The crisp Northern air bit at his face, but Ser Wendell Manderly paid it no mind. He had spent his whole life in the North, and winter's breath was as familiar to him as the taste of salt in White Harbor's winds. Their horses rode at a steady pace, the snow-packed road stretching endlessly before them. Around him, guards in the colors of House Manderly rode in quiet formation, their breath visible in the cold morning light. Beside him, his elder brother, Wylis, sat atop his mount, his expression unreadable as he gazed ahead.
It had been years since Wylis last traveled this road, and so much had changed since then. Wendell glanced at his brother, his mind swirling with the weight of the past. A mere seven years ago, Wylis had been the heir in name but nothing more—a man content with feast tables, tourneys, and soft living. But now? Now he was a man transformed. Wendell still remembered the feast that had started it all, the night White Fire first flowed and Wylis spoke of ships and steel and something greater. It had been the beginning of White Harbor's rise, though none had realized it at the time.
White Harbor was no longer the same city it had been when Wylis first set his mind to changing its fate. The docks had been expanded, and the shipyards thrived. The harbor was now home to the strongest fleet in Westeros, and not by mere numbers alone. Manderly carracks were built stronger, faster, and more resilient than any before them, outmatching both merchant vessels and warships alike. And with them came wealth—wealth that flowed like a river into the city, filling its coffers with gold from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Trade had expanded beyond anything their ancestors had ever imagined. The White Fire distillery, once a simple curiosity, had grown into an empire of its own. It was no longer just vodka—Wylis had introduced whiskey, rum, brandy, and drinks with exotic flavors few had tasted before. Casks of Manderly spirits now traveled from the Riverlands to Dorne, filling the cups of lords and common folk alike. Inns bearing the sigil of House Manderly dotted the kingsroad and the crossroads, serving travelers food and drink richer than any mere wayhouse could offer. Recipes once unknown in the North had become common fare, dishes that had turned even visiting lords into admirers of White Harbor's kitchens.
And yet, it was not only gold and trade that had strengthened their hold. White Harbor's soldiers were no longer just levy men trained in haste before war. Wylis had seen to that. Their new army was disciplined, drilled in a manner that no other Northern force had seen before. They marched in ranks, fought in tight formations, and wielded steel of finer quality than ever before. Their discipline was whispered about, compared even to the Unsullied of Essos—but they were no slaves. They were Northmen, hardened by training, made stronger by the will to protect their home.
Knowledge had flourished under Wylis's quiet guidance, though few outside their family knew the extent of it. He had written books—books that only their family would ever see. How to Kill a Dragon, a careful sequel to the Valyrian work How to Raise a Dragon, was filled with insight few could ever dream of. The histories of castles, of wars, of strategies long forgotten had all been compiled, preserved for future generations of their house alone.
Then there was the matter of dragonglass. The world did not yet know its worth, but Wylis did. White Harbor held a stockpile of it, hidden away in eight warehouses. Not even Wendell knew the full reason why, only that his brother had made certain they had more of it than anyone else in Westeros.
But none of these things weighed upon Wendell's mind as heavily as the Valyrian swords. Wylis had never spoken of that expedition, not truly. He had left for Valyria and returned with two blades of Valyrian steel—but at what cost? He had nearly died there, and though he never told the tale, the scar upon his face was proof enough. If anything, it had only made him more striking, as if fate itself had chosen to carve a mark upon him. But Wendell wondered what else had been left behind in that cursed land, what ghosts haunted his brother still.
They rode in silence for a long time, the shadow of Winterfell growing ever closer on the horizon. As they neared the ancient seat of House Stark, Wendell knew that Wylis had not come merely for duty. He was here to see, to witness with his own eyes if all that he had foretold years ago was true. If Eddard Stark was the same man, if Bran still climbed, if the deserter from the Wall still met his fate beneath the greatsword Ice.
If the game of thrones had already begun.