Theon walked beside the maester, followed closely by the blacksmith and ten eager apprentices, their steps echoing along the stone corridor of the Hall of Innovation. The torches that lined the walls hissed softly, their flames trembling in the faint winter draft.
"I never thought in my life that we could make this," the maester said, his voice filled with lingering disbelief. "But after so many experiments, we finally achieved our results."
"Good," Theon replied. "But did you make the other things, the ones I wrote on the sheets? The ones I asked to be completed before I returned?"
"Yes, my lord," the maester said with a smile. "We did, and the results are tremendous."
They stopped before a large oak door reinforced with black iron. The maester reached into his robe and drew a small brass key, the edges worn smooth from use. "Here," he murmured, sliding it into the keyhole. The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and warm air thick with the scent of oil and ash rolled out into the corridor.
The apprentices stepped aside as Theon entered.
Inside, the room glowed with golden firelight from hanging lamps. And there — standing proudly in the center — was the thing Theon had ordered to be made. A mirror.
It was full-length, framed in carved oak, its surface smooth as still water. On one side stood a table lined with drinking glasses, each one clear and gleaming like captured sunlight. The light danced upon them, throwing tiny sparks across the walls.
Winterfell — cold, grey, ancient — now held the secret of glassmaking.
Theon stepped closer, staring at his own reflection. His face stared back with uncanny clarity — sharp, real, alive. For a heartbeat, he almost didn't recognize himself. His hand brushed against the cool surface.
"So… this is what we've made," he said softly.
"Yes, my lord," the maester replied with a satisfied smile. "Winterfell now holds the theory, the craft, and the flame. We can make glass."
The apprentices and blacksmith bowed slightly, proud beyond words.
But how had Theon known how to create such a thing?
To understand that, one had to look back — before the mountains, before the surveys.
---
Flashback
A few days before Theon left for the northern mountains, he sat alone in his chamber, deep in thought. The soft crackle of the hearth was the only sound in the room.
He knew the expedition to the mountains was uncertain. There was no guarantee of success — no promise that they'd find anything of worth. He needed a plan B, something that could strengthen the North even if the rocks yielded nothing.
He rose from his chair, mind turning with ideas, and stepped into the corridor.
As he walked past the Great Hall, he heard voices — his mother's voice among them. Curious, he stopped. Lady Gilliane Stark was seated by the long hearth, surrounded by her handmaidens and a merchant dressed in southern silks. Before them on the table lay strange, shining objects that caught the light.
Theon approached. "Mother," he greeted, bowing slightly.
Gilliane looked up with a warm smile. "Theon, my son. What brings you here?"
"Nothing, I just saw you speaking with a trader. I was curious what you were buying."
"Nothing but some ladies' things," she replied with a soft laugh.
But Theon's eyes were drawn to the table — a cup of translucent brilliance and a wardrobe mirror, both unlike anything crafted in the North.
The merchant noticed his gaze and smiled like a man sensing opportunity. "Ah, fine goods, aren't they, my lord? The finest glassware from Myr. I was just telling your lady mother — these are treasures of the Free Cities."
Gilliane frowned slightly. "Treasures, yes — but you charge too much."
"You must understand, my lady," the trader said smoothly. "Myr's glass is the best in the world. It is costly to craft and harder still to bring here, to the cold North. Between the tolls, the sea fees, and the danger of travel, we barely make a profit. I assure you — this is the market price, without a single copper added by me."
Theon frowned, picking up the glass cup. It was light yet strong, smooth under his fingers. When he asked the price, he nearly blinked in disbelief.
Even for a Stark, it was too much.
"Mother," he said gently, "perhaps we only take the glass cups. The mirror can wait."
Gilliane sighed but nodded. "Very well. Just the cups."
The merchant bowed, pleased enough with the sale.
Theon handed over the coins and carried one of the cups in his hand, feeling its perfect smoothness as he walked back to his room.
By the time he reached his chamber, his mind was already racing.
If Myr can make this, so can we.
He set the cup on his desk and began to sketch.
---
The Blueprint of Fire
The desk soon filled with parchments — lines, furnaces, and notes written in his clean, measured hand.
Theon had lived many lives — and in another, long before this one, he had walked as something beyond mortal. A Counter Guardian of Alaya, bound to observe the rise and fall of mankind across timelines. He had seen civilizations rise from dust, seen fire turn to steel, and sand to glass.
He remembered the origins — how ancient people in Mesopotamia and Egypt, five thousand years ago, discovered glass by accident, when sand melted during metalwork. He remembered how craftsmen later learned to mix silica, soda, and lime, heating them to over 1,100 degrees, until molten glass pooled like golden syrup.
At first, they shaped it crudely, using core-forming — wrapping molten glass around clay molds and decorating it with colored trails. But everything changed in Syria, around the 1st century BCE, when someone discovered glassblowing — inflating molten glass through a pipe to form thin, light vessels.
That single idea changed the world.
With Phoenician traders spreading the craft, glass traveled across seas — from the coasts of Syria to Egypt, Greece, and beyond.
If they could do it then… why not here?
Theon worked late into the night. His sketches detailed everything — furnace temperatures, ingredient ratios, shaping methods, even how to polish and anneal the glass.
By dawn, he had two full blueprints ready:
One for glassmaking.
Another for a printing press, an idea he had long pondered after crafting the golden pen.
When he finished, he smiled faintly. Even if the mountains gave nothing, the North would still rise — by knowledge.
He sealed the parchments in wax, handed them to the maester the next morning, and said only:
"Study these. Build them."
Then, he rode out for the mountains.
---
Present Day — Back in Winterfell
Now, standing before the mirror, Theon watched his reflection and remembered that moment.
Beside him, the maester spoke with pride, "We followed your diagrams precisely, my lord. The furnaces burned for days and nights without pause. The blacksmiths built new molds of clay and metal, and after many failures, the first clear glass emerged — thin as ice, smooth as silk."
Theon turned his gaze toward the other objects. The glasses, the bottles, the mirror — all gleamed with the same cold brilliance as those imported from Myr.
Winterfell had succeeded.
But the maester's voice turned grave. "My lord… if Myr learns of this, they will not be pleased."
Theon looked up, brow raised. "What do you mean?"
The maester sighed. "You have to understand — Myr's glass trade is a monopoly across the known world. Their glass is unmatched — mirrors, windows, and especially their lenses, the 'Myrish eyes.' Even the Night's Watch uses them at Castle Black. Those lenses are the pride of Myr — made by slave artisans, yet so precise they can magnify the stars themselves."
He walked slowly to one of the mirrors, running a finger across its edge.
"Myr's glassmakers are born to their craft. They are property, trained from childhood. Their knowledge is guarded fiercely — their city's wealth depends on it. Myr was built upon this trade, upon the skill of its enslaved craftsmen. They export not only mirrors but tapestries, lace, carpets, even 'fire wine,' a healing liquor. But glass — glass is their heart. It fuels their economy and their pride."
He looked to Theon, face shadowed. "If we challenge that monopoly, they will not stand idle. They could send spies, assassins, or worse — use politics, trade pressure, even sabotage. To them, your glass is not craft… it is rebellion."
Theon smiled faintly, cold and sharp. "Rebellion? No, Maester. We are not trying to sabotage their craft. We are building ours. The North must not live forever under the trade chains of others."
"But they will not see it that way," the maester warned. "If Winterfell begins to sell glass, if even rumors reach Essos, Myr will act. Their merchants, their lords, their coin — all will turn against you."
Theon's eyes hardened. "Then let them."
He stepped before the mirror again, his reflection tall and calm. "If they think they can harm us, they are welcome to try. The North has endured worse than the greed of merchants."
His voice grew lower, but steel rang in it. "Let Myr keep its pride. We'll keep our fire."
The maester bowed slightly, though his worry did not fade.
The apprentices, still gathered near the doorway, exchanged glances — pride and unease mixed in their faces. They knew what they had done was historic. In the cold heart of the North, they had turned sand into light.
Winterfell — the old fortress of wolves — had become a forge of ideas.
And as the flames flickered against the perfect surface of the mirror, Theon's reflection seemed to look past the present — into something greater waiting beyond.
---