Chapter 15 :- Reactions

**"When the storm touches land, it leaves more than water behind."**

The Red Keep – Small Council

Rain drummed against the tall windows of the council chamber, filling the silence that had settled over King's Landing like a heavy blanket. The city below seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something nobody could name.

Bran the Broken sat motionless on his weirwood throne, its twisted roots wrapping around him like ancient fingers. His pale eyes stared past everything, seeing through worlds the rest of them couldn't even imagine. The Small Council shifted uncomfortably in their seats, the kind of restless energy that comes when you know bad news is coming but you're still waiting for someone to say it out loud.

Tyrion Lannister, now sporting gray temples that made him look distinguished rather than old, tapped his lion-headed cane against his wine cup. The sound cut through the quiet like a blade. "So let me get this straight," he said, his voice carrying that familiar dry edge. "A storm forms out of nowhere, hits one castle with surgical precision, and then just... disappears? That's not weather, gentlemen. That's a statement. A very loud, very pointed statement."

Ser Warrick Bronnson leaned forward, his armor creaking. He had his father's practical manner but carried himself like someone who'd actually earned his position. "My old man's got people talking from here to Storm's End. They're saying the lightning struck upward – not down, up. Left stones looking like they'd been kissed by dragonfire. The wind moved like it had purpose, like it was hunting something specific."

Lord Horas Redwyne, his face weathered from decades at sea, shook his head slowly. "I've been sailing since before I could properly walk. Never seen anything like what they're describing. No atmospheric pressure changes, no swell patterns from the Narrow Sea. It just... appeared. Like someone dropped a hammer from the heavens."

"And the boy?" Lord Cley Cerwyn asked quietly, his fingers laced so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Tyrion swirled his wine without taking a sip. "Thor Baratheon. Born during a storm, they say. Purple eyes, which is unusual enough on its own. Lost his friend the same day the sky went insane, but he didn't have a scratch on him. Meanwhile, everyone else at Storm's End is still picking up the pieces."

Ser Roderic Royce stood at attention in his pristine Kingsguard armor, but his stance was tense. "Magic or coincidence, we need to be careful what we call this. Names have power in this world. They always have."

Grand Maester Theodon cleared his throat, his chain of office clinking softly. "The Citadel has no precedent for meteorological phenomena of this nature. Not without significant arcane involvement or—"

"Or prophecy," Warrick interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Which makes this dangerous. You don't need a maester's education to know that much."

The room fell dead silent except for the rain's steady rhythm. Everyone turned to look at Bran, whose gaze had finally returned from wherever it had been wandering.

When he spoke, his voice was soft but carried the weight of stone dropping into still water. "The gods are stirring. But they're still blind, for now."

Chairs creaked as everyone leaned forward. Tyrion's fingers stopped their nervous tapping.

"The storm didn't create the boy," Bran continued, each word deliberate and measured. "It found him. And it remembered him."

Tyrion's sharp eyes narrowed. "So we're confirming it? Thor Baratheon is the source of all this?"

Bran shook his head in that slow, almost imperceptible way of his. "He's not just the source. He's the signal."

Uncomfortable glances passed around the table like a disease. Lord Cley's hands trembled slightly, and Ser Roderic's fingers drifted toward his sword hilt without him seeming to realize it.

"Send word to Storm's End," Bran said, cutting through their unease. "Tell Lord Gendry to bring the boy to King's Landing. No chains, no accusations. But he must come. Before others decide to take him first."

The rain seemed to grow louder, as if nature itself was responding to the king's words. Tyrion nodded slowly, his mind already racing through contingency plans. "I'll write the letter personally. Let's just hope Gendry's in a listening mood."

Storm's End – Gendry's Forge

The forge was an island of warmth in the cold stone of Storm's End, sparks flying as Gendry worked a bar of glowing steel. Each hammer strike was methodical, rhythmic, a counterpoint to the chaos that had been his life lately. Firelight played across his face, highlighting the lines that responsibility and grief had carved there over the years. His hands moved with the precision of decades at the anvil, but his mind was elsewhere – on Garrick, on Thor, on the storm that had changed everything.

Thor leaned against the wall in the corner, arms crossed, his purple eyes reflecting the fire's glow. He wore a simple tunic, but there was something in his posture – confident but guarded – that made him seem older than his years, like the storm had aged him in ways that had nothing to do with time.

"You didn't come here just to watch me work," Gendry said without looking up, his voice rough but not unkind.

Thor's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "Yeah, well, it's easier to have heavy conversations when you're hammering something. Makes it feel more real, you know? Less like we're dancing around the elephant in the room."

Gendry quenched the steel bar in a hiss of steam, setting it aside with a metallic clang. He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to face his son. "Then. Let's hear it."

Thor shifted his weight but kept his casual stance, though his words carried serious weight. "The others are scared, Dad. Althera, Davrin, Galen – they won't admit it, but I can see it in their eyes. They look at me like I'm a ticking time bomb. They know something's coming, even if they don't want to say it out loud."

"War?" Gendry asked, his voice dropping low. His mind flashed to memories of his youth – blood, fire, the wars that had forged him.

"Maybe," Thor shrugged. "But not from us. From how the rest of the realm reacts to what they don't understand. People have always been afraid of what they can't control, Dad. Human nature 101."

Gendry's jaw tightened at the casual "Dad" – a term Thor had picked up somewhere, maybe from his strange dreams or the foreign ideas that seemed to flow through him. It felt out of place in these ancient stone walls, but it carried a warmth that grounded Gendry, reminded him that beneath everything else, Thor was still his son.

"They think you'll bring another storm," Gendry said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Thor let out a bitter laugh. "Right, like I'm just going to snap my fingers and call down lightning whenever I feel like it. That's not how this works." He paused, his voice softening. "At least, I don't think it is."

They stood in comfortable silence, the forge's heat wrapping around them. Gendry studied his son, searching for traces of the boy he'd raised – the one who used to chase Stannis through the courtyard, laughing without a care in the world. That boy was still there, but something else had joined him, something vast and unreadable.

Thor broke the silence, his tone shifting to something more urgent, like he was pitching a business plan. "Look, we need to get ready, Dad. Not just for war, but for change. Storm's End is tough, sure, but we're stuck in the dark ages. We're still storing grain in damp stone chambers, writing on parchment that falls apart if you look at it wrong. We need better defenses – iron gates, not just stone walls. We need printing presses for record-keeping, better dyes, glass production, maybe even some basic engineering to drag this place kicking and screaming into something resembling modernity."

Gendry raised an eyebrow, half-amused and half-skeptical. "Engineering? You sound like you've been reading too many of Maester Edric's theoretical texts."

Thor grinned, and for a moment his old mischievous spark returned. "Nah, just thinking ahead. This isn't about swords and banners anymore, Dad. The next storm – literal or metaphorical – won't give a damn about whose son you are or what your family name means. We need to modernize, make this place a fortress for the future, not just a monument to the past."

Gendry studied him in the firelight, seeing something both foreign and familiar in his son's eyes. "And you know how to do all that?"

Thor hesitated, his confidence faltering slightly. "Enough to get started. I've been having these... visions, I guess. Ideas about how things could be built, how systems could work better. I don't know where they're coming from, but they feel real, you know?" He looked down, his voice dropping. "I want our family to survive this, Dad. Not just survive – I want us to thrive. For you, for Stannis, for Althera, for everyone who depends on us."

Gendry felt his chest tighten with a mixture of pride and fear. Thor's words carried a weight that went beyond his years, a vision that felt both alien and achingly familiar. He thought of his late wife, of her fire and her determination to change things, and wondered if Thor had inherited that same burning drive.

Finally, Gendry nodded. "Alright. We'll start with what we can manage. But you don't do this alone, Thor. We're family. We do this together."

Thor's shoulders relaxed, and he gave a genuine smile. "Deal."

- That Night -

Sleep had been avoiding Thor for days, and when it finally came, it arrived in fragments, pulling him into a world that felt both completely alien and heartbreakingly familiar.

He stood in a small apartment bathed in warm, golden light from a simple lamp. The air smelled of fresh coffee, and somewhere a television played softly – voices laughing, music swelling, the comfortable background noise of a life he'd never lived but somehow remembered.

"Morning, sleepyhead," a soft voice called from the kitchen.

Jane.

She wore his hoodie, the sleeves too long for her arms, her hair tied up in a messy bun that made her look impossibly beautiful. Her smile was crooked and warm, and Thor's chest tightened with a longing that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

He started toward her, a grin spreading across his face. "Hey, are you stealing my clothes again?"

She laughed, stirring something on the stove. "You leave them lying around, they're fair game. Basic rules of cohabitation."

He reached for her, wanting desperately to hold onto this moment, this fleeting sense of peace and normalcy—

—and the windows exploded inward.

Screams tore through the air. Fire roared to life, and sirens wailed in the distance. Smoke poured through cracks in the ceiling as the floor split beneath his feet. Jane reached for him, her eyes wide with terror.

"Thor!" she cried, her voice breaking with panic.

He lunged forward, but something massive and invisible tore her away from him, a force he couldn't fight or even see. The world dissolved into chaos – flames, falling rubble, a sky torn apart by unnatural lightning.

"JANE!" he screamed, his voice raw with desperation.

Thor gasped awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. Purple lightning crackled across his skin in faint arcs, dancing over his hands like living things. His sheets were smoking, and the corner of his bedpost had turned black and charred. The air reeked of ozone, sharp and electric.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, then the door burst open. Althera stood there with her blade drawn, her eyes wild with alarm. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," Thor said quickly, waving her off, though his voice came out hoarse and shaken. "Just a nightmare."

She looked at the scorched bedding, the blackened wood, and her jaw tightened. She sheathed her blade but didn't move, her gaze searching his face for answers he didn't have.

After a long, tense moment, she nodded once and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Thor sat alone in the dark, staring at his hands. They trembled slightly, and he clenched them into fists to make it stop. The dream clung to him like smoke – Jane's face, her voice, the way she'd been torn away from him. He didn't know who she is now.

"Jane..." he whispered, the name slipping out like a prayer to gods he didn't understand.

-Storm's End – The Courtyard

The next morning brought a light drizzle that left the courtyard slick and gleaming. Gendry stood with Stannis, watching as Thor directed a group of workers near the outer wall. The young man moved with purpose, pointing out structural weaknesses in the ancient stone, sketching improvement ideas on scraps of parchment. His voice carried clearly across the courtyard, confident and sure, but there was an underlying strain that hadn't been there before the storm.

"He's different now," Stannis said quietly, his bandaged shoulder still stiff from the bear attack. "Since Garrick died. Since that day."

Gendry nodded, his eyes never leaving Thor. "He's still your brother," he said, though the words felt like he was trying to convince himself as much as Stannis. "But he's carrying something heavy now. Something none of us really understand."

Stannis shifted uncomfortably, his young face troubled. "Sometimes he talks like he's from somewhere else entirely. Like he's seen things we can't even imagine. It... it scares me, Father."

Gendry placed a reassuring hand on Stannis's shoulder, the same gesture he'd offered in the cave during their hunting trip. "It scares me too, son. But he's family. We don't abandon family, no matter what."

Stannis nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on Thor, who was now laughing with one of the workers – a brief flash of the carefree boy he used to be. Gendry watched with a heart torn between pride and fear. Thor's ideas – iron gates, printing presses, industrial improvements – were strange and ambitious, but they sparked something in Gendry, a flicker of hope that maybe they could build something genuinely new and better.

A rider approached through the drizzle, his cloak heavy with water, clutching a sealed scroll. Gendry's stomach dropped as he recognized the royal sigil of King's Landing.

"Message from the capital," the rider announced, handing over the scroll. "For Lord Gendry Baratheon."

Gendry broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning Tyrion's unmistakable handwriting – sharp, precise, and straight to the point. The message was crystal clear: Bring Thor to King's Landing immediately. No chains, no formal accusations, but he must come.

Gendry looked up to meet Thor's gaze across the courtyard. His son paused mid-sentence, as if sensing the shift in the air. The workers fell silent, and even the drizzle seemed to quiet.

"Thor," Gendry called, keeping his voice steady despite the unease churning in his gut. "We need to talk. Now."

Thor nodded, handing his sketches to a worker and crossing the wet stones. His stride looked casual, but his eyes were sharp and alert. "What's up, Dad?" he asked, his tone light but guarded. "Please tell me it's not more bad news."

Gendry held up the scroll. "King's Landing. They want to see you. Personally."

Thor's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Well, shit. I figured this was coming. They hear about some freak storm and a kid with weird eyes, weird hair color, and suddenly I'm public enemy number one, right?"

"They say you're not in trouble," Gendry said, though he wasn't entirely convinced himself. "They just want to understand what happened."

Thor snorted, a sound full of skepticism. "Yeah, right. They want to poke and prod me, figure out if I'm a threat they need to eliminate or a weapon they can use. I've seen enough movies to know how this story goes."

Gendry frowned. "Movies?"

Thor hesitated, his gaze flickering to the horizon as if searching for an explanation that made sense. "I... dreams, maybe. Or memories of things that haven't happened yet. Hell, I don't know anymore." He shook his head, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Doesn't matter. If they want me, I'll go. But I'm not walking into that snake pit alone."

Relief washed over Gendry. "You won't have to. Stannis and I are coming with you."

Thor's forced grin softened into something genuine. "Good. Because I'm definitely not facing the creepy tree-king without proper backup."

Stannis, who had been listening nearby, let out a small laugh – the first Gendry had heard from him in days. It was a small thing, but it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

-The Road Ahead-

That night, Thor stood alone on Storm's End's ancient battlements, the wind tugging at his cloak with persistent fingers. The storm had passed, but the air still carried its weight, heavy with the promise of more chaos to come. He thought about Jane, about dreams that felt more like memories of a life he'd never lived, and about the purple lightning that danced across his skin when he woke in terror.

He didn't understand any of it – not the supernatural storm, not the vivid dreams of another world, not the strange knowledge that seemed to flow through his mind like water. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: whatever was coming next, he wouldn't face it alone. His family – Gendry with his steady strength, Stannis with his quiet loyalty, even the wary Althera and faithful Davrin – they were with him. And for now, that had to be enough.

Below, the torches of Storm's End flickered bravely against the darkness, casting light on the walls Thor dreamed of rebuilding with iron and innovation. Above, stars peeked through the breaking clouds, and for a moment he felt an almost magnetic pull, as if the sky itself was watching him, waiting for something.

"Jane," he whispered again, the name a quiet promise to the night wind. "I'm going to figure all of this out."

The wind carried his words away into the vast, uncertain darkness, and Thor stood guard over his sleeping castle, a young man caught between worlds, carrying the weight of storms both past and yet to come.

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Chapter end.