The enemy wasn't bandits, and it wasn't the cold. It was friction.
Ronan stood at the edge of his domain, watching a cart loaded with iron ingots. The wheels were sunk axle deep in the thick, brown slurry that passed for a road in the North. Two oxen were straining, their hooves slipping, while three men pushed from behind, cursing the mud.
"Stop," Ronan ordered.
The men paused, panting.
"Unload it," Ronan said. "If you force the beasts, you'll break a leg. We are losing hours to this muck."
He turned to Varrick. "We have glass now. Glass breaks. We have heavy steel. Steel sinks. We cannot build an industrial empire if our veins are clogged with mud."
"It is the thaw, my Lord," Varrick said, wiping mud from his own boots. "The ground heaves. Every road in the North is like this until the hard freeze returns."
"Not every road," Ronan said. "Just the bad ones."
The Rock Breaker
The trip hammer at the mill was modified again. Ronan removed the wooden beater used for paper and installed a heavy iron head with a jagged face.
Peasants fed rocks—granite and basalt from the mining tailings—into the chute.
CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.
The hammer pulverized the stone. It didn't make dust; it made jagged, angular gravel.
Ronan stood by the road with his engineers—a corps of the Grey Legion who had shown more aptitude for shovels than crossbows.
"We do not just dump rocks in the mud," Ronan explained, drawing a cross section in the dirt. "That just makes sinking rocks. We build a spine."
He outlined the Macadam System:
1. The Foundation: A layer of large, hand placed stones to separate the road from the soft subsoil.
2. The Core: A thick layer of the angular gravel from the mill. Because the stones were jagged, they locked together like puzzle pieces when pressed, rather than rolling like river stones.
3. The Seal: A top dressing of fine stone dust mixed with a little lime.
4. The Camber: The road was curved, higher in the center, so water ran off into deep ditches on either side.
"Get the Legion," Ronan ordered. "Every man not on patrol works the road. We have twenty miles to the Kingsroad. We pave it in ten days."
The Iron Roller
The construction was brutal, rhythmic work.
The Legionnaires laid the foundation. Then came the carts dumping the gravel.
Then came the Monster.
It was a hollow iron cylinder, five feet wide, cast in sections at the blast furnace and bolted together. Ronan had filled it with water to make it immensely heavy. It was pulled by a team of eight oxen.
Rumble.
The ground shook as the roller passed. It crushed the angular stones together, locking them into a solid, unyielding mat. The lime dust on top was wetted and rolled until it formed a surface almost as hard as the concrete walls.
Day and night, the work continued. Torches lined the route. The Crash Crash of the rock breaker provided the beat.
By the tenth day, it was done.
A grey ribbon sliced through the brown chaos of the Wolfswood. It was straight, smooth, and unnatural.
The Departure
The morning of the departure for Winterfell was crisp and clear.
Ronan's retinue was small but terrifyingly disciplined.
• 10 Grey Legionnaires: Mounted on sturdy garrons, wearing identical grey munitions plate and steel helmets. No mismatched heraldry. No feathers. Just grey steel.
• Kennos: Riding a mule, looking uncomfortable in clean clothes.
• The Payload: A heavy, reinforced wagon covered in a waterproofed canvas tarp.
Ronan mounted his horse. He signaled the driver.
The wagon rolled onto the new road.
There was no creaking. No squelching mud. The iron rimmed wheels hummed on the hard packed stone. The horses trotted easily, pulling a load that would have bogged them down instantly on the grass.
"We are making eight miles an hour," Kennos marveled, checking the sun. "We will reach the Kingsroad by midday."
"And then we will slow down," Ronan said grimly. "Because the Kingsroad is a joke."
He was right.
When they reached the junction where the "Blackwood Road" met the Great Kingsroad, the difference was jarring.
The Kingsroad—the main artery of the Seven Kingdoms—was a rutted, potholed mess of frozen ruts and horse dung.
Ronan's smooth, grey highway ended abruptly at the junction.
A merchant caravan was stuck there, wheels trapped in a frozen rut. The merchant, a fat man from White Harbor, was staring at Ronan's road with his mouth open. He looked at the smooth stone surface, then at the mud he was standing in.
"Seven Hells," the merchant breathed. "Who built this? The Valyrians?"
"Blackwood," Ronan said as he rode past. "If you want to use it next time, there's a toll."
The Approach
The journey to Winterfell took three days on the Kingsroad. It should have taken one.
As the grey towers of Winterfell rose in the distance, massive and imposing against the sky, Ronan felt a shift in the air.
This was the seat of power. The Stark banners—the Grey Direwolf—snapped in the wind.
But Ronan didn't feel small. He looked at the massive granite walls of Winterfell and found himself analyzing the mortar. Old, he thought. Strong, but brittle. A concentrated bombardment at the East Gate would breach it in four hours.
He shook the thought away. He was here to make friends, not to lay siege.
"Open the gate!" the guard on the wall shouted. "Identify!"
"Lord Ronan of Blackwood," Ronan called out. "Answering the summons of Lord Stark."
The heavy gates groaned open.
Ronan led his column inside. The Winterfell courtyard was crowded with other minor lords, knights, and horses.
As the Grey Legion rode in, silence rippled through the yard.
They didn't look like the other soldiers. The other house guards were a motley crew—some in mail, some in leather, laughing, drinking, chaotic.
Ronan's men rode in two perfect columns. They stopped as one. They dismounted as one. They stood by their horses, hands resting on their halberds, staring straight ahead. Silent. Uniform. Dangerous.
A young man with auburn hair and the easy grace of a high born lord walked down the steps to meet them. It was Robb Stark.
He looked at the Grey Legion, then at Ronan.
"Lord Ronan," Robb said, a smile touching his lips, though his eyes were wary. "My father said you were bringing iron. He didn't say you were bringing an army."
"Not an army, My Lord," Ronan said, dismounting and bowing. "Just an escort for the gift."
He gestured to the heavy wagon behind him.
"A gift?" Robb asked. "Wine? Furs?"
"Insurance," Ronan said.
Status Update:
• Location: Winterfell.
• Reputation: High (The "Grey Legion" has made a visual impact).
• Asset: The Paved Road (Logistics +100).
.....
Author Note
Hi guys! Thank you for reading my fanfiction.
I wanted to let you know that I'll be releasing bonus chapters for Power Stones. Here are the goals:
50 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapter
80 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapter
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
125 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support and Reaching the Goal!