Chapter 9: The Weight of Worship and the Whispers of Winter
The stench of Flea Bottom had changed. It was still a potent cocktail of human waste, rotting fish, and grinding poverty, but now, a new scent had been added to the mix: incense. Cheap, cloying incense, the kind sold by traders from the Free Cities, now burned day and night in crude clay pots placed around the entrance to The Grinning Pig. The smoke, thick and sweet, did little to mask the underlying foulness; it simply put a perfumed veil upon it. It was, Thor thought, a perfect metaphor for his new existence.
His life had become a waking nightmare of reverence. The blessed oblivion of his drunken anonymity was a distant, cherished memory. Now, when he woke—his head still throbbing from a hangover that felt more like a state of being than a temporary affliction—it was not to the familiar squalor of his room, but to the sound of chanting.
It was a low, monotonous drone, a litany of his unwilling deeds recited by a growing crowd that gathered in the street below his window from dawn until dusk. "The Giant who broke the spear… The Thunderer who felled the captain… The Storm Lord who planted the God's Tree…" They called him by a dozen different names, each more grandiose and irritating than the last.
His corner in the tavern was no longer his. It belonged to them. It was an altar. The offerings piled upon it grew daily: more food than he could ever eat, more wine than even he could drink, homespun clothes, polished weapons, and a hundred other pathetic, heartfelt trinkets. He had tried, in the first days after the 'miracle,' to simply ignore it all, to drink the ale and eat the bread as he always had. But the sight of a starving child watching with wide, hungry eyes as a roasted capon grew cold on his 'altar' had soured his appetite. Now, he touched none of it. The food rotted, the wine sat untouched, a silent, stark rejection of their worship. They did not seem to notice. They simply replaced the old offerings with fresh ones the next day.
A new figure had emerged from the morass of this burgeoning faith: a man who called himself the "Storm-Crier." He was a former mummer named Leo, a man with a booming voice and a flair for the dramatic who had been present at the plaza. He had taken it upon himself to be Thor's high priest, a role Thor had most certainly not advertised for. Leo, dressed in a tattered robe he had dyed a mottled grey and blue, would stand before the tavern door and preach. He would recount the tales of Thor's power, embellishing them with each telling, weaving them into a new, half-baked theology. He spoke of Thor as a god of the common man, a god of righteous anger, sent to scourge the corruption of the high-born.
Thor listened to these sermons through the thin walls of the tavern, each word a spike of irritation. Leo had captured the anger, but he had missed the sorrow entirely. The priest saw a vengeful god of justice; he did not see the broken man drowning in a sea of grief. The misinterpretation was so profound, so utterly complete, that it was almost a form of violence.
One afternoon, driven by a surge of frustration, Thor had stormed out of the tavern, intending to tell the Storm-Crier, and his entire flock, exactly what he thought of their new religion. But as he loomed in the doorway, Leo had prostrated himself on the ground, and the entire crowd had followed suit, a wave of reverence that washed over him and stole the words from his mouth. A young woman, her face alight with a desperate, shining faith, held up her sick infant.
"Bless him, my lord!" she cried. "Grant him your strength!"
Thor stared at the child, its skin pale, its breathing shallow. He saw again the helpless infant on the pyre. He saw… other faces. The faces of Asgardian children he had failed to protect. A wave of self-loathing so powerful it made him physically recoil washed over him. He wasn't a god of healing. He wasn't a god of protection. He was a god of failure.
He had turned without a word, retreating back into the gloom of the tavern, the pleas of the mother and the triumphant shouts of the Storm-Crier echoing behind him. He had grabbed a bottle and drunk until the faces, and the failure, receded into a manageable blur.
His use of power at the Sept had done more than just shatter a pyre and the King's mind. It had reawakened parts of himself he had tried to kill with drink. The memories were sharper now, the grief more acute. The faces of his family—of Odin, Frigga, Loki—haunted his waking moments. The spectral dust of those lost to the Snap seemed to coat his tongue, tainting the taste of his ale. He had acted, and in doing so, had reminded himself of everything he had lost. The worship of these people was a constant, agonizing reminder of the god he was supposed to be, the god he had failed to be. It was a prison far more effective than any cage of iron.
In the Red Keep, Lord Varys moved through the halls like a ghost in silk slippers, his face a mask of placid concern. He was the calm center of a political hurricane, and he was working tirelessly to direct its winds.
The Small Council now met in secret, their official duties on hold while the King screamed at the flames in his chambers. Varys had become the de facto ruler of the city, a fact that terrified the other council members and would have enraged the King, had he been sane enough to comprehend it.
Varys's primary task was managing the 'Thor Question'. He had, as promised, built a cage of whispers. Gold Cloaks, under the command of a new, terrified captain, patrolled the edges of Flea Bottom, not to enforce the law, but to contain the faith. They were instructed to turn away noble gawkers and to prevent large, organized processions from leaving the district. The narrative they were given was that Flea Bottom was now a holy district, the Gray Giant a meditating god who required silence and solitude.
The Spider had also co-opted the new faith's high priest. He had sent one of his more subtle agents, a woman posing as a devout follower, to speak with the Storm-Crier. She had given Leo gold—an anonymous donation from a 'pious lord'—and guidance. The Storm-Crier's sermons, once filled with revolutionary fire against the nobility, now shifted in tone. He still spoke of justice for the common man, but he now preached patience. The Storm Lord was resting, he would say. He was gathering his strength, watching, judging. His time of wrath was not yet nigh. It was a masterful manipulation, turning a potentially rebellious movement into a cult of quiet, expectant waiting.
But the whispers from King's Landing had spread beyond the city walls. Ravens were arriving daily from the great houses. Lord Arryn of the Vale sent a missive expressing his 'deep concern' for the King's health and requesting a 'clarification' of the strange events, his formal language barely concealing a demand for answers. The Martells in Dorne sent a cryptic message of 'condolence and curiosity.' The Tyrells offered to send their finest fruits and grains to help 'calm the spirits' of the city. Everyone was probing, testing, trying to understand the new shape of the board.
The most troubling inquiry, however, had come from the west. It was not a raven, but a personal envoy from Casterly Rock. A knight of House Lannister, who had arrived with a small retinue and a message for the Hand of the King. The message was simple. Lord Tywin Lannister extended his deepest sympathies for the King's sudden illness. He offered his own personal maesters and guards to assist in the King's recovery. And he had a question: was there any truth to the… fantastic rumours that a new power had revealed itself in the capital, and had the crown taken any steps to ascertain its loyalties?
Varys sat with Lord Merryweather as the Hand dictated a reply. It was a masterpiece of obsequious non-information, drafted with Varys's careful guidance. It spoke of the King's 'divine exhaustion', of the 'wondrous but mysterious signs from the heavens', and assured Lord Tywin that the Small Council had the situation well in hand and that the 'entity's' disposition was one of peaceful neutrality.
Varys knew Tywin would see through the lies. The Lion of Lannister was not a man to be placated with pretty words. He was asking about loyalty because he was already calculating how to exploit a lack of it. Tywin was the most dangerous player in the game, and he was now fully aware of the new, unpredictable piece. The cage of whispers Varys had built around Thor was strong enough to contain the faith of the smallfolk, but he knew it would not hold back the ambition of a man like Tywin Lannister for long. The storm had been contained, for now. But other, far more cunning predators were beginning to circle.
Winterfell was a world away from the heat and madness of King's Landing. Here, the air was crisp and clean, the sky a vast, endless canvas of pale blue or stoic grey. The granite walls of the ancient castle were a testament to strength and endurance, not intrigue and glamour. It was a hard land for a hard people, a place where honour and duty were not just words, but the very foundation of existence.
Eddard 'Ned' Stark, the second son of Lord Rickard Stark, stood in the castle's glass garden, the humid air a small, fragile pocket of warmth against the ever-present northern chill. He was a young man, not yet twenty, but his face was already set in the serious, thoughtful lines that would define him for the rest of his life. His grey eyes, the colour of a winter sky, held a quiet intensity. He was watching his younger brother, Benjen, spar with a wooden sword against a quintain, his laughter a rare, bright sound in the quiet keep.
The news had arrived two days prior, carried by a merchant Coster on his way to White Harbor. The man had been wide-eyed, his story tumbling out in a rush of disjointed, fantastical claims. A god, a weirwood, a mad king. At first, Lord Rickard had dismissed it as a southerner's drunken fancy. But then a raven had arrived from their contacts in the capital, a formal message whose sparse, terrified wording confirmed the core of the merchant's tale.
Ned had been in the Great Hall when his father read the message. He had seen the grim, stony expression on Lord Rickard's face, the flicker of deep concern in his eyes. The Lords of the North did not believe in storm gods or miracles. They believed in the Old Gods of the forest, silent, nameless spirits whose faces were carved into the Heart Trees. They believed in winter, in duty, and in the strength of their walls and their people. This news from the south… it felt like a sickness, a madness creeping up from the decadent, scheming courts of the Targaryens.
"Heard the news from the capital?" a voice said, pulling Ned from his reverie. It was Maester Walys, a man whose chain was heavy with links of silver and iron, a man of learning and logic.
"It is hard to ignore," Ned replied, his gaze still on his brother. "Though harder still to believe."
"And yet, the report from the plaza is confirmed by multiple sources," Maester Walys said, stroking his beard. "Something happened. Something that defied all known laws of nature."
"Southerners are fond of their mummery," Ned countered, a hint of disdain in his voice. "A trick with wildfire, some clever deception…"
"A trick that creates a living weirwood tree where none stood before?" the Maester asked gently. "A trick that shatters the mind of a king and creates a new religion overnight? This is no common mummer's show, my lord. Whether it was magic, or… something else, a power has been unleashed in King's Landing. A power that has publicly humiliated the Iron Throne."
Ned turned to face the old maester, his expression troubled. "My father sees it as another sign of the King's weakness. A Targaryen who can be so easily undone is no dragon, he says."
"Lord Rickard is wise," Walys agreed. "The political implications are staggering. Lord Arryn will be troubled. Lord Baratheon will be… emboldened." He paused, his gaze sharp. "And Lord Tywin will be calculating."
Ned nodded grimly. He understood the game of thrones, even if he despised it. His fostering in the Vale with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn had taught him much about the ambitions and alliances of the southern houses. This event would be a boulder dropped into the already turbulent waters of the realm.
"But it is not the politics that troubles me, Maester," Ned confessed, his voice low. "It is the thing itself. A god. Or a man who would have others believe he is one. Such beings… such power… it has no place in the world of men. It is a fire that will consume everything it touches."
In his mind, he saw the faces of his own gods, the solemn, carved visages in the Winterfell godswood. They were ancient, silent, watchful. They did not intervene. They did not perform miracles. They were a part of the land, a part of the natural order. This southern god, this 'Thor', with his lightning and his public displays… he felt like a violation. An unnatural force that had upset the balance of the world.
"The histories tell of an age when magic was commonplace," Maester Walys mused. "When giants walked the land and the Children of the Forest spoke to the trees. Perhaps that age is not as distant as we believe. Or perhaps," he added, a hint of skepticism in his own voice, "it is simply a man, a powerful man from a foreign land with skills we do not understand."
"Man or god, it matters little," Ned said, his hand resting on the pommel of the practice sword at his hip. "He has made himself a player in the game. He has tied his fate to that of the Seven Kingdoms." He looked out from the glass garden, towards the grey, imposing battlements of Winterfell. "When my father speaks of the south, his voice is always filled with concern. He says a storm is gathering. It seems he was more right than he knew."
Ned Stark did not fear the storm god. He feared the chaos the god would unleash. He feared the ambitions of the men who would seek to use him. He feared the madness of the king who had provoked him. He was a man of the North, a man of honour and duty. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than any winter wind, that this storm, born of a god's grief and a king's folly, would not remain confined to the south. Sooner or later, its winds would reach the walls of Winterfell. And the wolves of the North would have to be ready.