Chapter 1: The God of Thunder and an Alley of Piss

Chapter 1: The God of Thunder and an Alley of Piss

The first sensation to pierce the thick, cloying fog of Thor's drunken stupor was the stench. It was a complex, layered assault on the senses, a foul symphony of stale piss, unwashed bodies, rotting fish, and something vaguely metallic that pricked at the back of his throat. It was, he thought with a groan that rattled in his barrel chest, a significant departure from the usual aroma of spilled ale, stale sweat, and week-old pizza that permeated his small hut in New Asgard.

He cracked open an eye, a slit of startling blue in a sea of puffy, reddened flesh. The world was a blur of grimy cobblestones and damp, moss-slicked stone walls that seemed to lean in on him, as if sharing in his crushing hangover. A dull, rhythmic pounding echoed in the distance, a sound that resonated with the throbbing in his skull. He tried to sit up, his considerable bulk a leaden weight that fought his every intention. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the world swam in a nauseating kaleidoscope of brown and grey.

"By the Allfather's beard," he rasped, his voice a dry, unused thing. The words felt foreign in his mouth, the title a bitter mockery of the man he once was.

He'd been drinking. Heavily. That much was certain. The memories were a shattered mosaic of clinking tankards, the fiery burn of some potent Asgardian mead, and the familiar, comforting oblivion that followed. But where had he passed out? This wasn't his hut. There was no Korg to gently chide him, no Miek to offer a silent, supportive presence. Just the oppressive stench and the cold, unforgiving stone beneath him.

With a monumental effort, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, his long, greasy hair falling in a curtain around his face. He shook his head, a futile attempt to clear the fog, and was rewarded with a fresh spike of pain that made him wince. He spat, a thick, foul-tasting glob that joined the other dubious liquids staining the cobblestones.

That's when he saw it. Leaning against the wall, just within arm's reach, was Stormbreaker. The sight of the weapon, its dark, gnarled handle and the glinting, otherworldly metal of its axe and hammer heads, sent a flicker of something through the haze of his misery. Not relief, not exactly. More like the weary recognition of a familiar burden. It was his. A part of him. A constant reminder of both his greatest triumphs and his most profound failures.

He reached for it, his fingers wrapping around the Groot-forged handle. The weapon felt warm to the touch, a familiar hum of power vibrating through it, a stark contrast to the clammy cold of his own skin. Using it as a crutch, he hauled himself to his feet, his knees cracking in protest. He swayed, a great, bearded mountain of a man clad in stained leather trousers and a tunic that had seen far better days. His belly, once a source of pride, now spilled over his belt, a testament to his descent into despair.

He took in his surroundings, his vision slowly sharpening. He was in a narrow alleyway, the sky above a sliver of oppressive grey between the leaning buildings. The architecture was… strange. Not Asgardian, with its gleaming golden towers and impossible, graceful curves. Not of Earth either, with its sleek glass and steel. This was something older, cruder. The buildings were a hodgepodge of timber and grimy, soot-stained stone, their upper floors jutting out over the alley, casting it in a perpetual gloom.

The rhythmic pounding he'd heard earlier was closer now, accompanied by the clang of metal on metal and the distant shouts of men. A forge, he surmised. The smell of burning coal and hot iron now joined the already overwhelming olfactory assault.

He needed a drink. A real drink, not the dregs of whatever potent concoction had landed him in this… shithole. He hefted Stormbreaker, its weight a familiar comfort, and stumbled out of the alley, emerging onto a bustling, chaotic street.

And stopped dead.

The world that greeted him was a riot of sound, smell, and motion that was utterly alien. The street, wider than the alley but no less filthy, was teeming with people. Men in rough-spun tunics and leather jerkins hurried past, their faces grim and pinched. Women in drab, homespun dresses balanced baskets on their heads, their expressions a mixture of weariness and resignation. Children, their faces smudged with dirt, darted through the crowd, their laughter a sharp, bright sound in the cacophony.

The buildings that lined the street were a chaotic jumble of shops and dwellings, their timber frames leaning at precarious angles. Wooden signs, crudely painted with images of tankards, loaves of bread, and swords, swung in the damp breeze. The air was thick with the smoke from countless chimneys, the cries of street vendors hawking their wares, and the ever-present stench of the city.

This wasn't New Asgard. It wasn't anywhere on Earth he recognized. And a cold, creeping dread, more sobering than any hangover, began to snake its way through him.

He was a god. A king. An Avenger. He had walked among the stars, battled cosmic beings, and held the fate of universes in his hands. And yet, here he stood, a fat, drunk, and pathetic shadow of his former self, utterly lost in a world that felt… primitive.

He needed answers. He needed to know where he was. And more importantly, he needed to know how to get back. The Bifrost. Stormbreaker could summon the Bifrost. He could be back in his hut in an instant, back to the comforting familiarity of his self-imposed exile.

He pushed his way through the crowd, his size and disheveled appearance earning him a wide berth. People stared, their eyes a mixture of fear and disgust. He ignored them. What did the opinions of these… mortals matter to him? They were ephemeral, their lives a fleeting flicker in the grand, cosmic scheme of things. He had seen empires rise and fall, stars born and die. Their little lives, their little squabbles, were less than meaningless to him.

He found a relatively open space, a small square where a fountain, its water a murky green, dribbled into a shallow basin. He took a deep breath, the foul air filling his lungs, and closed his eyes, trying to focus. He tightened his grip on Stormbreaker, picturing the swirling, rainbow-hued energy of the Bifrost. He thought of New Asgard, of the salty tang of the Norwegian sea, of the familiar, comforting weight of his depression.

He raised Stormbreaker high, the axe head pointed towards the grey, unforgiving sky, and brought it down with a grunt, slamming the hammer head against the cobblestones.

A shower of sparks erupted from the point of impact, and a low, guttural hum vibrated through the ground. The air crackled with energy, and for a fleeting moment, a faint, rainbow-colored shimmer danced around the head of the axe.

And then… nothing.

The shimmer flickered and died, the hum faded into the cacophony of the city, and he was left standing there, his arm outstretched, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with a crushing force.

He tried again. And again. Each time, the result was the same. A flicker of power, a hint of the Bifrost's magnificent energy, and then nothing. It was like trying to start a fire with damp wood. The spark was there, but the fuel was lacking.

A cold, hard knot of panic began to form in his stomach. He was stuck. Trapped in this… this cesspool of a world. The thought was so terrifying, so utterly overwhelming, that he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He stumbled to the edge of the fountain and retched, the meager contents of his stomach spattering into the murky water.

He stayed there for a long time, leaning on Stormbreaker, his head bowed, the sounds of the city a distant, meaningless hum. The initial panic began to recede, replaced by a dull, aching despair. It was, in a way, a familiar feeling. He had been living with it for years, a constant companion in his self-imposed exile. But this was different. Before, there had always been the possibility of something else. The possibility of rejoining the Guardians, of finding some new purpose among the stars. Now, that possibility was gone. He was adrift in an unknown sea, with no hope of finding his way back to shore.

He didn't know how long he stood there, a pathetic, dejected monument to a fallen god. Eventually, the rhythmic pounding of the forges began to die down as the day drew to a close. The crowds on the street thinned, replaced by the flickering orange glow of torches and lanterns. The city took on a new, more menacing aspect in the gathering gloom, the shadows in the alleyways seeming to deepen and writhe.

He needed a place to stay. A roof over his head, a bottle in his hand. Some small, temporary respite from the crushing weight of his new reality. He pushed himself away from the fountain and began to walk, his steps heavy, his gaze fixed on the grimy cobblestones.

He had no money, no concept of the local currency. All he had was the weapon in his hand, a powerful, otherworldly artifact that would likely attract the wrong kind of attention. He needed to be careful. He needed to blend in, as much as a man of his size and appearance could.

He found himself in a part of the city that seemed even more dilapidated than the rest. The buildings were smaller, more ramshackle, their timber frames leaning against each other for support. The alleyways were narrower, the stench of human waste and despair even more pronounced. This was a place of poverty, of desperation. A place where a man like him, a man with nothing left to lose, could perhaps disappear.

He saw a tavern, its sign a crudely painted image of a grinning pig. The sound of raucous laughter and the tinny music of a lute spilled out into the street. It was as good a place as any.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The tavern was a long, low-ceilinged room, thick with the smoke from a roaring fire and the smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies. It was crowded, filled with a rough-looking assortment of men and women. They were sailors, laborers, cutthroats, and whores, their faces a roadmap of hard lives and broken dreams.

His entrance caused a momentary lull in the conversation. All eyes turned to him, taking in his size, his strange attire, and the formidable weapon in his hand. He ignored them, his gaze fixed on the bar at the far end of the room.

The barkeep was a large, bald man with a florid face and a network of broken veins on his nose. He watched Thor approach, his hand resting on the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger tucked into his belt.

"What'll it be, stranger?" the barkeep grunted, his voice as rough as gravel.

Thor didn't answer. He simply placed a single, gleaming gold coin on the bar. It wasn't Asgardian currency, nor was it from any of the realms he had visited. It was something he had… acquired during his time-traveling escapades with the Avengers. A small, insignificant trinket from a forgotten corner of the universe. But here, in this primitive world, it seemed to have value.

The barkeep's eyes widened at the sight of the coin. He picked it up, bit it, and then held it up to the light, his suspicion slowly giving way to avarice.

"Strongest thing you've got," Thor rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "And a room for the night. And a bottle to take with me."

The barkeep's demeanor changed instantly. He pocketed the coin and gestured to a dark, uninviting staircase in the corner of the room.

"Room's at the top of the stairs," he said, his voice now laced with a greasy obsequiousness. "And I've got just the thing for a man of your… stature."

He produced a dusty, unlabeled bottle from under the counter and filled a large, chipped tankard with a dark, viscous liquid. Thor took the tankard and drained it in one long, desperate swallow. The liquid was harsh, fiery, and utterly devoid of any subtlety. It was perfect.

He took the bottle, turned without a word, and made his way to the staircase, the eyes of the tavern's patrons following his every move. He could feel their curiosity, their fear, their greed. They were like insects, buzzing around a strange, new flower, unsure whether it was a source of nectar or a deadly trap.

The room was small, windowless, and smelled of mildew and despair. It contained a narrow, lumpy bed, a rickety table, and a single, sputtering candle. It was, without a doubt, the most depressing place he had ever seen.

And yet, as he sat on the edge of the bed, the unopened bottle in his hand, a strange sense of… not peace, but resignation, washed over him. He was here now. This was his life. A fallen god in a world of mortals, with nothing to his name but a weapon he couldn't use to escape and a thirst that could never be quenched.

He uncorked the bottle and took a long, deep drink. The fiery liquid burned a path down his throat, a welcome, familiar pain. He leaned back against the damp wall, closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him.

He was Thor, son of Odin, the God of Thunder. And he was home. For now. He would watch these mortals play their little games, their "game of thrones," as he'd heard a couple of gossiping merchants call it in the street. Their squabbles were nothing to him. He was a god, and they were… short-lived. He would drink, he would sleep, and he would wait. For what, he didn't know. Maybe for the end of this world. Or maybe, just maybe, for the end of his own. But until then, he would endure. He was good at that. He had been enduring for a long, long time. And as he drifted off into a drunken, dreamless sleep, the sounds of King's Landing, the city of mortals, a city on the brink of a war he couldn't care less about, faded into the background, just another meaningless note in the sad, lonely symphony of his existence. He was a god, yes, but even gods could find themselves lost in an alley of piss, their thunder silenced, their lightning a distant memory. And in the heart of King's Landing, one year before the world of men would tear itself apart, a god had fallen, and no one, not even the god himself, knew what that meant for the game to come. The dragon kings and the stag lords and the lion nobles could have their little power plays. Thor had a bottle to finish. And for now, that was enough.