News travels faster than ravens when it carries the scent of power.
Dorne : Sunspear
The Sea of Dorne stretched endlessly beyond the arched windows of Sunspear's tower chamber, its surface deceptively calm under the afternoon sun. Princess Arianne Martell set down the parchment with deliberate care, her dark eyes fixed on the words that had traveled hundreds of miles to reach her. The silence in the room was thick enough to cut.
"Purple lightning," she said finally, her voice carrying that particular edge that made servants nervous and enemies cautious. "Tell me again that this isn't some wine-soaked tavern tale."
Ellaria Sand leaned against the stone wall, her arms crossed, a position that made the various weapons on her person more visible rather than less. She'd always been direct, and age hadn't softened that trait. "Three separate sources, Princess. A trading ship that put in at Tarth, a merchant caravan from the Reach, and our own people on Estermont. All describing the same thing : a storm that came from nowhere, struck with purpose, and left one boy standing in the middle of it all."
Arianne moved to the window, her silk gown whispering against the stone floor. The late afternoon light caught the gold in her dark hair, but her expression remained thoughtful, calculating. "A Baratheon boy. Purple eyes and Purple hair,they say."
"Thor Baratheon," Ellaria confirmed, consulting her own notes. "Mother-killer babe but acknowledged and loves he is. Gendry's son, which makes him Robert's grandson if you follow the bloodline back far enough."
"And storms follow him like loyal hounds." Arianne's fingers drummed against the windowsill. "How very... convenient."
Ellaria straightened, recognizing the tone. She'd heard it before, usually right before someone's carefully laid plans got turned upside down. "You're thinking this changes things."
"I'm thinking this changes everything." Arianne turned back to face her spymaster, and there was something predatory in her smile. "The game has been the same for too long : the North broods, the Vale hides, King's Landing plays at politics while the real power sleeps. But a boy who calls storms?" She gestured to the reports scattered across her desk. "That's not politics. That's revolution waiting to happen."
"Could be dangerous," Ellaria pointed out, though she didn't sound particularly concerned about danger. "Powers like that... they don't usually stay contained."
"Exactly." Arianne moved to her writing desk, her mind already working through possibilities. "Which is why we need to know everything : who he is, what he wants, who's trying to use him, and most importantly, whether he can be reasoned with or needs to be eliminated."
She pulled out fresh parchment and began writing in her flowing script. "Double our people in King's Landing. I want to know what Bran the Broken is thinking before he thinks it. And send word to our contacts in Volantis : if this boy is truly what these reports suggest, the Free Cities will move fast. We need to be faster."
Ellaria pushed herself off the wall with some efforts "You want me to go personally?"
Arianne paused in her writing, considering. "Not yet. But prepare to travel. If this Thor Baratheon proves to be as significant as I suspect, I may need someone I trust absolutely to get close to him."
"And if he's just a boy who got lucky in a storm?"
Arianne's smile turned sharp. "Then we'll know that too. But somehow, I doubt we'll be that fortunate."
Tyrosh : The False Merchant
The port of Tyrosh buzzed with its usual chaotic energy : sailors shouting in a dozen languages, merchants haggling over prices that changed with each tide, and the ever-present smell of dyes mixing with salt air and fish. Carron Vaeltigar stood at the rail of the *Silver Wind*, his elaborately braided blue beard catching the morning light like spun sapphire.
To anyone watching, he was exactly what he appeared to be : a successful spice merchant with expensive tastes and the coin to indulge them. His silk robes were the finest Tyroshi work, his rings genuine gold, and his manner carried the confident air of a man who'd never known real hardship.
The truth was considerably more dangerous.
"Magnificent morning for sailing, don't you think?" The voice beside him was cultured, pleasant, belonging to a fellow passenger who'd introduced himself as a wine trader bound for Gulltown.
Carron smiled, the expression perfectly calibrated to suggest friendly interest without actual warmth. "Indeed. Though I confess, I'm less interested in the weather than in reaching port quickly. Business waits for no man, as they say."
"Ah, the eternal merchant's lament." The wine trader chuckled. "What brings you to Westeros, if you don't mind my asking? The political situation has been... interesting lately."
*Interesting.* Carron kept his expression neutral while his mind catalogued the man's word choice. Either remarkably poor timing or remarkably good fishing. "Spices, primarily. The Northern houses have developed quite an appetite for exotic flavors since the wars ended. Amazing how quickly people return to luxury once the immediate threat of death passes."
"Quite true. Though I hear there have been some unusual storms lately. Bad for shipping, I'd imagine."
There it was. Carron's fingers found the small vial of basilisk blood sewn into his sleeve, a habit more than a conscious choice. "Storms come and go. The wise merchant adapts to weather rather than fighting it."
The wine trader nodded sagely. "Wisdom indeed. Though some storms, they say, are more than weather. Supernatural, even. Fascinating to consider, don't you think?"
Carron turned to study the man more carefully. Mid-forties, soft hands but alert eyes, expensive clothes but no obvious weapons. Either very good at hiding them or very confident in his protection. "Supernatural storms make for excellent tavern tales. Less excellent for actual business."
"Of course, of course. Though the tales coming out of the Stormlands are particularly vivid. Purple lightning, they say. Quite specific for a tavern tale."
*Definitely fishing.* Carron smiled again, this time allowing a hint of merchant's cunning to show. "Purple lightning sounds like the sort of detail that adds credibility to an otherwise unbelievable story. If I were inclined to spread rumors for profit, I might choose such a detail myself."
The wine trader laughed, apparently taking the comment as confirmation of shared cynicism rather than the warning it actually was. "A merchant's mind : always looking for the angle. Well, regardless of the truth behind the tales, they'll certainly provide entertainment during the voyage."
"Indeed they will." Carron turned back to watch the harbor of Tyrosh shrink behind them. The wine trader eventually wandered off to bother other passengers, leaving Carron to his thoughts.
The Triarch of War's instructions had been characteristically direct: assess the situation, determine if this represented opportunity or threat, and take appropriate action. The definition of "appropriate" had been left to Carron's discretion, which was why he carried both poison and Valyrian steel.
But first, he needed to get close enough to the source to make an accurate assessment. That meant establishing a credible identity in Gulltown, making contact with local merchants, and working his way into the supply chains that served Storm's End. Time-consuming, but thorough.
The wine trader's interest was a complication, but not an insurmountable one. If he proved to be another Free City agent, Carron would deal with him accordingly. If he was simply a curious businessman, well, curious businessmen had accidents with distressing regularity.
Either way, Carron would complete his mission. The Triarch's gold bought loyalty, but more importantly, failure bought something considerably less pleasant than death.
---- Myr : The Scholar with No School-----
The Great Library of Oldtown buzzed with its usual scholarly energy, but Renaro Lym barely noticed the familiar sounds of pages turning and quills scratching. His attention was completely absorbed by the ancient tome spread before him, its pages yellowed with age and filled with prophecies that suddenly seemed far more relevant than they had yesterday.
"Working late again, Master Lym?" The voice belonged to Archmaester Walgrave's assistant, a young man whose enthusiasm for learning was matched only by his talent for interrupting important research.
Renaro looked up, blinking in the lamplight. The library had grown dark around him without his notice. "The pursuit of knowledge keeps no schedule, young Samwell. Surely the Archmaester has taught you that much."
Sam Tarly grinned, setting down a tray of bread and cheese. "He has. He's also taught me that scholars who forget to eat tend to make poor decisions about ancient prophecies. His words, not mine."
Despite himself, Renaro smiled. The black maester was perceptive, which made him potentially dangerous but also potentially useful. "Ancient prophecies are particularly relevant at the moment, I'm afraid. Tell me, have you heard the reports from the Stormlands?"
"About the purple lightning?" Sam's expression grew more serious. "Everyone's heard something. The maesters are calling it an atmospheric anomaly, but the septons think it's divine intervention. What do the books say?"
Renaro gestured to the open tome. "This particular book speaks of storms that herald the return of heroes. 'When purple light splits the sky and thunder speaks with a mortal voice, The God in flesh shall wake from death's dream.'"
Sam leaned closer, his scholarly curiosity overcoming his caution. "That's something like the Prophecies of Azor Ahai, isn't it? But those are... well, most maesters consider them symbolic rather than literal."
"Most maesters haven't seen purple lightning strike upward from the earth." Renaro closed the book carefully. "I've been corresponding with colleagues throughout the realm. The phenomenon at Storm's End matches no known meteorological pattern. But it matches several prophetic descriptions with uncomfortable accuracy."
"You think this is related to stormsend?"
Renaro stood, gathering his notes with practiced efficiency. "It is something that hasn't been seen in Westeros for generations. Whether that will a salvation or a catastrophe remains to be determined."
He paused, studying Sam's face in the lamplight. The young man was intelligent, well-connected, and apparently trusted by the archmaesters. Potentially very useful indeed.
"Tell me, Sam," Renaro said casually, "how quickly could a message reach the Free Cities from here?"
"Depends on the destination and how much you're willing to pay. Why?"
"Academic curiosity. I have colleagues in Myr who would find these prophecies fascinating. Scholars, you understand : always eager to debate theological implications of current events."
Sam nodded, accepting the explanation at face value. "The trading ships make regular runs. Few weeks to Myr if the winds are favorable."
"Excellent." Renaro smiled. "Knowledge shared is knowledge doubled, after all."
Later that night, alone in his chambers, Renaro composed a carefully coded letter to the Triarch of Trade. The prophecies were genuine, the storm was real, and the boy at the center of it all might very well reshape the balance of power between Westeros and Essos.
The Triarch would want to know immediately. More importantly, he'd want to know before Lys or Tyrosh discovered the same information.
Renaro sealed the letter with plain wax : nothing to mark it as unusual : and made a mental note to visit the docks tomorrow. Academic curiosity, as he'd told Sam. Nothing more suspicious than a scholar sharing interesting theories with distant colleagues.
Lys : The Courtesan's Eyes
The scented chambers of the Silk Street establishment known as the Perfumed Garden were among King's Landing's most exclusive, which made them perfect for Tala's purposes. Rich men seeking expensive pleasures rarely questioned the background of a beautiful woman who spoke softly and listened well.
Tonight's client was Lord Bronns's youngest son, a man whose fondness for wine was exceeded only by his fondness for hearing his own voice. Tala reclined on silk cushions, her pale Lysene beauty enhanced by cosmetics that had cost more than most people earned in a year, and let him talk.
"...absolutely extraordinary, I tell you," Lord Jamie was saying, gesturing expansively with his wine cup. "My cousin was there : well, not there precisely, but close enough to see the whole thing. Purple lightning, Tala! Purple as amethyst, striking upward instead of down. Never seen anything like it in my life."
"How terrifying it must have been," Tala murmured, her accent adding an exotic note to her perfectly modulated sympathy. "Were many people hurt?"
"That's the strangest part : no one was killed except for one boy, and that was during the assassination attempt, not the storm itself. The Baratheon lad, Thor, stood right in the middle of it all without so much as singed hair." Garth leaned closer, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper. "Some are saying he called the storm himself."
Tala's eyes widened in exactly the right mixture of fascination and disbelief. "Surely not. He's just a boy, isn't he?"
"Three and ten, maybe four and ten. But there's something about him, according to my cousin. Purple eyes, for one thing. And a manner like he's seen things the rest of us haven't." Garth drank deeply. "Mark my words, that boy is going to change things. Question is whether it'll be for better or worse."
"What do you think will happen to him?"
Garth shrugged, already losing interest as the wine took hold. "King Bran will want to see him, I imagine. Probably drag him to the capital for questioning. Can't have mysterious storm-callers wandering around without supervision."
Tala made appropriate sounds of concern and agreement, but her mind was already working through the implications. If the boy was being brought to King's Landing, there would be opportunities to observe him directly. The Triarch of Secrets would pay handsomely for a detailed assessment of his capabilities and temperament.
She guided the conversation to other topics, letting Lord Jamie exhaust himself with wine and boasting before he finally fell asleep in her bed. Only then did she allow herself to truly think about what she'd learned.
A boy who could command storms. If the reports were true : and the consistency across multiple sources suggested they were : this Thor Baratheon represented either an enormous opportunity or an existential threat to the Free Cities' carefully maintained balance of power.
The next morning, she composed her report in the special ink that would reveal itself only when exposed to specific Lysene perfumes. To any casual observer, she was simply a courtesan ordering supplies from home. In reality, she was providing intelligence that could reshape the eastern continent's approach to Westeros.
She sealed the letter inside a shipment request for rose oil and lavender water, standard goods that aroused no suspicion. By evening, it would be on a ship bound for Lys, and within a fortnight, the Triarch of Secrets would know everything she'd learned.
Whether that knowledge would be used to court the boy's favor or arrange his elimination was beyond her purview. Tala's job was to observe and report. Others made the decisions about life and death.
Still, as she prepared for another evening of careful listening and strategic sympathy, she found herself curious about this Thor Baratheon. A boy who could call storms but chose to remain at Storm's End with his family rather than conquer kingdoms. Either remarkably restrained or remarkably naive.
She suspected she'd have the opportunity to determine which soon enough.
Volantis : The Fire and the Fleet
The Temple of R'hllor in Volantis was never truly quiet, but in the hour before dawn, it achieved something approaching peace. Kinvara knelt before the great brazier, her red robes pooling around her like spilled blood, and stared into flames that showed her more than any mortal eyes should see.
The visions came as they always did : fragments of possibility wrapped in smoke and shadow, truth mixed with symbol until meaning became a puzzle only faith could solve. But lately, the flames had been showing her the same images with increasing frequency and clarity.
A boy with purple eyes standing in a storm that obeyed his will. Lightning that struck upward instead of down. A throne room filled with whispers of prophecy and fear.
And beneath it all, the eternal struggle between light and darkness, with a boy standing at the center of it all like a fulcrum on which the world's fate balanced.
"You see him again." The voice belonged to Sarco Naharis, whose approach had been silent despite his size and armament. The man was a killer by trade and inclination, but he'd learned to read her moods with uncomfortable accuracy.
"I see possibilities," Kinvara said without turning. "Some bright, some dark, all significant."
Sarco moved to stand beside her, his scarred face impassive as he studied the flames. "The Triarch wants concrete information, not mystical speculation. When do we sail?"
"When the Lord of Light wills it." She finally looked away from the fire, meeting his gaze. "But perhaps sooner than either of us might prefer. The boy grows more important with each passing day, and others move to reach him first."
"Others?"
"Dorne stirs. The Free Cities send their agents. Even the Faceless Men take notice." Kinvara rose, her movements graceful despite the weight of her ceremonial robes. "If this boy is truly what I believe him to be, he will need protection. And if he proves to be something else entirely..."
"He'll need killing," Sarco finished bluntly. "I can handle either option."
Kinvara smiled, though there was little warmth in it. "I know you can. The question is whether we'll be the first to reach that conclusion, or merely the most efficient in acting upon it."
She moved toward the temple's exit, Sarco falling into step beside her. The city of Volantis was waking around them : slaves beginning their daily labors, free citizens preparing for another day of commerce and politics, all of them unaware that their world might be changing in ways they couldn't imagine.
"Prepare the ship," she told him as they emerged into the growing light. "Spies and informants shall sail with the evening tide."
"Destination?"
"King's Landing, initially. But be prepared for Storm's End if circumstances require it."
Sarco nodded, already mentally cataloguing the weapons and supplies they'd need. "How many men?"
"Enough to protect themselves, not so many as to appear threatening. This is diplomacy first, force only if necessary."
"And if diplomacy fails?"
Kinvara paused, her red eyes reflecting the morning sun like garnets. "Then we'll discover whether the prophecy can bleed like any other man."
Qohor : The Black Goat's Order
The Temple of the Black Goat squatted in Qohor's oldest district like a wound in the city's flesh, its black stone walls absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Inside, in chambers that had never known sunlight, three figures knelt before an altar that predated the Valyrian Freehold.
Brother Xhoan raised his scarred head, the ritual scars marking him as a true devotee gleaming dully in the candlelight. "The signs are clear. The storm that struck Westeros carries the scent of power our god hungers for."
Sister Melara's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried perfectly in the temple's acoustic perfection. "The boy's blood calls to the darkness. Whether as sacrifice or servant remains to be seen."
The third figure, Brother Norvek, spoke without lifting his head from his prostration. "The masters have decided. We go to Westeros. We find the cause of this phenomenon. We determine it's worth to our god."
They rose as one, their movements synchronized by years of shared devotion and mutual understanding. Each bore the mark of their order : ritual scars that spelled out prayers in Old Valyrian, brands that proclaimed their dedication to powers most men feared to name.
"If it can be turned?" Xhoan asked.
"Then we gain a valuable servant," Melara replied. "One who commands storms in our god's name."
"And if it cannot?"
"Then we offer his power to the Black Goat as sacrifice. Either way, our lord is served."
They gathered their supplies in silence : Valyrian steel blades blessed in blood, poisons that killed in whispers, gold enough to buy passage and information. The journey to Westeros would be long, but their faith was patient.
The Black Goat had waited centuries for power like these to manifest. It could wait a few more moons or years for its servants to bring that power to heel.
Brother Norvek sealed the last of their supplies in a travel pack. "The forest road will be dangerous."
"All roads are dangerous for those who serve our god," Sister Melara observed. "Danger is merely another form of worship."
They departed Qohor as the city bells tolled midnight, three shadows moving through darkness toward a destiny written in storm clouds and purple lightning. Behind them, the Temple of the Black Goat settled back into its eternal vigil, waiting for its servants to return with either victory or glorious failure.
Either outcome would feed the hunger that dwelt in its depths.
(Few weeks later)
Slaver's Bay : Two Fronts
Yunkai : The Golden Calculation
The pyramid of Razdal mo Eraz dominated Yunkai's skyline like a monument to systematic cruelty, its golden walls reflecting the morning sun in patterns that hurt to look at directly. Inside, in chambers decorated with the wealth extracted from human misery, the Wise Master studied reports that had traveled across the Narrow Sea with disturbing speed.
"A boy who commands storms," he mused, his voice carrying the casual contempt that came with owning other human beings. "How... inconvenient."
His advisor, Grazdan mo Ullhor, shifted nervously. The Wise Masters of Yunkai had not maintained their power by ignoring potential threats, and this Thor Baratheon represented something entirely new. "The reports suggest supernatural capabilities, Excellence. If true, such power could destabilize established order throughout the known world."
"Precisely my concern." Razdal set down the parchment with deliberate care. "Our entire economic model depends on the assumption that slaves are powerless and masters are not. A boy who can call lightning from clear skies challenges both assumptions rather dramatically."
"What are your orders, Excellence?"
Razdal moved to the chamber's great window, gazing out over the city where thousands of slaves labored in the crushing heat. "Send agents to Westeros. Capable ones. I want to know everything about this Thor Baratheon : his capabilities, his intentions, his vulnerabilities. Most importantly, I want to know if his power can be replicated or controlled."
"And if it cannot?"
The Wise Master's smile was as cold as his golden tooth caps. "Then we ensure it dies with him. The natural order has served us well for centuries. I have no intention of allowing one boy to overturn it."
Meereen : The Liberator's Hope
The Great Pyramid of Meereen had been transformed since Daenerys Targaryen's liberation of the city, its former monuments to slavery replaced with symbols of freedom and justice. In chambers that had once housed the Masters' cruelties, Kalra zo Loraq : descendant of former masters but devoted to the Breaker of Chains' vision : read the same reports with entirely different eyes.
"A storm that obeys a boy's will," she breathed, her dark eyes bright with possibility. "Just like the dragons obeyed hers."
Her companion, Grey Worm's successor as leader of the Unsullied, studied the reports with a soldier's pragmatism. "Power like this could free every slave from here to Volantis, if properly directed."
"Or it could become another form of chains, if it falls into the wrong hands." Kalra stood, pacing to the window that overlooked the city Daenerys had tried to free. "The Mother of Dragons taught us that liberation must come from within as much as without. But she also showed us that sometimes the world needs someone willing to break the wheel entirely."
"You think this Thor Baratheon could be another Breaker of Chains?"
Kalra considered the question seriously. Daenerys had been unique : a blend of idealism and ruthlessness that had allowed her to shatter centuries of tradition. Could a boy from Westeros carry the same revolutionary fire?
"I think he could be something even more important," she said finally. "A bridge between the old world and the new. Daenerys conquered through fire and blood. Perhaps this boy can transform through storm and lightning."
She turned back to her companion, decision crystallizing in her expression. "Prepare a ship. I'm going to Westeros."
"The journey is dangerous, and your presence here is important to maintaining the peace."
"The peace here is established. The opportunity there may never come again." Kalra moved to her writing desk, already composing the letters that would arrange her departure. "If Thor Baratheon is truly what these reports suggest, then the Breaker of Chains' vision can spread beyond Slaver's Bay. And if he's not..."
"Then you'll be walking into considerable danger for nothing."
Kalra smiled, and for a moment she looked remarkably like the dragon queen whose legacy she carried. "Danger is the price of change. Daenerys taught us that too."
Braavos : Two Faces, One Goal
The Iron Bank
The Iron Bank of Braavos occupied a fortress that had never been conquered, in a city that had never been enslaved, conducting business that had never been entirely legal. In its deepest vaults, surrounded by wealth that could buy kingdoms, Tycho Nestoris studied ledgers that told a story more complex than most novels.
"Westeros owes us approximately four million gold dragons," he said to his colleague, Noho Dimittis, his tone as dry as old parchment. "The Crown's debt, primarily, though several major houses have outstanding obligations as well."
"Including House Baratheon," Noho observed, consulting his own records. "Storm's End's reconstruction after the wars required significant investment. They've been reliable in their payments, but the debt remains substantial."
"And now a young lord of the Storm's End demonstrates supernatural capabilities that could destabilize the entire continent." Tycho closed his ledger with a soft snap. "From a purely financial perspective, this is deeply concerning."
"Political instability tends to make debt collection more difficult," Noho agreed. "Should we accelerate our collection timeline?"
Tycho considered the question while gazing at a map of Westeros that dominated one wall of his office. The Iron Bank had survived the fall of the Valyrian Freehold, the Century of Blood, and countless smaller conflicts by maintaining absolute neutrality in political matters while ensuring absolute collection of financial obligations.
"Send observers to King's Landing and Storm's End," he decided. "I want detailed assessments of Thor Baratheon's capabilities and intentions. If his power threatens continental stability, we may need to take... preventive measures."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we determine whether supernatural abilities make him a better or worse credit risk than his father." Tycho's smile was thin as a knife blade. "The Iron Bank has never been known to discriminate based on species, nationality, or magical capability. We care only about timely payment of debts."
"A refreshingly simple philosophy."
"The best philosophies usually are. Arrange the observers : competent ones. I want facts, not speculation."
The House of Black and White
In the House of Black and White, where the Many-Faced God received worship in a thousand different forms, a girl who was no one sat in meditation before the pool of faces. The water's surface reflected nothing, which was appropriate for someone who had given up her identity in service to death itself.
But tonight, the nothing in the water showed her something that was not nothing : a boy with purple eyes standing in a storm that had no natural explanation. Lightning that struck upward. Thunder that spoke with a human voice.
The girl who was no one opened her eyes, disturbed by visions that should not come to one who served only death. Around her, the faces of the dead watched with empty sockets, offering no guidance.
"You see him too." The voice belonged to the kindly man, though he wore a different face tonight : younger, sharper, with scars that suggested a violent past.
"I see possibilities," the girl replied. "Paths that lead to many deaths or few deaths, but always to change."
"The Many-Faced God is interested in change that brings balance. Too much life in one place creates... complications."
The girl understood. Throughout history, individuals with great power had disrupted the natural order : Aegon the Conqueror with his dragons, the Faceless Men themselves when they brought down Valyria, Daenerys Targaryen with her liberation of Slaver's Bay. Each had changed the world, but change always came with a price paid in blood.
"Thor Baratheon represents similar potential disruption?" she asked.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he represents the balance itself : power that can create or destroy, depending on the wisdom of its wielder." The kindly man moved to stand beside her, his reflection joining hers in the empty water. "The Many-Faced God wishes to understand which he will choose to be."
"And if he chooses poorly?"
"Then someone will need to help him choose better. Or help him choose nothing at all."
The girl nodded, understanding her assignment without needing explicit instruction. The House of Black and White had agents throughout the known world, faces that could be anyone, weapons that could be anything. If Thor Baratheon proved to be a threat to the balance the Many-Faced God maintained, he would find that storms offered no protection against death that came wearing a friendly face.
But first, they would watch. Death was patient, after all. It came to everyone eventually, and it rarely needed to hurry.
______
Chapter End.
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