Chapter: The Child of the Storm
The sky over the Stormlands hung low and threatening, a vast canvas of charcoal and slate that seemed to press down upon the world beneath. Gusts from the narrow sea sent fallen leaves dancing across muddy paths as the promise of a tempest grew heavier with each passing hour. In cottages and huts throughout the coastal hamlets, mothers called their children indoors while men exchanged knowing glances, their weathered faces etched with the familiar anxiety that came before nature's fury unleashed itself.
"This one's gonna be a howler," muttered Ronan, his rough fingers working methodically to mend a tear in his fishing net. Salt had long ago worked its way into the creases of his hands, leaving them permanently stained and cracked. The smell of brine and impending rain hung thick in the air as he squinted up at the darkening sky. "Just like the night the young lord was born."
Around him, other fishermen secured their modest vessels, tying them fast with practiced knots that would withstand the coming onslaught. Their movements were urgent but precise—the choreography of men who had danced with storms their entire lives. Yet even as they worked, their conversation inevitably turned to Storm's End and the peculiar child who dwelled within its ancient walls.
"Saw him myself last market day," said a barrel-chested man lashing down a tarp over his boat's deck. "Standing beside Lord Gendry quiet as you please, watching everyone like he was counting heads." The man lowered his voice. "Those eyes of his—never seen a babe look at the world that way.."
Ronan nodded, feeling the first fat droplets of rain strike his sun-leathered face. "Thor Baratheon," he said, the name itself seeming to carry a peculiar weight on his tongue. "Not even 5 names day and already the folk speak his name like it means something more than just a lord's son."
Five years ago, Ronan had been hauling in his catch when the storm that heralded Thor's birth had descended upon the land. It was no ordinary tempest—even for the Stormlands, renowned for their fierce weather. The lightning that night had struck with such frequency that the sky remained illuminated in an eerie, continuous glow. The thunder had rolled without pause, a deep and constant rumbling that seemed to emanate from the earth itself rather than the heavens above.
That same night, word spread through the villages: Lady Baratheon was in labor, and the storm seemed centered directly above Storm's End itself. By morning, when the clouds had finally dispersed, two pieces of news traveled faster than the receding waters: the lady was dead, but her son lived—a boy with hair as purple as the storm clouds themselves, shot through with an unnatural purple sheen that struck on his birth
"The gods marked that lad," Ronan murmured to himself now, securing the last of his nets. "Whether for greatness or doom, only they know."
Inside the formidable walls of Storm's End, Lord Gendry Baratheon stood at the window of his solar, watching the same storm clouds gather. Though he had been Lord of the Stormlands for years now, there were moments when the weight of the title still felt foreign on his shoulders. He had once been nothing more than a blacksmith's apprentice in King's Landing, unknown and unremarkable. Now he commanded one of the great houses of Westeros, his once-calloused hands now more accustomed to holding parchment than hammer.
Behind him, the door opened with a soft creak. Gendry didn't need to turn to know who it was—only one person in the castle entered rooms with such deliberate slowness.
"Father," came the small voice, neither hesitant nor eager, simply measured.
Gendry turned to see his youngest child standing in the doorway. Thor was small for his age, but his presence seemed to fill the room in a way that belied his stature. His hair—that remarkable purple that had been the subject of so much whispered speculation—fell in loose waves to his shoulders. His eyes, the deep purple of the lost valyrian line, regarded his father with an unsettling steadiness.
"There's a storm coming," Thor said, not as an observation but as a simple statement of fact.
Gendry nodded, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest whenever he looked at his son. Love and grief and something like fear, all tangled together in an impossible knot. In Thor's face, he sometimes caught glimpses of his mother—the slope of his nose, the set of his jaw. But there was something else there too, something Gendry couldn't name, something that seemed older than the boy himself.
"Yes," Gendry replied, crossing the room and kneeling before his son. "The storms always come here. It's why our home has its name."
Thor nodded solemnly. "I know. The castle has never fallen. Durran Godsgrief built it to withstand the wrath of the gods after he stole the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind."
Gendry blinked in surprise. "Who told you that story?"
"No one," Thor replied, his gaze drifting to the window where lightning now flickered on the horizon. "I just know it."
A shiver passed through Gendry that had nothing to do with the draft in the ancient keep. These moments had grown more frequent as Thor aged—instances where the boy revealed knowledge he couldn't possibly possess, spoke of things he couldn't possibly know. Gendry had learned not to question it too deeply, fearing what answers might await.
Instead, he placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "Would you like to watch the storm with me? From the eastern tower, we can see it rolling in across the bay."
A rare smile flickered across Thor's solemn face, transforming him momentarily into just a boy of five, eager for his father's company. "Yes, please."
As they walked hand in hand through the corridors of Storm's End, Gendry found himself thinking of his other children. Althera, his eldest, had her mother's practicality and his own stubborn determination. At sixteen, she was already showing the makings of a fine lady, balancing compassion with the necessary firmness required to command respect. Jorlan, three years her junior, had recently returned from his first year of study at the Citadel, his mind sharp and curious, though lacking the strange, innate knowledge that Thor seemed to possess.
They were good children, all three of them. Yet it was Thor who kept Gendry awake at night, wondering what future awaited a child who seemed touched by forces beyond mortal understanding.
In the ancient city of Oldtown, far to the south, Lord Garret Hightower stood on the balcony of the High Tower, watching a different sky. Here, the heavens were clear and studded with stars, the air heavy with the scent of the sea mixed with the countless smells of the city below—spices from distant lands, the smoke of cooking fires, the ever-present hint of fish and salt.
On his desk inside lay a letter newly arrived from the Stormlands, the seal of House Baratheon broken beside it. The letter itself contained nothing remarkable—formal pleasantries, discussion of trade agreements, mention of the coming harvest festival. But it was the postscript, hastily added in Lord Gendry's own hand, that had kept Garret from his bed this night:
My son Thor celebrated his fifth nameday last week. During the modest feast, as thunder crashed outside, all the candles in the great hall extinguished simultaneously. When light was restored, the boy was found standing calmly amidst the confusion, completely unafraid. I know you collect accounts of the unusual and unexplained. Perhaps this small anecdote might interest you.
Garret ran a hand over his meticulously trimmed beard, his mind working through the implications. He had indeed been collecting such accounts—stories of children born under unusual circumstances, of unexplained phenomena, of ancient prophecies that might yet find fulfillment in this strange, magic-depleted age. After the fall of the Dragon Queen and the establishment of the new order, most believed the age of magic and prophecy had ended for good.
Garret was not so certain.
"My lord?" A servant appeared at the doorway, holding a tray with a decanter of Arbor gold. "You asked for wine before retiring."
"Yes, thank you, Marwyn." Garret turned from the balcony, his expression thoughtful. "Tell me, have you ever been to the Stormlands?"
The servant placed the tray carefully on a side table. "Once, my lor....
Chapter End
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