Thor awoke with a gasp and a start. Darkness clung to his vision like a shroud and the air was icy against his skin. For a moment he could not move, only panting, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the night's silence. When his eyes finally cleared, pale starlight revealed only trees – tall black pines and rugged oaks – standing silent as sentinels. He pushed himself up on shaking arms and found himself sprawled on the cold, hard earth. A wave of confusion slammed over him: Where am I? How is this possible? His stomach lurched at the sudden dizziness, muscles weak from the sudden change.
He was freezing. A thin, coarse wool tunic clung to his slight frame, but it offered little protection. Thor sucked in a breath and caught the scent of pine needles and frozen earth. Tiny white crystals danced on his eyelashes. He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled beneath him. Hunger gnawed at his belly – a dull, burning hunger that told him he had gone too long without food. The cold air filled his lungs and he shuddered, feeling each inhale like daggers of ice. For a moment he thought he must be dreaming, or dead – in his world, such pain was impossible. But there was nothing familiar here except the relentless ache in his muscles and the fear filling his mind.
He had read in books that the North's winters were deadly. The saying, "harsh and unforgiving", raced through his head. Now the reality of that knowledge scraped against him. Every breath turned to mist and escaped into nothing; every shiver told him this was no gentle frost. He moved carefully, mindful of every crackle of twig beneath his boots. Frozen pine needles pricked at his arms; the rough bark of a tree gouged his knuckles when he steadied himself. The world was silent except for his own harsh breathing and the cracking ice of his own fingers warming too quickly. I have to stay calm, he reminded himself, the resolve of his old life pressing back the panic. Think, Thor. Think.
The Wolfswood was so-named for the countless wolves that prowled beneath its canopy. Now, as a cold breeze whispered through the pines, Thor's ears caught something in the darkness – a low, distant howl that set every nerve on edge. For a moment he froze, heart hammering. Even with the keen senses of an older man, he was no match for a hungry wolf in these woods. He pressed flat against a mossy bank, breath held, straining to hear anything more. The forest felt alive around him: moonlight wove through the branches, and in that slanted glow he thought he saw movement – the gleam of an eye? Then only silence returned, heavy and still. His old life as a student had never prepared him for this kind of hunting silence.
Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled. Wolves or not, he reminded himself, worse things have happened in Westeros. He reached up and ran fingers through his black hair. It was long and tangled around his face. Panic was replaced by a strange kind of wonder that he still existed at all. All his memories of another world – his classroom, his family, even the mundane screens of his phone – clattered together with new, terrifying realization. He was a boy here, only eight years old, in the cruel North. His name, he remembered suddenly, was Thor. In a quiet voice he murmured the name – just to make sure his tongue still worked. I'm here. I'm alive. The thought was both comforting and frightening in equal measure.
He remembered something about Winterfell – his memory offering one shred of comfort. Winterfell had been built around underground hot springs, piped through its walls to keep the halls warm even in deep winter. Of course, that's just an engineering fact, he told himself, "useless trivia unless I can get there." But the idea of warmth made the cold sink in all the more. He shivered violently as he considered the great castle's stone towers somewhere beyond these trees. If Winterfell was the seat of the Stark lord of the North, perhaps there might be people there, or shelter. But the way was far and treacherous. Still, the thought of any warmth – even the faint hope of friendly faces – lit a determined spark in him.
Thor's wide gray eyes scanned the edge of the clearing ahead. Dawn was approaching; stars thinned and the sky was paling in the east. Through the gaps in the trees, he made out dark, jagged silhouettes on the horizon – tall towers and crumbling walls. He knew that must be Winterfell. That must be Winterfell, he dared to think. The cold wind carried no warmth yet, only the promise of a new day, but it also brought purpose. He might be alone and small, but he was not helpless. With trembling hands he gathered a bit of dry wood and started a tiny spark with flint stones he somehow remembered how to strike. The little flame hungrily licked at the sticks. He hovered his arms over it, letting the flickering warmth cut through the cold. As he huddled there, hooded cloak wrapped tight, Thor felt the old confusion fade into sharp awareness: he was in a dangerous world, ten years before everything he knew would happen – and it was going to be a very long day.