The morning air in the Winterfell sparring yard was sharp enough to cut glass. Mist curled off the ground as men gathered in a circle, their breath steaming in the cold.
At the center stood Theon Greyjoy. He held a longbow of goldenheart wood, a weapon of the Iron Islands. He looked every bit the young kraken—arrogant, skilled, and eager to humiliate the "mud lord" from the Wolfswood.
"It looks like a toy," Theon sneered, gesturing to the heavy Arbalest resting on a table nearby. "A box for a bolt. Tell me, Lord Ronan, does it come with a nursemaid to crank it for you?"
The Stark household guard laughed. Even Robb smiled, though he tried to hide it. The North respected strength, and to them, a crossbow was a coward's weapon.
Ronan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, flanked by two of his Grey Legionnaires. He didn't smile.
"It is a machine, Theon," Ronan said calmly. "It does not have pride. It only has tension."
"Tension?" Theon scoffed. He nocked an arrow. "I'll show you tension."
Theon turned to the target—a straw dummy set up at fifty paces. In one fluid motion, he drew, aimed, and loosed.
Thwip.
The arrow struck the dummy square in the painted heart. A perfect shot.
The yard erupted in cheers. Theon bowed theatrically. "Your turn, Blackwood. Try not to hurt yourself."
Ronan nodded to one of his guards. It was Tom Miller, the peasant who had been counted in the census as #0042. Tom stepped forward. He wasn't big. He wasn't a warrior born. He looked terrified of the crowd.
"Range?" Ronan asked.
"Fifty paces is for children," Ronan said. He pointed to the far stone wall of the Inner Keep. "One hundred paces. The wooden shield leaning against the stone."
The crowd murmured. One hundred paces was an extreme shot for a longbow, losing much of its killing power.
"He'll miss," Greatjon Umber rumbled, crossing his massive arms.
Tom Miller didn't aim yet. He placed his foot in the iron stirrup at the front of the weapon. He attached the windlass hooks to the string.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound was mechanical and jarring in the organic silence of the yard. It took ten seconds to wind. Theon yawned mockingly.
Tom removed the crank. He placed a heavy, thick steel bolt into the groove.
"Loose," Ronan ordered.
Tom raised the stock to his shoulder. He didn't have to struggle with the draw weight. He just lined up the iron sight.
THWACK.
The sound was violent.
The bolt flew so fast it was a blur. It crossed the hundred paces in a heartbeat.
CRACK.
It didn't just hit the wooden shield. It shattered it. Splinters exploded outward. The bolt continued, striking the granite wall behind it with a shower of sparks, chipping the stone before falling to the ground, bent but unbroken.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Theon's smile vanished. He looked at the shattered shield, then back at the "toy."
"That wasn't skill," Theon spat. "That was... a trick. A machine."
"Exactly," Ronan said. "Your bow requires ten years of practice to hit the heart at fifty paces. My machine allows a baker to punch through a shield at a hundred paces after one day of training."
He looked at Ned Stark, who was watching from the gallery.
"Wars are not won by heroes, Lord Stark," Ronan said, his voice carrying. "They are won by logistics. And volume."
The Gift
"Impressive," Ned Stark said, descending into the yard. "But a weapon is only half a soldier. You promised me a gift, Lord Ronan."
Ronan signaled to Varrick. The administrator pulled the canvas tarp off the wagon.
Underneath lay a suit of armor.
It wasn't the dull grey of standard iron, nor the gleaming silver of polished steel. It was a deep, iridescent blue.
"Blued steel," Ronan explained. "Treated with oil and heat to resist rust. But the color is not the innovation."
Ronan picked up the breastplate. He tossed it to the Greatjon.
The giant caught it with one hand. He frowned. "It's light. Too light. Is this tin? A mace would crush this like an egg."
"Put it on the post," Ronan said.
They strapped the blue breastplate to a heavy oak training post.
"Hit it," Ronan commanded. "With your hammer."
The Greatjon looked at Ned for permission. Ned nodded.
The giant unslung his massive warhammer. He grinned. "Don't cry when I flatten your pretty gift, boy."
He swung.
It was a blow that would have killed a bull. The hammerhead whistled through the air and connected with the center of the chest plate.
CLANG.
The sound was like a temple bell.
The breastplate deformed inward violently. The crowd gasped, expecting the metal to tear or stay crushed.
But then—SNAP.
In a fraction of a second, the steel sprang back. It returned to its original shape, leaving only a small scuff where the hammer had struck.
The Greatjon stumbled back, the vibration of the rebound stinging his hands. He stared at the armor. It wasn't crushed. It wasn't cracked.
"Sorcery," Roose Bolton whispered from the edge of the crowd.
"Spring Steel," Ronan corrected loud enough for everyone to hear. "High carbon. Tempered. It has memory. It absorbs the energy of the blow and throws it back."
He walked over and tapped the breastplate.
"Iron is dead," Ronan announced. "This is alive. It is lighter, so your men march further. It is stronger, so your men live longer. And it does not rust in the snow."
Ronan turned to Ned Stark and knelt.
"I offer this to you, Lord Stark. And the formula to your smiths. The North will be the first kingdom of steel."
Ned Stark looked at the armor. He saw the survival of his sons in that metal. He looked at Ronan, seeing not a boy, but a fortress builder.
"Rise, Ronan of Blackwood," Ned said solemnly. "The North remembers. And we will not forget this."
[Relationship Update: House Stark]
[Status: Strong Ally]
[Reward:] The Contract. Winterfell orders 500 suits of Blackwood Plate.
[Threat Update: House Bolton]
[Status: Active Hostility]
[Observation:] Roose Bolton leaves the yard immediately. He has seen enough. He knows he cannot fight this enemy with swords. He needs to fight with shadows.
Ronan stood up. He had won the day. But as he looked at the dented post behind the armor, his Architect's Eye flashed a warning.
[Material Stress Detected]
[Analysis:] The world is fragile. You are introducing technology that breaks the balance.
[Prediction:] Escalation.
Ronan ignored the warning. He had the contract. Now he needed the coal to fulfill it.
"Robb," Ronan said as the heir of Winterfell approached, eyes shining with excitement. "Does your father have a map of the Neck? We need to talk about canals."
...
Author Note
Hi guys! Thank you for reading my fanfiction.
I wanted to let you know that I'm 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!