Chapter 13: The God and the She-Wolf at the Tourney of Lies
The Year of the False Spring arrived with a deceptive warmth, a brief, fragile respite from the encroaching chill of winter. It was a year of spectacle and secrets, and its heart was the Great Tourney at Harrenhal. Lord Walter Whent, a man of more ambition than sense, had announced a tourney so grand, its prizes so magnificent, that every great lord and knight of the Seven Kingdoms felt compelled to attend. From the sun-scorched sands of Dorne to the icy expanse of the North, they came, a great convergence of power, pride, and plotting.
And with them, came a god.
Thor did not want to go to Harrenhal. The very idea was anathema to him. A tourney. A celebration of mortal men hitting each other with sticks for sport and glory. It was the height of pointless absurdity. He wanted to stay in his corner, in his bottle, in the comfortable, familiar prison of his own misery. But his prison had sprouted legs and a will of its own.
His high priest, the mummer Leo, now calling himself the Storm-Crier, had seen the tourney not as a contest of arms, but as a divine opportunity. He had stood before the adoring crowds of Flea Bottom, his voice booming with righteous fervor, and declared that their god would not hide in the shadows of the capital. No! He would march to Harrenhal and reveal his truth to the proud lords of Westeros! He would show them a power far greater than their lances and swords! He would be a champion for the common man on the greatest stage in the realm!
The idea was infectious. To the people of Flea Bottom, who had known only scorn and neglect from the high-born, it was a chance to finally be seen, to have their faith, their god, acknowledged. They began to prepare for a pilgrimage, a great, ragged march of the faithful.
Thor had watched these preparations with a growing sense of dread. He had told them he wouldn't go. He had roared at Leo, his voice shaking the very foundations of The Grinning Pig. Leo, interpreting the roar as a sign of divine approval, had simply prostrated himself and praised the god's mighty voice. Thor had retreated, defeated by a level of willful delusion he had never before encountered.
He had resolved to let them go. Let them march to their folly. It was not his concern. But then he had seen old Anya, the woman who prayed for peace, carefully packing a small satchel with dried fish and hard bread for the journey. He had seen young Finn, the lame boy, practicing a limp-along march, his face alight with an excitement that was painful to watch. He saw the hope in their eyes, a fragile, desperate thing. And he saw their fate. A great, unwashed mass of paupers marching into the heart of Westerosi nobility. They would be mocked, cheated, beaten. Some would likely be killed. The proud lords and their knights would not suffer such a rabble gladly.
He was sitting in his corner, the night before their planned departure, a half-empty bottle in his hand, when the weight of it finally crushed his apathy. He could let them go. He could stay here and drink. But the image of Finn's hopeful face being met with the boot of some arrogant knight played over and over in his mind. Rhaegar's words echoed in the silence: They will threaten the people you have, against your will, taken under your protection. What will you do then, Lord of Sorrow?
With a groan that seemed to come from the core of his being, he slammed the bottle down on the table. He stood, grabbed Stormbreaker, and pushed his way out of the tavern. He found Leo in the street, giving a final, rousing sermon to the gathered pilgrims.
Thor walked into the center of the crowd. He did not speak. He simply pointed one thick finger down the road leading out of King's Landing, towards the Kingsroad and the north. Then, he started walking.
A moment of stunned silence was followed by an explosive roar of ecstatic joy. Their god would lead them! The Storm-Crier wept with triumphant glee. The pilgrimage had begun. And Thor, the God of Thunder, the once-King of Asgard, trudged at its head, a reluctant shepherd leading his flock of fools, his heart filled with a cold, black rage at his own cursed, heroic soul.
The arrival of the Cult of the Storm God at Harrenhal was a sight that would be spoken of for years. The tourney grounds were a vibrant, chaotic city of pavilions, a riot of colour and sound. The banners of a hundred great houses—the Stark direwolf, the Lannister lion, the Baratheon stag, the Tully trout—fluttered in the warm breeze. Knights in gleaming armour practiced in the lists, the clang of steel a constant music. Lords and ladies mingled, their laughter and gossip weaving a complex tapestry of intrigue.
Into this scene of noble pageantry marched a river of filth and faith. A thousand or more smallfolk from the gutters of King's Landing, dressed in rags, their faces thin with hunger but their eyes burning with a feverish light. They carried no banners, save for crude wooden symbols of lightning bolts. They sang no songs of glory, but chanted a low, monotonous litany of their god's deeds.
And at their head, walking with a heavy, plodding gait that seemed to shake the very ground, was Thor.
He was a jarring, discordant note in the symphony of the tourney. His immense size, his tangled beard, his worn, dirty clothes—he was the antithesis of the polished, preening knights he passed. He ignored the gasps of shock, the whispers of disbelief, the pointed fingers of lords and ladies. Stormbreaker was slung across his back, its alien form a stark warning. He scanned the sea of pavilions, found a secluded spot near the edge of the grounds, bordering the dark woods that surrounded the lake known as the Gods Eye, and simply stopped. He sat down on the ground, his back against a large oak, and pulled a waterskin from his belt. It was not filled with water.
His followers, taking their cue from their god, began to set up a crude encampment around him, a small island of squalor in an ocean of finery. They huddled together, intimidated by the grandeur around them, but their fear was tempered by the reassuring presence of the silent, drinking giant in their midst.
The reactions from the high-born were swift and varied.
In the royal pavilion, where Prince Rhaegar held court in his father's stead, the news of Thor's arrival landed like a physical blow. Rhaegar had come to Harrenhal with a singular, desperate purpose. He needed to find Lyanna Stark. He needed to speak with her, to see if she was the third head of the dragon, the ice to his fire. He had been scanning the crowds for the Stark banners, his heart a knot of anxiety and anticipation. Now, the god who had shattered his worldview had appeared at his doorstep. He saw it as an omen, a sign that his path was a dangerous but correct one. He watched the ragged procession from a distance, his sad, indigo eyes filled with a new, feverish intensity. The god was here. The she-wolf was here. The pieces of the prophecy were all converging on this cursed, haunted castle.
In another part of the tourney grounds, Robert Baratheon roared with laughter when he saw Thor. "Look at him, Ned!" he bellowed, clapping his friend on the back so hard it nearly sent him stumbling. "He looks like a hungover bear! Is that the great and terrible god who frightens kings? I could take him!"
Ned Stark did not laugh. He watched the scene with a deep, troubled unease. He saw not a bear, but a broken man. And he saw the thousand desperate souls who had followed him here. He saw their hope, their poverty, and he felt a profound sense of pity, and a deeper sense of dread. "That is not a mummer's trick, Robert," he said quietly. "That is a man who carries a great sorrow. And a thousand desperate people who believe he can save them. There is nothing more dangerous than that."
Lord Tywin Lannister observed the arrival from the top of his magnificent, gilded pavilion. He watched through a finely wrought Myrish eye, his face an unreadable mask of stone. He noted the number of followers, their fanatical devotion, the god's own apparent disinterest. He saw not a divine being, but a political force. An untrained, undisciplined, but incredibly potent army of public opinion, loyal to a single, unpredictable figure. He saw a weapon that, if it could not be wielded, must be neutralized. His cold, green eyes filed away every detail for future calculation.
Varys, disguised as a humble friar, moved through the crowds, his little birds flitting at his heels. He cursed this development. He had tried to build a cage of isolation around Thor, but the god's own followers had carried him out of it and placed him in the center of the political world. Every lord in Westeros was now looking at him, judging, plotting. The Spider's carefully laid plans were unravelling thread by thread.
For two days, Thor sat under his tree and drank. He ignored the tourney. He ignored the cheers from the lists, the music from the pavilions, the stares of the knights who rode by, slowing their horses to get a better look at the legendary Storm God. He ignored his own people, who had formed a protective, worshipful circle around him. He was an island of self-contained misery, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the earth.
On the evening of the second day, something happened that pierced his alcoholic haze. A commotion erupted from the direction of the main lists. There were shouts, jeers, and the sound of a struggle. Thor looked up, his eyes bleary, and saw three young squires, no older than fifteen, tormenting a smaller boy. They were sons of minor lords, arrogant and cruel in the way that only privileged, insecure boys can be. Their victim was a crannogman from the Neck, small and slight, with wide, frightened green eyes. They were kicking him, calling him a "frog-eater" and a "mud-man."
Thor watched, a familiar, weary disgust rising in him. It was the same story, different actors. The strong preying on the weak. He was about to look away, to take another drink and let the mortals play their cruel games, when he saw a flash of movement.
A slim figure, clad in a simple leather tunic and breeches, shot out from behind a tent. The figure moved with the startling speed and grace of a predator. Before the squires could react, their tormentor was upon them. A staff, seemingly appearing from nowhere, cracked against the head of the first squire, sending him sprawling. The second received a sharp, precise blow to the stomach that knocked the wind out of him. The third, seeing his companions fall, drew a dagger.
"I'll gut you, you…" he started to say, but he never finished. A ferocious snarl, more animal than human, erupted from the newcomer's throat. They moved in close, a whirlwind of motion, and the third squire found himself on his back, his knife-hand pinned, the point of a stick pressed hard against his throat.
The victor was a youth, or so Thor thought at first. Slim, with a wild tangle of dark brown hair. But as the figure stood up, pushing the hair from their face, Thor saw it was a girl. Her face was long and serious, her grey eyes fierce and alive with a wild, untamed fire. It was the face of a wolf.
She glared down at the whimpering squires. "He is under my protection," she said, her voice clear and cold as a northern river. "If you touch him again, I will not be so gentle." The squires, terrified and humiliated, scrambled to their feet and fled.
The girl then turned to the small crannogman, her fierce expression softening instantly. She offered him a hand, helping him to his feet. "Are you alright, Howland?" she asked, her voice now gentle.
The boy, Howland, nodded, looking at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. "Thank you, my lady," he mumbled.
Thor watched this small drama unfold, a strange, unfamiliar sensation stirring in his chest. It was… respect. He had seen a thousand warriors, men of immense skill and bravery. But he had rarely seen such casual, unthinking courage, such a fierce and immediate defense of the helpless. This girl, this she-wolf, had acted without hesitation, without a thought for her own safety. She had seen an injustice, and she had corrected it. It was so simple, so pure. It was everything he was supposed to be, and everything he no longer was.
He must have made some sound, a grunt or a sigh, because the girl's head snapped up. Her sharp, grey eyes scanned the area and locked onto his. She saw him, the huge, disheveled figure sitting under the tree, a bottle in his hand. Her eyes widened slightly in recognition. She knew who he was.
For a moment, they just stared at each other across the hundred yards of trampled grass. He expected her to look away, to show fear or reverence like all the others. She did not. Her gaze was direct, curious, and utterly unafraid. She said something to the crannogman, who then scurried away. Then, to Thor's utter astonishment, she began to walk towards him.
She moved with a long, loping stride, her movements confident and free. She did not approach as a supplicant or a spy. She approached as an equal. She stopped a few feet from him, her hands on her hips, and tilted her head, studying him as one might study a strange, new animal.
"They say you're a god," she said, her voice carrying easily on the evening air. There was no mockery in it, only a straightforward curiosity.
Thor stared back at her, nonplussed. No one had spoken to him so directly, so brazenly, since he had arrived in this world. "They say a lot of things," he grumbled, taking a long pull from his waterskin.
"My brother Ned says you're a great sorrow," she continued, her gaze unwavering. "My friend Robert says you're a drunk. The septons say you're a demon." She gave a small, wry smile. "You seem to be all three."
Thor almost choked on his drink. He lowered the waterskin and stared at her, a flicker of genuine surprise cutting through his alcoholic fog. The sheer, audacious honesty of the girl was a physical shock. "And what do you say I am?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
She considered the question for a moment, her grey eyes scanning his face, taking in the tangled beard, the puffy eyes, the deep lines of grief etched into his features.
"I say you're a warrior who has lost his war," she said softly, her perception so sharp, so accurate, that it felt like a dagger sliding between his ribs. "I know the look. I see it in my father's eyes sometimes, when he thinks of my mother. I saw it in the eyes of the knights who came back from the Stepstones."
He had no reply. She had seen him. Not the god, not the drunk, not the myth. She had seen the broken soldier beneath it all. The knowledge was both a comfort and an agony.
"I am Lyanna Stark," she said, as if it were an afterthought. She gestured with her head back towards the lists. "I saw what you did at the Sept. You created a weirwood tree. My family prays to the Old Gods, to the trees." She looked at him, a genuine, searching question in her eyes. "Why did you do that?"
He didn't want to answer her. He didn't want to talk to this strange, wild girl who saw too much. But her directness, her utter lack of artifice, compelled him.
"The king… wanted a show," Thor said, the words tasting like rust in his mouth. "He wanted a choice between two lives. It was a stupid choice. A cruel game." He shrugged, a massive, weary gesture. "So I gave him a tree instead. It seemed… quieter."
Lyanna's lips quirked into another small smile. "Quieter," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "You call that quiet?" She laughed, a sound that was as clear and as free as a wolf's howl on a winter night. The sound was so unexpected, so full of life, that it startled Thor. He could not remember the last time he had heard someone laugh without fear or madness in their voice.
"Why are you here?" he asked, changing the subject. "You should be with the other ladies, in their silks, watching the jousts."
Lyanna's smile vanished, replaced by a flash of defiance. "I am no lady," she said fiercely. "And I hate the jousts. It's just men in tin cans trying to knock each other off horses." Her eyes sparkled with a rebellious light. "I would rather be out there myself, with a tourney helm and a shield, and knock them all into the mud."
Thor looked at her, at this fierce, untamable girl who chafed at the cage her world had built for her, and he felt another pang of recognition. She reminded him of someone. Of Valkyrie. Of her fierce independence, her refusal to bow.
"So why don't you?" he asked, the question surprising even himself.
Lyanna blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"The squires you saved," he said, gesturing with his bottle. "You have skill. You have courage. Why do you not find a shield and a helm and do as you wish?"
She stared at him, a strange expression on her face. No one had ever asked her that. They had told her to be a lady, to remember her place, to marry some lord and bear him sons. No one had ever simply asked her why she didn't do what she wanted to do. The question, coming from this broken, drunken god, was the most liberating thing she had ever heard.
"I… I cannot," she stammered. "I am a girl. A Stark of Winterfell."
"I am a king whose kingdom is space dust," Thor said, his voice flat. "Titles are just words. You are a warrior. So be a warrior."
He took another long drink, the conversation, the longest he'd had in months, having exhausted him. He had not meant to give her advice. He had not meant to do anything but drink. But her spirit, her wolf's blood, had called to something deep within him, a part of himself he thought had died long ago.
Lyanna stood there for a long moment, staring at him, her mind racing. A god had just told her to be a warrior. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating. She looked at the tourney grounds, at the men in their shining armour, at the cage of expectations that surrounded her. And then she looked at the broken god under the tree, a being of immense power who seemed to understand her better than anyone.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice filled with a new, dawning resolve. She turned and walked away, not back towards the Stark pavilions, but towards the cluttered tents of the armourers and squires, a new, dangerous idea taking root in her mind.
Thor watched her go, a strange disquiet settling over him. He had come here to be left alone. Instead, he had given advice to a she-wolf who was likely to get herself killed. He sighed and took another drink. The world, it seemed, was determined to pull him back in, one lost soul at a time. He didn't know it, but his few, simple words had just set in motion the legend of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, an act of defiance that would capture the heart of a dragon prince and pour yet another gallon of oil onto the smouldering fire of rebellion. The god just wanted another drink, but the world insisted on giving him a destiny.