Chapter 16: The Sermon on the Mount of Fear
The map, drawn on a fragile scrap of parchment, lay on the solar table like a dead leaf. It was a thing of hope and a thing of poison, a secret path to freedom that felt like a coward's exit. For three days since its arrival, it had been the silent, accusing centerpiece of every conversation in the besieged Tower of the Hand. The initial relief it had offered had curdled into a source of bitter contention, a schism that split the tiny, fractured Stark household down the middle.
"We must use it," Sansa had pleaded, her voice thin and reedy, her composure, so carefully maintained, finally shattering. She stood before her father, her hands clasped as if in prayer, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Father, please! We can escape! We can go home, back to Winterfell. The Queen… Lady Catelyn… they will forgive you! We can leave this horrible place!" Her gaze darted towards the corner of the room where Thor sat, a silent mountain of shadow. Her meaning was clear. We can leave him.
"We cannot run," Ned had replied, his voice a low, weary rasp. He had aged a decade in the last week. The lines on his face were deeper, his eyes haunted. "I am the Protector of the Realm. Robert's will is law. To flee is to admit guilt. It is to abandon the kingdom to the very people who murdered its king."
"What kingdom?" Sansa cried, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "This city of monsters? This court of liars? Joffrey… he's not the prince from the songs, Father. He's cruel. And the Queen… she smiles, but her eyes are cold. And he," she finally pointed a trembling finger at Thor, "he killed all those men! He's the reason we're trapped here! Why are you protecting him over us? Over your own daughters?"
Before Ned could answer, Arya stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of the wooden practice sword she now carried everywhere. Needle was hidden away, a secret promise. "He saved our lives, you stupid girl!" she snarled, her loyalty a fierce, unwavering flame. "He saved Father's life! The gold cloaks would have killed us all, and you would be whimpering at Joffrey's feet, begging him to be gentle!"
"He is a monster!" Sansa shrieked back. "Everyone says so! The whole city is afraid of him!"
"Good!" Arya shouted. "They should be afraid! It's the only reason we're still alive!"
"Enough!" Ned's voice was thunder, a rare outburst that silenced both girls instantly. He looked at his daughters, at the beautiful, broken vessel of Sansa's dreams and the fierce, jagged edges of Arya's warrior heart, and he saw his own failure reflected in them. He had brought them south into this pit, and it was devouring them both in different ways. "Go to your room. Both of you."
The girls retreated, leaving a heavy, wounded silence in their wake. Ned sank into his chair, rubbing his temples. The siege was not just outside the walls; it was inside his own family, inside his own soul.
Thor watched the exchange with a detached sadness. He had seen kingdoms fall, had seen families torn apart by war and ambition. The scale here was smaller, but the pain was just as acute. He understood Sansa's fear. He was a monster to her, a being of incomprehensible, terrifying violence. He also understood Arya's fierce devotion. She saw him not as a god or a demon, but as a shield, the only one strong enough to protect her pack. They were both right. And they were both wrong.
"The girl has a point," Thor said quietly, breaking the silence. Ned looked up, his eyes weary. "The beautiful one. Not the wolf. There is a path to safety for them. For you."
"I will not abandon my duty," Ned said, his honor a stubborn mantra. "And I will not abandon you to them. You are under my protection."
"Your protection is a cage," Thor countered, not with anger, but with a simple statement of fact. "And this city is a slow poison. We cannot win a siege. We have no army. We have no allies. We have a handful of loyal men, a map of the sewers, and an axe that cannot solve political problems." He stood and walked to the window, looking down at the city below. "In war, sometimes the most strategic move is to retreat, to consolidate, to choose a new field of battle. To stay here, to wait for the enemy to starve you out or for their courage to return, is not honorable. It is suicide."
It was a stunning reversal. The pragmatic warrior was counseling retreat, while the honorable statesman was insisting they stand and fight. Ned stared at him, confused. "You would have us run?"
"I would have us survive," Thor corrected him. "There is no honor in a glorious death if it achieves nothing. Your duty is to the realm, you say. You cannot protect a realm if you are dead and your children are hostages. Fleeing is not an option. But a tactical relocation… that is a different matter. But it must be a choice we make, not one we are forced into."
Their debate was interrupted by the tolling of a great bell. It was not the usual hourly chime from the Sept of Baelor. It was a slow, deep, resonant toll, a sound reserved for solemn occasions – the death of a king, or the condemnation of a great sinner. Thor and Ned moved to the window. In the great plaza before the Sept, a massive crowd was gathering. They could see the gold-trimmed robes of the High Septon, a tiny white figure on the steps, his voice too distant to be heard, but his condemnatory gestures clear even from the tower.
In the Red Keep, Cersei watched the same scene from a higher vantage point, a faint, satisfied smile on her lips. Tyrion stood beside her, sipping from a goblet of wine, his expression more circumspect.
"Crude, but effective," Tyrion noted, swirling the Arbor gold in his cup. "Turning the Faith against him. Branding him not just a traitor, but a heretic. My sister, for all her faults, has a flair for the theatrical."
"The people need to be reminded who the true gods are," Cersei said, her voice pious. "This northern demon who calls himself a god is a blasphemy against the Seven. The High Septon was all too eager to point that out, after a suitable donation to the treasury of the Faith was… offered."
"And a few whispers from a certain spider, I imagine," Tyrion mused. "You are playing a dangerous game, sister. You are teaching the Faith that its voice has power in the politics of the throne. That is a lesson they will not soon forget. It is a bell that cannot be un-rung."
"Let me worry about the Faith," Cersei snapped. "The smallfolk now see Stark as a man who harbors a demon. His honor is meaningless against a charge of heresy. Soon, they will be screaming for his blood, and the monster's along with it."
The sound of the crowd below was beginning to change. The fearful silence of the past few days was being replaced by a low, angry murmur, a collective growl that seemed to rise up from the very stones of the city. The sermon was working. Fear was transmuting into righteous anger.
Another parley was called that afternoon. This time, it was Tyrion Lannister who approached the Tower under a white flag. Ned, his face grim from the news of the High Septon's sermon, refused to see him.
"Then I will speak with the god!" Tyrion had called up, his voice carrying. "Unless he is afraid of a dwarf!"
To Ned's surprise, Thor had agreed. He went to the window alone, looking down at the Imp.
"A bold move, turning the priests on me," Thor rumbled. "Even Odin had trouble with priests."
"Desperate times," Tyrion called back, shielding his eyes from the sun. "I must confess, I find this all rather distasteful. I prefer my battles to be ones of wit, not… public piety. But my sister is not known for her subtlety." He took a sip from a wineskin. "I did not come here to trade threats, Lord Thor. I came to ask a question, philosopher to philosopher, if you'll indulge me."
"I am not a philosopher," Thor said.
"Aren't you? A being of immense power, trapped in a world of lesser creatures, forced to contemplate his own existence. It sounds like the very definition of philosophy to me," Tyrion countered. "My question is this: What is a god?"
The question, so direct, so unexpected, threw Thor for a moment. "A god is a being with the power to protect those who cannot protect themselves," he answered, the words coming from a place of old, ingrained belief.
"A protector," Tyrion mused. "An interesting definition. Most of our stories define gods by their power to destroy. The Warrior with his sword, the Stranger with his cold embrace. But you see it as a shield, not a sword. And yet, you used your power to slaughter two dozen men in my father's throne room."
"I was protecting Lord Stark," Thor said, his voice hard. "There was no other way."
"Wasn't there?" Tyrion asked softly. "You could have simply disarmed them. You could have rendered them unconscious. You chose the most terrifying, most absolute path. You chose to be a monster. Why?"
The question hit Thor with the force of a physical blow. Why hadn't he held back? He could have. He could have broken their arms, shattered their swords, knocked them all senseless. But in that moment, seeing the spears leveled at Ned, something ancient and primal had taken over. It was the berserker rage of his youth, the warrior's instinct to meet a lethal threat with overwhelming, annihilating force. He had chosen to make a statement, to inspire a level of fear so profound that they would never dare try it again.
"Because fear is the only language this city understands," Thor said, the answer forming as he spoke it. "Honor, law, mercy… these are weaknesses here. But fear… fear is respected."
"Ah," Tyrion said, a look of profound understanding on his face. "So you do understand the game. You chose to become the thing they feared most. A brilliant, if terrifying, move. But it has backed you into a corner. A monster that cannot show its face is just a story. And stories can be changed. Right now, my sister is writing a story in which you are the villain. And Lord Stark is the fool who unleashed you."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "I ask you again, what is a god? A protector? Or a prisoner? A shield for one man? Or a force that shapes the world? You hold the power to shatter the board, Lord Thor. I, for one, am intensely curious to see if you have the will to do it."
The Imp bowed, turned, and walked away, leaving Thor with a fresh and deeply unsettling line of thought. He had been so focused on the immediate, tactical problem of survival that he had not considered the larger, strategic implications of his own existence. He was a force unlike any other in this world. And he was allowing himself to be caged, to be defined by the whispers and schemes of lesser beings.
He went back into the solar, where Ned was staring at the map of the sewers, a look of tortured indecision on his face. The roar of the distant, angry crowd was a constant, unnerving presence.
"They will storm the tower eventually," Ned said, his voice devoid of hope. "The Queen will see to it. The people will demand it. We will die here."
"No," Thor said. The word was quiet, but it held the finality of a slamming door. Ned looked up. A change had come over the Thunderer. The brooding sadness was still there, a permanent shadow in his soul, but the weary resignation was gone, replaced by a cold, hard, and terrifying clarity. "We will not die in this cage."
"Then we use the tunnels?" Ned asked, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
"No," Thor said again. "Running is what they expect. Hiding is what they want. It would prove them right – that we are cowards, traitors hiding from the King's justice. It would leave the field to them entirely."
"Then what is left?" Ned asked in desperation.
Thor walked to the window and looked down at the city of fear, at the plaza where the High Septon was still whipping the crowd into a pious frenzy. He thought of Tyrion's words. You hold the power to shatter the board. I am curious to see if you have the will to do it. He thought of Arya's simple, brutal wisdom. They should be afraid.
He had been hiding his power, ashamed of it, afraid of it. He had been trying to be a man in a world that insisted he was a monster. Perhaps it was time to stop fighting the definition and, instead, embrace it. To redefine it on his own terms.
"You said that in this world, appearances are valued above all else," Thor said, turning back to face Ned. "And Varys said that my existence can be a force for stability, or for devastation. The Lannisters have chosen to paint me as the latter. It is time we offered the world a different picture."
"What are you saying?" Ned asked, rising to his feet.
"I am saying that the siege ends now," Thor declared, his voice resonating with a power that had been dormant for far too long. He walked to the corner of the room and picked up Stormbreaker. The axe seemed to hum in his hand, as if eager to be unleashed. "They want a monster? They have one. They want a god? They have one. They want a sermon? I will give them a sermon they will never forget."
"Thor, no," Ned said, his face paling as he understood the implication. "You cannot. The violence…"
"There will be no violence," Thor said, his eyes blazing with a cold, blue fire. "Not unless they force my hand. But there will be no more hiding. There will be no more whispering. The whispers will be drowned out. They want a show of power? I will give them one." He started towards the barricaded door.
"Where are you going?" Ned demanded, his heart pounding.
Thor paused at the door, turning his head to look back at the honorable, doomed man he had sworn to protect. A grim, terrible smile touched his lips.
"I am going outside."