Chapter 216

The Vale. Gates of the Moon. 300 AC.

Axel Arryn.

Blacksmiths, craftsmen without whom no functioning state could possibly exist. Forging is the core technical process a smith performs, encompassing drawing, cutting, upsetting, punching, bending, twisting, finishing, welding, casting, decorative work, and a great deal more. Just glancing at that list of required skills makes it obvious how much a man needs to know before he can call himself a proper craftsman. In a world where knowledge spreads as slowly as this one, that’s difficult, to put it mildly. Statistically speaking, you’re lucky if two or three villages between them can produce a single blacksmith. And the masters themselves are in no hurry to breed competitors, since scarcity is precisely what lets them charge whatever price they please. The result: smiths make up a small, privileged class of people with no interest in spreading their knowledge around.

BANG! BANG! BANG!!! Alongside the experiment underway, I let myself turn over the work so far in my mind.

Things needed to change, and I’d set about changing them with no small amount of satisfaction, easing the appearance of a great many more blacksmiths across my territory. The concept of the “manufactory” was nothing new to Númenor, and had been one of the pillars of that nation’s might. It wasn’t entirely foreign to Westeros either, but the idea had never taken hold here in any real way, for economic and social reasons. Now, thanks to the massive influx of raw minerals and their falling cost (I’d established several major mines), the introduction of wind and water powered trip hammers, and the division of labor within the manufactories themselves, output had multiplied several times over.

New enterprises were being built in strategically important regions, and old ones expanded. Gulltown, Redfort, Runestone, Nine Stars, Old Anchor, Strongsong, and a number of other less significant points had all seen manufactories spring up, more than enough to cover every military order for the Riverlands campaign several times over. I couldn’t very well neglect my own winter seat, and so the modest little forge in my own castle had received its upgrade as well.

“My lord Arryn, you’re… there’s…” The boy had picked a spectacularly bad moment to try and say something, and stumbled the instant my pair of displeased eyes turned on him, “It’s… they’re calling…” I couldn’t very well blame the child for it, my left eye wasn’t exactly easy on the nerves.

“…Wait outside the door for ten minutes.” No point taking my irritation out on a simple messenger.

Much as I despised Sauron, there was no denying the fact that the vast bulk of my knowledge, on every conceivable subject, had come from him. Not just necromancy, the dark arts, poisons, the magic of the Wraithworld, and other specialties suited to slaughtering the Dark Lord’s enemies, but far more mundane subjects besides. Back during my “education,” when I was still a man, I learned a staggering amount of information that had never before been available, not even to the Kings of Númenor themselves. Sauron never held knowledge back, especially not from his future favorite slave. He shared freely whatever I asked of him, and often threw in extra besides. The fallen Maia’s generosity was one of the reasons I’d trusted him. A mistake, as it turned out.

Gorthaur had his own passions. And no, for all his considerable talents, murder, violence, death, enslavement, intrigue, deception, and so on were never actually his favorite pursuits. His true passion was craftsmanship. Sauron loved to create, and every possible condition had aligned to let his talents flourish: a place in the retinue of Aulë, most skilled of all the Valar, direct tutelage under Melkor, the greatest inventor Arda had ever known, millennia of accumulated experience, an enormous wealth of resources, and boundless enthusiasm. The results were staggering.

“Failed again,” I noted, staring at the dark, shapeless black mass before me. “What is it you’re missing?”

Since Elena’s departure north, the Vale’s intelligence network had taken a sharp hit in effectiveness. Not that we’d fallen behind the other great houses or major players, we still held our own there, but we were nowhere near our old numbers. It’s easy to grow used to having the best, and “bird intelligence” was undoubtedly one of those luxuries. I’d had to think through a solution to the problem. Finding a new warg, building an army of familiars, dabbling in some other form of magic like the red priests practiced, none of those options suited me. That’s when I remembered, perhaps, one of the greatest artifacts of Middle-earth: the palantír.

I never much cared for elves, but there was one who earned my genuine respect: Fëanor, the greatest his people ever produced or ever would. He was a creator ahead of his time, the calamity of his own kin, a rebel against the Valar, the first kinslayer, and a great many other things besides. His people revered him and cursed him in equal measure for the Silmarils, but to me, a mortal man, those jewels were something abstract, something remote. The palantíri, Fëanor’s other great creation, meant far more to me, and were far more useful in practical terms. Instant communication across vast distances, and the ability to observe events unfolding anywhere in the world, that was an enormous advantage in any undertaking.

“…Something keeps resisting, as if some force won’t let me connect… or someone.” Interesting thought, that. Worth looking into further.

And while the communication side of things had proven simple enough, near unlimited observation of the wider world was another matter entirely. Fëanor had attuned the stones to starlight, the same light that washed over Arda, and through that connection could observe whatever he wished. How, exactly? No one knew. Even Sauron, after countless failed attempts to craft an equivalent of his own, had eventually concluded it was easier to simply seize an existing one than to unravel the secret of the elf’s creation. Too specific a piece of craft, apparently.

I agreed with the fallen Maia on that count, but the palantíri were remarkably convenient regardless. In the interest of keeping things realistic, I’d scaled my ambitions down, attuning myself to the stars was clearly beyond my reach, and chose a simpler channel instead. My choice fell on the weirwoods. The reasoning was purely practical: every great house still kept a godswood in its castle grounds, the trees conducted magic well, and served beautifully as transmitters. As a pleasant bonus, I gained constant knowledge of the mountain clansmen’s whereabouts. The barbarians still clung to their faith in the Old Gods, and gathered instinctively around weirwoods out of habit, whichever had survived the andal invasion. That could easily be turned into one enormous trap for the Vale’s blood enemies.

“Well, then.” Failure was unpleasant, but hardly unexpected. “Hey, boy, who was asking for me?”

“Lord Morgan, my lord,” and then he added quickly, “Ser Robar Royce and Ser Eyris Claw are waiting for you as well.”