The mud of the courtyard vibrated. Not from a machine, but from boots.
Two hundred men marched in perfect unison.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
"Halt!"
The column stopped instantly. There was no shuffling. No talking. Just the slap of leather boots on stone and the clatter of halberds grounding.
Ronan stood on the balcony, looking down at his creation.
In Westeros, armies were chaotic. A Lord called his banners, and peasants showed up with whatever they had—rusty axes, spears, perhaps a pot helm. They fought in mobs. They broke when they were scared.
Ronan's men were not a mob. They were a brick.
They wore the "Blackwood Standard":
• Head: Sallet helm (mass-produced, neck protection).
• Body: Munition-grade breastplate (coke-steel).
• Weapon: 8-foot Ash Halberd (axe/hook/spear combo) or Heavy Arbalest.
• Feet: Hobnailed boots.
And crucially, they were paid. Not in plunder, but in silver, every Friday.
"My Lord," Captain Jory said, standing beside Ronan. He looked proud, but also confused. "They march well. But why the shoes? You spent a fortune on the cobblers."
"Look at their feet," Ronan said.
Jory looked. "Boots, my Lord."
"Left and right boots," Ronan corrected. "Before this, a shoe was straight. It fit either foot poorly. Now, they fit perfectly. My men can march twenty miles a day without blisters. The Lannisters will be limping after ten."
The Visitor
A horn blew at the gate.
"Riders!" the sentry called out. "Black robes. Chains."
Ronan frowned. "The Citadel."
The gates opened to admit a small party. Leading them was not an old, doddering Maester, but a man in his thirties with a sharp, pinched face and robes that were impeccably clean. A heavy chain of various metals hung around his neck.
This was Maester Hylas.
He rode into the courtyard and stopped, his horse skittish around the marching soldiers. Hylas stared at the Grey Legion. He didn't look impressed; he looked offended.
"Lord Ronan Blackwood," Hylas called out, his voice thin and reedy. "I come from the Citadel. The Conclave has heard... disturbing reports."
Ronan walked down the steps. "Disturbing, Maester? Have we not paid our taxes?"
"It is not coin that concerns the Archmaesters," Hylas said, dismounting. He walked over to the nearest soldier—a burly farm boy named Miller.
Hylas tapped Miller's breastplate. "Steel that does not rust. Walls that appear overnight. Fire that pumps water."
Hylas turned to Ronan. "And now, peasants dressed like the Kingsguard. You disrupt the natural order, My Lord. You elevate the smallfolk above their station."
"I give them shoes," Ronan said dryly. "Is comfort a crime against the Seven?"
"Knowledge without wisdom is a danger," Hylas countered. "I am here to inspect your library. And your workshops. To ensure no... forbidden arts are being practiced."
Ronan smiled. "Inspect away, Maester. But stay clear of the steam engine. It bites."
The Pike Square
Ronan didn't stop the drill for the Maester. He intensified it.
"Form the Hedgehog!" Captain Jory bellowed.
The 200 men shifted.
• Center: 100 Halberdiers formed a tight square, five ranks deep. They lowered their polearms, creating a forest of steel points facing outward in all directions.
• Wings: 100 Arbalestiers flanked them, protecting the corners.
"Cavalry charge simulation!" Jory shouted.
The front rank of halberdiers knelt, bracing the butt of their weapons against the ground. The points angled up at 45 degrees—perfect for impaling a horse.
The second rank leveled their weapons over the shoulders of the first.
The crossbowmen behind them raised their weapons.
"Loose!"
Thrum. A volley of bolts (blunt practice tips) flew over the heads of the pikemen, striking the hay targets fifty yards away.
Maester Hylas watched, his face paling.
"This is not honorable combat," Hylas muttered to Ronan. "Where is the champion? Where is the duel? You have turned war into... arithmetic."
"Honor doesn't stop a Dothraki horde," Ronan said. "Geometry does."
Ronan pointed to the formation.
"A knight spends his life learning to ride and swing a sword. He is expensive. If he dies, you lose twenty years of investment."
Ronan gestured to Miller in the front row.
"Miller learned to hold that stick in two weeks. If he dies, his brother takes the stick. The formation holds. I can replace a pike in a day. You cannot replace a knight in a generation."
Hylas looked at Ronan with genuine fear. "You seek to make the nobility obsolete."
"I seek to make the North invincible," Ronan corrected.
The Library
Later, inside the Keep, Hylas inspected the "Library."
He expected scrolls of dark magic or Valyrian blood rituals.
Instead, he found rows of the grey paper ledgers.
• Crop Rotation Schedule: Year 2
• Metallurgy Logs: Carbon Content Variance
• Census Data: Births/Deaths
Hylas picked up a book titled The Principles of Hydraulics. It was hand-written by Ronan. It contained diagrams of pumps, valves, and pressure.
"There is no Valyrian here," Hylas whispered, flipping the pages. "There is no magic."
"Just observation," Ronan said, leaning against the doorframe. "And testing."
Hylas closed the book. "This is worse than magic, Lord Ronan. Magic is rare. Only a few can wield it. This..." He gestured to the diagrams. "...any man who can read can do this. You are democratizing power. The Citadel will not allow it."
"The Citadel hoards knowledge like a dragon hoards gold," Ronan said. "You let the smallfolk die of fever because you keep the medicine in Oldtown. You let them starve because you don't teach them crop rotation."
Ronan stepped closer.
"I am going to break your monopoly, Maester. Not with a sword, but with a school."
Hylas stiffened. "You are playing a dangerous game. The Hightower has eyes everywhere."
"So do I," Ronan said. "And mine see better."
The Warning
That night, Hylas tried to leave.
He had packed a bag with samples—a piece of coke-steel, a sheet of grey paper, and a stolen diagram of the steam engine.
He was stopped at the gate by the Grey Legion.
Ronan walked out of the shadows.
"Leaving so soon, Maester?"
"I must report to the Archmaesters," Hylas said, clutching his saddlebag.
"You can report," Ronan said. "But the samples stay here."
Ronan reached out and took the bag. He removed the diagram.
"You can tell them what you saw," Ronan said. "Tell them I have a machine that eats coal. Tell them I have stone that flows like water. But tell them this..."
Ronan leaned in close.
"Tell them that if they try to stop me, I will print this book—The Principles of Hydraulics—and I will distribute a thousand copies to every hedge knight and merchant in Westeros. I will give away your secrets for free."
Hylas stared at him, horrified. The threat was existential. The Maesters' power came from being the only ones who knew things. If everyone knew... the chains meant nothing.
"You are a monster," Hylas whispered.
"I am a teacher," Ronan said. "Open the gate."
Hylas rode out into the night, terrified. He wasn't riding to report a crime. He was riding to warn the old world that the new world was coming to eat it.
Status Update:
• Military: Grey Legion (Drilled & Standardized).
• Doctrine: Pike & Shot (Crossbow) / Anti-Cavalry.
• Enemy: The Citadel (Aware and Hostile).
• Tech: "Left & Right" Boots (Mobility Bonus).
.....
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!