274 AC, Winterfell
Father looked up. He saw that everyone had calmed down.
Greatjon was no longer snorting. Karstark had stopped squinting. Glover looked, for the first time, as if he was actually listening.
Rickard knew this was the moment.
He stood up.
"Since we have stopped arguing," he said coldly, "it's time to say this clearly."
He looked at everyone in turn. Slowly. Without haste. As if he wanted each person to remember every word.
"Now that winter is over, we will no longer send people blindly. We will send them on new ships to Hardhome. From there, Brandon will lead people along the eastern coast to Whitetree."
It became quiet.
And Rickard continued.
"One might think that a massacre lies ahead. That this expedition will end in a slaughter and silence. But you are wrong. I do not intend to eliminate these wildlings."
Several men shifted uneasily. As if hearing something that did not fit into the old, comfortable frames of Northern thinking.
"You may wonder why," Rickard raised his eyes, and his voice took on that quiet, indisputable tone that silenced even the most hot-blooded lords. "But the answer is simple: the North lacks people."
A pause. Deliberate. And painful.
"We lack workforce. You can see it yourselves. For six years, the situation has been improving. We import less food from the south. We are building a canal. Renewing the fleet. New workshops, roads, mills are emerging. We are beginning to breathe."
He fell silent for a moment, allowing the words to resonate.
"But we always lack two things: gold and people."
He looked at their faces. No argument. Only quiet acceptance. Because they all knew.
"We are trying to obtain gold. Through trade, new products, contacts with Essos. But people... we cannot conjure them. And newborns cannot be trained in a year."
He paused for a moment, as if wanting the next words to sound stronger.
"We can try to encourage people from the south to settle here. But then... septons will appear everywhere."
Several lords twitched. They did not protest. But they understood. Septons cannot be controlled. And certainly not expelled once they take root.
"Whereas the wildlings..." Rickard raised his eyes. "After we conquer them, they will be loyal only to us."
He made a short pause, then added:
"It is known that they will need to be educated. Obedience, discipline. We will teach them how to plow the land. How to build houses. How to listen."
Glover crossed his arms.
"How many of them will be suitable?"
Father looked at him calmly.
"That's why Brandon will be in command. Just as the Starks once conquered the Mountain Clans in the north to make them loyal. He will challenge the tribal leaders. Until they realize they have no choice."
He paused for a moment, then added:
"Then we will distribute them throughout the North," he said, as if it were obvious. "We will not create settlements composed only of wildlings. They will not be together. They will not have strength. And when they are not in groups - they will have to adapt to local rules. Or disappear."
He made a short pause, then added:
"Additionally... they will help us dig a canal between Long Lake and Last River. This will be the second section of the northern waterway. And since we are rebuilding the fleet, we will also need people for the oars. Using them... is better than quickly eliminating them."
He fell silent for a moment, as if weighing his next words. Or perhaps simply waiting for us to understand what he was really planning.
"Besides," he added calmly, almost casually, "a special unit will be sent. A hundred men. Equipped with new Ice Bows."
He looked at the assembled.
"You are probably wondering what that is," he paused, as if giving room for speculation. "It is a weapon created according to the records of the First Men. It does not need arrows. Runes carved in the wood allow the bow to create ice projectiles itself. In two months, we will meet again in White Harbor," he said, returning to a tone of decision. "I hope that by then you will advise Brandon wisely. So that he does not make stupid mistakes."
Silence fell.
"Good. Now we will discuss other matters."
The room straightened again.
"You must promote the new four-field crop rotation method. Tests were conducted in several villages in the North. After applying this method, we received much more and better crops. The land does not become barren. Rye has stronger roots. Turnips are harvested before winter. And clover provides fodder and strengthens the soil."
Glover opened his mouth as if he wanted to ask where Stark knew about clover, but gave up.
"If you want to survive future winters without begging the Manderlys for wheat - implement this. Not by force. Start with one field in each village. Show the effect. The peasants will do the rest for you."
Rickard leaned slightly over the table, looking at the map as if he already saw those fields turning green again.
"Additionally," he added, "better harvests support our new alcohol industry."
Several lords exchanged glances. Vodka, whisky, herbal liqueurs - everyone had already heard. And some... had tried.
"You may also notice," he said dryly, "that the new alcohol is better for disinfecting wounds than heated wine."
He made a short pause, then continued:
"Thanks to NorthHeal... a new product has recently emerged." His tone did not change by a jot. "They call it 'soap in a block'. It is a mixture of fat, ash, and herbs. Formed into hard blocks that can be stored for months. Just add a little water and rub. The foam washes away dirt. Grease, sweat, blood. Even the smell disappears."
He fell silent for a moment. Some listened with growing interest, others with distrust.
"We tested it in barracks and first-aid stations," he added calmly. "We checked whether it affects healing and health."
There was no fanaticism in his voice. Only a cool report of facts.
"After two weeks: fewer cases of fever. Fewer infections. Fewer amputations."
He swept his gaze across the room. Slowly. As if looking for anyone who still doubted.
"You probably think it costs a fortune," he said in a harder tone. "But in the North, we will sell it for three silver stags per piece."
He made a pause. Then he added, calmly, almost with indifference that sounded like a warning:
"Whereas in the South and Essos... for as much as they will give."
Along with many successes of NorthHeal, from now on they will treat patients in the North alongside maesters. Each of you must have at least one person in your castle who has completed training at NorthHeal.
He looked slowly at the assembled.
"Not instead of a maester. Alongside him. In hospitals. Among peasants. On battlefields."
He made a short pause, allowing these words to settle.
"In recent years, it could be observed that in many cases they are more effective. Faster. More practical. Without superstitions. Without outdated theories."
He sighed quietly, almost wearily.
"Slowly they will secure what maesters are unable to. And then... we can start sending them to the South. Let them prove their worth there too."
He fell silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone:
"Finally... I am in the process of negotiations with lords from Dorne regarding the purchase of large quantities of silica sand. If I reach an agreement with them... Myr will sooner think that Dorne stole their technology."
He paused. Then he added, with barely perceptible irony:
"Because who would have thought that barbarians from the North could smelt glass?"
He fell silent. Looked around the room. Carefully. Without emotion.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
No one dared to speak.
"Good," he said dryly. "And now... go have fun."