Chapter 2 - The symbol of house Stark

The towering walls of Winterfell came into view as the horses trudged through the snow-laden path, their hooves muffled by the frost-covered ground. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and the scent of roasting meat and burning wood filled the air, a welcome change from the cold, still wilderness of the Wolfswood.

Robb adjusted his grip on the black direwolf pup nestled inside his cloak, keeping it close for warmth. The little pup had slept most of the ride back, stirring only occasionally with a soft whimper. Its fur was dark as midnight, and when it had briefly opened its eyes, they glowed green like the depths of the Wolfswood. It was the largest of the litter, a fitting match for the heir of Winterfell.

Storm trotted faithfully beneath him, unfazed by the long journey, though she flicked her ears as the howling of the pups occasionally broke the quiet.

At the gates, the guards recognized their lord's party and hurried to open the massive doors, allowing the riders to pass into the familiar courtyard of the Stark stronghold.

As soon as they entered, movement erupted within the castle. Maester Luwin descended the steps from the Great Keep, his grey robes billowing as he moved with hurried steps toward Lord Stark. Septa Mordane and several handmaidens stood nearby, waiting for the arrival of Lady Catelyn. Old Nan, ever watchful, peered out from the kitchens, while several stable hands rushed forward to take the reins of the horses.

But the first to reach them were Bran and Arya, both rushing forward the moment they spotted the riders.

"What happened?" Bran asked eagerly, his breath misting in the air as he ran up beside Robb's horse. "Did you see anything?"

Before Robb could answer, Arya had already spotted the small bundle moving inside his cloak. "What's that?" she demanded.

Robb dismounted smoothly, patting Storm before pulling his cloak open, revealing the black direwolf pup in his arms. Its ears twitched as it let out a small, sleepy growl.

Arya's eyes widened. "A wolf!"

"Six of them," Jon cut in, dismounting with Ghost cradled in his arms. The pale pup stirred but made no sound.

That was when Sansa and Rickon arrived, Sansa moving with careful grace while Rickon simply ran toward them with all the energy of a boy half his age.

Lady Catelyn followed at a more measured pace, her gaze first settling on her husband before sweeping over the boys. "What is this?" she asked, brows drawing together as she noticed the wolves.

Ned Stark dismounted and looked to his children. "Come inside. We'll speak in the hall."

The children obeyed, though their excitement could barely be contained. Once inside the Great Hall, the wolves were finally revealed in full, each pup carefully placed down on the rug-covered floor as they sniffed and stumbled about.

Bran knelt beside a grey pup with bright blue eyes, touching its fur with awe. "It's ours?" he asked, looking up at his father.

Ned gave a slow nod. "Yes. There were six—one for each of you."

Bran's grin was wide as he pulled the pup closer. "I'll name him Summer."

Sansa, though hesitant at first, knelt beside a sleek white pup with grey markings. Unlike the others, it did not squirm or whimper but sat quietly, watching her with intelligent eyes. "She's pretty," Sansa murmured, hesitating before running a hand along her fur. "Lady. That's what I'll call her."

Rickon was already giggling as his small grey wolf climbed over his lap, licking his face eagerly. "Shaggydog!" he declared at once.

Arya had to pull hers from beneath the table, where it had already begun exploring. A dark grey pup, wriggled in her grip, letting out an excited yap. "Nymeria," Arya said with a determined grin.

Jon crouched with Ghost, who sat obediently beside him, his red eyes gleaming in the firelight.

And Robb—Robb sat back as the largest of the pups padded toward him on unsteady legs, his black fur blending into the dim light of the hall. Green eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between them.

"Have you thought of a name?" Jon asked.

Robb ran his fingers through the thick fur behind the pup's ears. He had been bred for this, for battle, for loyalty, for the cold of the North.

"Fenrir," Robb said at last. It felt right. Strong. Fitting.

The pup let out a small, approving growl, and Robb smiled.

Ned watched the scene in silence, but there was something in his eyes—something deep, something unspoken. A father looking upon his children, each with a symbol of their house, of their legacy.

Perhaps the old gods had sent them a sign after all.

The warmth of the Great Hall did little to ease the tension that followed Lady Catelyn's disapproving gaze as she took in the six direwolf pups now sprawled across the rushes. The fire crackled in the large hearth, but even that did not break the cold edge in her voice as she spoke.

"I will not have these animals inside my halls," she declared, her lips pressing into a thin line.

The pups, as if sensing the shift in the mood, quieted slightly. Even the more restless ones—like Arya's Nymeria and Bran's Summer—paused their playful scuffling.

"They are not dogs," Robb said firmly, stepping forward before his father could respond.

Lady Catelyn turned to him with raised brows. "They are still animals, Robb."

"They are direwolves," he corrected. His voice was steady, resolute. "They are the sigil of our house. They belong here."

A tense silence filled the room. It was rare for Robb to challenge his mother so openly, but he did not waver. He was no longer just a boy; he had passed his first true test of responsibility today, and he would not back down from something so important.

Jon watched quietly from the side, his pale Ghost sitting silently at his feet, observing the exchange with those unsettling red eyes.

Lord Eddard Stark, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was calm, but there was no room for debate.

"Robb is right." He looked at his wife. "These pups were found with their mother, dead in the snow. There were six of them. One for each of our children. If that is not a sign from the old gods, I do not know what is."

Lady Catelyn's lips pressed tighter. She did not believe in signs, not from the old gods at least. She also wanted to remind him that they had 5 children, not six. But she knew better than to argue when Ned had spoken with such finality.

Robb kept his gaze steady. He would not let her brush this aside. These wolves belonged to them—to the Starks.

At last, she sighed, shaking her head slightly, as if she could not believe what was happening. "They will be your responsibility, then." She looked at her husband, then at Robb. "See to it that they do not cause trouble."

"They won't," Robb said confidently, glancing down at the black-furred pup at his feet. Fenrir sat beside him now, large even as a pup, his deep green eyes watching the exchange as though he understood every word.

Lady Catelyn gave one last skeptical look at the wolves before turning away. The matter was settled.

Arya grinned as she scooped up Nymeria again, her excitement barely contained. Bran hugged Summer close, and even Sansa, though still uncertain, seemed to warm to the idea as Lady rested her head on her lap.

Robb exhaled, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. He looked at his father, who gave him a single approving nod.

The wolves would stay.

*****

The training yard was bathed in the faint glow of torches, their flames dancing in the cold evening air. Robb Stark swung his sword in precise, powerful arcs, the blade slicing through the air with a sharp whoosh. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath visible in the chill of the night. The rhythmic clang of steel against the wooden post was almost meditative, a way to clear his mind. But his thoughts lingered on the events of the day—Will's execution, the deserter's haunting words about White Walkers and dead men with blue eyes. It was easier to focus on the physical exertion, to let the ache in his arms and the burn in his chest distract him from the weight of what he'd done, the life he'd taken.

As he paused to wipe the sweat from his face, the sound of approaching boots broke the silence. He turned, his sword still in hand, and saw his father, standing at the edge of the yard. Ned's expression was thoughtful, his dark eyes reflecting the same seriousness Robb had seen earlier that day.

"Robb," Ned said quietly, his breath visible in the cool night air. "Where is this coming from?" He gestured to the sword in Robb's hand, its tip resting against the ground, leaving a small impression in the packed dirt.

Robb tightened his grip on the hilt until his knuckles whitened, his jaw clenching against the turmoil inside him. "I couldn't sleep. Needed to... clear my head." The words felt inadequate to express the restlessness that had driven him from his bed.

Ned stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the scattered straw of the practice yard, his voice measured and familiar. "You're thinking about what happened today."

"It's just..." Robb hesitated, his frustration finally boiling over, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "What if Will was telling the truth? What if there's something out there... something worse than anything we've ever faced?" The deserter's wild eyes haunted him still.

Ned's expression softened, the stern lord giving way to the father, and he placed a weathered hand on Robb's shoulder. The weight of it was reassuring, grounding. "A lord doesn't make decisions based on fear or doubt. He makes them based on what's right. Today, you did what was right."

Robb looked down at his sword, studying the steel that had taken a man's life mere hours ago. "It felt... heavy. Like a weight I'm not sure I'm ready to carry." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying his youth.

"Time will make it easier," Ned assured him, his words as firm as Winterfell's enduring stone. "Just remember the purpose behind your duty. Our lands require more than a mindless soldier. They demand a commander who upholds his principles."

Robb nodded, the words sinking in like roots taking hold in fertile soil. The burden didn't feel lighter, but somehow, it felt easier to bear, shared between father and son in the quiet of the night.