Thor, up to this point, relied on his overwhelming power and knowledge from the show to guide him. However, before being reincarnated as a god, he too was a human. And humans make many mistakes.
One such mistake Thor made was believing they were safe and away from danger.
He was wrong. If anything, fate was steering them toward danger. While the Riverlands were indeed under Tully control for the most part, the place they landed was closer to Harrenhal.
The old, burned castle—once praised for its grandeur and beauty, unmatched across Westeros—was now a ruin under the control of Tywin Lannister.
Before Thor could even figure it out, they encountered Lannister men in the open. Worse, they recognized them, leading to the inevitable clash.
Thor fought like a storm, his fists breaking shields and scattering soldiers. But for every man he struck down, five more pressed forward. His hammer was gone, and without it, he could not channel lightning. And then, when swords drew close to the Stark girls, Thor had to stop. He would not risk their lives.
Annoyance, irritation, anger, helplessness, and curses toward his own luck—he didn't know what exactly to feel. All those emotions burned inside him, yet there was nothing to be done. He surrendered for the girls' safety.
Thus, they were all taken—dragged to Harrenhal, the great black ruin that loomed like a corpse against the sky.
Inside, the sisters were given a room in one of the less-crumbling towers. To their surprise, it was comfortable enough—beds, food, even guards who bowed stiffly before shutting the heavy door behind them.
Surely, either the queen or Tywin Lannister himself had ordered his men to keep the girls safe. They were, after all, valuable pawns to wager later in the war.
But freedom? That was gone.
Arya paced the floor, her wolfish energy unbroken. "We can't just sit here, Sansa. We have to get out."
Sansa sat on the bed, pale, her fingers twisting the edge of her dress. "How? Did you see how many soldiers were outside? They watch us even when we eat. You think we can walk past all those men?"
Arya's eyes flashed. "We've escaped before. Thor is here too. If we can get to him, he'll fight for us. He always does."
Sansa shook her head. "He's in the dungeons, Arya. You saw how they dragged him away. He's strong—one of the strongest warriors I've ever seen. He even won against the Mountain. But even he can't fight an entire army."
Arya clenched her fists. "No, Thor can fight. Didn't you see? He was holding them off even when they outnumbered him. He surrendered for us. That scum put a dagger to our necks; otherwise, Thor would have won," Arya said with childish stubbornness.
Though, in this case, her argument had a point. Thor didn't know whether he could have defeated all of them without his hammer, but he could have taken them down until the end.
One man against nearly a hundred was no joke, yet Thor held on. Even without his hammer, by using partial control of his godly strength, he held them off.
However, he had to surrender. Both girls knew their presence had held him back.
Sansa looked down, her voice breaking. "We can't escape outright, but we have to find a way out. Somehow." Even she was worried about Thor.
Unlike them, he was taken to the dungeons. Neither knew what they were doing to him. She could only pray that he was safe.
Arya stopped pacing and came closer, kneeling before her sister. "Maybe… maybe we can bribe one of the soldiers." She asked, her mind already racing with ideas of escape.
Sansa bit her lip, torn between fear and hope. "Bribe them? How? And with what? We have no money, Arya."
Arya nodded, gripping her hand tightly. "True." She clicked her tongue.
Outside, the guards' boots scraped against the stone floors—a reminder that they were not free. Somewhere below, in the black dungeons, Thor sat chained, waiting.
And above them, Harrenhal groaned in the wind, as if the burned castle itself knew their fates were balanced on a knife's edge.
Deep beneath, the dungeons smelled of rot and damp stone. Chains rattled as Thor was forced to his knees. The Lannister men circled him like wolves.
One soldier spat. "This one killed ten of ours with his bare hands. What's this bastard made of, yeh? Bending armor with his fists. Not so strong now, huh, you highborn scum?"
Needless to say, no matter whether they knew Thor's identity or not, anyone would mistake him for a highborn.
These lowborn men had a special hatred for highborns—for obvious reasons. The nobles had things they could never dream of.
They struck him—fists, boots, the iron butt of a spear. Thor glared at them, blood on his lips, defiance burning in his eyes.
The pain wasn't much—his body could endure far more—but the anger building inside him hurt worse.
This helplessness… it was the first time he had felt it, and he was furious.
He tried again and again to summon the thunder within him, to call lightning to his hand—to summon that divine power that made him strong. But nothing came.
It was as if all his divine gifts had collectively forsaken him. He couldn't muster any power; his body only trembled—not from fear, but from the strain of a power that refused to answer him.
"Why do you smile, you brute?" one guard sneered as Thor grinned through bloodied teeth.
"'Cause you're the first one I'm gonna kill," Thor growled.
That only brought harsher blows. Again and again they struck him, until his breath grew shallow. Some men wanted to end it there, but Tywin Lannister's orders were clear—keep the stranger alive.
The last strike to his head finally sent Thor crashing into unconsciousness.
"Tch… come out, you fucks. We need that man alive until Lord Tywin comes," one of the men barked, making it clear that any more hits were off-limits.
…
[Flashback]
Instead of waking up with a sore body, Thor found himself standing in a place he was very familiar with—and yet, had never truly been to.
It was Asgard, the golden halls of memory.
"What the…" He couldn't even begin to describe what he saw—the magnificent castle, the rainbow bridge, the strong presence of magical energy in the air. He was awestruck.
"Come here…" Suddenly, a shout rattled him out of his daze. He looked around to find a small boy holding Mjolnir.
He was younger—his hair shorter, his frame not yet hardened by war. In his hand, he gripped Mjolnir.
"Come to me!" young Thor shouted, holding out his hand. The hammer did not move. He tried again and again, sweat dripping down his brow. Still nothing.
Defeated, Thor sat on the stone steps of the courtyard. "Damn this hammer," he muttered, voice cracking with frustration.
A deep voice rumbled behind him. "That's no way for a prince and future king of Asgard to speak."
Both Thors jolted at the deep, booming voice.
They turned to see an old man with a staff in hand, his one eye gleaming with wisdom.
"Odin," Thor muttered to himself.
"Father…" the younger Thor looked away. "I cannot summon it. I try and fail, again and again."
Odin walked closer, his steps heavy. He passed by Thor without even noticing him.
Thor realized he wasn't actually here—it was like he was watching a memory.
"The hammer is not just a weapon, my son." Odin sat beside the young boy, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You wish for it to come to you. Do weapons do that?" he asked, confusing both Thors.
"But Mjolnir does."
"Yes, Mjolnir does—but not for someone who treats it like a weapon. Because weapons don't listen. Only people do.
You seek to command it, but you must learn to listen. Why would it heed you if you think of it as just another magical hammer?" Odin said, sounding wise if Thor had anything to say about it.
Young Thor frowned. He didn't understand but gave it a try anyway.
This time, he called for Mjolnir by its name—but the result was the same.
"It's no use," the little boy said, dejected.
Odin knelt, placing a hand on Thor's shoulder. "Come with me."
Young Thor looked down at Mjolnir once more, then followed his father.
They walked toward the edge of the veranda, the magnificence of Asgard on full display.
As both father and son watched the realm they called home, Odin suddenly asked,
"Do you think I would throw you down from here?" Odin asked, to both Thors' incredulity.
Both looked down, eyes straining to see the ground far below. They gulped and shook their heads.
"Hmm, no," young Thor said.
To his horror, Odin grabbed the boy by the arm and pushed him out over the edge. Now he dangled over the deadly fall, held only by his father's strong grip.
"Father…" Thor muttered in slight panic.
"Do you think now I'll throw you?" the old man asked again.
Thor stiffened. Would this old man really drop him if he answered wrong?
"Hmm, no," Thor said again, still believing his father.
"Why?" Odin asked, amused.
"Because I believe you. You wouldn't throw me down," Thor replied with conviction.
"I see. You believe I'll not harm you. You trust that I'll keep you safe and come to your rescue if you call," Odin said.
"Yes, Father," Thor nodded. For a child, his father was the strongest being in existence. There was no doubt—and this was Odin, after all. There were few stronger than him in the entire universe.
"Then why can't you believe in Mjolnir the same way?" Odin asked as he slowly set his son back on solid ground.
"Why even question whether the hammer will answer? You know I would come—what's so different about Mjolnir?" Odin asked again.
Both Thors had no answer to that.
"Don't doubt it. Believe in yourself and your bond with the hammer. Only strong will and unwavering confidence can make your blood call out to it, my son. Remember—as the future king of Asgard, you must understand this," Odin said with a smile, motioning for Thor to try again. "This time, believe it."
Thor watched his younger self step forward—confused, but full of faith in his father. He raised his hand.
He didn't speak much—just waited for his fated partner to hear his voice.
"Mjolnir."
xxx
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