The early morning mist clung to the docks of White Harbor like the breath of old ghosts, curling around rigging and hulls, softening the clang of hammers and the barked orders of shipwrights into something almost reverent. The scent of salt and tar hung thick in the air, mingling with the bite of iron and smoke from the distant forge district.
Wylis Manderly stood at the edge of the wharf, his eyes sweeping the shipyard with quiet intensity. Men moved with purpose, some laying keels, others inspecting timber or shaping ribs. For weeks now, he'd spoken of plans, drawn up designs, made lists of supplies and labor—but this morning, the first axe struck the first log. Words had become action. Vision was becoming reality.
Behind him, wrapped in a heavy cloak of white fox fur, Lord Wyman Manderly sat in a stout wooden chair beside a brazier. The warmth of it fought back the chill, but not the weight in his eyes as he watched his son.
"A busy morning," Wyman said, the words hanging in the mist like a challenge.
"It needs to be," Wylis replied without turning.
"You always had a fondness for ships," his father said. "But never with such... fire. What's changed?"
Wylis turned at last, his expression calm but resolute. "The world, father. And I aim to meet it with iron in hand."
Wyman studied him in silence, eyes narrowed. He had seen the shift in Wylis these past moons—not just in temperament, but in thought, in vision. It was as if the boy had stepped into a future none of them could see, and now walked backward through time, pulling them all along.
"Then show me," Wyman said at length. "Let me see the shape of this future you're forging."
A New Kind of Warship
They walked down the docks where a group of shipbuilders gathered around a makeshift table. Rolled parchment weighed with stones revealed sketches of strange vessels—hulking silhouettes with deep hulls and tall forecastles, unlike the sleek longships favored by raiders.
"These aren't built for speed," Wyman noted, studying the broad frames. "They'd lose any chase in the Bite."
"They're not meant to chase," Wylis said. "They're meant to carry. To endure. To sail farther, heavier, and return richer."
"Carracks," he continued. "Capable of hauling grain, ore, soldiers, and steel. Strong enough to weather storm or siege. And armed."
Wyman raised a brow. "For war, then."
Wylis didn't blink. "For readiness. Trade gives us wealth. Ships give us reach. But steel on water—that gives us power."
One of the older shipwrights, his beard dusted with frost, cleared his throat. "To build these, we'll need more than tools. We'll need longer slips. More hands. Better wood."
"And coin," Wyman added, his voice heavy.
"An investment," Wylis replied. "One that keeps White Harbor from kneeling when the world begins to burn."
The pause that followed was brief, but heavy.
"And you're certain this fire is coming?" Wyman asked softly.
"I've seen the smoke," Wylis answered. "Now we build the buckets—or the pyres."
Steel and Fire
The forge district had changed. Once a place of scattered smithies and dingy workshops, it now echoed with ambition. Smoke curled from newly built chimneys. Stacks of pig iron lined the alleys. And at the heart of it all, a gleaming structure loomed—White Harbor's first blast furnace.
Wylis passed beneath the arch of blackened stone, nodding to workers as he went. Sparks danced like fireflies in the gloom, and the roar of the furnace was a beast's breath in the bones of the city.
"Strong batch this time," said Master Horwick, the blacksmith in charge—his voice as rough as iron filings. "But we're burning through fuel faster than we expected."
"You'll have what you need," Wylis promised.
Horwick eyed him. "Most lords wouldn't care about slag ratios or coke stacks. But you—"
"I care about what lasts," Wylis said simply, placing his palm against the warm metal frame. "Steel wins wars. And we'll need enough for every man who dares call himself Northern when the sky falls."
Whispers in the Wind
As the forge fires grew hotter and the ship keels stretched longer, the people of White Harbor began to talk.
"Lord Wylis is not the same man."
"He speaks of wars yet to come. Of enemies we've never named."
"He builds as if winter has already come."
"Have you seen that new steel? Gods, it bites like Valyrian."
Wylis heard the whispers, felt their eyes. But he did not shy from them. Let them talk. Let them wonder. Better to stir rumors now than dig graves later.
And in the solar of the New Keep, Lord Wyman Manderly listened to it all.
His son had become a force, swift and unyielding. The boy he'd raised to mind coin and courtesy now spoke in the voice of a general. And yet beneath all of Wylis's certainty, one truth kept him awake at night.
He had spoken of many things—of dragons, of wolves, of winter and fire.
But never once… had he spoken of them.
Of House Manderly.
Of whether they survived.