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Chapter 19 - Guests from White Harbor part-2

The chamber door creaked open, and six strangers stepped into the solar of Winterfell. The firelight caught their faces, marking them each as travelers from distant lands.

Four were men, two were women. Their clothes and bearing set them apart from the Northerners gathered in the room.

Lord Desmond Manderly rose from his seat with a genial smile and spread his hand toward them.

"My lords, these are the folk I spoke of—the mountain surveyors and stone-readers I promised. Their skill is unmatched, though their tongues hail from far shores."

He moved to each in turn, introducing them.

First, he gestured to an older man with a balding crown, a thick white beard, and sharp sea-green eyes that seemed to weigh and measure everything he saw. His hands were calloused, yet precise.

"This one is Omero Seryn, a master of earth and stone from Braavos. Once he built seawalls for the Sealord himself. Now he offers his craft to us."

Beside Omero stood two middle-aged men, both lean and weathered, their olive skin marked by years of toil. They shared the narrow, hawk-like features common to the Free Cities.

"This," Lord Manderly continued, "is Corlys Veynar, and this one Tomaso Rullio—both men of Braavos, once sworn to the builders' guilds there. Corlys has carved tunnels through mountains, Tomaso raised bridges that yet stand after storms."

Theon studied them carefully. There was discipline in their stances, the look of men who had worked with hammer and chisel as warriors did with sword and shield.

Then Manderly's hand swept toward the last three—figures whose dark-gold skin, almond-shaped eyes, and long raven hair marked them as foreigners from lands few in the North had ever seen. Their robes were of fine silk, bright even beneath the dim light, their manner dignified.

"These three hail from Yi Ti, far to the east, beyond even the lands of the Dothraki."

He motioned to a tall, straight-backed man, no older than thirty-five, with high cheekbones and a proud gaze.

"This is Shen Zhenwu, once a court engineer in the service of a lesser prince of Yi Ti. He knows the language of rivers and the strength of stone."

At his side stood two women. The first was younger, perhaps twenty, with clever eyes and long fingers stained faintly with ink and chalk from her craft.

"Her name is Lin Yueru. Do not be fooled by her years—she is a master of mapping terrain, a gift passed down in her family for generations."

The second woman was older, her beauty carrying the calm weight of wisdom. She wore her hair bound in a silver clasp, and her gaze was steady, unflinching, as if she could already see beneath Winterfell's very foundations.

"And this," Manderly finished, "is Meiyun Dao, teacher and surveyor, whose counsel even princes of Yi Ti once sought."

The six bowed respectfully—first to Lord Manderly, then to Lord Rickon Stark, and lastly to Theon.

The young wolf stepped forward, curiosity lighting his sharp grey eyes.

"You are from Yi Ti?" he asked, his voice measured but carrying.

The three easterners exchanged a brief glance before Shen Zhenwu inclined his head.

"Yes, my lord. We have traveled far from the Jade Sea, across deserts, rivers, and the narrow sea itself, to offer our service where it is valued. Here, perhaps, in the North."

Their words carried the faint lilt of their homeland, yet their meaning was clear. The fire crackled softly as the six strangers stood before the gathering. Theon stepped closer, his keen eyes fixed on the three Yi Ti folk. Then, with a smoothness that startled even his own kin, he spoke—not in the Common Tongue, but in the flowing cadence of Yi Ti.

"Nǐmen shì cóng Yīnchéng lái de ma?" he asked.

(Are you from Yin City of Yi Ti?)

For a heartbeat the room fell utterly silent. Shen Zhenwu's eyes widened, Meiyun Dao's lips parted in astonishment, and Lin Yueru clapped a hand to her mouth. That a boy of the North, a Westerosi child, could shape their language so fluently was unthinkable.

Shen blinked, then replied in Yi Ti, his voice edged with disbelief.

"Nǐ néng shuō wǒmen de yǔyán?"

(You can speak our language?)

Theon inclined his head slightly, calm as still water.

"Shì de. Wǒ cóng shūzhōng dú dào de."

(Yes. I learned it from books.)

The easterners stared at him in wonder. Even Lord Manderly leaned forward, eyebrows arched. Rickon Stark's face remained stone-still, but in his eyes glimmered the pride of a wolf who knew his cub was something far beyond ordinary.

Switching back to the Common Tongue, Theon addressed them all.

"Welcome to the North, and to Winterfell. You already know why you are here."

Omero Seryn, the old Braavosi, bowed his head respectfully.

"Yes, young lord. Lord Manderly has given us the charge. The work is clear—we are here to survey mountains, to read stone and earth."

"Good," Theon said. "But before we begin, I must know more of you. Speak of your craft, your years, your skill."

One by one they answered.

Omero Seryn spoke first: fifty years in the field, from building seawalls against the Narrow Sea's fury to carving tunnels under Braavos' canals.

Corlys Veynar had thirty years' toil behind him, a man who had cut stone for fortresses and bridges that outlasted storms.

Tomaso Rullio had worked twenty-five years, raising aqueducts and roads for Braavosi merchants.

Shen Zhenwu spoke proudly of a decade spent shaping palaces and mountain holds for princes of Yi Ti.

Lin Yueru, though young, had already charted rivers and valleys, mapping them with precision unmatched even by her elders.

Meiyun Dao spoke last, her voice calm and commanding: thirty years as a master of the land, her wisdom so sought after that rulers once paid her weight in jade for counsel.

Theon listened to each with the patience of a seasoned lord, nodding at intervals.

"Then here is what you will have," he said firmly. "Manpower, equipment, and all support you need. Until your task is done, you will dwell here in Winterfell. Servants will show you to your chambers."

He leaned forward slightly.

"When do you wish to begin?"

Omero spread his aged hands. "When you give us men who can labor for this work. Without strong backs, our skill is only words."

Theon nodded once. "Then it shall be arranged. You will have workers."

With that, the six bowed and were led from the room.

When the doors shut, Lord Desmond Manderly turned to Theon with a small smile.

"So, what do you think, young wolf?"

"They are good," Theon answered. "But words are wind. I will judge them when I see their work."

Manderly laughed, nodding in approval. "A wise answer. We shall see their worth soon enough."

The council was ended.

---

The next morning, the yard rang with the clash of steel. Theon trained hard among Winterfell's warriors, sweat glistening on his brow, his wooden blade flashing as he sparred. When at last he sat upon a bench to catch his breath, a shadow fell across him.

"Hello," said a steady voice.

Theon looked up. Medrick Manderly stood there, tall and broad, his bearing that of a knight tested in battle though not yet scarred by age.

"My name is Medrick."

Theon smirked faintly. "I know. Heir of Lord Manderly, and by all tales, one of the best knights in the North."

Medrick gave a soft laugh. "Aye, people say so." His gaze sharpened. "But I saw you fight. You beat men more seasoned than yourself with ease. You didn't even try your hardest."

Theon shrugged lightly. "They are good."

"But not good enough," Medrick cut in, his voice half amused, half challenging.

Theon's lips curled into a small smile.

"I've heard," Medrick went on, "that you bested every veteran warrior Winterfell has. If you don't mind, I would test you myself. No sharp steel—only blunted blades. What say you?"

For a moment Theon studied him in silence, weighing the man. Then, with a slight nod, he answered.

"Very well. Let's do this."

---

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