Chapter 36: A God's Mercy and a Queen's Refuge
The Bifrost vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind only the echoing thunder of its departure and a city holding its breath. Tyrion Lannister stood in the middle of Flea Bottom, surrounded by a crowd of terrified pilgrims. He had gambled, and the god had answered. But what had that answer been? Had he gone to save the children, or to unleash his wrath upon them?
Hours passed. The sun rose, painting the sky with the colors of a new day, but the city remained in a state of suspended animation. The usual bustle of the docks, the shouts of the vendors, the music from the taverns—all of it was muted, subdued. The people of King's Landing, both high and low, waited for news, for a sign, for some indication of the storm that had passed through their world.
The news, when it finally came, was delivered by a single, exhausted sailor, the sole survivor of the Sea Serpent. He had been found clinging to wreckage miles off the coast of Dragonstone, half-mad with terror and grief. He was brought before the Small Council, his tale a nightmare whispered in the cold light of day.
The Sea Serpent had reached Dragonstone in the dead of night, its crew eager to earn the king's reward. They had landed on the black, volcanic shore, their blades drawn, their hearts filled with the grim satisfaction of duty. They had found the Targaryen children in the ancient, windswept castle, unguarded and asleep.
Then, the storm had come.
Not a storm of wind and rain, but a storm of light and power. The sailor spoke of a rainbow bridge that had torn the sky open, of a figure descending from the heavens, wreathed in lightning and wielding a hammer that seemed to sing with the sound of creation itself. He spoke of screams, of fire, of the sea itself rising up to swallow the ship and its crew. He spoke of a god's judgment, swift, terrible, and absolute.
Viserys Targaryen was dead. His body had been found on the shore, burned to ash. The sailor did not know what crime the boy had committed to earn such a fate, but the fury of the god had been undeniable.
Daenerys, however, was alive. The sailor had seen her, cradled in the arms of the storm-bringer, her face pale with terror but unharmed. He had seen the god look down at her, his expression unreadable, then vanish back into the rainbow bridge, taking the girl with him.
The sailor's tale was met with stunned silence. Robert Baratheon, his face ashen, stared at the trembling man as if he were a ghost. He had ordered murder, and he had received divine retribution. He had tried to play the game of kings, and he had been crushed by the hand of a god.
Jon Arryn, his face a mask of grim satisfaction, spoke first. "The children are not ours to kill, Robert. You have learned this lesson in the harshest way imaginable. Let this be a warning to you, and to all of us. We are not the masters of this world. We are merely tenants, living at the mercy of a power we cannot comprehend."
Robert, humbled and terrified, could only nod. The order was rescinded. The hunt was over. But the peace of the realm had been shattered once again. The god had intervened, not to save a city, but to judge a king. And he had taken a Targaryen into his keeping.
Tyrion Lannister heard the news in the Red Keep, the sailor's words echoing through the halls like a death knell. He felt a strange mixture of relief and horror. The children had been spared, but at a terrible cost. Viserys was dead, burned to ash by the god's wrath. Daenerys was alive, but she was now in the custody of a being whose motives were utterly unknowable.
He knew, with a sinking feeling, that he was responsible. He had set this chain of events in motion. He had used his knowledge of the god's nature to manipulate him, to steer his terrible power. And he had succeeded. But the cost… the cost was a boy's life, and a girl's uncertain fate.
He retreated to his chambers, pouring himself a goblet of wine. He sat alone in the darkness, the sailor's words echoing in his mind. A god's judgment, swift, terrible, and absolute. He had been so proud of his cleverness, of his ability to play the game of gods. Now, he felt like a child who had lit a fire and watched it rage out of control.
He knew he had to see the god. He had to know what had happened to Daenerys. He had to face the consequences of his actions.
He walked to Flea Bottom, the atmosphere in the city even more subdued than before. The pilgrims outside The Grinning Pig were gone. The street was empty, silent. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The tavern was dark and empty, save for one figure. Thor sat in his usual corner, a flagon of ale in his hand, his eyes closed. But he was not drunk. He was still, utterly still, as if carved from stone. The air in the room hummed with a faint, residual energy, a echo of the storm that had passed.
Tyrion approached the table slowly, his heart heavy with guilt and apprehension. He sat down opposite the god, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Thor opened his eyes. They were not filled with fury. They were filled with a deep, weary sorrow. He looked at Tyrion, and the dwarf felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stone walls around him.
"You asked me to choose, little lion," Thor said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You presented me with a choice between the life of a king's pride and the lives of two children. I made my judgment."
Tyrion swallowed, his mouth dry. "Viserys… the sailor said…"
"The boy was beyond saving," Thor interrupted, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He was arrogant, cruel, and consumed by a madness that would have made him a tyrant worse than his father. I ended his suffering. Quickly. Painlessly."
Tyrion flinched. He had known, intellectually, that the god was capable of such violence. But to hear it spoken so calmly, so matter-of-factly… it was a reminder of the terrible power he had unleashed.
"And the girl?" Tyrion asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Thor's gaze softened, a flicker of something that might have been compassion crossing his face. "The girl is innocent. She is a child, alone and afraid in a world that hates her. I could not let her die."
"Where is she?" Tyrion asked.
Thor gestured towards the back of the tavern. "She is here. She is safe. For now."
Tyrion stared at him, his mind reeling. He had saved Daenerys, but he had brought her here. To this squalid tavern, to this city that feared and hated her family. He had placed her in the care of a grieving, unpredictable god. It was madness.
"You… you brought her here?" Tyrion asked, his voice incredulous. "To Flea Bottom? To the Grinning Pig?"
Thor looked at him, a hint of his old, bitter humor returning to his eyes. "Where better to hide a dragon than in the belly of the beast? No one would think to look for her here. And besides…" He paused, his gaze drifting towards the back of the tavern. "I know what it is to be a refugee. I know what it is to be alone in a strange and hostile world. I will not let her suffer that fate, if I can prevent it."
Tyrion absorbed this, his mind racing. He had expected wrath. He had expected judgment. He had not expected mercy. He had not expected compassion. He had not expected this strange, terrible act of paternal care.
"You… you intend to keep her here?" Tyrion asked, his voice still incredulous. "In this… in this tavern?"
Thor looked at him, his expression unreadable. "I do not know. I do not make plans, little lion. I react. I do what I must. For now, she is safe here. And for now…" He picked up his flagon and drained it. "I need to drink. Your presence, once again, interferes with my desire for oblivion. Leave me, dwarf. You have seen what you came to see. The girl is alive. The king is judged. The storm has passed. There is nothing more to say."
Tyrion knew the audience was over. He stood, his legs feeling strangely weak. He looked at the god, at his grief-haunted eyes, at his terrible, unpredictable power. He had come here seeking answers. He had found only more questions.
He turned and walked towards the door, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and a grudging, growing sense of respect. He had thought he could understand this being, that he could use his intellect to control him. He had been wrong. The god was not a force to be manipulated. He was a force of nature, a hurricane that could be steered, perhaps, but never truly controlled.
As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at Thor. "My lord," he said quietly. "What will you tell her? When she is old enough to understand? What will you tell Daenerys Targaryen about the god who saved her, and the brother he killed?"
Thor did not answer. He simply closed his eyes and reached for his flagon.
Tyrion nodded to himself and walked out of the tavern, leaving the god alone in his darkness. He stepped out into the quiet street, the silence of the city now heavy with a new kind of fear. The king had been judged, and a princess had found refuge in the most unlikely of places. The world had been reshaped once again, not by the game of thrones, but by the will of a god. And Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf who had sought to understand it all, felt like he was standing on the edge of a new, even more dangerous game, a game with rules he could not begin to comprehend. The game of gods and kings, of mercy and judgment, had only just begun.