The golden pen lay upon the oaken table, a masterpiece borne of fire and craft. Its nib, fashioned from pure gold, gleamed beneath the torchlight, carefully shaped and engraved with the Stark emblem—a direwolf, snarling in intricate detail, the embodiment of loyalty and strength etched with extraordinary skill. Silver veins reinforced the slender slit that controlled the ink's flow, adding durability without compromising flexibility.
The handle was carved from dense ironwood, dark and polished smooth to a natural sheen. Its weight balanced perfectly with the gleaming nib, sturdy and unyielding against the long winters of the North. Elegance and resilience bound together, the instrument was no mere tool—it was a legacy forged in gold, silver, and ironwood.
Lord Rickon Stark's breath hitched at the sight. A faint gasp escaped his lips as pride flickered in his eyes. The emblem was no mere decoration; it was a mark of their house, their bloodline, and their enduring strength—infused into an instrument of knowledge.
Around the room, reactions painted a tapestry of emotions.
Lady Gilliane's eyes glittered with admiration and hope. "Such a creation reflects the heart and future of our house," she whispered.
The maester, adjusting his spectacles, gave a solemn nod. "A tool to preserve knowledge and strengthen rule. This invention holds great promise, indeed."
Bennard stood slightly apart, lips curling into a polite smile. His face betrayed courtesy, but his eyes were wary—skeptical of innovation, cautious of change, though careful not to voice open dissent.
Rickon's voice, rough but sincere, broke the silence. "This is worthy craftsmanship. A true emblem of our name and strength. A fine legacy, Theon."
He reached for the pen reverently, lifting it with care. The ironwood handle sat firm and balanced in his grip, polished smooth yet sturdy. He turned the nib, the silver veins catching the light, the direwolf glimmering with life. Dipping it into the inkpot, he drew the tip across crisp parchment.
The ink flowed evenly, graceful and unbroken. No blot, no smudge, no pause. Each stroke was as fluid as a river winding through the North. Rickon's eyes widened in awe. "By the Old Gods… this is craftsmanship worthy of our house."
One by one, each was invited to test the pen.
Lady Gilliane accepted it with trembling hands. When she wrote, her voice trembled with wonder. "Such a tool… a marvel of patience and skill. A true keeper of our stories and laws."
The maester tested it next, cautious yet intrigued. He examined its balance, then drew neat lines across the parchment. "Yes… no blotting, no interruption. This invention will safeguard knowledge for generations. A blessing to rulers and scholars alike."
Bennard's turn never came. He lingered on the edge, offering only polite nods. His smile hid unease, his silence hiding thoughts best left unspoken.
The maester, setting the pen down, looked to Theon. "Tell me, how did this idea come to you, young lord?"
Theon smiled faintly. "It was when I came to lessons and saw you writing with a quill. Your hand would be stained with ink, and you had to dip the quill again and again just to continue writing."
The maester chuckled softly, recalling many ink-stained fingers. "Yes, the quill is a crude servant, though faithful. Smudges and spills have plagued us for centuries."
"And that made me think," Theon continued, "there must be a better way. A pen that holds ink and allows steady writing without interruption. That was the seed of this design."
The maester's eyes warmed with approval. "Your observation is keen, your innovation remarkable. This may change not only Winterfell but the wider world."
Rickon leaned forward, curiosity sharpening his tone. "Tell me, then, what is the difference between the quill and this pen?"
Theon spoke with calm confidence. "A quill is a feather, hollow and sharpened to a point. It must be dipped again and again into an inkwell. That means constant pauses, ink stains, ruined garments, and smudged words. My pen, however, has a reservoir to hold the ink inside. The nib allows a steady, clean flow. Writing becomes smooth, uninterrupted, and far more efficient."
Rickon nodded, weighing his son's words. "You have created a beautiful tool. But beauty does not build walls or fill bellies. How will this invention help our people?"
Theon straightened, voice firm. "We will make a thousand pens. First, we will sell them to the Southern Kingdoms. They will crave them—for their lords and ladies will not resist the luxury of gold and silver pens that leave no stains. Their pride and vanity will compel them to buy. Even the Citadel in Oldtown may desire them for their scholars. And beyond Westeros… Essos, Braavos, Yi Ti—distant lands hungry for advancement—would pay well for such marvels."
The maester inclined his head gravely. "The boy speaks true. Such a tool may spread knowledge and governance across realms."
Rickon frowned, suspicion lacing his words. "And what of cost? Gold and silver are not to be poured away like mead."
Theon answered without hesitation. "One pen costs us roughly three gold coins—one gold, and two silver shillings. We will sell them for ten to twelve gold coins each. Even after accounting for transport and trade, the profit will be great."
Rickon studied his son for a long moment, the firelight dancing across his weathered face. At last, his voice came slow and heavy. "Since you were a babe in my arms, I knew you were destined for change. Your vision is not mine, but perhaps it must be so."
He placed the golden pen back upon the table, eyes lingering on the gleaming direwolf. "Very well, my son. Proceed with this project. You have my blessing—and my approval."
Theon bowed, heart alight. "I will not fail you, Father."
The golden pen gleamed under the torchlight, no longer just an invention. It had become a symbol—of legacy, of progress, and of the North's unyielding will to endure.
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