The Great Hall of White Harbor pulsed with life. Banners of House Manderly hung like silk waves above the gathering—silver mermen shimmering in the golden candlelight, dancing to the roar of fire, the clatter of goblets, and the hum of a hundred voices. Roasted salmon from the White Knife, honeyed carrots, and thick cuts of spiced venison filled the long oaken tables, carried by nimble servants weaving through the revelry.
It was the first feast held since Wylis Manderly's return from Castle Black.
Tonight, the highborn of the North—lesser lords, merchant princes, and winter-bound knights—gathered not just to honor old ties but to witness something new. Wylis sat beside his father at the high table, his jaw tight, his pulse quick beneath his doublet. His creation was moments from being revealed.
"You're gripping that goblet like a man about to charge into a shield wall," Wendel said under his breath, licking honey from his thumb as he smirked.
"In some ways, I am," Wylis murmured. "Only the arrows I fear tonight are words."
Lord Wyman Manderly rose, his vast frame commanding silence with a single lift of his jeweled hand. The murmur of the hall dimmed to whispers. His voice rolled across the stone like the tide.
"My lords and honored guests—White Harbor has always stood as the North's gate to the world. Our ships sail farther. Our scribes write more letters. Our coin rings louder in southern markets than any other northern house. Yet still, we trade for the Reach's wines, the Riverlands' ales, the Vale's silver."
He paused. His pale blue eyes scanned the crowd—piercing, calculating.
"But what if the North offered something of its own? Something bold. Something worthy of a Merman's toast."
At his signal, the servants emerged—each bearing a silver tray, upon which sat small, clear goblets. The liquid inside glinted like moonlight on winter snow.
Whispers swept the hall.
"What is this?" muttered Lord Roger Ryswell, his beard bristling with suspicion. "Looks like snowmelt."
"Careful, Lord Ryswell," Wylis called with a half-smile. "That snowmelt might breathe fire."
The goblets were passed down the tables, hesitant hands reaching for glass instead of horn. Some sniffed; others raised brows.
Ser Barthogan Stout—a mountain of a man with a legendary thirst—held his up, eyeing the clarity. "White Fire, they're calling it?"
Wylis stood. "Aye. A spirit stronger than ale, truer than wine. Born of the North. Distilled with purpose. This drink lasts through winters and storm-tossed voyages alike."
Ryswell grunted. "More southern nonsense. What's next? Perfumed water and lemon cakes in Winterfell?"
"Let it burn your throat before you judge," Wylis said smoothly.
Wyman raised his goblet. "To the North's future. To White Harbor. To White Fire."
The hall echoed his toast in fragmented chorus. Then—glasses met lips.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Wylis watched, waiting.
Then the coughing started.
One lord sputtered, clutching his throat. Another let out a surprised bark of laughter. Even Ser Barthogan slammed his cup down with a wheeze.
"Seven bloody hells!" Ryswell roared. "That burns hotter than a wildling's hearth!"
Barthogan coughed once more, then wiped his mouth. "Gods, Manderly, that's not drink. That's a weapon."
Laughter rippled through the hall—nervous at first, then rolling like a thawing river. But slowly, the mood shifted. Men leaned back, tongues running over teeth. Some raised their goblets again. A few asked for more.
"Seven take me," Ser Marlon Locke muttered, licking his lips. "That's got bite. But it warms you like nothing else."
"Aye," came a voice from the Flint of Widow's Watch. "It's like drinking fire... but good fire."
Goblets refilled. The second sips came easier. Smiles bloomed around the room like embers catching in dry wood.
Ryswell, recovering, turned a calculating eye toward Wylis. "You brewed this yourself?"
"I designed it," Wylis said. "But I had help. A good brewmaster and a better smith. It's called distillation—a method of purifying spirits the maesters use for tinctures. We use it now for drink."
"And your goal?" Ryswell asked, no longer sneering.
"To make White Harbor the heart of a new trade," Wylis answered plainly. "Every great house has its pride. The Reach has wine. The Westerlands their gold. The Ironborn have salt. The North? We've had only memory. This changes that."
Wyman Manderly steepled his fingers, studying his son in the flickering light.
"And the price?" he asked.
Wylis smiled faintly. "Fair enough for every hall to afford a bottle. High enough that they'll feel it's worth more."
Ser Barthogan chuckled. "Aye, well, I'll pay good coin if it keeps the chill out on campaign."
"And I'll buy a barrel if it gives me the courage to face my wife after drinking it," Lord Cerwyn said, to laughter.
Wyman raised his hand again, commanding attention.
"We will begin a trial shipment—north to Last Hearth, west to Barrowton, and south to Moat Cailin. Let the other lords taste this fire. Let them know it comes from White Harbor."
Wylis inclined his head, his chest easing for the first time that night. Yet even as the toasts resumed and laughter rose once more, he remained quiet—watching.
This was not just about drink.
This was about influence. About reshaping the North's future not with swords or ravens—but with fire in a bottle.
And it had only just begun.