The skies above Storm's End hung heavy with clouds the color of ash and iron. Thunder grumbled far off, as if waiting for permission to unleash its fury. The smallfolk in the villages surrounding the ancient fortress had long since abandoned their daily labors, shuttering windows and bringing in animals from pasture. They knew the signs—a stillness too complete, birds gone silent, the air thick with the scent of rain that refused to fall.
In the tavern below the castle walls, Old Marta wiped down wooden tables with a rag that had seen better days, her gnarled fingers working in practiced circles.
"Mark my words," she said to no one in particular, though the half-dozen patrons listened respectfully. "This ain't no ordinary storm brewing. The air feels wrong. Like the gods themselves are holding their breath."
Dallen, a fisherman with skin weathered by salt and sun, nodded solemnly. "Pulled my nets early today. The sea was flat as glass but angry somehow. Fish gone deep." He took a long pull from his ale. "Last time I felt this, three boats didn't come back."
Near the hearth, Tenna the weaver shook her head, fingers nervously plaiting strands of her graying hair. "They say the young lord's been having those dreams again. My sister's girl works in the kitchens. Says he wakes screaming some nights."
"Hush with that talk," Marta warned, glancing toward the door as if the castle guards might burst through at any moment. "No good comes from gossiping about the lord's family."
Above them all, nestled within the imposing walls of Storm's End, the Whispering Tower lived up to its name. The constant low moan of wind through its ancient stonework created whispers that seemed almost like voices—if one listened too closely or too long.
In the tower's upper chamber, Thor sparred lightly with Garrick, his closest friend—a boy of twelve, with sandy hair and a crooked smile that never seemed to fade. His tunic hung loose on his thin frame, and his wooden training sword looked almost comically large in his hands, but he swung it with the determination of a knight facing his final battle.
"Gods be good, you're slow today!" Garrick grinned, dancing backward as Thor's practice blade whooshed past his ear. His breathless taunt echoed in the round chamber. "My grandmother moves faster, and she's been dead three winters!"
"Your grandmother must have been a fearsome warrior then," Thor shot back, feinting left before changing direction. "Unlike her grandson, who blocks like dwarf drunk Lannister after a fortnight of feasting!"
Beside the practice ring, a young squire named Pate polished armor with careful attention, occasionally glancing up at the sparring match. Though only ten, his eyes missed little.
"Lord Thor's favoring his right side again," he murmured to himself. "Master-at-Arms will have words about that tomorrow."
Garrick heard him and laughed, a bright sound that filled the chamber. "See? Even little Pate knows you're dropping your guard!" He lunged forward with unexpected speed, nearly catching Thor's ribs with the blunted edge of his practice sword.
Thor spun away, genuinely impressed. "You've been practicing with someone else! Ser Davon, by the look of that move."
Garrick's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. A true warrior never reveals his secrets."
"Oh? Is that what you are now? A true warrior?" Thor raised an eyebrow, circling his friend with exaggerated caution. "Last week you screamed like a maiden when a spider dropped on your bedroll."
Pate stifled a laugh, earning a mock-threatening glare from Garrick.
"Careful there, young squire," Garrick warned, pointing his wooden sword at the boy. "Or you'll find toads in your boots come morning."
The banter was interrupted by the slow creak of the chamber door.
Lira entered carrying a wooden tray laden with lemonwater and clean cloths for the boys to refresh themselves after training. Her steps were smooth, her movements precise as always. The servant girl had been part of the household for few weeks now, quiet and reliable.
"Thank the gods," Garrick exclaimed, lowering his practice sword. "I'm parched enough to drink seawater!"
Thor's laughter died in his throat when he looked at Lira's face.
Something was wrong. Her expression was blank—too blank. Her usually lively green eyes seemed vacant, staring through rather than at them.
"Lira?" Thor asked, the wooden sword in his hand suddenly forgotten.
In the momentary silence, they could hear the distant rumble of thunder growing closer.
Pate sensed the change in atmosphere. The young squire slowly set down the armor piece he'd been polishing, eyes wide with uncertainty.
Lira moved.
There was a flash of silver—so quick it might have been a trick of the light.
But Thor had been trained since childhood to notice such things. A silver blade appeared in her hand, its edge slick with something dark and resinous. And her eyes—they were no longer the familiar forest green but burned an unnatural, inhuman red.
The poisoned blade sliced through the air with deadly precision—aimed for Thor's throat.
He dodged instinctively, years of training taking over where conscious thought failed. The dagger grazed his shoulder instead, slicing through fabric and skin. The pain was immediate and burning, far more intense than the shallow cut should have caused.
"Poison," he thought dimly, even as his mind struggled to comprehend what was happening.
Before Thor could recover his balance—before he could make sense of Lira's attack—Garrick moved.
The boy leapt between them, wooden practice sword raised uselessly against the second blade that had appeared in Lira's other hand.
"Thor!" Garrick cried in warning.
The second blade plunged into his side. The boy made a sound like nothing Thor had ever heard before—half gasp, half whimper—and crumpled to the floor. Blood bloomed across his too-large tunic, spreading with horrifying speed.
"NO!"
Thor dropped to his knees beside his friend, catching Garrick's trembling form before he could hit the stone floor. The boy's wide eyes were full of confusion. Fear. Pain.
"Garrick, stay with me!" Thor commanded, pressing his hand against the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm and relentless. "You'll be alright. You'll—"
In the corner, Pate had frozen in terror, his small body pressed against the wall, tears streaming silently down his face.
Lira turned again, her movements mechanical and inhuman. She raised her third and final dagger, eyes blazing that terrible red as she advanced on Thor and the wounded boy in his arms.
Steel flashed in the dim light of the tower room.
Ser Jalen, the tower guard stationed outside the door, moved like a shadow. His longsword split the air in a single, brutal arc—
—and buried itself in Lira's skull with a sickening crack that echoed through the tower.
She dropped like a puppet whose strings had been severed, her blood joining Garrick's on the cold stone floor. The remaining dagger clattered from her lifeless fingers.
Thor didn't even flinch at the violence. His entire world had narrowed to the boy bleeding in his arms.
He looked down.
Garrick's lips moved, trying to form words. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't... I don't wanna die..." he whispered, his voice small and frightened, all bravado gone.
Thor's body trembled with rage and grief. "I won't let you," he vowed fiercely.
But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel Garrick's life ebbing away. The poison worked swiftly—too swiftly for help, too swiftly for goodbyes.
The boy stilled in his arms, eyes glassy and fixed on something beyond the tower walls, mouth slightly open as if about to speak one last word that would never come.
Thor's breath hitched in his chest. Something inside him—something old and powerful that had always been restrained—tore loose.
The storm answered his grief.
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the tower room in harsh white light. Thunder followed immediately, not a distant rumble but a deafening crack that shook the very stones of the Whispering Tower.
A howling wind burst through the narrow windows, extinguishing torches and sending scrolls and light objects flying. The temperature in the room plummeted. Frost began to form on the stones.
Ser Jalen staggered back against the wall, his face pale with shock as he watched the impossible unfold.
"My lord," he gasped, but his words were lost in the roar of the wind.
In the corner, young Pate whimpered, covering his head with his arms as debris swirled around the room. "The gods are angry," he sobbed. "The gods are angry!"
Thor stood slowly, still cradling Garrick's body. His eyes glowed faintly violet—an unearthly light that seemed to pulse in time with the lightning outside. The storm within him, long chained and dormant, was now unshackled.
In the village below, chaos erupted as the storm descended without warning. What had been brooding clouds turned violent in an instant.
Old Marta looked up in alarm as her tavern door burst open, nearly torn from its hinges by a gust of wind so powerful it sent chairs skittering across the floor.
"Seven save us," she breathed, making the sign of the star. "What manner of storm is this?"
Outside, the sky had turned an impossible shade of dark purple. Lightning forked continuously, striking the same places repeatedly as if with purpose rather than chance. The clouds spiraled inward toward Storm's End like water circling a drain.
Dallen the fisherman pushed through the door, his face ashen. "The bay," he gasped. "The waters—they're rising! Twenty feet at least, and climbing still!"
The tavern erupted in panic. People began to pray, some to the Seven, others to the old gods.
Tenna the weaver clutched her heart. "It's him," she whispered. "It's the young lord. Something's happened."
A village guardsman burst in, soaked to the skin despite having run only the short distance from his post. "Everyone to higher ground!" he shouted above the wind. "The sea wall won't hold against this!"
As they rushed to obey, no one noticed a cloaked figure slipping quietly from the back of the tavern—a stranger who had been watching and listening all day. Beneath her hood, her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she melted into the storm.
Across the Stormlands, the effects spread like ripples in a pond. Trees were uprooted across the Kingswood. Shepherds watched in horror as their flocks were scattered by winds strong enough to lift lambs from the ground. The air turned electric, raising hair and sending static shocks through anything metal.
And spreading outward still—a pressure, soaring and suffocating, that rolled across the continent like an invisible tide.
In the Red Keep, hundreds of leagues away, King Bran woke screaming.
His attendants rushed to his chambers to find him rigid in his bed, eyes rolled back to show only whites.
"The storm," he gasped when finally he returned to himself. "The storm has awakened."
His Master of Whispers leaned close. "What storm, Your Grace? The skies over King's Landing are clear."
"Not here," the king replied, his voice hollow with dread. "In the east. And soon... everywhere."
In Braavos, fishermen watched in superstitious terror as the waters of the lagoon churned and boiled without wind. Steam rose from the surface in the cold morning air.
The Sealord himself came to witness the phenomenon, surrounded by guards and advisors who muttered uneasily among themselves.
"What causes this?" the Sealord demanded of his master water engineer.
The man, learned and normally confident, could only shake his head. "Nothing natural, my lord. Nothing natural at all."
In the distance, the Titan of Braavos groaned as its metal structure expanded and contracted in the suddenly fluctuating temperatures. The sound carried across the water like the moan of some ancient god.
And far in the shadowed reaches of the east, Lady Blackwind watched her candles flicker and die one by one, extinguished by a wind that shouldn't exist in her sealed chamber.
Darkness closed around her, but she did not light them again. Instead, she moved to her window and gazed westward, feeling the distant power surge across land and sea.
Her hand trembled as she clutched her hood tightly, fresh blood dripping from her palm where ritual cuts had not yet healed.
"I sent a spark into a powder keg," she whispered, her voice unsteady for the first time in years. "And now the storm is awake."
Back in the Whispering Tower, Thor stood at the center of the maelstrom, Garrick's lifeless body still cradled in his arms. The wind whipped around him but did not touch him—a perfect circle of calm amid chaos.
Ser Jalen had managed to reach Pate and now shielded the boy with his own body, pressing them both against the wall. The knight's face showed equal parts awe and terror as he watched his young lord transform before his eyes.
"What's happening?" Pate cried, his voice barely audible above the storm. "Is Lord Thor doing this?"
Ser Jalen had no answer. In all his years guarding the heir of Storm's End, he had heard rumors, of course—whispers about the blood of the First Men and old magic. But he had dismissed them as servants' tales.
Now, watching the violet light pulse in Thor's eyes and feeling the unnatural energy crackling in the air, he was no longer certain.
Through the open door came running footsteps. Lady Althera, appeared in the doorway, her face stricken with horror as she took in the scene—Lira's body on the floor, Garrick lifeless in her brother's arms, and Thor himself standing amid a supernatural storm.
"Thor!" she cried, fighting against the wind to reach him. "Thor, you must control it! You must!"
But her words seemed unable to penetrate the barrier of grief and rage surrounding her brother. The storm intensified, rattling the ancient stones of the tower.
Lady Althera turned desperately to Ser Jalen. "The amulet," she shouted above the wind. "In the inner chamber. Hurry!"
The knight hesitated only a moment before pushing Pate toward Lady Althera and sprinting toward the adjoining room.
Thor seemed unaware of their presence, lost in a grief so profound it had awakened something primal and terrible within him. His lips moved, repeating the same words over and over: "I won't let you die. I won't let you die."
But Garrick was already gone.
In the courtyard below, servants and guards huddled in doorways, staring up at the Whispering Tower in mounting terror. The storm had gathered directly above it, forming a swirling vortex of cloud and lightning that seemed to be feeding into the tower itself.
Eddin, a stablehand who had worked at Storm's End since before Thor was born, clutched a lucky stone his grandmother had given him.
"I told 'em," he muttered to the kitchen maid crouching beside him. "I told 'em the young lord wasn't like other folk. Saw him once, I did, when he was but seven years old, make lightning strike the same tree three times during a tantrum."
The maid crossed herself. "Is it true what they say? About him?"
Eddin shrugged uneasily. "Some questions best left unasked in this place. But I'll tell you this—there's older magic in the Stormlands than most remember. Old as the stones themselves."
Above them, a section of the tower's roof tore free, massive stones tumbling down to shatter in the courtyard. Everyone scurried for better cover.
Master Edric, the castle's maester, fought his way across the yard against wind that threatened to lift his frail body from the ground. Two guards helped anchor him as he shouted orders to evacuate the inner buildings.
"Get everyone to the sea caves!" he commanded. "The old fortifications are safest!"
A guard protested, "But the tide—"
"Will not touch those who shelter there," the maester finished with absolute certainty. "Not this day. Now go!"
Ser Jalen returned to the tower chamber, clutching a small leather pouch. Lady Altera snatched it from him and extracted a strange amulet—a flat stone disk inscribed with symbols no living person could read, suspended on a chain of some dark metal that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light.
"Thor," she called again, edging closer to her brother. "Remember your training. Remember."
For a moment, it seemed her words failed to reach him. Then, slowly, Thor's eyes shifted toward his sister's voice.
"He's gone," Thor said, his voice distorted and layered, as though multiple people spoke through him at once. "Garrick is gone."
"Yes," Lady Althera acknowledged, taking another careful step forward. "And nothing can bring him back. But this—" she gestured to the chaos around them, "—this will not honor his memory. This will only bring more death."
Something flickered in Thor's expression—a momentary return of awareness.
Lady Althera seized the opportunity, lunging forward to slip the amulet over her brother's head. The moment the stone disk touched Thor's chest, the violet light in his eyes dimmed. The wind began to subside, though the storm outside continued to rage.
"That's it," she soothed, daring to place a hand on his arm. "Come back to us."
Thor looked down at Garrick's body, still clutched in his arms. A single tear tracked down his face, sizzling slightly before it fell. "He jumped between us," he said, his voice hollow. "He tried to save me."
"And we will honor his courage," Lady Althera promised. "But first you must regain control."
Pate watched from the corner, his young face streaked with tears but his eyes wide with wonder as much as fear.
"The storm will pass," the boy whispered, remembering words his father had often repeated. "All storms pass."
Thor heard him. His gaze—now returned to its normal blue—met the squire's. "Not this one," he said softly. "This storm has only just begun."
Far below the castle, in the ancient sea caves where the smallfolk had taken refuge, Old Marta led a prayer circle. Their voices echoed against stones worn smooth by countless tides over thousands of years.
"The gods are testing us," she intoned, and the others repeated after her.
Dallen the fisherman wasn't so sure. He stood apart from the prayer circle, staring out at the impossibly churning waters beyond the cave mouth. Despite the violence of the storm, not a drop of seawater breached the cave entrance, as if held back by an invisible barrier.
"This ain't the gods," he murmured to himself. "This somethin else."
Tenna the weaver joined him, her weathered face solemn. "My grandmother used to tell stories," she said quietly. "About the Stormborn. Said they carried the thunder in their blood."
Dallen nodded slowly. "My grandfather said the same. Said the lords of Storm's End weren't just named for the weather."
"Old tales," Tenna sighed. "But perhaps not all tales are false."
A child's voice piped up beside them. Little Willa, Tenna's granddaughter, tugged at her sleeve. "Is the young lord angry with us?" she asked, eyes wide with childhood innocence.
Tenna knelt beside her. "No, sweet one. Not with us. But someone has wounded his heart, and sometimes when great lords grieve, the very skies weep with them."
The child considered this seriously. "Then we should send him flowers. That's what you did when I was sad about my kitten dying."
Tenna smiled sadly and stroked the girl's hair. "Perhaps we should, when the storm passes."
"If it passes," Dallen muttered, watching as lightning struck the same point on the horizon seven times in succession. "If it passes."
In the Whispering Tower, Thor finally relinquished Garrick's body to Ser Jalen. The knight carried the boy reverently, wrapping him in his own cloak before taking him away.
Thor stood at the window, the amulet heavy against his chest, watching the storm he had unleashed. It was subsiding now, but slowly, reluctantly—like a beast called away from a kill.
Lady Althera approached cautiously. "The assassin," she said. "Lira. She was not herself."
"Blood magic," Thor replied tonelessly. "I saw it in her eyes. Someone took control of her."
"like skinchanging?" Lady Marya suggested, her voice tight with controlled fury.
Thor turned, his face hardening. "Perhaps. Or another we've not yet identified. But this was only the beginning."
"We should send word to King's Landing," his mother urged. "The king must—"
"The king already knows," Thor interrupted. "He would have felt it."
Young Pate, who had remained forgotten in the corner, finally found his courage and stepped forward. "My lord," he said, his voice quavering. "Garrick—he saved your life."
Thor looked at the boy with newfound respect. "Yes. And I failed to save his."
"You couldn't have known," Lady Marya began, but Thor silenced her with a raised hand.
"I should have. I should have sensed the wrongness sooner." His fist clenched at his side. "Garrick died because I was unprepared. That will not happen again."
Outside, the last of the supernatural storm began to dissipate, though normal rains would continue through the night. The pressure that had spread across the continent slowly eased, leaving confusion and fear in its wake.
Thor touched the amulet at his chest, feeling the ancient magic within it restraining his own power. A temporary measure only.
Thor's gaze returned to the clearing skies. For just a moment, just the briefest flash, the squire thought he saw that strange violet light return to his lord's eyes.
"The storm is coming," Thor said softly. "And this time, I bring it with me."
___________________________
In the east, Lady Blackwind's hands trembled violently as she gathered her bloodied ceremonial knife. She fumbled twice before managing to wrap it in silk cloth. Her chamber remained dark, the candles extinguished by the supernatural wind that had swept across continents.
"What have I done?" she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the silence of her chamber.
The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone floor. She made no move to retrieve it.
Behind her, unseen, a hooded figure melted from the darkness.
"The boy died instead of the target," the figure reported. "Our agent was discovered and neutralized."
Lady Blackwind didn't turn to face her servant. Her shoulders hunched forward as she gripped the edge of her table, knuckles white.
"I felt it," she said, voice hollow with dread. "All the way here. The power... it wasn't supposed to be like this."
"My lady?" confusion colored the servant's tone.
She turned then, and the figure took an involuntary step backward. Lady Blackwind's face—always composed, always controlled—was ashen with fear. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow despite the chamber's chill.
"The texts spoke of potential, of dormant ability," she said, more to herself than her servant. "Nothing prepared me for this. Nothing." She pressed a bloodied hand to her temple. "The storm that answered him... it wasn't just weather. It was something primal. Ancient. Far beyond what our understanding."
"But this is what we wanted," the hooded figure ventured cautiously. "To kill hi—"
"No!" Lady Blackwind's voice cracked like a whip. "We wanted to create a controllable reaction. A measured response we could harness. What I felt..." She shuddered visibly. "It was like poking a sleeping dragon with a needle and watching it burn down the entire kingdom in response."
She sank into her chair, the weight of realization crushing her practiced poise.
____________
Chapter End
Now plot twist Starts
Wait n watch it will be legendary..