Chapter 40: The Unlikely Fellowship
The Dragonpit Pact, as it came to be known, did not bring peace to Westeros. It brought purpose. The bickering and posturing of the Great Council gave way to the grim, focused energy of a realm preparing for total war. King's Landing transformed. The city, which had so recently been a cauldron of riot and rebellion, became the heart of a vast military machine. Its forges, blessed by Thor's star-fire, churned out a river of superior steel—spearheads, arrowheads, and breastplates for the thousands of soldiers who now poured into the camps outside the city walls.
The army that assembled on the plains before the capital was a sight that had not been seen in three hundred years. It was not the host of a single king, but a patchwork quilt of an entire continent's ambitions, fears, and hopes, now stitched together by a common cause. The golden roses of the Tyrells flew beside the sun-and-spear of the Martells. The bronze runes of House Royce mingled with the black-and-white banners of the Blackwoods. And over them all, flying from the central command tent and the highest gate of the city, was the grey direwolf of House Stark.
At the center of this whirlwind was Eddard Stark, the Lord Protector. He was no longer a simple lord, nor was he a reluctant rebel. He had become the de facto supreme commander of the Grand Alliance, a role he accepted with the same grim resolve with which he had once accepted the title of Hand. He spent his days in a massive command tent, a city of canvas and parchment, surrounded by maps and messengers, managing the immense, chaotic logistics of forging a dozen rival armies into one.
His new council was a viper's nest of egos. Lord Mace Tyrell, plump and preening, argued incessantly for the primacy of his heavy horse, the flower of Reach chivalry. Prince Oberyn Martell, sharp and deadly, advocated for swift, targeted strikes, for poison in the enemy's wells and assassins in their camps. Lord Yohn Royce, a bastion of tradition, insisted on disciplined formations and honorable battle lines. It was a council of lions, vipers, and eagles, and Ned found he had to be a wolf, a bear, and a dragon all at once to keep them from tearing each other apart before they even saw the enemy.
Thor was his silent, ever-present advantage. He sat in on the war councils, a quiet, brooding figure who rarely spoke, but whose presence silenced the most arrogant of lords. When Mace Tyrell would bluster about the glory of a cavalry charge, Thor would simply look at him, his gaze ancient and unimpressed, and the Lord of Highgarden would suddenly find his enthusiasm tempered. When Oberyn would speak of assassination, Thor's low, rumbling growl of disapproval was enough to end the conversation. They were all playing a game, and he was a constant, unnerving reminder that the game had a new, unbreakable rule: do not displease the god.
His most fascinating interactions were with the Red Viper. Oberyn Martell was one of the few men in Westeros who did not seem overtly terrified of Thor. His fear was eclipsed by an insatiable, almost scientific, curiosity. He would seek Thor out, not with prayers or pleas, but with questions.
He found him one evening on the training fields, watching the new recruits of the Protector's Guard drill with their star-forged spears.
"They fight with a zeal I have never seen in common men," Oberyn observed, his voice a smooth purr. He stood beside Thor, his hands clasped behind his back. "They are not fighting for a lord, or for pay. They are fighting for you."
"They fight for their homes, and for the man who promised them justice," Thor corrected him, his eyes not leaving the drilling soldiers.
"Oh, they admire Lord Stark, to be sure," Oberyn chuckled. "He is their noble, grim-faced father figure. But you… you are their faith. You are the miracle that makes them believe they can win. A dangerous thing, to be a god."
"I am not a god," Thor said, the words heavy with a familiar weariness.
"Aren't you?" Oberyn countered, his dark eyes glittering. "You can call the lightning. You can break mountains. You can walk from one side of this world to the other in the blink of an eye. In my land, we have stories of the gods. They are petty, they are vengeful, they are powerful. You seem to fit the description rather well." He smiled, a flash of white teeth. "Though you are, perhaps, a bit more melancholy than our gods."
Thor turned to face him. "What do you want, Prince of Dorne?"
"I want what your Lord Stark promised me," Oberyn said, his smile vanishing, his voice turning cold as desert stone. "I want justice for my sister. And I want to understand the weapon my new… ally… intends to use to achieve it. You speak of justice. My justice is simple: I want to hear Tywin Lannister's ribs crack in my hands. I want to see the light fade from his eyes. What does your justice look like?"
Thor looked at the fiery, vengeance-driven prince, and he saw a reflection of his own younger self, a prince who had once charged into the heart of Jotunheim for the sake of a stolen relic and a wounded pride.
"I have seen vengeance consume entire stars, Prince Oberyn," Thor said quietly. "It is a fire that warms you for a moment, and then burns your whole world to ash. The justice I seek is not the death of one old, evil man. It is the end of the system that allows men like him to flourish. Your enemy is not just Tywin Lannister. It is the throne he covets. A throne that has poisoned every man who has ever sat on it."
Oberyn stared at him, his sharp mind processing the an alien philosophy. "You would fight a war… to end all wars?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice.
"I would fight a war to give this world a chance at peace," Thor replied. "A chance it has not had in a very long time."
The final war council was held a week after the last of the great lords had arrived. The army was as ready as it would ever be. One hundred and fifty thousand men—the combined strength of the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Reach, and Dorne—were camped in a city of pavilions that stretched for miles. It was the largest army Westeros had ever seen.
Ned Stark stood before his commanders, the great lords of the realm, in his command tent. He looked at their proud, eager faces. Mace Tyrell, already dreaming of the glory his knights would win. Yohn Royce, stern and ready for a proper, honorable battle. And Oberyn Martell, his hand never far from his spear, eager for blood.
"Lord Tywin has made his move," Ned began, his voice cutting through the tension. "He has fortified his position at the Golden Tooth. He expects us to march west and throw our armies against his walls. He is preparing for a long, bloody siege. A war that will grind on for years and bleed the realm dry."
"Then we shall give him the battle he wants!" Mace Tyrell boomed. "My knights will shatter his lines!"
"And how many of your knights will die doing it?" Ned countered coolly. "Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? To attack the Golden Tooth is to fight on Tywin's terms. And I have no intention of fighting his war." He looked around the tent, his gaze falling on each lord in turn. "We will march west. Our main host will indeed move towards the Golden Tooth. We will give Lord Tywin the great, glorious battle he expects."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "And while he is watching our magnificent army advance, we will be taking his kingdom from him."
He turned to a separate, smaller map, this one of the westerlands coast. He pointed to a location on the coast. "Lannisport," he said.
The lords looked at him in confusion.
"While our main host, under the command of Lord Royce and Lord Tarly, marches on the Golden Tooth as a feint, a smaller, elite force will strike here," Ned explained. "We will take the city, seize the Lannister fleet, and establish a beachhead deep in their territory. We will cut off Tywin's supplies from the sea and open a second front in his own homeland."
"That is impossible!" Lord Royce exclaimed. "To get an army to Lannisport without being detected would take months of marching through hostile territory!"
"Our journey will not take months," Ned said, his voice dropping. He looked towards the entrance of the tent.
Thor stepped inside. He had not been present for the main council, a deliberate choice by Ned to show that this was a plan of mortal men. But now, for the final piece, his presence was required.
A hush fell over the lords as he entered.
"Our journey will take less than a minute," Ned finished.
He explained the plan. The Bifrost. A surgical strike, just like at Harrenhal, but this time with a larger force. They would take a thousand of their best men—Northmen, knights of the Vale, Dornish spearmen, and the flower of Tyrell chivalry—and deposit them on the shores of Lannisport. They would take the city before the raven announcing their departure from King's Landing had even reached its destination.
The lords were stunned into silence. They had witnessed the power. They had accepted it. But to use it as a tool of grand strategy, to teleport an army across a continent… it was a concept that shattered their understanding of warfare.
It was Oberyn Martell who laughed first, a low, delighted sound. "Stark, you are either the greatest military genius in history, or the maddest man to ever draw breath," he said, his eyes alight with admiration. "To use a god as a transport for an army… it is a beautiful, beautiful madness. Dorne is with you."
Mace Tyrell, his mind reeling with the possibilities, quickly agreed, seeing the glory his house would win. Yohn Royce, though deeply skeptical of this "unknightly" way of war, could not deny the strategic brilliance. The plan was agreed upon.
The march from King's Landing was a spectacle of immense power. The Grand Army of the Alliance, with its thousand different banners, was a river of steel and humanity that flowed west. It was a feint, but it was the most magnificent feint in the history of warfare.
Ned and Catelyn said their farewells in private. She had accepted the new world she found herself in, her fear replaced by a fierce, protective love for the hard man her husband had become.
"Come back to me, Ned," she whispered, her hands on his chest.
"I will come back to you when the realm is safe," he promised. "Hold the city. Rule in my stead. Trust in Thor's legend to keep you safe."
The strike team was assembled a week into the march, in a secluded valley far from prying eyes. One thousand elite soldiers, the best of every house, stood in silent, nervous ranks. The high lords were there: Ned, Oberyn, Garlan Tyrell, Yohn Royce. This was the fellowship that would break the lion's back.
Thor stood before them, Stormbreaker in his hand. "The passage will be rough," he warned them, his voice carrying over the silent ranks. "Keep your eyes on the man in front of you. Keep your hand on your sword. And hold fast to your courage. We go now to make an end of this war."
He raised his axe to the sky. The familiar, terrifying, beautiful colors of the Bifrost began to swirl, the air humming with an impossible energy.
Ned Stark drew Ice, its dark steel a stark contrast to the rainbow light. He looked at the faces of his strange, unlikely allies. A vengeful Dornish prince. A chivalrous knight of the Reach. A stern lord of the Vale. All of them, for this one moment, united.
He looked at Thor, at the god who had become his friend, his weapon, his conscience. He thought of his children, of his home, of the quiet life he had lost. He was no longer just fighting for justice, or for a king. He was fighting for a chance at a new world.
"For the Dawn!" he roared, his voice filled with a hope he had not felt in a lifetime.
And with a wrenching, silent tear in the fabric of reality, the entire host vanished from the fields of the Riverlands, carried on a bridge of thunder and light, on their way to the final battle in the heart of the lion's den.