Author's Note:
Hey guys, sorry for the week split between chapters. I had planned to write one up Saturday, but it just so happens that morning I was busy getting my heart broken by the girl I loved, so forgive me for not feeling up to writing lol.
[The North, White Harbor, 11th moon, 298 AC]
The docks of White Harbor never truly slept.
Even in the early hours before dawn, the city breathed. Lanterns burned along the long wharves, their light reflecting off black water that rolled gently against the pilings. Sailors hauled rope and timber, carts rattled over the stone streets, and the distant cries of gulls carried over the cold wind blowing in from the Bite.
Lord Wyman Manderly watched it all from the high window of his solar in the New Castle.
The sea lay gray and endless beyond the harbor mouth, a dull horizon beneath a sky heavy with clouds. It had been threatening snow for two days now, though the flakes had not yet begun to fall.
They would come soon enough.
Winter was almost a constant in the north.
Wyman rested one thick hand on the stone sill as he looked out across the water. The chill of the stone seeped slowly into his palm.
Below him, the harbor bustled with activity far earlier than it usually did in the late months. Shipwrights moved along the piers with tools slung over their shoulders. Dockworkers loaded crates and barrels onto vessels that should not yet have been preparing for winter voyages.
A steward had complained about that just yesterday.
"My lord," the man had said carefully, "it is rather unusual at this time of year to be recalling ships and provisioning them so heavily."
Wyman had only smiled then, a slow and patient smile beneath his heavy beard.
Early perhaps.
But necessary.
He turned from the window and crossed the solar with slow, deliberate steps. The room smelled faintly of parchment and candlewax. A long table dominated the center of the chamber, cluttered with scrolls, account ledgers, and wax-sealed letters from half the North.
At the far end of the table lay a single folded parchment, its seal long since broken.
Wyman picked it up again.
He had read the letter a dozen times already.
Yet still he found his eyes drawn back to the words.
The writing was neat and steady, though not the hand he might once have expected.
It had not come from Lord Alaric Stark.
It had come from his lady-wife, Lady Alys Stark.
The letter was brief.
Very brief.
Lord Manderly,
I ask only that you make quiet preparations in the coming weeks. My husband fears that our house may soon require the strength of the North. I trust your wisdom in such matters, and your discretion.
Speak of this only to those you deem necessary.
— Alys Stark, Lady of Winterfell
Wyman lowered the parchment slowly.
It had arrived nearly a month ago.
At the time, he had sat at this very table, reading the letter while the fire crackled softly in the hearth and the northern winds rattled the shutters.
He remembered the exact thought that had crossed his mind then.
If the wolves whisper, wise men listen.
The Starks did not make idle requests.
Not quietly.
Not like this.
He had known Alaric Stark since the boy had first come north as lord, following the rebellion, tall and watchful even then, his gray eyes taking in more than he ever said aloud.
And he knew something else as well.
Alaric Stark was not a man prone to fear.
If the Lord of Winterfell believed the North might soon need its strength, then something in the south had already begun to stir.
Wyman had not questioned the request.
He had acted.
Quietly, always quietly.
He moved back toward the window again, his heavy boots echoing faintly on the stone floor.
Below him, two dockworkers struggled to maneuver a crate onto a waiting ship. One slipped briefly on the wet planks before regaining his footing.
The ship itself was a broad-bellied trading vessel that normally would have been bound for Gulltown or perhaps the ports of Braavos.
Instead, it had been recalled to White Harbor three days ago.
So had several others.
A few of Wyman's stewards had raised their eyebrows at that.
More than a few.
"Trade with the Free Cities has been good this year, my lord," one of them had ventured. "Perhaps we should allow the ships to finish their routes before—"
Wyman had waved a hand then, ending the conversation.
Trade could wait.
Preparation could not.
He had ordered the ships recalled.
Not all of them, of course. That might have drawn too much attention.
But enough.
Enough that White Harbor now possessed more vessels within its walls than it had in years.
He had also ordered the granaries inspected, the city's stores counted, and the shipyards set to work repairing hulls that might otherwise have waited until spring.
All small things.
All reasonable things.
Yet taken together, they had begun to change the rhythm of the harbor.
The city was preparing for something.
Though most did not yet know it.
Wyman rested his hands on the stone sill again.
The wind carried the smell of salt and fish up from the docks.
Below, scores of armored guards crossed the courtyard of the New Castle, their cloaks snapping softly in the breeze.
The North had known war before.
He remembered it well.
During Robert's Rebellion, he had been younger, though not by much. The banners had been called quickly then, riders flying across the land with word of battles and treachery.
The realm had burned faster than most men realized.
War was like that.
It crept quietly at first.
Then suddenly it was everywhere.
Wyman turned away from the window once more.
His solar door opened just then, and a servant entered carrying a tray with a steaming pot and a pair of cups.
"My lord," the man said, bowing slightly as he set the tray down.
"Ah," Wyman said pleasantly. "Tea, excellent."
Oh, how he loved his tea, a wondrous concoction whose origins lay east in the great golden lands of Yi Ti.
He lowered himself carefully into the heavy chair beside the table, the wood creaking softly beneath his considerable weight.
The servant poured the tea and withdrew quietly.
Wyman took a slow sip.
Hot, yet splendidly good.
His eyes drifted again toward the parchment lying on the table.
Lady Alys had been careful with her words.
Very careful.
She had not said why the North might soon need its strength.
She had not mentioned the crown, or the south, or any specific danger.
Yet the meaning had been clear enough.
Prepare.
And do so quietly.
Wyman admired that.
Many lords would have sent a dozen ravens and shouted their fears to every bannerman in the land.
Alys Stark had done the opposite.
She had trusted the North to understand.
He set the cup down slowly.
In the weeks since receiving that letter, other small signs had begun to appear.
Nothing dramatic or that would alarm the realm, but Wyman had noticed.
He noticed most things.
A few days ago, riders from Karhold had passed through White Harbor on their way south.
More men than usual.
They had not lingered.
Not long after that, a shipment of grain requested by Oldcastle had arrived earlier than expected.
Then yesterday, a small group of Umber men had passed the city gates, heading toward the king's road.
All ordinary things.
All easily explained.
Yet when placed beside the letter from Winterfell, they began to form a pattern.
The North was stirring.
Quietly.
Exactly as Lady Alys had asked.
Wyman smiled faintly to himself.
The wolves had long memories.
And loyal friends.
A sudden knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Enter," Wyman called.
The door opened quickly this time, and a man in a sea-stained cloak stepped inside. The guard captain recognized Wyman immediately and bowed stiffly.
"My lord."
"Yes?" Wyman said.
The man hesitated for half a heartbeat, catching his breath.
"We've had word from the coast, my lord."
Wyman raised an eyebrow.
"From the coast?"
"A rider from Oldcastle arrived not long ago."
Wyman leaned forward slightly.
"And what news does Oldcastle bring?"
The captain shifted his weight.
"Ships, my lord."
Wyman's expression did not change.
"What sort of ships?"
The man swallowed.
"Direwolf banners."
For a moment, the chamber was very still.
Outside, a gull cried over the harbor.
Wyman rose slowly from his chair.
"Direwolves," he repeated quietly.
"Aye, my lord."
"How many?"
"Several," the captain said. "Though the rider says their sails and hulls appear damaged, signs of battle, he says."
Wyman's gaze drifted toward the window again.
The gray sea stretched far beyond the harbor mouth.
So, the wolves were returning. And they had come through battle.
He folded the letter from Lady Alys carefully and slipped it back onto the table.
"What distance?" he asked.
"They were spotted off the coast near Oldcastle, my lord."
Wyman nodded once.
Oldcastle was not far.
Not far at all.
The wind off the Bite carried a cold edge now, sharp and biting.
Winter had come sooner than many expected.
And it seemed the wolves had brought it with them.
"Very good," Wyman said calmly.
"Have the harbor watch doubled."
The captain bowed.
"At once, my lord."
When the man left the room, Wyman Manderly walked slowly back toward the window.
Far beyond the city walls, beyond the harbor mouth and the gray waters of the Bite, the Stark fleet was coming home.
[The Next day, overlooking the Harbor]
Far beyond the city walls, beyond the harbor mouth and the gray waters of the Bite, the Stark fleet was coming home.
Wyman stood there a long while, watching the horizon, though there was nothing yet to see.
Direwolf banners, damaged sails, and worst yet, signs of battle.
The words turned slowly in his mind like stones in deep water.
Stark ships did not limp home from the south without reason.
He exhaled slowly through his beard and turned from the window.
The room suddenly felt smaller than it had moments before.
War had begun this way once before, he remembered. Quietly, with whispers and riders and half-understood rumors drifting north from the courts of the south.
And always, sooner or later, the wolves were drawn into it.
Wyman crossed the chamber and rang the small silver bell resting beside the hearth.
A moment later, the door opened, and a steward entered, bowing low.
"My lord?"
"Send for the rookery keeper," Wyman said. "And bring parchment. Several sheets."
"At once, my lord."
The steward departed quickly.
Wyman moved back to the great table and rested both hands upon its surface, studying the maps spread across it. The North lay there in ink and parchment, vast, cold, and ancient.
From the lonely towers of Karhold in the east to the windswept hills of the Rills in the west.
From the forests of Deepwood Motte to the cold stone of Winterfell itself.
His house had not always belonged among those lands.
That memory came easily to him.
Once, long ago, House Manderly had ruled far to the south in the green fields of the Reach. Rich lands, fertile rivers, warm winds blowing off the Mander River.
Until enemies had driven them out.
Exiled.
Cast north with nothing but what ships they could gather.
It had been the Starks of Winterfell who gave them refuge.
The wolves had granted them land along the White Knife and allowed them to build a city where none had stood before.
White Harbor existed because the Starks had allowed it.
Because the wolves had opened their gates when the south had closed theirs.
That was not a debt a Manderly forgot.
The door opened again, and the steward returned with a Maester who manned the rookery, an elderly man with ink-stained fingers and a permanent stoop from years spent among cages and ladders.
"My lord," the old man said, bowing stiffly.
Wyman gestured toward the table.
"Sit. There will be letters to send."
The aging Maester lowered himself carefully into the chair and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him. His quill scratched softly as he prepared to write.
"To Karhold first," Wyman said.
The man dipped his quill.
Wyman chose his words carefully.
"Write this, Lord Stark returns from the south. White Harbor prepares to receive him. I advise that you do the same."
The rookery keeper wrote quickly.
"Seal it for Lord Karstark."
"Yes, my lord."
Wyman tapped one thick finger against the table as he thought.
"The Umbers next."
Another sheet of parchment slid forward.
"The wolves return north by sea. Riders from Last Hearth would not be unwelcome in White Harbor in the coming days."
The quill scratched again.
"Then House Hornwood. House Cerwyn. The Tallharts as well."
Each message was brief.
Careful.
None spoke of war.
Not yet.
But any lord worth his salt would understand the meaning between the lines.
Wyman watched the letters take shape one by one.
The North had always been slow to anger, but when roused, it moved with a weight few in the South truly understood.
And if the wolves had come home wounded…
Well.
The North remembered its friends.
And its enemies.
Imagery of the Hungry Wolf began to play through his mind as he gazed outside.
Outside the window, the wind had begun to rise, rattling faintly against the shutters.
Somewhere beyond the gray horizon, battered ships were sailing through cold waters toward the safety of northern shores.
Toward White Harbor.
Wyman folded his hands across the table and looked once more toward the darkening sky beyond the window.
"The wolves are coming home," he murmured quietly.
"And the North must be ready when they arrive."