The victory at the Stony Shore changed everything.
Before the battle the villagers of Deepwood Keep obeyed Andar out of feudal duty. They feared his strange moods and his black stones.
Now they obeyed him out of awe.
The story of the "Thunder Slaughter" spread like wildfire. The fishermen told the farmers. The farmers told the hunters. They said Lord Andar could kill a man by pointing a finger. They said his black tubes could eat an entire shield wall in a single breath.
Fear was a powerful motivator.
When the caravan returned to the Keep hauling three captured longships on ox carts, the workers cheered. But they also worked harder. The chatter stopped. The eyes were focused.
Andar did not rest on his victory. He knew that Dagmer Cleftjaw was just a scout compared to the true power of the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy would not ignore the loss of three ships.
Andar walked into the smithy.
It had expanded. The single forge was gone. In its place was a long wooden shed with ten brick furnaces arranged in a row. Smoke billowed from the chimneys, turning the snow grey.
Mott was running back and forth, screaming at the new apprentices.
"No! You idiot!" Mott hit a young boy on the ear. "You are hammering it too thin! It needs to be uniform!"
Andar watched for a moment. It was chaos. Every smith was trying to build a musket from start to finish. One man would forge the barrel, then the lock, then the trigger, then carve the wood. It took them a week to make one gun.
"Stop," Andar said.
The noise died down. Mott wiped sweat from his forehead.
"My Lord," Mott panted. "We are working as fast as we can. But the steel... it fights us. We have three finished muskets this week. Three! At this rate we will have fifty by next winter."
"That is because you are working like an artist Mott," Andar said, stepping into the heat. "You are trying to make masterpieces. I do not want masterpieces. I want tools."
Andar grabbed a piece of chalk and drew a line down the center of the workshop floor.
"We are changing the system."
He pointed to the first three furnaces.
"You three. From today on you make barrels. Nothing else. You do not touch a lock. You do not touch wood. You forge barrels. All day. Every day."
He pointed to the next three.
"You three. You make locks. Only locks."
He pointed to the carpenters in the corner.
"You make stocks. And they must be identical. If I take a stock from pile A and a barrel from pile B they must fit together without filing. Without hammering."
Mott looked horrified.
"But My Lord... a smith takes pride in his work! If I just make triggers all day... I am not a smith. I am a machine."
"Exactly," Andar said cold and sharp. "You are a machine. And this room is a factory."
He picked up a finished musket.
"If this gun breaks in battle," Andar explained, stripping the lock mechanism out with a few twists of a screwdriver. "I do not want to send it back to a master smith to be fixed. I want to reach into a bucket, pull out a spare lock, and drop it in."
He held up the lock.
"Interchangeable parts Mott. That is the secret. It is not about skill. It is about precision."
He handed the parts to the stunned blacksmith.
"Reorganize the men. I want production to increase to five guns a day. If you fail I will find a man who can follow instructions."
[Quest Update: Industrialization]
[Tech Unlocked: The Assembly Line]
[Production Efficiency: +500%]
[Quality Control: Moderate Risk]
Outside the walls the Star Fort was rising.
It was an alien shape.
Medieval castles were square. They had high flat walls and round towers at the corners. They were designed to stop ladders and siege towers.
Andar's fort was a star.
It had five points. The walls were low, squat, and incredibly thick. They sloped backward to deflect cannonballs. The corners were sharp angles, designed so that a gunner on one wall could shoot anyone attacking the neighboring wall. It was a geometry of death.
The concrete had set. The foundation was now a solid grey monolith that looked like it had grown out of the earth.
Cullen stood on the half finished rampart.
"It is ugly My Lord," the old steward admitted. "It has no towers. No banners. It looks like a turtle."
"Turtles survive Cullen," Andar said, checking the alignment of a cannon port. "Peacocks die."
"The Citadel sent a raven," Cullen said, handing over a scroll. "Maester Luwin from Winterfell writes to ask about the... 'grey mud' we are using. He says the Archmaesters in Oldtown are curious."
"Tell him it is a local recipe," Andar said. "Tell him we mix pig shit with clay. Let the Maesters debate the magical properties of manure for a decade."
Andar did not trust the Maesters. They were the guardians of knowledge, but they were also the suppressors of progress. If they knew he was building a society based on science they would try to poison him.
"And another letter," Cullen hesitated. "From King's Landing."
Andar took the letter. It smelled of perfume.
It was from Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish.
To the Royal Artificer,
The Crown is delighted by your progress. The gold has been transferred to White Harbor as requested. However, rumors reach the capital of a skirmish on the Stony Shore. King Robert is eager to hear tales of his new toy in action. Do not disappoint him.
P.S. The Iron Throne has many expenses. Production must be swift.
Andar crushed the letter.
Littlefinger knew. Of course he knew. He had spies everywhere.
"He wants a show," Andar muttered.
He looked at the courtyard where the Iron Squad was drilling.
There were now one hundred men. New recruits from the refugees had joined the ranks. They wore new uniforms of grey wool dyed black. They held the new Type 2 Muskets which had a lug for a bayonet.
They were no longer peasants. They marched in step. They ate in mess halls. They saluted officers.
They were the first professional standing army in Westeros.
"Jory!" Andar shouted from the wall.
Jory looked up and saluted. "My Lord!"
"Double the powder rations for practice!" Andar ordered. "I want every man to fire ten rounds a day. We are not saving money anymore. We are buying skill."
"Yes My Lord!"
Andar looked South.
The timeline was accelerating. In the original history King Robert would die soon. A boar hunt. Strongwine. A tragic accident orchestrated by Cersei.
When Robert died the chaos would begin.
Ned Stark would be arrested. Robb Stark would call the banners. The North would march to war.
Andar needed to be ready.
He did not just want to join Robb's army. He wanted to dominate it.
He walked down the concrete ramp.
"Mott!" Andar shouted into the factory. "Stop making the 12 pounders!"
Mott poked his soot stained head out. "My Lord? We just finished the molds!"
"The 12 pounders are too heavy for the mud in the Riverlands," Andar said, his mind racing through the geography of the South. "We need mobility. If we get stuck in the mud Tywin Lannister will run us down."
He grabbed a stick and drew a new design in the dirt.
"Make 6 pounders. Horse artillery. Large wheels. Light carriages. I want guns that can gallop with the cavalry."
Mott looked at the drawing.
"Horse cannons? My Lord... if you fire a cannon while moving it will break the axle."
"Then make the axles out of steel," Andar snapped. "We are going to invent the Blitzkrieg Mott. Now get to work."
[Blueprint Unlocked: Light Field Artillery (6-Pounder)]
[Tactical Doctrine: Flying Artillery]
The smoke from the chimneys grew thicker. The hammers rang louder.
Deepwood Keep was no longer a castle. It was a furnace.
And it was hungry for war.
....
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!