The training yard was alive with the clang of steel, the bark of orders, and the laughter of squires, yet Theon Stark stood still. His small hands gripped the wooden sword, testing its balance, adjusting his stance as if weighing more than mere wood. Across from him stood his opponent—a teenager, older and trained for years under Winterfell's seasoned men-at-arms.
But Theon was no ordinary boy. Behind his grey Stark eyes lived the soul of a man who had walked battlefields drenched in blood. Counter Guardian EMIYA had faced kings, tyrants, monsters, and legends. He had crossed blades with men who would be sung of for millennia, their myths etched into eternity. Compared to those duels, this boy before him was but a ripple against an ocean.
He exhaled, calm as still water. Raising his gaze, he caught sight of the balcony. His father, Lord Rickon Stark, watched with cold, brooding eyes—judgment, expectation, the weight of the North itself in his stare. Beside him, Lady Giliane Glover, his mother, met his gaze with warmth, her pride and worry wrapped in one. Theon bowed his head slightly, then sharpened his focus.
The master-at-arms barked:
"Both of you ready? No foul play. Begin!"
The older boy let out a war cry, charging forward with the clumsy fury of youth. His blade swung wide, eager to end the match in one strike.
Theon moved. Not like a child. Not like a Stark boy barely of age. He moved like a shadow weaving between firelight—dancing, flowing. Every dodge was precise, economical, rehearsed a thousand times on battlefields that no one here could ever imagine.
It is the same… he thought, his eyes narrowing as the boy's strike carved empty air. The reckless charge of Achilles, the heavy swing of Heracles, the wild ferocity of countless so-called "heroes." Always believing brute strength wins the day. But legends fall. Even gods bleed.
His opponent's strikes grew faster, more desperate. Sweat began to drip down the boy's face. Frustration warped his form, anger robbed him of balance. Theon saw it before it even came—the desperate, full-force overhead swing meant to crush him.
In that heartbeat, his mind flickered to another world. The roar of battle. Gilgamesh's golden gates opening, countless treasures of myth hurtling toward him. EMIYA, broken yet unyielding, deflecting each with desperate precision. He had stood against torrents of weapons that made mortal kings tremble. Compared to that storm of steel, this child's swing was laughably slow.
Theon raised his wooden sword, blocked cleanly, and with a single, sharp counter-step, pressed the tip of his blade to the boy's throat.
The training yard fell silent.
The older boy froze, his eyes wide. He knew. In that instant, if this were steel and not wood, he would already be dead. He lowered his blade, bowing his head.
The master-at-arms cleared his throat, stunned but composed.
"Victory… to Theon Stark."
Clapping broke out, murmurs spreading among the guards and squires. "Prodigy." "The gods blessed him." "A wolf cub sharper than steel."
Theon didn't bask in their words. He only lifted his gaze once more toward the balcony. His father's cold eyes had softened, pride carefully hidden but unmistakable. His mother smiled openly, her hands clasped in delight.
The day's training continued, but whispers of his skill would echo through Winterfell long after the swords fell silent.
---
That night, the Great Hall was warm with firelight and the smell of roasted meat. Theon sat with his parents at the high table. Between mouthfuls, he finally asked, his voice carrying the sharp curiosity that had always unnerved men twice his age:
"Father… may I ask you a question?"
Both Rickon and Giliane turned to him. Rickon gave a curt nod. "Ask."
Theon set down his cup.
"Father, the North is vast, greater than any kingdom. Yet we are poor. Do we have no natural resources? Gold? Silver? Iron? Why do we not search our mountains?"
Rickon frowned slightly, exchanging a glance with Giliane. Then he answered slowly, heavily:
"We have never tried. The climate, the snow, the winters—they are our enemy. Every coin must feed mouths, buy crops from the South, prepare for the long cold. To spend on digging and surveying would mean famine for our people. That is why."
Theon listened intently, eyes sharp. He knew the truth of those words. He had seen famine before, though not in this life. In another world, another age, he had watched kingdoms crumble to starvation, seen men fight over scraps of bread as if they were crowns.
Rickon continued, voice steady:
"The North is vast, aye, but harsh. A third of Westeros, yet barren. Poor harvests kill thousands before winter. The cold is merciless. We survive with salted fish, smoked meats, stored grain. Even the glass gardens of Winterfell only ease, never solve. That is our truth, son."
Theon's lips curved into a thin smile.
"Then why not turn our curse into our boon?"
Both parents stilled. Rickon's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Theon leaned forward, voice calm but edged with the certainty of a man far older than his years.
"We suffer the snow. We endure the cold. But to the South, snow is a treasure. Ice is life in their summers. You have told me yourself, Father, that King's Landing is hotter than a forge. That lords and ladies sweat like pigs. Why not sell our snow to them? Let them drink their wine cooled by Winterfell's gift. Let them pay gold for what we curse."
Rickon's eyes widened slightly. The memory struck him—his cloak heavy, sweat dripping down his back, the sun of King's Landing beating like a hammer. He had sworn fealty before the Iron Throne, yet all he had wished for was a breath of Winterfell's cold air. And his boy had seen this truth already.
But practicality returned to him swiftly. "Ice melts before it can reach the South. Even packed in carts, it will be gone long before the Neck."
Theon only smiled. The smile of a man who had once built impossible projections of blades from the void, who had once turned hopeless odds into victories with sheer will.
"Do not worry, Father. I will find a way. I ask only for your blessing—and some coin to try."
Giliane leaned forward, her voice gentle but curious.
"And how will you do this, my son?"
Theon met her gaze, unflinching. "I do not know yet. But I will. Trust me."
Rickon studied his son. That composure, that certainty—so unlike a child, so like a man who had seen centuries. Finally, he gave a slow nod.
"Our blessing you have. As for coin, I will allow it… but if the cost outweighs the gain, the venture ends. Do you understand?"
Theon bowed his head respectfully. "Yes, Father. I will not disappoint you."
Inside, however, another voice whispered—the voice of EMIYA, the Counter Guardian.
In one world, I forged swords to kill gods. In this one, I will forge futures. If snow can become gold, then the North will never bow hungry again. This time… I will build, not destroy.
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