The crowd's roar mingled with the cries of gulls wheeling above the harbor, the scent of salt and tar sharp in Wynafryd's nose. She felt the familiar tightening of anticipation, that flutter that had always marked Arthur's homecomings.
A sudden groan broke her thoughts. "Ugh!!! Where in the seven hells is he?" came Wylla's exasperated voice.
Lady Leona's eyes widened, shock tracing her delicate features. "Wylla! That is no way for a lady to speak," she admonished. Wynafryd could see her mother's patience wearing thin. Because of Wylla who insisted on always being headstrong and untamed. While her father, Ser Wylis, let out a chuckle, at her beloved daughter's antics.
Wynafryd turned to her sister and teased gently, "Come now, Wylla, you can admit it. You missed him."
Wylla hissed, her face curling in mock offense. "I did not. He's stupid, and all he does is annoy me."
Lord Wyman's laugh rolled across the quay, warm and unrestrained. "Oh, my dear Wylla, I missed him too! My boy is finally returning home."
Ser Wendel, booming and grave, nodded toward the horizon, "And returning victorious."
Wylis added, voice formal but touched with pride, "William would be proud."
"And Helena," Leona whispered softly, her gaze distant for a moment.
Wyman's face softened, growing almost maudlin, "We are all proud. Come now, let us not welcome Arthur with sadness, but with joy."
Wynafryd's eyes lifted, scanning the horizon. The first shapes of sails appeared, white and glinting in the sun. And then, unmistakable, larger than the rest, cutting through the waves with quiet authority, came the flagship.
"There he is." she murmured under her breath.
The Mermaid's Tears and the fleet behind her slipped past the twin merman statues that marked the entrance to White Harbor, their stone faces grim and proud, rivaling even the Titan of Braavos in height and majesty. Wynafryd's breath caught for the briefest instant. She had walked these quays countless times, but the sight never failed to stir her.
The two figures carved upon the seal rocks, arms outstretched as though to grasp the sea itself, guarding the harbor like silent sentinels. Between them lay the narrow channel, the ancient ringfort Arthur had restored now bristling with ballistas, walls thickened and reinforced with fresh stone, towers that flanked the entry like watchful eyes.
Wendel's booming voice cut across the quay. "See there! Galleys of black sails sail beside the carracks. Pirates, I wager, yet no match for Arthur's hand!"
Wynafryd whispered, low enough for her father's ears, "Father… there may be prisoners aboard the galleys."
Wylis's brow furrowed at first and then his eyes widened in comprehension. "Chains," he muttered to himself, and then raised his voice, "City watch! Ready the chains! The prisoners will be escorted to the Wolf's Den!"
Lord Manderly's eyes sparkled, pale blue and full of warmth, as he watched the exchange. A slow, approving smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and Wynafryd felt the quiet thrill of satisfaction at her role. The old lord's grin, broad and genuine, spoke volumes: approval, pride, acknowledgment.
The flagship creaked and groaned as it settled into the harbor, the anchor biting deep into the cold waters. The crowd had swelled along the quay, a rolling mass of commoners and merchants, sailors and children alike, all craning to catch sight of the heir who had returned triumphant. Shouts of "Arthur!""Ser William!" and "Lord Wyman!" mingled with the briny tang of the harbor and the cries of gulls circling overhead.
Arthur descended the gangplank with the steady grace of a man tempered by years at Winterfell. His black doublet was sharp against the sunlight, the blue-green of his cloak matching the color of his eyes like waves against the cliffs. Nightfall hung at his waist, the Valyrian steel catching glints of the morning sun.
Behind him, the handsome Ser Donnel Locke followed with unyielding vigilance, a silent sentinel in polished leather, beard neatly trimmed, eyes never straying from his charge. Wynafryd's heart lifted as she watched him, loyal, steadfast, carved of stone and duty. It was foolish for her gaze to linger too long.
"My boy," Wyman said, as Arthur knelt before him. "Up, up! You'll not scrape your knees for an old walrus like me."
Arthur embraced his grandfather. "You've grown lighter since I last saw you, my lord. Or the men stronger."
Wyman laughed, great and jolly, "Both, mayhaps! Gods, look at you. The very image of your parents."
Arthur's voice faltered, a tremor quickly stilled. "I hope I've made them proud."
Arthur scarcely had time to rise from their grandfather's embrace before her father and uncle seized upon him. Wylis's booming laugh rolled over the quay, while Wendel clapped Arthur's shoulder hard enough to stagger any man less steady.
Between them they jostled Arthur like boys with a prized hawk, beaming as though he were some great trophy wrested from the lists. Wendel bellowed of feasts, Wylis promised songs enough to rattle the rafters, and the crowd answered with thunderous cheers.
Wylla darted forward, wild as the sea-wind, scrambling onto her horse with her usual lack of grace, eager to ride at her cousin's side before the procession began. Wynafryd followed at her own pace, skirts gathered neatly in hand, every step measured and composed. It would not do for her to come rushing like a child.
Near her mount stood Ser Donnel Locke, his hand upon his sword, his stance wary though joy rang all around him. Wynafryd inclined her head. "Ser Donnel," she said softly.
"Little princess," Donnel answered, as he always had, his tone gruff with age. Yet the sound of them warmed her more than she cared to admit. Wynafryd allowed herself only the faintest smile, quickly hidden as she smoothed her cloak. Foolish, she chided herself. I am no maid to flutter at an old pet name.
"How was the journey?" Wynafryd asked as she fastened her white gloves, studying his lined face.
"Too much excitement for my taste." His eyes narrowed toward the galleys flying black sails. "Pray tell me, how is it no one thought to deal with pirates so bold, so near to our shores?"
"The reports had reached us," Wynafryd replied evenly. "Grandfather sent Commodore Alyn to sea three days past to sweep the coast. He must have been too late to cross paths."
Donnel grunted. "Well, we dealt with them."
She exhaled, a prayer unspoken upon her lips, thanking the Seven for sparing Arthur and his men. Her fingers tightened on her reins. "Arthur was reckless in the fight, wasn't he?"
"When isn't he?" Donnel's mouth twitched, almost a smile, though his eyes stayed grave.
Wynafryd frowned, her gaze drawn to her cousin riding ahead. His cloak streamed behind him like a banner, his laughter carrying as he leaned from the saddle to tease Wylla, who swatted at him with mock fury. The sight tugged at her heart. Arthur always shone, no matter where he stood, on a tourney field, in a hall, upon a ship. Bright flames gave warmth and light, but such flames burned fast, if left unguarded.
The Great Hall of New Castle blazed with warmth and light. Sconces burned with scented oils, perfuming the air with lavender and myrrh, their flames dancing upon walls of smooth, pale stone. The gilded tridents above the high dais caught the glow and gleamed like spears of molten gold, while long banners of seafoam and silver stirred in the draughts from the hearthfires. Below, the air was thick with the scents of roasted swan and buttered trout, of sugared crab and almond pies, mingled with the sharp tang of strongwine. Servants in the blue-and-white moved quick as minnows through the press, arms laden with steaming platters.
At the high table her grandsire sat in state, Lord Wyman, with his plate piled high and his great booming laugh rising above the din. The long boards below were crowded with friends and bannermen, Woolfields and Lockes among them, their cups raised high and voices higher still.
It was Donnel's eldest brother Ser Henry Locke who rose first, square-jawed and grey-bearded, his cup lifted. "To the victor!" he called. "To Ser Arthur! The Tourney Knight!"
The hall erupted in cheers. Tankards clattered against the boards, and wine sloshed dark upon the rushes.
Arthur's face flushed, though he bore it with a modest smile, "I won but one tourney," he protested, "And there were many fought as well—"
"Oh, seven hells," Ser Donnel barked from the second table, his voice rough and merry, "you should've seen him ride! He unhorsed the Kingslayer, aye, and Ser Barristan too, one after the other. And down he took the Knight of Flowers like a sack of barley."
Arthur groaned softly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, though the mirth in his eyes betrayed him. "He exaggerates."
Ser Wendel's guffaw near split the air. "Exaggerates? Bah! The boy learned from the best. I taught him everything myself, you know." He thumped his chest with a fist thick as a ham, setting the table to rattling.
The hall roared with laughter.
Wylla leaned forward across the board, mischief alight in her eyes. "Tell us, cousin," she demanded, "is it true you crowned a princess the Queen of Love and Beauty?"
Arthur groaned, scrubbing at his brow with the heel of his hand. "It was a tourney, Wylla. Custom demands—"
Wynafryd's lips curved before the words left her. "Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon, no less," she said sweetly, "A golden rose among thorns. Was she lovely, Arthur?"
"She is nine," Arthur replied flatly.
Her grandsire near shook with mirth, thumping one fat hand upon the table so hard his plates rattled. "Ha! The Manderlys were once promised a princess by the Targaryens," Lord Wyman boomed. "Mayhaps it is time that new promises were made." The hall roared at that, laughter echoing off the white stone.
"She might still be waiting for you in a cradle," Ser Donnel called out, his face creased in a half-smile. "But fear not, lad we'll guard her for you until your beard comes in proper."
Arthur rolled his eyes skyward like a man praying for deliverance. "If I yield now, will you spare me the rest?"
"No!" came the chorus, ringing from Wendel's booming lungs and Wylla's wild laughter alike. Cups clattered, benches scraped, and the merriment rolled through the hall like a breaking tide.
As the fires guttered low and laughter softened to the murmur of wine-heavy voices, the feast slipped into its twilight. The pipers played still, but slow now, their notes wistful as waves breaking on some lonely strand. Clusters of kin lingered about the hall Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel in close talk with the Lockes, Ser Donnel leaning on one elbow to regale squires with his gruff tales of steel and honor. Even Wylla, ever restless, had stilled at last, curled against their mother's side, listening to Lady Leona hum some northern lullaby.
Arthur stood apart, near the high dais, his goblet heavy in his hand, yet untouched. His eyes roved over them all as if from afar, as though the merriment belonged to another world, one he might watch but not join.
"Come, Arthur. Wynafryd." The summons came like a rumble, their grandsire's deep voice rolling through the hush. They went. Wyman was borne upon a stout chair by several guards, his girth too vast for walking now. The procession wound down a side passage until the din of the feast was only a murmur behind stone walls. They emerged at last into a solar high above the harbor, where the city lay spread before them like a jewel box. The White Knife gleamed in the dark, lantern-lights flickering upon its surface like sparks dancing on black glass.
"Sit, children," Lord Wyman said, with a wave of a hand thick as ham. "My bones will not bend long. Humor an old man."
They sat, Wynafryd folding her hands neatly atop her lap. The pale blue of her grandfather's eyes glimmered from within folds of beard and flesh, sharp as any blade despite the mask of jollity. She knew this look. How many times had it been just the three of them thus, shut away while the world believed Lord Wyman a jester too fat to climb a stair? Always in such moments weighty truths were spoken, decisions that would shape more than White Harbor.
"I have been meaning to speak with you both," Wyman said, his voice slower now, deliberate. "It is time you wed."
The words fell heavy as chainmail. Wynafryd's breath caught, though she held her face serene. She had dreaded this day, though she had known it must come. Marriage was duty, and duty she would not forsake. Yet her heart, the foolish thing, had woven its own desires, quiet longings she dared not speak. The man she thought of saw her still as a child, called her little princess with a father's fondness, and she was wise enough to bury such fancies deep where no one might see. Still, the thought cut all the same.
And Arthur's fate was crueler yet. For Wynafryd knew of Marie, of the love that must never be named, a love that could not survive the weight of his station. Arthur is heir to White Harbor, he had the blood of heroes as the son of Ser William. He can't have whore's daughter, however pure her heart.
Arthur blinked, startled, his composure cracked for a heartbeat. "I… I've not given it much thought."
"You must," Wyman rumbled. "The city loves you, and the North respects you. But love and respect will not keep your line strong. If you are to sit in my seat, to wear the mantle of Lord of White Harbor, you will need a wife at your side. A woman to bear your sons, aye, and to rule with you, to care for you when sickness keep you to your bed."
Arthur inclined his head slowly, a shadow in his eyes. "Have you… anyone in mind?"
Wynafryd's heart tightened. She held her gaze steady, though her fingers curled in her lap, braced for the names that would follow, names not theirs to choose, but chains to wear all the same.
Wyman's pale eyes twinkled in the lamplight. "Several," he said, settling deeper into his chair. "Alys Karstark, for one. Strong northern stock. Stubborn, proud, and clever. Her father, though… Rickard Karstark is too damn proud for his own good. Thinks us all soft-bellied heathen southerners in silk."
Arthur allowed himself the faintest smile. "Yet Lord Rickard has never spurned our silver."
Wyman chuckled, his many chins trembling. "Aye, everyone wants coin, my child. He just doesn't like it in our hands. But Alys would be a good match if you can stomach her father."
Wynafryd folded her hands, the words slipping from her tongue before she thought to guard them. "Our spies say Lord Rickard is already in talks with Halys Hornwood. Daryn Hornwood, his son and heir, for Lady Alys."
Her grandsire gave a grunt, "That is why we must move quickly, before the pact is sealed."
"I'll think on it," Arthur said evenly, though Wynafryd caught the flicker of weariness in his voice.
"There's also Liane Vance," Wyman went on, ticking thick fingers like sausages. "Comely, well-mannered, of good blood. Ysilla Royce too, I hear she is diligent, devout, a girl who'd make a steady wife. Lord Yohn is a man I would gladly see bound closer to us. And there is the girl Arya Stark. Young still, aye, but Ned's third, if I recall. Lord Stark would not deny his most loyal bannermen."
At once Arthur shook his head. "Arya is like a sister to me. If not by blood, then by hearth."
For a heartbeat, Wyman's mouth turned down in a frown. But as quickly as it came, the look was gone, replaced by that same genial mask. "Very well, very well. But you must choose from among the rest."
Arthur gave no more than a noncommittal nod. "I will consider them."
Then his grandsire's gaze turned on Wynafryd. "And you, my child. There are matches worth the making for you as well. Patrek Mallister of Seagard, heir to an old and proud line. Jon Umber, son to the Greatjon, strong as an oak and heir to Last Hearth. And…" Wyman hesitated a beat, "Theon Greyjoy. Heir to the Iron Islands."
The name turned Wynafryd cold, but before she could form thought or word Arthur's protest burst forth. "No. Not Theon."
Wyman's brows knit, faint irritation creeping into his voice. "Why not? He is the only son of Balon Greyjoy. A great lord of the realm."
"Greyjoys are naught but pirates," Arthur snapped, the edge of anger plain in his voice. "Reavers and raiders, false friends at best. I am surprised you'd even consider such a thing, grandfather."
"Do not let hatred blind your judgment, my boy," Wyman answered, more softly now, almost weary.
"Not Greyjoy," Arthur said again, flat as iron.
"Very well," Lord Wyman sighed, shoulders sagging for an instant before his cheer returned. "I half expected as much. Robin Flint, then. Heir to Widow's Watch. Their house has been our ally since before the Conquest, and with him, Wynafryd might remain close to her kin. That is no small blessing. What say you, child?"
Wynafryd kept her face smooth, though her mind whirled. She knew her duty; she had been groomed for it all her life. "I will do as you command, grandsire," she said with quiet grace.
Wyman's broad face softened, a smile creasing through beard and chins alike. "You've a good heart, Wyn, better than mine. Take your time, both of you, and tell me where your leanings fall. Duty cannot be rushed, though it must not be shirked. There's another matter we must discuss."
Arthur leaned forward, wary. "What troubles you, Grandfather?"
"Barrowton," Wyman said simply. The word seemed to settle in the solar like a stone cast into still water.
Arthur was quiet a long while. "Still?"
"Still," Wyman confirmed, nodding gravely. "It is owed to you. When your uncle, Lord William Dustin, fell at the Tower of Joy besides your father, and your mother, dear Helena, followed him into the grave bringing you into this world… the claim should have passed to you. Her blood. Her son. By law. By honor."
Wynafryd inclined her head. "Yet Lady Barbrey took it."
"Aye, and she is a cunning widow," Wyman rumbled, "sharp as a dagger under the cover of silks. She called upon widow's law, laid claim to the barrowlands as her late husband's right, and too many lords were content to see her hold them." The old man sighed. "Even Ned, just and loyal as he is, saw the tide. Ryswell, her father, and Roose Bolton, her brother-by-marriage, pressed her claim. Roose, ever the calculating serpent, sent his late heir young Domeric to her, hoping to use blood and relation to claim the lands."
Wynafryd's brows knit. "And Lord Stark allowed it?"
"He ruled she might hold Barrowton until Arthur came of age," Wyman said. "A regency in all but name. He sought to ease tempers, to spare blood. And not without cause." His voice grew gruff. "But the years are gone. My boy is a man grown now."
"Then surely," Wynafryd ventured, cautious, "her regency must end."
Her grandsire's pale eyes gleamed as he turned them upon Arthur. "It is time the matter were raised again. To Lord Stark, and to the king. Robert still wears the crown, and both he and Ned Stark loved your father. You are as a son to them. There is no reason they would not see justice done."
Arthur's gaze lingered on the fire, the flames dancing red across his face. "There are reasons."
Wyman frowned. "Speak them plain."
Arthur lifted his eyes at last. "If we press this claim, we shall win enemies in plenty. The Boltons and the Ryswells will not forgive it. The Karstarks and the Umbers already grumble that our coffers outweigh their swords. If White Harbor swallows Barrowton too, we hold salt and soil both, ships and grain. Many lords will see a fat fish grown too large for the river."
"You would shrink from what is yours by right?" Wyman's voice was taut with frustration.
Arthur shook his head. "No. But I will not spill blood for it. The Manderlys were driven north by jealous lords of the south. The Peakes, the Gardeners… they feared us, and we paid for it. I will not let fear and envy make us exiles a second time."
Wyman leaned back in his chair, great hands folding atop his belly, eyes narrowed to pale slits. "Then what do you propose, my boy?"
"We wait," Arthur said, calm as still water. "Lady Barbrey holds by widow's law alone. She has no heir, no husband. When she dies, the issue dies with her. Then the Barrowlands will fall to their rightful lord. If another seeks to seize them then, they'll be the usurpers, not us."
Wynafryd let out the breath, "The long game," she murmured.
Arthur inclined his head. "Barrowton will be ours in time. We need only patience… and vigilance."
For a moment, only the fire spoke, spitting sparks and hissing in the stones.
"Sometimes I forget," Lord Wyman said at last, voice low and rumbling, "that you are only children."
Arthur's lips curved faintly. "Wyn might be," he said, jesting. "But I'm not."
Her cheeks warmed at that. Wynafryd lowered her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.
Wyman chuckled, though the sound was heavy, worn with years. "You've done more than any Manderly has in a thousand years, Arthur. White Harbor gleams because of you. The city sings your name."
"I only built upon your foundation, Grandfather," Arthur answered softly.
"No." Wyman's pale eyes gleamed in the firelight, "You dreamt higher. I merely followed your lead. As all of us have."
Arthur dropped his gaze, "You honor me, Grandfather."
The hall had dwindled to embers and half-drunken song by the time Wynafryd excused herself, bowing her head to Arthur and her grandsire before slipping from the warmth of feast and firelight. The stones of New Castle were cool beneath her slippered feet. Servants passed with muted steps, bearing away the wreckage of the feast bones, spilled wine, and crumbs enough to feed a pauper's hall.
Her chamber lay high in the eastern wing, overlooking the harbor. There, upon her desk, the sealed packet awaited her, set aside with the rest of the day's correspondence. Not for her mother's eyes, nor her father's, nor even Wylla's, curious as she was. This was hers, and hers alone. Arthur had trusted her with the work few knew even existed.
Wynafryd slid the knife through wax, heart quickening though she knew not why. The parchment bore the cipher of King's Landing, the hand small and hurried. She read once. Then again, slower.
She scarcely remembered rising, only that she was running, skirts gathered, slippers whispering on the stair. Servants blinked as she passed, but none dared question her. The castle seemed endless in that moment, corridors winding like a snare, her breath ragged in her throat.
At last she came to Arthur's solar. The door was half-closed, golden light spilling out across the darkened hall. She did not knock.
Arthur looked up from his table, quill poised above a map strewn with markers and notes. His black doublet was loosened at the throat, his hair unbound, shadows of weariness beneath his eyes. He had always worked too hard, even in victory.
"Wyn?" His voice was sharp with concern. "Is something wrong?"
Wynafryd clutched the letter to her breast, words tumbling past her lips before she could think to still them. "The king is coming. To Winterfell. And—" her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, "Lord Arryn is dead."