Chapter 2: The Gods of Coin and Filth
Days bled into a monotonous, ale-soaked haze. Thor had established a routine of sorts, a rhythm dictated not by the rising and setting of the sun, but by the emptying and refilling of his bottle. He woke when the throbbing in his head became unbearable, the thin, louse-ridden mattress of his rented room offering no comfort. He would sit on the edge of the bed, Stormbreaker leaning against the wall like a silent, judgmental sentinel, and stare at the damp, stained wood of the opposite wall. Sometimes, in the swirling patterns of the mildew, he thought he could see constellations he once knew, galaxies he had flown through on the solar winds. More often, they just looked like mildew.
His mornings were spent in a slow, ponderous ritual of self-maintenance. He would heave his great bulk from the bed, the floorboards groaning in protest, and splash murky water from a basin onto his face. He didn't bother with his hair or beard, which were now long, matted tangles of dirty blonde threaded with grey. He was a ruin, and he saw no point in tending to the weeds that grew upon it.
Food was a necessity he resented. It required effort. It required venturing out into the cacophony of the city. He'd discovered early on that the single gold coin he'd used on his first night was a small fortune here. The avaricious glint in the barkeep's eyes had told him that much. He'd gone back to the man, a greasy, perpetually sweating individual named Olyvar, and with a glare that promised annihilation, had established a simple arrangement. The coin, which Thor had simply willed into his pocket from the ether of his memory – a minor trick of divine power he could still manage – would pay for his room and a steady supply of the tavern's foulest spirits for the foreseeable future. Olyvar, who had likely never seen a gold coin from the Westerlands, let alone one bearing the profile of a long-dead Volantene triarch, had agreed with a haste that betrayed his fear.
So, sustenance was sought on the streets. Thor would lumber out of The Grinning Pig, Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder in a crude leather harness he'd fashioned. The weapon was a part of him, an extension of his being, and the thought of leaving it in the squalid room was unthinkable. It was also an effective deterrent. The cutthroats and beggars of Flea Bottom, the wretched district he now called home, were a desperate, predatory lot, but even they knew better than to trifle with a giant of a man carrying an axe that seemed to drink the very light around it.
He would walk through the labyrinthine alleys, a moving mountain of sorrow and apathy. He saw the city in all its wretched glory. He saw children with bellies swollen from hunger fighting over a discarded apple core. He saw women selling their bodies for a handful of copper coins in doorways that reeked of despair. He saw men, their eyes hollowed out by poverty and cheap wine, stumbling through the filth, their lives a slow, inexorable march towards a nameless grave.
It was all so… pointless. The sheer, grinding misery of it all. He had seen suffering on a cosmic scale. He had seen planets burn, civilizations turned to dust by the snap of a finger. He had failed to stop that. So what was this? This was just the mundane, everyday cruelty of mortals. It was the background radiation of their short, brutish lives. It barely registered.
He would find a baker's stall, the smell of fresh bread a small, fleeting comfort in the ocean of stench. He wouldn't speak. He would simply place a few copper pennies—transmuted from pebbles with the same minor effort he used for his gold—on the counter, point at a loaf, and wait. The vendors, initially wary, had grown accustomed to the silent, brooding giant. They would take his coins, hand him his bread, and avoid his gaze.
He would eat as he walked, tearing off chunks of the dense, chewy bread with his bare hands, his eyes scanning the crowds with a detached, anthropological curiosity. He was a god observing an ant farm. He noted their hierarchies, their rituals, their petty squabbles. He saw the swagger of the City Watch, the "Gold Cloaks," as they were called, their polished steel caps and woolen cloaks a stark contrast to the filth they patrolled. They were the enforcers of the King's law, but from what Thor observed, they were little more than glorified bullies, extorting merchants, beating beggars, and turning a blind eye to the true criminals who paid them for the privilege.
He saw the merchants on the Street of Steel, their forges spewing black smoke into the sky, their hammers ringing out in a constant, rhythmic din. They were proud, calloused men, their lives dedicated to the shaping of metal. He felt a flicker of something akin to respect for them. They were creators, in their own small way. But the flicker was quickly extinguished by the overwhelming tide of his apathy. Their creations were instruments of death, swords and axes destined to spill the blood of other mortals in their pointless wars.
He saw the nobles in their fine silks and velvets, carried through the streets in enclosed litters, their faces masks of disdain as they passed through the lower quarters of the city. They were the ones who played the 'game'. Their lives were a tapestry of alliances and betrayals, of whispered secrets and public pronouncements. He'd catch snippets of their conversations, his enhanced hearing picking up their words even over the din of the street. They spoke of a tourney at a place called Harrenhal, of the King's growing madness, of the whispers of dissent against the Targaryen dragons who ruled this land.
It was all so familiar. The lust for power, the paranoia, the courtly intrigue. It was Asgard, but with more dirt and less honor. It was the story of his own family, of Odin's secrets, of Loki's schemes, of Hela's ambition. He had lived it all before on a grander, more cosmic scale. And he was done with it. He wanted no part of it.
His afternoons were spent back at The Grinning Pig. He would claim a dark corner table, Stormbreaker resting on the bench beside him, and drink. He would watch the tavern's patrons come and go. He learned their faces, their habits. There was Gendry, a young, bull-headed apprentice from a nearby forge, his arms thick with muscle, his face often smudged with soot. There was Shae, a sharp-tongued whore with eyes that held a cunning intelligence that belied her profession. There was Karl, a wiry, vicious-looking man who was rumored to be a killer for hire.
They were a microcosm of the city itself: a collection of desperate souls clinging to life in a world that had offered them little more than hardship. They fought, they fucked, they drank, they dreamed their small, pathetic dreams. And Thor watched, a silent, unseen god in their midst, his judgment reserved, his presence a heavy, unspoken thing.
One day, as the grey light of late afternoon filtered through the grime-caked windows of the tavern, something happened that managed to pierce the thick veil of his indifference.
A young girl, no older than ten, came into the tavern. She was small for her age, with wide, frightened eyes and a dress that was little more than a collection of patched-together rags. She clutched a small, wooden doll in her hand, its painted face worn smooth with time and affection. She was one of the countless orphans who roamed Flea Bottom, surviving on scraps and the occasional act of pity.
She approached the bar, her gaze fixed on Olyvar. "Please, ser," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of the room. "Me mum's sick. The maester said she needs milk of the poppy for the pain. I... I can work. I can clean, scrub the floors..."
Olyvar, who was counting a stack of copper coins, didn't even look at her. "Get out," he grunted. "This ain't no orphanage."
"But, please..." the girl pleaded, her voice trembling. "She's in so much pain."
A group of Gold Cloaks, who had been drinking at a nearby table, laughed. Their leader, a burly man with a cruel, pockmarked face, stood up and swaggered over to the girl.
"What's this, then?" he sneered, his breath reeking of stale ale. "A little rat begging for scraps?" He snatched the wooden doll from her hand. "What's this piece of rubbish?"
"Give it back!" the girl cried, tears welling in her eyes. "It was me mum's!"
The Gold Cloak chuckled, a nasty, brutish sound. He held the doll up for his companions to see. "Look at this, lads. A real treasure." He then, with a deliberate, theatrical motion, snapped the doll's head off.
A collective gasp went through the tavern. Even the hardened cutthroats and whores seemed taken aback by the casual cruelty of the act.
The girl let out a choked sob and threw herself at the Gold Cloak, her small fists beating uselessly against his armored legs. "You monster!" she shrieked, her voice raw with grief and rage.
The Gold Cloak's amusement vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. He backhanded the girl across the face, the sound of the blow a sharp, sickening crack in the sudden silence of the room. She flew backwards, landing in a heap on the filthy floor, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.
And in his corner, Thor, the God of Thunder, the fallen king, the broken Avenger, felt something shift inside him.
It was not a conscious decision. It was not a heroic impulse. It was a reflex, a deep, primal instinct that had been buried under years of grief and self-loathing. He had seen worlds die. He had watched friends turn to dust. He had failed the universe. But this… this was different. This was small. This was personal. This was a bully hurting a child.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply… looked. His gaze, once dull and unfocused, now sharpened. The startling blue of his eyes, which had been clouded by drink and despair, now burned with a cold, ancient fire. He focused that gaze on the Gold Cloak who had struck the girl.
The man, who had been about to kick the crying child, suddenly froze. He felt a pressure in the air, a sudden, inexplicable drop in temperature. He felt a weight on his soul, a sense of being judged by something vast and terrible. He looked around the room, his bravado faltering. His eyes met Thor's.
And in that moment, the Gold Cloak saw something that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his short, miserable life. He didn't see a fat, drunk man in a corner. He saw a king on a throne of storms. He saw a warrior standing on a battlefield of gods and monsters. He saw the cold, unforgiving light of a dying star in the depths of those blue eyes. He felt the weight of a thousand years of command, of a power that could unmake worlds.
The Gold Cloak's face went pale. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He opened his mouth to say something, to shout an insult, to reassert his authority, but the words caught in his throat. He felt a pressure in his chest, a squeezing sensation, as if an invisible hand had wrapped itself around his heart. He couldn't breathe.
He dropped the broken doll and stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with a terror he had never known. He bumped into his companions, who were also staring at Thor, their faces a mixture of confusion and dawning fear.
"What... what are you doing?" the Gold Cloak wheezed, clutching at his chest.
Thor didn't answer. He simply continued to stare, his expression unchanging. He wasn't using his lightning. He wasn't using his strength. He was using something far older, far more subtle. He was using the power of a king, the sheer, crushing weight of his divine will. He was a god, and this mortal, this insect, had displeased him.
The pressure on the Gold Cloak's chest intensified. Black spots danced in his vision. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, his fingers clawing at his throat. His companions, seeing their leader brought low by nothing more than a stare, scrambled backwards, their chairs clattering to the floor.
The tavern was utterly silent, save for the gasping breaths of the fallen Gold Cloak and the quiet sobbing of the little girl on the floor.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure vanished. The Gold Cloak sucked in a ragged, desperate breath, collapsing onto the floor in a trembling, sweat-soaked heap.
Thor broke his gaze and looked down at the tankard in his hand. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the fire of the ale a familiar, grounding sensation. He had not moved a muscle. He had not uttered a sound. But he had acted. And the knowledge of it sat in his stomach like a cold, hard stone.
He had not wanted to interfere. He had wanted to be left alone, to drown in his own misery. But there were some things, it seemed, that even a broken god could not ignore.
The other Gold Cloaks, after a moment of terrified hesitation, grabbed their fallen leader and half-dragged, half-carried him out of the tavern, their eyes darting nervously towards the silent giant in the corner. They did not look back.
The tavern slowly came back to life, the patrons murmuring in hushed, fearful tones. They cast furtive glances at Thor, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror. He was no longer just the strange, silent drunk in the corner. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something powerful.
The little girl, still crying softly, pushed herself to her feet. She picked up the two pieces of her broken doll and clutched them to her chest. She looked at Thor, her wide, tear-filled eyes holding a question.
Thor met her gaze for a brief moment. He saw her pain, her fear, her small, flickering spark of defiance. He saw a reflection of a universe of suffering in her eyes. And for the first time in a very long time, he felt something other than the dull ache of his own grief. It was not pity. It was not compassion. It was… recognition.
He looked away, back into the depths of his tankard. He had done what he had done. It was over. He would not get involved again. He would not be their hero. He was not a hero anymore.
But as he sat there, the silence of the tavern a heavy blanket around him, he knew that something had changed. A crack had appeared in the carefully constructed wall of his apathy. A single, small act of cruelty had reminded him of a truth he had tried so hard to forget. That even in the darkest corners of the universe, even in the most wretched of worlds, there was still a difference between right and wrong. And that a god, even a fallen one, could not stand by and do nothing when a child was hurt.
The game of thrones, with its kings and queens, its lords and ladies, its wars and alliances, was still a distant, meaningless thing to him. But the smaller, more intimate games, the games of power and cruelty played out in the taverns and alleyways of this filthy city, those, he was beginning to realize, were harder to ignore.
He drained his tankard, the harsh liquid doing little to quell the unfamiliar turmoil in his gut. He had wanted to be left alone. But he was a god. And gods, it seemed, were not made for peace. He was Thor, son of Odin. And whether he liked it or not, his storm was far from over. A god of coin and filth he may have become, but a flicker of the thunder remained. And in a city of whispers and shadows, even a flicker could cast a very long and dangerous light.