The fire crackled low in Lord Rickon Stark's solar, the heavy oak beams casting long shadows across the chamber walls. A great oaken table stood at the room's center, cluttered with parchment, ledgers, and sealed accounts—evidence of Winterfell's growing trade and wealth. Theon sat among his kin, his youthful eyes sharp and bright with vision.
Lord Rickon presided at the head of the table, his wife Lady Gilliane at his right, her presence calm but firm as steel. Beside Theon sat the Maester, quill poised to record the discussions, and further down sat Bennard Stark with his wife, Lady Margaret, quiet yet watchful. Opposite them, Martyn Cassel and Lord Roderick Dustin, loyal bannermen of House Stark, leaned forward with interest.
Theon spread before them several sheets of parchment marked with precise figures and symbols. "Here," he began, his voice steady but carrying the spark of excitement, "are our tallies of the last three months. The first batch of pens sold across the North has already returned double its cost in coin. The second, sold to the southern lords, has tripled our treasury. And now, with trade routes opened to the Free Cities, our profits expand still further."
He gestured toward the parchment, showing neat columns of numbers, symbols of coin, and projections. "If we continue at this rate, in a year's time Winterfell's coffers will hold more wealth than they have seen in centuries. We can expand production, employ more workers, and even fund new ventures."
Rickon's broad hand rested heavily on the table as he leaned forward, eyes fixed on his son. For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Then Rickon's voice, deep and resolute, filled the chamber. "I am proud of you, Theon. You have done what no Stark before you has even dared to dream. You are young, yet your vision carries the weight of a lord's wisdom."
Lady Gilliane placed her hand gently on Theon's arm, her eyes shining with warmth. "Yes, my son. You honor our house. The North will remember not only the direwolf, but the mind of the wolf that guided it."
A faint smile tugged at Theon's lips, but he inclined his head humbly. Yet Rickon's next words quickly turned the council's thoughts to more practical matters.
"Now that we have coin in hand," Rickon said, "the question becomes—what do we do with it? We have progress in craft, in trade, in knowledge. But the North's bane has ever been the same: hunger. Our harvests are meager, our soil stubborn, and our winters cruel. We must use this wealth to buy crops from the South. Without food, all our progress crumbles to dust."
A murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Roderick Dustin nodded gravely, Martyn's jaw set firm in assent. Even Bennard, who often found fault in Theon's schemes, could not deny the truth of his brother's words. Theon himself inclined his head.
"Yes, Father. Food must come first. We will send envoys to the Reach and the Riverlands, where the harvests are richest. But I would propose another step as well—one that might secure our strength not just for this winter, but for generations."
Rickon raised an eyebrow. "And what step would that be?"
Theon's eyes gleamed with quiet fire. "We must contact mountain surveyors. Men skilled in stone and ore. Let them comb the mountains of the North, test their bones, and tell us what riches lie hidden beneath."
Bennard let out a sharp laugh, his tone edged with scorn. "Surveyors? For what? To waste coin on empty stone and barren rock? You will not find rubies or gold in the frozen teeth of our mountains. A fool's venture, Theon, and costly besides."
Theon turned to his uncle sharply, his reply swift as an arrow. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. For a thousand years, none of our ancestors have ever sought to know what lies beneath our mountains. We have lived and died by the sword and the plow, always poor, always scraping through winters. If there are veins of iron, silver, or even rare stones, they could change the fate of the North. If not—then we will know, and no longer wonder."
The room fell into thoughtful silence. The Maester scribbled quietly, though even he seemed uncertain. Rickon's face was grave, shadowed with memory—the hunger of long winters, the deaths of his people, the endless struggle for survival.
Finally, Rickon spoke, his voice low and heavy. "And what if we find nothing, Theon? What if we pour our coin into this search and come back with empty hands? Our people have starved before. I will not gamble their future lightly."
Theon met his father's eyes, steady and calm. "And what if we do find something, Father? What if the North has been sitting on wealth it has never claimed? If we gain, then all the North gains with us. If we lose, then we lose together—but we will have lost only coin, not our lives. And we will still have the pen trade to sustain us."
He leaned forward, his voice quiet but piercing. "Father, I know your fear. You saw hunger, death, and misery in winters past. You carry those scars. But fear cannot be the only guide. If we never try, we will never know. If we win, we win together. If we lose, then together we will bear the loss—and rise again."
For a heartbeat, the fire popped in the silence.
Bennard broke it with his impatient growl. "Brother, do not be swayed. Your son is clever, aye, but cleverness is not wisdom. This is folly. Winter comes soon, and our coin must buy bread, not line the purses of stone-breakers chasing phantoms."
Rickon raised a hand, silencing his brother without looking away from Theon. Father and son locked eyes across the table—the weight of past and future balanced in the space between them.
At last, Rickon spoke. "Very well. We will try. We will send for surveyors. If there is nothing, we lose some coin. But if there is something…" He let the words hang, heavy with possibility. "Then the North may yet rise higher than any dared to hope. Do it, Theon. There is nothing to lose—and perhaps everything to gain."
The chamber exhaled as one, the decision made. The fire burned brighter, as though feeding on the hope that had just been kindled.
Theon sat back, his heart steady. The pens had brought them wealth. Now, perhaps, the mountains themselves might yield their secrets.
And from those secrets, a new North might be forged.
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