The winter snows had turned the Kingsroad into a frozen graveyard.
Merchants did not travel. Lone riders died of exposure. The wolves were hungry and bold.
But the machine did not care about the cold.
At Deepwood Keep the factory whistle blew every morning at dawn. It was the clock that ruled the lives of four thousand people.
Andar stood in the armory inspecting the new shipment.
Mott handed him a weapon. It looked different from the Type 1 and Type 2 muskets.
It was shorter. The wood was darker. The barrel was made of blued steel not iron.
"The Type 3," Andar said feeling the balance.
He looked down the muzzle. The inside of the barrel was not smooth. It had spiral grooves cut into the metal. Rifling.
"And the ammunition?" Andar asked.
Mott handed him a paper cartridge. Inside was not a round ball. It was a conical bullet with a hollow base.
"The Minié ball," Andar whispered.
It was the invention that changed warfare. The hollow base would expand when the powder ignited gripping the rifling grooves. It spun the bullet.
"Range?" Andar asked.
"Effective at four hundred yards My Lord," Mott grinned. "Maximum range one thousand yards. We tested it on a pig carcass. It went through the pig the fence behind the pig and embedded itself in an oak tree."
"Four hundred yards," Andar mused. "That is four times the range of a smoothbore. We can kill them before they can even see our faces."
"We have produced one thousand rifles," Mott reported. "And fifty thousand rounds of ammunition."
"Equip the Second Battalion," Andar ordered. "We march South in two days."
The muster at the fortress gates was a spectacle.
One thousand men stood in formation.
They did not look like a feudal levy. They did not wear mismatching armor or carry family crests.
They wore heavy grey greatcoats made of wool lined with fur. They wore sturdy leather boots with hobnails. They wore steel helmets painted white for winter camouflage.
They carried the Type 3 Rifles on their shoulders.
Behind them the artillery train waited. Twenty new cannons. These were not the light 6 pounders. These were the new 12 pounder Napoleons. Bronze smoothbores that were light enough to move but heavy enough to smash walls.
And behind the cannons came the supply train.
Not ox carts. But large wagons with wide wheels sprung with steel leaf springs to handle the rough roads.
Cullen watched them from the gatehouse.
"It is not an army," Cullen murmured. "It is a machine made of men."
Andar rode to the front. He looked at his soldiers.
"Men of the North!" Andar shouted. His voice carried over the silent snow.
"The South believes we are savages! They believe we fight with sticks and anger! They believe winter will kill us!"
The soldiers stood motionless. Discipline was iron.
"We go to show them that winter does not kill the Wolf!" Andar drew his saber. "Winter kills the Lion! Forward!"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The New Model Army began the long march. They moved with a speed that would terrify a medieval commander covering twenty miles a day despite the snow.
Riverrun
Robb Stark was pacing in the War Room.
The map was bleak.
"Tywin is at Harrenhal," the Blackfish said pointing to the massive castle. "He sits there like a spider. He sends Gregor Clegane's replacement Ser Amory Lorch to burn the Riverlands."
"We cannot attack Harrenhal," Edmure Tully complained. "The walls are too high. We would need a year to starve him out."
"And Renly is dead," Catelyn Stark said her voice hollow. "Murdered by a shadow. Stannis has his army. He sails for King's Landing."
"If Stannis takes the city the war ends," Robb said. "And we are left holding the North with no allies."
"My King!"
A sentry burst into the room.
"Riders! From the North!"
"Is it the Ironborn?" Edmure asked reaching for his sword.
"No My Lord! It is... black banners. And wagons. Hundreds of wagons."
Robb ran to the battlements.
He looked North.
The column stretched for miles. It was a snake of grey and black moving through the river valley.
At the front the banner of the Direwolf flew next to a new banner. A black gear on a white field. The sigil of the Ministry of Industry.
"He came back," Robb whispered. A weight lifted from his shoulders.
Andar rode through the gates of Riverrun. He looked different. Older. Harder. He wore a heavy officer's coat with brass buttons.
He dismounted and bowed to Robb.
"Your Grace."
"Andar," Robb smiled embracing him. "You brought reinforcements?"
"I brought a division," Andar corrected. "One thousand riflemen. Twenty guns."
He looked at the map table where the Lords were gathered.
"I hear Tywin Lannister is comfortable in Harrenhal."
"He is," the Blackfish grunted. "He thinks he is safe behind the Wailing Tower."
Andar walked to the map. He placed a rifled bullet on the location of Harrenhal.
"Harrenhal was built to withstand dragons," Andar said. "But it was not built to withstand rifled artillery."
He looked at Robb.
"Give me the vanguard Your Grace. I will flush the Lion out of his hole."
"And then?" Robb asked.
"Then we catch him in the open," Andar said. "And we end this war."
[Quest Started: The Fall of Harrenhal]
[Objective: Force Tywin Lannister to retreat or surrender]
[Difficulty: Extreme]
[Reward: Dominance of the Riverlands]
The Northern Lords looked at the new soldiers marching into the courtyard. They saw the strange guns. They saw the discipline.
They realized that while they had been fighting a war of skirmishes Andar had been preparing for a war of annihilation.
.….
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!