Snow fell like ash on Winterfell's rooftops, soft and unrelenting. In the kennels, the air was thick with damp fur and steam from the hounds' breath. Thor, barely more than a shadow himself, moved with quiet purpose through the straw-strewn paths, avoiding Gurn's eye, dodging Red Nose's smirks. His body still ached from yesterday's scuffle, but his mind—his mind was alight.
Shadow trailed him now, silent in her cage, her eyes never straying far. Even Gurn had noticed. "She'll rip your throat out if you get close," he warned. "Don't mistake watching for liking." Thor didn't answer. He wasn't sure Shadow liked him—but she saw him. That was more than most.
He was watching too—watching everything.
By evening, he'd learned that Gurn drank himself half-blind past sundown, that Red Nose and his boys snuck stolen meat to the hounds, and that Betha—the cook's daughter with the quiet hands—slipped scraps to the kitchen cat but never smiled at the stableboys. She was kind, maybe. Or maybe smart enough not to draw attention.
Thor had no allies yet. But he was building a map.
That night, after the kennels quieted, Thor crept through the corridor beside the butcher's wall, where the stones sweated and the air smelled of salt. He moved like a whisper, barefoot, a trick he'd remembered from childhood stories—soft feet leave no echo. Past the guard tower, he ducked into the shadows of the broken stair that led to the old library's servant entrance.
No one came here after dark.
The door creaked like a dying crow, but no one heard. Inside, dust layered everything. Scrolls rotted on neglected shelves. Books slept beneath cobwebs. But Thor didn't need old lore—he needed structure. He found it in a yellowing map of Winterfell's inner tunnels, tucked beneath a pile of abandoned ledgers. Secret paths, forgotten alcoves, servants' passages. Places to hide. Places to strike.
He traced the paths with his fingers, memorizing each turn, each hall. A plan began to form—not revenge, not yet, but balance. Red Nose had power because no one challenged him. But fear could be shifted. And fear, Thor had learned, burned best when fanned slowly.
On his way back, he left a piece of meat under Shadow's cage—raw, bloody, stolen from Gurn's stores. The bitch didn't move at first. But then she sniffed. Slowly, she approached the bars, teeth flashing in the dark. She didn't growl. She didn't bite.
She ate.
The next day, the boys found something strange.
Red Nose's knife—his prized blade, taken from a dead Ironborn—was missing. No blood, no prints, just gone. He raged through the kennels, tearing hay apart, accusing Thor with wild eyes.
"You think I'm afraid of you?" Thor said quietly, when the boys cornered him near the troughs.
Red Nose lunged. But Thor didn't flinch.
Instead, he pulled a strip of flint from his pocket. "You lost a blade. But you still have fear. I'd keep a tighter grip next time."
Red Nose stared at him, nostrils flaring.
Then Gurn's shout broke the moment. "Enough!" he roared. "Get back to work, all of you!"
They scattered, but the balance had shifted.
Later, under torchlight, Thor returned the blade.
He left it at the kennel door, bloodied with rabbit meat and wedged into the frozen ground, upright like a warning.
He didn't need to win every battle. He only needed to control the story.
And the story now whispered: Don't cross the Thorn.
That night, he dreamed again.
The white-haired girl stood beside a frozen river, her thorn crown half-melted, her eyes wide and sad. The snow remembers, but ash endures, she whispered. The wolf runs, but the flame waits. She held out her hand. A raven landed on her wrist, cawing into the storm.
Thor reached out—and this time, the smoke didn't part. It pulled him under.
He woke breathless, covered in sweat despite the cold.
Shadow was sitting up.
Watching.
Waiting.