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Chapter 22 - The Boy of a Thousand Skills

Winterfell was alive with whispers. From the lowest scullion in the kitchens to the high voices of merchants in Winter Town, all spoke of the same marvel: Theon Stark, barely four summers, had humbled Ser Medrick Manderly before the eyes of lords and commons alike.

"The boy moves like no other," said a washerwoman, scrubbing linens in icy water.

"Aye," her neighbor agreed, "he danced 'round that knight as though the gods themselves guided his steps."

In the alehouse below the Hunter's Gate, a bearded sellsword swore he had never seen such swordplay, not even in the Free Cities. "Mark me," he said, pounding his tankard on the table, "House Stark is blessed. The old gods have given them a son touched by something greater than mortal flesh."

By the time darkness fell, stories had grown. Some claimed Theon's blade never touched steel but bent the air itself. Others whispered that wolves howled in unison the moment Medrick's sword was struck from his hand. Whether true or not, one thing was certain: the name of Theon Stark was now on every tongue.

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That same evening, in a firelit chamber reserved for the mountain surveyors, the foreign men and women sat in solemn conversation.

Shen Zhenwu was the first to break the silence. "Never have I seen a boy of four summers best a knight of renown. He did not stumble, he did not falter—he moved as though the duel were but a dance he had already mastered."

Every head nodded in agreement.

Omero leaned forward, his voice deliberate. "In the Sealord's court of Braavos, I watched Water Dancers ply their deadly art. Swift, graceful, lethal. Yet beside this boy, they would seem but clumsy children. His steps, his timing… I tell you, in front of Theon Stark, even the greatest of Braavos are as ants before fire."

Tommaso frowned, cutting in sharply. "You go too far, Omero. A northern boy, no matter how gifted, cannot be compared to the Water Dancers. It is near blasphemy to suggest it."

But Omero's gaze was steady. "Blasphemy? No, Tommaso. Truth. Did you not see? Medrick Manderly once crossed blades with the Sword of Braavos himself—and prevailed. He humbled other Water Dancers who sought to test him. He went toe to toe with Braavos' finest, and won. Yet today, before us all, Medrick was not merely beaten. He was crushed. Theon did not fight him as an equal; he dismantled him as a master chastens a pupil."

The chamber went quiet until Lin Yueru, youngest of their company, spoke. "In Yi Ti, I once watched old generals, scarred by decades of war, move with such instinct and clarity. Yet they carried lifetimes of battle behind their steel. Theon Stark carries only four years… and yet he bears their same mastery. That is what unsettles me."

Dao chuckled, shaking his head. "When Lord Manderly came to me with this survey, I wondered what could possibly be gained from the frozen North. In Essos, the North is spoken of as a land of snow and stones. Yet when I first laid eyes upon this boy, I was struck dumb. He was no ordinary child. I heard whispers of his golden pen, his works with roads and drainage—things no boy should think of. While other children beg for toys, this one bends men to labor and builds as if for centuries."

Corlys Venyar finally spoke, his tone quiet but sure. "Yes. He is different. His name will be written in the chronicles of this realm, as surely as Bran the Builder's. I think the day will come when his fame eclipses even that of his ancestors."

No one disagreed.The next dawn broke pale and cold, as it always did in Winterfell. Theon was already awake, his small body moving through drills with a wooden blade, his breath steaming in the crisp morning air. When he approached the gates, the guards who saw him straightened and bowed. The boy inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment, then moved on to cleanse himself in the steaming baths.

By the time he strode toward the Great Hall, he was dressed neatly, his hair damp, his step calm. He caught sight of Roderick Dustin making his way to breakfast as well.

"Well, well," Roderick chuckled, his voice booming like an old war drum. "Look who walks the yard—Theon Stark, the boy of a thousand skills."

Theon blinked in surprise. "A thousand skills?"

Roderick's eyes gleamed beneath his heavy brow. "Aye. It's what folk are calling you since yesterday. You're no mere swordsman. You've forged pens that bring bread to Northern tables, raised roads that will bind the North together, and now you've shown the sword is as natural in your hand as breath itself. A boy of four summers, and already ten men rolled into one. What else is that, if not a thousand skills?"

Theon flushed, though a smile tugged at his lips. "I had not heard that."

Roderick barked a laugh. "Of course not—you've been too busy being the tale itself."

Together they entered the Great Hall, where warmth and the smell of roasted meats awaited them. Rickon Stark sat at the head, Lady Gilliane beside him, flanked by Bennard, Desmond, and their kin. Lord Manderly and Medrick were present too, seated in respectful silence.

Theon bowed first to his father, then to his kin, then to their guests. "Good morning, Father. Mother. Uncle, Aunt. Lord Manderly. Ser Medrick."

Rickon gave a solemn nod. "Good morning, my son."

Lady Gilliane's smile was warm as sunlight. "Good morning, dearest."

Lord Manderly returned the greeting, and even Medrick, though humbled, met Theon's gaze and inclined his head.

The boy took his place at table, Roderick Dustin beside him. The hall filled with the clatter of trenchers and the hum of low talk as breakfast began.

When the last of the bread was broken, Rickon set down his cup and spoke. "The men for the mountain survey have been gathered. You will meet them this day."

Theon's eyes shone, and he smiled. "Thank you, Father."

Rickon's voice lowered, almost a prayer. "May the old gods hear our hopes, son. May the mountains yield their treasures, as you believe they will."

Theon bowed his head. "The gods willing, Father. The gods willing."

The hall was quiet for a heartbeat, every man and woman present watching the boy who had become more than a boy.

The wolf of a thousand skills.

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