The Celestial Smith

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/60388900.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Categories: F/M, Gen, Multi
Fandoms: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV),
Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Warhammer Fantasy
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Original Male Character(s), Margaery Tyrell/Original Male
Character(s), Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark,
Catelyn Tully Stark/Ned Stark, val/original male character
Characters: Original Male Character(s), Ned Stark, Jon Snow, Jon Arryn, Daenerys
Targaryen, Cersei Lannister, Catelyn Tully Stark, Robb Stark, Theon
Greyjoy, Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, Talisa
Maegyr, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Benjen Stark, Val (A Song of Ice and
Fire)
Additional Tags: Character Death, Uplift, Celestial Forge (Celestial Forge CYOA), War,
Violence, Brotherhood, North Uplift, stark wank, Jon Snow is a
Targaryen
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-11-07 Updated: 2024-12-26 Words: 60,924 Chapters:
15/?
 The Celestial Smith
by Dragonsrise

Summary

A man reborn in the North with the powers of the celestial forge within his soul. Thus begins
his journey to perhaps make a better ending. For the starks, the North, Westeros and the
world of Ice and Fire.

Notes

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 A Forge Blazes To Life

Owen stood in his father's forge early in the morning, working slowly on a simple iron blade.
He snorted in deep amusement at the thought. Simple was an understatement. He could make
simple. Not anymore. Not since he had awakened the power of the celestial forge within him
at 15 years - namedays as they called it in Westeros.

The heat from the forge warmed his face as he shaped the metal with practiced, perfect
strokes, his abilities working to make a simple blade something of perfection.

That day ten years ago had changed everything. One moment he'd been Jacob Danner, a
regular guy living a regular life. The next, he'd opened his eyes as Owen, son of a blacksmith
in a world straight out of fantasy novels. The shock had nearly broken him as both sets of
memories of two lives lived warred in his head.

His mother Tina had found him that morning, tear tracks dried on his cheeks. She'd held him
close, stroking his hair, not understanding why her usually cheerful boy was so distraught.
How could he explain that he remembered an entire other life? That he knew things no five-
year-old should know?

He sighed at the memory and watched the metal glow and bend under his precise hammering,
each strike perfect and measured. His father had praised his skill countless times, saying he
was blessed by the old gods, not knowing the true source of his expertise.

"The wheel turns and turns," he muttered to himself, remembering the words from his past
life. The books he'd read, the shows he'd watched - they painted a grim picture of what was to
come. Winter wasn't just coming; it was bringing ice demons, armies of the dead, and
political chaos that would tear the realm apart.

He set the hammer down, wiping sweat from his brow. The heat from the forge couldn't chase
away the chill that crept up his spine whenever he thought about it. Dragons would return.
The Night King would march. Kings would die, and common folk would suffer most of all.

Owen's plans had been simple once the memories settled. He'd known what was coming - the
wars, the walking dead, the dragons. His strategy had been clear: work hard in his father's
forge, save every copper he could, and when the time came, grab his parents and flee across
the Narrow Sea to Essos. Let the highborn idiots play their game of thrones. He and his
family would be safe, far from the coming horrors.

But then it happened. On his fifteenth nameday, as he lay in his bed listening to the distant
crash of waves against Longshore's cliffs, something deep within him shifted. The sensation
was unlike anything in either of his lives - a resonance that seemed to echo from the stars
themselves. In that moment, he felt the turn of cosmic gears, the movement of forces beyond
mortal understanding.

The word SKYRIM blazed across his consciousness, burning itself into his very soul. The
celestial forge, a power he had thought only appeared in the cheesiest of fanfiction till that
moment, turned its great wheel. Knowledge flooded his mind - not just basic smithing
techniques, but mastery beyond anything this world had seen. Secrets of metallurgy that even
the greatest smiths of westeros and beyond would envy poured into him. He understood steel
as if it were an old friend, could feel the way metal wanted to flow and bend.

He sat up in bed, his hands trembling as he stared at them in the dim light filtering through
his window. These were still the callused hands of a blacksmith's son, but now they held the
potential for so much more. He could forge weapons and armor that would rival the
legendary Valyrian steel - perhaps not quite as magical, but crafted with a perfection that few
could match.

"Fucking Seven Hells!," he had whispered, then caught himself and glanced wearily at the
small weirwood carving his father had made. Old gods, not new, here in the North. He didn't
need to make any divine enemies right now.

The surge of knowledge wasn't just about metalworking - he understood materials he'd knew
had never even been heard of or existed in this world. Ebony. Moonstone, Malachite, Glass
that could hold an edge sharper than steel. Even the theoretical knowledge of how to work
with daedric materials, though he knew those couldn't exist here. All this knowledge from a
world based on a video game he had played when he was teenager in his last life.

He had slipped out of bed and paced his small room, mind racing. This changed everything.
The power he'd received wasn't just skill - it was mastery that went beyond what should be
possible. His original plan of flight no longer seemed adequate. With this ability, he could
forge weapons and armor that might actually make a difference in the coming conflicts.

The question was did he want to get involved? He didn't care for the Starks or Lannisters. He
didn't want anything to do with Jon snow in winterfell or Daenerys in Essos and he certainly
didn't want to deal with any white walkers. He had made his choice then. He'd use his
abilities, make a shit ton of gold, grab his family and any from longshore who wished to join
him and get the fuck outta dodge. Let westeros sort itself out! He wasn't made for the hero
life.

At least that had been the plan. Owen stared at the blade in his hands, remembering that
morning after his awakening. He'd walked into his father's forge before dawn, unable to sleep
with the new knowledge burning in his mind. The metal had sung to him, practically begging
to be shaped into something extraordinary.

Olyvar had found his son already deep in work, the forge blazing hot, steel folded and
refolded with a precision that made the blacksmith's jaw drop. Owen's hands had moved with
certainty, each strike of the hammer placed perfectly, each fold of the metal executed with
masterful care.

"By the old gods," Olyvar had whispered, watching his fifteen-year-old son craft a sword that
looked like it belonged in the hands of Brandon the Builder himself. The blade caught the
morning light, its surface so perfectly smooth it seemed to drink in the sun's rays.

Owen had given the sword an experimental twirl, muscle memory from both lives guiding his
movements. The blade cut through the air with an audible whisper, leaving what almost
looked like traces in the very wind itself. Not a single imperfection marred its surface - no
chips, no scratches, just pure perfection in steel form.

"Son?" Olyvar's voice had cracked slightly. "Where did you... how did you learn to forge like
this?"

Owen had turned to his father, seeing the mix of awe and concern in the older man's eyes.
He'd prepared a story about practicing in secret, about studying the old techniques, but
looking at his father's face, he couldn't bring himself to lie.

"The old gods," he'd said simply, knowing how much his father respected the ancient powers
of the North. "They blessed me with knowledge, father. Last night, on my nameday."

Olyvar had stepped forward, running a calloused hand along the blade's surface. "This is
beyond anything I've ever seen, save perhaps Valyrian steel itself, and i only saw that in
passing when i was an apprentice….." His eyes had met Owen's. "A blessing you have been
given indeed son. But such gifts often come with great responsibility."

Those words had hit Owen hard, making his carefully laid plans of escape feel suddenly
hollow. His father in this new life had always been a practical man, not given to flights of
fancy or supernatural speculation. But in that moment, Olyvar's quiet acceptance and wisdom
had shaken Owen's resolve more than any prophecy or vision could have.

Owen's blades had quickly become legendary within the small confines of Longshore. The
village guards strutted around with their gifted swords, proud as peacocks, often spending
their free hours near the forge watching the young smith work. They marveled at how the
metal seemed to flow like water under his hammer, taking shape with an ease that defied their
understanding of smithing.

"It's like watching magic," Derrick, one of the guards, had said one morning, leaning against
the forge's doorframe. His own sword, one of Owen's first masterworks, hung at his hip. The
blade caught the sunlight, its surface gleaming with an almost mirror-like finish.

The other guards nodded in agreement, watching as Owen shaped yet another blade. They'd
taken to spending their off-duty hours at the forge, bringing ales and sharing stories while the
young smith worked. Owen didn't mind the company - their presence helped maintain the
illusion that this was all just exceptional skill rather than supernatural ability.

Olyvar had watched from his own workbench with quiet pride, though he knew the truth of
his son's gift. He'd taken to handling the more mundane work - horseshoes, plow blades, and
tools - leaving the weapons to Owen's extraordinary talents.

It was during one of these impromptu gatherings that Torren first approached Owen about
selling his blades beyond Longshore. The merchant had been watching the young smith's
work for weeks, his keen trader's eyes noting the exceptional quality of each piece.

"These are worth a fortune in the right markets," Torren had said, his voice low and excited.
"The nobles around the north? they'd pay their weight in gold for blades of this quality."
Owen had hesitated initially. The village guards could have his work for free - they were
neighbors, friends, people he'd known in this life since childhood. But selling the blades?
That meant attention, questions about his methods, his training.

Still, the prospect of gold was too tempting to ignore. Every coin would bring him closer to
his goal of escaping the coming chaos. After some negotiation, they struck a deal: Torren
would take a selection of blades on his trading routes through the North, selling them at
premium prices and taking a reasonable cut of the profits.

The first batch of swords left with Torren as winter's chill began to creep into the air. Owen
watched the merchant's wagon disappear down the coastal road, a knot forming in his
stomach. He'd been careful to make the blades exceptional but not impossible - nothing that
would scream of supernatural origin. Just masterwork steel, crafted with unprecedented skill.

But as he turned back to his forge, Owen couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made a crucial
error. The guards of Longshore were one thing - a handful of men in a remote coastal village
with great blades weren't likely to draw attention. But now his work would be seen in the
great houses of the North, examined by master smiths and warriors who might ask questions
about their origin.

He had been so focused on gathering the gold needed for escape that he'd forgotten one of the
fundamental rules of survival in Westeros: exceptional things drew exceptional attention, and
attention was often fatal in this world.

Six days after Torren's departure, Owen found himself restless at his forge. The celestial forge
power within him seemed to pulse with anticipation, like a clock ticking down to something
inevitable. He continued his work, crafting blades of exceptional quality, each piece a
testament to his supernatural skill, but he could feel the power building.

His father noticed his distraction during their shared meals. "Something troubles you, son?"
Olyvar asked one evening, his weathered hands wrapped around a cup of ale.

"Just a feeling," Owen replied, unable to explain the sensation of cosmic gears turning within
his soul.

On the sixth day, as Owen worked on tempering a spearhead, the power suddenly surged. His
eyes snapped shut as energy coursed through his body. The celestial forge turned its great
wheel once more, and knowledge flooded his mind. But this time, it wasn't mere information
or skill - it was something far more tangible.

CIDHNA MINE blazed across his consciousness. Images of deep tunnels, rich veins of ore,
and the echo of pickaxes filled his mind. Before he could process this new gift, screams
erupted from outside the village.

Owen had dropped his tools and rushed out of the forge, his leather apron still tied around his
waist. The commotion came from the village's eastern edge, where a crowd had gathered.
Guards stood with weapons drawn, pointing at something on the ground.

"By the old gods!" someone shouted.

Owen pushed through the gathering of villagers to see what had caused such alarm. There,
where solid ground had existed just moments before, gaped a massive hole. The opening
stretched at least thirty feet across, its edges clean-cut as if carved by giant hands. A sturdy
wooden ladder descended into the darkness.

From deep within the shaft came the rhythmic sounds of mining - the sharp crack of pickaxes
against stone, the scrape of shovels, and the distant rumble of cart wheels. The villagers stood
transfixed, many making signs to ward off evil.

"It just appeared!" Derrick shouted as he gripped his gifted sword tightly. "The ground just...
opened up. Like someone pulled apart a seam in the earth."

Owen stared down into the mine shaft, recognition dawning in his eyes. He knew this place,
or rather, he knew what it was meant to be. The celestial forge had given him more than just
knowledge this time - it had created something physical, something real. And it hadn't been
exactly subtle about it.

The sounds of mining continued to echo up from the depths, though no miners could be seen
on the visible portions of the ladder or shaft walls. The hole seemed to promise riches, but
also held an air of mystery that had the villagers keeping their distance.

"Someone needs to go down there," Arlrick, one of the village elders said, though he made no
move to volunteer.

Owen stepped forward without hesitation, his boots crunching on loose stones as he
approached the mine entrance. The assembled villagers drew back, creating a path for him.
He grasped the wooden ladder, testing its strength with a firm tug before beginning his
descent.

"Owen, wait!" his father called from the crowd, but Owen had already disappeared into the
shaft.

The ladder was sturdy, each rung perfectly spaced and secured. Torchlight flickered from
below, casting dancing shadows on the shaft walls. The sounds of mining grew louder as he
descended - picks striking stone, the creak of cart wheels, the shuffle of unseen feet.

"Bloody hell," Derrick muttered from above. The guard had followed after a moment's
hesitation, his gifted sword catching the torchlight as he climbed down. "Never thought I'd be
climbing into a hole that appeared out of nowhere."

Two more sets of boots hit the ladder as Torven and Dorhan, two other guards, joined the
descent. The four men climbed down in silence, save for their breathing and the occasional
curse when someone's foot slipped.

Owen's boots hit solid ground first. He stepped away from the ladder, taking in the sight
before him. The mine tunnel stretched out in multiple directions, well-lit by torches set in
iron brackets along the walls. The ceiling rose high enough for even the tallest man to walk
comfortably, supported by thick wooden beams.
But it was the walls that drew their attention. Veins of ore glittered everywhere, catching the
torchlight like stars in an underground sky. Gold streaked through the rock in thick ribbons,
while silver threads wound their way through darker stone. Copper and tin deposits showed
their distinctive colors, and iron ore ran in dark bands throughout.

"By the old gods," Dorhan whispered as he reached the bottom. "I've never seen so much
wealth in one place."

Owen's trained eye caught sight of other materials - ones he knew didn't exist in this world
until now, yet here they were. A deep black vein of ebony ore ran along one wall, its surface
seeming to drink in the torchlight. Malachite showed its distinctive green hue in several
places, while moonstone's pale blue-white gleam caught his eye from another tunnel. And
there, running in thick veins through the darker rock, was the golden-hued orichalcum.

"What are those?" Torven asked, pointing at the unfamiliar ores. "I've never seen their like
before."

Owen ran his hand along the ebony ore, feeling its unique resonance through his enhanced
understanding of metallurgy. With these materials, he could forge items that would make his
previous work look like apprentice efforts. Armor that could turn aside the strongest blows,
weapons that would never dull or break.

The sounds of mining continued around them, though they still saw no miners. Cart tracks
ran along the tunnel floor, disappearing into the darkness of branching passages. The air was
fresh, suggesting some form of ventilation system throughout the complex.

"There's enough ore here to make Longshore richer than Lannisport," Derrick said, his voice
filled with awe as he touched a golden vein.

Owen felt a chill run down his spine at Derrick's words. His knowledge from his previous life
screamed warnings about the dangers of such wealth becoming known. Tywin Lannister's
destruction of House Reyne flashed through his mind - the Old Lion would murder every
man, woman, and child in Longshore to claim such riches.

The group pressed deeper into the mine, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The ore
veins grew more prominent with each turn, spreading across the tunnel walls like frozen
rivers of metal. What had been impressive deposits near the entrance now became staggering
in their abundance.

"These veins..." Torven whispered, his hand trailing along a particularly thick strand of silver.
"They're getting bigger."

The mining sounds grew louder as they advanced, accompanied now by the rhythmic clang
of metal on metal and a strange whirring noise none of them had heard before. The tunnel
opened into a vast chamber that made the guards stop dead in their tracks.

Derrick's sword clattered against the stone floor. Dorhan made the sign of the old gods and
whispered prayers. Torven simply stood, mouth agape.
Before them stood rows of metal men, their bodies crafted from burnished bronze and steel.
Some wielded picks and shovels, methodically extracting ore from the massive veins that
covered the chamber walls. Others carried boxes filled with raw ore to a series of large
smelting furnaces that glowed with intense heat. More of these mechanical beings stood
guard with weapons in hand - spears and swords that gleamed in the chamber's light.

A separate group of automatons worked at the furnaces, transforming the raw ore into neat
stacks of ingots, each one perfect in its uniformity. Their movements were precise, efficient,
and utterly inhuman.

As Owen and the guards entered the chamber, every mechanical head turned toward them.
The mining ceased. The smelting paused. Dozens of gleaming metal faces regarded the group
with glowing eyes that seemed to pulse with an inner light.

Then, as one, the automatons bowed to Owen.

One of the mechanical beings, slightly taller than the others and decorated with intricate
engravings, stepped forward. Its movements were smooth, almost fluid, despite its metallic
construction. When it spoke, its voice was clear and resonant, like a perfectly struck bell.

"Great Smith," it intoned, gesturing to the neatly stacked ingots. "The first shipment is
prepared for your use."

The guards turned to stare at Owen, their expressions a mix of awe and uncertainty. He
scratched his head, embarrassment coloring his cheeks at being discovered as the source of
this miraculous mine. The silence stretched for a moment before he cleared his throat.

"Continue your work," Owen addressed the automatons. "Bring the prepared ingots to the
forge in the village."

The chief automaton's metal frame straightened, its luminous eyes flickering briefly. "As you
command, Great Smith." It stepped back into the ranks of its mechanical brethren, who
resumed their tasks with seamless precision.

Derrick's hand rested on the pommel of his gifted sword as he turned to Owen. "You... you're
responsible for this?" His voice held no accusation, only wonder.

Owen nodded slowly, choosing his words carefully. "It's a blessing from the old gods, just as
my skill at forging your weapons was. The same power that lets me craft those master-
worked blades brought this mine into being."

The guards exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful. The rhythmic sounds of mining
filled the silence as they processed this revelation. Finally, Torven spoke.

"You've never done anything to harm Longshore," he said firmly. "Those blades you gave us?
They're worth more than gold, and you asked nothing in return." The other guards nodded in
agreement.
Derrick stepped forward. "If this is another gift from the gods through you, then we accept it.
We'll explain everything to the villagers and elders. Wont want them running and screaming
when these….metal men come to the top."

"They'll understand," Dorhan added. "The old gods work in mysterious ways, and their
blessings shouldn't be questioned."

The guards moved toward back towards the path to the ladder, leaving Owen alone with the
mechanical workers. He watched as the automatons efficiently packed different ores into
wooden boxes - gold, silver, iron, and the exotic materials like ebony and orichalcum. Each
box was carefully labeled and stacked, ready for transport to his forge.

As he observed their methodical work, Owen had felt his carefully laid plans for departure
slipping away. Each ingot stacked represented another tie binding him to Longshore, another
responsibility he couldn't simply abandon. His dreams of escape grew dimmer with each
passing moment, replaced by the weight of this new gift and its implications for his adopted
home.

Days passed, then a month and the rhythmic presence of the automatons became as familiar
to Longshore's residents as the crash of waves against the shore. Children no longer ran
screaming when the metal beings emerged from Cidhna Mine, carrying their precious cargo
to Owen's forge. Instead, they watched with fascination from behind barrels and crates,
making up stories about the mechanical workers.

In the village hall, Olyvar sat with the council of elders, his weathered hands spread across a
rough wooden table where ten gleaming gold ingots caught the afternoon light. Each bar was
perfectly formed, stamped with precise markings that spoke of their supernatural origin.

"Ten ingots should be enough," Elder Marlene said, running a wrinkled finger along one of
the bars. "More than enough, really. Winterfell's never seen such payment from us before."

Olyvar nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Aye, and that's what concerns me. Lord Stark will
have questions when his tax collectors return with gold instead of silver and copper."

"Better his questions about our sudden wealth than his fury over unpaid taxes," Elder
Tormund growled, his thick beard quivering as he spoke. "The old way is clear - when you
profit from the land, you pay your due to your liege lord. Even if that profit comes from..." he
gestured vaguely toward the mine entrance visible through the hall's window.

The elders had spent hours debating how to handle this situation. Some argued for hiding the
mine's existence entirely, but Olyvar had convinced them of the foolishness of such an
attempt. Gold had a way of being noticed, and Lord Eddard Stark was known for his keen
sense of justice. Better to pay honestly and weather the questions than risk being accused of
deception.

"The boy's mechanical men are efficient," Elder Marlene observed, watching through the
window as an automaton carried a crate of processed ore toward Owen's forge. "They work
day and night, never tire, never complain. A blessing from the old gods, truly."
"And yet," Elder Tormund muttered, "such blessings often draw unwanted attention. When
Lord Stark learns of this..." He left the thought unfinished, but everyone in the room
understood his meaning.

Olyvar gathered the gold ingots carefully, placing them in a sturdy oak box that would be
presented to Winterfell's tax collectors when they made their rounds. "My son's gift brings
both fortune and challenge to Longshore. We must be prepared for both."

As Olyvar grappled with political concerns in the village hall, Owen worked tirelessly at his
forge. The new ores from Cidhna Mine transformed his workshop into something
otherworldly. Ebony ingots gleamed with their characteristic black sheen beside stacks of
ethereal blue Stalhrim and vibrant green Malachite. The automatons had organized
everything meticulously, each material sorted and labeled in neat rows.

Owen's hands moved with supernatural precision as he shaped an Ebony sword. The black
metal flowed under his hammer like liquid shadow, each strike perfect and purposeful. The
blade took shape swiftly, its edge already sharp enough to split a hair before he'd even begun
the finishing touches. His enhanced abilities made working with these exotic materials as
natural as breathing.

In another corner of his workshop, completed pieces stood on display. A Stalhrim dagger
caught the light, its surface reminiscent of ancient glacial ice. Next to it, a Malachite
Warhammer's green surface swirled with patterns that seemed to move in the forge's
flickering light. Each piece was flawless, bearing the hallmarks of expertise that should have
taken centuries to develop.

Outside, the village guards patrolled in their new Stalhrim armor. The ice-blue metal gleamed
in the sunlight, making them look like warriors from ancient Northern legends. The armor
moved silently despite its apparent weight, and the guards had reported that it felt light as
leather while providing protection better than the finest steel. Young women of the village
found excuses to linger near their patrol routes, batting their eyes at the newly impressive
figures.

A commotion at the village gate drew Owen's attention from his work. Torren had returned,
his wagon considerably lighter than when he'd departed a month ago. The merchant's face
beamed with excitement as he practically bounced off his seat.

"Three thousand gold dragons!" Torren announced, hefting a heavy chest onto Owen's
workbench. The coins clinked satisfyingly as they spilled across the surface. "And I didn't
even make it past White Harbor!"

Owen paused in his work, setting aside the nearly-completed Ebony sword. "All hundred
blades sold?"

"Sold?" Torren laughed. "They were fighting over them! Lord Manderly's son bought twenty
himself. The Karstarks, the Hornwoods - every noble house that caught wind of them wanted
one. And when they learned I was the merchant selling them..." He shook his head in
amazement. "They wouldn't let me leave until I told them everything about who made them."
Owen's hands had stilled on the coins he'd been counting. "What did you tell them?"

"Only that they came from a gifted smith in a small village near Sea Dragon Point. They
wanted more specifics, of course, but I kept things vague." Torren's expression grew serious.
"They're talking about your work in White Harbor's halls, Owen. They say these blades rival
Valyrian steel in quality, if not in magic. The northern lords are clamoring for more."

Owen sat in silence, fingers tracing the edge of a gold dragon as he absorbed Torren's news.
The coin felt heavy with possibility - and danger. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be better to
stop production entirely."

Torren's jaw dropped, his face contorting as if Owen had suggested setting fire to the gold
itself. "Stop? Have you lost your mind, boy? Do you understand what you're sitting on here?"
He gestured wildly at the exotic weapons lining the walls, at the mechanical workers visible
through the forge's window. "You could build a second Lannisport right here in Longshore! A
White Harbor of the west coast!"

"And draw every greedy lord's attention straight to us," Owen muttered, but Torren pressed
on.

"With wealth like this, with skills like yours - gods, Owen, you could transform this entire
region! Think of what Longshore could become!"

Owen shook his head, his thoughts drifting to Lord Stark's approaching tax collector. Within
a month, that man would ride into Longshore, and Owen wanted his family far across the
Narrow Sea when that happened. Braavos beckoned with its promise of anonymity and
opportunity. Three thousand dragons would see them settled comfortably there, but...

His eyes swept across his workshop, calculating. A bit more coin wouldn't hurt. Insurance
against a hard crossing, funds to establish a new forge in a strange land. He reached beneath
his workbench and withdrew a carefully wrapped bundle.

"Here," Owen said, laying out ten weapons before Torren. The Stalhrim ore caught the light,
casting ethereal blue reflections across the merchant's awestruck face. "Five blades, two
Warhammers, three spears. Sell these in Winterfell and White Harbor only. Nowhere else."

Torren lifted one of the spears, his experienced merchant's eye examining the strange
material. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary as always - better than any smith I've ever seen.
But this metal... what is it? It's like nothing I've encountered before."

Owen sighed and walked to the forge door. "Derrick!" he called out to the guard who had
taken up his post outside, stationed there by the elders and Olyvar despite the relative peace
of Longshore. The guard's new Stalhrim armor gleamed as he turned toward Owen's voice.

"Owen, any problems?" Derrick asked, his hand resting on the icy Stalhrim sword at his hip.

Owen shook his head. "No problems. But I need you both to follow me." He gestured to
Derrick and Torren, leading them away from the forge and through the village outskirts.
The trio made their way across the rocky shore until they reached a massive boulder that
jutted from the landscape. The stone stood nearly twice Owen's height, weathered by
centuries of salt spray and storms.

Owen turned to Derrick. "Show him."

A knowing smile spread across Derrick's face as he drew the Stalhrim blade. The sword
caught the sunlight, sending ethereal blue reflections dancing across the rocks. Torren
watched, curiosity evident in his expression.

The merchant's eyes widened as Derrick raised the sword. Any seasoned trader knew what
happened when steel met stone - chipped edges, cracked blades, or worse. But before Torren
could voice his concern, Derrick swung.

A gust of frigid wind accompanied the strike, frost crystallizing in the air around the blade's
path. The boulder split clean in two, its severed surfaces coated in a thick layer of ice. The cut
was perfectly smooth, as if the stone had been divided by some giant's razor.

Torren's jaw dropped. His eyes darted between the frozen halves of the boulder and the
pristine blade in Derrick's hand, which showed no sign of damage. The implications of such
power left him speechless.

Owen fixed Torren with a stern gaze. "Remember what I said - sell only to Lords Stark and
Manderly. No one else. And bring the gold straight back."

Torren nodded vigorously, still staring at the bisected boulder as Owen and Derrick turned to
leave. Derrick's chuckle echoed across the shore, amused by the merchant's shocked
expression.

As Owen had walked back to his forge, his mind filled with calculations. The sale of these
weapons would bring in tens of thousands of gold dragons - more than enough for his family
to finally leave this place behind. He stepped through the forge door, closing his eyes for a
moment.

In that instant, the Celestial Forge within his soul flared with brilliant light. A new power
crystallized in his mind, accompanied by three words that blazed like stars: Behold
Haxcalibur.

Owen staggered back against his workbench as the new power flooded his consciousness.
The Celestial Forge's gift blazed through him like molten metal, searing its knowledge into
his mind. His fingers clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white as he processed the
implications of Behold Haxcalibur.

"No, no, no," he muttered, staring at the weapons displayed on his walls. Every piece he'd
crafted - already masterworks that had lords fighting over them - could now be made ten
times more powerful. The Stalhrim blade that had cleaved through solid rock would slice
through castle walls like butter.
His eyes landed on the guards patrolling outside his window, their blue-white armor
gleaming. The same armor that had seemed nearly impenetrable yesterday now appeared
woefully inadequate compared to what he could create.

"Fuck it all," Owen groaned, running his hands through his hair. He'd have to call them all
back, replace every piece of equipment he'd given them. The thought of the work ahead made
his head spin.

"Language!"

Tina's stern voice cut through his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, holding a wooden tray
laden with fresh bread, cheese, and steaming soup. Her blue eyes held that familiar mix of
love and maternal authority that could make even the most powerful craftsman feel like a
scolded child.

"Yes, mother," Owen replied, unable to keep the amusement from his voice despite his
frustration.

Tina set the tray down on a clear spot of his workbench, carefully avoiding the scattered tools
and metal shavings. She reached up - having to stretch slightly now that he'd grown taller
than her - and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Don't work too hard," she instructed, smoothing his disheveled hair. "You're still growing,
Blessing from the old gods or not."

Owen had watched her leave, then turned to his lunch. The bread was still warm from the
ovens, and the soup's aroma made his stomach growl. As he ate, his mind raced through the
possibilities and complications his newest gift had created. The Celestial Forge's power
thrummed beneath his skin, eager to be put to use crafting items that would make the Gods
weep with jealousy.

Owens thoughts returned to the present as he continued his work. Two months had passed
since Owen received his latest power from the Celestial Forge. The forge rang with the steady
rhythm of his hammer as he worked on another northern-style longsword. Perfectly crafted,
but intentionally held back from its true potential. The blade would sell well, fetch a good
price, and draw no unwanted attention.

Rows of finished weapons lined the walls of his workshop - axes, spears, swords, and maces.
Each one a masterwork that would make most smiths weep with envy, yet still within the
realm of mortal craftsmanship. The pile grew daily as Owen prepared his final gift to
Longshore's economy.

At his hip hung the only weapon he'd crafted using Behold Haxcalibur's power - an Ebony
blade that seemed to drink in the light around it. The sword radiated an otherworldly presence
that made even Owen uncomfortable at times. In the corner of his parents' home lay a
matching set of Ebony armor and shield, similarly enhanced beyond mortal limits.
The village guards still patrolled in their original Stalhrim armor, powerful enough to protect
them but not so overwhelming as to invite disaster. Owen had wrestled with the decision to
upgrade their equipment after receiving Behold Haxcalibur, but common sense prevailed.
The last thing he needed was tales reaching Essos about Longshore guards cutting down lords
with impossible weapons.

Lord Stark's tax collectors had come and gone, their questions about the gold ingots
perfunctory. They'd simply stated they would report Longshore's improved fortunes to their
lord and let him decide how to proceed. That had been weeks ago.

Owen paused in his work, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced out the workshop
window. Torren should have returned by now. The merchant knew the urgency of their
situation, understood the need for speed and discretion. His continued absence gnawed at
Owen's thoughts.

The timeline worried him more with each passing day. He knew the Greyjoy Rebellion had
been crushed, but beyond that, everything remained uncertain. Had Jon Arryn been poisoned
yet? Was Robert Baratheon already planning his fatal journey to Winterfell that would set the
ball rolling for the events of the first book? Or were they still years away from those events?

Owen set down his hammer and moved to check on the latest batch of weapons. They would
serve their purpose - bringing wealth to Longshore one final time before he convinced his
parents they needed to leave. Before the storm he knew was coming broke upon the North.

Owen placed the last forged weapon on the rack, its perfect edge glinting in the forge's light.
The wall of weapons represented weeks of careful work - masterful pieces that would sell
well. He grabbed a rag to wipe down his workbench, ready to close up for the evening.

The sound of rushing armored feet made him pause. The distinctive crystalline ring of
Stalhrim armor grew louder as someone approached at speed. Owen looked up with a raised
eyebrow as Derrick burst through the forge door, his ice-blue armor catching the dying
sunlight.

"Owen! Torren is back." The guard's face was flushed from running. "Your father calls for
you."

Relief flooded through Owen's body. Finally - the gold he needed to get his family safely
across the Narrow Sea. His mind already raced ahead to booking passage on a ship,
establishing a new forge in Braavos, building a life away from the coming chaos of
Westeros...

Derrick's next words stopped his thoughts cold.

"He isn't alone. Lords Stark, Manderly and Glover are with him," the guard said, worry
evident in his voice.

Owen stood frozen, the cleaning rag falling forgotten from his suddenly nerveless fingers.
The implications hit him like a hammer blow. Three of the North's most powerful lords, here
in Longshore. Here at his forge.
The silence stretched for a long moment before Owen found his voice. His first words
emerged as a growl.

"SON OF A BITC-"

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@

POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.

Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
P.S: Powers gained from the forge are not chosen by points amount but choosing from a
single universe and rolling the dice to see where i land. Should the powers be enough from
the chosen universe, i will choose another and roll again.
 Of Wonders And The Future
Chapter Notes

Join my discord to share ideas, criticism, DM for personal paid fics if you want or just
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Patreon link in discord if willing and able to support or join tier to get fic chapters
earlier, otherwise leaving a like is all you need to show support.

You can also drop in at the new Celestial smith channel to drop ideas on how the story
and what powers you think Owen should gain to help his journey.

The afternoon winter sun cast long shadows across Longshore as Owen and Derrick made
their way through the packed dirt streets. Despite the urgency of the situation, Owen kept his
pace measured. Running would only draw more attention.

His mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. The Stalhrim armor alone
would raise questions he couldn't answer. And if they inspected his forge...

The village center buzzed with activity. Smallfolk crowded around the edges of the square,
craning their necks for a glimpse of the noble visitors. Children darted between legs, giggling
and pointing at the armed men who formed a loose perimeter around the gathering.

Through gaps in the crowd, Owen spotted his mother Tina standing in the tavern doorway.
Her usual warm smile was replaced with a worried frown as she watched the proceedings.
Next to her, his father wrung his hands - a nervous habit Owen had never seen before today.

The three lords stood in a tight circle around the village guards, their heads bent together as
they examined the distinctive ice-blue armor. Lord Stark ran a gloved hand across the chest
plate, his grey eyes narrowed in concentration. The massive Lord Manderly gestured at the
intricate patterns etched into the pauldrons, while Lord Glover bent to inspect the joints and
fittings.

Their whispered conversation carried the weight of authority, though Owen could make out
none of the words from his position. The guards stood rigidly at attention, pride warring with
nervousness on their faces as three of the most powerful men in the North scrutinized their
equipment.

Among the assembled men-at-arms, Owen spotted Torren. The merchant's usual confident
bearing was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot, casting anxious glances
between Owen and the lords. When their eyes met, Torren's face fell even further.
Owen slipped into the crowd, positioning himself behind a group of taller villagers. His heart
pounded against his ribs as Lord Stark straightened up, his stern face thoughtful as he
continued his quiet discussion with the other lords.

The winter afternoon hung heavy over the village square as Lord Eddard Stark straightened
his back, his grey eyes scanning the assembled crowd. The villagers held their collective
breath, tension thick in the cold air. Even the children, who moments ago had darted playfully
between legs, now stood still and quiet.

"Good people of Longshore," Eddard's voice carried across the square, clear and steady. "Be
at ease. We come not with ill intent or dark purpose." His words seemed to release some of
the tension, shoulders relaxing throughout the crowd. "We seek only to speak with your
village blacksmith. Would he step forward?"

Owen felt his mother's arms tighten around him, her fingers gripping his shoulders. Though
her touch betrayed her anxiety, Tina's face remained composed. Owen gave her hand a gentle
squeeze, a small gesture of reassurance, as his father stepped forward from their side.

Olyvar moved through the parting crowd, his leather apron still dusted with the morning's
work. He stopped before the three lords and bowed deeply. "I am the blacksmith, milord."

The three lords exchanged glances. Lord Manderly's massive form shifted as he gestured
toward the Stalhrim armor. "You crafted these pieces? And the weapons our friend Torren has
been trading in White Harbor?"

"The swords that found their way to Winterfell as well?" Lord Robett added, his keen eyes
studying Olyvar's face.

Olyvar's hands twisted together, a nervous gesture that seemed foreign on the usually steady
blacksmith. "No, milord. I... I did not craft those pieces."

"No?" Lord Stark's eyebrows rose slightly. "Then who did?"

Olyvar turned, looking back through the crowd to where Owen stood with his mother. The
villagers stepped aside, creating a clear path between the lords and the young man. "My son,
milords. Owen is the one who created those weapons and armor. He..." Olyvar's voice
strengthened with pride despite his nervousness. "He has been blessed by the old gods. His
skill has brought fortune to our village, to our family."

Lord Stark's grey eyes found Owen, studying him with quiet intensity. After a moment, he
raised his hand in a beckoning gesture. "Come forward, young Owen."

Owen sighed internally. There went his carefully laid plans of anonymity and escape to
Essos. As he approached the three lords and stood next to his father, he bowed low - a gesture
of respect and deference demanded by Westerosi custom. The rules of nobility here were far
different from the ceremonial figureheads he remembered from England on Earth in his past
life. There you never need bow unless directly in the presence of the King or Queen. Here it
wouldnt do not show respect to the Highest Lord in the North.
"My lord Stark," Owen greeted formally, causing Lords Wyman and Robett to look at him
with heightened interest. His precise pronunciation and proper address stood out immediately.

"Your boy knows his letters then, blacksmith?" Lord Robett asked, his eyebrows raised.

Olyvar nodded, hands clasped before him. "Some. His mother, my wife, did her best."

Lord Stark's grey eyes studied Owen with quiet intensity. "Speak true - are you the creator of
these Stalhrim weapons and armor?"

"I did create them, my lord," Owen confirmed steadily. "Though they are not the only pieces
I've crafted."

The lords' attention shifted to the ebony sword sheathed at Owen's side. The black scabbard
seemed to absorb the weak winter sunlight.

"May I?" Lord Stark asked, though Owen recognized it wasn't truly a request.

Owen nodded, reaching for the sword with deliberate slowness to avoid alarming the
watchful guards. The blade whispered free of its sheath, its dark surface gleaming with an
otherworldly sheen. Gasps rippled through the gathered villagers who had never seen the
weapon before., having only seen the Stalhrim weapons he'd given the guards. Their whispers
grew as Owen presented the sword to Lord Stark, handle first.

The ebony blade seemed to drink in the light, its edge impossibly sharp. Even in the weak
afternoon sun, the sword's distinctive rippled patterns were visible, marks of countless folds
during its forging. The craftsmanship was evident in every detail, from the perfect balance to
the intricate cross guard.

Lord Stark held the ebony blade with reverence, his experienced hands testing its perfect
balance. When he gave it an experimental swing, the sword sang through the air with an
almost supernatural resonance. The sound carried across the village square - a pure, deadly
note that made several of the gathered villagers step back instinctively. Even the battle-
hardened men-at-arms straightened at the sound, their eyes fixed on the dark blade as it
moved through the winter air with lethal grace.

Owen watched anxiously as Lord Stark examined the weapon. His stomach clenched when
the lord raised the sword again, worried he might test its edge against something nearby.
Owen knew the devastating capabilities he'd imbued into the blade through the Celestial
Forge's power. What should have been merely an exceptional weapon was now something
that could likely cleave through castle-forged steel and flesh as if it were parchment. The
thought of it meeting Valyrian steel made him particularly nervous - he suspected his
enhanced ebony blade might actually shatter the legendary dragon-forged weapons.

"Remarkable," Lord Manderly breathed, his multiple chins quivering as he leaned forward to
study the rippled patterns in the dark metal. "I've never seen its like."

Lord Glover simply nodded, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the extraordinary weapon.
With careful reverence, Lord Stark handed the blade back to Owen, who quickly returned it
to its scabbard. The Lord of Winterfell's expression was thoughtful as he turned to Olyvar.

"Show us your forge," he commanded, though his tone remained measured. "We would see
where such weapons are born."

Lord Stark then addressed the gathered villagers. "Good people, return to your day. Your
hospitality has been noted." He turned to Elder Tormund, producing a heavy leather pouch
that clinked promisingly. "See that my men are fed and comfortable."

The elder's eyes widened as he accepted the pouch of gold dragons, bowing deeply. "At once,
m'lord."

As the crowd began to disperse, Olyvar gestured toward his forge. "This way, m'lords."

Two of Lord Stark's men-at-arms fell into step behind their lords, while Derrick and another
village guard took up positions at the rear. The small procession made its way through
Longshore's narrow streets toward the smithy, the crunch of their boots on the packed snow
the only sound in the tense silence.

The lords entered the modest forge, their eyes adjusting to the dim interior lit by the glow of
banked coals. At first glance, it seemed a typical village smithy - anvil, workbench, tools
hung neatly on the walls. But as they moved deeper inside, gasps of astonishment echoed
through the space.

Against the far wall stood racks upon racks of weapons, each one a masterwork that would
put the finest smiths in King's Landing to shame. Swords of gleaming moonstone caught the
light like captured starlight. Massive war hammers of orichalcum rested their weighted heads
on the floor, their surfaces rippling with subtle patterns. Ebony daggers absorbed what little
light reached them, their edges promising swift death. Spears tipped with malachite stood in
precise rows, their green heads gleaming with deadly beauty.

Lord Wyman moved to inspect a massive war hammer, his meaty fingers wrapping around
the perfectly balanced handle. "By the gods," he breathed, giving it an experimental swing
that whistled through the air. "The weight, the balance - it's perfect."

Robett Glover ran his hand along a rack of short swords, their edges catching the light. "I've
never seen such craftsmanship. Each one could be a family heirloom." He selected one made
of pale moonstone, testing its edge with his thumb. "Sharp enough to split a hair."

Lord Stark stood silent, his grey eyes taking in the arsenal before him. With deliberate
movements, he lifted an elegant sword from its stand. The blade was slender yet strong,
crafted from moonstone ore that seemed to glow with its own inner light. The distinctive
style marked it as elven-inspired, though none present save Owen would have recognized it
as such.

"How long?" Eddard's quiet voice cut through the murmurs of appreciation. "How long to
forge these weapons?"
Owen met the lord's steady gaze. "Three days, my lord, for what you see here."

The war hammer nearly slipped from Lord Manderly's grasp. "Three days? Impossible! There
must be fifty weapons here, each finer than any I've seen come from the Street of Steel in
King's Landing."

"To be fair, my lord," Owen added, "I can craft perhaps ten weapons in a day when I work at
full pace. What you see here represents little of weeks of dedicated work. The rest are held at
the village guards barracks under tight lock and key."

Lord Glover and Lord Manderly turned to their liege lord, but Eddard Stark's face remained
unreadable as he studied Owen. "Why?" he asked simply. "Why forge such an arsenal?"

Owen straightened his shoulders. "I had planned to travel to Essos, my lord. To start a new
life there. These weapons were to be sold, and the gold given to Longshore - to help the
village grow and prosper."

Alarm flashed across Lord Manderly's face, and Robett Glover's hand tightened on the sword
he held. The thought of losing such exceptional talent to the eastern continent clearly
disturbed them both.

Lord Stark remained silent, his grey eyes never leaving Owen's face as he absorbed this
revelation.

Lord Eddard moved from the weapons rack, his attention drawn to a row of gleaming
orichalcum spears. He lifted one, testing its perfect balance as the golden-green metal caught
the forge's dim light.

"The Stalhrim weapons and armor that found their way to White Harbor - those I recognized
as the Merchant Torren explained," he said, his voice measured and calm. "But these
metals..." He gestured to the racks of moonstone, ebony, and orichalcum weapons. "I've never
seen their like in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Olyvar stood beside Owen, his shoulder brushing his son's in a gesture of silent support.
Though Owen appreciated his father's protective instinct, he knew it wasn't necessary. The
time for hiding had passed.

"Where did you acquire such extraordinary materials?" Lord Stark's grey eyes fixed on them
both, patient but demanding truth.

Owen exchanged a meaningful look with his father before answering. "From the mines, my
lord."

Lord Robett Glover stepped forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Mines? Sea Dragon
Point has no mines that I know of, and these lands fall under my watch, distant though they
may be." He turned to Lord Stark. "Ned, I would have heard if such valuable ores had been
discovered in the region."

Owen cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be easier if I showed you, my lords."
The lords exchanged glances, silent questions passing between them. Lord Stark nodded
once, decisively. "Lead on then, young Owen."

The lords followed Owen and Olyvar through the winding forest path, their guards close
behind. The winter air grew colder as they approached what appeared to be a simple cave
entrance nestled between ancient trees. But as they drew closer, the natural opening gave way
to smoothly cut stone walls that descended into the earth.

Torches flickered to life as they entered, illuminating a sight that made even the battle-
hardened lords pause in their tracks. The mine shaft opened into a vast chamber where
gleaming metal figures moved with precise, fluid motions. These automatons - each standing
as tall as a man - worked tirelessly at the walls, their tools extracting rich veins of ore with
mechanical efficiency.

"By the old gods and the new," Lord Manderly breathed, his chins quivering in astonishment.

The chamber walls glittered with exposed veins of precious metals. Gold and silver threaded
through the rock like frozen lightning, while darker veins of ebony ore absorbed the
torchlight. Moonstone deposits gave off their characteristic pearlescent sheen, and the
golden-green gleam of orichalcum caught the eye at every turn.

But it was the automatons that truly captured their attention. The metal workers moved with
uncanny grace, their joints clicking softly as they extracted ore, processed it, and formed it
into neat ingots. Some carried boxes of sparkling gems - rubies, diamonds, and sapphires -
sorting them with mechanical precision.

Lord Stark's usually stoic face showed rare amazement as he watched a group of automatons
efficiently refine a batch of gold ore into perfectly formed ingots. His grey eyes turned to
Owen and Olyvar, who stood quietly observing their reactions.

"How much?" Eddard's voice was steady despite his evident shock. "How much gold and
silver have you collected?"

Owen considered for a moment before calling out, "Overseer, what are our current holdings
in terms of Westerosi currency?"

A taller, more ornate automaton turned from its supervisory position. Its voice emerged with
a metallic resonance: "Current inventory includes 300 boxes of refined gold and silver ingots,
excluding materials allocated for forge work. Total value equals approximately 20 million
gold dragons at present market rates."

The impact of these words was immediate and dramatic. Lord Stark's face showed the same
expression as if he'd taken a direct hit from a bear's paw. Lord Glover stumbled backward,
catching himself against the wall. Lord Manderly's face went pale, his massive form swaying
as if he might collapse at any moment.
"Twenty... twenty million?" Wyman's voice quavered. He gestured weakly at the continuing
work of the automatons. "But surely the veins will run dry at this pace?"

The Overseer's head turned with mechanical precision. "Negative. All ore veins undergo
complete replenishment at seven-day intervals."

This final revelation proved almost too much for Lord Manderly, who looked as if he might
actually expire from shock. Even Lord Stark seemed to worry that his old friend might
collapse, reaching out to steady the massive lord.

The lords stood in stunned silence, watching the tireless automatons continue their work, the
steady rhythm of their mining and refining unchanged by the momentous revelations they
had just delivered.

In the private room of Longshore's tavern, the three lords sat around a heavy oak table, their
earlier shock giving way to intense discussion. A fire crackled in the hearth, keeping the
winter chill at bay while Tina had ensured they had plenty of food and drink before leaving
them to their privacy.

"Twenty million gold dragons," Lord Manderly shook his head in disbelief, reaching for his
wine cup with trembling fingers. "With that kind of wealth, the North could..."

"Build a proper fleet," Robett Glover interjected. "Repair every castle from the Neck to the
Wall. Feed our people through a decade of winter."

Lord Stark sat quietly, his grey eyes focused on the flames dancing in the hearth. "The
weapons concern me more than the gold," he finally said. "One skilled smith with access to
such materials could arm an entire army with weapons that would make Valyrian steel look
common by comparison."

"Which is precisely why we cannot let the boy leave for Essos," Wyman declared, his
multiple chins quivering with emotion. "Imagine if he fell into the hands of the Free Cities.
Or worse - if word of his abilities reached King's Landing."

"Robert would demand he be brought to court," Eddard agreed, his expression darkening.
"And once there, the Lannisters would never let such a resource slip from their grasp."

Robett leaned forward, his voice dropping lower despite their privacy. "The question is, how
do we convince him to stay? We can't simply command it - a smith with his abilities could
slip away in the night, and these mechanical workers of his might well help him do it."

"We must offer him something worth staying for," Wyman mused, dabbing his brow with a
silk handkerchief. "A title perhaps? Lands?"

"Sea Dragon Point has been unclaimed for generations," Robett suggested. "It would keep
him close enough to monitor while giving him the freedom and status he might seek in
Essos."
Eddard nodded slowly. "The Point would be suitable. Remote enough to keep his abilities
from drawing too much attention, yet still firmly within the North's influence." He turned to
Robett. "Would you object to having him as a neighbor?"

"Object?" Robett laughed. "I'd welcome it. Having a smith of his caliber nearby, producing
weapons and armor of that quality - it would be a blessing for the entire region."

"We must be careful how we proceed," Wyman cautioned. "The boy is clearly intelligent,
well-spoken. He'll see through any obvious manipulation."

"Then we offer him truth," Eddard decided. "The North can protect him in ways Essos
cannot. Give him the legitimacy and security he needs to work without fear of exploitation."
He paused, considering. "And we must make him understand that his abilities could help
protect the North - and all of Westeros - from whatever threats may come, from within or
without."

"The timing couldn't be better," Wyman added. "With winter approaching, having access to
such resources could mean the difference between survival and starvation for many of our
smallfolk."

"We'll need to keep this quiet," Robett warned. "If word spreads too quickly about his
abilities or the wealth he's accumulated..."

"Agreed," Eddard nodded. "The official story will be that he's simply an exceptionally
talented smith who has been granted lands for his service to the North. The truth of his full
capabilities must remain between us."

The firelight cast dancing shadows across Lord Manderly's face as he stroked his multiple
chins thoughtfully. "There is, of course, another way to ensure the boy's loyalty to the North,"
he said, his eyes gleaming. "A marriage alliance would bind him to our lands more surely
than any title."

The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly as both Lord Glover and Lord Manderly
straightened in their seats. Lord Stark noticed the sudden change, the way their eyes took on a
calculating gleam that spoke of ambition and opportunity.

"My daughter Elena is of an age with him," Robett Glover offered quickly. "She's a beautiful
girl, well-educated in the ways of running a noble household. The match would be most
suitable."

Wyman Manderly's face flushed with wine and excitement as he countered, "My
granddaughter Wynafryd would make an excellent match. House Manderly's connections to
trade would complement his crafting abilities perfectly. Why, between his extraordinary
weapons and our merchant fleet-"

"Owen will marry my daughter Sansa," Lord Stark's quiet voice cut through their eager
proposals like Valyrian steel through butter. His grey eyes were cold and firm as winter frost
as he regarded his bannermen.
"My lord," Robett ventured carefully, "Sansa is five years Owen's senior. Perhaps a match
closer to his age would-"

The look Lord Stark turned on him could have frozen the summer sea. Robett's words died in
his throat, and he lowered his eyes, properly chastened by his liege lord's silent rebuke.

The crackling of the hearth filled the heavy silence that followed, until Lord Stark spoke
again, his tone brooking no further argument. "The North must be united in this matter. The
boy's abilities and resources are too valuable to risk division among our houses. He will
marry into House Stark."

Wyman Manderly sat back in his chair, his initial disappointment giving way to
understanding as he considered the political implications. The marriage of such a uniquely
gifted craftsman to a lesser house could upset the careful balance of power in the North. A
house with access to Owen's abilities and resources might grow to rival even the Starks
themselves.

"You are wise as always, Lord Stark," Wyman said, dabbing at his brow with a silk
handkerchief. "It wouldn't do for any single house to gain too much influence through such
an alliance. The boy's abilities could ensure House Stark's supremacy over the North for a
thousand years or more."

"The lad will need training," Wyman continued, warming to the idea. "Proper instruction in
the ways of nobility, politics, estate management. He seems sharp enough, but there's much to
learn about being a lord."

Eddard nodded, his grey eyes distant as he considered the matter. "He will come to
Winterfell. There he can continue his craft while learning what he needs to know about his
future responsibilities. And he will have the opportunity to meet Sansa."

"My lord," Robett Glover interjected carefully, "there is another matter to consider." He
leaned forward, his expression concerned. "What if the boy refuses? What if he has no desire
to be a lord?"

The question hung in the air as Eddard contemplated it, the crackling of the hearth the only
sound in the room. After a long moment, his expression remained resolute.

"If Owen wishes to remain a smith, then so be it," Eddard declared. "We will make him the
greatest blacksmith in the North. He will still come to Winterfell, still marry Sansa, and his
forge will be second to none." He paused, considering further. "And perhaps their sons or
daughters can be granted Sea Dragon Point, with a proper castle built for them in time."

Robett nodded slowly, seeing the wisdom in this flexible approach. "It would give him a
choice while still securing his loyalty to the North."

Lord Manderly's eyes gleamed as he considered the possibilities Owen's abilities presented.

"Think of it, my lords," Wyman said, his multiple chins quivering with excitement. "Glass
gardens stronger than any we've seen before. Every castle, every major holding in the North
could have them. Our people would never go hungry during winter again."

"Aye," Robett nodded, warming to the idea. "And Moat Cailin... with materials like these, we
could restore it to its former glory. Those black stones he crafts would make the towers
impregnable."

"The weapons and armor are what truly matter," Lord Stark interjected, his grey eyes intense.
"I held that spear earlier. Lighter than any I've wielded, yet I suspect it could pierce plate
armor as easily as a needle through cloth. And that black armor..." He shook his head in
amazement. "Robert's Warhammer would barely dent it."

"An army equipped with such gear," Wyman mused, "would be unstoppable. The North has
always relied on our harsh lands and weather to defend us. But with weapons and armor like
these..."

"The south will notice," Lord Stark cautioned. "They always do. When our coffers begin to
fill, when our soldiers start appearing in armor that outshines even Casterly Rock's finest..."

"The Lannisters," Wyman's face darkened. "Tywin would never stand for it. The moment he
caught wind of our growing wealth, especially the mine..." He dabbed at his forehead with
his handkerchief. "Gods, if they learned of a mine that never runs dry..."

"They would demand their share," Robett growled. "Call it increased taxes for the crown, or
some nonsense about sharing resources for the good of the realm."

"And if we refused," Lord Stark's voice was grim, "they would try to take Owen for
themselves. Every great house would want him. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, even the Martells
would send their agents north."

"And if they couldn't have him," Wyman added quietly, "the assassins would come. The
Faceless Men, perhaps, or the Sorrowful Men. Anyone who could eliminate what they
couldn't possess."

"Which is why," Lord Stark declared, "absolute secrecy is paramount. No word of the mine
can leave this room. The boy's abilities must be kept quiet until the North is ready. Until we
have enough strength that no southern house would dare move against us."

The other lords nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of what lay before them. The
future of the North hung in the balance, all centered around one young smith and his
extraordinary gifts.
 To Stay and Prosper
Chapter Notes

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The small house felt even smaller that evening as Owen sat with his parents at their worn
wooden table. The familiar scent of Tina's hearty stew filled the air while the crackling hearth
cast dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, the wind howled its usual song against their
sturdy walls, a constant reminder of the North's harsh embrace.

Tina ladled generous portions into their bowls, steam rising in delicate wisps. The bread was
fresh-baked, its crust still warm from the day's baking.

Olyvar broke off a piece of bread, dipping it into his stew. "Son, there's something that's been
weighing on my mind since the lords left to rest for the evening." He paused, his weathered
hands stilling. "You told them you were planning for us to leave for Essos. That the weapons
were meant to fund the village once we left."

Owen's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His heart hammered against his ribs as he carefully
set it back down.

"I was going to tell you both when Torren returned with the gold from the Stalhrim sale."
Owen's voice came out steadier than he felt. "But then the lords arrived with him and... well,
you know how that went."

Tina's blue eyes widened. She placed her hand over Owen's. "Leave Longshore? But why?"

"The whole continent?" Olyvar's brow furrowed deep. "Owen, this is our home. Your mother
and I have lived here all our lives. The forge has been in my family for generations. What
could possibly make you think we should abandon all of that?"

Owen pushed his stew around with his spoon, unable to meet their concerned gazes. How
could he explain the winter that was coming? The wars, the death, the destruction that would
tear through the Seven Kingdoms? The knowledge sat heavy in his chest, threatening to burst
forth.

"Think about it," he said instead. "No more brutal winters. No more struggling through
months of darkness and cold. In Essos, we could find a city with warm summers and mild
winters. With my skills-" he gestured vaguely, encompassing all that the Celestial Forge had
given him, "we could live comfortably. More than comfortably."

"We manage just fine here," Olyvar countered, though his voice held more curiosity than
anger.

"But we could do more than just manage." Owen leaned forward, warming to his argument.
"We could have a proper house, with glass windows and stone walls. Mother wouldn't have
to work such long hours at the tavern. You wouldn't have to worry about whether we have
enough stored for winter."

Tina's hand tightened on his. "We've never needed luxury, Owen. We've always had enough."

"I know," Owen said softly. "But I could give you so much more. A better life, an easier life.
Away from..." He caught himself before saying 'away from what's coming.' "Away from the
hardships of the North."

Olyvar set down his spoon, his expression growing serious. The firelight caught the silver
threads in his dark hair as he straightened in his chair. "The old gods don't bestow gifts like
yours without purpose, son. They chose you, here in the North, in Longshore. That has
meaning."

Owen's shoulders tensed. He hadn't told them about the Celestial Forge yet, letting them
believe his abilities came from divine intervention. The guilt of that deception twisted in his
gut a bit.

"The gods didn't choose me to be tied to one place," Owen said. "If they gave me these
abilities, wouldn't they want me to use them wherever I could do the most good?"

"And where could you do more good than here?" Tina's voice was gentle but firm. "The
North has always been harsh. Our people struggle through every winter, through every storm.
Your gifts could change that."

"Longshore has survived centuries without magical weapons or automated mines," Owen
countered. "The village will continue to survive after we're gone. And the North?" He
gestured toward the window, where beyond lay the vast expanse of the kingdom. "The North
has endured far worse than harsh winters."

Olyvar's calloused hand wrapped around his mug of ale. "You speak of survival, but what of
prosperity? What of growth? The old gods blessed you with these abilities - abilities no other
smith in the Seven Kingdoms possesses. They didn't do that so you could run off to Essos to
live in comfort."

"Father-"

"No, listen to me, son." Olyvar's voice carried the weight of his conviction. "Every gift comes
with responsibility. Every blessing demands service in return. The gods chose you to help our
people, to strengthen the North. Running away from that duty... it wouldn't just be
abandoning Longshore, it would be turning your back on the very powers that blessed you."
Tina reached across the table, her fingers brushing Owen's arm. "Think of all the good you've
already done here. Not just the weapons. The tools you've made for the farmers, the bows and
arrows for our hunters. Each piece helps someone provide for their family, helps them
survive the harsh seasons." Her blue eyes searched his face. "Would you really be content
living a life of leisure in Essos, knowing you could have helped your own people here?"

"I'm not..." Owen struggled with the words. "I'm not turning my back on anyone. But why
does it have to be here? Why does it have to be the North?"

"Because this is where you were given your gifts," Olyvar said firmly. "The old gods don't
make mistakes, Owen. They chose you, here, now, for a reason. They chose you to help the
North grow stronger."

"And what about what I choose?" Owen's voice rose slightly. "Don't I get any say in how I
use these abilities?"

"Of course you do," Tina said softly. "But choices aren't made in isolation. They affect
everyone around us. Your gifts could transform not just Longshore, but the entire North. Is a
comfortable life in Essos worth abandoning that potential?"

Owen stared down at his cooling stew, the weight of their words pressing against him. They
didn't understand - couldn't understand - what he knew about the future. About the wars and
destruction that would sweep through Westeros. Yet their arguments struck at something
deeper, something that had been nagging at him since he'd first conceived his escape plan.

"I could help people anywhere," he said, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

"Aye, you could," Olyvar agreed. "But these are your people, Owen. This is your home. The
old gods chose you to be their instrument here, in the North. Running from that... it wouldn't
just be leaving home. It would be denying your purpose."

Owen stared into his bowl, his parents' words echoing in his mind as memories from his past
life crashed over him like waves. The truth of what was coming weighed heavily on his
shoulders - a burden he alone carried in this world.

In his previous life, he had devoured the books of A Song of Ice and Fire, following the tales
of war, betrayal, and death that swept through Westeros. But George R R Martin had never
finished the story by the time he died. The last he knew, the Seven Kingdoms were tearing
themselves apart while the ancient evil of the Others gathered strength beyond the Wall.

Daenerys Targaryen would soon hatch her dragons across the Narrow Sea, but that was just
the beginning. The War of the Five Kings would rip through the realm like wildfire, leaving
destruction in its wake. The Starks - the noble, honorable Starks - would be scattered to the
winds. Lord Eddard, beheaded in King's Landing. Robb and Lady Catelyn, betrayed and
murdered at the Red Wedding along with thousands of Northern lords and soldiers. Sansa,
trapped in the Vale under a false name and pretending to be a bastard. Arya, lost somewhere
in the Free Cities as No one. And Jon Snow...
Owen suppressed a shudder. Jon Snow's fate at the Wall haunted him - betrayed by his own
brothers of the Night's Watch, stabbed in the darkness. "For the Watch," they had said,
plunging their daggers into him.

True, he had seen the television adaptation where humanity ultimately triumphed against the
White Walkers. But this world wasn't that story. The man who had visited his forge earlier
bore little resemblance to the actor who had portrayed him. This was Lord Eddard Stark as
written in the books - a different man in a different tale, one whose ending could be just as
quick as it had been before.

His gaze drifted to his parents' faces, lined with concern and love. The thought of them
caught in the coming storm made his chest tighten. He loved Longshore and its people - from
Derrick and his fellow guards to the fishermen who brought in their daily catch, from the
village elders who shared tales by the fire to the humble cobblers who kept their feet warm
through winter. They were his people, had been for fifteen years in this life.

But the White Walkers were coming. In the books, they remained undefeated, an unstoppable
force of winter and death slowly marching south. No heroic last stand at Winterfell, no
moment of triumph against the Night King. Just the endless advance of the dead while the
living tore themselves apart with petty wars and politics.

By the last book, Rickon Stark was supposedly hiding on Skagos, of all places. Arya was
training with the Faceless Men in Braavos, while Daenerys struggled to rule Meereen. Jon
was dead and Sansa passing as a bastard. None of them were here to face the threat beyond
the Wall. And without them, without that victory he'd seen in the television show, what hope
did the North or westeros really have?

"They could have you." a voice whispered in his head.

The weight of possibility settled over Owen like a heavy cloak. His stew grew cold before
him as his mind raced with visions of what he could accomplish if he stayed. The North, with
its proud people and ancient traditions, had always prepared for winter - but never like this.
Never with the advantages the Celestial Forge could provide.

Through Cidhna Mine's endless bounty, he could forge weapons and armor beyond anything
seen in centuries. Not just for lords and knights, but for every soldier, every guard who would
face the coming storm. Stalhrim axes that could bite through wight flesh, ebony swords that
wouldn't shatter in the cold, armor light enough to move in but strong enough to turn aside
ice spears.

But weapons were just the beginning. The mine's wealth could purchase enough grain to fill
every storehouse from the Neck to the Wall. Ships from Essos could bring dried fruits, salted
meats, and hardy vegetables - enough to sustain the North through years of darkness. The old
saying claimed that "the North remembers," but what good were memories on empty
stomachs?

"The Night's Watch," he whispered, drawing curious looks from his parents.
The Watch needed more than men - they needed resources. Their nineteen castles lay mostly
in ruins, defended by a fraction of their former strength. But with the mine's gold, those
ancient strongholds could rise again. Stone by stone, tower by tower, the Wall's defenses
could be restored. He could send them proper weapons, warm clothing, preserved foods -
everything they'd need to stand against what stirred in the far North.

And the Free Folk... Owen's hands clenched beneath the table. Thousands of them would die
trying to flee south, only to rise again in the Army of the Dead. But if someone convinced
Lord Stark to offer them peace, to let them through the Wall before winter came...

"Owen?" Tina's gentle voice broke through his thoughts. "What are you thinking about,
love?"

He looked up at his parents' concerned faces, seeing them as if for the first time. They weren't
just his family - they were Northerners, as much a part of this land as the Weirwoods in the
Godswood. And like every other soul north of the Neck, they would face what was coming.

Unless someone changed things. Unless someone who knew what was coming used that
knowledge to prepare. Unless someone with the power to make a difference chose to stay and
fight rather than flee across the Narrow Sea.

The old gods hadn't given him these abilities - the Celestial Forge had. But maybe his father
was right about having a purpose here, even if it wasn't divinely ordained. Maybe running
away wasn't the answer. Maybe...

"I could help them," he said softly, more to himself than his parents. "All of them. The whole
North."

Olyvar looked at his son, a quiet pride lighting his weathered features. "You could," he said,
his voice carrying the weight of his conviction. "You could be an inspiration to many in the
North, son. A young man from humble beginnings who helped build the North into a
kingdom every Northerner could be proud of."

He leaned forward, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. "The name Owen
would be said with the same respect as Brandon the Builder or the Starks, and you would
make everyone know that from a humble village like Longshore came a man to change the
North for the better. That a simple blacksmith's son could rise to do great things."

Owen gazed at his parents' expectant faces and nodded. The remaining soup in his bowl
disappeared quickly, and he rose from his chair. He kissed his mother goodnight on the
cheek, her blonde hair catching the warm glow of the hearth fire. His father's strong hand
patted him on the back as he made his way to his small room.

The furs and blankets welcomed him as he settled into bed, his mind racing with thoughts of
the future. Just as sleep began to creep at the edges of his consciousness, a familiar warmth
bloomed in his soul. The Celestial Forge flared to life, and visions flooded his mind.

Gray-skinned elves with long beards and bright blue eyes appeared before his mind's eye.
Their knowledge, their crafts, their secrets - everything poured into him like molten metal
into a mold. Their greatest achievements, their deepest mysteries, all became clear as crystal
in his mind. A bright flash illuminated his thoughts, and the words "DWEMER LEXICON"
burned themselves into his consciousness.

Owen blinked as his mind settled under the weight of this new knowledge. He let out a long
sigh, staring up at the wooden beams of his ceiling.

"Guess I know how to build magical powered automatons now," he groaned. "Fuck me when
it rains it pours." With that final thought, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@

POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer
Lexicon (400CP)

A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their
mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard
architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those
already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however
you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill
necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make
sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the
damage that could be done with their advancements is immense

Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.
Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 The Future is in the North.
Chapter Notes

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Morning found Owen sat across from the three northern lords at a worn wooden table at the
tavern, the smell of fresh-cooked breakfast wafting between them. Steam rose from bowls of,
porridge, eggs and plates of fried fish, while chunks of mutton glistened with fat. None of
them had touched their food.

Lord Stark's grey eyes fixed on Owen with the weight of the entire North behind them. "I
cannot allow you to leave for Essos."

Owen's fingers drummed against his mug of warm ale. The liquid inside rippled with each
tap.

"Your gifts," Wyman Manderly leaned forward, his chair creaking under his bulk, "they could
transform the North. Make us stronger than we've been in generations."

"It's not just about what you could do for us," Robett Glover added. "Word of your abilities
would spread south eventually. Every lord from the Neck to Dorne would want you in their
service."

"The mine alone would make you a target." Lord Stark's voice carried the same gravity it had
when passing judgment. "But combined with your smithing skills? King Robert himself
would demand your service."

Owen lifted his mug but didn't drink much. "My lords, I've actually given this considerable
thought since we spoke yesterday." He set the mug down carefully. "I won't be leaving for
Essos."

The tension drained from Lord Stark's shoulders. A ghost of a smile crossed his stern
features. "A wise choice."

"Indeed!" Lord Manderly's belly shook with relieved laughter. "The North remembers those
who stand with her."

"The North is my home," Owen said. "And if my abilities can help make it stronger, then this
is where I belong."
Owen settled back in his chair, warming to his decision. "I've been thinking about expanding
the forge, maybe training some apprentices. Longshore could become a proper trading hub
with-"

"That won't do." Lord Stark's words cut through Owen's plans like Valyrian steel through
butter. "A village this remote is too vulnerable. Your talents require proper protection."

Lord Manderly nodded, his multiple chins wobbling. "Pirates raid these coasts regularly. The
Ironborn and the like. What's to stop them from taking everything you've built? Or worse,
taking you?"

"I can defend myself," Owen protested. "The automatons-"

"Are impressive," Robett Glover interrupted, "but they aren't an army of them and can't stop a
determined and large enough force. One fire arrow in the night could burn this whole village
down while you weren't ready."

Lord Stark leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "We've discussed this at length.
You'll need to relocate to Winterfell."

The words hit Owen like a punch to the gut. He glanced around at the familiar walls of the
tavern and his thoughts moved to his home, at the worn table where his family shared meals
and his small, snug bed. "My parents-"

"Will be well compensated and given positions befitting their skills," Lord Manderly assured.
"Your father could oversee a forge in White Harbor, and your mother would find good work
in any castle she chooses, and if she chooses Winterfell the she will be given a good position
and pay."

"This isn't a request unfortunately." Lord Stark's voice was gentle but firm. "The North needs
you, and Winterfell is where you can best serve it. We can protect you there, provide
resources you couldn't dream of here."

As owen processed this, Lord Stark cleared his throat, his expression growing even more
serious. "There's another matter we must discuss. You need to be bound more securely to the
North before some southern lord attempts the same."

Owen took another sip of his ale, wondering what could be more binding than relocating to
Winterfell. Then it hit him just lord stark spoke…..

"Marriage is the strongest bond between houses," Eddard continued. "My daughter Sansa
would make you a fine wife. She's only five years your senior, and her beauty is renowned
throughout the North."

The ale caught in Owen's throat. He sputtered, barely managing to set his mug down without
spilling it across the table. His mind raced with the implications of what Lord Stark had just
proposed.
"My lord," Owen struggled to find the right words, "I'm honored, truly, but I'm not of noble
birth. Surely Lady Sansa would prefer someone more... suitable to her station?"

The thought of being married to someone who would resent him for his common birth made
his stomach turn. Owen had seen enough noble marriages on TV or read in novels in his last
life to know how cruel they could become when one party felt superior to the other.

Lord Stark's expression remained unmoved. "Sansa will do her duty as a daughter of House
Stark. The marriage will proceed."

"To address your concerns about station," Lord Stark continued, "you will be granted lordship
over Sea Dragon Point. A proper castle will be built there, construction to begin immediately
following the wedding. This will make you a peer of the realm, fully worthy of marriage to a
daughter of Winterfell."

Owen sat back in his chair, stunned into silence. In the span of a few minutes, he'd gone from
a village blacksmith to a future lord and husband to one of the most noble ladies in the North.
Owen stared into his mug, mind still reeling from the marriage proposal. Sansa Stark. The
same girl who'd endured unspeakable torments in that other timeline he remembered. His
knowledge of her future - or what could have been her future - felt like a weight in his chest.
She deserved better than what that cruel boy-king had done to her.

"About the mine," Lord Manderly's voice cut through Owen's thoughts. "We'll need to
establish a proper garrison here to protect-"

"That won't be necessary." Owen waved his hand dismissively, his thoughts still in a rush.
"Cidhna Mine goes where I go."

Lord Stark's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, while Lord Manderly's chins quivered in
surprise, his face flushing slightly at the bold declaration.

"What do you mean, 'goes where you go'?" Lord Stark's voice was sharp with disbelief.
"Mines don't move."

Owen shrugged, running a calloused finger along the rim of his wooden mug. "This one does.
It's... connected to me somehow. When I leave Longshore, the entrance will vanish like
morning mist. When I reach Winterfell, it'll appear there the next day, as surely as the sun
rises."

"That's impossible," Lord Manderly sputtered, his jowls trembling with indignation. His
meaty hands gripped the arms of his reinforced chair. "Mines don't just appear and disappear
at will!"

"The same way impossible as self-replenishing ore veins and metal workers that never tire,
my lord?" Owen countered, a hint of challenge in his voice. "I told you it was hard to explain.
You'll see for yourself once we reach Winterfell, Lord Stark."

Lord Stark leaned back in his chair with a creak of wood, his steel-grey eyes studying Owen
with renewed intensity, like a wolf sizing up an unfamiliar creature. "You speak with such
certainty."

"Because I am certain, my lord. The mine is bound to me, like my smithing abilities. They're
part of the same... gift." Owen's voice carried the weight of knowledge he couldn't fully
explain, even to himself.

Lord Glover, who had been quietly observing from his corner of the table, finally spoke, his
practical nature asserting itself. "If what you say is true, that simplifies matters considerably.
No need to split our forces protecting this location." He gestured around the tavern's
weathered walls with a practical sweep of his arm. "We can focus on establishing your new
seat at Sea Dragon Point while keeping the mine's resources close to Winterfell."

Owen nodded, relief washing over him that they weren't pressing further about the mine's
mysterious nature. He had enough weighing on his mind already, considering the life-
changing proposal about marrying Sansa still echoing in his thoughts like thunder. And what
was this about her being 5 years older than him? How was Sansa stark 20 years old? Was this
another difference of this world? How wasn't she married yet?

Ignoring Owens silence, The three lords exchanged glances before Lord Stark cleared his
throat. "Now, about the mine's resources-"

"With your permission," Lord Manderly cut in smoothly, "I've done some calculations. The
silver alone could purchase enough grain from the Free Cities to feed the North through five
winters."

Lord Stark nodded. "We'll need to be careful with our purchases. The Reach would ask too
many questions if we suddenly started buying vast quantities of grain. Especially the Tyrells -
they're too clever by half."

"Agreed," Robett Glover said, leaning forward. "We should spread our purchases across
different ports in Essos. Pentos, Myr, Volantis. Make it harder to track the gold back to a
single source."

"And there's Moat Cailin to consider." Robett's eyes lit up with possibility. "We could rebuild
it in secret, piece by piece. Buy the stone and timber from across the Narrow Sea, transport it
in small shipments and add those exotics ores to reinforce it. The crown would never notice
until it was too late to object."

"A northern fleet too," Robett continued, warming to the subject. "Nothing too grand to draw
attention, mind you. Just enough to protect our shores from raiders and Ironborn scum. We
could build it gradually, a few ships at a time-"

Lord Manderly, who had been watching Owen's increasingly distant expression, raised a
hand. "Perhaps we should ask the owner of the Mine what he thinks of all these plans for his
resources before we continue?"

Lord Stark's face fell, genuine remorse crossing his features. "Young Owen, I apologize.
We've gotten carried away, haven't we?"
"Indeed," Robett added, looking sheepish. "These are your resources we're planning with, not
our own."

Owen sat quietly for a moment, fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. "My lords,
before I agree to any of this, I need something from you, Lord Stark. Your word,
specifically."

Eddard Stark's grey eyes met Owen's. "Speak freely."

"I understand why I must go to Winterfell. I accept the marriage to Lady Sansa." Owen's
voice grew stronger with each word. "But I want your promise that a significant portion of
the gold and silver will go to protecting and building up Longshore."

"This village raised me, my lord. These people are my family, not just my parents. I won't
leave them defenseless."

Lord Stark's weathered face softened at Owen's request. He rose from his chair, his
movements deliberate and solemn. "Come with me."

The group followed him outside into the crisp morning air, their boots crunching against the
frosted ground as they made their way to the village's small Godswood. It wasn't much
compared to Winterfell's ancient sanctuary - just a modest clearing with a young weirwood at
its center, its white bark gleaming in the early light.

Eddard Stark knelt before the heart tree, its carved face watching with red sap-stained eyes.
"Before the old gods, I swear that Longshore will prosper. Your gold will build strong walls
and deeper harbors. Your people will have guards to protect them, ships to trade with, and
coin to see them through the winters."

He placed his hand against the white bark. "The village that gave the North its greatest smith
will become a jewel of the western shore. This I swear, by earth and water, by bronze and
iron, by ice and fire."

The other lords remained respectfully silent during the oath, understanding its gravity. Even
Lord Manderly, who kept to the Seven, bowed his head in acknowledgment of the sacred
moment.

Owen felt something settle in his chest at the words. Lord Stark's reputation for honor wasn't
just stories - the man lived it with every breath.

After they returned to the tavern, Owen cleared his throat. "Thank you, my lord. But there's
still the matter of King Robert. What happens when he learns about all of this?"

The three lords exchanged glances. Lord Stark's face grew stern as he considered the
question.

"Robert is my friend," Eddard said slowly, measuring each word. "But he is also king, and
kings are not known for their restraint when they desire something." He ran a hand through
his dark hair, streaked with early grey. "We will need to be careful in how we present this to
him."

"The king's coffers are always hungry," Lord Manderly added, his shrewd eyes twinkling.
"Perhaps we could arrange for certain shipments of silver to find their way to the crown's
treasury? A gesture of northern loyalty."

Lord Glover nodded. "And weapons. Masterwork pieces that would flatter his martial pride.
Better to give freely than have him demand."

"But not too much," Lord Stark cautioned. "We must maintain the appearance that while your
skills are exceptional, they are not..." he paused, searching for the right words.

"World-changing?" Owen supplied.

"Precisely." Lord Stark leaned forward. "Robert must see you as a gifted craftsman, nothing
more. The true extent of your abilities - the mine, the magical workers, the quantity of rare
metals - must remain our secret."

Owen sighed, his brow furrowed in thought. "What if he does find out about the mine and my
skills and the ores despite our best efforts? What then?"

Lord Eddard's weathered face grew grave, a deep sigh escaping his own lips. "Then it will be
time for more appeasement and concessions. Perhaps an ebony Warhammer gifted to the king
- he's always favored that weapon. A large gift of gold to the royal coffers from Cidhna Mine
would help smooth things over."

He paused, his grey eyes distant as if seeing the potential storm gathering on the horizon.
"But by the time news reached the other kingdoms, demands would come thick and fast.
Everyone from the Tyrells to the Dornish and their nobles would make every action to have
the North's wealth and blessed smith for themselves."

Robett Glover's face darkened at these words, his hand clenching into a fist on the table. A
low growl rumbled from his throat. "We would never give Owen nor his wealth up to greedy
southerners. Let them try to take what belongs to the North."

"Aye," Lord Stark nodded firmly, his steel-grey eyes meeting Owen's. "You have my word -
the North protects its own. No southern lord, no matter how powerful, will take you from
here against your will."

Owen nodded gratefully at Lord Stark's promise of protection. His mind flickered to what he
knew of Eddard Stark's character - both from his memories of stories and the man who stood
before him now. If there was one constant across realities, it was Stark's unwavering honor.
The man who had kept his promise to his dying sister Lyanna about protecting Jon for all
these years would surely keep his word about protecting Owen and Longshore.

Eddard rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as he came to stand beside Owen. "It's
time," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ceremony. "If you are to be the new Lord of
Sea Dragon Point, you must swear your oath."
Owen's heart hammered in his chest as he moved to kneel before Lord Stark. Lord Manderly
stepped forward, his considerable bulk moving with surprising grace as he positioned himself
to help guide Owen through the ancient words.

"Repeat after me," Wyman instructed, his voice clear and steady. "I, Owen of Longshore..."

Owen drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of history and tradition pressing down on his
shoulders. The words flowed from his lips, each one binding him more tightly to the North
and its people:

"I, Owen of Longshore, do hereby pledge my loyalty, service, and sword to Lord Eddard
Stark of House Stark, as my rightful lord. I swear to obey his commands, uphold his honor,
and defend his lands against all foes. I shall be his man, faithful and true, to stand by him in
peace and war, in living and dying, from this day until my last day. This I swear by the old
gods and the new."

With the oath complete and Owen now confirmed a new young lord among them, they finally
settled down to their breakfast. The food had grown cold during their lengthy discussions, but
the hearty northern fare remained filling. As Owen ate his porridge and salted fish, his mind
wandered to possibilities that his new unique abilities could bring to the North's defense.

The image of a Dwarven Colossus striding across a battlefield filled his thoughts. He
imagined the massive automaton, crafted from the finest metals his mine could produce,
tearing through ranks of Lannister knights like wheat before a scythe. The same mechanical
giant could make short work of the White Walkers and their wights when they eventually
came south of the Wall. His spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he calculated the materials
needed, the intricate mechanisms required, the sheer scale of such an undertaking.

He smiled to himself. Westeros wouldn't know what hit them.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@

POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer
Lexicon (400CP)

A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their
mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard
architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those
already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however
you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill
necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make
sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the
damage that could be done with their advancements is immense

Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.

Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 A new beginning at Winterfell
Chapter Notes

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The autumn winds swept across the Kingsroad as the party made their final preparations for
departure. Owen stood by the village gates, watching his mother dab at her eyes with her
apron while his father maintained his stoic demeanor, though his jaw clenched tight betrayed
his emotions.

"White Harbor's a fine place," Lord Manderly clasped Olyvar's shoulder. "Your skills will be
well-rewarded there. The current smith's getting long in the tooth, and I could use someone of
your caliber."

Tina wiped her hands on her apron, straightening her back. "And you're certain about the
cook position, my lord?"

"Old Derrick's been talking of retirement these past two years. Man's earned his rest."
Wyman's eyes crinkled. "Your reputation precedes you, Tina. The tavern's stew is legendary
up and down the coast."

Owen embraced his mother, breathing in her familiar scent of herbs and fresh bread. "I'll
write every week, I promise."

"You better." She squeezed him tight. "And mind your manners at Winterfell. Lord stark…-"

"Will see him for the fine young man he is," Olyvar cut in, pulling Owen into a fierce hug.
"Make us proud, son."

Lord Robett mounted his horse, nodding to the assembled group. "I'll spread word through
my lands that Deepwood Motte seeks skilled craftsmen. Should keep curious eyes from
looking too closely at Longshore's sudden lack of a blacksmith."

The farewells stretched on until Lord Stark finally called for departure. Owen mounted his
horse, a sturdy northern garron, and fell in beside the Stark guards. He watched his parents
grow smaller as the distance increased, their figures eventually disappearing around a bend in
the road.
The journey north was quiet, broken only by the steady clip-clop of hooves and occasional
conversations between the guards. Lord Stark rode at the head of the column, his presence
commanding even in silence. Sometimes he would point out landmarks to Owen - ancient
barrows, the edges of the Wolfswood, places where battles had been fought generations ago.

At night, they made camp in sheltered spots off the road. Owen found himself missing his
mother's cooking as he ate travel rations of hard bread and dried meat. The guards shared
stories around the campfire, tales of hunts and fights and the old days before Robert's
Rebellion.

On the third night, Lord Stark joined Owen by the fire after the others had turned in. "Your
parents are good people," he said, poking at the embers with a stick. "Lord Manderly will
treat them well."

"I know." Owen stared into the flames. "Still feels strange, leaving them."

"The North takes care of its own," Stark replied. "And you're one of us and now a Northern
lord to boot. Together, we will the North a land to be envied."

The days blended together as they traveled further north. The air grew colder, the trees taller,
the settlements more scattered. Owen found himself grateful for the thick wool cloak Lord
Stark had provided. His thoughts often drifted to his parents, imagining them settling into
their new life in White Harbor's castle by the sea, but the ache of separation gradually dulled
to a manageable throb.

As the party continued their journey northward, Owen's mind wandered far beyond the
present moment. His fingers absently traced patterns in his saddle's leather while he
contemplated the vast possibilities that lay before him. The Celestial Forge had granted him
knowledge and his thoughts raced with potential projects.

"Glass," he muttered to himself, drawing a curious glance from a nearby guard. The North's
greatest weakness was its limited growing season, but with properly constructed glasshouses,
they could grow food year-round. Not the flimsy structures currently in use, but reinforced
ones with frames of steel and malachite-strengthened glass that could withstand the harshest
winter storms.

His mind's eye saw vast structures rising from the snow, their surfaces gleaming with
enchanted warmth. The designs were already taking shape - double-layered walls for better
insulation, cleverly designed ventilation systems, and drainage channels that would prevent
snow from collapsing the roofs.

The steady rhythm of hoofbeats carried him to thoughts of farming equipment. The northern
soil was stubborn, unyielding to traditional plows. But Owen could see solutions - specialized
plowshares forged from orichalcum alloys that would cut through the frozen ground like
butter. Lighter tools that wouldn't exhaust the farmers, yet strong enough to last generations.

Owen thoughts then drifted to the Dwemer knowledge he had received from the forge
waiting to be tapped. The automatons in Cidhna Mine were impressive, reliable and quick in
their mining duties, but they were simple compared to what the Dwemer had achieved. He
imagined sentinel machines patrolling the Wall, tireless guardians that needed no rest or
sustenance. Mechanical scouts that could traverse the frozen wastes beyond, gathering
intelligence without risking human lives.

But those plans would have to wait. The Dwemer's achievements were too advanced to reveal
all at once - better to start small, with practical improvements that wouldn't frighten or
overwhelm. The North needed to be eased into such changes, not shocked by them.

His fingers unconsciously traced the patterns of a Dwemer gear mechanism in his saddle's
leather. Storage solutions came to mind - vast underground chambers kept warm by tapping
into hot springs, like the ones beneath Winterfell. Improved preservation methods for food,
enhanced by materials from Cidhna Mine. Water systems that wouldn't freeze in winter,
ensuring steady supplies for both castle and smallfolk.

The possibilities seemed endless, each idea spawning three more. Owen pulled out a some
rolls of parchment he had bought, jotting down quick notes whenever the terrain allowed him
to. Priority would need to be given to projects that could show immediate benefits while
laying groundwork for more advanced implementations later.

Owen froze mid-thought, staring at the ink-stained parchment before him. The quill had
splattered again, leaving an unsightly blot near his detailed sketch of a glass panel joining
mechanism. His eyes narrowed at the primitive writing implement in his hand.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, reaching for the ink pot tied to his saddle for what felt like the
hundredth time. The constant stopping and starting was playing havoc with his train of
thought. Even the parchment itself was rough and inconsistent, nothing like the smooth paper
he remembered from his previous life.

He scratched a quick note in the margin: "Paper mill - wood pulp processing - standardized
sheets." Below that, he added "Fountain pens - brass nibs - internal ink reservoir." The
maesters at the Citadel hoarded their paper supplies like dragons with gold, charging
astronomical prices for even poor quality sheets. A reliable source of good paper would
transform record-keeping across the North.

The quill snagged on a rough spot in the parchment, sending another spray of ink across his
calculations. Owen sighed heavily, dabbing at the mess with a scrap of cloth. At least the ink
was decent quality - he'd paid extra for that before leaving Longshore. Still, he could do
better. Much better.

From his position at the head of the column, Lord Stark watched the young man's frustrated
battle with his writing materials with quiet amusement. Despite the obvious difficulties,
Owen hadn't stopped working since they'd broken camp that morning. Page after page had
disappeared into his satchel, filled with drawings and notes that Eddard couldn't make sense
of from this distance.

The boy - no, the young lord now - had surprised him. When they'd first discovered his
abilities, Stark had feared Owen might prove difficult to control, might need to be forced to
stay. Instead, he'd shown wisdom beyond his years in choosing to remain and help the North.
The decision to accept the marriage to Sansa spoke well of him too.
Stark's lips curved slightly as he watched Owen curse under his breath, fishing out yet
another clean sheet of parchment. Sansa would take to him in time, he was sure of it. His
daughter had a romantic soul, but she also had a keen mind whenever she had to use it. A
husband who could create beautiful things, who could help raise the North to new heights of
prosperity - that would appeal to her at the very least.

Perhaps, Stark mused, he should suggest Owen craft some jewelry for his future bride. Cat
had certainly never complained about the pieces he'd given her over the years. There was
something about gems and precious metals that seemed to delight even the most practical of
women for some reason.

Ten days after leaving Longshore, the party crested a final hill, and there it was - Winterfell,
rising from the landscape like something out of legend. Owen's eyes widened as he took in
the massive grey walls, the towers reaching toward the clouds, the banners of House Stark
snapping in the wind. He'd read descriptions in his previous life, but nothing had prepared
him for the sheer scale of the fortress when he saw it for himself without the small scale of
the tv adaptation.

Lord Eddard noticed Owen's expression and chuckled beside him. "I hope you'll come to
think of Winterfell as a second home," he said, his normally stern features softening with
pride as he gazed at his ancestral seat.

The guards around them straightened in their saddles, their weariness falling away at the
sight of home. Their horses seemed to sense their riders' eagerness, picking up their pace
without prompting. They hadn't made it halfway across the final stretch before shouts rang
out from the walls.

"Open the gates! Lord Stark returns!"

The great iron-bound doors began to swing outward as they approached Winter Town. The
townspeople stopped their daily tasks to watch the procession pass, many calling out
greetings to their lord. Some bowed deeply, while others simply nodded respectfully.
Children darted between buildings to get a better look at the returning party.

As they passed through Winterfell's massive gates, Owen's gaze was immediately drawn to
two young men waiting in the courtyard. Both were older than him, one with Tully-red hair
that marked him as Robb Stark, and the other with dark curls that could only belong to Jon
Snow.

Robb and Jon stepped forward as Lord Eddard dismounted his horse with practiced ease.
Owen watched from atop his own mount as Jon bowed his head slightly.

"Welcome home, Lord Stark," Jon said formally, though warmth colored his tone.

Owen noted the use of the title rather than 'father,' studying the young man's demeanor. While
Jon's bearing was more reserved than Robb's open enthusiasm, there was none of the beaten-
down demeanor that fanfic writers often imagined. Jon carried himself with quiet dignity, and
Lord Stark's eyes held equal affection for both young men as he embraced them.

"It's good to be home," Eddard said, clapping both sons on the shoulder. He turned to Robb.
"Where are your mother and the others?"

As if in answer, Catelyn Stark's voice rang out across the courtyard. "Ned!"

Owen couldn't help but stare as she approached, her auburn hair gleaming in the weak
autumn sunlight. She moved with natural grace, her rich blue dress and silver-fox furs
marking her as clearly as any crown as the Lady of Winterfell. When she reached her
husband and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek, Owen forced himself to look away, feeling
his face heat at having gawked at his future Mother-in-law.

A blur of motion drew his attention as a small figure darted through the gathering crowd.
Arya Stark launched herself at her father with the energy of a charging direwolf, wrapping
her arms around his waist.

"Father! You're back!" she exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. "Did you fight any bandits?
What was the village like? Why were you gone so long? Did you bring-"

"Arya!" A musical voice cut through the rapid-fire questions. "Let Father at least catch his
breath before you interrogate him."

Owen's heart skipped several beats as Sansa Stark approached, leading young Bran by the
hand. The stories hadn't done her justice and he didn't think Sophie turner could have either.
Her copper hair caught the light like living flame, and her tall, graceful figure was enhanced
by a dove-grey dress that matched her eyes perfectly. When those eyes briefly met his, Owen
felt his face flame red, and he quickly looked down at his saddle horn.

Eddard embraced Sansa warmly, then knelt to wrap Bran in a tight hug. Owen noticed the
absence of both Rickon Stark and Theon Greyjoy - though whether the youngest Stark was
yet unborn or simply napping, and whether the Greyjoy ward was dead or fostered elsewhere,
he couldn't be certain.

"The journey was long but fruitful," Lord Stark announced to his gathered family. "We've
discovered something remarkable in the village of Longshore." His grey eyes found Owen,
who still sat astride his horse. "Come, Owen."

Owen dismounted carefully, keeping his movements measured and respectful as he

approached the assembled Starks, people he had only seen or read about in his past life. His
heart thundered in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral and polite.

Lord Stark placed a firm hand on Owen's shoulder. "This is Owen, the new Lord of Sea
Dragon Point. He's also the blacksmith responsible for those exceptional weapons Torren
brought to Winterfell three weeks past."

The reaction was immediate. Robb and Jon exchanged excited glances while Arya's eyes
went wide with wonder. The young girl practically vibrated with enthusiasm.
"You made those swords?" Arya burst out. "Ser Rodrik took one of them - the blue one - into
the training yard and cut straight through a tree! And the tree froze! How did you do that?"

"The blade didn't even nick or dull," Jon added eagerly. "Ser Rodrik said he'd never seen its
like."

Robb stepped forward, his Tully-blue eyes bright with interest. "The balance was perfect too
- or so Ser Rodrik claimed. He said it felt like the sword was an extension of his arm."

Owen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat rise to his face. "It's really not that
impressive," he mumbled, though he couldn't help but smile at their enthusiasm. "Stalhrim is
a remarkable material to work with, that's all. The freezing effect is inherent to the metal
itself."

"Can you make more?" Arya asked, bouncing on her toes. "Can you teach me how to forge?
Can I see-"

"Arya," Lady Catelyn cut in with a stern look, though her lips twitched with barely
suppressed amusement. "Perhaps we should let our guest settle in before you interrogate him
further."

Arya's lower lip jutted out in a familiar pout, but she held her tongue at her mother's gentle
admonishment. Eddard couldn't help but chuckle at the scene - his youngest daughter's
boundless enthusiasm, Owen's shyness, and the way the young blacksmith seemed both
pleased and overwhelmed by the attention.

His gaze drifted to Sansa, noting how his eldest daughter studied Owen with careful
consideration. Her blue eyes took in every detail - from his strong smith's build to his humble
demeanor. While she maintained her usual poise, there was unmistakable curiosity in her
expression.

Eddard allowed himself an internal smile. Young love might not bloom immediately, but
there was potential here. Owen's genuine nature and extraordinary talents would appeal to
Sansa, while his ability to craft beautiful things would speak to her romantic sensibilities.

"Robb, Jon," Eddard called out. "Perhaps you could show Lord Owen around Winterfell?
He'll be staying with us for some time, and he should know his way about the castle."

Both young men nodded eagerly, clearly pleased with the task. Before anyone could say
another word, Arya and Bran fell into step behind their older brothers, their eyes bright with
curiosity.

Eddard turned to Catelyn, his voice low. "My love, would you see that a proper chamber is
prepared? One befitting a visiting lord?" He met her eyes meaningfully, silently conveying
that there was much more to discuss when they were alone.

Catelyn's quick mind caught the unspoken message, and she nodded gracefully. "Of course,
my lord. I'll see to it personally."
"Owen," Eddard called out as the young man prepared to follow his children. "Remember
what I said - you are welcome here. Winterfell can be a second home to you, if you let it be."

Owen ducked his head in acknowledgment, a slight flush coloring his cheeks. As he walked
away with the Stark children, their voices drifted back across the courtyard.

"But how does the metal freeze things?" Arya demanded.

"Is it true you have your own mine?" Bran asked excitedly.

"Can you make daggers too, or just swords?" Jon inquired.

"Father says you're to be a lord. Have you ever-" Robb began.

Their questions tumbled over each other as they disappeared around a corner. Eddard
watched them go, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. Yes, the days ahead would prove
interesting indeed - both for Winterfell and for the North as a whole.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@

POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer
Lexicon (400CP)

A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their
mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard
architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those
already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however
you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill
necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make
sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the
damage that could be done with their advancements is immense

Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.

Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 Making work easier
Chapter Notes

Join my discord to share ideas, criticism, DM for personal paid fics if you want or just
hang out with other fic lovers- https://discord.gg/QyP57KtGwr

Patreon link in discord if willing and able to support or join tier to get fic chapters
earlier, otherwise leaving a like is all you need to show support.

Owen stood in front of Mikken's forge with Jon and Robb three days after his arrival. The
two young men practically bounced on their heels with anticipation, while Owen surveyed
the humble workspace with a carefully neutral expression. His enhanced knowledge from the
Celestial Forge immediately identified dozens of potential improvements - Dwemer heating
systems that could triple the forge's efficiency, automated bellows that would maintain
perfect temperatures, specialized cooling channels that would revolutionize the tempering
process.

But he kept these thoughts to himself as Mikken emerged from the forge's interior, wiping his
hands on his leather apron. The master blacksmith had just finished correcting one of his
apprentices on proper hammer technique.

"Lord Owen," Mikken inclined his head respectfully, though his eyes held a hint of wariness.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just Owen is fine," Owen smiled, trying to put the older man at ease. "And I was hoping to
use your forge, with your permission of course. Lord Stark suggested I coordinate with you."

"Father says Owen's the one who made Ice's new scabbard," Robb interjected excitedly. "And
that ebony sword he carries."

Jon nodded eagerly. "We've been waiting days to see him work."

Mikken's eyes widened slightly as he glanced at Owen's sword. His experienced gaze took in
the perfectly executed details of the weapon - details that should have been impossible to
achieve with normal forging techniques.

"That's quite a blade," Mikken said carefully. "Never seen its like before."

"Perhaps I could demonstrate some of my methods?" Owen offered. "I'd be honored to learn
from your expertise as well. Every forge master has their own valuable techniques."

The diplomatic response seemed to ease some of Mikken's tension. He gestured toward the
forge's interior. "She's all yours then. What did you have in mind for your first project?"
"First things first," Owen said, surveying the forge's workspace. "I can't do everything for all
the projects I have in mind, and manpower is a major issue. Experienced builders and smiths
are either too expensive to hire or hard to find, so I'll have to make my own help."

He stepped outside the forge, scanning the grounds until he found a suitable spot. "But first,
I'll need materials."

With a casual snap of his fingers, a gaping hole materialized in the ground about thirty paces
from the forge entrance. Jon and Robb leaped backward, while Mikken stumbled against his
anvil, his face draining of color.

"It's alright," Owen raised his hands in a calming gesture. "No need for alarm. This is just one
of the blessings the Old Gods have given me. Come, I'll show you."

The three men exchanged uncertain glances before cautiously following Owen toward the
mysterious opening. As they descended into Cidhna Mine, their expressions shifted from fear
to wonder. Rich veins of ore lined the walls - gleaming deposits of ebony, malachite, and
other precious minerals they'd never seen before.

"By the gods," Mikken whispered, his expert eye drawn to a particularly rich vein of
orichalcum. His fingers traced the metallic surface reverently.

Owen led them deeper into the mine until they reached the main chamber. Here, mechanical
figures moved with precise efficiency, extracting ore and hauling loads. Their metal bodies
caught the light from the mounted torches, creating a scene that the 2 young men and mikken
could never dream of.

The largest, more ornate, automaton, the overseer, noticed their arrival and immediately
stopped its work. It approached Owen with fluid movements and bent at the waist in a formal
bow.

"Welcome back, Master Owen," it intoned in a clear yet mechanical voice.

Jon and Robb stood frozen, their mouths agape as they stared at the speaking machine. Even
Mikken, for all his years of working with metal, seemed unable to process what he was
witnessing.

Owen scratched his head absently as he looked at the mechanical overseer. "You know, I
really should give you a proper name one of these days. Can't keep calling you 'overseer'
forever."

The automaton's crystalline eyes flickered briefly. "As you wish, Master Owen. Would you
prefer to name me now?"

Behind Owen, Jon, Robb, and Mikken remained rooted in place, their expressions a mixture
of awe and disbelief at witnessing a conversation between man and machine. Jon's hand had
drifted unconsciously to his sword hilt, while Robb repeatedly blinked as if trying to clear his
vision.
"Later," Owen waved his hand dismissively. "For now, give me an update on our mining
operations. What's our current inventory of refined ingots since we last spoke?"

The overseer's posture straightened, switching seamlessly into its reporting mode. "In the
fourteen days since your last inquiry, we have processed and refined an additional one
thousand ingots across all ore types." Its metal arm extended toward a section of the chamber
where numerous wooden crates stood stacked against the wall. "The refined materials are
stored there, sorted by type."

The group approached the crates, and even in the dim light of the mine, the contents gleamed
with impossible purity. Entire crates filled with bars of gold and silver caught Jon and Robb's
attention immediately. Robb gripped his brother's arm for support, his legs suddenly unsteady
as he tried to process the wealth before him.

"Seven hells," Jon whispered, his voice barely audible. "There's enough gold here to buy half
the North."

Meanwhile, Mikken had gravitated toward a different crate, his hands lifting one of the iron
ingots. He turned it over repeatedly, his eyes wide with professional appreciation. In all his
years of smithing, he'd never seen iron so pure - no slag, no impurities, just perfect, refined
metal ready for forging.

"This is impossible," Mikken muttered, still examining the ingot. "Even the finest iron from
Qohor has impurities. This... this is perfect."

The overseer's mechanical voice cut through their amazement. "All metals are refined to one
hundred percent purity using our specialized processing methods. Would you like a detailed
breakdown of current quantities by type, Master Owen?"

"No need for the full inventory," Owen interrupted the overseer. "But I do need ten crates of
Dwarven metal brought up to the forge."

The overseer's crystalline eyes flickered in acknowledgment. "At once, Master Owen." It
turned to the other automatons, issuing commands in a series of mechanical clicks and whirs
that set several of the metal workers into motion.

Owen faced Mikken, who still clutched the pure iron ingot like a precious gem. "Mikken,
would you mind making sure your apprentices don't bolt when they see these fellows
carrying up the crates? Last thing we need is panic spreading through Winterfell."

The master blacksmith startled, as if suddenly remembering his responsibilities. "Aye, that
would be wise." He set the ingot down carefully and hurried toward the mine's entrance,
casting one last amazed glance at the mechanical workers as they began collecting the
requested Dwarven metal.

Jon and Robb watched, transfixed, as the automatons moved with precise efficiency. Their
metal joints whirred softly as they lifted the heavy crates with ease, forming an orderly line
toward the entrance.
"Owen," Jon's voice held equal parts curiosity and awe, "this Dwarven metal - was it truly
forged by dwarves? Like the ones from Old Nan's tales?"

Owen couldn't help but laugh at the question, the sound echoing off the mine's walls. "No,
not quite like that. It's not made by short, bearded folk living under mountains or short men
like Tywin Lannisters son." He watched as the automatons began their ascent up the mine's
entrance. "You'll see soon enough what it can do, though. Shall we head back up?"

The two young men nodded, falling into step behind Owen as they followed the procession of
mechanical workers toward the surface. Jon and Robb exchanged glances, their expressions a
mix of excitement and lingering disbelief at everything they'd seen in the mine.

The automatons methodically placed the last of the heavy crates near Mikken's forge, their
metal and dwarven joints whirring with precise movements. They turned in perfect unison
and marched back toward the mine entrance, disappearing into the dark hole with mechanical
efficiency.

Mikken stood before his three apprentices - Oren, Mors, and Tykar - who watched the scene
with wide eyes and slack jaws. The young men had pressed themselves against the forge's
stone wall when the metal figures first emerged from the ground, and they hadn't moved
since.

"What in the name of the Old Gods are those things?" Tykar's voice cracked as he pointed at
the retreating forms.

"Calm yourself," Mikken placed a steadying hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "Lord Stark
wouldn't allow anything dangerous within Winterfell's walls."

The three apprentices exchanged uncertain glances. Oren's red hair gleamed in the forge light
as he shook his head. "But Master Mikken, they're... they're moving metal men!"

"Aye, and they just carried more metal in ten minutes than you three manage in a week,"
Mikken replied dryly, though his own face still held traces of wonderment.

Owen emerged from the mine entrance with Jon and Robb close behind. The three made their
way toward the forge, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. Robb moved to help Owen
lift one of the heavy crates, carrying it closer to the blazing fires.

"Seven hells, what's in these?" Robb grunted under the weight.

"Like i said, Dwarven metal," Owen replied, setting down his end carefully. "Strong as steel
but lighter, and it takes enchantments better than any other material I've worked with."

Mikken ran his fingers along the edge of the nearest crate, his eyes carefully studying the
ingots within. "I still wonder what you plan to build with all this, Owen. This is more metal
than I'd use in half a year."

The apprentices had finally gathered enough courage to approach, drawn by their natural
curiosity about the mysterious metal. Mors reached out to touch one of the ingots but quickly
withdrew his hand when Owen looked his way.

"It's alright," Owen gestured for him to proceed. "Take a look. You'll all need to learn how to
work with it eventually."

Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's earlier words, watching the young smith arrange
the strange metal ingots with practiced efficiency. The question had been nagging at him
since they'd left the mine.

"What did you mean enchantments? Like magic? Actual, real magic?" Jon's voice carried a
mix of skepticism and curiosity.

Owen shrugged without looking up from his work, his hands moving methodically as he
prepared the forge. "Sure."

Robb let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Magic isn't real. Everyone knows that." His
voice held the certainty of someone repeating a truth they'd learned since childhood.

The forge crackled and popped as Owen continued his preparations, arranging his tools with
precise movements. The three apprentices watched intently, while Mikken observed with
interest as a fellow smith prepared himself. Owen paused in his work, looking up at Robb
with a small, knowing smile playing across his lips.

"Your entire realm was forged by Dragons," Owen said matter-of-factly, "and you don't
believe in magic?"

Jon let out a deep chuckle, the sound mixing with Mikken's own quiet laughter. Robb's face
flushed red as he realized the hole in his logic.

"He's got you there, brother," Jon said, clapping Robb on the shoulder.

Owen allowed himself a smile before turning to the forge. He lifted the hammer, its weight
familiar in his hand as he began his craft. The knowledge from the Celestial Forge flowed
through him, ancient techniques from long-dead Dwemer masters guiding his movements.
His hands moved with inhuman precision, each strike of the hammer landing exactly where
needed.

The forge fell silent except for the rhythmic sounds of his work. Mikken and his apprentices
watched, transfixed, as Owen shaped the Dwarven metal with impossible skill. Even Jon and
Robb, who had seen many strange things in the past hour, stood speechless at the display
before them.

Owen worked in a kind of trance, barely registering the eyes upon him as he folded and
shaped the metal. The Dwemer knowledge guided every motion - heating, folding,
hammering, cooling - each step executed with perfect timing. His movements held a fluid
grace that seemed to belong to someone who had spent thousands of years perfecting their
craft rather than a young man of fifteen.
Steam hissed and metal sang under his hammer. The Dwarven metal glowed with an inner
light as he worked it, responding to his touch in ways that defied conventional smithing
wisdom. Mikken's experienced eye caught techniques he'd never seen before, movements that
shouldn't have been possible with normal metal.

An hour passed like minutes. Owen finally looked up from his work, carefully cleaning the
three objects he'd created. He placed two large items on the nearby table and held a rod-like
object in his hands. The occupants of the forge crowded around to see what he had produced.

Robb was the first to break the awed silence. "What...are they?"

Owen beamed at his handiwork, gesturing toward the two large mechanical constructs that
stood motionless on the forge floor. Their dwarven metal frames gleamed in the firelight,
intricate gears and pistons visible through gaps in their plating.

"These are steam constructors," he explained, while Mikken and his apprentices eyed the
machines with visible apprehension. Oren had taken several steps back, positioning himself
behind his master's broader frame. Mors and Tykar exchanged nervous glances, their hands
fidgeting with their leather aprons.

Owen held up the rod-like object in his other hand, twirling it between his fingers with casual
expertise. The metal shaft was covered in complex engravings that seemed to shift in the
forge's flickering light.

"And this thing in my hand is a control rod," he continued, watching as the light played off
the intricate markings.

Mikken studied the machines, though he maintained a safe distance. His eye caught details in
their construction that spoke of craftsmanship far beyond anything he'd ever witnessed. The
joints and connections were impossibly precise, each component fitted together with
supernatural accuracy.

"You see, I don't have time to go around both making weapons and doing construction
projects," Owen explained, "so these two are going to help me."

Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's words. He crossed his arms, looking skeptically
at the pair of mechanical workers. "How? There are only two of them, and I doubt two of
these metal workers can do all the work you need." He said. "You'd need to make more, and
these two took you an hour to make. It would be a whole month before you had enough."

Owen chuckled at Jon's observation. "Usually, you'd be right," he said, turning the control rod
in his hands. "It would take a month or more to craft enough constructors for what I have
planned. But that's where things get interesting."

The young smith's mind drifted to the knowledge gifted to him by the Forge. The Dwemer,
ancient masters of machinery and metallurgy, had created marvels that made other races on
Tamriel envious. Their automated soldiers, their steam-powered cities, their impossible
machines - all testified to their genius. But even they had limitations, requiring massive
forges and countless hours to produce their mechanical armies.
Owen had something better. The Celestial Forge made it nearly impossible for him to create
anything ordinary unless he actively tried to restrain its power. Where a Dwemer craftsman
would produce a remarkable but conventional automaton, Owen's creations transcended those
ancient limitations.

He held the control rod forward, channeling his will into the metal. The rod responded
immediately, ancient runes blazing to life along its length with a brilliant golden light. The
same runes appeared across the steam constructors' bodies, their metal frames humming with
power.

Oren stumbled backward with a yelp as the machines straightened, their joints whirring
smoothly. Steam hissed from carefully placed vents, and their crystalline eyes glowed with
the same golden light as the runes.

"Seven hells," Robb breathed, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt.

"I don't need to make more constructors," Owen explained, watching his creations with
satisfaction, "because these two will do it for me."

The assembled group watched in stunned silence as the steam constructors moved with fluid
grace, their mechanical bodies displaying none of the jerky motions one might expect from
metal beings. They turned toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots, their crystalline eyes
scanning the materials with obvious purpose.

"They'll build more of themselves?" Mikken asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Owen nodded, pride evident in his expression. "And they'll do it faster and more precisely
than even I could."

The group watched in amazement as the two steam constructors moved with mechanical
precision toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots. Their crystalline eyes glowed brighter as
they began their work, metal hands moving with impossible speed and accuracy. Steam
hissed from their joints as they shaped and folded the metal, each movement a perfect mirror
of Owen's earlier craftsmanship.

Within minutes, two more constructors stood before them, identical to their creators in every
detail. The new machines' eyes flickered to life, golden runes appearing across their frames.
Without pause, all four constructors turned back to the remaining ingots and began working
in perfect synchronization.

Mors gripped Tykar's arm as four more constructors took shape under the skilled hands of
their mechanical brethren. "By the Old Gods," he whispered, his voice trembling.

The process continued, each new group of constructors immediately joining in the creation of
more. The sound of metal being worked filled the forge as eight became sixteen, then twenty-
four. Steam filled the air, creating an otherworldly atmosphere as mechanical hands shaped
and folded the Dwarven metal with supernatural speed.
Jon and Robb exchanged stunned glances as the number of constructors grew. Even Mikken,
with all his years of smithing and forging, could only shake his head in disbelief at the
display before him. The precision and speed with which these machines worked surpassed
anything he'd ever witnessed.

Finally, as the last ingot was used, thirty steam constructors stood in neat rows before them,
their golden eyes all fixed on Owen. The entire process had taken less than an hour, and the
forge now housed an army of mechanical workers.

Owen raised the control rod, its runes pulsing with power. "Down to the mine," he
commanded. "Gather more Dwarven metal and continue making more of yourselves."

The constructors moved as one, their metal feet clanking against the stone as they filed out of
the forge and headed toward the mine entrance. The assembled group watched in silence as
the machines disappeared into the darkness below.

Owen turned to Mikken, offering an apologetic smile. "Seems I'll be monopolizing your forge
for a few days," he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

Inwardly however, Owen couldn't help but be filled with glee. The celestial forge was so
awesome!

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@

POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer
Lexicon (400CP)

A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their
mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard
architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those
already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however
you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill
necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make
sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the
damage that could be done with their advancements is immense

Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.

Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 Of Plans And Magic
Chapter Notes

As promised to my Patreon members, any more chapters from now on this story will be
posted on my patreon for my tier readers to first read then given to my free supporters
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I also apologize to those who have problems with my English if any mistakes are found,
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The winter sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's courtyard as Owen and Eddard watched
the steam constructors at work. The mechanical army moved with eerie precision, their metal
limbs gleaming as they carried massive sheets of specialized glass and frames of dwarven
metal.

"The glass is a blend of melted moonstone and malachite," Owen explained, gesturing to the
translucent panels being lifted into place. "The combination creates a material that traps heat
while allowing more sunlight through than regular glass."

Eddard's grey eyes widened as he observed the automatons working in perfect

synchronization. Some units welded metal frames together with built-in heating elements,
while others installed the glass panels with methodical efficiency. The sound of metal on
metal filled the air, punctuated by the hiss of steam from the constructors' joints.

"By the old gods," Eddard breathed as the structures took shape before his eyes. Four massive
glasshouses rose from the ground, their frames gleaming with the distinctive golden-bronze
hue of dwarven metal. The buildings dwarfed the surrounding structures, their peaked roofs
reaching toward the sky.

Owen raised the control rod, directing the machines to finish the internal systems. "The pipes
are connecting directly to your hot springs," he said. "The heat will keep the soil warm year-
round, and the automated watering system will ensure consistent irrigation."
When the last panel clicked into place, Owen gestured for Eddard to enter the nearest
glasshouse. The Lord of Winterfell stepped through the doorway and stopped, amazed by the
dramatic temperature change. While winter's chill gripped the outside air, the interior felt like
a warm spring day.

Inside, more constructors moved up and down the rows, their specialized attachments
breaking up the soil and creating perfect furrows for planting. The machines worked with
impossible speed and precision, transforming the bare earth into orderly plots ready for seeds.

Eddard walked the length of the glasshouse, noting the intricate network of pipes running
along the walls and ceiling. Water droplets sparkled as they emerged from carefully placed
spouts, creating a fine mist that settled evenly across the freshly tilled soil.

"The watering system is on a timer," Owen explained, pride evident in his voice. "Every two
hours, it will automatically dispense the perfect amount of water. The glass amplifies and
traps the sunlight, creating ideal growing conditions even in the depths of winter."

Eddard reached out to touch one of the glass panels, marveling at how it seemed to capture
and intensify the wan winter sunlight. The entire structure hummed with quiet efficiency, a
show of the incredible capabilities of Owen's mechanical workers.

When he turned back to Owen, the young smith wore a satisfied smile, clearly pleased by the
lord's reaction to his creation.

Eddard's mind raced with possibilities as he surveyed the vast interior of the glasshouse. The
structure dwarfed Winterfell's existing glass gardens - those precious buildings that had
sustained his family through countless winters. Where the old gardens struggled to feed even
his household, these new constructions could feed hundreds, perhaps thousands.

Memories of harsh winters past flashed through his mind. The haunted looks of parents
forced to send their elderly out into the cold to die so their children might survive another
day. The whispered tales of desperate men and women driven to unspeakable acts when food
stores ran empty. The shame of having to bow and scrape to the Tyrells, paying their
extortionate prices for grain just to keep his people alive.

But now... now everything could change.

"With your permission, my lord," Owen said, interrupting Eddard's thoughts, "I could have
the constructors build more of these across the North. White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, even
the mountain clans could sustain themselves year-round."

Eddard walked between the rows of freshly tilled soil, already imagining the bounty they
would yield. "How many could you build?"

"As many as needed. The constructors can replicate themselves and harvest the necessary
materials from the mine. The only limit is space and time."

"And the cost?"

"Nothing but the initial investment in materials, which the mine provides. Once built, they
require minimal maintenance. The automatons handle everything."

Eddard stopped and turned to face Owen. "Do you understand what this means for the North
Owen? For generations, our people have fled south seeking better lives, driven away by
hunger and hardship. With these..." He gestured at the gleaming structure around them. "They
could come home."

"The North could be self-sufficient," Owen agreed. "No more relying on southern kingdoms
for food. No more watching your people starve while the Tyrells grow fat on northern gold."

Eddard's weathered face broke into a rare smile. For the first time, he truly understood why
the old gods had guided this remarkable young man to his lands. This wasn't just about
weapons or marriage alliances - this was about the survival and prosperity of the North itself.

"When can you begin building more?"

"The constructors could start tomorrow. We could have similar installations in White Harbor
before the month is out."

"Do it," Eddard commanded. "I will have ravens sent to my bannermen. I want every major
holdfast in the North equipped with these glasshouses before winter comes."

Owen shifted uneasily, his eyes tracking the mechanical workers as they continued their
methodical labor. "My lord, perhaps we shouldn't rush this."

The excitement drained from Eddard's face as Owen continued, "Lord Robett and Lord
Wyman know about me and my creations. All they'd have to do is prepare their people and
make sure no merchants or sailors who saw the constructors kept quiet and not send word to
King's Landing."

He gestured at the gleaming metal army of constructors. "But with the other lords..." Owen
shook his head, his expression grim. "They don't know me or what I create. They would take
one look at the constructors and, your word or not, they would get frightened and attack." A
worried look upon his face. "Which would be bad... for them."

The Lord of Winterfell's earlier enthusiasm cooled as reality set in. He had gotten too carried
away with the excitement of a self-sufficient North too much to remember none of his other
Northern lords knew about Owen except Wyman and Robett. The rest would panic if they
saw the automatons, no doubt sending word far and wide thinking an invasion of magical
metal machines was attacking them.

The mechanical workers continued their tasks, oblivious to the tension between the two men
as they contemplated the political keg of wildfire their existence represented. Steam hissed
from their joints as they moved, the sound now carrying a more ominous tone.

Owen's words gave Ned pause for a moment. "What do you mean it would be bad for them?"
The young smith gestured to the constructors continuing their work. "They're not built for
war or battle, but they have defensive capabilities woven into their very being. If anyone
attacks them or what they've built..." He paused, watching one of the machines delicately
position a glass panel. "They don't fight alone. They swarm like metal spiders, overwhelming
any threat until there's nothing left or until I command them to stop."

The machines continued their precise movements as Owen detailed their lethal potential.
"They stab with limbs sharp as spears, crush with mechanical strength no human can match,
impale with specialized tools, and blast scalding steam hot enough to cook flesh from bone."
His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes held a warning. "And since they're
forged from dwarven metal, no northern lord or their soldiers could harm them. Regular steel
would shatter against their frames."

Eddard's blood ran cold as he watched the automata with new eyes. The rhythmic hiss of
steam from their joints now carried a more sinister tone. The precise, calculated movements
of their limbs spoke not just of efficiency, but of deadly capability. Where moments ago he
had seen only helpful workers, now he recognized weapons of terrifying potential.

One constructor passed close by, its metal feet clicking against the stone floor. Eddard found
himself taking an involuntary step back. The machine paid him no notice, focused entirely on
its assigned task, but he could not shake the image Owen had painted - these same machines
swarming over attackers like metal spiders, crushing and tearing with inexorable mechanical
strength.

"How many could they kill?" Eddard asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"All of them," Owen replied simply. "They don't tire. They don't feel fear or mercy. They just
execute their inbuilt orders with perfect efficiency. Whether that's building glasshouses
or...defending themselves."

Eddard actually gulped, a rare display of discomfort from the usually stoic Lord of
Winterfell. His mind painted vivid pictures of what Owen described - men screaming as they
were overwhelmed by tireless metal workers, their swords bouncing uselessly off dwarven
metal frames while mechanical limbs stabbed and tore. The constructors would move with
that same efficient precision they showed now, except instead of building, they would
destroy. The thought of hundreds of these machines swarming over soldiers like metal
spiders, leaving nothing but broken bodies in their wake, made his skin crawl.

Owen watched understanding dawn on Eddard's face. The young smith hadn't meant to
frighten the lord, but he needed him to grasp the gravity of introducing such powerful forces
into the delicate balance of northern politics.

"Perhaps," Eddard said slowly, his grey eyes tracking the machines' movements, "we should
be more selective about which houses receive these benefits."

His thoughts turned unbidden to House Bolton. While the Dreadfort had kept its peace in
recent generations, the weight of centuries of rivalry and mistrust lay heavy between their
houses. The Boltons' flayed man sigil wasn't just for show - the old tales spoke of Bolton
lords who kept their enemies' skins as trophies. Though such practices were long banned,
rumors persisted about secret rooms in the Dreadfort where ancient traditions continued
behind closed doors.

Even now, Lord Roose Bolton's pale eyes and soft voice sent chills down the spines of
hardened warriors. The man's calculated nature and cold demeanor spoke of someone who
would see Owen's creations not as tools for prosperity, but as potential weapons to be
understood and exploited.

"House Bolton, My Lord," Owen said, reading Eddard's expression. "You're thinking about
the Boltons."

Eddard nodded grimly. "Their loyalty has held these past centuries, but trust..." He shook his
head. "Some houses have earned more than just fealty. They've earned faith in their character,
in their honor." His eyes met Owen's. "Others maintain their oaths while keeping their true
nature hidden beneath the surface, like ice over deep water."

Owen nodded, memories from his past life filling his mind. The stories he had read, both
from the books and fanfics, painted a pretty consistent picture of House Bolton. No matter
the timeline or circumstances, their relationship with the Starks always ended in blood and
betrayal. Their flayed man sigil wasn't just for show - it represented a deep-seated cruelty that
defined their very nature.

Even if, in a change of canon history, a Bolton, not a Stark, had united the north, Owen
doubted such a reign would have lasted long. People might bow to strength, might submit to
fear, but there was a limit to how much cruelty they would endure. Push too far, and even the
most downtrodden would rise up, preferring death to continued torment under sadistic rulers.

His thoughts turned to Roose Bolton, the current Lord of the Dreadfort. In the normal
timeline, another world Owen had only read about, that same man had orchestrated the Red
Wedding - a betrayal so heinous it had shocked even the most hardened readers. The memory
of those pages made Owen's jaw clench. He wouldn't let that future come to pass. Not here.
Not now.

"Two glasshouses," Owen said suddenly, breaking the thoughtful silence. "Small ones."

Eddard raised an eyebrow, waiting for elaboration.

"For House Bolton and any others you have doubts about," Owen continued, gesturing to the
massive structures around them. "Not as grand as these, nor as large as what we'll give to
your more steadfast bannermen. Enough to demonstrate the technology, to give them a taste
of the benefits, but not enough to significantly strengthen their position."

Eddard's grey eyes met Owen's, understanding passing between them. After a moment, the
Lord of Winterfell nodded. "A measured approach," he agreed. "Enough to avoid offense, but
not enough to pose a threat should loyalty..." he paused, choosing his words carefully,
"...waver."

"Agreed," Owen said, studying the mechanical workers as they continued their work. "But
there's still the problem of how we'll get the other lords to not panic at the sight of the
constructors."

Eddard stood silent for a moment, his weathered face deep in thought as he watched the
machines work. Then his grey eyes lit up with understanding. "The North's summer festival
is in three weeks - our celebration of a good harvest and another year of summer." He turned
to Owen, conviction in his voice. "That would be the perfect time to introduce you and your
creations to the lords."

He began pacing the length of the glasshouse, his footsteps echoing against the glass walls.
"We'll show them everything - your masterwork weapons forged from exotic ores, Cidhna
Mine, these glasshouses, and the steam constructors. They'll see firsthand how your abilities
could reshape the North into a kingdom to rival any other in power and influence."

Owen nodded slowly, considering the proposal. "And they'd all be sworn to secrecy before
seeing anything?"

"Of course. Once they understand the importance of what you've created, we can begin
sending constructors to their holdings and nearby villages to build glasshouses."

A smile spread across Owen's face as the pieces fell into place. The plan made sense - letting
the lords see the benefits firsthand would help prevent any panic or misunderstandings.
"What comes after that?"

Eddard's expression grew serious. "You'll need to make more constructors. Many more." He
gestured to the machines working around them. "After the glasshouses are complete, we'll
turn our attention to strengthening Winterfell's defenses, rebuilding Moat Cailin, constructing
your castle at Sea Dragon Point." He paused, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "And finally,
helping the Night's Watch rebuild their nineteen castles."

Owen watched the steam constructors continue their methodical work, imagining hundreds
more like them spread across the North, rebuilding and strengthening the realm piece by
piece. The scope of what Eddard proposed was enormous, but with the self-replicating
machines, it was entirely possible.

The enormity of the task ahead would have daunted most men, but with the steam
constructors' capabilities, what might have taken generations could be accomplished in mere
months or weeks. Owen and Eddard walked out of the glasshouse, the mechanical Dwemer
constructs following behind them with precise, measured steps. At Owen's mental command,
they changed direction, heading toward Cidhna Mine to gather more ore for replication.

"How do you find Winterfell these past few days?" Eddard asked as they crossed the
courtyard, his boots crunching against the gravel.

"Your family has treated me kindly, my lord," Owen replied. He had spent considerable time
with the Stark children, particularly Robb and Jon. Though if he was honest with himself, he
gravitated more toward Jon's company. The young man's quiet nature and dedication to
improving his skills resonated with Owen, even if Owen's own swordplay left much to be
desired despite their training sessions.
"Arya and Bran seem quite taken with you," Eddard observed, a hint of amusement in his
usually stern voice.

Owen smiled, remembering how Arya constantly badgered him about crafting her a sword or
bow like the Stalhrim weapons he'd shown them. Bran would always join in these requests,
his young face bright with excitement at the prospect of having his own magical weapon.

"They're good children," Owen said. "Curious and full of life."

He had also encountered Lady Catelyn during his time at Winterfell, though their interactions
had been limited. While she wasn't as harsh as some of the stories and fics from his past life
had portrayed her, Owen couldn't help but feel a slight coldness toward her when he observed
how she treated Jon. The distance she maintained from the young man, the subtle ways she
excluded him from family activities – it bothered Owen more than he cared to admit, though
he kept these thoughts to himself out of respect for Lord Stark.

The steam constructors disappeared from view, their metallic forms vanishing into the
entrance of Cidhna Mine as Owen and Eddard continued their walk through the castle
grounds.

Eddard's eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Owen's reaction. "And what of Sansa?
I notice you've been rather... scarce whenever she's present."

Owen's face flushed a deep crimson at the mention of Lord Stark's eldest daughter. He
opened his mouth to respond but found himself fumbling for words, much to Eddard's
apparent entertainment.

The young smith couldn't deny that Sansa Stark was perhaps the most beautiful woman he
had ever seen, in either of his lives (apart from Catelyn). Her beauty was almost otherworldly
- regal features that spoke of her noble heritage, eyes as blue as a summer sky, and full lips
that seemed perpetually curved in a gentle smile. Her long, flame-red hair fell in straight
waves to her mid-back, catching the sunlight like polished copper. The dresses and furs she
wore clung to her body in ways that made Owen's brain short-circuit, accentuating curves
that would put professional models from his old world to shame.

Jon and Robb had taken great delight in Owen's obvious discomfort around their sister. Just
yesterday, Owen had been working at the forge when Sansa had walked past with her friend
Jeyne Poole. The moment he caught sight of her, he'd nearly dropped the sword he was
tempering and practically fled into Cidhna Mine, much to the brothers' endless amusement.

"I saw you duck behind a pillar in the Great Hall this morning when she entered for
breakfast," Eddard said, his usually stern face softening with mirth. "I don't believe I've ever
seen anyone move quite so quickly."

Owen groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Was it that obvious?"

"I believe the only person who hasn't noticed is Sansa herself," Eddard replied, chuckling at
Owen's mortification. "Though I suspect that's mainly because you vanish so quickly
whenever she appears."
Owen groaned again, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Eddard's
deep laugh echoed across the courtyard as he placed a comforting hand on the young smith's
shoulder.

"She did love the present you made for her," Eddard said, his grey eyes twinkling with
amusement.

Owen's blush deepened even further at the mention of the necklace. He had indeed gone
overboard with the gift, crafting an intricate piece that combined gold and silver in flowing
patterns that mimicked winter roses. The large sapphires matched Sansa's eyes perfectly,
while the blood-red rubies complemented her auburn hair. The gems alone were worth more
than most lords would see in their lifetime.

Lady Catelyn's reaction had been particularly memorable. She had taken one look at the
extravagant piece and come to find him and demanded to know if Owen had somehow
managed to raid the Lannister vaults. The young smith had stammered through an
explanation about his mine's resources while Sansa in her room had practically glowed with
delight, her fingers tracing the delicate metalwork with reverence.

"I may have gotten a bit carried away with the gems," Owen admitted, rubbing the back of
his neck sheepishly.

"A bit?" Eddard raised an eyebrow. "I believe my wife mentioned something about it being
worth more than Winterfell itself."

"The sapphires matched her eyes," Owen mumbled, then immediately wished he hadn't
spoken as Eddard's grin grew wider.

"And the rubies? Did they happen to match something else?"

Owen's face felt hot enough to forge steel. "Her hair," he whispered, mortified at having to
explain his thought process to his future goodfather.

Eddard's expression grew more serious, though his eyes retained their warmth. "You'll have
to speak with her eventually, Owen. Marriage is more than just shared meals and polite nods
across the Great Hall."

Owen sighed, knowing the lord spoke truth. "I know, my lord. It's just..." He gestured
vaguely with his hands, struggling to find the right words.

"You aren't exactly skilled at speaking with women?" Eddard offered, his voice filled with
understanding.

"Exactly," Owen admitted, relief evident in his voice at not having to explain himself more
deeply. "I mean, I can talk about forging or mining or construction all day long, but when it
comes to actually having a conversation with her..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Eddard chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the cool morning air. "Most men aren't, until
they get to know the lady they want better. Trust and love come with time, Owen. They're not
forged as quickly as your weapons."

"I hope so," Owen replied softly, his eyes distant as he considered the Stark lord's words.

Suddenly, a familiar sensation coursed through his body - the Celestial Forge flaring to life
within his soul. Unknown to Eddard walking beside him, Owen's entire being filled with light
as new knowledge and power flooded his consciousness. The Temple of Solomon blazed into
his mind, a place of incredible magical potential sealed away in imaginary number space,
accessible only through his will.

Owen huffed out a laugh as they continued walking toward the castle entrance, earning a
curious glance from Lord Stark. Under his breath, he muttered, "Yer a wizard, Owen."

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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

Temple of Solomon (Fate/Legends- Oasis of Fantasy) (400CP)

A place that has long been abandoned or, at least, a replica of the one currently in use. The
Temple of Solomon is perhaps the grandest magical workshop ever to be created, one so
great that it does not even exist in the mundane world. Sealed away in imaginary number
space, it is only accessible to others through highly complex and difficult magical workings,
though you can enter your hidden base with nothing but a thought provided you are not
blocked by some means. The temple itself is quite large, with the small dimension covering
several city blocks of area and the building being the size of a large mansion. Within is
almost every one of Solomon's personal notes and research on magecraft and magic, along
with a great deal of lore from other famous magicians of his time and from later on as well.
The small dimension has been connected to a replica of Solomon's created magical circuits
which empower the framework the workshop sits on, serving to provide a immense magical
fuel source for any project you might wish to run within this space as you can freely draw on
the amount of energy the King of Magic had while alive when you are in here. Finally, death
in this realm is not permanent and it is far easier to bring back those who die when it is within
this place. For your purposes, this means that dying in this temple will not count as an end to
your chain. You may import an existing structure into this role. * Solomon made the entire
modern magic framework that allows for magecraft in fate

-Dwemer Lexicon | Knowledge of Infinity (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (1000CP) Dwemer
Lexicon (400CP)

A complete record of the Deep Elves's knowledge and technology, ranging from their
mechanical monsters to tonal tech. This ranges from the things as simple as their standard
architecture to their advanced automatons and things like the Aetherial items. Also for those
already asking, the knowledge of how to in theory remake the Numidium is here, however
you'll notice it's not going to give a step by step guide, and the requirements and skill
necessary will be far beyond all but the greatest, and most legendary Tonal Architects. Make
sure to use this with care, the Dwemer were among the most powerful races to live and the
damage that could be done with their advancements is immense
Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)

Master Smith (400CP)

So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the
results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing
and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your
capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your
craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well.
Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric
artifacts.

Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)

Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant,
or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger
that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its
supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage,
magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that
let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that
wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the
competition out of the water even more.

Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)

Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an
extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and
as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many
ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the
original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the
mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging
from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish
themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and
workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In
future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.

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 Of Magic, Fate and Magecraft
Chapter Notes

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Owen had waited until the castle's inhabitants had gone to sleep before trying out his latest
gift from the Celestial Forge. Locking the door to his guest room, he reached into the powers
in his soul and with the flash of a bright light and a thought, he appeared within the
dimension that held temple. He gaped at the large area he found himself in - the space
covered several city blocks, built of glowing marble and gold, the architecture beyond
beautiful and mighty at the same time. A few feet away from him, the Temple of Solomon
stood the size of a huge mansion, its doors open in welcome.

"Gods, this place is fucking huge," he whispered as he walked towards the temple, gazing at
everything.

The marble beneath his feet gleamed with an inner light, creating patterns that shifted and
flowed like liquid starlight. Towering columns lined the path to the entrance, each one etched
with symbols and scripts in languages Owen had never seen before. The air hummed with
power - not the raw energy of his forge or the mechanical precision of his constructors, but
something older, deeper, more profound.

Golden light spilled from the temple's entrance, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
The doors themselves stretched three stories high, carved from a material that looked like
pearl but radiated warmth like living flesh. As Owen approached, he noticed the intricate
reliefs decorating their surface - scenes of creation and magic, of kingdoms rising and falling,
of knowledge being passed down through generations.

The temple's façade rose before him, its architecture defying conventional geometry. Spires
and arches intersected at impossible angles, creating shapes that drew the eye upward into
infinity. Precious gems studded the walls in constellations that mirrored no sky Owen had
ever seen, yet felt somehow familiar.

A gentle breeze carried the scent of incense and ancient parchment from within the temple's
depths. Owen paused at the threshold, his hand hovering over one of the door's elaborate
handles. The metal thrummed beneath his fingers, responding to his presence like a living
thing.
As Owen stepped into the inner sanctum, the air grew thick with magical energy. The
temple's interior stretched out before him in a maze of corridors and chambers, each one
filled with ancient knowledge and power. Golden light filtered through crystalline windows,
casting prismatic patterns across floors inlaid with precious stones and metals.

His mind wandered to what little he knew of the Fate series and its Holy Grail Wars.
Fragments of memories surfaced - legendary heroes summoned as Servants, fighting at the
command of their Masters in a battle for an omnipotent wish-granting device called the Holy
Grail. But those half-remembered memes and warnings to new players about walking into
hell seemed trivial now, standing in this place of true power.

The Celestial Forge's knowledge flooded his consciousness, revealing the truth of where he
stood. This wasn't merely a biblical temple as many would assume - it was the workshop of
Solomon himself, the King of Magic from the Fate universe. Shelves stretched endlessly
upward, filled with grimoires bound in materials that seemed to shift and change as he looked
at them. Glass containers of every size held swirling potions and reagents that defied natural
law.

Owen ran his fingers along the spines of ancient texts, feeling the magic pulse beneath their
covers. These were Solomon's original research notes, his personal studies into the
foundations of magecraft. The very system that modern mages in the Fate universe struggled
to replicate in pale imitation had been crafted here, by a man whose connection to magic
transcended human understanding.

Workbenches lined the walls, their surfaces carved with intricate magical circuits that
hummed with latent energy. Various artifacts and tools lay scattered across them - rings,
staffs, and devices whose purposes Owen could only guess at. Each one radiated power that
made his skin tingle.

The temple's magical energy felt different from anything Owen had experienced before.
Unlike the raw industrial might of his Dwemer constructs or the elemental force of his forge,
this was refined, purposeful power. It was the difference between crude ore and a perfectly
forged sword - both contained the same essential material, but one had been shaped by a
master's hand into something far greater.

In alcoves and on pedestals throughout the chamber, he spotted items that could only be
Solomon's personal magical implements - tools used by the king himself to perform feats of
sorcery that no modern mage could hope to match. These weren't the limited magical items of
contemporary mages, but artifacts created by a man who had been blessed by God with
wisdom beyond measure.

Owen wandered deeper into the vast library, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors. The
shelves towered above him, stretching up into shadows where the golden light couldn't reach.
Each section revealed new categories of magical knowledge, their spines gleaming with titles
in scripts both familiar and alien.

He traced his fingers across the labels. "Creations of golems... elemental magic... siege
magecraft..." His eyes widened as he continued reading. "Form alteration, alchemy, familiar
summoning, familiar creation..." The topics grew darker as he progressed. "Blood sacrifice,
bargaining with demons, demon summoning..."

The categories seemed endless - creation of magical binding pacts, leylines, spirit
summoning, magical items, war magic. Even dragon summoning and binding. But Owen's
excitement faded as reality set in.

"What's the point?" He slumped against a bookshelf. "I don't even have magic circuits.
Solomon could do all this because he had perfect and powerful circuits. I don't have a single
one. How am I supposed to do magic if I can't create or use magic circuits?"

A sudden whooshing sound made him jump. Three large tomes shot through the air, their
pages fluttering as they landed gently in his arms. Owen blinked at the titles embossed in
gold on their leather covers.

"'How to Create Magic Circuits', 'Perfection of Magic Circuits', and 'Mana Flow and
Generators: A Study'," he read aloud. "Huh, well that's convenient."

He barely finished speaking when a plush divan materialized behind him, upholstered in rich
velvet. Next to it, an ornate table appeared bearing a spread of fresh-cut fruits, plump grapes,
and crystal decanters filled with chilled juice.

Owen let out a surprised laugh. "Guess the Temple of Solomon really knows how to make
studying enjoyable. Well, best get started." He said, putting a juicy grape into his mouth and
starting to read.

As Owen put the last book down, he marveled at King Solomon's teaching methods. The
ancient king had filled his texts with vibrant, animated illustrations that danced across the
pages, bringing complex magical concepts to life. Each lesson came wrapped in engaging
stories of Solomon's own discoveries and experiments, making even the driest theoretical
concepts accessible and memorable.

The chamber adjusted its lighting to ease Owen's eyes after hours of reading, the magical
ambiance shifting from bright study-light to a softer, more relaxing glow. Empty juice
decanters refilled themselves, and fresh fruit appeared to replace what he'd eaten.

Solomon's approach to teaching magic circuits had surprised Owen. Rather than focusing on
their creation, the first book had delved deep into their nature and function. The animated
diagrams had shown magic circuits lighting up within the human body like glowing rivers of
power, demonstrating how mages channeled and controlled magical energy through these
pathways.

The revelation about artificial magic circuits had been particularly enlightening. Solomon's
notes described the process as typically brutal - painful at best, lethal at worst. The resulting
circuits were often flawed, prone to burning out or damaging their user. While Solomon had
certainly developed superior methods for creating artificial circuits, he'd devoted little space
to them in his writings.
Instead, Solomon had emphasized a startling truth - most humans already possessed magic
circuits. The key difference between mages and non-mages wasn't the presence or absence of
circuits, but whether they had been activated. Children born to mage parents typically had
their circuits awakened at birth or early in life, while those born to non-magical families
carried their dormant potential to the grave, never knowing what they might have been
capable of.

The floating images in the book had illustrated this principle clearly - showing identical
internal structures in both mages and non-mages, with the only difference being the dormant
state of the circuits in untrained individuals. Solomon's animated diagrams highlighted how
these sleeping pathways could be awakened under the right circumstances.

Owen, however, couldn't help but grimace at the common methods described in the texts. The
animated illustrations showed mages awakening their circuits in battle, their bodies wracked
with pain as survival instinct forced dormant pathways open. Other scenes depicted
possession by demons, the dark entities violently tearing through a person's spiritual
framework to activate their magical potential. Even the "natural" awakenings seemed brutal -
near-death experiences that shocked the circuits into functioning.

The gentler method required an experienced mage to carefully channel their mana into
another person, coaxing the dormant circuits awake. But Owen had no access to such a mage.
He had flipped through more pages, hoping for a better solution.

Then he saw it - Solomon's elegant answer to the problem. The king had developed a potion
that could safely activate magic circuits without external assistance. The animated diagram
showed a figure drinking the red liquid, their circuits lighting up in a controlled, gradual
process. Unlike the violent awakening methods, this potion worked in harmony with the
body's natural energies.

"Solomon was such a great teacher!" Owen snapped his fingers. "Potion of Magical
Awakening."

A crystal bottle materialized on the table beside his refreshments, summoned from some
storage within the temple, filled with a luminescent red liquid that seemed to pulse with its
own heartbeat. Owen lifted it carefully, studying how the potion caught the light. The cork
came free with a soft pop.

"Bottoms up." He tilted the bottle back and drank.

The glass slipped from his fingers as awareness exploded through his mind. Deep within his
consciousness, he saw them - golden threads of power igniting one after another. Unlike the
green circuits shown in Solomon's books, Owen's blazed with celestial light. They raced
through his body like molten gold, filling every muscle, every bone, every cell with magical
potential.

The circuits kept coming. Ten sparked to life, then twenty, then thirty. They multiplied
exponentially - ninety, a hundred, five hundred. Where most mages possessed perhaps a few
dozen circuits, Owen's body lit up with thousands. One thousand became ten thousand as the
golden lines continued to manifest, turning his entire being into a living network of magical
power.

The light of his circuits shone through his skin, casting the temple chamber in a warm golden
glow. Owen gasped for breath as the activation finally completed, his body humming with
newfound power.

Owen collapsed into the divan, his entire body trembling as waves of magical energy coursed
through him. The golden light of his circuits still shimmered beneath his skin, though fainter
now, like starlight seen through water. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, trying to
process the magnitude of what had just happened.

"What the fuck was that?" he gasped, his voice echoing off the temple walls.

The power thrumming through his body was beyond anything he'd imagined possible. Trust
Solomon to create a potion that would put even the most powerful modern mages to shame.
While he doubted he possessed the infinite magical circuits that Solomon himself had
wielded, Owen felt as if he could summon and maintain a hundred divine servants without
breaking a sweat. The potion hadn't just awakened his circuits - it had perfected them in a
single stroke.

His mind raced with the possibilities until a sobering thought made him pause. He needed a
magic reactor to make full use of this power. Owen rubbed his temples as he recalled the
detailed information from Solomon's books. The most powerful reactors in existence were
Holy Grails, but those required years to construct and even longer to become self-sufficient,
absorbing natural mana until they could generate their own infinite supply - enough to
summon Servants and grant wishes during the Holy Grail Wars.

A mage could create lesser magical items to serve as reactors, but again, those took years of
careful cultivation before they'd be powerful enough to be useful. The final option made
Owen's heart sink - harvesting the heart of an ancient magical beast from the Age of Gods,
creatures that had absorbed mana like sponges throughout their long lives. Dragons,
chimeras, phoenixes, hydras...

"Where the fuck am I getting one of those?" Owen muttered, slumping further into the divan.

Owen got up paced the temple's marble floors, his newly awakened circuits still humming
with untapped potential. The golden light beneath his skin had dimmed to a subtle glow, but
the raw power coursing through him demanded an outlet.

"Daenerys hasn't even hatched her dragons yet," he muttered, running his options in his head.
"And even if she had, killing one for its heart would be pointless. Those dragons weren't born
in the Age of Gods - they'd be barely a few years old by the time they reach Westeros."

He stopped at one of Solomon's workbenches, absently tracing the intricate magical circuits
carved into its surface. The temple's ambient light shifted, casting dancing shadows across
the ancient tools and implements.
"I've never read about phoenixes or hydras in any of the books," Owen continued his train of
thought. "And chimeras? Those definitely don't exist in this world as far as i know." He
picked up a crystal sphere from the workbench, turning it over in his hands before setting it
back down with a sigh.

The mention of mythical beasts brought another possibility to mind. "Ice dragons..." Owen
shuddered despite the temple's comfortable temperature. The legends (and one of the books
GRRM had written) spoke of creatures far more terrifying than their fire-breathing cousins -
larger, deadlier, and infinitely more ancient.

"Even if I could find one, taking it down alone would be suicide, at least as i am right now,"
he said, shaking his head. "For all I know, they hunt in packs. The last thing I need is to end
up as a frozen statue in some forgotten corner of the North or the shivering sea….maybe i
can…."

Owen stopped in his tracks, his golden circuits pulsing beneath his skin. A thought struck
him - if this truly was Solomon's temple, then perhaps...

"Storage room," he called out to the air.

The temple responded instantly. The marble floor beneath his feet rippled like water, and the
world blurred around him. When his vision cleared, Owen found himself in a vast chamber
that stretched beyond his sight. Row upon row of shelves towered into the darkness above,
each laden with artifacts of unimaginable power.

He walked slowly through the aisles, passing countless magical items. Ancient tomes bound
in materials that seemed to shift and change beneath his gaze lined entire sections. Staffs of
varying designs stood in ornate racks, their crystalline heads gleaming with contained power.
Blades of every description hung on the walls, their edges catching the light in ways that
defied natural law.

Owen's circuits hummed stronger as he approached the jewelry section. Display cases
stretched before him, filled with rings, necklaces, and other ornaments that radiated magical
energy. Each piece bore the unmistakable mark of Solomon's craftsmanship - perfect in both
form and function.

His heart raced as he searched. The Ten Rings of Solomon were legendary even among
legendary artifacts. Given to the king by God himself, they granted absolute authority over
magecraft - the power to control, negate, or amplify any magical working. With such tools,
Owen's newly awakened circuits would have no equal.

Finally, he spotted them. In a large glass case, nestled on a plush cushion of deep purple
velvet, lay ten rings of extraordinary beauty. Each was crafted from gold that seemed to hold
starlight within its metal, set with gems that pulsed with inner fire. The very air around the
case thrummed with contained power.

Owen reached for the case, his fingers trembling with anticipation. Then he saw it - a small
note attached to the glass in elegant script:
"Only One"

He froze, his hand hovering inches from the case's surface. The two words seemed to mock
him, transforming his excitement into frustrated confusion.

"What???! Why the hell am i only allowed…one…ohhhhh."

Owen stared at the note, his initial frustration melting into understanding. The rings weren't
just jewelry - each one was a magical reactor of immense power. Solomon, with his divine
gift of infinite perfect circuits, could harness all ten simultaneously. But for someone like
Owen, even with his thousands of newly awakened perfect circuits, attempting to use more
than one would be catastrophic and no doubt lethal for him.

As he studied the rings more closely, the Temple's knowledge flowed into his mind, revealing
the true nature of each artifact:

The first ring, set with a deep blue sapphire, controlled the element of water in all its forms.
From creating storms to freezing oceans, its power over liquid was absolute. The second ring,
bearing an emerald that seemed to contain a forest within, commanded nature itself - growth,
decay, and the very essence of life.

The Third, A ruby ring promised mastery over fire, while one set with a diamond offered
control of earth and stone. The Fourth Ring would allow you to create portals, warp space,
and manipulate spatial dimensions.

The fifth ring, adorned with a black opal that shimmered with countless colors, granted
dominion over wind and sky. The sixth, A golden topaz ring governed time itself, though not
in the grand way of true time travel - rather, it could accelerate or slow time in limited areas.

The seventh ring, set with an amethyst, ruled over the realm of spirits and souls. Next to it lay
an eighth ring of alexandrite that shifted between green and red, its power focused on
transformation and change. The ninth, bearing a pearl that gleamed with inner light,
commanded healing and restoration.

But it was the tenth ring that drew Owen's attention most strongly. Set with a stone he'd never
seen before - a gem that seemed to contain a universe within its facets - this ring served as a
pure magical reactor. Unlike its siblings, it held no specific domain. Instead, it amplified and
refined magical energy, turning even the weakest spell into something extraordinary.

Owen's circuits pulsed beneath his skin as he contemplated his choice. Each ring offered
incredible power, but he could choose only one. The pure reactor would be the obvious
choice for most mages - raw power was always useful. But Owen wasn't most mages, and he
already had access to other sources of magical energy through the Celestial Forge.

Owen opened the glass case with reverent care, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached
for the ninth ring. The pearl seemed to pulse with inner radiance as he lifted it from its velvet
nest, responding to his touch. As he slipped it onto his finger, the gem flared with brilliant
light.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. His thousands of newly awakened circuits
blazed anew, but this time the power flowing through them was perfectly controlled. Where
before his magical energy had been like a rushing river threatening to overflow its banks,
now it moved with purpose and precision. The ring acted as both conduit, provider and
regulator, allowing his vast reserves of power to settle into a deep, calm ocean of potential.

Owen flexed his fingers, watching golden light dance beneath his skin in perfectly ordered
patterns. The ring's power integrated seamlessly with his circuits, enhancing their natural
function while providing a framework of control he hadn't even realized he needed. He could
feel the healing energies coursing through him, ready to be shaped and directed at will.

"Study room," he called out, relieved to find his voice steady despite the tremendous power
now at his disposal.

The storage chamber blurred around him, resolving into the familiar comfort of the study
with its plush divan and well-stocked bookshelves. Owen settled back onto the comfortable
seat, pulling the "creation of familiars" tome closer while setting aside the book on
"elemental magic" for later study. A smile played across his lips as he imagined the
possibilities this new gift from the forge offered - not just for himself, but for preparing the
North for what lay ahead, imagining himself raining down unquenchable flames on the night
king and his army of wights

Without further delay, he opened the tome and began to read, his newly stabilized circuits
humming contentedly as he absorbed the ancient knowledge of the king of magecraft.
 Thoughts of the quiet wolf
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Eddard swirled the dark ale in his cup, watching the amber liquid catch the afternoon light
streaming through the Solars windows. The ravens from White Harbor and Deepwood Motte
had arrived that morning, bringing welcome news. Both Wyman and Robett confirmed the
steam constructors had performed beyond expectations, their metallic forms working
tirelessly to raise the new glasshouses.

His gaze drifted to the construction site visible from his window. The rhythmic clanking of
metal feet and whirring of gears had become a familiar sound at Winterfell. Ten new
glasshouses were taking shape, their skeletal frames rising from the frozen ground like winter
roses pushing through snow. Two nestled near the Godswood, their crystalline walls
reflecting the red leaves of the heart tree. It was only right that the ruling house of winterfell
had more than its subjects and subservient lords.

"Six each for the major holds, three for the villages," Eddard muttered, reviewing the
numbers in his head. The distribution had been Owen's suggestion - enough to demonstrate
the North's growing prosperity without revealing their full capabilities.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter."

Maester Luwin shuffled in, clutching a fresh scroll. "Another raven from Lord Manderly, my
lord. He reports the first harvest from the new glasshouses has exceeded all expectations. The
glass gardens are yielding three times the produce of traditional methods."

Eddard nodded, satisfaction warming his chest more than the ale. "And the villagers?"

"Adapting well to the new structures. Lord Manderly writes that several fishing villages near
White Harbor have already preserved enough food for the coming winter in the new storage
houses the constructors have built"

"Good." Eddard set down his cup. "And what of the constructors themselves?"
"Kept under careful watch, as ordered. Lord Glover confirms his are secured within
Deepwood Motte's walls when not in use. Lord Manderly has his housed in a special
warehouse under guard."

The security measures had been Owen's idea as well. The boy - no, the young lord -
understood the power these metal workers represented. Better to introduce them slowly,
carefully, than risk chaos from their sudden appearance across the North.

"Any word of suspicious interest from the Dreadfort?"

"None, my lord. Though Lord Bolton's ravens have grown more frequent, asking after
Winterfell's 'recent improvements.'"

Eddard's jaw tightened at the implications. Roose Bolton's knowledge of Winterfell's

improvements was troubling, especially given the careful measures taken to keep them secret.
The Dreadfort's lord had always been too well-informed for Eddard's comfort. Roose Bolton
would receive his share of the new technology, but later, and in smaller measure. The man's
loyalty had always felt as cold as his pale eyes.

"How many letters has Lord Bolton sent regarding our developments?"

"Three in the past month alone, my lord." Luwin pulled out the messages from his sleeve.
"Each more specific than the last. The most recent inquires about 'metal men' seen within
Winterfell's walls."

Eddard rose from his chair, moving to stare out the window at the bustling courtyard below.
Servants scurried about their duties, guards patrolled the walls, and children darted between
the buildings. Any one of them could be Bolton's eyes and ears.

"Someone here feeds him information, Luwin. Have Vayon Poole watch for suspicious
behavior among the staff. Any servants taking unexplained leaves or asking odd questions
about our new works."

"At once, my lord." Luwin tucked the scrolls away. "Though I must say, the results from
these works exceed all expectations. The glasshouses especially..."

The maester's eyes lit up with scholarly enthusiasm. "The growth rates are remarkable. Crops
that should take seasons mature within a month. The wheat yields triple the normal grain per
stalk. And the grape vines, things that shouldn't even be able to grow in the cold of the north -
why, they're practically bursting with fruit!"

"Even the apple trees are growing and bearing fruit already?" Eddard asked, recalling the
saplings planted just weeks ago.

"Indeed! Growing at impossible speeds. My fellow maesters at the Citadel would kill each
other for the chance to study these marvels. The agricultural implications alone-"

"Luwin." Eddard's stern tone cut through the maester's excitement. "We've discussed this.
None of this leaves Winterfell's walls. Not until we're ready."
"Of course, my lord." Luwin composed himself, though his eyes still gleamed. "My
apologies. The scholar in me sometimes forgets himself when faced with such wonders."

Eddard could understand Luwin's enthusiasm. He'd felt the same wonderment watching
Owen work, seeing impossible things spring to life beneath those skilled hands. The young
smith lord's creations would indeed put the legends of the Age of Heroes to shame - and he'd
accomplished it all in barely a month.

Though lately, Owen's behavior had grown peculiar. He would vanish for hours at a time,
only to reappear clutching massive leather-bound tomes that seemed to materialize from
nowhere. The sight of him had become common in Winterfell's library tower, hunched over
those strange books, taking notes in equally strange symbols.

Eddard had managed to borrow one such book when Owen left it unattended during dinner.
But when he'd opened it, hoping to glimpse some insight into the young lord's knowledge, he
found only indecipherable script. The writing wasn't in any language he knew - not the
Common Tongue, not High Valyrian, not even the runes of the First Men. Yet Owen seemed
to read them as easily as a child's primer, though he kept their contents to himself.

Turning back to Maester Luwin, Eddard voiced the question that had been nagging at him.
"What of your brothers at the Citadel? Have they been inquiring about our improvements?"

The maester's hesitation spoke volumes before he finally answered. "One or two have sent
ravens, my lord. I have not replied to their queries."

Eddard nodded grimly. It was as he'd suspected. The lords could be bound by oaths and
loyalty, but maesters served a different master - knowledge itself. They would either hoard
these discoveries in their precious Citadel or spread them far and wide with no thought to the
consequences. Thank the old gods and new that Luwin's loyalty to House Stark ran deeper
than his chain.

"You've done well in keeping silent," Eddard said. "We must continue to be cautious with
these innovations. The North's strength lies partly in its secrets."

Maester Luwin nodded, his chain links clinking softly as Eddard walked to his desk and
pulled out the stack of letters he'd prepared. Each bore the direwolf seal of House Stark,
summoning the lords of the North to Winterfell for what he'd termed a "celebration of
summer's bounty." The irony wasn't lost on him - they'd be celebrating the North's newfound
ability to thrive even in winter.

"I've adjusted the date to next month," Eddard said, sorting through the messages. "Lord
Manderly and Lord Glover will need time to witness the full benefits of their glasshouses.
Their words will carry more weight than mere promises."

"A wise decision, my lord." Luwin examined one of the scrolls. "The other lords will be more
receptive when they see the proof of these improvements from their peers."

Eddard nodded. "If the maesters are already asking questions, we don't have long before
word reaches King's Landing." Eddard's fingers drummed on the desk. "Once Jon Arryn
hears of metal men and magical growing houses..."

"He'll write to you directly," Luwin finished. "And Lord Tywin won't be far behind with his
own inquiries."

"Aye. And Robert..." Eddard sighed, thinking of his old friend's predictable reaction. The
king would demand answers, driven as much by Lannister whispers as by his own curiosity.
"We must have the North's foundation laid before that happens. The improvements to Moat
Cailin especially."

"The ancient fortress restored to its full glory," Luwin mused. "With Owen's constructors,
what once would have taken decades could be accomplished in months."

Eddard nodded. The timing would be delicate. They needed the northern lords committed to
secrecy and to not impede the constructors and with the work underway before the inevitable
questions from the south began. Once Robert and the Lannisters learned the truth, the
advantage of secrecy would vanish like morning mist.

"Have the ravens sent today," Eddard instructed. "And Luwin - continue ignoring those
queries from the Citadel. Let them wonder a while longer."

As Maester Luwin gave a small bow and left the room, Eddard's thoughts turned to the
mountain of tasks ahead. Moat Cailin's restoration would be crucial - the ancient fortress had
protected the North for thousands of years. With Owen's constructors, they could rebuild its
twenty towers to their former glory, making the gateway to the North impregnable once
more.

The Night's Watch castles too needed attention fast. Only three of the nineteen fortresses
remained manned. With the constructors' help, they could restore them all, giving the Watch
the strength it hadn't possessed in centuries. Eddard made a mental note to discuss this in
more depth with Owen - the young lord's metal workers could accomplish in months what
would normally take decades.

His mind drifted to the more immediate concerns closer to home. The glasshouses needed
spreading across the North, to bring prosperity to lords and smallfolk alike. Winterfell's
defenses needed growing, and plans for Owen's castle at Sea Dragon Point should also begin.
But time was growing short before the South would start asking questions.

At least Owen had taken well to life at Winterfell. Eddard often saw him in the training yard
with Robb and Jon, the three young men trading blows and jests in equal measure. The smith
lord had proven himself slightly skilled with a blade, though he claimed it was nothing
compared to his crafting abilities.

Even more heartening was how Owen interacted with the younger children. He'd spend hours
entertaining Arya with tales of far-off lands (whether they were true or not eddard had no
idea) while crafting small trinkets for her collection. Bran had found a willing audience for
his climbing adventures, though Owen insisted on crafting special safety harnesses for the
boy first.
But it was Owen's interactions - or lack thereof - with Sansa that brought an amused smile to
Eddard's face. The young lord who could face down ancient magical forges without flinching
became a stammering mess around his soon to be betrothed. When Sansa had sought him out
to thank him for the necklace he'd crafted her, Jon and Robb reported their friend's face had
turned as red as Sansa's hair before he'd practically fled the scene.

Sansa, far from being offended, had found Owen's shyness endearing. "It's quite cute," she'd
told her mother, "how such a talented lord can be so humble."

Since that encounter, Owen had taken to expressing himself through his craft instead.
Exquisite jewelry and dresses appeared regularly for both Sansa and Catelyn - each piece
more magnificent than the last. The dresses especially were works of art, made from
materials Eddard had never seen before, with patterns and colors that seemed to shift in the
light.

Catelyn had remarked that the latest gown Owen had crafted for Sansa would have cost a
fortune in King's Landing. "He's certainly trying to win my approval," she'd said with a
knowing smile. "Though he needn't try so hard - his character speaks for itself."

Sansa treasured each gift, wearing them proudly and making sure to thank Owen personally
each time - much to the young lord's continued embarrassment and her brothers' endless
amusement.

Eddard's smile faded as he contemplated the difficult task ahead, his weathered hands clasped
tightly behind his back as he paced the length of his solar. He had delayed telling Catelyn and
Sansa about the arranged marriage for far too long, knowing the news would maybe upset
them both. While Owen had proven himself worthy through his actions and generosity, his
thoughtful gifts and honorable conduct marking him as someone of true character, springing a
betrothal on his daughter without warning went against everything Eddard believed about
protecting his children and maintaining their trust. But time was running short, and he needed
to secure Owen's loyalty to the North through more than just words and promises.

The practical side of him, the part that had learned hard lessons about power and alliances,
knew that Sansa giving Owen a babe or two would bind the young lord to House Stark more
surely than any oath sworn before the heart tree. Still, the thought of using his daughter as a
political pawn, even for the good of the North, sat uneasily in his stomach. But needs must
and a lord must do what a lord must.

He left the solar to find his wife and daughter, preparing to give them the news.
 Lets build a factory
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Owen knelt on the ground, his papers spread across a wooden board as he sketched detailed
diagrams and scribbled calculations. The cleared land stretched before him, ready and
waiting for his ambitious plans. Steam constructors moved with mechanical precision across
the space, their metal forms gleaming as they carried stacks of Dwemer beams and crates
filled with exotic ores.

Mikken leaned over Owen's shoulder, his weathered face creased with curiosity as he studied
the intricate drawings. Robb and Jon flanked him, their eyes tracking the busy constructors as
they assembled foundations and support structures.

"What manner of building are you planning now?" Mikken's calloused finger traced one of
the detailed sketches. "And what's this word here - 'factory'?"

Owen paused, his charcoal stick hovering above the paper. He'd forgotten that such concepts
didn't exist in Westeros. "Well, think of it as a very large forge, but more specialized." He
pointed to different sections of his drawings. "Instead of one smith working on a single piece
at a time, we'll have multiple stations set up for different stages of production."

"Like an huge assembly or smiths doing different things?" Jon asked, crouching down to get
a better look at the plans.

"Exactly." Owen sketched a quick flow diagram. "Raw materials come in here, get processed
through various stages, and finished products come out the other end. One building will focus
on armor, the other on weapons."

Robb crossed his arms, watching a constructor carefully stack gleaming ingots of orichalcum.
"And you're planning two of these... factories? One here and one at Sea Dragon Point? At
your castle when its constructed?"
"Yes. Having production facilities at both locations gives us redundancy and better
distribution." Owen drew a rough map of the North. "Winterfell can supply the inland holds,
while Sea Dragon Point handles the western shores and northern territories."

Mikken ran his hand through his beard. "The speed at which these metal men work - how
many swords could such a place produce in a day?"

"With the right setup and enough resources?" Owen did some quick calculations. "Hundreds.
And not just swords - axes, spears, shields, full sets of armor. All crafted to the same high
standards."

"Hundreds?" Mikken's eyes widened. "That's more than I could forge in a year."

"The constructors don't tire, don't need rest." Owen gestured to where the machines
methodically sorted different types of ingots. "They'll work day and night, as long as we keep
them supplied with materials."

"And these exotic metals you're using?" Jon picked up a piece of ebony ore, turning it in his
hands. "They're the same ones from the mine yes? But they're not the dwarven metal like the
constructors are made of?"

"Each has different properties." Owen pointed to the various piles. "Ebony for exceptional
strength, malachite for flexibility, orichalcum for durability. Combined with the right
techniques, they'll produce arms and armor far superior to standard steel."

"The North's armies would be unstoppable with such equipment," Robb mused, watching
another constructor lay down foundation stones with perfect precision.

Owen nodded, adding final notes to his diagrams. "That's the idea. With Good men armed
with masterwork weapons and armor of better quality than bandits, pirates or any invading
force, the north will have a great advantage."

As the others continued examining the construction site and his drawn work, Owen kept his
deeper plans carefully hidden behind a pleasant smile. While his explanation of the factories'
capabilities was truthful, he had deliberately omitted several crucial details about the planned
production tiers and material restrictions.

The factories would indeed produce masterwork weapons and armor far superior to common
steel, but Owen had no intention of freely distributing items crafted from his rarest and most
precious materials. The automated production lines would be carefully calibrated to create
excellent but not extraordinary equipment - good enough to give the North's armies a
significant advantage, but not so remarkable as to draw unwanted attention or questions. Or
be turned on himself should betrayal occur.

In his mind, Owen had already established a clear hierarchy of production. The basic factory
output would consist of high-quality steel weapons and armor, enhanced through his
knowledge and techniques but without the use of exotic materials. These would form the bulk
of what was provided to the Northern lords and their armies.
The truly exceptional weapons and armor - those crafted from ebony, stalhrim, orichalcum,
and other magical materials - would be reserved for a much more select group. Some would
go to a small corps of elite guards sworn directly to House Stark, hand-picked by Lord
Eddard himself for their absolute loyalty. A portion would be designated for the Night's
Watch, fulfilling Owen's desire to help prepare for the threats he knew were coming from
beyond the Wall.

But the majority of these special weapons would be produced at his own factory and kept for
those sworn directly to Owen at Sea Dragon Point, ensuring his own seat of power would be
well-defended by warriors equipped with arms and armor of nearly mythical quality. If any
other lords or warriors wanted weapons made from these materials, they would need to pay
handsomely for the privilege - and even then, Owen would strictly limit the quantities sold to
prevent any single house from amassing too large an arsenal.

Robb's voice pulled Owen from his thoughts. "Father will be pleased with the progress.
When do you expect the first weapons to be ready?"

" When the forge and factory are built, the basic production line should be operational within
a week or so after i have made sure the steam constructors have built everything to
specification," Owen replied carefully, watching another constructor position support beams
with mechanical precision. He kept his tone neutral as he added, "Though of course, we'll
need to test everything thoroughly before beginning full-scale production. Quality and safety
is essential."

What Owen didn't say was how that "quality control" would allow him to maintain strict
oversight of exactly what was produced and for whom, even if he was far off in sea dragon
point. The two factories/forges would give the North a decisive advantage, yes - but they
would also ensure Owen's position remained secure and his most powerful creations stayed
firmly under his control. If there ever came a time an….unworthy lord stark came to power or
Winterfell was occupied by an outside force through unknown means, he could easily stop
production or destroy the factory to avoid anyone using it.

Jon picked up a piece of malachite ore, studying its gleaming surface. "Will all the weapons
be made from these special materials?"

"No," Owen answered, choosing his words deliberately. "Most will be made from high-grade
steel, though we'll use special forging techniques to ensure superior quality. The exotic
materials require... special handling. They'll be reserved for specific projects."

Mikken nodded sagely, though Owen could see the questions in the old smith's eyes. "Aye,
makes sense. Wouldn't want to waste such rare materials on common swords and spears."

Owen smiled, letting them assume his reasoning was purely about efficient use of resources.
In truth, keeping the most powerful weapons restricted would help maintain the balance of
power he desired. The North would be strong - but Sea Dragon Point would be stronger still.
It wasn't that he didn't trust the northern lords or the starks but time and human nature could
always change things between them and if that day came either he or his descendants needed
to have the upper hand.
Mikken's weathered face creased with concern as he watched the steam constructors work.
His calloused fingers stroked his beard, a nervous habit he'd developed over decades of
smithing. The old blacksmith shifted his weight, choosing his words carefully.

"My lord, if I might ask..." Mikken's voice carried a hint of worry. "With these metal men
working day and night, what's to become of me and my apprentices? Of all the smiths across
the North?" He gestured at the busy constructors. "These machines could do the work of
dozens of men. We'd have no way to feed our families."

Owen's eyes softened as he heard Mikken's fears. "You misunderstand my intentions

entirely." He placed a reassuring hand on the older man's shoulder. "I don't mean to replace
you - I mean to elevate you. You'll be the forge master of this factory."

Mikken's brow furrowed. "Forge master?"

"Yes. Someone needs to oversee these constructors and automatons, to ensure the quality of
their work." Owen swept his arm toward the construction site. "The machines may be tireless,
but they need human guidance for specific tasks and to be told to change to produce other
things if needed, like hoes or sickles and scythes for farm work. They need someone with real
smithing knowledge to maintain standards, to check their work, to make repairs when
weapons and armor need fixing."

"And that someone would be me?" Mikken asked, hope creeping into his voice.

"You and your apprentices, yes. I'll train you personally in working with these new metals
and overseeing the production lines." Owen smiled. "When I leave for Sea Dragon Point,
Winterfell's new forge and factory will be your domain. You'll be responsible for maintaining
the quality of everything produced here."

Robb nodded approvingly. "A master smith overseeing a forge that can arm the entire North -
that's quite a promotion, Mikken."

"But what of the other smiths?" Jon asked. "Those in White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, and all
the other holds?"

"They'll need to come here, to Winterfell," Owen explained. "Learn from Mikken, once I've
taught him. Every hold that receives weapons and armor from these factories will need
skilled smiths who understand how to maintain and repair them." He turned back to Mikken.
"You won't just be a forge master - you'll be a teacher, passing on these new techniques to
others."

The tension drained from Mikken's shoulders as understanding dawned. "So instead of
putting smiths out of work..."

"We're giving them new purpose," Owen finished. "The North will always need skilled
smiths, Mikken. These factories won't change that - they'll just change what those smiths do."

Mikken beamed with pride at the prospect of his new role, completely unaware of the deeper
truth Owen kept hidden. The reality was far different from what he'd described to the aging
smith and the Stark boys. The Dwemer lexicon had shown Owen the true nature of these
facilities - marvels of engineering that required no human oversight whatsoever.

In the ancient ruins of Tamriel, Dwemer forges and factories had operated for centuries
without supervision, their automated systems handling everything from quality control to
repairs. The master craftsmen of that lost civilization had created perfectly self-sufficient
production lines, allowing them to focus on their true passions - pushing the boundaries of
science and engineering.

Owen studied the steam constructors as they continued their work, knowing that each one
contained sophisticated magical programming far beyond what he'd revealed. Hidden within
their mechanical minds were protocols for maintaining the entire facility, from detecting
flaws in production to executing repairs. Special security automatons would patrol the
premises, their sensors alert for any signs of trouble or unauthorized access.

The "overseer" position he'd described to Mikken was, in truth, largely ceremonial. Owen
had deliberately designed the facilities to operate at less than peak efficiency, building in
small inefficiencies and tasks that would require human intervention. It wasn't that the
factories couldn't run themselves - they absolutely could - but Owen understood the
importance of preserving the livelihoods of the North's smiths.

Robb clapped Mikken on the shoulder, grinning at the old smith's obvious pleasure. Jon
studied the diagrams with renewed interest, while Mikken launched into excited speculation
about training apprentices in these new methods. None of them suspected that the true
capabilities of the facility far exceeded what Owen had shared.

The deception weighed on Owen somewhat, but he justified it as necessary. The truth about
the factories' true capabilities would have been too shocking, too disruptive to the social
fabric of the North or all of Westeros when finally revealed. Better to maintain the illusion
that human oversight was essential, than to reveal that the Dwemer had solved the problem of
fully automated production thousands of years ago and Owen could make as many as he
wanted. Forget Westeros. If it got out to Essos and the rest of the world he would have
assassins from as far as YI-TI knocking on his door.

He mentally shrugged off these thoughts and his eyes swept over the intricate diagrams
spread before him, each line and calculation precisely measured. The steam constructors had
just finished positioning the last of the materials - great stacks of metal planks, countless
ingots of various metals, and crates of specialized components. Everything was in place for
the factory's construction.

With a sharp snap of his fingers and blaze of will to the dwarven control rod, Owen's mind
flooded the hundreds of steam constructors with detailed instructions. The mechanical
workers surged forward in perfect coordination, their movements precise and purposeful.
What had started as merely thirty constructors had multiplied rapidly - first to five hundred,
then to a thousand, each new generation replicating itself according to Owen's specifications.

A crowd started gathering at the construction site grew steadily. Curious residents from
Winter Town abandoned their daily tasks to watch the spectacle. Winterfell guards left their
posts, drawn by the rhythmic clanking and whirring of the mechanical workers. Even the
most jaded observers couldn't hide their amazement as walls began rising from the ground at
an impossible speed. Luckily they had all been sworn to secrecy by lord stark and if anything
they were always grateful for how generous their lord was and would keep their silence about
what Owen created.

Mikken's mouth hung open as he watched support beams slot perfectly into place. "By the
old gods and new..."

The constructors worked with inhuman efficiency, their movements synchronized like a
perfectly choreographed dance. Some units welded metal plates together while others
installed intricate machinery. Specialized constructors focused on the internal forge, carefully
positioning the equipment that would soon produce weapons and armor for the North.

Robb and Jon exchanged stunned glances as the massive structure took shape before their
eyes. In just over an hour, what had been an empty plot of land transformed into a fully-
realized factory complex. The building stood proud and imposing, its metallic surfaces
gleaming in the northern sun.

"We... we should go get Father. He'll want to know," Jon managed to say, still staring at the
completed structure in disbelief.

Robb nodded wordlessly, and the two brothers hurried off toward the keep, leaving Owen
standing before his creation with a satisfied smile. His gaze swept over the factory - another
piece of his vision for a stronger North now made real.
 A Tour And A Giant Revelation
Chapter Notes

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A few days after its construction, The Stark family followed Owen through the cavernous
factory floor, their footsteps echoing off metal walls. Steam hissed from copper pipes
overhead while the rhythmic clanking of machinery filled the air. The automated production
line stretched before them, a marvel of Dwemer engineering that left even the usually stoic
Eddard wide-eyed.

"The process starts here," Owen gestured to where gleaming automatons fed pure steel ingots
into blazing furnaces. "The Dwemer designed these furnaces to maintain the perfect
temperature. Too hot or too cold and the steel becomes brittle or weak. But these automatons
never make mistakes."

Arya darted ahead, pressing her face against a glass window to watch molten metal pour into
molds. "How do they know what to do?"

"They have... minds of their own, in a way. Ancient knowledge put into them as soon as they
are created." Owen explained, watching her fascination with a smile. "Each one knows its
task and performs it perfectly, every time."

The molten steel moved along conveyor belts, passing through various stations where
mechanical arms hammered, folded, and shaped the metal. Mikken shook his head in wonder
as perfectly formed sword blades emerged from the process.

"In all my years, I've never seen steel worked so fine," the old smith muttered. "No
impurities, no weak spots. Every blade identical to the last."

"The quality surpasses anything else in Westeros," Owen confirmed. "These blades could cut
clean through castle-forged steel. And the armor..." He led them to another section where
automatons assembled plates of gleaming steel. "It's virtually impenetrable to normal
weapons."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And how many sets of armor and weapons can this
factory produce in a day?"

"At current capacity? About five hundred complete sets - swords, shields, and full armor."

Robb whistled. "That's more than most smiths make in a year."

"And every piece masterwork quality," Jon added, running his hand along a finished
breastplate.

Sansa hung back slightly, watching Owen with quiet interest as he explained the intricacies of
each process. Though the technical details might have bored her normally, she found herself
drawn in by his obvious passion.

"The automatons don't just shape the metal," Owen continued, pointing to various stations.
"They temper it, quench it, polish it - all to exact specifications. The steel itself is purified to
remove any flaws before it even reaches the forging stage."

"And you control all of this?" Eddard asked, gesturing at the busy automatons.

"In a way. I set the parameters and quantities, but the machines handle the actual work.
They're... remarkable pieces of engineering." Owen led them past rows of finished weapons
being sorted and packed. "Each one has safeguards built in. They can't be used to make
flawed or dangerous equipment, and they automatically will stop working if anything goes
wrong."

The family continued their tour, watching in amazement as more weapons and armor rolled
off the production lines. Owen explained each step of the process, from initial forging to final
assembly, detailing how the Dwemer machines ensured perfect quality at every stage.

Owen guided the group to another section of the factory where multiple production lines ran
in parallel. The rhythmic pounding of metal filled the air as automatons crafted an impressive
array of weaponry.

"Here we have Warhammers," Owen indicated a line where mechanical arms shaped massive
heads of steel. "They have the perfect weight distribution. These will crush plate armor while
remaining light enough for quick follow-up strikes."

The next belt featured axes being forged, their edges impossibly sharp. "The automatons fold
the steel hundreds of times, creating a powerful serrated edge. They'll bite deeper than any
conventional axe."

Arya's eyes lit up at the row of daggers emerging from their molds. The blades gleamed with
deadly purpose, their balance perfect for both throwing and close combat. "Those look
wicked."

"They're designed to find gaps in armor," Owen explained. "The tip is reinforced to punch
through mail or slip between plates."
But it was the bow-making station that drew the most attention. Mechanical arms precisely
layered different materials - wood, horn, and sinew - creating composite bows of
extraordinary power.

"These can punch through plate at a hundred yards," Owen said as finished bows moved past
on the conveyor. Beside them, another line produced arrows with heads of hardened steel.
"The arrows are perfectly matched to the bows. They'll fly true even in high winds."

Jon picked up one of the finished arrows, testing its weight. "The balance is incredible."

Owen nodded. "Every piece is identical, crafted to the exact same specifications. No variation
in weight or shape to throw off aim."

"And where will all these weapons be stored?" Eddard asked, surveying the endless stream of
arms flowing from the production lines.

"I've designed an armory to house everything," Owen replied, leading them to a large drafting
table. He spread out a detailed architectural drawing. "Three levels, with separate sections for
different weapon types. The walls will be reinforced with Dwemer metal - virtually
impenetrable. Multiple security measures to control access."

But it was the second piece of parchment that captured Eddard's full attention - the design for
the new Northern armor. Owen's drawings showed a revolutionary design that combined
protection with mobility.

"The plates are thinner than traditional armor," Owen explained, pointing out details in the
sketches. "But the Dwemer steel is far stronger. The joints are articulated to allow full range
of movement while maintaining complete coverage. No weak points or gaps."

Robb studied the drawings. "How much lighter than regular plate?"

"About half the weight," Owen said. "But it'll stop anything short of Valyrian steel. The
design disperses impact across the entire suit rather than concentrating it at the point of
contact. Even a direct hit from a Warhammer won't crush the plate."

Mikken shook his head in wonder. "In all my years, I've never seen armor designed like this.
The way these plates overlap... it's brilliant."

"The automatons can produce a complete suit in hours," Owen added. "And every piece will
be perfectly fitted to the wearer, from small to medium and large builds."

As the tour continued, Eddard's mind raced with possibilities. The sheer scale of what Owen
had created stretched beyond anything he'd imagined possible. With these weapons arming
their soldiers, the North's military strength would multiply tenfold. Combined with the new
glasshouses ensuring year-round food production, his people would never again need to fear
winter or war.

The North could truly stand alone if needed. No longer would they depend on southern grain
during harsh winters. No longer would they need to trade for superior weapons and armor.
Everything they required could be produced right here in Winterfell.

Robb and Jon exchanged meaningful glances as they came to the same realization. The North
had always been fierce and independent, but these advantages would make them virtually
untouchable.

"With arms like these," Robb muttered to Jon, "even the Lannisters would think twice about
moving against us."

Jon nodded solemnly. "And the glasshouses mean we won't starve if they try to cut us off. We
could hold out indefinitely."

Meanwhile, Arya could barely contain herself as they passed rack after rack of gleaming
weapons. Her eyes kept darting between the rows of daggers and the smaller swords, perfect
for someone of her size. Her fingers twitched at her sides as she imagined practicing with one
of those perfectly balanced blades.

"These would be much better than Needle," she whispered to herself, earning a sharp look
from her mother. making her zip up about the stalhrim blade Owen had forged her on jons
request.

Catelyn walked slightly behind the others, her thoughts turning to her childhood home. The
Riverlands had always been vulnerable, caught between powerful neighbors and forced to
weather every conflict that swept through Westeros. But with weapons like these, with the
ability to feed their people even when armies trampled their fields...

She glanced at her husband's back, wondering how he might react if she suggested sharing
some of these innovations with her family. The Tullys had always been loyal allies to the
Starks since the rebellion. If both the North and the Riverlands possessed such advantages,
they could create an unshakeable power bloc in the realm.

Her father would certainly appreciate such generosity, and it would only strengthen the bonds
between their houses. Plus, a well-defended Riverlands would provide an excellent buffer
between the North and any southern threats.

Catelyn watched the interaction between Owen and her family as he continued pointing out
things in the tour, her mind drifting to the private conversation she'd had with Eddard days
ago about the marriage arrangement. Owen would make a fine match for Sansa - his abilities
and innovations had already transformed the North's future. If he became part of their family
through marriage, his loyalty would extend beyond just the Starks to their allies as well.

The thought of the Riverlands benefiting from such advancements filled her with hope. Her
father, Lord Hoster Tully, had always ensured the bonds between their houses remained
strong. Sharing Owen's innovations would only strengthen those ties further. She made a
mental note to discuss it with Eddard that evening, after the children had gone to bed. It
would take careful persuasion, but the advantages were clear.

Her attention returned to the tour as Sansa's curious voice cut through the mechanical sounds
of the factory.
"You keep mentioning 'Dwemer' when you explain things," Sansa said, her blue eyes fixed on
Owen. "I thought you created all of this yourself. What exactly is a Dwemer?"

Owen's cheeks flushed red at her direct question and unwavering gaze. He shifted his weight
from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of everyone's attention. Behind Sansa, Jon and
Robb exchanged knowing looks and tried to suppress their amusement at Owen's obvious
discomfort under their sister's attention. Their quiet chuckles earned them a sharp glare from
Owen, who promised himself he'd find a way to get back at them later for enjoying his
awkward moment.

Eddard observed the exchange with a small, knowing smile. The boy might be capable of
creating marvels that could reshape the North, but he was still young enough to be flustered
by a pretty ladies attention - especially when that lady was his intended bride.

Owen cleared his throat, carefully choosing his next words. The question about the Dwemer
was one he'd anticipated but still found challenging to answer without revealing too much of
the truth.

"The Dwemer were... an ancient race," he began, his voice steady despite his nervousness
under Sansa's attentive gaze. "They were master builders and craftsmen, not unlike the
Children of the Forest in their connection to deeper mysteries, though their powers
manifested differently. They disappeared thousands of years ago, long before the First Men
came to Westeros."

Owen ran his hand along one of the mechanical arms of a nearby automaton, its brass surface
gleaming in the forge light. "The Old Gods blessed me with knowledge of their crafts and
secrets. Their techniques, their understanding of metal and stone - it all came to me through
their grace."

The explanation seemed to satisfy the group, just as it had when he'd first told Jon and Robb
about the Dwemer ores he'd called "dwarven metal" during their initial visit to his mine. The
Starks' acceptance wasn't surprising - in a world where legends of the Old Gods speaking
through weirwood trees and children bonding with direwolves and other animals, the idea of
ancient knowledge being granted through divine intervention didn't seem far-fetched.

Sansa nodded thoughtfully, her fingers trailing along the intricate patterns etched into a
nearby machine. "Like how the Children of the Forest shared their magic with the First Men,"
she said, drawing parallels to the stories she'd grown up hearing.

"Yes, exactly like that," Owen agreed, relieved at her interpretation. He noticed Eddard
watching him closely but saw only understanding in the lord's eyes. The Old Gods were still
strong in the North, and their mysterious ways were accepted without much question by those
who kept the old faith.

Arya, ever curious, piped up from where she'd been examining a row of freshly forged
daggers. "Did they build things like this everywhere? Are there more of their secrets to find?"

"Their knowledge was vast," Owen replied carefully, staying close to the framework of his
explanation. "But much was lost when they vanished. What remains comes in pieces, through
the grace of the Old Gods."

Catelyn still lingered at the back of the group, her attention caught by the deadly grace of a
finished steel dagger. As she lifted it, the blade seemed to whisper through the air, so sharp it
threatened to cut without actually touching her skin. The craftsmanship was beyond anything
she'd ever seen, even in the finest weapons from the greatest smiths of King's Landing.

But while the others marveled at Owen's creations and explanations on these so called
"Dwemer", a deep frown creased her features. Her mind turned to the inevitable
complications that would arise once word of these innovations spread beyond the North. It
wasn't a question of if, but when. Such remarkable achievements couldn't remain hidden
forever, as much the north and her lord husband wished.

The explanation Owen had given about the Old Gods granting him this knowledge would
spark outrage throughout the Seven Kingdoms, especially from followers of The Seven. The
septons and septas would rage from their pulpits, demanding to know why their Seven had
not bestowed similar gifts upon their faithful followers. The North's adherence to the Old
Gods already created tension with the south - this would only amplify those divisions.

She could already hear the accusations that would flow from the Faith. Some would
denounce Owen as a heretic, claiming his abilities came from dark powers rather than divine
blessing. Others, unwilling to accept the Old Gods' involvement, would insist it was actually
the Seven who had granted him these gifts, and that Owen was simply misguided in
attributing them elsewhere.

The religious implications troubled her deeply. As someone raised in the Faith of the Seven
who had come to respect, if hesitantly, the Old Gods of her adopted home, she understood
how such revelations could inflame existing tensions. The North would be seen as claiming
divine superiority through Owen's abilities, potentially straining already delicate relationships
with the southern kingdoms.

Catelyn watched Owen continue his explanations to her family, noting how naturally he
spoke of the Old Gods' blessing. To him, it seemed a simple truth, but she knew the political
and religious powder keg it represented. The Faith had tremendous influence in the south,
and they would not take kindly to such claims of the Old Gods' favor.

Owen led the Stark family into the final section of the factory, his steps quickening with
barely contained excitement. The space opened into a massive chamber, clearly designed to
house something extraordinary. In the center stood an enormous shape, draped in thick fabric
that cast mysterious shadows in the torchlight.

"And now for the last leg of the tour," Owen announced, his voice echoing off the high
ceiling. The Starks gathered around the covered object, their curiosity evident in their
expressions.

"What is it?" Arya asked, trying to peek under the edges of the sheet.

"Something that took three days to construct," Owen replied, pride evident in his voice. "Two
hundred steam constructors working day and night under my supervision. But I think you'll
agree it was worth the effort."

He gripped the edge of the sheet, pausing for dramatic effect. Then, with a flourish worthy of
a master showman, he pulled the covering away.

The collective gasp from the Stark family echoed through the chamber. Before them stood a
towering mechanical giant, easily thirty feet tall, its brass and steel frame gleaming in the
torchlight. The colossus was humanoid in shape, with proportions that somehow managed to
seem both powerful and graceful despite its enormous size. Intricate Dwemer patterns
decorated its surface, and its "eyes" gleamed with an inner blue light that spoke of the magic
infusing its frame.

Owen gave a slight bow, adding to the theatrical moment. "I give you the Dwarven
Colossus."

Each member of the Stark family reacted differently to the revelation. Eddard's face showed a
mixture of awe and concern as he studied the massive construct, his mind already calculating
the military implications of such a creation. Catelyn's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide
with shock at the sheer scale of the machine before them.

Robb and Jon circled the colossus slowly, their expressions filled with wonder as they
examined its articulated joints and massive limbs. Arya darted between its feet, her face lit
with unbridled excitement as she touched its metallic surface. Sansa stood transfixed, her
blue eyes reflecting the soft glow emanating from the construct's own eyes.

Mikken had gone pale, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to touch the Dwemer
metal of its foot. "By the old gods and the new," he whispered, "what manner of forge could
create such a thing?"

The colossus towered over them all, its presence commanding the space. Its hands, each the
size of a wagon wheel, were articulated with countless joints that allowed for surprisingly
delicate movement despite their size. The chest contained visible mechanisms behind
translucent panels, showing glimpses of the complex machinery that powered the construct.

Owen circled the massive construct, gesturing at its various features as the Stark family
listened intently. "The Dwarven Colossus is the ultimate expression of Dwemer engineering
and combat capability. Its primary armament is this massive blade." He pointed to the
enormous sword attached to one arm, its edge gleaming wickedly in the torchlight. "The
blade can cleave through stone walls as if they were parchment."

"And what's that on the other arm?" Jon asked, indicating the large cylindrical attachment.

"That," Owen said, taking a deep breath, "is what's called a cannon. Think of it as... well,
imagine a catapult that doesn't need to be wound up or loaded with stones. It launches metal
projectiles with explosive force, capable of destroying castle walls or decimating entire
formations of soldiers with a single shot. Or in this case….well it unleashes flames hot
enough to burn a man to ash in seconds."
Eddard's face paled at the description, while Mikken's jaw dropped open. The master
blacksmith stepped forward, examining the cannon more closely. "How is such a thing
possible? What powers it?"

"The same principles that power our steam constructors, but magnified many times over,"
Owen explained. "The force comes from controlled explosions within the barrel, launching
specially crafted ammunition at speeds faster than any arrow or catapult stone. The flames are
powered by its core however." Owen said, though internally he knew how magic was also a
factor.

"Gods be good," Eddard muttered, running a hand through his hair. "And you say it's nearly
impossible to destroy?"

Owen nodded grimly. "The Dwemer metal it's constructed from is harder than anything in
Westeros save Valyrian steel. Regular weapons barely scratch it. Even if you managed to
breach its armor, the internal mechanisms are self-repairing to an extent. It would take
multiple trebuchets hitting the same spot repeatedly, or perhaps a dozen giants with enormous
Warhammers, to have any hope of bringing one down."

"And you can make more of these?" Robb asked, his voice hushed with awe.

"With enough time, yes. The steam constructors can build them, though it takes significantly
longer than producing regular weapons or armor. Like i said, a single colossus requires about
three days of continuous work from two hundred constructors."

Catelyn stepped closer to her husband, her voice low. "Ned, if the Lannisters or the other
kingdoms hear about this or had even an inkling that we possessed such power..."

"They don't," Eddard assured her firmly. "And they won't, not until we're ready for them to
know."

Arya darted between the colossus's legs again, her eyes shining with excitement. "Can we see
it move? Does it follow commands like the smaller ones?"

Owen nodded, then spoke a series of words in an ancient language. The colossus's eyes flared
brighter, flashing like molten gold, and with a sound of grinding gears and hissing steam, it
straightened to its full height. The assembled group stepped back instinctively as the massive
construct raised its sword arm in a salute, then demonstrated a series of precise movements
that showcased its surprising agility despite its enormous size.

"Seven hells," Jon breathed, watching the colossus execute a perfect overhead strike that
would have cleaved a castle gate in two. "With even a handful of these supporting our
forces..."

"No army in Westeros could stand against us," Robb finished, his voice filled with wonder.
"Not the Lannisters, not even the combined might of all the southern kingdoms."

Owen nodded, looking upon his creation. Just another step towards a more prepared north.
 Of Curses, Training and summons.
Chapter Notes

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adventures. Next chapter on Saturday, see you then.

Owen had patiently waited several days after showing the Stark family the factory before
making his midnight visit. Under the cover of darkness, when the castle and winter town lay
silent in deep slumber, he crept toward the Dwemer made industrial building. The guards he'd
appointed maintained their vigilant watch from the small yet cozy guardhouse he had
constructed a few meters away - a strategic position that allowed them to monitor the
perimeter without directly entering the factory itself. Every hour, they would make their
rounds, ensuring no curious onlookers or potential thieves were lurking about. While Owen
could have simply walked in openly, as was his right as the owner, he preferred to avoid any
reports reaching Lord Stark's ears about his peculiar nocturnal activities. Questions about
midnight visits to the factory would only lead to complications he'd rather avoid.

The need for enhanced security weighed heavily on his mind. The factory represented not just
an economic investment, but a technological advantage that needed protection at all costs.
There was only one truly effective way to ensure its safety - by employing the ancient and
powerful Magecraft he had learned from the Temple of Solomon. Specifically, he would need
to weave an intricate network of curses throughout the entire forge and factory complex,
creating an invisible barrier of supernatural protection that no conventional security measure
could match.

As he moved into the factory, the rhythmic clanking of metal against metal echoed through
the factory as Owen surveyed the automated workforce. Dwemer automatons moved with
precise efficiency, their brass and copper bodies gleaming in the dim light of the forge fires.
Some hammered out sword blades while others assembled armor pieces, their movements
fluid and tireless. The sight never failed to fill him with wonder, despite having created them
himself. Or at least the steam constructors had on his orders.

Steam hissed from vents overhead as the constructors continued their endless labor. The
factory operated like a living organism - raw materials entered through one end and finished
weapons emerged from the other, all without human intervention. Owen smiled,
remembering how just two weeks ago this had been nothing but an empty field.

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, the soft pops barely audible over the
mechanical symphony around him. The Temple of Solomon's ancient knowledge burned in
his mind, complex magical formulas and cursework diagrams ready to be applied. From
within his cloak, he withdrew an ornate dagger. The blade was Damascus steel with flowing
patterns that seemed to shift in the firelight, its ivory handle carved with Hebrew letters of
power.

Owen held out his left palm and made a clean cut across it with the sacred blade. Dark blood
welled up immediately, and he let it drip into an obsidian goblet he had placed on a nearby
workbench. The cut stung, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing instead on the intricate
curse markings he would need to create.

With practiced movements, he dipped his finger in the blood and began drawing sigils on the
factory walls. The marks glowed faintly as he worked, ancient symbols of protection and
warning intertwined with more aggressive curses meant to harm intruders. Some sigils were
simple - basic wards against theft and tampering. Others were far more complex, involving
mathematical formulas and astronomical alignments that would have baffled even the most
learned maesters.

The automatons continued their work, paying no mind to Owen as he moved methodically
through the building. Each sigil had to be placed precisely, forming an interconnected web of
magical energy that would blanket the entire structure. He worked his way around support
pillars and along the walls, occasionally adding more blood to the goblet when needed. The
curse markings grew more elaborate near the entrances and windows - these would be the
most likely points of infiltration and required the strongest protections.

Owen traced the final sigil with blood-stained fingers, the ancient Hebrew symbols pulsing
with an otherworldly red glow before fading into the stone. The factory walls now held
power beyond anything the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen - protection spells that could
challenge gods themselves.

"I almost feel sorry for anyone stupid enough to try breaking in here." He examined his
handiwork with satisfaction, knowing the devastating consequences that awaited intruders.

The curses he'd woven into the building's very foundation went far beyond simple protective
wards. Drawing from Solomon's vast magical knowledge, Owen had implemented multi-
layered defensive systems that would make even the most powerful mages hesitate. The outer
layer contained relatively mild curses - bad luck, confusion, and an overwhelming urge to be
elsewhere. But for those foolish or powerful enough to press forward, the deeper layers held
far darker magic.

The second tier of wards contained curses that would inflict increasingly severe physical and
mental trauma. Intruders would find their life force slowly draining away, their minds
assaulted by terrifying visions, their bodies wracked with supernatural diseases that no
maester could cure. The third layer held binding curses powerful enough to trap demons and
restrain minor deities, drawing on the same principles that Solomon had used to command
the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia.

But the innermost defensive ring contained the deadliest curses of all - magic that could
literally rewrite cause and effect to ensure an intruder's death, similar to the conceptual
weapons wielded by Heroic Spirits in the Holy Grail Wars. These curses would activate only
against the most serious threats, but when triggered, they would be virtually impossible to
survive or counter.

Owen had specifically designed the wards to recognize and counter various forms of magical
infiltration. Whether it was demons, spirits, skin changers, or even the Old Gods themselves
(though he doubted they would bother if they were TRULY real, what with him helping the
North and such) trying to peer inside, the curses would respond with appropriate force. The
protection extended into multiple dimensions and planes of existence, making both physical
and spiritual intrusion equally dangerous.

The web of curses drew power from the ley lines Owen had discovered running beneath
Winterfell, coming from the gods wood, ensuring they would remain active indefinitely
without requiring his direct maintenance. The magical energy thrummed through the sigils,
creating an invisible barrier that even Owen could now sense - a dome of deadly protection
surrounding his precious factory.

He wiped his bloody hands on a cloth, examining the dozens of interconnected curse marks
that covered nearly every surface. To untrained eyes, they would be invisible, but Owen
could see them glowing faintly with power, pulsing in rhythm like a heartbeat. Solomon's
knowledge had given him access to some of the most devastating magic ever created, and
he'd used every bit of that knowledge to ensure his factory's security. Something he'd have to
do again when he made his own factory at Sea dragon point.

With a deep breath, Owen placed his hand on one of the sigils. The ancient symbols seemed
to pulse beneath his touch, responding to his magical energy. The knowledge from Solomon's
temple flowed through him, guiding his words and intent as he began the activation ritual.

"Excita et defende, maledic et destrue. Ne quis sit meae superstes irae," he intoned in Latin,
his voice carrying power that made the very air vibrate. The blood sigils began to shimmer,
their dull red glow intensifying with each syllable.

Switching to Hebrew, he continued, "el mi shemitmoded im chamti yachia al hartz hazot."

The words held weight beyond their mere sound, each syllable carrying centuries of magical
tradition and power. The combination of Latin and Hebrew - languages of profound magical
significance - created a resonance that made the entire factory hum with energy.

The blood sigils flashed brilliantly, bathing the factory interior in crimson light. The light
pulsed once, twice, then began to fade as the sigils themselves seemed to melt into the very
structure of the building. The marks disappeared completely, becoming one with the stone
and metal, invisible but very much present. They would remain dormant until needed, ready
to unleash their protective fury against any who meant harm.
Owen had carefully crafted the curse network to recognize friends from foes. The Starks and
their loyal servants would pass through unharmed - the magic would simply ignore them as if
they weren't there. But for others, the consequences would be severe.

"That's all I can do for now," Owen muttered to himself, surveying his now-invisible
handiwork. "If anyone actually survives the steam constructors and automatons killing them,
the curses would finish the job."

Satisfied with his work, Owen snapped his fingers. In an instant, the factory disappeared
from around him as he transported himself to the Temple of Solomon, leaving behind a
fortress now protected by both mechanical and magical means.

________________________________________

Owen walked into the temple of Solomon's training arena, his footsteps echoing off the
polished marble floors. He was still actually surprised that a temple had a training arena to
begin with - though given Solomon's reputation as both a wise king and powerful magus,
perhaps he shouldn't have been. The space was vast, with high vaulted ceilings and walls
lined with various training weapons and magical implements.

He breathed in deeply and flared his magic circuits. The sensation was still new to him -
thousands of perfect magical pathways lighting up throughout his body, thrumming with
power. The circuits glowed with a faint blue light beneath his skin, creating intricate patterns
that would have been beautiful if anyone could see them.

There had been MANY types of magic and magecraft provided by the temple's vast library.
Owen knew he would take probably lifetimes studying it all - everything from simple
cantrips to reality-warping grand rituals. But while he could always pop into the temple of
Solomon to find magic for certain issues as they arose, Owen had decided that for his own
protection (and just because it was awesome) he would focus on two particular types:
Elemental magecraft and self-reinforcement.

These seemed the most practical choices for his situation. Elemental magic would give him
offensive capabilities and utility, while self-reinforcement would enhance his physical
abilities and provide defense. Plus, the two schools of magic complemented each other well -
he could reinforce his body to better channel and control elemental forces.

With a snap of his fingers, fake yet lifelike training dummies materialized around him in a
loose circle. They were construct of magical energy given semi-solid form, capable of basic
movement and attacking patterns but without true intelligence. The temple's magic allowed
them to simulate real opponents while preventing any permanent harm to the trainee.

A large bronze gong materialized and rang out through the chamber, its deep resonance
filling the space. A calm, disembodied voice - one of the temple's many magical functions -
called out: "Training session one, BEGIN."

The dummies immediately sprang into action, charging at Owen with surprising speed. Their
blank faces and jerky movements made them somewhat unnerving, but Owen pushed that
thought aside and focused on the task at hand. He had practiced the basic forms of both
magical disciplines separately - now it was time to put them together in combat.

"Dracones flammae!" Owen shouted the spell's name as he exhaled, a raging blast of fire
spitting from his mouth. The inferno engulfed the nearest dummies, their magical forms
crackling and burning to cinders in an instant. The intense heat pushed back the advancing
wave of constructs, giving Owen precious moments to assess the situation.

His magic circuits flared beneath his skin, glowing with ethereal blue light as he channeled
mana through them. The self-reinforcement magic surged through his body, strengthening his
muscles and sharpening his reflexes. Everything seemed to slow down slightly as his
enhanced perception kicked in, allowing him to track the movements of the remaining
dummies with crystal clarity.

The training constructs adapted quickly, their jerky movements becoming more fluid and
precise. They spread out in a coordinated pattern, some circling to his flanks while the others
maintained pressure from the front. Owen weaved between their strikes, his reinforced body
moving with supernatural grace. A dummy's fist whistled past his ear as he ducked, another's
kick barely missing his ribs as he twisted away.

The temple's magic was working exactly as intended - the dummies were learning from each
failed attack, becoming progressively faster and more unpredictable. Their blank faces
remained expressionless, but their tactics grew more sophisticated with each passing second.
Three of them suddenly broke formation, leaping high into the air above Owen's position in a
synchronized assault.

"Obice Flamma!" Owen spoke the words of power, and a wall of fire erupted around him in a
protective circle. The flames roared upward, catching the airborne dummies in mid-leap.
Their magical forms ignited instantly, dissolving into ash before they could complete their
attack.

Owen's self-reinforcement flared once more, magic circuits lighting up beneath his skin as he
channeled power through them. The reinforcement spread through his muscles, bones, and
organs, transforming his body into something far beyond normal human limitations. Thirty of
the training dummies suddenly rushed forward as one, throwing themselves directly into his
wall of flames. Their magical forms burned away instantly, but their sacrifice served its
purpose - creating gaps in the fiery barrier.

Twenty more dummies vaulted through these temporary openings, their blank faces and jerky
movements somehow more menacing as they closed in on Owen. Despite his enhanced
reflexes and strengthened body, five of the constructs managed to land solid hits. Their
strikes would have shattered bones and ruptured organs on a normal human, but Owen's
reinforced body barely registered the impacts. The blows felt more like firm pushes than
devastating attacks.

He grunted in frustration, knowing he had been slacking in his training. The ancient texts
spoke of how Solomon and other legendary mages could maintain multiple spells without
speaking a word, their magic responding instantly to their will alone. Those masters could
keep their spells active no matter how many enemies tried to disrupt them. Owen knew he
would need much more practice to reach that level of skill.

Pushing aside his self-criticism, Owen raised his hand toward the remaining dummies. This
time, he focused purely on his will, channeling his magic without speaking an incantation. A
massive blast of water erupted from his palm; the pressure so intense that the liquid became
more like a solid projectile. The superheated stream slammed into the training constructs with
devastating force, sending them flying backward. Several dummies were literally torn in half
by the pressurized blast, their magical forms dissolving into motes of light as they were
destroyed.

Owen's eyes gleamed with determination as he shifted his stance. "Alright, let's pick it up a
notch," he shouted, magical energy coursing through his circuits as he willed spinning wind
to form around his hands. The air itself seemed to dance at his command, condensing into
visible streams of power.

He thrust his hands forward, sending blasts of compressed air at the incoming squad of
training dummies. The wind cut through the space between them like invisible blades.
Several dummies went flying, their magical forms crashing against the temple walls with
enough force to crack the enchanted marble. Others were simply sliced apart by the sharp
gales, their forms dissolving into motes of light as the wind bisected them.

But the temple's magic adapted quickly. The remaining dummies began moving more
erratically, their blank faces somehow showing an unsettling awareness as they dodged each
subsequent wave of wind. They weaved between the blasts with increasing precision, closing
the distance to Owen with each passing second.

Just as the lead dummy reached striking distance, Owen's reinforced fist smashed through its
featureless face. The construct's head exploded into particles of light, and before its body
could even begin to fall, Owen's reinforced leg snapped up in a devastating kick that sent the
headless form flying across the training arena.

"Time to make Rin Tohsaka proud," Owen said with a smile, dropping into a fighting stance
that would have made the famous magus herself nod in approval. His magic circuits flared
brilliantly as he channeled power into his legs, and in an instant, he became a blur of motion.

Owen's reinforced body moved at speeds that would have seemed impossible to normal
humans. He crashed into the group of dummies like a force of nature, each strike carrying
enough power to shatter stone. His fists tore through magical constructs as if they were made
of paper. A roundhouse kick decapitated three dummies at once. He grabbed one construct
and used it as a makeshift weapon, swinging its body to smash apart two more before
suplexing it into the ground with enough force to crater the floor.

The combination of self-reinforcement and hand-to-hand combat proved devastating. Owen

moved through the remaining dummies with fluid grace, each motion flowing into the next as
he systematically destroyed them with an array of punches, kicks, and wrestling moves that
would have impressed even the most seasoned fighters.
With a final roar, he smashed into the last training dummy, Owen's kick sending it flying into
the air before he followed it upwards, another kick smashing it to the ground. He landed
neatly beside it, raising a fist in victory as he looked at a glowing scoreboard that appeared.
50% it read and Owen swore. "Ohh come the fuck on!" he said though he knew the score was
fair. Truth was that as he was, he could probably tear through most enemies in Westeros with
ease. But the temple was scoring him against how he would do fighting against mages or
creatures from the fate universe or beyond. 50% meaning he could take on squad of
intermediate or rookie mages but anything beyond that and he was cooked!

Owen wiped sweat from his brow as he examined the detailed breakdown appearing beneath
the score. His elemental magic showed decent power output but lacked refinement - the spells
worked but wasted too much energy. His self-reinforcement was more promising, achieving
nearly 70% efficiency, though his technique still needed polish. The magical combat "AI" (or
temple spirit, he really didn't know what it was that spoke during these training sessions)
noted several openings in his defense that a skilled opponent could exploit.

"Intermediate mages," Owen muttered, shaking his head. "That means I'd barely last five
minutes against someone like Rin or Bazett. And forget about Servants - they'd tear me apart
before I could blink."

The temple's scoring system was brutally honest, calibrated against the full spectrum of
magical combat capability. A score of 90% would put him on par with first-rate mages like
Lord El-Melloi II. The truly elite, like Aoko Aozaki, scored even higher. And Servants, those
legendary heroes summoned for the Holy Grail War, operated on an entirely different level.

The scoreboard flickered, displaying a new message: "Areas for improvement: Spell
efficiency, mana control, reaction speed, defensive positioning." Owen nodded - the
assessment matched what he'd felt during the fight. His raw power was decent, but his
technique needed serious work.

Owen sighed and snapped his fingers. The temple's magic responded instantly, whisking
away his sweat-soaked training clothes and cleaning his body with a gentle wave of energy
that left his skin tingling. Soft silk robes materialized around him; the fabric lighter than air
yet somehow providing perfect warmth.

He made his way toward the vast library, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors. A silver
tray appeared on a nearby reading table as he approached, laden with chilled fruit juice,
succulent meats, and fresh fruits. The temple always seemed to know exactly what he needed
after a training session.

Settling into a plush chair, Owen reached for a tome on familiar creation and summoning.
The ancient leather-bound book practically hummed with magical energy as he opened it. He
took a long drink of the juice, savoring its crisp sweetness while his eyes scanned the
yellowed pages.

The concept of summoning creatures fascinated him. So many mages throughout history and
fiction had relied on familiars for support, yet Owen felt they rarely utilized these beings to
their full potential. Most seemed content with basic scout animals or message carriers, when
familiars could be so much more.
However, as he read through various summoning methods, Owen's excitement was tempered
by caution. Many of the most powerful familiars in the temple’s books came with significant
drawbacks. Demons required soul-binding contracts. Fey creatures twisted words and
agreements to their advantage. Even seemingly benign spirits often had hidden agendas or
restrictions that could prove deadly to an unwary summoner.

His thoughts drifted to the summon Mahoraga from Jujutsu Kaisen - a (seemingly, if Owen
was to take its name literally) divine general of immense power that was just as likely to kill
its summoner as the intended target unless properly dominated first. While impressive, such
beings represented exactly the kind of risk Owen wanted to avoid.

No, he decided as he bit into a perfectly ripe apple, he would forge his own path. With access
to the temple's vast knowledge and his seemingly endless supply of exotic materials, Owen
could create his own familiars from scratch. Beings that would be powerful yet loyal, without
the need for complex pacts or dangerous rituals. He had dwarven metal, stalhrim, ebony, and
countless other materials to work with. Combined with his growing magical knowledge, the
possibilities were endless.

Owen pulled another book from the air - this one detailing the creation of artificial life
through magecraft. Between bites of food, he began taking notes, already formulating plans
for his first familiar constructs.
 Revelations to the North
Chapter Notes

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Owen stood beside Lord Eddard atop the battlements of Winterfell, watching the steady
stream of nobles and their retinues pour through the gates. The autumn air carried the sounds
of hoofbeats, wagon wheels, and excited chatter as the Northern houses arrived for the
harvest festival.

"The roads have certainly made an impression," Owen noted, observing Lord Wyman's
animated gestures as he spoke with a group of newly arrived lords. His rotund figure
practically bounced with enthusiasm.

"Three days from White Harbor instead of seven." Eddard's grey eyes tracked the
approaching banners - the merman of Manderly, the chained giant of Umber, the black bear
of Mormont. "Though I suspect the smooth ride impressed them more than the speed."

Owen smiled, remembering how he'd modified the steam constructors to lay the concrete and
ebony mixture. The roads gleamed like polished stone in the afternoon sun, their surface
unmarred by the usual ruts and holes that plagued dirt paths. Carriages glided along them
with barely a jostle.

"Your constructors outdid themselves." Eddard nodded toward a particularly ornate

wheelhouse bearing the flayed man of Bolton. "Even Roose made good time from the
Dreadfort."

Below in the courtyard, Robett Glover's voice carried up to them as he regaled a cluster of
minor lords. "...barely felt a bump the entire way from Deepwood Motte! My old bones have
never had such an easy journey."

The praise brought a flush of pride to Owen's cheeks, though he kept his expression neutral.
The roads were just the beginning - a taste of what his innovations could bring to the North.
Already he could see the impact in the gathered crowd: better-fed servants, thanks to the
glasshouses; stronger horses, no longer worn down by treacherous paths; nobles arriving
fresh and eager rather than travel-weary.

"They'll have more to marvel at before the festival ends," Owen said quietly.
Eddard gave him a knowing look. "Indeed they will. Though perhaps we should let them
adjust to the roads before showing them the factories."

Owen nodded in agreement. The stream of arrivals continued steadily through the gates, each
group pausing to take in Winterfell's recent changes with wide eyes and excited murmurs.
The summer harvest festival was about to become far more interesting than anyone had
expected, there was no doubt about it.

Owen followed Lord Stark down the winding steps from the battlements, studying the
gathered nobles in the courtyard below. The space buzzed with activity as servants darted
between wagons and horses, efficiently directing visitors to their assigned quarters. Owen
noted how the Winterfell staff moved with practiced precision, their recent experience with
the increased traffic from the road construction serving them well.

Staying a respectful step behind Lord Stark, Owen observed the various groupings of
Northern lords. Roose Bolton stood near the entrance, his pale eyes fixed on Lord Manderly
as the larger man gestured enthusiastically about the new roads. Even Bolton's typically stoic
expression couldn't quite mask his interest.

"The trade routes alone will double our income," Wyman declared, his multiple chins
quivering with excitement. "My merchants made the journey in half the time, Lord Bolton.
Half! And their goods arrived intact, not a single broken crate."

Bolton's response was characteristically quiet, forcing those around him to lean in. "Indeed.
Most... efficient."

On the opposite side of the courtyard, the Greatjon's booming voice carried clearly as he
conversed with Lady Mormont. Owen couldn't help but admire how the massive lord's
presence commanded attention, even in such distinguished company.

"Built like magic, they were!" Greatjon declared. "Never seen anything like it."

Near the main entrance, Owen spotted an intense discussion between Robett Glover, Donnel
Locke, Barbrey Dustin, and Howland Reed. The crannogman's presence surprised Owen - the
lord of Greywater Watch rarely left his swamps, whether in the show (unless they just forgot
about him) or the books. Lady Dustin's sharp features were animated as she spoke, though
her voice remained low.

As Owen and Lord Stark approached the gathered nobles, a wave of greetings swept through
the courtyard. The Greatjon's voice boomed above the rest.

"Ned! About time you came down to welcome your guests properly!"

Owen watched as Lord Eddard broke into a rare smile at the Greatjon's boisterous greeting.
The massive lord engulfed Stark in a bear hug that would have crushed lesser men, but
Eddard merely clapped him on the back, well-practiced in handling his most enthusiastic
bannerman.
"Good to see you too, Jon," Eddard said, extracting himself from the embrace with practiced
ease.

Owen followed as they made their rounds through the courtyard. The sheer number of noble
houses present struck him - far more than he'd ever known existed in the North from his
previous life's knowledge of the books. Banners he'd never seen before caught his eye: the
silver tree of House Ashwood rippling in the breeze, the black ravens of House Blackwood of
the Wolfswood taking flight against their field, the green branches of House Branch
intertwined with House Burley's blue flames.

More sigils drew his attention as they moved through the crowd - House Condon's lightning
bolt, House Fenn's water lilies, the snowflake of House Frost. Each represented bloodlines
and histories Owen had never known existed, making him acutely aware of how much deeper
this world ran than the stories he'd read.

Most of the lords and ladies barely spared Owen a glance as Eddard made introductions, their
focus naturally drawn to their liege lord. Owen preferred it that way - he'd never been
comfortable as the center of attention. But then they reached Roose Bolton.

"Lord Stark." Bolton's voice was soft as always, barely above a whisper. He gave Eddard a
precise bow, his movements controlled and deliberate.

"Lord Bolton. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Indeed. These new roads are... most impressive."

Though Bolton addressed Eddard, his pale eyes fixed on Owen with an unsettling intensity.
Even as they moved on to greet others, Owen could feel that ghost-grey gaze following him
across the courtyard. The Lord of the Dreadfort's interest made Owen's skin crawl - he knew
all too well what that man was capable of.

Owen did his best to focus on the continuing introductions, but Bolton's stare lingered like ice
water down his spine. He'd have to be very careful around that one. The books had made
Bolton's cunning and cruelty clear enough, but experiencing that cold calculation firsthand
was something else entirely.

Owen watched as Lady Mormont stepped forward, her stocky frame commanding attention
despite her short stature. "Ned," Maege called out, her voice carrying across the courtyard.
"Are you going to tell us how these roads appeared so quickly? My bannermen swear they
saw strange metal men and spiders working alongside your builders."

A chorus of agreement rippled through the gathered nobles. Lord Cerwyn nodded vigorously.
"Aye, we'd all like to know. Never seen anything like it."

"The speed was remarkable," added Barbrey Dustin, her sharp features betraying genuine
curiosity beneath her usual stern demeanor. "Roads that would take years sprouted up in
weeks."
Owen caught the knowing glances exchanged between Wyman Manderly and Robett Glover.
The Lord of White Harbor's multiple chins quivered with barely contained excitement, while
Glover maintained a more composed expression, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Eddard raised his hands, quieting the excited murmurs. "My lords, my ladies, all will be
explained in due time. For now, I know you've had long journeys, even if they were smoother
than usual." This drew appreciative chuckles from the crowd. "Hot baths have been prepared,
and the kitchens have outdone themselves for the welcoming feast. Tomorrow, after you've
rested, I promise you'll have your answers."

The announcement was met with cheers of approval. Even the most curious lords couldn't
argue with the promise of food and comfort after their travels. Owen watched as the crowd
began moving toward the castle, servants directing them to their assigned quarters.

As he fell in step behind Lord Stark, Owen still felt the weight of Roose Bolton's ghost-grey
eyes following him. The Lord of the Dreadfort's unsettling gaze made Owen grateful for all
the precautions he'd taken. The factory lay hidden behind powerful wards, the armory
secured behind enchanted locks, and both Cidhna Mine and the new glasshouses were
protected by guards and magical barriers. No amount of Bolton's infamous curiosity would
penetrate those defenses until Lord Stark deemed it time to reveal them.

The assembled lords and ladies filed into the castle, their excited chatter about the roads
echoing off the ancient stones. Owen remained silent, knowing that tomorrow's revelations
would give them far more to discuss than mere roads.

Owen sat at the high table beside Sansa that night, acutely aware of the curious glances from
the gathered Northern lords and ladies below. The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzed with
energy and warmth, filled to bursting with nobles, knights, and their retinues. Countless
candles cast a golden glow over the festivities, their light reflecting off polished silverware
and crystal goblets.

The feast was unlike anything Owen had seen since arriving in this world. Whole roasted
aurochs dripped with honey glaze, their massive forms requiring four servants each to carry.
Platters of smoked fish from White Harbor's bustling ports sat alongside wild boar seasoned
with exotic spices from across the Narrow Sea. Mountains of root vegetables, roasted with
herbs and butter, steamed invitingly beside freshly baked breads of every variety.

The gold from Cidhna Mine had certainly been put to good use as owen had intended when
he gave the large bars to lord stark despite his protests. Owen spotted Arbor gold, Dornish
reds, and even the rare purple wine of Lys being poured freely. The cellars of Winterfell had
been stocked specifically for this occasion, and the Northern lords were taking full advantage
of such unprecedented hospitality.

"Try this," Sansa said softly, placing a delicate lemon cake on Owen's plate. Her blue eyes
sparkled in the candlelight as she watched him take a bite. The pastry melted on his tongue,
perfectly balanced between sweet and tart. Owen was just happy he wasn't blushing anymore
whenever he was near the redheaded beauty.
Below them, the Greatjon's booming laugh echoed through the hall as he called for another
tankard of ale. Even Roose Bolton seemed (seemed being the correct word, owen could never
know with the man to say the truth) to be enjoying himself, though his ghost-grey eyes
occasionally flicked toward the high table with calculated interest. Wyman Manderly was in
his element, regaling those around him with tales of White Harbor's prosperity while
sampling every dish within reach.

The placement at the high table hadn't been subtle - Owen sat among the Stark children, right
beside his future bride. Though no formal announcement had been made, the implications
were clear to anyone versed in the intricacies of Northern politics. He could see Lady Dustin
whispering to Robett Glover, both stealing glances at him and Sansa between bites of honey-
glazed duck, though owen knew it was all for show on the lords side, having known that
owen was engaged to sansa already.

Servants continuously streamed from the kitchens with fresh platters and decanters, ensuring
no cup remained empty and no plate bare. The abundance was staggering - glazed hams
studded with cloves, whole salmon baked in clay, towers of fresh bread still steaming from
the ovens, and countless meat pies releasing savory aromas into the air. Exotic fruits from the
Reach provided bright splashes of color among the hearty Northern fare.

Owen caught snippets of conversation from the lords below, many marveling at the sheer
variety and quality of the feast. This display of wealth and hospitality was sending a clear
message about Winterfell's prosperity - one that Owen had helped engineer through his
contributions from the mine. The North was growing stronger, and this feast was just the first
taste of what was to come.

Owen once more found himself seated next to Sansa at the elevated dais (at her insistence
this time), watching the Northern lords file into the Great Hall after breakfast. The
atmosphere crackled with anticipation - everyone knew today would bring answers to the
questions that had been burning since their arrival.

Catelyn's presence at the high table was dignified as always, though Owen noticed the slight
tightening around her eyes when Jon took his place among them. owen frowned a bit at that.
He tried to understand her feelings, but even now he didn't agree with them when it came to
jon. The woman had suffered what she believed to be a constant reminder of her husband's
infidelity for years and that would be a hard thing to cope with.

Eddard sat upon the ancient throne of winter, carved from weirwood and adorned with runes
of the First Men. His grey eyes surveyed the gathered lords with calm authority. The seat
seemed to enhance his natural authority, connecting him to all the Stark lords who had sat
there before him.

The hall fell silent as Roose Bolton rose from his seat, his movements precise and deliberate.
His voice, barely above a whisper, somehow carried to every corner of the room.

"Lord Stark," Bolton began, his ghost-grey eyes glinting in the morning light. "I must first
express my gratitude for last night's feast. Such hospitality honors us all." He paused, letting
his words settle. "However, I believe I speak for many here when I say we are eager to learn
the truth behind these remarkable roads that have appeared across the North."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall. Owen watched as various lords nodded,
some thumping their cups on tables in support.

Maege Mormont pushed to her feet, her sturdy frame commanding attention. "Aye, and not
just the roads," she declared, her voice strong and clear. "These past two months have
brought strange tales indeed. We hear whispers of a mage dwelling at Sea Dragon Point, of a
village where weapons of extraordinary power are forged." Her eyes swept the hall. "There's
talk of armor crafted from materials none have seen before."

The stamping of feet grew louder as more lords joined in, showing their support for these
questions. Owen could see the curiosity burning in their eyes, mixed with hints of concern
and excitement. He knew this moment had been carefully orchestrated - the roads were just
the beginning, a way to ease them into the greater changes to come.

Lord Stark nodded and rose from the weirwood throne, his movement drawing all eyes. "My
lords, my ladies," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority earned through years
of just rule. "Allow me to present Owen, the newest Lord of Sea Dragon Point."

Owen stood, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him. The Great Hall fell silent as
the Northern lords studied him intently. Some stood to get a better look, while others
whispered among themselves. He could feel Roose Bolton's ghost-grey eyes boring into him
with particular intensity, but Owen met his gaze calmly, refusing to show any discomfort.

"Furthermore," Eddard continued, "I am pleased to announce his betrothal to my daughter,

Sansa."

The hall erupted in surprised murmurs. Owen caught snippets of conversation - "So young,"
and "Sea Dragon Point?" and "The Stark girl?" The reactions varied from raised eyebrows to
approving nods, though Owen noticed Lady Dustin's lips press into a thin line at the news.

Lord Stark raised his hand, and the hall fell silent once more. "Many of you have heard
rumors these past months. Tales of mysterious roads appearing overnight as you have seen
with your own eyes, of weapons with extraordinary power, of metal men working tirelessly
across our lands, mostly at white harbor and Deepwood motte." He paused, his grey eyes
sweeping across the gathered nobles. "These rumors are true."

The murmuring grew louder, but Eddard pressed on. "While Owen is not a mage, as some
have claimed, he is indeed the smith responsible for these marvels. The roads you traveled
on, the metal workers you glimpsed, the weapons you've heard tales of - all are his creation."

Owen remained standing, back straight as he faced the increasingly animated crowd. The
Greatjon's eyes were wide with wonder, while Maege Mormont leaned forward with keen
interest. Even Howland Reed, typically unreadable, showed clear fascination. Through it all,
Roose Bolton's pale eyes never left Owen's face, studying him with calculating intensity.
Owen snapped his fingers, the sound echoing through the Great Hall. At his signal, the
massive oak doors swung open with a deep groan. The assembled lords and ladies gasped as
a line of Dwarven automatons marched in, their bronze-gold bodies gleaming in the morning
light streaming through the high windows.

The mechanical warriors moved with fluid grace, each step precise and measured. Intricate
sigils carved into their metal frames pulsed with an inner light, casting dancing shadows
across the stone floor. In their hands, they carried an array of weapons that seemed to draw all
light toward them - the midnight black of ebony blades, the ethereal blue glow of Stalhrim
axes, the pearlescent sheen of moonstone forged glass daggers, and the golden-green
shimmer of orichalcum war hammers.

Several lords leapt to their feet, hands instinctively reaching for weapons that weren't there.
The Greatjon's chair crashed backward as he stood, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and
alarm. Even Roose Bolton's usual composure slipped for a moment, his pale eyes widening
slightly at the sight of the mechanical soldiers.

"My lords, please," Eddard's voice cut through the growing tension. "Be at ease. These
constructs serve House Stark and pose no threat."

The automatons halted in perfect unison, their metal feet striking the floor with a
synchronized clang that echoed through the hall. They stood at attention, arranged in neat
rows before the gathered nobility, their weapons held at parade rest.

Owen raised his hand and snapped again. The automatons moved as one, each stepping
forward to present their weapons to the nearest lord or lady. The Greatjon found himself
facing an automaton offering a massive ebony great sword, its black surface seeming to drink
in the light around it. His hands trembled slightly as he grasped the weapon, testing its perfect
balance with wonder in his eyes.

Maege Mormont accepted a Stalhrim war axe, its icy blue surface catching the light like
frozen fire. She ran a calloused finger along its edge, eyebrows rising at its incredible
sharpness. "By the old gods," she whispered, passing it to her daughter Dacey with reverence.

Even Roose Bolton's customary restraint faltered as he examined the glass longsword
presented to him. The blade seemed to capture and amplify the morning light, creating an
almost hypnotic display as he turned it in his hands.

The weapons made their way around the hall, passed from lord to lord with exclamations of
amazement. Owen watched as hardened warriors and seasoned commanders handled the
arms with the wonder of children receiving their first practice swords. The sheer quality and
otherworldly nature of the materials left even the most skeptical nobles speechless.

Owen watched with a mix of pride and amusement as the Greatjon's eyes darted between
Lord Stark and himself, barely containing his excitement. The massive lord's hands tightened
around the ebony blade he held.

"Can we test them?" The Greatjon's booming voice carried across the hall, filled with
childlike enthusiasm that seemed at odds with his intimidating stature.
Eddard's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I wouldn't want to stop you, GreatJon."

The lords practically leaped from their seats, their dignity momentarily forgotten in their
eagerness to test these mysterious weapons. Owen felt Sansa's delicate hand slip into his own
as they made their way to follow the excited crowd. Her smile, warm and genuine, made his
heart skip a beat as they walked together toward the training grounds.

The morning air was crisp and clear as they gathered in the yard. The Greatjon wasted no
time, striding toward one of the thick training dummies with purpose. The ebony blade
gleamed darkly in the sunlight as he raised it high. With a mighty roar that echoed off
Winterfell's ancient walls, he brought the sword down in a single powerful strike.

The training dummy, built to withstand countless blows from regular steel, split cleanly in
two. The cut was so smooth it looked as if it had been done with a razor. A hushed silence
fell over the gathered crowd, broken only by the Greatjon's delighted laugh.

Lord Howland Reed, usually quiet and reserved, stepped forward next. His movements were
fluid and graceful as he accepted several glass daggers from one of the waiting automatons.
The slight crannogman faced a heavily armored training dummy, its frame covered in thick
leather and steel plate.

Without hesitation, Howland let the daggers fly. They struck their target with deadly
accuracy, sinking deep into the armor as if it were made of cloth. The gathered lords
murmured in amazement - glass weapons should have shattered against steel, yet these blades
had penetrated multiple layers of protection with ease.

Ser Donnel Locke moved forward next, his eyes fixed on an orichalcum broadsword. The
weapon seemed to catch and hold the sunlight, its golden-green surface almost alive with
reflected light. Before him stood the most heavily armored dummy in the yard, covered in
three distinct layers of knight's armor.

The sword moved like liquid light in Donnel's hands. When it met the armor, there was no
resistance, no screech of metal on metal. The blade passed through all three layers as easily
as a hot knife through butter, leaving clean-edged cuts that drew gasps of astonishment from
the onlookers.

Owen watched as Roose Bolton stepped forward last, his ghost-grey eyes scanning the array
of weapons before settling on one of the masterwork steel blades from the factory. It wasn't
as exotic as the others, but Owen knew its quality far exceeded typical castle-forged steel.
Bolton's pale fingers wrapped around the grip, and for once, genuine appreciation flickered
across his usually stoic features.

"The balance is... perfect," Roose said in his characteristic whisper, though Owen detected
real wonder in his voice.

An automaton stepped forward, wielding a standard castle-forged sword. Lord Stark nodded
to Bolton. "Test it against normal steel, Lord Bolton. You'll find the difference quite
remarkable."
Roose squared off against the automaton, his movements precise and controlled. The two
blades met with a ring of steel - but only for a moment. The masterwork blade sliced through
the castle-forged steel like parchment, leaving the severed portion of the blade to fall into the
snow with a soft thump.

Bolton's eyes widened, an expression Owen had never expected to see on the normally
composed lord's face. He stared at the blade in his hands, then turned his pale gaze to Owen.

"You crafted this?" His whisper carried across the now-silent yard.

Owen nodded, and Lord Stark added, "Indeed he did, and this is merely the least of what he
has created."

"Come," Eddard began, gesturing for the lords to follow, but a booming voice cut through the
air.

"Wait!" The Greatjon called out, his eyes fixed on a massive Stalhrim Warhammer being held
by one of the automatons. "I want to try that one!"

Before anyone could stop him, the giant of a man had grabbed the hammer, hefting it onto his
shoulder with surprising ease. He turned toward a massive boulder at the edge of the training
yard, grinning like a child with a new toy.

Owen's eyes widened as he realized what the Greatjon intended. "My lord, be careful-"

But it was too late. The Greatjon charged forward with a mighty roar, bringing the Stalhrim
Warhammer down on the boulder with all his considerable strength. The impact created a
sound like thunder, and a blast of magical ice erupted from the point of contact. The massive
lord was thrown backward by the force of his own blow, while the boulder shattered into a
thousand frozen pieces.

The lords watched as the Greatjon lay sprawled in the snow, his massive frame shaking - not
with pain, but with thunderous laughter. Maege Mormont and Howland Reed rushed to help
him up, though the she-bear seemed to be fighting back her own chuckles.

"Seven hells!" The Greatjon boomed as they pulled him to his feet, snow falling from his
clothes. "Did you see that? The whole bloody rock just..." He made an explosive gesture with
his hands, nearly knocking Howland over in his enthusiasm. "I want twenty of these! No,
thirty! Every man in Last Hearth should have one!"

Next to Owen, Sansa's musical giggle rang out at the lord's boyish excitement. The sound
warmed him more than any forge fire could, and he found himself smiling along with her.
Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth as she watched the Greatjon brush snow from his beard,
still gesturing wildly about the hammer's power.

Owen glanced at Lord Stark, catching the slight shake of his head at his bannerman's antics.
Despite his exasperation, a small smile played at the corners of Eddard's mouth as he watched
the normally fearsome Greatjon bounce around like an oversized child, pointing at the frozen
fragments of boulder scattered across the yard.
"The hammer, my lord!" The Greatjon called out, hefting the Stalhrim weapon again, though
more carefully this time. "You never said they could do... whatever in seven hells that was!"

Owen watched as Eddard stepped forward, raising his hand to quiet the excited chatter
around the training yard. The lord of Winterfell's eyes held a mixture of amusement and
gravity as he addressed the Greatjon's enthusiastic query.

"Indeed, some of these weapons possess... deeper abilities," Eddard said, his voice carrying
across the yard. "The Stalhrim's ice magic is but one example. However, my lords and ladies,
there is more to see than just weapons."

Owen noticed how Roose Bolton's pale eyes narrowed at the mention of magical weapons,
while Howland Reed nodded knowingly, as if confirming something he had long suspected.
The other lords exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of wonder and uncertainty.

"If you would follow me," Eddard continued, gesturing toward the eastern side of the castle
where the massive glasshouses stood gleaming in the morning sun. "There are other marvels
that will perhaps interest you even more than these arms."

The assembled nobles fell in behind Lord Stark, though Owen noticed the Greatjon casting
one last longing look at the Stalhrim Warhammer before reluctantly handing it back to an
automaton. Sansa's hand remained in his as they walked, and he could feel her excitement
through the gentle squeeze she gave his fingers.

Next to be seen were the glasshouses and Owen led the way into the first one, watching the
lords' faces transform with wonder as they stepped into the warm, fragrant air. The massive
structure stretched before them, its enchanted glass panels catching the morning light and
dispersing it evenly across rows of thriving plants.

"As you can see," Owen gestured to the steam constructors methodically working among the
plants, "these mechanical workers maintain everything within. They till the soil, plant seeds,
and tend to the crops without rest."

The Greatjon pressed his face against one of the glass panels, his breath fogging the
transparent surface. "It's warm as summer in here!"

"The glass is special," Owen explained, running his hand along one of the moonstone-infused
panels. "We forge it using moonstone and silver, then enchant it to capture and amplify
sunlight. This energy helps the plants grow faster - about three times the normal rate."

Roose Bolton's pale eyes followed a steam constructor as it moved between rows of
vegetables, its metal hands carefully checking leaves for signs of disease. "And they never
sicken?"

"No disease has touched a single plant since we built these," Eddard confirmed, pride evident
in his voice. "The constructors prevent any blight from taking hold."
Maege Mormont stopped abruptly in front of a flourishing fruit tree, her weathered face
showing clear disbelief. "These... these are peaches. And those - are those grape vines?
Apples?" She shook her head. "These don't grow in the North. They can't."

"They do now," Catelyn stepped forward, her auburn hair catching the filtered sunlight. "I've
tasted them myself, Lady Mormont. The fruit is as sweet as any grown in the Reach."

Owen watched as Maege reached out to touch a ripening peach, her calloused fingers gentle
against the fuzzy skin. The she-bear's eyes widened as she felt its warmth, the reality of
impossible fruit growing in the midst of northern winter finally sinking in.

The other lords moved through the glasshouse in various states of amazement. Howland Reed
examined the irrigation system with keen interest, while a lady from House Ashwood stood
transfixed before a row of orange trees. The steam constructors continued their work,
unbothered by the nobles' presence, their mechanical movements precise and purposeful as
they tended to the botanical wealth growing in the heart of the North.

Lord Stark stepped forward, his hand resting on one of the gleaming glass panels. The
northern lord's expression was measured as he addressed the gathered nobility.

"My lords, ladies - you need not take only our word for these achievements. Lord Robett and
Lord Wyman can speak to their own experiences with these glasshouses."

The assembled nobles turned to look at Robett Glover and Wyman Manderly. Lord Robett
straightened, his expression serious as he nodded.

"Two months ago, we had similar structures built at Deepwood Motte," Robett confirmed, his
voice steady. "What I've witnessed defies belief. Crops that normally take years to mature
have been ready for harvest in a single month. The yields..." He shook his head in
amazement. "Triple what we'd expect from traditional farming or use of any normal
glasshouse."

Lord Wyman shifted his considerable bulk, his shrewd eyes scanning the faces of his fellow
lords. "White Harbor's stores have grown beyond our wildest expectations. At our current
rate, we've secured enough provisions to last four years of winter." A satisfied smile crossed
his face. "Should the cold come early or stay long, White Harbor will not want for fresh
food."

Owen noticed the other lords exchanging meaningful glances, their expressions a mixture of
wonder and calculation as they processed this information. The implications were clear - with
such technology, the North's greatest vulnerability could be transformed into a source of
strength.

The moment of contemplation was broken by Roose Bolton's whisper-soft voice. "Why
then," he asked, his pale eyes fixed on Lord Stark, "were only these two houses chosen to
receive such... advantages?"

Owen felt the temperature in the glasshouse seem to drop despite the enchanted warmth. The
other lords shifted uncomfortably, and he could see the unspoken agreement in their eyes -
they too wished to know why they had been excluded.

Eddard met Bolton's gaze steadily. "Secrecy was paramount, Lord Bolton. The success of the
North depends on protecting knowledge of these innovations." He gestured to the mechanical
workers continuing their tasks. "What you see here - what Lord Owen has created - could
change the balance of power in all of Westeros. Such knowledge must be carefully guarded."

The Lord of Winterfell's eyes swept across the assembled nobles. "But fear not. All houses of
the North will receive their own glasshouses in time. This is but the beginning of what we
have to show you today."

Owen watched as the tension eased from the gathered lords' shoulders, though Roose
Bolton's pale eyes remained fixed on him with unsettling intensity. The promise of equal
distribution had smoothed ruffled feathers, but Owen could still sense the curiosity and
anticipation building among the nobles. They knew there was more to come, and they were
eager to see what other wonders awaited them.

Owen led the group toward the massive factory building, its iron-reinforced doors swinging
open at their approach. The rhythmic sounds of machinery and metalwork filled the air,
growing louder as they entered. Steam hissed from vents along the ceiling, and the organized
chaos of production lines stretched before them.

"By the old gods," Maege Mormont breathed, her eyes widening. "I knew something was
hidden here. The guards, the constant noise..." She shook her head in amazement. "But
this..."

Owen watched as the nobles took in the sight of dozens of steam constructors and Dwemer
automatons working in perfect synchronization. At one station, mechanical arms precisely
folded heated steel into layered patterns. At another, automated hammers struck in perfect
rhythm, shaping sword blades with inhuman precision.

"Each production line can complete a full set of arms and armor every few minutes," Owen
explained, gesturing to where finished pieces emerged from the end of the line. "The entire
factory produces around five hundred complete sets daily."

The Greatjon let out a low whistle as he watched a stack of masterwork steel swords growing
steadily higher. "Five hundred? In a single day?" He picked up one of the completed blades,
testing its edge with an experienced eye. "And each one perfect..."

Howland Reed moved closer to examine an automaton as it methodically assembled armor

pieces, its movements precise and tireless. "These machines never rest, do they? They work
through the night?"

"Day and night," Owen confirmed. "They require no sleep, no food, no rest."

Owen noticed Roose Bolton's face had gone even paler than usual as he watched the endless
stream of weapons and armor flowing from the production lines. The Lord of the Dreadfort's
eyes darted between the growing stockpiles, his fingers twitching slightly at his side.

"In a fortnight," Bolton's whisper barely carried over the machinery, "you could arm every
man in the North."

"That's rather the point," Eddard stated firmly, meeting Bolton's unsettled gaze.

The other lords moved through the factory floor, examining the various stages of production
with mounting amazement. Lady Dustin stopped to watch an automaton etching house sigils
onto completed breastplates, while Lord Manderly marveled at the precision of the automated
fletching station for arrows.

"Look at this!" The Greatjon called out, holding up a newly completed sword. "The balance
is perfect! The edge..." He ran a thumb carefully along the blade. "Sharper than any castle-
forged steel I've ever held."

Owen watched as more nobles gathered around the finished weapons, each wanting to verify
the quality for themselves. Their expressions shifted from skepticism to awe as they tested
blade after blade, finding each one crafted to the same exacting standards.

"And these machines," Maege Mormont gestured to the tireless workers, "they make all of
this without human hands ever touching the metal?"

"From raw ore to finished product," Owen confirmed. "The entire process is automated."

The assembled lords fell silent for a moment, watching as another rack of perfect swords
emerged from the production line, the mechanical arms placing them precisely alongside
their identical siblings. The implications of such production capacity were clear on every face
- the North's military strength had just multiplied exponentially.

Finally Owen led the procession toward the back of the factory, feeling Sansa's grip tighten
on his arm. He could sense her unease growing with each step closer to the covered
constructs. Though she tried to maintain her composure, having seen the first one before, her
fingers trembled slightly against his sleeve.

"It's alright," he whispered softly, patting her hand reassuringly. "They only respond to my
commands."

Lord Stark walked beside them, his face set in its usual stern expression, though Owen
noticed his eyes constantly scanning the reactions of his bannermen. Behind them, Jon and
Robb followed their mother, Lady Catelyn maintaining a graceful bearing despite the
intimidating surroundings.

As they approached the massive sheets covering the constructs, Owen felt Sansa press closer
to his side. The outline of the Dwarven Colossi was visible even through the heavy fabric -
two towering shapes that loomed over everything in the factory.

"My lords," Owen announced, his voice carrying over the mechanical sounds of the factory.
"What you've seen so far is impressive, but these..." He gripped the control staff tightly, its
metal cool against his palm. "These and the ones to follow will be the true guardians and
bulwark of the North."

With a gesture, Owen commanded the sheets to fall away. Gasps echoed through the
assembled nobles as the two massive Dwarven Colossi were revealed in their full glory.
Thirty feet tall, their bronze and steel bodies gleamed in the factory light, their massive sword
arms and flame cannons marking them as weapons of unprecedented power.

Even the Greatjon, who had shown such enthusiasm for the magical Warhammer earlier, took
several steps backward. Roose Bolton's already pale face went white as chalk, his usual
composure cracking at the sight of the mechanical giants.

Owen raised the control staff, channeling his will through it. The Colossi's eyes flared to life
with a burning red glow, and their joints creaked as they straightened to their full height.
Steam hissed from their vents as their internal mechanisms engaged, and their massive heads
turned in perfect synchronization to survey the gathered lords.

Sansa's grip on Owen's arm had become almost painful, but he kept his focus on controlling
the constructs. The nobles' reactions ranged from terror to awe as the Colossi stood at
attention, their presence filling the vast space with an almost palpable sense of power.

Owen watched as the initial shock began to wear off among the assembled lords. He nodded
slightly to Lord Stark, who stepped forward to address his bannermen.

"My lords, what you see before you represents a power unlike any in the known world,"
Eddard began, his voice steady and authoritative. "These Dwarven Colossi are living
fortresses, each capable of holding a strategic position against overwhelming odds."

Owen moved forward, the control staff humming with energy in his grip. "Allow me to
demonstrate their capabilities." He directed one of the massive constructs to raise its sword
arm. "The blade is Dwemer metal, harder than castle-forged steel and enchanted to maintain
its edge forever. A single swing can cleave through multiple men-at-arms or heavy cavalry."

The Colossus's other arm lifted, revealing the intricate mechanism of its flame cannon. "This
weapon," Owen continued, "can launch concentrated bursts of flame capable of breaking
shield walls or routing cavalry charges. The range exceeds that of any trebuchet."

"Two of these constructs," Eddard added, "could hold the Neck against an army of twenty
thousand. Three could defend White Harbor's walls more effectively than five hundred
archers."

The Greatjon stepped closer, his initial fear giving way to tactical interest. "They cannot be
killed by normal means?"

"Their armor is nearly impervious to conventional weapons," Owen explained. "Even

trebuchet stones would merely bounce off. They don't tire, need no food or rest, and can
operate in any weather conditions."
"What of maintenance?" Roose Bolton's whisper carried across the factory floor. "Surely
such complex machines require constant attention?"

Owen shook his head. "The Dwemer metallurgy and enchantments make them largely self-
maintaining. They can operate continuously for months without requiring any significant
repairs."

"And their control?" Howland Reed asked, studying the staff in Owen's hands with keen
interest.

"Each Colossus responds to specific command staves or to my command should i be near

them," Owen demonstrated by making one of the giants kneel, its movements precise despite
its massive size. "Without a proper staff and the knowledge to use it, they remain completely
inert."

Eddard moved to stand beside Owen. "Think of them as mobile fortresses, my lords. Two
Colossi could hold a strategic chokepoint indefinitely against any force that doesn't possess
similar constructs. And as far as we know, no one else in the world has anything approaching
this capability."

The assembled nobles watched as Owen put the Colossi through a series of combat
maneuvers, demonstrating their speed and coordination despite their enormous size. Their
mechanical precision and raw power spoke more eloquently than any words could about their
military potential.

Owen guided the assembled nobles back outside the factory, the massive doors groaning as
they opened wide enough to accommodate the Colossi. With precise movements of his
control staff, he commanded the mechanical giants to march forward, their heavy footsteps
sending tremors through the ground with each step.

"My lords, if you'll direct your attention to that defensive wall," Owen gestured toward a
specially constructed barrier of solid stone, nearly six feet thick. "This represents the type of
fortification you might find in a well-defended keep or castle."

The nobles gathered at a safe distance, their faces a mix of anticipation and unease as the
Colossi took position. Even Roose Bolton's customarily impassive expression showed signs
of strain as he watched the towering constructs align their flame cannons.

"Fire," Owen commanded, channeling his will through the staff.

The Colossi's flame cannons blazed to life with a deafening roar. Twin streams of
concentrated fire struck the wall, and the heat was so intense that the nobles had to step back
further. The stone didn't just crack or break - it liquefied, turning to molten slag that ran in
rivulets down what remained of the wall's face.

When the flames ceased, there was nothing left but a pool of cooling rock and a gap wide
enough to march an army through. Steam rose from the melted stone, and the acrid smell of
scorched earth filled the air.
"Seven hells," the Greatjon breathed, his usual boisterous manner subdued by the awesome
display of destructive power.

"No castle wall could withstand that," Robett Glover observed, his voice tight. "No shield
wall, no defensive position..."

"Imagine being a soldier," Maege Mormont added, her experienced warrior's eye assessing
the tactical implications. "Seeing these giants approach your position, knowing they could
reduce your defenses to liquid stone..." She shook her head. "Most men would break and run
before the first shot was fired."

Owen noticed how the lords' expressions had shifted from wonder to calculation. They were
no longer seeing just the impressive display of power - they were envisioning how such
weapons would change the nature of warfare itself.

"The impact on a mans will alone would be devastating," Howland Reed noted quietly. "An
army that sees these approaching their lines... even the bravest warriors and knights might
think twice about holding their ground."

The Colossi stood silently now, steam still venting from their joints, their massive forms
casting long shadows across the demolished wall. The message was clear - the North now
possessed a military advantage that would make any potential aggressor think very carefully
before considering invasion.

Owen sat between Robb and Jon at one of the long tables in Winterfell's great hall, watching
the animated discussions unfold around them. The hall buzzed with excited chatter as lords
debated what they'd witnessed, their voices carrying over the clinking of cups and plates.

"Look at Karstark's face," Robb murmured, nodding toward where the lord of Karhold sat
gesturing enthusiastically. "I haven't seen him this animated since the last harvest feast."

"The Greatjon hasn't stopped examining that sword you gave him to test," Jon added quietly.
"He's showing everyone who'll look how perfect it is, though he must be missing the
Warhammer."

Owen noted how the lords had naturally divided themselves. The more martial houses like
Mormont and Umber clustered together, clearly discussing military applications. The coastal
lords spoke in hushed tones, likely considering trade implications. And in a corner, Bolton sat
with a small group, their faces serious as they whispered among themselves.

At the high table, Lord Stark watched it all with his characteristic stoic expression, though
Owen caught the slight tightening around his eyes as he observed certain conversations. Lady
Catelyn sat beside him, maintaining a graceful composure while she spoke softly with Lady
Dustin who had come forward to speak.

The relative quiet that had settled over the hall broke when Roose Bolton stood, his pale eyes
fixed on Owen. The soft-spoken lord rarely raised his voice, but now every word carried
clearly through the suddenly silent room.

"My lord Stark," Bolton began, his whisper somehow filling the space. "These innovations
are truly remarkable. But surely we must discuss their implications for the North's future?"
His gaze shifted to Owen. "How exactly are these weapons and automatons forged? What
metals and ores are used in their creation?"

Owen felt the weight of every eye in the hall turn to him. Bolton wasn't finished.

"Will these marvels be shared equally among all northern lords? Will we each have the
opportunity to command such forces?" Bolton's pale lips curved in what might have been a
smile. "Perhaps young Lord Owen could travel to each castle and holdfast, building whatever
we require?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall. Owen noticed Lord Stark's eyes harden
slightly at Bolton's tone, catching the naked greed beneath the reasonable-sounding
questions.

Beside Owen, both Robb and Jon had tensed, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. The
excited discussions of earlier had transformed into something more calculating as the lords
awaited their answers.

Owen and the starks watched as Lord Eddard rose from his seat at the high table, his presence
commanding immediate attention from the assembled lords. The murmurs died down as the
Warden of the North prepared to address the concerns raised by Bolton.

"My lords," Eddard's voice carried clear and strong through the great hall. "I understand your
eagerness to secure these advantages for your own holdings. Indeed, every noble house of the
North will benefit from these innovations."

Owen noted how Bolton's pale eyes narrowed slightly at this opening statement.

"Your villages and holds will have glasshouses to grow food through winter. Your roads will
be paved with cement and reinforced with ebony, making trade and travel easier than ever
before. Your castle defenses will be improved beyond anything seen in the Seven Kingdoms."

A wave of appreciative murmurs swept through the hall, but Owen could see the calculation
in many lords' expressions. They wanted more than just infrastructure.

"However," Eddard continued, "this will not be accomplished by Lord Owen personally
traveling to each holdfast. Such an approach would take years, leaving many waiting while
others benefited first." He gestured toward Owen. "Instead, an army of steam constructors
stands ready to deploy across the North, beginning work at all locations simultaneously."

Owen watched several lords exchange glances at this revelation. The idea of magical
constructs working independently in their territories brought both excitement and unease to
their faces.
"As for the source of these materials and the methods of their creation," Eddard's tone grew
firmer, "that knowledge remains a secret held jointly by House Stark and Lord Owen. Only
he possesses the ability to mine these ores and forge these unique weapons and automatons."

The disgruntled murmurs that followed were exactly what Owen had expected. He noticed
Lord Bolton's fingers drumming slowly on the table, while other ambitious lords shifted
uncomfortably in their seats. The limitation of access to such powerful resources clearly
didn't sit well with some of them.

Eddard remained standing, his stern gaze sweeping across the hall, meeting each lord's eyes
in turn. The message was clear - this was not a point open for debate. The grumbling
continued quietly, but none dared voice open opposition to their liege lord's declaration.

Lord starks commanding presence held the attention of every lord in the great hall as they
quieted.

"The purpose of today's demonstration was not to spark competition or ambition among our
houses," Eddard continued, his voice steady and firm. "Rather, it was to prepare you for what
you will soon witness in your own lands. Steam constructors will arrive at your holdings to
begin their work, and I wanted you to understand their nature before they appeared at your
gates."

The tension in the room began to ease as understanding dawned on the lords' faces. This
wasn't about who would receive the most powerful weapons or the largest share of magical
resources - it was about preparing the North as a whole.

"Everything you've seen today must remain within these walls," Eddard declared. "The
North's strength has always come from our unity and our ability to keep our own counsel.
Lord Owen's creations offer us an unprecedented opportunity to strengthen ourselves without
relying on the South."

Owen noticed several heads nodding in agreement, particularly among the older lords who
had long chafed at their dependence on southern trade and resources.

"Within months, your holdings will be transformed. The steam constructors will build roads
of stone and ebony, connecting our lands more efficiently than ever before. Your villages and
castles will have glasshouses that can grow crops even in the deepest winter - yielding three
times what a summer field produces in a single month."

The Greatjon's booming voice cut through the murmurs. "And these constructs will work
without supervision? Without our men needed to guide them?"

"They require no guidance," Owen spoke up, meeting the large lord's gaze. "Once given their
tasks, they work tirelessly, day and night, until the job is complete."

Eddard nodded in approval before continuing. "Beyond infrastructure, we will strengthen our
military might. Our men-at-arms will be better armed and armored than any force in the
Seven Kingdoms. Our small number of ships will be grown and made faster and more
powerful, securing our coasts and expanding our trade capabilities. A new Norther Fleet."
Owen saw Lord Manderly lean forward with particular interest at the mention of ships, his
multiple chins quivering with excitement.

"Most importantly," Eddard's voice grew more solemn, "we will rebuild Moat Cailin to its
former glory and restore the Night's Watch's abandoned forts. The North's defenses will be
unmatched, but only if we maintain absolute secrecy while these works are completed."

The hall fell silent as the full scope of Eddard's vision sank in. This wasn't just about
individual improvements or advantages - it was about transforming the North itself, making it
stronger and more self-sufficient than it had been in centuries.

"I ask for your patience and discretion," Eddard concluded. "When the steam constructors
arrive at your lands, let them work without interference. Keep their presence and their
activities secret from any southern visitors or merchants. The strength of the North depends
on our unity in this matter."

Owen watched as the lords' earlier greed and ambition transformed into something more
focused - a shared vision of a stronger, more independent North. Even Roose Bolton's pale
eyes had lost their calculating edge, replaced by a thoughtful consideration of the broader
implications.

The future of the North was being shaped in this hall, and for once, all its lords seemed united
in purpose. The North would be a force to reckoned with and all they needed was time and
silence.
 Southern Concerns
Chapter Notes

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Jon Arryn sat at the head of the ornate table in the Small Council chamber, his weathered
hands folded before him. Shafts of morning light streamed through the high windows, casting
long shadows across the polished floor. The familiar creak of the heavy wooden doors
announced the arrival of his fellow council members.

Pycelle shuffled in first, his chain clinking with each deliberate step. The old maester's eyes
darted around the room as he lowered himself into his chair with exaggerated care. Barristan
Selmy followed, his white cloak pristine, his bearing proud despite his advancing years.

Varys glided to his seat, seeming to float rather than walk, his powdered face impassive. The
Spider's silk slippers made no sound on the stone floor. Renly strode in with his usual
flourish, adjusting his elaborately embroidered doublet as he took his place.

Petyr Baelish entered with that ever-present half-smile playing at his lips, his fingers trailing
along the back of his chair before he sat. Stannis was last, his jaw clenched tight as always,
his presence bringing a chill to the room that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Shall we begin?" Stannis's voice was sharp as steel against stone. His fingers drummed an
impatient rhythm on the table.

Jon Arryn shook his head, the movement causing a twinge in his neck. "We await His Grace."

A soft laugh escaped Petyr's lips. "My dear Lord Hand, surely you don't expect Robert to
grace us with his presence? I can't recall the last time he attended a council meeting. He's
likely still abed, nursing last night's wine."

"He will attend." Jon's voice carried the weight of certainty. "I've made sure of it."

Not a moment later, Jon Arryn watched with satisfaction as the heavy doors swung open once
more. Robert's massive frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of
his black and gold doublet. The King's eyes were clear, his movements steady - a rare sight
these days. Jon noted the absence of the usual wine-flush in Robert's cheeks and the tremor in
his hands.

But it was the figure behind Robert that caused the Small Council members to straighten in
their seats. Queen Cersei entered with the fluid grace of a cat, her emerald eyes scanning the
room with careful consideration. Her presence was unexpected - in all his years as Hand, Jon
could count on one hand the number of times she'd attended these meetings.

The Queen's dress was a masterwork of Lannister craftsmanship, crimson silk embroidered
with golden thread that caught the morning light. Her golden hair cascaded down her back in
carefully arranged waves, and a delicate golden chain graced her neck. Despite the early
hour, she looked as though she'd stepped from a painting.

"Your Grace," Varys rose smoothly from his seat beside Jon, bowing deeply. "Please, take my
place." The Spider's soft-soled shoes whispered across the floor as he relocated next to
Littlefinger, who watched the proceedings with poorly concealed interest.

Robert dropped into the chair beside Jon, the wood groaning in protest. "Well, Jon? I'm here
as you asked, and sober too, damn you." His thick fingers drummed against the table's
surface. "What's so bloody important? Have the dragon-spawns been spotted? Is it war?"

The king's questions hung in the air as Jon noted how Cersei's perfectly shaped eyebrows
arched slightly at her husband's words, her face otherwise remaining a mask of courtly
serenity.

Jon Arryn raised his hand in a calming gesture. "No, Your Grace. The Targaryen children
remain in exile." He turned to Varys, who dabbed at his powdered cheek with a silk
handkerchief.

"Indeed, my little birds last spotted them in Myr," the Spider confirmed, his voice soft as silk.
"The beggar king still dreams of armies, but finds only closed doors and empty promises."

Robert's shoulders relaxed, though his fingers continued their restless dance across the table's
surface. "Then what's this about the North?"

"Actually, it's rather curious." Jon watched as Robert's entire demeanor shifted at the mention
of the North, noting how the king's eyes sharpened with sudden interest. Any mention of
Eddard Stark had that effect on Robert - always had, since their days in the Eyrie.

"Is Ned in trouble?" Robert's fist clenched. "Does he need aid? Just say the word, Jon. If
some northern lords need their heads smashed in, I'll gladly do it myself." The king's voice
carried the eager tone of a man hoping for action, for a chance to relive his glory days.

Jon shook his head, hiding his weariness behind years of practiced diplomacy. "Nothing of
the sort, Your Grace. In fact, what's peculiar is how little we've heard from the North. The
usual complaints about taxes, requests for aid, petty disputes between houses - they've all but
ceased."
From the corner of his eye, Jon caught Stannis's scowl deepening. The middle Baratheon's
jaw clenched so tight Jon could almost hear teeth grinding. It was no secret how Stannis
resented Robert's preference for Eddard Stark over his own blood brother. The fact that
Robert had straightened in his chair at the mere mention of Ned's name, showing more
interest than he had in months of council meetings, only twisted that knife deeper.

Jon Arryn unrolled a thick parchment, its edges worn from frequent handling. The sound of
crackling paper filled the tense silence of the council chamber. He watched as Robert's
expression shifted from boredom to keen interest at the sight of the northern seal.

"It began roughly four years ago," Jon said, his aged fingers tracing the lines of text, "when
Lord Stark announced the betrothal of his eldest daughter to a minor lord named Owen
Longshore."

"Longshore?" Petyr's voice carried a note of barely concealed amusement. "I wasn't aware
House Stark had fallen so far as to marry their precious daughters to insignificant lords.
Perhaps these times have been harder on the North than we thought."

The laughter died in Littlefinger's throat as both Robert and Jon fixed him with murderous
glares. Jon noted how Petyr's hand moved unconsciously to touch his throat, a gesture that
spoke of remembered threats.

"If you're quite finished," Jon continued, his tone carrying decades of authority, "since that
announcement, we've received... unusual reports from the North." He spread several more
scrolls across the table. "At first, they seemed too fantastic to be believed. Tales of glass
gardens spreading across the northern keeps, producing large summer harvests more than
ever heard of. Stories of strange metal men working tirelessly day and night."

Robert leaned forward, his chair groaning under the sudden shift of weight. "Metal men?
What nonsense is this, Jon?"

"That was our initial reaction as well, Your Grace. We dismissed them as tavern tales,
exaggerations from merchants who'd had too much ale. But the reports kept coming, each
more consistent than the last. The North's grain shipments to the Night's Watch have tripled.
Their steel production has increased tenfold. And there are whispers..." Jon paused, studying
the faces around the table, "of massive constructs, thirty feet tall, patrolling the northern
borders."

Jon watched as the council members exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from
skepticism to concern. Only Varys remained impassive, though Jon noticed how the Spider's
fingers had stilled their usual restless movement - a sure sign that even he was caught off
guard by these revelations.

Jon Arryn watched as Robert let out a dismissive snort, his thick fingers wrapping around his
goblet of water - a rare sight indeed.

"Fever dreams from drunk vagabonds, nothing more," Robert declared, though his eyes
betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
"I would tend to agree, Your Grace," Jon said carefully, his weathered hands smoothing
another piece of parchment bearing the golden rose seal of House Tyrell. "However, I
received this rather interesting letter from Mace Tyrell just three days past. He inquires if
perhaps House Stark has fallen upon financial difficulties."

"The Starks? In financial trouble?" Littlefinger's eyebrows rose slightly. "Their coffers have
always been modest, but stable."

"Indeed." Jon's eyes swept across the council members. "Lord Tyrell writes because all grain
shipments to the North have been cancelled. Not just from the Reach, but from their own
bannermen to the northern vassals as well."

The reaction was immediate. Pycelle's slouch vanished as he sat upright, his chain clicking
against the table. Varys's hands stilled completely, while Stannis's jaw clenched even tighter
than usual.

"Impossible," Pycelle declared, his trembling voice suddenly firm. "The North cannot sustain
itself without southern grain. Their growing season is too short, their soil too poor. They've
relied on imports since before Aegon's Conquest."

"The Grand Maester speaks true," Stannis ground out. "Even in summer as we are now, the
North requires substantial food imports to feed its population. In winter, they'd starve without
southern grain."

Jon allowed himself a small smile as he rose from his seat. His joints protested the
movement, but he managed to maintain his dignity as he walked to the chamber doors. With
practiced timing, he pulled them open to reveal a waiting servant.

The young man entered, pushing a cart laden with platters. As he set them on the table, even
Cersei's careful mask of indifference cracked slightly.

Before them lay the most perfect produce any of them had ever seen. Tomatoes gleamed like
polished rubies, their skin unmarred and flesh firm. Lettuce leaves curled in elegant layers, a
deeper green than the finest emeralds. Carrots stretched as long as a man's forearm, their
orange hue rich and even.

But it was the fruits that drew gasps. Grapes hung in clusters larger than a man's fist, their
purple skin dusted with a perfect bloom. Apples shone in shades of red and gold that put the
Lannister banners to shame. Peaches and pears sat plump and perfect, their scent filling the
chamber with sweet promise. Each piece looked as if it had been plucked at the precise
moment of ripeness.

Jon Arryn watched the council members examine the produce before them, their reactions
ranging from disbelief to outright suspicion. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention
back to the matter at hand.

"These fruits and vegetables," he began, his voice steady and clear, "were purchased from a
merchant captain named Sallanor Yuan, who trades regularly between the Free Cities and
King's Landing. He acquired them from several northern houses, including House Stark."
Robert reached for one of the apples, turning it in his thick fingers. "Bought from the North?
Impossible. The North doesn't grow such things."

"That's not the most remarkable part," Jon continued. "The merchant paid a premium for
these goods - three times what similar produce would cost from the Reach. And yet he still
turned a significant profit selling them here in King's Landing and across the Narrow Sea."

Pycelle's chain rattled as he leaned forward to inspect a cluster of grapes. "My lord Hand,
surely you don't expect us to believe-"

"The most extraordinary claim," Jon cut him off, "is that all of this produce was purchased
three months ago."

The chamber erupted in chaos. Pycelle sputtered indignantly about the impossibility of such
preservation. Littlefinger's mocking laughter rang out above Renly's exclamations of
disbelief. Stannis's voice cut through the din, demanding proof of such outlandish claims.

Only Varys remained silent, his powder-dusted face betraying nothing as he studied the fresh
produce before him. Jon noted how the Spider's eyes narrowed slightly - a tell he'd learned to
recognize over the years when something truly surprised the Master of Whisperers.

Jon raised his hand for silence, and years of authority made the council members fall quiet,
though Pycelle continued to mutter under his breath.

"I have personally interviewed Captain Yuan and his entire crew," Jon stated. "Separately,
under careful questioning. Their stories match perfectly - these goods were indeed purchased
three months ago from northern houses. The crew members who helped load the cargo, the
merchants who bought portions in various ports, even the stewards who stored it in their
holds - all confirm the timeline."

Jon watched as the implications of his words sank in. Even Cersei's carefully maintained
mask of indifference cracked slightly as she reached out to touch a perfect peach, its skin still
carrying the blush of freshness that should have faded weeks ago.

Jon Arryn watched the faces around the table as realization dawned. The North - traditionally
one of the poorest regions of the Seven Kingdoms - had achieved something unprecedented.
His aged eyes settled on Petyr Baelish, who sat with that characteristic half-smile playing at
his lips.

"Lord Baelish," Jon's voice carried the weight of his office, "the northern taxes these past four
years - have they been regular?"

Jon noticed how Petyr's fingers, usually dancing across the table's surface with practiced
confidence, stilled for a moment. The Master of Coin's hesitation was subtle - so subtle that
most would miss it - but Jon had not survived decades of court politics by missing such
details.

"More," Petyr murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Robert's fist crashed against the table, making the perfect produce bounce. "Speak up, damn
you! What about the northern taxes?"

Petyr straightened in his chair, his composure returning though his usual smugness seemed
somewhat diminished. "They've been more than usual, Your Grace. The North's contributions
to the royal treasury have not only been punctual but have increased significantly. In fact," he
paused, consulting a ledger he pulled from his robes, "their payments have matched, and in
some cases exceeded, what we receive from the Westerlands or the Reach."

The silence that followed was deafening. Jon watched as Stannis's face darkened with
disbelief, while Renly's usual playful expression gave way to genuine shock. Pycelle's mouth
opened and closed several times, like a fish gasping for air.

But it was Cersei's reaction that caught Jon's attention. The Queen's face had lost its usual
golden luster, taking on an almost ashen quality. Her fingers clutched at what appeared to be
a letter, the parchment crinkling under her grip. The slight tremor in her hands betrayed an
anxiety that her carefully schooled features tried to hide.

Jon's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of that letter. In all his years serving as Hand, he had
never seen the proud Queen display such obvious distress.

Jon watched as Robert's face turned a dangerous shade of red, his fingers clenching around
the apple until the perfect fruit began to show signs of bruising.

"Why wasn't I or jon informed of this increase in taxes?" Robert's voice boomed through the
chamber, causing Pycelle to flinch visibly.

Petyr shifted in his seat, his usual composure wavering under the king's intense glare. "Your
Grace, I... I merely thought..." He paused, collecting himself. "An increase in tax revenue is
only beneficial for the crown. I assumed the North had finally begun more aggressive trading
with Essos and beyond to acquire more gold. There seemed no reason to question good
fortune."

Jon noticed how Petyr's fingers drummed against his ledger - a nervous tell he'd never seen
from the usually unflappable Master of Coin.

"In fact," Petyr continued, his voice growing stronger as he found safer ground in his
numbers, "thanks to the last payment of taxes, I'm pleased to announce that the crown is no
longer in debt to House Lannister. We've managed to pay it in full."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the distant sounds of the castle seemed muted,
as if the very air held its breath. Jon watched as Cersei's knuckles whitened around her letter,
her face a mask of barely contained fury.

Stannis's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "How much?" When Petyr looked at him
questioningly, Stannis ground his teeth. "How much was the debt to House Lannister?"

"Three million and five hundred thousand gold dragons, my lord," Petyr replied promptly.
"And the northern taxes?" Stannis pressed, his eyes boring into the Master of Coin. "How
much has the North been sending these past four years?"

Petyr consulted his ledger, though Jon suspected the man knew the numbers by heart. "The
North has been sending one hundred thousand gold dragons every month for the last four
years. This represents an increase of ninety thousand gold dragons over their previous
monthly payments."

Jon watched as the council members did the mental calculations, their expressions shifting as
they realized the staggering amount of gold that had flowed from the traditionally poor North
into the royal coffers.

Jon watched as Robert's face contorted with fury. The king's massive arm drew back and
hurled his water goblet with shocking speed directly at Petyr's head. The Master of Coin
barely managed to dodge, the silver vessel clanging against the wall behind him and
splashing water across his expensive silks.

"You useless fucking worm!" Robert roared, his face purple with rage. "You mean to tell me
the North has been sending that much gold, and you didn't think to inform me or Jon? What
else have you been hiding in those pretty little books of yours?"

Petyr tried to maintain his composure as he dabbed at his wet clothing with a handkerchief.
"Your Grace, I-"

"Shut your mouth before I shut it permanently," Robert snapped, then turned to Jon. "After
this meeting, you're to sit down with this idiot and go through every bloody record. I want to
know exactly how much Ned has been sending us, down to the last copper penny. And I want
a full accounting of the royal coffers."

Jon nodded, pleased to see Robert taking an interest in the realm's finances for once. "Of
course, Your Grace. Lord Stannis, perhaps you'd care to join us? Your expertise in these
matters would be invaluable."

Stannis gave a curt nod, his jaw finally unclenching enough to speak. "A wise suggestion.
The crown's debts have been a burden for too long."

The irony wasn't lost on Jon - that Robert, whose excessive feasting, drinking, and whoring
had contributed so heavily to those debts, now seemed eager to resolve them. Still, Jon
wouldn't question this rare display of fiscal responsibility from his former ward.

"I want every detail," Robert continued, jabbing a thick finger at Petyr. "Every payment,
every date, every source. And gods help you if I find you've been skimming anything off the
top."

Petyr bowed low, though Jon noticed his usual smirk had been replaced by something closer
to genuine concern. "As you command, Your Grace. I assure you, all the records are
meticulously kept."
Jon watched as Cersei finally straightened in her chair, smoothing the crumpled letter with
trembling hands.

"These revelations," she began, her voice tight with controlled anger, "corroborate what my
lord father wrote to me." She held up the letter, its Lannister seal broken but still visible.
"Lord Tywin recently received a delegation from Lys. Among them was one of their most
prominent courtesans."

Jon noticed how Robert's eyes narrowed at the mention of Tywin Lannister. The king's
loathing for his father-in-law was no secret.

"The courtesan," Cersei continued, "had purchased two necklaces of extraordinary

craftsmanship from a trader in Essos. This trader claimed he acquired them in White Harbor,
from a merchant who was selling them on behalf of Lord Stark's wife." Her lip curled
slightly. "Apparently, Lady Catelyn had 'enough of them.'"

The implications of her words hung heavy in the air. Jon remembered Catelyn Tully from her
youth - a practical woman who valued duty over ostentation. The idea of her possessing
multiple pieces of jewelry so valuable that she could casually dispose of them seemed utterly
foreign to her character.

"My father," Cersei's voice cut through the silence, "purchased one of these necklaces from
the courtesan. He paid three hundred thousand gold dragons for it."

Stannis's head snapped up, his perpetual frown deepening. "Three hundred thousand dragons?
For a necklace?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "No piece of jewelry could be worth
such a sum. Not unless it was crafted by the Valyrians themselves."

Cersei nodded, her composure returning as she shifted into more familiar territory. "My
father thought the same, until he saw the necklace itself. He sent it by guarded courier a week
ago, and I must..." she paused, the admission clearly paining her, "concede that I wish he had
bought the other as well."

Jon watched intently as Cersei reached into the folds of her crimson dress and withdrew a
small box of dark wood. The chamber fell silent as she opened it with deliberate slowness,
revealing its contents to the council.

Even Jon, who had seen the wealth of three kingdoms in his long years of service, felt his
breath catch. The necklace was a masterwork that defied description. Golden wolves prowled
through intricate snowflakes, each detail so fine it seemed impossible they were worked by
human hands. Rubies and diamonds larger than any Jon had seen outside a crown caught the
light, scattering it across the chamber in brilliant patterns. The craftsmanship made the finest
work from Lannisport or Pentos look crude by comparison.

The necklace passed from hand to hand around the table. Jon noted each reaction carefully.
Pycelle's hands trembled as he held it, his scholarly interest overwhelming his usual pretense
of infirmity. Varys cradled it with uncharacteristic reverence, his powdered face betraying
genuine wonder. Even Stannis, who normally showed disdain for such luxuries, examined it
with intense focus.
When it reached Petyr, the Master of Coin spent several long moments studying it through
narrowed eyes. His fingers traced the metalwork with the expertise of someone who had
spent years assessing valuable items. For once, his customary smirk was absent.

"My father," Cersei continued, her voice carrying a note of barely suppressed anger, "had the
merchant who sold it to the courtesan tracked down and questioned. He confirmed it without
hesitation - the necklace came from the North, from House Stark."

Jon watched as Robert lifted the necklace to the light, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as
they traced the wolves running through the intricate design. The king's face showed an
emotion Jon hadn't seen in years - not rage or lust or drunken merriment, but genuine wonder.

"Even the finest craftsmen in King's Landing couldn't create something a quarter as beautiful
as this," Robert declared, still mesmerized by the necklace. "Not even if I gave them ten years
and all the gold in Casterly Rock."

Heads nodded around the table in silent agreement. Jon noticed how even Cersei, despite her
obvious displeasure at the North's apparent wealth, couldn't hide her admiration for the piece.

"Jon," Robert turned to him, finally setting the necklace down. "What other whispers have
reached your ears about the North? Out with it - all of it."

Jon Arryn straightened in his chair, his aged joints protesting the movement. "The reports
are... extraordinary, Your Grace. Merchants speak of glasshouses appearing overnight in
villages and lords holds throughout the North - not just one or two, but dozens at a time. They
claim to see crops growing even in the harshest weather."

"Impossible," Pycelle interjected. "The cost alone of building so many glasshouses-"

"The roads," Jon continued, silencing the Grand Maester with a sharp look, "have been
repaired throughout the North with some strange material - harder than stone, yet smooth as
polished marble. Traders claim their journey times have been cut in half."

Stannis's brow furrowed deeper. "What material?"

"Unknown, my lord. But there's more. A castle has risen at Sea Dragon Point - built in just
two weeks, apparently the home of the mentioned Lord Longshore and lady Sansa. If the
reports are to be believed. Merchants describe it as vast and well-defended, with walls higher
than those of Storm's End."

"Two weeks?" Renly laughed. "It takes years to build a proper castle. These must be
exaggerations."

"Perhaps," Jon conceded, "but the ships are no exaggeration. I've had reports from captains
all along the eastern coast. The North has new vessels unlike any seen before - larger than
war galleys but faster than trading cogs. They patrol the northern shores with impressive
efficiency, and those that sail to Essos return laden with exotic goods and gold."

"And the metal men?" Robert prompted, leaning forward.

Jon noticed how Varys shifted slightly at this mention - clearly, the Spider had heard these
particular whispers as well. "Yes, Your Grace. Reports speak of metal constructs - some
describe them as men made of bronze or brass, others as giant spiders of steel - patrolling the
North's borders and roads. They say these... things... work tirelessly, needing no rest or
sustenance."

The chamber fell silent as the council members absorbed these revelations. Jon watched as
Petyr's fingers resumed their nervous drumming on the table, while Pycelle's chain rattled
with his agitated movements.

"There are other reports as well," Jon continued. "Strange lights seen in the night sky above
Winterfell, sounds like thunder from clear skies, and traders swear they've seen massive
figures - taller than the walls of Winterfell itself - moving in the distance during
snowstorms."

Jon watched as Robert sank back into his chair, the wood creaking under his considerable
weight. The chamber fell into a heavy silence as the council members absorbed the
implications of Jon's report. The quiet was broken only by the distant sounds of the castle and
the nervous shuffling of papers as Pycelle fidgeted with his documents.

Robert's hand clenched and unclenched on the armrest of his chair. "Why?" he finally
growled, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "Why are we only hearing about this now?
Four bloody years, and not a whisper reaches us except for Littlefinger's blunder with the
taxes?" He swept his gaze around the table, fixing each council member with an accusing
stare.

Jon cleared his throat, his aged voice steady despite the tension in the room. "I cannot explain
everything else, Your Grace, but regarding their grain contracts with the Reach - that was
done gradually, over an extended period. The North reduced their orders bit by bit, so slowly
that it appeared natural. By the time they had cut off all trade entirely, it seemed merely the
result of changing circumstances rather than a deliberate strategy."

Robert nodded slowly, then turned his attention to Varys. The Spider sat perfectly still under
the king's scrutiny, his powdered face betraying nothing.

"And what of your little birds, Lord Varys?" Robert demanded. "Have they all frozen to death
in the North?"

Varys spread his soft hands in an apologetic gesture. "My little birds have sent nothing
unusual from the North, Your Grace, save the typical rumors one might expect - lords and
ladies in their indiscretions, whispers of the summer festival some years past. Nothing to
suggest..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "such dramatic developments."

Robert's attention shifted to Stannis, who sat rigid in his chair, jaw clenched tight.

"And the Royal Fleet?" Robert barked. "Have all our captains gone blind?"

Stannis ground his teeth before responding. "If these northern ships exist as described, they
have never made contact with our vessels. Either they use different routes entirely, or..." he
paused, clearly disturbed by the implications, "if they are indeed as swift as reported, they
could easily avoid any encounter with our ships."

Cersei's perfectly manicured fingers smoothed her skirts as she leaned forward as stannis
finished, her voice taking on the measured tone she used when presenting her father's wishes
as her own.

"My lord husband, it's clear the Starks have discovered vast mines of precious metals and
gems. These necklaces, the sudden wealth, the increased taxes - they must be withholding the
true extent of their resources from the crown." Her green eyes flickered to Jon briefly before
returning to Robert. "My father suggests-"

"Oh, does he now?" Robert's laugh was harsh and bitter. "And what does the great Lord
Tywin suggest? That I summon Ned Stark like some errant child to explain himself?"

Cersei's composure slipped for just a moment. "The crown has a right to know-"

"The crown knows exactly what it needs to know," Robert thundered, slamming his fist on
the table. "Ned Stark has paid his taxes threefold and cleared the crown's debt to your father.
Or does that displease Lord Tywin?"

Jon suppressed a grimace as he watched Cersei's face flush with anger. Her words were
having precisely the opposite effect she'd intended. Robert's dislike for Tywin ran deep, and
any suggestion from that quarter was likely to be met with instant opposition.

"My love," Cersei pressed on, though Jon could see the tension in her jaw, "my father only
wishes to ensure the proper accounting of the realm's resources. If the North has indeed found
such wealth-"

"Then it belongs to the North," Robert cut her off. "And I'll not have Tywin Lannister's
grasping hands reaching for it."

Jon observed the other council members' reactions. Varys watched the exchange with
practiced neutrality, though his eyes betrayed keen interest. Pycelle seemed to be trying to
make himself smaller in his chair, while Stannis ground his teeth in his usual fashion. They
all knew the truth - this had nothing to do with proper accounting and everything to do with
Tywin Lannister's relentless pursuit of power and control.

"The North's newfound prosperity benefits the entire realm," Jon arryn finally spoke, his aged
voice carrying the weight of authority as Hand of The King. "Whether through mines or
craftsmen or other means, their contributions have strengthened the crown's position
considerably." He fixed Cersei with a steady gaze. "Perhaps Lord Tywin's concerns would be
better addressed to the impressive sum they've just repaid to his house."

The queen's face twisted into a sneer, but before she could respond, Robert let out a bark of
laughter.

"Well said, Jon!" He raised his empty goblet in mock salute. "Let Tywin count his returned
gold and leave the North to those who've earned its trust."
Jon watched as Cersei's fingers curled into fists beneath the table, her father's carefully
crafted scheme crumbling before her eyes. The old Hand of the King had seen this pattern
before - Tywin Lannister, reaching for any source of power that might emerge in the realm,
treating each new development as if it were his divine right to control it.

But this time was different. The North's transformation was too vast, too mysterious to be
simply claimed by Lannister ambition. And Robert, for all his faults, recognized the attempt
for what it was.

Jon watched as Robert shifted in his chair, his expression thoughtful - a rare sight these days.

"The truth needs finding out, though," Robert declared, turning to Jon. "Draft a letter to
Winterfell, Jon. Ask Ned what in seven hells is happening up there." He scratched his beard,
considering. "Make it friendly-like, mind you. I won't have him think I'm questioning his
loyalty."

"Of course, Your Grace," Jon replied, already composing the letter in his mind. He'd need to
choose his words carefully - Ned Stark was direct by nature, but even he might balk at certain
questions.

"And Jon," Robert added, his voice growing firmer, "if we hear any more of these tales -
metal men walking the North, harvests that defy the season, ships that outrun our fastest
vessels - then it'll be time to pay Winterfell a proper visit." A grin spread across his face.
"Been too long since I've seen Ned anyway. And I'll need to bring something special for his
daughter and that new good-son of his."

Robert pushed himself up from his chair, his considerable bulk making the wood groan in
protest. The council members rose and bowed, save for Cersei, whose rigid posture spoke
volumes about her displeasure. She followed closely behind Robert as he strode from the
chamber, no doubt ready to continue pressing her father's interests. Ser Barristan fell into step
behind them, his white cloak sweeping the floor as he went.

As the others filed out, Jon remained seated, spreading the various reports and letters across
the table before him. Each piece told part of a story, but the whole of it remained frustratingly
out of reach. Merchant manifests showing unprecedented northern wealth. Tales of
mysterious constructions appearing overnight. Whispers of metal giants patrolling the winter
snows.

Jon picked up one report, then another, his aged eyes scanning the details he'd read dozens of
times before. What was happening in the North? More importantly, what was Ned Stark
planning?
 A Lion Muses And Plans
Chapter Notes

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to you all.

Tywin Lannister stood motionless before his desk, his back rigid as stone as he faced the
window of his solar in Casterly Rock, the morning sun illuminating the bustling port of
Lannisport below. In his hand, he held a letter from Cersei, the parchment crumpling slightly
under his tightening grip.

Behind him, Kevan maintained a respectful silence while Tyrion slouched in his chair, still
battling the effects of last night's wine. The dwarf's mismatched eyes were bloodshot, his
clothes wrinkled from what was clearly a hasty dressing.

"Your sister," Tywin began, his voice cutting through the silence like Valyrian steel, "has
failed to convince that oaf Robert to summon Ned Stark to King's Landing." He turned the
letter over in his hands, contempt evident in the subtle tightening around his eyes. "The North
grows stronger by the day, and that fool Robert dismisses it as nothing more than his old
friend's good fortune."

"Perhaps Robert's trust in Stark isn't entirely misplaced," Kevan ventured carefully. "The
Starks have always been loyal to the crown."

Tywin's sharp glance silenced his brother. "Loyalty? The North has never been truly loyal to
the South. They bend the knee because they must, not because they wish to." He placed the
letter on his desk with deliberate precision. "And now they possess wealth that rivals our
own. Ships that outmatch the royal fleet. Weapons of impossible quality. Yet Robert drinks
and whores while the North builds its strength unchecked."

Tywin watched as Tyrion shifted in his seat, his son's eyes narrowing with sudden interest
despite his hangover.

"And are any of these tales true, Father? Or just the ravings of smallfolk with too much time
between harvests?"
"The necklace alone speaks volumes." Tywin's jaw tightened. "The Lysene courtesan that
approached me last month, offering to sell what she claimed was Northern craftsmanship.
Three hundred thousand gold dragons - that was my price for a piece that our finest jewelers
in Lannisport could not hope to match."

"Three hundred thousand?" Tyrion straightened. "That's-"

"More than what most lords see in a decade," Tywin cut him off. "Your sister has been
gathering intelligence through Jon Arryn's investigations." He handed the letter to Kevan
first. "Read."

Kevan's eyes widened as he scanned the contents. "Gods be good," he muttered, passing the
parchment to Tyrion.

Tyrion's face grew more serious with each line. "Glass gardens yielding harvests that put the
Reach to shame... fruits and vegetables growing in the dead of winter..." He looked up.
"Mechanical sentinels of bronze and gold patrolling their lands?

Tywin watched as his brother's face contorted with disbelief.

"This sounds like nonsense, Tywin. Tales better suited for children's stories than matters of
state." Kevan shook his head. "Mechanical sentinels? Fresh crops in winter?"

"I thought the same." Tywin strode to his desk and retrieved another letter from a locked
drawer. "Until Cersei sent word of what transpired at the Small Council three weeks past." He
unfolded the parchment with precise movements. "Jon Arryn presented fresh fruits and
vegetables to the council. Not preserved - fresh. Purchased from Northern merchants selling
their surplus."

"Surplus?" Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. "The North barely feeds itself in summer."

"These vegetables had been stored for three months," Tywin continued, his green eyes sharp
with intensity. "Without a hint of decay. The maesters examined them thoroughly."

Kevan's skepticism faltered. "Three months? That's impossible."

"Grand Maester Pycelle confirmed it in his own correspondence." Tywin produced a third
letter. "He claims the Citadel is in complete disarray over the implications. Their archives
contain nothing like it."

"And you believe this?" Kevan asked.

"Pycelle has served House Lannister faithfully for decades. He knows better than to waste my
time with fairy tales." Tywin's voice carried an edge of steel. "Something is happening in the
North. Something that threatens the balance of power we've maintained since Robert took the
throne."

"And what of these ships we keep hearing about?" Kevan's tone remained measured, but
Tywin detected the underlying tension. "Surely those tales are exaggerated."
"I thought the same." Tywin moved to pour himself a glass of water, his movements precise
and controlled. "Until my agents in Braavos confirmed what I refused to believe."

He took a careful sip, savoring the moment before continuing. "I dispatched a group of
trusted men to the Free City two months ago. Their sole purpose was to observe and report on
any vessels arriving from the North."

Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, wine forgotten. "And?"

"Two days. That's all it took before five Northern ships entered the harbor." Tywin set his
glass down with deliberate care. "Ships unlike anything seen before in all of Westeros. Larger
than our greatest warships here in Lannisport. Larger even than the Redwyne fleet's
flagships."

Kevan's brow furrowed. "How is that possible?"

"The hulls were a combination of ironwood and some metal our observers couldn't identify.
Darker than steel, lighter than iron, yet seemingly stronger than both." Tywin's jaw tightened.
"But it was what powered them that truly caught my attention."

He turned to face his brother and son fully. "Yes, they carried sails, but at the stern of each
vessel sat some manner of device. Metal constructs that churned the water behind them,
driving the ships forward even when the winds died completely."

"Moving without wind?" Tyrion's voice carried a note of genuine surprise. "That would
revolutionize naval warfare."

"Precisely." Tywin's green eyes narrowed. "And these ships now sail freely between the
North and Braavos, carrying goods and materials we can only guess at."

Tywin's fingers traced the rim of his water glass as he continued. "For a full week, these
Northern vessels dominated the Braavosi markets. My men reported their cargo holds seemed
endless - hundreds, perhaps thousands of crates of fresh produce. Grain. Fruits that should
have rotted weeks ago during or before the journey."

He moved to his desk and retrieved another report, this one bearing the purple seal of House
Lannister's most trusted spy in Braavos. "The merchants practically fought each other to
secure contracts. Fresh Northern crops, available in quantities that shouldn't be possible, sold
at prices that undercut even local producers."

Kevan's expression darkened. "The economic implications alone-"

"Are staggering," Tywin cut in. "But that wasn't all." He pulled out another piece of
parchment. "On the fourth day, they conducted a private auction. Jewelry. Not the crude
metalwork we'd expect from the North, but pieces of such exquisite craftsmanship that they
put our finest artisans to shame., just as wondrous as the lysene courtesans necklace if not
better."

Tyrion leaned forward. "How fine?"

"Necklaces of white gold inlaid with patterns they had never seen before. Rings set with
perfect diamonds. Bracelets studded with emeralds that seemed to glow from within."
Tywin's voice carried an edge of contained fury. "By the end of the day, they'd sold every
piece. Five million in gold dragons - that's what the Braavosi merchants and citizens paid."

He paused, his green eyes fixing on both men. "And then one of my agents managed to
loosen the tongue of a drunken sailor from one of these ships. After purchasing silks, spices,
and every luxury Braavos had to offer, their holds still carried chests upon chests of gold.
Fifteen million dragons worth, by the sailor's loose-tongued admission."

Kevan's face had gone pale. "Twenty million in gold from a single trading mission? That's-"

"More than the crown's yearly revenue, more than any Targaryen king has ever had at one
time in their whole tenure perhaps," Tyrion finished, his mismatched eyes wide with
disbelief.

"And that was just one week, with five ships," Tywin said coldly. "While we've been
watching King's Landing, the North has been quietly building an economic empire that rivals
our own."

Tywin's fist crashed onto the solid oak desk, making both Kevan and Tyrion jump. The sound
echoed through the solar like thunder.

"To make matters worse," he snarled, "we have no way of knowing how long they've been
trading across Essos. If these activities began four years ago when the first rumors started
circulating..." His voice trailed off as he straightened, his green eyes blazing. "They may have
already amassed wealth that would make the legendary Sea Snake weep with shame."

Tywin's jaw clenched as he paced behind his desk. "And make no mistake - that gold isn't
returning to the North, at least not all of it. My sources indicate the bulk of it is being
deposited with the Iron Bank." He pulled out another report from his desk. "But that's not the
worst of it."

He fixed his piercing gaze on Kevan and Tyrion. "My men uncovered plans for an even larger
fleet - thirty ships strong - preparing to sail beyond Volantis on a trading mission. Their
destination? Yi Ti and Asshai."

Tyrion's wine cup slipped from his fingers, spilling red across the floor. Neither Tywin nor
Kevan paid it any attention.

"Yi Ti's population dwarfs all of Westeros combined," Tywin continued, his voice tight with
controlled fury. "And Asshai cannot grow its own food. Both would pay fortunes for reliable
food supplies in bulk even if just to store for harsher years or droughts in YI-TIs case,
brought by the fastest ships and in large quantities. If we don't act soon..." He let the words
hang in the air. "The Starks and the North will eclipse us within a year if they haven't
already."

Kevan's face had gone ashen, while Tyrion sat slack-jawed, all traces of his hangover
vanished. The implications slowly sank in - the North, traditionally the poorest of the Seven
Kingdoms, transforming into an economic power that could overshadow even the mighty
Lannisters.

"The North?" Kevan whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it more real. "The Starks?"

"An economic force greater than the entire South combined," Tywin confirmed, his words
falling like hammer blows in the stunned silence.

The silence in Tywin's solar hung thick and oppressive, broken only by the distant cries of
seabirds wheeling over Lannisport's harbor and the muffled sounds of commerce drifting up
from the streets below. Tywin watched as the shock on Tyrion's face transformed into that
familiar calculating expression he'd seen countless times before. Despite his numerous
failings, his youngest son possessed a mind that could occasionally prove useful.

"These new ships," Tyrion said, straightening in his chair. "What house colors or symbols did
they carry? Were they all Stark vessels?"

Tywin reached for the reports again, appreciating the pertinent nature of the question. His
dwarf son's mind was already working through the implications, just as he had done when
first receiving this intelligence.

"One bore the direwolf of House Stark, gray on white," Tywin stated, consulting the detailed
observations. "Another flew the merman of House Manderly." He paused, his green eyes
scanning the parchment. "The remaining three ships carried identical colors and heraldry -
winter blue and gold. Their sails displayed two crossed golden swords within a blue circle,
topped by a silver snowflake."

Kevan's brow furrowed. "I don't recognize those arms."

Tyrion remained silent, his mismatched eyes distant as he processed this information. Tywin
could practically see the wheels turning in his son's head as he pieced together the fragments
of intelligence that had been filtering south.

After a long moment, Tyrion's eyes widened slightly. "House Longshore," he said, certainty
in his voice. "The new lords of Sea Dragon Point."

Tywin's brow furrowed at the mention of House Longshore. For a moment, even his
legendary composure wavered as he searched his memory. Then his eyes widened with
sudden recognition.

"The blacksmith," he said, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. "4 years back Stark
apparently elevated a common smith from sone small village near sea dragon point to
lordship and married his eldest daughter to him." His hand clenched around the report he
held. "A decision that caused quite a stir among his bannermen, if I recall correctly."

"Most of Westeros thought it a weak match from what i recall," Kevan added. "To give the
hand of the eldest Stark daughter to a newly elevated house instead of cementing alliances
with stronger bannermen."
Tyrion leaned forward, his mismatched eyes gleaming with insight. "But what if it wasn't
weakness at all? What if Stark knew exactly what he was doing?" He gestured at the pile of
reports on Tywin's desk. "These innovations, these impossible advances - they didn't spring
from Eddard Stark's mind. The man is honorable to a fault, but he's never shown any
particular genius for commerce or invention."

Tywin's jaw tightened as the pieces fell into place. "You suggest this blacksmith-turned-lord
is the source?"

"Think about it," Tyrion continued, his voice gaining momentum. "The timing matches
perfectly. The first rumors of Northern prosperity began shortly after this smith appeared.
Then Stark, instead of making an advantageous marriage alliance with one of his powerful
bannermen, elevates this man to lordship and binds him to House Stark through marriage."

Tywin moved to his window, staring out over Lannisport as he processed this new
perspective. The political implications were staggering. If Stark had indeed discovered
someone capable of such innovations...

"Stark didn't make a weak match," Tyrion said, voicing what Tywin was already concluding.
"He secured the most valuable alliance possible - binding this smith's loyalty to the North
through blood and marriage before anyone else realized his true worth."

The solar fell silent as the full weight of this revelation settled over them. Tywin's mind raced
through the possibilities, the threats, the opportunities. Eddard Stark, that honorable fool, had
outmaneuvered them all, all the lords in westeros, while they dismissed his actions as
provincial weakness.

Tywin turned back to his desk, rifling through the stack of reports from Cersei with practiced
efficiency. His fingers found the particular letter he sought, pulling it free from the pile. The
parchment crackled as he unfolded it, scanning the neat rows of his daughter's precise
handwriting.

"Listen to this," he said, his voice cutting through the contemplative silence. "Jon Arryn
spoke of reports and rumors from the northern shores during the small council meeting - a
castle unlike any seen before in Westeros, constructed near Sea Dragon Point." His green
eyes narrowed as he read further. "Built, if these accounts are to be believed, in the span of
two weeks."

Kevan's face registered pure disbelief, but Tyrion slammed his hand on the arm of his chair.

"That's it!" Tyrion exclaimed, his mismatched eyes blazing with certainty. "It all fits together
- the ships, the glasshouses, every impossible rumor we've heard from the North. This new
lord is the source of it all."

Tywin's jaw clenched as he considered his son's words. The pieces aligned with infuriating
clarity - Eddard Stark, that honorable fool whom they'd all underestimated, had secured a
weapon more powerful than armies. With a single marriage, he'd bound this innovative force
directly to House Stark, ensuring the North would reap all benefits of these revolutionary
advances.
"Well played," Tywin muttered, the admission tasting bitter on his tongue. He had to
acknowledge the strategic brilliance of the move, even as it threatened everything House
Lannister had built.

Kevan shifted in his chair, his practical mind already moving to counter-measures. "What can
we do about this? We cannot bind this new lord to our interests through marriage if he's
already wed to Stark's daughter." He glanced at Tyrion. "What was his name?"

"Owen," Tyrion supplied, reaching for his spilled wine cup.

"Owen," Kevan repeated, testing the common-born name that now carried such weight. "We
can't approach him directly without raising Stark's suspicions."

Tywin nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the polished surface of his desk. If this
Owen was cut from the same cloth as other Northmen, steadfast and honorable like Eddard
Stark himself, then any attempt at bribery or backdoor negotiations would be futile. Such
men couldn't be bought - their loyalty, once given, was absolute.

"What if we were to... acquire one of these vessels?" Tyrion suggested, refilling his wine cup.
"Surely a large enough force of sellswords or pirates from the Free Cities could overwhelm a
single ship. Bring it to Lannisport where we could study its construction, replicate its
innovations."

Tywin's eyes narrowed as he reached for one of the reports from his Braavosi agents. "That
would be... inadvisable." He scanned the detailed observations before continuing. "These are
not mere merchant vessels with token guards. Each ship carries a crew of approximately two
hundred sailors, supplemented by another two to three hundred Northern soldiers - hardened
veterans by all accounts."

His finger traced a particular paragraph that had caught his attention when he'd first read it.
"And then there are the ships' defenses themselves. My men observed large, square openings
along the sides of the vessels - "gun ports", they're called. Behind each sits a weapon known
as a "cannon." "

Tywin's expression darkened as he read further. "The captain of one vessel gave a
demonstration of these weapons' capabilities in Braavos. A single cannon fired twice at an
old warship. Two shots were all it took to blast the vessel apart."

Kevan leaned forward, his face pale. "These weapons... all we have are scorpions and all
those are good at doing are breaking small parts of a hull apart."

"Indeed," Tywin replied grimly. "Any attempt to seize one of these ships would be suicide.
Five hundred trained fighters aboard a vessel that can destroy other ships from a distance..."
He shook his head. "We'd need an entire fleet, and even then, success would be far from
certain."

Tywin lowered himself into his high-backed chair, the weight of all these revelations settling
over him like a cloak of lead. His green eyes moved between his brother and his son,
measuring their reactions, gauging their understanding of the gravity of the situation.
"We need more information," he declared, his tone brooking no argument. "And we won't get
it by waiting."

He turned to Kevan first. His brother had always been his most reliable agent, understanding
implicitly what needed to be done without requiring elaborate explanation. "Send ravens to
every connection we have in the North. Every merchant, every lesser lord who might be
amenable to our interests. I want detailed reports on everything happening north of the
Neck."

Kevan nodded, already reaching for his writing implements.

"And send word to Genna," Tywin continued, his lip curling slightly. "That fool husband of
hers might finally prove useful. The Freys' position on the Neck means they should have
some insight into Northern movements. Tell her to ensure he puts every resource into
gathering information."

"At once," Kevan replied, understanding the urgency in his brother's voice.

Tywin's attention shifted to Tyrion, who had remained unusually quiet, still processing the
implications of their discovery. "You will go to King's Landing."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes widened slightly. "To what end, father?"

"Jon Arryn," Tywin said flatly. "He's not a fool. He'll be gathering his own intelligence on
these developments. I want to know what he knows, what actions he's considering." His
fingers drummed against the desk's surface. "And while you're there, assess the possibility of
betrothals between Joffrey or his siblings and the remaining Stark children."

Tyrion's eyebrows rose. "Cersei will not take kindly to such suggestions."

"Cersei's feelings are irrelevant," Tywin snapped. "If we cannot access these innovations
directly, we must secure them through blood ties. The North is rising, and House Lannister
must rise with it - or risk being left behind."

Both men nodded their understanding, though Tywin could see Tyrion already anticipating
his sister's inevitable rage at the suggestion of binding her precious children to the Starks,
regardless of their newfound wealth and power.

Kevan shifted in his chair, his weathered face creased with concern. "And if we can't get the
information we need? What if even our best agents fail to penetrate their secrets?"

Tywin remained silent, his green eyes fixed on the reports scattered across his desk. The
question hung in the air like a sword suspended by a thread. Every fiber of his being rebelled
against the notion of House Lannister being outmaneuvered, particularly by the Starks of all
people.

He rose from his chair with deliberate grace, his presence filling the solar as he turned to
regard both his brother and his dwarf son. The late afternoon sun streaming through the
windows cast long shadows across his severe features.
"Then it will be time for House Lannister to take a trip to the north to 'build ties' as it were,"
he said, his mind already planning for the future.

Tyrion's wine cup froze halfway to his lips, and Kevan's eyes widened slightly at the
implications. They both knew Tywin Lannister never made social calls without purpose. But
with what little they knew….

Perhaps a visit to the north was what was needed…..

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