The morning air in Winterfell was sharp with frost, the kind that stung the lungs yet cleared the mind. Theon walked with purpose across the courtyard, his small frame wrapped in a dark cloak, his eyes fixed on the great doors of the hall he had named himself—the Hall of Innovation.
It had been many moons since he last stepped inside. Many moons since he left Winterfell to climb the mountains and oversee the surveys. Now, returned, he came to see whether the seed he had planted before his departure had taken root.
Theon paused at the threshold, his hand resting against the iron handle. The cold bit into his skin, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He remembered the day he entrusted this hall with his vision, the day he set into motion a work that might one day change not only Winterfell, but all of Westeros.
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Flashback
The hall had been bare then, its stone walls echoing with emptiness, its benches cleared of dust and waiting for use. Gathered before him were those he had chosen: Winterfell's maester, sharp-eyed and cautious; the blacksmith, broad-shouldered and steady-handed; and ten apprentices, youths hungry to learn, the same who had once watched him craft the golden pen.
Theon had stood among them with a composure far beyond his years.
"You all know I will soon leave," he began, his voice quiet yet commanding. "I go to the mountains to oversee the surveys. I do not know how many days will pass before I return. But before I go, I will set you a task—one that must not fail."
The apprentices leaned forward. Even the blacksmith shifted uneasily, sensing the weight in the boy's words.
Theon's gaze fixed on the smith first. "From this day, you are no longer only Winterfell's smith. I name you a permanent member of this hall—as Head Creator."
The man frowned. "My lord, I am sworn to forge arms and armor for your house. That duty I cannot abandon."
"You will not abandon it," Theon replied firmly. "You will continue that work, but here you will also build for the future. You will train apprentices, oversee their work. We shall divide into two paths—one for war, forging arms and armor, and another for innovation, crafting creations to strengthen Winterfell and the North. You will guide both."
The blacksmith's protest faded. Slowly, he bowed. "As you command, my lord."
Theon turned to the maester. From his pocket, he drew out two folded sheets of parchment, heavy with ink and sketches. "I want these made," he said, handing them over.
The maester unfolded the first. His brows rose as he studied the gears, levers, and wooden frame with rows of etched letters. At the top was scrawled: Printing Machine.
The second paper made his hands tremble. His eyes widened, his face drained of color. He looked at Theon as though seeing him anew.
"You… know how to make this?"
"Yes," Theon answered simply.
The maester's voice cracked. "If this is built, it will not stay secret. The world will rage—especially Essos. They will not allow such a thing."
"Does it matter what they think?" Theon's tone was cold as iron.
Silence stretched, broken only by the maester's sudden laugh—not wild, but filled with awe, as if he had glimpsed a horizon beyond imagination. "You prove me again, boy. Age is no master of knowledge. Will and mind—these shape the world."
But then his expression dimmed. "Yet how will I manage this? I was sent to serve your lord father, to aid Winterfell, to teach the smallfolk's children. Already I have little time. If your father learns of this, he may forbid it. And the children—who will teach them if I am lost in these gears and levers?"
Theon's gaze sharpened. "You will not abandon them. I insist, maester. Whatever else you do here, you will keep teaching the smallfolk's children their letters. Knowledge must not stay chained in these walls. It must belong to the people."
The maester's lips parted, hope kindling in his eyes. "As you command, my lord. Gladly."
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Present
Theon pushed open the doors. The smell of ink, oil, and hot metal filled the chamber. Where once had been empty benches now bustled apprentices, their hands stained with soot and ink. The blacksmith bent over a frame of iron, adjusting bolts with steady patience.
In the center of the hall stood a great object, veiled beneath a heavy tarp. Its bulk loomed, silent and waiting.
The apprentices gathered as Theon entered. The blacksmith straightened. The maester stepped forward.
"My lord," he said softly. "It is ready."
At a nod from Theon, two apprentices pulled the tarp away.
There it stood—the machine.
A great wooden frame, broad as a man's shoulders, with a flat bed of iron to hold the paper. Above it, a heavy plate carved with grooves and fitted with iron screws, so it could be lowered evenly by a lever. At the side, neat trays of small blocks of metal and wood, each carved with a single letter of the alphabet. Rows upon rows of letters, waiting to be set into words.
Theon's sharp eyes scanned every joint, every piece of iron and timber. His lips curved faintly. A printing press. In Winterfell.
The maester watched him carefully. "It works, my lord. The blocks can be arranged to form words. Ink is spread upon them, then paper pressed. Dozens of copies can be made in the time it once took a scribe to copy one page."
The apprentices beamed with pride. The blacksmith folded his arms, soot still on his face, though there was a gleam in his eyes.
Theon stepped closer, placed a hand on the lever, and pulled. The plate pressed down, the wood groaned, and when it lifted, a fresh page lay inked upon the bed—clear letters, bold and sharp.
The boy's lips curved into a thin smile. "Good. Very good."
The maester exhaled, half in awe, half in fear. "My lord… with this, knowledge will no longer belong to a few. It will spread. To the North. To the world."
Theon's eyes gleamed in the firelight. "Then let it spread."
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