.
He considered arguing. Then reconsidered. He knew when a battle was lost.
“…Is there anything I can do to help?”
Amphitrite looked around the room, then pointed toward a massive cluster of enchanted ice-glass balloons waiting near the entrance.
“Yes,” she said. “You can fill the balloon arch.”
Poseidon nodded solemnly.
And went to fill the balloon arch.
Four hours later, the Winter Formal would be remembered as legendary.
The Mist would work overtime.
Percy would later swear he had no idea why the dance floor sparkled like starlight or why the ocean breeze felt warm and familiar.
Poseidon would accidentally overinflate one balloon and apologize to it.
And Amphitrite would watch it all from the balcony, satisfied, victorious, and already drafting her next email to the PTA.