The sun rose over White Harbor like a forge freshly stoked—gold and orange bleeding across the sky, casting long shadows over the bustling shipyard. The harbor, once quiet in the chill of early spring mornings, now thundered with the rhythm of hammers and saws. Timber groaned under the strain of reshaping, nails rang like bells against fresh-cut beams, and the briny wind carried the smell of tar, sawdust, and salt.
Wylis Manderly stood atop the dockside scaffold, his cloak flapping behind him as he watched the first skeleton of a carrack rise from the slipway. This ship—this design—was unlike any Westeros had ever seen. Larger than a cog, sturdier than a galley. The North's future, laid plank by plank.
"They work with purpose," Odin murmured in his mind. "But purpose needs vision to survive. Remind them why they labor."
He descended the platform, boots echoing on wet wood, and made his way toward a cluster of shipwrights gathered around Lord Wyman. Master Lothor Greaves, grizzled and broad-shouldered from a lifetime of building boats in the cold, was at the center of the group.
"Lothor," Wylis greeted, "how fares the keel?"
Lothor rubbed a splinter from his callused hand, squinting at the rising beams. "A fine beast you're birthing, my lord. But this ain't just a ship. It's a statement. You know that."
Wyman raised an eyebrow. "And one the North will be watching closely. This is no ordinary gamble."
Wylis nodded. "The future doesn't wait for safety. We must lead it."
He knelt, picking up a cut of pine. "This is what we've always used. Easy to shape, but weak. It rots, it splinters, it sinks." He tossed it aside and held up a darker, denser piece. "This—ironwood from the Wolfswood—paired with the steel ribs from our new forges, will give us ships that laugh in the face of southern storms and pirate blades alike."
Lothor's gaze shifted. "And the men? They'll need training."
"They'll get it," Wylis said. "And when the first ship sails, all of Westeros will know that White Harbor doesn't just trade with the world. We shape it."
The Weight of Ambition
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of movement. Drafts were inked, contracts signed, and Wylis spent the evening in his chambers, surrounded by ledgers and shipyard logs. Numbers bled across the parchment—ironwood shipments, forge expenses, labor costs. Ambition, he was learning, came with a heavy purse.
"They cheer for you now," Odin warned, "but coin has a louder voice. And not all voices are friendly."
A knock sounded on his chamber door. One of the household stewards bowed low.
"My lord. A representative of the Ravener Guild is here. He requests a private audience."
Wylis rose slowly. "So it begins," he said aloud.
Clash of Coin
The chamber he entered was modest, but richly appointed—a signal from the Raveners that power could reside in subtlety. Seated at a long oaken table were five men, dressed in soft-spun cloaks and rings heavy with jewels. At their head sat Ser Marence Blayne, a knight turned merchant whose eyes missed nothing.
"You've stirred the harbor," Marence said without preamble. "New ships. New steel. New ideas."
"And new prosperity," Wylis replied. "For all of us."
"Change makes men nervous," said Luthar Myles, another trader, his voice smooth as silk but laced with caution. "White Harbor has always flourished through balance. You risk tipping the scales."
Wylis didn't sit. He stood tall before them. "Balance is for still waters. We're building for storms."
Marence steepled his fingers. "You plan to outbuild the Braavosi? Outtrade the Reach?"
"We don't need to outbuild or outtrade," Wylis said. "Just outlast. Southern wars are coming. The Crown teeters. Winter stirs beyond the Wall. But we—White Harbor—can thrive if we seize this moment."
A beat of silence passed. Then Jorin Hedd, the youngest of the guild, scoffed. "And what do you want from us? Blessings? Coin?"
"I want partnership," Wylis said. "Investment. A stake in what we're building. In return—preferential trade access, reduced tariffs, shipping shares, and a voice on the harbor's future council."
He unrolled a parchment across the table. It was a charter—a proposed alliance between the Manderlys and the guild, binding both to the harbor's destiny.
Luthar leaned forward. "You want to cut the other guilds out."
"I want to bring White Harbor together," Wylis corrected. "But if others resist… we sail without them."
The merchants exchanged glances. Some skeptical. Some intrigued. Marence's fingers tapped the table slowly.
"Bold," he murmured. "Very bold."
"And boldness is what will keep us ahead," Wylis said, turning for the door. "Consider your answer carefully. The tide is changing. Best not to be left ashore."
Storm Warnings
That night, Wylis stood at the harbor wall, watching the moonlight dance on the sea. Odin's voice was a whisper in his mind, like wind threading through a sail.
"They weigh your offer. Some will bend. Others will break. Be ready for both."
Wylis nodded to the night.
Let them come. Rivals, skeptics, traitors or allies—he would meet them all.
The North was waking.
And White Harbor was no longer content to follow.