Chapter 28: A Border of Faith and a King's Command
The peace in King's Landing, fragile as a spider's web in a hurricane, held for nearly a year. It was a year of simmering tension, a year where two kings ruled the same city. In the Red Keep, King Robert Baratheon sat on his throne of swords, his decrees carrying the weight of law throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but his authority stopping dead at the edge of the stinking, sacred alleys of Flea Bottom. In the tavern-temple of The Grinning Pig, the second king, the one who truly held the city in his thrall, sat in his corner, his rule absolute, his only law a silent, intimidating presence.
Thor's sobriety had changed him, and in turn, it had changed his unofficial kingdom. He had not become a benevolent ruler. He was not a source of wisdom or comfort. He was, instead, a warden. A silent, watchful, and utterly terrifying warden. He would walk the slums, his clear, ancient eyes missing nothing. He did not speak. He did not need to. His presence was enough. The petty cruelties that had been the lifeblood of Flea Bottom—the cheating merchants, the predatory slum lords, the gangs of thugs—withered under his cold, silent gaze.
He did not pass laws; he simply was the law. A fishwife who tried to sell rotten fish to Anya, the old woman, found her entire stall and a week's worth of earnings mysteriously flash-frozen into a solid, stinking block of ice. A landlord who tried to evict a sick family found his front door replaced by a solid wall of granite that had not been there the night before. These were not grand displays of power like the storm that had shattered Lannisport. They were small, personal, and infinitely more terrifying miracles. They were quiet acts of judgment from a god who saw everything and had decided, to his own immense irritation, that he had standards.
Flea Bottom became the safest, most orderly slum in the history of Westeros. And the most dangerous. For the smallfolk who lived under the God's Peace, there was a strange security. For the rest of the kingdom, it was a terrifying anomaly, an independent state ruled by divine whim, existing in the very heart of their capital.
King Robert and his Small Council were paralyzed. They were kings of a house with a lion sleeping on the hearthrug. To rouse it was to risk being devoured. To ignore it was to live in constant, gnawing fear. And so they did nothing, hoping the lion would sleep forever.
The incident that finally shattered the peace began, as most tragedies in Westeros do, with the fading embers of the last war.
Ser Arlan of Pennytree was an old man, a knight whose best days were long behind him. He had fought under the banner of the three-headed dragon his entire life, as his father and grandfather had before him. He had seen the madness of Aerys up close and had despised it, but his oath was to House Targaryen, not to the man. When Rhaegar had fallen at the Trident, and Aerys had been executed by a god, Ser Arlan had not bent the knee. He had gone into hiding, one of the last, stubborn remnants of a fallen dynasty, his loyalty an antique virtue in a new, pragmatic age.
He had lived quietly for years in a small room on the Street of Looms, but Varys's little birds saw everything. A new Commander of the City Watch, a staunch Baratheon loyalist named Ser Janos Slynt—a butcher's son with a butcher's ambition—was eager to prove his loyalty to the new king. He saw the capture of a known Targaryen knight as a perfect opportunity to win royal favour.
Slynt's Gold Cloaks descended on the Street of Looms at dawn. They were a dozen men, armed and armoured, come to arrest one old knight. Ser Arlan, woken by the crash of his door, fought with the desperate courage of a cornered animal. He cut down two of the Gold Cloaks before a blow from a cudgel sent him staggering, his head split open and bleeding.
Wounded, desperate, he did the only thing he could. He fled. He ran into the labyrinthine alleys, his old legs pumping with adrenaline, the shouts of the Gold Cloaks behind him. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to run. And his flight took him, by chance or by some instinct for sanctuary, towards the border of Flea Bottom.
He stumbled across the invisible line—a street where the pavement was a little cleaner on one side than the other—and collapsed at the feet of a group of pilgrims who were chanting their morning prayers. A moment later, the Gold Cloaks, led by a furious Ser Janos Slynt himself, arrived at the edge of the street, their swords drawn.
"In the name of King Robert, stand aside!" Slynt bellowed, his fleshy face red with exertion. "That man is a traitor to the crown! He is under arrest!"
The pilgrims, who had been huddled in fear, looked at the bleeding old knight, and then at the arrogant, demanding face of the City Watch commander. They looked at each other. And then they did something that no one in the Red Keep would have thought possible. They did not move.
Leo the Storm-Crier, who was nearby, rushed to the scene. He placed himself between the Gold Cloaks and the fallen knight, his arms spread wide. "This is the God's domain!" he declared, his voice booming with a theatrical authority. "The King's law has no power here! This man has sought sanctuary, and the Storm Lord has granted it!"
Slynt stared in disbelief. A mummer and a handful of beggars were defying him. "Sanctuary? This is a street, not a sept! There is no sanctuary here but what the King grants! Now move, or you will all be arrested for impeding the King's justice!"
He made to step forward, but the crowd of smallfolk surged, forming a silent, human wall. They were unarmed. They were dressed in rags. But their eyes held a new, unshakeable conviction. They had a protector who had shattered mountains. They were no longer afraid of men with shiny hats.
The standoff was absolute. A line had been drawn in the filth of the city streets. On one side stood the King's Law, armed and armoured. On the other stood the God's Peace, armed only with a desperate, stubborn faith. And the news of it spread through the city like a lit fuse, all the way to the Red Keep.
"HE WHAT?" Robert Baratheon's roar shook the Painted Table in the council room. "They refused him? They claimed sanctuary? In a gutter?"
"So it would seem, Your Grace," Varys murmured, relating the report from his little birds. "Commander Slynt and his men are in a standoff at the edge of Flea Bottom. The… the faithful are refusing him entry."
Robert's face was a thundercloud of pure fury. This was it. The direct challenge he had been dreading for five years. It was not a matter of taxes or loud noises. It was a matter of law. His law. If any man, even a traitor, could escape justice simply by running into a specific part of the city, then he was not a king. He was a landlord with a fancy title.
"This ends now," Robert growled, rising to his feet. "This farce has gone on long enough. I am the King. My justice is the only justice in this city." He looked at Ned, who sat grim-faced and silent. "Get your sword, Ned. Jon, you're with me. We are going down there ourselves. We will see if these… faithful are so brave when they face their King instead of a jumped-up butcher's boy."
"Your Grace, I would counsel caution," Jon Arryn began, but Robert cut him off.
"Caution has made me a prisoner in my own castle!" he roared. "No more. Today, we remind this city who wears the crown."
The royal procession that made its way to Flea Bottom was small but intimidating. The King himself, clad in black war-plate, the formidable Ser Barristan Selmy at his side, his hand never straying from the hilt of his sword. Ned Stark, his face grim, his hand resting on Ice, the great Valyrian steel sword of his House. Jon Arryn, the wise Hand, his face etched with a deep, profound worry. They were the pillars of the new regime, and they were marching to confront the source of their greatest fear.
When they arrived, the scene was one of immense tension. A hundred Gold Cloaks under Janos Slynt's command now lined one side of the street, their spears leveled. On the other side stood a silent, unmoving wall of hundreds of commoners, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. The wounded Ser Arlan had been taken into their midst, and they were tending to his head wound.
At the sight of the King, a wave of fear went through the crowd. Many of them fell to their knees. But they did not break their line. Leo the Storm-Crier stood at their front, his face pale but his expression resolute.
"Lord Baratheon," Leo said, his voice trembling slightly but holding firm. "We have told your man. This is a holy place. The man has claimed the God's Peace."
"There is no 'God's Peace'!" Robert bellowed, his voice echoing in the narrow street. He dismounted, his presence immense, terrifying. "There is only the King's Peace! And that man," he pointed a gauntleted finger at the wounded knight, "is a traitor who has spilled the blood of my men. I have come to take him to justice. Stand aside."
The crowd wavered. This was the King himself. A conqueror. A warrior. But Leo held his ground. "Our god has shown us a new law, a higher law. One of justice, not of vengeance. He protects the weak."
"And I am the King!" Robert roared, his patience utterly gone. He drew his sword, the sound of steel ringing loud and clear. "I will not be defied in my own city by a pack of beggars and a mummer! For the last time, stand aside, or my men will cut a path through you!"
The Gold Cloaks gripped their spears tighter, their eyes hard. Robert was about to give the order. An order that would result in a massacre, an order that would almost certainly bring the wrath of the god down upon them all. Ned placed a hand on Robert's arm. "Robert, don't. There is another way."
But Robert shook him off. "No, Ned! There is not! A king must rule!" He raised his sword to give the signal.
And then, the world went silent.
It was not the silence of fear or anticipation. It was an absolute, profound silence, as if all sound in the universe had been suddenly extinguished. The moans of the wounded knight, the shuffling of the crowd, the jingle of armour, Robert's own ragged breathing—all of it vanished.
A figure emerged from the door of The Grinning Pig.
Thor moved with a slow, deliberate grace that was utterly at odds with his immense size. He was not wearing armour. He was not glowing with power. He was simply dressed in his worn leather trousers and tunic. But his presence was enough to suck the very air from the street. His clear, blue eyes, ancient and weary, surveyed the scene. He looked at the line of frightened commoners. He looked at the wounded old knight. He looked at the bristling, fearful Gold Cloaks. And finally, his gaze settled on King Robert.
He did not speak. He simply walked forward, and the wall of his followers parted for him as if he were the tide. He walked past the wounded knight and stopped in the middle of the street, halfway between the two opposing forces. He stood there for a long moment, a silent, impassive judge.
"He is a traitor to my crown," Robert finally said, his voice strained, breaking the unnatural silence. "He is to be tried and executed by my law."
Thor finally looked at Robert. His expression was not one of anger. It was one of mild, academic curiosity, as if a scientist were observing a particularly predictable insect.
"Your law," Thor said, his voice a quiet rumble. "Tell me of your law, King of Men. Does your law demand the death of an old man for the crime of loyalty? Does your law send a dozen armed soldiers to beat down one greybeard in his home?" His gaze flickered to the cowering Janos Slynt. "Does your law grant authority to butchers and bullies?"
Robert was taken aback. He was prepared for a confrontation of power, not a Socratic debate on jurisprudence. "He… he is a Targaryen loyalist! He defied the crown!"
"He defied your crown," Thor corrected gently. "He kept faith with the crown he swore an oath to. You, who rebelled against your own anointed king, speak to me of treason?" He shook his head, a gesture of profound disappointment. "Your laws are matters of convenience. Your justice is a weapon you wield against your enemies. It is the justice of children squabbling in a sandbox."
He turned and looked at the wounded knight, Ser Arlan, who was staring up at him with a mixture of terror and hope. Thor knelt down beside the old man, a mountain of a god beside a broken old soldier. He placed a hand on the man's bleeding head. A faint, golden light emanated from his palm for a brief moment. When he removed his hand, the wound was gone. The old knight's clouded eyes cleared, and he stared at his own hands, at the strength that seemed to be flowing back into his old limbs.
Thor then stood and faced the assembled lords and soldiers. "Here is my judgment," he said, his voice now carrying the weight of an edict, a commandment from a power that superseded all others. "The old knight has been punished enough. He has lost his king, his cause, and his world. His crime was loyalty. His sentence is peace. He will remain here. He is under my protection. None of you will touch him."
He then looked directly at King Robert. "You wish to prove you are a king? Then learn to be a just one. The man who ordered this foolishness," he gestured to Slynt, who whimpered and seemed to shrink under his gaze, "is a craven and a bully. Strip him of his command. Punish him for his zealotry. Show your people that your justice is not merely a tool for your own power."
He had not just passed judgment on the knight. He had passed judgment on the King himself. He had given him an order.
Robert stood there, his sword feeling impossibly heavy in his hand. He was shaking with a rage so profound it left him speechless. He had been publicly commanded, publicly humiliated. He was the King, and he had just been told how to dispense justice in his own city by a power he could not fight. Every instinct screamed at him to charge, to swing his sword, to die fighting this impossible creature.
But he looked into Thor's eyes, and he saw no challenge there. He saw no threat. He saw only a vast, weary certainty. He saw the truth. He could die, and his kingdom would die with him, or he could swallow his pride and live to rule another day.
With a shuddering breath that felt like a physical agony, he lowered his sword. He turned to the pale, trembling Janos Slynt. "You are stripped of your command," Robert gritted out, the words tasting like poison. "You are confined to the barracks until I decide your fate."
He then looked at his men. "Stand down," he commanded, his voice a choked whisper. "We are leaving."
He turned his back on Thor, on the crowd, on his own humiliation, and mounted his horse. Ned and Jon Arryn followed, their faces a mixture of relief and deep, profound unease. The royal delegation retreated from Flea Bottom, defeated not by force of arms, but by a moral and actual authority that was so far beyond them it was laughable.
They had drawn a line in the sand, and the god had simply erased it. He had established a new border in the heart of their city, a border of faith that the King's law could not cross. He had judged a man, and in doing so, had passed a far greater judgment on the nature of their rule.
Thor watched them go. He then looked at the silent, awestruck crowd, at the healed knight who was now weeping with gratitude, at the mummer who was already preparing a new sermon. He felt no triumph. He felt only the immense, crushing weight of his own unwilling godhood. He had wanted only to be left alone. Instead, he had just become the Chief Justice, High Protector, and absolute monarch of the saddest, poorest, most broken corner of this sad, broken world. He turned and walked back to his tavern, in desperate need of a drink that he knew would bring him no comfort at all.