Theon
He still wasn't sure why Lord Stark had asked for him to be there, in the courtyard by the kennels. There had to be some reason, he just couldn't think of one. Perhaps as a witness?
Lord Stark looked at his children with what looked like a carefully weighted stare. "What's on our banner?"
The children – the younger ones anyway – looked confused, whilst Theon shot a grin at Robb, who looked at the young ones with an eyeroll of his own, before Theon and the three oldest Starks chorused: "A direwolf!" Bran, Arya and Rickon joined in towards the end, making it a bit ragged.
"Aye, and in the old days – as you've seen in the crypts – Starks were accompanies by direwolves. Their own direwolves. You've all seen the direwolf pups." Lord Stark sighed. "Now listen, all of you. This is important. Winter is coming. I know that I keep saying that, but it's true. There is a winter coming. A terrible one. So – you'll need to be protected."
He led them over to the kennels, where the female direwolf was waiting. There was an odd bond between those two, something that had been there since the night that the creature had arrived in Winterfell. The direwolf huffed a little and then moved to one side to reveal the pups. They seemed to grow a little every day and their eyes were open already. Dog puppies gambolled and played. Direwolf puppies – well, they had the odd wrestling match to be sure, with growls and yelps as ears were tugged at, but these puppies seemed to be almost as grave as their mother to be honest. They even seemed to be almost lined up.
Lord Stark looked at the direwolves, smiled slightly and then swapped a look with Robb. Ah. This had to be something from Robb's memories. He smiled slightly inside and then wished that… no. That door was shut now. He would never have the same level of friendship with Robb as he once had. Not after what that other him had done.
"You, my children, are to have direwolves all of your own. The grey one at the far end is Robb's direwolf. Robb, I understand that you already have a name in mind?"
"Grey Wind," Robb said without a moment's hesitation. Ah. That was Robb's direwolf from that other future. "That's his name."
Lord Stark smiled a little. Then he pointed at the next one, which was grey with yellow eyes. "Sansa. That one is yours. Take care of her. She looks to be a little lady." He placed the slightest stress on the last word and Theon supressed a slight smirk. Subtle.
Bran got the next one and then Arya. From the way that her eyes lit up he could tell that she already had visions of wargs bounding through her head. Rickon got the next, but was told to think of a good name, and then Jon was given the white one with the strange, almost Weirwood-like red eyes.
That just left the little one at the end. The little, light grey one with the eyes the colour of the sea. He'd been wondering who that direwolf was going to go to. Lady Stark perhaps? Or Benjen Stark? He'd need a direwolf at the Wall. That said, could he take the time off being First Ranger to bring the pup up?
Lord Stark reached down and picked up the grave little direwolf – and then he looked at Theon. "Theon," he said, "You have been like a son to me at times, and a brother to Robb. I know that you have seen much recently – and turned to the Old Gods as a result. You are more of the North now than the Ironborn. You have sworn to protect Winterfell and the North. Will you accept this direwolf as a symbol of this?"
His heart seemed to stop in his chest for a moment and then hammer as if he had been running a race. "I'd-" He stopped speaking. He was being squeaky. That was a bad thing. "I'd be honoured, Lord Stark."
Lord Stark handed the little direwolf over to him and he cradled the little creature in his arms. It was a boy pup and it looked up at him with a pair of almost intent eyes, before yawning hugely and then seeming to fall asleep.
He realised that he was staring at the pup when a hand descended on his shoulder. Robb was there, next to Lord Stark and he was smiling at him. "This almost makes you a Stark, you know."
It took him a long moment before he could find the right words. "I would like nothing else than to be Stark. There's… there's more for me here than I'll ever find at Pyke."
Robb looked at him intently. "That other future is gone now," he said in a voice pitched barely enough to reach Theon's ears. "It's gone."
"Aye, it has," Theon replied. Then he smiled. "I'd rather be a Greystark than a Greyjoy."
"Not a bad thought," Lord Stark said as he approached. The others were dispersing, with many a backwards glance at the pups, who had merged into a sleeping mound of fur and whiffling noses. "One to keep quiet, although now you have a direwolf… well. Let them talk. You need to think of a name for the pup though. He'll be ready to leave his mother soon."
"Does she have a name, Father?" Robb asked with a frown.
"Aye, I've been thinking about that. I need to talk to Jojen reed about it. He almost said a name when he arrived and as that lad has the Greensight I want to make sure that my hunch is a right one."
Theon thought about it for a long moment. "Mist," he said firmly. "His name is Mist."
Lord Stark nodded firmly. "A good name," he said quietly. "A good name." He opened his mouth to say more, but then a horn sounded from the gates. A few moments later old Roderik Cassel appeared, puffing slightly.
"My Lord," the older Cassel panted, "Ten people approach the main gate. Jory says that they look like Hill Clans. And with a flag of parley."
Theon strode over to the heap of pups and gently deposited Mist there. And then he hurried after the others – who were accompanied by the direwolf. Something was happening.
Ned
He frowned to himself as he strode towards the gatehouse. Hill clans? Now? They had all sent ravens pledging support to him against the Others. So why would ten of them appear before the gates of Winterfell with no word of their arrival beforehand? Why a flag or parley? And why was his direwolf padding at his side. She looked at him for a moment and let out a 'huff' of air that almost sounded amused for an instant and then she looked ahead again.
The gates were creaking open and he could see others starting to approach. Roose Bolton was there, next to GreatJon Umber, with Howland Reed following from what looked like the path to the Godswood, his children following him. All nodded gravely at him and he acknowledged them with a nod of his own.
The ten people that came through the gates were… an odd collection. They were dressed in a shambolic collection of pieces of armour and it took him a moment before he realised that the party was comprised of both men and women. One was a huge man with two axes strapped to his back, carrying a chest and the proud owner of a beard that even Lord Karstark, had he been there, would have found to be impressive.
The moment that they all caught sight of him they stopped dead in their tracks, several with their faces working with emotion. And then the man carrying the banner of parley, a grey haired man with a beard, stepped forwards. He grounded the banner and then turned to glare at the others, before going almost hesitantly down on one knee. The others followed his example.
After a long moment the man looked at him. "You are Lord Stark. The Stark in Winterfell." It was not a question, it was a statement of fact. And the accent…
"I am," he answered. "I am the Stark in Winterfell."
The man nodded. "I see you – and your direwolf. It is as it was foretold. I am Rhys, son of Daner." For some reason one of those names rang a bell in his mind, but then the man was speaking again, his voice tight with emotion. "You called us. We have come. We are First Men, all. We remember the tales of the Long Night. You have our swords." His eyes flickered at the massive man to one side of him. "Aye, and our axes. But we are here. We are the Free Folk of the Vale, those who did not bend the knee to the Andals."
Ned stared at them. "You are the Mountain Clans of the Vale."
"So they call us. We are the Free Folk."
"Lord Stark," Howland called out formally, "These must be the people who crossed the Neck without us knowing."
Rhys smirked a little. "Old ways," he said almost lightly. "Old paths." The smirk vanished. "The Others come again, as it was foretold."
"Foretold by who?" Roose Bolton asked intently.
The Clansman shrugged. "A seer, long ago. They said that word would come one day to return to the Wall, that Stark would need us. We are First Men. We know the stakes. We remember. It is our curse and our strength. We will always fight the long war against the Andals, who took what we had. But we will always remember the other war. The war against the Others. You are the Stark in Winterfell. Your ancestors were Kings in the North. Command us. You have our banners, such as we have. Shagga – the chest."
The huge man nodded and then stood. He looked almost nervous as he lifted the chest and then stepped forwards to place it at Ned's feet. Then he ducked his head nervously and returned to his place.
Ned eyed it. It seemed to be made of weirwood – and ancient weirwood at that. There was dust on part of it and it looked as if it hadn't been opened in years. He reached down - and then saw the faded shape of the painted symbol on top of it. No, it couldn't be… his hand shook a little as he reached down, undid the ancient bronze clasp and opened the chest.
Inside was an old linen sheet that served as a dust cover, but beneath that… he picked it up with reverence, feeling the odd touch of the cloth with his fingers. "This feels… peculiar," he muttered. "It should have crumbled to dust years ago, should it not?"
Rhys shrugged. "The First Men had their ways, Lord Stark. This was saved, when everything else was lost."
He unfolded the banner, letting it fall over his hands. "The banner of the Griffon King. The last First Man king of the Vale." His voice shook a little. "We could not come in time." He looked at the Clansmen. "You would march under this banner?"
Their heads came up. "We would. We will."
He looked back the other lords. Lord Bolton had an odd, almost shocked look on his face. Howland looked…. well, like the quiet introspective crannogman that he was. But the GreatJon… well there was look of deep thought on his face.
"The North welcomes the Free Men of the Vale," he said eventually, after a long moment of hard thought. Oh, Jon Arryn would not like this. But it was not as if he had a choice. They were First Men and they were here to fight for the Wall. Fight for them all.
He had a sudden terrible feeling that Westeros would never be the same after this.