Owen groggily woke up, his consciousness slowly emerging from the depths of sleep as he opened his eyes in the large, plush bed adorned with fine silk sheets and warm furs. A soft moan and gentle movement made him turn to Sansa, who instinctively sought his warmth in her slumber, her long, graceful limbs entwining with his as she drew closer. Her sweet and beautiful face rested peacefully on his chest, her magnificent auburn tresses fanned out behind her like flames caught in morning light. Even after four years of marriage, he still found himself struck breathless by her beauty, often wondering how fate had blessed him with such an extraordinary wife. But here they were, four years into their union, sharing their lives within the walls of Ice Crest - arguably the most sophisticated, well-fortified, and wealthiest castle in all of Westeros.
Owen gazed at sansa, his mind drifting back to four years ago when Ice Crest had been nothing but ambitious plans and dreams. The week after their wedding ceremony in Winterfell's godswood had been a flurry of activity. While he and Sansa enjoyed their first days as husband and wife within the ancient stronghold's walls, his creations had been hard at work.
The steam constructors multiplied rapidly at his command, their numbers growing from hundreds to thousands. They worked tirelessly, day and night, their metallic forms scaling the cliffs of Sea Dragon Point as they carved into the rock and laid the foundations. The automated workforce needed no rest, no food, and no supervision - they simply executed his will with perfect precision.
Cidhna Mine had provided an endless supply of the finest materials - marble, granite, and precious metals that would have cost a fortune to source elsewhere. The mine's magical properties meant resources replenished themselves faster than the constructors could use them. Owen remembered watching in amazement as the first towers began to rise from the cliff face, the constructors working with an efficiency that no human workforce could match.
Their expert knowledge, gifted to them through Owen's connection to the Celestial Forge, meant every block was cut to exact specifications. Every beam was placed with mathematical precision. The castle grew like a living thing, each day bringing new additions - halls, towers, battlements, and chambers taking shape with supernatural speed.
"The first time I saw it," Owen had told Sansa then, "was when we rode here from Winterfell after that week. I'd only seen it in my mind before that, but the constructors built it exactly as I'd envisioned - maybe even better."
The automated workforce had numbered in the ten thousands by then, swarming over the growing structure like industrious metal ants. They'd built not just the castle, but the entire infrastructure around it - the port facilities below, the defensive walls, the town that would house their people. Each constructor contained the complete architectural plans, working in perfect harmony with its fellows to bring Owen's vision to life.
What would have taken human workers decades to complete, the constructors accomplished in two weeks. Every detail was perfect, from the soaring spires to the intricate stonework that decorated the walls. The magical cannons were seamlessly integrated into the defenses, their power sources hidden within the very stones of the castle. The enchanted walls gleamed with a subtle shimmer, testament to the protective magic woven into their very substance.
Owen smiled at the memory of Sansa's face when she first saw their new home. Her blue eyes had widened in wonder, her lips parting in amazement as Ice Crest came into view - a magnificent creation of stone and magic rising from the cliffs like something from a dream.
Owen recalled how filling Ice Crest had been a matter of pure indulgence after its construction. The vast wealth from Cidhna Mine's endless precious metals and gems meant cost was never a consideration. He'd dispatched ravens to every major port city in Essos, his letters carrying payment in advance for the finest items available Oh sure, he could have made creations for his new castle wayyyy better than what he bought but he felt than his gold from cidhna mine should be used at least for somethings that the north.
From Myr came exquisite glass pieces - delicate chandeliers that caught the light like captured rainbows, mirrors framed in gold that made the castle's halls seem to stretch into infinity. The glassmakers' pride showed in every piece, from the smallest drinking vessel to the grandest window panes.
Volantis provided the textiles - silk sheets so fine they felt like water against the skin, carpets woven with threads of gold and silver that depicted scenes from ancient legends. Each bedroom received feather mattresses stuffed with the softest down, covered in fabrics dyed in rich jewel tones that complemented the castle's color scheme.
From Qohor came the metalwork - intricate bronze and iron pieces that transformed simple doorways and railings into works of art. The smiths there might not match Owen's supernatural abilities with metal, but their aesthetic sense was unparalleled.
The furniture arrived from Pentos - massive wardrobes of exotic woods, chairs and settees upholstered in the finest leather and velvet, tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious stones. Each piece was selected not just for its beauty but for its craftsmanship and durability.
Owen watched as Sansa shifted in her sleep, her hand resting on one of the silk pillows from Yi Ti, embroidered with golden thread in patterns so complex they seemed to move in the early morning light. The bed they shared was a masterpiece from Lys, carved from a single piece of rare shadowood, its dark surface gleaming with an inner fire that seemed to dance in the dawn.
Their private chambers reflected this opulence - the floors covered in thick Qartheen carpets that muffled every footstep, the walls hung with tapestries from the Summer Isles that depicted tropical scenes in vibrant colors. Even the washroom contained luxuries unknown in most of Westeros - pipes that carried hot and cold water on demand, mirrors of polished silver, and soaps scented with rare oils from far-off lands.
The great hall of Ice Crest rivaled that of the Red Keep itself. Massive tables of polished ironwood could seat hundreds, while the high table was carved from a single piece of fossilized shadowood, its surface showing patterns that seemed to shift in the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The chairs were upholstered in leather from shadow cats, their frames gilded with gold and set with precious stones.
Every room, from the smallest servant's chamber to the grandest feast hall, spoke of wealth and refinement that few could imagine, let alone afford. Yet unlike the gaudy ostentation of some wealthy houses, Ice Crest's luxury carried an air of elegant restraint.
Of course the four years since their marriage hadn't just been owen enjoying his new found lordship and wife. as promised. The steam constructors had proven themselves far beyond his initial expectations. Working in coordinated groups of thousands, they had transformed the landscape of the North with roads that put the ancient Valyrian highways to shame.
The new Northern roads were engineering marvels - wide, smooth surfaces created from a mixture of cement and powdered ebony ore that made them virtually indestructible. The dark paths cut through forests, crossed rivers on elegant bridges, and wound through mountains via carefully constructed tunnels. What once took weeks to travel now required mere days.
"The roads alone changed everything," Owen had told Sansa during one of their evening discussions. "But it was the glasshouses that truly transformed the North."
His constructors had built them everywhere - massive structures of glass and steel that dotted the landscape from the smallest farming village to the greatest lordly holds. The designs varied based on location and need, but all shared the same core principles Owen had developed. Each glasshouse captured and retained heat while protecting crops from the harsh northern weather, allowing for year-round cultivation of fruits and vegetables that previously couldn't survive north of the Neck.
But perhaps most significant were the silent guardians Owen had dispatched across the North. Hundreds of his metal soldiers patrolled the lands with tireless vigilance, their movements coordinated through Owen's connection to the Celestial Forge. Lord Eddard had given his blessing to this secret army after Owen explained their potential.
"They'll protect our people without being seen," Owen had promised. "No brigand or thief will know what struck them."
The automatons proved lethal and efficient hunters. Operating in small groups, they tracked and eliminated threats to the North's peace with mechanical precision. Bodies of bandits would simply disappear, their camps erased as if they'd never existed. The constructors would dismantle and recycle any evidence, leaving only whispered rumors of metal men and spiders in the night.
These silent guardians also maintained their own creations. Roads were repaired of even the slightest problem before damage became visible. Glasshouses received constant upgrades and improvements while maintaining the crops and fruits within. The automatons even cleared snow from the roads during winter, allowing trade to continue year-round. All of this happened quietly, efficiently, with most of the North's population never glimpsing the metal workforce that served them.
Most important of all was owen sending the steam constructors to finally rebuild moat Cailin, the metal constructs working in the cover of night to avoid suspicion from any none northern smallfolk or nearby lords.
Owen had stood atop one of Moat Cailin's partially reconstructed towers, watching his steam constructors work in the darkness. Their metal forms moved with eerie silence despite their size, rebuilding the ancient fortress stone by stone. Moonlight glinted off their surfaces as they scaled the walls, each one knowing exactly where to place each block, how to fit each beam.
The night work had slowed progress considerably. During the day, the constructors had to hide in specially created underground chambers, emerging only when darkness fell to continue their labor. Owen had positioned scouts - both human and mechanical - to watch for travelers on the Kingsroad, ready to signal at the first sign of approaching witnesses.
Lord Walder Frey's keep of the Twins wasn't far, and Owen knew the old man had eyes everywhere. One whisper of metal men rebuilding the North's ancient stronghold would have ravens flying to King's Landing before dawn. The Freys had always resented the North's independence, and Lord Walder would relish any chance to curry favor with the crown by revealing such secrets.
Still, despite working only at night, the constructors had made remarkable progress. In just two weeks, half of Moat Cailin's towers stood restored to their former glory. The walls between them rose higher each night, and the foundations for the remaining towers were already laid. The automated workforce needed no rest, no food, and no light to see by. They simply executed their programmed tasks with mechanical precision.
But as Owen watched them work, a growing concern gnawed at him. He'd been so focused on the logistics of rebuilding that he hadn't considered the obvious problem - how to hide the results. Even working in darkness couldn't conceal a fully restored Moat Cailin. The ancient fortress, once rebuilt, would stand as an unmistakable symbol of the North's resurgence.
"We can hide the constructors," Owen had muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "We can swear the northern lords and smallfolk to secrecy. But we can't hide a fortress."
The problem extended beyond just Moat Cailin. The North's transformation over the past year had left obvious signs everywhere - the new roads, the glasshouses. Any merchant or traveler from the south would see these changes. They'd notice the increased prosperity, the better-fed smallfolk, the signs of technology far beyond what should be possible. Not to mention ice crest itself if any ships came sailing by, like the ones manned by the Greyjoy's and other Ironborn. That they hadn't already come calling was either dumb luck or disinterest in sea dragon point as it wasn't known to hold anything. At least to their current knowledge no doubt.
Owen had stood with Lord Eddard, Robb, and Jon atop one of Moat Cailin's restored towers three days after his troubled reflections. The night air carried a chill, but none of them seemed to notice as they discussed the pressing issue of secrecy.
"The changes are too visible," Lord Eddard said, his grey eyes scanning the fortress below. "We cannot hide this forever."
"The southern kingdoms will notice," Robb added. "They already suspect something from our increased tax payments the last few months."
Jon nodded in agreement. "And what of merchant ships? Or the Ironborn? They raid these coasts often. Sooner or later, they'll spot Ice Crest."
Owen took a deep breath. He'd been avoiding this moment, but their concerns forced his hand. "The Old Gods have blessed me with more than just knowledge of crafting and building," he said carefully. "They've given me magic that can help conceal our work."
Lord Eddard's eyebrows rose skeptically. Even after everything they'd witnessed - the automated workers, the self-replenishing mine, the incredible technological advances - magic seemed a step too far. Robb and Jon exchanged dubious glances.
"Magic?" Jon's tone carried clear disbelief. "Like the stories Old Nan tells? I know you've done a lot, but magic, really?…isn't that…."
Owen held out his hands, palms up. Fire erupted from them, dancing in the night air. The flames cast flickering shadows across their stunned faces. Without warning, Owen hurled the fire at one of Moat Cailin's massive walls. The flames struck with devastating force, melting the ancient stone into glowing slag that dripped like candlewax.
Steam constructors immediately rushed to the damaged section, their metal forms gleaming in the residual firelight as they began repairs. Within minutes, fresh stone replaced what Owen had destroyed, leaving no trace of his demonstration.
Lord Eddard, Robb, and Jon stood in shocked silence, their earlier skepticism burned away as surely as the wall had been.
"I need some time," Owen said carefully, "but I will find a way to conceal our improvements and growing power until we're ready." He met each of their eyes in turn, projecting confidence he wasn't entirely sure he felt.
The three men nodded, clearly relieved that Owen had a potential solution. They didn't press him for details, their trust in him evident after only a year of seeing him transform the north.
That night, while the others slept, Owen retreated to his private chambers and focused his thoughts on the Temple of Solomon. With barely a whisper of effort, he shifted from the physical world into the vast magical dimension that housed Solomon's collected knowledge.
The temple's grand halls stretched before him, filled with countless books and scrolls containing millennia of magical wisdom. Owen moved purposefully through the stacks, his footsteps echoing in the silence as he searched for information on illusions.
He found what he sought in a dusty corner - a thick tome bound in midnight blue leather, its pages covered in flowing script that seemed to shimmer as he read. The book detailed various methods of creating large-scale illusions, including ones capable of concealing entire structures or settlements.
As Owen read and absorbed the information, his initial excitement faded. The book was clear on one crucial point - maintaining illusions over large areas required immense magical power and skill. Even master mages struggled to prevent breaks in such extensive illusions. Small imperfections would inevitably appear, allowing observant viewers to glimpse what lay beneath.
Owen ran his fingers across a particularly relevant passage:
"The greater the area to be concealed, the more strain is placed upon the caster's magical circuits. Only those of exceptional power and control can maintain seamless illusions across vast distances. Lesser mages will find their work developing flaws - ripples in the fabric of the illusion that reveal the truth beneath."
Owen closed the midnight blue tome with a frustrated snap, the sound echoing through the Temple's vast halls. He'd spent hours poring over its contents, hoping to find a solution to the North's growing visibility problem. Instead, he'd only confirmed what he'd feared - his magical abilities, while considerable, weren't enough for what they needed.
"Damn it all," he muttered, replacing the book on its shelf. The Temple's knowledge was invaluable, but it had been written mostly for mages of Solomon's caliber. Even with his thousands of perfect magic circuits, Owen was barely a novice compared to the ancient king of magic.
He paced the marble floors, his footsteps echoing off the towering bookshelves. The problem was clear enough - maintaining illusions over the entire North would drain his mana reserves quickly. Once depleted, the illusions would weaken and fail until he gathered mana again. Any southern visitors or spies would see right through them, exposing everything they'd worked so hard to build.
The book's solution taunted him. A dragon's heart or God ruby could power the illusions indefinitely, maintaining them without drawing on his personal mana reserves. But dragons were long extinct in Westeros until Daenerys birthed them (which she still had not) and Owen had never heard of a God ruby outside of these ancient texts. Even if such artifacts existed somewhere in this world, finding them would take years they didn't have.
Owen ran his hands through his hair, frustration mounting. The North's transformation couldn't be hidden forever behind night work and sworn secrecy. Sooner or later, someone would notice the new roads, the glasshouses and everything they'd created.
Owen slammed the midnight blue tome back onto its shelf with perhaps more force than necessary. His frustration echoed through the Temple's vast halls.
"Fuck it all," he declared to the empty library. "I'm overthinking this."
He began pacing, his footsteps quick and determined as his mind raced. "The southerners already think we're backward savages living in a frozen wasteland. Who'd believe them if they caught glimpses of our progress if the spell falls while i am recharging?"
The more he considered it, the more sense it made. Even if his illusions flickered during mana recharge periods, any southerner who saw steam constructors or advanced road and many glasshouses would likely doubt their own eyes. They'd blame it on strong northern ale or exhaustion from traveling. And if they did tell tales in the south, who would take them seriously?
"Lords and merchants already spread ridiculous stories about the North," Owen mused aloud. "They claim we sacrifice to weirwoods and breed with giants. What's one more wild tale about metal men and magical buildings?"
Decision made, Owen retrieved the spell book and began gathering the necessary materials. The Temple's vast resources provided everything he needed - rare herbs, crystallized starlight, and chalk made from ground dragon bone (lucky Solomon had some in store). He spent hours drawing intricate circles and runes on the Temple's floor, triple-checking each line and symbol.
The spell itself was deceptively simple. Rather than trying to maintain perfect illusions constantly, it would create a selective blindness in those who weren't of the North. Their minds would simply refuse to process the signs of progress and advancement, defaulting instead to what they expected to see - a backward, primitive kingdom.
Owen took a deep breath and began the incantation. Power flowed through his magic circuits, making them glow beneath his skin with blue-white light. The chalk lines ignited, burning with cold fire as the spell took hold. For three days and nights, Owen maintained the casting, his consciousness stretched across the entire North as the magic settled into place.
When he had finally emerged from the Temple, exhausted but satisfied, the spell was complete. He tested it immediately the next day by bringing a merchant from White Harbor - a man born in King's Landing - to view one of their new roads. The merchant's eyes slid right past the smooth black surface, seeing instead the rutted dirt track that had been there before.
Over the next two weeks, Owen's steam constructors worked openly on Moat Cailin, no longer restricted to night work. The ancient fortress rose rapidly from its ruins, towers stretching skyward as walls were rebuilt and strengthened. Owen added modern improvements - heated floors, running water, and defensive emplacements for his automated soldiers.
A party of travelers from the Riverlands passed by during the construction. Owen watched from the battlements as they gazed at Moat Cailin, seeing only the crumbling ruins the spell allowed their minds to process. They never noticed the steam constructors working mere feet away, or the gleaming new stonework that had replaced the ancient decay.
"It's not perfect," Owen admitted to himself as he watched them ride away. "But it doesn't need to be. The south's own prejudices will do half the work for us."
A year later, Owen had begun extensive discussions with Lord Manderly, Lord Stark, and Lord Gregor Forrester regarding the creation of a formidable new northern defense and trading fleet. House Forrester would provide their prized ironwood from their vast holdings in the Wolfswood, shipping the rare and valuable timber directly to Castle Ice Crest where Owen would transform it into ships using his advanced knowledge and the automated workers at his disposal. The ironwood's legendary durability would make the vessels nearly impervious to normal naval warfare, while Owen's enhanced designs would give them capabilities far beyond what anyone in Westeros could imagine.
With this agreement reached, Owen had stood at the edge of the newly constructed docks at Ice Crest, watching the steam constructors and automatons work with mechanical precision. The massive Dwemer dry docks stretched along the coastline, their bronze and golden metal gleaming in the northern sun. The sight filled him with pride - these weren't just ordinary shipyards, but marvels of engineering that combined the best of his knowledge from Earth with the magical properties of this world.
"The ironwood shipments from the Forresters will begin arriving next week," Lord Manderly said, his voice carrying over the rhythmic clanging of the automatons at work. "Lord Gregor assures me they can maintain a steady supply."
Owen nodded, his eyes tracking the movements of a particularly large steam constructor as it positioned a massive beam of ironwood into place. The wood itself was nearly black, incredibly dense, and practically fireproof - perfect for shipbuilding. But Owen had plans to make it even better.
"We'll be incorporating the ores from Cidhna Mine into the construction," Owen had explained to Lords Stark, Manderly, and Forrester as they walked along the dock. "Ebony for reinforcement, moonstone for lightness, and orichalcum for durability. The combination, when worked with ironwood, will create ships unlike anything seen in this world."
He gestured to the nearest dry dock, where the keel of a massive ship of the line was taking shape. "This one will carry a hundred and twenty cannons, but she'll be faster than most frigates thanks to the moonstone-reinforced hull. The combination of materials makes her virtually unsinkable."
Lord Manderly's eyes had widened as he studied the partially constructed vessel. "How many can your... workers produce?"
"The docks can handle six ships simultaneously," Owen replied. "With the automatons working around the clock, we can complete a galleon in two weeks, a frigate in ten days, and a ship of the line in about three weeks."
Lord Forrester stepped closer to examine a stack of ironwood planks that had been treated with Owen's special process - infused with powdered ebony and orichalcum through a combination of pressure and heat that only the Dwemer forges could achieve. The wood gleamed with a subtle metallic sheen, its surface harder than steel but somehow still maintaining the flexibility needed for shipbuilding.
"Remarkable," Forrester murmured, running his hand along the treated wood. "Our ironwood was already the finest shipbuilding material in Westeros, but this... this is something else entirely."
Lord Stark had remained quiet throughout most of the tour, but now he spoke up. "And you're certain these ships can't be replicated by others? Even if they capture one?"
Owen smiled. "The materials alone make that impossible. Only Cidhna Mine produces the ores we need, and only the Dwemer forges can combine them with ironwood in the right way. Even if someone managed to take a ship apart piece by piece, they couldn't reproduce what we've done here."
The lords nodded in satisfaction. This was exactly what the North needed - a fleet that could dominate the seas while remaining uniquely their own, impossible for others to copy or counter.
Owen led them to a second dry dock where a sleek frigate was nearing completion. Her lines were perfect, her proportions exact in a way that human shipwrights could never achieve. The automatons swarmed over her like giant metal spiders, each one knowing its precise task and executing it flawlessly.
"We'll start with ten ships of the line, twenty frigates, and fifteen galleons," Owen explained. "That should give us a solid foundation for the Northern fleet. After that, we can adjust production based on our needs."
The other men listened intently as Owen detailed his plans, their eyes occasionally straying to watch the fascinating and somewhat unnerving sight of the mechanical workers building ships with inhuman speed and precision. The North's future was taking shape before them, one perfect vessel at a time.
4 months later and Owen watched with pride as the massive fleet took shape in the harbor of Ice Crest. The ships were marvels of engineering and magic combined, each one a testament to what could be achieved when modern knowledge met the extraordinary materials of this world.
The ship of the line class vessels dwarfed anything else afloat in Westeros. Where traditional ships of their type on earth carried around a hundred guns, Owen's designs mounted a hundred and fifty cannons across three full gun decks. Yet despite their increased size, the combination of moonstone-infused ironwood and ebony reinforcement made them faster and more maneuverable than ships half their size.
The frigates were equally impressive, sleek predators built for speed and power. Their enhanced design allowed for sixty guns instead of the usual forty, while maintaining the agility that made frigates the preferred ships for patrol and pursuit. The orichalcum-reinforced hulls made them nearly impervious to conventional weapons.
Even the galleons had been transformed by Owen's innovations. Their cargo capacity was near tripled without sacrificing speed, and their defensive capabilities rivaled those of traditional warships. The treated ironwood gave them unprecedented durability, while the magical properties of the metal ores made them remarkably stable even in rough seas.
"The Stark vessel will be called Winter's Wrath as you asked," Owen told Lord Eddard as they toured the newly completed ship of the line. The massive warship's black ironwood hull gleamed with subtle hints of silver where the moonstone infusion caught the light. The direwolf of House Stark had been carved into her bow, the detail work enhanced by inlaid ebony that made the fierce beast seem alive.
Lord Manderly's eyes gleamed as he inspected Sea's Vengeance, his house's new flagship. The merman banner flew proudly from her mainmast, and her hundred and fifty guns promised to make House Manderly a true naval power. "My new naval academy will ensure we have crews worthy of such vessels," he declared.
The Forrester galleons were christened Ironwood's Pride and Forest's Strength, their enhanced cargo capacity ensuring House Forrester could transport their valuable timber more efficiently than ever before. Lord Gregor's face showed deep satisfaction as he walked the decks of his new ships.
Owen had kept the majority of the fleet under his own banner - five ships of the line, eight galleons, and eighteen frigates. But he knew the distribution of vessels to key allies would strengthen the North as a whole. Lord Wyman's naval academy would train crews and captains for all their ships, creating a unified northern fleet that could protect their waters and project power when needed.
Another few months went by and soon the sight of forty-four advanced warships anchored in the harbor was impressive enough to take even Owen's breath away. Each vessel represented countless hours of work by his tireless automatons, each one enhanced by materials that didn't exist anywhere else in this world. Together, they formed the most powerful fleet Westeros had ever seen - and the south remained blissfully unaware of their true capabilities.
Even so, owen kept the best for himself. He stood before his masterpiece in a hidden dock, carved deep into the cliffs beneath Ice Crest. The Storm Fortress, named after the legendary ship used by the assassin order, loomed in the shadows, her massive hull dwarfing even the impressive ships of the line anchored in the main harbor above. Where those vessels were formidable warships, this was something else entirely - a floating fortress that defied conventional naval architecture.
Her hull gleamed with a deep, almost metallic black where moonstone-infused ironwood met layers of ebony and orichalcum armor. Stalhrim reinforcements along vital areas gave off a subtle blue glow, the enchanted ice-metal adding another layer of magical protection. The vessel's lines were sleek despite her enormous size, a testament to the perfect precision of Owen's automated builders and the exotic materials used in her construction.
Four hundred magical cannons lined her gun decks, but these were unlike anything else in his fleet. Instead of conventional shot, these weapons channeled pure magical energy, drawing power from crystals Owen had crafted using knowledge from the Temple of Solomon. Each blast could tear through conventional ships like paper, the magical energy ignoring physical armor entirely.
Owen had ran his hand along the ship's hull, feeling the thrum of power from the layered enchantments he'd worked into her very structure. Protection against fire, reinforcement against physical damage, wards to deflect magical attacks - the Storm Fortress was as much a work of spellcraft as she was a feat of engineering. Even her sails had been enhanced, woven with carefully crafted moonstone threads and enchanted to catch winds that didn't exist even if the Dwemer devices that pushed the ships forward failed.
"You're something else entirely," Owen murmured to his creation. The automated workers continued their final adjustments around him, adding the last touches to what he knew was the most powerful warship in existence. Not even the combined fleets of Westeros and Essos could stand against her - if they ever managed to see her true nature through his illusions at all.
The Storm Fortress represented everything Owen had learned since arriving in this world, at least for now - the marriage of modern engineering, magical materials, and ancient sorcery. She was his ultimate insurance policy on the sea, a weapon so powerful that its mere existence would give him pause before using it. But if the need ever arose, she would ensure the North's survival against any threat on sea, be it from the south, across the Narrow Sea, or beyond the known oceans.
With the ships built and lord wymans business connections, Owen had watched from the harbor as another merchant vessel from Braavos unloaded its cargo of gold and exotic goods in exchange for preserved Northern foods. The sight had become common at White Harbor and ice crest over the past months, but it still filled him with satisfaction.
"Three hundred thousand gold dragons for this shipment alone," Lord Manderly announced, his multiple chins quivering with delight. "The Braavosi can't get enough of our preserved fruits and vegetables. They're calling them 'winter's bounty' in their markets."
Owen had nodded, knowing the preservation enchantments he'd worked into the glasshouse-grown food and fruits were the real key to their success. The spells kept the produce fresh for months without ice or salt, making long-distance trading not just possible but highly profitable.
"Lord Karstark's latest report indicates his glasshouses have tripled their production," Lord Manderly continued, consulting a ledger. "Even after paying the Stark tax, he's earned more gold this season than his house has seen in generations."
Similar reports came in from across the North. The Umbers, traditionally one of the poorest houses despite their vast holdings, now shipped regular caravans of preserved goods to White Harbor. The Mormonts had expanded their glasshouses across Bear Island, turning their harsh territory into a surprisingly fertile source of valuable crops.
Even the mountain clans had prospered. Their smaller glasshouse installations produced enough excess food to finally end their centuries-long cycle of near-starvation during winter. The gold they earned from trading their surplus had transformed their simple holdings into increasingly prosperous communities.
"Lord Locke actually wept when he counted his profits last moon," Lord Manderly shared with a chuckle. "Said he'd never dreamed of seeing such wealth in the North. His son has already commissioned a new stone keep to replace their old wooden one."
The scene had repeated across the northern ports as Essosi ships arrived daily - Braavosi, Pentoshi, Lyseni, even vessels from as far as Volantis. They came laden with gold, spices, and luxury goods, departing with holds full of magically-preserved Northern produce that would fetch premium prices in the markets across the Narrow Sea.
The transformation of the North from a harsh land of mere survival to one of genuine prosperity was evident everywhere Owen looked. New stone buildings rose in villages that had known only wooden structures for thousands of years. Lords who had once struggled to collect enough taxes to maintain their keeps now found themselves with surplus gold to improve their holdings and care for their smallfolk.
Even the smallest farming villages benefited from the trade. The glasshouses meant they could grow food year-round, and the preservation enchantments ensured they could store or sell their excess without fear of spoilage. Many had never known such security, let alone the possibility of earning actual gold for their crops.
"This is what the North should have been all along," Owen mused as he watched another Braavosi ship dock. "Not just surviving winter, but thriving through it."
Owen wasn't left behind of course, as he watched another merchant ship from Braavos dock at Ice Crest's harbor, its holds filled with gold and exotic goods in exchange for House Longshore's preserved foods. Though he and Sansa hardly needed the wealth, Owen had ensured their house participated fully in the North's burgeoning trade.
His own glasshouses produced an abundance of fruits, vegetables, and grains year-round, perhaps more than the rest he had constructed for the north, all enhanced with preservation enchantments and the power of the glasshouses themselves. But it was his jewelry that truly set House Longshore's exports apart. Using materials from Cidhna Mine, Owen crafted pieces that were simply impossible to replicate elsewhere - necklaces of moonstone that seemed to capture starlight, rings set with enchanted gems that sparkled with inner fire, and delicate chains of metals that didn't exist outside his magical mine.
Each piece sold for small fortunes in the markets of Braavos, Pentos, and beyond. The gold flowed in faster than Owen could count it, but he was careful about how he managed such wealth. The majority went straight to the Iron Bank in Braavos, where his accounts had already accumulated millions of gold dragons. He kept only enough in Ice Crest's public coffers to pay servants, maintain the castle, and handle daily expenses.
Deep beneath Ice Crest, Owen had constructed a massive vault complex protected by layers of magical wards and physical defenses. Here he stored the bulk of their physical wealth - towers of gold coins, mountains of silver ingots, and carefully organized stockpiles of precious ores from Cidhna Mine. The vault's protections included curses that would strike down any unauthorized intruders, magical barriers that could withstand siege weapons, and illusions that would confuse even the most determined thieves.
But Owen's most precious storage spaces weren't filled with gold or jewels. Vast underground chambers stretched beneath Ice Crest, magically preserved and climate-controlled, packed with enough food to feed all of westeros for years, yet now stored for his descendants. Every excess grain, fruit, and vegetable that wasn't immediately sold or consumed went into these strategic reserves. Owen had designed the storage system with siege and drought in mind, ensuring that his future generations would never know true hunger, even if all trade stopped and every glasshouse shattered.
The wealth he and Sansa were accumulating was staggering - their children and grandchildren and beyond would inherit trillions in gold dragons, enough to buy kingdoms. But Owen hoped they'd never need to spend it. The real treasure was in those food vaults, in the security of knowing that no winter, no war, no disaster could starve them out.
Thus, Four years later and Owen gazed at his sleeping wife, marveling internally at how much had changed. The North had transformed from a harsh land of mere survival into a realm of abundance and prosperity in secret. Every day brought news of another village expanding, another keep being upgraded from wood to stone, another successful harvest from the countless glasshouses that now dotted the landscape.
The changes were most visible in the common folk. Gone were the gaunt faces and threadbare clothes that had once marked Northern peasants. Now they walked with pride, their children well-fed, their homes warm and solid. The glasshouses ensured fresh food even in the depths of winter, while the preservation enchantments meant nothing went to waste.
Word had spread south, carried by merchants and travelers - whispers of the Old Gods blessing their ancient lands. Northern smallfolk who had sought better lives in the south began returning home, drawn by tales of prosperity and abundance. Villages that had been half-empty for generations now bustled with life, their populations swelling as families reclaimed their ancestral lands.
The Night's Watch had benefited greatly from these changes. Owen's constructors worked tirelessly to rebuild the abandoned castles, their tireless efficiency restoring ancient strongholds that had crumbled centuries ago. Monthly shipments of preserved food arrived from every major Northern house, ensuring the Watch would never again know the desperate hunger that had once plagued them.
Yet the South remained largely ignorant of the true scope of these changes. They saw only surface signs - increased tax payments, declining grain purchases, fewer Northern traders in their markets. The real transformation, the technological and magical revolution that had reshaped the North, remained hidden behind careful misdirection and the North's traditional privacy as well as the usual attitude towards any rumors whenever the illusions fell.
Sansa stirred beside him, pressing closer to his warmth. Owen smiled and kissed her brow gently, earning a contented moan from his wife. The morning could wait a while longer. Here, in their bed at Ice Crest, he could simply enjoy the peace they'd built together.
Owen drifted back to sleep beside Sansa, her warm presence and steady breathing lulling him into peaceful slumber. The magical protections he'd woven into Ice Crest's very foundations hummed softly, an intricate network of wards and enchantments that kept them safe from both mundane and supernatural threats.
Outside their window, perched in an ancient ironwood tree just beyond the castle's protective barriers, a raven sat motionless in the pre-dawn gloom. Unlike its ordinary kin, this bird possessed three eyes - two normal ones and a third, blood-red orb in the center of its forehead. The creature studied the couple's chamber with an unnatural intensity, though the castle's defenses prevented it from seeing or sensing anything within.
The magical barriers Owen had crafted repelled all attempts at scrying or supernatural observation, creating a sanctuary where even the most powerful entities couldn't intrude. Yet still the three-eyed raven maintained its vigil, as if waiting for something only it could perceive...... Like Quote
Roose Bolton's footsteps echoed across the flagstones of the Dreadfort's courtyard, each step measured and deliberate. The pale morning sun shining through the massive glass structures that dominated the eastern section of his castle grounds. His ghost-grey eyes tracked the movement of servants as they harvested the bounty from within, their backs bent in careful labor.
The steam constructors clicked and whirred, their metal legs carrying them between the rows of crops with inhuman precision. One paused in its work, rotating its head toward him before continuing its predetermined path. Roose's fingers twitched - even after four years, the machines still unsettled him. But their efficiency was undeniable.
"My lord." A servant bowed low as Roose passed, nearly dropping his basket of blood-red grapes. The man's voice barely rose above a whisper, just as Roose preferred.
Inside the first glasshouse, warmth enveloped him despite the autumn chill outside. The air hung heavy with moisture, thick with the scent of earth and growing things. Fruit trees lined the central path, their branches heavy with apples and pears. The harvest had exceeded expectations again.
"The wheat yield?" Roose's soft voice carried to his steward, who materialized from between the rows of crops.
"Three times what we'd expect from open fields, my lord, as has become per usual. The surplus alone will fetch a handsome price at White Harbor once more."
Roose ran a pale finger along one of the metal support beams. The structure was flawless - no joints visible, no seams where water might leak. The work of Owen Longshore's machines. The man's creations had changed the North these past 4 years, though Roose wondered if Lord Stark truly understood the power he'd brought into their midst.
A second constructor skittered past, carrying a watering can in its articulated limbs. The machine's movements were smooth, purposeful. Like a well-trained soldier, it knew its place and purpose. Roose could appreciate that, even if he kept his own servants under watch when they worked near the things.
The profits from these glasshouses had filled the Dreadfort's coffers beyond expectation. Even in the depths of autumn, fresh fruits and vegetables flowed from his lands. The smallfolk were better fed, stronger - though no less quiet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. The steam constructors had helped ensure both.
But as he was no fool. Roose's mind catalogued the discrepancies as he walked the length of the glasshouse. Two structures - that's what Lord Stark had granted the Dreadfort. The same number House Dustin and House Ryswell received. Enough to feed their people, enough to generate modest wealth, but nothing more.
Yet his network of informants painted a different picture across the North. House Manderly's lands flourished with five glasshouses at New Castle alone, and three more in each of their villages. White Harbor had transformed into a cornucopia of fresh produce even as autumn deepened. Their coffers swelled with the profits from preserved foods and exotic crops.
The Glovers, once a modest house, now boasted five structures at Deepwood Motte. Robett Glover's elevation in status hadn't gone unnoticed - his keep practically glowed with prosperity. House Mormont, despite their remote location on Bear Island, enjoyed the same bounty. Even the Umbers, wild as they were, had been granted five of the magical structures.
The pattern was clear to Roose's calculating mind. Eddard Stark had divided the North into circles of trust, though he'd done it quietly enough that most wouldn't notice. Those houses who'd proven their absolute loyalty received abundance - enough glasshouses to generate significant wealth and influence. The Manderlys, Glovers, Mormonts, and Umbers prospered far beyond their traditional means.
Meanwhile, houses like his own received just enough to maintain contentment - two glasshouses, no more. The message was subtle but clear: Lord Stark remembered old grievances and ancient rebellions. The Boltons would be permitted to benefit from Owen Longshore's innovations, but never to the same degree as Stark's most trusted bannermen.
"My lord?" The steward's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Shall I send a request to lord owen to have the constructors adjust the irrigation schedule?"
Roose waved his hand in dismissal. "Leave them to their work." His pale eyes followed the mechanical servants as they tended the crops with inhuman precision. He wondered what other marvels Owen Longshore had gifted to Stark's favored houses - what secrets lay hidden behind their walls while the Dreadfort made do with the bare minimum of innovation.
Roose's hand went to the sword at his side. Made of pure steel and embedded with ores of ebony according to Lord Owen. Roose had named it Bloody Heart. The weapon's grip felt cool against his palm, the leather wrapping worn smooth from hours of practice. Every lord of the north had received one such special weapon, whether a mace, sword, spear, daggers or Warhammer - a master-crafted weapon made of special ores that only Lord Stark and Owen knew of its location.
His spies had informed him the only ones who hadn't received any were Lord Stark, Wyman and Robett, the two having apparently bought a large selection of special weapons from Owen before they knew who he was. The weapons had been how they found him in the first place. Another advantage three houses had over them.
He felt for the handle of Bloody Heart. The blade was perfectly balanced, its edge never seeming to dull no matter how much use it saw. Even now, after countless practice sessions, it remained as sharp as the day Owen had presented it to him. It was a good blade anyway, something Domeric would take when Roose died. His son had admired the weapon from the moment Roose had brought it home, though he'd never asked to wield it. Domeric understood patience, at least. That was something.
Roose's thoughts drifted back from his sword to the disparity in resources as he watched another constructor methodically prune a row of fruit trees. The uneven distribution of these magical glass structures across the North rankled him, though his face remained an impassive mask. Two glasshouses - a pittance compared to what Manderly and the others enjoyed.
He understood Eddard Stark's reasoning, of course. Centuries of mistrust didn't vanish with a bent knee and sworn oaths. The Starks had always kept the Boltons at arm's length, using their fearsome reputation when it suited them while maintaining a careful distance. Tales of Bolton cruelty served the North well enough when enemies needed frightening, but that didn't translate to trust.
Roose's ghost-grey eyes settled on a particular flagstone in the courtyard. Few knew that it marked one of the entrances to the maze of tunnels beneath the Dreadfort. Fewer still knew what lay in those dark passages. The flaying chambers weren't just stories to scare children - they were very real, their stone walls still stained with centuries of blood.
In one particular chamber, deep below where he stood, four flayed skins hung in a place of honor. Four Stark sons, taken during the age of the Red Kings, before House Bolton finally knelt to Winterfell. Their preserved flesh served as a grim reminder of the power House Bolton once wielded. Roose never spoke of them or even hinted at their existence - there was no need. The very existence of those chambers, and what they contained, explained why House Stark would never fully trust a Bolton, no matter how many generations passed.
Roose's thoughts drifted to his father's last words, spoken from his deathbed fifteen years ago. "One day, the Boltons will rule the North. The Starks will fall by our hand." Those words had echoed in Roose's mind countless times over the years, a prophecy passed down through generations of Bolton lords after they had knelt to stark rule.
But as he watched another steam constructor methodically tend to the crops, Roose felt that ancient dream slipping away like water through cupped hands. The North had transformed beyond recognition in the four years since Owen Longshore's arrival. Gold flowed freely through White Harbor's and Ice crests ports, the coffers of every major house swelling with profits from preserved foods and exotic crops. The Northern fleet, once a joke among the coastal powers of the world, now patrolled the waters with ships that seemed to spring from legend rather than any known shipwright's plans, too fast to be seen by southern eyes yet armed to the teeth.
Most troubling were the metal sentinels - those towering constructs that Owen called "Dwemer Colossi." They patrolled the major roads and fortifications along with armies of Dwemer automatons and steam constructors, their heavy footfalls echoing through the Wolfswood day and night. Each colossus stood thirty feet tall, armed with massive swords and weapons that spat fire like dragons of legend. The Dreadfort had been granted just one for its protection, while Winterfell housed a dozen, White Harbor five, and even distant Bear Island boasted two. Though he wondered if the colossus was there for the dreadforts own protection or to be turned on him should he…step out of line as it were.
Where once the harsh winters had driven many to seek warmer climates in the south, now that flow had reversed. Northerners with First Men blood were returning in droves, drawn by tales of prosperity and abundance. But they didn't settle in Bolton lands. No, they flocked to Winterfell, White Harbor, and the newly established seat of House Longshore at Sea Dragon Point.
Even the smallfolk who might once have settled in his territories chose other paths. The Dreadfort's reputation for cruelty, though greatly exaggerated in Roose's time - he saw no practical value in torturing the smallfolk as his ancestors had - still cast a long shadow. He knew his forbears had likely earned that reputation through boredom as much as malice, but the damage was done. New settlers avoided Bolton lands like a plague, preferring the welcoming arms of Stark loyalist houses.
This shift meant more than just empty fields. Each settler who chose Manderly over Bolton, Glover over Bolton, or Stark over Bolton represented not just lost tax revenue but lost military potential. The armies that each house could field were determined by their population, and the Bolton's traditional advantage in numbers was eroding with each passing season.
Roose sighed quietly as he left the glasshouses behind, walking towards his keep. The morning mist still clung to the ground, wreathing his feet in grey tendrils that reminded him of smoke rising from a battlefield. He had toyed once with the idea of sending armed rogues to capture Owen and bring him back to the Dreadfort for some... persuasion in knowing how to control his creations, but he knew that would probably lead to failure and suspicion. Young as he was, Owen did seem to be too observant for his own good - an admirable trait as long as it wasn't pointed at Roose. The young lord seemed to notice slight details, and if a kidnapping failed, it wouldn't be long before the great smith lord knew who was behind it.
The thought brought a bitter taste to Roose's mouth. If only Owen had agreed to let Domeric join his house as a ward and student of his teachings. His son would have found out how to forge these weapons or where Lord Owen mined these exotic ores. When Roose had made the suggestion during the harvest festival four years ago, Owen had politely declined, citing that his methods were gifts from the Old Gods meant only for him. The excuse had been diplomatic enough that even Roose couldn't take offense without seeming unreasonable.
Domeric had taken the rejection with grace, though Roose had seen the disappointment in his son's eyes. The boy had a passion for learning that sometimes worried Roose - too much curiosity could be dangerous in their world. Still, Domeric's intelligence and patience would have made him the perfect student to learn Owen's secrets. Instead, his son spent his days managing the Dreadfort's expanding trade operations, a task he performed admirably but one that fell far short of what might have been.
Roose was not stupid though. Owen seemed an amiable person, but he knew exactly where that rejection had come from. This had Eddard Stark's hands all over it. The Wolf Lord's influence was clear, especially considering how Jon Snow, Stark's bastard, had joined Sea Dragon Point as Owen Longshore's master-at-arms. Another slight the wolf had given the flayed man.
He walked into the keep, feeling the warmth rise as the "heating system," as Owen had called it, warmed the whole structure of the Dreadfort. Of course, it was serviced and controlled by an automaton beyond Roose's bidding. He watched the metal creature adjust valves and check gauges with its precise mechanical movements, maintaining the perfect temperature throughout the castle. The heating systems had been another of Lord Owen's inventions, ensuring every castle and the houses of their smallfolk villages stayed warm through even the harshest winters.
Along with the heating came the "water purifiers" and "showers" - more innovations that had transformed daily life in the North. It actually amused Roose how many smallfolk took regular showers now that hot water was just a turn of a metal knob away. The servants in his own keep seemed almost eager to use the facilities, no longer dreading the cold wash basins of old. Though at the very least, their Northern men and women looked much more... comely now they were clean. And healthier too - the maesters reported fewer illnesses since the introduction of the purified water systems for clean drinking water.
Roose walked through the stone corridors, his footsteps echoing off the walls despite the thick carpets Owen's trade had brought them. The now familiar weight of Bloody Heart at his hip provided little comfort as he approached his solar. He already knew who waited within - he'd seen Domeric's expression at breakfast, recognized the determined set of his son's jaw. The same look his mother had worn when she wanted something.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Domeric standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the courtyard below. The boy had his mother's build - tall and lean rather than Roose's stockier frame. But there was something of the Bolton coldness and ruthlessness in him too, hidden beneath his courteous exterior.
Roose settled into the chair behind his desk, noting how his son remained silent until he was seated. Good manners, always. That was Domeric's way.
"Father," Domeric turned from the window, his grey eyes meeting Roose's own. "I wish to meet my brother."
The words hung in the air between them. Roose kept his face carefully blank, though inwardly he sighed. He'd known this day would come eventually, had dreaded it even.
"You have no brother," Roose said flatly. "The boy you speak of is a bastard, nothing more. He is not to be bothered with."
"He is still of our blood-" Domeric started.
"He is nothing but a rabid dog," Roose cut him off, his voice sharp as a blade. "You would do better to focus your attention on continuing your letters to Lord Owen. Perhaps he will finally grant you that visit you seek, allow you to witness his newest creations."
"Ramsay," Domeric said quietly.
Roose's eyes widened just a fraction, the only outward sign of his surprise. "How do you know that name?"
Roose studied his son's face, waiting for an answer that didn't come. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of steam constructors working in the courtyard below. Finally, he sighed, a barely audible exhale that spoke volumes about the inevitability of this moment.
"Very well," Roose said, his voice as soft and cold as falling snow. "I will write to Lord Owen myself, requesting a week's stay at Ice Crest. Perhaps longer, if he proves amenable." His pale eyes fixed on Domeric. "I will attach it to your own letter. The combined weight of our requests may sway him."
He paused, measuring his next words carefully. "And when you return from Sea Dragon Point - assuming Lord Owen grants this request - I will personally take you to meet your... brother."
Something flickered across Domeric's face - not quite a smile, but close enough to one that it made him look younger, more like the boy he'd been before his fostering at the Redfort. "Thank you, Father." He bowed slightly, the gesture precise and proper as always, before turning to leave the solar.
Roose waited until the door closed behind his son before reaching into his desk drawer. He withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, the kind that Owen's constructors produced - smooth and pristine, without the rough edges of traditional parchment. Taking up one of the new "pens" that had become so fashionable among the Northern lords, he considered its strange design. The metal tip didn't require constant dipping like a quill, drawing ink smoothly from some internal reservoir.
Owen had mentioned these were now common in Essos, particularly among the money-changers and merchants of the Free Cities. Roose could see why - the convenience alone made them worth their considerable price. Lord owen would complain as well, seeing as both paper and pen were also his creation. When the maesters finally knew lord longshore made them, they would fight tooth and nail for whole ships of them no doubt.
Roose set aside the strange new pen for a moment, reaching instead for a more traditional quill. Some messages were better written with older tools - it felt more fitting somehow. The ink was thick and black, another of Owen's creations that didn't fade like the watery substances of old.
His first letter was brief and to the point. Six hundred gold dragons would be delivered to the miller's widow, along with passage to Braavos on the next ship. The warning was clear - return to Westeros, and her life would be forfeit. It was more generous than she deserved, but Roose believed in tying up loose ends neatly, even if not by death.
The second part of the letter dealt with Ramsay and his companion "Reek". The instructions were precise - both were to be eliminated quietly, their bodies disposed of where they would never be found. Roose had considered having them brought to the Dreadfort's dungeons, but that carried too much risk. Better to have it done quickly and cleanly.
He sealed this letter with plain wax - no sigil, nothing to trace it back to him. His men would know what to do.
Then Roose picked up Owen's pen again, appreciating its smooth flow as he began the second letter. This one would need to appear genuine, concerned, a lord's duty to report troubling matters to his liege. He chose his words carefully, writing of strange ships seen off the northern coast, of whispers about foreign powers taking interest in the North's newfound wealth and military strength.
The letter painted a picture of potential threats, of the need for the crown to perhaps investigate these matters personally. After all, what loyal lord wouldn't want to ensure the realm's security? And if such an investigation led to questions about the North's rapid rise in power, well, that was hardly Roose's concern.
He wrote steadily, his pale eyes focused on the task, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. The North had grown too strong too quickly, and someone needed to restore the "balance". If he couldn't have lord Owen's power for himself, perhaps it was time for others to take notice of it. Like Quote
Owen sat on the wide stone steps of Ice Crest, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. He speared a piece of apple from his bowl, watching Sansa run her fingers through Anastasia's thick white fur. The direwolf's massive head rested in his wife's lap, ice-blue eyes half-closed in contentment.
"She's grown quite fond of you," Owen said, popping the fruit in his mouth.
Sansa's fingers traced the silvery patterns in Anastasia's coat. "As have I of her. Though I still can't believe how large she's become."
The direwolf indeed dwarfed any of her kind Owen had ever seen or read about. Her shoulder reached past his waist when standing, her muscled frame enhanced by the magical binding they shared. The memory of finding her still haunted him - her broken body lying in a crimson patch of snow outside White Harbor two weeks ago.
"You should have seen her when I found her." Owen set his empty bowl aside. "Half-starved, leg shattered, barely breathing. If I hadn't gotten her to the Temple in time..."
"But you did." Sansa scratched behind Anastasia's ears, earning a pleased rumble. "And now she's the most magnificent creature in the North."
Owen smiled, remembering the long nights spent nursing the direwolf back to health within the Temple of Solomon's healing chambers. He'd pored over ancient texts about familiar bonds, working complex spells to forge their connection while her body mended. The magic had transformed her, imbuing her with strength and speed that bordered on supernatural.
"The books said the familiar bond would enhance her natural abilities," Owen said. "But I never expected this degree of change." He reached over to run his hand along Anastasia's flank, feeling the corded muscle beneath her fur. "She's faster than any horse, strong enough to carry us both with ease."
Anastasia lifted her head at his touch, those intelligent blue eyes meeting his. The bond thrummed between them, a constant awareness of each other's presence and wellbeing. She rose to her full height, shaking out her coat before padding over to nuzzle Owen's chest with her massive head.
"Show-off," he chuckled, scratching under her chin. Even sitting, he had to reach up to do so.
Sansa watched them with a soft smile. "It seems the Old Gods truly blessed you both that day."
Owen nodded, though he knew it wasn't the gods but rather Solomon's ancient knowledge that had saved Anastasia. Still, he let his wife believe what she wished. The direwolf settled between them, her head swiveling to survey the courtyard with alert eyes, ever the vigilant guardian.
As he watched Anastasia's alert posture, he remembered the day he'd first shown Sansa the Temple of Solomon. It had been a year and a half into their marriage when he'd finally decided to trust her with one of his greatest secret. Her reaction had surprised him - instead of fear or rejection, she'd shown wonder and curiosity at the vast magical dimension.
"Do you remember your first time seeing the Temple?" Owen asked, drawing Sansa's attention from the direwolf.
She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. "How could I forget? All those books, the endless halls..." Her hand unconsciously touched the spot on her chest where her magic circuits lay beneath. "And the day you awakened my magic. I never imagined I could heal injuries with just a touch."
Owen nodded, pride swelling as he recalled how quickly she'd taken to healing magic. Within months, she'd mastered basic wound closure and bone mending. Though she steadfastly refused to learn combat spells, her gentle nature better suited to mending than destroying.
"You've saved many lives since then," he said. "The villagers still talk about how you healed Willem's boy after that fall from the cliffs."
"Speaking of healing," Sansa said, "Jon mentioned you two had quite the practice session yesterday. Said you nearly singed his eyebrows off."
Owen chuckled. After revealing the Temple to Jon as well and awakening his circuits, his goodbrother had thrown himself into magical training with characteristic determination. As Master-at-Arms of Ice Crest, Jon split his time between patrolling the growing settlements around Sea Dragon Point and honing his considerable magical talents.
"He's gotten remarkably good at combining fire and ice magic with his swordwork," Owen said. "Yesterday he managed to coat his sword in alternating layers - burning edge with an icy core. Nearly caught me off guard when the ice suddenly erupted into flames."
Sansa shook her head fondly. "He's earned quite a reputation among the smallfolk, you know. They say he's as fair as Father when settling disputes between villages. Last week he rode out to mediate that fishing rights argument between Stoneshore and Seal Bay."
"The circuits suit him," Owen said. "He has a natural talent for elemental magic that surpasses even my own. Though he still needs work on his defensive spells."
Owen watched as Sansa huffed in amusement, cuddling closer to Anastasia. The massive direwolf turned from her vigilant watch of the courtyard, abandoning her guard duty to happily nuzzle against Sansa's neck, drawing a delighted laugh from his wife.
"Ever since you awakened our magic," Sansa said, running her fingers through Anastasia's thick fur, "all Jon can talk about is wanting more lessons in the Temple. Every other conversation leads to requesting another magical spar."
Owen chuckled, remembering Jon's wide-eyed wonder when he'd first seen the Temple's vast training arenas and endless libraries of magical knowledge. "It's just the novelty of it all. Though it's been two years since I revealed the Temple to you both and awakened your magic, the wonder will wear off eventually."
Sansa turned to him with a knowing grin, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Has it worn off for you then? This wonder of magic?"
Owen paused, considering the question. He thought of all the miraculous things he'd accomplished with magic - the healing of Anastasia, the awakening of magic circuits in those he trusted most, the countless spells and enchantments he'd mastered. Even after four years of studying Solomon's vast magical knowledge, each new discovery still filled him with the same excitement as that first day.
He shared her smile, shaking his head. "Not a bit."
Their laughter echoed across the courtyard, joined by Anastasia's happy rumble as the direwolf settled contentedly between them.
Owen turned his attention to the bustling activity beyond Ice Crest's gates, sharing a comfortable silence with Sansa. The settlement had grown exponentially, transforming from a modest village into what could only be described as a small city. Northern-blooded smallfolk, hearing tales of prosperity and opportunity, had begun returning from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to their ancestral homeland.
"Another hundred arrived yesterday," Owen said, noting the fresh construction at the town's edge. "Most from the Reach this time."
The influx had prompted him to order two thousand steam constructors and automatons to build proper housing. Unlike the crude hovels common throughout Westeros, these dwellings featured luxuries previously unknown to smallfolk - Dwemer showers with hot running water, heating systems that kept homes warm even in the harshest winter, and water purifiers that prevented illness.
Owen watched a group of children playing near one of the communal fountains, their laughter carrying up to where he sat. The sight of clean, well-fed smallfolk still struck him as remarkable compared to his memories of other parts of Westeros.
"Duncan's done well managing it all," Sansa observed, following his gaze to where the town's mayor was mediating a dispute between two merchants.
Owen nodded in agreement. He'd chosen Duncan specifically for his combination of strength and honor - a former soldier who'd shown both wisdom and compassion. The man's broad shoulders and battle-scarred face commanded respect, while his fair judgments had earned him the people's trust.
The new outer walls rose impressively around the growing settlement, built by tireless constructors to Owen's exacting specifications. Behind the physical defenses lay layers of magical wards and protective enchantments, invisible but far more potent than mere stone. Owen had spent weeks weaving the spells himself, determined to protect these people who'd placed their faith in the North's renaissance.
"Remember when this was all empty coastline?" Owen asked, gesturing at the sprawling town below. "Just large rocks, seaweed and scrub brush when we first arrived."
"And now look at it," Sansa said softly. "A proper city in the making."
Owen watched a distance away but clear from the open gates as a steam constructor methodically lay stones for a new granary, its mechanical arms moving with precise efficiency. He chuckled, remembering the first time the southern smallfolk had encountered these metal workers. Many had fallen to their knees in terror, making signs to ward off evil spirits. Some had even tried to leave offerings of bread and ale at the constructors' feet.
"They've adapted well enough now," Owen mused aloud to Sansa. "Though I still catch some of the older folk making the sign of the Seven or calling on the old gods when they pass too close."
Even more amusing had been their reactions to the Dwarven Colossus. Just last week, Jon had led a patrol along the coast with one of the massive automatons stomping alongside. Owen had heard tales of fishermen throwing themselves face-down in their boats, convinced the Old Gods had sent a metal giant to judge their sins. A group of women had actually tried to organize a feast in the Colossus's honor before Jon managed to explain it was simply a very large machine.
"The children aren't afraid at least," Sansa said, pointing to where a group of young ones were playing a game of tag around a constructor's legs. The machine carefully adjusted its movements to avoid the laughing children, its programming ensuring their safety.
Owen pulled out the letter he'd received that morning, the seal of the Night's Watch still visible on the broken wax. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's precise handwriting detailed the completion of the restored castles along the Wall. The steam constructors Owen had sent north had performed admirably, rebuilding crumbling towers and repairing ancient stonework with tireless efficiency.
"The Old Bear seems pleased," Owen said, scanning the letter again. "All nineteen castles restored to their former glory, and enough food stored away to feed the entire Watch for a decade." He handed the letter to Sansa. "The donations from the Northern houses have exceeded all expectations. Even the mountain clans sent a bounty of food"
It was a testament to the North's newfound prosperity. With the glasshouses producing crops year-round, month to month harvests and the automated farming equipment in the form of the steam constructors multiplying yields, every holdfast from the Neck to the Wall had surplus to share. The Night's Watch, traditionally struggling to feed its men through winter, now had warehouses bursting with preserved grain and meat.
"Father will be pleased," Sansa said, returning the letter. "He's always said a strong Watch means a strong North."
Owen nodded, remembering how the steam constructors had transformed the abandoned castles. Nightfort, Deep Lake, Queensgate - names that had been little more than ruins were now fully manned fortresses again (at least as fully manned as they could with the nights watches numbers). The Watch's numbers had grown as well, with more volunteers arriving as word spread of the improved conditions though still not as many as Mormont had hoped but it was still better than nothing.
"To think," Owen said, "just four years ago half those castles were falling apart. Now they're better defended than they've been in centuries." He didn't mention the magical wards he'd personally placed on each fortress, or the Dwarven Colossi that stood silent sentinel in hidden chambers, ready to activate if the Wall ever faced true danger.
Owen felt a deep contentment wash over him as he sat there on the steps of Ice Crest. The Celestial Forge might have gone quiet these past years, offering no new gifts or powers, but he'd made the most of what he had. Through careful application of his abilities and knowledge, he'd transformed not just his own life but the lives of countless others across the North.
His fingers traced the smooth stone beneath him - stone cut and placed by his steam constructors. Everything around him spoke of prosperity and progress. The busy town below, the restored castles along the Wall, the thriving trade that filled Ice Crest's coffers - all of it born from the gifts he'd already received. What more could he possibly want or need?
He was wealthy beyond measure, married to a beautiful and loving wife, safe within the walls of his own castle. He'd even managed to bring real, meaningful change to the North, preparing it for the winters and wars to come. The satisfaction of seeing his plans come to fruition far outweighed any desire for new powers.
Owen turned to share these thoughts with Sansa, a smile on his face, but the words died in his throat. His wife had gone quiet, her earlier cheerfulness replaced by a profound sadness. A frown marred her beautiful features as she stared distantly at nothing in particular, lost in troubled thoughts.
"Sansa? What's wrong?" Owen asked, concern immediately replacing his contentment.
She turned away slightly, her shoulders tensing. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on her distress. Owen stood, moving closer to his wife and pulling her gently into his arms.
"Love, please tell me what's troubling you," he said softly against her hair.
Sansa remained quiet for a long moment, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"It's been four years, Owen," she said, "and I'm still not with child."
Owen held Sansa close, feeling her tremble against him. Anastasia sensed her distress and moved closer, nuzzling her softly with a gentle whine. The massive direwolf's presence seemed to comfort Sansa somewhat, but Owen could still feel the tension in her body.
"I know you'll want an heir eventually," Sansa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And if I can't give you one... you'll find someone who can. One day you'll come home with a bastard like Jon, tell me he'll be your heir because I failed to give you children."
Owen mentally scoffed at that, recognizing Catelyn's influence in Sansa's fears. While Sansa loved Jon dearly now, her mother's treatment of him had clearly left its mark on her views regarding bastards. The way Catelyn had treated Jon over the years had planted seeds of insecurity that were now blooming in Sansa's own marriage.
The irony wasn't lost on Owen. Sansa had been nothing but passionate and willing in their marriage bed, often initiating their encounters with an enthusiasm that left him breathless. The thought of taking a mistress or fathering bastards had never once crossed his mind. How could it, when he had such a beautiful and loving wife?
But he'd noticed the growing desperation in her actions lately. He'd seen her spending long hours in the Temple of Solomon, poring over ancient tomes searching for fertility spells and potions. Some of her attempts had worked, at least partially - he'd noticed the changes in her figure, how her curves had grown more pronounced in certain places, her breasts fuller than before. All carefully calculated changes meant to tempt him into spending more time in their bedchamber, as if frequency was the issue.
Owen's heart ached at her words however, knowing he needed to address these fears directly. He had actually investigated their fertility issues months ago, using his considerable magical knowledge and the resources of Solomon's Temple.
Late one night, while Sansa slept peacefully beside him, he had performed detailed magical examinations of them both. The spells had revealed nothing wrong with either of them. His seed was remarkably potent, enhanced by his awakened magic circuits which had perfected his body in many ways. Similarly, Sansa was more fertile than most women, her own circuits having enhanced her natural abilities.
The truth was simple - it just wasn't their time yet. The Old Gods, or fate, or whatever force governed such things had their own schedule in mind.
"My love," Owen said softly, pulling back to look into her tear-filled eyes, "I swear to you, as long as you're with me, I will never sire a bastard. We will have our children in time."
Sansa shook her head, frustration evident in her expression. "You don't understand. The North sees you as their savior. What you've done these past years - the roads, the glasshouses, the restored castles, the ships - you'll pass into legend by the time you're gone. Your bloodline will be incredibly important to the North."
She took a shuddering breath before continuing, "If the lords see that a Stark daughter can't continue your line, they'll send their own daughters to seduce you, to bear your children. They'll do anything to tie their houses to your legacy."
Owen couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, earning him a sharp look from his wife. "My dear, they'd have more success seducing a rock than pulling me away from you."
He gently lifted her face with one hand, using the other to wipe away her tears. Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, trying to convey all his love and devotion in that simple gesture.
Sansa kissed him back with a desperate hunger, her lips pressing against his more passionately and eagerly than ever before, seeking the comfort and assurance only he could provide. Her blue eyes, still glistening with traces of tears, locked onto his as she whispered her desire, telling him to take her - to make her forget everything else but them. Understanding exactly what she meant, what she needed, Owen snapped his fingers, drawing upon the power of the Temple of Solomon to instantly transport them both to their bedroom in Ice Crest.
The next three hours passed in a passionate blur as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. They made sweet, tender love throughout the afternoon, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony as they reaffirmed their connection. Every touch, every kiss, every gentle caress served to strengthen their bond, washing away Sansa's fears and doubts. Finally spent, they drifted off to sleep wrapped tightly in each other's arms, their hearts beating as one beneath the warm blankets and silk sheets of their bed.
Owen stirred from his peaceful slumber, Sansa's warm body pressed against his side. Though his muscles pleasantly ached from their afternoon activities, it wasn't natural waking that roused him. An urgent knocking echoed through their chamber door, growing more insistent by the second.
Sansa made a small sound of protest as Owen carefully extracted himself from her embrace. He couldn't help but smile at how she immediately hugged his pillow as a replacement, her face peaceful in sleep. Quickly pulling on a pair of breeches and a loose tunic, Owen made his way to the door.
Opening it revealed Jon Snow standing beside Anastasia, his face drawn with concern. The massive white direwolf stood alert, her ice-blue eyes fixed on Owen with unusual intensity.
"What's wrong?" Owen asked, noting the tension in Jon's shoulders.
"A rider just arrived from Winterfell," Jon replied in a low voice, conscious of the sleeping Sansa nearby. "He's been riding hard for three days straight, barely stopping to rest. Says he has an urgent message."
Owen cursed under his breath, sudden realization hitting him. In all their preparations and advancement of the North, they'd made one significant oversight. While they'd sworn the maesters of various Northern houses to secrecy about their technological progress, Ice Crest itself had no maester at all. He and Sansa had deliberately avoided requesting one from the Citadel, not trusting any southern-trained maester to keep the North's secrets. The maesters' loyalty to their chain and the Citadel was well known, and the risk of information leaking south had seemed too great.
Now, that decision might be coming back to haunt them. Without a maester's network of ravens, urgent communication with Ice Crest relied on mounted messengers - a far slower and more dangerous method of conveying important news. He had been meaning to make some magical way of communication or train special birds to take his messages like owls or hawks, but he always seemed to forget or be busy with something else. The Temple of Solomon had given him countless opportunities to develop such systems, yet between managing the castle's defenses, training with Jon, and overseeing the technological advancement of the North, the task had repeatedly slipped his mind. Each time he'd remembered, there had been another pressing matter demanding his attention, another crisis to solve, another innovation to perfect. Now he was beginning to realize just how costly that oversight might prove to be.
Owen took the sealed letter from Jon's hands, his fingers tracing the direwolf sigil pressed into the grey wax. Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as Sansa stirred, likely roused by their voices at the door.
"Owen?" Sansa called softly. He turned to see her wrapping herself in a thick robe, her auburn hair slightly disheveled from their earlier activities. She moved to his side, her blue eyes wide with concern as she noted the tension in the room. "What's wrong?"
Owen broke the seal, unfolding the parchment with steady hands even as his heart raced. His eyes scanned the hastily written words, taking in their urgent message. The blood drained from his face as he processed the contents, his jaw tightening with each line.
"Owen?" Sansa pressed, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "What does it say?"
He looked up from the letter, his gaze moving from Sansa to Jon, both watching him with growing apprehension. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on the mounting tension.
"There was an attack on Winterfell," Owen finally said, his voice grim. "Someone tried to destroy the factory."Last edited: Monday at 11:19 AM Like Quo