@murder-popsicle gets a starter
No one understood fully what Howard Stark was doing in his lab, night and day. They knew he helped to make weapons, and they knew those weapons kept them alive, that those weapons might very well help their side win the war, so they let him get on with it. The generals, more caught up in monitoring the success of Captain America than asking about scrap metal and wires, didn't question the archway in the corner of the room, nor did they read his notes about the 'multiverse' and 'portals between worlds.' It was an early prototype in any case, and Howard didn't really know what he was looking for, hadn't expected it to really work...
--
A year ago, Robb would have said he didn't believe in magic. He enjoyed the stories of course--like his sister, who held onto ever word their Old Nan told them about knights and princesses and happily-ever-after, Robb found himself captivated by stories of giants beyond the Wall, of the ghosts in the castle Harrenhal, of the Children of the Forest--ancient beings said to watch through the trees--and, of course, the Direwolf--ancient wolves, larger than a horse, thought to have died centuries ago, though, as the sigil of his house, its profile was woven into every flag in Winterfell. But these were stories--nothing more--tales to scare and delight children by the fire.
And then Robb had found a direwolf of his own. Not only was the wolf meant to be dead and wasn't, but Robb soon found that he could communicate with the wolf in strange and unexpected ways. It was not like talking, not exactly. It was as if the wolf could sense his very thoughts, act upon his unspoken commands. And at night, Robb could have sworn he dreamed that he was his wolf, that he would wander the forest on four paws. It was only a dream, of course, but it felt so real--and then there was that morning he'd woken up after a lengthy dream where he'd swam in the river and caught a fish between his fangs, only to find in the waking world that his wolf had, indeed, just returned from the river, fish held in his maw.
Robb could not pretend to understand this connection. He knew only that it was foolish to dismiss the unexplainable when he himself was now part of it. Of course, war had left him very little time to contemplate any of this. But when a glittering light appeared in the corner of his vision--a jagged rip in the air, as if the world itself had been peeled open--Robb was helpless but to follow it.
He had been walking the battlefield, as was his custom after a fight. Despite being named king a fortnight ago, he had not stopped fighting on the front lines, nor had he stopped counting the dead for himself. He had memorized the names of all his men so that he might know which ones had fallen, and he closed their eyes himself and helped to load them on the medics' carts for burial. As for the wounded, he thanked them each for their sacrifice and made sure they were treated properly by someone that knew far more about medicine than he did. All the while, his direwolf, Grey Wind, trotted by his side: a giant, looming beast with sleek grey fur, glowing yellow eyes, and a stature nearly as tall as Robb was at 6'1". Once, his men had feared the wolf. Now, he had become a comforting presence in their camp, their guardian, protector, and a legend spread throughout the realm.
One of his advisors was speaking to him--a report about the supplies--but this time, Robb did not hear him. His eyes were locked upon the light. "Thank you for your council," he said automatically, the formality well memorized despite his distraction. "Excuse me." Leaving his advisor standing, staring after him, several letters in hand waiting to be read, Robb hurried toward the slit in the world, wondering if anyone else could see what he did. His wolf hurried after him. As they grew closer, Robb came to a stop. "Heel," he ordered the wolf. But this time, the beast did not listen. "Grey Wind, stop. Get away from it."
But the wolf continued to move, rushing toward the gash in the air. Robb reached out for him, but too late--without a sound, the wolf vanished, as if he'd never existed before. "Grey Wind!" Robb cried out. He rushed forward, but he'd barely taken a step when it happened--a pull near his naval, the spinning of the world, and suddenly he was stumbling, scrambling to stay on his feet.
At first, he could not find a difference in their two worlds. It was dawn, and the muddy ground was soft beneath his boots, the blood thick on his hands; the early morning air was crisp and the sky gray, and screaming filled the air. These were the sounds of war, and centuries would not change that. But there was a new sound laced within the cacophony: sharper than the clashing of swords, louder than the roar of a cannonball. Robb did not have a word for 'gunfire', could not have searched his mind for the name 'bullet' even if one had pierced through him. But he knew that he was not where he'd been.
His wolf was yet again in front of him, rushing toward a group of men--and one woman--in the distance. They wore strange clothing and held even stranger weapons (were they crossbows? No. They seemed to be made of metal, but this was all Robb could discern).
"Damn you," Robb whispered, more to himself than the wolf--who was clearly not listening anyway. "Grey Wind! To me! Here."
