Winterfell's great hall felt different that evening. Owen sat beside Sansa at the high table, her hand clasped tightly in his beneath the ancient wooden surface. The usual warmth and cheer had been replaced by a thick tension that hung in the air like storm clouds before a downpour.

Torches flickered along the stone walls, illuminating the faces of those gathered. The Stark family occupied their customary places - Eddard's stern visage betraying nothing, Catelyn's perfect composure masking her concern, Robb was flanking his father with an expression of carefully controlled anticipation.

The southern contingent clustered together, their rich silks and bright colors a stark contrast to the understated Northern aesthetic. King Robert dominated his space at the center, his massive frame somehow diminished by the weight of whatever announcement was coming. Jon Arryn's weathered face bore the careful neutrality of a lifetime at court, while Queen Cersei's beautiful features were arranged in a mask of barely concealed disdain. Even Joffrey had abandoned his usual sneering demeanor in favor of tense silence.

The Martells added their own flavor to the gathering. Prince Oberyn no longer lounged in his chair with casualness, now sitting up, his dark eyes missing nothing. Princess Arianne's stunning beauty drew attention despite the serious atmosphere, while Quentyn maintained his characteristic solemnity.

Edmure and Brynden Tully sat together, the younger man fidgeting slightly while his uncle remained still as stone. The Tyrells completed the group - Mace's normally florid face subdued, Olenna's shrewd gaze darting between faces, and Margaery maintaining perfect poise despite the tension.

The reason for their gathering was simple, yet devastating. Westeros was at war. Three days ago, Owen and Eddard had received word from Wyman Manderly through their enchanted locket mirrors - White Harbor had been attacked. The assault force consisted of Ironborn raiders and Essosi slavers, predominantly Volantene ships carrying Unsullied soldiers. Though they had been defeated by the North's superior defenses and cannons, the news had sent shockwaves through Winterfell.

A raven had followed shortly after, confirming the mirror's message. The southern party had initially met these reports with skepticism, particularly Cersei who had openly scoffed at the idea of such a coordinated attack. That skepticism had evaporated like morning mist when ravens began arriving from across the realm.

The Westerlands reported multiple coastal raids, with Lannisport barely repelling an assault by slave ships from Astapor. Kings Landing's harbor defenses had been tested by a fleet flying Volantene colors. The Riverlands' western shores burned as Ironborn longships struck deep into the heart of the kingdom, while Meereenese vessels prowled their eastern coasts.

Owen watched as Robert's massive hands crumpled the parchment, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. The king's fury was a palpable force in Winterfell's great hall, causing several of the southern lords to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Seven hells!" Robert's fist slammed onto the table, making goblets jump. "Those foreign cunts hit the merchant quarter hard. Half the docks are still burning, warehouses looted, ships sunk in the harbor blocking trade." He grabbed another letter, nearly tearing it in his rage. "The City Watch was overwhelmed - hundreds dead, more wounded. And the smallfolk..."

Robert's voice cracked with genuine anguish. "Women and children dragged from their homes, loaded onto slave ships like cattle. Whole families... just gone."

Owen felt Sansa's hand tighten in his as the king continued reading. The devastating details painted a clear picture - Kings Landing had been caught completely unprepared. The attack had come before dawn, a massive fleet appearing suddenly out of the morning mist. While the city's defenses had eventually rallied, the damage was already done. The wealthy merchant district had been particularly hard hit, with many prominent trading houses burned to the ground.

"The Mud Gate's defenses were breached," Robert growled, scanning another report. "Slave soldiers pushed several blocks into the city before the gold cloaks could mount an effective response. By then, the bastards had already loaded their ships with captives."

Owen noticed Jon Arryn's face had gone ashen as he studied his own set of reports. The old Hand of the King looked every one of his years as he quietly conferred with Grand Maester Pycelle, who had accompanied the royal party north.

"How many taken?" Eddard asked quietly from his seat beside the king.

Robert's massive shoulders slumped. "Over two thousand, Ned. Mostly women and children from the merchant quarter and surrounding neighborhoods as well as flea bottom. The slavers knew exactly where to hit us - the wealthiest parts of the city where they'd find the most valuable captives."

Cersei's beautiful face twisted with disgust. "And where was the Royal Fleet during all this? Surely our ships could have prevented such a disaster?"

"Scattered," Robert spat. "The bulk of the fleet was protecting merchant shipping in the Narrow Sea. What vessels remained were caught in port, many burned at their moorings before they could even be manned."

Owen felt a familiar tickle at the back of his mind - the Celestial Forge awakening once more, even as he pushed any new power awakening down, focusing on the present.

"The timing was too perfect," Jon Arryn observed. "They knew exactly when our defenses would be weakest, exactly where to strike. This was no random raid."

"Agreed," Eddard said grimly. "The coordinated attacks all along the coast speak to careful planning. They meant to hit us everywhere at once, overwhelm our ability to respond."

Robert's rage seemed to build again as he grabbed another report. "The gold cloaks found foreign gold on some of the dead raiders - fresh minted coins from Volantis, Myr, and Lys. The Free Cities aren't even trying to hide their involvement anymore."

"Because they don't need to," Owen spoke up for the first time. All eyes turned to him as he continued. "This wasn't just a raid - it was a message. They're showing us they can strike anywhere, at any time. That our cities and people are vulnerable."

"Aye," Robert growled. "Well they'll soon learn what happens when you wake the dragon- when you wake the STAG!" He corrected himself quickly, face flushing darker. "I'll smash their fleet and burn their cities to the ground, just like I did to the Greyjoys!"

Jon Arryn cleared his throat, drawing attention from Robert's rage. "Your Grace, there's more. The attack on White Harbor included Ironborn ships - fifty longships escorting the slavers if what lord Manderly writes is true." He watched the king's face darken further. "It seems clear the Greyjoys provided local knowledge to our enemies, showing them where to strike for maximum effect."

Robert's fist crashed onto the table again. "Balon!" The name emerged as a roar. "That squid-loving bastard! I should have executed him all those years ago instead of accepting his surrender!"

"Your Grace-" Jon tried to interject, but Robert was already on his feet.

"I'll wipe them out this time! Every last Greyjoy will hang from the walls of Pyke! I'll turn those bloody islands into a wasteland!"

"Robert," Eddard's quiet voice cut through the king's tirade. "We must think carefully before-"

"Think?" Robert whirled on his old friend. "While they raid our shores? While they help sell our people into slavery? Gods, Ned, they attacked your own lands!"

Stannis, who had remained silent until now, spoke up. "Brother, Lord Stark is right. We cannot rush into-"

"Rush?" Robert's laugh was bitter. "The realm bleeds while we sit here talking! I crushed them once, I'll do it again!"

Jon Arryn exchanged a worried glance with Eddard before trying once more. "Your Grace, perhaps we should hear Lord Tywin's report from Lannisport first? Understanding the full scope of these attacks may help us form a more effective response."

Robert's face was still purple with rage, but he dropped back into his seat, grabbing his wine goblet. "Fine. Tywin, tell us how badly they bloodied the Lannisters."

Jon watched as Tywin Lannister's face remained impassive, though his green eyes glittered with barely suppressed fury.

"Lannisport's defenses held, barely," Tywin stated, his voice cold and precise. "The harbor fortifications we constructed after the Greyjoy Rebellion prevented the raiders from breaching the city proper. However, our fleet..." He paused, and Jon could see the calculation in those green eyes, weighing every word. "Our fleet engaged the enemy vessels but was overwhelmed by their numbers. The combination of Ironborn longships and Volantene war galleys proved... challenging."

Robert snorted into his wine. "Challenging? From what I've read, they nearly burned every ship you had."

Jon noticed Tywin's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on his chair's armrest. "Twenty-eight ships lost, Your Grace. The enemy paid dearly for each one - we confirmed thirty-seven of their vessels sunk before our fleet was forced to retreat. Unfortunately, this left our harbor vulnerable."

"The docks?" Jon prompted gently, knowing how much it must pain Tywin to admit to such losses.

"Destroyed. The slavers seemed particularly focused on our shipping infrastructure. The main wharves were burned, warehouses looted, and the shipyards..." Tywin's pause spoke volumes. "It will take months to rebuild, perhaps longer."

Cersei's face had grown increasingly pale as her father spoke. Jon knew the queen well enough to recognize genuine fear beneath her usual mask of contempt. The attack on Lannisport had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.

"And the people?" Eddard asked quietly.

Tywin's expression hardened further. "Six hundred citizens were taken. Mostly from the merchant quarter and dock districts. The raiders seemed to target the wealthier households specifically, though they didn't discriminate once the fighting started."

Jon watched Robert's face darken further with each word. The king had always had a soft spot for the smallfolk, despite his other faults. The thought of his subjects being sold into slavery clearly tormented him.

"The city guard?" Jon asked, trying to keep the discussion focused on facts rather than emotions.

Tywin maintained his rigid composure as he delivered the report, though inside he seethed at having to admit such failures before the entire realm's nobility. "The City Guard numbered six hundred men, well-trained and equipped. They were initially overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers - reports suggest over two thousand combined raiders and unsullied hit the docks simultaneously."

He paused, carefully gauging the reactions around the great hall. Robert still gripped his wine goblet like he meant to crush it, while Ned Stark's face remained characteristically stoic. The Tyrells and Martells watched with poorly concealed interest - no doubt already calculating how this weakness could be exploited.

"We lost two hundred guardsmen in the initial assault," Tywin continued, his voice cold and precise. "The enemy used superior numbers to push through the harbor district before we could mount an organized defense. However," he allowed himself the smallest hint of pride here, "once reinforcements arrived from Casterly Rock, the remaining four hundred guardsmen rallied effectively. They managed to push the raiders back to the waterfront, though not before significant damage was done and losing many men to the unsullied spears."

They watched as Robert spat on the floor, his face contorted with revulsion at the mention of the Unsullied. The king's hatred of slavery was well-known, but the thought of eunuch slave soldiers seemed to particularly disgust him.

"Unsullied," Robert growled. "Castrated boys turned into mindless killers. No better than animals." He turned his attention to Brynden Tully. "Blackfish, what word from the Riverlands?"

Brynden straightened in his seat, his weathered face grave. "The coastal lords report multiple raids, Your Grace. Lord Mooton writes that Maidenpool's harbor was hit hard - thirty ships, mostly Ironborn longships with a few larger slave galleys providing support. They burned four merchant vessels and made off with several wealthy families before the town guard could organize a proper defense."

Owen noticed Edmure's hands clenching into fists as his uncle continued. The heir to Riverrun clearly took the attacks on his future bannermen personally.

"Seagard faced similar attacks," Brynden continued. "Lord Mallister's forces were better prepared - they've maintained strong coastal defenses since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Still, the raiders managed to burn part of the harbor and escape with captives before Jason could launch his ships."

"The pattern's the same everywhere," Brynden observed, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Quick strikes targeting small settlements and coastal castle harbors and wealthy districts, clearly aimed at maximum economic damage and high-value captives. They're in and out before any significant response can be mounted."

"These weren't just raids," Edmure interjected, unable to contain himself. "The riverlords report the attackers had detailed knowledge of our defenses, patrol schedules, even which households would make the most valuable targets. Someone's been feeding them information."

Owen watched the implications of that statement ripple through the gathered nobles. If the enemy had spies providing such detailed intelligence, nowhere along the coast was truly safe.

"How many taken from the Riverlands?" Robert demanded.

Brynden's face darkened. "At least eight hundred between Maidenpool, Seagard, and the smaller coastal settlements. Mostly women and children from merchant families, though they didn't discriminate once the fighting started. The raiders seemed to have specific targets in mind, but they took anyone they could grab once the alarms were raised."

Owen watched as Robert's meaty fist crashed onto the table again, rattling goblets and making the present lords and ladies wince. The king's face had progressed from purple to an alarming shade of crimson as he turned to Stannis and Mace Tyrell.

"Stannis! Can the Royal Fleet be made ready? Assembled at White Harbor to await our forces?" Robert's voice boomed through the great hall.

Owen noticed Stannis's jaw working back and forth - that characteristic grinding of teeth that seemed to accompany any interaction with his older brother. The Master of Ships sat stiffly in his chair, his posture rigid even by his usual standards.

"No," Stannis replied flatly. "I received word this morning. A significant portion of the Royal Fleet was present in King's Landing's harbor during the initial attack. Twelve warships lost, including the flagship King Robert's Hammer. Burned at their moorings or sunk blocking the harbor mouth."

Robert's face darkened further, if that was even possible. "And the rest?"

"Scattered," Stannis ground out, clearly hating to admit such weakness. "What remains of our naval strength is either actively engaging the raiders along the coast or protecting the regions not yet hit. The Redwyne fleet is defending the Reach. Lord Velaryon's ships patrol the waters around Driftmark and Dragonstone. The rest..." He paused, jaw clenching. "The rest are spread thin trying to protect our merchant shipping from being picked off in the Narrow Sea."

Everyone watched Robert's knuckles whiten around his wine goblet. The king's fury was a palpable force, but beneath it Owen could see genuine fear. For perhaps the first time in his reign, Robert Baratheon faced an enemy he couldn't simply smash with his new enchanted Ebony Warhammer.

Owen watched as Jon Arryn turned his weathered face toward Mace Tyrell and Stannis Baratheon. "My lords, how many ships could your coastal bannermen spare for immediate action?"

Mace rustled through several letters spread before him, his expression unusually serious. "The Redwyne fleet is already stretched thin protecting our shipping lanes," he began, scanning the messages from his bannermen. "But between Oldtown, the Arbor, and what we could pull from Shield Islands... perhaps twenty warships, though it would leave our own coasts vulnerable."

Stannis's jaw worked back and forth as he delivered his own assessment. "The Stormlands and Dragonstone could muster thirty vessels," he said, though his tone made it clear there was a catch. "However, most are converted merchant cogs - slower and less maneuverable than proper warships. They would be of limited use in a major naval engagement."

Owen noticed Jon Arryn's shoulders slump slightly at these numbers. The Hand of the King had likely hoped for better news, but fifty ships - many of them converted merchants - against the hundreds of warships the slavers could field was far from encouraging.

Robert's growl echoed through the hall. "Fifty ships?" He drained his wine cup and slammed it down. "Fifty fucking ships against hundreds of those slaver bastards? Those aren't odds, they're a death sentence!"

Prince Oberyn, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the discussion, as he sat next to his niece and nephew finally leaned forward in his seat. A knowing smile played across the Dornishman's lips.

"Your Grace, if I may... we seem to be overlooking the most powerful fleet in Westeros." Oberyn's dark eyes flickered between Owen and the Starks. "One that already proved quite capable of handling both Ironborn and Volantene ships. at white harbor."

Understanding rippled through the assembled lords and ladies as heads turned toward Owen and the Stark family. Owen met Eddard's gaze, a silent exchange passing between them. The North's naval power was meant to be their ace in the hole, kept away from conflict until absolutely necessary. But with thousands of innocent lives at stake, they could no longer afford such tactics.

Robert's bloodshot eyes widened as he looked between his old friend and Owen. "Ned? How many ships did you and your goodson say you have?"

Lord Stark cleared his throat. "One thousand five hundred, not counting trade vessels which are also heavily armed," his goodfather stated matter-of-factly. "Spread between White Harbor and Ice Crest, though the bulk dock at Ice Crest."

The change in atmosphere was immediate. Robert's face transformed from rage and despair to glee. Jon Arryn straightened in his chair, hope kindling in his tired eyes. Around the table, lords and ladies exchanged glances of surprise and calculation.

Jon Arryn leaned forward, his mind already working through the strategic implications. "How many could be spared, Ned? How many ships could the North commit to immediate action?"

Owen met Eddard's glance, giving a slight nod. They had discussed this possibility since word came from white harbor, going through various scenarios. Owen had already calculated the minimum forces needed to protect their own shores.

"Four hundred could be deployed to patrol Westeros's shores and keep the slavers at bay," Owen stated, his voice carrying clearly through the now-silent hall. "The rest could set sail for White Harbor to await the lords and their men for dealing with the Slaver threat."

Owen watched as Robert's meaty fist crashed onto the table again, but this time in jubilation rather than rage. Wine sloshed from nearby cups as the king's enthusiasm shook the heavy oak.

"Longshore! Get your arse back to that castle of yours at Sea Dragon Point!" Robert's voice boomed through the great hall, his earlier fury transformed into savage anticipation. "Ready that fleet - I want every ship you can spare waiting to smash those treacherous iron fuckers and their slaving fucks back into the sea they crawled from!"

Owen nodded as he exchanged another quick glance with his goodfather. Eddard's face remained carefully neutral, though Owen could read the resignation in his eyes. He had hoped to avoid a war, but the Ironborn's alliance with slavers had forced their hand.

"And any slaver or ironborn ship you find between here and there," Robert continued, jabbing a thick finger at the map spread across the table, "I want them sent to the bottom! Those rock-dwelling shits thought they could hide behind foreign slavers? We'll show them what happens to oathbreakers!"

The king turned his attention to Stannis and Mace Tyrell. "You two - send ravens to your lords. I want those fifty ships sailing for White Harbor as soon as possible. They'll join Owen's fleet from there." Robert's grin was fierce. "Let's show these fuckers what happens when they unite the Seven Kingdoms against them!"

Robert pushed himself to his feet, his voice rising to fill every corner of the great hall. "Let the ravens fly! Call the banners! I want every lord in Westeros to witness the Ironborn brought low for this betrayal!" He raised his wine cup high. "We'll make examples of these slaver-loving cunts! Every noble house will see what happens when you break faith with the Iron Throne!"

Owen watched as the assembled lords and ladies nodded in agreement with Robert's proclamation, chairs scraping against stone as they prepared to rise. Maester Luwin had already begun gathering his writing materials, no doubt anticipating a long night ahead drafting dozens of ravens to every corner of the realm.

"Your Grace, a moment if you will." Jon Arryn's measured voice cut through the bustle. The elderly Hand raised a sealed letter. "We received word from King's Landing this morning. The Sealord of Braavos has sent envoys seeking aid."

Owen noticed how the atmosphere in the great hall shifted. The Braavosi were proud and rarely asked for help, especially from Westeros.

"Several Braavosi dignitaries arrived at the Red Keep," Jon continued, breaking the seal to review the contents. "They had hoped to speak with you directly, Your Grace, join in an alliance against slavery in Essos but with both of us here at Winterfell..." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "They brought grave warnings about the scale of this slaver threat."

Robert waved his hand dismissively, wine sloshing in his cup. "Braavos has that great titan of theirs, don't they? Let them hold out with their fancy statue while we deal with these treacherous iron fuckers first." He jabbed a thick finger at the map where the Iron Islands lay. "Once we've broken these oath-breaking shits, then we'll turn our attention to these slaver cunts properly."

Owen exchanged a concerned glance with Eddard. They both knew the Titan of Braavos was impressive but not invincible. If the combined fleets of Volantis, Lys, and Myr truly meant to wage war, even the mighty Arsenal of Braavos might be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Owen noticed Tyrion shifting in his seat, the dwarf's mismatched eyes filled with worry as he finally broke his uncharacteristic silence. "What of Ice Crest? Surely the raiders would target such a prominent harbor with every other target they have attacked. How do you know that your waters aren't under siege right now and your Castle taken?"

A snort escaped Owen before he could contain it, and beside him, Sansa's musical laugh filled the great hall. The sound drew curious looks from the assembled lords and ladies, particularly from the Lannisters.

"We left Jon in charge of Ice Crest's defenses when we came to Winterfell," Owen explained, watching amusement dance in his wife's eyes. The mere suggestion that Ice Crest could be vulnerable seemed to entertain them both greatly.

Kevan Lannister leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your bastard brother-by-law? Aren't you worried he might be overwhelmed by such responsibility Or already fallen with your castle?"

Owen couldn't help but smile, remembering the extensive defensive systems he'd built into every inch of Ice Crest. The magical wards, the automated defenders, the artillery emplacements that could reduce entire fleets to splinters - and that was before considering the devastating power of the fortress's main magical cannon.

"Whatever Ironborn or slavers that may have dared venture near Ice Crest's waters must be already dead," Owen stated simply.

As they continued to walk away. he felt a familiar stirring in his soul as he and Sansa left the great hall alongside the Stark family. The sensation began as a gentle warmth in his chest, but quickly built into an overwhelming surge of energy. The ethereal music of the Celestial Forge filled his mind - crystalline chimes and otherworldly harmonies that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of reality.

The word "Worldsinger" blazed across his consciousness in letters of pure light. Knowledge flooded into him - ancient secrets of the Aeldari race, their mastery over matter and energy through the art of song. He saw countless images of graceful alien artisans using their voices to shape wraithbone and other psycho-reactive materials, creating weapons, vehicles, and entire cities through the power of their minds and voices alone.

The gift settled into his being, integrating seamlessly with his existing abilities. Owen now understood how to weave psychic energy through sound, using specific frequencies and harmonics to manipulate matter at its most fundamental level. Just as the Bonesinger shaped wraithbone with their songs, he could now command vegetation and natural materials to grow and form according to his will.

He was still processing the vast repository of knowledge that had been downloaded into his mind as they walked. The possibilities were staggering - he could create living architecture, grow forests in minutes, shape wood and stone as easily as clay. This power would add yet another layer to his already impressive arsenal of abilities.

They continued down the corridor toward their chambers, Owen's mind already racing with potential applications for this new gift. But for now, rest was needed. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, and they would need their strength to face them.