Chapter 8: The King and the Thunderer
The King was coming. The words echoed through Winterfell for a fortnight, a mantra of frantic preparation. Floors were scrubbed until the stones shone, tapestries were beaten until the dust of years surrendered, and the larders were filled to bursting with a king's ransom in roasted game and casked wine. A nervous energy, a blend of excitement and dread, settled over the castle, thick as summer pollen. For most, it was the honor of a royal visit. For the House of Stark, it was an ordeal. For Eddard, it was the arrival of a brother bound by war and separated by a crown. For Catelyn, it was a political minefield, made infinitely more treacherous by the silent, brooding god who had taken up residence in her home.
The debate over Thor's presence at the welcoming feast had been the subject of their most bitter argument yet.
"He will not be there," Catelyn had stated, her voice as cold and hard as winter ice. "I will not have that… creature… sitting at my high table in the presence of the King. It is an insult to His Grace and a danger to us all."
"He is a guest under my roof," Ned had countered, his honor warring with his political sense. "To hide him away like a shameful secret is a greater insult. Where would you have me put him? In the kennels? In chains?"
"If chains would hold him, I would forge them myself!" she'd retorted, her voice trembling. "He is a loose-reined ballista aimed at the heart of our family, Ned. Robert is a drunken, impulsive fool with a king's pride. What do you think will happen when he sees a giant claiming to be a god of thunder? It will be a catastrophe."
In the end, a compromise was reached, though it satisfied no one. Thor would not sit at the high table with the royal family and the Starks. But he would be present in the Great Hall, seated at a separate, smaller table near the hearth, close enough to be seen but far enough to be, with luck, ignored. It was a foolish hope, and they both knew it. Ignoring Thor was like ignoring a mountain.
Thor himself was indifferent to the royal circus. The arrival of some mortal king meant little to him. He had supped with the Allfather and traded blows with beings who could unmake stars. The politics of this small, cold world were a petty distraction from the war he was waging against himself. He continued his brutal morning regimen, the hard physical reality of it the only thing that felt true. He was leaner now, the bloat of his grief and alcoholism slowly receding, replaced by the hard set of muscle memory. The ruin was still there, but the foundations were becoming solid once more. He had watched the frantic preparations with a detached amusement, a god observing an ant colony preparing for a flood.
The day of the King's arrival was a blur of sound and color. The blare of trumpets announced the procession, a great, muddy, snaking column of men, horses, and wagons that stretched for a league. At its head rode King Robert Baratheon. He was not the man Ned remembered. The Demon of the Trident, the warrior who had crushed the Targaryen dynasty, was buried deep within a mountain of flesh, his face florid, his eyes bleary. He was a king in decay, a monument to past glories, and the scent of wine hung about him even at a distance.
Beside him rode the Queen, Cersei Lannister, a vision of golden beauty as cold and sharp as a shard of ice. Her twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was a sun god in golden armor, his handsome face a mask of bored arrogance. Their younger brother, Tyrion the Imp, followed on a pony, his mismatched eyes taking in everything with a sharp, cynical intelligence. And there was the Crown Prince, Joffrey, a boy with his mother's beauty and a petulant cruelty already hardening in his eyes.
The greetings in the courtyard were a stiff, formal affair, thick with unspoken tensions. Robert's booming, forced bonhomie did little to ease the strain. He embraced Ned, clapping him on the back with a force that would have staggered a lesser man, his words a mix of genuine affection and drunken sentimentality. "Ned! Ah, but it's good to see a face that hasn't been bought and paid for!" he roared, his breath a potent wave of wine.
He then immediately demanded to be taken to the crypts, to pay his respects to the ghost of the woman whose memory had defined his reign – Lyanna Stark. The gesture, meant to be one of honor, was a cold spike of memory for Ned, and a public humiliation for Queen Cersei, whose face became a perfect, beautiful mask of fury.
The feast that night was a loud, chaotic, and drunken affair. The Great Hall, sweltering with the heat of a thousand torches and the press of too many bodies, was a microcosm of the Seven Kingdoms. The boisterous, hard-drinking stormlords of Robert's retinue mingled uneasily with the grim, reserved bannermen of the North. Wine flowed like a river, and the tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, and mountains of bread.
Robert, seated at the high table, was in his element. He was a king of feasts and frivolities, holding court with a greasy fistful of roasted capon, his booming laughter echoing off the rafters. He regaled the hall with tales of his youthful exploits with Ned, stories that grew grander and more heroic with every cup of wine he drained.
Thor sat at his small, solitary table by the hearth, a silent, brooding monolith amidst the chaos. He wore a new, dark leather jerkin over his tunic, a concession to the formality of the event, but Stormbreaker leaned against the stone wall behind him, its dark Uru head seeming to absorb the very light and sound around it. He ate little and drank only water, his gaze sweeping over the hall with a dispassionate, analytical eye. He saw the tensions, the false smiles, the whispered insults. He saw the Queen's barely concealed contempt for her husband, the Kingslayer's watchful arrogance, the Imp's keen, calculating gaze. It was a nest of vipers, and King Robert was the oblivious, drunken fool sitting in the middle of it.
For a time, the fragile peace held. Most of the southern courtiers were too intimidated by Thor's sheer size and his silent, intense demeanor to approach him. The Northmen, already accustomed to his presence, gave him a wide berth. He was just a feature of the hall, like the great direwolf banners that hung from the ceiling.
It was Tyrion Lannister who first dared to cross the invisible line. Carrying a flagon of wine and moving with the rolling gait that marked him, he approached Thor's table. He had been observing the giant all evening, his insatiable curiosity piqued.
"I find myself in a rare situation," Tyrion began, his voice a rich, educated baritone that was at odds with his stature. "I am usually the strangest person in any room. It seems I have been demoted. Tyrion Lannister. It's a pleasure." He gave a small, mocking bow.
Thor looked down at the dwarf, his expression unreadable. "Thor," he replied, his voice a low rumble.
"Thor? As in the god of thunder from the children's stories?" Tyrion asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "A bold claim. I trust you have the accompanying weather effects to back it up?"
"Sometimes," Thor said, his gaze flat and unimpressed.
"A man of few words. I can respect that, though I rarely practice it myself," Tyrion mused, pouring himself a cup of wine and taking a seat, uninvited. "So, what does a god of thunder do in Winterfell? Besides brooding, I mean. You're remarkably good at it. Very theatrical."
Before Thor could formulate a reply, their conversation was interrupted by a loud, booming voice from the high table.
"Who in the seven hells is that?" King Robert roared, pointing a greasy finger towards Thor. His drunken gaze had finally fallen upon the giant by the hearth. The entire hall fell silent, the music faltering, the conversations dying in mid-sentence.
Ned Stark's heart sank. The moment he had dreaded had arrived.
"That is Thor, Your Grace," Ned replied, his voice tight. "A… guest. From a distant land."
"Distant land? He's the size of a bloody mountain!" Robert bellowed, pushing his chair back and staggering to his feet. He grabbed a full flagon of wine and started to make his way towards Thor, his heavy tread unsteady. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea. "I want to have a look at him! A man that big must be a warrior!"
Catelyn closed her eyes, her hand gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white. Cersei watched with a smirk, sensing a delightfully savage entertainment about to unfold. Jaime leaned forward slightly, his professional interest piqued.
Robert stomped to a halt before Thor's table, his massive frame casting a long shadow. He was drunk, his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot, but there was a flicker of the old warrior in his gaze, a primal assessment of a potential threat, or a kindred spirit.
"So," the King slurred, looking Thor up and down. "They call you Thor. They say you're a god." He let out a great, booming laugh. "I've been called a god myself, usually by women in the throes of passion. Doesn't make it true."
Thor remained seated, looking up at the mortal king. He did not seem intimidated. He did not seem impressed. He simply seemed… weary. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that was somehow more intimidating than a shout.
"Stand up, man!" Robert commanded. "Let me get the measure of you!"
Slowly, deliberately, Thor rose to his feet. He unfolded himself to his full, towering height, a solid wall of muscle and bone that seemed to eclipse the King himself. The hall collectively held its breath. Robert, for the first time, seemed to falter, his drunken bravado wavering slightly as he craned his neck to look up at the giant before him.
"Seven hells," Robert breathed, a flicker of genuine awe in his eyes. He then seemed to remember he was the King. He puffed out his chest. "They say you're a warrior. I was a warrior once. Best in the Seven Kingdoms. Killed a dragon prince with this very arm!" He shook his war hammer, which was propped against the high table, for emphasis. "What about you, eh? Ever killed a prince?"
The question, so casually thrown, landed like a physical blow. Thor's face, which had been a mask of calm indifference, tightened. A shadow passed through his eyes, a storm of grief and guilt so profound that even the drunken king seemed to sense it. He thought of Loki, his brother, his prince, dying at the hands of Thanos. I could have saved him. I should have saved him.
"Yes," Thor said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. "I have."
Robert, too drunk to sense the shift in mood, let out another roar of laughter. "Hah! I knew it! A man after my own heart! A prince-killer! We should go hunting together! We'll kill the biggest boar the Wolfswood has ever seen!" He clapped Thor on the shoulder, a friendly, bone-jarring blow.
And then, Robert's eyes fell upon Stormbreaker, leaning against the hearth. The axe seemed to hum in the torchlight, its design alien and brutal. Robert's eyes widened, the last vestiges of his drunken amusement replaced by a warrior's pure, avaricious lust.
"What… in all the hells… is that?" he breathed, his voice filled with a reverence he usually reserved for vintage wine or large-breasted women. He stumbled over to it, reaching out a hand to touch it.
"I would not do that if I were you," Thor said, his voice suddenly as cold and sharp as a glacier's edge.
Robert froze, his hand hovering over the axe head. He turned, a slow, dangerous anger building in his eyes. No one told the King what to do. "Are you telling me what to do in my own kingdom, boy?" he growled, his hand falling to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.
"I am giving you sound advice," Thor replied, his voice even, his gaze unwavering. "That is not a toy."
"Everything in this kingdom is my toy if I wish it!" Robert roared, his face turning purple with rage. He was the King. He was the conqueror. His pride, the only thing he had left, had been challenged. He lunged forward and grabbed the handle of Stormbreaker.
"I said, don't," Thor repeated, and this time, his voice was not a rumble. It was the crack of thunder.
As Robert's hand closed around the gnarled handle of Groot-wood, the axe, which had been dormant, came alive. The runes etched into its surface flared with a brilliant, blinding blue light. A low, powerful hum filled the hall, and the air crackled with raw, static energy. Robert cried out, not in pain, but in shock, as a powerful jolt of pure energy coursed through his arm. He was thrown backwards, stumbling and falling into a heap on the stone floor, his hand smoking slightly, the smell of ozone sharp in the air.
The hall erupted in chaos. Women screamed. Guards drew their swords. Ser Jaime Lannister was on his feet in an instant, his own golden sword in hand, placing himself between Thor and the fallen king. "Stay back, demon!" he snarled, his handsome face contorted in a mask of fury.
Thor did not even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the King, who was being helped to his feet by his Kingsguard, his face a mixture of shock, fear, and a burning, humiliated rage.
But Thor did not move to attack. He simply raised his hand, his palm open. Stormbreaker lifted from its place by the hearth and flew across the room, its movement swift and silent, slapping into his waiting grasp with a sound like a thunderclap. The blue glow faded, and the axe was once again inert, but the demonstration had been made.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was utterly, completely silent. Every eye was on Thor, who stood there, the impossible weapon in his hand, his face a grim mask, his eyes a brewing storm. He had not wanted this confrontation. He had not sought it out. But he had been challenged, and the warrior within him, the god he had tried to bury, had answered.
King Robert stared at him, his chest heaving, his mind, for once, frighteningly sober. He had built his legend on being the strongest, most fearsome warrior in the land. And in one, effortless moment, this… thing… had shown him what true power was. It was not a crown, not an army, not a war hammer. It was the ability to command the very elements, to wield a weapon that defied all reason.
He looked at Thor, at the sorrow and power warring in his eyes, and he did not see a man. He saw the end of his own myth. And he was terrified.
"What… what are you?" the King of the Seven Kingdoms whispered, his voice small and lost in the vast, silent hall.
Thor looked at the King, at the vipers of his court, at the stoic, honorable man who had given him shelter, at the children who looked at him with fear and awe. He looked at the impossible situation he found himself in, a god trapped in a cage of mud and stone.
"I am Thor," he said, and for the first time, the name did not feel like a burden or a curse. It was simply a statement of fact. A declaration. "And I am tired of kings."