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.
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.
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. Like Quote ReplyReport Reactions:Kinpanda28, Alkash, Kappsa and 358 others
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. Like