Winterfell's godswood was a place of silence. Not peace—never peace—but old, heavy silence, like the breath of the trees held since the First Men walked beneath their boughs. It was there, beyond the heart tree's weeping red leaves, that Thor found stillness. Not rest—he dared not rest—but stillness. A place to think, to breathe, to watch the game unfold.
He came early, before the sun pierced the snow-laden clouds, slipping out through the servants' tunnel he'd mapped two nights before. No one saw him. He moved like a ghost now. Or a shadow.
Even in the stillness, he wasn't alone.
Jon Snow was there.
He knelt beneath the heart tree, his eyes closed, his breath fogging in the chill air. A bastard in name, a wolf in blood. Thor had watched him spar with Robb Stark from afar—Jon was faster, quieter, and far more aware. There was a fire in him, banked low, but real. A boy trying not to burn. Like Thor.
Thor didn't speak. He crouched low behind a root, watching. Studying. There was no value yet in being seen by a Stark, even a half-one. Not until he had something to offer. Not until he was more than a kennel whelp.
Later, in the kitchens, Betha brushed past him as she stirred a pot of bone stew. She dropped something—a folded scrap of parchment, smudged with kitchen grease. Thor snatched it up without pausing.
"Saw what you did. Clever. Come to the ash tree at dusk."
No name. No threat. Just ink and implication.
The ash tree stood near the old well, where the walls of Winterfell met the beginnings of the Wolfswood. It was dead—burnt during one of the old fires long before Thor's time—but still standing, scorched black and twisted like a witch's finger. A place no servant lingered near. Too many ghosts, they said.
Thor went anyway.
Betha was already there, her scarf pulled tight against the cold, her eyes sharper than before.
"You're not just a kennel boy," she said quietly. "You watch. You wait. And that thing with Red Nose's blade…" She trailed off, impressed. Or wary. Or both. "You plan like someone twice your age."
"I learn fast," Thor replied. He kept his hands in his pockets. One always on the flint.
She studied him. "I don't know who you are. But I know you're dangerous. I like dangerous. Winterfell's full of wolves and sheep, and both get eaten. But the fox—he survives."
Thor said nothing. She continued.
"I can't help you. Not much. But I know things. Who sneaks into whose bed. Which guards drink on duty. Which servants carry secrets for their lords." She stepped closer. "I want to see what you do with them."
"Why?" Thor asked, voice low.
Betha smiled. "Because I'm tired of being ignored. And I think you're going to matter, Thorn."
He nodded once. A quiet pact was made beneath the ash tree.
Days passed. Thor didn't act. He observed.
Lord Eddard Stark rode out to hunt wild boar, taking half the guard. Lady Catelyn spent more time in the solar, her hands red from worry or letters. Robb was bold in the yard, and Theon—always laughing—tried too hard to be noticed. Benjen trained the squires, his movements sharp, almost resentful.
Thor learned their habits. Their weaknesses.
And one night, he struck.
He left Red Nose a gift—a dead rat in his bunk, throat slit, placed on his blanket like an offering. He stole nothing. Said nothing. Just let it be found.
The kennel boys were uneasy now. They muttered of curses, of vengeful spirits. Red Nose stopped laughing. The balance shifted again.
But not everyone feared him.
Gurn watched with his single eye, silent and grim.
"You're a quiet little bastard," he muttered one night. "Smarter than the others. That bitch of yours won't stop looking at you."
Thor didn't correct him. Shadow wasn't his, not yet. But she was watching, always watching, her scarred face pressed to the bars.
"She was born in blood," Gurn said, scratching his beard. "Killed her own littermate for food. I almost drowned her." A beat passed. "But then she bit me. Drew blood. First one that did."
Thor looked up. "And you let her live."
"She earned it." Gurn spat. "Don't make me regret giving you the same chance."
Thor didn't answer. He just turned back to Shadow's cage.
That night, he dreamed again.
The white-haired girl stood in a snow-covered throne room, its walls cracked and bleeding. Fire licked at the edges. You are waking, she said, her crown of thorns burning bright. The North is blind, but the shadows see. Learn to cast your own.
When Thor awoke, the hounds were silent.
Shadow was standing at her bars, tail still, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Not watching now.
Waiting.