Chapter 8—"The Bastard Grows"
(Year 286 AD—Storm's End)
---
Night and the Marks
The wind howled against the walls of Storm's End like a wounded animal. The sea, dark and violent, pounded relentlessly against the cliffs. Atop the eastern tower, Ronnel Storm watched the waves, his face illuminated by the moonlight.
His fingers brushed the skin of his left temple. There, the hunter's mark burned with a faint, almost living heat. It wasn't pain… but a constant presence. Every time he called upon it, he felt the transparent world open up before him: everything slowed, the movements of others became clear, their breathing patterns, their heartbeats, even the hesitations in their words.
"I see… too much," he thought, letting out a sigh.
Her body also surprised him. She was eight years old, but 5'6" tall, and every muscle responded with surgical precision. She could run for hours without tiring, lift weights that grown men would find heavy, and move with a grace that veteran knights couldn't match.
And it wasn't just physical.
He had begun to notice that animals sensed him. Hawks sought him out. Stray cats followed him. The baby raven he had rescued, Noctis, now observed him with an intelligence that seemed almost human. She could enter his mind with ease, feel what he felt, see what he saw.
The most surprising thing was that he could do it with several creatures at once. He had spent weeks training in secret, using rats, seagulls, hawks… and now he could control up to eight animals simultaneously.
"Eight consciousnesses at the same time… and I still feel like I can do more."
Murmurs in the Courtyard
The next morning, the parade ground was crowded. Knights, squires, and soldiers were training with wooden swords. The sound of steel hitting wood echoed loudly, mingling with voices and the smell of sweat.
Ronnel ambled in, followed by Noctis, who perched on his shoulder. Several eyes turned toward him. There were low murmurs.
"Here comes the bastard," a young squire whispered, thinking I couldn't hear him.
"Bastard or not, he fights better than you and me," another replied.
Ronnel ignored them. He had learned that comments were like the wind: they could touch him, but not move him.
Ser Arlan of Penrose was waiting for him in the center of the courtyard, wooden sword in hand.
"Today you will spar against three opponents," he announced.
Ronnel nodded, without speaking. The three men were adults, strong, and experienced. The first exchange was swift: a low slash, a twist, a counterattack... and in mere seconds, one of them was on the ground.
The other two stared at each other, tense. Ronnel breathed calmly, the transparent world activated. He saw his muscles tense before each blow, anticipating the angles of attack, moving right where the blade wasn't.
A leg sweep, a blow to the ribs, and the second fell. The third recoiled, panting.
"Surrender," Ronnel said, his voice firm but calm.
The man dropped the sword.
The courtyard fell silent. And then, someone began to applaud. It was Ser Rolland Storm.
"By the Seven... if this boy keeps this up, by twelve he'll kill us all."
Laughter broke the tension, but Stannis Baratheon, watching from the upper railing, didn't smile. His gray eyes analyzed every movement.
"Tomorrow you'll train against five," Stannis said tersely, and left without waiting for a reply.
---
That afternoon, in the library, Ronnel was leafing through an ancient scroll about the Valyrian migrations when Renly entered, accompanied by Maester Cressen.
Renly sank into a chair, huffing and puffing.
"You need to stop humiliating the knights, Ronnel."
Ronnel looked up, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't humiliate them. They humiliate themselves by underestimating me."
Renly smiled, amused, and Cressen sighed.
"You sound thirty, boy," the old man said, adjusting his glasses. "I'm beginning to think my task isn't to teach you, but to keep up with you."
Ronnel smiled faintly.
"Age isn't so much a matter of years, Maester... as it is how much you listen."
Renly looked at him in silence for a moment, then finally asked,
"Do you really... want to be free? Don't you want to be a knight? Or a lord?"
Ronnel closed the parchment and stared at it.
"I want to know everything. I want to know what lies beyond the Summer Isles, what secrets Yi Ti holds, what creatures live in Sothoryos. I want to learn every language, every art, every weapon."
Renly blinked, impressed.
"You speak like a king."
"No, Renly. I speak like someone who doesn't want to be a pawn."
Cressen regarded him silently, with a mixture of admiration and fear.
---
At the Port
At night, Ronnel went down to the harbor alone. Torches lit the cranes and the furled sails of the ships. The foreign merchants already knew him by name.
Magro Vento, the Braavosi, offered him a piece of parchment with strange symbols.
"This is Yi Ti language," he said in Braavosi. "I told you learning it would be useful."
Ronnel read it with surprising fluency. Magro whistled, impressed.
"At your age, I could barely read my own name."
"And at your age," Ronnel replied with a smile, "I hope I've learned twenty languages."
The sailors laughed, and Ronnel heard tales of Asshai, of the Shadows of the East, of the beasts of Sothoryos that devour men whole. Every word was power. Every rumor, a future advantage.
---
Night
At the top of the tower, Ronnel closed his eyes and let his mind fragment. He felt Noctis… then another raven… then three falcons… then a cat hunting rats in the market.
He could see through eight pairs of eyes.
He could feel the flow of the wind, the vibration of wings, the hunger of the gulls, the fear of the rats.
And then, he whispered a word. The torch flame in front of him flickered. A spark leaped from his fingers.
"The Valyrian blood… responds."
He had no wand, no grimoire, but he could feel the magic pulsing in his skin, waiting to be molded.
---
Ronnel Storm was no longer just a bastard.
He was an eight-year-old boy who spoke five languages, mastered lethal combat techniques, controlled eight animal minds, and was beginning to touch magic.
Respect for him grew, even Renly's.
But so did fear.
---