Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 689 - 391: The Art of Negotiation (Part 2)

"That’s good." Louis drew out a chair with ease and settled into it, motioning toward the facing seat, "Take a seat, no need to hold back. Northerners like us don’t fuss over such rituals."

Sir Sorrell perched carefully on the chair Louis pointed to, sitting only halfway down, his posture rigid like an iron bar.

The scheme he’d meticulously prepared prior to arrival, practiced over a hundred times, was now unfolding at last.

"Your Excellency Louis." He unveiled the golden velvet case he bore, offering it forward with both hands—likely holding the Second Prince’s missive.

"The Second Prince learned of your feats in the Northern Territory. He feels a mere Count’s rank fails to reflect your standing anymore."

Louis arched a brow, lifted his teacup, and replied offhandedly, "Oh? So what rank does His Highness deem fitting for me?"

Meeting his gaze steadily, Sir Sorrell uttered the title potent enough to rattle the Empire’s foundations: "Grand Duke of the Northern Territory... the very post Duke Edmund once held."

He fixed his eyes on Louis, anticipating the flicker of greed to light up his features.

"When His Highness claims the throne, he’ll officially endorse your rule over the Northern Territory. You’ll stand as the Empire’s vital shield in the North, and little five-year-old Edmond won’t stand in the way of your claim to these lands."

It was a cunning snare masked as flattery.

Should Louis agree with a nod, he’d instantly turn into the sworn foe of the Empire’s ancient nobles, mired deep in the capital’s treacherous politics.

To uphold a Grand Duke’s honor, he’d have no choice but to relentlessly drain the Red Tide’s forces.

Setting aside his teacup, Louis eyed the parchment scroll, his face serene as though appraising commonplace wares: "It does carry quite the ring. But... what price must I pay for such glory? Wage wars for His Highness across South and North?"

"No, no troops required from you." Sir Sorrell grasped the opening swiftly, his voice growing ever more deferential.

He sensed it—Louis hadn’t rejected outright; this was the cue he craved most.

Thus, he launched into his following pitch: "His Highness merely wishes you to serve as the Empire’s firm pillar. In good faith, the Second Prince offers the House of Raimont’s three vital southern trade paths for Red Tide’s benefit."

Now his voice softened further, akin to soothing a youthful noble: "Red Tide’s ores, glassware, iron goods, and tools may flow into southern markets without taxes."

"And we’ll supply spices, silks, sugars—these luxury southern items—to Red Tide at prime cost."

His words painted a picture of safe, win-win partnership: "Red Tide just keeps shipping goods southward from the Northern Territory, and those southern routes will swing wide open for you."

Beneath lurked a barbed lure, drawing Red Tide to crave southern luxuries, nudging its forges to rely on shipping raw ores and half-made items.

When reliance takes root, a mere squeeze on those routes by House Raimont would strangle Red Tide’s whole production line, mirroring the Calvin Commerce Association’s grip on Louis today.

Sir Sorrell pushed on relentlessly: "Duke Calvin... your sire, has long sought to choke off Red Tide’s merchandise flow, correct? We stand ready to shatter his walls, letting Red Tide integrate fully into the Empire."

That line struck like a subtle dart, prodding a raw nerve.

It implied Duke Calvin’s enmity while underscoring Red Tide’s need for outer trade.

Yet stepping onto that road would gradually turn Red Tide into House Raimont’s subordinate.

Louis remained silent, just drumming fingers on the armrest, seemingly letting him run out his spiel.

Clenching his jaw, Sir Sorrell unleashed his ultimate ploy.

"Your Grace, Duke..." His voice dropped, feigning worry for the man, "To speak plainly, Red Tide boasts power and soldiers, yet wants the refinement suiting its rank."

He advanced cautiously, "Your aides excel greatly, but resemble artisans overly. They grasp no coats of arms, no noble customs, no art of grand banquets. Southern old-blood nobles will scorn you for it."

Then he slid over a ready roster: "The Second Prince offers freely a team of a hundred advisors—Royal Academy legal scholars with doctorates, protocol experts, landscape artists, performers, palace cooks..."

"They’ll aid Red Tide in forging a proper courtly order. Elevating it beyond mere military outpost to an Imperial-sanctioned Royal Court."

With that, Sir Sorrell caught his breath.

This was his ace maneuver from the capital: bestow rank to chain with desire, grant paths to trap with gain, offer graces to seep in culture.

Once Louis took that advisor group, Red Tide’s operations would bog down in protocols and pomp, its Knights softened by excess.

Within five years at most, this thundering steel monster would lose its fangs, reduced to a prancing pet.

Sir Sorrell watched for the slightest falter in Louis.

Deep down, he figured Louis wouldn’t yield.

Yet any hint of doubt let him twist the talks his way.

But Louis’s comeback stunned him utterly.

Louis lifted his gaze, face composed: "Sir Sorrell, might I pose a question?"

Sir Sorrell straightened at once: "Certainly, Your Excellency."

"Do you speak for the Second Prince here?"

"Indeed." Sir Sorrell shot back promptly, "I represent His Highness fully."

Louis shook his head softly: "What I’m getting at is..."

He halted briefly, voice mild still, but slicing sharp through the room like steel: "Are you acting for the Second Prince? Or... for Duke Raimont?"