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Chapter Text

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-"

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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.

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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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

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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.

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Chapter Text

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.

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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.

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Chapter Text

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.

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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.

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Chapter Text

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!

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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.

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Chapter Text

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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Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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?

Chapter Text

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…..

Chapter Text

Olenna Tyrell's weathered fingers traced the edge of a particularly interesting letter as the morning breeze carried the scent of roses through the garden terrace. The marble table groaned under platters of sizzling bacon, freshly baked bread still steaming from the ovens, and colorful fruits arranged in artistic patterns. But her attention remained fixed on the documents spread before her and Willas.

Her grandson leaned forward; his crippled leg stretched out beneath the table as he studied another missive with the same intensity she'd cultivated in him over the years. The rest of the family indulged in their breakfast with varying degrees of decorum.

Margaery sat beside her, occasionally glancing at the papers while delicately selecting grapes from a silver bowl. Mace dominated the head of the table, his rich doublet already showing signs of the honey he'd drizzled too liberally on his bread. Alerie maintained her usual grace beside him, cutting her food into precise portions.

Garlan and Loras provided a study in contrasts from opposite ends - Garlan eating with the hearty appetite of a man who'd already spent hours training, while Loras picked at his food, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Olenna lifted her glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, the tart liquid a welcome distraction from the mounting evidence before her. She'd barely taken a sip when Mace's booming voice shattered the relative peace.

"Mother, what has you so engrossed this morning? You've hardly touched your food."

Olenna's sharp eyes flicked up from the documents, taking in the various servants positioned around the terrace. With a mere arch of her eyebrow and slight tilt of her head, she sent them scurrying away. Years of service had taught them to recognize when the Queen of Thorns required privacy for family matters.

Only when the last servant disappeared through the archway did she speak. "I'm reading about the most fascinating developments in the North, my dear. It seems our friends above the Neck have been rather busy these past years and we haven't deigned to notice."

"The North?" Margaery's interest piqued immediately. "What could possibly be interesting about that frozen wasteland?"

"That 'frozen wasteland' has somehow managed to pay their taxes to the crown three times over this year alone," Willas replied, tapping one of the documents. "And that's just the beginning."

Olenna watched her son's face redden as he reached for another orange slice, his thick fingers fumbling with the delicate fruit. "The North has never been that important in the grand scheme of Westeros, Willas. They're too isolated, too proud, and too cold to matter much beyond their borders."

Her fingers drummed against the table's surface, a sharp staccato that matched her rising irritation. "If you weren't so busy stuffing your face with oranges, you might have noticed that every kingdom from here to Dorne is about to turn their eyes northward. The Crown certainly has."

Loras stopped pretending interest in his breakfast, while Margaery straightened in her chair. Even Garlan set down his fork, his usual easy smile replaced by focused attention.

"What do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, juice dribbling down his chin.

Olenna's lips pressed into a thin line as she watched Alerie quietly pass her husband a napkin. "I mean, my dear son, that the North has just paid their taxes to the Crown - a sum so substantial it has cleared the entire royal debt to the Lannisters."

Mace choked on his orange. "Three million gold dragons? That's impossible!"

"Apparently not." Olenna's voice carried the weight of steel beneath its silk. "Our friends in King's Landing report that Petyr Baelish himself presented the news of the payment to the Small Council. The North, which could barely scrape together enough coin to pay its regular taxes in previous years, has somehow managed to clear a debt that has plagued the realm since Robert's Rebellion."

"But how?" Margaery leaned forward; her breakfast forgotten. "The North has never been wealthy."

"That," Olenna replied, "is precisely what makes this so interesting."

Olenna watched the impact of her words ripple across the faces gathered at the breakfast table. She'd orchestrated enough revelations in her time to appreciate the artistry of a well-timed disclosure.

"The news nearly cost us our Master of Coin," she said, selecting a perfectly ripe grape. "Robert's aim with a goblet has improved since his hunting days. From what i hear, poor Littlefinger barely ducked in time - though I daresay the loss wouldn't have been mourned by many."

The ghost of a smile played across her lips as she recalled the detailed account from her sources. "The Small Council chamber apparently descended into quite the spectacle during its next convening. Pycelle bellowing about 'Northern sorcery,' Jon Arryn attempting to restore order, and Varys sitting there with that insufferable knowing smile of his."

She paused, noting how Margaery's eyes had taken on that calculating gleam she'd worked so hard to cultivate in her granddaughter. The North had been quiet for so long - through Robert's Rebellion and even the Greyjoy's foolish attempt at independence. Now, after years of relative obscurity, they'd produced enough gold to clear the Crown's substantial debt to the Lannisters.

Olenna turned to her son, who was still struggling to process the implications. "Mace, dear, when was the last time you reviewed our financial reports? The taxes paid to House Tyrell over these past four years?"

Mace puffed up like a proud peacock, exactly as she'd expected. "Mother, I assure you our finances are more than stable. We still maintain fifteen million gold dragons, with six million safely deposited in the Iron Bank." He gestured expansively at their surroundings. "We are the breadbasket of Westeros. Our wealth is as certain as the sun rising in the east."

Olenna sighed, the sound carrying decades of practiced exasperation. She set down her goblet with deliberate care, the crystal making a soft clink against the marble tabletop.

"Yes, yes, you've seen the final figures in our coffers. But have you actually reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen? Gone through the reports from each village and holdfast?" Her keen eyes fixed on Mace, who suddenly found great interest in adjusting his napkin. "Have you noticed any differences in their contributions?"

Mace's silence stretched across the breakfast table like spilled honey, thick and telling. His fingers fumbled with the edge of the fine linen cloth, a nervous habit he'd never outgrown despite her best efforts.

"As I thought." Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "You're being lazy again, Mace. The Lord of Highgarden should show more seriousness in these matters. The ledgers don't review themselves, and our steward shouldn't be the only one who knows the state of our vassals' finances."

Around the table, her grandchildren's faces lit with barely contained amusement. Loras didn't even try to hide his smirk, while Margaery covered her smile with a well-timed sip of juice. Even Garlan, usually the most diplomatic of the bunch, couldn't quite suppress his grin. Willas, bless him, at least attempted to maintain a neutral expression, though his eyes danced with mirth.

"Mother," Alerie's soft voice cut through the tension, "must you-"

Olenna's head snapped toward her gooddaughter. "Stop calling me mother. And must I what? Coddle him? Pretend his negligence is acceptable?" She waved off Alerie's protest with a flick of her wrist. "No, my dear. I won't have you defending his laziness. Someone must ensure House Tyrell's continued prosperity, and it clearly won't be your husband if he can't be bothered to read beyond the final sum in our treasury."

Olenna rapped her cane against one of the parchments, the sharp sound cutting through the lingering amusement at Mace's expense. Her weathered face had lost its earlier mirth, replaced by lines of genuine concern.

"This report arrived three days ago. While you've all been laughing at your father's inadequacies - justified though that may be - something far more troubling has been occurring under our very noses."

She smoothed the parchment with fingers that had lost none of their strength despite their age. "As of last month, fifteen small villages and six major ones throughout the Reach have been all but abandoned. Only five or six families remained in each, and even they moved on shortly after."

The silence that fell over the breakfast table was immediate and complete. Even the birds in the garden seemed to sense the shift in mood, their songs fading to distant echoes.

"Three of these villages lie within sight of Highgarden itself," Olenna continued, her voice hard as steel. "Our own backyard, and we didn't notice until they were empty."

Garlan leaned forward; his warrior's instincts evident in the tension of his shoulders. "Bandits? Have raiders grown bold enough to strike so close to our seat?"

"Disease perhaps?" Loras added, his hand unconsciously moving to the sword he wasn't wearing. "A plague could empty villages quickly."

Olenna shook her head at both suggestions. "No bodies, no signs of violence, no reports of illness. They simply... left." She looked around the table, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Tell me, what makes the Reach strong?"

"Our ability to produce food," Margaery offered immediately. "We feed half of Westeros."

"No." Olenna's response was swift and certain.

Mace straightened in his chair, clearly hoping to redeem himself from his earlier embarrassment. "Our gold, Mother. The wealth of Highgarden-"

"Wrong again." Olenna cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Our armies," Garlan ventured. "We can field more men than any other kingdom."

Loras jumped in right after his brother. "And our knights. The finest cavalry in the Seven Kingdoms."

"No and no." Olenna's fingers drummed against her cane as she waited.

Willas, who had been quietly contemplating the question, finally spoke. "Our people. The population of the Reach is what gives us everything else - the farmers to grow the food, the soldiers to fill our armies, the craftsmen to create our wealth."

A proud smile spread across Olenna's face, the first genuine one since she'd brought up the troubling news. "Finally, someone in this family shows some sense. Yes, Willas. Our people are our true strength."

The pride in Willas's astute observation faded from Olenna's face as quickly as it had appeared however. She pulled another stack of documents from beneath the first, these ones older and worn at the edges.

"I've had to go back through our records." Her fingers traced the faded ink of dates from three years past. "What we're seeing now didn't just start with these recent abandonments. It began long before any of us noticed."

She spread the documents across the table, pushing aside half-empty plates and forgotten cups. "Three years ago, it started. One village, then another. Tax collectors would arrive to find only the village head waiting with the final month's collection. By the time they returned the following month, everyone had vanished."

Mace's face had lost its usual ruddy color. "But surely not many-"

"More each month," Olenna cut him off. "The pattern was clear, if anyone had bothered to look. Smallfolk packed up their belongings in the night, leaving nothing behind but empty homes. A family or two might linger briefly in each village before moving on to others, but eventually, they too disappeared."

Her sharp gaze fixed on her son. "This is why I asked if you'd reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen, Mace. Did you truly not notice the steady decline? The growing gaps in our income that should have raised alarm?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant sound of servants preparing the midday meal, unaware of the storm brewing at their lords' breakfast table.

Margaery set down her goblet, her brow furrowed in thought. "But why would they leave, Grandmother? The Reach has always provided well for its smallfolk."

Olenna smiled grimly, remembering the reports from her most trusted tax collectors. She'd made sure to place observant men in those positions - ones who knew the value of asking questions beyond mere coin counts.

"One of our more astute collectors thought to ask that very question to the remaining families before they too departed. After three or four such conversations, the pattern became quite clear." Olenna lifted her wine glass, abandoning her juice, taking a measured sip as she recalled the details.

"It seems our 'Reach-born' smallfolk aren't quite as Andal as we'd like to believe. Over generations, a significant number of our farming families have been descended from First Men who traveled south. They've intermarried with the local smallfolk, of course, but their bloodlines remain more Northern than we realized."

She watched understanding dawn on Margaery's face, while Mace still looked bewildered. Willas nodded slowly, his quick mind already connecting the pieces.

"These families," Olenna continued, setting her glass down with deliberate care, "have kept to the old gods, though quietly. They came south long ago, seeking better lives when the North could offer them little but harsh winters and poor soil. But now..." She spread her hands over the scattered reports. "Word has reached them of the North's rising prosperity. And like birds sensing the change of seasons, they're migrating back to their ancestral lands."

Olenna watched the impact of this revelation ripple across her family's faces. It wasn't the loss of a few thousand smallfolk that troubled her - the Reach could survive that. It was what their departure represented: a shift in the balance of power that had stood for centuries.

"Can they actually do that?" Loras asked, his handsome face scrunched in confusion. "Just... leave? Without permission from their lords?"

Willas let out an inelegant snort, turning to face his younger brother. "We're not slavers, Loras. There are no laws preventing smallfolk from moving to greener pastures whenever they feel like it, as long as they've paid their lords' taxes before departing." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Besides, if they're more First Men than Andal in looks or religion, I doubt they've felt particularly welcome here, considering how our septons and septas treat those who still worship the old gods."

Olenna nodded, pleased at Willas's insight. Her eldest grandson had always shown the keenest mind among her son’s children. "Precisely. And this should worry us all." She tapped her fingers against the scattered reports. "True, the majority of our Reachmen are still Andals and devoted followers of the Seven. Our harvests and food supplies to the other kingdoms won't be significantly affected by this exodus."

Her weathered face grew stern as she surveyed her family. "But it's the other implications of this migration that should concern us."

Olenna watched her son's face scrunch up in that familiar way that reminded her so much of when he was a confused child learning his letters. Some things, she mused, never changed.

"What exactly do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, dabbing at his beard with a napkin. "Surely a few farmers-"

"A few farmers?" Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "Oh, you fool. If only it were just farmers. These Northern smallfolk, these descendants of the First Men - they've been the backbone of our skilled labor force for generations. Every time they settled somewhere, they took up the harder trades."

She pushed herself up straighter in her chair, her fingers wrapping tightly around her cane. "Think, Mace. Think about the smiths in our villages. The carpenters who build our ships and homes. The craftsmen who work with wood and stone. The miners who dig our quarries. Even the washerwoman and kitchen maids who serve in noble houses - how many of them have that Northern look about them?"

Realization dawned slowly on her son's face as Olenna continued, "Yes, some of them farmed our lands, but that wasn't their primary contribution to the Reach. And now they're leaving, taking with them not just their skills, but the taxes, the businesses, the trade knowledge they've accumulated over centuries of living here. All of it returning to the North."

She paused, her keen eyes sweeping across the breakfast table before adding with deliberate emphasis, "And... beyond."

Garlan's head snapped up at that last word, his warrior's instincts catching the weight in his grandmother's tone. "Beyond?" he asked, alarm clear in his voice. "Grandmother, are you saying this isn't just happening in the Reach?"

Olenna nodded grimly, taking a slow sip of her wine before responding. "Reports have been trickling in from our friends in other kingdoms. The pattern is the same everywhere. Quiet departures in the night, empty villages, abandoned workshops. The North calls, and its scattered children answer."

Olenna rifled through the stack of letters, each bearing different seals and hands, but all telling variations of the same tale. Her weathered fingers traced the lines of text as she read aloud.

"From the Vale - three mining villages near the Gates of the Moon, completely abandoned. The miners simply walked away from their posts, leaving their tools behind." She selected another letter. "The Westerlands report similar occurrences. Lannisport's craftsmen quarter has lost a third of its skilled workers over the past 2 years alone."

She shuffled through more correspondence. "The Riverlands are experiencing the same exodus, particularly among their boat builders and fishermen. Even the Stormlands..." She paused, allowing herself a small, bitter laugh. "Well, it seems some of their most skilled smiths have suddenly remembered their First Men ancestry."

"Most surprising," she continued, holding up a letter bearing the sun-and-spear seal of House Martell, "even Dorne has not been spared. Small communities of First Men descendants, who've lived there since before the Rhoynar arrival, are quietly making their way north."

Garlan leaned forward; his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Surely this is impossible, Grandmother. The minor lords and bannermen of these kingdoms must have noticed their taxes dipping as their smallfolk departed. How could such a mass exodus go unreported?"

Olenna fixed her grandson with a knowing look. "They don't notice until it's too late, dear boy. The clever ones leave gradually, a family here, a craftsman there. Over three years, the decline appears natural enough - a death here, a marriage relocation there. By the time the pattern becomes clear..." She spread her hands. "What can they do? Force them to stay? That would make them slavers, and even Robert Baratheon, drunk and incompetent as he is, wouldn't stand for that."

Mace shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Surely not all lords have been blind to this, Mother. Some must have taken action."

"Oh, some have noticed," Olenna replied, her voice sharp with disdain. "And those who have? Well, they've provided us with perfect examples of what not to do." She selected another letter from her pile. "Lord Bracken attempted to prevent three families of smiths from leaving. The result? A riot that spread to three villages. He had to put it down by force, then explain away the deaths as the work of bandits."

She tapped the letter against the table for emphasis. "And what did that accomplish? He killed the very people he wanted to keep. The surviving families fled in the night, and now he has neither skilled workers nor an explanation for why his tax contributions have suddenly dropped."

"The fools," she continued, "think they can solve this with force, as if beating or killing smallfolk will somehow convince others to stay. Each time they do, they only hasten the exodus. Word spreads, and suddenly more families remember their Northern roots."

Mace stammered and was about to speak. "Mother if they all leave….."

Olenna waved her hand dismissively at Mace's concerns about the departing smallfolk. "Oh, do stop fretting about a few missing craftsmen. The Reach has always attracted ambitious souls from the Crownlands seeking better opportunities. Whatever gaps these northerners leave, others will eagerly fill."

She took another sip of her wine, her shrewd eyes scanning the faces around the table. "No, the true concern isn't who's making our tools or mending our clothes. It's what these migrations tell us about the North's changing fortunes - and more importantly, our own."

Margaery leaned forward, her perfectly arranged tresses catching the morning light. "What do you mean, Grandmother?"

"When was the last time you yourself looked at our trading ledgers, dear?" Olenna asked, pulling another document from her stack. "The North has completely ceased purchasing grain from us. No wheat, no vegetables, no fruit - nothing. Their usual orders over 4 years have simply... vanished."

Mace's face reddened. "But that's impossible! The North can't feed itself; everyone knows that. They've always depended on our harvests-"

"Half," Olenna interrupted sharply. "Half our profits came from feeding the North during their winters and lean times. Add that to the declining tax revenue from our departing craftsmen, and we're looking at a significant drop in House Tyrell's income."

She drummed her fingers against the table, her rings clicking against the polished wood. "If the North no longer needs our food, then the rumors must be true."

"What rumors, Grandmother?" Margaery asked, her voice carrying just the right note of innocent curiosity, though Olenna could see the sharp intelligence behind her granddaughter's eyes.

Olenna's weathered fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she recalled her conversation with Jon Arryn during his last visit to Highgarden. The old falcon had aged considerably since she'd last seen him, but his mind remained sharp.

"Jon Arryn himself brought these matters to the Small Council," she said, her voice carrying across the morning-lit chamber. "Lord Baelish noticed the North's tax payments had not just met their usual obligations but exceeded them threefold as i said before, allowing them to pay off the Lannister debt. Naturally, this sparked interest."

She pulled out a detailed map of the North, spreading it across the breakfast table. "Roads have appeared across the North - appearing literally overnight, according to reports. Not dirt tracks or gravel paths, mind you, but proper roads made of some strange material harder than stone. Smooth as glass, yet providing perfect grip even in ice and snow."

Mace leaned forward; wine forgotten. "Overnight? That's impossible, Mother."

"Impossible?" Olenna's eyebrow arched. "Then explain the traders' reports of metal men patrolling these roads. Not men in armor, but beings of pure bronze and gold, moving with purpose and precision. Some describe them as tall as men, others speak of massive spiders of metal, clicking across the landscape." She paused, letting the image sink in. "And those are just the small ones."

Loras and Garlan exchanged skeptical glances, but Olenna continued, "Multiple reliable sources have reported seeing giants of metal in the distance - towering constructs that move like men but stand taller than the walls of Winterfell itself. They carry weapons of impossible size and breathe fire like the dragons of old apparently."

"The greenhouses are perhaps the most concerning development," she said, selecting another report. "Not the glass gardens we know - these are vast structures of crystal and metal, stretching for acres. They grow summer fruits in the depths of winter, producing harvests in weeks rather than months. Oranges and grapes in the North, can you imagine?"

Olenna tapped a specific location on the map - Sea Dragon Point. "And here's the crown jewel of their achievements. A castle rose here in the span of two weeks. Not a simple keep, but a fortress that rivals the greatest castles of Westeros. Traders speak of walls that gleam like polished bronze, towers that reach impossible heights, and defenses that make Storm's End look like a child's sandcastle."

She set down her wine glass with deliberate care. "But perhaps most telling are the ships. The North never had a proper fleet before, yet now their waters are patrolled by vessels unlike any seen in Westeros. Ships of metal and wood combined, moving faster than the fastest swan ships of the Summer Isles, carrying impossible loads. They've established direct trade routes with every Free City, bypassing the usual southern ports entirely."

"Jon Arryn's reports paint a picture of a North transformed," Olenna concluded, her keen eyes studying her family's reactions. "A North that no longer needs the South. A North that possesses knowledge and capabilities we can barely comprehend, let alone match."

"But Grandmother, surely these stories can't all be true?" Loras's handsome face bore the skepticism of youth. "Metal men building roads overnight? Giant metal constructs breathing fire? It sounds more like the tales used to tell children when speaking of the age of heroes."

Olenna allowed herself a small smile, pleased that at least one of her grandchildren had maintained a healthy sense of doubt. "You give me hope for our family's future, dear boy. Yes, we must consider these tales with a grain of salt." She reached for her wine glass, taking a thoughtful sip. "I suspect many of these accounts have grown in the telling, as stories often do when people witness things beyond their understanding."

She shuffled through her papers, selecting a particular report. "When a simple farmer sees a metal construct moving across the landscape at night, his mind might embellish the details. Perhaps it breathed steam, which in the cold northern air could appear as fire. Perhaps its height seemed greater in the darkness. Fear and wonder have a way of expanding tales with each retelling."

"The same goes for these supposedly overnight roads," she continued. "I doubt they truly appeared in a single night - more likely, the construction was so swift and efficient that it merely seemed that way to those who traveled through the area infrequently."

Willas nodded thoughtfully. "That would make more sense. But what of the ships, Grandmother? Surely those reports can't be exaggerated?"

"Ah, now there we have something more solid," Olenna replied, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "Our friends at Casterly Rock have provided most interesting accounts of conversations between Lord Tywin and his brother Kevan. The Lannisters are quite concerned about these new Northern vessels."

She produced another letter, this one bearing the broken seal of House Lannister. "According to our source, these ships have indeed been confirmed. They're making regular trips to Braavos, Pentos, and even as far as Volantis. The Lannisters' own accountants have verified that the North's trade profits have increased near hundredfold in the past year alone."

"The ships themselves are described as being partially metal-hulled, with some new form of propulsion that doesn't rely solely on wind. They're faster than anything in the Lannister fleet, and they can carry ten times the cargo of a traditional trading vessel." Olenna's mouth curved into a slight smile. "That part, at least, isn't exaggerated. The Lannisters are apparently quite irritated that these Northern ships are cutting into their own trading profits in Essos. Or just that the starks are making so much gold that irks them."

Willas, ever the thoughtful one, stroked his chin before voicing what they were all thinking.

"What do we do now, Grandmother? The North rises while we remain static. Their power grows daily, and soon they may outmatch all the southern kingdoms combined if they haven't already."

A thin smile crossed Olenna's face. "We do exactly what our words command us to do - we grow strong. If that means growing alongside the North rather than in opposition to it, then so be it. The Tyrells have always known when to plant new seeds in fertile soil."

She turned to Mace, who was still frowning at the reports scattered across the marble breakfast table. "You will draft a letter to Eddard Stark. Something friendly, diplomatic - nothing too obvious. Perhaps mention the coming winter and how we might strengthen our traditional trade relationships and make new ones now they don't need our food. Sound him out about a potential visit to Winterfell."

Mace opened his mouth to protest, but Olenna silenced him with a sharp look. "And do try to write it yourself, dear. Lord Stark is not a man impressed by flowery words from a maester's pen."

Her attention shifted to Margaery, who sat perfectly poised, already calculating the possibilities. "You, my dear, will begin studying. I want you to learn everything about Northern customs, their etiquette, their history. The Old Gods, the First Men, their traditions - everything. If we're to visit the North, you must be prepared to charm them on their own terms."

"Yes, Grandmother," Margaery replied, her mind clearly already working through the implications.

Olenna's gaze fell on Willas. "I need you to redirect our network of friends. Every spy, every informant, every merchant who owes us favors - I want their eyes turned North. We need to know everything: who visits Winterfell, who leaves it, what they're building, what they're trading."

She fixed her penetrating stare on Loras. "And you, my dear boy, will make yourself useful in King's Landing. That... friendship of yours with Renly Baratheon might finally prove worth something. Find out what the Crown knows, what they plan to do about this Northern situation. Robert Baratheon may trust Ned Stark, but others at court will not be so complacent."

Olenna's sharp gaze finally settled on Garlan, who had remained quiet throughout the task giving. "As for you, dear grandson, I have a particularly important task."

Garlan straightened in his seat; his attention focused entirely on his grandmother.

"You will represent our interests here in the Reach. I want you to personally visit every holding, every village, especially those abandoned by our departing smallfolk. Take five hundred of our best knights and men-at-arms with you." Olenna's voice carried the weight of command. "We cannot afford to have bandits or other... opportunistic elements taking advantage of these empty spaces."

Garlan nodded firmly. "I understand, Grandmother. I'll ensure our lands remain secure and prosperous."

"Good." Olenna's fingers drummed against the table as she surveyed her family. "Make no mistake, my dears. The North has had four years - four years to grow and develop while the rest of Westeros remained blind to their advancement. Four years of uninterrupted progress while we all dismissed them as the same frozen wasteland they've always been."

She took another sip of wine, her eyes sharp over the rim of her glass. "House Tyrell cannot afford to be left behind in this changing world. If that means we must personally travel to Winterfell to see these supposed wonders for myself, then so be it. We must understand what we're dealing with, and we must do it quickly."

Chapter Text

Owen groggily woke up, his consciousness slowly emerging from the depths of sleep as he opened his eyes in the large, plush bed adorned with fine silk sheets and warm furs. A soft moan and gentle movement made him turn to Sansa, who instinctively sought his warmth in her slumber, her long, graceful limbs entwining with his as she drew closer. Her sweet and beautiful face rested peacefully on his chest, her magnificent auburn tresses fanned out behind her like flames caught in morning light. Even after four years of marriage, he still found himself struck breathless by her beauty, often wondering how fate had blessed him with such an extraordinary wife. But here they were, four years into their union, sharing their lives within the walls of Ice Crest - arguably the most sophisticated, well-fortified, and wealthiest castle in all of Westeros.

Owen gazed at sansa, his mind drifting back to four years ago when Ice Crest had been nothing but ambitious plans and dreams. The week after their wedding ceremony in Winterfell's godswood had been a flurry of activity. While he and Sansa enjoyed their first days as husband and wife within the ancient stronghold's walls, his creations had been hard at work.

The steam constructors multiplied rapidly at his command, their numbers growing from hundreds to thousands. They worked tirelessly, day and night, their metallic forms scaling the cliffs of Sea Dragon Point as they carved into the rock and laid the foundations. The automated workforce needed no rest, no food, and no supervision - they simply executed his will with perfect precision.

Cidhna Mine had provided an endless supply of the finest materials - marble, granite, and precious metals that would have cost a fortune to source elsewhere. The mine's magical properties meant resources replenished themselves faster than the constructors could use them. Owen remembered watching in amazement as the first towers began to rise from the cliff face, the constructors working with an efficiency that no human workforce could match.

Their expert knowledge, gifted to them through Owen's connection to the Celestial Forge, meant every block was cut to exact specifications. Every beam was placed with mathematical precision. The castle grew like a living thing, each day bringing new additions - halls, towers, battlements, and chambers taking shape with supernatural speed.

"The first time I saw it," Owen had told Sansa then, "was when we rode here from Winterfell after that week. I'd only seen it in my mind before that, but the constructors built it exactly as I'd envisioned - maybe even better."

The automated workforce had numbered in the ten thousands by then, swarming over the growing structure like industrious metal ants. They'd built not just the castle, but the entire infrastructure around it - the port facilities below, the defensive walls, the town that would house their people. Each constructor contained the complete architectural plans, working in perfect harmony with its fellows to bring Owen's vision to life.

What would have taken human workers decades to complete, the constructors accomplished in two weeks. Every detail was perfect, from the soaring spires to the intricate stonework that decorated the walls. The magical cannons were seamlessly integrated into the defenses, their power sources hidden within the very stones of the castle. The enchanted walls gleamed with a subtle shimmer, testament to the protective magic woven into their very substance.

Owen smiled at the memory of Sansa's face when she first saw their new home. Her blue eyes had widened in wonder, her lips parting in amazement as Ice Crest came into view - a magnificent creation of stone and magic rising from the cliffs like something from a dream.

Owen recalled how filling Ice Crest had been a matter of pure indulgence after its construction. The vast wealth from Cidhna Mine's endless precious metals and gems meant cost was never a consideration. He'd dispatched ravens to every major port city in Essos, his letters carrying payment in advance for the finest items available Oh sure, he could have made creations for his new castle wayyyy better than what he bought but he felt than his gold from cidhna mine should be used at least for somethings that the north.

From Myr came exquisite glass pieces - delicate chandeliers that caught the light like captured rainbows, mirrors framed in gold that made the castle's halls seem to stretch into infinity. The glassmakers' pride showed in every piece, from the smallest drinking vessel to the grandest window panes.

Volantis provided the textiles - silk sheets so fine they felt like water against the skin, carpets woven with threads of gold and silver that depicted scenes from ancient legends. Each bedroom received feather mattresses stuffed with the softest down, covered in fabrics dyed in rich jewel tones that complemented the castle's color scheme.

From Qohor came the metalwork - intricate bronze and iron pieces that transformed simple doorways and railings into works of art. The smiths there might not match Owen's supernatural abilities with metal, but their aesthetic sense was unparalleled.

The furniture arrived from Pentos - massive wardrobes of exotic woods, chairs and settees upholstered in the finest leather and velvet, tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious stones. Each piece was selected not just for its beauty but for its craftsmanship and durability.

Owen watched as Sansa shifted in her sleep, her hand resting on one of the silk pillows from Yi Ti, embroidered with golden thread in patterns so complex they seemed to move in the early morning light. The bed they shared was a masterpiece from Lys, carved from a single piece of rare shadowood, its dark surface gleaming with an inner fire that seemed to dance in the dawn.

Their private chambers reflected this opulence - the floors covered in thick Qartheen carpets that muffled every footstep, the walls hung with tapestries from the Summer Isles that depicted tropical scenes in vibrant colors. Even the washroom contained luxuries unknown in most of Westeros - pipes that carried hot and cold water on demand, mirrors of polished silver, and soaps scented with rare oils from far-off lands.

The great hall of Ice Crest rivaled that of the Red Keep itself. Massive tables of polished ironwood could seat hundreds, while the high table was carved from a single piece of fossilized shadowood, its surface showing patterns that seemed to shift in the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The chairs were upholstered in leather from shadow cats, their frames gilded with gold and set with precious stones.

Every room, from the smallest servant's chamber to the grandest feast hall, spoke of wealth and refinement that few could imagine, let alone afford. Yet unlike the gaudy ostentation of some wealthy houses, Ice Crest's luxury carried an air of elegant restraint.

Of course the four years since their marriage hadn't just been owen enjoying his new found lordship and wife. as promised. The steam constructors had proven themselves far beyond his initial expectations. Working in coordinated groups of thousands, they had transformed the landscape of the North with roads that put the ancient Valyrian highways to shame.

The new Northern roads were engineering marvels - wide, smooth surfaces created from a mixture of cement and powdered ebony ore that made them virtually indestructible. The dark paths cut through forests, crossed rivers on elegant bridges, and wound through mountains via carefully constructed tunnels. What once took weeks to travel now required mere days.

"The roads alone changed everything," Owen had told Sansa during one of their evening discussions. "But it was the glasshouses that truly transformed the North."

His constructors had built them everywhere - massive structures of glass and steel that dotted the landscape from the smallest farming village to the greatest lordly holds. The designs varied based on location and need, but all shared the same core principles Owen had developed. Each glasshouse captured and retained heat while protecting crops from the harsh northern weather, allowing for year-round cultivation of fruits and vegetables that previously couldn't survive north of the Neck.

But perhaps most significant were the silent guardians Owen had dispatched across the North. Hundreds of his metal soldiers patrolled the lands with tireless vigilance, their movements coordinated through Owen's connection to the Celestial Forge. Lord Eddard had given his blessing to this secret army after Owen explained their potential.

"They'll protect our people without being seen," Owen had promised. "No brigand or thief will know what struck them."

The automatons proved lethal and efficient hunters. Operating in small groups, they tracked and eliminated threats to the North's peace with mechanical precision. Bodies of bandits would simply disappear, their camps erased as if they'd never existed. The constructors would dismantle and recycle any evidence, leaving only whispered rumors of metal men and spiders in the night.

These silent guardians also maintained their own creations. Roads were repaired of even the slightest problem before damage became visible. Glasshouses received constant upgrades and improvements while maintaining the crops and fruits within. The automatons even cleared snow from the roads during winter, allowing trade to continue year-round. All of this happened quietly, efficiently, with most of the North's population never glimpsing the metal workforce that served them.

Most important of all was owen sending the steam constructors to finally rebuild moat Cailin, the metal constructs working in the cover of night to avoid suspicion from any none northern smallfolk or nearby lords.

Owen had stood atop one of Moat Cailin's partially reconstructed towers, watching his steam constructors work in the darkness. Their metal forms moved with eerie silence despite their size, rebuilding the ancient fortress stone by stone. Moonlight glinted off their surfaces as they scaled the walls, each one knowing exactly where to place each block, how to fit each beam.

The night work had slowed progress considerably. During the day, the constructors had to hide in specially created underground chambers, emerging only when darkness fell to continue their labor. Owen had positioned scouts - both human and mechanical - to watch for travelers on the Kingsroad, ready to signal at the first sign of approaching witnesses.

Lord Walder Frey's keep of the Twins wasn't far, and Owen knew the old man had eyes everywhere. One whisper of metal men rebuilding the North's ancient stronghold would have ravens flying to King's Landing before dawn. The Freys had always resented the North's independence, and Lord Walder would relish any chance to curry favor with the crown by revealing such secrets.

Still, despite working only at night, the constructors had made remarkable progress. In just two weeks, half of Moat Cailin's towers stood restored to their former glory. The walls between them rose higher each night, and the foundations for the remaining towers were already laid. The automated workforce needed no rest, no food, and no light to see by. They simply executed their programmed tasks with mechanical precision.

But as Owen watched them work, a growing concern gnawed at him. He'd been so focused on the logistics of rebuilding that he hadn't considered the obvious problem - how to hide the results. Even working in darkness couldn't conceal a fully restored Moat Cailin. The ancient fortress, once rebuilt, would stand as an unmistakable symbol of the North's resurgence.

"We can hide the constructors," Owen had muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "We can swear the northern lords and smallfolk to secrecy. But we can't hide a fortress."

The problem extended beyond just Moat Cailin. The North's transformation over the past year had left obvious signs everywhere - the new roads, the glasshouses. Any merchant or traveler from the south would see these changes. They'd notice the increased prosperity, the better-fed smallfolk, the signs of technology far beyond what should be possible. Not to mention ice crest itself if any ships came sailing by, like the ones manned by the Greyjoy's and other Ironborn. That they hadn't already come calling was either dumb luck or disinterest in sea dragon point as it wasn't known to hold anything. At least to their current knowledge no doubt.

Owen had stood with Lord Eddard, Robb, and Jon atop one of Moat Cailin's restored towers three days after his troubled reflections. The night air carried a chill, but none of them seemed to notice as they discussed the pressing issue of secrecy.

"The changes are too visible," Lord Eddard said, his grey eyes scanning the fortress below. "We cannot hide this forever."

"The southern kingdoms will notice," Robb added. "They already suspect something from our increased tax payments the last few months."

Jon nodded in agreement. "And what of merchant ships? Or the Ironborn? They raid these coasts often. Sooner or later, they'll spot Ice Crest."

Owen took a deep breath. He'd been avoiding this moment, but their concerns forced his hand. "The Old Gods have blessed me with more than just knowledge of crafting and building," he said carefully. "They've given me magic that can help conceal our work."

Lord Eddard's eyebrows rose skeptically. Even after everything they'd witnessed - the automated workers, the self-replenishing mine, the incredible technological advances - magic seemed a step too far. Robb and Jon exchanged dubious glances.

"Magic?" Jon's tone carried clear disbelief. "Like the stories Old Nan tells? I know you've done a lot, but magic, really?…isn't that…."

Owen held out his hands, palms up. Fire erupted from them, dancing in the night air. The flames cast flickering shadows across their stunned faces. Without warning, Owen hurled the fire at one of Moat Cailin's massive walls. The flames struck with devastating force, melting the ancient stone into glowing slag that dripped like candlewax.

Steam constructors immediately rushed to the damaged section, their metal forms gleaming in the residual firelight as they began repairs. Within minutes, fresh stone replaced what Owen had destroyed, leaving no trace of his demonstration.

Lord Eddard, Robb, and Jon stood in shocked silence, their earlier skepticism burned away as surely as the wall had been.

"I need some time," Owen said carefully, "but I will find a way to conceal our improvements and growing power until we're ready." He met each of their eyes in turn, projecting confidence he wasn't entirely sure he felt.

The three men nodded, clearly relieved that Owen had a potential solution. They didn't press him for details, their trust in him evident after only a year of seeing him transform the north.

That night, while the others slept, Owen retreated to his private chambers and focused his thoughts on the Temple of Solomon. With barely a whisper of effort, he shifted from the physical world into the vast magical dimension that housed Solomon's collected knowledge.

The temple's grand halls stretched before him, filled with countless books and scrolls containing millennia of magical wisdom. Owen moved purposefully through the stacks, his footsteps echoing in the silence as he searched for information on illusions.

He found what he sought in a dusty corner - a thick tome bound in midnight blue leather, its pages covered in flowing script that seemed to shimmer as he read. The book detailed various methods of creating large-scale illusions, including ones capable of concealing entire structures or settlements.

As Owen read and absorbed the information, his initial excitement faded. The book was clear on one crucial point - maintaining illusions over large areas required immense magical power and skill. Even master mages struggled to prevent breaks in such extensive illusions. Small imperfections would inevitably appear, allowing observant viewers to glimpse what lay beneath.

Owen ran his fingers across a particularly relevant passage:

"The greater the area to be concealed, the more strain is placed upon the caster's magical circuits. Only those of exceptional power and control can maintain seamless illusions across vast distances. Lesser mages will find their work developing flaws - ripples in the fabric of the illusion that reveal the truth beneath."

Owen closed the midnight blue tome with a frustrated snap, the sound echoing through the Temple's vast halls. He'd spent hours poring over its contents, hoping to find a solution to the North's growing visibility problem. Instead, he'd only confirmed what he'd feared - his magical abilities, while considerable, weren't enough for what they needed.

"Damn it all," he muttered, replacing the book on its shelf. The Temple's knowledge was invaluable, but it had been written mostly for mages of Solomon's caliber. Even with his thousands of perfect magic circuits, Owen was barely a novice compared to the ancient king of magic.

He paced the marble floors, his footsteps echoing off the towering bookshelves. The problem was clear enough - maintaining illusions over the entire North would drain his mana reserves quickly. Once depleted, the illusions would weaken and fail until he gathered mana again. Any southern visitors or spies would see right through them, exposing everything they'd worked so hard to build.

The book's solution taunted him. A dragon's heart or God ruby could power the illusions indefinitely, maintaining them without drawing on his personal mana reserves. But dragons were long extinct in Westeros until Daenerys birthed them (which she still had not) and Owen had never heard of a God ruby outside of these ancient texts. Even if such artifacts existed somewhere in this world, finding them would take years they didn't have.

Owen ran his hands through his hair, frustration mounting. The North's transformation couldn't be hidden forever behind night work and sworn secrecy. Sooner or later, someone would notice the new roads, the glasshouses and everything they'd created.

Owen slammed the midnight blue tome back onto its shelf with perhaps more force than necessary. His frustration echoed through the Temple's vast halls.

"Fuck it all," he declared to the empty library. "I'm overthinking this."

He began pacing, his footsteps quick and determined as his mind raced. "The southerners already think we're backward savages living in a frozen wasteland. Who'd believe them if they caught glimpses of our progress if the spell falls while i am recharging?"

The more he considered it, the more sense it made. Even if his illusions flickered during mana recharge periods, any southerner who saw steam constructors or advanced road and many glasshouses would likely doubt their own eyes. They'd blame it on strong northern ale or exhaustion from traveling. And if they did tell tales in the south, who would take them seriously?

"Lords and merchants already spread ridiculous stories about the North," Owen mused aloud. "They claim we sacrifice to weirwoods and breed with giants. What's one more wild tale about metal men and magical buildings?"

Decision made, Owen retrieved the spell book and began gathering the necessary materials. The Temple's vast resources provided everything he needed - rare herbs, crystallized starlight, and chalk made from ground dragon bone (lucky Solomon had some in store). He spent hours drawing intricate circles and runes on the Temple's floor, triple-checking each line and symbol.

The spell itself was deceptively simple. Rather than trying to maintain perfect illusions constantly, it would create a selective blindness in those who weren't of the North. Their minds would simply refuse to process the signs of progress and advancement, defaulting instead to what they expected to see - a backward, primitive kingdom.

Owen took a deep breath and began the incantation. Power flowed through his magic circuits, making them glow beneath his skin with blue-white light. The chalk lines ignited, burning with cold fire as the spell took hold. For three days and nights, Owen maintained the casting, his consciousness stretched across the entire North as the magic settled into place.

When he had finally emerged from the Temple, exhausted but satisfied, the spell was complete. He tested it immediately the next day by bringing a merchant from White Harbor - a man born in King's Landing - to view one of their new roads. The merchant's eyes slid right past the smooth black surface, seeing instead the rutted dirt track that had been there before.

Over the next two weeks, Owen's steam constructors worked openly on Moat Cailin, no longer restricted to night work. The ancient fortress rose rapidly from its ruins, towers stretching skyward as walls were rebuilt and strengthened. Owen added modern improvements - heated floors, running water, and defensive emplacements for his automated soldiers.

A party of travelers from the Riverlands passed by during the construction. Owen watched from the battlements as they gazed at Moat Cailin, seeing only the crumbling ruins the spell allowed their minds to process. They never noticed the steam constructors working mere feet away, or the gleaming new stonework that had replaced the ancient decay.

"It's not perfect," Owen admitted to himself as he watched them ride away. "But it doesn't need to be. The south's own prejudices will do half the work for us."

A year later, Owen had begun extensive discussions with Lord Manderly, Lord Stark, and Lord Gregor Forrester regarding the creation of a formidable new northern defense and trading fleet. House Forrester would provide their prized ironwood from their vast holdings in the Wolfswood, shipping the rare and valuable timber directly to Castle Ice Crest where Owen would transform it into ships using his advanced knowledge and the automated workers at his disposal. The ironwood's legendary durability would make the vessels nearly impervious to normal naval warfare, while Owen's enhanced designs would give them capabilities far beyond what anyone in Westeros could imagine.

With this agreement reached, Owen had stood at the edge of the newly constructed docks at Ice Crest, watching the steam constructors and automatons work with mechanical precision. The massive Dwemer dry docks stretched along the coastline, their bronze and golden metal gleaming in the northern sun. The sight filled him with pride - these weren't just ordinary shipyards, but marvels of engineering that combined the best of his knowledge from Earth with the magical properties of this world.

"The ironwood shipments from the Forresters will begin arriving next week," Lord Manderly said, his voice carrying over the rhythmic clanging of the automatons at work. "Lord Gregor assures me they can maintain a steady supply."

Owen nodded, his eyes tracking the movements of a particularly large steam constructor as it positioned a massive beam of ironwood into place. The wood itself was nearly black, incredibly dense, and practically fireproof - perfect for shipbuilding. But Owen had plans to make it even better.

"We'll be incorporating the ores from Cidhna Mine into the construction," Owen had explained to Lords Stark, Manderly, and Forrester as they walked along the dock. "Ebony for reinforcement, moonstone for lightness, and orichalcum for durability. The combination, when worked with ironwood, will create ships unlike anything seen in this world."

He gestured to the nearest dry dock, where the keel of a massive ship of the line was taking shape. "This one will carry a hundred and twenty cannons, but she'll be faster than most frigates thanks to the moonstone-reinforced hull. The combination of materials makes her virtually unsinkable."

Lord Manderly's eyes had widened as he studied the partially constructed vessel. "How many can your... workers produce?"

"The docks can handle six ships simultaneously," Owen replied. "With the automatons working around the clock, we can complete a galleon in two weeks, a frigate in ten days, and a ship of the line in about three weeks."

Lord Forrester stepped closer to examine a stack of ironwood planks that had been treated with Owen's special process - infused with powdered ebony and orichalcum through a combination of pressure and heat that only the Dwemer forges could achieve. The wood gleamed with a subtle metallic sheen, its surface harder than steel but somehow still maintaining the flexibility needed for shipbuilding.

"Remarkable," Forrester murmured, running his hand along the treated wood. "Our ironwood was already the finest shipbuilding material in Westeros, but this... this is something else entirely."

Lord Stark had remained quiet throughout most of the tour, but now he spoke up. "And you're certain these ships can't be replicated by others? Even if they capture one?"

Owen smiled. "The materials alone make that impossible. Only Cidhna Mine produces the ores we need, and only the Dwemer forges can combine them with ironwood in the right way. Even if someone managed to take a ship apart piece by piece, they couldn't reproduce what we've done here."

The lords nodded in satisfaction. This was exactly what the North needed - a fleet that could dominate the seas while remaining uniquely their own, impossible for others to copy or counter.

Owen led them to a second dry dock where a sleek frigate was nearing completion. Her lines were perfect, her proportions exact in a way that human shipwrights could never achieve. The automatons swarmed over her like giant metal spiders, each one knowing its precise task and executing it flawlessly.

"We'll start with ten ships of the line, twenty frigates, and fifteen galleons," Owen explained. "That should give us a solid foundation for the Northern fleet. After that, we can adjust production based on our needs."

The other men listened intently as Owen detailed his plans, their eyes occasionally straying to watch the fascinating and somewhat unnerving sight of the mechanical workers building ships with inhuman speed and precision. The North's future was taking shape before them, one perfect vessel at a time.

4 months later and Owen watched with pride as the massive fleet took shape in the harbor of Ice Crest. The ships were marvels of engineering and magic combined, each one a testament to what could be achieved when modern knowledge met the extraordinary materials of this world.

The ship of the line class vessels dwarfed anything else afloat in Westeros. Where traditional ships of their type on earth carried around a hundred guns, Owen's designs mounted a hundred and fifty cannons across three full gun decks. Yet despite their increased size, the combination of moonstone-infused ironwood and ebony reinforcement made them faster and more maneuverable than ships half their size.

The frigates were equally impressive, sleek predators built for speed and power. Their enhanced design allowed for sixty guns instead of the usual forty, while maintaining the agility that made frigates the preferred ships for patrol and pursuit. The orichalcum-reinforced hulls made them nearly impervious to conventional weapons.

Even the galleons had been transformed by Owen's innovations. Their cargo capacity was near tripled without sacrificing speed, and their defensive capabilities rivaled those of traditional warships. The treated ironwood gave them unprecedented durability, while the magical properties of the metal ores made them remarkably stable even in rough seas.

"The Stark vessel will be called Winter's Wrath as you asked," Owen told Lord Eddard as they toured the newly completed ship of the line. The massive warship's black ironwood hull gleamed with subtle hints of silver where the moonstone infusion caught the light. The direwolf of House Stark had been carved into her bow, the detail work enhanced by inlaid ebony that made the fierce beast seem alive.

Lord Manderly's eyes gleamed as he inspected Sea's Vengeance, his house's new flagship. The merman banner flew proudly from her mainmast, and her hundred and fifty guns promised to make House Manderly a true naval power. "My new naval academy will ensure we have crews worthy of such vessels," he declared.

The Forrester galleons were christened Ironwood's Pride and Forest's Strength, their enhanced cargo capacity ensuring House Forrester could transport their valuable timber more efficiently than ever before. Lord Gregor's face showed deep satisfaction as he walked the decks of his new ships.

Owen had kept the majority of the fleet under his own banner - five ships of the line, eight galleons, and eighteen frigates. But he knew the distribution of vessels to key allies would strengthen the North as a whole. Lord Wyman's naval academy would train crews and captains for all their ships, creating a unified northern fleet that could protect their waters and project power when needed.

Another few months went by and soon the sight of forty-four advanced warships anchored in the harbor was impressive enough to take even Owen's breath away. Each vessel represented countless hours of work by his tireless automatons, each one enhanced by materials that didn't exist anywhere else in this world. Together, they formed the most powerful fleet Westeros had ever seen - and the south remained blissfully unaware of their true capabilities.

Even so, owen kept the best for himself. He stood before his masterpiece in a hidden dock, carved deep into the cliffs beneath Ice Crest. The Storm Fortress, named after the legendary ship used by the assassin order, loomed in the shadows, her massive hull dwarfing even the impressive ships of the line anchored in the main harbor above. Where those vessels were formidable warships, this was something else entirely - a floating fortress that defied conventional naval architecture.

Her hull gleamed with a deep, almost metallic black where moonstone-infused ironwood met layers of ebony and orichalcum armor. Stalhrim reinforcements along vital areas gave off a subtle blue glow, the enchanted ice-metal adding another layer of magical protection. The vessel's lines were sleek despite her enormous size, a testament to the perfect precision of Owen's automated builders and the exotic materials used in her construction.

Four hundred magical cannons lined her gun decks, but these were unlike anything else in his fleet. Instead of conventional shot, these weapons channeled pure magical energy, drawing power from crystals Owen had crafted using knowledge from the Temple of Solomon. Each blast could tear through conventional ships like paper, the magical energy ignoring physical armor entirely.

Owen had ran his hand along the ship's hull, feeling the thrum of power from the layered enchantments he'd worked into her very structure. Protection against fire, reinforcement against physical damage, wards to deflect magical attacks - the Storm Fortress was as much a work of spellcraft as she was a feat of engineering. Even her sails had been enhanced, woven with carefully crafted moonstone threads and enchanted to catch winds that didn't exist even if the Dwemer devices that pushed the ships forward failed.

"You're something else entirely," Owen murmured to his creation. The automated workers continued their final adjustments around him, adding the last touches to what he knew was the most powerful warship in existence. Not even the combined fleets of Westeros and Essos could stand against her - if they ever managed to see her true nature through his illusions at all.

The Storm Fortress represented everything Owen had learned since arriving in this world, at least for now - the marriage of modern engineering, magical materials, and ancient sorcery. She was his ultimate insurance policy on the sea, a weapon so powerful that its mere existence would give him pause before using it. But if the need ever arose, she would ensure the North's survival against any threat on sea, be it from the south, across the Narrow Sea, or beyond the known oceans.

With the ships built and lord wymans business connections, Owen had watched from the harbor as another merchant vessel from Braavos unloaded its cargo of gold and exotic goods in exchange for preserved Northern foods. The sight had become common at White Harbor and ice crest over the past months, but it still filled him with satisfaction.

"Three hundred thousand gold dragons for this shipment alone," Lord Manderly announced, his multiple chins quivering with delight. "The Braavosi can't get enough of our preserved fruits and vegetables. They're calling them 'winter's bounty' in their markets."

Owen had nodded, knowing the preservation enchantments he'd worked into the glasshouse-grown food and fruits were the real key to their success. The spells kept the produce fresh for months without ice or salt, making long-distance trading not just possible but highly profitable.

"Lord Karstark's latest report indicates his glasshouses have tripled their production," Lord Manderly continued, consulting a ledger. "Even after paying the Stark tax, he's earned more gold this season than his house has seen in generations."

Similar reports came in from across the North. The Umbers, traditionally one of the poorest houses despite their vast holdings, now shipped regular caravans of preserved goods to White Harbor. The Mormonts had expanded their glasshouses across Bear Island, turning their harsh territory into a surprisingly fertile source of valuable crops.

Even the mountain clans had prospered. Their smaller glasshouse installations produced enough excess food to finally end their centuries-long cycle of near-starvation during winter. The gold they earned from trading their surplus had transformed their simple holdings into increasingly prosperous communities.

"Lord Locke actually wept when he counted his profits last moon," Lord Manderly shared with a chuckle. "Said he'd never dreamed of seeing such wealth in the North. His son has already commissioned a new stone keep to replace their old wooden one."

The scene had repeated across the northern ports as Essosi ships arrived daily - Braavosi, Pentoshi, Lyseni, even vessels from as far as Volantis. They came laden with gold, spices, and luxury goods, departing with holds full of magically-preserved Northern produce that would fetch premium prices in the markets across the Narrow Sea.

The transformation of the North from a harsh land of mere survival to one of genuine prosperity was evident everywhere Owen looked. New stone buildings rose in villages that had known only wooden structures for thousands of years. Lords who had once struggled to collect enough taxes to maintain their keeps now found themselves with surplus gold to improve their holdings and care for their smallfolk.

Even the smallest farming villages benefited from the trade. The glasshouses meant they could grow food year-round, and the preservation enchantments ensured they could store or sell their excess without fear of spoilage. Many had never known such security, let alone the possibility of earning actual gold for their crops.

"This is what the North should have been all along," Owen mused as he watched another Braavosi ship dock. "Not just surviving winter, but thriving through it."

Owen wasn't left behind of course, as he watched another merchant ship from Braavos dock at Ice Crest's harbor, its holds filled with gold and exotic goods in exchange for House Longshore's preserved foods. Though he and Sansa hardly needed the wealth, Owen had ensured their house participated fully in the North's burgeoning trade.

His own glasshouses produced an abundance of fruits, vegetables, and grains year-round, perhaps more than the rest he had constructed for the north, all enhanced with preservation enchantments and the power of the glasshouses themselves. But it was his jewelry that truly set House Longshore's exports apart. Using materials from Cidhna Mine, Owen crafted pieces that were simply impossible to replicate elsewhere - necklaces of moonstone that seemed to capture starlight, rings set with enchanted gems that sparkled with inner fire, and delicate chains of metals that didn't exist outside his magical mine.

Each piece sold for small fortunes in the markets of Braavos, Pentos, and beyond. The gold flowed in faster than Owen could count it, but he was careful about how he managed such wealth. The majority went straight to the Iron Bank in Braavos, where his accounts had already accumulated millions of gold dragons. He kept only enough in Ice Crest's public coffers to pay servants, maintain the castle, and handle daily expenses.

Deep beneath Ice Crest, Owen had constructed a massive vault complex protected by layers of magical wards and physical defenses. Here he stored the bulk of their physical wealth - towers of gold coins, mountains of silver ingots, and carefully organized stockpiles of precious ores from Cidhna Mine. The vault's protections included curses that would strike down any unauthorized intruders, magical barriers that could withstand siege weapons, and illusions that would confuse even the most determined thieves.

But Owen's most precious storage spaces weren't filled with gold or jewels. Vast underground chambers stretched beneath Ice Crest, magically preserved and climate-controlled, packed with enough food to feed all of westeros for years, yet now stored for his descendants. Every excess grain, fruit, and vegetable that wasn't immediately sold or consumed went into these strategic reserves. Owen had designed the storage system with siege and drought in mind, ensuring that his future generations would never know true hunger, even if all trade stopped and every glasshouse shattered.

The wealth he and Sansa were accumulating was staggering - their children and grandchildren and beyond would inherit trillions in gold dragons, enough to buy kingdoms. But Owen hoped they'd never need to spend it. The real treasure was in those food vaults, in the security of knowing that no winter, no war, no disaster could starve them out.

Thus, Four years later and Owen gazed at his sleeping wife, marveling internally at how much had changed. The North had transformed from a harsh land of mere survival into a realm of abundance and prosperity in secret. Every day brought news of another village expanding, another keep being upgraded from wood to stone, another successful harvest from the countless glasshouses that now dotted the landscape.

The changes were most visible in the common folk. Gone were the gaunt faces and threadbare clothes that had once marked Northern peasants. Now they walked with pride, their children well-fed, their homes warm and solid. The glasshouses ensured fresh food even in the depths of winter, while the preservation enchantments meant nothing went to waste.

Word had spread south, carried by merchants and travelers - whispers of the Old Gods blessing their ancient lands. Northern smallfolk who had sought better lives in the south began returning home, drawn by tales of prosperity and abundance. Villages that had been half-empty for generations now bustled with life, their populations swelling as families reclaimed their ancestral lands.

The Night's Watch had benefited greatly from these changes. Owen's constructors worked tirelessly to rebuild the abandoned castles, their tireless efficiency restoring ancient strongholds that had crumbled centuries ago. Monthly shipments of preserved food arrived from every major Northern house, ensuring the Watch would never again know the desperate hunger that had once plagued them.

Yet the South remained largely ignorant of the true scope of these changes. They saw only surface signs - increased tax payments, declining grain purchases, fewer Northern traders in their markets. The real transformation, the technological and magical revolution that had reshaped the North, remained hidden behind careful misdirection and the North's traditional privacy as well as the usual attitude towards any rumors whenever the illusions fell.

Sansa stirred beside him, pressing closer to his warmth. Owen smiled and kissed her brow gently, earning a contented moan from his wife. The morning could wait a while longer. Here, in their bed at Ice Crest, he could simply enjoy the peace they'd built together.

Owen drifted back to sleep beside Sansa, her warm presence and steady breathing lulling him into peaceful slumber. The magical protections he'd woven into Ice Crest's very foundations hummed softly, an intricate network of wards and enchantments that kept them safe from both mundane and supernatural threats.

Outside their window, perched in an ancient ironwood tree just beyond the castle's protective barriers, a raven sat motionless in the pre-dawn gloom. Unlike its ordinary kin, this bird possessed three eyes - two normal ones and a third, blood-red orb in the center of its forehead. The creature studied the couple's chamber with an unnatural intensity, though the castle's defenses prevented it from seeing or sensing anything within.

The magical barriers Owen had crafted repelled all attempts at scrying or supernatural observation, creating a sanctuary where even the most powerful entities couldn't intrude. Yet still the three-eyed raven maintained its vigil, as if waiting for something only it could perceive…………

Chapter Text

Roose Bolton's footsteps echoed across the flagstones of the Dreadfort's courtyard, each step measured and deliberate. The pale morning sun shining through the massive glass structures that dominated the eastern section of his castle grounds. His ghost-grey eyes tracked the movement of servants as they harvested the bounty from within, their backs bent in careful labor.

The steam constructors clicked and whirred, their metal legs carrying them between the rows of crops with inhuman precision. One paused in its work, rotating its head toward him before continuing its predetermined path. Roose's fingers twitched - even after four years, the machines still unsettled him. But their efficiency was undeniable.

"My lord." A servant bowed low as Roose passed, nearly dropping his basket of blood-red grapes. The man's voice barely rose above a whisper, just as Roose preferred.

Inside the first glasshouse, warmth enveloped him despite the autumn chill outside. The air hung heavy with moisture, thick with the scent of earth and growing things. Fruit trees lined the central path, their branches heavy with apples and pears. The harvest had exceeded expectations again.

"The wheat yield?" Roose's soft voice carried to his steward, who materialized from between the rows of crops.

"Three times what we'd expect from open fields, my lord, as has become per usual. The surplus alone will fetch a handsome price at White Harbor once more."

Roose ran a pale finger along one of the metal support beams. The structure was flawless - no joints visible, no seams where water might leak. The work of Owen Longshore's machines. The man's creations had changed the North these past 4 years, though Roose wondered if Lord Stark truly understood the power he'd brought into their midst.

A second constructor skittered past, carrying a watering can in its articulated limbs. The machine's movements were smooth, purposeful. Like a well-trained soldier, it knew its place and purpose. Roose could appreciate that, even if he kept his own servants under watch when they worked near the things.

The profits from these glasshouses had filled the Dreadfort's coffers beyond expectation. Even in the depths of autumn, fresh fruits and vegetables flowed from his lands. The smallfolk were better fed, stronger - though no less quiet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. The steam constructors had helped ensure both.

But as he was no fool. Roose's mind catalogued the discrepancies as he walked the length of the glasshouse. Two structures - that's what Lord Stark had granted the Dreadfort. The same number House Dustin and House Ryswell received. Enough to feed their people, enough to generate modest wealth, but nothing more.

Yet his network of informants painted a different picture across the North. House Manderly's lands flourished with five glasshouses at New Castle alone, and three more in each of their villages. White Harbor had transformed into a cornucopia of fresh produce even as autumn deepened. Their coffers swelled with the profits from preserved foods and exotic crops.

The Glovers, once a modest house, now boasted five structures at Deepwood Motte. Robett Glover's elevation in status hadn't gone unnoticed - his keep practically glowed with prosperity. House Mormont, despite their remote location on Bear Island, enjoyed the same bounty. Even the Umbers, wild as they were, had been granted five of the magical structures.

The pattern was clear to Roose's calculating mind. Eddard Stark had divided the North into circles of trust, though he'd done it quietly enough that most wouldn't notice. Those houses who'd proven their absolute loyalty received abundance - enough glasshouses to generate significant wealth and influence. The Manderlys, Glovers, Mormonts, and Umbers prospered far beyond their traditional means.

Meanwhile, houses like his own received just enough to maintain contentment - two glasshouses, no more. The message was subtle but clear: Lord Stark remembered old grievances and ancient rebellions. The Boltons would be permitted to benefit from Owen Longshore's innovations, but never to the same degree as Stark's most trusted bannermen.

"My lord?" The steward's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Shall I send a request to lord owen to have the constructors adjust the irrigation schedule?"

Roose waved his hand in dismissal. "Leave them to their work." His pale eyes followed the mechanical servants as they tended the crops with inhuman precision. He wondered what other marvels Owen Longshore had gifted to Stark's favored houses - what secrets lay hidden behind their walls while the Dreadfort made do with the bare minimum of innovation.

Roose's hand went to the sword at his side. Made of pure steel and embedded with ores of ebony according to Lord Owen. Roose had named it Bloody Heart. The weapon's grip felt cool against his palm, the leather wrapping worn smooth from hours of practice. Every lord of the north had received one such special weapon, whether a mace, sword, spear, daggers or Warhammer - a master-crafted weapon made of special ores that only Lord Stark and Owen knew of its location.

His spies had informed him the only ones who hadn't received any were Lord Stark, Wyman and Robett, the two having apparently bought a large selection of special weapons from Owen before they knew who he was. The weapons had been how they found him in the first place. Another advantage three houses had over them.

He felt for the handle of Bloody Heart. The blade was perfectly balanced, its edge never seeming to dull no matter how much use it saw. Even now, after countless practice sessions, it remained as sharp as the day Owen had presented it to him. It was a good blade anyway, something Domeric would take when Roose died. His son had admired the weapon from the moment Roose had brought it home, though he'd never asked to wield it. Domeric understood patience, at least. That was something.

Roose's thoughts drifted back from his sword to the disparity in resources as he watched another constructor methodically prune a row of fruit trees. The uneven distribution of these magical glass structures across the North rankled him, though his face remained an impassive mask. Two glasshouses - a pittance compared to what Manderly and the others enjoyed.

He understood Eddard Stark's reasoning, of course. Centuries of mistrust didn't vanish with a bent knee and sworn oaths. The Starks had always kept the Boltons at arm's length, using their fearsome reputation when it suited them while maintaining a careful distance. Tales of Bolton cruelty served the North well enough when enemies needed frightening, but that didn't translate to trust.

Roose's ghost-grey eyes settled on a particular flagstone in the courtyard. Few knew that it marked one of the entrances to the maze of tunnels beneath the Dreadfort. Fewer still knew what lay in those dark passages. The flaying chambers weren't just stories to scare children - they were very real, their stone walls still stained with centuries of blood.

In one particular chamber, deep below where he stood, four flayed skins hung in a place of honor. Four Stark sons, taken during the age of the Red Kings, before House Bolton finally knelt to Winterfell. Their preserved flesh served as a grim reminder of the power House Bolton once wielded. Roose never spoke of them or even hinted at their existence - there was no need. The very existence of those chambers, and what they contained, explained why House Stark would never fully trust a Bolton, no matter how many generations passed.

Roose's thoughts drifted to his father's last words, spoken from his deathbed fifteen years ago. "One day, the Boltons will rule the North. The Starks will fall by our hand." Those words had echoed in Roose's mind countless times over the years, a prophecy passed down through generations of Bolton lords after they had knelt to stark rule.

But as he watched another steam constructor methodically tend to the crops, Roose felt that ancient dream slipping away like water through cupped hands. The North had transformed beyond recognition in the four years since Owen Longshore's arrival. Gold flowed freely through White Harbor's and Ice crests ports, the coffers of every major house swelling with profits from preserved foods and exotic crops. The Northern fleet, once a joke among the coastal powers of the world, now patrolled the waters with ships that seemed to spring from legend rather than any known shipwright's plans, too fast to be seen by southern eyes yet armed to the teeth.

Most troubling were the metal sentinels - those towering constructs that Owen called "Dwemer Colossi." They patrolled the major roads and fortifications along with armies of Dwemer automatons and steam constructors, their heavy footfalls echoing through the Wolfswood day and night. Each colossus stood thirty feet tall, armed with massive swords and weapons that spat fire like dragons of legend. The Dreadfort had been granted just one for its protection, while Winterfell housed a dozen, White Harbor five, and even distant Bear Island boasted two. Though he wondered if the colossus was there for the dreadforts own protection or to be turned on him should he…step out of line as it were.

Where once the harsh winters had driven many to seek warmer climates in the south, now that flow had reversed. Northerners with First Men blood were returning in droves, drawn by tales of prosperity and abundance. But they didn't settle in Bolton lands. No, they flocked to Winterfell, White Harbor, and the newly established seat of House Longshore at Sea Dragon Point.

Even the smallfolk who might once have settled in his territories chose other paths. The Dreadfort's reputation for cruelty, though greatly exaggerated in Roose's time - he saw no practical value in torturing the smallfolk as his ancestors had - still cast a long shadow. He knew his forbears had likely earned that reputation through boredom as much as malice, but the damage was done. New settlers avoided Bolton lands like a plague, preferring the welcoming arms of Stark loyalist houses.

This shift meant more than just empty fields. Each settler who chose Manderly over Bolton, Glover over Bolton, or Stark over Bolton represented not just lost tax revenue but lost military potential. The armies that each house could field were determined by their population, and the Bolton's traditional advantage in numbers was eroding with each passing season.

Roose sighed quietly as he left the glasshouses behind, walking towards his keep. The morning mist still clung to the ground, wreathing his feet in grey tendrils that reminded him of smoke rising from a battlefield. He had toyed once with the idea of sending armed rogues to capture Owen and bring him back to the Dreadfort for some... persuasion in knowing how to control his creations, but he knew that would probably lead to failure and suspicion. Young as he was, Owen did seem to be too observant for his own good - an admirable trait as long as it wasn't pointed at Roose. The young lord seemed to notice slight details, and if a kidnapping failed, it wouldn't be long before the great smith lord knew who was behind it.

The thought brought a bitter taste to Roose's mouth. If only Owen had agreed to let Domeric join his house as a ward and student of his teachings. His son would have found out how to forge these weapons or where Lord Owen mined these exotic ores. When Roose had made the suggestion during the harvest festival four years ago, Owen had politely declined, citing that his methods were gifts from the Old Gods meant only for him. The excuse had been diplomatic enough that even Roose couldn't take offense without seeming unreasonable.

Domeric had taken the rejection with grace, though Roose had seen the disappointment in his son's eyes. The boy had a passion for learning that sometimes worried Roose - too much curiosity could be dangerous in their world. Still, Domeric's intelligence and patience would have made him the perfect student to learn Owen's secrets. Instead, his son spent his days managing the Dreadfort's expanding trade operations, a task he performed admirably but one that fell far short of what might have been.

Roose was not stupid though. Owen seemed an amiable person, but he knew exactly where that rejection had come from. This had Eddard Stark's hands all over it. The Wolf Lord's influence was clear, especially considering how Jon Snow, Stark's bastard, had joined Sea Dragon Point as Owen Longshore's master-at-arms. Another slight the wolf had given the flayed man.

He walked into the keep, feeling the warmth rise as the "heating system," as Owen had called it, warmed the whole structure of the Dreadfort. Of course, it was serviced and controlled by an automaton beyond Roose's bidding. He watched the metal creature adjust valves and check gauges with its precise mechanical movements, maintaining the perfect temperature throughout the castle. The heating systems had been another of Lord Owen's inventions, ensuring every castle and the houses of their smallfolk villages stayed warm through even the harshest winters.

Along with the heating came the "water purifiers" and "showers" - more innovations that had transformed daily life in the North. It actually amused Roose how many smallfolk took regular showers now that hot water was just a turn of a metal knob away. The servants in his own keep seemed almost eager to use the facilities, no longer dreading the cold wash basins of old. Though at the very least, their Northern men and women looked much more... comely now they were clean. And healthier too - the maesters reported fewer illnesses since the introduction of the purified water systems for clean drinking water.

Roose walked through the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing off the walls despite the thick carpets Owen's trade had brought them. The now familiar weight of Bloody Heart at his hip provided little comfort as he approached his solar. He already knew who waited within - he'd seen Domeric's expression at breakfast, recognized the determined set of his son's jaw. The same look his mother had worn when she wanted something.

He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Domeric standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the courtyard below. The boy had his mother's build - tall and lean rather than Roose's stockier frame. But there was something of the Bolton coldness and ruthlessness in him too, hidden beneath his courteous exterior.

Roose settled into the chair behind his desk, noting how his son remained silent until he was seated. Good manners, always. That was Domeric's way.

"Father," Domeric turned from the window, his grey eyes meeting Roose's own. "I wish to meet my brother."

The words hung in the air between them. Roose kept his face carefully blank, though inwardly he sighed. He'd known this day would come eventually, had dreaded it even.

"You have no brother," Roose said flatly. "The boy you speak of is a bastard, nothing more. He is not to be bothered with."

"He is still of our blood-" Domeric started.

"He is nothing but a rabid dog," Roose cut him off, his voice sharp as a blade. "You would do better to focus your attention on continuing your letters to Lord Owen. Perhaps he will finally grant you that visit you seek, allow you to witness his newest creations."

"Ramsay," Domeric said quietly.

Roose's eyes widened just a fraction, the only outward sign of his surprise. "How do you know that name?"

Roose studied his son's face, waiting for an answer that didn't come. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of steam constructors working in the courtyard below. Finally, he sighed, a barely audible exhale that spoke volumes about the inevitability of this moment.

"Very well," Roose said, his voice as soft and cold as falling snow. "I will write to Lord Owen myself, requesting a week's stay at Ice Crest. Perhaps longer, if he proves amenable." His pale eyes fixed on Domeric. "I will attach it to your own letter. The combined weight of our requests may sway him."

He paused, measuring his next words carefully. "And when you return from Sea Dragon Point - assuming Lord Owen grants this request - I will personally take you to meet your... brother."

Something flickered across Domeric's face - not quite a smile, but close enough to one that it made him look younger, more like the boy he'd been before his fostering at the Redfort. "Thank you, Father." He bowed slightly, the gesture precise and proper as always, before turning to leave the solar.

Roose waited until the door closed behind his son before reaching into his desk drawer. He withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, the kind that Owen's constructors produced - smooth and pristine, without the rough edges of traditional parchment. Taking up one of the new "pens" that had become so fashionable among the Northern lords, he considered its strange design. The metal tip didn't require constant dipping like a quill, drawing ink smoothly from some internal reservoir.

Owen had mentioned these were now common in Essos, particularly among the money-changers and merchants of the Free Cities. Roose could see why - the convenience alone made them worth their considerable price. Lord owen would complain as well, seeing as both paper and pen were also his creation. When the maesters finally knew lord longshore made them, they would fight tooth and nail for whole ships of them no doubt.

Roose set aside the strange new pen for a moment, reaching instead for a more traditional quill. Some messages were better written with older tools - it felt more fitting somehow. The ink was thick and black, another of Owen's creations that didn't fade like the watery substances of old.

His first letter was brief and to the point. Six hundred gold dragons would be delivered to the miller's widow, along with passage to Braavos on the next ship. The warning was clear - return to Westeros, and her life would be forfeit. It was more generous than she deserved, but Roose believed in tying up loose ends neatly, even if not by death.

The second part of the letter dealt with Ramsay and his companion "Reek". The instructions were precise - both were to be eliminated quietly, their bodies disposed of where they would never be found. Roose had considered having them brought to the Dreadfort's dungeons, but that carried too much risk. Better to have it done quickly and cleanly.

He sealed this letter with plain wax - no sigil, nothing to trace it back to him. His men would know what to do.

Then Roose picked up Owen's pen again, appreciating its smooth flow as he began the second letter. This one would need to appear genuine, concerned, a lord's duty to report troubling matters to his liege. He chose his words carefully, writing of strange ships seen off the northern coast, of whispers about foreign powers taking interest in the North's newfound wealth and military strength.

The letter painted a picture of potential threats, of the need for the crown to perhaps investigate these matters personally. After all, what loyal lord wouldn't want to ensure the realm's security? And if such an investigation led to questions about the North's rapid rise in power, well, that was hardly Roose's concern.

He wrote steadily, his pale eyes focused on the task, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. The North had grown too strong too quickly, and someone needed to restore the "balance". If he couldn't have lord Owen's power for himself, perhaps it was time for others to take notice of it.

Chapter Text

Owen sat on the wide stone steps of Ice Crest, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. He speared a piece of apple from his bowl, watching Sansa run her fingers through Anastasia's thick white fur. The direwolf's massive head rested in his wife's lap, ice-blue eyes half-closed in contentment.

"She's grown quite fond of you," Owen said, popping the fruit in his mouth.

Sansa's fingers traced the silvery patterns in Anastasia's coat. "As have I of her. Though I still can't believe how large she's become."

The direwolf indeed dwarfed any of her kind Owen had ever seen or read about. Her shoulder reached past his waist when standing, her muscled frame enhanced by the magical binding they shared. The memory of finding her still haunted him - her broken body lying in a crimson patch of snow outside White Harbor two weeks ago.

"You should have seen her when I found her." Owen set his empty bowl aside. "Half-starved, leg shattered, barely breathing. If I hadn't gotten her to the Temple in time..."

"But you did." Sansa scratched behind Anastasia's ears, earning a pleased rumble. "And now she's the most magnificent creature in the North."

Owen smiled, remembering the long nights spent nursing the direwolf back to health within the Temple of Solomon's healing chambers. He'd pored over ancient texts about familiar bonds, working complex spells to forge their connection while her body mended. The magic had transformed her, imbuing her with strength and speed that bordered on supernatural.

"The books said the familiar bond would enhance her natural abilities," Owen said. "But I never expected this degree of change." He reached over to run his hand along Anastasia's flank, feeling the corded muscle beneath her fur. "She's faster than any horse, strong enough to carry us both with ease."

Anastasia lifted her head at his touch, those intelligent blue eyes meeting his. The bond thrummed between them, a constant awareness of each other's presence and wellbeing. She rose to her full height, shaking out her coat before padding over to nuzzle Owen's chest with her massive head.

"Show-off," he chuckled, scratching under her chin. Even sitting, he had to reach up to do so.

Sansa watched them with a soft smile. "It seems the Old Gods truly blessed you both that day."

Owen nodded, though he knew it wasn't the gods but rather Solomon's ancient knowledge that had saved Anastasia. Still, he let his wife believe what she wished. The direwolf settled between them, her head swiveling to survey the courtyard with alert eyes, ever the vigilant guardian.

As he watched Anastasia's alert posture, he remembered the day he'd first shown Sansa the Temple of Solomon. It had been a year and a half into their marriage when he'd finally decided to trust her with one of his greatest secret. Her reaction had surprised him - instead of fear or rejection, she'd shown wonder and curiosity at the vast magical dimension.

"Do you remember your first time seeing the Temple?" Owen asked, drawing Sansa's attention from the direwolf.

She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. "How could I forget? All those books, the endless halls..." Her hand unconsciously touched the spot on her chest where her magic circuits lay beneath. "And the day you awakened my magic. I never imagined I could heal injuries with just a touch."

Owen nodded, pride swelling as he recalled how quickly she'd taken to healing magic. Within months, she'd mastered basic wound closure and bone mending. Though she steadfastly refused to learn combat spells, her gentle nature better suited to mending than destroying.

"You've saved many lives since then," he said. "The villagers still talk about how you healed Willem's boy after that fall from the cliffs."

"Speaking of healing," Sansa said, "Jon mentioned you two had quite the practice session yesterday. Said you nearly singed his eyebrows off."

Owen chuckled. After revealing the Temple to Jon as well and awakening his circuits, his goodbrother had thrown himself into magical training with characteristic determination. As Master-at-Arms of Ice Crest, Jon split his time between patrolling the growing settlements around Sea Dragon Point and honing his considerable magical talents.

"He's gotten remarkably good at combining fire and ice magic with his swordwork," Owen said. "Yesterday he managed to coat his sword in alternating layers - burning edge with an icy core. Nearly caught me off guard when the ice suddenly erupted into flames."

Sansa shook her head fondly. "He's earned quite a reputation among the smallfolk, you know. They say he's as fair as Father when settling disputes between villages. Last week he rode out to mediate that fishing rights argument between Stoneshore and Seal Bay."

"The circuits suit him," Owen said. "He has a natural talent for elemental magic that surpasses even my own. Though he still needs work on his defensive spells."

Owen watched as Sansa huffed in amusement, cuddling closer to Anastasia. The massive direwolf turned from her vigilant watch of the courtyard, abandoning her guard duty to happily nuzzle against Sansa's neck, drawing a delighted laugh from his wife.

"Ever since you awakened our magic," Sansa said, running her fingers through Anastasia's thick fur, "all Jon can talk about is wanting more lessons in the Temple. Every other conversation leads to requesting another magical spar."

Owen chuckled, remembering Jon's wide-eyed wonder when he'd first seen the Temple's vast training arenas and endless libraries of magical knowledge. "It's just the novelty of it all. Though it's been two years since I revealed the Temple to you both and awakened your magic, the wonder will wear off eventually."

Sansa turned to him with a knowing grin, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Has it worn off for you then? This wonder of magic?"

Owen paused, considering the question. He thought of all the miraculous things he'd accomplished with magic - the healing of Anastasia, the awakening of magic circuits in those he trusted most, the countless spells and enchantments he'd mastered. Even after four years of studying Solomon's vast magical knowledge, each new discovery still filled him with the same excitement as that first day.

He shared her smile, shaking his head. "Not a bit."

Their laughter echoed across the courtyard, joined by Anastasia's happy rumble as the direwolf settled contentedly between them.

Owen turned his attention to the bustling activity beyond Ice Crest's gates, sharing a comfortable silence with Sansa. The settlement had grown exponentially, transforming from a modest village into what could only be described as a small city. Northern-blooded smallfolk, hearing tales of prosperity and opportunity, had begun returning from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to their ancestral homeland.

"Another hundred arrived yesterday," Owen said, noting the fresh construction at the town's edge. "Most from the Reach this time."

The influx had prompted him to order two thousand steam constructors and automatons to build proper housing. Unlike the crude hovels common throughout Westeros, these dwellings featured luxuries previously unknown to smallfolk - Dwemer showers with hot running water, heating systems that kept homes warm even in the harshest winter, and water purifiers that prevented illness.

Owen watched a group of children playing near one of the communal fountains, their laughter carrying up to where he sat. The sight of clean, well-fed smallfolk still struck him as remarkable compared to his memories of other parts of Westeros.

"Duncan's done well managing it all," Sansa observed, following his gaze to where the town's mayor was mediating a dispute between two merchants.

Owen nodded in agreement. He'd chosen Duncan specifically for his combination of strength and honor - a former soldier who'd shown both wisdom and compassion. The man's broad shoulders and battle-scarred face commanded respect, while his fair judgments had earned him the people's trust.

The new outer walls rose impressively around the growing settlement, built by tireless constructors to Owen's exacting specifications. Behind the physical defenses lay layers of magical wards and protective enchantments, invisible but far more potent than mere stone. Owen had spent weeks weaving the spells himself, determined to protect these people who'd placed their faith in the North's renaissance.

"Remember when this was all empty coastline?" Owen asked, gesturing at the sprawling town below. "Just large rocks, seaweed and scrub brush when we first arrived."

"And now look at it," Sansa said softly. "A proper city in the making."

Owen watched a distance away but clear from the open gates as a steam constructor methodically lay stones for a new granary, its mechanical arms moving with precise efficiency. He chuckled, remembering the first time the southern smallfolk had encountered these metal workers. Many had fallen to their knees in terror, making signs to ward off evil spirits. Some had even tried to leave offerings of bread and ale at the constructors' feet.

"They've adapted well enough now," Owen mused aloud to Sansa. "Though I still catch some of the older folk making the sign of the Seven or calling on the old gods when they pass too close."

Even more amusing had been their reactions to the Dwarven Colossus. Just last week, Jon had led a patrol along the coast with one of the massive automatons stomping alongside. Owen had heard tales of fishermen throwing themselves face-down in their boats, convinced the Old Gods had sent a metal giant to judge their sins. A group of women had actually tried to organize a feast in the Colossus's honor before Jon managed to explain it was simply a very large machine.

"The children aren't afraid at least," Sansa said, pointing to where a group of young ones were playing a game of tag around a constructor's legs. The machine carefully adjusted its movements to avoid the laughing children, its programming ensuring their safety.

Owen pulled out the letter he'd received that morning, the seal of the Night's Watch still visible on the broken wax. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's precise handwriting detailed the completion of the restored castles along the Wall. The steam constructors Owen had sent north had performed admirably, rebuilding crumbling towers and repairing ancient stonework with tireless efficiency.

"The Old Bear seems pleased," Owen said, scanning the letter again. "All nineteen castles restored to their former glory, and enough food stored away to feed the entire Watch for a decade." He handed the letter to Sansa. "The donations from the Northern houses have exceeded all expectations. Even the mountain clans sent a bounty of food"

It was a testament to the North's newfound prosperity. With the glasshouses producing crops year-round, month to month harvests and the automated farming equipment in the form of the steam constructors multiplying yields, every holdfast from the Neck to the Wall had surplus to share. The Night's Watch, traditionally struggling to feed its men through winter, now had warehouses bursting with preserved grain and meat.

"Father will be pleased," Sansa said, returning the letter. "He's always said a strong Watch means a strong North."

Owen nodded, remembering how the steam constructors had transformed the abandoned castles. Nightfort, Deep Lake, Queensgate - names that had been little more than ruins were now fully manned fortresses again (at least as fully manned as they could with the nights watches numbers). The Watch's numbers had grown as well, with more volunteers arriving as word spread of the improved conditions though still not as many as Mormont had hoped but it was still better than nothing.

"To think," Owen said, "just four years ago half those castles were falling apart. Now they're better defended than they've been in centuries." He didn't mention the magical wards he'd personally placed on each fortress, or the Dwarven Colossi that stood silent sentinel in hidden chambers, ready to activate if the Wall ever faced true danger.

Owen felt a deep contentment wash over him as he sat there on the steps of Ice Crest. The Celestial Forge might have gone quiet these past years, offering no new gifts or powers, but he'd made the most of what he had. Through careful application of his abilities and knowledge, he'd transformed not just his own life but the lives of countless others across the North.

His fingers traced the smooth stone beneath him - stone cut and placed by his steam constructors. Everything around him spoke of prosperity and progress. The busy town below, the restored castles along the Wall, the thriving trade that filled Ice Crest's coffers - all of it born from the gifts he'd already received. What more could he possibly want or need?

He was wealthy beyond measure, married to a beautiful and loving wife, safe within the walls of his own castle. He'd even managed to bring real, meaningful change to the North, preparing it for the winters and wars to come. The satisfaction of seeing his plans come to fruition far outweighed any desire for new powers.

Owen turned to share these thoughts with Sansa, a smile on his face, but the words died in his throat. His wife had gone quiet, her earlier cheerfulness replaced by a profound sadness. A frown marred her beautiful features as she stared distantly at nothing in particular, lost in troubled thoughts.

"Sansa? What's wrong?" Owen asked, concern immediately replacing his contentment.

She turned away slightly, her shoulders tensing. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on her distress. Owen stood, moving closer to his wife and pulling her gently into his arms.

"Love, please tell me what's troubling you," he said softly against her hair.

Sansa remained quiet for a long moment, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"It's been four years, Owen," she said, "and I'm still not with child."

Owen held Sansa close, feeling her tremble against him. Anastasia sensed her distress and moved closer, nuzzling her softly with a gentle whine. The massive direwolf's presence seemed to comfort Sansa somewhat, but Owen could still feel the tension in her body.

"I know you'll want an heir eventually," Sansa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And if I can't give you one... you'll find someone who can. One day you'll come home with a bastard like Jon, tell me he'll be your heir because I failed to give you children."

Owen mentally scoffed at that, recognizing Catelyn's influence in Sansa's fears. While Sansa loved Jon dearly now, her mother's treatment of him had clearly left its mark on her views regarding bastards. The way Catelyn had treated Jon over the years had planted seeds of insecurity that were now blooming in Sansa's own marriage.

The irony wasn't lost on Owen. Sansa had been nothing but passionate and willing in their marriage bed, often initiating their encounters with an enthusiasm that left him breathless. The thought of taking a mistress or fathering bastards had never once crossed his mind. How could it, when he had such a beautiful and loving wife?

But he'd noticed the growing desperation in her actions lately. He'd seen her spending long hours in the Temple of Solomon, poring over ancient tomes searching for fertility spells and potions. Some of her attempts had worked, at least partially - he'd noticed the changes in her figure, how her curves had grown more pronounced in certain places, her breasts fuller than before. All carefully calculated changes meant to tempt him into spending more time in their bedchamber, as if frequency was the issue.

Owen's heart ached at her words however, knowing he needed to address these fears directly. He had actually investigated their fertility issues months ago, using his considerable magical knowledge and the resources of Solomon's Temple.

Late one night, while Sansa slept peacefully beside him, he had performed detailed magical examinations of them both. The spells had revealed nothing wrong with either of them. His seed was remarkably potent, enhanced by his awakened magic circuits which had perfected his body in many ways. Similarly, Sansa was more fertile than most women, her own circuits having enhanced her natural abilities.

The truth was simple - it just wasn't their time yet. The Old Gods, or fate, or whatever force governed such things had their own schedule in mind.

"My love," Owen said softly, pulling back to look into her tear-filled eyes, "I swear to you, as long as you're with me, I will never sire a bastard. We will have our children in time."

Sansa shook her head, frustration evident in her expression. "You don't understand. The North sees you as their savior. What you've done these past years - the roads, the glasshouses, the restored castles, the ships - you'll pass into legend by the time you're gone. Your bloodline will be incredibly important to the North."

She took a shuddering breath before continuing, "If the lords see that a Stark daughter can't continue your line, they'll send their own daughters to seduce you, to bear your children. They'll do anything to tie their houses to your legacy."

Owen couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, earning him a sharp look from his wife. "My dear, they'd have more success seducing a rock than pulling me away from you."

He gently lifted her face with one hand, using the other to wipe away her tears. Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, trying to convey all his love and devotion in that simple gesture.

Sansa kissed him back with a desperate hunger, her lips pressing against his more passionately and eagerly than ever before, seeking the comfort and assurance only he could provide. Her blue eyes, still glistening with traces of tears, locked onto his as she whispered her desire, telling him to take her - to make her forget everything else but them. Understanding exactly what she meant, what she needed, Owen snapped his fingers, drawing upon the power of the Temple of Solomon to instantly transport them both to their bedroom in Ice Crest.

The next three hours passed in a passionate blur as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. They made sweet, tender love throughout the afternoon, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony as they reaffirmed their connection. Every touch, every kiss, every gentle caress served to strengthen their bond, washing away Sansa's fears and doubts. Finally spent, they drifted off to sleep wrapped tightly in each other's arms, their hearts beating as one beneath the warm blankets and silk sheets of their bed.

Owen stirred from his peaceful slumber, Sansa's warm body pressed against his side. Though his muscles pleasantly ached from their afternoon activities, it wasn't natural waking that roused him. An urgent knocking echoed through their chamber door, growing more insistent by the second.

Sansa made a small sound of protest as Owen carefully extracted himself from her embrace. He couldn't help but smile at how she immediately hugged his pillow as a replacement, her face peaceful in sleep. Quickly pulling on a pair of breeches and a loose tunic, Owen made his way to the door.

Opening it revealed Jon Snow standing beside Anastasia, his face drawn with concern. The massive white direwolf stood alert, her ice-blue eyes fixed on Owen with unusual intensity.

"What's wrong?" Owen asked, noting the tension in Jon's shoulders.

"A rider just arrived from Winterfell," Jon replied in a low voice, conscious of the sleeping Sansa nearby. "He's been riding hard for three days straight, barely stopping to rest. Says he has an urgent message."

Owen cursed under his breath, sudden realization hitting him. In all their preparations and advancement of the North, they'd made one significant oversight. While they'd sworn the maesters of various Northern houses to secrecy about their technological progress, Ice Crest itself had no maester at all. He and Sansa had deliberately avoided requesting one from the Citadel, not trusting any southern-trained maester to keep the North's secrets. The maesters' loyalty to their chain and the Citadel was well known, and the risk of information leaking south had seemed too great.

Now, that decision might be coming back to haunt them. Without a maester's network of ravens, urgent communication with Ice Crest relied on mounted messengers - a far slower and more dangerous method of conveying important news. He had been meaning to make some magical way of communication or train special birds to take his messages like owls or hawks, but he always seemed to forget or be busy with something else. The Temple of Solomon had given him countless opportunities to develop such systems, yet between managing the castle's defenses, training with Jon, and overseeing the technological advancement of the North, the task had repeatedly slipped his mind. Each time he'd remembered, there had been another pressing matter demanding his attention, another crisis to solve, another innovation to perfect. Now he was beginning to realize just how costly that oversight might prove to be.

Owen took the sealed letter from Jon's hands, his fingers tracing the direwolf sigil pressed into the grey wax. Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as Sansa stirred, likely roused by their voices at the door.

"Owen?" Sansa called softly. He turned to see her wrapping herself in a thick robe, her auburn hair slightly disheveled from their earlier activities. She moved to his side, her blue eyes wide with concern as she noted the tension in the room. "What's wrong?"

Owen broke the seal, unfolding the parchment with steady hands even as his heart raced. His eyes scanned the hastily written words, taking in their urgent message. The blood drained from his face as he processed the contents, his jaw tightening with each line.

"Owen?" Sansa pressed, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "What does it say?"

He looked up from the letter, his gaze moving from Sansa to Jon, both watching him with growing apprehension. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on the mounting tension.

"There was an attack on Winterfell," Owen finally said, his voice grim. "Someone tried to destroy the factory."

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his dark hair as he studied the ledgers spread across his solar desk. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the window, illuminating columns of numbers that still managed to surprise him even after four years of Owen's innovations transforming the North.

"These figures cannot be correct," he muttered, though he'd verified them three times already. "The crown's share now alone exceeds what the entire North produced in years past."

Maester Luwin shifted forward, chains clinking as he pointed to a particular entry. "The preserved food shipments to the Free Cities have proven especially lucrative these days, my lord. White Harbor and Ice crest can barely keep pace with demand, even with the new ships and storage facilities."

Eddard's eyes drifted to the large iron-bound chest in the corner - one of dozens now filling Winterfell's new vaults. Owen's mechanical workers had carved them deep beneath the castle, creating a labyrinth of secure chambers that would have taken human laborers years to complete.

"And this is after the tax distributions to the bannermen?" Eddard asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Indeed. Houses Manderly, Glover, and the others who received the fuller complement of steam constructors and glasshouses have submitted their portions faithfully." Luwin's fingers traced down another column. "Even the more... limited installations have generated significant returns."

Eddard nodded, understanding the Maester's careful phrasing. Just as he wanted they'd been selective in how they'd distributed Owen's marvels, ensuring loyal houses received greater shares while houses of questionable allegiance like the Boltons received just enough to prevent open resentment.

"The crown will notice eventually," Eddard said, his voice low. "These payments far exceed what they'd expect, even in the best of times."

"Lord Owen's illusions continue to mask the full extent of our prosperity," Luwin assured him. "To outside observers, the North appears to be experiencing a modest improvement in fortunes, nothing more."

Eddard rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the expanded grounds of Winterfell. Where once there had been open fields, now stood rows of glasshouses producing food year-round. The factory's chimneys rose in the distance, mechanical sounds carrying faintly on the wind as it churned out weapons and armor for the growing Northern forces.

"Sometimes I wonder if we do right by concealing so much," he admitted. "Robert is my friend."

"And the Queen is a Lannister," Luwin reminded him gently. "The North must be ready before we reveal our true strength."

Eddard's hand fell to the ledger again, fingers tracing the neat columns of numbers that represented more gold than House Stark had seen in generations. Each entry testified to the wisdom of accepting Owen into their family, of protecting his extraordinary gifts. The North was growing stronger by the day, its people better fed and equipped than ever before.

Yet with such prosperity came responsibility - and risk. Eddard felt the weight of both as he studied the financial records of a North transformed. They would need every advantage in the years to come.

Luwin shifted in his seat, his chains rattling softly as he pulled another scroll from his sleeve. "There is one economic concern I feel compelled to raise, my lord."

Eddard turned from the window. "Speak freely, Maester."

"We've done well to control the flow of goods thus far, but once we reveal ourselves to the South..." Luwin spread his hands. "The sheer volume of preserved food and goods we can produce with Lord Owen's innovations could destabilize prices across the Seven Kingdoms."

"Explain." Eddard returned to his chair, leaning forward with interest.

"Consider the preserved foods alone. A single one of our enhanced glasshouses produces more in a month than traditional farming yields in a year. Between White Harbor and Ice Crest, we could feed half the realm." Luwin tapped the ledger. "If we were to suddenly release these goods south, the price of food would plummet. Farmers across Westeros would struggle to compete."

Eddard frowned. "And this would affect more than just food?"

"Indeed. Our automated forges can produce steel goods at a tenth of the usual cost. Textiles, leather goods, preserved meats - anything we make in quantity could flood existing markets." Luwin's fingers traced the rows of numbers. "The South's craftsmen and merchants would face ruin unless they adapted quickly."

"Which they cannot do without access to Owen's innovations," Eddard completed the thought. He rubbed his temple, considering the implications. The North's prosperity could inadvertently devastate the economies of the other kingdoms.

"Precisely. Even the Lannisters' gold mines might diminish in significance compared to our new production capabilities." Luwin paused. "Though I suspect Lord Tywin would take steps to prevent that long before it became an issue."

"What would you recommend?"

"A gradual integration of our goods into southern markets. Careful control of supply to prevent price collapse. Perhaps using different merchant houses to mask the true source and volume." Luwin pulled out another scroll. "I've prepared some initial calculations on sustainable export levels that would allow southern economies to adapt."

Eddard studied the figures, noting how even these "safe" levels of trade would generate more wealth than the North had seen in centuries. "We'll need to coordinate with Lord Manderly and Owen on this. Their ports handle most of our shipping."

"And perhaps establish new trading routes through smaller ports to disperse the flow of goods more naturally," Luwin added. "The less obvious our true production capacity, the better."

Eddard nodded, making a mental note to discuss this with Owen at their next meeting. His goodson's economic insight would be valuable in planning how to eventually reveal the North's new capabilities without causing chaos in the realm's markets.

Eddard pulled out a heavy pouch from his desk drawer, letting several gold dragons spill onto the polished surface. The coins caught the afternoon light, their surfaces gleaming with an unusual brilliance.

"What of our own currency situation?" he asked, picking up one of the dragons and examining the precise stamping. Owen's Dwemer machinery produced perfect replicas, down to the finest detail of the dragon motif. "We've been minting these for over two years now."

Luwin's expression grew troubled as he reached for one of the coins. "Therein lies a rather delicate problem, my lord. Our gold dragons are too pure."

"Too pure?" Eddard's brow furrowed. "Explain."

"The ore from Cidhna Mine is remarkably pure, and Lord Owen's minting process preserves that purity." Luwin held the coin up to the light. "Traditional Lannister-minted dragons contain trace amounts of other metals - silver, copper, even small amounts of iron. It's a deliberate choice that allows them to stretch their gold reserves further."

"But ours are pure gold," Eddard said slowly, understanding dawning.

"Indeed. One hundred percent pure." Luwin set the coin down carefully. "Any skilled assayer would notice the difference immediately. While this makes our coins technically more valuable, it also makes them distinctly identifiable as... not of Lannister origin."

Eddard felt a chill despite the warm afternoon. They'd been so focused on matching the physical appearance of the coins, they'd overlooked this crucial detail. "How many are in circulation?"

"We've kept most within the North, trading between our own houses and merchants. But some have inevitably made their way south through trade." Luwin pulled out a small ledger. "I estimate perhaps five percent of our minted coins have crossed the Neck."

"Enough to be noticed," Eddard said grimly. The illegal minting of coins was a serious crime - one that even his friendship with Robert might not be able to excuse.

"Lord Owen will need to adjust the mixture for future mintings," Luwin said. "Add the appropriate amounts of other metals to match the Lannister standard. As for those already in circulation..."

"We'll need to recall as many as we can," Eddard finished. "Quietly." He gathered the coins from his desk, their perfect golden surfaces now seeming more threatening than beautiful. "Send word to our bannermen. Any pure gold dragons are to be returned to Winterfell for... reprocessing."

"And those that have already reached the South?"

Eddard dropped the coins back into their pouch with a heavy sigh. "We must hope they're melted down for their gold content before anyone thinks to question their origin."

Eddard stood and paced the length of his solar, the weight of yet another potential crisis settling onto his shoulders. The pure gold dragons represented both the North's newfound prosperity and a serious threat to their carefully managed secrets.

"Robert's temper has always been his weakness," Eddard mused, remembering countless occasions where his friend's rage had overwhelmed his reason. "But his love of gold to spend might work in our favor. If we approach this correctly, frame it as an honest mistake..."

Luwin cleared his throat. "There could be another complication, my lord. Our merchants report that traders from the Free Cities have begun specifically requesting Northern-minted coins."

Eddard stopped his pacing. "What?"

"The purity has not gone unnoticed since we started minting. Several banking houses in Braavos now offer better exchange rates for our dragons compared to traditional Lannister mintings." Luwin spread another document across the desk. "Some merchants have even started marking their coins with small notches to identify them as Northern-made."

"Seven hells," Eddard muttered, dropping back into his chair. This complicated matters significantly. It was one thing to explain away accidental distribution of pure gold coins within Westeros, but international recognition of their superior currency would be harder to dismiss.

"The Iron Bank particularly has taken notice, especially after the large deposits we've been making along with lord owen," Luwin continued. "Their representatives in White Harbor have made discrete inquiries about establishing more direct trading relationships."

"Which would only draw more attention to our minting." Eddard rubbed his temples. "Robert might forgive an innocent mistake in copying his coins too well, but if word reaches him that foreign banks prefer Northern gold to Lannister..."

"Lord Tywin would take it as a direct challenge to Casterly Rock's financial authority," Luwin finished. "He among all in the south should already suspicious of our increased prosperity and lack of food imports than any other in the south."

Eddard nodded grimly. The Lannisters had built their power on their gold mines and financial influence. A competing source of purer currency would not be tolerated quietly.

"Perhaps we could present it as an unintended consequence of Lord Owen's perfectionism?" Luwin suggested. "His dedication to quality in all things is well known. The purity could be explained as simple thoroughness rather than deliberate competition."

"Robert might accept that," Eddard agreed. "He's always appreciated craftsmanship, even if he doesn't understand it. But we'll need to offer something substantial to smooth things over. The crown's debts still weigh heavily on him."

"A significant payment to the royal treasury, combined with a commitment to adjust our minting standards?" Luwin proposed. "It would demonstrate both good faith and submission to crown authority."

Luwin stroked his chain thoughtfully. "There may be another consideration, my lord. One that could prove far more contentious than simple reparations."

Eddard's gaze sharpened. "Speak freely."

"King Robert has always chafed under Lannister financial control. If he learns that the North can produce purer coins more efficiently..." Luwin spread his hands. "He might see an opportunity to shift minting operations from Casterly Rock to Winterfell."

The implications hit Eddard like a physical blow. "Gods, that would be worse than any accusation of illegal minting."

"Indeed. The Lannisters have held minting rights since Aegon's Conquest. To lose such a fundamental symbol of their power and wealth..." Luwin shook his head. "Lord Tywin would demand extraordinary concessions to accept such a change."

"Robert wouldn't care about Tywin's pride," Eddard said, remembering his friend's frequent complaints about Lannister influence since the time he took the throne and from jon Arryn's letters. "He'd likely relish the chance to diminish their power while strengthening the crown's position."

"Which puts you in a precarious position, my lord. Accepting such a transfer would make House Stark the primary financial power in Westeros overnight. But the price..."

"The Lannisters would never forgive the slight," Eddard finished. "Even with concessions, they'd see it as theft of their ancestral right. And Cersei would poison Robert's ear against us at every opportunity."

Luwin nodded gravely. "We might need to offer them exclusive trade agreements, preferential rates on Northern goods, perhaps even marriage alliances to prevent open hostility."

The thought of binding his family closer to the Lannisters made Eddard's stomach turn. Yet the alternative - openly antagonizing the wealthiest house in Westeros - could prove even more dangerous.

"And all this because our coins are too perfect," Eddard muttered, staring at the gleaming dragon in his hand.

Despite the gravity of their coin situation, Eddard couldn't suppress a chuckle, drawing a puzzled look from Maester Luwin.

"My lord?"

"Just remembering something Owen said recently. He called this kind of predicament 'suffering from success' - when prosperity itself becomes the source of new problems." Eddard shook his head, still amused by his goodson's peculiar turns of phrase.

"A rather apt description," Luwin agreed, a slight smile crossing his weathered features.

"We'll deal with the coin situation when the time comes," Eddard said, straightening in his chair. "For now, what's the final count for this month's taxes and our trading profits?"

Luwin consulted his ledgers, chains clinking softly as he leaned forward. "The month's tax collection amounts to four million gold dragons, my lord. House Stark's personal profits from trading ventures come to three million." He paused, checking another page. "And our current savings in the Iron Bank stand at ten million dragons."

Eddard leaned back, letting out a long breath. The numbers were staggering - sums that would have seemed impossible just a few years ago. A pleasant warmth spread through his chest despite his attempts to maintain his usual stoic demeanor.

Never in the long history of the North had such wealth flowed through Winterfell's coffers. The kings of winter, his ancestors who had ruled for thousands of years, hadn't seen such prosperity. Even at the height of their power, House Stark had never commanded such resources.

"Sometimes I wonder what my father would make of all this," Eddard mused, his eyes drifting to the Stark direwolf banner on the wall. "The North, not just surviving winter, but thriving."

Maester Luwin's weathered face creased with a knowing smile. "Your lord father would be proud, I think. Not just of the prosperity, but of your foresight in binding Lord Owen to House Stark through Lady Sansa. It was a masterful move, securing such blessed talent for the North."

Eddard allowed himself a full smile then, remembering how Owen still looked at Sansa with the same wonderment as he had on their wedding day. Four years had passed, yet his goodson's devotion hadn't dimmed. If anything, it had grown stronger. Owen's innovations might have transformed the North, but his heart clearly belonged to Sansa.

The only shadow on their marriage was the lack of children. Eddard had seen the worry in Sansa's eyes last he had visited, though she tried to hide it. Owen never pressured her, never showed disappointment, but Eddard knew they both yearned for a child.

"The Old Gods will bless them when the time is right," Eddard said quietly, more to himself than Luwin. He'd seen enough of Owen's extraordinary abilities to know that some things worked on their own timeline. The gods had their reasons.

"Is there anything else we need to discuss, Maester Luwin?"

"Yes, my lord. There is the matter of the returning Northerners." Luwin pulled out another scroll from his sleeve. "The flow of people from the South continues to increase. This month alone, over two thousand have crossed the Neck, most claiming First Men ancestry."

Eddard frowned, studying the numbers on Luwin's scroll. "How is this a problem? The North has always been underpopulated. More hands mean more strength for our people."

"True, my lord," Luwin adjusted his chain thoughtfully. "But many of these returnees find themselves without purpose. The blacksmiths have found work - Mikken has taken on dozens at Winterfell alone, teaching them to maintain the factory-made arms and armor. But the others..."

"What of the others?"

"The farmers, my lord. With the glasshouses producing such abundant yields, traditional farming provides less employment than before. One glasshouse tended by two workers or just 5 steam constructors produces more than forty acres of open field." Luwin pulled out another document. "The masons and builders face similar difficulties. The steam constructors build faster and better than any human crew."

Eddard leaned forward, concern etching deeper lines in his face. "So our prosperity threatens to leave our own people idle?"

"Precisely. The craftsmen who've returned seeking opportunity often find their traditional skills... obsolete." Luwin's chain clinked as he shifted. "Just yesterday, a stonemason from White Harbor complained that no one would hire him when the constructors can raise a wall in hours that would take his team weeks."

"Owen's machines are a blessing from the gods," Eddard said slowly, "but we cannot allow them to displace our people's livelihoods."

"The issue extends beyond simple employment, my lord. These returning Northerners bring families, hopes, dreams of a better life. If they cannot find meaningful work..." Luwin left the implications hanging.

Eddard stood, walking to the window overlooking Winterfell's bustling courtyard. Below, he could see several of Owen's steam constructors efficiently stacking crates of supplies, doing the work of twenty men. What had seemed purely beneficial now revealed a more complicated face.

Eddard turned back from the window, his mind already working through potential solutions. "I'll need to discuss this with Owen. The steam constructors have brought us great prosperity, but we cannot let that come at the cost of our people's dignity."

"What do you propose, my lord?" Luwin asked, his chains clinking as he leaned forward.

"Perhaps we could restrict the constructors to major projects - like they did the rebuilding of Moat Cailin, strengthening our coastal defenses, tasks of that scale." Eddard settled back into his chair. "That would leave plenty of work for our builders and masons on smaller projects throughout the North."

Luwin nodded thoughtfully. "A sound approach. The steam constructors' speed would still benefit our largest undertakings, while preserving traditional crafts for everyday construction."

"But what of the farmers?" Eddard asked. "We can hardly tell them their services are no longer needed when winter always looms."

"I've given this some thought as well my lord," Luwin replied, pulling out another scroll. "The glasshouses require careful attention, but not constant supervision. We could establish a system where farmers tend to the crops during daylight hours, while the constructors handle the more precise maintenance tasks at night."

"Go on," Eddard encouraged, intrigued by the suggestion.

"The constructors excel at maintaining exact temperature and humidity levels, monitoring for disease, perfect water levels for growth, and other technical aspects. But the monthly harvests still require many hands." Luwin spread his hands. "If we reserve that work for our farmers, it provides regular employment while making use of their agricultural expertise."

"Letting them earn their keep through honest labor rather than charity," Eddard mused. "Yes, that could work. The constructors handle the precision work at night, while our people manage the day-to-day operations and harvesting."

"It would preserve both their livelihoods and their pride," Luwin agreed. "And with the increasing number of glasshouses across the North, there should be sufficient work for all who seek it."

"I'll speak with Owen about implementing these changes," Eddard said. "He's always shown concern for the wellbeing of our people. I'm sure he'll see the wisdom in finding this balance."

As Maester Luwin opened his mouth to continue their discussion, thunderous pounding shook the solar's heavy oak door. Before Eddard could respond, Mikken burst through, his face flushed and chest heaving. The normally composed blacksmith's eyes were wide with terror, causing Eddard's hand to instinctively reach for Ice at his belt.

"My lord Stark..." Mikken gasped, bracing himself against the doorframe. His leather apron was splattered with fresh blood. "The factory... come quick... it's a massacre."

Eddard's blood ran cold at the raw fear in Mikken's voice. In all the years he'd known the man, he'd never seen him so shaken. The master blacksmith had weathered countless crises with steady hands and calm demeanor. Whatever had happened at the factory must be truly horrific to reduce him to this state.

"What kind of massacre?" Eddard demanded, already striding toward the door. "Who's been attacked?"

But Mikken just shook his head, still struggling to catch his breath. The blood on his apron looked alarmingly fresh, and Eddard noticed the blacksmith's hands were trembling.

"Guards!" Eddard's voice boomed through the corridor as he swept past Mikken. Two Stark guardsmen appeared instantly. "With me. Maester Luwin, send ravens to Ice Crest and alert Owen. Then gather your medical supplies and follow us to the factory."

Artos crouched behind a stack of crates near Winterfell's factory, his fingers tightening around his blade. Twenty of his best men waited in the shadows, each chosen for their skill at quick, brutal work. Their careful movements cloaked their movements, but his palms still sweated at the sight of those metal monstrosities patrolling the grounds.

The gold in his pocket felt heavy - Roose Bolton's down payment. Another purse waited if they could destroy enough of the factory's innards and snatch one of those special weapons. Some kind of ice-blade, Bolton had said, or something made of strange green metal.

"Bloody machines," he spat quietly, watching a metal dwarven spider skitter past their hiding spot. Three years ago, life had been simple. Rob a few merchants, raid some villages, live free in the wolfswood or other places in the north. Now these metal demons hunted bandits day and night, their burning eyes never sleeping, never tiring.

His crew had dwindled from hundreds to barely two dozen. The lucky ones fled south. The others... Artos shuddered, remembering the screams when those giant metal men caught his former lieutenant's group. Nothing left but ashes and twisted metal arrows. The youngest of his crew was barely ten for old gods sake.

But Bolton's gold spoke louder than fear. If they could wreck this place, maybe things would go back to normal. The North would be ripe for plunder again, without these cursed contraptions standing guard.

"Ready the oil," he whispered to his men. "Once we're inside, spread out and burn everything that looks important. And keep your eyes open for that special blade Bolton wants."

The factory loomed before them, large and quiet, from the outside at least. Too quiet in his opinion. But desperation had made Artos bold. Better to die trying than starve as the machines slowly hunted them all down.

Artos turned to his group and grabbed young Doren's shoulder, pulling the boy close. "Listen carefully. Grab any fancy daggers or small blades you can carry. Then make for the wolfswood or Bolton lands. Don't wait for us."

The boy's eyes widened. "But-"

"No arguments. You're too young to die here if things go wrong." Artos pressed a silver stag into Doren's palm. "Go. Now."

As the boy ran off to hide, Artos watched the guards at their posts, distracted by the whores they'd paid handsomely to keep them occupied. The women's laughter and the guards' drunken boasting carried across the yard.

"Morris," Artos called softly to his second. "Time to move."

Morris nodded, signaling the men forward. They crept through the factory entrance, weapons ready. The inside of the metal structure took their breath away. Rows upon rows of pristine weapons and armor filled the space, each piece gleaming in the dim light.

"By the gods," whispered Derrick, one of his newer men. "Look at these swords. The quality... I could sell twenty of these in White Harbor for enough gold to live like a lord."

"Aye," another muttered. "Never seen steel work this fine. Even the Lannisters don't have arms like these."

Artos shot them a warning glare, silencing their chatter. But he couldn't blame them - the wealth surrounding them was staggering. Each piece would fetch a small fortune south of the Neck, where Northern weapons would no doubt gain mythical status once revealed.

"Pass me the oil, Morris," Artos whispered, extending his hand without taking his eyes off the surrounding machinery. The weight of the flask settled into his palm, its contents sloshing quietly.

Artos uncorked the flask, the sharp smell of lamp oil hitting his nostrils. His fingers trembled slightly - not from fear, he told himself, but from anticipation. One good blaze and Bolton's gold would be earned.

A sudden movement caught his eye. Derrick, the greedy bastard, reached out toward one of the masterwork swords sliding past on the metal belt. His fingers brushed the pommel, drawn by the perfect craftsmanship and promise of wealth.

The factory's constant humming ceased abruptly. Every mechanical worker, from the smallest dwarven steam spider to the man like automatons, froze in place. Their heads swiveled in perfect unison toward the intruders, glowing eyes shifting from calm blue to burning red.

"You fucking fool!" Artos roared, dropping the oil flask as a massive steam constructor lunged at him with inhuman speed. He threw himself sideways, feeling the rush of air as metal claws slashed through the space where his head had been moments before.

The constructor's impact shook the factory floor, its joints hissing with released steam as it pivoted to face him again. Around him, the other machines advanced with terrible purpose, their red eyes promising death.

Artos scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding against his ribs as chaos erupted around him. The factory had transformed from a treasure trove they were to destroy into a slaughterhouse in mere seconds. Morris screamed as three constructors pinned him to the ground, their metal claws piercing through his leather armor like it was parchment.

"Help me!" Morris shrieked before a constructor's hand clamped over his face. The machines dragged his thrashing body into the darkness beyond the lamplight. A loud hiss of steam followed, then Morris's scalded corpse came flying back into view, landing with a wet thud at Derrick's feet. The skin had been boiled clean off, leaving only charred meat and bone.

Artos's remaining men - barely ten now - broke formation in blind panic. Their screams echoed off the metal walls as more of them met similar fates. Two constructors caught Willem, each grabbing an arm before pulling in opposite directions. The crack of breaking bones preceded Willem's final scream.

"Run! Get out!" Artos bellowed, though his own legs felt rooted to the spot as he watched the mechanical slaughter unfold. The human-like automatons moved with terrifying grace, snatching men into the shadows one by one. Each capture ended with that horrible hiss of steam and another mutilated corpse tossed back as warning.

Karl and Bennard, driven mad with fear, sprinted deeper into the factory rather than toward the exit. "No, you fools!" Artos called after them. Strange red symbols suddenly blazed to life along the walls and floor ahead of them, casting an otherworldly glow across their terrified faces. Both men stopped short, but it was too late.

The symbols pulsed once, and Karl's body simply... inverted. His skin split and peeled back as his organs burst outward, spraying blood across the factory floor. Bennard lasted only a heartbeat longer before he too exploded in a shower of gore, his inside-out remains painting the walls with viscera.

Artos's remaining men bolted toward the entrance, their boots slipping in the growing pools of blood and gore. The sickening stench of opened bowels filled the air as one of his men lost control of his bladder, leaving a trail of piss behind him as they fled.

"Almost there," Artos thought, his legs burning as he pushed himself forward. The entrance was just ahead, its outline barely visible in the crimson glow of the machines' eyes.

The heavy metal doors slammed shut with a thunderous boom that shook dust from the rafters. A figure emerged from the shadows - not one of the humanoid constructors, but something far worse. The dwarven automaton's body gleamed like polished bronze, but where its arms should have been, two circular saw blades whirred with deadly purpose.

Young Horren, running at the front of their group, couldn't stop in time. The automaton's bladed arms shot forward with impossible speed, both discs piercing through his leather armor like paper. Horren's scream cut off in a wet gurgle as the blades began to spin inside him, shredding organs and bone alike. Blood sprayed in wide arcs as the spinning blades reduced his insides to pulp, chunks of meat flying outward to splatter across the terrified faces of his companions.

Artos slammed his fists against the unyielding metal door, his knuckles splitting open from the force. Behind him, only three of his men remained - Tam, Rickard, and Jarred. Their weapons lay abandoned, useless against the mechanical horrors that had torn apart their companions.

"Please!" Tam screamed, tears streaming down his face. "We surrender! Have mercy!"

The rhythmic clanking of metal feet drew closer. Steam spiders skittered out of the shadows, their razor-sharp legs clicking against the factory floor. The larger constructors followed, their red eyes blazing with murderous intent.

"Bolton, you treacherous bastard!" Artos roared as the first spider pierced through his calf. He kicked wildly, but two more spiders latched onto his other leg. Their metal pincers dug deep into flesh and muscle, drawing howls of agony from the bandit leader.

Jarred's shriek cut through the air as spiders swarmed his legs, their combined strength dragging him into the darkness. Rickard tried to grab his hand, but a constructor seized him around the waist, yanking him in the opposite direction. The sound of whirring blades filled the air, followed by wet thuds as dismembered limbs scattered across the floor.

A massive constructor landed on Artos's chest with crushing force, driving him to the ground. Its metal fingers dug into his ribcage as it began to squeeze. "Bolton," Artos gasped out one final curse as the pressure increased. His spine cracked, then snapped completely in half with a sickening crunch.

Tam's desperate pleas ended abruptly as spinning blades found their mark. His head rolled past Artos's lifeless body, coming to rest in a growing pool of blood.

Young Dorren huddled in the darkest corner of the factory's storage area, his small frame pressed against cold metal walls. His fingers clutched the stolen stalhrim dagger, its crystalline surface gleaming with an otherworldly blue light. The mechanical guardians paid him no mind as they executed their brutal work, their red eyes focused solely on Artos and his men.

Blood and gore painted the factory floor as the machines methodically dismembered the bandits. Dorren squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn't block out the screams. The wet sounds of metal tearing through flesh and bone echoed through the cavernous space.

When silence finally fell, broken only by the steady drip of blood from machinery, the massive doors creaked open. Lord Eddard Stark burst in, Ice drawn and ready. Behind him, Mikken and Maester Luwin followed with four armed guards, their torches casting dancing shadows across the carnage.

"By the old gods," Mikken breathed, his face turning pale at the sight of dismembered bodies and splattered gore.

Maester Luwin pressed a handkerchief to his nose, fighting back nausea. "These men... what happened here?"

While the adults stood frozen at the entrance, taking in the horrific scene, Dorren saw his chance. He scrambled through the shadows on hands and knees, blood soaking into his clothes as he crawled past machinery and corpses. The stolen dagger remained clutched in his trembling hand.

The boy slipped past the distracted guards and into the night. His heart pounded as he ran toward the wolfswood, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. Behind him, the factory's mechanical horrors continued their work, red eyes now returned to their normal blue glow as if nothing had happened.

Chapter Text

Owen watched the Northern landscape roll past from his position atop his horse beside the ornate carriage carrying Sansa. The convoy stretched behind them - a gleaming line of soldiers in ebony-plated armor that caught the late afternoon sun. Their stalhrim weapons glowed with an ethereal blue sheen, a clear message to any would-be attackers that this was no ordinary military escort.

"We could have made this journey in half the time if you'd let me enhance a few horses," Owen called through the carriage window, a teasing smile playing at his lips.

Sansa's auburn hair caught the light as she leaned out. "And deny me the comfort of proper travel? I think not, my lord husband." Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. "Besides, you know how father feels about obvious displays of your abilities on the open road."

Owen nodded, conceding the point. Though most of the North now knew of his extraordinary capabilities, they still maintained careful control over how much was revealed to outsiders. The soldiers' equipment alone pushed the boundaries of what they typically displayed.

Anastasia padded silently alongside the carriage, her massive white form a constant guardian presence. The direwolf's ice-blue eyes scanned their surroundings constantly, her enhanced senses alert for any threat to her master's mate. Owen felt a wave of contentment through their familiar bond - she enjoyed these journeys, though she shared his mild frustration at the slow pace.

"At least let me enhance the carriage wheels," Owen suggested. "A simple enchantment to reduce friction-"

"Owen." Sansa's tone carried fond exasperation. "We'll arrive when we arrive. Father's message indicated urgency, yes, but not such desperate need that we must break our careful protocols."

Owen sighed, knowing she was right. The attack on Winterfell's factory was concerning, but he was sure the automated defenses and spells had handled most of the threat if any. Still, leaving Jon as castellan of Ice Crest and embarking on this journey with such a large escort spoke to how seriously they took any potential dangers.

"The men are in good spirits at least," Owen observed, glancing back at their escort. The soldiers wore their masterwork armor with pride, each piece a testament to the combination of Owen's magical crafting and the automated production lines he'd established. "Though I suspect they're as eager as I am to learn what prompted father's summons."

"Whatever it is, we face it together," Sansa said firmly. She reached out to squeeze his hand through the window. "As we have these past four years."

Owen brought her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. Their marriage may have begun as a political arrangement, but genuine love had blossomed between them. Her steady presence helped ground him, especially when the vast possibilities of his powers threatened to overwhelm his judgment.

The convoy continued its steady progress toward Winterfell, the rhythmic sound of hooves and creaking wagon wheels filling the air. Owen kept one hand on his sword's hilt - not out of immediate concern, but from the habits of vigilance he'd developed since gaining his abilities. The weight of the Celestial Forge's power thrummed beneath his skin, ready to be called upon if needed.

Anastasia's ears suddenly pricked forward, and Owen felt her attention sharpen through their bond. But it was only a deer darting through the underbrush, and the direwolf relaxed again, maintaining her protective circuit around Sansa's carriage.

"We should reach Winterfell by tomorrow evening," Owen calculated, studying the position of the sun. "Assuming we make good time after we break camp tonight."

"Good," Sansa replied. "I miss my family, and I'd rather hear father's news sooner than later." She paused, then added more softly, "And perhaps Maester Luwin will have some new insights about..." She trailed off, but Owen knew she was referring to their ongoing difficulty conceiving an heir.

"We'll speak with him," Owen assured her gently. "But remember what we discussed - there's no rush. We have time."

Sansa nodded, though Owen could see the shadow of worry that still lingered in her eyes. He wished he could ease that particular burden, but even his considerable powers had limits. For now, he focused on what he could control - keeping her safe and supported as they made their way to Winterfell and whatever awaited them there.

Owen guided his horse through Winterfell's gates in the warm afternoon sun, taking in the familiar sight of the ancient fortress. The courtyard bustled with activity as what seemed like half the castle's inhabitants gathered to welcome them. Steam constructors worked tirelessly in the background, carrying supplies and maintaining the grounds with their usual mechanical efficiency.

The moment their carriage stopped, Arya darted forward from the assembled crowd like an arrow from a bow. Owen couldn't help but smile as the young girl…no now a lady, practically tackled her sister in an enthusiastic embrace the instant Sansa stepped down. Despite their different personalities and past squabbles, the sisters held each other tightly, years of separation having softened their former rivalries.

"I missed you," Arya mumbled into Sansa's dress, her usual fierce demeanor momentarily giving way to genuine emotion.

"I missed you too, little sister," Sansa replied, her voice thick with feeling as she stroked Arya's hair.

Lady Catelyn approached next, her grace and dignity unchanged by the years. She embraced Sansa warmly, checking her daughter over with a mother's careful eye before pulling her close again. Owen dismounted as Lord Eddard stepped forward to welcome his daughter, followed by Robb and his bride wynafryd Manderly now stark who he had married 2 years back and Bran. Even Maester Luwin received an affectionate hug from Sansa, his chains jingling slightly as he returned the embrace.

Owen made his rounds through the family, clasping forearms firmly with Robb and exchanging warm greetings with Bran. He gave Lady Catelyn a respectful hug and couldn't help but grin when Arya practically jumped into his arms for an enthusiastic embrace - she'd always appreciated the special weapons he'd crafted for her over the years.

Finally, Owen turned to Lord Eddard. The Lord of Winterfell's face was grave despite the joy of reunion, reminding Owen of the serious purpose behind their visit. After exchanging a firm handshake, Owen's expression turned equally serious.

"Show me the factory, Lord Stark."

Owen watched as Lord Eddard's expression tightened with concern when he glanced at Sansa. The older man's weathered face showed clear hesitation about exposing his daughter to the aftermath of violence.

"Have the others seen it?" Sansa asked, her voice steady and clear in the courtyard.

"Aye," Eddard nodded. "Everyone save your mother and Wynafryd. The scene is... rather grim."

Sansa lifted her chin, a familiar determined set to her jaw that Owen had come to know well over their years of marriage. "If my husband is going, then so am I."

Owen couldn't help but smile when Eddard looked to him for support. He gave a small shrug - he knew better than to try to dissuade Sansa when she'd made up her mind. His wife was a woman grown, not some naive girl who dreamed of knights and fairy tales. She faced faced reality head-on, no matter how harsh.

"The factory has resumed production," Eddard warned as they began walking toward the building. "But we haven't cleared away the... remains. The steam constructors and automatons simply work around them, seemingly blind to the carnage. Even Mikken and his apprentices and all the learning blacksmiths won't go near until you've dealt with it."

Owen nodded, understanding their fear. His creations could be unsettling enough when functioning normally - seeing them continue their tasks amid death and destruction would be deeply unnerving to those unused to their single-minded focus.

Anastasia padded alongside them, her massive white form a reassuring presence. Through their bond, Owen could sense her alertness heighten as they approached the factory, her enhanced senses picking up the lingering scents of violence, blood and death.

The heavy iron doors of the factory creaked open, revealing the stark reality of what lay within. Owen's enhanced senses immediately picked up the overwhelming metallic stench of blood and death that permeated the air. Beside him, he felt Sansa stiffen, her face paling considerably though she maintained her composure with admirable determination.

The automated workers and steam constructors continued their tasks with mechanical precision, moving around and sometimes through the gruesome scene. Steam constructors welded metal plates together, sparks flying as they worked mere feet from severed limbs. The rhythmic clanking of the machinery provided an eerily normal backdrop to the scene of carnage.

Owen's eyes tracked the different types of deaths his defensive measures had inflicted. Near the entrance, a body lay split cleanly in half, the work of one of the automated blade traps. Another corpse showed the telltale signs of superheated steam, no doubt the work of the automatons or Dwemer spiders no doubt, its flesh literally boiled away in places, leaving exposed bone and tissue. Hands and arms littered the floor where would-be thieves had triggered the sawing mechanisms.

But it was the two bodies near the center of the factory floor that drew the most attention - or what remained of them. Owen recognized the effects of his more deadly magical protections. The corpses had been turned inside out before literally exploding, painting the surrounding area with viscera and blood. The curses he'd woven into the factory's very foundations had proven devastatingly effective.

A small sound from beside him drew his attention. Sansa had gone completely white, her usual composure finally cracking. Before anyone could react, she doubled over and retched violently onto the factory floor.

"Sansa!" Owen moved to support her, one arm around her waist as she emptied her stomach. Robb and Eddard were there in an instant, hovering with concern while Maester Luwin approached with his typical calm efficiency.

"I'm fine," Sansa managed between heaves, though her trembling body betrayed her words. "Just... disoriented from the journey."

Owen exchanged a worried look with Maester Luwin. "Maester, would you please escort my wife back to the castle? Perhaps Lady Catelyn could see to her comfort."

The old maester nodded, gently taking Sansa's arm. "Come, my lady. Let's get you some fresh air and perhaps some mint tea to settle your stomach."

Owen watched with concern as Maester Luwin led his still-shaking wife from the factory, her usual grace somewhat diminished but her head held high despite her obvious distress. Even in moments of weakness, she fought to maintain her dignity - it was one of the many things he loved about her.

Owen turned back to the carnage, his jaw set in a grim line. "Two years ago, in my letter, I detailed the magical protections I'd placed on the factory," he said, addressing Lord Stark's unspoken question. "The spells were designed to be lethal and unmerciful."

"Aye, I remember the letter well," Eddard replied, his eyes scanning the blood-splattered walls. "You assured me no thieves or saboteurs would succeed in their attempts."

Owen ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his stance. "I made a critical error in the design. These protective enchantments were created with a specific scenario in mind - a large-scale assault on Winterfell, an army attempting to destroy our production capabilities." He gestured at the mangled bodies. "The spells were meant to activate before such a force could even reach the factory doors, creating a wide perimeter of protection."

"But that's not what happened here," Robb observed, carefully stepping around a severed arm.

"No," Owen admitted. "With such a small group, the defensive magic only triggered once they were already inside the building. The spells recognized them as threats, but not until they'd breached the interior." He shook his head. "It's an oversight I should have anticipated. One I promise to rectify immediately."

"These men died badly," Eddard stated, his voice heavy with the weight of such violent deaths, even if they were enemies.

"The magic doesn't discriminate or show mercy," Owen explained. "It simply eliminates threats with maximum efficiency." He pointed to the grotesquely inverted corpses. "Those two triggered the strongest curses - spells designed to stop someone from reaching the heart of our weapons production or the storage of special weapons within."

"And the others?" Robb asked.

Owen looked around at Robbs question, taking in the bloody carnage, gesturing at different bodies as he explained. "Even before the magical defenses activate, the automated workers serve as the first line of protection. See these clean cuts?" He pointed to a body nearly severed in two. "That's the work of a steam constructor's saw blade. And those burn marks and flesh blasted away - superheated steam from the spiders."

He moved carefully through the factory floor, stepping over dried pooled blood. "When intruders are detected, any inactive machines in storage also activate to defend the premises. The regular workers stop their tasks and join the defense." Owen paused near a particularly mangled corpse. "The automatons are ruthlessly efficient. They don't hesitate or show mercy - they simply eliminate threats with mechanical precision."

Robb examined a body riddled with precise stab wounds. "Like a coordinated army."

"Exactly," Owen nodded. "This is why we made sure to demonstrate my creations properly at the summer festival before sending them across the North. Can you imagine if we'd simply started deploying steam constructors to build glasshouses without explanation?" He met Eddard's gaze. "What happened here could have occurred at any holdfast if the lords had attacked the machines out of fear or suspicion."

"The North needed to understand these weren't demons or monsters," Eddard agreed, "but tools under our control."

"Tools that will protect themselves - and us - without hesitation or remorse," Owen added grimly. "Every steam constructor, every automaton, every Dwemer spider is inbuilt with the order to defend itself and its work."

That said, Owen took one final, sweeping look around the blood-spattered factory floor. The carnage had served its purpose - demonstrating the lethal effectiveness of his defensive measures - but now it was time to restore order. He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap.

"You might want to step back," he warned Eddard and Robb. Once they had moved a safe distance away, Owen snapped his fingers while whispering words of power under his breath. A surge of magical energy rippled through the air as the cleaning spell took effect.

Blood began to evaporate from the walls and floor, dissipating into nothingness. Gore and viscera simply vanished, leaving behind pristine surfaces as if nothing had ever happened. The spell worked methodically through the factory, erasing all traces of violence until only the bodies and severed limbs remained.

Owen turned to two nearby Dwemer automatons, their bronze surfaces gleaming in the factory light. "Collect the remains and take them to Maester Luwin's quarters," he commanded. The machines bowed and moved with fluid precision, gathering the gruesome evidence of their defensive capabilities with mechanical indifference.

He couldn't help but notice how Eddard and Robb's eyes widened at the casual display of magic. Even after four years, his abilities still had the power to surprise them. Pushing aside their obvious amazement, Owen focused on more practical matters.

"Has anyone taken inventory since the attack?" he asked Eddard directly.

His goodfather shook his head. "No one's dared enter properly since it happened. Like i said before, Mikken, his apprentices and the blacksmiths being trained feared the machines might attack again."

Owen nodded in understanding before snapping his fingers once more. A small, spider-like automaton scuttled forward from its alcove, its multiple legs clicking against the stone floor as it approached.

"Full inventory report," Owen commanded the mechanical spider. The machine's crystal eyes glowed briefly as it accessed its internal records.

Owen watched as the mechanical spider's crystal eyes flickered, its internal mechanisms whirring before a thin strip of paper began emerging from its mouth. The paper continued to unspool, covered in neat, precise writing detailing the factory's inventory over four years.

"Six thousand steel swords," Owen read aloud, scanning the detailed report. "Five thousand Warhammers, twenty thousand daggers..." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he continued down the list. "One hundred thousand complete sets of steel armor, six thousand bows, three hundred thousand arrows..."

The spider continued producing its report as Owen's expression grew more serious. "Five hundred Dwarven Colossi, fully operational and combat-ready." He glanced at Eddard, noting his goodfather's raised eyebrows at the sheer scale of their arsenal. Not surprising as most of them were kept in storage once created. He probably didn't even know they had made that many, knowing only of the few he had allowed to be assigned to the northern lords castles and some given to the nights watch. Owen smirked, his goodfather may actually have a heart attack if he knew the amount of the arsenal at ice crest.

When Owen reached the final items on the list, his jaw tightened. "Ninety-nine complete sets of stalhrim swords and daggers." He looked up sharply. "One dagger missing."

Owen watched as Robb's brow furrowed in thought.

"Stalhrim? Aren't those the ones that look like they're made out of ice?" Robb asked, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

Owen nodded, memories of that first meeting with Lord Stark and Lord Manderly flooding back. "Yes, just like the ones Lord Eddard and Lord Wyman first bought from longshores travelling merchant when they found me." He ran his hand along one of the nearby weapon racks. "I haven't made any more since then. The ones made here in the factory were meant as a secondary set made for any special group or a northern knightly order your father would arm with them if he created them."

Through his enhanced magical senses, Owen suddenly caught the subtle shift in weight as one of the automatons lifted a bisected corpse. The movement dislodged something from the dead man's clothing - a heavy pouch that hit the stone floor with a distinct metallic clink. Gold coins spilled across the factory floor, their bright yellow surfaces catching the light as they rolled in various directions.

The sound drew everyone's attention to the severed body the automaton held. The pouch had fallen from what remained of the man's pocket, its contents now scattered across the clean stone floor. Owen's eyes narrowed at the sight of so much gold on what appeared to be a common bandit.

Owen watched as Lord Eddard moved forward, bending to retrieve the heavy pouch from among the scattered gold coins. The Lord of Winterfell's movements were deliberate as he carried it back to where Owen and Robb stood.

Eddard emptied the contents into his palm, the pure gold coins gleaming in the factory's light. Owen's jaw tightened as he recognized them immediately.

"These came from Cidhna Mine," Owen said grimly, picking up one of the coins to examine its pristine surface. "They're pure gold, the ones we have been circulating all these years."

He watched understanding dawn in both Stark men's faces. Robb's hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his sword, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it.

"You're saying..." Robb started, his voice tight with barely contained fury.

"Only someone from the North would have access to these particular coins," Owen confirmed, meeting Eddard's darkening gaze. "These aren't Lannister mintings or coins from the Iron Bank. They're our coins, produced here in the North."

Eddard's face had transformed into the cold, hard mask he wore when passing judgment. "A Northern lord hired these men," he stated flatly, though rage burned in his grey eyes. "We have a traitor in our midst."

Owen nodded, the weight of this revelation settling heavily on his shoulders. After four years of carefully managed progress, after all the precautions they'd taken to keep their advancements hidden from the South, the greatest threat had emerged from within their own borders.

"The coins are unmarked," Robb observed, examining another piece of gold. "We can't trace them to any specific holding."

"No," Owen agreed. "But how many Northern lords have enough pure gold coins to hire a band of men for what was clearly meant to be a suicide mission?"

His jaw worked as he considered the implications. While it would be easy to point fingers at the usual suspects - houses with historical grievances or those who'd shown reluctance to fully embrace the North's transformation - he knew Lord Stark required more than mere suspicion to act.

"The Dustins have been quiet these past years," Owen mused aloud, though he kept his tone neutral. "Lady Barbrey's initial resistance to the steam constructors was notable, but she's since prospered greatly from the glasshouses we provided."

"The Ryswells as well," Robb added, his hand still gripping his sword hilt. "Though they've shown nothing but enthusiasm for our developments since the summer festival."

Owen noticed Eddard's face darken at the mention of these houses. While they hadn't been openly hostile, neither had they demonstrated the same wholehearted support as houses like the Manderlys or Glovers. But prosperity had a way of smoothing over old grievances, and all the Northern houses had benefited immensely from the changes Owen had brought.

"And what of the Boltons?" Owen asked carefully, watching his goodfather's reaction. "Roose Bolton has been remarkably... accepting of everything these past four years."

"Too accepting, perhaps," Eddard muttered, though Owen could see the frustration in his eyes. The Lord of Winterfell knew as well as anyone that suspicion without proof was dangerous ground.

Owen picked up another gold coin, turning it over in his fingers. "The truth is, my lord, that after four years of shared prosperity, many houses have accumulated enough wealth to fund such an operation. The North's coffers have swelled beyond anything in living memory." He gestured at the scattered coins. "What would once have been an impossible sum for most houses to spare is now... manageable."

"You're saying our own success has made it harder to identify the culprit," Robb stated, understanding dawning in his eyes.

Owen nodded grimly. "When we began distributing the benefits of my innovations, we knew it would change the North's economic landscape. The glasshouses alone have transformed agricultural production. Add in the preserved foods, the new roads, the improved trade..." He spread his hands. "We've created a level of wealth that makes traditional financial tracking nearly impossible."

"And you distributed these pure gold coins widely," Eddard added, his voice heavy with understanding. "To help establish the North's new economy without drawing attention from the Iron Throne."

"Yes," Owen confirmed. "They've been circulating for years now, passing through countless hands. These particular coins could have originated from any number of Northern holdings."

The three men stood in frustrated silence, surrounded by the efficiently working automatons. The mechanical sounds of the factory seemed to mock their inability to identify the true threat to their carefully built prosperity.

"We can't simply accuse houses like Dustin or Bolton without proof," Eddard finally said, voicing what they all knew. "Such accusations without evidence would fracture the unity we've worked so hard to build."

Robb nodded, his expression darkening as he considered the implications. "And yet," he said, running a hand through his auburn hair, "this missing dagger means one of the lords now has a stalhrim forged weapon, for what reason we can't tell. If they wanted to commission a weapon from you, Owen, they now have the wealth to do so, even the ones made from your special ores." He gestured toward the forge where various rare metals gleamed in the firelight.

"Heck, you gifted each lord one special weapon of their choice, crafted to their specifications." His blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "But some lord wanted one of your special weapons that couldn't be traced as them having owned them. They needed something untraceable, something that wouldn't lead back to them." He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. "And now, one of them is out there, in hands unknown, waiting to be used for gods know what purpose."

Owen's mind raced as he considered Robb's words. The young heir to Winterfell had made an astute observation - one that highlighted the true danger of this situation. Each Northern lord already possessed specially crafted weapons, gifts Owen had personally forged to demonstrate his abilities and cement their loyalty. But this... this was different.

"You're right," Owen said, picking up another gold coin from the floor. "Lord Karstark has his Glass greatsword. The Manderlys received those moonstone-inlaid Axes. Even Lord Bolton have their ebony Sword." He tossed the coin back down with the others. "So why steal a stalhrim dagger?"

Owen walked over to one of the weapon racks near the forge, running his fingers along the mastercrafted steel weapons as he thought. The magical properties of stalhrim made it uniquely suited for frost enchantments, and having been made in the factory it was particularly powerful. Enough to overwhelm multiple enemies but not as powerful as one forged by his own hands

"There's something else to consider," Owen continued, turning back to face Eddard and Robb. "Stalhrim has a very distinct appearance. It can't be mistaken for anything else - it literally looks like enchanted ice. Any lord carrying it would immediately draw attention."

"Unless they never intended to carry it openly," Robb pointed out. "A hidden weapon, one that couldn't be traced back to them..."

Owen nodded grimly. "A weapon for assassination, perhaps. Or something else entirely." He gestured at the bodies being cleared by the automatons. "These men weren't trying to steal the dagger - they were meant to destroy the factory. The theft was likely opportunistic, taken by the one survivor in the chaos. Or perhaps it was a secondary mission. Destroy the factory but grab as many rare weapons as they can."

"How did they get past the automatons or your spells then?" Lord Eddard asked. "Why weren't they killed with the rest?"

Owen frowned, his mind racing as he considered Lord Eddard's question. The defensive systems he'd created were comprehensive - a combination of blood magic curses and automated defenders that should have eliminated any intruder. Yet someone had escaped.

Owen remained silent, his thoughts interrupted by the sound of children's laughter filtering through the factory windows. Outside, he could hear Bran's gleeful shouts as he chased Arya through the courtyard, the eleven-year-old boy's footsteps echoing against the stone.

Boy.

Owen's eyes widened as realization struck him like a physical blow. He turned to face Robb and Eddard, his expression clearing as the pieces fell into place.

"It was a young man," he said slowly, certainty building in his voice. "Most probably a boy." Owen ran a hand through his hair, frustrated at his own oversight. "When I created the defensive spells and built the automatons, I specifically ensured they wouldn't harm children. Anyone below the age of sixteen wouldn't be targeted - I saw them as too young to pose a real threat."

Understanding dawned on Eddard's face as Owen continued, "The defenses must have simply ignored him. In all the chaos of the attack, while the automatons were dealing with the adult intruders, a boy could have easily slipped through and taken the dagger."

Robb cursed under his breath. "A clever strategy," he admitted grudgingly. "Send in a group of expendable men as a distraction, while a youth does the actual stealing."

Owen nodded, running his fingers through his dark hair. "I doubt they knew about the weakness in the defenses. More likely they just got lucky having a young boy with them." His jaw clenched as frustration welled up inside him.

With a sudden burst of anger, Owen slammed his fist down onto a nearby metal workbench. The impact sent various weapons clattering to the ground, and the solid steel table actually bent under the enhanced strength granted by his magical circuits. The loud crash echoed through the factory.

Both Robb and Eddard jumped back, startled by the display of raw power. Their eyes widened as they watched the metal bend like clay beneath Owen's reinforced fist.

Almost immediately, several steam constructors whirred to life, their mechanical limbs moving with practiced efficiency as they rushed to repair the damaged table. The machines began straightening the warped metal, their internal mechanisms humming as they worked.

"I'm sorry," Owen said quietly, flexing his hand as he regained control of his emotions. "I just... I feel like I failed. I should have anticipated this possibility. Should have built in better safeguards." He shook his head in disgust at his own oversight.

Eddard stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Owen's shoulder. "This is not your fault," his goodfather said firmly, his grey eyes meeting Owen's. "You created defenses beyond anything we've ever seen. That they found one small weakness and just by luck speaks to your success, not your failure."

"Aye," Robb agreed, nodding. "The factory still stands, and only one dagger was taken. It could have been far worse."

Owen took a deep breath, letting their words sink in. The steam constructors finished repairing the table, the metal now smooth and unblemished as if nothing had happened.

"You're right," he said finally. "I should go check on Sansa, make sure she's not worried about all this." He turned to Lord Eddard. "You can tell Mikken it's safe to resume teaching his apprentices here. The defenses are still fully functional but wont harm him."

Without waiting for a response, Owen turned and headed for the factory doors, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor as he made his way toward the castle.

Owen held Sansa's hand as they sat together on one of the comfortable beds in Maester Luwin's chambers. The room had been transformed from its original sparse state - now filled with well-stocked shelves of herbs and medicinal plants, comfortable furnishings, and proper beds for those under observation. Owen had made these improvements before his marriage to Sansa and subsequent move to Ice Crest, knowing the importance of having a well-equipped medical facility at Winterfell.

Sunlight streamed through the newly installed glass windows, another of Owen's additions that helped keep the room warm while allowing natural light to fill the space. The scent of dried herbs hung in the air - lavender, sage, and dozens of other medicinal plants that Owen had ensured were always in good supply.

"You really couldn't have known about that weakness in the defenses," Sansa said softly, her thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight, creating a warm halo around her face. "The fact that you thought to protect children shows your good heart."

Owen squeezed her hand gently, still feeling the frustration of the day's events. He had just finished explaining everything they'd discovered - the pure gold coins that pointed to a Northern lords involvement, the likely use of a youth to exploit the defensive system's blind spot, and the stolen stalhrim dagger.

"Your father and Robb said the same thing," Owen admitted, his eyes tracking the dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight. "But I can't help feeling I should have anticipated something like this. The defenses were supposed to be perfect."

Sansa turned to face him fully, her blue eyes serious. "Nothing is perfect, Owen. Not even your marvelous creations." She gestured at the well-appointed room around them. "Look at all the good you've done. One stolen dagger doesn't erase that."

"I suppose you're right," Owen conceded, taking in the improvements he'd made to the maester's chambers. The room was warm, clean, and well-equipped - a far cry from its previous state. "Your father says we'll just have to keep watch, see if any of the lords reveal themselves through careless words or actions."

"That's all we can do," Sansa agreed, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Whoever ordered this attack will make a mistake eventually. You'll see."

Owen watched as she take another sip of the warm milk and honey mixture he'd asked Maester Luwin to prepare. The sweet aroma filled the air, mixing with the herbal scents in the chamber.

"Are you feeling better now?" Owen asked, his thumb still tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand.

"Yes, much better," Sansa replied, offering him a small smile. "I'm actually surprised I got sick at all. I thought I was prepared to see the aftermath of the attack, the bodies and such." She shook her head slightly, her red hair catching the sunlight. "But that smell was just... overwhelming for some reason."

Owen nodded understandingly, but suddenly his attention shifted inward. A familiar sensation, one he hadn't experienced in five years, rippled through his being. The energy that had lain dormant since his last gift 4 years ago stirred within his soul. The Celestial Forge, was coming alive once again.

He felt the distinctive pulse of his soul's energy coming to life, like a long-silent forge suddenly roaring back into flames. The sensation was exactly as he remembered it - that peculiar mix of warmth and potential, of knowledge waiting to be grasped and power ready to be channeled.

He felt the familiar surge of power building within him, the Forge awakening after years to unleash its power. His breath caught in anticipation, knowing that any moment now…..

The door swung open, interrupting his thoughts. Lady Catelyn swept into the room, her face alight with joy, followed by Maester Luwin who wore a more reserved but pleased expression.

"Really, Lord Owen," Maester Luwin chided gently as he approached them, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have let Lady Sansa anywhere near such an unsightly scene in her condition. The stress alone could have-"

"My condition?" Sansa interrupted, her brow furrowing in confusion. She glanced between her mother's beaming face and the maester's knowing look.

Owen felt equally lost, the building power of the Celestial Forge momentarily forgotten as he tried to make sense of their cryptic exchange. "What condition are you talking about? Is something wrong?"

Lady Catelyn's smile grew even wider as she moved to stand beside her daughter. "Wrong? Oh no, quite the opposite."

Owen's confusion mounted as he watched the cryptic exchange between Lady Catelyn and Maester Luwin. The building power of the Forge still thrummed within him, but his attention was wholly focused on the matter at hand.

"Maester Luwin, please," Owen said firmly, his hand tightening protectively around Sansa's. "If something's wrong with my wife, I need to know."

But before the maester could respond, Lady Catelyn burst forward, unable to contain her joy any longer. Her face glowed with excitement as she clasped her hands together.

"Oh, I simply can't keep it in!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining with happy tears. "Sansa, my darling, you're with child!"

Owen felt Sansa's hand grip his tightly as she gasped. The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment as they both processed the news. The nausea, the heightened sensitivity to smells - suddenly everything made sense.

"I'm... pregnant?" Sansa whispered, her free hand moving instinctively to her stomach. Her voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and wonder.

"Yes, my dear," Maester Luwin confirmed, his usual stern expression softening into a gentle smile. "The signs are quite clear. I suspected when you first came in, but I wanted to be certain before saying anything."

Owen barely had time to process the news before Sansa launched herself at him with pure joy. Her momentum carried them both backward onto the bed, the mattress cushioning their fall as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her lips found his in an enthusiastic kiss, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks.

Owen's mind was still reeling from the revelation, but his body responded instinctively, arms encircling his wife and holding her close. The Celestial Forge's building power thrummed through him, perfectly matching the overwhelming emotions coursing through his veins.

When Sansa finally broke their kiss, her face was radiant with joy. She leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear as she whispered with pure delight, "We're going to have a baby!"

The words, spoken in her voice, made it real in a way that even Maester Luwin's confirmation hadn't. Owen tightened his embrace, feeling the warmth of her body against his, knowing that within her their child was growing. After years of trying, after all their worry and heartache, it was finally happening.

Owen felt the Celestial Forge surge within him, its power rising to unprecedented levels. The familiar warmth exploded into an inferno of knowledge and possibility, far more intense than any previous awakening. His eyes widened as not one, but two distinct streams of information poured into his consciousness.

The first power, Muggle Technology, flooded his mind with an encyclopedic understanding of modern scientific principles. Complex mathematical formulas, engineering concepts, and technological innovations cascaded through his thoughts. Graduate-level knowledge in physics, chemistry, biology, and dozens of other scientific fields suddenly became as familiar to him as breathing. The information wasn't just static facts - it felt alive, eager to connect and combine in new ways.

Owen's breath caught as he processed the implications. Nuclear physics, quantum mechanics, advanced materials science - knowledge that could revolutionize everything he'd built so far. His previous innovations, impressive as they were, suddenly seemed primitive compared to what he could now achieve.

The second power, Reliable Invention, settled into his consciousness with a different kind of certainty. He understood immediately that anything he created would be immune to normal wear and tear, functioning perfectly unless deliberately attacked or misused. His creations would never break down from regular use, never fail due to mechanical fatigue or natural deterioration.

Still holding Sansa in his arms, Owen struggled to maintain his composure as the two powers intertwined in his mind. The scientific knowledge seemed to dance with the gift of reliability, showing him possibilities that made his head spin. He could create machines that would run forever without maintenance, weapons that would never dull or jam, armor that would retain its protective qualities indefinitely.

"Owen?" Sansa's concerned voice cut through his revelation. "Are you alright? You've gone quite pale."

He focused on her face, seeing the worry in her blue eyes. Behind her, Lady Catelyn and Maester Luwin were watching him with similar concern. Owen realized he must have been silent for several moments while the powers settled into place.

Owen pulled Sansa closer and kissed her gently, his heart overflowing with joy. "I'm fine, my love. Better than fine - I'm happier than I've ever been." His voice was thick with emotion as he pressed his forehead against hers.

The warmth of her smile melted away all his other concerns. The stolen dagger, the factory attack, even his newly awakened powers - none of it seemed important compared to this moment. His wife was carrying their child, a miracle they had waited years to experience.

"We should tell everyone," Owen said, helping Sansa sit up properly on the bed. He couldn't stop grinning as he looked at her, trying to spot any subtle changes he might have missed. "Your siblings will be thrilled to hear they're going to be aunts and uncles."

Sansa smiled and nodded as the four left the maesters quarters to go spread the news. At that moment, all his grand plans and innovations seemed trivial compared to the miracle growing within her. He was going to be a father. After everything he'd accomplished in this world - the factories, the weapons, the technological advancements for the north- this felt like his greatest achievement yet.

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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

Muggle Technology (Make a Wish) (200CP)

You know it, general knowledge of up to graduate level in every scientific field is known to you, not only this, but the knowledge seems very eager to help you and as such whenever you are using magic for creation of something or other, the knowledge will leap up with helpful facts and connect seemingly disconnected facts to help in whatever magical creation you are making next. Post Jump, the helpfulness and eagerness spreads to the rest of the knowledge you have in your mind

Reliable Invention (Kim Possible) (200CP)

Anything you construct is only broken when used improperly or purposefully targeted with attacks. The items you create do not malfunction and are completely resistant to damage caused by regular usage.

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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Chapter Text

Jon Arryn had once more called another small council meeting, and to his measured satisfaction, all members were present, including King Robert who was, remarkably, sober for only the second time that year - a sight that Jon Arryn considered nothing short of divine intervention when it came to his former ward. Queen Cersei sat with her characteristic air of barely concealed disdain, while her diminutive brother Tyrion Lannister, an unexpected but not unwelcome addition to the gathering, lounged in his chair with typical calculated casualness. The chamber felt heavy with unspoken tensions, the weight of three months' worth of disturbing reports from the North pressing down on all present.

Since that fateful meeting when the rumors of Northern ascendance and innovations had first come to light, the small council members had been working themselves to exhaustion, each trying to outdo the others in gathering intelligence. The unprecedented frequency of their meetings - thrice weekly when once had always sufficed - spoke volumes about their collective anxiety. Jon Arryn could see the toll it was taking on them all; dark circles under eyes, tighter expressions, and shorter tempers had become the norm.

Jon Arryn watched as Robert shifted in his seat, the chair creaking under his considerable weight. The king's face showed unusual focus - a stark contrast to his typical wine-addled state.

"Well, Jon? You dragged me away from my cups again and made me stay sober. This better be worth it."

Jon Arryn's weathered fingers traced the edge of the papers before him. "Your Grace, I wouldn't have insisted on your presence if the matter wasn't of utmost importance." He gestured to Varys, who glided forward from his position against the wall.

The Spider's soft-soled shoes made no sound as he approached the table. "My lords, Your Grace, I regret to inform you that many of our... concerns about the North from our last meeting have been confirmed."

The exhaustion seemed to lift from the council members' faces, replaced by sharp attention. Even Cersei leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing.

"My little birds across the Narrow Sea have been most insistent in their reports." Varys's hands disappeared into his voluminous sleeves. "The Northern presence in the Free Cities has grown considerably. Their ships - new vessels of remarkable design and size - have been sighted in increasing numbers at the docks of Braavos, Lys, and Volantis."

"Ships?" Robert's thick fingers drummed against the table. "What kind of ships?"

"Larger than typical merchant vessels, Your Grace, yet faster according to all accounts. They've been trading in preserved foodstuffs as lord Arryn had shown in our last meeting months ago - goods that stay fresh far longer than should be possible. The merchants and my contacts in all three cities confirm this independently."

Tyrion tilted his head. "And the jewelry trade we'd heard whispers of?"

"Indeed, Lord Tyrion. Masterwork pieces, commanding extraordinary prices. But most concerning..." Varys paused, his eyes meeting Jon Arryn's for a brief moment. "My most reliable contact in Volantis witnessed Northern ships departing with no less than ten million in gold in their holds."

The chamber erupted in sharp intakes of breath. Even Robert straightened in his seat, his face flushing red.

Jon Arryn watched as Varys reached into his flowing robes, producing a small wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl. The Spider handled it with unusual reverence, his typically unreadable face betraying a hint of anticipation.

"My lords, Your Grace, I managed to acquire this piece at considerable expense." Varys opened the box with delicate fingers. "One of my most trusted contacts in Braavos purchased it for no less than one hundred thousand gold dragon, though he said it was one of the lesser pieces that was shown and bought."

The Hand of the King leaned forward, his aging eyes widening as Varys lifted a bracelet that seemed to capture light itself. The craftsmanship exceeded anything Jon had seen in his long years - even the finest work from the legendary smiths of Qohor paled in comparison.

Wolves danced across the surface of the gold, so precisely rendered that Jon expected them to leap from the metal at any moment. Winter roses twined between them, each petal distinct and perfect, creating a scene that told a story of the North itself. Flawless gems - diamonds that sparkled like freshly fallen snow, sapphires deep as winter seas, and rubies that glowed like heart tree leaves - were set with impossible precision into the design.

The bracelet passed from hand to hand around the table. Jon observed each council member's reaction - Robert's thick fingers handled it with unusual care, his face showing genuine awe rather than his usual disinterest. Cersei's perfect composure cracked as she examined the piece, her lips parting slightly in undisguised desire. Even Littlefinger, who prided himself on appearing unimpressed by displays of wealth, couldn't maintain his mask of indifference.

When it reached Stannis, the king's younger brother studied it with his characteristic intensity. "I thought the necklace Queen Cersei showed us at our last meeting was extraordinary." He looked up at Varys, his jaw clenched. "But this puts it to shame." His voice carried its usual edge as he addressed the Spider directly. "And your contact claims this was one of the lesser pieces?"

Jon watched Varys carefully as the spymaster nodded in confirmation. The old Hand had never seen such magnificent work in all his years, and the implications of this being considered a "lesser piece" sent a chill through his aged bones.

Jon Arryn watched as Robert fell into an uncharacteristic silence, his thick fingers still tracing the intricate details of the bracelet. The King's eyes held a distant look that reminded Jon of the young ward he'd raised - a rare glimpse of thoughtful consideration rather than his usual brash reactions.

"Fine," Robert finally broke the silence. "The new ships and large crop production from the North have been confirmed." He set the bracelet down with surprising gentleness. "But what of the other things? The tales of the castle at Sea Dragon Point from Eddard's goodson? The one that apparently was built in two weeks?" His voice grew stronger with each question. "And tales of the metal giants and spiders? What about those?"

Before Jon could respond, Stannis rose from his seat, his chair scraping against the stone floor. The younger Baratheon's jaw was set in its characteristic rigid line as he addressed the council.

"One of my ship captains confirmed it." Stannis's voice carried its usual precise tone. "He sent one of his Northern-looking crew in a small fishing boat and clothes to pretend to want to trade in fish, posing as some smallfolk from one of the many northern fishing villages." He placed both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "He confirmed the sighting of the castle, called Ice Crest."

Jon noticed how Stannis's usually stern expression carried an unfamiliar undercurrent of unease as he continued. "The man said it looked brand new, to put it in simple terms." Stannis's fingers drummed once on the table - a rare show of agitation from the typically stoic man. "Yet too large and well defended to have been built in two weeks. Yet there it was."

The chamber fell into a heavy silence as the council members absorbed this information. Jon observed how even Littlefinger's customary smirk had faded, replaced by a calculating frown.

Jon Arryn watched as Stannis reached into his doublet and withdrew a small leather pouch, his movements precise and controlled as always. The younger Baratheon brother's face remained stern, but there was something in his eyes that Jon hadn't seen before - a hint of genuine concern.

"That wasn't all," Stannis continued, his voice cutting through the tense silence of the chamber. "The crewman managed to convince them he was a simple fisherman from the North, one of the of the many fishing villages on the coast. He approached the castle's kitchens with his catch - three large cod, nothing more."

Stannis loosened the strings of the pouch, his fingers working with methodical purpose. "The castle's chef didn't pay him in copper stars or even silver stags." He upended the pouch onto the council table, and ten gold dragons clinked against the wood. "He gave him these."

Jon leaned forward to examine the coins, noting their pristine condition. They caught the light differently than typical gold dragons - somehow brighter, more pure.

"When the crewman tried to refuse such an extraordinary sum for mere fish," Stannis continued, his jaw tightening, "he was told that Lord Owen Longshore himself insisted on paying Northern smallfolk properly for their hard work." He gestured to the coins. "The man returned to his ship and gave these to his captain, who brought them directly to me."

They watched as Stannis withdrew a second pouch, this one bearing the Baratheon seal. The younger brother's movements remained precise as he emptied its contents next to the Ice Crest coins, creating two distinct piles of gold dragons on the council table.

"Look at them," Stannis commanded, his voice carrying its characteristic stern authority. "Really look."

Jon observed as the coins were passed around the table. At first glance, they appeared identical - the same size, same markings, same general appearance. But something about the Ice Crest dragons caught the light differently, seeming to gleam with an unusual brilliance.

Tyrion Lannister was the first to notice, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he held up one coin from each pile. His stubby fingers weighed them against each other with the practiced assessment of someone who'd grown up in Casterly Rock.

"This one's heavier," he declared, holding up the Ice Crest dragon. "And purer too, if I'm not mistaken."

Petyr Baelish reached for the coins next, his clever fingers dancing over their surfaces. "Look at the detail," he murmured, turning them over. "The standard dragon is well-minted, certainly, but this Northern one..." He held it closer to the candlelight. "Every scale on the dragon is distinct. The crown's jewels have facets. The maker's mark is impossibly precise."

Jon watched as understanding dawned across the faces of the council members. These weren't just copies of gold dragons - they were superior versions, crafted with expertise that surpassed even the legendary minters of Casterly Rock.

"These weren't made by any Lannister craftsmen," Tyrion stated flatly, his tone carrying both professional assessment and personal certainty. "Nor by any minter we have sanctioned or any other I know of in the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon Arryn watched as Cersei's emerald eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. The Queen had been waiting for this moment, he realized - like a lioness preparing to pounce on wounded prey.

"This is treason," Cersei declared, her voice sharp and triumphant. She rose from her seat with fluid grace, her golden hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. "The North dares to mint its own coin? Only House Lannister has held that right since Aegon's Conquest."

Her perfectly manicured fingers traced the edge of the council table as she continued. "And if these reports of their wealth from trade are accurate, they've clearly been withholding their proper share of taxes from the Crown." Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "Not to mention deliberately undermining both the Crown and House Lannister by circulating these... unauthorized coins in their foreign ventures."

Jon noticed how Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly torn between family loyalty and his own assessment of the situation. But Cersei paid no attention to her dwarf brother as she pressed her advantage.

"Robert," she turned to Robert, her voice taking on an almost sensual purr that made Jon's skin crawl. "You must summon Eddard Stark to King's Landing immediately. Such flagrant disregard for Crown authority cannot go unpunished. He must answer for-"

The words died in her throat as Robert suddenly lurched to his feet, sending his heavy chair crashing backward. Jon had seen Robert angry countless times over the years, but this... this was different. The king's face had turned a dangerous shade of purple, his massive fist raised high as he loomed over his wife.

Cersei shrank back, her mask of confidence shattering as she cowered away from her husband's fury. For once, the proud lioness looked truly afraid.

"Robert!" Jon called out sharply, at the same moment Stannis barked, "Your Grace!"

Their voices seemed to pierce through Robert's rage. His fist remained frozen in the air, trembling with barely contained violence, as both his Hand and his brother tried to prevent what would surely be a disastrous act.

Everyone felt the tension in the chamber reach a dangerous peak as Robert's massive form trembled with barely contained fury. The old Hand had seen Robert's rages before, but there was something different in his eyes now - a cold, calculated anger that was far more dangerous than his usual hot-blooded outbursts.

Robert drew in a deep, shuddering breath as Ser Barristan Selmy quickly righted the fallen chair. The white-cloaked knight moved with practiced efficiency, his weathered hands steady as he guided the king back to his seat. Jon noticed how the legendary knight positioned himself carefully - close enough to intervene if needed, but far enough away to show respect for his king's authority.

Robert's eyes never left Cersei as he settled back into his chair. The queen had recovered some of her composure, but Jon could see the slight tremor in her hands as she smoothed her skirts.

"If you ever," Robert's voice came out in a low growl that reminded Jon of distant thunder, "ever mention punishing Ned Stark in my presence again..." He leaned forward, his massive hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. "The man who helped me win this throne... I'll pack you back to your father and damn the consequences."

Before Cersei could respond, Tyrion quickly intervened, his mismatched eyes darting between his sister and his good-brother. "That won't be necessary, Your Grace," the dwarf's voice carried a diplomatic smoothness that seemed to ease some of the tension in the room. "I'm certain my queenly sister meant no offense. We are all merely concerned about these developments, as any loyal subjects would be."

Jon Arryn watched as Robert settled back into his chair, the king's breathing still heavy but no longer carrying the edge of murderous rage. The tension in the chamber gradually eased as Tyrion's diplomatic words worked their magic. The dwarf had always possessed a remarkable talent for defusing volatile situations, Jon reflected.

"If I may, Your Grace," Petyr Baelish's smooth voice cut through the lingering tension. His fingers idly spun one of the Northern gold dragons on the table. "While the Queen's suggestion was perhaps... inelegantly presented, there is a legitimate concern here that must be addressed."

Jon noticed how Littlefinger carefully avoided looking at Cersei as he spoke, keeping his attention focused on Robert and the coin.

"The North is indeed in violation of established law by minting their own currency without permission from either the Crown or House Lannister," Petyr continued. "This has been a protected right since Aegon's Conquest, as the Queen correctly stated."

"Yet these coins strengthen our position in foreign markets," Varys interjected, his powdered face betraying no emotion. "My little birds report that merchants in the Free Cities now prefer Westerosi gold dragons over even Volantene honor marks, specifically because these Northern coins have demonstrated such remarkable purity. They contain no trace of lesser metals - pure gold, every one of them."

Jon watched Robert's face as the king processed this information, noting how his former ward's expression had settled into something approaching thoughtfulness.

"That hardly makes the situation better," Tyrion said, leaning forward in his chair. "Pure gold or not, it remains a violation of law. The Starks, or perhaps more specifically this new Lord Longshore, have overstepped their bounds significantly." The dwarf's mismatched eyes flickered to his sister briefly before returning to Robert. "Some form of reparation would be appropriate, though perhaps not as severe as some might suggest."

Robert fell into an silence once more, his eyes sweeping across the chamber. The king's gaze lingered on each council member before settling on Baelish. Jon noticing how the Master of Coin stiffened under Robert's scrutiny, his usual mask of casual confidence slipping ever so slightly.

"The books..." Robert's voice carried a thoughtful tone that Jon rarely heard from his former ward. "I almost forgot." The king shifted in his seat, his massive frame creaking the wooden chair. "Have the crown's finances been checked over by you and Stannis?"

Jon exchanged a brief glance with the younger Baratheon brother before responding. "We've been reviewing them systematically, Your Grace. While there are still more finance books to examine, the current five since Lord Baelish began his duties as Master of Coin appear to be in order." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "For now."

Robert gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving Petyr. Jon watched as Littlefinger swallowed hard, the motion barely perceptible but telling. From his position at the table, Jon could see Varys's lips curl into a subtle smile, the Spider clearly relishing his rival's discomfort.

Robert leaned back in his chair satisfied, the wood creaking under his considerable weight. "Time for another letter to the North, I think," the king declared, his eyes moving to Grand Maester Pycelle. The elderly maester nodded in understanding, already anticipating the long hours ahead drafting correspondence to Winterfell with Jon arryn.

But Jon could no longer remain silent. The time for cautious observation had passed.

"Robert..." Jon's voice cut through the chamber before anyone could rise or comment. "I think the time for letters and waiting is past." He placed his weathered hands on the council table, feeling the weight of every one of his years. "I wouldn't have called this meeting just for the new Northern ships and trade."

With deliberate movements, Jon withdrew a small leather binder from beneath his chair. The binding was worn, suggesting frequent handling, and filled with various pieces of correspondence. He began leafing through the letters inside, each one carefully preserved.

"These letters," Jon continued, his voice grave, "were sent by an anonymous source - likely a lord from the North." He paused, meeting Robert's increasingly focused gaze. "They dictate the changes that have been going on for the last four years."

The chamber fell into complete silence as Jon arranged the letters before him. Even Cersei's usual restless movements stilled, her green eyes fixed on the documents with predatory intensity once more after roberts outburst. Varys leaned forward slightly, his powdered face betraying nothing but keen interest, while Littlefinger's fingers drummed once on the table before falling still.

Jon Arryn unfolded the first letter with practiced care, its parchment worn from multiple readings. The Small Council chamber grew impossibly quiet as he began to read, his aged voice carrying clearly across the table.

"To those who must know the truth of the North's transformation," Jon began, noting how even Varys leaned forward slightly. "I write this letter with grave concern for the realm's stability and future. Since Lord Eddard Stark arranged the marriage between his eldest daughter and his newest vassal, Lord Owen Longshore, the North has undergone changes that defy explanation."

Robert shifted in his seat, his expression darkening at the mention of his old friend's name. Jon continued reading:

"This Longshore is no ordinary smith, though that is how he began. The Old Gods have blessed him with abilities not seen since the Age of Heroes. His forge produces weapons and armor that surpass even the finest work of the greatest masters in the Seven Kingdoms."

Cersei's lip curled in obvious skepticism, but Jon noticed how Tyrion's mismatched eyes had narrowed with interest.

"But it is not merely his smithing that transforms the North. Lord Longshore commands an army of metal workers - constructs of pure metal that move of their own accord. Some take the shape of men, working tirelessly day and night. Others resemble great spiders, crawling across the walls of newly built fortifications. And some..." Jon paused, his voice growing heavier, "some tower as tall as the giants of old, patrolling the North's borders with weapons that breathe fire."

Stannis's jaw clenched visibly, while Littlefinger's customary smirk had completely vanished. Even Varys seemed troubled, his powdered hands clasped tightly together.

"The changes extend beyond military might. Hundreds of magical glasshouses now dot the Northern landscape, in every village and lords holdfast, producing crops and fruits in quantities never before seen, even in winter. The surplus is either stored in vast storehouses or traded for enormous profit - profit that goes untaxed by the Crown."

Jon looked up from the letter to find the council members staring at him with varying degrees of shock and disbelief. Pycelle's mouth had fallen open, his chain clinking softly as he shook his head. Cersei's face had drained of color, while Robert's had grown red with mounting anger.

"This letter," Jon concluded, carefully folding it back along its worn creases, "was only the first…."

The chamber erupted into chaos as voices began speaking all at once, but Jon's eyes remained fixed on Robert, watching his former ward's face as the implications of these revelations sank in.

Jon Arryn raised his hand for silence as the chamber's chaos threatened to overwhelm any chance of productive discussion. The wrinkled parchment in his other hand demanded attention, its contents even more troubling than the first.

"There is more," he said, his aged voice cutting through the din. The council members settled, though Robert's face remained flushed with barely contained emotion.

Jon cleared his throat and began reading the second letter. "The North's naval expansion exceeds all previous estimates the crown knows of. Lord Longshore has constructed a fleet unlike any seen before in the history of Westeros. These ships dwarf our largest galleys, built with techniques that defy understanding."

Stannis leaned forward, his jaw clenching tighter. As Master of Ships, this information struck at the heart of his responsibilities.

"The vessels bear strange markings and runes along their hulls," Jon continued reading. "They move faster than should be possible, even in adverse winds. The Northern fleet now dominates trade routes to Essos, their holds filled with goods that fetch prices triple what other merchants can command."

Littlefinger's fingers had stopped their usual restless movement entirely, his face growing paler with each word.

"But most concerning are the whispers from White Harbor my lord hand. House Manderly, in conjunction with Houses Stark and Longshore, prepares an unprecedented trade expedition." Jon paused, letting the words sink in. "Their destination: Yi Ti and Asshai. They seek exclusive trade agreements with powers beyond the Jade Sea, deliberately excluding both Crown oversight and participation from other Westerosi houses."

Cersei's wine cup clattered against the table as her hand trembled. "Asshai?" she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

"There's more," Jon continued grimly. "The North's prosperity draws smallfolk from across the Seven Kingdoms. Those with First Men blood particularly seem called to return to their ancestral lands. Entire villages in the Riverlands stand empty. The Reach reports thousands of farmers and craftsmen simply vanishing in the night, all heading North."

"The laws-" Pycelle began sputtering, but Jon cut him off with a raised hand.

"The writer notes that neither House Stark nor House Longshore show any concern for the impact on southern lords. Fields lie fallow, workshops stand empty, and still the exodus continues. Those who return speak of prosperity beyond imagination - warm homes even in winter, plentiful food, clean water and wages that would make a King's Landing merchant weep."

Jon Arryn watched as the Small Council chamber descended into chaos. The carefully maintained decorum shattered as multiple voices competed to be heard, each councilor desperate to voice their concerns.

Renly, who had maintained an uncharacteristic silence throughout the earlier discussions, suddenly straightened in his chair. "I've been approached by House Tyrell," he announced, his voice carrying despite the growing din. "Their complaints about losing smallfolk to the North are becoming more frequent and urgent. Entire farming communities have simply vanished overnight."

Jon noticed how Renly's usual easy charm had been replaced by genuine concern. The youngest Baratheon brother ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture reminiscent of Robert in his youth. "Mace Tyrell claims his grain production has dropped by nearly a quarter. The smallfolk simply abandon their fields, taking their families North without any regard for their obligations to their lords."

Before anyone could properly digest this information, Varys cleared his throat delicately. "My little birds sing of other troubles, my lords," the eunuch's soft voice somehow carried across the increasingly heated chamber. "Delegations from Myr and several of the slaver cities make their way to Westeros even now. They come bearing formal complaints about Northern trade practices."

The Spider's powdered face remained carefully neutral as he continued, "It seems the North has not only stolen Myrish glassmaking techniques but has improved upon them significantly. Their goods flood the markets at prices that make competition impossible. The Myrish glassmakers are particularly incensed..."

Stannis's voice cut through the growing clamor, his teeth audibly grinding as he spoke. "The fleet is the immediate concern," he insisted, standing to make himself heard. "These ships must be brought under Crown authority immediately. They cannot be allowed to sail under their own colors, flouting maritime law as they please. The Crown's authority at sea must be maintained!"

The chamber erupted into even louder arguments. Cersei's shrill demands mixed with Pycelle's stammering protests and Littlefinger's attempts to discuss the financial implications. The noise grew to an unbearable level.

Jon Arryn turned to Robert, seeing the familiar signs of an impending explosion. He wasn't disappointed.

Robert's massive fist crashed down onto the council table with enough force to make the golden dragons jump and dance. "SILENCE!" the king roared, his face purple with rage.

The chamber fell instantly quiet, every eye turning to their king.

Jon Arryn nodded in thanks as the chamber settled into an uneasy quiet. His weathered hands trembled slightly as he took up the final letter, its parchment bearing signs of hasty writing and urgent delivery. The Hand of the King cleared his throat, his voice carrying the weight of decades of service as he began to read.

"My lord Hand. It is only you and good King Robert that can bring the North back to the crown's control. Without the crown's notice, Lord Owen and Stark have built a large building in both Ice Crest called a 'factory'. This building produces large amounts of mastercrafted armor and weapons in such quantities and in such a short time that Lord Stark no doubts plans to arm the whole North. Lord Longshore's metal constructs have fixed and repaired and added upon the defenses of Winterfell and the other castles of the North. All without the crown's say. Worst of all, they have rebuilt the ancient castle of Moat Cailin."

The reaction was immediate and profound. Jon watched as the blood drained from every face around the table. Even Varys, usually so composed, showed visible alarm. Pycelle's chain rattled as the old maester slumped back in his chair, mouth agape.

"Gods be good," Renly breathed, all pretense of casual charm vanishing. "With that stronghold restored..."

"The North could close itself off completely," Tyrion finished, his mismatched eyes wide with understanding. "No army from the South has ever taken Moat Cailin from the North. Not in thousands of years."

Jon watched as Ser Barristan Selmy, finally spoke up. The old knight's weathered face bore a thoughtful expression as he addressed the council.

"Perhaps we are taking these claims too seriously my lords," Barristan said, his calm voice a contrast to the tension in the chamber. "The writer of these letters clearly aims to paint House Stark and their bannermen in the worst possible light. How can we be certain these aren't simply the fabrications of jealous lords?"

Jon noted how several council members seemed to relax slightly at the knight's reasonable tone. Even Robert's face lost some of its purple hue as he considered Barristan's words.

However, Tyrion Lannister shifted forward in his chair, his mismatched eyes sharp with intelligence. "The ships have been proven real, Ser Barristan," the dwarf pointed out. "And if the volume of food they're trading matches these reports, then the glasshouses must also exist. Why should we not assume everything else in these letters is equally true?"

Stannis's teeth ground audibly as he shook his head. "It sounds too ludicrous," he declared firmly. "I'm prepared to accept the information about the ships - Varys's reports and contacts have confirmed those details. But to suggest that Moat Cailin has been rebuilt over four years without our notice?" He scoffed. "That stretches belief too far."

Jon observed the growing division among the council members. Some, like Pycelle and Littlefinger, nodded along with Stannis's skepticism. Others, including Varys and Tyrion, appeared more willing to consider the letters' claims. Even Robert seemed uncertain, his massive frame slouched in his chair as he listened to the competing arguments.

With deliberate movements, Jon reached beneath his seat and withdrew a black wooden box. The simple container bore no markings or decorations, but its presence immediately drew every eye in the chamber.

"This," Jon said gravely, "was sent with the final letter." His aged fingers worked the simple clasp, lifting the lid with careful movements.

From within, he withdrew a dagger that made several council members gasp. The weapon was masterfully crafted, its hilt bearing intricate decorations that spoke of exceptional craftsmanship. But it was the blade that drew their attention - it appeared to be made entirely of translucent blue ice, shimmering with an inner light that caught and reflected the chamber's illumination.

"The writer included this as proof of his claims about the North's capabilities," Jon explained, carefully holding the weapon flat across his palms. "He insisted this single blade would demonstrate the truth of his words."

The dagger began making its way around the table. Each council member handled it with varying degrees of wonder and skepticism. When it reached Ser Barristan, the old knight's experienced hands tested its balance with practiced movements. As he swung it through the air, the blade seemed to sing, leaving behind a visible trail of frost that hung momentarily before dissipating. The temperature around him noticeably dropped.

Robert took the weapon next, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he examined it. Jon recognized the look in his former ward's eyes - it was the same expression he'd worn in his youth when presented with an exceptional weapon. The warrior in him clearly appreciated the deadly beauty of the blade.

As Stannis received the dagger for inspection, Jon cleared his throat. "The letter included specific instructions," he said. "We were told to test its power against any object, to understand what the North now wields in secret."

Stannis's jaw worked for a moment as he considered the blade. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he drove the dagger into the council table before him.

The weapon slid through the thick wood as if it were butter, sinking to its hilt without resistance. Before anyone could comment, a sheet of ice began spreading outward from the point of impact. The council members scrambled back from their chairs as the frozen area expanded rapidly, covering nearly half the table in seconds.

A sharp cracking sound filled the chamber, and before their stunned eyes, the entire frozen section of the table shattered into countless glittering shards, leaving the remaining half standing as if cleanly cut.

The chamber fell into shocked silence as they stared at the destruction, the implications of such power hanging heavy in the air.

"By the Seven," Renly muttered, his usual composure shattered by the display of otherworldly power before them.

"Witchcraft! Sorcery!" Pycelle called out, his chain rattling as he stumbled backward further from the ruined table, nearly losing his balance in his haste to distance himself from the frozen wreckage.

The rest of the Small Council remained eerily silent, their eyes fixed on Robert as he moved toward the icy remains. The king's heavy footsteps echoed in the chamber as he carefully picked his way through the glittering shards that had once been solid oak. With surprising gentleness, he retrieved the ice dagger from where it had fallen among the frozen splinters.

Jon Arryn watched his former ward closely, recognizing the weight of responsibility settling across Robert's broad shoulders as he examined the weapon. The blade still radiated an unnatural cold, its ethereal blue glow casting strange shadows across the king's troubled face.

Robert turned to Jon, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Has Ned answered our last letter?"

"He has, Your Grace," Jon replied, his aged voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Though he denies any wrongdoing. According to Lord Stark, the North hasn't changed - they've simply had a few good harvests and made some minor improvements to their infrastructure."

Robert nodded slowly, still holding the dagger. "Draft another letter," he commanded, his voice carrying the full authority of the crown. "Tell Ned the royal family is coming for a visit." His blue eyes, so like his Arryn blood, hardened with determination. "Tell him it's time he told us the truth. All of it."

The council members nodded in agreement, though Jon noted the calculating looks that passed between them. As they filed out of the chamber, he could already anticipate the flurry of ravens that would take wing before sunset. Every great house would soon learn of what had transpired in this room - their spies would make certain of that.

Jon remained seated as the others departed, watching Varys's silent glide and Littlefinger's measured stride. He had no doubt that when the royal progress began its journey north, they would not travel alone. Other houses would find their own reasons to journey northward, each seeking answers to the mysteries that had been revealed today.

Chapter Text

The sweltering heat of Volantis pressed down on the crowded streets like a heavy blanket. Sweat trickled down faces and backs as slaves scurried through the narrow alleys, their tiger-striped tattoos marking their stations as clearly as brands. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of spices, rotting fish, and human misery.

A noble procession wound its way through the marketplace, four muscled slaves straining under the weight of an ornate palanquin. Its silk curtains rippled in the tepid breeze, offering glimpses of the pale-haired occupant within. The slaves' backs gleamed with sweat, their faces locked in expressions of careful blankness as they navigated the uneven cobblestones.

"Move aside, filth!" A guard cleared the path with sharp cracks of his whip. The crowd parted like water, slaves pressing themselves against walls and ducking into doorways.

From her perch in the palanquin, Lady Nyessa Maegyr's lip curled at the sight of a slave auction taking place in a nearby square. Her violet eyes, a testament to her pure Valyrian bloodline, swept over the proceedings with casual disdain.

"Stop here," she commanded, her High Valyrian flowing like silk. The palanquin halted, and she watched as the auctioneer paraded his wares before potential buyers.

"Fresh from the Summer Isles!" The auctioneer's voice carried across the square. "Strong backs, strong arms - perfect for the mines or galleys!" He yanked a chain, forcing a line of men to shuffle forward. Their eyes remained fixed on the ground, shoulders slumped in defeat.

A merchant in rich silks stepped forward, running expert hands over muscles and checking teeth like one might examine a horse. "I'll take six for my pleasure barge," he declared, counting out golden honors into the auctioneer's eager palm.

Lady Nyessa waved a delicate hand at her steward. "The young one on the end," she pointed to a girl no more than fourteen. "Add her to my household staff."

The transaction completed in moments, another soul changing hands as easily as a copper penny. The girl was led away, her face a mask of resignation as she joined the stream of humanity flowing through Volantis' endless streets.

The blazing sun climbed higher, baking the ancient stones of Volantis as the day's commerce continued unabated. Near the docks, a group of newly-purchased slaves huddled in an iron cage, awaiting transport to their assigned posts. Their faces bore the fresh marks of the tattooists - flames for temple servants, hammers for craftsmen, tears for pleasure slaves.

An elderly slave woman shuffled past, her face etched with decades of tiger stripes marking her as a domestic servant. She paused to slip a water skin through the bars to the new arrivals, her gnarled hands trembling with age. A guard's whip cracked near her feet.

"Back to work, you old hag." The guard spat on the ground. The woman hobbled away without a word, head bowed in practiced submission.

Inside the Black Walls, where the Old Blood of Valyria dwelled in luxury, a different scene played out. Servants moved silently through marble halls, delivering delicacies on silver platters while musicians played soft melodies on carved harps. The contrast between their careful movements and the iron collars at their throats spoke volumes.

"The shipment from Astapor arrives tomorrow," a merchant declared over cups of chilled wine. "Three hundred Unsullied, ready for training." His companion nodded in approval, dabbing sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief.

Down in the bowels of the Red Temple, acolytes tended the eternal flames while slaves scrubbed the stone floors until they gleamed. A young priest watched their labor with critical eyes, ready to dispense punishment for any perceived laziness. One slave's movements grew sluggish from exhaustion. The priest's cane descended without mercy.

"The Lord of Light demands perfection," he intoned as the slave bit back cries of pain. "Your suffering cleanses your soul."

Near the Long Bridge, a wine seller haggled with a ship captain over the price of a cargo of Arbor gold. Their animated discussion took place over the prone form of a slave who had collapsed from heat exhaustion. Neither man spared the dying figure a glance as they concluded their business.

In a wealthy merchant's compound, a newly-purchased pleasure slave wept silently in her quarters. The fresh tattoo of a tear below her eye still stung, a permanent marker of her new station. An older slave attempted to comfort her.

"You'll learn to endure," she whispered. "We all do, or we die. There is no other choice in Volantis."

This was daily life in Volantis, uncaring of the suffering it wrought. For the so-called Last Daughter of Valyria saw itself as Valyria's true heir, and in no way would those of the blood dare live any other life but of indulgence and wealth. Behind the Black Walls, the noble families lounged on silken cushions and sipped chilled wine while their armies of slaves toiled in the merciless sun.

They viewed such inequality as their birthright, a continuation of the old empire's ways, though they possessed only a pale shadow of Valyria's true might. The tiger-striped faces of their human chattel were as meaningless to them as the carved decorations that adorned their mansions.

Malaquo's withered frame sat rigid in his gilded chair, his skeletal fingers drumming against the armrest as he observed his fellow triarchs. The chamber's oppressive heat did nothing to improve his mood, though the gentle breeze from the silk fans provided some relief. Age had stolen much from him - his teeth, his vigor, even some of his infamous fire - but his mind remained sharp as Valyrian steel.

Nyessos lounged across from him, his expression carefully neutral beneath his perfectly groomed beard. The merchant's eyes held their usual calculating gleam, likely already counting potential profits in his head. His rich robes, heavy with gold thread and precious stones, spoke of wealth that Malaquo knew came as much from betrayal as from trade.

Doniphos reclined on silk cushions, accepting grapes from a buxom and beautiful Naathi pleasure slave whose collar gleamed with gold inlay. The sight made Malaquo's lip curl. Such casual indulgence seemed unbefitting a triarch, especially in times that demanded serious attention. But then, Doniphos had always been soft, more concerned with comfort than with Volantis' glory.

"We must speak of Westeros," Malaquo declared, his voice carrying the authority of decades in power. "More specifically, the North."

"What of them?" Doniphos waved his hand lazily, reaching for another grape. "All they have done is sell excess food and some very good jewelry." A lecherous grin spread across his face as he settled deeper into his cushions. "I gave one of their necklaces to my concubine and she loved it so much she spent all night showing me how appreciative she was."

Malaquo spat into a golden bucket, his toothless mouth twisting in disgust at his fellow triarch's softness. The sound echoed in the chamber, drawing a slight frown from Doniphos, who shifted uncomfortably under the older man's harsh gaze.

But it was Nyessos who caught Malaquo's attention. The merchant-prince sat in uncharacteristic silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he considered the matter. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of careful consideration.

"The grain, vegetables and fruit they sell last longer even when not stored," Nyessos said, his eyes focused on some distant point. "And last near two years or more in proper storage." He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on an edge of intensity. "Thus they are making a profit like no other."

Malaquo nodded slowly, appreciating how his fellow triarch saw the bigger picture, despite him being of the elephant party. It was rare for Malaquo to find common ground with the merchants and peace lovers of volantis, but Nyessos had always possessed a keener mind than most. While Doniphos saw only immediate pleasures, Nyessos understood the implications of such unprecedented preservation capabilities.

Malaquo shifted in his seat, his aged bones creaking like old wood. The thought of Westeros - particularly the North - stirred a familiar anger in his gut. These upstart barbarians had grown too powerful, too quickly.

"You speak of profits, Nyessos," Malaquo's toothless mouth worked as he spoke. "But I see a greater threat. The North's influence spreads like wildfire across our markets."

He gestured to a nearby slave who hurried forward with a stack of trade records. Malaquo's bony fingers traced the figures with practiced ease.

"Look here. Our traders now purchase almost exclusively from Northern ships. Their preserved goods last longer, their deliveries arrive with constant precision thanks to their ships, and their prices..." He tapped a parchment before him with a sharp nail. "Their prices remain stable regardless of season or circumstance."

Doniphos shrugged, still more interested in his grapes than the discussion. "So they are good traders. What of it?"

"Fool," Malaquo spat. "It's only the beginning. Mark my words - the rest of Westeros will follow their example. Already we hear whispers of changes in their Reach, in the Westerlands. And when they do..." He let the words hang in the air.

Nyessos leaned forward, finally showing genuine interest. "You believe they'll expand eastward?"

"Beyond Astapor, beyond Meereen." Malaquo's voice carried absolute certainty. "All the way to Yi Ti if they can manage it. These Northerners, they're not like other Westerosi we are used to. They seem to have changed. They plan. They build. They improve."

His fingers drummed against the armrest as he continued. "And they hate slavery. Make no mistake - they trade with us now only for profit. Once they establish routes to markets that share their... moral sensibilities..." He sneered at the word. "They'll abandon us without a second thought."

"The cities that have come to depend on their trade will suffer," Nyessos mused, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Precisely." Malaquo nodded grimly. "Their ships are faster, larger, more reliable than anything we've seen. When they turn their attention eastward, we'll be left with nothing but memories of better days and warehouses full of empty dreams."

Malaquo watched Doniphos wave away his concerns with the casual indifference of a man too comfortable in his prosperity. The younger triarch's silk cushions rustled as he shifted, accepting another grape from his pleasure slave.

"Let them leave then," Doniphos said, his voice thick with dismissal. "We traded well enough before they came, did we not? Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen - they'll always need our goods. And we'll always have slaves to sell." He chuckled, patting the golden collar around his slave's neck. "Some things never change."

Malaquo's withered fingers gripped his chair's armrest until his knuckles whitened. Age had taught him patience, but Doniphos tested its limits. He'd seen this blindness before, this willful ignorance of changing times. It had cost Volantis dearly in the past.

"You fool," Malaquo's toothless mouth worked in frustration. "Half our traders have sunk their fortunes into warehouses bursting with Northern goods. Four years of steady profit has made them forget the basic rules of trade." He gestured at the trade records before them. "Look at these numbers. Really look at them."

Nyessos leaned forward, his merchant's mind already calculating the implications. But Doniphos merely shrugged, reaching for his wine.

"I've seen how the Northern traders look at our slaves," Malaquo continued, his voice heavy with certainty. "The disgust in their eyes when they pass the auction blocks. The way they turn away from the tiger stripes on our servants' faces." He spat into his bucket again. "They trade with us now because it suits their purposes. But mark my words - this time of plenty will end."

"You worry too much, old friend," Doniphos said, but Malaquo could see the first flicker of uncertainty cross his face. "Surely they understand the way of things in Essos. They're pragmatic people, these Northerners."

"Pragmatic?" Malaquo barked a harsh laugh. "Yes, they are that. Pragmatic enough to build their own trade routes once they've learned what they need from us. Pragmatic enough to turn their backs on those who practice slavery once they no longer need our markets."

He watched his words sink in, saw the moment Doniphos finally began to grasp the gravity of the situation. The younger triarch's hand froze halfway to his mouth, the grape forgotten between his fingers.

"Our merchants have grown fat and lazy on Northern coin," Malaquo pressed his advantage. "They've filled their warehouses with goods bought at Northern prices, expecting Northern profits. When those profits vanish..." He let the implications hang in the air like a executioner's blade.

Malaquo shifted in his seat as Nyessos fixed him with a penetrating stare.

"What truly troubles you, my fellow triarch?" Nyessos asked. "Beyond trade routes and Northern goods. What keeps the great tiger of Volantis awake at night?"

Malaquo's withered fingers traced the edge of his armrest. He studied his fellow triarchs - Nyessos leaning forward with keen interest, even Doniphos now setting aside his grapes to listen. The old man's toothless mouth worked for a moment before he spoke.

"I have received visitors," he said, his voice low and harsh. "Representatives from Myr, Lys, Pentos. Even Meereen and the other slaver cities sent their envoys." He spat into his bucket. "All bearing the same whispers, the same fears."

"Go on," Nyessos prompted when Malaquo fell silent.

"The Northern traders have set a new standard in every port they touch. Their goods, their methods - they've become the measure against which all trade is judged." Malaquo's fingers drummed against the armrest. "But that's not what truly frightens these envoys. No, what keeps them awake at night is Braavos."

Doniphos frowned. "Braavos? What do those upstart descendants of slaves have to do with-"

"Everything!" Malaquo snapped. "The Sealord seeks alliance with the North. Not just them - all of Westeros. The Iron Throne itself." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "They mean to end us."

"Surely you exaggerate," Doniphos protested, but his face had lost its usual ruddy color.

"The Sealord plans to build a coalition," Malaquo continued. "First, they'll clear the Stepstones with Westerosi help. Then..." He let out a harsh breath. "Then they mean to turn their combined might against slavery itself. Port by port, city by city."

"A campaign against slavery?" Nyessos's eyes widened. "The Sealord wouldn't dare."

"Not just a campaign." Malaquo's weathered face twisted. "A holy war. The Red Priests already whisper of it in their temples. The Lord of Light, they say, demands freedom for all." He spat again. "And now they have allies with the strength to make it happen."

The chamber fell silent as the implications sank in. Even the slaves holding the fans seemed to still, though they quickly resumed their duties under the sharp glance of a nearby guard.

Malaquo observed how his fellow triarchs absorbed the gravity of his words. Even Doniphos had set aside his grapes, the pleasure slave forgotten as she retreated into the shadows.

"And?" Nyessos asked, his merchant's mind already working through the implications. "Apart from their fears of an army of those who wish to destroy our very way of life, what solutions did these lessers offer but bleating fears? An army of unsullied to attack northern shores, hundreds of boats to assail Braavos' waters?"

There was fear in Nyessos's voice, though he tried to mask it. Even Doniphos leaned forward, his usual indolence replaced by keen attention.

Malaquo actually nodded at his fellow triarch's words, his toothless mouth working as he considered his response. "They suggest we strike first, a joint army to break Braavos and Westeros. Not enough to destroy them, we wouldn't have enough soldiers, but enough to warn them off any future coalition with each other."

His bony fingers tapped against the armrest as he watched understanding dawn in their eyes. The proposal was bold - perhaps too bold - but the alternative was to wait for destruction, economic or otherwise, to find them. Malaquo had not survived decades of Volantene politics by being passive in the face of threats.

The slaves continued their silent fanning, though Malaquo noted how their movements had slowed ever so slightly, their ears straining to catch every word. He made a mental note to have them replaced after this meeting. No slave who heard such sensitive discussions could be allowed to remain in service.

Malaquo watched Nyessos stroke his beard thoughtfully, the triarchs calculating mind clearly weighing profits against risks. The chamber's heat pressed down on them all, but Malaquo had learned long ago to ignore such discomforts when matters of importance were at hand.

"A risky plan," Nyessos said at last, "but it could work." He shifted in his seat, his jeweled rings catching the light. "Most of Essos' nations and kingdoms exist in peace despite our different ways of life and economies. A few sharp skirmishes on land and sea, some strategic destruction here and there - Braavos would have no choice but to back off."

Malaquo's toothless mouth curved into what might have been a smile. The triarch was thinking along the right lines now.

"And the Westerosi would learn their place," Nyessos continued, warming to the idea. "Peace talks would follow naturally. We could negotiate better trade deals with the North." His eyes gleamed as he considered the possibilities. "Better prices, of course, with the threat of more war hanging over them. Perhaps even exclusive trading rights for a few more years."

"Yes," Nyessos nodded, his voice growing stronger with conviction. "Yes, it could work. The Sealord is proud but practical, He won't risk Braavos' prosperity over idealistic notions of freedom, not when faced with united opposition from the rest of Essos."

Malaquo felt a surge of satisfaction at Nyessos's reasoning. Finally, someone else who understood the gravity of their situation and saw the solution war offered. But his contentment shattered as Doniphos burst into loud, mocking laughter that echoed through the chamber.

"Mad! You're both absolutely mad!" Doniphos wiped tears from his eyes, his whole body shaking with mirth. "Oh, I know you both merely tolerate me. You, Malaquo, because the election made me your fellow triarch, and you, Nyessos, because we share the elephant banner." He shook his head, still chuckling. "But it seems I'm the only one here with any sense left."

Malaquo's withered face twisted into a dark scowl. His bony fingers gripped the armrest until his knuckles whitened. "What game are you playing at, Doniphos?"

Doniphos's laughter died away, though his eyes still danced with amusement. "Do you truly believe you can cow the current king of Westeros with some surprise attack and a quick war?" He leaned forward, all traces of his usual indolence gone. "Robert Baratheon? The man who smashed the Targaryens and won his crown with a Warhammer?"

Malaquo's jaw clenched as Doniphos laughed again, the sound grating against his nerves like steel on stone. The younger triarch's eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, as if he found their concerns about war absolutely ridiculous.

"Oh, you think Robert Baratheon is some fat drunk now?" Doniphos wiped a tear from his eye. "Perhaps he is. I've heard the same reports - how he's lost his edge since crushing the Targaryens, drowning himself in wine and whores after losing his northern love." He popped another grape in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "But consider this - if that broken shell of a man was effective enough in war to bring down a three-hundred-year dynasty, what do you think will happen when we give him a proper war to fight?"

Malaquo felt his stomach turn cold at the words. He'd read the reports and heard the stories of Robert's Rebellion, of course - every educated person in Volantis and Essos had studied how the mighty Targaryen dynasty fell. But he hadn't considered...

"The man lost his purpose, lost his love," Doniphos continued, his voice growing sharper. "But give him a war? He'll find that purpose again. And mark my words - he won't stop until every city that raised arms against him is crushed beneath his Warhammer."

The old triarch's fingers drummed against his armrest as Doniphos pressed on.

"And let's not forget - when Robert won his crown, the North that helped him wasn't this..." Doniphos gestured vaguely with his wine cup. "This wealthy, organized force we see today. They were just northern barbarians with steel and determination. Now?" He barked out another laugh. "Now they have those massive ships you're so worried about. They have wealth enough to buy whole armies if how much they've been making in trade is any show of the truth…"

Malaquo spat into his bucket again, but this time it was to hide his growing unease. Doniphos's words carried the ring of truth he'd been trying to ignore.

"Just imagine," Doniphos leaned forward, "those northern ships, filled with angry warriors, backed by the full might of the Seven Kingdoms - all led by a king who finally has an enemy worth fighting again. Do you really think your 'quick war' will end the way you hope?"

Malaquo watched as Nyessos's eyes lit up with a sudden inspiration. The merchant triarch leaned forward, his jeweled rings catching the light as he gestured excitedly.

"The Targaryens," Nyessos said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We could find the last dragons. Set them up as figureheads. There are still dragon loyalists in Westeros - the Reach, Dorne..." His fingers traced patterns in the air as he warmed to his theme. "With the threat of legitimate heirs to the Iron Throne, those kingdoms might break away from Robert. The realm would fracture, and then-"

Doniphos's laughter cut through Nyessos's words like a knife. The younger triarch doubled over, tears streaming down his face as his body shook with mirth. His wine cup clattered to the floor, spilling red across the marble tiles.

"Oh gods," Doniphos wheezed, wiping his eyes. "And I thought your first plan was mad." He struggled to catch his breath, his face red from laughing. "If you thought Robert's wrath would be terrible before, just imagine what he'd do if he heard we were trying to restore the Targaryens." Fresh peals of laughter escaped him. "He'd make sure Volantis looked like a second Valyria by the time he finished with us."

Malaquo felt his withered face twist into a snarl. "We have no choice," he spat into his bucket. "With our allies' combined strength and a swift campaign-"

"Glory," Doniphos interrupted, all trace of laughter gone from his face. He fixed Malaquo with a look of pure disgust. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? One last grab at glory before death claims you." He shook his head slowly. "You'd drag us all into the grave with you, just to have songs sung about the great tiger who started one final war."

The words struck Malaquo like physical blows. He gripped his armrest so hard he could feel the wood creaking beneath his fingers, his pride warring with the truth he heard in Doniphos's accusation.

He'd heard enough of Doniphos's mockery however, enough of his warnings and cowardice dressed as wisdom. The old triarch's weathered face twisted into a mask of determination as he raised his voice over Doniphos's continued protests.

"Enough." The word cut through the chamber like a blade, silencing both his fellow triarchs. Malaquo straightened in his seat, his aged frame crackling with purpose. "We will put this to a vote, as is our custom."

The slaves stilled their fans, the sudden quiet hanging heavy in the air. Malaquo's rheumy eyes swept across the chamber, fixing each triarch with an unwavering stare.

"All those in favor of beginning preparations for war against Braavos and Westeros, with our new allies?" His voice carried the weight of centuries of Volantene authority.

Without hesitation, Malaquo raised his own hand. Beside him, Nyessos's bejeweled fingers rose as well, the triarchs calculating eyes already distant with plans and schemes.

"Those opposed?"

Doniphos raised his hand with deliberate slowness, popping another grape into his mouth as he did so. The gesture carried all the casual disdain that so irritated Malaquo.

A thin smile crossed Malaquo's withered lips. "Two against one. The motion carries." He savored the taste of victory, sweeter than any wine. "I will send word to our allies to begin preparations. It will take some months to gather our forces, but soon..."

His toothless mouth curved into a fierce grin. "Soon, glory will be ours. The dogs of Westeros and Braavos will learn their proper place - beneath the boot of Valyria's true heir."

Malaquo rose from his seat, his aged joints protesting the movement. Nyessos fell in beside him as they made their way toward the chamber doors, their slaves following at a respectful distance. Already they were deep in discussion, voices low as they planned the coming conflict.

Behind them, Doniphos remained in his seat, reaching for another grape. He popped it into his mouth with a thoughtful expression, wondering aloud if Yi-Ti might not be a more pleasant place to conduct trade visits in the coming months.

Chapter Text

Doran Martell held up the letter in his hand, the parchment crackling beneath his fingers as he sat in his wheeled chair within the Tower of the Sun. The afternoon light shone through the stained glass windows, casting warm patterns on the polished marble floor. His family gathered around him - Oberyn sprawled lazily across a cushioned bench, Quentyn standing stiffly at attention, and Arianne perched on the edge of her seat, her dark eyes fixed intently on the letter.

"Our enemies are moving," Doran said, his voice measured and calm. "Our spies in the capital report Robert Baratheon prepares to travel north in a month's time."

Oberyn snorted, twirling a dagger between his fingers. "The fat king bestirs himself at last. What has drawn him from his wine and whores?"

Doran studied his younger brother's face, noting the dangerous glint in Oberyn's eyes. The Red Viper's casual posture belied the tension Doran could read in his shoulders. His own gout-ridden fingers tightened on the armrest of his wheeled chair as he considered how to proceed.

"We have watched the North's transformation these past four years," Doran said. "Their trade with Essos has grown year by year More significantly, they no longer purchase grain from the Reach."

Arianne leaned forward, her jewelry catching the light. "The Tyrells must be furious. Their greatest source of influence, gone."

"Indeed." Doran's gaze returned to Oberyn. His voice dropped, heavy with implications. "But now our spies report something far more concerning. The North possesses weapons of magical nature. Blades of ice that freeze at a cut, if the reports are correct."

Quentyn shifted uncomfortably. "Surely these are just tales, Father?"

"No." Doran unfolded another letter. "Our most reliable source in King's Landing confirms it. A demonstration was made before the Small Council - a dagger that freezes whatever it touches. This has frightened the Baratheon court enough that Robert himself rides North to investigate."

Oberyn's dagger stopped spinning. "The usurper leaves his throne. How... interesting."

"The North's sudden rise troubles many," Doran continued. "Four years ago, they could barely feed themselves through winter. Now they export preserved foods that last months without spoiling. Their ships outmatch even the Redwyne fleet. And behind it all stands one man apparently - Owen Longshore, who appeared from some northern fishing village and married Stark's eldest daughter."

"He is the one who makes these magical weapons?" Arianne asked.

Doran nodded, his dark eyes studying his daughter's face. "Had Eddard Stark not moved so swiftly to secure this Owen Longshore through marriage to his eldest daughter, I would have proposed a match with Arianne, if I had known of him anyway."

A smirk played across Arianne's full lips at the notion, though she remained silent, her fingers toying with one of her gold bracelets. The evening light caught the sun-and-spear pattern etched into the metal.

Oberyn pushed himself up from his lounging position, his face darkening. "Give our precious jewel of Dorne to some upstart northerner? Brother, your caution has finally addled your wits." He stalked across the room, his movements fluid and predatory. "Need I remind you these are the same northerners who helped the usurper steal the throne? Who stood by while Elia and her children were butchered?"

The pain of old wounds flickered across Doran's face, but his voice remained steady. "I speak of what might have been, brother. The possibility is already lost to us." He shifted in his chair, attempting to find a position that eased the constant ache in his joints. "Though perhaps that is for the best. The North grows stronger by the day, yet they remain Robert's most loyal supporters. Any alliance there would have been... complicated."

"Complicated?" Oberyn spat the word. "It would be an insult to Dorne itself. Our Arianne deserves better than to be shipped off to freeze among those northern barbarians, no matter how many magical weapons this Longshore can craft."

Doran watched his brother's rage with patient eyes, understanding the familiar pain that drove it. The evening shadows had lengthened across the marble floor, and the air grew heavy with unspoken grief.

"You forget, brother," Doran said quietly, "that Eddard Stark was one of the few who demanded justice for Elia and her children. When he entered that throne room and saw their broken bodies, he called for the Mountain's and Lorch's head. He demanded Tywin Lannister be stripped of his lordship for ordering such barbarity."

Oberyn's pacing stopped. His hand gripped the dagger's hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened, but Doran could see the slight tremor in his brother's shoulders.

"He did nothing after Robert refused," Oberyn said sourly, though some of the venom had left his voice. "If he truly cared for justice, he should have turned against the Baratheon the moment he protected those murderers."

Doran sighed, feeling the weight of those old decisions press down upon him like a physical burden. "It was not that simple, Oberyn. You know this."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with two decades of carefully laid plans and patient vengeance. Quentyn and Arianne remained silent, watching their father and uncle's exchange with grave attention.

Doran watched the subtle shift in Oberyn's stance, the way his brother's shoulders loosened slightly as he finally spoke.

"Perhaps Stark was not entirely to blame," Oberyn admitted, though the words seemed to cost him. "But until he turns cloak against that drunken usurper, he and his North cannot be trusted." His fingers drummed against the dagger's hilt. "Magic weapons or no."

Arianne and Quentyn nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting the deep-rooted mistrust of the Starks that had been bred into them since childhood. Doran noted how his daughter's eyes gleamed with curiosity despite her apparent agreement.

Doran sighed, adjusting his position in the wheeled chair as another spike of pain shot through his joints. "In any case, Owen Longshore is beyond our grasp for now." He paused, watching their reactions carefully. "Though perhaps we should also make our presence known at Winterfell, to see where loyalties truly lie."

All three pairs of eyes fixed on him with sudden interest. Arianne leaned forward, her jewelry chiming softly with the movement. "What do you mean, Father?"

Doran looked to the letter again, smoothing the creased parchment with his aching fingers. "What I mean is that we are not alone in receiving such information. Every major house in the Seven Kingdoms will no doubt have heard what transpired in the Small Council chambers by now."

He gestured to a stack of reports on the table beside him. "The Tyrells already move - their ships try to shadow Northern vessels, trying to learn their secrets though to no avail it seems. Tywin Lannister's gold flows freely through the North's border towns, trying to buy what little information he can though again my own reports suggest all he gets is frustration. Even the Tullys, despite their blood ties to the Starks, send ravens demanding explanations for the prosperity of their northern neighbors."

Oberyn's lip curled. "So the vultures circle."

"Indeed." Doran's dark eyes swept across his family members. "When Robert Baratheon rides North, he will not ride alone. Every great house will send representatives to Winterfell, each with their own agenda. Some will come with complaints of lost trade, others with hopes of securing their own piece of this new Northern wealth."

Arianne shifted in her seat, her brow furrowing. "The North has always been isolated, content to remain separate from the realm's politics. Why would they reveal such power now?"

"Perhaps they didn't intend to," Doran replied. "But wealth, like blood in water, draws sharks from leagues away. This Owen Longshore may have transformed the North with his weapons and perhaps more if some of the rumors on these papers are to be believed, but in doing so, he has drawn the eye of every power in Westeros."

Quentyn cleared his throat. "And what of Dorne, Father? Will we join this... pilgrimage to Winterfell?"

Doran's fingers traced the sun-and-spear seal on one of the letters. "We must. To do otherwise would mark us as either too weak or too proud to participate in this game. Neither perception serves our interests."

Doran watched his brother's face carefully as understanding dawned in Oberyn's dark eyes. The Red Viper's expression shifted from contemplative to predatory, a familiar gleam appearing that reminded Doran of countless schemes they'd hatched together over the years.

"So we will go and see if we can make Stark our new ally," Oberyn mused, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "See if we can break the iron wall that protects the usurper?"

Doran inclined his head, pleased that Oberyn had caught the deeper implications without need for explicit discussion. Years of working together had taught them the value of subtle communication, especially when discussing matters of such delicacy for their vengeance.

"Like everyone else, we will discover how the North has grown," Doran confirmed, his measured tone masking the calculations running through his mind, "and if they will be open to partnering in their ventures or sharing their weapons, even if it means buying them at high cost."

He paused, letting his gaze drift across the ornate chamber before settling on his son. Quentyn stood straight-backed and attentive, waiting for his father's words with the patient dedication that sometimes-made Doran's heart ache. So different from his uncle, yet no less valuable in his own way.

"At the same time, perhaps we can see if a more stable and permanent bond can be found." Doran's eyes remained fixed on his son. "The Starks still have an unmarried daughter. You will go, my son, and see if she would be amiable to marriage."

Quentyn's face remained composed, though Doran noted the slight tightening around his eyes - the only outward sign of whatever emotions might be churning beneath his controlled exterior. His son gave a formal bow, every inch the dutiful heir Doran had raised him to be.

"For Dorne and the family, I will, Father," Quentyn responded firmly.

Doran nodded, pleased by his son's immediate acceptance of the task. "Good."

Doran turned his attention to his brother and daughter, noting how the evening light caught the dangerous glint in both their eyes. So alike in their passions, these two, though they expressed it differently. Where Oberyn's anger burned hot and immediate, Arianne's simmered beneath a carefully cultivated facade of charm.

"You, Ellaria and daughters will also go, Oberyn." Doran watched his brother's reaction carefully. "And you, Arianne."

Oberyn's eyebrows rose slightly, but Doran continued before he could interject. "Robb Stark may be married just as Owen Longshore, but that doesn't mean neither can't be convinced to take a lover on the side. Either you or your cousins may catch their eye."

Arianne's full lips curved into a dangerous smirk, reminding Doran so much of Oberyn in that moment that it almost made him smile. Almost.

"It would be good to travel Westeros for a while," she purred, her fingers still playing with her bracelet. "See some new sights."

Doran nodded, knowing he wouldn't need to convince her much to seduce anyone. When it came to such matters, Arianne seemed to revel in her beauty and power over men. He had seen it countless times - the way she wielded her charms like a finely honed blade, leaving besotted men in her wake. It was a talent that, while sometimes concerning to him as a father, could prove invaluable in gathering intelligence as much as it irked him that it was his only daughter doing it.

He looked at Oberyn. "Be sure to take plenty of guards and perhaps a few ladies and second sons from some other houses. Better to have plenty of witnesses to whatever the North is doing and plenty of eyes to gather information."

Oberyn lounged back against the wall, his dark eyes glittering with understanding. The Red Viper had always excelled at gathering information through unconventional means. Between his daughters, Arianne's charms, and a carefully selected group of noble witnesses, they would have eyes and ears everywhere in Winterfell.

"I'll speak with the Dalts and Santagars maybe even the Dayne's," Oberyn said. "Their second sons are clever enough to notice details without drawing attention to themselves. And the Blackmont girls have been pestering their parents about seeing the North."

Doran nodded as he considered the suggestions. The Blackmont sisters were indeed a good choice - pretty enough to turn heads, but with sharp minds behind their lovely faces. And the younger sons of those houses had proven themselves discrete in past matters.

His joints were aching fiercely now, but he pushed the pain aside to focus on the delicate political maneuvering ahead.

"The royal party won't depart for at least a month, possibly two," he continued. "They'll need time to prepare for such a journey. The other great houses will coordinate their travel to coincide with the king's party." His lips curved slightly. "Though I suspect the Tullys won't wait that long. Once they confirm Robert's intentions, they'll likely be the first to arrive at Winterfell, eager to understand what their northern neighbors have been keeping from them."

Oberyn pushed away from the wall, his movements fluid and purposeful. "How soon do you want us to leave?"

"Make your preparations and gather who you need. We'll arrange passage from Planky Town to White Harbor." Doran's fingers traced the edge of his wheeled chair. "I'll send a letter to Winterfell expressing our desire to 'mend ties.' No doubt they've already received similar missives from other houses - everyone playing at courtesy while plotting to advance their own interests as soon as they reach winterfell."

Arianne rose gracefully, her jewelry catching the light. "I'll speak with the Blackmont sisters personally. They'll be more amenable if the invitation comes from me."

"Good." Doran nodded approvingly. "Quentyn, work with your uncle to select appropriate guards and witnesses from the noble houses. Choose carefully - we need eyes and ears that can observe without drawing attention."

Quentyn bowed slightly. "Yes, Father. I'll consult with Ser Deziel Dalt first. His younger brother would make an excellent addition to our party."

"The Daynes might be worth approaching as well," Oberyn suggested once more. "Edric is young, but he's sharp. And having the last sword of the morning's nephew in our party lends a certain legitimacy to our... peaceful intentions. Perhaps Gerold as well."

Doran watched his family begin to mobilize, each falling naturally into their roles in this elaborate dance of politics and power. His fingers pressed against his throbbing knee, but his mind remained sharp, calculating the countless variables that could affect their mission.

"One more thing," he said, causing them all to pause. "Remember - we are not the only ones who will be watching Winterfell closely. Every movement, every word, every alliance formed or spurned will be noted and reported back to interested parties throughout the realm. Act accordingly."

His family nodded, understanding the weight of his warning. As they filed out to begin their preparations, Doran allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, feeling the constant pain that plagued him. The game was changing, pieces moving across the board in new and unexpected ways. Whether this northern development would help or hinder their long-laid plans remained to be seen, but they had to be present to seize any opportunity that arose.

Just when Arianne and Quentyn had left the solar, Oberyn turned to follow, but Doran's quiet voice stopped him.

"Wait, brother." Doran shifted in his wheeled chair, the constant pain making his movements deliberate. "What of the Targaryens?"

Oberyn paused at the doorway, his hand resting on the ornate handle. "Where did you last see them?"

Oberyn shrugged, his casual gesture belying the gravity of the subject. "When I was last in Essos, they had been turned away from Volantis. Word was they sought passage either to Braavos or Pentos." His dark eyes narrowed. "The girl grows more beautiful by the day, they say. Like her mother."

Doran nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the arm of his chair. "It coincides with what my contact in King's Landing reports."

Oberyn's posture changed subtly, the lounging grace giving way to a predator's focused attention. "Do you truly trust him, brother? The Spider weaves webs within webs, and his true loyalties remain as secretive as his methods."

A heavy sigh escaped Doran's lips as he considered his brother's question. The pain in his joints seemed to intensify with the weight of their discussion. "I trust him... for now." His dark eyes met Oberyn's. "The eunuch will have my full support only when Elia is avenged, and the Targaryens sit once more upon the Iron Throne - preferably with a Martell as queen or king consort."

Another sharp pain wound through Doran's gout-ridden body, causing him to actually flinch. Oberyn moved forward in concern, but Doran waved him off. The pain was familiar now, almost an old friend after so many years. It reminded him daily of the patience required for their carefully laid plans.

"Our vengeance for Elia will come soon, brother," Doran said steadily, mastering the agony that threatened to crack his composure. "Her and the souls of her children will rest once Tywin and his ilk are dead upon Dornish spears."

Oberyn nodded, his dark eyes gleaming with the same controlled fury that had burned there for nearly two decades. "For Elia," he said softly. "Always."

The words hung between them, heavy with shared grief and purpose. And a promise.

A promise of Revenge.

Chapter Text

Owen stood in the center of Winterfell's factory floor, chalk dust coating his hands as he sketched the last runes of a complex magical array. Sweat beaded on his forehead from five straight days of intense magical work. The magic knowledge burned bright in his mind as he wove protection spells through every inch of the building. This time there would be no mistakes.

"Sanguis protectionem." The runes flared red as Owen pressed his palm against them, blood magic spreading through the factory's foundations like roots through soil.

He traced his fingers along the wall, feeling the thrum of defensive magic. The previous protections had been effective but crude - designed to kill first and ask questions later. Now he needed something more sophisticated.

"Can't have some poor drunk stumbling in here and getting zapped," Owen muttered. Though if any of the now ten guards stationed around the factory actually let someone through, he would need to speak about lacking standards to lord eddard. He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and sprinkled crushed moonstone in a careful circle. "Let's try this instead."

A shimmer rippled through the air as Owen spoke the incantation. The new spell matrix would analyze intent, freezing harmless trespassers while still eliminating true threats.

"Hold still," Owen called to a nearby steam constructor. He pressed an enchanted copper disc against its chassis, etching identifying runes into the metal. "That should keep you and your brothers from triggering the defenses."

He'd spent the first three days reprogramming every automaton and constructor in the facility, fine-tuning their protocols. Now they would attempt capture before resorting to lethal force.

Owen moved methodically through the building, layering protective enchantments. Sleep hexes wove through the outer perimeter. Paralysis wards covered the main work floors. Deadly curses guarded only the most sensitive areas.

"Lord Owen?" Mikken's voice echoed from the entrance.

"Come in," Owen replied, not looking up from his work. "I added you to the safe list yesterday."

The blacksmith crossed the threshold cautiously, relaxing when no magical barriers impeded him. Owen had spent hours creating enchanted tokens for trusted personnel - small medallions that would shield them from the defensive magic.

"Just checking the progress. The other smiths are eager to get back to work."

"Almost done." Owen pressed his hand against a support beam, sending tendrils of magic coursing through the steel. "Just need to finish the integration spells so all these layers work together properly."

He'd discovered that multiple overlapping protective enchantments could interfere with each other if not properly harmonized. The Temple's archives had provided the solution - binding runes that would coordinate the various magical effects.

Owen stepped back, surveying his work. Magical energy hummed through the building in intricate patterns, each layer serving its purpose. Harmless trespassers would be safely contained. Those with darker intentions would face increasingly severe consequences. And those cleared for access could move freely through it all.

"There." Owen wiped chalk dust from his hands. "That should do it. No more security gaps for clever thieves to exploit."

The defensive system was complete - sophisticated, measured, and thorough. Owen allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. The factory was secure.

Owen turned to Mikken, brushing the last of the chalk dust from his hands. "You can get back to training the apprentices now. Everything's secured."

Mikken's weathered face broke into a relieved smile. "About time. Those lads and old blacksmiths have been getting restless with nothing to do but talking lessons on what to do. A smith with no metal in their hands gets grumpy." He headed off toward the training area with a spring in his step.

Owen walked towards the castle, returning nods and greetings from passing guards and servants. Two weeks they'd been at Winterfell now, at Sansa's insistence. She wanted to be near her mother during the early stages of pregnancy, and Owen couldn't deny her anything that brought her comfort.

"Congratulations, m'lord!" called out a stable boy as Owen passed.

"Many blessings to you and Lady Sansa," added a washerwoman, dropping into a quick curtsy.

The news had spread like wildfire through Winterfell and Winter Town. Owen couldn't walk ten feet without someone offering their good wishes. He didn't mind - their genuine happiness for Sansa warmed his heart.

In the great hall, he found Sansa deep in discussion with Lady Catelyn and Arya. They'd been practically inseparable since the announcement, spending hours talking about the baby.

"It has to be a boy," Sansa was saying as Owen approached. "Ice Crest needs an heir."

"What about Lyanna?" Arya suggested. "If it's a girl, I mean. After Father's sister."

"Or Brandon for a boy," Lady Catelyn added thoughtfully. "To honor your uncle."

Owen slipped into the seat beside his wife, taking her hand. "I've told you before, my love. Boy or girl doesn't matter to me. We could have ten daughters and I'd be the happiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, as long as you're happy."

Sansa's face softened as she squeezed his hand. "You say that now, but surely you want a son?"

"I want a healthy child and a healthy wife," Owen replied firmly. "Everything else is secondary."

Owen watched his wife's face light up at his words, her blue eyes sparkling with joy. Yet beneath her visible pleasure, he understood the deeper currents of her thoughts. In this world of noble politics and dynasty-building, a male heir meant security. It would cement Sansa's position as his wife and strengthen the legitimacy of their joined houses in ways that even their genuine love could not.

He'd seen it play out countless times in earths history or in novels and fanfics - noble marriages undermined by the lack of sons, wives set aside or diminished when they failed to produce male heirs. Even with all his technological and magical advances, some ancient social pressures remained deeply entrenched.

"The steam constructors could build a nursery," Arya piped up, breaking into his thoughts. "With mechanical toys and everything!"

"Nothing too dangerous," Catelyn cautioned, though her eyes held an indulgent warmth.

Owen squeezed Sansa's hand gently. In the four years of their marriage, he'd had no shortage of opportunities to stray. Noble ladies from various northern houses had made their interest clear enough when they visited ice crest or winterfell when they had still lived there - a lingering touch here when greeting, a suggestive comment there when sansa wasn't around. Some had been quite bold in their advances, even one or two married ladies, especially after his innovations began transforming the North.

But Owen had never been tempted. Perhaps it was the memories of his past life's values, or simply that Sansa filled his heart so completely. That or just because sansa had been his first wife he had ever had, let alone girlfriend, in his old life or his new one in this universe. The idea of taking multiple wives or keeping mistresses, common enough among powerful lords (or MCs in fanfics) held no appeal. He'd meant what he'd said - Sansa's happiness was what mattered most. Unless she actually approved of such a thing (doubtful with how she had been brough up.) He didn't see them allowing anyone into their bed, no matter what others in his situation would do.

Owen watched as Sansa turned to her sister, her expression gentle but firm. "Arya, mother, as much as you are excited, you know we won't be staying forever. I want our baby born at Ice Crest. If any nursery will be built, it will be back at home."

The disappointment was evident on both Catelyn and Arya's faces. Owen couldn't help but smirk at Arya's reaction - he could practically see the wheels turning in her head, no doubt plotting ways to influence their future child into becoming a wild wolf like herself. He'd grown fond of his young sister-in-law's spirited nature over the years, even if it sometimes drove Sansa to distraction.

Catelyn reached across the table to grasp her daughter's hand. "Promise you'll visit as soon as possible when the baby is born?"

"Of course, Mother," Sansa assured her, while Owen nodded his agreement.

"I would also like to hold my grandchild as soon as they arrive," a familiar voice interjected. The group turned to see Lord Eddard entering the great hall, accompanied by Robb, Wynafryd, and Bran, as well anastasia padding towards sansa and arya for her expected cuddles and petting.

Owen watched as Sansa beamed at her brother and good-sister. "If the gods are good, you'll be sharing similar news soon, Robb."

Robb let out a hearty chuckle, wrapping an arm around Wynafryd's waist. "We're certainly working on it aggressively enough."

Wynafryd's cheeks flushed pink as she swatted her husband's arm. "Robb!" Despite her protest, Owen could see she looked rather pleased at the suggestion.

"Actually," Owen interjected, seeing an opportunity, "I was hoping to gather everyone together. There's something I'd like to give you all."

He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. With a soft shimmer of magical energy, a medium-sized oak box materialized on the nearby table.

Arya and Bran immediately burst into applause at the display of magic. Even after all this time, they still delighted in Owen's supernatural abilities like excited children. Wynafryd leaned forward with evident curiosity - she'd married into the family after Owen's powers became known, but still found each demonstration fascinating.

The rest of the family barely reacted to the casual display of magic, having grown accustomed to Owen's abilities over the years. Only Lady Catelyn showed any discomfort, shifting slightly in her seat. Owen had noticed she never quite adjusted to his supernatural powers, though she'd grown to accept them as part of life with her good-son. He suspected her strict Seven upbringing made it difficult to reconcile such obvious magic with her religious beliefs.

Owen opened the ornate box with practiced care, revealing its precious contents. Nestled in deep blue velvet lay several identical silver lockets, each one gleaming with the unmistakable sheen of masterwork craftsmanship. The metal had been worked with painstaking precision, delicate patterns of direwolves and winter roses and Weirwood trees etched into their surfaces.

He lifted one out first for himself, the silver warm against his palm from the residual magic used in their creation. The rest he began distributing among the gathered Starks, watching their faces as they received their gifts.

"These are beautiful," Sansa breathed, running her fingers over the intricate engravings. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight as she examined every detail.

Arya practically snatched hers from Owen's hand, while Bran accepted his with quiet reverence. Robb and Wynafryd shared a look of appreciation as they received theirs, while Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn handled theirs with careful dignity.

"Open them," Owen encouraged, demonstrating with his own.

The lockets clicked open smoothly, revealing their contents. On one side, rendered with impossible precision, was a portrait of the entire Stark family. Owen had labored for days over the magical process, ensuring every detail was perfect - from the slight curl in Sansa's auburn hair to the mischievous glint in Arya's eyes. The whole family stood together in the godswood of Winterfell, including Jon, Owen himself beside Sansa, and even Anastasia lounging at their feet.

"By the gods," Lady Catelyn whispered, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the image. "It's like looking through a window at all of us."

On the opposite side of each locket was a perfectly polished mirror, its surface catching the light from the hall's windows.

"The detail is incredible," Robb marveled, holding his closer to examine the miniature portrait. "I've never seen anything like it."

"How did you make this?" Bran asked, his young face full of wonder as he studied his own locket.

"A combination of magic and some new techniques I've been developing," Owen explained, watching their reactions with satisfaction. The weeks of work had been worth it to see their joy at receiving these pieces of art.

"They're not just for show, however," Owen said, his expression growing more serious. He glanced around the great hall, ensuring no servants lingered within earshot. "Eventually, I may need to take on a maester at Ice Crest - for appearances if nothing else."

Sansa's hand found his under the table, squeezing gently. They'd discussed this before. Despite the North's growing independence, certain traditions needed to be maintained as much as they had avoided the whole thing simply by the citadel not being asked for one. A castle without a maester would raise eyebrows eventually, even if it was just the fact that the citadel would feel snubbed.

"But Sansa and I still don't entirely trust the maesters," Owen continued, his voice low. "Excepting maester luwin of course."

Owen held up his locket, drawing their attention to the mirror inside. "These will be our way of quick, private communication." He opened the locket fully and looked into the polished surface. "Lord Eddard," he spoke clearly.

Lord Stark's locket immediately began to glow with a soft blue light, vibrating gently against his chest. The Lord of Winterfell raised an eyebrow before opening his own locket. As he gazed into the mirror, Owen's smiling face appeared in place of his reflection.

Owen watched as Lord Eddard's eyes widened, his normally stoic expression giving way to genuine amazement. The rest of the family crowded around, eager to see this new marvel in action.

"By the gods," Eddard breathed, watching Owen's face in his mirror. "Your voice comes through as clear as if you were standing right next to me."

"Even after four years," Robb shook his head with a grin, "you're still finding ways to surprise us, good-brother."

The family quickly began experimenting with their lockets, calling out names and watching the corresponding mirrors light up. Arya and Bran particularly took to the new toys with enthusiasm.

"Robb!" Arya called into her mirror, giggling when her brother's locket glowed. "Your hair looks like a bird's nest this morning!"

"It does not!" Robb protested, but he self-consciously ran a hand through his auburn curls anyway.

"Does too!" Bran chimed in through his own mirror, causing everyone to laugh at Robb's mock-offended expression.

Lady Catelyn watched the proceedings with a mixture of wonder and concern. "What if they're lost?" she asked, ever practical. "Or worse, what if someone takes them?"

"I've thought of that," Owen replied. He stood up and walked to the nearest window, opening it wide. "Watch this."

Without warning, he threw his locket out the window. Sansa gasped, but Owen just smiled and counted under his breath. After about a minute, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the same locket, completely unharmed.

"They're protected by magic," he explained. "They can't be stolen or lost. If someone tries to take them, they'll simply return to their rightful owner. And they're virtually indestructible - I tested that thoroughly before giving them to you."

Owen watched as the Starks tucked their lockets away. Sansa slipped hers around her neck, the silver chain glinting against her pale skin. Arya and Bran pocketed theirs, while Robb and Wynafryd followed Sansa's example. Lord and Lady Stark carefully placed theirs in secure inner pockets of their clothing.

"Remember," Owen said, "all you need to do is call out the name of whoever you wish to speak with. The connection works regardless of distance." He'd tested that thoroughly, speaking with Sansa across the length of winterfell and some distance away from the castle during his experiments.

He turned to Lord Stark, who was still examining his locket with thoughtful interest. "My lord, there's something else I'd like to propose. With your permission, I'd like to construct a faster method of travel between Winterfell and Ice Crest."

Eddard looked up, his grey eyes sharp with interest. "What kind of method did you have in mind?"

"A magical transportation system," Owen explained. "Similar to how I can move items instantly, but designed for people. It would allow us to visit each other within minutes rather than days of travel."

"If it means being closer to family, especially with a grandchild on the way, you have my full permission," Eddard replied without hesitation. His eyes softened as he glanced at Sansa. "It would ease many minds to know help could arrive quickly if needed."

"There's one more thing," Owen added. "I'd like to create more lockets for certain trusted individuals - Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole, for instance. Perhaps even some of our most loyal bannermen. Having instantaneous, secure communication could give us a significant advantage."

Eddard nodded slowly, considering the implications. "Agreed. Being able to coordinate quickly and privately with our most trusted allies could prove invaluable. How many more can you make?"

"As many as needed," Owen assured him. "Though I'd suggest we be selective about who receives them. The fewer who know about this capability, the more useful it will be."

Owen sat in Lord Eddard's solar a few hours later in the evening, the warmth from the hearth doing little to ease his tension. The familiar room, with its heavy wooden furniture and stone walls, had hosted many such meetings over the years. Robb lounged in his usual chair, while Maester Luwin sat attentively, his chain clinking softly as he adjusted his position.

"Thank you for meeting with me tonight," Owen said, watching as Lord Eddard finished pouring the wine. The rich red liquid caught the firelight, casting ruby shadows on the table's surface.

Once they were all settled, Eddard fixed Owen with his steady grey gaze. "What did you need to discuss?"

Owen didn't waste time with pleasantries. He raised his hands, fingers weaving through the air as he spoke words of power. The ancient language rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, each syllable carrying weight and purpose.

Before them, the air shimmered and coalesced into a glowing map of Westeros. It hung suspended above the table, each detail rendered with supernatural precision. Every castle, every holdfast, even the smallest villages appeared in perfect miniature. The coastlines were exact, the mountains and forests depicted with lifelike accuracy.

Maester Luwin leaned forward, his eyes bright with scholarly interest. Robb whistled softly, while Lord Eddard maintained his usual composed expression, though his eyes betrayed his fascination.

With a snap of his fingers, Owen caused red dots to appear across the northern portion of the map. They blazed like tiny flames - one at Winterfell, another at Ice Crest, White Harbor's dot glowing bright against the harbor waters. Deepwood Motte's marker appeared among the wolfswood, followed by more dots highlighting the other major northern strongholds.

Owen gestured to the glowing map, his hand sweeping across the expanse of the North. "Each red dot represents a location where weapons of my creation can be found - either forged by my own hands or produced in our factories."

The dots pulsed softly in the darkened solar, casting crimson reflections across the faces of those gathered. Owen pointed to the larger concentrations at Winterfell and Ice Crest.

"The size of the dot indicates the number of weapons present. Small dots represent one to ten weapons, while larger dots show higher concentrations." He indicated the bright glow at Winterfell. "Here, we have the highest concentration due to Lord Stark's initial purchase of stalhrim weapons and the continued production from our factory. Ice crest follows with its own factory."

His finger traced across to White Harbor's substantial glow. "Lord Manderly's original investment accounts for this one, along with subsequent acquisitions."

Across the map, smaller dots flickered at various castles and strongholds. "Most northern lords possess one or two pieces - typically daggers or swords." Owen gestured to several locations where paired dots glowed. "These indicate holdings where lords have acquired matching sets or pairs of weapons."

Maester Luwin leaned forward, squinting at the constellation of red lights. "Quite the network you've established. I count at least thirty distinct locations."

"Thirty-seven," Owen confirmed. "Though the number grows steadily as lords purchase more if able."

Lord Stark studied the map intently, his eyes narrowing as he took in the strategic spread of weapons across his domain. Robb circled the map slowly, examining the distribution from different angles.

Owen took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the twin dots glowing ominously over the Dreadfort. The magical map cast an eerie red light across the solar, making the shadows dance along the stone walls.

"When I finally perfected this tracking enchantment, I discovered something disturbing," Owen said, his voice steady despite the gravity of his revelation. "There were two red dots where there should have been only one. The Dreadfort."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Owen watched as Lord Eddard's expression hardened, his grey eyes fixed on the damning evidence hovering before them.

"The dagger," Lord Eddard said in a low voice, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"The thieves," Robb continued, stepping closer to the map, his face illuminated by the red glow. "Roose Bolton sent them?"

Owen nodded, remembering the pure gold coins they'd found on the dead attackers. "Roose Bolton had never commissioned another weapon to be made, so he could not have two weapons legitimately. And there hasn't been a trade made between him and another lord from a northern house - as one of the castles would be without a red dot, and our measures require that a lord who trades their weapon must send word for it to be recorded, if only to avoid future fights between houses should they believe a great weapon gifted to them was stolen by another house." He gestured at the complete array of dots across the North. "So he wanted a weapon off our records."

"But why would he-" Maester Luwin began to ask before Owen held up a hand.

Owen cleared his throat, his fingers tapping nervously against the table's edge. "I told you that there was two red dots. That was a week ago, and I was still perfecting the spell to cover more ground and give a constant report of where everything is at once as it happens."

The magical map continued to hover above them, casting its ethereal light across the solar. Owen's eyes traced the familiar patterns of dots spread across the North, but something had changed. His heart sank as he registered the alteration.

"Once I did..." Owen's voice trailed off, his hand rising to point at the Dreadfort's location on the map. Where two dots had glowed before, now only one remained. His finger slowly traced southward, following an invisible path until it stopped at a point that made everyone in the room tense.

"The other," Owen continued, his voice tight with concern, "has moved to somewhere it was never supposed to be." His finger rested on King's Landing, where a single red dot now pulsed ominously among the detailed buildings of the capital.

"Shit!" Robb swore loudly, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the solar. He pushed away from the table, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Eddard muttered something under his breath, anger evident in his usually controlled voice. His grey eyes remained fixed on the damning red light that now illuminated the southern capital, his jaw clenched tight.

Roose Bolton's betrayal had potentially exposed everything they'd worked so hard to keep hidden. The presence of a magical weapon in King's Landing could raise questions they weren't prepared to answer, especially with the royal family's growing suspicions about the North's recent prosperity.

"The dagger," Owen said quietly, watching the dot pulse steadily over King's Landing. "He must have sent it south as soon as he had it. Everything we've done to keep our advances secret..." He shook his head, letting the thought remain unfinished.

Owen watched as Robb turned to his father, anger blazing in his eyes. "He can't be allowed to live after this betrayal," Robb declared, his hands clenched into fists. "The Boltons have always been a threat, and now Roose has proven it beyond doubt."

Owen nodded in agreement, his mind racing through the implications. Four years of careful progress, of building the North's strength while maintaining secrecy from the South. They'd accomplished so much - the factories, the improved agriculture, the restored fortifications. But there was still so much left undone.

He thought of the defensive installations they'd planned for key points across the North, designed to protect against both human invaders and the supernatural threats he knew were coming. The automated defense systems were only partially deployed in the form of the Dwemer colossi and the Dwemer spiders, with many vulnerable areas still waiting for protection that he was working on. Magical and otherwise.

And the Free Folk - they hadn't even begun to address that looming crisis. Owen had hoped to gradually introduce the idea of allowing them south of the Wall, to save them from becoming part of the Night King's army. He'd drawn up plans for settling them in the Gift and other sparsely populated areas, integrating them into Northern society before the true threat emerged. But that would take time and delicate diplomacy.

"There's no way the crown will ignore this now," Owen said, his eyes fixed on the damning red dot over King's Landing. "King Robert might trust you, Lord Stark, but his Lannister Queen and the others will push for answers. They'll want to know how we made these weapons, why we kept them secret." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And once they start looking closer, they'll find everything else - the factories, the automatons, all of it."

"And with Roose sending the dagger south accompanied by who knows what information…." Robb added, letting the implication hang in the air.

Owen watched as Eddard sighed heavily, the weight of the situation visible in the slump of his shoulders. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look older than his years.

"You're right," Eddard said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Robert will come to Winterfell. And the rest of the southern houses will follow. There can be no doubt about that." He stood and walked to the window, gazing out into the darkness. "I wrote off their concerns in my letter months ago, assured them all was well. But with physical proof..."

Owen nodded, understanding the gravity of their situation. The magical map still hovered between them, the red dot over King's Landing seeming to mock their carefully laid plans.

"Owen," Eddard turned back to face him, "will your illusions not hold when they come north?"

Owen met his good-father's gaze steadily. "You already know the answer to that, my lord. The illusions cannot be maintained constantly - they're too taxing on my strength." He gestured to the map, where the sprawling expanse of the North lay before them. "Even now, I can only maintain them in specific large areas and for limited periods. If we tried to keep them active during the royal visit..."

He shook his head. "At best, the royal family would think themselves mad when the illusions faltered. At worst, they'd believe the entire North to be cursed." Owen's fingers traced the edge of the table as he continued, "Besides, with the dagger as proof of our capabilities, what would be the use? They already know something is different here after rumors reaching them these 4 years. Trying to hide it now would only make us appear more suspicious."

Years of careful secrecy, undone by a single act of betrayal. Owen thought of all the developments they'd managed to keep hidden - the factories humming with activity, the automated workers going about their tasks, the restored fortifications bristling with advanced defenses. Soon, all of it would be exposed to southern scrutiny.

Owen fell silent, his mind racing through the implications of their situation. The magical map continued to hover between them, casting its eerie red glow across the solar. The dot over King's Landing pulsed steadily, a constant reminder of Roose Bolton's betrayal.

He thought about the years of careful planning, the deliberate pace at which they'd introduced improvements to avoid drawing attention. All that caution, all that restraint - and for what? The truth would come out now, one way or another.

Something shifted in Owen's expression as a new resolve took hold. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

"Fuck it," he declared, earning raised eyebrows from all three men. "We have hidden enough. Roose Bolton still needs to pay for his betrayal, but I think we are done hiding, Lord Eddard."

Owen's voice hardened as he continued, his hands planted firmly on the table. "It's time the South saw how the North has grown, and we show them that whatever they see or discover, there is nothing they can do about it. The North has become a power greater than all the other kingdoms pulled together, and if they want a fight..."

He looked at them with dangerous eyes, his expression fierce in the flickering firelight. "We give them one. We arm Northern men with our new weapons, we ready our fleet and unleash the Dwemer automatons, the spiders and the Dwarven Colossi, and show them the new Northern might."

Owen watched as Maester Luwin's face contorted, the old man clearly preparing to voice objections to such a bold stance. The chains around his neck clinked as he shifted in his seat, but before he could speak, Robb burst in with passionate support.

"Owen is right," Robb declared, his young face alight with conviction. He began pacing the solar, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "The South has never shown the North true respect or consideration, even after you helped put King Robert on the throne."

Owen noticed how Robb's hands clenched and unclenched as he spoke, his voice rising with each point. The young heir to Winterfell gestured at the magical map still hovering above them, its red dots casting an ethereal glow across his features.

"When have they ever exempted us from taxes? When have they offered us fair prices for our goods or lower prices when we needed food?" Robb's voice grew harder, bitter. "They mock our ways, look down on our beliefs, treat us like backwards barbarians."

Owen watched Lord Eddard's face carefully as his son continued. The Lord of Winterfell remained stoic, but there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before.

"And now they'll come north," Robb continued, his voice filled with indignation, "expecting us to reveal all our secrets, to hand over our advantages?" He slammed his hand on the table, making the wine cups rattle. "NO!"

Robb turned to face his father directly, his young face set with determination. "We should be as the Kings of Winter once more and declare Indepe—"

"NO!"

Lord Eddard's shout cracked through the solar like thunder, silencing Robb mid-word. The room fell instantly quiet.

Owen watched as Eddard's harsh breathing filled the solar, the older man's face lined with the weight of memory. The Lord of Winterfell's shout had shocked them all into silence, and Owen could see how his good-father's hands trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of the table.

"I am sorry but no, Robb," Eddard's voice came out rough, strained. "I swore an oath to Robert, Robb. Swore on my honor as did every lord in Westeros."

Owen noted how Eddard's knuckles whitened against the dark wood of the table. The magical map still cast its red glow across the solar, but now the light seemed to deepen the shadows under Lord Stark's eyes.

"The last thing Westeros needs is a civil war." Eddard's voice grew firmer, though Owen could hear the pain beneath his words. "The Greyjoy's tried the same and bled for it and all that is left of the main line is Balon and his daughter and two uncles, one of them a mad reaver who cuts out the tongues of his crew."

Owen shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Eddard's grey eyes swept across them all. There was something haunted in that gaze, something that spoke of horrors witnessed firsthand.

"Perhaps we could defeat the other kingdoms as we are. Perhaps we could take them all on at once now that we have Owen and all he has created." Eddard's voice grew heavy with emotion. "But none of you have seen war. I have, and I will not put any more innocent men and women through that hell."

Owen watched as Eddard's face grew distant, lost in memories of a darker time. The firelight cast deep shadows across his features, making him look older than his years.

"You speak of a war for independence as if it will be glorious," Eddard said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Let me tell you what war truly is." He sank heavily into his chair, his shoulders bowing under the weight of remembrance.

"I was barely older than you, Robb, when my father and brother were summoned to King's Landing." Eddard's hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "Brandon had ridden there in a rage after Rhaegar took Lyanna. My father went to answer for him." His voice cracked slightly. "Neither of them came home."

Owen felt a chill run through him as Eddard continued, his voice growing hoarse. "You Know the tale. The Mad King had my father burned alive in his armor while Brandon..." He swallowed hard. "Brandon strangled himself trying to reach a sword to save him. I wasn't there, but the screams... they say the screams echoed through the Red Keep for hours."

The solar fell deathly quiet. Even Robb had stopped pacing, his earlier passion dampened by the raw pain in his father's voice.

"Then came the rebellion. Gods, we were so young, so sure of ourselves." Eddard's eyes grew distant. "Village after village burned. Not just soldiers dying, but farmers, craftsmen, women, children. I saw a mother trying to shield her babe from arrows with her own body. Both died anyway."

Owen watched as Eddard's hand trembled slightly as he reached for his wine cup. "The Riverlands burned. The Stormlands bled. Every kingdom suffered. I led men I'd grown up with to their deaths. Boys I'd trained with in Winterfell's yard, gone in an instant to a stray arrow or a lucky sword thrust."

"And when it was done?" Eddard's voice grew bitter. "My father dead. Brandon dead. Sweet Lyanna..." His voice broke. "I found her in a tower in Dorne, dying in a bed of blood. All that was left was me and Benjen, and the weight of a war that had torn the realm apart."

Owen saw tears glinting in Eddard's eyes, though none fell. "So no, Robb. No matter how strong we are, no matter what weapons or machines we possess, I will not lead the North into another war. Not while there's any other choice. The price... the price is too high."

Owen watched as Eddard composed himself, the raw emotion from his earlier words still lingering in the air. The Lord of Winterfell straightened in his chair, his shoulders squaring as he addressed them all.

"We will wait," Eddard declared, his voice steady once more. "If Robert comes North, then we will reveal everything. There's no point in hiding what we've built anymore." He gestured to the magical map still hovering above them. "Concessions will need to be made, yes, but we can show the North's new power without bloodshed, without the need for war."

Maester Luwin nodded quietly, the chains around his neck clinking softly. Owen watched as Robb seemed to deflate at his father's words, the young heir's earlier passion dissipating like morning mist.

But Owen couldn't stay silent. He leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly before him on the table. "My lord, that would be a mistake." His voice was firm, though respectful. "The more the South sees of our strength, the more they will demand from us. They won't be satisfied with simple explanations or minor concessions."

Owen's mind raced through the possibilities, remembering everything he knew about the southern kingdoms and their appetite for power from the books, their ambitions and wants. "They'll want our weapons, our machines, our methods of production. They'll demand access to our resources, our technology." He shook his head firmly. "Sometimes fighting to show strength is the only way to maintain it. To keep what we've built."

Eddard looked at Owen wearily, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. The weight of his memories, so recently shared, still seemed to hang heavy on his shoulders.

"That may be true, Owen," Eddard admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. "But you are my bannerman as well as my Goodson, and I am your liege lord. You swore an oath to me, as I swore to Robert." He met Owen's gaze steadily. "I expect you to follow my word in this."

Owen fell silent, studying the man known throughout the North as the Quiet Wolf. The firelight shined on his face, highlighting the steel in his grey eyes. Here was the core of what made House Stark endure - not just honor or duty, but the unwavering expectation of loyalty from those who served them on command.

Owen's fingers twitched at his sides as his mind raced through possibilities. The Temple of Solomon had granted him knowledge of countless spells and enchantments. With just a few words, he could alter Lord Eddard's thoughts, plant suggestions that would make him eager for conflict. The magic would be subtle, undetectable - a slight shift in perspective here, a nudge toward aggression there. Lord Stark would never know his mind had been touched.

But even as Owen considered it, disgust rose in his throat. The mere thought of manipulating his good-father's mind made him feel unclean. Lord Eddard had welcomed him into his family, trusted him with his daughter's happiness, supported his innovations that transformed the North. Using magic to betray that trust would make Owen no better than the enemies they faced.

His hand trembled as he pushed the dark thoughts away. Lord Stark was still waiting, his expression unchanged, expecting Owen's compliance. Despite all of Owen's power - the magical abilities, the technological advances, the economic prosperity he'd brought to the North - in this moment he was simply a bannerman facing his liege lord.

Owen bowed his head slightly, accepting the command. "As you wish, Lord Stark."

Owen rose from his chair, the weight of their discussion settling heavily on his shoulders. The magical map still cast its ethereal glow across the solar, but its strategic importance seemed diminished now in the face of Lord Stark's unwavering stance.

"Perhaps it would be best to end our discussion here," Owen suggested, his voice carefully neutral. "We can plan more regarding Roose Bolton's betrayal and the Crown's eventual visit at a later time."

He watched as Eddard nodded silently, his face still bearing traces of the raw emotion from his earlier revelations. Robb and Maester Luwin took their leave first, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Owen moved to follow them, snapping his fingers for the map to disappear, but paused at the doorway, one hand resting on the heavy wooden frame.

Turning back to face his good-father, Owen felt the power of the Celestial Forge thrumming beneath his skin, within his soul, a reminder of the strength he possessed. His voice dropped low, carrying an edge sharper than Valyrian steel.

"I won't pretend to understand these feelings that stop you from starting this fight, my lord, but I will respect it as I swore." Owen's eyes hardened, glinting like frost in the dim light. "However, if any of the royal family or those who come north dare even think or mention harming me or sansa..." He paused, letting the weight of his next words fill the air between them. "I won't hesitate to make them suffer a fate worse than a thousand deaths."

The threat hung in the air, as tangible as the magic that powered Owen's creations. Their eyes met across the solar - steel grey meeting intense blue - and Lord Stark simply nodded.

Owen watched Sansa delicately cut into her honeyed porridge, her movements precise and graceful even in this simple act. Morning light streamed through the high windows of Winterfell's great hall, catching the copper highlights in her auburn hair. The hall was relatively empty at this early hour, with only a few servants moving quietly about their duties.

He took a sip of mint tea, appreciating the comfortable silence between them. They had already discussed the previous night's events over in bed, where he'd explained Lord Stark's position on revealing the North's advancements to the South. Sansa had listened, her blue eyes reflecting both concern and understanding as he detailed the likely concessions they would need to make when the royal party arrived.

"Do you truly think they'll demand much from us?" Sansa asked softly, breaking their peaceful quiet. She placed her spoon down beside her bowl, her fingers tracing the rim absently.

Owen reached across the table to take her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "They'll try. Your father believes we can manage their demands without conflict, but..." He sighed, remembering the intensity of last night's discussion. "From the history lessons maester Luwin gave me, The South has always taken what they wanted from the North and never anything back."

Sansa nodded, her expression thoughtful. "And what of Lord Bolton?" Her voice carried an edge of steel beneath its gentle tone. The Boltons' betrayal had struck close to home when he had told her, something within her hating that a northerner had been responsible for their betrayal.

"He'll have to be dealt with," Owen replied, his voice low despite their relative privacy. "Preferably before the king arrives, but if not, then certainly after the royal party departs. We can't leave such a threat unchecked." He squeezed her hand gently, noting how she didn't flinch at the implied violence. Four years of marriage had changed them both.

"You seem more tense since last night," she observed quietly, her blue eyes studying his face with the perceptiveness that had only grown sharper during their years together.

Owen exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around hers. "I wanted your father to fight. I pushed for it, tried to convince him." He met her gaze, letting her see the raw truth in his eyes. "But I wasn't thinking about the North, not really. Not about protecting our advancements or the wealth we've built."

His free hand reached across the table to cover hers where it rested on her stomach. "All I could think about was protecting you. Both of you." His voice grew rough with emotion. "The thought of anyone from the South trying to harm you or our child..."

A soft smile curved Sansa's lips as she turned her hand to intertwine their fingers. "Owen. My love," she said gently, "you've taught me well these past years. I know healing magic now, can weave flames with a thought." Her eyes sparkled with quiet confidence. "I can protect myself and our little one."

To demonstrate, she let a small flame dance across her fingertips before extinguishing it, careful to keep the display hidden from any watching eyes in the great hall. "You made sure I would never be defenseless."

Owen sighed, running his thumb across Sansa's knuckles. "I know, but still, I was thinking about making you more stronger-" he began to say when the doors that led to the living quarters from the main hall opened with a bang.

A guard rushed in, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he approached their table. He bowed quickly, his breath coming in short bursts. "My lord, my lady - Lord Stark has summoned you both to his solar immediately."

Owen and Sansa exchanged glances, their earlier conversation forgotten. They rose from the table, Owen's hand automatically finding the small of Sansa's back as they made their way through Winterfell's corridors.

The solar was already crowded when they arrived. Lord Eddard sat behind his desk, his face grave as he studied a piece of parchment in his hands. Maester Luwin stood at his shoulder, chains clinking softly as he leaned forward to read. Lady Catelyn perched on the edge of a chair, her fingers twisting anxiously in her lap. Robb and his wife Wynafryd stood near the window, while young Bran sat cross-legged on a low stool, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Lord Eddard looked up as they entered, holding up an opened letter. The wax seal caught the morning light - half a prancing stag, half a rampant lion, the official mark of House Baratheon of King's Landing. The royal family's correspondence had arrived. And it was not alone.

Owen's eyes swept over the collection of letters on Lord Stark's desk, taking in the various noble house seals. The green wax of House Tyrell's rose, the leaping trout of the Tullys, the sun and spear of Martell, and the proud lion of Lannister - all lay waiting to be opened, though their contents were painfully obvious.

"It seems the entire realm wishes to visit Winterfell," Eddard said dryly, placing the royal letter down among its unopened companions. His grey eyes met Owen's for a moment, carrying the weight of their discussion from the previous night.

Owen felt Sansa's hand tighten in his as she took in the sight of all those letters. The South wasn't just coming - it was descending upon them en masse, like ravens to a battlefield.

Eddard turned to Maester Luwin, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had ruled the North for decades. "Send ravens to all our bannermen. Tell them King Robert rides for Winterfell, and he brings the South with him." He paused, his hand resting heavily on his desk. "The time for secrets has passed. The North must present a united front when they arrive."

Maester Luwin bowed slightly, the chains around his neck jingling softly. "I'll prepare the messages at once, my lord. Shall I include instructions for them to gather here?"

"Yes," Eddard confirmed. "The North must show its strength together. Even those who hold only minor keeps should attend." His eyes flickered briefly to Owen. "It's time to show them everything we've built."

Chapter Text

Owen paced through the Temple of Solomon's vast library, his footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors. Rows of ancient tomes stretched endlessly in every direction, their spines gleaming with gold lettering in languages both familiar and forgotten. Sansa sat at one of the ornate reading tables, her auburn hair catching the warm light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"We should be back at Ice Crest," Owen muttered, running his fingers along the spine of a particularly ancient grimoire. "There's so much to prepare before the southern lords arrive."

Sansa looked up from the healing text she'd been studying. "Jon is more than capable of overseeing things through the locket you sent him. And Father insisted we stay - you know how he gets when he's made up his mind."

Owen sighed, remembering Lord Eddard's firm tone when he'd requested - no, commanded - their continued presence at Winterfell. With the entire South descending upon them, the Warden of the North wanted his family close.

Owen shook his head, pulling another book from the shelf. "It's your father's way of saying he doesn't want to face the southern lords and King Robert on his own. There's going to be a mountain of questions to answer once they see how much the North has changed."

"The North has prospered thanks to your creations," Sansa said, closing her book. Her hand drifted to her slightly swollen belly. "Even the smallfolk live better than most southern nobles now."

"That's exactly what worries me." Owen settled into the chair beside her. "We've got Tywin Lannister, Olenna Tyrell, and gods know who else coming to stick their noses in our business. They'll want explanations for everything - the pure gold coins, the preserved food trade, our new ships. And that's before they even see the steam constructors or the factories."

"Let them look," Sansa said, her blue eyes hardening with northern pride. "We've done nothing wrong."

"Not in our own eyes, no, but we've done plenty that's impossible by their standards. Your father will have to field endless questions about magic, about me, about how we achieved all this." Owen gestured at the vast magical library around them. "And we can't exactly show them this place to explain half of how i can do what i do.."

"And then there's Roose Bolton's betrayal to deal with," Sansa added quietly. "Father still hasn't decided how exactly to handle that with everyone watching."

Owen groaned in annoyance at the reminder of the leech lord. He had suggested just commanding the one dwarven colossus that patrolled Bolton lands to just burn the traitor lord to a crisp and explain it away as a faulty automaton but lord eddard had countered that if they did so then most of the norther lords would grow weary of the Dwemer constructs in their land, thinking the same could happen to them, not even thinking on what the southern lords would say once they heard.

"I know that look," Sansa said, reaching across to touch his arm. "You're still thinking about your solution to the Bolton problem."

"It would be clean. Simple." Owen pulled another tome from the shelf, more to keep his hands busy than from any real interest. "One 'malfunction' and our problems disappear in a column of flame."

"Along with any trust the other lords have in your creations." Sansa's fingers tightened on his arm. "The Umbers, the Karstarks - they'd all start wondering if their colossi or steam constructors might suddenly turn on them too."

Owen dropped the book onto the table with a thud. "Your father made the same argument. But leaving Roose alive for even some time while knowing he betrayed us..." He clenched his jaw. "The man sent bandits into Winterfell. He tried to steal our secrets. And now he's no doubt been feeding information to the crown."

"Father will handle it properly, through Northern justice." Sansa's voice carried the same iron certainty he'd heard so often from Lord Eddard. "The other lords need to see that even with all our new power, we still follow the old ways."

"The old ways." Owen snorted. "The old ways didn't account for magical weapons, automated factories, or lords sending technical details south to our enemies." He gestured at the vast library around them. "None of this fits the old ways, Sansa. That's rather the point."

"Which is exactly why we need to be more careful about following tradition where we can," Sansa countered. "The North accepts our changes because they trust Father to maintain what matters - honor, justice, the old gods. If we start burning lords alive with metal giants, we'll lose that trust."

Owen sighed and let his hand fall from the books. The argument wasn't worth pursuing - he knew both Sansa and her father were set in their ways. But something about the whole situation made his skin crawl and head pound. The Northerners, for all their talk of honor and tradition, sometimes seemed willfully blind to pragmatic solutions.

He settled back in his chair, absently toying with his ninth ring as his thoughts drifted to all the plans that now lay derailed. The White Walkers were still out there, gathering their quietly strength beyond the Wall. He'd hoped to have at least another year or two of quiet development before having to deal with southern scrutiny. Time to properly fortify the Wall with more automatons and colossi, to establish diplomatic channels with the Free Folk, to prepare the North for the true threat.

Instead, here he sat, forced to waste precious time planning how to entertain curious southern lords who'd come sniffing around their prosperity. All because Roose Bolton couldn't keep his ambitions in check. The leech lord's meddling had accelerated everything, forcing their hand before they were truly ready.

"I should have been focusing on the real threat," Owen muttered in his mind. "The Free Folk are dying out there while we play politics. Every person who dies beyond the Wall is another soldier in the Night King's army."

Through the magical connection he shared with his creations, Owen could sense the automated workers continuing their tasks across the North. Steam constructors building roads and fortifications, colossi standing guard, the factories churning out weapons and armor. All of it necessary, but not enough. Not fast enough.

The White Walkers wouldn't wait for them to sort out political intrigues. They wouldn't pause their advance while Owen explained magical metallurgy to curious southerners or justified his innovations to suspicious lords. Time was their enemy as much as the dead themselves, and now Roose Bolton had stolen precious months from their preparations.

But Lord Eddard insisted on doing things properly - gathering evidence, building a case, presenting it before the assembled northern lords once king robert and company were gone. Then and only then would Roose Bolton face justice. Infuriating!

Owen absently opened another book, scanning its contents before nodding and standing up. He moved purposefully to a large table tucked away in one corner of the vast library, its surface brimming with concoctions, plant parts, ingredients and other alchemical items that seemed to shimmer with latent magical energy.

Sansa looked up curiously from her healing text. "What have you been working on these past two days? You've barely left the Temple except for meals and speaking with father and me when i don't come here with you.."

"As always, something to help the North." Owen picked up a vial filled with silvery liquid, holding it up to the ambient light. "I realized something recently. For all we've done to help the North grow stronger, to make life better for everyone, there's still a glaring weakness in our preparations."

"Oh?" Sansa marked her place in the book and gave him her full attention.

"We've nearly eradicated hunger," Owen explained, setting down the vial and picking up a worn notebook filled with his cramped handwriting. "The glasshouses mean we can grow food year-round - fresh fruits, vegetables, grains. The large amounts of preserved food keeps everyone fed even if we were to face the harshest winter. People are cleaner thanks to the hot water systems and Dwemer piping I installed in every major holdfast. The water purifiers prevent many illnesses that used to spread through contaminated wells."

He paused, flipping through his notes with a frown. "But when people do get sick - and they still do - they're at the mercy of whatever maester or woods witch happens to be nearby. The smallfolk especially suffer from this. I can't allow that to continue, not when I have the means to change it."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked, rising from her chair to join him at the workbench.

Owen gestured at the array of dishes spread across the workbench. "I'm making a cure-all. Or at least as close as I can to one." He picked up a crystalline vial filled with shimmering liquid. "Using some theoretical knowledge and enough books on magic here in the Temple, I'm close to creating a potion that will cure and heal all diseases, wounds, and magical ills that befall anyone in the North."

He waved Sansa over, and she stood up from her reading to join him at the workbench. Her eyes widened as she took in the dozens of small circular dishes, each containing liquids of different colors - some bright and luminescent, others dark and murky.

"What are they?" Sansa asked, leaning closer to examine a dish containing what looked like liquid moonlight.

"Diseases," Owen said casually, adjusting one of the dishes with a steady hand. His ninth ring glowed softly as he used its healing powers to analyze each sample. Through his awakened magic circuits, he could sense the malevolent nature of each disease, their patterns of infection and spread laid bare to his magical senses.

Sansa nearly jump a foot back, her hand instinctively moving to protect her pregnant belly, even though she wasn't showing yet. He immediately felt guilty for not explaining the safety measures first.

"I'm so sorry, love. I should have mentioned - they're completely contained by magical fields in the dishes. They can't infect us or escape." He gestured to the faint shimmer of magical energy surrounding each sample. His magic circuits could sense the robust containment spells, each one reinforced by multiple layers of protection.

Sansa moved forward again, though more carefully this time. Her curiosity seemed to overcome her initial fear, but she kept one hand protectively over her belly. "What diseases are they?"

Owen pointed to a dish containing a viscous fluid that seemed to emit a sickly sweet odor, though the smell couldn't penetrate the magical barrier. "This one is Sweet rot." He moved his finger to indicate a murky green liquid that swirled with an unnatural motion. "Green fever." His hand shifted to a dark red sample that appeared to pulse rhythmically. "And this is Bloody flux."

Despite his reassurances about the magical containment, Sansa took several steps back at the mention of the deadly flux. Owen couldn't blame her - the disease had devastated entire regions in the past if the history of planetos was true.

Owen watched as Sansa's eyes scanned the labeled dishes before them, her face a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Her finger traced the air above each sample, following the neat script that identified them.

"The Dancing Plague... Wormbone... Grey Plague..." She paused, looking up at him with concern. "How did you manage to collect samples of all these? There haven't been any major outbreaks recently."

Owen adjusted one of the containment fields, his magic circuits sensing the disease patterns writhing within. "That's the frightening part. It was disturbingly easy to gather them. These diseases are still present - just dormant - in most places they've previously affected."

"What do you mean, dormant?" Sansa's hand instinctively moved back to her belly.

"They're... sleeping, for lack of a better term." Owen frowned, remembering his past life's understanding of disease progression. "In my studies, I've found that diseases here don't truly go away after an epidemic ends. They linger in the soil, in old buildings, even in recovered survivors - just waiting for the right conditions to emerge again."

He gestured to a sample of greyscale that seemed to shimmer with a stone-like quality. "This sample came from an abandoned building in White Harbor where there was an outbreak thirty years ago. The disease was still viable, just inactive." His ring pulsed as he examined the sample more closely. "It's unlike anything I've ever encountered in my studies. On my... in other places I've studied, diseases like the Great Spring Sickness should have died out completely once they ran their course."

"You sound troubled by this," Sansa observed.

"I am. These diseases don't follow any natural patterns I understand." Owen picked up his notebook, flipping through pages of observations. "Take the Black Plague for example - a disease I've studied extensively from….Asshai shall we say. Once it swept through a region, it would eventually burn itself out. The survivors would either have immunity or be dead. But These?" He shook his head. "These diseases just... wait. Like they have a mind of their own."

"The butterfly fever sample? Found it in the roots of an old tree near where they say a Summer Islander died from it decades ago. The Grey Plague? Still present in the stones of ruins where outbreaks occurred generations past." Owen's voice grew grim as he continued. "It's as if these diseases are part of the land itself, woven into the very fabric of this world in a way I've never seen before."

Owen watched as Sansa processed this information, her brow furrowing in concentration. He could practically see her mind working through the implications, connecting dots that had troubled him for months.

"So these diseases that have been killing people over the years. They're... magical? Curses?" Sansa asked, her voice hesitant as if testing the words.

Owen gave a slight nod, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a containment field. "Perhaps? I am not quite sure. Take the Dancing Plague. I was sure that there would be no such thing, but it was laying dormant in a sailor who drank water near Sothoryos." He gestured to a sample that seemed to pulse with an odd rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. "The man hadn't shown symptoms in years, yet the disease was still there, waiting."

His magic circuits tingled as he examined the sample more closely. Through his magical senses, he could detect patterns that defied normal disease behavior - structures that seemed almost purposeful in their design.

"And the Red Death," he continued, indicating a violently crimson sample, "supposedly came from Gogossos, but there was no first patient or source. It just started out of nowhere and infected and killed thousands." Owen frowned at the sample, remembering the historical accounts he'd read. "No patient zero, no spread pattern, just sudden widespread infection as if it materialized from thin air."

Through his ninth ring's healing powers, Owen could sense the malevolent nature of the Red Death sample. Unlike normal diseases he'd studied in his past life, this one seemed to resist analysis, its patterns shifting and changing even as he observed them. It was almost as if the disease itself was aware it was being studied.

Owen held up a vial containing a luminescent golden liquid, its contents seeming to pulse with an inner light. "Magical or not, however, I intend to cure them. With this."

"What is it?" Sansa asked, moving closer to examine the glowing substance.

"I call it panacea, named after a legendary healer who could cure any ailment." Owen carefully rotated the vial, watching the golden liquid swirl within. Through his magic circuits, he could sense the powerful magical healing energies contained in the solution. "If my calculations are correct, this should be able to destroy any disease it encounters."

He turned to a strange device sitting on the workbench. The construct was an intricate combination of Dwemer metal and precisely ground glass lenses, arranged in a way that would have seemed alien to most inhabitants of this world. "This is called a microscope," he explained, gesturing for Sansa to come closer. "It's a device that allows us to see things too small for the naked eye - including diseases."

Owen positioned the microscope carefully, adjusting various knobs and settings with practiced precision. He pulled forward one of the containment dishes holding the Red Death sample, its crimson contents seeming to writhe with malevolent energy. Through his magical senses, he could feel the disease's unnatural patterns, its very existence seeming to defy the natural laws he remembered from his past life.

"Watch carefully," he said, peering through the microscope's eyepiece. With steady hands, he used a delicate glass dropper to extract a tiny amount of the panacea. The golden liquid gleamed as he carefully positioned it above the Red Death sample.

Owen released a single drop of the panacea into the disease sample, his magic circuits tensing as he observed the interaction through the microscope's powerful lenses.

Through the microscope's lens, Owen watched intently as the golden droplet of panacea made contact with the Red Death sample. The reaction was instantaneous. The panacea seemed to come alive, surging through the disease sample like liquid fire. Where the golden liquid touched, the crimson patterns of the Red Death simply... disappeared, burned away as if they had never existed.

"YES!" Owen shouted, startling Sansa with his sudden outburst. His face split into a wide grin as he watched the last traces of the deadly disease vanish under the panacea's relentless assault. Through his magic circuits, he could sense the complete destruction of the disease's unnatural patterns.

"It works! By the Old Gods and the New, it actually works!" Owen's hands were trembling with excitement as he reached for the next sample. "Look, look through here love," he urged Sansa, stepping aside from the microscope.

Sansa carefully positioned herself at the eyepiece as Owen prepared a sample of the Grey Plague. She gasped as she watched the panacea destroy the stone-like disease patterns, leaving nothing but clear, clean fluid behind.

One by one, Owen brought forth the samples - Dancing Plague, Wormbone, Sweet Rot, each deadly disease meeting the same fate under the golden liquid's touch. Through the microscope, they watched as centuries-old plagues that had once devastated entire regions were systematically eliminated.

"The Bloody Flux," Owen announced, preparing the particularly virulent sample. Sansa remained at the microscope, her initial fear replaced by fascination as she watched the disease that had killed thousands simply... vanish.

"Even Greyscale," Owen said triumphantly, adding a drop of panacea to the final sample. The supposedly incurable magical disease proved no more resistant than any other, its stone-like patterns dissolving away under the golden liquid's purifying touch.

"This is it, my love," Owen said happily, his eyes bright with excitement as he examined the cleared samples. "Never will our people suffer from any of these diseases. Even better, as soon as the cure is ingested, it remains in the body and acts as an immunizer against any disease that tries to attack the body."

Sansa's eyes widened at this revelation. "You mean once someone takes it..."

"They'll never get sick again," Owen confirmed, his magic circuits thrumming with satisfaction as he examined the golden liquid. "The panacea doesn't just cure - it teaches the body how to fight off future infections. It's like having an army of tiny invincible defenders constantly patrolling for invaders."

"But that's not all. Look." Owen reached for his ebony sword, drawing it with practiced ease. Before Sansa could protest, he made a slight cut across his palm, blood welling up from the shallow wound.

"Owen!" Sansa exclaimed, reaching for his injured hand. "What are you doing?"

With his uninjured hand, Owen picked up the vial of panacea and took a small sip of the golden liquid. Through his magic circuits, he could feel the healing energy surge through his system. Before their eyes, the cut on his palm began to close, flesh knitting together seamlessly until only unblemished skin remained.

Sansa grabbed his hand, examining it closely. Her fingers traced where the cut had been, finding no trace of the injury. "It heals wounds too?" she breathed, amazed.

"Completely," Owen confirmed, flexing his healed hand. "The panacea accelerates the body's natural healing abilities while providing additional magical healing energy. It can heal almost any injury, from cuts and bruises to broken bones."

Owen watched as Sansa's expression shifted from amazement to worry, her mind quickly grasping the implications.

"Thousands would fight to the death for such a cure," she said softly, her hand unconsciously moving to her belly. "And with the South coming..."

Owen snorted, waving away her concerns. "I'm not heartless. Of course we'll sell the cure to any and all who need it. But it would be child's play to tweak the panacea into something less potent - still a powerful medicine, but not the miracle cure this version is." He picked up the vial of golden liquid, watching it shimmer in the Temple's ethereal light. "This version, the true panacea? This stays in the North."

Sansa nodded, relief evident in her features. She studied the vial for a moment before turning back to him. "Is this what you meant two days ago? About making me stronger?"

Owen shook his head and took her hand, his heart humming with anticipation. "No, that's something else entirely." He led her away from the workbench with its array of conquered diseases, past the gleaming shelves of ancient tomes that lined the Temple's halls.

They walked down a long corridor, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors. Owen guided Sansa through several turns until they reached a chamber he'd discovered during his early explorations of the Temple. Inside, a pool of swirling gold and silver water bubbled gently, casting mesmerizing patterns of light across the chamber walls.

Sansa's musical laughter echoed through the chamber. "Please tell me you haven't brought me here just to tell me i need a bath to make me stronger."

Owen smiled, his fingers intertwining with hers. "No, nothing so simple." He led her closer to the pool, where the swirling gold and silver waters cast dancing reflections across their faces. "Since Maester Luwin confirmed your pregnancy, I've been searching through the Temple's archives, looking for something that could protect not just us, but our child and any future children we might have."

His expression grew serious as he gazed into the mesmerizing waters. "Your father may not see it, but I know war is coming whether he likes it or not. Not just in our lifetime, but in our children's as well." Owen's magic circuits hummed as he sensed the powerful enchantments contained within the pool. "Using Solomon's tomes of magic and a bit of scientific knowledge, I've created these waters. They'll give us - and more importantly, our descendants - the edge they'll need to face whatever challenges lie ahead."

Sansa's hand tightened on his as she studied the swirling liquid. Her other hand rested protectively over her belly. "Is it truly safe?" Her voice held equal measures of hope and concern. "For the baby?"

Owen turned to face her fully, his eyes meeting hers with unwavering intensity. "Sansa, I would rather die right here, right now, than put you or our child in any danger."

Owen took Sansa's hand as together they stepped into the pool, the warm liquid embracing them like silk against their skin. Their eyes remained locked on each other as they waded deeper, clothes and all, until the magical waters rose past their shoulders.

He watched as Sansa instinctively started to hold her breath when they submerged completely. Her eyes widened in wonder as she realized she could breathe normally, the enchanted liquid filling her lungs as easily as air. Through his magical senses, Owen could feel the waters beginning their work, suffusing both their bodies with transformative energy.

Owen wrapped his arms around his wife, drawing her close against his chest. He felt her relax into his embrace, tension melting away as the soothing waters swirled around them. Their eyes drifted closed in perfect synchronization, and Owen's last conscious thought before sleep took him was of the profound changes these waters would bring to their bloodline.

Together they floated in the magical pool, suspended in a peaceful embrace as the enchanted liquid worked its ancient magic upon them both.

The ancient chamber stood silent, its stone walls witness to the transformation taking place within. Where once a pool of swirling magical waters had filled the space, now only a suspended orb of gold and silver liquid hung in the air, containing the still forms of Owen and Sansa.

The orb pulsed with an inner light, its surface rippling like quicksilver. Suddenly, a pale arm thrust through the liquid membrane, followed quickly by another. The magical waters began to leak and flow away as the sphere's surface gave way. Through the dissipating veil of enchanted liquid emerged Sansa, but she was changed in ways that defied mere description.

Her wet auburn hair, slicked back from her face, had transformed into a magnificent mane that seemed to capture and reflect light like polished copper. It cascaded down her back, longer and more luxuriant than before, each strand seeming to shimmer with its own inner fire. Her face, already considered beautiful by all who knew her, had become almost ethereal. Her lips were fuller, more sensuous, and her cheekbones more defined.

Her figure had undergone an equally dramatic transformation. Her body, while always graceful, now possessed an almost supernatural perfection. Her breasts had grown fuller and larger, her waist remained slim, and her hips curved more dramatically, creating an hourglass silhouette that would make even the most beautiful courtesans of Lys envious. Every muscle was toned and defined, suggesting both strength and feminine grace.

But most striking were her eyes. The bright blue that had once reminded people of summer skies now seemed to glow with an inner light, like sapphires catching the sun.

Owen emerged from the dissipating magical waters next, his transformation no less dramatic than Sansa's. Where once stood a somewhat thin blacksmith, now rose a figure of classical perfection. The soft belly that had come from hours of study rather than physical labor had vanished, replaced by defined abdominal muscles that rippled with each movement.

His arms, while always strong from smithing, had transformed into perfectly proportioned limbs that spoke of both power and grace. Muscles flexed and moved beneath his skin like liquid steel, each motion precise and controlled. His legs too had changed, becoming powerfully built yet elegant, suggesting both strength and agility.

His dark hair, previously kept short for practicality, now fell to his shoulders in thick, glossy waves that framed his face like a lion's mane. His jawline had become more defined, and his features seemed to have been carved by a master sculptor, maintaining their kindness while gaining an almost otherworldly nobility.

Every trace of excess fat had melted away from his form, leaving behind a body that seemed to have been forged rather than born. Each muscle was clearly defined yet harmonious with the whole, creating a look of a demigod.

The two lovers looked at each other, Sansa reaching out to gently touch Owen's cheek. "You look like a goddess," Owen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with awe and admiration. Sansa smirked cheekily, her eyes sparkling with amusement and a hint of pride. "Oh? Does that mean I didn't look like one before?" she asked, her tone playful yet challenging.

Owen blushed slightly at being caught in her question, his fair skin betraying his embarrassment. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sansa's gaze drifted down, her eyes widening as she noticed the change in his physique. "I see you're not the only one who approves of these improvements," she said, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and appreciation. Owen just grinned, his confidence returning as he met her gaze. "That was entirely your fault," he replied, his voice low and teasing.

Sansa's laughter filled the chamber, a musical sound that echoed off the stone walls. She leaned in, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch sending shivers down his spine. "I suppose I should take responsibility for that," she said, her voice softening as she leaned in to kiss him. Their lips met, the kiss deepening as Owen pulled her closer, his hands sliding down to rest on her hips.

Owen's heart pounded as Sansa's hungry gaze held him captive. Her words, a mix of challenge and promise, sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "Just so you know, husband," she whispered, her voice a sultry purr, "whatever this change you've had us go through is, it makes me feel like I can go for hours. I hope you're ready for the challenge."

Owen gulped, his eyes widening at the implication. "Yes, ma'am," he squeaked out, his voice barely above a whisper, betraying his excitement as the next hours were filled with the sound of furious and eager lovemaking.

Eddard Stark sat in his solar, reviewing the day's correspondence and ledgers when movement at his door caught his attention. He glanced up, then froze, his quill hovering above the parchment as his mind struggled to process what his eyes were seeing.

Two figures stood in his doorway - familiar yet startlingly changed. The man possessed the bearing of a legendary hero from the songs, his dark hair falling in perfect waves around a face that seemed carved from marble. Muscles rippled beneath his clothing with every slight movement, suggesting tremendous strength held in perfect control.

Beside him stood a woman of such extraordinary beauty that Eddard's first wild thought was that the Maiden herself had stepped down from the heavens. It took him several heartbeats to recognize his own daughter in those ethereal features. Her copper hair seemed to capture and hold the sunlight streaming through the windows, creating a halo effect around her face. Her figure had become impossibly perfect, like something from a master sculptor's finest work.

"Sansa... Owen?" Eddard managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What... what happened to you two?"

He set down his quill with trembling fingers, pushing back from his desk as he struggled to reconcile the two people before him with his daughter and goodson. The ledgers and letters lay forgotten as he stared at them, his mind racing to understand the transformation before him.

"What manner of... how did..." Eddard trailed off, unable to form coherent questions as he took in their altered appearances. His hand unconsciously moved to grip the edge of his desk, seeking something solid and unchanging in a world that suddenly seemed filled with impossible things.

Owen couldn't help but grin at his father-in-law's bewilderment. "Oh, you know Lord Stark... just some more blessings from the old gods," he said casually, a smirk playing across his perfectly sculpted features. "And a bit of magic here and there."

Sansa leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. The simple gesture highlighted their transformed appearances even more - they looked like figures stepped straight from the songs of the Age of Heroes, their beauty almost painful to behold.

Eddard groaned and smacked his hand against his face in frustration. The sound echoed through the solar as he slumped back in his chair. "I don't think I will ever understand how you do these things," he said with another groan, his weathered features creased with exasperation.

Sansa's laughter rang out, the sound now truly musical, like silver bells in a summer breeze. "Best not bother, Father," she advised, her voice carrying new depths of warmth and melody. "It will only make your head ache."

Owen snapped his fingers, and with a soft whoosh, a large roll of architectural plans materialized on Eddard's desk, unfurling itself to reveal detailed drawings and schematics. The sudden appearance of the documents provided a welcome distraction from their transformed appearances.

"I've drawn up some plans for Winterfell," Owen said, leaning forward to smooth out the corners of the parchment. "With the royal party and southern lords coming, we need to make some improvements and additions. I have five thousand steam constructors and automatons ready to begin work as soon as you approve."

Eddard released another long-suffering sigh, but his eyes were already scanning the detailed drawings with interest. "Show me what you have in mind."

As they delved deeper into the plans, discussing everything from improved drainage systems to enhanced defensive positions, their earlier transformation became a distant concern. The three of them bent over the drawings, absorbed in the details of preparing Winterfell for its impending southern visitors.

Chapter Text

Robert Baratheon's massive frame shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as he surveyed the sprawling caravan that stretched behind him like some grotesque serpent. The sound of wheels grinding against dirt roads and the constant chatter of nobles grated on his nerves.

"Seven hells, Jon." Robert spat on the ground beside his horse. "We could have been there by now if it wasn't for this circus following us."

Jon Arryn's weathered face remained impassive. "Your Grace, the great houses merely wish to pay their respects to the North."

"Respect?" Robert's laugh boomed across the countryside. "They smell blood in the water, the vultures. Even my cursed good-father couldn't resist joining this parade."

Two months on the road had done nothing to improve Robert's mood. The memory of Tywin Lannister's arrival still rankled - the old lion appearing at the capital with his brother Kevan in tow, both insisting on proper preparation time. Cersei had backed them, of course. She always did.

"And those bloody Tyrells." Robert grabbed his wineskin, taking a long pull. "Ten days out and there they were, waiting with their banners and their flowery courtesies."

The image of Mace Tyrell's pompous face surfaced in Robert's mind. The Fat Flower had brought what seemed like half of Highgarden with him - his shrewd mother, his children, and enough servants to staff a small castle.

"Your Grace," Jon's voice carried a note of patience earned from years of counsel, "consider that this shows the realm's unity. All the great houses traveling together-"

"Unity?" Robert cut him off with another bark of laughter. "They're all trying to get their claws into whatever Ned's been hiding up there. Gold, weapons, these magical giants everyone's whispering about." He wiped wine from his beard. "Even you can't deny that, Jon."

The Hand of the King fell silent, unable to argue against such obvious truth. Robert watched a group of Tyrell knights trotting past, their armor gleaming unnecessarily bright, their horses draped in green and gold.

"Two months," Robert muttered again, his voice thick with frustration. "Two bloody months of listening to Cersei complain about the accommodations, watching Tywin scheme, and enduring Mace Tyrell's endless prattling about his daughter."

Robert's mood darkened further as Jon attempted to placate him. The old Hand opened his mouth to speak, but Robert cut him off with a wave of his meaty hand.

"And don't get me started on the bloody Dornish," Robert growled, taking another long drink from his wineskin. "The Red Viper himself, with his paramour and that whole nest of "Sand Snakes" as they call themselves. As if we needed more vipers in this procession."

He watched the Dornish contingent riding ahead, their copper-skinned faces and exotic clothing standing out among the other nobles. Princess Arianne's curves drew many eyes, though Robert forced his gaze elsewhere. The last thing he needed was Cersei's sharp tongue about that.

"They came up from Maidenpool, didn't they?" Robert asked, though he knew the answer. "Met us at Riverrun with the Tullys. All at Ned's request, or so I'm told. Was too drunk to bother hearing their damn greetings."

Jon nodded carefully. "Yes, Your Grace. Lord Stark specifically asked them to await our arrival."

"And that's the strangest part of it all." Robert shifted his considerable bulk in the saddle. "Why would Ned tell his own good-brother to wait? Edmure Tully and the Blackfish both, holding back until we arrived. His own family by marriage!"

Robert turned to Jon, his face flushed from both wine and agitation. "Well? You're supposed to be the clever one, Jon. Why would Ned do that?"

Jon Arryn's lined face remained carefully neutral. "Perhaps Lord Stark wishes to present a united front when we arrive. All the great houses entering Winterfell together."

"Horseshit," Robert spat. "Ned's never cared for such pageantry. There's something else at play here."

Robert watched as Jon reached into his cloak, pulling forth a carefully folded letter. The parchment was thick and fine - northern make, if Robert remembered correctly from his days fostering in the Vale, yet of much better quality than he remembered, much better than even they had in kings landing. The messenger who'd delivered it had been well-dressed, speaking with that distinctive northern accent, arriving just as they'd reached Seagard.

"This came before we stayed at the Twins," Jon said, his voice tinged with diplomatic caution. The memory of that particular stay made Robert's face darken. They'd been forced to accept Lord Walder Frey's hospitality, much to everyone's displeasure. The old lecher had spent the entire evening ogling every noble lady present, from the youngest Tyrell rose to Cersei herself. His queen's fury had been spectacular to behold, though she'd maintained her icy composure in public.

"Get on with it," Robert growled, taking another drink.

Jon unfolded the message. "Ned writes that he and a northern party will receive us at the Neck. He intends to personally escort us to Moat Cailin."

Robert's thick eyebrows drew together. "Moat Cailin? Not Winterfell?"

"The message is quite specific about Moat Cailin, Your Grace."

Robert studied his old mentor's face, noting the slight furrow in Jon's brow that betrayed his own uncertainty. For all his wisdom and experience, even the Hand of the King seemed puzzled by Ned's behavior.

"You don't know what he's playing at either, do you?" Robert asked, a hint of bitter amusement in his voice.

Jon's silence was answer enough. The old man carefully refolded the letter, tucking it back into his cloak. "I confess, Your Grace, Lord Stark's recent actions have been... difficult to interpret."

Robert snorted. "That's a diplomatic way of saying even you don't know what in seven hells Ned is thinking."

Robert watched Jon Arryn shake his head, confirming his suspicions. The old Hand's uncertainty only deepened Robert's unease about what they might find in the North.

Hours passed as they continued their journey, the massive royal procession winding its way through the countryside. When they finally crossed into the North proper, leaving the Frey lands behind, Robert nearly fell from his horse at the sight that greeted them.

"By the Seven," he breathed, his wineskin forgotten in his slack grip.

The Neck had changed. Where Robert remembered endless stretches of treacherous swampland from his youth, something entirely different sprawled before them. The infamous bogs and marshes still existed, yes, but they'd been pushed back from what appeared to be a proper road - no, more than proper. It was magnificent.

"Stop the procession!" Robert bellowed, his voice carrying over the column. He dismounted with surprising agility for a man his size, his boots hitting the dark stone surface with a solid thunk.

Around him, other nobles dismounted as well. Robert watched as Tywin Lannister himself knelt to examine the road's surface, his usual mask of superiority cracking slightly to reveal genuine surprise. Mace Tyrell stood slack-jawed, while even the Dornish contingent showed open amazement.

Robert dropped to one knee, running his hand over the smooth, dark stone. The surface was perfectly level, the stones fitted together with precision he'd never seen before. Not a single weed grew between the blocks, and the road stretched ahead of them like a black ribbon through the Neck's remaining swampland.

"What sorcery is this?" he muttered, pressing his palm flat against the cool stone. The road was elevated slightly above the surrounding terrain, with clever drainage channels keeping the surface dry despite the swampy environment.

Cersei's voice cut through his wonder. "Surely you don't mean to kneel in the dirt like a common peasant, my love?"

Robert ignored her, too fascinated by the evidence of the North's transformation. The road beneath his fingers was real enough - no trick of light or illusion. Ned had somehow managed to tame the Neck itself, building a highway where before there had been only treacherous marsh and bog.

"Tell me I'm not the only one seeing this," Robert demanded, his voice carrying the edge of a man questioning his own senses. The wine hadn't dulled his perception that much, had it?

Lords and ladies murmured their agreement, stepping forward to inspect different aspects of this impossible transformation. Tywin's green-flecked eyes narrowed as he continued studying the road's construction. Mace Tyrell had waddled over to examine what appeared to be drainage channels running alongside the elevated highway.

But it was Oberyn Martell who drew everyone's attention. The Red Viper had broken away from the group, moving with his characteristic fluid grace toward what should have been a stagnant pool of bog water. The kind Robert remembered from his youth - brackish, foul-smelling things that could make a man sick for days if he was fool enough to drink from them.

Robert's hand tightened on his wineskin as he watched the Dornishman kneel beside the pool. Oberyn's movements were careful, deliberate, as he cupped his hands and dipped them into the crystal-clear water. The liquid that rose in his palms bore no resemblance to the murky swamp water Robert expected.

"Seven hells, man, don't-" Robert started to warn, but Oberyn had already raised his hands to his lips.

The assembled nobles held their collective breath. Robert found himself waiting for the inevitable - for Oberyn to spit out the fouled water, or grimace at the taste of salt and rot that had always characterized the waters of the Neck.

Instead, Oberyn Martell's dark eyes widened in genuine surprise. He turned back to face the gathered crowd, water still dripping from his hands.

"Fresh," he declared, his voice carrying clear amazement. "Pure and sweet as any mountain spring. No salt, no trace of swamp or stagnation." He actually smiled, an expression of pure wonderment that looked strange on the normally sardonic face of the Red Viper. "This is impossible."

Robert pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Cersei's disapproving look at the dirt on his knees. He'd seen enough of Ned's changes. First the road, now this - somehow his old friend had managed to purify the very waters of the Neck itself.

Robert's attention snapped to Olenna Tyrell's voice as it drifted from the ornate carriage she shared with her granddaughter and grandson. "Well, that makes our travel a bit more easier and pleasant." The old woman's observation made him suddenly aware of something he'd missed in his fascination with the road and water - the air itself had changed.

Gone was the thick, cloying atmosphere he remembered from his youth. The putrid stench of rotting vegetation and stagnant water that had always characterized the Neck had vanished. Instead, the air was crisp and clean, carrying only the faintest hint of moisture. Robert took a deep breath, marveling at how his lungs didn't fill with the usual miasma of swamp gases.

"Something like this would have taken years," Mace Tyrell declared, his usual pompous tone replaced by genuine wonder. "Hundreds of workers, at least. And even then..." The Fat Flower gestured at the pristine landscape around them. "Even then, it wouldn't have been foolproof. There would still be traces of bogs around."

Robert grunted in reluctant agreement. For once, Mace was showing sense instead of just hot air. The Lord of Highgarden actually understood something about large-scale construction, given the Reach's extensive system of roads and farm land, even though he doubted the reach's own road held a candle to what they were seeing now. If he said this kind of transformation should have been impossible in such a short time, Robert was inclined to believe him.

"If no one saw Eddard Stark build these roads," Tywin Lannister's cool voice cut through the murmurs of amazement, "then I doubt clearing a swamp would be a problem for him."

Robert turned to study his good-father's face. The old lion's expression remained carefully neutral, but there was something in those green-flecked eyes - a calculation, an assessment of what this display of Northern capability might mean for the future.

Robert got on and urged his horse forward, the beast's hooves clicking rhythmically against the immaculate dark road. Behind him the party followed as well, the constant buzz of conversation drifted up from the sprawling procession.

"The drainage alone must have cost a fortune," Mace Tyrell's voice carried clearly. "And look at how the elevation prevents flooding, even with the surrounding wetlands."

"More impressive is the speed," Kevan Lannister replied. "These road works would take decades in the Westerlands, yet Stark has done it in mere years."

Robert took another pull from his wineskin, listening to the endless chatter. Even the guards and men-at-arms were talking amongst themselves, pointing out features of the road or marveling at the clear water in the channels.

"Robert," Jon Arryn drew his horse alongside Robert's. "Notice how the road curves ahead - it's designed to avoid the deeper parts of the swamp while maintaining a gentle grade."

Robert grunted in acknowledgment. Trust Jon to focus on the practical aspects. Though he had to admit, the old Hand had a point. The engineering was remarkable, allowing their massive procession to move at nearly thrice the speed he'd expected through the Neck.

"Seven hells!" Tyrion Lannister's exclamation drew Robert's attention. The dwarf was pointing toward something in the distance. "Are those... houses?"

Robert squinted through the wine-haze. Sure enough, a collection of sturdy buildings had appeared through the clearing mist. Not the temporary shelters or rickety platforms he remembered from his youth, but proper structures of stone and timber.

"Impossible," Tyrion continued, his mismatched eyes wide with surprise. "The only settlements in the Neck have always been crannogmen villages. No one else could survive here. The histories are quite clear on that."

Robert remembered those same histories from his own education by Ned in their youth. The Neck had been uninhabitable for anyone but the mysterious crannogmen, its hostile environment keeping even the hardiest northerners at bay. Yet here stood evidence to the contrary - a thriving village with smoke rising from chimneys and children playing in yards enclosed by neat wooden fences.

As they drew closer, Robert could see more details. The buildings were well-constructed, with slate roofs and glass windows. Gardens flourished in raised beds, and he could see what appeared to be a small marketplace where villagers went about their business.

"More than just surviving," Jon observed quietly. "They appear to be prospering."

Robert watched a group of children pause in their play to stare at the approaching procession. Their clothes were clean and well-made, their faces healthy and full. This was no struggling frontier settlement, but a proper village that would not have looked out of place in the Reach or the Westerlands.

"How many?" Robert demanded, turning to Jon. "How many of these settlements have sprung up?"

Before Jon could answer, another village came into view around the next bend in the road. And in the distance, Robert could see more structures dotting the transformed landscape of the Neck.

Robert raised his meaty hand, signaling another halt to the procession. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted a closer look for these weren't the hovels and mud huts he remembered from his last journey north all those years back. Without waiting for the customary announcements, he dismounted his horse, his boots hitting the strange dark stone of the road with a solid thunk.

Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan immediately moved to flank him, their white cloaks pristine despite the journey. Oberyn Martell's fluid grace brought him alongside, while Mace Tyrell huffed and puffed his way forward. Tywin and Kevan Lannister approached with measured steps, their green-flecked eyes taking in every detail. Tyrion waddled forward, his mismatched eyes wide with fascination, while Jon Arryn moved with the careful dignity of age.

Some of the ladies had also dismounted - Robert caught glimpses of elaborate dresses as they picked their way carefully across the immaculate street. Even cersei actually left her damn wheelhouse to join them.

The northern smallfolk immediately recognized their king, dropping to knees or deep bows. Mothers pulled their children close, though Robert noticed these weren't the usual dirty, snotty-nosed urchins he was accustomed to seeing in King's Landing's streets. These children wore clean, well-made clothes and had healthy, full faces.

"Look at them," Tyrion whispered, his voice carrying clear amazement. "I've never seen smallfolk so... clean. So well-fed." The dwarf's eyes narrowed as he studied the buildings. "And these houses - they're not normal construction. The stone isn't cut and laid; these are bricks of some kind. And that black material..." He gestured at the strange, smooth sections that seemed to be melted into place. "I've never seen its like before."

Robert watched the other lords and ladies taking in the impossible sight. The houses were solid structures that would have looked at home in Lannisport or Oldtown - if not for their strange construction. Windows of clear glass caught the northern sunlight, while neat personal gardens showed carefully tended vegetables and herbs. The roads between buildings were paved with the same dark stone as the main highway, and Robert couldn't spot or smell a single pile of waste or midden heap that usually characterized even the finest villages.

Robert watched as a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair stepped forward from the crowd. The northerner dropped into a respectful bow, though Robert noted he moved with surprising dignity for a village elder.

"Your Grace, milord's and ladies. I am Rogen, head of Blackwater Village." His voice carried the distinctive northern accent, but his words were clear and well-spoken. "Forgive us, we had no word of your coming."

Jon Arryn stepped forward, his weathered face creasing in a gentle smile. "No forgiveness needed, good man. We're simply passing through and found ourselves curious about your settlement."

Robert nodded in agreement, his eyes still roaming over the impossibly well-maintained buildings. "Show us around then, Rogen. I'd like to see what lord starks been up to in these parts."

"Of course, Your Grace." Rogen straightened, gesturing toward the village center. "If you'll follow me."

As they walked, Robert couldn't help but marvel at the immaculate streets. Not a speck of mud or waste to be seen, despite the surrounding wetlands. The houses they passed were uniform in their sturdy construction, though each bore personal touches - carved doorframes, painted shutters, small gardens with herbs and vegetables.

"This is our smithy," Rogen indicated a large building with a smoking chimney. The forge inside gleamed with well-maintained tools, and Robert could see finished items that would not have looked out of place in a city workshop.

They continued past a stable filled with healthy horses, their coats gleaming. A grain mill turned steadily nearby, its wheel powered by a channel of clear water. The smell of fresh bread drew them toward a bakery, where warm loaves cooled on wooden racks.

"A bakery?" Jaime Lannister's voice carried clear disbelief. "I've never seen a village this size with its own baker. Even the larger settlements near Casterly Rock make do with communal ovens at best."

Robert had to agree. The entire village spoke of prosperity he'd never witnessed among the smallfolk, not even in the richest parts of the Reach. Every building was solid stone and timber, with glass windows and proper chimneys. The villagers themselves wore good wool clothing, and their children played with wooden toys that showed skilled craftsmanship.

Robert watched as Jon Arryn stepped forward, his old mentor's curiosity evident in his weathered features. "Might we see inside one of these houses?" Jon asked, his tone gentle but carrying the weight of his position.

Rogen's face lit up with pride. "It would be my honor to show you my own home, milord." He gestured toward one of the larger buildings near the village center.

As they approached, Robert noticed Oberyn Martell's dark eyes fixed on something at ground level. The Red Viper moved with his characteristic grace, crouching to examine what appeared to be bronze pipes emerging from the ground and disappearing into the house's foundation.

"What purpose do these serve?" Oberyn asked, running his fingers along the metalwork with evident curiosity.

"Aye, milord, those be for the shower," Rogen replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

Robert watched as confused glances were exchanged among the assembled nobles. Even Tywin's carefully controlled expression showed a flicker of bewilderment.

"Shower?" Cersei's voice dripped with disdain. "Like rain?"

Robert caught the slight twitch at the corner of Rogen's mouth, though the northerner maintained his respectful demeanor. "No, m'lady. If you'll follow me inside, I'd be happy to show you."

Robert noticed how even Tyrion's usual sardonic expression had given way to genuine curiosity as they followed Rogen into his home. Whatever this "shower" was, it had captured everyone's attention - even his own wine-addled mind wanted to know more.

Robert stepped into the house, his nostrils immediately filled with the enticing aroma of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. His stomach growled, reminding him it had been hours since their last proper meal.

"My deepest apologies, Your Grace," Rogen said, gesturing to a half-eaten meal on a solid wooden table. "I was just having my midday meal when word came of your arrival."

Robert waved off the apology, his attention drawn to the interior of the home. The furniture was well-crafted - sturdy chairs with comfortable cushions, shelves lined with pottery and books, and cabinets that wouldn't have looked out of place in a merchant's home in King's Landing. While not as ornate as the pieces in the Red Keep, everything spoke of quality craftsmanship and comfort rather than mere functionality.

"Your home does you credit," Oberyn remarked, running his fingers along the smooth surface of a cabinet. "These pieces must have cost a pretty penny. Does the village produce enough to afford such luxuries?"

Rogen's chest swelled with obvious pride. "Aye, my lord. We send regular shipments to White Harbor each month - more food than we ever dreamed possible before the new methods came along. The gold from those sales has made life comfortable for most everyone here."

"More than you dreamed possible?" Robert caught the phrase, his drunken mind sharpening with interest.

"Yes, Your Grace. With the new glasshouse, we harvest more in a month than we used to see in half a year. White Harbor's merchants can't get enough of our produce, and the coin flows steady as a stream. I hear tell they sell a lot of it across the sea and theirs always demand."

Robert noticed Jon Arryn and Tywin exchange meaningful glances at this casual mention of such agricultural abundance. Even the Reach, with its famous fertility, couldn't boast of monthly harvests. The rumors had been true.

Rogen led them into what appeared to be a dedicated washing room. The space was unlike anything he'd seen before - walls and floor covered in neat, uniform tiles that reminded him of the mosaics in the Red Keep, though far more practical in their arrangement. A window let in natural light, and there, mounted on the wall, were the bronze pipes they'd observed outside, culminating in a strange circular fixture with tiny perforations.

"This here's the shower, Your Grace," Rogen explained, his northern accent thick with pride. "The whole village is connected by these pipes - brings clean water right to our homes from the spring all the way up in the hills."

Robert's eyebrows rose as Rogen continued, "We use it for drinking, washing, cooking - everything really. No more hauling water from wells or rivers."

The assembled nobles exchanged glances. Even in the Red Keep, servants had to carry water up from wells for baths and washing. The idea of water flowing directly into homes was... revolutionary.

"You expect us to believe water simply appears at your command?" Cersei's voice dripped with skepticism.

Rogen's response was to step forward and grasp one of the metal knobs mounted on the wall. With a simple turn, water began streaming from the perforated head above, falling in a steady curtain onto the tiled floor below. Several of the ladies gasped, and Robert heard Mace Tyrell mutter a prayer to the Seven.

The northern villager stepped back, allowing the nobles to inspect the falling water more closely. Kevan Lannister moved forward, his usual reserved demeanor giving way to open curiosity. He reached out, letting the water run over his fingers.

"It's hot!" Kevan exclaimed, pulling his hand back in surprise. Steam began to rise from the falling water, visible in the cool northern air that drifted through the window.

Robert watched as his good-brother examined his wet fingers with wonderment. "Hot water, on demand?" Kevan asked, his voice carrying clear amazement. "Without heating it over a fire?"

Robert watched as Rogen nodded, his weathered face showing a mix of pride and uncertainty. "Aye mlord. I don't know how to explain it really. All I can do is show you."

The northerner led them back toward the entry way of his home, where he knelt next to the wall. The groups interest piqued as Rogen carefully removed several bricks, revealing something that made even Tywin Lannister step forward for a closer look.

A strange metal contraption sat within the wall, covered in knobs, buttons, and dials that reminded Robert of the mechanical toys he'd seen merchants bring from across the Narrow Sea. Steam rose from its surface, and when Rogen gestured for them to feel it, the metal was noticeably hot to the touch. Copper and bronze pipes connected to the device disappeared into the walls and floor.

"Lord Longshore and Lord Stark explained it's meant to keep our water hot and clean," Rogen said, scratching his head. "Heats the home too. Though none of us touch it much - don't know how to control the thing properly."

It was then that Tywin spoke up, his voice carrying its usual measured tone though Robert detected a hint of surprise. "I've only just noticed - this house isn't cold."

Robert blinked, suddenly aware of what had been nagging at the back of his mind since they'd entered. Despite being in the North, despite the cool air outside, the interior was as warm as a pleasant day in King's Landing. Looking around, he saw the same realization dawning on the faces of the other nobles.

Cersei had stopped hugging her furs close. Oberyn, used to the heat of Dorne, seemed perfectly comfortable. Even Mace Tyrell, who'd been complaining about the northern cold since they'd crossed the Neck, had unconsciously loosened his collar.

"Seven hells," Robert muttered, running a hand along the warm wall. This was no ordinary hearth-heat that faded as you moved away from the fire. The warmth seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, creating an even, comfortable temperature throughout the house.

Robert watched Rogen's weathered face break into a proud smile. "Aye, it's been like this for four years. We have fireplaces in our homes and lots of dry wood stocked for winter, Your Grace, m'lords, but we never use it. We have three wells dug of clean water but covered and no use for them since we get clean water through the pipes." The northerner's chest swelled with obvious pride. "It's a miracle what Lord Stark and Lord Longshore has done for us smallfolk."

Robert exchanged glances with Jon Arryn, seeing his own amazement reflected in his old mentor's eyes. Four years. In just four years, Ned and this mysterious Lord Longshore had transformed a simple northern village into something that put parts of King's Landing to shame.

Rogen led them from his house, guiding the procession along the immaculate streets. They walked a short distance from the village proper, coming to a cleared area that made Robert stop dead in his tracks.

Two enormous wooden buildings dominated the space, their construction as solid and well-crafted as everything else they'd seen. "These be our storehouses, Your Grace," Rogen explained, gesturing to the massive structures. "For the food we farm."

But it was what stood just a few feet away that drew gasps from the assembled nobles. Three large glasshouses gleamed in the northern sun, their crystal glass walls catching and reflecting the light. Robert had seen glasshouses before - the Reach had a few, and he recalled something similar in the gardens of the Red Keep. But these were different. Larger, more elaborate, and humming with a sense of purpose that spoke of regular use rather than mere decoration.

Robert felt his mind struggling to process everything they'd seen. Clean streets, heated homes, running water, massive storehouses, and now these glasshouses. What in seven hells had Ned been up to these past years?

Robert staggered slightly as he entered the glasshouse, the warmth inside a sharp contrast to the cool northern air. The smell hit him first - rich earth and growing things, reminiscent of the Reach during harvest time. But this was the North, where such bounty should be impossible.

"Seven hells," he muttered, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

Rows upon rows of vegetables stretched into the distance of the glasshouse, their abundance almost obscene in its defiance of nature. Cabbages larger than his head nestled in neat rows, their leaves a vibrant green that spoke of perfect health. Beside them, carrots pushed up through the dark soil, their tops hinting at roots that would dwarf a man's hand.

Robert watched as Mace Tyrell, his face flushed with either excitement or indignation, moved to examine a cluster of tomato plants. The vines were heavy with fruit, each tomato perfectly ripe and red. The Lord of Highgarden reached out with trembling fingers to touch one, as if expecting it to dissolve like morning mist.

"These... these are impossible," Mace stammered. "Even in the Reach, we can't grow tomatoes this size in winter."

Oberyn Martell had drifted toward a section that made Robert's eyebrows rise even higher. Fruit trees - actual fruit trees - grew in ordered rows, their branches bent low with their bounty. Oranges, mangoes, and lemons hung ripe and ready for picking, their colors bright against the green leaves.

"We haven't managed this in Dorne," the Red Viper admitted, his usual smirk replaced by genuine amazement. "And we have the climate for it."

The ladies of the court moved through the rows with varying degrees of wonder and disbelief. Margaery Tyrell, in particular, seemed entranced by the grape vines that climbed along carefully constructed supports. The fruit hung in heavy clusters, each grape swollen and perfect.

Suddenly, a mechanical clicking sound filled the air. Robert watched with amusement as several of the ladies, including Margaery, jumped back with startled squeals. Bronze pipes that ran along the rows had come to life, spraying a fine mist of water over the crops.

"The watering happens by itself," Rogen explained, seemingly unfazed by the spectacle that had the southern nobles gaping. "Every few hours, regular as sunrise. Lord Longshore set it all up himself, or so I'm told."

Robert noticed Tywin's calculating gaze taking in every detail, while Jon Arryn moved closer to examine the pipes with scholarly interest. Even Cersei had abandoned her usual mask of disdain, watching the automated watering system with poorly concealed fascination.

"And this... this grows all year round?" Robert asked, gesturing at the impossible bounty around them.

"Aye, Your Grace," Rogen nodded. "We harvest every month, sometimes more often for the faster-growing crops. Between the three glasshouses, we're never short of fresh food, even if the deepest winter comes."

Robert ran a hand through his beard, his mind racing despite the wine. Three glasshouses feeding an entire village, producing more food in a month than they'd seen in half a year before. If every northern village had this...

He watched as Margaery recovered from her surprise and moved to examine the grapes more closely, her father hovering nearby with an expression that mixed wonder with concern. The Reach's power had always been rooted in its agricultural abundance. But this... this changed everything.

Robert watched as Cersei moved gracefully between the rows of citrus trees, her golden hair catching the filtered sunlight through the glass panels above. She reached for a particularly large orange, testing its weight in her palm. As she turned to ask what appeared to be a question, her words transformed into a piercing scream that made Robert's wine-addled head throb. Her Handmaidens Senelle and Taena Merryweather's shrieks joined hers in a cacophony that had Robert reaching for his nonexistent Warhammer.

"Seven hells, woman! What-" Robert's irritated query died in his throat as he followed Cersei's trembling finger.

A group of metal constructs, each about the size of a large dog, emerged from between the rows of vegetables. Their bronze bodies gleamed in the filtered light, steam hissing from joints as they moved with an unnatural precision on eight articulated legs. The mechanical spiders' multiple eyes glowed with an inner light that made Robert's skin crawl.

Weapons appeared as if by magic - Jaime practically materialized at Cersei's side, his sword already drawn. Kevan and Stannis, ever the soldiers, had their blades out and ready, their faces set in grim determination. Even Oberyn had produced a dagger from somewhere, though his expression showed more fascination than fear.

"Bloody hells," Stannis cursed uncharacteristically, his jaw clenched tight as he positioned himself between the constructs and the rest of the group.

"Your Grace! Milords, miladies, please!" Rogen's voice carried a note of panic as he stepped forward, hands raised. "There's no need for weapons! They're just steam constructors - they tend the glasshouses! They won't harm anyone!"

Robert watched, fascinated despite himself, as the mechanical spiders completely ignored their drawn weapons and frightened expressions. One construct moved to a nearby tomato plant, its front appendages delicately pruning away dead leaves. Another began methodically turning the soil around a row of cabbages, while a third adjusted one of the water pipes with surprising precision.

"Gods be good," Robert heard Mace Tyrell whisper as they watched the automatons work. The Lord of Highgarden had gone pale next to his old mother who seemed the same, his sword hand trembling slightly as one of the constructs passed within feet of him, paying him no more mind than it would a garden post.

"What manner of sorcery is this?" Cersei demanded, still pressed against Jaime's chest, though her initial terror had given way to a mix of disgust and curiosity.

"Not sorcery, m'lady," Rogen explained, his voice steady now that no one seemed about to start hacking at the machines. "Lord Longshore's craft, this is. They keep the glasshouses running proper-like, day and night. We hardly have to lift a finger in here anymore, save for the harvesting."

Robert watched, mind reeling, as the mechanical spiders continued their methodical work. His large frame swayed slightly - though whether from the wine or shock, he couldn't be sure. The constructs moved with an eerie grace, their bronze limbs clicking against the stone paths between the plant rows.

"Put away your steel," he commanded, his voice carrying the authority that had once rallied armies. "If Ned Stark allows these... things in his lands, there must be good reason."

Reluctantly, blades disappeared back into sheaths. Robert noticed Jaime's hand remained firmly on his pommel, and Stannis looked ready to draw at a moment's notice. But the tension in the air eased somewhat as the constructs continued their tasks, showing no interest in the gathered nobles.

"Lord Longshore built these himself?" Robert asked Rogen, unable to tear his eyes away from the mechanical marvels. One of the spiders had produced what appeared to be pruning shears from somewhere within its body, carefully trimming away dead leaves from a grape vine.

"Aye, Your Grace. Though truth be told, we don't rightly know how many there are anymore." Rogen scratched his head. "They seem to... multiply, if you take my meaning. Rumor is he Started with just two, now there must be dozens working the fields and glasshouses around the north."

Robert's mind struggled to process this information. Self-replicating mechanical servants that tended crops without rest or complaint. No wonder the North had grown so prosperous. He glanced at Jon Arryn, seeing his own amazement reflected in his foster father's eyes.

"And these... constructors, they work in other villages as well?" Cersei asked, her voice carrying a sharp edge despite her attempt at casual inquiry.

"Oh aye, your grace," Rogen nodded. "Every village with glasshouses has them now. Though I hear the bigger keeps have even more impressive ones. Ones that look like men and the like."

Robert noticed Tywin's eyes narrow at this, while Mace Tyrell seemed to choke on air. Even Oberyn's usual smirk had given way to a calculating look that reminded Robert uncomfortably of the Red Viper's reputation for curiosity about unusual weapons and devices.

A mechanical clicking drew their attention as one of the constructs approached their group. Several of the ladies stepped back, but the spider-like machine ignored them completely. Instead, it moved to a nearby workbench, its front appendages sorting through various gardening tools with surprising dexterity.

"Seven hells and my ancestors," Robert muttered, watching the construct select specific tools as if guided by an invisible hand. "Ned, what have you and this Longshore fellow been up to?"

Owen sat atop his stallion, the beast's midnight coat gleaming in the weak northern sun. The mount was one of his finest creations - enhanced through magic and alchemy to be stronger, faster, and more intelligent than any natural horse. He had named him Altivo, a little personal memory from earth. Next to him, Lord Stark's own destrier shifted restlessly, sensing its enhanced companion's supernatural nature.

The guards behind them were a testament to Owen's craftsmanship. Their armor gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, each plate perfectly fitted and decorated with intricate wolf and ice crystal designs that seemed to catch every ray of light. The steel had been folded countless times, enhanced with trace amounts of stalhrim to make it nearly indestructible while remaining lighter than normal plate armor.

Owen flipped through his notebook, making additional calculations for his latest project - a network of enchanted waypoints that could potentially revolutionize travel through the North. The leather-bound book was filled with complex mathematical formulas and arcane symbols that would have baffled even the most learned maesters.

"What do you think keeps them?" Eddard asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over their group.

Owen closed his book with a sigh, tucking it away in his saddlebag. His gaze swept across the misty swampland where Greywater Watch should have been - not that anyone could ever be certain of its location. The mobile castle was one of the North's most peculiar defenses, though Owen had to admit its constant movement made it difficult for even his tracking spells to pin down.

"Probably gawking at the new smallfolk villages every thirty seconds," Owen replied, his tone carrying clear boredom. The statement wasn't entirely unfair - the newly constructed settlements along the northern road were unlike anything the southern lords had ever seen, with their heated homes, running water, and amenities.

Owen shifted in his saddle, the enhanced leather creaking softly. His fingers drummed against the pommel, a habit he'd developed when thinking through complex problems. The waiting was tedious, but it gave him time to consider the approaching political dance they'd soon need to perform.

"These southerners haven't seen anything like what we've built," Owen said, his tone carrying a hint of pride mixed with concern. "Every village, every improvement, every magical creation - it's going to shake their worldview."

"Mind your courtesies when they arrive," Eddard reminded him, his voice stern but carrying the warmth of a father figure. "Remember Maester Luwin's lessons about addressing royalty."

Owen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. After four years of careful planning and preparation, he wasn't about to ruin everything by forgetting basic etiquette. "I haven't forgotten, Lord Stark. Though..." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "I wonder if you're prepared to see your old friend again."

Eddard turned sharply in his saddle, grey eyes narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

Before Owen could respond, movement caught his eye. Through the morning mist, banners began to materialize - the crowned stag of Baratheon prominent among them, followed by the lions of Lannister, the roses of Tyrell, and what seemed like every other major house of the south.

Owen watched the approaching party with carefully concealed interest, his enhanced senses picking up details that others might miss. The southern nobles' reactions to the northern road had left their marks - their clothes and horses showed signs of hard travel despite the improved conditions, suggesting they'd pushed their pace in their eagerness to reach them.

As he dismounted Altivo, Owen noted how his magically-enhanced stallion drew curious glances from the approaching party. The beast's supernatural grace and intelligence were difficult to disguise, and Owen could see the calculating looks from horse masters among the southern retinue.

Robert Baratheon cut an imposing figure despite his obvious weight gain, his booming voice carrying across the misty morning air. The king's eyes were sharp despite what Owen assumed was an early hangover, taking in every detail of their welcoming party with surprising alertness.

Owen dismounted and knelt alongside Lord Stark, observing the other arrivals through his peripheral vision. Cersei emerged from the wheelhouse with practiced grace, though Owen detected a slight tremor in her movements - likely residual unease from their encounter with the steam constructors. Behind her, the royal children presented a study in contrasts: Joffrey's barely concealed sneer, Myrcella's genuine curiosity, and young Tommen's innocent wonder as he clutched his sister's hand.

The Dornish contingent moved with fluid grace, Oberyn's dark eyes already scanning their surroundings while Ellaria Sand maintained a protective proximity to the Sand Snakes. Arianne and Quentyn positioned themselves carefully - close enough to show unity but far enough to establish their own presence.

The Tyrells arranged themselves with practiced precision. Olenna's sharp gaze missed nothing, while Margaery maintained an expression of perfect courtesy that didn't quite mask her keen interest. Willas stood with dignity despite his leg, his intelligent eyes already assessing the northern party's armor and weapons.

The Lannisters completed the group, Tywin's commanding presence drawing attention despite his silence. Kevan positioned himself slightly behind his brother, while Tyrion managed to appear both interested and sardonic simultaneously.

"Get up, get up!" Robert bellowed, pulling Ned into a bone-crushing embrace. "Gods, but it's good to see you, you frozen-faced bastard!"

Owen rose smoothly, his enhanced physique making the movement appear effortless despite his armor. He kept his expression neutral but pleasant, already noting the subtle reactions his appearance drew from the gathered nobles.

He maintained his composed demeanor despite noticing the appreciative and lustful glances being cast his way. His now magically enhanced appearance drew attention from many of the noble ladies present - Queen Cersei's emerald eyes lingered longer than proper, while Arianne Martell made no attempt to hide her bold appraisal. Margaery Tyrell's assessment was more subtle but no less intent, hidden behind a perfect mask of courtly manners. The Sand Snakes' gazes held both curiosity and hunger, reminding Owen of their father's infamous reputation.

He ignored these reactions, focusing instead on the reunion playing out before him. Robert's booming voice carried across the misty morning air as he clasped Ned's shoulders.

"Why haven't you come to see me? All these years, and not one visit south!" Robert demanded, his face red with emotion - or perhaps the morning's wine.

Eddard's response was characteristically understated. "I've been holding the North for you, Your Grace."

"And changing it for the better, it seems," Jon Arryn interjected, stepping forward with a warm smile. His keen eyes had been taking in every detail of their welcome party, from their exceptional armor and weapons to the improved road they stood upon.

Owen watched as Eddard embraced his former guardian, genuine affection evident in the greeting. The two men had not seen each other since the Greyjoy Rebellion, and their reunion carried none of the boisterous energy of Robert's but held just as much meaning.

Owen maintained his composure as Robert Baratheon's attention turned to him, the king's bleary eyes squinting slightly.

"Who's this then, Ned? Your son named after me? Robb was it?" Robert asked, his wine-roughened voice carrying across the misty morning air.

"No, Your Grace," Eddard corrected smoothly. "This is Lord Owen Longshore, Lord of Sea Dragon Point and Castle Ice Crest. My goodson, married to my daughter Sansa."

Owen felt the immediate shift in attention, like a physical wave washing over him. The assembled lords' gazes sharpened with newfound interest. Tywin Lannister's green-flecked eyes bore into him with calculating intensity, while Jon Arryn studied him with thoughtful consideration. Even those who had been maintaining casual poses suddenly stood straighter, their attention firmly fixed on him.

Robert looked Owen up and down, his eyebrows rising. "Gods, you're a big one! The North makes them hardy, doesn't it, Ned?" He let out a booming laugh. "No wonder you chose him for your girl!"

Owen executed a perfect bow, his enhanced physique making the movement appear graceful despite his armor. "It is an honor to meet you in person, Your Grace."

Robert waved away the formality with another laugh. "Seven hells, man, none of that! You're Ned's goodson - that makes you practically family. We don't stand on ceremony in the family, do we, Ned?"

Before Eddard could respond, Mace Tyrell stepped forward, his rich clothes rustling as he moved to greet the Warden of the North. "Lord Stark, it has been far too long," he declared, his manner effusive. "The Reach sends its warmest regards."

Oberyn Martell followed close behind, his movements fluid and graceful. "Lord Stark," he said with a slight incline of his head. "Allow me to present my niece and nephew, Princess Arianne and Prince Quentyn Martell." He gestured to his companions with characteristic Dornish flair. "And of course, my paramour Ellaria Sand, and my daughters."

Owen watched as the introductions continued, noting how each noble managed to position themselves to maintain clear views of both him and Lord Stark during their greetings. The political dance had begun, and he could already see the wheels turning behind their carefully composed expressions.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward next, his presence commanding attention even in this gathering of powerful lords. The Old Lion moved with practiced ease, Kevan and Tyrion flanking him like perfectly positioned chess pieces. His greeting to Eddard was perfectly cordial, yet carried that underlying current of calculation that seemed to permeate everything the Lannister patriarch did.

When Tywin turned to Owen, their eyes met in a silent assessment. Owen recognized the look in those green-flecked eyes - he'd seen it countless times in his previous life during high-stakes business negotiations. Tywin was weighing him, measuring his worth, seeking any crack in his armor that might be exploited to benefit House Lannister. Owen kept his expression pleasant but neutral, knowing this moment would set the tone for their future interactions.

"Lord Longshore," Tywin said, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of courtesy and command that few could master. "Your reputation precedes you. The improvements to the North have not gone unnoticed as we travelled."

Owen inclined his head respectfully, but maintained eye contact. "You honor me, Lord Tywin. The North has been good to me, and I merely seek to repay that kindness."

A flicker of something - perhaps approval, perhaps frustration at finding no obvious weakness - crossed Tywin's face before his mask of perfect courtesy returned.

Queen Cersei approached next, her golden hair catching the weak northern sunlight. Owen watched as she exchanged greetings with Eddard, who executed a perfect courtly bow and kissed her fingers with appropriate reverence. The Stark lord's greeting to the royal children was equally proper, though Owen noticed how Joffrey barely acknowledged it, already displaying the arrogance that would later define him.

When Cersei turned to Owen, he dropped to one knee as protocol demanded. Taking her offered hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers in a perfectly proper kiss. Yet through this seemingly innocent contact, Owen could feel the heat of her gaze upon him. His enhanced senses picked up her quickened heartbeat, the slight catch in her breath as she studied his form. Her green eyes, so like her father's yet burning with a different kind of hunger, roamed over him with poorly concealed desire and lust.

"Rise, Lord Longshore," she commanded, her voice carrying a sultry undertone that would have been imperceptible to normal hearing. "We have heard such fascinating tales of your work here in the North."

"Indeed Ned, we have much to discuss," Robert's voice boomed across the gathering. His bleary eyes had sharpened with unusual focus as he gestured at their surroundings. "These glasshouses, metal spiders, these homes for the smallfolk, all this talk of trade with Essos... I was not going to believe till I saw it myself. And now that I have..."

Before Robert could finish his thought, Mace Tyrell stepped forward eagerly, his rich clothes rustling. "Many in the Reach had wondered why the grain shipments from the North had stopped," he proclaimed, his chest puffing out importantly. "And now that I've seen these glasshouses and how they can be harvested from monthly..."

"Do be quiet, Mace," Olenna Tyrell cut in sharply, fixing Eddard with her shrewd gaze. "What I believe my son means to ask, Lord Stark, is whether you had ever intended to share these innovations with the rest of Westeros?"

Owen noted how the assembled nobles leaned forward slightly at this question, their attention razor-sharp despite their carefully maintained expressions of polite interest. Before Eddard could respond, Stannis spoke up, his jaw clenched tight.

"And what of the North's new navy?" he ground out, clearly unable to contain the question any longer. "Our reports indicate ships of unprecedented design and capability have been sailing these four years."

The tension in the air grew thicker as the assembled lords and ladies awaited Eddard's response. However, before either Ned or Owen could address these pointed inquiries, movement from the back of the group drew their attention.

Brynden and Edmure Tully, who had been somewhat forgotten in the initial greetings, made their way forward. Owen watched as Eddard's face lit up with genuine warmth at the sight of his brothers-in-law, a welcome reprieve from the increasingly charged atmosphere.

"These questions are not for today," Jon Arryn interjected smoothly, his diplomatic experience showing as he defused the situation. "I'm sure all will be answered at Winterfell."

Owen couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face as Eddard nodded at Jon Arryn's diplomatic intervention.

"Indeed, all will be explained at Winterfell," Eddard agreed. "But first, we shall rest at Moat Cailin for the night. The fortress stands ready to receive such noble guests."

Mace Tyrell's face fell instantly. "Surely you jest, Lord Stark," he protested, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a discreet volume. "We would rather make camp than shelter in ruins."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the southern nobles. Owen caught sight of Tywin's slight frown, Oberyn's raised eyebrow, and the way Olenna's lips pursed in disapproval. Even Cersei failed to completely mask her distaste at the prospect of staying in what they believed to be a crumbling fortress.

Owen's smile widened slightly as he mounted Altivo, thoroughly enjoying their ignorance of the they were about to see.

Owen rode at the head of the procession alongside Eddard, listening to the reactions of their southern guests with barely concealed amusement. The improved northern road allowed them to make good time, and within two hours they crested a hill overlooking Moat Cailin.

The sight that greeted the southern lords was exactly what Owen and eddard had wanted them and the rest of the south to see - a magnificent ruin, crumbling yet still formidable. He'd spent years maintaining this illusion and the magical drain was constant, like a slow leak in his energy reserves that never quite sealed.

"Well Jon," Robert's voice boomed as he urged his horse forward, addressing his Hand. "Seems like the rumors weren't all true. Still seems like a ruin to me. An impressive one to be sure and it would be bloody murder to take even with a hundred thousand men, but still a ruin."

The other southern lords moved their mounts closer, each studying the fortress with varying degrees of interest. Owen noticed Oberyn's analytical gaze, likely comparing it to Dornish strongholds, while Tywin and Kevan exchanged meaningful glances. Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something wasn't quite right. Mace Tyrell looked disappointed, while Brynden and Edmure Tully showed polite interest.

Eddard shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable with the deception. He turned to Owen with an almost apologetic expression. "Are you ready?"

Owen released a heavy sigh. "I've been ready for years," he admitted quietly. "Holding the illusion was hell on my magic." The constant drain had been like maintaining a muscle flex for four years straight - manageable, but exhausting.

With a snap of Owen's fingers, the air around Moat Cailin seemed to shimmer and ripple. The illusion that had stood for four years dissolved like morning mist, revealing the true magnificence of the restored fortress beneath. The southern lords and ladies collectively gasped as the crumbling ruins transformed before their eyes.

Three massive walls of precise black and golden-green brick rock, ebony and orichalcum ore, encircled the fortress, their surfaces gleaming in the northern sun. The structure dominated the landscape, stretching far wider than the illusion had suggested. The inner keep soared skyward, its brick and ebony construction rising proudly where rotting wooden structures had appeared to stand moments before. Twenty towers, each restored to their original glory and enhanced with magical ore pierced the sky like spears.

Northern soldiers in pristine armor patrolled the walls with disciplined precision. Massive cannons lined the battlements, their barrels catching the light as they tracked the movement below. Archers stood at regular intervals, their presence a clear reminder of the fortress's defensive capabilities.

At the main gates, which were seven layers thick with reinforced secondary barriers, stood six towering Dwarven Colossi. The thirty-foot mechanical guardians remained motionless but alert, their massive sword arms and flame cannons ready to defend against any threat.

Owen savored the stunned silence that followed the revelation especially as the southern ladies joined them and witnessed the large and near impossible structure that lay before them. Robert's mouth hung open, his face reddening as he struggled to process the transformation. Beside him, Jon Arryn's usually composed features showed naked shock, his eyes darting from one defensive feature to another as he calculated the fortress's military implications.

Tywin Lannister's mask of indifference cracked, his jaw tightening as he took in the gleaming walls and defenders. His brother Kevan unconsciously gripped his reins tighter, while Tyrion leaned forward in his saddle with undisguised fear yet awe.

"Seven hells," Oberyn breathed, his usual smirk replaced by genuine amazement as ellaria clutched at him from her horse. His daughters obara, tyene and nymeria whispered rapidly to each other, pointing at the Dwarven Colossi in the distance with mixture of disbelief and apprehension.

Mace Tyrell's face had gone pale, his earlier dismissiveness forgotten as he stared at the impregnable fortress. His mother Olenna's eyes had narrowed to calculating slits, her mind clearly racing to adjust her schemes based on this new information.

Queen Cersei's perfect composure slipped completely, her emerald eyes widening as she realized the extent of the North's technological advancement. Even Stannis, usually dour and unimpressed, showed visible concern as he studied the massive cannons lining the walls.

The Tully brothers exchanged meaningful glances, Brynden's weathered face breaking into an rueful look while Edmure seemed unable to close his mouth.

Owen noticed Arianne Martell's calculating gaze shift between the fortress and himself, clearly reassessing her mission in light of this display of power. Beside her, Quentyn appeared overwhelmed, shrinking slightly in his saddle.

Stannis's usual stoic demeanor cracked, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared at the transformed fortress. His hands gripped the reins of his horse so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"How?" The word escaped through gritted teeth, carrying all the confusion and disbelief the southern party felt. The question hung in the air, heavy with implications about the North's newfound power and capabilities.

Owen could feel the weight of their collective stares - Tywin's calculating gaze, Oberyn's intrigued scrutiny, Olenna's shrewd assessment, and Robert's stunned wonderment. Each of them desperately wanted to understand how such a transformation was possible, how the balance of power in Westeros had shifted so dramatically without their knowledge.

Instead of answering, Owen guided Altivo forward, the magnificent stallion's hooves clicking against the pristine road leading to the fortress. He turned slightly in his saddle, allowing himself a small smile as he gestured toward the large reinforced gates.

"My lords and ladies, welcome to Moat Cailin."

Chapter Text

Tywin Lannister sat in his chambers at Moat Cailin, his fingers drumming against the polished obsidian table beside him. The room rivaled anything in the Red Keep - perhaps even surpassed it. The walls gleamed with some strange material that seemed to capture and amplify the light from the enchanted crystals mounted in ornate sconces. The furniture was crafted from woods he'd never seen before, inlaid with precious metals in patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles.

He took another sip of the Northern wine, unable to deny its exceptional quality. The vintage had a complexity that put even the finest Arbor Gold to shame. Everything in this restored fortress spoke of wealth and power beyond anything the South could muster.

The feast earlier that evening had been a calculated display. Dishes appeared that defied the laws of nature - fruits that shouldn't grow in the North, meats preserved in ways that maintained perfect freshness, delicacies that by all rights should have been impossible to obtain. Yet here they were, served with casual abundance as if such luxury was commonplace.

"The boy is deliberately showing us what he's capable of," Tywin mused aloud to Kevan, who stood by the window looking out at the mechanical sentinels that patrolled the walls. "Each course, each detail of this fortress - it's all precisely chosen to demonstrate the North's newfound strength."

"Those metal giants..." Kevan shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like them. The way they move, how they coordinate with each other. Three of the Reach ladies fainted dead away when we first approached the gates."

Tywin remembered the moment well. The massive constructs - Dwarven Colossi, Owen had called them - stood near taller than the walls themselves. Their armor gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, and their movements were unnaturally smooth for something of that size. When one had turned its head to track their approaching party, several horses had spooked, nearly unseating their riders.

"Cersei is still in a rage about being assigned chambers no grander than any other noble house," Kevan continued. "Though I notice you haven't complained about our own accommodations."

"Because I understand what this truly is," Tywin replied, standing to pace the room. "This isn't mere hospitality. Every luxurious appointment, every impossible convenience - it's a message. The North is no longer the backward, barbaric region we've always considered it. This Owen Longshore has transformed it into something else entirely."

Through the window, Tywin could see the massive walls stretching into the darkness, illuminated by strange blue lights that cast no shadows. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rhythmic clanking of the metal guardians as they continued their endless patrol. This was no longer the ruined fortress of legend. This was something new - something that changed everything he thought he knew about the balance of power in Westeros.

Tywin's contemplation was interrupted as Tyrion, Jaime, and Cersei entered his chambers, the heavy door closing behind them with a soft click that spoke of masterful craftsmanship. His children settled into the plush chairs and sofas - another display of Northern wealth, each piece upholstered in fabrics Tywin had never seen before.

"The children are finally asleep," Cersei announced, her voice tight with barely contained frustration. "Though Joffrey kept demanding to see more of those mechanical monstrosities."

Jaime stretched his legs out, looking more relaxed than his twin. "Ser Barristan's taken the watch. Robert's already passed out - seems the Northern ale and mead hit him harder than expected. Though his mood wasn't helped by the lack of... entertainment options. He misses his whores" Jaime said as cersei scowled.

"Speaking of Northern drinks," Tyrion held up an ornate bottle filled with deep blue liquid that seemed to shimmer in the strange lighting. "This is apparently called Blue Rose wine. Our gracious host Lord Owen makes it at Ice Crest." He examined the label with genuine appreciation. "The complexity of flavors is remarkable."

Tywin's scowl deepened as his youngest son uncorked the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. "Have you at least learned anything useful while indulging yourself?"

"Oh, quite a bit," Tyrion took a deliberate sip, savoring it. "The servants are surprisingly chatty, especially after sharing some of this excellent vintage. Did you know those metal workers in their mines never tire, never eat, never sleep? They just keep producing ore and precious metals day and night."

"We've all seen the wealth on display," Cersei cut in sharply. "What of Longshore himself? What have you learned of the man who presumed to marry a Stark?"

"Presumed?" Tyrion chuckled. "Dear sister, I don't think there was any presumption involved. From what I've gathered, Lord Stark practically threw his eldest daughter at him. And after seeing all this..." He gestured at their surroundings. "I can understand why."

Kevan moved away from the window to join them. "The boy can't be more than twenty, yet he's accomplished all this in just a few years."

"Indeed," Tyrion said. "And apparently, as much as i actually thought it a rumor despite all the talk it made when he married starks daughter, he was indeed just a simple blacksmith's son before all this. Though the servants whisper about him being blessed by the Old Gods."

"Superstitious nonsense," Cersei sneered.

"Is it?" Jaime asked quietly. "After what we've seen today? Those metal giants, the strange weapons, materials that shouldn't exist..." He shook his head. "Something unnatural is at work here."

Tywin's fingers resumed their drumming on the table. "What else have you discovered, Tyrion?"

"The fortress isn't just restored - it's completely transformed. The walls are lined with some material that apparently makes them unbreakable or near enough to the fact. Those metal giants aren't just for show - they're fully functional weapons of war. And this is just what they're willing to show us."

"What do you mean?" Kevan asked.

"Think about it, uncle," Tyrion swirled his wine. "If they can create all this openly, what are they hiding? I've heard whispers about their shipyards at Ice Crest, about weapons that could tear armies apart, about machines that can build other machines..."

Tywin sighed, cutting off his son's speculation. "Forget about rumors and whispers. Focus on what we can see, what we know for certain. What else have you discovered about Moat Cailin itself?"

Jaime straightened in his chair, his expression turning serious. "That's the strangest part, father. They've allowed us complete freedom to explore the fortress. No guards following our movements, no areas declared off-limits. It's as if they have nothing to hide - or perhaps more accurately, they're confident enough that it doesn't matter what we discover."

"And what have you discovered?" Tywin pressed.

"The provisions alone are staggering," Jaime said, leaning forward. "Ten massive storehouses, each filled to capacity with preserved foods. Not just salted meats and grains - they have fruits, vegetables, even fresh bread that somehow stays warm and fresh for months without spoiling." He shook his head in amazement.

"Six glasshouses as well," Kevan added. "Built right into the fortress walls. They're growing crops year-round just like we have seen the villages do with theirs, even in the depths of winter from what the servants say."

"I did the calculations though i would have to confirm with a maester," Jaime continued. "Should anyone be foolish enough to try besieging Moat Cailin as it stands now, they could hold out for fifteen years easily. Twenty if they implemented even modest rationing. And that's assuming they maintain their current standard of living - which, as we've seen, is far from austere."

Tywin's fingers stilled their drumming as he absorbed this information. A fortress that could withstand a siege for decades, with no meaningful reduction in quality of life for its defenders. The implications were staggering.

"And that's just the food stores," Jaime added. "We haven't even touched on their water supply, their weapons caches, or those mechanical servants that seem to handle most of the manual labor."

Tywin looked at him sharply. "What exactly do you mean by their water supply?"

"They have four wells within the fort, all producing clean water," Jaime explained. "But that's just the beginning. They've built these massive cylindrical containers they call tanks from the same bronze like metal they've made the colossi - storing enough water that they'll never run short for drinking or other needs."

Tywin's eyes narrowed as he processed this information. Another layer of security that made the fortress even more impregnable.

"As for their weapons and armor..." Jaime paused, his expression grave. "You've seen them up close, but there's more. Ser Barristan borrowed a blade from one of their young soldiers and tested it against a spare piece of armor he had brought. The Northern sword went through it like butter."

Tywin's jaw tightened at that. The implications of such weaponry in Northern hands were disturbing.

"Their bows are something else entirely," Jaime continued. "Made of reinforced ironwood and some material they call ebony. The combination makes their arrows faster, harder - capable of piercing the thickest armor with ease."

Kevan stepped forward, his practical mind seeking weaknesses. "The water - they're using pipes to distribute it throughout the fortress like the villages? Could those be cut off from a distance?"

Jaime shook his head. "The pipes run from the North, not the South. And even if someone managed to reach them..." He gave a humorless laugh. "They're guarded by two more of those Dwarven Colossi and what looks like an entire swarm of those spiderlike steam constructors."

The room fell silent as they contemplated the layers of protection surrounding even the most basic resources of the fortress. Tywin's fingers resumed their rhythmic tapping on the obsidian table, each tap echoing the growing weight of their situation.

Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with intelligence as he voiced what they had all been thinking. "Any army attacking from the south would be slaughtered before taking a single step past Moat Cailin, if they could even make it past. And though we haven't seen them yet, I can't imagine anyone capable of rebuilding this place would make ships that couldn't turn Southern vessels to kindling from a distance."

Tywin watched his youngest son take another sip of the Blue Rose wine, noting how even Cersei didn't contradict this assessment. The demonstration they had witnessed earlier that day had shaken them all to their core.

"You all saw those 'cannons' of theirs mounted all over the walls and what they can do," Tyrion continued.

Tywin suppressed a shudder at the reminder. Lord Eddard had offered them a demonstration, his quiet confidence more unsettling than any boast. The fort's soldiers had set up a large block of thick brick at a distance from the fort, then lit some kind of fuse beside the large metal cylinders mounted on the walls. The resulting blast had sent heavy cylindrical balls hurtling through the air with devastating force, obliterating the brick target into dust and fragments.

The watching Southern nobles had been shocked into silence. Even Cersei had lost her usual smirk, her face pale as she realized the implications. These weapons made traditional siege warfare obsolete. No army could approach the walls while under fire from such devastating weapons and no army could hide behind walls while these things tore them apart. The North had created something that changed the very nature of warfare itself.

Kevan shifted uncomfortably, his eyes drawn to the walls where the cannons stood in silent menace. "Brother, what troubles me most is what they haven't shown us. Look there - beside each of those ebony cannons."

Tywin followed his brother's gaze outside the window to the strange weapons that lined the battlements. Next to each dark ebony cannon sat another, crafted from materials he'd never seen before. The moonstone cannons seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light, their pale surface etched with mysterious symbols that made his eyes hurt if he looked too long. The orichalcum ones gleamed with a greenish-golden hue, covered in runes that seemed to pulse with contained power.

"Lord Stark and longshore deliberately avoided demonstrating those," Kevan continued, his voice low. "When Prince Oberyn asked about them, they changed the subject rather quickly. If the regular cannons can reduce stone to dust..."

He left the thought unfinished, but everyone in the room understood the implications. If these were the weapons they were willing to show their visitors, what devastating capabilities lay in the ones they kept secret?

Tyrion drained his glass, his usual wit subdued. Jaime's hand had unconsciously moved to his sword hilt, though they all knew how useless steel would be against such weapons. Even Cersei had lost her contemptuous expression, replacing it with something closer to fear.

Tywin stood, commanding attention as he always did, though the luxury of their surroundings seemed to mock his authority. "The North has well and truly grown beyond what we can hope to match," he declared, his voice tight with controlled frustration. "Maybe in a thousand lifetimes, and I doubt they will stop."

His gaze swept across his family members, noting their reactions. Kevan's pragmatic concern, Jaime's warrior's assessment of their vulnerability, Tyrion's shrewd calculation of possibilities. Finally, his eyes settled on Cersei.

"We must find a way to join them in their prosperity or gain it for ourselves," Tywin continued. "Cersei, you will speak to Robert on the journey to Winterfell. Convince him to demand a match between Joffrey and the remaining Stark daughter. We need to bind our houses together before they grow even further beyond our reach."

Tywin watched as his daughter's face contorted with disgust.

"My perfect son will not marry some filthy northern bitc-"

Cersei's words died in her throat as Tywin surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. Raw fury blazed in his eyes as he towered over the table, causing his daughter to instinctively shrink back. Kevan moved with surprising speed for his age, placing a restraining hand on his brother's arm even as Jaime positioned himself protectively in front of Cersei.

"You fool," Tywin's voice was deadly quiet, trembling with barely contained rage. "You stupid, vain, incompetent foolish girl."

His fingers gripped the edge of the obsidian table so hard his knuckles turned white. "What have you ever done right? What single thing have you accomplished that hasn't been tainted by your pride and stupidity?"

Cersei's face paled, but her chin lifted defiantly. Tywin cut off any response she might have made.

"You had one task - one simple task. Give Robert strong heirs that looked like him. Instead?" He gestured sharply at her, causing her to flinch. "The king would rather bed whores and serving girls than touch his beautiful queen. Three children, and not one bears even a hint of their Baratheon heritage for him to fawn over or for you to use as a bridge between you."

Jaime's hand tightened on his sword hilt, but Tywin ignored him, his contempt for his daughter overwhelming any concern for his son's reaction.

"And now - now when the North has revealed power beyond anything we imagined, when they've shown wealth and advancement that makes the southern kingdoms look like beggars in comparison - you would reject the one chance we have to bind our fortunes to theirs?"

He shook off Kevan's restraining hand, his voice rising. "Your pride and stupidity will be the death of this family's legacy. Look around you!" He swept his arm to encompass their luxurious surroundings. "This is what the North can do with a single fortress. What do you think Winterfell holds? What secrets does Ice Crest contain? And you would deny us the chance to share in that power because you think your precious son is too good for a Stark?"

Tywin felt his rage boiling over as he watched Cersei's defiant posture even as it broke down. Years of frustration with his daughter's arrogance and incompetence came crashing down in this moment. He brushed past Kevan's restraining hand, feeling his brother's fingers slip away from his sleeve.

When Jaime stepped between them, hand on his sword, Tywin's contempt only grew. These twins of his, so caught up in their own importance, needed to be reminded of their place.

"Move aside," Tywin commanded, his voice carrying the weight of decades of absolute authority.

"I won't let you harm her," Jaime replied, though his voice held less conviction than his words suggested.

Tywin's eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you don't move, I will ensure your precious sister spends the remainder of her days with the Silent Sisters. Or perhaps I'll find her a place in one of Littlefinger's establishments. Which do you think would break her spirit more thoroughly?"

"You wouldn't dare," Jaime's voice wavered slightly, but his hand remained on his sword.

"Wouldn't I?" Tywin's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Have you forgotten your brother's whore wife? Have you forgotten what I did to her? Test me, my son, and see what happens."

Tywin watched with grim satisfaction as the color drained from Jaime's face. His son's eyes darted to Tyrion, whose own mismatched eyes had become fixed on the floor, his usual wit silenced by the brutal reminder of Tysha's fate. The wine glass in Tyrion's hand trembled slightly.

Jaime stepped aside.

Tywin advanced on Cersei, who maintained her defiant pose even as fear crept into her eyes. He towered over her, his presence filling her entire field of vision.

"You will do as I say, when I say it, Cersei," he growled. "It was thanks to me that you are where you are, and you will not forget that. The days of your stupid scheming and defiance are through. Do you understand?"

Cersei's mouth opened, her green eyes flashing with familiar defiance, but before she could utter a word, Tywin's hand struck her face with enough force to snap her head to the side. The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the chamber.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Tywin roared, his commanding voice filling the room.

Cersei crumpled, her hand rising to her reddening cheek as tears welled in her eyes. Her earlier defiance melted away, replaced by the frightened submission of a chastised child. "Yes, father," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tywin turned away from his daughter, his rage still simmering beneath the surface as he strode back to his seat. Kevan quickly straightened the chair, and Tywin lowered himself into it, his fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping on the obsidian table.

"Do you think Olenna Tyrell and that bumbling oaf of a son are sleeping peacefully right now?" he asked, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Or are they plotting every possible way to secure a partnership with the North?"

His cold gaze swept across the room, lingering on his chastised daughter. "Prince Oberyn and his Dornish companions - do you imagine they brought Princess Arianne here merely for courtesy? They'll try to slip her into Lord Longshores bed, seduce him away from his wife, gain favor and prosperity through any means necessary."

Tywin's fingers stopped their tapping, curling into a tight fist. "The Tullys are probably already planning to ride ahead tomorrow with Lord Stark and Owen, using their familial connections to curry favor and improve the Riverlands."

His eyes fixed on Cersei, who still stood trembling, her hand pressed against her reddened cheek. "Yet here you are," he spat, "destroying our hopes of ascension with your stupidity."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Cersei's quiet sniffling and the distant sound of guards patrolling outside. Tywin felt his rage slowly subsiding, like molten steel cooling in a smith's forge. The familiar ache of disappointment settled in its place - a constant companion when dealing with his children.

He drew in a measured breath, letting it out slowly as he regarded his daughter. The red mark on her cheek stood out starkly against her pale skin, a physical reminder of his fury. Her earlier defiance had crumbled completely, leaving behind the shell of the proud queen she pretended to be.

"You will make sure Robert asks for a betrothal for Joffrey to Stark's daughter," Tywin finally said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute command. "And that will be the end of it."

One by one, his children and brother filed out of the room. Cersei first, practically fleeing with as much dignity as she could muster. Jaime followed close behind, his shoulders tense with suppressed anger. Tyrion drained the last of his wine before shuffling out, and Kevan gave Tywin a knowing look before closing the door behind him.

Alone in the oppressive silence of the chamber, Tywin sat motionless in his chair. The moonlight streaming through the windows as his thoughts turned, as they often did in moments of frustration, to Joanna. How different things might have been if she had lived. She would have raised their children properly, tempered Cersei's pride, guided Jaime's honor, perhaps even helped him see past his hatred of Tyrion.

He sat there in the quiet darkness, surrounded by the North's obvious prosperity and advancement, wondering if he was doomed to die watching his legacy crumble, surrounded by the fools his children had become.

Chapter Text

The morning air held a crisp bite as the combined procession departed Moat Cailin. Owen rode alongside Eddard Stark, his mount keeping pace with Robert Baratheon's massive destrier. Lord Edmure and the Blackfish flanked them, while Jon Arryn's weathered face showed keen interest in every detail of their surroundings.

"These roads," Jon Arryn ran his hand along his saddle horn, "I've never seen their like built before and it seems you've made them everywhere in the north. Smooth as a castle courtyard."

"Steam-pressed stone and ebony," Owen explained. "The constructors heat and compress it into a single seamless surface. No maintenance needed for decades."

Robert's booming laugh cut through the morning mist. "Seven hells, Ned. Your northern wasteland's turned into a bloody paradise."

They passed the first village, where neat rows of new houses lined the improved roads. Children played in front of a large communal bath house, their clothes clean and faces full. Through the crystal walls of a massive glasshouse, Owen could see workers tending to thick rows of vegetables.

"Three harvests a year now," Eddard gestured to the structure. "Even in winter, the glasshouses keep producing."

The Blackfish reined his horse closer. "And these mechanical guardians of yours?" His sharp eyes tracked a steam constructor as it methodically patrolled the village perimeter, its metal feet leaving precise impressions in the earth.

"They never tire, never sleep," Owen said. "They follow their patrol routes perfectly, day and night."

A deep rumbling drew their attention to the horizon. Two Dwarven Colossi strode across distant fields, their massive forms casting long shadows in the morning sun. Robert whistled low.

"Those things could crush an army," he muttered.

"That's rather the point, Your Grace," Eddard replied evenly.

They rode past another village, this one centered around a newly constructed mill. The wheel turned steadily, powered by an underground steam engine rather than the creek that ran nearby. Farmers in clean, warm clothing nodded respectfully as the procession passed.

"Your smallfolk look better fed than half the nobles in King's Landing," Jon Arryn observed.

"Clean water, proper sewage, regular meals," Owen listed off. "Healthy workers are productive workers."

Edmure leaned forward in his saddle. "Those houses - they all have glass windows?"

"And proper chimneys, insulated walls, raised floors and access to piped clean water and hot showers," Owen confirmed. "No more drafty hovels or smoke-filled rooms."

Owen caught the calculating gleam in Jon Arryn's eyes as the old Hand of the King cleared his throat. "These metal soldiers and workers of yours - fascinating creations. I don't suppose you'd care to share just how many the North has managed to construct?"

Owen kept his face carefully neutral, though he could feel Eddard tense beside him. The true numbers would shock them - thousands of steam constructors working tirelessly across the North, with hundreds more being produced each day, not to mention the growing army of Dwarven Colossi.

"Enough," Owen replied simply, allowing a small smile to play at the corners of his mouth.

Jon Arryn's weathered features tightened almost imperceptibly at the evasion. Before he could press further, the sound of hoofbeats drew closer as Stannis Baratheon urged his horse forward to join their group. The second Baratheon brother's stern face bore its usual severe expression as he fixed Owen with an intense stare.

"What of these ships we've heard tell of?" Stannis's jaw clenched as he spoke. "Reports claim they dwarf our royal fleet, move faster than any vessel on the Narrow Sea. Some say they can sail against the wind itself."

Owen exchanged a measured look with Eddard. They had discussed how much to reveal about their naval capabilities. The ships were indeed revolutionary - powered by steam engines and enchanted materials that allowed them to cut through water like knives through butter. After a moment's silent communication, Eddard gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"The reports are accurate," Owen confirmed. "Our new vessels are larger and faster than traditional ships."

"How?" Stannis demanded, his fingers tightening on his reins. "We've heard wild tales - hundreds of slaves manning the oars, stolen plans from the Braavosi shipwrights." His eyes narrowed as he looked at them.

Owen spat on the ground, his face twisting with revulsion. "Slaves? You think we'd stoop to such barbarism?"

Eddard's expression darkened beside him. "The North remembers its ancient values, Your Grace, Lord stannis. We would never traffic in human bondage. Such practices are an affront to both the old gods and the new as you well know when i made sure to place a bounty on Jorah Mormont."

"The ships move by mechanical means," Owen finally explained, his voice steady as he addressed Stannis's accusation. "Below the waterline, we've installed massive propellers - think of them as giant metal windmills that spin underwater. They're powered by steam engines, pushing the ships forward regardless of wind conditions."

He gestured at the distant horizon. "As for the sails, they're cut from special cloth woven with enhanced materials. The design allows them to catch even the faintest breeze. Combined with the propellers, our ships can maintain consistent speed in any weather."

Stannis's jaw worked as he processed this information. "And these designs? You claim they're original?"

"Entirely my own work," Owen confirmed firmly. "I've never even seen a Braavosi shipyard. The vessels are built in our own dockyards at Ice Crest and White Harbor."

Edmure leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "These propellers - how fast can they move a ship?"

"Thrice the speed of a traditional sailing vessel, even in calm winds," Owen answered. 'They've cut travel to and from Essos by a whole week. More if pushed to the limit."

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "Speaking of impressive work, when might the Crown expect to benefit from these innovations? Surely such advances should be shared throughout the realm?"

Robert shifted in his saddle, his expression eager as he awaited the response.

Owen kept his face carefully neutral. "All such matters can be properly discussed once we reach Winterfell, my lords. There's much to consider regarding these technologies."

Owen watched as Jon Arryn and Stannis exchanged meaningful glances at his deflection, their tight expressions betraying their displeasure. Neither pressed the issue though, falling into silence as Robert launched into another tale about his and Eddard's youth at the Eyrie.

"Remember that time we snuck into the kitchens, Ned?" Robert's laugh boomed across the countryside. "Old Cook Margaret chased us halfway up the mountain with her wooden spoon."

The improved roads allowed their horses to maintain a steady, swift pace, the smooth surface letting them cover ground three times faster than the old dirt paths. They passed Castle Cerwyn in just four hours, the fortress's newly reinforced walls gleaming with strips of ebony ore that Owen had personally overseen being installed, catching the eyes of the southern lords.

As they approached Winterfell's lands, Owen felt a surge of pride. He'd spent countless hours working with the steam constructors to transform the ancient stronghold. The group crested a hill, and Owen heard the collective intake of breath from the southern contingent.

"Seven hells," Robert breathed, pulling his horse to a halt. "I don't remember Winterfell being this massive."

Owen smiled as he observed his handiwork. The castle had grown to encompass all of Winter Town, its walls now twice their original height and three times as thick. The new fortifications gleamed with alternating bands of ebony and malachite, the magical ores lending both beauty and unparalleled strength to the defenses.

"Indeed," Eddard confirmed. "Owen's innovations have allowed us to expand considerably."

The broken tower, once a crumbling reminder of age and decay, now stood proud and tall, its restored form matched by six new towers that Owen had designed to house additional guards and provide better defensive positions. The main castle itself had been completely renovated, its halls widened and chambers enlarged to accommodate the growing household and garrison.

Owen's gaze swept over the new additions - the expanded barracks that could now house three to four times the previous number of guards, the vast training grounds where soldiers could drill in any weather, and the enlarged stables built to shelter both horses and the mechanical steeds he'd begun producing. Most impressive was the new guest wing, a separate structure connected to the main castle by covered bridges, offering luxurious accommodations that rivaled even the Red Keep's chambers.

Eddard raised his hand in welcome upon his horse, gesturing toward the transformed castle. "My lords, my ladies - welcome to Winterfell."

Owen watched as the southern nobles urged their mounts forward, their expressions a mix of awe and barely concealed envy. Lady Olenna's sharp intake of breath carried clearly from her carriage across the morning air as she took in the gleaming black and grey walls. Beside her, Margaery Tyrell's eyes widened at the sight of the massive glasshouse gardens stretching out beside the castle, their crystal walls catching the sunlight.

The huge wheelhouse bearing Cersei Lannister creaked forward, its gilded exterior suddenly looking gaudy and outdated compared to the sleek magical materials that now adorned Winterfell. Owen could see the queen's face through the window, her features tight with barely suppressed fury as she beheld the castle's magnificence.

Owen rode through Winterfell's first massive gate beside Eddard, the new walls of ebony and malachite rising seventy feet above them. The reinforced portcullis, a masterwork of Dwemer metal and enchanted steel, slowly raised to admit their party.

Winter Town's folk packed the streets, their clean clothes and healthy faces a testament to Owen's improvements. "Long live King Robert!" they called, though Owen noted their cheers grew notably louder when they spotted him and Lord Stark. "The Old Gods bless Lord Stark! Lord Longshore!"

Robert waved enthusiastically from his mount, clearly enjoying the attention, though Owen caught the king's slight frown when several smallfolk dropped to their knees as Owen passed. The mechanical street cleaners and steam automatons had left the cobblestones spotless, while steam vents along the walls released warm air that kept the space between the fortifications comfortable despite the northern chill.

They approached the second wall, even thicker than the first, its black surface gleaming with intricate runic patterns Owen had personally carved. The gates here were his pride - three layers of reinforced metal that could withstand even the strongest siege weapons. Steam constructors stood guard along the battlements, their expressionless metal faces scanning the crowds below.

As they entered the inner courtyard, Owen's heart leapt at the sight of Sansa. She stood with the rest of the household, but his eyes found her immediately. The morning light caught her auburn hair, making it shine like fiery copper, her new form more striking since their dip in Solomon's pool. Her smile, radiant and warm, was for him alone despite the impressive company around them.

Owen swiftly dismounted his horse, his heart racing as he approached her. Without regard for ceremony or protocol, he strode quickly across the courtyard, closing the distance between them in long, purposeful steps, pulling her into his arms as soon as he was near enough.

"I missed you," he whispered against her hair, breathing in her familiar scent of winter roses and fresh snow. Her arms wrapped around him just as tightly, her body fitting perfectly against his as it always had though she did laugh. 'It was just a couple of days my love. You are getting clingy." Sansa chided though she herself enjoyed t=his hug.

The Stark family watched the reunion with knowing smiles. Arya caught Bran's eye and stuck out her tongue in mock disgust at the display of affection, causing her younger brother to stifle a laugh behind his hand. Even stern-faced Eddard's expression softened at the sight of his daughter's happiness.

The creak of the wheelhouse door announced Queen Cersei's emergence, her golden hair catching the northern sunlight as she stepped down with practiced grace. Her children followed - first Joffrey, then Myrcella and Tommen. The crown prince's eyes swept across the immaculate courtyard, taking in the gleaming walls and perfectly maintained grounds before his gaze settled on the embracing couple.

Joffrey's expression shifted as he stared at Sansa, his green eyes widening slightly as he took in her ethereal beauty. The transformation from Solomon's pool had enhanced her natural grace to near supernatural levels, making her appear almost otherworldly in the morning light. The prince seemed transfixed, unable to look away from her fiery hair and perfect features as she remained wrapped in Owen's embrace.

Owen kept his arm around Sansa's waist as the rest of the Stark household noticed the approaching royal family. As one, they dropped into respectful bows and curtsies. Robert waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh get up, get up! None of that nonsense, Ned. Introduce me to your family properly."

Eddard stepped forward, gesturing first to his wife. "Your Grace, you remember Lady Catelyn."

"Cat!" Robert's face split into a wide grin as he embraced her warmly. Catelyn maintained her composure, offering a demure smile and proper greeting.

"And this is my eldest, Robb, with his wife Wynafryd of House Manderly," Eddard continued.

The young couple bowed respectfully as Robert nodded approvingly at them.

"My eldest daughter Sansa." Eddard said next.

Owen felt Sansa curtsy gracefully beside him. When he straightened, he noticed Robert staring at Sansa, clearly struck by her enhanced beauty.

"By the gods, Ned," Robert breathed. "Your daughter has grown into quite the beauty. You're a lucky man, Lord Longshore."

Owen tightened his grip on Sansa's waist protectively as he caught Queen Cersei's venomous glare boring into his wife. Sansa paid the queen no mind, maintaining her perfect poise.

"And my younger daughter, Arya," Eddard continued.

The words died in the air as Robert's face drained of color. He stared at Arya as if seeing a ghost, his voice barely a whisper.

"Lyanna?"

Owen watched as Cersei's jealous gaze snapped from Sansa to Arya, her green eyes turning murderous at her husband's reaction to the young girl's resemblance to his lost love.

Owen couldn't help but notice how Arya had blossomed over the years. At fifteen, her tomboyish features had softened into a striking beauty that bore an uncanny resemblance to the portraits he'd seen of Lyanna Stark. Her dark brown hair, though still practically braided, fell in lustrous waves down her back. Her figure had filled out with womanly curves, full breasts and wide hips that would have made her quite the catch if she wasn't so determined to avoid marriage.

"Your Grace," Eddard quickly interjected, though Owen noticed Robert's eyes lingering on Arya's face. "This is Arya as i said, not Lyaana."

Robert shook his head as if clearing away memories. "Of course, of course. You're right, Ned. But gods, she'll be a great beauty like her aunt."

Arya's lips curved into a familiar smirk. "I don't want to be a lady," she declared boldly. "I want to be a warrior."

Owen couldn't suppress his smile as Sansa's melodious laugh rang out beside him, while Catelyn released a long-suffering sigh that spoke of countless similar declarations.

Robert's booming laugh echoed across the courtyard. "Seven hells, she even has Lyanna's spirit! Do you remember, Ned? Your sister was just the same."

A small, wistful smile crossed Eddard's face as he turned to his youngest son. "And this is Brandon or Bran as we call him, Your Grace."

"Ah!" Robert's eyes lit up as he studied the boy. "Now there's a future knight if I ever saw one!"

Owen watched as Bran's face brightened at the king's words. The boy's eyes darted hopefully toward where Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy stood at attention, clearly imagining himself in their white cloaks.

Owen watched as Prince Oberyn approached with his paramour Ellaria Sand and niece Arianne, their Dornish entourage drawing curious glances from the northerners. The Red Viper's dark eyes gleamed with interest as they swept over Winterfell's enhanced fortifications before settling on Owen and Sansa with unmistakable calculation seeing as they hadn't had time to talk much during the travel to winterfell.

"Lord Stark," Oberyn purred, "Your hospitality since we got to the north has been legendary, but I see the tales of your castles glory barely do it justice." His gaze lingered appreciatively on Sansa, causing Owen to shift slightly closer to his wife though the prince just smirked.

The Tyrells came next, led by Lady Olenna who somehow managed to look both impressed and dismissive as she surveyed her surroundings. Mace bumbled through his greetings while Margaery offered a perfectly practiced curtsy, though Owen noticed her eyes darting between him and Sansa with poorly concealed fascination.

"My dear Lady Stark," Jon Arryn stepped forward to greet Catelyn warmly. "Your sister Lysa and young Robyn send their regards. They remain well at the Eyrie."

Owen observed Catelyn's careful mask slip slightly at the mention of her sister, a flash of worry crossing her features before she composed herself. "I thank you for the news, Lord Arryn."

Her expression brightened genuinely as Edmure and the Blackfish approached. "Brother! Uncle!" she exclaimed, embracing them both in turn. "It brings me such joy to see you."

"The Riverlands have missed you, Cat," Brynden replied gruffly, though his weathered face held genuine affection.

Stannis hung back, offering only the most perfunctory of greetings, his jaw clenched as he continued to study the steam constructors patrolling the walls with obvious discomfort.

Once the formal greetings concluded, Robert's jovial demeanor shifted, his expression growing somber. He turned to Eddard, his voice dropping low enough that Owen had to strain to hear.

"Take me to the crypts, Ned. I would pay my respects."

Owen watched as Cersei's face twisted with barely contained fury. The queen stepped forward, her golden hair catching the morning light.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Surely the dead can wait until you've rested."

Robert acted as if he hadn't heard her, his eyes fixed on his old friend. "Ned?"

Cersei's mouth opened again, clearly preparing another protest, but she fell silent as Lord Tywin approached. Owen observed how the queen's spine stiffened at her father's presence, her lips pressing into a thin line as she stepped back.

"Lead on, old friend," Robert said to Eddard, already turning toward the entrance to the crypts.

Owen felt Sansa squeeze his hand as they watched the two men disappear into the darkness of the underground passage. Beside them, Tywin Lannister moved with practiced grace toward Catelyn, flanked by his brother Kevan and his youngest son Tyrion.

"Lady Stark," Tywin's voice carried across the courtyard, commanding attention without effort. "House Lannister thanks you for your hospitality."

Owen noticed how Tywin's sharp green eyes drifted to Arya, lingering on her face with calculated interest. The great lion's mind was clearly working, weighing possibilities and potential advantages as he studied the young girl who so resembled her dead aunt.

Catelyn executed a perfect curtsy. "Winterfell welcomes you, Lord Tywin. We have prepared chambers in the new guest wing for your comfort."

Owen watched as Lady Catelyn stepped forward, her years of experience as Winterfell's lady evident in her graceful authority. "My lords and ladies, our servants will show you to your accommodations," she announced, gesturing to the well-dressed staff waiting nearby. Each servant wore the new Winterfell livery Owen had designed - grey wool trimmed with white fur and subtle magical enhancements to keep them warm.

Turning specifically to Cersei, Catelyn dropped into a perfect curtsy. "Your Grace, if you and the royal family would follow me, I have personally overseen the preparation of your private quarters."

The courtyard gradually emptied as the various noble houses followed their guides, their voices fading as they disappeared into the castle's enhanced corridors. Owen caught fragments of impressed murmurs about the heated halls and magical lighting he had installed throughout the renovated sections.

Eddard sat in his solar, the warmth from the enhanced heating system Owen had installed making the room almost too comfortable. The flames in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the faces of his companions as they shared cups of Arbor gold. Brynden Tully's weathered features looked particularly severe in the flickering light.

"Hoster was quite put out," Brynden said, his gravelly voice carrying a note of reproach. "He expected more consideration from his good-son and grandson by law. The Riverlands have always been loyal friends to the North."

Edmure nodded in agreement with his uncle. "Father felt... overlooked when he heard the rumors and when an informant from Kings landing proved the claims. While the North prospered and grew stronger, we remained unchanged. He believed our family ties should have warranted some sharing of these innovations."

Eddard exchanged a meaningful look with Owen before responding. "We meant no slight to House Tully. Our first priority was securing the North's position. Too many eyes would be watching our progress if we spread our advancements to the south."

"The Crown's eyes, you mean," Brynden said shrewdly, taking another sip of wine.

"Among others," Eddard confirmed. "We had to move carefully. Even now, with Robert himself in my halls, I feel the weight of southern scrutiny."

Owen shifted in his chair. "Lord Tully's disappointment is understandable, but Lord Stark's caution was necessary. The fewer who knew of our true capabilities, the better positioned we were to protect these advancements."

Edmure leaned forward, his eyes bright with curiosity. "And now? With the whole realm aware of the North's transformation, what changes?"

Eddard sighed heavily, running a hand over his weathered face. "The Northern lords will begin arriving within days. Manderly, Karstark, Umber, perhaps even the mountain clans - they'll all come to see Robert and hear what demands the Crown makes of us now."

He rose from his chair and walked to the window, watching as servants scurried about the courtyard below, preparing for the influx of noble guests. The mechanical workers Owen had created moved among them, carrying heavy loads with effortless precision.

"We'll spend a week hosting feasts and entertainments as the northern lords arrive," Eddard continued, his voice tinged with resignation. "Robert always did love his celebrations. But after the wine stops flowing and the music fades, there will be a meeting. The Crown won't let our prosperity go unremarked - or untaxed."

"How much do you think they'll demand?" Edmure asked, swirling the wine in his cup.

"More than we've been paying, certainly," Eddard replied. "Though Owen's illusions have helped hide the true extent of our wealth, they've seen enough at Moat Cailin to know we can afford far more than before."

Edmure looked to Owen. "Yes. Those illusions…..i can say without a doubt talk of your….sorcery in hiding the northern advancement may have startled many of the devout among the southern party. Soon they'll be all asking you to hide their debts with your magic."

The Blackfish grunted in agreement. "The Crown's debts to the Iron Bank and the various merchants and moneylenders won't have escaped anyone's notice. Roberts feasting and tourneys are legendarily expensive and most southern houses sometimes have debts up to their ears though they do well to hide it. They'll see the North as a solution to their financial troubles."

Eddard watched as Owen leaned forward in his chair, his son-in-law's face etched with concern. "That's precisely what worries me as well. The Crown will demand more and more, treating the north just as the Targaryens did - taking everything while offering nothing in return but a letter of thanks. We've worked and built too much to create this prosperity only to have it bled away by southern demands."

The Blackfish set his wine cup down with a decisive thunk. "Which is why the Riverlands must be present for these talks," he declared, his weathered face set with determination. "We're family, Ned. Through Cat and her children, through young Owen's marriage to Sansa - our houses are bound together. The Riverlands will support northern interests in these negotiations."

Eddard noted the calculating gleam in Brynden's eye as the older knight continued. "For a reasonable consideration, of course. A share in some of these innovations would go a long way toward securing our complete backing against crown demands."

Edmure nodded eagerly beside his uncle. "Father would be far more amenable if he saw some tangible benefits from this alliance. Perhaps some of those mechanical workers for our fields, as a start?"

Eddard studied the Tully men carefully, weighing their words. The Blackfish had always been pragmatic, and his support could prove valuable in the coming discussions with Robert. Yet giving away too much of their advantages could risk everything they'd built.

Eddard looked to Owen, studying his good-son's posture as the young man sat deep in thought. Owen's broad shoulders, built from years at the forge and enhanced by Solomon's pool, were hunched forward as he covered his face with one large hand. The silence stretched for several moments before Owen finally looked up, his features catching the firelight.

"Having the steam constructors and automatons help with quick farming and harvests shouldn't be a problem," Owen said carefully, his voice measured. "But anything else will require deeper negotiations."

Eddard noted how the Blackfish's eyes lightened slightly at Owen's words, while Edmure seemed to brighten at even this small concession.

Eddard rose from his chair, his joints protesting slightly despite the magical enhancements Owen had worked into Winterfell's very stones. The hour had grown later than he'd realized, and the feast would begin soon.

"We should prepare ourselves," he announced, gesturing toward the door. "Owen's improvements to the bathing chambers have made getting ready a much quicker affair than it once was. The hot water flows instantly now, and those 'showers' he installed are remarkably efficient as I'm sure you experienced at moat cailin." Lord Stark says and Edmure and Brynden nodded.

"Indeed," Owen agreed, standing as well. "We'll need our wits about us in the coming days. Best to be refreshed and clear-headed. Its going to be a long week.

Chapter Text

Owen watched the bustling activity in Winterfell's great hall with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. The past week had stretched his patience thin, between managing the endless stream of arriving northern lords and catering to the whims of their southern guests. The halls echoed with laughter, music, and the clash of training swords in the yard.

Robert Baratheon's booming voice carried across the courtyard as he challenged yet another northern lord to a sparring match. Despite his girth, the king retained a fragment of his former martial prowess, though he tired quickly and retreated to the great hall for more wine and tales of past glories.

"Another necklace, my love?" Sansa traced her fingers over Owen's latest creation - an intricate piece of rose gold and diamonds meant for the queen.

"Your father's idea. Keep her occupied and away from causing trouble." Owen closed the velvet box with a snap. "Though I'm starting to wonder if the trouble is worth it."

Sansa's face darkened. "She's been rather forward with her... requests."

Owen had lost count of how many times he'd been summoned to the queen's chambers this week. Each visit followed the same pattern - Cersei lounging in revealing silks, her green eyes predatory as she examined both the jewelry and its maker.

"My queen." Owen entered her chambers, keeping his eyes fixed on a point above her shoulder. She reclined on a chaise, her gown cut so low it left little to imagination.

"Owen." His name rolled off her tongue like honey. "Another gift? You spoil me."

"A commission from Lord Stark." He placed the box on a nearby table, maintaining his distance.

Cersei rose, the silk clinging to her curves. "Won't you help me try it on?" Her fingers trailed across the neckline of her gown. "Perhaps we could discuss other ways you might... serve the crown."

"I'm afraid I have urgent work at the forge, Your Grace." Owen backed toward the door, his face neutral despite his disgust. "My wife expects me."

A flash of anger crossed Cersei's features before she masked it with a practiced smile. "Such devotion. Though surely a man of your... talents... deserves more than a northern girl?"

"Good day, Your Grace." Owen closed the door firmly behind him, his jaw clenched.

Later that evening, as Owen and Sansa prepared for yet another feast, she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Perhaps we should tell Father to stop sending you with these 'gifts.' Let someone else deliver them."

Owen kissed her temple. "And risk her spite? Better to endure her games than provoke her outright." He smiled. "Besides, I have you to come home to. That makes it worth enduring her attempts at seduction."

Sansa's laugh brightened the room. "Just remember that, husband, next time she tries to lure you into her web."

The celebrations continued, with Robert leading hunts during the day and demanding songs and stories each night. Owen kept busy, producing enough jewelry to satisfy Cersei's vanity while avoiding any prolonged contact. Still, each summons tested his patience, especially when she grew bolder in her advances.

"You could be more than a simple northern smith lord," she purred during one delivery, her hand reaching for his arm. "The crown always needs loyal men of... exceptional ability."

Owen stepped back smoothly. "I'm quite content with my position in the North, Your Grace. Now if you'll excuse me, the forge calls."

He could feel her glare burning into his back as he left, but he'd learned long ago to ignore such things. Let her plot and scheme - he had more important matters to attend to than the queen's wounded pride.

Apart from dealing with Cersei and her increasingly brazen attempts at seduction that would surely one day lead to Sansa snapping the blonde queen in half if she wasn't careful - Owen had noticed the way his wife's eyes flashed dangerously whenever Cersei got too close or was mentioned - he and Eddard had spent the third and fourth day of the week giving extensive tours of the factory to the southern nobles.

Owen had led the group of southern nobles through the sprawling factory complex, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors. The mechanical hum of automated production lines filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic clanging of metal and hiss of steam.

"As you can see, each line specializes in different components," Owen explained, gesturing to the nearest assembly where mechanical arms precisely fitted armor plates together. "This section produces standard infantry armor, while the next handles cavalry equipment."

Jon Arryn's weathered face bore an expression of barely concealed concern as he watched a completed suit of armor emerge from the end of the line, pristine and gleaming. "And how many suits can this... facility produce in a day?"

"Five hundred complete sets of arms and armor a day, when running at full capacity." Owen kept his tone matter-of-fact, though he noted how Tywin Lannister's jaw tightened at the number.

"More than the entire annual output of the Street of Steel in King's Landing," Stannis ground out, his teeth audibly clenching.

They passed a section where mechanical workers forged sword blades with perfect precision, each blade identical to the last. The quality rivaled Valyrian steel in sharpness, though Owen had carefully ensured they weren't quite that exceptional.

"The uniformity is remarkable," Tywin observed, his green eyes calculating as they swept across the facility. "No human smith could achieve such consistency."

"That's the advantage of the steam constructors," Owen agreed. "They don't tire, they don't make mistakes, and they work day and night."

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "And how many of these facilities exist in the North?"

"Just this one and another at Ice Crest ." Owen led them past rows of completed weapons and armor, neatly stacked and ready for distribution. "Though we're considering building another perhaps near Castle Black."

"Two such arsenals already could arm the entire North in less than a year, and seeing as you have had four years of production, we can guess it already has" Stannis stated flatly.

"Your calculation aren't wrong my lord, but nobody in the north is armed as it were. All arms and armor are kept in protected storage and recorded." Owen smiled pleasantly. "The North must be prepared for any threat - whether it comes from beyond the Wall or elsewhere."

The implied threat wasn't lost on any of them. Tywin's face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flash of something close to fear as they passed a line of mechanical warriors standing sentinel along the walls.

"These constructs," Jon Arryn gestured to the metal guardians. "They serve as defenders as well as workers?"

"Among other functions." Owen activated one with a gesture. The construct stepped forward smoothly, its movements fluid and precise. "They're quite effective at maintaining security."

Owen guided the group toward the rear section of the factory, where the ceiling stretched higher to accommodate larger projects. The rhythmic clanging grew louder as they approached the assembly area for the Dwarven Colossus. Steam hissed from vents overhead, creating an otherworldly atmosphere in the cavernous space.

A dozen steam constructors worked in perfect synchronization, their mechanical arms precisely positioning massive armor plates onto the frame of a partially completed Colossus. The automaton's torso alone stood nearly twenty feet tall, its partially assembled form already dwarfing the humans gathered below.

"By the Seven," Mace Tyrell whispered, craning his neck to take in the full scale of the construct.

Oberyn Martell circled the base of the Colossus, his dark eyes sharp with interest. "Fascinating. The joints appear to allow for remarkably fluid movement despite its size."

"Indeed." Owen nodded, watching as another plate was lifted into position. "The engineering principles are quite advanced. Each Colossus requires nearly a month to complete, even with the automated assembly process. Though if pushed to work faster, it would take only three days."

Olenna Tyrell's shrewd gaze flickered between the mechanical workers and Owen. "And how many of these giants do you have stationed throughout the North, Lord Longshore?"

"That information is classified, my lady," Owen replied smoothly. "Though I can assure you they're quite effective at defending our borders."

Jon Arryn stepped forward, his lined face grave. "Perhaps a more pertinent question would be the total number of these automatons you have active across the North. The smaller ones and these ones that look like metal men we've seen patrolling."

Owen glanced at Lord Stark, who gave a slight nod after a moment's consideration. Turning back to the assembled nobles, Owen kept his voice steady as he delivered the number that would shatter their assumptions about the North's military capacity.

"We currently maintain approximately sixty thousand active automated defenders throughout the North."

The reaction was immediate. Mace Tyrell's face drained of color. Stannis's jaw clenched so hard Owen could hear his teeth grinding. Even Tywin's carefully controlled expression slipped for a moment, revealing genuine alarm.

"Sixty... thousand?" Jon Arryn's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Seven hells," someone muttered from the back of the group.

Owen watched as Kevan Lannister stepped forward, his weathered face creased with concern. "The most we have ever seen is perhaps twenty of these constructs, and two of those giant Colossi in the distance near Castle Cerwyn." Several heads nodded in agreement among the southern nobles.

Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat, his eyes studying the towering form of the partially assembled Colossus above them. "Where could you possibly keep such a large force? Sixty thousand is..." He trailed off, clearly struggling with the implications.

Owen allowed himself a small smile, though there was no warmth in it. "My lord Tyrion, if you were able to see them, it's because we allowed you to see them as visitors to our lands." He turned to address the entire group, his voice carrying clearly in the cavernous space. "The automatons are spread throughout the North, hidden from view. Any enemies of the North would never see them before they were upon them."

The weight of his words settled over the assembly like a heavy blanket. Owen observed how the color drained from Mace Tyrell's already pale face, while Olenna's fingers tightened on her cane until her knuckles whitened. Even Oberyn Martell's usual easy smile had faded into something more calculating.

King Robert, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the tour, exchanged a meaningful look with Jon Arryn and Stannis. The silent communication between the three men spoke volumes - Owen knew they would be calling for an urgent meeting to discuss these revelations as soon as they left the factory.

Tywin Lannister's face remained carefully neutral, but Owen noticed how his right hand had unconsciously moved to rest on his sword hilt. The gesture wasn't threatening - rather, it seemed almost reflexive, as if the Lord of Casterly Rock was seeking reassurance from a familiar weapon in the face of something far beyond his experience or control.

The mechanical workers continued their assembly of the Colossus overhead, their rhythmic movements now seeming more ominous than impressive to their southern observers. Steam hissed from overhead vents, the sound cutting through the tense silence that had fallen over the group as they began to leave the factory.

________________________________________

Sansa's fingers moved with practiced grace over the fabric, guiding Arya's clumsy attempts at embroidering a direwolf onto the handkerchief. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the solar, casting a warm glow over the assembled ladies. Yet despite the pleasant weather, tension hung thick in the air like summer storm clouds.

"Your husband has quite remarkable... talents, Lady Sansa," Cersei drawled, her green eyes glinting with barely concealed desire. "Such skilled hands. I've never seen such exquisite craftsmanship."

Sansa's needle pierced the fabric with perhaps more force than necessary. "Indeed, Your Grace. Owen's abilities are extraordinary." She kept her voice sweet, though her blood began to simmer.

"Oh yes," Arianne Martell purred, adjusting her revealing silk dress. "We've all seen how... capable he is. Those arms of his, working the forge just yesterday..." She exchanged knowing looks with her bastard cousins.

Obara Sand made no attempt to hide her appreciation. "If I had a man like that, I wouldn't let him spend so much time alone in that forge."

"Sister," Tyene chided softly, though her own eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I must admit, there's something fascinating about a man who can create such beautiful things."

Margaery Tyrell leaned forward, her smile innocent but her words carefully chosen. "The way he moves when demonstrating those mechanical marvels of his... such grace for someone so strong."

Sansa's fingers tightened around her needle as she guided Arya's stitches. Her sister shot her a concerned glance, clearly sensing her growing irritation.

"I've invited him to demonstrate some of his special techniques privately," Cersei announced, swirling her wine. "A queen must understand the crafts that make her realm prosperous."

"How thoughtful of you, Your Grace," Olenna Tyrell commented dryly. "Though I wonder if Lady Sansa might object to such... personal instruction."

Nymeria Sand laughed softly. "Surely she can't keep such talent all to herself? It would be selfish not to share."

Sansa silently counted in her head, each number a desperate attempt to maintain her composure. One... two... three... The needle trembled slightly in her grip as she fought the urge to demonstrate exactly how much strength her transformed body now possessed. The windows of the solar were certainly high enough that a fall would prove... educational for these women.

Four... five... six...

Her enhanced senses caught every subtle gesture, every lingering glance. Cersei's predatory gaze made her blood boil, but she wasn't blind to the other attention in the room. Arianne Martell's dark eyes kept drifting to Sansa's face, then lower, admiring the way her dress hugged her ethereal figure. Margaery Tyrell was more subtle, but her sideways glances held the same heat.

Seven... eight...

"Such a devoted wife," Cersei continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the dangerous glint in Sansa's eyes. "Though surely even the most faithful couples need... variety now and then?"

Nine...

Sansa could feel the strength humming through her muscles, knew she could snap the thick oak table with one hand if she chose. The waters of Solomon's temple had given her more than just supernatural beauty - they had granted her power that would make these simpering southerners pale if they knew. She could lift any of them with one hand, throw them clear across Winterfell's courtyard if she wished.

Ten.

"My husband and I find plenty of variety in each other's company, Your Grace," Sansa replied, her voice honey-sweet even as her fingers itched to demonstrate exactly how strong she'd become. "Though I appreciate your... concern for our marriage bed."

Arianne shifted in her seat, the movement drawing Sansa's attention. The Dornish princess's eyes were dark with desire as they traced the elegant line of Sansa's throat. Margaery, too, seemed captivated by Sansa's otherworldly grace, her usual practiced smile replaced by something more genuine and hungry.

"The North seems full of hidden treasures," Margaery observed softly, her meaning clear in the way her gaze lingered on Sansa's face. "Both its lord and lady are quite... remarkable."

Sansa allowed herself a small, knowing smile as she observed the barely concealed desire in both Margaery and Arianne's eyes. If they only knew what she and Owen were truly capable of now, after their transformation in Solomon's temple. Their enhanced bodies could provide pleasures beyond mortal imagination - and exhaust any number of partners within minutes. The thought of leaving the proud Tyrell rose and the Dornish viper trembling and spent amused her greatly.

But before she could dwell further on such thoughts, Olenna Tyrell's sharp voice cut through the tension.

"While this discussion of... marital duties is fascinating," the Queen of Thorns said dryly, "I notice there's been no sign of children yet, Lady Sansa. Four years is quite a while for a young, healthy couple to remain childless."

The other women's attention shifted instantly, some with barely concealed satisfaction at what they assumed was a weakness in Sansa's marriage. Cersei's smirk was particularly vindictive.

Sansa's smile widened, genuine joy replacing her earlier irritation. She placed her embroidery carefully on the table and met Olenna's shrewd gaze directly.

"Actually, Lady Olenna, I'm pleased to inform you that I am with child." She let her hand rest gently on her still-flat stomach. "Two months along now."

The reactions around the room were immediate and varied. Margaery's practiced smile faltered slightly. Arianne's eyes narrowed, though she maintained her pleasant expression. Cersei's face twisted briefly before she schooled it back to neutrality, her knuckles white around her wine glass.

"How wonderful," Olenna said, studying Sansa's face carefully. "The North will have its heir at last."

Sansa nodded, savoring each reaction. "Yes, Owen and I are overjoyed. The maesters say everything is progressing perfectly."

The tension in the solar shifted palpably at Sansa's announcement. Though most of the ladies maintained their courteous smiles, their eyes told a different story. Sansa could practically taste their disappointment and frustration in the air, her enhanced senses picking up on every subtle change in their expressions and body language.

Nymeria Sand's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her wine glass. Arianne's smile grew a fraction too wide, too fixed. Even sweet Margaery's practiced court mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of genuine dismay before she recovered her composure.

Only Olenna seemed genuinely unperturbed by the news, her shrewd eyes studying Sansa with renewed interest. "The first of many, I trust?" the Queen of Thorns inquired, her tone carefully neutral.

"We shall see what the gods grant us," Sansa replied serenely, turning back to guide Arya's clumsy stitches. Her sister was doing her best to maintain the pretense of interest, though Sansa could feel her practically vibrating with boredom.

The other ladies quickly recovered their composure, but Sansa noticed how their gazes had changed. Where before there had been predatory interest, now there was calculation. She recognized the look - these women were no longer simply interested in seducing Owen for pleasure. Now they saw the possibility of producing rival heirs, of using bastards to create political leverage.

Sansa's fingers moved mechanically through the embroidery motions as she seethed internally. Her enhanced strength thrummed through her body, and she had to consciously gentle her touch to avoid snapping the delicate needle. These southern flowers and Dornish snakes had no idea what they were dealing with. She wasn't just the demure northern lady they assumed her to be - she was something far more powerful now.

Let them plot and scheme, she thought viciously. Let them try to tempt Owen with their revealing dresses and practiced seductions. She would tear apart anyone who dared try to take what was hers, and she would do it with a smile as sweet as summer wine.

________________________________________

Owen studied the assembled nobles seated around the massive ironwood table he had personally crafted for this meeting. The exquisite wood grain rippled with subtle magical enchantments, barely visible unless one knew where to look. He'd spent days working the protective spells into the material, ensuring no weapons could be drawn within ten feet of its surface.

Early morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of Winterfell's great hall, light shining across stern faces. The tension in the room was palpable as servants finished laying out bread, salt, and wine before quietly withdrawing. Owen could feel the weight of so many calculating gazes upon him - Tywin's cold assessment, Olenna's shrewd analysis, Oberyn's barely concealed interest.

Robert sat at the head of the table, his massive frame dominating the ornate chair. To his right, Cersei's emerald eyes glittered with barely concealed hostility. Jon Arryn's weathered face bore the careful neutrality of an experienced diplomat, while Stannis ground his teeth audibly in the silence. Ser Barristan stood vigilant behind the king, his white cloak pristine in the morning light.

The Lannisters had positioned themselves strategically - Tywin flanked by Kevan and Tyrion, their golden hair catching the sun. Across from them sat the Tullys, Brynden's scarred face a sharp contrast to Edmure's younger features. Princess Arianne had chosen a seat that gave her a clear view of Owen, her dark eyes heavy with suggestion. Beside her, Oberyn lounged with deceptive casualness, though Owen noted how the Red Viper's hand never strayed far from his belt.

Mace Tyrell's florid face was already beginning to sweat, though whether from nerves or the warmth of the hall was unclear. His mother Olenna sat beside him; her gnarled hands folded primly on the table as she observed the room with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

Owen exchanged a brief glance with Lord Stark, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. They had prepared extensively for this meeting, knowing the fate of the North's independence might well hinge on how they handled the coming negotiations.

Owen sat straighter as Robert cleared his throat, signaling the start of the meeting. Over the past days, various nobles had attempted to arrange private audiences - some subtle, others remarkably bold. Apart from her normal seduction trials, Cersei had tried to summon him directly to her chambers to discuss deals that he had of course denied, while Arianne's invitation had been delivered with a scented note and suggestive promises. Even Olenna had attempted to arrange an "informal tea" to discuss his innovations.

But Jon Arryn's counsel had been clear and wise - no private meetings, no separate negotiations. Everything would be discussed here, in the open, with all parties present. Lord Stark had readily agreed, knowing how easily separate discussions could lead to misunderstandings or accusations of favoritism.

Owen watched as Robert gestured to Jon Arryn, the aged Hand clearing his throat before addressing the assembled nobles. The morning light caught the silver in Jon's hair as he rose from his seat, his voice steady and diplomatic.

"First, I must express our deepest gratitude to Lord Stark, Lady Catelyn, and their family for their generous hospitality during our stay," Jon began, his weathered features settling into a practiced diplomatic expression. "The North's prosperity these past four years has been remarkable to witness firsthand."

Owen noticed how Jon's eyes swept across the table, making brief contact with each major lord present. A skilled negotiator's tactic, Owen realized, meant to include everyone in the conversation while asserting authority.

"However," Jon continued, his tone growing more serious, "we must address certain matters of significance. While we celebrate the North's achievements and growth, we cannot ignore that the North remains an integral part of the Seven Kingdoms, under the rule of King Robert of House Baratheon." He paused, letting the words sink in. "The North's remarkable progress cannot continue in isolation from the rest of the realm."

Owen felt Lord Stark stiffen slightly beside him, though Eddard's face remained carefully neutral. The implied message was clear - the crown would not allow the North to keep developing independently without some form of compensation or concession. The real negotiations were about to begin.

Jon Arryn turned and nodded to Tywin Lannister, a subtle gesture that Owen had anticipated. The Lord of Casterly Rock rose with practiced grace, his presence commanding immediate attention from everyone at the table. Owen sat up straighter, knowing that the carefully orchestrated questioning was about to begin.

Tywin reached into his crimson doublet and withdrew a heavy leather pouch. The sound of clinking metal filled the tense silence as he emptied its contents onto the ironwood table. Pure gold dragons scattered across the polished surface, their pristine surfaces catching the morning light.

"Since Aegon's Conquest," Tywin's voice carried clearly through the hall, "House Lannister has been the undisputed and authorized minter of Westerosi coin." His green-flecked golden eyes fixed on Owen with predatory intensity. "Yet here we find proof that House Stark has been doing the same for four years without royal or Lannister approval."

Owen kept his face carefully neutral as he studied the coins. They were indeed from Cidhna mine - a batch he'd created before realizing they needed to be deliberately tarnished to match Lannister quality. He'd thought all those early coins had been recalled and melted down. Clearly, he'd missed some.

Tywin's fingers traced one of the dragons, its surface unmarred by the usual microscopic flaws found in Lannister mintings. "These coins are of exceptional purity. Some might say impossibly pure." His cold gaze swept the table. "A direct challenge to House Lannister's authority and the Crown's monetary sovereignty."

Owen watched as Tywin produced several letters bearing merchant seals from Pentos, Myr, and Volantis.

"For four years," Tywin continued, his voice sharp with controlled anger, "these Northern coins have been circulating throughout Essos. They've become the new standard against which all Westerosi currency is measured." He laid out the letters one by one. "Our southern merchants now face significant losses as Essosi traders demand more Lannister-minted dragons to match the value of these pure Northern coins."

Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords. Owen noticed Robert's face darkening as he realized the economic implications.

"The damage to House Lannister's reputation cannot be understated," Tywin declared, his cold eyes fixing on Owen and Lord Stark. "Our traders are forced to use additional coin simply because the Essosi markets no longer trust Lannister gold as they once did. They demand more of our dragons to match the worth of a single Northern-minted piece."

Tywin straightened to his full height, his presence dominating the room. "I demand that House Stark and House Longshore cease all minting operations immediately." His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Furthermore, compensation must be made for this breach of Crown law and the damages inflicted upon House Lannister's interests. I propose a fine of five million gold dragons, to be paid jointly to the Crown and House Lannister."

Owen watched Tywin take his seat, the scattered pure gold dragons gleaming on the ironwood table between them. Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles as they processed the steep demanded payment. The amount was significant, yet Owen knew they could easily afford it from just a week's production at Cidhna Mine.

Olenna Tyrell jabbed her elbow sharply into Mace's side, causing the Lord of Highgarden to startle before rising ponderously to his feet. His face had grown even more florid under the attention of the gathered lords.

"House Tyrell and the Reach support Lord Tywin's proposed punishment," Mace declared, his voice carrying a forced authority. "Our own merchants have suffered similar difficulties in their Essosi trade dealings due to these Northern coins."

Owen exchanged a measured look with Lord Stark. They had anticipated this alliance between the Reach and the Westerlands on this issue. A subtle blink from Eddard confirmed their predetermined response - accept the fine and move forward.

Owen turned back to face Tywin, keeping his expression neutral despite the slight smile trying to tug at his lips. "House Longshore and House Stark accept these terms, Lord Tywin," he said clearly. "Though I must ask - how would you prefer the payment to be made? Should we use our Northern-minted dragons, or would you prefer the standard Westerosi coins produced by House Lannister?"

The barb was subtle but sharp, highlighting the very issue at hand - their coins were demonstrably superior to Lannister mintings. Owen could see Tyrion trying to suppress a smirk while Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the implied slight.

After a moment's pause, the Lord of Casterly Rock gave a curt nod.

"Standard Westerosi coin will suffice," Tywin said, his voice carrying just a hint of strain beneath its usual authority.

Lord Stark cleared his throat, his steady voice filling the great hall. "As we have indeed been minting unauthorized coins for four years, House Stark and House Longshore will pay two million gold dragons to the Crown and two million to House Lannister." He paused, his grey eyes sweeping the assembled nobles. "The remaining one million will be split between both parties to compensate for merchant losses."

Owen observed Jon Arryn's weathered face as the Hand considered the proposal. After a brief moment, Jon gave a measured nod of acceptance. To Owen's surprise, Tywin also agreed without further argument, though Owen had expected the notorious negotiator to press for a larger sum given the North's obvious wealth.

The easy acceptance made Owen slightly uneasy. While the fine was substantial by normal standards, they could easily pay it from their vast reserves. Tywin Lannister was not known for accepting initial offers, which suggested he had other plans in mind.

Owen watched as Stannis rose from his seat, his stern face even more rigid than usual. The younger Baratheon brother's jaw worked for a moment before he spoke, likely grinding his teeth as was his habit.

"While matters of commerce and coinage are indeed pressing," Stannis began, his voice clipped and formal, "we cannot overlook the North's flagrant disregard for maritime law." His hard gaze fixed on Owen and Lord Stark in turn. "For four years, Northern ships have sailed without proper royal recognition."

Stannis placed both hands on the ironwood table, leaning forward slightly. "By law, all vessels must bear the Baratheon colors alongside their house sigils. Furthermore, as Master of Ships, I should have been notified of each vessel's construction and received regular reports of their activities." His voice grew sharper with each word. "Instead, these ships patrol only Northern waters and conduct northern trade, ignoring the broader responsibility to combat piracy throughout Westeros under my authority."

Owen kept his expression neutral as Stannis straightened to his full height. "House Stark and House Longshore will provide an exact count of their fleet immediately," he demanded. "The crown must know the full extent of these unauthorized naval operations."

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Owen and Lord Stark. Owen could feel the weight of their stares, particularly Robert's suddenly focused attention. The king had straightened in his chair, his previous boredom replaced with keen interest at the mention of military matters.

Owen suppressed a weary sigh as he reached for his Wolfhide ledger. He'd hoped to avoid revealing the full scope of their naval power, but Stannis's direct question left no room for evasion. The book's pristine pages rustled as he opened it, each sheet enchanted to update automatically with the latest fleet numbers from his administrative steam constructors.

"As of last month," Owen announced clearly, his voice carrying through the great hall, "House Longshore, Stark, Manderly, and Forrester collectively maintain one thousand five hundred ships of various classes. Five hundred vessels are dedicated to Essosi trade routes, while the remainder patrol northern waters or escort merchant vessels."

The reaction was immediate. Gasps and shocked murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles. Owen noticed Tywin's eyes narrow fractionally, while Olenna's grip tightened on her cane. Even Robert leaned forward, his wine cup forgotten as he processed the numbers.

"Various classes?" Stannis's voice cut through the whispers, sharp with suspicion. "Explain what you mean by that."

Owen met the Master of Ships' hard stare evenly. He'd known this question would come - Stannis's reputation for attention to detail was well-earned.

Owen turned several pages in the ledger, revealing detailed illustrations of his fleet's various ship classes. Each drawing was meticulously rendered in vibrant colors, showing multiple angles and cross-sections of the vessels. The Galleon-class ships were drawn with their distinctive high forecastles and multiple gun decks, while the Frigates displayed their sleek, maneuverable designs. The Ships of the Line were particularly impressive on paper, their rows of cannon ports and reinforced hulls clearly visible in the detailed renderings.

He slid the book across the polished ironwood surface toward Stannis, watching as the Master of Ships' stern expression shifted to barely concealed alarm. Stannis's fingers traced the drawings, lingering on the technical specifications noted in precise script beside each vessel type.

Jon Arryn received the book next, his weathered face growing more serious as he studied the illustrations. The Hand passed it to Robert, whose boisterous demeanor had given way to an uncommon focus as he examined the fleet's capabilities.

The ledger made its way around the table, each lord's reaction telling its own story. Tywin's face remained carefully neutral, though his eyes narrowed slightly at the ships' specifications. Mace Tyrell's florid complexion paled notably, while Olenna's sharp eyes missed nothing as she scrutinized every detail.

When the book reached the Dornish group, even Oberyn's usual casual demeanor slipped. The Red Viper sat up straighter, his dark eyes intent on the drawings. Beside him, Arianne leaned closer, her earlier seductive glances replaced by genuine interest as she studied the naval capabilities laid bare before them.

Owen watched as Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. "How does one build vessels of such immense size? The timber requirements alone would be staggering."

Before Owen could respond, Mace Tyrell's voice cut through the murmurs. "Forget the size - these numbers are impossible! Even with every shipwright in the North working day and night, four years isn't nearly enough time to construct such a fleet." His face had grown redder with each word.

"Neither question matters," Stannis interrupted sharply, his jaw clenched tight. "These ships were built without crown authority and must be brought under royal command immediately. I expect full integration into the royal fleet within-"

Owen didn't let him finish. With a slight gesture of his hand, the ledger flew across the table, returning to his grasp. The casual display of magic silenced the room instantly. Several southern lords flinched back in their seats, while others stared with undisguised shock - they had apparently forgotten about his magical abilities during the technical discussions.

"No," Owen said simply, his voice quiet but firm as he closed the ledger.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before chaos erupted in the great hall. Owen watched as the carefully maintained facade of diplomacy shattered.

"This is treason!" Stannis shot to his feet, his face darkening with rage. "House Stark and House Longshore tread dangerous ground by refusing royal authority!"

Cersei's voice cut through the growing din like a knife. "Can't you see, Robert? The North plots against you! These ships, these weapons - they prepare to usurp your throne!" Her green eyes blazed with vindictive triumph as she finally voiced her suspicions.

Tywin's measured tones somehow carried over his daughter's accusations. "The Crown's ledgers show discrepancies. The North's trade revenues far exceed their declared taxes. They withhold what is rightfully owed to the Iron Throne."

"The weapons! The metal men!" Mace Tyrell's face had grown purple with indignation. "Such power cannot remain solely in Northern hands! These innovations must be shared with all the kingdoms!"

More voices joined the cacophony, each lord trying to shout over the others. Accusations of treachery, demands for technology, and calls for punishment filled the air. The Dornish contingent added their own heated opinions to the mix while the tullys rose in their defense\

Through it all, Owen remained seated, his face carefully neutral as he observed the chaos. Beside him, Lord Stark maintained the same stoic silence, though Owen could sense the tension in his goodfather's rigid posture. Across the table, Robert Baratheon watched the scene unfold with an unusually thoughtful expression, his wine cup forgotten in his hand. Jon Arryn's weathered face revealed nothing as his sharp eyes moved from speaker to speaker, assessing each outburst with careful consideration.

Owen slammed the ledger onto the ironwood table with a thunderous crack, silencing the chaos instantly. The sudden quiet felt oppressive as all eyes turned to him.

"Why?" His voice carried clearly through the hall, sharp with barely contained anger. "Tell me why we should share what we've built?" He rose slowly from his seat, his enhanced presence commanding attention.

"For four years, we've transformed the North through our own efforts. We've constructed these ships with northern ideas, forged these weapons with our skill." Owen's gaze swept across the assembled southern lords. "Where were any of you when we began this work? What aid did you offer?"

His lips curled into a bitter smile. "Empty promises. That's all the South has ever given us since the time of Aegon's conquest and through the Targaryens fall."

"The Reach hoards its bounty while northern children starve in winter. The Westerlands count their gold while our people freeze. Dorne and the Vale remain distant, caring nothing for northern struggles." Owen's voice grew harder with each accusation. "Yet now you demand we hand over our achievements? Now you claim right to what we've created?"

The southern lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Owen's words struck home.

Stannis's face contorted with barely contained fury as he rose from his seat. "It is your duty to the realm! To your king!" His voice cracked like a whip through the great hall. "The North cannot hoard such power while the rest of Westeros struggles. What of your oaths of fealty?"

Owen watched as Eddard finally broke his stoic silence, rising slowly to stand beside him. The Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes held an uncharacteristic coldness as he addressed the gathered nobles.

"Duty?" Eddard's quiet voice carried more weight than Stannis's shouts. "If it's gold you want, we'll pay our trade taxes in full with interest. The North has no need for southern coin." He placed both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "But speak not to us of duty, Lord Stannis."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Eddard continued. "Where was the South's duty when a fellow kingdom suffered? When winter gripped our lands? When our children starved and our old folk froze?" His voice grew harder with each word. "The North has fulfilled its obligations for generations. We've sent men to the Wall, paid our taxes, answered every call to arms. And what have we received in return?"

Owen could see the impact of Eddard's words on the southern lords. Even Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his old friend laid bare centuries of neglect.

"Nothing," Eddard finished quietly. "The North remembers its duty, my lords. But we also remember how the South has repaid that duty with indifference to our suffering."

Owen watched as Tywin rose from his seat with fluid grace, his golden-flecked green eyes fixing on Lord Stark with predatory intensity.

"Let us speak plainly," Tywin's commanding voice cut through the tension. "The North now possesses the largest fleet in Westeros, mechanical soldiers that never tire, and weapons of extraordinary power. Your coffers overflow while your fortresses and castles grow stronger by the day." His lips thinned. "To any objective observer, these look like preparations for war - for independence."

Several of the southern lords nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting varying degrees of suspicion and fear. Owen noticed Robert's hand tightening around his wine cup once more as he listened intently.

"You grasp at shadows, Lord Tywin," Eddard responded, his voice steady and firm. "The North has stood with House Baratheon since Robert's Rebellion. We've shed blood together, fought together, won together." He turned to face his old friend. "Robert knows the truth of Northern loyalty."

Tywin's response was swift and cutting. "Then prove it." He spread his hands in a gesture that appeared reasonable but carried an unmistakable threat. "Share your prosperity with the realm. Show us how to build these ships. Teach us to create these glasshouses that feed your people through winter."

Owen could hear the trap in Tywin's words. The Lord of Casterly Rock wasn't asking for proof of loyalty - he was demanding submission, trying to force the North to give up its advantages. The request was crafted to make any refusal appear suspicious.

"After all," Tywin continued smoothly, "what loyal kingdom would deny such knowledge to their fellow subjects of the crown?"

Before Owen could rise to challenge Tywin's veiled accusations, Robert pushed back from the table with a scrape of wood on stone. The king's face had lost its earlier anger, replaced by an expression Owen hadn't seen before - one of tired resignation mixed with determination.

"Ned," Robert's voice carried none of its usual boisterous energy as he addressed his old friend. "You know I don't give two shits about ships and taxes. The North's success doesn't threaten me - seven hells, I'm happy for you." He ran a hand through his thick black beard. "If anyone deserves prosperity after all these years, it's the bloody North."

Robert's eyes met Eddard's, and Owen could see decades of friendship and shared battles in that look. "But I'm not just your friend anymore, Ned. I'm the king of all Seven Kingdoms." He spread his arms wide, encompassing the assembled lords. "I have to look to all of Westeros now, not just the North. Your people prosper while others struggle - how can I ignore that?"

The king's massive frame seemed to deflate slightly as he continued. "The North can't hoard these innovations, these advantages. It's not about loyalty or punishment - it's about doing what's right for the realm." Robert's voice grew firmer. "You told me that, Ned, all those years after we destroyed the Targaryens. Sometimes a king has to put the good of all his people above the desires of a few."

Owen watched as Lord Stark's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at Robert's words. The king was wielding their friendship like a weapon, though Owen suspected Robert didn't even realize he was doing it.

Owen watched as Jon Arryn rose from his seat, his weathered hands pressed against the ironwood table. The Hand's presence commanded immediate attention, quieting the lords.

"My lords, this is not the time to be at each other's throats," Jon Arryn's measured voice cut through the tension. "Surely a compromise can be reached that satisfies both crown and kingdom."

Owen noticed Eddard's gaze shift from Robert to Stannis, considering his next words carefully. The Lord of Winterfell's expression remained neutral as he spoke.

"Ten ships from our fleet will be placed under royal command," Eddard declared, causing Owen to raise an eyebrow slightly. "They will sail with northern captains and northern crews."

Stannis's jaw clenched visibly at the offer, his teeth grinding in that characteristic way Owen had heard about. The Master of Ships clearly wanted to protest - ten ships was a mere fraction of the North's naval power, and the conditions attached made the gesture more symbolic than practical.

But before Stannis could voice his objections, Eddard added one final condition: "No one but Lord Stannis himself will be permitted to board these vessels."

Owen watched as Stannis's face tightened further, but the Master of Ships gave a sharp, grudging nod of acceptance. It was clear to Owen that Stannis recognized this was the best offer he would receive, even if it fell completely far short of his original demands.

Eddard turned to face Jon Arryn, his expression carefully measured. "Lord Manderly will sail to King's Landing two weeks after your party departs," Eddard declared. "He'll bring complete records of our trade profits for review."

The Lord of Winterfell paused, letting his next words carry weight. "Furthermore, we'll provide a note to the Crown, payable through the Iron Bank, for the maximum calculated taxes once all accounts are properly assessed."

Owen noticed Jon Arryn's shoulders relax slightly at this concession. The Hand of the King gave a slight nod, clearly satisfied with this practical solution to the immediate financial concerns. The offer of involving the Iron Bank added legitimacy to the North's commitment - no one could question the bank's impartial accounting.

This compromise seemed to drain some of the tension from the room. Several of the southern lords shifted in their seats, their earlier hostility diminishing in the face of this reasonable arrangement. Jon Arryn's weathered face showed clear relief as he accepted Eddard's proposal with a dignified inclination of his head. The involvement of the Iron Bank and Lord Manderly's personal oversight would satisfy the Crown's immediate demands while maintaining the North's autonomy.

Owen watched as Mace Tyrell's face flushed red once again, the Lord of Highgarden pushing himself to his feet with surprising speed for his bulk.

"This talk of ships and taxes is all well and good," Mace declared, his voice rising with indignation. "But what of these metal men we've seen patrolling your lands? What of these vast arsenals your factories produce day and night?" He jabbed a pudgy finger toward Owen. "By what right does the North hoard such military might while the rest of the realm goes without?"

Mace's chest puffed out as he gained momentum. "These weapons and armor should be distributed fairly among all the great houses. Each lord should receive their share of these... these mechanical soldiers. It's only proper!"

Owen noticed some of the present lords nodding in agreement, though he caught the slight roll of Lady Olenna's eyes at her son's blunt demands. The Queen of Thorns clearly thought her son was being too direct, too obvious in his grasping.

Cersei leaned forward, her green eyes glittering. "Lord Tyrell speaks truly. Such weapons could threaten the peace of the realm if left solely in Northern hands." Her smile was sharp as a knife. "Unless, of course, there's some reason the North wishes to keep its armies so... well-equipped?"

Brynden Tully rose from his seat to their defense, the Blackfish's weathered face set in stern lines as he addressed Mace Tyrell's demands.

"The Reach maintains the largest standing army in Westeros," Brynden's gruff voice cut through the tension. "The Westerlands arm their men with the finest steel gold can buy. Dorne has its spears, the Vale its knights." His sharp blue eyes swept across the assembled lords. "Yet I hear none of you offering to share your military advantages with other kingdoms."

Owen felt a surge of gratitude toward the legendary warrior. The Blackfish's practical assessment showed the hypocrisy of demanding the North share its innovations while other kingdoms jealously guarded their own strengths, not daring to share whatever military advantage they had.

Prince Oberyn rose next. "The Blackfish speaks truly," the Red Viper's accent rolled through the words. "These achievements belong to the North alone. They've created something unprecedented through their own ingenuity." He spread his hands in an elegant gesture. "What right do we have to demand they simply hand over such advantages?"

Owen's initial relief at finding another supporter quickly soured as Oberyn continued speaking, his dark eyes glinting with cunning.

"However," the Dornish prince's voice took on a reasonable tone that set Owen's teeth on edge, "perhaps to ease the legitimate concerns of our fellow kingdoms, the North might consider halting production of these mechanical soldiers and weapons?" Oberyn's smile was sharp. "Surely what they've produced over four years is sufficient for their needs? This would demonstrate their peaceful intentions while allowing them to maintain their current strength."

Owen's jaw clenched as he recognized the clever trap in Oberyn's words. The suggestion appeared reasonable on the surface while effectively hobbling the North's growing power. By framing it as a compromise, Oberyn had made any refusal seem suspicious.

Owen watched as Eddard let out a weary sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly as he nodded in acceptance. "Very well. We will halt production of our mechanical forces and weapons." His goodfather's grey eyes met Owen's briefly, carrying a hint of knowing that made Owen suppress a smile.

The truth was, they didn't need to produce any more. Hidden within the vast network of mines and storage facilities across the North lay an army of mechanical might that would make even the most seasoned commander's jaw drop. Thousands of steam constructors stood ready, alongside legions of Dwemer spiders and soldiers. The number of Dwarven Colossi they'd already created was almost embarrassing - they'd run out of places to store the massive war machines and had set most to patrol the north or stand ready at castle black to assist the nights watch.

Jon Arryn rose from his seat, satisfaction evident in his aged features. "Then we have reached an accord. Any further arrangements regarding these innovations must be negotiated directly with Houses Stark and Longshore, with proper oversight from the Crown." The Hand of the King's voice carried the weight of official proclamation. "The North, of course, may set its own terms for such arrangements."

Owen noticed several southern lords shifting in their seats, clearly already calculating potential deals and alliances. They'd gotten what they wanted - a chance at access to the North's technological marvels - but Owen knew they'd soon discover just how steep the price for such knowledge could be.

Just as he thought they were finally done with it all, he tensed as Tywin rose once more, his green eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. The old lion's words cut through the momentary peace like a blade.

"We will all return to our lands soon enough," Tywin's commanding voice filled the hall. "And when we do, every lord, every knight, every peasant will see the truth of the North's transformation." His thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. "Now that Lord Longshore's... illusions no longer hide the full scope of your power."

Owen's jaw clenched at the deliberate emphasis Tywin placed on 'illusions.' The Lord of Casterly Rock was reminding everyone present of just how much the North had concealed.

"Our bannermen will have questions," Tywin continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "They will demand to know what safeguards have been put in place to prevent the North from simply declaring independence." His eyes fixed on Robert. "What stops them from turning their metal giants and mechanical soldiers upon the South? We cannot return home without answers to these concerns."

Owen noticed several southern lords nodding in agreement, their earlier satisfaction with the compromises already fading in the face of Tywin's words.

Owen watched as Eddard stood, his goodfather's face tight with barely contained frustration. "We have made enough concessions already," Eddard stated firmly. "The North has shown its commitment to peace and cooperation through concrete actions. What more could possibly be required?"

Tywin raised his hand in a dismissive gesture that made Owen's blood boil. "It is not enough," the old lion declared. "Words and gold are temporary assurances. The North must be bound to the South through stronger ties - through blood."

The hall grew silent as Tywin continued; his green eyes gleaming. "I propose that Arya Stark be betrothed and subsequently wed to Prince Joffrey. Such a union would demonstrate the North's true commitment to House Baratheon and the realm."

Owen felt his jaw clench as Tywin's gaze swept toward him and Sansa. "Furthermore, any children born to Lord and Lady Longshore should be betrothed to either House Lannister or House Baratheon. These blood ties would ensure lasting peace and cooperation between our houses."

Owen winced as the great hall erupted into chaos. If the previous arguments had been heated, this was an inferno. Lords leaped to their feet, faces red with fury as they shouted over each other. Even Robert looked taken aback by the sudden explosion of tempers.

Lady Olenna's sharp voice cut through the din like a Valyrian steel blade. "How transparent can you be, Lord Tywin?" The Queen of Thorns' weathered face twisted with derision. "Trying to secure Northern power through your grandson? Please." She tapped her cane against the floor for emphasis. "If any match is to be made, House Tyrell would be far more suitable. The girl clearly needs refinement that only Highgarden can provide."

Before Tywin could respond, Prince Oberyn shot to his feet, dark eyes flashing. "Refinement?" The Red Viper practically spat the word. "I've seen the girl practicing swordplay in the yard. She has the spirit of a true warrior!" His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "In Dorne, such spirit is celebrated, not stifled. Prince Quentyn would make a far better match."

Owen watched as Eddard suddenly shot to his feet, his fist slamming into the ironwood table with a crack that silenced the bickering lords. The sound echoed through the great hall like thunder.

"My daughter's hand is not up for discussion," Eddard's voice was cold as a northern winter, his grey eyes hard as steel as they swept across the assembled nobles. "Arya is a daughter of House Stark and I will not have her future bartered away like a prized mare."

Robert shifted in his seat, his face lighting up with sudden interest. "Now hold on, Ned. Perhaps Tywin has the right of it." The king leaned forward, his voice growing eager. "Join our houses properly this time. The girl's wild nature might be just what my son needs."

Owen noticed Cersei's lips curve into a triumphant smile as she added, "To refuse such an honor would be disobedience to your king, Lord Stark."

But Eddard remained unmoved, his stance rigid as he faced his old friend. "I said no, Robert." His voice carried the same unyielding tone he'd used when refusing to support the assassination of Daenerys Targaryen. "You are my king and my friend, but I will not sacrifice my daughter's happiness for political convenience."

The silence that followed was deafening. Owen could see the muscle working in Robert's jaw as the king's face darkened with anger at being refused so publicly. Yet there was something in Eddard's eyes, some echo of their shared past, that seemed to give Robert pause.

He watched as Robert's face cycled through various shades of red before finally settling back to its normal ruddy complexion. The king slumped back in his chair, the fight seeming to drain from him as he waved a hand dismissively.

"Fine, Ned. Have it your way," Robert sighed, reaching for his wine. "The girl's half-wolf like Lyanna anyway. Probably bite poor Joff's head off in his sleep." He said, the assembled watching as Tywin grimaced in disappointment.

Jon Arryn seized the moment, rising from his seat with the practiced grace of a veteran diplomat. "My lords, I believe we have reached sufficient agreements for one day." His weathered hands spread across the papers before him. "I will have the terms drawn up and signed by all parties as proof of our accord."

The assembled lords nodded their assent, the tension in the room finally dissipating. One by one, they began filing out of the great hall, their minds already turning to the feast that would follow that evening. That or just how they would begin approaching Lord stark and Owen for deals on their advancements.

Owen remained seated, watching them leave while his thoughts churned. The compromises seemed reasonable enough - ten ships under restricted command, proper accounting of taxes through the Iron Bank, and a halt to their "visible" military production. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd merely postponed the inevitable.

Had they truly averted war through these negotiations? Or was this simply a temporary peace, buying time until the South's fear and greed overwhelmed their caution? Owen knew the truth of what was to come from the true north and he knew that they couldn't face the armies of winter with the south ready to attack, as much as it may just be an annoyance than an outright threat.

Only time would tell what the future now held.

Chapter Text

Owen drifted in and out of consciousness, the warmth of Sansa's body pressed against his side a comforting anchor. His mind wandered through the day's events, settling on the aftermath of the meeting with the southern lords.

The news had spread through Winterfell like wildfire. Servants whispered in corners, guards exchanged meaningful glances, and the northern lords' reactions had been swift and fierce. Owen recalled Lord Glover's face turning purple with rage when he'd heard of Tywin's presumption.

"The gall of that golden-haired bastard," Galbart had thundered in the great hall during the evening meal, loud enough for half the castle to hear. "Trying to wed that ponce of a prince to the she wolf?"

Owen shifted slightly, careful not to wake Sansa. He remembered how the other northern lords had rallied around their liege lord's decision. Even the usually reserved Lord Manderly had spoken up, his multiple chins quivering with indignation.

"The South forgets," Wyman had declared over his fourth helping of lamprey pie, "that we are not their servants to command. The North remembers, and we remember well how southern marriages have served our people in the past. That is not at all."

The most satisfying reaction, Owen mused, had come from Greatjon Umber. The giant lord had laughed so hard at the news that wine had sprayed from his nose, before declaring that "any southern prince trying to tame the she-wolf would lose his manhood faster than he could say 'winter is coming.'"

Sansa stirred beside him, murmuring something in her sleep about lemon cakes. Owen smiled, remembering how she'd handled the situation with perfect political grace. While the other ladies had gossiped and speculated about how the meeting had gone, Sansa had maintained a dignified silence, though Owen hadn't missed the proud gleam in her eye when her father's refusal became public knowledge.

The best part had been watching Tywin Lannister's carefully maintained facade crack just slightly when he realized how thoroughly he'd miscalculated. The Old Lion had clearly expected the North to jump at the chance for a royal marriage. Instead, he'd managed to unite the northern lords even more firmly behind House Stark, while simultaneously making himself appear grasping and presumptuous.

Owen felt sleep tugging at his consciousness, but his mind refused to quiet. The politics of the day kept spinning through his thoughts, particularly the upcoming meetings that Lord Stark could no longer avoid. After giving concessions to the Crown, refusing to meet with other major houses would be seen as a slight that could create unnecessary enemies.

Prince Oberyn had been particularly persistent that evening, appearing at odd moments throughout Winterfell with casual questions about the North's innovations. His dark eyes held a predatory gleam whenever he encountered Owen, like a viper sizing up its prey.

Then there was Lady Olenna. The Queen of Thorns had taken to walking the glass gardens each morning the week before the meeting, making pointed comments about the remarkable similarities between Highgarden's centuries-old structures and these new Northern versions. Her barbed observations always reached Lord Stark's ears within hours, delivered by an ever-growing network of servants and courtiers who seemed to multiply with each passing day.

After a week of artfully dodging these encounters and then going through the meeting, Lord Stark had finally conceded, knowing there was no polite way to deny them any longer. "We'll meet with them tomorrow," he'd told Owen earlier that evening, his voice heavy with resignation. "Better to hear what they want directly than let them scheme in the shadows."

Owen sighed and shifted closer to Sansa, drawing comfort from her steady breathing and the subtle scent of lavender in her hair. The silk sheets whispered against his skin as he settled into a more comfortable position, his body finally beginning to relax after the day's tensions.

His wife's warmth seeped into his muscles, easing the knots of stress that had built up during the negotiations. The magical transformation they'd undergone in Solomon's pool had left them both with an otherworldly beauty, but it hadn't changed the simple comfort they found in each other's presence.

As sleep began to claim him, Owen's thoughts drifted lazily to the meetings ahead. Oberyn's serpentine smile and Olenna's shrewd gaze floated through his mind, but even these concerns seemed distant now, muted by exhaustion and the peaceful sanctuary of their bed.

Owen opened his eyes to find himself lying on soft grass instead of his bed. The warmth of Sansa's body was gone, replaced by muted sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves above. He pushed himself up, his movements oddly weightless as he took in his surroundings.

This wasn't the godswood of Winterfell, nor any forest he recognized from his travels. The trees stretched impossibly tall, their trunks wider than castle towers. Their bark shimmered with an iridescent quality that shifted between deep brown and subtle gold. Leaves of silver-green rustled in a wind he couldn't feel against his skin.

"A dream," Owen murmured, his voice echoing strangely in the ethereal space. "Or a vision."

He'd experienced enough magical phenomena through the Celestial Forge to recognize when reality had shifted sideways. The air held that same electric quality he felt in the Temple of Solomon, but different - older somehow, more primal. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse with ancient power.

The forest floor was carpeted with grass that glowed faintly with each step he took, leaving luminescent footprints that slowly faded behind him. Scattered among the massive trees were crystalline formations that caught the filtered sunlight and split it into rainbow patterns that danced across the ground. The entire scene had an otherworldly beauty that made his enhanced senses tingle with awareness.

Owen reached out to touch one of the massive tree trunks. His fingers passed through the bark like it was made of mist, sending ripples of golden light spreading outward from the point of contact. The sensation wasn't unpleasant, but it confirmed his suspicion - this was no ordinary dream.

Owen turned his head toward the deeper parts of the forest where the sound of whispers originated. The sounds weren't quite words - more like the suggestion of speech, carried on nonexistent wind through the ethereal trees. They tugged at his consciousness, a mix of seductive promises and urgent demands.

"Come," they seemed to say. "Come see. Come learn. Come know."

The whispers grew more insistent, wrapping around him like invisible threads trying to pull him forward. They spoke of power, of knowledge, of secrets that could reshape the world. The voices multiplied, becoming a chorus of ethereal beckoning.

Owen crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the glowing grass.

"Oh, fuck off," he growled into the mysterious forest. "I've got enough voices in my head with the Forge in my soul. I don't need whatever cryptic bullshit you're selling."

The whispers faltered for a moment, as if shocked by his crude dismissal.

"You don't even know what we offer," they tried again, their tone growing more desperate.

"Don't care," Owen replied flatly. "I'm trying to get some actual sleep here. Go bother someone else with your mysterious forest quest garbage."

He turned his back on the deeper woods, deliberately sitting down on the luminescent grass. The whispers continued their attempts to entice him, but Owen simply pulled out a piece of imaginary cloth from his dream-pocket and started polishing an equally imaginary dagger, pointedly ignoring them.

After a few minutes of Owen's pointed disinterest, the whispers began to fade, eventually transforming into what sounded distinctly like an exasperated sigh. The ethereal forest seemed to dim slightly, as if reflecting the spirits' frustration with their uncooperative visitor.

A flutter of wings broke the silence. From the depths of the mysterious woods, a large black raven emerged, its wingspan casting strange shadows through the filtered light. The bird settled on a nearby branch, and Owen immediately noticed its most striking feature - three eyes, all fixed intently upon him.

Owen let out an amused snort, setting aside his imaginary polishing cloth.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Brynden Rivers," Owen said, meeting the raven's triple gaze with a raised eyebrow.

The three-eyed raven tilted its head, regarding Owen with an unsettling intelligence. Its third eye, centered in its forehead, seemed to glow with an inner light that matched the luminescence of the forest floor.

Owen watched with mild interest as the raven's form blurred and stretched from the tree, darkness pooling like spilled ink until it coalesced into the shape of a man. Brynden Rivers stood before him, looking every bit as ancient and worn as the legends described. His white hair hung long and unkempt, while his single red eye gleamed with otherworldly power. The empty socket where his other eye should have been seemed to absorb the ethereal light around them.

"Trespasser," Brynden declared, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

Owen maintained his deliberately bored expression, absently twirling his imaginary dagger between his fingers. He'd faced down Tywin Lannister earlier that day - an ancient greenseer wasn't going to rattle him, no matter how dramatic his entrance.

"That's rich, coming from the guy who's been trying to peek through my wards for the past four years," Owen replied dryly. "Oh yeah, i could feel you poking around like some bug. How's that working out for you, by the way? Must be frustrating, not being able to spy on everything happening in the North anymore."

The former Hand of the King drew himself up, his black cloak rustling without wind. The birthmark that had earned him the name Bloodraven stood out starkly against his pale skin, dark as fresh blood in the strange light of the dream-forest.

"You speak as if you know me," Brynden said, his voice carrying equal measures of curiosity and irritation.

"I know enough," Owen shrugged, still maintaining his air of casual disinterest. "Former Hand of the King, exiled to the Night's Watch, became Lord Commander, disappeared beyond the Wall to become a tree. Though I have to say, the whole 'mysterious forest spirit' routine needs work. Maybe try adding some thunder next time, really sell the atmosphere."

Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' composure cracked slightly, the ancient greenseer's pale features twisting with frustration.

"You," Bloodraven spat, "have brought imbalance to everything. Your very presence has done irrevocable damage to the song of ice and fire. You are nothing but an upstart trespasser, meddling in affairs beyond your comprehension."

Owen rolled his eyes at the dramatic proclamation. He'd spent enough time dealing with mystical entities through the Celestial Forge to recognize when someone was trying to intimidate him with vague pronouncements of doom.

"Right, because everything was perfectly balanced before I showed up," Owen replied sarcastically. "The White Walkers building their army of the dead, the realm bleeding from constant wars, the Night's Watch falling apart - that was all part of your grand plan, was it?"

He stood up from his seated position, brushing imaginary grass off his dream-clothes. The luminescent forest around them seemed to pulse with tension as Owen faced the legendary greenseer.

"You know what I think?" Owen continued, meeting Brynden's mismatched gaze steadily. "I think you're just annoyed that someone came along and started fixing things without asking your permission first. Must be frustrating, being stuck in that tree while someone else actually makes meaningful changes to help people."

The former Hand's face darkened at Owen's words, the birthmark on his cheek seeming to writhe like a living thing. The ethereal forest dimmed around them, shadows deepening as Brynden Rivers' anger manifested in the dreamscape.

"You understand nothing," Bloodraven hissed. "The song must be preserved. The balance must be maintained. Your interference threatens everything."

Owen felt the weight of centuries of magical power pressing against him, but he stood his ground. The Celestial Forge hummed in his soul, a reminder that he had his own sources of power to draw upon.

"Tell me then," Owen challenged, spreading his arms wide. "What exactly have I damaged? The carefully maintained balance of misery and death? The grand plan that lets thousands freeze and starve while nobles play their game of thrones? Because from where I'm standing, the only thing I've threatened is the status quo of suffering you seem so keen to preserve."

Owen watched as Brynden Rivers spat on the ethereal ground, the gesture oddly mundane in their mystical surroundings. The spittle seemed to sizzle where it landed, leaving a dark mark on the luminescent grass.

"You fool," Bloodraven snarled, his pale features twisted with rage. "Years upon years of careful work, countless sacrifices and subtle manipulations - all of it, destroyed by your mere existence! I was preparing to save this world from the coming tide of ice and death. The song of ice and fire was finally, finally beginning to align. And then you were born, and everything began to unravel."

Owen couldn't help himself. He laughed. The sound echoed strangely through the dream-forest, bouncing off crystalline formations and reverberating through impossible spaces. It wasn't a kind laugh - it held all the derision and mockery he felt toward this self-important puppet master.

"Oh, that's rich," Owen said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "Please, enlighten me about this master plan of yours. Was sending Jon to freeze his ass off at the Wall part of your brilliant strategy? Because I'd love to hear how that was supposed to work."

He adopted an exaggerated thinking pose, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see if I understand correctly - your grand plan to save the world involved taking one of the most capable young men in the North and shipping him off to a crumbling organization of thieves and rapists? That was your master stroke?"

Bloodraven's single red eye blazed with fury, but Owen wasn't finished. He was tired of cryptic manipulators who thought they alone knew what was best for the world.

"Tell me, how exactly was that supposed to play out? Jon takes the black, stands around on a wall for a few years, and somehow that saves humanity? Was there a specific amount of brooding required? A certain number of times he needed to feel sad about being a bastard before the White Walkers just gave up and went home?"

Owen's expression hardened as he pressed his attack, stepping closer to the ancient greenseer. "And what of the realm? Of Westeros?" He gestured broadly at the ethereal forest around them. "You didn't think to help fix that clusterfuck with King Robert and how his Lannister wife was making bastards with her brother, making the realm a melting pot for civil war?"

The accusation hung in the air between them, making the luminescent grass pulse with an angry red glow. Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face tightened, the birthmark on his cheek darkening to an almost black shade.

"You sat in your tree, watching it all unfold," Owen continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "You saw Cersei and Jaime's incest. You knew what their children really are. You could have sent visions to Robert, to Jon Arryn, to anyone who could have prevented the realm from tearing itself apart in the future. But you did nothing."

The dream-forest seemed to contract around them, the massive trees groaning as if under great pressure. Bloodraven's single red eye blazed with an intensity that would have terrified most men, but Owen stood his ground, waiting for the ancient greenseer's response.

"Instead," Owen pressed, "you were ready to let thousands die in the wars that followed. All those innocent people, slaughtered because you decided the 'song' was more important than their lives. And you have the audacity to lecture me about balance?"

Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face twisted into a sneer, his pale features taking on an almost ghostly quality in the ethereal light.

"You know nothing," Bloodraven spat. "Of the realm or Rhaegar's bastard. Jon Snow was to be a vital sacrifice in the coming war. His death would have sparked the chain of events needed to save Westeros - to save the world!"

The words had barely left Bloodraven's lips before Owen moved. In the dream-space, his enhanced body responded with supernatural speed, crossing the distance between them in less than a heartbeat. His hand closed around the ancient greenseer's throat, lifting him off his feet with contemptuous ease.

Brynden Rivers' eyes widened in shock and fear as he found himself helpless in Owen's grip. The legendary spymaster, the man who had manipulated kingdoms from the shadows, dangled like a puppet with cut strings.

Owen's eyes blazed with power, the magical energies of the Celestial Forge manifesting as golden fire in his gaze. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of steel and thunder.

"Listen carefully, you manipulative old bastard," Owen growled, his fingers tightening just enough to make Bloodraven gasp. "If you ever refer to Jon as a sacrifice again, I will find whatever tree you're hiding in beyond the Wall. And when I do, I will use my magic to turn you into a rabbit and throw you into the nearest bonfire and make sure you burn for hours. Are we clear?"

Owen released his grip, letting Brynden Rivers fall unceremoniously to the luminescent forest floor. The ancient greenseer landed with an undignified thud on his ass, his black robes pooling around him like spilled ink.

"You know," Owen said conversationally, brushing off his hands as if touching Bloodraven had left some residue, " Even before your trying to prod around in the north or my dreams, I've been expecting you to show up eventually. Must have been really you a headache, not being able to see into the lives of everyone in the north."

He paced a few steps away, then turned back to face the fallen greenseer. The ethereal forest seemed to pulse with tension around them, the crystalline formations catching and splitting light in increasingly erratic patterns.

"Did you really think I wouldn't prepare for you? The moment I truly realized what you were - what you could do - I started working on defenses." Owen tapped his temple with two fingers. "My mind, Sansa's mind, all the Starks... they're protected now. Especially young Bran."

Bloodraven's single red eye narrowed at the mention of Brandon Stark.

"Oh yeah," Owen continued, his voice hardening. "I know exactly what you had planned for him. Turn him into your replacement, right? Feed him enough cryptic visions and half-truths until he loses himself in the weirwood network? Make him forget his humanity so he can become your perfect little puppet?"

Owen's lip curled in disgust as he looked down at the former Hand of the King. "Well, I've got news for you - that's not happening. I've warded Bran's mind specifically against your influence. He'll grow up as a normal boy, with his family, without you trying to turn him into your successor."

The ground beneath their feet trembled slightly as Brynden Rivers' anger manifested in the dreamscape, but Owen remained unmoved. He'd faced down far worse than an angry old man stuck in a tree.

"The wards I've placed around Winterfell, Ice Crest, and the other major holdings in the North - they're not just keeping out normal threats. They're keeping out you." Owen's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "No more spying through ravens, no more sending visions, no more trying to manipulate events from your frozen perch beyond the Wall. The North is closed to you now."

Owen watched as Brynden Rivers' face contorted with rage, the birthmark on his cheek seeming to pulse with dark energy. The ancient greenseer pushed himself up from the luminescent ground, drawing himself to his full height.

"You fool!" Bloodraven snarled, his voice echoing through the dream-forest. "Brandon Stark must be given to me for training. He must become the next Three-Eyed Raven! The defense of Westeros against the Night King depends on it!"

The ethereal trees around them trembled with the force of his proclamation, shadows dancing wildly across the crystalline formations. But Owen merely looked at the legendary spymaster with an expression of profound disappointment, as if watching a child throw a tantrum.

"How?" Owen asked simply.

The single word seemed to hang in the air between them, cutting through Bloodraven's dramatic display like a knife through butter. The ancient greenseer opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

"What?" Brynden Rivers asked, clearly thrown off by the straightforward question.

"How?" Owen repeated, enunciating clearly as if speaking to someone particularly slow. "How exactly would turning Bran into a tree-bound mystic help defend against the Night King? What's the actual plan here?"

Bloodraven's pale features twisted into a scowl, his red eye blazing with indignation. "That... that is a secret! Only a true servant of the Old Gods can know such things!"

Owen stared at him for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh. The response was exactly what he'd expected - more cryptic nonsense meant to obscure the fact that Bloodraven had no real answer.

Owen began to weave magic between his fingers, letting the power flow through his magic circuits. Golden light danced across his palms, forming intricate patterns that cast strange shadows through the dream-forest. He noticed how Brynden watched the display warily, his single red eye tracking every movement with a mixture of caution and... was that envy?

"You know, I have a theory about you," Owen said casually, still playing with the magical energies. "Your mother was Melissa Blackwood, wasn't she?"

Bloodraven's face tightened at the mention of his mother's name, but he remained silent.

"House Blackwood - one of the few houses that still kept to the Old Ways despite living in the south, still remembered the ancient magics of the First Men." Owen continued, letting the golden light between his fingers grow brighter. "They were different from the other houses, weren't they? They remembered things that others had forgotten."

The luminescent forest seemed to pulse in time with Owen's words, the crystalline formations catching and refracting the light from his magical display.

"I think Melissa passed that knowledge to you," Owen said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "The old magics, the forgotten arts - she made sure you knew them all. And you used that knowledge, didn't you? When you were Hand of the King to your nephew Aerys, you weren't just playing political games. You were building power."

Brynden Rivers' pale features twisted into a grimace, but Owen could see the truth of his words reflected in the ancient greenseer's expression.

"But that wasn't enough for you, was it?" Owen pressed, closing his fist around the golden light. "No, you wanted more. The magic of the First Men wasn't enough - you needed something greater, something older."

The forest around them grew darker as Owen spoke, the shadows deepening with each word. Bloodraven's single red eye blazed in the growing darkness, but he couldn't hide the flicker of unease that crossed his face at Owen's accusations.

"So you used your magic for the Targaryen family, killing their enemies, helping put down the Blackfyres whenever they came," Owen said, his voice carrying through the ethereal forest. "But eventually you got sent to the Wall with Aemon, becoming Lord Commander and then disappearing beyond the Wall."

Owen took a step closer to Brynden Rivers, watching how the birthmark on his cheek seemed to pulse with suppressed emotion.

"But not really," Owen continued, his tone knowing. "You were exactly where you wanted to be. Perhaps being Hand of the King finally bored you, and that's why you actually murdered Aenys Blackfyre and made Aegon the Unlikely send you to the Wall."

Owen paused, studying Bloodraven's increasingly rigid posture and the way his single red eye blazed with barely contained fury.

"Am I getting close?" Owen asked, though Bloodraven kept quiet, his pale features locked in a mask of stony silence.

Owen watched as his words struck home, each observation landing like physical blows on the ancient greenseer. The luminescent forest around them seemed to dim and brighten with Bloodraven's fluctuating emotions, the crystalline formations casting ever-shifting shadows across his pale features.

"For months you travelled beyond the wall," Owen continued, his voice taking on an almost contemplative tone. "Searching for a place your mother had perhaps mentioned in your teachings. A place of complete power to the old gods."

Bloodraven's single red eye widened slightly, and Owen knew he'd hit upon something true. The birthmark on his cheek seemed to writhe more violently now, like a living thing trying to escape his skin.

"And then you found it," Owen pressed on, circling the former Hand of the King slowly. "And even the children of the forest maybe, and you thought to bargain with the old gods for power."

Owen paused directly in front of Brynden Rivers, meeting that burning red eye with his own steady gaze. "But the old gods knew what really lay in you, didn't they? They knew your heart. So instead of giving you magical knowledge, they gave you all the knowledge but tied you to that tree, didn't they?"

The ethereal forest grew darker still, the luminescent grass at their feet dimming to barely a glow. Owen could see his words were having an effect - Bloodraven's composed mask was cracking, revealing something raw and angry underneath.

"Or better yet," Owen said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "maybe you killed the last Three-Eyed Raven and your punishment was to replace them? Have all the knowledge of the world, see it, relive it as many times as you wanted but not be able to do anything about it."

The dreamscape trembled around them as Bloodraven's control slipped, the crystalline formations vibrating with discordant energy. Owen had struck at something deep and painful - he could see it in the way Brynden Rivers' pale features contorted with suppressed rage.

Owen turned to look at him fully, his eyes blazing with a cold fury that made even the ancient greenseer take an involuntary step back. The luminescent forest around them seemed to darken further, responding to the weight of Owen's growing anger and disgust.

"That's why you need Bran, isn't it?" Owen's voice cut through the ethereal silence like a blade of ice. "You want to take his body. Destroy his mind and use his body as yours, then see if you can warg into someone else..."

Bloodraven's single red eye widened slightly, the first crack in his carefully maintained facade. The birthmark on his cheek writhed more violently now, pulsing with dark energy.

"Or perhaps," Owen continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "you planned to completely switch minds with someone, so they would be locked in your new body from Bran while..."

He paused, the pieces finally clicking into place. The full scope of Bloodraven's manipulation becoming crystal clear. Owen's face twisted with revulsion as he spoke the next words.

"Jon... you can see the future as well, or at least part of it. You know Jon would be stabbed to death by his Night's Watch brothers." Owen's hands clenched into fists at his sides, golden energy crackling around them. "And then you'd switch minds with him as soon as he was resurrected, destroying his very self and taking over."

The disgust in Owen's voice grew with each word, filling the dreamscape with waves of palpable revulsion.

Brynden Rivers lunged forward with supernatural speed, his ethereal form blurring through the dream-forest. But Owen was ready. He stretched out his hand, channeling power through his magic circuits. Golden light coalesced around his palm before erupting into a devastating storm of electricity.

The lightning struck Bloodraven dead center, lifting him off his feet. His skeletal form convulsed as electricity coursed through him, his single red eye wide with shock and pain. His scream echoed through the dreamscape, causing the crystalline formations around them to vibrate in sympathy.

Owen maintained the assault for a full minute, pouring more power into the spell. The lightning illuminated the ethereal forest in stark relief, casting wild shadows across the luminescent ground. The air crackled with ozone, and even in this dream-space, Owen could smell burning flesh.

When he finally released the spell, Brynden Rivers collapsed to his knees. Wisps of smoke rose from his black robes, and his pale skin bore angry red marks where the lightning had struck. His breathing came in ragged gasps, but his single red eye remained fixed on Owen with a mixture of hatred and... something else. Envy?

"Your magic..." Bloodraven wheezed, struggling to push himself up on shaking legs. "That was the power I sought. Power unending."

He managed to stand, though his legs trembled beneath him. The birthmark on his cheek seemed darker now, almost black against his pale skin.

"After all I did for the Targaryens, they were weak and so was Aegon," he spat, bitterness dripping from every word. "I dealt with their messes, I made the hard choices and for that I was sent to the wall."

Bloodraven spat on the luminescent ground. "And when I sought power from the last Three-Eyed Raven, I was denied, saying it was meant for only those chosen by the old gods..." His single red eye blazed with remembered fury. "So I killed him."

Owen watched the confession spill from Brynden Rivers' lips without surprise. The admission merely confirmed what some fans had thought as true yet here he was, telling it to him.

"I found him in his weirwood throne, spouting nonsense about destiny and the chosen ones," Bloodraven continued, his voice taking on a manic edge. "He had all that power, all that knowledge, and what did he do with it? Nothing! He just sat there, watching, waiting."

The birthmark on his cheek writhed more violently now, almost seeming to pulse in time with his growing agitation. "I had spent decades serving the realm, making the hard choices, keeping the peace. I deserved that power more than some tree-bound mystic who did nothing but observe!"

Owen's lip curled in disgust as he listened to Bloodraven's attempted justification. The man's true colors were finally showing - not a mysterious guardian of ancient powers, but a bitter, entitled creature who had murdered his way to power and still wasn't satisfied.

"So I took his knife - Valyrian steel, an ancient thing - and I opened his throat," Bloodraven's voice had taken on an almost dreamy quality now, lost in the memory. "But as he died, he laughed. He laughed and used his last breath to curse me, binding me to his throne with the power of the old gods. All the power I wanted, he said, but never the freedom to use it as I wished."

The luminescent grass at their feet dimmed further as Brynden Rivers' confession echoed through the dream-forest. The crystalline formations that had been catching and splitting light now seemed to absorb it instead, creating deep pools of shadow around them.

"And that's why you need Bran," Owen said quietly, his voice hard with controlled anger. "You think if you can take his body, you can break free of the curse. Use his Stark blood, his connection to the old gods, to finally get what you wanted all along."

Owen watched as a twisted smile spread across Bloodraven's face, the birthmark on his cheek writhing like a living thing.

"You think you're the only one who knows what's coming?" Bloodraven's voice took on a sing-song quality that made Owen's skin crawl. "I've seen it all as you said. Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, bleeding out in the cold earth and frost. His own brothers in black, driving their daggers into him one by one. 'For the Watch,' they'll say as they murder him."

The ancient greenseer's single red eye gleamed with malicious delight. "And when that red priestess brings him back, when his eyes open again... it won't be Jon Snow who wakes. It will be me."

Owen felt his magic circuits surge with anger, golden energy crackling around his clenched fists. But Bloodraven wasn't finished.

"With my knowledge and his body, I'll become the hero the realm needs," he continued, his voice growing more fervent. "I'll unite the kingdoms against the Others, save them all from the long night. And when Daenerys Targaryen arrives with her dragons..."

Bloodraven's pale features twisted into something approaching ecstasy. "She'll see in me everything she desires - a true Targaryen, a warrior-king worthy to rule beside her. Together, we'll forge a dynasty that will last a thousand years."

The dreamscape trembled with the force of his proclamation, the crystalline formations around them humming with discordant energy. But Owen could see past the grandiose words to the rot beneath - the desperate scheming of a bitter old man who would sacrifice anything and anyone to grasp at power.

"And what of Jon?" Owen asked, his voice hard with contempt. "What of his mind, his soul, when you destroy him to take his place?"

Bloodraven waved a dismissive hand. "A necessary sacrifice. The boy would die anyway - I'm simply making use of what would otherwise be wasted."

Owen's face twisted with disgust as Bloodraven's words hung in the ethereal air. The ancient greenseer's single red eye gleamed with malevolent hunger as he regarded Owen.

"If I cannot have Jon Snow or young Brandon," Bloodraven's voice dripped with dark promise, "then perhaps I shall settle for you instead, smith. Your power, your knowledge..." A cruel smile split his pale features. "And your lovely wife. I wonder how sweetly Sansa would scream beneath me once I wear your flesh?"

Rage exploded through Owen's magic circuits, golden light blazing from his skin as Bloodraven's words struck deep. The thought of this twisted creature anywhere near Sansa filled him with murderous fury.

"Your inventions, your influence over the North," Bloodraven continued, his voice taking on an almost fevered quality. "With your body and my knowledge, I could rule not just Westeros, but the entire world!"

The former Hand of the King surged to his feet, his ethereal form blurring as he launched himself at Owen. His skeletal hands reached out like claws, dark energy crackling around them as he attempted to seize Owen's mind and tear it from his body.

Owen had heard enough. The rage building within him wasn't hot - it was a cold, crystalline fury that made his magic circuits hum with deadly precision. With a casual snap of his fingers, Bloodraven's ethereal form froze mid-lunge, suspended in the luminescent dreamscape like an insect trapped in amber.

Only the ancient greenseer's single red eye could move, darting frantically as he realized his predicament. The birthmark on his cheek still writhed, but even that seemed muted now, as if sensing the deadly intent radiating from Owen.

"Your first mistake," Owen said, his voice carrying the weight of winter itself, "was threatening Jon and Bran. Two innocent people whose only crime was being useful to your schemes."

He circled Bloodraven's frozen form slowly, watching the panic grow in that single mobile eye. The crystalline formations around them began to dim, responding to Owen's dark mood.

"But your last mistake?" Owen's voice dropped to a whisper as he came face to face with the trapped greenseer. "Your last mistake was threatening to dare touch Sansa."

Another snap of Owen's fingers echoed through the dream-forest. The sound seemed to reverberate endlessly, building upon itself until it became a physical force. Bloodraven's body began to twist, bones cracking and snapping as his form was compressed into impossible angles.

The ancient greenseer's scream of agony tore through the dreamscape, causing the luminescent grass to wither and the crystalline formations to shatter. His skeletal form continued to contort, folding in on itself in ways that defied natural law. The single red eye that had once blazed with such malevolent power now bulged with terror and pain.

The birthmark on his cheek writhed frantically as Bloodraven's body was crushed and twisted, his flesh and bone reshaping themselves against his will. Each new configuration seemed more painful than the last, drawing fresh screams from the former Hand of the King's throat.

Owen snapped his fingers again, and the tortured screams of Brynden Rivers cut off abruptly as their surroundings shifted. The luminescent forest and crystalline formations dissolved, replaced by an endless expanse of white nothingness. No up, no down, no horizon - just pure, empty white stretching infinitely in all directions.

Bloodraven's ethereal form trembled, still wracked with the echoes of pain from Owen's punishment. His single red eye darted around frantically, trying to make sense of their new environment. The birthmark on his cheek had stilled, as if even it was cowed by what had just transpired.

"You see, Brynden," Owen's voice carried clearly through the void, "I've been studying about you before we even met. Learning about the magic that binds you to that weirwood throne beyond the Wall. The books i read from weren't exact of course, but they gave me a good enough idea of what you are. And I discovered something interesting."

Owen circled the shaking form of the former Hand, his steps making no sound in the endless white space. "The old gods need an anchor point for their power - a physical vessel to help maintain the barrier that keeps the Night King's forces from advancing. That's what your body provides, sitting there in that cave."

Bloodraven's eye widened as understanding began to dawn. Owen could see the first traces of real fear creeping into that red orb.

"But they don't need your mind," Owen continued, his voice taking on an almost contemplative tone. "Your consciousness, your thoughts, your schemes - none of that is necessary for the anchor to function. Just your physical form, preserved by the weirwood roots. Your life force as it were."

Owen gestured at the white void surrounding them. "This place exists outside of time and space. No way in, no way out. Just endless white emptiness stretching on forever." He fixed Bloodraven with a cold stare. "A perfect prison for a mind that's outlived its usefulness."

The former Hand of the King tried to speak, but no sound emerged. His ethereal form seemed to flicker and fade at the edges, as if the very substance of his being was having trouble maintaining cohesion in this impossible space.

"Your body will continue its vigil beyond the Wall, keeping the magical barriers intact," Owen explained. "But your mind will remain here, alone with your thoughts, until the end of time itself."

Owen smiled coldly, his eyes fixed on Bloodraven's trembling form. "But don't worry, you won't be alone."

He moved forward with deliberate slowness, watching the fear grow in that single red eye as he approached. Owen's finger pressed against Bloodraven's temple, channeling power through his magic circuits. The ancient greenseer's eye widened in horror as Owen forced an image directly into his mind.

Owen watched as Bloodraven recoiled from the horrific vision being forced into his mind. The creature's image burned itself into the ancient greenseer's consciousness - a towering, emaciated figure with skin as white as fresh-fallen snow. Its elongated limbs ended in wickedly sharp claws that seemed capable of tearing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.

But it was the creature's face that truly captured the horror. Dead white eyes, devoid of pupils or iris, stared unblinkingly from sunken sockets. Those eyes held no warmth, no mercy, only a look of sobbing sadness. Its mouth, stretched impossibly wide, dripped with fresh blood that stood out in stark contrast against its pale flesh.

Bloodraven's single red eye widened in terror. Owen could feel the ancient greenseer's mind trying to retreat, to escape from both the vision and the knowledge of what awaited him in this endless white void. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from what Owen had summoned.

In the distance of the white void, an otherworldly shriek shattered the silence. The sound echoed impossibly in the empty space, building upon itself until it seemed to come from every direction at once. Then came the footsteps - rapid, thumping sounds that spoke of something moving far too quickly.

"You see," Owen explained conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "this particular entity has a rather strong aversion to being seen. Anyone who glimpses its face tends to meet a rather... violent end. No matter where they hide or how fast they run." He paused, letting another shriek echo through the void. "Unfortunately for you, death isn't an option here. I've made quite sure of that."

Bloodraven's ethereal form trembled as the footsteps grew closer, his single eye darting frantically in every direction. Owen had carefully crafted this prison to prevent both death and insanity - there would be no escape into madness for the former Hand of the King.

"You'll retain your full mental faculties," Owen continued, "Every moment of awareness, every second of pain..." The skittering sounds were very close now. "Consider it payment for what you planned to do to Jon and Bran. And especially for what you dared suggest about Sansa."

The shriek echoed through the endless white void again, closer now, making Bloodraven's ethereal form shudder violently. Owen's smile held no warmth as he regarded the former Hand of the King, whose single red eye darted frantically between Owen and the approaching sounds of skittering movement.

"I would run if I were you," Owen said casually, as if suggesting a pleasant afternoon activity. "It'll only delay the inevitable, sure. But trust me, you wouldn't want to get caught by the shy guy coming your way."

With a simple snap of his fingers, Owen vanished from the prison dimension, leaving Bloodraven alone with the approaching horror. The last thing Owen saw was the ancient greenseer's form beginning to flee across the endless white expanse, the sound of inhuman shrieks pursuing him into eternity.

Owen's eyes opened to find darkness still cloaking their bedchamber. Sansa's warm form lay beside him, her steady breathing a comfort after the confrontation in the dream realm. He shifted closer to his wife, wrapping an arm around her waist and breathing in the familiar scent of her hair as he this time dreamed of holding their child in his arms in the future.

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Its obviously not the real thing for those who know scp lore, just something to torture Brynden for eternity. If it was real it would have attacked Owen as well. See ya next chapter.

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Chapter Text

Doniphos reclined on his silk-cushioned divan beneath a striped awning, watching the endless stream of soldiers filing onto the waiting ships. The harbor stretched before him, a forest of masts and billowing sails that blocked out the horizon. His weathered hands gripped the armrests as another column of Unsullied marched past in perfect formation, their spears glinting in the harsh midday sun.

The smell of salt and tar mingled with the perpetual stench of slaves and sweat that permeated Volantis. Below his vantage point on the elevated terrace, the dockworkers scurried like ants, loading supplies and weapons onto the massive war fleet. The preparations had taken months - gathering allies, amassing troops, stockpiling provisions. All for a war he had opposed from the start.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Even in the shade, the heat was stifling. He reached for his cup of watered wine, noting how his hand trembled slightly. Age was catching up with him, much like it had with Volantis itself. The city's glory days were long past, yet here they were, reaching for empire once again.

The rhythmic thud of marching feet continued as companies of soldiers from Meereen and Astapor made their way along the docks. Their officers shouted commands in their harsh Ghiscari dialects, their voices carrying across the water. The sight of their varied armor and weapons - curved arakh blades, spiked shields, bronze scales - stood in stark contrast to the uniform discipline of the Unsullied columns.

Footsteps approached behind him. Doniphos didn't need to turn to know who had arrived. The tap of Malaquo's cane and Nyessos' labored breathing were unmistakable. His fellow triarchs settled onto their own divans without exchanging greetings. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken tensions.

Malaquo's skeletal frame cast a long shadow across the terrace tiles. Despite his frailty, his eyes burned with the same martial fervor that had driven Volantis to war countless times before. Beside him, Nyessos dabbed at his sweating face with a silk handkerchief, his jeweled rings catching the sunlight.

They watched together as more troops boarded the ships - ten thousand Unsullied and ten thousand soldiers from the slaver cities, though Doniphos knew the true numbers were even higher. The largest fleet since the Century of Blood, all to wage war against Westeros and Braavos simultaneously. Pure madness, in his estimation, but he had been outvoted.

A slave girl approached with fresh wine and fruits, her tiger stripes stark against her skin. None of the triarchs acknowledged her presence as she refilled their cups and retreated. Below, the loading continued, an endless procession of men and materials flowing into the belly of the fleet like water down a drain.

"When can we expect the Lyseni and Myrish forces to join us?" Nyessos shifted on his divan, the wooden frame creaking under his bulk. His fingers traced the rim of his wine cup, leaving smudges on the polished silver.

Malaquo's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. "Their ravens arrived this morning. Their fleets and armies will meet with us at Lys. Fresh supplies and men await us there before we strike at Westeros and Braavos."

Doniphos plucked a grape from the silver bowl beside him, studying its purple skin before popping it into his mouth. The sweet burst of flavor did little to mask the bitter taste of impending disaster. He remained silent, watching another contingent of soldiers board the ships below. The grape seeds clicked against his teeth as he chewed, a quiet counterpoint to the endless drumbeat of marching feet.

The harbor breeze carried the smell of pitch and rope, mixed with the sweat of thousands of men preparing for war. Doniphos selected another grape, letting the conversation flow around him like water around a stone. His silence spoke volumes - they all knew his position on this foolhardy venture.

Nyessos leaned forward, his chair groaning. "The Lyseni ships will be welcome. Their sailors know these waters better than most." He paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a perfumed cloth. "And the Myrish crossbowmen are without equal."

"Indeed." Malaquo's cane tapped against the tiles in rhythm with the marching below. "With their forces added to ours, we'll have the largest fleet seen since the Century of Blood."

Doniphos chose another grape, maintaining his deliberate silence. The sweet fruit turned to ash in his mouth as he watched more soldiers file onto the waiting ships, marching toward what he feared would be their doom.

Nyessos turned his fleshy face toward Doniphos, rings glinting as he gestured with his cup. "You've been quiet, old friend. Have you finally seen the wisdom in our course?"

A dry laugh escaped Doniphos' throat. He rolled another grape between his fingers, watching the fruit catch the sunlight. "Wisdom? No. You both outvoted me, as is your right. I'm merely here to witness the consequences of that decision."

Malaquo's cane cracked against the tile floor. "Consequences? There will be none but victory for Volantis. The greatest fleet since the Century of Blood, the finest armies gold can buy." His skeletal frame straightened, some echo of old strength returning to his voice. "We will remind the world why they once feared the First Daughter."

Doniphos set the grape back in its bowl, untasted. Below them, more columns of soldiers continued their endless march onto the waiting ships. The sun beat down on their armor, creating a river of moving metal that flowed toward the harbor. Each step brought them closer to what Doniphos feared would be disaster, but he kept that thought locked behind his teeth.

"Fear," Doniphos murmured, "is a poor foundation for empire." The words were quiet, almost lost in the clamor of loading ships and shouting officers, but both his fellow triarchs heard them clearly enough.

The slave girl returned with more wine. Doniphos watched her pour, noting how her hands trembled slightly as she filled Malaquo's cup. The old tiger's reputation for cruelty was well-earned, even in a city built on suffering.

Nyessos shifted his bulk again, silk robes rustling. "You've grown too cautious in your years, Doniphos. Too much time spent counting coins and fucking your concubines." He waved a bejeweled hand at the harbor spread before them. "Look at our strength. What power in the world could stand against this?"

Malaquo nodded in agreement, his thin lips curved in a predatory smile. "The tigers of old would be proud to see Volantis bare her claws again. Even you must admit the glory in this moment."

Doniphos snorted, the sound harsh and undignified for a triarch of Volantis. "Glory? What glory lies in war? In this war?" His fingers traced the rim of his wine cup, remembering countless battles from his younger days. "In any war?"

Malaquo's face twisted into a scowl, but Doniphos pressed on before the old tiger could interrupt. "Have we even attempted to speak with the Sealord of Braavos? To find common ground?"

"Common ground with those sanctimonious freedmen?" Nyessos spat the words like spoiled wine. "They've been undermining our trade for decades."

"Yes, because of slavery." Doniphos set his cup down with deliberate care. "We could have proposed a gradual reduction in the slave trade. Phase it out over years, decades even. Give our economy time to adapt. Or at least pretend to."

"Madness." Malaquo's cane struck the tiles again. "The tigers would never-"

"The tigers are dying, Malaquo. Look around you." Doniphos gestured at the harbor, at the thousands of slaves loading the ships. "We're clinging to old ways while the world changes. Braavos wouldn't dare approach Westeros if we showed willingness to change."

"Change?" Nyessos laughed, his multiple chins quivering. "You sound like those freedmen zealots preaching in the streets."

"I sound like someone who doesn't want to see Volantis burn." Doniphos leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "Think. Really think. If we approached the Sealord with a proposal - gradual manumission, regulated over time. Trade agreements to ease the transition. They'd have no reason to seek alliance with Westeros."

Malaquo's skeletal fingers tightened around his cane. "You would have us bend knee to those former slaves?"

"I would have us survive." Doniphos watched another column of Unsullied march past. "Better to bend than break. Better to change on our terms than have change forced upon us."

Nyessos barked out a laugh, his jowls quivering with mirth. "Silly words from a man grown too fond of his comforts." He gestured expansively at the sprawling city behind them, at the grand estates and pleasure gardens visible through the heat haze. "Look around you, Doniphos. Every noble house in Volantis has grown fat on the slave trade. Our coffers overflow. Our power increases year by year."

Doniphos watched a bead of sweat roll down Nyessos' temple, noting how it caught in the folds of his neck. The man's rings clinked against his wine cup as he took another drink, droplets staining his silk robes.

"And you think the Sealord would believe any overture we make?" Nyessos continued, dabbing at his face with a perfumed cloth. "That he would trust pretty words about gradual changes while our slave markets continue to thrive? The man's not a fool."

Malaquo nodded, his sharp eyes fixed on the loading ships below. "We did send envoys to Braavos. To see if some... accommodation could be reached."

Doniphos felt his stomach tighten. He'd heard nothing of this diplomatic mission. "And did you ask the Sealord to refrain from approaching the Iron Throne, or did you demand it?" The words came out grimmer than he'd intended, heavy with the weight of certainty.

Doniphos felt the familiar weight of resignation settle in his chest. Of course Malaquo had bungled any chance at diplomacy. The old tiger's pride would accept nothing less than complete submission.

"Demand? As one of the blood of Valyria should," Malaquo declared, his skeletal frame straightening with ancestral pride. "Our envoys were of my house, and they demanded he cease such foolishness."

Doniphos took a long drink of his watered wine, letting the liquid cool his throat. He didn't need to hear the rest to know how this tale would end. Still, he watched Malaquo's face as the old tiger continued.

"Only to find the ship with Braavosi envoys had already set sail two weeks past." Malaquo's cane tapped against the tiles in irritation. "Luckily, the fat king Robert and his hand were going down north, and so there was nobody to meet them. My spies sent word."

Doniphos set his cup down with careful precision, fighting the urge to throw it across the terrace. Below them, the endless columns of soldiers continued their march onto the waiting ships. Each footstep echoed the beating of war drums that would soon thunder across the seas. All because Malaquo couldn't swallow his pride long enough to attempt real diplomacy.

Malaquo's withered frame straightened as he gazed out at the assembled armies below. His eyes gleamed with an almost feverish light, reflecting the glint of thousands of spear points and shield bosses moving in the harsh sunlight.

"Can you not see it?" The old tiger's voice crackled with excitement. "Soon the Braavosi will kneel in their precious Purple Harbor. Their Sealord will crawl before us, begging our forgiveness for their insolence." His cane swept across the vista of loading ships. "And the Westerosi? Those barbarian lords who fancy themselves greater than those with the blood of dragons? They'll learn what true Valyrian might means."

Doniphos watched as tremors ran through Malaquo's hands, noting how the old man's fingers clutched his cane to hide their shaking. Age had taken its toll on the fierce tiger, leaving behind only the echo of the warrior he'd once been.

"The sight of our fleet will break their spirits," Malaquo continued, lost in his martial fantasy. "They'll plead for mercy, offer tribute, promise anything to avoid our wrath." A thin smile crossed his lips. "I shall enjoy teaching them their proper place."

Doniphos turned fully in his seat to face his fellow triarch, studying the old man's frail form. "Surely you don't expect to lead this war yourself, Malaquo?"

Malaquo's thin lips stretched into what might have been a smile, though to Doniphos it looked more like a death's head grin. "Of course I shall lead them. The tigers of old didn't send others to fight their battles."

He raised something from beside his divan - a nine-foot whip of black leather, its handle carved with intricate dragons. Doniphos recognized it immediately - the symbol of command over the Unsullied. His stomach turned slightly at the sight.

"The masters of Astapor presented it themselves." Malaquo's skeletal fingers caressed the whip's handle. "Complete command over all our allied forces. When was the last time Volantis marshaled such might under a single commander?"

"During the Century of Blood," Doniphos answered quietly. "When we lost half our armies trying to rebuild the Freehold."

Malaquo ignored the barb, too enraptured by his own glory. His cane tapped against the tiles as he shifted, attempting to sit straighter. "This time will be different. This time, we have the Unsullied. This time, we have true allies who share our goals."

"And I shall be there as well," Nyessos interjected, his jowls quivering with excitement. "Someone must handle the surrender terms, negotiate the trade agreements once victory is achieved." He dabbed at his sweating face with a silk cloth. "And I hear the noble ladies of Westeros are quite beautiful. The slave markets will overflow with pale-skinned prizes when we return."

Doniphos watched as another drop of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple, disappearing into the folds of his neck. The man's rings clinked against his wine cup as he took another drink, droplets staining his silk robes. The casual way he spoke of enslaving noblewomen made Doniphos' look at them like they had two heads.

"You're both mad," Doniphos said softly, more to himself than his fellow triarchs. He looked out over the harbor, at the endless columns of soldiers boarding the ships. How many would return? How many would die for old men's dreams of glory?

Malaquo's dry laugh rasped through the air like sandpaper on stone. His skeletal frame shook with mirth, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Mad? No, dear Doniphos. We are the only ones who truly see." His cane tapped against the tiles as he gestured at the assembled fleet. "Victory is within our grasp. The greatest armada since the Old Valyria reigned, The might of the slaver cities under volantis command, united under a single purpose."

Doniphos watched as another bead of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple. The corpulent triarch shifted his bulk, silk robes rustling as he leaned forward. "There's still time, you know. Your personal guard stands ready. Your ship can be provisioned within days." His rings caught the sunlight as he gestured expansively. "Join us in this moment of glory. Let all three triarchs lead Volantis to its destiny."

"At least one triarch must remain in the city." Doniphos kept his voice level, though his fingers tightened around his wine cup. He studied his fellow triarchs - Malaquo lost in dreams of martial glory, Nyessos already counting his profits from imagined victories. A cold certainty settled in his chest as he recognized the gleam in their eyes.

"This isn't about a quick war anymore, is it?" The words fell into the space between them like stones into still water. Neither of his fellow triarchs met his gaze directly.

When they finally met his gaze, Doniphos saw the truth written in their eyes. Nyessos shifted his bulk, silk robes rustling as he leaned closer.

"There has been... discussion among the factions." Nyessos' rings clinked against his wine cup. "The tigers and elephants have found common ground at last. Our allies in Astapor and Meereen share our vision."

Doniphos felt ice spread through his veins. "What vision would that be?"

"A grander one than mere victory." Nyessos' face flushed with excitement, sweat beading on his brow. "Why stop at defeating Braavos? Why not reshape the world itself?"

"The world?" Doniphos kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Think of it." Nyessos spread his hands wide. "Braavos carved up between Volantis and our allies. Their banking house brought to heel, their smugness crushed forever." His jowls quivered as he spoke. "And Westeros... those seven kingdoms ripe for division. The Reach's fertility would feed our slaves for generations. The Westerlands' gold mines would fill our coffers. Each of our allies would receive their due portion."

Malaquo's cane tapped in agreement. "A new age. The return of proper order." His skeletal fingers tightened around the dragon-carved whip. "Slavery restored across both continents, as it should be. As it was meant to be."

"The other cities have agreed to this?" Doniphos asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Astapor provides the Unsullied, Meereen their ships and soldiers. Even New Ghis sends support." Nyessos dabbed at his face with a silk cloth. "All will share in the spoils. All will benefit from the new order we create."

"A new Valyrian Freehold," Malaquo whispered, his eyes fever-bright. "But this time, Volantis shall lead it."

Doniphos watched another column of soldiers march past below, their feet raising dust in the harsh sunlight. He thought of the millions who would die for this mad dream. The countless who would be enslaved if they succeeded. His fingers tightened around his wine cup until his knuckles whitened.

"And you truly believe you can hold such conquest?" he asked quietly. "That you can maintain control over two continents?"

"With the Unsullied? With our combined fleets and armies?" Nyessos laughed. "Who could stand against us? The Westerosi lords will fall one by one, too divided to unite until it's too late. And once their people are properly enslaved..." He made a dismissive gesture. "Control will maintain itself."

Doniphos felt his stomach turn as Malaquo's toothless grin spread across his skeletal face. The old tiger leaned forward on his cane, eyes gleaming with an almost feverish light.

"Just imagine, Doniphos. Those northern ships - remarkable vessels, by all accounts. Faster than anything we've seen, able to weather any storm." Malaquo's fingers drummed against his cane. "Think how many slaves we could transport with such a fleet. How many raids we could launch."

"And their food preservation methods," Nyessos chimed in, dabbing sweat from his brow. "My factors tell me they can keep meat, fruit and vegetables fresh for months, even in the summer heat. No more losing cargo on long voyages." He patted his ample stomach. "Think of the profits."

Malaquo nodded eagerly. "Their craftsmen too. Those pieces we've seen - the jewelry, the weapons. Pure artistry." His bony fingers clutched the dragon-carved whip tighter. "We'll make them teach us their secrets. Every last one."

"Or we'll take their children and have them teach the next generation," Nyessos added with a predatory smile. "Break them young, train them properly."

Doniphos watched as another bead of sweat rolled down Nyessos' temple, fighting back bile at the casual cruelty in his fellow triarch's voice.

"And once we have their secrets, their ships..." Malaquo's eyes took on a distant look. "Yi Ti lies open before us. Think of it - the golden empire itself, ripe for conquest." He gestured expansively with his cane. "Their wealth, their resources, their millions of potential slaves. All ours for the taking."

"The greatest empire the world has ever seen," Nyessos agreed, his rings clinking against his wine cup. "From the Sunset Sea to the Jade Gates. All under Volantene rule."

Doniphos stared into his wine cup, watching the red liquid swirl. The magnitude of their ambition - and their madness - left him feeling hollow inside. These weren't just the dreams of glory-hungry old men anymore. They had ships. Armies. Allies. The power to make their twisted vision real.

"The tigers of old would weep with pride to see it," Malaquo declared, raising his cup in a toast. "To Volantis ascendant. To empire renewed."

Doniphos let the wine cup rest against his lips, ignoring Malaquo's toast and Nyessos' eager seconds. His gaze swept across the harbor where the massive fleet stretched to the horizon - seven hundred ships, their black sails catching the afternoon light. The largest naval force assembled since the days of Old Valyria.

The numbers rolled through his mind with crushing weight. A hundred thousand Unsullied and slaver soldiers from the great cities, their spears glinting like stars in the harsh sun. Fifty thousand more would join from Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, with Pentos adding its own considerable force. The sheer scale of it made his head spin.

Columns of warriors continued their endless march onto the waiting vessels. The crack of whips and the steady beat of drums echoed across the water. Supply ships groaned under the weight of provisions, war machines, and siege equipment. The combined might of nearly all the Free Cities, gathered for conquest.

He took a final sip from his silver goblet, letting the cool wine wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. The liquid did nothing to settle the unease churning in his gut. As he watched the armies board their ships, Doniphos couldn't shake the feeling that he was witnessing a funeral procession rather than a war fleet. All those soldiers, all those ships - sailing away to their deaths.

He shrugged mentally and took a final sip of his wine. That extended tour of YI-TI was looking mighty fine right now.

Chapter Text

Eddard sat in his solar, watching the late afternoon sun shine through the window. The meeting with the southern lords had left him mentally drained, but there was no rest to be found. Three more visitors awaited his attention - Lady Olenna and Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, along with Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne.

The door opened and Jory announced their arrival. Olenna entered first, her small frame moving with surprising speed despite her age. Mace followed, his rich green doublet straining against his girth. Oberyn sauntered in last, dark eyes taking in every detail of the room.

"Lord Stark." Olenna's voice carried a hint of amusement. "I must say, you handled those proceedings two days ago better than I expected. Particularly that business with your daughter."

Eddard gestured for them to take seats. "You believe I made the right choice?"

"Oh yes." Olenna settled into her chair, adjusting her skirts. "That boy Joffrey is a monster in the making. I've had him watched him at court and on the trip down here, thinking to match him to dear Margaery. The way he treats servants, animals - anyone he considers beneath him. You were wise to keep your daughter far from his reach."

"Mother speaks truly," Mace added, though Eddard noted how Olenna's eyes rolled slightly at her son's contribution. "The crown prince has shown... concerning tendencies. Apparently there's a story with a female cat…ghastly business."

"Concerning?" Oberyn laughed, a sharp sound. "The boy is his grandfather with golden hair and none of the cunning. At least Tywin Lannister knows when to hide his cruelty."

Eddard's jaw tightened. "I won't have my daughter used as a political token. Not to the Lannisters, not to anyone."

"Good." Olenna leaned forward. "Now that you've given Robert his pound of flesh with those concessions about ships and coins, perhaps we can discuss matters of real importance."

"Such as?" Eddard kept his voice neutral.

"Such as the fact that the North has grown more powerful than the rest of the kingdoms combined," Oberyn said bluntly. "Those mechanical soldiers at Moat Cailin - I counted at least five thousand along with your men and those giant metal warriors. And those were just the ones visible."

"My brother Doran would be very interested in how you and lord owen managed such advances," Oberyn continued. "As are we all." He gestured to include the Tyrells.

"Lord Stark," Olenna cut in, "you've achieved something remarkable here. The North has always been vast but poor. Now you have resources that make the Lannisters look like beggars. You have defenses that would make Aegon the Conqueror hesitate."

"What my lady mother means to say," Mace interjected, "is that we could be powerful allies."

"Could be?" Olenna's voice dripped with sarcasm. "We already are allies, you great oaf. The question is how closely we wish to align our interests."

Eddard studied them carefully. "What exactly are you proposing?"

"An arrangement," Olenna said. "One that benefits us all while keeping the peace. The crown will demand more concessions. The Lannisters will scheme. You'll need friends outside the North."

Eddard let the silence stretch, his grey eyes moving from one visitor to another. The weight of the North's power sat heavily in his mind - the endless ranks of mechanical soldiers, the restored fortresses, the weapons that could tear armies apart.

"The North needs no friends," Eddard said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "Not of convenience, at least." He stood and walked to the window, looking out over the transformed grounds of Winterfell. "I remember when Robert, jon arryn and I fought together to overthrow the Mad King. We needed every sword, every alliance we could forge. But now..." He turned back to face them. "Now the North could crush any opposition we faced. Your offers of friendship, while appreciated, are unnecessary."

The solar fell silent. Mace's face had gone pale, while Oberyn's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Even the Queen of Thorns seemed taken aback by his blunt assessment.

Olenna tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair, studying Eddard with shrewd eyes. After a long moment, she nodded slowly. "Your words are true, Lord Stark. I've seen enough in my time here to know that." She gave a small, brittle laugh. "The North could indeed crush us all, if you wished it."

Eddard felt a flutter of surprise at Olenna's frank admission. He had expected more verbal sparring, more attempts to maneuver for advantage. Instead, the Queen of Thorns had acknowledged the truth that hung heavy in the air - the North's overwhelming superiority.

"It's true," Oberyn said, breaking the tense silence. "I've fought across the Free Cities, seen the armies of the Golden Company, witnessed the power of the Unsullied. But what you've built here..." He shook his head. "The North could declare independence tomorrow, and there's not a force in Westeros that could stop you."

Eddard moved back to his seat, settling into the worn leather. "Independence isn't what we seek. The North remembers its oaths. Robert is my friend and my king."

"Yet you and your smith lord Goodson have built an army that could overthrow him," Olenna observed.

Eddard shook his head firmly. "Owen has never created these wonders and advancements with thoughts of betrayal or conquest. Everything he's built - the mechanical soldiers, the weapons, even those great metal giants - all of it was done for the North's protection and prosperity."

He stood and paced before the window, his reflection ghosting across the glass. "I've watched that young man work tirelessly these past years. When he first showed me what he could do, his only concern was helping our people survive the winters to come. The weapons, the defenses - they came later, and only because we knew others would covet what we were building."

"Yet you must admit," Olenna pressed, her shrewd eyes following his movement, "the power you now wield could reshape the Seven Kingdoms. If you chose to act..."

"If we chose," Eddard acknowledged with a slow nod, his voice carrying the weight of steel. "But that day will not come. The North remembers its loyalties, Lady Olenna. We remember our oaths."

Mace shifted uncomfortably in his seat while Oberyn leaned forward, dark eyes intent on Eddard's face. The Red Viper's usual smirk had faded into something more contemplative.

"Robert is my friend," Eddard continued. "My brother in all but blood. Owen understands this. Everything he's created has been to strengthen the north, not divide and tear the realm apart." He turned back to face his visitors. "The mechanical soldiers guard our borders. The restored fortresses shelter our people. The weapons defend our lands. Nothing more."

Eddard watched as his visitors exchanged glances, their earlier confidence giving way to resignation. Olenna's fingers drummed against her chair while Oberyn's usual smirk had vanished completely. Even Mace seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation, his florid face showing signs of understanding.

"Then perhaps," Olenna said carefully, "we might discuss how the North could assist the Reach with more modest matters. Our harvests are bountiful, but your glasshouses..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

"And Dorne could benefit greatly from your water management and purifying techniques," Oberyn added. "The deserts are harsh, and your mechanical workers could transform our lands."

Mace nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. The Reach would gladly offer-" He stopped as his mother's hand shot up.

"Offer what mace?" Olenna's voice carried a touch of bitterness. "Gold? The North can now mint purer coins than the Lannisters if they had not already promised not to do so. Land? They have more than all our kingdoms combined. Marriage alliances?" She gestured toward the window where Robb could be seen in the courtyard with his wife. "The Stark children are either married, refused or too young, and the North clearly has no need of southern alliances."

Eddard felt a mixture of pride and discomfort at their obvious desperation. These were proud lords and ladies, used to wielding significant power and influence. Yet here they sat, reduced to simply asking for help with no leverage to offer in return.

"My lords, my lady," Eddard said quietly. "The North remembers its friends as well as its enemies. We have no desire to see the other kingdoms suffer or fall behind. But these advances came to us through Owen's special connection to the old gods. They cannot simply be handed over like trade goods."

Eddard could see the skepticism in their faces at his mention of the old gods. The Tyrells, devoted to the Seven, exchanged subtle glances. Even Oberyn's expression held traces of disbelief, though he masked it better than the others.

The Red Viper finally leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. "Lord Stark, if the North were to help Dorne, you would have our eternal gratitude and friendship." He spread his hands in an open gesture. "Keep your military advances - we understand the need for secrecy there. But help us make our lands more habitable for our people."

Oberyn's voice grew passionate as he continued. "Build us roads that won't vanish beneath the desert sands. Give us wells that provide fresh water for our smallfolk. Loan us your mechanical workers, under Northern supervision of course, to help us grow crops and feed our people." He paused, meeting Eddard's gaze directly. "That is all we ask."

Eddard felt the weight of the request. It was reasonable - humanitarian even. Unlike the earlier political maneuvering, this was a straightforward plea to help people in need. The North's mechanical workers could indeed transform the harsh Dornish landscape, just as they had reshaped his own lands.

Olenna cleared her throat delicately, drawing Eddard's attention back to her. "While we're discussing mutually beneficial arrangements, there is the matter of trade across the Narrow Sea."

"What of it?" Eddard asked, though he already suspected where this conversation was heading.

"Your new ships are remarkable things, from what we saw from your goodsons ledger." Olenna said, her tone carefully measured. "Faster than anything we've seen before, with those strange mechanical additions that let them cut through the seas and storms like they were calm waters and." She adjusted her position in her chair. "The Reach would be most grateful if your Northern fleet could help escort our trade vessels."

Mace nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes! And perhaps we might even pay for the privilege of using Northern ships to transport our goods and merchants across the Narrow Sea? At those impressive speeds you've achieved?"

"Mother and I have discussed this at length," Mace continued, clearly warming to the topic. "We would welcome increased trade between our kingdoms. It would help us grow closer, build trust."

Olenna shot her son a look that suggested he was saying too much, but pressed on herself. "We would naturally let the North set their own prices for such services." Her thin lips curved into a slight smile. "Just as we did when you came to us as buyers. It's only fair, after all."

Eddard studied the three visitors before him, noting their carefully measured expressions and diplomatic postures. A thought occurred to him - one that would test their true intentions.

"You haven't asked for Owen's metal warriors," Eddard said quietly. "You truly wish nothing but to improve the lives of your people? Nothing More?"

Olenna's laugh was sharp and knowing. "My dear Lord Stark, there's no point in asking for what we know we'll never have." She adjusted her shawl with practiced grace. "I may be old, but I'm not foolish. Better to build new bridges with the North than bleat like sheep and make demands as Tywin tried to do."

Oberyn nodded, his usual smirk returning. "The Queen of Thorns speaks truly. We saw how well that worked for the old lion."

Even Mace seemed to understand, though Eddard suspected his mother's stern glance helped maintain his silence on the matter.

"Your approach is... refreshing," Eddard admitted. He rose from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back. "I will discuss your proposals with Owen and Robb. Their input will be valuable in determining how best to proceed."

"That is all we can ask, Lord Stark," Olenna said, rising slowly from her chair. "A fair hearing from You and Yours."

Oberyn and Mace stood as well, both nodding their agreement. The diplomatic dance had ended, at least for now, with a possibility of future cooperation hanging in the air.

Jon Arryn walked beside Robert toward Mikken's forge in the early morning light, his joints protesting the chill northern air. The forge had been completely rebuilt since his last visit to Winterfell years ago. While not as impressive as Owen's automated factory with its mechanical workers and magical defenses, the new structure showed clear signs of the young lord's influence.

Gone was the simple wooden building with its single hearth. In its place stood a stone and metal structure with multiple forging stations, each equipped with tools that Jon had never seen before. The roof vents were precisely engineered to draw smoke efficiently, and the bellows appeared to work through some mechanical means rather than manual labor.

"Seven hells," Robert muttered beside him, his breath visible in the cold. "Even the bloody blacksmith's forge puts our Red Keep armory to shame."

Jon noted how the king's eyes darted between the various implements and innovations. Robert had always possessed a warrior's appreciation for fine weapons and armor. Now, his former ward seemed both impressed and unsettled by the level of advancement on display.

"Lord Owen's work, no doubt," Jon said quietly. "Though Mikken has clearly adapted well to the new methods."

They watched as workers moved with practiced efficiency between stations. Each task appeared carefully organized to maximize production while maintaining quality. Strips of metal were being heated in perfectly controlled furnaces, and the grinding wheels turned at steady speeds powered by what looked like steam mechanisms.

"Your Grace, Lord Hand." Mikken emerged from the back of the forge, wiping his hands on his apron. The old blacksmith had aged since Jon's last visit, but his eyes were bright with pride as he gestured at his surroundings. "Welcome to my humble forge."

Robert barked a laugh. "Humble? This puts every smithy in King's Landing to shame, man. Even Tobho Mott's shop looks like a child's play forge compared to this."

Mikken's weathered face creased in a smile. "Aye, Lord Owen has made some improvements. Showed me ways to work metal I'd never dreamed of." He ran a calloused hand along one of the mechanical bellows. "These beauties maintain perfect heat without wearing out my arms. And the steam hammers..." He pointed to a massive device in the corner. "They can shape plate armor in half the time it used to take."

Jon studied the various mechanisms with careful attention. While impressive, none of these innovations appeared truly magical or beyond understanding. They were clever applications of mechanical principles, the kind of improvements that could theoretically be replicated elsewhere given enough knowledge and resources.

"Show us something you've made," Robert commanded, his voice carrying the eager tone it always held when weapons were involved. "Something with these new methods."

Mikken nodded and moved to a locked cabinet near his workbench. He returned with a sword that made both Jon and Robert draw sharp breaths. The blade was perfectly balanced, with intricate patterns in the steel that seemed to shift in the morning light.

"Pattern-welded steel," Mikken explained. "Lord Owen taught me the technique. Stronger than castle-forged steel, holds an edge better too. Not as fine as what he makes with his special materials, mind you, but better than anything I could craft before."

Robert took the sword, testing its weight and balance. "Gods be good," he muttered. "It's perfect." He executed a few practice cuts, the blade singing through the air. "How many of these can you make?"

"With the new equipment? Two or three a week, Your Grace. More if I focus solely on swords and let my apprentices handle the other work." Mikken's pride was evident in his voice. "Lord Owen says once I've mastered all his basic techniques, he'll teach me some of the more advanced methods as he can whenever he visit winterfell."

Jon watched Robert's face carefully, noting the mix of emotions that crossed it - admiration for the craftsmanship, desire for such weapons, and underlying concern about the North's growing capabilities. Even this "simple" forge represented a level of advancement that surpassed anything in the South.

Jon Arryn turned to Mikken, his joints protesting the movement. "Where might we find Lord Owen at this hour?"

"Ah, he's in his private section of the forge, my lords." Mikken gestured toward a separate area cordoned off from the main workspace. "He comes here when he wants to work on special projects. Has his own tools and materials there."

Jon and Robert made their way across the forge floor, their boots clicking against the smooth stone. Unlike the busy main area with its multiple workers and mechanical aids, this section was quieter, more intimate. The sound of steady hammering echoed from within.

They found Owen absorbed in his work, his movements precise and measured as he shaped what appeared to be a shield. Jon's eyes were drawn to the intricate design taking form beneath Owen's hammer - a wolf's head rendered in gleaming silver. Dark veins of what Jon recognized as ebony ore, one of the North's newfound materials they'd used to remake and strengthen moat cailin, created striking patterns across the surface.

The young lord worked with remarkable speed, yet each strike of his hammer seemed perfectly placed. There was something almost mesmerizing about the efficiency of his movements, the way the metal seemed to flow under his touch rather than being forcibly shaped. It reminded Jon of stories he'd heard as a child about legendary smiths blessed by the gods.

Robert stood transfixed beside him, watching Owen work with an expression that mixed awe and unease. The king had seen many master craftsmen in his time, but even he seemed to recognize that this was something different, something beyond ordinary skill.

Jon Arryn observed Lady Sansa a few feet from Owen's workbench, her auburn hair gleaming in the forge's light as she studied a massive leather-bound tome. The young woman seemed even more beautiful than her mother but both jon and robert couldn't help but see how she seemed taller than most ladies, almost sharing height with her husband though Jon noted she retained the grace and poise that marked the side of her southern Tully heritage. At her feet lay the massive white direwolf Anastasia, whose ice-blue eyes tracked every movement in the forge with unnerving intelligence.

Sansa noticed their presence first, setting aside her book and rising with fluid grace. She dipped into a small, perfectly executed curtsy. "Your Grace, Lord Hand. Welcome to my husbands humble workspace." Her voice carried the warmth of her mother's, though there was a new confidence there that Jon could hear.

Owen remained focused on his work, his hammer striking the shield with rhythmic precision. Jon watched as Sansa approached her husband, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and leaning close to his ear. "My love, we have guests."

The young lord finally paused, setting down his hammer with a barely concealed sigh. He turned and offered a respectful, if somewhat perfunctory bow to his visitors. "Your Grace, Lord Hand. How may I be of service?" Despite the polite words, Jon could detect a hint of irritation at being interrupted in Owen's tone.

Jon noticed how Anastasia had risen to pad silently closer to her master and mistress, positioning herself between them and the visitors. The direwolf's size was impressive enough, but there was something about her bearing that suggested she was far more than a mere animal. Her ice-blue eyes held an almost human intelligence as they assessed Robert and himself.

Jon Arryn jabbed Robert's ribs with his elbow, earning a grunt from the king. Robert shot him an annoyed glance before clearing his throat.

"I came to apologize for that mess Tywin made during the meeting," Robert said gruffly. "The old lion was out of line, demanding betrothals between your future children and the Lannisters or Baratheons." He shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to making apologies. "Should have shut him down sooner."

Jon watched as Sansa's perfect features tightened almost imperceptibly, a flash of irritation crossing her face before she schooled it back to polite neutrality. The young woman's newfound beauty made her expressions all the more striking, even the negative ones.

Owen's eyes grew cold at the reminder, though his voice remained steady as he responded. "You bear no fault for Lord Tywin's ambitions, Your Grace. Each man is responsible for his own actions."

Jon noted how Anastasia's fur bristled slightly at the mention of Tywin, the direwolf's ice-blue eyes narrowing as she pressed closer to Sansa's side. The beast's reaction mirrored the underlying tension in the room, though it maintained its dignified bearing.

"Still," Robert continued, "shouldn't have let him go on like that. Man forgets himself sometimes, thinks being my goodfather gives him more authority than it does." He ran a hand through his beard. "Your children will be yours to betroth as you and Ned see fit, when the time comes."

Jon observed Owen's measured response to Robert's apology. The young lord's stance remained formal yet unyielding, his hand resting protectively on the partially completed shield.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Your Grace," Owen said. "While we're on the subject, I hope you and Lord Arryn will convey to Lord Tywin that neither myself, Sansa, nor Lord Eddard wish to entertain any private meetings with the Lannister party before the royal procession returns south." His tone was polite but firm. "He should cease sending servants to make such requests."

Jon sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the diplomatic challenge ahead. "Lord Tywin will not take that well, especially given that Lord Eddard has already granted private audiences to both the Dornish and Reach delegations." He noted how Sansa's hand tightened slightly on Owen's shoulder at the mention of Tywin. "But I will ensure the message is delivered."

The tension in Owen's shoulders eased slightly at Jon's assurance, though Anastasia remained alert at Sansa's side, her ice-blue eyes fixed unnervingly on the visitors.

Owen nodded his thanks, his expression carefully neutral despite the storm of thoughts churning beneath the surface. "Was there anything else, Your Grace? Lord Hand?"

Jon Arryn reached into his doublet, his weathered hands withdrawing a sheathed dagger. The old Hand's movements were deliberate as he pulled the blade from its scabbard, revealing the distinctive pale blue metal that seemed to radiate cold even in the forge's warm air. Frost formed along its edges, and the temperature around them noticeably dropped.

Owen recognized it instantly - the stalhrim dagger that had been stolen during the attack on Winterfell's factory. The same weapon that his tracking spells had traced to the Dreadfort and then south to King's Landing, confirming Roose Bolton's betrayal. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the familiar craftsmanship, noting that the blade appeared unused. At least on any person.

"I believe this is yours," Jon Arryn said, extending the dagger toward Owen. "It was sent to us two months ago and was the reason we decided to come north to see if the rumors were true."

Owen took the dagger from Jon Arryn's hands with practiced care, placing it deliberately on a nearby shelf. The pale blue metal seemed to pulse with cold energy even at a distance, frost crystals forming where it touched the wooden surface.

"Did you make this weapon personally?" Jon Arryn asked, his weathered eyes studying Owen's reaction.

Owen nodded. "Yes. Only I can create weapons with such potent magical properties." He gestured toward the distant factory visible through the forge's window. "The factory in Winterfell can produce stalhrim weapons as well, but they lack the perfection and strength I can achieve through direct crafting."

Robert stepped closer to examine the dagger again as it lay on the shelf, careful not to touch the frost-covered blade. "What ores are used to create such weapons? I've never seen anything like it in all my years."

Owen's answer was brisk and measured, maintaining the careful balance between politeness and firmness he'd cultivated in these diplomatic exchanges sine the southern lords had arrived at winterfell. "The ores can only be found in the North, Your Grace. They require specific mining techniques and can only be extracted by myself or those I personally select and train."

"Would you be willing to sell these ores?" Jon Arryn asked, his tone careful and diplomatic. "For a price of your choosing, of course."

Owen's response was immediate and firm. "No, Your Grace. These materials are a Northern resource and will remain in the North." He met Robert's gaze steadily, unmoved by the king's darkening expression. "Even if I were to sell the ore, it would be useless to you. Southern smiths lack the knowledge and techniques required to work with these materials."

Jon Arryn opened his mouth to speak, but Owen cut him off with a raised hand. "And no, Lord Hand, I will not teach your smiths how to forge them." His tone brooked no argument, carrying the weight of finality. "These methods are protected knowledge that will stay within our borders."

Sansa's hand remained on Owen's shoulder, her presence both supportive and grounding. Anastasia's low growl rumbled through the forge, though the direwolf made no aggressive moves. The temperature seemed to drop further as tension filled the space between them.

Owen could see the frustration building in Robert's face, the king's legendary temper threatening to surface. But Owen stood his ground, his decision unwavering. These materials and techniques were part of the North's strength, and he had no intention of sharing them with the South, regardless of who made the request.

Owen watched as Jon Arryn laid a weathered hand on Robert's shoulder, his instincts taking over before the king's temper could fully ignite. "Perhaps, Your Grace, we might discuss a commission instead?" The old Hand's eyes twinkled with calculated wisdom. "An ebony Warhammer for the crown, something befitting the Baratheon line."

Robert's anger visibly deflated at the suggestion, his expression shifting from frustrated to intrigued. "Aye," he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "A proper Warhammer, like the one I used to cave in Rhaegar's chest." His eyes took on a distant look, lost in memories of battle. "But better. Stronger."

Owen considered the request carefully. Creating such a weapon would demonstrate Northern craftsmanship while maintaining control over their resources. It could also serve as a diplomatic tool, showing goodwill without compromising their technological advantages.

"A Warhammer with the power of lightning and thunder," Robert continued, his voice growing animated. "Something Joffrey and his sons can wield in battle, something to remind the realm of Baratheon strength long after I'm gone." The king's eyes focused intently on Owen. "Name your price, boy."

Owen glanced at Sansa, noting the subtle nod of approval from his wife. Anastasia's growl had subsided, though the direwolf remained alert at their side. He turned back to Robert, his mind already calculating the materials and enchantments such a weapon would require.

"For a weapon of that caliber, Your Grace, the price would be substantial," Owen said carefully. "Ebony ore is rare, and the enchantments you describe would require significant time and effort to perfect." He paused, ensuring he had Robert's full attention. "Five hundred thousand gold dragons."

Robert's eyebrows shot up at the price, but before he could protest, Owen continued. "That includes materials, labor, and the unique enchantments you've requested. The weapon would be bound to Baratheon blood, ensuring only your true descendants could wield its full power."

Owen watched Robert consider the price, the king's weathered face creasing in thought. After a moment, Robert's expression brightened, and he rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm.

"Done! A fair price for a weapon worthy of my line." Robert's voice boomed through the forge. "Looking forward to seeing what you create, boy. Don't disappoint me."

The king turned and strode out of the forge with the same forceful energy he'd entered with, his heavy footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Jon Arryn moved to follow, but paused, turning back to face Owen with a serious expression.

"Lord Owen," the elderly Hand's voice was quiet but firm. "I trust it's understood that weapons of such power should not find their way to southern houses without explicit permission from the crown."

Owen met the Hand's gaze steadily. "You have my word, Lord Hand. No southern house will receive weapons of this caliber without royal consent."

Jon Arryn nodded, satisfaction crossing his lined features. "Good. As long as it's Ned and his northerners wielding these weapons, we can trust in their honor not to turn them against the crown."

Owen felt Sansa's hand tighten slightly on his shoulder as Jon Arryn spoke those final words. Anastasia remained perfectly still beside them, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the Hand of the King until he finally turned and followed his king out of the forge.

As Jon Arryn's footsteps faded from the forge, Sansa let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders relaxing from their perfect posture. "I cannot wait for them to leave," she said, leaning against Owen's workbench. "The southern lords are exhausting with their constant demands and schemes."

Owen set down his hammer and pulled his wife close, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "Agreed. Every conversation is a dance of words, each trying to gain some advantage or piece of our technology." He glanced at the partially completed shield on his bench. "Robert's commission will at least keep them satisfied for a while."

Anastasia padded over to them, pressing her massive head against Sansa's hand. The direwolf's ice-blue eyes held a knowing look, as if she too understood the strain of maintaining diplomatic facades.

"With Bloodraven trapped in that white void, I think it's time I visited the Wall," Owen said, his mind already turning to their next moves. "There's much to be done there before winter comes, and I'd rather handle it without his interference."

Sansa nodded, her fingers absently stroking Anastasia's fur. "We should return to Ice Crest first. I miss our home." She glanced out the forge window where they could see various noble parties preparing to depart. "The northern lords are already leaving. Lord Manderly's carriage just passed through the gates."

Owen watched as another group of riders bearing the Hornwood banner followed. The gathering of lords had served its purpose - presenting a united North to the southern visitors - but now it was time for everyone to return to their own holdings and continue with their lives

"Let's pack tonight and leave in the morning," Owen suggested, beginning to clean his workspace. "I've had enough of playing host to southern ambitions."

Owen shook his head at Sansa's suggestion to leave immediately. "Not yet, my love. Another week with your family before we return home." He picked up the stalhrim dagger, its cold surface reminding him of unfinished business. "I need to complete the magical gate project I put on hold when the southern lords arrived."

He explained how the transportation gate between Ice Crest and Winterfell was nearly complete, requiring only the final magical symbols to activate it. Once finished, he would create its twin at Ice Crest, allowing instant travel between their homes then maybe more for their northern lords to use.

But as Owen studied the stolen dagger in his hands, frost crystals forming where his fingers touched the pale blue metal, his thoughts turned darker. The weapon's presence reminded him of another matter requiring his attention before they could return home.

Roose Bolton's betrayal in sending this dagger south couldn't go unanswered. The Lord of the Dreadfort had proven himself a threat not just to Owen's work, but to the North's security. Just as he had in the books and show, Lord Bolton had proven he could not be trusted and he was not going to let lord stark keep the lord alive one more minute to gather evidence for some honorable trial. Owen's fingers tightened around the dagger's hilt as he came to a cold resolution.

"Roose Bolton must die."

Chapter Text

Roose bolted upright in his bed, sweat coating his pale skin despite the warmth from the metal pipes that snaked through the Dreadfort's walls. His ghost-grey eyes darted around the darkened chamber, searching for threats that existed only in the fading wisps of his nightmare.

The brass pipes hummed their constant melody, pumping heat through the castle - another of Longshore's creations that had wormed its way into his ancestral home. His fingers clutched the furs draped across his bed, knuckles white with tension.

"My lord?" A servant's voice called through the heavy oak door, one of the ones on duty at night in case he needed anything. "Is everything well?"

"Leave me." The words came out barely above a whisper, yet carried their usual command. Footsteps retreated down the corridor.

Roose pressed his palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs - an unfamiliar sensation for a man who prided himself on control. The nightmare slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving only a deep sense of dread that settled in his bones.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the warm stone floor. Even that simple comfort felt wrong tonight. The mechanical marvels that now infested his castle had always unsettled him, but tonight their constant presence felt suffocating.

A shiver ran down his spine as he stood, walking to the window. Outside, the moon cast its pale light over the courtyard where one of those brass monstrosities - a steam constructor - continued its endless work, methodically maintaining the grounds with inhuman precision.

Another violent tremor shook his frame. Roose gripped the window sill, his normally steady hands trembling. He'd faced countless battles, ordered numerous executions, even flayed men alive - yet here he stood, shaken by a dream he couldn't even remember.

The familiar urge for a leeching session rose within him. Perhaps the dream was his body's way of telling him his humors needed balancing. But even as he considered summoning his servant with the leeches, another chill gripped him, and the thought of exposing his flesh to anything, even his trusted leeches, made his skin crawl.

Roose stood up from his bed and paced silently, his mind wandering and body shaking still.

Two weeks. Two weeks since the royal party had arrived at Winterfell, and nothing. No ravens bearing news of Stark's downfall. No word of the Crown's retribution for the North's presumption. The stolen stalhrim dagger should have been proof enough of their treachery, their unauthorized creation of weapons that could threaten the Iron Throne.

His fingers traced the edge of a letter on his desk - the latest report from his spies at Winterfell. Instead of punishment, the Starks were hosting feasts. Instead of demands for submission, there were negotiations. Even the Lannisters, whom he'd counted on to push for harsh measures, seemed to be seeking compromise after a blunder during the negotiations.

The plan had been perfect in its simplicity. Send evidence of the North's magical weapons to King's Landing, let southern paranoia do the rest. Stark's honor would compel him to admit everything, and Robert's famous temper would ensure swift, harsh justice. In the chaos that followed, House Bolton would emerge as the voice of reason, the loyal servants of the Crown.

But something had gone wrong. His pale lips pressed into a thin line as he remembered the cost of this failure. Good expendable men lost in that factory attack, gold spent, favors called in - all for nothing. Worse still, the stolen dagger provided a trail that could lead back to him if someone looked closely enough.

Roose stopped at his window, watching the steam constructor's rhythmic movements even during night time. These machines that now dotted his lands served as constant reminders of his miscalculation. He had received fewer of them than other houses - a slight that had not gone unnoticed. Even now, they seemed to mock him with their efficiency, their loyalty to their creator.

Owen Longshore. The name tasted bitter in his mouth. That upstart blacksmith, married to Stark's daughter, wielding power that should have belonged to more worthy houses. Houses with ancient bloodlines and proven loyalty. Houses like Bolton.

"Water. Fresh and cold from the purifiers." Roose's voice carried through the door, maintaining its usual soft tone despite his inner turmoil.

The servant's footsteps faded down the corridor. Even the simple act of requesting water reminded him of Longshore's influence. Those purifiers, another innovation that had spread throughout the North, ensuring clean water even in the depths of winter. His lips curled slightly - even the basic necessities of life now bore that man's mark.

Roose moved to his desk, lighting a single candle. The flame cast dancing shadows across the scattered papers - reports from his remaining spies, letters from various houses, and most importantly, the correspondence regarding Domeric. His son had departed for Ice Crest weeks ago, after receiving acceptance as Longshore's student. The letter lay open on the desk, its contents memorized but still worthy of review.

His pale eyes scanned the parchment again. Longshore's acceptance had been cordial enough, even warm in its tone toward Domeric. But Roose detected the underlying message - this was a gesture of reconciliation, perhaps even a warning. By accepting Domeric as a student, Longshore demonstrated both power and mercy. Or at least that what he thought it meant.

The servant returned with the water, placing it silently on the desk before withdrawing. Roose lifted the cup, the cool liquid offering momentary relief from his troubled thoughts. The dagger - that cursed piece of cold magical steel that now threatened everything. His carefully laid plans had unraveled so completely that he couldn't even be certain of its location. Was it still in King's Landing, presented as evidence to the Small Council? Or had someone in the royal party brought it north? The uncertainty gnawed at him.

Roose pressed his fingers against his temples. The headache that had been building all night throbbed with renewed intensity. He had always prided himself on careful planning, on considering every angle. Yet somehow, this situation had spiraled beyond his control. The stolen dagger hung over his head like a sword, threatening to fall at any moment.

His gaze drifted to another letter on his desk - the latest report about Domeric's arrival at Ice Crest. His son wrote of magnificent innovations, of technological wonders that made the Dreadfort's modest improvements seem like children's toys. Each word spoke of growing admiration for Longshore and his achievements. Roose could almost hear the excitement in his son's usually measured tone as he described his visit.

The irony was not lost on him. While he had plotted against Longshore, his own son might become the man's most devoted student. Perhaps, Roose mused, taking another sip of water, that had been Longshore's intent all along - to turn heir against father, to bind House Bolton through Domeric rather than destroy it through force.

Roose sighed deeply, feeling the tremors in his body subside as the cool water slid down his throat. The headache that had been pounding against his temples eased, clarity returning to his thoughts. Perhaps he had let his fears run wild, seeing threats where none existed.

His ghost-grey eyes fixed on the letter from Domeric. What did it matter if Stark discovered his role in the factory attack? Eddard Stark was not his father Rickard, who had ruled the North with an iron grip beneath his noble facade. Nor was he Brandon, that wild wolf who would have torn out Roose's throat at the mere suggestion of treachery.

No, Eddard was different. His honor bound him like chains, making him predictable, manageable. Even now, with the power to crush his enemies through Longshore's creations, Stark chose negotiation and compromise. The thought made Roose's lip curl slightly. Such weakness.

Rickard Stark would have used these advantages differently. Roose remembered the old Lord of Winterfell - a man who understood power, who knew when to bare his teeth. Under Rickard's rule, no southern lord would have dared demand concessions from the North. And Brandon... Roose allowed himself a small, cold smile. Brandon would have already marched south with an army of those metal monstrosities, consequences be damned.

But Eddard? He would probably summon Roose to Winterfell, speak of duty and loyalty, perhaps even offer forgiveness in exchange for some public display of contrition. The thought should have been reassuring, yet it made Roose's skin crawl. Such mercy was more insulting than any punishment.

Roose set the empty cup down on his desk, his limbs feeling heavier with each step as he made his way back to his bed. The night's anxieties had drained him more than he cared to admit. Even the most carefully laid plans required rest to execute properly.

He pulled back the furs, preparing to climb into bed. Tomorrow would bring clarity. Tomorrow he would begin to untangle this web of complications, find a way to salvage his position. Perhaps even turn this situation to his advantage somehow.

"Is now really a good time to be sleeping, Lord Bolton?"

The calm, measured voice froze Roose in place. His blood turned to ice as he slowly turned toward the window he'd been standing at mere moments ago.

Owen Longshore perched on the windowsill as if he'd been there all along, his form silhouetted against the moonlight. The young lord's presence struck Roose with a wave of bone-chilling dread unlike anything he'd experienced in all his years.

This wasn't the hot fear of battle or the cold anxiety of political maneuvering. This was something deeper, more primal. The kind of fear prey feels when it realizes the predator has already closed its jaws.

Roose's ghost-grey eyes met Owen's steady gaze. In that moment, he understood with terrible clarity that all his careful plans, all his subtle machinations, had been as effective as a child's game against this man.

Owen watched Roose's reaction with a mix of amusement and predatory interest. The Lord of the Dreadfort's composure, even in this moment of surprise, was remarkable - though Owen could detect the slight tremor in his hands, the barely perceptible quickening of his breath.

"You've gotten... bigger," Roose observed in that characteristic whisper-soft voice of his.

Owen couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the chamber walls as he dropped gracefully from the windowsill. The observation wasn't wrong - the transformation in the Temple of Solomon had made many of the northern lords who saw him during the southern visit wonder where his sudden growth spurt had come from. But trust Roose Bolton to focus on such a tactical detail even now.

As Owen's boots touched the floor without a sound, he noticed Roose's careful, measured movement away from the bed. The older man's ghost-grey eyes darted briefly toward the weapon rack where Bloody Heart hung in its ornate sheath. The ebony blade had been Owen's gift to House Bolton, presented before all the lords of the North. Owen had crafted it with particular care, knowing full well how the Boltons might put such a weapon to use.

Owen could practically see the calculations running behind those pale eyes - the distance to the blade, the speed needed to reach it, the likelihood of success. Even now, Roose's mind worked like a master swordsman, measuring angles and opportunities.

Owen watched with mild amusement as Roose's eyes kept darting to the blade. The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife - and there happened to be quite a fine one mounted on that wall.

"Please, Lord Bolton. Take your blade if it makes you feel more secure." Owen gestured casually toward the weapon rack. "Though I must say, the name feels a touch dramatic now that I think about it."

Roose didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion born from years of experience, he crossed the room and grabbed the ebony blade. The metal sang as he drew it from its sheath, the black material seeming to drink in what little moonlight filtered through the window. Owen had to admire the man's form - even in his nightclothes, Roose moved with the practiced grace of a skilled warrior.

Bloody Heart's edge gleamed as Roose brought it to bear, pointing directly at Owen's heart. The older lord's stance was perfect, his grip steady despite the earlier tremors Owen had noticed. But there was something desperate in those ghost-grey eyes now, something that hadn't been there before.

Owen shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture of casual indifference. "Was all this drama really necessary, Lord Bolton? I simply came to have a conversation." He glanced at the blade's tip, still unwavering in its aim. "Though I suppose you've never been one for simple conversations, have you?"

Owen watched as Roose's composure shifted, the mask of cold calculation giving way to something harder, more desperate.

"We both know you didn't come here in the dead of night for conversation," Roose whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent chamber. "You're here to kill me."

The words hung in the air between them, and Owen had to admire the man's directness. Even now, facing what he believed to be his executioner, Roose Bolton maintained that eerily soft tone that had struck fear into so many hearts.

Before Owen could respond, Roose moved. The attack was masterfully executed - a swift, economical thrust that should have opened Owen's chest from collar to hip. Bloody Heart's ebony blade cut through the air with deadly precision, aimed perfectly at its creator's heart.

But Owen had crafted that blade. Had imbued it with more than just superior materials and expert smithing. As Roose's hand tightened around the grip, Owen flexed his will ever so slightly.

The handle of Bloody Heart flared brilliant red, its temperature rising instantly to searing levels. Roose let out a sharp cry of pain - the first time Owen had ever heard the man raise his voice - and the blade clattered to the stone floor.

Owen watched with mild interest as Roose stared at the fallen weapon, his burned palm cradled against his chest. The look in those pale eyes as they fixed on the blade was almost comical - pure betrayal, as if the weapon itself had turned against its master.

Owen watched Roose's pained expression with detached interest. "Not so nice when something or someone betrays you, is it?" he said mildly, extending his hand toward the fallen blade. Bloody Heart lifted from the floor smoothly, floating to his grasp. He twirled it expertly, admiring how the ebony metal caught the moonlight before sliding it into its sheath, which had flown obediently to his other hand.

Roose cradled his burned palm against his chest, those ghost-grey eyes narrowing as understanding dawned. "When?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "When did you make it betray me?"

Owen clicked the blade fully into its sheath, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. "As soon as I forged it," he replied matter-of-factly. "Did you really think I would be stupid enough to leave powerful weapons in the hands of men and women I didn't fully trust?" He gestured at the sheathed blade. "Every weapon I've forged at the northern lords' request - every single one - is magically bound to never harm me, my bloodline, or my wife."

He watched realization spread across Roose's face - the understanding that all those magnificent weapons he'd distributed throughout the North weren't just symbols of favor or tools of power. They were leashes, carefully crafted controls woven into the very metal itself. And Roose, in his arrogance, had never suspected a thing.

Owen watched as Roose's calculating mind worked through the implications. The older lord's ghost-grey eyes narrowed slightly, his burned hand still pressed against his chest.

"Does Lord Stark know?" Roose's whisper carried across the chamber, barely louder than a breath.

Owen shook his head, running his fingers along Bloody Heart's ornate sheath. "It's none of his business as far as the security of my family is concerned." He met Roose's pale gaze steadily. "None of the lords know."

A strange expression crossed Roose's face then - something between appreciation and dark amusement. Despite his obvious pain and the precarious situation, the Lord of the Dreadfort couldn't seem to help himself.

"You're more like me than you know, Longshore."

Owen watched as Roose moved slowly back to his bed, lowering himself to sit on its edge with careful dignity despite his injury. The older lord's composure, even in defeat, was remarkable.

"How so?" Owen asked, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.

"My wife," Roose whispered, his ghost-grey eyes distant. "Bethany was the only one I ever truly trusted, and even then..." He flexed his injured hand slightly. "Even then, I kept certain things from her. For her protection, I told myself. But perhaps it was just habit."

"And Domeric?" Owen asked, genuinely curious about the relationship between father and son.

A flicker of something - pride? regret? - crossed Roose's pale features. "My son... yes. I trust him, as much as I'm capable of trust. But even there..." He met Owen's gaze directly. "You understand, don't you? The necessity of keeping everyone at arm's length. Even those closest to us."

Owen was silent.

"You present yourself well," Roose continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The friendly smith-lord, generous with his gifts, welcoming to all. Yet each of those gifts is leashed, each piece of technology controlled." His burned hand twitched. "You understand that no one can truly be trusted but yourself."

"The difference between us, Lord Bolton," Owen replied, "is that I don't take pleasure in that fact." He gestured at the sheathed blade. "I build these safeguards out of necessity, not desire. You, on the other hand..." He left the accusation unspoken.

Roose's thin lips curved in what might have been a smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we're more alike than either of us would care to admit."

Roose settled more comfortably on the bed's edge, owen noting how the older lord's posture remained rigid despite his obvious attempt to appear at ease. The moonlight cast strange shadows across his pale features, making those ghost-grey eyes seem almost luminous in the darkness.

"I've always wondered," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying clearly in the silent chamber, "why you never thought to build your mechanical creations in secret. Build up an army." His eyes gleamed with genuine curiosity. "You could have conquered all of Westeros before anyone realized the threat."

Owen couldn't help it - he snorted, the sound sharp and derisive in the quiet room. "Tell me, Lord Bolton, is there truly anyone who actually wants to be king of Westeros?"

"Plenty," Roose answered immediately, his voice carrying absolute conviction.

"Yes," Owen said, shaking his head slightly, "and they're idiots."

The look of pure shock that crossed Roose Bolton's normally composed features was something Owen would treasure for years to come. The Lord of the Dreadfort's mouth actually fell open slightly, his ghost-grey eyes widening in genuine surprise. It was perhaps the most human expression Owen had ever seen on the man's face.

For a long moment, Roose just stared at him, clearly struggling to process this response. The mighty Lord Bolton, renowned for his calculating nature and unflappable demeanor, looked utterly gobsmacked.

"Yes," Owen replied, settling against the windowsill. "They're idiots. Every single one of them."

He watched Roose process this statement, those ghost-grey eyes still wide with disbelief. The Lord of the Dreadfort seemed genuinely thrown by Owen's dismissal of continental conquest.

"Nobody actually wants to be king because they know what's best for the Seven Kingdoms," Owen continued, his voice tinged with contempt. "None of them dream of leading the realm into some golden age of prosperity and peace. No - all they want is power."

Owen's fingers traced the ornate carvings on Bloody Heart's sheath as he spoke. "Power to do whatever they want. Power to order men to march to their deaths on a whim. Power to take whatever woman catches their eye, noble or smallfolk, without consequences." His lip curled in disgust. "Power just to call themselves king, as if the title means anything when it's held by men like them."

Roose's expression shifted from shock to something more calculating. "And you're different?" he whispered, that soft voice carrying a hint of challenge.

"I don't want to be king," Owen stated flatly. "I've seen what power does to men. I've watched them scheme and plot and murder for even the smallest taste of it." He gestured at the castle around them. "Look at what you did, betraying your liege lord just for the chance to curry favor with the crown. Or take over as lord paramount of the north. And for what? A pat on the head from Tywin Lannister?"

Owen watched as his words struck home, seeing the subtle shift in Roose's expression. The Lord of the Dreadfort remained silent for a long moment, those ghost-grey eyes studying Owen with newfound interest.

"Then you would be the first good king Westeros has seen since the likes of Jaehaerys the Conciliator or Good Queen Alysanne," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying an odd note of... respect? Wonder?

Owen couldn't contain his derisive snort. "Yes, and what would that bring me?" He pushed away from the windowsill, pacing the chamber with restless energy. "Mountains of paperwork. Endless disputes between ignorant lords fighting over strips of worthless land. Smallfolk bringing me every petty grievance, expecting the great good king to solve all their problems."

He ran a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "There would be no end to it. And the worst part?" Owen turned to face Roose, his expression pained. "The absolute worst part is that my own nature would force me to keep being good, to keep trying to help, because that's just who I am."

His voice rose slightly, genuine emotion breaking through his usual control. "No! No thanks. I'd rather forge weapons and build machines and actually accomplish something meaningful than waste my life drowning in other people's problems."

Owen watched as understanding dawned in those ghost-grey eyes. "Then we are nothing alike after all," Roose whispered, his voice carrying a note of... disappointment?

Owen shrugged, the gesture casual and dismissive. "Your only real problem, Lord Bolton, is that you're a sociopath."

Roose's pale eyebrows drew together slightly, genuine curiosity crossing his features. "I don't know this word," he admitted softly.

"It means exactly what you are," Owen explained, studying the older lord with clinical detachment. "Manipulative and cunning. Someone who lacks remorse, guilt, and shame." He met those ghost-grey eyes directly. "Someone completely incapable of real human attachment to another."

"That's not true," Roose protested, though his voice remained barely above a whisper. "I loved my wife Bethany. I love my son."

Owen tilted his head, regarding the Lord of the Dreadfort with something approaching pity. "Do you? Do you truly love them, or did you simply favor them like cherished pets above all others?" He watched Roose's expression carefully. "Think about all the secret things you've done with your power as a lord to those who had none. Do you regret any of it? Truly regret it?"

Owen watched as Roose fell silent, those ghost-grey eyes growing distant. The moonlight cast strange shadows across the older lord's face as he seemed to search within himself. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft whisper of wind outside the chamber windows.

Finally, Roose spoke, his voice softer than ever. "Regret..." He tested the word carefully. "When others speak of it, they describe this... weight. This gnawing feeling that eats at them." His pale eyes met Owen's. "I've never felt that. Not once."

Owen nodded, unsurprised. "And shame? Guilt?"

"No." Roose's admission carried no pride, no defiance - just simple statement of fact. "I understand these feelings exist. I've studied them in others, learned to recognize their signs." His burned hand flexed slightly. "But I've never experienced them myself."

Owen moved away from the window, studying the Lord of the Dreadfort with genuine curiosity. "Then I have to ask - have you actually cared about anything? Truly cared?" He gestured at their surroundings. "All this maneuvering, all these plots - sending that dagger to King's Landing to betray the North, betraying the Starks who've protected your family for generations since they knelt..." He paused, watching Roose carefully. "Was it real ambition driving you, or were you just... going through the motions?"

Roose's ghost-grey eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise crossing his features as he considered the question. For perhaps the first time in his life, the Lord of the Dreadfort seemed to be examining his own motivations with real honesty.

"I..." Roose began, then stopped. His whisper, when it finally came, carried an odd note of uncertainty. "I don't know."

Owen watched as something like confusion crossed Roose's pale features. The older lord stared at his burned palm, his voice barely audible. "All these years, all these careful plans... and I never stopped to ask myself why." His ghost-grey eyes lifted to meet Owen's. "Is that not strange?"

Owen sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair as he studied the man before him. The reddit posts had been right after all - Roose Bolton was absolutely unhinged. Not in the typical way most feudal lords were when handed power, with their greed and ambition, but in a far more unsettling manner. The complete lack of basic human emotion, the inability to even understand why he did the things he did... Jesus Christ!

He straightened himself, noting how Roose's posture shifted subtly in response. The Lord of the Dreadfort recognized their philosophical discussion had reached its natural end.

"What will happen to Domeric?" Roose's whisper carried across the chamber, those ghost-grey eyes fixed intently on Owen.

Owen adjusted Bloody Heart's sheath at his hip. "Your son will be untouched," he stated firmly. "Unlike you, Domeric actually has a conscience. He's currently enjoying his stay at Ice Crest, from what Jon tells me." Owen watched Roose carefully as he continued. "He'll remain there until news of your death reaches him."

Owen watched as Roose nodded slowly, accepting his fate. Then confusion flickered across the older lord's pale features.

"But... did you not come from Ice Crest?" Roose's whisper carried genuine puzzlement. "The ravens said you and Lady Sansa were..."

"No," Owen interrupted casually. "We're still at Winterfell actually. The southern visitors still keeping everyone quite busy."

Those ghost-grey eyes widened slightly. "Then how..." Roose's voice trailed off as he calculated the distance. "How did you reach the Dreadfort so quickly?"

Owen shrugged, adjusting Bloody Heart's sheath. "I flew."

For a moment, silence filled the moonlit chamber. Then, something extraordinary happened - Roose Bolton laughed. Not his usual quiet, calculated chuckle, but genuine mirth that seemed to surprise even him. The sound was rusty, as if long unused, but unmistakably real.

"By all the gods, old and new," Roose managed between wheezing laughs, "if you actually had the ambition to rule..." He shook his head, those ghost-grey eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "With all this power at your command, you could be emperor of the known world."

Owen shrugged again, the gesture casual and dismissive. "Too much work," he said simply.

Roose's ghost-grey eyes studied Owen carefully in the moonlit chamber. "How will you do it?" he whispered, his soft voice carrying clearly. "Do you have the stomach to slay me yourself?"

Owen shook his head, surprising the Lord of the Dreadfort. "I've never actually killed someone personally," he admitted. "And I doubt I have the will to do it in such an intimate way as with a blade. The thought of watching someone's life drain away as I hold the weapon..." He shuddered slightly. "No, I don't think I could. At least not now."

Fire suddenly erupted along Owen's arms, casting the chamber in flickering orange light. The flames danced across his skin without burning him, illuminating his face from below as he spoke.

"I'm going to burn the Dreadfort," Owen stated matter-of-factly. "Not just the castle, but that flaying dungeon you keep hidden beneath it too. I'll reduce it all to cinders."

Roose didn't even bother denying the dungeon's existence. Those ghost-grey eyes reflected the dancing flames as he nodded slowly, accepting his fate with characteristic composure.

"At least Domeric will have a fresh start," Roose whispered, his soft voice carrying no trace of fear. "A new beginning, without the weight of our house's darker legacy."

Owen nodded, the magical flames dancing along his arms growing brighter and hotter.

"What of the servants?" Roose asked, not out of genuine concern but simple curiosity.

"They're all gone," Owen confirmed. "I placed a compulsion spell on them hours ago. They've returned to their homes in the nearby village, taking their families with them." He shrugged casually. "Only you will die tonight."

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls as silence filled the chamber. Roose absorbed this information with his characteristic composure, those pale eyes studying Owen with renewed interest.

Finally, the Lord of the Dreadfort's soft whisper carried across the room. "Was it Lord Eddard who sent you to kill me?"

Owen shook his head, the magical flames casting shifting shadows across his features. "Lord Stark wanted to give you a trial. He wanted all the northern lords to hear your crimes and judge you properly." The fire along his arms pulsed brighter. "But I can't allow that."

"Oh?" Roose's ghost-grey eyes gleamed with interest. "And why is that?"

"Because you're too dangerous to live that long," Owen stated flatly. "You'd find some way to twist things, to manipulate events. Maybe even escape." He gestured at the castle around them. "The official story will be that one of your servants tried to adjust the Dwemer heating systems and accidentally started a fire. By morning, the Dreadfort will be ash."

A dry, wheezing sound escaped Roose's lips - something between a laugh and a sigh. "Going against Lord Stark's wishes?" Those pale eyes studied Owen with newfound respect. "Perhaps I was wrong earlier. Perhaps we are alike after all."

"We're nothing alike," Owen snapped, but Roose just smiled - a dead thing that never reached his eyes.

"No?" The Lord of the Dreadfort's whisper carried a note of dark amusement. "Here you stand, defying your liege lord's explicit orders, preparing to murder me in cold blood and burn my ancestral home to cover your tracks." That corpse-like smile widened slightly. "Sounds exactly like something I would do."

"I'm doing this to protect my family," Owen growled. "To protect the North."

"Of course you are," Roose agreed softly. "And one day, mark my words, it will be your blood that rules Westeros." His ghost-grey eyes glittered in the firelight. "Not because you want it, but because you'll do whatever is necessary to protect what's yours. Even if that means going against good Lord Eddard's precious honor and taking control."

Owen's eyes hardened at Roose's words, his jaw clenching as he recognized the manipulative attempt to get under his skin. The magical flames along his arms pulsed brighter, casting wild shadows across the moonlit chamber. He wouldn't give the Lord of the Dreadfort the satisfaction of a response.

With a sharp downward thrust of both arms, Owen slammed the concentrated inferno onto the floor. The magical flames exploded outward in a devastating wave, engulfing Roose Bolton in an instant. The Lord of the Dreadfort didn't even have time to scream - one moment those ghost-grey eyes were watching Owen with that eerie calm, the next they were consumed by searing magical fire that burned hot enough to melt stone.

The flames roared through the chamber with supernatural intensity, reducing Roose Bolton to ash in seconds. The last thing the Lord of the Dreadfort felt was that initial rush of impossibly hot fire before his existence was snuffed out completely, leaving nothing but scorched stone where he had stood.

Chapter Text

Dagmar Cleftjaw stood at the helm of the Fury of Iron, his twisted jaw catching the salt spray as his fleet cut through the choppy waters past the Fingers. The mangled scar that split his face pulled his mouth into its perpetual half-grin, but his eyes remained cold as steel as he watched the massive convoy of Volantene slave ships lumber through the waves.

"Three hundred ships full of fighting men, and they still need us to hold their hands." He spat over the railings. The gold had been good - better than good. The Volantenes had paid each ironborn captain enough to buy a new longship, with plenty left over for crew shares.

The morning sun glinted off the gaudy decorations of the Volantene vessels - all purple sails and golden trim. Dagmar's own fleet of fifty ironborn ships flanked them like dark shadows, their black sails and weathered hulls a stark contrast to the slavers' ostentation.

"Captain." His first mate Derrick pointed toward the horizon. "Storm clouds gathering."

"Let them come. Our boys know these waters better than those silk-wearing cunts." Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the Volantenes' plan. "Though I'd rather face a thousand storms than what waits for us in the North."

He'd heard the tales and rumors - everyone had. Metal men that never tired, weapons that could cut through Valyrian steel, fortresses that appeared and disappeared like morning mist. And behind it all, the witch-smith of Winterfell who'd married Stark's daughter.

"You really believe those stories about the North?" Derrick asked, voicing Dagmar's thoughts.

"Saw it myself last raid. Tried to hit a village near Sea Dragon Point. Lost three ships to... something. Never even saw what hit us. Just fire and lightning from clear skies." The memory made his twisted jaw ache. "These Volantenes are mad to think they can take the North."

A signal flag rose from the lead Volantene vessel - adjust course northeast. Dagmar barked orders to his crew, and the Fury of Iron shifted its heading. The rest of his ironborn fleet followed in perfect formation, decades of experience evident in their synchronized movements.

"The Volantenes think their numbers will overwhelm whatever defenses the North has," Derrick said. "Three hundred ships, each carrying two hundred soldiers. That's sixty thousand men."

"Aye, and how many will make it to shore?" Dagmar's permanent half-grin took on a bitter cast. "The North has changed. This isn't like raiding their fishing villages anymore. But gold is gold, and the Greyjoys gave their word."

The storm clouds crept closer, and the seas grew rougher. The massive Volantene ships started to wallow in the swells, while the ironborn vessels danced through the waves with practiced ease. Dagmar watched a particularly ornate galley struggle to maintain course.

"Signal the fleet to tighten formation," he ordered. "These summer sailors will start losing ships if we don't shepherd them properly."

As his crew raised the flags, Dagmar reflected on the strange alliance that had brought him here. The Volantenes, with their dreams of empire. The other Free Cities, eager to restore slavery's reach. And the ironborn, playing sellsails for more gold than most of them had seen in their lives.

"What do you make of their plan to hit Braavos first?" Derrick asked.

"Smart enough. Cut off the North's biggest trading partner any help that fat king could call on, control the narrow sea." Dagmar's twisted features contorted further as he frowned. "But Braavos has its own tricks. Iron Bank's got their fingers in everything. And their Arsenal can build ships faster than any port in the world."

The first drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rolled in the distance. Dagmar barked more orders, his experienced crew moving to secure rigging and adjust sails before the storm hit in earnest. The Volantene ships were already showing signs of disorder, their formations starting to drift.

"Going to be a long voyage if they can't handle a little weather," he muttered, watching the slavers' ships flounder in the building waves. But the gold weighed heavy in his coffers, and orders were orders. They would escort these perfumed lords to their war, whether it proved to be triumph or folly.

Dagmar's thoughts drifted to the weeks leading up to this moment as the rain pelted his scarred face. The midnight seas had been their constant companion, moonlight and stars their only illumination as they guided the massive armada through treacherous waters.

The meeting with Balon played through his mind. The Greyjoy lord had stood in his salt-stained hall at Pyke, reading the Volantene proposal with those cold eyes of his. The gold they'd offered had been enough to rebuild the Iron Fleet twice over.

"Fifty of our best ships and captains," Balon had said, his voice carrying across the stone chamber. "To guide their fleet through the Narrow Sea without detection." His eyes had settled on Dagmar's twisted face. "You'll lead them."

The journey to Lys had been simple enough - the ironborn knew these waters like they knew their own ships. In the harbor city's perfumed docks, they'd rendezvoused with the massive Volantene fleet. Three hundred vessels packed with soldiers, siege weapons, and enough supplies to sustain an invasion force through the coming winter.

Dagmar's lip curled at the memory of the Volantene admiral's pompous speech about destiny and empire. The man wore more jewelry than the whores in Lys, his fingers barely able to grip his sword hilt through all his rings.

They'd split into smaller groups for the journey north, hugging the Essosi coastline to avoid the royal fleet's regular patrols. Dagmar had personally plotted their course - keeping to deeper waters where Stannis Baratheon's warships couldn't follow, using the cover of storms and waiting for dark when they had to cross open water.

As they'd approached where Dragonstone's would be on the map directly towards Essos, the fleet had divided. Half the Volantene ships peeled away toward Braavos, led by some of his more experienced captains. The rest followed Dagmar's Fury of Iron as they began the final push toward White Harbor.

The rain grew heavier, drawing Dagmar back to the present. His crew moved about their tasks with practiced efficiency, while the Volantene ships wallowed in the growing swells like pregnant sows.

Derrick leaned against the ship's railing, his weathered face creased with concern. "This plan of theirs is bloody idiotic. Why waste time with White Harbor? During the rebellion, we hit Lannisport hard and fast - burned their fleet right in their own harbor while they slept."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The man wasn't wrong - the ironborn way was swift and brutal, striking where the enemy least expected it. But the Volantenes had other ideas.

"Kings Landing would've made more sense too," Derrick continued. "Hit the capital first, throw the whole realm into chaos. Instead we're sailing straight into the teeth of whatever dark sorcery the North's been cooking up for four years."

"These three hundred ships?" Dagmar gestured at the wallowing vessels around them. "They're just the first wave. Volantenes have another two hundred warships waiting in the Stepstones. Once we take White Harbor, they'll get the signal to sail for Kings Landing and put every port on the eastern coast to the torch."

Rain pelted the deck as Derrick digested this information. "How many men total?"

"Hundred thousand, maybe more. Plus whatever sellswords they've bought with their gold." Dagmar spat over the side. "They've been planning this for months. Building ships, training armies, gathering allies. These slavers mean to take everything from the Neck to Dorne."

"And what do we get out of it besides gold?" Derrick asked.

"Free reign to raid any coast we please, once they've won. No more kneeling to greenlander kings." Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted further. "If they win."

The Volantene flagship raised another signal flag - reduce sail for the growing storm. Dagmar barked orders to his crew, watching as his fleet smoothly executed the command while the foreign ships struggled with the basic maneuver.

Derrick snorted as he watched another Volantene ship struggle to reef its sails, the expensive purple fabric tangling in the wind. "Seven hells, it's like watching children play at sailing." His amusement died when he spotted the rigid formations on the deck of the nearest vessel - ranks of Unsullied standing motionless despite the pitching waves.

Dagmar noted his first mate's change in expression. The Unsullied's discipline was unnerving even to seasoned raiders. While the regular crews stumbled and retched over the railings, the eunuch soldiers remained as still as statues, their spears perfectly aligned regardless of the storm's fury.

"What about Ice Crest and Winterfell?" Derrick asked, tearing his eyes away from the unsettling sight. "Heard that new castle of Longshore's is built right into the cliffs, built in a week or so the rumors say, not that i'd believe it…. And Winterfell..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Dagmar spat a glob of phlegm into the churning sea. The salt spray stung his twisted scar, making his permanent grin look more like a grimace. "Winterfell?" He barked out a harsh laugh. "We'll be lucky if we even get that far inland. But Ice Crest..." He paused, checking that no Volantene officers were within earshot. "Balon's got Dunstan Drumm waiting with another hundred ironborn ships. Four hundred more from the slaver alliance too."

"That many?"

"Aye. Once White Harbor falls, they'll hit Ice Crest hard. Day or two after at most." Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the massive force being assembled. "Drumm's been skulking around the Stepstones for weeks now, gathering ships quiet-like. The slavers want every port in the North hit at once - no chance for warnings to spread."

Derrick let out a low whistle, followed by a string of curses that would make a Lysene whore blush. "Seven hells, that's almost every ship we've got. Balon's betting everything we rebuilt after Robert crushed us." He gripped the railing tighter as another wave rocked the ship. "Hope he knows what he's doing."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The rebellion against Robert had cost them dearly - their fleet burned, their pride shattered, and Balon's sons dead. It had taken years to rebuild what they'd lost, and now they were risking it all again.

"The slavers are foaming at the mouth to get their hands on Ice Crest," Dagmar said, his permanent half-grin looking more like a snarl. "Every tale of the North's rise starts there. Those massive ships of theirs too - bigger than anything the royal fleet's got, from what the merchants say."

Rain streamed down his scarred face as he watched the Volantene ships struggle through the growing storm. "Balon's got it all planned out. Dunstan helps the slavers take the castle, then the ironborn claim all that gold they've heard is stored in its vaults. Enough to build ten fleets, they say."

The Fury of Iron crested another wave, sending spray across the deck. The nearby Volantene ships wallowed in the swells, their crews clearly struggling with the rough seas. But Dagmar barely noticed their difficulties, his thoughts focused on the massive gamble they were taking with the Iron Islands' future.

Derrick shifted uneasily, his weathered hands gripping the ship's railing. "Numbers won't mean shit if half what they say about the North is true. Those metal men, weapons that can cut through anything..." He lowered his voice. "Maybe we should slip away quiet-like when they make their push for White Harbor. Let these silk-wearing bastards learn the hard way."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The man had sailed with him for fifteen years, through storm and battle. His counsel wasn't to be dismissed lightly.

"Can't do it," Dagmar said finally, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace. "We took their gold. Gave our word. The ironborn are many things, but we keep to bargains once struck." He spat over the side. "Besides, they're counting on us to lead the assault. We know these waters, know the castles, know how these Greenlander lords think."

Rain pelted the deck as Derrick digested this. "Aye, but-"

"But," Dagmar cut him off, lowering his voice further, "if things go bad, if these Volantene cunts start losing..." His mangled face split into a genuine grin. "Well, their own ships would fetch a fine price in their home port, wouldn't they? And their gold would spend just as well in Volantis as it does here."

Understanding dawned on Derrick's face. "Turn their own fleet against them?"

"The ironborn way." Dagmar nodded. "We're reavers, not stupid. If the North and Iron Throne proves too strong, we'll do what we've always done - take what we can and leave the losers to their fate."

Derrick's scarred face split into a fierce grin as he turned to address the crew gathered on the rain-slicked deck. "Ready your axes, boys! Sharpen those blades!" His voice carried over the howling wind. "In a few days, we'll be splitting greenlander skulls!"

The ironborn crew roared their approval, raising weapons skyward. The storm's fury couldn't dampen their bloodlust - if anything, the wild weather only fueled their savage joy. These were men born to the sea, raised on salt and iron. While the Volantene ships struggled with the basic task of staying afloat, the ironborn reveled in nature's violence.

Dagmar watched his men with his twisted half-smile. They were reavers, raiders, killers - but they were also the finest sailors in the known world. Each man knew his role perfectly, moving about their tasks with efficiency despite the pitching deck and stinging rain.

The storm raged through the night, but by dawn's first light the clouds began to break. Sunlight pierced the grey skies as the massive fleet left the rocky shores of the Fingers behind them. The Volantene ships looked somewhat worse for wear, their ornate decorations battered by the tempest. But they'd lost none of their number - thanks largely to the ironborn shepherding them through the worst of it.

Their course took them northeast, the Three Sisters visible as dark shapes on the horizon. Beyond those isolated islands lay the Bite, and past that, their target - White Harbor. The Volantene admiral raised signal flags ordering increased speed now that the weather had cleared.

Dagmar barked orders to his crew, and the Fury of Iron's black sails caught the freshening wind. Around them, the other ironborn ships moved in perfect formation, their sleek hulls cutting through the waves like knife blades. The bulkier Volantene vessels followed in their wake, still wallowing somewhat in the lingering swells.

Dagmar stood at the helm of Fury of Iron, watching White Harbor's distant lights glimmer in the pre-dawn darkness. Two weeks of careful sailing had brought them here, creeping through the night like thieves while the moon hid behind clouds.

His twisted jaw worked as he remembered the fishermen they'd encountered. Quick, clean kills - necessary to keep their presence secret. The bodies weighted and sunk deep where currents would carry them far from prying eyes. Still, each encounter had made his stomach clench, wondering if one boat might slip away and raise the alarm.

"Ships ready?" he asked Derrick.

"Aye. Scorpions loaded, crews at their posts. The men are eager for blood." Derrick's voice carried an edge of anticipation. "Been too long since we've had a proper fight."

Around them, the ironborn fleet moved with precision through the waters. Their black sails caught what little wind stirred, while muffled oars dipped silently into the waves. The larger Volantene ships followed in their wake, their crews finally showing some competence after weeks of instruction.

Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted as he watched his men prepare for battle. They moved like shadows across the deck, checking weapons and armor with quiet efficiency. The massive scorpions mounted on their decks gleamed dully in the faint starlight, their steel bolts thick as a man's arm and twice as long.

"Keep the men quiet," Dagmar ordered. "No war cries until we're in range. Want to be close enough to see the whites of their eyes before they know we're here."

The excitement among the ironborn was palpable. Hands gripped axe handles, fingers tested sword edges, and teeth gleamed in fierce grins as they drew closer to their prey. These were men born to raid and reave, raised on tales of glory won through blood and iron.

Dagmar watched as one of his younger crewmen, Harrick, hurried across the deck toward Derrick. The boy's feet moved silently despite his haste - proper ironborn training showing through even in his excitement.

"First Mate," Harrick whispered urgently. "The Volantene flagship's signaling. Their commander wants to come aboard for a war council."

Derrick's weathered face creased with annoyance as he made his way to where Dagmar stood at the helm. "Captain. The peacock wants to strut over here and give orders."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered the request. Through the pre-dawn gloom, he could make out the Volantene flagship's ornate shape - all carved decorations and gilded railings that would've been stripped for salvage on any proper ironborn vessel.

"Seven hells," Dagmar spat over the side. "Suppose we can't refuse without causing a scene." His permanent half-grin looked more like a snarl. "Tell them they can send over one small boat. Commander and two guards only. Any more and we'll assume they're hostile."

Derrick nodded and moved to relay the message through signal flags. The elaborate response from the Volantene ship made Dagmar's mangled face twist further - all those unnecessary flourishes just to say "Acknowledged."

"Harrick," Dagmar called softly to the young crewman. "Tell the men to keep their weapons close but hidden. Don't want to spook our 'allies'." His tone made it clear exactly what he thought of their temporary partnership.

Minutes later, a small boat pulled alongside the Fury of Iron. The Volantene commander, Admiral Parquello, stood in its bow like some sort of conquering hero, his purple cape billowing dramatically despite the light breeze. Gold rings glinted on every finger as he gripped the climbing rope, his two Unsullied guards moving with mechanical precision to follow him aboard.

Dagmar rolled his eyes at the display but nodded in greeting as the man approached. Time to endure another speech about destiny and empire from someone who'd probably never killed a man face to face.

Dagmar braced himself for it, but to his surprise, Parquello got straight to business. The Volantene admiral's rings clinked against the ship's railing as he leaned in close.

"There has been a change of plans," Parquello said, his accent thick but words clear. "Our ships will lead the assault on White Harbor."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he processed this information. His permanent half-grin looked more like a sneer. "Your two hundred ships? Against White Harbor's defenses?"

"Yes." Parquello waved his hand dismissively. "I have seen this White Harbor through my far-eye. A pleasant enough port city for northern barbarians, but hardly defensible. White Stone walls, a few towers - nothing our forces cannot handle easily. The city should fall in a hour or two."

The casual arrogance in the man's tone made Dagmar's scarred face twitch. He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let these silk-wearing fools throw themselves at whatever defenses the North had built. Better their blood than ironborn.

"As you say," Dagmar replied, nodding slowly. "Your ships will lead the attack."

Parquello seemed pleased by this easy acquiescence, clearly mistaking Dagmar's restraint for agreement. The Volantene's rings flashed in the pre-dawn light as he gestured toward the distant harbor lights.

The two Unsullied guards remained motionless throughout the exchange, their spears perfectly vertical despite the gentle rolling of the deck. Their presence made Dagmar's skin crawl - there was something unnatural about such rigid discipline.

"Very well then," Dagmar said, keeping his voice neutral. If these slavers wanted to die first, that was their choice. He had no intention of arguing with them about it.

Dagmar watched Parquello's small boat return to the Volantene flagship, his twisted jaw working as he considered the admiral's orders. Something about the man's casual dismissal of White Harbor's defenses set his teeth on edge.

"Signal the other captains," he told Harrick. "Ironborn to hold position while the slavers advance."

The young crewman's hands moved quickly, raising and lowering flags in the pre-dawn gloom. Across the dark water, answering signals flickered from the other fifty ironborn ships - acknowledgments of the order to wait and watch.

Derrick stood at the rail, far-eye pressed to his face as he tracked the Volantene fleet's movement. The massive warships began forming into attack columns, their oars dipping into the water with mechanical precision as they moved toward White Harbor's lights.

"Something's not right," Derrick muttered, adjusting the far-eye's focus. "Harbor seems too quiet. No patrol boats, no warning bells..." He lowered the device, frowning. "Even at this hour, there should be more activity."

Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace. The same unease had been gnawing at his gut since Parquello's visit. The Volantene's confidence felt wrong - like a man walking into an obvious trap, too arrogant to see the danger.

"Aye," Dagmar agreed quietly. "Something's not right at all."

Dagmar watched the Volantene ships advance through the pre-dawn gloom, their oars cutting through the dark water with mechanical precision. Behind him, his crew muttered amongst themselves, their unease growing with each passing moment.

"Where are those massive northern ships we heard about?" Harrick asked, peering through the darkness. "Merchants swore they'd seen vessels bigger than anything in the royal fleet."

"Aye, and where are the harbor patrols?" another crewman added. "Even at this hour, there should be fishing boats heading out."

Derrick lowered his far-eye, his weathered face creased with concern. "No movement on the walls either. City's silent as a tomb."

Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he processed these observations. Each question heightened the tension coiling in his gut. Twenty years of raiding had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now every fiber of his being screamed that something was terribly wrong.

"The harbor's empty," Derrick continued, raising the far-eye again. "No merchant ships, no fishing boats, not even-"

A thunderous explosion cut off his words. The sound rolled across the water like physical force, drowning out all other noise. Through the dawn, Dagmar watched in horror as two massive round objects - each larger than a war galley's ram - struck the lead Volantene ship with devastating force.

The proud warship literally split apart, its ornate hull shattering like a child's toy. Wood, metal, and men flew in all directions as the vessel disappeared in a massive explosion of splintered timber and sea spray.

Dagmar's permanent half-grin vanished completely as he watched the destruction unfold. In all his years of naval warfare, he'd never seen anything like it. The speed and power of those projectiles... it was like the gods themselves had reached down and crushed the ship in their fists.

"Seven hells," Derrick breathed, his far-eye forgotten in his slack grip. "What in the name of the Drowned God was that?"

Before anyone could respond, more explosions lit up the pre-dawn darkness. The water around the Volantene fleet began to churn as more of the mysterious projectiles found their targets.

Dagmar yanked the signal horn from his belt and blew three sharp blasts. His mangled jaw clenched as he bellowed orders across the deck, voice carrying over the chaos of battle.

"Form defensive line! Ships to positions! Keep distance from those Volantene fools!"

The ironborn crews responded quickly, their ships wheeling away from the doomed Volantene fleet. Black sails caught the wind as they moved into a curved formation, maintaining space between vessels to avoid presenting clustered targets.

Another thunderous explosion rocked the pre-dawn air. Through the smoke, Dagmar watched a Volantene warship's stern disintegrate under the impact of whatever ungodly weapons the North had mounted on White Harbor's walls. The screams of dying slavers carried across the water, mixing with the panicked shouts of their commanders trying to maintain order.

"By the Drowned God," Derrick muttered, gripping the rail as another blast shook the air. "Those aren't normal catapults. The force behind those shots..."

Dagmar's permanent half-grin looked more like a snarl as he watched the slaughter unfold. The Volantene ships were being systematically destroyed, their formations broken as they tried desperately to either advance or retreat. But the mysterious weapons from White Harbor's walls showed no mercy, methodically targeting ship after ship with terrifying accuracy.

"Signal the fleet," Dagmar ordered, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "Fall back to open water. Maintain formation, but get clear of this killing field."

Harrick's hands moved quickly with the signal flags, relaying orders to the other ironborn vessels through sign and loud voice. Their ships responded smoothly, crews working with the precision born of lifetimes at sea. Unlike the panicking Volantenes, the ironborn maintained discipline even as destruction rained around them.

More explosions lit up the morning sky, accompanied by new sounds - sharp cracks like thunder, but more focused and deliberate. Smoke rose from White Harbor's walls in controlled bursts, each followed by devastating impacts among the Volantene fleet.

"What manner of weapons are these?" a crewman shouted, ducking instinctively as another blast shook the air.

Dagmar didn't answer, his attention fixed on getting his people clear of the massacre. The screams of dying slavers filled the air as ship after ship succumbed to the North's devastating firepower. Through his far-eye, he could see the Volantene admiral's flagship burning, its ornate decorations turned to kindling by whatever hellish devices defended White Harbor.

"Keep moving!" Dagmar roared as another explosion lit up the dawn. "Get clear of their range! Follow formation!"

The ironborn fleet continued its disciplined withdrawal, black sails billowing as they escaped the killing zone. Behind them, the proud Volantene armada was being reduced to floating wreckage and burning hulks.

Dagmar kept his far-eye trained on the carnage, watching the methodical destruction of the Volantene fleet. His twisted jaw clenched as burning debris rained down across the water.

"Captain!" Derrick's shout cut through the chaos. "Look there - some of the bastards made it through!"

Dagmar swung his far-eye toward where Derrick pointed. Through the smoke and pre-dawn haze, he could make out perhaps twenty Volantene ships that had somehow slipped past the killing field. Their ornate hulls were heavily scarred but intact as they pressed forward toward White Harbor's harbor mouth.

"Seven hells," Dagmar muttered, adjusting the far-eye's focus. "That's the admiral's flagship among them." Sure enough, he could see Parquello's distinctive purple cape as the man gestured wildly, directing his Unsullied guards to maintain order among the surviving crews.

But something felt wrong about it. Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted into a frown as he studied the scene. The precision of the North's strange weapons had been devastating - yet these ships had somehow passed unscathed through that storm of destruction?

"Derrick," he called, voice low despite the din of battle. "Did you notice how those ships got through?"

His first mate shook his head, still watching through his own far-eye. "Smoke was too thick. But you're right - seems odd they'd miss so many at once, given how accurate they've been."

Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the implications. The North had demonstrated weapons capable of splitting warships in half with single hits. Their accuracy had been terrifying, methodically destroying ship after ship. Yet these twenty vessels had somehow slipped through?

No. This was deliberate. They were being allowed through, herded like sheep into what could only be another trap.

"They want them to reach the harbor," Dagmar said quietly, lowering his far-eye. "Whatever's waiting inside those walls, they want Parquello and his ships to find it firsthand."

Derrick spat over the railing, his weathered face twisted with disgust as he watched the Volantene ships pressing toward White Harbor's harbor mouth.

"Let the slavers get themselves killed," he growled, turning away from the carnage. "We should clear out before whatever ungodly weapons they've got mounted on those walls turn their attention our way."

Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking grim as he tracked the chaos unfolding across the water. The surviving Volantene ships that hadn't followed their admiral into the harbor were attempting to flee, their ornate hulls leaving trails of burning debris as they struggled to escape the killing field.

Through his far-eye, he watched ship after ship disappear in thunderous explosions. The precision and power of the North's strange weapons hadn't diminished - if anything, they seemed to be firing faster now, methodically eliminating targets with terrifying efficiency.

"Seven hells," Derrick muttered, gripping the rail as another blast shook the air. "Look at that - they're picking them off like fish in a barrel."

He wasn't wrong. In the span of what couldn't have been more than thirty minutes, nearly one hundred and eighty Volantene vessels had been sent to the bottom. The once-proud armada was now little more than floating wreckage and burning hulks, the screams of dying slavers carrying across the water as ship after ship succumbed to the devastating barrage.

The few surviving crews were abandoning their vessels, diving into the cold northern waters in desperate bids to escape. But even as Dagmar watched, more explosions lit up the pre-dawn sky, the strange weapons showing no mercy to the fleeing slavers.

Dagmar's twisted jaw clenched as he watched another Volantene ship disappear in a thunderous explosion. The screams of dying men carried across the water, mixing with the sharp cracks of those hellish weapons mounted on White Harbor's walls.

"Signal our ships and the survivors," he barked at Derrick. "Full withdrawal. Now."

His first mate's hands moved quickly with the signal flags, relaying the orders through sign and voice. The ironborn fleet responded fast, their black sails catching the wind as they moved to escort positions around the remaining hundred or so Volantene vessels that had managed to stay afloat.

The surviving slaver ships were in terrible shape - hulls scarred by near-misses, rigging torn to shreds, crews decimated. Many were taking on water, barely staying afloat as they limped away from the killing field that White Harbor had become.

"We have to get the hells out of here," Derrick said, lowering his far-eye. His weathered face was grim as he watched another explosion light up the pre-dawn sky. "And send word to those slaver bastards. They have to call off the other attacks."

Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace as he started shouting orders across the deck. "Turn us around! Make for Lys! Full sail!"

The crew moved with quickly, adjusting ropes and sails to catch the wind. Around them, the other ironborn vessels matched their movements, helping to shepherd the battered Volantene ships away from White Harbor's devastating reach.

Dagmar's relief at their withdrawal was short-lived as Derrick's shout cut through the pre-dawn air.

"Ships ahead!"

Dagmar's eyes widened as he spotted them - massive vessels unlike anything he'd ever seen, cutting through the waves at impossible speeds. Their hulls gleamed with an intricate bronze-colored metal he couldn't identify, seamlessly merged with dark ironwood in ways that defied shipwright tradition. The vessels moved with unnatural grace, their speed making a mockery of everything Dagmar knew about naval warfare.

"Where the fuck were they hiding?" Derrick whispered in horror, his far-eye forgotten in his trembling hands.

Dagmar felt his permanent half-grin twist into a grimace of fear. These had to be the northern ships merchants had whispered about - the ones missing from White Harbor's harbor. But their size and speed... it wasn't natural. No ship that large should be able to move so quickly.

"Drowned God preserve us," he muttered, watching the massive vessels bear down on their position. Then, steeling himself, he grabbed his signal horn and bellowed across the deck. "All hands! Prepare for battle!"

The ironborn crews responded with practiced efficiency, warriors grabbing weapons and taking positions along the rails. Battle cries echoed across the water as ship after ship readied themselves for combat. Even the battered Volantene vessels struggled to form defensive lines, their depleted crews manning what weapons remained intact.

But Dagmar's gut told him it wouldn't matter. He'd watched these northerners obliterate nearly two hundred ships with weapons he couldn't comprehend. Now they were bringing warships that shouldn't exist, moving at speeds that defied reason.

Dagmar's twisted jaw clenched as he watched death approach. The northern vessels had them caught between hammer and anvil - White Harbor's devastating weapons behind them, these impossible ships ahead. Whatever happened next, he knew this day would change Westeros and the Ironborn forever.

Wylis stood at the helm of the Merman's Victory, his considerable bulk supported by the ship's sturdy railings as he observed the ragged remains of the once-proud invasion fleet. The massive galleon, enhanced with Owen's innovations, hummed with power beneath his feet - a constant reminder of how far the North had come.

Through his far-eye, he watched the ironborn and Volantene ships scrambling to form battle lines. Their black and purple sails fluttered chaotically as crews rushed to man what weapons remained intact. The sight drew an amused snort from Wylis. These fools still thought they were facing a traditional naval battle.

"Look at them," Wendel called from nearby, his walrus mustache twitching with barely contained mirth. "Lining up like it's the old days. As if we're going to trade broadside scorpions and board them."

Wylis shared a knowing look with his brother. The Manderly siblings had grown up learning traditional naval warfare - the clash of rams, the thunder of catapults, the brutal dance of boarding parties. But Owen Longshore had changed everything. The North's ships now carried weapons that made such tactics obsolete.

"Remember when father first saw the new cannons?" Wendel chuckled, patting one of the gleaming bronze devices mounted on the deck. "Thought they were some kind of elaborate decoration until Owen demonstrated one."

"Aye," Wylis replied, his own lips curving in amusement. "Called them 'fancy ship "spitoons" if I recall correctly."

The brothers shared another laugh, watching the enemy fleet's futile preparations. The Merman's Victory alone carried enough firepower to sink half their remaining ships. And she was just one of twelve such vessels in the northern battle line.

Wylis lowered his far-eye, shaking his head at the enemy's ignorance. They still clung to old ways, old tactics, unable to comprehend how thoroughly the North had surpassed them. In times past, this might have been an even fight - steel against steel, man against man. But those days were gone.

"Poor bastards," Wendel mused, echoing his brother's thoughts. "They have no idea what they're facing, do they?"

Wylis chuckled deeply, his considerable bulk shaking with mirth. "If those cannons atop White Harbor's walls haven't taught them anything, I suppose it falls to us to deliver the lesson more personally."

Around him, the veteran northern sailors and soldiers joined in with grim laughter. Many of them had suffered from ironborn raids over the years, watching helplessly as the reavers pillaged their shores and took what they wanted in the name of their precious "iron price." That they'd now taken Volantene gold…slaver gold to attack Westeros - it was the final insult.

"Look at them scrambling about," Wendel said, gesturing toward the enemy fleet with his far-eye. "They must think we're working some manner of sorcery. I doubt they even know what cannons are, let alone how to defend against them."

The northern crews manning the weapon stations exchanged knowing looks. They'd trained extensively with Owen's innovations, learning the intricacies of powder charges and targeting mechanisms. The Dwemer metal cannons that lined the Merman's Victory's gunwales were far more sophisticated than anything the ironborn or Volantenes had ever encountered.

"Remember what the Greyjoys did to Oakridge last summer?" growled one of the gunners, a grizzled veteran who'd lost family in that raid. "Time to show them what real power looks like."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crew. The North had endured centuries of ironborn depredation, forced to accept their "old way" of theft and murder. But Owen Longshore's innovations had changed everything. Now the predators would learn what it meant to be prey.

"They've always been fond of taking things," Wendel mused, his walrus mustache twitching. "Let's give them something they won't soon forget."

Wylis nodded to Orken, his first mate's weathered face already anticipating the command. "Signal the Northern Fury, Ascended Northman, War Wolf, and Old Gods Dread. Bring us broadside with the enemy fleet. The rest fall back to supporting positions."

Through his far-eye, Wylis watched as the designated ships responded with trained precision. The Northern Fury, sleek and fast despite its Dwemer-enhanced hull, led the maneuver. Its frigate design allowed it to cut through the waves with unnatural speed, the strange metal gleaming in the early morning light.

Behind it, the Ascended Northman and War Wolf moved in perfect synchronization, their galleon bulk somehow graceful thanks to Owen's modifications. The massive form of the Old Gods Dread followed, its three gun decks bristling with cannons that could reduce entire ships to splinters with a single volley.

"Steady now," Wylis called as the Merman's Victory turned to match their movements. The deck thrummed beneath his feet as the ship's enhanced systems engaged, maintaining their position with impossible precision. "Keep distance. Let them see what's coming."

The remaining twenty ships of the northern fleet fell back in perfect formation, creating space for the five designated vessels to work. Their crews had drilled extensively for this type of engagement, understanding the devastating power of their new weapons required careful coordination.

Through his far-eye, Wylis could see confusion rippling through the enemy fleet as the northern ships assumed their positions. The ironborn and Volantene crews were clearly baffled by these tactics, unused to seeing warships deliberately creating such distance between forces.

"They still think this is going to be a boarding action," Wendel chuckled from nearby, his own far-eye trained on the enemy. "Look at them clustering together. Perfect target formation."

Wylis grinned and bellowed across the deck, "Ready all cannons!" His powerful voice carried over the wind, setting off a chain reaction across the northern battle line.

The sound of gun ports opening in unison was like thunder rolling across the water. Row after row of gleaming Dwemer metal emerged from the ships' sides, the strange bronze-colored alloy catching the early morning light. The Merman's Victory's gun crews moved with practiced precision, each team of six men working in perfect coordination as they prepared their weapons.

Through his far-eye, Wylis watched similar scenes unfold across the other four ships. The Northern Fury's sleek design belied its firepower - three full gun decks bristling with the devastating weapons. The Ascended Northman and War Wolf's synchronized movements revealed their matching arrays of cannons, while the massive Old Gods Dread seemed to bristle with bronze death from stem to stern.

"By the gods," Wendel whispered beside him, lowering his own far-eye. "A thousand cannons all told. The poor bastards don't even know what they're looking at."

Wylis nodded, standing firm at the helm, his voice carrying across the deck with cold finality. "FIRE!"

A heartbeat of silence followed his command before the world erupted in thunderous chaos. The Dwemer metal cannons roared to life, each weapon discharging not single shots, but devastating volleys of five projectiles in rapid succession. The sound was unlike anything naval warfare had ever known - not the familiar single boom of traditional cannon fire, but a rolling thunder of mechanical precision.

Through his far-eye, Wylis watched the first salvos tear into the enemy fleet. The ironborn and Volantene ships, packed tightly together in their defensive formation, might as well have been practice targets. The special ammunition Owen had designed - shells that split apart mid-flight into multiple projectiles - turned the enemy formation into chaos.

"Gods be good," Wendel breathed beside him, watching as entire sections of enemy ships simply ceased to exist, torn apart by the devastating barrage.

The screams carried across the water, a cacophony of terror as the raiders and slavers realized their predicament. Ships that had survived White Harbor's shore batteries now found themselves caught in an even more devastating crossfire. The northern vessels' enhanced weapons fired with impossible speed and accuracy, their crews working with mechanical precision as they loaded and fired, loaded and fired.

Wylis observed dispassionately as a particularly large Volantene galley disappeared in a series of explosions, its ornate purple sails shredding as multiple cannon volleys struck it simultaneously. The ironborn ships tried to break formation, their crews desperately attempting to maneuver out of the killing field, but the northern ships' superior range made escape impossible.

"They're trying to scatter," one of his officers called out.

"Maintain fire," Wylis ordered, his voice steady as another thunderous barrage erupted from the Merman's Victory's gun decks. "No survivors."

The morning air filled with smoke and screams as the northern fleet's cannons continued their relentless work. Ship after ship vanished beneath the waves, torn apart by weapons that defied everything the ironborn and Volantenes knew about naval warfare. Their desperate attempts at return fire fell pathetically short, arrows and traditional catapult shots splashing harmlessly in the water far from the northern vessels.

Through the growing haze of Gunsmoke, Wylis watched the slaver fleet's formation completely collapse. Some crews were already abandoning ship, diving into the cold waters rather than face the devastating barrage. Others tried to surrender, raising white flags that were quickly shredded by the continuing storm of cannon fire.

"Please! We yield!" The desperate cry carried across the water from what appeared to be an ironborn captain.

"The North remembers," Wylis muttered, gesturing for his gun crews to maintain their fire. The cannons roared again, and the pleading voice was silenced forever.

Wylis watched as Wendel's face hardened into a grim mask. "No quarter for slaver and ironborn scum," his brother declared, the usual mirth gone from his voice. "Let them feed the crabs."

The northern cannons continued their relentless barrage, their thunder drowning out everything except the screams of dying men. Massive splinters from destroyed ships filled the air like deadly rain, the once-proud vessels reduced to kindling by the devastating weapons. The morning sky turned black with smoke and powder residue, broken only by the flash of cannon fire and the occasional explosion of ammunition stores.

"Mercy! In the name of the Drowned God, mercy!" The desperate cries echoed across the water, growing fewer and fainter with each passing minute.

"The Drowned God can have them all," Wylis heard one of his gunners mutter as he reloaded his cannon top deck.

The slaver fleet's destruction was absolute. Ship after ship vanished beneath the waves, their crews either going down with their vessels or throwing themselves into the waters. Purple and black sails burned, turning the smoke even darker as they fell into the sea.

Finally, silence descended over the battlefield of the waves. Where a proud fleet had once sailed, only floating debris and burning wreckage remained. The surface of the water was thick with splintered wood, shattered masts, and the bodies of those who had chosen the sea over the northern cannons.

Wylis raised his hand, his voice carrying across the deck. "Cease fire!"

The sudden quiet was almost deafening after the prolonged bombardment. Smoke drifted across the water as Wylis surveyed the destruction through his far-eye. Nothing larger than a rowboat remained intact of the enemy fleet.

"Send out six ships to check for survivors," he ordered, though he doubted they'd find many in the cold waters. "The rest make for White Harbor. We need to secure the city."

Wendel snorted beside him, lowering his own far-eye. "Secure the city? After what I saw those shore batteries do, I doubt there's a single slaver left breathing within bowshot of White Harbor's walls. And if they did well….seems the automatons have some knife work at hand."

Chapter Text

Winterfell's great hall felt different that evening. Owen sat beside Sansa at the high table, her hand clasped tightly in his beneath the ancient wooden surface. The usual warmth and cheer had been replaced by a thick tension that hung in the air like storm clouds before a downpour.

Torches flickered along the stone walls, illuminating the faces of those gathered. The Stark family occupied their customary places - Eddard's stern visage betraying nothing, Catelyn's perfect composure masking her concern, Robb was flanking his father with an expression of carefully controlled anticipation.

The southern contingent clustered together, their rich silks and bright colors a stark contrast to the understated Northern aesthetic. King Robert dominated his space at the center, his massive frame somehow diminished by the weight of whatever announcement was coming. Jon Arryn's weathered face bore the careful neutrality of a lifetime at court, while Queen Cersei's beautiful features were arranged in a mask of barely concealed disdain. Even Joffrey had abandoned his usual sneering demeanor in favor of tense silence.

The Martells added their own flavor to the gathering. Prince Oberyn no longer lounged in his chair with casualness, now sitting up, his dark eyes missing nothing. Princess Arianne's stunning beauty drew attention despite the serious atmosphere, while Quentyn maintained his characteristic solemnity.

Edmure and Brynden Tully sat together, the younger man fidgeting slightly while his uncle remained still as stone. The Tyrells completed the group - Mace's normally florid face subdued, Olenna's shrewd gaze darting between faces, and Margaery maintaining perfect poise despite the tension.

The reason for their gathering was simple, yet devastating. Westeros was at war. Three days ago, Owen and Eddard had received word from Wyman Manderly through their enchanted locket mirrors - White Harbor had been attacked. The assault force consisted of Ironborn raiders and Essosi slavers, predominantly Volantene ships carrying Unsullied soldiers. Though they had been defeated by the North's superior defenses and cannons, the news had sent shockwaves through Winterfell.

A raven had followed shortly after, confirming the mirror's message. The southern party had initially met these reports with skepticism, particularly Cersei who had openly scoffed at the idea of such a coordinated attack. That skepticism had evaporated like morning mist when ravens began arriving from across the realm.

The Westerlands reported multiple coastal raids, with Lannisport barely repelling an assault by slave ships from Astapor. Kings Landing's harbor defenses had been tested by a fleet flying Volantene colors. The Riverlands' western shores burned as Ironborn longships struck deep into the heart of the kingdom, while Meereenese vessels prowled their eastern coasts.

Owen watched as Robert's massive hands crumpled the parchment, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. The king's fury was a palpable force in Winterfell's great hall, causing several of the southern lords to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Seven hells!" Robert's fist slammed onto the table, making goblets jump. "Those foreign cunts hit the merchant quarter hard. Half the docks are still burning, warehouses looted, ships sunk in the harbor blocking trade." He grabbed another letter, nearly tearing it in his rage. "The City Watch was overwhelmed - hundreds dead, more wounded. And the smallfolk..."

Robert's voice cracked with genuine anguish. "Women and children dragged from their homes, loaded onto slave ships like cattle. Whole families... just gone."

Owen felt Sansa's hand tighten in his as the king continued reading. The devastating details painted a clear picture - Kings Landing had been caught completely unprepared. The attack had come before dawn, a massive fleet appearing suddenly out of the morning mist. While the city's defenses had eventually rallied, the damage was already done. The wealthy merchant district had been particularly hard hit, with many prominent trading houses burned to the ground.

"The Mud Gate's defenses were breached," Robert growled, scanning another report. "Slave soldiers pushed several blocks into the city before the gold cloaks could mount an effective response. By then, the bastards had already loaded their ships with captives."

Owen noticed Jon Arryn's face had gone ashen as he studied his own set of reports. The old Hand of the King looked every one of his years as he quietly conferred with Grand Maester Pycelle, who had accompanied the royal party north.

"How many taken?" Eddard asked quietly from his seat beside the king.

Robert's massive shoulders slumped. "Over two thousand, Ned. Mostly women and children from the merchant quarter and surrounding neighborhoods as well as flea bottom. The slavers knew exactly where to hit us - the wealthiest parts of the city where they'd find the most valuable captives."

Cersei's beautiful face twisted with disgust. "And where was the Royal Fleet during all this? Surely our ships could have prevented such a disaster?"

"Scattered," Robert spat. "The bulk of the fleet was protecting merchant shipping in the Narrow Sea. What vessels remained were caught in port, many burned at their moorings before they could even be manned."

Owen felt a familiar tickle at the back of his mind - the Celestial Forge awakening once more, even as he pushed any new power awakening down, focusing on the present.

"The timing was too perfect," Jon Arryn observed. "They knew exactly when our defenses would be weakest, exactly where to strike. This was no random raid."

"Agreed," Eddard said grimly. "The coordinated attacks all along the coast speak to careful planning. They meant to hit us everywhere at once, overwhelm our ability to respond."

Robert's rage seemed to build again as he grabbed another report. "The gold cloaks found foreign gold on some of the dead raiders - fresh minted coins from Volantis, Myr, and Lys. The Free Cities aren't even trying to hide their involvement anymore."

"Because they don't need to," Owen spoke up for the first time. All eyes turned to him as he continued. "This wasn't just a raid - it was a message. They're showing us they can strike anywhere, at any time. That our cities and people are vulnerable."

"Aye," Robert growled. "Well they'll soon learn what happens when you wake the dragon- when you wake the STAG!" He corrected himself quickly, face flushing darker. "I'll smash their fleet and burn their cities to the ground, just like I did to the Greyjoys!"

Jon Arryn cleared his throat, drawing attention from Robert's rage. "Your Grace, there's more. The attack on White Harbor included Ironborn ships - fifty longships escorting the slavers if what lord Manderly writes is true." He watched the king's face darken further. "It seems clear the Greyjoys provided local knowledge to our enemies, showing them where to strike for maximum effect."

Robert's fist crashed onto the table again. "Balon!" The name emerged as a roar. "That squid-loving bastard! I should have executed him all those years ago instead of accepting his surrender!"

"Your Grace-" Jon tried to interject, but Robert was already on his feet.

"I'll wipe them out this time! Every last Greyjoy will hang from the walls of Pyke! I'll turn those bloody islands into a wasteland!"

"Robert," Eddard's quiet voice cut through the king's tirade. "We must think carefully before-"

"Think?" Robert whirled on his old friend. "While they raid our shores? While they help sell our people into slavery? Gods, Ned, they attacked your own lands!"

Stannis, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. "Brother, Lord Stark is right. We cannot rush into-"

"Rush?" Robert's laugh was bitter. "The realm bleeds while we sit here talking! I crushed them once, I'll do it again!"

Jon Arryn exchanged a worried glance with Eddard before trying once more. "Your Grace, perhaps we should hear Lord Tywin's report from Lannisport first? Understanding the full scope of these attacks may help us form a more effective response."

Robert's face was still purple with rage, but he dropped back into his seat, grabbing his wine goblet. "Fine. Tywin, tell us how badly they bloodied the Lannisters."

Jon watched as Tywin Lannister's face remained impassive, though his green eyes glittered with barely suppressed fury.

"Lannisport's defenses held, barely," Tywin stated, his voice cold and precise. "The harbor fortifications we constructed after the Greyjoy Rebellion prevented the raiders from breaching the city proper. However, our fleet..." He paused, and Jon could see the calculation in those green eyes, weighing every word. "Our fleet engaged the enemy vessels but was overwhelmed by their numbers. The combination of Ironborn longships and Volantene war galleys proved... challenging."

Robert snorted into his wine. "Challenging? From what I've read, they nearly burned every ship you had."

Jon noticed Tywin's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on his chair's armrest. "Twenty-eight ships lost, Your Grace. The enemy paid dearly for each one - we confirmed thirty-seven of their vessels sunk before our fleet was forced to retreat. Unfortunately, this left our harbor vulnerable."

"The docks?" Jon prompted gently, knowing how much it must pain Tywin to admit to such losses.

"Destroyed. The slavers seemed particularly focused on our shipping infrastructure. The main wharves were burned, warehouses looted, and the shipyards..." Tywin's pause spoke volumes. "It will take months to rebuild, perhaps longer."

Cersei's face had grown increasingly pale as her father spoke. Jon knew the queen well enough to recognize genuine fear beneath her usual mask of contempt. The attack on Lannisport had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

"And the people?" Eddard asked quietly.

Tywin's expression hardened further. "Six hundred citizens were taken. Mostly from the merchant quarter and dock districts. The raiders seemed to target the wealthier households specifically, though they didn't discriminate once the fighting started."

Jon watched Robert's face darken further with each word. The king had always had a soft spot for the smallfolk, despite his other faults. The thought of his subjects being sold into slavery clearly tormented him.

"The city guard?" Jon asked, trying to keep the discussion focused on facts rather than emotions.

Tywin maintained his rigid composure as he delivered the report, though inside he seethed at having to admit such failures before the entire realm's nobility. "The City Guard numbered six hundred men, well-trained and equipped. They were initially overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers - reports suggest over two thousand combined raiders and unsullied hit the docks simultaneously."

He paused, carefully gauging the reactions around the great hall. Robert still gripped his wine goblet like he meant to crush it, while Ned Stark's face remained characteristically stoic. The Tyrells and Martells watched with poorly concealed interest - no doubt already calculating how this weakness could be exploited.

"We lost two hundred guardsmen in the initial assault," Tywin continued, his voice cold and precise. "The enemy used superior numbers to push through the harbor district before we could mount an organized defense. However," he allowed himself the smallest hint of pride here, "once reinforcements arrived from Casterly Rock, the remaining four hundred guardsmen rallied effectively. They managed to push the raiders back to the waterfront, though not before significant damage was done and losing many men to the unsullied spears."

They watched as Robert spat on the floor, his face contorted with revulsion at the mention of the Unsullied. The king's hatred of slavery was well-known, but the thought of eunuch slave soldiers seemed to particularly disgust him.

"Unsullied," Robert growled. "Castrated boys turned into mindless killers. No better than animals." He turned his attention to Brynden Tully. "Blackfish, what word from the Riverlands?"

Brynden straightened in his seat, his weathered face grave. "The coastal lords report multiple raids, Your Grace. Lord Mooton writes that Maidenpool's harbor was hit hard - thirty ships, mostly Ironborn longships with a few larger slave galleys providing support. They burned four merchant vessels and made off with several wealthy families before the town guard could organize a proper defense."

Owen noticed Edmure's hands clenching into fists as his uncle continued. The heir to Riverrun clearly took the attacks on his future bannermen personally.

"Seagard faced similar attacks," Brynden continued. "Lord Mallister's forces were better prepared - they've maintained strong coastal defenses since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Still, the raiders managed to burn part of the harbor and escape with captives before Jason could launch his ships."

"The pattern's the same everywhere," Brynden observed, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Quick strikes targeting small settlements and coastal castle harbors and wealthy districts, clearly aimed at maximum economic damage and high-value captives. They're in and out before any significant response can be mounted."

"These weren't just raids," Edmure interjected, unable to contain himself. "The riverlords report the attackers had detailed knowledge of our defenses, patrol schedules, even which households would make the most valuable targets. Someone's been feeding them information."

Owen watched the implications of that statement ripple through the gathered nobles. If the enemy had spies providing such detailed intelligence, nowhere along the coast was truly safe.

"How many taken from the Riverlands?" Robert demanded.

Brynden's face darkened. "At least eight hundred between Maidenpool, Seagard, and the smaller coastal settlements. Mostly women and children from merchant families, though they didn't discriminate once the fighting started. The raiders seemed to have specific targets in mind, but they took anyone they could grab once the alarms were raised."

Owen watched as Robert's meaty fist crashed onto the table again, rattling goblets and making the present lords and ladies wince. The king's face had progressed from purple to an alarming shade of crimson as he turned to Stannis and Mace Tyrell.

"Stannis! Can the Royal Fleet be made ready? Assembled at White Harbor to await our forces?" Robert's voice boomed through the great hall.

Owen noticed Stannis's jaw working back and forth - that characteristic grinding of teeth that seemed to accompany any interaction with his older brother. The Master of Ships sat stiffly in his chair, his posture rigid even by his usual standards.

"No," Stannis replied flatly. "I received word this morning. A significant portion of the Royal Fleet was present in King's Landing's harbor during the initial attack. Twelve warships lost, including the flagship King Robert's Hammer. Burned at their moorings or sunk blocking the harbor mouth."

Robert's face darkened further, if that was even possible. "And the rest?"

"Scattered," Stannis ground out, clearly hating to admit such weakness. "What remains of our naval strength is either actively engaging the raiders along the coast or protecting the regions not yet hit. The Redwyne fleet is defending the Reach. Lord Velaryon's ships patrol the waters around Driftmark and Dragonstone. The rest..." He paused, jaw clenching. "The rest are spread thin trying to protect our merchant shipping from being picked off in the Narrow Sea."

Everyone watched Robert's knuckles whiten around his wine goblet. The king's fury was a palpable force, but beneath it Owen could see genuine fear. For perhaps the first time in his reign, Robert Baratheon faced an enemy he couldn't simply smash with his new enchanted Ebony Warhammer.

Owen watched as Jon Arryn turned his weathered face toward Mace Tyrell and Stannis Baratheon. "My lords, how many ships could your coastal bannermen spare for immediate action?"

Mace rustled through several letters spread before him, his expression unusually serious. "The Redwyne fleet is already stretched thin protecting our shipping lanes," he began, scanning the messages from his bannermen. "But between Oldtown, the Arbor, and what we could pull from Shield Islands... perhaps twenty warships, though it would leave our own coasts vulnerable."

Stannis's jaw worked back and forth as he delivered his own assessment. "The Stormlands and Dragonstone could muster thirty vessels," he said, though his tone made it clear there was a catch. "However, most are converted merchant cogs - slower and less maneuverable than proper warships. They would be of limited use in a major naval engagement."

Owen noticed Jon Arryn's shoulders slump slightly at these numbers. The Hand of the King had likely hoped for better news, but fifty ships - many of them converted merchants - against the hundreds of warships the slavers could field was far from encouraging.

Robert's growl echoed through the hall. "Fifty ships?" He drained his wine cup and slammed it down. "Fifty fucking ships against hundreds of those slaver bastards? Those aren't odds, they're a death sentence!"

Prince Oberyn, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the discussion, as he sat next to his niece and nephew finally leaned forward in his seat. A knowing smile played across the Dornishman's lips.

"Your Grace, if I may... we seem to be overlooking the most powerful fleet in Westeros." Oberyn's dark eyes flickered between Owen and the Starks. "One that already proved quite capable of handling both Ironborn and Volantene ships. at white harbor."

Understanding rippled through the assembled lords and ladies as heads turned toward Owen and the Stark family. Owen met Eddard's gaze, a silent exchange passing between them. The North's naval power was meant to be their ace in the hole, kept away from conflict until absolutely necessary. But with thousands of innocent lives at stake, they could no longer afford such tactics.

Robert's bloodshot eyes widened as he looked between his old friend and Owen. "Ned? How many ships did you and your goodson say you have?"

Lord Stark cleared his throat. "One thousand five hundred, not counting trade vessels which are also heavily armed," his goodfather stated matter-of-factly. "Spread between White Harbor and Ice Crest, though the bulk dock at Ice Crest."

The change in atmosphere was immediate. Robert's face transformed from rage and despair to glee. Jon Arryn straightened in his chair, hope kindling in his tired eyes. Around the table, lords and ladies exchanged glances of surprise and calculation.

Jon Arryn leaned forward, his mind already working through the strategic implications. "How many could be spared, Ned? How many ships could the North commit to immediate action?"

Owen met Eddard's glance, giving a slight nod. They had discussed this possibility since word came from white harbor, going through various scenarios. Owen had already calculated the minimum forces needed to protect their own shores.

"Four hundred could be deployed to patrol Westeros's shores and keep the slavers at bay," Owen stated, his voice carrying clearly through the now-silent hall. "The rest could set sail for White Harbor to await the lords and their men for dealing with the Slaver threat."

Owen watched as Robert's meaty fist crashed onto the table again, but this time in jubilation rather than rage. Wine sloshed from nearby cups as the king's enthusiasm shook the heavy oak.

"Longshore! Get your arse back to that castle of yours at Sea Dragon Point!" Robert's voice boomed through the great hall, his earlier fury transformed into savage anticipation. "Ready that fleet - I want every ship you can spare waiting to smash those treacherous iron fuckers and their slaving fucks back into the sea they crawled from!"

Owen nodded as he exchanged another quick glance with his goodfather. Eddard's face remained carefully neutral, though Owen could read the resignation in his eyes. He had hoped to avoid a war, but the Ironborn's alliance with slavers had forced their hand.

"And any slaver or ironborn ship you find between here and there," Robert continued, jabbing a thick finger at the map spread across the table, "I want them sent to the bottom! Those rock-dwelling shits thought they could hide behind foreign slavers? We'll show them what happens to oathbreakers!"

The king turned his attention to Stannis and Mace Tyrell. "You two - send ravens to your lords. I want those fifty ships sailing for White Harbor as soon as possible. They'll join Owen's fleet from there." Robert's grin was fierce. "Let's show these fuckers what happens when they unite the Seven Kingdoms against them!"

Robert pushed himself to his feet, his voice rising to fill every corner of the great hall. "Let the ravens fly! Call the banners! I want every lord in Westeros to witness the Ironborn brought low for this betrayal!" He raised his wine cup high. "We'll make examples of these slaver-loving cunts! Every noble house will see what happens when you break faith with the Iron Throne!"

Owen watched as the assembled lords and ladies nodded in agreement with Robert's proclamation, chairs scraping against stone as they prepared to rise. Maester Luwin had already begun gathering his writing materials, no doubt anticipating a long night ahead drafting dozens of ravens to every corner of the realm.

"Your Grace, a moment if you will." Jon Arryn's measured voice cut through the bustle. The elderly Hand raised a sealed letter. "We received word from King's Landing this morning. The Sealord of Braavos has sent envoys seeking aid."

Owen noticed how the atmosphere in the great hall shifted. The Braavosi were proud and rarely asked for help, especially from Westeros.

"Several Braavosi dignitaries arrived at the Red Keep," Jon continued, breaking the seal to review the contents. "They had hoped to speak with you directly, Your Grace, join in an alliance against slavery in Essos but with both of us here at Winterfell..." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "They brought grave warnings about the scale of this slaver threat."

Robert waved his hand dismissively, wine sloshing in his cup. "Braavos has that great titan of theirs, don't they? Let them hold out with their fancy statue while we deal with these treacherous iron fuckers first." He jabbed a thick finger at the map where the Iron Islands lay. "Once we've broken these oath-breaking shits, then we'll turn our attention to these slaver cunts properly."

Owen exchanged a concerned glance with Eddard. They both knew the Titan of Braavos was impressive but not invincible. If the combined fleets of Volantis, Lys, and Myr truly meant to wage war, even the mighty Arsenal of Braavos might be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Owen noticed Tyrion shifting in his seat, the dwarf's mismatched eyes filled with worry as he finally broke his uncharacteristic silence. "What of Ice Crest? Surely the raiders would target such a prominent harbor with every other target they have attacked. How do you know that your waters aren't under siege right now and your Castle taken?"

A snort escaped Owen before he could contain it, and beside him, Sansa's musical laugh filled the great hall. The sound drew curious looks from the assembled lords and ladies, particularly from the Lannisters.

"We left Jon in charge of Ice Crest's defenses when we came to Winterfell," Owen explained, watching amusement dance in his wife's eyes. The mere suggestion that Ice Crest could be vulnerable seemed to entertain them both greatly.

Kevan Lannister leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your bastard brother-by-law? Aren't you worried he might be overwhelmed by such responsibility Or already fallen with your castle?"

Owen couldn't help but smile, remembering the extensive defensive systems he'd built into every inch of Ice Crest. The magical wards, the automated defenders, the artillery emplacements that could reduce entire fleets to splinters - and that was before considering the devastating power of the fortress's main magical cannon.

"Whatever Ironborn or slavers that may have dared venture near Ice Crest's waters must be already dead," Owen stated simply.

As they continued to walk away. he felt a familiar stirring in his soul as he and Sansa left the great hall alongside the Stark family. The sensation began as a gentle warmth in his chest, but quickly built into an overwhelming surge of energy. The ethereal music of the Celestial Forge filled his mind - crystalline chimes and otherworldly harmonies that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of reality.

The word "Worldsinger" blazed across his consciousness in letters of pure light. Knowledge flooded into him - ancient secrets of the Aeldari race, their mastery over matter and energy through the art of song. He saw countless images of graceful alien artisans using their voices to shape wraithbone and other psycho-reactive materials, creating weapons, vehicles, and entire cities through the power of their minds and voices alone.

The gift settled into his being, integrating seamlessly with his existing abilities. Owen now understood how to weave psychic energy through sound, using specific frequencies and harmonics to manipulate matter at its most fundamental level. Just as the Bonesinger shaped wraithbone with their songs, he could now command vegetation and natural materials to grow and form according to his will.

He was still processing the vast repository of knowledge that had been downloaded into his mind as they walked. The possibilities were staggering - he could create living architecture, grow forests in minutes, shape wood and stone as easily as clay. This power would add yet another layer to his already impressive arsenal of abilities.

They continued down the corridor toward their chambers, Owen's mind already racing with potential applications for this new gift. But for now, rest was needed. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, and they would need their strength to face them.

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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Worldsinger (Warhammer 40k - Craftworld Eldar JumpChain) (400CP)

The craft of the Bonesinger is mighty indeed, yes but as there are many notes in a song, so are there more uses for music than Wraithbone alone. In the way the Bonesinger shapes Wraithbone with psychic energy and their voice, so do you shape the green and growing things. Vegetation springs from the earth, seemingly from nothing, at the sound of your voice, molding itself to fit your needs. Should you grow hungry, bring forth fruit. Should you grow hot, bring forth shade. Should you grow weary, bring forth a bed of leaves. All these shall heed your song.

Muggle Technology (Make a Wish) (200CP)

You know it, general knowledge of up to graduate level in every scientific field is known to you, not only this, but the knowledge seems very eager to help you and as such whenever you are using magic for creation of something or other, the knowledge will leap up with helpful facts and connect seemingly disconnected facts to help in whatever magical creation you are making next. Post Jump, the helpfulness and eagerness spreads to the rest of the knowledge you have in your mind

Reliable Invention (Kim Possible) (200CP)

Anything you construct is only broken when used improperly or purposefully targeted with attacks. The items you create do not malfunction and are completely resistant to damage caused by regular usage.

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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Chapter Text

2 Days before the winterfell war council……

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Dunstan Drumm gripped Red Rain's hilt as he watched the horizon from the Ironborn Pride's helm. The Valyrian steel sword hummed with ancient power, a reminder of glory taken through strength. A hundred longships carved through the calm waters behind him, their black sails stark against the grey northern sky. Beyond them stretched the massive Volantene fleet - four hundred vessels packed with unsullied slave and slaver soldiers and siege weapons.

"Seas are kind today, my lord." Hamond's weathered boots creaked across the deck. "We'll make Ice Crest before sundown at this pace."

Dunstan grunted, his bone hand clicking against the ship's wheel. The waters were too calm, unnaturally so for the northern coast. No whitecaps, no swells, just an eerie stillness that made his skin crawl.

"The men are restless." Hamond lowered his voice. "We were supposed to wait for word from White Harbor. Two days now, and nothing."

"The slavers grew impatient." Dunstan's eyes narrowed at the distant shoreline. "Their commander insisted we proceed regardless."

"Some of their captains approached me with concerns." Hamond shifted uncomfortably. "They expected to rendezvous with their fleet from White Harbor by now. The silence troubles them."

Dunstan shared their unease, though he'd die before admitting it. White Harbor should have fallen quickly under the combined assault of fifty ironborn ships and three hundred slave galleys. Their absence spoke volumes.

"The Volantenes are fools." Dunstan spat over the rail. "More concerned with their timetables than proper strategy. But we're committed now."

"Aye, that we are." Hamond gazed at the massive fleet stretching behind them. "Though I can't help wondering why we haven't spotted a single northern patrol. These waters should be better guarded, especially with all the tales we've heard."

Dunstan had wondered the same. The rumors of Ice Crest's power seemed fantastical - a castle made in a week, mechanical soldiers, magical weapons, walls that could withstand any siege. Yet here they sailed, unopposed, toward what should be the North's strongest western fortress.

"Perhaps the tales were just that - tales." But Dunstan didn't believe his own words. Something felt wrong about this raid, had from the start. But pride and greed had won out over caution.

Dunstan watched the horizon, his weathered hands steady on the wheel despite his growing unease.

"Could be the tales are just northern bluster like you said." Hamond scratched his grey beard. "Though only three ships dared test those waters these past four years."

"Three?" Dunstan's scarred face twisted. "Which captains were fool enough?"

"Red Coren tried first, then Black Hallen." Hamond counted on calloused fingers. "Even Dagmar Cleftjaw sent one of his best ships to probe their defenses for a raid."

The mention of Dagmar made Dunstan's grip tighten on Red Rain's hilt. "And?"

"None returned." Hamond's voice dropped lower. "Save one man from Dagmar's crew. Washed up half-dead on the Stony Shore, babbling about weapons that turned ships to splinters in a single blast apparently before he found his way back to the islands. No one's tried since."

Dunstan grunted, turning to survey the massive fleet behind them. The Volantene ships dwarfed the ironborn longships, their hulls packed with warriors from across Essos. Unsullied stood in perfect formation on the decks, their spears gleaming. Volantene soldiers in their tiger-striped armor mingled with Myrish crossbowmen testing their weapons. Ships from Lys carried their own soldiers, while red-armored troops from Astapor crowded the rails of their vessels.

"We'll know soon enough if the tales are true." Dunstan's bone hand clicked against the wheel as he adjusted their course. The northern shore grew closer with each passing moment, though that unnatural calm still gripped the seas. "One way or another."

He turned to Hamond, his scarred face twisting into a grimace. "Signal the captains. Keep our ships tight, and have the rest spread out to guard those Volantene hulks. Last thing we need is these slavers drowning themselves before we reach Ice Crest."

Hamond nodded and moved to the stern, raising colored flags in quick succession. The ironborn vessels responded swiftly, their crews well-trained in fleet movements. Black sails shifted as the longships adjusted their positions, some breaking away to flank the larger slave galleys.

Dunstan watched the maneuvers with practiced eyes. The ironborn ships moved like water snakes, sleek and deadly, while the Volantene vessels lumbered through the unnaturally still waters like pregnant whales. His bone hand clicked against the wheel as he considered their approach. The payment for escorting these slavers would be substantial, but the real prize lay ahead - Ice Crest itself.

Rumors and tales of its wealth had to many Ironborn. Essosi Merchants spoke of jewels that glowed with inner fire, weapons that could cut through steel like parchment, and coins of pure gold stamped with wolves and dragons. The thought made his blood sing with the old hunger, the craving for plunder that had driven the ironborn for thousands of years.

As Hamond returned to his side, Dunstan gazed at the distant horizon where Ice Crest waited. One more day of sailing, and they would reach their target. His fingers brushed Red Rain's hilt, feeling the ancient Valyrian steel respond to his touch. They would take what was theirs, as their ancestors had done. Not with gold, but with iron and blood.

"The drowned god watches," he muttered, tasting salt on his lips. "We'll show them the old way still lives."

Jon stood within the meeting hall of Ice Crest, marveling at Owen's architectural masterpiece. The Hall of Unity lived up to its name - its walls and floor crafted from reinforced ironwood, polished to a mirror sheen. Intricate carvings adorned the walls, depicting scenes from Northern history that seemed to come alive in the flickering light of enchanted braziers.

His boots made no sound on the smooth floor as he walked between the hundreds of ivory seats. Each chair was a work of art, inlaid with veins of ebony that contrasted beautifully with threads of silver and gold running through the pale material. Sapphires studded the armrests, catching the light and throwing blue sparkles across the room. Strange runes covered every surface of the chairs - markings that Owen claimed held deep meaning but shared with no one, not even Sansa.

What struck Jon most was the democratic arrangement of the seating. Unlike traditional great halls with their rigid hierarchies, here a common farmer could sit beside a noble lord. The runes and craftsmanship of each chair were identical, making a powerful statement about equality that Owen had insisted upon. Jon ran his fingers along one of the inscriptions, feeling the slight warmth emanating from the strange symbols.

At the far end of the hall stood three ornate thrones, clearly meant for Owen, Sansa, and their future children. While grander than the other seats, they maintained the same basic design - a subtle reminder that even the rulers of Ice Crest considered themselves part of the larger community rather than above it.

The central space drew Jon's attention. A massive marble table dominated the area, its surface depicting the most detailed map he had ever seen. Tiny ships moved across painted oceans while miniature armies marched across continents. Cities appeared and disappeared as settlements grew or fell, the magic somehow tracking the real-world changes happening thousands of leagues away. Names floated above locations, shifting and updating themselves as Jon watched. He could see Winterfell's expanded walls, the restored castles along the Wall, and even the ships at white harbor.

Jon sat down on a comfortable marble chair next to the table, his fingers tracing the cool, smooth surface as his eyes searched the magical display before him. The moving pictures of the fleet approaching Ice Crest drew his attention like moths to flame, his grey eyes hardening with each passing moment. "Ironborn," he spat mentally in disgust, his jaw clenching as he noted the number 500 clearly written above the moving fleet on the map. The sight made his stomach churn with memories of their previous raids and destruction. Lord Manderly had sent word of their attack to Owen in Winterfell via the enchanted lockets before doing the same with Jon, warning that they would likely face more ships than what had initially attacked them. And lo and behold, the old lord's prediction had proven devastatingly accurate.

A sharp knock on the marble door depicting the twin ice crystals drew Jon's attention away from the troubling scene. He looked up to see the guard, impressive in his full ebony plate armor that gleamed in the room's light, announce that the ship captains and their mates had arrived. Jon straightened in his chair, squaring his shoulders as he nodded his assent to let them in, already preparing himself for the conversation ahead.

Jon watched as the massive marble doors swung open, their enchanted hinges silent despite their weight. The captains filed in with military precision, their uniforms a testament to Owen's craftsmanship. The gold trim caught the light from the braziers, while the deep blue fabric seemed to shift like waves on the ocean. Silver buttons and insignias marked their ranks, each piece infused with protective magic that Jon had seen turn aside crossbow bolts during training.

Their weapons drew his attention - not the gaudy ornamental blades common to southern naval officers, but practical tools of war enhanced by Owen's expertise. The cutlasses hung at their hips in polished scabbards, their hilts marked with subtle runes that Jon knew could channel destructive energy through the blades. Half swords and daggers completed their armament, each weapon potentially as deadly as a Valyrian steel blade in the right hands.

The captains moved to take their seats, and Jon noted with approval how they mixed freely regardless of birth. A fisherman's daughter who'd proven her worth at the helm sat beside a minor noble's third son, while a former smuggler traded friendly greetings with a merchant's widow. Their conversations echoed through the hall, some discussing recent patrols while others gathered around the magical map, pointing at the approaching fleet with grim expressions.

Three hundred of his best captains now filled the hall, representing just a quarter of the North's total naval strength. The rest of the fleet was scattered across the western shores, hunting straggling slaver and ironborn ships or maintaining their regular patrols. Jon had sent the recall order through the enchanted communication stones owen had provided them all, but he knew it would take time for the ships to return, not long but maybe a day or two.

Some of the captains noticed his expression and fell silent, their own faces hardening as they recognized the gravity of the situation. These were not the pampered naval officers of the south or the undisciplined raiders of the Iron Islands. These were Northern sailors, trained in naval combat at white harbors academy and armed with ships and weapons that could sink a traditional warship with a single volley. They had proven themselves against pirates, slavers, and ironborn raiders alike wherever they were found on their trading runs to Essos.

Jon scanned the faces before him, recognizing many from his time training alongside them. Owen had insisted he learn seafaring, dragging him aboard ships until the constant rocking no longer turned his stomach. Now he could spot familiar faces - there was Karla Stone, her weathered face bearing the scars from a pirate raid she'd thwarted last summer. Beside her sat Torrhen Frost, whose quick thinking had saved three merchant vessels from ironborn raiders off the Stony Shore.

But one face was missing. Jon stood, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "Where's Naval Commander Bartimus?"

Black Hair Rodrik, a burly man with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks, spoke up from two rows back. "Commander's escorting four galleons to Braavos, Lord Snow. Left about a week past before all this shit started. He woulda been back by now but if he was still there then in must have been a large shipment he had to oversee."

Jon's brow furrowed. They'd received reports of potential attacks on Braavos as well. "Will he be safe? With all this-" he gestured at the magical map showing the approaching fleet as well as the various slaver ships filling the seas.

"He'll be fine," Captain Jane Silver Eyes cut in, her distinctive pale irises glinting in the brazier light. She leaned forward, her voice carrying clear confidence. "Commander Bartimus took the Northern Rage - a ship of the line. Has the Dread North, Winter Wonder, and Wolf Bride with him too - all frigate, all armed with cannons as is standard."

She smiled, a predatory expression that Jon had seen before battles. "Those galleons aren't exactly helpless either. Any slavers try their luck against that escort, they won't live to regret it."

Jon nodded, his expression grim. "We'll have to proceed without Commander Bartimus." He turned to Jane Silver Eyes, whose pale irises seemed to glow in the enchanted light. "Captain Silver Eyes, you'll assume naval command until his return."

Jane stood, her uniform crisp despite the late hour. "Aye, Lord Snow. I accept the responsibility." Her voice carried the weight of authority earned through years of service.

Jon directed everyone's attention to the magical map where the fleet of ships crawled across the painted waves. "This is our current situation. Five hundred vessels approaching Ice Crest - a mix of ironborn longships and Volantene slave galleys."

The reaction was immediate. Scowls darkened faces around the table as captains leaned forward to study the threat. Some muttered curses in the Old Tongue, while others spat on the floor in disgust.

"Slaver scum," growled Black Hair Rodrik, his massive fist clenching on the table. "Coming to our shores like rats to grain."

"Ironborn dogs leading them right to us," added Captain Karla Stone, her scarred face twisted in contempt. "So much for their precious 'old way' - playing escort to slavers now."

More voices joined the chorus of disgust. Jon recognized the anger in their eyes - these were men and women who'd spent years protecting northern waters from raiders and slavers. The sight of such a massive hostile fleet approaching their shores struck deep at their pride.

"Five hundred ships." Torrhen Frost's quiet voice cut through the angry murmurs. "That's more than what hit White Harbor from what i hear."

Jon nodded. "Aye. Lord Manderly's warning proved accurate. They mean to take Ice Crest while their other ships hit other targets along the coast. Lannisport and Kings landing were hit as well. Most of the souths ships are at the bottom of the sea and their docks destroyed."

Jon watched as derision spread through the hall at the mention of the southern losses.

"Great royal navy my ass," snorted a grizzled captain from the back. "Southern lords can't even defend themselves."

Jeers and laughs echoed through the hall as other captains nodded in agreement. Jon kept his face neutral, though he mentally agreed with the sentiment. Still, he understood the overwhelming odds the southern forces had faced.

"They were hit by hundreds of ships simultaneously," Jon said, trying to maintain some diplomatic perspective. "Even the best defenses can be overwhelmed by sheer numbers." Though his words were measured, Jon couldn't help but think how different the outcome might have been if the South had invested in training proper naval forces and building more ships instead of relying on pageantry and tradition.

He traced the moving fleet on the map. "They're coming for three things - plunder, slaves, and likely our ships. Tales of Ice Crest's wealth are well-known even if most southerners think it a rumor, not that that will be the same now that king robert and his visiting party has likely seen how prosperous the north is, even if most tales are exaggerated. But more than gold, they want our people for their slave markets and our vessels for their fleets."

"Why not let them come close then?" called out Captain Marston, a stocky man with salt-streaked hair. "Let them sail right up to Ice Crest's shores. Our cannons would tear them apart, and what's left our ships can finish off." His meaty hand slapped the table for emphasis. "Be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered captains. Several nodded eagerly at the prospect of such a decisive victory. The northern ships' superior firepower was well-known among their crews - they'd seen enough demonstrations of their cannons reducing traditional vessels to splinters.

Jon agreed mentally with Captain Marston's suggestion, but something deeper stirred within him. His hand unconsciously gripped the hilt of his sword - a masterwork blade Owen had crafted specially for him, its surface etched with protective runes that glowed faintly at his touch.

Owen had changed everything for him. Where others saw a stark bastard, Owen had seen potential. He'd taken Jon into his household when jons thoughts had been on taking the black, made him captain of his guard, and even appointed him steward of Ice Crest. The position came with respect, authority, and more gold than Jon had ever dreamed of possessing as a bastard of Winterfell.

But it wasn't just the material benefits. Owen had promised to build him a castle by the sea - a real castle, not some minor holdfast. A place where Jon could establish his own noble house, take a highborn wife, and raise children who would never know the shame of bastardy. Owen had been teaching him the basics of magic, letting jon perform feats with his blade and will he never thought possible but in fantasy.

The thought of these raiders and slavers - these parasites - daring to threaten Owen's lands made Jon's blood boil. His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles turned white. These vermin thought they could sail up to Ice Crest's shores and take what Owen had built? Try to enslave the people Owen had sworn to protect?

Rage coursed through Jon's veins as he stared at the approaching fleet on the magical map. How dare they? Owen had given him everything - respect, purpose, a future. He'd treated Jon like family when most nobles wouldn't even acknowledge a bastard's existence.

The thought of Ironborn boots touching Owen's docks or slaver hands grabbing at Owen's people filled Jon with a cold fury he'd rarely experienced. No. He would not allow these filth to taint what Owen had created. They would pay dearly for their presumption.

Jon's grey eyes suddenly blazed with cold fury as he looked across the gathered captains. "I don't know about you," he said, his voice carrying the chill of a northern winter, "but I'll be damned if even one slaver or ironborn ship dares move an inch closer to Ice Crest's waters than they already have."

He stood straighter, his hand gripping the ebony sword at his hip. "Aye, we could wait here. Let them come to our shores and have our cannons tear them apart." His lips curled into a wolfish snarl. "But that's not enough."

Jon's voice rose, filling the great hall with the power of his conviction. "No! No slaver or ironborn should ever see Ice Crest, let alone walk its shores!" He swept his gaze across the assembled captains, seeing the fire of battle ignite in their eyes. "We'll take two hundred ships and meet them on the sea. We'll destroy them there, send them screaming to their precious Drowned God!"

He drew his ebony blade, the enchanted metal gleaming in the light of the braziers as he held it high. "We are of the North! Children of the Old Gods!" The sword seemed to pulse with an inner light as Jon's voice thundered through the hall. "The Stark words are 'Winter is Coming.' Well, it's time winter came for slaver and ironborn scum!"

The captains leapt to their feet as one, their own weapons raised in answer to Jon's call. The hall erupted with their battle cries, voices joining in a thunderous chorus.

"For the Wolf!"

"The North!"

"House Longshore!"

Their roars shook the very foundations of Ice Crest, a promise of the storm about to be unleashed upon their enemies.

The dawn painted the horizon in muted grays and pale pinks as Jon stood on the deck of the Hammer of the Old Gods. The massive ship of the line cut through the waves with an eerie silence, its enchanted Dwemer metal and Ironwood hull barely disturbing the water. His ebony armor gleamed dully in the early light, each piece a masterwork of Owen's craft. The helm tucked under his arm bore the snarling visage of a direwolf, its eyes inlaid with pale moonstone that seemed to catch what little light filtered through the morning mist.

Behind them, spread across the sea like a forest of masts and sails, two hundred Northern vessels moved in perfect formation. The sight filled Jon with fierce pride - these weren't the gaudy pleasure barges of southern lords or the crude longships of ironborn raiders. These were proper warships, built with Owen's innovations and crewed by experienced sailors. Galleons bristling with cannon ports flanked by swift frigates, each vessel enchanted for speed, durability and silence.

Captain Jane Silver Eyes stood at the wheel, her flowing and pale irises reflecting the growing light as she peered through her far-eye. The brass instrument, another of Owen's creations, could spot a fishing boat leagues away through fog or darkness. Her uniform was immaculate despite the early hour, every button and badge gleaming.

"There," she said suddenly, lowering the far-eye and extending it to Jon. "Just at the edge of sight. The bastards don't even have proper lookouts posted."

Jon took the offered instrument and raised it to his eye. Through the enhanced lens, he could make out the enemy fleet - a sprawling mass of vessels that seemed to stretch across the horizon. Ironborn longships mingled with the larger Volantene galleys, their black sails and slave banners an affront to everything the North stood for.

"They're within range," Captain Jane said quietly, her voice carrying the calm authority that had earned her this command. "A few long strides more across the waters and we'll be close enough for the first volley. They still haven't spotted us."

Jon nodded, his expression grim as he watched Captain Jane signal to the fleet. Her pale eyes reflected the growing dawn light as she raised the signal flags, their enchanted fabric glowing briefly to ensure visibility through the morning mist.

"Five galleons, five frigates - follow our lead," she commanded through the magical communication stone at her throat. "The rest hold position until my signal."

The selected vessels broke from the main formation with practiced precision. Jon observed their movement from the quarterdeck of the Hammer of the Old Gods, admiring how the massive ships seemed to glide through the water. Owen's enchantments on their hulls proved their worth yet again, allowing the warships to move without the usual creaking and splashing that would betray their approach.

The ten ships fell into a perfect arrow formation behind the Hammer of the Old Gods, their dark hulls cutting through the waves like shadows. Through his far-eye, Jon could see the enemy fleet more clearly now. The massive collection of vessels lay spread across the horizon, their crews still mostly asleep after what had likely been a night of celebrating their anticipated victory and plunder.

As they closed half the distance to the enemy fleet, Jon observed the first signs of movement aboard the hostile ships. Deck hands emerged from below, stretching and beginning their morning routines. Some moved to adjust sails, preparing for what they thought would be the final leg of their journey to Ice Crest.

In the crow's nest of one of the larger Volantene galleys, a lookout finally roused himself from his slumber. Jon watched through the far-eye with a smirk as the man lazily raised his own viewing instrument, then witnessed the exact moment when realization struck. The lookout's body went rigid with shock, his hands trembling so violently he nearly dropped his far-eye.

The warning bell rang out across the water, its frantic pealing cutting through the morning mist. The sound sparked immediate chaos across the enemy fleet as ironborn raiders and Volantene slavers scrambled to battle stations, their shouts and curses carrying clearly across the water in the still morning air.

Jon watched as Captain Silver Eyes barked orders through her communication stone, the northern ships pivoting with practiced efficiency to present their broadsides to the panicking enemy fleet. The movement was smooth, almost graceful - a show of countless hours of drilling and the enchantments worked into each vessel's hull.

Across the water, chaos erupted as the ironborn and Volantene crews scrambled to respond. Their shouts carried clearly across the morning air, a cacophony of different languages united by the common thread of fear. Some captains tried to organize their ships into battle formations while others attempted to turn and flee, resulting in several collisions that only added to the confusion.

Jon observed the crew of the Hammer of the Old Gods loading the standard cannon balls - heavy iron spheres from the factory enhanced with Owen's runic engravings for greater penetrating power. The gun crews worked with mechanical precision, their movements sure and practiced as they prepared for what should have been a devastating first volley.

But something tickled at the back of Jon's mind. He remembered Owen showing him the special weapons being installed on certain ships, particularly the flagship. The memory made him reach out and catch Jane's arm just as she was about to give the fire order.

"Wait," Jon said, his grey eyes glinting. "This ship - it's one of the ones Owen fitted with his special cannons, isn't it?"

Jane's pale eyes widened slightly in recognition. "Aye, it is. Though we've never used them - stuck to the ordinary cannons in drills and patrols. Seemed excessive to test them when regular shot works well enough."

A predatory smile spread across Jon's face as he remembered Owen's detailed explanation of those particular weapons. "Tell the crew to bring the special cannons to the gun ports instead."

Jane raised an eyebrow but didn't hesitate, relaying the order through her communication stone. Below decks, they could hear the sounds of the crew rushing to comply, the heavy thud of different cannon being moved into position.

Jon would make sure not one of those ironborn and slaver bastards forgot this day…….

Dunstan Drumm stood at the helm of his vessel, his weathered hands gripping the worn wood as he bellowed orders across the deck. The bone hand that gave him his nickname gleamed dully in the early morning light as he gestured frantically at his crew.

"Get those sails trimmed, you lazy bastards! Move those oars into position!" His voice carried over the chaos erupting across the massive combined fleet. Being positioned at the rear of the formation had seemed advantageous last night during the planning - a position of honor for an experienced captain. Now it felt like a death sentence.

All around him, the Volantene and Ironborn ships churned in confusion. The massive northern vessels had appeared like ghosts through the morning mist, their dark hulls showing no lights, making no sound until they were already in position. It defied everything Dunstan knew about naval warfare.

"How in the Drowned God's name did they sneak up on us?" he muttered, watching through his far-eye as the enemy ships maintained their position just within scorpion range. Their broadsides faced the fleet, gun ports open like rows of dark eyes staring death across the waters.

A Volantene captain from a nearby galley shouted across the water in heavily accented Common Tongue. "Why do they not close to ram? Where are their boarding parties?"

Dunstan shared the man's confusion. Naval battles were supposed to be about ramming, boarding, and close combat. These northern ships just sat there, presenting their sides like floating fortresses. Behind them, through the lifting morning haze, he could make out at least a hundred more vessels holding position further back.

His confusion would not last long. A deep, resonant hum carried across the water from the largest northern vessel - the one flying what he assumed was House Longshore's banner. The sound reminded him of a whale's song he'd once heard while sailing far out to sea, but deeper, more mechanical. It started low, barely perceptible, then built steadily until it seemed to vibrate through his very bones.

The Ironborn captain's weathered hands gripped his ship's rail as the strange sensation intensified. The air itself seemed to thrum with energy, making his teeth ache and his stomach churn. Around him, his crew stumbled and grabbed at their heads, clearly experiencing the same disorienting effects.

Then the world changed.

The peaceful orange glow of dawn shifted, as if someone had drawn a veil across the sun. Blues began to seep into the morning light, first pale like a summer sky, then deeper, more intense. Dunstan watched in horrified fascination as the color continued to deepen until it matched the dark waters below.

His eyes were drawn inexorably to the northern flagship. The holes along its side began to glow with an otherworldly blue light that seemed to pulse in time with the humming that still filled the air.

The temperature around them rose dramatically. Despite the early morning chill, sweat began to bead on Dunstan's forehead. The very air seemed to shimmer with heat, like the waves rising from sun-baked stone on a summer's day.

All across the combined fleet, Ironborn reavers and Volantene sailors stood transfixed. Hardened warriors who had faced storms and sea battles without flinching now stood rooted in place, weapons forgotten in their hands as they stared at the beautiful yet terrifying display before them.

The blue light from the northern ship's guns grew brighter and brighter, casting eerie shadows across the water. The heat continued to build until Dunstan could feel it burning his face even from this distance. Still, neither he nor anyone else could look away from the mesmerizing sight.

They stood there, frozen in that eternal moment, not knowing what was about to come but understanding on some primal level that they were witnessing something beyond their comprehension.

Dunstan's eyes widened as multiple flashes erupted from the northern ships, accompanied by deep, resonant pulses that seemed to vibrate through his very bones. The sound was unlike anything he'd ever heard - not the sharp crack of thunder or the boom of waves against rocks, but something deeper, more primal.

Brilliant beams of blue-white light lanced out from the ships' sides with terrifying precision. The Pride of Pyke, sailing just ahead of Dunstan's vessel, lurched as one of the beams passed mere feet from its stern. The heat from the near miss was intense enough to blister paint and crack wooden planks.

What happened to the ships that weren't so fortunate defied comprehension. Dunstan watched in horror as the beams struck their targets. There was no explosion, no splintering of wood or shattering of hulls. The ships simply... separated. Clean cuts divided them as if some giant hot knife had sliced through steel and wood alike. The severed halves didn't even have time to fall apart before secondary beams struck, reducing them to nothing.

The crews suffered an even more terrifying fate. Those caught in the direct path of the beams simply ceased to exist. One moment, Dunstan could see dozens of men scrambling across the decks - the next, nothing remained but smoking scraps of clothing drifting on the wind. Not even ashes marked where they had stood. Others on the periphery of the beams were reduced to unrecognizable chunks of flesh, scattered across the blood-slicked decks of the few ships that remained partially intact.

For a heartbeat, absolute silence fell over the water. The morning breeze carried the acrid smell of ozone and burned metal. Dunstan's hands trembled on the ship's rail as his mind struggled to process what he'd witnessed. Around him, his crew stood frozen, faces pale with shock and terror.

Then someone screamed. The sound shattered the silence like breaking glass, and chaos erupted across the surviving ships. Men who had sailed into countless battles, who had faced storms and sea monsters without flinching, now ran in blind panic. Orders were shouted in multiple languages, each captain desperately trying to turn their vessel away from the northern fleet.

"Hard to starboard!" Dunstan heard himself shouting, his voice cracking. "Get us out of here! Row, damn you all, row!"

Ships collided in their desperate attempt to flee, crews no longer caring about formation or dignity. The proud Volantene war galleys and swift Ironborn longships alike transformed into nothing more than vessels of panic, their only goal to escape the reach of those terrible blue beams.

Through it all, the northern ships maintained their perfect formation, silent and terrible in the morning light, like executioners waiting patiently for their next victims.

Dunstan watched in horror as the northern ships maintained their perfect formation, the morning light once again shifting to that otherworldly blue hue. The temperature began to rise just as before, making his skin prickle with sweat despite the morning chill. All around him, the surviving crews of the combined fleet descended into panic.

"Please, no more!" A Volantene captain screamed from a nearby galley, his proud demeanor shattered. His crew abandoned any pretense of discipline, some throwing themselves overboard while others fell to their knees in desperate prayer.

The humming started again, deeper this time, resonating through the wooden planks beneath Dunstan's feet. He gripped the ship's rail, his bone hand gleaming dully as his knuckles whitened. The air shimmered with heat, distorting his view of the northern vessels that loomed like dark specters through the haze.

Across the water, Dunstan could see the gun ports of the northern flagship glowing that terrible blue-white once more. The heat continued to build until it felt like standing too close to a forge. Several of his crew members dropped to their knees, some calling out to the Drowned God while others begged for mercy from the Old Gods of the North.

"What have we done?" Dunstan whispered, his weathered face pale with terror. "What power have we challenged?"

The answer came in searing streams of blue light that lanced out from the northern ships once again. The beams cut through the fleeing vessels with terrible precision, turning proud warships into floating pyres. Men vanished mid-scream, their bodies simply ceasing to exist where the light touched them. Those lucky enough to be missed by the direct beams still suffered as the heat alone caused wood to ignite and metal to warp.

A nearby Volantene galley split cleanly in two, its halves briefly hanging in the air before secondary beams reduced them to nothing but floating debris and scattered body parts. The screams of the dying mixed with prayers in a dozen languages, creating a hellish chorus across the water.

Dunstan could only watch, rooted in place by a terror beyond anything he'd experienced in his long years at sea. This wasn't warfare - this was divine punishment, the wrath of the norths old gods made manifest through northern ingenuity. They had sailed north thinking to raid and plunder, but instead had awakened something beyond their comprehension.

Jon watched in awe as the second volley of blue-white beams lanced across the water. The destructive power of Owen's special cannons exceeded anything he or anyone had imagined during those long conversations in the forge. Where proud warships had stood moments before, only floating debris and scattered remnants remained.

Complete silence fell over the crew of the Hammer of the Old Gods. Men who had seen countless battles stood slack-jawed at their posts, eyes wide as they tried to comprehend the devastation they had just unleashed. Even the most hardened veterans among them seemed shaken by the display of raw power.

"Seven hells," whispered one of the gunners to his companion. "Remind me never to get on Lord Owen's bad side. Man's got the power to make weapons of the gods themselves." Several nearby crew members nodded vigorously in agreement, their faces still pale from witnessing the carnage.

"Cease fire!" Jon called out, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. He turned to Captain Silver Eyes, who stood rigid at his side. "How many enemy ships would you estimate we've destroyed?"

Jane blinked several times, then raised her far-eye to survey the wreckage. Her hands trembled slightly as she scanned the waters. "Two... maybe three hundred vessels," she finally managed, her voice thick with amazement. "Just... gone."

Jon nodded grimly. "Signal the ten ships on our flanks. I want a full barrage for five minutes - standard cannon fire this time. Whatever survives, we'll board and capture." He caught the eye of a nearby deck hand. "You - get below and tell the Dreadguard to don their armor. All three hundred of them. Time they got some real combat practice."

The deck hand saluted and rushed below, while Jane began relaying orders through her communication stone. Around them, the crew shook off their shock and returned to their duties, though many still cast worried glances at the smoking ruins of what had been the greatest invasion fleet the North had faced in centuries.

Jon paced along the line of assembled Dreadguard on the deck, his boots clicking against the smooth planks. The last echoes of cannon fire faded across the water as smoke drifted between the remaining enemy vessels. Only ten ships remained of the once-mighty invasion fleet, their crews likely terrified after witnessing the destruction of their companions.

The three hundred members of the Dreadguard stood at perfect attention, their ebony armor gleaming despite the overcast sky. Jon felt a surge of pride as he observed their disciplined stance. Each warrior wore the lightweight yet incredibly strong armor Owen had specifically designed for them - protective enough to stop most weapons while allowing for quick movement and extended wear without fatigue.

He paused occasionally to adjust a shield grip here or correct a sword stance there. These men and women had trained relentlessly under his guidance for two years, patrolling the wild coastlines of Sea Dragon Point. They'd handled their share of bandits and tracked down murderers, but those encounters had been small affairs - nothing like the naval battle they were about to join.

"Remember your training," Jon called out as he walked the line. "You've drilled these movements thousands of times. The only difference today is that your opponents won't be practice dummies, desperate bandits or that you'll be facing them on land."

He studied their faces as he passed - some showed nervousness, others excitement, but all displayed the steady resolve he'd worked to instill in them. These weren't just ordinary guards who served for coin. Each member of the Dreadguard had sworn personal oaths of loyalty to Owen and House Longshore, pledging their lives to protect the North's future.

The ebony short swords at their hips and shields on their arms were masterworks, each weapon personally crafted in owens factory forge. Jon had watched many of them being forged, seen the care and enchantments worked into every piece. The weapons were perfectly balanced, the edges supernaturally sharp.

"Today you'll face ironborn reavers and Essosi slavers," Jon continued, his voice carrying across the deck. "They're used to victims who can't fight back. Show them what happens when they face warriors who can."

The Dreadguard thumped their ebony-armored chests in unison, the sound echoing across the deck like thunder. Jon felt their energy, their readiness for battle radiating through the morning air. These weren't green boys and girls playing at war - they were professional soldiers now, trained to be the fight bravely.

Captain Silver Eyes approached, her boots clicking against the deck as she made her way to Jon's position. Her eyes, gleamed more than ever as she handed him her far-eye excitedly.

"My lord, the flagship still floats, though she's badly damaged," Jane reported, pointing toward a particularly large vessel among the wreckage. "Ten other ships remain - five slaver vessels and five ironborn. One of our frigate captains sent word through the communication stones. He recognized the flagship as the Iron Pride - Dunstan Drumm's personal vessel."

Jon raised the far-eye to his eye, studying the damaged ship. He'd heard tales of Dunstan Drumm, the fearsome ironborn captain who wielded Red Rain, a Valyrian steel sword taken as prize in some ancient raid. The man was known for his vicious fighting style and tactical mind, having led successful raids along the western coast for years before Owen's defenses made such attacks suicidal.

"Drumm's a hard fighter," Jane continued, her voice carrying a note of concern. "That Valyrian steel sword of his has taken many lives. He's not one to be underestimated."

Jon lowered the far-eye and handed it back to Jane, his expression calm and determined. The reputation of their opponent meant little now, not with the weapons and training Owen had provided them.

"It doesn't matter," Jon stated firmly, his hand resting on the pommel of his own ebony sword. "He'll die just the same."

Jon turned to Jane, his expression hardening. "Full sail, Captain. Ram those slaver ships - break them apart. Leave the ironborn vessels for us to board."

Jane's eyes widened for a moment before a fierce grin spread across her face. "Aye, my lord snow." She spun on her heel, bellowing orders to the crew. "Full sail! All hands to stations! Prepare for ramming speed!"

The massive propeller beneath the Hammer of the Old Gods roared to life, churning the water into a white froth as the vessel surged forward. The deck thrummed with power beneath Jon's feet as they bore down on the nearest slaver ship. He could see the panic on the faces of the Volantene crew as they realized what was about to happen.

"Brace!" Jane shouted as their reinforced ram struck the first vessel.

The impact sent tremors through the ship, but the strengthened hull held firm. Wood splintered and men screamed as the slaver ship broke apart like kindling. Bodies tumbled into the churning sea, their cries cut short by the icy northern waters.

Without slowing, they plowed into a second vessel, then a third. The Hammer's enhanced hull shrugged off the collisions while reducing the lighter slave ships to floating wreckage. Desperate swimmers thrashed in the water, but Jon felt no pity for slavers who would have sold northern children into bondage.

Finally, they slowed as they approached one of the ironborn vessels. The impact was more controlled this time, bringing the ships alongside each other with a grinding crash of wood on wood. Jon could see the ironborn warriors assembling on the other deck, their weapons raised and faces grim.

Jon pulled on his ebony helm, the snarling wolf design catching the morning light. He turned to address the Dreadguard one final time.

"These are just men," he called out, his voice carrying clearly through the helm. "They bleed like any other. Show them what true warriors of the North can do!"

Without waiting for a response, Jon vaulted over the rail, his ebony sword drawn as he landed on the ironborn deck. Behind him, he could hear the rhythmic thunder of armored boots as the Dreadguard followed their commander into battle.

Jon's ebony longsword gleamed darkly as he raised it high, the morning light catching its razor edge. Around him, three hundred Dreadguard drew their weapons in perfect unison, the sound of metal on metal ringing across the deck. Their ebony shields locked into defensive positions, creating an intimidating wall of black armor.

"For the North!" Jon roared, his voice carrying over the crash of waves.

"FOR THE NORTH!" the Dreadguard thundered back, their unified cry shaking the very planks beneath their feet.

Across the deck, the ironborn answered with their own battle cries for their drowned god, axes and swords raised as they charged forward. Their leather armor and steel weapons seemed pitiful compared to the advancing wall of ebony-clad warriors.

The two forces crashed together like storm waves meeting a cliff. Jon's blade moved with deadly precision, each stroke finding gaps in leather armor and vulnerable flesh. An ironborn warrior swung a heavy axe at his head, but Jon simply stepped inside the man's guard and drove his ebony sword through his chest. The blade cut through leather, flesh, and bone as if they were parchment.

Around him, the Dreadguard proved their worth. Their ebony shields deflected desperate strikes from iron weapons while their short swords darted out like black vipers, ending lives with each thrust. Ironborn axes bounced harmlessly off their armor, unable to even scratch the enchanted metal's surface.

Blood sprayed across the deck as Jon's blade severed an attacker's arm at the shoulder. The man hadn't even finished screaming before Jon's backswing took his head. Another reaver lunged with a spear, but Jon knocked it aside with contemptuous ease and split the man from collar to hip.

The deck became slick with blood as more ironborn fell. Their screams of pain and desperation mixed with the clash of weapons and the triumphant shouts of the Dreadguard. Where regular soldiers might have hesitated at such carnage, Owen's soldiers pressed forward relentlessly, their ebony blades reaping a terrible harvest.

Jon moved through the chaos like a deadly shadow, his sword never still. Three ironborn rushed him together, perhaps hoping to overwhelm him with numbers. His blade caught the first man's sword and sheared through it, continuing into the warrior's neck. The second man's axe glanced off Jon's pauldron while Jon's counter-strike opened his belly. The third died trying to retreat, Jon's sword punching through his back.

The Dreadguard's disciplined advance pushed the surviving ironborn back step by bloody step. Their superior weapons and armor made the battle less a fight and more a slaughter. Severed limbs littered the deck while the dying clutched at mortal wounds, their blood mixing with the sea spray that washed across the planks.

Jon moved across the blood-slicked deck, his blade singing through the air. Around him, the Dreadguard continued their relentless advance, their perfect formation never wavering despite the chaos of battle. The ironborn's initial bravado had given way to growing terror as they witnessed their weapons prove useless against the black armor.

"Our axes can't bite!" an ironborn screamed in frustration as his weapon shattered against a Dreadguard's shield. The warrior's ebony sword punched through the reaver's throat before he could say more.

Another raider swung a steel sword at Jon's head with all his might. The blade skittered off Jon's pauldron without leaving so much as a scratch. Jon's counter-stroke opened the man from hip to shoulder, spilling his entrails across the deck.

"Sorcery!" came the terrified cry from the remaining ironborn. "Northern witchcraft!"

The raiders began to fall back, their confidence shattered by the sight of their dead companions and useless weapons. Some threw down their arms, dropping to their knees to beg for mercy. Others continued fighting with desperate, wild swings that the Dreadguard easily deflected.

Jon felt the power Owen had taught him stirring in his blood. He let it flow through his arm and into his sword, remembering the careful instruction in focusing his will. The ebony blade burst into brilliant blue flames, casting an eerie light across the blood-stained deck.

"Please, spare-" an ironborn's plea cut short as Jon spun in a perfect circle, his burning blade describing a precise arc through the air. Five raiders who had been trying to surround him screamed as the flaming sword cut through leather, flesh, and bone with equal ease. Their bodies fell in halves to the deck, cauterized wounds smoking in the morning air.

The remaining ironborn stared in horror at their bisected companions, their weapons lowering as the last of their courage fled. Some began to pray, either to their Drowned God or to the Old Gods of the North, while others simply stood frozen in terror at the demon-like warrior with his burning sword.

Jon's was about to move forward and continue the slaughter when a thunderous cry split the air.

"STARK!"

The shout echoed across the blood-soaked deck as heavy boots pounded up from below. Dunstan Drumm emerged from the hold, his weathered face twisted in a snarl of rage. Six battle-scarred veterans flanked him, their weapons at the ready, while his second in command - a particularly nasty-looking ironborn with a face full of scars - stood at his right shoulder.

Several Dreadguard moved to intercept, their ebony blades gleaming with reflected firelight from Jon's sword, but Jon raised his hand to halt them. With deliberate calm, he extinguished the flames wreathing his blade and planted it point-first into the deck. The metal sank into the wood as easily as a knife through butter.

Jon removed his helmet, letting the morning breeze cool his face as he met Drumm's fierce gaze. His dark hair was damp with sweat, but his grey eyes remained steady and cold.

"Not Stark," Jon corrected, his voice carrying clearly across the deck. "Snow. Jon Snow, son of Eddard and steward of Ice Crest." His lips curled slightly as he continued, "Brother by marriage to Lord Owen Longshore and by blood to Sansa Longshore, his wife and lady."

Jon's eyes swept over the ironborn captain's battle-worn appearance, taking in the Valyrian steel sword at his hip and the proud set of his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice dripped with unconcealed contempt.

"And you must be Dunstan Drumm."

Dunstan spat a glob of phlegm into the churning sea, his weathered face twisting with rage at Jon. Red Rain whispered from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel blade catching the morning light with an ominous gleam. Jon didn't even blink at the legendary weapon, his expression remaining coldly contemptuous.

"I've heard tales of you, Drumm," Jon said, his voice carrying across the blood-slicked deck. "They say you're a terror on the seas, that your blade has drunk the blood of countless victims." He gestured at the corpses of ironborn raiders scattered across five different ship decks, their blood still seeping between the planks. "Yet here we are, after my men and I have cut through your entire crew to reach you. Only now, when your numbers have dwindled to nothing, do you show your face."

Jon's lip curled in disgust as he gripped his ebony sword's hilt, pulling it free from the deck with a smooth motion. "You're like all ironborn - nothing but a coward hiding behind other men's shields."

Dunstan's weathered face twisted into an ugly snarl at Jon's words. His knuckles whitened around Red Rain's hilt as rage burned in his eyes at being lectured about courage by a bastard.

"You dare speak to me of cowardice, wolf pup?" Dunstan spat, taking a threatening step forward. "I've been reaving these coasts since before your father spilled his seed to make you. You're just another Greenlander who's forgotten his place."

The old ironborn captain's voice grew darker as he continued, "When I'm done here, I'll send your pretty head back to Ice Crest as a gift. Then I'll gut that witch-lord longshore and take his woman for my salt wife. I'll teach your sister what it means to please a real ironborn man."

Several of the Dreadguard cursed violently at the threat, their ebony blades rising as they moved to cut Dunstan down where he stood. The sound of steel sliding from sheaths filled the air as hands tightened on sword hilts. Jon could feel their fury at hearing their lady threatened so crudely.

Jon raised his hand again, halting his men's advance. His grey eyes had gone cold as winter frost at Dunstan's words, but his voice remained steady and controlled when he spoke.

"For those words alone, you die today," Jon stated with quiet certainty. "Your guards die with you." His gaze shifted briefly to Dunstan's scarred second-in-command before returning to the captain. "Except one. I'll need someone to question about your allies."

The wind gusted across the blood-soaked deck as Jon's words hung in the air, carrying the metallic scent of death and the promise of more to come.

"I'll Kill you bastard!" Dunstan roared as he finally charged forward.

The Valyrian steel sword whistled through the air as Dunstan attacked with surprising speed for his age. Jon met the strike with his own blade, and the clash of metal on metal rang across the deck. The impact sent shockwaves up both men's arms.

Dunstan's eyes widened as he saw a hairline crack appear in Red Rain's legendary blade where it had struck the ebony sword. He disengaged quickly, unable to hide his concern at seeing the supposedly unbreakable Valyrian steel damaged.

Holding back his worry, the ironborn lord pressed his attack with renewed fury, his weathered face twisted in rage. His strikes came fast and vicious, forcing Jon to give ground. Red Rain sliced through the air in deadly arcs, each blow meant to end the fight quickly.

But Jon moved like water, his body flowing around the attacks with practiced grace. When he couldn't dodge, his ebony blade was there to meet Red Rain with perfect timing. Each clash of their swords sent more tiny cracks spreading through the Valyrian steel.

"Stand still and die, you northern whelp!" Dunstan snarled, his strikes becoming wilder as frustration mounted. Sweat began to bead on his forehead while Jon remained fresh, showing no signs of tiring.

Jon deflected another powerful swing, letting the force slide past him. His movements were efficient and controlled, conserving energy while letting Dunstan wear himself out. The older man's breathing grew heavier with each passing moment.

"Damn you!" Dunstan cursed as another strike missed its mark, Jon slipping away like smoke. The bastard's calm expression only fueled the ironborn's rage. "Fight me properly!"

But Jon continued his defensive dance, his grey eyes cold and focused as he waited for his opponent to tire. Each clash of their blades added new cracks to Red Rain's surface while his own ebony sword remained pristine.

He watched patiently as Dunstan's movements grew increasingly labored. The ironborn captain's strikes, while still powerful, came slower and with less precision. Sweat dripped from his weathered face while his chest heaved with each ragged breath.

The moment had come. Jon recalled Owen's careful instructions about reinforcement magic during their training sessions. He focused his will inward, channeling power through the magical circuits that now lined his body. Bright green lines blazed to life across his skin beneath the armor, suffusing his muscles with supernatural strength and speed.

Jon exploded forward, his enhanced body moving faster than any normal human could track. Dunstan's eyes widened in shock as he barely managed to get Red Rain up in time to deflect Jon's first strike. The second blow came just as quickly, forcing another desperate parry that sent the ironborn staggering backward.

Then Jon truly unleashed his enhanced capabilities. His ebony sword became a blur of motion, raining strikes down on Dunstan from every angle. The older warrior's legendary skill proved inadequate against Jon's magically augmented speed and strength. Blood sprayed as Jon's blade found flesh again and again.

One cut opened Dunstan's shoulder. Two more sliced across his chest. A fourth strike tore through his thigh. Jon's sword seemed to be everywhere at once, systematically dismantling the ironborn captain's defenses. Dunstan's leather armor offered no protection, shredding beneath the razor-sharp ebony blade.

Within seconds, Dunstan's body was covered in bloody wounds. His once-proud stance had deteriorated into a hunched defensive posture as he struggled simply to stay on his feet. Red Rain trembled in his weakening grip while blood pooled on the deck beneath him.

The veteran guards and remaining ironborn watched in horrified silence as their captain was cut to pieces. Their faces showed naked fear at witnessing power beyond their understanding.

Dunstan swayed on his feet, barely able to lift his sword as blood ran freely from dozens of wounds. Before the ironborn captain could speak or attempt a final attack, Jon struck with lethal precision. His first slash separated Dunstan's head from his shoulders in a spray of crimson. The second cut cleaved diagonally through torso and hip, bisecting the body before it could hit the deck.

The three pieces of what had once been Dunstan Drumm collapsed to the blood-soaked planks with wet thuds. Red Rain clattered from lifeless fingers as the legendary captain's remains settled into a spreading pool of gore.

Jon slashed the ebony longsword in a quick, practiced motion, sending droplets of Dunstan's blood spattering across the already crimson-stained deck. The blade made a soft whisper as it slid back into its sheath, the sound nearly lost beneath the morning wind and creaking timbers of the ruined ship.

His grey eyes found Dunstan's second in command - the scarred ironborn who had stood so proudly beside his captain moments ago. Now the man trembled visibly, his weather-beaten face pale with terror. A dark stain spread across the front of his breeches as his bladder released in fear. The acrid smell mixed with the metallic scent of blood that already permeated the air.

Jon's voice carried across the deck, cold and commanding. "Keep him alive." He pointed at the shaking man before his hand swept to indicate the remaining ironborn. "Kill the rest."

The Dreadguard surged forward with a roar, The remaining ironborn barely had time to lift their weapons before the slaughter began anew.

Some tried to fight, raising axes and swords in trembling hands. Others attempted to flee or surrender. It made no difference. The Dreadguard cut them down with brutal speed, their ebony blades ending lives with each stroke. Blood sprayed across deck and sail as they executed their orders without mercy.

The scarred second-in-command turned to flee, making a desperate lunge for the ship's rail. He never made it. A Dreadguard's armored fist caught him in the temple, dropping him unconscious to the deck before he could throw himself into the sea's cold embrace.

Just like that, the planned invasion of Ice Crest ended. Jon glanced at the position of the sun - not even midday.

Time enough to return home for lunch.

Chapter Text

Four days later, Owen and Sansa rode through Ice Crest's gates to thunderous cheers from the gathered crowd. Banners snapped in the wind, displaying both the longshore crest and Owen's personal sigil - a hammer and anvil surrounded by stars. The setting sun painted the castle walls in hues of gold and amber.

Jon stood at the base of the steps leading to the great hall, his new Valyrian steel sword Red Rain gleaming at his hip. Dark bloodstains still marked his leather armor from the battle, though someone had attempted to clean them plenty of times since then.

"The conquering hero stands before us," Owen called out as he dismounted, helping Sansa down from her horse. "I hear you gave those raiders quite the bloody welcome."

"Nothing they didn't deserve." Jon's grey eyes crinkled with a rare smile. "Though your weapons did most of the work. Those special cannons turned half their fleet to splinters before we even got close."

Owen clasped Jon's arm. "Keep the sword. Red Rain suits you better than that old wretch of a captain. Maybe pass it down to your own children someday, when you finally stop brooding long enough to find a wife."

"Owen!" Sansa chided, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. She rushed forward to embrace her half-brother, her new height making her tower over him. "We've missed you, Jon."

Jon hugged her back carefully. "You've... changed, sister. You're even more beautiful than before, if that was possible. And taller too." His eyes widened as he took in her transformed appearance - the ethereal grace, the luminous skin, the enhanced features that marked her time in Solomon's pool.

Sansa blushed prettily, one hand unconsciously moving to rest on her still-flat stomach. "We have wonderful news, Jon. I'm with child."

"That's incredible!" Jon swept her into another embrace, genuine joy lighting up his usually solemn face. "Congratulations to you both. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given how you two can hardly keep your hands off each other."

"Speaking of changes," Owen struck an exaggerated pose, showing off his own enhanced physique beneath his fine doublet. "What do you think of the new me? Quite impressive, right?"

Jon's face settled into his familiar deadpan expression. "Still short and skinny to me."

Owen's mouth fell open in mock outrage while Sansa burst into musical laughter. "I'll have you know I'm at least three inches taller now. And look at these muscles!" He flexed dramatically.

"If you say so." Jon's lips twitched. "Though I notice you're still shorter than your wife."

Owen grumbled as they walked toward Ice Crest's imposing gates, Anastasia padding silently beside them. "It's not fair. Just as tall as Sansa."

"Perhaps you are," Sansa teased, reaching down to pat his head. "Just not enough to notice."

"I'm beginning to regret sharing my magical knowledge with such ungrateful meanies." Owen's mock pout dissolved into a pleased smile as they passed the newly constructed magical gateway just outside the castle's outer walls. The massive stone arch stood thirty feet high, carved from a single piece of gleaming white marble shot through with veins of gold. Intricate runes covered every surface, waiting to be activated.

"Is that the transportation gate you mentioned? I noticed the automatons building it but i just thought it would be a statue." Jon asked, running his hand along the smooth stone.

"Just finished construction yesterday from the looks of it. Once I carve the activation sigils, we'll have instant travel between here and Winterfell. No more ten-day journeys through the snow." Owen beamed with pride at his creation. "I'm thinking of adding more connection points later - White Harbor, Deepwood Motte, maybe even the Wall."

Anastasia huffed in apparent approval, her massive white form dwarfing them as they entered Ice Crest proper. The direwolf's claws clicked against the polished marble floors, her ice-blue eyes taking in the opulent surroundings. Golden sconces lined the walls, casting warm light across tapestries depicting scenes from Northern history.

"How is Domeric holding up?" Owen asked as they walked through the castle's grand corridors. "I know this can't be easy for him."

Jon nodded solemnly. "He's in the library now. Actually wanted to join us in battle, but I refused. Told him he's the last Bolton - we can't risk losing him in a sea fight."

"Good call," Owen said. "He's a skilled i am sure, but there's more at stake now. We need him to help rebuild his house's reputation and his house literally, not die fighting raiders."

Owen led them into his solar, the vast chamber adorned with owens rarest creations and comfortable furnishings. Tall windows overlooked the sea, their glass enchanted to stay warm despite the northern winds. Sansa settled into her favorite plush chair near the crackling fireplace, Anastasia immediately curling around her feet like a protective mountain of white fur.

"I'll speak with Domeric before we leave for white harbor" Owen said, pouring wine for Jon and water for Sansa. "He deserves to know his future isn't lost. We can build something magnificent where the Dreadfort stood - something to help people forget the darker aspects of House Bolton's legacy."

"How did things go with the southerners?" Jon asked, accepting the wine. "Father's letters were brief, but he mentioned some tension."

Owen settled into his chair beside Sansa. "Could have been worse. King Robert was reasonable once he and the southerners got over his initial shock. The crown will take a large amount of gold for unauthorized coining, not a drop considering our gold, and we're providing ten ships under royal command."

"Ten ships isn't much, considering our fleet," Jon noted.

"Exactly." Sansa smiled, her enhanced features glowing in the firelight. "And the ships we're planning to send are our older models - still vastly superior to anything in the royal fleet, but not our latest designs for our galleons or frigates."

"Tywin Lannister tried pushing for marriages," Owen continued, his jaw tightening at the memory. "Wanted to bind the North to the Westerlands through a whole web of betrothals. Your father shut that down fast."

"The look on Lady Cersei's face when Father refused to even consider matching Arya with Joffrey or Tommen," Sansa said with a light laugh. "I thought she'd either choke on her wine in outrage for the refusal or die of rage for her father asking."

"The Iron Bank will oversee some of our financial dealings now," Owen added. "And they'll be going to kings landing with records of our profits and sales along with lord wyman to show our taxes are paid in full or if not, allow the release of funds to pay. But that works in our favor - gives us legitimacy in the eyes of the Free Cities. Well, the ones not currently trying to invade us."

"And Robert commissioned a magical Warhammer," Sansa said. "Though Owen charged him enough gold to build another castle."

"Five hundred thousand dragons," Owen confirmed with a grin. "I'll make him something impressive, but nothing close to our best weapons. Can't have the crown getting too greedy."

Jon shook his head in amazement. "To think, just a few years ago we were worried about having enough grain for winter. Now we're negotiating with kings and turning away Lannister gold and betrothals."

Owen grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Just chalk it up to good luck and a very handsome blacksmith turned lord." He waggled his eyebrows at Sansa, who rolled her eyes and pinched his arm.

"Ow! See how she abuses me, Jon? And here I thought were gentler with their husbands."

Jon shook his head at Owen's antics, taking another sip of wine. "I see marriage hasn't tempered your ego."

"If anything, it's made it worse," Sansa said fondly, running her fingers through Owen's hair.

Owen's expression sobered suddenly, his playful demeanor falling away. "How many ships have returned so far? Last count I received before we left was two hundred for defense purposes."

"Seven hundred now," Jon replied, his own face growing serious. "More coming back each day. The southern squadrons have seen the heaviest fighting - seems the slavers thought to catch us between their forces and the Ironborn."

"Poor tactical choice on their part," Owen noted. "How many encounters?"

"Thirty-seven recorded battles, though some were little more than skirmishes. Our ships that engaged them showed no mercy - and rightly so. No prisoners taken from the slaver vessels." Jon's grey eyes hardened. "The crews were quite clear about that. Slaver scum deserve no quarter."

Owen nodded grimly. "Good. I won't shed any tears for dead slavers. Were our losses significant?"

"None," Jon replied, a note of pride in his voice. "Not a single Northern casualty across all engagements. Your weapons and armor proved more than equal to the task. The cannons shredded their ships before they could even get close enough to attempt boarding. And in the few cases where they did manage to get alongside us, our armored troops cut through them like butter."

Owen nodded with satisfaction, though he kept his expression neutral. He had expected as much - the combination of enhanced metallurgy, magical enchantments, and advanced engineering made Northern warships virtually impregnable to conventional naval warfare. Still, it was gratifying to hear his creations had performed so well in actual combat.

"Did you manage to take any prisoners?" Owen asked, leaning forward slightly. "Might be useful to learn more about their plans and numbers."

"We have Dunstan Drumm's second in command," Jon confirmed. "Hamond Redriver, from a minor house sworn to the Drumms. He "surrendered" after I killed his captain in single combat, though he did try jumping into the sea before. He's being held in the cells below."

Owen's eyes gleamed with interest at the mention of a prisoner. "Did he break easily?"

Jon nodded, moving toward the large map table dominating one corner of Owen's solar. His fingers traced across the detailed illustrations of Essos that Owen had painstakingly crafted. "He sang like a bird as soon as we started questioning him. The scope of what they're planning..." He shook his head grimly.

Owen stood, joining Jon at the map. The magical inks he'd used to create it shifted subtly in the firelight, making the cities seem to pulse with life.

"Volantis is at the heart of it," Jon explained, tapping the ancient city. "They've formed an alliance with Myr, Astapor, Meereen, Pentos, Lys, Norvos, and maybe even Qohor apparently. Initially, they claimed it was just to push back against Braavos' anti-slavery campaigns and gaining."

"But that changed," Owen surmised, studying the pattern of cities Jon indicated. The strategic positioning wasn't lost on him - they formed a chain of power across nearly the entire continent.

"Aye," Jon confirmed. "According to Redriver, they've set their sights on something far more ambitious. They want to establish a new empire, one built on slavery. The raids on our shores were just the beginning - they mean to conquer both continents and usher in a new age of slavery across the known world."

Sansa rose from her chair, Anastasia padding silently beside her as she joined them at the map. "All these cities working together... the combined wealth and forces would be staggering."

"Not to mention the slave soldiers," Owen added, his mind already calculating the potential numbers. "The Unsullied from Astapor and the other slavers alone would be a formidable army. Add in the other cities' forces..."

"Redriver claims they have over two hundred thousand troops already assembled," Jon said quietly. "With more being gathered. The fleet we destroyed was meant to be their first major thrust westward."

Owen snorted "Fat load of good that did them." He said but then frowned, his fingers tracing the trade routes marked on the map. "How certain are we of this Hamond's information? Prisoners will say anything under duress."

"We've had independent confirmation of much of it," Jon replied, pulling out several sealed messages from his leather pouch. "Naval Commander Bartimus is in Braavos now - his reports match the numbers Hamond gave us, though they're somewhat reduced after the losses at White Harbor and here at Ice Crest. Current estimates put their forces around one hundred and fifty thousand."

Owen's eyes widened slightly. Even with the casualties they'd inflicted, that was an enormous army. "And the Ironborn? What possessed them to ally with slavers? That seems an odd partnership with all their iron price talk."

"Gold," Jon said simply. "Lots of it. Hamond claims Balon Greyjoy was approached with chests full of gold dragons and promises that his people could reave and plunder as they pleased once the invasion succeeded. The slavers didn't care what the Ironborn did with their captives - keep them, kill them, or sell them. They just wanted the raiders to create chaos along the coasts."

"Typical Greyjoy," Sansa commented with disgust. "Always reaching for more than he can grasp."

Owen nodded in agreement. He'd studied enough of recent history and remembered enough from the books and show to know Balon Greyjoy's failed rebellion had done nothing to temper the man's ambitions.

Owen stood up from the map table and began pacing, his mind racing through tactical possibilities. The gentle swish of his fine clothing against the marble floors punctuated each turn as he worked through the logistics.

"Jon, gather the ship captains immediately. We need to split our forces." Owen stopped his pacing and turned to face his brother-in-law. "Four hundred ships under Captain Jane Silver-eyes will sail to White Harbor. They'll transport the Starks, King Robert, and whatever forces the South can muster to meet up with my squadron."

"And where will you be?" Jon asked, already reaching for parchment to draft the orders.

"I'll take a hundred ships and wait for them near the Iron Islands. We'll need to show the southern lords our true capabilities, but in a way that doesn't threaten them." Owen traced the sea route on the map. "They need to feel involved in the fighting, not just spectators to Northern power or they'll start their bitching again."

Sansa moved closer to examine the route Owen indicated. "Jane's fleet will need to pass near Pyke to reach White Harbor quickly.. Its either that or go around them."

"Exactly." Owen nodded. "And she will have standing orders to destroy any Ironborn or slaver vessels she encounters along the way. Though after today's battles, I doubt many are still foolish enough to challenge our ships."

Owen turned back to the map, his fingers drumming against the polished surface. "That leaves two hundred ships to allocate," Sansa noted, her eyes tracking the movements of their naval forces across the painted seas.

"Aye," Owen confirmed. "A hundred will remain here at Ice Crest to secure our holdings. The other hundred will join Captain Jane under Torren the Black's command." His expression hardened. "They'll begin search and destroy patrols along the Westerosi shores when they break off past the iron islands. No quarter given - every slaver they find dies, every slave ship gets sent to the bottom."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Torren the Black? I thought he was just a merchant captain."

"He was," Owen said with a grim smile. "But he's also one of our best naval commanders just behind Bartimus. Spent fifteen years fighting pirates in the Stepstones before settling into trade. As our remaining six hundred ships return from their various missions, we'll strengthen both forces - another hundred for Ice Crest and Sea Dragon Point's defense, the rest to join Torren's hunting parties around westeros, keeping our shores safe. Afterwards, when we have the slaver alliance boxed into Essosi waters, the patrols can brake off to join our main fleet with some left behind."

Owen lowered himself into his chair, his eyes fixed on the Iron Islands depicted on the map. The room fell silent save for the soft sounds of Sansa's hand stroking Anastasia's thick fur. The massive direwolf's ice-blue eyes watched Owen intently, as if sensing the weight of his thoughts.

After a long moment, Owen let out a heavy sigh. "There's still one last choice to make when all is said and done."

"What choice?" Sansa asked quietly, her fingers still buried in Anastasia's white fur.

Owen's gaze remained locked on the Iron Islands. "Whether we follow Robert's way - put the Ironborn on their knees once more, extract fealty and hostages..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Or we strip the isles and Westeros of their taint.….Permanently."

Chapter Text

Eddard watched Robert's face grow redder with each passing moment as they walked the expansive docks of New Castle. The king's frustration was evident in his heavy footfalls against the white stone, his breath coming in short bursts that spoke of both his declining health and mounting anger.

"Seven hells, Ned! We've been here a bloody month. Your goodson sends four hundred ships, and we can't even fill them with proper fighting men," Robert bellowed, causing several nearby workers to pause in their loading of supplies.

Lord Wyman Manderly cleared his throat, his massive frame shifting as he gestured toward the harbor where dozens of vessels bearing different sigils bobbed in the gentle waves. "Your Grace, the logistics of moving so many men and supplies takes time. We must ensure proper provisions for a campaign across the Narrow Sea."

"Time?" Stannis ground his teeth, his jaw clenching. "The enemy gathers strength while we delay. These southern lords bring their pageantry and their complaints instead of soldiers and ships."

The Greatjon's booming laugh cut through the tension. "Aye, and half of them look green as summer grass. Never seen such finery at a war council - silks and satins instead of steel and leather."

"The Redwynes and Velaryons did what they could," Jon Arryn interjected diplomatically. "Twenty cogs may seem modest, but they brought experienced sailors. Captain Silver Eyes spoke highly of their seamanship when she inspected the vessels yesterday."

Eddard studied the sprawling encampment outside the city walls, where hundreds of colorful pavilions dotted the landscape. "The numbers are better than expected, Robert. Ten thousand men from the south, another fifteen thousand from the North. Once the Riverlands contingent arrives-"

"Hoster's men should have been here a week ago," Robert cut in, pausing to stare at a massive warship bearing the Stark direwolf. "Your goodson's ships make ours look like fishing boats, Ned. Those weapons he mounted on them - what did he call them?"

"Frost-forged cannons," Eddard replied, remembering Owen's detailed explanation of the devastating weapons. "Each ship carries enough firepower to match a dozen conventional vessels."

"Lord Manderly," Stannis addressed the massive lord, his voice sharp and precise. "Your son's report mentioned these weapons destroyed three hundred Volantene ships in a single engagement. Are these numbers accurate?"

Wyman's eyes gleamed with pride. "Accurate and witnessed by hundreds, my lord. The waters off White Harbor ran red that day. Not a single enemy vessel escaped to carry tales back to Essos."

"And still we wait," Robert grumbled, though some of the anger had left his voice. "Your northern ships could probably win this war without us, Ned. But I'll be damned if I let Owen Longshore and his magical contraptions have all the glory. The realm must see its king lead the charge."

Eddard watched Robert storm ahead, his mind drifting to the demonstration that had silenced even the proudest southern lords two days ago. The memory was still fresh - dozens of noble houses gathered on White Harbor's outer walls, their colorful banners snapping in the wind as they waited to witness northern power firsthand.

"A waste of a perfectly good ship," Wyman had muttered as his old trading cog was towed into position. But Eddard knew the impact would be worth more than a thousand diplomatic meetings. He'd seen Tywin Lannister's face tighten as the massive northern warship moved into position without sails, the strange mechanical churning of its propellers drawing whispers from the assembled crowd.

"Gods, look at the size of that thing," Edmure Tully had breathed, leaning forward on the battlements. "The bronze plating alone must have cost a fortune." Beside him, Kevan Lannister remained silent, but his eyes never left the vessel's hull.

When the first cannon spoke, the sound had been deafening - a crack like thunder that sent birds scattering from the harbor towers. The projectile struck the target ship's bow with devastating force, splintering ancient oak and sending wooden shrapnel flying in all directions. Several southern ladies had screamed, while their lords maintained carefully neutral expressions.

"Again," Eddard had commanded, and the second shot had torn through the cog's middle, breaking its spine in a single blow. He'd heard Mace Tyrell whisper something to his mother then, the Queen of Thorns' response lost in the gasps of the crowd as the target vessel began to sink.

The third shot had been pure showmanship, but Captain jane had insisted on it. The cannon's blast reduced what remained of the floating wreckage to kindling, leaving nothing larger than a man's fist bobbing in the harbor's choppy waters. In the silence that followed, Eddard had seen the calculation in Tywin Lannister's eyes, the subtle clenching of his jaw that betrayed his unease.

Eddard's attention shifted to a northern soldier approaching with purposeful strides, his armor gleaming in the morning light. The man's steel plate was a masterwork of Owen's factory - intricate direwolf patterns etched across the breastplate, each scale and joint fitted with precision that made traditional armor look crude by comparison.

"My lord," the soldier bowed, his movement fluid despite the weight of his armor. "Lord Karstark sends word that the last of his forces have arrived through the eastern gate. They've brought the special shipment from Winterfell's forge as requested."

Robert's eyes narrowed at the mention of more northern arms. "More weapons, Ned? Your men already look like they've raided the Smith God's personal armory."

"Standard issue for our forces now," Eddard replied carefully, watching a column of Stark men march past. Their uniform appearance was striking - each soldier equipped identically with steel plate armor, longswords at their hips, and crossbows slung across their backs. Even their spears bore the same deadly gleam, tips forged from that strange steel Owen had developed.

The Greatjon's pride was evident in his booming voice. "Aye, and every piece tested against southern steel. Watched young Smalljon snap a Reach-made blade like it was kindling during the demonstrations last week. Never seen Lord Tarly look so sour."

"The Reach brings ten thousand men armed with castle-forged steel, and your northerners make them look like boys with wooden swords," Stannis observed dryly. "I've heard talk in the camps. The southern lords are not pleased with this... disparity."

Eddard had indeed noticed the tension. Where southern knights strutted in ornate but practical armor, northern soldiers moved with quiet confidence in their superior equipment. Even the poorest northern levy carried weapons that would make a southern lord envious. The contrast was impossible to miss - Reach soldiers in their green-enameled plate beside northerners wearing Owen's revolutionary steel, Westerlands crossbowmen practicing alongside northern archers whose ironwood bows could punch through plate at twice the distance.

"Lord Tywin requested a private audience this morning," Jon Arryn mentioned quietly. "He spoke at length about maintaining proper military hierarchy and the importance of unified appearance among allied forces. I believe he was suggesting that your northern armor and weapons should be... shared more broadly."

Robert waved off the brewing argument before Ned could reply. "Seven hells, I don't care if tywins wants to jump off a cliff or your men fight in solid gold armor, Ned. As long as they kill Ironborn and slavers, they can wear whatever they bloody well please. But we need to get this army moving before the southern lords start dueling your men out of pure spite."

Eddard nodded, his mind already calculating the logistics of moving such a massive force. "The ravens arrived this morning, Your Grace. Prince Oberyn leads six thousand Dornish spears up the Kingsroad but that was some time ago, while Ser Brynden brings another ten thousand from the Riverlands."

"The Blackfish knows how to move men quickly," Robert grunted approvingly. "Unlike these preening southern flowers we've been waiting on."

Lord Manderly unrolled a detailed map across a nearby crate, his thick fingers tracing the coastline. "With the Reach providing ninety thousand men, the Westerlands thirty thousand, and our combined northern forces, we'll field an army of one hundred and seventy thousand. The largest host since the Conquest, Your Grace."

"Numbers mean little without proper supply lines," Stannis interjected, his jaw tight. "How do you intend to feed such a force during the campaign?"

"The North's preserved foods will sustain the army for six months, more if needed," Eddard assured him, thinking of the vast storehouses Owens glasshouses had filled. "And Captain Jane's latest report confirms the way to the Iron Islands is clear. Their fleet was destroyed in the failed raid on Ice Crest another ten ships destroyed trying to stop owens ships reaching us here, leaving only ten warships to defend their home waters."

The Greatjon laughed heartily. "Ten ships? Balon Greyjoy must be pissing himself. Even without Longshore's weapons and ships, we could take the islands with fishing boats and angry peasants."

"The Greyjoys chose poorly when they allied with slavers," Jon Arryn observed quietly. "They've united every kingdom against them. Even the Dornish send spears and hear i thought they would come at the last minute."

Robert's face darkened at the mention of slavers. "We'll deal with the squids first. Let them watch from their drowning towers as we burn their fleet. Then we'll show these Essosi bastards what happens when they raid our shores."

Eddard was about to speak when he caught sight of three figures approaching their group. The Greatjon's booming voice cut through the harbor noise. "Looks like the Dornish prince made better time than expected."

Tywin Lannister's imposing presence led the trio, his golden-threaded crimson doublet a stark contrast to the simple northern garb around them. Prince Oberyn moved with his characteristic easy going walk beside him, while Joffrey strutted between them, his golden crown catching the morning light.

Eddard exchanged a meaningful glance with Jon Arryn, noting how the older man's shoulders tensed at the sight of the young prince. "Your Grace," Eddard spoke quietly to Robert, "is it truly necessary for your heir to join these war councils or this war itself?"

Robert's face darkened as he watched his son approach. "Seven hells, Ned. Tywin insisted. Says the boy needs to learn about war if he's to rule one day." He took a long drink from his wine skin. "Though I'd rather he stayed in King's Landing with his mother."

Eddard watched the gathered lords nod in agreement with the kings assessment, their faces a mixture of concern and barely concealed disdain as Joffrey approached. The young prince's presence had been a constant source of tension since his arrival at White Harbor, his every word and action seeming designed to antagonize the northern lords.

"Lord Stark," Joffrey called out, his voice carrying that familiar note of entitlement that set Eddard's teeth on edge. "I demand to inspect these northern vessels myself. Surely you won't deny your future king a proper tour of these... curiosities."

The Greatjon's massive frame tensed beside him, and Eddard placed a cautioning hand on his arm. "Your Grace," he addressed Joffrey with careful neutrality, "the ships are preparing for war. Perhaps another time would be more appropriate."

"More appropriate?" Joffrey's face reddened. "I've watched your captains deny my requests for three weeks now. And that common-born goodson of yours refuses to craft me proper armor. All he does is send ravens back from ice crest claiming he's too busy with war preparations. The crown prince should have the finest equipment available."

Tywin Lannister's expression remained carefully neutral, though Eddard noted the slight tightening around his eyes at his grandson's outburst. Prince Oberyn made no such effort to hide his amusement, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Speaking of your goodson," Joffrey continued, either oblivious to or ignoring the growing tension, "I've given considerable thought to the matter of your daughter's marriage. As future king, I believe it would be more appropriate for Sansa to be wed to someone of proper noble birth. The marriage could easily be annulled-"

"Enough!" Robert's voice boomed across the dock, causing several nearby workers to drop their loads in surprise. "Seven hells, boy, we're preparing for war, not arranging marriages. Lord Stark's daughter is well wed to lord longshore, and that's the end of it. Any more talk and give you a smack to remember."

Eddard felt a familiar weariness settle over him as he watched Joffrey's face contort with poorly concealed rage. The boy had made similar suggestions no fewer than six times since arriving, each refusal seeming to fuel his obsession rather than diminish it.

Eddard watched Joffrey's petulant expression, a familiar sense of unease settling in his stomach. How could this spoiled, vindictive boy be Robert's son? The Robert he knew had been bold, charismatic, and larger than life - everything this pale, golden-haired ponce was not. And his demands about Sansa….if owen ever heard them, robert would be lucky if there was a head to bury, not mentioning what sansa would do to him if he ever dared look her way.

"Your Grace," Tywin smoothly interjected, placing a firm hand on Joffrey's shoulder. "The prince merely shows enthusiasm for the North's impressive military advances. Such interest in warfare befits a future king." Despite his diplomatic words, Eddard noted the slight tremor in Tywin's fingers as they gripped his grandson's shoulder - a rare display of irritation from the normally composed Lord of Casterly Rock.

Prince Oberyn lounged against a nearby barrel, dark eyes dancing with barely concealed mirth. "Indeed, such enthusiasm. Though perhaps the young prince might better serve the realm by learning patience before demanding its finest weapons." His words dripped with honeyed sarcasm, drawing a sharp look from Tywin.

"Seven hells," Robert growled, already turning toward New Castle. "We've wasted enough time on this nonsense and i am not waiting another month. The war tent is prepared and enough men gathered. I mean to see this campaign planned before nightfall. Ned, bring your lords."

They made their way through White Harbor's bustling streets, the contrast between northern and southern forces stark even here. Where southern knights swaggered in their ornate armor, northern soldiers moved with quiet efficiency, their Owen-forged plate gleaming with deadly purpose.

The great war tent dominated New Castle's courtyard, its massive expanse of canvas snapping in the sea breeze. Eddard watched as lords and bannermen began filtering in, drawn by the drums that signaled a war council. The Greatjon's massive frame ducked through the entrance, followed by several Karstark brothers and Lord Glover.

Inside, a massive table dominated the space, its surface covered with detailed maps and wooden markers representing their forces. Jon Arryn took his place beside Robert, while Stannis positioned himself at the far end, his jaw already working in that familiar grinding motion.

Mace Tyrell arrived in a swish of green silk, his chest puffed out importantly as he claimed a prominent position near the head of the table. Edmure Tully followed, looking somewhat uncomfortable as he found himself wedged between Oberyn and Tywin.

"The Iron Islands first," Robert declared, stabbing a finger at Pyke's position on the map. "I want those squids gutted and smoking before we turn east to deal with their slaver friends."

Eddard studied the gathered faces around the table - Jon Arryn's careful neutrality, Tywin's calculating gaze, Oberyn's dangerous smile. The decisions made here would shape the future of the realm, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial in their haste for war.

"Well?" Robert's voice boomed across the table. "Let's hear your battle plans. And someone find me more wine - a king shouldn't plan war with a dry throat."

Eddard watched as Wyman Manderly traced the coastlines on the map, his thick fingers following the trade routes between the Free Cities. The lord of White Harbor's usual jovial demeanor had given way to grim determination.

"This won't be a quick campaign, Your Grace," Wyman declared, his multiple chins quivering as he spoke. "We're not just facing the Iron Islands - we're looking at Volantis, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and even some of the Ghiscari cities. They've united against us, and their combined naval power is formidable."

The Greatjon leaned close to Eddard's ear, his voice a low rumble. "Aye, it'll be bloody work, but their losses will far outweigh ours. Owen's weapons and armor give our men protection their southern counterparts can only dream of. Watch how many Reach knights fall while our boys walk through the fire."

Eddard nodded silently, though the thought brought him no joy. He had seen enough war to know that superior equipment alone didn't ease the burden of death and loss. Still, he couldn't deny the truth in the Greatjon's words - northern soldiers would have a significant advantage in the coming battles.

Tywin Lannister's commanding voice cut through the murmured conversations. "Braavos must be our first priority after securing the Iron Islands. They're our only reliable ally across the Narrow Sea, and their fleet could prove crucial in containing the slavers' naval forces or facing them in small skirmishes."

"Lord Varys's little birds bring troubling news from the east," Jon Arryn added, unfolding a fresh message. "The five ships from Ice Crest under Captain Bartimus are performing admirably, destroying any slaver vessels that venture near Braavosi waters. But there are concerns about the city's vulnerability."

"The Sealord fears two scenarios," Jon continued, his weathered fingers smoothing the parchment. "First, that the slavers might launch a desperate assault with overwhelming numbers, hoping to overwhelm Bartimus's squad through sheer force or slip enough ships past his fleet and the titan to attack the city. Second, and perhaps more concerning, they might march armies through Andalos and use smaller vessels to strike Braavos from behind."

"Both strategies would be costly for them," Stannis interjected, his jaw clenched tight. "But desperate men often embrace costly solutions."

Lord Manderly nodded in agreement. "The slavers know that Braavos's banks and ships are crucial to their opposition. They might be willing to sacrifice thousands of unsullied just to neutralize the city's influence."

Eddard watched as Robert drained another cup of wine, though the king's eyes remained sharp and focused on the maps before them. The gathered lords waited in tense silence for his next words.

"These ships under Captain Bartimus," Robert declared, gesturing toward the harbor through the tent's opening, "if they're anything like those monster vessels out there with their thundering cannons, Braavos will hold just fine until we deal with these squid bastards."

He turned to Eddard, who nodded in confirmation. "Owen awaits us near the Iron Islands with additional forces," Eddard explained, his voice steady and measured. "If we coordinate our attacks properly, we can take the islands with minimal casualties. The Greyjoys have no defense against our combined strength."

Jon Arryn leaned forward, his aged fingers tracing the mapped routes between their forces. "I see no reason to split our naval power. We should strike as one unified force - the largest fleet Westeros has ever assembled."

Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table. Kevan Lannister's normally reserved voice carried clear conviction as he spoke. "It's time we brought the Ironborn to heel once and for all. Their raids have cost too many lives, too much gold."

Robert's fist crashed down onto the table, causing the wooden markers to jump and scatter. "Heel?" he roared, his face flushing with rage. "No, I mean to do more than that. I've had enough of their bloody reaving and raping. Years of watching them prey on our shores, taking our people as thralls and salt wives."

The king's voice dropped to a dangerous growl as he continued. "The Ironborn have proven themselves unworthy of being part of the Seven Kingdoms since the time of that sister fucker Aegon. I mean to see them destroyed - total annihilation. Every ship burned, every keep torn down, every warrior put to the sword."

Eddard studied his old friend's face, seeing not the wine-soaked king of recent years, but the fierce warrior who had led them to victory during the rebellion. The gathered lords shifted uncomfortably, though none dared voice opposition to their king's declaration.

"Their false god claims 'what is dead may never die,'" Robert continued, his voice thick with contempt. "Well, we'll test that saying. When we're done, there won't be enough Ironborn left to speak those words."

"The Iron Islands will serve as an example," He declared, sweeping his hand across their position on the map. "Let every slaver in Essos see what fate awaits those who dare raid our shores. Let them watch as we wipe the Greyjoys and their entire cursed culture from existence."

Eddard watched as thunderous applause erupted through the war tent, the storm lords and river lords pounding their fists on the table in approval of Robert's declaration. The Reach lords joined in with equal fervor, their usual courtly demeanor forgotten in the bloodthirsty moment. Even some of his northern bannermen added their voices to the chorus, though Eddard noted the Greatjon's reluctant participation.

Most striking was Tywin Lannister's subtle nod of approval, his eyes calculating as ever. But it was Joffrey's expression that caught Eddard's attention - the boy was staring at his father with something approaching worship, all his earlier petulance forgotten in the face of Robert's kingly wrath.

"Your Grace," Jon Arryn's measured voice cut through the continuing cheers, his weathered face lined with concern. "Perhaps there might be another way? The Iron Islands could be brought to heel without total destruction."

Robert's face darkened as he turned to his former mentor. "No, Jon. They've had hundreds of years to change their ways. Hundreds of years to join the realm properly." He stabbed a finger at the map. "And now they climb into bed with slavers? No, they've sealed their fate."

The cheering resumed, but Wyman Manderly's commanding voice suddenly cut through the noise. "Your Grace, before we commit to this course, I must ask - what is our ultimate goal in this war?"

"What do you mean, Manderly?" Robert's brow furrowed as he turned to the Lord of White Harbor.

Mace Tyrell stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Lord Manderly raises a fair point, Your Grace. Are we simply seeking to beat back the slavers and force their surrender? Or..." he paused, measuring his words carefully, "are we contemplating a longer campaign? Perhaps even conquest?"

The tent fell silent as the lords considered these questions. Eddard watched his old friend's face carefully, seeing the wheels turning behind those fierce blue eyes. The answer to this question would determine not just the fate of the Iron Islands, but potentially the shape of the known world.

"A valid question," Tywin Lannister interjected smoothly, his voice carrying easily across the hushed tent. "We should be clear about our objectives before committing our forces. A war of conquest would require very different preparations than a simple punitive campaign."

Eddard saw Jon Arryn lean forward, his aged hands clasped together as he awaited Robert's response. The King's face was thunderous in thought, his wine cup forgotten as he stared at the map before them. The fate of thousands hung on his next words.

"Well, Robert?" Eddard asked quietly, using the familiar tone of their youth. "What kind of war do you mean to wage?"

Eddard watched as Robert's face transformed, a familiar gleam entering his old friend's eyes. The same look he'd worn when they'd planned the rebellion all those years ago.

"Conquest?" Robert's voice rumbled through the tent, growing stronger with each word. "Aye, I like the sound of that. The Targaryens never managed it, did they? All their dragons and incest, and they couldn't push beyond Westeros. But we could." He swept his hand across the map of Essos. "We could take it all."

Eddard noted how the lords around the table and around the tent straightened, their eyes lighting up with barely concealed greed. Mace Tyrell was practically bouncing on his feet, while even the usually stoic Tywin Lannister showed a flicker of interest. The northern lords exchanged meaningful glances - they already possessed unprecedented power thanks to Owen's innovations, and this would only increase their influence.

"Your Grace," Wyman Manderly spoke carefully, his multiple chins quivering with excitement, "the North's new ships and weapons would be invaluable in such an endeavor. We could secure the coastal regions while the southern forces push inland."

The Greatjon's booming laugh filled the tent. "Aye, and there's plenty of good land going to waste over there. Prime territory for second and third sons who'd otherwise be twiddling their thumbs in their brothers' keeps."

He nodded thoughtfully. "We'll get to Essos and rethink the idea. But first," Robert growled, pulling a ornate dagger from his belt, "we deal with these treasonous squids." The blade slammed into the map where the Iron Islands lay, its point piercing deep into the wooden table beneath. "Two days. We wait for the North's food supplies to arrive in full, then we sail. I want every ship ready, every man armed."

Eddard watched as the various lords nodded eagerly, already dreaming of new holdings and expanded influence. Even Jon Arryn, ever the voice of caution, seemed caught up in the moment's enthusiasm. But they hadn't won a single battle yet, hadn't even set foot on Essosi soil. Such dreams of conquest seemed premature.

"The northern supplies will be ready on schedule, Your Grace," Eddard confirmed, keeping his voice neutral.

"Good," Robert declared, his meaty fingers drumming on the table. "We'll need every advantage when we begin. The Iron Islands first, then we secure Braavos's position. After that..." He grinned fiercely. "After that, we show these slavers what real warriors can do."

As the lords roared their approval for Robert's declaration, Eddard caught Wyman Manderly's meaningful glance. The Lord of White Harbor nodded slightly, his multiple chins quivering as he raised his hands to quiet the assembly.

"My lords, if you would make way," Wyman called out, his normally jovial voice carrying a note of ceremony. "Wylis, bring forth the box."

The gathered nobility parted like a wave, creating a path through which Wylis Manderly approached. In his hands, he carried an ornate box of dark oak banded with gold, its craftsmanship drawing appreciative murmurs from the assembled lords. Eddard noted how even Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed with interest.

"Your Grace," Eddard said, taking the box from Wylis, "Owen sent this ahead with Captain Silver Eyes. He expects payment only after the war is won." The mention of Owen's name caused a ripple of whispers through the tent - the legendary craftsman's reputation had grown to nearly mythical proportions, especially when the southern lords found out it was him who had provided the north with their weapons, armor and ships.

Eddard placed the box on the war table, carefully opening its lid. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a massive war hammer that seemed to draw all light toward it. The weapon was forged from ebony and silver ores, its surface covered in glowing runes that pulsed with an inner light. At the hammer's center, a blood-red ruby was set deep into the metal, seeming to flicker with its own inner fire.

The assembled lords pressed forward to get a better look, their earlier discussions forgotten in the face of such magnificent craftsmanship. Eddard watched as Tywin's usually composed features twisted with barely concealed envy. Beside him, young Joffrey's eyes were wide with naked desire, his hands twitching as if he longed to reach out and grab the weapon.

"Gods be good," the Greatjon breathed, his booming voice unusually quiet. "Longshore has outdone himself again."

"Indeed," Eddard confirmed, noting how the runes seemed to shimmer more brightly as Robert approached. "Owen forged it specifically for you, Your Grace. He says none but you can wield it - the hammer is bound to your blood alone as per your request. Then to those of your line upon your passing."

Robert stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the weapon with an intensity Eddard hadn't seen in years. The king reached for the hammer's handle, and the runes flared brilliant blue at his touch. With seemingly no effort, Robert lifted the massive weapon from its case, though Eddard knew from Owen's messages that any other man would find it impossible to budge.

"Perfect balance," Robert said softly, giving the hammer an experimental swing that caused several nearby lords to step back hastily. "Light as a feather in my grip, but I can feel the power in it." He turned to Eddard, his eyes bright with something approaching their old warrior's fire. "Your goodson has outdone himself, Ned."

Joffrey stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "Father, perhaps I could-" But before he could finish, Robert cut him off with a sharp laugh.

"You couldn't lift it if you tried, boy. This is a weapon for a true warrior." Robert's words caused Joffrey to flush red with humiliation, while Tywin's jaw clenched visibly at the slight to his grandson.

Eddard watched as Robert lifted the war hammer high above his head, its runes blazing with supernatural light. Blue-white electricity crackled along the weapon's length, arcing between the intricate patterns Owen had forged into its surface. The assembled lords gasped in collective awe as thunder seemed to rumble from within the tent itself, though the sky outside remained clear.

"Stormblood!" Robert's voice boomed through the tent, nearly drowning out the weapon's crackling energy. "That's what I'll call her. A fitting name for the hammer that will crush our enemies!" The lords roared their approval, pounding their fists on the table and stamping their feet. Even Tywin Lannister nodded in appreciation, though his eyes never left the magnificent weapon.

"Enough for now," Robert declared, carefully returning Stormblood to its ornate case. "Rest well tonight, my lords. There will be a feast in two hours - one last celebration before we sail for the Iron Islands." He turned to Eddard and Jon Arryn, his expression softening slightly. "Ned, Jon - join me for drinks in my pavilion after the council disperses."

As the lords began filing out, Jon Arryn approached Eddard. "I wish I could join you all for this campaign," the elderly Hand said quietly. "But someone must remain to rule the realm while Robert wages his war." He smiled wryly. "Bronze Yohn will lead the Vale forces well enough in my stead."

"The realm will be in good hands with you, Jon," Eddard assured his former mentor. He watched as the last of the lords departed, leaving only himself, the Greatjon, and Wyman Manderly in the war tent.

"Were all the northern lords present today?" Eddard asked his bannermen as they gathered their maps and papers.

The Greatjon's booming laugh filled the tent. "All save for that Bolton bastard, but he won't be attending any more councils, will he?"

Wyman Manderly's multiple chins quivered as he frowned. "Indeed, my lord. Only Lord Roose was absent, having perished in the fire that consumed the Dreadfort." The Lord of White Harbor shook his head. "Still can't make sense of it - a castle that stood for thousands of years, reduced to ash in a single night. The reports we received were... most peculiar, something about a servant fiddling with longshores heating contraptions."

"Aye," Eddard replied carefully, already getting the feeling that somehow, his goodson was involved as much as he didn't want to believe it. "Most peculiar indeed."

"Strange times we live in," the Greatjon mused, rolling up a detailed map of the Iron Islands. "But I won't shed any tears for Roose Bolton. There was always something off about that leech-loving lord."

Wyman nodded as the trio looked towards the sea and the waiting ships. Eddard could see the massive Northern vessels dominating the harbor, their dark hulls gleaming with strange metals Owen had crafted. The Manderly ships bore their traditional merman figurehead, though now they were forged from the same mysterious Dwemer materials and ironwood as the rest of the vessel. Even from this distance, Eddard could make out the distinctive runes etched into their sides, pulsing with a faint blue light.

The Greatjon whistled low. "Seven hells, still can't believe how many ships we've got now. Remember when the North's entire fleet could fit in White Harbor's smallest dock?"

"Indeed," Wyman replied, his multiple chins quivering with pride. "And now we command the largest fleet in Westeros. Though I must admit, watching those Volantene ships explode from a single cannon shot was... unsettling, even if they were our enemies."

Eddard's mind drifted to the reports from White Harbor - entire enemy fleets reduced to splinters by weapons he still struggled to comprehend. Part of him wondered if they'd unleashed something beyond their control by embracing Owen's innovations so completely. But there was no turning back now.

"Come what may, in two days we'll be off to sea and off to war," Eddard said quietly, touching the wolf's head pommel of Ice at his hip. He closed his eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer.

"Old gods watch over us."

Chapter Text

Balon stood at the window of his solar in Pyke, watching another raven circle down toward the rookery. His weathered hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against the stone windowsill. These birds had become harbingers of doom, each message worse than the last. Great Wyk had fallen three days past. Old Wyk before that. Now what fresh hell would this raven bring?

"My lord," Maester Wendamyr's voice quavered as he entered. "Word from Harlaw." The old man's hands shook as he held out the scroll. Balon snatched it, breaking the seal with savage force. His eyes scanned the hastily scrawled words, each line driving another spike of rage and despair into his chest. Ten Towers had fallen, the seat of House Harlaw reduced to rubble by weapons that spat blue fire and round metal from Northern ships. But these were not the ships of old - these vessels bore the direwolf of Stark alongside the Gold ice crystal of Longshore and the crowned stag.

"They're using some kind of metal men," a survivor had reported earlier that morning, his eyes wild with fear. "Giants made of bronze and steam that walk through arrow storms without falling. They climb the walls like spiders, ripping stones free with hands of steel. And the weapons - by the Drowned God, the weapons. Blue fire that turns rock to dust, thunder that shatters keeps at a single stroke." The man had broken down then, sobbing about how the Stark forces had freed every thrall, every salt wife, turning them against their former masters.

"Your Grace," Maester Wendamyr ventured carefully. "Perhaps if we were to send terms-" Balon's backhand caught him across the face, sending him stumbling.

"Terms?" Balon spat. "Did you not hear? They accept no terms. This is not like before. Robert means to wipe us from the maps, to break the ironborn forever. Look!" He thrust the message at the maester. "They put every man and boy over 15 namedays to the sword at Harlaw. Only women and children are spared - and those they ship to the Silent Sisters or  to send to the Wall one they are old enough."

Through the window, Balon could see the northern fleet on the horizon - hundreds of ships unlike any he'd ever seen, steel and ironwood-hulled monsters bristling with tubes of frost-forged metal. At their head sailed the flagship bearing both Baratheon and Stark banners, and beside it, a mosnter of a vessel dark hulled and brimming with weapons, its banners and sails bearing the sigil of House Longshore. His own fleet was scattered, broken by weapons that could sink a longship at impossible distances. The few survivors who'd made it back spoke of entire squadrons vanishing in storms of blue fire.

"The crown and lords of westeros send their regards," the last message from Eddard had read. "You sought to enslave their people, Reave and destroy for your old way. Now reap what you have sown." Balon crumpled the parchment in his fist. The North had changed. Gone was the honorable fool and his band of frozen idiots who'd helped Robert win his crown. In their place stood something colder, armed with sorcery and steel that made the old ways of the ironborn seem like children's games.

"My lord!" A guard burst into the solar, face pale with terror. "Ships approaching from the west as well - it's Lord Stannis with the royal fleet. We're surrounded." Balon said nothing, watching as the noose drew tight around what remained of his kingdom. The Drowned God, it seemed, had abandoned his people to these demons of steel and steam that the Starks had somehow conjured. The age of the ironborn was ending, not with glory, but with the thunder of strange weapons and the march of metal men and invincible soldiers.

Balon's weathered face twisted into a snarl as he turned to the guard. "Find my daughter. Tell Asha to arm every man who can hold a blade - wounded or not. Every survivor from the other isles who made it here. Every last one of them." His voice grew harder with each word, iron determination masking the desperation beneath. "We'll make Robert and his pet wolf bleed before we meet the Drowned God."

The guard's face betrayed his thoughts - the mad gleam in his lord's eyes, the futility of resistance against such overwhelming force. But duty won out over doubt, and he bowed stiffly before hurrying from the solar.

Balon stalked through the cold stone corridors of Pyke toward the throne room, his boots echoing against ancient stone as he muttered darkly about betrayals. The Volantenes had promised aid, had given gold, had sworn blood oaths to send their fleet when the ironborn needed them most. Yet where were they now, when northern ships rained death upon his islands? Gone, fled back to their warm southern waters or to attack weaker targets like the cowards they were.

"Euron," he spat the name like poison as he entered the great hall. His own brother had vanished in the night aboard the Silence, no doubt sailing east to save his own worthless hide while his people burned. The black stone of the Seastone Chair seemed to drink in what little light filtered through the windows as Balon lowered himself onto its cold surface.

"Wine," he barked at a nearby thrall, watching the chaos unfold around him. Men rushed back and forth, arming themselves with whatever weapons remained in Pyke's armory. Some bore fresh bandages from previous battles, others showed signs of recent flight from the other islands. His gaze swept over them all - the last warriors of the ironborn, preparing for their final stand.

Victarion and Aeron's faces floated before his mind's eye. His remaining brothers had sailed out with the Iron Victory and their pitiful remaining fleet of ten ships, determined to strike one last blow against the mainland forces. Neither brother nor ships had returned, and the reports spoke of a battle so brief it barely deserved the name. Now only Asha remained of his blood, his fierce daughter who'd proven herself more ironborn than any of her uncles.

"The Old Way dies with us," Balon murmured, watching a thrall approach with his demanded wine. The ancient traditions of reaving and salt wives, of paying the iron price - all of it would vanish beneath the onslaught of northern sorcery and mainland steel.

A distant boom shattered his dark musings. "DOWN!" someone shouted, and then the world exploded into chaos as cannon fire tore through the throne room's wall. Stone and mortar flew through the air as the blast ripped a massive hole in the ancient fortress, sending men diving for cover and filling the air with choking dust as balon wondered if the end of days was here.

Owen lounged on the luxurious couch aboard the Storm Fortress's observation deck, the silk cushions cradling him as he sipped his chilled orange juice. Through the enchanted windows, he watched Tywin's southern fleet take position around Pyke's remaining towers. The fortress-ship's interior gleamed with polished dark oak and precious metals, a testament to both martial power and refined taste that had impressed even the wealthy Lannisters.

"Another volley," Owen commented casually as his northern ships unleashed another devastating barrage. Blue-white beams of energy and explosive shells arced through the air, smashing ancient stone like it was made of sand. "I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. Almost."

Robert let out a booming laugh from his own seat, his new war hammer Stormblood resting across his knees. "Seven hells, Longshore! When you said your weapons would make this quick, I didn't expect it to be this thorough. We've accomplished more in a week than I did in months during their last rebellion."

"The ironborn pride themselves on being fearsome raiders," Oberyn observed, swirling a glass of Dornish red as he watched another tower collapse. "But they've never faced anything like this. Their precious longships might as well have been driftwood against these vessels."

Tywin's expression remained carefully neutral as he studied the destruction through a far-seeing glass. "How many more of these ships could the North produce, if needed?" The question hung heavy in the air.

"Lord Tywin," Eddard cut in sharply before Owen could respond. "We are here to end the ironborn threat, not to discuss theoretical military capabilities." The tension between the two lords crackled until Brynden Tully broke it with a harsh chuckle.

"Look there," the Blackfish pointed toward the harbor. "Some fool ironborn are trying to launch ships." Through the windows, they could see a handful of what looked like hastily made longships pushing off from hidden coves, desperate men at the oars. Owen raised his hand lazily, and one of his automated gunners swiveled its frost-forged cannon. A single blast of hot blue energy later, and the ships were nothing but floating debris and ash.

"Your Grace," Barristan Selmy spoke up from his position near the door. "The signal from the ground forces - they're ready to begin the final assault." The old knight's eyes betrayed his amazement at how easily the supposedly impregnable Pyke had been reduced to rubble.

"Let them wait a bit," Owen said, setting down his glass. "I sent people in two nights ago to spread word to the thralls and salt wives. Give them time to find shelter before we send in the Colossi. No sense killing innocent smallfolk who've suffered enough under ironborn rule."

Owen watched another tower of Pyke crumble under the relentless barrage of his ships' cannons. The past week had been almost disappointingly easy - his technological superiority had rendered the ironborn's traditional defenses meaningless. Where once their stone keeps had withstood sieges for months or years, now they fell in hours to his enchanted weapons and mechanical soldiers.

"I must admit, Lord Longshore," Tywin said, his voice carefully neutral once more, "your contributions have made this campaign remarkably efficient. What would have taken months of bloody siege work has been accomplished in days."

"The ironborn weren't prepared for what we brought," Owen replied, gesturing to where a massive Dwarven Colossus strode through the surf, its thirty-foot frame barely slowed by the waves. "Their arrows bounce off my automatons, their walls might as well be made of sand against my cannons, and their ships..." He trailed off as another blast of blue energy reduced a fleeing longship to splinters.

Robert laughed heartily, lifting Stormblood from his lap. "Ned, your goodson has turned war into a bloody mummer's show! Did you see how Great Wyk fell? Those mechanical spiders of his climbing the walls, tearing through ironborn like they were made of paper. And Blacktyde - gods, I've never seen men break so quickly!"

"Saltcliffe was the clever one," Oberyn noted, refilling his wine glass. "They surrendered the moment they saw our fleet approaching. Though I suppose after what happened to Lonely Light, word had spread about the futility of resistance."

Owen nodded, remembering how his forces had reduced that distant fortress to rubble. The ironborn there had fought to the last man, refusing to yield even when his Colossi tore through their gates. He'd made sure their fate was well known - a message to any who might consider prolonged resistance. Not that it had helped anyway. Everyone man was executed and only the women and children spared.

Owen watched the final barrage slam into Pyke's remaining defenses, satisfaction curling his lips as ancient stone crumbled like dried bread. He pulled the communication stones from his belt - smooth, rune-carved crystals that allowed instant coordination between his forces and ships. "Prepare the Colossi for the final assault," he spoke into the central stone. "All troops to battle positions and get ready to land on pykes shores."

The stones lit up with multiple voices, commanders acknowledging his orders with enthusiastic shouts. "The North remembers!" came Lord Umber's booming response. "Death to the reavers!" echoed Ser Wylis Manderly. Even the southern lords' voices joined in, their initial skepticism of his magical devices long since buried under the evidence of their effectiveness.

Owen rose from his seat, his enhanced muscles flowing smoothly as he prepared to head below decks. Around him, the other lords began moving as well - Eddard's grim determination contrasting with Robert's barely contained battle-lust.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, "perhaps you should remain aboard ship. The fighting will be-" Robert's laugh cut him off.

"Seven hells, Selmy! I haven't swung this beauty in battle yet." He hefted Stormblood, the enchanted war hammer crackling with barely contained energy. "Think I'll let these northern lords have all the fun?"

Before Owen could respond, an unwelcome voice cut through the moment. "Father! I demand to fight by your side!" Joffrey strutted onto the deck, already wearing ornate golden armor that had clearly never seen battle. "As your heir, I should be there when Pyke falls."

Owen caught Robert's expression - a mixture of disgust, resignation, and something that suggested he was indeed considering a fully-armored swim….or drowning for himself than deal with his son. The king's face had turned an interesting shade of purple as he struggled to find a diplomatic response to his son's presence.

"Your Grace," Owen interrupted smoothly, watching Joffrey's sneer turn his way. The boy had been a constant irritant throughout the campaign, demanding access to Owen's weapons, suggesting Owen's marriage to Sansa be annulled in favor of a more "suitable" match (Owen had almost punched his jaw off, only eddard holding him back barely), and generally making everyone wish they could arrange an unfortunate accident. Owen had lost count of how many times he'd contemplated whether he could get away with strangling the little shit and blaming it on an ironborn spy.

"Perhaps Prince Joffrey could observe the battle from the command deck?" Owen suggested, ignoring the boy's outraged spluttering. "He'd have a perfect view of the strategies employed, without risking the heir to the Seven Kingdoms in close combat."

Owen watched with barely concealed irritation as Joffrey's face twisted into an indignant sneer.

"I won't be left behind while others claim glory!" The prince's shrill voice made several nearby lords wince. "In fact, Father, you should let me be the one to kill Balon Greyjoy. Give me Stormblood - I'll show everyone how a true prince deals with traitors!"

Robert's face darkened like a thundercloud. "Seven hells, boy. I'd be surprised if you could even lift a normal sword properly, let alone my warhammer." He gestured dismissively at his son's ornate but clearly unused armor. "Fine, you can come - but you stay behind Ser Jaime the whole time. And I swear by the old gods and new, if you become a nuisance, I'll have you dragged back to King's Landing myself."

Joffrey nodded eagerly, but Owen didn't miss the sadistic gleam in those green eyes. Sighing heavily, he excused himself and headed below deck to his private cabin. The room was a testament to both wealth and practicality - expensive carpets and carved furniture alongside weapon racks and magical apparatus. Owen moved to where his personal armor stood on its stand.

The ebony plate was a masterwork, incorporating every enhancement the Celestial Forge had granted him. Intricate runes from Solomon's temple covered every surface, creating layers of protective enchantments. As Owen donned each piece, he could feel the magic responding, strengthening both armor and wearer. The black metal seemed to drink in the light, making him look like a figure carved from living shadow.

Once armored, Owen approached an ornate ironwood box on his desk. With a wave of his hand, the magical locks disengaged, revealing his sword nestled in black velvet. Fate Cleaver he had named it. It was a unique fusion of steel and stalhrim - its edges rimmed with eternal ice while ancient runes crawled along its steel core. The blade radiated cold as Owen drew it from its sheath, testing its familiar weight and hearing it almost sing as it seemed sharp and coldly enough to freeze the whole ship if needed.

Back on deck, Owen found Jon waiting with the Dreadguard, his elite warriors equipped with his finest weapons and armor. They had proven themselves at the battle of ice crest and he had decided to bring them along for this campaign, though many were still back at ice crest with sansa. The other lords were assembling their own forces, banners snapping in the wind as they neared Pyke's shores. Even the Lannisters' crimson cloaks seemed subdued next to the otherworldly gleam of Owen's forces.

Robert emerged last, resplendent in steel plate with his antlered helm. Joffrey practically bounced behind him, while Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan flanked the royal pair with considerably more dignity. The prince's excitement only grew as they approached the shore, his hand constantly adjusting the grip on his sword as if imagining the kills he'd make.

As the ships' keels scraped sand, Robert lifted Stormblood high. The war hammer crackled with barely contained energy as he roared, "FOR WESTEROS!"

The men roared back.

Owen moved with fluid grace, his enhanced strength and reflexes making each strike of Fate Cleaver devastatingly precise. An ironborn warrior charged him with a rusted axe, screaming about the Drowned God - the cry cut short as Owen's blade separated head from shoulders in a spray of frozen blood. Beside him, Jon's ebony steel sword sang through the air, his own movements equally deadly if less supernatural.

"Seven hells, they just keep coming," Jon muttered as another wave of raiders rushed down from the broken fortress. Owen watched the tactical situation unfold with clinical detachment - the ironborn were fighting with the desperate fury of men who knew they were doomed. Their traditional leather armor and iron weapons seemed almost primitive against the mainland forces' enchanted equipment.

"On your left!" Owen called out, spinning to intercept three attackers trying to flank them. Fate Cleaver's edge flickered with frost as it carved through cheap iron shields, leaving frozen corpses in its wake. The few ironborn who recognized the futility of fighting tried to flee, only to be cut down by arrows or the relentless advance of the mechanical Colossi striding through the surf.

The battlefield was pure chaos - the crash of steel on steel nearly drowned out by battle cries and death screams. Through gaps in the melee, Owen caught glimpses of their allies' progress. The Greatjon was living up to his fearsome reputation, his massive greatsword cleaving through multiple enemies with each swing. Owen's enchantments had made the blade nearly unbreakable, and the Umber lord was using that durability to devastating effect.

Further ahead, Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime fought with the skill that had made them legends, their white cloaks stained red as they carved a path toward Pyke's gates. Behind them skulked Joffrey, his golden armor pristine as he took obvious pleasure in stabbing fallen enemies. Owen felt a flash of disgust as he watched the prince repeatedly drive his sword into an already dead ironborn, clearly reveling in the gore.

Robert's booming voice carried across the battlefield as he challenged all comers, Stormblood living up to its name. Each impact of the war hammer released crackling bolts of lightning, leaving enemies either crushed or electrocuted or both. Lord Stark fought at his friend's side like they were young men again, Ice's Valyrian steel blade flickering in deadly arcs to protect the king's flanks.

Owen dispatched another attacker with mechanical efficiency, his enhanced senses allowing him to track multiple threats simultaneously. The ironborn's numbers were dropping rapidly - what had started as perhaps fifteen hundred defenders was now barely half that, their bodies littering the beach alongside broken weapons and shattered shields. The mainland forces pressed forward relentlessly, their superior numbers making the outcome inevitable.

Owen felt a strange detachment as he cut through another ironborn warrior. He had worried that taking human life would paralyze him with horror or guilt, but his body moved with focus, each strike precise and lethal. Perhaps the trauma would catch up to him later, but for now, his enhanced reflexes and combat instincts kept him focused purely on survival.

"They're making another push!" Jon called out, his ebony blade flickering as he parried a wild axe swing. Through the chaos of battle, Owen spotted a large group of ironborn - at least thirty warriors charging toward their position with desperate fury in their eyes.

Owen felt the magic surge through him, responding to his will without conscious thought. Brilliant crimson flames erupted from his outstretched hand, demonic fire that turned the charging ironborn into screaming torches. Their cries to the Drowned God turned to ash in their throats as the supernatural flames consumed them completely.

"KILL THEM ALL!" Owen roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield with unnatural power. The mainland forces responded with a thunderous battle cry, though he noticed many of the southern lords and soldiers now regarded him with a mixture of awe and barely concealed fear. The display of such obvious sorcery had clearly unnerved them.

The Dreadguard formed up around Owen and Jon, their enhanced weapons and armor making them an unstoppable wedge driving through the ironborn's disorganized resistance. Owen's blade sang through the air, each strike leaving frozen corpses in its wake while Jon's ebony steel carved precise killing blows.

"Seven hells," Owen heard Ser Jaime mutter nearby, "he fights like something from the Age of Heroes." The Kingslayer's assessment was cut short as another wave of raiders charged their position, forcing them back into the deadly dance of combat.

A horn blast suddenly cut through the chaos of battle, its deep note causing everyone to freeze mid-strike. Owen turned toward the sound and felt his stomach drop - a female warrior had somehow gotten behind their lines and now held a blade to Prince Joffrey's throat. The boy's golden armor was finally smeared with mud, though Owen suspected it was from being dragged rather than actual combat.

"Damn you, boy!" Robert bellowed at his son. "I told you to stay with Ser Jaime!" The king's face had turned purple with rage as he watched his heir squirm in the warrior's grip. Nearby, Owen could see Tywin and Kevan Lannister with their household guards, both men's faces tight with barely controlled anxiousness for the prince's life.

"I am Asha Greyjoy," the woman called out, her blade pressing closer to Joffrey's throat. "Drop your weapons and surrender, or I'll open the little prince's neck and feed him to the Drowned God myself." Her voice carried the hard edge of someone who meant every word, and Owen could see real fear in Joffrey's eyes as he finally realized the danger he'd put himself in.

Owen watched the tense standoff unfold, his enhanced senses picking up every detail - the thin line of blood trickling down Joffrey's neck, the slight tremor in Asha's sword hand that spoke more of rage than fear, the way Robert's knuckles whitened around Stormblood's handle.

Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan edged forward, their white cloaks muddy but their movements precise. Asha's response was immediate - she pressed the blade deeper against Joffrey's throat, drawing a fresh line of blood. The prince's arrogance finally cracked as he let out a high-pitched wail.

"Father! Save me! Don't let this savage whore kill me!" Joffrey's voice cracked with genuine terror, his golden armor suddenly seeming very childish in the blood and mud of real battle.

"Perhaps we should just let her kill him," Jon muttered beside Owen, quiet enough that only enhanced hearing could catch it. "Save ourselves the headache of his whining voice every day."

Owen nodded slightly, his mind racing through the implications. Right now, he alone knew with absolute certainty that Joffrey was Jaime's son, not Robert's - his "Real World" knowledge knowing what Jon Arryn and Stannis perhaps only suspected. The prince's death now would save him considerable trouble later, when the truth inevitably came out.

"Release my son," Robert's voice boomed across the battlefield, "and every ironborn still breathing can take a ship into exile. You have my word as king." The offer was generous, more than the reavers deserved, but Owen could see the desperation in Robert's eyes.

Asha's laugh was harsh and bitter. "An ironborn doesn't surrender," she spat, and her remaining warriors - perhaps 500 men total - roared their agreement. The sound was pathetically weak compared to their numbers at the battle's start.

Eddard caught Owen's eye, his expression pleading. The honorable Lord of Winterfell couldn't stand by and watch a child die, even one as loathsome as Joffrey. Owen sighed, knowing he'd have to intervene.

"Then face me in single combat!" Robert challenged, hefting Stormblood. "Let's settle this the old way!" But Asha just laughed again, the sound edged with desperation. "I'm not stupid enough to face you, Your Grace, fat as you are," she said, watching the enchanted war hammer crackle with barely contained power. "I've seen what that magical toy of yours can do."

Owen chuckled at Asha's jab about Robert's weight. The king had actually slimmed down considerably during his month at White Harbor, where he'd thrown himself into training while waiting for his lords to gather. Though not back to his warrior prime, Robert had shed much of his excessive bulk through daily sword practice and surprisingly moderate drinking.

Seeing the standoff had reached its breaking point, Owen drew upon his magic. He whispered ancient words "in tenebris et evanescet" and felt the shadows embrace him. His form melted into the darkness cast by the soldiers around him, becoming one with the gloom. He flitted from shadow to shadow, each jump bringing him closer to where Asha held Joffrey hostage.

He caught the exact moment Asha realized something was wrong. Her eyes widened as she scanned the battlefield, mouth forming the beginning of "Where's that sorcero-" before Owen emerged from the shadow directly behind her. His enhanced strength and speed made it brutally efficient - one quick twist and her neck snapped with a sharp crack. Her blade clattered to the ground as her lifeless arms released their grip on the prince.

Joffrey scrambled away like a frightened rabbit, diving behind the protective white cloaks of Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan. Owen drew Fate Cleaver once more, its frosted edge gleaming as he faced the stunned ironborn warriors. One of them seemed to shake off the shock first, cautiously approaching to retrieve Asha's body. Owen allowed him to take her - he understood the man's desire to return Balon's last child to him, even in death. He carried the body gently, rushing off the beach to pyke.

The remaining ironborn stared at Owen with a mixture of fear and grim acceptance. The fight had left them - they knew this was their end. Robert's voice thundered across the battlefield, raw with fury over the threat to his supposed heir: "NO PRISONERS!"

The mainland forces surged forward with renewed vigor, giving the ironborn the death they had chosen. Owen joined the advance, Fate Cleaver singing its deadly song once more.

It hadn't taken long for the end to find Ironborn. Owen watched the scene unfold with  detachment, taking in every detail of the throne room. The ancient stone walls bore testament to centuries of ironborn rule, now about to end forever. Balon Greyjoy cut a pathetic figure on the Seastone Chair, his weathered face twisted with grief as he clutched Asha's lifeless body. Owen felt a twinge of guilt - he had killed her cleanly at least, which was more mercy than most ironborn had shown their victims.

Robert strode forward, Stormblood crackling with barely contained energy in his grip. The king's armor was splattered with blood and gore, but his movements were sure and powerful, reminding Owen of the warrior he must have been during his rebellion. "I warned you, Balon," Robert's voice boomed through the chamber. "Nine years ago, I told you what would happen if you ever rebelled again. And now?" He gestured at the destruction around them. "You've sunk even lower, making deals with slavers to turn my kingdoms into your personal hunting grounds?"

"Greenlander scum," Balon spat, his voice thick with contempt even as tears tracked down his weathered cheeks. "You could never understand-" 

"The old way?" Oberyn interrupted with a mocking laugh, his blood-speckled spear tapping against the stone floor. "Your 'old way' dies today, along with every other iron born male on this miserable rock. Your women will serve the Seven in septs or as Silent Sisters, your children will grow up to take the black, and every thrall and salt wife you've stolen will taste freedom again."

Owen noticed how the various lords reacted to this proclamation. Ned's face was grim but determined - he had never approved of the ironborn's practices. Brynden Tully's expression held satisfaction, no doubt remembering raids on his family's lands. The Lannisters, both father and son, showed only cold calculation as they likely planned how to profit from this upheaval.

"You're finished, Lord Greyjoy," Ser Barristan said solemnly, his white cloak somehow still pristine despite the day's carnage. "Lay down your daughter's body and accept the king's justice with what dignity remains to you."

Balon's response was to clutch Asha's corpse tighter, his knuckles white against her cold flesh. "The Drowned God will curse you all," he snarled, though his voice cracked with despair. "The iron price cannot be denied forever."

"The iron price?" Owen spoke for the first time, his magically enhanced voice carrying easily through the chamber. "Your iron price bought you nothing but death and destruction. Look around you, Lord Greyjoy - your people died for your pride, and their bodies will feed the crabs while their homes burn."

Kevan Lannister stepped forward, ever the voice of pragmatism. "The Iron Islands will be given to a loyal house and bannermen to rule," he announced. "Their ships will be burned, their fortresses torn down stone by stone. The old way dies here, today."

"Along with its last adherent," Jaime added, his golden armor stained crimson as he moved to flank his father. The Kingslayer's sword was already drawn, clearly expecting resistance from the broken lord before them.

Owen watched as Balon's face twisted into a final snarl of defiance. "My brother Euron still lives, traitor that he is," he spat, flecks of saliva landing on the stone floor. "As long as he draws breath, the ironborn way will never die!"

The assembled lords seemed unimpressed by this declaration. Robert let out a dismissive laugh, Stormblood crackling with energy in his grip. "We'll hunt down your mad brother and send him to meet your Drowned God soon enough."

But Owen felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of Euron Greyjoy. His knowledge from the books (he cared less for his show version) painted a vivid picture of the man - a psychotic pirate who dabbled in the darkest magics, worshipped eldritch beings, who had sailed the smoking ruins of Valyria and lived to tell the tale or so he said. The fact that such a dangerous piece had escaped their net was deeply concerning.

Ser Barristan stepped forward with surprising gentleness, carefully extracting Asha's lifeless body from Balon's grip. The old knight's movements were respectful despite the circumstances, laying the dead woman carefully aside. Jaime was less ceremonious, roughly yanking Balon from the ancient Seastone Chair and forcing him to his knees.

Owen's attention was suddenly drawn to the throne itself. The oily black stone seemed to writhe in the torchlight, and whispers began to fill his mind - promises of power over the waves, of storms that would bow to his will, of secrets that mortal men were not meant to know. He glanced around, but none of the others seemed to hear the eldritch voices.

Jon moved closer to Owen's side, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's something wrong with that chair," he muttered, hand tightening on the grip of his ebony sword. "Something... unnatural." Owen gave a slight nod, relieved that at least one other person could sense the wrongness emanating from the ancient seat and he wasn't suddenly going mad.

Robert raised Stormblood high, preparing to deliver the killing blow, when Joffrey's shrill voice cut through the tension. The prince strutted into the throne room, his golden armor now cleaned of mud and blood. "I demand to be the one to execute him!" he declared with all the petulant authority of a spoiled child. "I am the crown prince!"

"Seven give me strength," Robert muttered, lowering his hammer slightly as he glared at his supposed son. Tywin moved swiftly, grabbing Joffrey's arm in a grip that must have been painful judging by the prince's wince. "Be silent," the old lion commanded harshly, pulling the young man back.

"Balon Greyjoy," Robert's voice boomed through the chamber, drowning out Joffrey's protests, "I sentence you to death for rebellion against your rightful king, for breaking your sworn oaths, and for dealing with slavers against the laws of gods and men." Balon lifted his chin defiantly, dark eyes gleaming as he uttered his final words: "What is dead may never die." The words were still echoing when Stormblood descended, reducing Balon's head to a red ruin upon the stones.

Owen watched as Robert's triumphant voice filled the throne room, raising the bloody Warhammer. "Victory!" The king's declaration was met with thunderous cheers from lords and soldiers alike, the sound echoing off the ancient stones of Pyke.

Ned stepped forward, his expression somber despite their success. "The Northern soldiers will see to the thralls and salt wives," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "We'll prepare them for the journey back to the mainland. The North will gladly take them in, give them a fresh start." 

"Good, good," Robert nodded easily, his earlier rage now replaced with the jovial mood that typically followed his victories. "You men!" he called to the gathered soldiers, "Find whatever stores of wine and food these squids have hidden away. We'll feast proper tonight, on the ships and beach." He gestured broadly at the carnage around them. "And get busy clearing these bodies - I won't have good wine spoiled by the stench of dead ironborn."

The chamber gradually emptied as lords and soldiers filed out, their voices carrying plans for celebration and cleanup. Soon only Owen and Jon remained, both still transfixed by the Seastone Chair. The oily black stone seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, its surface writhing in ways that stone should not move.

"Should we throw it back to the sea?" Jon asked quietly, his hand still gripping his ebony sword tightly. "Whatever this thing is... it doesn't belong in our world."

Owen shook his head slowly, remembering details from his past life's knowledge of Martin's deeper lore. The stone was similar to what formed the foundation of the Hightower in Oldtown, the same material used in the buildings of Asshai. Whatever dark power created these artifacts and buildings, they were all connected in ways even the books hadn't fully explored.

The whispers from the chair grew louder, more insistent, promising power and knowledge beyond mortal understanding. Owen had heard enough. White-hot holy flames erupted from his hands, pure and cleansing. He directed the sacred fire at the ancient throne, watching as the supposedly indestructible stone began to melt.

The screams that filled their minds weren't human - eldritch roars of pain and fury that spoke of things better left unknown. Jon stumbled back, hands pressed against his ears though the sound wasn't physical. Owen maintained his assault until the chair was reduced to nothing but a formless slab, the whispers finally silenced.

"By the old gods," Jon whispered, lowering his hands as the otherworldly screams faded. "What was that thing?" Owen turned away from the melted remains, gesturing for Jon to follow him out of the throne room. "Something that shouldn't exist in this world," he replied grimly, knowing this wouldn't be his last encounter with the mysterious black stone and its dark origins.

Chapter Text

Malaquo reclined on silk cushions beneath the marble colonnade, his withered frame propped against the cool stone as servants fanned him with palm fronds. The sweet Pentoshi wine rolled across his tongue, its bouquet mingling with the salt breeze that swept in from the harbor. Below the terrace sprawled the sun-bleached city, its domed roofs and twisting streets alive with the disciplined march of Unsullied spearmen and the swagger of sellsword companies. Their weapons glinted in the afternoon light as they moved between the crowds of slaves and freemen. Beyond the city walls, a sea of colored tents stretched to the horizon, where a hundred thousand soldiers drilled in formation under their commanders' watchful eyes.

"Your strategy was sound," he muttered to himself, gnarled fingers tightening around the jeweled goblet. "The Ironborn were meant to divide their forces, weaken their response." His eyes narrowed at the distant harbor where hundreds of war galleys rode at anchor, their black sails furled and oars shipped. The combined might of Volantis, Lys, Myr, and Pentos and the slaver cities of Astapor and Meereen- the greatest fleet assembled since the Century of Blood.

Heavy footsteps interrupted his brooding. Nyessos Vhassar's portly frame cast a shadow across the marble tiles as he approached, his rich robes rustling. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the shade. "Ill news from Westeros," he announced without preamble. "The Ironborn are broken. Balon Greyjoy lies dead at Robert Baratheon's feet, head smashed, his fortress razed, his fleet burned."

Malaquo's jaw clenched, but his voice remained steady. "How many ships were lost in the attack?"

"All of them. The northern weapons..." Nyessos hesitated. "Our agents report they wielded sorcery unlike anything seen before. Great beams of blue light that shattered ships at a league's distance and large metal balls sent flying to ships at high speeds. The Ironborn and our ships never stood a chance."

"Sorcery or no, they bleed like any men." Malaquo waved away a servant who approached to refill his wine. "We still hold advantages they cannot match. Numbers. Discipline. The Unsullied alone are worth ten thousand of their knights." His rheumy eyes fixed on Nyessos. "What word from our spies in King's Landing?"

"The realm mobilizes for war, but slowly. Robert Baratheon sends word to his Hand and blusters about invasion and relieving Braavos, yet his lords squabble over whatever ships they have left and and demand more food supplies from their Northern neighbors." Nyessos settled his bulk onto a nearby couch. "But these northerners worry me, Malaquo. This weaponcraft of theirs - it's not natural. We knew they had some advantage but not this much. Perhaps we should consider-"

"Consider what?" Malaquo's voice cracked like a whip. "Crawling back to our estates while the Braavosi grow fat on our trade? While our ancient rights are stripped away by northern barbarians?" He pushed himself upright, bones creaking. "No. We will take what is ours with fire and steel. Let them have their sorcery. The dragons had magic too, and where are they now, hmm?"

His gaze swept across the vast encampment, his thin lips curving into a satisfied smile. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see, their colored banners snapping in the sea breeze.

"Look there," Malaquo gestured with a bony finger toward the harbor where fresh ships were docking. "Three more companies from Meereen arrived just this morning. The Stormcrows, the Long Lances, and two thousand pit fighters." His voice carried the sharp edge of anticipation. "And Astapor sends five thousand more Unsullied within the week. The losses at White Harbor and Ice crest were... regrettable, but hardly decisive."

Nyessos shifted uncomfortably on his couch, his jeweled rings catching the light as he wrung his hands. "The numbers are impressive, yes, but these northerners-"

"These northerners," Malaquo cut him off with a dismissive wave, "hide behind their walls with their clever toys. But walls can be overwhelmed, and clever toys break." He lifted himself from his cushions with surprising vigor for his age. "We have a hundred thousand men here already. More arrive daily. The greatest army Essos has ever seen."

"But their weapons-" Nyessos tried again, his face flushed with anxiety.

"Will mean nothing when we drown Braavos in bodies and do the same to Westeros," Malaquo snapped. "We'll seal their lagoon with our ships and storm their precious Arsenal. Once the Titan falls, we'll turn south." His withered hand clenched into a fist. "Let the fat king and his realm tremble then. Their precious North can't defend every port, every castle. We'll bleed them on a thousand shores until they break."

Nyessos opened his mouth to object further but fell silent at Malaquo's imperious glare. The old Tiger's eyes blazed with the fervor of absolute conviction.

Malaquo sank back into his cushions, the fire in his eyes dimming as weariness crept into his ancient bones. The reports from their naval commanders weighed heavily on his mind - nearly nine hundred ships lost in a month in the attempts to breach Braavos's defenses. The Titan stood unassailable, its massive feet planted firmly in the rocky outcrops while northern vessels patrolled the waters with their devastating weapons.

"Tell me truthfully," he addressed Nyessos, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Do our captains see any way past their blockade? Any weakness in their patrol patterns?" His gnarled fingers drummed against the armrest, a nervous habit he'd developed since the first disastrous attempts to force the passage.

Nyessos pulled a crumpled dispatch from his robes, smoothing it against his knee. "The northern ships maintain perfect formation, day and night. Their weapons..." He swallowed hard. "They can strike our vessels before we even see them through the fog. Captain Parquello's last message reported those cannons of theirs blasting through three galleys at once, straight through their hulls as if they were paper."

"And yet we must try again," Malaquo muttered, more to himself than his fellow triarch. "The Sealord grows stronger each day we delay. More of these cursed northern ships may arrive once the fat king gets moving and we are having problems with five of them." He reached for his wine, found the cup empty, and hurled it across the terrace in frustration. "What of the attack we planned through the secondary channels at night? The fishing passages?"

"Failed before it began." Nyessos mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. "They've placed some sort of devices in the water. given to them from the captain of the norths ships - metal constructs that rise up and tear apart any ship that approaches. The Golden Fleet lost thirty ships just probing those routes. The survivors spoke of mechanical kraken, if you can believe such tales."

Malaquo spat onto the marble floor, his spittle tinged with the red wine. "What of the Andalos attack then? Tell me that at least is ready." His voice carried the desperate edge of a man grasping at his last hopes.

Nyessos shifted through his papers, the parchment crackling in his sweating hands. "We've constructed enough shallow-draft boats to transport five thousand Unsullied across the narrow stretch of water. The landing points have been scouted, and the troops stand ready." He hesitated, his jowls quivering. "But the crossing will be costly. Even with the cover of darkness, we expect to lose many men before they reach the shore."

"Men?" Malaquo barked a harsh laugh that dissolved into a rattling cough. "Unsullied are weapons, not men. If half die in the crossing, the rest will still fight without fear." He pushed himself up from his cushions, bones creaking as he shuffled to the terrace's edge. "How many ships to carry them?"

"Six hundred fishing boats, stripped and modified for troops. Small enough to slip through their patrol lines, we hope." Nyessos dabbed at his neck with a silk cloth. "But even if they land successfully, five thousand men against Braavos-"

"Will be five thousand more than they expect from that direction," Malaquo cut him off. "The Unsullied will take whatever losses necessary to establish the beachhead. Once they secure the landing zone, we can pour troops through the gap."

"The casualties-" Nyessos began.

"Mean nothing," Malaquo snapped. "Nothing! Do you think I care how many slaves die to breach their defenses? Ten thousand? Twenty? We have more." His withered hand swept toward the sprawling army camp. "The Masters of Astapor breed them like cattle. We'll drown Braavos in Unsullied blood if that's what it takes."

He sighed then, a tired thing that rattled in his ancient chest like dried leaves. The wine had turned sour on his tongue, and his bones ached from sitting too long in one position. "As long as we make landfall in Braavos, the city will fall. Their vaunted Arsenal means nothing once our troops breach the inner islands." His fingers traced the rim of his empty cup. "Then we can properly prepare for Westeros. These northerners think themselves clever with their devices, but they can't defend an entire continent."

"Still, the crossing will be costly and may leave us at disadvantage," Nyessos reminded him, his jowls quivering with each word. "Even with the modified fishing boats, we risk losing thousands before reaching shore. And the northern ships-"

"Enough about their ships! They will be occupied dealing with our ships trying to breach the titan while the others take the back" Malaquo's fist crashed against the marble railing. "Send word to Doniphos back in Volantis. Tell him to muster more men. I want another twenty thousand Unsullied, thirty thousand volantene soldiers and any sellsword company with a blade to sell." He straightened, ignoring the protest of his aging spine. "The Masters in Astapor grow fat on our gold - let them earn it. Write that we are readying for a major push to break braavos. The should send their best if they want a part of the spoils."

Nyessos dabbed at his forehead with a silk cloth, his rings catching the afternoon light. "The noble families back in Volantis will talk, Malaquo. They'll wonder why we need more men when we already command the largest army in living memory. They'll think we're losing." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Some few already question the cost of this war."

Malaquo's face twisted into a snarl, baring teeth yellowed with age. "They question because they've grown soft, forgotten what made Volantis great. None of them are here, or sending their sons and heirs to fight." He pushed himself away from the railing, his shadow falling across Nyessos like a blade. "But they'll quiet their bleating when the first batch of Braavosi slaves is brought to market. When they see the Sealord's daughters scrubbing their floors and heavy with their bastards and the Arsenal's shipwrights building their pleasure barges."

"Let them chatter in their perfumed gardens," he continued, voice dripping with contempt. "While they count coins and wait like eager whores, we'll forge a new empire. Braavos first, then the North, then all of Westeros." His eyes blazed with fevered conviction. "The world will remember why they once feared the Tigers of Volantis."

Malaquo watched as Nyessos shifted uncomfortably on his cushions at his determined words, reaching into his ornate sleeve with deliberate slowness. The younger triarch's face held that particular expression he wore when delivering unwelcome news, like a servant afraid of his master's temper.

"I have word from Qohor," Nyessos announced, producing a rolled parchment sealed with dark wax bearing the imprint of a black goat. The paper crackled as he broke the seal, the sound sharp in the afternoon air.

"What do those goat-worshipping sorcerers want?" Malaquo spat, his withered face twisting with disgust. The Qohorik had always struck him as an unsavory lot, with their blood sacrifices and obsession with the dark arts. Still, they made the finest steel in the known world - even he had to admit that much.

"They claim to have captured the remaining Targaryens," Nyessos read from the letter, his eyes widening slightly at the words. "Apparently, their agents heard we were... looking for them." He glanced up from the parchment, gauging Malaquo's reaction.

"The last dragons are hardly our concern now," Malaquo snorted, waving a gnarled hand dismissively. "The Ironborn's foolishness has united Westeros under that fat king's banner. Their raids gave him cause to gather his strength - strength we'll soon test." He said darkly, fingers drummed against the marble railing, a steady rhythm that matched the distant sound of troops drilling below.

"There's more," Nyessos continued, his jowls quivering slightly. "They offer to join our alliance and keep the Targaryens in trust, provided we assist them in bringing Norvos under their control." He carefully refolded the letter, watching Malaquo's face. "They say they can provide us with weapons forged in their sacred fires, and their blood mages could prove useful against these northern weapons. As well as adding their unsullied to theirs."

Malaquo stroked his long white beard thoughtfully, the coarse hairs scratching against his weathered fingers as he considered the Qohorik proposal. He reached for his wine cup, recently refilled by a silent slave, and took a measured sip. The vintage was excellent - a sweet red from the Arbor that cost more than most men earned in a year. But such luxuries befitted a ruler of Volantis, especially one who would soon command an empire spanning two continents.

"Perhaps the gods have not abandoned us after all," he mused aloud, his thin lips curving into a predatory smile. "The Targaryens could prove useful, even if only as hostages. And Qohorik blood magic..." He trailed off, remembering tales of their sorcerers who could bend steel with whispered words and forge blades that never dulled. "Yes, this could work to our advantage."

"Write back to them," he commanded Nyessos, who had been watching him anxiously. "Tell them we accept their terms. Norvos will be theirs once Braavos falls." He took another sip of wine, savoring its rich bouquet. "Instruct them to treat the Targaryens well - keep them in reasonable comfort, but secure. The girl..." He waved his hand dismissively. "They can use her for their pleasure if they wish. Such is the fate of fallen dynasties."

Nyessos nodded, his multiple chins wobbling as he took a fresh piece of parchment from a slave and began scratching out the message with his jeweled stylus. Malaquo continued: "Tell them to send their blood mages immediately. If they can truly counter these northern weapons, I want them here before we launch the next assault on Braavos. The sooner that cursed city falls, the sooner we can turn our attention westward."

"And the payment they requested?" Nyessos asked, looking up from his writing and back to the letter Qohor had sent. "They demand quite a sum in addition to Norvos."

"Pay it," Malaquo snapped, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where Braavos lay hidden in the morning mist. "Pay whatever they ask. Gold means nothing compared to victory." He rose from his cushions with effort, joints creaking as he shuffled to the terrace's edge, looking towards the sea. The endless expanse of blue water stretched before him, and somewhere beyond it lay the city that had defied them for so long. His gnarled fingers tightened on the marble railing as he imagined the Titan toppled, the Arsenal in flames, the canals running red with blood.

Chapter Text

The Storm Fortress cut through the waves quickly yet surprisingly gentle as the lords aboard her had a lavish lunch below decks along with the crew not on duty. Owen watched as Eddard, Jon, Robert, Stannis, Tywin, Prince Oberyn, Barristan, Joffrey, Jaime and a smattering of lesser lords and bannermen ate at the intricately made oakwood tables that dominated the dining hall. The hall itself was a marvel of engineering and luxury, with polished orichalcum fixtures gleaming in the magical light that emanated from enchanted orbs embedded in the ceiling. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting Northern legends and battles, while the floor was inlaid with stalhrim that glowed faintly blue beneath their feet.

"By the gods, I've never seen a warship with such comforts," Robert boomed, tearing into a leg of lamb with gusto. "My royal chambers aren't half as fine as this dining hall." He gestured around with the bone, dripping juice onto the immaculate tablecloth. "And those weapons! I never thought I'd see the day when castle walls crumbled like sand castles thanks to a ship."

Tywin's lips thinned as he cut his meat with precise movements. "Indeed. Most... impressive. Though I wonder at the necessity of such opulence on a vessel of war." His eyes flicked to Owen, calculating and cold.

Owen merely nodded at roberts compliment, his face an impassive mask that hid his growing irritation. He pushed his plate away, barely touched, and took a long drink from his goblet. The vintage was from his own vineyards at Ice Crest, enhanced through magical means to achieve perfection in a fraction of the time it would take naturally. The irony wasn't lost on him—everything about this voyage was taking far longer than it should.

"Something troubles you, Lord Longshore?" Oberyn Martell's voice cut through Owen's thoughts, the Dornishman's dark eyes glinting with curiosity. "You've barely touched your food, and your face speaks of storms far worse than any we might encounter on this journey."

Eddard glanced at Owen with a warning look. "My goodson has concerns about our delays, nothing more. We are on our way now, and that's what matters."

"That's what matters?" Owen couldn't contain himself any longer. "We've wasted a week after destroying the Ironborn, feasting and celebrating as if the war was won. Then another three days waiting for more Northern supplies because some lords insisted they needed more provisions, as if our ships weren't already stocked for months at sea. And then another three days waiting for septons and septas who wanted to join in what they called a 'holy crusade' against the slavers." He looked directly at Robert. "There is no such thing happening here. This is war. Not some holy crusade."

The table fell silent. Joffrey's face twisted in anger at being spoken to in such a manner, while Stannis gave a slight nod of agreement, his jaw clenched tight. Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow, amused at Owen's boldness, while Barristan the Bold studied Owen with newfound interest.

"Watch your tone, boy," Robert growled, though there was less heat in his voice than might be expected. "I am still your king."

"And I am still the man whose weapons and ships make this war possible," Owen replied evenly. "Every day we delayed, for all we know, more innocents were taken into slavery. Every feast we held, more towns were raided. The Essosi slavers don't feast—they plan. They don't celebrate—they prepare." He stood from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. "We should have sailed immediately after Pyke fell. Instead, we've given our enemies nearly two weeks to fortify their positions and move their slaves deeper into their territories."

"You speak truly," Stannis said, his voice cutting through the tension. "Delay serves no purpose but to strengthen our enemies and weaken our resolve. The feasting was... excessive."

Robert's face reddened, but before he could respond, Eddard spoke. "What's done is done. We sail now with the full might of the Seven Kingdoms and the North. Our focus must be on the battles ahead, not the delays behind us."

Owen wasn't done, however. He fixed Robert with an unwavering stare, his voice dropping to a tone that carried throughout the now-silent dining hall.

"To make matters worse, I've stopped receiving updates from Fleet Commander Bartimus's communication stone a week ago." The revelation hung in the air like a physical presence. "Braavos has gone silent."

The assembled lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Tywin's eyes narrowed, while Stannis's jaw clenched even tighter. Jaime exchanged a glance with his father, and even Joffrey seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation, his usual sneer faltering.

"But your last communication with them was positive, was it not?" Robert asked, setting down his wine goblet with unusual care. "The slavers hadn't pushed through the Titan or Bartimus's blockade. The city was still safe."

Owen ran a hand through his dark hair, the enchanted ring on his fingers catching the magical light. "A lot can change in a day, Your Grace, let alone a week. Bartimus had strict orders to maintain daily contact unless something catastrophic happened." He left the implication hanging in the air. "The Braavosi are our strongest and only potential allies in Essos, with the best navy aside from our own. If they've fallen..."

The lunch grew considerably quieter after that. Lords who had been boasting of glory and conquest moments before now stared into their plates, contemplating what awaited them across the Narrow Sea. Owen pushed back from his chair and made his way toward the door, unwilling to spend another moment watching southern lords dawdle over desserts while war loomed.

Jon followed him, his footsteps quick and determined on the stalhrim-inlaid floor. They climbed the stairs to the top deck in silence, emerging into the bright sunlight and salt-tinged air. Behind them stretched the most formidable fleet Westeros had ever assembled—four hundred Northern ships including galleon class, frigate class, and at least a hundred ship of the line class vessels, all armed to the teeth with Owen's advanced weaponry. Further back, the smaller southern warships followed, now numbering at least fifty since the constant attacks on the southern coasts from Ironborn and slavers had been stopped.

"You know I'm just as pissed," Jon said quietly, coming to stand beside Owen at the railing. His hand rested on his ebony blades pommel, a habit he'd developed over the years. "All that feasting and celebrating while the slavers  must have had time to regroup and gather strength. It's madness."

Owen gripped the railing, feeling the enchanted wood warm slightly under his touch. "There's nothing for it now. We sail with what we have, and we make the best of the situation." He looked out over the endless expanse of blue, toward the unseen shores of Essos. "I just hope we're not too late."

Owen jolted awake to the sound of shouting and alarmed cries echoing from the deck above. His eyes snapped open, mind immediately alert despite the early hour. Beside him, the communication stone on his bedside table glowed an ominous red – the emergency signal. He threw off his covers and reached for his armor, the enchanted pieces responding to his touch and practically leaping onto his body. The stalhrim-infused plates locked together seamlessly, a second skin of magical protection that he'd crafted for this very purpose.

"What in seven hells is happening?" he muttered, securing his sword belt with Fate cleaver as he rushed from his quarters. The narrow corridor outside was filled with equally alarmed men, some half-dressed, others fully armored like himself. He pushed past them, taking the stairs to the top deck two at a time.

As Owen emerged onto the deck, he froze. A sea of golden light met his eyes, so bright it nearly blinded him in the early morning dimness. The magical sigils that had been carefully inscribed on every northern ship's ironwood and Dwemer bronze hull had activated, blazing to life to form a round golden magical shield that surrounded the entire vessel from top to bottom. The sight was both magnificent and terrifying – because Owen knew exactly what it meant.

"Gods be damned," he whispered, his breath catching in his throat. These shields were designed to activate automatically only when facing eldritch or magical enemies – threats beyond the realm of normal combat. He'd created them as a failsafe, never truly expecting them to be needed. Yet here they were, glowing with an intensity that spoke of imminent danger.

"All hands to battle stations!" Captain Harrion bellowed nearby, his voice carrying across the deck. "Gunners to your positions! Ready the energy cannons!"

Owen spun around, searching the horizon. They should have been in view of the Titan of Braavos by now, the massive statue that guarded the entrance to the city's lagoon. Instead, all he could see was fog – thick, unnatural fog that surrounded them completely, obscuring everything beyond a few hundred yards. It clung to the water's surface like a living thing, tendrils reaching up as if trying to breach their magical barriers.

"Send word to all ships!" Owen shouted, grabbing the nearest communication stone from a wide-eyed officer. "All cannons ready! Form defensive positions!" The stone glowed blue as he spoke, transmitting his orders to every Northern captain. Acknowledgments came quickly – the well-trained Northern crews moving with efficiency despite the strange circumstances. The southern ships, visible only as vague shapes through the fog, had no such communication systems. Owen could see them scrambling to prepare whatever conventional weapons they had – ship scorpions and archers, pitiful against whatever was causing this phenomenon.

"Owen!" Eddard's voice cut through the chaos. The Lord of Winterfell emerged onto the deck, followed closely by Robert, Tywin, and Jon. "Are we under attack? The alarm—" His words died as he took in the scene – the glowing golden shields surrounding not just their ship but every Northern vessel in sight, and the unnatural fog that had enveloped them.

"Seven fucking hells," Robert breathed, his hand instinctively reaching for Stormblood. "What manner of devilry is this?"

Owen moved to the ship's railing, his enhanced senses straining to detect what lurked beyond their sight. "The shields activated on their own," he explained grimly. "They're designed to respond only to magical threats – things beyond normal weapons."

"Magic," Jon said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "I can feel it. Like at Ice crest, but... different. Older. More Hateful"

Tywin's face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. "You mean to tell me we're facing sorcery? Not just ships and men?"

"This fog isn't natural," Owen confirmed, his fingers tracing one of the protective runes on the ship's railing. It pulsed warmly under his touch, responding to his magic. "We should be seeing Braavos by now. Instead..." He gestured at the impenetrable wall of mist that surrounded them.

A sudden cry from the crow's nest drew their attention upward. "Movement in the water! Port side, coming fast!"

Owen leaned over the railing, peering into the murky depths. For a moment, he saw nothing – then a massive shadow passed beneath the ship, larger than anything he'd ever seen in the sea. Not a ship, not a whale – something else entirely.

"Ready the Sea bombs!" Owen shouted, his voice carrying across the deck. "Whatever's down there, I want it dead!"

Robert stepped forward, his massive frame imposing even among the armored sailors. "Ned told me your weapons could handle anything the slavers might throw at us," he said, his voice low enough that only those nearby could hear. "He didn't mention magic."

"Because I didn't expect it," Owen admitted, watching as sailors rushed to prepare the special underwater explosives he'd designed. "The slavers of Volantis and Lys don't typically employ blood mages. This is... something else." He turned to face the king directly. "Your Grace, you should get below. If we're facing what I think we are—"

"I'll not hide while men fight my battles," Robert growled, gripping Stormblood tighter. The hammer's head began to glow with a blue-white light, responding to its wielder's agitation. "Tell me what we're facing, boy, and how to kill it."

Before Owen could respond, a terrible screeching noise cut through the air – a sound no human throat could make. It came from everywhere at once, seeming to vibrate through the very planks beneath their feet. The golden shields surrounding the ships pulsed brighter in response, and Owen felt a chill run down his spine despite his enchanted armor.

Owen felt his blood run cold as the creature—whatever it was—screeched in agony, its massive form writhing against the golden shields that protected the Northern fleet. The magical barriers flared brighter upon contact, the runes Owen had painstakingly etched into each hull pulsing with power as they repelled the attack. The creature's skin sizzled and burned where it touched the shields, forcing it to retreat into the depths with a wail that seemed to shake the very air around them.

"Shit," Owen said aloud, his mind racing as a terrible realization dawned on him. The fifty southern ships trailing behind them that had no protections—no golden shields, no magical wards, nothing but wood between them and whatever horror lurked beneath the waves. "The southern ships," he shouted, grabbing the nearest communication stone. "It's going for the southern ships!"

His fingers pressed against the smooth surface of the stone, channeling his urgency into it as he barked orders: "Attention all captains! Fifty ships from the northern fleet, fall back immediately to the southern contingent! Get those soldiers and knights aboard our vessels NOW! Move with all haste—their lives depend on it!"

Acknowledgments flashed across the stone's surface as northern captains responded, their ships already turning in the water, the magical propulsion systems Owen had designed allowing them to maneuver quickly. Through the fog, he could just make out the silhouettes of the northern vessels racing toward the vulnerable southern ships, golden shields blazing like miniature suns in the unnatural mist.

"What manner of beast attacks us?" Oberyn Martell's voice cut through the chaos as he strode onto the deck, followed by Jaime Lannister, Joffrey, Barristan Selmy, and several minor lords. Their faces showed varying degrees of alarm and confusion as they took in the scene—the glowing shields, the impenetrable fog, and the inhuman roars and screeches echoing across the water. "I've sailed the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea both, and never encountered anything that makes such sounds."

"Look there!" Jaime pointed toward a disturbance in the water about two hundred yards off the starboard bow. Something massive moved beneath the surface, displacing enough water to create a visible wake even through the fog. It circled one of the northern ships, testing its defenses before diving deeper.

"Seven hells," Barristan breathed, his weathered hand instinctively reaching for his sword. "That's no natural creature."

Joffrey's face had gone pale, though he tried to mask his fear with a sneer. "Whatever it is, our fleet will destroy it. These northern weapons—"

His words were cut short by distant screams echoing through the fog—terrified cries of men facing death, followed by the sickening sound of splintering and tearing wood. Owen grabbed his communication stone again, desperately calling the captains he'd sent to rescue the southerners.

"Report! What's happening back there?" Owen demanded, his knuckles white around the stone.

The response came broken and distorted, the captain's voice tight with horror: "My lord... we've lost ten southern ships already... all hands, soldiers and crew all. The waters are bloody... something's tearing through them like parchment. We're loading survivors as fast as we can, but this thing... gods, it's massive. Like nothing I've ever—" The communication cut off abruptly.

"Captain Torren? Captain!" Owen shouted into the stone, but received only static in response. He looked up to meet Eddard's grim gaze. "We need to get those southern crews aboard ours now, or we'll lose them all."

Owen's mind raced through possibilities as he watched the creature's shadow moving beneath the waves. They were facing something beyond normal comprehension—something magical and ancient that had likely been summoned by blood mages, if the slavers had any of them on their side. Whatever it was, it wasn't in the books or show. The golden shields protected the Northern ships, but the remaining southern vessels would be torn apart like kindling.

"How?" Eddard asked, his voice tight with tension as he gripped Owen's shoulder. "How do we save those men?"

Owen's face was grim as he pressed the communication stone again. "All captains engaged in rescue operations—how much time do you need to get the southern crews aboard?" 

There was silence for a few heartbeats, the only sounds the distant screams and the creature's unholy screeching. Finally, a reply came through, Captain Jane Silver Eyes' voice crackling with static.

"Thirty minutes, my lord. Not a moment less if we're to save even half of them." Other captains' voices joined hers in agreement, reporting similar timeframes.

"Shit! Time to lock in." Owen muttered, his mind made up. He turned to Jon, who stood ready with his hand on his swords hilt. "I'm going into the water."

"What?" Jon's eyes widened in disbelief.

"I'll act as bait, draw it away from the southern ships toward the Storm Fortress. It's the only way to buy them time." Owen was already removing his armor, the enchanted pieces falling away until he stood in nothing but his breeches, his muscled torso exposed to the cold sea air.

Eddard stepped forward, alarm written across his features. "Owen, no! This is madness. Whatever that thing is—"

"Is something I can handle….hopefully," Owen cut him off, taking up Soul Cleaver from where it rested against the ship's railing. The blade hummed with power, responding to his touch. "Jon, get the sea bombs ready. As soon as that creature is beneath the Storm Fortress, release them directly on its head. One concentrated strike should be enough to stun it, if not kill it outright."

Jon hesitated only a moment before nodding grimly. "I'll have them ready. But Owen—"

"No time," Owen said, already climbing onto the railing. He looked back at the gathered men—Eddard's concern, Robert's grudging respect, Tywin's gaze, and Jon's determination. "Thirty minutes. That's all I need to give you."

Before anyone could stop him, Owen dove over the side, slicing through the dark water with barely a splash. The cold hit him like a physical blow, but his magically enhanced body adjusted quickly. He opened his eyes beneath the surface, peering through the murky depths. The water should have been too dark to see anything, but his enhanced vision allowed him to make out shapes and movement.

In the distance, he could see it—a massive form moving with terrible speed toward another cluster of southern ships. The creature was enormous, its body serpentine yet adorned with what looked like dozens of writhing tentacles. Owen couldn't make out details in the gloom, but its size alone was terrifying—easily larger than the Storm Fortress itself.  What the fuck had those slaver fools done?

Owen had to gain its attention. He withdrew Fate Cleaver, the blade's stalhrim edge actually freezing the water as he swung it. If the creature was born of magic then it would be attracted to magic. His magic circuits flared around his body, bright green lines around his body flaring as he enhanced his body and blade before mentally shouting ILUMA!, the dark sea seeming to gain a sun as his magic brightened the dark depths.

The water around him illuminated in a brilliant emerald glow, pushing back the murky darkness and revealing the true horror of what they faced. The creature was no simple sea serpent or kraken—it was something far more ancient and terrible. Its body stretched nearly a hundred yards, a nightmarish fusion of eel and squid with dozens of writhing tentacles sprouting from a central mass. But most disturbing was its head—vaguely humanoid yet distorted, with multiple rows of teeth that seemed to spiral inward like a grotesque flower. Its skin pulsed with arcane symbols that Owen recognized as blood magic sigils, confirming his suspicions.

"Come on, you ugly bastard," Owen muttered, the words emerging as bubbles that rose toward the surface. He channeled more power into his blade, causing Fate Cleaver to glow with an intense blue-white light that contrasted sharply with the green aura of his magic circuits. The combination created a beacon in the dark water, impossible to ignore. He swam toward open water, away from both the northern and southern fleets, trusting that the creature would sense the magical disturbance and follow.

It worked almost too well. The monster's massive head swiveled toward him, multiple slit eyes—each the size of a wagon wheel—fixing on the source of magical energy. It abandoned its attack on a southern warship mid-strike, leaving the ship's hull partially crushed but intact enough for the crew to potentially survive. With a powerful undulation of its serpentine body, the creature changed course, surging through the water toward Owen with terrifying speed. The pressure wave hit him first, nearly sending him tumbling through the water, but he managed to stabilize himself, reinforcing his body with magic to withstand forces that would crush an ordinary man.

"That's right, follow me," Owen thought grimly as he swam toward the Storm Fortress, whose golden shield was visible even through the murky water. The creature was gaining on him rapidly, its massive bulk propelled by muscular contractions that seemed to defy the natural laws of movement in water. Owen pushed his enhanced body to its limits, swimming faster than any Olympic athlete could dream of, yet still the gap closed. He could feel the water pressure changing behind him as the monster's maw opened, ready to swallow him whole.

At the last possible moment, Owen twisted in the water and slashed with Fate Cleaver. The enchanted blade connected with one of the creature's reaching tentacles, slicing through it with surprising ease. Black ichor erupted from the wound, immediately freezing in the water around the stalhrim blade. The creature recoiled with a shriek that vibrated through the water with such force that Owen felt his insides quiver. He used the momentary reprieve to change direction, swimming directly beneath the Storm Fortress, whose golden shield now loomed above him like an inverted bowl of light.

"Now, Jon!" Owen shouted mentally, knowing his words couldn't possibly be heard but hoping that Jon was watching from above and would recognize that he'd brought the creature into position. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened, and Owen feared his plan had failed. The monster recovered from its injury with unnatural speed, the severed tentacle already beginning to regenerate as it surged toward him again, this time with all its appendages spread wide to prevent escape.

Then the water above him darkened as dozens of sea bombs dropped from the Storm Fortress, their specially designed casings cutting through the water with minimal resistance. Owen kicked hard, propelling himself away from the target zone as the bombs descended upon the creature. There was a moment of perfect stillness—then the world exploded in a cacophony of concussive force as the bombs detonated in sequence, each explosion feeding into the next to create a devastating chain reaction. The creature's body convulsed violently as the blasts tore through its flesh, its unholy screech rising to a pitch that threatened to rupture Owen's eardrums despite the water's dampening effect. Black ichor clouded the water, obscuring Owen's vision as he fought against the turbulence created by the explosions, struggling to maintain his orientation and avoid being caught in the creature's death throes.

The water around Owen turned black with the creature's blood, but he could still sense its presence—a malevolent force thrashing in pain rather than dying. The bombs had wounded it severely, tearing great chunks from its hideous form, but the blood magic symbols etched into its flesh pulsed with renewed vigor, knitting the monster back together even as Owen watched in horror. The severed tentacle he'd cut earlier had already regrown, and the wounds from the sea bombs were closing with unnatural speed.

"OHHH fuck fuck fuck," Owen shouted mentally as the creature's massive head swiveled toward him, multiple eyes focusing with terrible intelligence. It glanced briefly at the Storm Fortress floating above them, the golden shield still pulsing with protective magic. The monster seemed to hesitate, as if calculating, before turning its full attention back to Owen—the smaller, more vulnerable target.

The creature lunged forward with shocking speed for something so massive, its maw opening to reveal row upon row of teeth spiraling into darkness. Owen kicked hard, propelling himself through the water as fast as his enhanced body could manage. He reached out with his mind, sending a desperate message toward the Storm Fortress above: "Jon! Send the Dwarven Colossus down! NOW!"

A barbed tentacle whipped through the water toward him, faster than the others. Owen twisted at the last second, Fate Cleaver slicing through the appendage with a clean stroke that sent another cloud of black ichor billowing into the water. The creature roared in pain, the sound vibrating through Owen's body even underwater, but it didn't slow its pursuit. More tentacles reached for him, forcing Owen to cut and weave through the water in a desperate dance of survival.

His lungs burned despite his enhanced physiology—he'd been underwater too long, and even his magical reinforcement couldn't overcome the basic need for air much longer. He really needed an "underwater breathing" from the Temple of solomon if…..no when he survived this. Ahead, a massive formation of coral rose from the seabed, its jagged edges both a potential shelter and a dead end. Owen dove toward it, hoping to use the natural structure to shield himself from the monster's attacks, but he realized too late that he'd trapped himself. The coral formation blocked his path forward, and the creature was closing in from behind, its massive bulk cutting off any escape route.

Owen turned to face the monster, Fate Cleaver held before him in a two-handed grip. If he was going to die, he'd do it fighting. The creature seemed to sense his desperation, slowing its approach as if savoring the moment. Its maw opened wider, revealing the abyss within, when suddenly the water around them vibrated with new movement—heavy, purposeful, mechanical.

Massive bronze figures plunged into the water from above, their enchanted metal bodies cutting through the sea with barely a splash. The first Dwarven Colossus landed directly between Owen and the creature, its thirty-foot frame dwarfed by the monster yet imposing in its own right. The automaton raised its arm, the cannon mounted there glowing with gathering energy even underwater. A heartbeat later, a concentrated blast of magical fire erupted from the cannon, striking the creature directly in its open maw.

The monster recoiled, screeching in agony as the magical flames seared its flesh from the inside. More Colossus dropped into the water around it, forming a protective ring between Owen and the creature. Their bronze bodies were covered in glowing sigils—enchantments Owen had painstakingly etched into each one to allow them to function in any situation, even underwater. They moved with eerie grace despite their size and the resistance of the water, raising their weapons in unison.

A mechanical roar emanated from the Colossus, the sound distorted by the water yet still powerful enough to challenge the creature's own cries. It was a sound Owen had never programmed into them—something they had developed on their own, as if the little magical sentience he'd imbued them with had evolved beyond his original design. The creature hesitated, faced with these new threats, before lunging at the nearest Colossus with renewed fury. The battle beneath the waves had only just begun.

Its lunge was cut short as another colossus landed on its head, cutting away at the tentacles trying to get it off as the other colossi fired at it, burning magical fire upon it, more and more colossi appearing into the water, no doubt sent by Jon in desperation as they rushed to defend their creator, large blades cutting into its scales and hide, its desperate cries being mercilessly ignored as they cut and hacked with their large blades. Owen watched in awe as his creations fought with a coordination he'd never programmed into them. The colossi moved like a single organism, each one covering the others' blind spots, attacking with precision that spoke of something beyond their mechanical nature. Tentacles that reached for one colossus were severed by another, while those that managed to wrap around a bronze limb found themselves frozen by the stalhrim-infused blades that sliced through them with ease.

"They're protecting me," Owen thought with a strange mixture of pride and wonder. The machines he'd built, imbued with just enough magic to follow commands, were now fighting with a ferocity that bordered on devotion. One colossus, its arm torn away by the creature's powerful jaws, continued to fight with its remaining limbs, positioning itself between Owen and the monster even as black ichor poured from its damaged frame.

Now was Owen's chance. It would take a lot of magic out of him but he had his shot. He sheathed Fate Cleaver as raw magical energy gathered in his hands, his magic circuits flaring brighter than ever before as he channeled power through his body. The water around him began to heat and bubble, the pressure of the magic he was gathering causing the sea itself to recoil. Owen's eyes glowed with an inner fire as he focused all his concentration on the spell, drawing on knowledge from the Solomon's temple that few mortals had ever accessed.

The energy coalesced into large balls of unrelenting and destructive red energy, pulsing with a power that made the water around them distort and warp. Owen could feel the strain on his body, the magic threatening to tear him apart from within as he held it in check, waiting for the perfect moment. The creature, despite being swarmed by colossi, sensed the gathering power and turned its multiple eyes toward Owen, a new urgency in its movements as it tried to break free from the automaton's grasp.

"Move!" he ordered, his mental command cutting through the water with the force of a physical blow. The colossi followed his order instantly, their bronze bodies propelling through the water with surprising grace as they swiftly swam away from the beast. The creature's eyes widened as it saw the magic in Owen's hands, an almost human expression of fear crossing its monstrous features. For a brief moment, Owen wondered if the thing was sentient, if it understood what was about to happen—but the memory of the ships it had destroyed, the lives it had taken, hardened his resolve.

"Suck on this you big ugly shit," Owen mentally cursed as he released the blast full force at the creature. The spell erupted from his hands in a torrent of crimson destruction, cutting through the water like it wasn't there. The sea itself seemed to part before the magic, creating a tunnel of air between Owen and the monster that lasted for just a fraction of a second—long enough for the spell to travel unimpeded to its target. The creature tried to dodge, its massive body contorting with surprising agility, but the colossi had positioned themselves strategically, herding it into the path of Owen's attack.

The red energy struck the creature dead center, right where the blood magic symbols were most concentrated. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen—then the monster's body began to glow from within, the red energy spreading through it like poison through veins. The creature thrashed in silent agony as the spell attacked not just its physical form but the very magic that animated it. The blood sigils etched into its flesh flickered and died, one by one, as Owen's magic overwhelmed the dark power that had created this abomination. With a final, earth-shaking shriek that sent bubbles rushing to the surface in a violent torrent, the creature's body began to disintegrate, chunks of flesh turning to ash that dispersed in the dark water.

Owen felt his consciousness wavering, the massive expenditure of magical energy leaving him drained beyond anything he'd experienced before. His vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges as his lungs screamed for air. The last thing he saw before blackness claimed him was the largest of the colossi swimming toward him, mechanical arms outstretched to catch his falling body. As consciousness slipped away, Owen had a fleeting thought that perhaps he'd made his creations too well—they weren't just following orders anymore. They were saving him.

At least he could praise himself for not being a shoddy inventor he said as darkness took him but the last thing he heard was the ringing a golden forge within his soul.

Chapter Text

Owen struggled to wake, caught between exhaustion and the desperate need to regain consciousness. His enhanced muscles ached with a bone-deep soreness that reminded him of his early days experimenting with reinforcement magic, thinking it would be easy. But worse than the physical pain was the sensation in his magic circuits—they felt raw and inflamed, as if someone had scraped them with sandpaper and then poured salt over the wounds. He tried to move but his body refused to cooperate, responding with sharp protests that made him wince. Then he heard it from afar—the ringing of a forge, golden and magical. The Celestial Forge was awakening once more, its familiar chime resonating through his soul with increasing urgency.

KNOWLEDGE OF INFINITY blazed across his mind like a comet streaking through the night sky, leaving trails of information in its wake. The gift from the Celestial Forge burned bright, pages of the Oghma Infinium turning rapidly in his mind's eye, revealing secrets that had been hidden from him before. Owen felt something underneath him—something soft and yielding, not the cold metal of his colossi or the crushing pressure of the ocean depths. He forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking away the blurriness to find himself in a warm, comfortable bed. The room swam into focus, revealing seven faces gathered around him, watching with expressions ranging from concern to barely concealed impatience.

Jon stood closest to the bed, relief washing over his features as he noticed Owen's eyes open. Beside him, Lord Eddard maintained his usual stoic demeanor, though the slight relaxation of his shoulders betrayed his relief. Robert Baratheon loomed large at the foot of the bed, his massive frame taking up more space than seemed possible. Stannis stood rigid beside his brother, jaw clenched tight as if he were restraining himself from speaking. On the other side, Tywin Lannister's calculating gaze assessed Owen with the cold precision of a master chess player evaluating a piece that had just made an unexpected move. Kevan hovered near his brother, his expression more open but no less attentive. And surprisingly, Commander Bartimus of House Longshore's navy stood near the door, his weathered face creased with concern.

"How—" Owen's voice came out as a rasp, his throat dry as parchment. Jon quickly poured water from a nearby pitcher and helped him drink. After a few grateful swallows, Owen tried again. "How long was I out?"

"Two days," Jon answered, setting the cup aside. "Your colossi brought you up to the ship. We thought you were dead at first—you weren't breathing when they laid you on the deck."

"Two days," Owen repeated, struggling to process this information. The battle with the sea monster felt both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. "What happened after I... after I went down?"

Robert stepped forward, his booming voice slightly subdued in the confines of the cabin. "Your metal men brought up what was left of that beast—just enough for us to confirm it was blood magic or so the remaining septons have been screaming since they saw it. Nasty business. The southern ships you saved are calling you the Sea Dragon now." The king let out a short, let uneasy laugh. "Not a bad name, I'd say."

"Your crew and the rest of the northern soldiers will be glad to know you're alright," Commander Bartimus added, his gruff voice softening slightly. "You gave them quite a fright, my lord. The stories they're telling... well, let's just say your reputation has grown considerably."

Owen attempted to sit up, wincing as his muscles protested. Jon moved to help him, propping pillows behind his back. "Where are we now? Still at sea?"

Bartimus nodded solemnly. "Aye, my lord. We're still at sea. The fog has cleared though." His weathered face darkened. "At least upon the sea. Braavos, however..." The naval commander paused, running a hand through his grizzled beard. "Braavos is still covered in fog, and the ships shields are still up."

Owen frowned, confusion on his face. "Why? The creature was killed."

Bartimus shook his head, his expression grim. "Two weeks back, me and my five ships were keeping the slaver ships at bay, allowing the Braavos arsenal and ship makers to try and make as many warships as possible to meet them in open battle with us and break them, perhaps push the back." He moved closer to Owen's bedside, his voice lowering slightly. "They were still outnumbered despite the slavers' losses attacking Westeros. As well as their growing numbers and replenishment from the slaver cities, there were rumors that Qohor had finally committed to the slaver alliance for some reason, when before there was only tentative support."

Owen noticed Robert shift his weight impatiently, but the king remained silent, allowing Bartimus to continue. The naval commander's eyes were haunted as he spoke. "So the Sealord sent spies to see what they were up to. Two nights into the week, the spies' last report said the Qohorik soldiers had arrived along with sorcerers and blood mages from the temple of the Black Goat." Bartimus's voice grew even more somber. "There was going to be a sacrifice, and they saw at least five hundred slaves..." He hesitated, glancing toward Robert. "Among them a silver-haired young man with violet eyes."

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. Robert, Eddard, and Tywin's gazes sharpened at the mention, their bodies tensing like predators catching a scent. Owen could practically feel the temperature drop as Robert's face darkened with rage.

"One of the Targaryen spawn? Viserys?" Robert demanded, his voice a dangerous rumble. The question was loaded with decades of hatred and the specter of rebellion.

Bartimus shrugged, clearly uncomfortable being the center of such intense focus. "Maybe, Your Grace. Or some bed slave from Lys. The spies couldn't get close enough to confirm before they had to flee. All they reported was silver hair and purple eyes."

Owen tried to process this new information as Bartimus continued his grim report. 

"Three days later, the fogs started," Bartimus said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow made his words more chilling. "Covering the Titan and the lagoon before moving onto the sea. It was unnatural—thick as curdled milk but moving like it had a mind of its own." He shook his head, as if still unable to believe what he'd seen. "I sent some of my crew to the mainland to gather information, took some time to navigate the fog. They reported everyone was holed up in their homes, businesses shut and even the ship workers couldn't work in the fog. The whole city had gone silent, like a graveyard waiting for its next occupant."

Owen shifted uncomfortably in his bed, his muscles protesting but his mind now fully alert. "Did they speak with any officials? The Sealord?"

Bartimus nodded grimly. "They went to the Sealord's palace, and he confirmed he had told the citizens to hole up till the fog cleared but had ordered Braavos soldiers to stand ready in case a slaver attack was imminent and they were using the fog as cover." The commander's eyes took on a haunted look. "But none of us could have imagined what form that attack would take."

He paused, drawing a deep breath before continuing. "Then it happened. The first attacks happened at night. Creatures, the stuff of nightmares appeared from the fog." Bartimus's voice wavered slightly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Muscled goat men with a taste for human flesh, crawling dead men and women, giant amalgamations of killed slaves stitched together and moaning horrifically as they killed. My men said they'd never seen anything like it—creatures straight from the seven hells."

The room had fallen deathly quiet. Even Robert had stopped his restless movements, his face a mask of horrified fascination. Tywin's eyes had narrowed to calculating slits, while Jon and Eddard exchanged troubled glances.

"The crew I had sent had to fight for their lives to get out of the city," Bartimus continued, his voice growing hoarse. "They watched Braavosi soldiers and bravos cut down without mercy, their weapons hardly harming the creatures. Steel blades passed through some of them like they were made of mist. My crew only escaped thanks to the armor and weapons you made, those that actually killed the creatures—your special steel, Lord Longshore." He nodded respectfully toward Owen. "Homes were ransacked, men and women killed. Those that tried to escape were captured and when not eaten and killed were dragged into the fog in chains, perhaps to be turned into more monstrosities or given to the slavers as new slaves."

Owen felt sick, his mind conjuring images of the horrors Bartimus described. The Oghma Infinium beneath him, pages turning rapidly as it tried to categorize what he was hearing. Blood magic—powerful, ancient, and fueled by mass sacrifice. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they formed was more terrible than he had imagined.

"Then our ships' shields went up the next day," Bartimus said, his voice growing bitter with frustration, "and that damned sea creature started trying to kill me and my crew along with the other four ships. We were so busy trying to take it down we couldn't focus on trying to help the Braavosi." He looked directly at Owen, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and determination. "By the time your fleet arrived, the fog had spread miles out to sea, and Braavos... Braavos might already be lost."

Owen stared at Bartimus in horror, his mind reeling from the implications. Blood magic on such a scale could only mean devastation beyond anything they'd prepared for. The Oghma Infinium's pages continued to turn in his mind, providing fragments of ancient knowledge about blood rituals and their terrible consequences. He shook his head slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It can't be," Owen said, struggling to sit up straighter despite his protesting muscles. "A city like Braavos, with all its defenses, its water dancers, its arsenal... overwhelmed so quickly?" Even as he spoke, he knew it was possible. Blood magic of sufficient power could create horrors beyond conventional defense. And its not like braavos was famous for magical defenses.

Eddard's face had turned ashen, his normally stoic expression giving way to grim concern. Beside him, Robert's features darkened like storm clouds gathering before a tempest, his massive hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Stannis, ever the pragmatist, simply cursed under his breath, his jaw working furiously as he processed the implications.

"Seven fucking hells," Stannis muttered, breaking the momentary silence. "If Braavos falls, the slavers gain not just territory but the greatest naval power in Essos. The Iron Bank's resources alone could fund their wars for decades."

Owen turned back to Bartimus, desperation edging into his voice. "Has there been truly no word from the city since the fog started? No messages, no refugees, nothing?"

Bartimus sighed heavily, the weight of his knowledge visibly pressing down on his shoulders. "There have been one or two ravens carrying messages for help, and even one or two from the Sealord himself," he admitted, "but that was a week ago." The naval commander's weathered face creased with concern as he continued. "Apparently those of the Iron Bank had locked themselves in their fortress-like building. The Sealord was said to have locked himself and his family away, urging the citizens to barricade themselves in their homes if they were still alive..." he paused, his voice dropping, "or still sane after what horrors they had seen."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Owen's mind raced through possibilities, strategies, countermeasures. The Celestial Forge hummed in the background of his consciousness, as if sensing his desperate need for solutions.

"What of the temples?" Jon asked, breaking the heavy silence. "Braavos houses shrines to nearly every god known to man. Surely some of them would have defenses against such magic?"

Bartimus shook his head grimly. "The various temples had closed and shut their doors. The courtesans had managed to lock themselves up in the Temple of the Moonsingers. At last message, the only people trying to fight back were the Faceless Men." A flicker of something like hope crossed his face. "Whatever magic they have from their Many-Faced God seemed to actually work against the beasts, but seeing as their order is spread out all over Essos, there were only a few left in Braavos to fight back and theres no way to know if they are still alive or all fallen."

Owen watched as Tywin's voice cut through the heavy silence. "That bit of news doesn't help much," the Lannister patriarch said, his voice sharp. "A bunch of expensive assassins are all that are keeping whatever demons these Qohorik have conjured up at bay from killing or taking everyone into slavery or worse, making more of their kind. What will we do now?"

All eyes in the cabin turned to Owen. He felt the weight of their gazes—Robert's impatient glare, Eddard's concerned frown, Jon's quiet support, and Tywin's calculating stare.  Owen sighed deeply, knowing what needed to be done.

"We can't leave Braavos to whatever creatures the damned slavers have conjured up," Owen said, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "We'll have to go through the Titan, fight our way through the mainland, and destroy whatever magical focus is powering the fog and spawning the creatures."

Confused looks passed between the lords. Stannis's brow furrowed deeply. "Magical focus? What are you talking about, Longshore?"

"The sacrifices were just the beginning," Owen explained, drawing on the knowledge flowing through his mind. "They summoned the creatures, yes, but the blood mages and Qohorik sorcerers must have a focus nearby that maintains the fog and allows them to control their creations. Think of it like..." He paused, searching for an analogy they would understand. "Think of it like a lighthouse's flame. The creatures are like ships drawn to its light, but extinguish the flame and they lose their way, disappear or die outright."

"And you're certain of this?" Tywin asked, his green eyes boring into Owen. "What makes you so sure there's such a focus?"

Owen gestured toward the now-clear waters visible through the cabin's window. "For the ocean, the focus was that giant creature itself. That's why when we killed it, the fog lifted from the sea. The same principle must apply to Braavos itself—there has to be something, probably in the city, maintaining the fog and controlling those abominations."

"The Temple of the Black Goat," Bartimus suddenly interjected, his gruff voice thoughtful. "The spies reported the Qohorik priests brought artifacts from their temple. Could be what you're talking about, my lord."

Owen nodded slowly, his mind already formulating plans. "Yes, it's almost certainly whatever artifacts they brought from Qohor are acting as the focus. Blood magic requires anchors, physical objects to channel and maintain its power. They'll have placed it somewhere significant - a crypt or ritual chamber, somewhere that amplifies sacrificial magic." He grimaced, remembering texts he'd read about such practices. "And it won't be unguarded. There will be sorcerers, priests maintaining the rituals to keep the fog going. We'll need to kill them and destroy whatever they're using as a focus."

He turned to Jon and Eddard, his expression grim but determined. "This falls to the North. We're the only ones with the proper equipment - the enchanted steel and ebony weapons, the enchanted armor. Regular steel won't work against these creatures."

"Like hell it does!" Robert thundered, slamming his fist on a nearby table. "I won't sit idle while others fight! I have my Stormblood! I'm going into that city, monsters or no monsters."

"The North seems eager to claim all the glory for themselves," Tywin added smoothly, his green eyes glinting. "Perhaps we should all participate in this venture. After all, we are meant to be fighting this war together."

Eddard stepped forward, his face concerned. "Your Grace…Robert, please be reasonable. This isn't about glory - these creatures can't be harmed by normal weapons. Too many good men and innocents in the city have died learning that lesson."

"Lord stark speaks truth," Stannis ground out. "This is no time for pride, Robert. If Longshore says only their weapons will work-"

"Then perhaps," Tywin interrupted, his voice sharp as steel, "it's time the North shared their superior weapons with the rest of the realm. We are one kingdom, are we not?"

"No!" Owen cut him off forcefully, frustration evident in his voice. The very suggestion made his blood boil - he knew exactly what the Lannisters would do with such weapons.

Tywin's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You see? The North stands apart, hoarding their advantages. They refuse to share weapons that could even our odds against these monsters. How are we to trust such allies?"

"That argument won't get you anywhere, Lannister," the voice of Oberyn Martell made everyone turn to face him as he walked into the room, his face serious. The Dornish prince moved with his usual grace despite the ship's gentle rocking, his dark eyes taking in the tense situation before him. "It was already agreed at Winterfell that the North would not be giving out weapons to the South. The North can lead the vanguard against these creatures and when all this sorcery is laid to rest, the southern soldiers and knights can lead the battle against the Volantene slavers and their allies. All will gain glory and we can stop any arguing among allies."

Owen felt a surge of gratitude toward the Dornishman. Oberyn had cut through the posturing with practical sense, something Owen hadn't expected from the famously passionate Red Viper. Tywin glared at Oberyn who looked him dead in the eye without flinching, the tension between the two men crackling like lightning. The old hatred between them was palpable, but Oberyn maintained his composure, merely raising an eyebrow at Tywin's cold fury. After a moment of silent standoff, Tywin gave a curt nod, though his jaw remained tight with barely contained anger. Owen and Eddard exchanged grateful nods with Oberyn, acknowledging his timely intervention.

"Nevertheless," Kevan Lannister spoke up, his voice measured and diplomatic where his brother's had been demanding, "I must insist that at least some knights and septons come with you as reinforcement." Owen cringed mentally, remembering that they had been traveling with those septons and septas who thought their war a crusade against slavery. In a way it was, but it wasn't truly a full-blown crusade. The religious zealots had been a constant irritation during their voyage, constantly preaching about the Seven's judgment against the slavers and trying to convert northern soldiers to abandon their old gods.

"The Faith has insisted on participating in this holy war against the abominations of slavery," Kevan continued, either missing or ignoring Owen's discomfort. "And their prayers may prove useful against these... unnatural creatures. Several knights have also taken vows to protect the innocent of Braavos. They will not be denied the chance to fulfill their sacred oaths."

"If they wish to die pointlessly, who am I to deny them?" Owen replied, unable to keep the edge from his voice. He pushed himself upright in bed, ignoring the protest of his aching muscles. "But understand this—I cannot guarantee their safety if they come with us. My northern forces have trained with these weapons, have armor that will protect them. Your knights and septons do not. If they insist on coming, the blood is on their hands, not mine."

Robert barked a laugh, the tension in the room breaking slightly. "Hah! Spoken like a true northerner, Longshore. Blunt as a practice sword." He turned to Kevan, his expression sobering. "The man has a point though. These aren't ordinary enemies we're facing. If your septons want to wave their crystals at demons, that's their choice, but don't blame Longshore when they end up as demon shit."

"Perhaps," Eddard interjected, ever the voice of reason, "we can find a compromise. The septons and southern knights can accompany our forces but remain in reserve positions. They can provide support, tend to the wounded, and be ready to engage once the magical threats are neutralized." He looked to Owen, silently asking for his approval of this solution. "That way, they participate without needlessly risking their lives against enemies they're not equipped to face."

All the lords nodded at that, even Owen, though he turned to ask Stannis and Oberyn how many of the southern soldiers and knights had survived after the sea creature attack. Even now his body still ached from the magical battle against the monster.

Oberyn grimaced, his normally playful expression replaced with somber gravity. "Thanks to your diversion and killing of the beast, we saved what we could. We lost only ten southern ships, mostly Westerlanders and knights from the Reach—five thousand men in all, not counting crew." He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the remnants of the southern fleet could be seen following in the wake of the Northern vessels. "The rest survived, though many are lightly wounded, more from panic and rushing."

Owen shook his head sadly. Despite not liking some of the southern lords like Tywin, he didn't feel the same for most who served them, as they had little choice but to follow their lord. The common soldiers were just men doing their duty, following orders from highborn lords who treated warfare like a game of cyvasse. Now thousands of them lay at the bottom of the sea or eaten because of blood magic and politics beyond their understanding.

Bartimus took out a smoking pipe, tamping down dried leaves into the bowl with a weathered thumb. He struck a match against the table edge, the sudden flare of light highlighting the deep lines in his face. "Whatever we're going to do," he said, puffing the pipe to life, "we better do it fast." Blue-gray smoke curled around his head as he spoke, giving him an almost ghostly appearance in the cabin's dim light.

"Why?" Owen asked, attempting to push himself further upright in the bed. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his overtaxed muscles, reminding him of the toll his magic had taken on his body. "What's happening now?"

Bartimus exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression grim. "It's easier to see it with your own eyes, my lord. The fog around Braavos... it's changing." He tapped his pipe against his palm, his voice dropping lower. "And not for the better."

Jon moved to help Owen up, but Owen waved him away. "Go ahead with the lords," he told Jon and the others. "I'll join you on deck in a moment." He kept his voice casual, masking the real reason he wanted them gone. Once the cabin door closed behind them, leaving him alone, Owen reached beneath his pillow and pulled out the Oghma Infinium.

The skin-bound book felt warm in his hands, almost alive, its pages seeming to pulse with knowledge. Owen stared at it with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The book was bound to his soul and mind, seemingly harmless as it brimmed with knowledge, recording every new thing he heard and saw if it wasn't already contained within its pages. He was tempted to open it, to gain new knowledge and experience in seconds, but he remembered this was a Daedric artifact from a powerful Daedric Prince with the ability to seal away even a Dragonborn in his realm. After a moment's hesitation, he put it away back under his pillow for now, dressed quickly in fresh clothes, and walked up to the deck to see what new horror awaited them.

Owen emerged onto the deck of the Northern Rage, blinking in the bright sunlight. The change of vessel surprised him - last he remembered, he'd been fighting that monster from the depths of the Storm Fortress. Crew members lined the deck, cheering at his appearance.

"The Sea Dragon walks among us!" 

"Lord of the Seas!"

"Monster Slayer!"

He noticed Robert's face darken at the 'Sea Dragon' title, the king's hand tightening on the ship's railing. Owen kept his expression neutral as he approached the gathered lords.

"Your Dwarven Colossi brought you up after the battle," Bartimus explained, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "My ship was closest when the fog cleared, so we took you aboard before rejoining the Storm Fortress and the rest of the fleet." 

Owen nodded his thanks, but his attention was drawn to where Bartimus pointed. The Titan of Braavos loomed ahead, its massive form barely visible through thick fog that reached up to its head. The great lagoon housing Braavos's various islands was similarly shrouded. But something was different - wrong.

"Seven hells," Stannis muttered, his jaw clenching. "The fog's spreading inland."

Owen called for a far-eye, though he hardly needed it with his magically enhanced vision but it would be a good magnifier. The fog had indeed spread, covering not just Braavos but stretching across the mainland. Through the lens, he could see it had already engulfed most of the Pentoshi territories.

"Shit," Owen swore, lowering the far-eye as the lords turned to him questioningly. He explained grimly, "Either the slavers have completely abandoned their Pentoshi allies, letting the fog and its creatures run wild through their lands, or..." He paused, considering the implications. "Or the Qohorik blood mages have gone mad with power and are spreading this intentionally."

"If they had any sense," Tywin said coldly, "they would have fled to Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh by now." His green eyes narrowed at the fog-shrouded coastline. "Though I suspect sense has little to do with blood magic and demons."

"Those fools," Bartimus spat over the rail. "Playing with forces beyond their control. Now look what they've wrought."

Owen nodded at bartimus words, cracking his neck, the sound echoing across the suddenly quiet deck. He turned to face Jon, Robert, and Stannis, his expression grim but determined. "Get the boats ready. We're going through the Titan today - northern soldiers, my Dreadguard, and whatever knights and septons want to throw their lives away. But we cannot waste another moment."

"Owen, this is madness," Eddard stepped forward, his grey eyes filled with concern. "You've barely recovered from fighting that sea creature. At least give yourself time to-"

"We don't have time," Owen cut him off, his voice sharp with urgency. "I've seen what will happen if we let this kind of sorcery run rampant. The old gods have shown me as i slept. If we don't stop this soon, the fog could become self-sustaining. The blood mages are feeding it power through sacrifices and holding it in place with a focus, but once it reaches a certain threshold..." He shook his head. "Then it won't need them anymore. It will spread on its own, consuming everything in its path. We'd be looking at a magical catastrophe that could engulf half of Essos, worse than the doom of valyria."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Robert boomed, his face lighting up with the prospect of battle. The king's massive frame practically vibrated with excitement as he called out, "Someone bring me my Hammer and armor! Today we kill some demons!" Jon and Stannis exchanged quick glances before hurrying off to marshal their forces, while Bartimus headed below deck to organize the landing boats.

Owen watched them go before turning back toward his cabin. He needed his ebony armor - the enchanted black metal would offer far better protection against whatever horrors awaited them in that cursed fog than any mundane steel. As he descended below deck, his hand unconsciously brushed against Fate Cleaver's hilt. The sword seemed to hum in response, as if eager to taste the blood of demons once again. In his cabin, Owen began methodically donning his armor, each piece clicking into place with satisfying precision. The armor's weight was reassuring, its magical enchantments creating a subtle tingling sensation against his skin.

"Owen." Eddard's voice made him turn. His goodfather stood in the doorway, concern still evident on his features. "I know I can't stop you from going in there. But please... be careful. Sansa needs you. Your unborn child needs you." Owen nodded solemnly as he strapped Fate Cleaver to his hip. He understood Eddard's worry - he had the same fears himself. Despite being stronger than any human, he knew he wasn't immortal…not yet at least. But someone had to stop this madness before it grew beyond control, and he was perhaps the only one truly equipped to do so.

"Time to kill some monsters." He muttered.

Owen felt the malevolent energy before his boots even touched the dock. The fog clung to everything like a living shroud, thick and oppressive, carrying whispers of torment and despair. His enhanced senses picked up traces of dark magic woven through the mist - blood rituals and sacrificial energy that made his stomach turn. The fifty boats that had carried their mixed force of northerners and southerners bobbed silently against the weathered wood of Braavos's main harbor, the water unnaturally still beneath them.

"By the old gods and new," Jon muttered beside him, his hand tight on his ebony swords hilt. Owen could see the tension in his brother's shoulders, the way his eyes darted between the looming shapes of warehouses barely visible through the supernatural fog. The rest of the Dreadguard spread out in practiced formation, their frost-forged armor gleaming dully in what little light penetrated the gloom.

"This is no natural fog," Oberyn Martell's usual playful tone was gone, replaced by something harder and colder as he stepped onto the dock. "It feels like standing at the gates of the seven hells." The Dornish prince's spear was already in his hand, its point tracking invisible threats in the mist. Behind him, his handpicked contingent of spearmen and archers moved with careful precision, their weapons at ready.

Robert Baratheon hefted Stormblood, the magical warhammer Owen had crafted for him. Despite the king's usual boisterous nature, even he seemed subdued by the oppressive atmosphere. "Seven save us all," he breathed, watching as dark shapes of buildings emerged from the fog like the bones of dead giants. Owen could see bloody handprints smeared across some of the walls, telling silent stories of violence and terror.

"The warehouses," Owen called out softly, gesturing to the sturdy stone structures lining the dock. "We'll establish a base here before pushing deeper into the city. The thick walls will give us protection, and we can ward them properly." He watched as northern soldiers began efficiently unloading supplies from the boats, their movements practiced and silent. A few of the septons started muttering prayers, their crystal pendants catching what little light penetrated the fog.

"Quiet," Owen hissed at them, his voice carrying just enough edge to silence their whispered devotions. "Whatever's out there in that fog, we don't want to draw its attention. Not yet." He could feel the malevolent presence watching them, patient and hungry, waiting for them to make a mistake. The septons fell silent, though he could see fear and resentment in their eyes.

"You're mad," one of the knights from the Reach declared, his voice shaking slightly despite his defiant tone. "We'll all be taken in the night if we stay here." Murmurs of agreement rose from the other southern knights and septons, growing louder until Owen raised his hand for silence. "He's right," another knight added, "We should return to the ships where we're safe." The southerners nodded vigorously, but Owen noticed their northern counterparts remained steady and resolute, trusting in their lord's judgment and their superior equipment.

Owen glared at the fearful southern knights, their panic palpable in the unnatural fog. He understood their terror—it crawled across his own skin like ice-cold fingers—but fear would only make them easier prey for whatever lurked in the mist. The northerners remained steady, trusting in their lord's judgment, but the southerners' anxiety threatened to spread like wildfire. Something had to be done, and quickly.

"Everyone, quiet," Owen commanded, his voice cutting through the rising panic. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath that filled his lungs with the cold, damp air. The Worldsinger ability had been with him for some time but he'd barely had time or reason to explore its potential. But necessity was often the mother of invention, and right now, they desperately needed protection.

He began to hum softly, a melody half-remembered from another life, another world. The notes flowed from his throat, unsure at first then carrying with them the power and intent of his magic mixed with the psykic knowledge of an Eldari bonesinger. His humming grew louder, turning to song, more confident, as he shaped the magic with his voice. The stone beneath his feet began to tremble, not violently but with purpose, as if awakening from a long slumber. The paving stones of the dock shifted and cracked, dark soil pushing up between them like blood from a wound.

"What in seven hells—" Robert started, but Oberyn silenced him with a raised hand, his dark eyes wide with wonder as a slender shoot erupted from the ground, growing impossibly fast. The shoot thickened and stretched upward, branches unfurling like reaching arms. But this was no ordinary tree—its bark gleamed with an inner light, swirling patterns reminiscent of galaxies and nebulae dancing across its surface. As it grew taller and broader, the fog around them began to retreat, as if burned away by the tree's radiance.

"By the old gods," Jon whispered, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword but stopping halfway. The tree continued its supernatural growth until it towered above them, at least thirty feet tall, its branches spreading outward in a protective canopy. The light emanating from it intensified, a silvery-blue glow that pushed back the darkness and the unnatural fog. Creatures previously hidden in the mist shrieked and fled from the light, their twisted forms briefly visible before they vanished back into the gloom beyond the tree's protective aura.

Owen poured more of his energy into the creation, infusing the tree with protective enchantments and a psychic resonance that he hadn't even known he possessed. The effort drained him rapidly, and as the final branches took form, his knees buckled. Jon rushed forward, catching him before he hit the ground.

"Owen!" Jon's voice sounded distant, though he was right beside him. Owen leaned heavily against his brother, his vision swimming as he gazed up at his creation. The tree pulsed with life and power, its light extending in a perfect circle around their position, creating a sanctuary amid the horror that Braavos had become. "Heavens above, I hope this doesn't gain the notice of some chaos daemon or god ten realities away," Owen thought grimly, acutely aware of the massive amount of psychic energy and magic radiating from the tree like a beacon. He could feel the eyes of everyone upon him—northern soldiers, Dreadguard, southern knights, and septons alike—all looking at him with a mixture of awe, fear, and reverence that made him deeply uncomfortable.

"Now I know what The Emperor of Mankind must have felt like," he thought wryly, before clearing his throat and straightening up. "I'm fine," he announced, his voice stronger than he felt. "We should get to work setting up a proper camp. Tomorrow, we begin our push into the city." The spell of wonder broke, and the men moved to obey, though many still cast furtive and awe filled glances at the luminous tree and at Owen himself. As they dispersed, Owen caught Robert's eye—the king was staring at him with an expression that mingled respect with something that looked almost like fear. Owen merely nodded to him before turning to help organize their defenses. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for tonight, at least, they would rest under the protective glow of a tree born from song and magic.

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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

Knowledge of Infinity.

Knowledge is power, or at least that's how the saying goes, and the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora would happen to agree. Within your hands is a very strange and almost disgusting book known as the Oghma Infinium, bound with the skin of each of the Mer races, both extinct and not, this book stands as one of the greatest depositories of knowledge in the Elder Scrolls universe. Filled with everything from swordplay to ancient and forgotten spells not seen since ages past, this book represents an immense amount of power should you utilize the knowledge within. Of course, while that would be quite the bounty on its own it seems your version has retained the inquisitive nature of its master, each setting you go to represents a font of knowledge never before seen in the halls of Apocrypha or the pages of the book. Like Mora himself the book will gather information from each setting you go to as if Mora himself was gathering it, this isn't instantaneous and don't expect it to pull information that's under incredible concealment or protected by entities of immense power with ease. At most the book will take a full decade to gather an equivalent amount of information on each world as it does the Elder Scrolls.

Muggle Technology (Make a Wish) (200CP)

You know it, general knowledge of up to graduate level in every scientific field is known to you, not only this, but the knowledge seems very eager to help you and as such whenever you are using magic for creation of something or other, the knowledge will leap up with helpful facts and connect seemingly disconnected facts to help in whatever magical creation you are making next. Post Jump, the helpfulness and eagerness spreads to the rest of the knowledge you have in your mind

Reliable Invention (Kim Possible) (200CP)

Anything you construct is only broken when used improperly or purposefully targeted with attacks. The items you create do not malfunction and are completely resistant to damage caused by regular usage.

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.

Chapter Text

Owen moved through the fog-shrouded streets of Braavos with grim determination, The mist swirling around them, thick and unnatural, carrying whispers that seemed to brush against their minds like cold fingers. Behind him marched a formation of northern soldiers, their faces set in determined expressions, spears and shields held at the ready.

"Forward. Don't give them an inch," Owen commanded, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. "Spears and shields forward, archers lay down fire from the back. Anything that comes from the fog that isn't human dies." He glanced at Jon, who nodded in silent understanding. The silver lamps tied to their waists—crafted through Owen's bonesinging—cast halos of protective silver light, same as the tree, that pushed back the supernatural fog. Each step they took left the cobblestones beneath them briefly illuminated before the fog crept back like a living entity.

A shriek pierced the air as three misshapen creatures lunged from an alleyway. They moved with unnatural speed, their bodies twisted amalgamations of human and beast, eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. "Shields up!" Jon shouted, and the northern formation closed ranks instantly. The creatures crashed against the wall of shields like waves against stone, claws scrabbling for purchase. Archers from the rear ranks loosed a volley of arrows, each shaft tipped with enchanted steel that glowed blue-white as they found their marks. The creatures fell, their bodies dissolving into the mist with unnatural rapidity.

"There!" A soldier pointed toward a huddled group of figures pressed against a building's wall. Owen raised his hand, sending a pulse of silver light that cut through the fog between them and the civilians. A family of five—parents clutching three terrified children—stared back with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Get behind our lines," Owen ordered as soldiers moved to escort them. "We're establishing safe zones as we advance." He placed a small silver orb in the father's trembling hand. "This will keep the creatures at bay until you reach the harbor." The man nodded wordlessly, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face.

"We've found only twenty-three survivors in this district," Jon reported quietly as they pressed onward. "Whatever ritual they performed... it happened too quickly for most to escape." His face was grim, eyes hard with barely contained fury. Owen nodded, pausing to plant another bonesung silver beacon at a crossroads. The silver light flared as he activated it, pushing back the fog in a thirty-foot radius. The mist recoiled like a living thing, revealing blood-stained cobblestones and the scattered remains of those who hadn't escaped the initial onslaught.

The northern soldiers held their positions, their enchanted weapons gleaming in the dim light cast by their silver lamps. Every face was grim, determined, yet Owen could see the fear in their eyes—fear not for themselves, but for what this magic represented. A perversion of nature itself.

"Those sorcerers will pay for this," Jon muttered grimly beside him, his breath forming small clouds in the unnaturally cold air. "Death on this scale... it's an abomination."

Owen nodded, his fingers tightening around Fate Cleaver's hilt. "We'll find them. And they'll answer for every life they've taken." The sword hummed with anticipation, its enchantments resonating with Owen's own magic.

"My lord! More creatures incoming!" The shout came from Torrhen, one of his Dreadguard, pointing toward the shifting wall of fog ahead. Owen raised Fate Cleaver as the mist parted and a horde of hideous goatmen charged toward them. Their bodies were twisted mockeries of nature—human torsos atop powerful goat legs, heads crowned with massive curved horns, and eyes that glowed with unholy fire. They carried crude but deadly weapons, already stained with the blood of Braavosi citizens.

Jon drew his ebony blade in one fluid motion, the enchanted metal drinking in what little light there was. "Form up!" he commanded, and the northern soldiers moved with practiced precision into battle formation. The goatmen roared a challenge, raising their bloodstained steel to the sky. Their voices were not human—a terrible mixture of human screams and animal bleating that chilled the blood.

The northern line answered with a disciplined battle cry as spearmen thrust forward, their enchanted weapons finding vulnerable flesh. Archers loosed volleys of arrows that streaked through the air like blue comets, while swordsmen moved to intercept any creature that broke through the front line. Owen and Jon stood back to back, their blades moving in deadly arcs as they cut down any goatman that came within reach. Fate Cleaver sang through the air, cleaving through horn and bone with equal ease, leaving trails of silver light in its wake.

It wasn't all victory, though. Owen watched with growing concern as some of the goatmen's weapons bypassed the northern armor—weapons that should have been turned aside cut through steel like cloth. A young soldier to Owen's left screamed as claws raked across his breastplate, tearing through the metal and into the flesh beneath. Another fell as a crude axe split his helmet. These creatures, born of blood magic, possessed an unnatural ability to harm Owen's soldiers despite their enchanted protection. For the first time since the campaign began, Owen felt a flicker of annoyance, even doubt. The magic they faced was older and darker than he had anticipated.

Owen felt the magic surge through him, a torrent of power gathering in his core and flowing down his arms. Channeling his will into raw electrical energy, he thrust his hands forward, fingers splayed wide. Lightning exploded from his palms, crackling blue-white bolts that split the air with a deafening thunderclap. The electricity surged toward the goatmen, connecting with their twisted bodies and illuminating them from within. Their unholy flesh conducted the power perfectly, bodies jerking and convulsing as the lightning coursed through them. In seconds, a dozen of the creatures collapsed, their bodies charred and smoking.

"Press forward!" Owen shouted, his voice filled with fury. The display of raw magical power had drained him a bit, having not yet recovered fully from his bonesinging from creating the tree, but the effect on both his men and the enemy was immediate. The northern soldiers surged forward with renewed vigor while the remaining goatmen bleated in panic, their courage evaporating. They turned to flee, pushing and shoving each other in their haste to escape the deadly lightning that had claimed so many of their kin. The northmen, enraged by the loss of their comrades, gave chase with cold fury in their eyes.

"No mercy for these abominations!" Jon called out, his ebony blade cutting down a fleeing goatman. "They showed none to the people of Braavos!" The northern soldiers responded with grim efficiency, their enchanted weapons finding their marks with no hesitation. Owen watched as one of the fleeing creatures, larger than the others with a crown of twisted horns, reached for a black horn hanging at its waist. The creature brought it to its lips and blew a single, mournful note that echoed through the fog-shrouded streets before a northern arrow found its throat. The goatman collapsed, but the damage was done.

The sound of the horn faded, replaced by an unnatural silence that pressed against their ears like a physical weight. Then it came—a low, reverberating moan that seemed to rise from the very stones beneath their feet. The sound of death and decay given voice. The fog ahead parted, revealing a monstrosity that dwarfed anything they had faced thus far. A giant, shambling horror composed of dozens, perhaps hundreds of decaying human corpses fused together into a single entity. Arms, legs, and torsos jutted at impossible angles from its massive frame, while countless faces—frozen in expressions of agony—stared out from its surface. In one massive fist, it clutched a club fashioned from a tree trunk, still dripping with fresh blood.

"Fall back!" Owen commanded, recognizing the danger immediately. This was no ordinary construct but something born from the darkest blood magic—a collection of souls bound together in eternal torment. His soldiers began an orderly retreat, maintaining their formation even as they moved backward toward the relative safety of their established perimeter. Owen raised Fate Cleaver, wondering how much magical energy he would need to destroy such a creature, when an unexpected battle cry rose from behind them.

"For the Seven and Westeros!" The shout came from their rear, followed by the thunder of hooves on cobblestones. Owen turned in confusion to see a column of knights in gleaming armor charging past their position. The banners of the Reach and Westerlands fluttered above them—roses and lions side by side as they bore down on the corpse giant. Owen watched in horror and bewilderment as the southern knights, who had been ordered to remain at the harbor, charged headlong toward certain death.

"Stop! Fall back!" Owen shouted, but his voice was lost in the clash of steel and the inhuman roar of the giant as the first wave of knights reached it. The monster swung its massive club in a wide arc, sending armored bodies flying through the air like broken dolls. Yet still they came, lances lowered, swords drawn, charging into the fray with reckless courage. Owen cursed under his breath—their bravery was admirable but foolhardy. The southern knights had no enchanted weapons, no magical protection against the blood magic that animated the horror before them. They were riding to their deaths, and in doing so, they had completely disrupted his planned retreat.

Owen watched in disbelief as the southern knights continued their suicidal charge against the monstrous amalgamation of corpses. The creature swung its massive club again, catching three knights simultaneously and sending their broken bodies flying through the fog. Their armor—crafted for tournaments and conventional warfare—offered no protection against the blood-fueled strength of the abomination. Still, more knights charged forward, their steel reflecting the eerie light as they rode to their deaths with misplaced courage.

"What the fuck are they doing here?" Jon asked in both horror and anger, watching the beast swat them aside with ease. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt as another knight was plucked from his saddle and crushed in the monster's grotesque fist. "They were ordered to remain at the harbor and help the survivors!"

"Forward, brave knights, for the Seven! In the name of the Warrior, go! The Seven protect you!" They suddenly heard from the back, the duo looking to see a wizened septon leading them on. The old man's eyes gleamed with religious fervor as he urged the knights forward, his frail body wrapped in the simple robes of his order. He clutched a crystal pendant before him like a shield, as if faith alone could counter dark magic.

"Are you mad?" Owen asked but was ignored. The septon continued his zealous exhortations, sending more knights to their deaths with promises of divine protection that never materialized. The monster seemed to be enjoying itself now, swatting the knights with horrific abandon. It lifted a screaming man in full plate armor and tore him in half, the sound of metal rending mixed with human agony cutting through the fog.

"We have to help them. Shit, shit, shit." Owen's mind raced through options, calculating the magical energy required versus what he had available. If creating the tree had weakened him, his recent exertions had already depleted whatever reserves he still had considerably, and what he planned would drain him completely.

Owen grasped Jon's shoulder, pulling him close enough that his words wouldn't carry to the others. His eyes never left the monstrous amalgamation of corpses as it continued to decimate the southern knights. The creature's death moans and the screams of dying men formed a hellish chorus that echoed through Braavos's fog-shrouded streets. Owen's face was grim, his jaw set with determination despite the fatigue already pulling at him from his previous magical exertions.

"Jon, I need you to listen carefully," Owen said, his voice low and urgent. "What I'm about to do will drain me completely. I'm going to destroy that thing, but the cost will be high. Once it's done, I'll be unconscious—possibly for days. You'll need to carry me back to the harbor base and protect me until I recover." He pressed Fate Cleaver's hilt into Jon's hand, the enchanted blade humming with barely contained power. "Keep this safe for me. I won't need it for what comes next."

Jon nodded, understanding immediately the gravity of Owen's plan. "I'll get you out. Just kill that thing before it slaughters everyone." He signaled to the Dreadguard, positioning them to cover Owen and prepare for a rapid retreat. The northern soldiers formed up, creating a protective formation around their lord as he prepared his most powerful attack.

Owen began bonesinging again, his fingers moving in complex patterns as he shaped and hummed raw magical and psychic energy into physical form. A lance of pure, psychic energy-filled wraithbone materialized in his hands, glowing with inner light that pushed back the unnatural fog around them. He then awakened his magic circuits, feeling the familiar burn as prana surged through pathways throughout his body. The lance began to change as he channeled elemental forces into it—flames spiraled along its length, electricity crackled around its tip, and golden holy magic suffused the entire weapon with divine light.

That seemed to catch the monster's attention as it moaned the moan of the dead and started walking heavily towards him, giving the remaining twenty knights time to flee back to the northerners. The abomination's countless faces contorted in rage and pain as it recognized the threat, abandoning its easy prey to focus on the true danger. Owen pointed the lance forward, and muttered "Time acceleration: One hand of time."

With those words, owen could feel time stretching around him as he activated his magic circuits to their fullest capacity. The world slowed to a crawl—knights frozen mid-retreat, Jon's concerned face locked in an expression of grim determination, even the monster's loud moans seemed to elongate into a deep, sustained bass note that barely registered in his consciousness. His body hummed with power as he poured everything he had into the wraithbone lance, the crystalline material drinking in his magic like a thirsty man gulps water. The lance glowed brighter, flames dancing along its length while arcs of lightning crackled around the tip, holy golden light binding it all together in a harmonious symphony of destruction.

"Fucking die you sorry piece of shit," Owen whispered, the words seemingly taking minutes to leave his lips in this altered state of time. He pushed off the ground with explosive force, his body hurtling forward like a comet. The distance between him and the abomination collapsed in what felt like slow motion, giving Owen time to observe every horrific detail of the creature—the faces of its victims contorted in eternal agony, the unnatural movements of limbs never meant to work together, the black ichor that served as its blood pulsing through exposed veins. The lance extended before him, its tip aimed directly at the center mass of the monstrosity where the dark energy binding it together was strongest.

The impact came with a thunderous crack that split the air itself. Owen felt the lance connect, then pierce through the creature's unholy flesh as if it were nothing more substantial than fog. The combined elemental forces—fire, lightning, and holy light—exploded outward from the point of contact, burning away corruption and severing the bonds of blood magic that held the abomination together. The creature's upper body, including what passed for its head, disintegrated into ash that glowed briefly with golden embers before being swept away by an unnatural wind. The lower portion of its body remained standing for a heartbeat before collapsing into a heap of disconnected limbs and torsos, the dark magic animating them extinguished completely.

Time snapped back to its normal flow as Owen landed on his feet beyond the creature's remains, the momentum of his charge carrying him several yards past the point of impact. He turned slowly, the wraithbone lance still clutched in his trembling hands, its light now dimmed to a soft glow as most of its power had been expended in the attack. The fog around them had been pushed back by the explosion of holy energy, creating a perfect circle of clarity in the otherwise shrouded city. In that moment of perfect stillness, Owen raised the lance high above his head in a gesture of defiance against the dark forces that had claimed Braavos.

"For the North!" a soldier shouted, breaking the spell of silence that had fallen over the battlefield. The northern forces erupted in cheers, their voices rising in a crescendo of triumph and relief. Even the southern knights, those who had survived their foolhardy charge, joined in the celebration, their earlier bravado replaced by genuine awe at what they had witnessed. The septon who had urged them forward now stood silent, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—shock, disbelief, and perhaps a flicker of fear as he confronted power beyond his understanding.

"Did you see that? He flew right through it! Like a bolt from the gods themselves!" one of the Tyrell knights exclaimed, his voice carrying over the general commotion. Another knight, bearing the lion of Lannister on his surcoat, nodded wordlessly, his face pale beneath his helm. Jon stepped forward, Fate Cleaver still held ready in his hand, his eyes never leaving Owen as he sensed what was coming next.

The triumph was short-lived for Owen as the full cost of his magic made itself known. The lance slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the cobblestones with a sound like breaking glass. His legs buckled beneath him as every ounce of energy drained from his body in an instant. The world tilted sideways as he collapsed, vaguely aware of Jon rushing toward him, shouting orders to the Dreadguard. His vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges as consciousness fled. The last thing Owen saw before the darkness claimed him completely was Jon's face hovering above his own, mouth moving in words he could no longer hear, and beyond him, the sky of Braavos—momentarily clear of fog—where stars were just beginning to appear in the gathering dusk.

Robert strode into one of the large warehouses acting as their base at the harbor, his footfalls heavy with rage, each step a thunderous declaration of his fury. The massive space had been converted into a command center, with maps of Braavos spread across tables and southern lords huddled in small groups discussing strategy. The king's face had turned the deep crimson that those close to him recognized as the precursor to an explosion of royal wrath. Behind him trailed Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander's expression grim as he watched his king advance toward the three men standing near the central table—Tywin Lannister, Stannis Baratheon, and Randyll Tarly. The conversations throughout the warehouse died instantly as soldiers and lords alike sensed the coming storm.

"What in the seven fucking hells were you thinking?" Robert roared, slamming his fist down on the table hard enough to send markers scattering across the carefully drawn maps. "I gave explicit orders that no southern forces were to enter the fog without northern guidance! Now I've got half a hundred knights dead, the rest wounded, and Lord Longshore unconscious after saving their worthless hides!" Spittle flew from his lips as he glared at each man in turn, his massive frame trembling with barely contained rage. "I want answers, and I want them now before I start removing heads!"

Tywin Lannister remained impassive, his green eyes revealing nothing as he met the king's furious gaze. "Your Grace, I assure you the Lannister forces were under strict orders to remain at the harbor," he said, his tone measured and calm in the face of Robert's fury. "If any of my men joined this... unauthorized excursion, they did so against my explicit command." The Lord of Casterly Rock's gaze shifted briefly to Randyll Tarly, a subtle movement that nonetheless carried clear accusation.

Randyll Tarly stiffened under the combined weight of Robert's rage and Tywin's implied blame. "The knights who followed into the fog were not acting under my orders, Your Grace," he said, his voice hard as iron. "They were led by Septon Ollidor, who convinced them that the Seven would protect them against these abominations. The man claimed to have had a vision from the Warrior himself, saying southern steel guided by true faith would triumph where northern sorcery would fail." Tarly's lips curled in disgust. "Foolish religious fervor, not military command, drove those men to their deaths."

"Religious fervor?" Robert's voice dropped dangerously low as he turned to face Stannis, whose well-known devotion to the Lord of Light had been a source of tension since they'd arrived in Braavos. "And where were you when this septon was sending our men to die, brother? Too busy praying to the tree to notice your king's orders being ignored?" The accusation hung in the air between them, unrelenting.

Stannis met his brother's gaze unflinchingly, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. "I was overseeing the evacuation of Braavosi refugees as you commanded, Your Grace," he replied, the formal address underscoring the perpetual distance between the brothers. "Unlike some, I follow orders without question. This septon's actions were not sanctioned by me or any commander present. Had I known of his intentions, I would have stopped him immediately and had him arrested for countermanding royal orders." Stannis's eyes flicked briefly to Tywin. "Perhaps if certain lords spent less time plotting political advantage and more time controlling their men, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Enough!" Robert bellowed, silencing the brewing argument between his commanders. "I don't care whose fault it was or which gods they prayed to before charging to their deaths! The fact remains that Owen Longshore—the one man whose magic might actually end this nightmare—is now unconscious in the northern camp because he had to clean up your mess!" He turned to glare at each man in turn, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Do you have any idea what we're facing here? This isn't some petty rebellion we can crush with steel and numbers. Those... things... in the fog would have slaughtered every last one of those knights if Longshore hadn't intervened. And now, instead of leading our forces against whatever's creating this hellish fog, he's lying unconscious while we sit here pointing fingers at each other like squabbling children!"

Robert paced the length of the table, his massive frame casting long shadows in the lantern light. The warehouse fell into complete silence, commanders and soldiers alike watching their king wrestle with his legendary temper. When he finally spoke again, his voice carried the weight of both crown and command. "Here's what's going to happen. Tywin, find this Septon Ollidor and bring him to me—alive. I want to hear from his own lips what madness possessed him to countermand his king. Stannis, coordinate with the northern commanders on a defensive perimeter around our position. No one—absolutely no one—goes into that fog without direct orders from me. And Tarly, get your best men ready to reinforce the northerners guarding Longshore. If he dies because of southern foolishness, I'll hold all three of you personally responsible." He straightened to his full imposing height, eyes blazing. "The fate of two continents may rest on that young man's shoulders, and I will not have him endangered by pride, politics, or misplaced piety. Am I understood?"

Robert watched the lords bow their heads in acknowledgment, though he knew better than to trust their ready acquiescence. Years on the throne had taught him that men nodded easily enough when a king's rage was hot, only to scheme behind his back once it cooled. 

Still, he'd made his point clear—Owen Longshore was to be protected at all costs. The young northerner had proven himself worth a hundred southern knights with that display of power against the abomination. Robert had never seen anything like it in all his years of warfare. The memory of Owen flying through the air, lance blazing with holy fire, lightning, and golden light, then piercing straight through that monstrous creation of flesh and faces... it was something from the old tales, not the world of men Robert thought he knew.

"Your Grace," Tywin's measured voice cut through Robert's thoughts, "while we will certainly follow your commands regarding Lord Longshore's safety, perhaps we should address the wildfire in the room." The old lion's face remained impassive, but his green eyes glittered with calculation.

"What wildfire?" Robert demanded, his temper still simmering beneath the surface. "Speak plainly, Tywin. I've had enough riddles for one day."

Tywin glanced meaningfully at the warehouse entrance, where a group of knights and several septons stood huddled in urgent conversation, occasionally casting furtive glances toward the northern camp where Owen lay unconscious. "I speak of Lord Longshore's creation of that tree from nothing—a tree that keeps evil at bay. It's making him be seen like a saint among the common soldiers and even some knights." Tywin's voice remained neutral, but the implication hung heavy in the air. "Some of the septas and septons are questioning their faith after what they witnessed that day and now with todays events."

Robert followed Tywin's gaze, noting the agitated gestures of the religious figures. He recognized Septon Willem, a normally composed man who now appeared to be arguing heatedly with two knights bearing the rose of Highgarden. Even from this distance, Robert could see the man's face was flushed with emotion, his hands trembling as he clutched at the crystal hanging from his neck—the symbol of the Faith that suddenly seemed inadequate in the face of Owen's display of power.

"Seven hells," Robert muttered, running a hand through his beard. "Are you telling me we're facing a crisis of faith on top of everything else? These fools saw a man save their lives from a monster made of corpses, and instead of being grateful, they're having theological debates?" His voice rose with incredulity, drawing nervous glances from those nearby.

"It's more complicated than that, Robert," Stannis interjected, his voice tight with disapproval. "When a man creates life from nothing—a tree that glows with inner light and repels darkness—it challenges everything the Faith teaches about the powers reserved for the gods alone. I've heard the whispers myself. Some call him blessed by the Old Gods, others say he's channeling powers from the Lord of Light, and still others..." Stannis hesitated, his jaw working as if the words tasted bitter. "Still others are saying perhaps the Seven are not as powerful as the septons have claimed, if a northern lord can perform miracles they cannot."

Robert cursed vehemently, the string of profanities echoing off the warehouse walls and causing several nearby squires to flinch. He paced back and forth like a caged bear, his massive frame radiating frustration and barely contained fury. The implications of what Tywin was suggesting infuriated him—not because it was wrong, but because he knew the old lion was right. Owen Longshore had demonstrated power beyond anything Robert had seen in his lifetime. The young man had created life from nothing, wielded magic that could destroy abominations with a single strike, and transformed the North from a harsh, barren land into a prosperous kingdom within just a few years. And now, the septons were questioning their faith because of him. The political ramifications were enormous.

"What in the seven hells do you expect me to do, Tywin?" Robert finally bellowed, turning to face the impassive Lord of Casterly Rock. "Arrest him? On what charges? Creating a fucking magical tree that's keeping us all alive? Saving the lives of those idiotic knights who charged into certain death? The North loves him—Ned loves him—and I'll not start a civil war over some religious hysteria!" He slammed his fist down on the table again, sending more markers scattering across the floor. "Besides, the man is unconscious after saving our worthless hides. What kind of king arrests the hero who just saved his men?"

Tywin remained unruffled in the face of Robert's outburst, his cold green eyes calculating as always. "No one is suggesting arrest, Your Grace. That would be... counterproductive." He spoke with the measured tone of a man thinking something through carefully "What I am suggesting is that Lord Longshore must be tied to the royal family somehow—either him directly or his future children. The Baratheon-Lannister dynasty cannot afford to have a power like his operating independently, particularly when those powers will likely be inherited by his and Sansa Stark's children." Tywin's gaze hardened. "Think about it, Your Grace. In a generation or two, the North could have rulers with the political backing of House Stark and the magical abilities of Owen Longshore. They would wield more power than your descendants. The balance that has held the Seven Kingdoms together would be shattered."

"And what would you have me do?" Robert demanded, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Force him to set aside Sansa and marry... who? Myrcella is a child, for gods' sake!" The thought was repulsive to him—not just because of the age difference, but because he genuinely liked Owen Longshore. The young man reminded him somewhat of Ned in his quiet competence and lack of political ambition. "Besides, the man loves his wife. I've seen it with my own eyes. He's not some schemer looking to advance himself through marriage alliances."

"We should count ourselves fortunate that neither Princess Arianne nor Margaery Tyrell had the opportunity to catch his eye before Sansa Stark," Tywin remarked dryly. "Can you imagine the political chaos if either Dorne or the Reach had secured his allegiance? They'd be pushing out bastards who might inherit Owen's abilities, creating rival power centers that would threaten the throne for generations." He paused, letting the implications sink in. "No, what I propose is more subtle. A betrothal between your eldest son and their firstborn daughter, should they have one. Or perhaps between Myrcella and their son. We bind our houses together through marriage, ensuring that any power Longshore's line develops remains aligned with the throne's interests."

Robert stared at Tywin, momentarily speechless. The old lion's political mind never stopped working, always three moves ahead on the game board. Part of him—the part that still remembered being a young lord who just wanted to fight and feast and fuck—wanted to tell Tywin to go to all seven hells. But the king in him, the part that had learned hard lessons about power and succession over sixteen years on the Iron Throne, recognized the wisdom in Tywin's words. "Joffrey and Longshore's daughter," he finally muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "Gods help the poor girl…..if it is a girl But I'll not force it—I'll suggest it to Ned and Owen when the time is right. As a request between friends, not a royal command."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Tywin replied, inclining his head slightly, though his eyes revealed he was far from satisfied with Robert's approach. "But I would urge you to consider the broader implications. Lord Longshore's abilities have already transformed the North. His children, raised with both his knowledge and the political connections of House Stark, could potentially challenge royal authority within a generation. The Iron Throne must secure their loyalty now, while we still have leverage." He glanced toward the northern camp, where Owen lay unconscious.

Robert ignored Tywin for now and turned to Stannis, his brow furrowed in irritation. The whispers he'd heard around camp troubled him more than he cared to admit. Men were saying his own brother had taken to worshipping Owen's magical tree like some northern heathen, and such talk couldn't go unchallenged.

"Now, what's this I hear about you praying to Longshore's tree, Stannis? Have you forsaken the seven for northern magic now?" Robert demanded. He watched his younger brother's face carefully, looking for any sign of the religious fervor in his brother.

Stannis's jaw tightened, the familiar grinding of teeth audible even from where Robert stood. "I do not worship the tree, Your Grace," he replied stiffly, his voice clipped and precise as always. "I observe it. Study it. As should any commander faced with an unprecedented strategic asset." He paused, his dark blue eyes studying Robert with an intensity that made the king shift uncomfortably. "But I must ask... have you not noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Robert snapped, his patience wearing thin with Stannis's cryptic manner.

Stannis remained silent for several long moments, his gaze never leaving Robert's face. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, almost gentle. "I know you have nightmares of Lyanna, Robert. You've had them since the rebellion. Every man who served with you knows how you call her name in your sleep." The unexpected mention of Lyanna's name sent a jolt through Robert's massive frame, but before he could respond with anger, Stannis continued. "But since Owen created that tree, since you've been sleeping in its vicinity... the nightmares have stopped, haven't they?"

Robert blinked, the building rage suddenly extinguished by shock. He opened his mouth to deny it, to bellow that Stannis knew nothing of his dreams, but the words died on his lips as realization dawned. Stannis was right. For the first time in sixteen years, he had slept through the night without seeing Lyanna's face covered in blood, without hearing her whispered pleas, without waking in a cold sweat with her name on his lips or hearing that bastard rhaegars voice. He had attributed it to exhaustion from the campaign, to the Braavosi wine he'd been drinking, to anything but the ethereal tree that now stood sentinel at the harbor's edge.

"There's more," Stannis said, reaching for a polished silver plate that had been used to serve bread earlier. He held it up before Robert, angling it so that it caught the light from the lanterns overhead. "When was the last time you looked at yourself, truly looked? The tree's influence extends beyond peaceful sleep, it seems."

Robert stared at his reflection in the makeshift mirror, momentarily stunned into silence. The face that looked back at him was still his own—the thick black beard streaked with gray, the fierce blue eyes of House Baratheon—but there were changes he couldn't deny. His cheeks were less bloated, the lines of his jaw more defined than they had been in years. And when he glanced down at his body, he realized with a start that his doublet's arms stretched with muscle rather than fat, and the great belly that had been his constant companion since taking the throne had nearly disappeared. He was still a big man, to be sure, but the grotesque weight that had slowed him down and left him winded after climbing a flight of stairs had melted away without his notice.

Robert stared at his reflection, disbelief warring with the undeniable evidence before his eyes. He had assumed the increased stamina, the ease with which he'd been swinging his war hammer in recent days, was simply the excitement of battle rekindling his youthful vigor. Now, faced with the truth, he felt a strange mixture of awe and unease settle in his gut. The tree—Owen's creation—had done this to him without his knowledge or consent. What else might it be capable of?

"Perhaps now you begin to understand, Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice low and measured as he approached once more. "The tree is healing those who sleep in its vicinity. Many veteran or aging knights swear that all their aches and pains are gone. Men who've suffered for years with memories of bloody battles no longer endure nightmares." Tywin's green eyes glittered in the lantern light, sharp and calculating. "If Owen Longshore can create such a tree—one that heals wounds of both body and mind without effort—what else might he do? Speak with the divine? Grant immortality?"

Robert tore his gaze from the reflection, his massive hands curling into fists at his sides. "You think I haven't considered this, Tywin? You think I'm too much of a drunken fool to see what's before my eyes?" His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. "I've watched him show us weapons that shouldn't exist, build ships that sail faster than the wind, and now... now he's making trees that heal by their mere presence." He gestured violently toward the warehouse entrance, beyond which the luminous tree stood sentinel against the darkness. "The man turned the fucking North from a frozen wasteland into a land of plenty in less than five years! Of course I understand what he represents!"

"Then you must also understand why we need him tied to us," Tywin pressed, unperturbed by the king's outburst. "When this war in Essos is done and word of Owen's innovations spreads, no more rumors and hearsay but the real honest view of what he has created—of his magical power and the miracles he can create—every royal house, rich prince, king, and queen will fight over him. They will offer gold beyond measure, lands, titles, their own children and siblings in marriage. Some may even attempt to take him by force. And when these septons and septas report to the faithful what he can do and he causes a schism in the faith in westeros as his tree has done here." The old lion's voice dropped even lower. "And what happens then, Your Grace? What happens when the greatest power in the known world is courted by our enemies or forced to retaliate against us?"

Robert was silent. Because he knew Tywin was right. The thought sickened him—it felt too much like the scheming and manipulation he had always despised in the Targaryens—but he could not deny the truth. Owen Longshore represented power unlike anything the Seven Kingdoms or the known world had seen in centuries, perhaps longer. Such power could not be allowed to exist unchecked, unaligned with the throne. "I'll think on it," he finally muttered, unable to meet Tywin's gaze. "For now, our priority is to keep him alive and win this damned war. The rest can wait until we're back in King's Landing."

Owen woke up with a gasp, his body jolting upright before pain forced him back down onto the mattress. The healing ring of Solomon pulsed warm against his finger, its magic working steadily to repair the damage he'd sustained fighting the monstrosity. The ring glowed with a soft golden light, sending waves of healing energy through his battered body from the white pearl at the center. He stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling, memories flooding back—the creature's countless limbs, its unnatural strength, the blood-magic that had animated it. Most painfully, he remembered the faces of the young northern soldiers who had charged in to help him, only to be torn apart by magic they had no defense against.

"Damn it all," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He had been arrogant, overconfident in the superiority of northern arms and armor. The weapons he'd created were nearly unbeatable against mortal foes, but against creatures born of blood magic and supernatural forces, his men had been vulnerable. The realization sat like a stone in his gut—those deaths were on him. Young men, barely past boyhood, had died because he hadn't prepared properly and. Owen tried to sit up again, more carefully this time, and felt something hard yet oddly soft beneath him. Reaching under the blanket, his fingers closed around a familiar leather binding—the Oghma Infinium.

Owen blinked in confusion, holding the ancient tome before him. "I left this on the bed on bartimus ship….how did it," he whispered to the empty room. The book seemed to pulse in his hands, almost as if it were alive, whispering wordlessly to him, begging to be opened. Its pages contained knowledge beyond mortal comprehension—secrets of the universe, magic beyond anything he'd mastered so far. For a brief moment, his fingers moved to open it, drawn by its silent promise of power that could protect his people against any threat. But something made him hesitate. There was always a price for such knowledge, and he'd already seen the consequences of reaching too far, too fast. The book had come from the celestial forge and he doubted the forge would ever give him anything that could hurt him but dealing with an object associated with a daedric prince was something he found himself not wanting to do. He knew it was already collecting new information from anything and everything he saw. That was enough.

The warehouse door creaked open, letting in a shaft of pale northern sunlight. Jon Snow stepped through, a steaming bowl of beef stew in his hands, his normally solemn face lighting up with surprise. "Owen! You're awake!" he exclaimed, hurrying to the bedside. "We thought you'd be unconscious for at least another day. Maester Torin said the strain on your body was..." Jon trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the memory of Owen's condition when he grabbed him before he fell to the ground

"How long was I out?" Owen asked, accepting the bowl gratefully. The stew's rich aroma made his stomach growl—he hadn't realized how hungry he was until that moment.

"Two days," Jon replied, pulling up a wooden stool beside the bed. "Two days of Robert Baratheon bellowing for updates every hour, half the Septons, septas and knights claiming your tree is either a miracle from the Seven or heresy that should be burned, and Tywin Lannister looking like he's trying to decide whether to offer you his kingdom or have you quietly disposed of." Jon's face grew more serious. "The situation in the city has deteriorated. Those... things... they're multiplying, making more or being created in more numbers to counter our first foray into the city. The fog grows thicker each night though the beacons help and we've lost contact with several southern scouting parties. The only safe zone is around your tree and beacons—nothing evil can approach within a hundred yards of it. Whatever does is either severely weakened or runs."

Owen swallowed a spoonful of stew, letting the warmth spread through him as he processed Jon's words. "And our men? How many did we lose?" he asked, dreading the answer but needing to know.

Jon's expression darkened. "Seventeen dead from the goatmen, thirty-two wounded. All northerners. The southerners who stayed near the tree remained unharmed though only twenty of those idiots who tried to charge that monsters live." He hesitated before adding, "The men don't blame you, Owen. They're saying if not for your magic, we'd all be dead or worse. But there's talk among some of the lords... questions about whether we should be fighting in a war against powers we don't understand."

"They're right to question," Owen said quietly, setting the half-finished stew aside. "I was arrogant, Jon. I thought our weapons and armor would be enough against any foe. I didn't prepare them for magical threats." He flexed his fingers, feeling the ring's power coursing through him, accelerating his healing. "But I won't make that mistake again. These creatures, this fog—it's all connected to the blood magic being performed somewhere in the city. We need to find the source and destroy it."

Owen drank the last of his soup, feeling the warmth spread through his body. The healing ring continued its work, knitting together damaged tissues and replenishing his depleted energy. It wasn't enough—he could feel his magic circuits still humming at barely half capacity—but it would have to do. Braavos couldn't wait for him to recover fully. With a grimace, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his weight cautiously before straightening to his full height.

"Jon, I need you to get the Dreadguard and our northern soldiers ready," Owen said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "Then send word to the ships. Have them dispatch ten Dwarven Colossi to the harbor immediately." He walked to where his armor stood on its stand, running his fingers over the enchanted stalhrim plates. "We're going all out this time. No more half measures."

"Oh wait, one more thing." Owen paused, considering his next words carefully. "Send word for some of the southern knights and soldiers to come from the ships as well. They can help with search and rescue operations."

Jon's brow furrowed. "The southerners? After what happened last time?"

"Precisely because of what happened," Owen replied, tightening a vambrace. "It'll at least stop any more foolhardy knights from charging after those creatures just to feel useful. Give them a purpose—evacuating civilians, securing perimeters around the beacons—something that keeps them occupied without getting them killed listening to some stupid septon."

Jon stepped forward, his face creased with concern. "Owen, wait. Stop all this planning. You're not at full strength yet. The maester said you need at least another day of rest. Your magic—"

"I know exactly what state my magic is in," Owen cut him off, though not unkindly. He mentally checked his circuits again, feeling the familiar pathways of power running through his body. Still only half their normal brilliance, but there was no helping that now. "But every hour we wait, more of Braavos falls and more people killed in the fog. If we don't stop this here, that fog and those creatures will spread across half of Essos before anyone can mount an effective defense." He pulled on his undershirt, wincing slightly as stiff muscles protested. "Add to the letter—send for 3,000 steam constructors from the storm fortress as well. I'll need to establish a forge here, and we'll need to build weapons quickly."

"Our weapons are good, Owen," Jon argued, though he was already mentally composing the messages Owen had requested. "The enchanted steel weapons from the factory cut through those creatures better than anything the southerners have, and our shields hold against their claws even if our armor doesn't. What more do we need?"

Owen paused in his dressing, fixing Jon with a steady gaze. "Those goat-headed things are stronger than us in close combat, Jon. Even with our enhanced weapons and armor, they can still tear a man apart if they get too close. And while our archers are the great shots, arrows simply won't take these magical enemies down fast enough." He reached for his breastplate, his movements becoming more fluid as the ring's healing magic continued its work. "We need something with more power, more range, and more stopping force."

Jon frowned, clearly puzzled. "What are you planning to make? Some new kind of bow? A better ballista?"

A slow smile spread across Owen's face, the kind that Jon had learned meant something world-changing was about to happen. "It's time this world learned what a gun is, Jon."

Chapter Text

Jon stood with the rest of the army outside Owen's newly constructed forge, watching the imposing structure with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The rhythmic banging of steel echoed through the Braavosi air, punctuating the eerie silence that had fallen over the city since their arrival. Six thousand men—northerners and southerners alike—had gathered in the makeshift camp, their differences temporarily set aside in the face of the supernatural threat. The two Dwarven Colossi guarding the forge's entrance remained motionless, their massive forms blocking any attempt to peek inside at Owen's work.

"Any idea what in the world he's making in there?" Lord Stark asked, approaching Jon with concern etched across his weathered face. "He's been locked away since the steam constructors finished building the forge. Haven't seen him eat or rest."

Jon shook his head, his hand resting instinctively on his swords pommel. "He called them 'guns,' Father. Said they'd give our men a better chance against those... things in the fog." Jon recalled Owen's brief explanation before he'd disappeared into the forge—weapons that could fire projectiles with devastating force, requiring no magic to operate. "He seemed confident they could turn the tide."

King Robert lumbered over, his frame imposing even without his armor. Tywin Lannister, Kevan, and Prince Oberyn followed close behind, their expressions varying from skepticism to curiosity. The southern lords had been particularly shaken after witnessing the horrors lurking in Braavos's fog—creatures that defied natural law and seemed impervious to conventional weapons.

"This better be worth the wait," Robert growled, his voice carrying across the assembly. "We've lost fifty men to those abominations already, and that's just from scouting parties. The longer we wait, the more of Braavos falls." He turned to Jon. "Your goodbrother has impressive tricks, Snow, but we need more than tricks to win this fight."

Tywin's cold eyes surveyed the forge with calculation. "Lord Longshore's inventions have proven... effective thus far. Though I question the wisdom of placing our fate in the hands of a single man, no matter how gifted." His voice carried the same chill it always did when discussing northern advantages.

"I've seen Owen forge weapons that cut through Valyrian steel like butter," Jon replied, meeting Tywin's gaze without flinching. "If he says these 'guns' will help us fight the creatures, I believe him my lord." He turned to his father, lowering his voice. "The monsters we faced in the city... they shrugged off sword cuts from southern steel and that would have felled any man. And once they got closer to our own northmen, whatever foul magic they had seemed to tear through the enchanted armor they wore. If Owen can give us something that works against them, we need it—and quickly."

Prince Oberyn stepped forward, twirling his spear with practiced ease. "I, for one, am eager to see these new weapons. The North has shown us remarkable... innovation these past few months." His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Perhaps we Dornish should have paid more attention to your frozen lands sooner." He cast a sidelong glance at Tywin. "Some of us might have found ourselves at a disadvantage otherwise."

Jon watched as Tywin scowled at Oberyn but kept quiet, the lord of Casterly Rock's face tightening with barely concealed contempt. The tension between the two men was palpable as always, but before it could escalate, the clanging and rhythmic skittering from the forge suddenly stopped. Jon turned his attention to the massive doors as they swung open, revealing Owen emerging from the sweltering interior. His goodbrother's muscled frame was covered in sweat, his face and arms blackened with soot, but his expression was one of unmistakable satisfaction. Behind him, a line of steam constructors skittered out, their mechanical limbs carrying wooden boxes.

"My lords," Owen called out, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd, "the guns are ready." There was an immediate stir among the gathered men, southerners and northmen alike murmuring in anticipation. Jon stepped forward alongside his father, curious to see what Owen had created during his frenzied work. Opening one of the boxes, Owen reached inside and retrieved what looked to Jon like a strange metal tube attached to a wooden stock. The weapon was unlike anything Jon had ever seen—not a sword, not a bow, not any conventional weapon of war he recognized.

"I give you the Northern rifle," Owen announced proudly, holding the strange device aloft for all to see. The morning sun glinted off the burnished bronze barrel, which was etched with elaborate runes that glowed faintly blue. Jon noticed small steam vents and copper pipes running along its length, suggesting some complex mechanism within. The wooden parts were dark and polished, inlaid with brass filigree that coiled like vines along its length.

King Robert pushed his way forward, his curiosity overcoming royal dignity. "What in the seven hells is that supposed to be?" he demanded, though there was more wonder than anger in his voice. "Looks like a crossbow fucked a smith's pipe." Several men laughed nervously, but their eyes remained fixed on the strange weapon in Owen's hands.

Jon watched as Owen chuckled at Robert's crude comparison, seemingly unfazed by the king's bluntness. The exhaustion on Owen's face couldn't hide the pride in his eyes as he ran his hand along the weapon's gleaming barrel.

"It's called a rifle, Your Grace, not a smiths pipe. Unlike a crossbow, it doesn't rely on tension to fire a bolt." Owen motioned for everyone to gather closer. "This weapon harnesses a controlled explosion to propel a projectile—what I call a bullet—at speeds far greater than any arrow. The force behind it is enough to punch through plate armor at a hundred paces." He turned the weapon, showing the intricate mechanisms to the gathered lords. Jon noticed his father's eyes widen slightly, clearly impressed despite his usual stoic demeanor.

"The true power lies not just in the weapon itself, but in what it fires," Owen continued, reaching into another box and producing a large bullet. Jon leaned forward to examine it. The projectile was larger than he'd expected, forged from a strange blackened metal that gleamed with a dull, sinister sheen. It was shaped like an elongated spike with a razor-sharp tip, and its surface was covered in intricate runes that seemed to shift slightly when Jon looked directly at them. "These bullets are enchanted with soul-tearing magic. When they strike these unnatural creatures, the enchantment disrupts whatever foul sorcery animates them. One well-placed shot can destroy even the largest of the monsters we've encountered."

Robert reached for one of the bullets, turning it over in his meaty fingers with surprising delicacy. "Gods be good," he muttered. "And any man can use these? No magic required from the wielder?" When Owen nodded, Robert's face split into a fierce grin. "How many have you made?"

"Two thousand and sixty thousand bullets," Owen replied, gesturing to the boxes being arranged by the steam constructors. "Enough for every man who will come into the city with me, with twenty shots each. The bullets cannot be recovered once fired—the enchantment is expended on impact. But they should be more than sufficient to clear the city." Owen demonstrated loading the rifle, sliding a bullet into the chamber with practiced ease. "The mechanism is simple enough. Load, aim, pull this trigger here. The rifle will do the rest."

Jon took one of the weapons when Owen offered it, surprised by its weight and balance. It felt solid in his hands, the wooden stock smooth against his palm. "These runes," Jon said, tracing a finger along the glowing blue markings on the barrel. "They're similar to what you used on the northern blades when you enhanced them."

"Good eye," Owen nodded approvingly. "The runes are somewhat similar and act to channel and focus the destructive energy. Against normal men, these bullets would be devastating enough. Against these magical abominations..." Owen's expression darkened. "The central rune translates roughly to 'Final Death' in an ancient tongue. It severs the connection between the creature and whatever power animates it. Even beings that would normally regenerate or resist conventional weapons will find these bullets... terminal."

Jon watched as Tywin Lannister stepped forward, his expression a careful mask of indifference even as wander was in his eyes. The old lion moved with measured steps, his eyes never leaving the strange weapon Owen held out to him. Despite his attempt at appearing disinterested, Jon could see the curiosity in Tywin's gaze as his long fingers reached for the rifle.

"The mechanism is simple enough, Lord Tywin," Owen explained as Tywin hefted the weapon, clearly surprised by its weight. "Support it against your shoulder like so." Owen demonstrated the proper stance with another rifle. "Aim down the barrel at your target, and when you're ready, pull the trigger firmly but smoothly." Tywin adjusted his grip, his movements hesitant but deliberate as he examined the strange contraption in his hands. Jon could almost see the calculations running behind those cold green eyes—what such weapons might mean for warfare, for power, for House Lannister.

"I've set up a test target," Owen continued, gesturing toward a suit of southern plate armor positioned about fifty paces away. The armor stood upright on a wooden frame, gleaming in the morning sun. "Standard southern plate, the kind your men wear. Try to hit it in the chest." Several of the Lannister soldiers shifted uncomfortably at this, exchanging nervous glances. Jon couldn't blame them—the implication that their supposedly impenetrable armor might be vulnerable was unsettling.

Tywin raised the rifle to his shoulder with unexpected grace for a man who had never held such a weapon before. His eyes narrowed as he sighted down the barrel, his breathing slowing as he took aim. The assembled crowd fell silent, even King Robert quieting his usual bluster as he watched with rapt attention. Jon found himself holding his breath, curious to see how the Lord of Casterly Rock would fare with Owen's creation.

When Tywin pulled the trigger, the effect was immediate. The rifle roared to life, a flash of blue energy erupting from the barrel as it bucked against Tywin's shoulder. The bullet streaked through the air with a high-pitched whine, leaving a faint blue trail in its wake before slamming into the armored chest plate. The impact was devastating—the enchanted projectile punched through the steel as if it were wet parchment, leaving a sizzling hole the size of a small fist where it had passed through. Wisps of blue smoke curled from the edges of the hole, and Jon could smell the acrid scent of burned metal even from where he stood.

A collective gasp rose from the assembled men, followed by shocked murmurs. The Lannister soldiers looked particularly disturbed, many of them unconsciously touching their own breastplates as if to reassure themselves. Kevan Lannister's face had gone pale, while Oberyn Martell's eyes gleamed with dangerous interest. Robert let out a booming laugh of delight, clapping his hands together like a child presented with a new toy. But it was Tywin's reaction that caught Jon's attention most keenly. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood perfectly still, staring at the rifle in his hands with an expression Jon had never seen on his face before—raw, undisguised awe.

"By the gods," Tywin finally said, his voice unusually quiet. He lowered the weapon slowly, running his fingers along the runes etched into its barrel. "One man with this could kill a knight from a distance that would make the finest archer envious."

Tywin lowered the rifle, his calculating eyes narrowing as he processed the implications of such a weapon. The old lion's fingers still traced the runes etched into the barrel, his expression one that couldn't quite hide his fascination. After a moment of contemplation, Tywin raised his gaze to meet Owen's.

"Impressive," Tywin acknowledged, his voice measured despite the unprecedented demonstration. "But what happens when a man's aim falters? These monstrosities you have encountered move with unnatural speed from what you have told us. What if one closes the distance before a soldier can reload this... rifle?"

Jon recognized the real concern in Tywin's question. The creatures they'd encountered in the fog moved with terrifying quickness, sometimes skittering along walls as some surviving scouts had reported or charging on mass in the case of the goatmen they had faced. A missed shot could mean death if a soldier couldn't ready more bullets once the ones in his gun ran out.

Owen nodded, as if he'd anticipated this very question. "A fair point, Lord Tywin." He handed the rifle to one of his steam constructors and reached into another wooden crate. When his hand emerged, Jon saw he was holding what looked like a smaller version of the rifle—a compact weapon with a shorter barrel and a more manageable size. "For precisely that reason, I've created these as well."

"The Northern pistol," Owen announced, holding up the elegant weapon for all to see. Jon studied its design with interest. Like the rifle, it featured a polished brass and bronze barrel with intricate geometric engravings that glowed with faint magical energy. The main body consisted of interlocking plates and exposed clockwork gears that ticked and whirred softly. What caught Jon's eye most was the crystalline power core embedded in the side, pulsing with soft, ethereal light.

"This serves as a sidearm—a secondary weapon," Owen explained, turning the pistol so everyone could see it clearly. "It's smaller, lighter, and can be drawn quickly if a monster gets too close. While its range isn't as great as the rifle's, in the hands of a practiced user, it can be deadly accurate at medium distances. The enchantments on the bullets are identical—one shot will disrupt whatever foul magic animates these creatures."

Owen raised the pistol toward the same armored target, his stance casual yet precise. Jon noticed how naturally his goodbrother held the weapon, as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a foreign object. When Owen squeezed the trigger, the pistol emitted a sharp, resonant chime—almost like magic tearing through reality. The bullet struck the breastplate with devastating force, punching through the steel and leaving another smoking hole just inches from Tywin's earlier shot.

"Each man will receive both a rifle and a pistol," Owen continued, lowering the weapon. "The pistol can be holstered at the hip for quick access. However—" his expression grew serious as he looked around at the assembled men, "—this doesn't mean you should discard your conventional weapons. Your swords, spears, axes, and daggers should remain on your person at all times. These firearms are powerful, but they require loading when your bullets run out. If a creature gets too close too quickly for you to aim or reload, your blade may be your final resort."

Jon watched as the assembled soldiers erupted in excited murmurs, their faces alight with anticipation. Northern and southern men alike exchanged eager glances, no doubt imagining themselves wielding these miraculous weapons against the horrors lurking in Braavos's fog. The Lannister soldiers who had moments ago looked disturbed by the demonstration now leaned forward with hungry eyes, while Robert's stormlanders and the Tyrell forces whispered among themselves about the destructive power they had witnessed. Even the usually stoic northmen seemed energized, their usual reserve replaced by barely contained excitement.

Tywin Lannister handed the rifle back to Owen with a careful, measured movement. His face had regained its usual mask of cold calculation, though Jon could still see the lingering fascination in his eyes. "As per usual, I assume these weapons will be restricted to your northern forces," Tywin said, his voice carrying a note of cold bitterness that he didn't bother to disguise. "The south, as always, will be expected to make do with conventional arms while your men wield this... magic." The last word carried a hint of distaste, though whether for the concept of magic itself or for being denied access to it, Jon couldn't tell.

Owen's response, however, caught everyone by surprise—Tywin most of all. "Actually, Lord Tywin, every last man who follows me into the fog will be armed with a pistol, rifle, and bullets," Owen declared, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd. "The southern soldiers will be no exception." A shocked silence fell over the gathering before excited whispers broke out again. Jon saw his father's eyebrows rise slightly—clearly, this hadn't been discussed beforehand. "However," Owen continued, raising a hand for silence, "they will return them when the war is done. These weapons are being loaned, not gifted."

The declaration seemed to please Tywin, though he tried to hide it. Jon noticed the slight relaxation in the old lion's shoulders, the barely perceptible nod of satisfaction. The other southern lords looked equally pleased—Randyll Tarly's stern face showed a rare hint of approval, while Oberyn Martell's lips curved into an amused smile. Even King Robert seemed satisfied with the arrangement, clapping Owen roughly on the shoulder with a boisterous laugh.

"Prepare your men," Owen said, addressing Tywin, Oberyn, and Randyll Tarly directly. "Select whatever knights you wish to accompany us into the city tomorrow. They should be your best—men who can follow orders without question and adapt quickly to unfamiliar situations." He turned to Jon. "Jon, come with me. We need to get ready for tomorrow's push." Jon nodded, following as Owen directed the two Dwarven Colossi guarding the forge to enter it for modifications. The massive automata moved with surprising grace for their size, their metal frames gleaming in the sunlight as they ducked through the large doorway.

Once they were inside the forge and away from prying ears, Jon glanced back at the door before speaking in a low voice. "Is it wise giving the south these weapons? You know many lords and soldiers will only return half of them and claim the rest were lost, while trying to create their own versions." Jon had seen enough of southern politics to know that any advantage would be exploited, any promise broken if it served their interests. The thought of these devastating weapons in the hands of men like Tywin Lannister was troubling, to say the least.

Owen chuckled, a knowing gleam in his eye as he began adjusting the mechanisms on one of the Colossi. "If any lord or soldier tries to sneak away or steal any, the guns have a rune enchantment to turn to slag and be completely unusable," he explained, tapping the glowing runes etched into the barrel of a nearby rifle. "I'm not a fool, Jon. These weapons are extremely hard to copy. In southern hands, they're nothing more than oddly shaped paperweights if they try to steal them. And if someone tries to disassemble one to study its mechanisms..." Owen grinned, the expression almost predatory in the forge's dim light. "Well, let's just say they'll be picking metal fragments out of their walls for weeks. Or themselves."

Jon nodded, relieved by Owen's foresight. The thought of Tywin Lannister or any other southern lord attempting to reverse-engineer these weapons only to have them explode in their faces brought a grim smile to his face. It was the kind of precaution his father would appreciate—allowing cooperation without surrendering a strategic advantage.

"What's the plan for tomorrow, then?" Jon asked, watching as the ten massive Dwarven Colossi from the ships were brought into the makeshift forge. The steam constructors moved with mechanical precision, attaching additional armor plates to the already formidable automatons. Jon recognized the distinctive pearlescent sheen of what owen had called "wraithbone" being layered over their vital components, the magical material catching the light in ways that made it seem almost alive.

"See those?" Owen pointed to two large cylindrical objects being mounted on the backs of each Colossus. The cylinders had multiple round holes arranged in a circular pattern, and as Jon watched, one of them began to spin with alarming speed, the motion creating a low, menacing hum. "Machine guns," Owen explained. "Think of them as... very fast shooting rifles that never need reloading…at least for a long while. Each one can fire hundreds of smaller enchanted bullets in the span of a minute—enough to tear through any large horde of those goatmen we encountered."

Owen moved among the steam constructors, adjusting a crystal embedded in what appeared to be an eye socket on one of the smaller machines. "I'm going for what you might call a scorched earth approach," he continued, his voice taking on a harder edge that Jon rarely heard. "We'll deploy five thousand steam constructors into the fog first, along with two of the Colossi. Their job is simple: search and destroy. They'll flood the city, overwhelming the monsters or at least keeping them occupied while we make our push. Due to the fogs magic they may not be able to find or react fast enough to all the fogs monsters but i am hoping overwhelming numbers will win the day."

Jon watched as Owen checked the edge on one of the massive blades carried by a Colossus, the weapon longer than three men laid end to end. "Once the constructors have thinned their numbers, we'll move in with our main force—you, me, our best fighters, and four more Colossi. We'll cut a path straight through to where I believe the magical focus is located." Owen's eyes narrowed as he adjusted something on the blade, causing runes along its length to flare briefly with blue light. "The southern forces will follow behind us, focusing on rescuing survivors and securing key locations—the temples, the Iron Bank, and the Sealord's Palace."

"And the Qohorik blood sorcerers?" Jon asked, his hand unconsciously moving to his swords hilt.

"We'll find them," Owen promised, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper. "They'll be near the focus, drawing and giving sacrifice to it. When we destroy it, their control over these creatures should falter. That's when we end them." The matter-of-fact way Owen spoke of killing made Jon remember that beneath his goodbrother's usually affable demeanor lay a ruthless pragmatism that surfaced when those he cared for were threatened.

Jon nodded his understanding, but his attention was drawn to Owen as he approached one of the completed Colossi. The massive construct, easily three times the height of a man, slowly knelt before its creator, lowering its great metal head. Owen placed a hand against its cheek in an oddly tender gesture, and Jon was surprised to hear something like a soft, melodic hum emanating from the giant automaton. The sound reminded Jon of a loyal hound when it was content, a deep rumbling that spoke of recognition and loyalty. It was easy to forget sometimes that these weren't merely tools but creations with some form of awareness, bound to Owen through means Jon didn't fully understand. He wondered if owen understood them fully himself

"Are you completely ready to fight tomorrow?" Jon asked quietly, watching the strange communion between creator and creation.

Owen sighed, his hand still resting on the Colossus's metallic face. "Ready enough," he replied, a weariness in his voice that he rarely allowed others to hear. "Its not going to be easy and i know you're worried i am not at full strength but tomorrow…tomorrow we end this. Have faith Brother."

Owen watched with grim satisfaction as the first gunshots in the history of Braavos—perhaps in the history of this entire world—echoed through the fog-shrouded streets. The rifles and pistols he'd crafted performed beyond even his expectations, each shot finding its mark with devastating effect. Northern soldiers advanced in disciplined formation, their movements practiced despite having only trained with the weapons for less than a day. Behind them, knights from Dorne, the Reach, and the Westerlands followed, their initial skepticism about "magic weapons" completely vanished as they witnessed the firearms' deadly efficiency.

"Left flank! Watch yourself." Owen called out, spotting movement in the mist. A pack of goatmen charged from an alley, their twisted forms loping on all fours before rising to their hind legs as they attacked. Before they could close half the distance, a volley of gunfire erupted from the northern soldiers. The enchanted bullets tore through the creatures, each impact causing not just physical damage but a metaphysical one. Owen watched as the runes etched into each bullet activated upon impact, releasing the stored magic that didn't just kill the monsters—it annihilated whatever passed for their souls.

The goatmen's bodies convulsed as the bullets struck, their forms contorting in unnatural ways as the magic ripped through them. It wasn't merely death they experienced but complete erasure from existence. Their screams held a quality that chilled even the most hardened veterans—the sound of something not just dying but being unmade. Owen had designed the bullets specifically for this purpose. The bullets didn't just pierce flesh; they severed the connection between the creatures and whatever dark power had spawned them.

"By the Seven," muttered a Tyrell knight nearby, his face pale beneath his helm as he watched a snakeman dissolve into motes of dark energy after taking a shot to what passed for its head. "These things... they're not natural." The knight raised his own rifle with newfound determination and fired at a hulking monstrosity with darkened skin and mouths embedded in its arms. The creature had been spitting venom at a cowering Braavosi family, but the bullet caught it square in the chest. The effect was immediate—the monster's body convulsed, the mouths on its arms screaming in different pitches as the magic consumed it from within.

They moved methodically through the city, establishing a pattern that maximized their efficiency. The Dwarven Colossi led the way, their massive machine guns cutting down swathes of monsters that attempted to overwhelm them with numbers. Behind them, Owen and Jon directed the riflemen, who picked off stragglers or creatures that attempted to flank them. At regular intervals, Owen would plant one of his silver beacons—the intricate devices emitting a purifying light that dispersed the fog around them. These cleared zones became safe havens where southern knights could gather rescued civilians before escorting them back to the fortified position at the docks.

"We've rescued nearly two thousand today alone," Jon reported as they paused at an intersection to plant another beacon. The silver device hummed to life, its gentle light pushing back the unnatural fog and revealing a plaza littered with the remains of both monsters and unfortunate Braavosi who hadn't survived the initial attack. "The southern forces are proving their worth—they're efficient at evacuation, I'll give them that." Jon reloaded his rifle with practiced ease, his eyes constantly scanning the receding fog line for movement. "But these creatures seem endless. For every hundred we kill, another hundred take their place."

Owen nodded grimly, checking the magical compass he'd created to track the source of the blood magic. The needle quivered, pointing deeper into the city toward what he suspected was the House of Black and White. "They're growing desperate," he observed as another wave of monsters emerged from the fog—these more grotesque than the last, with bodies covered in a hundred blinking eyes and bone spikes protruding from every limb. "Give them no quarter, men!" Jon shouted, his gun taking out three goatmen in succession as they surged forward. The northern soldiers responded with disciplined volleys, their enchanted bullets finding their marks with unerring accuracy. The monsters fell by the dozens, their otherworldly screams filling the air as they were not just killed but unmade, their very essence torn apart by Owen's runic magic.

Owen was happy they were making progress. But the relative ease of their advance had made him wary. Blood magic of this magnitude always had deeper horrors waiting to be unleashed.

His instincts proved correct when a sound unlike any other filled the air—a collective moan that seemed to emanate from dozens of throats simultaneously. The fog parted, revealing not one but two massive abominations shambling toward them. Each stood nearly twenty feet tall, their bodies a horrific amalgamation of human corpses fused together by dark magic. Faces—some frozen in terror, others contorted in agony—protruded from every surface of their misshapen forms. One clutched a massive tree trunk as a makeshift club, blood and viscera dripping from its surface. The other wielded what appeared to be a stone pillar torn from some Braavosi temple, similarly stained with gore.

"Focus your shots on them!" Jon's voice cut through the momentary shock that had paralyzed even the most hardened soldiers. The northern and southern riflemen responded immediately, taking aim at the monstrosities and firing in coordinated volleys. Owen watched as the enchanted bullets tore into the creatures' flesh, each impact releasing a burst of runic energy that should have been enough to unmake any of the smaller monsters they'd encountered. The giants shrieked—a cacophony of dozens of voices screaming in unison—but rather than falling, they seemed only enraged by the assault. Their movements became more frenzied as they shambled forward, swinging their improvised weapons with enough force to crush stone.

"Fall back and maintain distance!" Owen commanded, reaching for the control crystal at his belt. The northern soldiers retreated in orderly fashion, continuing to fire as they moved. "Standard magic bullets won't be enough—they've been reinforced with too much blood magic." He activated the crystal, sending a mental command to one of the Dwarven Colossi that had been clearing a nearby street. The response was immediate—a metallic roar that reverberated through the plaza as the massive automaton strode forward to meet the threat, its glowing eyes fixed on the approaching abominations.

The first giant swung its bloody tree trunk at the Colossus, but the automaton was faster than its size suggested. It sidestepped the clumsy attack and brought its cannon arm up in one fluid motion, discharging a blast of concentrated magical fire directly into the monster's face. The effect was catastrophic—the front half of the abomination simply ceased to exist, vaporized into ash that scattered in the wind. What remained of its body collapsed backward, the dozens of fused corpses that composed it falling apart as the magic binding them together dissipated.

The second giant's moan rose to a deafening wail, as if mourning its fallen companion. With surprising speed, it charged toward the Colossus, raising its stone pillar high above what passed for its head. The automaton met the attack head-on, its massive blade cleaving through the pillar with a single powerful stroke, sending stone fragments scattering across the plaza. Undeterred by the loss of its weapon, the monster lurched forward, extending dozens of arms—each one a human limb fused grotesquely to its main mass—and wrapped them around the Colossus in what appeared to be an attempt to crush the metal construct. The faces embedded in the giant's flesh twisted into expressions of malicious glee as it tightened its grip, apparently believing it could destroy the automaton through brute force alone.

"That was a mistake," Owen muttered, watching as the twin machine guns mounted on the Colossus's shoulders swiveled toward the monster's body. The giant had no time to react before the guns roared to life, unleashing hundreds of enchanted bullets at point-blank range. The effect was immediate and devastating—the monster's body simply came apart, torn into chunks by the relentless barrage. Limbs, torsos, and heads separated as the magic binding them was systematically destroyed by Owen's specially designed ammunition. Within seconds, what had once been a towering abomination was reduced to a pile of dismembered corpses scattered across the blood-soaked stones of the plaza.

"Effective," Jon commented dryly, coming to stand beside Owen as they surveyed the aftermath. His expression was grim beneath the layer of grime and blood that covered his face. "But there will be more of them. The blood mages must be getting desperate if they're creating more monstrosities of that size. We need to find the source quickly."

Owen nodded, letting his magical sense filter out to search the city. With so many beacons laid down and creatures killed, his senses cutting through the fog was better. He closed his eyes, extending his awareness beyond his physical form, pushing it through the streets of Braavos like an invisible tide. His consciousness swept over buildings where terrified Braavosi citizens huddled in darkness, past packs of goatmen prowling for prey, through squares where snake-bodied monstrosities slithered. Then he felt it—a pulsing darkness, a void that seemed to drink in the surrounding magic rather than emit it.

The Braavosi crypt of the dead. Owen's magical sight penetrated its ancient stone walls, revealing a chamber deep beneath the city where four robed figures stood around a pulsating black crystal the size of a man. Their hands moved in complex patterns as they chanted in a language that seemed to hurt Owen's mind even at this distance. Blood flowed from channels in the floor toward the crystal, feeding it, empowering it. In a corner, a group of prisoners—men, women, even children—sat bound and shivering, awaiting their turn for sacrifice. As Owen's magical gaze settled on the sorcerers, their heads snapped up in unison, their eyes widening in fear and surprise as they sensed his presence.

"Found you," Owen whispered, his consciousness snapping back to his body with enough force to make him stagger. Jon caught his arm, steadying him.

"What did you see?" Jon asked, his face tense with concern.

"The source—it's in the crypts beneath the city," Owen said, his voice hardening as he straightened. "Four blood mages performing rituals around a focus crystal. They're sacrificing Braavosi to power it." He turned to the assembled forces, making a quick decision. "Martyn, take command of the bulk of our forces—three Colossi and most of the men. Begin clearing toward the temples and the Sealord's Palace. There are still many survivors hiding throughout the city, but they're weak from days without food or water. They'll need to be carried to the docks."

"My lord, with respect, the Dreadguard should remain with you," Martyn protested, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The other guards nodded in agreement, their faces set with determination beneath their helmets.

Owen shook his head, handing Martyn a leather satchel filled with silver beacons. "The people of Braavos need you more than I do. Jon and I will take ten of our best men and one Colossus—that's all we need to end this." He met each of their eyes in turn. "Your duty is to the innocent. Mine is to the source. We all have our parts to play."

They moved quickly after that, the main force heading toward the heart of the city while Owen led his smaller group toward the ancient crypts. The fog seemed thicker here, clinging to their bodies like wet silk, but the northern soldiers moved with purpose, their rifles ready. When a pack of goatmen emerged from an alley, snarling and slavering, the northmen didn't hesitate—they raised their weapons and fired in unison. The enchanted bullets tore through the monsters, each impact releasing a burst of blue energy that unmade the creatures from within. Those that got too close met Jon's steel or the blades of the northern soldiers, their corrupted flesh parting easily under the enchanted edges.

"They know we're coming," Owen said as they approached the entrance to the crypts—a weathered stone archway carved with the faces of a thousand gods, now defiled with symbols drawn in blood. "The fog is thickest here, and the monsters are more concentrated." As if to emphasize his point, a massive shape lunged from the shadows—a thing that might once have been human but now resembled a grotesque spider, with additional limbs grafted onto its torso at unnatural angles. Before it could pounce, the Dwarven Colossus that accompanied them swiveled its upper body and unleashed a hail of magical bullets from its shoulder-mounted guns. The monster's body jerked and twisted as the enchanted rounds tore through it, each impact causing parts of its form to simply dissolve into mist. Within seconds, nothing remained but a dark stain on the cobblestones.

"We end this now," Owen said, drawing his pistol with one hand and Fate Cleaver in the other. "For Braavos, for the North, and for every innocent soul these monsters have claimed." With Jon at his side and the determined northern soldiers at his back, Owen stepped through the archway and descended into the darkness, where the blood mages waited with their foul magic and the fate of a city hung in the balance.

Chapter Text

Owen led the way down the narrow stone steps, Fate Cleaver in one hand and his enchanted pistol in the other. The stench hit them first—a nauseating mix of decay, blood, and something else, something unnatural that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy with moisture and the lingering remnants of dark magic.

"Watch your footing," Owen whispered over his shoulder. "And keep your weapons ready."

Jon followed close behind, his sword drawn, its polished surface catching what little light filtered down from above. The ten northern soldiers moved in practiced formation, rifles at the ready, their breathing steady despite the oppressive atmosphere.

"I can feel it," Jon murmured. "The magic. It's... wrong. Like a wound in the world."

Owen nodded. "Blood magic. It corrupts everything it touches." He paused at a landing where the stairway branched in two directions. Closing his eyes briefly, he extended his magical senses, feeling for the pulse of the ritual he'd glimpsed earlier. "This way," he said, pointing to the left passage. "The focus crystal is drawing power from sacrifices. We need to move quickly."

The passage narrowed as they descended deeper, the walls slick with a substance that might have been water but gleamed too red in the light of their torches. Occasionally, they passed alcoves filled with ancient statues—the old gods of Braavos, their stone faces now streaked with blood and twisted into expressions of agony.

"They've corrupted the very foundation of the city," one of the soldiers whispered, his voice tight with disgust.

"Focus, Torrhen," Jon commanded softly. "We're here to end this, not marvel at it."

As they rounded a corner, the passage opened into a small chamber. Three bodies lay sprawled on the floor—Braavosi city guards, their armor rent and their flesh twisted, as if something had tried to reshape them from within.

Owen knelt beside one, examining the wounds without touching them. "They died fighting. Recently. Hours, not days."

"There are still defenders down here?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Or they were pursuing someone who fled down here," Jon suggested, his eyes scanning the shadows.

Owen stood, his face grim. "Either way, we're not alone. And we're getting closer to the source." He gestured to the walls, where veins of dark energy pulsed beneath the stone surface, flowing in the direction they needed to go. "Stay alert. The blood mages will throw everything they have at us once they realize we're coming for them."

The corridor widened as they moved deeper, opening into a series of interconnected chambers that must have once served as tombs for Braavos's ancient nobility. Now, the sarcophagi lay broken, their contents disturbed or missing entirely. The walls bore fresh markings—symbols and runes that seemed to writhe and shift when viewed from the corner of the eye.

"Don't look directly at the markings," Owen warned. "They're designed to disorient and confuse."

A whisper echoed through the chamber, too faint to make out words but carrying a tone of malevolent glee. The soldiers tensed, raising their rifles in unison.

"Just echoes," Jon said, though his hand tightened on his sword hilt. "The sounds down here—"

"No," Owen interrupted. "Not echoes. The blood magic is becoming more powerful….and somehow aware of us. It's... curious." He frowned, concentrating on the magical currents flowing around them. "The crystal is feeding information back to the mages. They know we're here now."

As if in response, the whispers grew louder, resolving into words that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Flesh... blood... power... give..."

"Ignore it," Owen commanded sharply when he saw one of the younger soldiers turning his head to follow the sound. "It's trying to distract you, to make you vulnerable."

They pressed forward, moving through the chambers with increased urgency. The air grew thicker, almost soupy with moisture and the cloying scent of blood. Droplets of a dark liquid began to fall from the ceiling, hissing when they touched metal or skin.

"Cover your exposed skin," Jon ordered, pulling a cloth over the lower half of his face. The men quickly followed suit.

Owen paused at an intersection where three passages branched off. The veins of dark energy pulsed more strongly here, converging toward the central path. "This way," he said, pointing. "But be ready. They'll have defenses."

As they entered the central passage, a low moan echoed from the darkness ahead. It was followed by another, and another, until the air vibrated with the sound of suffering.

"What is that?" one of the soldiers whispered, his voice tight with tension.

Owen's jaw clenched. "The sacrifices. The ones that aren't quite dead yet." He looked back at the men, his eyes hard. "Remember why we're here. Every moment we delay, more innocent people die to feed their ritual."

They emerged into a vast circular chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness above. Ancient columns, carved with the likenesses of forgotten gods, supported what they could see of the structure. At the center of the room stood a stone altar, its surface stained dark with dried blood. Channels had been cut into the floor, directing the flow of blood toward a drain at the chamber's center.

"This isn't the main ritual site," Owen said quietly. "But it's connected. They've been preparing sacrifices here before sending them to the crystal chamber."

A soft shuffling sound drew their attention to the far side of the room, where a massive figure emerged from the shadows. It had once been human—the remnants of ornate armor still clung to parts of its bloated form—but blood magic had transformed it into something monstrous. Its skin had the pallid, swollen look of a drowned corpse, and additional limbs had erupted from its torso, each ending in wicked, bony claws. Where its face should have been, there was only a gaping maw lined with needle-like teeth.

"Sealord Ferrego Antaro," Jon breathed, recognizing the remnants of the ceremonial armor. "Or what's left of him. He must have been captured before he locked himself away with his family."

The creature that had once been the Sealord of Braavos let out a gurgling roar and charged, moving with surprising speed for its bulk. The northern soldiers opened fire immediately, their enchanted bullets tearing chunks from the monster's flesh. But the wounds closed almost as quickly as they formed, the corrupted flesh knitting back together in defiance of nature.

"Aim for the joints!" Owen shouted, firing his pistol at the creature's knees. The enchanted bullet struck true, causing the monster to stumble. "The blood magic is strongest in the torso!"

Jon darted forward, his sword flashing in a precise arc that severed one of the additional limbs. The creature howled, black ichor spraying from the wound. It lashed out with its remaining arms, catching one of the northern soldiers across the chest and sending him flying into a column with bone-crushing force.

Owen holstered his pistol and gripped Fate Cleaver with both hands, channeling his magic into the blade. The sword began to glow with an intense blue light, the runes along its length flaring to life. As the creature lunged toward another soldier, Owen leapt forward, bringing the sword down in a powerful overhead strike that cleaved through the monster's shoulder and deep into its chest.

The enchanted blade disrupted the blood magic sustaining the creature. Its flesh began to dissolve around the wound, the corruption receding like mist before the sun. With a final, gurgling cry, the thing that had once been Ferrego Antaryon collapsed, its body rapidly decomposing into a foul-smelling sludge.

Owen withdrew his sword, his face grim. "They're using the city's leaders as guardians. We need to be prepared for worse ahead."

Jon knelt beside the fallen soldier, checking for signs of life. After a moment, he shook his head. "Artos is gone."

"We'll bring him back when this is over," Owen promised. "For now, we press on. The main chamber can't be far."

Beyond the sacrificial chamber, the passages twisted and turned in a confusing labyrinth. The walls pulsed with dark energy, and the floor beneath their feet occasionally shifted, as if the very stone was alive and hostile.

"They're trying to separate us," Owen warned as the passage ahead seemed to stretch and distort. "Stay close. Don't trust your eyes—trust your training and each other."

The northern soldiers formed a tight formation, moving as a single unit through the disorienting passages. Jon took point alongside Owen, his sword at the ready, his grey eyes constantly scanning for threats.

"The blood magic is strongest here," Owen murmured, his senses stretched to their limits as he navigated the magical traps laid throughout the labyrinth. "We're getting closer to the crystal."

A scream echoed from somewhere ahead—a woman's voice, filled with pain and terror. Jon tensed, his face hardening.

"Ignore it," Owen said, placing a restraining hand on Jon's arm. "It's not real. The magic is playing on our instincts, trying to lure us into traps."

"How can you be sure?" Jon asked, his voice tight.

Owen met his gaze steadily. "Because I can feel the deception in it. Trust me, Jon. We save the real victims by destroying the source, not by chasing phantoms."

As they moved deeper into the labyrinth, the air grew thicker with magical energy. Mist curled around their ankles, occasionally forming into grasping hands that dissolved when struck by blade or bullet. The walls wept a substance that might have been blood or something worse, and the floor became slick and treacherous.

"Hold," Owen commanded suddenly, raising a hand. He knelt, examining the floor ahead. "Trap. See how the stones are arranged in that pattern? It's a trigger for something magical."

One of the soldiers, Edric, stepped forward with a small device Owen had crafted—a metal sphere that detected magical energies. He rolled it carefully across the suspicious section of floor. When it reached the center, the stones glowed red and a blast of foul energy erupted upward, encasing the sphere in a cocoon of writhing darkness before crushing it to powder.

"Good eye, my lord," Edric said, his voice steady despite the display of destructive magic.

Owen nodded grimly. "We'll have to go around. This way." He led them down a narrower side passage that curved gradually back toward their original path. "The mages are getting desperate. They know we're close."

The labyrinth eventually opened into a chamber that made even the hardened northern soldiers falter. It might once have been a grand meeting hall or temple, but the blood mages had transformed it into something out of a nightmare. The walls were lined with living flesh—people, dozens of them, embedded in the stone with only their faces and portions of their upper bodies visible. Their eyes moved, tracking the northerners' progress, though their mouths were sealed with what appeared to be stitches of sinew and bone.

"Gods," Jon whispered, his face pale with horror and rage. "What is this?"

Owen moved to the nearest wall, examining the trapped victims without touching them. "They're using them as living conduits for the blood magic. Their suffering feeds the ritual." He turned to the men, his expression grim. "We can't free them—not yet. The trauma would kill them instantly. We need to destroy the crystal first, then the magic binding them will weaken."

A soft, wet sound drew their attention to the center of the room, where the floor opened into a pit filled with a churning mass of flesh and bone—discarded parts from failed experiments or used-up sacrifices. As they watched, the mass began to move with purpose, limbs and torsos and heads rising from the morass to form a grotesque, multi-bodied monstrosity.

"Defensive construct," Owen said, his voice tight as he raised Fate Cleaver. "Don't let it touch you—it will try to absorb you into itself."

The northern soldiers spread out, their rifles trained on the abomination as it lurched toward them. They fired in coordinated volleys, the enchanted bullets tearing through the construct's mass. But for each chunk of flesh destroyed, more rose from the pit to replace it.

"We need to destroy it completely, all at once," Jon called, dodging a grasping hand composed of fused human arms. "Or we'll be here forever."

Owen nodded, reaching into his pack and withdrawing a metal sphere inscribed with glowing runes. "Get back!" he shouted to the men. "Against the walls, now!"

As the soldiers retreated, Owen activated the device—one of his newer creations, designed specifically to counter blood magic. He rolled it toward the center of the flesh pit and turned away, shielding his eyes.

The sphere detonated with a flash of blinding white light and a sound like a thousand voices crying out in relief. When the light faded, the flesh construct had been reduced to ash, and the pit itself was cleansed, the corrupted matter purified by the counter-magic.

Owen straightened, his expression determined. "The main chamber is just ahead. I can feel the crystal's power pulsing beyond that doorway." He pointed to a massive stone arch on the far side of the room, its surface crawling with dark, blood-red symbols. "Prepare yourselves. The blood mages will throw everything they have at us now."

They passed through the arch into a vast, domed chamber that must have once been the heart of Braavos's ancient religious complex. Now, it had been transformed into a temple of blood magic. The black crystal Owen had seen in his vision dominated the center of the room, towering nearly fifteen feet high and pulsing with malevolent energy. Blood flowed through channels in the floor, feeding into the crystal's base, where it was absorbed with a sickening slurping sound.

Around the crystal stood the four blood mages—tall figures in ornate robes stained dark with old blood. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved from human bone, but their eyes gleamed with fanatical fervor as they turned to face the intruders.

"You dare intrude upon our sacred rite, outsider?" hissed the tallest mage, his voice distorted and inhuman behind his mask of human bone. His robes, once white, were now stained a deep crimson from years of blood rituals. "The Great Black Goat has waited years for this moment. The fog of endless night will spread across the world, feeding our god until all kneel before the Black Goat of Qohor!"

Another mage stepped forward, this one wearing a mask carved from what appeared to be a child's skull. "Your interference matters not. You will simply join the others—a worthy sacrifice." He gestured toward Owen with hands covered in intricate tattoos that seemed to writhe and move of their own accord. "The Black Goat hungers for powerful blood, and yours will serve admirably to strengthen our spell."

Owen's men raised their rifles in perfect unison, the enchanted weapons humming with deadly potential as they took aim at the mages. The northerners' faces were grim but determined, their eyes clear despite the horrific sights they'd witnessed on their journey through the catacombs. They awaited Owen's command, fingers steady on their triggers.

"Cowards, all of you," Owen said, his voice cutting through the chamber with contemptuous clarity. "Hiding behind masks, sacrificing innocents, calling upon some forgotten deity because you're too weak to attain power through your own merit." He took a step forward, Fate Cleaver gleaming in his hand. "The Black Goat isn't listening. It never was. You've slaughtered thousands for nothing but your own delusions."

"Blasphemy!" shrieked the third mage, a hunched figure whose mask bore horns reminiscent of a goat. "The Black Goat sees all, hears all! When the ritual completes, our god will walk among us, and all who denied him will feed his eternal hunger!" The mage raised gnarled hands, blood dripping from self-inflicted wounds across his palms. "Your weapons cannot harm us here, not in the heart of our power!"

"Perhaps not," Owen replied with a cold smile that never reached his eyes. "But they can certainly harm your crystal." He nodded almost imperceptibly to his men. "Fire."

The northern rifles discharged in perfect synchronization, their enchanted bullets streaking toward the massive black crystal. The chamber filled with the sound of shattering stone as the bullets struck, cracks spreading across the crystal's surface like spiderwebs. The mages screamed in unified horror as their precious focus began to fracture, the blood magic contained within starting to leak out in angry red tendrils.

The mage in the goat-horned mask let out a howl of rage as cracks spread across the crystal's surface. "Bastard!" he shrieked, spittle flying from behind his bone mask. "You know nothing of what you interfere with! The Black Goat has waited centuries for this moment!"

While the first mage was still screaming his fury, the tallest one swept his arms in a wide arc, drawing blood from the channels on the floor into a swirling vortex before him. With a guttural incantation that made the air itself seem to recoil, he thrust both hands forward. Blood-red flames erupted from his palms, a roaring inferno that surged toward Owen and Jon with unnatural speed.

Owen's instincts screamed danger a split second before the flames appeared. He grabbed Jon by the shoulder and threw himself sideways, dragging the younger man with him as they crashed to the floor. The blood-fire roared past them, missing by inches—but the six northern soldiers behind them had no warning. Owen heard their screams as he rolled to his feet, saw their bodies engulfed in the crimson flames that didn't just burn but seemed to consume them from within. In moments, nothing remained of the men but blackened husks, their features frozen in expressions of agony.

"No!" Jon's anguished cry echoed through the chamber as he scrambled up beside Owen, his face twisted with rage and grief. The remaining soldiers steadied their rifles, preparing to fire again, but their hands shook with horror at what they'd just witnessed.

"Their deaths mean nothing," said the third mage, the one with the child's skull mask, his voice eerily calm amid the chaos. He stepped closer to the cracked crystal, trailing his fingers along its fractured surface with something like tenderness. "The crystal can be rebuilt. Better, stronger." His masked face turned toward Owen, and though his expression was hidden, the hunger in his voice was unmistakable. "Your blood would serve admirably. The blood of one who walks between worlds, who builds the engines of gods—yes, we sense it in you. The Black Goat would feast gloriously on such an offering."

Owen felt rage building inside him, a cold, calculating fury different from Jon's hot anger. These men had slaughtered thousands, turned a proud city into a charnel house, all for their twisted faith. He channeled that rage, letting it fuel his magic rather than cloud his judgment. "You've sacrificed your last innocent," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "Jon, on my signal, take the one on the right. Men, concentrate fire on the tall one—he's the leader."

"You think your weapons give you power here?" The tallest mage laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally through his bone mask. "This is a place of blood and sacrifice. Your steel and fire are nothing compared to the gifts the Black Goat has bestowed upon his faithful." He raised his hands again, blood from the channels rising to coat his arms like living armor. "When you fall, your men will follow. Your women will serve as vessels for our god's children. Your precious North will become the first province of the Black Goat's new empire."

Owen's eyes narrowed as the mages moved to attack, their blood magic swirling around them in crimson tendrils. The shattered crystal continued to leak power, filling the chamber with a sickening energy that made the air itself feel thick and oppressive. He exchanged a quick glance with Jon, a silent agreement passing between them as they selected their targets. Owen would take the tall one with the bone mask—clearly the leader—while Jon would handle the one with the goat horns.

"Now!" Owen shouted, lunging forward with Fate Cleaver in one hand and his ebony blade in the other. Behind him, the remaining northern soldiers opened fire on the mages, their enchanted bullets forcing the blood sorcerers to divert their attention to defensive spells. The leader snarled and flicked his wrist, causing the blood from the floor channels to rise and coalesce into a long, sinuous whip that cracked through the air toward Owen's head.

Jon, meanwhile, darted toward the horned mage with his sword raised. The sorcerer hissed something in a guttural language and swept his arms outward. Dozens of blood-red shards materialized in the air, hovering for a heartbeat before shooting toward Jon like a storm of daggers. Jon's eyes widened as he saw death approaching—then something clicked inside him, his will moving to activate his magic circuits, flooding his body with power. Time seemed to slow as Jon instinctively reinforced his muscles and reflexes, his body moving with supernatural speed as he twisted and dodged between the blood blades, feeling them whistle past his face by mere inches.

Owen rolled under the blood whip, feeling the air displacement as it passed over him, and came up in a fighting stance. The leader's whip struck a pillar behind Owen, and the stone exploded on contact, sending deadly shards flying in all directions. Owen reinforced his skin, feeling the fragments bounce off him as he advanced on the mage. The sorcerer snarled and thrust his other hand forward, sending a gout of blood-red flame roaring toward Owen. "Stay still and die for the Black Goat!" the mage screamed, his voice distorted with rage and madness. "Your blood will feed our god's glory!"

Jon's abilities carried him through the storm of blood blades and directly to his opponent. The horned mage barely had time to register shock before Jon's sword was moving, reinforced muscles driving the blade with inhuman speed and deadly precision. The mage attempted to form a shield of solidified blood, but Jon's blade shattered it and continued through, slicing across the sorcerer's chest, then arm, then throat in a flurry of strikes too fast for the human eye to follow. The mage collapsed, his mask clattering to the floor to reveal a face twisted in permanent surprise as his life blood poured out to join the channels on the floor. Without pausing, Jon turned toward the next mage, who had already formed a blade of blood and fire in his hands, the weapon sizzling with malevolent energy.

Owen meanwhile dodged the flame blast from his opponent, rolling to the side and coming up within striking distance of the lead mage. He swung Fate Cleaver in a wide arc, forcing the sorcerer to abandon his attack and leap backward. The mage landed with unnatural grace and immediately lashed out with his blood whip again, the weapon moving with a life of its own as it sought Owen's flesh. "Your northern gods are weak! Your power is Weak!" the mage taunted, his eyes gleaming with fanatical fervor behind his mask. "The Black Goat has shown me your future, outsider—your blood feeding our ritual, your woman bearing the children of our god, your precious North burning as our armies march north!"

Owen felt his blood run hot at the mage's words. The threats against the North, against his people—these were expected, the ravings of a madman facing defeat. But the mention of Sansa ignited something primal within him, a protective fury that transcended his calculated rage. The mage's bone mask couldn't hide the smug satisfaction in his voice, the twisted pleasure he took in describing atrocities he would never live to commit.

"You should have kept her name out of your filthy mouth," Owen said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried through the chaos of battle around them. Jon was engaged with another of the masked mages, his sword moving in blinding arcs as he pressed his advantage.

The lead mage laughed, a hollow sound that echoed unnaturally behind his mask. "The Black Goat has shown me your woman in visions," he taunted, gathering more blood from the channels to form a second whip. "Her red hair will make a fine trophy when we—"

He never finished the sentence. Owen's hand shot forward, palm up, as he channeled his magic into a tightly compressed sphere of wind. The air around his hand distorted, spinning faster and faster until it formed a perfect globe of churning, howling wind contained by his will alone. The mage hesitated, momentarily transfixed by the display of power so different from his own blood magic.

Owen's eyes narrowed as he focused his intent, transforming the spinning globe. It flattened and expanded into a disk of razor-sharp wind, its edges elongating into cruel blades that hummed with lethal potential. With a flick of his wrist, Owen sent the wind-blade spinning toward the mage, its edges slicing through the air with a sound like tearing silk.

The blood mage's eyes widened behind his mask as he recognized the danger. He abandoned his attack and leaped to the side with inhuman agility, the wind-blade missing him by inches. Landing in a crouch, the mage's hands immediately began weaving another spell, blood rising from the floor to form a roiling ball of crimson flame between his palms.

"Your tricks are impressive, outsider," the mage called, his voice strained with effort as he prepared to launch his counterattack. "But the Black Goat has taught us—" He suddenly froze, the blood flame wavering between his hands as confusion flickered in his eyes.

Owen smiled then, a cold, cruel expression devoid of mercy or remorse. The mage followed Owen's gaze and turned just in time to see the wind-blade returning, having completed its arc through the chamber. His eyes widened in horror behind the bone mask as he realized his fatal mistake—Owen hadn't missed; he'd planned for this moment.

The wind-blade struck the mage from behind, its razor edges slicing through robes, flesh, and bone with terrifying ease. There was a moment of perfect stillness as the mage stood, seemingly whole—then his torso slid from his hips, landing with a wet thud behind his still-standing legs. The legs remained upright for another heartbeat before collapsing forward, the blood flame dissipating as its creator's life ended. The bone mask clattered to the floor, revealing a face frozen in an expression of shocked disbelief, the eyes still wide with the realization of his own mortality.

At the same time, Jon's ebony blade found purchase through his opponent, piercing through his throat before Jon moved it to the side and took off his head. He smiled at Owen. "Three down, one to go." The decapitated mage's body crumpled, his blood joining the channels on the floor with an audible hiss, as if the stone itself hungered for the offering. The severed head rolled away, the bone mask cracking as it struck the ground to reveal a face twisted in eternal hatred.

They looked to where the last sorcerer had been, the main one, but he wasn't near the shattered black crystal. Owen's eyes widened as he realized something. The chamber had fallen unnaturally quiet, the earlier sounds of combat replaced by an oppressive silence broken only by their breathing and the soft patter of blood dripping from Jon's blade. "Why is it so silent?" Owen whispered, a cold dread settling in his stomach. "Where are our men?"

Jon and Owen looked to the entrance they had come through, seeing the corpses of their remaining men strewn across the threshold like broken dolls. Their bodies lay at unnatural angles, limbs twisted and broken, expressions of terror and pain frozen on their faces. One soldier was still alive, held aloft by his throat in the iron grip of the last sorcerer. The mage's bone mask was gone, revealing a face that seemed almost too normal for the atrocities he'd committed—middle-aged, with deep-set eyes and a close-cropped beard now flecked with blood.

The northern soldier struggled weakly against the sorcerer's grip, his feet dangling inches above the ground, his face turning purple from lack of air. His eyes found Owen's, filled with apology and desperate fear. "I am sorry, my lor—" he tried to say before the sorcerer snapped his neck with a casual twist of his wrist, the sound echoing through the silent chamber like the crack of a whip.

The sorcerer let the body drop unceremoniously atop his fallen comrades, then turned to face Owen and Jon. Blood streamed from cuts across his face and arms, but instead of weakening him, the wounds seemed to feed his power. The blood didn't fall but flowed upward, swirling around him in crimson ribbons that pulsed with dark energy. "You've cost me three of my brothers," he said, his voice eerily calm as he stepped over the bodies of the fallen northerners. "But their sacrifice will not be in vain. The Black Goat is patient. He has waited centuries—he can wait a little longer."

The man's calm demeanor in the face of his comrades' deaths chilled Owen more than any display of rage could have. This wasn't the frenzy of a cornered animal—this was the calculated patience of a predator.

"Allow me to properly introduce myself," the sorcerer said, bowing with mocking formality. His blood-streaked face held no trace of fear despite being outnumbered. "I am Illiphos Dynatis, head priest and sorcerer of the Black Goat of Qohor." His voice carried the cultured accent of high Qohorik society, incongruously refined given the slaughter around them.

As he spoke, Illiphos extended his hand, and the blood from the channels began to coalesce around his fingers, forming a pulsing sphere of crimson energy that grew with each heartbeat. The air in the chamber became thick and oppressive, tasting of copper and something fouler—like rotting meat and burning hair combined.

"You and the bastard will pay in blood," Illiphos's continued, his eyes gleaming with fanatical fervor as the sphere between his palms grew larger, tendrils of blood-energy whipping outward like living tentacles. "All will know the glory of the Black Goat an—"

Jon didn't let him finish. With a roar of pure rage that echoed through the chamber, he planted his ebony blade into the stone floor with such force that cracks spread outward from the impact point. The sound of metal striking stone rang out like a bell, momentarily drowning out Illiphos's words. Before the echo faded, Jon was already moving, his body a blur as he channeled his fury through his magic circuits, reinforcing every muscle and sinew to superhuman levels.

Illiphos's eyes widened in genuine surprise as Jon closed the distance between them with impossible speed. The sorcerer attempted to sidestep at the last moment, his own reflexes enhanced by blood magic—but while he managed to avoid Jon's reinforced fist by a hair's breadth, he wasn't fast enough to dodge the follow-up kick that Jon delivered to his ribs with devastating precision. The impact produced a sickening crack as several of Illiphos's ribs shattered under the force, sending the sorcerer hurtling through the air directly toward Owen.

Owen was already moving, his own rage feeding his magic as he channeled mana through his perfect circuits. He met the airborne sorcerer with a magically enhanced uppercut that connected with Illiphos's jaw with bone-crushing force. The impact sent the blood mage rocketing upward toward the vaulted ceiling of the chamber, blood trailing behind him like a comet. For a moment, Illiphos seemed suspended at the apex of his trajectory, his broken body silhouetted against the ancient stonework above.

That moment of suspension ended abruptly as Owen appeared beside the sorcerer in mid-air, having used a burst of wind magic to propel himself upward. Illiphos had just enough time to register Owen's presence, his eyes widening in disbelief, before Owen clasped both hands together and brought them down in a devastating hammer blow. The impact sent Illiphos plummeting back to the chamber floor, where he crashed into the stone with enough force to create a small crater, dust and fragments of rock exploding outward from the point of impact.

Owen watched as Jon's face contorted with disgust and fury. His half-brother spat viciously at the crater where Illiphos had landed, the glob of saliva landing with perfect aim on the blood sorcerer's seemingly lifeless form.

"Good riddance," Jon growled, his chest heaving from exertion, sweat and blood mingling on his face. "Filthy blood mage got what he deserved."

Owen turned his attention to the fallen northerners who lay scattered across the chamber's entrance, their bodies broken and twisted in death. These were men of the north—soldiers who had families waiting for them, men who had shared meals and jokes with him aboard the Storm Fortress. Men who had trusted him to lead them safely through this nightmare. Owen felt the weight of their deaths settle on his shoulders like a physical burden.

"We'll get men down here," Owen said softly, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "They deserve proper burials back home, not to rot in this godsforsaken pit." He looked at the faces of the fallen, committing each to memory. "I promise you, Jon, they'll go home to the North, to rest beneath weirwoods where the old gods can watch over them."

Jon nodded grimly, his rage cooling into something harder and more focused. He moved toward his ebony blade, still embedded in the stone floor where he'd planted it before their attack. Before he could reach it, a sound like cracking stone echoed through the chamber, followed by a wet, gurgling laugh that chilled Owen's blood.

"A servant of the Black Goat does not die so easily," came Illiphos's voice, unnaturally strong despite the devastating injuries he'd sustained. The sorcerer rose from the crater, his body a grotesque mockery of its former self. Broken bones jutted through his skin at impossible angles, only to retract and realign themselves with sickening cracks. His shattered jaw knitted itself back together as they watched, blood flowing upward from the channels in the floor to encase him in a cocoon of crimson energy. "The Black Goat has fed well today—and he rewards his faithful servants."

With a gesture that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself, Illiphos unleashed a torrent of blood-red flames from his outstretched hands. Where it touched the ancient stonework of the chamber, the rock didn't just burn—it melted and bubbled like wax, releasing noxious fumes that stung Owen's eyes and burned his lungs.

Owen dove to the right while Jon rolled left, both barely avoiding the hellish conflagration that filled the space where they had stood moments before. The heat was so intense that Owen felt his eyebrows singe even from several feet away. He drew Fate Cleaver in a smooth motion, the enchanted blade humming with power as it tasted the charged air. Across the chamber, Jon scrambled toward his embedded ebony sword.

"The Black Goat has shown me your deaths a thousand times," Illiphos called out, his voice resonating with unnatural power as he prepared another devastating attack. Blood continued to flow up from the floor, wrapping around him like armor, pulsing with malevolent energy. "Your weapons cannot harm me. Your magic is nothing compared to the power of blood and sacrifice. Braavos is merely the beginning—soon all the world will know the glory of the Black Goat of Qohor!" As he finished his proclamation, both Owen and Jon charged toward him from opposite sides, weapons ready to strike down the monstrous priest once and for all.

Illiphos's blood-armored form pulsed with unnatural power, the crimson fluid swirling around him like a living shield. The sorcerer's eyes had changed, no longer human but pools of liquid darkness that reflected nothing. With a flick of his wrist, Illiphos sent a barrage of blood spears hurtling toward Owen, each one solidifying mid-flight into razor-sharp projectiles. Owen raised Fate Cleaver, channeling his magic through the blade. A wave of frost erupted from the sword, freezing the blood spears instantly and causing them to shatter against the cold barrier. The frozen fragments clattered to the stone floor, already melting back into ordinary blood.

"The Black Goat drinks the blood of the unworthy!" Illiphos shrieked, his voice echoing unnaturally through the chamber as he raised both hands toward the ceiling. The blood channels in the floor began to bubble and hiss, sending gouts of crimson liquid spiraling upward to form a writhing, serpentine mass above him. "His horns pierce the heavens! His hooves crush the faithless!" Jon darted forward, his ebony blade swinging in a deadly arc toward the sorcerer's exposed side, but a tendril of blood lashed out like a whip, catching Jon across the chest and sending him tumbling backward.

Owen focused his will, drawing on the holy magic he had learned in the Temple of Solomon. Golden light began to emanate from his skin, filling the chamber with a warm radiance that seemed to make the blood magic recoil wherever it touched. The sorcerer hissed in pain, his blood armor bubbling where the light contacted it. "Your light is nothing against the ancient darkness!" Illiphos snarled, sending a wave of blood-red flames cascading across the chamber toward Owen. The flames parted around Owen's golden barrier, scorching the stone on either side but leaving him untouched.

Jon recovered quickly, rolling to his feet with his blade ready. He caught Owen's eye across the chamber, and a silent understanding passed between them. While Owen kept the sorcerer's attention with another blast of frost from Fate Cleaver, Jon circled behind, moving with the silent grace that had earned him respect among the northern warriors. Illiphos laughed maniacally as he blocked Owen's frost with a wall of blood, unaware of Jon's approach. "The Black Goat sees all! The Black Goat knows all! Your souls will feed his eternal hunger!" The sorcerer punctuated each proclamation with a blast of crimson energy that sent Owen diving for cover behind a pillar.

"I have had enough of hearing about your fucking goat," Owen snarled, his patience finally snapping. He channeled his rage into his magic, forming not one but three wind blades simultaneously, each one spinning with deadly precision as he sent them hurtling toward Illiphos from different angles. The sorcerer's eyes widened momentarily before his blood armor expanded, forming tendrils that intercepted two of the blades. The third sliced through his shoulder, drawing a howl of pain that quickly turned to laughter as the wound sealed itself with bubbling blood .

Owen saw his opening as the blood around Illiphos lessened. He dropped Fate Cleaver, the enchanted sword clattering against the stone floor. Illiphos smirked at what he perceived as surrender, his blood armor receding slightly as he prepared for a final, devastating attack. "Fool," the sorcerer said, gathering a massive orb of blood between his palms. "The Black Goat accepts your—" His words died in his throat as Owen suddenly vanished from where he stood, using a burst of wind magic to propel himself forward at impossible speed.

Illiphos's eyes widened in shock as Owen materialized directly in front of him, the Northern pistol already drawn and pressed against the sorcerer's forehead. The blood mage's armor began to react, tendrils rising to protect him, but they were too slow. "Go to hell!" Owen shouted, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The enchanted bullet tore through Illiphos's skull with devastating force, blasting away half his face in an explosion of bone, brain, and corrupted blood. The sorcerer staggered backward, his remaining eye wide with disbelief as his blood armor faltered, no longer sustained by his conscious will.

Jon seized the moment, appearing behind the reeling sorcerer like a shadow given form. His ebony blade flashed once in the golden light that still emanated from Owen, a perfect arc of darkness that met no resistance as it passed through Illiphos's neck. For a moment, the sorcerer's head remained in place, his one remaining eye still blinking in confusion—then it slid from his shoulders, followed by a fountain of blood that, for once, obeyed the natural laws of gravity and splashed to the stone floor. The headless body remained standing for another heartbeat before collapsing in a heap of robes and corrupted flesh, the unnatural energies that had animated it finally dissipating in a hiss of foul-smelling steam.

Owen and Jon stood over the fallen body of the blood mage, their chests heaving from exertion. "In the name of the Old Gods," Jon pleaded, his voice hoarse, "let the bastard stay dead this time." He prodded the headless corpse with the tip of his boot, half-expecting it to reanimate despite the devastating damage they'd inflicted. The blood that had formed the sorcerer's armor now pooled beneath his body, indistinguishable from ordinary human blood except for a faint, unnatural shimmer.

"Agreed," Owen said, feeling the bone-deep weariness that came from magical exhaustion. He glanced down at Solomon's healing ring on his finger, the ancient artifact pulsing with a soft light as it worked to replenish his depleted reserves. "On a normal day, some juiced-up blood mage would have been burnt to crisp in a second if I wanted. But after facing that sea beast, creating the wraithbone tree, and taking down that giant undead abomination without days to recover..." He shook his head, flexing his fingers to ease the cramping that came with magical overexertion. "My reserves are near depleted."

They stood wearily, surveying the carnage around them. The bodies of fallen northerners lay where they had fallen, silent testimonies to the viciousness of the fight. He was about to suggest they begin moving the bodies when a sound reached them—faint at first, then more distinct.

"Help! Please, someone help us!" The cries came from behind a heavy wooden door set into the far wall of the chamber, barely visible in the dim light. Owen's head snapped up, suddenly alert despite his fatigue. He remembered the group of Braavosi citizens he had glimpsed earlier when searching for the sorcerers—terrified faces peering at the merciless sorcerers. In the chaos of the battle, he had pushed the memory aside, focusing on the immediate threat.

"They're still alive!" Owen exclaimed, already moving toward the door with renewed energy. Jon followed close behind, his weariness momentarily forgotten. The door was secured with a heavy iron lock and reinforced with bands of metal. Owen examined it briefly before stepping back. "Stand clear," he instructed Jon, drawing his pistol once more.

Just as he was about to shoot the lock, there was a sickening crunch behind them that made Owen and Jon still. The sound, like bones snapping and flesh tearing, echoed through the blood-soaked chamber with unnatural clarity. Owen lowered his pistol slowly, a cold dread settling in his stomach as he met Jon's wide-eyed gaze. Neither man spoke—they didn't need to. The same terrible realization reflected in both their faces. They turned in unison, weapons at the ready, to face what they already knew was impossible.

Illiphos's headless body stood upright, blood bubbling from the stump of his neck like a crimson fountain defying gravity. The corpse convulsed violently, each movement accompanied by the wet snap of bones breaking and reforming. The sorcerer's fine robes slid from his transforming body, pooling around feet that were no longer human but rapidly elongating into cloven hooves that cracked the stone floor beneath them.

Owen watched in horrified fascination as the body expanded, growing taller and broader with each passing second, the pale human skin darkening and sprouting coarse black fur. Where once was a headless torso, new tissue erupted upward, forming a thick neck that stretched toward the ceiling. Atop this column of muscle and sinew, a massive goat's head materialized—not grown or formed, but simply there, as if it had always existed in some unseen dimension and was now merely stepping into reality. The head was enormous, with a skull larger than a war horse's, covered in midnight-black fur that seemed to absorb the light around it. Three glowing red eyes arranged in a triangle opened simultaneously, fixing Owen and Jon with a gaze that contained millennia of malevolence.

"BOW BEFORE THE BLACK GOAT, GOD OF ALL IN CREATION," the entity roared, its voice not coming from the goat's mouth but seeming to emanate from the very walls of the chamber, from the blood channels in the floor, from the air itself. The voice bypassed their ears and resonated directly in their minds, causing both men to stagger backward from the psychic force. The creature's horns, spiraling and wickedly sharp, scraped against the ceiling of the chamber, sending ancient dust and fragments of stone raining down. The Black Goat towered over them, easily fifteen feet tall, its massive hooves leaving smoldering imprints in the stone floor with each step it took toward them.

Owen took one look at the giant deity made manifest and sighed. "Oh fuck me."

Chapter Text

Owen stared up at the Black Goat, its massive form radiating malevolence that seemed to thicken the air and make breathing difficult. The deity's presence felt ancient and wrong, like something that had torn through the fabric of reality to stand before them. Its three glowing eyes shifted from Jon to Owen and back again, each movement deliberate and predatory. Owen felt his magical reserves—already dangerously low—responding instinctively to the threat, pulling together what little power remained. He glanced at Jon, whose face had gone pale beneath the blood and grime of battle, though his sword remained steady in his hand.

"YOU STAND BEFORE ME UNBOWED," the Black Goat's voice thundered directly into their minds, causing Owen to wince at the intrusion. The creature's massive head lowered slightly, bringing those three burning eyes closer. "CENTURIES HAVE PASSED SINCE I LAST WALKED THIS PLANE, AND STILL HUMANS HAVE NOT LEARNED RESPECT." The deity's hooves struck the stone floor with enough force to send cracks spiderwebbing outward. "IN QOHOR, MY FAITHFUL STILL OFFER BLOOD SACRIFICES, YET EVEN THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN THE TRUE REVERENCE DUE TO ME."

Jon shifted his weight, readying himself for whatever might come next, and the movement drew the Black Goat's attention. The massive head swung toward him, nostrils flaring. "THE BLOOD OF THE FIRST MEN RUNS STRONG IN YOU, MORTAL. YOUR ANCESTORS KNEW TO BOW BEFORE POWERS GREATER THAN THEMSELVES. THEY BUILT WEIRWOODS AND OFFERED SACRIFICES BENEATH THEIR BRANCHES." One massive hoof stamped, shaking the chamber. "NOW YOU WIELD STEEL AND FIRE, THINKING YOURSELVES MASTERS OF THIS WORLD."

"We've heard enough," Owen said, his voice steady despite the fear clenching his gut. He raised his pistol, aiming for the center eye. "Whatever you are—god, demon, or just some magical construct—you're not welcome here." The creature's attention shifted to Owen, and he felt the full weight of its ancient malice bearing down on him though his mental state held.

The self proclaimed deity tilted its head at him, those three burning eyes studying Owen with unnerving intensity.

"AHH YES, THE SMITH, THE OUTSIDER," the Black Goat rumbled, its voice reverberating through Owen's skull. "ONE BORN INTO THIS WORLD FROM ANOTHER."

Owen froze, his blood turning to ice in his veins. The pistol wavered slightly in his hand as the words struck him like physical blows. How could this creature possibly know? He'd never spoken of his past life to anyone, not even to Sansa. The secret of his reincarnation remained locked within him, a truth he'd buried beneath years of careful silence.

"What are you talking about?" Jon demanded, his sword still raised defensively. He glanced at Owen with confusion, clearly not understanding the significance of the deity's words.

The Black Goat ignored Jon completely, its focus entirely on Owen now. "YOU AND YOUR KIND BELIEVE YOURSELVES CLEVER, HIDING YOUR TRUE NATURES BEHIND MORTAL FLESH. YET TO BEINGS SUCH AS MYSELF, YOUR SOUL SHINES LIKE A BEACON." The creature lowered its massive head until one glowing eye was level with Owen's face. "I AND MANY OTHER DEITIES OWE YOU THANKS."

Owen's confusion must have shown on his face because the Black Goat continued, "YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND, DO YOU? YOUR PRESENCE, SINCE YOU WERE BORNE UNTIL NOW, HAS BEEN RETURNING MAGIC AND MYSTERY TO THE WORLD." The deity's hooves scraped against stone as it circled them slowly. "EVEN MORE THAN THE DRAGONS OF ANCIENT VALYRIA, YOU HAVE AWAKENED POWERS LONG DORMANT. THE FORGE YOU WIELD IN YOUR SOUL IS MERELY A CONDUIT FOR SOMETHING FAR GREATER—THE REBIRTH OF WONDER IN A WORLD GROWN STAGNANT AND PREDICTABLE."

"I don't understand," Owen said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I've never tried to bring back magic. Everything I've done has been to protect the North, to prepare it for the threats I know are coming." He lowered the pistol slightly, his curiosity temporarily overriding caution. "What do you mean about other deities? What's happening to this world?"

Owen stared up at the Black Goat, struggling to process its claims. The creature seemed to sense his confusion, and a sound like grinding stone and splintering bone filled the chamber—its laughter, Owen realized with a chill.

"YOU STILL DO NOT COMPREHEND THE MAGNITUDE OF WHAT YOU HAVE WROUGHT," the Black Goat bellowed, its voice reverberating through Owen's skull with painful intensity. "THE SEVEN, THE OLD GODS, THE GOD OF FALLEN VALYRIA, THE DROWNED GOD, MOTHER RHOYNE—ALL THE MAJOR AND LESSER DEITIES ACROSS THE WORLD SHUDDERED AWAKE THE MOMENT YOUR SOUL ENTERED THIS REALM." The massive creature circled them, its hooves striking sparks from the stone floor. "FOR CENTURIES, WE LACKED THE POWER TO REVEAL OURSELVES OR MAKE OURSELVES KNOWN TO OUR FOLLOWERS. WE WERE FADING, BECOMING MERE WHISPERS AND DREAMS, LEGENDS TOLD TO CHILDREN OR WORSHIPPED HALFHEARTEDLY."

Owen's mind raced, connecting pieces he'd never considered before. "That can't be right," he said, though doubt crept into his voice. "I'm just using what the Celestial Forge gives me. That's all."

"THE CELESTIAL FORGE……THIS IS YOUR NAME FOR IT?," the Black Goat repeated, those three red eyes gleaming with what might have been amusement. "A PRETTY NAME FOR SOMETHING FAR BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING. LITTLE BY LITTLE, THE WEAPONS YOU CREATED, THE ADVANCEMENTS YOU MADE—ALL FILLED WITH POWER FROM THE FORGE OF YOUR SOUL—HAVE FLOODED THE WORLD FROM DARK ASSHAI TO THE SEAS BEYOND WITH MAGIC. WITH EACH CREATION, YOU RETURNED A MEASURE OF POWER TO THIS WORLD. WITH EACH INNOVATION, YOU TORE HOLES IN THE VEIL THAT SEPARATED THE MORTAL REALM FROM THE DIVINE."

Jon looked between Owen and the deity, his expression a mixture of confusion and growing concern. "Owen, what is it talking about? What does it mean about your soul?"

The Black Goat ignored Jon's questions, continuing its explanation as it loomed over them. "ANCIENT THINGS ARE AWAKENING, ANCIENT POWERS LONG THOUGHT MERE MYTH OR LEGEND. THE WHITE WALKERS BEYOND THE WALL STIR EARLIER THAN THEIR APPOINTED TIME. THE DRAGONS IN THE EAST GROW STRONGER THAN THEY SHOULD. THE GREENSEERS OF THE CHILDREN HEAR VOICES LONG SILENT." Its massive head swung toward Owen, one hoof raising to point directly at him. "AND IT IS ALL THANKS TO YOU."

"I never meant for any of this," Owen whispered, the weight of the Black Goat's revelations pressing down on him like a physical force. "I just wanted to protect the people I care about. I wanted to stop the wars, prevent the suffering I knew was coming." His hand tightened around the pistol, uncertainty warring with determination. "If what you're saying is true, then I've made things worse, not better."

The Black Goat's eyes narrowed, its massive form shifting as it regarded Owen with what might have been curiosity. "BETTER OR WORSE ARE MORTAL CONCEPTS, MEANINGLESS TO BEINGS SUCH AS MYSELF. YOU HAVE BROUGHT CHANGE TO A STAGNANT WORLD, BREATHED LIFE INTO POWERS LONG DORMANT. SOME WILL THANK YOU FOR IT. OTHERS WILL CURSE YOUR NAME. BUT NONE CAN DENY THAT THE AGE OF WONDERS HAS RETURNED TO THIS REALM—AND YOU, SMITH FROM BEYOND, ARE ITS HERALD."

The Black Goat leaned forward, its massive form shifting as it extended a clawed hand toward Owen. The appendage was both goat-like and disturbingly human, with elongated fingers ending in sharp black talons. Owen stared in confusion, his pistol still raised but his finger frozen on the trigger. The creature's movement wasn't threatening—it was almost... beseeching.

"I OFFER YOU A CHOICE, SMITH FROM BEYOND," the Black Goat rumbled, its voice reverberating through Owen's skull with painful clarity. "YOU HAVE BEEN THE FIRST TO APPEAR BEFORE ME IN CENTURIES, THE FIRST TO WITNESS MY TRUE FORM AND LIVE. FOR THIS, I GRANT YOU WHAT FEW MORTALS EVER RECEIVE—A CHOICE." The deity's massive head tilted slightly, those burning eyes studying Owen with unnerving intensity. "SOON... PERHAPS AFTER THIS PITIFUL WAR YOU WAGE ACROSS THE NARROW SEA, THE GODS WILL MAKE THEMSELVES KNOWN TO THE WORLD ONCE MORE. EACH WILL CHOOSE CHAMPIONS TO HERALD THEIR RETURN, MORTALS WHO WILL CARRY THEIR POWER AND SPREAD THEIR INFLUENCE."

Jon shifted beside Owen, his sword still raised defensively. "Owen, don't listen to it. Whatever it's offering, it can't be trusted." His voice sounded distant, as though coming from miles away rather than mere feet.

The Black Goat continued as if Jon hadn't spoken, its focus entirely on Owen. "MANY OF MY DIVINE BRETHREN DESIRE YOU, SMITH. THEY WOULD MAKE YOU THEIR CHAMPION, USE YOUR SOUL AND THE FORGE WITHIN IT TO SPREAD THEIR WORSHIP FAR AND WIDE, WIPING OUT ALL OTHERS WHO OPPOSE THEM." The deity's voice dropped to a rumble that Owen felt in his bones. "BUT I HAVE FOUND YOU FIRST."

Owen swallowed hard, finding his voice at last. "And what exactly are you offering that's different from them?" he asked, surprised by the steadiness of his own words. "Why would I choose to serve you over any other god?"

The Black Goat's eyes flared brighter at the question, and something like satisfaction emanated from the massive creature. "JOIN ME, SMITH FROM BEYOND. PLEDGE YOURSELF TO MY SERVICE, AND I SHALL REWARD YOU BEYOND YOUR WILDEST IMAGININGS. YOU SHALL HAVE THOUSANDS OF WOMEN AS YOUR WIVES—THE MOST BEAUTIFUL IN THE KNOWN WORLD, GATHERED FROM EVERY CORNER OF ESSOS AND WESTEROS TO PLEASE YOU." The deity's clawed hand remained extended, an invitation Owen couldn't bring himself to accept or reject. "YOU WILL LEAD ARMIES IN MY NAME, CONQUER NATIONS AND REMAKE THEM IN MY IMAGE. THE BLOOD MAGIC I SHALL TEACH YOU WILL MAKE YOUR ENEMIES COWER AND DIE IN DESPAIR, BEGGING FOR MERCY THAT WILL NEVER COME."

The chamber seemed to shift around them, and for a moment, Owen glimpsed visions of himself seated on a throne of bones and iron, surrounded by beautiful women from every corner of the world. He saw armies marching under his banner, their weapons dripping with blood as cities burned before them. The power flowing through his veins in these visions was intoxicating, dark and seductive. The Black Goat's final words cut through these images, bringing Owen back to the present with a jolt.

"THE WHOLE WORLD WILL BE YOUR EMPIRE, SMITH. YOU WILL RULE AS MY CHOSEN ONE, MY SON IN ALL BUT NAME." The deity's voice softened, almost gentle now despite its inhuman timbre. "ALL THIS I OFFER FREELY, IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR LOYALTY AND SERVICE. A SMALL PRICE TO PAY FOR NEAR GODHOOD, IS IT NOT?"

Owen looked at the extended hand, then at Jon, who watched him with growing concern. The visions of power and conquest still lingered at the edges of his mind, tempting and terrible in equal measure. He thought of Sansa and their unborn child, of the North he'd worked so hard to protect, of the people who trusted him.

Owen stared at the Black Goat's outstretched hand, the visions of power still swirling at the edges of his consciousness. Before he could respond, Jon suddenly stepped between them, his ebony sword raised defensively, his stance protective.

"Fuck off," Jon spat at the deity, his voice steady despite the tremor Owen could see in his shoulders. "I don't understand all this talk of souls, forges and power, but your followers killed our men. How many innocents have died in Braavos because of you?" Jon's grip tightened on his sword, knuckles white with tension. "Whatever you're offering him, whatever bargain you think you're making—it ends now. We came here to stop this madness, not to join it."

The Black Goat snarled, pulling back its massive hand as those three glowing eyes narrowed with rage. "INSOLENT NORTHERN WHELP," it bellowed, the force of its voice causing dust to rain down from the chamber ceiling. "YOU DARE STAND BETWEEN ME AND MY CHOSEN? YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A SPECK OF DUST, A MOMENTARY FLICKER IN THE ENDLESS DARKNESS." The deity's massive form seemed to grow larger, shadows stretching and writhing around it as its anger manifested physically.

Then, abruptly, the Black Goat froze. Its nostrils flared, sniffing the air around Jon like a predator catching an unexpected scent. The massive head lowered, those burning eyes studying Jon with an intensity that made Owen's skin crawl. The deity circled Jon slowly, each movement deliberate and calculating. "I WAS WRONG," it murmured, its voice softer now but no less menacing. "YOU ARE NOT MERELY SOME BASTARD WITH THE BLOOD OF THE FIRST MEN IN YOUR VEINS. NO..." It leaned closer, those burning eyes mere inches from Jon's face. "I SMELL THE DRAGONFIRE OF VALYRIA AS WELL. ICE AND FIRE, BOUND TOGETHER IN ONE MORTAL FORM."

Owen felt his heart hammering against his ribs as the implications of the deity's words sank in. Jon—Lyanna's son, not Ned's bastard—his true heritage recognized by this ancient being when it remained hidden from the world. Jon himself looked confused, his sword still raised but uncertainty flickering across his features.

"HAHAHAHA!" The Black Goat's laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound like breaking glass and grinding stone that set Owen's teeth on edge. "I MUST THANK YOU, SMITH FROM BEYOND," it said, turning those burning eyes back to Owen. "NOT ONLY HAVE YOU AWAKENED THE OLD POWERS, BUT YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME ONE HALF OF THE SONG OF ICE AND FIRE." The deity's massive head swung back toward Jon, something like hunger gleaming in those three red eyes. "HE WILL MAKE A VALUABLE CHAMPION AGAINST THE COMING DARKNESS OF THE GREAT OTHER, ONCE I HAVE BROKEN HIM PROPERLY." the deity said, even as jon looked confused at his words.

Owen didn't answer as his mind raced. As they were, he and Jon didn't stand a chance against some dark god. He was sure Fate Cleaver and Jon's ebony sword could hurt it but he wasn't sure if they had enough strength to take it down. He was too depleted to use a large enough amount of holy magic to kill it. That meant they needed a large distraction till they could get their forces above ground to come and help put it down. The pistol in his hand felt heavier than before, its enchanted bullets powerful but perhaps insufficient against a being of such magnitude. Still, Owen knew that even gods could bleed—he'd made sure his weapons could harm any creature, mortal or divine. He just needed time, a strategy, a way to survive long enough to bring more firepower to bear.

He pulled the last of his reserves, even as his magic circuits stung and ached, burning through his body like molten metal poured into fragile molds. The pain was excruciating, but Owen forced his voice to remain steady as he looked directly into those three burning eyes.

"No deal," he said simply, the words hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

The Black Goat went utterly still, those three glowing eyes narrowing to burning pinpoints of crimson rage. The temperature in the chamber dropped precipitously, darkness and blood forming on the stone walls as the deity's fury manifested physically.

"YOU DARE REFUSE ME?" the Black Goat roared, its voice no longer seductive but thunderous with rage. The chamber shook with the force of its anger, chunks of stone breaking loose from the ceiling and crashing to the floor around them. "I OFFER YOU GODHOOD, POWER BEYOND YOUR MORTAL COMPREHENSION, AND YOU SPIT UPON MY GENEROSITY?"

Owen spat at the deity's hooves, the gesture of defiance small but significant. "You're right," he said, his voice growing stronger with each word. "If I joined you, I could live like a god among men, commanding armies, collecting women like trophies, bathing in the blood of my enemies." He took a step forward, ignoring Jon's warning glance. "But with the Celestial Forge in my soul, all I need is time, and one day I will be an actual god." The words flowed from him with absolute certainty, a truth he hadn't fully acknowledged even to himself until this moment. "I don't need your promises or your power. I've built everything I have with my own hands, and I'll continue to do so without bending the knee to some goat-headed monstrosity from the depths of Qohor."

The Black Goat's rage was palpable, filling the chamber with a miasma of malevolence so thick it seemed to distort the air itself. "THEN YOU SHALL DIE HERE, SMITH FROM BEYOND," it snarled, those massive horns lowering as it prepared to charge. "I SHALL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL AND TAKE THE FORGE WITHIN FOR MYSELF. AS FOR YOUR COMPANION—" Its gaze shifted briefly to Jon, "—HE WILL SERVE ME WELL IN THE DIVINE WARS TO COME ONCE I HAVE BROKEN HIS WILL AND REMADE HIM IN MY IMAGE."

Jon readied his blade at the Black Goat's words, defiance shining in his eyes. Owen smirked at the deity, a plan already forming in his mind. "I don't think so," he said, his voice steady despite the agony coursing through his body. With the last reserves of his magic, Owen reached out with his consciousness, seeking the Dwarven Colossus that still stood guard at the crypt's entrance far above. His magic circuits flared white-hot with effort as he established the connection, feeling the construct's mechanical mind responding to his call.

In a flash of golden light that momentarily blinded everyone in the chamber, the massive Dwarven Colossus materialized between Owen, Jon, and the Black Goat. Standing thirty feet tall, its bronze and wraithbone armor gleamed in the dim light, ancient runes pulsing with power along its surface. The construct's red eyes blazed as it assessed the situation, immediately recognizing the threat to its creator. The Colossus's mechanical head swiveled toward the Black Goat, its magical sensors registering the malevolent deity as a priority target. It let out a deafening mechanized roar that shook dust from the ceiling, the sound echoing through the ancient chamber like the battle cry of some primordial beast.

The Black Goat's three eyes widened in surprise—perhaps even fear—at the sight of something it had never encountered in all its existence. The deity barely had time to raise its clawed hands as the Colossus swung its massive blade in a devastating arc. The enchanted metal connected with the deity's forearms with a thunderous impact, and while the Black Goat's limbs weren't severed completely, black, steaming blood splattered across the chamber floor. The ichor hissed where it landed, eating into the ancient stone like acid.

"Is that... can we actually hurt it?" Jon gasped, his eyes fixed on the Black Goat's wound as the deity howled with pain and rage. The sound was unlike anything either man had heard before—a cacophony of screams that seemed to come from a thousand throats at once, high and piercing enough to make their ears bleed.

Owen staggered to his feet, leaning against a pillar for support as he watched his creation battle the ancient deity. "Everything bleeds, Jon," he said through gritted teeth, raising his pistol with trembling hands. "Even gods." The Colossus swung again, its massive blade whistling through the air as it aimed to decapitate the Black Goat. This time, the deity dodged with unnatural speed, its massive form suddenly fluid and quick despite its bulk. It roared with fury, those three glowing eyes fixed on Owen and Jon with murderous intent.

"YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS CHAMBER ALIVE," the Black Goat bellowed, its voice causing cracks to spider across the ancient walls. It launched itself at the Colossus, claws extended and horns lowered like lances. The two titans collided with a thunderous crash that shook the entire chamber, sending both men stumbling for balance. The Colossus caught the deity's horns in its massive metal hands, servos whining with strain as they grappled in the center of the room. "KILL THEM," the Black Goat commanded, and to Owen's horror, the shadows in the corners of the chamber began to move and solidify, taking the shape of twisted, goat-headed figures that advanced on him and Jon with weapons of darkness clutched in their hands.

Owen raised his pistol, knowing they needed to survive long enough to get out. The Colossus was buying them precious time, but it couldn't defeat a god alone. He glanced at Jon, who stood ready with his ebony sword, determination etched across his features. "Back to back," Owen ordered, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. "And don't let any of those things touch you." As the shadow creatures closed in and the titanic battle between the Colossus and the Black Goat raged on, Owen squeezed the trigger of his pistol, the enchanted bullet streaking through the air with a trail of blue fire. They would not die here, not today—not when the fate of the world might hang in the balance.

Jon did the same, reaching for his own pistol and shooting his bullets at the Black Goat's monsters, cutting any that got too close with his ebony blade when they breached his firing line. The enchanted bullets tore through the shadow creatures, each hit accompanied by an unearthly wail as the entities dissolved into nothingness.

"Never thought I'd be grateful for these guns of yours so much." Jon growled, decapitating a goatman that had slipped past his guard. "Though I still prefer steel when they get close!"

Meanwhile, the Black Goat battled the Dwarven Colossus, screaming in rage and pain as the machine used its whole arsenal against it. The automaton's arm cannon blasted the deity with red-hot magical fire that scorched its midnight fur and burned the flesh beneath. The machine guns mounted on the Colossus's back rained rune-covered bullets at the goat's body that had it screaming to the heavens in pain and rage. Whenever the Black Goat got close enough, the Colossus delivered devastating slashes from its blade, each cut drawing more of that hissing black ichor that ate into the stone floor.

The chamber shook violently with each impact between the titans, ancient dust raining down from the ceiling as pillars cracked under the strain. Owen and Jon tried to take every chance to run for the chamber entrance, but the Black Goat would either summon more goatmen or throw large chunks of ruined floor to stop them. During one such attempt, a massive piece of stonework crashed down mere inches from Owen's feet, forcing him to dive backward to avoid being crushed.

This was a mistake, however, as the Dwarven Colossus took this opportunity while the Black Goat focused on them to stab it through, the massive blade piercing the deity's side with a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. The Black Goat roared in pain and fury as it grabbed the Colossus and slammed it to the ground, trying to pummel it to pieces. The chamber shook violently as they fought, the floor beneath them cracking and heaving, making Jon fall down hard, his pistol skittering away across the stone.

"Jon!" Owen cried out, reaching to pull him up, only for a snarling goatman to come rushing to his side, taking him to the floor, its mouth trying to tear off his face before a strong punch from Owen sent it flying off him. Owen's fist ached from the impact, the creature's skull harder than he'd expected, but he had no time to dwell on the pain. Jon scrambled backward, reaching for his fallen ebony sword, his face streaked with blood and sweat.

The Black Goat snarled and looked at where Jon had fallen and screamed in anger. "I WILL MAKE YOU SUFFER FOR DARING TO REFUSE ME," it roared, its voice shaking the very foundations of the chamber. One of its hands pointed towards Jon and sharpened then elongated to a tentacle before flinging itself towards Jon before he had a chance to dodge and move away, readying to skewer him through. The tentacle moved with impossible speed, a blur of darkness and malice aimed directly at Jon's chest.

Owen's eyes were frantic as he saw the tentacle get nearer and nearer as he begged mentally for help. His magic circuits were burned out, his body pushed beyond its limits. He couldn't reach Jon in time, couldn't conjure a shield or weapon to deflect the attack. "No!" he screamed, lunging forward despite knowing he was too far away, too slow, too late. Begging for Jon to be saved, begging for the forge to grant him a new ability to save him in time. Anything!

And then it happened. Time slowed. Then stopped. The Black Goat's tentacle hung suspended in mid-air, mere inches from Jon's chest. The Dwarven Colossus remained frozen in the midst of a counterattack, its massive blade glinting in the dim light. Dust particles hung motionless in the air, caught in beams of light that streamed through cracks in the ceiling. The shadow creatures stood like statues, their twisted faces locked in expressions of eternal hunger. Owen hadn't even known his eyes were closed but he opened to see all time at a standstill.

And floating before him was the Oghma Infinium. The book hovered in the air, its cover made of patches of skin from different races and creatures sewn together with golden thread that glowed with an inner light. Ancient runes crawled across its surface, shifting and changing as if alive. The book pulsed with power, each beat sending ripples through the frozen world around them. Owen could feel it calling to him, promising knowledge beyond mortal comprehension, secrets that could reshape reality itself.

"What is this?" Owen murmured as the book opened of its own accord, flipping its pages to the middle as green muck and a mass of writhing tentacles spilled forth. Countless eyes, small and large, blinked into existence from the viscous substance, all fixing their gaze upon him with terrible awareness. The chamber around them remained frozen in time—Jon's face locked in an expression of horror, the Black Goat's tentacle suspended mere inches from his chest, the Dwarven Colossus mid-swing in its battle against the deity.

"My my my…..something new. It has been ages….since I saw something completely new." The voice from the book seemed to whisper, its speech slow and steady and very disturbing. Each syllable felt like cold fingers tracing Owen's spine, the words somehow bypassing his ears and manifesting directly in his mind. The book—or rather, the entity within it—turned its attention to the frozen form of the Black Goat, the multitude of eyes blinking in what appeared to be amusement.

"Hmmm…..a problem indeed….for one such as you……special mortal…..do you want…..my help?" the voice asked as Owen suddenly realized who he was dealing with. Any Skyrim player would know that voice. And yet, one look at the tentacle frozen about to skewer Jon and he said yes, the word escaping his lips before he could consider the consequences of dealing with such an entity.

"Very well," the eyes from the book seemed pleased, blinking in unison as if sharing a private joke. "Then for this one request I shall take this annoying thing as payment….and then we should have a….chat." A large mass of green tentacles flooded out of the book, covering and dragging away the frozen form of the Black Goat. The deity, despite being suspended in time, somehow managed to convey terror as the tentacles enveloped it completely, pulling it inexorably toward the open pages of the Oghma Infinium. The Black Goat of Qohor—a god in its own right—disappeared into the book with nothing more than a faint, distant scream that echoed from somewhere beyond reality.

Before Owen could process what had happened, more tentacles emerged from the book, surrounding him completely. They writhed and pulsed with sickening life, closing in from all sides until all he could see was their undulating forms. As darkness enveloped him, Owen's last thought was of Sansa, of their unborn child, and the desperate hope that he hadn't made a terrible mistake. Then consciousness fled, and all he knew was darkness.

Chapter Text

Owen opened his eyes with a groan that echoed across the strange landscape. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision as the world slowly came into focus around him.

"I really need to stop going unconscious during fights," he muttered, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "People are going to start thinking I've got a glass jaw or something." His attempt at humor fell flat in the eerie silence that surrounded him. Owen took a moment to steady himself, then looked around at his surroundings, a chill running down his spine as recognition dawned.

Towering bookshelves stretched toward a sickly green sky, their contents spilling onto walkways that twisted and turned in impossible configurations. Pools of what looked like acid bubbled between platforms of weathered stone, and black-bound books floated in the air, pages fluttering without wind. The architecture defied conventional geometry, with staircases that led nowhere and doorways opening into empty space. Owen had seen this place before—not in person, but in a video game he'd played in his previous life. This was Apocrypha, or at least something that bore an uncanny resemblance to it, the realm of Hermaeus Mora, Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate.

"Well, this is just perfect," Owen said, his voice echoing strangely in the vast, empty space. He got to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. His armor was intact, though covered in a film of something that resembled oil but moved like it had a mind of its own. He wiped it away with disgust. "Dragged into another dimension by an eldritch horror. Sansa's going to kill me if I don't make it back." He patted himself down, relieved to find his weapons still on his person, though he wondered how effective they would be against whatever might lurk in this realm.

The platform he stood on seemed stable enough, connecting to a winding path that led deeper into the labyrinth of books and forbidden knowledge. Tentacles occasionally broke the surface of the acid pools, waving lazily in the air before retreating back into the depths. The entire realm pulsed with an otherworldly energy that made the hair on Owen's arms stand on end. He'd never felt anything like it—not in Westeros, not even when facing the Black Goat. This place was alive in a way that defied explanation, aware of his presence and watching his every move.

"Hermaeus Mora!" His voice boomed across the realm, stronger than he'd expected, echoing between towering stacks of forbidden knowledge. "I know you're there. I know this is your realm. Let's skip the part where I wander around confused for hours before you finally reveal yourself." Owen took a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword more out of habit than any belief it would be effective against a Daedric Prince. "I'd really like to get this over with and go back. I still have a war to win, and my wife is pregnant. I don't have time for cosmic games."

The air around him thickened, taking on an almost gelatinous quality. The sickly green light pulsed, growing brighter then dimmer in a rhythm that reminded Owen of breathing. Tentacles emerged from between bookshelves, some thin as whips, others thick as tree trunks, all moving with deliberate, unsettling grace. They converged before him, twisting and intertwining until they formed a writhing mass of appendages and eyes—dozens of eyes of various sizes, blinking independently of one another, all fixed on Owen.

"Aaah... a mortal who knows of me. How... interesting." The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, slow and deliberate, each word drawn out as if the entity savored the taste of speech. "You are not of this world... not originally. Your knowledge... your memories... they are a feast I have long desired to sample." A particularly large eye, green and slitted like a cat's, moved closer to Owen's face. "You were touched by the Oghma Infinium, my artifact, and now you stand in my realm. Do you understand the... honor... that has been bestowed upon you?"

Owen refused to step back despite the proximity of the eye, meeting its gaze steadily. "I understand that I was in the middle of fighting a three-eyed goat deity that was trying to enslave Braavos when your book showed up. I appreciate the assist with that particular problem, but I need to get back. The northern armies are waiting for me, Jon might be injured, and we have hostages to save. So while I'm sure your realm is fascinating and your knowledge is vast, I really don't have time for whatever test or game you have planned."

The mass of tentacles rippled, a motion that might have been laughter in a more humanoid being. "Such... impatience. Mortals always in such a hurry, even those who have lived more than one life."

Owen didn't find this amusing. He crossed his arms over his chest, his patience wearing thinner by the second. "Look, I appreciate the Lovecraftian aesthetic you've got going on here, but I'm not a Dragonborn or from Tamriel. This isn't some video game quest I need to complete. I've got real people depending on me back in Westeros, so could you please just show me the way out?"

The eyes blinked in an unsettling, asynchronous pattern, and the tentacles writhed with increased vigor. The Daedric Prince seemed more amused at his question, the slow, deliberate voice taking on a tone that might have been humor. "You misunderstand, mortal. You may leave anytime you wish. Despite where we stand looking like Apocrypha, it is not truly my realm. This is merely... an interface... created from your memories to facilitate our conversation. A familiar setting pulled from your mind to ease our communication."

Owen blinked in surprise, glancing around at the towering bookshelves and acidic pools with new eyes. Now that it had been pointed out, he could see subtle differences—books with titles he recognized from his first life, paths that seemed to lead toward memories rather than knowledge, and a certain insubstantiality to the architecture. "So this is... what? A mental construct? Am I physically here or is this happening in my head?"

"Does it matter?" Hermaeus Mora's voice oozed around him like thick syrup. "The distinction between mind and matter becomes... fluid... at certain levels of existence. You are here because the Oghma Infinium recognized something in you—a collector and creator of knowledge and power much like myself. That Black Goat entity you faced was... an interloper... attempting to claim domains beyond its understanding. Its presence disturbed certain balances."

Owen ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by the cryptic answers. "So you intervened because this Black Goat was stepping on your toes? Look, I appreciate the save, but if I can leave anytime, I'd like to go now. Jon might be dying, and there are still slavers to kill."

Owen watched the mass of tentacles and eyes ripple again, a motion that somehow conveyed more amusement despite the alien nature of the entity before him. The Daedric Prince's laughter, if it could be called that, echoed through the twisted library, a sound like distant thunder rolling between shelves of forbidden knowledge.

"Are you not... curious, mortal?" Hermaeus Mora's voice dragged each syllable out painfully slow. "Do you not wonder how I was able to reach across the void to save you? How I could touch your world—hmm, your memories call it Planetos?—despite the vast gulf that separates our realms? A man who has crafted such wonders through knowledge should hunger to understand such power."

Owen crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the Daedric Prince. The question was clearly bait, designed to appeal to his intellectual curiosity and draw him deeper into whatever game Mora was playing. He'd seen this pattern before, both in fics and the games from his first life. Entities like Hermaeus Mora didn't offer knowledge freely—there was always a price, always a catch.

"I'm not stupid," Owen said flatly, meeting the gaze of the largest eye without flinching. "This is the part where you dangle some cosmic secret in front of me, and then try to force me into a deal like you did with Miraak. Some bargain where I get knowledge but become your champion or servant or whatever term you want to use for slave. I've seen this story play out before, and I'm not interested in the role you're offering."

The tentacles froze momentarily, then began moving with greater agitation. Several eyes blinked rapidly, focusing and refocusing on Owen with an intensity that made the air around them seem to warp. "You presume much... for a mortal who stands in my presence. Miraak sought power above his station... he wished to be a god. What do you seek, Owen of two worlds? You who have already bent the laws of reality by your mere existence? You who have brought technological revolution and magical awakening to a world not prepared for either?"

Owen felt the weight of countless eyes upon him, each one filled with ancient, inscrutable knowledge. The sensation was unsettling, like being examined under a microscope by a being that could see through every layer of his existence. He maintained his composure, refusing to show the discomfort he felt as Hermaeus Mora's gaze penetrated deeper than physical sight.

"You misunderstand my intentions," Hermaeus Mora said, his voice like molasses flowing through the air. "I do not offer bargains to every mortal who crosses my path. Your Forge... that fascinating construct embedded in your soul... it makes you unique, yes, but not necessarily worthy." The entity's form shifted, eyes blinking in asynchronous patterns as tentacles writhed and repositioned themselves. "Many have power, Owen of Longshore……Few understand its purpose or its price."

Owen's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the Celestial Forge. He shouldn't have been surprised that Hermaeus Mora knew about it, but hearing the entity speak of the source of his abilities so casually was jarring. "Then what do you want from me? You didn't bring me here just to tell me I'm not special enough for your attention."

"Want? Such a... limited concept." Hermaeus Mora's voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, reverberating through Owen's bones. "I observe. I collect. Knowledge is its own reward, and you... you are a fascinating specimen. A soul twice-lived, carrying powers from beyond your current realm, reshaping a world's destiny." A large green tentacle suddenly shot out from the mass, moving with shocking speed directly toward Owen's chest. "As for forcing you to my will..."

The tentacle passed harmlessly through Owen's body, like smoke through air. There was no impact, no pain, just a momentary cold sensation as it moved through him. Owen instinctively stepped back, hand reaching for his weapon before he realized what had happened.

Hermaeus Mora's form undulated, tentacles writhing in complex patterns as countless eyes blinked in unsettling asynchrony. The entity seemed to expand and contract like a breathing organism, filling the impossible space of the twisted library. "The Celestial Forge embedded in your soul... it is beyond even my complete understanding." The Prince of Knowledge's admission came reluctantly, each word drawn out as if painful to acknowledge any limit to his comprehension. "But what I can fathom suggests that it would not intentionally bestow gifts that would harm its chosen vessel. Your powers, your knowledge... they are tools, not traps."

Owen watched the Daedric Prince cautiously, still not trusting the entity's apparent candidness. "So the Forge protects me from self-destructive powers? That's reassuring, I suppose."

"You misunderstand," Hermaeus Mora corrected, his voice rippling through the air like oil on water. "The Forge provides tools it deems appropriate or perhaps by chance, who knows, but whatever choice you make after receiving these gifts—for good or for ill—is your responsibility alone. The consequences of your actions are not the Forge's concern it seems." The mass of tentacles shifted, forming what might have been a shrug in a more humanoid being. "The Oghma Infinium that the Forge granted you is not truly my creation, but rather a copy, an echo of my artifact. This copy created a connection between us—a tether across realities that allows me to observe you, but not to interact directly." Several eyes focused intently on Owen, their gaze almost physical in its weight. "I cannot keep you here against your will. I cannot harm you... unless you make a deal with me."

The implication hung in the air between them. Owen could feel the entity's desire, its hunger for whatever knowledge or power Owen possessed that it found so fascinating. The countless eyes stared at him with naked temptation, an unspoken invitation to explore possibilities beyond his current understanding.

"So this version of the Oghma Infinium is mine to read and learn from as I wish," Owen said slowly, processing the information. "I can gain knowledge from it without owing you anything." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "But you're suggesting there's deeper, more powerful knowledge that only you can provide. Knowledge that would come with strings attached."

"Precisely." Hermaeus Mora's voice took on a pleased tone, like a teacher whose student had finally grasped a difficult concept. "The book you possess is but a shadow of my true artifact. It contains significant knowledge, yes, but mere fragments of what I have collected across eons and dimensions." A particularly large eye moved closer to Owen, its pupil dilating as it examined him. "For deeper secrets—the fundamental workings of reality, the true nature of magic across all worlds, the patterns that bind existence together, even the ways to kill the divine—only I can provide such insights. And I do not give my knowledge freely, Owen of Longshore. Everything has a price."

Owen crossed his arms, meeting the massive eye's gaze without flinching. "And what would that price be? My soul? My service as your champion? Letting you into Westeros to corrupt it like you did Solstheim?" He shook his head firmly. "I've seen how your 'gifts' work out for people like Miraak and Septimus Signus. I'm not interested in becoming another cautionary tale."

"Such limited thinking," Hermaeus Mora's voice oozed disappointment. "You assume I desire the same arrangements with every mortal who catches my interest. Miraak sought godhood; Septimus craved knowledge he was too fragile to contain. Your situation is... unique." The tentacles reconfigured themselves, forming what might have been a contemplative pose. "I offer you a simple exchange: knowledge for knowledge. You possess experiences from two worlds, technologies and magics combined in ways I have not witnessed before. Share with me your unique perspective, and I shall grant you specific knowledge you seek—no servitude required, no corruption of your world. A clean transaction between collectors of the rare and valuable."

Owen was silent, his mind racing through the possibilities. It sounded like a good deal on the surface—knowledge for knowledge, a simple exchange with no strings attached. But if there was one thing Owen remembered clearly from his past life playing Skyrim, it was never to trust Daedric Princes, even the supposedly "good ones" like Azura or Sanguine. Each had their own agenda, their own twisted perspective on what constituted fair exchange or deals. Hermaeus Mora in particular was notorious for his half-truths and manipulations, drawing mortals into webs of obligation that weren't apparent until it was too late. The entity before him might not be the exact same Hermaeus Mora from the game, but the similarities were too striking to ignore.

"Before I consider your offer," Owen said carefully, measuring each word, "I have a specific question. Could you show me how to kill deities? Like how you managed to defeat the Black Goat?" He watched the mass of tentacles and eyes closely, looking for any reaction that might reveal the entity's true intentions. "If we're discussing an exchange of knowledge, that's the kind I'm most interested in right now. There are other... beings in this world that might need dealing with."

Hermaeus Mora's form undulated, the countless eyes blinking in what might have been amusement. A sound like distant thunder rolled through the twisted library—laughter, Owen realized, the Daedric Prince was laughing at him. The sound was unsettling, like nails on a chalkboard mixed with the creaking of ancient wood.

"Why do mortals insist on calling everything with power a god?" Hermaeus Mora's voice dripped with condescension, each word drawn out painfully slow. "The Black Goat was no deity, Owen of Longshore. It was merely a powerful demon, nurtured by years of blood sacrifice from stupid mortals who mistook power for divinity. It was no more a god than a dragon is a mountain, regardless of its size or the fear it inspires." Several tentacles gestured dismissively, as if swatting away an annoying insect. "What you faced was indeed formidable by mortal standards, but it was not divine. Not truly. It was a parasite that fed on fear and worship, growing bloated on the energy of belief and blood."

Owen frowned, processing this information. "So all those sacrifices in Qohor, all those centuries of worship—they were feeding this demon, making it stronger?" He thought back to the massive three-eyed creature they'd faced, its impossible strength and the way it had nearly killed Jon with casual ease. "If that wasn't a god, then what qualifies? What makes a true deity in your view?"

"A fascinating question," Hermaeus Mora replied, his voice taking on a tone that might have been genuine interest. "True divinity is... complicated. It exists beyond mere power or worship. The Aedra and Daedra of my realm are closer to what you might consider gods, though even that comparison is flawed." The mass of tentacles shifted, forming what might have been a contemplative pose. "A true god is woven into the fabric of reality itself. To kill such a being would be to unravel a thread from the tapestry of existence, potentially causing the whole to collapse. What you faced was powerful, yes, but ultimately just another creature existing within reality, not a fundamental part of it."

Owen considered this explanation, trying to determine if it aligned with what he knew of the deities in Westeros and Essos. The Old Gods, the Drowned God, the Lord of Light—were they truly divine, or just powerful entities that had cultivated worship? And what about the Others beyond the Wall and their great Other? Understanding the nature of these beings could be crucial for the coming conflicts.

"Your confusion is... entertaining," Hermaeus Mora said, his voice dragging each syllable out in that distinctive, painfully slow cadence. "I have always enjoyed dealing with mortals. Your limited perspectives, your desperate grasping for understanding—it provides such diversion across the long stretches of eternity." The mass of tentacles shifted, several eyes focusing more intently on Owen. "I find it curious that someone of your power would struggle with mere demons. You wield the Celestial Forge, craft wonders beyond your world's understanding, yet falter before a bloated parasite like the Black Goat? Perhaps you are simply... exhausted from your many battles and creations."

Owen's jaw tightened at the condescension in Mora's tone. "I've been fighting battles since i got to braavos while building a magical industrial revolution from scratch back in the north. Forgive me if I'm not at my best when facing ancient demons and their monsters when i am basically running on fumes." He paused, considering the entity's words more carefully. "You said you consumed the Black Goat. Did you learn anything useful from its memories?"

The mass of tentacles undulated in what might have been a nod. "Indeed. I have looked through the Black Goat's memories as I consumed him. Fascinating fragments of knowledge, though primitive compared to my vast collection." Several eyes blinked in sequence, as if recalling specific details. "Its talk of gods awakening and old things stirring was particularly... intriguing. The creature believed itself to be at the forefront of a great awakening thanks to you, a herald for powers far beyond its comprehension. It sensed changes in the fundamental fabric of your world—changes that you, Owen of Longshore, have accelerated through your actions."

Owen frowned, processing this information. "The Black Goat mentioned something similar before you arrived. It said my presence was waking up magic across the realm. Are there actually gods in this world, then? Real ones, by your definition?"

"There are entities in your world that approach what you might consider godhood," Hermaeus Mora replied, his voice like oil spreading through water. "Ancient, powerful beings that have slumbered for ages and shaped its mortals history, their consciousness diffused throughout reality. But if they were truly gods………or powerful enough to be called gods by my standards, then they would not be able to face you directly, or they would risk destroying the very reality they inhabit." The Daedric Prince's form shifted, tentacles rearranging themselves into a new configuration. "As the demon had said, they would choose champions. If they found problems with you……then their champions would face you on their behalf. It is the way of such beings…..to work through proxies, to influence rather than act directly."

"Champions," Owen repeated, thinking of the White Walkers north of the Wall, of the red priests spreading across Essos, of the faceless men and their Many-Faced God. Were they all just pawns in some cosmic game between slumbering powers? "So I've potentially made enemies of gods without even realizing it. That's just perfect." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his gesture. "Any chance you could be more specific about which gods might have a problem with me?"

Hermaeus Mora's laughter rumbled through the false Apocrypha again, the sound both amused and dismissive. "You assume these entities think as you do, with clear motivations and defined grievances. Their consciousness is spread thin across eons and dimensions, Owen of Longshore. They do not 'have problems' as mortals………understand the concept." Several tentacles gestured in what might have been a shrug. "Some may view your actions as disruptive to patterns they have nurtured for millennia. Others might see opportunity in the changes you bring. The R'hllor entity seems particularly interested in your activities, though whether as potential ally or obstacle remains unclear. The consciousness that mortals call the Great Other watches with similar intensity."

Owen's mind raced with implications. If Hermaeus Mora was right, then the brewing conflict between ice and fire that had been central to the original story might already be incorporating him as a new variable. His actions had changed the timeline dramatically already. "So what you're saying is that I need to be prepared for champions of these entities to come after me—or try to recruit me—while the gods themselves remain in the background?" He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "And here I thought dealing with the Lannisters and slavers was complicated."

Owen stared at the mass of tentacles and eyes that was Hermaeus Mora, feeling a strange mixture of revulsion and curiosity. The offer he gave was tempting but not something he wanted. His experiences from his past life, even if they were just from from games and fics had taught him to be wary of deals with powerful beings that existed beyond mortal comprehension.

"I need time to consider your offer," Owen said firmly, stepping back from the floating mass of tentacles. "For now, I want to return to my world. To my wife and family." He concentrated, focusing his will on creating an exit from this twisted library realm and a bright archway materialized behind him, glowing with an ethereal light that stood in stark contrast to the murky green atmosphere of this false Apocrypha.

Hermaeus Mora's countless eyes blinked in unsettling patterns, the tentacles shifting to form what might have been an approximation of a shrug. "It matters not, mortal. Time flows differently across our realms. When you are ready to seek knowledge that only I can provide, you will return." The Prince of Knowledge's voice oozed confidence, each word drawn out painfully slow. "I shall enjoy examining the knowledge you have already contributed to my Oghma Infinium. Your... unique perspective adds fascinating new chapters to my collection. And I know that eventually... you will come back to me. Mortals always do when their thirst for knowledge grows desperate enough."

Owen snorted, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Not if I have anything to say about it." He turned toward the glowing archway, refusing to give Hermaeus Mora the satisfaction of seeing his uncertainty. The Daedric Prince might believe Owen would eventually return seeking knowledge, but Owen had seen how such bargains typically ended. He'd find his own solutions, create his own path forward without relying on entities whose motives remained questionable at best. With a final glance at the mass of tentacles and eyes, Owen stepped into the archway, feeling a momentary sensation of vertigo as reality shifted around him.

Light flashed behind Owen's eyelids, and suddenly he was back in the chamber beneath Braavos, lying on the cold stone floor. The acrid smell of blood and ozone hung in the air, and the remnants of the ritual circle still glowed with fading power. Jon was a few feet away, scrambling to his feet with sword in hand, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm as they darted around the chamber.

"What happened? Where did it go?" Jon demanded, his voice tight with tension as he assumed a defensive stance. "The Black Goat was about to kill me, and then... nothing. It just vanished." He looked at Owen with a mixture of relief and suspicion, clearly struggling to understand what had transpired in those moments when time seemed to freeze. "Did you do something? Some kind of magic I couldn't see?"

Owen sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. "A long talk is in order, but not here. Once we're back at the docks and have tended to our dead, I'll explain everything." He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the broken bodies of the goatmen and the splatters of shadow ichor that stained the marble floors.

He crossed the chamber, picking up his discarded weapons—Fate's Cleaver, the enchanted greatsword that had served him faithfully, and the Northern pistol, a masterpiece of ancient Dwarven craftsmanship. Even now, as he sheathed the sword and holstered the gun, he couldn't help but admire their beauty and craftsmanship, each a testament to the power and technology he had brought to this world. Yet, despite their impressive qualities, they had failed to protect him in his moment of need.

A bitter taste filled his mouth as he thought of how close he and jon had come to death or worse. He had gotten complacent, allowing himself to be surrounded by those shadow goat creatures and nearly losing Jon to the black goat in the process. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again. This wasn't the Westeros he knew from the books, TV shows, and fanfics. Here, the laws of magic and fate seemed even more unpredictable and prone to wild twists that could upend his carefully laid plans.

Owen's gaze darkened as he recalled the sensation of time freezing and the appearance of the Oghma Infinium. He knew that his encounter with Hermaeus Mora was far from over. The Daedric Prince had an agenda, just like in the game. And while the Prince of Knowledge might have saved him from the Black Goat, Owen had no doubt that it had been a self-serving action, not an act of benevolence. He would have to be vigilant and prepared for future attempts at coercion or manipulation.

The encounter with the Black Goat was another thing that had shaken him to his core, exposing vulnerabilities he couldn't afford. His weapons and armor, once thought invincible, had proven inadequate against truly otherworldly threats. The realization burned in his chest like molten steel—he would have to build better, more powerful weapons, stronger armor, defenses even a god would balk at if they ever faced him, creations that would send his enemies running, contingency after contingency must be made. His failure could never happen again. He wasn't going to die and leave Sansa a widow and his child without a father.

Suddenly there were three hesitant bangs that knocked his thoughts back to the present and jon and owen looked once more to the large door chained shut with the Braavosi citizens meant for sacrifice. This time it was a lady's voice that asked. "Is there anyone still alive out there? Please let us out."

Jon and Owen looked at each other before Owen looked to the Dwarven Colossus that was standing up slowly. Apart from a few dents here and there from the Black Goat, it was still fine. "Stand far away from the door," Owen called to the prisoners before willing the Colossus to slam the door apart, which it did easily. The massive automaton's cannon fist connected with the thick ancient wood and iron chains, reducing it to splinters with a single devastating blow.

Owen watched as the prisoners emerged from their dark confinement, their eyes squinting against the torchlight. Men and women of all ages stumbled forward, some helping others who were too weak to walk unaided. Their faces bore the hollow-cheeked look of those who had been kept on starvation rations, likely saved as future sacrifices for the Black Goat's rituals. But what shocked the two was the young lady that followed out after them. She wasn't as gaunt as the rest and her clothes of silk were still in good condition. She had long flowing silver gold hair, some twisted into intricate braids. Her face was soft an skin without blemish except for some grime from captivity and her violet eyes was enough to tell Owen who she was before she even opened her mouth.

"I am Daenerys Targaryen," she announced, her voice steady despite her circumstances. She stood with a natural dignity that seemed at odds with her situation, chin lifted slightly as she surveyed Owen and Jon. "I thank you for freeing us and killing the sorcerers. They captured me in Qohor when I was traveling with my brother. He—" Her voice caught for a moment before she regained her composure. "They sacrificed him to their Black Goat. I was to be next."

Jon's face remained frozen in shock, his eyes fixed on the young woman's distinctive Targaryen features. Owen could practically see the wheels turning in his friend's head—here stood the daughter of the Mad King, the very family that Robert Baratheon had fought to overthrow. The same royal house that Jon's father had helped depose. And now, with Robert and his armies just outside in the city, they had inadvertently found the last Targaryen princess.

Owen just rubbed his temples as he was sure a migraine was coming on. His life never was easy was it?

Chapter Text

Jon was resting in bed, his muscular frame sprawled across the soft feather mattress. Despite the morning sun streaming through the narrow window and the persistent sounds of hammering and reconstruction outside, he decided to indulge in a rare moment of idleness. His dark, unruly hair splayed across the pillow as his striking grey eyes gazed contemplatively at the ceiling beams above.

The celebrations in Braavos had finally died down after two exhausting weeks of both jubilation and mourning. The city had experienced both extremes—mourning their fallen Sealord and citizen killed by the fog creatures, while celebrating their salvation from disaster. A new Sealord had been chosen, the brother of the last, bringing some stability back to the Free City. Repairs and recuperation had begun in earnest throughout the canals and buildings damaged during the conflict.

All around the harbor, numerous Northern and Southern ships remained docked, their crews and soldiers helping patrol Braavos's winding streets. The men had alternated between maintaining order and joining in the festivities that marked the city's salvation. Now, as the city slowly returned to its normal rhythms, he allowed himself this moment of quiet reflection, a luxury rarely afforded to a man of his responsibilities.

Of course not all was perfect now that the fog had lifted, monsters gone and Braavos was no longer under siege. For one, there was Daenerys.

Jon's memories took him back to how shocked Lord Stark had been when he and Owen had brought her to him, her face covered by a hood as they met in one of the private rooms of an abandoned inn near the docks. Eddard Stark had wondered why they were bringing a covered lady to him only for his eyes to widen as he saw Daenerys when she removed her hood.

"By the old gods," his father had whispered, his normally stoic face transformed by shock. "Daenerys Targaryen." The name had hung in the air between them, heavy with history and consequence.

Jon remembered how the silver-haired woman had stood tall despite her ordeal, her violet eyes meeting Lord Stark's grey ones without flinching. "Lord Stark," she had acknowledged with a slight nod, her voice surprisingly steady. "It seems the gods have strange plans for us all."

His father had paced the room, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of agitation. "Robert cannot know you're here. He would..." He hadn't finished the sentence, but they all knew what King Robert would demand if he discovered a Targaryen within his reach.

"I found her among the prisoners held by the blood mages," Owen had explained, his voice low and urgent. "Bartimus scouts were right. They sacrificed her brother Viserys to their Black Goat. She has nowhere to go, and I couldn't leave her among the prisoners we found in the crypts incase one of roberts or tywins men found her."

Jon watched his father's face, seeing the conflict there. Eddard Stark had fought against the Targaryens during Robert's Rebellion, yet Jon knew him to be a man of honor who would never harm an innocent woman. The tension in the room was palpable as Daenerys stood before them, her shoulders squared despite the visible exhaustion on her face.

"My lady, I offer my sincere condolences for your brother's death," Lord Stark said finally, his voice solemn and measured. "No matter our houses' past conflicts, no one deserves such a fate at the hands of fanatic blood mages." His grey eyes, so like Jon's own, held genuine sympathy, though his expression remained guarded.

Daenerys's violet eyes flickered briefly with something—pain, perhaps, or simply weariness—before she straightened her spine even more. "My brother and I have spent our lives running from your friend's assassins, Lord Stark. I care little for condolences. What I need to know is what happens to me now." Her voice was clear and direct, with a hint of steel beneath the exhaustion. Jon couldn't help but admire her composure, considering what she must have endured.

Owen stepped forward, his normally cheerful face serious. "We should take her with us back to the North," he said, looking directly at Eddard. "She has no one else, nowhere to go. The blood mages killed her last living family. If we leave her here or let her identity be known, Robert will have her killed—we all know it." He glanced at Daenerys. "We could hide her at Ice Crest or even Winterfell. No one would think to look for a Targaryen in the heart of the North."

Jon found himself nodding in agreement before he even realized it. The idea made sense—the vast, North could conceal many secrets. He'd seen how Owen's magic and technology had transformed their homeland into something formidable and secure. If anyone could hide a Targaryen princess from Robert's wrath, it would be them.

"No." Lord Stark's voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the room like a blade. "I cannot bring the daughter of the Mad King into my home, not with Robert as my king and friend." He turned to face Daenerys directly. "My lady, I will not harm you or turn you over to those who would. But harboring you in the North would be an act of treason against my sworn king. I cannot do it."

Jon watched Daenerys's face transform as Lord Stark spoke. The composed mask she'd maintained cracked, revealing a flash of anger in her violet eyes. She stepped forward, her silver-gold hair catching the dim light of the room's single lantern.

"My father was not mad," she declared, her voice rising with sudden passion. "Viserys always told me the truth of what happened. You and Robert Baratheon murdered my family for power. You were traitors who rebelled against your rightful king, against House Targaryen who ruled for three hundred years."

The room fell silent. Jon felt the air grow thick with tension as his father's expression darkened. He'd never heard anyone speak to Lord Stark this way—challenging not just his honor but the very foundation of the rebellion that had shaped the current realm.

"Your brother told you what he believed," Lord Stark replied evenly, though Jon could see the tightness around his eyes. "But I was there, my lady. I saw what happened to the realm under his rule. The Mad King earned his name through blood and fire."

Daenerys's chin lifted defiantly. "And yet you rebelled. You helped Robert Baratheon slaughter my family—even the children. My brother Rhaegar's babes, murdered. My mother, dead. All so your friend could sit on a throne that wasn't his by right." Her voice trembled slightly, but her gaze remained steady. "Viserys and I spent our lives running, living on charity and fear, while you northern lords enjoyed the spoils of your treachery."

Jon shifted uncomfortably, caught between loyalty to his father and a strange, unexpected sympathy for the silver-haired woman before them. He'd grown up hearing stories of the rebellion, of the Mad King's cruelty and the justice of Robert's cause. But seeing Daenerys—alone, defiant, the last of her house—made those stories suddenly feel less certain, more complex than the simple tales of heroism he'd been told.

Eddard stepped closer to Daenerys, his hands open at his sides in a gesture that seemed both placating and honest.

"Lady Daenerys," he said, his voice gentler than before, "I understand your anger. You haven't lived the life you were meant to—the life of a princess in the Red Keep, surrounded by family and security. That was taken from you, and for that loss, I am truly sorry." He paused, his grey eyes—so like Jon's own—searching her face. "But you must believe me when I tell you about your father. There is a reason even those who secretly support the Targaryens call Aerys the Mad King."

Daenerys's shoulders stiffened, her violet eyes flashing with defiance. "More lies to justify your rebellion," she snapped, though Jon noticed a flicker of uncertainty cross her face.

His father shook his head slowly. "Not lies, my lady. I was there. I saw what he became in those final years." Eddard's voice grew distant, as if he were seeing ghosts from the past. "He burned men alive for his amusement. Lord Rickard Stark—my father—was roasted in his armor while my brother Brandon was forced to watch, strangling himself trying to reach a sword to save him." Jon saw his father swallow hard, the memory clearly painful even after all these years. "And it wasn't just my family. Ask anyone who served at court during those years—even those still loyal to House Targaryen if they are brave enough to speak out. Ask them about the wildfire, about the screams that echoed through the Red Keep, about how he laughed while men burned."

Jon watched Daenerys closely. Her face had gone pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. Something in his father's words seemed to reach her—not just the content but the raw honesty in his delivery. She was too intelligent not to recognize truth when she heard it, Jon thought.

Daenerys's face shifted from pale and uncertain to a deeper, more focused anger. Her violet eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer to Lord Stark, her silver-gold hair catching the dim light.

"And what about Elia and her children?" she asked, her voice quiet but cutting. "What crime did they commit for Robert and Tywin's dogs to kill them?" Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, but her gaze remained steady on Lord Stark's face. "Viserys told me how the usurper smiled when he saw their corpses, while you turned away in shame."

Jon saw his father flinch, a shadow crossing his normally stoic features. The room seemed to grow colder as the accusation hung in the air between them. Jon had never heard this part of the rebellion's story—at least not told this way. He found himself holding his breath, waiting for his father's response.

"I did turn away," Lord Stark admitted after a long moment, his voice heavy with old regret. "Not in shame of opposing your father, but in disgust at what was done to innocent children and their mother." He met Daenerys's gaze unflinchingly. "I argued many times that day for Tywin to be stripped of his lordship and for Clegane and Amory Lorch to be executed or sent to the Wall. Those were not acts of war—they were murder, plain and simple." His voice grew harder. "Robert and I nearly came to blows over it. It was the first crack in our friendship, one that never truly healed."

Owen shifted uncomfortably beside Jon, glancing between the two. Jon could see the wheels turning in his friend's mind, likely calculating the political implications of this conversation. But Jon found himself transfixed by the raw emotion on his father's face—an expression he'd rarely seen growing up.

"Then why did you continue to serve him?" Daenerys pressed, her voice less accusatory now but still firm. "If you knew Robert Baratheon celebrated the murder of babes, why did you help put him on the throne? Why did you remain his friend all these years?" She shook her head slightly, genuine confusion mixing with her anger. "Viserys always said northerners prized honor above all else. Where was the honor in that?"

Jon watched his father's face carefully. Lord Stark seemed to age before his eyes, the weight of past decisions visibly pressing down on his shoulders. For a moment, Jon thought he might not answer, but then Eddard Stark sighed deeply.

"The realm was bleeding, my lady," he said quietly. "Thousands were already dead. The Mad King was gone, but his heir, your brother Rhaegar, had fallen at the Trident. Robert had the strongest claim among the rebels, and he had the will and charisma to hold the kingdoms together." He paused, his grey eyes distant with memory. "As for why I remained his friend... we had been brothers in all but blood since we were boys. The Robert who smiled at dead children was not the man I knew—he was someone twisted by grief and hatred for your brother Rhaegar, who he believed had stolen the woman he loved." Lord Stark's face grew solemn. "It doesn't excuse what happened, but those were dark days filled with terrible choices. I made mine, and I've lived with them ever since."

Silence fell over the room as Daenerys absorbed his words. Jon could see her struggling with this new perspective—one that neither absolved the rebels completely nor painted them as the villains of Viserys's tales. The complexity of it seemed to drain some of the fire from her, leaving her looking suddenly very young and very tired.

Owen stepped forward into the silence, his shoulders squared despite the obvious exhaustion etched on his face. The battle against the Black Goat and the horrors beneath Braavos had taken their toll, yet there was a familiar determination in his eyes that Jon had come to recognize over the years.

"Lord Stark," Owen said, his voice low but firm, "I know your loyalty to Robert runs deep, and I respect that. But with all due respect, I'll take Lady Daenerys north regardless of your choice." He met Eddard's startled gaze without flinching. "We can keep her hidden in an inn until the time is right, then slip her onto one of our northern ships. She could be at Ice Crest within two days." Owen's hand moved to rest on the pommel of his sword—not as a threat, Jon knew, but as a gesture of resolve. "I'll write to Sansa immediately. The lady will be treated properly and protected."

Jon saw his father's face harden, the momentary vulnerability replaced by the stern expression he wore when his decisions were final. "Owen, this isn't some stray you've found. This is treason against the crown—against my friend and king." Lord Stark's voice was quiet but carried the weight of command that had led men into battle. "I cannot allow it."

"With respect, my lord, you can't stop it either," Owen replied, a hint of steel entering his tone. Jon shifted uncomfortably, caught between his loyalty to his father and his growing certainty that Owen was right. "If Robert has a problem with it, then he can come find me and we'll have it out." Owen turned to Daenerys, extending his hand to her. "My lady, I offer you sanctuary in the North. Not as a political move or to gain favor, but because it's the right thing to do."

Jon watched as Daenerys hesitated, her violet eyes moving from Owen's outstretched hand to Lord Stark's stern face. For a moment, she seemed caught between pride and pragmatism, between refusing help from those she'd been raised to view as enemies and accepting the lifeline being offered. Then, with a grace that belied her exhaustion, she placed her hand in Owen's. "I accept your offer, Lord Longshore," she said, her voice steady despite everything.

Owen gently led Daenerys toward the door, pausing only briefly to look back at Lord Stark. "I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said, and Jon could hear the genuine regret in his voice. "But sometimes, the right choice isn't the easy one." With that, Owen and Daenerys slipped out of the room, leaving Jon standing awkwardly between the door and his father, torn between following them and staying with the man who had raised him.

Jon met his father's gaze one last time, seeing disappointment and something else—perhaps understanding—in those familiar grey eyes. Without a word, Jon made his choice, turning to follow Owen and Daenerys out of the inn. He was quietly grateful that Owen had taken a stand to help the princess, showing the kind of courage and compassion that Jon had always admired.

Jon and Owen had taken Daenerys and set her up in one of the inns that had reopened for business since the fog disappeared, surrounding it with Owen's Dreadguard, pretending they were being housed there for now while actually protecting the Targaryen princess. The arrangement had been Jon's idea, but Owen had quickly agreed, both understanding the need for discretion in protecting someone with such a dangerous bloodline in the current political climate.

After securing her safety, Owen had promised they would still have that long-overdue talk to explain everything that had happened—the black goats words, the disappearance and reappearance when jon was about to be skewered, and the full truth of Owen's abilities that Jon had fully understood. Yet true to form, Owen had promptly disappeared into his forge in the docks for the last two weeks, burying himself in whatever mysterious work he got into his head as he often did when troubled by matters, he couldn't immediately solve with steel or strength.

Jon had checked on Daenerys daily, making sure she had everything she needed while trying not to draw attention to their arrangement. He found himself increasingly curious about both the silver-haired princess and whatever secrets Owen was keeping locked away with the rhythmic pounding of his hammer against the anvil. The waiting was becoming unbearable, but Jon knew better than to rush Owen when he was like this—working through his thoughts and supposed failures in the heat and solitude of the forge, where metal was predictable in ways that politics never could be.

And of course, their problems hadn't stopped coming. A few days after settling Daenerys, Jon watched from the edge of the square as another crowd gathered beneath the luminous tree. The silver wraithbone structure towered over the docks, its branches extending like crystalline fingers that caught and dispersed moonlight in ways that defied natural explanation. The soft blue-white glow bathed the faces of the Braavosi who knelt before it, their expressions a mixture of reverence and desperate hope. Some clutched children with lingering coughs from the fog's effects, while others simply sat with their palms pressed against the smooth surface of its trunk, eyes closed in silent communion.

"They're calling it the 'Mercy Tree' now," Bartimus said, appearing at Jon's side. The grizzled northern captain had a way of moving silently despite his size, a skill Jon had always admired. "Three nights ago, a woman brought her dying son here—fever had taken hold after he breathed too much of that cursed fog and some creature scratched him. She claims he was healed after sleeping one night beneath its branches."

Jon nodded, having heard similar stories proliferating throughout the recovering city. "Owen didn't create it for worship," he said quietly, watching as an elderly man kissed the base of the tree, tears streaming down his weathered face. "He made it as a sanctuary against the fog, nothing more."

"Tell that to them," Bartimus gestured toward the growing crowd. "People need something to believe in after what they've seen. Can't blame them, really. I've spent my life on the sea, seen things that would turn most men's hair white, but nothing like those... things from the fog or that damned sea monster." The captain shuddered visibly, his hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of his sword as if the memory itself might materialize before them.

Their conversation was interrupted by raised voices from the edge of the gathering. Jon recognized the distinctive robes of a southern septon, probably one of them ones who had just recently come from the ships and had not faced or seen the creatures of the fog the tree had saved them from, his face flushed with righteous indignation as he addressed a group of Braavosi merchants. "This is idolatry!" the septon shouted, his voice carrying across the square. "When King Robert's forces depart, Lord Longshore will surely remove this... this abomination. The Seven will not tolerate such false worship!"

The reaction was immediate and volatile. The crowd surged toward the septon, faces contorted with anger. "The tree stays!" someone shouted. "It saved us when your Seven did nothing!" Another voice called out, "Touch the Mercy Tree and we'll throw you into the harbor!" The septon backed away, suddenly aware of the dangerous tide of emotion he had unleashed.

Jon moved quickly, pushing through the crowd with Bartimus close behind. He reached the septon just as several Braavosi closed in, their hands already formed into fists. "Enough!" Jon commanded, his voice carrying the authority he'd developed leading men into battle. He positioned himself between the septon and the angry citizens, meeting their glares with calm resolve. "Lord Stark approaches," he added, nodding toward the street where his father was indeed making his way toward the commotion, flanked by several northern guards. The crowd hesitated; their anger momentarily checked by the mention of the Quiet Wolf.

Lord Eddard's arrival brought a tense silence to the square. He surveyed the scene with those gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing, then spoke in that measured tone that Jon had heard calm lords and smallfolk alike. "The tree remains," he stated simply, his voice carrying across the square without needing to shout. "I cannot speak for Lord Longshore's intentions, but I know him well enough to say he would not remove something providing such comfort to people who have suffered greatly." He turned to the septon, his expression hardening slightly. "And I would remind our southern friends that we are guests in Braavos. Their customs and beliefs are their own, as are ours." The septon bowed his head, properly chastised, while the crowd slowly dispersed, murmuring their satisfaction with Lord Stark's intervention.

Jon watched as his father pulled him aside, away from the dispersing crowd and the septon who still looked ready to continue his tirade despite the public admonishment. Eddard's face was drawn with concern, the lines around his eyes deeper than Jon had seen them in years.

"The tree has become more than just a beacon, Jon," Eddard said quietly, his eyes darting to the luminous structure that continued to cast its ethereal glow over the square. "When the fog was thick and those... abominations stalked the streets, it served a purpose we all understood. It was protection, plain and simple. Now..." He shook his head, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "Now it's becoming something else entirely, something that divides rather than unites."

Jon frowned, following his father's gaze to where several well-dressed Braavosi were touching the trunk with reverent fingers. "What do you mean, Father? The people still need hope after what they've endured."

"Hope is one thing. Worship is another," Eddard replied grimly. "Just yesterday, two courtesans from the most exclusive pleasure houses in Braavos formed what they're calling 'The Cult of the White Tree.' They've declared Owen a god in human form, claiming that any woman who... lies with him will bear demigod children who will protect Braavos from future threats." His normally stoic expression couldn't quite hide his discomfort at discussing such matters with his son. "The cult already has a significant following, including several keyholders of the Iron Bank and at least a dozen of the most influential courtesans in the city."

Jon couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him, though he quickly sobered at his father's stern look. "Forgive me, Father, but Owen will be mortified when he hears this. He can barely handle the attention he gets in the North. Sansa had to beat off the ladies interested in him at their wedding with a stick."

Eddard's expression remained grave. "It's no laughing matter, Jon. Robert is already... displeased with Owen's growing popularity among both the southern soldiers and knights, and now Braavosi. To say he's 'put off' would be a severe understatement. Then again it may all be thanks to Tywin whispering in his ear." He lowered his voice further, ensuring they wouldn't be overheard. "Last night, I found him deep in his cups, ranting about 'upstart blacksmiths who think they're better than kings' and how 'the smallfolk never sang songs about Robert the way they sing about Lord bloody Longshore.'" Eddard sighed heavily. "The tree may continue to cause divisions not just among the faithful of different gods, but between the North and the crown if we're not careful."

Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. He'd seen King Robert's temper firsthand during their campaign against the Ironborn, had witnessed the man's capacity for both jovial camaraderie and thunderous rage. "What would you have us do, Father? Owen created the tree with good intentions. He can hardly be blamed for how people choose to interpret it."

"Intentions matter little in the game of politics, Jon. You should know that by now," Eddard replied, his voice tinged with the weariness of a man who had navigated the treacherous waters of southern politics for too long. "We need to speak with Owen as soon as he emerges from that forge of his. The tree must either be removed or somehow... changed to appear less divine. Otherwise, I fear the divisions it's creating will only deepen, both here in Braavos and back in Westeros." He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Talk to him, Jon. Make him understand the delicacy of our position here. Robert may be my oldest friend, but even friendship has its limits when crowns and perceived threats are involved."

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Jon sighed as turned in bed, letting the golden morning sunlight from the windows warm the blankets as the memories of the last few days washed over him. His mind replayed the strategic meetings, the countless reports, and the growing tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud. Preparations to set sail would soon be complete, and the scouting parties sent ahead had returned with valuable intelligence. Pentos, that grand and ancient city of domed roofs and intricate mosaics, had been mostly abandoned by the slaver army after the blood mages' fog and monstrous creations had turned against their employers—a fitting irony that brought a grim smile to Jon's face.

The bulk of the enemy forces had retreated to Myr, leaving behind empty streets where once the scents of spices and citrus had filled the air. Jon ran his fingers through his dark, unruly hair as he contemplated the reports from their spies. The slavers had suffered a devastating blow to their military might—eighty thousand dead, a staggering number that included elite Unsullied warriors, battle-hardened Sellsword company soldiers, and the slavers' own trained forces.

Soon they would be at sea again and hopefully crush the slavers once and for all. The thought brought both anticipation and weariness. Their victories against the Ironborn and in Braavos had been costly, and the men needed rest—but there would be no true peace until the threat from Essos was eliminated completely.

He sighed, turning onto his side. His thoughts drifted to Princess Daenerys Targaryen. He couldn't deny her beauty and the way she smiled when he went to check in on her, but there was also something else, a connection he couldn't quite shake. Something in her violet eyes seemed to recognize something in him, though they'd never met before. Jon had visited her chambers twice since her rescue, ostensibly to ensure her comfort and safety, but he found himself lingering, drawn into conversations about her life in exile.

"She is the blood of the dragon," Jon muttered to himself, recalling the stories Old Nan used to tell about the Targaryens. The exiled princess had lost everything—her brother, her home, her future—yet she carried herself with a regal bearing that impressed even Jon. He wondered what Lord Stark would say if he knew Jon was contemplating another visit to her chambers today. His father had made his position clear: Daenerys Targaryen was a complication they didn't need, especially with King Robert's well-known hatred for all Targaryens.

There was a sudden loud knock on his door. Jon bolted upright, hand instinctively reaching for his ebony sword before remembering where he was. He pulled on a simple tunic and breeches before opening the door to find one of the Dreadguard, Rena, waiting for him. The tall, red-haired warrior stood at attention, her frost-forged armor gleaming in the hallway light.

"Commander Snow," she said with a crisp nod, "an envoy from Qohor has come to treat with us. They're waiting outside, in one of the villas."

Jon's eyes widened. "Where are King Robert, Lord Stark, or any of the major lords?" he asked, already reaching for his sword belt.

"They're all at a military meeting at the Sealord's palace, discussing the invasion plans for Myr," Rena replied. "And Lord Owen is still in his forge. Nobody dares disturb him when he's working on... whatever it is he's working on now." There was a hint of apprehension in her voice that Jon understood all too well. Owen's forge had been sealed for three days, occasional flashes of blue light visible through the windows and strange, otherworldly sounds emanating from within.

Jon sighed. He would have to receive them himself. He followed Rena, adjusting his sword belt as they walked through the marble corridors of the Braavosi villa that had become their temporary headquarters. The morning air was cool against his face as they stepped outside, and Jon immediately noticed the crowd of angry Braavosi citizens already waiting outside the villa where the Qohorik envoys were being held. Their faces were contorted with rage, some bearing the scars and injuries from the monstrous fog that had ravaged their city. No doubt they wanted to see what Qohor dared say after they had unleashed the hell of the fog on them.

"Make way for Commander Snow!" Rena shouted, clearing a path through the murmuring crowd. Jon could feel their eyes on him, hear the whispers—some of awe, others of suspicion. The Northerners had saved their city, but foreigners were still foreigners in Braavos.

Jon turned to Rena before they reached the villa's entrance. "Go get more Dreadguard and Northern soldiers and create a perimeter around the villa to make sure a riot doesn't erupt. These people have suffered enough—I won't have more senseless bloodshed if we can avoid it." His voice was firm but quiet, mindful of the tension in the air.

"Yes, Commander," Rena nodded, her hand resting on the hilt of her own ebony sword as she departed to carry out his orders.

Meanwhile, Jon entered the villa, his hand never straying far from his ebony blades hilt. Inside, he found a group of normal-looking men and women dressed in the silk robes and jeweled collars typical of wealthy Qohorik merchants. They bowed as he entered, and their leader, a portly man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and calculating eyes, stepped forward.

"Commander Snow, I am Vogara, chief merchant of the Qohorik Trading Guild," the man said with another bow, his accent thick but his Common Tongue fluent. "We are here to surrender the city of Qohor to the forces of the Iron Throne and the Sealord of Braavos. Our delegation has been authorized to negotiate terms."

Jon was a bit confused, expecting whatever mages of the Black Goat would be preparing for a siege. He studied Vogara's face for signs of deception but found only exhaustion and what appeared to be genuine relief. "Surrender? I was under the impression that Qohor would fight to the last man, given what they've done."

Vogara's expression darkened, and he glanced at his companions before responding. "The remaining mages in the city, many of them nobles, have all committed suicide, along with their families. They were screaming that their god was dead as they fell on their blades or drank poison. The city is now in the hands of the merchants, and we want no part in this madness. The blood mages brought this upon us, Commander Snow, not the common folk of Qohor."

Jon studied Vogara's face, searching for any hint of deception. The merchant's eyes held weariness but also what appeared to be genuine relief. Still, Jon remained cautious—Qohor's reputation for dark arts and blood magic was well-earned.

"Did you not all worship and follow the religion of the Black Goat like the sorcerers and blood mages?" Jon asked, his hand still resting lightly on his sword hilt.

Several members of the delegation visibly recoiled at the question. One woman spat on the polished marble floor, earning a disapproving glare from Vogara before he turned back to Jon.

"No, Commander Snow. Not all of us," Vogara said, gesturing to his companions. "Many common folk in Qohor despised the mages and sorcerers for their sacrifices. They claimed to serve the city, but they served only their own power and ambition." His voice grew bitter. "When they allied with the slavers and dragged us into this war, they signed our death warrant. The common people have suffered for their arrogance."

Another merchant, a thin man with a narrow face, stepped forward. "My own daughter was taken for sacrifice three moons ago. They said it was for the glory of the Black Goat, but we knew better. It was for their blood magic, for this war."

Jon's brow furrowed. "So there is no slavery or slavers in Qohor? I find that hard to believe. Every report we've received says otherwise."

"Slavery existed," Vogara admitted with a nod, "but only among the now-dead elite. The blood mages and noble families kept slaves for their rituals and personal service. But they're gone now—dead by their own hands when news came that their god had fallen." He spread his hands in a gesture of openness. "The merchant guilds have already begun freeing what slaves remained. We want no part of that evil anymore."

Vogara turned and gestured to the side of the room where Jon hadn't noticed the piles of goods before. Large chests of gold and silver sat beside bolts of expensive silk in vibrant colors. Containers of rare herbs and spices filled the air with exotic aromas. Finely crafted silverware gleamed in the light streaming through the windows, while expertly forged weapons—the famous Qohorik steel—lay arranged on velvet cloths. Stacks of rare books with ornate bindings completed the impressive display.

"We have come to bow to the one known as the Smith, who freed us from the sorcerers' influence," Vogara explained. "These gifts are but a token of Qohor's gratitude and our desire for peace." He paused, looking at Jon with an expression that mingled hope and anxiety. "But we have brought something more. Something beyond all gifts, to show our gratitude even more deeply."

Jon watched with growing curiosity as Vogara motioned to two of his companions. They approached, carrying between them a medium-sized chest of solid gold, ornately carved with ancient Valyrian symbols. The merchants set it down before Jon with careful reverence, then stepped back as Vogara knelt beside it.

"For the Smith," Vogara said, his voice dropping to an almost reverential whisper as he unlocked the chest with a small golden key.

The lid swung open, and Jon's grey eyes widened in shock. Nestled in black velvet, illuminated by the morning sun streaming through the windows, lay three dragon eggs. One was white as snow with silver flecks that caught the light like tiny stars. Another was dark red, the color of the deepest ruby, with swirls of black across its scaled surface. The third shone a brilliant sapphire blue, its scales shimmering with an almost hypnotic quality.

Jon stared at the eggs, momentarily speechless. He had heard tales of dragon eggs from Old Nan, but to see them in person—to be standing before the crystallized embodiment of fire and magic—was something else entirely. His thoughts immediately went to Daenerys Targaryen, the last of the dragonlords, now hidden away in a villa not far from where he stood.

"The smith you refer to is Lord Owen Longshore, Lord of Ice Crest," Jon said, finally finding his voice. His fingers hovered over the eggs but did not touch them. "I'm certain he would gladly receive these gifts. He has a... particular interest in rare and magical artifacts."

Vogara's face brightened with relief. "The Smith who broke the sorcerers power. Yes, we have heard many tales already. They say he fought the demons of the fog with his bare hands and tore them apart." The merchant's eyes gleamed with reverence. "Is it true he created a tree that glows with healing light? We have heard many Braavosi spe…"

The villa door burst open with a crash that made several of the Qohorik merchants jump. Captain Bartimus stormed in, his weathered face flushed and his beard quivering with urgency. The veteran sea captain's eyes darted to the dragon eggs momentarily before fixing on Jon.

"Commander Snow," Bartimus panted, clearly having run all the way from the docks. "You need to get Lord Longshore. Now." His voice carried the unmistakable edge of someone bearing catastrophic news.

Jon immediately stepped away from the chest, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt. "What's happened?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

Bartimus wiped sweat from his brow, his grizzled features contorted with concern. "The northern and southern lords at the Sealord's palace are near coming to blows. Lord Stark and King Robert are in a shouting match the likes of which I've never seen." The captain's voice dropped lower. "One of the septons tending to the survivors you found in the crypts overheard someone mention that Daenerys Targaryen was among them. Lord Tywin put two and two together and knows why the Dreadguard are guarding that inn on the eastern canal."

Jon's blood ran cold. "And Robert?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Robert knows about the Targaryen girl," Bartimus confirmed grimly. "He's demanding her head, and he's in a rage like I've never seen. Says Lord Stark has betrayed him by harboring the dragonspawn."

That was all Jon needed to hear. He turned to Vogara, who stood watching the exchange with wide-eyed alarm. "Captain Bartimus will ensure you and your delegation are properly guarded, along with your gifts. I need to fetch Lord Longshore immediately." Jon's voice was steady despite the panic rising within him. "Wait here until we return."

Without waiting for a response, Jon rushed past Bartimus and out into the Braavosi sunshine. The crowd outside had grown larger, their murmurs rising like the tide as Jon sprinted through their midst, ignoring their questions and exclamations. His mind raced faster than his feet. Daenerys Targaryen—the woman with silver-gold hair and haunting violet eyes who had thanked him so warmly for her rescue—was now in mortal danger. And if Robert Baratheon had his way, her head would soon adorn a spike.

Chapter Text

Owen floated in the golden sea, suspended in a translucent sack filled with shimmering liquid that pulsed with ancient power. The Temple of Solomon had provided this ritual—a transformation bath that few mortals had ever experienced. Each heartbeat sent waves of energy coursing through his body, rebuilding him cell by cell. His muscles tightened and expanded, not in the bulky way of a common strongman, but with the perfect density of legendary heroes. His skin tingled as imperfections vanished—scars faded, blemishes disappeared, and even the calluses from years at the forge smoothed while retaining their protective strength.

"The Perfection of Form," whispered a voice that seemed to come from the liquid itself. "Solomon created this for his champions, those who would stand against the darkness of forgotten ages." Owen's consciousness expanded as knowledge poured into him directly. The floating books around him—ancient tomes from Solomon's personal collection—turned their pages in perfect synchronization, their contents bypassing his eyes and flowing directly into his mind. Magical theory, combat techniques, forgotten languages, and the secret names of powers that had not been spoken in millennia all became part of him. His magical circuits, already numerous from previous rituals, now glowed with golden light beneath his skin, visible through the translucent liquid as a network of perfect channels.

In the corner of his forge, invisible hands worked a loom that appeared to be crafted from pure starlight. Threads of impossible colors—some that Owen's eyes couldn't have perceived before this transformation—wove themselves into garments of extraordinary beauty and power. A robe took shape, its fabric seeming to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. Beneath it, more practical garments formed—trousers, a tunic, boots that would never wear—all incorporating the same magical protections. The invisible weaver paused occasionally to inscribe runes into the fabric, symbols that burned with cold fire before sinking beneath the surface, becoming invisible to all but those with the sight to perceive them.

"Protection against poison," Owen recognized as a silvery rune vanished into the collar. "Warding against divine attacks," as golden symbols wrapped around the sleeves. "Resistance to physical harm," as deep red patterns strengthened the chest. The knowledge came automatically now, centuries of magical scholarship integrating with his consciousness. He understood the purpose of each symbol, how they worked together, how they drew power from the wearer and the world around them to create a barrier against harm that few weapons could penetrate.

The golden liquid around him began to drain, lowering him gently to the floor of his forge. As the sack dissolved into motes of light, Owen stood, examining his transformed body. He felt lighter yet stronger, his movements precise and efficient in ways they had never been even before dipping into Solomon's pool with Sansa. His mind seemed to react to information more quickly and his muscles and abs more defined and larger. The ambient magic of the world around him was now visible—swirls of colored energy that danced through the air, concentrated around his magical tools and creations. He reached out with his mind and felt the connection to his magical circuits, now capable of channeling power that would have burned him alive just days before.

Owen flexed his fingers, watching as threads of blue and gold energy twisted around them like living ribbons. The magical circuits beneath his skin pulsed with each heartbeat, no longer painful but instead a harmonious extension of his will. He stepped forward, noticing how the ground seemed to respond to his footfalls, tiny ripples of energy spreading outward like stones dropped in still water.

"Not done yet," he murmured to himself, his voice carrying new resonance in the Temple's sacred space. With purposeful strides, Owen approached an ornate chair that had manifested near his workbench. The seat was carved from a single piece of dark wood that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the ambient light, intricate symbols flowing across its surface like water. He sat down, his posture straight but relaxed, and snapped his fingers. A paintbrush materialized in the air before him, suspended by his will alone, its bristles already wet with crimson ink that glowed with subtle power.

"Solomon's records mentioned this technique," Owen whispered as he guided the brush with his mind, not touching it physically. "Body runes, applied after the Bath of Perfection, to layer protections and amplifications." The brush danced across his skin, leaving trails of glowing symbols that sank partially into his flesh, becoming one with him yet remaining visible as faint red lines. First came the runes of mental protection—ancient symbols that would shield his thoughts from intrusion, prevent magical compulsions, and enhance his ability to process information. These he placed on his temples and forehead, feeling each one activate with a cool tingling sensation as the brush completed its work.

Next came the runes of physical hardening—defensive symbols that would make his skin resistant to cutting, piercing, and blunt force. These flowed across his chest and back in concentric patterns, interconnecting to form a flexible armor that wouldn't hinder his movement. "Not taking any more chances," Owen muttered as the brush worked faster, adding symbols of strength amplification along his arms and legs. Each completed rune seemed to sink deeper into his being, becoming part of his essence rather than mere markings on his skin. The magic circuit enhancement runes came next, intricate patterns that wrapped around his existing magical network, expanding its capacity and efficiency. Owen could feel his power growing with each completed symbol, the ambient magic of the Temple responding to his enhanced presence.

When the brush had completed its work, Owen reached for a small crystal vial he had prepared beforehand, containing a few drops of his blood taken before the transformation. The blood had a faint golden sheen now, infused with the Temple's power. "The final step," he said, unstoppering the vial and carefully tilting it to release a single drop onto the center rune on his chest. As the blood made contact with the symbol, all the runes across his body flared with brilliant red light, temporarily blinding in its intensity.

The activation was unlike anything Owen had experienced before—a surge of power that seemed to rebuild him from within, reinforcing and enhancing the changes already wrought by the transformation bath. He felt his muscles densify further, his bones becoming nearly unbreakable, his senses sharpening beyond human limits. The magical circuits beneath his skin expanded, their capacity multiplying as the runes integrated with his system. Pain flashed through him briefly, then subsided into a warm glow that spread from his core to his extremities. When the light faded, the runes had changed color, now appearing as faint gold lines that shimmered when he moved.

"By the old gods and the new," Owen breathed, standing and feeling the difference immediately. The world seemed sharper, clearer, as if he had been viewing it through a veil that had now been lifted. He could sense the magical currents flowing through the Temple with unprecedented clarity, could feel the strength in his limbs that would let him lift weights that would break ordinary men. "This should give me an edge against whatever's coming." He flexed his fingers, watching as sparks of golden energy danced between them, responding to his will without conscious effort. The runes had enhanced his connection to magic itself, making spellcasting more intuitive, more natural. He rolled his shoulders, testing the new flexibility of his enhanced body, marveling at how light yet powerful he felt.

Owen snapped his fingers, and a full-length mirror materialized before him, its ornate frame crafted from what appeared to be silver but was actually a rare alloy found only in Solomon's realm. The reflection showed him a body transformed—no longer the blacksmith's apprentice from Longshore, but something more. The runes across his skin pulsed with deep crimson light, following the rhythm of his heartbeat. Each symbol represented a different protection or enhancement: strength, speed, magical resistance, mental acuity. They formed intricate patterns across his chest, back, and limbs, connected by flowing lines that mapped the magical circuits beneath his skin. With a thought, Owen commanded the glow to subside, and the runes faded to faint golden traceries, barely visible unless he willed them to be seen.

"Perfect," he murmured, examining his reflection. The transformation had refined his features, making them more symmetrical, more commanding. His eyes held a new depth, flecks of gold now swimming in their blue depths. His muscles were more defined without being bulky, giving him the appearance of a warrior-scholar rather than a simple blacksmith. He turned slightly, watching how the ambient light played across the runes, making them shimmer even in their dormant state. "Subtle enough to hide, powerful enough to matter when it counts."

The invisible hands at the looms completed their work with a final flourish, the shuttles slowing to a stop as the last threads were woven into place. The garments—crafted from materials Owen had discovered in Solomon's vast storerooms—detached from the looms and floated toward him, suspended by the same magic that had created them. The fabric appeared to be wool at first glance, but Owen knew better. It was something far rarer: fibers harvested from creatures that lived between dimensions, spun by entities that understood the fundamental laws of reality. The material was paradoxical—soft against his skin yet harder than steel against any threat, mundane or magical.

Owen dressed methodically, appreciating the perfect fit of each garment. The undertunic settled against his chest, its enchantments activating with a faint hum that only he could hear. The trousers followed, their fabric shifting slightly to accommodate his movements, providing unrestricted mobility while maintaining their protective properties. The boots were last, slipping onto his feet as if they had been made specifically for him—which, of course, they had. He felt the speed and reaction enchantments activate as the leather touched his skin, a tingling sensation that traveled up his legs and settled into his muscles, ready to respond with supernatural quickness when needed.

"The flying enchantment was a good addition," Owen said to himself as he swung the robe around his shoulders, feeling its weight settle perfectly. The garment was a masterpiece—deep blue with subtle patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. Golden threads traced pathways through the fabric, mirroring the rune patterns on his skin. The flying enchantment was woven into the very structure of the robe, activated by a specific thought pattern that Owen had programmed into it. "A backup is always wise. Magic can fail at the worst moments."

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of the robe against his skin, feeling its magic intertwine with his own. The flying enchantment responded to his attention, a gentle upward pull that he could amplify or suppress with a thought. It would allow him to soar through the air even if his personal magical reserves were depleted—a failsafe that might save his life in the coming conflicts. The other enchantments layered throughout the garments activated one by one as he concentrated on them: shields against physical harm, wards against magical attack, protections against environmental extremes, and subtle enhancements to his already formidable strength and speed.

Owen moved to a nearby table and opened an oakwood box to reveal five rings and a necklace in the form of an ice crystal. The rings weren't Solomon's. It was actually a let down that even after all his transformations and growth, he wasn't even close to being able to wield the king of magic's rings. No, instead, these were rings he had forged himself, from gold, silver, ebony, crystal and sapphire while the necklace was made of enchanted stalhrim. Owen had made the rings magic amplifiers and focuses. Gold focused on elemental magic, silver mental protection and psionic power, ebony focused on dark magic, crystal on body and soul protection and healing and sapphire was the manipulation of space and time. The necklace itself... was a hail Mary pass that he hoped to never use. He put them on, slowly feeling the changes fill him.

The gold ring slid onto his index finger first, its weight substantial despite its small size. As it settled against his skin, Owen felt heat spread up his arm, not painful but intense—like standing near a forge at full blast. The magical circuits beneath his skin lit up in response, glowing through his flesh with increased intensity. He flexed his fingers, watching as tiny sparks danced between them, the elements responding to his mere thoughts. Fire, water, earth, air—he could feel each one more distinctly now, could sense how they flowed and interacted with the world around him.

"Perfect attunement," he murmured, directing his attention to a small brazier in the corner. With barely a thought, the cold coals ignited, flames leaping to life with unnatural vigor. The fire twisted into complex shapes at his silent command—first a dragon, then a wolf, then the sigil of House Stark—before settling back into a normal, steady flame. The control was exponentially finer than before, the power draw significantly less taxing. "This will make battlefield casting much more efficient."

The silver ring came next, sliding onto his middle finger with a soft chime that seemed to resonate inside his mind rather than his ears. Immediately, the ambient noise of the Temple—the subtle hum of magic, the whisper of unseen servants, the crackle of the brazier—faded to a perfect, crystalline silence. Owen felt his thoughts sharpen, mental barriers rising automatically to shield his mind from outside influence. He reached out with his newly enhanced awareness, sensing the magical signatures around him with unprecedented clarity. Even the faintest traces of power were now visible to his perception, cataloged and analyzed without conscious effort.

"This should keep demons, gods and their ilk from prying," Owen said, his voice sounding clearer even to his own ears. "And perhaps give me an edge in detecting lies and manipulations." He tested the ring's psionic amplification, sending a gentle mental push toward a book on a distant shelf. The tome slid smoothly into his outstretched hand, responding to his telekinetic command with perfect precision. "Subtle, but effective."

The ebony ring settled onto his ring finger with a weight that seemed greater than its physical mass. Darkness swirled within the polished black surface, not reflecting light but seeming to absorb it. As the ring made contact with his skin, shadows in the corners of the forge deepened, responding to the new focus of power. Owen felt something cold and ancient stir within him—the darker aspects of magic that he had studied but used sparingly. The power to command death, to bind spirits, to walk between worlds—all were enhanced by this focus, their potential both terrifying and seductive.

"A necessary evil," Owen whispered, watching as his shadow stretched and moved slightly out of sync with his body. "Some threats can only be countered with their own methods." He extended his hand toward the darkest corner of the room, feeling the ebony ring pulse with eager power. A tendril of pure shadow extended from his fingertips, solid enough to grip and move objects despite having no physical substance. The shadow hand plucked a quill from a nearby desk and brought it to Owen before dissolving back into ordinary darkness. "Control is absolute, at least. That's something."

The crystal ring slipped onto his little finger, its facets catching and refracting the light in impossible patterns. The moment it was in place, Owen felt a wave of rejuvenating energy flow through his body. Very Minor aches he hadn't even noticed vanished, his breathing became deeper and more efficient, and his senses sharpened further. The ring's power focused inward, reinforcing the protective runes already inscribed on his skin, creating layers of magical defense that would activate automatically in response to threats. He could feel his connection to his own soul strengthening, becoming more resilient against spiritual attacks or attempts at possession.

"The foundation of everything," Owen said, admiring how the crystal seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. "Body and soul in perfect harmony." He ran a finger across his forearm, feeling the enhanced durability of his skin—not quite invulnerable, but significantly more resistant to harm than before. A small cut he'd received earlier while preparing components for the rings had completely healed, not even leaving a scar. "This should give me the durability to match whatever comes next."

Finally came his weapons. Owen had abandoned Fate Cleaver. Powerful as the blade was, it hadn't mattered or helped when push came to shove. He would store it away in Solomon's temple, perhaps to reforge one day for one of his future children. Instead, he had forged something new. He picked up the handle of his new blade, a pure ebony sword, sharpened with magical perfection, with elemental runes and holy magic imbued into it. Magical energy and electricity ran along the surface of the blade, the enchantments built into its creation making it cut sharper and slash deeper than any blade before it, making it near impossible to dodge. Death Dealer, he named it, for all who faced him with this blade in hand, whether divine, demonic or mundane would meet death.

The sword hummed with power as Owen lifted it, the perfectly balanced weapon feeling like an extension of his arm rather than a tool. The blade was midnight black, seeming to drink in the light around it, yet the edges gleamed with an inner fire that shifted between blue and gold as he moved it through the air. Runes etched along the fuller pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, responding to his touch as if the weapon were alive. The crossguard, shaped like the wings of a dragon in flight, was inlaid with stalhrim that glowed with an ethereal blue light, contrasting beautifully with the darkness of the blade.

"This is no mere sword," Owen whispered, running his thumb along the flat of the blade. Where Fate Cleaver had been a weapon of possibility and potential, Death Dealer was a weapon of certainty and finality. "This is judgment made manifest." The enchantments he had woven into the metal during its forging were far more complex than anything he had attempted before—layers upon layers of spells, each reinforcing and amplifying the others. The blade could cut through nearly any material, magical or mundane, could channel his elemental magic without resistance, and could strike with perfect precision guided by his will rather than just his physical skill.

He swung the sword in a testing arc, watching with satisfaction as it left a trail of crackling energy in its wake. The air itself seemed to part before the edge, creating a faint whistling sound as the blade moved. "The runes of inevitability were the key," he said to himself, admiring how the symbols along the blade flared brighter as he channeled a small amount of power into them. These ancient markings, discovered in one of Solomon's oldest texts, altered the very nature of causality around the blade. When Owen struck with Death Dealer, the target would find it nearly impossible to evade—not because the blade moved faster, but because the magic ensured that the path of the sword and the position of the target would inevitably intersect. It was a subtle but devastating effect, one that even the most skilled opponent would struggle to counter.

The hilt fit his hand perfectly, wrapped in leather from a beast that had never existed in this world, treated with oils and resins that made it impervious to sweat or blood while maintaining perfect grip in any condition. The pommel contained a small reservoir of magical energy that would replenish itself over time, drawing power from the ambient magic around it. This reserve could be tapped in moments of need, providing an extra surge of power to the blade's enchantments or to Owen himself. "A last resort," he murmured, feeling the stored energy pulsing beneath his fingers. "But one that could turn the tide in a desperate moment."

Owen sheathed the blade in a scabbard crafted from the same materials, its interior lined with silk-like fibers harvested from the cocoons of shadow moths that dwelled in the deepest parts of Solomon's realm. The scabbard itself was enchanted to maintain the blade's edge and power, to silence the sword's movement when stealth was needed, and to return to Owen's hand if ever they were separated. He attached it to his belt, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his hip. "Death Dealer," he said again, the name feeling right on his tongue. "May you serve when words fail and threats loom."

Then came the last piece. Owen's staff. Silver with gold and ebony engravings and runes, leading up to an emerald crystal that pulsed with power. The staff stood as tall as his shoulder, its metal gleaming in the forge's light. The craftsmanship was immaculate—each rune and symbol etched with precision that would have been impossible without his abilities. The staff represented months of research in Solomon's archives before the war had started, combining magical traditions from a dozen different realms from what Solomon's books and grimoires seemed to be getting at.

Owen ran his fingers along the cool metal, feeling the magic respond to his touch. The runes illuminated in sequence as his hand passed over them—protection, amplification, stability, control, perception. Each set of markings formed a complete magical circuit, and together they created a symphony of power that resonated with his own magical core. The emerald crystal at the top—harvested from a dimensional pocket where time flowed differently and magic coalesced into physical form—served as the primary focus point. Within its depths, Owen could see swirls of green energy, like miniature galaxies being born and dying in endless cycles.

"Perfect balance," he murmured, testing the staff's weight. Despite its substantial appearance, it felt light in his hands, almost as if it were eager to be wielded. He channeled a small amount of magic through it, watching with satisfaction as the crystal flared brilliantly, casting the entire forge in emerald light. The power that flowed back into him was his own, but refined, purified, and amplified. Spells that would have required significant concentration and energy now felt effortless.

Owen chuckled as he sheathed Death Dealer at his side in its dark and intricate scabbard and picked up the staff, feeling warmth and energy flow through him. The combination of the rings, the robes, and now the staff completed his transformation. He no longer resembled the blacksmith's son from Longshore or even the lord of Ice Crest. He looked like something from another world entirely—a mage of immense power, dressed for war and wielding artifacts of his own creation.

"Yer a wizard, Harry," he said in a deep accent, then laughed. The reference to his old world felt good, a private joke that connected him to who he had been before. Harry Potter had nothing on him...at least not book Harry Potter. The Harry Potter fic authors wrote may well trash him with all the powerups they gave him. Still, there was something comforting about the comparison—both of them thrust into worlds of magic they hadn't been born to, both forced to rise to challenges beyond their years. The difference was that Owen had chosen his path with open eyes, had built his power through knowledge and craft rather than inheritance and prophecy.

Owen took a moment to admire his reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall. The man who stared back at him barely resembled the boy who had arrived in Westeros years ago. His features had been refined by the magical transformations he'd undergone, his eyes now containing subtle flecks of gold that glowed when he channeled his power. The robes and staff completed the image—he looked like a mage from ancient legends, the kind that toppled kingdoms and reshaped landscapes. "Not bad for a kid from the suburbs," he muttered, thinking of his first life with a mixture of nostalgia and detachment. That world seemed increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

Just as he was getting ready to put down the staff, there was a loud banging on the forge door followed by Jon's urgent voice. "Owen? Owen please open the door, it's urgent!"

Owen opened the door, finding Jon panting a bit from running. Jons gray eyes widened at Owen's new appearance, taking an involuntary step back from the magical aura that seemed to emanate from Owen in calm yet huge waves that he had not been prepared for.

"Seven hells," Jon breathed, his gaze traveling from the glowing rings adorning Owen's fingers to the ebony sword at his hip and finally to the staff with its pulsing emerald crystal. "You've gotten... bigger."

Owen laughed, a rich sound that carried subtle harmonics no human voice should possess. "I've noticed," he said, gesturing at his transformed body. The magical robes did little to hide his now more muscled form, the fabric seeming to cling and flow around him like living shadow. "The rings and staff amplify more than just magic, it seems. What has you running through Braavos like the Others themselves are after you?"

Jon shook himself from his awe, remembering the urgency of his mission. "You have to come quick," he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "King Robert found out about Daenerys. He and Lord Stark are in a shouting match at the Sealord's palace. The lords are close to being at each other's throats."

Owen's expression darkened, the golden flecks in his eyes flaring briefly with inner light. "Fucking medieval crybabies," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "No more! I've spent months cleaning up their messes, fighting their wars, killing their monsters. I'm done with temperamental kings and stubborn lords playing their games while real threats gather." He gestured sharply with his staff, and the forge door slammed shut behind them with a bang that echoed through the empty street.

Before Jon could respond, Owen stepped forward and grabbed him in his arms easily, lifting the young Stark as if he weighed nothing at all. "Hang on tight," Owen commanded, ignoring Jon's startled protests. The staff in his right hand began to glow brighter, and the air around them stirred, swirling with unnatural currents that lifted Owen's robes and Jon's cloak.

"Owen, what are you—" Jon started, his eyes wide with alarm as he instinctively gripped Owen's shoulders.

"Ready, set, go," Owen whispered, and suddenly the world blurred around them. All that remained in the spot where they had stood was a swirl of dust as Owen ran literally like the wind, his enhanced body and magic propelling them through the streets of Braavos at impossible speed.

Sealord Arygo Antaro shifted uncomfortably on his newly acquired throne, watching the Westerosi delegation tear itself apart before his eyes. What had begun as a strategic council to discuss the campaign against the slavers had devolved into chaos at the mere mention of a girl's name—Daenerys Targaryen. The Sealord's fingers tightened around the ornate arms of his chair as King Robert Baratheon's face turned a dangerous shade of purple, spittle flying from his lips as he bellowed at Lord Stark.

"You dare harbor the dragonspawn in my presence? After all we fought for? After all the blood spilled to rid the realm of her mad father?" Robert slammed his fist on the table, sending goblets clattering. "I want her head, Ned! Bring me the Targaryen bitch now!"

Arygo signaled discreetly to his five personal guards, who tightened their formation around his throne. He'd been Sealord for less than a month—elevated after his brothers gruesome transformation and death at the hands of blood mages—and already his city teetered on the brink of another disaster. The northerners stood rigid behind their lord, hands hovering near weapons, while the southron lords glared daggers at them.

"Your Grace," Eddard Stark's voice cut through the chaos, cold as the North itself. "The girl was a prisoner, tortured by blood mages. She was found in the catacombs with dozens of other innocents. Would you have us execute a victim?"

"Victim?" The Lannister lord—Tywin, Arygo recalled—stepped forward, his voice dangerously soft compared to the king's bellowing. "That 'victim' represents a claim to your throne, Your Grace. A claim some might rally behind, should they find the current monarchy... lacking." His cold green eyes flicked between Robert and Lord Stark, clearly savoring the discord.

Arygo cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention. "My lords, Your Grace, perhaps we might remember where we stand. Braavos has suffered greatly. The matter of one girl—"

"One girl?" Robert's laugh held no humor as he rounded on Arygo. "You know nothing of what that 'one girl' represents. Her family burned men alive for sport. Her brother raped my betrothed. The Targaryens brought nothing but fire and blood to Westeros for centuries, and I'll be damned if I'll let the last of their poisonous line live while I draw breath."

Arygo watched the confrontation unfold with mounting unease. The delicate peace in his city hung by a thread, and these foreign kings and lords seemed determined to snap it. His violet-tinged eyes tracked every movement in the room—the tightening of jaws, the subtle shifts of weight as men prepared for potential violence. This was not the auspicious beginning to his reign he had hoped for. First the blood mages and their fog of horrors, now Westerosi politics threatening to spill blood on his newly inherited floor.

King Robert turned back to Ned, his massive frame seeming to deflate slightly. The raw fury in his expression softened to something almost pleading—a glimpse of the brotherhood these two men once shared. Arygo leaned forward, intrigued by this change in the king's demeanor.

"Ned, for gods' sake, see sense." Robert's voice dropped, becoming almost intimate despite the crowded chamber. "If you want, I'll make it quick. Clean. She won't suffer—I'll see to it myself. But Daenerys Targaryen needs to die. You know this. You've always known what would happen if we found any dragonspawn."

Tywin Lannister stepped closer, his presence somehow more menacing than Robert's explosive rage. "Lord Stark, I won't brook a Targaryen threatening my grandchildren's claims. The girl's existence alone is a banner for every malcontent in the Seven Kingdoms. Even now, word of her survival spreads through Braavos." His cold green eyes swept the room, settling briefly on Arygo with an appraising glance that made the Sealord's skin crawl. "The stability of the realm requires her elimination."

The golden-haired prince—Joffrey, if Arygo remembered correctly—pushed forward with an eagerness that struck the Sealord as unseemly for one so young. "I'll take her head myself, Father! Let me prove myself worthy of your crown. The dragon bitch should die screaming for her family's crimes!" The boy's eyes gleamed with something that made Arygo instinctively tighten his grip on his throne. He had seen such looks before, in the fighting pits, on men who enjoyed the kill too much.

Lord Eddard Stark stood immovable, his gray eyes hard as the stone of Braavos itself. "No." The single word fell like a hammer blow in the chamber. "I will not bring an innocent girl to slaughter. She has committed no crime. She was a prisoner, Robert. A victim of blood magic. Her brother died screaming under their knives." He looked directly at the king, unflinching. "You were better than this once. The man I fought beside would not murder children."

Arygo watched Robert's face contort with fury, his complexion darkening to a shade that reminded the Sealord of the blood-soaked waters that had surrounded Braavos during the recent attack. The king's massive frame seemed to expand with rage as he slammed his fist onto the ornate table, sending a crystal decanter crashing to the floor. Wine spread across the Myrish carpet like freshly spilled blood.

"You defy your king?" Robert roared, spittle flying from his lips. "I should have your head alongside hers, Ned! Have you forgotten your oaths? Your loyalty?" The king's voice echoed off the marble columns of the Sealord's audience chamber, making Arygo's guards shift nervously. The young Sealord remained perfectly still, his violet-tinged eyes tracking every movement in the increasingly volatile room. He'd seen enough duels in the Moon Pool to recognize when men were moments from drawing steel.

Lord Umber—a giant of a man with a wild beard who Arygo had noted for his booming voice during previous discussions—stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Lord Stark. "Your Grace," the Greatjon rumbled, "the girl can't be blamed for Aerys' madness. She wasn't even born when the Mad King burned Lord Stark's father and brother." His massive hands remained visible and empty, but his stance left no doubt he would defend his liege lord if steel was drawn. "We northmen don't slaughter children for the sins of their fathers."

From the shadows behind Lord Stark emerged a smaller figure that Arygo had barely noticed before—a wiry man with sharp, intelligent green eyes who moved with the silent grace of someone accustomed to swamps and shadows. "Your Grace," said Howland Reed in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried throughout the suddenly silent chamber, "I stood with Lord Eddard at the Tower of Joy. I watched good men die over prophecies and bloodlines. The girl is not her father. She is not her brother. She has suffered enough at the hands of blood mages who tore her only family member apart before her eyes." The crannogman's gaze was steady, unintimidated by the king's fury. "The Old Gods watch us, Your Grace. They see the blood we spill and the mercy we withhold."

Arygo noted with interest how the tension in the room shifted as Brynden Tully—the legendary Blackfish—moved to stand beside his nephew by marriage. The weathered knight's face remained impassive, but his eyes held the king's gaze without flinching. "Killing the girl won't help anything, Your Grace," the Blackfish stated bluntly. "It won't secure your throne any more than it's already secured. It won't bring back those who died in the rebellion. It will only stain your reign with the blood of a tormented child who's known nothing but exile and suffering." He crossed his arms over his chest, the light catching the silver trout emblem on his armor. "I fought for you against the dragons, Robert. I'd do it again. But this isn't the same fight."

What truly surprised Arygo was when Stannis Baratheon—the king's own dour brother who had barely spoken three words during the entire campaign—cleared his throat. The room fell silent as the notorious stickler for duty and law stepped forward, his jaw clenched so tightly that Arygo could see the muscles working beneath his skin. "It won't look good if we kill her, Robert," Stannis said, each word precise and measured. "Not now. Not after she was found chained in a dungeon, almost victim to death by blood magic that nearly destroyed this city." He gestured toward the windows, where scaffolding could be seen as Braavosi workers repaired buildings damaged in the recent conflict. "The girl was a prisoner. Executing her after her rescue would be..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...unseemly. Unworthy of the throne."

The sealord watched Stannis words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through the assembled lords. The king's brother had always struck him as a man of few words but firm convictions—making his intervention all the more significant. A momentary hush followed Stannis's statement, broken only by the distant sounds of hammering as workers continued rebuilding Braavos beyond the palace walls.

"We cannot afford such... sentimentality, Your Grace," Ser Kevan Lannister's voice cut through the silence, measured but firm. Arygo observed how the younger Lannister brother positioned himself—not quite alongside Tywin, but close enough to present a unified front while maintaining his own authority. A clever political maneuver. "No doubt Lord Arryn would agree with me on this matter. If word reached Westeros that Daenerys Targaryen still lives and you chose mercy over justice... well, there are still those who would rally to her cause."

Arygo noted the subtle shift in the room'—how the northern lords stiffened at Kevan's presumption, while several southern lords nodded in agreement. The Iron Throne's stability seemed a fragile thing, if one girl could threaten it so. In Braavos, power changed hands through coin and cunning, not bloodlines. The Westerosi obsession with hereditary claims struck Arygo as both fascinating and primitive.

"The situation is made worse by our current company," Kevan continued, his gaze sweeping deliberately across the chamber to where the Reach and Dornish contingents stood. Arygo followed his gaze, watching how Lord Randyll Tarly shifted a bit uncomfortably under the scrutiny while the Dornishmen remained impassive. "We fight side by side with known Targaryen sympathizers. How can we be certain the girl won't simply... disappear into their protection the moment we turn our backs?"

The Reach and Dornish lords protested, though not as vehemently as Arygo expected. Prince Oberyn Martell, in particular, said little—merely smiling in a way that made Arygo's skin prickle. It was the smile of a viper contemplating its prey, directed squarely at Tywin Lannister, who returned it with a scowl that could curdle milk. The hatred between these two men was palpable, a living thing that seemed to suck the air from the room.

"Give me a reason," Oberyn's smile seemed to say, his relaxed posture belying the tension in his eyes. Tywin's scowl deepened, his hand unconsciously moving closer to where his sword would hang if he wore one. Arygo had heard rumors of bad blood between Dorne and the Lannisters—something involving poor princess Elia Martell during the Sack of King's Landing—but the visceral hatred he witnessed now suggested wounds far deeper than political disagreements. This was blood hatred, the kind that ended in duels at the Moon Pool or knives in dark alleys.

Arygo watched the confrontation escalate, feeling increasingly powerless in his own palace. The tension between the Westerosi lords had transformed from political maneuvering into something far more dangerous. The Sealord's guards exchanged nervous glances, their hands tightening on their weapons as the room's atmosphere grew thick with the threat of violence.

"Enough talk!" Robert shouted, his face contorted with rage as he slammed his fist against the table again. The impact sent several goblets tumbling to the floor, splattering wine across the polished marble. "I don't care about the politics. I don't care who supported who." The king's massive chest heaved with each breath, his eyes wild as they locked onto Eddard Stark. "Hand over Daenerys Targaryen now, Ned, or there will be consequences. I am your king, and this is my command."

The room fell silent as Lord Eddard straightened to his full height, his gray eyes cold as the winter his homeland was famous for. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but carried to every corner of the chamber. "No, Robert." He shook his head slowly, disappointment etched into every line of his face. "Lyanna would be ashamed of you if she saw you now. The man she loved would never murder a frightened girl who's done no wrong." The name seemed to hang in the air between them—Lyanna—a ghost that still haunted both men after all these years.

Robert's face transformed, grief and rage warring across his features before fury won out. He exploded with a roar that made Arygo flinch despite himself. "How dare you speak her name! How dare you use her against me!" The king lunged forward, his hand reaching for the sword at his hip as northern and southern lords alike moved to either protect their liege or their king. Arygo signaled frantically to his guards, preparing to intervene before blood stained his audience chamber.

Then they felt it—a crushing weight slamming down into all of them, making them quiver and lurch where they stood and sat. Arygo gasped, his knees nearly buckling as an invisible pressure bore down upon him. His eyes widened with terror as he felt a blast of power fill the room, sweat running down his face as he struggled to breathe. Around him, several lords collapsed in dead faints, while others grasped at their throats or clutched nearby furniture for support. Even the mighty Greatjon Umber staggered, his face pale beneath his beard.

Loud footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, each impact seeming to shake the very foundations of the palace. Arygo watched in stunned disbelief as the ornate doors to his audience chamber slammed open, nearly torn from their hinges. Lord Owen Longshore strode into the room, his presence somehow larger than his physical form. The man who had slain the Qohirik blood mages and banished the fog of horrors from Braavos moved with a cold, deliberate grace that made Arygo think of a predator among prey. The magical pressure emanating from him was almost visible, like heat shimmering off sun-baked stone.

"Soooo," Owen drawled, his voice carrying an undercurrent of power that made Arygo's teeth ache, "I heard you were all talking all that good murdering shit? Care to let me hear what you have to say?" His eyes, unnaturally bright and hard as gemstones, swept the room, taking in the king's hand on his sword hilt, the northern lords in defensive positions, the southerners ready to attack. The pressure in the room intensified for a moment, forcing several more men to their knees before easing slightly. Lord Longshore's expression was one of cold, annoyed fury as he stepped further into the chamber, the doors swinging shut behind him with a bang that made everyone flinch.

Owen surveyed the room, his enhanced senses cataloging every detail—Robert's flushed face, the white-knuckled grip loosening on his sword hilt, the beads of sweat forming on Eddard's brow. The magical pressure he exuded was like gravity itself, pressing down on the assembled lords, a physical manifestation of his displeasure. He'd deliberately calibrated it, just enough to create discomfort without causing harm. The nobles shifted uncomfortably, instinctively creating distance from each other as primal instincts warned of danger.

A hesitant knock interrupted the tense silence. "Umm, Owen? I am still out here." Jon's voice called from beyond the ornate doors.

"Oh yeah," Owen said, casually flicking his hand. The massive doors swung open soundlessly, revealing a sheepish-looking Jon Snow who quickly moved to stand at Owen's side. The casual display of telekinesis wasn't lost on anyone—another reminder of the power differential in the room.

Owen's eyes swept across the faces of the most powerful men in Westeros, all rendered momentarily speechless by his entrance. "So... mind explaining what the fuss is all about?" His tone was conversational, almost friendly, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. The emerald at the top of his staff pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow that matched his heartbeat.

Robert recovered first, his legendary temper flaring back to life. "The fuss, Lord Longshore, is about treason! Harboring a Targaryen—the sister of the man who kidnapped Lyanna!" He jabbed a meaty finger toward a corner of the room where Daenerys stood, her silver hair unmistakable, flanked by two Northern guards. "She dies. Today. That's the end of it."

Owen tilted his head to the side, bright blue eyes directly on Robert, making him flinch unconsciously and back away a foot. The king's reaction wasn't lost on the room—the most powerful man in Westeros retreating from a mere glance. Owen's enhanced vision caught every detail: the dilated pupils, the quickened pulse visible at Robert's neck, the subtle tremor in his hand. It was the instinctive response of prey recognizing a predator.

"Oh really, and what's her crime?" Owen asked dangerously, his voice deceptively soft. The emerald at the top of his staff flared brighter, casting eerie shadows across the ornate chamber. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, frost patterns briefly forming on the marble floor around his feet before dissipating. "Being born? Surviving? Or perhaps her crime was being captured and nearly sacrificed by blood mages while you feasted and whored your way across the Seven Kingdoms?"

Tywin Lannister moved forward, his face a mask of cold calculation. Unlike Robert, he showed no outward signs of fear, though Owen could sense the old lion's heartbeat had quickened. "The girl is the last Targaryen heir," Tywin stated flatly. "Her very existence threatens the stability of the realm. We know you've hidden her in that inn at the docks. A swift execution is mercy compared to what she would face if allowed to gather supporters."

"I've made arrangements to have the girl transported to King's Landing for a proper trial," Tywin continued, his tone suggesting the outcome was predetermined. "Hand her over, Lord Longshore. The king commands it." His green-flecked eyes held no compassion, only the cold pragmatism that had defined his rule. Behind him, Joffrey smirked cruelly, clearly anticipating bloodshed.

"We have a responsibility to protect the throne," Kevan Lannister added from beside his brother. "The girl must be—"

Owen slammed his hand on the ornate table between them, the impact reverberating through the chamber like thunder. The ancient wood—carved from a single piece of heartwood and inlaid with precious metals, a gift from the Sealord to his predecessors—cracked down the middle before collapsing instantly into splinters. The sound of its destruction echoed off the marble walls, punctuating the sudden silence that followed.

Owen's gaze swept the room, his enhanced senses cataloging each reaction—the tightening around Tywin's eyes, the way Robert's face flushed darker with each passing second. The magical pressure he exuded intensified, focused now like a blade rather than a blanket.

"It's quite rich," Owen said, voice dropping to a temperature that seemed to crystallize the air around him, "for a murderer and kinslayer king to be making demands." The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of shock expanding outward through the assembled lords. Robert's face contorted with rage, but before he could explode, Owen shifted his attention to Tywin Lannister. "And you, Lord Tywin. The realm hasn't forgotten Castamere."

Tywin's face remained impassive, though a muscle twitched beneath his left eye. "House Reyne and House Tarbeck rebelled against their liege lord. Their fate was—"

"Was the fate of the smallfolk who died with them part of your justice?" Owen cut him off, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "The maids, the smiths, the servants, and all the rest—were they part of the blame that you had to make them all drown?" He took a step forward, and even Tywin Lannister—the great lion himself—shifted his weight backward instinctively. "And what of Elia Martell and her children? Sending Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to do your dirty work, to pave the way for your daughter to be queen."

The room had gone deathly silent. From the corner of his eye, Owen saw Oberyn Martell's face transform with savage satisfaction at hearing these accusations voiced so publicly. The Dornishman's hand had moved to his dagger, his eyes fixed on Tywin with undisguised hatred.

Owen turned to Robert, whose fury had momentarily given way to shock at the public airing of these long-whispered truths. "For all you call Daenerys 'dragonspawn,' Your Grace, your own Targaryen blood was the only reason you were considered for the throne." The emerald at the top of Owen's staff pulsed brighter, casting Robert's features in a sickly green light. "If it wasn't for your grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen, the realm perhaps would have a northern king in Eddard Stark—and be better for it."

Eddard's head snapped up at that, alarm flashing across his features. "Owen," he warned quietly, but Owen had built up too much momentum to stop now. The words that had long needed saying were finally being spoken aloud, and the power in the room had shifted perceptibly. No longer were these men untouchable figures of authority—they were being held accountable, perhaps for the first time, by someone beyond their ability to threaten or control.

"My father speaks truth!" Joffrey's shrill voice cut through the tension like a rusty blade. "This smith lord speaks treason! He should be executed for his insolence to the crown!" The prince's face contorted with malice, his finger stabbing the air in Owen's direction. "Guards! Seize him and—"

The words died in Joffrey's throat as his feet suddenly left the ground. Owen hadn't even consciously decided to act—his magic had responded to the threat automatically, wrapping around the prince like invisible tendrils and yanking him forward. Joffrey's legs kicked uselessly in the air as he floated across the chamber, his arrogant sneer transforming into wide-eyed terror. Owen's right hand shot out, catching Joffrey by the throat, fingers tightening just enough to restrict his breathing without cutting it off completely.

"I'm tired of hearing your pathetic voice," Owen said, his tone conversational despite the violence of his action. The lords around them stood frozen in shock, hands on sword hilts but not daring to draw. Even the Kingsguard hesitated, caught between their duty to protect the prince and the very real fear of what Owen might do if provoked further. "You've been a festering boil on this realm since the day you were born, and I've had enough."

"Owen, please," Eddard stepped forward, his voice low and urgent. "He's just a boy. Let him go—this isn't the way." The Lord of Winterfell's eyes were pleading, not for Joffrey's sake but for Owen's—to prevent him from crossing a line from which there would be no return.

Owen didn't acknowledge Ned's plea. Instead, he stared directly into Joffrey's green eyes, the same shade as his mother's, as his uncle's. "If you ever dare come anywhere near me or my wife with intent to harm, if you ever open your stinking mouth again to talk about how Sansa should be yours," Owen whispered, his voice carrying only to Joffrey and those standing closest, "I will make your torment last days before I finally kill you." As he spoke, Owen pushed images directly into Joffrey's mind—visions of flaying, of burning, of bones broken and reset just to be broken again. He showed the prince exactly what awaited him if he persisted in his threats, each horrific scenario more detailed and visceral than the last.

Joffrey's eyes widened in terror as the visions filled his mind, his body going rigid with fear. A dark stain spread across the front of his expensive breeches as his bladder released. With a look of disgust, Owen threw him aside like a discarded toy. The prince scrambled backward on all fours, not even attempting to regain his dignity, before finally finding his feet and running to hide behind Ser Jaime, who stood with one hand on his sword hilt, his face a mask of conflicted emotions.

"You've made a grave mistake today, Lord Longshore," Robert growled, though he made no move to approach. His earlier bluster had been replaced by something more calculating, more dangerous—the realization that he faced an enemy beyond his ability to intimidate. "No man treats the crown prince this way and lives."

Owen's eyes narrowed, the temperature in the room plummeting further as frost crept up the walls in delicate, deadly patterns. The emerald in his staff flared with blinding intensity, bathing the chamber in an eerie green glow that cast long, distorted shadows across the marble floor.

"NO!" Owen roared, his voice no longer human but layered with otherworldly harmonics that shook the very foundations of the Sealord's palace. The magical pressure emanating from him intensified a hundredfold, no longer a subtle reminder of his power but an overwhelming force that drove Robert, Tywin, and many of the assembled lords to their knees, Kingsguard included. Even the proud Tywin Lannister found himself forced to the ground, his dignity stripped away as he struggled against the invisible weight crushing down upon him. "You think I've made a mistake? No, my lords, you have made the grave mistake."

Owen stalked forward, each step leaving frost-rimmed footprints on the polished floor. The pressure continued to build, making it difficult for the kneeling men to even raise their heads. Only Jon Snow, Eddard, and a few others remained standing, protected by Owen's selective application of his power. "You seem to think I'm some weak, genial man who will follow whatever you say, bow and scrape at your every command," he continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "But I am HIM! I am the one you should fear, the one man you should step quietly by."

He gestured broadly, the rings on his fingers glinting in the emerald light. "I have raised the North to the power it is today. I was the one who built ships that conquered the waves and smashed your enemies. I was the one who made weapons that blew apart castle walls, made sieges next to useless." His eyes blazed with an inner fire as he towered over the kneeling king. "I created machines that rivaled giants, that turned the tide of war in your favor. ME! And you have the audacity to think I should listen to your orders when you bleat them out like angry sheep and petulant children?"

Robert struggled against the invisible force pinning him down, his face purpling with rage and humiliation. "You... treasonous... bastard," he gasped out between labored breaths. "I'll... have... your head."

Owen laughed, a sound devoid of humor that sent chills down the spines of everyone present. "You'll have my head? With what army, Robert? The same one I armed? The same one I saved in Braavos when your southern knights broke ranks and nearly got everyone killed?" He crouched down, bringing his face level with the king's. "Look around you, Your Grace. The world has changed. The days when kings could rule through fear alone are over. I've changed them."

Tywin, despite the crushing pressure, managed to lift his head enough to lock eyes with Owen. "You speak of treason openly now," he said, each word a struggle against the magical force bearing down on him. "Whatever power you possess, you cannot stand against all Seven Kingdoms. There will be consequences for this... display." Despite his position, prostrate on the floor, the Lord of Casterly Rock still somehow projected an aura of menace, of promises for retribution.

Owen straightened, regarding Tywin with something akin to pity. "Consequences? You still don't understand, do you?" He released the pressure suddenly, allowing the men to rise shakily to their feet. "I don't want your throne, Robert. I don't want your gold, Tywin. What I want is for you to understand that the world is no longer what it was."

Owen studied the faces of the men before him, noting the mix of fear, anger, and confusion that painted their expressions. Robert's face was a thundercloud of rage, Tywin's a mask of cold calculation, Joffrey still cowering behind his uncle with wet breeches. They were powerful men, rulers of the realm in name and deed, yet they failed to grasp the fundamental shift that had occurred beneath their very feet.

"You still don't understand, do you?" Owen said, his voice returning to its normal timbre as he released the magical pressure that had forced them to their knees. The emerald in his staff dimmed slightly, though its light still cast eerie shadows across the ornate chamber. "The world has changed while you've been playing your petty games of thrones and vengeance. Magic has returned to this world—true magic, not the parlor tricks of charlatans—and with it, new rules."

He stepped back, allowing the lords to rise shakily to their feet. Robert leaned against a pillar for support, his massive frame trembling with a combination of exertion and fury. Tywin straightened his crimson doublet with as much dignity as he could muster, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the ashen pallor of his face.

"I'm going to give you a chance, Robert," Owen declared, raising his arm to the side in a fluid, deliberate motion. The air seemed to ripple and distort around his outstretched hand. "One chance to prove you're still the warrior who smashed Rhaegar at the Trident, that you deserve to command my respect."

A distant crash echoed through the palace, followed by the sound of splintering wood. Seconds later, Robert's war hammer—Stormblood, the magnificent weapon Owen had crafted for him—came flying through the shattered doorway as if pulled by an invisible hand. The assembled lords ducked instinctively as the massive weapon soared across the chamber before settling gently into Owen's waiting palm, its enchanted surface glowing with a fierce blue light that complemented the green of his staff.

Owen hefted the hammer once, testing its weight with an appraising eye before tossing it deliberately at Robert's feet. The weapon landed with a resounding clang that echoed throughout the chamber, the challenge unmistakable. "If you want me to bow and serve, to accept punishment and hand over Daenerys Targaryen to your butchers, then pick up Stormblood and face me." Owen's voice was quiet now, but it carried to every corner of the room. "Prove you're still worthy of being called king."

"Robert, no!" Eddard Stark moved forward, his face etched with alarm. "This solves nothing—there's been enough bloodshed already." He reached for his friend's arm, but the Greatjon, Robett Glover, and Jon Snow intercepted him, gently pulling him back. The Lord of Winterfell struggled briefly before Jon whispered something in his ear that made him go still, though his eyes remained fixed on Robert with undisguised concern.

Robert stared at the hammer for a long moment, his breathing heavy, before a savage grin split his bearded face. He bent down with surprising agility for a man of his size and wrapped his meaty fingers around Stormblood's handle, hefting it with practiced ease. "Time to teach you some manners, smith," he growled, advancing toward Owen with murder in his eyes. Behind him, Stannis Baratheon stepped forward with uncharacteristic emotion on his usually stoic face.

"Brother, do not do this," Stannis warned, his voice tight with urgency. "You've seen what he's capable of—this is folly." Beside him, Randyll Tarly nodded in agreement, his weathered face grim.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan added his voice to the chorus of concern, his aged hand moving to rest on his sword hilt. "This man is no ordinary opponent. Please, reconsider—"

"ENOUGH!" Robert roared, silencing them with a sweep of his free hand. His eyes never left Owen's face as he continued his approach, Stormblood glowing brighter with each step he took. "I'll not be made a fool in front of my lords. This upstart needs to learn his place." He raised the hammer to a ready position, his knuckles white around the handle. "And I'll be the one to teach him."

Robert's muscles tensed as he prepared to strike, the familiar weight of Stormblood in his hands lending him confidence. The hammer felt alive, crackling with power he'd never experienced in battle before—a testament to Owen's craftsmanship. Fury coursed through his veins, hot and intoxicating. This upstart lord had humiliated him in front of his bannermen, manhandled his son, and now dared to challenge his authority openly. It was time to remind everyone why he'd been called the Demon of the Trident.

But as he raised Stormblood high, something strange happened. Robert's body stilled mid-motion, frozen not by any magical force but by something more primal—fear. Visions flooded his mind unbidden, so vivid and real he could almost feel them happening. He saw Owen moving with impossible speed, slicing through his wrists with that black sword at his side before he could even complete his swing. The hammer dropped from his severed hands, and before the pain could register, the blade was already separating his head from his shoulders. The vision was so detailed he could see his own headless body crumpling to the marble floor, blood pooling beneath it.

The vision shifted. Now shadows writhed around him like living things, accompanied by white-hot flames that consumed his flesh. He heard his own voice screaming in agony as Stormblood clattered uselessly to the ground. The fire and shadow receded as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving nothing but his charred skeleton behind, still smoking in the aftermath of Owen's magic.

Another possibility materialized in his mind's eye: Owen's obsidian blade slicing cleanly through his midsection with a single stroke, the top half of his body sliding grotesquely from the bottom before both parts collapsed to the sides. Robert felt phantom pain lance through his torso as the vision played out, so real he nearly doubled over.

Yet another scenario unfolded—Owen's hand plunging into his chest with supernatural strength, fingers closing around his heart and ripping it out while it still beat. Robert imagined looking down in horror at the bloody organ pulsing in Owen's grip, feeling the last moments of his life drain away as his body registered the fatal wound.

Desperate now, Robert's tactical mind sought alternatives. What if he feinted, changed direction at the last moment and went for Ned instead? The Stark lord had always been Owen's weakness. But even as the thought formed, a new vision appeared: Owen moving faster than humanly possible to intercept him, driving a fist through his face with such force that it pulverized bone and brain matter alike. When Owen withdrew his hand, Robert's features would be nothing but a gory, unrecognizable mess.

"What's the matter, Your Grace?" Owen's voice cut through the horrific parade of deaths playing out in Robert's mind. "Second thoughts? Or perhaps you're finally realizing that the rules have changed." There was no mockery in his tone, only a cold certainty that chilled Robert more than any threat could have.

Robert lowered Stormblood slowly, his arm suddenly feeling leaden. He'd faced death countless times on the battlefield, had stared it down and laughed in its face, but this was different. This wasn't the clean death of warriors—this was slaughter, pure and simple. For the first time since he'd crushed Rhaegar's chest at the Trident, Robert Baratheon felt truly outmatched….and afraid. Deathly afraid.

Owen looked at him and nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A wise move, Robert," he said, the omission of any honorific deliberate and unmistakable. In his mind, Owen silently vowed that he would never call this man king again. The title had been stripped away by Robert's own actions, his willingness to murder an innocent girl simply because of her bloodline. Some kings earned their crowns through wisdom and justice; others merely wore them while proving themselves unworthy with every breath.

"Now then," Owen continued, cracking his neck with a casual roll of his shoulders, his gaze sweeping across the assembled Lannisters. His eyes locked first with Tywin's cold stare, then moved to Jaime's wary expression, and finally settled on Kevan's more measured countenance. "Would anyone else like to try their luck?" The question hung in the air like a blade, the implicit threat clear to everyone present. Nobody dared move forward or reach for a weapon. The silence in the chamber was absolute, broken only by the soft hiss of frost melting from the walls where Owen's power had manifested earlier.

"I thought not," Owen said after allowing the tension to stretch uncomfortably. He relaxed his posture slightly, though the magical aura surrounding him remained palpable. "Then I believe that concludes the issue of Daenerys Targaryen. She will live at Ice Crest and in the North for the rest of her life under my personal protection." His voice carried throughout the chamber, leaving no room for misinterpretation or argument. "If she finds a man to love and has children, all the better. They all will be under my protection as well." The declaration was not just a statement of intent but a promise—and a warning.

Tywin Lannister's face darkened, his jaw clenching visibly as he prepared to protest. The old lion had never been one to accept defeat gracefully, even when outmatched. But before he could speak, Owen's gaze snapped to him with such intensity that the Lord of Casterly Rock actually flinched—a reaction that would have been unthinkable mere hours ago. The look Owen gave him wasn't merely threatening; it was a window into possibilities too terrible to contemplate, a glimpse of what awaited anyone foolish enough to challenge him further. Tywin's mouth closed slowly, his protest dying unspoken.

Owen watched the tension ripple through the chamber like a stone dropped in still water. The lords and commanders had been stunned into silence by his display of power and Robert's subsequent backing down, but that wouldn't last. Men of power rarely stayed quiet for long, especially when their pride had been wounded.

"I believe we've come to a parting of ways," Owen said, his voice even and measured now that he'd made his point. "I had hoped we wouldn't have to, but fate always has other plans." He glance at Eddard and jon and the rest of the northern lords.

"We should separate our forces anyway," Owen continued, addressing the room at large rather than any individual. "The northern forces—and any who wish to follow us—will go to secure Pentos, Qohor, Lys, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, and Volantis. from slaver rule and control." He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the gathered lords before settling on Robert, who had retreated to stand with his Kingsguard and brother. "Meanwhile, You and the southern forces can proceed to deal with the slaver cities of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor."

Owen's lips curved into a thin smile as he delivered the coup de grâce. "Of course, if anyone is able to hold the cities they take, those cities and lands should be theirs to control."

The suggestion hung in the air for a heartbeat before the implications registered. It was Ser Barristan who broke the stunned silence, his aged face creased with concern. "My lord, you speak of conquest, not merely defeating the slavers." The old knight's voice was steady, but the disapproval in his tone was unmistakable.

Owen nodded, unperturbed by the knight's reproach. "Indeed I do, Ser Barristan. I heard the question came up at white harbor and i think its a swell idea. As it is northern ingenuity and weapons that will win the day, the lands we take should be part of the North." He gestured toward Robert and the southern lords. "Just as Yunkai, Astapor, and the other slaver cities would be part of the South if you take them." The challenge in his voice was clear—let them try without his weapons, without his ships, without his soldiers.

Eddard stepped forward, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. "Owen, this is not what we discussed. The North has never sought to expand beyond Westeros." There was a note of betrayal in his voice that Owen had expected, but it stung nonetheless. Lord Stark had been a good father-by-law, a fair lord, and a decent man in a world that often punished such qualities.

"Times change, Lord Stark," Owen replied, softening his tone slightly out of respect. "The world is changing around us. The North has grown stronger than it's been in thousands of years—perhaps stronger than it's ever been. Why shouldn't we use that strength to carve out a place in the wider world?"

Owen watched the reactions ripple through the chamber, a mix of shock, outrage, and—from some of the Northern lords—poorly concealed approval. The Greatjon's face had split into a broad grin, his massive hand resting casually on his sword hilt as if daring anyone to challenge Owen's declaration. Robett Glover and the Manderly brothers exchanged glances that spoke volumes, their eyes glittering with the possibilities that Owen's words had opened before them. Even Howland Reed, typically inscrutable, showed a hint of satisfaction in his otherwise calm demeanor.

Eddard, however, looked deeply troubled. The Lord of Winterfell's face had grown ashen, his eyes reflecting the internal conflict that Owen's proclamation had stirred within him. Loyalty to Robert warred with loyalty to the North, and for a man who had built his entire life on honor and duty, such a choice was nothing short of agonizing. Owen no longer felt regret at putting his father-by-law in such a position. Some paths were necessary, even when difficult.

"Lord Longshore," Kevan Lannister's measured voice cut through the murmurs that had filled the chamber. Unlike his brother Tywin, whose rage simmered just beneath the surface but was either too frightened or too cautious to show it, Kevan maintained a diplomat's composure. "Am I to understand that this is your way—and the North's way—of seceding from the Iron Throne? A rather bold power grab disguised as military strategy, wouldn't you say?"

Owen didn't even try to suppress the smile that spread across his face. There was something refreshing about Kevan's directness, a quality that seemed in short supply among the southern lords with their veiled threats and flowery words. "I wouldn't call it seceding, Ser Kevan," he replied, deliberately emphasizing the knight's lesser title. "Think of it more as... becoming more independent, so the Iron Throne needn't concern itself with its northern neighbor." He gestured expansively, as if conferring a great favor. "Besides, the North will be quite occupied with squashing the seeds of slavery in these cities for years to come. I'm certain the Iron Throne wouldn't want to deal with all that bother."

His words sent ripples through the assembled lords—southern faces darkening with understanding and outrage, northern expressions ranging from cautious optimism to outright triumph. Owen ignored them all, continuing as if he were discussing something as mundane as crop rotations rather than the dissolution of a centuries-old political arrangement. "Of course, we're all in this war against the slavers together," he added, his tone light but his eyes hard as they swept across the room. "The southern forces will still receive cannons and some ships to carry their forces, as well as supplies to feed their men."

Owen paused, allowing his gaze to settle briefly on Robert, who stood clutching Stormblood with white knuckles, his face mottled with rage and humiliation. "Once the war is done, slavers killed and the cities set to rights, I'm sure we'll go back to being good neighbors." His smile turned dangerous, the temperature in the room seeming to drop several degrees despite the warm Braavosi air outside. The implication was crystal clear to everyone present—the North would no longer be part of the Seven Kingdoms. The southerners, particularly Robert and Tywin, understood at once that the balance of power had shifted irrevocably.

"You can't—" Robert began, his voice a growl of frustrated fury, but Owen cut him off with a casual wave of his hand.

"I believe I just did," Owen replied, his tone mild but final. "Unless you'd like to try changing my mind?" His eyes flicked meaningfully to the Warhammer in Robert's grip, then back to the king's face. The challenge hung in the air between them, but Robert, still shaken by the visions of his own death, made no move to accept it.

With that, Owen turned on his heel and strode toward the door, the emerald crystal atop his staff pulsing gently with inner light. Jon Snow fell into step beside him, hand resting on Longclaw's pommel, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts. Behind them, the Northern lords began to follow—first the Greatjon with a booming laugh that echoed off the chamber walls, then Robett Glover and Lord Manderly, followed by others who had pledged their loyalty to Winterfell generations ago.

Eddard remained rooted to the spot for several heartbeats longer than the rest, his gaze fixed on Robert. The friendship between them had weathered rebellion, war, and years of separation, but this—this might be the blow from which it could not recover. Finally, Robert raised his eyes to meet Ned's, but whatever the king saw there made him look away almost immediately, unable or unwilling to face the disappointment in his old friend's gaze. With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of all his years, Eddard Stark turned and followed his bannermen out of the chamber, leaving behind the fragments of a broken realm.

Chapter Text

Owen stood outside the city of Myr, the late afternoon sun blazing across the sprawling military encampment that had materialized over the past three days after they had sailed away from braavos. The sight before him was impressive even by his standards—hundreds of tents arranged in neat formations, soldiers moving with purpose, and the massive shapes of his cannons being positioned for the coming siege. The Northern troops had been joined by forces from the Reach, Dorne, and about half the Riverlanders, a development that still surprised him despite its obvious strategic advantages.

"I still can't believe how many followed us," Jon said quietly beside him, his dark eyes scanning the bustling camp. "When we left that chamber in Braavos, I thought it would just be the North standing alone."

Owen nodded, running his fingers absently over one of the enchanted rings on his hand. "I expected the North to follow, of course. But the Reach, Dorne, and half the Riverlander troops?" He shook his head with a small smile. "That was unexpected. Though perhaps I should have seen it coming. The southern kingdoms have their own reasons to be dissatisfied with Robert's rule."

They walked together through the camp, soldiers bowing or nodding respectfully as they passed. Owen could feel the weight of their expectations, their hope. These men had chosen to follow him rather than their king—a decision that would have been unthinkable just months ago. A group of soldiers from House Tarly were meticulously cleaning their and sharpening their swords while the Dornish practiced spear formations.

"Lord Randyll approached me this morning," Owen said as they passed the Tarly section of the camp. "He said Lady Olenna instructed him to side with us before they even left Highgarden. 'It would be best to have him as an ally,' were her exact words, apparently." He chuckled softly. "That woman sees further than most."

Jon's expression remained serious. "And lord Brynden? The Blackfish is no one's puppet, yet he brought half the Riverlanders with him."

"Ah, that was interesting," Owen replied, pausing to watch a team of his steam constructors assembling a new batch of rifles with mechanical precision. "He told me his brother—Lord Hoster—instructed him before the war to split his forces if there was ever a quarrel between Robert and the North. 'Never commit fully to either side,' he said. Smart man, that Hoster Tully." Owen's gaze drifted to where Prince Oberyn was drilling his men, the Red Viper moving with his characteristic deadly grace despite the heavy heat of the day. "As for Oberyn, he simply said it was the wisest choice and that his brother would agree. I suspect Doran Martell has been waiting for an opportunity to break from the Iron Throne for years."

The two men reached the edge of a small rise that overlooked both the camp and the city beyond. Myr's walls rose in the distance, formidable but nothing that would withstand Owen's weapons for long. The city had allied itself with the slave masters, providing them with resources and safe harbor. Now it would face the consequences of that choice. Jon was quiet for a long moment, his hand resting on Longclaw's pommel as he surveyed the scene.

"When we take Myr," Jon finally said, his voice low enough that only Owen could hear, "it will be the first conquest of the North beyond Westeros in thousands of years. The first of many, if your plans hold true." He turned to face Owen fully, his expression searching. "Are you certain this is the path we should take? Once we've committed to this course, there's no turning back."

Owen nodded, his eyes gleaming with conviction as he gazed at the sprawling city of Myr in the distance. "The North will go down in history as the ones that destroyed slavery in Essos and crushed the institution of the selling of men, women, and children into bondage." His voice carried a quiet intensity that matched the fire in his eyes. "Any who stand in our way will fall. Once those walls fall, it will be the death knell of slavers everywhere." The certainty in his tone left no room for doubt—this was not merely a war of conquest but a crusade against an ancient evil, one that had persisted far too long in this world.

Jon nodded, his expression solemn as memories of Pentos flickered through his mind. "Like Pentos," he said quietly. The city had been left abandoned by the slavers once the fog monsters had turned on them, but when the supernatural mist had lifted and the Westerosi forces had marched in with the gates wide open, they had found horrors within. "We hung the city's prince and half the noble merchants for collaborating with the slavers," Jon recalled, his hand tightening around his ebony blade.

"Pentos was just the beginning," Owen said, watching as the last rays of sunlight gleamed off the barrels of the cannons being positioned at the edge of their camp. "The slaver forces in Myr believe their walls will protect them, that their wealth will save them. They're wrong." He turned to face Jon fully, his newly enhanced physical form casting a long shadow across the ground. "I've studied their defenses. Their walls are impressive by traditional standards, but against our cannons? They'll crumble within hours. By tomorrow evening, we'll be inside the city, and justice will follow."

Jon's dark eyes searched Owen's face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he asked, "And after Myr? What then? Volantis will be preparing for us, gathering every slave soldier and sellsword they can find. They won't surrender easily."

"Volantis is the heart of the slave trade," Owen replied, his voice hardening. "When we march on the Black Walls, we'll face their full might. But by then, we'll have Myr's resources, Pentos's fleet, and whatever forces Qohor can provide. The slavers are fighting against the inevitable." He gestured toward the camp below, where Northern soldiers trained alongside men from the Reach and Dorne "Here. their end comes."

Jon and Owen were silent a moment as they let themselves gaze at the slaver city before Jon said, "You said we'd talk." His voice was quiet but firm, his dark eyes fixed on Owen's face with unwavering intensity. The young Stark had followed Owen from Winterfell to war without question, had stood by him through battles against monsters and men alike, but now he needed answers.

Owen sighed and said, "Yes, about what the Black Goat said." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of secrets long kept. The camp bustled around them, soldiers preparing for tomorrow's assault, but here on this small rise, it felt as though they stood apart from it all. "Not here, though. Too many ears."

Jon nodded, his expression serious. "Why did it call me part of the song of ice and fire? And what did it mean that you had a power in your soul?" His questions came rapidly now, as if he'd been holding them back for days. "The magic, the Temple of Knowledge—weren't those gifts granted to you by the Old Gods as their chosen?"

Owen glanced around, ensuring they were truly alone before gesturing for Jon to follow him. They walked in silence through the camp, past the Northern soldiers checking their rifles, past the men of the Reach and Dorne who had chosen to follow them rather than their king. When they reached Owen's personal tent, guarded by two of his most trusted men, he dismissed the guards with a quiet word and ushered Jon inside.

The interior of the tent was spacious but sparse—a camp bed, a table covered with maps and plans for tomorrow's assault, and a small chest that contained Owen's most personal possessions. He sealed the entrance with a gesture, activating the privacy wards he'd placed around his quarters, and turned to face Jon. "I wasn't chosen by the Old Gods," he said, his voice low despite the magical protections. "I never was." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for a confession he'd never made to anyone, not even to Sansa. "Instead, I have a power within me that grants me knowledge and abilities from different worlds."

Jon's brow furrowed, confusion written across his features. "Different worlds?" he repeated, clearly struggling to grasp the concept. "What do you mean? Like... beyond the stars?" He glanced upward instinctively, as if the answers might be written in the canvas ceiling of the tent.

"In a manner of speaking," Owen replied, gesturing for Jon to sit. This would take some time. "I call it the Celestial Forge. It's a power that connects me to knowledge and abilities from realms beyond this one—places you wouldn't recognize, with technologies and magics that function according to entirely different rules." He paused, watching Jon's reaction carefully. "The steam constructors, the rifles, even the Dwarven Colossi—none of these are inventions of my own creation. They're adaptations of designs from these other worlds, brought to me through the Forge."

Owen watched Jon's face carefully as he processed this revelation. The confusion in Jon's dark eyes shifted gradually to something resembling wonder mixed with disbelief. Owen had expected skepticism, perhaps even anger at being deceived, but Jon's expression remained thoughtful, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the implications of what he'd just heard.

"So somewhere out in the stars," Jon said slowly after a moment of silence, "there's a world where your Dwarven Colossi are as normal as seeing flowers and grass?" He gestured vaguely upward, as if indicating the vast expanse of sky beyond the tent's canvas ceiling.

Owen shrugged, leaning back against the table covered with maps of Myr. "Not in the stars, exactly," he corrected, searching for the right words to explain concepts that had no equivalents in this world. "More like... the multiverse."

Jon's confusion deepened, his brow furrowing further. "What's a multiverse?" he asked, the unfamiliar word sounding strange on his tongue. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, genuinely curious despite his obvious struggle to understand.

Owen opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it. The concept of infinite parallel universes, each with its own laws of physics and reality, would take hours to properly explain—hours they shouldn't waste. "Forget it," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But yes, there are worlds far more technologically powerful than the one we're on. Places where people travel between stars as easily as we sail between continents, where machines think like people, where the things I've introduced to the North would be considered primitive at best."

Jon absorbed this in silence, his eyes never leaving Owen's face. Finally, he asked, "Have you told Sansa? About all of this?" His tone was careful, neutral, but Owen could detect the subtle hint of concern beneath the question.

Owen shrugged again, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I told her I wasn't a prophet of the Old Gods," he admitted, "but not about the Celestial Forge. Not the whole truth." He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling the weight of his secrets. "I wasn't sure how to explain it, even to her."

Jon nodded slowly, processing this, and then a smile spread across his face—the first genuine smile Owen had seen from him in days. "So you told me first," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. His smile widened into something almost mischievous. "Sansa is going to make you sleep in the guest chambers for months when she finds out."

Owen grumbled something like "not fair" as Jon grinned, the moment of levity a brief respite from the weight of their circumstances. The smile soon faded from Jon's face, replaced by a more solemn expression as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to almost a whisper despite the privacy wards surrounding them.

"What did the Black Goat mean when it said I was part of this 'song of ice and fire'?" Jon asked, his dark eyes searching Owen's face. "It spoke as if it knew me, as if I had some greater purpose that I'm unaware of." He ran a hand through his dark curls, frustration evident in the gesture. "I've been turning those words over in my mind since Braavos, and I can make no sense of them."

Owen sighed heavily, dropping into the chair opposite Jon. He'd known this question was coming since that confrontation in the catacombs, had been preparing for it, yet now that the moment was here, he found himself hesitating. "Jon, this isn't... I think Lord Stark needs to be here for this conversation," he said finally, choosing his words with care. "There are things about your birth, about your mother, that aren't mine to tell."

"You've been avoiding him since Braavos," Jon pointed out, a hint of accusation in his tone. "Every time Lord Stark approaches, you find some reason to be elsewhere. How can we have this conversation if you won't even speak with him?"

"I haven't been avoiding him," Owen retorted, then paused, reconsidering. "Well, not exactly. I've been avoiding an argument with him, which is a whole different thing." He stood and paced the length of the tent, the enchanted rings on his fingers glinting in the light. "I knew what I was doing when I challenged Robert in that chamber. I knew the consequences it would bring. Lord Stark didn't want any of this—not the separation from the Iron Throne, not this war of conquest in Essos. He wanted peace, diplomacy, a solution that wouldn't tear the realm apart." He stopped pacing and faced Jon directly. "I forced his hand."

Jon was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "To be fair," he said slowly, "you took your argument with Robert in a way that made the North break away from the Iron Throne—during a war, no less. The northern lords and soldiers agreed with you despite their liege lord trying to de-escalate the situation." He met Owen's gaze steadily. "Father must have felt like you were stealing power from him."

Owen winced at Jon's blunt assessment, unable to deny the truth in his words. He sank back into his chair, suddenly feeling the weight of the past weeks pressing down on him. "I didn't plan it that way," he admitted quietly. "When I walked into that chamber and saw Robert raging, saw Tywin plotting and Joffrey being his usual self just to have daenerys killed….. something just... snapped." He looked down at his hands, at the magical enhancements that had transformed his body from that of a simple blacksmith to something more than human. "I've given the North weapons, wealth, security—all to prepare for the threats I know are coming. But in that moment, I wasn't thinking about the future or the greater good. I was angry. I was tired of playing by their rules."

Owen looked at Jon and sighed, the weight of recent events visible in the slump of his shoulders despite his magically enhanced physique. "If I had my way, the king and the southern nobles would never have come north," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "The North would prosper in peace, and I'd be telling my parents I was going to be a father and them grandparents..." His voice trailed off, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. "I haven't talked to them in so long it's a joke. I know they don't mind, but I've been a neglectful son to them. And a good husband would be with his pregnant wife right now, but here I am because of the power I wield."

The tent fell silent save for the distant sounds of the camp—soldiers preparing for tomorrow's assault, the clank of weapons being cleaned, the low murmur of conversation. Outside, the world continued its march toward war, but in this small space, Owen allowed himself a moment of vulnerability rarely shown to anyone besides Sansa.

"But Lord Stark has to understand, Jon," Owen continued, his voice firming with conviction. "As soon as I made the North the power it is today, there was going to be conflict with Robert, old friends or not." He leaned forward, eyes intense as they locked with Jon's. "And from what I saw, I entered the Sealord's chamber in time. Robert was drawing steel on your father."

Jon's face paled at this revelation, his hand instinctively moving to Longclaw's hilt. "You're certain?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. The idea that the king would threaten Lord Stark—his oldest friend, the man who had helped him win his crown—seemed almost inconceivable, yet Jon had witnessed enough of Robert's rage in Braavos to know it wasn't impossible.

"I saw it with my own eyes," Owen confirmed grimly. "Robert wasn't thinking clearly—he was consumed by his hatred for the Targaryens, blinded by it. When your father stood between him and Daenerys, mentioning Lyanna…. something broke in him." He shook his head, remembering the scene with perfect clarity. "The look in his eyes... it wasn't the look of a king toward his most loyal subject. It wasn't even the look of one friend quarreling with another. It was the look of a man who would cut down anyone in his path to get what he wanted."

Jon absorbed this in silence, his expression troubled. After a long moment, he asked, "Do you think Father knows? That Robert was about to attack him?"

Owen shrugged, his face a mixture of resignation and certainty. "I doubt he'd admit it to himself," he said, absently adjusting one of the magical rings on his finger. "Ned Stark sees Robert as the brother he chose, the friend he helped put on the throne. To acknowledge that Robert was ready to attack him would mean accepting that the man he's been loyal to for decades is gone." He leaned back in his chair, the enchanted fabric of his garments shimmering slightly in the dim light of the tent. "But make no mistake, Jon—many lords saw what was happening. The Greatjon's hand was on his sword. Howland Reed was ready to move. Even Stannis looked like he was about to intervene, and that man's not exactly known for defying his brother."

Jon frowned, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward. "So how are we going to get him to come and talk? He's been avoiding you as much as you've been avoiding him." There was a challenge in his voice now, a demand for Owen to find a solution to the impasse between himself and Lord Stark. "We can't afford this division."

Owen stared at Jon for a long moment, then a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that had preceded some of his most outlandish demonstrations of power in the past. "How are we going to get him to come talk?" he repeated, rising to his feet with newfound energy. "Well, that's simple enough."

"Simple?" Jon echoed skeptically, watching as Owen moved to the center of the tent, his rings glowing faintly as he gathered his magical power.

Owen shrugged and said "Magic," with casual confidence, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap. "Sometimes the direct approach is best." With that, he snapped his fingers, and a flash of brilliant blue light filled the tent, momentarily blinding both men. When the light faded, Eddard Stark stood in the center of the tent, looking disoriented and alarmed, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his hip. The Lord of Winterfell blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to his sudden change in surroundings, until his gaze fell upon Owen and Jon sitting before him.

"What in the name of the Old Gods—" Eddard began, his voice a mixture of confusion and anger as he took in the scene before him: his son and his goodson sitting calmly in a tent he had been magically transported to without warning or consent.

Owen leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of his magical enhancements subsiding as he took in the sight of his father-in-law. Eddard looked haggard, the lines on his face deeper than Owen remembered, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and worry. The past weeks had taken their toll on the Lord of Winterfell, and for a brief moment, Owen felt a pang of guilt at having contributed to that burden. But the moment passed quickly, replaced by the certainty that what he had done—what he was still doing—was necessary.

"My apologies for the abrupt invitation, Lord Stark," Owen said, gesturing to an empty chair. "Please, sit. We have matters to discuss that can't wait any longer."

Eddard remained standing, his posture rigid with anger. "So, ready to face the fact that you have dragged the North headlong into some standoff rebellion with the crown, are you?" he asked, his eyes and voice cold and judging. The words cut through the tent like ice, each syllable precise and deliberate. "Or did you summon me here merely to demonstrate another of your magical tricks?"

Owen met his father-in-law's gaze unflinchingly. "Not in the least," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "I'm ready to discuss our path forward now that the situation has changed. The North is positioned better than it ever has been, and we need to be united in our approach."

"United?" Eddard's laugh was harsh and bitter. "You speak of unity after you single-handedly shattered the peace I've spent decades building? After you defied your king and threatened his son in front of half the lords of Westeros?" He began pacing the tent, his anger building with each step. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The North has been loyal to the Iron Throne since Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. Three hundred years of fealty, ended because you couldn't control your temper!"

"And what would you have had me do?" Owen fired back, rising to his feet. "Stand by while Robert murdered an innocent girl? The same girl who was held by blood mages, who watched her brother sacrificed to a demon deity?" His voice rose with each word, the magical rings on his fingers beginning to glow in response to his emotions. "I didn't see you stopping Robert when he drew his sword on you. I didn't see you protecting her when Tywin was calling for her head. All I saw was you trying to placate a man who was ready to cut you down for standing in his way!"

Eddard's face darkened with fury. "You know nothing of Robert," he spat. "He was angry, yes, but he wouldn't have—"

"He was going to kill you!" Owen interrupted, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to crack the wood. "I was there, Lord Stark. I saw his face when you mentioned lyanna. I saw his hand on his sword. The Robert Baratheon you knew, the friend you fought beside, the man you put on the throne—he's gone. Replaced by a bitter, angry drunk who can't see past his hatred for the Targaryens."

"And that justifies rebellion?" Eddard demanded, his voice rising to match Owen's. "That justifies putting every man, woman, and child in the North at risk? My children—your wife—are now traitors to the crown because of your actions!"

"They were already at risk!" Owen shouted, the magical pressure in the tent intensifying with his anger. "The moment I gave the North power, the moment we became stronger than the South, we became a threat in their eyes. Robert was never going to let us keep our autonomy. Tywin was already plotting to bring us to heel. Joffrey was practically salivating at the thought of taking our weapons for himself." He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "I didn't start this conflict, Lord Stark. I just refused to pretend it wasn't happening."

Owen watched as Eddard's expression shifted, the anger in his eyes giving way to something more complex—a mixture of frustration, resignation, and the bone-deep weariness of a man caught between impossible choices. The Lord of Winterfell ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking every one of his years and then some.

"Your weapons would mean a bloodbath for the South," Eddard said quietly, the fight draining from his voice. He sank into the chair Owen had offered earlier, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of his concerns. "Rifles that can kill at hundreds of paces, cannons that can reduce castles to rubble, automatons that never tire or question orders... Do you truly not see the devastation they could bring?"

Owen shook his head, not in denial but in disagreement with Eddard's perspective. "A bloodbath only for those stupid enough to try attacking us," he countered, his voice level now but no less intense. He gestured toward the tent flap, toward the sprawling camp beyond where northern soldiers prepared for the coming campaign. "And if you haven't noticed, Lord Stark, it seems the Reach and Dorne are on our side. Their banners fly alongside ours, their soldiers train with ours. They saw the writing on the wall and chose to align themselves with the stronger power."

He moved to a small table where a map of Westeros lay spread out, various markers indicating troop positions and political allegiances. Owen tapped the Riverlands, drawing Eddard's attention to the region. "And the Riverlands wouldn't side against us when you're married to lady Catelyn," he continued, his tone softening slightly at the mention of his mother-by-law. "Hoster Tully may be bedridden, but Edmure and the Blackfish understand where their interests lie.'

Owen moved to the map again, his fingers tracing the boundaries of the Seven Kingdoms—or what had been the Seven Kingdoms until his confrontation with Robert in the Sealord's palace. The magical rings on his fingers cast faint, multicolored shadows across the parchment as he gestured toward the eastern regions.

"What about the Vale?" Eddard demanded, his voice regaining some of its edge. "What of the Westerlands? The Stormlands? Those still loyal to Robert? Have you considered them in your grand plans? Jon Arryn raised Robert and me as his own sons. Do you think he'll stand idly by while you tear the realm apart?"

Owen's expression remained impassive, though a flicker of something—perhaps respect for Eddard's concerns—passed briefly across his features. "Jon Arryn is a reasonable man," he replied, tapping the mountainous region of the Vale on the map. "He will hear what happened in Braavos. He will talk from those who witnessed our weapons in action against the creatures of the fog He knows what my rifles and cannons can do." He straightened up, meeting Eddard's gaze directly. "Robert and Tywin would face rebellion if they ordered the Vale or Storm or Westerlands lords to attack us. The lords and soldiers of those kingdoms had seen the power I wielded, had seen the weapons and armor I gave the North and the strength of our ships and Dwarven Colossi. They wouldn't dare follow Robert against the North."

Eddard laughed bitterly, pushing himself up from his chair to stand toe-to-toe with Owen. Despite the younger man's magical enhancements and increased stature, Eddard Stark's presence was no less commanding. "And you think that will stop Robert?" he asked, his voice low and intense. "You think Tywin Lannister will simply accept defeat? They'd still die, Owen. Robert would have to kill those who rebel or refuse his commands, and then after he'd still march north."

Owen was ready to argue again, his magical rings flashing with the intensity of his emotion. The air in the tent seemed to thicken, charged with tension and the faint hum of arcane energy that always surrounded him when his temper flared. But before he could unleash another barrage of justifications, Jon stepped between the two men, his expression stern and resolute.

"Enough," Jon said firmly, looking from Owen to his father and back again. "We're not making any progress here. Just going in circles, each of you too stubborn to see the other's point." He ran a hand through his dark curls, frustration evident in the gesture. "The North needs both of you working together, not at each other's throats."

Owen let out a long, weary sigh, the glow of his magical enhancements dimming as he reined in his emotions. Jon was right, of course. This argument was getting them nowhere, and with each passing moment, the rift between himself and Eddard only seemed to widen. "You're right," he conceded, stepping back and spreading his hands in a gesture of peace. "This isn't productive. We need to find common ground, Lord Stark, not rehash old grievances."

Eddard's face remained hard, the lines around his mouth deepening as he regarded his goodson with cold gray eyes. "Common ground?" he repeated, his voice low and controlled but edged with steel. "You went over my head, made decisions that affect the entire North without consulting me, and publicly defied your king. By doing so, you made me look weak in front of my bannermen." He stepped closer to Owen, unflinching despite the younger man's magical aura. "Such actions should face punishment, not negotiation."

Owen looked at him for a long moment, studying the face of the man who had welcomed him into his family, who had trusted him with his daughter's hand and the future of the North. Despite their current conflict, Owen couldn't help but respect Eddard Stark's unwavering principles. But respect didn't mean he would back down—not when he believed he was right. "Have you heard any of the northern lords speak without respect in their tone when talking of you?" he asked quietly. "Has a single northern soldier—even my own Dreadguard—refused your orders? They don't see you as weak, Lord Stark." Owen gestured toward the tent flap, toward the northern camp beyond. "They followed because they saw what I saw—that the Iron Throne was being unreasonable, that Robert was being unreasonable."

Jon nodded in agreement, relief evident in his expression as the tension in the tent began to dissipate. "He's right, Father," he added, his voice gentle but firm. "I've spoken with the men, with the Greatjon and Lord Manderly and the others. They still look to you as their liege lord, as the Stark in Winterfell. But they also believe Owen made the right choice in protecting Daenerys Targaryen." He hesitated, then pressed on. "They followed because they believe in the North's strength and independence, not because they think you weak."

Eddard's stance seemed to soften at Jon's words, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he absorbed what his son had said. The hard lines around his mouth eased, though the worry in his eyes remained. Owen seized the moment, recognizing the small opening in Eddard's defenses.

"I didn't bring you here to argue about Robert or debate the wars," Owen said, his voice quieter now, more measured. He glanced at Jon, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. "I brought you here because there's something you need to know. Something Jon and I haven't told you—or anyone else—about what happened in the crypts beneath Braavos."

Eddard's brow furrowed, his attention fully captured by the sudden shift in conversation. "What truth?" he asked, his voice cautious. He looked between the two younger men, noting the significant glance they exchanged. "What happened down there that you've kept hidden?"

Owen took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. The magical rings on his fingers dimmed to a soft, ambient glow as he collected himself. "We told you about the blood mages, about the ritual chamber and the black crystal they were using to power the fog over Braavos," he began, his eyes distant as he recalled the horrors they'd faced. "What we didn't tell you was what happened after we defeated them."

"When we killed the final mage—the one called Illiphos—something... changed," Owen continued, his voice dropping lower. "His body began to transform. The flesh twisted and grew, expanding into something monstrous. The Black Goat of Qohor, the deity they worshipped, manifested physically before us." He paused, watching Eddard's face carefully. "It wasn't just a symbol or a religious icon, Lord Stark. It was real—a fifteen-foot creature with three glowing red eyes and powers beyond anything I'd seen before."

Eddard's face had grown increasingly pale as Owen spoke, his gray eyes widening with each word. "You fought a god?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We did," Jon confirmed, stepping forward. "It was unlike anything I've ever seen—tentacles of darkness that could tear a man apart, eyes that seemed to look through you, into your very soul." He shuddered at the memory. "But that's not all, Father. The creature... it spoke to us. It knew things about us, things it shouldn't have known. And it said something about me specifically." Jon hesitated, glancing at Owen again.

Owen nodded encouragingly, then turned back to Eddard. "The Black Goat called Jon 'a part of the song of ice and fire,'" he said carefully, watching his father-in-law's reaction. "It seemed to find his presence there significant somehow, as if Jon was part of something larger, something predestined."

Eddard went entirely still, the color draining completely from his face. "No," he murmured, almost to himself. "No, no..." His hands began to tremble slightly, and he sank back into his chair, looking suddenly aged beyond his years. The reaction was far stronger than Owen had anticipated, confirming his suspicions that there was indeed something significant about Jon that Eddard had kept hidden.

Jon stepped forward, confusion and concern written plainly across his features. "Father?" he asked softly, kneeling beside Eddard's chair. "What does it mean? What is this 'song of ice and fire'?" His voice was steady, but Owen could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the desperate need for answers that had clearly been kept from him his entire life.

"I should have told you years ago," Eddard finally said, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked at Jon. "I wanted to protect you. I swore to her I would." He drew a ragged breath, his hands trembling slightly as he clasped them together. "Jon... you are not my son. You never were. Your mother was Lyanna, my sister. And your father..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon staggered back as if physically struck, his face draining of color. "What?" he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "No. That's not... I'm a Stark. I'm your son." His voice cracked on the last word, a lifetime of identity crumbling around him.

"It was at the Tower of Joy, in Dorne," Eddard continued, his eyes distant with memory. "Robert's Rebellion was won. The Mad King was dead, Rhaegar fallen at the Trident. I rode south with six companions to find my sister, whom everyone believed had been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar." He looked up at Jon, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow. "We found the tower guarded by three Kingsguard knights—Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. They should have been protecting their new king, Viserys, but instead, they were in a remote tower in Dorne. We fought... and only Howland Reed and I survived." Eddard's voice grew hoarse. "I found Lyanna inside, dying in a bed of blood. Childbirth had taken too much from her. With her last breaths, she made me promise to protect you, to keep you safe from Robert, who would have killed any child of Rhaegar's, even one borne by the woman he claimed to love."

Owen stood silent, the pieces falling into place—Jon's Stark features masking the Targaryen blood that flowed through his veins, Eddard's unwavering protection of a boy he claimed as his bastard, the honorable Ned Stark returning from war with an infant he said was his own. It was a secret that had shaped the politics of an entire continent, hidden in plain sight for nearly two decades.

"There's more," Eddard said, his voice steadying as he continued. "Howland and I found a letter in the tower, hidden among Lyanna's possessions. It was from Rhaegar to her, written before he left for the Trident." He closed his eyes briefly, as if seeing the words written across his memory. "He wrote of prophecies and dreams, of a song of ice and fire. He believed their child—you, Jon—would be one of 'three heads of the dragon' meant to save the world from darkness. He wrote of a prince that was promised, born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star." Eddard's face hardened. "It was madness, the same madness that had taken his father, dressed up in prettier words. Prophecies and destiny and magic—these things destroy families, tear apart kingdoms. I watched my father burn because of Targaryen madness. I watched my brother strangle himself trying to save him. I fought a war that killed thousands, all because Rhaegar was obsessed with fulfilling some ancient prophecy."

Jon had sunk to his knees, his face a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, anger, grief. "All my life," he whispered, "all my life I wanted to know who my mother was. I thought she might have been a tavern wench, a farmer's daughter... not a highborn lady, not a Stark princess." He looked up at Eddard, tears filling his eyes. "And my father... not a dragon, not the man who started a war. Not the crown prince who abandoned his wife and children for..." His voice broke, unable to continue.

"For love," Eddard finished quietly. "Whatever else might be said of them, Jon, whatever mistakes they made—and they made many—Rhaegar and Lyanna loved each other. The rebellion was built on a lie. She wasn't kidnapped or raped. She went with him willingly. They were married in secret after Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled." He leaned forward, his gray eyes intent on Jon's face. "You were never a bastard. You were born Aemon Targaryen, fourth of his name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. And I've carried that secret for seventeen years, protecting you the only way I knew how—by claiming you as my own, by giving you my name, if not my title." Eddard's voice grew firm. "And I would do it again. A thousand times over. You are as much my son as Robb, as Bran or Rickon. Blood of my blood. Nothing will ever change that."

Owen watched the scene unfold with sympathy. Here was a secret that had shaped the Seven Kingdoms and many fans love and theories of the series. Without anyone knowing—a hidden Targaryen prince raised as a bastard in the cold North, protected by the most honorable man in Westeros through a necessary lie.

Jon remained on his knees, his face a mask of confusion and pain. After several moments of silence, he looked up at Eddard, his voice barely above a whisper when he finally found the words to speak. "Did she—did my mother ever love me? Or was I just the prophecy child to her too?" The question held all the pain of a lifetime of wondering, of feeling unwanted and out of place.

"Love you?" Eddard's voice broke, and he slid from his chair to kneel before Jon, grasping his shoulders firmly. "Jon, Lyanna would have fought the world itself for you. In her final moments, when her life was slipping away, all she cared about was your safety. She made me swear to protect you, not for prophecies or thrones, but because you were her son, her blood." Eddard's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "She named you herself, held you to her breast with what little strength she had left. And I have no doubt that had she lived, she would have cut down Robert himself if he had so much as looked at you the wrong way. That's who Lyanna was—fierce as a direwolf when it came to those she loved."

Owen saw Jon's shoulders begin to shake as the young man absorbed these words. Jon's next question came out choked with emotion. "Then why—" he began, struggling to master himself. "Why did you let Lady Catelyn treat me as she did? Why not tell her the truth? Perhaps she would have—she might have treated me like family, not an unwelcome reminder of your supposed infidelity."

Eddard's face crumpled with old guilt, and Owen could see the weight of seventeen years of secrets pressing down on him. "I considered it, many times," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "But there was always the chance she might let something slip by mistake—a look, a word, treating you better than a bastard should be treated. People notice such things, Jon. Varys, the master of whispers for robert, has spies everywhere, even in the North. Tywin Lannister would have paid handsomely for any whisper of Targaryen blood surviving." He shook his head slowly. "The fewer people who knew, the safer you would be. Even those I trusted most... one careless word could have meant your death."

"And yet you let me suffer her coldness," Jon said, his voice growing stronger now, tinged with the anger of years of hurt. "You watched her exclude me, make me eat at the lower tables, treat me as less than your trueborn children. You could have defended me more, even without revealing the truth."

Owen shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder on this deeply personal moment between father and son—or rather, uncle and nephew. Yet he couldn't bring himself to leave, knowing that his presence might be needed to help them both process this revelation.

"You're right," Eddard said simply, the admission seeming to age him further. "I was stupid and wrong not to defend you more. I told myself it was necessary, that any special treatment would raise questions. But the truth is, I was afraid—afraid of the truth getting out, afraid of failing the promise I made to Lyanna, afraid of what Robert would do if he ever discovered who you really were." Eddard's hands tightened on Jon's shoulders, his gray eyes fixed on Jon's face with fierce intensity. "I am so sorry, Jon. More sorry than you can ever know. I failed you in that, even as I tried to protect you. And not a day has gone by that I haven't regretted the pain it caused you."

The tent was silent before Owen spoke. Jon remained kneeling, his face a storm of confusion and betrayal, while Eddard looked drained, as if the secret he had carried for so long had physically weighed him down. Owen took a deep breath, feeling the need to bring perspective to this moment that threatened to consume both men with its intensity.

"Rhaegar was not mad," Owen said firmly, drawing their attention. "He was confused about the prophecy, interpreting it through the limited lens of his own understanding and the fragmented knowledge available to him. But the terror he feared—the danger he was preparing for—that was real. It's real, and it's coming for all of us." He paused, letting his words sink in. "The song of ice and fire isn't just some Targaryen delusion. It's a warning about what lies beyond the Wall."

Jon and Eddard turned to stare at him, their personal turmoil momentarily forgotten in the face of this strange declaration. Eddard's brow furrowed deeply, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and confusion.

"What do you mean?" Eddard asked, his voice low and cautious. "What lies beyond the Wall that could possibly connect to Targaryen prophecies and Jon's parentage?" There was a note of weariness in his question, as if he had endured enough revelations for one day, yet couldn't ignore the gravity in Owen's tone.

Owen walked toward them, his magical rings pulsing softly with light as he drew upon a fraction of his power—not to intimidate, but to emphasize the seriousness of what he was about to share. "The White Walkers," he said simply, watching their reactions carefully. "The Others, as your people call them. They're real, Lord Stark. Not just stories to frighten children, not myths or legends—but ancient beings of ice and death who have slept for thousands of years. And they're waking up." He looked directly at Jon. "That's what the Black Goat knew about you. That's why it called you part of the song of ice and fire—because in your veins runs the blood of the First Men through Lyanna Stark and the blood of Valyria through Rhaegar Targaryen. Ice and fire united in one person."

"This is madness," Eddard muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "White Walkers? Next you'll tell me giants still roam beyond the Wall, or that the Children of the Forest didn't vanish thousands of years ago." But despite his words, there was uncertainty in his eyes, a flicker of doubt that suggested he wasn't entirely dismissing Owen's claims.

"It's the main reason I decided to stay in the North and help it prosper," Owen continued, ignoring Eddard's skepticism. "Instead of fucking off to Essos or the Summer Isles like I'd originally planned. Because cold death is coming for us all, Lord Stark. The Others are coming, bringing with them an endless winter and an army of the dead. That's why I've been so focused on building up the North's strength, developing weapons, improving infrastructure. Not just to make the North independent or wealthy, but to prepare it for the greatest threat humanity has faced in eight thousand years." He knelt down between Jon and Eddard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Think about it. Why has the Night's Watch stood guard for thousands of years? What enemy were they truly watching for? Not wildlings—wildlings are just men and women trying to survive in a harsh land. No, the Wall wasn't built to keep out raiders. It was built to hold back the White Walkers and their army of wights."

Owen watched as Eddard's face twisted with disbelief, the lord's weathered features hardening into stubborn denial. This wasn't surprising—the man had spent his entire life in a world where the supernatural existed only in Old Nan's stories. Even after everything he'd witnessed—the automatons, the magical weapons, the transformed North—asking him to believe in ice demons was still a bridge too far.

"Think about it logically, Lord Stark," Owen said, leaning forward with intensity. "Nobody builds a wall seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles long just to keep out humans. The wildlings could have been contained by a fraction of that effort. The Wall wasn't meant to be some penal colony for criminals and outcasts—it was humanity's shield against an existential threat." He gestured northward with a sweep of his arm. "Why do you think I've made sure the Night's Watch forts have been rebuilt and reinforced? Why they've received the best steel armor and weapons, the warmest clothing? Why I sent two hundred Dwarven Colossi to bolster their ranks? Why their larders are stocked with enough preserved food to last years?" His voice dropped to a near whisper. "They're the first line of defense, Lord Stark. And they need to be ready."

Eddard's eyes narrowed, his mind clearly working through the implications. After a long moment, he looked at Jon, who remained silent and shell-shocked from the revelations about his parentage.

"And Jon? You're saying he's somehow meant to defeat these... White Walkers? Because of his mixed heritage?" Eddard's voice carried equal parts skepticism and concern. "How exactly is he supposed to accomplish this? With what power or weapon?"

Owen fell silent, his mind racing. This was the question he'd been dreading, the one he couldn't fully answer. In his original world, George R.R. Martin had never finished the books, leaving the true resolution of the White Walker threat forever unknown. The television adaptation had offered an ending, but one so unsatisfying that it had become infamous—Arya Stark somehow teleporting out of nowhere to stab the Night King in the belly, ending the threat in an instant.

Gods, the show sucked ass in season 8, he grumbled mentally.

"I don't know the exact mechanism," Owen finally admitted, choosing his words carefully. "The prophecies are vague and often metaphorical. What I do know is that Targaryen blood seems to have some connection to fire magic, while Stark blood carries the legacy of the First Men, who originally fought and defeated the Others alongside the Children of the Forest." He looked at Jon with genuine sympathy. "I don't believe you're meant to face this alone, Jon. The prophecy speaks of 'the dragon has three heads'—suggesting three people working together. And there's mention of 'Lightbringer,' a legendary weapon used against the darkness."

Jon finally seemed to emerge from his stunned silence, his dark eyes focusing on Owen with newfound intensity. "So I'm not just the product of a war built on lies, but also some prophesied savior meant to fight monsters from children's tales?" He laughed bitterly. "Next you'll tell me I'm meant to ride dragons."

Oh, if only you knew, Owen mentally grumbled as Jon questioned whether he was meant to ride dragons. The irony was almost painful. Show Jon had indeed ridden the dragon Rhaegal, named after his true father. But that was knowledge he couldn't share without revealing too much about his otherworldly origins.

Owen noticed Jon suddenly freeze mid-conversation, his expression shifting from anguish to alarm. "What's the problem?" Owen asked, concerned by the abrupt change.

Jon smacked himself on the forehead with an open palm. "Gods, I almost forgot," he exclaimed, looking embarrassed. "The gifts the delegation had brought for you. With everything that's happened, it completely slipped my mind."

Owen cringed at that memory—the Qohorik delegation members looking at him like some god incarnate after he'd defeated the Black Goat. They'd prostrated themselves before him, calling him "Demon slayer" and other uncomfortable titles. The religious fervor in their eyes had disturbed him deeply.

"They gave me gold, jewels, silk, and spices," Owen said with a dismissive shrug. "So what? We have plenty of those already." He glanced at Lord Stark, who returned his confused look when Jon suddenly raced out of the tent without another word.

A few minutes later, Jon returned, slightly out of breath, carrying a golden chest adorned with intricate Valyrian symbols. The box was roughly two feet long and appeared heavy from the way Jon's muscles strained. "What's so—" Owen's words cut off abruptly as Jon placed the chest on the ground and opened it, revealing three dragon eggs nestled in velvet—one white as snow, one dark crimson, and the third a brilliant sapphire blue. Each egg was covered in scales, their surfaces catching the light in mesmerizing patterns that seemed almost alive.

"The delegation must not have mentioned them because they thought I would handle giving them to you," Jon explained, watching Owen's face carefully. "They said these were meant for 'the one who banished the dark goat,' and insisted you were to have them."

Owen stared at the dragon eggs in the chest, his mind reeling from their implications. Unlike the cold stone-like eggs described in the books he remembered from his previous life, these radiated warmth like living coals. He reached out tentatively, his fingers hovering just inches above the sapphire blue egg. A current of energy seemed to leap between his skin and the scaled surface before he even made contact. When his palm finally rested on the egg, he felt an unmistakable movement inside—a subtle shifting, as if something were stirring from a long slumber.

"Do you feel that?" Owen asked, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide with wonder. He looked up at Jon, who stood watching with a puzzled expression.

Jon cautiously extended his hand toward the white egg, placing his palm against its surface. After a moment, he shrugged. "I feel some warmth, but nothing else. They're just warm to the touch." He withdrew his hand, looking somewhat disappointed. "Should I be feeling something more?"

Owen nodded slowly, his mind racing with possibilities. "They must be meant for me, then. The eggs are responding to my presence, my magic." He ran his fingers over the crimson egg, feeling another flutter of movement beneath the hard shell. The Celestial Forge hummed within him, as if recognizing something kindred in these ancient relics of power. "Dragon eggs. Actual dragon eggs. And they're awakening."

"It's good you hid these and didn't mention them in braavos, Jon," Eddard said gravely, eyeing the chest with a mixture of awe and trepidation. "If Robert or Tywin had known about them..." He didn't need to finish the thought. Everyone in the tent understood what would have happened—Robert's rage at anything Targaryen would have led him to demand their destruction, while Tywin would have coveted them as symbols of power and wealth. "But this doesn't solve problem," Eddard continued, turning back to Jon. "If what Owen says is true, if the White Walkers are returning, then what role are you meant to play in stopping them? How does your parentage factor into this fight?"

Jon had been silent, his face a mask of conflicted emotions as he processed everything he'd learned. Now he looked up, his dark eyes focusing with newfound clarity. "Why can't we simply use Owen's weapons?" he asked, gesturing toward the tent flap as if indicating the vast arsenal Owen had created for the North. "We have rifles, cannons, even the Colossi. Why not position them along the Wall, aim them at the lands beyond, and unleash everything we have until the White Walkers are destroyed? Surely nothing could withstand that kind of power."

Owen closed the chest carefully, his hands lingering on the ornate lid for a moment before he turned to address Jon's question. "There are several problems with that approach," he explained, rising to his feet. "First, there are innocent people beyond the Wall—the Free Folk. They may be considered enemies of the North, but they're just men, women, and children trying to survive in a harsh land. They're not our enemy in this fight; in fact, they're likely going to be the first victims of the White Walkers." He paced the tent, his enchanted robes billowing slightly with each step. "Second, the White Walkers are either not yet fully awakened or they're moving in the shadows. They're not gathered in one convenient location where we could blast them to icy pieces. They're maybe scattered, building their strength, raising their army of the dead with each wildling village they destroy."

"And third," Owen continued, stopping to look directly at Jon, "even if we did manage to destroy their current forces, it wouldn't solve the problem permanently. The White Walkers have existed for thousands of years. If we drive them back without truly understanding how to defeat them for good, they might simply retreat into the far north, hide away for another eight thousand years, and return when humanity has forgotten about them again." He shook his head grimly. "No, we need to understand the nature of this threat, the magic that created them, and find a way to end it permanently."

"So what do we do then?" Eddard asked, his voice heavy with the weight of all he'd learned. The lord of Winterfell looked older somehow, the lines in his face deeper than they had been mere hours ago. "If weapons alone won't defeat these... White Walkers, what path do we take?"

Owen straightened, his decision already made. "I will have to do some traveling," he said firmly. "And that means leaving the war effort to you and Jon after Myr falls." He met their surprised gazes steadily. "There are places in this world that hold secrets—ancient knowledge that might give us the edge we need to defeat them permanently."

Jon frowned, his dark eyes concerned. "Where would you go?"

"There are four places," Owen replied, counting them off on his fingers. "Valyria, Yi Ti, Sothoryos, and Asshai. Each holds pieces of the puzzle we need to solve."

Eddard's face paled, his eyes widening with disbelief. "Have you gone mad? Those places are all death traps from all accounts! No one returns from Valyria—the Doom still haunts those ruins. The jungles of Sothoryos are filled with diseases no maester can cure. And Asshai..." He shook his head. "Even the bravest sailors speak of Asshai in whispers."

"They are death traps," Owen agreed with a casual shrug, "for normal people. Not for me." He flexed his fingers, causing the magical rings to pulse with soft light. "My magic will protect me. I have magical knowledge and abilities beyond what i have shown. I can ward myself against disease, poison, even certain types of magic."

Jon leaned forward, his expression troubled but curious. "Why those places specifically? What do you hope to find?"

Owen paced the tent, his robes swirling around him as he explained. "Valyria for its lost history that may hold clues to the song of ice and fire. The Valyrians understood dragons better than anyone, and dragons are creatures of fire magic—potentially crucial in the fight against ice." He gestured northward. "Yi Ti because of the Five Forts. They too built massive fortifications to defend themselves against something from the Grey Waste—and I don't believe it was merely to stop raiders. The pattern is too similar to our own Wall."

He continued, warming to his subject. "Sothoryos because of Yeen. It's my belief that the city itself is not evil but built over something evil that kills whatever ventures into it. The black stone there is similar to what was used to build the foundation of the Hightower in Oldtown and the Seastone Chair of the Iron Islands i destroyed. Understanding its properties might be crucial."

"And Asshai," Owen finished, "because it's rumored that it was residents of Asshai who gave the first Valyrian dragonlords their eggs." He glanced meaningfully at the chest. "And I want to visit Stygai... the ruined city deeper in the Shadow Lands."

His explanation didn't calm Jon and Eddard. If anything, they looked more alarmed.

"You can't possibly visit all those places during the war," Jon protested, shaking his head vigorously. "Sansa would go insane with worry. And we need you here—your power and magic. The war isn't won yet."

Owen raised a placating hand. "I'll start with Valyria as it's relatively close by, by my standards, then come back by the time we take Volantis. After that, I'll travel back to Westeros with you, tell Sansa my plans, make sure the North's borders and Night's Watch are secure, then continue on my journey." He met their concerned gazes with determination. "This isn't just about winning the current war—it's about ensuring humanity survives the greater war to come."

The two men looked like they still wanted to protest against his plan, but Owen raised his hand to silence them. "I won't be leaving until after Myr falls," he assured them, his voice firm with conviction. "And let's be honest about our situation—we have superior weapons and soldiers. No Unsullied or slaver soldiers are any match for Northern troops with rifles, let alone our Dwarven Colossi." He gestured toward the map spread across the table, where Myr was marked with a small figurine. "The city will fall tomorrow and the slavers will die."

Eddard's face remained troubled, the weight of too many revelations pressing down on his shoulders. "It's not just about winning battles, Owen. It's about what comes after. The North separating from the Seven Kingdoms—" he shook his head, "—Robert will never accept it."

"Robert doesn't have much choice," Owen replied, his tone softer but no less determined. "He can either accept our terms or face our weapons. And I think we've demonstrated quite thoroughly which side holds the advantage." He turned to Jon, noticing the young man's distant expression. "Jon, take the day off. Think about what you've learned about your heritage. Process it. At least you're not alone in this world—Daenerys is your aunt. You have family beyond the Starks now. When we get back to ice crest, go see her, tell her everything if you wish. Blood should know blood."

Jon nodded slowly, still clearly overwhelmed. "I... I don't even know what to say to her."

"Start with the truth," Owen suggested, placing a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's what you both deserve after so many lies." He straightened up and gestured toward the tent flap. "Now, I need you both to leave and get the lords prepared for tomorrow's assault. We need to coordinate our forces, make sure everyone understands their roles. The sooner we finish this war, the sooner we can focus on the real threat."

After the two men departed, Owen sighed heavily and rubbed his temples, collapsing into a chair. The weight of everything—the war, the White Walkers, Jon's heritage, the dragon eggs—pressed down on him like a physical burden. "Gods, I suck at being a husband," he muttered to himself, guilt washing over him as he thought of Sansa back in Winterfell. "Sansa deserves better than a husband who's constantly away at war, making decisions that affect the entire realm without consulting her or telling her how he is doing."

With another deep sigh, Owen reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver mirror locket he had crafted for communication between them. He gently opened it, revealing the reflective surface that would show Sansa's face once activated. "Sansa... sweetheart?" he said gently, infusing the words with magic to bridge the distance.

The reply was instantaneous, Sansa's beautiful face appearing in the mirror, her eyes flashing with a mixture of relief and fury. "DON'T YOU SWEETIE ME, OWEN LONGSHORE!" she shouted, her voice so loud he had to hold the locket away from his face. "You have the gall to put your baby in me then not send a word in weeks?! I swear when I get my hands on you..."

Needless to say in took a long time to calm his wife down.

Chapter Text

Owen stared at the walls of Myr, his expression betraying nothing but boredom as the slaver soldiers hurled insults from their positions. The massive army at his back—one hundred and twenty-two thousand strong—created a rhythmic thunder as they stamped spears against the ground and bashed shields in unison. The sound rolled across the plain like a physical force, a prelude to the violence that would soon follow. Fifty cannons stood in neat rows, their barrels gleaming in the morning sun, ready to tear through the ancient stonework at his command. Owen shifted slightly in his saddle, adjusting the enchanted rings on his fingers while the magical staff strapped to his back hummed with barely contained power. The slavers' insults grew more desperate and crude, though the Unsullied among them remained eerily silent, their discipline unbroken even in the face of overwhelming odds.

"You look thoroughly unimpressed," Jon remarked, guiding his horse closer to Owen's. A slight smile played across his face as he studied Owen's expression. "Trouble in paradise after speaking with Sansa? You disappeared into your tent for quite some time yesterday."

Owen grimaced, the memory of Sansa's righteous fury still fresh in his mind. "She chewed me out for an hour straight," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I've fought monsters, a god, and mages, but nothing terrifies me quite like my pregnant wife when she's angry." He adjusted his enchanted breastplate, the runes etched into its surface glowing faintly with power. "She cooled down eventually, but only after I promised I'd be home soon."

"Truth be told," Owen continued, lowering his voice so only Jon could hear, "most of that hour was spent reassuring her that I hadn't been lured into bed by some 'big-breasted camp follower'—her words, not mine." He shook his head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "As if I'd risk my life like that. Sansa would find out, and I'd rather face the entire slaver army naked than suffer her wrath again."

Jon chuckled, but Owen noticed the tension in his shoulders hadn't fully dissipated since their conversation about his parentage. The young man was still processing everything—his true identity, his claim to the Iron Throne, the aunt he never knew he had. Owen decided a change of subject might help. With a smirk, he glanced toward Eddard Stark and back to Jon.

"Don't laugh too hard," Owen said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You and Lord Stark aren't off the hook either. Sansa mentioned that Lady Catelyn is equally furious that neither of you has used your communication lockets to speak with them. Apparently, the Stark women have been coordinating their displeasure."

Eddard, nearby on his horse, grimaced at this revelation, his normally stoic expression cracking slightly. Jon's smile vanished immediately, replaced by a look of genuine alarm. "Gods, I completely forgot about the locket," Jon muttered, his hand instinctively moving to the silver pendant hanging beneath his armor. "With everything that's happened..."

"The ladies of Winterfell can be more formidable than any army when their ire is raised," Oberyn Martell interjected with obvious amusement and interest, having overheard their conversation. The Dornish prince sat easily on his mount, looking as if he were attending a pleasant outing rather than preparing for battle. "Though I must say, Lord Longshore, your magical trinkets continue to impress. Communication across such vast distances—my paramour Ellaria would greatly appreciate such a gift."

"Speaking of gifts," Randyll Tarly interrupted, his voice harsh and impatient, "I believe we came here to deliver death to these slavers, not gossip like washerwomen." The Lord of Horn Hill sat rigidly on his warhorse, his legendary Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane strapped to his back. Despite his initial reluctance to follow the Northern forces after the split from Robert's army, Tarly had proven a valuable commander, his tactical mind second only to Brynden Tully's among the southern lords. "These walls won't breach themselves, Lord Longshore."

Brynden Tully, the legendary Blackfish, nodded in agreement, though a hint of amusement played around his weathered face. "Lord Tarly has the right of it, though perhaps not the delivery," he said, his experienced eyes scanning the defenses. "Their walls are formidable by traditional standards, but nothing compared to what we've seen your weapons accomplish, Lord Longshore. Shall we proceed with the demonstration we discussed?"

Owen was about to reply to the Blackfish when a deep, resonant horn blast echoed across the battlefield. The sound silenced all conversation, drawing every eye toward Myr's massive gates. The ancient hinges groaned under the weight of the thick wooden doors as they slowly swung open, revealing a small procession emerging from the city.

Two men sat atop white horses, their figures draped in vibrant silks that shimmered in the sunlight. Gold and jewels adorned their fingers, necks, and even their elaborate headdresses—a display of wealth that seemed almost comical given their desperate situation. Their escort was more impressive: twenty Unsullied marched in perfect formation on one side, their discipline evident in every synchronized step, while twenty regular soldiers in Volantene colors flanked the other, one holding aloft a white flag of truce.

Randyll Tarly spat contemptuously onto the ground as the procession approached. "Slavers," he muttered, the word itself an insult on his lips. "They dress in finery bought with the suffering of others, then expect us to treat with them as equals."

Owen studied the approaching men carefully, noting the subtle differences in their bearing. The older one—Malaquo, he presumed from what information he had gotten from the Qohor delegation—sat rigidly on his horse, his face a mask of barely contained fury. The younger man, likely Nyessos, appeared more calculating, his eyes darting across the assembled forces, assessing their strength with obvious concern. Both men, however, maintained the haughty expressions of those accustomed to absolute power.

As the procession halted at a respectful distance, one of the soldiers stepped forward, his voice carrying across the field with practiced projection. "You stand in the presence of the great triarchs of Volantis, Malaquo Maegyr and Nyessos Vhassar, who have graciously come to hear your terms of surrender."

The absurdity of the announcement hung in the air for a brief moment before Oberyn Martell and Brynden Tully burst into unrestrained laughter. The Blackfish's weathered face creased with genuine amusement, while Oberyn's laughter held a sharper edge, his eyes never leaving the triarchs as he made no attempt to hide his contempt.

"Our terms of surrender?" Owen repeated incredulously, raising his voice so the triarchs could hear him clearly. He gestured toward the massive army at his back, the rows of cannons, and the Dwarven Colossi standing like metal giants among the troops. "Perhaps your translator has made an error. You face over one hundred thousand soldiers armed with weapons your people have never encountered, and you believe we've come to surrender?" He leaned forward in his saddle, his enchanted rings catching the sunlight as he pointed directly at the two triarchs. "The only terms being discussed today are yours."

Owen watched the triarchs' faces change as his words registered. The haughty confidence in their expressions wavered briefly, though they quickly reassembled their masks of superiority. Malaquo straightened his back, his ancient eyes narrowing as he assessed Owen and the assembled lords.

"Perhaps we have begun this negotiation poorly," Malaquo said, his voice surprisingly strong despite his apparent frailty. "We are not here to surrender in the traditional sense, but rather to propose an alliance that would benefit us all." He gestured expansively, his bejeweled fingers catching the sunlight. "Why waste such formidable strength fighting over these walls when together we could achieve so much more?"

Nyessos leaned forward in his saddle, his calculating eyes focused primarily on Owen. "Your weapons, your magic—they are impressive beyond measure. But what will you gain from conquering Myr? A ruined city? Dead slaves who could otherwise serve you? Consider instead what we offer." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, though it carried clearly in the tense silence. "Your fat king, Robert Baratheon, rides east toward Meereen and Yunkai with his diminished forces. We know you've broken from him—the rumors have spread quickly like wildfire."

"Join with us," Malaquo continued, his thin lips curling into what might have been intended as an inviting smile but appeared more predatory. "With your weapons and our knowledge of these lands, we could encircle Robert's forces. Attack him from behind while he faces the Unsullied of Meereen. Crush him between us like an insect." The old triarch's eyes gleamed with malice. "You would return to Westeros not as lords, but as emperors. The Seven Kingdoms would be yours to divide among yourselves."

Owen remained silent, his face impassive as he listened to the triarchs' proposition. His mind raced through the implications, calculating the depths of their desperation to make such an offer. Beside him, he could feel the growing tension in the other lords, particularly Eddard Stark, whose rigid posture spoke volumes about his disgust.

"And of course," Nyessos added, misinterpreting Owen's silence as interest, "each of you would receive a personal gift from the grateful slaver cities of Essos. The most beautiful slaves—trained in the pleasure houses of Lys—to warm your beds. Women, men, or both, whatever your preference." He smiled broadly, revealing perfect white teeth. "Plus half the wealth of our combined treasuries. Gold enough to make the Lannisters seem like beggars in comparison."

The silence that followed was broken by Randyll Tarly's incredulous voice. "Have you lost your minds?" he demanded, his hand instinctively moving toward Heartsbane's hilt. "You speak of betrayal and whores to honorable men as if they were common sellswords to be bought with coin and flesh."

"Lord Tarly speaks truly," Eddard Stark said, his quiet voice carrying more weight than Tarly's outburst. The Lord of Winterfell's face was a mask of cold fury as he addressed the triarchs. "You mistake us entirely if you believe we would betray robert and our countrymen—regardless of our recent disagreements—or that we would accept human beings as payment." His gray eyes were hard as flint as he continued, "In the North, we executed slavers long before this war began. Your offer only strengthens our resolve to see your cities freed."

Oberyn Martell laughed, though the sound held no humor. "I have spent time in the Free Cities. I have seen the slave markets of Lys and Volantis." His dark eyes glittered dangerously. "In Dorne, we do not take slaves, we do not hold them, and we certainly do not accept them as gifts. Your offer is an insult to every man and woman here."

Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, simply shook his head in disgust. "I've faced many enemies in my time, but few as deluded as you. Did you truly believe that men who marched thousands of miles to end slavery would suddenly embrace it because you offered gold and bedslaves?" The veteran warrior's weathered face reflected nothing but contempt. "You understand nothing of honor or the people you face."

Owen watched as the triarchs' faces transformed from calculated charm to naked contempt. Malaquo's ancient features hardened into a sneer while Nyessos let out a derisive snort, their masks of diplomacy dropping completely.

"How predictably outdated your views are," Malaquo said, waving his bejeweled hand dismissively at the assembled lords. "Slavery has been the foundation of civilization since the dawn of time. The greatest empires—Old Ghis, Valyria, even Yi Ti—all understood this fundamental truth. The strong rule, the weak serve." His voice grew stronger, more passionate as he continued. "This is not cruelty; it is the natural order. Look at your own kingdoms! Your smallfolk labor their entire lives for scraps while you lords feast in your castles. At least we are honest about the relationship."

Nyessos nodded vigorously, his eyes gleaming with fervor. "History has proven time and again that slavery is the most efficient system for progress and prosperity. Your moral objections are merely the bleating of children who refuse to acknowledge reality." He straightened in his saddle, his gaze sweeping across the lords with undisguised contempt. "But we need not convince all of you."

The triarchs exchanged a meaningful glance before both turned their full attention to Owen. The sudden shift in focus was palpable, like predators who had finally revealed their true prey.

"Lord Longshore," Malaquo addressed him directly, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "We've heard the rumors from across the Narrow Sea. We've seen the proof with our own eyes." He gestured toward the Northern soldiers with their advanced weaponry, the cannons lined in neat rows, and the towering Dwarven Colossi standing sentinel among the troops. "These marvels did not come from the minds of these... feudal children."

Nyessos leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes locked on Owen's. "These lords you surround yourself with—what are they but petty men clinging to outdated codes and meaningless titles? They need a strong iron fist to bring them in line. You have that fist." His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. "Why not use it?"

Owen remained perfectly still, his face betraying nothing as the triarchs continued their pitch. Around him, he could feel the tension radiating from the other lords—Eddard's rigid posture, Jon's hand tightening on his sword hilt, Oberyn's dangerous stillness.

"Turn your giants against them," Malaquo urged, gesturing toward the Colossi. "Put these lords in chains. Join us, and we will make you Emperor of Westeros—not a mere king, but an emperor with power beyond imagining." The old man's eyes gleamed with fervor. "All the slaves and wealth you could ever desire would be yours for the taking. The slaver cities would gladly help you bring Westeros to heel, and we would trade with you as an equal, a fellow ruler who understands the true nature of power."

Nyessos spread his hands wide, his voice rising with excitement. "Why listen to the bleating of sheep? Why heed these lesser men and women when you possess the power to create weapons and innovations that could shake the very foundations of the world?" His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "You could take what you want by force. Make them serve you. Join us in victory, Lord Longshore, and reshape the world as you see fit."

Owen watched as the triarchs' expressions shifted from seductive confidence to confusion when he didn't immediately respond to their offer. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing moment. Then, without warning, a small chuckle escaped Owen's lips. The chuckle quickly grew into full-throated laughter that shook his entire body. Soon, he was laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face, forcing him to wipe them away with the back of his hand.

"By the gods," Owen finally managed between fits of laughter, "you two should start a traveling circus! I haven't been this entertained since Tyrion Lannister got drunk and tried to ride one of my Colossi at Moat cailin." He continued laughing, aware of the bewildered expressions on the faces of not only the triarchs but some of his own lords as well. "You honestly think I would betray my own father-in-law? Put my wife's father in chains? My brother by marriage?" Owen gestured toward Eddard and Jon, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you truly that stupid, or is this some elaborate jest I'm not fully appreciating?"

The triarchs' faces darkened with rage as Owen's laughter finally subsided. Malaquo's ancient features contorted into a mask of fury, while Nyessos's calculated charm gave way to naked contempt.

"You speak of slavery as the foundation of civilization," Owen continued, his voice suddenly serious, all traces of humor vanishing as if they had never existed. "You claim it's the natural order, but you've got it exactly backward. Slavery isn't the future—it's the relic of a dying past. The societies that embrace freedom, that harness the potential of all their people rather than grinding them down—those are the ones that truly advance." He leaned forward in his saddle, his eyes boring into the triarchs. "I've seen what free people can accomplish when given the chance. The North has flourished not because we've chained our smallfolk, but because we've lifted them up."

Malaquo's face twisted with disdain. "You naive fool. You think your pretty words change reality? We have armies in Myr, in Lys, in Volantis—perhaps more soldiers than you and all your western lords combined. You cannot hope to—"

"It doesn't matter," Owen cut him off, his voice carrying across the field with surprising calm. "Your numbers, your armies, your centuries of tradition—none of it matters. You will all fall, every last one of you." He gestured toward the cannons lined in neat rows, the rifles gleaming in the hands of his soldiers, the towering Colossi standing like metal giants among the troops. "You provoked this war. You turned the Ironborn against us. You took slaves from King's Landing and the smallfolk of Westeros. You tried to attack and plunder Ice Crest, my home, where my pregnant wife waits for my return." With each accusation, Owen's voice grew colder, harder, the magical pressure around him intensifying until even the Unsullied guards shifted uncomfortably.

"And when your naval forces failed," Owen continued relentlessly, "when you couldn't take Braavos thanks to our ships, what did you do? You turned to the blood mages of Qohor." His eyes flashed with barely contained fury. "And where did that lead you? Betrayed and abandoned, many of your own slaughtered by monstrous creatures from the fog, creatures that would have spread across all of Essos had we not stopped them." He shook his head slowly. "I've read of idiots and madmen with more sense than you two display."

The triarchs' faces contorted with rage at Owen's words. Nyessos's hand moved to the ornate dagger at his belt, though he seemed to think better of drawing it when Owen's gaze flickered to the movement. "How dare you speak to us with such disrespect!" Nyessos sputtered, his face reddening. "We are the triarchs of Volantis, descendants of—"

"I don't have time for your bullshit," Owen interrupted, his patience visibly at an end. "Here's what happens now." He held up one finger. "Option one: you surrender immediately. You open your gates, you free every slave in the city, and you accept quick, painless deaths—more than you deserve, but I'm feeling uncharacteristically merciful today." He raised a second finger. "Option two: you refuse, you go back into your city, and I blow apart your walls, storm your streets, and kill every slaver soldier and adherent of slavery I find." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried to every ear. "And when I find you two—and I will find you—I will make you suffer in ways that the blood mages of Qohor would find excessive."

Owen leaned forward in his saddle, his enchanted rings glowing with barely contained power. "What do you choose? I'm a busy man, and unlike you, I have a wife I love very much waiting for me at home. I'd like to finish this war and return to her before our child is born."

Malaquo's ancient face twisted into a sneer, his bony hand rising to point accusingly at Owen. "You think your magic and your machines make you invincible? You think you can threaten the First Daughter of Valyria and live to boast of it?" The old man's voice rose to a near-shriek. "We have survived for centuries! We withstood the Century of Blood! We will not bow to Westerosi barbarians who—"

Owen cut them off, the air around him suddenly thick with tension as waves of magical energy rolled off his body. The pressure was palpable, an invisible force that bent the triarchs in their saddles, forcing them to bow against their will. Their soldiers dropped to their knees, weapons clattering against the ground, while even the disciplined Unsullied bent forward, their famous resolve cracking under the supernatural weight.

"All I hear is the incessant yapping of two dead men," Owen said, his voice eerily calm despite the storm of power emanating from him. "Slavery this, slavery that—it's fucking tedious. If that's all you have to offer, I suggest you return to your city and prepare to die with whatever dignity you can muster." His enchanted rings pulsed with light, casting strange shadows across his face. "At least then you'll be good little dead men, rather than the pathetic excuses for rulers I see before me."

The triarchs stared at him with wide, fearful eyes, their earlier arrogance shattered by this display of raw power. Sweat beaded on their brows as they struggled to breathe under the magical pressure. Their soldiers trembled visibly, some unable to look directly at Owen, while the Unsullied—surprisingly—gazed at him not with fear but with something akin to awe, as if witnessing a force of nature they could finally respect.

Randyll and Oberyn exchanged smirks as they watched the display, clearly enjoying the humiliation of the slavers who had moments ago attempted to bribe them. The other lords nodded in approval, their faces etched with disgust as they regarded the representatives of a system they had crossed an ocean to destroy.

Without another word, the triarchs turned their horses around, their movements stiff and uncoordinated as they fled back toward the city. Their escort scrambled to their feet, nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to follow. The massive gates of Myr groaned as they swung open to receive the delegation, then slammed shut with a thunderous boom that echoed across the plain.

Brynden Tully chuckled derisively, his weathered face creased with mirth. "Look at them scurry away," he said, loud enough for the nearby lords to hear. "Like dogs with their tails tucked between their legs. I've seen green boys show more spine in their first battle."

Oberyn wheeled his horse around to face their combined forces, his voice carrying across the assembled army. "Men of Westeros!" he shouted, raising his spear high above his head. "It seems we're on! Time to kill some slaving bastards!"

The response was immediate and deafening. A roar rose from the massive army, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. Cries of "Westeros!" "Freedom!" "Death to slavers!" and "For the North!" filled the air, the different accents of the Seven Kingdoms blending into a unified battle cry that carried all the way to the walls of Myr, where the defenders visibly flinched at its intensity.

The lords gathered their horses in a tight circle, creating a small island of relative privacy amid the vast sea of soldiers. Randyll Tarly sat rigidly in his saddle, his weathered hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he assessed the walls of Myr with the calculating eyes of a veteran commander.

"It will be a quick siege," Tarly declared with absolute certainty, his voice carrying the weight of decades of military experience. "Once we breach those walls—which your cannons should accomplish within an hour at most—we'll face fierce resistance in the streets, but nothing our combined forces can't handle." He gestured toward the towering metal giants standing among their troops. "With your Colossi at our side, the city will fall by by the afternoon. The Unsullied will be a problem, I grant you that—their discipline is legendary even in Westeros—but they're still men of flesh and blood. They'll break like any other when faced with overwhelming force."

Brynden Tully nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing as he studied the city's defenses. "The Unsullied may stand their ground longer than most, but they'll fall all the same. I've faced disciplined men before—they die just as surely as the green boys, only with less screaming."

"I've been meaning to ask," Oberyn interjected, leaning forward in his saddle with characteristic casualness that belied the sharpness in his eyes. "Why won't you allow the army to use those rifles you've created? I've seen your Northern forces training with them—magnificent weapons i still say after that demonstration you gave at the docks of Braavos. They could end the battle much quicker."

Owen's face darkened at the question, his fingers unconsciously brushing against the rifle strapped to his own back. "For one," he said after a moment's hesitation, "the bullets these rifles fire were designed for a very specific purpose—they tear souls apart and destroy them completely." He looked around the circle of lords, his gaze intense. "Ask any of the Northern or Southern forces who fought at Braavos just how the monsters from the fog screamed when they were hit. These weapons shouldn't be turned on our fellow man, no matter how despicable their beliefs."

What Owen didn't voice was his deeper concern as he recalled the reverent looks in the eyes of both Northern and Southern soldiers when they first witnessed the rifles in action. He had seen that same look before, in movies or in the history books of Earth—that mixture of awe and terrible desire for a new way of killing from afar that outdid bows and crossbows by orders of magnitude. He didn't want to unleash the hell that guns had brought to warfare on Earth onto this world, at least not yet. Some technologies, once introduced, could never be put back in their box. He drew the line at cannons since you couldn't always bring them along and were mostly meant for sieges. Giving someone a personal way to kill from afar so quickly and decisively was a nightmare.

"Besides," Owen continued, his expression shifting to something more enigmatic, "I also know there won't be a siege."

The lords exchanged confused glances at this pronouncement. Eddard Stark's brow furrowed deeply, while Jon leaned forward in his saddle. "What do you mean, there won't be a siege?" Eddard asked, his voice low and cautious. "They've closed their gates. Their walls, while not impregnable to our weapons, still stand between us and them.

Owen just smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes as he looked toward Myr. "Just watch," he said softly, raising his hand to signal the cannoneers who had been waiting attentively for his command to stand down. "Just watch."

Owen walked toward the massive gates of Myr, his steps measured. Behind him, he could feel the weight of thousands of eyes—his army watching with bated breath, the lords likely exchanging confused glances at his seemingly suicidal approach. The jeers from the walls grew louder as he drew closer, slavers soldiers and their commanders hurling insults in a mixture of Common Tongue and Valyrian. Some spat over the battlements, though none quite reached him. Owen ignored them all, his focus instead drawn upward to the rigid formation of Unsullied soldiers lining the walls—their expressions blank, spears held at perfect angles, helmets gleaming in the morning sun.

"Have you reconsidered the triarchs' generous offer of surrender, Northern dog?" a slaver commander called down in thickly accented Valyrian, his voice dripping with mockery. "Perhaps you've come to beg for mercy? I'm afraid it's too late for that!" Laughter erupted along the wall, but Owen noted how it came only from the slavers, never from the Unsullied who remained perfectly still, their discipline absolute even in the face of what must have seemed like madness—a single man approaching their gates alone.

Owen stopped precisely thirty paces from the gate, close enough that every detail of his face would be visible to those on the wall. He reached for his magic, drawing it up from deep within him, feeling it course through the circuits that now lined his body. With a subtle gesture, he channeled it toward his throat, amplifying his voice without shouting—a resonant, clear sound that carried not just to the walls but throughout the city beyond.

"I'm not speaking to the slavers," Owen declared, his magically enhanced voice echoing against the stone. Then, switching to perfect High Valyrian, he addressed the Unsullied directly. "I speak to you, the Unsullied. I know what you have endured. Yours is a tale of suffering from the very day you were born—snatched from your mothers' arms, mutilated and beaten down. You were taught to die and serve the very men who hurt you, forced to complete your training by killing innocent babes to prove your emotions had been ripped from you, to demonstrate that you were nothing more than weapons to live and die at your masters' command."

The slavers' laughter faltered, replaced by nervous glances between them as Owen continued, his voice reaching every Unsullied ear in the city through his magic. "They took your names and gave you new ones each day, to remind you that you are property, not men. They made you stand in the plaza for a full day with a shield, a spear, and no water, to prove your endurance. They made you sleep with a puppy for a year, then ordered you to strangle it, to prove your obedience. Those who refused were killed and fed to the survivors—a lesson in the cost of disobedience."

Owen's eyes scanned the impassive faces above him, searching for any reaction. "But I don't see what they tried to create. I don't see mindless weapons or slaves without souls." His voice grew softer, though no less clear. "I see men. Men who deserve liberty and freedom. Men who should have the power to love and be loved. Men who should have the power to choose their own destiny and erase the pain and hurt that made you what you are now."

A slaver commander barked an order in Valyrian, commanding the Unsullied to turn away, to ignore the Northern lord's words. But Owen noticed something—though the Unsullied didn't move, didn't break formation, their eyes weren't staring ahead anymore. They were looking down at him, a flicker of something—interest, perhaps even hope—visible in gazes that had been trained to show nothing.

"The men who mutilated you, who tortured you, who killed your brothers and made you kill innocent children—they're behind you now," Owen continued, his voice unwavering. "They have whips and they have gold, but that is all. You have spears. You have shields. You outnumber them. And most importantly, you have a choice today." He raised his hand, palm up in invitation. "I offer you that choice. Freedom. Land in the North for any who wish it. Payment for those who would rather serve as free soldiers. Justice for those who hurt you. And for those who wish it—a chance to free your brothers still in chains in Astapor, in Yunkai, in New Ghis."

Owen could see the tension rippling through the ranks of the Unsullied now, almost imperceptible but unmistakable to his enhanced senses. Behind him, he heard the shifting of armor and weapons as his army watched in confusion and growing anticipation. The slaver commanders were shouting now, their voices high and panicked as they ordered the Unsullied to arrest Owen, to kill him where he stood.

"Your masters fear me," Owen said, his voice cutting through their panicked orders. "But they should fear you more. I ask you now: What is your choice? Will you die defending the men who stole your manhood, your childhood, your very names? Or will you live as free men, with the power to choose your own destiny?" He extended his hand higher. "I am Owen Longshore, and I offer you freedom. All you need to do is take it."

Owen watched the reactions carefully as his words rippled through the Unsullied ranks. Despite the power of his speech, despite the truth he'd spoken, the disciplined soldiers remained motionless, their spears held at perfect angles. Their eyes had changed—he could see that much—but their bodies remained frozen in place, bound by years of brutal conditioning.

The slaver commander who had first addressed him let out another laugh, though this one lacked the confidence of before. It was nervous, uncertain, the laugh of a man trying to convince himself more than others.

"You see?" the commander called down, his voice carrying a slight tremor. "Your pretty words mean nothing to them. The Unsullied are not men—they are tools, weapons forged in pain and discipline." He gestured dramatically toward the silent ranks. "They hear your offer of freedom and feel nothing, for they were trained to want nothing."

Another slaver stepped forward, his silk robes marking him as a man of importance. "The Unsullied obey only those who hold their whip, Northern fool. And only Triarch Malaquo holds that sacred instrument. They would sooner throw themselves from these walls than betray their masters."

Owen nodded slowly, absorbing their words without anger. "I understand," he said, his voice still magically amplified. "They have been trained to follow only the one who holds the whip. It is not their fault—it is the system you created to control them." He looked directly at the Unsullied again. "But freedom is still yours to claim. Vengeance is still yours to take. And I will show you the way."

Before the slavers could taunt him further, Owen raised both hands in a deliberate gesture. The slavers fell silent mid-sentence, their mockery dying in their throats. Even the Unsullied, trained to show no emotion, could not hide their amazement as their eyes fixed on what Owen now held.

Raised high in his right hand was a nine-foot whip of black leather, its handle carved with intricate dragons that seemed to writhe in the sunlight. The slavers recognized it instantly—the Whip of Command, the sacred symbol of authority over the Unsullied, not just for those in Myr but for all Unsullied in the slavers' forces.

Owen allowed himself a small smile as he saw the panic spreading among the slavers. During the parley with the two triarchs, a subtle working of magic had transferred the whip from Malaquo's possession to his own, and the arrogant triarch hadn't even noticed its absence.

"It is said," Owen called out, his voice thundering now, "that he who holds the whip commands the Unsullied. Is this not true?"

The response was immediate and deafening. Every Unsullied on the wall stamped their spears against the stone in perfect unison, the sound reverberating through the city like a clap of thunder. The slavers stumbled back in terror, some already turning to flee.

Owen raised the whip higher, his voice reaching every corner of Myr. "Unsullied! Hear me then. Here is my one and only command to you: Take the city. Kill the slavers. TAKE YOUR FREEDOM!"

The Unsullied didn't hesitate. With near automatic movements but newfound purpose, they turned as one. The slavers on the wall had only moments to realize their fate before the Unsullied began seizing them. Screams echoed across the battlements as slaver soldiers and commanders were lifted bodily and thrown from the walls, their bodies shattering on the ground below.

"Stop! Stop this at once!" The silk-robed slaver was shrieking now, backing away from the advancing Unsullied. "We are your masters! You cannot—" His words ended in a scream as two Unsullied lifted him by his arms and legs and hurled him over the edge.

From his position, Owen could hear the chaos spreading through the city as the slaver commanders yelled frantically to their regular soldiers, ordering them to kill the rebelling Unsullied. But it was too late. The Unsullied moved with terrifying efficiency, cutting down any who opposed them, their fellow unsullied in the city streets joining them to kill the slavers once their commanders told them owen held the whip.

Owen watched in grim satisfaction as the Unsullied turned on their former masters. The sounds of battle echoed through the city—screams of slavers, the disciplined movements of Unsullied forces, the chaos of a system collapsing under its own cruelty. He lowered the whip, knowing his work at the gate was done. The Unsullied would be thorough; they had suffered too long under the lash not to be.

Behind him, the Westerosi forces yelled and cheered at Owen's trick, enjoying the sounds of dying slavers and chaos in the city. Men who had expected a long, bloody siege now watched in amazement as Myr tore itself apart from within. The Northern soldiers seemed particularly pleased, having grown accustomed to Owen's unexpected tactics, while the southern forces stared in disbelief.

"Are we going to let them enjoy all the fun?" Brynden asked as Owen walked back towards them. The Blackfish wore a wolfish grin, his hand already resting on his sword hilt, eager to join the fray.

Oberyn agreed, laughing, his eyes alight with the promise of violence. "You could have at least told them to open the gates. Some of us have been waiting weeks to spill slaver blood."

Owen blinked and scratched his head in some embarrassment. "Oh yeah, let me get that," he said, turning back to the city. He put his arms forward and made a gesture as if he was pulling something apart as he muttered ancient Latin and Hebrew, words of power that felt like honey and fire on his tongue. The magic surged through him, an extension of his will made manifest.

Suddenly two large spectral hands appeared on either side of Myr's gate, glowing with ethereal blue light. The thick gates protested with the screech of tortured metal as they were pulled open and flung away, crashing out into the open land outside the city. The army looked on in shock, then cheered, their voices thundering across the plain. Even those who had witnessed Owen's previous feats seemed stunned by this casual display of power—gates that would have withstood battering rams for days torn away like paper.

Randyll Tarly looked on in shock, his normally stern face slack with disbelief. Owen caught his expression and suppressed a smile; the Lord of Horn Hill had been among the most skeptical of Owen's abilities, frequently questioning his methods and motives. Oberyn just smirked and shook his head in amazement, while Jon just said, "Show off," hitting him gently on the shoulder.

Owen turned to Lord Stark, who had remained stoic throughout the display. The Warden of the North had grown accustomed to Owen's abilities, but never seemed entirely comfortable with them. Still, there was respect in his eyes as Owen gestured toward the open gates. "Lord Stark, would you have the honors? It seems only fitting that the most honorable man in Westeros lead the charge against those who have none."

Eddard looked back at the army, drawing Ice from its scabbard. The Valyrian steel blade caught the sunlight, sending ripples of light across the assembled forces. "CHARGE!" he yelled, his voice carrying across the field as they all rushed to the now open city, banners flying and weapons raised high.

Owen strode through the chaotic streets of Myr, his boots splashing through puddles that ran red with blood. The city had fallen in just two hours—far faster than anyone had anticipated. His Dreadguard formed a protective circle around him, their black armor gleaming in the afternoon sun, while a contingent of Unsullied marched alongside them with perfect discipline. At their head was Dark Ox, a tall, scarred man who had been named commander by his fellow Unsullied after Owen's intervention. The man's face remained impassive, but his eyes held a fierce pride that hadn't been there before.

"The masters' quarter is ahead," Dark Ox informed Owen, pointing toward an opulent section of the city where marble mansions rose above the surrounding buildings. "We have secured the triarchs as you commanded. They attempted to flee disguised as commoners, but were recognized by those they had abused."

Owen nodded, taking in the scenes around him. Former slaves celebrated in the streets, their faces streaked with tears of joy and disbelief. Some embraced one another, while others stood in shock, unable to process their sudden freedom. The more vengeful had taken up makeshift weapons—kitchen knives, broken furniture legs, even stones—and hunted down those who had once owned them. Owen witnessed a woman corner a finely-dressed man who pleaded for mercy, only for her to drive a rusted spike through his throat. He looked away, not interfering. This was their justice, hard-earned through generations of suffering.

"The children?" Owen asked, stepping over the body of a slaver who had been trampled in the street.

"Safe," Jon replied from his right side. "We've gathered them in the temple district. Those whose parents were slaves are being reunited. The slavers' children..." He trailed off, uncertain.

"Will be raised by those willing to take them in," Owen finished firmly. "No child bears the guilt of their parents' crimes." He paused as they rounded a corner to see a group of former slaves kneeling in the street, reaching out toward him. Their eyes shone with reverence that made Owen's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"The Breaker of Chains!" they called out, some weeping openly. "Bless us, my lord! You have delivered us!" A woman pushed forward, trying to touch the hem of Owen's coat, but was gently restrained by an Unsullied guard.

"The Breaker will address all when the city is secured," Dark Ox stated, his voice carrying the authority of command. "Return to your homes. You are free now."

Owen forced a smile, nodding to the crowd though his discomfort grew. He had never wanted worship—just to end the abomination of slavery. As they continued through the streets, more former slaves fell to their knees, calling out names for him: Breaker of Chains, the Liberator, the Master of Masters. Each title made him more uneasy, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

"Not fond of your new titles?" Jon asked quietly, noticing Owen's tension.

"I'm not a god, Jon," Owen replied under his breath. "I'm just a man with abilities who couldn't stomach seeing others in chains. This adoration..." He shook his head. "It's misplaced."

They approached a particularly grand manse surrounded by a ring of Unsullied standing at perfect attention. The building's white marble façade was splattered with blood, but otherwise untouched amid the chaos. Two Unsullied officers stepped forward as Owen's group approached.

"The triarchs are inside," Dark Ox informed Owen. "They have been... vocal about their displeasure."

Owen's lips curved into a cold smile. "I imagine they have." He turned to Jon and the Dreadguard. "Let's not keep them waiting."

Owen walked into the opulent chamber, taking in the scene before him. The two triarchs sat bound to ornate chairs that had likely once served as symbols of their authority. Now they were prisoners, guarded by ten Unsullied commanders whose faces remained impassive save for the unmistakable hatred burning in their eyes. These men had suffered under the triarchs' rule, had watched brothers die at their command, and now they stood as their jailers.

Nyessos Vhassar, the portly Elephant triarch, squirmed in his bonds, his fine robes now stained with sweat and blood. "Release us immediately!" he demanded, his voice cracking with fear despite his attempt at authority. "Do you have any idea what forces will come for us? The consequences will be—"

Beside him, Malaquo Maegyr spat a glob of blood onto the marble floor. Unlike his companion, the Tiger triarch's eyes held no fear—only a burning hatred as he glared at Owen. The old man's frail body belied the venom in his stare.

"You will all die screaming," Malaquo hissed, his toothless mouth contorting into a grimace. "When our allies arrive, we'll flay the skin from your bodies inch by inch. Your women will be taken as pleasure slaves, your children—"

Owen sighed heavily, exchanging a glance with Jon and Dark Ox. Without a word, Jon stepped forward and drove his fist into Nyessos's jaw, silencing the man's blubbering threats. Simultaneously, Dark Ox slammed the butt of his spear into Malaquo's chest, causing the elderly triarch to wheeze and gasp for breath.

"I'm really getting tired of you two talking as if you possess any moral superiority," Owen said, his voice deceptively calm as he circled the bound men. "Or as if, against all odds, you're somehow going to win this conflict. Even now, after your defeat, after your city has fallen, you speak of death and torture." He stopped, leaning down to look Malaquo in the eyes. "After how you've treated your slaves—buying and selling human beings like cattle, using them as objects rather than people—you still believe you have the right to threaten us?"

Malaquo's response was to gather what remained of his strength and spit directly at Owen's face. The glob of bloody saliva landed on his cheek, sliding down slowly. "I'll kill you personally," the old triarch snarled. "I'll tear the skin from your face and feed it to the pigs while you watch."

Owen calmly wiped the spittle from his face with the back of his hand. "I truly cannot stand slavers," he said, looking between the two men with disgust evident in his expression. "I feel I'll need to bathe fifty times to wash the stink of your presence from me."

He spread his hand toward them, palm out, and began to murmur arcane words under his breath. His eyes glowed red as power coursed through him, and glowing symbols appeared all over the two men's bodies, crawling across their skin like luminous insects.

"What—what are you doing?" Nyessos stammered, his earlier bravado completely evaporated as the magical symbols burned into his flesh.

In answer, Owen reached into his cloak and withdrew a sharp ebony dagger, its blade drinking in the light rather than reflecting it. With a sudden burst of speed, he rushed forward and plunged the blade deep into Nyessos's chest. The triarch screamed in pain and agony, his body convulsing against the restraints as Owen pulled the blade free.

Everyone in the room watched in amazement as the bleeding hole in Nyessos's chest closed itself, the flesh knitting together before their eyes. Malaquo stared at his fellow triarch in disbelief, his mouth hanging open as he witnessed what should have been a fatal wound heal completely.

Owen turned to the Unsullied commanders and Dark Ox, his expression unbothered as he explained the magic he had just worked. "For the next two days, these men are effectively immortal," he said, gesturing toward the bound triarchs whose eyes widened in sudden terror. "Any wounds they suffer will heal completely. Anything cut off will regrow. Anything broken will mend itself." He watched understanding dawn on the faces of the former slaves as they grasped the implications of his words.

"These triarchs are not the slaver masters of Yunkai, Meereen, or Ghis," Owen continued, his voice carrying easily through the silent chamber. "They were not the ones who made you who you are—who stole your childhood, who cut away your manhood, who broke your spirits. They merely profited from your pain for years." He paced slowly before the assembled Unsullied, making eye contact with each commander. "The so-called masters who created you will receive their punishment in due time. But for now..."

Owen extended the ebony dagger toward Dark Ox, handle first. The Unsullied commander took it with reverence, understanding lighting up in his eyes and those of his fellow commanders. Silently, they all placed their spears against the wall and removed daggers from their belts, forming a half-circle around the now-terrified triarchs who struggled frantically against their bonds.

"You both claimed you would make us suffer for days before granting the mercy of death," Owen said, addressing Malaquo and Nyessos directly. "I am more merciful than you. Two days of unending pain and torture should be sufficient punishment for your cruelty." He stepped back, watching as the realization of their fate dawned on the triarchs' faces. "After that, you will die—permanently—and your bodies will be displayed in the central square as a warning to any who would enslave others."

Turning to Dark Ox, Owen gave his final instructions. "Make sure every Unsullied has their chance with these men. Every single one deserves to extract a measure of justice from those who profited from their suffering." His voice softened slightly. "But remember—once this is done, you must all look toward building your new lives as free men. Vengeance can consume you if you let it become your only purpose."

Dark Ox nodded solemnly, still looking at the two cowering triarchs who now fully comprehended what Owen had sentenced them to. "It will be as you say, Breaker of Chains," he replied, raising the ebony dagger. "We will remember your wisdom about vengeance... after we have had our justice."

Owen and Jon walked away from the scene, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor as they headed toward the exit. Behind them, Malaquo's desperate voice rang out, "KILL US, YOU BASTARD! NOT THIS! KILL US..." His words were cut off abruptly as the hate-filled Unsullied began to stab and cut them, their screams following Owen and Jon out into the street. And as he walked he felt the hammering of a forge within his soul.

Chapter Text

Owen sat in quiet contemplation within the Myrish house, the smooth stone floor cool beneath him as he crossed his legs in meditation. Outside, the cacophony of reconstruction filled the air – hammers striking nails, saws cutting through wood, and the disciplined footfalls of Unsullied soldiers marching in formation alongside Westerosi men. The city was healing, slowly but surely, though the scars of recent violence remained etched in broken walls and scorched buildings. None of that mattered now as Owen felt the familiar sensation building within him – the Celestial Forge stirring, its cosmic anvil heating in the depths of his soul.

The pulsing began faintly, like distant drums, then grew more insistent. The clanging of the mystical forge reverberated through his being as it prepared to bestow another gift upon him. Owen's breathing steadied as he surrendered to the process, knowing resistance was futile against such cosmic forces. Energy surged through his veins like liquid gold, emanating from his core outward until his skin seemed to glow with an inner light. Behind his closed eyelids, a vision appeared – brilliant golden letters forming a single word: CRADLE. Information flooded his consciousness, understanding of this new gift seeping into his mind like water into parched earth.

A medical device, he realized. A bed of healing beyond anything the maesters could dream of. The knowledge of how to use it, its limitations and potential, all became part of him in an instant. Owen directed the manifestation toward the nearest capacious space he possessed – the Temple of Solomon. There, the Cradle would wait until needed, ready to heal wounds by regenerating tissue with unparalleled precision. Even without much need for it given his magical abilities, Owen appreciated having such a resource available should anyone he cared for require medical attention beyond what his current abilities could provide.

"Seven hells, was that it?" Jon's deep voice cut through Owen's reverie. "The power you spoke of?"

Owen's eyes fluttered open, golden light fading from his irises as he found Jon Snow watching him intently from across the room. The young Stark stood with his back against the whitewashed wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of awe and apprehension. Owen hadn't even noticed him enter.

"Yes," Owen nodded, rolling his shoulders as the last vestiges of the Forge's energy dissipated. "That was the Celestial Forge bestowing another gift. You get used to the light show after a while." He offered a tired smile and pushed himself to his feet, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility that accompanied each new power.

Jon pushed off from the wall, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. "The ships are ready when you are. The captain says the winds are favorable for sailing north." His eyes narrowed slightly. "That is, if you're still determined to follow through with your plans."

"I won't be taking a ship," Owen replied, methodically checking his equipment. His fingers brushed over the enchanted rings adorning his hands, each containing different magical properties he had crafted or acquired. The weight of his necklace hung reassuringly against his chest, its arcane symbols barely visible beneath his tunic. Reaching back, he confirmed his magic staff was secured to his back, thrumming with power against his fingertips. Finally, he patted the hilt of Death Dealer, the sword at his waist that had tasted the blood of creatures both mortal and otherwise. Satisfied, he grabbed the new leather bag he'd enchanted with a bottomless charm, allowing him to carry virtually unlimited supplies without added weight.

Jon watched this inventory with growing concern etched across his features. "You still intend to go to Valyria, don't you?" His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, as though the very name of that cursed place might summon its dangers. "You know what they say about that place. The Doom still lingers there. Men who sail those waters rarely return, and those who do come back changed... broken."

"We need answers, Jon," Owen said firmly, cinching the bag closed and slinging it over his shoulder. "And we won't find them while waging war in the North. Every day we spend fighting in essos is another day the White Walkers gain strength and push further south, if they haven’t already secretly done so." He met Jon's gaze steadily. "There are secrets in those ruins – knowledge about valyrian steel, about magic that might help us against what's coming. The old texts speak of Valyrian sorcery that could bind even dragons to human will. Imagine what else might be there."

Jon sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark curls. "Sansa is going to tear me a new one when she hears about this foolhardy mission of yours. She'll blame me for letting you go, you know." His gray eyes reflected genuine concern, not just for Owen's safety but for the wrath of his sister that would inevitably fall upon him in Owen's absence.

Owen gulped and laughed nervously, adjusting the strap of his enchanted bag. "I'll cross that bridge when I get back. Besides, your sister's temper is just one more reason to return alive, isn't it?" He winked, though his attempt at levity couldn't fully mask his own apprehension about facing Sansa's fury. Her protective nature had only intensified since the wars began, especially toward those she considered family.

Jon nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips before he pushed off the doorframe. "Let's go then. The sooner you're off, the sooner you'll return—hopefully with something worth facing her anger for." The pair walked out of the Myrish house, stepping into the bright morning light that bathed the city in golden hues.

Owen's eyes swept across the cityscape, taking in how well the rebuilding works for Myr were progressing. What had been smoldering ruins only weeks prior was now a hive of industrious activity. Scaffolding embraced half-constructed buildings, and the streets were clear of debris, allowing for the flow of materials and workers. The systematic approach he'd implemented was bearing fruit faster than even he had anticipated.

His steam constructors skittered here and there in their hundreds, their mechanical limbs moving with surprising grace as they lifted beams that would require four men, laid bricks with perfect precision, and cut stone with quick accuracy. They worked tirelessly alongside the freed slaves—now paid laborers—and the disciplined ranks of Unsullied who were assisting. The rhythmic hiss and clank of the constructors provided a constant backdrop to the more human sounds of labor and conversation.

"Has there been any word from Robert since he went east?" Owen asked, nodding at a group of workers who bowed respectfully as they passed.

Jon's expression darkened slightly. "Not from him personally, no. But the Northern ship captains who ferried Robert's army have sent word through their communication stones." He gestured to the enchanted crystal hanging from his belt—another of Owen's creations that allowed instant communication across vast distances between ship captains.

"What news, then?" Owen prompted, pausing to observe a team of workers and constructors raising a massive timber frame, the wood groaning as it settled into place.

"Robert landed at Meereen," Jon explained, lowering his voice as they passed a group of Myrish merchants. "He and Tywin decided to ignore Astapor and Yunkai for now, focusing their forces on the largest of the slave cities. It's under siege as we speak." He shook his head, clearly disapproving of the strategy. "Robert tried ordering your ships to bombard the city from the bay, but the captains refused. Said they had explicit instructions from you that the vessels were for transport only, not to be used as weapons against the enemy."

Owen snorted in amusement, imagining Robert's purple-faced rage at being defied. "He's lucky the captains didn't point their cannons at him instead. Those ships have enough firepower to level half his army if they wanted to." He chuckled, though there was a hard edge to his laughter. "So instead of a quick conquest, Robert's stuck with a traditional siege, is he? That should keep him occupied—and hopefully out of trouble—while I'm in Valyria."

They continued walking through the bustling streets, navigating around groups of laborers and mechanical constructs. Owen glanced at a particularly complex scaffolding structure where workers were laying intricate stonework on what would become the new guildhall before turning back to Jon.

"Have you told all the Unsullied to halt their duties for a while and meet me outside the city?" Owen asked, stepping around a steam constructor that was methodically laying bricks in perfect alignment. "I'll need to address them before I depart."

Jon nodded, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. "Dark Ox and the other Unsullied commanders are already forming up outside the walls. Fifty thousand in all, standing in formation as only they can. Even after all this time, it's unnerving to see them—not a sound, not a movement out of place." His gray eyes flicked toward Owen with quiet concern. "You're certain you want to do this now?"

Before Owen could respond, they were approached by a group of lords who had evidently been seeking them out. Brynden Tully's weathered face was set in its customary stern expression, while Lord Stark moved with the quiet dignity that characterized the Warden of the North. Behind them strode Randyll Tarly, looking as rigid and unyielding as ever, and Prince Oberyn Martell, whose fluid grace contrasted sharply with Tarly's stiffness.

"We heard you were going to make an announcement to the Unsullied," said Brynden Tully without preamble, his sharp eyes scrutinizing Owen's traveling gear. "Something about a departure, if the rumors are to be believed."

Owen nodded, meeting each man's gaze in turn. "Yes, my lords. I'll be leaving the war effort for some time. There's something I must investigate personally—something that may prove crucial to our future beyond these immediate conflicts." He adjusted the strap of his enchanted bag, feeling the weight of their collective stares.

"Leaving?" Randyll Tarly's voice was incredulous, his brow furrowing deeply. "Now? In the midst of our campaign?" He looked to the other lords for support, finding it immediately in Brynden's curt nod and Oberyn's raised eyebrow. Only Eddard and Jon remained unsurprised, exchanging a knowing glance that did not go unnoticed by the others.

"Where to?" asked Oberyn, his Dornish accent lending a silky quality to the sharp question. "And why now, when we've barely secured our position here?" His dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Unless there's something you've neglected to share with us."

Owen drew a deep breath, knowing the reaction his next words would provoke. "Valyria," he said simply. "I'm going to the ruins of Valyria to search for knowledge that may help us face a threat greater than any slaver or pirate fleet."

The collective intake of breath was followed by an immediate cacophony of protests. Brynden cursed colorfully, while Tarly spluttered about foolishness and legends. Oberyn's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing in calculation. They spoke over one another, their objections blending into a chorus of disbelief and concern.

"We still have Tyrosh, the Disputed Lands, and Volantis to conquer and stop the slavers," Brynden argued once the initial outburst subsided. "Not to mention the Stepstones aren't completely pacified. Robert left just five hundred men on Grey Gallows, and what happened? A new wave of pirates and slavers retook it and slaughtered the garrison of Westerlander and Vale knights to the last man." The veteran commander shook his head grimly. "We need you with us, not chasing ghosts in a cursed ruin."

Lord Stark cleared his throat quietly, and the others fell silent, respecting his authority. "Owen has shared his concerns with me," he said in his measured voice. "There is wisdom in his course, though I cannot speak freely of all his reasons." His gray eyes, so like Jon's, held a wintry knowledge that few could comprehend. "Some threats loom larger than those before us now."

Owen shot Eddard a grateful look before addressing the others. "I understand your concerns, truly. But you'll still have my cannons, the dwarven colossi, and ships with you, plus the Unsullied wherever you choose to conquer next." He offered a confident smile, trying to project more certainty than he felt. "This isn't about abandoning our cause—it's about ensuring we have every possible advantage in the wars to come. You will be fine without my personal presence for a time."

The lords exchanged glances, clearly not entirely convinced but sensing the resolution in Owen's stance. Oberyn was the first to relent, offering a graceful shrug. "The ruins of Old Valyria... I admit I'm envious. What wonders and horrors might still dwell there?" A dangerous smile played across his lips. "Return with some Valyrian steel for me, young smith, and I might forgive your untimely adventure."

Owen chuckled, saying he'd think about it as they walked out the repaired city gates. The lords fell into step beside him, their expressions ranging from concerned to curious as they made their way through the bustling construction crews working on the outer fortifications. When they crested the small rise beyond the walls, Owen stopped short, momentarily awed by the sight before him. Fifty thousand Unsullied stood in perfect formation—a sea of spiked helmets and obsidian spears stretching across the field like a living shadow. Their commanders, including the imposing figure of Dark Ox, stood at attention before the first rank.

On seeing Owen, a sound like rolling thunder filled the air as one and all fifty thousand began to slam their spears against the ground in respectful greeting. The rhythmic percussion vibrated through the earth beneath their feet, a display of disciplined might that sent a chill down the spines of even the most seasoned lords. Jon glanced at his father, noting the impressed look in Lord Stark's normally stoic eyes. Brynden muttered something about "the finest infantry he'd ever seen," while Oberyn's lips curved in appreciation of the display.

Owen stepped forward, raising his hand. The spear-pounding ceased instantly, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake. "Unsullied!" he called, his voice carrying across the field with surprising strength. "Look around you! You stand here not as slaves but as free men who have broken your chains!" He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the ranks of impassive faces. "Together, we have broken the chains of the slaves in Myr as well. But our work is not yet done."

He paced before them, gesturing broadly toward the horizon. "Tyrosh, Lys, the Stepstones, Volantis—all await us. In those cities, your brothers still serve under the lash. They still bow to masters who treat them as property rather than men, ready to throw away their lives on a whim." Owen's voice hardened, edged with steel. "We will sail to these places. We will put the slavers to the sword. We will free every man, woman, and child who lives in bondage." The passion in his voice was unmistakable, ringing with conviction that seemed to resonate with the silent army before him.

"A new age is upon us," Owen continued, his voice rising. "One without chains and slavery, without pain and greed. An age where every person stands equal—where strength comes not from domination but from freedom." He placed his hand over his heart. "This is my promise to you, as it was when we first met. The chains of the world will fall, one city at a time, until no master remains to forge new ones."

The stamping of the spears increased, faster and louder than before. The disciplined rhythm took on an urgent quality, like the heartbeat of some great beast awakening from slumber. Owen let it continue for several moments, watching as emotion—something the Unsullied had been trained to suppress—visibly rippled through their ranks. Behind him, Randyll Tarly whispered to Brynden, "I've never seen anything like this. They're supposed to be emotionless warriors."

Owen raised his hand once more for silence, and the field immediately stilled. From his belt, he unhooked a long, ornate whip—the symbol of command over the Unsullied that he had claimed from the Myrish slave masters. The black leather caught the sunlight as he held it aloft for all to see. "This whip has commanded you for too long," he called. "It has been the instrument of your pain, the symbol of your bondage. Today, I give it new purpose."

He beckoned Dark Ox forward. The commander stepped out of line, his movements precise and controlled as he approached Owen. "This whip will be given to one of your own—to Dark Ox," Owen announced. "Until your fellow Unsullied in other cities see it, they will think the Volantene triarchs still hold it. They will believe they must still be obeyed." Owen's eyes narrowed as he continued. "But when they see one of their own hold this whip, when they hear Dark Ox command them to kill the slavers, their former masters... this will send a message that cannot be ignored. It will tell them that their liberation has come not from foreign conquerors but from their own brothers."

Dark Ox knelt before Owen, his expression unchanged yet somehow charged with significance as Owen placed the whip in his outstretched hands. The commander rose to his feet, turning to face his brethren with the symbol of authority now in his possession. A ripple of movement passed through the assembled ranks—subtle, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. It was as though a collective breath had been drawn and held.

"Once we reach Volantis and take the city," Owen proclaimed, his voice ringing with finality, "this whip will be destroyed. As I promised when we first met, you will have new lives in the North should you wish it. Or, if you prefer, you will be given supplies and transport on ships to continue the battle against slavery wherever you wish to go." He spread his arms wide. "The choice will be yours—as all choices should be for free men."

Now it wasn't just spears stamping but an actual roar of approval, unheard of before from the Unsullied. Their training—the brutal conditioning that had stripped away their identities and emotions—seemed to crack as thousands of voices joined together in a sound that was part battle cry, part expression of newfound purpose. The lords behind Owen exchanged glances of astonishment. Even Lord Stark looked taken aback by the display of emotion from warriors legendary for their lack of it.

There were cries of "Kaerīnio" rising from the ranks, first a few voices and then hundreds, then thousands, until the word became a chant that rolled across the field like waves against a shore. Owen's brow furrowed in confusion at the unfamiliar term. He turned to Oberyn, whose eyes had widened slightly in surprise. "What are they saying?" Owen asked, having to raise his voice to be heard above the continuous chant. "What does 'Kaerīnio' mean?"

Oberyn smiled, a mixture of amazement and amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he leaned closer to Owen. "It's a mix of old Valyrian and Ghiscari," he explained, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. "Kaerīnio means 'savior.' Quite fitting, don't you think?" His smile widened as another thunderous chorus of the word rolled across the field, the Unsullied's disciplined voices united in reverence.

Owen scratched his head, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He hadn't anticipated becoming a figure of worship to these men, but he could see the significance it held for them. Accepting their admiration with a humble nod, he raised his hands once more, requesting silence. The chanting died away immediately, leaving only the whisper of the wind across the field.

"Throughout the world," Owen began, his voice carrying across the silent ranks, "you have been known as the Unsullied." His expression hardened, jaw setting with determination. "Not as men, but as tools of war. The slave masters took away your manhood at birth, brutalized and mutilated you, all to create perfect soldiers who would feel no fear, no pain, no desire."

The lords behind him shifted uncomfortably, even the hardened Brynden Tully wincing at the stark reminder of the Unsullied's creation. Jon's face darkened, his hand tightening around his sword hilt as though he wished the slavers stood before him now.

"Keep the name Unsullied," Owen continued, his voice gaining strength. "Let it remind you—and those who will come after you, for I tell you now that there will be those who come after you—what they did to you." He paced before them, passion burning in his eyes. "Tell your sons and daughters, for I promise you, you will have them, what those pieces of excrement that walk the earth did. Make sure they know they must never let such injustice happen again, never let such men and women walk this earth among you."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the ranks at his mention of sons and daughters. The Unsullied exchanged quick glances, their stoic discipline momentarily faltering as they processed his words. Oberyn's eyebrows shot up in sudden realization, while Eddard Stark's eyes widened with comprehension.

"Today," Owen declared, raising his hand where a crystal ring began to glow with an inner light, "I give back what they took, with the knowledge that I will do so to all those Unsullied who join us." The ring's radiance intensified, pulsing with power as Owen channeled the magic of the Celestial Forge. "What was stolen can be restored. What was broken can be mended."

The crystal exploded with light, sending a wave of healing energy surging across the field. The blast washed over the Unsullied ranks, bathing them in golden radiance that seemed to penetrate flesh and bone. Despite its intensity, the light brought no pain—only a profound warmth that spread through each man's body, focusing especially on the site of their ancient wounds.

The brilliance of the magical surge drew attention from beyond the field. Freed slaves working on Myr's outer fortifications paused in their labors, shielding their eyes as they turned toward the source of the light. Citizens from the city streamed out through the gates, curiosity pulling them toward the spectacle. They gathered at the edges of the field, witnessing what appeared to be a miracle unfolding before them.

One by one, in a display utterly unlike their legendary discipline, the Unsullied dropped their spears. Their hands moved hesitantly, almost disbelievingly, to their groins. Some fell to their knees, others simply stood frozen in shock, touching the space between their legs where once there had been only scarred emptiness. The silence that had fallen was broken by a single voice from somewhere in the ranks: "He has made us whole!" The cry rang out, raw with emotion that no training could suppress.

More voices joined in, a cascade of realization and joy sweeping through the ranks. "We are men!" some shouted, while others wept openly, falling to their knees in gratitude. "Kaerīnio!" they roared again, the chant swelling to a deafening crescendo as fifty thousand warriors, no longer merely soldiers but men restored, gave voice to feelings long thought burned out of them by cruel training.

Jon turned to Owen, his expression one of absolute astonishment. Beside him, the lords stood speechless—even Randyll Tarly, normally so rigid and unyielding, appeared deeply moved by the scene before them. Brynden Tully shook his head in wonder, while Oberyn's eyes glistened with emotion he made no attempt to hide. Eddard Stark placed a hand on Owen's shoulder, a gesture that conveyed both respect and a newfound understanding of the young man's true power. "The histories will speak of this day," he said quietly, his voice nearly lost amid the continuing roar of "Kaerīnio" that filled the air around them. "You haven't just freed their bodies from slavery, you've restored their very humanity."

Owen shrugged lightly, his expression humble despite the monumental act he'd just performed. "If anyone deserves to be whole again, it's them," he said quietly to the astonished lords surrounding him. The golden light from his ring had faded, but its effects continued to ripple through the ranks of the Unsullied as men discovered their restored bodies with a mixture of disbelief and joy. The cacophony of emotions—so strange coming from warriors trained to feel nothing—filled the air with a sound unlike anything the lords had ever heard.

With an exaggerated gesture, Owen dusted off his hands comedically, as though he'd just completed a simple chore rather than performed a miracle of healing magic. "Well, with that done, I believe it's time for me to hit the road," he announced, adjusting the enchanted bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to Dark Ox, whose stoic demeanor had cracked completely, revealing raw emotion beneath. "You'll follow Lord Stark and Jon's lead," Owen instructed firmly, pointing to the two northerners. "And if they're unavailable for any reason, defer to these three lords instead." He gestured to Brynden, Oberyn, and even the stern Randyll Tarly, who straightened at being included in the chain of command.

Dark Ox nodded solemnly, unashamed of the tears of joy that flowed freely down his weathered cheeks. "Kaerīnio," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he pressed a closed fist against his heart in salute. "We will honor your command. When you return, the Unsullied will have freed more of our brothers." The commander's eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now burned with purpose and gratitude that transcended mere loyalty. This was devotion of another kind entirely.

Jon stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern as he eyed the enchanted bag Owen carried. "If you're not going by land or by sea, how exactly are you planning to reach Valyr—" His words cut off abruptly as Owen winked at him, a mischievous smile playing across his lips.

Without warning, Owen raised his arms dramatically and spoke words in a language none present could understand—a complex incantation that seemed to bend the very air around him. The ground beneath his feet glowed briefly with arcane symbols that spiraled outward, and then, with a sound like thunder, he shot straight up into the sky, leaving the assembled lords and warriors gaping in astonishment.

High above them, Owen's figure twisted and turned, executing a series of elaborate flips and aerial maneuvers that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. The sun caught his silhouette, surrounding him with a golden halo that only enhanced the supernatural quality of his flight. "I'll see you all when you bring down Volantis!" his voice boomed from above, carrying clearly despite the distance. With a final theatrical wave, he oriented himself eastward and streaked across the sky like a comet, rapidly diminishing to a speck on the horizon in the direction of the Smoking Sea and the ruins of Valyria beyond.

Below, the spectacle had a profound effect on the gathered masses. The Unsullied, already overwhelmed by their restoration, roared Owen's new title with religious fervor. "KAERĪNIO!" they thundered in unison, their discipline returning only to magnify the impact of their coordinated response. The freed people of Myr, who had gathered to witness the display, fell to their knees in waves, some making signs of prayer to various gods, others simply overcome by the raw display of power they had witnessed. To them, Owen was no longer merely a liberator or a powerful mage—he had become something approaching divinity.

Jon sighed heavily, shaking his head as he watched the last visible trace of Owen disappear into the eastern sky. "Show off," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in reluctant admiration. He'd witnessed Owen's powers growing over time, but this display of flight—so casual yet so dramatic—demonstrated just how far beyond ordinary men his friend and brother had evolved.

Turning away from the sky, Jon found himself meeting the gaze of the assembled lords. Lord Stark's expression remained as stoic as ever, though a glimmer of pride shone in his gray eyes. The others, however, wore looks of stunned calculation—Oberyn's lips curved in an appreciative smile while his eyes gleamed with new possibilities; Brynden Tully stroked his beard thoughtfully, reassessing everything he thought he knew; Randyll Tarly's stern countenance had cracked to reveal a mixture of awe and strategic consideration. These were not merely impressed men—these were powerful lords reevaluating their political allegiances in light of what they'd witnessed.

One thing was certain in Jon's mind as he observed their reactions: after all they had seen today—the liberation of slaves, the restoration of the Unsullied, and Owen's spectacular departure—he doubted any of these lords or their soldiers would ever truly side with Robert or the Iron Throne again, unless Owen himself or someone he explicitly approved sat upon it. The balance of power had shifted irrevocably in those few moments of miraculous display.

"We should return to the city," Lord Stark said quietly, breaking the spell of silence that had fallen over the lords. "There is much to discuss regarding our next moves toward Volantis." His practical words seemed to ground the others, pulling them back from the edge of reverence to the realities of war and politics that still demanded their attention. Yet even as they nodded in agreement, their eyes continued to drift eastward, toward the path Owen had taken.

As they turned to make their way back toward Myr's gates, the fifty thousand Unsullied remained in formation, a living monument to what had transpired. Dark Ox raised the commander's whip—now a symbol not of enslavement but of liberation—and the massive army began to move with their characteristic precision, though now there was something new in their step: the pride of men rather than the obedience of tools. The scene burned itself into Jon's memory, a moment when the world had changed in ways that songs and histories would struggle to capture. Whatever challenges lay ahead in Volantis and beyond, the tide had turned—and Owen, their unlikely Kaerīnio, had been the one to turn it.

Valyria was a dead place where they said daemons and creatures of blood and darkness now roamed. The ruins of the once-magnificent civilization stood like broken teeth against the ash-filled sky, monuments to hubris and forgotten power. Horrible experiments of the Valyrian blood mages now roamed and bred freely among the shattered remnants of towers and palaces. The air itself was poison—thick with toxic ash that would scorch the lungs of any who dared breathe it unprotected. The ground, once paved with smooth stone and marble, was now cracked and warped, as if the land itself had been tortured beyond recognition.

Unearthly creatures skittered through the shadows of fallen buildings—insects that would eat you alive or use your body as a breeding ground. Strange growths bloomed in places where blood had soaked the earth, pulsing with unnatural life. Predators straight from nightmares roamed the dead land, things with too many limbs or eyes, hunting whatever dared move across the blasted landscape. The Doom had not merely destroyed Valyria; it had transformed it into something else entirely, a place where nature's laws had been rewritten in fire and blood.

One such predator, a firewyrm matriarch and her mid-sized young, prowled the land next to the destroyed Valyrian docks near Oros. The matriarch's scaled body gleamed like molten metal in the dim light, stretching nearly thirty feet from snout to tail. Heat shimmered around her jaws as she carried her catch—some mutated man, his flesh blackened and twisted, unrecognizable as human save for the vague shape of his limbs. Her young, each the size of large wolves, followed behind her, their hungry red eyes fixed on the corpse.

They nipped at each other, giving harsh growls and hisses as they trailed their mother. Their serpentine bodies twisted around each other, competing for position, scales grinding together with the sound of steel on stone. The matriarch turned suddenly, dropping her prize and rearing up to display the brilliant orange glow of her throat sac. She roared at her young to settle down, a sound like metal tearing mixed with the crackling of a forge. The young firewyrms immediately quieted, lowering their triangular heads in submission.

The matriarch nudged the corpse toward her brood, allowing them to feed. They fell upon it with ravenous intensity, their knife-like teeth slicing through flesh and bone with ease. Steam rose from their jaws as their internal heat began to cook the meat from within. The matriarch watched vigilantly, her slit pupils scanning the ruins around them for any threat to her young. The quiet feeding was interrupted by a sudden disturbance in the air above.

Something shot down from the sky, moving too fast to track properly. It landed hard enough to kick up dust and earth in a wide circle around the impact point, causing the young firewyrms to scatter in momentary panic. The matriarch coiled her body protectively around her brood, her throat glowing bright orange as she prepared to unleash her fiery breath on whatever had dared to intrude on their feeding ground. Out of the dust stepped a figure, seemingly unbothered by the toxic atmosphere or the deadly predators before him.

"Hmmm, magic spell for air filtration, check. Cool as fuck landing, check," Owen said, pleased with himself as he dusted off his clothes. His movements were casual, almost bored, despite standing mere yards from creatures that had devoured countless explorers foolish enough to venture into Valyria. He looked up, his eyes meeting the red, feral gaze of the firewyrm matriarch. A smile spread across his face—not one of fear or caution, but a smile that showed he did not give a fuck about the danger before him.

"Well, hello there, beautiful," he said, addressing the matriarch as if speaking to an old acquaintance. "You know, where I come from, it's rude not to share your meal with guests." The matriarch's throat glowed brighter, a deep rumbling building in her chest. Owen's smile only widened as he unsheathed the gleaming black blade from his waist, death dealer surface gleaming despites its black surface, along with his staff from his back. The sigils on the staff's silver surface lit up one by one, a cascade of blue light that culminated in the crystal at its top beginning to glow with an intense white radiance.

"That's how it's going to be? Fine by me," Owen continued, twirling the blade experimentally. The matriarch's young had recovered from their initial surprise and now formed a semi-circle behind their mother, their own throats beginning to glow with nascent fire. "I wasn't planning on asking politely anyway. You see, I have someone I need to impress, and your hide is going to help me do just that."

With a thought from Owen, his cloak spread open dramatically, revealing a series of silver and gold disks nestled in hidden pockets. The disks rose into the air around him, hovering at shoulder height before unfolding with mechanical precision. Sharp, cutting blades extended from their edges, and from their centers formed what looked like small muzzles, glowing with contained energy. These were his magical flying Dwemer drones, ancient technology enhanced by his own considerable power, ready to attack at his command.

"Now, what do you think?" he asked the growling matriarch. "Would Sansa prefer a handbag or a coat? Maybe both? I've been away for so long, I think I'll need to bring back something special." He smirked, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet as he prepared to move. "Bringing Sansa a nice firewyrm handbag and coat may make her forgive me for staying away so long. Women love accessories, right? Especially ones made from rare, fire-breathing creatures."

The matriarch seemed to understand the challenge, or at least recognize the threat, as she reared back and unleashed a deafening roar that shook loose stones from the nearby ruins. Her young spread out, flanking Owen with practiced precision. Owen's smirk transformed into a grin of pure exhilaration as he rushed forward, Death Dealer in one hand, staff in the other, his Dwemer drones zipping through the air around him like deadly silver wasps. The matriarch lunged to meet him, her massive jaws open wide to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth and the inferno building in her throat. The battle for the firewyrm's hide—and Owen's promised gift to Sansa—had begun.

Valyrias secrets could wait a while.

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POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE

-Cradle (Marvel Cinematic Universe Vol. 1) (200CP)

Weapons of war are not the only thing to advance, and this medical bed is proof of that. This human-sized medical device can heal wounds by scanning the wounded area and then regrowing skin tissue to a degree of accuracy that visually one wouldn't be able to tell there was a wound. If improved, there might be a way to let it 'grow' an entire body, but it would take a great degree of medical knowledge to sufficiently do so. There is then the issue of giving it a consciousness; it can create bodies but it cannot create life.

Knowledge of Infinity.

Knowledge is power, or at least that's how the saying goes, and the Daedric Prince Hermaeus Mora would happen to agree. Within your hands is a very strange and almost disgusting book known as the Oghma Infinium, bound with the skin of each of the Mer races, both extinct and not, this book stands as one of the greatest depositories of knowledge in the Elder Scrolls universe. Filled with everything from swordplay to ancient and forgotten spells not seen since ages past, this book represents an immense amount of power should you utilize the knowledge within. Of course, while that would be quite the bounty on its own it seems your version has retained the inquisitive nature of its master, each setting you go to represents a font of knowledge never before seen in the halls of Apocrypha or the pages of the book. Like Mora himself the book will gather information from each setting you go to as if Mora himself was gathering it, this isn't instantaneous and don't expect it to pull information that's under incredible concealment or protected by entities of immense power with ease. At most the book will take a full decade to gather an equivalent amount of information on each world as it does the Elder Scrolls.

Muggle Technology (Make a Wish) (200CP)

You know it, general knowledge of up to graduate level in every scientific field is known to you, not only this, but the knowledge seems very eager to help you and as such whenever you are using magic for creation of something or other, the knowledge will leap up with helpful facts and connect seemingly disconnected facts to help in whatever magical creation you are making next. Post Jump, the helpfulness and eagerness spreads to the rest of the knowledge you have in your mind

Reliable Invention (Kim Possible) (200CP)

Anything you construct is only broken when used improperly or purposefully targeted with attacks. The items you create do not malfunction and are completely resistant to damage caused by regular usage.

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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Chapter Text

Owen looked around the destroyed area near the Valyrian docks, his eyes scanning the blackened ruins where once-magnificent ships had docked at the height of the Freehold's power. The acrid smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of the firewyrm's blood that pooled around its massive corpse. The matriarch's scaled body still smoldered slightly, wisps of smoke rising from beneath its crimson and obsidian scales. Nearby, the smaller bodies of its young lay motionless, their flame extinguished forever. Owen paid them no mind as his flying Dwemer drones methodically cut into the valuable skin and harvested organs from the creatures.

"Specimen extraction at sixty-three percent," chirped one of the drones in its ethereal magical voice as it carved a precise incision along the firewyrm's belly. "Estimated completion: four minutes, seventeen seconds."

Valyria truly was desolate and dark, nothing but ruins and some still raging fires that had burned continuously for centuries since the Doom. Broken towers rose like jagged teeth against the ash-filled sky, and what remained of the streets was cracked and warped from the ancient cataclysm. Even now, after all these years, the ground occasionally trembled, as if the land itself was still in pain. Yet amidst this devastation, Owen moved with the casual confidence of someone utterly unimpressed by the dangers surrounding him.

"Heart tissue secured," announced another drone as it carefully extracted a pulsating organ from the matriarch's chest cavity. "Temperature still registering at one-hundred forty-three degrees despite cessation of life functions."

Owen nodded absently. "Make sure you get samples from the flame sacs as well. And be thorough with the young ones – their organs are less developed but potentially more malleable for the research."

As the Dwemer drones put the last of the firewyrm parts in his enchanted bag – the simple-looking leather satchel that seemed to swallow impossibly large items without increasing in size – Owen checked his timepiece. The harvesting had taken longer than expected, but the specimens were worth it. He was just about to give the command to move on when a furious roar shattered the eerie silence of the ruins, echoing off the crumbling walls and sending a flock of strange, pale birds scattering into the sulfurous sky.

"Right on schedule," Owen muttered, turning to face the approaching threat. A larger firewyrm – clearly the mate of the matriarch he'd killed – came rushing toward him, its body nearly twice the size of the female's. Its scales were darker, almost black with veins of molten orange running between them, and its eyes burned with a rage that seemed almost sentient. Owen sighed, casually shifting his weight as he prepared for the inevitable attack.

The male firewyrm lunged forward with surprising speed for its bulk, jaws wide and revealing rows of teeth that glowed like hot coals. Owen dodged the strike with a simple sidestep, the movement so fluid it almost seemed as if he'd anticipated exactly where the creature would strike. Frustrated, the firewyrm reared back and released a torrent of flame that turned the very air into a rippling haze of heat, the stones beneath Owen's feet beginning to soften and warp.

"They always go for the fire breath after the first missed strike," Owen commented to no one in particular, already moving beyond the reach of the flames. The heat was intense enough to sear the hair from an ordinary man's body, but Owen merely frowned at the useless action. With an almost bored expression, he raised his fingers toward the sky and then swiped them downward in a decisive gesture.

Above the raging firewyrm, reality seemed to split open as a massive golden blade materialized from thin air – a construct of pure magical energy that hummed with power. The blade, easily twenty feet in length and glowing with an inner light that cast harsh shadows across the ruins, descended with impossible speed. There was a sound like a thunderclap as it connected with the firewyrm's neck, and then silence as the head was separated cleanly from the body. The headless corpse continued to thrash and writhe for several seconds, its tail lashing out and demolishing what remained of a nearby column before finally going still.

"They never learn," Owen shrugged, watching impassively as the golden blade dissipated into motes of light. He approached the still-twitching corpse and muttered a few words under his breath, his fingers tracing sigils in the air that left momentary trails of silver light. "Conservatio perpetua," he finished, and a pale blue shimmer washed over the firewyrm's body. "All right," he called to his drones. "Get this one in the bag too. Intact if you can – I want to study the differences between the male and female anatomies back at the workshop."

The drones did as ordered, their metallic appendages extending to cradle the massive firewyrm's body. With a synchronized hum, they lifted both the headless corpse and the severed head into the air, holding them steady despite the immense weight. The head alone was larger than a wagon wheel, its teeth still glinting like molten metal in the dim light. Blood as dark as wine and hot as a forge dripped from the severed neck, sizzling when it hit the ancient Valyrian stones below.

"Preservation spell holding at optimal levels," one of the drones reported in its melodic voice. "Internal temperature stabilizing. Tissue degradation halted."

Owen nodded and reached for the simple leather satchel at his side, the mouth of the bag seeming to stretch impossibly, revealing nothing but impenetrable darkness within. "Proceed with storage," he commanded, standing back as the drones maneuvered the enormous wyrm toward the opening.

The firewyrm's body, easily the size of four war horses lined up nose to tail, began to slide into the bag's opening. There was no sense of resistance, no bulging or straining of the leather – the creature simply disappeared into the bottomless void as if being swallowed by the night itself. The massive head followed, its jaws still locked in a final snarl of defiance. Owen closed the bag with a casual flick of his wrist, the clasp making a soft click that seemed absurdly inadequate for what had just transpired. He slung it back over his shoulder, the bag weighing no more than if it contained a few books and an apple.

"Return," Owen commanded, and the Dwemer drones immediately transformed, their complex mechanical forms collapsing and folding with inhuman precision until they were nothing more than flat, coin-sized discs of gleaming metal. These floated through the air and disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, seemingly absorbed into the fabric itself. With his harvesting complete, Owen turned his attention to the ruined landscape around him, his eyes scanning the broken horizon of what had once been the greatest civilization in the world.

He began to walk, his boots crunching on a mixture of ash and broken stone. The path he followed might once have been a grand boulevard, but now it was just another scar on the tortured landscape. To his right, a lake of fire bubbled and hissed, its surface occasionally breaking as something moved beneath – whether a natural phenomenon or some mutated creature, Owen didn't care enough to investigate. The heat was oppressive, yet he showed no discomfort as he continued his leisurely stroll through the apocalyptic terrain.

"Four hundred years," he mused aloud to himself, stepping over a fallen column that was half-melted into the ground. "Four hundred years and the fires still burn. The Doom must have been truly spectacular." His voice carried no fear, only interest, as he contemplated the final moments of Old Valyria. "Fourteen volcanoes erupting simultaneously, the earth splitting open, the sea rushing in... thousands of dragons falling from the sky like burning stars." He paused to examine a twisted piece of metal protruding from a pile of rubble – perhaps once part of an ornate gate or door. "And somewhere in all that chaos, forty dragonlord families screaming as their flesh melted from their bones."

After several hours of walking through the desolation, the landscape began to change subtly. The constant black and red gave way to occasional glimpses of white and ivory – broken pieces of marble jutting from the ash like pale bones. Owen quickened his pace slightly, his interest piqued. He crested a small hill and stopped, surveying what spread out before him. Below lay the remains of what must have been a substantial settlement – not the central city of Valyria itself, but perhaps a wealthy trading hub or district where merchants had once plied their wares.

Unlike much of what he'd passed, these ruins weren't completely reduced to slag and ash. The buildings, while shattered and broken, still retained recognizable forms – columned facades, domed roofs now caved in, wide plazas cracked and warped by the force of the cataclysm but not entirely erased. The marble that had been used in their construction had partially protected them from the worst of the inferno, leaving behind ghostly outlines of what had once stood proud against the sky.

"This looks promising," Owen said, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. He reached into his cloak and withdrew the flat discs once more, tossing them casually into the air before him. The discs hung suspended for a moment, then began to unfold and expand with whirring clicks and soft mechanical whispers until a dozen Dwemer drones hovered before him, their brass and copper components gleaming dully in the strange half-light of Valyria.

"Search and collect protocol," Owen instructed them, gesturing toward the ruined marble town. "Priority on intact artifacts, texts, and materials. Magical items take precedence, followed by technological components, weapons, and items of cultural significance. Avoid structural disturbances that might trigger collapses." The drones bobbed in acknowledgment, their eyes – if the glowing blue crystals set into their frontal plates could be called eyes – pulsing with understanding. "And be thorough," he added as they began to disperse. "The greatest treasures are often in the most overlooked places."

Owen settled himself on a fallen marble pillar, its once-pristine surface now scorched and cracked yet still bearing faint tracings of intricate carvings. He watched as his drones dispersed across the ruins, their mechanical forms darting in and out of collapsed structures with methodical precision. Small beams of blue light emanated from their scanning arrays, probing the darkness and debris for anything of value. The ambient heat of Valyria's perpetual fires washed over him like waves on a shore, yet he paid it no mind as his thoughts turned to the history of this doomed civilization.

"Fascinating, really," he murmured to himself, running his fingers along the weathered stone beneath him. "A civilization advanced enough to bind dragons to their will, yet arrogant enough to believe they were untouchable." One of the drones chirped in the distance, signaling the discovery of something potentially valuable, but Owen remained seated, his mind delving deeper into the mysteries of Valyria's fall.

What many didn't know – what couldn't be known with certainty – was how the end had truly come. On Earth in his previous life, among the fans of the books and show, there were many theories. The most compelling theory had always involved the Faceless Men – those mysterious assassins whose origins lay in the misery of Valyria's slaves.

"The first gift of the Many-Faced God," Owen said aloud, his voice carrying eerily through the ruined plaza. "The gift of death, born from suffering." According to the theories he remembered, the Faceless Men had begun as slaves toiling in the volcanic mines beneath the Fourteen Flames. Living lives of unimaginable torment, they had prayed for release – not just for themselves, but for all who suffered. Somewhere in that darkness, one of them had made a pact with death itself, receiving in return a power that would one day bring a mighty empire to its knees.

The power to take a face. To become no one. The same ability that Arya Stark had mastered in another timeline, one that would now never come to pass. Owen wondered idly what that small, fierce wolf-girl might have thought of him and his casual dismantling of her world's history. Perhaps she would have added his name to that infamous list of hers – or perhaps she would have understood the necessity of change.

"Collecting artifact of significant magical resonance," announced one of the drones, interrupting Owen's reverie. "Preliminary scans indicate residual blood magic signatures consistent with post-Doom contamination patterns."

"Continue," Owen replied absently, his mind still fixed on the historical puzzle. The Faceless Men's early activities remained shrouded in mystery. Had they simply assassinated key Valyrian nobles one by one, a slow vengeance spanning generations? Had they facilitated the mass escape of slaves to Braavos, the city founded by those who had broken their chains? Or had their ambitions been greater – the complete destruction of the civilization that had made them suffer?

The most compelling theory, the one that made the most sense given the scale of the destruction, was that the Fourteen Flames had been artificially contained for centuries by Valyrian blood magic. The volcanoes should have erupted naturally long before the Doom, but the dragonlords' sorcery had held back the inevitable, tapping into that terrible power to fuel their magical workings. It would have required constant maintenance, a circle of blood mages performing continuous rituals to keep the forces of nature at bay.

And then the Faceless Men, wearing the stolen faces of archons and senators, would have infiltrated those inner circles. In a single coordinated strike – perhaps a single night – they could have eliminated the mages, removed the mystical constraints, and allowed nature to reclaim what had been denied it for so long. Fourteen volcanoes erupting simultaneously, the land splitting apart, the sea rushing in – the Doom of Valyria, delivered by those who had suffered most under its rule.

The bitter irony, of course, was that this vengeance would have claimed innumerable innocent lives. Every slave still toiling in the mines, every servant in the grand towers, every child born into bondage – all consumed alongside their masters in fire and ash. The Faceless Men themselves, having accomplished their great work, would have had no time to flee the cataclysm they unleashed. They had given the gift of death to an entire civilization, themselves included. Even the first Braavosi, those escaped slaves who had founded the Secret City, must have watched from across the sea as their former homeland was erased in fire and blood.

"And yet," Owen mused, his eyes tracking the movements of his drones through the ruins, "perhaps it was a mercy in the end. A clean slate. Better the quick death of fire than centuries more of chains and suffering." He stood, brushing ash from his clothes as one of the drones approached with something clutched in its mechanical appendages. "What have you found?" he asked, the past momentarily forgotten as he turned his attention to the present and whatever treasure Valyria had yielded up to him.

The drone hovered before Owen, its metallic appendages carefully cradling a tarnished object. "Artifact recovered from residential structure," it reported in its melodic voice. "Initial analysis suggests non-magical composition with historical significance."

Owen extended his hand, accepting the item—a leather pouch, cracked and nearly torn apart by centuries of heat and decay. Despite its poor condition, the contents gleamed dully in the strange half-light of Valyria. Jewels and gemstones of various colors spilled into his palm as he carefully opened the fragile container, each one catching the light in ways that hinted at their value even after all this time.

"Interesting," he murmured, examining a particularly large emerald with expert eyes. "Pre-Doom craftsmanship. The cutting techniques are far more advanced than anything in current Westeros." He pocketed the gems into his bag, making a mental note to study their properties later. If they had survived the magical cataclysm relatively intact, they might possess unique properties worth exploring.

Another drone approached, this one bearing what appeared to be a large book, its edges charred but its bulk remarkably preserved. "Text artifact secured," the drone announced. "Contains readable content despite extensive thermal damage." Owen took the heavy tome, brushing away a layer of fine ash to reveal lettering in High Valyrian embossed on the cover. He traced the symbols with his finger, mentally translating the ancient script.

"Zaldrīzes Buzdari Iksos Daor: Perzys Ānogār Jelmāzmo," he read aloud. "The Secrets of Dragon Breeding and Blood Lines." A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that might actually be useful." He carefully placed the book into his enchanted satchel, already planning the translation work ahead. Such knowledge could prove invaluable, especially if it contained information about dragon physiology that had been lost to the world.

The third drone that approached carried something that made Owen's eyebrows rise slightly—a necklace of unmistakable Valyrian steel, its smoky dark metal links holding a sapphire the size of a robin's egg. Though covered in dirt and showing signs of age, the craftsmanship was exquisite, the metal unblemished by the centuries. "Valyrian steel artifact with gemstone component," the drone reported. "No active magical signatures detected."

"Yet another piece of evidence that Valyrian steel isn't just about the forging process," Owen mused, turning the necklace in his hands. "The material itself resists degradation far beyond normal expectations." He slipped the necklace into a separate compartment of his bag, mentally cataloging it alongside the other Valyrian steel specimens he'd collected for his ongoing research.

As the final drone approached, Owen felt a prickle of unease even before he saw what it carried. The sensation of wrongness grew stronger as the mechanical construct presented its finding—a choker of steel set with a ruby that seemed to pulse with an inner light despite the absence of any natural illumination. Blood-red veins ran through the gem, shifting and moving as if alive. "Warning," the drone's voice had taken on a more urgent tone. "Artifact exhibits significant blood magic contamination. Recommended protocol: isolation and containment."

Owen didn't hesitate. "Purgo malum," he intoned sharply, his fingers sketching a complex pattern in the air. A blast of pale blue energy enveloped the choker, causing the ruby to flare violently before cracking with a sound like a distant scream. The metal blackened and twisted, collapsing in on itself until nothing remained but a small pile of inert dust in the drone's appendage.

"Fucking blood magic," Owen spat, his usual detached demeanor momentarily broken. "I recognize that design enough. It's a slave collar—specifically designed for pleasure slaves. The enchantment binds their will to the master, removes any desire to escape." He brushed his hands together as if ridding himself of contamination. "That particular variation also amplifies pain and pleasure according to the owner's whims. Nasty piece of work."

Owen kicked at the ash beneath his feet, his mind turning to the Targaryens—the last remnant of Valyrian blood in the world he now inhabited. "At least the Targaryens abandoned most of these practices when they settled Dragonstone," he said to himself, resuming his examination of the ruins. "They kept the incest and the dragons, but centuries separated from their homeland changed them. Hard to say they're even the same culture anymore." He glanced around at the devastation surrounding them. "Though Aerys certainly showed some of the old Valyrian madness before his end."

As he surveyed the ruined splendor around him, Owen reflected on the civilization that had built it. The Valyrian Freehold had called itself democratic, with each dragonlord family supposedly having equal say in governance. Yet beneath the veneer of equality lay a system built entirely on domination—domination of slaves, domination of conquered peoples, domination of the natural world itself. They had been beautiful tyrants astride their flying weapons of mass destruction, reshaping the world to their will until nature itself had risen up against them. Perhaps, Owen thought, there was a certain justice in their end, though the price paid had been measured in countless innocent lives.

Owen walked on, his drones flying behind him in a synchronized formation that resembled a flock of metallic birds. The scorched landscape stretched before him like an artist's rendering of hell itself – cracked earth, pools of bubbling liquid that might once have been water, and the skeletal remains of buildings jutting from the ground like the ribcages of fallen giants. Each new ruined town they entered told the same story of sudden, catastrophic destruction, yet Owen moved through them with the casual interest of a tourist visiting ancient monuments.

"Search pattern theta," he commanded the drones as they entered what must have been a wealthy merchant district before the Doom. "Focus on residences and storage areas. Look for items that might have been protected from the direct heat." The drones scattered obediently, their blue scanning beams cutting through the thick, sulfurous air like knives.

In the first building – little more than three partial walls and a collapsed roof – one of the drones unearthed a small strongbox that had been partially protected by the remains of a stone countertop. "Extraction complete," the drone chirped, hovering toward Owen with its find. Inside the container, several gold bars had melted and reformed into misshapen lumps, while what had once been fine cutlery had fused together into a twisted mass of precious metal.

"Not particularly useful in this form," Owen muttered, examining the melted gold, "but the composition might be interesting. The Valyrians were known to incorporate trace amounts of dragonglass into some of their luxury metals." He pocketed the lumps for later analysis and continued his exploration.

The second dwelling yielded a collection of walking sticks carved from dragonglass, their handles shaped into various creatures – dragons, sphinxes, and what appeared to be stylized firewyrms. Despite the centuries of exposure to heat and ash, they remained remarkably intact, the volcanic glass having withstood the very elements from which it was born. "Now these have potential," Owen said appreciatively, running his fingers along the intricate scales of a dragon-headed cane. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary, and the material itself... I wonder if they knew the properties of dragonglass against the Others, or if it was merely decorative to them?"

In what might have been a scholar's home, judging by the remains of shelving and the scattered debris of what had once been a substantial library, Owen discovered several books that had somehow survived the cataclysm. Their bindings were charred and their pages brittle, but many remained legible. "Valyrian poetry collections," he announced after examining the first few volumes, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Though I'm fairly certain this is just erotica thinly disguised as high art. Listen to this: 'As the dragon's flame ignites the waiting sky, so too does your touch awaken the molten core within me.' Subtle."

As they moved deeper into the ruined city, the drones buzzed excitedly around a half-collapsed structure that might once have been a villa. "Significant find detected," one announced, hovering above a spot where the flooring had partially given way. Owen carefully made his way across the unstable surface, using a quick stabilization spell to reinforce the crumbling stone beneath his feet. Beneath the debris of what had been a child's bedroom, he found a chest made of solid marble, its lid carved with the likeness of a three-headed dragon.

"Well, what do we have here?" Owen murmured, carefully lifting the lid. Inside, protected from the ravages of time and destruction by the chest's thick marble walls, lay dozens of small, rectangular pieces of a material similar to parchment but far more durable. Each bore the exquisitely detailed image of a different dragon, complete with name, lineage, and what appeared to be statistics regarding size, flame temperature, and battle prowess. Owen couldn't help but laugh as he flipped through them. "Trading cards? Holy Hell! Valyrian kids were gamers. I wonder if they argued about which dragon would win in a hypothetical battle just like kids with their Pokémon cards."

Leaving the fifth destroyed city behind them, Owen followed what might once have been a major road, now reduced to a winding path through desolation. The sky above had taken on a peculiar greenish tinge, and the air felt heavier, more oppressive with each step. Without warning, the runes embroidered along the hem and sleeves of Owen's robes began to glow with a pale blue light – a warning system he had integrated into the fabric to alert him of nearby danger. He stopped, instantly alert, his eyes scanning the horizon for threats.

"Drone seven, perimeter sweep," he commanded, his voice calm despite the warning. "Check for approaching hostiles." The drone immediately rose higher, its sensors sweeping the area in all directions, yet it reported nothing unusual. Owen frowned, his instincts at odds with the drone's findings. If nothing was approaching from any direction... He looked down at his feet, a sudden suspicion forming in his mind.

The ground beneath his boots was moving – subtle at first, but becoming more pronounced by the second. Small mounds appeared and disappeared in rapid succession, circling his position like sharks around prey. Owen took a careful step back, watching as dozens of worm-like creatures, each about the length of his forearm and as thick as his thumb, erupted from the earth where he had just been standing. Their bodies were a sickly translucent white, revealing pulsing internal organs, and their circular mouths opened to reveal rings of needle-sharp teeth that clicked together with audible snaps as they sought prey.

"Well, aren't you unpleasant little things," Owen remarked, scooping one up with a quick gesture. The creature writhed furiously in his magical grip, its body undulating as it tried to reach him with its gnashing teeth. "Drone five, analysis." The nearest drone hovered closer, its scanning beam passing over the captured specimen multiple times before delivering its assessment.

"Analysis complete," the drone reported. "Specimen appears to be a heavily modified invertebrate, likely developed through experimental blood magic. DNA structure shows significant alteration from any known natural species. Digestive system adapted for processing organic matter, including bone. Reproductive capability highly accelerated. Assessment: artificially created predator, possibly escaped from containment during the Doom. Subsequent generations have adapted to post-cataclysm conditions."

Owen nodded thoughtfully, studying the creature with renewed interest. "So you're the descendants of some blood mage's little experiment, are you? Released from your cages when your masters' world went up in flames." He glanced around at the ground, which now seemed to be boiling with movement as more of the creatures emerged, drawn to his presence. Based on the seething earth surrounding him in all directions, there must have been thousands, perhaps millions of these creatures thriving in the ashen soil of ruined Valyria. "Adapted indeed," he murmured. "You've found your niche in this broken world."

Owen moved to crouch on the ground, his fingers hovering just above the seething earth. The worms twisted and writhed beneath him, their circular maws snapping uselessly at the air. He smiled thinly, watching their futile aggression with the detached interest of a scientist observing specimens under glass.

"The protections woven into these robes would keep you out even if you weren't so pathetically small," he mused aloud, tracing one finger along the glowing runes that trimmed his sleeves. "And even without the magical barriers, this body has been enhanced twice over now. Trying to bite through my skin would be like gnawing on adamantium." He chuckled at the reference from his first life, one that would mean nothing to anyone in this world. "Still, I don't particularly enjoy the thought of you squirming beneath my feet for the remainder of my expedition."

Standing upright, Owen raised both hands, palms facing downward. His fingers began to glow with a soft blue light as he muttered an incantation under his breath. "Aqua surgere," he intoned, and the parched ground suddenly darkened as water materialized from nowhere, saturating the soil and flooding the immediate area. The worm creatures writhed more frantically now, some attempting to escape the rapidly forming puddle while others twisted in confusion at this sudden change in their environment.

"And now for the finale," Owen said with casual cruelty, his right hand crackling with electrical energy that danced between his fingers like miniature lightning. "Fulgur maxima!" The spell released with explosive force, bolts of blue-white electricity arcing from his fingertips into the water-soaked ground. The effect was immediate and devastating – thousands of the worm creatures convulsed violently as the current passed through their bodies, their translucent flesh glowing briefly before they went still. Within seconds, the churning earth fell motionless, the surface now littered with the smoking corpses of countless dead worms.

Owen glanced at the specimen still suspended in his magical grip, which had somehow survived the electrical onslaught. "You're a lucky one," he told it as he muttered a quick stasis spell. "Tempus cessare." The creature froze mid-writhe, suspended in time like an insect in amber. Owen carefully deposited it into a specialized compartment of his bag for later examination. "Your descendants may have adapted to Valyria's hell, but they haven't adapted to me."

The journey continued through the blasted landscape, each step taking Owen deeper into the heart of what had once been the greatest civilization in the known world. For another hour, he passed through ruins of varying sizes – small outposts, watchtowers, and what might have been farming communities before the Doom had rendered the very concept of agriculture meaningless in this place. His drones worked tirelessly, scanning and collecting items of interest, though the further they traveled, the fewer intact artifacts they discovered.

As the strange, greenish-tinged sun began its descent toward the horizon – though in Valyria, even sunset was a sickly, unnatural affair – a new silhouette appeared before them. Unlike the scattered ruins they had encountered thus far, this was unmistakably a city proper, its broken skyline still impressive despite the centuries of decay. Towers that must once have reached impossibly high still jutted toward the sky, though most were now truncated, their upper portions collapsed or blasted away by the force of the Doom. Wide avenues, now filled with debris and ash, spoke of the grand design that had once made this place a wonder of the world.

"Perfect," Owen murmured, surveying the ruined metropolis. "We'll search this place thoroughly and make camp for the night. The drones can continue exploring while I analyze today's findings." He glanced at the sky, noting the deepening of its unnatural hue. "Assuming night and day still have meaning in a place where the sun never truly shows its face." With a flick of his wrist, he deployed his full complement of drones, sending them spiraling outward in a predetermined search pattern. "Standard protocol," he instructed them. "Prioritize intact structures, especially those that appear to have been centers of learning or power."

As the drones dispersed into the ruins, Owen followed one that had indicated a potential discovery near what appeared to be a large public square. The drone hovered above a half-collapsed building whose facade still bore intricate carvings depicting dragons in flight. Something about the structure suggested importance – perhaps a government building or temple – and Owen was eager to explore its contents. However, as he approached, a peculiar sensation crept along his spine, a feeling that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat or toxic air.

Owen froze mid-step, his enhanced senses suddenly alert to a presence that hadn't been there moments before. The feeling was unmistakable – he was being watched. Not by his drones, whose mechanical gazes he had grown accustomed to, but by something else, something alive and sentient that lurked somewhere among the ruins around him. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the broken skyline and shadowed doorways, seeking the source of this unsettling sensation. "Interesting," he said softly to himself, his hand drifting casually toward one of the many weapons concealed beneath his robes. "It seems Valyria has yet more surprises to offer."

Owen ignored the sensation of being watched, chalking it up to the unnatural aura that permeated all of Valyria. The fine hairs on the back of his neck remained raised, but he proceeded toward the half-collapsed building with determined strides. "Potential historical significance noted," chirped the drone hovering beside him as he ducked beneath a partially fallen archway and entered what had once been a grand hall.

Inside, the scene was one of ancient devastation frozen in time. Half-broken furniture lay scattered across the marble floor, now cracked and stained with centuries of ash. Ornate cabinets had spilled their contents long ago, leaving fragments of scrolls and broken artifacts strewn about like discarded toys. The remnants of tapestries, now little more than charred threads clinging to the walls, hinted at the opulence that had once defined this space. Owen stepped carefully around a collapsed table, its surface warped and bubbled from intense heat.

"Scan for anything intact," he instructed the drones as they followed him into the building. "Pay special attention to sealed containers or protected areas." The air inside was strangely still compared to the constant toxic breeze outside, as if the building itself were holding its breath. Owen moved deeper into the structure, his boots leaving clear imprints in the thick layer of ash that coated the floor.

At what appeared to be the building's end, dominating a raised dais that suggested importance and authority, stood a large, intricate chair carved from solid black stone. It was unmistakably a throne, though unlike any designed for normal human proportions. Its massive back rose nearly twelve feet high, adorned with carvings of writhing serpentine forms that might have been dragons or firewyrms. The armrests terminated in snarling beast heads, their eyes inlaid with what appeared to be obsidian.

"We meet again," Owen murmured, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. He approached the throne cautiously, ears straining for the whispers and eldritch words that had emanated from the Seastone Chair he had destroyed on Pyke. That ancient artifact had screamed and raged as he'd reduced it to molten slag, revealing its true nature as a conduit for entities best left unnamed. But this chair, for all its imposing presence, remained silent. No murmurs of ancient tongues, no promises of power or threats of vengeance – just dead stone, cold and inert.

"Silent or not, I'm not taking any chances with you," Owen declared, extending his right hand toward the throne. His palm began to glow with an intense orange light that quickly shifted to deep crimson. "Ignis daemonium," he intoned, and a steady stream of unnatural fire erupted from his fingertips. The flames weren't the yellow-orange of natural fire but a deep, blood-red tinged with black at the edges. Where they touched the stone throne, the seemingly indestructible material began to bubble and run like wax, collapsing in on itself as the daemon fire consumed it. Unlike when he'd destroyed the Seastone Chair, which had filled the air with rage-filled roars and screams of thwarted malevolence, this throne died quietly, melting into a pool of slag that spread across the dais like thick, black blood.

"Strange," Owen remarked, ceasing the magical flame with a casual flick of his wrist. "Either this was just a throne after all, or whatever lived in it died long ago." He was about to turn away when one of his drones at the side of the room emitted a series of urgent beeps.

"Anomalous reading detected," the drone announced, hovering insistently near what appeared to be a solid wall adorned with partially destroyed mosaics. "Hollow space beyond apparent structural barrier." Owen approached, running his hand along the wall until he felt a slight difference in temperature – a door, concealed to appear as part of the wall itself. A thin seam confirmed his suspicion, though no handle or mechanism was visible.

"No time for subtlety," Owen muttered, stepping back and clenching his right hand into a fist. With a swift, powerful motion, he slammed his fist into the center of the hidden door. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing across the surface before the entire door collapsed inward in a shower of stone fragments and dust. Owen stepped through the newly created opening, expecting to find some hidden treasure chamber or secret archive.

Instead, he was greeted by an empty room, its walls bare save for a few unremarkable sconces that had once held torches. Owen turned to the drone with an annoyed expression. "You detected an 'anomalous reading' for this? An empty antechamber?" The drone didn't respond to his sarcasm but instead floated upward, its scanning beam focused on the ceiling. Following its gaze, Owen noticed what the drone had detected – a large stone tile different from the others, featuring a metal ring set flush with its surface.

"Smart," Owen muttered appreciatively, his annoyance fading. "A hidden underground room." He reached up and gently patted the drone's metallic surface in a gesture almost like petting a faithful hound. "Good work." Grasping the metal ring firmly, he pulled downward with his enhanced strength. The stone tile resisted briefly before lifting with a grinding sound, revealing a set of narrow stairs descending into darkness. Stale air rushed upward to greet him as he walked down the stairs, following the drones light.

The stairway descended into thick darkness, with only the faint blue glow of the drone's sensors illuminating the worn stone steps. Owen proceeded cautiously, noting how the air grew increasingly stale and motionless the deeper he went. The walls narrowed slightly, pressing in on either side, and he detected traces of a preservation spell lingering in the stonework – ancient magic that had somehow survived the cataclysm that had consumed the rest of Valyria.

"Atmospheric analysis indicates minimal degradation," one of the drones reported, its melodic voice echoing in the confined space. "Preservation enchantments detected in surrounding architecture. Estimated effectiveness: seventy-three percent after centuries of decay."

At the bottom of the staircase, Owen faced a large chamber shrouded in absolute darkness. Even with his enhanced vision, he could barely make out the outlines of what appeared to be steel bars dividing the room roughly in half. The darkness irritated him – he'd never been fond of fumbling around like some amateur treasure hunter.

"Enough of this," he muttered with a flick of his wrists. "Ignis vivus." At his command, ancient torch sconces burst into life along the walls, blue-white flames dancing and casting eerie shadows across the chamber. The sudden illumination revealed what the darkness had concealed, and Owen's eyes widened in surprise and delight.

"Jackpot!" he shouted, the sound of his voice bouncing off the stone walls as he let out an exuberant whoop. Behind the imposing steel bars lay open chests spilling over with gold and silver coins bearing the markings of Valyria, their surfaces untarnished despite the centuries. Stacks of golden ingots gleamed in the magical light, alongside an arsenal of weapons – spears with elegantly carved hafts, daggers with jeweled hilts, and swords of unmistakable Valyrian steel, their rippled patterns catching the light like liquid shadow.

Most impressive of all were two complete sets of Valyrian steel armor standing on mannequins at the far end of the chamber, their smoky dark metal surfaces adorned with intricate dragon motifs. Even from a distance, Owen could tell they were masterworks, likely crafted for high-ranking dragonlords or military commanders. In a corner, partially hidden by the weapons rack, sat a collection of bound tomes, their covers emblazoned with High Valyrian script.

Owen approached the bars, running his fingers along a metal plaque affixed beside what appeared to be the cell door. The inscription was in formal High Valyrian, but he translated it easily enough. "Ȳdra Daor Morghot Nēdenka / Confiscated Materials and Evidence," he read aloud. "So this was their evidence room." His eyes swept the chamber again, taking in the abundance of wealth and weapons. "And that makes this building a courthouse. Interesting."

He snorted at the irony, his fingers already working at the lock mechanism on the barred door. "A justice system in Valyria. How wonderfully hypocritical of them." The lock was complex but yielded quickly to his enhanced strength as he simply tore it from its housing with a metallic screech. "A civilization built on slavery and blood magic, concerned with justice." The heavy door swung open with a protesting groan of ancient hinges that hadn't moved in centuries.

As Owen stepped into the treasure-filled half of the chamber, a thought occurred to him that tempered his cynicism. "Although," he mused, directing one of his drones to begin cataloging the Valyrian steel weapons, "I suppose even dragonlords needed to be kept in check somehow. When families have living weapon of mass destruction at their disposal, you need systems to prevent them from burning each other's holdings to the ground over petty disputes." He picked up a particularly elegant dagger, testing its perfect balance in his palm. "Perhaps this wasn't about justice so much as maintaining order among equals – or those who considered themselves equals."

"Analysis of textual materials beginning," announced a drone hovering near the stack of tomes. "Initial assessment indicates these are legal records and case documentation from approximately forty years before the Doom. Multiple references to disputes between dragonlord families detected."

"Boring," Owen said as he scanned through the legal documentation, "but still something to keep and peruse later." The records detailed disputes between dragonlord families—arguments over stolen dragons, border violations, and property inheritance that had once seemed so important to people now centuries dead. He carefully placed the tomes into a specialized compartment of his endless bag, ensuring they wouldn't be damaged by the other items he'd collected.

With the books secured, Owen turned his attention to the more enticing treasures. He stepped back to the center of the room, spreading his arms wide as he began to chant in a rhythmic cadence. "Colligere omnia, vacuum nullum," he intoned, his voice resonating against the ancient stone walls. A swirling vortex of blue-tinged magic erupted from his fingertips, expanding outward until it engulfed the entire chamber. The coins began to tremble, then rise into the air, streams of gold and silver flowing like metallic rivers toward his open bag. The Valyrian steel weapons followed, their dark metal gleaming as they were pulled inexorably into the dimensional space within his enchanted container.

Even the massive suits of armor shuddered and disassembled themselves, piece by piece, each segment floating gracefully across the room before disappearing into the seemingly bottomless bag. Within minutes, the once-overflowing treasury stood empty, its centuries-old bounty now safely stored in a space that defied conventional physics. Owen cinched the bag closed with a satisfied pat, the weight no different than when he'd entered despite the literal ton of treasure now contained within.

"That should keep me in research materials for months," he remarked to the nearest drone, his voice echoing in the now-barren chamber. The sheer quantity of Valyrian steel he'd recovered would have made him the wealthiest man in Westeros if he wasn't already or he'd been inclined to sell it, but its value to him lay in what he could learn from studying its composition, not in the gold it might fetch. He gave the empty room one final glance before heading toward the stairs, his inner loot monster thoroughly satisfied by the day's haul.

Owen skipped up the stairs with an uncharacteristic lightness in his step, pleased not just with the physical treasures but with the knowledge that would come from studying them. The legal records alone might provide insights into Valyrian society that no living scholar possessed. Add to that the weapons and armor, and he had enough material to keep himself occupied when he got back to ice crest after the war. As he reached the top of the staircase and stepped back into the antechamber, he was already mentally cataloging experiments to perform on his newly acquired artifacts.

As he walked out of the building into the ash-choked twilight, an urgent series of beeps from his drones shattered his contemplative mood. The sound pattern indicated a high-priority alert, something his mechanized companions rarely issued without substantial cause. "Multiple human signatures detected," the lead drone announced, its voice modulated to convey urgency without emotion. "Signs of disease and mutation present in most subjects. Caution advised."

Owen looked at his drone in confusion, brow furrowed as he processed this unexpected information. "Human signatures? That's impossible. We're the only ones who've managed to—" His words died in his throat as he raised his eyes to the ruined street before him. The empty avenue he had traversed earlier was no longer vacant. Standing in a loose semicircle around the building's entrance was a large gathering of figures that had once been human, though that term now applied only in the loosest possible sense.

The creatures before him bore the unmistakable marks of magical mutation, their bodies twisted and transformed in ways that defied both nature and sanity. Some possessed multiple eyes, clusters of them dotting faces that bulged and shifted as if the orbs were attempting to migrate across their skin. Others had grotesquely elongated arms that dragged along the ground, their fingers splayed into too many digits that twitched with constant, nervous energy. Most disturbing were those whose faces had migrated to unexpected locations—a woman with a fully formed visage centered on her torso, blinking and working its jaw in perfect synchronization with her words; a man whose face peered out from the back of his head while the front remained a blank expanse of skin. A few figures stood completely faceless, their heads smooth and featureless save for slight indentations where eyes should have been.

"The Doom wasn't just fire and brimstone, was it?" Owen whispered, taking in the horrific tableau before him. "It was magic—wild, corrupted magic that rewrote the very flesh of those who survived." His hand moved slowly toward the weapon concealed at his hip, though he made no overt threatening moves. The mutated population watched him with equal parts wariness and curiosity, their disfigured bodies held in postures that suggested they were accustomed to violence but not necessarily eager to initiate it.

Among the crowd of mutants, Owen noticed another group of figures being held in place by crude chains and collars. These were different—men and women covered entirely in hardened gray scales, their skin transformed into stone-like protrusions that left them looking more like statues than living beings. Their eyes, where visible among the craggy outgrowths, reflected nothing but madness and pain, and they strained against their restraints with feral desperation. Owen recognized them immediately as victims of greyscale in its terminal stage, their minds long since lost to the disease that had fossilized their bodies.

"Stone men," Owen muttered under his breath, watching as the mutants yanked roughly on the chains when their captives grew too agitated. It was immediately clear that these disease-ravaged unfortunates served as attack dogs for the mutated population—weapons to be deployed rather than people to be healed. The irony wasn't lost on Owen; in a land where slavery had once been the foundation of society, the descendants of its people had found new beings to subjugate, continuing the cycle of dominance and control that had defined Valyria before its fall.

A figure stepped forward from the center of the group—what appeared to be a man, though his proportions were distorted by a torso too long for his limbs and a second, smaller face embedded in his neck that worked its mouth silently as the primary face spoke. "Outsssider," he hissed, the word emerging as a sibilant approximation of Common Tongue rather than the High Valyrian Owen might have expected. "You walk... our landssss. Take... our thingssss. Why?" The creature tilted his head at an impossible angle, nearly backwards, both faces fixing Owen with an unblinking stare as the assembled mutants and their stone men captives waited for his response.

Owen shrugged with casual indifference, the gesture deliberately provocative as he surveyed the twisted faces of the mutated crowd. "It wasn't like you were using them," he replied, his tone light and conversational despite the tension crackling through the ash-choked air. "I mean, those artifacts were just sitting there gathering dust for centuries. Looked like free real estate to me." His fingers tapped idly against the bag containing his newly acquired treasures, the dimensional space within it now brimming with Valyrian steel and ancient tomes that had remained untouched since before the Doom.

The mutant leader's elongated neck bulged as he snarled, his primary face contorting with rage while the smaller face embedded in his throat worked its mouth in silent mimicry. His lips peeled back to reveal rows of sharpened and broken teeth, some filed to points, others jagged from what must have been centuries of consuming whatever could be found in this wasteland. "Thissss land is oursss," he hissed, droplets of saliva spraying from between his misshapen teeth. "We are its true heirsss, the children of the Doom that cleansssed the unworthy. We will brook no thievesss in our domain." His misshapen hand clutched tighter around the chain that held one of the stone men, the afflicted creature growling in response like a dog sensing its master's agitation.

Owen smirked, a slow, deliberate expression that conveyed not just confidence but absolute certainty in his own power. His eyes, reflecting the eerie glow of his drones' sensors, swept over the assembled mutants with clinical detachment. "Are you sure about that?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying easily across the sudden silence that had fallen over the crowd. "Are you absolutely certain you want to test which of us truly belongs in this place?" Energy began to gather around his fingertips, a subtle luminescence that could easily be mistaken for a trick of the light by those who didn't know better.

A ripple moved through the crowd of mutants, starting from those closest to Owen and spreading outward like a wave. At first, it was just a murmur, barely audible against the constant hissing of steam and sulfur that permeated Valyria's air. "Meat," someone whispered from the back of the crowd. "Meat," echoed another, the word passing from misshapen mouth to misshapen mouth with increasing volume and fervor. Within moments, the whispers had transformed into a chant, dozens of corrupted voices rising in unison. "MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!" they shouted, their cries echoing off the ruins around them.

Some of the mutants began to advance, their twisted limbs carrying them forward with unexpected speed as they licked their lips with tongues too long or too forked to pass for human. Others simply stared with hungry eyes – too many eyes in most cases – their gazes fixed on Owen with the focused intensity of predators that had identified their prey. One particularly bold creature with arms that split at the elbows into four separate forearms made a grabbing motion in Owen's direction, fingers flexing in anticipation.

Owen sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as the realization dawned on him. "Of course," he muttered, not bothering to hide his disgust. "Of course you had to be cannibals. Because apparently, surviving a magical apocalypse and evolving into nightmare fuel wasn't enough. You had to develop a taste for human flesh to complete the horror movie cliché." He shook his head, his expression more disappointed than frightened as the crowd continued to advance. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. When the food chain breaks down, you either adapt or die. And you've clearly adapted."

The leader of the mutants let out a shrieking laugh that sounded like metal scraping against stone, then jerked his head toward the restrained stone men. With a synchronized movement that suggested this was a well-practiced routine, the mutants released their captives, unclasping collars and dropping chains to the ash-covered ground. Freed from their restraints, the stone men stood motionless for a heartbeat, their greyscale-ravaged bodies rigid as statues. Then, as if responding to some unheard command, they surged forward with shocking speed, their limbs moving with jerky, desperate energy as they charged toward Owen in a maddened rush.

Owen watched the stone men approach, a flicker of genuine sympathy crossing his face as he observed their suffering. Their bodies were almost completely consumed by the disease, their humanity buried beneath layers of cracked, stone-like growths. Eyes that had once held thoughts, dreams, and emotions now reflected nothing but animal fear and pain. He wondered briefly how they had come to be here – ships wrecked on Valyria's deadly shores, perhaps, or exiles sent to die in this wasteland? Regardless of their origins, their current existence was clearly nothing but torture, their minds long since surrendered to the greyscale that had claimed their bodies.

"I'm sorry," Owen said softly, raising his hands as the first of the stone men came within ten paces of his position. "The best I can offer you now is mercy." His palms began to glow with an intense orange light that quickly deepened to crimson, then darkened further until it seemed as though his hands were coated in liquid fire. He brought his palms together in a thunderous clap that echoed across the ruins, and as he pulled them apart again, a torrent of fire erupted between them, spiraling upward into a massive column of roaring flame.

The pillar of fire expanded outward with explosive force, engulfing the charging stone men in a conflagration so intense that their bodies seemed to disintegrate rather than burn. One moment they were rushing forward, arms outstretched and faces twisted in feral hunger and pain; the next, they were simply gone, reduced to ash that swirled and danced in the superheated air before settling to the ground. The entire process took mere seconds, the magical fire burning with an efficiency and power that no natural flame could match. As the last of the stone men vanished into the inferno, the mutated onlookers fell back, their triumphant cries transforming into screams of fear and wonder. Their misshapen faces contorted in terror as they beheld the casual display of power that had eliminated their weapons so completely, leaving nothing but scorched earth and the lingering smell of burnt stone where the afflicted had stood moments before.

The leader of the mutants took a step backward, his grotesquely elongated neck twisting in an impossible angle as he watched the stone men reduced to nothing but drifting ash. His eyes—all seven of them scattered across his misshapen face—widened in alarm. "MONSTER!" he shrieked, his voice carrying across the ruins. "Monster from the dread plains of Argos!" With a fluid movement that belied his twisted form, he drew a long, dark blade from beneath his tattered robes. The sword's rippled surface caught what little light filtered through the ash-choked sky, its distinctive patterns unmistakable even at a distance.

"Really?" Owen looked genuinely offended, his brow furrowing as he gestured toward the assembled mutants. "You're going to call me a monster? Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately, you—" His tirade cut off abruptly as his eyes fixed on the weapon in the mutant's gnarled hands. "Helloooo, what's that you got there?" The annoyance in his voice gave way to intense curiosity as he studied the blade more carefully.

The sword was unmistakably Valyrian steel, its dark metal rippling like water under moonlight. But it was the hilt that caught Owen's attention—ornate red and gold, with a pommel crafted in the shape of a golden lion's head, its eyes set with tiny rubies that somehow retained their luster despite the centuries. A suspicion formed in Owen's mind, one that sent a thrill of excitement through him despite the seriousness of his current situation.

The mutant leader clutched the sword closer to his body, a possessive gleam in his many eyes as he noticed Owen's sudden interest. "Mine," he hissed, the smaller face on his neck mimicking the word silently. "Mine since I took it from the bright-haired warrior who came to our lands." A grotesque smile split his face, revealing those filed, broken teeth. "Killed him, I did. Killed him and took his pretty sword. And then..." The mutant let out a wet, gurgling laugh that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his malformed chest. "Then another came, years later. Another with hair of gold, seeking this very blade."

"Let me guess," Owen said quietly, his eyes never leaving the sword. "You killed and ate him too."

The mutant's grin widened impossibly. "Sweeter meat," he confirmed with undisguised relish. "Not so tough as the first. Begged for mercy. Offered treasures." He raised the sword, the blade catching the eerie light. "But I already had the greatest treasure he sought."

Owen's mind raced as the pieces fell into place. The sword could only be Brightroar, the lost ancestral blade of House Lannister that had vanished from history when King Tommen II of the Rock sailed for Valyria and never returned. And the second golden-haired man... that would have been Gerion Lannister, Tywin's younger brother, who had embarked on his own quest to recover the lost sword years before Owen's arrival in this world. "Poor man," Owen murmured, more to himself than to the mutant. "Came all this way just to end up as someone's dinner."

The assembled mutants began to edge forward again, emboldened by their leader's display of the trophy he'd claimed from previous intruders. Their misshapen limbs moved with surprising coordination, spreading out to flank Owen on either side while their leader held his ground, Brightroar gleaming in his twisted hands. The message was clear—their territory, their rules, and intruders became meat regardless of what powers they might possess.

"You know," Owen said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather rather than preparing for battle, "I find it deeply ironic that you're wielding that particular sword." He took a step forward, and though he made no overtly threatening move, the air around him seemed to shimmer with barely contained energy. "House Lannister's words are 'Hear Me Roar.' I wonder if either of those men got a chance to roar before you silenced them." His eyes hardened, the casual veneer dropping away to reveal the cold calculation beneath. "Let's see if you fare any better against someone who can burn you where you stand."

The mutant snarled, raising Brightroar in a fighting stance that suggested he possessed at least some rudimentary skill with the blade. "Many have threatened," he growled, his voice dropping to a deeper register that resonated through his elongated throat. "All have fed us in the end. You will be no different, fire-wielder. In the land of the Doom, even your flames will sputter and die."

The lead mutant's face contorted with rage, all seven of his eyes narrowing simultaneously as he raised Brightroar high overhead. "KILL HIM!" he roared, his voice cracking with fury. "Tear him apart and feast on his entrails!" At his command, the horde of twisted creatures once men and women surged forward across the ash-covered ground, their mutated limbs carrying them with unnatural speed. They moved like a grotesque wave, dozens of deformed bodies flowing over the ruins with a single shared purpose – to rend and devour the intruder who had dared challenge them.

Owen smiled thinly as he snapped his fingers. His drones, which had been hovering passively above him, suddenly aligned themselves in an attack formation. Their blue sensor lights shifted to an ominous red as weapon systems activated with a high-pitched whine. "You know," Owen called out to the advancing mutants, "I really did try to be reasonable." The lead drone shot forward, followed by six others in perfect synchronization as he casually added, "But you had to go and make this difficult."

The drones moved with terrifying speed targeting the front line of charging mutants. Brilliant beams of concentrated magical energy erupted from their forward nodes, each blast finding its mark with unerring accuracy. Where the beams struck, skulls exploded in showers of bone and tissue, bodies collapsing mid-stride as their central nervous systems were obliterated in an instant. The mutants with displaced faces proved more challenging targets – the drones adapting their aim to locate and destroy whatever passed for a brain in their twisted anatomies.

"Adaptive targeting protocols engaged," announced one of the drones in its melodic voice, somehow making the clinical description of slaughter sound almost beautiful. "Physiological anomalies accounted for and neutralized." The mutants faltered momentarily as their front ranks fell, but desperation and hunger drove them onward, stepping over their fallen companions without hesitation. Some brandished crude weapons – rusted metal bars and jagged pieces of stone – while others simply extended clawed hands and twisted limbs, ready to tear at Owen's flesh.

A second wave of hidden drones descended from above, these equipped with rapidly spinning circular blades that gleamed with an unnatural sharpness. They dived into the crowd of mutants like hawks among prey, their blades whirring with a high-pitched keen that rose above the shrieks and howls of the horde. Limbs separated from bodies in clean cuts, heads toppled from shoulders, and torsos were bisected with mechanical efficiency. Blood sprayed in wide arcs across the ruins, painting the ancient stones with fresh crimson that steamed in the sulfurous air.

Despite the devastating onslaught from Owen's mechanical guardians, sheer numbers allowed some of the mutants to break through the defensive perimeter. A group of five particularly agile creatures, their bodies twisted into forms that seemed more insect than human, skittered across the ground with alarming speed, flanking the drones and converging on Owen from multiple directions. Their faces – what remained of them – were locked in expressions of feral hunger, strings of saliva dangling from misshapen mouths filled with too many teeth.

Owen sighed with theatrical weariness as he raised his right hand, fingers splayed toward the approaching mutants. "You know what your problem is?" he asked conversationally, as if addressing wayward children rather than cannibalistic monsters. "You never learned when to quit." His fingers began to trace complex patterns in the air, leaving trails of deep violet energy that hung suspended like glowing script. "Graviton collapse," he intoned, his voice taking on a resonant quality that seemed to vibrate the very air around him.

Reality itself appeared to fold inward at a point directly between the charging mutants. What began as a small distortion in the air quickly expanded into a swirling vortex of absolute darkness – a miniature black hole that pulled at everything within its vicinity with irresistible force. The nearest mutants were yanked off their feet mid-stride, their bodies contorting in ways even their unnatural anatomy wasn't designed for as they were drawn inexorably toward the gravitational anomaly. Their screams took on a strange, stretched quality as they spiraled inward, limbs flailing uselessly against forces beyond comprehension. "Please!" one cried out, its voice distorting as it was pulled closer to the event horizon. "Mer….cy!" Another simply howled, a sound of pure animal terror cut short as its form compressed and vanished into the hungry darkness.

Seeing his followers decimated by drones and devoured by incomprehensible magic, the leader of the mutants made the only rational choice available to him – he turned and fled. With Brightroar still clutched in his gnarled hand, he scrambled over a pile of rubble, his elongated neck twisting to look back over his shoulder as he ran. "Helppppp!" he shrieked, his secondary face echoing the cry with silent desperation. "Heeelllp me!" But there was no one left to help him; his followers were either dead or dying, their mutated bodies scattered across the ruined plaza like grotesque confetti.

Owen casually closed his fist, dispelling the miniature black hole with a soft implosion of air rushing to fill the void. His eyes tracked the fleeing mutant leader with the calm, focused gaze of a predator. Without hurry, he bent down and picked up a smooth stone about the size of a chicken egg, turning it over in his palm as he measured the distance to his target. "You know," he called out, his voice carrying easily across the ruins, "Tywin Lannister would pay a fortune to get that sword back." He tossed the stone up and caught it, a casual gesture that belied the lethal intent behind it. "Too bad you won't be around to negotiate…..that and i simply hate the man. too much to return it to him." In one fluid motion, Owen's arm snapped forward, the muscles enhanced by magic as he launched the stone with superhuman force.

The projectile cut through the air with a sound like tearing silk, its trajectory a perfect line between Owen and the fleeing mutant. It struck the creature precisely at the base of his elongated skull, punching through bone and brain matter before erupting from his forehead in a spray of gore. The mutant leader stopped mid-stride, his body momentarily frozen in place before collapsing in a boneless heap. Brightroar fell from his lifeless fingers, clattering against the stone ground with a musical ring that echoed through the suddenly silent ruins. Owen strolled over to the fallen creature, nudging the corpse with his boot to ensure it was truly dead. "Boom, headshot!" he announced with satisfaction, bending down to retrieve the ancestral sword of House Lannister. The blade felt perfectly balanced in his hand, its Valyrian steel gleaming with an inner light as if recognizing that it had finally passed to a worthy wielder.

Owen twirled Brightroar through the air, the Valyrian steel blade humming with deadly elegance as it cut through the sulfurous atmosphere. He whistled a jaunty tune from his original world—something about sweet Caroline—as he admired the ancient weapon's perfect balance and the distinctive ripple patterns that seemed to shift like dark water along its surface. "Well, that was bracing," he remarked to his drones as they hovered around him, their sensors returning to a calm blue glow. "Find me somewhere secure to spend the night, would you? Preferably a building with intact walls and a roof that won't collapse on me. Oh, and scan for any more of our twisted friends lurking about. I'd rather not wake up to someone trying to nibble my toes." The drones responded with a series of melodic whistles and beeps—almost cheerful in their acknowledgment—before several broke formation and scattered in different directions to scout the ruined cityscape.

"Demon from the dread plains of Argos," Owen murmured thoughtfully, running his thumb along Brightroar's pommel as his eyes scanned the ash-shrouded horizon. The words nagged at him, offering a tantalizing new thread of information in this world he was still discovering. "So there's a place called Argos that even these mutated horrors fear... interesting." He sheathed the Lannister blade in his belt, making a mental note to clean it properly once he'd settled for the night. If the inhabitants of this hellscape believed in demons from Argos, there had to be something of significance there—perhaps even answers about the Doom itself or other magical anomalies he could study. The corners of his mouth quirked upward in anticipation as he followed his lead drone toward a relatively intact structure nearby. Tomorrow would bring a new destination, new discoveries, and hopefully, if he was lucky, new knowledge on the White walkers.

Chapter Text

Owen had woken up early, the ashen light of dawn filtering through the collapsed ceiling of the ruined house he'd claimed for shelter. Dust particles danced in the rays of light, and the faint smell of sulfur permeated the air—a constant reminder that he stood in the heart of doomed Valyria. He stretched, his muscles still slightly sore from yesterday's battle with the mutants. The stone floor had been an unforgiving bed, but in this cursed land, even a partial roof overhead was luxury. He rose to his feet, brushing off the dark volcanic ash that seemed to coat everything in this forsaken place.

"Not the most comfortable accommodations I've had," Owen muttered to himself as he surveyed the crumbling walls. "Though I suppose the previous tenants weren't concerned with hospitality." The mutants had left traces of their presence—claw marks on the walls, strange symbols etched into the stone, and dark stains he preferred not to examine too closely. The memory of their leader's twisted face flashed in his mind, the creature's final words echoing: "Argos... city of demons......"

With practiced movements, Owen reached for the magical bag at his waist, its enchanted interior now holding treasures that would make the richest lords of Westeros weep with envy. His fingers found what he sought, and he drew forth Brightroar, the legendary lost sword of House Lannister. The blade gleamed with an otherworldly light even in the dim room, its Valyrian steel rippling like water caught in sunlight. "You're a beauty, aren't you?" he whispered, running his thumb along the edge—sharp enough to slice through armor as if it were parchment. The lion-headed pommel stared back at him with ruby eyes that seemed almost alive.

"Joy Hill might appreciate you," Owen said, turning the blade to catch the light. "Gerion's daughter deserves something of her father's quest." He frowned, imagining Tywin Lannister's cold, calculating eyes. "But the old lion would never let her keep you, would he? He'd take you for Jaime or maybe even that little shit Joffrey." Owen sighed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Gods, Tywin would probably start another war just to get his hands on you. Better to keep you hidden for now." With reluctance, he slid the ancient blade back into his magical bag, feeling its weight vanish as the enchantment took hold.

Owen snapped his fingers sharply, the sound echoing through the empty stone room. From the depths of his cloak pockets, his Dwemer drones responded immediately. They rose smoothly into the air, their intricate brass components shifting and realigning as they floated and their crystal eyes. glowing "Form perimeter," he commanded, and the drones dispersed, taking positions around the ruined house. One of them emitted a series of clicks and whirs that Owen had come to understand as acknowledgment.

"Back to business," Owen muttered, pacing the cracked marble floor. "Argos. The mutant leader seemed terrified when I showed off my magic." He recalled the creature's face—once human but twisted by whatever foul magic had consumed this land. Its eyes had widened in genuine fear at Owen's questions about the ancient ruins. "City of demons, he called it. Might be nothing but the ravings of a mind gone mad from the Doom... or it might be exactly what I'm looking for. If anyone knew secrets about combating the White Walkers, it would be the most powerful mages of Valyria."

Owen moved to the center of the room, clearing a space with his boot. He knelt, placing his palm flat against the stone floor, and began murmuring words in an ancient tongue—not Valyrian, but something older, something from the knowledge he'd gleaned from the Temple of Solomon. The air around his hand began to shimmer with pale blue light. "Show me Argos," he commanded, pushing his will into the spell. The light pulsed once, twice, then shot forward, forming an arrow pointing westward. "Always west," Owen chuckled. "Like the damned Sunset Sea. Let's hope this city isn't quite so endless."

"Return," Owen called to his drones, which swiftly folded their wings and returned to his pockets. He gathered his few belongings, checked that his magical bag was secure at his waist, and stepped out into the desolation of Valyria. The sky above was a sickly yellow-grey, choked with volcanic ash even after all these centuries. In the distance, mountains still smoldered, occasional plumes of smoke rising from their peaks. The road beneath his feet had once been grand—wide enough for ten horses abreast, paved with stones cut so perfectly that even now, they fit together without gaps despite the earthquakes that had reshaped the land.

"What are you, Argos?" Owen spoke aloud as he began his westward journey, following the ghostly blue arrow that hovered before him. "A library? A temple? Or something worse?" His mind raced with possibilities. The Valyrians had possessed knowledge far beyond what survived to the present day. Their magic had bound dragons, forged steel no modern smith could replicate, and built cities that defied the laws of nature. And if the stories were true, some of their experiments had delved into darker arts—blood magic, necromancy, perhaps even dealings with entities from beyond the world. "Whatever you are," he continued, "you might hold the key to stopping the Long Night. Or at least some decent souvenirs for Sansa."

As Owen walked deeper into the ruined heartland of the Valyrian peninsula, the landscape grew increasingly alien. Buildings warped by intense heat stood frozen in their final moments, like waves of stone caught mid-crash. Metal structures, impossibly preserved, gleamed with strange iridescence where not blackened by fire. Occasionally, he passed skeletons—some human, some clearly draconic, and some... indescribable, with too many limbs or skulls shaped wrong for any creature he knew. Above, his arrow continued to guide him westward, toward what had once been the coast of the peninsula. "Well," Owen remarked to a particularly bizarre statue that might once have been a man before the stone melted around him, "at least the company's interesting. And they say I talk to myself too much." His laughter echoed eerily through the dead city as he pressed onward, toward Argos and whatever secrets—or horrors—awaited him there.

Owen continued walking for hours, following the shimmering blue arrow as it guided him westward. With each mile, the landscape grew bleaker, more twisted. The ruined spires and collapsed buildings he'd seen before gave way to a wasteland of black glass and obsidian shards that jutted from the ground like the teeth of some monstrous beast. Even the plant life that had managed to reclaim parts of Valyria—strange twisted vines and pale fungal growths—had vanished entirely, leaving nothing but barren earth cracked and scorched beyond recognition.

"By the gods," Owen muttered, pulling his enchanted cloak tighter around himself. The air had changed, becoming thicker, more oppressive. It was no longer just the volcanic ash and sulfur that had filled his lungs since arriving. This was something fouler—a sickly sweet rot that reminded him of battlefields days after the fighting had ended, mixed with something else he couldn't name. Something older. Something wrong. He pulled a cloth over his mouth and nose, though it did little to filter the miasma. "What the hell happened here that was worse than the rest of the Doom?"

The light around him dimmed steadily despite the hour. Owen checked his timepiece—a clever little device he'd crafted himself, combining brass gears with a touch of magic—and confirmed it was not even midday. Yet the sky above had darkened to a bruised purple-black, as if twilight had decided to settle permanently over this particular stretch of the peninsula. The sun was visible only as a pale, sickly disc barely penetrating the gloom. Owen summoned a small ball of light to hover above his shoulder, casting long, distorted shadows across the broken landscape.

In the distance, rising from the murk like a corpse from brackish waters, Owen could make out what must be Argos. The city—or what remained of it—appeared as a jagged silhouette against the darkened sky. Even from miles away, Owen could tell it was different from the other ruins he'd explored. Where parts of Valyria had been merely destroyed, Argos looked as if it had been systematically annihilated, pulverized by some force that held particular hatred for its stones. Blackened towers leaned at impossible angles, great gouges carved through entire districts as if by the claws of some titanic beast. "Seven hells," Owen whispered. "What could have done this? Not even dragonfire could cause such destruction."

What struck Owen most as he approached wasn't the devastation—he'd seen plenty of that already—but the silence. In other parts of Valyria, the dead land still held echoes of life, however twisted. The distant roar of firewyrms hunting in the volcanic plains, the skittering of stone-rats in the rubble, even the eerie, distant cries of the mutated humans who had made these ruins their home. Here, there was nothing. No sound but the wind, and even that seemed muffled, reluctant to disturb whatever slept beneath the scorched earth. Owen found himself holding his breath, as if making any noise at all might wake something best left dormant.

"Scan perimeter," Owen whispered to his drones, the command barely audible even to himself. The small brass devices deployed silently, their crystal eyes glowing faintly as they spread out in a protective formation. Owen walked slowly toward the towering remains of what must have been the city's gates, each footstep crunching with unnatural loudness against the blackened ground. The sound seemed to hang in the air rather than fade, like ripples in thick oil rather than clear water. Occasionally one of his drones would emit a soft beep as it cataloged something of interest, the sound jarringly artificial in this dead place.

When he finally reached the ruined entrance to Argos, Owen paused to examine what remained of its defenses. The gates themselves were gone—not merely broken or burned, but utterly absent, as if they'd been unmade rather than destroyed. The surrounding walls, once mighty enough to rival even the curtain walls of Winterfell, were now reduced to jagged stumps of black stone. Owen ran his fingers over the nearest section, finding the surface oddly smooth, almost glassy, with strange patterns whorled into the material as if the very stone had boiled before cooling again. Brushing away centuries of ash, Owen uncovered a half-buried sign carved in High Valyrian, the elegant script somehow preserved despite everything else around it having been reduced to ruins.

"'Argos,'" Owen translated aloud, his voice sounding flat and lifeless in the dead air. "'Great city of law and rule.'" He snorted. "Well, something certainly ruled over you in the end, didn't it?" He glanced up at the towering ruins beyond. "Though I doubt it had much to do with law." With a resigned sigh, Owen stepped through the gateless entrance, his magical light casting long shadows that seemed to move with subtle wrongness when not directly observed.

Owen walked slowly down what must have once been the main thoroughfare of Argos. The road, paved with stones of deep obsidian that still retained a perfect fit despite centuries of abandonment, led straight toward the heart of the dead city. Strange green glows emanated from small cracks and fissures in the ground, casting an eerie illumination that competed with Owen's magical light. The silence pressed around him like a physical thing, heavy and expectant. It was the silence of something holding its breath, waiting. Owen could feel eyes upon him from every shadow, every broken window, yet his drones detected no life signs whatsoever.

"This is getting ridiculous," Owen muttered after nearly an hour of exploring the ruins. He kicked a small piece of rubble, watching it skitter across the paved street before disappearing into a glowing fissure with a distant splash. "Where's the bloody library? Or temple? Or whatever the hell I'm supposed to find here?" He'd expected something grand, something obviously significant—a repository of knowledge or a center of Valyrian magical research. Instead, he found only more ruins, indistinguishable from the countless others he'd already passed. Owen ran a hand through his hair in frustration, leaving streaks of ash. "If I'd known I was walking into just another dead city, I'd have brought a picnic basket. Maybe a nice wine to complement the ambiance of total fucking destruction."

Looking around more carefully, Owen noted that most of Argos seemed to have been blasted apart by the Doom with particular thoroughness. Many buildings had not merely collapsed but had been entirely pulverized, reduced to fine dust that still coated everything like fresh snow. In other places, the ground itself had simply given way, creating vast sinkholes where entire districts must have fallen into whatever lay beneath the city. One such chasm yawned nearby, at least a hundred feet across, its depths lost in shadows that Owen's light could not penetrate. He approached its edge cautiously, peering down into the abyss. Far below, he thought he could make out faint green glimmers, like the reflections of stars in a midnight pool.

"Might as well check it out," Owen decided, preparing a levitation spell. "Not like the rest of this gods-forsaken place is offering any—" He paused as one of his drones suddenly darted away from his side, moving with purpose toward a particularly bright fissure in the ground near the chasm's edge. The small device hovered over the crack, its crystal eye focusing intently on the eerie green glow that pulsed from within. Multiple scanning beams projected from the drone, analyzing the energy signature with methodical precision.

A sharp, urgent beeping broke the silence as the drone spun in place—its warning signal. The small brass device flew swiftly back to Owen, projecting a small holographic display before him. Text flashed in urgent red letters: "NECROMANTIC ENERGIES DETECTED. CONCENTRATION EXCEEDS SAFE PARAMETERS. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE WITHDRAWAL."

"Fuck me," Owen cursed, instinctively taking a step back from the fissure as the green glow seemed to intensify, pulsing like a heartbeat. "Of course it couldn't just be a nice, normal library with some dusty old books about ice zombies. It had to be a necromantic hellhole." He readied his staff, its crystal head beginning to glow with defensive energy. "Just once, I'd like things to be easy."

Looking up from the glowing fissure, Owen spotted a structure in the center of the dead city. Unlike the pulverized ruins surrounding it, this building remained partially intact—a massive edifice of black stone rising several stories high, its architecture distinctly Valyrian with sweeping arches and ornate columns that somehow survived whatever force had obliterated everything else. Broken domes crowned its roof, and though half the structure had collapsed inward, what remained stood defiant against the centuries of destruction. It reminded Owen of ancient Roman architecture from his first life, though twisted into something more alien, more imposing.

"Finally, something worth investigating," he muttered, scanning the building with narrowed eyes. "If anything survived in this hellhole, it would be there." He adjusted his enchanted bag, feeling the reassuring weight of Brightroar and his other treasures within. The massive structure was clearly significant—perhaps a seat of government or a temple to the Valyrians' dragon gods. Either way, it might hold the knowledge he sought... if he could reach it through this nightmare landscape.

Owen hesitated, his gaze sweeping across the blasted terrain between himself and the building. The eerie green light pulsed stronger here, seeping from wider cracks that spread like veins across the obsidian pavement. His drone's warning about necromantic energy couldn't be ignored. Something unnatural lurked beneath the surface of Argos, something that had claimed the souls of those who died here. Was it worth risking his own life in this place? He had a pregnant wife waiting for him, a realm that depended on his strength. "Seven hells," he swore softly. "I didn't come all this way to turn back empty-handed."

A dark thought crossed his mind as he studied the necromantic energies. During his studies in the Temple of Solomon, he'd read extensive texts on death magic—how to counter it, how to detect it, and yes, how to wield it. The knowledge was there in his mind, the procedures memorized, just waiting to be used. With necromancy, he could command these energies, perhaps even turn them against whatever created them. His fingers twitched at the possibility.

"No," Owen said firmly, shaking his head. "That's not a line I'm willing to cross." Some principles from his first life on Earth remained uncompromised, even in this world of magic and monsters. Unless facing the direst circumstances, the dead deserved their rest—or at least whatever afterlife awaited them. Trapping souls between worlds, forcing them to serve the living... it went against everything he believed about the natural order. "Let the dead sleep," he whispered, "or pass on to whatever comes next."

Still, he wouldn't be caught unprepared as he had been in Braavos when facing the Black Goat. Owen brought his palms together as if in prayer, fingers interlocking as he closed his eyes in concentration. Ancient words flowed from his lips, not in Valyrian but in tongues far older—languages from Solomon's grimoires that predated even Old Ghis. The five magical rings on his fingers began to glow with different colored lights: sapphire, emerald, ruby, amber, and a pure white that seemed to pull light from the surrounding darkness.

The ice crystal necklace at his throat lifted of its own accord, hovering inches away from his chest as it pulsed with cold blue energy. Around Owen's form, glowing sigils and glyphs materialized in the air—wards against necromantic influence, barriers to prevent soul capture, enchantments to strengthen his life force against draining effects. The symbols orbited him slowly, occasionally intersecting to form more complex patterns before continuing their silent rotation. "That should keep whatever's here from getting too friendly," Owen said as he completed the incantations, his voice echoing strangely through the magically charged air.

With his protections in place, Owen began moving toward the central building, using a levitation spell to float several feet above the cracked ground. The spell required constant concentration, but it was safer than walking across terrain littered with fissures pulsing with death magic. As he passed over a particularly wide chasm, Owen noticed something massive moving in the depths below—a serpentine form slithering through tunnels that honeycombed the earth beneath Argos. "Firewyrms," he whispered, watching the shadow pass beneath him. "Though gods know what the necromantic energy has done to them after all these centuries."

Several times during his approach, Owen spotted similar movements, each larger than the last. These weren't the juvenile firewyrms he'd encountered and killed near the outskirts of Valyria. These were ancient creatures, perhaps as old as the Doom itself, twisted by centuries of exposure to death magic. In one particularly wide fissure, Owen caught a glimpse of scaled hide that glowed with the same sickly green as the energy permeating the city, and eyes that burned with an intelligent malevolence no natural beast should possess. He quickened his pace, not eager to discover what these mutated firewyrms might be capable of.

As he neared the building, a wide processional walkway opened before him, lined with headless statues of what must have once been dragonlords. Owen set down upon this path, believing it safer than the cracked earth he'd been avoiding. The moment his feet touched the black stone, however, he froze in horror at the sight before him. The air around the building shimmered with thousands of translucent forms—spirits trapped between life and death, their ethereal bodies a sickening green rather than the ghostly blue or white he might have expected.

"Gods have mercy," Owen breathed, his voice catching in his throat. These were Valyrians—once the most beautiful people in the known world with their silver-gold hair and violet eyes. In death, their spiritual forms had become twisted parodies of their former glory. Their skin hung loose like melted wax, eyes sunken and glowing with the same unnatural green that pervaded everything in Argos. Some wandered aimlessly, expressions vacant, while others seemed fully aware of their terrible fate, faces contorted in eternal anguish.

Nearest to Owen, dozens of spirits were bound together with chains that appeared to be forged from solidified energy. Each link was adorned with cruel spikes that pierced through their spectral forms, causing them to moan in constant agony. "Please," one called out to no one, unaware of Owen's presence, "end this torment. We have suffered enough for our pride." Another spirit nearby simply wept silently, the tears dissolving into green mist as they fell from its hollow eyes.

Farther ahead, Owen saw spirits imprisoned within floating constructs that resembled ornate lamps or lanterns. These ghostly cages pulsed with binding magic, containing the essence of what must have been powerful mages or dragonlords in life. "Hear us, Syrax!" one called out desperately, naming one of the dragon gods of ancient Valyria. "We who were faithful, we who fed your children! Save us from this eternal prison!" The spirit beat incorporeal fists against its magical cage, each impact sending ripples of pain across its distorted features.

Most disturbing of all were the spirits suspended upside down above the entrance to the great building. They hung from invisible bindings, arms stretched toward the ground, mouths open in silent screams or desperate pleas. "Help us," one called, its voice somehow reaching Owen despite the distance. "The archives hold the key. The binding stone can be broken. Please, anyone who hears..." The spirit's words faded as it twisted in apparent agony, unable to complete its thought.

Owen stood at the edge of the spectral gathering, his jaw set in determination. There was something—or someone—keeping these souls trapped and tormented. Something powerful yet fundamentally disgusting for what it had done. The Valyrians were abhorrent to the extreme for their slavery and blood magic, but that didn't mean they deserved to suffer for eternity. No soul should be denied its final rest, regardless of the sins committed in life. That was a principle Owen held firmly, even in this world where morality often bent to necessity.

"Whatever did this has a lot to answer for," he muttered, adjusting the staff in his grip. The crystal head pulsed with energy that seemed to repel the sickly green miasma surrounding the spirits. With a deep breath, Owen began walking toward the imposing doors of the large building, his steps measured and deliberate.

His boot struck a loose stone, sending it skittering across the obsidian pavement with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the deathly silence. Owen froze as the noise echoed through the courtyard. As one, every tortured soul turned to look at him, their hollow eyes suddenly fixed on his living form with desperate intensity. The weight of their collective gaze sent ice down his spine.

Don't look sideways, don't look sideways, he thought frantically, keeping his eyes fixed on the ornate doors ahead. He continued walking with forced casualness, as if he hadn't noticed the hundreds of spectral forms now trailing behind and beside him, their translucent bodies writhing with each painful movement.

A female spirit, her once-beautiful features now distorted by centuries of torment, crawled toward the path on her hands and knees. Her movements were jerky and unnatural, her spectral form flickering like a candle in a draft. As she reached for his ankle, Owen instinctively jumped over her outstretched hand, landing several feet ahead with easy grace.

"He can see us!" the spirit shrieked, her voice carrying the hollow echo of death. "Free us!" another soul shouted desperately, the cry taken up by dozens, then hundreds of others as they rushed forward on misty legs that barely resembled human limbs anymore. They surrounded him, begging, pleading, their hands reaching for any part of him they could touch. "Please," one cried. "We've been here so long. So very long."

As the first spectral hands reached for him, Owen's magical defenses activated instantly. The wards he'd prepared earlier responded to the contact, a golden sphere of light expanding outward from his body. The protective magic pulsed once, twice, then discharged in a radiant wave of holy energy. The spirits were blown backward by the force, their forms dissipating momentarily before reforming several yards away, groaning pitifully as the divine magic burned their corrupted essence.

Owen sighed heavily, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of what he'd just witnessed. These were people once—arrogant, cruel people in many cases, but people nonetheless. "Yes, I can see you," he addressed them collectively, his voice steady and clear. "And yes, I will investigate what's happening here. I can't promise freedom, but I'll do what I can to end... this." He gestured to the chains binding many of them, the cruel cages suspending others.

A spirit near the front, wearing the tattered remains of what might have been senatorial robes, drifted forward cautiously. "Why should you help us, outsider? You are not Valyrian." His tone held the arrogance that must have defined him in life. "And what power could you possibly wield against what holds us here?"

"If you really think hard about it," Owen replied coldly, "most of you had this coming. Your slavery. Your brutal dragon conquests. The blood magic experiments." He looked pointedly at several spirits who shrank back from his gaze. "Don't mistake compassion for absolution."

The spirits moaned collectively, a sound like wind through a graveyard. One or two even argued, their voices rising with indignation. "We were the greatest civilization this world has ever known!" shouted one. "The dragons were our right!" called another. "The lesser races were meant to serve!"

Owen raised his hand, and to his surprise, they fell silent immediately. Perhaps they were so used to obeying the living that the habit persisted even in death. "I'm not here to argue comparative ethics with dead slavers," he said firmly. "Whatever deeds you did or didn't do will be judged after I stop whatever's happening. But first things first—does this building have a library?"

A male spirit with long, silver-white hair drifted forward, his chains rattling with ethereal hollowness. "It holds the second greatest collection of knowledge in all Valyria," he said with what might have been pride. "Only the Great Library in the capital surpassed it. I was its keeper." He bowed slightly, the gesture incongruous with his tortured state. "All the knowledge of magic, history, and dragonlore of the western provinces was stored here."

Owen nodded, satisfaction flickering across his face. "Good. That's what I need." He glanced at the imposing doors, their black surface carved with symbols that seemed to shift when viewed directly. "And I'm guessing whatever is inside this building is what trapped your souls and made you like this?" He gestured to their twisted, malformed spiritual bodies. "And it probably won't just hand over any books I might want?"

The spirits nodded in unison, a synchronized movement that sent chills down Owen's spine. Some moaned softly, while others simply looked away, as if the thought of what dwelled inside was too terrible to contemplate.

"Fanfuckingtastic," Owen groaned, running a hand through his ash-streaked hair. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as he faced the assembled spirits. "Alright then, enlighten me. What—or who—exactly am I dealing with in there?"

There was a moment of heavy silence among the spirits, their ethereal forms wavering like reflections in disturbed water. They exchanged glances—or what passed for glances among the dead—some seeming hesitant, others fearful. Finally, one spirit stepped forward, his spectral form more defined than the others. He wore the remnants of ornate robes, and a chain of office still hung around his neck, the metal links somehow preserved in death.

"His name," the spirit said, voice hollow yet resonant, "is Vaelmor Pyrxion. He was one of the lower freeholders, with but one dragon to his family's name."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "I thought as long as you had a dragon, you were just a freeholder—not lower or above each other."

Many souls shook their heads in unison, a rippling motion that sent shivers across the courtyard. A woman's spirit floated forward, her once-beautiful face now a mask of eternal anguish.

"That is what the histories remember, but it was not our truth," she said bitterly. "There were those who had only been able to bond with one dragon and pass it on to their son or daughter, while the greater freeholder families had multiple dragons bonded in their bloodlines. More dragons meant more military might, more wealth, and more say in the day-to-day running of Valyria."

Owen nodded slowly, filing away this new information. "That makes sense, I suppose. Power hierarchies exist everywhere." He glanced toward the imposing building ahead. "But how did he become powerful enough to chain your souls if he was just a freeholder with a single dragon?"

The spirits stirred uneasily, their forms flickering like candles in a draft. Another spirit drifted forward—an elderly man with a long beard that trailed into nothingness.

"There were always rumors of his ambitions," the bearded spirit whispered. "How he was secretly trained to be a blood mage and necromancer by his mother, a beautiful but terrible lady who was a priestess from Asshai. It was said she came from a family that lived near Stygai itself." The spirit's voice faltered at the name, as if even in death, the mere mention of the Shadow City inspired dread.

A third soul pushed through the ghostly crowd—this one bearing terrible burns across his spectral form, his features partially melted away. "I was there when it happened," he said, his voice cracking with remembered terror. "When the Doom began, the earth shook beneath our feet. Fire fell from the sky without mercy. We were in session, debating a new trade agreement with Qarth." He gestured to the building behind him. "The Forum of Voices, where the lesser houses could speak without being silenced by the Forty Families."

The burned spirit paused, as if gathering strength to continue. "Vaelmor sat silent while we screamed and tried to escape. Then, without warning, he grabbed the nearest freeholder next to him and slit his throat with a black blade. As the blood poured out, he began to chant."

"He offered the souls of the dead freeholder and the rest of us in the Forum who died from the fire or falling rubble as sacrifices," continued a female spirit, her hands clutching at the chains that bound her ephemeral form. "While we were disoriented, caught between life and death, he trapped us with spells I had never heard before—words that seemed to tear at the fabric of the world itself."

The burned spirit nodded grimly. "Then he ordered his own dragon, Morghurys, to kill itself. The beast—a black and crimson monster—obeyed without question. Its flames rose from its dying body to cover Vaelmor completely." The spirit's voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "We watched as the fire burned away his flesh, transforming him into a skeleton blazing with eternal flame, a crown of Valyrian steel melting and reforming upon his skull."

"When the explosions stopped and the Doom settled," said an elderly spirit who had remained silent until now, "he remained standing where all else had fallen. And before our souls could go to find what came next—whatever afterlife awaits those of Valyrian blood—he lashed us to his bidding."

"He uses us as energy," explained another, a young woman whose beauty was still evident despite her tortured state. "We fuel his powers as he made Argos his city of darkness and this building, the Forum of Voices, his seat of power."

"Since then," the first spirit concluded, his voice laden with centuries of suffering, "we have waited in anguish. Unable to die truly, unable to rest, unable to escape his control." He gestured to the countless souls surrounding them. "Some of us were powerful mages in life, others were humble servants who merely had the misfortune to be present when the Doom struck. But in Vaelmor's eyes, we are all the same—power for his foul magic."

The spirits fell silent then, their tale told. The green glow that permeated the dead city seemed to pulse stronger around them, as if the very mention of Vaelmor's name had drawn his attention. Owen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ash-laden air of Valyria. He looked up at the Forum of Voices, its broken domes and cracked columns suddenly seeming more ominous than before.

"Oh great... a fucking lich!" Owen groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned to the assembled spirits, their tortured forms flickering in the sickly green light. "I don't suppose any of you know a weakness I could use against this Vaelmor? Something specific that might help me not end up joining your spectral fan club?" He gestured around at the trapped souls, his voice tinged with frustration.

The spirits remained silent, exchanging glances among themselves. Some appeared to shrink back, while others simply lowered their gaze to the obsidian ground. Their reluctance—or perhaps inability—to answer was answer enough. Owen sighed deeply, his breath visible in the unnaturally cold air. "Right. That would've been too easy." With practiced movements, he drew Death Dealer from its sheath, the ebony blade seeming to drink in what little light remained in the courtyard. His silver staff materialized in his other hand, its crystal head and intricate runes already beginning to glow with power. The trapped souls watched in evident awe, their tortured faces briefly illuminated by the staff's light.

"Spooky scary skeletons," Owen mumbled to himself as he walked forward toward the Forum of Voices entrance. The massive doors stood open, like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. Ancient Valyrian glyphs decorated the frame, their meaning lost to all but the most learned scholars—and, apparently, reincarnated bozos with magical knowledge from beyond the world. "Send shivers down your spine..." he continued the song under his breath, a small comfort from his first life that felt absurdly appropriate given the circumstances.

He passed through the doorway, the temperature dropping noticeably as he stepped into the darkness beyond. The interior of the Forum was a study in contradictions—parts of it remained in pristine condition, untouched by the centuries, while other sections had collapsed entirely, leaving gaping holes in the ceiling where ash and eerie light filtered through. Owen's enhanced vision adjusted quickly to the darkness, making out the shapes of ornate columns and marble floors laid out in intricate patterns. Faint green flames burned in braziers that seemed to need no fuel, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.

He walked on, his footsteps echoing unnaturally in the cavernous space. Statues lined the corridors—once proud effigies of Valyrian dragonlords now reduced to faceless sentinels, their features melted away by some intense heat that had spared the rest of their forms. As Owen passed, he could have sworn their blank faces turned to follow his progress, though when he looked directly at them, they remained motionless. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the stench of sulfur and something else—a sickly sweet smell that reminded Owen of decaying flowers and burnt flesh.

After what seemed like an eternity of winding passages and grand, empty halls, Owen reached what must have been the heart of the Forum—a vast, circular chamber designed like an amphitheater, with tiered seating surrounding a central speaking area. The room had clearly been designed for debate, with perfect acoustics that carried even his quietest footstep throughout the space. But what drew Owen's attention was what occupied the center of the chamber.

On a large pile of hundreds—perhaps thousands—of skulls sat what appeared to be a man. At first glance, he looked ordinary enough—handsome even, with the classic Valyrian features of silver-gold hair and fine, aristocratic bone structure. He wore robes of deep purple and black, embroidered with symbols of fire and dragons in thread that still gleamed despite the centuries. But his eyes gave him away immediately—they glowed a vivid, unnatural green, the same sickly hue that permeated the trapped souls outside. Owen knew instantly that what he was seeing was merely a façade, a glamour cast over something far more horrific.

"You must be Vaelmor," Owen said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber despite his conversational tone. He remained at the edge of the amphitheater, not yet descending to the central floor where the skull throne stood.

The man's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach those glowing eyes. There was a viciousness hidden behind the beautiful mask he wore, a predatory quality that no glamour could fully conceal. "It is Emperor Vaelmor, if it pleases you," he replied, his voice melodious yet somehow wrong, as if multiple voices spoke in perfect unison just slightly out of sync with each other.

Owen snorted, resting the butt of his staff against the marble floor with a solid thunk. "Emperor of what?" he asked, eyebrow raised in mocking challenge. He gestured around at the ruined chamber. "Doesn't look like there's much of an empire to rule here. Just a bunch of tormented ghosts and a fancy chair made of dead people."

The lich's smile didn't falter, but something dangerous flashed across those glowing eyes. "Valyria, of course," he said with the casual confidence of someone stating an obvious fact. "And soon, the world." He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on skulls as if they were armrests. "The Doom was merely a setback. Empires rise and fall, but I remain. I have had centuries to plan, to gather power, to wait for the right moment... and the right vessel."

"Not to be rude, but you don't seem to be doing much conquering since Valyria's doom," Owen pointed out, taking a step down toward the central floor. "Been, what, four hundred years? That's a lot of planning time for someone who hasn't managed to get past the front door." He kept his tone light, almost conversational, but his grip on his weapons remained tight, ready for the slightest hostile movement.

The lich's handsome face remained placid, but a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "As much as I desire to extend my dominion beyond these ruins, I find myself... geographically challenged." He rose from his throne, moving with unnatural grace. "I am bound to Argos, to this very chamber where I transformed and effectively died. Whether by the will of the Valyrian gods or some other force, I cannot leave this place." His smile returned, sharper now, more predatory. "Unless, of course, I inhabit another's body."

"Oh, I see," Owen rolled his eyes, exaggerated understanding dawning on his face. "So that's what this is all about. The ol' steal your body situation, is it? I've got to say, that's a bit cliché, even for an undead." Despite his flippant tone, Owen was calculating furiously, assessing the distance between them, the possible magical defenses the lich might have in place, the quickest route of escape should things go south.

The lich nodded, seeming almost pleased that Owen understood so quickly. "I cannot call to anyone from where I am. The magic that binds me prevents it. And no living person had ever walked all this way into Valyrian lands without being killed by mutants, eaten by abominations, or dying of hunger and thirst." His green eyes glowed brighter as he studied Owen with undisguised interest. "You, however, have succeeded where countless others failed. You must be... special."

"Can't do this, can't do that, need a body for this," Owen said, rocking back on his heels with an exaggerated yawn. "Sounds like a skill issue to me."

The lich was silent for a moment, his beautiful Valyrian face frozen in disbelief. Then, slowly, understanding dawned in those eerie green eyes. "You... mock me?" Vaelmor said, his voice dangerous and low as he stood up from his throne of skulls. The glamour hiding his true form began to slip away, the handsome face melting like wax down a candle. Flesh dripped disgustingly from his body, revealing the skeleton beneath, which began to glow with an inner fire. His eye sockets blazed with emerald flames as a staff of Valyrian steel materialized in his hand, matching the crown that now sat atop his flaming skull.

"The time for pleasantries is over," the lich declared, his voice now a chorus of dozens speaking in unison. "I will take your body, outsider, and with it, I will finally leave this prison. I will reclaim Valyria's glory, rebuild our empire, and rule the world as—"

He didn't continue talking as a large bolt of magical energy nearly took his head off, passing through the space where his skull had been a split second before. The lich had moved with inhuman speed, his neck craning at an impossible angle.

"Let's do this, skull face," Owen said, rising into the air as the runes on his body and cloak began to glow with power. The lich matched his movement, hovering several feet above his throne, his bony fingers splayed as he gathered necrotic energy between them.

The two launched into battle, the chamber filling with crackling energy as they unleashed barrages of magic at each other. Owen's attacks came in rapid succession—bolts of ice, fire, and pure arcane force—while the lich responded with tendrils of sickly green energy that sought to drain life wherever they touched. The spectacle was beautiful and terrifying, like deadly fireworks illuminating the ancient chamber.

"Four hundred years of practice," Owen taunted as he deflected a particularly vicious spell, "and you still cast like an apprentice. My wife hits harder than you, and she's pregnant!"

The lich's flaming eyes narrowed to slits. "Insolent worm! I was binding souls when your ancestors were still hunting with sticks!" He raised his staff, channeling a massive surge of power that filled the room with the stench of burning flesh and decay.

After a few minutes of intense magical exchange, Vaelmor realized he was being overwhelmed. Owen's attacks came faster and with greater variety than the lich could counter, forcing him to create a dome-like shield of churning necrotic energy. "Impossible," the lich spat, the flames in his eye sockets fluctuating with rage. "No living mage possesses such power. What are you?"

"Just a guy with a decent education," Owen replied, hurling another volley against the shield. The impact sent cracks of golden light through the green barrier, causing the lich to stagger backward. "And someone who doesn't spend centuries sitting on his ass."

Enraged, Vaelmor thrust his skeletal hands outward, summoning a dozen giant blazing skulls that circled him like moons around a planet. "DIE!" he shrieked as the skulls shot forward, their jaws open and trailing green fire. Each one screeched with the voices of the souls trapped within them, a cacophony of torment and fury.

Owen dodged them easily, twisting between the projectiles while launching counter-attacks of his own. "You know," he called out as he narrowly avoided a skull that exploded against a column behind him, "for a scary undead emperor, your aim is terrible! My sister in law throws my wife's old dolls with better accuracy!"

The lich's response was to slam his staff against the floor, sending a shockwave of necromantic energy throughout the chamber. From every crack and crevice, skeletal hands emerged, pulling decayed bodies from wherever they had lain hidden beneath the Forum. Within moments, a small army of skeletons stood assembled, their bones glowing with the same eerie green fire as their master.

"Archers!" Vaelmor commanded. The skeletal horde raised ancient bows, nocking arrows that materialized from the same green fire. "FIRE!"

A storm of flaming arrows filled the air, seeking Owen with unnatural precision. Most bounced harmlessly off his magical shields, the enchantments woven through his cloak flaring with each impact. Those that might have found a way through never reached their target—Owen was already elsewhere, moving with a speed that left afterimages in his wake.

"Is this the best the mighty Valyrian Empire could offer?" Owen laughed, spinning his staff to deflect several arrows at once. "I fought mutant goat-men in Braavos that put up a better fight!"

With smooth, practiced movements, Owen reached into his cloak and withdrew a handful of his Dwemer drones. The small brass devices unfolded in midair, their crystal eyes glowing with accumulated power. "Go play," he commanded, and the drones shot toward the skeleton army, releasing precise beams of energy that shattered the undead soldiers with surgical precision.

Vaelmor screamed in anger, the sound resonating with the tortured voices of all the souls he had bound. "Just die, you miserable wretch!" he shrieked, his flames burning hotter, casting long shadows across the chamber as more and more of his skeletal forces fell to Owen's drones.

"Wish you'd do the same," Owen retorted, gathering power for his next attack as the drones continued their methodical destruction of the lich's army. "Oh wait, you already did—and you couldn't even do that right!"

Vaelmor's scream of anger and annoyance echoed throughout the chamber, a cacophony of rage that seemed to carry the voices of countless tormented souls within it. The sound reverberated off the ancient walls, causing dust and debris to shower down from the cracked ceiling. Owen couldn't help but grin as he darted through the air, his movements fluid and unpredictable, each dodge making the lich's attacks more desperate and less coordinated.

"Four centuries of practice and that's the best you can do?" Owen taunted, spinning away from a particularly vicious blast of necrotic energy that disintegrated a column behind him. "My pregnant wife has better aim when she throws pillows at me for snoring too loud!"

The lich's flaming eye sockets flared brighter, his skeletal jaw opening in a grimace of pure hatred. "You insignificant speck! You dare mock me? ME? I have commanded dragons! I have bound the souls of the mightiest mages Valyria has ever known!" Each word was punctuated by another blast, each one missing Owen by increasingly narrow margins.

"And yet here you are, throwing tantrum like a toddler who dropped his lemon cake," Owen replied, launching a counter-attack that shattered part of the lich's shoulder, sending bone fragments scattering across the floor. "Maybe if you'd spent less time on your fancy skull throne and more time practicing, you'd actually hit something."

Vaelmor went eerily still, the flames in his eye sockets condensing to pinpricks of intense green light. "Enough," he said, his voice suddenly calm and all the more terrifying for it. "ENOUGH!" The second word exploded from him with such force that it cracked the marble floor beneath them. The lich's skeletal form began to draw darkness toward itself, tendrils of sickly green necrotic energy swirling around his bones like serpents. The air grew heavy, thick with the stench of decay and ancient magic.

With a sound like a thousand souls screaming in unison, Vaelmor shot upward, crashing through the ceiling of the Forum of Voices, sending chunks of ancient stone raining down. Owen cursed under his breath and followed immediately, unwilling to let the lich escape or gain any advantage. As he burst through the newly made hole into the ashen sky above, Owen's eyes widened at the sight before him.

Hovering fifty feet above the ruined cityscape of Argos, Vaelmor held his staff aloft, the Valyrian steel gleaming with an unholy light. From its tip, a vortex of green energy spiraled downward, connecting to the ground in a twisting column of power that seemed to drain the very life from the air itself. The earth beneath began to crack and split, fissures racing outward from the point of contact like veins carrying poison.

"Behold the true extent of my power!" Vaelmor's voice boomed across the dead city, no longer simply his own but a chorus of hundreds speaking as one. "For centuries I have fed on the souls trapped here! For centuries I have drawn strength from the Doom itself!"

As he spoke, the ground below erupted. Skeletal hands burst from the ash-covered streets, clawing their way upward. Bodies followed – not merely human remains but monstrosities that defied description. Massive, hulking abominations with multiple arms and twisted features pulled themselves from the earth. Demons with curved horns and elongated limbs scrabbled up from the depths, their bones glowing with the same sickly light as their master. Most terrifying of all were the winged horrors that rose from the larger fissures – dragon-like in form but mutated beyond recognition, their skeletal wings spanning twenty feet or more, eye sockets blazing with emerald flame.

Within minutes, an army thousands strong had assembled below, a sea of undead horrors that filled the streets and squares of Argos, surrounding the Forum of Voices. They stood motionless, awaiting their master's command, an army that would have made even the bravest warriors of Westeros flee in terror.

"Do you see now, outsider?" Vaelmor spread his arms wide, his flaming skull tilted back in a gesture of triumph. "This is but a fraction of the power I command! These are the forgotten dead of Valyria, twisted by centuries of exposure to the necromantic energies that permeate this cursed land! They will tear you limb from limb! They will feast on your entrails while you still live! They will—"

The lich's gloating was cut short as he raised a bony hand to shield his flaming eye sockets from a sudden, blinding light. Owen hovered before him, no longer darting about but perfectly still, surrounded by a brilliant golden aura that grew brighter with each passing second. The light seemed to push back the darkness that had shrouded Argos for centuries, creating a perfect sphere of radiance in the otherwise gloomy sky.

"Impressive," Owen said, his voice calm and level, a stark contrast to his earlier taunts. "Really, I mean it. But I didn't come all this way to play with your toys." He raised his staff horizontal before him, holding it with both hands. The crystal head began to pulse with power, the light growing so intense that it became nearly impossible to look at directly. Energy crackled along the length of the staff, golden arcs of power that leapt and danced between the intricate runes carved into its surface.

"What are you doing?" Vaelmor demanded, the first hint of uncertainty entering his multi-layered voice. "What is that magic? It's not Valyrian!"

Owen didn't answer. With a fluid motion, he spun once, twice, building momentum, then hurled his staff downward like a javelin. The weapon streaked through the air, trailing golden light like a comet, its descent marked by a high-pitched whine that grew louder as it approached the undead horde below. It struck the ground in the center of the army, embedding itself upright in the cracked earth. For a brief moment, nothing happened.

The undead nearest to the staff approached cautiously, skeletal heads tilting in curiosity, clawed hands reaching tentatively toward the glowing object. One demon-like creature actually touched the staff, its bony fingers smoking upon contact. Then, with a sound like the world itself being torn asunder, the staff released its power.

A dome of golden light exploded outward, expanding with impossible speed. Everything it touched simply ceased to exist – undead warriors disintegrated into ash, their bones turning to dust before they could even begin to burn. The larger abominations lasted a second longer, their massive forms silhouetted briefly against the brilliant light before they too were consumed. The winged horrors screeched and tried to flee, taking to the air on their skeletal wings, but the wave of holy energy caught them easily, reducing them to nothing more than swirling motes of light.

The shockwave continued to expand, racing through the streets of Argos, purging the necrotic energy that had saturated the city for centuries. The perpetual clouds of ash and darkness that hung over the ruins parted like a curtain, allowing true sunlight to touch this part of Valyria for the first time since the Doom. Green energy flickered and died, banished by the overwhelming power of Owen's magic.

When the light finally faded, Vaelmor looked down in disbelief. Where his army had stood, there was nothing but clean, empty streets. No bones, no dust, not even shadows remained of the thousands of undead he had summoned. The necromantic energy that had sustained him for centuries had been pushed back, confined now to the Forum of Voices itself, the last bastion of his power.

"No," the lich whispered, his voice suddenly singular and small. "NO! This is impossible! No mortal has such power! What are you? WHAT ARE YOU?"

Owen appeared directly in front of the distracted lich, his fist already in motion. "Just a guy who's really tired of your shit," he said as his magically enhanced punch connected with Vaelmor's jaw. The impact was catastrophic, sending the lich hurtling downward with such force that he created a crater when he struck the ground near the entrance to the Forum of Voices. Dust and debris exploded upward from the point of impact, temporarily obscuring the fallen lich from view.

Vaelmor clawed out of the crater on shaking skeletal hands, fragments of bone splintering off as he dragged himself forward. For the first time since he had become a lich, he felt something he had forgotten existed—weakness. The sensation was almost novel after centuries of undead power, this trembling frailty that made his joints creak and his flaming eyes flicker. Human sensations returned—exhaustion, fear, desperation. The obliteration of his undead army had severed countless connections that had fed him power for centuries, leaving him hollow and diminished.

"What... have you done?" he rasped, his once-commanding voice now little more than a whisper. The green flames that had encased his skull flickered dangerously low, threatening to extinguish entirely. With skeletal fingers that shook like autumn leaves in a storm, he reached inside his own ribcage, past blackened bone to where a small object pulsed with sickly light. His phylactery—his own heart, preserved through dark magic at the moment of his transformation. Black and rotten, yet still pulsing weakly with the necrotic energy that sustained his unnatural existence, it represented his final lifeline.

"I'll take that," Owen said coolly, appearing before the prostrate lich in a flash of movement too quick for the undead "emperor" to counter. With a flick of his wrist, Owen snatched the heart from Vaelmor's grasp, holding the diseased organ at arm's length, his face contorted in disgust. The heart beat in his palm, each pulse sending out waves of corrupted magic that raised goosebumps along Owen's arm despite his magical protections. It felt wrong in every sense—not just evil, but fundamentally opposed to the natural order, an abomination that had extended life far beyond its rightful end.

Vaelmor reached upward with trembling phalanges, his fleshless face somehow conveying utter desperation as he tried to reclaim his heart. "No... please..." His bony arm fell limply to his side, the effort too great to sustain. He had expended too much energy summoning the now-destroyed undead army, the thousands of souls he had commanded for centuries suddenly torn from his grasp by Owen's devastating attack. For the first time since the Doom, Vaelmor Pyrxion found himself truly powerless.

"Return it... I beg you," the lich pleaded, his voice no longer the imperious command of an emperor but the desperate whine of a cornered rat. "I can serve you! I know secrets—dark arts that would make you invincible! The blood rituals of Old Valyria, necromancy that would allow you to command armies of the dead! We could rule together!" His words tumbled out faster now, more frantic. "I could make you a king—no, an emperor! We could rebuild Valyria, conquer Westeros, make the world tremble at our feet! Just... please..."

Owen spat to the side, a gesture of pure contempt that spoke more clearly than words ever could. He lifted one hand skyward, and from the devastated cityscape, his silver staff flew toward him, returning to his grasp with a slap of metal against flesh. The crystal head glowed with renewed power, having recharged after its devastating discharge. "I've met some pathetic creatures in my time on this world," Owen said, his voice hard as Valyrian steel, "but you might just take the prize. Four hundred years of existence, and all you've managed to do is torture souls and sit on a pile of bones."

"You don't understand! The power I could give you—" Vaelmor began, but Owen cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"I understand perfectly," Owen replied, his eyes cold. "And the answer is no. Besides, there are some friends of yours who've been waiting a very long time to see you." He nodded toward the ruins surrounding them, where a silver light had begun to manifest, growing steadily brighter against the ashen backdrop of the dead city.

Silver light began to glow around the crater, casting long shadows across the ruined forum. From the mist emerged figures—hundreds of them, the trapped Valyrian souls that had been chained and tortured at the entrance to the Forum of Voices. Where before they had been twisted parodies of their living selves, now they appeared restored to their former beauty—tall and graceful with silver-gold hair and ethereal forms that glowed with inner light. Their ghostly violet eyes flashed with centuries of accumulated anger as they surrounded the crater, gazing down at their former tormentor.

"No!" Vaelmor shrieked, a note of genuine terror entering his voice for the first time. "Stay back! I command you! I AM YOUR MASTER!" He tried to gesture imperiously, to summon the will that had kept these souls bound for centuries, but his remaining power slipped through his skeletal fingers like sand. With desperate movements, he drew upon the last dregs of his necrotic energy, forming a small, pitiful shield around himself—a pale green bubble that flickered uncertainly in the silver light of the approaching spirits.

Owen looked at the rotting heart in his hand one last time, feeling the weak pulse of unholy magic within it. "Four hundred years is long enough," he said quietly. Then, with a quick motion, he tightened his grip, crushing the phylactery in his palm. Black ichor sprayed between his fingers as the ancient organ collapsed, its magic extinguished in an instant. Vaelmor doubled over on the ground, his skeletal form convulsing as the connection to his phylactery—the anchor of his undead existence—was severed forever. Black bile spewed from his jaw as the green flames on his body dimmed to barely visible embers, his crown of Valyrian steel sliding from his skull to clatter hollowly on the stone.

"This one is yours," Owen said to the assembled souls, stepping back from the crater. "He's taken enough from you. Take what you need." He wiped the black ichor from his hand on his cloak, watching dispassionately as the spirits moved forward with purpose in their ethereal steps.

The souls surged forward as one, a tide of silver vengeance washing over the crippled lich. They fell upon him like starving wolves, their ghostly hands passing through his skeleton to tear at something deeper—the essence that had sustained his unnatural existence. Some clawed at his skull, others pulled at his ribcage, while still others seemed to reach inside him to extract glowing fragments of green energy—pieces of themselves he had stolen over the centuries. As they reclaimed what was theirs, their forms grew more solid, more real, while Vaelmor became increasingly transparent.

"No! Stop! I made you immortal! I preserved you when the Doom would have scattered you to oblivion!" Vaelmor screamed, his voice rising to a pitch of terror and pain that had not been heard in Argos since the day of the cataclysm. His pleas fell on deaf ears as the souls continued their vengeance, their faces set in expressions of righteous fury. A senator from his former life stomped on Vaelmor's arm, shattering the bones to dust. A woman whose family he had sacrificed tore at his spine. A child whose life he had cut short to fuel a ritual pushed ethereal hands through his eye sockets.

The lich's screams echoed through the ruined Forum, bouncing off broken columns and shattered domes, a symphony of agony that seemed to cleanse the very air of the corruption that had lingered for centuries. With each passing moment, his form grew more fragmented, pieces of bone crumbling away as the souls reclaimed their stolen essence. The fires that had burned in his eye sockets flickered one final time, then extinguished completely, leaving only darkness in the hollow skull.

When the souls were done, there was nothing left of the mighty Vaelmor Pyrxion but broken bones scattered across the crater and a cracked skull that one of the spirits—a former high priest of Valyria—crushed beneath a spectral boot with a sound like finality itself. The crown of Valyrian steel that had adorned his brow now lay dull and empty among the remains, its magic gone with its owner's demise. Four hundred years of torment, ended in moments of violent justice.

There was silence when the souls looked around at each other, their ethereal forms flickering in the moonlight that now penetrated the thinning ash clouds above Argos. Some smiled, the expression strange on faces that had known only torment for centuries. Others embraced, ghostly arms passing through each other in a semblance of human comfort they had been denied for so long. Many, however, simply stood looking uncertain, the sudden freedom after centuries of bondage leaving them adrift in purpose. The green glow that had permeated their spectral bodies was gone now, replaced by a soft silver luminescence that seemed to emanate from within.

A female spirit approached Owen, her beauty remarkable even in death. She had been a noblewoman in life, perhaps, with high cheekbones and flowing silver-gold hair that moved as if underwater. "What now?" she asked, her voice melodic yet hollow as Owen used a quick spell to wash the black ichor from his hand, the remains of Vaelmor's phylactery dissolving into nothing more than a foul memory.

"Fucked if I know," Owen declared with a shrug, entirely uncaring of how his bluntness might land. "Not to be rude..." he paused, then smirked, "actually, to be a hundred percent rude, all of you are still disgusting slavers in my book." His eyes swept across the assembled spirits, taking in their reactions with cool detachment. Some looked genuinely ashamed, their gazes dropping to the cracked obsidian beneath their spectral feet. Others appeared almost amused by his unchanging stance, as if his moral judgment was a quaint curiosity after centuries of torment.

He looked back at them, noting how some actually appeared morose at his words. With a deep sigh that spoke of exhaustion beyond the physical, Owen's voice softened slightly. "Look, I'm not the best person to ask about what truly happens after death. Atonement? Oblivion? Paradise? Pain? Or perhaps another adventure where you can live a better life than the one you had—I don't know." He gestured broadly at the ruined cityscape around them, the fallen stones and broken dreams of Valyria. "What I do know is that it won't be any good wandering Valyria with regrets and broken memories. You just... have to let go."

"Let go..." echoed the beautiful soul, her spectral form seeming to brighten slightly as understanding dawned. "Yes... I think I understand." Without warning, she drifted forward and pressed her ethereal lips against Owen's cheek, the contact feeling like nothing more than a cool breeze against his skin.

"OY!" Owen jumped back, hand reflexively going to his cheek though there was no mark there. "I have a wife!" He glared at the spirit, whose expression had transformed into one of genuine amusement—perhaps the first true mirth she had felt in centuries.

The female soul laughed, the sound like distant wind chimes, and began to fade around the edges, her form becoming transparent as she embraced her release. One by one, the other spirits followed her example, their bodies dissolving into motes of silver light that drifted upward toward the clearing sky. Some nodded respectfully to Owen as they disappeared, others simply closed their eyes as if falling into a peaceful sleep at last. A few wept with joy, their tears evaporating into sparkles that joined the ascending lights. The courtyard gradually emptied as hundreds of tormented souls finally found the courage to release their hold on the mortal world.

Soon, only one spirit remained—the former high priest who had crushed Vaelmor's skull beneath his heel. Unlike the others, his spectral form stood tall and dignified, robes flowing around him in an ethereal breeze. "He kept the books and treasures he collected from the ruins of the Doom inside the Forum building," the priest said, his voice resonant with the authority he must have commanded in life. "Behind his throne, in a locked room. Perhaps you'll find what you want there." He gestured toward the imposing structure, its broken domes silhouetted against the newly revealed night sky.

The priest bowed deeply, a gesture of respect that seemed to cost him no small measure of pride. "May the dragon gods of Valyria go with you, stranger from beyond." His form began to dissolve like the others, the last words fading along with his presence. Owen merely shrugged his shoulders and turned back toward the building, his footsteps echoing in the now-empty courtyard. Above him, for the first time in untold years, the clouds parted completely, allowing pure moonlight to bathe Argos in silver, transforming the city of horrors into something almost beautiful in its ruined grandeur.

Chapter Text

Owen walked back into the Forum of Voices, his footsteps echoing through the now-silent chamber. The souls that had been trapped here for centuries were gone, liberated by his destruction of Vaelmor's phylactery. Only the lingering scent of ash and the ethereal whispers of freedom remained.

"Behind the throne," he murmured, recalling the spirit's words.

Vaelmor's throne of skulls still dominated the center of the Forum, a grotesque monument to the lich's power and madness. The skulls—some human, some distinctly not—were fused together with obsidian and dark magic, their eye sockets eerily seeming to follow Owen as he approached. Behind the macabre seat, partially concealed by shadow, stood an unassuming black door marked with glowing Valyrian sigils.

"Blood and fire," Owen translated, running his fingers over the ancient runes. The magic lock pulsed against his touch, recognizing him as an intruder. Unlike the locks he'd encountered before, this one held no keyhole or physical mechanism—only pure Valyrian sorcery, designed to incinerate anyone unauthorized who attempted entry.

Owen grinned. "Nice try, you decrepit fuck." He drew Death Dealer, the black blade humming with anticipation, and channeled a surge of power through his enhanced magical circuits. The sword glowed blue-white as he swung it in a precise arc.

CRACK

The spell-locked door didn't just open—it exploded inward, fragments of stone and magic scattering like deadly confetti. Owen stepped through the settling dust, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Sweet fucking gods of every realm."

Gold. Mountains of it. Coins minted during Valyria's height were stacked in precarious towers that reached almost to the ceiling, each bearing the mark of the Freehold's fourteen flames. Gold bars emblazoned with Valyria's seal filled ornate chests, their luster undimmed by the centuries. The wealth of an empire, hoarded by one undying creature.

But what drew Owen's immediate attention was the wall of weapons—dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Valyrian steel swords, daggers, and spears, their rippled patterns catching the light of Owen's staff. More Valyrian steel than existed in all of Westeros, gathered in one room, more that what he had hoarded from the Valyrian court room.

"The Lannisters would start a dozen wars for this," he muttered, running his hand along a particularly fine blade. "And Tywin would sacrifice his children for half of what's here."

His gaze swept the chamber methodically, cataloging treasures that would make kings weep, when something in the corner caught his eye. Ten dragon eggs, nestled in an open case lined with dark velvet. Unlike Daenerys's eggs in the show, which had been stone-like and dormant, these seemed to pulse with an inner light, their scales shimmering in various colors—crimson, midnight blue, emerald green, burnished gold, silver-white, obsidian black, deep purple, burnt orange, mottled bronze, and an iridescent shade that shifted like oil on water, just like the three the Qohor delegation had brought him.

"Vaelmor, you greedy bastard," Owen whispered, approaching the eggs with reverence. Each one felt warm to the touch, resonating with magic that recognized his power. "You've been collecting these since the Doom, haven't you? Sending your soul-slaves to recover what was lost."

But even as he marveled at the eggs—each worth more than a kingdom's ransom—his eyes were drawn to what sat beyond them. Stacked neatly on a stone table, protected by a shimmering barrier of magic, were thirty massive leather-bound books.

"FUCK YES!" Owen shouted, his voice reverberating through the chamber as he rushed forward. The magical barrier dissipated at his touch, recognizing his superior power. "This is what I came for."

The books were immense—each nearly two feet tall and bound in what appeared to be dragon hide of various colors. Their spines were inlaid with gold and embedded with gemstones, forming titles in High Valyrian. Owen carefully lifted the first one, brushing away centuries of ash.

"Naejon se Perzys," he read aloud. "Secrets of the Flame." His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it, revealing pages of pristine parchment covered in elegant Valyrian script and intricate diagrams of dragons, their anatomy, and magical formulas for controlling fire.

The second book: "Ēngos Naejot Zaldrīzoti"—Blood Bonds to Dragons. The third: "Se Dāria Udra"—The Great Wyrm.

"This is it," Owen whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he flipped through page after page of ancient Valyrian knowledge. "Everything about dragons—their physiology, their magic, their bonds with riders." He paused at a diagram showing a ritual circle with a human figure at its center, surrounded by draconic runes. "Blood magic to strengthen the bond between dragon and rider... holy shit."

The fourth book made him pause longer: "Iēdrosa Naejot Se Jēda"—Pathways to the Beyond. He skimmed the contents, his eyes widening. "Dimensions... realms beyond our own... the shadow lands... fucking hell, this is about the White Walkers."

He pulled out another volume at random: "Rūklon Bartis"—Mind Mastery. The pages detailed Valyrian techniques for mental enhancement, telepathy, and psychic defense.

"So this is how you did it," Owen murmured, understanding dawning. "This is how Valyria controlled an empire. Not just with dragons, but with knowledge—knowledge they kept from everyone else."

Owen continued studying the vast collection of ancient Valyrian knowledge, his fingers carefully turning brittle pages as he tried to process the sheer amount of information before him. Most volumes contained what he expected—elaborate treatises on dragonsong, blood sorcery rituals for strengthening magical bonds, anatomical studies of adult dragons, and complex formulas for forging and enchanting Valyrian steel. Valuable, certainly, but not what he needed most urgently.

"Dragonfire this, blood magic that," he muttered, setting aside the twentieth tome. "These fuckers were obsessed. Where's the information on the Others? On winter magic?" He grabbed the next book from the diminishing pile, a slimmer volume that looked markedly different from the rest.

Unlike the immaculate dragon-hide bindings of the other books, this one was weathered, cracked at the edges, and covered in a layer of dust that seemed separate from the volcanic ash blanketing everything else in Valyria. This dust wasn't gray—it was the pale white of extreme age. The binding wasn't Valyrian dragonhide but something rougher, almost like the leather one might find in the North.

"The Histories of Northern Sorcery by Zovarys the Sage," Owen read aloud, his voice echoing in the chamber as he translated the ancient High Valyrian script. The hairs on his arms stood on end. "Holy shit, a Valyrian wrote about the North?"

Owen settled himself on a closed chest filled with gold coins, their value now secondary to the knowledge in his hands. He carefully opened the ancient tome, its spine creaking in protest. The first pages contained meticulous drawings of landscapes he immediately recognized—the Wolfswood, the Wall, even what appeared to be early Winterfell, though it looked different from the castle he knew.

"These are First Men runes," he whispered, tracing his finger over strange symbols alongside the Valyrian text. "This Zovarys actually translated them."

As he flipped through the weathered pages, Owen found detailed accounts of rituals performed by the Children of the Forest, early warging techniques of the First Men, and something that made his breath catch—sketches of what could only be White Walkers, labeled in High Valyrian as "Se Jelmāzma Vali"—The Ice Demons.

But it was near the end of the book that Owen froze completely. A section titled "Rūnigon Lēda Brandon Se Iōragon"—Meeting with Brandon the Builder.

"Fucking hell," Owen whispered. He began reading aloud, translating as he went:

"As much as the people of Valyria—its archons, freeholders, and citizens—have come to see and use the Blackstone in much of our architecture for its strength and receptiveness to sorcery, many still do not know about its origins, despite how much is utilized by our mages. Reports say that distant Yi Ti, with whom we have trade relations, possess five forts made of the substance, though they have remained tight-lipped about why they use it or why they built five massive forts of this material, still manned to this day with thousands of their soldiers despite no apparent danger in sight."

Owen paused, his mind racing. The Five Forts... built to hold back something from the Grey Waste, just as the Wall held back the Others. "Holy fucking shit," he murmured, continuing:

"We of Valyria were perhaps lucky to find massive deposits of the stone beneath one of the Fourteen Flames alongside obsidian, gold, and silver, but Yi Ti had acquired the bulk of theirs apparently from Asshai. My investigations and questions gaining no fruit in the East, I decided to take my inquiries west, to the Sunset Kingdoms—the continent known as Westeros."

Owen's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch. The blackstone is connected to all of this." He flipped the page eagerly and continued reading:

"Having secured passage on a trading vessel bound for the western shores, I began my journey to the land the Westerosi call the North. Without a dragon to carry me—for despite my station, I am not a dragonrider—the voyage took two full weeks upon treacherous seas. The Shivering Sea lived up to its name, with waves that crashed against our hull like the hammer of Balerion himself. Many of my scrolls were damaged by the damp, though I protected the most precious among them with waxed cloths.

Upon reaching the eastern shore at a modest port the locals called White Harbor, I encountered my first Northmen—a stoic, bearded folk who regarded me with suspicion. My Valyrian features marked me clearly as a foreigner, though when I spoke their tongue and offered silver, their demeanor softened somewhat. I secured horses and guides for the journey inland, which took another week through dense forests and rolling hills blanketed in snow despite it being what they called 'summer.' I found this most curious, as in Valyria such cold is unknown even in our deepest winter.

The castle called Winterfell appeared suddenly as we crested a hill—a sprawling fortress of dark stone surrounded by two massive walls. Unlike our elegant spires in Valyria, this structure was brutally practical, built to withstand not merely enemies but the very fury of nature itself. Local legend claimed it was constructed by giants, a tale I dismissed as northern fancy until I stood before its gates. The sheer scale of the stones, particularly in the oldest sections, defied conventional masonry. Some blocks were larger than three men standing atop one another, fitted together with such precision that not even a knife blade could pass between them.

The Lord of Winterfell received me in his great hall—a cavernous room heated by hot springs that ran through the walls, a feat of engineering that impressed even one accustomed to Valyrian achievements. Brandon Stark, whom they called 'the Builder,' was not what I expected. Though clearly of noble birth, he bore none of the arrogance common to Valyrian nobility. He was tall, with dark hair streaked with premature gray and eyes the color of frozen steel. His face was lined beyond his years, as though he had witnessed a thousand winters in one lifetime. Yet when he spoke, there was wisdom in his voice that I have found lacking in our most venerated archons.

'You have traveled far, man of Valyria,' he said to me in the Common Tongue. 'Few of your kind venture this far north.' When I presented my gifts—a small Valyrian steel dagger and scrolls containing basic fire magic—his response surprised me. He examined the dagger with appreciation but set aside the scrolls without interest. 'We have our own magics here,' he said, 'though they serve different purposes than yours.' In return, he gifted me a curved knife of pale material I first took for ivory but later learned was fashioned from the bone of an ice dragon—a creature I had believed to be mere legend.

We broke bread together that evening in a simple meal that would have been considered peasant fare in Valyria—salted meat, dark bread, and strong ale. Yet Brandon ate as though it were a feast, and I found myself following his example. 'You seek knowledge of the black stone,' he said, not a question but a statement. When I asked how he knew, he merely smiled. 'Your kind always seek what you do not understand. It is your strength and your weakness.' He promised to share what he knew, but first insisted I must understand why the North built its greatest defenses.

The following day, we rode northward with a small retinue of his most trusted men. For six days we traveled through increasingly harsh terrain until we reached what the Northmen simply called 'the Wall.' No description I commit to these pages could capture its immensity. A barrier of ice rising higher than the tallest towers of Valyria, stretching beyond sight to east and west. Brandon explained it was still under construction, with sections being added yearly, but even unfinished, it was the most awe-inspiring structure I had ever witnessed. 'Three hundred leagues long when complete,' he told me, 'and seven hundred feet high. Not built by men alone.' As if to confirm this, I saw them then—massive hairy beings three times the height of men, hauling blocks of ice larger than houses into position. Giants, not myth but flesh.

'The Wall serves a purpose beyond keeping wildlings at bay,' Brandon confided as we watched the giants work alongside men. 'What lies beyond is not merely hostile tribes but something far worse.' That night, as we huddled around fires built against the biting cold, Brandon told me of the horror that had befallen the North within his lifetime—the Long Night. His voice grew hollow as he spoke of darkness that lasted a generation, of cold that froze men where they stood, and of creatures that walked with winter in their wake.

'The Others,' he called them—pale demons with flesh like ice and eyes that burned blue in the darkness. They came with the cold, raising the dead to fight for them, advancing steadily southward until all life seemed doomed to join their army of frozen corpses. 'They cannot be killed by mortal weapons,' he said, 'only by dragonglass, which we call obsidian, or by fire.' Here he paused, studying me. 'Perhaps by your Valyrian steel as well, though we had none to test this theory.' Most unsettling was his insistence that though defeated, they were not destroyed but merely driven back to lands of eternal winter. 'The Wall is not to keep them out,' he said grimly, 'but to hold them at bay until they rise again, as they surely will.'

"When pressed on the matter of what vanquished these creatures, I inquired about the tales that reach even Valyria—of Azor Ahai, the warrior who wielded a flaming sword called Lightbringer against the darkness. Brandon's response was unexpected. He snorted in derision, his weathered face contorting as though I had spoken a jest in poor taste.

'Azor Ahai?' he repeated, shaking his head. 'Aye, I have heard such tales myself. They travel fast, these stories of heroes, growing taller with each telling.' His eyes, gray as winter skies, fixed on the distant horizon where the massive Wall continued its construction. 'There was no hero of legend with a flaming sword who struck down the Night King and ended the darkness. There were only men and women of the First Men's blood—people I knew well, friends and kin who fought and died beside me. They struck with fury against the cold demons who had taken so many of our loved ones to make their undead servants.'

Brandon's voice grew quieter as he described the losses—entire villages emptied, children frozen in their beds, warriors who had never known defeat falling before creatures that could not be killed by conventional means. 'Many of my friends died in those battles,' he continued. 'Good men and women whose names will never feature in the songs your people sing. But we were not alone in our struggle.'

He spoke then of unlikely allies—the Children of the Forest, whom the First Men had nearly exterminated in their wars of conquest. 'They came when all seemed lost,' Brandon said, 'wielding magic older than your Valyrian sorcery, magic bound to the very bones of this land. Their obsidian weapons could shatter the Others with a single touch. Without them, none would have survived to build this Wall.'

I confess I was confused when Brandon made casual mention of his wife during these discussions, speaking of her as though she had witnessed these events firsthand. When I inquired further, he merely smiled cryptically and said, 'My wife is shy around strangers, especially those from distant lands. She has reason to be cautious of men who wield fire magic and forge dragon steel.' The implication unsettled me, though I could not yet grasp its full meaning.

It was not until our return to Winterfell three days later that Brandon's enigmatic comments became clear. 'You wish to understand the black stone,' he said as we rode through the gates. 'To truly comprehend its nature, you must understand those who first worked with it. My wife can tell you more than I.' He led me not to the keep but to the godswood within Winterfell's walls—an ancient grove of towering trees centered around a heart tree with a face carved into its pale trunk.

There, beside a still black pool that reflected the blood-red leaves overhead, I beheld a sight I shall never forget. Seated upon a moss-covered stone was a woman—though 'woman' seems an inadequate word for such a being. She possessed an ethereal beauty that no Valyrian maiden could match, her features delicate yet somehow ancient, as though youth and age existed simultaneously within her. Golden eyes, large and slanted like those of a cat, regarded me with neither fear nor welcome. Her skin was the warm brown of fertile earth, marked with subtle patterns that resembled the veins in a leaf. Long hair the color of autumn chestnuts framed her face, adorned with small flowers and twigs woven as intricately as any Valyrian goldsmith's crown.

Most shocking of all was the infant at her breast—unmistakably half-human with features that blended Brandon's strong Northern countenance with her otherworldly aspect. The child suckled contentedly, tiny fingers clasping at the simple dress she wore. Brandon approached her with tenderness I had not expected from such a stern man, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder. 'Zovarys of Valyria,' he said, 'I present to you Summer, my wife and a Child of the Forest.'

'The fifth child she has borne me,' Brandon added with evident pride, 'though the maesters insisted such a union could bear no fruit.' Summer regarded me with those golden eyes, and I felt the weight of millennia in her gaze. When she spoke, her voice was like water flowing over stones, musical yet carrying the gravity of ancient knowledge.

Summer's gaze fell upon me, and though I stood in the shade of the heart tree, I felt as naked as a newborn before those ancient eyes. The child at her breast finished feeding, and she adjusted her simple garment with the practiced ease of a mother. When she spoke, her voice carried the music of wind through leaves, at once both delicate and powerful.

"Zovaryth of Val'eria," she said, pronouncing my name and homeland in a way that made them sound both foreign and true. "You come seeking knowledge of the black stone, yet you do not understand the foundations upon which such knowledge rests. We—my kind—watched the first dawn break over these lands when your ancestors still huddled in caves beside the smoking mountains."

Brandon seated himself beside her on the moss-covered stone, their shoulders touching with the comfortable familiarity of long partnership. He cradled their infant son, whose eyes—a striking blend of Stark gray and forest gold—regarded me with uncanny awareness.

"We were here before the First Men crossed the broken arm," Summer continued, her slender fingers tracing patterns in the air that seemed to shimmer with faint green light. "We dwelled not only in these northern woods but across all lands that now bear different names. My sisters and brothers lived in the forests of what your kind now call Essos. The Ifequevron, your people named them—those who sing the songs of the earth in the woods beyond the Dothraki Sea. In distant Yi Ti, we dwelled in the shadow of the Mountains of the Morn, keeping watch over the passes."

"You communicated across such vast distances?" I asked, my scholar's curiosity overcoming my unease. "How could such magic work?"

Summer's lips curved in what might have been a smile, though it held a sadness deeper than any human expression I had witnessed. "Through the roots," she said simply, as though explaining something obvious to a child. "All trees that bear a face are one tree, Zovaryth. Distance means nothing to them, nor to us who tend them. Or it did not, until much was lost."

"What happened to your kin in these distant lands?" I pressed, sensing this was crucial to understanding.

"In the lands of horse-lords, they faded as forests were burned. In Yi Ti, they were hunted by the god-emperors who coveted our magic, seeking to extract it like sap from a wounded tree." Her golden eyes darkened with memory. "Those who remained chose to sing their final songs rather than be captured and used as vessels for unnatural power. They returned to the earth on their own terms."

Brandon's expression grew grim. "And those in the southern continent?"

"Those in the lands you call Sothoryos," Summer said, her voice hardening like wood petrified by time, "they fought until the end against a great evil that rose in the east."

"What evil?" I asked, though a chill ran through me as I suspected the answer.

"The one your eastern traders speak of in whispers. The one whose name is remembered in Yi Ti as the Bringer of Night." She looked directly into my eyes. "The one your scrolls name as the Bloodstone Emperor."

I could not hide my shock. The Bloodstone Emperor was known even in Valyria—a figure of such malevolence that his name was rarely spoken aloud, a ruler who had murdered his sister to usurp the throne of the Great Empire of the Dawn and practiced dark arts that had supposedly brought about the Long Night.

"Your kin witnessed this tyrant?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Summer's face transformed, grief and pride battling across her delicate features. "Not only witnessed, Zovaryth. They fought alongside those who opposed him. My distant sisters and brothers joined with the hero of light who finally cut down the Bloodstone Emperor and ended his reign of blood and shadow."

"Azor Ahai?" I asked eagerly, for this name was known in Valyrian prophecies, a warrior of legend who fought the darkness with a flaming sword.

Summer's brow furrowed in confusion. "This name means nothing to me," she said, shaking her head. "Before my kin severed their connection to us—their final act before returning to the earth—they spoke of a simple man. A tiller of soil who took up steel and fire when his family was slaughtered. No prince or lord, but a farmer who found in himself the strength to lead others against the Emperor's tyranny."

Brandon reached over to take his wife's hand. "The greatest heroes are rarely those born to the role," he said softly, a man who had himself risen to legendary status through necessity rather than ambition.

"This farmer," I pressed, "did he wield a sword of flame? The legends speak of Lightbringer, a blade that burned with sacred fire."

Summer exchanged a glance with Brandon, something unspoken passing between them. "Your kind loves to adorn truth with glittering falsehoods," she said finally. "The man carried a simple blade of dragonglass—what you call obsidian—gifted to him by my kin. It did not burn with physical flame, but with the magic of earth and ice that is anathema to creatures of shadow and fire."

"The same substance that can destroy the Others," Brandon added meaningfully.

"And the Bloodstone Emperor?" I asked. "Was he truly as the tales describe—a sorcerer who practiced bloodmagic and cannibalism, who cast down the gods and worshipped a black stone that fell from the sky?"

"Worse," Summer whispered, and the very air in the godswood seemed to chill. "He sought to bind the powers of deepest night to mortal flesh. He believed himself destined to rule not just the living but the dead. The black stone that fell from the stars was not merely an object of worship—it was a conduit for powers no mortal should touch, powers from beyond the stars themselves."

I leaned forward, enthralled by Summer's revelations about this ancient evil. The godswood seemed to grow quieter around us, as if the very trees were listening.

"This black stone the Bloodstone Emperor worshipped—where did it come from?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Was it truly from the sky as the legends claim?"

Summer's golden eyes seemed to reflect starlight despite the canopy of leaves above us. "Yes, from beyond the sky and stars, sent by what your kind would call the monster of the night. In Yi Ti, they named it the Lion of Night—a formless entity older than the world itself, hungering for dominion over all living things."

She shifted the infant to her other arm, her movements fluid as a stream over stones. "The stone fell first upon the dreaded land of Asshai, a place of such darkness that even in those ancient days, my kin dared not spread roots or grow our sacred trees there. The soil itself rejected life, as though poisoned by something primordial."

Brandon nodded grimly. "Even now, no plants grow in Asshai, and no children are born within its walls."

"The stone was... alive, after its fashion," Summer continued, her melodic voice taking on an edge of revulsion. "Not as you or I live, but it traveled through the earth like a corruption through blood, spreading tendrils beneath mountain and sea, waiting in darkness for those who would mine and shape it as the Bloodstone Emperor first did. It reached Yi Ti, Leng, the lands that would become Valyria, and even this distant continent you call Westeros."

"Is the stone itself evil? Does it corrupt those who use it?" I asked.

Summer tilted her head, considering. "The stone itself is not inherently malevolent, any more than fire or ice is evil. It is a conduit—a material uniquely suited to channeling sorcery and magic across vast distances. But those of darkness may leave fragments of their consciousness within it, like seeds planted in fertile soil, waiting to tempt or drive mad those who would harness its power."

"The Bloodstone Emperor," Brandon interjected, "used it to work powerful blood magic. Summer's kin witnessed his rituals—hundreds of sacrifices upon black altars, their blood flowing into channels carved in the stone, calling out to what he named master and god."

Summer's face darkened. "He sought communion with the Lion of Night, offering blood and souls in exchange for forbidden knowledge. With each sacrifice, his power grew, as did his madness. He spoke of bringing eternal night to the world, where he alone would rule over a kingdom of endless darkness."

"Yet he was defeated," I prompted, sensing there was more to the tale than what had reached Valyria.

"Yes," Summer said, a hint of fierce pride in her voice. "By a coalition of heroes from many lands—Yi Ti, Asshai, the islands of Leng, and the plains beyond the Mountains of Morn. Led by a man who had once been a humble farmer before the Bloodstone Emperor's forces slaughtered his village."

Brandon leaned forward. "The legends that traveled west speak only of one hero, but Summer's ancestors remembered many who stood against the darkness—chief among them this farmer who struck the final blow against the Emperor."

"And what became of this hero?" I asked. "After the Bloodstone Emperor fell?"

Summer's expression softened slightly. "He took to wife one of the sisters of the Amethyst Empress—the very sister the Bloodstone Emperor had betrayed and murdered to seize power. It was both a political union and one of genuine affection, born in the shared crucible of war against darkness."

"From what little we know through the fragments of memory passed down by my kin before they severed their connection to the weirwood network," Summer said, her voice growing distant as if recalling ancient dreams, "it is his children, or at least those who carry their blood, who now rule Yi Ti as god-emperors, though much of the truth has been lost or deliberately obscured by those who followed."

I grew alarmed at the implications of Summer's words, my mind turning to the countless structures in Valyria built from the black stone. Our mages wield it in their most potent rituals; our greatest buildings incorporate it for strength and beauty. Even the base of the Tower of Fourteen Flames where the Archon and highest dragonlords meet is crafted from the material.

"Lady Summer," I ventured, my voice betraying my unease, "if this black stone is as you describe—a conduit for dark powers—then is Valyria itself doomed? We have built with it for generations. Our mines beneath the Fourteen Flames yield more each year. Are we unwittingly constructing our own destruction? Will a night of madness come to strike down our civilization as it did the Great Empire of the Dawn?"

Summer studied me with those ancient golden eyes, the infant at her breast now sleeping peacefully. When she spoke, her voice carried neither alarm nor comfort, only the dispassionate truth of one who has witnessed empires rise and fall like summer blooms.

"If none of your people have yet gone mad from its touch," she said, "then perhaps the blackstone has become what it appears—merely a wondrous material receptive to magic. Many have found it and used it across the world since the Bloodstone Emperor's fall, and not all were consumed by darkness. The stone reacts differently to different magics. Your dragonfire sorcery may have purified what you mine, or perhaps the specific deposit beneath your smoking mountains was never fully tainted."

"This knowledge brings some relief," I admitted, "yet does not explain the many mysteries that seem connected by this substance." I took a breath, gathering my thoughts. "The Five Forts in Yi Ti were built long before Valyria rose to power, yet they still stand manned with thousands of soldiers, though the God-Emperors refuse to say what threat they guard against. Your Wall here in the North is being constructed to hold back these Others you fought, creatures you believe you have driven away rather than destroyed."

Summer's golden eyes narrowed slightly, as though perceiving threads invisible to mortal sight. "Go on," she encouraged, her voice soft but intent.

"The city of Yeen in Sothoryos—have you heard of it?" I asked. When both nodded, I continued, "Survivors report the entire city is constructed of black stone, and even the ravenous jungle will not approach its walls. In Asshai, where the black stone first fell according to your account, the buildings and monuments are fashioned from the same material. It seems..." I hesitated, unsure how to articulate the pattern emerging in my mind.

"It seems that there was always some mystery that came long before us," Brandon finished for me, "and some great threat each people had to face." His weathered hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of his sword, as though even here in his protected godswood, he felt the need to remain vigilant. "The Five Forts guard against something from the Grey Waste. The Wall we build against the Others from the Lands of Always Winter. Asshai's walls against... whatever lurks in the Shadow."

"And it seems every people has a story about a hero who fought off these calamities," I added, the scholarly excitement rising in me despite the grim subject. "The farmer who confronted the Bloodstone Emperor. Your own warriors who drove back the Others. The legends of Azor Ahai that persist in eastern folklore."

Summer and Brandon exchanged a long look, communicating something profound without words. The infant stirred in Summer's arms, making a small sound like falling leaves. When she turned back to me, her expression had changed subtly, a grave solemnity replacing her earlier detachment.

"Zovaryth of Valyria," Summer said, her musical voice barely above a whisper, "my people may be ancient by your reckoning. We who sing the songs of earth have walked these lands for thousands upon thousands of your human years. But even we know we were not the first."

"A cycle," Brandon added grimly. "Summer's people believe—and I have come to share this belief—that these calamities are not separate evils but manifestations of the same darkness, appearing in different forms across time and place."

"The Lion of Night," Summer continued, "repeatedly sends whatever monsters or evils he can conjure to destroy all of creation and rule over quiet darkness. Sometimes he works through human vessels like your Bloodstone Emperor. Sometimes through creatures of ice like the Others. Sometimes through shadow and flame, or twisted corruptions beneath the sea. But always with the same purpose—to extinguish the light of life."

"And these heroes who rise against the darkness?" I asked, my mouth dry with dread and wonder. "Are they also connected somehow?"

Summer's lips curved in a smile both sad and knowing. "The specifics change—a farmer with a dragonglass blade, a warrior with a flaming sword, a builder with the vision to raise a Wall—but the essence remains. Light against dark. Life against death. The song of earth against the silence of the void."

"Is there no end to this cycle?" I demanded, suddenly desperate to find hope in this terrifying cosmology. "Must each age face its own Long Night? Will Valyria one day confront such a darkness?"

Summer closed her golden eyes briefly, as though listening to voices I could not hear—perhaps the whispers of the heart tree looming red and watchful above us. "I cannot see the fate of your Valyria," she said finally. "The roots do not reach beneath your fiery mountains. But I can tell you this: the cycle continues until it is broken, and it can only be broken by understanding what came before. That is why you were drawn here, Zovaryth. That is why your quest for knowledge of the black stone led you to us."

"You believe I have a role to play?" I asked, stunned by the implication.

"Everyone has a role," Brandon said firmly. "Often not the one they imagine. The knowledge you take back to Valyria may be a seed planted for future generations. Or it may help you recognize the signs of darkness when they begin to manifest in your lifetime….or in an others." He rose to his feet, signaling our conversation was nearing its end. "Either way, you came seeking truth, and we have given what we can. Use it wisely."

Owen lowered the ancient tome, his mind reeling from the implications. The account confirmed his worst fears—the threats facing the world weren't isolated incidents but manifestations of the same primordial darkness. The White Walkers beyond the Wall, the mysteries of Asshai, the legends of the Bloodstone Emperor... all connected through the black stone and the cyclical nature of the Great Enemy.

"The Lion of Night," he whispered, running his fingers over the faded Valyrian script. "The Great Other. Different names for the same force." He thought of the three-eyed raven he had imprisoned, of Bloodraven's manipulations and how the entity had presented itself as a guardian against darkness while harboring its own sinister agenda.

The passages about the blackstone particularly troubled him. The material seemed to be everywhere—the Seastone Chair he had destroyed on Pyke, the foundations of Asshai, the Five Forts in Yi Ti, the city of Yeen, even beneath Winterfell itself according to this account. And now here he was, surrounded by Valyrian treasures possibly crafted from or influenced by the same substance.

Owen carefully placed the book with the others in his bag. This wasn't just historical curiosity anymore—it was crucial intelligence for the coming war against the White Walkers. The cyclical nature of the threat, the connection between seemingly disparate evils across the world... it changed everything.

"If the White Walkers are just one manifestation," he murmured to himself, "then destroying them might not end the cycle." He glanced at the dragon eggs, still glowing with inner fire. "And if Jon, Daenerys and her dragons are this generation's 'heroes of light,' where does that leave planetos after this generation defeats its evil and dies?"

Owen closed the ancient tome with reverent care, placing it atop the growing pile of texts in his enchanted bag. The revelation weighed on him like the massive black stones of the Forum itself—everything connected in an endless, merciless cycle. The darkness, the light, the heroes, the catastrophes. Rise, fall, rise again. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a long, weary sigh.

"It's all just as the theories predicted," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the cavernous treasury. "Everything GRRM left unfinished... the patterns were always there." All he had discovered was what many fans of the series had theorized—the world was trapped in a cycle. Heroes rose, calamities were beaten back, only to return again once the vigilance faded and the memories dimmed. Unlike the pragmatic emperors of Yi Ti, who had ensured the Five Forts would never be unmanned or without supplies, Westeros—and yes, even the North—had forgotten the real purpose of the Night's Watch. If not for Owen and all the innovations and repairs he had made to the North and the Wall, they would have fallen to the hordes of undead wights and their masters, continuing the cycle of destruction and rebirth.

"Fuck." The word escaped him with quiet force as he paced between mountains of gold and treasures that now seemed trivial compared to the knowledge he'd acquired. He'd wanted to travel to other lands—Yeen with its jungle-resistant curse city, Asshai by the Shadow where no children were born, even Stygai, the corpse city at the heart of darkness—to see if he could find a way to defeat the White Walkers permanently. But now, he suspected whatever information he might find would just lead to more mysteries, more fragments of forgotten wisdom that civilizations before them had left behind. Solving one riddle would only reveal another, ad infinitum, until the darkness came again.

Owen glanced at the ten glowing dragon eggs nestled in their velvet case. "Knowledge is useful," he said to them, as if they could understand, "but maybe what we really need is just overwhelming magical firepower." The scales on the nearest egg—midnight blue with silver flecks—seemed to pulse in response, almost as if agreeing with him. The path forward wasn't more knowledge or ancient secrets; it was action. His original plan had merit: build up the North's defenses, arm them with magical weapons beyond comprehension, create an alliance strong enough to face the coming winter. The wheel couldn't be broken, perhaps, but it could be stalled for another generation.

Suddenly, he felt his silver mirror locket grow warm against his chest, the metal heating slightly through his enchanted garments. Someone was trying to contact him. Owen quickly pulled the locket from beneath his clothes, the filigree glowing with a faint blue light that meant only one thing—Jon or lord stark needed to speak with him urgently. With a flick of his thumb, Owen opened the ornate case.

Jon's face instantly appeared in the polished surface, his expression grim, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The background behind him appeared to be a command tent, banners of the Northern houses visible in the periphery.

"Owen," Jon acknowledged with a quick nod. "We've taken Volantis. The slavers fought to the last man, but the city is ours now."

Owen smiled, about to congratulate him on the victory. "That's excellent news! With Volantis secure, we can—"

"That's not why I contacted you," Jon interrupted, his voice tight with urgency. "Robert's army at Meereen has been broken. They're fleeing in full retreat, scattered across the plains outside the city."

"What?" Owen's brow furrowed in confusion. "Meereen's defenses are formidable, but nothing Robert's forces couldn't handle with proper siege equipment., even without my cannons. Did they turn on each other? Did disease break out in the camp?"

Jon shook his head, his expression growing even darker. "No. One of our captains sent word via communication stone. It wasn't the city that defeated them. It was... something else. Something that emerged from within."

"From within the city? What do you mean, Jon? What happened?" Owen leaned closer to the mirror, noticing now the hint of fear in Jon's normally stoic eyes.

Jon's face in the mirror was deathly pale. "Our ship captain, Ser Davith, retreated to safe distance and they're laying down cannon fire on whatever it is that's killing roberts forces, but it doesn't seem to have any effect. The captain said it moves like a flying golden whisp through the ranks—one moment visible, the next gone. Our magical energy cannons can't target it without striking Robert's retreating forces by accident; it's too fast, too close to the fleeing men." Jon swallowed hard, his stoic demeanor cracking. "The captain described seeing men torn apart like parchment, their blood... used somehow. He said it looks like a man but moves like no living thing should. They're calling for aid, Owen. The message from Ser Davith was clear—if no help comes, Robert's entire army will be hunted down and slaughtered before nightfall."

Owen's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. "A whole army routed by one person?" he whispered, his mind racing through possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Then, snapping back to Jon's worried face, he said, "Hold Volantis. I'm going to help them. Whatever this is, it's beyond conventional warfare." Before Jon could respond, Owen closed the locket with a snap.

With frantic efficiency, Owen opened his enchanted bag, its mouth expanding impossibly wide as he swept the Valyrian treasures into it. The ten dragon eggs went in first, nestled carefully together, then the mountains of gold, the Valyrian steel weapons, and finally the precious books—knowledge that might hold the key to understanding what they now faced. "Fucking hell," he muttered, clasping the bag shut and slinging it over his shoulder. The weight of an empire's worth of treasure weighed no more than a normal satchel thanks to his enchantments. Owen raced out of the Forum of Voices, the ancient chamber seeming to sigh in relief as its treasures departed after centuries of confinement. Outside, beneath Valyria's ash-choked sky, he summoned his power, blue energy crackling around his form as he took to the air. Below him, the ruined city of Argos receded rapidly, the last ghostly whispers of its freed souls fading into silence. Owen soared eastward, leaving the cursed lands of Valyria behind, his mind fixed on one terrible thought: something worse than dragons may have awakened in the city of slavers, and an army of thousands wasn't enough to stop it.

Chapter Text

Robert Baratheon, once the Demon of the Trident, found himself reduced to a panting, blood-spattered shadow of his former glory as he stumbled through the retreating ranks of his own army. His ornate armor, commissioned specially for this campaign, now bore deep gouges where that thing had raked its golden talons across his breastplate. The flesh beneath throbbed with pain, but it was nothing compared to the agony of his wounded pride. Men were dying around him—good men, loyal men—and for what? His stubbornness? His pride? His fucking temper? The thought churned his guts worse than any Dornish wine ever had.

"Your Grace! This way!" Ser Barristan appeared at his side, the legendary knight's white armor stained with dust and blood. Even the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard looked haggard, his eyes wide with a fear Robert had never seen there before. "We must reach the rear lines before she circles back!"

Robert could only wonder where it had all gone wrong as he ran in retreat with his forces of Vale, Westerlander, and Stormlands men. Perhaps it had all started in Braavos, arguing with Ned over killing the Targaryen girl. Gods, he was an idiot. He had almost drawn a blade on Ned. Ned! And all because he couldn't keep his temper. Now half the kingdoms had chosen to follow the North in their "quiet" seceding from the Iron Throne. Oh sure, Prince Oberyn, Randyll Tarly, and Brynden Tully had not outright said anything that showed they were leaving the Iron Throne, but by following the Northern forces and Owen Longshore after their argument, it was a silent show of who they approved of as their forces separated.

"Fall back to the supply camp!" Robert bellowed, his voice still strong despite everything. "Form shield walls, archers at the ready! We're not done yet, you cunts!" But even as he shouted, he knew it was a lie. They were done. Had been since Owen and Ned moved towards Myr while Robert's forces pushed farther east to Meereen. And even though Longshore and the North's ships had still ferried their forces to Meereen, the Northern captains had refused to bombard the city or provide the cannons to blast apart its thick gates. They had had to resort to a traditional siege.

And then, three days later, they had heard that loud, sharp screech that still rang in Robert's ears. A fast-flying, golden figure had crashed into their forces and began tearing them apart—too quick to hit and too powerful to injure even when it got close. The figure rose to the sky, beautiful and terrible, with golden armor and wings, sharpened teeth, and slit red eyes that seemed to burn with ancient hatred.

"Fuck me, here she comes again!" Tywin Lannister shouted, his usually composed demeanor shattered by the sight of his finest Lannister guardsmen being butchered like cattle. The golden-haired lord pointed to the sky where a glittering form circled, almost lazily, before diving with impossible speed.

She screamed her name was Razmazma Zo Gandaq, daughter and champion of the Great Harpy, defender of Great Meereen and the nations of Ghiscar. She would kill them all, and those who lived would be made slaves in the new Ghiscari Empire to come before she swooped down and began cutting fully armored knights limb from limb. Each time she descended, she chose a new victim, sometimes plucking men from the ground and carrying them high before dropping them to splatter on the hard earth below.

"Robert!" Jon Arryn appeared beside him, the old man's face pale with exertion, a bloody gash across his forehead. "We need to retreat to the ships. This is no battle—it's a slaughter!"

"Retreat?" Robert spat, fury momentarily overcoming his fear. "I am Robert fucking Baratheon! I don't retreat from anything!" Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were hollow. This wasn't the battlefield of the Trident, and he wasn't the young warrior who had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with a single blow from his warhammer. He was an aging, fat king who had let his skills rust while he drank and whored his way through a hollow crown.

"Your Grace," Ser Kevan Lannister approached, his armor splashed with blood that was clearly not his own, "Tywin suggests we form a defensive circle and use our archers to at least try to wound this... creature. She seems to be toying with us, taking her time between attacks."

Robert nodded grimly, watching as the golden figure perched atop one of Meereen's bronze harpy statues, her wings spread wide as she surveyed the chaos below. For a moment, it was as if she locked eyes with him across the battlefield, and Robert felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the desert evening.

"She's not human," he muttered, more to himself than to the men around him. "What in seven hells did we walk into here?"

Stannis approached, his face grim as ever but with a new tightness around his eyes that betrayed his fear. "Brother, we've lost nearly four thousand men already. Whatever this thing is, our weapons barely scratch it. The men are saying..." he hesitated, then continued, "they're saying it's a punishment from the gods for your excesses."

Robert rounded on his brother, hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his hip. "Watch your fucking mouth, Stannis. I'm still your king."

"For how much longer?" Stannis replied coldly. "Half the realm has already abandoned you to follow Stark and that smith of his. And now this... if we don't retreat, there won't be a kingdom left to rule."

Robert watched as the golden harpy circled above their ranks once more, her wings casting a terrible shadow across the bloodied sand. The battle—if one could even call this massacre a battle—was lost. There was no glory to be found here, only death. The king's massive chest heaved with exertion, each breath sending fresh waves of pain through his battered ribs.

"Sound the fucking retreat!" Robert finally bellowed, his face contorted with rage and defeat. "Get the men back to the ships!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Razmazma let out a piercing shriek that split the air. She raised her golden-armored hands skyward, and a blinding light began to gather between her palms, pulsating with eldritch energy. Robert felt his stomach drop as the orb swelled to the size of a wagon wheel, radiating a sickly yellow glow.

"SCATTER!" he roared, but it was too late. The harpy hurled the sphere toward a tightly packed formation of knights. It exploded on impact with a deafening boom, sending men flying through the air like broken dolls. Limbs and viscera rained down upon the survivors as screams of agony filled the air. Where the energy had struck directly, nothing remained but charred earth and melted armor.

"YOU SHALL ALL SERVE!" Razmazma's voice boomed across the battlefield as she summoned another golden orb, her laughter echoing with inhuman malice. "THE CHILDREN OF YOUR CHILDREN SHALL BE BORN IN CHAINS!" The second blast caught a retreating column of Lannister men, their crimson cloaks evaporating in the wave of destruction. Bodies were ripped apart, armor melting into flesh as men were obliterated in showers of gore.

Robert spat blood onto the sand, his blue eyes blazing with fury as he watched his army being slaughtered. He turned to Ser Kevan, Stannis, and Barristan, all of whom looked shell-shocked by the devastation unfolding around them.

"Get the men to the ships," Robert ordered, his voice suddenly calm and clear. "Stannis, take Joffrey with you. Make sure the boy gets home safely. He's the heir to the throne now, more important than any of us." He gripped his brother's shoulder with surprising strength. "And make sure you raise him right, brother. Make him a king to be proud of, not a drunken whoremonger like his father."

Stannis's jaw tightened, a protest forming on his lips. "Robert, this is madness. She'll tear you apart. The realm needs its king—"

"The realm needs men with sense!" Robert snapped, cutting him off. "I haven't had that in years. Now go, before I lose what little sense I have left!" He turned to Ser Barristan. "Lord Commander, your duty is to the crown. Protect my son."

Barristan Selmy, the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, looked torn between duty and honor. "Your Grace, I cannot leave you to face this alone."

"You can, and you will," Robert said firmly. "That's a royal command, Ser Barristan." He managed a grim smile. "Besides, I won't be alone." His hand moved to the massive warhammer strapped across his back—Stormblood, the weapon crafted by Longshore. As his fingers closed around the handle, a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, though the sky remained clear.

With a grunt, Robert drew the hammer forth, its massive head gleaming with arcane runes that began to glow blue-white as he held it aloft. Lightning crackled along its surface, sending sparks cascading to the ground as the air around him charged with power. The king's face was illuminated by the ethereal light, transforming him for a moment into the warrior of legend he once had been.

"OURS IS THE FURY!" Robert bellowed the Baratheon words, his voice thunderous and defiant as he raised Stormblood high. The hammer responded, unleashing a blinding arc of lightning that split the sky above. The retreating soldiers paused at the sight, some even cheering as their king stood alone against the monster that had decimated their ranks.

Razmazma's head snapped toward the challenge, her reptilian eyes narrowing at the display of power. With a screech that made men clap hands over their ears, she tucked her wings and dove, the golden armor of her form gleaming like a falling star as she plummeted toward the defiant king. She landed with earth-shaking force, her taloned feet digging furrows in the bloody sand as she unfurled to her full height—a good head taller than even Robert's considerable frame.

"The fat king wishes to die standing," she hissed, her voice a discordant blend of woman and beast. "A noble sentiment. Your heart will fetch a fine price in the fighting pits." She circled him warily, golden armor clicking with each movement as her wings mantled behind her.

Robert charged with surprising speed for a man his size, Stormblood leaving a trail of lightning in its wake as he swung it in a devastating arc. Razmazma ducked beneath the blow with inhuman grace, the hammer passing close enough to send her golden hair whipping about her face. Robert pivoted, controlling the hammer's momentum to bring it crashing down where she stood, but again she evaded, this time taking to the air with a powerful beat of her wings.

"Too slow, king of men," she taunted, diving at him with talons extended. Robert raised Stormblood to block, and when their weapons met, a thunderclap exploded outward, staggering them both. The king recovered first, pressing his advantage with a flurry of blows that would have crushed a normal opponent. Lightning arced from the hammer with each swing, scorching the earth and filling the air with the smell of burning ozone.

But Razmazma was far from normal. She weaved between his attacks, her movements fluid and impossibly quick. When she counterattacked, her golden talons found gaps in his armor, drawing blood in a dozen places. Each cut burned like fire, and Robert knew with growing dread that her weapons were poisoned. Still, he fought on, calling upon reserves of strength he hadn't tapped in years, his face a mask of grim determination as Stormblood sang its deadly song of thunder and death.

"Your men abandon you," Razmazma hissed as she darted in to slice at his hamstring, drawing a roar of pain from the king. "They will watch from their ships as I flay the skin from your bones. Your corpse will hang from Meereen's walls until the desert sun bleaches your bones, a reminder to all who would challenge the Great Harpy's children." She circled around him, scoring another hit across his back that sent Robert to one knee, blood pouring from the wound.

Robert stood up wearily, blood seeping through the gashes in his armor as he fixed Razmazma with a deadly glare. "Is that all you've got, you flying slaver bitch?" he spat, the words thick with pain and contempt. "If I'm dying today, I'm taking you screaming to the Stranger's halls." He shifted his stance, planting his feet more firmly in the blood-soaked sand. Stormblood hummed in his grip, pulsing with arcane energy that seemed to respond to his rage, blue-white lightning crackling up his arm and across his battered breastplate.

Razmazma's laughter was like broken glass, her golden armor catching the fading light as she circled him. "Your gods have no dominion here, fat king. The Great Harpy has marked you for sacrifice." She darted forward, talons slashing at his exposed neck, but this time Robert was ready. Instead of the wild, furious swings of before, he stepped back just enough for her attack to miss, conserving his energy, watching her movements with the calculated precision that had once made him the deadliest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. The poison in his veins burned like wildfire, but it had cleared his mind of fear and hesitation. There was only the battle now.

"I've fought men and monsters across two continents," Robert growled, parrying another strike with the haft of his hammer. "Killed a dragon prince with this very arm." He feinted left, then swung Stormblood in a controlled arc that forced Razmazma to leap backward. "And you think I fear some jumped-up slaver in a fancy costume? I've shit out things more frightening than you after a night of Dornish wine."

The harpy champion hissed, her red eyes narrowing as she recognized the change in her opponent. Gone was the blustering, reckless king; in his place stood a veteran of many battles, reading her movements, waiting for his moment. "Your arrogance will feed the worms," she snarled, golden wings flaring wide as she launched herself upward, then plummeted toward him with both talons extended. Robert rolled to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as she crashed into the spot where he'd stood. Stormblood lashed out, catching her a glancing blow across the thigh that drew first blood – a viscous, amber fluid that steamed when it hit the ground.

Razmazma's shriek of pain and outrage sent the remaining soldiers scrambling faster toward the ships. From his knees, Robert saw Stannis hesitating at the edge of the battlefield, his brother's face torn between duty and the fraternal bond he'd so often denied. "GO!" Robert bellowed, and something in his voice – command, certainty, perhaps even forgiveness – finally convinced the younger Baratheon to turn away. That small victory gave Robert strength as he hauled himself to his feet again, ignoring the wetness spreading across his back where Razmazma's poison was eating through leather and flesh alike.

"Your men flee," Razmazma taunted, though there was a new caution in her movements as she stalked him in a half-circle. "They abandon their king to die alone in the dust of a foreign land. What sort of ruler commands so little loyalty?" Her wing dragged slightly where Robert's hammer had connected, the golden feathers bent and tarnished with her strange blood.

Robert barked a laugh that was half-cough, spitting a glob of red onto the sand. "Loyalty? You speak to me of loyalty?" He shifted his grip on Stormblood, feeling the weapon grow lighter in his hands as if responding to his need. "I've earned every betrayal I've suffered, harpy. Every fucking one." Thunder rumbled overhead despite the cloudless sky, and Robert's eyes glinted with a savage clarity. "But I'll die a king. What are you but a servant, a dog dressed in gold to fight another's war?"

The barb struck deeper than any physical blow. Razmazma's face contorted with fury, her discipline cracking as she lunged forward with a scream of rage. "I AM THE DAUGHTER OF THE GREAT HARPY! CHOSEN ABOVE ALL OTHERS!" Her attacks came faster now, more reckless, golden talons slashing wildly at Robert's face and throat. "YOUR SKULL WILL ADORN MY MOTHER'S ALTAR!"

It was the opening Robert had been waiting for. As she overextended on a vicious swipe that would have disemboweled him, he pivoted with surprising agility, letting her momentum carry her past him. For a single, perfect moment, her unprotected side was exposed. Robert planted his feet, summoned every ounce of strength left in his massive frame, and roared "WESTEROS!" as Stormblood crashed into her chest with the force of a battering ram. Lightning exploded outward from the point of impact, temporarily blinding those still close enough to witness the clash.

Blood – golden and steaming – sprayed from Razmazma's mouth as the hammer connected, her eyes bulging with shock and pain. The sound of cracking metal and shattering bone carried across the battlefield, a symphony of destruction that heralded her first taste of mortality. Her body folded around the blow, lifted off the ground by its sheer force, suspended for a heartbeat before crashing back to earth. But Robert gave her no reprieve, no moment to recover her supernatural composure. With a primal growl that came from someplace deeper than conscious thought, he pivoted on his back foot and swung again.

Stormblood's massive head connected with Razmazma's left wing, the crunch of breaking bones lost beneath the thunderclap that accompanied the strike. The wing shattered, golden armor plates twisting and separating as the magical hammer demolished the intricate structure beneath. Razmazma's scream was no longer that of a fearsome harpy champion but of a wounded, terrified creature facing its own extinction. The blow sent her tumbling several feet away, golden feathers and droplets of amber blood scattering across the sand like bizarre rainfall.

Robert advanced on her, his massive frame silhouetted against the setting sun, Stormblood trailing blue lightning as he dragged it beside him. Blood poured from a dozen wounds across his body, yet he moved with the terrible purpose of a man who had finally found his true battle after years of meaningless skirmishes with courtiers and sycophants. Razmazma scrambled backward, her broken wing dragging uselessly behind her, talons digging furrows in the sand as she tried to create distance between herself and the avenging king.

"YOU DARE?" she screamed, her voice cracking with pain and fear. "I AM IMMORTAL! I AM DIVINE! THE GREAT HARPY WILL FLAY YOUR SOUL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!" She managed to leap aside at the last second as Robert jumped forward, bringing Stormblood down with all his remaining might. The warhammer crashed into the spot where her head had been an instant before, the impact sending sand flying skyward and leaving a small crater laced with crackling lightning. The ground shook beneath their feet, and for a moment, it seemed as if the very earth might split open from the force of Robert's rage.

"Divine?" Robert panted, wrenching Stormblood from the shattered ground with trembling arms. Blood streamed down his face from a cut above his eye, mingling with sweat and dirt to paint a warrior's mask across his features. His legs threatened to buckle with each step, but still he advanced on the retreating harpy. "I've met gods in my dreams, woman. Prayed to them. Cursed them. And you're no fucking god." He raised Stormblood again, lightning arcing between the hammer and the ground, illuminating the battlefield with an eerie blue glow. "You're just another monster that needs killing."

Razmazma staggered to her feet, golden blood flowing from her wounds and pooling beneath her twisted frame. Her once-pristine armor now hung in shattered pieces, revealing flesh that seemed to shimmer between human and something decidedly not. Her eyes blazed with hatred as she drew herself up, her unbroken wing extending to full span. "YOU DARE DRAW MY BLOOD?" she shrieked, her voice cracking the air like thunder. "I AM RAZMAZMA ZO GANDAQ! CHAMPION OF MEEREEN! DAUGHTER OF THE GREAT HARPY HERSELF!" Spittle flew from her mouth as she raged, her talons digging deep furrows in the sand. "Your hammer may be blessed, but I have been chosen, fat king—chosen from the ancient blood of Old Ghis when I was but a child!"

She began to circle Robert again, favoring her right side where the broken wing dragged uselessly. "The Great Harpy came to me in dreams, showed me what I could become if I gave myself to her divinity. The masters of the great houses knelt before me when I emerged from her temple transformed. A thousand slaves were sacrificed in my honor!" Her voice took on an almost reverent quality despite the pain contorting her features. "Their hearts burned on golden altars while I bathed in their blood. With each sacrifice, I became more than human, more than harpy—I became her divine daughter, the vessel of her will on this earth!"

Robert spat a mouthful of blood onto the sand, his massive chest heaving with each labored breath. The poison from her talons burned through his veins, but the pain had sharpened his focus to a knife's edge. Every instinct, every battle-learned reflex that had lain dormant beneath years of wine and self-loathing now surged through his body. "I've heard enough horseshit from self-proclaimed gods to last two lifetimes," he growled, adjusting his grip on Stormblood. "Come on then, 'divine daughter.' Let's see if you bleed out like the rest of us mortals."

Razmazma launched herself at him with a feral scream, no longer the graceful aerial predator but a wounded animal fighting for survival. She dropped low and lunged upward, golden talons aimed directly at Robert's throat. For a moment, it seemed the king's reflexes had finally failed him—her claws were inches from his flesh, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from them. But decades of battle-craft had not abandoned him entirely. Robert pivoted at the last possible instant, the movement slower than in his prime but just enough. Her talons sliced a shallow cut across his jaw instead of tearing out his windpipe. In the same fluid motion, he brought Stormblood around in a devastating horizontal swing that connected with her ribcage. Another thunderous crack split the air as lightning coursed through her body, sending her tumbling across the bloodied sand.

The harpy champion rolled with the impact, somehow managing to find her footing despite the new cracks spreading across her golden armor. Robert pressed his advantage, bearing down on her with surprising speed for a man his size, especially one so grievously wounded. Stormblood whistled through the air as he swung it in a mighty overhead arc aimed directly at her skull. Razmazma barely twisted away in time, the hammer's head missing her by mere inches. The ground where it struck erupted in a shower of sand and lightning, the impact sending tremors through the earth that could be felt by the distant retreating soldiers. "Stand still and die with some fucking dignity!" Robert roared, wrenching his weapon free.

Razmazma's eyes widened as she scrambled backward, truly afraid now for perhaps the first time in her transformed existence. This was not how the battle was supposed to unfold—she had slaughtered thousands without receiving so much as a scratch, had toyed with armored knights as a cat might toy with mice. Yet here she was, wounded and retreating before a fat, aging king whose kingdom was falling apart around him. She leapt away from another swing, putting precious distance between herself and that terrible hammer. Her back pressed against a fallen standard, the crimson Lannister lion now stained nearly black with blood.

"Enough," she hissed, raising both hands toward the sky. Golden light began to coalesce between her palms, pulsing with malevolent energy that made the very air shimmer around it. The orb grew quickly, swelling from the size of an apple to that of a shield, then larger still. The sand at her feet began to lift and swirl around her as if caught in an unnatural wind, and the ambient temperature rose perceptibly. "I will leave nothing of your body to bury, Robert Baratheon," she snarled as the sphere between her hands continued to expand, now radiating a heat that forced Robert to raise one arm to shield his face. "And when I am done with you, I will hunt down every last member of your bloodline—your wretched spawn, your brothers, even the distant cousins you've never met. I will tear out their hearts while they still beat and offer them as sacrifice to the Great Harpy!"

Robert stood his ground as the golden energy bathed the battlefield in sickly light. Blood trickled from a dozen wounds, and his legs trembled with exhaustion beneath his weight. Yet somehow, he straightened his back, squared his massive shoulders, and raised Stormblood high above his head with both hands. The hammer's response was immediate and spectacular—lightning erupted from its surface, arcing upward into the cloudless sky before cascading back down to wreath Robert in a corona of crackling blue-white energy. The electricity seemed to flow through him rather than harm him, coursing along his armor, dancing across his blood-matted beard, and even sparking from his eyes, which now glowed with the same fierce light as his weapon.

"I've heard those words before," Robert said, his voice cutting through the rising whine of Razmazma's charging attack. There was something different in his tone now—not just anger or defiance, but a terrible clarity, as if he'd found something long lost. "From a silver prince who thought his bloodline made him untouchable. Who believed the prophecies and the songs would protect him from a hammer to the chest." A grim smile spread across his blood-smeared face as Stormblood pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each throb sending fresh waves of lightning cascading around him. "The Targaryens ruled for three hundred years with fire and blood. They had dragons and sorcery and the blood of Old Valyria. And I still crushed their dynasty beneath my boot. You? You're nothing but a jumped-up slaver hiding behind cheap tricks and a golden mask."

Razmazma screamed in wordless fury, the orb between her hands now blazing like a small sun. Its light transformed the battlefield into a hellscape of harsh shadows and golden glare, the heat intense enough to blister exposed skin at twenty paces. "DIE!" she shrieked, pouring her hatred and pain into the sphere that now threatened to consume her as much as her opponent. The ground beneath her cracked and blackened from the heat, her own skin glowing from within as if her divine essence was being channeled into this final, devastating attack.

Robert roared the Baratheon words one last time—"OURS IS THE FURY!"—as he charged toward certain death. With each thundering step, lightning tore from the ground beneath his feet, lending supernatural speed to his battered frame. Soldiers watching from ships moored along the distant shore would later swear they saw the Warrior himself guiding Robert's steps, while the Ghiscari on Meereen's walls claimed it was the Great Harpy extending her protection to her champion. Whatever forces guided them, mortal or divine, both combatants poured their remaining strength into this final, cataclysmic clash.

The king hurled himself into the air with a leap that defied his size and wounds, Stormblood raised high above his head, its head now a blinding point of blue-white fury that left searing afterimages in the eyes of all who witnessed it. Time seemed to slow as he reached the apex of his jump, silhouetted against the sky like some ancient storm god descending to battle. Razmazma thrust her hands forward, releasing the fully-charged orb of golden energy with a scream that shattered the eardrums of those closest to the battle. The massive sphere of destruction hurtled toward Robert, the air itself seeming to bend around its passage.

Stormblood met the golden orb with an impact that momentarily silenced the world. For a heartbeat, there was only a perfect, crystalline quiet as the two forces—arcane hammer and divine energy—recognized each other, tested each other's boundaries, and found no possibility of coexistence. Then reality reasserted itself with apocalyptic violence. The explosion blossomed outward in a dome of golden light shot through with blue-white lightning, expanding so rapidly that it consumed both combatants before either could register what was happening. The shockwave that followed flattened everything within a hundred yards—tents collapsing, bodies tossed like rag dolls, weapons and shields sent spinning through the air like leaves in a hurricane. The noise was physical, a wall of sound that struck the chest like a battering ram and left ears bleeding and disoriented.

From the walls of Meereen and the decks of the retreating ships, the spectacle was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. A column of mingled golden light and lightning erupted from the point of impact, shooting skyward like a beacon visible for leagues in every direction. Those watching swore they could see two silhouettes at the heart of the conflagration—one massive and defiant, the other winged and writhing—before both were consumed by the light. Secondary explosions rippled through the primary blast as the ambient magic in both Stormblood and Razmazma's armor was released all at once, sending concentric rings of disturbed sand radiating outward from the epicenter. For nearly a full minute, the terrible light continued to burn, bright enough to cast shadows even in broad daylight. Then, as suddenly as it had erupted, it collapsed in on itself with a final thunderclap that echoed across the bay like the slamming of some cosmic door.

Robert didn't know how much time had passed when he opened his eyes with a groan. The world around him existed in fragments—a hazy sky above, the taste of copper and sand in his mouth, and pain. Gods, such pain. His entire body felt as though it had been trampled by a herd of aurochs, each breath sending fresh waves of agony through his battered chest. He tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but a white-hot lance of pain shot through his right leg, drawing a strangled cry from his cracked lips. Looking down, he saw the source—a Ghiscari spear had punched through his armor just above the knee, the bloodied tip protruding from the back of his thigh. By some miracle, it had missed the main artery; had it struck two inches higher, he'd have bled out before regaining consciousness.

"Small fucking mercies," he muttered, letting his head fall back against the blood-soaked earth. He took inventory of his other wounds—deep gashes across his chest and back where Razmazma's talons had found gaps in his armor, each one burning with the lingering effects of whatever poison had coated her claws. The cuts weren't bleeding freely anymore, but they throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that her toxins still coursed through his veins. Stormblood lay just beyond his reach, its head half-buried in the sand, the once-brilliant runes now dormant and dull. The explosion had clearly thrown him a considerable distance; the epicenter of their clash was a glassy, blackened crater twenty yards away, still smoking slightly in the afternoon heat.

With great effort, Robert turned his head, searching for his opponent. The movement sent a stab of pain through his neck, but he forced himself to continue scanning the battlefield until he spotted her. Razmazma lay crumpled nearby, her golden armor cracked and dented beyond repair. Two tent poles—blown from some unfortunate soldier's camp by the force of the explosion—had impaled her during her fall: one through her left arm, pinning it to the ground, the other jutting from the sand mere inches from her side, having gouged a deep furrow along her ribs. Her broken wing was splayed at an unnatural angle, and even from this distance, Robert could see the golden ichor that served as her blood pooling beneath her still form. The sight brought a grim smile to his face. "Not so divine now, are you, bitch?" he whispered hoarsely.

The sound of distant shouting pulled his attention toward the far edge of the battlefield. Through the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, he could make out figures running—not toward the ships as he'd ordered, but in his direction. The voices became clearer as they drew nearer, and Robert's blood ran cold when he recognized one in particular. "Father! FATHER!" It was Joffrey, his golden hair catching the sunlight as he sprinted across the desolation, ignoring the frantic calls from the men behind him.

"Joffrey! Get back to the ships, you fool boy!" Stannis's authoritative voice cut through the air, underscored by Tywin Lannister's equally commanding tone ordering his grandson to return. Ser Barristan's distinctive armor flashed in the sun as all three men gave chase, but the prince had a considerable head start, driven by some uncharacteristic impulse that Robert had never witnessed in his eldest son before.

"Get back, boy!" Robert roared, or tried to—what emerged was more of a pained growl as the effort sent fresh torment through his chest. "That's a royal command!" But Joffrey either didn't hear or chose to ignore him, his pace only quickening as he closed the distance. Robert had never seen such determination on his son's face, had never imagined the spoiled prince would risk himself like this. It was almost admirable, if not for the sheer stupidity of it.

Joffrey finally reached him, dropping to his knees beside his fallen father, his face flushed and eyes wide with an emotion Robert couldn't quite place—fear, perhaps, or something deeper that had no place in the boy he'd always known. "Father, you're alive," he gasped, his gaze darting frantically over Robert's numerous wounds before fixing on the spear protruding from his leg. "I'll help you up. We have to get you back to the ships." He tugged ineffectually at Robert's massive arm, as if his slender frame could possibly support the weight of the fallen king.

Robert barked a painful laugh that quickly transformed into a wet cough. "Don't be daft, boy. You couldn't lift my hammer, let alone me." He fixed his son with a stern gaze, the same blue eyes staring back at him from a face that held so little of his own features. "Get back to the ships before that harpy bitch wakes up or more of her slaver cunts come pouring out of the city. That's an order from your king, not a request from your father."

Before Joffrey could respond, Stannis, Tywin, and Barristan reached them, all three men immediately dropping to defensive positions around their fallen king. "Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, his aged face lined with concern as he knelt beside Robert, quickly assessing the king's wounds with the experienced eye of a veteran soldier. "That spear needs to come out, but not here. We must get you to the maesters on the ship." He turned to Stannis, who was surveying the battlefield with tense vigilance. "My lord, we'll need to fashion a litter."

"There's no time," Tywin cut in, his green eyes cold with calculation as they darted between Robert's prone form and the distant walls of Meereen. "The city gates will open any moment. We need to—" His words were cut short by a distinctive whistle through the air, followed by the thud of arrows striking the earth around them. One passed so close to Joffrey's head that the prince let out a startled yelp, falling backward onto the sand.

"Take cover!" Barristan shouted, grabbing Joffrey by the collar and dragging him behind a nearby pile of rubble—the remnants of a siege engine that had been caught in the explosion. Stannis and Tywin joined them seconds later, ducking low as another volley of arrows arced overhead. Robert, unable to move, could only watch as the deadly missiles landed all around him. By some miracle, none struck his immobilized form, though one quivered in the sand mere inches from his face, its barbed tip glistening with what he could only assume was poison.

From behind their makeshift shelter, Joffrey peered out at his father with wide, frightened eyes. "We have to get him out of there," he insisted, looking between the three men with growing desperation. "He's completely exposed!" There was genuine fear in the boy's voice, a tremor that Robert had never heard before. For a brief moment, he wondered if there might be more to his eldest son than the cruelty and petulance he'd always displayed.

"Your Grace," Stannis addressed Robert from cover, his voice carrying just far enough to reach his brother's ears, "if we attempt to reach you now, we'll be cut down before we take three steps. The arrows come from the city walls, too far for our archers to return fire effectively." His face was grim, the conflict between duty and practicality etched in every line. "We need to fall back and bring reinforcements."

"Then fall back, damn you!" Robert growled, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain that washed over him. "I'm not going anywhere with this fucking spear in my leg, and I won't have good men dying for nothing. Get the boy to safety, Stannis. That's all that matters now." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he meant them. Whatever his failings as a king, as a husband, as a father, he would not add the needless deaths of loyal men to his list of regrets.

Any further argument was silenced by a piercing screech that cut through the air like a blade. All eyes turned to Razmazma, who had regained consciousness and was now struggling to pull herself upright despite the tent pole still pinning her left arm to the ground. Her once-beautiful face was contorted in a mask of pain and fury, golden blood streaming from a gash across her forehead and staining her cracked armor. Her red eyes found Robert, narrowing with hatred so intense it was almost palpable. "YOU!" she shrieked, her voice raw and broken. "Look what you've done to me, you miserable worm! I, who am the chosen of the Great Harpy, reduced to this... this mortality!" She yanked at the pole impaling her arm, drawing another screech of agony from her twisted lips. "I will peel the flesh from your bones strip by strip! I will drink your blood while your heart still beats! I will—"

"Brave words for a beast who can barely stand," Robert snarled back at Razmazma, his voice hoarse but defiant. "I've taken shits that were more threatening than you." He gripped the Ghiscari spear protruding from his thigh, attempting to wrench it free, but the pain nearly blinded him. The spearhead had punched clean through muscle and bone, embedding itself into the packed sand beneath him. Each tug sent fresh waves of agony through his leg and torso, the poison in his veins magnifying every sensation to near-unbearable levels.

Across the bloodied battlefield, Razmazma had managed to rip the first tent pole from her arm with a shriek that could curdle milk. Golden ichor sprayed from the wound, steaming where it hit the sand. The second pole, however, remained stubbornly lodged against her ribs, catching on her shattered golden armor whenever she tried to pull free. Her once-magnificent wings hung in tatters, the left one completely useless, the right twitching spasmodically as she struggled. "I will make you watch as I disembowel your offspring," she hissed, her eyes darting to where Joffrey cowered behind the rubble. "I will wear his entrails as a necklace while I feast on your heart!"

Robert heard the distinctive thwick of arrows being loosed from Meereen's walls. Several landed dangerously close, kicking up plumes of sand that stung his eyes and coated his blood-matted beard. One arrow grazed his shoulder pauldron, the impact sending a fresh jolt of pain through his battered body. "Seven hells," he growled through clenched teeth. "Can't even die with some fucking dignity." He abandoned his efforts to remove the spear, his strength fading as the poison worked deeper into his system. His gaze drifted to Stormblood, lying tantalizingly out of reach, its once-brilliant runes now dim but still visible, like embers refusing to die.

"Father!" Joffrey's voice cut through the din of distant shouting and the hiss of arrows. Before anyone could stop him, the prince darted out from behind their meager cover, ignoring Stannis's bellowed command to stand down and Tywin's furious curse. The boy scooped up a fist-sized rock and hurled it at Razmazma, striking her damaged wing. "Slaver whore!" he shouted, his face flushed with an uncharacteristic bravery. "My father crushed you like he crushed the dragon prince!"

"Joffrey, get back here now!" Robert roared, his paternal instinct overriding even the searing pain of his wounds. The sight of his eldest son—the boy he'd so often dismissed as a disappointment—charging recklessly across open ground stirred something primal in his chest. An arrow whistled past Joffrey's ear, so close that it ruffled his golden hair, but the prince seemed possessed by some madness that made him immune to fear. He stooped to grab another rock, hurling it with surprising accuracy at Razmazma's head.

The harpy champion let out a screech of indignation more than pain, her red eyes blazing with renewed hatred. "I will start with you, princeling!" she spat, redoubling her efforts to free herself from the impaling pole. "I will peel your skin while your father watches, then make him eat it before I take his eyes!" Her free hand clawed at the sand, golden talons leaving deep furrows as she dragged herself a few inches closer to her tormentors despite her injuries.

Robert's gaze locked on Stormblood, a desperate plan forming in his poison-addled mind. "Joffrey!" he called out, gesturing toward the fallen hammer. "Bring me Stormblood! Quickly, boy—it's our only chance!" A grim smile stretched across his blood-crusted lips as he added, "Show this harpy bitch what Baratheon fury truly means!"

Joffrey's eyes lit up with an almost manic gleam at his father's words. For perhaps the first time in his life, he wasn't being dismissed or ignored by the king—he was being called upon to save him. "I'll kill her myself!" he declared, changing direction to sprint toward the massive warhammer. "I'll crush her skull like you crushed Rhaegar's!"

"Prince Joffrey, return to cover immediately!" Stannis's voice cut through the chaos, the stern command carrying the weight of years of military authority. "That's a direct order!"

Tywin's voice joined the chorus, its cold rage somehow more terrifying than Stannis's shout. "You foolish boy! Get back here before you get yourself killed!" The old lion half-rose from behind the rubble, only to be yanked back down by Ser Barristan as another volley of arrows hissed overhead.

Razmazma saw where Joffrey was headed, and genuine panic flashed across her inhuman features. She had felt the hammer's power firsthand—had nearly been destroyed by it—and the thought of it striking her again while she was pinned and defenseless sent her into a frenzy. With a scream that was equal parts pain and desperation, she wrenched at the second pole, tearing it free from her side in a spray of golden ichor that left a steaming puddle beneath her twisted form. "No!" she shrieked, clawing her way toward the prince. "You will not touch it, worm!"

Joffrey reached Stormblood just steps ahead of the wounded harpy. His face shone with triumph as he grasped the hammer's handle with both hands, planting his feet wide for leverage as he prepared to lift the massive weapon. The runes remained dull and lifeless as his fingers closed around the shaft. His expression shifted from exultation to confusion as he pulled upward with all his strength—and nothing happened.

"Put your back into it, boy!" Robert shouted, a seed of dread beginning to blossom in his chest as he watched his son struggle. "Drag it if you must, but bring it here!" His voice cracked, desperation giving it a brittle edge that he'd never allowed himself to show before. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Joffrey's face contorted with effort, veins bulging in his forehead as he pulled harder, throwing his entire weight backward in a desperate attempt to budge the warhammer. But Stormblood might as well have been welded to the earth—it didn't so much as wobble. Not a tremor, not a shift, not the slightest indication that it felt the prince's efforts at all. It remained as immovable as if it were carved from the bedrock itself, an immutable rejection that seemed to challenge Joffrey's very identity.

"I—I can't move it!" Joffrey's voice cracked with panic and humiliation as he continued to tug futilely at the weapon. "It won't—Father, it won't budge!" His eyes were wide with fear now, the approaching Razmazma momentarily forgotten as he confronted this impossible failure. He looked toward Robert, silently pleading for explanation or absolution, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew in the desert heat.

Stannis, Tywin, and Barristan watched from their cover, their expressions a study in contrasting emotions. Barristan's weathered face showed only concern for his prince, while Stannis's features hardened into a mask of grim realization. But it was Tywin's reaction that spoke volumes—the slight widening of his eyes, the momentary slackening of his jaw before iron control reasserted itself. The Lord of Casterly Rock knew what this meant, had perhaps always suspected the truth he'd refused to acknowledge until this moment.

Robert felt the world tilt beneath him, and not just from blood loss or poison. Owen Longshore's words, spoken when he'd presented the warhammer, came flooding back with the force of a physical blow: "Your Grace, I've forged this weapon specifically for you—and for those of your blood. The runes will respond only to those with the blood of the stag flowing in their veins. In anyone else's hands, it's merely steel and wood—heavy, yes, but ordinary. In yours, it's something... more."

Only those of your blood.

The final piece of a puzzle Robert had not been seeing for years clicked into place, the truth he'd buried beneath wine and whores and rage now impossible to deny. The golden-haired prince struggling with the immovable hammer, the hammer that responded only to Baratheon blood, was no son of his.

Time seemed to stop as Robert stared at his supposed son, the golden-haired boy struggling with the immovable hammer. The realization crashed into him with more force than any blow he'd received in battle. Longshore's words echoed in his mind: Only those of your blood. The hammer that had responded so readily to his touch, channeling lightning and fury through his veins, lay dead and lifeless in Joffrey's hands. A simple truth, laid bare by enchanted steel.

"Not my son," Robert whispered, his voice barely audible over the whistle of arrows and distant shouts. Then louder, the words tearing from his throat like a physical wound: "Not my son!" His face transformed, quiet understanding giving way to a fury that made even the approaching Razmazma pause. Blood loss and poison were forgotten as rage flooded his system, a more potent intoxicant than any wine he'd ever consumed.

"WHORE!" he roared, his voice carrying across the battlefield, directed not at the harpy before him but at a queen miles away in King's Landing. "TREACHEROUS FUCKING WHORE! I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS, CERSEI!" Spittle flew from his lips as he thrashed against his wounds, heedless of the spear still embedded in his thigh. "I'LL CRUSH YOUR SKULL AND THE SKULL OF WHATEVER BASTARD YOU SPREAD YOUR LEGS FOR!"

Joffrey's face drained of color, his hands still frozen on the hammer's handle as his supposed father's rage turned toward him. "None of them," Robert continued, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. "Not one of those golden-haired brats is mine. Fifteen years... fifteen years I've been played for a fool!" A bitter, terrible laugh escaped him, half-madness and half-grief. "And you, boy—parading around as my heir, sitting on my lap as a child, calling me father—it was all a lie!"

Behind their meager shelter, Stannis's jaw clenched so tight it threatened to crack teeth. His narrowed eyes moved from his raging brother to Tywin Lannister, whose face had become a hard, angry mask as the full implication of Cersei's actions settled upon him. The Old Lion's green eyes had gone cold as winter, his complexion ashen beneath the desert sun. Ser Barristan looked between them, his aged face a portrait of horror and disbelief.

"Seven save us," the Lord Commander whispered. "If the boy is not King Robert's, then who...?" His question died unfinished as he caught the murderous look in Tywin's eyes. Some things were better left unspoken, especially when the realm itself hung in the balance of such revelations.

"I should have known," Robert continued, his fury finding new targets. "I should have seen it years ago! Where is my black hair? My blue eyes? Where is anything of me in any of those children?" He fixed his gaze on Tywins form, who remained rigid behind the rubble. "AND YOU! You gave me a whore for a wife, Lannister! A sister-selling, treasonous WHORE! Was this your plan all along? To put your golden-haired spawn on my throne?"

Tywin remained silent, but the muscle twitching in his jaw spoke volumes. This was not calculation—this was blind rage barely contained. Whatever game Cersei had been playing, it was evident from his expression that it had not been done with her father's blessing or knowledge. The implications for House Lannister were catastrophic. Stannis's gaze never left the Lord of Casterly Rock, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword as he measured the older man's reaction.

"Father, please!" Joffrey cried, abandoning the hammer to stumble toward Robert, tears streaming down his face. "I am your son! I AM! Mother would never—she wouldn't—" His voice broke, childlike desperation replacing his usual petulance. For the first time in his life, Joffrey Baratheon faced a truth he could not bully or torture into submission. "I've always tried to make you proud! I've always wanted to be strong like you!"

"YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE!" Robert roared, his face purple with rage. "You are nothing to me—less than nothing! You're just the seed of some man your mother spread her legs for while I was out hunting or fighting or FUCKING WHORES WHO AT LEAST HAD THE DECENCY NOT TO PRETEND THEIR BASTARDS WERE MINE!" He let out another bitter laugh. "Gods, the irony... all those bastards I fathered, and not one sits in my castle calling me father!"

Joffrey's unbelieving pleas were cut short by a screech that sliced through the air like a blade—a sound of mingled fury, pain, and triumph. Razmazma had finally wrenched free the second pole that pinned her, golden ichor spattering the sand as she moved with inhuman speed despite her wounds. Before anyone could react, her taloned hand shot out to seize Joffrey by the back of the neck, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.

"Let go of me! HELP!" Joffrey shrieked, his legs kicking uselessly in the air as he twisted in her grip, hands clawing at her golden gauntlet. Blood trickled from where her talons dug into his flesh. "FATHER! GRANDFATHER! SOMEONE!"

Perhaps it was the boy's terror, or some deep-buried paternal instinct that sixteen years of raising a child—even one not of his blood—had instilled in him, but something in Robert shifted. "LET HIM GO, YOU SLAVER BITCH!" he roared, dragging himself up on his elbows despite the agony that tore through his body. "HE'S JUST A BOY! YOUR QUARREL IS WITH ME!"

Razmazma's laughter rang out, high and cruel as she held the struggling prince aloft like a trophy. "The mighty King Robert," she hissed, her serpentine tongue flicking between sharpened teeth. "Conqueror of the dragon dynasty, hammer of the Targaryens... and a man who couldn't even keep his own wife faithful." Her red eyes gleamed with malicious delight as she tightened her grip, drawing a pained whimper from Joffrey. "Tell me, fat king—how does it feel to know you've been cuckolded? That the boy you raised to inherit your throne carries another man's blood? That your dynasty ends here, in the sand, before it truly began?"

"Please, Father!" Joffrey sobbed, his face streaked with tears and dirt as he reached toward Robert. Gone was the cruel prince, the sadistic boy-king-to-be; in his place was a terrified child facing death. "I'm sorry! I didn't know! Please... help me!" His voice cracked, high and desperate as he stretched his arms toward the only father he had ever known.

It was the last thing he ever said.

With a sickening, wet sound, Razmazma drove her free hand through Joffrey's back, the golden talons erupting from his belly in a spray of crimson that painted the sand beneath them. Joffrey's scream died in a gurgle as blood fountained from his mouth, his eyes wide with shock and uncomprehending agony. He reached forward once more, fingers stretching toward Robert as if the king could somehow save him even now. The golden harpy twisted her arm, widening the wound, then thrust her second hand through the prince's chest from behind.

"NO!" The scream came not from Robert, but from Tywin, who surged to his feet only to be dragged down again by Stannis and Barristan as arrows whistled overhead. The Old Lion's face was transformed by a grief and rage that few had ever witnessed—the look of a man watching his legacy die before his eyes.

With a triumphant shriek that echoed across the battlefield, Razmazma pulled her arms in opposite directions. The sound that followed—the rending of flesh, the crack of bone, the wet tear of sinew—would haunt the dreams of all who witnessed it for the remainder of their days. Joffrey Baratheon, false heir to the Iron Throne, split apart like overripe fruit, his upper body falling to the blood-soaked sand while his legs crumpled in the opposite direction.

As if to add the final insult, Razmazma brought her armored boot down on Joffrey's head with a sickening crunch. The golden curls disappeared beneath her heel, bone and brain matter spraying outward as the prince's skull shattered like a melon. The men behind the rubble watched in silent horror, their faces masks of shock and revulsion. Even Stannis, hard and unyielding as he was, turned away from the sight, his jaw working silently as if trying to contain the contents of his stomach.

Robert's roar of rage transcended human sound, more the bellow of a wounded bear than anything a man should be capable of. Poison, pain, and blood loss were forgotten as he clawed at the sand, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch toward Stormblood. The hammer may have rejected Joffrey, revealing the boy's true parentage, but that changed nothing about the monster that had just butchered a child before his eyes. Baratheon or not, the boy had been his responsibility.

Robert roared, his voice hoarse with rage as he clawed his way forward through the bloodied sand. "I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING HEART OUT, YOU WINGED CUNT!" he bellowed, straining against the spear that kept him pinned like a butterfly in a collector's case. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the desert beneath him, yet still he fought to move, to reach her, to avenge the boy who had called him father for sixteen years.

Razmazma tilted her head, her broken wings twitching as a cruel smile spread across her inhuman features. Golden ichor dripped from her talons, mixing with Joffrey's blood to form a sickly bronze puddle at her feet. "How amusing," she purred, licking her bloodied claws with a forked tongue. "Such hatred for the death of a bastard not even of your blood. Tell me, fat king—did you love him so much when you thought he was yours? Or is it merely your pride that bleeds now?" She stepped over Joffrey's sundered remains, her armored foot crushing what remained of the boy's golden curls deeper into the sand.

"He was under my protection," Robert snarled, his face purple with exertion as he continued his futile struggle. "Whatever his blood, he was MY RESPONSIBILITY!" The last words emerged as a roar that sent fresh blood spraying from his lips, yet still he dragged himself forward, leaving a crimson trail in his wake.

Razmazma approached slowly, savoring each step, her bloodied talons glinting in the harsh sunlight. "How noble," she mocked. "The failed king, the failed husband, and now the failed protector. You couldn't save your false son, and you can't save yourself." She flexed her fingers, the golden armor clicking with each movement. "Your skull will adorn the Great Harpy's altar, and your name will be forgotten in a generation. A footnote in the glorious rebirth of Ghiscari power across two continents."

Behind their meager cover, Stannis Baratheon's face hardened into a mask of cold fury. His eyes never left the harpy champion as she approached his wounded brother, toying with him like a cat with a dying mouse. A strange calm settled over him—the same icy resolve that had sustained him through the siege of Storm's End, through starvation and desperation.

"Hold your position, my lord," Ser Barristan urged, gripping Stannis's arm. "We need to wait for reinforcements. That creature killed your brother's son before our eyes—she'll tear you apart just as easily."

"Not my brother's son," Stannis corrected, his voice flat and emotionless. "A bastard born of Treason and trickery. But still..." His jaw clenched as he watched Robert struggle, bleeding out in the sand. "Still my brother." Without another word, Stannis shoved Barristan's hand away and bolted from behind the rubble.

"LORD STANNIS, NO!" Barristan roared, but the Lord of Dragonstone was already sprinting across open ground, arrows from Meereen's walls whistling around him. One caught him in the shoulder, staggering him momentarily, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward, his eyes fixed on a single objective: Stormblood.

Razmazma turned at the commotion, her red eyes widening as she spotted Stannis charging toward the hammer. "Another one comes to die!" she laughed, but there was a note of unease in her voice. She had felt the hammer's power firsthand, had nearly been destroyed by it. "Come then, little stag. Join your brother and your false nephew in death!"

Stannis reached Stormblood, his hand closing around the handle with grim certainty. Unlike Joffrey's futile struggle, the weapon responded instantly to his touch. Blue-white lightning erupted from the runes etched into its surface, racing up Stannis's arm and across his armor, illuminating his severe features with an otherworldly glow. The hammer lifted easily in his grasp, as if it weighed no more than a feather, hungry for battle once more.

"Get away from my brother," Stannis commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos of the battlefield like a blade. There was no emotion in the words, no rage or fear—only cold, implacable purpose.

Razmazma snarled in frustration, her confidence visibly faltering as lightning crackled around Stannis and the reactivated hammer. She took a step back, then another, golden ichor still dripping from her numerous wounds. "The hammer accepts you," she hissed, as if offended by the weapon's recognition of Baratheon blood. "But it matters not. I am done playing with you mortals." She raised both hands skyward, gathering energy between her palms once more. The golden sphere swelled rapidly, pulsing with malevolent light, growing larger than her previous attacks. "Die together, stag brothers! The Great Harpy calls for your souls!"

Stannis took one measured step forward, Stormblood raised high, prepared to charge despite the certain death that awaited him. Behind their cover, Ser Barristan and Tywin held their breath, witnessing what would surely be the last stand of House Baratheon's main line.

The world seemed to slow, the golden light from Razmazma's attack painting the battlefield in sickly hues as she prepared to unleash devastation at point-blank range. Stannis's grip tightened on Stormblood, his knuckles white, ready to swing even as the deadly orb grew to the size of a wagon wheel.

And then—a whistle, high and piercing, cutting through the air from above.

Something—no, someone—plummeted from the cloudless sky like a bolt from the heavens, moving so fast that the air cracked around them. Sand and debris exploded outward as the figure crashed directly onto Razmazma, driving her deep into the earth with bone-shattering force. The impact created a crater ten feet across, throwing up a blinding cloud of dust that momentarily obscured everything.

When the sand settled, Stannis, Robert, and Barristan stared in shock at the figure standing casually in the middle of the depression, one foot planted firmly on Razmazma's chest. The harpy champion lay broken beneath him, her golden armor shattered, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, struggling weakly like an insect pinned to a board.

Owen Longshore looked down at her with detached curiosity, his face a mask of mild disappointment. His clothes showed no sign of battle—not a single speck of dust marred the rich fabric of his cloak tunic or the gleaming surface of his boots. Five rings glinted on his fingers, each pulsing with different colored light, and a staff topped with an emerald crystal was strapped across his back alongside a black sword whose edge seemed to drink in the sunlight around it.

"I was expecting more of a challenge when Jon sent the distress call," he remarked conversationally, as if commenting on disappointing weather. "The way he described it, I thought I'd be facing some kind of deity or ancient power." He increased the pressure of his foot, drawing a pained wheeze from Razmazma as her broken body compressed further into the sand.

"I am... Razmazma Zo Gandaq," she gurgled, golden blood bubbling from her lips as she struggled against his weight. "Champion of... the Great Harpy... you cannot—"

"Don't care," Owen interrupted flatly. With a casual motion, he lifted his foot and slammed it down through her neck with such force that her head separated completely from her body, golden ichor spraying outward like a fountain. A blinding light erupted from the wound, coalescing into a shimmering, bird-like form that tried to escape skyward, only to be caught in Owen's outstretched hand. He closed his fist around the golden essence, which pulsed once, twice, then shattered like glass, the fragments dissolving into nothingness.

"Gods should really choose their champions more carefully," Owen scoffed, stepping out of the crater and brushing a speck of golden blood from his sleeve with fastidious precision. He walked unhurriedly toward Robert and Stannis, seeming to take no notice of the arrows that still periodically whistled past. None came close to him, as if the very air diverted them from his path.

Ser Barristan emerged cautiously from cover, his weathered face a mask of disbelief. "What manner of man..." he began, but fell silent as Owen's cold gaze fell upon him.

"Not entirely a man or simple smith, Ser Barristan," Owen replied coolly. "But that's a discussion for another time." He turned his attention to Robert, who remained sprawled in the sand, the Ghiscari spear still protruding from his thigh. "You look terrible, robert. Though I must say, you fought impressively for a man your age and... condition."

Robert glared up at him, pain and rage warring in his bloodshot eyes. "Spare me your fucking condescension, Longshore. What took you so gods-damned long?"

Owen sighed, as if dealing with a particularly trying child. "I was in Valyria," he said simply. "Gathering knowledge more important than you can imagine." He knelt beside Robert, examining the spear with clinical detachment. "This will hurt," he warned, though his tone suggested he didn't particularly care whether it did or not.

With a casual wave of his hand, a soft blue light emanated from his palm, enveloping Robert's entire body. The king's back arched in sudden agony as the spear dissolved into motes of light, leaving behind unblemished flesh where the grievous wound had been. The countless gashes from Razmazma's talons sealed themselves before their eyes, skin knitting together without so much as a scar. Even the poison that had turned Robert's veins black beneath his skin seemed to burn away, leaving healthy pink flesh in its wake.

When the light faded, Robert stood shakily, testing his weight on his healed leg with obvious disbelief. His armor remained torn and blood-soaked, but the man beneath was whole once more. "Seven hells," he muttered, flexing his fingers as if to ensure they still worked properly.

"Consider that the last favor I do for you," Owen said coldly, stepping back. "Our arrangement is concluded, Robert Baratheon. The next time you find yourself facing something beyond your comprehension, don't expect me to intervene."

Robert nodded gruffly, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled with words that didn't come easily to him. "I... thank you," he managed finally, the admission clearly painful. His gaze drifted past Owen to where Joffrey's remains lay scattered across the bloodied sand, the boy's golden head crushed beyond recognition. Something hollow and haunted entered his eyes then—not grief for a beloved son, perhaps, but mourning for what might have been, for sixteen years of a life built on lies.

Owen surveyed the blood-soaked battlefield, his gaze sweeping across the carnage with clinical detachment. Bodies of Westerosi soldiers lay strewn across the sand like broken dolls, their armor glinting dully in the harsh afternoon sun. Some still moved, groaning in pain as they tried to drag themselves toward safety, while others lay still, their vacant eyes reflecting the cloudless sky above. He turned his attention back to Robert, who stood before him with an unsteady gait, like a man awakening from a long fever.

"Where's your army?" Owen asked, his tone matter-of-fact as he gestured toward the retreating figures in the distance. "I assume they've fallen back to the ships?"

Robert's face darkened, his momentary relief at being healed giving way to the bitter reality of his situation. "What's left of them, aye. That golden bitch tore through my finest knights like they were made of parchment." He ran a hand through his blood-matted beard, his eyes distant. "Four thousand men, Longshore. Four thousand good men dead in less than a day."

Stannis approached, his severe features set in a grim mask as he extended Stormblood toward his brother. The weapon still crackled with residual energy, blue lightning dancing along its surface before fading as it changed hands. "Your hammer, Your Grace," he said stiffly, a muscle working in his jaw. "It served its purpose, though not as intended."

Robert's fingers closed around the handle, and the weapon surged to life once more, responding to the Baratheon blood flowing through his veins. He stared at it for a long moment, then at the remains of the boy he had called son for sixteen years. Joffrey's blood had already begun to dry in the desert heat, turning from vibrant crimson to dull brown. "Not as intended," he repeated hollowly. "Nothing in my fucking life has gone as intended, Stannis. Not the crown, not the marriage, and certainly not the children that whore gave me." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying emotions he would never willingly acknowledge.

Owen watched this exchange with thinly veiled impatience, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Meereen's walls, where archers had ceased their volleys, perhaps wary of the newcomer who had dispatched their champion with such ease. "Will you continue the siege?" he asked bluntly. "Or does this... revelation change your plans?"

Robert barked a bitter laugh, hefting Stormblood onto his shoulder. "Continue the siege? For what purpose? To claim more wasteland filled with people who will despise us until the day they die?" He spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the sand. "I don't fucking care about these slavers or their lands. The North is welcome to it, Longshore. Welcome to every inch of this gods-forsaken continent. I have bigger things to deal with now." His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the rubble where Tywin had taken cover. "Isn't that right, Tywi—"

The words died in his throat as he realized the space behind the rubble was empty. Ser Barristan stood there alone, his weathered face grim. There was no sign of the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"Where is he?" Robert demanded, rage building in his voice like gathering thunder. "Where is that golden-haired fucking—"

Stannis moved to the edge of the makeshift shelter, scanning the battlefield with narrowed eyes. "Gone," he confirmed, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "The Lannister forces have already begun loading onto their ships. Look." He pointed toward the distant harbor, where frantic activity could be seen even from this distance.

"He fled," Robert said, the words dripping with disbelief and mounting rage. "The bastard fled while his grandson's blood was still warm on the sand." His face contorted, flushing deep crimson as his grip tightened on Stormblood until his knuckles turned white. "COWARD!" he bellowed, the force of his voice sending a flock of carrion birds scattering from nearby corpses. "RUN BACK TO YOUR ROCK, OLD LION! I'LL DRAG YOU OUT BY YOUR MANE AND MOUNT YOUR HEAD ON THE WALLS OF KING'S LANDING!"

Stannis grimaced, grinding his teeth in that familiar way that had worn them down over years of barely contained frustration. "He has a significant head start, and if his men from the Westerlands are already boarding, it will be a race to Westeros." His eyes met Robert's, cold calculation replacing shock. "He'll likely rush to King's Landing first, to secure Cersei and the other... children... before retreating to Casterly Rock."

"Let him run," Robert growled, a dangerous calm settling over him like a shroud. "It won't matter. It will be the Westerlands versus all seven—" He stopped abruptly, remembering the fragmented state of his realm. The Iron Islands lay in ruins, and the North had all but declared their independence. His jaw tightened as he corrected himself. "Versus the five kingdoms. And I will make sure they all die screaming—all Lannisters and any who dare support them." He turned to Ser Barristan, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. "Selmy, gather what men you can. We're returning to the ships immediately."

"As you command, Your Grace," the old knight replied, though there was a deep sadness in his eyes as he looked at his king—a man he had served loyally for years, now broken in ways that had nothing to do with physical wounds. He departed at once, moving with the urgency of a man half his age.

The three men stood in silence for a moment, the weight of what had transpired hanging heavy in the air between them. Robert finally turned to Owen, his face set in hard lines of determination. "This changes everything, Longshore. The realm will bleed as it never has before." He paused, studying the man who had healed him yet remained so alien, so unknowable. "You and Ned were right to want no part in this madness. The North has chosen its path, and I... I have mine."

"So it seems," Owen replied, his voice neutral, betraying neither satisfaction nor sympathy. He watched as Robert and Stannis began walking toward the coast, their silhouettes gradually diminishing against the backdrop of sand and sky. Around them, the remaining soldiers gathered their wounded, preparing for a retreat that had begun to feel like defeat.

Owen remained standing in the midst of the carnage, his gaze now fixed on the still-closed gates of Meereen. The city remained silent, its bronze harpy statues gleaming in the late afternoon sun, as if watching and waiting to see what new power would claim dominion over them. With a slight sigh, he reached into a pocket of his tunic and withdrew a small, ornate locket. Flipping it open, he spoke quietly but clearly.

"Jon? Yes, the situation is under control, but it seems Robert and his army are abandoning the campaign." He listened for a moment to the response, his expression unreadable. "Take a day or two to get ready, then bring the army over. It seems the North will be taking the East as its own after all." The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles.

Not a bad day, all things considered.

Chapter Text

Little is known about the man known as Owen Longshore despite having numerous kings, queens, and emperors come from his line with Sansa Stark and his concubines. The archives of both the Citadel and the University of New Braavos contain conflicting accounts of his life, abilities, and accomplishments, rendering much of what we understand about this pivotal historical figure as educated conjecture rather than established fact. Even the most comprehensive biography, Maester Alleras' The Smith Who Forged Nations, acknowledges significant gaps in our understanding, labeling entire years of Owen's life as "the shadow periods" due to his habit of disappearing for months at a time without record or witness.

Of particular historical obscurity are the events that transpired during the war in the East, after the Northern forces separated from King Robert's command. Contemporary accounts are fragmented, often contradictory, and frequently embellished with fantastical elements that modern scholars hesitate to accept without reservation. What can be verified through multiple corroborating sources, diplomatic correspondence, and archaeological evidence, however, paints a picture of one of the most consequential military campaigns in known history – one that would permanently reshape the political landscape of not only Essos but the entire known world.

Following the disastrous siege at Meereen, where Robert Baratheon's forces were devastated by what eyewitnesses described as an "empowered slaver woman calling herself a champion of the Great Harpy," the king's abrupt retreat marked a pivotal turning point in the campaign. The revelation that Joffrey was not Robert's son but rather the product of Queen Cersei's infidelity with her (revealed later) brother and roberts own Kingsguard Jaime Lannister shattered the fragile political alliances that had held the Seven Kingdoms together. Royal chronicles record that King Robert, consumed by rage and humiliation, abandoned the eastern campaign entirely, taking approximately half his forces back to Westeros to confront the Lannisters and reclaim his honor.

The vacuum left by Robert's departure might have spelled disaster for the remaining Westerosi forces were it not for the unprecedented coalition that formed in its wake. Lord Eddard Stark assumed command of the Northern contingent, with his son Robb and his nephew Jon Snow (who would later be recognized as Aemon Targaryen) serving as his principal lieutenants. The Dornish forces under Prince Oberyn Martell, the Reach armies led by the uncompromising Randyll Tarly, and the Riverlands battalions commanded by the legendary Brynden "Blackfish" Tully united under a common cause despite centuries of regional tensions and historical grievances. Maester Samwell's Chronicle of the Eastern Campaign suggests this unlikely alliance was held together largely through Owen Longshore's diplomatic efforts and the promise of territorial gains, though Lord Stark's respected leadership provided essential moral authority.

Contemporaneous military dispatches recovered from the personal archives of House Tarly indicate that the coalition forces employed revolutionary siege tactics against the remaining slaver cities. While conventional wisdom of the era would have dictated prolonged encirclements to starve the cities into submission, the coalition instead utilized what the documents describe as "northern thunder tubes" – presumably the advanced cannons designed by Owen Longshore. These weapons reportedly reduced stone fortifications to rubble with unprecedented efficiency, allowing for swift assaults that minimized coalition casualties. The Great Temple of Meereen, a structure that had stood for over four centuries, was said to have collapsed after just three days of bombardment, an engineering feat that would have been impossible with traditional trebuchets or mangonels.

More controversial are the accounts of "powerful magics" employed by Lord Owen during these sieges. The personal journal of Ser Gerris Drinkwater, a Dornish knight who participated in the assault on Astapor, describes witnessing Owen Longshore "calling down lightning from clear skies" and "conjuring walls of impenetrable force" to protect advancing soldiers. While modern scholarship tends to regard such accounts with skepticism, attributing them to the superstitious nature of the age or deliberate exaggeration for political purposes, the sheer volume of similar testimonies from diverse and otherwise reliable sources has prevented historians from dismissing these claims entirely. Recent discoveries at the University of Yi Ti have uncovered ancient scrolls that reference similar abilities among certain bloodlines, suggesting the possibility that such phenomena may have had some basis in reality, however incompletely understood.

Perhaps the most strategically significant achievement attributed to Owen Longshore during this period was his acquisition of the Unsullied command whip. According to the memoirs of Missandei of Naath, who would later become a key advisor (and future noble lady) to Queen Daenerys, Owen infiltrated the headquarters of the slaver commanders during the siege of Yunkai. Through means not fully explained in any surviving account, he emerged with the sacred whip used by the Good Masters to control all Unsullied forces. Contemporary Ghiscari records express outrage at this "treachery against ancient customs," suggesting the event did indeed occur as described, though details remain contested. (This account was later revised, as Owen had beforehand taken the whip of command from the Volantene Slaver commanders in Myr)

The consequences of this acquisition were immediate and devastating for the slaver alliance. The recovered letters of Marghaz zo Loraq, a wealthy Meereenese noble who survived the initial siege, describe in horrified detail how "the eunuch soldiers turned upon us like wild beasts, slaughtering without mercy those who had commanded them but hours before." Military histories compiled during the early years of the Targaryen Restoration estimate that approximately 80% of the slaver military leadership was eliminated within a single day of Owen's capture of the whip, effectively decapitating the command structure of the opposing forces and accelerating their eventual defeat.

Contemporary accounts are nearly unanimous in describing the subsequent actions of the freed Unsullied. Having endured lifetimes of brutal conditioning, horrific mutilation, and dehumanizing treatment, they executed a methodical campaign of vengeance against their former masters. The Chronicles of Missandei record that in Astapor alone, over three thousand members of slaver families were executed in what she terms "the accounting," while in Yunkai, the former slaves razed the Plaza of Pride and erected in its place a monument fashioned from the melted chains of their bondage. While some modern historians have questioned the scale of these reprisals, archaeological excavations conducted in the Meereenese catacombs during the reign of King Daemon III Targaryen uncovered mass graves containing thousands of skeletons, many showing evidence of violence consistent with the historical accounts.

Among the most remarkable claims from this period – and one that has generated centuries of scholarly debate – is the assertion that Owen Longshore "restored the manhood" of the Unsullied through magical means. The Testimony of Dark Ox, dictated by one of the Unsullied commanders approximately fifteen years after these events, states unequivocally: "The Savior laid his hands upon us and with words of power returned what had been taken. The pain was like fire, but when it passed, we were whole again." For centuries, such accounts were dismissed as metaphorical or propagandistic. However, genetic studies conducted by the Citadel and the University of New Braavos in recent decades have conclusively demonstrated that numerous noble lineages throughout Essos and Westeros can indeed trace their ancestry to former Unsullied soldiers who somehow regained reproductive capability.

The most extensively studied of these lineages belongs to the Greystone family, descended from the Unsullied commander Grey Worm who married Missandei of Naath. DNA analysis of their great-granddaughter, who later married into House Stark, confirms beyond scientific doubt that she carried genetic markers consistent with direct biological descent from Grey Worm, not adoption or other parental arrangements. Similar genetic confirmation has been established for at least seventeen other prominent houses with Unsullied ancestry, including House Blackspear of Dorne and House Freestone of the Stepstones. The scientific consensus, outlined in Archmaester Ebrose's landmark paper "Genetic Impossibilities and Historical Realities," concludes that "while the mechanism remains unexplained by current medical understanding, the biological evidence affirms that something extraordinary occurred among the Unsullied population during this period."

The fall of New Ghis in the year 299 AC marked the effective end of organized slaver power in Essos. The last major holdout of the old Ghiscari slaver culture, New Ghis had bolstered its defenses with mercenary companies and what remained of the slaver fleets, but contemporary accounts suggest the siege lasted less than a fortnight. The Naval Logs of Admiral Davos Seaworth describe a combined assault by Northern longships equipped with "frost-forged cannons" and Dornish vessels deploying what he calls "fire serpents" – possibly some form of advanced incendiary weapon. When the city finally fell, the victorious coalition forces discovered that many of the defending slaves had already revolted, having heard rumors of the approaching liberators and the whip that commanded Unsullied loyalty.

With the major centers of the slave trade now under coalition control, smaller pockets of slaver resistance were systematically eliminated over the following years. The most detailed account of these "cleansing campaigns" comes from the personal diary of Ser Brienne of Tarth, who commanded a mixed force of Northern soldiers and freed Unsullied in what became known as the "Chain-Breaking Crusade." Her writings describe pursuing slaver caravans across the Dothraki Sea, liberating slave ships in the Gulf of Grief, and dismantling hidden auction houses in the hills of Tolos. "We hunt them like the vermin they are," she wrote, "and with each victory, more former slaves join our ranks, eager to deliver the same justice upon their former masters that they themselves once suffered."

The division of the conquered territories presented a delicate diplomatic challenge that threatened to fracture the coalition. According to the recovered correspondence between Lord Stark and Lord Tarly, negotiations lasted nearly two months, with tensions occasionally flaring to the point of threatened military action. The Memoirs of Willas Tyrell suggest that Owen Longshore played a crucial role in these negotiations, offering generous terms that surprised many of the southern lords who had expected the North to claim all territories for itself. "Lord Owen spoke with impressive foresight," Willas wrote, "arguing that stable, allied governance across these lands would serve the North better than overextended direct rule."

The final settlement, formalized in the Treaty of New Braavos, awarded control of Yunkai to House Tyrell of the Reach, with Willas Tyrell appointed as its first Governor-General. House Martell of Dorne received dominion over Astapor, while House Tully was granted significant portions of the Disputed Lands. House Stark claimed Meereen and New Ghis, establishing Jon Snow (by then acknowledged as Aemon Targaryen) as the provisional governor of these territories, though he would later relinquish these positions upon his ruling over his own castle Wolf crest on the lands of House longshore and later marriage to Daenerys Targaryen and ascension to the Iron Throne. This distribution of power created what scholars would later term "the Western Essosi Alliance," a political confederation that would dominate trade and policy in the region for generations.

House Longshore, represented by Owen retained the most strategically valuable territories: Lys with its naval facilities and wealth, the Stepstones with their control of key shipping lanes, Qohor with its unparalleled smiths and artisans, and Volantis with its central position in Essosi trade routes. This collection of holdings, while geographically dispersed, granted House Longshore unprecedented influence over both continental and maritime commerce. The Economic Records of the Iron Bank, partially unsealed during the reign of Queen Lyanna II Targaryen, indicate that within five years of these acquisitions, House Longshore's annual revenues exceeded those of the Iron Throne itself, creating a financial powerhouse that would fundamentally reshape the economic landscape of both continents.

Governing these newly acquired territories posed challenges beyond mere military occupation. The slave-based economies that had sustained these cities for millennia had been decimated, and the social hierarchies that had organized their societies for generations had been violently overturned. Owen Longshore's approach to reconstruction, as documented in the Administrative Codex of Volantis, emphasized rapid infrastructure development, establishment of representative councils that included former slaves, and implementation of public education systems. Most controversially, he instituted what became known as "justice tribunals" – courts specifically tasked with addressing crimes committed under the old slaver regimes, which modern scholars have compared to the truth and reconciliation commissions of much later historical periods.

The elimination of the slavery mentality proved to be a more formidable challenge than the military conquest itself. Generations of cultural conditioning had instilled both masters and slaves with deeply ingrained perspectives that resisted change. The Chronicles of Missandei describe numerous instances of former masters attempting to reassert authority, underground slave markets emerging in remote districts, and even some former slaves seeking to return to their previous positions out of fear of their newfound freedom. Owen Longshore's solution, as outlined in his surviving correspondence with Sansa Stark, was ruthlessly pragmatic: "The old generation cannot be fully reformed; they must simply be contained until time renders them irrelevant. Our focus must be on the children, who can still learn a different way of seeing the world." To this end, he established what became known as the "Free Schools" – educational institutions specifically designed to teach egalitarian values to the younger generation while providing practical skills that would allow them to thrive in the new economic order.

The success of these measures varied considerably across the different regions. In territories directly administered by House Longshore, primary sources indicate relatively rapid social transformation, attributed by many historians to Owen's direct involvement and the application of what contemporary accounts vaguely describe as "enhanced methods." The Qohorik Census conducted fifteen years after liberation shows that approximately 78% of former slaves had established independent businesses or entered skilled professions, while the children of former masters had largely integrated into the new social order, many even intermarrying with families of slave descent. By contrast, regions under other houses' administration showed more uneven progress, with Astapor under House Martell achieving similar success rates, while Yunkai under House Tyrell experienced multiple counter-revolutionary uprisings before stability was finally achieved.

Most impressive among Lord Owen Longshore's achievements were the unprecedented innovations he established throughout the territories under his control. Contemporary administrative records recovered from the Volantene archives document the creation of a standardized educational system modeled loosely on the Citadel, but with crucial differences that would later revolutionize learning throughout the known world. Unlike the exclusively male Citadel, these "Common Schools" accepted students regardless of gender, social origin, or former status, and focused on practical skills alongside traditional knowledge. Within five years of their establishment, literacy rates in Lys rose from an estimated 15% to nearly 60%, according to the census conducted by Maester Wendel, who had been assigned to assist Lord Owen's administrative efforts despite the Citadel's growing wariness of Northern influence.

The healthcare reforms instituted under Lord Owen's direction proved equally revolutionary. The Medical Codex of Qohor, compiled during this period, describes the establishment of what became known as "Houses of Healing" – large facilities staffed by trained physicians who provided care without regard to wealth or status. Most controversial were Lord Owen's stringent hygiene protocols, including mandatory hand washing with specialized soaps, which many traditionalists initially mocked as superstitious nonsense. However, when mortality rates in these institutions dropped dramatically compared to traditional healing centers, resistance quickly faded. Archaeological excavations conducted during the reign of Queen Sansa II Stark uncovered extensive water purification systems beneath these ancient hospitals, utilizing filtration techniques that would not be independently rediscovered for nearly two centuries.

Perhaps most transformative was the creation of a unified policing force, documented in the Enforcement Statutes of Volantis. This organization, initially called the "Guardians of Order" but later simplified to "The Order," replaced the chaotic patchwork of private security forces and noble house guards that had previously maintained a semblance of justice. Lord Owen's insistence that all members of this force be drawn equally from former slaves and former free citizens initially generated fierce resistance, but the detailed training protocols he established – which emphasized de-escalation techniques and proportional response – eventually won widespread support. The recovered journals of Joracho, a former slave who rose to become Commander of the Order in Lys, note that "the Lord's insistence on justice over vengeance was difficult for many to accept, yet proved essential for healing the deep wounds of our society."

The agricultural innovations attributed to Lord Owen remain the subject of heated scholarly debate even in modern times. Contemporary accounts describe glasshouses of unprecedented size appearing virtually overnight throughout the territories, producing harvests "with unnatural frequency and abundance." The Agricultural Records of Volantis claim these structures yielded fresh crops "near weekly in quantities sufficient to feed thousands," defying established understanding of plant growth cycles. Modern historians have generally dismissed such claims as exaggeration, yet archaeological excavations at seventeen separate sites have uncovered remnants of these structures, including peculiar crystalline fragments that the University of New Braavos has conclusively dated to this period. These fragments exhibit properties inconsistent with natural materials, leading some contemporary researchers to reluctantly acknowledge that some form of advanced technology or, more controversially, magical enhancement may indeed have been employed, though the precise mechanisms remain unexplained.

Lady Sansa Longshore (née Stark) proved herself no less revolutionary than her husband, though her efforts focused primarily on social rather than technological transformation. The Women's Codex of Lys, which bears her personal seal, established unprecedented protections for women throughout the territories, most controversially for those engaged in what contemporary documents delicately termed "the pleasure trade." Lys, long infamous for its pleasure houses and sexual slavery, became the testing ground for Lady Sansa's most radical reforms. The codex explicitly prohibited forced prostitution under penalty of death, while simultaneously establishing legal protections for those who chose such work willingly. Modern scholars have noted the remarkably progressive nature of these laws, particularly given Lady Sansa's noble upbringing in the relatively conservative North of Westeros. The personal correspondence between Sansa and her sister Arya, partially preserved in the Winterfell archives, suggests that her experiences witnessing the brutality of court life in King's Landing significantly influenced her perspective on the vulnerability of women in patriarchal societies.

Particularly revolutionary were the healthcare and educational provisions Lady Sansa established for sex workers and their children. The Lyseni Guardian Houses, as they came to be known, provided comprehensive medical care, safe housing, and educational opportunities specifically tailored to this vulnerable population. Archaeological evidence from these facilities, particularly the largest example in Volantis, indicates they were equipped with advanced bathing systems, private sleeping chambers, and extensive classroom spaces. The Memoirs of Madam Doreah, a former pleasure house operator who became the first administrator of the Guardian House in Lys, describes Lady Sansa personally interviewing candidates for teaching positions, insisting that "no woman's child should be denied opportunity due to the circumstances of their birth or their mother's profession." Census records from approximately twenty years after these institutions were established indicate that children raised in Guardian Houses achieved educational outcomes and professional placements comparable to those from merchant families, representing an unprecedented level of social mobility for this previously marginalized population.

The cumulative effect of these reforms, coupled with the infrastructure development and economic policies implemented under Lord Owen's direction, created what contemporary chronicles universally acknowledge as a period of extraordinary prosperity and social advancement throughout the eastern territories. The Economic Records of the Iron Bank document a 300% increase in trade volume across these regions within the first decade of Longshore governance, while population censuses indicate a dramatic decrease in mortality rates and a corresponding increase in life expectancy. The term "Golden Age" first appears in the writings of Valyrio of Lys approximately forty years after these initial reforms, suggesting that the full impact of these changes became apparent only with the benefit of historical perspective. Modern historians generally concur with this assessment, with Archmaester Marwyn's landmark work The Transformation of Essos concluding that "no period before or since has witnessed such rapid and fundamental improvement in the material conditions and social opportunities available to ordinary citizens in these regions."

While Owen Longshore and his allies consolidated their victories and implemented these transformative reforms in the East, the southern regions of Westeros descended into chaos and conflict. King Robert Baratheon's triumphant return from the eastern campaign quickly soured as he discovered the full extent of the betrayals that had occurred during his absence. According to the Chronicles of Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the few Kingsguard who remained loyal throughout this period, the king "roared like a wounded bear" upon learning that Queen Cersei had fled the capital with her remaining children, Myrcella and Tommen Waters, taking refuge in Casterly Rock under the protection of her father, Lord Tywin Lannister. The royal rage only intensified with the discovery that nearly half the royal treasury had disappeared, along with Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, and Lady Lysa Arryn, the widow of Jon Arryn. Recovered correspondence between Robert and Stannis Baratheon suggests the king initially suspected mere theft, unaware of the deeper conspiracy that had claimed his Hand's life.

The full extent of these machinations was revealed by Grand Maester Pycelle, who, perhaps calculating that honesty might preserve his position, disclosed that Jon Arryn had been poisoned by Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish after discovering the truth about Cersei's children. According to the Testimony of Ser Arys Oakheart, who witnessed the encounter, the Grand Maester professed ignorance of the murder itself but admitted to suspecting the truth about the royal children's parentage for years. This confession, rather than earning the king's gratitude, sealed Pycelle's fate. In what would become one of the most cited examples of Robert's infamous temper, the king reportedly responded by personally executing the elderly maester with a single blow from his warhammer, Stormblood. The royal steward's accounts note laconically that "considerable expense was required to remove bloodstains from the throne room floor and restore the damaged wall where the maester's remains impacted." This violent episode, coupled with the disappearance of Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers, left the Small Council effectively decimated at precisely the moment when stable governance was most desperately needed.

Consumed by rage and humiliation, King Robert immediately called his banners to march against House Lannister, determined to bring the Westerlands to heel and personally execute those who had betrayed him. The royal proclamation, preserved in the archives of Storm's End, declared Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister guilty of treason, adultery, and conspiracy against the crown, while demanding that Lord Tywin surrender both his children and grandchildren for "the king's justice" or face destruction. The document notably refrained from naming Tywin himself a traitor, suggesting either a diplomatic calculation or, as some historians have argued, Robert's reluctance to directly confront the man who had once been his most powerful supporter. Whatever the king's intentions, the proclamation effectively demanded that Lord Tywin choose between his family and his loyalty to the crown – a choice that, for a man who had built his entire reputation on family legacy, was no choice at all.

The response to Robert's call to arms revealed how profoundly the political landscape of Westeros had shifted during the eastern campaign. The Military Records of the Master of War, compiled during the subsequent reign, indicate that while the Stormlands rallied to their liege lord without hesitation, and the Crownlands forces had little choice but to follow their king, support from other regions proved surprisingly limited. The Vale forces, still recovering from their losses in Essos and lacking clear leadership in Lady Lysa's absence, contributed only token forces under Lord Yohn Royce, who made no secret of his reluctance to participate in what he termed a "family quarrel blown beyond all reason." More alarmingly for Robert's prospects, the Reach and Riverlands – whose combined forces might have guaranteed victory – responded with diplomatic equivocation rather than military support. House Tyrell's formal declaration of neutrality, preserved in the Citadel archives, cited "the pressing need to attend to reconstruction and governance of our newly acquired eastern territories" while obliquely suggesting that "matters of royal succession would be more appropriately addressed through a Great Council rather than bloodshed."

House Tully's position proved particularly problematic for Robert's war plans. Lord Hoster Tully, already in failing health, found himself in an impossible position: his daughter Lysa stood accused of regicide, his goodson Eddard Stark had all but declared independence, and his remaining allies in the Riverlands were deeply divided over which side to support. The Private Journals of Maester Vyman reveal that Lord Edmure initially favored supporting Robert out of personal loyalty, while the Blackfish counseled alignment with the North, arguing that "the time of Baratheon has passed, and winter comes for us all." The resulting declaration of neutrality, which the Blackfish reportedly termed "the coward's path that satisfies no one," effectively prevented Robert from accessing the strategically crucial river crossings that would have allowed his forces to approach the Westerlands from the east. This limitation would prove critical in the subsequent military campaign, forcing Robert to adopt a more vulnerable approach through the mountains.

Most surprising – and most damaging to Robert's prestige – was the response from Dorne. Prince Doran Martell's message, delivered later by his brother Oberyn who had recently returned from the eastern campaign, was remarkable for its dismissive brevity. The single parchment, displayed in the Royal Museum of King's Landing until its destruction during the Great Fire, contained only two sentences: "Dorne wishes you good fortune in delivering justice that should have been done years ago. We will watch with interest what becomes of Tywin Lannister's legacy." The pointed reference to Tywin, rather than Cersei or Jaime, underscored the Martells' primary concern: vengeance for the murder of Princess Elia and her children during Robert's Rebellion, crimes widely attributed to Tywin's orders. This response, while technically not a refusal, made it clear that Dorne would offer no assistance to the crown, dealing another blow to Robert's hopes for a unified campaign against the Lannisters.

The North's position during this crisis marked perhaps the most significant shift in the political order that had governed Westeros since Aegon's Conquest. While no formal declaration of independence was issued, contemporary accounts suggest that the northern territories had effectively ceased to recognize Robert's authority following the confrontation in Braavos over Daenerys Targaryen's fate. Lord Eddard Stark's response to Robert's call to arms, preserved in the Winterfell archives, exemplifies this subtle but unmistakable change in relationship: "The North remembers our friendship and the battles we have fought together, Your Grace, but we must now look to our own lands and people, and to the governance of the eastern territories entrusted to our care. We wish you wisdom in resolving these difficult matters of your realm." The careful wording – referring to "your realm" rather than "our realm" – did not escape notice in the Red Keep. According to the Memoirs of Ser Davos Seaworth, Stannis Baratheon reportedly remarked upon reading this message that "Ned has not rebelled; he has simply walked away, which may prove more damaging in the end."

This "silent revolt," as contemporary chroniclers termed it, extended beyond the Stark territories to encompass a significant political realignment throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The Diplomatic Correspondence of Highgarden reveals that during this period, Houses Tyrell, Tully, and Martell all sent representatives to Winterfell, ostensibly to discuss trade agreements and the administration of their eastern holdings but almost certainly to coordinate their political positions vis-à-vis the Iron Throne. These meetings occurred without royal sanction or participation, representing an unprecedented level of independent diplomatic activity among the great houses. The economic dimension of this realignment proved equally significant; the Customs Records of White Harbor indicate that trade between the North and these kingdoms increased dramatically during this period, while commercial exchanges with the Crownlands and Stormlands correspondingly diminished. This pattern suggests the emergence of what modern historians have termed "the Northern Faction" – not a formal alliance, but a loose confederation of interests organized around economic cooperation and tacit political alignment.

The most colorful – and most disputed – episode in this deteriorating relationship between the North and the crown involves the infamous "Deez Nuts" letter supposedly sent from Ice Crest to King's Landing in response to Robert's call to arms. This document, which has not survived but is referenced in multiple contemporary sources, allegedly contained a series of increasingly juvenile insults, culminating in the crude phrase that has since entered common usage in historical discussions of this period. Modern scholarship has largely concluded, as suggested in the Chronicle of Grand Maester Gormon, that this message was almost certainly a forgery, possibly created by enemies of House Longshore to discredit them or simply by court wits seeking to amuse themselves during this tense period. As the chronicle correctly notes, Lord Owen had not yet returned to Ice Crest from his expeditions in the far East when Robert's call to arms was issued, leaving only the heavily pregnant Lady Sansa in residence – and, as Gormon dryly observes, "even in these troubled times, one struggles to imagine the daughter of Eddard Stark addressing the King of the Seven Kingdoms in such terms."

The alleged "Deez Nuts" letter has become the subject of extensive scholarly debate, with the original document long lost but its contents preserved through oral tradition and contemporary references. Recovered fragments from Maester Willem's Chronicles of the Post-Eastern War suggest the missive contained such crude phrases as "Cant kill the Lannisters on your own? Skill issue!" and the now-infamous declaration, "You can suck on DEEZ NUTS, Robert!" Though most serious historians maintained for centuries that such language could never have emanated from Ice Crest during Lord Owen's absence, the discovery of Lord Longshore's personal journal in the hidden vaults beneath the Citadel has forced a reevaluation of this conclusion. The journal entry, dated shortly after his return from Valyria, includes the admission: "I sent instructions to Jon regarding Robert's demands before my arrival. Perhaps my choice of words was... intemperate. The frustrations of Valyria and concerns for Sansa's condition left me with little patience for southern entanglements." This revelation suggests that while Owen may not have physically written the letter himself, he did dictate its confrontational content via magical communication methods referenced elsewhere in his journals.

Robert Baratheon's reaction to this unprecedented diplomatic breach defied all expectations of courtly protocol. According to the personal accounts of Stannis Baratheon, preserved in the Storm's End archives, the king read the message in his brother's presence, snorted with unexpected amusement, and simply continued preparing for his campaign against the Lannisters without comment. Later that evening, after consuming considerable quantities of wine, Robert reportedly declared to his assembled commanders, "That northern smith has bigger balls than all the lords of Westeros combined. If half my bannermen showed such honest spine instead of honeyed words, perhaps my reign wouldn't be this fucking mess." This grudging respect, documented in multiple contemporary sources, explains why no punitive action was ever taken against House Longshore or the North for what would otherwise have constituted treasonous disrespect. The Memories of Ser Barristan Selmy suggest that in Robert's mind, the betrayal of the Lannisters so overshadowed all other concerns that Owen's crude defiance registered as little more than a momentary diversion—perhaps even a welcome one, given the king's appreciation for unvarnished speech.

With the Iron Islands effectively depopulated following the brutal campaign that left House Greyjoy extinct and most of their vassals executed or exiled, this strategically significant region presented both an opportunity and a challenge for the crown. The official records of the Small Council, partially preserved in the Royal Archives, indicate that Stannis Baratheon initially advocated for the islands to be placed under direct crown control, effectively establishing them as a royal province. However, King Robert, impressed by the loyalty and practical wisdom demonstrated by Ser Davos Seaworth throughout both eastern and western campaigns, made the unprecedented decision to elevate the former smuggler to Lord of the Iron Islands. The royal decree, issued in 301 AC and preserved in its entirety in the Seaworth family archives, specifically cites Davos's "uncompromising honesty, practical knowledge of maritime affairs, and demonstrated capacity to transform disadvantage into prosperity" as justifications for this remarkable elevation. The decision scandalized traditional nobility throughout the realm, with Lord Randyll Tarly reportedly declaring that "a common criminal might as well be named Hand of the King"—ironically, a position Davos would indeed hold decades later under another monarch.

Lord Davos's transformation of the Iron Islands stands as one of the most remarkable economic and cultural revolutions in the history of Westeros. Rejecting the Ironborn philosophy of "paying the iron price," Seaworth established what he termed the "honest price"—fair compensation for goods and services rendered through productive labor rather than raiding. Within a decade, the Islands had developed the most sophisticated fishing fleet in the known world, utilizing innovative techniques imported from the North and Essosi territories. The Maritime Records of Pyke document the introduction of deep-sea fishing vessels capable of remaining at sea for months at a time, revolutionizing both the scale and efficiency of the industry. Equally significant were the mining reforms implemented under Seaworth's direction. The Technical Manuals of Lord Davos, compiled during this period and later donated to the Citadel, describe improved ventilation systems, safety protocols, and extraction techniques that doubled iron production while dramatically reducing worker fatalities. Archaeological evidence uncovered during the reign of King Eddard II Targaryen confirms that these improvements incorporated certain elements of design identical to those found in Owen Longshore's northern mines, suggesting a degree of technological sharing that neither realm officially acknowledged at the time.

With his available forces—predominantly drawn from the Stormlands, Crownlands, and supplemented by mercenary companies hastily contracted from the Free Cities—King Robert launched what contemporary chronicles termed "The War of Cuckoldry" against House Lannister. The conflict would last three brutal years, characterized by sieges, atrocities, and destruction that would leave the Westerlands economically devastated for a generation. The Military Chronicles of Ser Addam Marbrand, who fought for House Lannister during this period, describe a campaign of extraordinary savagery, with Robert personally leading many of the assaults and reportedly shouting Cersei's name as he cut down Lannister soldiers. The king's legendary battle prowess, which had diminished during years of peace and excess, returned with terrifying intensity. The Testimony of Ser Arys Oakheart recounts witnessing Robert kill seventeen men during the Battle of Oxcross, including Lord Leo Lefford, whom the king reportedly executed by crushing his skull with Stormblood after the lord surrendered, declaring, "Your gold bought my wife's betrayal. Fair exchange that your blood pays for it."

The unprecedented brutality of this conflict stemmed not merely from Robert's personal rage but from his explicit orders to his commanders. Recovered military dispatches, preserved in the Royal Archives, show that the king authorized tactics that violated longstanding conventions of warfare between noble houses. Most notoriously, after Lannister forces executed peasants who had provided supplies to royal troops, Robert formally sanctioned what became known as the "Harvest of Lion's Blood." This proclamation, which even Stannis Baratheon reportedly opposed, declared that "as the Lannisters have made common cause with treason and incest against the natural order, they have forfeited all protections of noble standing." The practical consequence of this declaration was a campaign of systematic destruction that targeted not only military assets but the entire economic infrastructure of the Westerlands. The Agricultural Records of Casterly Rock document the burning of fields, destruction of mines, and poisoning of wells throughout the region—tactics that would haunt the collective memory of the Westerlands for generations and engender a bitter hatred that would ultimately contribute to the collapse of Baratheon rule.

While Robert's rage focused primarily on the Lannisters, his desire for vengeance extended to all who had betrayed his trust. The royal proclamation issued from his field headquarters at Deep Den in 300 AC established a bounty of fifty thousand gold dragons each for the capture of Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully—a sum that, adjusted for modern currency values, would exceed twenty million gold dragons today. The document, which survives in the archives of the Royal Treasury, formally stripped Lysa of the Arryn name, declaring that "through her murderous conspiracy against Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and her lawful husband, she has forfeited all rights and privileges associated with that noble house, as has her son, the product of her treasonous union with Petyr Baelish." This declaration, while legally dubious given the king's limited authority over matters of noble lineage, effectively delegitimized Robin Arryn's claim to the Eyrie and the Vale. In the resulting power vacuum, the king appointed Lord Yohn Royce as "Protector of the Vale," bypassing the Arryn cadet branch from Gulltown who might otherwise have pressed their claim. Historical records suggest this decision was motivated less by legal considerations than by Robert's personal trust in Royce, who had demonstrated loyalty during the eastern campaign despite his reservations about the conflict with House Lannister.

While southern Westeros descended into brutal civil war, the North experienced unprecedented prosperity and population growth. The Census Records of White Harbor, compiled by Maester Theomore shortly after this period, document a 73% increase in the city's population over just five years, with similar growth patterns observed in Winterfell, Bear Island, and particularly Ice Crest, which transformed from a modest seaside castle to the second-largest urban center in the North during this period. Contemporary accounts attribute this demographic explosion to three primary factors: the influx of southern smallfolk fleeing the violence and economic collapse caused by the War of Cuckoldry; the arrival of freed slaves from the eastern territories seeking opportunities in the lands of their liberators; and the North's remarkable material prosperity, which created demand for workers across all sectors of the economy. The Customs Records of White Harbor indicate that during this period, grain prices in the North remained stable despite shortages elsewhere, while the widespread implementation of glasshouse technology ensured that fresh vegetables and fruits remained available even during winters, eliminating the seasonal famines that had historically plagued the region.

The North's prosperity during this period extended far beyond mere subsistence, creating what historians now recognize as the first true consumer economy in Westerosi history. Archaeological excavations conducted at Wintertown during the reign of Queen Lyanna II Targaryen uncovered extensive evidence of luxury goods in modest households, including silk garments, spiced wines, and decorative metalwork—items that would have been utterly inaccessible to commoners in previous generations. The Guild Records of Winterfell document the establishment of over thirty new craft associations during this five-year period, including specialized trades that had never before existed in the North, such as clockmakers, lens grinders, and mechanical engineers. Most remarkably, the Banking Ledgers of White Harbor, partially unsealed during the reign of King Brandon IV Stark, reveal that approximately 40% of northern households maintained some form of savings account or investment position—a level of financial inclusion unprecedented anywhere in the known world at that time. This broad-based prosperity created not merely economic growth but a fundamental shift in social structures, as traditional feudal relationships evolved toward what modern scholars term "industrial patronage," wherein skilled laborers enjoyed unprecedented social mobility and economic security.

The North's transformation from a remote, harsh region to a center of innovation and prosperity soon attracted attention far beyond Westeros. The Diplomatic Registry of Ice Crest records the arrival of emissaries from realms as distant as Yi Ti, Asshai, and the Summer Islands, all seeking trade agreements, technological exchange, or simply to verify the extraordinary reports that had reached their lands. Most notably, the Chronicles of the Azure Emperor document the dispatch of Prince Wei from the court of Yi Ti, who arrived with a fleet of treasure ships bearing jade, silk, and spices as gifts for "the Smith-Lord who has wakened the sleeping dragons of the world." The Trading Records of the Jalvathi, a prominent Qartheen trade cartography, reveals that merchant vessels began altering century-old shipping routes to include stops at White Harbor and Ice Crest, despite the navigational challenges posed by the narrow sea. This international recognition brought not only commercial opportunities but also a remarkable cultural exchange, as scholars, artisans, and adventurers from throughout the known world converged on the North, creating what the historian Maester Kennet would later term "the First Northern Renaissance"—a period of artistic and intellectual flowering that would fundamentally reshape northern culture and eventually influence the entire continent.

No aspect of this cultural transformation proved more controversial—or more consequential for the future bloodlines of Westeros—than the unconventional marital arrangements of House Longshore. The Marriage Registry of Winterfell records only the official union between Owen Longshore and Sansa Stark, conducted according to northern tradition before the heart tree in 297 AC. However, contemporary accounts and later genealogical research confirm that this primary relationship expanded to include numerous additional partners, most formally documented as "concubines" but treated in practice with status nearly equivalent to Lady Sansa herself. This arrangement, while scandalous by Westerosi standards, reflected both Owen Longshore's unique position beyond the traditional constraints of feudal hierarchy and, more surprisingly, the active participation of Lady Sansa in expanding their household. The Private Correspondence of Catelyn Stark, recovered during renovations to Riverrun in the reign of King Aemon II, reveals the Lady of Winterfell's profound distress at these developments. In a letter to her sister Lysa (which evidently never reached its intended recipient), Catelyn laments that "Sansa has embraced customs that would make even the Dornish blush, not merely tolerating her husband's wandering eye but actively encouraging it. Ned insists we must respect her choices as a woman grown, but I cannot reconcile this behavior with the daughter I raised."

Perhaps most surprising to contemporary observers was Lady Sansa's active role in these arrangements. According to the Memoirs of Willas Tyrell, his sister Margaery initially visited Ice Crest in 301 AC as part of a diplomatic mission to negotiate expanded trade agreements between the Reach and the North. The delegation departed three months later with these agreements secured—along with Margaery herself, who remained as a "permanent ambassador" to House Longshore. Willas recounts receiving a letter from his sister explaining her decision: "Lady Sansa herself approached me, not Lord Owen as one might expect. Her proposal was as unconventional as it was compelling—a place in a household that will shape the future of both continents, with guarantees that any children born of this union would receive lands, titles, and opportunities comparable to what House Tyrell might provide." Similar accounts appear in the Secret Archives of Sunspear, which document Princess Arianne Martell's integration into the Longshore household later that same year, ostensibly as part of a mutual defense arrangement against potential aggression from the Iron Throne, but evidently with more intimate dimensions. Prince Oberyn's correspondence with his brother Doran, partially preserved in these archives, notes with characteristic dry humor that "the daughter of Winterfell proves to have more Dornish blood than anyone suspected. She negotiates in the solar and seduces in the bedchamber with equal skill, leaving one uncertain whether one has been diplomatically outmaneuvered or merely thoroughly bedded."

The expansion of House Longshore's unorthodox family continued beyond the noble houses of Westeros. The Customs Registry of White Harbor documents the arrival of Val, a prominent spearwife from the Free Folk, who had reportedly impressed both Lord Owen and Lady Sansa during negotiations over land grants for wildling settlements south of the Wall. Similarly, the Diplomatic Records of Braavos note that Bellegere Otherys, the famous "Black Pearl" who claimed descent from Aegon IV Targaryen, visited Ice Crest ostensibly to discuss shipping agreements but remained as a permanent resident of the castle. Perhaps most diplomatically significant was the arrival of Princess Lin-Wei of Yi Ti, whose Personal Chronicles, translated and preserved in the University of White Harbor, describe her initial mission to secure technological exchange between the Azure Empire and the North, followed by her decision to remain as a "bond of flesh and blood between two great realms." The pattern established in these relationships became increasingly clear: women of exceptional beauty, intelligence, and political significance being formally incorporated into House Longshore through arrangements that combined diplomatic, economic, and personal dimensions. While polygamous and polyandrous arrangements existed in various cultures throughout the known world, the scale and systematic nature of House Longshore's approach—and particularly the active participation of Lady Sansa in identifying and recruiting these partners—represented a unique social experiment without clear historical precedent.

The consequences of these unconventional unions would fundamentally reshape the bloodlines and power structures of both Westeros and Essos for generations to come. Genealogical records compiled during the reign of Queen Elenei Longshore-Tyrell confirm at least twenty-seven legitimate children born to Owen Longshore and his various partners, each of whom received significant lands, titles, or commercial enterprises as their inheritance. The Succession Treaties of House Longshore, drafted with unprecedented detail and legal precision, established what modern historians term a "distributed inheritance model," wherein traditional primogeniture was replaced by a system that assigned specific assets and territories to each child based on their individual abilities and interests. The Citadel Genealogy confirms that within three generations, descendants of Owen Longshore had married into every major house in Westeros and established ruling dynasties in Lys, Volantis, and two provinces of Yi Ti. Most notably, the later Targaryen restoration occurred through the female line descended from Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow (Aemon Targaryen), whose granddaughter Rhaella married Owen Longshore's second son by Arianne Martell, combining these two exceptional bloodlines. The cultural impact of these unions was equally significant; the Religious Chronicles of the Faith document the emergence of what Septons termed "Longshore heresy"—the practice of plural marriage among certain noble houses claiming descent from Owen, which persisted despite official condemnation well into the following century.

Perhaps the most peculiar aspect of House Longshore's unconventional family structure emerges when examining the death records of Owen's partners. The Burial Registry of Ice Crest, which meticulously documents the interment of castle residents from its foundation through the reign of King Aemon III, contains no entries for Lady Sansa, Lady Margaery, Princess Arianne, or any of the other prominent women who shared Owen's bed and bore his children. This absence is particularly striking given the exhaustive nature of these records, which account for every other member of the household staff down to kitchen assistants and stable hands. The Death Records of Winterfell similarly contain no mention of Lady Sansa's passing, despite covering the period well beyond her expected natural lifespan.

This curious omission has spawned numerous theories among historians and smallfolk alike. The most prosaic explanation, offered by Archmaester Perestan in his Examination of Northern Burial Customs, suggests that House Longshore may have practiced private burials in some undiscovered location, perhaps as a security measure to prevent desecration of their remains. More fanciful interpretations emerged among the descendants of House Longshore, who for generations maintained that "Lord Owen always returned for them when their time in this world was complete, taking them beyond to continue their lives together in realms unknown." This legend gained such prominence that it entered the folk traditions of the North, with popular songs such as "The Smith's Gathering" and "Beyond the Final Forge" celebrating the supposed immortality of House Longshore's founding generation.

Throughout the following centuries, House Longshore's influence spread across continents with the inexorability of the tides they were named for, their bloodlines interweaving with royal houses both ancient and new. Archaeological evidence from the Great Expansion era (circa 700-900 AC) confirms their pivotal role in the technological revolutions that transformed society—from the steam-powered automatons that built the transcontinental railways to the crystalline communication networks that eventually connected Westeros with Essos, Yi Ti, and even the distant shores of Ulthos. The Global Census Records compiled by the United Citadel during the Millennium Celebration quantified what historians had long observed: approximately 42% of the world's ruling class carry some measure of Longshore blood, their genetic markers distinctly traceable to Owen and his various partners through modern blood-magery techniques.

While ancient houses like the Starks and Targaryens still maintain their ancestral seats—albeit with significantly reduced territorial holdings and political influence—it is the Longshore Imperial Line descended directly from Owen and Sansa that holds true global authority. The current rulers, Emperor Torrhen Longshore IX and his wife Empress Visenya (herself a distant descendant of both Targaryen and Martell-Longshore branches), preside over a world where airships cross oceans, mechanized dragons patrol skies, and their citizens access knowledge instantly through spell-crystals that would have amazed even Owen himself. Perhaps most remarkable is the preservation of certain magical traits within the Imperial bloodline—the distinctive silver-blue eyes that appeared first in Owen and Sansa's recorded transformed forms, the uncanny longevity that sees many Longshores live beyond 150 years, and the inherent affinity for techno-magical crafting that led the popular press to dub them "The Family That Forged Tomorrow." As we celebrate the Emperor's centennial this year, one cannot help but reflect that the greatest legacy of Owen Longshore was neither his weapons nor his wealth, but the dynasties of exceptional individuals who continue to shape our world, just as he shaped theirs. Long live Emperor Torrhen Longshore and Empress Visenya of Planetos!

—Maester Aver, 2030, Ice Crest College of History

Chapter Text

Owen held his little daughter Lyanna to his chest as she slept, her tiny body cuddled against the magical warmth emanating from him. Staring down at her peaceful face, dark wisps of hair framing rosy cheeks and long eyelashes, he felt that familiar tightening in his chest. Even a year later, he still couldn't believe this perfect little bundle was his. The soft weight of her against his heart felt like an anchor to this world, more powerful than any magic the Celestial Forge had ever granted him.

"Hush now my baby, be still love don't cry," he whispered, the lullaby from his previous life flowing effortlessly from his lips. His enhanced voice made the words come out with perfect pitch and resonance, each note carrying a subtle calming magic that made the baby snuggle deeper into his embrace. As he sang, his fingers gently traced the runes he'd discreetly embedded into the nursery walls, protective enchantments that would alert him to any danger, regulate the temperature perfectly, and shield his daughter from any magical or mundane threat.

"Sleep and remember my lullaby, so I'll be with you when you dream..." He continued the song, lost in the moment until soft laughter pulled him from his reverie. Looking up, he saw Sansa and his mother Tina standing in the doorway of the nursery, both women wearing identical expressions of amusement and affection.

"She's not even crying, my love," Sansa said, gliding into the room with the grace that still made his heart skip a beat. Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders, and motherhood had only enhanced her beauty, giving her a radiant glow that rivaled the magical lights he'd designed for Ice Crest's halls. "You'll spoil her rotten with all this attention. Next, you'll have the Dwarven Colossi stand guard outside her door when she takes her afternoon naps."

Tina followed, her blonde hair now streaked with more silver than when he'd first reunited with his parents, but her blue eyes still sparkled with the same warmth. "Let him dote, Sansa. It's what fathers do." She adjusted a blanket in the ornate crib that Owen had crafted himself, a masterpiece of wraithbone and enchanted wood that shifted its carvings to match Lyanna's dreams. "Though I admit, I've never seen such devotion as our Owen shows this little one."

"Just you wait," Owen replied, carefully rising from the rocking chair without disturbing Lyanna. "When she grows into a young lady and some noble's son comes sniffing around Ice Crest thinking he's worthy of her hand, they'll see devotion transform into something far more terrifying." He gently placed Lyanna in her crib, his fingers lingering on her tiny hand for a moment. "I've already designed the trials. They'll need to defeat five giants, ten Dwarven Colossi, and an army of steam constructors before I even consider allowing a courtship."

Sansa rolled her eyes, though her smile never faltered. "Oh yes, and after all that, they'll need to climb the tallest mountain in the North, retrieve a star from the sky, and turn lead into gold, I suppose?" She moved to stand beside him, her hand slipping into his as they both gazed down at their daughter. "By the time you're finished with your requirements, she'll be an old crone with no suitors left."

"Damn straight, son," came a gruff voice from the doorway. Olyvar strode in, his blacksmith's frame still powerful despite his advancing years. Unlike Tina, who had softened somewhat in her prosperity, Olyvar looked as hardy as ever, his muscular arms and calloused hands testament to his refusal to stop working even after Owen had given them a life of luxury. "A man who wants a Longshore woman should prove himself extraordinary. Nothing less will do."

Olyvar moved to the crib and leaned over, his weathered face softening as he looked at his sleeping granddaughter. "Look at her, little thing has your stubbornness already, Owen. Yesterday when I was watching her, she kept trying to stand even though she kept falling on her bottom. Wouldn't give up until she managed three steps before tumbling." Pride filled his voice. "That's Longshore determination, that is."

"Or Stark willfulness," Sansa suggested with a raised eyebrow. "She also has my family's blood, after all."

"Gods help us all," Tina laughed softly. "A child with both Stark and Longshore blood? The realm isn't ready."

Owen smiled down at his sleeping daughter, memories of the past year washing over him like gentle waves. After the war against the slavers had ended in Essos, he'd left the conquered territories well-fortified under Northern stewardship, rushing back across the Narrow Sea to Ice Crest. He'd arrived just in time—Sansa had been heavy with child, her belly round and full, her face glowing with both anticipation and relief at his return. There had been moments during the campaign when he'd feared he might miss the birth entirely, might be leagues away when his firstborn entered the world. The thought had haunted him through many sleepless nights in foreign lands.

"She has your nose," Owen said softly, tracing a finger gently across Lyanna's face. "But those cheekbones are all Stark."

"And that stubborn chin is pure Longshore," Sansa replied with a knowing smile, leaning against his shoulder. "Father swears he's never seen a baby so determined to hold her head up from the very beginning."

Tina moved to adjust the blankets around Lyanna's tiny form. "Speaking of stubborn Longshores," she said, giving Owen a pointed look, "your father has been examining the castle forges since dawn. Says he needs to understand how everything works before he can properly settle in. The poor master smith looks ready to throw himself from the walls after all your father's questions and suggestions."

Owen laughed softly. "Some things never change. I'll rescue the poor man tomorrow." He paused, the weight of gratitude suddenly heavy in his chest. "I still can't believe you both agreed to come. After I neglected you for so long..."

"Don't start that nonsense again," Olyvar said gruffly, though his eyes remained soft as they gazed at his granddaughter. "A man does what he must. You've been building something here—something greater than just a lordship." He gestured vaguely toward the window, where beyond the glass lay the sprawling beauty of Ice Crest and the transformed North beyond. "We understand duty, son."

It had been shortly after returning to Ice Crest that Owen had realized his terrible oversight. While he'd been revolutionizing the North, forming alliances, fighting wars, and transforming into something more than human, his parents had continued their simple life in Longshore. The blacksmith and the tavern server, working day in and day out while their son became one of the most powerful men in Westeros. The realization had hit him with the force of a warhammer one night as he lay beside Sansa, his hand on her swollen belly. He'd risen before dawn, drawing up plans for a residence worthy of the people who had raised him, who had supported him when his strange abilities first manifested.

"The mansion is too much," Tina said, as if reading his thoughts. "Enough rooms for twenty families, those beautiful gardens, the library filled with books from across the world... We're simple folk, Owen."

"You deserve every brick and beam," Owen insisted, remembering how he'd overseen the construction personally, directing his steam constructors to create a marvel of comfort and elegance on the cliffs near Ice Crest. Similar in style to the main castle but smaller, more intimate, the mansion boasted every luxury Owen could devise: heated floors, magical lighting, gardens that bloomed even in winter, and a forge that would make even the finest smiths in King's Landing weep with envy.

Sansa smiled at her mother-in-law. "He insisted on hiring twenty servants just for the two of you. I had to talk him down to five."

"Five is still four too many," Olyvar grumbled. "Can't take a piss without someone asking if I need assistance."

"Father!" Owen protested, glancing meaningfully at the sleeping baby.

"She's asleep," Olyvar countered, unrepentant. "And she'll hear worse when she's older, living in a castle full of soldiers and smiths."

Owen remembered the day his parents had arrived at Ice Crest. He'd sent not just a letter but a full company of his elite guards, fifty men in gleaming armor that put the Kingsguard to shame, to escort them from Longshore to White Harbor, and then by ship to Sea Dragon Point. He'd waited anxiously on the docks, shifting from foot to foot like a boy awaiting punishment, rehearsing elaborate apologies in his mind.

When they'd disembarked, he'd fallen to his knees before them, this man who had defeated slavers and monsters, who had built empires and wielded powers that defied comprehension. "I'm sorry," he'd blurted out, the carefully crafted speech abandoned. "I've been a terrible son. I've been so focused on changing the world that I forgot about the two people who matter most—"

Olyvar had cut him off with a sharp cuff to the head, nearly sending Owen sprawling despite his size and strength. "Get up, you damned fool," his father had growled, though his eyes shimmered suspiciously in the sunlight. "What kind of lord kneels in the dirt before a blacksmith and a tavern maid? Have you forgotten everything I taught you about dignity?"

"But I—"

"Where are the forges?" Olyvar had interrupted. "I want to see these magical creations of yours. And your mother needs to rest, the sea doesn't agree with her." And that had been that. No lengthy recriminations, no bitter resentment, just acceptance and a practical focus on the present.

Tina, for her part, had simply pulled Owen into a fierce embrace, her familiar scent of herbs and flour enveloping him. "We're so proud," she'd whispered against his ear. "So proud of you, my boy. And we can't wait to meet our grandbaby."

"Ah, that reminds me," Owen said, returning to the present. "Ravens arrived this morning from Winterfell. Robb says little Torrhen has started crawling already. Apparently, he's terrorizing the winterfell dogs crawling after them."

Sansa's face lit up. "Already? He's only eight months old!" Pride for her nephew warmed her voice. "Wynafryd must have her hands full. I should write to her about the trick I discovered with Lyanna, a little lavender oil on the bedding helps them sleep through the night."

"The North has never seen such a time of joy," Tina remarked. "Two heirs born within months of each other, Torrhen Stark in Winterfell and our Lyanna here at Ice Crest. The smallfolk say it's an omen of prosperity to come, that the old gods blessed both houses at once."

The celebrations had been unlike anything the North had seen in living memory. When Lyanna was born, bells rang from Winterfell to White Harbor, from the mountain clans to the Neck. Feasts were held in every hall and village, with free food and ale for all who came. Lords and commoners alike raised toasts to House Longshore, to the man who had transformed their harsh land into a place of plenty, who had ended the threat of winter starvation and brought wealth and security to a people long accustomed to hardship.

Then, just two months later, the bells had rung again for Torrhen Stark, son of Robb and Wynafryd. The North rejoiced anew, celebrating the security of the Stark line and the alliance between Winterfell and White Harbor made flesh in the child. For two straight months, the North had been in a continuous state of celebration. Bards composed songs about the "Winter's Blessing" and "The Cubs of Wolf and Dragon" (though Owen had quickly discouraged that particular title, given its potential political implications).

"The gifts are still arriving," Sansa said, gesturing to a corner of the nursery where a small mountain of presents was neatly arranged. "Lady Olenna sent the most beautiful silver rattle, Tyrell craftsmanship, with roses and direwolves intertwined. And Prince Oberyn's gift was... well, perhaps not entirely appropriate for a baby, but thoughtful in its way."

"A spear is a perfectly reasonable gift," Owen protested with a grin. "She'll need to learn eventually."

"It's taller than she is!" Sansa laughed, shaking her head. "And the Tullys sent enough toys and blankets to outfit ten royal nurseries."

Owen's smile faded slightly. "And nothing from King's Landing. Not that I expected differently."

A somber silence fell over the room. Beyond the joyous North, beyond the allies in the Reach, Dorne, and the Riverlands, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms had descended into chaos. Robert Baratheon's rage upon discovering Cersei's infidelity and Joffrey's true parentage had ignited a conflagration that still raged unchecked. The king had returned from Essos breathing fire and vengeance, divorcing his queen and declaring war on House Lannister. Tywin had fled Meereen ahead of Robert's wrath, returning to the Westerlands to raise his banners in defense of his family's honor.

"The latest reports say Robert has Casterly Rock under siege," Olyvar said quietly. "And Stannis has taken King's Landing in his brother's name, holding it against Tywin's second army led by Ser Kevan."

Owen sighed as his thoughts went inward again. "When the news reached us about Lysa and Petyr murdering Jon Arryn then fleeing with half the royal treasury, I could scarcely believe it," he admitted quietly to sansa so his parents wouldnt hear, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Lyanna's forehead. While he had been sure to share some truths with his parents, telling them their son was from another world seemed a tad much. "I thought... I hoped my presence here might have changed enough to prevent such treachery." He shook his head, remembering the raven that had arrived at Ice Crest just three months past, bearing Lord Stark's seal and the grim tidings within. The small council had discovered evidence of poison in Jon Arryn's chambers, alongside correspondence between Lysa and Littlefinger that left little doubt of their conspiracy. By the time the Gold Cloaks had moved to arrest them, the pair had vanished across the Narrow Sea with wagons of gold from the royal coffers.

"Father was devastated," Sansa said softly, her hand finding Owen's. "Jon Arryn was like a second father to him. For weeks after, he barely left the godswood, praying for guidance." She moved to adjust Lyanna's blanket, though the sleeping babe needed no such attention. "What troubles me most is how quickly everything unraveled afterward. It's as if Jon Arryn was the last thread holding the realm together, and once he was gone..." She trailed off, not wanting to give voice to the chaos that had ensued.

Olyvar leaned against the doorframe, his blacksmith's arms crossed over his broad chest. "The South is tearing itself apart while the North prospers. Can't say I'm surprised. Always thought those southern lords were more concerned with their games and schemes than the welfare of their people." He snorted, the sound somehow still respectful of the sleeping infant. "Now they're scrambling like rats on a sinking ship, half pledging to Robert's cause and half claiming 'neutrality' as if that means anything in times like these."

"It's more complicated than that, Father," Owen replied, his voice gentle but firm. "Varys disappearing was the final blow. Without his network of spies, Robert has been governing blind, relying on advisors with their own agendas." He moved away from the crib, careful not to disturb Lyanna, and crossed to the window that overlooked the bay beyond Ice Crest. Ships with the Longshore sigil, a dragon and direwolf intertwined on a field of blue, sailed in formation, conducting training maneuvers. "The Reach, Dorne, and even parts of the Riverlands still send their taxes and provisions, but their hearts aren't in it. They've seen what we've built here in the North, the prosperity, the strength, the justice. They witnessed it firsthand in Essos when they chose to follow our banners rather than Robert's."

Tina joined her son at the window, her weathered hand resting on his arm. "They call it 'the silent rebellion' in the markets," she said softly. "I've heard the merchants whispering about it. They say that by the time Robert finishes extracting his vengeance on Tywin and the Lannisters, he'll turn around to find that only the Vale, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and whatever remains of the Westerlands still truly follow him. The rest..." She hesitated, glancing at Sansa, "they say the rest look North now, even if neither you nor Lord Stark have asked for such loyalty."

Sansa moved to join them, her face troubled. "Father is torn. His friendship with Robert runs deep, forged in war and grief. Yet he cannot deny that the North has flourished under our new path, separate from southern politics and free to develop in its own way." She sighed, running a hand through her auburn hair. "Last we spoke, he confided that he fears Robert might eventually view our prosperity as a challenge to his rule. The improvements we've made, the armies we've built, the wealth we've accumulated, it all appears threatening when viewed through the lens of kings and their eternal fear of usurpers."

"I have no desire for Robert's throne," Owen said vehemently, his voice containing a hint of the power that had made warriors and lords alike tremble before him. He tempered his tone, conscious of the sleeping child nearby. "Neither does your father. All we've done, all the changes, the innovations, the battles, has been to prepare for what's coming from beyond the Wall. The realm will need the North strong when winter truly arrives." He turned to face his family, his expression solemn. "But others don't understand that. They see our actions through the eyes of their endless game of thrones. And that misunderstanding may yet lead to another war, despite our every effort to avoid it." He glanced back at his sleeping daughter, his heart heavy with the burden of knowledge. "I had hoped to give Lyanna a childhood free from such concerns, but it seems the south will not allow the North its peace, even now."

The truth was, Owen could understand why so many southern houses now looked north for leadership rather than to King's Landing. Even as he gazed out over the bay from the window, watching his ships conduct their precise maneuvers, he could see the Yi Ti trading vessels that had arrived just three days prior, their exotic design and colorful sails standing out among the more familiar northern craft. After the war against the slavers, neutral houses had witnessed firsthand what alliance with the North could offer.

"Those Yi Ti ships brought spices I've never even heard of," Tina said, following Owen's gaze. "And silks so fine you'd swear they were spun from clouds. The merchants were willing to trade for our preserved foods and northern jewelry, they seemed particularly taken with the dragonglass and stalhrim pieces." She shook her head in wonder. "When I think of how we used to struggle just to get salt and pepper in Longshore... and now foreign kings send envoys to our shores."

Owen nodded, remembering how he'd greeted the Yi Ti delegation himself, speaking their language flawlessly thanks to his magic. Their ambassador, a dignified man named Pol Qo, had presented him with an ancient scroll containing knowledge of agriculture that would prove invaluable in the years to come. "Our trade capacity has grown beyond what even I imagined," he admitted. "The North's economy isn't just booming, it's transforming. White Harbor can barely keep pace with the shipping demand, and we've had to expand Ice Crest's harbor four times already."

"It's not just trade that draws them to us," Sansa said softly, moving to stand beside her husband. Her fingers intertwined with his as she looked out at the busy port below. "The soldiers from the Reach, Dorne, and Riverlands who fought alongside you in Essos, they've returned home with stories." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Stories of a man who flies without wings, who commands fire and ice with a gesture, who slays demons and saves cities. They speak of the North as if it's something from the Age of Heroes come again."

Olyvar chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Heard two visiting Tyrell soldiers in the market yesterday, telling anyone who'd listen about how you single-handedly defeated that harpy monster outside Meereen, what was his name?"

"Razmazma Zo Gandaq," Owen supplied, wincing at the memory. The creature had been more monster than woman, enhanced by divine magic, slaughtering Robert's forces until Owen had arrived. He had yet to see another of her kind, hopefully whatever other deities awakened having gotten the message.

"That's the one," Olyvar nodded. "These lads were saying you appeared from the sky in a flash of light, struck the beast down with one blow, then saved the king's life with healing magic before he could bleed out. By the time they finished, half the market was ready to pledge their swords to House Longshore then and there." He clapped Owen on the shoulder. "Can't put that kind of loyalty back in the bottle, son. People follow strength and security, always have, always will."

Sansa's expression darkened slightly. "And Robert's reputation wasn't strong even before the war. The smallfolk called him the 'fat king,' more concerned with hunting and whoring than governing." She glanced toward the crib, ensuring Lyanna still slept peacefully. "The tales of how he demanded Daenerys execution after you and Jon saved her from those blood mages... that didn't help either. I've received letters from ladies across the Seven Kingdoms expressing their horror at the thought of murdering an innocent girl whose only crime was her family name, especially after her brother had already been sacrificed."

The memory of that confrontation in the Sealord's palace still was fresh in his mind. With Robert demanding the head of the silver-haired girl he and Jon had rescued from the Qohorik blood mages' in the crypts. The power Owen had unleashed that day, the threats he'd made to protect the traumatized young woman... it had changed something fundamental in how the southern kingdoms viewed the North.

"Robert will have to face you eventually," Olyvar said, giving voice to what they were all thinking. "No matter the odds, no matter how foolish. A king can't tolerate a perceived challenge to his authority, not even from his oldest friend." He looked at Owen with concern etched into the lines of his weathered face. "Even now, with the Lannisters keeping him occupied, I'd wager he spends his nights brooding on how to bring the North back to heel, how to make Lord Stark kneel again……or turn against you"

"He's showing no mercy to the Westerlands," Owen agreed grimly. "Our scouts report that Robert's armies are massacring any who stand in their way. Towns and villages that refuse to surrender are put to the torch. Even those who fly the stag banner aren't guaranteed safety, Robert sees treason everywhere now, imagines Lannister sympathizers behind every door."

Tina gasped softly. "But those are his own subjects! Surely there are innocent smallfolk caught in the middle?"

Owen nodded, his expression grim. "Thousands. According to our information, Tywin tried to evacuate many of them to Lannisport and Casterly Rock before Robert's forces arrived, but he couldn't save them all. Between Robert's rage and Tywin's pride, the Westerlands are being ground to dust."

Sansa moved to the crib, gazing down at Lyanna with fierce protectiveness. "When I think about the world our daughter will inherit..." she began, her voice catching. "Will she grow up in a perpetual state of conflict between North and South? Will her childhood be measured in battles and sieges instead of namedays and festivals?"

"No," Owen said firmly, joining his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder. "I won't allow that. Everything I've done, every innovation, every alliance, every terrible power I've embraced, has been to secure peace for her generation." He brushed his fingers against Lyanna's soft cheek, marveling again at her perfect features. "I've asked Maester Wolkan to prepare detailed reports on the current distribution of forces across Westeros. When he's finished, I'll be meeting with your father, Robb, Jon, and our other key advisors to discuss contingencies."

"What sort of contingencies?" Tina asked, apprehension clear in her voice.

Owen sighed, weighing how much to reveal. "Best-case scenario? Robert eventually defeats the Lannisters but is so weakened that he has no choice but to accept the North's autonomy in all but name. We continue paying token tribute to the Iron Throne while effectively governing ourselves." He paused, and the silence that stretched between them was heavy with unspoken possibilities. "Worst-case scenario... we prepare for Robert to march north once Casterly Rock falls."

Olyvar moved to stand beside his wife, placing a protective arm around her shoulders. "And what are our chances if it comes to that? Even with all your powers, son, war is still a bloody, unpredictable business."

Owen's expression hardened, his eyes beginning to glow with an unearthly blue light as his magic stirred within him. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, and frost patterns briefly crystallized on the window glass before melting away.

"It doesn't matter if Robert suddenly appeared at our gates with a million warriors," Owen said simply, his voice carrying a subtle resonance that made the very air vibrate. "He would only come to die here."

The casual certainty with which he spoke those words sent a chill through the room that had nothing to do with his magic. This was not boasting or bravado, it was a statement of fact delivered with the same confidence one might remark on the sunrise. Olyvar and Tina exchanged glances, still not entirely accustomed to the terrible power their son now commanded.

Owen's expression softened as he looked down at his sleeping daughter. "The only thing I truly hate," he continued more quietly, "is that many would still foolishly die for Robert, just to try and avenge him afterward. Good men and women with families of their own, throwing their lives away for a king who couldn't protect them when it mattered most."

Sansa moved to stand beside him, her blue eyes searching his face. "And what happens after that?" she asked softly. "If Robert falls and the realm descends into greater chaos, what then? Someone must rule."

Owen shrugged, the gesture almost cavalier given the weight of what they were discussing, the potential fall of a dynasty that had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for seventeen years. "I still don't want that ugly throne of swords," he said with distaste. "Never have. So... I would probably make a deal with Daenerys and put her on the throne, so long as she allowed cooperation between our realms and left the North to govern itself." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "She has the name, the bloodline, and increasingly, the dragons needed to stabilize the south. Three eggs may not seem like much, but they're responding to her now. I've seen them warm when she holds them."

Sansa's eyes widened though she said nothing, clearly processing the implications of this plan. The young Targaryen lady had been nothing but respectful and kind since Jon and Owen had sent her to Ice Crest after rescuing her from the blood mages in Braavos. Against all expectations, Daenerys and Sansa had grown to be good friends, with the Targaryen girl helping Sansa through her difficult pregnancy and later doting on little Lyanna as if she were her own blood.

"She does have a legitimate claim," Sansa finally acknowledged. "And her experiences in captivity have given her a compassion for the suffering of others that many rulers lack." She hesitated, then asked the question that had clearly been forming in her mind: "And who would rule beside her? A Targaryen queen would need a consort, alliances through marriage."

Owen's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Probably Jon," he said casually, as if suggesting something as ordinary as the day's weather.

Both Sansa and Tina stared at him incredulously, the silence stretching for several heartbeats before they both began speaking at once.

"Jon is her nephew!" Sansa exclaimed, her voice rising enough that Lyanna stirred in her crib before settling again. More quietly, she continued, "Blood of her blood. Even if the Targaryens have... traditions... regarding such matters, Jon was raised in the North. He would never—"

"Have you not seen how that girl looks at him?" Owen snorted, cutting off Sansa's protests. "Even after Jon told her the truth of his heritage, after the initial shock wore off, she looks at him like a dragon ready to pounce. And I've caught him watching her when he thinks no one is looking."

"That's different from marriage," Tina interjected, her maternal concern evident. "Jon is a good man raised with Ned Stark's honor. To suggest he'd enter into such a... complicated arrangement..."

Olyvar cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "The man has Targaryen blood," he said gruffly. "Maybe more of it calls to him than we realize." He shook his head. "Besides, it wouldn't be the first time relatives married in noble houses. The Starks did it in the past when necessity demanded, though never so close as aunt and nephew."

"It's their choice in the end," Owen said firmly. "I'm not suggesting forcing either of them into anything. But I've seen the way they circle each other at feasts, how they find excuses to be in the same room, the way their hands linger when they pass objects between them." He grinned suddenly. "Last week, Jon spent three hours helping Daenerys in the library looking for a specific book on Valyrian history that I know for a fact is kept in my private study. Neither of them seemed particularly disappointed when they couldn't find it."

Sansa's expression shifted from shock to thoughtful consideration. "I did notice how she insisted on sitting beside him at the harvest feast," she admitted slowly. "And when she spoke of her time in captivity, he was the only one she would allow to comfort her." She bit her lip. "Still, it seems so... unexpected. Jon has never shown much interest in marriage or women in general."

"Maybe he was waiting for the right woman," Owen suggested softly. "Someone who understands what it means to be an outsider, to have a grand destiny thrust upon you without asking for it." He looked meaningfully at Sansa. "Someone who knows what it's like to lose everything and still find the strength to rebuild."

"If Robert discovered Jon's true parentage," she said softly, "it would be more than just another reason for him to march north, it would be an absolute certainty." Her voice carried the weight of political understanding that had been sharpened through years at court and as the Lady of Ice Crest. "Right now, Robert believes, as does everyone outside our inner circle, that Daenerys is the last Targaryen. His hatred for that family still burns bright enough that he wanted to execute a traumatized girl whose only crime was her surname." She turned back toward Owen, her expression grave. "When word reaches him that Jon, the man he's broken bread with, the man who commands a significant portion of our forces, is not only a Targaryen but Rhaegar's legitimate son with Lyanna..."

"War," Olyvar finished grimly, his weathered hand instinctively moving to where a sword would hang if he were armed. "The man who rebelled against the throne for love of Lyanna Stark would not suffer her son with Rhaegar to live. Especially not after learning she went willingly."

"It would shatter everything Robert built his reign upon," Tina added, surprising them all with her political insight. When they looked at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugged. "You hear things serving ale. Travelers talk, and they talk most freely to the woman filling their cups."

Lyanna stirred in her crib, making soft cooing sounds that drew everyone's attention. The babe's tiny fists waved in the air before she settled again, her dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she dreamed whatever innocent dreams filled an infant's slumber.

"You should spend more time with your granddaughter," Owen said to his parents, his voice softening as he watched his daughter sleep. "I've been monopolizing her since you arrived. Tomorrow, perhaps you could take her to the gardens? The glass pavilion is always warm, and she loves watching the butterflies we've imported from the Summer Isles."

Tina's face lit up. "I'd love nothing more. I've already made a little blanket for our outings, embroidered with both the direwolf and your dragon sigil." She moved to adjust Lyanna's blanket one final time. "And perhaps while we're watching her, you and Sansa could..."

"Mother," Owen warned, recognizing the mischievous glint in her eyes.

"What?" Tina asked innocently, though her smile was anything but. "I was only going to suggest you might want some time to yourselves. Being new parents is exhausting." She paused, her expression turning more pointed. "Though I wouldn't mind more grandchildren to spoil before I'm too old to enjoy them. Olyvar and I started late with you, you know. I'd hate for poor Lyanna to grow up without siblings."

Owen's face flushed slightly, and he exchanged a quick glance with Sansa. "Not anytime soon, Mother," he said firmly, though there was a hint of something unspoken in his voice. "We're quite happy with our little family as it is."

To his surprise, Sansa reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Actually," she said, her blue eyes meeting his, "I think I wouldn't mind having more children before long. Lyanna would benefit from having siblings close to her age." Her voice was soft but determined as she continued, "The Starks have always been stronger as a pack. I wouldn't want her to grow up alone, especially considering the position she'll inherit one day."

Owen didn't answer immediately, his expression clouding as memories of Sansa's difficult labor flashed through his mind. Despite all his magical preparations—the enhanced healing potions, the protective spells woven into the birthing chamber, the subtle enchantments to ease pain—Sansa's screams had torn through the castle for a days. He had knelt beside her, helpless despite all his power, as she fought to bring their daughter into the world. The sight of her porcelain skin drenched in sweat, her auburn hair plastered to her forehead, her fingers gripping his with enough force to break an ordinary man's bones—it had haunted his dreams for months afterward.

"We should talk about this later," he said softly, aware that his parents were still present. He gestured towards the door, and Sansa nodded her understanding. They bid Olyvar and Tina goodnight, leaving them to watch over the sleeping Lyanna as they made their way through the grand corridors of Ice Crest to Owen's solar.

The solar was a magnificent chamber at the top of the eastern tower, its walls lined with rare books and magical artifacts from Owen's journeys across the known world. Unlike the rest of the castle, which balanced Northern austerity with magical enhancements, the solar was a place of unabashed wonder. Mystical lights danced across the ceiling, mimicking the constellations outside but shifting to highlight different stars at Owen's command. A massive desk of wraithbone dominated one side of the chamber, its surface covered with plans and diagrams for new inventions, spells, and defense systems. The windows, crafted from glass enhanced with magic to withstand even dragonfire, offered a panoramic view of the bay, where Longshore ships conducted their nightly patrol, their outlines illuminated by enchanted lanterns that burned with a blue-white light.

"You still haven't reconciled yourself to what happened during the birth, have you?" Sansa asked once the heavy door had closed behind them. She moved to a comfortable chair near the hearth, where magical flames provided warmth without smoke or the need for fuel. "Even though both Lyanna and I emerged healthy and whole."

Owen paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "I've seen war, Sansa. I've fought monsters and men alike. I've stared into the abyss and felt it stare back." He paused, turning to face her with raw emotion in his eyes. "But nothing—nothing—prepared me for watching you suffer while bringing our child into the world. Your screams..." He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to shut out the memory. "Even with all my power, I was useless. Utterly useless."

"And yet, my mother bore five children," Sansa said gently. "Tina had you. Women across the North, across the world, give birth every day without the benefit of magical assistance or the finest midwives gold can buy." She rose and crossed to him, taking his hands in hers. "Even mother told you when she visited last month that what I experienced was normal, if perhaps a bit more difficult than some."

Owen nodded reluctantly. "I know. Logically, I understand that. But I swore to myself when I held Lyanna for the first time that I would be content with one child if it meant sparing you that ordeal again." He brought Sansa's hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. "No power, no throne, no castle is worth your suffering."

Sansa's eyes softened with affection, though there was steel beneath her gentle expression. "And what of my desires in this? My joy in motherhood? The family I've dreamed of since I was a girl?" She touched his cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Even Arya, when she visited last month, called you a 'dum-dum' for worrying so much, if you recall."

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Owen's mouth. "I do recall. Though her smirk disappeared rather quickly when I suggested we find her a suitable groom, since she was suddenly so interested in matters of marriage and children." He chuckled softly at the memory. "I've never seen her face turn quite that shade of red before. I thought she might run me through with that Valyrian steel dagger I gave her for her nameday."

"She nearly did," Sansa laughed, the sound like crystal bells in the quiet room. "Though you must admit, she's grown into quite a beauty, despite her best efforts to hide it beneath those breeches and tunics she insists on wearing. Father says lords from across the North have been inquiring about her hand."

They both laughed at the thought of Arya being courted by some hopeful lord. The very image of their fierce little wolf sister dressed in finery, forced to engage in polite conversation over tea and cakes, was enough to bring tears to their eyes.

"Gods help the man who tries," Owen said, wiping away a tear of mirth. "It would take a real fighter to win Arya's heart—and not just with a sword. Someone who could match her wit and wildness, who would see her for the warrior she is rather than trying to turn her into some demure southern lady."

"Perhaps there's no such man in the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa mused, her laughter subsiding into a thoughtful smile. "Though Father will search far and wide for someone."

"Your father is more practical than most give him credit for," Owen replied, pulling Sansa closer. Their conversation returned to the earlier topic as he brushed a strand of auburn hair from her face. "As for us... we can try for more children when the time is right. After all these threats are dealt with, when the realm is stable, when—"

Sansa silenced him with a finger to his lips, her blue eyes reflecting the dancing magical light of the hearth. "The time is right as long as we're together," she said with quiet certainty. "The world will never be without its threats or challenges. The Starks have raised children through winters and wars for thousands of years. We cannot put our happiness on hold waiting for perfect peace."

She rose gracefully from her chair, extending her hand to him. "Come to bed, husband. Let us not waste this night on worries of what tomorrow might bring."

Owen took her hand, feeling the familiar spark of desire at her touch. Her confidence, her strength—they took his breath away even after all this time. Together they walked the torch-lit corridors of Ice Crest, nodding to the guards who saluted as they passed. The castle was quiet at this hour, with only the occasional sound of the night watch making their rounds. Outside, the northern lights danced across the sky, visible through the enchanted glass of the high windows—shimmering curtains of green and blue that Owen had enhanced with subtle magic to protect the castle from scrying eyes.

Their chambers were a sanctuary, far grander than anything Sansa had known in Winterfell or that Owen had dreamed of in his humble beginnings at Longshore. Magical lights illuminated the room in a soft golden glow as they entered, responding to their presence. The massive four-poster bed was crafted from ancient weirwood, its pale surface etched with protective runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Furs from shadowcats and winter wolves covered the mattress, providing both warmth and luxury. A fire burned in the hearth, needing no tending as the enchanted flames maintained a perfect temperature regardless of the bitter cold outside.

They settled together on the plush cushions before the hearth, Sansa nestled against Owen's chest as they watched the dancing flames. For a while, they simply existed in comfortable silence, content in each other's presence after the long day.

"What comes next?" Sansa finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she traced idle patterns on his arm. "For us, for the North, for everything you've built?"

Owen sighed, his eyes reflecting the magical fire. "A few more months of bliss," he said softly. "Time with you and Lyanna, watching her grow, enjoying this peace we've carved out." His expression darkened slightly. "And then... the Wall."

Sansa stiffened in his arms, pulling back to look at his face. "The Wall?" Alarm tinged her voice as she searched his expression. "Why? What's happening there?"

"Nothing immediate," he reassured her, taking her hands in his. "But it's time to make overtures to the Free Folk, to see if the White Walkers are making their moves yet. The Night's Watch reports have been troubling—ranging parties failing to return, abandoned wildling villages, strange lights seen far to the north." He looked into the fire, his voice dropping lower. "I need to go there myself, to see with my own eyes what's happening beyond the Wall. Perhaps bring back evidence concrete enough to convince the skeptics at a summit of lords and allies. We need to prepare for the war that's coming, Sansa. The true war."