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.
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. Like Quote