Chapter 10: The Long Road South
The departure from Winterfell was a somber affair, a funeral procession for the life the Starks had known. The crisp northern air, usually so clean and familiar, felt heavy with unspoken farewells. A month ago, Thor had woken at these gates, a bewildered, drunken castaway. Now he stood beside the new Hand of the King, a de facto prisoner of state, a living, breathing symbol of the impossible bargain that had been struck. He was sober, silent, and watchful, his presence a dark, thunderous cloud hanging over the strained proceedings.
He watched as Eddard Stark said goodbye to his wife. Catelyn's face was a pale, stoic mask, but her eyes were a maelstrom of fear and grief. She clutched her husband's hand, her fingers white, as if she could physically hold him in the North, away from the southern vipers she so dreaded. Their farewell was a thing of few words, their shared history and love a silent testament that needed no grand pronouncements. But as Ned turned to mount his horse, Thor saw a single tear trace a path down Catelyn's cheek, a diamond of sorrow in the cold morning light. She looked past her husband, her gaze falling upon Thor, and her eyes held no pity, only a cold, hard accusation. He was the cause. He was the storm that had ripped her family apart.
The children's goodbyes were more raw, more openly painful. Robb, now the acting Lord of Winterfell, stood tall and straight, shaking his father's hand with a man's gravity, but the slight tremble in his lip betrayed the boy within. He clasped Arya's shoulder, a silent promise to keep the heart of their wild pack safe. Bran, his young face serious, promised to be strong, his hand straying to the small of his back where he'd fallen from the tower just days before – an incident shrouded in mystery and whispers, another dark thread in the tapestry of their unraveling world. Little Rickon wailed, clinging to his father's leg, his innocent grief a pure, sharp blade in the hearts of all who watched.
It was the two daughters accompanying their father south who presented the starkest contrast. Sansa, her face alight with a nervous, excited blush, saw only the golden promise of the capital. She saw handsome princes, grand tourneys, and beautiful gowns. She was a northern bloom, eager to be transplanted to a southern garden, heedless of the serpents that might lie coiled in the grass. She barely glanced at Thor, her mind already far away in the songs and stories she held so dear.
Arya, however, was a storm of contained fury. Her farewell to Jon Snow by the forge had been a thing of fierce, quiet sorrow. They were two sides of the same coin, the two outsiders of the Stark family, and their bond was forged in that shared otherness. She had gifted him Needle, her Uru-forged blade, a secret pact between them. Now, forced into a dress, her hair brushed to a sheen against her will, she looked at the departing procession with the eyes of a wolf being dragged to a cage. Her gaze, however, did not hold Catelyn's accusation when it fell upon Thor. Instead, it held a fierce, possessive loyalty. He was her monster, her thunderer, the only other person in this whole sorry procession who understood what it meant to be a warrior trapped in a world of fools.
Thor himself remained impassive, a mountain of silent observation. He had been given a sturdy, powerful destrier, one of the few horses in the North that could bear his weight without its back buckling. He looked out of place in the saddle, a god forced into the mundane mechanics of mortal travel. Stormbreaker was carefully wrapped in heavy oilcloth and leather, strapped to his back like a lumberjack's axe. The King had decreed that the weapon was not to be openly displayed, a command that was both a petty assertion of authority and a tacit admission of fear.
The royal procession finally lurched into motion, a great, groaning beast of men, horses, and wagons, leaving the grey walls of Winterfell behind. As they rode out, Thor glanced back one last time. He saw the small figures of those left behind, saw the ancient, formidable castle that had been his prison and his sanctuary. He felt a strange, unexpected pang, not of affection, but of… finality. That chapter of his life was over. He was once again adrift, only this time, he was not alone. He was surrounded by a court of liars, a drunken king, and the one honorable family that had the misfortune of being caught in his wake.
Life on the Kingsroad was a monotonous, grinding ordeal. The great northern highway was less a road and more a suggestion, a wide, muddy track that snaked its way through endless forests of pine and fields of stubble. The days were long, filled with the rhythmic plodding of hooves, the creak of wagon wheels, and the endless, vapid chatter of the southern courtiers. The nights were cold, spent in drafty inns or hastily erected pavilions, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and woodsmoke.
Thor, by silent, mutual consent, was an island in this sea of humanity. He rode near the back of Lord Stark's retinue, a solitary figure who spoke to no one and whom no one dared to address. He used the long hours in the saddle for a different kind of training. He focused on his breathing, on the quiet, internal discipline of the mind. He reached for the spark of the storm within him, not to command it, but to understand it, to map its boundaries and feel its rhythm. He was learning control, a concept that, in his arrogant youth, he had scorned.
He observed the dynamics of the court with a new, sober clarity. He saw how Queen Cersei moved, a golden spider at the center of a web of intrigue, her words to her children either honeyed praise or sharp, cutting rebukes. He saw the contempt she held for her husband, a contempt that was matched only by Robert's boorish indifference to her. He saw the subtle power Jaime Lannister wielded, his golden armor and easy charm a mask for a sharp, dangerous intelligence. The Kingslayer's eyes would often drift towards Thor, not with the King's blustering challenge, but with the cool, appraising gaze of a professional killer assessing a rival predator.
And he watched Joffrey. He saw the boy's casual cruelty, how he would sneer at the common folk they passed, how he would jab his horse with his spurs for no reason, the flicker of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. He saw in Joffrey the worst, most petulant aspects of his own youthful arrogance, magnified and twisted into something truly ugly. He saw a boy who had been given absolute power with none of the character to wield it. He saw a disaster in the making.
It was Tyrion Lannister who finally breached his isolation. Several days into the journey, the Imp maneuvered his pony alongside Thor's massive destrier, a flagon of wine already in his hand despite the early hour.
"I must confess, my lord Thor, you are a master of the dramatic exit," Tyrion said, his voice laced with wry amusement. "Leaving an entire hall speechless is a talent few men possess. I usually have to resort to a particularly clever insult. You just have to pick up your axe."
Thor glanced down at him. "I had no wish for drama."
"Oh, I believe you," Tyrion said, taking a sip of wine. "Which makes it all the more fascinating. Most men with your… particular skill set… would be insufferable tyrants. You, on the other hand, seem to possess an almost terminal case of melancholy. It's a curious combination. A sad god. It's the stuff of epics."
"My sadness is my own," Thor said, his voice a low warning.
"Of course, of course," Tyrion said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to pry into the emotional turmoil of a deity. I'm more interested in the practicalities. Asgard. You mentioned it. A golden city, was it not? Does it have sewers? Proper drainage is the true mark of a great civilization, you know. Far more important than gilded towers."
The question was so absurd, so quintessentially Tyrion, that Thor found himself fighting back an unwilling smile. "It had… advanced systems."
"Advanced systems! I knew it!" Tyrion beamed. "And this Bifrost. A rainbow bridge that connects worlds. A fascinating concept. Is it a form of energy? A stable wormhole? And how is it navigated? Are there charts? Or do you just point and hope for the best?"
Thus began a series of strange, intermittent conversations that became a feature of their journey. Tyrion, with his insatiable intellect, was the only person in the entire procession who viewed Thor not as a monster or a threat, but as a source of knowledge, a living, breathing textbook on a subject no maester had ever dreamed of. He would pepper Thor with questions about cosmology, about the other realms, about the nature of his power.
Thor, in turn, found himself reluctantly engaged. Tyrion's sharp, cynical mind was a whetstone against which he could sharpen his own thoughts. The dwarf's relentless questioning forced him to articulate things he had not thought about in years, to put words to concepts that were as natural to him as breathing. In explaining his world to Tyrion, he found himself re-examining it, seeing it through a new, more critical lens.
The incident occurred about a week out from the capital, at a bustling crossroads inn called the Trident. The royal party had taken over the entire establishment, and the common room was a loud, smoky press of soldiers and courtiers. Trouble started, as it often did, with Joffrey.
The Prince and his sworn shield, the hulking, brutal Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, were amusing themselves by tormenting the butcher's boy, a timid, simple lad named Mycah. Joffrey, his face twisted in a sneer of aristocratic contempt, was accusing the boy of some imagined slight, his hand resting on the hilt of his new, finely-wrought sword.
Arya, who had befriended the boy, saw what was happening and, true to her nature, did not hesitate. She flew at the Prince, her wooden practice sword a blur, striking him across the arm. Joffrey, enraged and humiliated at being struck by a girl, turned on her, his real sword now drawn, murder in his young eyes.
It happened in an instant. But before Joffrey's blade could fall, a shadow fell over them. Thor, who had been sitting in a dark corner of the inn, had moved with a speed that was terrifying in a man of his size. He had not drawn Stormbreaker. He did not need to.
He simply placed a hand, a hand the size of a small ham, on Joffrey's sword arm. He did not squeeze. He did not twist. He just… held it. Joffrey's forward momentum stopped as if he had run into a stone wall. The Prince struggled, his face turning red, then purple, with effort and rage. But he could not move his arm. It was held fast, caught in a grip of immovable, absolute strength.
"The girl is under the protection of the Hand of the King," Thor said, his voice a low, calm rumble that cut through the noise of the tavern. He was not looking at Joffrey. He was looking at the Hound, whose own hand had drifted to the hilt of his massive greatsword.
Sandor Clegane was a man who lived by the creed of fear and violence. He was not afraid of anything… until now. He looked into Thor's eyes, one blue, one amber, and he saw something that was not of this world. He saw a power that could unmake him without a second thought. He saw the abyss, and for the first time in his scarred, brutal life, the abyss looked back. Slowly, deliberately, the Hound's hand moved away from his sword.
Thor released Joffrey's arm. The Prince, his courage utterly broken, stumbled back, his face a mess of tears and fury. He turned and fled, screaming for his mother.
Arya looked up at Thor, her eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and awe. He had not used lightning. He had not used his axe. He had used a quiet, immense strength, a controlled power that was far more impressive than any outburst. He had defended her, not with the rage of a berserker, but with the calm authority of a true protector.
The aftermath was, predictably, a political firestorm. Queen Cersei, her son's humiliation fanning the flames of her hatred, demanded that Arya be punished, that the butcher's boy be found and executed, and that Thor be put in chains. King Robert, roused from his wine, was forced to adjudicate a squabble between children that had been escalated by gods and monsters.
In the end, a twisted, ugly compromise was reached. The butcher's boy, Mycah, was hunted down and killed by the Hound. Arya's direwolf, Nymeria, who had bitten Joffrey in the melee, was sentenced to death. But Ned, in a desperate act of mercy, had sent the direwolf away, and in her place, had been forced to execute Sansa's wolf, Lady, a tragic, unjust sacrifice to appease the Lannisters' wounded pride.
Through it all, Thor remained a silent, watchful presence. He stood outside the King's pavilion during the 'trial', his arms crossed, a silent, immovable guardian. He had said nothing, done nothing further. But his presence was felt. It was a check, a balance against the worst of the Queen's vindictiveness. They could kill a butcher's boy and a wolf, but they all knew, with a cold, terrifying certainty, that they could not touch Thor.
The incident changed something in the dynamic of the journey. The Stark household, particularly Ned and Arya, now looked at Thor with something more than just awe or fear. They looked at him with a reluctant, growing trust. He was their monster, yes, but he was their monster. He had proven himself to be a protector, not just a threat.
As they drew closer to King's Landing, the landscape began to change. The endless forests of the North gave way to the rolling hills and fertile fields of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. The air grew warmer, thicker, filled with the scents of civilization. And then, one afternoon, they crested a hill, and saw it in the distance.
King's Landing. It was not the golden city of Sansa's dreams. It was a sprawling, smoke-stained metropolis, a vast collection of tile roofs and stone walls huddled around three high hills. The Red Keep, the castle of the Targaryen kings, sat atop the highest hill like a malevolent, brooding crab. And over it all hung a faint, brownish haze, and a smell, carried on the wind, of a million people living too close together. The smell of power, of poverty, of ambition, and of decay.
Thor stared at the city, his expression grim. He had seen many cities on many worlds. He had seen the pristine, golden spires of Asgard and the techno-slums of Xandar. King's Landing had the feel of a place that was rotting from the inside out.
Tyrion rode up beside him, gazing at the same view. "Behold," the dwarf said, his voice laced with a familiar irony. "The arse end of the world. Home sweet home."
Thor did not reply. He simply gripped the reins of his horse, his gaze fixed on the Red Keep. He was a god of thunder, a prince of a fallen kingdom, a survivor of a universal war. And his new battlefield was a city of schemes and shadows, ruled by a fat, drunken king and a court of vipers. He had been brought here as a monster on a leash. But as he looked at the sprawling, corrupt heart of the Seven Kingdoms, he felt a grim resolve settle over him. A storm was coming to this city. And for the first time, he felt he was not the one being swept away by it. He was the one bringing it.