Chapter 4: The Price of Freedom
The silence that followed the Bifrost's violent closure was a living thing. It was heavier than any scream, more profound than any war cry. Forty thousand Dothraki warriors, moments before a maelstrom of drunken revelry, were frozen in place, their faces a mixture of primal terror and stunned awe. They stared at the empty space where their mighty Khal had been, then at the smoking, molten trench carved into the earth, and finally at the two figures who stood at the center of it all.
The giant, bearded man—the demon, the god, the thing that commanded the sky—stood with his impossible axe humming softly, a sentinel of quiet power. And beside him, her hand in his, was the silver-haired girl they had been about to call Khaleesi.
Daenerys's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The air still tasted of ozone and something else, something wild and ancient that reminded her of her dreams of fire and flight. She held Thor's hand, her small fingers laced through his, and the warmth of his grip was the only solid thing in a world that had just been shattered and remade.
The first to break the spell was Viserys.
His face, which had been a mask of triumph, was now a twisted canvas of disbelief, fury, and raw panic. His dream, his army, his crown—all of it had vanished into that blinding rainbow storm.
"What have you done?" he shrieked, his voice cracking. He stumbled forward, his fine silks askew, his face flushed a blotchy, unattractive red. He pointed a trembling finger at Thor. "You! You oaf! You drunken fool! You've ruined everything! That was my army! My crown! Drogo was going to give me my throne!"
Thor didn't even deign to look at him. His eyes were scanning the sea of Dothraki faces, gauging their reaction, preparing for the wave of violence he knew must be coming. "He was going to give you nothing," Thor said, his voice a low rumble. "He was going to use you, and when you were no longer useful, he would have given your head a new home on a spike."
"Lies!" Viserys screeched, his sanity fraying completely. He turned his rage on the one person he had always been able to control. "You! This is your fault!" He lunged at Daenerys, his hands clawed, his eyes filled with a mad, accusatory light. "You bewitched him! You with your soft words and your whore's tricks! You were always jealous! You never wanted me to have my crown!"
Before his fingers could even touch her, Thor moved. He stepped between them, his body an impassable wall of muscle and leather. He didn't raise his weapon. He didn't summon the lightning. He just looked down at Viserys Targaryen, and for the first time, Viserys saw what Illyrio and the servants had whispered about. He saw the sheer, unadulterated power coiled beneath the sorrowful exterior. He saw the eyes of a king who had ruled over a realm of gods and monsters, and in those eyes, Viserys Targaryen, the would-be dragon, saw that he was nothing more than an insect.
"Touch her," Thor said, his voice utterly devoid of heat, a promise colder than the Void between worlds, "and the last thing you will ever see is what happens when a star dies."
Viserys froze, his whole body trembling. He looked past Thor at Daenerys, and for the first time, he saw no fear in her eyes. There was shock, yes. There was awe. But the terror he had cultivated in her for her entire life was gone, burned away by the lightning. In its place was a flicker of something new. Resolve.
The Dothraki were beginning to stir. The initial shock was wearing off, being replaced by confusion and a rising murmur of anger. They were a people who respected only strength, and they had just witnessed a display of strength beyond their comprehension. But their Khal was gone. Their honor had been violated.
It was Qotho, the bloodrider Thor had disarmed, who found his voice first. Cradling his shattered wrist, his face contorted in a mask of pain and hatred, he staggered to his feet.
"He is a demon!" Qotho howled, pointing at Thor with his good hand. "A witch-man from the Shadow Lands! He has stolen our Khal! Kill him! Kill them both! Take the silver-haired witch for yourselves!"
A roar of agreement went up from a faction of the warriors. They were a volatile people, prone to sudden violence. Blades were drawn. Horses stirred restlessly. The fragile peace was about to shatter into a bloodbath. Thor tensed, shifting his weight, ready to unleash a storm the likes of which this world had never seen.
But then, another voice cut through the air.
"Hosh!" (Be quiet!)
The command was spoken in Dothraki, not loud, but with an authority that gave the warriors pause. It came from Daenerys.
She stepped out from behind Thor's protective bulk. She let go of his hand and walked forward a few paces, her small, slender figure a stark contrast to the hulking warriors around her. She was terrified. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to hide behind the god who had just torn a hole in reality for her. But she knew this was her moment. Thor had won her freedom with his power, but only she could decide what to do with it. To hide now would be to squander the greatest gift she had ever received.
She fixed her gaze on Qotho. "Khal Drogo is gone," she said, her Dothraki still accented but clear and strong. "This man," she gestured to Thor, "did not steal him. He challenged him. And he was stronger."
This was a language the Dothraki understood. Strength. A challenge.
"The Khal is gone!" another warrior shouted. "There is no Khaleesi! She is just a foreign whore!"
"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she declared, her voice rising, infused with a regal authority she didn't know she possessed. "I am the blood of Old Valyria. The blood of the dragon."
She turned, her gaze sweeping over the thousands of assembled warriors. "You came here for a wedding. You came here to join your Khal to a house of ancient power. Khal Drogo chose me. He saw the strength in my bloodline."
She took another step forward, her chin held high. "Now he is gone. His khalasar is without a leader. You will tear each other apart for his place. You will scatter to the four winds, and his name will be forgotten. His great deeds will turn to dust. Is that the fate of the mighty Khal Drogo's warriors?"
The murmuring grew louder, but now it was laced with uncertainty. She was right. Without a Khal, a khalasar was doomed to dissolve into warring factions.
Thor watched, a sense of profound astonishment dawning on him. He had stepped in to save a frightened girl. He had been prepared to fight his way out of this mess, to grab her and use the Bifrost to flee to the other side of the world if he had to. He had expected to have to protect her. He had not expected her to take command.
He saw her then, truly saw her, not as a victim, but as a force in her own right. She wasn't cowering. She was leading. She was taking the chaos he had created and trying to forge it into something new. A spark of pride, fierce and protective, ignited within him.
Magister Illyrio, who had been watching from the sidelines with a horrified, calculating expression, saw his opportunity. His original plan was in ashes, but perhaps a new one could be built. He glided forward, his hands held up in a placating gesture.
"Warriors of the Great Grass Sea!" he called out in his own fluent Dothraki. "The lady speaks wisely! A great injustice has been done here, but she is still the bride! She is the Khaleesi! Perhaps this… powerful man… fought in her name, to prove her worth!" He was improvising, trying to salvage something, anything, from the disaster.
It was the wrong thing to say.
"We have no Khal!" Qotho spat. "We have no Khaleesi! We have a foreign witch and a demon who hides behind her skirts!"
He was about to say more, but he was cut off. A heavy, leather-bound book struck him squarely in the face with a loud thwack. It was one of the gifts Daenerys had received, a book of histories and songs from the Seven Kingdoms. It had been thrown with surprising force and accuracy.
The book fell to the ground. The Dothraki stared. Daenerys turned her head. Standing near the gift pile was Jorah Mormont, the exiled Westerosi knight Illyrio had tasked with advising her. His face was grim, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword.
"The girl has more courage than any of you cowards," Mormont said in the Common Tongue, his voice full of contempt. He then switched to Dothraki. "You speak of strength, but all you know is how to follow. You saw a power today you cannot comprehend, and you piss yourselves in fear."
The insult, coming from another foreigner, was too much. Qotho, enraged, ignored his broken wrist and charged at Mormont, drawing a knife with his good hand. Jorah met him head-on, his longsword a blur of steel. The fight was short and brutal. Mormont, a trained and armored knight, was more than a match for a wounded, frenzied Dothraki. He parried the knife, sidestepped, and ran Qotho through. The bloodrider fell with a grunt, his life's blood staining the dry grass.
The killing of a bloodrider by an outsider should have triggered an immediate, overwhelming reprisal. But the Dothraki were still off-balance, still reeling from the supernatural events. Their leader was gone. One of his bloodriders was dead. Their world had been turned upside down.
It was into this fragile, volatile moment that Daenerys stepped once more. She walked over to the bonfire where horses were being roasted. The heat was immense, the flames leaping high into the air. She looked at the fire, then at the three ornate, petrified dragon eggs that had been Illyrio's wedding gift to her. They sat nestled in their velvet-lined casket, beautiful, ancient, and lifeless.
An idea took root in her mind. A mad idea. A dragon's idea. An idea born of desperation and a sudden, blazing certainty.
She looked at Thor, her violet eyes locking with his blue ones across the chaotic space. She gave him a look that was both a plea for trust and a statement of intent. He didn't know what she was planning, but he saw the iron resolve in her eyes. He had started this. Now it was her turn to finish it. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. I'm with you.
She turned back to the remaining Dothraki. "You want proof?" she called out, her voice ringing with a strange, new power. "You want to see the blood of the dragon? You want a sign to follow?"
She strode to the casket and lifted one of the eggs. It was heavy, its surface scaled and colored like a sunset. She held it aloft for all to see.
"They say I am a witch," she cried. "They say my ally is a demon." She glanced at Thor. "He is no demon. He is a protector. And I… I am no witch."
She walked towards the raging bonfire.
Jorah Mormont cried out in alarm. "Khaleesi, no!"
Viserys watched, his mouth agape, a glimmer of horrified understanding in his eyes. "Dany, don't be a fool! You'll be killed!" For a fleeting second, a flicker of brotherly concern broke through his selfish madness.
Thor took a half-step forward, his instincts screaming to pull her back from the flames. But her look had been clear. Trust me. He held his ground, his knuckles white where he gripped Stormbreaker's handle. His heart, a thing he thought had turned to stone, was hammering with a fear he hadn't felt since Thanos had raised a gauntlet full of Infinity Stones.
Daenerys did not falter. She walked directly into the inferno.
The flames, impossibly, did not seem to burn her. They licked at her silk dress, consuming the fabric, but her skin remained untouched. The fire swirled around her, embracing her like a lover. Her silver-gold hair billowed in the intense heat, glowing as if lit from within. She stood in the heart of the blaze, a goddess of fire, her expression serene, transcendent.
The entire Dothraki horde fell silent, their mouths hanging open in utter disbelief. They had seen a sky-god banish their Khal. Now they were witnessing a fire-goddess walk through a pyre unharmed.
Viserys whimpered and backed away, shielding his eyes as if from a sight too holy or too terrifying to behold. Jorah Mormont fell to his knees, his cynical, world-weary face transformed by pure, unadulterated awe.
Thor watched, and his breath caught in his throat. He had seen many wonders. He had walked among the stars, battled Frost Giants on frozen worlds, and seen the cosmic forges of Nidavellir. But he had never seen anything like this. She wasn't just resistant to the fire; she was one with it. It was her element.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the plain, the fire began to die down. Daenerys remained standing in the glowing embers, her clothes gone, her body covered in a thin layer of soot, but completely unharmed. Cradled in her arms, no longer petrified stone but living, breathing creatures, were three infant dragons. One was the color of bronze, another of jade green, and the third was black as night, with horns and eyes the color of molten rubies. The black one stretched its tiny wings and let out a high-pitched cry, a sound not heard in this world for over a century.
Daenerys Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, took a step out of the dying embers and onto the scorched earth.
The Dothraki, to a man, fell to their knees. They touched their foreheads to the ground. They were a people who followed strength, who revered power and portents. They had just witnessed the birth of a new one.
Daenerys stood before them, naked and defiant, with her newborn children. She looked at the sea of prostrated warriors, her people now, and then she looked at Thor. Her eyes, shining with tears of triumph and exhaustion, met his.
He started walking toward her, his heavy footsteps the only sound in the reverent silence. He shrugged off his thick leather jerkin and, without a word, wrapped it around her shoulders, shielding her from the eyes of her new followers.
"You have a flair for the dramatic, Stormborn," he said, his voice low and laced with an emotion he couldn't quite name. It felt like pride, but it was deeper than that. It was awe.
She leaned against him, her strength finally failing her, the adrenaline of the moment giving way to a bone-deep weariness. He supported her easily, his arm a solid, steady presence around her.
"You started it," she whispered, a small smile playing on her lips. The baby dragons squeaked and crawled over her shoulders, trying to nuzzle against Thor's bearded cheek. He looked down at the tiny, mythical creatures with a bewildered expression.
"Right," he said. "So. What happens now?"
"Now," she said, looking out at the Dothraki who were slowly rising, their faces filled with a new, fervent devotion, "I need an army. I have a crown to win." She looked back up at him, her violet eyes searching his. "But I don't think I want the one my brother was trying to steal."
The implication hung in the air between them. Not Westeros. Something new. Something they would build together.
"Well," Thor said, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face for the first time in five years. It transformed his features, chasing away some of the shadows and revealing a glimpse of the golden prince he once was. "I was supposed to be a king. But I think I might be better at helping a queen."
Over by the wreckage of the wedding gifts, Viserys Targaryen watched them. He saw the devotion of the Dothraki turning to his sister. He saw the dragons, his dragons, crawling on her and the monstrous oaf who had ruined him. He saw his crown, his birthright, his entire reason for being, turning to ash. The last vestiges of his sanity snapped.
With a wild, guttural scream, he snatched up a fallen Dothraki blade and charged them. "It's mine! The throne is mine! The dragons are MINE!"
He was fast, fueled by madness. But Jorah Mormont was faster. The knight intercepted him, not with his sword, but with the pommel of it, a hard, brutal blow to the side of the head. Viserys crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
"What should we do with him?" Jorah asked, looking at Daenerys.
Daenerys looked down at her brother's pathetic form, the man who had tormented her, abused her, and sold her. She felt a pang of pity, but it was quickly replaced by the cold reality of her new position. He would always be a threat. He would always be a weakness.
"He is not a dragon," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Fire cannot kill a dragon." She turned away. "Leave him. When the Dothraki ride, they leave the weak behind."
Thor nodded in grim approval. It was a hard choice, but a necessary one. A queen's choice.
As night fell completely, Daenerys, clad in new robes provided by a now sycophantic Illyrio, stood with Thor and Jorah on a small rise overlooking the camp. Her new, leaderless, yet devoted khalasar was settling for the night. The three small dragons were asleep, nestled in a basket near a small fire.
"They will follow you," Jorah said, his voice thick with wonder. "To the end of the world."
"The world is about to change," Thor said, looking at the foreign stars. He had blundered into this world, a drunken, grieving failure. He had crashed a wedding to save one person. And in doing so, he had unleashed a queen and her dragons, and tied his own broken destiny inextricably to hers.
He looked at Daenerys, her silver hair glowing in the firelight, her face filled with a potent mixture of hope and determination. He had come here with nothing left to lose. And he had found something worth fighting for. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with peril and war. But for the first time in a very, very long time, Thor Odinson was not afraid of the future. He was ready to face the storm.