White Harbor. 296 AC. Mid-Autumn.
The large hearthfire roared with fresh pine logs, crackling and filling the solar with the sweet, earthy scent of resin. Lord Wyman Manderly sat heavy in his oaken chair, his thick fingers drumming softly on the carved arms as he stared across the wide table at his son. Wylis stood there, straight-backed, his face set with the kind of grave intensity his father had rarely seen in him before.
Between them sat a small bottle of White Fire, already opened.
Wylis poured two glasses and passed one to his father. "You're not going to like what I have to say."
Wyman's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Then it's a good thing you've brought strong drink."
They clinked glasses, but neither smiled. They drank in silence for a long moment.
Wyman's gaze lingered on his son. "You've changed since your return, Wylis. More confident. More calculated. But also more burdened. There's something in your eyes I can't quite place. Like you've seen too much."
Wylis sat slowly, the firelight glinting off the edge of his cup. "I have, Father. Things no man should ever see."
Wyman nodded once, slowly. "Then tell me."
Wylis looked into the flames and began.
"I died, Father."
The old lord stilled. His hand froze mid-drink. He didn't laugh. He didn't scoff. He just stared at his son, as though weighing the weight of those words.
"I remember it," Wylis continued. "The cold, the darkness. The sensation of being torn apart. Then, just as clearly, I remember waking up—years earlier. In the past. Before it all went wrong."
Wyman leaned back in his chair. "You expect me to believe this?"
"No. I expect you to listen."
A long silence stretched between them. Then Wyman set his cup down.
"I'm listening."
"It begins in King's Landing," Wylis said. "Eddard Stark is named Hand of the King. King Robert Baratheon rides north to ask it of him himself. Ned accepts, despite his misgivings. That decision will tear the Seven Kingdoms apart."
Wyman's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
Wylis took a breath. "He discovers the truth—that Queen Cersei's children are not Robert's, but Jaime Lannister's. He tries to act honorably. He warns her, gives her a chance to flee before revealing the truth to Robert."
"And she acts first," Wyman said, eyes sharpening.
Wylis nodded. "Robert is killed on a boar hunt—though it was no accident. And once he's dead, Cersei takes the throne in Joffrey's name. Ned tries to rally the City Watch. Littlefinger betrays him."
Wyman swore. "That scheming rat."
"Joffrey has Ned executed," Wylis said. "On the steps of the Great Sept. Before half the city. In front of his daughters."
The Lord of White Harbor clenched his fist. "And the North rises?"
Wylis nodded. "Robb is declared King in the North. The banners are called. He marches south, wins every battle—but not the war."
Wyman's voice turned cold. "How?"
"He's betrayed. At the Twins. The Red Wedding."
Wyman fell silent, processing the horror.
"Robb, Catelyn, his bannermen. All slaughtered under guest right. Walder Frey and Roose Bolton conspire together. Bolton is rewarded with the title Warden of the North."
"Roose Bolton," Wyman spat. "The leech of the Dreadfort."
"And his bastard," Wylis added darkly. "Ramsay Snow. He sacks Winterfell. Burns it. Claims to have killed Bran and Rickon Stark."
The old lord's eyes gleamed like steel. "And he holds the North?"
"He terrorizes it. But yes. For a time. Until Jon Snow unites the wildlings, the Northmen, and the Vale to take it back."
Wyman narrowed his eyes. "Jon Snow? A bastard?"
"He's more than that," Wylis said. "But I'll come back to him. There's more."
"The Iron Throne is contested. Stannis Baratheon claims it by right. He marches on the Wall after the Night's Watch is nearly overrun by wildlings."
"Overrun?"
Wylis nodded. "A king beyond the Wall rises—Mance Rayder. He unites the free folk. Not for conquest. To flee."
"Flee what?"
"The Others."
The words dropped like lead.
"They return, Father. The White Walkers. They raise the dead, turn corpses into soldiers. They are ancient, inhuman, and unstoppable—unless we are prepared."
Wyman's mouth was tight. "Are they real, Wylis? Or are these tales from a fever dream?"
"They're real," Wylis said. "As real as the Wall. As real as dragons."
Wyman's brows rose. "Dragons?"
Wylis nodded. "They return as well. Hatched by Daenerys Targaryen across the Narrow Sea. She frees slaves, topples cities. She has three dragons—and she will return to claim the Iron Throne."
Wyman stared at him, stunned. "So the old blood rises again. Fire and ice. Gods help us."
"She is not the threat we should fear most," Wylis continued. "The Night King leads the Others. He breaches the Wall. He marches south. He cannot be reasoned with. Only fire and dragonglass can stop them."
"And Jon Snow?" Wyman asked. "How does he factor into this?"
"He leads the Night's Watch. He sees the threat clearly. He's murdered by his own brothers for daring to ally with the wildlings—but brought back to life by a red priestess."
Wyman blinked. "Brought back?"
Wylis nodded. "Jon rallies the North. Defeats Ramsay. Takes back Winterfell. Then marches to meet Daenerys. They join forces. Fight the Night King."
The Lord of White Harbor sat back heavily. "And who wins?"
"No one," Wylis said. "The cost is too great. Cities burn. Kings fall. Winter stretches on. And in the end, Bran Stark—crippled, strange, touched by magic—sits the Iron Throne."
Wyman was quiet for a long time. Then he muttered, "Seven save us."
After a long silence, Wyman finally met his son's eyes. "If I believe even half of this... we're staring down the end of the world."
"We are," Wylis said. "But we don't have to meet it unprepared."
Wyman leaned forward. "Then what must we do?"
"We ready the North. Quietly. Steadily. Build the fleet. Stockpile food and dragonglass. Forge steel. Rally the banners when the time comes. And we do not kneel. Not to Freys. Not to Boltons. Not to Lannisters."
Wyman's jaw tightened. "And if the Starks fall?"
Wylis looked straight at him. "Then we remember who we are. We remember the old ways. We remember the Long Night—and how it ended last time."
Wyman Manderly said nothing for a long while. Then, slowly, he stood, joints cracking, and raised his glass.
"To the North," he said.
Wylis clinked his own against it. "To the future."