+++AUTHOR'S NOTE :- Please GIVE FEED BACK AND DO POINT OUT MISTAKES IN EDITING+++
The hall of Storm's End echoed with voices, a constant hum that swelled against the ancient stone walls. Through narrow windows, afternoon light spilled in long shafts that caught motes of dust dancing in the air. Petitioners, merchants, and smallfolk filled the chamber with grievances and pleas, faces hopeful and desperate in equal measure.
Gendry Baratheon sat upon the high seat—not a throne, he'd never call it that—with the hammer sigil of his house mounted on the wall behind him. His broad shoulders filled out the chair almost uncomfortably, a smith's frame never quite at ease in the trappings of lordship. His calloused hands rested on the armrests, fingers drumming an occasional rhythm when his patience waned.
"Lord Baratheon," called the steward, a slender man with quick eyes, "Farmer Derrick and Master Yoren have a dispute concerning the north pastures."
Gendry nodded, straightening himself. "Send them forward."
Two men approached the dais. The first was tall and weathered, with skin like tanned leather and shoulders hunched from decades bent over soil. The second was shorter, round-bellied, and red-faced, clearly agitated before he'd even opened his mouth.
"My lord," the farmer began, removing his cap and twisting it nervously in his hands. "I've worked them fields for twenty years, since your uncle Lord Renly—gods rest him—granted my father permission. Now Master Yoren here claims the stream marks his boundary, but it's always been the old oak that stands—"
"The stream is the natural boundary!" Yoren cut in, his voice carrying the hard edge of someone used to being obeyed. "My father purchased those lands from Lord Renly himself, and the deed clearly states—"
"I've never seen no deed," Derrick retorted, his voice rising. "And my sheep need that water access. They've always grazed there, always—"
Gendry raised a hand, and both men fell silent.
"Master Yoren," Gendry said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man of his size, "do you have this deed with you?"
Yoren's face twisted. "Well, no, my lord. It's kept safe at my home, but I can fetch—"
"And do your sheep truly need that particular stretch of water, Derrick?" Gendry asked, turning to the farmer. "Is there no other access point on your lands?"
The farmer's eyes dropped to the floor. "There's... a small spring, m'lord. But it runs dry in summer heat."
Gendry nodded, taking a breath. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking more like a man having a drink at a tavern than a lord dispensing justice.
"Here's what we'll do," he said, his blue eyes fixed on both men in turn. "Master Yoren, you'll bring your deed to my steward by week's end. If it shows what you claim, the stream is your boundary—but you'll grant a ten-foot easement along its bank for Derrick's sheep to water. If the deed doesn't support your claim, or you fail to produce it, we'll send out men to mark the boundary at the oak."
The merchant opened his mouth to protest, but Gendry continued.
"And Derrick, you'll clear and maintain that access path to your spring. My master builder will visit to see if we might improve its flow for you. Neither man leaves satisfied today, which usually means I've found something close to fair."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the hall. Derrick nodded gratefully, while Yoren seemed to calculate his position before reluctantly agreeing.
"Thank you, m'lord," Derrick said, bowing awkwardly.
As they retreated, Gendry caught snippets of their conversation: "Could've been worse..." "At least the sheep will drink..." They weren't friends leaving the hall, but neither were they enemies.
"Next," called the steward.
A woman stepped forward, leading a boy no older than ten. Her clothes were simple but clean, her hair tied back severely.
"My lord," she began, her voice steady despite her obvious discomfort in the grand hall, "I'm Marta, from the dockside. This is my son, Willem. He was struck by Ser Boros yesterday while running errands for me."
The boy beside her had a purpling bruise beneath one eye. He stood straight, though his lower lip trembled slightly.
Gendry's expression darkened. "Ser Boros Hasty?"
"Yes, m'lord," she confirmed. "Willem bumped into him accidentally, spilled the knight's wine on his cloak. He struck the boy with his gauntlet still on. Said no baseborn brat should walk where knights tread."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Gendry's jaw clenched visibly.
"Is Ser Boros present?" he asked, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
A knight stepped forward from among the crowd, his surcoat bearing the arms of House Hasty. He was handsome in a hard way, with a closely trimmed beard and cold eyes.
"My lord," he said smoothly, bowing with practiced grace. "The woman exaggerates a simple correction. The boy wasn't watching his way, ruined a fine cloak, and needed a lesson in respect."
Gendry's eyes narrowed. "A lesson in respect," he repeated, the words hanging in the air. "Tell me, Ser Boros, did you know I was baseborn?"
The knight blinked, caught off guard. "I... of course, my lord, but your circumstances were—"
"Different?" Gendry finished for him. "Because a king's bastard is worth more than a dockworker's son?"
Ser Boros's expression tightened. "I meant no disrespect to you, Lord Baratheon."
"But you meant it for the boy," Gendry countered. His voice remained level but carried throughout the hall without effort. "I remember some knights too. When their armor and their titles meant they could do as they pleased to those beneath them."
He stood then, his height impressive as he stepped down from the dais. He approached the knight, who involuntarily took half a step back.
"Here in Storm's End," Gendry continued, "a knight's duty is to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Not to bloody children who accidentally spill wine."
He turned to the boy, crouching down to examine his face. The gesture—a lord bending knee to inspect a common child—sent another ripple of whispers through the hall.
"That's a brave face you've got there, Willem," Gendry said kindly. "Does it hurt much?"
The boy shook his head, then reconsidered and gave a small nod.
"The truth is better than bravery sometimes," Gendry said with a half-smile. He straightened, turning back to Ser Boros.
"For striking a child under my protection, you'll surrender one month's pay to the boy's family," Gendry pronounced. "And you'll serve two weeks helping Master Donal in the armory—cleaning, polishing, whatever needs doing. Perhaps working with your hands will remind you what knighthood means."
"My lord," Ser Boros protested, color rising in his face, "such a punishment for a minor—"
"Would you prefer I strip you of your knighthood?" Gendry asked, his voice suddenly steel. "I can do that. I'm told King Bran would support such a decision, especially given your family's... complicated loyalties during recent troubles."
The hall fell silent as death. Ser Boros paled.
"No, my lord," he said stiffly. "I accept your judgment."
"Good," Gendry nodded. "And you'll apologize to the boy. Now."
For a moment, it seemed the knight might refuse. Then, with visible effort, he turned to Willem.
"I... apologize for striking you," he said, each word seeming dragged from him. "It was... unbecoming of a knight."
Willem, wide-eyed at being addressed by a knight, managed a nod.
"Thank you, Ser Boros," Gendry said, returning to his seat. "You're dismissed."
As the knight departed, obviously seething, Gendry addressed the woman. "Is that sufficient, Marta? The quartermaster will see to the payment before you leave today."
Tears shone in the woman's eyes. "More than fair, m'lord. Willem's father would've been grateful. He always said you were a lord for common folk."
"I try to be," Gendry replied simply. "Though some days I succeed better than others."
The afternoon continued in similar fashion. A dispute between fishermen over territorial waters. Complaints about tolls on the Kingsroad. A petition to rebuild a bridge washed out in spring floods. With each issue, Gendry listened more than he spoke, asked questions that cut to the heart of matters, and ruled with what seemed instinctive fairness rather than rigid adherence to precedent.
When the final petitioner had been heard, when the steward called an end to the day's business, the great hall slowly emptied. Servants moved about, lighting additional torches as afternoon light faded into evening. Gendry remained seated, watching the people file out—his people now, though the thought still occasionally struck him as absurd.
When the hall had nearly emptied, he finally allowed himself to slump back in his chair, one hand coming up to rub his temples. The weight of the day—of all the decisions, all the expectations—settled across his shoulders like a physical burden.
"You look like a man twice your age," came a voice from beside the hall's great pillar.
Gendry didn't startle. He'd sensed the presence, known who it was before the words were spoken. He'd grown accustomed to the way Stannis Baratheon moved—quiet but never furtive, always with purpose.
"Some days I feel it," Gendry admitted, straightening despite the ache in his lower back. "Is Stormsong troubling you again? I told you, he's yours to train how you see fit."
Stannis stepped into the flickering torchlight. He'd grown tall these past years, nearly matching Gendry's height though leaner of build. His hair was dark as pitch, his eyes the blue that marked Baratheons for generations, but there was something in his bearing—a stillness, a watchfulness—that set him apart from the boisterous Baratheon men of legend.
"It's not the stallion," Stannis said, approaching the dais. His arms crossed over his chest, a habit when troubled. "I spoke to Thor this noon."
At the mention of his son, Gendry's expression shifted subtly. Pride and concern crossed his features in equal measure.
"He should have been in the rookery this morning," Gendry said, brow furrowing. "Maester Edric had him transcribing old correspondence. Said it would improve his penmanship."
"He was there," Stannis replied. "I saw him hunched over scrolls when I visited about the Tarth ravens. But later, I found him in the yard with the practice sword. Working forms alone."
Gendry nodded, unsurprised. "That boy would sleep with steel in hand if we'd let him."
"It wasn't that he was practicing," Stannis said, something in his tone drawing Gendry's full attention. "It was... how."
"What do you mean?" Gendry asked, rising from his seat finally. He stepped down from the dais, moving closer to his cousin.
Stannis's jaw worked for a moment, as if he struggled to put words to what he'd witnessed. "At first, I just watched. His footwork was different—not the way I've been teaching him. More... fluid. Like water over stone. So I approached, asked about his stance, his grip. Simple things."
"And?" Gendry prompted when Stannis paused.
"Then I pressed him," Stannis continued, his voice lowering. "Asked where he learned these movements. I thought perhaps one of the guardsmen had been showing him different techniques. He hesitated, Gendry. Hesitated like he was caught in a lie."
"That boy always hesitates," Gendry muttered, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the concern building in his chest. "Like he's walking on a blade's edge."
"This was different," Stannis insisted. "And then he spoke... differently. His voice changed, deepened somehow. Said something about 'breaking ten thousand times before you learn what holds.' Then he looked at me—gods, Gendry, he looked through me—and asked if I ever dream of living in dream."
The hall seemed suddenly colder. A log in the great hearth collapsed, sending sparks spiraling upward.
"Those words exactly?" Gendry asked quietly. "'dream, living?'"
Stannis nodded once, sharply. "Those exact words. Then he blinked, like waking from sleep, and was simply Thor again. Asked if we could practice with the war hammer tomorrow instead of swords."
Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken fears.
Gendry walked slowly to the hearth, where the fire had burned low, embers glowing orange in the gathering darkness. He stared into them, seeing shapes that weren't there.
"You think he remembers something?" he finally asked, the question hanging between them like smoke.
"I don't know," Stannis admitted. "But it wasn't him in that moment. Not entirely. He looked at me like I was a stranger he'd known long ago."
Gendry nodded once, decision made. "Keep this between us. Tell no one. Not even Althera."
"Aye," Stannis agreed without hesitation. "I wouldn't know what to tell her anyway."
The fire crackled as another ember burst. Gendry placed a hand on the mantle, gripping the stone until his knuckles whitened.
"He's mine," Gendry said finally, voice thick with emotion. "No matter what storms rage in him. His mother died bringing him into this world. Did I ever tell you he didn't cry that day? Not a sound. Just stared up at me with eyes too old for a babe. Like he already knew sorrow."
"I remember," Stannis said softly. "I was there. Held him while you..." He didn't finish, didn't need to. They both remembered Gendry's grief, how he'd fallen to his knees beside his wife's deathbed, unable to speak, unable to move.
"He's stronger than he knows," Stannis added after a moment. "Whatever this is."
Gendry turned from the fire, his eyes glassy but steady. "So are you. Watch over him, Stannis. If something's wrong.... I need to know. Before the wrong eyes see."
"Always," Stannis replied simply. "You know that."
"I do." Gendry clasped his sons's shoulder, grip firm. "Go on now. I'll be along shortly."
When Stannis had gone, Gendry remained by the hearth, hand still pressed against the cool stone of the mantle. Through the windows, he could see storm clouds gathering over Shipbreaker Bay, dark and heavy with threat. The first rumble of thunder reached him, distant but growing closer.
Storms coming from both sides now, he thought grimly. Outside these walls and within them.
Thor Baratheon sat cross-legged on his bed, a book open in his lap. The candle on his bedside table cast a warm glow over the pages, but his eyes had stopped following the words some time ago. Instead, he stared at the wall opposite, seeing nothing.
The room itself was modest for the son of a great lord—Gendry had never embraced excessive luxury, and Thor had inherited his father's practical nature. A wooden practice sword leaned against one wall. A small desk held parchment, quills, and half-finished letters. Above the bed hung a tapestry showing Storm's End withstanding a great tempest, waves crashing against its impenetrable walls.
Thunder growled outside, and rain began to lash against the windows. Thor barely noticed.
What happened today?
He couldn't make sense of it. One moment he'd been practicing his forms in the yard, concentrating on keeping his balance just as brother Stannis had taught him. The next... something else. Like remembering a dream, but sharper. More real than the stone beneath his feet.
A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts. He quickly closed the book and straightened on the bed.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened to reveal his father's broad frame. Gendry ducked his head slightly entering the room—a habit from years of fitting his large frame through doorways built for smaller men.
"Still reading at this hour Son?" Gendry asked, glancing at the book now set aside.
Thor shrugged. "Maester Edric says I need to improve my knowledge of house histories. There's to be a test on Dornish lineages next week."
"Glad it's you and not me," Gendry said with a small smile. He settled onto the edge of the bed, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. "I never liked much remembering which lord married which lady four hundred years ago."
"You had other things to learn Father," Thor said, something older than his years in his voice.
Gendry studied his son's face. Thor had inherited his face —the Baratheon look—but his features were finer, more delicate. His mother's contribution, a beauty that sometimes made Gendry's heart ache with remembered loss.
'But these eyes and this hair color it is unnatural'
"Stannis tells me you've been working on different sword forms," Gendry said casually, watching for reaction.
Thor's eyes flickered away, then back. "Just... trying things. Sometimes the way Ser Davos moves looks better than what we practice."
It was a reasonable explanation. Ser Davos Seaworth the younger had indeed trained in Braavosi water dancing during his travels. But Gendry knew his son well enough to recognize evasion.
"Thor," he said gently, "you know you can tell me anything. Whatever it is."
The boy plucked at his blanket, avoiding his father's gaze. "There's nothing to tell."
"No strange dreams Son?" Gendry pressed. "No... feelings that aren't quite yours?"
Thor's head snapped up, eyes wide with something between relief and terror. "How did you...?"
Gendry sighed, running a hand through his own black hair, now threaded with occasional silver at the temples. "I'm your father. I notice things."
For a long moment, Thor seemed to war with himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Sometimes I remember things that never happened," he admitted. "Or... things that happened to someone else. I see a sword with a lion pommel. A man with a burned face. A girl with grey eyes who fights like a wolf." His hands trembled slightly. "I know it's not real. I know it's just dreams. But today, when I was practicing, it felt like... like my body remembered something my mind doesn't."
Gendry struggled to keep his expression neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "How long has this been happening?"
"The dreams? Always, I think. But they're getting stronger." Thor hesitated. "Father, am I... am I going mad? Like they say King Aerys did?"
"No," Gendry said firmly, placing a strong hand on his son's shoulder. "No, you're not mad. You're..." He paused, searching for words. "You're special, Thor. Always have been."
"Special how?" the boy asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Gendry took a deep breath. "There are things in this world we don't understand. Magic didn't die with the dragons. The old gods, the new gods... they work in ways we can't always see." It was the closest he could come to the truth without saying what he feared—what he and the queen had discussed when Thor was born with eyes too knowing for a babe.
"But why me?" Thor asked, a tremor in his voice.
"I don't know," Gendry admitted. "But I do know this—whatever comes, whatever you feel or dream or remember, you're my son. Nothing changes that. We'll face it together, as Baratheons do."
"Ours is the fury," Thor murmured, reciting their house words.
"Aye," Gendry agreed with a small smile. "But there's wisdom in knowing when to unleash that fury, and when to hold it close."
Thunder boomed outside, closer now. The storm had reached them.
"Try to sleep," Gendry said, rising from the bed. "And Thor... if these feelings come again, if you remember things or dream things that trouble you, come to me. Immediately. Promise me."
"I promise," Thor said solemnly.
Gendry nodded, satisfied. He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the latch.
"Father?" Thor called. "Is Storm's End truly unbreakable? The way they say?"
Gendry looked back at his son—this boy with ancient eyes in a young face.
"These walls have stood against wind and wave and worse for thousands of years," he answered. "They'll stand for thousands more."
"That's not what I asked," Thor said quietly.
Gendry held his son's gaze. "Everything breaks eventually, Thor. But a Baratheon knows how to rebuild. Remember that."
With that, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him.
Dawn broke gray and dim over Storm's End, the night's tempest having passed but leaving the sky bruised and sullen. Gendry stood on the walls, watching as the household began stirring below. Servants crossed the yard with purposeful strides. The blacksmith's hammer rang out from the forge—a sound that still called to Gendry's blood, even after all these years away from the anvil.
He heard footsteps approaching and knew without looking that it was Maester Edric.
"My lord," the maester greeted him, coming to stand at his side. "I trust you slept well despite the storm?"
Gendry gave a noncommittal grunt. In truth, he'd barely slept at all, his mind turning over Thor's words again and again.
"I've had a raven from King's Landing,"Edric continued, producing a small scroll. "King inquires about our grain stores. It seems the Reach harvest was not as bountiful as hoped."
"We have enough to spare," Gendry replied absently. "Tell him we can send twenty wagons without hardship."
"Very generous, my lord," Aldric murmured, tucking the scroll away. He hesitated, then added, "There was a second message. This one coded, for your eyes alone."
That drew Gendry's full attention. He turned to study the maester's face. Edric was not a young man, his hair more gray than brown, his face lined with knowledge and worry in equal measure. But his eyes remained sharp, missing little.
"From whom?" Gendry asked, though he suspected he knew.
"The Hand," Edric replied simply.
Gendry nodded. Tyrion Lannister's messages always carried weight, especially when sent in code.
"I'll read it in my solar," Gendry said. "After I break my fast with Thor."
"Of course, my lord." Edric bowed slightly and began to withdraw.
"Maester," Gendry called, stopping the older man. "Has Thor seemed... different to you lately? During his lessons?"
Edric considered the question carefully before answering. "He's always been an unusual child, my lord. Thoughtful beyond his years. But yes, I've noticed changes these past months. He asks questions about histories I haven't assigned. Dorne. The Night's Watch. The Long Night. And when he speaks of them..." The maester trailed off.
"Go on," Gendry prompted.
"It's as if he's confirming what he already knows, rather than learning it for the first time," Edric finished. "I thought perhaps you or Lady Althera had been educating him separately."
"No," Gendry said simply. "Thank you, Maester. That will be all."
When Edric had gone, Gendry remained on the wall a while longer, watching as Storm's End came fully awake beneath him. His gaze drifted beyond the castle to where Shipbreaker Bay stretched vast and gray to the horizon.
The Narrow Sea lies beyond, he thought. And beyond that, Essos. Braavos. Volantis. Places where magic never quite died.
He thought of Tyrion's coded message waiting in his solar, and of Thor's strange words about remembering other lives. A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air crept along his spine.
"The wall is no place for brooding," came a familiar voice behind him. "My brother used to say that's what bedchambers are for."
Gendry turned to find Althera Baratheon approaching, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. Despite the early hour, she was fully dressed in riding clothes, her expression warm but concerned.
"Your brother says many things," Gendry replied with a small smile. "Not all of them wise."
"True enough," she agreed, coming to stand beside him
"You're troubled Father," she said, not a question but a statement. "Is it Thor?"
Gendry glanced at her sharply. "What makes you say that?"
"Because I know you Father," she answered simply. "And because I saw him in the godswood yesterday, sitting before the heart tree, still as stone for nearly an hour. When I asked what he was doing, he said he was 'listening to the leaves whisper.'"
Gendry's jaw tightened. "Did he say what they whispered?"
"No Father," Althera replied. "But he looked at me strangely afterward. Asked if I'd ever been north of the Wall."
"And have you?" Gendry asked, attempting lightness he didn't feel.
She gave him a flat look. "I grew up here, as you well know. I do not like snow." Her expression softened. "Gendry, what's happening to him?"
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know yet. But I aim to find out."
"Whatever it is," she said, placing a hand on his arm, "remember he's just a boy. Your boy."
"I know," Gendry replied, covering her hand with his own. "That's what frightens me Daughter."
Below them in the yard, Thor had appeared, practice sword in hand. He moved through forms with a grace that seemed beyond his years, his face set in concentration. For a moment—just a moment—Gendry saw someone else in those movements, heard another name whispered by the wind.
The storm had passed, but Gendry knew in his bones that greater tempests were gathering. Not outside the walls of Storm's End, but within them—within his son.
Whatever came, he would be ready. He had to be.
For Thor's sake. For all their sakes.
"Ours is the fury," he whispered to himself. A prayer, a promise, a warning.
____
Chapter End
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