Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 681 - 389: The New Northern Territory and the Old North

As the snowstorm raged over Gray Stone Fortress, it resembled shards of glass hurled down from towering heights.

The ancient trade road, churned with permafrost and sludge, rattled travelers and spun their senses into dizziness.

Even opulent carriage wheels groaned in potholes, as though rebelling against the harshness of this barren land.

Sorel remained composed inside the carriage, extending his hand to inspect the door and window seals for tightness, then pulling out the frayed silver pendant hidden in his shirt's lining.

He snapped open the clasp, revealing a thumb-sized charcoal drawing of a small girl hugging a doll.

Her complexion was ashen, eyes oversized in the sketch, yet she forced a subtle smile from beyond the edges, gripping the doll firmly.

Sorel's fingers tenderly traced the portrait, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Afterward, he secured the pendant once more, like concealing a hidden truth within his armor's folds.

Sorel peeked by lifting a corner of the carriage window.

A piercing wind surged in immediately, biting like icy needles.

Twisted Black Pine Forests drooped under heavy snow, while roadside corpses lay scattered, some half-buried with only faces partially exposed.

Vagrants in dilapidated huts resembled wild animals, their stares vacant as they glanced at the carriage, long since forsaken any will to live.

Chimney smoke was scarce across this desolate waste, filling the air solely with the stench of decay and frigid gusts.

Sorel gazed upon the grim scene.

He understood a royal envoy must uphold dignified composure, yet southern aristocratic contempt crept forth unbidden.

Sorel let out a chill-free soft laugh.

"This is what the Northern Territory is like."

Barren, savage, disordered, without value.

This matched the Imperial Capital's view of the Northern Territory, with every sight confirming the bias.

"Ruling as king in a dump like this... it's just that."

He recognized Louis's talent for intrigue, but amid the Northern Territory's realities, the terms from the Second Prince seemed utterly pointless.

"If I dangle even a sliver of Southern trade privileges... he'll bend the knee and embrace true civilization."

The carriage rocked northward amid pounding snowstorms that drummed the window frames like a funeral dirge.

Three days out from Gray Stone Fortress, the blizzard persisted fiercely.

Abruptly, the carriage's shaking halted, as though stepping into a different realm.

Sorel's eyes snapped open, his brow creasing in suspicion of irregularity.

The wheels no longer snagged in mud holes; their smooth roll even calmed the horses' steps.

He drew back a section of the curtain.

Icy blasts flooded inside, yet the initial sight wasn't snowfall, but an immense stretch of...

Gray-black, flawlessly paved roads.

The surface gleamed with perfect flatness; rain and snow slid aside without forming sludge, guided by subtle slopes.

Straight white lines bisected the road's center, impeccably straight and exact, like drafted markings rather than hasty scrawls.

Sorel froze briefly before murmuring slowly, "Is this...the Northern Territory?"

Having traversed southern highways and toured the Imperial Capital's paving yards, this surpassed many southern locales.

The carriage pressed ahead, and soon a structure emerged through the storm.

Red Tide waystation.

Though compact, the building stood tidy and aligned, built from uniform gray stone blocks, with a vivid red banner bearing the Red Tide emblem fluttering at the doorway.

Steady white vapor curled from the chimney, promising reliable heat within.

Yet more striking than the edifice were the diligent figures laboring outside the waystation.

Workers clad in crimson uniforms maneuvered iron snow plows along the path.

Their actions flowed in sync, punctuated by whistles, a lively cadence that clashed with toiling on the Northern Territory's frozen frontier.

No chains, no lashes, no overseeing knights.

The overseer clutched a slate logging snow depths and road status, now and then eyeing the heavens to predict the next clearing.

Sorel observed at length before muttering in shock, "The Northern Territory’s liegemen...are smiling?"

This quiet musing dripped with inconceivable strangeness.

In his mind, Northern Territory vassals were forever chilled or starved, dulled or fearful.

They ought to cower shivering in ruined hovels, not whistle merrily while shoveling snow.

Sorel gradually dropped the curtain, his forehead deeply wrinkled.

He wondered if he'd strayed into a Red Tide-dominated domain, so alien to the Northern Territory's misery he'd endured for days.

As the carriage ventured deeper north, welcomes poured in.

Nearly every fortress or town saw local lords' retainers halt him, urging a brief visit despite any ulterior motives.

As the Second Prince’s Special Envoy, whatever schemes they hid, the lords upheld courteous exteriors.

Yet Sorel soon noted the banquets' wild contrasts verged on the ridiculous.

It was like dragging him between twin realms on one route: affluence versus ruin, comfort against freeze, optimism amid festering decline.

Feast arrays, lords' demeanors, vassals' spirits—all split into glaring divides.

The prosperous type featured "Red Tide insignia" proudly displayed at the main avenue's start.

For example, upon reaching the initial such spot in the dim pre-twilight gloom, snow-choked skies loomed, but the castle portals swung wide promptly, as if anticipating his arrival.