The kennels of Winterfell were a world of teeth and hunger, where the air reeked of blood and the hounds never slept. Thor, now Thorn to those who cared to ask, worked through the dawn, his small hands raw from the broom's splintered handle. The black bitch with the scarred muzzle watched him still, her yellow eyes unblinking, as if she knew something he did not. Gurn's commands were sharp, his patience thinner than the straw beneath Thor's feet, but Thor moved with purpose, learning the rhythm of the place—the hounds' barks, the kennel boys' muttered threats, the creak of the iron gate that led to the yard.
He was alive. That was enough for now.
The dream lingered, as it always did. The girl with white hair, her crown of thorns, her voice like a blade slicing through his thoughts: *Blood follows the brave, but the cunning rule the bones.* Thor didn't know what it meant, but it felt like a map to a place he hadn't yet found. His old life—books, screens, a world where survival meant passing exams—seemed a fading echo. Here, survival was a game of shadows, and he was learning to play.
By midday, Gurn sent him to fetch water from the well in the outer yard. The task was simple, but Thor knew better than to trust simplicity. The kennel boys—Red Nose and his two silent shadows—followed him with their eyes, their blades glinting in the pale light. Thor kept his head down, his gray eyes scanning the yard. Squires sparred near the armory, their laughter sharp and careless. Servants hauled sacks of grain, their faces etched with the North's quiet endurance. And there, by the stables, Benjen Stark stood, his blond hair catching the sun as he barked orders to a stableboy. Thor memorized the way Benjen moved—confident, but not yet hardened. A boy who thought himself a wolf.
The well was old, its stones slick with moss and frost. Thor hooked the bucket to the rope, his arms trembling from exhaustion. He was halfway through hauling it up when a shadow fell over him.
"New pup," Red Nose said, his voice low and mocking. He leaned against the well, his broken nose twitching like a hound scenting blood. The other two boys flanked him, their grins sharp as their knives. "You're small for a Thorn. More like a weed."
Thor kept his eyes on the bucket, his heart steady despite the fear curling in his gut. "Just fetching water," he said, his voice soft but clear.
Red Nose snorted. "Gurn says you're quick. Quiet. But quiet boys don't last." He stepped closer, his breath sour with ale. "What's a weed like you doing in Winterfell?"
Thor's mind raced. He knew this dance—bullies in his old life had the same rhythm, the same need to prove something. But this wasn't a schoolyard. A wrong move here could end with a blade in his ribs. He let the bucket rest on the well's edge, his fingers brushing the flint in his pocket. Not a weapon, but a spark could be enough.
"Surviving," Thor said, meeting Red Nose's gaze for the first time. His gray eyes were calm, but there was a flicker in them—something older than his eight years. "Same as you."
Red Nose's grin faltered, just for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh bark that drew a glance from a passing servant. "Surviving? You'll be hound food by week's end." He shoved Thor's shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble. The bucket tipped, spilling water across the snow.
Thor caught himself, his hands steady despite the cold seeping through his tunic. He didn't retaliate. Not yet. Instead, he picked up the bucket, his movements deliberate, and started lowering it again. "Hounds need water too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Unless you want to fetch it."
The other boys laughed, but it was a thin sound, uncertain. Red Nose's eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, a shout cut through the yard.
"Oi! Back to work, you lot!" Gurn's voice boomed from the kennel door, his cloudy eye glinting in the light. Red Nose spat into the snow and turned away, his shadows following. Thor watched them go, his heart pounding but his face blank. He'd won this round, but it was a small victory, and small victories didn't last.
As he hauled the bucket up again, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Betha stood near the kitchen door, her auburn hair tucked under a scarf. She was watching him, her expression unreadable. Thor nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment. She didn't nod back, but she didn't look away either. Another piece on the board, he thought. Another thread to weave.
Back in the kennels, Thor poured the water into the troughs, the hounds lapping eagerly. The black bitch didn't drink. She sat, her scars gleaming under the torchlight, her eyes fixed on Thor. Gurn noticed, his good eye narrowing.
"She likes you," he grunted, tossing a scrap of meat into the cage. The bitch ignored it. "Never seen her take to a boy so quick. Careful, though. Shadow's got a temper."
Thor nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Shadow. A fitting name. He crouched near the cage, keeping his distance, and met the hound's gaze. "We're not so different," he whispered, too low for Gurn to hear. "Both of us waiting for our moment."
That night, Thor lay in the straw, the kennels quiet except for the hounds' soft whines and Gurn's snoring. The cold seeped through the stone, but the straw was warmer than the Wolfswood's frozen earth. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, but the dream returned instead.
The girl with white hair stood in a field of ash, her crown of thorns dripping blood. Behind her, a tower burned, its flames licking the sky. *You are not what you seem,* she said, her voice a whisper in his bones. *The wolf's shadow falls long, but the ash rises higher.* A raven landed on her shoulder, its beak snapping at the air. Thor reached for her, but his hand passed through smoke, and the field dissolved into snow.
He woke with a start, his breath hitching. The kennels were dark, but Shadow's eyes glowed in the gloom, watching him. Thor's hand brushed his palm, where the ghost of a scar still lingered. The dream wasn't just a dream—he was sure of it now. It was a warning, or a promise. Maybe both.
He sat up, his mind racing. Winterfell was a fortress, but it was also a cage. He was inside, but he was still nobody—a boy with a borrowed name, scraping shit for a man who'd sooner feed him to the hounds than trust him. He needed more than survival. He needed a plan.
Thor's eyes drifted to the kennel door, where a sliver of moonlight crept through the crack. Beyond it lay Winterfell's heart—the great hall, the maester's tower, the library. Knowledge was power here, just as it had been in his old life. If he could learn to read the North's secrets, he could start carving his place in it.
But first, he had to deal with Red Nose and his shadows. They'd come for him again, and next time, words wouldn't be enough. Thor's fingers closed around the flint in his pocket. A spark could light a fire—or burn a foe.
He lay back in the straw, Shadow's eyes still on him. The girl's voice echoed in his mind: *The cunning rule the bones.*
"Let them try me," he whispered.
The North would learn his name.