The kingsroad narrowed as it pressed through the Neck, winding like some half-drowned serpent between reed and fen. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of earth and water, and gnats danced in the sunlight as though they too marched north with the king.
Tyrion rode a shaggy little courser that picked its way nimbly over the muddy track. His legs ached, his back was stiff, and his arse felt as though he had sat on the Iron Throne itself for a fortnight. Yet despite the discomfort, he found the Neck strangely beautiful, melancholy, yes, but beautiful all the same. The reeds whispered with each breath of wind, and he half fancied they were telling secrets to the gray waters beyond.
"Greywater Watch!" Tyrion said to no one in particular, though his brother was near enough to hear. "A fitting name. Dreary, desolate, damp… yet there's a certain poetry to it."
"There's a certain misery to it," Jaime said flatly, guiding his destrier through a patch of mud. His golden armor was dulled by the northern damp. "We've been riding for days, and for what? To stare at bogs and midges? The North is endless."
"That it is," Tyrion agreed. "Endless, stark, and old. There's history in this mud, brother. Kings of salt and kings of pine, the marsh kings, the First Men who built Moat Cailin… every stone we pass has a story. You should try listening for once, rather than sulking like a maid denied her ribbons."
Jaime gave him a look, equal parts irritation and amusement. "Trust you to find romance in a swamp. When I think of history, I think of victory, of splendor, of castles worth the name. Not crumbling stones drowning in their own moss."
Tyrion chuckled. "A man sees what he wishes to see. You see mud; I see mystery. You see ruins; I see remnants of glory. Perhaps it is because I am closer to the ground than you."
His brother smirked at that. "Closer to the ground, aye. And yet still reaching for the heights. Tell me, do you still dream of visiting the Wall?"
"Dream of it?" Tyrion sipped from his wineskin and smiled. "No, Jaime. I plan it. I would see it with my own eyes. A wall of ice, seven hundred feet high, stretching from sea to sea. A wonder such as the world has never known. I would climb it, walk atop it, piss off the edge of the world. That's worth a sore arse, don't you think?"
Jaime laughed, though there was an edge in it. "Still want to be tall, do you? Careful you don't freeze that clever cock of yours off trying."
Tyrion grinned at the jape, though inwardly he imagined himself at the Wall, dwarfed by its enormity. Small he might be, but what did size matter when standing before something so vast no creature alive could claim to be its equal?
"Gods," Jaime muttered, his breath rising in white plumes before his face. "Do the northerners live in ice caves? This is spring, the maesters claim. I'll have their heads for such a lie."
Tyrion smiled. "You might yet find a warm welcome in White Harbor, dear brother. They call it the White Pearl of Winter now. Though I suspect their pearls here have more frost than the ones south."
Jaime's snort misted in the chill air. "Harbor fish stink the same everywhere, little brother."
Tyrion chuckled at that, though truth be told, the thought of fish was not entirely unwelcome. The Neck had given them nothing but mud and marsh and midge, a slow crawl of green-grey sameness that clung to man and horse alike. A harbor meant salt air, gull cries, and wine brought from Essos by fat-bellied cogs. Wine that had not soured in some leather skin on a jolting saddle.
"The fish stink is a promise of plenty," Tyrion said. "Better to stink of fish than of famine. White Harbor feeds half the North, and by all accounts, Lord Wyman grows fat as his coffers. There is power in fish, Jaime."
"Power in fish," his brother repeated, with the same look he might have given a jester's quip. "You'd make a poor bard, Tyrion."
"Not so poor as you'd think. I can juggle words better than most men juggle knives."
Jaime gave him a sideways glance, the ghost of a smile tugging his lips. "Men are men, brother. They bow to steel, not words."
"Perhaps," he conceded lightly, "but words last longer than any sword. Ask the singers. Songs linger when shields have turned to rust, and names echo long after a man dies."
The smile that had barely touched Jaime's face faded, leaving only that familiar mask of golden arrogance and quiet hurt. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp but fleeting. He did not wish to wound Jaime. A word could cut sharper than any sword if it struck the right nerve, and Tyrion knew exactly where those nerves lay.
The banners of White Harbor came into view long before the walls themselves, sea-green mermen rippling against the pale sky. The road bent wide and straight, and thereupon the outer causeway they found a company of horse arrayed in good order. At their head rode Ser Wylis Manderly, broad of frame and heavy of limb, his cheeks red with the cold, his cloak of merman-green trimmed with white fur.
When the royal party drew near, the knight swung down from his saddle, kneeling upon the frosted earth. "Your Grace," he said, his deep voice carrying clear, "in the name of my lord father, I bid you welcome to White Harbor. May you find warmth here, and loyal hearts besides. My lord grieves that his age and humors forbid him the saddle, yet his heart yearns to see his king beneath his roof."
Robert Baratheon reined up, peering down with a smile half-mocking, half-merry. "Loyal hearts I'll take. Gods know I find few of them elsewhere. Rise, ser, rise. Your father serves me well enough by keeping his harbor open and his oaths unbroken. Seven hells, You've a soldier's look about you, though somewhat more flesh than steel."
Ser Wylis flushed but answered simply, "I serve as best I may, Your Grace."
As they passed within the outer gate, Tyrion prepared himself for the stinks and squalor that clung to cities like a shroud. Yet none came. Instead, the air was salt and clean, the avenues broad and straight. Houses of pale stone rose in tidy rows, each roof capped with slate, each yard neat and ordered.
Gods, but it was vast. Greater by far than Lannisport or King's Landing, yet unmarred by their filth. Here was no chaos of crooked streets and dung-heaps, but a city measured as if by mason's string, each quarter set apart: the fishmongers by their docks, the smiths by their forges, the weavers where their looms could catch the light.
"Your Grace," Ser Wylis said, riding now at the king's side, "White Harbor has grown in these last two centuries. We number perhaps three hundred thousand souls, though many are seafarers who come and go with the tides. My lord father says oft that we are but stewards, raising stones for those yet unborn. Thus were the outer walls set far from the heart of the city, to leave room should the city grow still greater."
"Three hundred thousand?" Robert shifted in his saddle, brows lifting. "Seven hells. I had not thought the city held so many."
"The harbor is generous, and the river sees us fed and kept," said Wylis, "The Manderlys are but keepers of what the gods and the king provide."
Tyrion studied the man sidelong. Humility sat strangely on such a broad frame, but it was honest enough.
The road broadened as they entered the city proper, and the sound of the people swelled like the sea. They thronged the waysides in their hundreds, their voices rising in a cheer that shook the very stones beneath the hooves of the king's destrier.
"Robert! Robert!" they cried, and the king raised a meaty hand, grinning as if the North itself were his drinking hall. Yet other names mingled with his in the roar: "Wyman! Wyman!" they called, and "Arthur! Arthur!" rang just as loud, and even "William!"—a ghost's name carried still upon the wind.
Tyrion's brows lifted. In King's Landing the smallfolk shouted for bread, or for their bellies' sake, or else cursed and spat when a lord rode past. In Lannisport they bellowed for coin or tossed dung in the streets to see a knight's cloak soiled. But here? Here their voices rang full and free, not with hunger, but with pride.
And they looked it too, rosy-cheeked children atop their fathers' shoulders, women in cloaks of good wool trimmed against the cold, men thick in arm and chest, not hollow-bellied. No rags, no sores, no stink of piss in the gutters. Instead, the streets were cobbled neat and true, each stone set firm as if laid by some forgotten masons of Valyria itself.
"Well kept," he murmured, "and too clean for a city of this size. I must be dreaming."
Ser Wylis, riding a little behind his king, heard him. "We do what we may, my lord," he said, humble. "The folk must have water, so we dig wells where we can. A thirsty man grows restless; a watered man will labor well."
Indeed, Tyrion saw them as they passed wells at every square, each capped in stone, some adorned with carved mermen or dolphins. But stranger still were the poles that rose along the cobbled ways, tall and slim, each bearing at its crown a curious glass globe.
Tyrion reined in beside Ser Wylis and pointed with his whip. "Pray tell, ser, are these ornaments? Prayer-offerings to the Seven? Or baubles to amuse fishwives?"
The knight's ruddy face creased in a smile, half-shy. "Streetlights, my lord. My nephew Arthur contrived them. By day they glisten only, aye, but come nightfall the lamplighters climb and set flame to the oil within. Candles too, at times. The glass gives color to the flame, so are the ways of the city kept bright."
Tyrion laughed, sharp and short. "Oil and candles for every street in this monstrous place? That must cost you dearly. Costly, and wasteful both."
Wylis's great shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "Not so dear as you think, my lord. Costly, aye, yet never wasteful. Come nightfall you shall judge. A city well-lit is a city well-guarded. Thieves think twice, and sailors find their way from harbor to hall. Here folk may walk without fear and sleep easier beneath the lamps. That is worth a candle or two."
Robert had half-turned in his saddle to listen, and barked his rough laughter. "Ha! Only the Manderly would spill oil into glass balls for the comfort of fishmongers. Gods, but I'll grant it, seems like a fairer trick than most I've seen south of the Neck. I'll drink to it when the night comes!"
Tyrion sniffed the air as their horses clopped along the cobbles, half suspecting his nose played him false. There was no rank odour, no gutter-stench. Only the faint, sweet drift of flowers. Winter roses, pale and hardy, grew from planters at the street's edge. Blue blossoms tangled with sprays of wintergreen, their scent curling like incense as the wind carried it. The whole city smelled of bloom and cold water.
A city that does not reek, Tyrion thought, astonished. Surely the gods are playing ajest.
Jaime, beside him, had no eye for roses. His gaze fixed instead on the men who flanked their procession: the City Watch of White Harbor. They marched in companies down the thoroughfares, keeping the crowds at bay. Their armor gleamed a shifting blue-green, as though the sea itself had lent its hues to their plate. Not a dent among them, not a strap loose, not a man out of step.
"Disciplined," Jaime murmured, golden brows raised. "Better equipped than half the Gold Cloaks, I'll warrant. And that steel…"
Wylis Manderly turned with a broad smile. "White Steel, my lords, our own forging. Stronger than common steel, holds an edge longer. Every sword and breastplate you see was hammered here in White Harbor."
"White Steel," Tyrion repeated, rolling the words on his tongue. He had seen that steel a few times before, but never so many, an entire watch clad in the stuff. Even to his untrained eye, it shone finer than castle-forged.
"Nothing we craft may touch the magic of the ancients. But it is ours, and it serves. Crime is at its lowest in living memory, my lords. Thieves and cutpurses grow thin here, few can replace their teeth after my watchmen catch them." Wylis added quickly, almost humble despite his smile.
Robert bellowed a laugh, near choking on his wine. "Aye, that's the way of it! Fists and fine steel, eh, man?"
Wylis Manderly served as guide, his booming voice carrying above the tramp of hooves and the cheers of the crowd. "Here, Your Grace, is the Great Market," he said as they passed beneath a broad stone arch where stalls and pavilions spread as far as Tyrion's eye could follow.
Past the market came stout halls of white stone where clerks and scribes hurried in and out with ledgers under arm. "The finance district," Wylis said. "And there—" he gestured to a tall building with carved mermaids flanking its doors "stands the great hall of The Merlin Bank."
Beyond the counting-houses, the city seemed to break into ordered quarters: the textile district with its dye-works spilling bright banners from windows, the steel district where forges roared and sparks flew like fireflies, the gold and silver district where jewelers displayed their work behind latticed shutters. Each district hummed with its own life.
Tyrion's gaze drifted upward, and there it stood, pale and imperious against the northern sky, The Sept of Snows. Seven towers rose from the city like frozen fingers, crystalline windows catching the weak sun and scattering light in shards of ruby and sapphire. The sight stole his breath for a moment. He had seen septs before, grand edifices and spired wonders in King's Landing and Lannisport, but nothing of this scale, nothing so meticulously wrought. The towers seemed to pierce the very heavens, a testament not only to faith but to the wealth, ambition, and patience of a northern house that had endured countless winters.
"Now there's a sight," Robert muttered, his voice hushed for once, carrying the weight of genuine admiration rather than drunken bellowing.
Ser Wylis inclined his head, the gesture modest yet laden with pride. "The Sept of the Snows," he said, voice steady, "is the seat of the faith in the North. Built when my house first laid stone to this city, consecrated in the days of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. To us, it is a refuge, a sanctuary. To the gods, a house of prayer. For centuries it has stood, a testament to the glory of the Seven, and so it shall endure. Amen!"
Tyrion's eyes followed as Wylis touched the seven-pointed chain at his neck. The city watch, disciplined and precise even in ritual, mirrored the gesture. The royal guards did likewise. He glanced at Robert, who had made a show of touching the chain, perhaps more for tradition than reverence. Even the king seemed half-bewildered by the spectacle of devotion surrounding him.
Tyrion touched the seven-pointed chain with a deliberate, almost mocking grace, enough to satisfy appearances. Faith, he had long ago decided, was a luxury for the comfortable, the hopeful, and the fools. Gods, in his experience, were as silent as stone unless, of course, you counted the ones who happened to be seated on thrones.
Tyrion caught the faint tightening of his brother's jaw, the subtle lowering of his lashes, the whispered murmur only Jaime himself could hear. Tyrion's lips twitched in an amused smirk. The Kingslayer, golden and arrogant, praying of all things, how very surprising.
At last, the procession reached the city's heart, New Castle, rising pale and stern against the sky, its towers catching the light like beacons. The gates of the castle stood tall and bright, flanked by banners of silver merlings on turquoise fields. Tyrion Lannister blinked against the glare that bounced from the white marble walls. The snow that dusted the rooftops had not dulled their shine, only heightened the brilliance, as if the entire keep had been carved from a tale.
The gates swung wide to reveal a courtyard that could have held a small host, yet it felt intimate beneath the shadow of the white walls. Lord Wyman Manderly himself seated at the head of the stairs. A broad, unmistakable figure, enormous in girth and robed in a cloak of sea-green velvet, trimmed with ermine, his jowled face lit by an eager smile. He was flanked by the somewhat less fat presence, Ser Wendel, no doubt, the younger son known for his good humor and hearty appetite.
And of course, the young heir, Ser Arthur, handsome, tall and lean, looking every inch the knight his victories had promised. Yet still a boy in the curve of his face, the gleam of unbroken youth in his eyes.
Tyrion noted the subtle stiffness in Jaime's posture as he dismounted, the cold calculation behind a mask of civility. Cersei, now standing beside the King in her customary height of composure, glared at the boy with a coiled, silent fury that Tyrion knew very well.
"Your Grace," Lord Wyman intoned, bowing low, his tone tempered by humility yet carrying the weight of authority, "welcome to White Harbor. I hope you will find our home… fitting for your royal progress. It is an honor for me and my kin to host your presence."
Robert, as usual, made the moment his own, "Lord Wyman," he said, voice still rich and hearty, carrying across the courtyard. "By the gods, it gladdens me to be welcomed so well in the North."
His eyes, quick as a hawk's despite the wine, found Arthur, and the king's great hands clapped down upon the boy's shoulders, near lifting him from the ground in a bear's embrace.
"Arthur, my boy!" Robert laughed, "Look at you! The very image of your father, in every way! By the gods, it's like seeing William again. He would be proud to see you as you are now."
Tyrion, watching from beneath his brows, caught the tenderness in the king's eyes. Strange, that Robert Baratheon, who broke men with his hammer and drank them under the table with the same ease, should gaze at the boy as if he were some lost son returned to him.
Arthur went to one knee, offering a smile that was soft with memory. "Thank you, Your Grace, I only hope to honor his name," he said warmly. "If there is aught we can do to make your stay more pleasing, Your Grace, command it and it shall be done."
"You've done that and more already," Robert replied, clapping him once more on the shoulder. His grin widened as he turned on Wyman. "And you, you old whale, you've raised him well!"
Lord Wyman smiled, his many chins bobbing with each word. "My grandson's worth weighs more than my girth, Your Grace," he rumbled, "and that is no small claim."
Laughter rippled through the gathered lords like wind across tall grass, but Robert's was the loudest of all, great and booming, shaking the very air of the courtyard.
At last, Arthur led them within, his silver-blue cloak trailing like a river of frost as he guided the royal party into the gleaming heart of New Castle. Tyrion followed, short legs keeping pace beside Jaime's long stride, their boots clicking sharply on marble so polished it seemed almost to drink the torchlight. The air within was warm, scented faintly of flowers, spiced oils, and beeswax.
The halls were lit with mirrored sconces that multiplied the soft glow of whale-oil lanterns. White-veined marble stretched beneath their feet, flawless, without crack or stain. Tall windows held tinted glass in hues of blue and silver, letting in daylight like liquid sapphire. Carved pillars of sea-green stone lined the great hall, each etched with the stories of sea voyages, wars, and their oath to the Stark Kings of Winter. The furnishings were no less fine. Silk carpets in deep ocean hues, velvet tapestries woven with ships and stars, painted panels of the city from above.
"You see how Robert looks at him?" Tyrion murmured, keeping his voice low. His mismatched eyes lingered on the boy, walking ahead with that quiet poise that drew all eyes. "Like a ghost returned from the grave."
"He loved Ser William," Jaime said simply, his tone remained even. "Might've made him The Hand if he'd lived."
Tyrion's mouth twisted, half in jest, half in rue. "A great loss then! As now we'll get the grim Lord Stark his Hand instead."
Jaime's chuckle was soft, almost reluctant, but it came all the same. The sound echoed strangely in those marble halls, mingling with the fading roar of Robert's laughter.
They passed into a corridor of stained glass, the light fractured into shards of color seven towering panels of the gods, depicted with sea and snow beneath their feet, as though even divinity had been bent to northern imagery. Beyond lay a gallery, lined with portraits of Manderly forebears, each rendered with painstaking grandeur. Tyrion noted the shift in tone as the paintings marched forward in time, stern faces in chains and steel giving way to the softer pride of more recent lords.
The final canvas dominated the far wall, a full-length depiction of Ser William Manderly. Mounted on a destrier, plate flashing with northern banners, his sword was raised high against a darkling sky heavy with storm. Tyrion knew at once what it depicted, the Trident, that bloody day which had ended one dynasty and forged another.
Robert halted before the portrait, his laughter dying as though swallowed by the painted storm. For once, the king was still, the great mountain of his body frozen in place, eyes fixed upon the face of a man long dead yet rendered here with such vigor that Tyrion half-expected him to ride down from the canvas. The hush that fell was a heavy thing. Even the courtiers, so eager to prattle, grew silent, their breaths held in the vaulted air.
Tyrion marked the shift upon Robert's broad face. Not just grief or the rage that came so easily to his tongue. No, this was something quieter, weightier. A sorrow, raw and unpolished, the kind a man felt when the drink was gone and the songs had ended.
At last, Robert's voice broke the hush, lower than his usual roar, but no less strong. "He would've liked this," the king said, as if speaking more to the painting than to those behind him. "Our finest moment!"
The words echoed against marble, but before the silence could swallow them, Cersei's voice cut through like a shard of glass. "The day the dragons lost it all," she murmured, her tone mocking, meant for Robert as much as for the memory itself.
Robert's head snapped around, his eyes alight with fury. "They haven't lost enough," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "The bastards still live!"
"Not for long, Your Grace." The boy spoke as if he were twice his years, a soldier's oath upon a boy's tongue. Arthur's voice steady, unshaken by the weight of the crown's fury, carrying clear in the vaulted gallery.
Robert turned, his great hand came down upon the boy's shoulder with a force that would have staggered a lesser lad. "Aye," the king growled, approval burning in his eyes. "Not for long."
Tyrion studied them both, the king and the boy, one haunted by ghosts, the other born of it. And in the silence that followed, he wondered which of their ghosts would haunt them more.