After the chaos of the night before, calm returned slowly to the camp. Fires burned low, guards kept their posts, and the sounds of children sleeping in makeshift shelters blended with the river's steady current. Within the largest tent, Rickon Stark sat with his son, the others dismissed so they might speak in private. Lord Manderly, Medrick, and the men who had come with him waited outside, giving father and son space.
Theon sat opposite his father, his young face lit by the glow of a single lantern. Rickon studied him for a long moment before Theon broke the silence.
"Father," Theon asked in a measured tone, "how did you know we were ambushed?"
Rickon leaned back slightly, the weight of command clear in his posture. "The rider Martyn sent," he said. "He reached Winterfell, half-dead from the road. He gave me every detail—the ambush, the panic, how you gathered the smallfolk and guards, and…" Rickon's lips pressed into a thin line, pride glimmering through sternness. "How you single-handedly killed Rogar and his men."
Theon's brows lifted faintly. It must have been when I was gathering the survivors, he thought. The rider slipped away then, carrying word back home. He nodded slowly, accepting his father's explanation.
Rickon's voice softened, his eyes no longer only the Lord of Winterfell's, but a father's. "I am proud of you, my son. I always thought you were special. Tonight, you proved me right. Not just your mind, sharp and clever, but your strength and skill as well. Both are weapons you now wield with care."
Theon lowered his gaze, acknowledging the words with another nod. His father's approval sat heavy on his chest, not as a burden but as a warmth he had longed for.
Then, hesitantly, he asked, "And Mother… does she know what happened here?"
Rickon's expression hardened, pride giving way to something heavier. His eyes grew distant as he recalled the memory. "Yes. She was in my chamber when Martyn's rider arrived. She heard every word with her own ears. When she learned what had happened, her face went pale, and she collapsed before I could reach her."
Theon felt his throat tighten, but he said nothing, listening intently.
Rickon continued, his tone roughened by the memory. "I carried her to our bedchamber myself, shouting for the maester and servants. They came running, tending to her with haste. After some time, she woke, but she was not calm. She wept and shouted, begging me to bring you to her at once. She was ready to come herself, to ride through night and snow if it meant holding you in her arms again."
Theon's hands clenched upon his knees. The image of his mother's grief struck deeper than any blade.
"I stopped her," Rickon said firmly. "She fought me, even cursed me, but I held her and swore that nothing would happen to you. I promised her I would bring you back. Only then did she begin to calm. Exhaustion claimed her at last, and I stayed until she slept. Then, without delay, I rode with Lord Manderly and our men. And here we are."
Silence lingered between them, heavy with the weight of a mother's fear and a father's pride. Theon drew a slow breath, his voice steady when he finally spoke. "Then, when this work ends, I will return. I will meet her myself."
Rickon's stern features softened. He reached out, resting a hand briefly on his son's shoulder. "Aye. And she will see that you are safe. That is all she longs for."
Theon nodded, his eyes steady. "I will not fail her. Nor you."
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The night passed with no further alarm. Guards kept watch, though most in the camp slept soundly for the first time in days, sheltered by Stark and Manderly steel.
When morning came, it brought with it a bitter northern chill. The ground was hard with frost, and the breath of men and horses smoked in the cold air. Yet there was movement and purpose everywhere. Smallfolk packed what little they carried, miners checked their tools, and soldiers readied the horses. The air was brisk, sharp with winter's promise, but it carried the energy of hope as well.
Theon stepped from his tent, fur-lined cloak about his shoulders, and was greeted by the sight of his father and Lord Manderly speaking by the fire. Medrick stood nearby, giving orders to Manderly guards. Theon approached, and both lords turned to greet him.
"Come, sit," Rickon said, gesturing to a place beside him.
Theon sat, and a servant brought bowls of steaming porridge and dark bread. They ate together in companionable silence for a while, broken only by Lord Manderly's deep voice rumbling about supplies and march order.
When the meal was done, Rickon rose. "Mount up. The mountains wait."
And so they did. By midmorning the camp was broken, and the company moved once more. The smallfolk followed under guard, their eyes still wary but steadier now, for they knew they were not alone. The soldiers rode at the flanks, cloaks snapping in the cold wind.
The road grew harsher as the day wore on, winding through hills that grew taller and sterner with every mile. Snow clung stubbornly to shaded slopes, and the air grew colder as they climbed. Ravens circled above, their cries echoing against the stone.
By midday, the mountains loomed before them. Great ridges of grey and white rose into the sky, ancient and unyielding. Peaks cut sharp against the pale sun, their crowns wrapped in snow. To the Northmen, they were more than stone—they were witnesses. These mountains had stood since the First Men crossed into Westeros, since the Kings of Winter ruled from Winterfell, since battles long forgotten were fought upon their slopes.
Theon gazed up at them, awe flickering in his chest. These mountains have seen the blood of men far greater than me. Now they will see if they hold wealth enough to strengthen the North.
The company halted at the base, the wind whistling through crags and pines. Omero, the chief surveyor, rode forward, dismounting with the quickness of a man eager for his craft. His eyes scanned the ridges, sharp and calculating.
Rickon, Theon, Lord Manderly, Medrick, Roderick, and Omero gathered together. A rough map was spread upon a flat stone, its ink lines marking peaks and valleys.
Omero tapped the parchment with a gloved finger. "We begin with this ridge here," he said. "Its veins show promise. If there are minerals to be found, it will be here. But the search will take time—at least several days for a thorough survey. Perhaps longer if the weather turns."
Rickon nodded. "Then here we start. The North has waited long for this chance; a few days more will cost us nothing."
Theon leaned over the map, studying the lines. "How many men will you need for the first inspection?"
"Two dozen miners, no more. The rest will keep camp below until we confirm it is safe," Omero answered.
"Good," Rickon said. "We'll divide the work, but every man will earn his keep. The mountains do not forgive idleness."
Theon listened, his eyes flicking once more to the towering peaks above. The bandits of yesterday were already fading into memory; now the mountain itself was the foe to be faced. Cold, unyielding, but perhaps rich with what the North needed most—strength carved from stone.
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