Chapter 4: The Spider's Web and the Dragon's Fire
The silence was the worst part. It was a thick, cloying thing, a tangible presence in the smoky air of The Grinning Pig. Before, the tavern had been a cacophony of life, a symphony of drunken arguments, bawdy songs, and desperate laughter that provided a constant, meaningless background noise for Thor's own internal misery. Now, it was a tomb. The patrons still came, drawn by a morbid curiosity and a newfound, terrifying reverence, but they sat in hushed clusters, their conversations reduced to fearful whispers, their eyes constantly darting towards the corner where the god sat in judgment.
Thor's corner was now, unequivocally, his. An unspoken decree had been passed among the denizens of Flea Bottom. No one approached. No one spoke to him. They left offerings on the edge of his table when they thought he wasn't looking: a dented copper penny, a polished river stone, a small, stale bread roll. These pathetic tributes were a constant, infuriating reminder of the role he had been forced into. He was their idol, their totem of power. They had draped their hopes and fears around his shoulders like a leaden cloak, and its weight was suffocating.
He drank more, if that was even possible. The ale, as foul and potent as it was, no longer provided the blissful oblivion he sought. His mind, even when clouded by alcohol, was too sharp, too aware of the changes around him. He could hear the frantic, terrified thumping of Olyvar's heart every time the barkeep refilled his tankard. He could hear the whispered prayers of a young mother two streets away, begging the "Gray Giant" to watch over her sick child. He could feel their faith, a persistent, buzzing pressure against his consciousness, like a thousand tiny insects crawling over his skin.
He had tried to stop it. The day after his confrontation with the Gold Cloaks, he had stormed out of the tavern, intending to bellow at the sky, to tell these cowering mortals that he was no god of theirs, that he was a failure, a drunk, a cosmic joke. But he had been met with a sea of kneeling figures. Dozens of people—beggars, whores, smiths, and laborers—had fallen to their knees in the muck as he appeared, their heads bowed, their hands clasped in prayer. The sight had stopped him cold. The sheer, desperate hope in their eyes had been a physical blow. To deny them would have been an act of cruelty he found, to his own disgust, he was no longer capable of. So he had turned, the unspoken words a bitter acid in his throat, and retreated back into the gloom of the tavern.
His unwilling display of power had had other, more far-reaching consequences. The Gold Cloaks had vanished from Flea Bottom. The usual patrols that swaggered through the main thoroughfares, extorting merchants and cracking heads, were gone. A strange, lawless peace had fallen over the district. The predators who had once operated under the tacit approval of the corrupt City Watch now found themselves in a new ecosystem. The smallfolk, once their easy prey, now had a protector, a silent, brooding god in a tavern corner. The balance of power had shifted, and the criminals, like everyone else, watched the Gray Giant with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.
Thor cared for none of it. Their peace was not his peace. Their faith was a burden. He was a prisoner, not of walls or chains, but of their perception. He was trapped in the web of a story they were weaving around him, a story he wanted no part in.
And a story, he knew, always has an audience.
In a chamber deep within the serpentine tunnels of the Red Keep, where the walls were cool stone and the only light came from a single, scentless candle, Lord Varys listened. He sat perfectly still on a simple wooden stool, his plump, powdered hands resting in the sleeves of his silk robe. He appeared soft, effeminate, a harmless courtier who dealt in trifles and gossip. It was a carefully cultivated illusion, a mask as effective as any worn by the mummers in the city squares. Beneath the powder and the silk, Varys was a creature of shadow and steel, his mind a vast, intricate web of secrets, his influence extending into every dark corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Before him stood a small, ragged boy, no older than nine, his face smudged with soot, but his eyes sharp and unnervingly intelligent. This was Elric, one of his most promising "little birds." The boy had a gift for climbing, for silence, and for observation. He had just finished his report, his voice a low, clear monotone, recounting every detail of the incident in Eel's Alley.
Varys listened without interruption, his expression placid, unreadable. When the boy finished, the Master of Whisperers smiled, a small, subtle curving of the lips that did not reach his eyes.
"A god, you say?" Varys murmured, his voice a soft, silken whisper. "He called himself Thor?"
"Yes, my lord," Elric replied. "And the lightning. It came from the clouds, but it struck his axe. The air smelled burnt, like after a storm."
Varys steepled his fingers, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. A new player. A piece of unimaginable power appearing on the board with no warning, no history. This was not some charlatan with cheap tricks. A dozen terrified, battle-hardened Gold Cloaks, including their commander, were not routed by simple mummery. This was something else. Something real.
"And he resides in The Grinning Pig?"
"Yes, my lord. The people of Flea Bottom... they worship him now. They leave him gifts. They say he has driven the Watch away and protects them."
Varys nodded slowly. A populist god. A complication of the highest order. Power was a curious thing. It could be bought with coin, won with swords, inherited through blood. But the power that grew from the faith of the masses? That was the most potent, and the most volatile, of all. Such a figure could be a stabilizing force, a threat to the established order, or a pawn to be manipulated. And Varys, above all else, was a master of the game.
"You have done well, Elric," he said, his voice warm, almost paternal. He reached into his sleeve and produced a small, freshly baked honeycake. The boy's eyes widened, and he took the offering with a reverence that bordered on worship. "Go now. Rest. But keep your eyes on our... Gray Giant. I want to know everything. Who he speaks to. Where he goes. What he eats for breakfast. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem."
The boy nodded, consumed the honeycake in three quick bites, and then, with a silent bow, melted back into the shadows from whence he came.
Varys remained seated for a long time after the boy had gone, the silence of the room a canvas for his thoughts. Thor. The name was Valyrian in its cadence, yet utterly foreign. The power was that of legend, of the Age of Heroes. A man who could command the storm, who possessed strength beyond mortal limits. Who was he? Where did he come from? And most importantly, what did he want?
His stated desire—to be left alone—was the most suspicious part of all. No one with such power truly wished for anonymity. It was a mask, a posture. But what did it hide? A grand design? A hidden ambition? Or was it possible, however unlikely, that it was the truth? That a being of immense power truly had no interest in the affairs of mortals? The thought was so alien to Varys's own worldview that he almost dismissed it out of hand.
But the immediate problem was not the giant's true intentions. The immediate problem was the King.
Ser Allar Deem and his surviving men had not fled to their barracks. They had fled, in their terror, directly to the Red Keep, babbling of witchcraft and storm gods. The story was already spreading through the castle like wildfire. And fire, Varys knew, was a subject of particular interest to his king.
He rose, his silk robes rustling softly, and made his way towards the throne room. He needed to be there when the report was officially made. He needed to gauge the King's reaction, to nudge the outcome, if possible, towards caution rather than a rash, fiery response. Dealing with Aerys II Targaryen was like trying to calm a spooked dragon; one wrong move, and everyone got burned.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a place of shadows and grandeur. The massive, snarling dragon skulls that lined the walls seemed to watch the proceedings with empty, malevolent eyes. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and old stone. And upon the Iron Throne, that monstrous, twisted chair of swords, sat King Aerys II.
He was not the handsome, charming prince he had once been. Twenty years on the throne, a series of personal tragedies, and a mind that had always teetered on the edge of instability had taken their toll. He was thin, gaunt, his long, silver-gold hair a wild, unkempt mane, his fingernails grown into long, yellowed talons. His eyes, a pale lilac, darted around the room, bright with a feverish, paranoid energy.
Before the throne, kneeling on the cold stone floor, was Ser Allar Deem. His face was pale, his voice trembling as he recounted the tale of his encounter in Flea Bottom. He spoke of the giant's impossible strength, of the shattered spear, of the casual, almost bored way the creature had dispatched his men. And then he spoke of the lightning.
"It... it was not natural thunder, Your Grace," he stammered, his gaze fixed on the floor. "He called it from a clear sky. It struck his axe... the light... it was blinding... unholy."
A murmur went through the assembled court of lords and ladies. They exchanged nervous, excited glances. Magic. A whiff of the old powers, of the stories they'd been told as children.
King Aerys leaned forward, his claw-like hands gripping the sword-hilts of his throne. His eyes, which had been darting around the room, now fixed on Ser Allar with a terrifying intensity.
"A storm god, you say?" Aerys whispered, his voice a dry, rasping thing. "He commands the lightning?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Allar breathed.
Aerys's lips peeled back in a smile that was more of a grimace. It was a terrifying sight, a rictus of madness and excitement. "The Starks have their weirwoods," he hissed, his voice rising in pitch. "The Drowned God of the Ironborn... even the Faith prattles on about their Seven. But a storm god... here! In my city! Under the very shadow of the Red Keep!"
He cackled, a high, unhinged sound that echoed through the cavernous hall. The courtiers shifted uncomfortably. They knew these moods. They knew how quickly his excitement could curdle into suspicion and rage.
Lord Owen Merryweather, the aging, portly Hand of the King, stepped forward, his expression one of weary concern. "Your Grace, perhaps this is an exaggeration. A mummer's trick, a bit of wildfire and clever deception..."
"Deception?" Aerys shrieked, his eyes blazing. He pointed a long, dirty finger at Ser Allar. "Does this man look deceived? He looks like he has stared into the eyes of a god! A dozen hardened Gold Cloaks, routed by a 'mummer's trick'?" He spat on the floor. "You are a fool, Merryweather! You see the world in wood and stone, not in fire and blood!"
Varys, standing silently near the edge of the dais, watched the king's mania escalate. This was the danger. Aerys saw everything as a challenge or a tool. This new 'god' would be no different.
"He called himself Thor?" Aerys asked, his focus returning to the kneeling Commander.
"He did, Your Grace."
"Thor," Aerys tasted the name. "A strong name. A powerful name." He looked around the hall, his eyes wild. "We must have him! He must be brought before me! A man who can command the storm... such power belongs to the dragon! He will serve me. He will be my champion! His lightning will burn my enemies!"
His excitement was now a fever pitch. He spoke of harnessing the storm, of unleashing this new power on the rebellious lords of the Stormlands, on the arrogant Tywin Lannister, on all who dared to defy him.
Varys chose his moment carefully, stepping forward and bowing low. "A most wondrous development, Your Grace," he said, his voice a soothing balm in the heated atmosphere. "A true sign of the power and majesty of House Targaryen, that such a being would choose to reveal himself in your capital."
Aerys turned his mad gaze on the Master of Whisperers. "Varys! You see it, don't you? You see the potential!"
"Indeed, Your Grace. The potential is limitless," Varys agreed smoothly. "But power such as this... it must be handled with exquisite care. A storm god cannot be commanded like a common soldier. He must be... courted. Persuaded. To send the Gold Cloaks again would be an insult. It would be like sending stable boys to tame a dragon."
The analogy pleased Aerys. He nodded, his long fingernails scratching at the iron arm of the throne. "Yes... yes, you are right. He must be shown respect. The respect due to a king's... guest." He giggled, the sound unnervingly childish.
"Allow me, Your Grace," Varys continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Allow me to make the initial overtures. To learn more of this... Thor. To discover his wants, his needs. To find the proper way to bring him into your magnificent service. A delicate touch is required. A spider's touch, not a mailed fist."
Lord Merryweather looked relieved. Grand Maester Pycelle nodded in sage agreement. The thought of sending another force of soldiers against a being who could call lightning from the sky was not an appealing one.
Aerys considered this for a long moment, his lilac eyes narrowed in thought. He trusted no one, but he trusted Varys's cunning more than he trusted anyone else's. The Spider had always been useful, his whispers providing the fuel for the King's paranoid fires.
"Very well, my lord eunuch," Aerys finally conceded. "Go. Speak with this 'god'. Offer him... offer him wine from the royal cellars! Offer him silks! Offer him women! But make him understand that his power belongs to me. He is a dragon's god now. See to it."
"As you command, Your Grace," Varys said, bowing once more, a placid smile on his face. But inside, his mind was racing. He had bought himself time. He had steered the King away from a disastrous, immediate confrontation. But he had also placed himself squarely in the path of the storm.
He now had the unenviable task of approaching a being of immense, unknown power, a creature who wanted only to be left alone, and delivering a message from a mad king who wanted to enslave him.
As he walked from the Great Hall, the whispers of the courtiers following him like the rustling of dry leaves, Varys knew that the game had changed. This was no longer just about the squabbles of mortal lords and ladies. A new piece, a god-piece, was in play. And he, the Spider, would be the one to weave the first thread of his web around it. He would start small, of course. An observation. A test. A carefully chosen agent sent to probe the giant's defenses. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms might just depend on how the Gray Giant reacted to the gentle, persistent, and ultimately inescapable touch of the Spider.