Chapter 1: The Thunderer's Rude Awakening
The first sensation to pierce the thick, suffocating fog of his oblivion was the cold. A biting, invasive cold that seeped through his ale-soaked tunic and into his very bones, a stark contrast to the usual fug of stale air and spilled liquor that had become his world. It was a clean cold, sharp and unforgiving, carrying on its breath the scent of pine and damp earth, so alien to the salt-and-beer-scented air of New Asgard. For a moment, a fleeting, hazy thought drifted through the maelstrom of his mind: had he passed out in the refrigerated shipping container again?
A groan, more animal than divine, rumbled in his chest, the sound a testament to the monumental hangover that was currently staging a full-scale assault on his skull. His eyelids, heavy as leaden shields, fluttered open to a world bleached in shades of grey. A low, oppressive sky, the color of a dull, unpolished blade, stretched out above him, threatening a downpour that his throbbing head felt it could ill afford. He was lying on his back, the roughspun fabric of his tunic scratching uncomfortably against his skin, and the ground beneath him was a mixture of mud and melting snow. Towering over him, stark and imposing against the grim sky, were walls. Great, granite walls, formidable and ancient, crowned with crenellations that seemed to claw at the clouds. At their base, a massive gate of iron-banded wood stood closed, a silent, unyielding sentinel.
Thor pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with a chorus of groans and aches. His head swam, the world tilting and swaying as if he were still on a storm-tossed longship. He blinked, trying to clear the bleariness from his eyes, and that's when he saw it. Leaning against a gnarled, leafless tree, its dark, Uru-forged head half-buried in the muddy ground, was Stormbreaker. The sight of his weapon, steadfast and familiar, was a small anchor in the churning sea of his confusion. The gnarled, Groot-given handle felt cool and solid in his grasp, a comforting weight that was both a tool of immense power and a painful reminder of all he had lost.
He staggered to his feet, his bearish frame casting a long, wavering shadow in the weak light. He was a ruin of a god, his once-magnificent physique lost beneath a thick layer of fat, his golden hair a tangled, greasy mess that fell in lank strands around his face, and his beard, once a symbol of Asgardian pride, was now a wild, unkempt thicket where crumbs and forgotten morsels of food likely resided. His eyes, one a startling sky blue, the other a cybernetic implant that glowed with a faint, amber light, were bloodshot and puffy, windows to a soul drowning in a sea of grief and self-loathing.
"Alright, you mischievous whelps," he slurred, his voice a gravelly rumble, the words thick with the remnants of a drunken stupor. "The jig is up. Very funny. Stranding your king in… wherever this desolate wasteland is." He squinted at the imposing castle before him, its stark architecture unfamiliar. "This isn't the work of the Valkyrie… she lacks the subtlety. Korg? No, too… solid." He patted Stormbreaker's head. "Did you do this, old friend? Did you have a little too much of the lightning and decide to take us on an unscheduled trip?" The axe, of course, remained silent, its ancient power dormant for now.
His rambling was cut short by the sound of approaching hoofbeats and the jingle of harness. A party of men on horseback was emerging from a smaller gate set within the larger one. They were clad in leather and fur, armed with longswords and spears, and at their head rode a man with a grim, yet noble, countenance. His dark hair was beginning to grey at the temples, and his grey eyes, the color of the stormy northern seas, held a look of weary vigilance. He was not a king, Thor could tell that much. There was no crown, no ostentatious finery, but he carried an authority that was as palpable as the cold.
As the riders drew closer, their expressions shifted from cautious curiosity to open-mouthed astonishment. They had likely never seen a man of Thor's sheer size, nor one dressed in such… peculiar attire. His stained tunic, baggy trousers, and worn leather boots were a far cry from the practical, fur-lined garments of the North. And then there was the axe. The sheer, brutal magnificence of Stormbreaker, even half-buried in the mud, was enough to make any warrior's hand itch for their own weapon.
The lead rider reined in his horse a respectful distance away, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "You are a long way from home, stranger," he said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the authority of one used to command. "This is Winterfell. What is your business here?"
Thor blinked, the name "Winterfell" meaning nothing to him. "Winterfell?" he repeated, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "Catchy name. Bleak, but catchy." He took a swig from a leather flask he'd miraculously managed to keep on his person, the fiery liquid doing little to quell the pounding in his head. "My business? My business is finding out who in the Nine Realms thought it was a good idea to deposit me in this… chilly suburb of nowhere."
The man's brow furrowed at the mention of the "Nine Realms." It was a term from the old tales, the stories of the First Men, but not one used in common parlance. "I am Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North," he announced, his tone formal, yet not unkind. "And you are trespassing on my lands."
"Lord Eddard Stark," Thor echoed, a flicker of something akin to respect in his bleary eyes. He'd dealt with lords and kings before, and this one, for all his grimness, had the bearing of a man who had earned his titles. "Well met, Lord Stark. I am Thor, son of Odin." He paused, a wave of melancholy washing over him at the mention of his father's name. "Formerly of Asgard. Currently… a resident of a charming seaside village with an unfortunate lack of proper mead."
The name 'Thor' and 'Odin' hung in the air, thick with the weight of ancient myth. The guards exchanged uneasy glances. They were names from the stories their grandmothers told them by the fireside, names of gods and monsters from an age long past. To hear them uttered by this giant of a man, with his strange clothes and his even stranger axe, was unsettling, to say the least.
"Thor?" a younger man, with auburn hair and a confident, almost arrogant, smile, spoke up from beside Lord Stark. He was handsome and well-built, with the easy grace of a born warrior. "As in the God of Thunder? And Odin, the Allfather?" There was a hint of mockery in his tone, a playful skepticism that grated on Thor's already frayed nerves.
Thor's eyes, one blue, one amber, narrowed on the young man. "The very same," he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "And you would do well to remember your courtesies, boy, lest you wish for a taste of the thunder you so readily mock."
The young man's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease in his eyes as he met the intensity of Thor's gaze. Eddard Stark, however, remained impassive. He had seen too much in his life to be easily swayed by boasts or threats. "My son, Robb, means no disrespect," he said, his voice a calm and steadying presence. "But you must understand our… surprise. The gods of our ancestors are not known to walk among us."
"Yes, well, I've been making a lot of house calls lately," Thor muttered, taking another pull from his flask. "Usually to smite my enemies and protect the innocent, but lately it's been more about… sampling the local libations."
"You are drunk, stranger," another man in the party observed, this one older, with a grizzled beard and a practical, no-nonsense demeanor. He was Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, and he had a keen eye for a man who had spent too long in his cups.
Thor let out a hearty, if somewhat pained, laugh. "Drunk? My good man, I am far beyond drunk. I am on a spiritual journey of fermented grains and distilled spirits. A pilgrimage to the bottom of the barrel, if you will." He gestured with his flask, sloshing some of its contents onto the muddy ground.
Eddard Stark's patience, while considerable, was not infinite. The man was clearly addled, but he was also a giant of a man with a weapon that looked like it could cleave a knight in two, armor and all. And there was something about him, a sorrow so profound it was almost a physical presence, that gave the Lord of Winterfell pause.
"Drunk or not, you are still on our land," Eddard said, his tone firm. "And you have yet to explain how you came to be here."
"That, my lord, is the million-gold-dragons question," Thor sighed, rubbing his temples. "One moment, I was in my humble abode, enjoying a quiet evening of… reflection. The next, a rather unpleasant sensation of being turned inside out, and then… this." He gestured vaguely at the imposing castle and the grey sky.
"Turned inside out?" Robb repeated, his curiosity piqued despite his earlier skepticism.
"A rather crude but not inaccurate description of traveling the Bifrost," Thor explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He then noticed the blank, uncomprehending stares of the men before him. "The Rainbow Bridge? Connects the realms? No? You people really need to get out more."
Eddard Stark had heard enough. This 'Thor' was either a madman, a liar, or something far, far stranger. In any case, he could not be left to wander the countryside in his current state. "You will come with us to Winterfell," he declared, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You will be given food and shelter, and when you are… sober, you will answer our questions."
Thor considered the offer. The prospect of food was appealing, as was the idea of a roof over his head that wasn't the perpetually grey sky. And perhaps, just perhaps, inside that formidable castle, he might find some answers. Or at the very least, a better quality of ale.
"Lead the way, Lord Stark," he said, with a mock-bow that was surprisingly graceful for a man of his size and inebriation. He bent down and, with a grunt of effort, pulled Stormbreaker from the mud. The axe seemed to hum with a faint, inner light as he held it, the runes etched into its surface glowing with a soft, ethereal blue. The horses shied away at the sight, their eyes wide with fear, and even the hardened guards of Winterfell could not suppress a shiver of unease.
The procession to the castle was a strange one. Thor, trudging along on foot, Stormbreaker slung over his shoulder, was a bizarre and intimidating figure amongst the mounted Northmen. The people of the winter town, the small village that huddled outside the castle walls, stopped and stared as he passed, their faces a mixture of fear and awe. Children hid behind their mothers' skirts, and old men made signs to ward off evil. Never before had such a being walked their humble streets.
As they passed through the great gates of Winterfell, Thor was struck by the sheer, unadorned strength of the place. It was a castle built for war, not for show, a fortress designed to withstand the harshest of winters and the most determined of foes. The courtyard was a hive of activity, with stableboys tending to horses, blacksmiths hammering at their forges, and guardsmen practicing in the yard. And everywhere, there was the sound of life, the chatter of voices, the laughter of children, the barking of dogs. It was a symphony of normalcy that was both jarring and strangely comforting to Thor's battered soul.
Lord Stark led him to the Great Hall, a vast, cavernous room with a high, beamed ceiling and a massive hearth at one end. A long, oaken table, large enough to seat a hundred men, dominated the center of the room. A woman with long, auburn hair and the striking blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun rose from a chair by the fire as they entered. This was Catelyn Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and her expression was a mixture of concern for her husband and suspicion towards the giant he had brought into their home.
"My lord, who is this… man?" she asked, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of steel.
"This is Thor, my lady," Eddard replied, his voice low. "He… appeared at our gates. He is… lost."
Thor gave a small, lopsided smile. "Lost is one word for it," he said, his gaze sweeping over the Great Hall. "I prefer 'geographically bewildered'." He then spotted a flagon of what looked like wine on the table and, without a word of invitation, strode over and poured himself a generous helping. He downed it in one long gulp, the rich, red liquid a welcome change from the harshness of his flask.
"You have a fine vintage here, my lord," he complimented, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Catelyn Stark's eyes narrowed. The man's boorishness was as immense as his stature. "You are in our home, ser," she said, her voice sharp with disapproval. "You would do well to remember your manners."
Before Thor could offer a witty, and likely inappropriate, retort, a gaggle of children burst into the hall, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. There was a handsome, dark-haired boy who looked to be Robb's younger brother, a fiery, red-haired girl with a mischievous glint in her eyes, a younger, more demure girl, and a small boy with a mop of brown hair who was chasing after them with a wooden sword. Bringing up the rear, with a quiet, watchful air, was another dark-haired boy, his expression more serious than the others.
They all stopped in their tracks at the sight of Thor, their ayes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. The small boy with the wooden sword, Bran, pointed at Thor and whispered, "He's a giant."
The fiery-haired girl, Arya, took a step forward, her eyes fixed on Stormbreaker. "What's that?" she asked, her voice filled with a bold curiosity that reminded Thor of a young Sif.
"This," Thor said, a genuine smile gracing his lips for the first time since he had woken up, "is Stormbreaker. And it is not a toy."
"Can it cut through a man's head?" Arya asked, her eyes gleaming.
"Arya!" Catelyn chided, her face a mask of horrified disapproval.
Thor, however, let out a booming laugh. "Aye, little one," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It can. And it has." The laughter died in his throat as a fresh wave of memories, of Thanos, of failure, threatened to pull him back under. He took another swig of wine, the familiar burn a welcome distraction.
Eddard Stark, seeing the shadow pass over the stranger's face, decided it was time to take control of the situation. "Thor will be staying with us for a time," he announced to his family. "He will be given a room in the guest quarters. And he will be treated with respect." He looked pointedly at Robb, who had the grace to look slightly abashed.
"Jory, have a room prepared," Eddard commanded one of his guards. "And see that our guest is provided with whatever he needs."
"A large flagon of your strongest ale would be a good start," Thor grumbled, but he allowed himself to be led away, the curious eyes of the Stark children following him as he went.
As he was shown to his room, a simple but comfortable chamber with a warm fire already crackling in the hearth, Thor couldn't help but feel a strange sense of… something. It wasn't quite hope, that was a sentiment he had long since abandoned. But it was something. A flicker of life in the desolate wasteland of his soul.
He sat down heavily on the bed, the straw mattress groaning under his weight, and placed Stormbreaker on the floor beside him. The firelight danced on the Uru metal, the runes seeming to pulse with a life of their own. He was a long way from home, a stranger in a strange land, a broken god in a world of men. But for the first time in a very long time, he was not entirely alone. And as the warmth of the fire began to chase away the chill in his bones, a single, unfamiliar thought surfaced in the depths of his despair: perhaps, just perhaps, this was not the end. Perhaps, in this cold, grey land of Winterfell, there was a chance for a new beginning. Or, at the very least, a decent drink.