Chapter 65:
Half a month later.
West of Winterfell, Wolfwood Industrial Zone.
The once-silent ancient forest had completely transformed.
Beside the oil well where Victor had lit the first flame, tall distillation towers forged from black iron now stood.
Thick black smoke columns shot straight into the sky, clashing with the crisp pine scent of the North. The air was filled with a pungent yet exhilarating smell of diesel.
This was the [Pompey Royal First Refinery (Winterfell Branch)].
Although the equipment was crude and could only perform basic atmospheric distillation — separating crude oil into diesel, kerosene, and asphalt — it was already enough to feed the hungry steel beasts.
Victor stood atop a tall storage tank, looking down at the bustling anthill-like construction site below.
Barrels of初步 refined "light diesel" were being rolled onto carts by workers and transported to Winterfell's armory.
"This is the beauty of industry, isn't it?"
Victor took a deep breath of the sulfur-scented air and turned to Sansa beside him.
Sansa wore a thick cloak made from an entire silver direwolf pelt. Her belly was slightly rounded (though still early, as a mother she instinctively protected it).
She looked at the felled sentinel trees and the snow blackened by oil, a complicated look in her eyes.
"The Old Gods of the North may not like this smell, Victor."
"The trees are crying. The snow is getting dirty."
"But the Old Gods couldn't stop the Others. Petroleum can."
Victor took her hand and pointed toward the distant welding workshop, where blue flames flickered.
"That is the price we must pay for survival. When spring comes, we will plant more trees."
Sansa nodded. Since the ritual in the godswood that night, she could feel the child in her belly had a natural affinity for this cold and power.
"As long as it can protect the North, I wouldn't mind burning the entire Wolfwood."
…
Winterfell, training grounds.
An unprecedented beast-taming performance was underway.
But they weren't taming horses or wolves — they were taming machines.
Fifty newly assembled [Snow Wolf · Half-Track Heavy Motorcycles] stood neatly in formation on the snow.
These vehicles had been specially modified for the Northern snowfields: front wheels fitted with ski guides, rear wheels with wide rubber tracks, and powered by a V2 twin-cylinder high-torque diesel engine.
They were painted entirely black, with a white direwolf crest on the fuel tanks.
However, for the Northern knights accustomed to riding horses, these iron beasts were nothing short of a nightmare.
"Damn it! This thing won't listen!"
Greatjon Umber sat on one of the motorcycles like a bear riding a pig.
He clumsily twisted the throttle.
Vroom—!!!
The motorcycle lurched forward violently. Greatjon panicked, forgot to pull the clutch, and let go of the handlebars.
Bang!
The motorcycle slammed into a haystack and stalled. Greatjon face-planted into the snow.
The surrounding soldiers wanted to laugh but didn't dare.
"You idiot! That's the throttle! Not reins!"
The Hound, Sandor Clegane, stood in the center of the field holding a teaching rod (actually an iron bar) and roared.
He was the only — and first — person in the entire army to master driving, and now served as the chief instructor of the "Motorized Training Unit."
"Is this the riding skill of you Northerners?"
The Hound mocked, spitting on the ground.
"You can't even tame an iron horse, yet you want to fight the Others? Go back to your mother's womb and ride wooden horses!"
The provoked Northern knights climbed back up one after another.
"Again!"
"I refuse to believe it! I can tame wild horses — why can't I handle these iron lumps?"
The roar of engines filled the training ground once more.
Put-put-put— Vroom!
Fall, get up, fall again.
The air was thick with the smell of burnt clutch plates and the angry roars of men.
Victor stood on the city wall, watching the scene with a smile on his lips.
This was exactly right.
The transition from cold weapons to hot weapons was not just about equipment — it was about reshaping mindsets.
These knights needed time to adapt to this violent new power, to learn to shoot while moving at high speed instead of swinging swords.
"This will take time, my lord."
Ser Rodrik (the old master-at-arms of Winterfell) said worriedly. "If the Others attack now, these riders who haven't even learned to walk yet will be nothing but living targets."
"That's why we must give them the best shells."
Victor turned and walked toward the tower behind him.
…
Armory, Equipment Preparation Room.
Here were stored the first batch of [Low-Grade Mass-Produced Valyrian Steel Plate Armor] shipped from King's Landing.
Although called "low-grade," it was still several times stronger than ordinary steel armor. Because it was mixed with obsidian powder, it had a special effect against magical creatures.
Sansa walked up to one suit of armor.
This armor was no longer traditional chainmail or plate — it had a distinct industrial-punk style.
The thick breastplate featured specially designed cooling grilles (to handle heat while riding). The helmet was fully enclosed, with goggles and a breathing filter (to prevent inhaling the Others' poisonous mist). The right gauntlet even integrated a folding arm blade.
"This is prepared for the 'Steel Knights Order'."
Victor picked up the heavy helmet.
"Fully sealed, with constant-temperature lining. Even at minus fifty degrees outside, it will feel warm as spring inside."
"Combined with the speed of the motorcycles, they will be heavy tanks on the snowfields."
Sansa stroked the new crest on the armor — a wolf's head biting a gear.
She had designed it herself. It symbolized the union of House Stark and Pompey industry.
"This army…"
Sansa said softly, "should be presented with its banner by me."
She was now the lawful ruler of the North and the mother of the "Wolf King" in her belly. Only she could fully win the loyalty of these proud Northerners.
…
Another week passed.
With large quantities of diesel now being refined and the knights finally mastering balance after countless bruises and falls,
A vanguard experimental unit of only fifty men was finally formed.
They wore black Valyrian steel plate armor, carried shotguns and Valyrian steel longswords, and straddled roaring half-track motorcycles.
Although their movements were still somewhat clumsy and their formation not yet perfect,
When the fifty engines roared to life together, the oppressive feeling of a steel torrent made all of Winterfell tremble.
Woo——————
At that moment,
A black raven flew unsteadily into the maester's tower of Winterfell.
Its body was covered in frost, and its wings bore traces of blood.
Maester Luwin trembled as he removed the message tube and hurried into the great hall.
"My lord! My lady!"
"Urgent report from the Wall!"
Victor took the letter. His brows instantly tightened.
There was only one hastily written line, the handwriting twisted with fear:
[Eastwatch-by-the-Sea under attack.]
[Something crawled out of the sea. Not the dead. Semi-transparent monsters. They are not afraid of ordinary fire. Requesting reinforcements!]
The hall fell silent.
The Northern lords exchanged glances, instinctive fear in their eyes. The Others — that was a nightmare thousands of years old.
"Not afraid of ordinary fire?"
Victor crumpled the letter into a ball and casually tossed it into the hearth.
The flames devoured the paper with crackling pops.
He looked at Sansa.
Sansa sat on the high-backed chair, her hand gently resting on her belly. The silver gleam in her eyes flickered slightly.
"Then we'll use fire that isn't ordinary."
Sansa's voice was as cold as ice.
"Victor, this is the first battle before our child is born. We cannot lose."
Victor nodded.
He strode out of the hall and onto the training grounds.
The Hound and the fifty newly trained "Steel Knights" were already geared up and ready.
"Did you hear that?"
Victor jumped onto a command vehicle (a half-track jeep fitted with a machine gun).
"Someone is knocking on the door at the Wall."
"They're tough bastards."
He drew the Persuader of Truth from his waist and pointed it toward the cloudy northern sky.
"All units!"
"Start engines!"
Vroom-vroom-vroom-vroom—!!!
Fifty diesel engines roared simultaneously. Black smoke instantly engulfed the training ground.
Waves of heat rolled out, driving away the snow and wind.
"Check equipment! Load incendiary rounds!"
The Hound lowered his visor. His voice rang out through the loudspeaker with a metallic edge.
"Let those ice scraps see what the Industrial Revolution looks like!"
"Move out!"
Accompanied by the sound of tracks crushing frozen earth, this never-before-seen mechanized cavalry unit shot out of Winterfell's gates like a black arrow.
Destination: The Wall, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
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