The hearthfire in Lord Wyman Manderly's solar cast long shadows across the stone floor, painting flickering patterns on old tapestries. It was well past midnight, yet the old lord remained awake, gazing thoughtfully at the man across from him—his son, Wylis.
Three moons had passed since Wylis returned from his journey south, and in that time, White Harbor had changed. The skyline bristled with ship masts and forges belched black smoke. But more than the city, Wyman's son had changed. Gone was the cautious, bookish heir. In his place sat a man sharpened by purpose.
"You've built much in these weeks," Wyman said at last, voice low and tired. "Ships, furnaces, distilleries. But not once have you said what this is for."
Wylis offered a faint smile. "I have, Father. White Harbor must rise."
"To what end?" Wyman's tone held no anger, only weariness. "We are already the North's greatest port."
"A city is not the same as a power," Wylis replied. "Not yet."
Wyman narrowed his eyes. "Then speak plainly. What is it you're building toward?"
Wylis leaned forward, voice steady. "Three pillars: ships, steel, and alliances. With them, White Harbor becomes more than a trade city—it becomes the foundation of the North's future."
Ships
"The carracks," Wyman said, folding his hands. "Your so-called next generation."
"They are more than ships," Wylis replied. "They are a message. Faster, stronger, built for war and trade alike. When the Ironborn come again—and they will—we'll be ready."
Wyman frowned. "Balon Greyjoy is leashed. He'd be mad to rise again."
"He is mad," Wylis said. "And prideful. He'll crown himself king and set the seas ablaze. Lannisport will burn. The Reach will bleed. And if we are not ready, the North will suffer."
Wyman sighed. "And your answer is a fleet of warships?"
"A fleet of warriors," Wylis corrected. "Sailors trained in combat. Ships that can outfight and outrun anything on the western coast. The Ironborn raid because they know we cannot match them at sea. That ends now."
The old lord's eyes lingered on the fire. "You speak like a commander, not a son of White Harbor."
"I speak as a Manderly," Wylis said. "And we were kings once."
Steel
"And the forges?" Wyman asked. "I've seen the black smoke. Heard the complaints."
"They are the heart of our future," Wylis answered. "Blast furnaces give us stronger steel in greater volume. Not just swords and armor—we'll sell to every lord in the North. We will supply them, arm them. And when war comes, they'll remember who gave them strength."
Wyman's brow furrowed. "The Starks will not like this."
"They won't fear us if we strengthen them," Wylis said. "We don't rise above the North—we rise with it."
"Still," Wyman warned, "you play a dangerous game."
"It's the only kind worth playing."
Alliances
Wyman steepled his fingers. "You also speak of alliances. Beyond the North?"
"Yes," Wylis said. "The War of the Five Kings is coming. Westeros will fracture. If we act now, we can place White Harbor at the center of a new Northern order—one not reliant on southern crowns."
"You mean to break with the Starks?" Wyman asked sharply.
"No," Wylis said firmly. "We strengthen them. But we also prepare for what comes after. The Riverlands, the Vale, even the Stormlands—all will be drawn into the storm. We choose allies wisely. Quietly."
"And if someone sees your hand before you're ready?"
Wylis smirked. "Then we haven't played well enough."
The Council
News spread quickly in the North. Word of ships, smoke, and steel reached other lords, and soon enough, they came seeking answers. Wylis stood at his father's side in the great chamber of White Harbor, facing Lord Torrhen Flint and Lord Jory Locke.
"Your ships are more than just merchant vessels," Flint said. "Your steel more than for personal defense. What is it you seek, Lord Wylis?"
"Preparation," Wylis answered. "For a future that is already coming."
"And you know this future?" Locke asked skeptically.
"I've studied enough to see what others ignore. Balon Greyjoy will rise. Winterfell will fall. The Riverlands will burn. The Lannisters will sit the throne, and a dragon will rise in the East. If we are not ready, we will be consumed."
"And you would lead the North through this?" Flint asked.
"No," Wylis said. "The Starks will lead. But we will make sure they have the strength to survive."
Dissent in the City
Not all shared Wylis's vision.
One evening, Maester Theomore brought news over supper. "There are murmurs," he said. "Merchants, guildmasters. They say you risk too much. That you build for war when the city needs trade."
"They fear change," Wylis said, brushing crumbs from his fingers. "But they will adapt—or be left behind."
Wyman looked over. "Be careful, my son. The power behind a throne often draws more enemies than the one who sits upon it."
A City's Foundation
Wylis met the merchants in White Harbor's hall, the stone pillars rising high above them. Jareth, a shipwright of some renown, spoke for the rest.
"We do not oppose your vision, my lord. But this city was built on trade, not war."
"And trade will flourish," Wylis promised. "But it must be defended. What happens when the Ironborn strike? Or when the South burns again in civil war? Will your caravans and ships survive that?"
Silence followed.
"We are not abandoning trade. We are protecting it—fortifying it. White Harbor will not just be a port. It will be the shield of the North."
Jareth finally nodded. "Then we will follow your lead. But do not forget—we are builders, not conquerors."
Wylis nodded. "And I will ensure you remain prosperous. But House Manderly leads."
The Storm to Come
Later that night, Wylis sat with Odin in his chambers, the harbor lights glinting in the window.
"Lord Stark," Odin said quietly. "Will you warn him?"
Wylis stared out at the sea. "Soon. But not yet."
"And if you're too late?"
"Then I've failed."
Odin said nothing more. The answer had already been given.
The first of the new carracks, White Gull, glided across the harbor, her pale sails catching the breeze. On her prow, the silver merman of House Manderly gleamed bright under the sun. She was the future—part warship, part merchant vessel, wholly Northern.
Wylis stood on the docks, watching the ship make her turn, wind singing through the rigging.
White Harbor was changing. And when the storm came—as it must—it would not be caught unready.
Not this time.