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Owen stood beside Lord Eddard atop the battlements of Winterfell, watching the steady stream of nobles and their retinues pour through the gates. The autumn air carried the sounds of hoofbeats, wagon wheels, and excited chatter as the Northern houses arrived for the harvest festival.

"The roads have certainly made an impression," Owen noted, observing Lord Wyman's animated gestures as he spoke with a group of newly arrived lords. His rotund figure practically bounced with enthusiasm.

"Three days from White Harbor instead of seven." Eddard's grey eyes tracked the approaching banners - the merman of Manderly, the chained giant of Umber, the black bear of Mormont. "Though I suspect the smooth ride impressed them more than the speed."

Owen smiled, remembering how he'd modified the steam constructors to lay the concrete and ebony mixture. The roads gleamed like polished stone in the afternoon sun, their surface unmarred by the usual ruts and holes that plagued dirt paths. Carriages glided along them with barely a jostle.

"Your constructors outdid themselves." Eddard nodded toward a particularly ornate wheelhouse bearing the flayed man of Bolton. "Even Roose made good time from the Dreadfort."

Below in the courtyard, Robett Glover's voice carried up to them as he regaled a cluster of minor lords. "...barely felt a bump the entire way from Deepwood Motte! My old bones have never had such an easy journey."

The praise brought a flush of pride to Owen's cheeks, though he kept his expression neutral. The roads were just the beginning - a taste of what his innovations could bring to the North. Already he could see the impact in the gathered crowd: better-fed servants, thanks to the glasshouses; stronger horses, no longer worn down by treacherous paths; nobles arriving fresh and eager rather than travel-weary.

"They'll have more to marvel at before the festival ends," Owen said quietly.

Eddard gave him a knowing look. "Indeed they will. Though perhaps we should let them adjust to the roads before showing them the factories."

Owen nodded in agreement. The stream of arrivals continued steadily through the gates, each group pausing to take in Winterfell's recent changes with wide eyes and excited murmurs. The summer harvest festival was about to become far more interesting than anyone had expected, there was no doubt about it.

Owen followed Lord Stark down the winding steps from the battlements, studying the gathered nobles in the courtyard below. The space buzzed with activity as servants darted between wagons and horses, efficiently directing visitors to their assigned quarters. Owen noted how the Winterfell staff moved with practiced precision, their recent experience with the increased traffic from the road construction serving them well.

Staying a respectful step behind Lord Stark, Owen observed the various groupings of Northern lords. Roose Bolton stood near the entrance, his pale eyes fixed on Lord Manderly as the larger man gestured enthusiastically about the new roads. Even Bolton's typically stoic expression couldn't quite mask his interest.

"The trade routes alone will double our income," Wyman declared, his multiple chins quivering with excitement. "My merchants made the journey in half the time, Lord Bolton. Half! And their goods arrived intact, not a single broken crate."

Bolton's response was characteristically quiet, forcing those around him to lean in. "Indeed. Most... efficient."

On the opposite side of the courtyard, the Greatjon's booming voice carried clearly as he conversed with Lady Mormont. Owen couldn't help but admire how the massive lord's presence commanded attention, even in such distinguished company.

"Built like magic, they were!" Greatjon declared. "Never seen anything like it."

Near the main entrance, Owen spotted an intense discussion between Robett Glover, Donnel Locke, Barbrey Dustin, and Howland Reed. The crannogman's presence surprised Owen - the lord of Greywater Watch rarely left his swamps, whether in the show (unless they just forgot about him) or the books. Lady Dustin's sharp features were animated as she spoke, though her voice remained low.

As Owen and Lord Stark approached the gathered nobles, a wave of greetings swept through the courtyard. The Greatjon's voice boomed above the rest.

"Ned! About time you came down to welcome your guests properly!"

Owen watched as Lord Eddard broke into a rare smile at the Greatjon's boisterous greeting. The massive lord engulfed Stark in a bear hug that would have crushed lesser men, but Eddard merely clapped him on the back, well-practiced in handling his most enthusiastic bannerman.

"Good to see you too, Jon," Eddard said, extracting himself from the embrace with practiced ease.

Owen followed as they made their rounds through the courtyard. The sheer number of noble houses present struck him - far more than he'd ever known existed in the North from his previous life's knowledge of the books. Banners he'd never seen before caught his eye: the silver tree of House Ashwood rippling in the breeze, the black ravens of House Blackwood of the Wolfswood taking flight against their field, the green branches of House Branch intertwined with House Burley's blue flames.

More sigils drew his attention as they moved through the crowd - House Condon's lightning bolt, House Fenn's water lilies, the snowflake of House Frost. Each represented bloodlines and histories Owen had never known existed, making him acutely aware of how much deeper this world ran than the stories he'd read.

Most of the lords and ladies barely spared Owen a glance as Eddard made introductions, their focus naturally drawn to their liege lord. Owen preferred it that way - he'd never been comfortable as the center of attention. But then they reached Roose Bolton.

"Lord Stark." Bolton's voice was soft as always, barely above a whisper. He gave Eddard a precise bow, his movements controlled and deliberate.

"Lord Bolton. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Indeed. These new roads are... most impressive."

Though Bolton addressed Eddard, his pale eyes fixed on Owen with an unsettling intensity. Even as they moved on to greet others, Owen could feel that ghost-grey gaze following him across the courtyard. The Lord of the Dreadfort's interest made Owen's skin crawl - he knew all too well what that man was capable of.

Owen did his best to focus on the continuing introductions, but Bolton's stare lingered like ice water down his spine. He'd have to be very careful around that one. The books had made Bolton's cunning and cruelty clear enough, but experiencing that cold calculation firsthand was something else entirely.

Owen watched as Lady Mormont stepped forward, her stocky frame commanding attention despite her short stature. "Ned," Maege called out, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "Are you going to tell us how these roads appeared so quickly? My bannermen swear they saw strange metal men and spiders working alongside your builders."

A chorus of agreement rippled through the gathered nobles. Lord Cerwyn nodded vigorously. "Aye, we'd all like to know. Never seen anything like it."

"The speed was remarkable," added Barbrey Dustin, her sharp features betraying genuine curiosity beneath her usual stern demeanor. "Roads that would take years sprouted up in weeks."

Owen caught the knowing glances exchanged between Wyman Manderly and Robett Glover. The Lord of White Harbor's multiple chins quivered with barely contained excitement, while Glover maintained a more composed expression, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

Eddard raised his hands, quieting the excited murmurs. "My lords, my ladies, all will be explained in due time. For now, I know you've had long journeys, even if they were smoother than usual." This drew appreciative chuckles from the crowd. "Hot baths have been prepared, and the kitchens have outdone themselves for the welcoming feast. Tomorrow, after you've rested, I promise you'll have your answers."

The announcement was met with cheers of approval. Even the most curious lords couldn't argue with the promise of food and comfort after their travels. Owen watched as the crowd began moving toward the castle, servants directing them to their assigned quarters.

As he fell in step behind Lord Stark, Owen still felt the weight of Roose Bolton's ghost-grey eyes following him. The Lord of the Dreadfort's unsettling gaze made Owen grateful for all the precautions he'd taken. The factory lay hidden behind powerful wards, the armory secured behind enchanted locks, and both Cidhna Mine and the new glasshouses were protected by guards and magical barriers. No amount of Bolton's infamous curiosity would penetrate those defenses until Lord Stark deemed it time to reveal them.

The assembled lords and ladies filed into the castle, their excited chatter about the roads echoing off the ancient stones. Owen remained silent, knowing that tomorrow's revelations would give them far more to discuss than mere roads.

Owen sat at the high table beside Sansa that night, acutely aware of the curious glances from the gathered Northern lords and ladies below. The Great Hall of Winterfell buzzed with energy and warmth, filled to bursting with nobles, knights, and their retinues. Countless candles cast a golden glow over the festivities, their light reflecting off polished silverware and crystal goblets.

The feast was unlike anything Owen had seen since arriving in this world. Whole roasted aurochs dripped with honey glaze, their massive forms requiring four servants each to carry. Platters of smoked fish from White Harbor's bustling ports sat alongside wild boar seasoned with exotic spices from across the Narrow Sea. Mountains of root vegetables, roasted with herbs and butter, steamed invitingly beside freshly baked breads of every variety.

The gold from Cidhna Mine had certainly been put to good use as owen had intended when he gave the large bars to lord stark despite his protests. Owen spotted Arbor gold, Dornish reds, and even the rare purple wine of Lys being poured freely. The cellars of Winterfell had been stocked specifically for this occasion, and the Northern lords were taking full advantage of such unprecedented hospitality.

"Try this," Sansa said softly, placing a delicate lemon cake on Owen's plate. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she watched him take a bite. The pastry melted on his tongue, perfectly balanced between sweet and tart. Owen was just happy he wasn't blushing anymore whenever he was near the redheaded beauty.

Below them, the Greatjon's booming laugh echoed through the hall as he called for another tankard of ale. Even Roose Bolton seemed (seemed being the correct word, owen could never know with the man to say the truth) to be enjoying himself, though his ghost-grey eyes occasionally flicked toward the high table with calculated interest. Wyman Manderly was in his element, regaling those around him with tales of White Harbor's prosperity while sampling every dish within reach.

The placement at the high table hadn't been subtle - Owen sat among the Stark children, right beside his future bride. Though no formal announcement had been made, the implications were clear to anyone versed in the intricacies of Northern politics. He could see Lady Dustin whispering to Robett Glover, both stealing glances at him and Sansa between bites of honey-glazed duck, though owen knew it was all for show on the lords side, having known that owen was engaged to sansa already.

Servants continuously streamed from the kitchens with fresh platters and decanters, ensuring no cup remained empty and no plate bare. The abundance was staggering - glazed hams studded with cloves, whole salmon baked in clay, towers of fresh bread still steaming from the ovens, and countless meat pies releasing savory aromas into the air. Exotic fruits from the Reach provided bright splashes of color among the hearty Northern fare.

Owen caught snippets of conversation from the lords below, many marveling at the sheer variety and quality of the feast. This display of wealth and hospitality was sending a clear message about Winterfell's prosperity - one that Owen had helped engineer through his contributions from the mine. The North was growing stronger, and this feast was just the first taste of what was to come.

Owen once more found himself seated next to Sansa at the elevated dais (at her insistence this time), watching the Northern lords file into the Great Hall after breakfast. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation - everyone knew today would bring answers to the questions that had been burning since their arrival.

Catelyn's presence at the high table was dignified as always, though Owen noticed the slight tightening around her eyes when Jon took his place among them. owen frowned a bit at that. He tried to understand her feelings, but even now he didn't agree with them when it came to jon. The woman had suffered what she believed to be a constant reminder of her husband's infidelity for years and that would be a hard thing to cope with.

Eddard sat upon the ancient throne of winter, carved from weirwood and adorned with runes of the First Men. His grey eyes surveyed the gathered lords with calm authority. The seat seemed to enhance his natural authority, connecting him to all the Stark lords who had sat there before him.

The hall fell silent as Roose Bolton rose from his seat, his movements precise and deliberate. His voice, barely above a whisper, somehow carried to every corner of the room.

"Lord Stark," Bolton began, his ghost-grey eyes glinting in the morning light. "I must first express my gratitude for last night's feast. Such hospitality honors us all." He paused, letting his words settle. "However, I believe I speak for many here when I say we are eager to learn the truth behind these remarkable roads that have appeared across the North."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall. Owen watched as various lords nodded, some thumping their cups on tables in support.

Maege Mormont pushed to her feet, her sturdy frame commanding attention. "Aye, and not just the roads," she declared, her voice strong and clear. "These past two months have brought strange tales indeed. We hear whispers of a mage dwelling at Sea Dragon Point, of a village where weapons of extraordinary power are forged." Her eyes swept the hall. "There's talk of armor crafted from materials none have seen before."

The stamping of feet grew louder as more lords joined in, showing their support for these questions. Owen could see the curiosity burning in their eyes, mixed with hints of concern and excitement. He knew this moment had been carefully orchestrated - the roads were just the beginning, a way to ease them into the greater changes to come.

Lord Stark nodded and rose from the weirwood throne, his movement drawing all eyes. "My lords, my ladies," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority earned through years of just rule. "Allow me to present Owen, the newest Lord of Sea Dragon Point."

Owen stood, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him. The Great Hall fell silent as the Northern lords studied him intently. Some stood to get a better look, while others whispered among themselves. He could feel Roose Bolton's ghost-grey eyes boring into him with particular intensity, but Owen met his gaze calmly, refusing to show any discomfort.

"Furthermore," Eddard continued, "I am pleased to announce his betrothal to my daughter, Sansa."

The hall erupted in surprised murmurs. Owen caught snippets of conversation - "So young," and "Sea Dragon Point?" and "The Stark girl?" The reactions varied from raised eyebrows to approving nods, though Owen noticed Lady Dustin's lips press into a thin line at the news.

Lord Stark raised his hand, and the hall fell silent once more. "Many of you have heard rumors these past months. Tales of mysterious roads appearing overnight as you have seen with your own eyes, of weapons with extraordinary power, of metal men working tirelessly across our lands, mostly at white harbor and Deepwood motte." He paused, his grey eyes sweeping across the gathered nobles. "These rumors are true."

The murmuring grew louder, but Eddard pressed on. "While Owen is not a mage, as some have claimed, he is indeed the smith responsible for these marvels. The roads you traveled on, the metal workers you glimpsed, the weapons you've heard tales of - all are his creation."

Owen remained standing, back straight as he faced the increasingly animated crowd. The Greatjon's eyes were wide with wonder, while Maege Mormont leaned forward with keen interest. Even Howland Reed, typically unreadable, showed clear fascination. Through it all, Roose Bolton's pale eyes never left Owen's face, studying him with calculating intensity.

Owen snapped his fingers, the sound echoing through the Great Hall. At his signal, the massive oak doors swung open with a deep groan. The assembled lords and ladies gasped as a line of Dwarven automatons marched in, their bronze-gold bodies gleaming in the morning light streaming through the high windows.

The mechanical warriors moved with fluid grace, each step precise and measured. Intricate sigils carved into their metal frames pulsed with an inner light, casting dancing shadows across the stone floor. In their hands, they carried an array of weapons that seemed to draw all light toward them - the midnight black of ebony blades, the ethereal blue glow of Stalhrim axes, the pearlescent sheen of moonstone forged glass daggers, and the golden-green shimmer of orichalcum war hammers.

Several lords leapt to their feet, hands instinctively reaching for weapons that weren't there. The Greatjon's chair crashed backward as he stood, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and alarm. Even Roose Bolton's usual composure slipped for a moment, his pale eyes widening slightly at the sight of the mechanical soldiers.

"My lords, please," Eddard's voice cut through the growing tension. "Be at ease. These constructs serve House Stark and pose no threat."

The automatons halted in perfect unison, their metal feet striking the floor with a synchronized clang that echoed through the hall. They stood at attention, arranged in neat rows before the gathered nobility, their weapons held at parade rest.

Owen raised his hand and snapped again. The automatons moved as one, each stepping forward to present their weapons to the nearest lord or lady. The Greatjon found himself facing an automaton offering a massive ebony great sword, its black surface seeming to drink in the light around it. His hands trembled slightly as he grasped the weapon, testing its perfect balance with wonder in his eyes.

Maege Mormont accepted a Stalhrim war axe, its icy blue surface catching the light like frozen fire. She ran a calloused finger along its edge, eyebrows rising at its incredible sharpness. "By the old gods," she whispered, passing it to her daughter Dacey with reverence.

Even Roose Bolton's customary restraint faltered as he examined the glass longsword presented to him. The blade seemed to capture and amplify the morning light, creating an almost hypnotic display as he turned it in his hands.

The weapons made their way around the hall, passed from lord to lord with exclamations of amazement. Owen watched as hardened warriors and seasoned commanders handled the arms with the wonder of children receiving their first practice swords. The sheer quality and otherworldly nature of the materials left even the most skeptical nobles speechless.

Owen watched with a mix of pride and amusement as the Greatjon's eyes darted between Lord Stark and himself, barely containing his excitement. The massive lord's hands tightened around the ebony blade he held.

"Can we test them?" The Greatjon's booming voice carried across the hall, filled with childlike enthusiasm that seemed at odds with his intimidating stature.

Eddard's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I wouldn't want to stop you, GreatJon."

The lords practically leaped from their seats, their dignity momentarily forgotten in their eagerness to test these mysterious weapons. Owen felt Sansa's delicate hand slip into his own as they made their way to follow the excited crowd. Her smile, warm and genuine, made his heart skip a beat as they walked together toward the training grounds.

The morning air was crisp and clear as they gathered in the yard. The Greatjon wasted no time, striding toward one of the thick training dummies with purpose. The ebony blade gleamed darkly in the sunlight as he raised it high. With a mighty roar that echoed off Winterfell's ancient walls, he brought the sword down in a single powerful strike.

The training dummy, built to withstand countless blows from regular steel, split cleanly in two. The cut was so smooth it looked as if it had been done with a razor. A hushed silence fell over the gathered crowd, broken only by the Greatjon's delighted laugh.

Lord Howland Reed, usually quiet and reserved, stepped forward next. His movements were fluid and graceful as he accepted several glass daggers from one of the waiting automatons. The slight crannogman faced a heavily armored training dummy, its frame covered in thick leather and steel plate.

Without hesitation, Howland let the daggers fly. They struck their target with deadly accuracy, sinking deep into the armor as if it were made of cloth. The gathered lords murmured in amazement - glass weapons should have shattered against steel, yet these blades had penetrated multiple layers of protection with ease.

Ser Donnel Locke moved forward next, his eyes fixed on an orichalcum broadsword. The weapon seemed to catch and hold the sunlight, its golden-green surface almost alive with reflected light. Before him stood the most heavily armored dummy in the yard, covered in three distinct layers of knight's armor.

The sword moved like liquid light in Donnel's hands. When it met the armor, there was no resistance, no screech of metal on metal. The blade passed through all three layers as easily as a hot knife through butter, leaving clean-edged cuts that drew gasps of astonishment from the onlookers.

Owen watched as Roose Bolton stepped forward last, his ghost-grey eyes scanning the array of weapons before settling on one of the masterwork steel blades from the factory. It wasn't as exotic as the others, but Owen knew its quality far exceeded typical castle-forged steel. Bolton's pale fingers wrapped around the grip, and for once, genuine appreciation flickered across his usually stoic features.

"The balance is... perfect," Roose said in his characteristic whisper, though Owen detected real wonder in his voice.

An automaton stepped forward, wielding a standard castle-forged sword. Lord Stark nodded to Bolton. "Test it against normal steel, Lord Bolton. You'll find the difference quite remarkable."

Roose squared off against the automaton, his movements precise and controlled. The two blades met with a ring of steel - but only for a moment. The masterwork blade sliced through the castle-forged steel like parchment, leaving the severed portion of the blade to fall into the snow with a soft thump.

Bolton's eyes widened, an expression Owen had never expected to see on the normally composed lord's face. He stared at the blade in his hands, then turned his pale gaze to Owen.

"You crafted this?" His whisper carried across the now-silent yard.

Owen nodded, and Lord Stark added, "Indeed he did, and this is merely the least of what he has created."

"Come," Eddard began, gesturing for the lords to follow, but a booming voice cut through the air.

"Wait!" The Greatjon called out, his eyes fixed on a massive Stalhrim Warhammer being held by one of the automatons. "I want to try that one!"

Before anyone could stop him, the giant of a man had grabbed the hammer, hefting it onto his shoulder with surprising ease. He turned toward a massive boulder at the edge of the training yard, grinning like a child with a new toy.

Owen's eyes widened as he realized what the Greatjon intended. "My lord, be careful-"

But it was too late. The Greatjon charged forward with a mighty roar, bringing the Stalhrim Warhammer down on the boulder with all his considerable strength. The impact created a sound like thunder, and a blast of magical ice erupted from the point of contact. The massive lord was thrown backward by the force of his own blow, while the boulder shattered into a thousand frozen pieces.

The lords watched as the Greatjon lay sprawled in the snow, his massive frame shaking - not with pain, but with thunderous laughter. Maege Mormont and Howland Reed rushed to help him up, though the she-bear seemed to be fighting back her own chuckles.

"Seven hells!" The Greatjon boomed as they pulled him to his feet, snow falling from his clothes. "Did you see that? The whole bloody rock just..." He made an explosive gesture with his hands, nearly knocking Howland over in his enthusiasm. "I want twenty of these! No, thirty! Every man in Last Hearth should have one!"

Next to Owen, Sansa's musical giggle rang out at the lord's boyish excitement. The sound warmed him more than any forge fire could, and he found himself smiling along with her. Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth as she watched the Greatjon brush snow from his beard, still gesturing wildly about the hammer's power.

Owen glanced at Lord Stark, catching the slight shake of his head at his bannerman's antics. Despite his exasperation, a small smile played at the corners of Eddard's mouth as he watched the normally fearsome Greatjon bounce around like an oversized child, pointing at the frozen fragments of boulder scattered across the yard.

"The hammer, my lord!" The Greatjon called out, hefting the Stalhrim weapon again, though more carefully this time. "You never said they could do... whatever in seven hells that was!"

Owen watched as Eddard stepped forward, raising his hand to quiet the excited chatter around the training yard. The lord of Winterfell's eyes held a mixture of amusement and gravity as he addressed the Greatjon's enthusiastic query.

"Indeed, some of these weapons possess... deeper abilities," Eddard said, his voice carrying across the yard. "The Stalhrim's ice magic is but one example. However, my lords and ladies, there is more to see than just weapons."

Owen noticed how Roose Bolton's pale eyes narrowed at the mention of magical weapons, while Howland Reed nodded knowingly, as if confirming something he had long suspected. The other lords exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of wonder and uncertainty.

"If you would follow me," Eddard continued, gesturing toward the eastern side of the castle where the massive glasshouses stood gleaming in the morning sun. "There are other marvels that will perhaps interest you even more than these arms."

The assembled nobles fell in behind Lord Stark, though Owen noticed the Greatjon casting one last longing look at the Stalhrim Warhammer before reluctantly handing it back to an automaton. Sansa's hand remained in his as they walked, and he could feel her excitement through the gentle squeeze she gave his fingers.

Next to be seen were the glasshouses and Owen led the way into the first one, watching the lords' faces transform with wonder as they stepped into the warm, fragrant air. The massive structure stretched before them, its enchanted glass panels catching the morning light and dispersing it evenly across rows of thriving plants.

"As you can see," Owen gestured to the steam constructors methodically working among the plants, "these mechanical workers maintain everything within. They till the soil, plant seeds, and tend to the crops without rest."

The Greatjon pressed his face against one of the glass panels, his breath fogging the transparent surface. "It's warm as summer in here!"

"The glass is special," Owen explained, running his hand along one of the moonstone-infused panels. "We forge it using moonstone and silver, then enchant it to capture and amplify sunlight. This energy helps the plants grow faster - about three times the normal rate."

Roose Bolton's pale eyes followed a steam constructor as it moved between rows of vegetables, its metal hands carefully checking leaves for signs of disease. "And they never sicken?"

"No disease has touched a single plant since we built these," Eddard confirmed, pride evident in his voice. "The constructors prevent any blight from taking hold."

Maege Mormont stopped abruptly in front of a flourishing fruit tree, her weathered face showing clear disbelief. "These... these are peaches. And those - are those grape vines? Apples?" She shook her head. "These don't grow in the North. They can't."

"They do now," Catelyn stepped forward, her auburn hair catching the filtered sunlight. "I've tasted them myself, Lady Mormont. The fruit is as sweet as any grown in the Reach."

Owen watched as Maege reached out to touch a ripening peach, her calloused fingers gentle against the fuzzy skin. The she-bear's eyes widened as she felt its warmth, the reality of impossible fruit growing in the midst of northern winter finally sinking in.

The other lords moved through the glasshouse in various states of amazement. Howland Reed examined the irrigation system with keen interest, while a lady from House Ashwood stood transfixed before a row of orange trees. The steam constructors continued their work, unbothered by the nobles' presence, their mechanical movements precise and purposeful as they tended to the botanical wealth growing in the heart of the North.