Forging the Wintergard Principality
Let's consider the North's position if it were to declare independence. The path south was blocked by mountains, and to the far north roamed the nomads. Reaching the continent's edge would require subduing countless nomadic tribes. In truth, the route south was effectively sealed off. There was just one corridor, but no one used it. The journey took far too long.
The North had no proper harbors, only rivers that froze solid in winter. Thus, there was no need—or way—to rely on the corridor. In fact, I hadn't even considered it myself. Rivers froze easily at their mouths, and navigating upstream was no picnic either.
A classic basin terrain, isolated with just that single corridor. That was the North's land. Those who lived here had no choice but to fight to the death. No one wanted to die, after all.
"So you've swayed them?"
"Yes, Your Grace. It seems Lord Leor Reward's efforts have finally borne fruit."
"Excellent. But it's still dangerous. Even if Leor can handle it, we need a failsafe we can control absolutely."
"What if we install a Central Forge Reactor on the steppes?"
"That's worth considering. For now, we should survey all the nomads' territories thoroughly—this is our chance."
This would fall to Jamuchin. He'd specialized in diplomacy with the nomads, after all. We needed to know what lands they held, their sizes, and whether we could truly bring them under control.
But with the foreign minister absent, things could get tricky right now.
"Can we expand the army's size?"
"In the current situation, we can scale up to the level Your Grace mentioned."
"Do it, then. Proceed immediately, but don't recruit new soldiers. Pull the elite from existing legions and fill those spots with fresh recruits."
"Understood, Your Grace."
"I'll entrust this to... Leor."
I worried I was piling too much on Leor. But the beginning was crucial. Among the young generals, he had the most combat experience—and naming him general would rally the finest soldiers effortlessly, or so I judged.
The army was a long-term project; we'd take it one step at a time.
The two biggest issues loomed large. First: how to spend the North's accumulated wealth efficiently. Building palaces or colossal statues might burn through it quickly, but that wasn't smart. It could balloon into wasteful megaprojects, dooming us to ruin.
"We're planning merchant-led policies for the private sector, but there's a problem, Your Grace."
"What is it?"
"It might sound odd, but Your Grace—the North's money and goods don't match in value with the South's."
"What do you mean, Hexon?"
A currency structure issue. Gold coins were precious. Silver less so. Copper for convenience. But how that money was held varied by region.
Northern gold coins were pricier than southern ones. The same gold bought different amounts north and south. Say one northern gold coin got you a hundred loaves of bread. In the South, it might buy a thousand.
Even if merchants had strong buying power, they'd lose out coming north. The gold's value would keep dropping. Goods imported from the South—or sold dear to them—would still hurt us if the coin's worth didn't align. We'd bleed wealth in real terms.
"Until the value of money flowing south equals out, the North keeps taking losses. The merchants seem aware of it too."
"I see. Then we need something to bridge the North and South."
"Precisely, Your Grace."
There was an institution for that: the central bank. The Northern Central Bank. We'd ignored it while building infrastructure and new civil works, but now it was essential.
Founding the central bank.
"It's time to step outside."
"We'll report back once preparations are ready."
"As soon as possible. We already have that deal with the South's Bart family—we can't dawdle."
Now the second problem. The biggest, really. Tied to economics: how to handle relations with the South.
The North's stance had always been simple. We'd blocked and contained the nomads for the South. Opening our doors meant we couldn't guarantee their safety, so they'd have to care—a lot.
That was the past. Then the Empire stopped caring about the North entirely. They just repeated that everything was left to Wintergard. Support dwindled, then vanished.
After the Wintergard rebellion—my uncle and father clashing over the grand ducal seat—the South abandoned us completely. De facto forced independence.
We kept minimal contact, but neither side pushed for real improvement. You do you, I do me—just handle your duties. That vibe.
"But that's unforgivable, Your Grace!"
A generation had passed. The hollow pretext of loyalty to the Empire was long forgotten. Even the older nobles felt, Do we really need to care?
"How dare they speak of 'safety' with such rudeness to Your Grace?"
Even Hexon, whom I thought most rational, raised his voice. The other ministers followed suit.
The mood was clear: the Empire and North were already separate nations.
Officially, the Northern Grand Duke was the Emperor's vassal, after all.
"Your Grace! Give Lord de Wintergard a thousand troops, and we'll teach those pathetic southerners manners!"
"No."
"Y-Your Grace, th-then entrust three th-thousand to me, Leor Reward. Th-that should show the southerners the North's might..."
It was heading this way. Nods rippled through the ministers at the call for war.
Not what I wanted. Sure, we could war—paths south were paved, ripe for invasion. But I wanted that as a last resort. Unprepared wars were lost causes. Even invading the South would be an extreme option.
"War's off the table for now. We need other paths."
"An assassin, perhaps..."
Were they serious?
"We can't play those games. The North has honor—we wield swords openly, not skulk like cowards."
"Then how about applying pressure?"
"What kind?"
"I've an idea, Your Grace."
It was Herger, the vice minister under Jamuchin. If Jamuchin excelled at nomad diplomacy, Herger steadfastly held the foreign ministry whenever he was away.
Herger's ploy was straightforward: the Northern Grand Duke formally claiming full autonomy from the Empire.
We were de facto independent, but paperwork demanded endless loyalty oaths. Useless things, really—proof for the North's inclusion in the Empire. Not for us, but for those inside.
"Change the pretext?"
"Yes. Nominally part of the Empire, but reality demands we acknowledge otherwise."
"The Emperor might not accept something this minor."
To them, our nominal inclusion was huge reassurance. We were their shield against southern nomad hordes.
Just rename it. Not the Empire's North, but the Northern Principality—or something.
"Become the Wintergard Principality?"
"We can leverage that sentiment in the Empire too, Your Grace. They fear nomads who never come, and we're the only ones truly handling it."
True enough. Imperial aid had dried up ages ago. No one offered loyalty anymore. Older nobles had tuned out post-Wintergard rebellion. Geographically sealed too—barring the corridor, mountains even birds struggled to cross.
"They'll lose even their token support, gain full autonomy, and the pretext of appointing the grand duke."
"Will the Emperor accept? What do they want?"
"Just convince them they've appeased the North's wrath, Your Grace."
"Then we'll have to act the part."
The ministers murmured. Normally, the grand duke would reject this outright—loyal vassal and all.
Times had changed.
"Very well... make it so."
Herger bowed. All the ministers bowed.
Wintergard Principality. The North's independence preparations had cautiously begun.