The port of White Harbor, though once regarded as the greatest city of the North, stood in mournful silence under a heavy sky. Gray waves lapped at the docks, more out of habit than purpose, and the bitter wind howled between abandoned cargo cranes and idle warehouses. Snow blanketed the wooden piers and stone streets, a thick carpet of white that was rarely disturbed. The few dockhands still stationed there moved listlessly, scraping frost from the edges of crates and sweeping ice from planks that hadn't felt the weight of foreign boots in weeks.
It was not always so. There was a time when merchants from the Reach and the Vale would send ships bearing rich wine, velvet, and oils, and in return, White Harbor would offer salted cod, Northern furs, and timber from the Wolfswood. But no more. The snows had grown too deep, and the rivers froze over early. The North, once proud and resourceful, now faced scarcity with clenched teeth and hollow bellies.
No ships came. The warps stood empty, and the longshoremen gathered in groups around fire pits that barely warded off the chill. Conversation was sparse—there was little to talk about beyond how much food was left in their homes and how long the cold would last. They stared out into the gray horizon, their eyes searching for sails they no longer expected to see.
"Another day, and no grain," muttered Jarn the dockmaster, a man with a weathered face and thick white beard. His gloved hand gripped a mug of weak ale as he stood beside the bell post. "Even the Ironborn had the decency to raid us when the sea was still open."
"Maybe the sea froze over too," said Halder, a younger dockhand, stamping his boots for warmth. "Or maybe they just gave up on us. What trade's left in a starving North?"
Jarn shook his head. "Lord Wyman will come back. He took a ship east, didn't he? Braavos, they said. The Free Cities've got gold and grain aplenty. Maybe he'll bring something back."
"Aye," Halder said. "Or he'll bring back debts we can't repay."
The wind whistled mournfully between them, as though the city itself despaired.
Then, like a whisper cutting through the gloom, came a voice from the watchtower above the port. "Sail! Sail on the horizon!"
All heads turned. Dockhands leapt to their feet. Jarn dropped his mug, and it shattered on the icy ground.
"Are you sure?" he shouted up.
"I said sail! No—twenty sails!"
A heartbeat of silence passed, then an uproar. Men ran for the edge of the pier, shoving aside crates and barrels to see clearly. And then—there it was. A line of ships cutting across the horizon, their sails dark and heavy, their hulls proud and tall. At the head of the fleet was a great ship with a Merman banner snapping against the wind—the personal ship of Lord Wyman Manderley.
"The Lord's back!" someone shouted. "Wyman's returned!"
Jarn stood still, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched the ships approach. "That... that's not just Lord Wyman. That's a bloody fleet."
And as the vessels drew closer, the people saw barrels and sacks on deck—hundreds, thousands of them. The banners of Braavos fluttered beside Manderley's, and the people began to cheer, a sound that started as a murmur but quickly swelled to a roar that echoed across the empty harbor.
Jarn sank to his knees and whispered, "The gods haven't abandoned us."
From the deck of the leading ship, Lord Wyman Manderley stood tall in his thick green and blue cloak. His cheeks were flushed red from the wind, but his smile was wide. Behind him stood Braavosi merchants and soldiers overseeing the cargo. But Wyman had eyes only for the people of his home.
He raised his hand in greeting, and the dockworkers cried out, "Long live the Manderleys! Long live the North!"
Halder ran toward the ship as it began to dock. "What happened, my lord? What miracle is this?"
Wyman looked down, eyes gleaming with triumph. "It is not my doing, lad," he said. "This is a gift from the gods—or perhaps from something even rarer: a good man with a kind heart and the power to change fate."
"A good man?" Halder asked, wide-eyed.
Wyman chuckled. "You'll know his name soon enough. His name is Lord Gryffindor."
And the city of White Harbor, once quiet and dying, sprang back to life, bell towers ringing and gates thrown open, to welcome not just its heir, but hope itself.
Lord Wyman Manderly stepped off the gangplank onto the stone pier of White Harbor with the pride of a man who had defied winter and fate. The crowds at the port roared with approval, dockworkers and townsfolk alike cheering as crate after crate of food and goods were unloaded. Yet, for all their celebration, Wyman's thoughts were fixed on one place—the New Castle.
He rode through the familiar white streets of White Harbor, his guards parting the way. The Castle Stair, that broad, winding road of white stone, awaited him. It was lined with people eager to see the return of their lord, and Wyman doffed his glove to wave at them, face ruddy from cold and travel.
As he climbed the final steps, the sight of the New Castle brought a surge of warmth to his chest. Its pale towers loomed above the city's white walls, the silver-and-sea-green banners of House Manderly snapping proudly in the wind. He could see both harbors from the height, ships still being unloaded, and his city—his people—stirring back to life. The bitter quiet that had plagued White Harbor in his absence was lifting.
The gates of the castle opened with a groan, revealing the Merman's Court beyond, with its towering doors flanked by two mermen of sculpted marble. Servants bowed low as Wyman entered, and the air within was warm with the scent of pinewood smoke and beeswax. The hallways were just as he remembered them—worn with age but rich with memory, lined with rusted swords, faded banners from wars long past, and wooden ship figures carved in the likeness of sea beasts and drowned gods.
A servant greeted him at the inner gate. "Your lord father and Lord Rickard are waiting in the Merman's Court, my lord."
Wyman nodded and made his way to the great hall, the click of his boots echoing against the lath-and-plaster walls. In a quiet corner, he passed the hidden room that led to the secret tunnel beneath the Castle Stair, its sheepskin map of the North and Myrish carpet still in place.
When he stepped into the Merman's Court, his eyes fell immediately on the three men waiting near the high seat.
Lord Wylis Manderly, aging but still broad of shoulder, wore his sea-green cloak pinned with a silver merman brooch. His long white beard rested on his chest, and his cane leaned beside his chair. Lord Rickard Stark stood beside him, tall and composed, wrapped in the solemn gray furs of House Stark, his face unreadable as ever. At his side was his son, Eddard Stark, already with the stern eyes and quiet strength that the North would one day come to depend on.
"Wyman," Wylis said, rising slightly with a proud but weary smile. "You've returned."
Wyman strode forward and knelt briefly before his father. "And I bring more than myself, father. I bring salvation."
Rickard raised a brow. "Salvation?"
Wyman stood and turned to face them. "Twenty ships, filled with grain, dried meat, fish, fruit, livestock, and even medicines. Enough to feed half the North through the worst of this winter. It will begin arriving tonight."
Wylis leaned heavily on his cane. "You made a trade deal in Braavos?"
Wyman smiled faintly. "Not exactly. I received a gift—from a friend."
"A friend?" Rickard asked sharply, his eyes narrowing.
He is the one who brought down Roose Bolton. He is the one who healed the Dreadfort of its rot. He is... the man who took Lady Lyanna."
Rickard's face twitched. "What?"
"I spoke to him myself. I broke bread with him. He told me Lady Stark is safe and well, that she left willingly to escape a fate she could not accept. She lives in peace and comfort, and she is with child—his child."
There was a long silence. Eddard shifted uneasily. Rickard turned away to stare at the flickering torches of the great hall. His voice, when it came, was low and grim.
"Lyanna's disappearance cost the North dearly. It affected the trade deal I made with Lord Robert Baratheon."
Wyman's expression didn't waver. "We had been struggling for months yet no one helped us. It is true that Lyanna eloped with him but you can't blame her completely because she already tried to talk you out from the Betrothal of Lord Robert. Now she eloped with this Lord Griffindor. He seems to have more wealth than a hundred southern lords, and he chooses to aid us freely. If he is Lyanna's husband, then he is already kin to the Starks."
Rickard looked at Wylis, and Wylis looked at his son with pride. "You did well, my boy. We will see that the food is distributed fairly."
Wyman bowed his head. "The ships are under guard, but I advise haste. If word spreads, others may come seeking what is not theirs."
Rickard's voice was firm now. "We will send riders. The North will not forget this kindness."
And so the New Castle, which had known only whispers and worry through the deepening winter, now echoed with orders, preparation, and purpose. The cold winds still howled, but within those stone walls, the fire of hope had been rekindled.
Lord Rickard Stark sat in the Merman's Court long after Wyman Manderly and his advisors had left to oversee the unloading of the ships. The pale firelight flickered across the rusted swords and ancient banners decorating the hall, casting shadows that felt too much like memories. His hand rested heavily on the carved direwolf armrest of his chair, yet his gaze was distant—beyond the white walls of White Harbor, beyond the frostbitten coasts of the North, beyond even the vast sea that separated him from his daughter.
Lyanna.
His only daughter had vanished. Eloped with a man no one knew. At first, Rickard had felt only fury—rage at her defiance, at her shameful letter, at the dishonor it cast over House Stark. But now... that same man had gifted the North with enough food to survive not just this winter, but many to come. Twenty Braavosi ships filled with grain, salted meats, dried fruit, and more. The harbor that had stood silent for weeks now echoed with life and gratitude, and it was all because of that one man. Harry Gryffindor.
He didn't know what to feel.
Had Lyanna made the right choice? Had he made all the wrong ones?
Rickard's heart tightened. He thought of Brandon. His firstborn, bold and proud, bound to duty yet cursed with a restless heart. Brandon had always loved Barbrey Ryswell, everyone knew that. But Rickard, stubborn and practical, had made the match with Catelyn Tully instead—for the good of the realm, for grain, for ties with the Riverlands. And what had come of it? Brandon had broken his vows, shamed his name, and fled to Essos with Barbrey like a common exile. Disinherited, gone.
And Catelyn, poor Catelyn—humiliated twice. First abandoned, then forced to marry Brandon's younger brother. Rickard's second son. Eddard.
Rickard looked toward the door, where Eddard stood quietly in conversation with a scribe. His boy was a man now. Lean of frame, quiet as snowfall, with the dark hair and watchful eyes of his mother. But he carried the bearing of a lord. A lord who had never truly known the North.
He had sent Eddard to the Vale, to be fostered by Jon Arryn, to be trained among falcons and knights and southern customs. He had thought it wise. But when Rickard looked into Eddard's eyes now, he saw a man who stood between two worlds and belonged to neither.
"I forced them," Rickard whispered aloud.
The words startled even him.
"I forced Brandon to marry a woman he didn't love. I promised Lyanna to Robert Baratheon, knowing full well she disliked him. And Eddard… I took his home from him and filled his life with other men's dreams. No wonder they ran. No wonder she left. No wonder he looks at me like a stranger."
The chamber was quiet but for the low hum of wind through the slats.
He straightened slowly, a man bearing more than his years. But the fire of a Stark still burned behind his eyes. He could not undo the past. But he could still act. He would not be remembered only as the father who lost two children.
He turned to Eddard, who had now joined him in the chamber.
"Ned," he said, voice low. "We ride north at first light."
"To Winterfell?"
Rickard shook his head. "To every holdfast, every keep, every longhall of the North. To the Umbers, the Karstarks, the Dustins, the Tallharts, the Glovers, and all the rest."
Eddard frowned. "All of them?"
"Aye. We bring the food, ourselves. We show them that it is House Stark who has fed them, not Braavos, not the Manderlys. We remind them of the ties we share—blood, snow, and sacrifice."
Ned hesitated. "And… me?"
Rickard's face softened for the first time in weeks. "You will ride at my side. They must know their next Warden. They must see you not as a boy raised in the Vale… but as a Stark of Winterfell."
Ned looked down, troubled. "What if they don't accept me?"
"Then we show them why they must," Rickard said simply. "And we begin by doing what is right—not what is easy, not what serves our pride, but what saves our people."
Eddard nodded slowly, and something shifted in his eyes. Resolve, perhaps. Or understanding.
Rickard turned once more to the window that overlooked the bustling harbor below. Ships groaning with life-saving goods. Men moving with renewed purpose. A people slowly lifting their heads.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something better.
Maybe a father could still make amends.