Chapter 3: Whispers in the Muck and the Price of Thunder
The world had not changed, but Thor's place within it had. The fragile, beer-soaked bubble of anonymity he had so carefully constructed around himself had been popped by a single, silent act of will. The quiet corner of The Grinning Pig was no longer a refuge; it was a throne.
He still sat there, a brooding mountain of greasy leather and tangled beard, Stormbreaker his silent consort. But now, the space around him was a sacred, empty ring. The cutthroats and whores and laborers who frequented the tavern gave him a wide berth, their steps hastening as they passed his table. Their boisterous laughter and drunken arguments were now hushed, their voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers whenever their eyes strayed towards his corner. They were like mice in a temple, awed and terrified by the stone idol that had suddenly proven to be alive.
Olyvar, the barkeep, was the most transparent in his transformation. The man who had once looked at Thor with a mixture of fear and greed now saw only the former. He scurried to Thor's table with fresh bottles of the gut-rot liquor before the old one was even empty, his hands trembling as he placed them on the wood. He never asked for payment, never spoke a word, simply bowed his head in a gesture of profound, fearful respect and backed away as if from a king.
Thor hated it. This reverence was a mockery, a hollow echo of a life he had abandoned. They saw a protector, a hidden power, a force for justice in the lawless squalor of Flea Bottom. They didn't see the truth. They didn't see the self-loathing, the crushing weight of failure that was the true source of his power that day. He hadn't acted out of heroism. He had acted out of a flicker of ancient, buried instinct, a god's reflexive disgust at a particularly ugly insect. He was no one's champion. He was a cosmic failure hiding at the bottom of a bottle in a world he despised.
The change was not confined to the tavern. When he lumbered through the narrow, filth-strewn streets of Flea Bottom, a strange thing began to happen. People would stop and stare, not with the usual disgust or fear of a stranger, but with a kind of hushed awe. A fishwife, her hands chapped and raw, would press a piece of dried cod into his hand and scurry away before he could refuse. A blacksmith's boy, his face smudged with soot, would leave a small, perfectly-forged iron nail on the bench outside the tavern, a humble offering to the giant with the storm-forged axe.
One morning, he found a small, crudely-carved wooden bird at his door. It was rough, misshapen, but clearly made with care. It was a replacement, he realized with a jolt, for the doll the Gold Cloak had broken. He stared at it for a long moment, the small piece of wood feeling impossibly heavy in his hand. He wanted to crush it, to reject this unwanted mantle of 'hero'. But he couldn't. He placed it carefully on the small, rickety table in his room, next to the guttering candle, where it sat in silent judgment.
They were whispers at first, stories told in hushed tones over cheap ale and watery stew. They called him the "Gray Giant," the "Silent Guardian," the "Thunderer of the Pig." The story of the Gold Cloak captain, a notoriously cruel man named Symon, being struck down without a touch had grown with each retelling. Some said the giant had breathed ice into the man's lungs. Others swore they saw lightning dance in his eyes. The most fanciful tales claimed he was an ancient god of the First Men, woken from a long slumber to protect the smallfolk from the depredations of the powerful.
Thor heard it all. His divine hearing, dulled but not deafened by his perpetual hangover, picked up the whispers from across the street, through the thin wooden walls of the tavern. Each story was another brick in the wall of a prison he was building for himself, a prison of expectation and reputation. He was becoming a myth, a local legend. And legends, he knew, always attracted the wrong kind of attention.
It came, as he knew it would, in the form of gold and steel.
He was on his way back from a baker's stall, a loaf of dark, heavy bread clutched in one hand, Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder. The sky over King's Landing was its usual shade of indifferent grey, threatening a miserable, drizzling rain. As he turned a corner into a wider thoroughfare known as the Eel's Alley, he found his path blocked.
There were ten of them. Gold Cloaks. Their polished steel caps gleamed dully in the flat light. They were better armed than the usual patrol, carrying long spears in addition to their swords. At their head stood a man Thor didn't recognize, but who carried himself with an air of command. He was older than the others, his face a hard, unforgiving mask, a jagged scar tracing a white line from his temple to his jaw. This was not a common street patrol. This was a message.
"That's him," one of the Gold Cloaks muttered, his voice a nervous tremor. "The Gray Giant."
The commander silenced him with a glare. His eyes, cold and grey as the sky above, were fixed on Thor. "You are the one they call the Thunderer," the commander said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was a statement, not a question.
Thor stopped, his feet planted firmly in the muck of the alley. He said nothing, simply stared back, his expression a mask of weary indifference. He had hoped to avoid this, to simply drink himself into oblivion until this new, unwanted fame faded. But it seemed the mortals were determined to drag him into their petty dramas.
"My name is Ser Allar Deem," the commander said, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing. I am here to investigate an assault on one of my officers, Captain Symon." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "He seems to be under the impression that you cursed him. Struck him down with some... foul magic."
Thor remained silent, his gaze unwavering. He could smell the fear on them, a sharp, acrid scent beneath the stench of the city. But there was something else, too. A grim determination. They had come here to prove something, to themselves and to the people of Flea Bottom who were now peering from windows and doorways, their faces pale with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
"We don't hold with witchcraft in this city," Ser Allar continued, his voice hardening. "The King's Justice is swift for those who practice the dark arts. But first, a lesson is in order. A lesson about respect for the law. You will come with us. You will be questioned. And you will be taught that even giants must bow to the authority of the Iron Throne."
He drew his sword, the sound of steel scraping against leather unnaturally loud in the sudden silence of the alley. "Drop the axe," he commanded. "And kneel."
Thor almost laughed. Kneel? He, the son of Odin, who had refused to kneel before the Mad Titan himself? He, a king, bowing to a glorified guard captain in a city of filth and corruption? The absurdity of it was almost enough to break through his apathy.
He didn't laugh. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate bite of his bread, chewing it with a thoughtful, almost meditative slowness. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then, for the first time, he spoke. His voice, when it came, was a low, rumbling thunder that seemed to vibrate in the very cobblestones.
"No."
The word hung in the air, a simple, absolute refusal. For a moment, no one moved. The Gold Cloaks exchanged nervous glances. Ser Allar's face tightened, the scar on his jaw standing out in stark relief.
"So be it," he snarled. "Take him!"
The Gold Cloaks surged forward, their spears leveled, their faces a mixture of fear and duty. They were a wave of steel and gold, crashing against a mountain of stone.
Thor sighed. It was a deep, weary sound, the sigh of a being who had seen too much, endured too much, to be bothered by this. He didn't move to unsling Stormbreaker. He didn't need to.
The first spearman lunged, the sharp point of his weapon aimed at Thor's chest. Thor simply raised his free hand, the one not holding the loaf of bread, and caught the spear shaft in his palm. The force of the thrust, which would have impaled a lesser man, stopped dead. The spearman stared in disbelief at his weapon, held fast in the giant's grip.
Thor tightened his hand. There was a sharp crack, and the thick wooden shaft of the spear splintered, then shattered, in his grasp. He tossed the two broken pieces aside with a contemptuous flick of his wrist.
The other Gold Cloaks faltered, their charge slowing. They had expected a fight, a brawl. They had not expected this casual, almost contemptuous display of impossible strength.
Another, braver soul swung his sword at Thor's head. Thor didn't even flinch. He simply tilted his head to the side, and the sword, which had been aimed with deadly intent, whistled past his ear, missing by a hair's breadth. The man's follow-through left him off-balance, and Thor, with a movement that was surprisingly swift for a man of his bulk, brought the loaf of bread around in a wide arc, smashing it into the side of the Gold Cloak's head.
The man dropped like a stone, his helmet doing little to absorb the concussive force of the blow. He lay twitching in the muck, a small trickle of blood seeping from under the rim of his helm.
The alley was silent once more, save for the moans of the fallen Gold Cloak. The others had backed away, their spears now held defensively, their eyes wide with terror. They were not fighting a man. They were fighting a demon.
Ser Allar Deem, to his credit, did not run. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with a mixture of fury and disbelief. He had been a soldier his whole life. He had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had seen strong men, skilled warriors. He had never seen anything like this.
"What are you?" he breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and horror.
Thor finally finished his bread, tossing the last crust into his mouth. He looked at the commander, and for a fleeting moment, a spark of the old Thor, the arrogant, boastful warrior prince, flickered in his eyes.
"I am Thor," he said, his voice quiet, yet carrying to every corner of the alley. "And I wish to be left alone."
He then did something that none of them could have anticipated. He raised his hand, the one that had shattered the spear, and pointed a single, thick finger at the sky.
The grey, overcast clouds above King's Landing began to churn. A low, guttural rumble echoed through the city, a sound that was deeper and more primal than any thunder they had ever heard. The air grew thick, heavy, charged with an unseen energy. The hairs on the back of their necks stood on end.
A single, brilliant fork of lightning, brighter than the sun, erupted from the heart of the swirling clouds. It did not strike the ground. It did not hit a building. It struck Stormbreaker, still slung on Thor's back. The weapon flared with an impossible, blinding light, and for a single, terrifying moment, the image of the World Tree, the Yggdrasil, was seared into the retinas of all who looked upon it. The air crackled with the smell of ozone, the smell of a storm about to break.
The Gold Cloaks cried out in terror, shielding their eyes, dropping their weapons and scrambling backwards. Ser Allar himself stumbled back, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers, his face a mask of utter, soul-shattering terror. They were not facing a man, or a demon, or a sorcerer. They were facing a god. A storm god. A god of thunder.
The light faded as quickly as it had appeared. The clouds slowly ceased their churning. The impossible rumble died away, replaced by the familiar, mundane sounds of the city.
Thor stood there, untouched, his expression once again a mask of weary indifference. He had not wanted to do that. It had taken effort. It had drawn on a well of power he preferred to keep capped. But they had pushed him. They had forced his hand. And now, the consequences would be his to bear.
He looked at the terrified, broken men before him. "Go," he said, his voice once again a low rumble. "Tell your King what you have seen. Tell him a god walks among you now. And tell him that this god wishes for nothing more than to be left in peace."
He turned his back on them, a gesture of supreme, contemptuous dismissal, and began to walk away, his heavy footfalls echoing in the now-silent alley. The Gold Cloaks did not try to stop him. They simply stared at his retreating back, their minds struggling to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
Unseen, in the shadows of a nearby rooftop, a small, ragged boy with eyes that were far too old for his face watched the entire exchange. He had not flinched at the lightning. He had not cried out in fear. He had simply observed, his gaze sharp and intelligent, memorizing every detail. The giant's impossible strength. The casual way he spoke his name, 'Thor'. The lightning that answered his call.
When the giant was gone, and the terrified Gold Cloaks had begun to pick themselves up from the muck, the boy scurried away, melting back into the shadows of the city's rooftops. He had a master to report to. A master who paid well for whispers. A master who collected secrets as a child collects shiny stones.
The boy knew his master would be very, very interested in this one. A new piece had appeared on the board, a piece of unimaginable power. A piece that called himself a god. And the Spider, Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, would want to know everything there was to know about him. Thor's wish to be left alone was now, more than ever, a fool's dream. He had not just made waves in the small, filthy pond of Flea Bottom. He had summoned a thunderclap that would echo through the halls of the Red Keep itself. And the game he so desperately wanted to ignore was about to come looking for him.