The blue light hovered in the air, translucent and silent.
Andar reached out a hand to touch it. His fingers passed right through the light, confirming that this thing existed only in his vision.
He focused his attention on the text.
[Main Quest: Survival]
[Objective: Ensure the survival of the Deepwood Keep population through the coming winter.]
[Current Survival Rate: 12%]
[Reward: Basic Blast Furnace Blueprint]
Twelve percent.
Andar let out a cold laugh. That number was generous.
In the North, a minor lord like him dying in the winter was not news. It was a statistic. If the White Walkers did not kill them, the famine would. If the famine did not kill them, the wildlings would.
He waved his hand to dismiss the quest log and opened the [Territory Status] panel.
[Territory: Deepwood Keep]
[Lord: Andar Stark]
[Population: 452 (Adult Males: 120, Adult Females: 140, Children and Elderly: 192)]
[Food Reserves: Sufficient for 20 days]
[Military: 15 Soldiers (Low Morale)]
[Economy: Near Collapse]
[Special Resources: Unknown]
"Four hundred people," Andar muttered. "And food for twenty days."
This was not a starting point. This was a funeral in progress.
There was a heavy knock on the heavy wooden door.
"Enter," Andar said. He adjusted his facial expression, hiding the sharpness in his eyes and replacing it with the solemn arrogance expected of a Stark.
The door creaked open. An old man walked in. He wore a patched wool robe and walked with a slight limp. This was Old Cullen, the steward of Deepwood Keep. He had served Andar's father and was one of the few people loyal to this crumbling house.
"My Lord," Cullen bowed. His face was etched with worry. "The hunters returned. They brought back nothing. The game in the Wolfswood is moving south early this year. The snow is too deep."
Andar nodded slowly. "And the grain stores?"
"The rats got into the lower cellar," Cullen hesitated, his voice trembling. "We lost three sacks of barley. My Lord, if we do not buy grain from House Glover or Winterfell soon, the smallfolk will start dying before the next moon."
Andar walked over to the fireplace. The fire was dying, reducing to mere embers. He picked up an iron poker and stabbed at the wood, sending sparks flying up the chimney.
"We have no gold to buy grain, do we Cullen?"
The old steward lowered his head. "No, My Lord. The ironwood trade has been poor. The merchants from White Harbor say our wood is too hard to transport and they pay us copper pennies for it."
"Of course they do," Andar said. "Because we sell them raw logs. We sell them the cheapest thing possible."
He turned around to face the old man.
"Summon the guards. And tell the blacksmith to meet me in the yard. I want to see everyone."
Cullen looked confused. "The blacksmith? Old Mott? He is drunk half the time, My Lord. And the guards... they are hungry."
"Did I ask if they were hungry?" Andar's voice was calm but cold. "I said summon them."
The authority in his voice made Cullen flinch. The old man had watched Andar grow up, but he had never heard this tone before. It was not the voice of a young boy complaining about the cold. It was the voice of a commander.
"Yes, My Lord. At once."
Ten minutes later.
Andar stood on the raised wooden platform in the courtyard. The wind was still howling, whipping his dark hair across his face.
Below him stood his "army."
Fifteen men. They wore leather armor that was cracked and rotting. Their spears were rusty. Their eyes were dull and lifeless. They looked less like soldiers and more like beggars holding sharp sticks.
Beside them stood the villagers. Four hundred people huddled together for warmth. Their faces were grey with cold and malnutrition. They looked up at their young lord with zero hope in their eyes. They expected him to announce a tax increase or a ration cut.
Andar looked at them. He felt no pity. Pity was useless. He felt calculation.
These were not people. They were labor. They were the engine he needed to start.
"Listen to me!"
Andar shouted. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the wind.
The crowd went silent.
"I know you are hungry," Andar said. "I know you are cold. I know you think this winter will be your last."
He stepped forward, his boots thudding against the wood.
"You are right. If we continue as we are, you will all die."
A ripple of fear went through the crowd. Women clutched their children tighter.
"But," Andar raised a hand. "I did not call you here to tell you how you will die. I called you here to tell you how we will live."
He pointed a finger at the blacksmith, a burly man with a red nose who was swaying slightly on his feet.
"Mott! Step forward."
The blacksmith blinked and stumbled forward. "My... My Lord?"
"What is the hottest fire you can make?" Andar asked.
Mott scratched his head, confused. "With charcoal? I can heat iron until it is red, My Lord. Maybe yellow if the wind is good."
"Not hot enough," Andar said. "We need it white. We need it liquid."
He turned his gaze to the forest beyond the walls.
"Cullen," Andar ordered. "Take five men. Go to the Black Ridge three miles east. You know the place where nothing grows? Where the ground is black and stains your boots?"
Cullen nodded, looking terrified. "The Cursed Earth? My Lord, the smallfolk say that place is unlucky. The rocks there burn with a foul smell."
"Exactly," Andar smiled.
Coal.
Surface level coal veins. In this primitive world, the locals thought it was cursed rock because of the sulfur smell when it burned. They stuck to burning wood, which was inefficient and labor intensive.
"Bring me two carts of those cursed rocks," Andar commanded. "And bring me the clay from the riverbank. The grey clay, not the red."
"But... the food..." Cullen stammered.
"Do as I say," Andar cut him off. "We are not going to buy food, Cullen. We are going to build something that will make the merchants beg to give us their food."
He looked back at the shivering crowd.
"The Stark words are Winter is Coming," Andar announced. "But here in Deepwood Keep, I have new words for you."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the cold air.
"Steel is Power."
Andar turned and walked back into the keep, his black cloak billowing behind him.
[System Alert]
[Resource Identified: Coal]
[Resource Identified: Clay]
[Technological Path Selected: High Temperature Kiln]
[Quest Updated: Build the first Blast Furnace within 3 days.]
Andar clenched his fist.
Three days.
In three days, the Industrial Revolution would begin in the frozen North.
...…
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!