The girl didn't speak at first. Her eyes, the color of warm chestnut bark, studied Thor with caution. Her small hand hovered near the basket of herbs, fingers curling as though preparing to run or scream. Thor kept his distance—close enough to be heard, far enough not to frighten her.
He dropped to one knee.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, forcing his voice into the softness of a boy with nowhere else to go. "I... I haven't eaten since yesterday. I got lost in the trees."
It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. The truth bent like a branch in the wind, and he was quickly learning how to lean with it.
The girl's lips pressed into a thin line. She stood slowly, brushing snow from her knees, never taking her eyes off him.
"You're not from Winterfell," she said. Not a question. Her voice was firm for someone her age—trained, perhaps, in courtesy and wariness both. She eyed his torn cloak and chapped hands.
Thor's stomach growled, perfectly timed. A touch of shame colored his cheeks. That helped too.
"I don't have a name," he said, watching her closely for a reaction. "Not really. My ma died. The village burned. Been walking since... before the snows."
That part, he didn't need to lie about. His past life—his real life—was a world away. Here, he was a ghost made flesh, clinging to the frostbitten edge of a new world.
The girl's expression softened, just slightly. She picked up the basket, hesitated, then beckoned. "If you lie, the guards will know," she warned. "They'll throw you to the kennels, or worse."
"I understand."
She nodded, and turned. Thor followed.
As they walked the forest's edge, he took in every detail—the guarded way she moved, the casual glances behind, the way she chose her steps to avoid loose snow or fallen branches. A girl raised in a noble hall, yes, but not ignorant of the dangers beyond its walls.
He dared a question. "What's your name?"
She didn't answer at first. When she finally spoke, her tone was even.
"Betha. Betha Poole."
Not Stark. That was important. One of the servant houses, maybe—nobleborn but low enough to blend in. A name to remember.
The stone walls of Winterfell grew closer. Smoke curled lazily from distant chimneys, and Thor's heart thudded with both hope and caution. This was it—his first real step into the game. The wolves were close now. If he faltered, he'd be devoured.
As they neared the gates, a horn sounded. Betha paused. "Stay close to me," she said. "And don't speak unless spoken to."
Thor obeyed. Two guards stood at the entrance, iron helms catching the pale light. One raised a brow at Betha.
"You've found a pup in the woods?" he asked.
"He was cold and starving," she said with a practiced curtsy. "I thought the kitchens might spare a crust."
The guard grunted. His eyes scanned Thor, pausing at the bruises on his hands, the sharpness behind his gray eyes.
"Your problem if he turns out a thief," he said finally, and stepped aside.
Thor crossed the threshold of Winterfell.
Warmth, faint and distant, drifted from the courtyard's center. Wood smoke. Roasted meat. Voices echoing from beyond stone corridors. He inhaled slowly, letting it settle into his chest.
It felt... almost like home.
Almost.
Betha led him past the yard where young squires sparred with blunted swords. One boy—black haired, all pride and bruises—glared at Thor as they passed. He held a training blade as if it were a crown. Thor glanced back once, memorizing the face.
"Who's he?" he whispered.
Betha rolled her eyes. "Benjen Stark," she muttered. "Thinks he's already lord of the North."
Thor didn't respond. But something in his chest stirred. That name—Benjen. The youngest of the Stark brothers. He had time, but not much. The game was already in motion.
As they entered the servant's wing, Thor finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He had made it inside.
Now the real work would begin.
And somewhere, deep in the snow-laced silence of his mind, the girl with the white hair returned. Her crown of thorns gleamed. Her mouth did not move, but Thor heard her all the same.
"Winter will know your name."
He swallowed hard.
Then let it begin.