Chapter 57: Return

Eagle's Island had undergone a complete transformation.

Since the first shipment of grain and essential supplies arrived from Sunhouse a month and a half ago, the territory's greatest crisis had been thoroughly resolved.

With enough food in store, Gavin immediately followed Samwell's prior orders, hiring large numbers of wildlings to assist in building up the land.

Free meals and lodging, plus work credits.

With such incentives, more and more wildlings were gathering on Eagle's Island. The prisoner camp—now rebranded as the labor camp—had grown from an initial one thousand people to nearly four thousand.

The territory's construction had accelerated at an astonishing pace.

The valley's defensive installations were now fully complete, with triple-layer wooden palisades and four interconnected watchtowers forming a fortress-like barrier. Neatly arranged wooden houses filled the valley, and the foundations of the lord's castle were already laid, thanks to the hard work of the wildling laborers.

Additionally, Gavin had enlisted over three hundred wildling women to take part in distilling the brandy.

Processes such as picking, washing, fermenting, distilling, and storing the wild grapes were all proceeding smoothly now that they had a robust workforce.

Near the valley entrance, the wildlings had even cleared a large plot of land to cultivate wild grapes, laying a foundation for large-scale winemaking in the future.

Though it was now late afternoon, Eagle's Island was still buzzing with activity.

On a sandy hill by the beach, an attractive middle-aged man looked out with great interest over the growing territory.

He had dark hair streaked with hints of gray and cool, gray-green eyes that seemed to pierce into people's hearts. A carefully trimmed goatee added to his sophisticated, refined look.

The man wore a cloak of deep gray silk, fastened by a brooch shaped like a mockingbird—a sigil recognizable to those well-versed in heraldry as belonging to the realm's Master of Coin, "Littlefinger" Petyr Baelish.

"My lord, do you really intend to wait here for Ser Caesar's return?" a young man in armor asked, coming up behind Petyr.

"Yes, I do."

"But… he's only a pioneer knight who hasn't even finished building his castle. It's already quite a concession that you've traveled all the way here from King's Landing. Why not let me handle this business of minting coin?"

"You don't think Samwell Caesar is worth my waiting a few more days?"

"Is he?"

"Byron, never underestimate anyone, especially the young. After all, House Baelish's lands are no more than a rocky peninsula with no silver mines," Petyr replied, his low, gravelly voice carrying an uncanny charm that drew people in.

"He can't possibly compare to you, my lord," Byron said, scratching his head. "From what I can tell, while Ser Caesar may be good in battle, he's hopeless when it comes to managing a territory. It may seem bustling now, but he's headed for serious trouble soon."

"Oh? And what sort of trouble would that be?"

"First off, he's far too lenient with these wildlings! He's welcomed them as tenants, provides food and shelter, and even gives them something called 'work credits.' I did some calculations, and if he actually manages to complete this castle of his—assuming he can even hold out that long—he'll be so deeply in debt that he'll be bankrupt! And that's not even counting the two hundred-plus craftsmen he supposedly hired at ten times the going rate from Highgarden. Really, I doubt that even his silver mine will save him.

"And then there's the fact that there are over ten thousand wildlings on the territory compared to just a few hundred Reachmen. With such an imbalance, unrest is practically guaranteed.

"To top it off, he's been cultivating wild grapes for winemaking. Does he really think he can make good wine from that sour fruit?"

Petyr listened quietly, smiling slightly. Then he said, "Did you know? People are much like sheep—they stick together, grazing the same fields, following the same paths, all sporting identical white coats. But sometimes, among them, a few sheep are… different."

"Black sheep?" Byron asked, still somewhat unconvinced.

"Yes, black. They're often isolated, looked down on, or even despised by the white sheep. But often, it's precisely these black sheep who can lead the herd to new pastures," Petyr said, his tone calm but thoughtful.

Byron, still skeptical, asked, "My lord, are you saying that Samwell Caesar is a black sheep? But what about all the mistakes he's made?"

Petyr shook his head, his voice now tinged with amusement. "Following the rules is a sure way to avoid mistakes. But to stray from convention guarantees risk, even failure."

Byron looked baffled.

Petyr continued, "Besides, who's to say his methods for managing this land are wrong? To white sheep, the black one may always appear foolish until it leads them to a new, fertile pasture."

Byron nodded, deep in thought, though uncertainty lingered in his expression. He sensed a deeper meaning behind Lord Baelish's words about black sheep but didn't dare press further.

Also, he found it strange that calling someone a "black sheep" could be a compliment.

Just then, a wave of cheering erupted from the pier.

Byron looked up to see a ship approaching the shore.

"Our black sheep has returned," Petyr said, gazing at the ship in the sunset with a smile of eager anticipation.

Then, he turned and made his way down the hill toward the pier, with Byron hurrying after him.

At the dock, Samwell barely waited for the ship to fully come to a stop before leaping onto the gangway.

After nearly two months away, wandering along the western coasts of the Reach, he had finally returned to his own domain.

Looking out over the now unfamiliar landscape, he could barely contain his surprise—

So much had changed!

"My lord, you've finally returned!"

"Haha, Gavin, thank you for everything!" Samwell greeted his steward with a warm embrace.

Overcome with emotion, Gavin, who was already on the verge of tears, couldn't hold them back.

Samwell turned to wave at the assembled crowd of townsfolk gathered at the pier, thanking them for their warm welcome.

"Welcome back, my lord!"

Cheers broke out in response.

At that moment, Gavin leaned in to whisper, "My lord, the Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish, has been waiting for you here for five days."

"Petyr Baelish?" Samwell was taken aback.

Of course, he knew the name—one of the shrewdest players in the game of thrones, an ambitious man, a master manipulator, and a habitual liar too, who believed in the motto "Chaos is a ladder."

And he was here? In Samwell's own territory?

While overseeing currency minting was technically within the Master of Coin's duties, this was just a small silver mine. Why would Baelish make the long journey from King's Landing?

Unless… he hadn't come solely for the silver.

Samwell felt his guard go up.

Just then, Petyr, escorted by his guards, emerged from the crowd and approached Samwell with an impeccably polite smile.

"Finally, we meet, Ser Caesar!"

Samwell quickly composed himself, putting on an equally cordial, innocent smile.

"The honor is mine, Lord Baelish."

(End of Chapter)