Chapter 33: Gods and Monsters
Harrenhal, the castle of ghosts, became a castle of hope. In the days following its liberation, the fortress transformed. The groans of the dying were replaced by the ring of hammers on anvils, the screams of the tortured by the shouted commands of drill sergeants. A trickle of desperate men became a steady stream, and then a river. The battered, bloodied lords of the Trident, their lands burning and their forces scattered by Tywin Lannister's brutal campaign, saw the direwolf banner flying from the Black Dread's highest tower and came to it as moths to a flame.
Lord Blackwood arrived with a hundred weary men. Lord Piper with fifty. The lesser houses—Darry, Mooton, Lychester—sent what knights and men-at-arms they could spare. They came with tales of horror, stories of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, a man who had become a byword for atrocity in the Riverlands. They spoke of villages burned with their people still inside, of women and children savaged for sport, of a trail of terror that followed the Mountain's massive destrier.
They came to Harrenhal expecting to find a desperate, cornered Eddard Stark. Instead, they found a confident Lord Protector with a burgeoning army, a strange new guard armed with steel that gleamed with an unnatural light, and a legend that walked among them. The story of Harrenhal's fall had spread, each telling more fantastic than the last. They said the Hand's champion had sung down the walls, that he had breathed lightning, that he was a god of the First Men returned to scour the southern invaders from the land. The Riverlords, a practical and hard-bitten people, might have dismissed such tales, had they not been standing in the courtyard of a castle whose "unbreakable" wall now lay in a heap of rubble.
Ned Stark held his first full council of war in the cavernous Hall of a Hundred Hearths, a chamber so vast that even with a thousand men gathered, it felt empty. The lords of the Riverlands, their fine clothes tattered and their faces grim, mingled with the rough-hewn commanders of the Protector's Guard. It was a strange alliance: ancient feudal lords and city-born revolutionaries, united by a common enemy and a shared, awesome secret.
"The Mountain is coming," Ned said, his voice echoing in the vast hall. His finger rested on the map spread across a makeshift table. "Scouts report his host is two thousand strong, mostly mounted men and heavy foot. He is less than a day's march from here. He leaves a trail of burning villages and crucified peasants in his wake."
A murmur of hatred went through the assembled lords. Every man in that room had lost someone to the Mountain's butchery.
"We are behind the walls of Harrenhal, my lord," said Lord Jason Mallister, a proud and able commander. "The strongest fortress in the realm. Let him break his army against our stone."
"He will not attack the walls," Ned countered. "He will bypass us and continue to burn your lands, to murder your people. He is a rabid dog let off the leash by Tywin Lannister. His purpose is not to conquer, but to terrorize. I will not hide behind these walls while the people I have sworn to protect suffer."
He looked around the hall, at the faces of the lords, at the determined eyes of his own commanders. "We will meet him in the field."
The decision was a gamble. Their new army was a patchwork thing, a mix of green city militia, vengeful but disorganized Rivermen, and the small, hard core of Ned's Northmen. The Lannister force was composed of professional soldiers, led by a monster, but a monster with a fearsome reputation for victory.
"And what of… him?" Lord Blackwood asked, his voice low, his gaze flicking nervously towards the back of the hall where Thor stood, a silent observer.
"He will be with us," Ned said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
That evening, as the army prepared to march, Thor found Ned on the battlements, staring out at the darkening land. The air was filled with the sounds of a camp preparing for war—the sharpening of steel, the mending of armor, the nervous laughter of men facing their own mortality.
"They look at you as if you are the Father himself," Thor said, his voice a low rumble.
"And they look at you as if you are the Warrior," Ned replied, not taking his eyes off the horizon. "They believe you are invincible. That you can simply sweep the Mountain and his army from the field with a wave of your hand."
"And you? What do you believe, Eddard Stark?" Thor asked, his question genuine.
Ned was silent for a long moment. "I believe I have seen you do things that defy all reason. But I have also seen you bleed. I believe you are a power beyond my comprehension, but I do not believe you are invincible. And I will not ask you to win this war for us. We must win it ourselves. I will only ask that you stand with us. That you be our shield."
A look of deep, profound respect entered Thor's eyes. This mortal, this man of honor, continued to surprise him. He was not like the supplicants who begged for miracles. He was not like the kings who saw him as a weapon to be wielded. He was asking for an ally.
"The Mountain, this Gregor Clegane," Thor said, his voice turning grim. "I have studied the reports. He is not a soldier. He is a beast. A creature of pure, mindless rage who delights in pain. I have fought his kind before. They are strong, but they are hollow. Their strength is their only virtue, and so it must be the thing that is broken."
"Can you defeat him?" Ned asked.
"I can unmake him," Thor replied, his voice a chilling promise. "But the true test will be for your army. They must face the fear he inspires. They must hold the line."
The next day, the Army of the Hand marched out of Harrenhal. They met the Lannister force at a place called the Whispering Ford, a wide, shallow river crossing that offered open ground for a battle.
The sight of the two armies facing each other was a study in contrasts. The Lannister host was a disciplined, glittering line of crimson and gold, their armor polished, their lances sharp. At their head, a giant sat upon a destrier of almost equal size. Ser Gregor Clegane was even larger than the stories told. He was a monolith of plate steel, his helmet fashioned into the snarling visage of a rabid dog. The sigil on his shield was the three black hounds of his house, but the shield itself was spattered with something dark and rust-colored that was not paint.
The army of the Hand was a motley force. The grim grey of the Northmen, the varied colors of the Riverlords, and the black, newly forged steel of the Protector's Guard. They were less disciplined, their lines less perfect, but there was a fire in their eyes that the Lannister host lacked. It was the fire of men fighting for their homes.
And at their center stood Thor. He wore no helmet. His Asgardian armor gleamed, and Stormbreaker was held loosely in one hand. He was a figure of myth, and his presence sent a murmur of fear and awe through both armies.
The Mountain saw him immediately. His helmeted gaze fixed on the only other man on the field who approached his own stature. A low, guttural laugh, like the grinding of rocks, rumbled from behind his visor. He saw not a god, but a challenge. The ultimate challenge.
"So the demon shows its face!" Gregor's voice was a roar that carried across the field. "I have heard tales of you! They say you are a giant! They say you are a butcher! I have come to see if your blood runs as red as any other man's!"
Thor did not reply. He simply watched, his expression unreadable.
"Let us not waste time with these lesser dogs!" the Mountain bellowed, gesturing to the armies. "This is a battle for giants! Me, and you! Let us see who is the true monster on this field!" He spurred his massive horse forward, drawing a greatsword that was taller than a normal man.
"Hold the line!" Ned commanded his own army, seeing the Mountain's intent. "Do not break formation!"
Thor took a step forward. "This one is mine," he said, his voice calm.
Gregor Clegane charged, his horse thundering across the field, the ground shaking beneath its hooves. He was a force of pure, kinetic fury, an avalanche of steel and rage aimed directly at Thor.
Thor did not move. He simply waited.
As the Mountain bore down on him, his massive sword raised for a killing blow that could cleave a man in two, Thor raised his free hand. He did not summon lightning. He did not call the wind. He simply… pushed.
An invisible wave of concussive force, a ripple in the very air itself, slammed into the charging destrier. The great warhorse, a beast that weighed over a ton, was stopped dead in its tracks as if it had run into a mountain. It let out a terrified, high-pitched scream as it was thrown backwards, its legs buckling, sending the Mountain crashing to the earth with a deafening clang of armor.
Gregor rose from the dirt, seemingly unhurt, his rage now at a fever pitch. He roared, a mindless, animal sound, and charged at Thor on foot. His speed was terrifying for a man of his size. He swung his greatsword in a whistling arc aimed at Thor's head.
Thor, with a movement that was almost lazy, sidestepped the blow. The massive sword slammed into the earth, gouging a furrow in the dirt. As Gregor struggled to pull it free, Thor tapped him on the side of his dog-headed helm with the butt of Stormbreaker's handle. It was not a hard blow. It was a simple tap.
But the helmet, a half-inch of solid steel, crumpled like parchment. Gregor staggered back, a cry of pain and surprise escaping his lips. He tore the ruined helmet off, revealing a brutish, ugly face, his eyes wide with disbelief and a dawning, animal fear.
"You are strong," Thor said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It is your defining feature. You pride yourself on your strength, on your ability to break men and shatter shields. But your strength is a child's tantrum next to mine."
Enraged, Gregor charged again, swinging his greatsword wildly. Thor didn't even bother to dodge. He simply raised Stormbreaker to block. The sound of the Mountain's enormous steel blade meeting the Uru-forged axe was not the clang of metal on metal. It was a dull, final thud.
And Gregor Clegane's greatsword, a legendary weapon in its own right, shattered into a dozen pieces, the shards flying through the air.
Both armies stared in stunned, absolute silence. The Mountain That Rides, the most feared warrior in Westeros, stood disarmed and helpless before his foe.
Gregor stared at the hilt of his broken sword in his hand, his brutish mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. His strength had failed him. His weapon had failed him. His entire identity was being systematically dismantled before the eyes of two armies.
"It is over," Thor said. "Yield."
But the Mountain was not a man who understood yielding. He was a creature of pure, mindless violence. With a final, desperate roar, he dropped the hilt and lunged at Thor with his bare hands, intending to throttle him, to crush his throat with his massive, gauntleted fists.
Thor sighed, a sound of weary disappointment. He did not move. He simply waited until Gregor was almost upon him, his hands reaching for his throat.
Then, Thor raised Stormbreaker and pointed its head at the sky. The sky above the battlefield, clear a moment before, instantly darkened. A single, brilliant, impossibly bright bolt of lightning descended from the heavens.
It did not strike Gregor.
It struck the ground at his feet.
The flash was blinding, the crack of thunder deafening. The earth where Gregor stood erupted. But the lightning did not burn him. It did not kill him. It did something far worse. The pure, elemental energy of the storm arced around his body, and his thick, heavy plate armor, the symbol of his knighthood and his invincibility, glowed white-hot, then melted, sloughing off his body like wet clay, puddling at his feet in a molten, hissing heap.
Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, was left standing naked in the middle of the battlefield, stripped bare, his brutish, pale flesh exposed to the world. He was unharmed, but he was utterly, completely, and psychologically broken. He looked down at his nakedness, at his melted armor, then at Thor, who stood before him, wreathed in the afterglow of the storm. The monster screamed, a long, high-pitched wail of a broken mind, and then he turned and ran, a giant, naked child fleeing from a nightmare he could not understand.
The sight of their champion, their invincible monster, being so bizarrely and completely unmade, shattered the morale of the Lannister army. A single man at the back threw down his spear and ran. Then another. Within moments, the entire force was in a full, panicked rout, fleeing from the demon who could melt steel with a thought.
The Army of the Hand let out a single, unified roar of victory. They had not just defeated their enemy. They had witnessed a miracle. They had seen a monster judged by a god.
Ned Stark rode forward, his face a mask of awe. He looked at the molten puddle of armor on the ground, then at the retreating, naked form of Gregor Clegane, and finally at Thor, who stood calmly amidst the dissipating ozone.
The war for the Riverlands was over. The most feared man in Westeros had been broken, and his army was scattered to the winds. Ned Stark and his rebellion had won a victory so total, so impossible, that it would be sung of for a thousand years. But as he looked at the god who stood beside him, he knew that the songs would never capture the true, terrifying nature of the power he had allied himself with. They had defeated a monster, but he feared, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that they had just unleashed something far, far greater upon the world.