The smell of baking bread was the most powerful magic in the world.
It floated through the cold halls of Deepwood Keep, stronger than any spell a wizard could cast. For the four hundred people living inside the wooden walls, this scent was the first sign of hope they had felt in years.
In the courtyard, huge iron pots were bubbling with thick porridge mixed with dried meat and tallow.
The villagers lined up. There was no pushing. There was no shouting. They held their wooden bowls out with trembling hands, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Old Cullen stood by the pots, holding a ladle like a scepter of authority.
"Slowly!" the old steward barked, though his voice was kind. "Do not eat too fast or your stomachs will burst. There is enough. The Lord said there is enough for everyone."
Andar watched from the balcony above.
He saw the color returning to their pale faces. He saw the way the soldiers, who yesterday looked half dead, were now standing straighter, gripping their spears with renewed strength.
Loyalty in Westeros was simple. You feed them, they die for you.
"My Lord."
Jory, the young guard whose spear Andar had broken, walked up the stairs. He looked different. He had washed the soot from his face, and his belly was full.
"The men... they want to thank you," Jory said awkwardly. "They say you performed a miracle with the black stones."
"I do not need thanks," Andar said, turning away from the railing. "I need labor."
He walked back into his solar, which was now cluttered with strange drawings and piles of charcoal.
"Jory, take three men to the stables. And then go to the latrines."
Jory blinked. "The... latrines, My Lord?"
"I need the soil," Andar said calmly. "Specifically, the white crust that forms on the old piles of manure. Scrape it off. Collect it carefully. And do not get it wet."
Jory looked horrified. He had just eaten a good meal, and now his Lord wanted him to collect frozen waste.
"My Lord, is this... dark magic?" Jory whispered. "First the cursed stones, now the dung?"
"It is chemistry," Andar sighed. He did not have time to explain the nitrogen cycle to a medieval peasant. "That white crust is saltpeter. It is the breath of the dragon, Jory. Without it, my new weapons are just iron clubs. Go."
Jory bowed and ran off, looking eager to please but terrified of the task.
Andar looked at the System panel floating in the air.
[Quest: The Thunder of the North]
[Objective: Produce 10 lbs of Black Powder]
[Ingredients: Sulfur (Acquired from coal deposits), Charcoal (Abundant), Potassium Nitrate (Pending)]
[Ratio: 75:15:10]
He had the fuel. He had the oxidizer pending. Now he needed the delivery system.
Andar left the room and headed for the smithy.
The heat in the smithy was suffocating.
Since the blast furnace had been lit, the temperature in this corner of the castle was tropical. Mott had stripped off his tunic, his hairy chest glistening with sweat as he hammered a piece of glowing red steel.
"Harder!" Andar commanded as he entered.
Mott grunted and brought the heavy hammer down. CLANG.
On the anvil lay a long, thin rod of steel. It was about three feet long.
"It is cooling too fast," Mott panted. "My Lord, making a solid bar is easy. But you want me to make a tube? A seamless tube? It is impossible. If I roll the iron, there will be a seam. If the explosion is as strong as you say, the seam will burst and kill the man holding it."
"We are not rolling it," Andar picked up a strange tool from the workbench.
It was a drill. But not a wood drill. It was a drill bit made of the hardest, highest carbon steel Andar could produce, sharpened to a cruel point.
"We are going to bore it out," Andar said.
Mott looked at the drill, then at the solid steel bar. "Drill through steel? My Lord, that will take days! My arms will fall off."
"Then we build a machine to do it for you," Andar pointed to the corner.
There, he had instructed the carpenters to build a strange wooden frame. It looked like a large spinning wheel turned on its side. It was a primitive boring bench.
"We hook this up to the water wheel by the stream," Andar explained. "The water turns the drill. You just push the barrel forward. The machine does the work."
Mott stared at the contraption. He touched the wooden gears.
"Water... does the work?" Mott whispered. "Like a mill grinding grain? But for iron?"
"Exactly."
Andar picked up the steel bar. It was heavy.
"This steel is good, Mott. But it is not enough. Once we bore the hole, the inside will be rough. If the inside is rough, the bullet will fly sideways. We need to polish it until it is smooth as glass."
He handed the bar back to the blacksmith.
"Set up the water wheel. I want the first barrel finished by tomorrow night."
The next day.
The entire keep was buzzing with strange activities.
In the east corner, Jory and his men were boiling buckets of urine and manure, following Andar's instructions to extract the crystals. The smell was horrendous, but no one complained. They had seen the fire of the furnace; they trusted the Lord's madness now.
By the stream outside the walls, the carpenters were cheering.
The water wheel was turning. A system of wooden gears groaned and creaked, transferring the power into the shed where Mott was holding the steel bar steady.
Screech...
The sound of metal biting into metal pierced the air. It was a high pitched scream that set teeth on edge.
But it worked.
The drill bit, powered by the relentless river, was eating its way through the center of the steel rod. Metal shavings curled out like silver worms.
Andar stood by the stream, watching the water flow.
"My Lord!"
Cullen came running down the snowy path.
"A raven," the old man gasped, holding out a small scroll. "A raven from Winterfell."
Andar took the scroll. The wax seal was the Direwolf of House Stark.
He broke the seal and read the message. The handwriting was neat and rigid, likely written by Maester Luwin.
To Lord Andar Stark of Deepwood Keep,
Lord Eddard Stark summons his bannermen. The King, Robert Baratheon, is riding North. He brings the Royal Court to Winterfell.
You are expected to present yourself and pay your respects. Prepare your tribute.
Winter is Coming.
Andar crushed the paper in his hand.
King Robert was coming.
That meant the plot was starting. Jon Arryn was dead. The Lannisters were coming to the North. The gears of fate were turning.
"The King..." Cullen looked terrified. "My Lord, we have nothing to give him! We sold the iron for food. We have no gold for a gift. If we go empty handed, we will be shamed."
"Shamed?" Andar laughed softly. "No, Cullen."
He looked back at the shed where the boring machine was screaming.
"We are not going to Winterfell to kneel and offer furs."
Andar threw the crumbled letter into the icy stream.
"We are going to Winterfell to show them the future. I will give King Robert a gift that will make his warhammer look like a toy."
[Quest Alert]
[Event: The King's Arrival]
[Objective: Demonstrate the power of firearms to the Warden of the North.]
[Time Limit: 1 Month]
Andar turned to the steward.
"Pack the wagons, Cullen. And double the guards on the saltpeter beds. We have a gun to build."
...
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:
25 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
50 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
75 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!