Owen sat on the wide stone steps of Ice Crest, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. He speared a piece of apple from his bowl, watching Sansa run her fingers through Anastasia's thick white fur. The direwolf's massive head rested in his wife's lap, ice-blue eyes half-closed in contentment.
"She's grown quite fond of you," Owen said, popping the fruit in his mouth.
Sansa's fingers traced the silvery patterns in Anastasia's coat. "As have I of her. Though I still can't believe how large she's become."
The direwolf indeed dwarfed any of her kind Owen had ever seen or read about. Her shoulder reached past his waist when standing, her muscled frame enhanced by the magical binding they shared. The memory of finding her still haunted him - her broken body lying in a crimson patch of snow outside White Harbor two weeks ago.
"You should have seen her when I found her." Owen set his empty bowl aside. "Half-starved, leg shattered, barely breathing. If I hadn't gotten her to the Temple in time..."
"But you did." Sansa scratched behind Anastasia's ears, earning a pleased rumble. "And now she's the most magnificent creature in the North."
Owen smiled, remembering the long nights spent nursing the direwolf back to health within the Temple of Solomon's healing chambers. He'd pored over ancient texts about familiar bonds, working complex spells to forge their connection while her body mended. The magic had transformed her, imbuing her with strength and speed that bordered on supernatural.
"The books said the familiar bond would enhance her natural abilities," Owen said. "But I never expected this degree of change." He reached over to run his hand along Anastasia's flank, feeling the corded muscle beneath her fur. "She's faster than any horse, strong enough to carry us both with ease."
Anastasia lifted her head at his touch, those intelligent blue eyes meeting his. The bond thrummed between them, a constant awareness of each other's presence and wellbeing. She rose to her full height, shaking out her coat before padding over to nuzzle Owen's chest with her massive head.
"Show-off," he chuckled, scratching under her chin. Even sitting, he had to reach up to do so.
Sansa watched them with a soft smile. "It seems the Old Gods truly blessed you both that day."
Owen nodded, though he knew it wasn't the gods but rather Solomon's ancient knowledge that had saved Anastasia. Still, he let his wife believe what she wished. The direwolf settled between them, her head swiveling to survey the courtyard with alert eyes, ever the vigilant guardian.
As he watched Anastasia's alert posture, he remembered the day he'd first shown Sansa the Temple of Solomon. It had been a year and a half into their marriage when he'd finally decided to trust her with one of his greatest secret. Her reaction had surprised him - instead of fear or rejection, she'd shown wonder and curiosity at the vast magical dimension.
"Do you remember your first time seeing the Temple?" Owen asked, drawing Sansa's attention from the direwolf.
She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. "How could I forget? All those books, the endless halls..." Her hand unconsciously touched the spot on her chest where her magic circuits lay beneath. "And the day you awakened my magic. I never imagined I could heal injuries with just a touch."
Owen nodded, pride swelling as he recalled how quickly she'd taken to healing magic. Within months, she'd mastered basic wound closure and bone mending. Though she steadfastly refused to learn combat spells, her gentle nature better suited to mending than destroying.
"You've saved many lives since then," he said. "The villagers still talk about how you healed Willem's boy after that fall from the cliffs."
"Speaking of healing," Sansa said, "Jon mentioned you two had quite the practice session yesterday. Said you nearly singed his eyebrows off."
Owen chuckled. After revealing the Temple to Jon as well and awakening his circuits, his goodbrother had thrown himself into magical training with characteristic determination. As Master-at-Arms of Ice Crest, Jon split his time between patrolling the growing settlements around Sea Dragon Point and honing his considerable magical talents.
"He's gotten remarkably good at combining fire and ice magic with his swordwork," Owen said. "Yesterday he managed to coat his sword in alternating layers - burning edge with an icy core. Nearly caught me off guard when the ice suddenly erupted into flames."
Sansa shook her head fondly. "He's earned quite a reputation among the smallfolk, you know. They say he's as fair as Father when settling disputes between villages. Last week he rode out to mediate that fishing rights argument between Stoneshore and Seal Bay."
"The circuits suit him," Owen said. "He has a natural talent for elemental magic that surpasses even my own. Though he still needs work on his defensive spells."
Owen watched as Sansa huffed in amusement, cuddling closer to Anastasia. The massive direwolf turned from her vigilant watch of the courtyard, abandoning her guard duty to happily nuzzle against Sansa's neck, drawing a delighted laugh from his wife.
"Ever since you awakened our magic," Sansa said, running her fingers through Anastasia's thick fur, "all Jon can talk about is wanting more lessons in the Temple. Every other conversation leads to requesting another magical spar."
Owen chuckled, remembering Jon's wide-eyed wonder when he'd first seen the Temple's vast training arenas and endless libraries of magical knowledge. "It's just the novelty of it all. Though it's been two years since I revealed the Temple to you both and awakened your magic, the wonder will wear off eventually."
Sansa turned to him with a knowing grin, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Has it worn off for you then? This wonder of magic?"
Owen paused, considering the question. He thought of all the miraculous things he'd accomplished with magic - the healing of Anastasia, the awakening of magic circuits in those he trusted most, the countless spells and enchantments he'd mastered. Even after four years of studying Solomon's vast magical knowledge, each new discovery still filled him with the same excitement as that first day.
He shared her smile, shaking his head. "Not a bit."
Their laughter echoed across the courtyard, joined by Anastasia's happy rumble as the direwolf settled contentedly between them.
Owen turned his attention to the bustling activity beyond Ice Crest's gates, sharing a comfortable silence with Sansa. The settlement had grown exponentially, transforming from a modest village into what could only be described as a small city. Northern-blooded smallfolk, hearing tales of prosperity and opportunity, had begun returning from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms to their ancestral homeland.
"Another hundred arrived yesterday," Owen said, noting the fresh construction at the town's edge. "Most from the Reach this time."
The influx had prompted him to order two thousand steam constructors and automatons to build proper housing. Unlike the crude hovels common throughout Westeros, these dwellings featured luxuries previously unknown to smallfolk - Dwemer showers with hot running water, heating systems that kept homes warm even in the harshest winter, and water purifiers that prevented illness.
Owen watched a group of children playing near one of the communal fountains, their laughter carrying up to where he sat. The sight of clean, well-fed smallfolk still struck him as remarkable compared to his memories of other parts of Westeros.
"Duncan's done well managing it all," Sansa observed, following his gaze to where the town's mayor was mediating a dispute between two merchants.
Owen nodded in agreement. He'd chosen Duncan specifically for his combination of strength and honor - a former soldier who'd shown both wisdom and compassion. The man's broad shoulders and battle-scarred face commanded respect, while his fair judgments had earned him the people's trust.
The new outer walls rose impressively around the growing settlement, built by tireless constructors to Owen's exacting specifications. Behind the physical defenses lay layers of magical wards and protective enchantments, invisible but far more potent than mere stone. Owen had spent weeks weaving the spells himself, determined to protect these people who'd placed their faith in the North's renaissance.
"Remember when this was all empty coastline?" Owen asked, gesturing at the sprawling town below. "Just large rocks, seaweed and scrub brush when we first arrived."
"And now look at it," Sansa said softly. "A proper city in the making."
Owen watched a distance away but clear from the open gates as a steam constructor methodically lay stones for a new granary, its mechanical arms moving with precise efficiency. He chuckled, remembering the first time the southern smallfolk had encountered these metal workers. Many had fallen to their knees in terror, making signs to ward off evil spirits. Some had even tried to leave offerings of bread and ale at the constructors' feet.
"They've adapted well enough now," Owen mused aloud to Sansa. "Though I still catch some of the older folk making the sign of the Seven or calling on the old gods when they pass too close."
Even more amusing had been their reactions to the Dwarven Colossus. Just last week, Jon had led a patrol along the coast with one of the massive automatons stomping alongside. Owen had heard tales of fishermen throwing themselves face-down in their boats, convinced the Old Gods had sent a metal giant to judge their sins. A group of women had actually tried to organize a feast in the Colossus's honor before Jon managed to explain it was simply a very large machine.
"The children aren't afraid at least," Sansa said, pointing to where a group of young ones were playing a game of tag around a constructor's legs. The machine carefully adjusted its movements to avoid the laughing children, its programming ensuring their safety.
Owen pulled out the letter he'd received that morning, the seal of the Night's Watch still visible on the broken wax. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's precise handwriting detailed the completion of the restored castles along the Wall. The steam constructors Owen had sent north had performed admirably, rebuilding crumbling towers and repairing ancient stonework with tireless efficiency.
"The Old Bear seems pleased," Owen said, scanning the letter again. "All nineteen castles restored to their former glory, and enough food stored away to feed the entire Watch for a decade." He handed the letter to Sansa. "The donations from the Northern houses have exceeded all expectations. Even the mountain clans sent a bounty of food"
It was a testament to the North's newfound prosperity. With the glasshouses producing crops year-round, month to month harvests and the automated farming equipment in the form of the steam constructors multiplying yields, every holdfast from the Neck to the Wall had surplus to share. The Night's Watch, traditionally struggling to feed its men through winter, now had warehouses bursting with preserved grain and meat.
"Father will be pleased," Sansa said, returning the letter. "He's always said a strong Watch means a strong North."
Owen nodded, remembering how the steam constructors had transformed the abandoned castles. Nightfort, Deep Lake, Queensgate - names that had been little more than ruins were now fully manned fortresses again (at least as fully manned as they could with the nights watches numbers). The Watch's numbers had grown as well, with more volunteers arriving as word spread of the improved conditions though still not as many as Mormont had hoped but it was still better than nothing.
"To think," Owen said, "just four years ago half those castles were falling apart. Now they're better defended than they've been in centuries." He didn't mention the magical wards he'd personally placed on each fortress, or the Dwarven Colossi that stood silent sentinel in hidden chambers, ready to activate if the Wall ever faced true danger.
Owen felt a deep contentment wash over him as he sat there on the steps of Ice Crest. The Celestial Forge might have gone quiet these past years, offering no new gifts or powers, but he'd made the most of what he had. Through careful application of his abilities and knowledge, he'd transformed not just his own life but the lives of countless others across the North.
His fingers traced the smooth stone beneath him - stone cut and placed by his steam constructors. Everything around him spoke of prosperity and progress. The busy town below, the restored castles along the Wall, the thriving trade that filled Ice Crest's coffers - all of it born from the gifts he'd already received. What more could he possibly want or need?
He was wealthy beyond measure, married to a beautiful and loving wife, safe within the walls of his own castle. He'd even managed to bring real, meaningful change to the North, preparing it for the winters and wars to come. The satisfaction of seeing his plans come to fruition far outweighed any desire for new powers.
Owen turned to share these thoughts with Sansa, a smile on his face, but the words died in his throat. His wife had gone quiet, her earlier cheerfulness replaced by a profound sadness. A frown marred her beautiful features as she stared distantly at nothing in particular, lost in troubled thoughts.
"Sansa? What's wrong?" Owen asked, concern immediately replacing his contentment.
She turned away slightly, her shoulders tensing. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on her distress. Owen stood, moving closer to his wife and pulling her gently into his arms.
"Love, please tell me what's troubling you," he said softly against her hair.
Sansa remained quiet for a long moment, her fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"It's been four years, Owen," she said, "and I'm still not with child."
Owen held Sansa close, feeling her tremble against him. Anastasia sensed her distress and moved closer, nuzzling her softly with a gentle whine. The massive direwolf's presence seemed to comfort Sansa somewhat, but Owen could still feel the tension in her body.
"I know you'll want an heir eventually," Sansa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And if I can't give you one... you'll find someone who can. One day you'll come home with a bastard like Jon, tell me he'll be your heir because I failed to give you children."
Owen mentally scoffed at that, recognizing Catelyn's influence in Sansa's fears. While Sansa loved Jon dearly now, her mother's treatment of him had clearly left its mark on her views regarding bastards. The way Catelyn had treated Jon over the years had planted seeds of insecurity that were now blooming in Sansa's own marriage.
The irony wasn't lost on Owen. Sansa had been nothing but passionate and willing in their marriage bed, often initiating their encounters with an enthusiasm that left him breathless. The thought of taking a mistress or fathering bastards had never once crossed his mind. How could it, when he had such a beautiful and loving wife?
But he'd noticed the growing desperation in her actions lately. He'd seen her spending long hours in the Temple of Solomon, poring over ancient tomes searching for fertility spells and potions. Some of her attempts had worked, at least partially - he'd noticed the changes in her figure, how her curves had grown more pronounced in certain places, her breasts fuller than before. All carefully calculated changes meant to tempt him into spending more time in their bedchamber, as if frequency was the issue.
Owen's heart ached at her words however, knowing he needed to address these fears directly. He had actually investigated their fertility issues months ago, using his considerable magical knowledge and the resources of Solomon's Temple.
Late one night, while Sansa slept peacefully beside him, he had performed detailed magical examinations of them both. The spells had revealed nothing wrong with either of them. His seed was remarkably potent, enhanced by his awakened magic circuits which had perfected his body in many ways. Similarly, Sansa was more fertile than most women, her own circuits having enhanced her natural abilities.
The truth was simple - it just wasn't their time yet. The Old Gods, or fate, or whatever force governed such things had their own schedule in mind.
"My love," Owen said softly, pulling back to look into her tear-filled eyes, "I swear to you, as long as you're with me, I will never sire a bastard. We will have our children in time."
Sansa shook her head, frustration evident in her expression. "You don't understand. The North sees you as their savior. What you've done these past years - the roads, the glasshouses, the restored castles, the ships - you'll pass into legend by the time you're gone. Your bloodline will be incredibly important to the North."
She took a shuddering breath before continuing, "If the lords see that a Stark daughter can't continue your line, they'll send their own daughters to seduce you, to bear your children. They'll do anything to tie their houses to your legacy."
Owen couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, earning him a sharp look from his wife. "My dear, they'd have more success seducing a rock than pulling me away from you."
He gently lifted her face with one hand, using the other to wipe away her tears. Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, trying to convey all his love and devotion in that simple gesture.
Sansa kissed him back with a desperate hunger, her lips pressing against his more passionately and eagerly than ever before, seeking the comfort and assurance only he could provide. Her blue eyes, still glistening with traces of tears, locked onto his as she whispered her desire, telling him to take her - to make her forget everything else but them. Understanding exactly what she meant, what she needed, Owen snapped his fingers, drawing upon the power of the Temple of Solomon to instantly transport them both to their bedroom in Ice Crest.
The next three hours passed in a passionate blur as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. They made sweet, tender love throughout the afternoon, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony as they reaffirmed their connection. Every touch, every kiss, every gentle caress served to strengthen their bond, washing away Sansa's fears and doubts. Finally spent, they drifted off to sleep wrapped tightly in each other's arms, their hearts beating as one beneath the warm blankets and silk sheets of their bed.
Owen stirred from his peaceful slumber, Sansa's warm body pressed against his side. Though his muscles pleasantly ached from their afternoon activities, it wasn't natural waking that roused him. An urgent knocking echoed through their chamber door, growing more insistent by the second.
Sansa made a small sound of protest as Owen carefully extracted himself from her embrace. He couldn't help but smile at how she immediately hugged his pillow as a replacement, her face peaceful in sleep. Quickly pulling on a pair of breeches and a loose tunic, Owen made his way to the door.
Opening it revealed Jon Snow standing beside Anastasia, his face drawn with concern. The massive white direwolf stood alert, her ice-blue eyes fixed on Owen with unusual intensity.
"What's wrong?" Owen asked, noting the tension in Jon's shoulders.
"A rider just arrived from Winterfell," Jon replied in a low voice, conscious of the sleeping Sansa nearby. "He's been riding hard for three days straight, barely stopping to rest. Says he has an urgent message."
Owen cursed under his breath, sudden realization hitting him. In all their preparations and advancement of the North, they'd made one significant oversight. While they'd sworn the maesters of various Northern houses to secrecy about their technological progress, Ice Crest itself had no maester at all. He and Sansa had deliberately avoided requesting one from the Citadel, not trusting any southern-trained maester to keep the North's secrets. The maesters' loyalty to their chain and the Citadel was well known, and the risk of information leaking south had seemed too great.
Now, that decision might be coming back to haunt them. Without a maester's network of ravens, urgent communication with Ice Crest relied on mounted messengers - a far slower and more dangerous method of conveying important news. He had been meaning to make some magical way of communication or train special birds to take his messages like owls or hawks, but he always seemed to forget or be busy with something else. The Temple of Solomon had given him countless opportunities to develop such systems, yet between managing the castle's defenses, training with Jon, and overseeing the technological advancement of the North, the task had repeatedly slipped his mind. Each time he'd remembered, there had been another pressing matter demanding his attention, another crisis to solve, another innovation to perfect. Now he was beginning to realize just how costly that oversight might prove to be.
Owen took the sealed letter from Jon's hands, his fingers tracing the direwolf sigil pressed into the grey wax. Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as Sansa stirred, likely roused by their voices at the door.
"Owen?" Sansa called softly. He turned to see her wrapping herself in a thick robe, her auburn hair slightly disheveled from their earlier activities. She moved to his side, her blue eyes wide with concern as she noted the tension in the room. "What's wrong?"
Owen broke the seal, unfolding the parchment with steady hands even as his heart raced. His eyes scanned the hastily written words, taking in their urgent message. The blood drained from his face as he processed the contents, his jaw tightening with each line.
"Owen?" Sansa pressed, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "What does it say?"
He looked up from the letter, his gaze moving from Sansa to Jon, both watching him with growing apprehension. Anastasia whined softly, picking up on the mounting tension.
"There was an attack on Winterfell," Owen finally said, his voice grim. "Someone tried to destroy the factory."