Theon Stark walked side by side with Lord Roderick Dustin through the streets of Wintertown. But the town was no longer the same muddy, weary place it had once been. The air rang with the sounds of hammers striking stone, shovels biting into earth, and the steady rhythm of men at labor. Where once dirt paths had turned to rivers of mud, now foundations for proper roads were being laid. Trenches had been dug, ready to carry away the water of rain and melting snow.
Children hurried past them, laughing, clutching slates and parchments as they returned from the small timber hall that now served as their school. Women stirred great pots of stew to feed the workers, the smell of broth and bread filling the air. For the first time in memory, Wintertown was alive with work, hope, and purpose.
Roderick looked around in astonishment. "By the gods, young wolf… you've changed their lives. Look at them. Northerners and Southerners alike, working shoulder to shoulder. Children in school. Families fed. No walls between them, no despair. Only pride."
Theon smiled faintly, but his voice was calm. "It is not enough, Roderick. This is only the beginning."
Some smallfolk bowed when he passed, others raised their tools in salute, whispering and chanting quietly, "Good wolf, good wolf." Theon returned only a nod, never basking in their praise but never dismissing it either.
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Flashback: The Birth of the Roads
It had begun in his father's solar, weeks earlier.
"We already have the King's Road," Rickon Stark had said with a frown, "laid down in Jaehaerys's reign. What more do we need?"
Theon shook his head. "Not dirt tracks that wash away in rain and mire in snow. I mean true roads—solid, lasting roads. Roads that will carry wagons and horses freely in every season."
Rickon's voice was doubtful. "Such roads would cost a fortune in coin."
"Yes," Theon admitted, "but not as much as you think. We have most of the materials here in the North. Stone, timber, lime, sand. What we lack is volcanic ash—the binder that makes concrete last forever. For that, we must ask the king for ash from Dragonstone."
Rickon almost scoffed. "Ash? And why in the name of the gods would we beg the Targaryens for ash?"
"Because," Theon said steadily, "with it we can build roads that will endure for centuries. The Romans mastered this in another age, and their empire was held together by roads. Why not the North? Roads mean armies can march swiftly, trade can flow, and winter cannot swallow them."
Rickon had stared at him in silence, then sighed. At last, he ordered the maester, "Send the raven. Ask for the ash."
The reply had come swiftly: a sealed parchment from King's Landing granting the request, with no questions asked.
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The Design
Theon and the maester began planning at once. He recalled the designs of his past life, the methods of Rome:
First, the fossa, a ditch dug down to firm earth or bedrock.
Then the statumen, the foundation of great stones.
Upon it, the rudus, gravel mixed with lime mortar, binding tight.
Above that, the nucleus, of sand and finer gravel blended with concrete.
Finally, the summum dorsum, the surface: great flat stones fitted so closely they locked like puzzle pieces.
The roads would be crowned in the middle, sloping slightly to the sides so rainwater drained into trenches, never pooling or weakening the stone. In marshy ground, logs could be laid as supports, ensuring the road never sank.
Theon explained every layer to the maester, whose golden pen scratched furiously across parchment, recording every detail. Together, they shaped a plan that would outlast generations.
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The Problem of Men
But there was a greater problem: hands. The North had too few people for such a vast task.
So Theon had gone to his father again. "Send to King's Landing. Ask for beggars, the homeless, the idle. We will give them food, pay, and dignity. In return, they will give us labor."
This time Rickon did not argue long. He saw the fire in his son's eyes and knew he would not be swayed. The raven was sent.
The reply came swiftly, almost eagerly. The Crown was glad to be rid of mouths it could not feed. Within twenty days, wagons rolled into Winterfell bearing men, women, and children from King's Landing. Their clothes were ragged, their bodies gaunt, their eyes full of fear and shame. But hope flickered, faint and trembling.
Theon ordered temporary shelters raised outside Wintertown, guarded by Stark men to ensure no harm came to them. Then, in the square, before both Northerners and Southerners, he spoke:
"You shall have work. You shall eat three meals a day. You shall be paid three gold dragons each month. No child will labor. Children will learn, for the North must have not only strong hands but wise minds."
At first there was silence, then tears. Men and women alike wept openly, Northerners hardened by cold and Southerners broken by hunger. Then cheers rose, and voices cried out together, "Good wolf! Good wolf!" Theon stood firm, neither basking nor rejecting, only nodding in quiet resolve.
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Present
Now, as Roderick and Theon walked the streets, they saw the fruits of those choices. The roads were rising stone by stone. Trenches for drainage already stretched like veins through the town. The shelters bustled with life. Children returned from their school with laughter instead of hollow eyes. Women worked the cookfires, men labored with pick and shovel.
Wintertown was becoming something new—something alive.
Roderick's voice was thick with awe. "In my youth, all I cared for was fighting, drinking, and wenching. But you—you are building something more than walls, more than swords. You are building a North no one has ever dreamed of."
Theon's gaze swept over the workers, his eyes steady and fierce. "I want a North where no child goes to sleep hungry. Where no parent buries their child because of winter's cruelty. If roads and schools can bring that future, then I will build them all."
Roderick stopped, staring at him. Then, with a rough laugh, he clapped Theon on the shoulder. "Seven hells, boy. You're not just a wolf. You're a wolf with fire in his heart."
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