By the Thunderous Hammer 1 (Patreon)

By the Thunderous Hammer - or ‘In a world of uncertainty, the Hammer of Justice strikes Thunderously' (GoT/ASoIaF BaratheonBastard!SI)

When I was (re)born, a storm was raging outside that dark structure of wood.

To many of those within the convoy of chariots and carts that was making its way up in the North, towards Winterfell, this was a grim sight. To the woman that was holding me, weakly and yet so warmly, this was a sign of goodness.

Despite the muddy path leading to a slow pace, the overall voyage proceeded to destination with no major disturbances. Winterfell was welcoming, but I knew better than to just see it as something good. Words were familiar to me, and it took me mere weeks to understand some basic ones that were being repeated. It was not English, but the lexical declination was quite similar.

Soon I realized, within the first year of my life, that even those men living in the North stared at the King’s Landing’s situation in clear discomfort. It was within the passing of my first year of this new life that… I came to know that it was 281. I was born in 280 and… now it was two years off the rebellion- the end of the Targaryen Dynasty for the time being.

Despite the secondary dread I had on the date, I focused on being a child. Mother was alone on most occasions, working as an helper at the local blacksmith- serving as an ‘item-mover’ and making sure items were moved around in the right storage area.

Her name was Brigot, a bright name for a bright-haired lady. She was thin, but she was not always like that. No, she told me of how she once managed to capture the  eyes of many men. That her beauty was… tempting. And damning to her.

I never thought that her unease at looking at me had to do with it, but she spoke of a ‘boisterous sir’. He was strong, virile, kind-eyed, and… quite passionate. She loved him, even now that she could no longer see him. He was so strong, brave, bold, and yet ‘forgetful’.

Brigot (and by extension me too) was the daughter of a merchant. One that sought to relocate North but that was struggling on his own to handle these chores. ‘Grandfather’ was quite angry at us- his daughter was someone that got a child without marriage, while I was proof of that case of debauchery.

I didn’t care much for this hatred, especially since the man made no effort to cause us any grief beyond verbal one. Mother felt it, however, but she held strong through it all.

Due to my awareness of self, I managed to easily become a ‘good big boy’. I was quite tall and big for a child of the age of two, but I was also ‘gentle’ towards others. My size made me a ‘titan’ compared to many kids. At the age of three I could already talk. Barely as my legs were hardly able to hold my weight but… I was making progress.

It was around this time that Robert’s Rebellion started, and I noticed a mighty shift in my mother’s personality. Up to this point, she had been quite ‘strong’ in her own right. Her emotions were under check and rarely showed any sign of discomfort and pain.

When the news that Robert Baratheon was leading the rebellion reached out and that Ned Stark, the new Lord of Winterfell, was taking the fight to the side of his ‘brother in all but blood’, Brigot turned… spent.

She smiled and behaved strongly around others- publicly so, she was fine. But when she felt alone, when she was just with me… I could feel something wasn’t right. She would be quiet for a long time. She would caress my hair, hug me for long times and never mention much of a game to play as she just wanted me to be with her. To be quiet with her. To ‘mourn’ with her.

Because, as much as she tried to not make it clear to me, I was quite sure I knew who my father was at this point. My unusual size for my age, the blue eyes, the dark hair I got… I was Robert’s son- a bastard son of his.

That explained the money, that explained how we made it up North. That also explained why, despite the outrageous and scandalous nature of my birth, ‘Grandfather’ was quite careful with his insults. He seemed ‘afraid’ of being too much around me. Mother was a ‘free game’, but I was the reason for him to be restrained.

And it made a whole lot of sense.

But… what to do with this info? I had spent just three years of this second life here in Westeros, but even without those, I knew that Robert wouldn’t care. I was a Bastard of his, a trophy at the best and a nuisance at worst.

Hell, I bet now he would be less appreciative of my existence considering his early mourning for Lyanna Stark.

So, I resolved to keep quiet. I knew, but probing for more would just draw more pain. I was correct anyway in regard to the news making mother unstable. She was more disconnected, far too detached and, at this point, any attempts I could make to try and give her joy were deflected as childish distraction.

Who to ask? The blacksmith was already being a ‘good man’ by letting her work at the intense tasks for her role there, and… no one had made contact with mother after we settled in Winterfell.

Time passed, and I was growing well as a five years-old. Some terms failed to stick by me and I stood out as a sore thumb due to my ‘unique vocabulary’ or ‘stupidity’ as some ‘literate fellows’ would consider me.

I was a kid, so I gave no fucks.

My apathy only doubled in size when, as I returned home from my usual walks around town to help around for coins, I found the small hut devoid of ‘life’. No noises, no weeping, no nothing.

I found my mother on her desk, blood pouring out of her cut neck as her hands were busied by a blood-stained letter and a ruined dagger she stole from her workplace. I had been following up what felt like an ‘irregular’ exchange of letters between her and someone from afar. Those had started to bring her joy and, for a while, I thought that would have been it.

My… hope was crushed with this sight. The woman was still, her cheeks sunk, her ribs showing and her glassy eyes now showing only regret. I took the letter and I glared at the signature.

It was signed by the king, but I doubted Robert would write this fancily- no, this was written by someone else. Lord Arryn? The Hand of the King would have all good reasons to have his own liege distance himself from any ‘returning’ fling. He was married to Cersei at this point and the woman had yet to bear a child.

Any secondary ‘connection’ would have soured the King’s relationship with the Lannisters. Could it be that… something that Brigot said in her letters had opened that opportunity?

It was a strange feeling that fuzzily stole my heart when I thought of it. Maybe… and yet not.

I couldn’t exactly go South and speak with Robert. No. It was a pipedream. What I had to do was give mother her due respect now that she had passed away. Asking the nearest group of guards helped to get the right people involved in this. I wasn’t too familiar with the religious procedures, but one thing that really caught me off-guard was the ‘struggle’ of finding someone that would carry her body to her tomb outside of Winterfell.

I offered myself for the job. They all laughed. Then they didn’t when I effortlessly lifted my mother and made those heavy steps towards that empty hole in the ground. Snow was melting, but the weather was far from tame.

A storm was approaching, a dark thought in my mind, and then the deed was done as I used the rudimentary shovel to bury her properly. Some of the guards stood, either stunned by the sight of a young child being able to accomplish such a feat (which wasn’t much considering how thin the woman was) or because of what I did next. I knelt before the grave and prayed.

No, I didn’t pray to any divine entity familiar to Planetos. I never forgot my old faith. It may not be much for myself, but, just for Brigot’s sake, I gave her a proper prayer. I knew that cruelty was widespread with the known gods caring not much about the wellbeing of others, but I could rely on the ‘good old G’.

I prayed for her soul to have a seat in Heaven, to be forgiven for how she died. I was not a fervent religious person, but I really wanted her soul to go somewhere nice rather than suffer like she did through this late stage of her life.

Once that prayer was over, my kindness was put aside. I was now alone, I was now one against everyone else. At five, I knew that my survival rate was slim due to my social status, but I was not an idiot. I was not weak.

Which is why, right around the age of 6, I was splitting my free time between my ‘studies’ by learning what was left to know about the alphabet and the words of this side of the planet, and my work as an ‘assistant hunters’.

Due to how tedious it was to hunt, it was not a secret many preferred to not go out to help. Some did do so out of cockiness, but scars left behind by wolves and worse had ‘taught’ them that it was nothing simple.

I joined the ‘gang’ for the sake of money, and I did barely enough to keep food and heat dealt with. Water could be solved by filling up a big container I carried around to then have it heated up to purge any bacteria. It was unpleasant, but it was water.

It was within the middle-point through 6 that I contemplated going solo. I learned from a few veterans and I was praised as a ‘good-minded hunter-in-the-making’. I felt confident about this and… this proved to be a rather ‘important’ part of my life.

Very relevant considering how close I came to die to a random pack of wolves.

I remember hearing them closing up on me. I didn’t have much of a weapon through the knife I used to cut ropes for the traps I relied upon, but, when I crouched to pick the thickest tree branch on the ground and use it as a club, I was delighted by the loud crunch of a lupine head getting shattered by the wood.

The club wouldn’t be able to last long and I had plans to keep it to reinforce with some ropes and stones but… for now it will have to do. Two more wolves appeared from the bushes, clearly upset by the sight of a packmate getting murdered, but it was the one that jumped on my back while I was distracted that came close to slaughter me.

The pain coming from sharp teeth sinking against my shoulder ‘snapped’ me out of my calm self for just a moment. I don’t know why, but the awareness that this may be how I perished, how my chance to make it out of this glacial nightmare was going to end… I couldn’t let this happen.

At first I thought that kicked in my adrenaline, but I was greeted by something else as I heard the wolf hitching a ride on my back suddenly yelp and tremble in pain, a bright light surging all around me as electricity cooked the beast up before it released me.

I slammed the club on the ground, a powerful shockwave electrocuting the two other wolves and making them convulse as foam started to build up by their throats and mouths once the electricity was done cooking them up.

The sight was… shocking. I wasn’t sure what had happened and, as I reached for my ‘wounded’ shoulder with my free hand to check the extent of the injury, I found it to be missing as only blood remained. The very electricity that had killed the wolves had also healed me up.

I… have magic.

This was big news, but not of the kind I allowed to spread around. It was a talent to nurture, but with caution and away from others. Why was I able to do this? I couldn’t tell but… I didn’t say no to this.

The rest of the months went by with me harnessing electricity to some extent while also learning some more on handling my work as a hunter. Deboning and cutting the excessive fat was tedious, but I ultimately mastered this act when I was seven.

At this point, I was growing more aware of my own unusual limits and I had started to get more attuned with my ‘gift’. Electricity was easy to gain control of, but it wasn’t as extensive as I would have liked. It was like I could do more but… my own body limited how much I could do. Odd, but I didn’t press it. It was still good at killing my targets without ruining the meat.

I was making money and I was saving some of that good meat to keep my diet up and allow myself to train a bit more to work for a proper growth. I was fast and strong, and tall enough to pass as a ‘short four and ten years old’. A ‘scrawny’ teen, but enough to give me an idea by the time I was 9.

I had been making money, and I had been working my ass off to get at a comfortable training pace. But when the Greyjoy Rebellion came up, I saw an opportunity to do something with it all. Putting on a helmet, I was able to join the army being mobilized by Lord Stark to handle the rebellion and…

My name is Orys Baratheon, and I plan to change fate for good, starting with this circumstance.

—------d-d-d-d—-----

AN

Time for Pyke to feel Thor Chibi Orys’ thunder!