That evening, he sought his mother in Winterfell's solar. Lady Gilliane Glover stood by the window, a lamp beside her, carefully reviewing scrolls.
"Mother," Theon began earnestly, "I need your help. I want to ask Father for gold and silver to fund a project."
Gilliane paused, turning toward him with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Gold and silver? These are precious metals, my son. Why would you need such rare materials?"
Theon explained carefully, "It is for a new writing instrument—a substitute for the quill pen. Iron or common metals will rust and spoil the ink flow. Gold and silver resist corrosion and shine the ink steadily on parchment, making the pen durable and reliable."
Gilliane's brows lifted, and admiration flickered in her eyes. "An invention to preserve knowledge and power… worthy of risk. I will help you speak to your father."
Later, they found Lord Rickon in the council chamber, where firelight cast shadows upon stone. Rickon motioned for them to approach, suspicion in his gaze.
"Gilliane," Rickon said, "what is this project Theon speaks of?"
Gilliane stepped forward, firm but calm. "Theon has designed a new pen. A tool that will improve how Winterfell records and governs. He requests gold and silver to craft it."
Rickon's face hardened with skepticism. "Gold and silver? These metals are treasures not to be squandered, especially as winter approaches."
Theon met his father's eyes, steady and unflinching. "I understand your worry, Father. But knowledge is power. This project, though small, could bring great impact. I ask only for the chance to prove its worth."
"What profit will this bring?" Rickon demanded. "How will a pen strengthen Winterfell's walls or fill the bellies of the hungry?"
Theon's voice remained calm. "I cannot fully answer now. But I promise, once the project is finished, the results will please you. This is the first step toward a stronger, wiser North."
Rickon sighed, the weight of lordship heavy in his voice. "You are clever, my son, but this is a risk."
Before he could continue, Gilliane interjected, her voice firm as steel. "He is our son. Give him this chance. Without leaps of faith, we cannot progress. Trust in him, as we trust Winterfell's strength."
For a moment Rickon was silent, caught between caution and hope. At last, he relented. "Very well. You will have the gold and silver. But I expect results—and no failure."
Theon bowed deeply. "I will not let you down, Father."
---
With the precious metals secured, Theon hurried to the blacksmith's forge. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-stained hands, looked up as the young Stark approached.
"My lord," the blacksmith greeted, his gaze falling on the gleaming ingots Theon laid before him.
"Use these to craft the new pen as I have designed," Theon instructed. "Precision and care are needed—it must be perfect."
For three days the forge blazed. Gold melted at 1064°C, silver slightly lower. Thin plates were hammered, shaped, and refined. Apprentices worked tirelessly, their hands steady as they cut a slit of precisely 0.3 millimeters for the ink flow. A tiny rounded bead was affixed to each nib, ensuring no parchment would tear beneath its point.
On the third day, Theon returned with Rodrik Dustin and Martyn Cassel. The blacksmith emerged proudly, holding a cloth upon which gleamed the first batch of golden nibs.
"These are the first," he declared. "Pure gold, finely slit as you asked."
Theon fitted one to a pen shaft, dipped it into ink, and pressed it to parchment. Smoothly, flawlessly, words flowed without blot or tear.
"It works," Theon said quietly, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Perfectly."
Rodrik and Martyn exchanged surprised glances, while the blacksmith grinned with pride.
"A fine piece of craftsmanship, my lord," the smith said. "This will change how scribes work."
Theon's eyes gleamed. "This is only the beginning. With tools like this, knowledge will spread faster, documents will endure, and governance will grow stronger."
---
One week later, Theon stood before his family. Rodrik, Martyn, the blacksmith, and the maester were gathered to witness.
Lord Rickon rose from his seat, stern and expectant. "Show me what you have made, my son, after taking such a heavy amount of gold and silver."
At Theon's nod, the blacksmith stepped forward with a wooden box. He placed it carefully on Rickon's table and lifted the lid.
Inside lay rows of gleaming golden pens, their nibs shining in the firelight, their craftsmanship finer than any lord had ever seen.
The hall fell into silence. Eyes widened—astonishment, admiration, disbelief. For in those pens was not merely metal and ink, but the spark of change.
---