Chapter 2: A God in the Kennels
Thor awoke to a symphony of unfamiliar sounds. Not the gentle lapping of waves against the shores of New Asgard, nor the boisterous, drunken singing of his fellow survivors, but the distant clang of hammer on anvil, the hearty shouts of men in a training yard, and the shrill, excited yapping of dogs. For a moment, cocooned in the warmth of a fur-lined bed that was surprisingly comfortable, he allowed himself to drift in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, a brief respite from the ever-present gnawing in his soul. Then, the memories of the previous day crashed down upon him with the force of a Mjolnir blow to the head – the disorienting journey, the imposing grey castle, the grim-faced lord, and his brood of curious children. He was in Winterfell. Wherever in the Nine Realms that was.
A groan escaped his lips as he sat up, his body protesting the movement. The room was bathed in the soft, grey light of a northern morning, a stark contrast to the perpetual gloom of his self-imposed exile. A fire still smoldered in the hearth, a testament to the hospitality of his hosts, and a pitcher of water and a clean tunic had been left on a nearby table. He eyed the tunic with suspicion. It was made of rough, but clean, wool, in a sober shade of grey that seemed to be the preferred color in this land. It was a far cry from his usual attire, but his own clothes were caked in mud and smelled faintly of vomit. With a sigh of resignation, he stripped off his soiled garments and pulled on the new tunic. It was a snug fit, stretching taut across his broad, fleshy shoulders and barely containing the impressive girth of his belly, but it would have to do.
He splashed some water on his face, the cold liquid a bracing shock to his system, and ran a hand through his tangled mane of hair. He caught his reflection in the polished surface of a water basin and scowled. The face that stared back at him was a mockery of his former self – bloated, haggard, and haunted. The cybernetic eye, a constant reminder of his failures, glowed with a faint, unnatural light. He looked away, unable to bear the sight.
His gaze fell upon Stormbreaker, lying where he had left it beside the bed. The axe seemed to hum with a low, latent power, a silent promise of the god he once was. He reached out and wrapped his hand around its gnarled handle, the familiar weight a comforting presence in this strange, new world. For a moment, he was tempted. Tempted to summon the Bifrost, to flee this place and return to the familiar misery of New Asgard. But where was the glory in that? Where was the honor? He had run from his responsibilities once, and the universe had paid the price. He would not run again. Not yet, at least. Besides, he was still not entirely convinced this wasn't some elaborate, cruel joke orchestrated by Loki. The thought of his brother, a phantom limb that still ached with a phantom pain, sent a fresh wave of grief crashing over him.
He pushed the thought aside and focused on the more immediate problem: his thirst. The single pitcher of water had done little to quench the raging fire in his throat, a fire that could only be extinguished by a generous helping of something strong and fermented. With a renewed sense of purpose, he slung Stormbreaker over his shoulder – the axe felt like an extension of his own arm, a part of him he could not bear to be without – and strode out of his room in search of breakfast. And, more importantly, ale.
The corridors of Winterfell were a maze of cold, grey stone, but he followed the sounds of life and the tantalizing smell of roasting meat to the Great Hall. The room was already bustling with activity. The Stark family was seated at the high table, breaking their fast, while the rest of the household filled the long benches below. Lord Eddard sat at the head of the table, a picture of quiet authority, with his lady wife, Catelyn, beside him. The Stark children were all present, their reactions to his arrival a study in contrasts.
Robb, the eldest, gave him a nod of cautious respect, his earlier mockery seemingly forgotten. Sansa, the elder daughter, with her fiery Tully hair and her dreams of southern courts, eyed him with a mixture of fear and disdain, her delicate sensibilities clearly offended by his uncouth appearance. The younger girl, Arya, however, stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, her fork forgotten in her hand, her gaze fixed on the formidable weapon slung over his shoulder. The little one, Bran, perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes bright with a boyish excitement, while the youngest, Rickon, peeked at him from behind his mother's skirts. And then there was the other boy, the one with the Stark look but not the Stark name, Jon Snow. He sat at the far end of the table, slightly removed from the rest of the family, his expression unreadable, his gaze watchful and intelligent.
Thor's entrance had caused a hush to fall over the hall. All eyes were on him, the giant of a man with the storm in his eyes and the mythical axe on his back. He ignored the stares and made his way to the high table, his heavy footfalls echoing in the sudden silence.
"Good morrow, Lord Stark," he boomed, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to shake the very rafters. "I trust you slept well. I, for one, slept like a log. A very large, very thirsty log." He spotted a flagon of ale on the table and, without waiting for an invitation, reached over and filled a nearby goblet. He drained it in one long, satisfying gulp, the cool, bitter liquid a balm to his parched throat. "Ahhh," he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The nectar of the gods. Or, at least, a reasonable facsimile."
Catelyn Stark's lips tightened in disapproval at his boorish behavior, but Eddard, to his credit, remained impassive. He gestured to an empty seat at the table. "Join us, Thor," he said, his voice calm and even. "There is plenty of food."
Thor did not need to be asked twice. He sat down heavily, the sturdy oak bench groaning in protest, and helped himself to a generous portion of everything within reach – thick slices of black bread, rashers of bacon, and a whole roasted chicken, which he tore into with gusto. The Stark children watched him with a mixture of fascination and disgust as he ate, his table manners as wild and untamed as his appearance.
Arya, her curiosity finally getting the better of her, leaned forward. "Is it true you're the God of Thunder?" she asked, her voice a loud whisper.
"Arya, do not be rude," Catelyn chided, but Thor just chuckled, a greasy piece of chicken skin dangling from his beard.
"Aye, little one," he said, his mouth full. "The one and only."
"Can you summon lightning?" Bran asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
"Bran!" Catelyn admonished, her patience wearing thin.
"Of course, he can, you little lout," Thor declared, waving a chicken leg in the air like a scepter. "It's sort of my thing. That, and vanquishing frost giants, wrestling with Midgard serpents, and… well, more recently, enjoying the finer things in life." He took another long swig of ale.
"Have you ever fought a dragon?" Jon Snow asked from his end of the table, his voice quiet but clear. It was the first time he had spoken, and all eyes turned to him.
The question hung in the air, thick with the weight of history. Dragons were a part of the past in this land, creatures of legend and fire and blood, the instruments of conquest that had forged the Seven Kingdoms.
Thor paused, his hand halfway to his mouth. He had fought many things in his long life. Chitauri leviathans, dark elves, the fire demon Surtur… but a dragon? "I once fought a great beast on Muspelheim," he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "It breathed fire and had a hide as thick as a mountain. It might have been a dragon. Or a very large, very angry lizard. It's hard to tell the difference when you're in the heat of battle." He looked at Jon, a flicker of respect in his eyes. The boy had a warrior's spirit, he could see that.
Eddard Stark, sensing that the conversation was straying into dangerous territory, decided to intervene. "Thor," he said, his voice cutting through the children's excited chatter. "We need to talk about your… situation."
"My situation?" Thor asked, tearing off another chunk of chicken. "I'm a guest in your fine castle, enjoying your generous hospitality. What's to talk about?"
"You cannot stay here forever," Eddard said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You are a stranger in this land, with no knowledge of our customs or our laws. And that… weapon of yours…" He glanced at Stormbreaker, which was leaning against Thor's chair, its mere presence a source of unease. "It is not something to be carried lightly."
"Stormbreaker is a part of me," Thor said, his voice low and serious. "It does not leave my side."
"Be that as it may," Eddard continued, "we need to find a way for you to… return to your own people."
"That," Thor said, with a sigh, "is easier said than done. The Bifrost is not a carriage you can summon at will. It is a force of nature, a bridge between worlds. And I… I am not the man I once was." He drained his goblet and refilled it, the familiar act a small comfort in the face of his own inadequacy.
A silence fell over the table, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sound of Thor's chewing. Catelyn Stark looked at her husband, her eyes filled with a silent plea. This man, this god, this drunken, boorish giant, was a danger to their family, a disruption to the peace and order of their lives. But Eddard's expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the stranger who had fallen from the sky and into their lives.
After the meal, Eddard, ever the practical and responsible lord, decided that the best way to deal with his unusual guest was to keep him occupied. "Ser Rodrik," he called out to his master-at-arms, a grizzled veteran with a no-nonsense demeanor. "Perhaps you could… show our guest around the training yard."
Ser Rodrik looked at Thor, his eyes sweeping over the god's corpulent frame and his formidable axe, and then back at his lord, a flicker of disbelief in his eyes. "My lord?"
"Thor is a warrior," Eddard said, a statement that was both true and, in Thor's current state, a cruel irony. "Perhaps he would appreciate the chance to… stretch his legs."
Thor, who had overheard the exchange, let out a hearty laugh. "An excellent idea, Lord Stark!" he boomed. "It has been too long since I've had a proper workout. Lead the way, Ser… Roderick."
Ser Rodrik, with a resigned sigh, led Thor to the training yard, a wide, open space where the men of Winterfell honed their skills with sword and shield. The yard was already a scene of controlled chaos. Robb and Jon were sparring with blunted swords, their movements quick and skillful, a dance of steel and sweat. A group of younger boys were practicing their archery under the watchful eye of a guardsman, while others were engaged in drills with spears and shields.
Thor's arrival, with Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder, brought the activity in the yard to a grinding halt. All eyes turned to him, the men of Winterfell sizing up the strange, giant of a man who had been taken in by their lord.
"So," Thor said, surveying the scene with a critical eye. "This is where you make your warriors." He pointed a thick finger at Robb and Jon. "The boys have spirit. But their footwork is sloppy."
Ser Rodrik's bristles at the criticism. "They are still learning, my lord… Thor."
"Nonsense," Thor scoffed. "A warrior is always learning. Show me what you have." He gestured to a rack of practice swords. "I will take on your best man."
A murmur of excitement went through the assembled guards. This was an opportunity to test the mettle of this strange, boastful giant. Ser Rodrik, however, was hesitant. "I do not think that is wise…"
"Are you afraid, Ser Roderick?" Thor taunted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Afraid I'll show you how a real warrior fights?"
The challenge had been issued, and to refuse it would be a blow to the pride of the North. With a reluctant nod, Ser Rodrik gestured to one of his best men, a burly guardsman named Hullen. "Hullen, you will spar with our guest."
Hullen, a man who was large by mortal standards but still dwarfed by Thor, stepped forward, a practice sword in his hand. He was a good fighter, strong and experienced, but there was a flicker of apprehension in his eyes as he faced the God of Thunder.
Thor, for his part, did not even bother to pick up a sword. He simply stood there, a lopsided grin on his face, Stormbreaker still slung over his shoulder. "Come on, then," he said. "Show me what you've got."
Hullen, with a battle cry, charged at Thor, his sword a blur of motion. He was fast and strong, his blows aimed at Thor's head and chest. But Thor, for all his bulk and his inebriation, was surprisingly agile. He dodged and weaved, his movements fluid and economical, a ghost of the warrior he once was. He didn't even seem to be trying, and yet Hullen's every attack was met with empty air.
The guards watched in stunned silence. They had never seen a man move like that, with such effortless grace and power. Robb and Jon had stopped their own sparring to watch, their mouths agape.
After a few minutes of this one-sided display, Thor grew bored. "Is that all you have?" he asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice. With a flick of his wrist, he caught Hullen's sword arm, his grip like a band of iron. Hullen cried out in pain as the sword clattered to the ground. Thor then spun him around and, with a gentle push, sent him stumbling into a nearby hay bale.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. Thor had defeated one of their best men without even breaking a sweat, and without even using a weapon.
"Not bad," Thor said, with a nod to the fallen Hullen. "You have a strong arm. But you rely too much on brute force. A true warrior fights with his head as well as his heart."
He then turned his attention to Robb and Jon. "You two," he said. "You have potential. But you are too predictable. You need to learn to think outside the box. To use your environment to your advantage." He picked up a nearby bucket of water and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it flying towards them. They yelped as the cold water drenched them, sputtering and shaking their heads.
Thor let out a booming laugh. "See? A little chaos is good for the soul. It keeps you on your toes."
Ser Rodrik, his face a mixture of anger and grudging respect, stepped forward. "That is enough," he said, his voice firm. "This is a training yard, not a tavern brawl."
Thor just shrugged. "As you wish, Ser Roderick. But a little brawl now and then never hurt anyone. Well, not permanently, anyway."
He spent the rest of the day wandering the castle, a restless, brooding presence. He found his way to the kennels, where the hounds of Winterfell were kept. The dogs, instead of barking and growling at the stranger, seemed to sense the power and the sorrow in him. They whined and licked his hand, their tails thumping against the ground. He sat amongst them for a long time, the warmth of their bodies a small comfort against the cold that seemed to seep into his very bones.
He was a god in the kennels, a king on a throne of straw, surrounded by the only creatures who did not judge him for what he had become. And as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the courtyard of Winterfell, he felt a profound sense of loneliness, a loneliness so deep and so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He was a stranger in a strange land, a relic of a bygone age, a god who had lost his way. And for the first time in a very long time, he did not know if he had the strength to find it again. He was Thor, son of Odin, the God of Thunder. And he was utterly, completely, and hopelessly lost. He reached for the flask at his hip, the familiar burn of the cheap liquor a welcome, if fleeting, escape from the unbearable weight of his own existence.