The next day, the Hall of Innovation buzzed with quiet anticipation. Theon stood at the front beside the maester, the blacksmith, and a dozen of their apprentices. All eyes occasionally flicked toward the great oaken doors. They were waiting — waiting for the arrival of his father, Lord Rickon Stark, his mother Lady Gilliane, his uncle Bennard Stark, and his aunt Lady Margaret Stark.
Theon's heart pounded, not with fear, but with the heavy excitement of unveiling what they had built — what Winterfell had built.
The doors creaked open. Two guards stepped aside as the Stark family entered. Lord Rickon led the way, his heavy fur cloak dragging lightly over the stone floor. Lady Gilliane walked gracefully beside him. Behind them came Bennard and Margaret, and lastly Martyn, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, his keen eyes scanning the room as if assessing a battlefield.
Lord Rickon stopped before them. Theon, the maester, the blacksmith, and the apprentices bowed deeply.
Rickon's deep voice filled the chamber.
"Show me what you people have made for my son — the one you were speaking of last night."
"Yes, Father," Theon replied smoothly.
He stepped forward, gripped the edge of the thick woolen robe that covered the invention, and pulled it away in one swift motion. The fabric fell to the ground, revealing an iron frame and polished wooden base — intricate, purposeful, unlike anything the North had ever seen.
"Behold, everyone," Theon began, his voice calm but filled with pride, "today, a new dawn has come for Winterfell — not just for our home, but for the entire known world. The revolution of knowledge has taken another step."
He rested his hand on the iron machine before him.
"This is a printing press," he said, "a Stanhope Printing Press model — the design I ordered to be made. This machine will change our view of knowledge forever. No longer will learning be the privilege of the highborn alone. Now, it will be shared among all."
Theon began to explain in detail how the machine functioned — the plates, the ink, the lever, and the type arrangement. He described how the iron frame provided more stability and power than wooden models and how, with a single pull, the machine could imprint dozens of pages in minutes.
When he finished, he straightened and declared,
"The name of this machine shall be the Winterfell Printing Press."
Lord Rickon, Lady Gilliane, Bennard, and Margaret examined the press closely. Rickon ran his calloused hand over the iron surface.
"So," Rickon said with quiet wonder, "from now on, we do not have to write everything by hand?"
"Mostly, yes," Theon replied proudly. "With this, we can print our histories, sciences, numbers, and every subject of knowledge. Through this press, we will give the smallfolk what they have long been denied — the power to learn."
Lady Gilliane smiled softly, her voice warm with affection.
"You have very noble thoughts, my son."
"How many pages can this machine print in a day?" asked Lady Margaret curiously.
Theon turned toward her. "Eleven thousand pages, Aunt."
"Eleven thousand?" she gasped, her eyes wide in disbelief.
She was not alone. Rickon, Bennard, even Martyn stared in silent astonishment. Only the maester, blacksmith, and apprentices remained calm — they already knew what the machine could do.
Rickon's gaze lingered on the press, thoughts stirring within him.
This will change everything, he realized.
He had never spoken of it aloud, but deep inside, Rickon Stark had always despised how the Citadel hoarded knowledge — keeping it confined to chains and scrolls, shared only among the highborn and maesters. He, too, had learned their way of thinking: that the North was a land of barbarians, unworthy of true learning. That the northern lords were little better than wildlings simply because they lived in castles instead of huts.
They even claimed the North was faithless — urging that they abandon the old gods and kneel before the Seven-Pointed Star. As if he would ever spit on the graves of his forefathers to please southern priests.
Rickon's jaw tightened, his thoughts dark but resolute.
Then, his eyes caught movement — Theon was pulling another robe away from something else in the hall. When the cloth fell, Rickon and the others gasped.
There it stood — a wardrobe mirror, tall and gleaming, reflecting the torchlight perfectly. Around it, a table displayed drinking cups made of glass — each of varying design and size. Some were tall and slender, meant for wine. Others were shorter, thicker — for ale, water, or stronger drink. Each shimmered with clarity and craftsmanship unlike anything ever seen in Winterfell.
Rickon's voice was filled with disbelief. "Did all these come from your hands?"
"Yes, Father," Theon replied. "All of these were made by the members of the Hall of Innovation."
He smiled, a rare spark of youthful pride glinting in his eyes.
"From today onwards, the world will know that Myr is not the only land that crafts glass. The North — the Kingdom of Winter — will also produce its own."
The family stood silent, gazing at the reflections in the mirror — and perhaps at the reflection of a new North, where knowledge and craft would no longer belong only to the South.
---