Robert Baratheon's massive frame shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as he surveyed the sprawling caravan that stretched behind him like some grotesque serpent. The sound of wheels grinding against dirt roads and the constant chatter of nobles grated on his nerves.
"Seven hells, Jon." Robert spat on the ground beside his horse. "We could have been there by now if it wasn't for this circus following us."
Jon Arryn's weathered face remained impassive. "Your Grace, the great houses merely wish to pay their respects to the North."
"Respect?" Robert's laugh boomed across the countryside. "They smell blood in the water, the vultures. Even my cursed good-father couldn't resist joining this parade."
Two months on the road had done nothing to improve Robert's mood. The memory of Tywin Lannister's arrival still rankled - the old lion appearing at the capital with his brother Kevan in tow, both insisting on proper preparation time. Cersei had backed them, of course. She always did.
"And those bloody Tyrells." Robert grabbed his wineskin, taking a long pull. "Ten days out and there they were, waiting with their banners and their flowery courtesies."
The image of Mace Tyrell's pompous face surfaced in Robert's mind. The Fat Flower had brought what seemed like half of Highgarden with him - his shrewd mother, his children, and enough servants to staff a small castle.
"Your Grace," Jon's voice carried a note of patience earned from years of counsel, "consider that this shows the realm's unity. All the great houses traveling together-"
"Unity?" Robert cut him off with another bark of laughter. "They're all trying to get their claws into whatever Ned's been hiding up there. Gold, weapons, these magical giants everyone's whispering about." He wiped wine from his beard. "Even you can't deny that, Jon."
The Hand of the King fell silent, unable to argue against such obvious truth. Robert watched a group of Tyrell knights trotting past, their armor gleaming unnecessarily bright, their horses draped in green and gold.
"Two months," Robert muttered again, his voice thick with frustration. "Two bloody months of listening to Cersei complain about the accommodations, watching Tywin scheme, and enduring Mace Tyrell's endless prattling about his daughter."
Robert's mood darkened further as Jon attempted to placate him. The old Hand opened his mouth to speak, but Robert cut him off with a wave of his meaty hand.
"And don't get me started on the bloody Dornish," Robert growled, taking another long drink from his wineskin. "The Red Viper himself, with his paramour and that whole nest of "Sand Snakes" as they call themselves. As if we needed more vipers in this procession."
He watched the Dornish contingent riding ahead, their copper-skinned faces and exotic clothing standing out among the other nobles. Princess Arianne's curves drew many eyes, though Robert forced his gaze elsewhere. The last thing he needed was Cersei's sharp tongue about that.
"They came up from Maidenpool, didn't they?" Robert asked, though he knew the answer. "Met us at Riverrun with the Tullys. All at Ned's request, or so I'm told. Was too drunk to bother hearing their damn greetings."
Jon nodded carefully. "Yes, Your Grace. Lord Stark specifically asked them to await our arrival."
"And that's the strangest part of it all." Robert shifted his considerable bulk in the saddle. "Why would Ned tell his own good-brother to wait? Edmure Tully and the Blackfish both, holding back until we arrived. His own family by marriage!"
Robert turned to Jon, his face flushed from both wine and agitation. "Well? You're supposed to be the clever one, Jon. Why would Ned do that?"
Jon Arryn's lined face remained carefully neutral. "Perhaps Lord Stark wishes to present a united front when we arrive. All the great houses entering Winterfell together."
"Horseshit," Robert spat. "Ned's never cared for such pageantry. There's something else at play here."
Robert watched as Jon reached into his cloak, pulling forth a carefully folded letter. The parchment was thick and fine - northern make, if Robert remembered correctly from his days fostering in the Vale, yet of much better quality than he remembered, much better than even they had in kings landing. The messenger who'd delivered it had been well-dressed, speaking with that distinctive northern accent, arriving just as they'd reached Seagard.
"This came before we stayed at the Twins," Jon said, his voice tinged with diplomatic caution. The memory of that particular stay made Robert's face darken. They'd been forced to accept Lord Walder Frey's hospitality, much to everyone's displeasure. The old lecher had spent the entire evening ogling every noble lady present, from the youngest Tyrell rose to Cersei herself. His queen's fury had been spectacular to behold, though she'd maintained her icy composure in public.
"Get on with it," Robert growled, taking another drink.
Jon unfolded the message. "Ned writes that he and a northern party will receive us at the Neck. He intends to personally escort us to Moat Cailin."
Robert's thick eyebrows drew together. "Moat Cailin? Not Winterfell?"
"The message is quite specific about Moat Cailin, Your Grace."
Robert studied his old mentor's face, noting the slight furrow in Jon's brow that betrayed his own uncertainty. For all his wisdom and experience, even the Hand of the King seemed puzzled by Ned's behavior.
"You don't know what he's playing at either, do you?" Robert asked, a hint of bitter amusement in his voice.
Jon's silence was answer enough. The old man carefully refolded the letter, tucking it back into his cloak. "I confess, Your Grace, Lord Stark's recent actions have been... difficult to interpret."
Robert snorted. "That's a diplomatic way of saying even you don't know what in seven hells Ned is thinking."
Robert watched Jon Arryn shake his head, confirming his suspicions. The old Hand's uncertainty only deepened Robert's unease about what they might find in the North.
Hours passed as they continued their journey, the massive royal procession winding its way through the countryside. When they finally crossed into the North proper, leaving the Frey lands behind, Robert nearly fell from his horse at the sight that greeted them.
"By the Seven," he breathed, his wineskin forgotten in his slack grip.
The Neck had changed. Where Robert remembered endless stretches of treacherous swampland from his youth, something entirely different sprawled before them. The infamous bogs and marshes still existed, yes, but they'd been pushed back from what appeared to be a proper road - no, more than proper. It was magnificent.
"Stop the procession!" Robert bellowed, his voice carrying over the column. He dismounted with surprising agility for a man his size, his boots hitting the dark stone surface with a solid thunk.
Around him, other nobles dismounted as well. Robert watched as Tywin Lannister himself knelt to examine the road's surface, his usual mask of superiority cracking slightly to reveal genuine surprise. Mace Tyrell stood slack-jawed, while even the Dornish contingent showed open amazement.
Robert dropped to one knee, running his hand over the smooth, dark stone. The surface was perfectly level, the stones fitted together with precision he'd never seen before. Not a single weed grew between the blocks, and the road stretched ahead of them like a black ribbon through the Neck's remaining swampland.
"What sorcery is this?" he muttered, pressing his palm flat against the cool stone. The road was elevated slightly above the surrounding terrain, with clever drainage channels keeping the surface dry despite the swampy environment.
Cersei's voice cut through his wonder. "Surely you don't mean to kneel in the dirt like a common peasant, my love?"
Robert ignored her, too fascinated by the evidence of the North's transformation. The road beneath his fingers was real enough - no trick of light or illusion. Ned had somehow managed to tame the Neck itself, building a highway where before there had been only treacherous marsh and bog.
"Tell me I'm not the only one seeing this," Robert demanded, his voice carrying the edge of a man questioning his own senses. The wine hadn't dulled his perception that much, had it?
Lords and ladies murmured their agreement, stepping forward to inspect different aspects of this impossible transformation. Tywin's green-flecked eyes narrowed as he continued studying the road's construction. Mace Tyrell had waddled over to examine what appeared to be drainage channels running alongside the elevated highway.
But it was Oberyn Martell who drew everyone's attention. The Red Viper had broken away from the group, moving with his characteristic fluid grace toward what should have been a stagnant pool of bog water. The kind Robert remembered from his youth - brackish, foul-smelling things that could make a man sick for days if he was fool enough to drink from them.
Robert's hand tightened on his wineskin as he watched the Dornishman kneel beside the pool. Oberyn's movements were careful, deliberate, as he cupped his hands and dipped them into the crystal-clear water. The liquid that rose in his palms bore no resemblance to the murky swamp water Robert expected.
"Seven hells, man, don't-" Robert started to warn, but Oberyn had already raised his hands to his lips.
The assembled nobles held their collective breath. Robert found himself waiting for the inevitable - for Oberyn to spit out the fouled water, or grimace at the taste of salt and rot that had always characterized the waters of the Neck.
Instead, Oberyn Martell's dark eyes widened in genuine surprise. He turned back to face the gathered crowd, water still dripping from his hands.
"Fresh," he declared, his voice carrying clear amazement. "Pure and sweet as any mountain spring. No salt, no trace of swamp or stagnation." He actually smiled, an expression of pure wonderment that looked strange on the normally sardonic face of the Red Viper. "This is impossible."
Robert pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Cersei's disapproving look at the dirt on his knees. He'd seen enough of Ned's changes. First the road, now this - somehow his old friend had managed to purify the very waters of the Neck itself.
Robert's attention snapped to Olenna Tyrell's voice as it drifted from the ornate carriage she shared with her granddaughter and grandson. "Well, that makes our travel a bit more easier and pleasant." The old woman's observation made him suddenly aware of something he'd missed in his fascination with the road and water - the air itself had changed.
Gone was the thick, cloying atmosphere he remembered from his youth. The putrid stench of rotting vegetation and stagnant water that had always characterized the Neck had vanished. Instead, the air was crisp and clean, carrying only the faintest hint of moisture. Robert took a deep breath, marveling at how his lungs didn't fill with the usual miasma of swamp gases.
"Something like this would have taken years," Mace Tyrell declared, his usual pompous tone replaced by genuine wonder. "Hundreds of workers, at least. And even then..." The Fat Flower gestured at the pristine landscape around them. "Even then, it wouldn't have been foolproof. There would still be traces of bogs around."
Robert grunted in reluctant agreement. For once, Mace was showing sense instead of just hot air. The Lord of Highgarden actually understood something about large-scale construction, given the Reach's extensive system of roads and farm land, even though he doubted the reach's own road held a candle to what they were seeing now. If he said this kind of transformation should have been impossible in such a short time, Robert was inclined to believe him.
"If no one saw Eddard Stark build these roads," Tywin Lannister's cool voice cut through the murmurs of amazement, "then I doubt clearing a swamp would be a problem for him."
Robert turned to study his good-father's face. The old lion's expression remained carefully neutral, but there was something in those green-flecked eyes - a calculation, an assessment of what this display of Northern capability might mean for the future.
Robert got on and urged his horse forward, the beast's hooves clicking rhythmically against the immaculate dark road. Behind him the party followed as well, the constant buzz of conversation drifted up from the sprawling procession.
"The drainage alone must have cost a fortune," Mace Tyrell's voice carried clearly. "And look at how the elevation prevents flooding, even with the surrounding wetlands."
"More impressive is the speed," Kevan Lannister replied. "These road works would take decades in the Westerlands, yet Stark has done it in mere years."
Robert took another pull from his wineskin, listening to the endless chatter. Even the guards and men-at-arms were talking amongst themselves, pointing out features of the road or marveling at the clear water in the channels.
"Robert," Jon Arryn drew his horse alongside Robert's. "Notice how the road curves ahead - it's designed to avoid the deeper parts of the swamp while maintaining a gentle grade."
Robert grunted in acknowledgment. Trust Jon to focus on the practical aspects. Though he had to admit, the old Hand had a point. The engineering was remarkable, allowing their massive procession to move at nearly thrice the speed he'd expected through the Neck.
"Seven hells!" Tyrion Lannister's exclamation drew Robert's attention. The dwarf was pointing toward something in the distance. "Are those... houses?"
Robert squinted through the wine-haze. Sure enough, a collection of sturdy buildings had appeared through the clearing mist. Not the temporary shelters or rickety platforms he remembered from his youth, but proper structures of stone and timber.
"Impossible," Tyrion continued, his mismatched eyes wide with surprise. "The only settlements in the Neck have always been crannogmen villages. No one else could survive here. The histories are quite clear on that."
Robert remembered those same histories from his own education by Ned in their youth. The Neck had been uninhabitable for anyone but the mysterious crannogmen, its hostile environment keeping even the hardiest northerners at bay. Yet here stood evidence to the contrary - a thriving village with smoke rising from chimneys and children playing in yards enclosed by neat wooden fences.
As they drew closer, Robert could see more details. The buildings were well-constructed, with slate roofs and glass windows. Gardens flourished in raised beds, and he could see what appeared to be a small marketplace where villagers went about their business.
"More than just surviving," Jon observed quietly. "They appear to be prospering."
Robert watched a group of children pause in their play to stare at the approaching procession. Their clothes were clean and well-made, their faces healthy and full. This was no struggling frontier settlement, but a proper village that would not have looked out of place in the Reach or the Westerlands.
"How many?" Robert demanded, turning to Jon. "How many of these settlements have sprung up?"
Before Jon could answer, another village came into view around the next bend in the road. And in the distance, Robert could see more structures dotting the transformed landscape of the Neck.
Robert raised his meaty hand, signaling another halt to the procession. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted a closer look for these weren't the hovels and mud huts he remembered from his last journey north all those years back. Without waiting for the customary announcements, he dismounted his horse, his boots hitting the strange dark stone of the road with a solid thunk.
Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan immediately moved to flank him, their white cloaks pristine despite the journey. Oberyn Martell's fluid grace brought him alongside, while Mace Tyrell huffed and puffed his way forward. Tywin and Kevan Lannister approached with measured steps, their green-flecked eyes taking in every detail. Tyrion waddled forward, his mismatched eyes wide with fascination, while Jon Arryn moved with the careful dignity of age.
Some of the ladies had also dismounted - Robert caught glimpses of elaborate dresses as they picked their way carefully across the immaculate street. Even cersei actually left her damn wheelhouse to join them.
The northern smallfolk immediately recognized their king, dropping to knees or deep bows. Mothers pulled their children close, though Robert noticed these weren't the usual dirty, snotty-nosed urchins he was accustomed to seeing in King's Landing's streets. These children wore clean, well-made clothes and had healthy, full faces.
"Look at them," Tyrion whispered, his voice carrying clear amazement. "I've never seen smallfolk so... clean. So well-fed." The dwarf's eyes narrowed as he studied the buildings. "And these houses - they're not normal construction. The stone isn't cut and laid; these are bricks of some kind. And that black material..." He gestured at the strange, smooth sections that seemed to be melted into place. "I've never seen its like before."
Robert watched the other lords and ladies taking in the impossible sight. The houses were solid structures that would have looked at home in Lannisport or Oldtown - if not for their strange construction. Windows of clear glass caught the northern sunlight, while neat personal gardens showed carefully tended vegetables and herbs. The roads between buildings were paved with the same dark stone as the main highway, and Robert couldn't spot or smell a single pile of waste or midden heap that usually characterized even the finest villages.
Robert watched as a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair stepped forward from the crowd. The northerner dropped into a respectful bow, though Robert noted he moved with surprising dignity for a village elder.
"Your Grace, milord's and ladies. I am Rogen, head of Blackwater Village." His voice carried the distinctive northern accent, but his words were clear and well-spoken. "Forgive us, we had no word of your coming."
Jon Arryn stepped forward, his weathered face creasing in a gentle smile. "No forgiveness needed, good man. We're simply passing through and found ourselves curious about your settlement."
Robert nodded in agreement, his eyes still roaming over the impossibly well-maintained buildings. "Show us around then, Rogen. I'd like to see what lord starks been up to in these parts."
"Of course, Your Grace." Rogen straightened, gesturing toward the village center. "If you'll follow me."
As they walked, Robert couldn't help but marvel at the immaculate streets. Not a speck of mud or waste to be seen, despite the surrounding wetlands. The houses they passed were uniform in their sturdy construction, though each bore personal touches - carved doorframes, painted shutters, small gardens with herbs and vegetables.
"This is our smithy," Rogen indicated a large building with a smoking chimney. The forge inside gleamed with well-maintained tools, and Robert could see finished items that would not have looked out of place in a city workshop.
They continued past a stable filled with healthy horses, their coats gleaming. A grain mill turned steadily nearby, its wheel powered by a channel of clear water. The smell of fresh bread drew them toward a bakery, where warm loaves cooled on wooden racks.
"A bakery?" Jaime Lannister's voice carried clear disbelief. "I've never seen a village this size with its own baker. Even the larger settlements near Casterly Rock make do with communal ovens at best."
Robert had to agree. The entire village spoke of prosperity he'd never witnessed among the smallfolk, not even in the richest parts of the Reach. Every building was solid stone and timber, with glass windows and proper chimneys. The villagers themselves wore good wool clothing, and their children played with wooden toys that showed skilled craftsmanship.
Robert watched as Jon Arryn stepped forward, his old mentor's curiosity evident in his weathered features. "Might we see inside one of these houses?" Jon asked, his tone gentle but carrying the weight of his position.
Rogen's face lit up with pride. "It would be my honor to show you my own home, milord." He gestured toward one of the larger buildings near the village center.
As they approached, Robert noticed Oberyn Martell's dark eyes fixed on something at ground level. The Red Viper moved with his characteristic grace, crouching to examine what appeared to be bronze pipes emerging from the ground and disappearing into the house's foundation.
"What purpose do these serve?" Oberyn asked, running his fingers along the metalwork with evident curiosity.
"Aye, milord, those be for the shower," Rogen replied, a hint of pride in his voice.
Robert watched as confused glances were exchanged among the assembled nobles. Even Tywin's carefully controlled expression showed a flicker of bewilderment.
"Shower?" Cersei's voice dripped with disdain. "Like rain?"
Robert caught the slight twitch at the corner of Rogen's mouth, though the northerner maintained his respectful demeanor. "No, m'lady. If you'll follow me inside, I'd be happy to show you."
Robert noticed how even Tyrion's usual sardonic expression had given way to genuine curiosity as they followed Rogen into his home. Whatever this "shower" was, it had captured everyone's attention - even his own wine-addled mind wanted to know more.
Robert stepped into the house, his nostrils immediately filled with the enticing aroma of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. His stomach growled, reminding him it had been hours since their last proper meal.
"My deepest apologies, Your Grace," Rogen said, gesturing to a half-eaten meal on a solid wooden table. "I was just having my midday meal when word came of your arrival."
Robert waved off the apology, his attention drawn to the interior of the home. The furniture was well-crafted - sturdy chairs with comfortable cushions, shelves lined with pottery and books, and cabinets that wouldn't have looked out of place in a merchant's home in King's Landing. While not as ornate as the pieces in the Red Keep, everything spoke of quality craftsmanship and comfort rather than mere functionality.
"Your home does you credit," Oberyn remarked, running his fingers along the smooth surface of a cabinet. "These pieces must have cost a pretty penny. Does the village produce enough to afford such luxuries?"
Rogen's chest swelled with obvious pride. "Aye, my lord. We send regular shipments to White Harbor each month - more food than we ever dreamed possible before the new methods came along. The gold from those sales has made life comfortable for most everyone here."
"More than you dreamed possible?" Robert caught the phrase, his drunken mind sharpening with interest.
"Yes, Your Grace. With the new glasshouse, we harvest more in a month than we used to see in half a year. White Harbor's merchants can't get enough of our produce, and the coin flows steady as a stream. I hear tell they sell a lot of it across the sea and theirs always demand."
Robert noticed Jon Arryn and Tywin exchange meaningful glances at this casual mention of such agricultural abundance. Even the Reach, with its famous fertility, couldn't boast of monthly harvests. The rumors had been true.
Rogen led them into what appeared to be a dedicated washing room. The space was unlike anything he'd seen before - walls and floor covered in neat, uniform tiles that reminded him of the mosaics in the Red Keep, though far more practical in their arrangement. A window let in natural light, and there, mounted on the wall, were the bronze pipes they'd observed outside, culminating in a strange circular fixture with tiny perforations.
"This here's the shower, Your Grace," Rogen explained, his northern accent thick with pride. "The whole village is connected by these pipes - brings clean water right to our homes from the spring all the way up in the hills."
Robert's eyebrows rose as Rogen continued, "We use it for drinking, washing, cooking - everything really. No more hauling water from wells or rivers."
The assembled nobles exchanged glances. Even in the Red Keep, servants had to carry water up from wells for baths and washing. The idea of water flowing directly into homes was... revolutionary.
"You expect us to believe water simply appears at your command?" Cersei's voice dripped with skepticism.
Rogen's response was to step forward and grasp one of the metal knobs mounted on the wall. With a simple turn, water began streaming from the perforated head above, falling in a steady curtain onto the tiled floor below. Several of the ladies gasped, and Robert heard Mace Tyrell mutter a prayer to the Seven.
The northern villager stepped back, allowing the nobles to inspect the falling water more closely. Kevan Lannister moved forward, his usual reserved demeanor giving way to open curiosity. He reached out, letting the water run over his fingers.
"It's hot!" Kevan exclaimed, pulling his hand back in surprise. Steam began to rise from the falling water, visible in the cool northern air that drifted through the window.
Robert watched as his good-brother examined his wet fingers with wonderment. "Hot water, on demand?" Kevan asked, his voice carrying clear amazement. "Without heating it over a fire?"
Robert watched as Rogen nodded, his weathered face showing a mix of pride and uncertainty. "Aye mlord. I don't know how to explain it really. All I can do is show you."
The northerner led them back toward the entry way of his home, where he knelt next to the wall. The groups interest piqued as Rogen carefully removed several bricks, revealing something that made even Tywin Lannister step forward for a closer look.
A strange metal contraption sat within the wall, covered in knobs, buttons, and dials that reminded Robert of the mechanical toys he'd seen merchants bring from across the Narrow Sea. Steam rose from its surface, and when Rogen gestured for them to feel it, the metal was noticeably hot to the touch. Copper and bronze pipes connected to the device disappeared into the walls and floor.
"Lord Longshore and Lord Stark explained it's meant to keep our water hot and clean," Rogen said, scratching his head. "Heats the home too. Though none of us touch it much - don't know how to control the thing properly."
It was then that Tywin spoke up, his voice carrying its usual measured tone though Robert detected a hint of surprise. "I've only just noticed - this house isn't cold."
Robert blinked, suddenly aware of what had been nagging at the back of his mind since they'd entered. Despite being in the North, despite the cool air outside, the interior was as warm as a pleasant day in King's Landing. Looking around, he saw the same realization dawning on the faces of the other nobles.
Cersei had stopped hugging her furs close. Oberyn, used to the heat of Dorne, seemed perfectly comfortable. Even Mace Tyrell, who'd been complaining about the northern cold since they'd crossed the Neck, had unconsciously loosened his collar.
"Seven hells," Robert muttered, running a hand along the warm wall. This was no ordinary hearth-heat that faded as you moved away from the fire. The warmth seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, creating an even, comfortable temperature throughout the house.
Robert watched Rogen's weathered face break into a proud smile. "Aye, it's been like this for four years. We have fireplaces in our homes and lots of dry wood stocked for winter, Your Grace, m'lords, but we never use it. We have three wells dug of clean water but covered and no use for them since we get clean water through the pipes." The northerner's chest swelled with obvious pride. "It's a miracle what Lord Stark and Lord Longshore has done for us smallfolk."
Robert exchanged glances with Jon Arryn, seeing his own amazement reflected in his old mentor's eyes. Four years. In just four years, Ned and this mysterious Lord Longshore had transformed a simple northern village into something that put parts of King's Landing to shame.
Rogen led them from his house, guiding the procession along the immaculate streets. They walked a short distance from the village proper, coming to a cleared area that made Robert stop dead in his tracks.
Two enormous wooden buildings dominated the space, their construction as solid and well-crafted as everything else they'd seen. "These be our storehouses, Your Grace," Rogen explained, gesturing to the massive structures. "For the food we farm."
But it was what stood just a few feet away that drew gasps from the assembled nobles. Three large glasshouses gleamed in the northern sun, their crystal glass walls catching and reflecting the light. Robert had seen glasshouses before - the Reach had a few, and he recalled something similar in the gardens of the Red Keep. But these were different. Larger, more elaborate, and humming with a sense of purpose that spoke of regular use rather than mere decoration.
Robert felt his mind struggling to process everything they'd seen. Clean streets, heated homes, running water, massive storehouses, and now these glasshouses. What in seven hells had Ned been up to these past years?
Robert staggered slightly as he entered the glasshouse, the warmth inside a sharp contrast to the cool northern air. The smell hit him first - rich earth and growing things, reminiscent of the Reach during harvest time. But this was the North, where such bounty should be impossible.
"Seven hells," he muttered, his eyes widening at the sight before him.
Rows upon rows of vegetables stretched into the distance of the glasshouse, their abundance almost obscene in its defiance of nature. Cabbages larger than his head nestled in neat rows, their leaves a vibrant green that spoke of perfect health. Beside them, carrots pushed up through the dark soil, their tops hinting at roots that would dwarf a man's hand.
Robert watched as Mace Tyrell, his face flushed with either excitement or indignation, moved to examine a cluster of tomato plants. The vines were heavy with fruit, each tomato perfectly ripe and red. The Lord of Highgarden reached out with trembling fingers to touch one, as if expecting it to dissolve like morning mist.
"These... these are impossible," Mace stammered. "Even in the Reach, we can't grow tomatoes this size in winter."
Oberyn Martell had drifted toward a section that made Robert's eyebrows rise even higher. Fruit trees - actual fruit trees - grew in ordered rows, their branches bent low with their bounty. Oranges, mangoes, and lemons hung ripe and ready for picking, their colors bright against the green leaves.
"We haven't managed this in Dorne," the Red Viper admitted, his usual smirk replaced by genuine amazement. "And we have the climate for it."
The ladies of the court moved through the rows with varying degrees of wonder and disbelief. Margaery Tyrell, in particular, seemed entranced by the grape vines that climbed along carefully constructed supports. The fruit hung in heavy clusters, each grape swollen and perfect.
Suddenly, a mechanical clicking sound filled the air. Robert watched with amusement as several of the ladies, including Margaery, jumped back with startled squeals. Bronze pipes that ran along the rows had come to life, spraying a fine mist of water over the crops.
"The watering happens by itself," Rogen explained, seemingly unfazed by the spectacle that had the southern nobles gaping. "Every few hours, regular as sunrise. Lord Longshore set it all up himself, or so I'm told."
Robert noticed Tywin's calculating gaze taking in every detail, while Jon Arryn moved closer to examine the pipes with scholarly interest. Even Cersei had abandoned her usual mask of disdain, watching the automated watering system with poorly concealed fascination.
"And this... this grows all year round?" Robert asked, gesturing at the impossible bounty around them.
"Aye, Your Grace," Rogen nodded. "We harvest every month, sometimes more often for the faster-growing crops. Between the three glasshouses, we're never short of fresh food, even if the deepest winter comes."
Robert ran a hand through his beard, his mind racing despite the wine. Three glasshouses feeding an entire village, producing more food in a month than they'd seen in half a year before. If every northern village had this...
He watched as Margaery recovered from her surprise and moved to examine the grapes more closely, her father hovering nearby with an expression that mixed wonder with concern. The Reach's power had always been rooted in its agricultural abundance. But this... this changed everything.
Robert watched as Cersei moved gracefully between the rows of citrus trees, her golden hair catching the filtered sunlight through the glass panels above. She reached for a particularly large orange, testing its weight in her palm. As she turned to ask what appeared to be a question, her words transformed into a piercing scream that made Robert's wine-addled head throb. Her Handmaidens Senelle and Taena Merryweather's shrieks joined hers in a cacophony that had Robert reaching for his nonexistent Warhammer.
"Seven hells, woman! What-" Robert's irritated query died in his throat as he followed Cersei's trembling finger.
A group of metal constructs, each about the size of a large dog, emerged from between the rows of vegetables. Their bronze bodies gleamed in the filtered light, steam hissing from joints as they moved with an unnatural precision on eight articulated legs. The mechanical spiders' multiple eyes glowed with an inner light that made Robert's skin crawl.
Weapons appeared as if by magic - Jaime practically materialized at Cersei's side, his sword already drawn. Kevan and Stannis, ever the soldiers, had their blades out and ready, their faces set in grim determination. Even Oberyn had produced a dagger from somewhere, though his expression showed more fascination than fear.
"Bloody hells," Stannis cursed uncharacteristically, his jaw clenched tight as he positioned himself between the constructs and the rest of the group.
"Your Grace! Milords, miladies, please!" Rogen's voice carried a note of panic as he stepped forward, hands raised. "There's no need for weapons! They're just steam constructors - they tend the glasshouses! They won't harm anyone!"
Robert watched, fascinated despite himself, as the mechanical spiders completely ignored their drawn weapons and frightened expressions. One construct moved to a nearby tomato plant, its front appendages delicately pruning away dead leaves. Another began methodically turning the soil around a row of cabbages, while a third adjusted one of the water pipes with surprising precision.
"Gods be good," Robert heard Mace Tyrell whisper as they watched the automatons work. The Lord of Highgarden had gone pale next to his old mother who seemed the same, his sword hand trembling slightly as one of the constructs passed within feet of him, paying him no more mind than it would a garden post.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" Cersei demanded, still pressed against Jaime's chest, though her initial terror had given way to a mix of disgust and curiosity.
"Not sorcery, m'lady," Rogen explained, his voice steady now that no one seemed about to start hacking at the machines. "Lord Longshore's craft, this is. They keep the glasshouses running proper-like, day and night. We hardly have to lift a finger in here anymore, save for the harvesting."
Robert watched, mind reeling, as the mechanical spiders continued their methodical work. His large frame swayed slightly - though whether from the wine or shock, he couldn't be sure. The constructs moved with an eerie grace, their bronze limbs clicking against the stone paths between the plant rows.
"Put away your steel," he commanded, his voice carrying the authority that had once rallied armies. "If Ned Stark allows these... things in his lands, there must be good reason."
Reluctantly, blades disappeared back into sheaths. Robert noticed Jaime's hand remained firmly on his pommel, and Stannis looked ready to draw at a moment's notice. But the tension in the air eased somewhat as the constructs continued their tasks, showing no interest in the gathered nobles.
"Lord Longshore built these himself?" Robert asked Rogen, unable to tear his eyes away from the mechanical marvels. One of the spiders had produced what appeared to be pruning shears from somewhere within its body, carefully trimming away dead leaves from a grape vine.
"Aye, Your Grace. Though truth be told, we don't rightly know how many there are anymore." Rogen scratched his head. "They seem to... multiply, if you take my meaning. Rumor is he Started with just two, now there must be dozens working the fields and glasshouses around the north."
Robert's mind struggled to process this information. Self-replicating mechanical servants that tended crops without rest or complaint. No wonder the North had grown so prosperous. He glanced at Jon Arryn, seeing his own amazement reflected in his foster father's eyes.
"And these... constructors, they work in other villages as well?" Cersei asked, her voice carrying a sharp edge despite her attempt at casual inquiry.
"Oh aye, your grace," Rogen nodded. "Every village with glasshouses has them now. Though I hear the bigger keeps have even more impressive ones. Ones that look like men and the like."
Robert noticed Tywin's eyes narrow at this, while Mace Tyrell seemed to choke on air. Even Oberyn's usual smirk had given way to a calculating look that reminded Robert uncomfortably of the Red Viper's reputation for curiosity about unusual weapons and devices.
A mechanical clicking drew their attention as one of the constructs approached their group. Several of the ladies stepped back, but the spider-like machine ignored them completely. Instead, it moved to a nearby workbench, its front appendages sorting through various gardening tools with surprising dexterity.
"Seven hells and my ancestors," Robert muttered, watching the construct select specific tools as if guided by an invisible hand. "Ned, what have you and this Longshore fellow been up to?"
Owen sat atop his stallion, the beast's midnight coat gleaming in the weak northern sun. The mount was one of his finest creations - enhanced through magic and alchemy to be stronger, faster, and more intelligent than any natural horse. He had named him Altivo, a little personal memory from earth. Next to him, Lord Stark's own destrier shifted restlessly, sensing its enhanced companion's supernatural nature.
The guards behind them were a testament to Owen's craftsmanship. Their armor gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, each plate perfectly fitted and decorated with intricate wolf and ice crystal designs that seemed to catch every ray of light. The steel had been folded countless times, enhanced with trace amounts of stalhrim to make it nearly indestructible while remaining lighter than normal plate armor.
Owen flipped through his notebook, making additional calculations for his latest project - a network of enchanted waypoints that could potentially revolutionize travel through the North. The leather-bound book was filled with complex mathematical formulas and arcane symbols that would have baffled even the most learned maesters.
"What do you think keeps them?" Eddard asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over their group.
Owen closed his book with a sigh, tucking it away in his saddlebag. His gaze swept across the misty swampland where Greywater Watch should have been - not that anyone could ever be certain of its location. The mobile castle was one of the North's most peculiar defenses, though Owen had to admit its constant movement made it difficult for even his tracking spells to pin down.
"Probably gawking at the new smallfolk villages every thirty seconds," Owen replied, his tone carrying clear boredom. The statement wasn't entirely unfair - the newly constructed settlements along the northern road were unlike anything the southern lords had ever seen, with their heated homes, running water, and amenities.
Owen shifted in his saddle, the enhanced leather creaking softly. His fingers drummed against the pommel, a habit he'd developed when thinking through complex problems. The waiting was tedious, but it gave him time to consider the approaching political dance they'd soon need to perform.
"These southerners haven't seen anything like what we've built," Owen said, his tone carrying a hint of pride mixed with concern. "Every village, every improvement, every magical creation - it's going to shake their worldview."
"Mind your courtesies when they arrive," Eddard reminded him, his voice stern but carrying the warmth of a father figure. "Remember Maester Luwin's lessons about addressing royalty."
Owen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. After four years of careful planning and preparation, he wasn't about to ruin everything by forgetting basic etiquette. "I haven't forgotten, Lord Stark. Though..." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "I wonder if you're prepared to see your old friend again."
Eddard turned sharply in his saddle, grey eyes narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"
Before Owen could respond, movement caught his eye. Through the morning mist, banners began to materialize - the crowned stag of Baratheon prominent among them, followed by the lions of Lannister, the roses of Tyrell, and what seemed like every other major house of the south.
Owen watched the approaching party with carefully concealed interest, his enhanced senses picking up details that others might miss. The southern nobles' reactions to the northern road had left their marks - their clothes and horses showed signs of hard travel despite the improved conditions, suggesting they'd pushed their pace in their eagerness to reach them.
As he dismounted Altivo, Owen noted how his magically-enhanced stallion drew curious glances from the approaching party. The beast's supernatural grace and intelligence were difficult to disguise, and Owen could see the calculating looks from horse masters among the southern retinue.
Robert Baratheon cut an imposing figure despite his obvious weight gain, his booming voice carrying across the misty morning air. The king's eyes were sharp despite what Owen assumed was an early hangover, taking in every detail of their welcoming party with surprising alertness.
Owen dismounted and knelt alongside Lord Stark, observing the other arrivals through his peripheral vision. Cersei emerged from the wheelhouse with practiced grace, though Owen detected a slight tremor in her movements - likely residual unease from their encounter with the steam constructors. Behind her, the royal children presented a study in contrasts: Joffrey's barely concealed sneer, Myrcella's genuine curiosity, and young Tommen's innocent wonder as he clutched his sister's hand.
The Dornish contingent moved with fluid grace, Oberyn's dark eyes already scanning their surroundings while Ellaria Sand maintained a protective proximity to the Sand Snakes. Arianne and Quentyn positioned themselves carefully - close enough to show unity but far enough to establish their own presence.
The Tyrells arranged themselves with practiced precision. Olenna's sharp gaze missed nothing, while Margaery maintained an expression of perfect courtesy that didn't quite mask her keen interest. Willas stood with dignity despite his leg, his intelligent eyes already assessing the northern party's armor and weapons.
The Lannisters completed the group, Tywin's commanding presence drawing attention despite his silence. Kevan positioned himself slightly behind his brother, while Tyrion managed to appear both interested and sardonic simultaneously.
"Get up, get up!" Robert bellowed, pulling Ned into a bone-crushing embrace. "Gods, but it's good to see you, you frozen-faced bastard!"
Owen rose smoothly, his enhanced physique making the movement appear effortless despite his armor. He kept his expression neutral but pleasant, already noting the subtle reactions his appearance drew from the gathered nobles.
He maintained his composed demeanor despite noticing the appreciative and lustful glances being cast his way. His now magically enhanced appearance drew attention from many of the noble ladies present - Queen Cersei's emerald eyes lingered longer than proper, while Arianne Martell made no attempt to hide her bold appraisal. Margaery Tyrell's assessment was more subtle but no less intent, hidden behind a perfect mask of courtly manners. The Sand Snakes' gazes held both curiosity and hunger, reminding Owen of their father's infamous reputation.
He ignored these reactions, focusing instead on the reunion playing out before him. Robert's booming voice carried across the misty morning air as he clasped Ned's shoulders.
"Why haven't you come to see me? All these years, and not one visit south!" Robert demanded, his face red with emotion - or perhaps the morning's wine.
Eddard's response was characteristically understated. "I've been holding the North for you, Your Grace."
"And changing it for the better, it seems," Jon Arryn interjected, stepping forward with a warm smile. His keen eyes had been taking in every detail of their welcome party, from their exceptional armor and weapons to the improved road they stood upon.
Owen watched as Eddard embraced his former guardian, genuine affection evident in the greeting. The two men had not seen each other since the Greyjoy Rebellion, and their reunion carried none of the boisterous energy of Robert's but held just as much meaning.
Owen maintained his composure as Robert Baratheon's attention turned to him, the king's bleary eyes squinting slightly.
"Who's this then, Ned? Your son named after me? Robb was it?" Robert asked, his wine-roughened voice carrying across the misty morning air.
"No, Your Grace," Eddard corrected smoothly. "This is Lord Owen Longshore, Lord of Sea Dragon Point and Castle Ice Crest. My goodson, married to my daughter Sansa."
Owen felt the immediate shift in attention, like a physical wave washing over him. The assembled lords' gazes sharpened with newfound interest. Tywin Lannister's green-flecked eyes bore into him with calculating intensity, while Jon Arryn studied him with thoughtful consideration. Even those who had been maintaining casual poses suddenly stood straighter, their attention firmly fixed on him.
Robert looked Owen up and down, his eyebrows rising. "Gods, you're a big one! The North makes them hardy, doesn't it, Ned?" He let out a booming laugh. "No wonder you chose him for your girl!"
Owen executed a perfect bow, his enhanced physique making the movement appear graceful despite his armor. "It is an honor to meet you in person, Your Grace."
Robert waved away the formality with another laugh. "Seven hells, man, none of that! You're Ned's goodson - that makes you practically family. We don't stand on ceremony in the family, do we, Ned?"
Before Eddard could respond, Mace Tyrell stepped forward, his rich clothes rustling as he moved to greet the Warden of the North. "Lord Stark, it has been far too long," he declared, his manner effusive. "The Reach sends its warmest regards."
Oberyn Martell followed close behind, his movements fluid and graceful. "Lord Stark," he said with a slight incline of his head. "Allow me to present my niece and nephew, Princess Arianne and Prince Quentyn Martell." He gestured to his companions with characteristic Dornish flair. "And of course, my paramour Ellaria Sand, and my daughters."
Owen watched as the introductions continued, noting how each noble managed to position themselves to maintain clear views of both him and Lord Stark during their greetings. The political dance had begun, and he could already see the wheels turning behind their carefully composed expressions.
Tywin Lannister stepped forward next, his presence commanding attention even in this gathering of powerful lords. The Old Lion moved with practiced ease, Kevan and Tyrion flanking him like perfectly positioned chess pieces. His greeting to Eddard was perfectly cordial, yet carried that underlying current of calculation that seemed to permeate everything the Lannister patriarch did.
When Tywin turned to Owen, their eyes met in a silent assessment. Owen recognized the look in those green-flecked eyes - he'd seen it countless times in his previous life during high-stakes business negotiations. Tywin was weighing him, measuring his worth, seeking any crack in his armor that might be exploited to benefit House Lannister. Owen kept his expression pleasant but neutral, knowing this moment would set the tone for their future interactions.
"Lord Longshore," Tywin said, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of courtesy and command that few could master. "Your reputation precedes you. The improvements to the North have not gone unnoticed as we travelled."
Owen inclined his head respectfully, but maintained eye contact. "You honor me, Lord Tywin. The North has been good to me, and I merely seek to repay that kindness."
A flicker of something - perhaps approval, perhaps frustration at finding no obvious weakness - crossed Tywin's face before his mask of perfect courtesy returned.
Queen Cersei approached next, her golden hair catching the weak northern sunlight. Owen watched as she exchanged greetings with Eddard, who executed a perfect courtly bow and kissed her fingers with appropriate reverence. The Stark lord's greeting to the royal children was equally proper, though Owen noticed how Joffrey barely acknowledged it, already displaying the arrogance that would later define him.
When Cersei turned to Owen, he dropped to one knee as protocol demanded. Taking her offered hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers in a perfectly proper kiss. Yet through this seemingly innocent contact, Owen could feel the heat of her gaze upon him. His enhanced senses picked up her quickened heartbeat, the slight catch in her breath as she studied his form. Her green eyes, so like her father's yet burning with a different kind of hunger, roamed over him with poorly concealed desire and lust.
"Rise, Lord Longshore," she commanded, her voice carrying a sultry undertone that would have been imperceptible to normal hearing. "We have heard such fascinating tales of your work here in the North."
"Indeed Ned, we have much to discuss," Robert's voice boomed across the gathering. His bleary eyes had sharpened with unusual focus as he gestured at their surroundings. "These glasshouses, metal spiders, these homes for the smallfolk, all this talk of trade with Essos... I was not going to believe till I saw it myself. And now that I have..."
Before Robert could finish his thought, Mace Tyrell stepped forward eagerly, his rich clothes rustling. "Many in the Reach had wondered why the grain shipments from the North had stopped," he proclaimed, his chest puffing out importantly. "And now that I've seen these glasshouses and how they can be harvested from monthly..."
"Do be quiet, Mace," Olenna Tyrell cut in sharply, fixing Eddard with her shrewd gaze. "What I believe my son means to ask, Lord Stark, is whether you had ever intended to share these innovations with the rest of Westeros?"
Owen noted how the assembled nobles leaned forward slightly at this question, their attention razor-sharp despite their carefully maintained expressions of polite interest. Before Eddard could respond, Stannis spoke up, his jaw clenched tight.
"And what of the North's new navy?" he ground out, clearly unable to contain the question any longer. "Our reports indicate ships of unprecedented design and capability have been sailing these four years."
The tension in the air grew thicker as the assembled lords and ladies awaited Eddard's response. However, before either Ned or Owen could address these pointed inquiries, movement from the back of the group drew their attention.
Brynden and Edmure Tully, who had been somewhat forgotten in the initial greetings, made their way forward. Owen watched as Eddard's face lit up with genuine warmth at the sight of his brothers-in-law, a welcome reprieve from the increasingly charged atmosphere.
"These questions are not for today," Jon Arryn interjected smoothly, his diplomatic experience showing as he defused the situation. "I'm sure all will be answered at Winterfell."
Owen couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face as Eddard nodded at Jon Arryn's diplomatic intervention.
"Indeed, all will be explained at Winterfell," Eddard agreed. "But first, we shall rest at Moat Cailin for the night. The fortress stands ready to receive such noble guests."
Mace Tyrell's face fell instantly. "Surely you jest, Lord Stark," he protested, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a discreet volume. "We would rather make camp than shelter in ruins."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the southern nobles. Owen caught sight of Tywin's slight frown, Oberyn's raised eyebrow, and the way Olenna's lips pursed in disapproval. Even Cersei failed to completely mask her distaste at the prospect of staying in what they believed to be a crumbling fortress.
Owen's smile widened slightly as he mounted Altivo, thoroughly enjoying their ignorance of the they were about to see.
Owen rode at the head of the procession alongside Eddard, listening to the reactions of their southern guests with barely concealed amusement. The improved northern road allowed them to make good time, and within two hours they crested a hill overlooking Moat Cailin.
The sight that greeted the southern lords was exactly what Owen and eddard had wanted them and the rest of the south to see - a magnificent ruin, crumbling yet still formidable. He'd spent years maintaining this illusion and the magical drain was constant, like a slow leak in his energy reserves that never quite sealed.
"Well Jon," Robert's voice boomed as he urged his horse forward, addressing his Hand. "Seems like the rumors weren't all true. Still seems like a ruin to me. An impressive one to be sure and it would be bloody murder to take even with a hundred thousand men, but still a ruin."
The other southern lords moved their mounts closer, each studying the fortress with varying degrees of interest. Owen noticed Oberyn's analytical gaze, likely comparing it to Dornish strongholds, while Tywin and Kevan exchanged meaningful glances. Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something wasn't quite right. Mace Tyrell looked disappointed, while Brynden and Edmure Tully showed polite interest.
Eddard shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable with the deception. He turned to Owen with an almost apologetic expression. "Are you ready?"
Owen released a heavy sigh. "I've been ready for years," he admitted quietly. "Holding the illusion was hell on my magic." The constant drain had been like maintaining a muscle flex for four years straight - manageable, but exhausting.
With a snap of Owen's fingers, the air around Moat Cailin seemed to shimmer and ripple. The illusion that had stood for four years dissolved like morning mist, revealing the true magnificence of the restored fortress beneath. The southern lords and ladies collectively gasped as the crumbling ruins transformed before their eyes.
Three massive walls of precise black and golden-green brick rock, ebony and orichalcum ore, encircled the fortress, their surfaces gleaming in the northern sun. The structure dominated the landscape, stretching far wider than the illusion had suggested. The inner keep soared skyward, its brick and ebony construction rising proudly where rotting wooden structures had appeared to stand moments before. Twenty towers, each restored to their original glory and enhanced with magical ore pierced the sky like spears.
Northern soldiers in pristine armor patrolled the walls with disciplined precision. Massive cannons lined the battlements, their barrels catching the light as they tracked the movement below. Archers stood at regular intervals, their presence a clear reminder of the fortress's defensive capabilities.
At the main gates, which were seven layers thick with reinforced secondary barriers, stood six towering Dwarven Colossi. The thirty-foot mechanical guardians remained motionless but alert, their massive sword arms and flame cannons ready to defend against any threat.
Owen savored the stunned silence that followed the revelation especially as the southern ladies joined them and witnessed the large and near impossible structure that lay before them. Robert's mouth hung open, his face reddening as he struggled to process the transformation. Beside him, Jon Arryn's usually composed features showed naked shock, his eyes darting from one defensive feature to another as he calculated the fortress's military implications.
Tywin Lannister's mask of indifference cracked, his jaw tightening as he took in the gleaming walls and defenders. His brother Kevan unconsciously gripped his reins tighter, while Tyrion leaned forward in his saddle with undisguised fear yet awe.
"Seven hells," Oberyn breathed, his usual smirk replaced by genuine amazement as ellaria clutched at him from her horse. His daughters obara, tyene and nymeria whispered rapidly to each other, pointing at the Dwarven Colossi in the distance with mixture of disbelief and apprehension.
Mace Tyrell's face had gone pale, his earlier dismissiveness forgotten as he stared at the impregnable fortress. His mother Olenna's eyes had narrowed to calculating slits, her mind clearly racing to adjust her schemes based on this new information.
Queen Cersei's perfect composure slipped completely, her emerald eyes widening as she realized the extent of the North's technological advancement. Even Stannis, usually dour and unimpressed, showed visible concern as he studied the massive cannons lining the walls.
The Tullys exchanged meaningful glances, Brynden's weathered face breaking into an rueful look while Edmure seemed unable to close his mouth.
Owen noticed Arianne Martell's calculating gaze shift between the fortress and himself, clearly reassessing her mission in light of this display of power. Beside her, Quentyn appeared overwhelmed, shrinking slightly in his saddle.
Stannis's usual stoic demeanor cracked, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared at the transformed fortress. His hands gripped the reins of his horse so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"How?" The word escaped through gritted teeth, carrying all the confusion and disbelief the southern party felt. The question hung in the air, heavy with implications about the North's newfound power and capabilities.
Owen could feel the weight of their collective stares - Tywin's calculating gaze, Oberyn's intrigued scrutiny, Olenna's shrewd assessment, and Robert's stunned wonderment. Each of them desperately wanted to understand how such a transformation was possible, how the balance of power in Westeros had shifted so dramatically without their knowledge.
Instead of answering, Owen guided Altivo forward, the magnificent stallion's hooves clicking against the pristine road leading to the fortress. He turned slightly in his saddle, allowing himself a small smile as he gestured toward the large reinforced gates.
"My lords and ladies, welcome to Moat Cailin."