If you recognize it, I probably don't own it. 40K belongs to Games Workshop. And GOT belongs to HBO and George RR Martin.

here are some important stuff.

"Speech"

'Thoughts'

~"AI"~

*Sound Effects*

POV/Location/Time Change.

Revelations

Their return to Winterfell was nothing short of grand. As the party approached the castle gates, the sight before them was overwhelming. The entire courtyard was packed with smallfolk and northern lords alike, all gathered to greet the heroes of the Ironborn rebellion. The air was thick with the smell of cooking fires, and the sounds of laughter and cheers echoed against the ancient stone walls of Winterfell. It was a homecoming that spoke to the deep love and loyalty the North had for its leaders.

At the head of the column, Eddard Stark and his son Leman rode side by side, the pride and joy they shared almost tangible. Ned's stoic face broke into a rare, warm smile, while Leman, though trying to maintain a serious demeanor, couldn't help but beam as they passed through the cheering throngs. He sat tall on his horse, wearing his new armor, sword slung on his back now polished and gleaming, though bearing the marks of a hard-fought battle. His young face, though still boyish, had a wolfish grin.

Catelyn Stark stood waiting at the front of the Stark family, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. For her, the joy of seeing her husband and her little boy return was mixed with the overwhelming relief that they were safe. Though the ravens had brought her words of reassurance from Ned during the campaign, nothing could replace the feeling of seeing them both in person, whole and unharmed. When her eyes landed on Leman, her heart clenched with the fierce love of a mother who had spent sleepless nights worrying. She had promised to punish him for sneaking off to war, but right now, all she could feel was joy.

For Jon and Sansa, standing a little behind their mother, the moment was pure happiness. Jon had missed his father deeply, though he often kept those emotions locked away. But now, seeing Ned ride through the gates with Leman, it was as though the weight that had settled on his shoulders since they left had been lifted. He glanced at Sansa beside him, who was bouncing on her toes, her eyes wide with excitement. She adored her father, and her face lit up with pure glee at the sight of him.

But Robb, standing a few steps away from his siblings, remained still, his face seemingly indifferent. To an outsider, it might have appeared that he didn't care about his father's return, but the truth was far from that. Robb had always been practical and steady in his emotions. He knew from the moment they left that his father and brother would return victorious. He had trusted in them and their strength, and so, to him, there was no need to make a fuss now. Still, when his eyes met Leman's, the faint smirk on his lips and the glint in his eyes told a different story. In that single glance, the two brothers shared a silent conversation. They had both faced their own challenges, and they knew each other had succeeded in their own way.

As the column finally reached the gates, Ned and Leman dismounted, greeted first by Catelyn. She rushed forward, first embracing her husband tightly, her face buried in his chest, then turning to Leman. She took his face in her hands, her eyes searching his as though making sure for herself that he was truly unharmed. "You've grown," she whispered, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. "But that doesn't mean you're off the hook for what you did."

Leman grinned sheepishly. "I know, Mother. I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit."

But Catelyn's stern expression softened. She simply pulled him into a tight hug, and for a moment, Leman let himself feel like the boy he still was, protected in his mother's embrace.

Ned looked at his children gathered around him, feeling the weight of their love and trust. "It's good to be home," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He ruffled Jon's hair, placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder, and nodded toward Robb, who returned the gesture with a slight smile of his own.

Robb stepped forward, his eyes finally softening as he glanced at his younger brother. "It's good to see you, Leman. You've made us all proud."

"Thank you, Robb, You caught the Pests?" Leman asked, his grin widening. Robb's smile was answer enough. There was no need for more words between them; they understood each other perfectly.

As the laughter echoed through the courtyard, Robb stepped forward, his calm demeanor barely masking the weight of what he had been carrying for weeks.

"Father," he began, his voice measured and composed, "there are some matters I need to discuss with you. But you've had a long ride, and it can wait until you've had time to rest."

Ned turned toward his eldest son, his expression softening at Robb's sense of duty. There was a certain pride in seeing how his firstborn had matured in his absence, standing tall and carrying himself with a quiet authority. Robb had always been responsible, but Ned sensed something different this time—something heavier.

Before he could reply, though, Leman burst out with a grin, his voice cutting through the air with all the enthusiasm of youth. "I'm famished! Where's the feast?"

Leman's words were met with immediate laughter from the entire Stark family, a welcome reprieve after the tension and weariness of war. Even Robb, who had been so intent on discussing serious matters, couldn't help but chuckle at his younger brother's hunger. Jon nudged Leman playfully, and Sansa giggled, delighted by the moment of levity.

Ned, his heart warmed by the sound of his children's laughter, smiled. "The feast will be ready soon enough, Leman. We've brought enough stories from the battlefield to fill the hall and enough victories to toast well into the night. And I for one can't wait for you to tell your mother of how you bested Lord Drumm."

He turned back to Robb, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'll see to it in my office later, Robb. For now, we can enjoy the moment. You've kept Winterfell strong in my absence. I'll hear everything in due time."

Robb nodded, a subtle but meaningful exchange passing between father and son. There was much to discuss—his efforts to rid Winterfell of spies, his newfound responsibilities, and the weight that had settled on his shoulders while his father was away. But he could wait a little longer. For now, there was something sacred about being reunited, about standing together as a family again.

Ned's eyes lingered on Robb for a moment longer, a silent recognition of his son's growth. Then he turned to the rest of the family. "Come. Let's all go inside. The warmth of Winterfell and a feast is waiting for us."

With that, they made their way toward the Great Hall. The northern wind howled around them, but inside the ancient walls of Winterfell, it was warm and alive with the promise of celebration. Torches flickered along the stone corridors, casting long shadows as the Stark family walked together, surrounded by the loyal household and guards who had long awaited their return.

As they entered the hall, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air. The great hearth roared with a blazing fire, and the long tables were already set with pitchers of ale, hearty stews, and plates of steaming vegetables. The hall was decorated in honor of their return, banners of the direwolf proudly displayed along the walls.

Leman's eyes lit up at the sight of the feast, and he was the first to rush forward, taking his place at the high table. "This is more like it!" he exclaimed, already reaching for a hunk of bread.

Ned shook his head, a grin playing on his lips as he watched his son. The weight of leadership and war had been heavy on him, but moments like these—surrounded by his family, the home he fought so hard to protect—made it all worthwhile.

Catelyn sat beside Ned, a contented smile on her face as she watched their children laughing and talking. "You've raised them well, Ned," she whispered softly to her husband.

"And they've raised themselves in ways we couldn't have foreseen," Ned replied, his gaze moving from Robb to Leman, pride and love evident in his tone. "We've both done well, Cat."

As the feast wore on, laughter filled the hall, and stories from the battlefield were shared over tankards of ale. Leman's eyes sparkled as he recounted the battles he had witnessed—though carefully leaving out the details of his own fight with Lord Drumm. He could tell his father still harbored mixed feelings about Leman joining the battle, and tonight was not the night to stir those emotions.

Ned, for his part, kept his promise to Robb in his mind. Later, they would talk in his office, away from the noise and festivities. There were pressing matters to attend to, but for now, they were home. And for the first time in what felt like years, Ned Stark allowed himself to relax, if only for a moment.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

Later that evening, in the dimly lit warmth of Ned Stark's office, the mood had shifted. Gone were the lighthearted laughs and the festive atmosphere of the feast. Now, the air was heavy with the weight of duty and the seriousness that came with ruling the North. Ned sat behind his large wooden desk, his hands resting thoughtfully on its surface, while Robb and Leman sat across from him.

Ned's face was lined with concern, his eyes flicking between his sons. "Robb," he began, "you said there have been... developments during my absence?"

Robb straightened, his expression serious. He was no longer the laughing boy from earlier in the feast, but the young lord he had been trained to become. "Yes, Father," he said. "The most important of these is the matter of the spies. While you were away, Leman and I uncovered a troubling pattern. We suspected there were traitors among the servants and men we trust. Spies, planted to gather information on Winterfell— for our enemies. And I'm not talking of the usual kind father, no, these ones they had direct orders to steal as much from us as possible."

Ned's eyebrows furrowed. "Spies?" His voice was calm but edged with concern.

Robb nodded and glanced at Leman, giving his younger brother a small nod of acknowledgment. "It was Leman who noticed them first. He had observed strange behavior—servants who lingered too long in places they shouldn't be, soldiers who seemed too curious about certain conversations."

Leman leaned forward, speaking up now. "I didn't think much of it at first, Father. But then there were too many coincidences. So I told Robb, and we began watching them more closely. We made a plan."

Ned's gaze settled on his youngest, quiet admiration shining in his eyes. Leman, though still young, was proving himself to be sharp—both in mind and action.

Robb continued, " A plan I was only able to implement after you had set out to war. Ser Rodrik and I slowly began removing them, taking care to do it in a way that wouldn't arouse suspicion. Over the course of several weeks, we captured thirty-two spies operating in Winterfell. Most of them I've already had executed, but I've kept four alive—those responsible for the worst betrayals. I thought you might want to question them personally. The one I captured from among our cooks even kept Essosi poison under his pillow. I fear what could have happened and what his master had planned."

Ned's expression darkened at the thought of traitors within his home. The fact that they had infiltrated Winterfell, the very heart of the North, was a grave insult. He let out a slow breath. "Thirty-two… And how long have they been here, do you think?" Then his brain caught on to the last sentence and the only thing he felt was rage, white hot rage. "Where is that honorless guileless bastard?! I'll gut him myself!" He roared.

Robb shrugged slightly. " He's in the dungeons waiting for your judgement. As for the others, It's hard to say. Some of them may have been here for months, even years. Others may have only recently arrived. But what matters is that we rooted them out."

"Well done, Robb. Well done, Leman," Ned said, his voice firm. "You've both acted wisely. But what do we do now to ensure this doesn't happen again? How do we stop more spies from coming?"

Robb's face tightened with purpose. "That's exactly what I've been thinking, Father. I propose we create our own spy network. One that can operate throughout the North—keeping an eye out for threats, infiltrating our enemies if necessary. We need to stop spies from even getting close to Winterfell. They will be our Snow Ravens."

Robb knew that convincing his father to create a spy network would not be easy. Ned Stark, Warden of the North, was the embodiment of honor, duty, and honesty—values that had been ingrained in Robb since he was a boy. But Robb had also come to understand something else as he grew older: the world outside Winterfell was far less straightforward. While honor was vital, it could not always protect them from the shadows that lurked around every corner, especially now that enemies had proven their reach even within Winterfell itself.

As they sat together in Ned's office, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, Robb leaned forward in his chair, carefully choosing his words. He had already informed his father about the discovery and removal of the spies. Now came the harder part: persuading him that they needed to become as cunning as their enemies.

"Father," Robb began, his tone measured but resolute, "I know how you feel about such things. I know you value honor above all, and that is why the people of the North follow you without question. But we must face a hard truth. Our enemies do not share that same code. They fight in the shadows, using deceit and treachery to gain the upper hand. And if we continue to only fight them in the light, we will always be vulnerable."

Ned's face was grave, his brow furrowed deeply. He had been listening in silence, but the tension in his posture betrayed his discomfort. His eyes, those of a man who had seen too many betrayals, flicked up to meet Robb's. "Robb, I taught you to hold fast to honor for a reason. Once we start dealing in shadows, once we start using the same methods as our enemies, we risk losing ourselves. What separates us from them if we stoop to their level?"

Robb expected this, and he respected it—he did. But this was too important to let go. "Father, it's not about stooping to their level. It's about protecting the North. You taught me to protect our people at all costs. This is just another way of doing that. We're not using these spies to betray or manipulate our allies—we're using them to *protect* our own. To keep Winterfell safe from those who wish us harm. We're not dishonoring ourselves by doing this, we're shielding our family and the North from those who would seek to destroy us through deceit."

Ned's gaze was steady, but his frown deepened. "Spying is not our way, Robb. Stark honor has always been our strength. I will not have us become like those who slither in the shadows, whispering poison into the ears of kings."

Robb met his father's stern gaze with calm resolve. "I understand, Father, I do. But look at what has already happened. There were spies *inside* Winterfell. Right under our noses. They were sending our secrets to who knows what enemies, possibly to the Lannisters, or to rivals within the North itself. If it hadn't been for Leman's sharp eyes, we might never have known."

Leman, who had been sitting quietly through most of the discussion, nodded in agreement. "Father, I noticed them because they weren't behaving like the other servants. They moved differently, spoke with hesitation, asked questions they shouldn't have been asking. But not everyone has the time or skill to notice these things. A spy network wouldn't just gather information—it would help us prevent more spies from sneaking in. We'd be a step ahead."

Ned let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair, clearly struggling with the idea. "A step ahead, yes," he muttered, half to himself. "But at what cost, Robb? Honor is not something we can put aside for convenience."

Robb straightened, his voice soft but firm. "Father, we don't have to like it. But if we don't create our own network, others will. Spies will always be a part of the game of thrones, whether we want them or not. But if we have our own, we can root out threats before they reach us. We can stop the Lannisters, or anyone else, from learning too much about Winterfell and our plans. Think of it as a shield, not a sword. We are not using it to harm others—we are using it to *protect* ourselves."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Ned's eyes flickered to the fire, the light dancing in the depths of his gaze. He was wrestling with the decision, torn between the ideals that had guided him all his life and the stark realities that Robb was presenting.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ned spoke again, his voice quieter now, but still firm. "I understand what you're saying, Robb. I do. But if we are to do this, it will not be a network of deception. It will not be used for dishonorable means. If we are to have these… Snow Ravens, as you call them, they will operate only to protect the North and our people. No more, no less. Do you understand me?"

Robb nodded, relieved that his father was coming around. "Of course, Father. Their only purpose will be to safeguard Winterfell and the North. They will not be used for underhanded schemes or manipulation. I promise you that."

Ned's gaze was still hard, but he nodded slowly. "Very well. If this is what must be done to keep the North safe, then so be it. But remember, Robb—once we start down this path, we must always keep our honor in sight. Without it, we are nothing."

Robb smiled, a small, respectful smile. "I swear it, Father."

Ned leaned back, his hand stroking his beard in contemplation. The idea was bold, but it had merit. The North was vast, and while its people were loyal, the realm had grown in importance. Spies would inevitably seek out information in Winterfell, and with the wars looming on the horizon, the Starks couldn't afford to be vulnerable.

Robb's eyes brightened, though his face remained calm. "Thank you, Father. There's more. In addition to dealing with the spies, I've also taken steps to expand Winterfell's food supply. I've commissioned two new farms outside Winterfell—smaller, but they'll help support us in times of need. The North is growing, and we'll need more resources to support it."

Ned nodded, impressed by Robb's initiative. The young man was already thinking ahead, planning for the long-term prosperity of the North. "Good. You've done well, Robb."

A moment of silence passed between them before Ned turned to Leman. "And you, Leman, you said about a project you were working on when we were at the Iron Islands that you would only tell me when we reached home. Now that we're here, what is it?"

Leman grinned, an infectious excitement lighting his eyes. "Father, Robb, you'll be pleased to know we've managed to 'acquire' some of the best shipbuilders from the Iron Islands." He chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "They were eager to leave the islands after the rebellion collapsed— through coin and through fear of being hunted by their own people."

Robb raised an eyebrow. "The Ironborn boatbuilders? In the North?"

Leman nodded. "Aye. They've agreed to move north, and we'll have them building ships for us soon enough. The Ironborn build some of the finest ships in Westeros, and now those skills will be ours. With their knowledge, we can strengthen our fleet and secure the coasts."

Ned sat back, a sense of satisfaction filling him. His sons had both shown remarkable foresight and resourcefulness during his absence. Robb, with his plans for security and expansion, and Leman, with his bold acquisitions from the Iron Islands. Together, they were shaping the future of the North in ways that would make House Stark stronger than ever.

"Then it seems the North is in capable hands," Ned said, pride evident in his voice. "Both of you have done your duty well. We have much work ahead of us, but I have no doubt we'll see it through."

Leman's grin widened, and Robb allowed himself a rare smile. The Stark family was united, and the North, under their watch, would only grow stronger.

Leman leaned forward slightly in his chair, his eyes steady on his father. He had been thinking about this ever since the day he claimed Lord Drumm's sword in battle. The blood-red blade, named Red Rain, had been a symbol of Ironborn tyranny for years, but now, it belonged to him. Yet, it felt like a relic of another life—a life he had no desire to carry forward. It was a powerful sword, yes, but its past was stained with blood spilled for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to give it new purpose.

"I have a request, Father," Leman said, his voice quiet but firm. "If you will indulge me."

Ned looked up from the parchment in front of him, studying his youngest son with his sharp, grey eyes. Leman's requests were rare, and when he did ask for something, it was always well thought out. Ned knew this would not be a trivial matter.

"Go on," Ned said, sitting back in his chair, his gaze now more curious than cautious.

Leman took a breath, choosing his words carefully. "The sword I took from Drumm... Red Rain... it's a fine blade, but it carries a dark history. I don't want that sword to remain as it is—a symbol of the Ironborn's cruelty. Instead, I wish to have it reforged into something new, something with a purpose we can be proud of. I'd like it to be split into two swords—one for me, and one for Robb."

Robb, who had quieted down during the conversation, raised an eyebrow at his brother's words. He hadn't expected this, but as the idea sank in, he began to appreciate the thought behind it. A gift forged from a blade that once belonged to their enemy, reforged in their image.

Ned, however, was silent. His face, etched with years of battle and leadership, was unreadable. He looked between Leman and Robb, weighing the request. He knew well the significance of a sword—what it meant for a man to carry one, and even more, what it meant to wield one taken from a fallen enemy. But he also understood the deeper meaning behind Leman's words. This wasn't just about a weapon; it was about transformation, about taking something born of violence and turning it into a symbol of unity and strength.

"Reforging a sword like Red Rain..." Ned began, his voice thoughtful. "That is no small task. It would require the finest smiths, and even then, there are risks. Valyrian steel is not easily worked, and such an undertaking is expensive."

Leman nodded. "I understand, Father. But I believe it would be worth it. I don't want to carry a sword that reminds me of the Ironborn's brutality. I want to carry a sword that represents the North. And by splitting it into two, Robb and I can carry that legacy together. As brothers. And I'm sure that Mikken can work Valyrian steel just fine."

Robb, always quick with his words when needed, added in. "Father, Leman has a point. The sword, as it is now, belongs to a different world—a different man. But if we reforge it, it becomes something new. Something we can carry forward with pride. And two swords would serve us well in the times to come. The North is growing stronger, but we need symbols of that strength. Two Stark swords, forged from an enemy's blade... that would send a message."

Ned tapped his fingers against the wooden armrest of his chair, deep in thought. He understood what his sons were asking for. It wasn't just about swords; it was about legacy, about what they would leave behind for future generations. The idea had merit, but it also felt... foreign. He had never been one for grand gestures or displays of power. Yet, as he looked at his sons, he saw something in them—an ambition, a fire that reminded him of the days when he had ridden south with Robert Baratheon, determined to fight for what he believed in.

Finally, he nodded. "If this is what you both want, then I will not stand in your way. But understand this: swords do not make men. The weight of them may be heavy in your hand, but it is the decisions you make with them that matter. If you are to carry these swords, you must remember what they stand for—what they will mean to the people of the North. They are not toys for boys, but tools of justice."

Leman and Robb both nodded, understanding the gravity of their father's words. This was more than just a request for weapons; it was a responsibility.

"I will arrange for the smiths to reforge Red Rain," Ned said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his agreement. "But know this: these swords will carry the weight of the North's future. See to it that they are used wisely."

Leman smiled, a rare show of emotion, and glanced at Robb. "Thank you, Father. We won't forget what they mean."

Robb grinned, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Well then, looks like we'll be carrying pieces of history into battle together. Better start practicing, little brother."

"I should be the one telling you that brother. I'm the one who won the sword after all" Leman retorted.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

Nearly a week had passed since the conversation in Ned Stark's office, and the day had finally come. The swords, forged from the once infamous Red Rain, lay on a thick wolf pelt atop a wooden table outside the forge. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across Winterfell's courtyard, adding an air of ancient solemnity to the moment. The entire Stark family had gathered, the cold northern wind biting at their faces, as they prepared to witness something that felt more like an age-old ritual than a mere presentation of weapons.

Mikken, the blacksmith of Winterfell, stood by the table where the newly forged swords lay, his face still smeared with soot, but his eyes gleamed with an unmistakable pride. The task had been grueling. *Red Rain, a legendary Valyrian steel blade that had seen centuries of battle, had resisted reshaping like an ancient warrior unwilling to surrender its form. Yet, despite its stubbornness, the ancient steel had been tamed and forged anew. What made this forging different from any Mikken had ever performed wasn't just the steel, or the centuries of history embedded within it. It was Leman.

Leman had been there from the beginning—his curiosity first piqued by the process, but soon it became clear it was more than just interest. He had a strange, innate understanding of the forge, as if the dance of fire, steel, and hammer spoke to something deeper within him. It was as if Leman knew exactly what was needed to forge the perfect blade. More than once, Mikken had caught himself watching the boy with amazement as Leman worked the bellows or made subtle suggestions. The young Stark had offered insights that even the seasoned blacksmith hadn't considered—tweaks in balance, curvature of the blade, and even changes in the very composition of the steel.

But it was more than just advice. Leman didn't just observe the process—he participated. Together with Mikken, they had done something extraordinary. It was Leman who had proposed a daring new method, inspired by observations he had made in his studies of steel and ironwork: crucible forging.

Crucible forging was unlike anything Westeros had seen. The traditional methods of forging involved folding steel and hammering it out to create strength through repetition. But crucible forging was different. Leman suggested that they melt the steel down entirely within a sealed container—a crucible—heating it to such a degree that the metal would combine uniformly, purifying the steel and allowing the alloys to blend perfectly. The impurities would rise to the surface, leaving behind a denser, stronger, and sharper material. This was not only a revolutionary concept in the North but across all of Westeros.

Leman had theorized that by incorporating Valyrian steel into the crucible process, they could create a new alloy—one that retained the magical properties and strength of Valyrian steel but was enhanced by the purity of crucible forging. The process took time, and each step was delicate. As the steel melted in the intense heat, Leman and Mikken worked tirelessly, ensuring the exact temperatures were maintained, and that no impurity marred the final product. The boy, though young, worked the forge with the skill of a master smith, his eyes fixed on the molten metal with a focus that Mikken had never seen in anyone, let alone a lad of Leman's age.

When the time came to pour the molten steel into the molds, Leman did so with steady hands. And as the metal cooled, the crucible was broken apart, revealing a gleaming alloy—bluer than regular Valyrian steel, yet shimmering with a peculiar, almost ethereal sheen. The final product was breathtaking—sharp enough to cut through iron with ease, and strong enough to withstand the harshest blows. Mikken had never seen anything like it. The new swords were unlike anything that had ever come out of his forge.

The final result was two near-identical swords—both double-edged, perfectly balanced, with the wolf's head pommel representing the Stark lineage. Leman's sword had a red leather grip, while Robb's was a dark green. Despite their similar appearance, each sword felt distinct, as though the very essence of their wielders had been infused into the blades during the forging.

"These are no ordinary swords," Mikken had whispered to Leman as they tested the edge of one of the blades. "What we've made here… it's beyond anything I could have imagined."

Leman stepped forward first, his breath visible in the cold air, his eyes fixed on the sword meant for him. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the red hilt, and as his fingers tightened, something deep inside him stirred—something older than the name Stark itself. The weight of the blade felt familiar, though he had never held it before. He lifted it slowly, running the flat of the blade against his palm, his eyes closing as if listening for a whisper from the past.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the courtyard grew unnaturally quiet. Everyone held their breath as Leman stood there, eyes closed, his brow furrowing in concentration. And then, like a distant echo in the back of his mind, a name came to him—a name that felt like it had been waiting for centuries to be spoken.

"Mjalnar," he whispered, the word escaping his lips like a long-forgotten prayer. The sword hummed in his grip, as though it had been waiting for him, calling to him across the ages. In that instant, it was as if the courtyard was no longer Winterfell, but a place outside of time—a place where ancient wolves roamed and great powers slumbered. A chill, more than the northern wind, seemed to settle over the yard. In the distance, a wolf's howl broke the silence, soon joined by another and then another, until the pack sang together, their cries eerie and ethereal, like spirits of old.

Leman opened his eyes, his breath heavy in the cold air, the name still hanging in the air around him. The moment was primal, timeless, as if Mjalnar had been waiting for him not just in this life, but across lifetimes.

Next came Robb. The elder brother, ever the steady hand, approached with a calm confidence, though the weight of the moment did not escape him. He, too, felt the pull of something ancient in the air, something deeper than blood and steel. He stepped forward and grasped the hilt of his sword, the dark green leather fitting perfectly in his hand as if it had been made for him alone. He gave the blade a few experimental swings, testing its weight and balance. It felt right. More than right—it felt destined.

And then, as Leman had before him, Robb felt a name rise within him, as if it had been etched into his soul long before this day. His lips parted, and he spoke the word with the authority of one claiming a birthright.

"Tyrfing," he declared, his voice carrying across the courtyard with the strength of a king's decree. The name seemed to vibrate in the air, settling into the blade as though it had always belonged there. In that moment, the sword was no longer just a weapon—it was a part of him, an extension of his will and purpose. The weight of it felt both natural and immense, as if the blade carried not just the promise of bloodshed, but the burden of leadership and responsibility. It was a sword fit for a lord—a king, even.

As Robb lowered the sword, he locked eyes with Leman, and for a heartbeat, the two brothers stood there, their new swords in hand, connected by more than just blood. It was a bond forged not only in the fires of Mikken's forge but in the deep, ancient powers that ran through their veins—the blood of wolves, the blood of Starks.

As the wolves howled in the distance, Leman and Robb stood with their swords—Mjalnar and Tyrfing—two blades forged from an enemy's past, now reborn into the hands of Starks, to carve out their future.

"Spar?" Leman asks.

"Spar." Robb replies. Before the both run towards the empty part of the yard and begin sparring.

"Gods, they're already men," Ned murmured to himself, the corners of his lips tugging upward in a rare smile. He wasn't one to indulge in excessive pride, but watching them now, he felt a warmth in his chest that no fire could replicate.

Standing a little behind Ned, Catelyn looked on, her hands clutched in front of her. Her heart was racing, not from fear but from relief. The sight of Leman's wild energy, so much like his father, and Robb's calculated precision filled her with love, yet also a faint worry. She had always known the North was a land of warriors, but seeing her boys like this, grown and capable of wielding such deadly weapons, was still a mother's ache to bear.

"Careful now, my loves," she whispered under her breath, though they were too far to hear her. Still, a small part of her trusted their skill. They weren't the little boys she used to fret over—they were the heirs of Winterfell. Yet the sight of Leman swinging that monstrous sword, Mjalnar, with such ease sent a shiver down her spine. And Robb—steady, precise Robb—his sword, Tyrfing, looked almost too perfect in his hands. As they clashed, she thought, 'They're not pups anymore, they're wolves... Our wolves.'

Jon stood off to the side, his grey eyes fixed on the sparring brothers. He was quiet, as usual, though there was a certain tension in his stance, a longing mixed with admiration. Jon had always looked up to Robb and Leman, but this was different. The sight of them wielding the swords, so powerful and natural, made something inside him tighten. He envied them in a way. They were sons of Eddard Stark, true-born and destined for greatness, while he… He wasn't sure where he belonged in that picture. But deep down, he was proud of them—both of them.

"They're going to be legends one day," Jon muttered under his breath, his fingers itching at the pommel of his own sword, wishing for the chance to stand alongside them, to be seen as their equal.

Next to Jon, Theon Greyjoy shifted on his feet, his lips curving into a smirk as he watched the Stark boys clash in the yard. The way Leman's blade moved, wild and unpredictable, clashing against Robb's cool precision, reminded him of the fights back in Pyke, except better. There was more honor, more heart in these brothers. And while Theon wouldn't admit it aloud, he was impressed.

"Not bad," he murmured with a tilt of his head, though his smirk remained. "Not bad at all. Looks like I'll have my work cut out for me if I ever want to best either of them." He leaned toward Jon slightly, nudging him with his elbow. "Think I'll get a sword like that someday?"

Jon glanced at him, smiling faintly. "Keep dreaming, Theon."

Sansa, standing beside Catelyn, was perhaps the most surprised. Her delicate features were wide-eyed, her lips slightly parted as she watched her brothers spar. She had never understood the appeal of fighting. It was messy, brutal, and entirely unbecoming of a lady. Yet as she saw Leman and Robb sparring, there was something different about it. It wasn't just violence—it was grace, a dance of power and strength that even she, in all her dreams of songs and knights, could appreciate.

"They look like knights from the stories," Sansa whispered to her mother, her voice filled with awe. "Like the ones in the songs."

Catelyn smiled softly, squeezing Sansa's hand. "Yes, they do."

Robb, quick as a direwolf on the hunt, ducked beneath one of Leman's wide swings, sidestepping before striking back with a sharp parry. Their swords locked again, and this time, the force of the impact rang across the yard. Leman let out a wild laugh, his eyes flashing with delight.

"You're getting slow, brother!" Leman teased, pulling back before lunging in again.

Robb grinned, deflecting the blow. "Maybe you're just getting predictable."

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

Leman's discovery had quickly spread throughout Winterfell, though only among those trusted to keep the secret. Maester Luwin, in particular, could hardly contain his excitement. For days now, he had followed Lord Eddard Stark through the halls, the courtyard, even interrupting meals, speaking ceaselessly about the genius of Leman and the possibilities of his new method of steelmaking. Ned, always practical, had listened with patience but growing concern. As much as he shared Luwin's amazement, he understood the weight of such a discovery and the consequences if it fell into the wrong hands.

"The boy is truly brilliant, my lord," Luwin had said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Do you realize what this means? Crucible steel—stronger, sharper, and cheaper to make than anything we've ever had. The potential is endless! And the Volcano Furnace—"

Luwin's face had lit up like a man decades younger as he spoke of the new furnace Leman, Robb, and he had designed. Based on principles of controlled airflow and intense heat, it was a technological leap, capable of reaching temperatures far beyond anything the North had ever seen. Mikken had also provided his expertise, guiding the design into something workable for smiths. Once operational, this furnace—affectionately nicknamed the Volcano Furnace for its intense heat—could smelt larger quantities of steel, and with the crucible method, produce better quality metal. It was steel fit for kings, and yet it was being made in Winterfell's own forges at costs cheaper than castle forged steel.

"Think of it, Lord Stark," Luwin continued, practically breathless, "The North could rival even the best weaponsmiths of the Reach or the Westerlands! It could revolutionize the entire North, improve the economy, arm our soldiers with the finest steel. But it must be kept secret. If the other kingdoms knew—"

"Enough," Ned had cut in, his voice steady but firm. He had long since realized what this meant. "I know the risks, Maester Luwin. This knowledge cannot leave Winterfell."

Ned had quickly sworn everyone involved to secrecy, his face grim as he made the command. The idea of such power falling into the wrong hands—especially those of the South, where gold and greed dictated too much—was intolerable. The North was already strong, but with this new method of steelmaking, they could grow stronger, potentially achieve the kind of economic and military parity they had always lacked. But it was a delicate balance. If the other kingdoms got wind of it, they would come for the North, with gold or steel in hand, and the Stark name would become another piece in their game.

The memory of that conversation still weighed on him as he walked the forge grounds later that week, where the Volcano Furnace was now in full operation. Mikken and his assistants moved about with practiced efficiency, pouring molten steel into carefully crafted molds. The work was precise, methodical. Leman was standing near the furnace, talking with Robb, both of them overseeing the process. They wore the same look of quiet confidence that reminded Ned of their mother—stubborn, clever, and filled with purpose.

"I don't know how you three managed to come up with such fantastic inventions, but you've done all of us proud." Ned had said to him earlier that week, his tone both serious and proud. "And this will serve the North well."

Leman had only smiled, a quiet, almost knowing smile, before returning to the forge. That was the way of the boy—wild in spirit, but sharper than anyone knew. Watching Leman at the forge now, working alongside Mikken and Robb, was like witnessing a new age of the North being born.

Robb, who had spent weeks aiding in the construction and design of the furnace, was just as invested. The bond between the brothers had grown, and Robb's strategic mind had already seen the potential in this discovery beyond its technical prowess. The new steel could arm the Northern armies with a strength never before seen in the Seven Kingdoms. Their bannermen could be equipped with the finest swords, armor, and weapons, and their economic power would grow as they began producing tools and trade goods of superior quality.

But Robb also understood the danger. "Father," he had said one evening after discussing the future of the steel with Ned. "The South would not hesitate to try to take this from us if they found out. They'll want the power it brings. We must be cautious."

Ned had nodded, his jaw set. "We'll protect this knowledge with our lives if we must. Winterfell will not bend to the greed of the South."

The ramifications of the discovery had already begun to ripple through Winterfell's walls. Maester Luwin had drawn up plans to keep the knowledge contained to trusted smiths and key figures in the North. Only those absolutely loyal to House Stark could be let in on the secret. Even bannermen would be told only what they needed to know.

"Secrecy will be our first line of defense," Robb had said with confidence. "The moment anyone learns we're making better steel, they'll be at our gates, with smiles or swords in hand."

Ned had agreed, though the weight of the decision sat heavy on his shoulders. For all its potential to strengthen the North, Leman's discovery also made them a target.

As the weeks passed and the Volcano Furnace continued to produce batch after batch of fine steel, Ned could see the future unfolding before him. The North was on the brink of something great—something that could shift the balance of power in their favor for the first time in generations.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

5 years later
294 AC, Winterfell

Standing atop the castle walls, Eddard Stark looked down onto the training fields, his grey eyes narrowing as he observed the scene below. It was a clear morning, the kind of crisp northern air that made one's breath mist. On the field, one hundred men stood in precise formations, their movements fluid yet controlled, their eyes fierce, each one wearing a wolfskin pelt over dark grey armor. They were Leman's personal warriors, the Vlka Fenryka, the Wolves of Fenris.

At just 13 namedays old, Leman had shaped this company of men into something beyond what even Eddard had envisioned. When his son had requested his own personal soldiers on his 12th name day, Eddard had granted the request without hesitation. It was normal for him to wish to have men under his command, Robb had his Ravens, so why not give Leman his wolves?

Leman had handpicked each of the Vlka Fenryka himself. At first, his choices seemed random—soldiers, huntsmen, and even smallfolk, drawn from all corners of the North. Some had scoffed, questioning the logic of recruiting a farmer's son to stand beside seasoned warriors. But Leman had seen something in each of them that no one else could, a potential that only now had come into full bloom.

These one hundred men had become apex predators, their every movement exuding discipline and lethality. The soldiers were arranged in columns of ten, known as "wolf packs," with a "Pack Leader" at the forefront of each. At the head of five wolf packs, forming a "Claw" of 50, stood a Lieutenant, and in front of them all, leading the Vlka Fenryka as a whole, stood their Captain, Bjorn.

Bjorn was the son of a leatherworker from White Harbor, a boy who had once been dismissed by almost everyone in Winterfell as unremarkable. No one had believed him worthy of leading the most elite force in the North—no one except Leman and Robb. And they had been right. Bjorn had proven himself time and time again, rising above his comrades with sheer willpower, intelligence, and a fierce loyalty to Leman that bordered on fanaticism. His skill in battle was unmatched, his mind sharp with strategy, and his body rippled with strength. He had earned the nickname The Bear among Wolves, and none dared challenge his authority. Even the most hardened veterans of the North now spoke his name with respect.

Ned watched as the men moved through their drills, the clash of swords ringing out in the air, followed by the synchronized thud of shields raised in unison. Their discipline was astounding. He had seen many armies in his time, from the disciplined lines of the South to the fierce wildness of the Free Folk beyond the Wall, but nothing quite like this. The Vlka Fenryka were something new—a fusion of Northern ferocity and unyielding discipline, forged in the fires of Leman's vision.

Ned's gaze shifted to his son, standing at the head of the field, his own presence as commanding as the wolves he had trained. Leman's armor was a darker shade than his men's, its grey almost black, and his wolf pelt was larger, a symbol of his status as the alpha of the pack. His sword, Mjalnar, hung at his side, its bluish sheen catching the morning light, and as he gave orders, his voice was calm, measured, yet filled with authority.

"Form up!" Leman commanded, and the men responded instantly, their movements swift and precise, as if guided by a single mind.

From beside Ned, Robb approached, a subtle grin on his face as he watched the display. "He's built something remarkable, hasn't he?" Robb remarked, pride evident in his voice. His own sword, Tyrfing, hung at his side, and though he was still the heir to Winterfell, he had come to admire the path Leman had carved for himself.

"That he has," Ned replied quietly. He was proud—more proud than words could express—but there was also a heavy weight in his heart. Leman's path was leading him toward something darker, something wild and untamed, much like the wolves that now followed his every command. Ned had always known there was something otherworldly about his second son, and that feeling had only grown stronger over the years.

As the Vlka Fenryka finished their drills, Leman called for a sparring session. The men split into pairs, moving fluidly into position, and soon the sound of steel on steel filled the air. Bjorn, the Bear among Wolves, stepped forward to spar with one of the Pack Leaders. His sword was a blur of motion, his strength overwhelming, yet his movements were precise, perfectly calculated. The Pack Leader fought well, but Bjorn overpowered him in mere moments, ending the bout with a disarming strike that sent the other man's sword clattering to the ground.

Leman watched with a keen eye, nodding in approval, but there was no arrogance in his stance—only a quiet satisfaction. He turned to his father and Robb, his eyes alight with the fire of battle, yet his expression remained calm.

"They're ready," Leman said simply, as if stating a fact.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

Kings Landing

In the dim light of his office in the Red Keep, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The weight of the realm pressed heavily upon him, and his mind whirled with thoughts of the shifting landscape of power in Westeros. Two years had passed since he had first sensed the tremors of change, the subtle but undeniable rise of a new player in the great game.

At first, it was nothing more than a whisper—a name spoken in passing, a sighting of unfamiliar faces in the taverns, a few new merchants selling foreign wares. But as the months wore on, these new figures began to multiply, their influence spreading like wildfire across the realm. Varys's network of spies, which had once been the most extensive in the land, had begun to falter. Reports from the North had dwindled to a trickle, then vanished entirely. His eyes in the Riverlands, once sharp and vigilant, had grown silent. And now, even the whispers from the Vale had quieted, leaving a palpable void that stirred his unease.

The new developments were alarming. Rumors of superior steel being forged in the North were circulating—whispers of a new method that promised greater strength and sharper edges. Such innovations could tip the scales of power in favor of whoever possessed them, granting their armies an advantage that would not go unnoticed by the other lords and ladies of Westeros. Coupled with reports of an increasing naval presence, a new fleet being built in the North, the situation began to take on an even darker hue. Varys felt the tightening of a noose around his ambitions, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His thoughts turned to Dorne, where reports that were already scarce had gotten even rarer. What came through indicated an unusual amassing of armies. The Dornish were notoriously independent, often biding their time in the shadows, but they were now gathering forces as if preparing for war. The flood of new Dornish glass—strange, exotic pieces emerging in the markets all across the seven kingdoms—sent shivers down Varys's spine. He had known the Dornish to be masters of their craft, but this was something altogether different. Glass production at such unprecedented levels was not simply a trade; it was impossible. Even the Myrish, the premier glassmakers of the world couldn't produce this much glass.

Varys's mind raced as he contemplated the implications. Was this new power coalescing in the North and Dorne merely a coincidence, or were they part of a greater scheme? He had already lost the North to the winds of change; he could not afford to lose more territories. His plans had been intricate and delicate, spun from threads of manipulation and intrigue, but now they felt dangerously precarious.

As he pondered his next move, a soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. It was a delicate sound, barely more than a whisper, yet it resonated with authority. "Enter," Varys called, his voice calm despite the storm brewing within him.

The door creaked open, revealing a familiar figure cloaked in shadow—Qyburn, his most trusted advisor and a man of considerable cunning. Varys gestured for him to sit, eager for insights that might clarify the darkening clouds of uncertainty.

"Lord Varys," Qyburn began, his voice smooth as silk, "the rumors you've been tracking have only intensified. There are whispers that some of the lords of the North are meeting in secret, forming alliances that could threaten the balance of power in the realm. They speak of something called 'crucible steel,' a process that grants superior strength and sharpness—far beyond that of common swords."

Varys's brow furrowed at the mention of the steel. "What of the source? Who is behind it?"

"Reports are scarce, but it appears a young Stark—Leman, I believe—is the architect behind these developments. He has garnered a reputation for innovation, even in matters of warfare," Qyburn continued, a glint of admiration creeping into his tone. "If he continues to gather support and resources, he could forge a formidable force."

"A Stark, Eddard's second and Robb's twin... The one who killed Lord Drumm in the Greyjoy rebellion." Varys murmured, the name tasting sour on his tongue. He had never underestimated the power of House Stark, but their influence had waned since the fall of their last patriarch, Rikard Stark, as Ned stark never used his close relationship with the king to boost his own influence. Yet now, it seemed they were rising anew, and under the guidance of a boy. "We must not allow this to fester. We need to learn more about Leman Stark and his ambitions."

"Indeed, my lord," Qyburn replied, his eyes narrowing.

Varys nodded, a plan beginning to form in his mind. "We need to ensure that our ears are once again open in the North, and we must not allow these whispers to become roars. Send word to our allies in the Vale and beyond. They must be made aware of the potential threat."

"And what of Dorne?" Qyburn asked, his brow furrowing slightly. "The Dornish have been quiet, but they are known to be unpredictable."

"We will keep a watchful eye on them," Varys replied, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "They have always been tight-lipped. Difficult to infiltrate. Not much news comes out of Dorne."

As Qyburn prepared to leave, Varys added, "And ensure that our birds are sent to Dorne as well. We need to know if this new glass is part of their plans or merely a distraction."

With that, Qyburn exited, leaving Varys alone once more in the shadows of his office. He stared out at the sprawling city of King's Landing, his mind racing with the implications of the shifting tides. The game was changing, and he could not afford to be caught off guard.

Suddenly his door burst open, and one of his men, Trevas or something, came in panting. "My lord! Eddard Stark is coming to Kings Landing with his family!"

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

2 years ago, Winterfell

In the great hall of Winterfell, Robb stood before Eddard Stark, determination etched into his young features. The flickering light from the hearth cast dancing shadows around them, but Robb's conviction shone brightly. "Father, I wish to go to Dorne."

Eddard raised an eyebrow, puzzled by the unexpected request. "Why, my son? What draws you to such a distant land?"

Robb took a deep breath, his excitement palpable. "As you know, Leman, Maester Luwin, and I have been working on several projects over the years. Recently, we've developed a method to create glass at a significantly lower cost than even the Myrish. However, we are limited by our access to the necessary ingredients. We have an abundance of snow ash, but we lack the other key components."

Eddard listened intently as Robb continued. "Dorne, with its unique climate and resources, possesses everything we need. If we were to share our method with them, we could secure not just a cut of the profits but also forge an alliance with the Dornish, which could prove invaluable for the North in the years to come."

Ned considered his son's words carefully. The prospect of an alliance with Dorne was enticing, yet the journey would be perilous, filled with potential dangers that lay beyond the familiar borders of the North. "It is a long journey, Robb. Dorne is not a place to be taken lightly."

"But think of the possibilities, Father!" Robb urged, his voice filled with youthful passion. "With the glass we could produce, we could enhance trade, improve the quality of life for our people, and fortify our standing among the other kingdoms. Not to mention the glass gardens we could build! If we succeed, then every noble house in the north could have glass gardens! Never again would our people go hungry! This could truly change the fate of the North."

Ned's gaze softened as he watched his son, noting the resolve that shone in his eyes. Robb had always been a clever boy, and the innovations the trio had introduced to Winterfell were impressive. They had revolutionized travel in the North; the sleds Leman had invented when he was just five years old had transformed how they moved supplies and people through the heavy snow. They made travel faster and safer, allowing for goods to reach distant villages and enhancing their ability to respond to emergencies.

Robb's idea of crop cycling had brought a new level of productivity to their lands, allowing them to harvest multiple crops in a single season, greatly increasing their yield and ensuring the North would have food enough to withstand harsh winters.

Still, the concern of sending his son so far weighed heavily on Eddard's heart. "You would take Leman with you, I assume?"

"Of course," Robb replied, a grin breaking through his earlier seriousness. "How can I leave him behind. Together, we can convince the Dornish lords of the benefits of our method."

After a long pause, during which Eddard weighed the risks and benefits, he finally sighed, relenting. "Very well, but I will not have you traveling without protection. I will send Ser Rodrik Cassel with you as a guard. He is trustworthy and will ensure your safety."

"Thank you, Father!" Robb exclaimed, the light of hope brightening his face.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

As the day of their departure arrived, Robb and Leman prepared for the journey, the excitement palpable. They gathered their supplies and bid farewell to their family, the promise of adventure and opportunity ahead of them. The sleds, crafted by Leman's hands, were ready to carry them across the snow-laden landscape, their sleek design making them perfect for the Northern terrain.

As they set out from Winterfell, Robb couldn't help but feel a thrill run through him as they glided across the snow. "Can you believe how much everything has changed? Just a few years ago, we struggled to get even the simplest of tasks done in the winter."

Leman nodded, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "It's amazing to think about. The sleds have made it so much easier for everyone. Even the smallfolk have taken to using them for their deliveries. And with the new steel, we can build stronger tools, making farming less backbreaking."

"Imagine what we can do if we manage to form this alliance," Robb mused. "We'll have access to even more resources, and the North can thrive like never before."

The journey took them across the frozen expanse of the North, the beauty of the snow-covered landscape both breathtaking and daunting. The cold air filled their lungs as they navigated through the forests, their sleds slicing through the snow with ease. Each day brought them closer to White Harbor, their spirits buoyed by the promise of opportunity.

Finally, after days of travel, they reached White Harbor, the bustling port city that served as a gateway between the North and the rest of Westeros. The salty scent of the sea mixed with the sharp, crisp air of winter, invigorating them as they stepped off their sleds.

Upon their arrival in White Harbor, Robb and Leman were warmly greeted by Lord Wyman Manderly, the lord of the port city and a man known for his robust stature and boisterous personality. His white beard flowed like snow drifts, and his welcoming smile immediately put the boys at ease.

"Ah, the young Stark lords have come to visit!" he boomed, his voice warm and welcoming. "I trust you've made the journey in good spirits? Come, come! We have much to discuss over a hearty meal. You'll need your strength for the road ahead, and I'll not have my honored guests dining on anything less than the finest fare."

Robb and Leman exchanged glances, their excitement growing as they followed Lord Manderly into his grand hall. The walls were adorned with the sigil of House Manderly—a white whale on a blue field—and the atmosphere was warm, filled with the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked bread. The hall buzzed with the chatter of lords and ladies, laughter echoing off the stone walls. As they settled into the castle, Robb and Leman quickly found themselves immersed in the bustling life of White Harbor. They spent a few days exploring the city, marveling at the busy docks, where ships from all over the world came to trade. The boys enjoyed the delicious feasts Lord Manderly provided, filled with fresh fish and game from the surrounding woods, which reminded them of the warmth and hospitality of Winterfell.

Lord Manderly was particularly impressed with the advancements Leman had made in shipbuilding, a topic he was passionate about. "I've heard whispers of your new ship design," he said one evening as they enjoyed a hearty meal. "I must say it's ingenious! It must be one of the fastest ship in the world!"

"Yes, my lord," Leman replied, a spark of pride lighting his eyes. "Robb and I, along with Maester Luwin and our new shipbuilders, have crafted a vessel that marries speed with strength. It should serve us well on our journey to Dorne."

After a few days filled with hospitality and camaraderie, the time came for the boys to depart. Lord Manderly arranged for them to set sail in one of the new Spear ships—an innovative design with a long and narrow hull with a sharp bow and many large sails optimized for speed. The ship was sturdy, with a sleek hull crafted to cut through the waves, and its sails were designed to catch the wind efficiently, allowing for quicker travel across the waters.

As they approached the dock, the boys couldn't help but admire their ship. The crew was already busy preparing for the journey, tightening ropes and checking provisions. The ship's name, "The Winter's Spear," was emblazoned on the side in bold letters, a testament to the Stark legacy that would carry them to Dorne.

"Ready for an adventure?" Robb asked, glancing at Leman, who nodded eagerly.

"More than ready," Leman replied, his heart racing with excitement. "Let's see what the waters have in store for us."

With final farewells to Lord Manderly, the boys climbed aboard, their hearts full of hope and ambition. As the ship pulled away from the dock, the winds filled the sails, propelling them toward their destination. The sound of the waves crashing against the hull and the salty sea breeze invigorated them, making them feel alive with purpose.

Throughout the journey, the boys worked closely with the crew, ensuring that everything ran smoothly. They spent hours discussing navigation and ship maintenance, learning from the seasoned sailors about the intricacies of seamanship. Leman's mind raced with ideas about improving the ship further, and he took meticulous notes on every detail.

The journey took 41 days. Instead of the more than 3 months that a galley takes. Even after being slowed by storms in the narrow sea, the Spear was faster than any other ship known in the seven kingdoms. Soon Sunspear was visible on the horizon.

As they approached the coast of Dorne, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden hue over the landscape. Leman stood at the bow, gazing ahead with a mixture of anticipation and awe. "We're here, Robb," he said, excitement bubbling in his chest.

Robb joined him, his eyes fixed on the distant shore, where the rugged cliffs met the sparkling sea. "This is just the beginning," he replied, a confident smile crossing his face. "We're going to make history."

With the shores of Dorne, and Sunspear coming into view, the brothers prepared for the next phase of their journey—one that would shape not only their futures but also the destiny of the North itself.

~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~~XXXXX~~~~~~~

A/N That's chapter 3 done! The Volcano furnace is a Blast furnace. And the spear ship is a primitive clipper somewhere between a galley and a true clipper. as for why Leman knows so much stuff? He was brothers with dudes like Vulcan, Fulgrim and Dorn. He might not have access to all his memories... yet. But he does get vague ideas of what things are and how they can be improved. In cannon Leman is described as a hoarder of knowledge. mostly related to war and stuff, but he does like collecting knowledge. Thats why his inventions arent massively groundbreaking and revolutionary stuff. Vulcan would have made himself auramite armor and boltguns by now. leman is just throwing around ideas, few of which are sticking.
As for the question of his wife? There will be one. But that's a secret. It will get more evident soon enough.

Meanwhile, here's a challenge for my readers, try to guess what I'm planning with the Starks. answers in the reviews
But most of all,

Have a Great day!