[V14C1] Potatoes, Sheets, and Hospitality

On a certain early spring day, with traces of the winter snow still lingering in the shade, the Golden Knight, Einhard Berger, visited Valmbelk Castle on the western border of the Empire.

Einhard, soon to turn twenty-seven, was a handsome man with lustrous blond hair and charming features. On top of that, he hailed from a distinguished family and belonged to the elite Imperial Guard—a combination making him the heartthrob of every woman in the castle.

Having just received a steamed potato from an elderly kitchen maid who recently became a grandmother, Einhard bit into the piping hot snack as he made his way to the margrave’s office.

Despite being an esteemed guest, no one offered to guide Einhard. When he spoke to the hunchback gatekeeper, the elderly man simply said, “Ah, looking for the young master? He’s in the office. Go on in,” and waved him through immediately.

Almost all of the castle staff could be described as elderly. The younger folk had been sent either on expeditions to the south or out to work in the fields. The margrave’s sister was one of the few remaining youths, but she was currently staying in another country with the family of her fiancé. Meanwhile, the margrave’s younger brothers were out serving other households.

(This place gets more and more desolate every year.)

Though the centuries-old stone castle was kept reasonably clean, maintenance efforts had clearly fallen by the wayside.

Valmbelk Castle, once known as the most crucial stronghold of border defense, was now just a dilapidated old fortress.

Einhard popped the last piece of potato into his mouth just as he arrived at the margrave’s office. The door was wide open, offering a clear view inside.

There, he found the lord of the castle, Henrik Blanquet the Margrave of Valmbelk, rummaging noisily through a line of wooden crates filled with swords and armor.

“…What the hell are you doing?” Einhard asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? Trying to scrape together some coin.”

Henrik tossed the gear into crates, sorting them into piles of relatively clean pieces and those in need of repair.

Apparently, he planned to sell them for funds.

Henrik, with his dull blond hair and gray eyes, was a tall and lanky man with a rather unreliable air about him. His clothes, while slightly better than the servants’, bore numerous signs of mending and wear.

“Our castle’s supposed to host a delegation from the Kingdom of Ridill in early summer,” Henrik continued. “And their third prince is coming.”

“From our side, it’s Lord Birendahl, Lord Konitz and… General Strauss, right?”

Einhard may be a playboy and a delinquent knight, but he was also the third son of Duke Morgenstein, head to one of the Empire’s Four Great Houses. When it came to political matters, he was far more knowledgeable than the clueless Henrik.

The upcoming meeting between the Empire and the Kingdom of Ridill was aimed at negotiating a special treaty on dragon disaster countermeasures.

Dragon disasters were a common issue plaguing both nations. The core idea of the agreement was to share knowledge on how to deal with dragons and to support each other across the border should a disaster occur nearby.

However, such cross-border cooperation was always easier said than done.

There was always the lingering fear that “sending reinforcements” might be used as the cover for an invasion.

Those who remembered the war from over fifty years ago were especially cautious about such treaties.

“Lord Birendahl’s an old man with ties to the previous emperor,” Einherd said. “Made a name for himself in that war fifty years back and got heavily rewarded for it. Looks down on Ridill, of course. Lord Konitz is just past thirty, I think. You can try talking to him, but I doubt he’ll stand up to Birendahl. General Strauss is a good man. Generous when it comes to supporting promising young talent. He’s the one you’ll want to get on our side.”

“Ugh. If they want to hold a meeting, can’t they just do it somewhere else? Why does it have to be my castle…?”

“Because it’s the cornerstone of border defense, obviously.”

Valmbelk, located on the Empire’s western border, would be Ridill’s first target in the case of an invasion. In fact, it had seen invasion several times in the past.

The Black Lion Emperor likely intended to add political weight to the meeting by holding it at Valmbelk.

Einhard suspected there was also a subtle message being sent—one asking Margrave Valmbelk to serve as a deterrent against Ridill aggression.

In response to Einhard’s explanation, Henrik let out a long sigh as he scrubbed a rusty helmet.

“I know. I know, okay? But still, if we’re hosting foreign royalty, there are way better places to do it. Why does it have to be this crumbling old dump of a castle…?”

Whenever Einhard called the place a crumbling old dump, Henrik always pushed back. But in truth, no one understood just how impoverished Valmbelk was better than Henrik himself.

Einhard decided to rein in his teasing, just a little.

“Don’t you have a bunch of skilled swordsmen here? Can’t you try making money off dragon scales and fangs?”

“That’s easier said than done. If it were earth dragons, sure, but it’s mostly fire dragons around here. If you don’t finish them off fast, the damage gets out of hand.”

Fangs and scales taken from live dragons contained far more mana, making them valuable materials for magical tools. The ones harvested from dead dragons were worth nowhere near as much.

However, they could not simply leave a fire dragon alive next to populated areas. It would wreak havoc before they had the time to harvest its scales.

(Wait a second… ‘If it were earth dragons’? Does that mean you can do it with earth dragons?)

Valmbelk was a rural domain with no mages, and Einhard knew firsthand how difficult hunting a dragon without magic was.

Henrik didn’t seem to notice Einhard’s doubtful gaze. He tossed the polished helmet into a wooden crate and picked up the next one as he continued ranting.

“And on top of that, it’s bad enough when it’s in the mountains, but a dragon killed near town? The cleanup’s a nightmare. You need manpower to move it. That doesn’t come cheap either.”

Henrik paused his polishing, began counting on his fingers as if calculating something, and let out another long sigh.

“Ahh… just how many people are coming with this delegation, anyway…? It’s royalty, so maybe a few dozen? With guards included, could it be in the hundreds? We don’t have nearly enough money for all the guest rooms, meals, and attendants!”

Valmbelk Castle was also designated as a civilian evacuation site in times of emergency. It had a reputation for being sturdy and spacious, but the truth was that there weren’t enough beds or food to meet demand.

To make matters worse, most of the servants were elderly. They were woefully understaffed.

“How the hell are we supposed to entertain foreign royalty…? What if they say they can’t sleep without silk sheets? The only silk we’ve got left is the one we laid under the heirloom sword…”

After saying that, Henrik slowly raised his face and stared at Einhard’s silk shirt.

The eyes of the so-called War Wolf of Valmbelk narrowed sharply, like a wolf spotting its prey.

“Right now, I really, really want to mug you.”

“Making sheets out of a shirt… That’s certainly a bold move. Can’t say I’d think of that.”

“Just take it apart and spread it out. Anything can be a sheet.”

At this rate, the cornered margrave might just skin a dragon, spread it out, and claim, “Here’s your sheet.”

Einhard pulled a document from his coat and waved it in front of Henrik’s face.

“For a savage like you, I bring two gifts. Here’s the first.”

Henrik looked at the flapping paper with annoyance—until he spotted the lion crest stamped on the letter. His expression changed instantly, and he snatched it out of Einhard’s hand.

Einhard shrugged as he explained.

“Seems His Majesty doesn’t want our national dignity questioned while hosting guests from Ridill, so he’s sending you financial aid. Entertain them to your heart’s content.”

Henrik widened his eyes to the limit. He clutched the letter tightly and looked up to the heavens.

“T-Thank goodness… Now I can serve food other than potatoes…”

“They don’t eat much potato over there, after all.”

Potatoes were a staple in the Empire, but in the Kingdom of Ridill, they were considered food for the poor, only eaten in limited regions in the north and east.

For that reason, it was customary to serve bread to guests from Ridill.

There was even a well-known story involving potatoes and a Ridill noble.

Once, there was a very skilled chef from the countryside who did not know that potatoes were frowned upon in Ridill. He ended up serving a potato soup to Felix Arc Ridill, the kingdom’s Second Prince, who was visiting as a guest.

The chef’s employer was horrified.

In a panic, he apologized profusely to Prince Felix. But the prince tasted the soup, smiled, and reassured them in fluent Imperial.

“I’ve heard that creating such a smooth texture in potato soup takes great effort. You are a truly skilled cook. Thank you for your warm and heartfelt hospitality.”

The noble and the chef were deeply moved by his words, and the diplomatic talks that followed unfolded in a friendly, relaxed manner.

But that story involved Second Prince Felix. This time, the guest was Third Prince Albert.

Einhard crossed his arms and thought to himself.

(Prince Albert is, what, sixteen or so? Still young, and probably doesn’t have much diplomatic experience. No telling how he’ll react when he sees this crumbling old castle.)

Einhard wanted to attend the meeting himself and watch the young prince’s reactions—as well as Henrik’s desperate efforts—with an amused grin.

After all, if the Third Prince was coming, there was a good chance his diplomatic secretary, Bridget Greyham, would be accompanying him.

But Einhard had no right to attend this meeting.

The Black Lion Emperor had only tasked him with delivering the official letter. He did not permit him to join the actual talks.

After sighing over how much he wanted to see the beautiful secretary again, Einhard moved on to the second order of business.

“Oh, right. The other gift. I brought some of my sister’s old dresses in the carriage.”

Einhard’s sister was the splitting image of a spendthrift, constantly buying up the latest fashions and stuffing her wardrobe full of them.

So Einhard had picked out a few of the dresses she no longer wore.

“Tailor them a bit for Frieda, so she can take them when she goes for marriage.”

Henrik’s sister Frieda, soon to be wed into the Kingdom of Ridill, was the kind of girl who had sold her own clothes and even her hair just to buy proper swords for her brothers going off to serve.

Showing up to her wedding with a half-empty wardrobe would be disgraceful—so Einhard had thought. Henrik gave a half-exasperated chuckle at the gesture.

“You know, sometimes you’re actually a decent guy.”

Einhard gave a smug scoff and swept his bangs back at the angle that made him look best.

“If you really think so, then spread the word to the women of Valmbelk about how wonderful the Golden Knight Einhard Berger is.”

“You’re plenty popular already. Didn’t you get a potato from Eda in the kitchen?”

“How’d you know that?”

Einhard blinked in surprise, as Henrik tapped the corner of his own mouth.

“There’s a piece of it still on your face, Sir Golden Knight.”

“Ugh.”

When the Second Prince got served a potato soup, his real thoughts were, “What a hearty soup. This is actually pretty good.”

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