Chapter 11: The Gilded Cage
The final approach to King's Landing was an assault on the senses. The faint, unpleasant smell that Thor had detected from the hills became a thick, miasmic stench at close range – a foul soup of unwashed bodies, animal waste, rotting fish, and the cloying sweetness of cheap wine and expensive perfume used to mask the decay. It was the smell of a million lives crammed together, their hopes and miseries stewing under the southern sun. Thor, whose Asgardian senses were far more acute than any mortal's, felt a physical nausea. It was a stark, visceral contrast to the clean, cold air of the North.
The procession passed through the city gates, and the dull roar they had heard from a distance became a deafening wall of sound. The streets of Flea Bottom were a chaotic, swarming river of humanity. Ragged children with old, knowing eyes darted between the legs of the horses. Merchants hawked their wares from ramshackle stalls. Drunken brawls spilled out of dingy taverns. And everywhere, there were eyes. Curious, resentful, hungry eyes that followed the royal procession, lingering on the fine clothes, the well-fed horses, and most of all, on the giant riding beside the new Hand of the King. Thor felt their gazes like a physical touch, a thousand tiny pinpricks of desperation and envy. He had seen poverty on other worlds, but there was a sullen, hopeless quality to the squalor here that felt different, more deeply ingrained.
As they began their ascent towards the Red Keep, the character of the city changed. The streets widened, the buildings grew grander, and the stench lessened, though it never truly disappeared. But the faces of the people were no friendlier. Here, the resentment was veiled behind thin smiles and practiced courtesies. This was the city of merchants, guildsmen, and minor lords, the people who oiled the gears of power.
Finally, they reached their destination. The Red Keep was not a castle in the northern sense. It was not a grim, practical fortress like Winterfell. It was a sprawling, arrogant complex of towers, keeps, and curtain walls, built of pale red stone that seemed to blush in the afternoon sun. It was a statement of dominance, a conqueror's boot pressed firmly on the neck of a subjugated city. Yet, for all its grandeur, it felt… fragile. Thor could sense the secrets that clung to its walls, the betrayals that had stained its stones. It was a gilded cage, beautiful on the outside, but filled with predators.
Their arrival was met with a flurry of activity as servants and squires swarmed to attend to the royal party. Eddard Stark, his face a grim, stony mask, dismounted, the weight of his new office settling upon him like a shroud. He was the Hand of the King, the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he looked as comfortable as a wolf in a silken doublet.
Thor was shown to his new accommodations within the Tower of the Hand. They were luxurious by any mortal standard – a suite of two large rooms with a canopied bed, a hearth of carved stone, and windows that offered a dizzying view of the city and Blackwater Bay. But the door was thick oak, reinforced with iron, and the guards posted outside were not there for his protection. They were his jailers. The cage was now manifest. He placed Stormbreaker, still wrapped, in a corner of the room. It looked like a slumbering beast, its potential for destruction a stark contrast to the perfumed tapestries that adorned the walls.
The true nature of his new role became apparent the very next day. Ned, looking weary and uncomfortable in the formal attire of his office, informed him that he was to attend the first meeting of the Small Council.
"Robert's orders," Ned said, his voice tight with displeasure. "He wants you seen. He wants them to know you are… with me."
"His monster," Thor finished, his voice flat. He had donned a simple, dark tunic. There was no point in trying to blend in. He was a mountain; his only choice was to be an imposing one.
They walked through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep to the Small Council chamber. It was a small, intimate room, dominated by a large table of polished weirwood. Four men were already seated. King Robert was conspicuously absent; he had already found his way to a brothel or a hunting lodge, leaving the tedious business of ruling to others.
The first man to rise was Grand Maester Pycelle, a stooped, ancient man with a long white beard and a maester's chain so heavy it seemed a wonder he could stand. He bowed low, his movements slow and exaggerated, his eyes watery and, Thor suspected, far less cloudy than they appeared.
The second was a short, handsome man with a neatly trimmed goatee and intelligent, mocking eyes. He was dressed in a doublet of fine silk, a small, silver mockingbird pinned to his collar. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice smooth and cultured. "A pleasure. Petyr Baelish. They call me Littlefinger." His gaze flickered to Thor, a quick, assessing glance that catalogued, measured, and filed away every detail. It was the look of a merchant appraising a valuable, but dangerous, piece of livestock.
The third man was a stark contrast. Lord Renly Baratheon, the King's youngest brother and the Master of Laws, was handsome, charming, and immaculately dressed. He offered Ned a warm, friendly smile, but his eyes, too, darted nervously towards Thor.
The final figure was perhaps the most unsettling. He was plump, bald, and soft, dressed in flowing robes of velvet and silk, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He smelled faintly of lavender and dust. His face was powdered, his expression serene, almost beatific. This was Lord Varys, the Master of Whisperers, the man they called the Spider.
"Lord Hand," Varys said, his voice soft and cloying, like honey mixed with poison. "Welcome to our humble council. We are all so very glad for your steadying presence." His gaze then slid to Thor, and unlike the others, his eyes did not hold fear, or assessment, or curiosity. They held a deep, profound, and utter confusion. Varys's power came from knowing everything, from his web of 'little birds' that spanned the continent. And Thor was a hole in his web, a piece that did not fit, a creature from outside the known world. For the first time in a very long time, the Spider was truly blind. And it terrified him.
Ned took his seat at the head of the table, the Hand's chair. Thor did not sit. He stood behind and to the right of Ned, his arms crossed, a silent, granite sentinel. The meeting began, a tedious recitation of crop yields, tax revenues, and shipping disputes. Thor listened, not to the words, but to the undercurrents. He watched the subtle interplay between the council members. He saw the flicker of contempt in Littlefinger's eyes when Pycelle spoke, the easy camaraderie between Renly and Baelish that felt too practiced to be genuine, and the way Varys's serene smile never quite reached his eyes.
The topic turned to the upcoming tourney to celebrate Ned's appointment as Hand. "The Crown is already a hundred thousand gold dragons in debt to my lord father," Renly was saying with a laugh. "This tourney will plunge us another hundred thousand deeper. Robert will bankrupt the realm for a few days of sport."
"The King must have his pleasures," Pycelle mumbled obsequiously.
"Indeed," Littlefinger said smoothly. "And the realm must pay for them. Luckily, the Master of Coin is a magician." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile that fooled no one.
It was then that Varys turned his gaze fully upon Thor. "If I may be so bold, Lord Hand," the Spider purred, his voice slick. "Your… companion… is a man of considerable stature. Forgive an old man's curiosity, but from what distant shore does such a specimen hail?"
The question was a direct challenge, a silken dagger aimed at the heart of the mystery. All eyes turned to Ned, and then to Thor.
"He is called Thor," Ned said, his voice a flat wall of stone. "He is under my protection."
"Thor," Varys repeated, tasting the name. "A name from the old stories. A god's name." His eyes, like two polished stones, fixed on Thor. "Tell me, my lord Thor, are there many men of your… formidable size… where you come from?"
Thor met the Spider's gaze. He could feel the man's mind at work, probing, searching for a weakness, for a crack in the facade. He decided to give him one.
"No," Thor said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to make the very air in the room vibrate. "There are not. There are none left."
The simple, declarative statement, filled with an ocean of unspoken loss, threw the Spider off his rhythm. It was not the boast of a god, nor the evasion of a liar. It was the raw, unvarnished truth of a survivor. Varys's serene smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible twitch, but Thor saw it. He had planted a seed of a different kind of mystery, one not of power, but of grief.
The meeting concluded soon after, the councillors departing with polite bows and veiled glances. As they left, Littlefinger paused beside Ned. "A word of advice, Lord Stark," he said, his voice low. "Distrust me. It will be the wisest thing you do." He then glanced at Thor. "As for your pet giant… be careful he doesn't bite the hand that feeds him. Some beasts cannot be tamed." He gave a thin smile and was gone.
The days that followed fell into a new, stifling routine. Ned was consumed by the endless, thankless task of being Hand, trying to impose northern honor on a southern court that viewed it as a quaint, foolish weakness. Arya and Sansa were subjected to their own forms of torment – Arya to the pricking needles of Septa Mordane, and Sansa to the cloying, false sweetness of the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting.
Thor, for his part, was a prisoner in his tower. He would rise at dawn and perform his brutal regimen in the small, walled garden attached to the Hand's apartments. He grew leaner, harder. The sadness in his eyes remained, but it was now tempered with a cold, sharp focus. He was a weapon being honed in solitude.
One afternoon, as he was training, he had an unexpected visitor. A man in the pristine white cloak and golden armor of the Kingsguard stood at the entrance to the garden. But this was not Jaime Lannister. This was an older man, his hair white as snow, his face lined with dignity and a lifetime of service. His posture was straight, his blue eyes clear and steady. This was Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander, a living legend, the greatest swordsman of his generation.
"Lord Thor," Ser Barristan said, his voice respectful. He did not seem afraid. He seemed… curious.
Thor stopped his training, breathing heavily. "Ser Barristan," he acknowledged, giving the man his proper title. He knew who he was. Ned spoke of him with a rare, unreserved admiration.
"Forgive the intrusion," Barristan said. "I have seen you training. Your forms are… unfamiliar. But they have the look of true discipline."
"They are from my home," Thor said simply.
"I have fought in many wars, on many battlefields," Barristan continued, his gaze appraising. "I have seen the wild fury of the Dothraki, the iron discipline of the Unsullied. I have seen men fight with honor, and men fight with savagery. But I have never seen a man move as you did in the hall at Winterfell. To command a weapon with but a gesture… that is not swordsmanship. That is something else."
"It is a bond," Thor found himself saying. "Between a warrior and his axe."
"A bond," Barristan repeated, a thoughtful look on his face. He gestured to the practice swords leaning against the wall. "Would you honor an old man with a demonstration? Not of your… bond… but of your skill. Man to man. Steel to steel."
The request was a surprise. It was not a challenge born of pride, like Robert's, but a query from a fellow master of the craft. It was a sign of respect. Thor looked at the old knight, at the quiet confidence and the unwavering honor in his eyes. In him, he saw a glimmer of the Asgardian Einherjar, of the old warriors who fought for duty and honor, not for gold or glory.
"It would be my honor," Thor said.
For the next hour, the two warriors sparred in the small garden. Thor used a heavy blunted practice sword, a clumsy tool compared to what he was used to, but he adapted. Ser Barristan was a marvel, his movements fluid, precise, and breathtakingly fast for a man his age. He was a master of a thousand subtle feints and parries, his blade a living extension of his will.
Thor did not use his full strength. To do so would have been an insult. Instead, he met the knight on his own terms, using skill and timing. He was slower, his style more brutal and direct, but his power was undeniable. Their blades rang against each other, a clean, honest sound in the corrupt air of the Red Keep. They were two warriors from different worlds, speaking the universal language of combat. In the end, there was no winner. They stopped, breathing heavily, a deep, mutual respect in their eyes.
"You have the strength of a giant, my lord," Barristan said, a rare smile on his lips. "But the swiftness of a serpent. It is a formidable combination."
"And you, Ser Barristan," Thor replied, a genuine warmth in his voice. "You have the heart of a true warrior. It is a rare thing. In any realm."
The culmination of his introduction to the court came a few days later. King Robert, in a rare moment of sobriety, decided to hold court in the throne room. Ned, as Hand, was required to be there, and Thor, as the Hand's monster, was required to be at his side.
They entered the Great Hall of the Red Keep, a vast, cavernous space whose walls were adorned with the skulls of the Targaryen dragons. They were monstrous, terrifying things, their empty eye sockets seeming to watch the proceedings with a silent, eternal malice.
And at the far end of the hall, upon a high dais, was the Iron Throne. It was not the grand, majestic seat of the stories. It was a twisted, asymmetrical monstrosity, a jagged, ugly thing forged from the thousand swords of Aegon the Conqueror's defeated enemies. It was a throne built from pain and domination, its barbs and sharp edges a constant, deliberate warning that no king could ever sit easy.
Robert sat slumped upon it, looking small and ill-at-ease, a fat man in a chair that was actively trying to kill him. He listened to petitions with a bored, irritable air, his mind clearly already on his next cup of wine.
Thor stood beside the dais, behind Ned, his arms crossed. He felt the eyes of the entire court on him. He was on display, a curiosity, a threat, a symbol. He ignored them, his own gaze fixed on the Iron Throne. He had seen thrones of gold, of crystal, of living wood. But he had never seen a throne that so perfectly encapsulated the nature of the power it represented. It was a throne for a kingdom of vipers, a throne that rewarded ruthlessness and punished weakness. It was the most honest thing he had seen in this city.
As the court session ended, and the petitioners shuffled out, Cersei Lannister glided over to Ned, her green eyes, the color of wildfire, flashing with malevolence.
"A fine show, Lord Stark," she said, her voice a sweet poison. "You and your pet. You make quite the pair." Her gaze slid to Thor, and her lip curled in a contemptuous sneer. "But you should remember that even the most fearsome beasts can be put down. The Targaryens had dragons. And where are they now?"
She turned and walked away, her words a clear, unmistakable threat. Thor watched her go, his expression unchanging. He looked at the dragon skulls on the wall, then at the jagged, empty throne. The Queen was wrong. The dragons were not all gone. A new one had just arrived. And he was beginning to feel the first stirrings of a storm.