Chapter 3 — "The Storm and the Fire"
Year 282 AC — Storm's End
— Winds of War
The roar of the sea battered the walls of Storm's End with savage fury. The sky was covered with gray clouds, and the salty breeze carried with it a portent of blood. The fortress, carved from black stone, seemed to withstand the ravages of the elements… but within, the real storm was just beginning.
Little Ronnel Storm, barely four years old, walked through the cold stone halls holding a book heavier than he was. Despite his young age, he already stood 1.40 meters tall, towering over many older children. His blue eyes shone with unusual intelligence as he mentally reviewed the names of the Houses of Westeros and their loyalties.
"Stark, north. Arryn, the Roost. Lannister, Casterly Rock… Tyrell, Highgarden. Hightower, Oldtown. Martell, Dorne. Tully, Riverrun. Every piece in its place… for now."
He wasn't studying out of childish whim. He knew what was coming.
The kidnapping of Lyanna Stark. The call to arms. The Rebellion.
The memories of his former life—and the knowledge of what was to come—were like a hidden blade no one else could see.
The Maester and the Bastard
In the maester's tower, old Cressen waited for him by a table covered in scrolls and maps. His wrinkled face lit up as he saw him enter.
"You are late, young Ronnel," Cressen said, feigning sternness as he adjusted his maester's chain.
"I was memorizing the names of the Tyrell vassal houses," the boy replied, placing the book on the table. "If we're going to face them, I need to know how they think."
The maester raised an eyebrow.
"If we're going to face them, you say. You speak like an advisor, not a child."
Ronnel smiled faintly.
"If I speak like a child, no one will listen. If I speak like a man, at least someone will hesitate before ignoring me."
Cressen let out a low laugh.
"By the Seven, you're more perceptive than half the knights of Bastion."
The old man leaned over the map, pointing with a trembling finger:
"The Tyrells haven't moved yet, but if King Aerys summons them, they'll send more men than we can count. And if the Tyrells come…" He paused, looking at the boy, "…there will be famine, Ronnel." Very hungry.
Ronnel looked down at the map, the answer already in his mind.
"We have provisions for four months if we ration today. If we don't, we'll only last two."
The maester looked at him in amazement.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I already counted the barrels of grain and the fish stocks in the lower pantry." Ronnel smiled with feigned innocence. "People talk when they think you're a curious child."
Cressen blinked several times, then let out a long breath.
"The Seven help us, Ronnel Storm... because if they don't, I fear we'll only have faith in your ingenuity."
Stannis, Duty Incarnate
Later, Ronnel crossed the training yard. There stood Stannis Baratheon, his uncle, overseeing a group of soldiers practicing defensive formations. Stannis, barely seventeen years old, already radiated the same sternness that would define him in the future.
"Keep your shield up. Halt, damn it!" Stannis roared at a young soldier who lowered his guard.
When he noticed Ronnel approaching, he frowned.
"You shouldn't be here."
"The knowledge of a castle isn't only in books, Uncle," Ronnel replied calmly. "If I'm going to survive what's coming, I need to know how Bastion is defended."
Stannis watched him in silence for a long moment. There was something about that bastard—not Robert's bearing, not Renly's smile—something different.
"Who told you something was coming?" he asked finally, crossing his arms.
Ronnel held his gaze.
"I'm not blind. Robert is restless. Rumors speak of Princess Lyanna Stark, of Rhaegar, of Harrenhal." If Robert rises, Bastion will be attacked.
Stannis clenched his jaw. He didn't like a child speaking of war with such certainty, but he couldn't deny that he was right either.
"If you want to learn, you'll truly learn," he growled at last. "Come with me tomorrow. We'll see if you can wield a sword instead of just words."
Ronnel inclined his head, hiding his smile.
"I'll be here at dawn, ser."
Renly, the Boy King
That night, as torches lit the halls, Renly Baratheon burst into the common room with the arrogance typical of a spoiled boy two years younger than Ronnel. He carried a piece of cake in his hand and his chin was smeared with jam.
"They say you think you're important, bastard," Renly spat, crossing his arms. "They say Stannis lets you spar with the soldiers."
Ronnel, sitting by the fireplace, closed the book he was reading and looked at it silently.
"I don't think I'm important." His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. "I'm trying to learn so I don't die like an idiot when the wars start."
---
Year 283 AD
---
The roar of the sea was constant, like a hungry monster devouring the walls.
The siege had begun three weeks ago, and although Storm's End still held, the tension was palpable around every corner.
The Tyrells had brought 60,000 men and completely surrounded the fortress. From the walls, Ronnel saw the green and gold tents stretching out like an endless sea. The banner of the golden rose fluttered above them, majestic and mocking, while its trumpets blared at dawn to break the morale of the besieged.
Inside Storm's End, the atmosphere was oppressive. The smell of sweat, fear, and smoke mingled with the salt air. In the kitchens, cauldrons boiled bones to extract every last bit of flavor. The soldiers trained less vigorously, the children's faces were pale, and the servants murmured about ghosts of hunger.
Ronnel saw it all. He absorbed every detail.
And he stored it away, like pieces of a puzzle he would one day use.
---
Day 24 of the Siege
The young bastard walked through the narrow corridors of the fortress, his steady gait contrasting with the slowness of the others. He had left the maester's tower, where Cressen was teaching him botany and field medicine, and was now heading down to the kitchens.
There he found Marenna, the head cook, stirring a nearly empty cauldron. Her face was sweaty and drawn.
"Three beef bones and a handful of dried roots," she murmured, unaware of Ronnel's observation. "This won't even feed twenty men."
Ronnel approached silently.
"You shouldn't use it all in one stew," he said calmly. "Divide the roots and add more water. That way he'll live fifty."
Marenna looked at him, incredulous.
"Boy... if I keep pouring water, they'll end up drinking stone soup."
"Better stone soup than air in the stomach," Ronnel replied, his composure intact. "Also, tell the servants to put more stale bread on the tables. If they chew anything solid, they'll think they've eaten more."
The woman blinked. A five-year-old boy was giving her lessons in survival... and she was right.
"By the Seven... who taught you these things?"
"Hunger is a quick teacher, Marenna," he said, and left without looking back.
From that day on, the cook began to respect him and listened to him whenever he suggested changes. And the soldiers, although they didn't know it, began to eat a little better thanks to him.
---
Day 27 of the Siege
The men's discipline was beginning to break down.
In the inner courtyard, two soldiers were fighting over a piece of dry bread. The crowd gathered around, hungry for violence.
Ronnel made his way to them. He said nothing at first, simply stopped and stared. His silence drew more attention than any shouting.
"Do you know who's laughing right now?" he said finally, pointing at the walls, toward the Tyrell camp. "Them."
The two men stared at each other, panting.
"While we're killing each other over a crust of bread, they're feasting under their banners. While we're shouting here, they're drinking wine and waiting for us to devour each other."
The murmur among those present died away.
"If you're going to fight, fight them, not each other." His voice was firm, clear, adult.
The silence lasted an eerie second, and then the soldiers lowered their fists. The crowd dispersed, murmuring his name.
From that day on, the guards looked at him differently. And Stannis, who had watched the scene from afar, said nothing… but moved closer.
---
Day 32 of the Siege
The nights were the worst.
The roar of the sea mingled with the shouts of the besiegers, who lit fires and sang obscene songs to break morale. The men of Bastion slept poorly, and the children even worse.
Ronnel began to walk through the corridors, talking to the younger ones. He told them stories, some invented, others taken from Cressen's books. Tales of dragons, heroes, and ancient kings. The children listened enraptured, their hunger forgotten for a moment.
One night, as he recounted the story of Durran Godsorrow—the first Lord of Bastion, who defied the gods for love—Renly joined the group. He said nothing at first, just sat and listened.
When Ronnel finished, Renly murmured,
"Do you think Durran really built seven castles before Bastion?"
"I don't think it matters," Ronnel replied, smiling slightly. "What matters is that people believe he did. And as long as they believe it, Bastion will be stronger."
Renly looked at him, confused... but he didn't sneer. For the first time, they sat together in silence.
---
Day 40 of the Siege
Hunger was beginning to show its true face.
That morning, a child died, too weak to resist. His mother screamed so loudly it echoed throughout the fortress.
Ronnel watched from afar, his heart heavy. He had seen death before—in another world, in another life—but seeing it here, feeling it so close, struck him differently.
Later, he spoke with Cressen.
"It's not fair," he said, his throat tightening. "Children die first."
Cressen looked at him with infinite sadness.
"Justice is a luxury wars don't grant, Ronnel."
That night, Ronnel made a decision: he would do everything he could to save the weakest. Not out of compassion... or not only out of compassion. Every life he saved would be a loyalty earned, every aid another step on his path.
He began organizing a secret food distribution system: the rations he had hidden weeks ago, the leftovers the soldiers hadn't claimed, even pieces of boiled leather. Everything passed through his hands.
Soon, in the dark corridors, a name was whispered:
> "The bastard is looking after our people."
---
Day 51 of the Siege
In the great hall, Stannis gathered the knights to discuss the latest reports. Ronnel was present, listening from a corner.
"The Tyrells have cut off all freshwater routes," one of the captains reported.
"Then we'll boil seawater," Stannis growled.
"It'll kill us before we starve," another retorted.
Voices rose, tempers flared. It was then that Ronnel spoke, his steady voice cutting through the noise:
"We can build makeshift stills to distill the saltwater."
Everyone turned to him. Stannis raised an eyebrow.
And what do you know about that, bastard?
"Enough," he replied without hesitation. "If you give me permission, I can show the smiths how to do it."
Stannis watched him for a long moment, until he finally nodded.
"Do it."
That night, the first rudimentary distillation devices began to work. Bastion would have water. And everyone would know who had made it possible.
--
The days continued to pass. The soldiers' skin clung to their bones, the maids had deep bags under their eyes, the children cried at night.
And yet, Bastion held.
Atop the wall, Ronnel looked down on the Tyrell encampment. The green and gold banners flew proudly… but now, when the besiegers looked toward the fortress, they saw lit torches and men still standing.
> "Let them think we're broken," Ronnel thought. "Meanwhile, we learn to resist. And I learn to command."
---