The Great Hall of Winterfell was loud.
Hundreds of candles flickered in the iron chandeliers, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of roasted boar, onions, ale, and woodsmoke.
Usually, the seating arrangement at such a feast was strict. The King sat with the Warden. The Great Lords sat with the Great Lords. The minor Lords sat at the lower tables near the drafty doors.
Tonight that rule was broken.
Andar Stark sat three seats away from the King.
To his left sat the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister. To his right sat Tyrion Lannister, the Imp.
It was an uncomfortable position. Jaime looked at him with cold golden eyes, his hand resting casually near his wine goblet. Tyrion, however, looked at him with fascination, his mismatched eyes scanning Andar as if he were a riddle to be solved.
"Tell me again," King Robert roared, spraying crumbs of bread onto the table. "How far can it shoot? Truly?"
"Effective range is one hundred paces Your Grace," Andar replied, cutting his meat calmly. "At two hundred paces, the ball loses energy. It might dent armor, but it will not penetrate."
"One hundred paces," Robert mused. "That is the range of a good longbow. But a longbow takes ten years to master. Your stick takes what? Ten days?"
"Ten days to learn the drill," Andar corrected. "But to be a marksman? A month."
Robert slammed his fist on the table, laughing. "A month! Ned! Do you hear this? A month to make a peasant more dangerous than a knight!"
Eddard Stark did not smile. He sat stiffly, pushing food around his plate.
"It is a coward's weapon," Jaime Lannister spoke suddenly. His voice was smooth and sharp like a dagger.
The table went quiet.
Jaime swirled his wine. "You stand far away. You pull a trigger. You do not look your enemy in the eye. You do not risk your own skin. Where is the glory in that? It is butchery, plain and simple."
Andar turned to face the Kingslayer.
"Ser Jaime," Andar said. "When you wear your white armor, and you ride a warhorse that weighs two thousand pounds, and you charge down a starving peasant holding a rusted spear... do you look him in the eye?"
Jaime's jaw tightened.
"I give him a chance to yield," Jaime said.
"No you do not," Andar replied. "You trample him. You kill him because you have better equipment. You have steel plate. He has wool. You have a horse. He has bare feet. That is not a fair fight. That is butchery."
Andar pointed to the musket which was leaning against the wall behind the King, guarded by Jory.
"My weapon just evens the odds. It makes the peasant equal to the knight. And that is what you hate Ser Jaime. You do not hate the weapon. You hate that it makes your lifetime of training worthless."
Jaime's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Careful boy. I have killed men for less."
"Peace brother," Tyrion interrupted, pouring more wine into his own cup. "The boy has a point. War is not a tourney. The objective is to win, is it not?"
Tyrion looked at Andar with a grin.
"I am curious Lord Andar. The powder. It smells of sulfur. Is it alchemy?"
"Chemistry," Andar said.
"A fancy word for magic," Tyrion chuckled. "But I see the potential. Tell me, how much does it cost? To make one of these... muskets?"
"The iron is cheap," Andar said. "The labor is the cost. It takes a skilled smith three days to bore the barrel."
"Three days," Tyrion did the math instantly. "So mass production is slow. That is your bottleneck."
"For now," Andar said enigmatically.
King Robert burped loudly, ending the tension.
"Enough talk of costs! I am the King! I will pay for it!"
Robert leaned in, his face flushed with drink.
"I want them Andar. I want a hundred of them. I want to take them back to King's Landing. I want to shoot a pumpkin off Pycelle's head."
"I cannot give you a hundred Your Grace," Andar said. "I do not have the forges. I do not have the men. Deepwood Keep is poor. My people are barely eating."
"Then I will make you rich!" Robert shouted.
He turned to his squire.
"Bring me parchment! And a quill!"
The squire scrambled. A moment later, Robert was scribbling furiously, spilling ink everywhere.
"Here!" Robert shoved the paper at Andar.
[Royal Decree]
[Grant: 10,000 Gold Dragons]
[Purpose: Armament Research]
[Title: Royal Artificer of the North]
"Take it to the Master of Coin in King's Landing," Robert said. "Littlefinger will pay you. Ten thousand dragons. Build your forges. Build your factory. Next year, when I come back, I want an army of thunder."
Ten thousand dragons.
The entire hall gasped. That was a fortune. It was enough to rebuild Deepwood Keep ten times over. It was enough to buy a fleet of ships.
Lord Tywin Lannister would not be happy about this expense, but Robert did not care.
"Thank you Your Grace," Andar took the parchment. He folded it carefully.
This was it. This was the capital injection he needed. With ten thousand dragons, he could skip the primitive stage. He could build blast furnaces made of brick. He could hire hundreds of workers. He could buy coal mines.
"However," Andar added. "I have a condition."
The hall went silent again. No one gave conditions to the King.
"You have a what?" Robert blinked.
"A request," Andar corrected smoothly. "I cannot make these weapons in King's Landing. The south is too humid. The powder will spoil. I must make them in the North. In Deepwood Keep."
It was a lie. Gunpowder worked fine in the south if stored properly. But Andar would never hand over the means of production to the Lannisters. He needed to keep the factory in his own territory, where he controlled the secret.
"Fine! Fine!" Robert waved his hand. "Make them on the Wall for all I care. Just make them!"
The feast continued late into the night.
Andar excused himself early. He did not drink. He needed a clear head.
He walked out into the cold night air of the courtyard. The snow was falling again.
"Lord Andar."
A voice called out from the shadows.
It was Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf waddled over, bundled in a heavy fur cloak that was too big for him.
"A profitable evening," Tyrion said, his breath steaming. "Ten thousand dragons. My father would be impressed. He usually has to burn a castle to get that kind of gold."
"Lord Tyrion," Andar nodded.
"You are playing a dangerous game," Tyrion said, his voice dropping low. "You humiliated Jaime. You impressed Robert. And you worried Ned Stark. That is a trifecta of trouble."
Tyrion looked up at Andar with sharp intelligent eyes.
"That weapon. It changes everything. If every peasant has one, why do we need Lords? Why do we need Kings?"
"We don't," Andar said simply.
Tyrion froze. He stared at Andar.
Then, the dwarf smiled. A crooked, genuine smile.
"I like you Andar Stark. You are either the smartest man in Westeros, or the craziest."
"Perhaps both," Andar said.
"One word of advice," Tyrion said, turning to leave. "Watch your back. Cersei saw the way Robert looked at that gun. She hates anything Robert loves. And Littlefinger... he does not like parting with gold."
"Let them come," Andar said.
Tyrion laughed and waddled back toward the warmth of the hall.
Andar walked back to his tent near the kennels.
Jory and the men were waiting. They were polishing their muskets, treating them like newborn babies.
"My Lord," Jory stood up. "Did the King like it?"
"He gave us ten thousand dragons," Andar said.
The men's jaws dropped.
"We are rich," Tom whispered. "We are rich."
"No," Andar said. "We are funded."
He opened the System panel.
[Quest Complete: Funding Secured]
[Funds Acquired: 10,000 Gold Dragons (Pending Collection)]
[New Blueprint Unlocked: The Bayonet (Socket Type)]
Andar looked at the musket Jory was holding.
"Jory, give me the weapon."
Andar took it. He looked at the end of the barrel.
In the melee, if an enemy got too close, the musket was just a heavy club. Reloading took twenty seconds. In a real battle, twenty seconds was an eternity. If a cavalry charge broke through the firing line, his men would be slaughtered.
Unless...
Andar pulled out a piece of charcoal and drew on the wooden crate.
It was a blade. A triangular spike of steel, about eighteen inches long. But the handle was not a hilt. It was a hollow ring, designed to fit over the muzzle of the gun.
"Mott," Andar said to the empty air (Mott was back at Deepwood, but Andar was already planning the order). "We turn the spearman and the archer into one soldier."
He looked at Jory.
"Tomorrow we leave. We have to get to White Harbor to cash this writ, and then back to Deepwood."
"Back to the mud?" Jory asked, slightly disappointed.
"Back to the factory," Andar corrected. "We are going to build a city Jory. A city of steel and smoke."
He looked North, toward the Wall.
"Because the real enemy is not the Lannisters. And when the dead walk, ten muskets won't be enough. We need ten thousand."
[System Alert]
[New Era Unlocked: Early Industrialization]
[Population Limit Increased]
[New Resource Map Available]
Andar smiled.
The game of thrones was boring. The game of industry had just begun.
....
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!