The clouds parted briefly over Storm's End, sunlight glinting through the grey just long enough to give the illusion of peace. Thor Baratheon stood at the gates of the keep, his purple eyes—a rare color that spoke of distant bloodlines and forgotten magic—narrowed toward the coastal town that clung to the cliffs like stubborn ivy.
The town of Storm's End was a maze of weathered stone and salt-worn timber, a place that had survived a thousand storms and would likely survive a thousand more. Narrow streets wound between buildings that leaned against each other like old friends sharing secrets, their foundations carved into the very rock of the coastline.
"Are you seriously going to brood all morning?" Garlan's voice broke through Thor's contemplation, sharp with the easy mockery of a lifelong friend. "Because if we're just going to stand here and stare dramatically into the distance, I could be sleeping."
Garlan was the son of a landed knight sworn to House Baratheon—broad-shouldered, with a shock of red hair that marked him as distinctly not noble-born, but certainly noble-hearted. At sixteen, he moved with the confidence of someone who'd spent more time training with weapons than with books, his leather jerkin worn from practice and adventure.
Thor couldn't help but smile. "Some of us prefer thinking to sleeping."
"Seven hells," Garlan muttered, adjusting his worn leather belt. "Can't believe your brother actually let you out of the castle."
"Only because Althera told him I needed to 'breathe something other than cold stone,'" Thor replied, mimicking his sister's precise tone. The memory made him chuckle—Althera had a way of making commands sound like casual observations.
Davos Rivers sauntered up, completing their trio. A bastard's son with a bastard's sharp edges, he was all wiry muscle and quick wit. His eyes—grey and calculating—took in every detail of the street around them, a habit born of years of survival.
"And what about your storm?" Davos asked, nudging Thor with his elbow. "You planning to summon the rain if you don't like the smell of the taverns?"
"Only if the ale's sour," Thor shot back, but there was a tension beneath the joke. Ever since the night his family had discovered his connection to the storms, every casual reference felt like walking a knife's edge.
They passed through the town slowly, hoods drawn low. Though Thor was recognized by some—the boy with the storm-colored hair, eyes that seemed to hold something ancient and undefined—they moved as sons of merchants, not lords. It was a game of sorts. Garlan played it with swagger, Davos with caution. Thor played it with purpose.
He watched everything: the slumped roofs still being repaired from last season's gale, the way merchants shifted their stalls closer to the center of the square, away from the shadows of alleys. Repair work told stories if you knew how to listen. These weren't just broken tiles and wind-torn awnings—they were scars of survival.
"I hate this," he muttered, more to himself than to his companions.
"What?" Garlan asked, always ready to draw out a conversation.
Thor shook his head, struggling to articulate the feeling. "The quiet. It feels like a lie."
Davos understood immediately. "Feels like the calm before something breaks," he said softly.
They found the tavern near the fishmonger's lane. A crooked sign named it The Broken Tide, and its air stank of brine and spilled ale. The fire inside crackled weakly, more for show than warmth, as old men and guards nursed drinks and secrets.
The tavern was a living map of the Stormlands—every weathered face told a story of survival. Fishermen with hands like leather, dock workers with scars that spoke of battles with ropes and waves, guards nursing old grudges alongside their ales.
The three boys settled in a shadowed corner, a habit born of caution more than conspiracy. Thor drank slow, letting the bitter taste of ale anchor him to the moment. Davos had already begun flirting with the tavern girl—a skill that seemed as natural to him as breathing. Garlan listened with a sellsword's ear, catching every whispered conversation.
"Three sellswords gone missing," a sailor muttered nearby, his voice low enough that only those listening might hear. "All from that bastard Bronn's crew, the ones sniffing 'round the Stormlands."
Thor's ears pricked up. Bronn was a name whispered with a mixture of respect and fear—a mercenary who'd survived wars, changed sides more times than most could count, and always seemed to land on his feet.
"Bronn's got too many friends in high places," another voice hissed. "He wants to plant roots here. Storm's End's next."
The implications hung in the air like tobacco smoke. Davos caught Thor's eye, a silent communication passing between them. Trouble was brewing, and they both knew it.
But before more could be heard, the door creaked open, and the storm that Thor had felt in his chest all day seemed to sigh. Rain began again—not a thunderous assault, but a steady, persistent fall that spoke of something watching, waiting.
They left before anyone could ask their names, moving with the practiced ease of young men who knew how to disappear. The streets glistened under the downpour, emptying quickly as people sought shelter.
Then they heard it—soft, broken, echoing from the mouth of an alley. A child's cry.
Thor froze, the hairs on his neck rising. Something in the sound was wrong. Not just sad, but hollow. Abandoned.
"Wait here," he told Garlan and Davos, though neither looked particularly inclined to obey.
Without a word, he turned and entered the dark.
There, shivering beneath a ragged cloak and too-small boots, was a girl no older than six. Mud streaked her cheeks, but it was the emptiness in her eyes that cut deepest. Not the emptiness of recent tears. Someone lost.
"Where's your mother?" Thor asked gently, crouching to her level. Years of listening to Althera had taught him that gentleness could unlock more than force.
The girl looked up at him, mouth trembling. Her eyes were an unusual color—grey like storm clouds, with flecks of darker. Something hurt.
"She said she'd come back," the girl whispered, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the rain's steady rhythm.
Thunder rumbled above, but this time it felt different. Controlled. Contained. Thor's storm was stirring again, and this time, it wasn't just because of the rain.
Garlan and Davos appeared behind him, their usual banter silenced by the scene.
"We can't just leave her," Thor said, not looking back.
"And do what?" Davos asked, but there was no real argument in his voice.
Thor removed his cloak, wrapping it around the girl. "What's your name?"
"Lira," she said, her voice a little stronger now.
"Well, Lira," Thor said, lifting her easily, "looks like you're coming with us."
As they walked, the rain seemed to part around them. Just slightly. Just enough that Davos would later swear he'd imagined it.
The storm was listening. And it was watching.
Far above, in the towers of Storm's End, Althera would look out her window and smile. Thor was learning. Slowly. But learning.
Inside Thor's mind, something ancient stirred.
The secret of power, Althera knew, was never in the display.
Thor was learning that lesson now,