Morning found Owen sat across from the three northern lords at a worn wooden table at the tavern, the smell of fresh-cooked breakfast wafting between them. Steam rose from bowls of, porridge, eggs and plates of fried fish, while chunks of mutton glistened with fat. None of them had touched their food.

Lord Stark's grey eyes fixed on Owen with the weight of the entire North behind them. "I cannot allow you to leave for Essos."

Owen's fingers drummed against his mug of warm ale. The liquid inside rippled with each tap.

"Your gifts," Wyman Manderly leaned forward, his chair creaking under his bulk, "they could transform the North. Make us stronger than we've been in generations."

"It's not just about what you could do for us," Robett Glover added. "Word of your abilities would spread south eventually. Every lord from the Neck to Dorne would want you in their service."

"The mine alone would make you a target." Lord Stark's voice carried the same gravity it had when passing judgment. "But combined with your smithing skills? King Robert himself would demand your service."

Owen lifted his mug but didn't drink much. "My lords, I've actually given this considerable thought since we spoke yesterday." He set the mug down carefully. "I won't be leaving for Essos."

The tension drained from Lord Stark's shoulders. A ghost of a smile crossed his stern features. "A wise choice."

"Indeed!" Lord Manderly's belly shook with relieved laughter. "The North remembers those who stand with her."

"The North is my home," Owen said. "And if my abilities can help make it stronger, then this is where I belong."

Owen settled back in his chair, warming to his decision. "I've been thinking about expanding the forge, maybe training some apprentices. Longshore could become a proper trading hub with-"

"That won't do." Lord Stark's words cut through Owen's plans like Valyrian steel through butter. "A village this remote is too vulnerable. Your talents require proper protection."

Lord Manderly nodded, his multiple chins wobbling. "Pirates raid these coasts regularly. The Ironborn and the like. What's to stop them from taking everything you've built? Or worse, taking you?"

"I can defend myself," Owen protested. "The automatons-"

"Are impressive," Robett Glover interrupted, "but they aren't an army of them and can't stop a determined and large enough force. One fire arrow in the night could burn this whole village down while you weren't ready."

Lord Stark leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "We've discussed this at length. You'll need to relocate to Winterfell."

The words hit Owen like a punch to the gut. He glanced around at the familiar walls of the tavern and his thoughts moved to his home, at the worn table where his family shared meals and his small, snug bed. "My parents-"

"Will be well compensated and given positions befitting their skills," Lord Manderly assured. "Your father could oversee a forge in White Harbor, and your mother would find good work in any castle she chooses, and if she chooses Winterfell the she will be given a good position and pay."

"This isn't a request unfortunately." Lord Stark's voice was gentle but firm. "The North needs you, and Winterfell is where you can best serve it. We can protect you there, provide resources you couldn't dream of here."

As owen processed this, Lord Stark cleared his throat, his expression growing even more serious. "There's another matter we must discuss. You need to be bound more securely to the North before some southern lord attempts the same."

Owen took another sip of his ale, wondering what could be more binding than relocating to Winterfell. Then it hit him just lord stark spoke…..

"Marriage is the strongest bond between houses," Eddard continued. "My daughter Sansa would make you a fine wife. She's only five years your senior, and her beauty is renowned throughout the North."

The ale caught in Owen's throat. He sputtered, barely managing to set his mug down without spilling it across the table. His mind raced with the implications of what Lord Stark had just proposed.

"My lord," Owen struggled to find the right words, "I'm honored, truly, but I'm not of noble birth. Surely Lady Sansa would prefer someone more... suitable to her station?"

The thought of being married to someone who would resent him for his common birth made his stomach turn. Owen had seen enough noble marriages on TV or read in novels in his last life to know how cruel they could become when one party felt superior to the other.

Lord Stark's expression remained unmoved. "Sansa will do her duty as a daughter of House Stark. The marriage will proceed."

"To address your concerns about station," Lord Stark continued, "you will be granted lordship over Sea Dragon Point. A proper castle will be built there, construction to begin immediately following the wedding. This will make you a peer of the realm, fully worthy of marriage to a daughter of Winterfell."

Owen sat back in his chair, stunned into silence. In the span of a few minutes, he'd gone from a village blacksmith to a future lord and husband to one of the most noble ladies in the North. Owen stared into his mug, mind still reeling from the marriage proposal. Sansa Stark. The same girl who'd endured unspeakable torments in that other timeline he remembered. His knowledge of her future - or what could have been her future - felt like a weight in his chest. She deserved better than what that cruel boy-king had done to her.

"About the mine," Lord Manderly's voice cut through Owen's thoughts. "We'll need to establish a proper garrison here to protect-"

"That won't be necessary." Owen waved his hand dismissively, his thoughts still in a rush. "Cidhna Mine goes where I go."

Lord Stark's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, while Lord Manderly's chins quivered in surprise, his face flushing slightly at the bold declaration.

"What do you mean, 'goes where you go'?" Lord Stark's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Mines don't move."

Owen shrugged, running a calloused finger along the rim of his wooden mug. "This one does. It's... connected to me somehow. When I leave Longshore, the entrance will vanish like morning mist. When I reach Winterfell, it'll appear there the next day, as surely as the sun rises."

"That's impossible," Lord Manderly sputtered, his jowls trembling with indignation. His meaty hands gripped the arms of his reinforced chair. "Mines don't just appear and disappear at will!"

"The same way impossible as self-replenishing ore veins and metal workers that never tire, my lord?" Owen countered, a hint of challenge in his voice. "I told you it was hard to explain. You'll see for yourself once we reach Winterfell, Lord Stark."

Lord Stark leaned back in his chair with a creak of wood, his steel-grey eyes studying Owen with renewed intensity, like a wolf sizing up an unfamiliar creature. "You speak with such certainty."

"Because I am certain, my lord. The mine is bound to me, like my smithing abilities. They're part of the same... gift." Owen's voice carried the weight of knowledge he couldn't fully explain, even to himself.

Lord Glover, who had been quietly observing from his corner of the table, finally spoke, his practical nature asserting itself. "If what you say is true, that simplifies matters considerably. No need to split our forces protecting this location." He gestured around the tavern's weathered walls with a practical sweep of his arm. "We can focus on establishing your new seat at Sea Dragon Point while keeping the mine's resources close to Winterfell."

Owen nodded, relief washing over him that they weren't pressing further about the mine's mysterious nature. He had enough weighing on his mind already, considering the life-changing proposal about marrying Sansa still echoing in his thoughts like thunder. And what was this about her being 5 years older than him? How was Sansa stark 20 years old? Was this another difference of this world? How wasn't she married yet?

Ignoring Owens silence, The three lords exchanged glances before Lord Stark cleared his throat. "Now, about the mine's resources-"

"With your permission," Lord Manderly cut in smoothly, "I've done some calculations. The silver alone could purchase enough grain from the Free Cities to feed the North through five winters."

Lord Stark nodded. "We'll need to be careful with our purchases. The Reach would ask too many questions if we suddenly started buying vast quantities of grain. Especially the Tyrells - they're too clever by half."

"Agreed," Robett Glover said, leaning forward. "We should spread our purchases across different ports in Essos. Pentos, Myr, Volantis. Make it harder to track the gold back to a single source."

"And there's Moat Cailin to consider." Robett's eyes lit up with possibility. "We could rebuild it in secret, piece by piece. Buy the stone and timber from across the Narrow Sea, transport it in small shipments and add those exotics ores to reinforce it. The crown would never notice until it was too late to object."

"A northern fleet too," Robett continued, warming to the subject. "Nothing too grand to draw attention, mind you. Just enough to protect our shores from raiders and Ironborn scum. We could build it gradually, a few ships at a time-"

Lord Manderly, who had been watching Owen's increasingly distant expression, raised a hand. "Perhaps we should ask the owner of the Mine what he thinks of all these plans for his resources before we continue?"

Lord Stark's face fell, genuine remorse crossing his features. "Young Owen, I apologize. We've gotten carried away, haven't we?"

"Indeed," Robett added, looking sheepish. "These are your resources we're planning with, not our own."

Owen sat quietly for a moment, fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. "My lords, before I agree to any of this, I need something from you, Lord Stark. Your word, specifically."

Eddard Stark's grey eyes met Owen's. "Speak freely."

"I understand why I must go to Winterfell. I accept the marriage to Lady Sansa." Owen's voice grew stronger with each word. "But I want your promise that a significant portion of the gold and silver will go to protecting and building up Longshore."

"This village raised me, my lord. These people are my family, not just my parents. I won't leave them defenseless."

Lord Stark's weathered face softened at Owen's request. He rose from his chair, his movements deliberate and solemn. "Come with me."

The group followed him outside into the crisp morning air, their boots crunching against the frosted ground as they made their way to the village's small Godswood. It wasn't much compared to Winterfell's ancient sanctuary - just a modest clearing with a young weirwood at its center, its white bark gleaming in the early light.

Eddard Stark knelt before the heart tree, its carved face watching with red sap-stained eyes. "Before the old gods, I swear that Longshore will prosper. Your gold will build strong walls and deeper harbors. Your people will have guards to protect them, ships to trade with, and coin to see them through the winters."

He placed his hand against the white bark. "The village that gave the North its greatest smith will become a jewel of the western shore. This I swear, by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by ice and fire."

The other lords remained respectfully silent during the oath, understanding its gravity. Even Lord Manderly, who kept to the Seven, bowed his head in acknowledgment of the sacred moment.

Owen felt something settle in his chest at the words. Lord Stark's reputation for honor wasn't just stories - the man lived it with every breath.

After they returned to the tavern, Owen cleared his throat. "Thank you, my lord. But there's still the matter of King Robert. What happens when he learns about all of this?"

The three lords exchanged glances. Lord Stark's face grew stern as he considered the question.

"Robert is my friend," Eddard said slowly, measuring each word. "But he is also king, and kings are not known for their restraint when they desire something." He ran a hand through his dark hair, streaked with early grey. "We will need to be careful in how we present this to him."

"The king's coffers are always hungry," Lord Manderly added, his shrewd eyes twinkling. "Perhaps we could arrange for certain shipments of silver to find their way to the crown's treasury? A gesture of northern loyalty."

Lord Glover nodded. "And weapons. Masterwork pieces that would flatter his martial pride. Better to give freely than have him demand."

"But not too much," Lord Stark cautioned. "We must maintain the appearance that while your skills are exceptional, they are not..." he paused, searching for the right words.

"World-changing?" Owen supplied.

"Precisely." Lord Stark leaned forward. "Robert must see you as a gifted craftsman, nothing more. The true extent of your abilities - the mine, the magical workers, the quantity of rare metals - must remain our secret."

Owen sighed, his brow furrowed in thought. "What if he does find out about the mine and my skills and the ores despite our best efforts? What then?"

Lord Eddard's weathered face grew grave, a deep sigh escaping his own lips. "Then it will be time for more appeasement and concessions. Perhaps an ebony Warhammer gifted to the king - he's always favored that weapon. A large gift of gold to the royal coffers from Cidhna Mine would help smooth things over."

He paused, his grey eyes distant as if seeing the potential storm gathering on the horizon. "But by the time news reached the other kingdoms, demands would come thick and fast. Everyone from the Tyrells to the Dornish and their nobles would make every action to have the North's wealth and blessed smith for themselves."

Robett Glover's face darkened at these words, his hand clenching into a fist on the table. A low growl rumbled from his throat. "We would never give Owen nor his wealth up to greedy southerners. Let them try to take what belongs to the North."

"Aye," Lord Stark nodded firmly, his steel-grey eyes meeting Owen's. "You have my word - the North protects its own. No southern lord, no matter how powerful, will take you from here against your will."

Owen nodded gratefully at Lord Stark's promise of protection. His mind flickered to what he knew of Eddard Stark's character - both from his memories of stories and the man who stood before him now. If there was one constant across realities, it was Stark's unwavering honor. The man who had kept his promise to his dying sister Lyanna about protecting Jon for all these years would surely keep his word about protecting Owen and Longshore.

Eddard rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as he came to stand beside Owen. "It's time," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ceremony. "If you are to be the new Lord of Sea Dragon Point, you must swear your oath."

Owen's heart hammered in his chest as he moved to kneel before Lord Stark. Lord Manderly stepped forward, his considerable bulk moving with surprising grace as he positioned himself to help guide Owen through the ancient words.

"Repeat after me," Wyman instructed, his voice clear and steady. "I, Owen of Longshore..."

Owen drew a deep breath, feeling the weight of history and tradition pressing down on his shoulders. The words flowed from his lips, each one binding him more tightly to the North and its people:

"I, Owen of Longshore, do hereby pledge my loyalty, service, and sword to Lord Eddard Stark of House Stark, as my rightful lord. I swear to obey his commands, uphold his honor, and defend his lands against all foes. I shall be his man, faithful and true, to stand by him in peace and war, in living and dying, from this day until my last day. This I swear by the old gods and the new."

With the oath complete and Owen now confirmed a new young lord among them, they finally settled down to their breakfast. The food had grown cold during their lengthy discussions, but the hearty northern fare remained filling. As Owen ate his porridge and salted fish, his mind wandered to possibilities that his new unique abilities could bring to the North's defense.

The image of a Dwarven Colossus striding across a battlefield filled his thoughts. He imagined the massive automaton, crafted from the finest metals his mine could produce, tearing through ranks of Lannister knights like wheat before a scythe. The same mechanical giant could make short work of the White Walkers and their wights when they eventually came south of the Wall. His spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he calculated the materials needed, the intricate mechanisms required, the sheer scale of such an undertaking.

He smiled to himself. Westeros wouldn't know what hit them.