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The sky above Storm's End was clear, but Thor Baratheon didn't trust it. It was too quiet, like the world was waiting for something to happen. He stood barefoot on the balcony of the Whispering Tower, wearing loose black clothes damp from the sea breeze. His violet eyes stared out at the dark waves, but his thoughts were on the Kingslanding summons.
Then he felt it—a soft nudge in his mind, like someone peeking through a window. It was gentle but sneaky, old and knowing. He knew who it was.
"Bran," Thor muttered, a half-smile on his lips. "Peeping tree guy."
He didn't push back. Instead, he let the connection open just a crack, teasing the Three-Eyed King.
---
-In the Red Keep-
King Bran sat still on his weirwood throne, its roots twisting around him like a hug. His hands didn't move, and his breathing was slow. His pale eyes looked far away, seeing things beyond the Red Keep's walls—through time, memory, and distance.
He reached out with his mind, searching for something in the Stormlands. Something bright. Something alive.
He found Thor and slipped into his thoughts.
Thor let him.
For a moment, it was dark.
Then everything changed.
Bran wasn't in Westeros anymore. He was in a strange place—metal buildings, roaring fire, a sky black as night. A huge flame shot up, not from magic but from something people built. It was loud, angry, and wrong.
Cities disappeared in a flash. Roads turned to dust. People's screams stopped as a wave of heat swept through.
Then came a bright light—hot, blinding. Everything burned. People, houses, even glass melted away.
After, it was quiet. Too quiet.
A man's voice spoke, calm and cold: "Target hit. Forty million gone. Area lost. It's over."
The worst part wasn't the destruction—it was how normal the voice sounded, like it didn't care.
Bran's mind shook. He tried to pull away, but Thor's voice stopped him, clear and sharp. "You wanna look inside my head, peeping bastard ? Go ahead. But don't expect it to be pretty."
Bran saw visions at once—one with castles and swords, the other with machines and fire. Thor stood in the middle, lightning all around him.
It was too much. Bran pulled back, like he'd touched something hot.
---
Back in the Tower
Thor stood still, his face calm. Inside, his heart buzzed like a storm, but he kept it under control. He breathed out slowly and said, "Not cool, Bran. you should have said please first."
A quick gust of wind carried his words away, and the night went quiet again, just the sound of waves below.
Thor walked back to his room, the stone floor cool under his feet. He lit four candles, one in each corner, their little flames dancing. He sat down, legs crossed, hands on his knees, and closed his eyes.
The lightning inside him—the wild energy that used to scare him—tingled under his skin. He'd tried to ignore it, hoping it'd fade. But it was part of him now, maybe the biggest part.
'Okay, so I have to do the meditation as I know that might help in my case like it did to a certain green gamma raged giant in the movies eh' . "So Gods," he said to the empty room, his voice soft but firm. "Old ones, new ones, sea gods, fire gods—you're all watching me, huh? Can't mind your own business."
He opened his eyes, looking at the candles. "I didn't ask for this. Didn't want to be someone's chosen one or whatever."
His hands tightened, then loosened. "Bran keeps peeping through his tree magic. The Red God will upload some creepy fire dreams. Those Qohor goat weirdos slimey bastards will not stay away. But I'm not your tool. I'm me."
He took a deep breath, calming down. "I was a soldier once. Training hard was my dopamine rush."
He grinned, just a little. "Now? I'm the fight. And I'm done hiding."
Outside, clouds rolled in, quiet and quick, forming a perfect circle above Storm's End. They didn't rumble—they waited.
Thor got up and walked to the ramparts, the wind pulling at his clothes. He raised one hand, fingers spread.
The sky answered.
A single bolt of purple lightning shot up from the tower, bright and straight, like an arrow of light. It didn't crash or break—it flew, steady and strong. The sea glowed faintly, and the air hummed. Every raven in the castle squawked and took off.
Inside, maesters dropped their books. Guards stared, mouths open. Gendry, in his forge, stopped hammering and looked up, his heart racing.
Thor stood tall, eyes shining softly. He didn't shake or waver.
He'd controlled it.
(sugar rush incoming)
For a second, Thor felt everything. Every heartbeat in the castle. Every crack in the walls. Every wave in the sea. It was like he *was* the storm.
He could break it all. Tear down the keep. Light up the sky.
The power felt good—too good. His fingers twitched, wanting more.
"Whoa, slow down," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "That's a rush, but you're not going there."
He breathed out, long and slow, letting the buzz fade. Then he laughed, a quick, rough sound. "So, I'm like Thor from the myths, Raiden and Electro, cranked up to eleven. Cool."
He turned toward the stairs, still grinning. "Guess I'm the whole damn power grid now."
But 'deep inside, I gotta stay focused the power won't be the problem but' "Power corrupts and Absolute power corrupts ABSOLUTELY"
He sighed "Man now that's a bummer"
In his forge, Gendry set down his hammer with trembling hands, the half-finished blade forgotten as he watched the impossible display. His heart hammered against his ribs like a captive bird.
"Seven preserve us," he whispered. "What has he become?"
But Thor stood steady at his window, violet eyes glowing with inner fire, his body rooted to the earth like some primordial force given human form. The lightning was his now. Truly his.
He had done it. He had tamed the
storm.
The lightning was only the beginning. It was the most obvious manifestation, the flashy display that drew attention and inspired fear. But beneath it lay something deeper—a connection to the fundamental forces that shaped the world. He could sense storms days before they arrived. Could feel the tension in the earth before earthquakes. Could taste the presence of wildfire in the air before it bloomed.
It was as if he had become a living conduit for the planet's elemental fury.
"The question," he murmured, pen hovering over a blank page, "is what to do with it."He had been content to hide at Storm's End, to pretend he was just another noble playing at being a lord's son. But tonight's encounter with Bran had shattered that illusion. The Three-Eyed King knew about him now. Had seen glimpses of truths that should have remained buried.
How long before others came seeking answers? How long before the wrong people learned what he could do?
But as he settled into his bed, one thought kept echoing in his mind: the look of terror on Bran's face when he'd seen those visions of destruction. The Three-Eyed King had witnessed the end of the world, or something very much like it.
Throughout Storm's End, sleep came slowly and uneasily that night. The servants whispered of omens and portents, of the strange lights that had danced across the sky. The guards traded nervous jokes about lightning lords and storm gods, but their laughter held a brittle edge.
In his chambers, Maester Cressen's replacement—an old man named Maester Edric—bent over his books with fevered intensity, searching ancient texts for any mention of similar phenomena. The old Valyrian treatises spoke of dragonlords who could command the elements, but those bloodlines had died in the Doom. Hadn't they?
Gendry found no rest in his forge that night. He stared at the half-finished blade on his anvil, remembering the phenomenon that had taken place he will need answers now.
In the kitchens, Old Greta-Storm's End's own cook—huddled with the younger servants, spinning stories of the Storm Kings of old. She spoke of Durran Godsgrief, who had defied the gods themselves for love. Of Argilac the Arrogant, who had challenged the Conqueror and paid with his life. Of storms that could be summoned by will alone, and lightning that danced to royal commands.
"The blood remembers," she croaked, her clouded eyes fixed on something only she could see. "Baratheon blood carries storms in its veins. Always has. Always will."
But none of them truly understood what they had witnessed. How could they? They lived in a world of swords and horses, of castles and kings.
Not in the age of heros.
When morning came, it brought with it a strange calm. The unnatural storm had dissipated in the pre-dawn hours, leaving behind only a few scattered clouds and the usual salt breeze from the sea. To most observers, it might have been just another autumn squall, dramatic but ultimately harmless.
Thor woke with the sun, feeling oddly refreshed despite the previous night's exertions. The power within him had settled into a steady, manageable rhythm—still present, still ready to answer his call, but no longer clawing at his consciousness like a caged beast.
He dressed simply in leather and wool, choosing practical garments over the silk and velvet that his station might have demanded. There was work to be done, and he had to prepare for the journey.
As he made his way down to the great hall, Thor encountered the usual morning bustle of castle life. Servants bowed as he passed, but he caught the sideways glances, the whispered conversations that fell silent at his approach. Word of the lightning had spread, as he had known it would.
'Let them wonder. Let them whisper. Fear could be a useful tool, if properly managed'.
But as he settled into his chair at the high table and broke his fast with black bread and honey, Thor found himself thinking not of power or politics, but
'Fuckin hell now I have to go against the world I know some power hungry bastards are gonna come, Jeez, Give me a break.'
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Chapter End
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