Chapter 5: The Moth and the Mountain
The air in the Spider's sanctum was always still, the silence woven from secrets and shadows. Lord Varys did not select his instrument for this task from his usual flock of little birds. The boys and girls who scurried across the city's rooftops were his eyes and ears, perfect for gathering the loose whispers of the commons. But to approach the Gray Giant, to touch the strange, new god of Flea Bottom, required a different kind of creature altogether. It required a moth.
Her name, if she had ever truly possessed one, was long forgotten, shed like a skin. Varys called her Lyra, a pleasing, melodic name for a creature who moved with the silent grace of a song. She was not from Westeros. Her origins were a mystery even to Varys, who had purchased her contract from a slaver in Pentos who had no idea of the true value of the quiet, unassuming girl in his possession. She was a whisper made flesh, a master of disguise, a student of the subtle arts of influence and observation. Where a Faceless Man reshaped their physical form, Lyra reshaped the perceptions of those around her. She could walk into a room and be utterly invisible, or she could command the attention of every man present with a single, calculated glance. She was not a warrior. She was an artist, and her medium was the human soul.
She stood before Varys now, dressed in the simple, drab garb of a city washerwoman. Her face was plain, her hair a nondescript brown, her posture slightly stooped. There was nothing about her to catch the eye, nothing to remember. She was the perfect vessel for a secret.
"He calls himself Thor," Varys said, his soft voice the only sound in the candlelit room. "The smallfolk call him the Gray Giant. He routed a dozen Gold Cloaks without lifting a hand, and summoned a storm from a calm sky. The King wants him as a pet. I need to know what he truly is."
Lyra listened, her expression placid, her gaze steady. She did not show fear or excitement. She was a still pool, reflecting the will of her master.
"The King's desires are… loud," Varys continued, a hint of distaste in his tone. "He speaks of offering silks and women. Such tactics are for mortal men. They would be an insult to a god, and a fatal misstep if he is something else entirely." He steepled his plump fingers. "I need you to be my senses. I do not want you to speak to him of kings or thrones. I want you to approach him not as an envoy, but as a supplicant. A moth drawn to a strange, new flame. Observe him. Test the edges of his power, the depths of his patience. I need to understand the nature of the beast before I decide whether to cage it, kill it, or simply leave it be."
"What does he want?" Lyra asked, her voice a low, melodic whisper, a stark contrast to her drab appearance.
"He claims," Varys said, a small, ironic smile playing on his lips, "that he wishes to be left alone."
Lyra's eyebrow arched, a minuscule movement that was the only sign of her surprise. "And you believe him?"
"I believe that no one is ever what they seem," Varys replied. "Find out what lies beneath the claim. Find the cracks in his armor. Every man, every god, has a desire, a weakness. A string that, if plucked, will make them dance. Find his string." He placed a small, heavy purse on the table between them. It was filled not with gold, but with an assortment of currencies from the Free Cities, and several high-quality gemstones. "Offerings. A god may not care for the coin of the realm, but beauty and rarity have a language of their own. Use them as you see fit. But remember, Lyra," his voice became a blade of soft steel, "a moth that flies too close to the flame will burn. Your life is valuable to me. Do not throw it away."
"I am a shadow, my lord," Lyra said, her voice devoid of bravado. "And shadows do not burn." She took the purse, secreted it within the folds of her dress, and with a bow that was both deferential and possessed of an undeniable grace, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving Varys alone with his plans and the flickering candlelight.
Flea Bottom did not welcome outsiders. It was a closed ecosystem, a place of suspicion and insular loyalties. A strange face was a threat, a mark, a potential source of trouble. Lyra, however, did not enter Flea Bottom as a stranger. For two days, she simply became a part of it.
She was Masha, a washerwoman whose husband had died of a fever, leaving her with two imaginary children to feed. She rented a hovel two alleys down from The Grinning Pig, a squalid little box that reeked of mildew and despair. She paid the landlord in coppers, haggling with a weariness that was utterly convincing. She spent her days at the public washing fountain, her hands raw from the harsh soap and cold water, listening to the gossip of the other women.
She learned of the Gray Giant not from the whispers of spies, but from the talk of the smallfolk. They spoke his name with a mixture of reverence and fear. He had become their vengeful saint. When a merchant known for using false weights was found with his leg broken, the people whispered that the Giant had passed judgment. When a notorious cutthroat was found drowned in a barrel of rainwater, they said the god had cleansed the street of his filth. Thor, in his drunken apathy, was unaware that he had become the silent arbiter of justice in the city's most lawless district, his mere presence a deterrent more effective than a thousand Gold Cloaks.
Lyra listened, sorted fact from fiction, and observed. On the third day, she deemed herself ready. She did not change her drab washerwoman's clothes, but she washed her face and hands meticulously. She approached The Grinning Pig not in the dead of night, but in the late afternoon, when the tavern was at its most crowded, the air thick with the fug of cheap ale and desperation.
The moment she stepped inside, she felt it. A palpable shift in the tavern's atmosphere. The usual low hum of conversation was subdued, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. And in the corner, holding court over a kingdom of shadows, sat the mountain.
He was larger than the stories had described. A great, hulking figure slumped in his chair, a massive, otherworldly axe resting on the bench beside him. His hair and beard were a tangled, greasy mess. His clothes were stained and worn. He was the very picture of a man who had given up. And yet, there was a power that radiated from him, an ancient, weary authority that held the entire room in its thrall. It was in the stillness of his posture, the immense breadth of his shoulders, the sheer, undeniable presence of him.
Lyra's heart, a muscle she had trained into submission long ago, gave a single, hard thump against her ribs. She was a master of reading men, of finding the subtle tells in their posture, the flicker of emotion in their eyes. But as she looked at Thor, she saw nothing. It was like looking at a granite cliff face, weathered by a million years of storms. There was no vanity, no ambition, no greed. There was only a profound, bottomless weariness.
She moved through the tavern, her steps deliberate, her gaze lowered. The other patrons watched her, their eyes wide. No one approached the Gray Giant. It was the one, unspoken rule of this new Flea Bottom.
She stopped a few feet from his table, not daring to come closer. She sank to her knees, her hands clasped before her, the very picture of a humble supplicant.
Thor did not move. He did not even seem to register her presence. His gaze was fixed on the dregs of ale in the bottom of his tankard, his expression one of profound, cosmic boredom.
Lyra remained kneeling, her head bowed, her silence a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of the tavern. Minutes stretched into an eternity. The silence in the room deepened, becoming a living thing. This was her first test. A test of his awareness, of his patience. Would he ignore her? Would he speak? Would he strike her down?
Finally, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a dying star, Thor moved. He did not look at her. He simply raised his tankard and drained the last of the foul liquid. He slammed the empty vessel down on the table, the sound a thunderclap in the silent room.
"Go away," he rumbled, his voice a gravelly avalanche.
It was more than she had hoped for. A response. A rejection, but a response nonetheless.
Lyra did not move. She reached into the purse hidden in her dress and took out her first offering. It was a single, flawless sapphire, the size of a pigeon's egg. It was a treasure from the mines of Yi Ti, a stone that could buy a manse in the finest part of King's Landing. She held it out in her open palm, the deep blue of the gem a startling splash of color in the gloom of the tavern.
"A gift," she whispered, her voice just loud enough to carry to his table. "For the lord of the storm."
Thor turned his head, his movement slow, ponderous. His eyes, a startling, vivid blue, finally rested on her. And Lyra felt it. The full, crushing weight of his attention. It was not a magical force. It was something far more profound. It was the gaze of a being who had looked into the heart of creation, who had seen things that would shatter the minds of mortal men. In his eyes, she saw not madness, not cruelty, but an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow her whole.
His gaze flickered from her face to the sapphire in her hand. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression unchanging. Then, a sound escaped his lips. It was a dry, rasping thing, a sound of pure, unadulterated mirthlessness. A laugh. It was the most heartbreaking sound Lyra had ever heard.
"A stone," he said, his voice thick with a sarcasm that was ancient and bitter. "You bring me a shiny stone." He looked away, back at his empty tankard. "Your lord has no need of stones."
He had dismissed her. He had dismissed a fortune that would make a king weep. Lyra's mind raced. This was not a man motivated by greed. This was not a charlatan looking for wealth or fame. This was something else entirely.
She withdrew the sapphire and presented her second offering. It was not a gem. It was a single, perfect night-blooming lotus, preserved by the esoteric arts of the sorcerers of Asshai. Its petals were a deep, velvety black, and it exuded a faint, intoxicating perfume. It was a thing of impossible beauty, a living contradiction.
"Beauty, then," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the thrill of the unknown. "A flower that blooms only in darkness. A thing of beauty for a god who resides in the shadows."
This time, his reaction was different. He looked at the flower, and for a fleeting moment, the mask of apathy cracked. A flicker of something crossed his face. It was not desire. It was… memory. A deep, profound sadness. A pain so ancient and so vast that Lyra felt a pang of sympathetic sorrow, a feeling she had thought herself immune to.
He reached out, his hand a great, calloused slab of meat, and gently, with a surprising delicacy, he touched one of the black petals.
"Beauty fades," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a thought. "It dies. Or it is… taken." He pulled his hand back as if burned and clenched it into a fist. "Take your trinkets and your weeds and leave me be."
He was pushing her away, but he was also revealing himself. He was not immune to beauty. He was wounded by it. It reminded him of a loss, a failure. This was the crack Varys had spoken of. The string she was searching for.
She decided to press. To take the risk.
"They say you are a god of justice," she said, her voice growing stronger, more confident. "They say you protect the weak. There is a man, a slaver, who deals in stolen children on the Street of Silk. He has taken my neighbor's daughter. The Gold Cloaks will do nothing. They take his coin. The people… they pray to you. They pray for your storm."
She had laid the bait. She had presented him with a choice. Not a gift, but a plea. A challenge to the myth he had unwillingly created. Would he accept the mantle of their champion? Or would he reject it, and in doing so, reveal the true nature of his apathy?
Thor went utterly still. The air around him grew cold, the temperature in the tavern dropping by several degrees. The flickering candles on the nearby tables seemed to dim. He turned his head and fixed her with a glare so intense, so filled with a cold, terrifying rage, that she felt her carefully constructed composure begin to unravel.
"I am not your champion," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous thunder that vibrated through the floorboards. "I am not your protector. And I am not your bloody vengeful spirit. Their prayers are wasted. Their hopes are ash. I am not here to solve your petty squabbles or to dispense your pathetic justice."
He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table, his face now inches from hers. She could smell the sour stench of stale ale on his breath, but underneath it, she could smell something else. The clean, sharp scent of ozone, the smell of a gathering storm.
"You want justice?" he whispered, his voice a deadly hiss. "Find it at the end of a sword. You want hope? Find it in your own hearts. But do not," he raised a single, thick finger, "do not bring your prayers to me. The god you are looking for is dead. He died a long time ago. Now there is only this." He gestured to himself, to the stained clothes, the bloated belly, the empty tankard. "And this… wants only to be left alone."
He leaned back, the oppressive weight of his presence receding slightly. He picked up his empty tankard and stared into it, his message delivered, his audience dismissed.
Lyra remained kneeling for a moment longer, her mind racing, cataloging every word, every gesture, every nuance of his rage and his pain. She had her answer. Or at least, the beginning of one.
She slowly rose to her feet, bowed her head once more, and backed away, melting back into the crowd of terrified, silent patrons. As she reached the door, she took one last look at the Gray Giant. He had already forgotten her. He was raising his tankard to his lips, forgetting for a moment that it was empty, a gesture of pure, instinctual habit. He was a creature of immense, terrifying power, trapped in a cage of his own grief. He was not a god of justice. He was a god of sorrow.
Varys listened to Lyra's report in the pre-dawn stillness of his chambers. She omitted nothing, her memory perfect, her analysis precise.
"He is broken, my lord," she concluded, her voice once again the melodic whisper of the courtier, the drab washerwoman shed like a costume. "His power is real. It is vast. But it is shackled to a grief so profound I cannot begin to fathom its source. He is a king in exile. A god who has lost his faith."
Varys's face was a placid mask, but his mind was a whirlwind of activity. "So, he is not a threat?"
"He is the most dangerous thing I have ever encountered," Lyra said, her words sending a chill through the room. "A wounded animal is unpredictable. A wounded god? He has no ambition we can manipulate. He has no desire for wealth or power we can satisfy. He is a force of nature, a storm without a direction. And the King… the King wants to put a leash on a hurricane."
Varys nodded, a grim understanding dawning in his eyes. "He rejected your plea for justice?"
"He did more than reject it, my lord. The idea of it… enraged him. He does not see himself as a hero. He sees himself as a failure. To ask him to act is to remind him of that failure."
Varys walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping city. The first hints of dawn were painting the eastern sky in shades of grey and pink. He now had a clearer picture of the Gray Giant. Not a monster. Not a schemer. But a tragedy. And tragedies, in the game of thrones, were often the most dangerous pieces of all.
"The King will not be pleased," Varys murmured, more to himself than to Lyra. "He will not understand. His madness does not allow for such nuance."
He had to protect the King from his own folly. He had to protect the realm from the unpredictable wrath of a broken god. He could not control Thor. He could not manipulate him with the usual tools of his trade. So, he would have to do the next best thing.
He would have to contain him. He would have to build a wall of whispers and secrets around Flea Bottom, to isolate the Gray Giant, to turn his prison of grief into a literal one. He would feed the King stories of the god's intractability, of the need for patience and esoteric rituals, anything to delay a direct confrontation.
He had sent a moth to the flame. And the moth had returned, not burned, but illuminated. Illuminated by a terrible, glorious, and utterly terrifying light. The Gray Giant was not a player in their game. He was the board itself, a vast, unknowable landscape of power and sorrow. And Varys knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that sooner or later, the dragons and the lions and the wolves would be forced to play upon it. And the game would never be the same.