Chapter 61 – A Veiled Threat
Eddard's expression eased slightly as the lords voiced their support, but his gaze soon turned sharp again. He looked directly at Lady Barbrey Dustin.
"Lady Dustin, if memory serves, Barrowton is among the wealthiest holdings in the North. Why, then, have you brought only one hundred men?
"House Mormont of Bear Island has sent more than that. Their lands are smaller than yours, less prosperous, and far less populous."
Maege Mormont lifted her chin proudly. "Every soul on Bear Island is a loyal and fearless warrior. When House Stark calls, we answer. Always."
Eddard inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Lady Dustin remained composed. "When Winterfell's raven arrived, most of Barrowton's men were in the fields bringing in the harvest. In haste, I gathered only those I could. But each of them is worth ten common soldiers."
In truth, this was not unlike her behavior at harvest festivals—while other houses presented their finest produce, she would offer turnips and call it generosity.
Saelen seized the opening.
"Oh? Then Barrowton must have enjoyed a bountiful harvest," he said mildly. "The Wall is suffering a shortage of grain. Since your fields are so productive, Lady Dustin, perhaps you might extend your generosity and send provisions north."
If her people were busy reaping grain, then surely there was grain to spare.
For the first time, a flicker disturbed Lady Dustin's calm. Reap what harvest? It had been an excuse—nothing more. This bastard had caught the flaw in her words and twisted it neatly.
She had no surplus. And even if she did, she would have little desire to part with it.
After a brief pause, she replied coolly, "What harvest? It was turnips, nothing more. Since the Wall lacks food, I shall have some sent."
Saelen clicked his tongue inwardly. Turnips were turnips—but even turnips filled empty bellies.
Eddard, however, was no longer interested in excuses.
"I do not concern myself with your reasons," he said, voice hard as winter steel. "Within two months, you will send an additional six hundred soldiers to the Wall.
"If they do not arrive by then—"
He let the sentence hang in the cold air, heavy with implication.
"I will petition King Robert to strip you of your title and every right you hold in your lands," Eddard continued coldly. "And I will march on Barrowton under the charge that you have failed in your feudal obligations."
In his heart, Eddard knew well the root of Lady Dustin's hatred. But the truth behind it was a secret too dangerous to touch. Years ago, rebellion had risen under the banner that Prince Rhaegar had abducted Lyanna Stark. That was the story told to the realm.
The truth was far more perilous.
Lyanna had gone willingly. She and Rhaegar had wed before a septon's witness. A child had been born.
If that secret ever came to light—what fate would await House Stark? What fate would await Jon? Eddard dared not imagine it. Thus, in all matters even brushing against that past, he had chosen silence.
For years, he had turned a blind eye to Lady Dustin's provocations. But this was different. The White Walkers threatened every house in the North. In such an hour, he would no longer tolerate willful defiance.
Under his hard gaze, Lady Dustin's composure finally cracked. Shock flickered across her face. She glanced instinctively toward Roose Bolton for support.
Roose Bolton sat still as stone, pale eyes unreadable, offering nothing.
Her heart sank.
"…Yes, my lord," she said at last, bowing her head.
Eddard's expression softened slightly. In truth, he did not wish to move against Barrowton. William Dustin had died fighting at his side. To now raise arms against the man's widow was not a path he desired.
But necessity outweighed sentiment.
The hall fell into a heavier silence. Every lord present sat straighter.
Saelen broke it.
"How many dragonglass weapons have we completed?"
Donal Noye, master armorer of Castle Black, answered promptly. "Three hundred daggers. Five hundred spearheads. Over two thousand arrowheads."
The forges had been burning day and night. Even so, production lagged. Noye had borrowed over a hundred men from the Watch simply to haul, grind, and assist—yet the shortage remained severe.
Saelen's brow furrowed deeper.
"That won't last a single proper engagement."
"My lord," Noye replied, bristling slightly, "the smiths are already working themselves to exhaustion. They barely stop to eat."
"How many smiths and apprentices?"
"Twenty-five smiths. Over a hundred apprentices. And another hundred laborers borrowed from the Watch—but they know nothing of forging. They only assist."
Saelen considered.
"Then I'll assign you three hundred more men."
The hall stirred.
"Divide them into teams—one smith, five apprentices, sixteen new men per group. The smith teaches only what's necessary to produce dragonglass weapons. Each team must complete fifty daggers, fifty spearheads, and one hundred arrowheads per day."
Noye shot to his feet.
"That's impossible! Forging isn't something you teach by telling a man to swing a hammer! It takes years—years of instruction and practice! And a smith's craft is his livelihood. You would have us hand it over freely?"
His voice sharpened.
"Ser Saelen, forgive me, but you speak as one who does not understand the forge."
Saelen did not flare in anger.
He understood well the fear behind it. In this world, teaching a trade meant risking one's own survival. Flood a craft with new hands, and you starve the masters.
"Master Noye," Saelen said calmly, "I do not ask you to teach them how to forge fine steel or master armor. I require only that they learn to shape dragonglass into usable weapons."
He leaned forward slightly.
"The only standard is this: the blade must pierce a wight. It need not be beautiful. It need not be perfect. It only needs to kill."
He paused deliberately.
"And tell the smiths this—any team that meets its quota will earn the smith one gold dragon per day."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
A gold dragon a day meant small fortunes over months.
Noye's expression shifted.
"…If that is the requirement, it may be done," he admitted slowly. "But the new men will struggle at first."
"They may have half a month to adapt," Saelen replied. "After that, the quotas stand."
His voice turned cold.
"And if a team still fails…"
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop.
"Then the smith responsible will be sent beyond the Wall to meet the White Walkers. He may pray they require his talents at the anvil."
Noye hesitated, unsettled by the naked threat, and looked toward Lord Commander Mormont and Eddard Stark.
Mormont simply nodded once.
Eddard spoke firmly. "Ser Saelen speaks with my authority."
There was no room left for argument.
Donal Noye inclined his head.
"…Very well."