The morning sun crept over the battlements of Winterfell, washing the ancient stones in pale light. The yard was crowded, alive with the restless shifting of boots and the low murmur of voices. Farmers, hunters, smiths, carpenters, and wanderers from the South all stood together, drawn by promise and curiosity. Some bore the hardened look of men who had swung axes all their lives, others carried the thin hands of craftsmen unfit for war but eager for coin. The North had never seen such a gathering for work—not for harvest, not even for musters.
At the front of them all stood Theon Stark. A boy by years, but the steel in his bearing made the smallfolk fall silent. He was flanked by his father, Lord Rickon Stark, tall and commanding, with the calm of a man long tested by winters. His uncle Bennard stood like a stone beside him, Lord Manderly and his son Medrick off to the left. Medrick's jaw was tight, still burning with shame from the spar. Roderick Dustin and Martyn Cassel were present as well, overseeing with the stern eyes of seasoned men. Behind them, the mountain surveyors waited, foreign faces bearing an air of quiet certainty.
Theon stepped forward, his voice carrying over the yard.
"Good morning, everyone. I am Theon Stark, son of Rickon Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North. Today we begin something new. For too long, the riches of stone and mountain have lain untouched. That ends now. We seek men and women strong of body and steady of hand to carve the wealth hidden beneath our feet."
He gestured to the surveyors, their strange garb and tools drawing curious glances.
"These are experts in their craft. They will teach you how to dig, how to brace the shafts, how to work safely in the dark. You will be trained, not thrown blind into danger. We want fit, willing folk for this work."
The words stirred the crowd, and men began to nod.
"But first," Theon continued, "you must give your name and your trade, as we did when we built the roads. Each of you will be placed where your skill fits best. And for your service, you will receive three gold coins each month."
At that, the yard erupted with excited whispers. Three gold coins! For most, it was wealth beyond imagining. A farmer could toil a year for less. A hunter could risk his life in the woods for mere scraps. Faces brightened, and men shifted forward eagerly.
Theon raised a hand, stilling them again. His young face grew grave.
"But listen well. The mountain is no friend to man. It is dangerous. If anyone loses their life, House Stark will not abandon their kin. Their families shall be paid twenty golden dragons in recompense. And if children are left behind, then Winterfell will raise them—feeding them, clothing them, educating them—until the day they are grown."
The silence that followed was heavy. Men and women stared, hardly believing. Then the contracts were brought forth, parchment thick with ink and seals. At once, unease spread. Northerners trusted oaths spoken beneath the weirwood, not ink upon parchment. A few frowned, muttering.
Theon stepped forward again, his eyes unwavering.
"Do not fear the contract. It is no trick. It is only our word written so that no man can twist it. Remember who we are. We are Starks. We do not lie, we do not betray. You may cut our throats, but you will never find dirt upon our honor."
The effect was immediate. The Northmen surged forward, one after another pressing their thumbs into ink or signing their names. They knew the truth of the boy's words—Starks kept their oaths, always. Better to die with honor than to live with deceit.
The Southerners hung back, exchanging doubtful looks. They had seen lords who promised gold and gave ash, nobles who spoke of care but left widows begging in the mud. Yet the terms were too generous to ignore. Slowly, hesitantly, they began to step forward. One man muttered, "If even half of this is true, it is more than we ever had." Another spat on the ground, but pressed his thumb all the same.
Theon watched it all with a calm smile. He glanced toward his father. Lord Rickon's face softened just slightly, and the two shared a silent nod. Bennard grunted in approval, while Lord Manderly stroked his beard, impressed despite himself.
Soon the last name was signed, the last thumb pressed into ink. A hundred men and women stood pledged, the first miners of the North. The surveyors stepped forward, sharp voices breaking into the air as they began to call men to groups—measuring shoulders, testing grip, choosing who would cut, who would haul, who would brace the beams. The yard shifted into order, the beginning of something larger than any of them could yet see.
Theon remained at the front, watching. His young heart swelled, not with pride for himself, but for what might come. Roads had been the first step. Now, stone itself would yield.
And in the silence between voices, in the cold Northern air, it seemed as if even the old grey walls of Winterfell listened.
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