The breakfast table in the Great Hall was set with a spread that Blackwood hadn't seen in a generation: roasted eggs, thick cuts of bacon, and the fresh, white bread milled by the river.
But the true luxury wasn't the food. It was the temperature.
Outside, a sleet storm was battering the stone walls. Inside, the Great Hall was a comfortable, dry warmth, thanks to the hot air circulating beneath the flagstones.
Wynafryd Manderly sat across from Ronan. She looked rested, her hair perfectly coiffed, her teal dress immaculate. She sliced her bacon with surgical precision.
"My grandfather has three castles," Wynafryd said, not looking up from her plate. "The New Castle, the Wolf's Den, and a summer retreat near the weeping water. All of them are damp. All of them are drafty."
She looked up, her sea-green eyes locking onto his. "He is an old man, Lord Ronan. His joints ache in the cold. He would pay a king's ransom to feel what I felt last night."
Ronan took a sip of watered wine. "I'm not asking for a king's ransom, Lady Wynafryd. I'm asking for a partnership."
"Partnership implies equality," she said smoothly. "House Manderly is the richest house in the North. You have... mud, impressive plumbing, and a very loud hammer."
Ronan smiled. He activated [The Architect's Eye].
The world shifted. He looked at Wynafryd. He didn't see lines of stress or weakness in her body; he saw her tell. When she negotiated, her pulse quickened slightly—he could see the faint flush of heat in her neck. She was excited. She wanted this deal desperately, but she was playing the game.
"You have gold," Ronan agreed. "But you can't eat gold, and you can't burn it for warmth. I am selling the future, Wynafryd. The plans for the Blast Furnace. The plans for the Hypocaust heating system. And the Cast Iron fittings required to build them."
He slid a piece of parchment across the table. It was a contract.
Wynafryd picked it up. Her eyes scanned the numbers. "The price is... high. But acceptable. We will pay in silver stags."
"No," Ronan said.
Wynafryd paused. "No?"
"I don't want silver. And I don't want gold."
"Then what? Iron? We have iron, but yours is better."
"Sand," Ronan said.
Wynafryd blinked, her composure cracking for a second. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sand," Ronan repeated. "Specifically, the white sand from the beaches south of White Harbor. The dunes near the bite. It is pure silica. I want five hundred barrels of it, delivered before the first heavy snow."
Wynafryd laughed. It was a genuine, baffled sound. "You want... dirt? We walk on it. We let the dogs foul it. You want to trade the secret of eternal winter warmth for five hundred barrels of sand?"
"And shipping," Ronan added. "I need guaranteed cargo space on Manderly ships for my exports. Iron stoves, pipes, and tools. Going south to Gulltown and King's Landing."
Wynafryd narrowed her eyes. She was trying to find the trap. "You are planning something. You are turning sand into gold?"
"Something like that," Ronan said.
He couldn't tell her yet. If he told her he needed the high-purity silica to make Clear Glass—something that currently only the Myrish artisans could produce perfectly—she would triple the price.
"We have a deal," Wynafryd said, reaching for the quill. "Sand and shipping rights. In exchange for the Hypocaust blueprints and twenty tons of cast iron pipes."
She signed with a flourish.
[Trade Route Established: White Harbor]
[Resource Secured: High-Purity Silica (500 Units)]
[Tech Tree Unlocked: Glassblowing (Pending Materials)]
As the ink dried, the heavy oak doors of the hall creaked open. Varrick entered, looking pale. He was followed by Kennos.
The smith looked grim. He was holding something wrapped in a bloody cloth.
"My Lord," Kennos said, his voice tight. "Forgive the interruption."
Wynafryd stiffened, sensing the shift in the room's mood.
Ronan stood up. "What happened?"
Kennos walked to the table and unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a shattered wooden shield, painted with the Blackwood tree. Embedded deep in the wood was a black-feathered arrow.
"A patrol," Kennos said. "Found near the western ridge. Three of our boys. Dead."
Ronan picked up the arrow. It wasn't a hunting arrow. It was a war-bodkin, designed to pierce mail.
"Ironborn?" Ronan asked.
"No," Kennos said. "Bandits. But organized. They call themselves the 'Red Hands.' They've been raiding the Stony Shore. Now they are moving inland. They know we have food."
Wynafryd stood up. "If there are raiders, I must leave. My guard captain will—"
"Your guard captain has twenty men," Ronan said, examining the arrow head. "The Red Hands travel in packs of fifty or more. If you leave now, you are a prize."
"I am a Manderly," she said haughtily, though her face was pale. "They wouldn't dare."
"They would," Ronan said. "And they would ransom you for that gold you love so much."
He snapped the arrow in half.
"You stay here, Lady Wynafryd. You are safe behind my walls."
"Safe?" She looked at Varrick and Kennos. "You have farmers. You have smiths. You don't have soldiers, Lord Ronan."
Ronan looked at Kennos. "How long to retool the forge?"
Kennos understood immediately. "For the... small projects?"
"For the Assembly Line," Ronan corrected.
"A day," Kennos said. "If we stop making pipes."
"Stop the pipes," Ronan ordered. "Varrick, ring the bell. Bring every able-bodied man and woman to the courtyard."
Ronan turned back to Wynafryd. His eyes were cold, calculating, and terrifyingly calm.
"You said I don't have soldiers," Ronan said. "You're right. I don't have years to train knights. I don't have a lifetime to master the longbow."
He walked to the window, looking out at the peasants working in the rain.
"So I'm going to build a machine that turns a farmer into a killer in twenty minutes."
[Quest Started: The Defense of Blackwood]
[Objective:] Manufacture 50 Heavy Arbalests.
[Time Limit:] 48 Hours before the Raid.
"Watch, Lady Wynafryd," Ronan said softly. "This is part of the deal. You get to see how the North stays free."