Owen stood in front of Mikken's forge with Jon and Robb three days after his arrival. The two young men practically bounced on their heels with anticipation, while Owen surveyed the humble workspace with a carefully neutral expression. His enhanced knowledge from the Celestial Forge immediately identified dozens of potential improvements - Dwemer heating systems that could triple the forge's efficiency, automated bellows that would maintain perfect temperatures, specialized cooling channels that would revolutionize the tempering process.
But he kept these thoughts to himself as Mikken emerged from the forge's interior, wiping his hands on his leather apron. The master blacksmith had just finished correcting one of his apprentices on proper hammer technique.
"Lord Owen," Mikken inclined his head respectfully, though his eyes held a hint of wariness. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Just Owen is fine," Owen smiled, trying to put the older man at ease. "And I was hoping to use your forge, with your permission of course. Lord Stark suggested I coordinate with you."
"Father says Owen's the one who made Ice's new scabbard," Robb interjected excitedly. "And that ebony sword he carries."
Jon nodded eagerly. "We've been waiting days to see him work."
Mikken's eyes widened slightly as he glanced at Owen's sword. His experienced gaze took in the perfectly executed details of the weapon - details that should have been impossible to achieve with normal forging techniques.
"That's quite a blade," Mikken said carefully. "Never seen its like before."
"Perhaps I could demonstrate some of my methods?" Owen offered. "I'd be honored to learn from your expertise as well. Every forge master has their own valuable techniques."
The diplomatic response seemed to ease some of Mikken's tension. He gestured toward the forge's interior. "She's all yours then. What did you have in mind for your first project?"
"First things first," Owen said, surveying the forge's workspace. "I can't do everything for all the projects I have in mind, and manpower is a major issue. Experienced builders and smiths are either too expensive to hire or hard to find, so I'll have to make my own help."
He stepped outside the forge, scanning the grounds until he found a suitable spot. "But first, I'll need materials."
With a casual snap of his fingers, a gaping hole materialized in the ground about thirty paces from the forge entrance. Jon and Robb leaped backward, while Mikken stumbled against his anvil, his face draining of color.
"It's alright," Owen raised his hands in a calming gesture. "No need for alarm. This is just one of the blessings the Old Gods have given me. Come, I'll show you."
The three men exchanged uncertain glances before cautiously following Owen toward the mysterious opening. As they descended into Cidhna Mine, their expressions shifted from fear to wonder. Rich veins of ore lined the walls - gleaming deposits of ebony, malachite, and other precious minerals they'd never seen before.
"By the gods," Mikken whispered, his expert eye drawn to a particularly rich vein of orichalcum. His fingers traced the metallic surface reverently.
Owen led them deeper into the mine until they reached the main chamber. Here, mechanical figures moved with precise efficiency, extracting ore and hauling loads. Their metal bodies caught the light from the mounted torches, creating a scene that the 2 young men and mikken could never dream of.
The largest, more ornate, automaton, the overseer, noticed their arrival and immediately stopped its work. It approached Owen with fluid movements and bent at the waist in a formal bow.
"Welcome back, Master Owen," it intoned in a clear yet mechanical voice.
Jon and Robb stood frozen, their mouths agape as they stared at the speaking machine. Even Mikken, for all his years of working with metal, seemed unable to process what he was witnessing.
Owen scratched his head absently as he looked at the mechanical overseer. "You know, I really should give you a proper name one of these days. Can't keep calling you 'overseer' forever."
The automaton's crystalline eyes flickered briefly. "As you wish, Master Owen. Would you prefer to name me now?"
Behind Owen, Jon, Robb, and Mikken remained rooted in place, their expressions a mixture of awe and disbelief at witnessing a conversation between man and machine. Jon's hand had drifted unconsciously to his sword hilt, while Robb repeatedly blinked as if trying to clear his vision.
"Later," Owen waved his hand dismissively. "For now, give me an update on our mining operations. What's our current inventory of refined ingots since we last spoke?"
The overseer's posture straightened, switching seamlessly into its reporting mode. "In the fourteen days since your last inquiry, we have processed and refined an additional one thousand ingots across all ore types." Its metal arm extended toward a section of the chamber where numerous wooden crates stood stacked against the wall. "The refined materials are stored there, sorted by type."
The group approached the crates, and even in the dim light of the mine, the contents gleamed with impossible purity. Entire crates filled with bars of gold and silver caught Jon and Robb's attention immediately. Robb gripped his brother's arm for support, his legs suddenly unsteady as he tried to process the wealth before him.
"Seven hells," Jon whispered, his voice barely audible. "There's enough gold here to buy half the North."
Meanwhile, Mikken had gravitated toward a different crate, his hands lifting one of the iron ingots. He turned it over repeatedly, his eyes wide with professional appreciation. In all his years of smithing, he'd never seen iron so pure - no slag, no impurities, just perfect, refined metal ready for forging.
"This is impossible," Mikken muttered, still examining the ingot. "Even the finest iron from Qohor has impurities. This... this is perfect."
The overseer's mechanical voice cut through their amazement. "All metals are refined to one hundred percent purity using our specialized processing methods. Would you like a detailed breakdown of current quantities by type, Master Owen?"
"No need for the full inventory," Owen interrupted the overseer. "But I do need ten crates of Dwarven metal brought up to the forge."
The overseer's crystalline eyes flickered in acknowledgment. "At once, Master Owen." It turned to the other automatons, issuing commands in a series of mechanical clicks and whirs that set several of the metal workers into motion.
Owen faced Mikken, who still clutched the pure iron ingot like a precious gem. "Mikken, would you mind making sure your apprentices don't bolt when they see these fellows carrying up the crates? Last thing we need is panic spreading through Winterfell."
The master blacksmith startled, as if suddenly remembering his responsibilities. "Aye, that would be wise." He set the ingot down carefully and hurried toward the mine's entrance, casting one last amazed glance at the mechanical workers as they began collecting the requested Dwarven metal.
Jon and Robb watched, transfixed, as the automatons moved with precise efficiency. Their metal joints whirred softly as they lifted the heavy crates with ease, forming an orderly line toward the entrance.
"Owen," Jon's voice held equal parts curiosity and awe, "this Dwarven metal - was it truly forged by dwarves? Like the ones from Old Nan's tales?"
Owen couldn't help but laugh at the question, the sound echoing off the mine's walls. "No, not quite like that. It's not made by short, bearded folk living under mountains or short men like Tywin Lannisters son." He watched as the automatons began their ascent up the mine's entrance. "You'll see soon enough what it can do, though. Shall we head back up?"
The two young men nodded, falling into step behind Owen as they followed the procession of mechanical workers toward the surface. Jon and Robb exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of excitement and lingering disbelief at everything they'd seen in the mine.
The automatons methodically placed the last of the heavy crates near Mikken's forge, their metal and dwarven joints whirring with precise movements. They turned in perfect unison and marched back toward the mine entrance, disappearing into the dark hole with mechanical efficiency.
Mikken stood before his three apprentices - Oren, Mors, and Tykar - who watched the scene with wide eyes and slack jaws. The young men had pressed themselves against the forge's stone wall when the metal figures first emerged from the ground, and they hadn't moved since.
"What in the name of the Old Gods are those things?" Tykar's voice cracked as he pointed at the retreating forms.
"Calm yourself," Mikken placed a steadying hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "Lord Stark wouldn't allow anything dangerous within Winterfell's walls."
The three apprentices exchanged uncertain glances. Oren's red hair gleamed in the forge light as he shook his head. "But Master Mikken, they're... they're moving metal men!"
"Aye, and they just carried more metal in ten minutes than you three manage in a week," Mikken replied dryly, though his own face still held traces of wonderment.
Owen emerged from the mine entrance with Jon and Robb close behind. The three made their way toward the forge, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. Robb moved to help Owen lift one of the heavy crates, carrying it closer to the blazing fires.
"Seven hells, what's in these?" Robb grunted under the weight.
"Like i said, Dwarven metal," Owen replied, setting down his end carefully. "Strong as steel but lighter, and it takes enchantments better than any other material I've worked with."
Mikken ran his fingers along the edge of the nearest crate, his eyes carefully studying the ingots within. "I still wonder what you plan to build with all this, Owen. This is more metal than I'd use in half a year."
The apprentices had finally gathered enough courage to approach, drawn by their natural curiosity about the mysterious metal. Mors reached out to touch one of the ingots but quickly withdrew his hand when Owen looked his way.
"It's alright," Owen gestured for him to proceed. "Take a look. You'll all need to learn how to work with it eventually."
Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's earlier words, watching the young smith arrange the strange metal ingots with practiced efficiency. The question had been nagging at him since they'd left the mine.
"What did you mean enchantments? Like magic? Actual, real magic?" Jon's voice carried a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Owen shrugged without looking up from his work, his hands moving methodically as he prepared the forge. "Sure."
Robb let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Magic isn't real. Everyone knows that." His voice held the certainty of someone repeating a truth they'd learned since childhood.
The forge crackled and popped as Owen continued his preparations, arranging his tools with precise movements. The three apprentices watched intently, while Mikken observed with interest as a fellow smith prepared himself. Owen paused in his work, looking up at Robb with a small, knowing smile playing across his lips.
"Your entire realm was forged by Dragons," Owen said matter-of-factly, "and you don't believe in magic?"
Jon let out a deep chuckle, the sound mixing with Mikken's own quiet laughter. Robb's face flushed red as he realized the hole in his logic.
"He's got you there, brother," Jon said, clapping Robb on the shoulder.
Owen allowed himself a smile before turning to the forge. He lifted the hammer, its weight familiar in his hand as he began his craft. The knowledge from the Celestial Forge flowed through him, ancient techniques from long-dead Dwemer masters guiding his movements. His hands moved with inhuman precision, each strike of the hammer landing exactly where needed.
The forge fell silent except for the rhythmic sounds of his work. Mikken and his apprentices watched, transfixed, as Owen shaped the Dwarven metal with impossible skill. Even Jon and Robb, who had seen many strange things in the past hour, stood speechless at the display before them.
Owen worked in a kind of trance, barely registering the eyes upon him as he folded and shaped the metal. The Dwemer knowledge guided every motion - heating, folding, hammering, cooling - each step executed with perfect timing. His movements held a fluid grace that seemed to belong to someone who had spent thousands of years perfecting their craft rather than a young man of fifteen.
Steam hissed and metal sang under his hammer. The Dwarven metal glowed with an inner light as he worked it, responding to his touch in ways that defied conventional smithing wisdom. Mikken's experienced eye caught techniques he'd never seen before, movements that shouldn't have been possible with normal metal.
An hour passed like minutes. Owen finally looked up from his work, carefully cleaning the three objects he'd created. He placed two large items on the nearby table and held a rod-like object in his hands. The occupants of the forge crowded around to see what he had produced.
Robb was the first to break the awed silence. "What...are they?"
Owen beamed at his handiwork, gesturing toward the two large mechanical constructs that stood motionless on the forge floor. Their dwarven metal frames gleamed in the firelight, intricate gears and pistons visible through gaps in their plating.
"These are steam constructors," he explained, while Mikken and his apprentices eyed the machines with visible apprehension. Oren had taken several steps back, positioning himself behind his master's broader frame. Mors and Tykar exchanged nervous glances, their hands fidgeting with their leather aprons.
Owen held up the rod-like object in his other hand, twirling it between his fingers with casual expertise. The metal shaft was covered in complex engravings that seemed to shift in the forge's flickering light.
"And this thing in my hand is a control rod," he continued, watching as the light played off the intricate markings.
Mikken studied the machines, though he maintained a safe distance. His eye caught details in their construction that spoke of craftsmanship far beyond anything he'd ever witnessed. The joints and connections were impossibly precise, each component fitted together with supernatural accuracy.
"You see, I don't have time to go around both making weapons and doing construction projects," Owen explained, "so these two are going to help me."
Jon's brow furrowed as he processed Owen's words. He crossed his arms, looking skeptically at the pair of mechanical workers. "How? There are only two of them, and I doubt two of these metal workers can do all the work you need." He said. "You'd need to make more, and these two took you an hour to make. It would be a whole month before you had enough."
Owen chuckled at Jon's observation. "Usually, you'd be right," he said, turning the control rod in his hands. "It would take a month or more to craft enough constructors for what I have planned. But that's where things get interesting."
The young smith's mind drifted to the knowledge gifted to him by the Forge. The Dwemer, ancient masters of machinery and metallurgy, had created marvels that made other races on Tamriel envious. Their automated soldiers, their steam-powered cities, their impossible machines - all testified to their genius. But even they had limitations, requiring massive forges and countless hours to produce their mechanical armies.
Owen had something better. The Celestial Forge made it nearly impossible for him to create anything ordinary unless he actively tried to restrain its power. Where a Dwemer craftsman would produce a remarkable but conventional automaton, Owen's creations transcended those ancient limitations.
He held the control rod forward, channeling his will into the metal. The rod responded immediately, ancient runes blazing to life along its length with a brilliant golden light. The same runes appeared across the steam constructors' bodies, their metal frames humming with power.
Oren stumbled backward with a yelp as the machines straightened, their joints whirring smoothly. Steam hissed from carefully placed vents, and their crystalline eyes glowed with the same golden light as the runes.
"Seven hells," Robb breathed, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt.
"I don't need to make more constructors," Owen explained, watching his creations with satisfaction, "because these two will do it for me."
The assembled group watched in stunned silence as the steam constructors moved with fluid grace, their mechanical bodies displaying none of the jerky motions one might expect from metal beings. They turned toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots, their crystalline eyes scanning the materials with obvious purpose.
"They'll build more of themselves?" Mikken asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Owen nodded, pride evident in his expression. "And they'll do it faster and more precisely than even I could."
The group watched in amazement as the two steam constructors moved with mechanical precision toward the pile of Dwarven metal ingots. Their crystalline eyes glowed brighter as they began their work, metal hands moving with impossible speed and accuracy. Steam hissed from their joints as they shaped and folded the metal, each movement a perfect mirror of Owen's earlier craftsmanship.
Within minutes, two more constructors stood before them, identical to their creators in every detail. The new machines' eyes flickered to life, golden runes appearing across their frames. Without pause, all four constructors turned back to the remaining ingots and began working in perfect synchronization.
Mors gripped Tykar's arm as four more constructors took shape under the skilled hands of their mechanical brethren. "By the Old Gods," he whispered, his voice trembling.
The process continued, each new group of constructors immediately joining in the creation of more. The sound of metal being worked filled the forge as eight became sixteen, then twenty-four. Steam filled the air, creating an otherworldly atmosphere as mechanical hands shaped and folded the Dwarven metal with supernatural speed.
Jon and Robb exchanged stunned glances as the number of constructors grew. Even Mikken, with all his years of smithing and forging, could only shake his head in disbelief at the display before him. The precision and speed with which these machines worked surpassed anything he'd ever witnessed.
Finally, as the last ingot was used, thirty steam constructors stood in neat rows before them, their golden eyes all fixed on Owen. The entire process had taken less than an hour, and the forge now housed an army of mechanical workers.
Owen raised the control rod, its runes pulsing with power. "Down to the mine," he commanded. "Gather more Dwarven metal and continue making more of yourselves."
The constructors moved as one, their metal feet clanking against the stone as they filed out of the forge and headed toward the mine entrance. The assembled group watched in silence as the machines disappeared into the darkness below.
Owen turned to Mikken, offering an apologetic smile. "Seems I'll be monopolizing your forge for a few days," he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.
Inwardly however, Owen couldn't help but be filled with glee. The celestial forge was so awesome!