The hall of innovation fell silent after Theon's bold revelation.
The flickering torchlight danced across the polished surfaces — the wardrobe mirror gleamed like still water under the godswood moon, and the crystal glasses shimmered, scattering the light like captured stars.
Lord Rickon Stark stood there, stunned, the weight of what his son had accomplished settling upon him like the falling snow outside. In his mind, he whispered a quiet prayer.
Thank you, my forefathers… thank you, Old Gods of the North. You've blessed me with a son who brings miracles to our name.
Gilliane and Margaret moved closer, their eyes glinting with wonder as they examined the glassworks. Theon could see the happiness in their expressions — and why not? They were northern women, yes, but still women, and every woman has a love for things that shine, that hold beauty in their form.
"They're beautiful," Margaret murmured, holding up a tall glass to the light.
"Yes… look at this one," Gilliane said, gently turning another cup in her hand. The flame's reflection rippled over its smooth surface like sunlight on clear water.
Bennard, standing beside them, studied each piece with careful eyes. He lifted one goblet, inspecting its weight and clarity. "Hnh," he grunted in appreciation. "Flawless. Not a single bubble."
Then Rickon spoke, breaking the hush. "But how… how did you make this, my son?" His voice carried both awe and curiosity. "Except for Myr, no other land knows how to craft glass such as this. Many have tried to steal or bribe their glassmakers, yet none succeeded. How did you make the impossible possible?"
Theon looked at his father and smiled faintly. He's right, he thought. Those Myrish bastards guard their glassmaking secrets like dragons hoarding gold.
He knew Myr's greed well — their glass monopoly was what made them one of the richest cities in Essos. But what most didn't understand was why Myrish glass was so prized.
Myrish glass was the finest in the known world — famed for its clarity, purity, and perfect craftsmanship. Their lenses and "Myrish eyes" — the spyglasses and telescopes — were unmatched. Myr's artisans, though many were slaves, possessed the most advanced techniques for melting, shaping, and grinding glass into perfection. Other Free Cities made glass, yes, but none could rival Myr's mastery. In Westeros, most glass was crude, clouded, and used only for windows or cups — a poor man's version of what Myr sold as art.
Of course, Theon couldn't tell them the truth — that he knew glassmaking from another world, another life. If I said that, they'd think me mad, he thought wryly.
So he smiled and replied calmly, "I examined every piece of glass I could find, Father. From Myrish mirrors to Westerosi window panes. I studied the differences — how they bend the light, how they hold their shape. Then I conducted experiments with sand, ash, and lime. When I achieved results that matched Myrish clarity, I drew up blueprints and gave them to the maester and apprentices."
Rickon studied his son for a long moment… then suddenly burst into laughter.
The sound startled everyone — Gilliane nearly dropped the glass she was holding. The stern, stoic Lord of Winterfell, known across the North for his cold calm, was laughing openly, a deep, booming laugh that filled the hall.
When he finally stopped, a wide smile still lingered on his face. "Every time I think there's nothing left to astonish me, you find a way to prove me wrong," Rickon said proudly. "You're right, Theon. Compared to this, even Myrish glass looks like mud."
He turned to the others. "The Old Gods truly favor us. From now on, the North shall sell its own glass — to the southern kingdoms and perhaps even the Free Cities! We'll see gold flowing through Winterfell's gates like never before!"
But Bennard's expression had grown grave. "Brother," he said, "if we start trading with the Free Cities, Myr will not take it kindly. Their merchants and guilds won't allow anyone to challenge their glass monopoly. They'll try to sabotage us — perhaps worse."
Rickon's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "You're right, brother. But we'll tread carefully. We'll sell only decorative goods — cups, mirrors, and the like. We won't meddle with spyglasses or lenses, the things Myr guards most."
"Actually, Father," Theon interrupted softly, "Uncle Bennard is right to be concerned. Myr won't tolerate even this. To them, the idea that a northern kingdom—a so-called backward land—can produce glass equal or better than theirs will wound their pride deeply."
Everyone looked at him, curiosity and tension rising in the room.
"What do you mean, my son?" Rickon asked.
"I mean," Theon said, his tone calm but sharp, "that Myr's reaction won't be with words. They'll try to stop us — through trade, through spies, perhaps through coin."
He leaned toward the maester and whispered something in his ear. The old man's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded and left the hall. Moments later, he returned carrying a long, dark wooden box.
Inside, nestled in cloth, lay an unfamiliar device — bronze and leather, with twin glass lenses gleaming faintly in the firelight.
Rickon frowned. "What is this, my son? It looks like a Myrish spyglass… yet it has two lenses instead of one."
Theon smiled faintly and stepped forward. He lifted the device and held it before his family. "This, Father," he said, "is called binoculars. Unlike a spyglass, you use both eyes. It sees farther, clearer — and steadier. With this, we won't just match Myr's craftsmanship…"
He looked at his father with a glint of confidence in his eyes.
"…we'll surpass it."
The hall fell utterly silent once more. Only the crackling of the torches and the quiet hum of pride filled the air.
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