The war against winter was being won, not on a battlefield, but in a long, wooden shed next to the river.
Ronan walked down the aisle of the new Textile Mill. The noise was a steady, rhythmic whir-clack, whir-clack.
Inside, forty women—mostly widows or those too old for the fields—sat behind strange wooden frames.
In the old days, a woman with a distaff could spin one thread at a time. It was slow, tedious work.
Here, they were operating the Spinning Jenny.
Ronan stopped at the station of Old Mara. She turned a large hand-crank. As she did, the carriage moved back and forth, drawing out and twisting eight spools of wool simultaneously.
"How is the tension, Mara?" Ronan asked, shouting over the noise of the water-wheel that helped power the carding machines in the back.
"It pulls smooth, my Lord," Mara said, grinning toothlessly. "I made more yarn this morning than I used to make in a month. My hands don't even hurt."
Ronan nodded. [Efficiency: +800%].
He picked up a spool of the grey wool yarn. It was uniform. Strong.
"We weave it into blankets," Ronan told Varrick, who was checking the output ledgers. "Thick, double-ply grey wool. Every soldier gets one. Every miner gets one. And then we sell the surplus to the Karstarks. They are freezing in their castles; we will sell them warmth."
"The warehouse is already full, my Lord," Varrick said, beaming. "We are producing cloth faster than the sheep can grow it. We may need to import raw wool."
"Good," Ronan said. "If we buy their wool, they become dependent on our mills. That is how we conquer them without drawing a sword."
The Alarm
The peaceful hum of industry was shattered by a frantic ringing from the watchtower on the Western Ridge.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The fire bell.
Ronan dropped the spool of yarn. "The Mine," he said instantly.
He ran to the courtyard. The Grey Legion was already mounting up. They didn't need orders; they knew the drill.
"Captain Jory!" Ronan shouted, swinging into his saddle. "To the Coke Ovens! If the coal catches, the fire will burn for months!"
They rode hard. The paved road allowed them to reach the ridge in twenty minutes.
When they arrived, the scene was chaotic. Thick, black smoke billowed from the storage yard next to the Beehive Ovens. The pile of processed Coke—tons of fuel destined for the blast furnace—was burning.
"Water!" Jory shouted. "Bucket line!"
"No!" Ronan roared, sliding off his horse. "Water will just spread it if it's oil! Use sand! Smother it!"
The miners grabbed shovels. They threw dirt and snow onto the burning pile. It took an hour of desperate work to choke the flames.
When the smoke cleared, half the stockpile was ruined. But the Ovens and the Steam Engine were safe.
Ronan walked to the edge of the burn pile. The smell was wrong. It wasn't just sulfur and carbon. It was sweet. Pungent.
He activated [The Architect's Eye].
The world turned to wireframes and data.
He focused on the origin point of the fire.
[Chemical Trace Detected]
[Substance: Whale Oil refined with Pine Resin]
[Combustion Point: High]
[Origin: Essos (likely Braavos)]
"This wasn't an accident," Ronan said, his voice deadly quiet. "Sparks don't smell like pine resin. Someone poured accelerant here."
He scanned the ground outside the perimeter fence. The snow was trampled by the miners, but the Eye could see deeper. It saw compression density.
He saw a trail. Not footprints—the snow had been swept to hide them. But the weight of the men had compressed the ice beneath the snow.
[Track Detected: 3 Humanoids]
[Weight Distribution: Light armor, soft boots]
[Direction: North-East]
"Jory," Ronan said, pointing to the seemingly pristine snow. "Three men. Moving fast. Heading for the river."
"I see nothing, my Lord," Jory admitted.
"The snow remembers," Ronan said. "Bring the dogs. And bring five crossbowmen. We are going hunting."
The Chase
They moved through the Wolfswood like ghosts. Ronan led the way, his eyes locked on the faint blue trails of compressed ice that only he could see.
"They are professionals," Ronan whispered. "They sweep their tracks. They stick to the tree line to avoid aerial spotting. But they are tired."
[Target Fatigue Analysis]
[Stride Length: Decreasing]
[Limp Detected: Target 2 favors left leg]
They reached the riverbank two miles upstream. The tracks stopped at the water's edge.
"They crossed," Jory said. "We lost them."
"No," Ronan pointed to a large oak tree leaning over the water. "They climbed. They didn't want to get wet."
He looked up into the canopy. The moss on the upper branch was disturbed.
"They are still here," Ronan realized. "They didn't cross. They are doubling back to watch the fire."
He unslung his heavy Arbalest.
"Up," Ronan commanded, pointing his weapon at the canopy of a dense sentinel tree fifty yards away. "Come down, or I put a bolt through the trunk."
Silence. Just the wind in the branches.
"Have it your way," Ronan muttered.
THWACK.
The bolt flew. It struck the branch Ronan had pinpointed.
There was a yelp of pain, and a figure tumbled out of the tree, hitting the snowy ground with a thud.
"Take him!" Jory shouted.
The Grey Legionnaires swarmed forward. Two more figures dropped from the trees, drawing short swords.
"Drop them!" Ronan ordered, reloading his crossbow with a smooth, practiced pull of the lever. "You have seconds."
The two men looked at the circle of halberds. They looked at Ronan's leveled weapon. They dropped their swords.
The Interrogation
They didn't bring them back to the castle. They tied them to trees right there in the woods.
Ronan stood before the one who had fallen—a man with a broken ankle and a face like a ferret.
"Who sent you?" Ronan asked.
The man spat. "I am a free rider. I answer to no one."
"A free rider with Braavosi whale oil?" Ronan asked. "Expensive taste for a vagrant."
He walked to the second man. This one was older, scarred, with dead eyes.
"You are Northern," Ronan said. "I can hear it in your breathing. You grew up in the Dreadfort lands."
The man didn't react, but his pulse jumped.
[Heart Rate Monitor: 65 -> 90 BPM]
"You aren't bandits," Ronan said. "Bandits steal. You burned. You attacked my economy, not my gold."
Ronan stepped back. He looked at Captain Jory.
"Jory, do you know the Bolton method of interrogation?"
"They... peel men, my Lord," Jory said uneasily.
"Inefficient," Ronan said. "Messy. I prefer Game Theory."
Ronan separated the three men so they couldn't hear each other.
He went to the youngest one, a boy barely eighteen.
"Listen to me," Ronan said softly. "I'm going to ask you who paid you. If you tell me, you go to the Wall. You live. If you don't tell me, and your friend over there tells me first... he goes to the Wall. And you hang."
The boy sweated.
"But," Ronan continued, "if neither of you talk, I hang you both for arson. So, the only way you live is if you talk first."
It was the classic Prisoner's Dilemma.
The boy looked at the older man tied to the distant tree. He saw Ronan walk over to him. He saw Ronan nod, as if the older man had spoken (he hadn't).
Ronan walked back to the boy. "He's talking. Last chance."
"It was Locke!" the boy screamed. "Vargo Locke! He pays us in silver! He said the Flayed Man wants the black rocks destroyed!"
Ronan smiled coldly. "Locke. A bannerman of Bolton."
He cut the boy's bonds. "Take him to the Night's Watch recruiter. The other two... hang them."
The Message
That evening, Ronan stood on the battlements of Blackwood Keep. The fire at the mine was out. The Spinning Jenny was humming again.
But the game had changed.
Roose Bolton hadn't attacked him with an army. He had attacked the supply chain. He understood that Ronan's power came from the coal.
"He knows," Ronan whispered to the wind. "He knows the source."
Varrick approached, holding a ledger. "My Lord, the damage is repaired. But we cannot guard every inch of the woods. If they send more saboteurs..."
"We don't need to guard the woods," Ronan said. "We need to see them coming before they enter the woods."
He looked at the distant hilltops that separated his lands from the Dreadfort.
"Light travels faster than men," Ronan said.
"My Lord?"
"We are going to build a network," Ronan said. "Towers. On every peak. With giant arms that move. If a Bolton soldier sneezes on the border, I want to know about it in ten minutes."
[Project Started: The Semaphore Line]
[Objective:] Construct 4 Optical Telegraph Towers.
[Tech Required:] Telescopes (Glass), Gears, Standardized Code.
"Roose likes secrets," Ronan said, turning back to the warmth of his keep. "I'm going to turn on the lights."
Status Update:
• Enemy Confirmed: House Bolton.
• Tech: Textiles (Spinning Jenny) booming.
• Counter-Intel: Success (Prisoner's Dilemma).
....
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:
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
125 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
150 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!