Chapter 1: The God in the Gutter
The waking was a brutal, unwelcome thing. It was not the gentle slope from slumber he was used to in his New Asgard hovel, cushioned by the dregs of ale and the soft, greasy cardboard of a pizza box. This was a violent, percussive assault. A hammer blow of sunlight, thick and syrupy, struck him directly in the eyes. The air, far from the familiar scent of stale beer, sweat, and sorrow, was a riot of alien smells: pungent spices he couldn't name, the brine of a nearby sea, the cloying sweetness of blooming flowers, and an undercurrent of unwashed humanity and animal waste that was somehow sharper, more organic, than the filth he was used to.
Thor groaned, the sound a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very stones beneath him. He tried to roll over, to shield his face with an arm that felt leaden and unresponsive, but his bulk was wedged uncomfortably between a rough-hewn wall and what felt like a pile of discarded crates. His head throbbed with a rhythm that was part hangover, part cosmic dislocation. He'd had hangovers that felt like death before, but this was different. This felt like being reborn into a world that was actively trying to reject him.
He forced one eye open, the world a blurry smear of ochre and terracotta. Squinting, he saw buildings of sun-baked brick, their roofs tiled in a burnt orange that hurt to look at. People bustled past, a river of humanity clad in strange, flowing robes, dyed linens, and—bafflingly—intricate leather vests with no shirts underneath. Their skin tones ranged from pale to dusky, and they chattered in a lilting, musical language that his ears understood but his brain couldn't place. The All-Speak was a funny thing, a passive gift of the Asgardian nobility. It translated the meaning, the intent, but it couldn't stop the sheer foreignness of the sounds from grating on his frayed nerves.
"Where in the Nine Realms…?" he muttered, his own voice a dry, rasping thing. His throat felt like a desert road.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to cut through the fog of his hangover. He sat up with a grunt, his considerable paunch spilling over the waistband of his stained grey sweatpants. He looked down at himself. A faded, beer-stained hoodie, the aforementioned sweatpants, and one bare foot. The other was still clad in a muddy walking boot. This was his chosen attire for a Tuesday night of competitive drinking with Korg and Miek. Or was it Wednesday? The days, like the empty bottles, had a tendency to blend together.
He remembered the drinking. He remembered the potent, glowing liquor a passing Ravager crew had traded them for a case of Earth beer. He remembered challenging the entire bar to a drinking contest. He remembered winning. And then… nothing. A vast, black, starless void where memory should be.
His hand instinctively shot to his side, and a wave of profound relief washed over him as his fingers brushed against cool, familiar metal and gnarled wood. Stormbreaker. It was lying in the dirt next to him, looking as out of place as he felt. The Uru head seemed to drink the light, a patch of darkness in the blinding sun, and the Groot-wood handle felt like an anchor to his own reality. He grasped it, pulling it close, the weight of it a comfort, a grim reminder of both his greatest triumph and his most catastrophic failure.
Should have gone for the head.
The thought was a serpent, always coiled at the base of his skull, ready to strike. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it, but the motion only made the world spin more violently. He needed a drink. A real drink. Not the flowery, spiced wine he could smell on the air, but a proper, gut-scouring ale.
Using Stormbreaker as a crutch, Thor hauled his immense frame to his feet. He was a mountain of a man, far larger than anyone in the street. His matted, tangled hair and beard were streaked with dirt and something suspiciously like dried food. His belly, a testament to five years of dedicated self-destruction, strained the fabric of his hoodie. He was a god in ruins, a walking monument to grief. The passersby gave him a wide berth, their eyes a mixture of fear, disgust, and morbid curiosity. A few children pointed, their mothers quickly pulling them away.
"Right," he mumbled to himself, his voice thick. "First things first. Find a tavern. A pub. An establishment that serves liquid courage."
He began to walk, his gait unsteady. Pentos, though he did not know its name, unfolded before him as a labyrinth of wealth and squalor. He passed opulent manors with high walls and lush, hidden gardens, their gates guarded by men in ornate armor, their faces hard and unforgiving. He passed teeming bazaars where merchants shouted their wares, the air thick with the smell of roasting meats, exotic perfumes, and sweating bodies. He saw wealth that would rival the halls of Asgard, draped on merchants in silks and jewels, and poverty that would make the poorest sod farmer on Xandar weep, in the gaunt faces of beggars and the hollow eyes of slaves being led in chains.
Slaves. The sight pulled him up short. A line of men and women, yoked together, their expressions vacant, their bodies marked with brands. A man with a whip and a self-satisfied sneer herded them along. A fire, ancient and righteous, flickered in the pit of Thor's stomach, a feeling he hadn't truly felt in years. The urge to summon the lightning, to incinerate the slaver where he stood, was a sudden, violent impulse.
But it was followed just as quickly by a wave of crushing apathy. What was the point? He'd tried to be the hero. He'd fought the big battles, wielded the ultimate power. And what had it gotten him? A universe of dust and ghosts. His father was dead. His mother was dead. His brother—for all his treachery, still his brother—was dead. Heimdall was dead. Half the universe, gone. For five years. He couldn't even protect his own people, what was left of them. Why should he care about these strangers in this strange, sun-scorched land?
He turned away, the fire sputtering out, replaced by the familiar cold of despair. He clutched Stormbreaker tighter and focused on his quest for alcohol.
His appearance, however, was not something that could be ignored. A city guard patrol, four men in polished bronze helmets and leather cuirasses, finally took notice of the giant, strangely dressed foreigner with the enormous, terrifying axe.
"You, there!" their captain called out, his voice sharp with authority, though his hand rested nervously on the hilt of his short sword. He spoke the Common Tongue of Westeros, but to Thor, it was just more All-Speak. "Halt! By order of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, you will identify yourself and state your business in Pentos!"
Thor stopped, turning to face them with a look of profound irritation. "Look, mates, I'm just looking for a drink. Point me towards the nearest bar that doesn't smell like a potpourri basket and I'll be on my merry way."
The guards exchanged confused glances. His words were understandable, yet his accent was from no known land, and his tone was bafflingly casual, almost insolent.
"Your weapon," the captain said, his eyes fixed on Stormbreaker. "That is no common axe. You will surrender it for inspection."
A low chuckle rumbled in Thor's chest. "Surrender it? Heh. No, I don't think I will. This is… a personal item. Very sentimental value."
"It is the law," the guard insisted, puffing out his chest. "Unregistered weapons of war are forbidden within the city walls without the Magister's express permission." He and his men began to advance, spreading out to surround him.
Thor sighed. It was the sigh of a being who had once contended with celestial titans and was now being hassled by municipal bureaucrats. "I really don't have time for this."
He wasn't in the mood for a fight. Fights required effort. They reminded him of a time when he had something to fight for. But the guards were persistent. One of them, bolder and stupider than the rest, lunged forward, trying to grab Stormbreaker's handle.
It was pure instinct. A flick of the wrist. The guard, a man of at least two hundred pounds, was sent flying backward as if struck by a battering ram. He crashed into a stall selling dyed silks, bringing the whole structure down in a colorful heap. He didn't get up.
The other three froze, their eyes wide with disbelief. The air crackled. The sky, a perfect, cloudless blue only a moment before, seemed to darken by a shade. A low hum vibrated in the air, a sound that felt like it was coming from inside their own skulls. The hairs on their arms stood on end.
Thor's eyes, which had been dull with drink and depression, now held a faint, terrifying glow. A flicker of the storm within.
"I am not in a good mood," Thor said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that was somehow louder than the street noise. "I have a headache that could fell a Bilgesnipe, I am in a land I do not know, and my thirst is epic. I am going to ask you one time, and one time only. Where. Is. The. Ale?"
The guards didn't need the All-Speak to understand the universal language of overwhelming menace. The captain, pale and trembling, simply pointed a shaky finger down a side street. "The… the Gilded Lily… two streets down. Good… strongwine, they say…"
Thor stared at him for a long moment, the strange hum in the air slowly fading. The sky brightened again. With a final, dismissive grunt, he turned and lumbered in the direction the guard had indicated, leaving a scene of chaos and terrified whispers in his wake.
He found the Gilded Lily, a dim, smoky establishment that was, to his relief, more functional than fragrant. He threw a single, small, gold coin on the bar—something he'd found in the lint-filled pocket of his hoodie, a relic from some forgotten transaction in a realm long-since vanished. The barkeep's eyes went wide. It was more than he made in a month. He wordlessly began filling a large clay flagon with the darkest, most potent wine he had.
Thor drank. He drank until the sharp edges of the world began to blur again. He drank until the alien chatter of the tavern faded into a comfortable drone. He drank until the memory of the sun and the slaves and the guards was submerged beneath a warm, numbing tide of alcohol.
He was just a drunk in a foreign land. A relic. A failure. And that was all he wanted to be.
He was vaguely aware, as he slumped over the table, Stormbreaker resting against his leg, of a commotion at the door. Several large men, these ones dressed not as guards but as household soldiers in the livery of some wealthy lord, entered the tavern. They were accompanied by a smaller, immensely fat man who moved with a surprising lightness. He was draped in fine, perfumed silks, his fingers glittering with rings. His forked, yellow beard was oiled, and his eyes, small and clever, scanned the room before landing directly on Thor.
The man, Magister Illyrio Mopatis, whose guards Thor had so recently terrorized, did not look angry. He looked intrigued. A predator that had just discovered a new, fascinating, and potentially very dangerous species in its territory.
"Well, now," Illyrio's voice was a silken purr. "What have we here? Bring him."
The guards advanced cautiously. Thor was barely conscious, his head lolling. He was too drunk to protest, too lost in his own misery to care. They hauled him to his feet, his sheer weight requiring four of them. He didn't resist. As they dragged him from the tavern, his one open eye caught a glimpse of the sky. The sun was setting, painting the foreign city in hues of purple and gold. It looked a bit like the skies of Asgard, just before the evening celebrations.
A pang of loss, so sharp and powerful it momentarily sobered him, shot through his heart. Then the darkness and the drink reclaimed him, and he knew no more. He was a god adrift, captured by forces he didn't understand, in a world he didn't know, three months before the wedding of a dragon queen.
Chapter 2: The Last of Their Kind
The manse of Magister Illyrio Mopatis was a gilded cage, and for the better part of a month, Thor had treated it as such. After his less-than-graceful introduction to Pentoshi law enforcement and subsequent collection from the Gilded Lily, he had awoken in a lavish chamber, the likes of which he hadn't seen since the days before Asgard's fall. Silken sheets, plush cushions, and a balcony that overlooked a garden so lush and vibrant it seemed almost aggressively cheerful.
Illyrio, it turned out, was a collector. He collected spices, jewels, rare animals, and political secrets. A giant of a man with eyes that crackled with barely suppressed lightning and an axe that hummed with cosmic power was, to him, the ultimate acquisition. He treated Thor not as a prisoner, but as an honored—if deeply eccentric and perpetually inebriated—guest. He provided him with an endless supply of the strongest Pentoshi wine, platters of food that Thor would devour with sullen single-mindedness, and a new wardrobe of loose, comfortable silks that Thor grudgingly wore after it became clear his hoodie and sweatpants were beyond salvaging.
In return, Illyrio asked only for stories. Seated across from Thor on his terrace, fanning himself as his servants refilled Thor's goblet, the Magister would gently probe.
"And this… Asgard," Illyrio would say, his small eyes gleaming with curiosity. "You speak of it as if it were a star that fell from the sky."
"Something like that," Thor would grunt, his mouth full of roasted fowl. He never gave details. He spoke in allegory and myth, of a golden city on a flat world, of a bridge made of rainbows, of a king with one eye who could see all. To Illyrio, it sounded like the fanciful boasts of a madman, but there was a weight of truth to his sorrow, an authenticity to his grief that was undeniable. And there was the matter of the axe, Stormbreaker, which Thor kept with him at all times, and which the servants swore they sometimes heard whispering in the dark.
Thor, for his part, was content to be a curiosity. It was better than being a king. There were no responsibilities here, no people looking to him for guidance, no ghosts of his failures lurking in every corner. There was only wine, food, and the blessed numbness they provided.
He learned of his hosts in piecemeal fashion. Illyrio was a powerful man, a kingmaker. And he had other guests. A young man with silver hair and angry, violet eyes who carried himself with the desperate arrogance of a beggar pretending to be a king. And his sister.
Thor saw her for the first time in the garden. He had sought it out not for its beauty, but for its solitude. He wanted a place to drink where the servants wouldn't stare. He sat on a marble bench beneath a canopy of purple-flowered vines, a heavy flagon of wine in his hand, and stared into the middle distance, his thoughts a murky swamp of regret.
She moved with a quiet, almost fearful grace, her bare feet making no sound on the manicured lawn. She was young, barely a woman, with the same impossible silver-gold hair as the angry young man, and eyes of a startling, deep violet. She was dressed in a simple, flowing gown of pale lavender that made her look ethereal, fragile. She carried a book, but she wasn't reading it. She was just… looking. Looking at the flowers, the sky, the high walls of the garden, as if searching for an escape that wasn't there.
Her eyes met his. He expected her to flinch, to scurry away as most did from the hulking, bearded drunk on the bench. But she didn't. She held his gaze for a moment, and in her eyes, he saw something hauntingly familiar. It was a look he saw in the mirror every morning: the hollow ache of profound loss. The look of a survivor haunted by ghosts.
She gave a small, hesitant curtsy and made to leave.
"You have the eyes of someone who has lost their home," Thor said, his voice a low rumble, rough from disuse and wine.
She stopped dead. She turned back slowly, her expression one of guarded surprise. "I… I do not know what you mean, my lord." Her voice was soft, melodic, but threaded with caution.
Thor took a long pull from his flagon. "Don't you? To have everything you ever knew—the land, the people, your future—all of it turned to ash and memory. It leaves a mark. A hollowness. I see it in you." He tapped his own chest. "Because I have it in me."
Daenerys Targaryen stared at the strange, massive man. The servants called him the 'Thunder Lord'. They whispered he was a madman from the Summer Isles, or a sellsword of legendary strength, or a fallen god. Her brother, Viserys, called him a fat, drunken oaf and warned her to stay away from him, jealous of the attention Illyrio afforded the stranger. But no one had ever spoken to her like this. No one had ever looked past her name, her lineage, her value as a bride, and seen the gaping wound within her.
She took a tentative step closer. "You are the one they call Thor."
"That's my name," he grunted. "Don't wear it out."
A flicker of a smile touched her lips, so fleeting he almost missed it. "I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen." She said it by rote, the way Viserys had drilled into her.
Thor snorted softly. "Stormborn, eh? I've been known to conjure a storm or two myself." He gestured with his flagon to the bench beside him. "The sun is hot. The wine is… wet. Have a seat, Daenerys Stormborn."
She hesitated for a beat, glancing back towards the manse, as if expecting Viserys to leap from the shadows and drag her away. Then, with a quiet act of defiance, she sat at the far end of the bench, placing her book beside her.
An awkward silence fell between them, punctuated only by the buzzing of insects and the sound of Thor drinking. It was Daenerys who broke it, her curiosity overcoming her fear.
"The Magister says you are from a place… beyond the Sunset Sea," she said.
"Further than that," Thor replied, staring into his wine. "My home is gone. Destroyed. My people… scattered. What's left of us are living on a cold patch of rock, trying to pretend it's enough."
"The Usurper did the same to my family," she whispered, her hands clenching in her lap. "Robert Baratheon. He murdered my father, the King. He drove my mother and brother from our home. We ran, from one Free City to another, always begging, always looking over our shoulder. Until Illyrio took us in."
"So you're royalty," Thor said, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "Join the club. We've got jackets, but they're all in mourning colours. I was a prince. Supposed to be a king." He took another long swallow of wine. "Turns out I wasn't very good at it."
This was the most he'd spoken to anyone about his past. There was something about her, a shared wavelength of tragedy, that loosened his tongue in a way Illyrio's probing never could.
"My brother Viserys is the true king," she recited dutifully. "He is the blood of the dragon. He will take back our father's throne."
Thor glanced over at her. He'd seen Viserys around the manse, preening and posturing, treating the servants with a casual cruelty that made Thor's fists clench. He'd seen the way Viserys looked at Daenerys, not with brotherly affection, but with the eye of a merchant appraising his most valuable asset.
"Your brother," Thor said slowly, "spends more time polishing his imaginary crown than he does watching his own back. A man who has to tell everyone he's the king is no king at all."
Daenerys flinched, as if he had struck her. It was treason to speak so of Viserys. But it was also the truth, a truth she had never dared to admit even to herself.
"He is all I have left," she said, her voice small.
"No," Thor said, his voice softening unexpectedly. "He isn't." He didn't know why he said it, but it felt true.
Over the next few weeks, their meetings in the garden became a quiet ritual. He would be there with his flagon, a brooding, melancholy mountain. She would arrive with a book, a silent, graceful ghost. They would talk.
He, in his blunt, often crude way, would tell her redacted stories of his life. He spoke of the Nine Realms as different lands across a vast sea. He described the Warriors Three and Sif, not as gods, but as the fiercest soldiers he'd ever known. He told her of a brilliant, mischievous brother who could change his face and whose love was a blade with two sharp edges. He spoke of his father, a stern but loving king, and his mother, whose wisdom and magic were the heart of their kingdom. He never used names like 'Loki' or 'Odin' or 'Frigga'. He just called them 'my brother', 'my father', 'my mother'. In sharing the stories, he felt the ghosts of his past stir, not with their usual torment, but with a faint, bittersweet warmth.
She, in turn, opened up to him. She told him of the Targaryen dynasty, of the dragons that had once conquered a continent. Her voice, usually so timid, would gain a quiet strength when she spoke of them. She told him of the Mad King, her father, and the whispers of his cruelty, and her fear that the same madness might be in her. She spoke of her dreams, strange and vivid, of fire and wings.
One evening, Viserys, his face flushed with wine and impatience, found them together on the terrace. The Dothraki envoys were expected soon, and his agitation was at a fever pitch.
"Daenerys! What are you doing, wasting your time with this drunken lout?" he snapped, his voice a high-pitched whine. "You should be preparing yourself! You need to look like a queen!"
Daenerys shrank back, her newfound confidence evaporating under her brother's glare. Thor, who had been leaning back in his chair, half-dozing, slowly straightened up. The sheer bulk of him rising was an intimidating sight.
"She's doing no harm," Thor rumbled. "Leave her be."
Viserys's violet eyes narrowed with fury. He was used to being the most important person in any room, the center of his own shrinking universe. This fat foreigner's casual dismissal was an unbearable insult.
"You dare give me commands?" Viserys sneered. "I am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms! I am the Dragon! You will show me respect!"
He took a step toward Daenerys, his hand raised as if to strike her. It was a gesture she had seen a thousand times before. She braced herself for the blow.
It never came.
Thor's hand, huge and calloused, shot out and clamped around Viserys's wrist. He didn't squeeze hard, but the sheer size and strength of his grip was enough to immobilize the slighter man completely. Viserys froze, his face a mask of shock and outrage.
"I told you," Thor said, his voice deadly calm, his eyes holding none of their usual drunken haze. They were clear, cold, and ancient. "Leave her be." He paused, his gaze flicking to Viserys's raised hand. "You would be wise not to 'poke the dragon' in my presence again."
He released Viserys's wrist, pushing him back a step. Viserys stumbled, clutching his arm, his face pale with a mixture of humiliation and fear. He looked from Thor's unmoving expression to Daenerys's wide, stunned eyes. With a strangled cry of rage, Viserys turned and stormed away.
Daenerys stared at Thor, her heart hammering in her chest. No one had ever defended her before. No one had ever stood up to Viserys on her behalf. In that moment, he was not a drunk, not a madman, not an oaf. He was a protector. A shield.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words feeling inadequate.
Thor just grunted, slumping back into his chair and reaching for his wine. But as he drank, he found the vintage had lost its numbing power. Instead, he felt something else. A spark. A flicker of the man he used to be. The man who protected the innocent. The man who stood against bullies. It was an uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling, and he wasn't sure he liked it.
A few days later, the news came. Magister Illyrio, with Viserys beaming triumphantly at his side, made the formal announcement. A deal had been struck. Daenerys Targaryen was to be wed to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki, the leader of a massive khalasar. In exchange for his bride, the Khal would provide Viserys with an army of forty thousand screaming warriors to retake his throne.
Daenerys received the news with a stillness that was more terrifying than tears. She was being sold. Sold for a crown. Her life was no longer her own.
Later that night, unable to sleep, she walked into the garden. The air was cool, scented with night-blooming jasmine. She found him there, as she knew she would. He wasn't drinking. He was just standing there, Stormbreaker held loosely in one hand, staring up at the stars. The sky was a clear, velvet black, strewn with a million diamond-bright points of light.
"They look different here," he said, without turning. "The constellations. It's all wrong."
"I used to dream that I could fly," she said, her voice trembling. "That I had wings, and I could fly away from all of this, so far that no one would ever find me."
"There's no 'flying away' from it," Thor said, his voice heavy. "Trust me. I've tried. The universe is big, but your ghosts always find a way to follow." He finally turned to look at her. Her face was pale in the starlight, her violet eyes swimming with unshed tears.
All the grief, all the despair, all the self-loathing he had so carefully cultivated for five years seemed to recede in the face of her quiet, dignified agony. He saw a kindred spirit being led to the slaughter, and the part of him that was a king, a hero, an Avenger, roared back to life.
She took a step towards him, and then another. Without a word, she rested her head against his broad, solid chest, and finally let the tears come. She wept for her lost home, for her dead family, for the childhood she never had, and for the terrifying, unknown future that awaited her with a savage stranger.
Thor stood stiffly for a moment, unused to such contact, unused to offering comfort. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he raised his free arm and wrapped it around her, pulling her close. His hand, which could crush stone and wield the Bifrost, was surprisingly gentle as he rested it on her back. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. He just held her as she cried, her small frame trembling against his.
He looked up at the alien stars, the cool metal of Stormbreaker in one hand and the warm, living grief of this lost princess in his arms. And he felt a storm gathering within him. Not a storm of lightning and thunder, but one of cold, clarifying rage.
They were going to sell her. They were going to sacrifice this girl, this small spark of light that had managed to penetrate his darkness, for the ambitions of a petulant fool and a fat merchant.
He had failed his family. He had failed his people. He had failed the universe. He would not fail her.
In the quiet of the Pentoshi garden, under a canopy of foreign stars, Thor, the fallen god, the drunk, the failure, made a choice. He had lost his purpose. But maybe, just maybe, he had found a new one.
Chapter 3: Thunder at the Wedding
The days leading up to the wedding were a special kind of hell. The manse, once a place of quiet, opulent boredom, was now overrun with the Dothraki. They were loud, boisterous, and utterly contemptuous of the Pentoshi way of life. Their laughter was harsh, their smells were of leather, sweat, and horse, and their eyes followed Daenerys everywhere she went, cold and appraising.
Thor watched it all from a haze of wine and fury. He saw the terror that Daenerys tried so desperately to conceal behind a mask of regal stillness. He saw Viserys, drunk on the promise of his army, swaggering amongst the horselords who secretly mocked him, calling him the "Cart King." He saw Illyrio, moving through the chaos with his usual silken grace, the architect of this whole miserable affair.
Thor drank more than ever, but the alcohol no longer brought numbness. It only sharpened the edges of his anger, honing it to a fine point. He confronted Illyrio one afternoon on the terrace, cornering the Magister as he was sampling a bowl of spiced olives.
"You're sending her to her death," Thor growled, his voice low and menacing. He loomed over the seated merchant, a thundercloud blotting out the sun.
Illyrio Mopatis did not flinch. He carefully selected an olive, popped it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully before replying. "I am cementing an alliance, Lord Thor. I am giving her brother a kingdom. In time, she will be a queen, more powerful than any in the known world."
"She'll be the property of a savage who'll ride her until she breaks, and you know it," Thor shot back, slamming his fist on the marble table with a crack that sent the remaining olives scattering.
"Power has a price," Illyrio said smoothly, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "The girl is stronger than you think. And this is not your concern. The deal is done. Khal Drogo has seen her. He is pleased. There is nothing to be done."
"We'll see about that," Thor muttered, turning and stalking away, Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder like a woodsman's axe.
He was at war with himself. For five long years, he had cultivated apathy as a shield. He had told himself it didn't matter. Nothing matters. You interfere, you make things worse. You are a failure. A bringer of ruin. Let it go. The voice of his depression was a soothing, venomous whisper. It promised him the peace of the bottle, the quiet of oblivion. What is this one girl to you? You couldn't save your mother. You couldn't save your brother. You couldn't save half the life in the universe. What makes you think you can save her?
But another voice, an older one, was roaring back to life. It was the voice of the boy who had dreamed of being worthy. The voice of the hero who had stood on the Bifrost and defended his home. The voice of the Avenger who had fought for the weak. You do not let monsters win. You do not stand by while the innocent are sold. You are Thor Odinson. And you will not let this happen.
The night before the wedding, he sought her out. He found her on her balcony, staring out towards the sea, a slim, pale silhouette against the deepening twilight. She was dressed in a gift from Illyrio, a gown of fine, near-translucent silk in the Dothraki style. It was a beautiful garment that felt like a shroud.
"They say the Dothraki sea is made of grass," she said, her voice hollow. She didn't look at him. "They say it stretches to the end of the world."
"There is no end to the world," Thor said, coming to stand beside her, his bulk making the stone balcony feel small. "Just more places to get lost in."
She finally turned to face him, her violet eyes wide and luminous with a desperate, unspoken plea. She didn't ask for help. She didn't beg him to save her. She knew he couldn't. She was a Targaryen princess, and her life was a political commodity. He was a drunken stranger with a big axe and sad stories. But in her eyes, he saw the question she dared not ask. Is there any hope?
He looked at her, this fragile girl who had shown him more kindness in a few weeks than he'd felt in years. He saw in her the reflection of all his own losses, but also a flicker of a strength she didn't yet know she possessed. The strength of a survivor. The strength of a queen.
He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing away a tear that traced a path down her cheek. "A king fights his own battles," he said, his voice soft. "And a queen… a queen is not for sale."
Her breath hitched. She stared at him, a tiny, fragile spark of hope igniting in the depths of her eyes. He gave her a solemn, almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned and left, leaving her alone with that cryptic promise.
The wedding took place on a plain outside the city walls, under the unforgiving Pentoshi sun. It was a Dothraki affair from start to finish. A sea of warriors, their brown skins slick with sweat, their long, oiled braids adorned with bells, shouted, drank, and fought. The air was thick with the smell of roasting horseflesh and fermented mare's milk. The beat of drums was a relentless, savage pulse that vibrated in the bones.
Daenerys stood beside Khal Drogo, a terrifyingly immense man with a copper-toned body, a waist-long braid, and cold, black eyes. She was a porcelain doll next to a bronze statue. She accepted the traditional gifts—a bow, a whip, a magnificent silver mare—with a numb grace, her face a pale, beautiful mask. Viserys was practically vibrating with glee, already counting his forty thousand screamers.
Thor watched from a distance, half-hidden behind one of the massive bonfires. He was dressed in the simple black tunic and trousers Illyrio had provided, but over them, he wore a thick leather jerkin he'd found. Stormbreaker was strapped to his back. He was sober. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, his mind was utterly, terrifyingly clear. The internal debate was over. He knew what he had to do.
The ceremony reached its climax. Men fought to the death in honor of the couple, their blood soaking into the dry grass. Khal Drogo, with a possessive pride, lifted Daenerys onto her new silver mare. The deal was sealed. She was his.
Viserys clapped his hands, his face a grotesque mask of triumph. Illyrio smiled his oily, satisfied smile. Daenerys looked out over the sea of alien faces, her own face a canvas of quiet despair. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for something, for someone. They found Thor. For a split second, their gazes locked. The tiny spark of hope he had ignited the night before died, replaced by a look of heartbreaking resignation.
And that was what finally broke the dam.
"No," Thor said, the word a quiet rumble that was lost in the din.
He took a step forward. Then another. He began to walk towards the center of the celebration, his stride steady and purposeful. People started to notice. The Dothraki were a culture built on strength and displays of power. A lone, massive figure, walking with such grim intent into their sacred space, was a challenge.
The drumming faltered. The shouting died down. A ripple of silence spread outwards from his position.
"Who is this?" one of Drogo's bloodriders, Qotho, snarled, stepping forward to block his path. "This is no place for fat andals."
Thor didn't break his stride. "I'm not an andal," he said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "And I'm here for the girl."
Qotho laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. He drew his arakh, the curved Dothraki blade gleaming in the sun. "The Khaleesi belongs to the Khal. You will leave now, or you will die."
Thor stopped directly in front of him. He was a good head taller than the Dothraki warrior, and twice as broad. "I'm not leaving."
Qotho screamed a war cry and lunged, his arakh swinging in a deadly arc aimed at Thor's neck.
What happened next was too fast for most to follow. There was a blur of motion. Thor's hand shot up and caught Qotho's wrist, stopping the blade dead in the air. The sound of snapping bone was sickeningly loud. Qotho screamed in pain, his arakh clattering to the ground. Thor didn't release him. He simply squeezed. The warrior's face went from rage to agony to pure terror as the god's grip tightened, threatening to crush his arm into pulp.
"I said," Thor repeated, his voice now a low, resonating boom that seemed to shake the very air. "I'm here for the girl."
He shoved Qotho to the ground, where the warrior cradled his shattered wrist, whimpering.
A roar of outrage went up from the Dothraki. A dozen warriors drew their blades and charged. Viserys screamed in panic, "No! Stop him! He'll ruin everything!" Illyrio's face had gone pale, his composure finally shattered.
Daenerys, atop her silver mare, watched with wide, disbelieving eyes. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
Thor stood his ground. He raised his right hand, palm open. "To me," he commanded.
There was a sound like a tearing sky. Stormbreaker flew from his back, a blur of wood and dark metal, and slapped into his hand with a resounding crack that echoed like a thunderclap.
At the same instant, the cloudless sky darkened. A grey, unnatural twilight fell over the plain. The wind picked up, whipping dust and embers from the fires into swirling vortexes. The air grew cold, charged with a strange, electric hum.
The charging Dothraki hesitated, their primal instincts screaming that something was deeply wrong. This was not normal. This was not magic they understood.
"You want a show of power?" Thor's voice boomed over the rising wind. "You want to see a king?"
He raised Stormbreaker high.
A bolt of pure, white-hot lightning, thicker than a man's waist, erupted from the axe head and blasted into the sky. The thunder that followed was not a sound; it was a physical blow. It shook the ground, rattled the teeth, and sent men and horses alike stumbling in terror. The Dothraki, a people of the earth and sun, stared at the sky in primal fear.
"She is not for sale!" Thor roared, and this time, his voice was layered with the power of the storm.
He pointed Stormbreaker at the ground in front of the advancing Dothraki. A chain of lightning leaped from the axe and struck the earth, carving a deep, smoking trench that glowed with molten heat. The warriors scrambled back, their bravado incinerated by this display of impossible power.
He was a god. A storm god. A demon of the sky.
He turned his attention to Khal Drogo, who sat on his own stallion, his expression not of fear, but of stunned, furious disbelief. This was his wedding, his prize, his honor. And this… this thing was defiling it.
"She comes with me," Thor stated, his eyes glowing with a faint, inner light.
Drogo let out a roar of pure rage and spurred his horse forward, drawing his own massive arakh. He was the undefeated Khal. He did not fear man or beast or strange sky-magic.
Thor stood his ground. As the Khal charged, Thor spun Stormbreaker, the axe head glowing with a swirling, rainbow-hued energy. He slammed the butt of the handle onto the ground.
The Bifrost erupted.
It wasn't a full bridge, but a contained, violent explosion of rainbow light and roaring energy that opened directly in the charging Khal's path. Drogo and his horse, unable to stop, plunged directly into the vortex. For a split second they were visible, caught in a chaotic storm of color and light, their forms twisted and distorted. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap and a cannon shot combined, the portal snapped shut.
They were gone. Vanished. Sent… somewhere. Somewhere far away.
Silence. A profound, terrified silence fell over the forty thousand warriors. Their invincible Khal, their sun-and-stars, had been consumed by a rainbow storm.
Thor let the lightning in his eyes fade. The sky slowly began to brighten. He stood there, breathing heavily, Stormbreaker humming in his hand. He had just declared war on an entire culture.
He turned his back on the stunned Dothraki horde and walked towards Daenerys. She was still on her mare, her face a pale oval of pure shock, awe, and something else… relief.
He stopped before her, looking up. "I believe this wedding is over," he said, his voice returning to normal, though it still carried a faint echo of thunder. "Are you coming?"
She looked from his outstretched hand to the cowering form of her brother, to the horrified face of Magister Illyrio, and to the sea of warriors who were staring at her, their leader gone, unsure of what to do. They had come to witness the wedding of their Khal to a foreign princess. They had just witnessed a god topple their world.
Slowly, she dismounted from her silver horse. She walked past the gifts, past the bloodstains, past the wreckage of her old life. She walked to Thor's side and, without hesitation, took his hand. It was large, warm, and felt like the safest place in the world.
Standing together, the fallen god and the dragon queen, they faced the chaos they had created. Thor looked down at her, at the determined set of her jaw and the fire now burning in her violet eyes, and for the first time since he'd lost everything, he felt the weight in his chest lighten, just a little. He wasn't a failure. He wasn't a drunk.
He was Thor. And he had a promise to keep.