The wind had long since calmed, but the air in Storm's End remained tense—like the castle itself was holding its breath. Three days had passed since the storm, and the servants still whispered in corners, casting nervous glances toward the lord's chambers.
In the kitchens, Cook Mara ladled porridge with hands that hadn't stopped shaking since she'd seen the young lord walk through lightning unharmed. "Ain't natural," she muttered to her assistant, a gap-toothed girl named Penny. "Boy is 3 day without water or bread."
"Maybe the gods protect him?" Penny suggested, stirring the pot nervously.
"Gods protect the righteous, girl. What I saw... that wasn't divine intervention. That was something else entirely."
Down in the stables, Old Tom was brushing down destriers with more force than necessary. "Forty years I've worked these stones," he grumbled to the stable boy, Wat. "Served Lord Steffon, then Lord Robert, now this one. Never seen anything like what that boy did in the courtyard."
"What'd he do exactly?" Wat asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
Tom's weathered face darkened. "Heard his anger made the storm like it he is some god. Lightning bent around him like it was scared. And his eyes..." He shuddered. "Purple as amethysts, but cold as winter steel."
The boy leaned closer. "Think he's cursed?"
"Boy, I think he's something far worse than cursed. I think he's blessed by storm god."
The Confrontation
Ser Galen, a seasoned knight of Storm's End who'd fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion and bore scars from three different battles, stood stiffly outside the great hall. A soldier who had seen siege warfare, treachery, and the worst men could do to each other—and yet nothing had unsettled him quite like watching a man's anger and sadness making heavens weep.
He'd simply just done that, and the wind had moved around him like a trained dog obeying its master.
Behind Galen stood two younger knights—Ser Baelor Stone, a bastard who'd earned his spurs in the Riverlands, and Ser Corbin Hill, whose nervous energy was barely contained beneath his polished armor.
"You sure about this, Ser Galen?" Corbin whispered. "Boy's been through hell. Maybe we should let sleeping dragons lie."
"Dragons is right," Baelor muttered. "Did you see the way the servants scatter when he passes? Like he's carrying plague."
Galen's jaw tightened. "All the more reason to check on him. A lord who frightens his own people is a danger to everyone."
When Thor finally emerged from his chambers that morning, dressed in simple black wool and leather, Galen stepped forward with military precision.
"You're going to see the Maester," he said, voice firm and low.
Thor paused, tilting his head with an expression that seemed almost amused. One eyebrow arched in a way that reminded Galen uncomfortably of King Robert in his younger, more dangerous days.
"Feeling maternal, Ser Galen? That's adorable. Really. Warms my heart."
The knight's face darkened. "It's not a request, my lord."
Thor studied him for a long moment, his purple eyes unnervingly still. Then he gave a crooked grin that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Fair enough. Let's see if Edric still knows how to check a pulse without having a panic attack."
As they walked through the corridors toward the Maester's tower, servants pressed themselves against the walls. A kitchen maid named Dalla actually crossed herself as Thor passed, muttering a prayer under her breath.
"Seven preserve us," she whispered to her companion, Merry. "Look at his eyes. They're different now. Older."
"Older how?" Merry asked, clutching her cleaning rags like a shield.
"Like he's seen things. Terrible things. My da had eyes like that when he came back from the war. Said they were the eyes of someone who'd killed and lost count."
In the armory, the castle's master-at-arms, Ser Davrin, was sharpening swords with his apprentice, a boy called Jory. Both stopped their work as footsteps echoed in the corridor above.
"That him?" Jory asked, voice barely a whisper.
Davren nodded grimly. "Aye. And if the rumors are true, we'd best pray he stays on our side."
"What rumors?"
"That his sorrow made the heavens weep that day"
---
The Maester's Chamber
Maester Edric looked up from his correspondence as the door opened. He was a thin man in his fifties, with ink-stained fingers and intelligent grey eyes that had seen too much of human nature to be easily fooled.
"My lord," he said carefully, setting down his quill. "You look—"
"Like I survived a murder attempt and a magical storm?" Thor interrupted, dropping into the chair across from Edric's desk with casual confidence. "Thanks, Maester. Really appreciate the medical assessment. Great bedside manner."
Edric tried not to smile at the boy's irreverence. In the old days, such talk would have earned a young lord a lecture on proper behavior. But these weren't the old days, and Thor Baratheon had never been a typical young lord.
"I was going to say you look... different," Edric finished.
"Different how? More ruggedly handsome? Less dead? You're gonna have to be specific, doc."
The casual use of the word 'doc' threw Edric for a moment. It wasn't a term he'd heard before, but somehow its meaning was clear.
He motioned for Thor to sit properly and began a thorough examination—checking reflexes, examining eyes and throat, listening to breathing patterns, taking his pulse, even requesting a small blood sample to test for lingering poison.
Physically, the boy was perfect. Better than perfect, actually. His reflexes were sharper than any twelve-year-old's should be, his muscle tone was more developed than his age would suggest, and his heart rate was steady as a metronome.
But Edric had never seen a child sit so still. So alert. So aware of every sound, every movement in the room.
"You've grown quiet," Edric noted, making notes on his parchment.
"Stillness keeps people calm," Thor replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "And honestly? I've had enough screaming to last several lifetimes."
Edric paused, his ink-stained hands folding together on the desk. "You speak differently now. Your vocabulary, your mannerisms... like someone much older."
Thor met his gaze directly, and for a moment, Edric felt like he was looking into the eyes of a veteran soldier rather than a young boy.
"Maybe the gods ran out of children and had to make do with whatever was lying around."
The Maester said nothing more. He could find no illness, no affliction, no sign of lasting damage from the storm or the poison. But something fundamental had changed in Thor Baratheon. Something unmeasurable but undeniable.
As Thor rose to leave, he paused at the door.
"Oh, and Edric? Thanks for not trying to bleed me or feed me some weird herbal tea. Professional restraint—I respect that."
As the door closed behind him, Edric sat back in his chair, deeply troubled. In his mind, he began composing detailed notes on this.
Outside in the corridor, a serving girl named Beth was polishing brass fixtures when she overheard the conversation through the slightly open door. Her eyes went wide, and she hurried down to the kitchens to share what she'd heard.
"He talked to the Maester like they were equals," she breathlessly told Cook Mara. "Like he wasn't afraid of nothing. And the way he said things... it was like he was making jokes, but dark ones. Scary ones."
Cook Mara set down her ladle with a heavy thud. "Mark my words, girl. That boy's been touched by something. Question is whether it's divine or damned."
---
The Corridor – Althera
Althera was waiting just outside the Maester's chamber, leaning against the stone wall with arms folded across her chest. Her auburn hair was braided simply, but her green eyes held the sharp intelligence that ran in Baratheon blood. She wore a simple blue dress, but her posture was that of someone ready for a fight.
She'd been eavesdropping, of course. In a castle like Storm's End, information was currency, and she'd learned long ago that knowledge meant survival.
"You actually went," she said as Thor emerged.
"Yeah, well, figured Galen would've had me dragged kicking and screaming if I didn't. Guy's got that whole 'disappointed dad' vibe down to an art form."
She pushed off from the wall and stepped directly into his path, studying his face with the intensity of a hawk examining prey.
"You're not the same."
Thor's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock."
"Sherlock?" The name was foreign to her, but somehow she understood it was some kind of reference she wasn't getting.
"Never mind. Pop culture reference. You wouldn't get it." He tried to step around her, but she moved to block him again.
"You remember something. Something big."
He stopped trying to evade and looked her directly in the eye. "Yeah. I remember being someone else. A soldier. Different world, different life, same shitty circumstances."
Althera felt her breath catch. She'd suspected something like this, but hearing it confirmed was still jarring.
"Another life? Like... reincarnation?"
"Bingo. Gold star for you sister." His tone was casual, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "I was older. A lot older. Had a whole different name, whole different war to fight. Buried those memories so deep I forgot they existed. But Garrick's death..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It broke something open. Now I remember everything."
"I didn't want to remember," Thor continued, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. "For years after I got here, all I wanted was to be normal. To be your annoying little brother who complained about sword lessons and flirted with serving girls. I wanted to belong somewhere, you know?"
Althera's expression softened slightly. "Are you still him? Still my brother?"
"Yeah. I'm still me. Just... more than I was before. Think of it like..." He searched for an analogy she'd understand. "Like a sword that's been reforged. Same steel, but stronger. Sharper. Maybe a little more dangerous."
"You're not telling me everything."
"Hell no. Some of that shit would give you nightmares for years."
His casual profanity made her wince slightly, but she pressed on. "But you're not lying to me."
"Never have, never will. Lying to family is a sucker's game."
She held his gaze for a long moment, searching for deception and finding none. Finally, she nodded.
"Then I'll keep your secret. You annoying little scoundrel."
Thor exhaled, a flicker of genuine relief passing through his features. "Thanks, Thea. That... that means a lot."
"But one day," she added, stepping beside him as they began walking down the corridor together, "you tell me everything. The whole story. No matter how dark it gets."
"When I'm ready," he promised. "And when you're ready to hear it. Some stories change you just by listening to them."
As they walked, Althera shot him a sideways glance. "And try not to terrify the staff. Pate a stable boy thinks you're some kind of wight. Poor kid hasn't slept in three days."
Thor's grin was sharp and not entirely pleasant. "Well, he's not entirely wrong. I am technically a dead man walking around in a new body."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be funny. Just honest."
Behind them, the chambermaids Lysa and Rose exchanged horrified looks.
"Did he just say he was dead?" Lysa whispered.
"I think he did," Rose replied, clutching her duster like a weapon. "Seven help us all."
## The Training Yard – Next Morning
The castle's training yard was a large courtyard surrounded by high walls, with weapon racks along the sides and straw dummies for sword practice. Early morning mist still clung to the stones as Thor emerged, dressed in simple training leathers and carrying a practice sword.
A small crowd had gathered—knights, men-at-arms, and curious servants who'd found excuses to be nearby. Word had spread about the lord's strange behavior, and everyone wanted a closer look at the boy who'd supposedly commanded lightning.
Ser Davrin, the master-at-arms, was a bear of a man with grey hair and arms like tree trunks. He'd trained three generations of Baratheon warriors and had no patience for noble brats who thought their blood made them swordsmen.
"So," he said, hefting a practice blade, "heard you've been having some excitement lately."
"You could say that." Thor tested the weight of his sword, moving through a few basic forms. But his movements were different from before—more fluid, more economical. Like someone who'd been taught to kill efficiently rather than stylishly.
"Davrin," Thor continued conversationally, "quick question: when you're training someone to fight, what's the most important thing?"
The master-at-arms frowned. "Discipline. Repetition. Building muscle memory until the sword becomes an extension of your arm."
"Close. But wrong." Thor settled into a fighting stance that looked somehow both familiar and completely foreign. "The most important thing is accepting that you're going to get hurt. Pain is just information. The question is what you do with it."
Around the yard, the watching crowd murmured. That wasn't the kind of philosophy they expected from a twelve-year-old lord.
Young Jory, Duncan's apprentice, leaned over to one of the stable boys. "He sounds like Blackfish used to. All practical and grim-like."
"Blackfish a war hero," the stable boy replied. "This is just a boy playing at being dangerous."
But when Davtin attacked—a simple overhead strike meant to test Thor's basic parries—the boy moved like water. He deflected the blow, stepped inside Davrin's guard, and had his practice blade at the man-at-arms's throat before anyone could blink.
The yard fell silent.
"Like I said," Thor said quietly, stepping back and lowering his sword. "Pain is information. But speed trumps strength every time."
Davrin stared at him, rubbing his throat where the blunted blade had pressed against his windpipe. "Where did you learn to move like that?"
"Here and there. YouTube University, mostly, but some practical experience mixed in."
"YouTube?" Duncan had never heard the word, but somehow understood it was another of Thor's strange references.
"Never mind. Point is, I've had some time to think about fighting lately. Theory versus practice, you know?"
At the edge of the yard, Cook Mara watched with growing unease. "That's not how children fight," she muttered to Penny, who stood beside her with wide eyes.
"How do children fight?"
"Wild. Desperate. All emotion and no control. But him..." She shook her head. "He fights like someone who's killed before. Someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to end a life."
## The Solar – Private Council
Later that afternoon, Thor held his first formal council meeting in the solar—a smaller, more intimate chamber where the lords of Storm's End had conducted private business for centuries. Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating a heavy oak table surrounded by high-backed chairs.
Present were Ser Galen, Maester Edric, Ser Davrin, Althera, and the castle's steward, Ser Cortnay Penrose—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and the perpetually worried expression of someone who managed the day-to-day operations of a great castle.
"Alright," Thor said, settling into the lord's chair at the head of the table, "let's talk about the elephant in the room."
"Elephant?" Ser Cortnay looked confused.
"Big grey animal. Never mind. Let's talk about the fact that everyone thinks I've lost my mind."
Uncomfortable silence settled over the room like a blanket.
"The explanation is complicated and involves things that would sound like madness if I said them out loud. So instead, let's focus on what matters: I'm still loyal to House Baratheon, I'm still committed to protecting Storm's End and its people, and I'm still the same person you've all known for years. I'm just... more informed now."
"More informed about what?" Althera asked, though she already suspected the answer.
"About how the world really works. About what's coming. About what it takes to survive when civilized rules stop applying."
Ser Donnel's weathered face creased with concern. "What do you mean, 'what's coming'?"
Thor was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the grey sky. When he spoke, his voice was softer, more thoughtful.
"War's coming. Real war. Not the courtly nonsense with banners and honor codes, but the kind where people do whatever it takes to survive. And when that happens, the old ways of doing things—the traditional approaches to leadership and politics—they're going to get a lot of good people killed."
He turned back to face the table, and his purple eyes held a weight that belonged on a much older face.
"So here's what we're going to do: We're going to modernize. We're going to train our people not just to fight, but to think. We're going to build alliances based on mutual benefit rather than old family ties. And we're going to be ready for whatever fresh hell comes walking through our gates."
Maester Edric was taking notes, his quill scratching rapidly across parchment. "My lord, these are... significant changes you're proposing."
"Significant times call for significant changes, doc. The old playbook isn't working anymore. Time to write a new one."
"What kind of something big?" asked Penny, her young face creased with worry.
Evening – The Chambers
As night fell over Storm's End, Thor sat alone in his chambers, staring into the fire that crackled in the hearth. The room was simply furnished—a bed, a desk, several chairs, and tapestries depicting the history of House Baratheon. But tonight it felt like a command center rather than a bedroom.
Maps were spread across his desk, marked with notes in his careful handwriting. Supply lists, personnel assessments, strategic considerations—the kind of detailed planning that would have impressed a seasoned military commander.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
Althera entered, closing the door behind her. She was dressed for bed, but her expression was wide awake and concerned.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Sleep's overrated. Too many things to think about."
She moved to the chair across from his desk and sat down, pulling her robe tighter around herself. "Want to talk about it?"
Thor looked up from his maps, studying her face in the firelight. "You sure you want to hear this? Because once I start talking, you can't unhear it."
"I'm sure."
He leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking very tired despite his young face. "Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you."
And as the fire burned low and the castle settled into sleep around them, Thor began to tell his sister about wars in distant lands, about weapons that could kill from leagues away, about the terrible weight of command and the cost of survival in a world gone mad.
Outside his windows, the wind picked up again—soft and electric, carrying the promise of storms yet to come.
The mask was slipping. The mirror was reflecting truth.
And in Storm's End, change was coming whether the world was ready for it or not.
In the Servants' Quarters
Down in the castle's lower levels, where the servants slept in small rooms carved from Storm's End's massive walls, whispered conversations continued long into the night.
"Something's wrong with him," Dalla the kitchen maid said to her roommate, Merry. "Not wrong-bad, necessarily, but... different. Like he's wearing someone else's skin."
"Maybe the storm changed him," Merry suggested. "My grandmother always said lightning could touch a person's soul, make them see things differently."
In another room, Pate the stable boy huddled under his blankets, still convinced that their young lord was some kind of supernatural creature. "Seen dead men walk before," he muttered to himself. "During the dark years, when I was little. They had that same look in their eyes. Like they remembered being somewhere else."
But perhaps the most telling conversation was happening in Cook Mara's private chamber, where she sat with her ledger, updating the household accounts by candlelight.
Her assistant, Penny, sat nearby, mending linens.
"Cook?" Penny said quietly. "What do you really think about Lord Thor?"
Mara set down her quill and looked at the young girl. "I think," she said slowly, "that boy's been to hell and back. Question is whether he brought anything back with him that we need to worry about."
"You think he's dangerous?"
"Oh, child. I think he's the most dangerous thing in this castle. But I also think he might be the only thing standing between us and something worse."
Outside, the wind continued to whisper through Storm's End's ancient stones, carrying secrets and promises in equal measure.
The storm had ended, but the aftermath was just beginning.
And in the morning, Thor Baratheon would wake up and continue the delicate work of balancing who he had been with who he was becoming—while everyone around him tried to figure out whether their young lord was their salvation or their doom.
The mask was necessary. The mirror was honest.
And somewhere between the two, the future of Storm's End was being written in lightning.
_______
Chapter end.
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