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Chapter 4 - Shadows in Stone

Theon Stark walked the maze-like corridors of Winterfell, his small boots whispering across flagstones older than most kingdoms. The castle breathed around him: pipes beneath his feet carried the warmth of hidden hot springs, a quiet miracle of architecture born in the age of Brandon the Builder. Towers, baileys, and courts rose in solemn rhythm, enclosed by double walls of grey granite and a broad moat, a fortress designed not for beauty but for survival.

Winterfell pulsed with life even in the heart of snow. Servants hurried with buckets sloshing from the wells, guards patrolled the walls in wolf-marked surcoats, and the clang of steel from the yard rang with the rhythm of training swords. Beyond, the smoke of Winter Town curled into the pale sky. Mostly a ghost-village in warm months, the town swelled each winter with crofters, herders, and villagers fleeing frost for the safety of Winterfell's shadow.

Theon had wandered its narrow lanes often: log-and-stone cottages hunched against the wind, market stalls piled with salted fish, hunters hawking pelts stiff with ice, and children shrieking through snowdrifts. To him, the faces of Winter Town told a story written in the lines of hunger and endurance—the true strength of the North lay not in swords alone, but in the stubborn will of its people to live.

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Family and Kin

His family were pillars in this living fortress.

Lord Rickon Stark, his father, bore the solemn weight of his line. Reserved and watchful, he ruled not by fear or charm but by an unyielding sense of duty. When snow pressed hard, Rickon opened stores, ensured no child starved, and treated lord and shepherd alike with the fairness of the Old Gods.

Lady Gilliane Grover, his mother, softened the hall's chill with laughter. Her wit was keen, her kindness patient, and her quiet strength steady as Winterfell's stones. She was warmth in the frost, and Theon—reborn from fire and ashes—found her presence a balm to a soul long burdened by war.

Uncle Bennard Stark lingered in shadow. A quiet man, sharp-eyed, quick to smile but slower to trust, Bennard wore loyalty like a cloak—but Theon saw beneath it. His gaze lingered too often on his brother's chair, his voice too eager when counsel was sought. EMIYA's instincts whispered warnings: here was envy coiled like a serpent, waiting.

Bennard's children mirrored him, loyal yet restless. To most, they were merely kin; to Theon's watchful eyes, they were threads in a tapestry fragile as frost. Loyalty and rivalry wove together—fine, delicate, easily torn.

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Roddy the Ruin

Winter Town was thick with folk when Theon last ventured there, and it was there he met Roddy the Ruin—Roderick Dustin, Lord of Barrowton.

Roddy was scar and iron made flesh, broad as an oak, his laughter rumbling like thunder, his eyes still bright despite age and battles that had chewed through friend and foe alike.

"You know, little lord," Roddy barked over the din of the square, "your lady mother will flay us both alive if she learns we've slipped out without her leave."

Theon smiled. "She will not be angry. I'll speak with her."

Roddy chuckled, shaking his head. "Words soften some blows, lad, but not all. Besides, you're too sharp for your years. Half your father's iron, half your mother's fire. Dangerous mix."

They walked the market together, weaving between stalls heavy with mutton and turnips. Roddy's voice dropped lower as they walked. "You wonder why I linger at Winterfell, eh? A lord of Barrowton, far from his seat?"

Theon tilted his head. "You've handed lordship to your son. But there's more. You'd rather spend your last years braving the road, risking a blade, than withering on a chair with nothing but gruel for company."

Roddy laughed, loud and unashamed. "By the gods, you've a tongue sharp as a spear. Yes, boy, I've no taste for dying warm and weak. Better a sword in hand, one last fight worth singing."

Theon studied him, reading not only his words but the shadows behind them. Roddy was loyal, aye, but he carried regrets like scars. Pride, grief, hunger for a worthy end—these were blades as sharp as any steel.Roddy was a formidable and savage warrior, renowned for his commanding presence and enduring strength on the battlefield. He was known for leading from the front, wielding shield, helm, and warhorn, and fighting with the boldness and stubborn pride revered among Northmen.Roddy the Ruin came from Barrowton, one of the great houses of the North, traditionally loyal to House Stark. House Dustin had long served as a crucial Stark bannerman, its lands and fortress standing guard over burial mounds as old as the First Men. Lord Dustin's loyalty to the Starks was born not just of oaths but of deep shared history—these ties were reinforced by marriages and intertwined feuds with Stark kin over generations. In times of war and peace, Dustins had often stood at the Starks' side when banners were called.

"What do you think of the North?" Theon asked at last. "In your heart—what should we keep, and what should we change?"

Roddy's gaze swept the streets: the fires glowing behind frosted windows, the laughter of children, the stubborn life clinging against winter. "The North is pride, lad. Pride and memory. We hold to oaths, kin, gods. Harsh winters keep us honest. But stubborn pride—aye, that's our curse. Starks, Dustins, Karstarks, all the same. We hold grudges too tight, fight too long, and forget the world changes around us. That's the failing of the North."

Theon listened, weighing the words. He knew the truth of it already. Pride untempered became poison. Memory alone could not save a house—or a realm—from fire.

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Watchful Eyes

As they turned back toward the looming gates of Winterfell, Theon felt it again: the old instincts stirring. He marked the way merchants eyed one another with envy, how guards laughed too loud to mask fear, how ambition flickered in Bennard's quiet stare. The smallest cracks in stone grew widest over years; so too did men's hearts betray them in time.

The boy and the old wolf walked side by side, two souls of different winters, bound by snow, steel, and a land that demanded both sacrifice and strength.

The North remembered. And so did Theon Stark—though his memories were not of this world.

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