The news of the golden pen spread swiftly through the North like wildfire. Whispers of Theon Stark, the "genius wolf," and his wondrous invention reached the ears of lords gathered around hearths and council chambers alike."I hear this young Stark has crafted something unlike any before—a pen that writes without constant dipping," one lord murmured, stirring the embers of the fire. "A tool that could change the way we record our histories and deal with our affairs."Another scoffed but was intrigued. "If true, then this Stark boy is no mere heir but a mind as sharp as his wolf's teeth. I must see this for myself."The lords sent word, travelers began their journey, crossing cold rivers and misty forests, eager to behold the invention and meet the visionary behind it. The banners of Northern houses fluttered across the landscape, making their way to Winterfell in growing numbers.The great hall buzzed with anticipation as these noble guests arrived, each bringing their own questions, suspicions, and hopes. All came to witness the famed pen and decide if this "genius wolf" might indeed bring progress to the hard, enduring North.Winterfell buzzed with the arrival of Northern lords from across the vast and rugged North. House Bolton sent their grim representatives from the Dreadfort, their banners bearing the flayed man fluttering ominously despite the atmosphere of cautious curiosity.The Umber clan, known for their fierce loyalty and hardness forged by relentless winters, rode in from their hold at Last Hearth, faces weathered but eyes sharp with interest.House Mormont arrived from Bear Island, their bear sigils proudly displayed on mantles and shields, symbolizing strength and resilience. The Reeds, rulership of the shadowy Neck, maneuvered skillfully through the marshes to answer the call of Winterfell, their clan's message unmistakable in the solemnity they carried.The Manderlys, masters of the sea and trade from White Harbor, came with banners bright and men numerous, bringing with them both wealth and influence. The proud Karstarks, kin to the Starks through blood and history, entered the castle with heads held high and vigorous steps.Steadfast houses such as the Ryswells and Tallharts journeyed through the cold, alongside fierce mountain clans like the Flint and Hull families, whose roots ran deep through frozen lands and rocky crags.Among this noble assembly was the son of Lord Roderick Dustin, now lord in his own right after his father's abdication. Bearing his family's responsibility with grace, he represented House Dustin and the stouthearted people of Barrowton faithfully.The great hall thrived with voices and cloak-edged banners, the North's diverse yet united lords standing together in anticipation—ready to witness the marvel of the golden pen and to meet the young Stark who wove the future from metal and ink.Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the great hall swung open, silence falling instantly like a shroud. Rickon Stark entered first, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes commanding attention as he walked with purpose. Behind him followed his son, Theon, carrying the quiet confidence of youth and vision; his brother Bennard, whose stoic demeanor masked a keen mind; the learned Maester; and beside them, Lord Roderick Dustin and Martyn Cassel, stalwart men of the North.Rickon strode to the head of the long council table, the stone floor echoing beneath his boots. Taking his place in the lord's high chair, he sat with regal authority. Theon took a seat opposite his uncle Bennard, each guarding their own place, while the Maester and Roderick settled at Rickon's sides. Martyn stood tall behind Rickon, watchful and ready.Rickon fixed his sharp gaze upon the assembled lords, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Welcome to Winterfell. You have all gathered here, but I ask—what is the reason that brings the lords of the North to my castle?"His tone was commanding, full of the weight of leadership, waiting for the council's voice and purpose amid the shadows of ancient stone.As Rickon's sharp gaze swept across the gathered lords, a chorus of brief, varied replies filled the great hall.Lord ryswells spoke first, his voice steady, "We have come to see this golden pen and the boy Stark who dares to innovate for the North. If this tool is as powerful as they say, it may secure our place in the stories yet to be written."Lord Umber's gravelly voice added, "The North has long been a land of sword and shield, but a pen that can carry our laws and tales might serve as well as any blade."Lady Karstark, proud and clear, said, "Our strength comes from history and honor. This invention may help us preserve both more surely than before."Lord Manderly nodded, "From White Harbor, we see promise in any tool that aids learning and trade. If this pen can improve the lives of our people, it deserves our attention."A voice from the Mountain Clans, a Flint chieftain, grunted, "Aye, let us judge this pen by what it can do—not what it looks like."Lord Reed of the Neck, sly and reserved, commented, "Curious, certainly. Yet we watch for how this invention serves the North's fierce spirit, not just fancy metal."Some lords exchanged cautious glances, aware that change always bore risk, but the overall mood was one of growing intrigue, hope, and respect.Rickon's son, the new lord of House Dustin, stood tall and declared, "I carry my father's honor and the duty of Barrowton. If this pen can strengthen our voice and writ, I stand with the Stark boy who brings it forth."The lords and ladies exchanged looks before several began to speak, sharing their varied reasons, hopes, and concerns.After the last words echoed, Rickon turned to a nearby servant. "Bring forth the box containing the pens."Moments later, the servant returned with a wooden box, sturdy and well-crafted. He placed it carefully before Rickon and left silently.With solemn care, Rickon lifted the lid. Inside, rows of gleaming golden pens, each embossed with the Stark emblem, shone brilliantly in the torchlight.Rickon held a pen aloft and addressed the lords. "Behold the work of Theon Stark—an invention of craftsmanship and vision that I present to you all."The assembly leaned forward, eyes reflecting flickering light and the flicker of hope this new tool brought.The moment was heavy with promise; the golden pen was more than an object—it was a symbol of a future where the North might embrace innovation while honoring its proud legacy.The hall fell into reverent silence.
Then Theon himself stepped forward. His voice was calm, but it carried the spark of youthful certainty. "My lords, if you doubt this pen, let it be tested."
At a nod from Rickon, a table was carried into the center of the hall, set with parchment and ink. Theon chose a pen, dipped it once, and began to write upon the parchment with smooth, unbroken strokes. The golden pen flowed without pause, ink trailing his hand like a river answering its source.
He turned the parchment for all to see. In clear, sharp script, he had written words older than any lord there:
"The North Remembers."
A hush swept the hall.
Lord Umber stepped forward, massive hand dwarfing the pen as Theon offered it to him. He scrawled his name with surprising ease, then stared in wonder. "By the gods… it writes truer than any quill."
Lady Mormont tried next, her hand fierce and steady. "Smooth, strong. This could serve even warriors, when they need their words to stand as firm as their steel."
Lord Bolton's man narrowed his eyes, suspicion sharpening his voice. "Tools bring power. Power can be turned against its wielder. Should one house hold such knowledge alone?"
Murmurs rippled again—fear of change wrestling with awe.
Theon met the eyes of the assembly. "This pen is not for one house, nor to hoard. It is for the North, so our words may endure as our walls endure. For every lord, every bannerman, every free folk who would have their voice remembered."
That boldness—so rare in one so young—stirred something in the gathered lords. Some still frowned, wary of what newness might bring, but others nodded, their eyes bright with the gleam of possibility.
For the first time that night, Rickon's stern lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
The golden pens upon the table were no longer curiosities. They had become symbols—of progress, of unity, and of a North unafraid to wield more than steel.The hush that followed Theon's words was thick, alive with possibility and doubt.
It was Lord Bolton's man who broke it first. His voice was smooth, measured, and dangerous.
"Innovation is a sharp blade, my lords. Today it writes, tomorrow it might rule. If House Stark alone controls this craft, then every contract, every treaty, every history may bend to their hand. Should such power rest in Winterfell alone?"
Murmurs rippled through the hall, some uneasy, some defiant.
Lord Umber slammed his great fist onto the table, his booming voice scattering the whispers.
"Seven hells, Bolton—do you think Rickon Stark would chain us with a pen? We've bent our knees for centuries to Winterfell, and no ink will change that. If the boy has made a tool that saves us time and toil, then let us use it. Steel makes war, aye, but words hold peace!"
Lady Karstark's gaze was keen as she rose.
"The North's strength lies in its honor and memory. Too often our stories fade, twisted or forgotten. If this pen can carve our truth into parchment as sharp as a blade into stone, then I say it serves us well."
Lord Reed of the Neck leaned forward, voice quiet but cutting, like a knife sliding through reeds.
"Perhaps. Yet beware what newness brings. A pen that writes too swiftly may also lie too swiftly. Words can wound deeper than blades when wielded by clever hands. We must be sure this gift is not turned against us."
From White Harbor, Lord Manderly stood, his sea-green mantle flowing.
"My lords, look beyond suspicion. Knowledge is trade, and trade is power. Imagine treaties signed clean and swift, records kept without error, histories preserved without smudge. If the South hears of such pens, they will pay dearly for them—and who will profit but the North?"
That stirred nods among some, especially the Manderly men who knew coin as well as oaths.
The Flint chieftain crossed his arms, his voice gravelly.
"Tools are only as dangerous as the hands that hold them. If the Starks give us pens, we will write. If not, we still carve runes on stone and bark. The North endures, with or without."
Again, murmurs rose, the lords dividing—some leaning toward suspicion, others toward admiration. The debate might have spilled into argument, but Rickon Stark rose, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the table.
His voice silenced the hall at once.
"You speak of trust and fear. Let me remind you—the Starks have ever led the North, not as tyrants, but as stewards of its strength. Did my forefathers hoard steel when the Andals brought their iron blades? Did they hoard walls when the First Men built keeps? No. What strengthens one Stark strengthens all the North."
He turned his gaze to Bolton's man, eyes like cold iron.
"This invention will not bind you—it will free you. To write laws clearly, to keep your oaths unbroken, to see your house remembered as you would have it remembered. Do you fear that, Bolton? Or do you fear progress itself?"
The Bolton man's mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
Rickon's hand settled firmly on Theon's shoulder. His voice, softer now but no less commanding, carried through the hall.
"This is my son's vision. A wolf's mind is as sharp as a wolf's fang. You will not dismiss it. You will not scorn it. For today you see not only Theon Stark, but the future he brings for us all."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Lord Umber let out a booming laugh.
"Well spoken, Rickon! A wolf that can bite and think—aye, that is a wolf worth following."
Lady Mormont added firmly,
"House Mormont stands with Winterfell. This pen will serve us, as it serves you."
Lord Manderly inclined his head.
"And White Harbor will see that the South pays well for Northern craft."
Even Lord Reed gave a slow, measured nod.
"So long as wisdom guides its use, the Neck will not stand against such progress."
The ripple spread—lords nodding, voices rising in cautious agreement. Some, like the Boltons, still watched with narrowed eyes, but none dared openly defy Rickon's decree.
The golden pens upon the table gleamed brighter in the torchlight, no longer curiosities, but banners of a new age.
Rickon's final words sealed it:
"The North remembers—but now, my lords, the North will also endure in ink as well as in blood. Let it be known—this gift of my son belongs to Winterfell and to every bannerman of the North. Together, we will carve our legacy into time itself."
The hall erupted with a roar of approval.
At Rickon's command, the wooden box was opened once more. One by one, each lord and lady stepped forward, receiving a golden pen embossed with the snarling direwolf of House Stark. Some held it with awe, some with calculation, some with quiet reverence—but all accepted.
It was more than a gift. It was an oath renewed.
In that moment, as the firelight danced across the hall and the golden pens glimmered in the hands of the North's great houses, a new pact was forged—not written in blood, but in ink, steel, and trust.
Theon Stark, once merely the son of Rickon, now stood as the architect of the North's future.
---