She had only come to bring food. Like every day, just as her mother used to do and had taught her.
She had done it a hundred times before—serving meat and ale to rough men passing through. Yes, sometimes they touched her, sometimes they touched where she didn't like. Sometimes they asked things of her she couldn't deny because she knew that if she did, both she and her father could be hurt. So she let it happen—from squeezing her recently filling breasts to slapping her arse, she just endured it—but never had she feared for her life as she did now.
The Lannister soldiers had eaten their fill. Her father hadn't demanded either silver or copper from them, yet they turned on her like wolves. One of them grabbed her, laughing, pulling her close while the others jeered.
She kept her mouth shut, just as she was taught to. But... it hurt. They... they kicked her father down like a dog. Her clothes were torn, her skin bruised. She was about to be dragged to the floor.
And just when she couldn't stop her tears from spilling, he stood up.
The tall man in the corner. The one with the golden hair and quiet eyes. He hadn't spoken much since he entered with his companions, hadn't looked at anyone. But now he stepped in, and she felt like the world itself paused.
She didn't know his name, but in that moment, she thought she was looking at a king. No, not just a king—something greater. A knight from the old songs, a crowned lord, like The Warrior himself had come in him.
With a single blow, he sent the man who held her flying across the room. The brute slammed into the wall with such force that he didn't even scream—he just crumpled and didn't move again.
She was stunned, didn't even care that she was half-naked, that her breasts were visible, that her torn skirt barely hid what little she had to offer in her life. She only looked at him, in a daze.
He said something, but she couldn't quite catch it. She heard someone else talking to her from the other side, but at that time, her sole focus was on the man who stood between her and those men.
The others drew their swords. She watched. It never occurred to her to run or to get away. She just observed him. The man—her savior—never flinched. Unarmed, he moved like a storm. His fists struck like hammers, his feet like iron. Every time his fist connected, the men fell. Every time his kick landed, they were thrown. One by one, the soldiers fell, armor and blades meaning nothing in front of him.
She had never seen anything like it.
When it was done, he turned to her. His face was kind now, not angry. He pulled off his dark cloak and stepped forward. She didn't move—couldn't—and gently, he wrapped the cloak around her torn dress, covering her.
"I'm still expecting that bread, my lady. Maybe bring something for yourself as well. Wouldn't mind a beautiful company like you," he said as he slowly pressed her hand on her head.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to speak, to thank him, but no words came. It was like a dam broke the moment that hand—the very same that had killed those men like they were ants—softly landed on her head, giving her a reassuring pat.
He turned back to the others, like the whole thing had been nothing, like he hadn't just beaten five armed men with his bare hands. She stared at him, heart pounding.
Who was he? A lord? No, he couldn't be. The Prince.
---
The moment the Lannister knights barged into the inn, the air turned heavy. Ned, Arya, and Sansa sat quietly in a corner with Thor. Their faces hidden beneath hoods, trying not to draw attention. But the noise of armor, cruel laughter, and heavy boots made it clear—trouble had entered.
At first, the Stark family sat still. But then the knights turned on the innkeeper's daughter. She had only stepped forward to collect the plates when one of the men grabbed her. Laughter echoed as he struck her across the face and tore her dress. Others joined in, circling like wolves.
Sansa gasped and grabbed Thor's arm. She didn't say anything, just needed something—or someone—to hold onto because she knew what was happening.
A sudden fear crept in. Both Arya and she covered their faces, but still, fear rang inside her seeing what was happening to the girl.
Thor's eyes never left the scene. Calmly, he replied, "I need another bread."
"Why?" She surely heard wrong. But he didn't care. She was already moving.
She had no answer. Her hand dropped.
Arya was already standing, hand on her sword. "We have to help her!" she said, voice burning with rage.
Ned Stark held her back gently. "No. Watch."
"But..."
"I assure you, Thor doesn't need your help, Arya. If anyone needs help, it's them," Ned said with a calm tone.
In a blink, he crossed the room. One swing of his fist sent the first man crashing into the wall, unconscious. Gasps filled the room. The other man stood, drawing swords. It didn't matter.
Sansa watched this with wide eyes, her mouth forming a peculiar shape as she saw the man fly and hit the wall.
Ned just observed the fight that ensued with contemplation. He wasn't sure what to think about Thor. He was a good man, an honorable man as long as his actions were considered, even though he had punched himself.
But a side of his mind was telling him that this man was dangerous. He alone could destroy armies. He clearly looked like someone of high birth.
He was strong enough to win any kingdom for himself.
So why come to Winterfell? Why go so far to help him? And why was he so taken with the White Walkers?
"The Walkers." Suddenly Ned realized that he had completely forgotten part of the reason he came to the south.
He had utterly failed to get any help from the lords of the other kingdoms for the upcoming war.
Beside him, Sansa sat stunned. Arya, completely opposite, had her eyes sparkling. "That was incredible," she whispered.
Ned stood. "Time to leave. Before more of them come."
However, that was the moment when Thor actually went ahead and asked for another two loaves of bread and came back to eat.
"Here, make sure you share with Sansa." Thor handed one of the loaves to Arya and started chewing on the other, like nothing had happened.
xxx
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