The heavy oak door closed behind Theon and Rodrik, leaving Rickon Stark, Bennard Stark, and Gilliane Glover in the silence of the lord's chamber. The tension lingered like frost over the hall.
Rickon's gaze softened slightly as he reflected inwardly on his son. Theon was young, brash, yet his words betrayed a wisdom born of more than mere age—a vision that reached beyond immediate fears to the hard truths of their people's survival. There was promise in the boy's fire, but also the heavy burden of leadership yet to be fully earned.
Across the room, Bennard Stark's eyes narrowed, a mocking smile touching his lips as he broke the silence. "A little boy trying to meddle in the affairs of men," he scoffed. "Theon thinks himself a lord before he's learned patience or humility."
Gilliane's eyes flashed with maternal fire as she stepped forward, defending her son fiercely. "He is our son, and though young, he sees what many older men blind themselves to. The North needs strength and vision, not just tradition wrapped in fear."
The sharpness in her voice was a warning.
Bennard's sneer deepened, ready to retort, but Rickon raised a hand to silence them both, his voice calm but resolute.
"Enough. Bennard, Gilliane, your words are weighed by your love and your fears. Theon's path will not be easy, but we must not stifle the very fire that might save us."
He looked between them, steady as a mountain. "We must temper youthful courage with wisdom, and wisdom with boldness. The North survives not by fearing change, but by mastering it with strength and heart."
The room fell still as the weight of Rickon's words settled among them, binding old disputes with the shared hope resting on Theon's shoulders.Theon Stark sat alone in his chamber, thoughts swirling like snow caught in the wind. His father's words lingered, sharp as a wolf's bite: "What will you do to protect the North?"
He had ideas. Ideas too large for his years, perhaps too large for any boy. But the North, cold and hard, was a land where small changes mattered. A single fire in a storm could save a village. A single tool could shift the lives of thousands.
And so, when his morning lessons came, Theon strode into the maester's chamber with a mind already burning. The air smelled of parchment, wax, and smoke. At the desk sat Maester Luwin, quill scratching swiftly across a sheaf of records.
The old man looked up, brows rising. "Ah, young wolf," he said with a teasing smile. "You found the time for your education at last."
Theon's lips curled into a smirk. "I've already finished the lessons you planned for me, Maester."
Luwin paused, then chuckled. "Have you now? Bold claim. Then let us make a wager. If you answer my questions, I will end our class. If you fail, you will do as I command, without protest."
Theon nodded calmly. "Agreed."
He took his place on the bench. The questions began.
"How many houses rule the North?" Luwin asked.
Theon answered without hesitation, listing not only the Great Houses but the bannermen, cadet branches, and holdfast lords.
"Who rules the Seven Kingdoms?" Luwin pressed.
Theon replied swiftly, naming King Jaehaerys Targaryen and reciting the line of succession.
The maester narrowed his eyes and made the questions harder. Numbers. Measurements. Principles of healing and the growth of plants. Theon's answers were precise, unflinching.
So Luwin turned to Essos. "What of the Freehold of Valyria? How was it destroyed?"
"The Doom," Theon answered smoothly. "Fire and quake. Mountains split, rivers boiled, and dragons screamed as the land itself tore apart. The greatest empire the world had known, gone in a single breath of ash."
"Braavos, then? How was it founded?"
"By slaves who fled Valyria, hiding in the fogs, building their city on secret isles. Their secret weapon: not swords, but unity."
Silence followed. Maester Luwin leaned back in his chair, sighing. "You know all this. More than most men in my order. What use have you of me, boy?"
Theon's voice was quiet, but steady as iron.
"No, Maester. There is still much you can teach me. Knowledge is like the sky—it has no end. If you have knowledge, let others light their candles by it. A bird does not sing because it has an answer, but because it has a song. We are not what we know, but what we are willing to learn. Good men find wisdom through failure. Knowledge is only potential power—unused, it is nothing."
For a moment, the old man stared at him. Then, with a slow chuckle, he shook his head. "Seven save us. You may be a child in years, Theon Stark, but your mind is that of an aged lord. Very well. No more lessons today. Go, before I ask you questions you might answer better than I."
He returned to his writing. Theon lingered a moment, watching the maester dip the quill into ink again and again. The feather frayed, the nib catching on the parchment, the inkwell smudged at the rim. The quill was weak, fragile, endlessly needing to be cut anew.
There must be a better way.
A thought struck him, swift as an arrow. He left without another word, striding quickly to his chamber. There he took parchment, ink, and charcoal, and began to sketch. Lines, shapes, measurements. His hand moved with precision, memory guiding him from a life long gone. When he was done, a new kind of tool stared back at him from the page—a pen, not of quill, but of metal and craft.
Without delay, he sought out Roderick Dustin and Martyn Cassel, the master-at-arms. They were deep in talk, but stopped as Theon called.
"My lord," Martyn greeted. "What is it you require?"
"I need you both to come with me to the blacksmith," Theon said firmly.
Martyn raised a brow. "A new sword? Armor? Say the word, and I'll have it forged."
Theon shook his head. "Not a weapon. Something different. And I must explain it myself."
The two men exchanged glances, then followed.
At the forge, the blacksmith straightened from his work as they entered, wiping soot from his brow. "My lords. What shall I forge for you? A blade, a helm?"
Roderick grinned. "Not this time. The little lord has something else in mind."
The smith turned to Theon, puzzled. "Then tell me, my lord."
Theon handed him the drawing. The man frowned. "What is this?"
"A substitute for quill pens," Theon replied. "A tool that holds ink inside itself and lets it flow when writing. At the tip, a small bead—round, to prevent tearing parchment. A narrow slit to control the flow."
The smith blinked. "Such a thing… I have never heard of it."
"Then you shall make it," Theon said. His voice was calm, but sharp as steel. "Gold or silver, for they will not rust. Thin plates, molded properly. If you craft them right, we can make two hundred in a day."
The smith's eyes widened. "Gold and silver? My lord… such materials…"
"What? Can you not work them?" Theon asked, voice hardening.
"I can, I can," the man stammered. "But why not iron?"
"Because iron will rust," Theon said flatly. "And rust kills usefulness."
Martyn Cassel frowned. "But where shall we find such precious metal, Theon? It does not lie about in the snow."
"I will ask my father," Theon said. His voice carried certainty. "And he will agree, if the results prove their worth."
Roderick crossed his arms, eyeing him. "Do you truly think this will change the North, little lord?"
"No," Theon replied, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Not at once. But it is the first step. A drop of water alone is nothing. But drop by drop, an ocean is made."
The smith bowed his head, already measuring the drawing with his eyes. "Three days, my lord. Three days, and I will bring you this pen."
Theon nodded once, a spark in his gaze. "Good. Then let us begin."
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