Owen had patiently waited several days after showing the Stark family the factory before making his midnight visit. Under the cover of darkness, when the castle and winter town lay silent in deep slumber, he crept toward the Dwemer made industrial building. The guards he'd appointed maintained their vigilant watch from the small yet cozy guardhouse he had constructed a few meters away - a strategic position that allowed them to monitor the perimeter without directly entering the factory itself. Every hour, they would make their rounds, ensuring no curious onlookers or potential thieves were lurking about. While Owen could have simply walked in openly, as was his right as the owner, he preferred to avoid any reports reaching Lord Stark's ears about his peculiar nocturnal activities. Questions about midnight visits to the factory would only lead to complications he'd rather avoid.
The need for enhanced security weighed heavily on his mind. The factory represented not just an economic investment, but a technological advantage that needed protection at all costs. There was only one truly effective way to ensure its safety - by employing the ancient and powerful Magecraft he had learned from the Temple of Solomon. Specifically, he would need to weave an intricate network of curses throughout the entire forge and factory complex, creating an invisible barrier of supernatural protection that no conventional security measure could match.
As he moved into the factory, the rhythmic clanking of metal against metal echoed through the factory as Owen surveyed the automated workforce. Dwemer automatons moved with precise efficiency, their brass and copper bodies gleaming in the dim light of the forge fires. Some hammered out sword blades while others assembled armor pieces, their movements fluid and tireless. The sight never failed to fill him with wonder, despite having created them himself. Or at least the steam constructors had on his orders.
Steam hissed from vents overhead as the constructors continued their endless labor. The factory operated like a living organism - raw materials entered through one end and finished weapons emerged from the other, all without human intervention. Owen smiled, remembering how just two weeks ago this had been nothing but an empty field.
He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, the soft pops barely audible over the mechanical symphony around him. The Temple of Solomon's ancient knowledge burned in his mind, complex magical formulas and cursework diagrams ready to be applied. From within his cloak, he withdrew an ornate dagger. The blade was Damascus steel with flowing patterns that seemed to shift in the firelight, its ivory handle carved with Hebrew letters of power.
Owen held out his left palm and made a clean cut across it with the sacred blade. Dark blood welled up immediately, and he let it drip into an obsidian goblet he had placed on a nearby workbench. The cut stung, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing instead on the intricate curse markings he would need to create.
With practiced movements, he dipped his finger in the blood and began drawing sigils on the factory walls. The marks glowed faintly as he worked, ancient symbols of protection and warning intertwined with more aggressive curses meant to harm intruders. Some sigils were simple - basic wards against theft and tampering. Others were far more complex, involving mathematical formulas and astronomical alignments that would have baffled even the most learned maesters.
The automatons continued their work, paying no mind to Owen as he moved methodically through the building. Each sigil had to be placed precisely, forming an interconnected web of magical energy that would blanket the entire structure. He worked his way around support pillars and along the walls, occasionally adding more blood to the goblet when needed. The curse markings grew more elaborate near the entrances and windows - these would be the most likely points of infiltration and required the strongest protections.
Owen traced the final sigil with blood-stained fingers, the ancient Hebrew symbols pulsing with an otherworldly red glow before fading into the stone. The factory walls now held power beyond anything the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen - protection spells that could challenge gods themselves.
"I almost feel sorry for anyone stupid enough to try breaking in here." He examined his handiwork with satisfaction, knowing the devastating consequences that awaited intruders.
The curses he'd woven into the building's very foundation went far beyond simple protective wards. Drawing from Solomon's vast magical knowledge, Owen had implemented multi-layered defensive systems that would make even the most powerful mages hesitate. The outer layer contained relatively mild curses - bad luck, confusion, and an overwhelming urge to be elsewhere. But for those foolish or powerful enough to press forward, the deeper layers held far darker magic.
The second tier of wards contained curses that would inflict increasingly severe physical and mental trauma. Intruders would find their life force slowly draining away, their minds assaulted by terrifying visions, their bodies wracked with supernatural diseases that no maester could cure. The third layer held binding curses powerful enough to trap demons and restrain minor deities, drawing on the same principles that Solomon had used to command the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia.
But the innermost defensive ring contained the deadliest curses of all - magic that could literally rewrite cause and effect to ensure an intruder's death, similar to the conceptual weapons wielded by Heroic Spirits in the Holy Grail Wars. These curses would activate only against the most serious threats, but when triggered, they would be virtually impossible to survive or counter.
Owen had specifically designed the wards to recognize and counter various forms of magical infiltration. Whether it was demons, spirits, skin changers, or even the Old Gods themselves (though he doubted they would bother if they were TRULY real, what with him helping the North and such) trying to peer inside, the curses would respond with appropriate force. The protection extended into multiple dimensions and planes of existence, making both physical and spiritual intrusion equally dangerous.
The web of curses drew power from the ley lines Owen had discovered running beneath Winterfell, coming from the gods wood, ensuring they would remain active indefinitely without requiring his direct maintenance. The magical energy thrummed through the sigils, creating an invisible barrier that even Owen could now sense - a dome of deadly protection surrounding his precious factory.
He wiped his bloody hands on a cloth, examining the dozens of interconnected curse marks that covered nearly every surface. To untrained eyes, they would be invisible, but Owen could see them glowing faintly with power, pulsing in rhythm like a heartbeat. Solomon's knowledge had given him access to some of the most devastating magic ever created, and he'd used every bit of that knowledge to ensure his factory's security. Something he'd have to do again when he made his own factory at Sea dragon point.
With a deep breath, Owen placed his hand on one of the sigils. The ancient symbols seemed to pulse beneath his touch, responding to his magical energy. The knowledge from Solomon's temple flowed through him, guiding his words and intent as he began the activation ritual.
"Excita et defende, maledic et destrue. Ne quis sit meae superstes irae," he intoned in Latin, his voice carrying power that made the very air vibrate. The blood sigils began to shimmer, their dull red glow intensifying with each syllable.
Switching to Hebrew, he continued, "el mi shemitmoded im chamti yachia al hartz hazot." The words held weight beyond their mere sound, each syllable carrying centuries of magical tradition and power. The combination of Latin and Hebrew - languages of profound magical significance - created a resonance that made the entire factory hum with energy.
The blood sigils flashed brilliantly, bathing the factory interior in crimson light. The light pulsed once, twice, then began to fade as the sigils themselves seemed to melt into the very structure of the building. The marks disappeared completely, becoming one with the stone and metal, invisible but very much present. They would remain dormant until needed, ready to unleash their protective fury against any who meant harm.
Owen had carefully crafted the curse network to recognize friends from foes. The Starks and their loyal servants would pass through unharmed - the magic would simply ignore them as if they weren't there. But for others, the consequences would be severe.
"That's all I can do for now," Owen muttered to himself, surveying his now-invisible handiwork. "If anyone actually survives the steam constructors and automatons killing them, the curses would finish the job."
Satisfied with his work, Owen snapped his fingers. In an instant, the factory disappeared from around him as he transported himself to the Temple of Solomon, leaving behind a fortress now protected by both mechanical and magical means.
_
Owen walked into the temple of Solomon's training arena, his footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors. He was still actually surprised that a temple had a training arena to begin with - though given Solomon's reputation as both a wise king and powerful magus, perhaps he shouldn't have been. The space was vast, with high vaulted ceilings and walls lined with various training weapons and magical implements.
He breathed in deeply and flared his magic circuits. The sensation was still new to him - thousands of perfect magical pathways lighting up throughout his body, thrumming with power. The circuits glowed with a faint blue light beneath his skin, creating intricate patterns that would have been beautiful if anyone could see them.
There had been MANY types of magic and magecraft provided by the temple's vast library. Owen knew he would take probably lifetimes studying it all - everything from simple cantrips to reality-warping grand rituals. But while he could always pop into the temple of Solomon to find magic for certain issues as they arose, Owen had decided that for his own protection (and just because it was awesome) he would focus on two particular types: Elemental magecraft and self-reinforcement.
These seemed the most practical choices for his situation. Elemental magic would give him offensive capabilities and utility, while self-reinforcement would enhance his physical abilities and provide defense. Plus, the two schools of magic complemented each other well - he could reinforce his body to better channel and control elemental forces.
With a snap of his fingers, fake yet lifelike training dummies materialized around him in a loose circle. They were construct of magical energy given semi-solid form, capable of basic movement and attacking patterns but without true intelligence. The temple's magic allowed them to simulate real opponents while preventing any permanent harm to the trainee.
A large bronze gong materialized and rang out through the chamber, its deep resonance filling the space. A calm, disembodied voice - one of the temple's many magical functions - called out: "Training session one, BEGIN."
The dummies immediately sprang into action, charging at Owen with surprising speed. Their blank faces and jerky movements made them somewhat unnerving, but Owen pushed that thought aside and focused on the task at hand. He had practiced the basic forms of both magical disciplines separately - now it was time to put them together in combat.
"Dracones flammae!" Owen shouted the spell's name as he exhaled, a raging blast of fire spitting from his mouth. The inferno engulfed the nearest dummies, their magical forms crackling and burning to cinders in an instant. The intense heat pushed back the advancing wave of constructs, giving Owen precious moments to assess the situation.
His magic circuits flared beneath his skin, glowing with ethereal blue light as he channeled mana through them. The self-reinforcement magic surged through his body, strengthening his muscles and sharpening his reflexes. Everything seemed to slow down slightly as his enhanced perception kicked in, allowing him to track the movements of the remaining dummies with crystal clarity.
The training constructs adapted quickly, their jerky movements becoming more fluid and precise. They spread out in a coordinated pattern, some circling to his flanks while the others maintained pressure from the front. Owen weaved between their strikes, his reinforced body moving with supernatural grace. A dummy's fist whistled past his ear as he ducked, another's kick barely missing his ribs as he twisted away.
The temple's magic was working exactly as intended - the dummies were learning from each failed attack, becoming progressively faster and more unpredictable. Their blank faces remained expressionless, but their tactics grew more sophisticated with each passing second. Three of them suddenly broke formation, leaping high into the air above Owen's position in a synchronized assault.
"Obice Flamma!" Owen spoke the words of power, and a wall of fire erupted around him in a protective circle. The flames roared upward, catching the airborne dummies in mid-leap. Their magical forms ignited instantly, dissolving into ash before they could complete their attack.
Owen's self-reinforcement flared once more, magic circuits lighting up beneath his skin as he channeled power through them. The reinforcement spread through his muscles, bones, and organs, transforming his body into something far beyond normal human limitations. Thirty of the training dummies suddenly rushed forward as one, throwing themselves directly into his wall of flames. Their magical forms burned away instantly, but their sacrifice served its purpose - creating gaps in the fiery barrier.
Twenty more dummies vaulted through these temporary openings, their blank faces and jerky movements somehow more menacing as they closed in on Owen. Despite his enhanced reflexes and strengthened body, five of the constructs managed to land solid hits. Their strikes would have shattered bones and ruptured organs on a normal human, but Owen's reinforced body barely registered the impacts. The blows felt more like firm pushes than devastating attacks.
He grunted in frustration, knowing he had been slacking in his training. The ancient texts spoke of how Solomon and other legendary mages could maintain multiple spells without speaking a word, their magic responding instantly to their will alone. Those masters could keep their spells active no matter how many enemies tried to disrupt them. Owen knew he would need much more practice to reach that level of skill.
Pushing aside his self-criticism, Owen raised his hand toward the remaining dummies. This time, he focused purely on his will, channeling his magic without speaking an incantation. A massive blast of water erupted from his palm; the pressure so intense that the liquid became more like a solid projectile. The superheated stream slammed into the training constructs with devastating force, sending them flying backward. Several dummies were literally torn in half by the pressurized blast, their magical forms dissolving into motes of light as they were destroyed.
Owen's eyes gleamed with determination as he shifted his stance. "Alright, let's pick it up a notch," he shouted, magical energy coursing through his circuits as he willed spinning wind to form around his hands. The air itself seemed to dance at his command, condensing into visible streams of power.
He thrust his hands forward, sending blasts of compressed air at the incoming squad of training dummies. The wind cut through the space between them like invisible blades. Several dummies went flying, their magical forms crashing against the temple walls with enough force to crack the enchanted marble. Others were simply sliced apart by the sharp gales, their forms dissolving into motes of light as the wind bisected them.
But the temple's magic adapted quickly. The remaining dummies began moving more erratically, their blank faces somehow showing an unsettling awareness as they dodged each subsequent wave of wind. They weaved between the blasts with increasing precision, closing the distance to Owen with each passing second.
Just as the lead dummy reached striking distance, Owen's reinforced fist smashed through its featureless face. The construct's head exploded into particles of light, and before its body could even begin to fall, Owen's reinforced leg snapped up in a devastating kick that sent the headless form flying across the training arena.
"Time to make Rin Tohsaka proud," Owen said with a smile, dropping into a fighting stance that would have made the famous magus herself nod in approval. His magic circuits flared brilliantly as he channeled power into his legs, and in an instant, he became a blur of motion.
Owen's reinforced body moved at speeds that would have seemed impossible to normal humans. He crashed into the group of dummies like a force of nature, each strike carrying enough power to shatter stone. His fists tore through magical constructs as if they were made of paper. A roundhouse kick decapitated three dummies at once. He grabbed one construct and used it as a makeshift weapon, swinging its body to smash apart two more before suplexing it into the ground with enough force to crater the floor.
The combination of self-reinforcement and hand-to-hand combat proved devastating. Owen moved through the remaining dummies with fluid grace, each motion flowing into the next as he systematically destroyed them with an array of punches, kicks, and wrestling moves that would have impressed even the most seasoned fighters.
With a final roar, he smashed into the last training dummy, Owen's kick sending it flying into the air before he followed it upwards, another kick smashing it to the ground. He landed neatly beside it, raising a fist in victory as he looked at a glowing scoreboard that appeared. 50% it read and Owen swore. "Ohh come the fuck on!" he said though he knew the score was fair. Truth was that as he was, he could probably tear through most enemies in Westeros with ease. But the temple was scoring him against how he would do fighting against mages or creatures from the fate universe or beyond. 50% meaning he could take on squad of intermediate or rookie mages but anything beyond that and he was cooked!
Owen wiped sweat from his brow as he examined the detailed breakdown appearing beneath the score. His elemental magic showed decent power output but lacked refinement - the spells worked but wasted too much energy. His self-reinforcement was more promising, achieving nearly 70% efficiency, though his technique still needed polish. The magical combat "AI" (or temple spirit, he really didn't know what it was that spoke during these training sessions) noted several openings in his defense that a skilled opponent could exploit.
"Intermediate mages," Owen muttered, shaking his head. "That means I'd barely last five minutes against someone like Rin or Bazett. And forget about Servants - they'd tear me apart before I could blink."
The temple's scoring system was brutally honest, calibrated against the full spectrum of magical combat capability. A score of 90% would put him on par with first-rate mages like Lord El-Melloi II. The truly elite, like Aoko Aozaki, scored even higher. And Servants, those legendary heroes summoned for the Holy Grail War, operated on an entirely different level.
The scoreboard flickered, displaying a new message: "Areas for improvement: Spell efficiency, mana control, reaction speed, defensive positioning." Owen nodded - the assessment matched what he'd felt during the fight. His raw power was decent, but his technique needed serious work.
Owen sighed and snapped his fingers. The temple's magic responded instantly, whisking away his sweat-soaked training clothes and cleaning his body with a gentle wave of energy that left his skin tingling. Soft silk robes materialized around him; the fabric lighter than air yet somehow providing perfect warmth.
He made his way toward the vast library, his footsteps echoing off the marble floors. A silver tray appeared on a nearby reading table as he approached, laden with chilled fruit juice, succulent meats, and fresh fruits. The temple always seemed to know exactly what he needed after a training session.
Settling into a plush chair, Owen reached for a tome on familiar creation and summoning. The ancient leather-bound book practically hummed with magical energy as he opened it. He took a long drink of the juice, savoring its crisp sweetness while his eyes scanned the yellowed pages.
The concept of summoning creatures fascinated him. So many mages throughout history and fiction had relied on familiars for support, yet Owen felt they rarely utilized these beings to their full potential. Most seemed content with basic scout animals or message carriers, when familiars could be so much more.
However, as he read through various summoning methods, Owen's excitement was tempered by caution. Many of the most powerful familiars in the temple's books came with significant drawbacks. Demons required soul-binding contracts. Fey creatures twisted words and agreements to their advantage. Even seemingly benign spirits often had hidden agendas or restrictions that could prove deadly to an unwary summoner.
His thoughts drifted to the summon Mahoraga from Jujutsu Kaisen - a (seemingly, if Owen was to take its name literally) divine general of immense power that was just as likely to kill its summoner as the intended target unless properly dominated first. While impressive, such beings represented exactly the kind of risk Owen wanted to avoid.
No, he decided as he bit into a perfectly ripe apple, he would forge his own path. With access to the temple's vast knowledge and his seemingly endless supply of exotic materials, Owen could create his own familiars from scratch. Beings that would be powerful yet loyal, without the need for complex pacts or dangerous rituals. He had dwarven metal, stalhrim, ebony, and countless other materials to work with. Combined with his growing magical knowledge, the possibilities were endless.
Owen pulled another book from the air - this one detailing the creation of artificial life through magecraft. Between bites of food, he began taking notes, already formulating plans for his first familiar constructs.