Eddard nodded, making a mental note to discuss this with Owen at their next meeting. His goodson's economic insight would be valuable in planning how to eventually reveal the North's new capabilities without causing chaos in the realm's markets.
Eddard pulled out a heavy pouch from his desk drawer, letting several gold dragons spill onto the polished surface. The coins caught the afternoon light, their surfaces gleaming with an unusual brilliance.
"What of our own currency situation?" he asked, picking up one of the dragons and examining the precise stamping. Owen's Dwemer machinery produced perfect replicas, down to the finest detail of the dragon motif. "We've been minting these for over two years now."
Luwin's expression grew troubled as he reached for one of the coins. "Therein lies a rather delicate problem, my lord. Our gold dragons are too pure."
"Too pure?" Eddard's brow furrowed. "Explain."
"The ore from Cidhna Mine is remarkably pure, and Lord Owen's minting process preserves that purity." Luwin held the coin up to the light. "Traditional Lannister-minted dragons contain trace amounts of other metals - silver, copper, even small amounts of iron. It's a deliberate choice that allows them to stretch their gold reserves further."
"But ours are pure gold," Eddard said slowly, understanding dawning.
"Indeed. One hundred percent pure." Luwin set the coin down carefully. "Any skilled assayer would notice the difference immediately. While this makes our coins technically more valuable, it also makes them distinctly identifiable as... not of Lannister origin."
Eddard felt a chill despite the warm afternoon. They'd been so focused on matching the physical appearance of the coins, they'd overlooked this crucial detail. "How many are in circulation?"
"We've kept most within the North, trading between our own houses and merchants. But some have inevitably made their way south through trade." Luwin pulled out a small ledger. "I estimate perhaps five percent of our minted coins have crossed the Neck."
"Enough to be noticed," Eddard said grimly. The illegal minting of coins was a serious crime - one that even his friendship with Robert might not be able to excuse.
"Lord Owen will need to adjust the mixture for future mintings," Luwin said. "Add the appropriate amounts of other metals to match the Lannister standard. As for those already in circulation..."
"We'll need to recall as many as we can," Eddard finished. "Quietly." He gathered the coins from his desk, their perfect golden surfaces now seeming more threatening than beautiful. "Send word to our bannermen. Any pure gold dragons are to be returned to Winterfell for... reprocessing."
"And those that have already reached the South?"
Eddard dropped the coins back into their pouch with a heavy sigh. "We must hope they're melted down for their gold content before anyone thinks to question their origin."
Eddard stood and paced the length of his solar, the weight of yet another potential crisis settling onto his shoulders. The pure gold dragons represented both the North's newfound prosperity and a serious threat to their carefully managed secrets.
"Robert's temper has always been his weakness," Eddard mused, remembering countless occasions where his friend's rage had overwhelmed his reason. "But his love of gold to spend might work in our favor. If we approach this correctly, frame it as an honest mistake..."
Luwin cleared his throat. "There could be another complication, my lord. Our merchants report that traders from the Free Cities have begun specifically requesting Northern-minted coins."
Eddard stopped his pacing. "What?"
"The purity has not gone unnoticed since we started minting. Several banking houses in Braavos now offer better exchange rates for our dragons compared to traditional Lannister mintings." Luwin spread another document across the desk. "Some merchants have even started marking their coins with small notches to identify them as Northern-made."
"Seven hells," Eddard muttered, dropping back into his chair. This complicated matters significantly. It was one thing to explain away accidental distribution of pure gold coins within Westeros, but international recognition of their superior currency would be harder to dismiss.
"The Iron Bank particularly has taken notice, especially after the large deposits we've been making along with lord owen," Luwin continued. "Their representatives in White Harbor have made discrete inquiries about establishing more direct trading relationships."
"Which would only draw more attention to our minting." Eddard rubbed his temples. "Robert might forgive an innocent mistake in copying his coins too well, but if word reaches him that foreign banks prefer Northern gold to Lannister..."
"Lord Tywin would take it as a direct challenge to Casterly Rock's financial authority," Luwin finished. "He among all in the south should already suspicious of our increased prosperity and lack of food imports than any other in the south."
Eddard nodded grimly. The Lannisters had built their power on their gold mines and financial influence. A competing source of purer currency would not be tolerated quietly.
"Perhaps we could present it as an unintended consequence of Lord Owen's perfectionism?" Luwin suggested. "His dedication to quality in all things is well known. The purity could be explained as simple thoroughness rather than deliberate competition."
"Robert might accept that," Eddard agreed. "He's always appreciated craftsmanship, even if he doesn't understand it. But we'll need to offer something substantial to smooth things over. The crown's debts still weigh heavily on him."
"A significant payment to the royal treasury, combined with a commitment to adjust our minting standards?" Luwin proposed. "It would demonstrate both good faith and submission to crown authority."
Luwin stroked his chain thoughtfully. "There may be another consideration, my lord. One that could prove far more contentious than simple reparations."
Eddard's gaze sharpened. "Speak freely."
"King Robert has always chafed under Lannister financial control. If he learns that the North can produce purer coins more efficiently..." Luwin spread his hands. "He might see an opportunity to shift minting operations from Casterly Rock to Winterfell."
The implications hit Eddard like a physical blow. "Gods, that would be worse than any accusation of illegal minting."
"Indeed. The Lannisters have held minting rights since Aegon's Conquest. To lose such a fundamental symbol of their power and wealth..." Luwin shook his head. "Lord Tywin would demand extraordinary concessions to accept such a change."
"Robert wouldn't care about Tywin's pride," Eddard said, remembering his friend's frequent complaints about Lannister influence since the time he took the throne and from jon Arryn's letters. "He'd likely relish the chance to diminish their power while strengthening the crown's position."
"Which puts you in a precarious position, my lord. Accepting such a transfer would make House Stark the primary financial power in Westeros overnight. But the price..."
"The Lannisters would never forgive the slight," Eddard finished. "Even with concessions, they'd see it as theft of their ancestral right. And Cersei would poison Robert's ear against us at every opportunity."
Luwin nodded gravely. "We might need to offer them exclusive trade agreements, preferential rates on Northern goods, perhaps even marriage alliances to prevent open hostility."
The thought of binding his family closer to the Lannisters made Eddard's stomach turn. Yet the alternative - openly antagonizing the wealthiest house in Westeros - could prove even more dangerous.
"And all this because our coins are too perfect," Eddard muttered, staring at the gleaming dragon in his hand.
Despite the gravity of their coin situation, Eddard couldn't suppress a chuckle, drawing a puzzled look from Maester Luwin.
"My lord?"
"Just remembering something Owen said recently. He called this kind of predicament 'suffering from success' - when prosperity itself becomes the source of new problems." Eddard shook his head, still amused by his goodson's peculiar turns of phrase.
"A rather apt description," Luwin agreed, a slight smile crossing his weathered features.
"We'll deal with the coin situation when the time comes," Eddard said, straightening in his chair. "For now, what's the final count for this month's taxes and our trading profits?"
Luwin consulted his ledgers, chains clinking softly as he leaned forward. "The month's tax collection amounts to four million gold dragons, my lord. House Stark's personal profits from trading ventures come to three million." He paused, checking another page. "And our current savings in the Iron Bank stand at ten million dragons."
Eddard leaned back, letting out a long breath. The numbers were staggering - sums that would have seemed impossible just a few years ago. A pleasant warmth spread through his chest despite his attempts to maintain his usual stoic demeanor.
Never in the long history of the North had such wealth flowed through Winterfell's coffers. The kings of winter, his ancestors who had ruled for thousands of years, hadn't seen such prosperity. Even at the height of their power, House Stark had never commanded such resources.
"Sometimes I wonder what my father would make of all this," Eddard mused, his eyes drifting to the Stark direwolf banner on the wall. "The North, not just surviving winter, but thriving."
Maester Luwin's weathered face creased with a knowing smile. "Your lord father would be proud, I think. Not just of the prosperity, but of your foresight in binding Lord Owen to House Stark through Lady Sansa. It was a masterful move, securing such blessed talent for the North."
Eddard allowed himself a full smile then, remembering how Owen still looked at Sansa with the same wonderment as he had on their wedding day. Four years had passed, yet his goodson's devotion hadn't dimmed. If anything, it had grown stronger. Owen's innovations might have transformed the North, but his heart clearly belonged to Sansa.
The only shadow on their marriage was the lack of children. Eddard had seen the worry in Sansa's eyes last he had visited, though she tried to hide it. Owen never pressured her, never showed disappointment, but Eddard knew they both yearned for a child.
"The Old Gods will bless them when the time is right," Eddard said quietly, more to himself than Luwin. He'd seen enough of Owen's extraordinary abilities to know that some things worked on their own timeline. The gods had their reasons.
"Is there anything else we need to discuss, Maester Luwin?"
"Yes, my lord. There is the matter of the returning Northerners." Luwin pulled out another scroll from his sleeve. "The flow of people from the South continues to increase. This month alone, over two thousand have crossed the Neck, most claiming First Men ancestry."
Eddard frowned, studying the numbers on Luwin's scroll. "How is this a problem? The North has always been underpopulated. More hands mean more strength for our people."
"True, my lord," Luwin adjusted his chain thoughtfully. "But many of these returnees find themselves without purpose. The blacksmiths have found work - Mikken has taken on dozens at Winterfell alone, teaching them to maintain the factory-made arms and armor. But the others..."
"What of the others?"
"The farmers, my lord. With the glasshouses producing such abundant yields, traditional farming provides less employment than before. One glasshouse tended by two workers or just 5 steam constructors produces more than forty acres of open field." Luwin pulled out another document. "The masons and builders face similar difficulties. The steam constructors build faster and better than any human crew."
Eddard leaned forward, concern etching deeper lines in his face. "So our prosperity threatens to leave our own people idle?"
"Precisely. The craftsmen who've returned seeking opportunity often find their traditional skills... obsolete." Luwin's chain clinked as he shifted. "Just yesterday, a stonemason from White Harbor complained that no one would hire him when the constructors can raise a wall in hours that would take his team weeks."
"Owen's machines are a blessing from the gods," Eddard said slowly, "but we cannot allow them to displace our people's livelihoods."
"The issue extends beyond simple employment, my lord. These returning Northerners bring families, hopes, dreams of a better life. If they cannot find meaningful work..." Luwin left the implications hanging.
Eddard stood, walking to the window overlooking Winterfell's bustling courtyard. Below, he could see several of Owen's steam constructors efficiently stacking crates of supplies, doing the work of twenty men. What had seemed purely beneficial now revealed a more complicated face.
Eddard turned back from the window, his mind already working through potential solutions. "I'll need to discuss this with Owen. The steam constructors have brought us great prosperity, but we cannot let that come at the cost of our people's dignity."
"What do you propose, my lord?" Luwin asked, his chains clinking as he leaned forward.
"Perhaps we could restrict the constructors to major projects - like they did the rebuilding of Moat Cailin, strengthening our coastal defenses, tasks of that scale." Eddard settled back into his chair. "That would leave plenty of work for our builders and masons on smaller projects throughout the North."
Luwin nodded thoughtfully. "A sound approach. The steam constructors' speed would still benefit our largest undertakings, while preserving traditional crafts for everyday construction."
"But what of the farmers?" Eddard asked. "We can hardly tell them their services are no longer needed when winter always looms."
"I've given this some thought as well my lord," Luwin replied, pulling out another scroll. "The glasshouses require careful attention, but not constant supervision. We could establish a system where farmers tend to the crops during daylight hours, while the constructors handle the more precise maintenance tasks at night."
"Go on," Eddard encouraged, intrigued by the suggestion.
"The constructors excel at maintaining exact temperature and humidity levels, monitoring for disease, perfect water levels for growth, and other technical aspects. But the monthly harvests still require many hands." Luwin spread his hands. "If we reserve that work for our farmers, it provides regular employment while making use of their agricultural expertise."
"Letting them earn their keep through honest labor rather than charity," Eddard mused. "Yes, that could work. The constructors handle the precision work at night, while our people manage the day-to-day operations and harvesting."
"It would preserve both their livelihoods and their pride," Luwin agreed. "And with the increasing number of glasshouses across the North, there should be sufficient work for all who seek it."
"I'll speak with Owen about implementing these changes," Eddard said. "He's always shown concern for the wellbeing of our people. I'm sure he'll see the wisdom in finding this balance."
As Maester Luwin opened his mouth to continue their discussion, thunderous pounding shook the solar's heavy oak door. Before Eddard could respond, Mikken burst through, his face flushed and chest heaving. The normally composed blacksmith's eyes were wide with terror, causing Eddard's hand to instinctively reach for Ice at his belt.
"My lord Stark..." Mikken gasped, bracing himself against the doorframe. His leather apron was splattered with fresh blood. "The factory... come quick... it's a massacre."
Eddard's blood ran cold at the raw fear in Mikken's voice. In all the years he'd known the man, he'd never seen him so shaken. The master blacksmith had weathered countless crises with steady hands and calm demeanor. Whatever had happened at the factory must be truly horrific to reduce him to this state.
"What kind of massacre?" Eddard demanded, already striding toward the door. "Who's been attacked?"
But Mikken just shook his head, still struggling to catch his breath. The blood on his apron looked alarmingly fresh, and Eddard noticed the blacksmith's hands were trembling.
"Guards!" Eddard's voice boomed through the corridor as he swept past Mikken. Two Stark guardsmen appeared instantly. "With me. Maester Luwin, send ravens to Ice Crest and alert Owen. Then gather your medical supplies and follow us to the factory."
Artos crouched behind a stack of crates near Winterfell's factory, his fingers tightening around his blade. Twenty of his best men waited in the shadows, each chosen for their skill at quick, brutal work. Their careful movements cloaked their movements, but his palms still sweated at the sight of those metal monstrosities patrolling the grounds.
The gold in his pocket felt heavy - Roose Bolton's down payment. Another purse waited if they could destroy enough of the factory's innards and snatch one of those special weapons. Some kind of ice-blade, Bolton had said, or something made of strange green metal.
"Bloody machines," he spat quietly, watching a metal dwarven spider skitter past their hiding spot. Three years ago, life had been simple. Rob a few merchants, raid some villages, live free in the wolfswood or other places in the north. Now these metal demons hunted bandits day and night, their burning eyes never sleeping, never tiring.
His crew had dwindled from hundreds to barely two dozen. The lucky ones fled south. The others... Artos shuddered, remembering the screams when those giant metal men caught his former lieutenant's group. Nothing left but ashes and twisted metal arrows. The youngest of his crew was barely ten for old gods sake.
But Bolton's gold spoke louder than fear. If they could wreck this place, maybe things would go back to normal. The North would be ripe for plunder again, without these cursed contraptions standing guard.
"Ready the oil," he whispered to his men. "Once we're inside, spread out and burn everything that looks important. And keep your eyes open for that special blade Bolton wants."
The factory loomed before them, large and quiet, from the outside at least. Too quiet in his opinion. But desperation had made Artos bold. Better to die trying than starve as the machines slowly hunted them all down.