Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 682 - 389: The New Northern Territory and the Old North (Part 2)

The nearly fifty-year-old Lord stepped out personally to welcome them, wrapped in a cloak heated by the stove.

With his face flushed from the biting cold, he seized Sorel’s forearm: "It is an honor for my entire domain that the Prince’s messenger has arrived."

After saying this, he received a Red Tide glass cup from an attendant and presented it with both hands, his face grave—not due to some lofty motive, but since this product was now stocked in his family’s warehouse as an official good, set for exchange with nearby lands for real gains.

"In previous years, I couldn’t even offer my family anything worthwhile," the Lord murmured, sounding like he was bragging about his vision, "Things have changed now. These glass cups are selling like hotcakes; I’ve heard southern noble ladies begging for them. Please take it, Your Highness, it’s worth a lot."

Next, the elderly Lord spotted Sorel’s ice-covered carriage groaning as it moved, and he scowled: "That rundown cart shames this place. I’ll swap it for a fresh one on a Red Tide frame. It’s more stable and holds value longer."

His words rang with self-righteousness, as if fretting over Sorel damaging his clan’s honor instead of the man’s safety—a perfect show of a newly rich lord’s vibe.

Sorel wondered why such a far-off spot had a Lord with this fresh-wealth swagger, and the gifts proved truly precious.

So, Sorel entered the man’s manor, keen to probe deeper.

The feast room blazed with heat and light. The table groaned under lavish foods.

Amid the banquet chatter, the old Lord’s pride shone through: "Three years back, forty froze to death in my lands; last year, fifteen. This year, fewer than two. Not thanks to me, but to Lord Calvin."

Sorel lifted an eyebrow.

The Lord went on: "My lands’ workshops, roads, stoves... all swapped with Red Tide for trade.

I won’t hide it from you, Prince’s messenger—my family’s cut this year beats usual taxes sevenfold. I don’t mind who Calvin is; if he brings wealth to my house, I’ll back him fully."

Laughter from children echoed outside.

Sorel turned toward the noise and spotted kids in thick Red Tide felt boots romping through the snow.

The Lord shot a quick look: "Oh, those? They’ve got knight blood talent in the domain; Lord Louis wants them, asks me to train more knights, so I’m getting ready early."

At another table, the lady of the house murmured: "My boy studies at Red Tide City’s academy. When he matures and claims the land, we’ll rise even higher."

Her voice carried no force, just pleased reckoning.

Such talk wasn’t just here.

All northward, Sorel caught the same in every Red Tide-aligned territory.

Not from sudden lordly mercy, nor subject joy.

But Red Tide’s boom, trade, and innovations truly secured, boosted, and promised futures for their houses.

The folk’s better lives?

Just a bonus, like stray grain from a full silo—lords ignore it, too idle to fight.

As the feast dragged on, kids’ giggles floated in again. Sorel traced the sound to see children dashing in snow, clad in sturdy Red Tide felt boots, no bare feet, no huddling.

Patrol guards nearby knelt to fix the kids’ laces before marching on.

Sorel felt these tales swallowing him.

All that wealth stemmed from Red Tide: grub, paths, forges, heaters, coal, glassware, metal goods, fresh plows.

The land’s trade flipped, folk ways remade, lord power reshaped.

The next sort of domain contrasted sharply.

On top, these Lords honored the Prince’s envoy: escorts to meet, feasts held, crests displayed in courtesy.

But the moment Sorel dismounted, the air’s smell hit—a rigid defiance cornered by facts.

In the keep, always damp stone, dim tapers, staff shrunk in shadows to fade away.

Table fare stayed sparse: bread slabs, brine-sharp salt pork, watery fish broth.

Still, these Lords held spines stiff, striking ancient Northern noble poise, as if penury was their badge.

Icy gusts whistled through pane gaps, whipping flames.

Yet they spurned Red Tide glass panes: "Ancestors wintered this way always."

Their tones quivered in chill, but custom armored them.

Feast underway, they rushed to bash Red Tide first.

"That Calvin boy’s too pushy."

"He struts only via Duke Edmund marriage."

"If old Duke lived..."

"We old-blood nobles won’t bow to him."

But wine loosened tongues, cracks showed:

"Hawk lands had zero freeze deaths this year? True?"

"Iron tools... two silvers? No way that low."

"Firm roads... wish mine had ’em."

Sorel read their eyes instantly—not skepticism, but envy, rage, choking lag behind eras.

The real joke wasn’t that.

Though yelling loudest for "Northern glory hold."

Sorel caught servants sneaking gifts—all Red Tide wares, cheap knockoffs even.

Lips denied, but fingers groped toward Red Tide.