Chapter 8: Assessing the Situation
At first, everyone present had thought the arrangements reasonable. But after the maester's comparisons and calculations, the scale of it all began to feel unsettling.
A standing force of nearly seven thousand men was, for a small holding like Castle Edd, undeniably excessive.
Puzzled gazes turned toward Saelen.
After hearing the maester's objections, Saelen calmly took a sip of wine to moisten his throat, then looked around the hall and spoke evenly.
"Maester, there are three reasons why we must maintain a force of this size."
"First—our porcelain trade is thriving, and the profits are immense. Countless people are eyeing this business in the shadows. If persuasion fails, some will inevitably turn to force."
"With an army of this size, we can deter those with ill intent before they dare to act."
"But we have Winterfell," Ser William interjected. "If we're attacked, Lord Eddard would surely summon his bannermen and come to our aid."
Saelen shook his head.
"Lord Eddard's bannermen will fight for Winterfell—for Lord Eddard himself. That doesn't necessarily mean they'll fight for us."
"And even if they were willing," Saelen continued calmly, "by the time Lord Eddard finished mustering his forces and marched to our aid, do you think our porcelain works would still be standing?"
Ser William fell silent. After a moment, he nodded slowly.
"My lord… I understand. You've thought further ahead than I did."
Saelen inclined his head and continued.
"Second—just a few days ago, I brought back a wildling captive. According to him, the King-Beyond-the-Wall is rallying the Free Folk beyond the Wall, preparing to attack it."
"The Wall's eighteen hundred or so Night's Watchmen won't be able to stop a massive wildling host—especially when the Free Folk have mammoths and giants among them."
"If the Wall falls, Lord Eddard will certainly call upon us to reinforce it."
"Giants?" someone exclaimed.
"My lord, do giants truly still exist among the wildlings?"
"Weren't they said to have vanished long ago?"
Questions erupted around the table.
Saelen ignored them—and dropped a far heavier bombshell.
"And that same wildling also claimed that the Others have appeared beyond the Wall."
"The Others?" Maester Rosmund cried out, unable to restrain himself. "Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but the Others vanished eight thousand years ago!"
"They vanished eight thousand years ago," Saelen replied coolly, "but you don't deny that they once existed, do you?"
Rosmund froze, then answered hesitantly.
"According to ancient chronicles… there are records of the Others. But—"
"There is no 'but,' Maester Rosmund," Saelen cut in impatiently.
"This world has known dragons. Compared to that, a few Others and giants are hardly unbelievable."
He swept his gaze across the room.
"And think carefully—why would so many wildlings abandon their lands beyond the Wall, dragging their elderly and children with them, and flee south?"
"There must be something happening beyond the Wall—something so terrifying that it forced them to abandon their homes."
The hall fell silent.
Although the others were still unconvinced, no one spoke up to argue further.
Saelen's throat felt dry from all the talking. He lifted his wine cup and drained it in one go.
"As for the third reason," he said casually, "how long do you think King Robert will live?"
The room froze.
Matters concerning the king were not something anyone dared to discuss lightly. Only Saelen could say such things with apparent indifference.
Maester Rosmund frowned deeply.
"My lord, what do you mean by that? King Robert is in the prime of his life. Ruling the Seven Kingdoms for another ten or even twenty years should be well within his grasp."
"Twenty years?" Saelen let out a snort of laughter.
"Maester, you're far too optimistic. Since Robert took the Iron Throne, he's done only four things."
He raised four fingers and waved them slightly.
The others exchanged uncertain looks.
"Which four?" Steward Gene asked tactfully.
Saelen gave him an approving glance—this one learns quickly.
"Tournaments. Drinking. Whoring. Hunting."
"Tournaments and hunting are both dangerous pursuits. Add chronic drunkenness to that, and not one of these activities benefits a man's health. On top of that, our king is grossly overweight."
"I have very little confidence in his long-term health."
"And in just over a decade, our good king has not only squandered the wealth the Targaryens accumulated over centuries, but has also plunged the Iron Throne into several million gold dragons of debt."
"King Robert's generosity is something we've all witnessed firsthand," Ser William added with a chuckle.
Rosmund still refused to concede.
"Even if—even if—King Robert were to meet with an accident, he has three children. His eldest son, Joffrey, will come of age in a few years and naturally inherit the Iron Throne."
"His grandfather is Tywin Lannister. Lord Eddard is Robert's sworn brother. Robert himself was raised by Jon Arryn."
"With the North, the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands supporting him, who in the Seven Kingdoms would dare challenge such a king?"
Saelen looked at Rosmund with mild surprise.
"A solid analysis," he said. "But it relies on one crucial premise."
Rosmund blinked.
"What premise?"
Saelen did not answer directly. Instead, he asked calmly,
"Maester—do you know Joffrey? Do you know what kind of person he is?"
Rosmund frowned.
"What does that have to do with—"
"Because the uncertainty lies with Joffrey," Saelen said evenly. "As for why—you'll understand in time."
Rosmund: "..."
The maester very much wanted to curse. Who speaks half a thought and then turns it into a riddle?
Still, outrageous as it sounded at first, the more he considered Saelen's words, the more unsettlingly reasonable they seemed.
"Enough," Saelen said, waving a hand. "The Iron Throne is too far away for us to worry about. Let's talk about our own affairs."
The others reluctantly set aside their lingering thoughts.
"My proposal is this," Saelen continued. "From our forces, we select two thousand elite soldiers to form a permanent standing army."
"The rest, after a period of training, will be assigned to reclaim land and farm military fields. During the busy seasons, they farm. In the slack seasons, they regroup for military training."
"That way, we solve both the army's supply problem and maintain a solid level of combat readiness."
The brilliance of the old soldier-farmer system was undeniable. Saelen used it without the slightest guilt.
"What do you all think?" he asked lightly.
No one objected.
Rosmund thought long and hard, his brow furrowed, before finally letting out a long sigh.
"My lord… your ideas are always unexpected. But I must admit—this plan is workable."
The others nodded in agreement, showering Saelen with praise.
Saelen accepted it calmly.
"Marcus—how is the glassworks doing?"
A white-haired, white-bearded elder rose.
"My lord, the glassworks is operating normally. We currently employ five hundred workers, all producing glass for Winterfell."
"As their skills improve, both output and quality continue to rise steadily."
Since mastering glassmaking, Saelen had swallowed his pride and written to Winterfell, asking whether they needed glass. A few days later, Eddard sent a steward with a deposit and placed an order for one thousand panes on the spot.
Long summer was nearing its end. Winter was coming.
To prepare for the brutal cold, Eddard intended to expand the glass gardens, which required vast quantities of glass.
"My lord," Marcus said proudly, "with the techniques you provided, given time, our glass will surpass that of the Reach and even Myr."
Saelen nodded.
"Good. Recruit however many more workers you need from the camp. No need to report every detail to me."
"Yes, my lord. Serving you is my honor," Marcus replied promptly.
Saelen nodded again, satisfied.
All of Castle Edd's industries were now firmly on track. He had land, grain, gold, and soldiers.
All that remained was for the coming chaos to arrive.