The sun hung lazy and high over Storm's End, warming the training yard where four young men danced on dirt and stone, their wooden blades clashing in rhythm and chaos. The storm had passed two days ago, but its scent still clung to the walls—the crisp bite of rain, the weight of thunder hanging in the air like a memory, like something unfinished.
Thor Baratheon moved with a kind of haunted grace, his steps fluid but taut, like the storm still lived beneath his ribs. His violet hair, tied in a short tail, caught the light when he turned, making him seem otherworldly for the briefest moment. He wore a simple grey tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, and his breathing came slow and even, unnatural for someone fighting so hard.
Across from him, Garrick Errol lunged with his practice sword, his face a mask of determination that quickly melted into frustration as Thor sidestepped with an ease that seemed almost insulting.
"Seven hells!" Garrick cursed, stumbling forward and nearly losing his balance. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his freckled face flushed with exertion. "Stand still for half a heartbeat, would you?"
"In a real fight, your enemy won't stand still," Thor replied, amusement dancing in his eyes as he pivoted again, wooden blade whistling through the air.
"In a real fight, I'd have stabbed you three times by now," Garrick shot back, readjusting his grip.
Donnel Swann snorted from where he circled to Thor's left. "In a real fight, you'd be pissing yourself before drawing steel."
"That was ONE TIME!" Garrick protested, launching another attack at Thor, who deflected it with insulting ease. "And I was NINE! Are you ever going to let me forget it?"
"Not until we're old men with beards down to our knees," Donnel replied with a wicked grin. He was broader than the rest, heir to Stonehelm, with shoulders like an ox and a booming laugh that could wake the dead. He wore his bruises like trophies and never bothered wiping the sweat that constantly beaded on his brow.
"Gods, Thor, slow down!" Garrick called, his own strike whistling past Thor's shoulder and hitting nothing but air. He twisted awkwardly, trying to recover his stance, but left his side exposed.
"You were aiming too high." Thor pivoted and gently thwacked Garrick on the ribs with the flat of his blade.
Garrick dropped to one knee, groaning dramatically as if mortally wounded. "The Stranger take me now," he moaned, clutching his side. "Tell my mother I died valiantly."
"I'll tell her you died whining," Donnel quipped, advancing on Thor while Garrick recovered.
"You've been possessed by a faceless man, I swear it," Garrick called from his position on the ground, watching as Thor simultaneously fended off both Donnel and their fourth companion. "You weren't this good a month ago. Not even close."
"Aye, he wasn't this good," Donnel huffed between breaths as he launched a series of heavy blows that Thor parried with fluid movements. "Last time we sparred, I had you eating dirt within ten minutes."
"You got lucky," Thor replied, dancing backward to avoid Donnel's overhead swing.
"Lucky? I broke your practice sword in half!"
"Exactly. Lucky." Thor grinned, ducking under another swing and tapping Donnel lightly on the back of the leg.
Serian Flowers, the fourth of their group, moved with calculated precision. Unlike the others, he wasted no energy on banter or flashy movements. Every step, every swing, was measured and deliberate. His dark eyes missed nothing, watching Thor's technique with an intensity that bordered on suspicion.
"He's been touched by a storm god," Serian murmured, his form perfect as he advanced. The bastard son of a minor Reach lord, Serian carried himself with the kind of rigid discipline that came from always having something to prove. "Or he's been training while we sleep."
Thor gave them nothing but a faint smirk, spinning his practice sword with a casual flourish. "Maybe both."
They circled again, slower now—more measured, more watchful. Even Serian's perfect guard dropped an inch, and Donnel had already half-decided to sit out the next exchange.
"If I didn't know better," Donnel wheezed, wiping sweat from his eyes, "I'd think you'd been secretly training with Ser Brienne herself."
"She'd never waste her time on this skinny runt," Garrick said, having recovered enough to rejoin the dance, though keeping a more cautious distance from Thor. "Though he's fighting like he's possessed by something. Maybe we should call the maester to check him for demons."
"The only demon here is your footwork," Thor shot back, effortlessly batting away Garrick's thrust.
Serian, who had been studying Thor's movements with increasing intensity, suddenly lunged with a speed that caught everyone by surprise. His blade moved in a blur, a feint followed by a thrust that should have caught Thor squarely in the chest.
Instead, Thor twisted impossibly, the wooden sword missing him by a hair's breadth. In the same fluid motion, he swept Serian's legs from under him, sending the normally graceful youth sprawling into the dirt.
The yard fell silent. Serian had never been bested so completely, not by any of them.
Serian stared up at Thor from the ground, his dark eyes narrowed not in anger but in something more complex—wonder, perhaps, or wariness.
"Enough," Serian said at last, accepting Thor's extended hand and rising to his feet. He dusted himself off with deliberate motions, then lowered his sword. "We're only practicing. Save your fury for the day it's needed."
"Agreed," Garrick wheezed, already backing toward the edge of the yard. "Also, I might throw up. My breakfast is staging a rebellion."
"You can't blame the food for your sorry performance," Donnel chuckled, but there was respect in his eyes as he nodded to Thor. "Whatever you've been doing, it's working. Though a warning would have been nice before you made us look like fumbling squires."
Thor chuckled and tossed his blade into the sand. "Food, then? I'm starving."
"Food?" Garrick perked up immediately, his exhaustion seemingly forgotten. "Now you're speaking sense!"
Donnel dropped to the ground like a felled tree, spreading his arms wide. "Thank the gods. My stomach's been threatening revolt since sunrise. I could eat an entire aurochs, hooves and all."
"You always say that," Serian commented, carefully placing his practice sword on the rack, unlike the others who had simply discarded theirs in the sand.
"And I always mean it," Donnel replied, patting his stomach proudly. "A warrior needs his strength."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Thor teased. "Your 'strength' is starting to hang over your belt."
"That's muscle, you insolent pup!" Donnel protested, throwing a handful of sand in Thor's direction, which he easily sidestepped. "Pure, unadulterated Swann muscle."
"Pure, unadulterated Swann cheese and ale, more like," Garrick snickered.
Not long after, the four of them sat beneath the storm-oak at the yard's edge. The ancient tree's limbs stretched wide over the wall like a great hand shielding them from the sun, creating a dappled sanctuary of shade. Its trunk bore the scars of countless storms, yet still stood proud and defiant—much like Storm's End itself.
A cloth was laid out with hard bread, soft cheese, cold roast chicken, and a skin of watered wine that Garrick had "borrowed" from the kitchens. Garrick tore into the food like a starving dog, stuffing his mouth so full his cheeks bulged. Donnel followed with a grunt of pleasure.
"By the Seven," Donnel moaned around a mouthful of chicken, grease dripping into his stubble, "I've never tasted anything so good in my life."
"You say that every time we eat," Serian observed, breaking his bread with more restraint.
"And I mean it every time," Donnel replied, already reaching for more. "Life's too short not to treat each meal like it's your last."
"At the rate you're eating, it might well be," Thor commented dryly. "Your heart will give out before you're thirty."
"What a way to go, though," Donnel grinned, raising a chicken leg in salute. "They'll write songs about me. 'The Ballad of Donnel the Well-Fed.'"
Serian chewed more slowly, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. His eyes always watched the sky now, like it might change without warning—a habit he'd developed after the last great storm had nearly swept his younger sister out to sea during a visit to Storm's End. Thor noticed but said nothing. They all had their ghosts.
Thor picked absently at a piece of bread, the storm still whispering in his blood. It hadn't truly left him. It never did. Since that night in the yard with Stannis, something had awakened in him—memories, yes, but something else too. A power he couldn't name but could feel threading through his veins like lightning seeking ground.
"I heard the storm two nights ago knocked over one of the watchtowers at Rain House," Garrick said through a mouthful, spraying crumbs as he spoke. "Old Wylmer's nephew was there. Said it came down like it was made of straw, not stone. They say the gods are angry."
"The gods don't get angry over a watchtower," Serian said dismissively.
"They're always angry," Donnel replied with a shrug. "At least when it rains. Maybe they just like drama."
"Like you?" Thor asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"I don't like drama," Donnel protested, looking wounded. "I simply appreciate a well-told tale."
"Is that what we're calling your endless blathering about the serving girl from Bronzegate?" Garrick snorted, earning a shove from Donnel that nearly sent him sprawling.
"Anya is NOT a tale," Donnel said with mock indignation. "She's the future Lady Swann, she just doesn't know it yet."
"Neither does her husband, I wager," Serian muttered.
"She's not married!" Donnel spluttered, red-faced.
"Not to you, certainly," Thor added, and the three of them dissolved into laughter as Donnel's face grew increasingly crimson.
Thor didn't join in the laughter, not fully. His gaze wandered to the towers of Storm's End, where shadows fell long across the courtyard. There was something ancient in the stone, something solid and unmoved. Even as thunder rumbled inside him, the keep endured. That brought a strange sort of comfort.
"You alright?" Serian asked quietly, having noticed Thor's distraction. The others were still engaged in ribbing Donnel about his hopeless infatuation.
Thor nodded. "Just... tired."
Serian didn't press, but he didn't look away either. Of the three, Serian was the most observant, the most careful. He didn't speak often, but when he did, his words carried weight.
"Remember when Donnel tried to ride that sow into the feast hall?" Garrick asked suddenly, drawing Thor's attention back to the conversation. He was barely containing his laughter, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Donnel groaned, throwing a crust of bread at Garrick's head. "You swore never to speak of that, you oath-breaking weasel!"
"I made no such oath," Garrick protested, dodging the projectile. "Besides, it was the single greatest moment of your miserable life. Why would you want to hide it?"
Thor grinned despite himself, the memory breaking through his melancholy. "She was faster than any of the horses in the stable," he added, joining the teasing. "Took three stable boys and Ser Davos to catch her."
"And fatter than Donnel!" Garrick added, now fully committed to the story. "The way she squealed when you mounted her—"
"Enough!" Donnel bellowed, though there was laughter in his voice. "It was a wager, and I won it fair and square."
"You didn't win anything except a month of mucking out stables as punishment," Serian corrected.
"Worth every shovelful," Donnel declared proudly. "That sow had more battle sense than half the knights here."
"That sow had more sense than you," Serian muttered, and even Thor laughed aloud at that.
"At least I'm memorable," Donnel countered. "What's your greatest achievement, Flowers? Standing still and looking sullen?"
"I once went three days without wanting to stab you in your sleep," Serian replied without missing a beat. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done."
Laughter rolled around the tree, the kind that eases wounds no one speaks of. The watered-down wine passed from hand to hand, and for a brief time, the world felt smaller and kinder. The kind of afternoon that lives forever in memory.
"What about the time Garrick tried to impress Lord Selmy's daughter?" Thor suggested, unable to resist adding to the volley of embarrassing recollections.
Garrick's face instantly reddened. "No, we're not—"
"Oh yes, we absolutely are," Donnel crowed, seizing the opportunity for revenge. "Tell us again how you tried to shoot an apple off Maester Jurne's head to show off your archery skills."
"I was FIFTEEN!" Garrick protested.
"And blind drunk," Thor added.
"And a terrible shot even when sober," Serian contributed.
"The maester still flinches whenever you walk into a room with anything pointier than a spoon," Donnel laughed.
Garrick crossed his arms defensively. "I only grazed his ear. Barely a scratch."
"He bled all over the great hall!" Thor exclaimed.
"Details," Garrick waved dismissively. "Besides, Lady Alys was very impressed by my... gallantry."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Serian asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because she told my cousin you were, and I quote, 'the most dangerous fool in the Seven Kingdoms.'"
This set off another round of raucous laughter, during which Garrick attempted to maintain his dignity by pretending to be deeply interested in a piece of cheese.
As the laughter subsided, Thor found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in days. These moments—simple, honest, free of the weight he'd been carrying—felt increasingly rare and precious.
"What about Thor?" Garrick asked suddenly, a gleam of mischief returning to his eyes. "We've embarrassed ourselves thoroughly. Your turn, Baratheon."
Thor shrugged. "I don't do embarrassing things."
This was met with a chorus of disbelieving snorts.
"What about the time you tried to tame that wild hawk?" Donnel suggested.
"Or when you climbed the rookery tower and got stuck?" Garrick added.
"Or when you tried to swim to Tarth on a dare," Serian said quietly, "and had to be fished out by fishermen halfway across."
Thor winced at that last one. "I would have made it if the currents hadn't changed."
"You would have been fish food," Donnel corrected.
"My father didn't speak to me for a week after that," Thor admitted, remembering Gendry's thunderous expression when the fishermen had brought him back, half-drowned and shivering.
"Better than my father," Garrick said. "He'd have beaten me bloody, then made me swim back to apologize to the fish for disturbing them."
"Your father once rode naked through Bronzegate on a bet," Donnel pointed out. "He'd have been proud."
"That was before he became respectable," Garrick sighed. "Now he's all 'honor this' and 'duty that' and 'stop embarrassing the family name, you worthless sack of meat.'"
"At least he acknowledges you're meat," Donnel offered helpfully. "That's progress."
As they continued trading barbs and stories, the afternoon light began to soften, casting longer shadows across the yard. The activity of the castle continued around them—servants bustling about their duties, guards changing shifts, the distant clang of the smith's hammer—but in their small circle beneath the storm-oak, time seemed suspended.
"You've changed, you know," Serian said after a pause in the conversation, his dark eyes fixed on Thor. "Since the last storm."
The casual atmosphere shifted subtly. Thor looked at him, suddenly wary. "How so?"
"Not just in the yard," Serian continued thoughtfully. "In your eyes. Like you're seeing things we can't."
Thor felt a chill despite the warm afternoon. Had it been that obvious? The dreams had intensified since that night with Stannis—not just dreams now, but memories flooding back. Two lives overlapping, creating ripples he couldn't always control.
"I've always been weird," Thor said lightly, trying to deflect.
"Yeah," Garrick added, oblivious to the tension. "But now you're the scary kind of weird. Before you were just the 'talks to ravens and stands in storms' weird. Now you're..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Thor's entire being.
"Thanks," Thor muttered, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
"We mean it kindly," Donnel offered, reaching for the wine skin. "Well. Sort of."
"What Garrick is failing to articulate," Serian said, "is that you seem... burdened. Like you're carrying something heavy."
Thor hesitated, then asked, "You ever dream things that don't make sense? People you don't know. Places that feel real, but aren't. A name in your mouth that doesn't belong to you."
They exchanged glances. The silence that followed was different—curious, wary.
"Like magic?" Donnel asked, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
Thor shrugged. "Like memory."
The wind seemed to hush around them, as if the very air was waiting for what might be said next.
"I dream of drowning sometimes," Garrick offered unexpectedly. "Not in water, but in sand. Red sand, like in Dorne. I've never even been to Dorne."
"I dream of a woman with silver hair," Donnel admitted quietly. "She's riding a dragon, and the world burns beneath her. I wake up screaming, but I can't remember why I'm afraid."
They looked at Serian, who had remained silent. He met their gaze steadily.
"I don't dream," he said simply. Then, after a pause: "Or I don't remember them. But sometimes... sometimes I feel like I've lived this day before. Like I know what's going to happen before it does."
Thor hadn't expected this. He'd thought he was alone in his strangeness.
"They say the Long Night changed things," Garrick continued, his voice low as if sharing a secret. "My uncle fought in the Battle of Winterfell. He never talks about it, but once, when he was deep in his cups, he told me he saw a man rise after taking a sword through the heart. Not an Other, not a wight—a man. He said magic broke that night, spilled into the world like wine from a shattered cup."
"Magic's always been here," Serian countered. "It just... sleeps sometimes."
"And now it's waking up," Donnel murmured.
Thor looked at his friends—really looked at them—and saw not the boys he'd grown up with, but young men standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable. Just as he was.
"Whatever it is," Serian said quietly, breaking the solemn mood, "you don't have to explain. But if you ever need us—"
"We're here," Garrick finished. "Unless there are ghosts. I don't do ghosts. Or spiders. Or women with more than three daggers."
"That's very specific," Thor noted, grateful for the lightening of the atmosphere.
"I have very specific fears," Garrick replied with dignity.
"Ghosts don't care if you're scared," Donnel said with a philosophical shrug. "That's why they're ghosts. They're already dead—what have they got to lose?"
"Thank you for that comforting thought," Garrick muttered.
Thor smiled, a real one this time. "Thanks. All of you."
Serian glanced back toward the yard, where shadows were lengthening as the afternoon waned. "You think we'll still be friends when we're grey and toothless, drinking sour wine and arguing over who was the best swordsman?"
"Gods, I hope not," Garrick groaned. "I'll be dead by thirty. Glory or stupidity, one of them'll get me. Preferably glory, but I'm not picky."
"You'll never make it past five and twenty," Donnel countered. "Remember when you tried to ride your horse backward into battle during the melee at Blackhaven?"
"It was a tactical innovation!"
"It was the stupidest thing I've ever seen," Serian said flatly.
"What about you, Donnel?" Thor asked, steering the conversation back. "Where do you see yourself in thirty years?"
"I'll be a maester," Donnel declared with surprising certainty.
"You?" Serian blinked, genuine surprise breaking through his usual reserve. "You can't even read."
"I'm improving," Donnel mumbled defensively. "Maester Edric says my letters are getting... recognizable."
"High praise indeed," Thor chuckled.
"Anyway, if not that, maybe a hedge knight. Or a bard."
"You can't sing either," Garrick pointed out helpfully.
"Better than you can," Donnel retorted. "Your singing makes cats fight."
"I'll find something," Donnel continued, undeterred. "Something important. Something that matters."
There was a determination in his voice that gave his words weight, despite the teasing that had preceded them.
"What about you, Thor?" Garrick asked. "Future Lord of Storm's End and all that. Got it all planned out, I bet."
Thor leaned back against the rough bark of the storm-oak, letting the shade cool his face. The question hit closer than Garrick could know. Before, in his past life, he'd had plans—ordinary ones, mundane ones. Now, everything was uncertain, clouded by the storm inside him and the strange power he could feel growing day by day.
"I hope we're all wrong," Thor said finally. "I hope we grow old and boring. I hope we sit around a table at sixty, complaining about our aching joints and telling these same stupid stories to anyone who'll listen. I hope this moment never becomes just a memory."
"It already is," Serian said quietly, a depth of understanding in his dark eyes that made Thor wonder, not for the first time, if Serian saw more than he let on.
They sat a while longer in that slow-drifting peace, the kind that only boys on the edge of manhood can know—when the world still allows them to dream, even as it gathers storms on the horizon. The sun sank lower, casting long shadows across the yard. From somewhere in the keep came the sound of a bell, marking the hour.
"We should head back," Serian said, rising and dusting off his breeches. "Ser Davos wanted to review battle formations before supper."
"Another thrilling lecture on flanking maneuvers," Garrick groaned. "I can hardly contain my excitement."
"Perhaps you could demonstrate your backward riding technique," Thor suggested innocently. "I'm sure Ser Davos would be impressed by your... tactical innovations."
"Fuck off, Baratheon," Garrick replied good-naturedly, throwing a small chunk of cheese that Thor easily dodged.
"This is nice," Donnel said suddenly, making no move to rise, "but I'm getting sand in places sand should never be."
"That's not sand," Garrick quipped as he gathered up the remnants of their meal. "That's defeat. It settles in the cracks of a man's dignity."
"Poetic," Serian commented dryly. "You should be the bard, not Donnel."
"I have many hidden talents," Garrick replied with mock seriousness. "Poetry, archery, making Maester Edric bleed profusely..."
"Shutting up isn't one of them, clearly," Thor observed, rising to his feet and offering Donnel a hand.
As they made their way back toward the main keep, Thor found himself falling slightly behind, watching his three friends as they continued their banter. Serian walked with his characteristic precision, every step measured and deliberate. Donnel lumbered along, powerful and assured in his bulk. Garrick practically bounced, gesticulating wildly as he recounted some new tale.
Thor looked beyond them to the sea, where thunder echoed faintly on the wind. Dark clouds gathered on the distant horizon—not close enough to threaten, but a reminder that calm never lasted in the Stormlands.
For a little longer, he was just a boy. A brother. A friend. And not a storm waiting to break.
But as he watched the clouds mass over the churning waters, Thor knew the truth. Something was building inside him, something vast and powerful. The memories that had returned that night with Stannis were only the beginning. Every day brought more—flashes of his previous life, knowledge he shouldn't have, skills his body remembered that his mind was still catching up to.
And beneath it all, that strange connection to the storms. As if they called to him. As if they were a part of him.
"Thor!" Garrick called back, jarring him from his thoughts. "Are you coming, or are you planning to take root there like some sullen tree?"
"Just enjoying the view," Thor replied, jogging to catch up.
"The only view worth enjoying is supper," Donnel declared. "I heard they're serving honeyed lamb tonight."
"You just ate enough for three men," Serian pointed out.
"That was a snack," Donnel said with dignity. "A mere morsel to tide me over."
As they passed through the gates into the inner yard, Thor caught sight of his father watching from the walls above. Gendry Baratheon stood tall and imposing, his gaze fixed on Thor with an intensity that made him wonder what his father saw—his son, or something else? Something dangerous?
Thor raised a hand in greeting. After a moment's hesitation, Gendry returned the gesture, then turned and disappeared from view.
The clouds continued to gather on the horizon. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain.
Another storm was coming.
But for now, Thor followed his friends into the keep, letting their laughter and warmth push back the darkness gathering in his mind. Tomorrow would bring what it would. Tonight, he would be just Thor Baratheon, son of Gendry, friend to these three fools who knew him better than anyone—yet couldn't begin to understand what stirred within him.
Some burdens couldn't be shared. Some storms had to be weathered alone.
______
Chapter End.
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