The warmth inside Winterfell was a lie.
Not in the hearths or halls—those were warm enough—but in the stares that lingered too long, the muttered words behind calloused hands, the way eyes flicked toward Thor with a blend of suspicion and contempt. A stray boy brought in by a girl with a noble-sounding name? The walls had ears, and already they whispered.
Betha moved briskly through the lower halls, nodding at servants, never letting Thor fall too far behind. "You'll stay near the kennels," she said at last, halting near a heavy door with a black iron latch. "Old Hullen's boys keep the hounds. There's straw, warmth, and food if you don't cause trouble."
Thor stared at the thick oaken door. Inside, the sharp bark of a hound echoed, followed by a guttural human voice, cursing in the cadence of the North. The air here was thicker—damp with fur and sweat and something else he couldn't name.
"What do I say?" he asked quietly.
Betha hesitated, then met his eyes. "You say as little as possible. You're clever, I can see it. But clever boys don't last if they act like lords."
Her words settled into him like stones in snow. He nodded.
She gave a half-smile, then knocked once before pushing the door open. The smell hit Thor like a blow—wet fur, blood, meat. The barking grew louder as a dozen eyes—canine and human—snapped toward them.
A burly man stepped forward, wiping his hands on a bloodstained rag. His beard was matted, his eyes sharp. One of them, Thor noticed, was cloudy and dead, a pale blue stone sunk in weathered skin.
"What's this?" the man barked.
Betha stepped aside. "A stray, Kennelmaster. I found him by the stream. He's quick, and quiet."
The Kennelmaster narrowed his good eye at Thor, then spat into the straw. "Quick and quiet's good for dogs. Not for boys." He turned to Thor. "You got a name?"
Thor swallowed. "They called me Thorn," he lied smoothly, twisting his name just enough.
The Kennelmaster grunted. "Thorn, is it? Sharp little weed. Can you clean shit and not cry about it?"
"Yes, ser."
"I ain't no ser. I'm Gurn. If you cry, I throw you to the hounds. If you steal, I let them eat your fingers. If you run, I let them chase you."
Thor nodded. "Understood."
Gurn gave him a long look—then a slow, unsettling grin. "He's got the look. Like a pup that's been beat but won't stop snarling."
Betha placed her basket of herbs by the door. "I'll check in tomorrow."
"Don't bother," Gurn grunted. "If he lasts the night, maybe he's worth feeding."
Betha hesitated. Her fingers twitched near her skirts, but she said nothing. Thor caught the glance she gave him—an unspoken wish for luck. Then she was gone, swallowed by the stone halls.
Gurn shoved a half-rotted broom into Thor's hands. "Sweep. Then clean the pens. You bleed, you mop it. You vomit, you eat it."
Thor set to work without a word.
As he scraped straw and filth from the floor, he listened. The hounds growled and barked, each with a different tone. Some whined at his approach, others bared yellowed teeth. One, a massive black bitch with silver scars along her muzzle, watched him with eerie stillness.
He felt eyes on him—Gurn's, and the other kennel boys. There were three of them. Older, lean with wiry muscle. One had red hair and a nose that had been broken twice. The leader.
They didn't speak to him.
But they didn't need to. The way they sharpened blades near the kennel's hearth, the way they threw bones to the dogs with careless precision—it was all a warning.
This was not just a kennel.
It was a proving ground.
As night fell, Thor huddled in the straw near the black bitch's cage. The cold found its way through stone and skin. He didn't sleep. He listened. To the wind against the walls. To the soft steps of servants. To Gurn's snoring.
And beneath it all, like a heartbeat buried in the earth, he felt it again.
That presence.
The girl with white hair. The crown of thorns. Her eyes like snowfields under moonlight.
"Blood follows the brave," she whispered in his mind."But the cunning rule the bones."
Thor clenched his fist.
This was only the beginning.
He would survive.
And one day, they would all remember the name.
Even if he had to carve it into the North with fire and ice.