Owen watched the bustling activity in Winterfell's great hall with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. The past week had stretched his patience thin, between managing the endless stream of arriving northern lords and catering to the whims of their southern guests. The halls echoed with laughter, music, and the clash of training swords in the yard.
Robert Baratheon's booming voice carried across the courtyard as he challenged yet another northern lord to a sparring match. Despite his girth, the king retained a fragment of his former martial prowess, though he tired quickly and retreated to the great hall for more wine and tales of past glories.
"Another necklace, my love?" Sansa traced her fingers over Owen's latest creation - an intricate piece of rose gold and diamonds meant for the queen.
"Your father's idea. Keep her occupied and away from causing trouble." Owen closed the velvet box with a snap. "Though I'm starting to wonder if the trouble is worth it."
Sansa's face darkened. "She's been rather forward with her... requests."
Owen had lost count of how many times he'd been summoned to the queen's chambers this week. Each visit followed the same pattern - Cersei lounging in revealing silks, her green eyes predatory as she examined both the jewelry and its maker.
"My queen." Owen entered her chambers, keeping his eyes fixed on a point above her shoulder. She reclined on a chaise, her gown cut so low it left little to imagination.
"Owen." His name rolled off her tongue like honey. "Another gift? You spoil me."
"A commission from Lord Stark." He placed the box on a nearby table, maintaining his distance.
Cersei rose, the silk clinging to her curves. "Won't you help me try it on?" Her fingers trailed across the neckline of her gown. "Perhaps we could discuss other ways you might... serve the crown."
"I'm afraid I have urgent work at the forge, Your Grace." Owen backed toward the door, his face neutral despite his disgust. "My wife expects me."
A flash of anger crossed Cersei's features before she masked it with a practiced smile. "Such devotion. Though surely a man of your... talents... deserves more than a northern girl?"
"Good day, Your Grace." Owen closed the door firmly behind him, his jaw clenched.
Later that evening, as Owen and Sansa prepared for yet another feast, she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Perhaps we should tell Father to stop sending you with these 'gifts.' Let someone else deliver them."
Owen kissed her temple. "And risk her spite? Better to endure her games than provoke her outright." He smiled. "Besides, I have you to come home to. That makes it worth enduring her attempts at seduction."
Sansa's laugh brightened the room. "Just remember that, husband, next time she tries to lure you into her web."
The celebrations continued, with Robert leading hunts during the day and demanding songs and stories each night. Owen kept busy, producing enough jewelry to satisfy Cersei's vanity while avoiding any prolonged contact. Still, each summons tested his patience, especially when she grew bolder in her advances.
"You could be more than a simple northern smith lord," she purred during one delivery, her hand reaching for his arm. "The crown always needs loyal men of... exceptional ability."
Owen stepped back smoothly. "I'm quite content with my position in the North, Your Grace. Now if you'll excuse me, the forge calls."
He could feel her glare burning into his back as he left, but he'd learned long ago to ignore such things. Let her plot and scheme - he had more important matters to attend to than the queen's wounded pride.
Apart from dealing with Cersei and her increasingly brazen attempts at seduction that would surely one day lead to Sansa snapping the blonde queen in half if she wasn't careful - Owen had noticed the way his wife's eyes flashed dangerously whenever Cersei got too close or was mentioned - he and Eddard had spent the third and fourth day of the week giving extensive tours of the factory to the southern nobles.
Owen had led the group of southern nobles through the sprawling factory complex, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors. The mechanical hum of automated production lines filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic clanging of metal and hiss of steam.
"As you can see, each line specializes in different components," Owen explained, gesturing to the nearest assembly where mechanical arms precisely fitted armor plates together. "This section produces standard infantry armor, while the next handles cavalry equipment."
Jon Arryn's weathered face bore an expression of barely concealed concern as he watched a completed suit of armor emerge from the end of the line, pristine and gleaming. "And how many suits can this... facility produce in a day?"
"Five hundred complete sets of arms and armor a day, when running at full capacity." Owen kept his tone matter-of-fact, though he noted how Tywin Lannister's jaw tightened at the number.
"More than the entire annual output of the Street of Steel in King's Landing," Stannis ground out, his teeth audibly clenching.
They passed a section where mechanical workers forged sword blades with perfect precision, each blade identical to the last. The quality rivaled Valyrian steel in sharpness, though Owen had carefully ensured they weren't quite that exceptional.
"The uniformity is remarkable," Tywin observed, his green eyes calculating as they swept across the facility. "No human smith could achieve such consistency."
"That's the advantage of the steam constructors," Owen agreed. "They don't tire, they don't make mistakes, and they work day and night."
Jon Arryn cleared his throat. "And how many of these facilities exist in the North?"
"Just this one and another at Ice Crest ." Owen led them past rows of completed weapons and armor, neatly stacked and ready for distribution. "Though we're considering building another perhaps near Castle Black."
"Two such arsenals already could arm the entire North in less than a year, and seeing as you have had four years of production, we can guess it already has" Stannis stated flatly.
"Your calculation aren't wrong my lord, but nobody in the north is armed as it were. All arms and armor are kept in protected storage and recorded." Owen smiled pleasantly. "The North must be prepared for any threat - whether it comes from beyond the Wall or elsewhere."
The implied threat wasn't lost on any of them. Tywin's face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flash of something close to fear as they passed a line of mechanical warriors standing sentinel along the walls.
"These constructs," Jon Arryn gestured to the metal guardians. "They serve as defenders as well as workers?"
"Among other functions." Owen activated one with a gesture. The construct stepped forward smoothly, its movements fluid and precise. "They're quite effective at maintaining security."
Owen guided the group toward the rear section of the factory, where the ceiling stretched higher to accommodate larger projects. The rhythmic clanging grew louder as they approached the assembly area for the Dwarven Colossus. Steam hissed from vents overhead, creating an otherworldly atmosphere in the cavernous space.
A dozen steam constructors worked in perfect synchronization, their mechanical arms precisely positioning massive armor plates onto the frame of a partially completed Colossus. The automaton's torso alone stood nearly twenty feet tall, its partially assembled form already dwarfing the humans gathered below.
"By the Seven," Mace Tyrell whispered, craning his neck to take in the full scale of the construct.
Oberyn Martell circled the base of the Colossus, his dark eyes sharp with interest. "Fascinating. The joints appear to allow for remarkably fluid movement despite its size."
"Indeed." Owen nodded, watching as another plate was lifted into position. "The engineering principles are quite advanced. Each Colossus requires nearly a month to complete, even with the automated assembly process. Though if pushed to work faster, it would take only three days."
Olenna Tyrell's shrewd gaze flickered between the mechanical workers and Owen. "And how many of these giants do you have stationed throughout the North, Lord Longshore?"
"That information is classified, my lady," Owen replied smoothly. "Though I can assure you they're quite effective at defending our borders."
Jon Arryn stepped forward, his lined face grave. "Perhaps a more pertinent question would be the total number of these automatons you have active across the North. The smaller ones and these ones that look like metal men we've seen patrolling."
Owen glanced at Lord Stark, who gave a slight nod after a moment's consideration. Turning back to the assembled nobles, Owen kept his voice steady as he delivered the number that would shatter their assumptions about the North's military capacity.
"We currently maintain approximately sixty thousand active automated defenders throughout the North."
The reaction was immediate. Mace Tyrell's face drained of color. Stannis's jaw clenched so hard Owen could hear his teeth grinding. Even Tywin's carefully controlled expression slipped for a moment, revealing genuine alarm.
"Sixty... thousand?" Jon Arryn's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Seven hells," someone muttered from the back of the group.
Owen watched as Kevan Lannister stepped forward, his weathered face creased with concern. "The most we have ever seen is perhaps twenty of these constructs, and two of those giant Colossi in the distance near Castle Cerwyn." Several heads nodded in agreement among the southern nobles.
Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat, his eyes studying the towering form of the partially assembled Colossus above them. "Where could you possibly keep such a large force? Sixty thousand is..." He trailed off, clearly struggling with the implications.
Owen allowed himself a small smile, though there was no warmth in it. "My lord Tyrion, if you were able to see them, it's because we allowed you to see them as visitors to our lands." He turned to address the entire group, his voice carrying clearly in the cavernous space. "The automatons are spread throughout the North, hidden from view. Any enemies of the North would never see them before they were upon them."
The weight of his words settled over the assembly like a heavy blanket. Owen observed how the color drained from Mace Tyrell's already pale face, while Olenna's fingers tightened on her cane until her knuckles whitened. Even Oberyn Martell's usual easy smile had faded into something more calculating.
King Robert, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the tour, exchanged a meaningful look with Jon Arryn and Stannis. The silent communication between the three men spoke volumes - Owen knew they would be calling for an urgent meeting to discuss these revelations as soon as they left the factory.
Tywin Lannister's face remained carefully neutral, but Owen noticed how his right hand had unconsciously moved to rest on his sword hilt. The gesture wasn't threatening - rather, it seemed almost reflexive, as if the Lord of Casterly Rock was seeking reassurance from a familiar weapon in the face of something far beyond his experience or control.
The mechanical workers continued their assembly of the Colossus overhead, their rhythmic movements now seeming more ominous than impressive to their southern observers. Steam hissed from overhead vents, the sound cutting through the tense silence that had fallen over the group as they began to leave the factory.
_
Sansa's fingers moved with practiced grace over the fabric, guiding Arya's clumsy attempts at embroidering a direwolf onto the handkerchief. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the solar, casting a warm glow over the assembled ladies. Yet despite the pleasant weather, tension hung thick in the air like summer storm clouds.
"Your husband has quite remarkable... talents, Lady Sansa," Cersei drawled, her green eyes glinting with barely concealed desire. "Such skilled hands. I've never seen such exquisite craftsmanship."
Sansa's needle pierced the fabric with perhaps more force than necessary. "Indeed, Your Grace. Owen's abilities are extraordinary." She kept her voice sweet, though her blood began to simmer.
"Oh yes," Arianne Martell purred, adjusting her revealing silk dress. "We've all seen how... capable he is. Those arms of his, working the forge just yesterday..." She exchanged knowing looks with her bastard cousins.
Obara Sand made no attempt to hide her appreciation. "If I had a man like that, I wouldn't let him spend so much time alone in that forge."
"Sister," Tyene chided softly, though her own eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I must admit, there's something fascinating about a man who can create such beautiful things."
Margaery Tyrell leaned forward, her smile innocent but her words carefully chosen. "The way he moves when demonstrating those mechanical marvels of his... such grace for someone so strong."
Sansa's fingers tightened around her needle as she guided Arya's stitches. Her sister shot her a concerned glance, clearly sensing her growing irritation.
"I've invited him to demonstrate some of his special techniques privately," Cersei announced, swirling her wine. "A queen must understand the crafts that make her realm prosperous."
"How thoughtful of you, Your Grace," Olenna Tyrell commented dryly. "Though I wonder if Lady Sansa might object to such... personal instruction."
Nymeria Sand laughed softly. "Surely she can't keep such talent all to herself? It would be selfish not to share."
Sansa silently counted in her head, each number a desperate attempt to maintain her composure. One... two... three... The needle trembled slightly in her grip as she fought the urge to demonstrate exactly how much strength her transformed body now possessed. The windows of the solar were certainly high enough that a fall would prove... educational for these women.
Four... five... six...
Her enhanced senses caught every subtle gesture, every lingering glance. Cersei's predatory gaze made her blood boil, but she wasn't blind to the other attention in the room. Arianne Martell's dark eyes kept drifting to Sansa's face, then lower, admiring the way her dress hugged her ethereal figure. Margaery Tyrell was more subtle, but her sideways glances held the same heat.
Seven... eight...
"Such a devoted wife," Cersei continued, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the dangerous glint in Sansa's eyes. "Though surely even the most faithful couples need... variety now and then?"
Nine...
Sansa could feel the strength humming through her muscles, knew she could snap the thick oak table with one hand if she chose. The waters of Solomon's temple had given her more than just supernatural beauty - they had granted her power that would make these simpering southerners pale if they knew. She could lift any of them with one hand, throw them clear across Winterfell's courtyard if she wished.
Ten.
"My husband and I find plenty of variety in each other's company, Your Grace," Sansa replied, her voice honey-sweet even as her fingers itched to demonstrate exactly how strong she'd become. "Though I appreciate your... concern for our marriage bed."
Arianne shifted in her seat, the movement drawing Sansa's attention. The Dornish princess's eyes were dark with desire as they traced the elegant line of Sansa's throat. Margaery, too, seemed captivated by Sansa's otherworldly grace, her usual practiced smile replaced by something more genuine and hungry.
"The North seems full of hidden treasures," Margaery observed softly, her meaning clear in the way her gaze lingered on Sansa's face. "Both its lord and lady are quite... remarkable."
Sansa allowed herself a small, knowing smile as she observed the barely concealed desire in both Margaery and Arianne's eyes. If they only knew what she and Owen were truly capable of now, after their transformation in Solomon's temple. Their enhanced bodies could provide pleasures beyond mortal imagination - and exhaust any number of partners within minutes. The thought of leaving the proud Tyrell rose and the Dornish viper trembling and spent amused her greatly.
But before she could dwell further on such thoughts, Olenna Tyrell's sharp voice cut through the tension.
"While this discussion of... marital duties is fascinating," the Queen of Thorns said dryly, "I notice there's been no sign of children yet, Lady Sansa. Four years is quite a while for a young, healthy couple to remain childless."
The other women's attention shifted instantly, some with barely concealed satisfaction at what they assumed was a weakness in Sansa's marriage. Cersei's smirk was particularly vindictive.
Sansa's smile widened, genuine joy replacing her earlier irritation. She placed her embroidery carefully on the table and met Olenna's shrewd gaze directly.
"Actually, Lady Olenna, I'm pleased to inform you that I am with child." She let her hand rest gently on her still-flat stomach. "Two months along now."
The reactions around the room were immediate and varied. Margaery's practiced smile faltered slightly. Arianne's eyes narrowed, though she maintained her pleasant expression. Cersei's face twisted briefly before she schooled it back to neutrality, her knuckles white around her wine glass.
"How wonderful," Olenna said, studying Sansa's face carefully. "The North will have its heir at last."
Sansa nodded, savoring each reaction. "Yes, Owen and I are overjoyed. The maesters say everything is progressing perfectly."
The tension in the solar shifted palpably at Sansa's announcement. Though most of the ladies maintained their courteous smiles, their eyes told a different story. Sansa could practically taste their disappointment and frustration in the air, her enhanced senses picking up on every subtle change in their expressions and body language.
Nymeria Sand's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her wine glass. Arianne's smile grew a fraction too wide, too fixed. Even sweet Margaery's practiced court mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of genuine dismay before she recovered her composure.
Only Olenna seemed genuinely unperturbed by the news, her shrewd eyes studying Sansa with renewed interest. "The first of many, I trust?" the Queen of Thorns inquired, her tone carefully neutral.
"We shall see what the gods grant us," Sansa replied serenely, turning back to guide Arya's clumsy stitches. Her sister was doing her best to maintain the pretense of interest, though Sansa could feel her practically vibrating with boredom.
The other ladies quickly recovered their composure, but Sansa noticed how their gazes had changed. Where before there had been predatory interest, now there was calculation. She recognized the look - these women were no longer simply interested in seducing Owen for pleasure. Now they saw the possibility of producing rival heirs, of using bastards to create political leverage.
Sansa's fingers moved mechanically through the embroidery motions as she seethed internally. Her enhanced strength thrummed through her body, and she had to consciously gentle her touch to avoid snapping the delicate needle. These southern flowers and Dornish snakes had no idea what they were dealing with. She wasn't just the demure northern lady they assumed her to be - she was something far more powerful now.
Let them plot and scheme, she thought viciously. Let them try to tempt Owen with their revealing dresses and practiced seductions. She would tear apart anyone who dared try to take what was hers, and she would do it with a smile as sweet as summer wine.
_
Owen studied the assembled nobles seated around the massive ironwood table he had personally crafted for this meeting. The exquisite wood grain rippled with subtle magical enchantments, barely visible unless one knew where to look. He'd spent days working the protective spells into the material, ensuring no weapons could be drawn within ten feet of its surface.
Early morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of Winterfell's great hall, light shining across stern faces. The tension in the room was palpable as servants finished laying out bread, salt, and wine before quietly withdrawing. Owen could feel the weight of so many calculating gazes upon him - Tywin's cold assessment, Olenna's shrewd analysis, Oberyn's barely concealed interest.
Robert sat at the head of the table, his massive frame dominating the ornate chair. To his right, Cersei's emerald eyes glittered with barely concealed hostility. Jon Arryn's weathered face bore the careful neutrality of an experienced diplomat, while Stannis ground his teeth audibly in the silence. Ser Barristan stood vigilant behind the king, his white cloak pristine in the morning light.
The Lannisters had positioned themselves strategically - Tywin flanked by Kevan and Tyrion, their golden hair catching the sun. Across from them sat the Tullys, Brynden's scarred face a sharp contrast to Edmure's younger features. Princess Arianne had chosen a seat that gave her a clear view of Owen, her dark eyes heavy with suggestion. Beside her, Oberyn lounged with deceptive casualness, though Owen noted how the Red Viper's hand never strayed far from his belt.
Mace Tyrell's florid face was already beginning to sweat, though whether from nerves or the warmth of the hall was unclear. His mother Olenna sat beside him; her gnarled hands folded primly on the table as she observed the room with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
Owen exchanged a brief glance with Lord Stark, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. They had prepared extensively for this meeting, knowing the fate of the North's independence might well hinge on how they handled the coming negotiations.
Owen sat straighter as Robert cleared his throat, signaling the start of the meeting. Over the past days, various nobles had attempted to arrange private audiences - some subtle, others remarkably bold. Apart from her normal seduction trials, Cersei had tried to summon him directly to her chambers to discuss deals that he had of course denied, while Arianne's invitation had been delivered with a scented note and suggestive promises. Even Olenna had attempted to arrange an "informal tea" to discuss his innovations.
But Jon Arryn's counsel had been clear and wise - no private meetings, no separate negotiations. Everything would be discussed here, in the open, with all parties present. Lord Stark had readily agreed, knowing how easily separate discussions could lead to misunderstandings or accusations of favoritism.
Owen watched as Robert gestured to Jon Arryn, the aged Hand clearing his throat before addressing the assembled nobles. The morning light caught the silver in Jon's hair as he rose from his seat, his voice steady and diplomatic.
"First, I must express our deepest gratitude to Lord Stark, Lady Catelyn, and their family for their generous hospitality during our stay," Jon began, his weathered features settling into a practiced diplomatic expression. "The North's prosperity these past four years has been remarkable to witness firsthand."
Owen noticed how Jon's eyes swept across the table, making brief contact with each major lord present. A skilled negotiator's tactic, Owen realized, meant to include everyone in the conversation while asserting authority.
"However," Jon continued, his tone growing more serious, "we must address certain matters of significance. While we celebrate the North's achievements and growth, we cannot ignore that the North remains an integral part of the Seven Kingdoms, under the rule of King Robert of House Baratheon." He paused, letting the words sink in. "The North's remarkable progress cannot continue in isolation from the rest of the realm."
Owen felt Lord Stark stiffen slightly beside him, though Eddard's face remained carefully neutral. The implied message was clear - the crown would not allow the North to keep developing independently without some form of compensation or concession. The real negotiations were about to begin.
Jon Arryn turned and nodded to Tywin Lannister, a subtle gesture that Owen had anticipated. The Lord of Casterly Rock rose with practiced grace, his presence commanding immediate attention from everyone at the table. Owen sat up straighter, knowing that the carefully orchestrated questioning was about to begin.
Tywin reached into his crimson doublet and withdrew a heavy leather pouch. The sound of clinking metal filled the tense silence as he emptied its contents onto the ironwood table. Pure gold dragons scattered across the polished surface, their pristine surfaces catching the morning light.
"Since Aegon's Conquest," Tywin's voice carried clearly through the hall, "House Lannister has been the undisputed and authorized minter of Westerosi coin." His green-flecked golden eyes fixed on Owen with predatory intensity. "Yet here we find proof that House Stark has been doing the same for four years without royal or Lannister approval."
Owen kept his face carefully neutral as he studied the coins. They were indeed from Cidhna mine - a batch he'd created before realizing they needed to be deliberately tarnished to match Lannister quality. He'd thought all those early coins had been recalled and melted down. Clearly, he'd missed some.
Tywin's fingers traced one of the dragons, its surface unmarred by the usual microscopic flaws found in Lannister mintings. "These coins are of exceptional purity. Some might say impossibly pure." His cold gaze swept the table. "A direct challenge to House Lannister's authority and the Crown's monetary sovereignty."
Owen watched as Tywin produced several letters bearing merchant seals from Pentos, Myr, and Volantis.
"For four years," Tywin continued, his voice sharp with controlled anger, "these Northern coins have been circulating throughout Essos. They've become the new standard against which all Westerosi currency is measured." He laid out the letters one by one. "Our southern merchants now face significant losses as Essosi traders demand more Lannister-minted dragons to match the value of these pure Northern coins."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords. Owen noticed Robert's face darkening as he realized the economic implications.
"The damage to House Lannister's reputation cannot be understated," Tywin declared, his cold eyes fixing on Owen and Lord Stark. "Our traders are forced to use additional coin simply because the Essosi markets no longer trust Lannister gold as they once did. They demand more of our dragons to match the worth of a single Northern-minted piece."
Tywin straightened to his full height, his presence dominating the room. "I demand that House Stark and House Longshore cease all minting operations immediately." His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Furthermore, compensation must be made for this breach of Crown law and the damages inflicted upon House Lannister's interests. I propose a fine of five million gold dragons, to be paid jointly to the Crown and House Lannister."
Owen watched Tywin take his seat, the scattered pure gold dragons gleaming on the ironwood table between them. Murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles as they processed the steep demanded payment. The amount was significant, yet Owen knew they could easily afford it from just a week's production at Cidhna Mine.
Olenna Tyrell jabbed her elbow sharply into Mace's side, causing the Lord of Highgarden to startle before rising ponderously to his feet. His face had grown even more florid under the attention of the gathered lords.
"House Tyrell and the Reach support Lord Tywin's proposed punishment," Mace declared, his voice carrying a forced authority. "Our own merchants have suffered similar difficulties in their Essosi trade dealings due to these Northern coins."
Owen exchanged a measured look with Lord Stark. They had anticipated this alliance between the Reach and the Westerlands on this issue. A subtle blink from Eddard confirmed their predetermined response - accept the fine and move forward.
Owen turned back to face Tywin, keeping his expression neutral despite the slight smile trying to tug at his lips. "House Longshore and House Stark accept these terms, Lord Tywin," he said clearly. "Though I must ask - how would you prefer the payment to be made? Should we use our Northern-minted dragons, or would you prefer the standard Westerosi coins produced by House Lannister?"
The barb was subtle but sharp, highlighting the very issue at hand - their coins were demonstrably superior to Lannister mintings. Owen could see Tyrion trying to suppress a smirk while Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the implied slight.
After a moment's pause, the Lord of Casterly Rock gave a curt nod.
"Standard Westerosi coin will suffice," Tywin said, his voice carrying just a hint of strain beneath its usual authority.
Lord Stark cleared his throat, his steady voice filling the great hall. "As we have indeed been minting unauthorized coins for four years, House Stark and House Longshore will pay two million gold dragons to the Crown and two million to House Lannister." He paused, his grey eyes sweeping the assembled nobles. "The remaining one million will be split between both parties to compensate for merchant losses."
Owen observed Jon Arryn's weathered face as the Hand considered the proposal. After a brief moment, Jon gave a measured nod of acceptance. To Owen's surprise, Tywin also agreed without further argument, though Owen had expected the notorious negotiator to press for a larger sum given the North's obvious wealth.
The easy acceptance made Owen slightly uneasy. While the fine was substantial by normal standards, they could easily pay it from their vast reserves. Tywin Lannister was not known for accepting initial offers, which suggested he had other plans in mind.
Owen watched as Stannis rose from his seat, his stern face even more rigid than usual. The younger Baratheon brother's jaw worked for a moment before he spoke, likely grinding his teeth as was his habit.
"While matters of commerce and coinage are indeed pressing," Stannis began, his voice clipped and formal, "we cannot overlook the North's flagrant disregard for maritime law." His hard gaze fixed on Owen and Lord Stark in turn. "For four years, Northern ships have sailed without proper royal recognition."
Stannis placed both hands on the ironwood table, leaning forward slightly. "By law, all vessels must bear the Baratheon colors alongside their house sigils. Furthermore, as Master of Ships, I should have been notified of each vessel's construction and received regular reports of their activities." His voice grew sharper with each word. "Instead, these ships patrol only Northern waters and conduct northern trade, ignoring the broader responsibility to combat piracy throughout Westeros under my authority."
Owen kept his expression neutral as Stannis straightened to his full height. "House Stark and House Longshore will provide an exact count of their fleet immediately," he demanded. "The crown must know the full extent of these unauthorized naval operations."
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Owen and Lord Stark. Owen could feel the weight of their stares, particularly Robert's suddenly focused attention. The king had straightened in his chair, his previous boredom replaced with keen interest at the mention of military matters.
Owen suppressed a weary sigh as he reached for his Wolfhide ledger. He'd hoped to avoid revealing the full scope of their naval power, but Stannis's direct question left no room for evasion. The book's pristine pages rustled as he opened it, each sheet enchanted to update automatically with the latest fleet numbers from his administrative steam constructors.
"As of last month," Owen announced clearly, his voice carrying through the great hall, "House Longshore, Stark, Manderly, and Forrester collectively maintain one thousand five hundred ships of various classes. Five hundred vessels are dedicated to Essosi trade routes, while the remainder patrol northern waters or escort merchant vessels."
The reaction was immediate. Gasps and shocked murmurs rippled through the assembled nobles. Owen noticed Tywin's eyes narrow fractionally, while Olenna's grip tightened on her cane. Even Robert leaned forward, his wine cup forgotten as he processed the numbers.
"Various classes?" Stannis's voice cut through the whispers, sharp with suspicion. "Explain what you mean by that."
Owen met the Master of Ships' hard stare evenly. He'd known this question would come - Stannis's reputation for attention to detail was well-earned.
Owen turned several pages in the ledger, revealing detailed illustrations of his fleet's various ship classes. Each drawing was meticulously rendered in vibrant colors, showing multiple angles and cross-sections of the vessels. The Galleon-class ships were drawn with their distinctive high forecastles and multiple gun decks, while the Frigates displayed their sleek, maneuverable designs. The Ships of the Line were particularly impressive on paper, their rows of cannon ports and reinforced hulls clearly visible in the detailed renderings.
He slid the book across the polished ironwood surface toward Stannis, watching as the Master of Ships' stern expression shifted to barely concealed alarm. Stannis's fingers traced the drawings, lingering on the technical specifications noted in precise script beside each vessel type.
Jon Arryn received the book next, his weathered face growing more serious as he studied the illustrations. The Hand passed it to Robert, whose boisterous demeanor had given way to an uncommon focus as he examined the fleet's capabilities.
The ledger made its way around the table, each lord's reaction telling its own story. Tywin's face remained carefully neutral, though his eyes narrowed slightly at the ships' specifications. Mace Tyrell's florid complexion paled notably, while Olenna's sharp eyes missed nothing as she scrutinized every detail.
When the book reached the Dornish group, even Oberyn's usual casual demeanor slipped. The Red Viper sat up straighter, his dark eyes intent on the drawings. Beside him, Arianne leaned closer, her earlier seductive glances replaced by genuine interest as she studied the naval capabilities laid bare before them.
Owen watched as Oberyn leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. "How does one build vessels of such immense size? The timber requirements alone would be staggering."
Before Owen could respond, Mace Tyrell's voice cut through the murmurs. "Forget the size - these numbers are impossible! Even with every shipwright in the North working day and night, four years isn't nearly enough time to construct such a fleet." His face had grown redder with each word.
"Neither question matters," Stannis interrupted sharply, his jaw clenched tight. "These ships were built without crown authority and must be brought under royal command immediately. I expect full integration into the royal fleet within-"
Owen didn't let him finish. With a slight gesture of his hand, the ledger flew across the table, returning to his grasp. The casual display of magic silenced the room instantly. Several southern lords flinched back in their seats, while others stared with undisguised shock - they had apparently forgotten about his magical abilities during the technical discussions.
"No," Owen said simply, his voice quiet but firm as he closed the ledger.
The silence lasted only a heartbeat before chaos erupted in the great hall. Owen watched as the carefully maintained facade of diplomacy shattered.
"This is treason!" Stannis shot to his feet, his face darkening with rage. "House Stark and House Longshore tread dangerous ground by refusing royal authority!"
Cersei's voice cut through the growing din like a knife. "Can't you see, Robert? The North plots against you! These ships, these weapons - they prepare to usurp your throne!" Her green eyes blazed with vindictive triumph as she finally voiced her suspicions.
Tywin's measured tones somehow carried over his daughter's accusations. "The Crown's ledgers show discrepancies. The North's trade revenues far exceed their declared taxes. They withhold what is rightfully owed to the Iron Throne."
"The weapons! The metal men!" Mace Tyrell's face had grown purple with indignation. "Such power cannot remain solely in Northern hands! These innovations must be shared with all the kingdoms!"
More voices joined the cacophony, each lord trying to shout over the others. Accusations of treachery, demands for technology, and calls for punishment filled the air. The Dornish contingent added their own heated opinions to the mix while the tullys rose in their defense\
Through it all, Owen remained seated, his face carefully neutral as he observed the chaos. Beside him, Lord Stark maintained the same stoic silence, though Owen could sense the tension in his goodfather's rigid posture. Across the table, Robert Baratheon watched the scene unfold with an unusually thoughtful expression, his wine cup forgotten in his hand. Jon Arryn's weathered face revealed nothing as his sharp eyes moved from speaker to speaker, assessing each outburst with careful consideration.
Owen slammed the ledger onto the ironwood table with a thunderous crack, silencing the chaos instantly. The sudden quiet felt oppressive as all eyes turned to him.
"Why?" His voice carried clearly through the hall, sharp with barely contained anger. "Tell me why we should share what we've built?" He rose slowly from his seat, his enhanced presence commanding attention.
"For four years, we've transformed the North through our own efforts. We've constructed these ships with northern ideas, forged these weapons with our skill." Owen's gaze swept across the assembled southern lords. "Where were any of you when we began this work? What aid did you offer?"
His lips curled into a bitter smile. "Empty promises. That's all the South has ever given us since the time of Aegon's conquest and through the Targaryens fall."
"The Reach hoards its bounty while northern children starve in winter. The Westerlands count their gold while our people freeze. Dorne and the Vale remain distant, caring nothing for northern struggles." Owen's voice grew harder with each accusation. "Yet now you demand we hand over our achievements? Now you claim right to what we've created?"
The southern lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Owen's words struck home.
Stannis's face contorted with barely contained fury as he rose from his seat. "It is your duty to the realm! To your king!" His voice cracked like a whip through the great hall. "The North cannot hoard such power while the rest of Westeros struggles. What of your oaths of fealty?"
Owen watched as Eddard finally broke his stoic silence, rising slowly to stand beside him. The Lord of Winterfell's grey eyes held an uncharacteristic coldness as he addressed the gathered nobles.
"Duty?" Eddard's quiet voice carried more weight than Stannis's shouts. "If it's gold you want, we'll pay our trade taxes in full with interest. The North has no need for southern coin." He placed both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "But speak not to us of duty, Lord Stannis."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Eddard continued. "Where was the South's duty when a fellow kingdom suffered? When winter gripped our lands? When our children starved and our old folk froze?" His voice grew harder with each word. "The North has fulfilled its obligations for generations. We've sent men to the Wall, paid our taxes, answered every call to arms. And what have we received in return?"
Owen could see the impact of Eddard's words on the southern lords. Even Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his old friend laid bare centuries of neglect.
"Nothing," Eddard finished quietly. "The North remembers its duty, my lords. But we also remember how the South has repaid that duty with indifference to our suffering."
Owen watched as Tywin rose from his seat with fluid grace, his golden-flecked green eyes fixing on Lord Stark with predatory intensity.
"Let us speak plainly," Tywin's commanding voice cut through the tension. "The North now possesses the largest fleet in Westeros, mechanical soldiers that never tire, and weapons of extraordinary power. Your coffers overflow while your fortresses and castles grow stronger by the day." His lips thinned. "To any objective observer, these look like preparations for war - for independence."
Several of the southern lords nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting varying degrees of suspicion and fear. Owen noticed Robert's hand tightening around his wine cup once more as he listened intently.
"You grasp at shadows, Lord Tywin," Eddard responded, his voice steady and firm. "The North has stood with House Baratheon since Robert's Rebellion. We've shed blood together, fought together, won together." He turned to face his old friend. "Robert knows the truth of Northern loyalty."
Tywin's response was swift and cutting. "Then prove it." He spread his hands in a gesture that appeared reasonable but carried an unmistakable threat. "Share your prosperity with the realm. Show us how to build these ships. Teach us to create these glasshouses that feed your people through winter."
Owen could hear the trap in Tywin's words. The Lord of Casterly Rock wasn't asking for proof of loyalty - he was demanding submission, trying to force the North to give up its advantages. The request was crafted to make any refusal appear suspicious.
"After all," Tywin continued smoothly, "what loyal kingdom would deny such knowledge to their fellow subjects of the crown?"
Before Owen could rise to challenge Tywin's veiled accusations, Robert pushed back from the table with a scrape of wood on stone. The king's face had lost its earlier anger, replaced by an expression Owen hadn't seen before - one of tired resignation mixed with determination.
"Ned," Robert's voice carried none of its usual boisterous energy as he addressed his old friend. "You know I don't give two shits about ships and taxes. The North's success doesn't threaten me - seven hells, I'm happy for you." He ran a hand through his thick black beard. "If anyone deserves prosperity after all these years, it's the bloody North."
Robert's eyes met Eddard's, and Owen could see decades of friendship and shared battles in that look. "But I'm not just your friend anymore, Ned. I'm the king of all Seven Kingdoms." He spread his arms wide, encompassing the assembled lords. "I have to look to all of Westeros now, not just the North. Your people prosper while others struggle - how can I ignore that?"
The king's massive frame seemed to deflate slightly as he continued. "The North can't hoard these innovations, these advantages. It's not about loyalty or punishment - it's about doing what's right for the realm." Robert's voice grew firmer. "You told me that, Ned, all those years after we destroyed the Targaryens. Sometimes a king has to put the good of all his people above the desires of a few."
Owen watched as Lord Stark's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at Robert's words. The king was wielding their friendship like a weapon, though Owen suspected Robert didn't even realize he was doing it.
Owen watched as Jon Arryn rose from his seat, his weathered hands pressed against the ironwood table. The Hand's presence commanded immediate attention, quieting the lords.
"My lords, this is not the time to be at each other's throats," Jon Arryn's measured voice cut through the tension. "Surely a compromise can be reached that satisfies both crown and kingdom."
Owen noticed Eddard's gaze shift from Robert to Stannis, considering his next words carefully. The Lord of Winterfell's expression remained neutral as he spoke.
"Ten ships from our fleet will be placed under royal command," Eddard declared, causing Owen to raise an eyebrow slightly. "They will sail with northern captains and northern crews."
Stannis's jaw clenched visibly at the offer, his teeth grinding in that characteristic way Owen had heard about. The Master of Ships clearly wanted to protest - ten ships was a mere fraction of the North's naval power, and the conditions attached made the gesture more symbolic than practical.
But before Stannis could voice his objections, Eddard added one final condition: "No one but Lord Stannis himself will be permitted to board these vessels."
Owen watched as Stannis's face tightened further, but the Master of Ships gave a sharp, grudging nod of acceptance. It was clear to Owen that Stannis recognized this was the best offer he would receive, even if it fell completely far short of his original demands.
Eddard turned to face Jon Arryn, his expression carefully measured. "Lord Manderly will sail to King's Landing two weeks after your party departs," Eddard declared. "He'll bring complete records of our trade profits for review."
The Lord of Winterfell paused, letting his next words carry weight. "Furthermore, we'll provide a note to the Crown, payable through the Iron Bank, for the maximum calculated taxes once all accounts are properly assessed."
Owen noticed Jon Arryn's shoulders relax slightly at this concession. The Hand of the King gave a slight nod, clearly satisfied with this practical solution to the immediate financial concerns. The offer of involving the Iron Bank added legitimacy to the North's commitment - no one could question the bank's impartial accounting.
This compromise seemed to drain some of the tension from the room. Several of the southern lords shifted in their seats, their earlier hostility diminishing in the face of this reasonable arrangement. Jon Arryn's weathered face showed clear relief as he accepted Eddard's proposal with a dignified inclination of his head. The involvement of the Iron Bank and Lord Manderly's personal oversight would satisfy the Crown's immediate demands while maintaining the North's autonomy.
Owen watched as Mace Tyrell's face flushed red once again, the Lord of Highgarden pushing himself to his feet with surprising speed for his bulk.
"This talk of ships and taxes is all well and good," Mace declared, his voice rising with indignation. "But what of these metal men we've seen patrolling your lands? What of these vast arsenals your factories produce day and night?" He jabbed a pudgy finger toward Owen. "By what right does the North hoard such military might while the rest of the realm goes without?"
Mace's chest puffed out as he gained momentum. "These weapons and armor should be distributed fairly among all the great houses. Each lord should receive their share of these... these mechanical soldiers. It's only proper!"
Owen noticed some of the present lords nodding in agreement, though he caught the slight roll of Lady Olenna's eyes at her son's blunt demands. The Queen of Thorns clearly thought her son was being too direct, too obvious in his grasping.
Cersei leaned forward, her green eyes glittering. "Lord Tyrell speaks truly. Such weapons could threaten the peace of the realm if left solely in Northern hands." Her smile was sharp as a knife. "Unless, of course, there's some reason the North wishes to keep its armies so... well-equipped?"
Brynden Tully rose from his seat to their defense, the Blackfish's weathered face set in stern lines as he addressed Mace Tyrell's demands.
"The Reach maintains the largest standing army in Westeros," Brynden's gruff voice cut through the tension. "The Westerlands arm their men with the finest steel gold can buy. Dorne has its spears, the Vale its knights." His sharp blue eyes swept across the assembled lords. "Yet I hear none of you offering to share your military advantages with other kingdoms."
Owen felt a surge of gratitude toward the legendary warrior. The Blackfish's practical assessment showed the hypocrisy of demanding the North share its innovations while other kingdoms jealously guarded their own strengths, not daring to share whatever military advantage they had.
Prince Oberyn rose next. "The Blackfish speaks truly," the Red Viper's accent rolled through the words. "These achievements belong to the North alone. They've created something unprecedented through their own ingenuity." He spread his hands in an elegant gesture. "What right do we have to demand they simply hand over such advantages?"
Owen's initial relief at finding another supporter quickly soured as Oberyn continued speaking, his dark eyes glinting with cunning.
"However," the Dornish prince's voice took on a reasonable tone that set Owen's teeth on edge, "perhaps to ease the legitimate concerns of our fellow kingdoms, the North might consider halting production of these mechanical soldiers and weapons?" Oberyn's smile was sharp. "Surely what they've produced over four years is sufficient for their needs? This would demonstrate their peaceful intentions while allowing them to maintain their current strength."
Owen's jaw clenched as he recognized the clever trap in Oberyn's words. The suggestion appeared reasonable on the surface while effectively hobbling the North's growing power. By framing it as a compromise, Oberyn had made any refusal seem suspicious.
Owen watched as Eddard let out a weary sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly as he nodded in acceptance. "Very well. We will halt production of our mechanical forces and weapons." His goodfather's grey eyes met Owen's briefly, carrying a hint of knowing that made Owen suppress a smile.
The truth was, they didn't need to produce any more. Hidden within the vast network of mines and storage facilities across the North lay an army of mechanical might that would make even the most seasoned commander's jaw drop. Thousands of steam constructors stood ready, alongside legions of Dwemer spiders and soldiers. The number of Dwarven Colossi they'd already created was almost embarrassing - they'd run out of places to store the massive war machines and had set most to patrol the north or stand ready at castle black to assist the nights watch.
Jon Arryn rose from his seat, satisfaction evident in his aged features. "Then we have reached an accord. Any further arrangements regarding these innovations must be negotiated directly with Houses Stark and Longshore, with proper oversight from the Crown." The Hand of the King's voice carried the weight of official proclamation. "The North, of course, may set its own terms for such arrangements."
Owen noticed several southern lords shifting in their seats, clearly already calculating potential deals and alliances. They'd gotten what they wanted - a chance at access to the North's technological marvels - but Owen knew they'd soon discover just how steep the price for such knowledge could be.
Just as he thought they were finally done with it all, he tensed as Tywin rose once more, his green eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. The old lion's words cut through the momentary peace like a blade.
"We will all return to our lands soon enough," Tywin's commanding voice filled the hall. "And when we do, every lord, every knight, every peasant will see the truth of the North's transformation." His thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. "Now that Lord Longshore's... illusions no longer hide the full scope of your power."
Owen's jaw clenched at the deliberate emphasis Tywin placed on 'illusions.' The Lord of Casterly Rock was reminding everyone present of just how much the North had concealed.
"Our bannermen will have questions," Tywin continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "They will demand to know what safeguards have been put in place to prevent the North from simply declaring independence." His eyes fixed on Robert. "What stops them from turning their metal giants and mechanical soldiers upon the South? We cannot return home without answers to these concerns."
Owen noticed several southern lords nodding in agreement, their earlier satisfaction with the compromises already fading in the face of Tywin's words.
Owen watched as Eddard stood, his goodfather's face tight with barely contained frustration. "We have made enough concessions already," Eddard stated firmly. "The North has shown its commitment to peace and cooperation through concrete actions. What more could possibly be required?"
Tywin raised his hand in a dismissive gesture that made Owen's blood boil. "It is not enough," the old lion declared. "Words and gold are temporary assurances. The North must be bound to the South through stronger ties - through blood."
The hall grew silent as Tywin continued; his green eyes gleaming. "I propose that Arya Stark be betrothed and subsequently wed to Prince Joffrey. Such a union would demonstrate the North's true commitment to House Baratheon and the realm."
Owen felt his jaw clench as Tywin's gaze swept toward him and Sansa. "Furthermore, any children born to Lord and Lady Longshore should be betrothed to either House Lannister or House Baratheon. These blood ties would ensure lasting peace and cooperation between our houses."
Owen winced as the great hall erupted into chaos. If the previous arguments had been heated, this was an inferno. Lords leaped to their feet, faces red with fury as they shouted over each other. Even Robert looked taken aback by the sudden explosion of tempers.
Lady Olenna's sharp voice cut through the din like a Valyrian steel blade. "How transparent can you be, Lord Tywin?" The Queen of Thorns' weathered face twisted with derision. "Trying to secure Northern power through your grandson? Please." She tapped her cane against the floor for emphasis. "If any match is to be made, House Tyrell would be far more suitable. The girl clearly needs refinement that only Highgarden can provide."
Before Tywin could respond, Prince Oberyn shot to his feet, dark eyes flashing. "Refinement?" The Red Viper practically spat the word. "I've seen the girl practicing swordplay in the yard. She has the spirit of a true warrior!" His lips curved into a dangerous smile. "In Dorne, such spirit is celebrated, not stifled. Prince Quentyn would make a far better match."
Owen watched as Eddard suddenly shot to his feet, his fist slamming into the ironwood table with a crack that silenced the bickering lords. The sound echoed through the great hall like thunder.
"My daughter's hand is not up for discussion," Eddard's voice was cold as a northern winter, his grey eyes hard as steel as they swept across the assembled nobles. "Arya is a daughter of House Stark and I will not have her future bartered away like a prized mare."
Robert shifted in his seat, his face lighting up with sudden interest. "Now hold on, Ned. Perhaps Tywin has the right of it." The king leaned forward, his voice growing eager. "Join our houses properly this time. The girl's wild nature might be just what my son needs."
Owen noticed Cersei's lips curve into a triumphant smile as she added, "To refuse such an honor would be disobedience to your king, Lord Stark."
But Eddard remained unmoved, his stance rigid as he faced his old friend. "I said no, Robert." His voice carried the same unyielding tone he'd used when refusing to support the assassination of Daenerys Targaryen. "You are my king and my friend, but I will not sacrifice my daughter's happiness for political convenience."
The silence that followed was deafening. Owen could see the muscle working in Robert's jaw as the king's face darkened with anger at being refused so publicly. Yet there was something in Eddard's eyes, some echo of their shared past, that seemed to give Robert pause.
He watched as Robert's face cycled through various shades of red before finally settling back to its normal ruddy complexion. The king slumped back in his chair, the fight seeming to drain from him as he waved a hand dismissively.
"Fine, Ned. Have it your way," Robert sighed, reaching for his wine. "The girl's half-wolf like Lyanna anyway. Probably bite poor Joff's head off in his sleep." He said, the assembled watching as Tywin grimaced in disappointment.
Jon Arryn seized the moment, rising from his seat with the practiced grace of a veteran diplomat. "My lords, I believe we have reached sufficient agreements for one day." His weathered hands spread across the papers before him. "I will have the terms drawn up and signed by all parties as proof of our accord."
The assembled lords nodded their assent, the tension in the room finally dissipating. One by one, they began filing out of the great hall, their minds already turning to the feast that would follow that evening. That or just how they would begin approaching Lord stark and Owen for deals on their advancements.
Owen remained seated, watching them leave while his thoughts churned. The compromises seemed reasonable enough - ten ships under restricted command, proper accounting of taxes through the Iron Bank, and a halt to their "visible" military production. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd merely postponed the inevitable.
Had they truly averted war through these negotiations? Or was this simply a temporary peace, buying time until the South's fear and greed overwhelmed their caution? Owen knew the truth of what was to come from the true north and he knew that they couldn't face the armies of winter with the south ready to attack, as much as it may just be an annoyance than an outright threat.
Only time would tell what the future now held.