The scream tore from his throat before his eyes even opened.
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the very stones of the tower as Thor Baratheon jolted upright in bed, gasping like a drowning man. The storm outside howled in fury, wind slamming against the shutters, rain lashing like whips on stone. Lightning flashed through the narrow windows, casting jagged shadows across the chamber walls.
His chest heaved. His skin was damp with sweat. The dream—no, the memory—was already slipping away, but the fear lingered. A white light. A blast that split the sky. A name on his tongue that didn't belong in Westeros.
"Jane," he whispered, tasting the foreign name like an impossible fruit.
He clutched his chest, fingers digging into the linen of his nightshirt. The pounding in his ribcage wasn't just panic—it was that storm again. The one that lived behind his heart.
It wasn't physical. The maester had found nothing wrong.
But Thor felt it.
Every day.
Like a tempest swirling just beneath the surface, waiting for the crack that would let it loose.
He sat in silence for a long moment, letting the echoes of thunder fill the room. The stone around him was ancient, unyielding, but he felt like it would split open beneath his feet if he didn't keep himself still. Controlled. Tied down like a ship in a squall.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the chamber, revealing the scattered trappings of his life. Books of Westerosi history he'd read a hundred times. A dagger gifted by his father on his nameday. A map of the Stormlands pinned above his desk, territories and allegiances marked in his own hand.
All of it familiar. All of it strange.
Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. The air colder still, despite the lingering warmth from the banked coals in the hearth. Storm's End was made to withstand sieges and hurricanes, but this—this was different.
This was personal.
He washed his face with cold water, dressed in silence, his hands steady despite the storm screaming outside and the one boiling within. He pulled on black trousers, a storm-gray tunic, and laced his boots with mechanical precision. His violet hair refused to stay tame—he tied it back anyway.
I am Thor Baratheon, he told his reflection in the steel-polished mirror. Son of Gendry. Lordling of Storm's End. And more.
But the more was dangerous. Strange. Forbidden.
No one could know.
Not Stannis. Not Althera. Not even Father.
A boom of thunder rolled over the cliffs, closer now. Thor straightened, listening.
Then—just as if summoned by it—came a knock at the chamber door. Muffled by wood but unmistakable.
"My lord?" a servant's voice. "Lady Althera bids you join her in the yard."
Thor exhaled slowly. The storm was still rising.
"Tell her I'm coming," he said.
He grabbed his cloak and strode for the door, each footstep a beat against the war drum inside his chest.
The wind tore at the battlements as Thor stepped into the courtyard, cloak snapping behind him like a banner. Rain lashed sideways in sheets, and the sky was a wall of gray fury, broken only by spears of lightning. Storm's End stood defiant, as always, but today even the keep seemed to brace itself against the wrath of the gods.
Stannis stood beneath the overhang near the training yard, arms crossed, water dripping from his dark hair. His warhammer rested beside him, the weight of it as natural to him as breathing. His sharp eyes flicked to Thor, unreadable as always.
"You're late," he said, voice cutting through the storm like a blade.
Thor met his brother's eyes. "The storm woke me."
"The storm has been raging for hours," Stannis replied. "You've been avoiding it."
Before Thor could respond, Althera's voice rang out from the yard. "Are you two plotting against me, or can we begin?"
She was already in the yard, soaked to the bone but unmoved by the weather. Her blade gleamed each time lightning lit the sky. She turned as Thor approached, a smirk playing across her lips.
"I thought you'd sleep through the storm."
"I woke before it started," Thor lied.
Althera studied him briefly, her eyes—Baratheon blue like their father's—narrowing slightly. "Mm."
She didn't believe him. She didn't press.
"You brought steel?" Stannis asked, nodding toward Thor's hip.
Thor nodded. A training blade was strapped to his hip, though it felt heavier than usual. Not in weight, but in meaning.
"Why are we doing this in a storm?" Thor asked, eyeing the puddles forming in the yard.
Althera laughed, the sound bright against the thunder's growl. "When else would a Baratheon train? Our words may be 'Ours is the Fury,' but our strength is the storm."
"Father wouldn't approve," Thor muttered, knowing it wasn't true.
"Father would be here himself if he weren't meeting with the bannermen," Stannis replied, unmoved. "He'd be disappointed to see you hesitate."
Thor's jaw tightened. "I'm not hesitating."
"Then prove it," Althera called, already taking her position.
Thor stepped into the yard.
The rain was blinding. The wind howled around them. Althera raised her blade in greeting.
"No mercy," she said.
Thor drew his sword.
"Good."
Their blades met in a flash of steel. Sparks flew. Not from the metal, but from the collision of wills. Althera was faster. Stronger. But Thor moved with a strange precision—like he'd fought battles beyond counting, in a body no longer his. Each parry, each sidestep, felt like memory pulled from another life.
The storm roared above them, thunder shaking the stones.
Althera struck high—Thor ducked low.
She swept his legs—he twisted, countered, struck for her shoulder.
She deflected, but her eyes widened just slightly.
"Where did you learn that move?" she demanded, circling him like a predator.
Thor blinked rain from his eyes. "I didn't learn it."
"Then how—"
He lunged forward, interrupting her with a series of attacks that shouldn't have been possible for someone his age. Althera parried each blow, but her surprise was evident.
"You've been practicing in secret," she accused, breathing hard.
"No," Thor said, evading her counter-strike with fluid grace.
Stannis raised a brow from his position beneath the overhang. "You've improved."
No, Thor thought. I remember.
He didn't know how, but the movements came to him like echoes from a life behind a veil. A soldier's stance. A killer's instinct. Not learned, but recalled.
"Did you bribe Ser Davos to teach you?" Althera pressed, launching another attack. "Or was it one of the guardsmen?"
Thunder rolled overhead, drowning Thor's response. The pressure in his chest returned—tight, hot, pulsing. The storm inside him surged with each strike. His breathing sharpened. His vision narrowed. The world faded into blade, breath, blood, and fury.
He and Althera clashed again, blades ringing through the courtyard like bells of war.
"You're fighting differently," she said between blows. "What changed?"
Everything, he wanted to say. Nothing.
Instead: "Maybe I'm just tired of losing to you."
She laughed, a sharp, surprised sound. "Then you'll be tired for many years to come, little brother."
The words sparked something in him—competitive, fierce. The storm in his chest surged. His next blow came with unexpected force, driving Althera back a step.
Her smile faltered. "Thor?"
He advanced, rain streaming down his face, each strike more precise than the last. The blade felt like an extension of his arm, as natural as breathing. Something was rising within him—something ancient and electric.
Then—
"Enough!" Stannis barked.
Althera stepped back, lowering her blade.
Thor staggered slightly. He hadn't realized how fast his heart was beating. His hand trembled on the hilt.
"You nearly took her shoulder off," Stannis said, stepping into the rain.
"It's raining," Thor muttered, fighting to control his breathing.
"No," Stannis replied. "That was controlled. Too controlled for a boy your age."
Thor looked away. The storm outside was fading.
But the one in his chest? Still there. Still waiting.
Still ready to explode.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Althera asked, genuine curiosity replacing her usual mockery.
Thor shook his head. "I didn't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Stannis stepped forward, eyes locked on Thor like a judge weighing a sentence.
"You need control," he said. "Not just skill."
Thor blinked, still catching his breath. "I—"
"One hundred sword slashes."
"What?"
"Ten thousand, if you want to be worth a damn," Stannis said, unmoved.
"With a real sword?"
"With this." Stannis tossed him a practice blade made of dense, heavy oak. It hit Thor's chest with a dull thump. The weight was brutal for wood. Thor caught it, barely.
"That thing weighs more than I do," he muttered.
"Then you'd best start eating more, brother," Stannis replied without a trace of humor. He turned and strode off toward the ramparts. "Ten thousand. Full form. No shortcuts. On the dummy."
Althera leaned lazily against a post nearby, rain clinging to her armor, her eyes bright with mischief.
"Enjoy your punishment, brother," she said sweetly.
Thor glared. "You think this is funny, sister?"
"I know it is." She wiped rain from her brow. "Though I'm curious why Stannis is so bothered. You fought well."
"Too well," Thor said quietly.
Althera tilted her head. "Is that possible?"
"For me? Apparently."
She studied him with new interest. "You're different today."
Thor hefted the wooden sword, testing its weight. "I'm always different. You just don't usually notice."
"Don't flatter yourself. I notice everything about you, little brother."
"Then you know I hate when you call me that."
"Why do you think I do it?" She grinned, but there was something gentler behind it. "You're not that little anymore. Father says you'll be taller than him soon."
"Father exaggerates."
"Father never exaggerates." She pushed off from the post. "Neither does Stannis. If he says ten thousand cuts, he means it."
She didn't offer to help. She never did. She just watched, arms folded, her smirk carved like it was made of lightning and shadow.
Thor looked at the training dummy—scarred wood, old wounds. It stood silent in the rain like it was waiting to humiliate him.
He hefted the heavy wooden sword.
"At least give me some advice," he called to Althera.
She considered this, then shrugged. "Don't die."
"How helpful."
"Fine." She sighed dramatically. "Keep your core tight. Let your breath guide the swing. And remember—"
"Form over force," Thor finished. "I know."
"Then why are you still talking instead of cutting?"
Thor muttered something under his breath and positioned himself before the dummy. He raised the wooden sword, adjusted his stance, and began.
The first slash was clumsy. His muscles screamed in protest at the weight.
Althera winced. "Pathetic."
"I'm getting warmed up," Thor growled.
"The dummy is terrified, I'm sure."
By the fiftieth slash, Thor's arms burned. By the hundredth, his shoulders ached.
"Should I count for you?" Althera asked, settling down on a nearby barrel. "You seem the type to lose track."
"I can count," Thor snapped.
"Two hundred and seventeen," she said. "In case you were wondering."
Thor paused, breathing hard. "Why are you still here?"
"Entertainment." She tilted her face up to the rain. "And I'm curious to see if you'll quit."
"I won't."
"Everyone says that at two hundred."
Thor glared and resumed his practice. Slash. Slash. Slash.
By five hundred, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
"You should bend your knees more," Althera commented.
Thor ignored her.
"I'm serious. You're too stiff."
"I thought you were here to mock me."
"I can do both." She stood and approached him. "Here."
Without warning, she positioned herself behind him, adjusted his stance with firm hands. "Like this. You waste energy when you're rigid."
Thor tensed at her touch, surprised by the help.
"See? Rigid." She stepped back. "You fight better when you let go of whatever's in your head."
Thor resumed his practice, incorporating her advice. The movement did feel more natural.
"Better," she said. "Still terrible, but better."
By eight hundred, the clouds had broken. Watery sunlight filtered through, casting long shadows across the yard.
"Tell me about the dreams," Althera said suddenly.
Thor's rhythm faltered. "What dreams?"
"The ones that make you scream at night."
He stopped, turning to face her. "You've heard me?"
"My chamber is next to yours." She wasn't smirking now. "The walls of Storm's End are thick, but not thick enough."
Thor swallowed. "It's nothing."
"People don't scream over nothing."
"It's just dreams."
"About what?"
The wooden sword felt impossibly heavy in his hands. The storm in his chest threatened to break free.
"I don't remember," he lied.
Althera studied him, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Keep your secrets, brother."
"They're not secrets. They're just..." He searched for the word. "Fragments."
"Of what?"
Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if in warning.
"I don't know," Thor whispered.
Althera looked like she might press further, but instead she just pointed to the dummy. "Eight hundred and twenty-seven. You're falling behind."
Thor nodded gratefully and resumed his practice.
By the thousandth one, his form was clumsy again. His muscles screamed. The second thousand—slightly better. The five thousandth, worse. By the seven thousandth, sweat mingled with rain on his brow.
The sun had fully emerged, steam rising from the wet stones of the yard. Stannis had returned to observe, saying nothing, his presence both motivation and judgment.
By 8500's, his hands throbbed.
By 9000's, the storm in his chest surged.
"Don't forget to breathe, little brother!" Althera called from where she now sat, sharpening her own blade.
"I'm not little," Thor muttered through gritted teeth.
"You're not done either."
He gritted his teeth. "Thank you, sister, very helpful."
"You're welcome," she replied cheerfully. "Nine thousand two hundred and forty-five, by the way."
The urge to explode was rising again. Every swing carried weight—not just physical, but emotional. Rage. Fire. Fear. The storm clawed behind his ribs, howling to be let out.
Burn it all. Break the wood. Shatter everything.
Thor felt something building with each slash. A pressure. A power. The air around him seemed to crackle, though the storm had passed.
"Thor?" Althera's voice had lost its teasing edge. "Your hands."
He looked down. His knuckles were white, straining against the wooden hilt. But more alarming—had the wood begun to smoke?
No.
"Not today," he whispered.
He raised the sword again. And again. And again.
Control. I need control.
Nine thousand five hundred. Six hundred. Seven hundred.
Stannis watched from above, eyes narrowed, assessing.
"Good form, brother," he called down, just once.
It meant more than a hundred praises from anyone else.
Thor said nothing. Just swung again.
Nine thousand eight hundred. Nine hundred.
"Last one," Althera said quietly, standing closer now.
Thor raised the wooden sword one final time, summoning the last of his strength. The storm inside him surged, crested—and as the blade struck wood for the ten thousandth time, he exhaled.
Control.
The wooden sword split down the middle, the crack echoing through the yard like thunder.
Thor stared at the broken weapon in his hands. Stannis and Althera stared at him.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Stannis nodded, once. "Good," he said. "Tomorrow, we double it."
He turned and walked away, leaving Thor holding the shattered remains of his practice sword.
Althera approached, eyes wide. "How did you do that?"
Thor looked at the splintered wood, feeling the storm in his chest throb with renewed intensity instead of receding. "I don't know."
She took the broken pieces from him, examining them. "Wood doesn't just split like this."
"It was old," Thor suggested, his voice strained as he fought to keep his breathing steady.
"It was solid oak." She looked up at him, searching his face. "You're hiding something."
Thunder rumbled in the distance, despite the clear skies overhead. Thor's eyes flickered upward, then back to his sister.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
Althera frowned. "Hear what?"
The storm was building again inside him, pressure mounting behind his ribs. Thor pressed a hand to his chest, feeling something electric pulsing beneath his palm.
"Thor?" Concern edged into Althera's voice. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he managed, but his knees suddenly felt weak. He staggered slightly.
Althera caught his arm. "You've pushed yourself too hard. Let's get you inside."
As they took their first steps toward the keep, the sky darkened abruptly. Within moments, clouds rolled in from nowhere, black as pitch and swirling with unnatural speed.
"That's not possible," Althera whispered, looking up. "The storm passed hours ago."
Thor's breathing came in short gasps now. Each inhalation felt like drawing in lightning. "It's coming back."
"Storms don't just—"
A crack of thunder split the air, so powerful it shook the stones beneath their feet. Several servants in the yard cried out in alarm. Stannis, who had been walking toward the armory, turned sharply.
"Inside!" he barked to everyone in the yard. "Now!"
Rain began to fall, not in drops but in sheets, as if the sky had torn open. Wind howled around the battlements, a furious scream that matched the building pressure in Thor's chest.
"I can't—" Thor doubled over, his vision blurring.
Control. I need control.
But the storm wouldn't listen. Not this time.
"Thor!" Althera's voice seemed distant now. "What's happening to you?"
He looked up at her, rainwater streaming down his face, mingling with sweat. "I think it's me," he whispered. "The storm... I think it's me."
Althera's eyes widened in confusion, then disbelief. "That's not possible."
Another crack of thunder, and lightning struck one of the guard towers, sending stone fragments flying. Guards shouted in alarm.
Thor fell to his knees, the pain in his chest unbearable now. He could feel it—the connection between the tempest inside him and the one raging overhead. They weren't separate. They were one.
"Get away from me," he gasped.
"I'm not leaving you," Althera said firmly, kneeling beside him.
"You don't understand." His voice cracked as lightning flashed in his eyes—not reflecting the sky, but generating their own internal light. "I can't control it."
Stannis appeared beside them, his expression grave. "Get him inside. Now."
Together, they hauled Thor to his feet. The storm intensified with each step they took, wind screaming around them, rain so thick it was hard to see.
"It's following him," Stannis said, his voice barely audible over the tempest.
"That's not possible," Althera repeated, but with less conviction.
They struggled through the curtain of rain, half-dragging Thor between them. The great hall doors seemed impossibly far away.
"Fight it," Stannis commanded, his grip bruising on Thor's arm. "Whatever this is, fight it."
Thor tried to focus, to breathe, to find that place of control he'd managed to reach at the end of his training. But the exhaustion from ten thousand strikes had left him vulnerable. The barriers within him were crumbling.
"I'm trying," he gasped.
They finally reached the massive oak doors. Servants pushed them open, faces pale with fear as they stared at the unnatural storm.
Just as they crossed the threshold into the hall, a bolt of lightning struck directly behind them, splitting a massive oak in the yard. The boom was deafening. The flash blinding.
Thor collapsed to the stone floor, convulsing.
"Get the maester!" Althera shouted to a nearby servant.
Stannis knelt beside Thor, his expression no longer stern but concerned. "Breathe, brother. Focus."
"The name," Thor gasped, his mind splitting between two realities. "I remember the name."
"What name?" Althera demanded, pushing wet hair from his face.
"Jane," Thor whispered, the foreign name tasting like metal on his tongue. "Jane."
The name meant nothing to them, but saying it aloud seemed to calm the chaos in Thor's chest. The storm outside didn't cease, but its fury lessened slightly.
"Who is Jane ?" Stannis asked.
"I don't know," Thor admitted. "But she's important. She's... connected to this somehow."
Gradually, his breathing steadied. The pain in his chest diminished to a dull roar. Outside, the thunder retreated to a distant growl.
Althera helped him sit up, watching him with new eyes—not just concerned, but wary. "What are you?" she asked quietly.
Thor met her gaze steadily. "I'm your brother," he said. "But I'm something else too. Something I don't understand yet."
For a moment, brother and sister stared at each other, the question hanging between them like lightning waiting to strike. Then Althera's expression softened.
"We'll figure it out," she said, gripping his hand. "Whatever it is."
Stannis remained silent, observing Thor with calculated intensity.
As the maester hurried toward them with his bag of remedies, Thor felt the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. The training. The storm. The power he'd barely contained—and then failed to contain at all.
"Althera," he said quietly as the maester fussed over his blistered hands, "do you ever feel... different?"
She glanced at him. "Different how?"
"Like you don't belong. Like there's something inside you that shouldn't be there."
She was silent for a long moment. Then: "We're Baratheons. Storm's blood runs in our veins. Of course we're different."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." She squeezed his arm gently. "But some questions don't have answers, brother. Some storms can't be named."
Thor nodded, unconvinced. The pressure in his chest had eased, but he knew it would return. It always did. And next time, it might not retreat so easily.
As the maester applied salve to his hands, Althera leaned closer. "Whatever it is you're fighting, Thor—whatever storm lives inside you—you don't have to face it alone."
Thor looked at his sister, surprised by the sincerity in her voice.
"Thank you," he said simply.
She nodded, then her familiar smirk returned, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "But if you tell anyone I said something nice, I'll deny it and then kill you."
Thor attempted a laugh, the sound rusty and hollow. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Stannis stood, looking toward the windows where the storm still raged, though with diminishing force. "When you're recovered," he said, "we need to talk." His tone left no room for argument.
Thor nodded, knowing that everything had changed. The secret he'd tried so desperately to keep was no longer his alone.
Outside, the storm gradually subsided, clouds dispersing as mysteriously as they had gathered. But the damage remained—a split oak, a damaged tower, and questions that couldn't be ignored.
And somewhere deep in Thor's chest, the tempest still waited. Not sleeping. Not gone. Just gathering strength for the next time it would break free.
_____
Chapter End