White Harbor, After the Feast
The scent of roasted meat still lingered beneath the flicker of dying torches. Traces of sweetbread, blood sausage, and salted trout clung to the air, mingling with the sharper bite of spilled ale and the lingering heat of a hall recently alive with laughter.
Now, only murmurs remained—low voices from drunken lords still slouched over empty goblets, trading stories they would forget by morning.
Wylis Manderly sat in silence at the high table, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping rhythmically against the carved wood of his armrest. Across the hall, Ser Barth Whitesmile howled with laughter among a pack of lesser knights, while Maester Theomor, ever reserved, was quietly diluting his wine with water.
The feast was done. White Fire had worked.
They had drunk it with suspicion, then wonder, and finally with greed. Nobles whispered of its strength, merchants of its value, and sailors spoke of how it could burn through the chill of the Shivering Sea.
"They are drunk on more than liquor," Odin whispered in his mind, the old voice ever present, ever calculating. "They taste what you gave them—possibility. Now is the moment to strike the iron."
Wylis sipped slowly, eyes scanning the flickering hall. Yes. Odin was right. The fire had caught. But to build a blaze, one must feed it.
The Gathering
An hour later, when the last guests had staggered to their beds or been carried out by squires, Wylis motioned discreetly to Maester Theomor and Ser Barth.
"Come," he said. "We have work to do."
They wound through the quiet stone corridors of New Castle, passing beneath the old fish-scale arches and past shuttered stained glass. The harbor wind whispered through narrow arrow slits, carrying salt and snow. The sea never slept.
In Wylis's private study, a fire crackled low in the hearth. Tolric, White Harbor's master blacksmith, stood waiting beside a table strewn with parchment and leather-bound ledgers. His soot-blackened hands were crossed behind his back, though his eyes betrayed curiosity.
Theomor entered cautiously. "I assume this isn't another tasting."
"No," Wylis replied, unrolling a series of blueprints across the long oak table. "This is something far more important than spirits."
Tolric stepped forward, brows furrowing as he studied the lines. "This… this isn't a forge," he said slowly.
"No," Wylis said, a spark kindling in his eyes. "It's the future of Northern steel."
Blueprints of Revolution
"This design," Wylis continued, his voice measured, "is a new kind of furnace—one that burns hotter, longer, and cleaner than any hearth you've worked with. It refines ore more precisely, allowing us to produce stronger, purer steel."
Tolric scratched at his beard. "Stronger I can believe. But cheaper? Faster? Steel takes time, my lord—fire, ore, sweat, and patience. You'd need more men. More fuel. And gods help you if it fails mid-smelt."
"Unless," Wylis countered, "we change the process itself."
Maester Theomor adjusted his spectacles. "What you're describing... it borders on alchemy."
"Call it what you like," Wylis said. "But imagine the result: better blades in fewer days. Armor light enough for a rider, strong enough to stop a spear. Ship fittings that won't rot, corrode, or splinter in high seas."
Barth crossed his arms. "All well and good. But who funds this miracle? We've only just begun selling White Fire."
"And White Fire," Wylis replied with a calm smile, "is already turning gold. We'll fund the first batch ourselves. Once Winterfell sees what we've built, they'll pay for the rest."
A beat of silence followed.
Then Theomor exhaled. "If you can deliver what you promise… you'll reshape the North."
Wylis didn't blink. He laid down the final drawing—a furnace with strange, tiered flues and a bellows system unlike any in Westeros.
"I don't plan to prove it," he said. "I plan to build it."
Steel and Sails
Later that same night, beneath the same roof but deeper in the keep, another fire lit another room.
Lord Wyman Manderly sat at the head of the war council chamber, his jovial face now lined with shadow and thought. Wylis stood across from him with a second set of parchments—these newer, broader, and more ambitious than the last.
"These," Lord Wyman muttered, squinting down at the diagrams, "aren't warships."
"No," Wylis replied. "They're something better."
"A carrack," Wyman mused, tapping the deck layout. "High-sided. Deep hold. You've drawn her with six masts."
"More sail. More speed," Wylis said. "And look here—steel ribs. Reinforced plating along the keel. She'll survive storms that crack Braavosi galleys in half. She'll carry twice the cargo of any cog, and still outpace them."
"And you want to build… dozens?" Wyman asked.
"I want to build the North's fleet," Wylis said simply. "Fast enough to trade with Lys. Strong enough to face pirates. And if needed—sharp enough to defend the coast."
Barth, sitting near the hearth, let out a slow whistle. "Winterfell will ask questions. So will the Boltons. Ships like this… they're not for fishing."
"We tell them the truth," Wylis said. "Trade. Growth. Security."
Then, softly, so only Wyman could hear:
"But if war ever comes to our shores… we'll be ready."
Wyman studied his son in silence. Then he leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming the armrest.
"Your ambitions are large, boy," he said at last. "But if you truly believe this is what's needed... you have my blessing."
Odin's Whisper
Much later, as the moon cast pale light over the harbor, Wylis stood at the window of his chamber, watching lanterns bob along the ships below.
"You've convinced them," Odin whispered in his mind, voice like rustling parchment. "Now, you must deliver."
Wylis did not reply.
Instead, he watched the sea—and saw steel ships breaking through southern storms, barrels of White Fire flowing through ports, and Northern steel ringing in forges from Bear Island to the Wall.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then turned from the window.
"Let's begin."