The kitchens of New Castle roared with life—an organized tempest of clanging pots, barking orders, and the ever-present blaze of open flames. The scent of roasting boar mingled with fresh bread and the sharp tang of smoke, thick in the air and clinging to every surface like a second skin.
Wylis moved through the stone corridors with the purposeful stride of a man chasing vision through fog. His eyes drifted past shelves lined with earthen jugs and barrels swelling with ale and mead—familiar, comforting, and entirely insufficient.
"Analysis," he muttered under his breath. "Current stock: low-proof. Inefficient. Opportunity: immense."
In truth, the beverages of Westeros were stagnant. Mead, thick and sickly sweet, spoiled quickly. Ale turned sour if left too long. And wine—while respectable—was a trade long cornered by the Arbor and the Reach. There was no breaking that hold.
But no one—no one—had mastered spirits.
Not truly.
Not yet.
Wylis found Boro, the old brewmaster of New Castle, bent over a fresh cask. His arms were thick with years of labor, and his beard smelled of barley and smoke. He looked up, grunting as he spotted Wylis.
"My lord?"
"I have a question, Boro," Wylis began. "How do you make the strongest drink possible?"
The brewmaster chuckled, wiping his hands on his flour-stained apron. "You add more honey, let it sit, and pray the gods don't curse the batch."
Wylis smiled but shook his head. "Stronger than that. Something that burns when it hits the tongue. Something that doesn't spoil. Have you heard of distillation?"
Boro's brow furrowed. "Maesters use it for ointments. Alchemists, too—though their concoctions smell like death. You're not talking about something to drink, are you?"
"I am," Wylis said. "And when we succeed, White Harbor will have something no other city in Westeros can claim."
Boro scratched his beard. "You'll need a still. Copper, coiled piping, a collecting jar. And a good bit of luck."
Wylis grinned. "Then it's time to find a smith."
Weeks Later…
The first challenge was secrecy. Wylis claimed the still was for an 'academic experiment' tied to the maesters. No lord would willingly drink something brewed by alchemical means. Appearances mattered.
The coppersmith shaped the vessel according to Wylis's design—part borrowed from Oldtown manuscripts, part intuition. A broad pot for boiling, a serpentine coil for condensing, and glassware for catching the end result: fire in liquid form.
Then came the brews. Barley, wheat, potatoes—anything that could ferment. They ruined more than a few batches. One exploded. Another reeked like old cabbage. Still, Wylis kept refining the process, with Boro's grumbling assistance and Odin's quiet calculations beside him.
The first successful distillation tasted like smoke and pain. The second nearly blinded a taster. But the third—ah, the third was something else.
When Boro took a cautious sip, his eyes widened. He coughed once, then smiled with the weariness of a man who'd seen something new under the sun.
"Seven hells," he murmured. "That's not drink. That's White Fire."
Wylis nodded. "Now let's make history."
The First Toast
The Great Hall of White Harbor glowed with firelight. Roasted fish and root vegetables lined the long tables, and laughter rolled beneath the carved beams. At the high table sat Lord Wyman Manderly, flanked by his sons. His meal was already a feast—a roast duck here, sweetrolls there.
Wylis entered with a small wooden tray, modest and unadorned. On it stood a glass bottle, clear and plain, no sigil or seal—just a faint shimmer of the liquid within.
Wyman's eyes narrowed. "What is this?"
"A drink, Father," Wylis said, setting the bottle down with care. "Something new. A creation that could change White Harbor's fortunes."
"I've no desire to dabble in Arbor Gold imitations," Wyman replied, skeptical.
"This is not wine," Wylis said. "It's stronger. Sharper. Cleaner."
Wendel, ever the curious younger brother, leaned in, his fingers still sticky from honeycakes. "Stronger than ale?"
"Much."
Wyman did not touch the bottle. "And how did you make it?"
Wylis met his father's gaze. "Through distillation. It removes water, leaves only the spirit. It burns, yes—but it lasts. It's pure."
"Pour it," Wyman said simply.
Wylis uncorked the bottle. The scent—sharp, clean, fiery—wafted outward. Knights nearby paused mid-bite. He poured a careful measure into a goblet and offered it to Wyman.
The old lord lifted it, swirling the liquid, watching how it caught the candlelight like molten crystal. He drank.
A pause. A slow exhale. Then, the barest nod of approval. "Smooth. And it carries heat."
Wendel snatched the cup before another word could be spoken, gulped a mouthful, and nearly choked. "Seven bloody hells! That burns like dragonfire!"
"Hence the name," Wylis said. "White Fire."
Wyman set the goblet down and studied his son. "And you intend to sell this?"
"To the highest bidders. To noble tables, to distant ports, to those who tire of watered ale and sour wine. No one else has this."
Wyman was silent for a long moment. Then: "Convince me. Why should I invest in this fire?"
The Test
Wylis had prepared for this.
"White Fire isn't just strong—it's profitable," he said. "A single barrel of ale sells for silver. This—this can be sold in smaller quantities, at higher prices. One cask yields far more drink."
Wyman didn't blink, but his fingers tapped against the table.
"Second," Wylis continued, "it keeps. Mead spoils. Wine turns. This? This can sit on a ship for years without losing strength."
Now his father leaned forward, interested.
"And third—prestige. Nobles crave what is rare. We release it slowly. Selectively. White Harbor becomes the only source of a drink that kings and lords demand."
Wyman studied him. "You speak like a merchant."
"A lord who doesn't understand trade is a poor lord."
The hall had quieted. Even the household knights listened.
Finally, Wyman exhaled. "You have vision, Wylis. We'll serve this at the next feast. Let the lords and knights taste it. If they approve, we proceed."
It wasn't a triumph. But it was momentum.
Wylis bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."
As he turned, Wyman called out, "If this fails, the coin comes from your coffers—not mine."
Wylis smiled without turning. "Then I suppose it won't fail."