Storm's End – The Family Solar, Nightfall
________
The wind howled around the towers of Storm's End, battering stone and stirring the old banners that hung in the solar. Lightning flickered beyond the arched windows, illuminating the room in brief, silver flashes. Within, the Baratheons sat together for the first time in weeks, a hearth fire throwing flickering warmth into the vast chamber. The firewood snapped and hissed, echoing beneath the heavy stone rafters that had withstood a thousand storms before this one.
Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, leaned forward in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin. He was older now than when he'd first claimed this seat—gray beginning to thread through his coal-black hair, lines etched around his eyes by sun and worry alike. The blacksmith's strength remained in his shoulders and arms, but his eyes held the weight of battles he no longer spoke of. Battles fought not just with hammer and steel, but with politics and whispers, treaties and betrayals. Things foreign to a boy who'd once shaped metal in the forges of King's Landing.
Beside him sat his daughter Althera, commanding even in stillness. Four-and-twenty now, and the talk of the Stormlands—not for beauty, though the gods had blessed her with that too, but for her mind. Sharp as Valyrian steel, twice as dangerous. Her dark hair was tied back in a single practical braid, and her eyes, ever alert, flicked between her brothers with unreadable precision. She'd been born just past the Long Night, in darkness and cold, and something of that long winter lived in her still—a quiet watchfulness, a readiness for unseen threats.
Stannis Baratheon, second-born and eight-and-ten, stood with arms crossed near the fire, his expression sharp and calculating. Leaner than their father but just as firm-jawed, he bore the name of his great-uncle with the weight it deserved. Not the easiest mantle for a boy, but he wore it well. Where Althera was ice, Stannis was steady flame—thoughtful, contained, but ever burning. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his upper arm, the only outward sign of his unease.
And there sat Thor. Youngest of them. Two-and-ten, hair like dark wine, eyes like stormlight. He sat with an odd stillness for a boy of twelve. In him was something they all felt but could not name. Something older. Deeper. He'd been a quiet child from the cradle, watching where others played, listening where others spoke.
The solar was quiet save for the crackling hearth and the storm's assault on the ancient stones. Family treasures lined the walls—old swords, fragile scrolls, tapestries showing stags triumphant. The past watching over the present. Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs with furious determination, as they had since before the First Men walked these shores.
Gendry broke the silence, his voice gentle but firm—the voice he reserved only for family matters, when no banner men or servants were present to hear.
"Tell us again," he said, reaching across to squeeze Thor's knee reassuringly, "about what you felt. The moment it happened. Don't leave anything out this time. We're here for you, son."
Thor looked around at their faces—his family, his shelter—and exhaled slowly. His shoulders relaxed slightly beneath his father's touch. The storm outside seemed to pause momentarily, the winds dying down to a whisper before resuming their assault.
"I wasn't going to tell anyone," he admitted, voice small against the storm's rage. "I thought you might think I was... broken somehow."
"Never," Althera said fiercely, moving to sit beside him on the worn leather bench. She took his hand in hers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles the way she used to when he had nightmares as a little boy. Even as children, she'd been his protector, fierce and unwavering. "Nothing about you could ever be broken to us."
Thor swallowed hard, then nodded, taking strength from her conviction. As the wind screamed against the window, rising in pitch once more, he began.
"It was during sword training with Master Davith," he said, eyes fixed on the dying embers in the hearth. "We'd been at it for hours. Longer than usual. The sky was clear when we started, but then the clouds came. Fast. Too fast."
He paused, as if listening to something only he could hear—the storm's voice, perhaps. Outside, thunder rumbled, closer now.
"Master Davith wanted to continue despite the weather. Said a true warrior fights in all conditions. So we did. But I was tired. My arms felt like lead. And he kept pushing me, harder and harder, until I couldn't lift my sword anymore."
Stannis shifted uncomfortably. "Davith is known to be harsh, but—"
"It wasn't his fault," Thor cut in. "He was doing what I asked. I wanted to be pushed. To be stronger. Like the rest of you."
Gendry and Althera exchanged a glance.
"And then?" Gendry prompted gently.
Thor's voice grew softer. "Then I fell. My legs just gave out. And as I hit the ground, I felt... angry. Not at Master Davith. Not even at myself. Just... angry. At everything. At being weak. At being the smallest. At failing again."
Lightning flashed, brighter than before, illuminating the solar in harsh white light. For an instant, the shadows vanished, and they all saw each other with perfect clarity—the concern in Gendry's eyes, the tension in Stannis's jaw, the protective curve of Althera's shoulder toward Thor.
"The anger felt like it was burning me from inside," Thor continued. "Like something was clawing to get out. And then the sky just... split open." His free hand gestured vaguely upward. "Right above me. A bolt struck the training post not three feet away. The thunder was so loud it shook the ground."
"Thunder follows lightning," Stannis said quietly. "That's natural."
"Not like this," Thor shook his head. "It happened at the exact same moment. And then—" he hesitated, looking up at his father with uncertainty.
"Go on," Gendry encouraged. "All of it."
Thor took a deep breath. "The lightning—it didn't frighten me. It felt... right. Like it was answering me. And for just a moment, I could feel every drop of rain before it fell. I could sense the paths the lightning would take before it struck. The storm wasn't just around me; it was inside me too."
He looked at his family, eyes wide with the memory. "It wasn't just a storm," he finished, his voice cracking. "It was like... it was waiting. Watching me. Testing me. And when I broke, it broke with me." His eyes darted between them, searching for disbelief. "You think I've lost my mind, don't you?"
The winds outside suddenly intensified, howling with renewed fury. A shutter somewhere in the castle broke free, banging violently against stone. The flames in the hearth bent sideways, as if trying to escape up the chimney.
Stannis pushed away from the wall where he'd been listening, crossing the room to kneel before his younger brother. The usually stern lines of his face had softened.
"When I was a boy," he said, "before you were born, Father took me to the ruins on Massey's Hook. Do you remember, Father?"
Gendry nodded, a faint smile touching his lips despite the gravity of the moment. "The old Targaryen stronghold."
"There were scorch marks on the stones," Stannis continued, looking at Thor. "Huge, black streaks that no ordinary fire could have made. Father told me they were dragon-fire, from centuries ago. But there was something else there too. Something I never told anyone."
Even Althera looked surprised. Stannis rarely spoke of personal matters.
"There was a room, deep beneath the ruins. Its walls were carved with symbols—lightning bolts and storm clouds. And in the center stood a pedestal with a small stone bowl filled with rainwater." Stannis's eyes never left Thor's face. "When I touched the water, I swear it rippled without my finger ever breaking the surface."
"Why didn't you tell me this?" Gendry asked, leaning forward.
"Because it sounded mad," Stannis replied with a shrug. "Like something from Old Nan's tales. But I remember what I felt in that chamber. Something old. Something forgotten. Something waiting." He squeezed Thor's shoulder. "Do you remember the stories father used to tell us? About the old powers? This isn't madness, Thor. It's—"
"Magic," Althera finished quietly, squeezing Thor's hand tighter.
Outside, the storm responded. A tremendous crack of thunder shook the very foundations of Storm's End, causing dust to sift down from the ancient rafters. The windows rattled in their frames, and somewhere below, they heard the startled shouts of guardsmen.
"It's more than magic," Althera continued, her voice low but steady against the storm's fury. "It's will. It answered him. It chose him."
Gendry nodded, rubbing his jaw with calloused fingers. "There were always stories. About Targaryens. About the old blood. Daenerys walking through fire. Dragons rising for her." His eyes met Thor's, filled with a mixture of wonder and concern. "Now it seems the blood remembers in us too."
"But we're not Targaryens," Thor protested. "We're Baratheons. Stags, not dragons."
"And what do stags do in a storm, little brother?" Stannis asked with a half-smile.
Thor blinked. "They... endure?"
"They raise their antlers," Althera corrected softly. "They stand tall. They don't hide or cower. The storm is part of their domain."
"Our words," Gendry added, "'Ours is the Fury.' Perhaps that means more than we knew."
The wind outside seemed to agree, rising to a fever pitch that made conversation difficult. The hanging tapestries swayed, ancient threads straining against their fastenings.
"Remember when you were little?" Stannis asked Thor, raising his voice above the gale. "Those summer storms that always broke right when you were having your worst tantrums?"
Thor's eyes widened. "You told me that was coincidence."
"We wanted to believe it was," Althera said softly. "The way we wanted to believe it was coincidence when lightning struck the Tyroshi pirate ship that was pursuing Father's vessel when he sailed back from the Free Cities. You were five, crying for him to come home safely."
"I don't remember that," Thor said, bewildered.
"You were asleep when it happened," Gendry explained. "But I wondered. The timing was too perfect. One moment we were outmanned, outmaneuvered, and the next..." He shook his head at the memory. "A bolt from the blue, they called it. Hit their powder stores. The whole ship was gone in an instant."
Thor stared at his father, trying to reconcile this new information with what he knew of himself. The storm outside matched his internal tumult, winds screaming past the windows as if trying to tear the very stones apart.
"What if this isn't new?" Althera asked suddenly, her gaze distant. "What if it tried before, in our blood?" She glanced toward their father. "What if it tried to awaken in Robert?"
Gendry's face tightened. "My father."
"Your father, our grandfather," Stannis agreed. "The histories say his hammer strike at the Trident was like thunder. That the water churned and foamed around him as if in a gale."
"Uncle Robert's fury was legendary," Althera added. "They called him the Demon of the Trident. What if that wasn't just strength and rage? What if it was something... more?"
The fire suddenly sputtered and nearly went out as a tremendous gust of wind forced its way down the chimney. The temperature in the room plummeted, and they all felt it—something more than wind and rain. Something watchful. Aware.
Thor's voice was barely a whisper. "Is it... listening to us?"
As if in answer, lightning struck so close to the tower that the flash and boom came as one deafening explosion. The light was blinding, leaving dancing spots across their vision. One of the window panes cracked from top to bottom with a sound like breaking ice.
"Seven hells," Stannis muttered, moving protectively closer to Thor.
"This is no ordinary storm," Gendry said, standing now. "It's growing stronger, responding to our words. To our thoughts, perhaps."
Thor closed his eyes, feeling the electricity in the air, the charged particles dancing across his skin. "I can feel it. It's... angry. Impatient. Like it's been waiting too long."
"Waiting for what?" Althera asked, her arm now around Thor's shoulders.
"For me," he answered simply. "For me to acknowledge it."
"Then you do," Gendry said firmly. "Here and now. Whatever this power is, whatever it means—we face it together. As family."
The words seemed to placate the storm somewhat. The winds eased, though the rain continued to lash against the windows with undiminished force.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The implications hung heavy in the air between them. If Thor truly had some connection to the storms, some power over them—or they over him—what did that mean? What would others do if they discovered this truth?
The fire crackled and dimmed, casting long shadows across their faces. Thor sat quietly, eyes heavy with the weight of understanding, but the storm within him—like the one outside—still churned.
Althera had fallen silent, watching her little brother with new eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was softer than usual—uncertain in a way that those outside the family would never hear.
"I used to think you were just... strange," she admitted, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead—a gesture so familiar it made his throat tight. "Like you saw something we couldn't. Like your eyes were always looking past us."
She paused, breath catching. "But I see it now. You're not just strange. You're marked. By something we don't understand."
Thor looked at her gently. "Does that frighten you?"
"No," she said, almost a whisper. Then, with a small, sad smile: "It terrifies me."
The admission hung between them, as honest as it was rare. Althera was never afraid—or never admitted to fear. That she would confess such a thing now spoke volumes.
She moved closer, pulling him into an embrace he hadn't felt since they were children. Her arms were strong, steadier than his own. Over his shoulder, she met her father's eyes, sharing a silent conversation of worry and resolve.
"You're still my annoying little brother," she murmured against his hair. "No ancient power changes that. But if this is real—if something ancient and unnatural is stirring because of you—then you're not safe. And none of us are."
Lightning flashed again, followed by thunder that shook the goblets on the side table. Outside, they could hear shouts and the pounding of feet—servants and guards rushing to secure what they could against the strengthening gale.
Gendry rose and crossed to them, placing one hand on each of their shoulders. "She's right. But we face this together," he said, his voice unwavering. "If this... storm chose you, then others might sense it. Magic doesn't wake in silence."
Stannis joined them, completing their circle. "Word travels. Dreams travel faster. If this power's rising again, it might not be rising only here."
The storm intensified once more, as if the very mention of others had provoked it. Rain lashed horizontally against the glass, and the wind found every crack and crevice in the ancient stonework, whistling and moaning like lost souls. The fire guttered dangerously low.
"We need to be careful," Stannis continued, raising his voice over the tempest. "After the Dragon Queen, after the Long Night—people fear magic again. Fear what they don't understand."
They all fell quiet. The realization settled over them like a fog, drawing them closer together. The Baratheons against the world—as it had always been, in the end.
"It could already be spreading," Althera said, still holding Thor protectively. "Far and wide. Beyond the Stormlands. Across the Narrow Sea. North. Even to Oldtown, where the maesters watch for any sign of the unnatural."
"Then we stay silent," Gendry said, his arm now fully around Thor's shoulders. "No shows of power. No talk of prophecy. We keep it in the family. Where it belongs."
Thor looked between them, feeling both weighted and lifted by their concern. They'd always been close—closer than most noble families, his father had made sure of that—but this was different. This was their world shifting, accommodating something new and dangerous.
"We protect our own," Stannis agreed solemnly. "We train in secret. Watch. Prepare."
"For what?" Thor asked, voicing the question they'd all been avoiding.
Gendry's voice grew firm. "For whatever comes. Because the moment someone sees a storm that shouldn't be there..."
"They'll start to wonder," Thor finished, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"And wonder leads to fear," Althera added grimly. "And fear leads to—"
"Danger," Stannis concluded. "For all of us."
As if to emphasize his point, the storm reached a crescendo outside. The wind screamed around the tower with such force that they could feel the stones trembling beneath their feet. Another window cracked, this one spiderwebbing from corner to corner. Rain began to seep through, pattering onto the stone floor.
Thor looked around at their faces—worried, determined, loving. His family. His blood. His shield against whatever was coming.
"Then I'll stay quiet," he promised, his young voice steady despite everything. "I'll learn to control it."
"Can you?" Stannis asked, not unkindly.
Thor hesitated, then reached out with that new sense he'd discovered in the training yard. He felt for the storm's heart, its wild center. Found it swirling, angry, demanding recognition. Carefully, like soothing a frightened animal, he pushed at it with his mind. Enough, he thought. You've made your point. Now peace.
To everyone's astonishment, the winds began to subside. Not completely, but noticeably. The howling dropped to a low moan, the rain lightened from deluge to steady shower. The oppressive feeling of something watching, listening, faded.
"Seven save us," Gendry whispered, staring at his youngest son with new wonder.
Thor looked as surprised as the rest of them. "I didn't know if that would work," he admitted shakily.
Althera squeezed his hand. "You have more power than you know. But don't hide who you are. Not from us. Never from us. Just..."
"Be careful," Gendry finished, recovering himself. "Be wise."
"And trust us," Stannis added, unusually gentle. "Whatever happens, whatever you feel—we face it as one."
Thor nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their trust. "I will. I promise."
Gendry pulled him into a fierce embrace, the kind reserved for moments when words failed. One by one, Althera and Stannis joined, arms wrapped around each other, foreheads touching in the fading firelight.
"The lone wolf dies," Gendry murmured, "but the pack survives."
"Wrong house, Father," Stannis said with a soft laugh.
"But right meaning," Althera replied, her eyes suspiciously bright.
The fire gave one last crackle, then faded to coals. Outside, the sea roared as ever—but within Storm's End, the storm had been acknowledged, and a vow made:
Whatever came, they would face it together. As Baratheons. As family.
Long after the others had retired—Gendry to his chambers to write urgent messages, Stannis to check on the damage from the storm, Althera to consult the old books of Baratheon history—Thor remained in the solar, watching the now-gentle rain against the windows.
He felt different. Known in a way he hadn't been before. Seen not just as the quiet youngest child, but as something more. Something with purpose. It frightened him, yes—but it thrilled him too. To matter. To be necessary. To have something that was his alone.
The storm had calmed at his bidding, but he could still feel it circling, waiting. Patient now, but present. A power he didn't understand but somehow recognized, like an old friend forgotten until this moment.
"Who are you?" he whispered to the night. "What do you want from me?"
The rain pattered softly against the glass,
almost like a response. Almost like a promise.
Thor smiled faintly and turned away from the window. Whatever was coming, he wouldn't face it alone. And that, in the end, was all that mattered.
The Docks Below Storm's End – Earlier That Evening
_______
Marten wiped the rain from his eyes for the hundredth time, cursing the weather, the sea, and his own bad luck. Twenty years he'd worked these docks, and never had he seen a storm rise so quickly from nothing. One moment, clear skies with just the first hint of evening stars; the next, dark clouds rolling in from the horizon faster than any natural formation should move.
"Hurry, you sluggards!" he bellowed at the dock hands struggling to secure the fishing boats. "Double the mooring lines! Triple them if you have to!"
The men worked frantically, hands slipping on wet rope, shoulders hunched against the increasingly driving rain. Lightning flickered to the west, still distant but coming closer with unnatural speed.
Old Willem shuffled up beside him, his weathered face creased with concern. "Ain't right, this storm," the ancient fisherman muttered. "Ain't natural."
Marten spat into the churning harbor waters. "Nothing's natural anymore, old man. Not since the dragons came back. Not since the dead walked."
"This is different," Willem insisted, clutching his rain-soaked cloak tighter. "This storm... it's coming from up there." He pointed a gnarled finger toward the great castle looming above them, its massive walls beginning to disappear behind curtains of rain.
Marten followed his gaze, about to dismiss the old man's superstitions, when he saw it—a swirl of clouds directly above the highest tower of Storm's End, rotating slowly like water circling a drain. Lightning sparked within the formation, contained and controlled, unlike the random flashes across the wider sky.
"Seven preserve us," he whispered, making the sign of the star almost unconsciously. "What is that?"
"Power," Willem said simply. "Old power, waking up."
A massive crack of thunder made them both flinch. The storm was intensifying by the minute now. Waves crashed against the seawall, sending spray higher than a man's head. Smaller vessels strained at their moorings like panicked horses.
"Baratheons," Willem continued, his voice nearly lost in the rising wind. "Always had something strange in their blood. Why d'you think they've held these lands so long? Why the castle's never fallen? The storms favor them."
Marten had always considered such talk fishwives' tales, but standing here now, watching the unnatural storm swirl around the ancient fortress, he wasn't so sure. There was something almost... conscious about this tempest. Something watching. Waiting.
"Everyone off the docks!" he shouted suddenly, galvanized by a surge of inexplicable fear. "Get to higher ground! Now!"
No one argued. The dock workers abandoned their tasks and fled toward the stone steps leading up to the town proper. Marten was the last to leave, casting one final glance toward the great castle above.
For just an instant—though later he would tell himself it was a trick of the lightning—he thought he saw a small figure standing at the highest window of the tower. A boy, perhaps, with his hand outstretched toward the storm as if in greeting. Or command.
Then the rain came down in earnest, a solid wall of water that obscured everything, and Marten ran for his life, the memory of that silhouette burning in his mind like a brand.
That night, huddled in the relative safety of the Storm's Rest tavern with dozens of other refugees from the docks, Marten listened to the theories flowing as freely as the ale. Some blamed the changing seasons, others foreign sorcery from across the Narrow Sea. A few of the more devout muttered about divine punishment for unnamed sins.
But Marten kept his own counsel, remembering the boy in the window, the storm that came too fast, the clouds that seemed to circle the Baratheon stronghold like a crown.
Old Willem's words echoed in his thoughts: Old power, waking up.
And as the night wore on and the storm gradually subsided—far more quickly than it had risen, another unnatural sign—Marten made a silent decision to pack his meager belongings come morning. Twenty years he'd worked these docks, but perhaps it was time to seek employment elsewhere. Somewhere drier. Somewhere further from Storm's End and whatever ancient power was stirring within its walls.
Some things, he reflected grimly, were better left undisturbed. And some storms were best watched from a very, very great distance.