Dawn broke over Storm's End in layers—first gray, then pale gold streaking across a brooding sky. The fortress stood defiant against the churning sea below, its massive curtain wall catching the first light while most of its inhabitants still slumbered. Most, but not all.
In the kitchens, Gerta the head cook had already been stoking fires for two hours, her gnarled hands working dough for the day's bread with practiced efficiency. Three kitchen boys scurried around her like mice, one hauling water, another feeding kindling to the massive ovens, the third carefully turning bacon on a sizzling skillet. The smell of yeast and smoke and salt pork filled the warm air.
"Move your arse, Podrick!" Gerta snapped at the smallest boy, who'd paused to yawn. "Lord Baratheon'll be wanting his breakfast when he's done with the smithy, and you know how he gets when he's been hammering since before dawn."
"Yes'm," Podrick mumbled, quickening his pace.
Outside in the inner ward, the sound of metal striking metal rang in steady rhythm. Unlike his father Robert, who'd famously preferred drinking and whoring to honest work, Gendry Baratheon still found peace at the forge. Dawn was his time—before petitioners arrived, before ravens brought problems from King's Landing, before he had to be Lord of Storm's End instead of just a man working iron with his hands.
The castle was waking up around him—stable boys mucking out stalls, servants hauling water, guards changing shifts with sleepy grumbles. Morning mist clung to the cobblestones, turning the world soft at the edges.
In the maester's tower, old Edric was already at his desk, quill scratching parchment as he updated the castle's accounts. The previous day's events had disturbed him—the young lord's display in the training yard had been... unnatural. He'd spent half the night consulting ancient tomes about the old bloodlines, about magic returning to the realm. His findings troubled him deeply.
High above in the rookery, ravens rustled their black feathers, waiting for messages to carry across the Seven Kingdoms. One cawed impatiently, already bearing a sealed scroll for King's Landing.
And in a sparse chamber in the east wing, Stannis Baratheon had been awake for hours. Unlike his brother, who slept sprawled across his bed like a felled tree, Stannis slept precisely, woke precisely, and moved through his morning ablutions with military discipline. Cold water, not hot. Plain clothes, well-made but unadorned. A simple breakfast of hard bread and salt fish, consumed while reviewing the day's duties.
Today, however, his routine had been disrupted. The boy's... episode... in the yard yesterday demanded attention. He'd spent half the night drafting notes, organizing his observations, preparing for the meeting Gendry had called. The lad had to be dealt with—properly, methodically. Power untrained was power dangerous, and Stannis had seen enough of fire and blood to last several lifetimes.
Thor's arms felt like they'd been ripped off and poorly sewn back on. He groaned, rolling onto his side as morning light stabbed through the window slats of his chamber. Every muscle screamed a vivid reminder of yesterday's punishment—ten thousand strikes against the training dummy, with Stannis standing there like a statue, counting in that infuriatingly calm voice.
"Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight..."
"Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."
"Ten thousand."
Not even a hint of satisfaction or mercy. Just those cold eyes watching as Thor's knees finally buckled and he hit the dirt. The applause from Althera had felt like mockery, though he knew some of it was genuine—lasting through Stannis's punishment was no small feat.
But the collapse wasn't what kept him staring at the ceiling all night. It was what happened right before—when his strength was gone and his arms were numb, something else had surged through him. Something that made the air crackle and the hair on everyone's arms stand up.
"Bloody hell," Thor muttered, flexing his fingers. Nothing now. Just the dull throb of overworked muscles and the scrape of calluses. He sat up gingerly, muscles protesting every movement. Through his window, he could see the daily rituals of the castle unfolding—servants crossing the yard with laundry baskets, a hunting party returning with fresh game slung over horses, the master-at-arms bellowing at young squires assembled for morning drills.
Normally, he'd be down there with them, training with sword and shield until midday. Today, his body needed rest, though he'd never admit it openly. Baratheons didn't complain about pain. His father had taught him that much.
His chamber door burst open without warning.
"Wakey wakey, lightning boy!" Althera swung in, tossing an apple at his head with deadly accuracy. "Still alive after Stannis tried to murder you yesterday?"
Thor barely caught it, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder. "Don't you knock? I could've been naked."
"Please," she snorted, flopping onto the foot of his bed. "Nothing I haven't seen before when we were kids. Besides, I'd just gouge my eyes out and blame you for it." She took a bite of her own apple, talking while chewing. "So, what was that in the yard yesterday? One minute you're about to face-plant after strike nine thousand whatever, the next minute—" she wiggled her fingers "—sparkle sparkle?"
Thor glared. "I didn't sparkle."
"Oh, sorry," she grinned, "your eyes glowing majestically while shooting lightning from your fingertips. Better?"
"It wasn't lightning," he growled, even though they both knew it was exactly that.
"Riiiight," Althera drawled. "Just like that time you got angry at dinner and all the candles flared up wasn't weird either." She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Thor, half the castle's talking about it. The old women are making signs against evil. One of the stable boys thinks you're possessed."
Thor sat up straight. "What?"
"Relax," she waved dismissively. "I threatened to break his fingers if he kept spreading shit. But Father knows. Stannis definitely knows. And they're—"
A knock at the door interrupted them.
"My lord?" A young squire's voice. "Lord Baratheon requests your presence in the solar. Right away, he said."
Thor exchanged a look with his sister.
"Did he say why?" Thor called.
"No, my lord. But..." the squire paused, "Lord Stannis is with him."
"Tell them he'll be there," Althera answered before Thor could. After the footsteps faded, she punched his arm. "You're in trouuuble," she sang.
Thor shoved her off the bed. "Thanks for the support."
"Always here for you, brother dear." She landed gracefully and straightened. "Better get dressed. Unless you're planning to face the inquisition in your sleep clothes."
Thor grabbed a clean tunic, wincing as he pulled it over his head. "How bad do you think it is?"
Althera's smile softened a fraction. "Father is not mad, if that's what you're worried about. More like... scared, maybe? And Stannis—well, he's Stannis. Probably writing a ten-page report on 'The Peculiar Lightning Manifestations of Thor Baratheon' or some shit."
"Great," Thor muttered, splashing water on his face from the basin. "Just great."
"Hey." Althera's voice turned serious. "Whatever this is—the lightning, the storms—it's part of you. And you're still my annoying little brother who can't beat me at knife-throwing."
"I let you win," he retorted automatically.
"Sure you did, thunder thighs." She grinned, dodging the wet cloth he threw at her head. "Better hurry up. I'll race you there."
"How? They only summoned me."
Her smile turned mischievous. "Oh, I have my ways. Bet you ten silver stags I'm there before you."
She was out the door before he could respond, her laughter echoing down the corridor.
Thor finished dressing, his heart a little lighter despite everything. From the corridor outside came the usual morning sounds—servants bustling with linens, guards changing posts, the distant clang of the smithy where his father probably started working before first light. The rhythm of Storm's End, as steady as the waves crashing against its cliffs.
Halfway to the Great Hall, Thor passed Maester Edric shuffling along with his chain clinking softly with each labored step.
"My lord," the old man nodded, his rheumy eyes studying Thor with new intensity. "How fare you this morning? After yesterday's... exertions."
Thor straightened, ignoring the protest in his shoulders. "Well enough, Maester. Nothing a Baratheon can't handle."
"Indeed." The maester's gaze lingered. "Your father was much the same at your age. Though perhaps not quite so..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...connected to the elements."
Thor felt his face warm. "I don't know what you mean."
"No?" Edric's eyebrows rose. "Then perhaps we should discuss the weather. Most unusual pattern we're having. The storms seem to follow your moods with remarkable consistency."
Before Thor could formulate a response, the maester was continuing down the corridor, his voice floating back: "Do give your lord father my regards. I've left some texts in his solar that may prove... illuminating."
Thor watched him go, a knot forming in his stomach. Even the maester had noticed. Who else was watching him? Measuring him? Wondering what was wrong with him?
He resumed walking, more quickly now. The Great Hall was filling with people breaking their fast—knights and their squires, household guards, servants moving efficiently between tables with bread and salt fish and ale. Several heads turned as he entered, conversations pausing mid-sentence before resuming with deliberate casualness.
Ser Davrin, the master-at-arms, intercepted him before he could cross to the high table. "My lord," he said, his gruff voice lowered. "Fine showing yesterday. Ten thousand strokes—not many lads could manage it." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Though that business at the end... might be best not to repeat it, eh? Men talk."
"It wasn't intentional," Thor muttered.
"No?" Davrin looked skeptical. "Well. Intention or no, power like that draws attention. Not all of it welcome." He clapped Thor on the shoulder, making him wince. "Watch yourself, lad."
As Thor moved on, he passed Septa Myrna, who actually made the sign of the Seven as he walked by. Two serving girls whispered behind their hands, eyes following him. A group of squires fell silent, then broke into nervous laughter when he glanced their way.
By the time he reached the high table, Thor's appetite had vanished. His younger brother Durran, all of eight namedays, waved enthusiastically from his seat.
"Thor! Thor! Can you make the lightning come out again? Can you show me how?" Durran bounced in his chair, porridge forgotten.
"Quiet, Durran," said Lady Mara, their mother's s cousin who helped run the household since their mother's death five years ago. "Your brother isn't a mummer to perform tricks." She gave Thor an apologetic look. "Eat something, child. You look pale."
"I'm expected in the solar," Thor said, snagging a piece of bread. "Father and Uncle Stannis."
Lady Mara's face tightened minutely. "I see. Well, don't keep them waiting."
Thor nodded, turned to go, then paused. "Have you seen Althera this morning?"
Lady Mara sighed. "That girl. She grabbed food before dawn and vanished. Said something about practicing her climbing." She shook her head. "Your sister will break her neck one day, and then where will we be?"
Thor couldn't help but smile. "She'd probably just climb back up and try again."
That earned him a reluctant chuckle. "Go on with you. And Thor?" Her voice softened. "Whatever's happening... your father loves you. Remember that."
Thor swallowed hard and nodded, then turned toward the family's private wing.
The corridor leading to the solar was quieter, stone walls muffling the castle's daily bustle. Tapestries depicting stags and storms alternated with arrow slits that let in thin blades of morning light. The stone floor was worn smooth by centuries of Baratheon footsteps.
Outside, the weather was turning. Dark clouds were gathering over the sea, rolling inward with unnatural speed. The serving boy who passed Thor carrying a stack of firewood muttered, "Storm coming, m'lord. A bad one, by the look of it."
Thor said nothing, but his chest tightened. Was that his doing too? Did his anxiety call the clouds, summon the thunder? He tried to calm his thoughts, to breathe evenly, but the wind outside only howled louder.
Near the solar entrance, he nearly collided with Old Willem, who'd served at Storm's End since Robert Baratheon was a boy. The ancient retainer steadied himself against the wall, peering at Thor with milky eyes.
"Careful there, young master. Though I suppose you've got more important things on your mind than watching for doddering old men." He squinted up at Thor. "You've got the look of him, you know."
"My father?" Thor asked, used to the comparison. People often said he had Gendry's build and determination.
"No," Willem shook his head. "The old lord. Your grandfather Robert. Not the fat king he became, mind. The young lord—fierce as a storm, strong enough to crush a man's chest with that hammer of his." He leaned closer, breath smelling of mint and ale. "And there were rumors about him too, when he was young. How the storms bent to his will. How thunder followed his rage."
Thor stared. "I've never heard that."
Willem tapped the side of his nose. "Wouldn't have, would you? It was before the Rebellion, before he became king. It faded as he grew older—or perhaps just drowned it in wine." The old man shrugged. "Blood tells, young master. Blood always tells."
Before Thor could press for more, Willem shuffled away, humming tunelessly to himself.
Thor stood frozen, mind racing. His grandfather had been like him? Had the same... connection? Why had no one told him? Did his father know?
The wind howled outside Storm's End, sharp with the tang of salt and something electric, like the air itself was holding its breath. Thor trudged the final steps down the torch-lit corridor, his boots scuffing the stone floor, heart thumping harder than he'd admit. The squire's words still rang in his ears: "Your lord father wants you in the solar. Now."
This wasn't a "let's chat over ale" kind of summons. Not after the training yard. Not after the sky split open when he hit the ground.
He paused at the heavy oak door. Firelight flickered underneath, shadows dancing like they knew something he didn't.
Then—that feeling.
Like someone was watching him. A prickle at the back of his neck, sharp as a dagger's edge.
Thor whipped around. The hallway was empty, torches sputtering in the draft.
But the air felt… wrong. Too heavy.
"Get it together," he muttered to himself, shoving the door open.
Inside, the solar was warm, the hearth crackling, but the vibe was tense. Gendry stood by the fire, arms crossed, still looking like he'd just crawled out of the forge, soot smudged on his sleeve. Stannis lounged against the stone table, tall and quiet, his eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
They both looked up as Thor stepped in—but before he could open his mouth—
Thump.
He spun around.
Althera leaned in the doorway, her dark cloak settling around her boots, grinning like she'd just won a bet. "Busted," she said, brushing her hands together. "How are my tricks, brother. You're loud as a drunk stag."
"You followed me?" Thor's jaw dropped.
She smirked, sauntering in. "Had to make sure you weren't sneaking off to brood dramatically in the rain again. You've been weird since yesterday. I'm just keeping tabs."
"You didn't even open the door!" Thor said, still processing.
"Didn't need to," Althera said, tossing her braid back. "Rafters. Second-story stuff. Easy."
Gendry pinched the bridge of his nose. "You climbed through the bloody rafters again, didn't you?"
Althera gave a mock bow. "Tradition, Father. Have to keep you on your toes."
Stannis, dry as ever, said, "She was already here when I showed up. Don't ask me how she does it."
Gendry sighed, long and suffering. "Fine. Since the whole damn family's crashed the enjoyment, let's do this."
Thor shifted, feeling like a kid caught stealing pie. "I'm not in trouble, right?"
"Not yet," Gendry said, his voice low, eyes steady.
Throughout Storm's End, the day's routine continued. In the practice yard, Ser Davrin bellowed corrections at stumbling squires. In the kitchens, Gerta cursed as a pot boiled over. In the stables, horses whickered nervously as lightning flashed out over the sea.
But in the solar, time seemed suspended as the Baratheon family faced a truth they could no longer ignore. The blood of the storm kings ran in Thor's veins—wild and ancient and dangerous. And outside, answering his unspoken fear, the clouds gathered and the sea churned and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.
The day's normal rhythms would continue—bread would be baked, swords would be sharpened, ravens would fly, ships would be spotted from the watchtower. But for Thor Baratheon, nothing would ever be quite normal again. Not after the lightning. Not after the truth.
They gathered around the table, the map of Westeros spread out, flickering in the firelight. Gendry stayed standing, his shadow looming. He didn't mince words. "You're different, Thor. We've all seen it. Storms kicking up when you're pissed. That rain in the yard? It dodged you."
"I thought… maybe it was just bad weather?" Thor offered, wincing at how lame it sounded.
Althera snorted, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, sure. And the candles flickering every time you sulk? What's next, the wind slamming doors because you're in a mood?"
"Or the sparks," Stannis added, calm but cutting. "In the yard, during your punishment. Ten thousand strikes. You were half-dead, barely standing. And your hand—lightning danced in your palm. Not sweat. Not sunlight. You."
Thor's face burned. He stared at the table, shoulders tight. "I'm trying to keep it under control. I swear."
Althera's grin softened, but she couldn't resist. "Control? Thor, you're practically a walking thunderstorm. We should call you—what, Thunderling?"
"Shut up," Thor groaned, shoving her shoulder.
She laughed, dodging. "Make me, sparkles."
"Enough," Gendry said, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He stepped closer, dropping a heavy hand on Thor's shoulder. "This isn't a joke, son. I've seen things—people brought back from the dead, a girl riding a dragon through a storm. I know magic when I see it. And it's in you."
The room went quiet, the fire popping in the silence.
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