WENDEL
The ship came in under cloud.
No fanfare. No trumpet. Just that stillness that came before a storm—though the seas were calm.
Wendel Manderly stood at the harbor's edge, cloak pulled tight against the morning wind. The vessel gliding toward the pier was unlike anything docked here before. Long, sleek, with deep green sails trimmed in gold. Its hull bore carvings too fine to be mere decoration—etched with history, not vanity.
A pale phoenix surrounded by seven golden stars rippled from a slender mast. It wasn't a banner meant to challenge—it was one meant to be remembered.
He turned to the guards behind him. "Hold your place. Helmets off."
This wasn't a display. It was a reception.
The ship docked in silence. Ropes thrown. Gangplank lowered. Then he saw him.
Robb Stark.
Taller. Broader. The boy had gone south with his father's bearing and a wolf's spirit. What returned now was quiet. Measured. Not dulled—but edged. Scarless, yet sharpened.
He stepped onto the dock like someone who no longer asked for home—just claimed it.
Then came the woman beside him.
She moved like water made flesh. Her robes were pale stone-gray, layered and belted with fine dark cord. Her sleeves parted with the wind, revealing cuffs embroidered in silver thread that shimmered—not from gloss, but from precision. Her hair was bound high in a clasp of pearl and silver. A belt-hook shaped like a crescent moon gleamed at her waist. She wore jewelry, yes—but nothing loud. Finery meant to be noticed, not admired.
She stepped down without hesitation, head high, her steps as smooth as a falling leaf.
Wendel stepped forward, bowing—not low, but respectfully. "Welcome to White Harbor Princess."
He did not call her Lady. He'd been warned.
Ruyan of Yi Ti inclined her head—not deep, but exact. A small smile curved her lips, formal and precise. "We are received."
Her Westerosi was flawless. Crisp. Barely accented. She did not look at him twice.
Robb nodded to Wendel, once. "You have our thanks. Lord Wyman remains at White Knife?"
"He does. He's readied chambers and a quiet table."
"Good," Robb said. "Our people are tired. They'll rest better under stone."
As they mounted horses—Ruyan with no help, her stirrups adjusted for Northern tack—Wendel fell into step beside the front rank.
White Harbor had turned out to watch. No cheers, but eyes in every window. The people knew something had changed. The northern heir returned—but with silence at his side.
Wendel noticed how Ruyan's guards rode five paces behind her—not in defense, but as if obeying law. Their armor was foreign, but nothing flashy. Disciplined. Quiet. Like her.
A girl darted out of a bakery doorway as they passed.
Wylla.
Barefoot. Breathless. She stared wide-eyed at the woman on the gray gelding.
Ruyan turned her head at the stir of motion. Her gaze found the girl. For a breath, she regarded her. Then—
A smile. Small. Polite. As brief as the shift of wind through silk.
It vanished before the girl could return it. But it had been offered.
Not warmth. Recognition.
They rode on toward White Knife Castle. The sun barely crested the sky.
But the harbor already felt colder.
WYNAFRYD
They dined in the stone hall of White Knife Castle — not large by southern standards, but proud enough for their bannered guests.
The fire burned high, throwing golden light across silver platters and polished antler cups. There was music, but subdued. The stewards had made certain of that. No dancers. No singers. Just harp and pipe. Something foreign, something calm.
Wynafryd Manderly sat between her sister and her aunt, three seats removed from their guests of honor. She watched, as she'd been taught to do since she was old enough to sit at her father's council table. And she listened — not only to the words, but to what wasn't said.
Robb Stark did not eat quickly. He did not drink much.
He spoke when spoken to, but offered little. The wolf lord had returned with silence under his tongue, and iron in his shoulders.
Beside him sat Ruyan of Yi Ti.
Wynafryd had seen portraits of foreign princesses. They were always pale, thin, draped in gold or peacock feathers. Ruyan was none of those things.
She was... still.
Still like a blade laid flat on stone.
Her features were fine — high cheekbones, a narrow chin — but her expression was unreadable. Her gown was the same soft gray as at the docks, though here it gleamed faintly under the torchlight. Pearls wound through her hair, and her sleeves moved when she lifted her chopsticks like veils of mist.
Some might have called her beautiful. Wynafryd did.
But not in the way her Septa had spoken of beauty.
It was not softness, or gentleness, or ease.
It was discipline, composure, distance wrapped in silk.
They'd all heard the stories — how she'd married the wolf in the East, how she'd once spoken to their maester about curing childbed fever, how her people drank hot broth and wrote letters with three alphabets.
Wynafryd didn't believe half of them. But she watched the woman across the table and thought, This is not a wife. This is a power.
She excused herself halfway through the venison and approached politely during the serving of honeyed plums.
Ruyan looked up before she'd spoken — as if she already knew she was coming.
"Princess," Wynafryd said with a practiced dip of her chin.
The woman smiled — that same quiet, polite smile she'd worn since disembarking. "Wynafryd Manderly."
"You have an ear for names," she replied, not falsely pleased. "I hope White Harbor has been gentle with your people so far."
"More than gentle. Efficient. Respectful."
That accent again. Fine. Exact. Like each word had been weighed before being allowed out of her mouth.
Wynafryd gestured lightly toward the hall. "You've seen only a part of it. I would be honored to show you more during your stay."
"Thank you," Ruyan said. "I will accept."
No more. No less.
They stood quietly for a beat, as the pipe music wound a strange pattern behind them.
Wynafryd tilted her head slightly. "May I ask... do you ever tire of being watched?"
Ruyan's eyes met hers. Dark, unreadable.
"No," she said simply. "Only of being misunderstood."
Wynafryd blinked. Then smiled, genuine this time.
They parted with a nod.
She returned to her seat and let the honeyed plum cool in her mouth, and thought:
There's a new queen in the North. And she wears silence like armor.
White Knife Castle — Manderly Family Solar
The snow had softened White Harbor's streets to a hush. From the upper windows of White Knife Castle, the city below looked smaller now — orderly, quiet, but pulsing with new rhythms.
In the warmth of the solar, the Manderlys gathered for a rare private hour. Wyman sat nearest the hearth, his cup of spiced wine cradled loosely in one hand. Wendel leaned against the stone archway, gloves tucked into his belt. Wynafryd and Wylla shared a cushioned bench under the tall window, one reading from a ledger, the other peeling a winter pear with her thumb.
"It's not just that they're quiet," Wendel said, "it's how efficient they are. I thought there'd be confusion. Miscommunication. But they knew where they were meant to be. Their officers, their stewards, even the cooks—no waiting for orders."
"They learned our roads faster than most squires," Wynafryd added. "And they rarely ask for correction."
"Because most of them speak the common tongue," Wylla said, swinging her feet. "Master Wei told me they started learning it before they even left Yi Ti. Some of them had already studied it years ago."
Wyman arched a brow. "Did he?"
Wynafryd nodded. "Apparently, once the alliance was formalized, language tutors were assigned. Especially for anyone who'd hold a position in the harbor or keep."
Wendel chuckled. "Even their butlers are educated."
"Robb advised it," Wynafryd said. "He knew most of their people would remain in White Harbor. Better integration makes for quieter alliances."
"Ruyan agreed to fund two language instructors," Wylla said. "They'll rotate—one for the harbor, one for castle staff. And they're offering Yi Tish instruction to any local who wants it."
"Trade languages," Wyman muttered. "That's how it begins. Not with soldiers. With ledgers."
"They're not merchants," Wynafryd said quietly. "Not just. They brought scholars, herbalists, civil planners. One of them reorganized the port taxes in three days."
Wyman didn't answer, but he smiled faintly behind his cup.
They sat for a moment in the fire's rhythm. Distant laughter echoed from the eastern wing.
Then Wylla spoke.
"She watches me."
All three looked toward her.
"The princess," Wylla said, not shy. "She watches me. At dinner. In the courtyard. Once in the library when I was tracing the shipping logs."
Wynafryd blinked. "You're sure?"
"She doesn't stare. But she notices. And... she doesn't turn away."
Wendel exhaled through his nose. "You ask too many questions. She's curious why a Northern girl cares about imperial cargo."
Wyman set his cup aside.
"Or," he said, "she's measuring."
Wylla frowned. "Measuring what?"
Wynafryd glanced toward her grandfather. "You think it's serious?"
"I think," Wyman said, "that she's not the type to waste attention. If she's noticed you, there's a reason."
He turned toward Wylla, gaze thoughtful.
"She's a foreign princess with no ties beyond her husband. But alliances don't stop with marriage. She might be considering what ties come next."
Wylla blinked. "A match?"
"Possibly," Wynafryd murmured.
"With who?" Wylla asked. "The boy steward?"
Wendel straightened slightly. "Junren. He manages their ledgers. Handles payroll. Keeps pace with Master Wei."
"He's... quiet," Wylla said, wrinkling her nose.
"The princess's people value quiet," Wynafryd replied. "Quiet means precision."
Wylla was silent for a beat. Then she looked toward her grandfather.
"You'd approve?"
"I'd prepare," Wyman said. "Approval comes later."
Wyman leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching on the curve of his cup. "In trade, in politics, and in marriage—it's not the loud ones you watch. It's the quiet ones who change the course of ships."
The snow outside thickened. And in the stillness of the solar, no one spoke, but all of them listened.