The dawn was a traitor, promising light but delivering only cold. Thor trudged through the Wolfswood, his boots crunching on fresh snow, each step a battle against the hunger clawing his insides. The faint towers of Winterfell loomed on the horizon, a distant dream of warmth and safety, but the forest seemed determined to keep him. His breath puffed out in white clouds, and his gray eyes darted to every shadow, wary of wolves or worse. The dream from the night before—the girl with white hair, the crown of thorns—lingered like a fever, its images burning behind his eyelids. Was it a warning, or something more? Thor's hand brushed the faint scar on his palm, a ghost of the dream's touch, and he shivered, not entirely from the cold.
He was no stranger to stories of Westeros, thanks to the books and shows of his old life. Ten years before A Game of Thrones, the North was ruled by Eddard Stark, a man of honor in a land where honor was a blade that cut both ways. Thor knew the dangers: the scheming of houses, the looming threat of White Walkers, the treachery that would one day tear the realm apart. As an eight-year-old nobody, his survival hinged on cunning, not strength. "I'm not just a boy," he whispered to himself, testing the words. "I'm Thor, and I'll carve my own path." The resolve felt fragile, but it was all he had.
A rustle in the pines snapped him alert. Thor crouched behind a gnarled oak, heart pounding, as two figures emerged from the mist. They were men, clad in rough furs and boiled leather, their faces weathered by the North's cruelty. One carried a bow, the other a rusted sword. Wildlings, Thor thought, or perhaps deserters from the Night's Watch. Either way, they were trouble. "Tracks here," the bowman grunted, pointing at the snow. Thor cursed silently—his own footprints, careless in his exhaustion. "Some whelp's been through," the swordsman said, his voice low. "Might have food, or coin."
Thor's mind raced. He had nothing but his flint, a tattered cloak, and the crumbs in his pouch. Fighting was suicide, but running might betray him with noise. Then he remembered the North's tales of guile—how a Stark boy once outwitted foes with traps. Thor's old life as a student flashed back: a science fair project on friction and snares. He edged toward a low branch, fingers trembling as he looped his cloak's frayed hem around it, tying it taut to a root. With a quiet snap, he broke a twig and tossed it ten paces away, praying the sound would draw them.
The men turned toward the noise, creeping past the trap. Thor held his breath, then yanked the cloak's end, sending the branch whipping upward. Snow cascaded, blinding the bowman, who yelped and stumbled. The swordsman cursed, swinging wildly, but Thor was already moving, darting through the trees. "After him!" the bowman roared, but the snow slowed them, their heavy steps sinking deep. Thor's small frame gave him speed, and he wove through the pines, heart hammering with a mix of fear and exhilaration. He'd outsmarted them—for now.
By midday, the forest thinned, and Thor stumbled onto a frozen stream. His stomach growled, and his legs ached, but the sight of Winterfell's towers, closer now, sparked hope. Then he saw her—a girl, no older than ten, kneeling by the stream, her auburn hair catching the pale sun. She wore a wool cloak trimmed with fur, and a basket of herbs lay beside her. A Stark, Thor realized, or at least someone from Winterfell. Sansa, perhaps, or a lesser noble's daughter. Her presence was a risk, but also an opportunity. If he could win her trust, he might find shelter—and a foothold in this brutal world.
Thor stepped forward, his voice soft but steady. "Please, m'lady, I'm lost and hungry. Can you help a boy from the woods?" The girl's eyes widened, wary but curious, and Thor felt the first stirrings of a plan. In the North, even a nobody could rise, if he played the game well.