The heat was different here. The forge was hot, but this… this was an inferno.
They stood in a clearing a hundred yards from the river. A monstrous structure of brick and clay rose six meters into the air. It looked like a chimney for a giant's fireplace. This was the Blast Furnace.
Ronan wiped sweat from his eyes. Even standing twenty paces away, the air shimmered.
"You built a tower to burn charcoal?" Elara Glover asked, shielding her face with a gloved hand. She had stayed, ostensibly to have her saddle fixed, but mostly because she couldn't look away from the chaos.
"Not just charcoal," Ronan corrected, his eyes fixed on the base of the furnace. "We are feeding it iron ore, charcoal, and limestone. Layer by layer."
"Why limestone?" she asked. "That's a building rock."
"It's a flux," Ronan murmured, more to himself than her. "It grabs the impurities in the iron—the sand, the dirt—and melts them into slag. It cleans the metal while it burns."
He walked closer. The men working the furnace were stripped to the waist, their skin gleaming with sweat and soot. Gendel was there, pumping a massive set of double-bellows that were now powered by a secondary drive-shaft from the water wheel.
Whoosh. Roar. Whoosh. Roar.
The noise was deafening. The fire inside wasn't orange; it was a blinding, painful white.
Ronan activated [The Architect's Eye].
The world shifted into a schematic. He saw the brickwork of the furnace not as a solid object, but as a grid of stress lines.
Most of the lines were green (stable). But near the base, where the heat was most intense, he saw a spiderweb of angry Red lines.
Thermal shock, Ronan realized. The clay lining is too thin on the southeast quadrant. If we tap it now, it might blow out.
"Halt!" Ronan roared, raising his hand.
Kennos, who was holding a long iron pike ready to puncture the clay plug at the bottom, froze. "My Lord? It's ready! The color is right!"
"The bottom right seal," Ronan shouted, pointing to a patch of clay that looked identical to the rest. "It's failing. Pack it! Now! Wet sand and clay! Throw it on!"
Kennos didn't argue. He knew better by now. He barked orders at two apprentices. They shoveled wet clay onto the spot Ronan pointed at. As the wet mud hit the superheated bricks, it hissed and baked instantly, reinforcing the weak point.
Ronan watched the red lines in his vision turn to a manageable yellow.
"Hold..." Ronan waited. The internal pressure stabilized. "Now! Tap it!"
Kennos drove the pike into the base of the furnace.
A fountain of sparks erupted, making the horses in the distance whinny in terror. Elara stepped back, her hand flying to the hilt of her dagger.
Then, it flowed.
Not the lumpy, sponge-like iron a blacksmith usually hammered. This was Liquid Fire.
A stream of molten metal, bright as the sun, poured out of the furnace. It ran down a channel they had dug in the sand, branching off into smaller molds. It looked like a sow feeding her piglets—hence the name "Pig Iron."
"Seven Hells," Elara whispered. "You melted the rock."
"Cast iron," Ronan said, the orange glow reflecting in his eyes. "We don't have to hammer it. We pour it. We can make pots. We can make pipes. We can make stove fronts."
He turned to her. "And we can make arrowheads. Thousands of them. All identical. All in one hour."
Elara looked at the cooling metal, then at Ronan. There was no romance in her look, only a cold, calculating assessment. She was a Northern lady; she understood the value of weapons.
"My uncle buys arrowheads from the Smiths of Winterfell," she said. "He pays a silver stag for a bundle of twenty."
"I'll sell you a bundle of fifty for a stag," Ronan said instantly. "And mine will be harder."
"You would undercut the Starks?" she asked, testing him.
"I am adding value to the North," Ronan countered. "If House Glover is better armed, the North is safer. Is that not what Lord Stark wants?"
She studied him for a long moment. "You are dangerous, Lord Ronan. You speak of commerce like a Bravoosi, but you work the earth like a peasant."
"I am neither," Ronan said. "I am an engineer."
[Trade Route Opened: House Glover]
[Potential Export: Cast Iron Goods]
"I will take a sample," Elara said, regaining her composure. "If your metal holds an edge, my uncle will talk."
She mounted her horse, checking the new saddle girth Kennos had provided. She looked down at him one last time. "Do not blow yourself up, my Lord. It would be a waste of a good mind."
She turned her horse and galloped away, her guards trailing her.
Ronan watched her go. She was smart, but she was small-time. She was thinking about arrowheads. He was thinking about cannons.
"My Lord!" Varrick approached, holding a ledger, looking terrified of the molten river.
"What is it, Varrick?"
"A letter, my Lord. From White Harbor."
Ronan took the letter. The paper was thick, scented with expensive perfume. The wax seal was a merman with a trident—House Manderly.
To Lord Ronan of Blackwood,
Reports of your increased grain production have reached the city. We are... skeptical, but intrigued. The North needs food. If you truly have the surplus you claim, my granddaughter, Wynafryd, will be visiting the Wolfswood next moon to inspect your holdings.
Do not waste her time.
Lord Wyman Manderly
Ronan smiled.
Elara Glover was a soldier's daughter. She was useful.
But Wynafryd Manderly? She was the heiress to the richest seat in the North. She was the key to the real game.
"Varrick," Ronan said, folding the letter.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"We need to pave the courtyard. And get glass for the windows. If a Manderly is coming, we cannot look like a mud-pit."
Ronan looked back at the glowing pig iron.
"Build the second furnace," he ordered Kennos. "We're going to need a lot more steel."
Status Update:
• Infrastructure: Blast Furnace (Operational).
• Production: Pig Iron (Mass production capable).
• Relations:
• House Glover: Cautious Interest (Trade Partner).
• House Manderly: Incoming VIP (High Value Target).
• Current Goal: Upgrade the Keep before Wynafryd arrives.