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Chapter 18 - Guests from White Harbor

The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with movement and anticipation. Word had spread quickly: Lord Desmond Manderly of White Harbor was approaching the gates, bringing with him his heir Medrick Manderly and a proud retinue of guards and retainers.

Theon stood among his kin, watching the gates with sharp eyes. Beside him towered his father, Lord Rickon Stark, tall and stern, the very image of the Wall itself—unyielding, cold, and resolute. To his other side was his mother, Lady Gilliane, gentle and warm, her smile softening the sharp air of autumn.

Behind them stood his uncle Bennard Stark, his face brooding as always, with his wife Margaret Karstark at his side and their children gathered close. Martyn Cassel, steady and loyal, waited near Lord Roderick Dustin, who carried himself with his usual bold cheer.

At last, the heavy gates creaked open. Through them rode a company of armored men, their mail glinting like waves beneath the pale sun. Their cloaks were sea-green, their banners bearing the silver mermaid of House Manderly rippling in the breeze. Hooves struck stone in steady rhythm until the column halted.

Two riders came forward, dismounted, and strode across the yard. At once, they bent the knee before Lord Rickon.

"My lord," said the older, his voice carrying strength despite his age, "I, Desmond Manderly, Warden of White Harbor, and my son Medrick, have come as summoned."

Rickon's tone was iron, yet courteous. "Rise, Lord Desmond. Rise, Medrick. You are welcome to Winterfell."

As they stood, Rickon raised his hand. "Bring salt and bread."

A servant hurried forward with the traditional offerings. The ceremony was observed with solemn dignity, binding guest and host in ancient right. Only then did Rickon incline his head. "Now, let us enter and feast."

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The Great Hall of Winterfell filled with the rich smell of roasted venison, honeyed bread, and strong northern ale. Servants moved quickly, laying dishes before the high table where Lord Rickon, Lady Gilliane, Bennard Stark, his wife and children, Lord Desmond, and young Medrick sat. Theon ate little, watching and listening, ever hungry for knowledge more than food.

When the feasting was done, only a select company made their way to Lord Rickon's solar: Rickon himself, Desmond and Medrick, Bennard, Martyn Cassel, Lord Roderick Dustin, Maester Roderick, and Theon. The door was shut, and they sat in council.

Rickon spoke first, his voice firm. "So, Lord Desmond, have you brought them?"

A booming laugh filled the chamber. "Aye, my lord, I have." Desmond gestured to his son. "Medrick, fetch them here."

As Medrick departed, Desmond leaned back in his chair. "But before they arrive, tell me, Stark—tell me of these new works. I hear talk of roads and drainage, all the North is buzzing. What truth is there?"

Rickon did not answer. Instead, his gaze shifted to his son. "It is Theon's work. Let him speak."

Theon met Lord Manderly's eyes, steady as steel.

Desmond stroked his white beard and chuckled. "Always surprising us, young wolf. First a golden pen that outshines the Citadel's finest tools, and now stone and ash turned into roads. But tell me, why new roads? We have roads enough already."

Theon replied calmly, with the same words he had once spoken to his father: "Because these roads will endure. Stronger, straighter, able to bear the weight of trade and armies alike. As for drainage, you know why it is needed—the filth of town must flow away, not stagnate beneath our feet."

Desmond raised a brow. "And the cost? Such undertakings drain coffers. And why keep it from the other lords of the North? They may think it folly."

Theon's answer was sharp, confident. "Because I would show them results, not words. If I ask them for coin without proof, they will doubt. If I build first, they will believe. As for cost—it is less than you think, and far outweighed by the gain."

For a moment there was silence. Then Desmond threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Right, right! You speak as wisely as a maester and as proudly as a Stark. Know this, boy: House Manderly stands with you. When our ancestors were cast out of the Reach, it was to Winterfell we fled, and it was your forebears who gave us land and safety. Never will we forget that debt. Whatever the Starks build, the Manderlys will support."

His eyes twinkled as he turned to Roderick Dustin. "And you, Lord Roderick—I see you yet live, though Barrowton must miss its lord."

Roderick let out a coarse laugh. "Barrowton belongs to my son now. I've grown too old for lordship. These days, I prefer to drink, to fight, to tumble a wench or two—and to watch this little wolf spin wonders out of thin air. His mind alone is worth ten armies."

Desmond joined his laughter, then grew more solemn. "Truly, this boy is a prodigy. The North's future lies in his hands. With minds like his, our people will not only endure, but rise to new heights."

A knock at the door cut the moment short.

"Enter," commanded Rickon.

The door opened. Medrick returned, and with him came six strangers—sturdy men with weathered faces and the air of travelers. They bowed deeply.

Lord Desmond gestured toward them. "Here they are—the ones you asked for, Lord Stark. Surveyors of mountain and stone, skilled in the measure of land. They came through White Harbor seeking work, and now they stand ready to serve."

The strangers lifted their eyes first to Lord Desmond, then to Rickon Stark, and finally to Theon.

The weight of their gaze lingered on the boy who had summoned them, as though they already knew they were about to be part of something greater than stone and road.

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