Ten tons.
Ronan stood in the warehouse, looking at the stacks of crates. Five hundred suits of plate armor. Five hundred helms. Five hundred sets of greaves.
"It is ten tons of steel," Varrick said, holding a broken wheel spoke. "Our carts are designed for hay and turnips, my Lord. If we load this much metal, the axles snap. We tried yesterday. We lost two wheels before we even left the courtyard."
"And the Kingsroad is a river of frozen mud," Kennos added. "Even if the axles hold, the vibration will shatter the wood."
Ronan walked over to one of the standard farm carts. It was a primitive thing—a rigid wooden box sitting directly on a wooden axle. Every bump in the road transferred 100% of the shock to the frame.
"The problem isn't the weight," Ronan said. "It's the shock. Physics is tearing the wagons apart because they are fighting the road instead of riding it."
He turned to the pile of blue spring-steel scraps—the off-cuts from the armor production.
"We don't need new carts," Ronan said. "We need suspension."
The Leaf Spring
Ronan sketched on the grey paper.
"We take the spring steel strips," Ronan explained to the carpenters. "We stack them. Longest on top, shortest on bottom. We clamp them in the middle."
He drew the curve.
"We attach the axle to the ends of the steel bow. The wagon frame sits on the center."
"When the wheel hits a bump," Ronan mimed with his hands, "the steel flexes. It eats the energy. The wagon body floats above it."
"Floating wagons?" The head carpenter scratched his beard. "My Lord, steel is heavy. Adding more steel to carry steel seems... backwards."
"Trust the metal," Ronan said. "Build four wagons. Make them double-width. And grease the axles with tallow. I want them ready in two days."
The Mammoth
Forty-eight hours later, the "Mammoths" were rolled out.
They were monsters. Four-wheeled heavy haulers, painted Stark grey. They sat high off the ground, resting on curved arches of blue spring steel. The wheels were wide—double the width of a normal cart—to distribute the weight over the mud so they wouldn't sink.
They loaded the first wagon with 2,500 pounds of armor.
The steel springs groaned, flattening slightly, but they held. The wagon body remained level.
"Hitch the oxen," Ronan ordered.
Eight oxen were yoked to the front. The driver cracked his whip.
The Mammoth lurched forward. As it hit the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard, the wheels bounced violently—but the cargo bed swayed gently. The springs absorbed the violence.
"It works," Varrick breathed. "It glides."
The March
The convoy set out at dawn.
It was a show of force. The four Mammoths rolled in a line, flanked by fifty of Ronan's "Grey Legion."
These weren't the peasant militia who had defended the walls. These were the new professionals. They wore the "seconds"—armor that had minor cosmetic flaws but perfect structural integrity. They carried heavy halberds and marched in step.
Ronan rode at the front. He wasn't just delivering a product; he was testing his logistics.
[Logistics Check]
[Load Capacity: 10 Tons]**
[Speed: 12 miles/day (vs 8 miles/day standard)]**
[Breakdowns: 0]**
They hit the Kingsroad. It was as bad as ever—deep ruts frozen hard by the night's frost.
A normal cart would have shattered an axle within an hour. The Mammoths simply rolled over the ruts, the leaf springs creaking rhythmically.
Travelers stopped to stare. They had never seen wagons this big, or soldiers this uniform.
On the second day, they were intercepted.
A patrol of twenty men blocked the road. They wore the pink cloaks of House Bolton.
The leader, a man with a flayed man sigil on his breastplate, held up a hand. "Halt! In the name of the High Lord Roose Bolton."
Ronan signaled.
His column didn't panic. They didn't shout.
The Grey Legion simply stopped. The front rank lowered their halberds, creating a wall of steel spikes. The second rank leveled their crossbows.
It was mechanical. Silent. Terrifying.
Ronan rode forward. "The road is open, ser. Stand aside."
"We have reports of... contraband," the Bolton captain sneered, eyeing the heavy canvas-covered wagons. "Lord Bolton requires an inspection. Tolls must be paid."
"These are goods for Winterfell," Ronan said calmly. "For Lord Stark. Are you delaying the Warden's supply?"
"We are just checking for... safety," the captain said, his hand drifting to his sword. "That is a lot of steel, boy."
Ronan activated [The Architect's Eye].
He looked at the Bolton horses. They were tired.
He looked at the Bolton armor. Standard mail. Weak against bolts.
He looked at the captain. Pulse 110. He was bullying, but he was unsure. He hadn't expected fifty professional soldiers.
"There are five hundred suits of plate in those wagons," Ronan said loud enough for the Bolton men to hear. "And fifty loaded crossbows pointing at your chest."
Ronan leaned forward in his saddle.
"The toll is zero," Ronan said. "The inspection is denied. Move, or be moved."
The Bolton captain looked at the halberds. He looked at the heavy wagons that rumbled with the weight of an iron mine. He did the math.
He pulled his horse aside.
"The North is a dangerous place, Blackwood," the captain hissed as Ronan passed. "Clean armor gets dirty eventually."
"That's why we wash it," Ronan said, not looking back. "Forward!"
The Delivery
They arrived at Winterfell three days later.
When the tarps were pulled back in the main courtyard, the sheer volume of wealth stunned the onlookers.
Five hundred suits. Stacked like firewood.
Maester Luwin inspected a random breastplate from the bottom of the stack. "No rust," he muttered. "No dents from the journey. Remarkable."
Ned Stark walked down the line of wagons. He touched the leaf spring of the lead wagon.
"You brought the armor," Ned said. "But I find myself staring at the cart, Ronan. How does it carry the weight?"
"It bends so it does not break, my Lord," Ronan said. "A lesson for all of us."
Ned nodded slowly. "Indeed. The Karstarks are here. And the Glovers. They have seen your men. They have seen your steel."
Ned lowered his voice.
"They want contracts, Ronan. All of them. You have armed me. Now the rest of the North wants the same."
"I can arm them," Ronan said. "But the price goes up. I gave you the 'Ally Price'. They pay the 'Market Price'."
"And what is the market price?"
Ronan looked at the shivering Stark guards in their wool cloaks.
"Wool," Ronan said. "I need wool. Tons of it. And I need the rights to the Fever River delta."
"The swamp?" Ned asked, surprised again.
"The future canal," Ronan corrected.
[Mission Complete: The Stark Contract]
[Reward: 5,000 Gold Dragons (Equivalent)]
[Reputation: " The Armorer of the North"]
Ronan walked away from the transaction rich. But as he looked at the gold, he didn't feel relief.
He felt the vibration of the ground.
Far to the south, beyond the Neck, the politics of King's Landing were crumbling. Jon Arryn was dead. The King was coming North.
And Ronan had just put 500 suits of superior armor into the hands of the Starks. He had tipped the scales. The Game of Thrones had just changed difficulty levels.
Status Update:
• Economy: Rich.
• Military: 50 Grey Legion (Veteran).
• Tech: Logistics (Suspension), Heavy Haulage.
...…
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:
80 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapter
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
125 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
150 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!