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When the Storm Wakes

The snows lay deep beyond the Wall, yet the wind that came down from the Haunted Forest cut through fur and leather alike.

They had been returning from the ranging with Benjen Stark’s men when the ambush came. One moment, the forest was silent save for the creak of saddles and the crunch of snow under hooves. The next, a ragged howl split the air, and shadows moved in the trees.

Wildlings.

The Stark family had barely time to draw breath before the raiders were upon them—screaming, rag-wrapped shapes with axes, spears, and rust-pitted swords.

Ser Jory Cassel had his sword out in a blink, shoving Sansa and Arya behind him while the Winterfell guards formed a ring about the Stark children. Snow sprayed crimson where steel bit flesh. The horses screamed.

Eddard Stark had reached for Ice when a roar split the air—so deep, so primal, it did not sound wholly human.

From the melee’s heart came the two-and-ten namedays old Thor Baratheon, son of King Robert, First of His Name of House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and his deceased first wife before he was sovereign, Lady Janna Baratheon nee Tyrell.

Lord Thor Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

The young lord was bare-chested, his black hair whipping about his face, his great shoulders smeared with blood—some his own, most not. His tunic lay in tatters where a wildling axe had caught him in the opening charge, leaving him a mountain of raw muscle, all fury and motion.

In both hands he held a warhammer, its head near the size of a man’s skull, a perfect twin to the one his royal father had wielded at the Trident. Each swing shattered bone. Each blow was final.

A raider lunged at him with a jagged spearpoint—Thor caught the shaft under one arm, wrenched it from the man’s grip, and brought his hammer down upon his head. The skull burst like an overripe melon.

He did not pause. Another came shrieking from his flank—Thor’s backhand caught him across the temple with a wet crack, sending him crumpling lifeless into the snow.

The Stark children stared, wide-eyed. Even Arya, who had seen blood before, shrank closer to Jory’s side. Sansa’s face had gone pale as milk. Rickon whimpered into Robb’s furs.

The hammer rose and fell, rose and fell—no flourish, no hesitation, only the ruthless inevitability of a storm breaking upon a shore.

Jon Snow’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “He fights like—”

“—a berserker,” Ned said grimly, his eyes never leaving Thor. “You’ve heard the tales. Favoured warriors of the Old Gods. They fought in a fury so deep it was said the weirwoods themselves drank their rage. House Baratheon’s blood runs back to the First Men, through Durran Godsgrief himself—the Storm King for whom Bran the Builder raised Storm’s End.”

Another roar shook the clearing as Thor crushed a man’s chest to pulp.

“Berserkers were not men as you or I,” Ned went on, his voice low, almost reverent, almost fearful. “In the madness of battle they felt neither steel nor fire. They were storm and death given flesh. The Durrandons prized them above all, and when the Conqueror’s bastard brother, Orys Baratheon wed Argella, last Storm Queen, that blood passed to the stags of Storm’s End.”

In the snow, Thor fought like the old tales brought to life, the crowned stag bellowing in the heart of the storm. The last wildling tried to flee; Thor’s hammer caught him between the shoulder blades and sent him sprawling. The lord of the Stormlands stalked after, finishing him with a single, merciless blow.

Silence fell, broken only by the wind’s sigh through the pines.

Thor stood among the dead, chest heaving, steam rising from his skin. Blood dripped from the warhammer’s face into the snow, black in the cold light.

When he finally turned toward the Starks, his eyes were still wild, his breath still ragged. For a heartbeat, even Robb’s hand twitched toward his sword.

The look passed. The storm was gone.

But none of them—not even Eddard—would forget the sight of it.

Snow fell soft upon Winterfell’s courtyards, hissing faintly as it touched the steaming baths and hot stone walls. The wildling ambush was three days past, yet the memory lingered in every shadow.

In the Great Hall, the hearth roared high, but no one spoke loudly. The Stark children sat clustered near the long table, their voices low.

Arya leaned forward, eyes bright despite the hush. “Did you see how he hit them? He didn’t fight like Ser Rodrik or Jory… it was like—like a bear that’s been stabbed.”

Robb nodded, but his mouth was tight. “No. Worse. Bears defend themselves. That was… hunting.”

Sansa shivered, her hands wrapped around a cup of spiced wine. “It was awful. The sound he made—” She stopped, swallowing. “It didn’t sound like a man at all.”

Rickon sat on the bench beside Bran, picking at a trencher of bread. “I dreamed of it,” he whispered. “The hammer kept coming down. I couldn’t wake up.”

Jon Snow stood with his back to the fire, Ghost at his side, saying nothing. But his eyes flicked toward the door more than once, as though half-expecting the Lord of Storm’s End to stride in, shirtless and dripping red.

Catelyn entered then, her skirts brushing the rushes, her gaze sweeping over her children. She took her place beside Ned, who had been silent at the head of the table, elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

“I hear my children whisper of blood in the snow,” Catelyn said softly. “And I see them flinch at shadows. Whatever happened beyond the Wall has followed them home.”

Ned’s grey eyes met hers. “They saw what most men never should. And more than that—they saw a thing older than our songs.”

He turned to the children. “You think Lord Thor’s fury was strange? In the Age of Heroes, it was not strange at all.”

The hall seemed quieter still.

“There were men,” Ned went on, “favoured by the Old Gods—so the singers say—who could shed their own selves when battle came. They were not wolves, nor bears, nor men, but something between. They fought until the world was red before them. They broke spears with their flesh. Blades dulled against their hides. They laughed in the face of arrows. Some say they drank from the skulls of foes; others that they offered them to the heart trees, so the weirwoods might remember the taste of victory.”

Sansa looked pale again. “That’s… horrible.”

“That’s war,” Robb said quietly, though he kept his eyes on his hands.

“Many were feared even by their own lords,” Ned continued. “For when the frenzy passed, they sometimes could not tell friend from foe. In the worst tales… they did not stop until there was no living thing left in reach.”

Arya bit her lip. “Was Thor… one of those?”

“Berserker blood runs in House Baratheon’s veins,” Ned said, voice grim. “Through Durran Godsgrief, who wed Elenei, the daughter of the sea god and wind goddess. They say Bran the Builder himself built Storm’s End to withstand the wrath of the gods… perhaps to keep that wrath penned inside as much as without.”

Catelyn’s hand found Ned’s under the table. “And you think the gods favour him?”

Ned’s gaze lingered on the flicker of the hearthfire. “I think the gods favour no one. They only watch.”

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. None of the Stark children spoke after that. The snow kept falling outside, but within the hall, the weight of the Age of Heroes seemed to press down upon them all.

The wind rattled the shutters in their chamber, carrying with it the scent of snow and the distant howl of a direwolf. Catelyn lay beneath the furs, her hair unbound, watching her husband strip off his doublet and boots in the firelight. Ned moved slowly, as though the day had been heavier than most.

When he slid in beside her, she reached for his hand. His fingers were cold.

“They’re still talking about it,” she said softly. “The children. Even the servants. Thor Baratheon has haunted these halls for three days without setting foot in them.”

Ned stared into the dark. “It is not the first time I’ve seen such fury… but it is the first I’ve seen it in a man so young.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

He was quiet a long moment before answering. “Aye. On the Trident.”

Her thumb traced the back of his hand. “Robert.”

Ned’s eyes were far away now, fixed on some memory she could not reach. “He was younger than Thor then, but when the battle was joined… Gods, Cat. He tore through the Targaryen vanguard like a storm breaking a fleet. His hammer split men from crown to chin. I saw him crush Ser Myles Mooton’s breastplate into his ribs. And when Rhaegar fell…” Ned shook his head slowly. “One blow. That was all it took. A prince’s armour, encrusted with rubies, caved in as though it were tin. Three hundred years of dragon rule ended in the space of a heartbeat.”

Catelyn shivered beneath the furs. “And Thor fights like that?”

“Not like that,” Ned said, turning to look at her. “Worse. Robert’s rage was the rage of a man wronged, a man who had lost the woman he loved. But Thor…” He searched for the words. “Thor’s was older. Wilder. There was no grief in it, no cause save the fight itself. It was as if something deep in his blood answered the call of battle, and once woken, it would not rest until every foe was broken.”

She felt the tension in his hand, the weight of thought behind his words. “And in a realm as fragile as this…”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “A man like that could be our shield… or our ruin. The realm remembers the dragons fell to a hammer once before. If Thor Baratheon ever turned that hammer upon the Iron Throne…”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Outside, the wind keened against the walls like some ghost of the Age of Heroes, and Catelyn knew her husband would not sleep easily that night.

The Small Council chamber was stifling despite the morning chill outside the Red Keep. The narrow windows let in pale light that fell across maps, scrolls, and the faces of the realm’s most dangerous men.

Varys was the first to speak, his soft hands folded upon the table. “A raven from Winterfell, my lords. There was… an incident beyond the Wall.”

“Incident?” Littlefinger drawled, idly toying with a gold coin. “That word could mean anything from a lost hound to a rebellion.”

“This was no hound, my lord,” Varys said, smiling faintly. “Lord Thor Baratheon of Storm’s End and the Stark household were set upon by a band of wildlings. The Lord of Storm’s End killed a dozen of them himself. I am told the snows were red by the end.”

Pycelle harrumphed, his beard quivering. “The lad’s father was a warrior—aye, aye, but still… twelve men? Even Ser Gregor would think twice.”

Lord Mace Tyrell’s message had arrived earlier; his flowery script now lay before the King. In it, Mace praised his nephew’s “lion-hearted courage” and compared Thor’s strength to “the storm gods of legend.” Similar ravens had flown from Riverrun, the Eyrie, even Sunspear—each dripping with either awe or unease.

Renly chuckled from his seat. “My brother’s a fine sight in the lists, but I’ve never seen him spill blood like that. Wildlings can’t be much, if my nephew managed it without so much as a shirt.”

Stannis’s mouth was a grim line. “You’ve not seen battle, Renly. This was not tourney play.” His eyes flicked briefly to Robert, who had said nothing yet, only sat with his fingers drumming against the arm of the chair.

Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed, “The Citadel has also taken note. Archmaester Marwyn has written—” He fumbled for the parchment. “‘A display of the Old Blood. A stirring of ancient tempers not seen in centuries. The realm would do well to watch such men closely.’”

“Old Blood?” Renly asked.

“A jest, perhaps,” Littlefinger said with a thin smile and dismissive shake of his hand. “Or a scholar’s fancy. Still, the Lords of the Realm seem most taken with your nephew’s… enthusiasm.”

Robert’s fist came down on the table hard enough to rattle the wine cups. “He’s a Baratheon. That’s all there is to it. We’re made for war, not counting coppers.”

Varys’s eyes were watchful. “And yet, Your Grace, there are whispers. That his fury was… unnatural. That he roared like a beast and could not be stopped. Men wonder what it means.”

“It means he’s my son’s son in all but name,” Robert growled, though the words were a shade too quick. “And if the wildlings learned to fear him, so much the better.”

No one noticed how Stannis’s jaw tightened, or how Robert’s gaze met his brother’s across the table—a silent exchange heavy with something only they understood.

Marwyn’s letter still lay between them, ink glistening in the light: The Old Blood stirs. It remembers.

Robert reached for his wine, his voice booming to break the quiet. “Enough talk. The boy fought like a man should. That’s the end of it.”

But as the meeting wound on, Varys’s eyes lingered on the king, and in the shadows of the chamber it was clear enough that the end of it was far from here.

The Red Keep’s Godswood

The godswood of the Red Keep was no true godswood, only a shallow courtyard with a small pool and a handful of oaks and elms. No heart tree stood here, no carved weirwood face to watch and judge. Still, it was one of the few quiet places left in the castle.

Robert stood by the pool, tossing pebbles into the dark water. Stannis approached, his boots crunching on gravel.

“You saw the reports,” Robert said without looking up.

“I saw them,” Stannis replied. “And I remember what it means.”

Robert’s grin was humourless. “Aye. The berserker’s call. Just like at the Trident.”

Stannis’s mouth tightened. “He’s young. Too young to understand it. If he can’t control it, one day he’ll kill the wrong man.”

Robert shrugged. “He’s my blood. When the storm rises, you don’t bottle it up—you let it smash the rocks to rubble.”

“This isn’t a tourney, Robert. The realm’s as brittle as old glass. One blow in the wrong place and it shatters. You saw it in your own hands when you ended the dragons.”

Robert finally turned, his face shadowed. “I saw it, brother. And I see it in him. The same fire. The same rage. Gods help whoever stands in his way.”

“Gods?” Stannis snorted. “If it’s the Old Gods, we’ve no say in it. And I’ll not see the realm bleed because of one boy who can’t tell friend from foe in a frenzy.”

Robert’s eyes narrowed. “He’s no threat to me. Or to you. He’s ours. Whatever else he is, the rest of them don’t need to know. Let Marwyn keep his riddles. The Citadel can write its dusty books. We’ll keep the truth where it belongs.”

The two brothers stood in silence for a long moment, the false godswood around them whispering with the wind. Then Robert tossed the last pebble into the pool and turned away.

“Come. There’s wine waiting.”

Highgarden

The sunlit halls of Highgarden smelled of roses and fresh bread. Mace Tyrell sat at the head of a small table in his solar, poring over a raven’s letter. Garlan stood at his right, Loras lounging against the windowseat.

“A dozen wildlings,” Mace said for the third time, “and all dead by his hand! Nephew or no, that’s a feat for the ages. It will be sung in the halls for years.”

Garlan frowned. “The reports said it was… unsettling. That he roared like an animal. That the Stark children were frightened.”

“Battles are frightening,” Mace said dismissively. “The boy is a Baratheon, and Baratheons are made for such things.”

Olenna entered without knocking, leaning on her cane. “Baratheons are made for drinking, wenching, and getting themselves killed in tourneys, in my experience. What’s this I hear about one of them killing wildlings bare-chested?”

Loras smirked. “Thor grandmother. Our cousin. He’s… impressive. The sort of warrior you’d want beside you in a melee.”

“The sort of warrior you’d want,” Olenna corrected sharply. “I prefer men who don’t go into fits and bash skulls until they’re soup. The realm has enough brute stags; we don’t need a younger, louder one.”

Mace huffed. “Mother, you’re always so sour. The boy’s a credit to his house, and to ours by blood.”

Olenna tapped her cane. “Storms don’t care who they strike, Mace. Best remember that before you go sailing into one.”

Garlan exchanged a glance with Loras. “There’s more to this than we’re being told,” he said quietly.

Olenna’s eyes lingered on the open window, where the garden breezes carried the scent of roses. “Aye. And when men start whispering about storms and blood, there’s always more to it. Find out, before it finds us.”

The Citadel – Oldtown

Archmaester Marwyn’s study was a strange place by Citadel standards. Between shelves of ancient tomes and stacks of dusty scrolls sat objects few other maesters dared keep—dragonglass daggers, shards of Valyrian steel, a faded Braavosi seal, even a half-burnt piece of weirwood root.

Marwyn hunched over a table strewn with maps, the largest one depicting the Stormlands in careful ink. His thick fingers traced the coastline to the place marked Storm’s End.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, “why build here?”

A younger acolyte, red-faced from running errands, shifted uneasily. “The histories say to withstand the wrath of gods, Archmaester. Durran Godsgrief angered them when he wed their daughter—”

“Aye, aye,” Marwyn cut in, “the story every child knows. The gods tried to tear it down, storms smashed the walls, Bran the Builder came and raised them stronger. But look at the plans.” He tapped a roll of vellum showing cross-sections of the fortress. “Three walls. Inner bastions thicker than most city keeps. Cellars sunk deep into the rock, not for food stores, not for wine. And see this? Chambers with no known purpose, walled away centuries ago.”

The acolyte swallowed. “You think it was… to keep something in?”

Marwyn’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I think,” he said slowly, “Storm’s End was made as much to hold something as to hold against something. Men build against storms, but they also build prisons. What sort of thing you’d wall away in stone and never name…” He trailed off, smiling faintly. “Now that’s a question worth answering.”

The Hightower – Oldtown

High atop the Hightower, in a chamber open to the sea breeze, Lord Leyton Hightower stood alone beside a brazier. The tallest manse in Westeros looked down upon Oldtown’s harbor, its white beacon casting light far into the night.

A hooded servant approached and placed a scroll into his hand. It bore the seal of the Citadel. Leyton broke it, read Marwyn’s speculations, and gave a small, knowing breath through his nose.

Berserkers.

He had known the word since boyhood, passed to him not by maesters but by the Starry Wisdom whispered among his forebears. The Old Gods’ chosen fury. The blood of storms, seeded in men who would one day shape the realm’s fate.

He had seen it in Robert Baratheon on the Trident and had divined then that it was no man’s place—certainly not his—to turn the tide the Old Gods had set. So House Hightower stayed its hand in Robert’s Rebellion, letting the Targaryens fall as the gods willed.

Now the same fire rose in another Baratheon.

Leyton closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the hiss of the waves far below. “Not yet,” he murmured to himself. “Not by my hand. The gods are at their game again, and I will not be the piece that upsets their board.”

He burned Marwyn’s letter in the brazier until nothing remained but black ash.

From the heights of his tower, Lord Leyton watched the beacon turn, throwing its light into the endless dark. Whatever storm was coming, he would watch it from above—silent, still, and untouched.

Riverrun – House Tully
Lord Hoster Tully read the raven twice before sighing. “The boy fought well… too well, perhaps.” He leaned on the arm of his chair. “Robb will hear of this, and the children will whisper of it long after. A man who cannot be measured in normal terms is dangerous, even if he is ours.” 

Young Edmure quietly noted the unease on his father’s face, while Brynden frowned, imagining a storm not even the Red Fork could channel.

The Eyrie – House Arryn
Lord Jon Arryn’s steward reported the news in cautious tones. “Lord Thor of Storm’s End… killed a dozen wildlings in a single frenzied charge, my lord.” Jon’s brow furrowed. “A boy? A lord?” He shook his head. “The North has always bred strange men, but the Stormlands… perhaps we underestimate them. Keep watch in case rumor brings more than praise.” Lysa Arryn, ever dramatic, clutched her son’s arm and muttered about omens and the wrath of the gods, her eyes wide with unease.

Sunspear – House Martell
Prince Doran read the raven slowly, his face impassive. “The boy has strength, and fire,” he said, eyes narrowing. “The world is changing, as it always does. Let him fight his storms—so long as they do not reach Dorne.” His sister, Elia, paled at the thought of uncontrolled fury, though her words were measured. “A man such as this cannot be governed by titles alone.”

Casterly Rock – House Lannister
Tywin Lannister read the same reports with cold calculation. “Thor Baratheon,” he said, tapping the parchment. “The boy has a name now. Let it be whispered in the right halls.” Jaime, standing behind him, smirked. “Sounds like my cousin in the lists. Brutal fun.” Cersei frowned. “If he cannot control it, he is a danger. To himself. To others.” Tywin’s voice was icy. “And yet… a man whose fury cannot be measured is a useful weapon, if one knows how to wield him.”