The gates of Winterfell groaned open at dusk, the massive timbers creaking on ancient hinges. Snow drifted down in slow spirals, carried by the cutting wind. Theon Stark rode beneath the archway, Lord Roderick Dustin—Roddy the Ruin—lumbering at his side.
A guard broke from his post, breath steaming as he hurried forward.
"My lord," he said, bowing hastily. "Your father, Lord Rickon, commands your presence in his chamber at once."
Roddy chuckled, scarred lips splitting into a grin. "I told you so."
Theon smirked faintly. "Then best we not keep him waiting. Walk with me, Lord Roderick."
Together they wound through Winterfell's stone passages, their bootsteps echoing like a slow drumbeat. At last they reached Lord Rickon's chamber, where two sentinels stood stiff as carved stone. Theon rapped on the heavy oak.
"Enter," came the voice within.
The chamber smelled of pine-smoke and steel. A brazier glowed in the corner, fighting the chill that clung to the walls. Rickon Stark sat tall in his chair, gray eyes as hard as frozen rivers. To his right stood Lady Gilliane, worry softening her beauty. To his left lingered Bennard Stark, arms crossed, his gaze sharp with something colder than curiosity.
Theon bowed low. "You sent for me, Father."
Rickon's voice was iron striking stone. "Where have you been?"
Gilliane rushed forward, words tumbling before Theon could answer. "Where were you, child? Why no guards? Do you not think of the danger?"
Rickon's hand cracked the table. "Gilliane. Enough. You weaken the boy with your fretting."
She flushed, but Theon caught her hand, brushing it gently. "Mother, I am well. You need not fear."
Rickon's eyes narrowed. "Speak, then. Where?"
"To Winter Town," Theon replied evenly.
"Why? And why without my leave?"
"I wished to see it with my own eyes. Lord Roderick went with me."
Roddy inclined his head. "Aye, I did. And I should've told you, my lord. That fault's mine."
Rickon's glare silenced him. "See you forget not again."
He turned back to his son. "Then speak. What did you see?"
Bennard's mouth curled into a smirk. "Yes, nephew—what marvels did Winter Town offer you that we have not already known?"
Theon ignored him. His voice carried, steady, deliberate.
"Winter Town lies in rows of log and stone houses, roofs heavy with snow. The streets are rutted, frozen mud beneath cartwheels. At its heart stands the market square, with wooden stalls and a well rimmed in ice. The Smoking Log is the inn—smoke-thick, loud, filled with mountain clansmen, farmers, and smiths alike.
"In summer, the town thins, most houses empty. But when winter comes, it swells—fifteen thousand souls pressing against our walls. They come for warmth and safety, but also from fear. Fear breeds unrest, Father. Pride keeps them silent, but silence can crack. Trouble waits, and if left untended, it will strike at the root of Winterfell."
The fire popped in the brazier, echoing his words. Rickon's expression darkened, but Theon pressed on.
"That is why I went. Not for mischief. To understand what must be prepared. Winter Town is not a burden we bear—it is the lifeblood of the North. If it falters, we all falter."
Rickon's tone was sharp. "And you thought to learn this without counsel? Without command?"
"I did," Theon admitted. "Because time is short. Hunger and cold do not wait upon permission. A lord must know his people, not from behind stone, but among them."
For a heartbeat, Bennard's smile widened. "Bold words, little lord. You think to teach us governance now?"
Theon's gaze snapped to him, cold as steel. "I think to answer my father's questions. And I will answer every one."
Bennard shifted, his smirk faltering. Rickon studied his son anew, his voice heavy as snow upon pine.
"Then answer this: what will you do?"
Theon did not hesitate. "Stockpiles must be doubled. Patrols strengthened. The clans drawn closer with gifts of iron and wool. We must see the market square thrives through winter, else unrest festers. And we must show them that Winterfell's wolves watch over them, not merely rule them."
Rickon's eyes gleamed faintly in the firelight. "And how do you know these things?"
Theon's reply was calm, his voice carrying the weight of stone and steel:
"By reading. Through histories—not just of the Seven Kingdoms, but the whole of the known world. From the Free Cities of Essos to distant Yi Ti, from Braavos to the Valyrian Freehold that was once mighty and is now dust. History teaches us that whenever lords neglect their duty to their people, or forsake progress, they doom themselves.
"We must not only advance as lords, but together as a people. Lord or commoner, highborn or low, all must rise as one. Alone, a single stick is easily broken. Together, bound, we cannot be bent."
The words hung in the smoky air, bold and unyielding.
A ripple of surprise moved through the chamber. Gilliane's eyes shone with pride. "All this… my son?"
Rickon leaned back, gray eyes sharpening, the faintest ember of approval kindling within. "Perhaps you are more wolf than pup after all. Bring me your plan, Theon. One forged not of fancy, but of wisdom. If it is sound, I will hear it. If not—"
"Then I will answer again," Theon said, unflinching. "For winter does not yield to one blow, and neither should I."
Rickon held his son's gaze for a long moment. At last, he nodded once.
"Go, then. We shall see if your words hold against the winter."
Theon bowed low. "Yes, Father."
And with Roddy Dustin at his side, he turned and left the chamber—the weight of wolves upon his shoulders, yet borne with the pride of one who would not break.
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