Chapter 35: The Congress of Harrenhal
The execution of Gregor Clegane marked the end of the first war and the beginning of the second. The first had been a war of survival, a desperate, bloody struggle for control of a city and a cause. The second, Ned Stark was quickly learning, was a far more complex and treacherous thing: a war of politics. Victory did not bring peace; it brought petitioners.
Harrenhal, the great, cursed tomb of a castle, became the unlikely capital of a new and rising power. The direwolf banner flew from its highest, melted tower, a symbol of defiance that was visible for leagues. Under Ned's command, order was forged from the chaos of the Riverlands. The Protector's Guard, now numbering in the thousands as more men flocked to their cause, secured the roads and drove out the last of the Lannister foraging parties. Food began to flow back into the liberated villages. For the first time in months, the people of the Trident felt the presence not of a conqueror, but of a protector.
The army that drilled in the vast, shadow-haunted courtyards was a strange and potent mix. Grim-faced Northmen taught the shield wall to vengeful Riverlanders, while former city dwellers from King's Landing, filled with a revolutionary zeal, practiced with their unnaturally sharp, star-forged steel. They were united by a shared hatred of the Lannisters and a shared, profound awe for the two figures who led them: the honorable wolf who dispensed justice, and the silent thunder god who was his shield.
Thor, for his part, found himself in an unfamiliar role. He was not a king, not a general, not a drunkard. He was something between a patron saint and a strategic deterrent. He spent his days observing the forging of this new army, offering quiet counsel to Ned, and walking the immense, ghost-ridden battlements of Harrenhal. He found a strange kinship with the monstrous castle, a place that, like him, was a remnant of a more powerful and violent age, a testament to a power that could warp the very fabric of the world. He felt the weight of its cursed history and wondered if he, too, was now a curse upon this land, a power too great for it to bear.
The new reality of their power was made plain with the arrival of the first envoy. He came with a small retinue, under a flag of truce bearing the flaming heart of R'hllor surrounding the stag of Baratheon. It was not Stannis himself, but a man whose plain-spoken honesty and simple dignity were more impressive than any lordly pomp. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, had come to treat with the Lord Protector.
He was a man of common birth, his knuckles shortened as a price for his past smuggling, but his eyes were clear and intelligent. He looked at the massive, Stark-held fortress, at the disciplined soldiers, and at the strange, vibrant steel of their weapons with a pragmatic, seaman's eye. He was shown to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where Ned received him not on a high seat, but at a simple oak table, as an equal.
"Lord Stark," Davos began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "My king, Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name, sends his greetings. He has received your raven. He acknowledges your loyalty to the true line of succession and your courage in defying the abominations in King's Landing."
"I did only what honor and duty required," Ned replied, his voice formal. Thor stood behind him, a silent observer, his presence filling the vast hall more than any of its hundred cold hearths.
"Aye, duty," Davos said with a wry, weary smile. "My king is a man who understands duty better than any other. He is preparing his fleet. He will sail for the capital to claim his throne. He expects you and your host, as his loyal bannermen, to support his landing and swear fealty."
The demand was as blunt and unyielding as Stannis himself. There was no negotiation, no offer of alliance. Only the expectation of fealty.
"I have declared for King Stannis," Ned said carefully. "I do not deny his claim by law. But I am the sworn Protector of this Realm. And the realm is at war. My son Robb holds the Riverlands in the name of the North. The Lannisters, though wounded, are not yet defeated. And King Stannis's own brother has declared himself king, with the might of the Reach and the Stormlands at his back."
"Renly is a child playing at war," Davos said with a dismissive wave. "A peacock. When faced with his elder brother and the law, he will fold."
"Will he?" Ned countered. "He has a hundred thousand men who believe his charm is a better qualification for kingship than a birthright. This war has more than two sides, Ser Davos. To win, we need more than just the law. We need strength. We need unity."
The conversation was a careful dance, two honorable men on opposite sides of a subtle but important divide. Ned was no longer just a great lord swearing fealty. He was the leader of a victorious army, the commander of a popular rebellion, the keeper of a god. He was a kingmaker, and he was beginning to understand the power that came with that title.
Later, Davos sought out Thor. He found him in one of the castle's cavernous smithies, where Tobin was overseeing the reforging of captured Lannister armor into the stronger steel of the Protector's Guard. The air was hot and filled with the rhythmic clang of hammers.
"My lord Thor," Davos said, his voice respectful but not fawning.
Thor turned from the forge, his face impassive. "I am not a lord, Onion Knight."
Davos gave a small, genuine smile. He appreciated the directness. "No. I suppose not. Forgive me, I do not know the proper way to address a… well, I do not know what you are. And that, I think, is what frightens my king the most."
"I am a shield for Eddard Stark," Thor said simply.
"You are more than that," Davos countered, his gaze sharp. "You are the reason we are having this conversation, and not fighting a bloody war for a pile of rubble. You are the reason Tywin Lannister is in retreat. You are the reason Edda— Lord Stark holds this castle and this army. My king believes in laws. In lines of succession. In the things that are written down. He does not believe in men who can call lightning from the sky."
"And you?" Thor asked, his voice a low rumble. "What do you believe in, smuggler?"
"I believe in what I see," Davos said honestly. "I believe in good men, and bad. I believe in loyalty. And I believe that my king, Stannis, for all his iron stubbornness, is a just man who would be a good king. But I have also seen that justice alone does not win thrones." He looked at the glowing spearheads being pulled from the fire. "It seems justice needs a sharper edge these days."
He hesitated for a moment, then asked the question that had been burning in his mind. "What is it you want from all this? You are not from here. This is not your war. Why fight for us?"
Thor was silent for a long time, the only sound the ringing of the hammers. "I have seen many worlds," he said finally, his voice filled with a profound, ancient weariness. "I have seen them burn for the ambition of men who called themselves kings. I have seen them die for the whims of beings who called themselves gods. I am here by accident. But while I am here, I will not stand by and watch another world consume itself because of the greed and pride of petty tyrants." He met Davos's gaze. "I fight for Eddard Stark because he is the only man I have met in this realm who does not want a throne, which, in my experience, makes him the only one fit to hold it."
Davos Seaworth, a man not easily impressed, found himself profoundly moved. He had come expecting a demon or a sorcerer. He had found a philosopher-warrior with the weight of galaxies in his eyes. He now understood the true nature of the power Ned Stark commanded, and it was far more complex, and far more dangerous, than his king could possibly imagine.
Two days later, a second, far more opulent, delegation arrived. The banners bore the golden rose of House Tyrell. They came not with a humble request for an audience, but with a train of wagons laden with wine and southern fruits, a feast on the march. At their head was not Ser Loras, but his uncle, the formidable Lord Mace Tyrell's brother, Ser Garlan Tyrell, a man known for his courtesy, his intelligence, and his skill at arms.
He presented himself to Ned with a flourish, his armor polished to a mirror shine. "Lord Stark," he said with a charming smile. "The tales of your victories have reached Highgarden. We are all in awe of your… prowess." His eyes flickered towards Thor, who stood in his accustomed place, a silent, granite shadow.
"King Renly Baratheon sends his warmest regards and an offer of alliance," Garlan continued, his voice smooth and persuasive.
"Renly is not a king," Ned said, his voice cold.
"He has the love of the people and the swords of the two greatest houses in the south," Garlan countered smoothly. "In Westeros, that is a much stronger claim than a dusty scroll in a maester's library. My king is a man of vision. He sees a new day for the Seven Kingdoms. A day of peace and prosperity."
"A peace built on his brother's stolen birthright," Ned said.
"A peace built on pragmatism," Garlan corrected him. "Stannis is bitter, heirless, and despised. He would rule with a clenched fist. The realm would chafe under his reign. Renly would rule with a smile and a feast. The people would love him." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And he would have the wisest, most honorable man in the realm to guide him. He would name you Hand of the King, Lord Stark. Your word would be law. The North and the South, united. We would crush the Lannisters before the next moon. And Stannis… Stannis would be forced to see reason."
It was a seductive offer. A swift end to the war. The highest office in the land. An alliance with the vast, untapped strength of the Reach. It was a path to victory that was quicker, easier, and arguably less bloody than the one Stannis offered.
Ned listened patiently, his face unreadable. When Ser Garlan was finished, Ned simply nodded. "Thank you for your king's generous offer, ser. I will consider it and give you my answer on the morrow."
That night, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths hosted another council of war. Ned laid out the two offers before his commanders.
"Stannis offers us duty and law," he said. "Renly offers us victory and power."
"Renly's offer is the better one," said Arric, the practical ex-Gold Cloak. "A hundred thousand swords? The war would be over. We could all go home."
"Home to a realm ruled by a usurper," Tobin countered, his young face flushed with righteous anger. "Stannis is the true king. It is our duty to see him on the throne."
The lords and commanders argued, their voices echoing in the vast, haunted hall. They were split, torn between the hard path of honor and the easy path of victory.
Finally, Ned looked at Thor. "You have been silent. What say you?"
Thor looked at the faces around the table, at their earnest, passionate arguments. "I say that you are asking the wrong question," he rumbled. "You are asking which king to follow. But the king is not the kingdom. A true leader does not ask who to serve. He asks what is best for the people he is sworn to protect."
He looked at Ned. "Stannis is a rod of iron. He may be just, but he will break before he bends. The realm will not love him. Renly is a summer breeze. He is pleasant, but he has no substance. When the true winter comes, he will be of no use. Both of them are fighting for a chair. Not for the realm."
"Then what is your counsel?" Ned asked.
"My counsel," Thor said, his voice dropping, "is to stop being a kingmaker. And start being a king."
The words stunned the hall into silence. Ned stared at him, his heart pounding.
"You have the love of the people," Thor continued. "You have the loyalty of the North and the Riverlands. You have proven yourself a just ruler and a victorious commander. And you have a power at your side that no king can match. Why would you give this kingdom to either of the squabbling brothers? Why would you trade one tyrant for another? You have declared yourself Protector of the Realm. So, protect it. Rule it."
It was the ultimate temptation. A path Ned had never, in his wildest dreams or darkest nightmares, considered. To take the throne for himself.
He looked around the room, at the loyal faces staring back at him. He thought of Robert on his deathbed, of the ruin of his reign. He thought of the burning fields and the weeping refugees. He thought of the heavy, miserable weight of the crown.
And he shook his head. "No," he said, his voice firm and absolute. "I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am not a king. I will not seek the Iron Throne. It is a poison that has destroyed every man who has sat upon it."
He stood up, his decision made. It was not Renly's way, nor Stannis's. It was his own. The way of Eddard Stark.
"Ser Davos, Ser Garlan," he said, addressing the two envoys who had been brought in to hear his judgment. "Return to your kings. Give them this message from the Lord Protector of the Realm."
He took a deep breath. "The war against the Lannisters is not over. Tywin's army may be in retreat, but it is not broken. I will not sit by while two brothers fight over a crown, while the true enemy still draws breath. I am ordering King Stannis and Lord Renly to cease their hostilities against each other. They will turn their armies north and west. We will form a great, united host. We will march on the westerlands. We will end House Lannister, once and for all. And when that is done… when the realm is safe… then, and only then, will we speak of crowns and thrones."
It was an audacious, impossible command. He was not swearing fealty. He was not forging an alliance. He was taking command. He was telling two would-be kings that their petty squabbles were over, and that the real war was about to begin. He was acting as the true and only authority in the Seven Kingdoms.
He was not claiming a crown. But in that moment, in the great, haunted hall of Harrenhal, Eddard Stark, with the power of a god at his back, had just become the most powerful man in the world. The ravens that flew from Harrenhal the next day carried not a plea, but an order. And the entire realm would be forced to listen.