Chapter 2
Lord Eddard Stark II
The morning sun bled gold over the stone-paved courtyards of the Red Keep, its warmth doing little to chase the lingering chill in Eddard Stark's bones. It was time. His men were ready.
Two thousand Northerners stood at the ready—mounted, armed, and weathered from war. Not the full strength they'd brought south during Robert's Rebellion; most had already returned home to tend their lands and bury their dead. But those who remained were loyal, hardened, and ready to ride beside their lord back into the heart of the cold.
Among them rode men of note: Lord Rickard Karstark, his long black hair streaked with silver and his voice as deep as a winter storm; Lord Howland Reed, quiet and observant, his green eyes ever watchful beneath the hood of his reedcloak; Ser Medrick Manderly, younger brother to Lord Wyman, a rotund man with a courteous tongue and sharp mind. Lord Helman Tallhart had brought his archers, and Lord Theomore Umber, a lesser branch of the Umbers, had sent his sons to accompany the return procession. Even a few northern merchant agents lingered, handling the paperwork for what would soon be the largest northern convoy of coin in a generation.
Behind them stood wagons—dozens of them—lined and sealed, loaded with barrels of coin marked with the lion of Lannister and the crowned stag of Baratheon. This was no royal gift. It was payment long promised—coin owed for the blood of northern men spilled on southern fields.
Soon, they would leave the shadow of the Red Keep and head northward along the King's Road. They would pass Hayford Castle, then the Ivy Inn, and continue on past the smoking ruins of Harrenhal to the Crossroads Inn, a place that had grown in recent years into a bustling hub for merchants and sellswords alike. Traders from the Vale, Riverlands, and even the Stormlands passed through, peddling grain, cloth, and war spoils. Lord Eddard Stark remembered the last time he was there, when he was a boy on his way to foster in the Vale. Back then, it had been little more than a few inns and a couple of wells.
Now it was a growing township—no castle, no lord, but already important in the way places sometimes are before kings even notice them.
He walked through the camp slowly, offering nods and short words to his bannermen. Many still looked at him with the sorrow of recent memory—Lyanna, Rickard, Brandon—all lost to fire and steel. Some knew the truth. Most did not. And that was for the best.
Near the edge of the square, servants secured a carriage meant to carry the wet nurse and the infant Jon—his nephew, his burden, his lie. The boy was quiet this morning, swaddled in soft wool, pale as snow and silent as a ghost.
He was just about to mount his horse when he heard a voice behind him.
"Ned."
He turned stiffly. "Lord Hand."
Jon Arryn, his foster father for many years, now stood dressed in the white and gold of the royal court. His face was lined deeper than Ned remembered, and his hair had thinned considerably. He looked tired—not just from age, but from rule. The crown weighed heavily, even if it sat on Robert's head.
Jon hesitated before speaking again. "I came to see you off."
Eddard nodded but said nothing. Their conversation the night before had ended with hard words and colder silence. Jon had asked questions. Ned had deflected. The matter of northern taxation and treasury allocations had grown heated, especially with so much promised gold now flowing north.
"I regret the tone I took last night," Jon said carefully. "But I do not regret the questions."
Ned looked away, his jaw set. "And I do not regret avoiding them."
They stood like that for a moment, the noise of the camp swirling around them—horses, shouted orders, clinking armor, creaking wheels.
Jon sighed. "You always were stubborn. But you were also the most honorable boy I ever knew."
"I'm not a boy anymore," Ned replied quietly. "And honor doesn't protect everyone."
Ned gave no reply. There was nothing else to say.
A bell rang from the center of camp—the signal. It was time.
Jon reached out, placing a hand on Ned's shoulder. "You've grown into a fine man, Eddard. I hope Robert does not ruin you the way he's already begun to ruin himself."
Ned gave a small, strained smile. "We can only try."
Then he mounted his horse, gave the signal to his men, and the column began to move—slowly, steadily, northward.
Not straight to Winterfell. Not yet.
He would meet his wife at the Crossroads Inn, where she had promised to wait for him. If he were only traveling with Jon, he might have risked going west to Riverrun. But he now carried the gold of the North, and secrecy and safety were paramount.
His wife would be there, and with her, their son—his son—whom she had written to him about. A boy he had not yet held.
Soon, they would be together.
And then they would all go home.
—
By the time they crested the last ridge and came upon the Crossroads Inn, the day had already begun to dip toward dusk. Ned slowed his horse slightly, letting his gaze sweep over the sprawl below.
The place had changed—grown.
No longer just a few scattered inns and wells, the area had transformed into something larger. Now, there were rows of shops, merchant tents, and food stalls pressing along the well-worn roads. Colorful awnings flapped in the breeze, and the voices of tradesmen, travelers, and even mummers echoed across the muddy yards. It was becoming a small city of its own—an unsung hub of the kingdoms.
Ned guided his horse down the slope, toward the largest of the inns, a tall stone-and-timber structure with banners fluttering above its arched entryway. That's where she would be waiting. His wife. And with her, the child she had promised in her letters.
His pace quickened.
———
Eight Days Later
They were near Greywater Watch now. The land had turned low and wet, and many of the crannogmen who had traveled south with Lord Reed and his men now turned their men and ponies toward home. Lord Eddard Stark gave them his thanks and blessings, and the men slipped away into the reeds, vanishing as only those of the Neck could.
The host had thinned—what had once been two thousand was now barely fourteen hundred. The journey had not been hard, but it had not been easy either. Not for him.
The past few days had weighed on him more than expected.
His wife had been angry.
She hadn't said much, but her cold gaze and clipped words had said enough. He could not blame her. She believed Jon to be his bastard, an insult to her honor, born of war and lust. He could not tell her the truth. Could not speak Lyanna's name, nor reveal the promises made at her dying breath.
And now, to make matters more complicated, his goodfather—Hoster Tully—had arrived at the Crossroads Inn, riding from Riverrun with a modest escort. A political visit, he had claimed. To talk of trade, of course. Nothing more.
But Lord Eddard knew better.
They met in the inn's largest chamber, tapestries drawn and guards posted outside. At first, it was all pleasantries. Lord Hoster Tully spoke of the war's end, of Robert's victory, and of the peace he hoped would follow. Ned listened, polite but cautious. He had known his goodfather long enough to see when words were not what they seemed.
"And now we rebuild," Hoster said, pouring wine into two cups. "The Riverlands are already seeing merchant traffic return. The harvests look promising. Your efforts in the North must be yielding results."
Ned took the cup. "They are. Our people rebuild quietly. The land remembers how to feed them, if given the chance."
"Indeed." Hoster studied him. "Though I've heard less grain being ordered from the Riverlands. A curious change."
Ned's fingers tensed slightly on the cup. "We are growing more of our own. New crops. Infrastructure."
"Ah yes… the influence of that strange man of yours," Hoster said, waving vaguely. "That shadow-merchant of yours—we have heard of some things done by him, that merchant,was it?"
Ned said nothing.
"I had hoped we might speak of trade," Hoster continued. "The North is flush with coin, so I hear. Surely it would benefit all if the old agreements were expanded. Particularly with grain. The Riverlands can supply it in bulk."
Ned set his cup down. "We are not starving. We will not be bled for grain again."
Hoster frowned. "This is not bleeding. It is commerce. Prosperity shared among kin."
"Commerce built on the South's convenience and the North's need. That was the old way."
Hoster's voice cooled. "You're growing prideful, Eddard."
"And you're growing greedy," Ned shot back. "You speak of trade, but you mean control. The North will not be your market to milk, nor your daughter's dowry to leverage."
The conversation flared. Words grew sharp, each man standing now.
"You claim independence," Hoster snapped, "but you forget that the South fed the North during the last long winter."
"And bled us dry doing it," Lord Eddard Stark replied coldly. "You sold grain at triple the fair price and dared call it charity."
"Commerce, Lord Stark. That's what builds kingdoms."
"Commerce? Or extortion? You want the North dependent so we keep your coffers full."
Hoster's expression turned smug. "It is hardly my fault your lands are cold and hard."
Ned stepped forward, his voice low but intense. "We survived before your caravans and will survive after. My people are not pawns in your petty games."
"And what of that boy? That bastard in your arms? You bring him home to your lady wife and expect peace?"
There was silence. A hard silence. Ned's knuckles turned white around the goblet.
"Say that again," he warned.
Hoster didn't flinch. "Everyone knows. You dishonor Catelyn, my daughter."
Ned's voice dropped to a whisper. "Leave Jon out of this. Or by the old gods, I will forget you are kin."
Hoster sneered. "You bring shame to my house."
"And you bring greed to mine," Ned snapped. "The South thinks us savages, yet it is you who would sell your kin for coin. You came not to trade—but to take. Well, there will be no more taking. The North will not be your grain basket."
Hoster's face reddened. "You speak as if you were king."
"No," Ned replied. "I speak as the Warden of the North. And I say this—there will be no deal. Not today. Not ever."
There would be no agreement, no shared vision. Just cold understanding between two men who now knew exactly where they stood.
Finally, Ned turned away. "The North has bled enough. We owe the South nothing more."
He left Lord Hoster in silence, the door shutting behind him like a verdict passed. No trade. No deal. Just cold understanding between two men who now knew where they stood.
.............
Harwin I
He had been on the road for about three days now, riding hard with two hundred men under his command. Their path had followed the so-called King's Road—Harwin snorted at the thought. The 'King's Road.' More like a glorified dirt path, if anyone bothered to ask him.
Not that all roads were bad. The stretch between Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn, and even on through parts of the Barrowlands, was surprisingly well maintained. In fact, Harwin would argue it was the finest road he'd seen in his life. Paved in strange gray stone that set firm under foot and wheel, and smooth enough to ease the burden of any cart. The road shimmered slightly when wet and dried fast after rains. They called it 'concrete'—some Essosi invention. Lord Nhilux had brought back. Sorcery, some whispered. Progress, others claimed.
But past that… well, things went back to the usual mud and stone and wagon-splintering terrain. They were now in the heart of the Barrowlands. From here, the road turned ragged. The path to Moat Cailin was barely worthy of the name, and the route to White Harbor wasn't much better.
Still, they made decent time. They had passed fields that stretched wide and long, and everywhere he looked, he saw patrols and farming folk. Strange new crops dotted the lands—most notably, the potato. A Northern miracle, they said. Grows fast, survives frost, and fills your belly well enough. Harwin had tried it roasted, mashed, boiled, and fried. With the right spice mix from Essos, it was damn good. He wasn't ashamed to admit he asked for seconds whenever the cooks at Winterfell made it.
The lands between Winterfell and Cerwyn were changing. Roads were rising, food was plenty, and even small hamlets had begun trading cloth and hides again. Harwin remembered the long winters when folk could barely walk a league without risking starvation. This felt different. This felt like progress.
It would still take years, maybe decades, for all of the North to be connected by these new roads—paved in that flowing rock that Nhilux had somehow shown the masons how to craft.
Ser Harwin didn't know the man. Not really. Nhilux had always been there—always just behind the next door or beside his father in a meeting. Quiet. Watching. Talking strange when he did. Harwin had never spoken to him directly, never had a reason to. Yet he could still picture him—young, unchanged over the years, wearing odd clothing that looked more fit for a Braavosi actor than a Northern advisor.
The smallfolk had called him all sorts of names when he first arrived: the Shadow Merchant, the East's Ghost, even the Quiet Sorcerer.
Some even whispered he was a warlock cast out of Qarth. And though most laughed, few truly doubted he had some kind of hidden knowledge or purpose. He spoke strangely, always the same whether addressing a lord or a stablehand, and said things no one else understood. Words like 'infrastructure' and 'yield optimization' that made most folks' eyes glaze over. Yet every time he opened his mouth, the world seemed to shift just a little more.
Harwin wasn't sure if the man was a genius or a madman.
Yet he made things happen. The roads. The crops. The coin.
Harwin didn't understand him. But he respected the results.
For now, they'd make do. They were still about two hundred miles from Moat Cailin, but the plan was to veer southeast soon, off the worn road and toward White Harbor. The White Knife's great bridge would be their crossing point, and from there, it was just a short march to the city's gates.
Harwin had been entrusted by his father, Ser Rodrik, to retrieve the first great gold shipment bound for Winterfell. It wasn't just a task. It was a trust. A responsibility. His father had been silent when giving the order, but the look in his eyes had been clear: do not fail.
The men were strong. A mix of guards, riders, and wagonmen. They were armed with good steel, and they knew how to use it. But Harwin still felt the weight. Two hundred thousand gold dragons. That was the number. Even split among dozens of barrels and hidden behind layers of lumber and cloth, it was a tempting prize for any foolish enough to try.
So far, no one had dared. But the road was long yet.
.........…..
Three Days Later
White Harbor rose out of the gray mist like a crown of stone and salt. Harwin and his men approached the southern gate in neat formation, their banners furled to keep from dragging in the damp air. The city bustled as always—carts creaked under the weight of fish and grain, stevedores shouted from the wharfs, and the briny tang of the sea struck his nose as soon as they crested the rise above the harbor road.
They were guided to the gatehouse without delay. Ser Harwin dismounted and presented the letter sealed with the direwolf of House Stark to the guards, who in turn escorted him inside the Hall of the Manderlys.
Lord Wyman Manderly was not present, but his eldest son, Ser Wylis Manderly, awaited him in the great chamber. A portly man with a warm smile and sharp blue eyes, Ser Wylis broke the seal and read the message aloud to himself, nodding slowly.
"Your Lord Benjen is clear and precise," Wylis said at last. "Follow me. The ships are docked and under guard. My father ensured all was in readiness."
They descended stone steps and crossed the bustling harbor yard to the secure docking quarter. There, flanked by Manderly guards, stood four medium carracks, each freshly loaded and tarped over.
Waiting with the captain was another figure—neatly dressed in tailored dark green and gray, with a strange flat notebook tucked under one arm and a thin, gleaming pen in the other. Harwin had seen him once in Winterfell, talking with Nhilux over some complicated numbers that made Harwin's eyes glaze.
"This is Maeron Rusk," Wylis said, with a short gesture. "Appointed by… well, Lord Nhilux, as he's called these days, even if no title's ever been granted. The smallfolk took to it on their own—and the rest of us followed. He's the Logistics and Financial Compliance Officer."
"The what?" Harwin asked, furrowing his brow.
"You can just call me Maeron," the man said, extending a hand with an odd smile. "I'm here to oversee counting, cross-verification, and departure documentation."
"So… you're the coin counter?" Harwin asked, more to himself.
"And ship manifest verifier, yes," Maeron replied smoothly, already flipping pages in his book. "And you'll want to sign here. Then here. And… here. Twice."
Ser Harwin blinked. Gods save him.
.........….
Then he turned to the master of the ships—a grizzled captain named Eymond Shell, a merchant turned royal contractor. They reviewed the manifests, and each barrel was inspected, counted, and resealed with Winterfell's mark. Maeron Rusk, ever meticulous, hovered behind the process with his notebook open and quill.
He approached Captain Shell with a stiff expression. "Why were the barrels in hold three not organized by serial number grouping?"
The grizzled captain blinked. "We… we got them loaded as they came off the carts. There was no order provided."
"There was," Maeron said, tapping the ledger. "In the form of a simple numerical sequence printed on the crate tags. Which I now have to manually reorder."
The captain scratched at his beard, mumbling. "Didn't think it mattered."
"It always matters," Maeron replied curtly. "Order and clarity are what prevent mistakes—and war. Next time, read the tags, Captain. Not all cargo is fish and barley."
Captain Shell muttered something under his breath, but Harwin could tell he'd taken the reprimand to heart. The man's pride was wounded more than anything else.
Maeron, seemingly satisfied, went back to flipping through his records with a speed and ease that made Harwin wonder how anyone could find so much joy in counting things.
"80 barrels, twenty to a ship," Captain Shell confirmed. "A bit more weight than usual, so we had the hulls reinforced. They'll hold, gods willing."
Harwin nodded, his gloved hand brushing the side of one of the crates. Gold, real and heavy. Enough to feed Winterfell's coffers for a generation—or cause a war if word reached the wrong ears.
He assigned teams to oversee the final loading and triple-checked the caravan wagons. His men formed a protective ring as the barrels were transferred with pulley and crane, dock hands moving with practiced care.
Before nightfall, the barrels were quietly moved from the ships into the castle under a light but alert guard presence. Too many soldiers might draw attention, and if common folk started guessing what the sealed barrels contained, drunken boldness might lead to more trouble than necessary. Patrols in the market and near the harbor were doubled for a few hours, just until the last wagon cleared the gate.
Inside the castle, the gold was stored in guarded chambers watched by both Manderly and Winterfell men, with rotation logs and double-sealed doors, as per Lord Nhilux's protocols.
That evening, while Lord Wylis Manderly and Maeron Rusk spoke at length over parchment, numbers, and future shipments, Harwin sat quietly to the side. He drank only two watered-down cups of whisky—Mormont's Cask, no less, and in fine glass cups he was told were made by House Dustin.
"You'll be sending the next convoy through the western route?" Wylis asked, running a finger along a line in the ledger.
Maeron nodded. "If weather permits. Lord Nhilux recommends sending decoys and splitting the shipment across three separate landings. One at Saltpans, another at Maidenpool, and one through Gulltown if we must."
"That's a wide net."
"It's not just about where," Maeron said, flipping another page. "It's about who knows. The fewer that do, the better."
Wylis hummed in agreement. "And the banking arrangements? The Bravosi are growing curious."
"They'll have answers. Not truths. But answers. Lord Nhilux already prepared letters to send with neutral merchants. Enough to ease their curiosity."
"Seven help me," Wylis muttered. "Sometimes I wonder if your master's really from across the Narrow Sea or somewhere deeper."
Maeron allowed himself a small grin. "Let's just say he plans ahead."
"He plans everything," Wylis said. "Even the glass we drink from. House manderly and bolton never made glass before he came north. Now they have a kiln and a contract."
"Jobs. Coin. Stability."
"Aye," Wylis admitted. "But also influence."
Maeron looked up at him. "Would you rather he demanded taxes instead of trade? Titles instead of work?"
Wylis chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no. I like gold that builds roads more than crowns that build thrones."
"Then we understand each other," Maeron said, folding one of the pages. "I've already sent word for the next materials shipment to the Barrowlands. Those new forges won't supply themselves."
Harwin listened in silence, swirling the whisky in his cup. It all sounded like copper counting, but he couldn't deny the results.
Lord Nhilux again, at the center of it all.
He let the voices fade behind him. Another page turned, and another contract discussed. Gods, they could count numbers in their sleep.
Harwin stood. He'd had enough. Better to check the guard rotations than drown in merchant talk.
Another luxury. Another marvel. So much had changed in eight years, he thought. And for the better.
The voices of Maeron and Lord Wylis droned on behind him, more coin counting and terms he didn't care to learn. Harwin stood, muttered something polite, and excused himself. He'd make one last round of the guards, then walk the castle walls for some fresh air.
His family had been minor nobility for generations—never landless, but never powerful either. No keep of their own. Just service.
Until last year.
He remembered it clearly. Lord Stark had returned from the Vale, banners called, and war looming. One quiet morning, Harwin and his father had been summoned. Lord Eddard showed them a sealed letter from his late father, Lord Rickard Stark. The ink was faded, but the meaning was not.
That same morning, another figure had stood beside the hearth—dark coat, sharp gaze, hands folded behind his back. Harwin hadn't known who he was at first. Only when Ned addressed him, with a hesitant "Lord Nhilux," did he realize.
Lord stark had been wary, that much was clear. He stood a little stiffer in the man's presence, like someone trying to remember the face of a ghost from their childhood. He had met Nhilux before—barely—back when he was just a boy being sent to the Vale. But the man hadn't aged a day since. That fact alone was enough to unsettle even a Stark.
Harwin recalled the flicker of uncertainty in Lord Stark's eyes as Nhilux laid out plans for trade routes, investments, and rebuilding the North's infrastructure. The words were strange, the delivery stranger. And yet, Rickard Stark had trusted this man with more than coin—he had trusted him with vision.
That day, Harwin had seen something else too. Respect. Not freely given, but gradually earned.
Even Ned, for all his reserve, had listened.
They had been granted a keep—a real one—in the Barrowlands, nestled along the Saltspear Way near the Fever River. His father said the place had once been grand, and could be again. It would take work, but it would be theirs. Pride swelled in his chest just thinking about it.
Later that day, Harwin had spoken with his father. But before that, there had been a meeting. One he wouldn't soon forget.
It had taken place in one of Winterfell's smaller halls—less formal than the Great Hall, but warmer, quieter. Lord Eddard Stark was already seated when Harwin and his father entered. Across from him stood Lord Nhilux, dark coat sharp against the firelight, arms loosely folded behind his back as if he were only halfway invested in the conversation.
Ser Rodrik bowed slightly. "My lord. Lord Nhilux."
"Just Nhilux is fine," came the easy reply. "I've told people for years—I'm not a lord, I just dress better than one."
Ser Harwin raised an eyebrow at the strange turn of phrase, and even Lord Eddard Stark's brow twitched in subtle confusion.
"You walk into a room like a lord, speak like a—" Ned started, unsure.
"A hedge knight with too much confidence and not enough sense?" Nhilux offered helpfully. "Yes, I've heard. Don't worry. I'm used to it."
Rodrik gave a soft cough, hiding a chuckle. Ned's wariness didn't fade, but the tension eased a fraction.
Ned nodded. "Thank you both for coming. We've much to speak of."
Nhilux tilted his head. "I'll try to keep it short. You know how thrilling coin ledgers are."
Harwin blinked. The man's voice was dry, easy. No formal tones, no highborn airs. He spoke like a tavern friend commenting on the weather.
"Lord Nhilux has reviewed the sites near the Saltspear and the Fever," Ned began. "He believes—with some effort—a new center of commerce can be established there."
"The canal project will make the location essential," Nhilux added. "Think crossroads—only with boats. The new keep will oversee much of the east-west river trade when it comes."
Ser Rodrik's brows lifted. "And you're sure the land can support that?"
"Already surveyed," Nhilux said, sliding a folder of parchment toward Ned. "You'll need local labor, timber imports from Skagos, and at least three forge teams. But it's doable. Two years for phase one. Maybe four for completion."
Ned didn't speak immediately. His eyes flicked to Harwin for a moment before returning to Nhilux. "You talk about phases like this is… clockwork."
"It should be," Nhilux replied, calm. "Most lords plan with emotion. I plan with milestones."
Ser Harwin stared at the man. There was something almost casual in how he made plans that would shape decades.
Finally, Lord Eddard Stark looked to Ser Rodrik. "Your family will be granted the keep and surrounding lands. It's overdue."
Rodrik bowed his head. "You honor us, my lord."
"Don't thank me," Ned said. "Thank my father. He left the letter. I'm simply fulfilling his will."
Nhilux looked to Harwin then. "Congratulations, Ser Harwin. May your new halls have better wine than this place."
Ser Harwin could only nod. Gods, the man was strange.
But his words came with truth.
It was a beginning.
...
Then later that day, Harwin had spoken with his father...
They met in one of the interior courtyards, where the wind didn't bite quite so hard. Ser Rodrik stood by the low stone wall, hands clasped behind his back, his face open with rare, unguarded joy.
"So," Rodrik said without turning. "How does it feel to be the son of a future Lord?"
Harwin stepped beside him. "Strange. But good."
Rodrik chuckled. "Aye. That's about how I feel. I've fought in more wars than I care to count. Served three lords. Never once thought I'd see this day."
Harwin hesitated. "You looked… happy in there. Happiest I've seen you."
His father turned and smiled, lines softening around his eyes. "Because I am. We've always done our duty. Quietly. Without expectation. And now, the Starks have shown what they are—just. Grateful. Loyal."
His father looked back toward the east. "You know, LordNhilux once told me something odd, years ago. Said that when good men are given tools and trust, they'll build a better world without needing commands."
Harwin snorted. "Sounds like something he'd say."
"Doesn't mean he's wrong," Rodrik replied. "He's got ideas, that one. Big ones. I only understand half of them. But today, your Lord Nhilux told me that near our new keep, there's been talk of resuming the canal work soon."
Harwin blinked. "A canal? Through the land?"
"Aye. Something about connecting the Saltspear to the coast on the west, speeding trade across the region. I don't understand how, but he says it's possible."
Harwin gave a low whistle. "Sounds mad."
"Most great things do at first."
They stood together a while longer in silence.
Then Rodrik added, softer, "I'm just glad the name Cassel will mean something more. That your children will have stone walls and a roof built with honor."
Harwin felt his throat tighten. "I'll make sure it lasts, Father. I swear it."
Rodrik nodded. "Then we've already won more than most men ever do."
And for once, change didn't feel like something to fear.
———
Later that night, after checking the guard rotations and confirming the gold barrels were safely locked behind reinforced doors, Ser Harwin found himself wandering the castle walls alone. The moonlight cast long silver shadows across the battlements, and the sea air rolled in with the scent of brine and fish. It was peaceful.
His thoughts drifted, as they always did in quiet moments, to his father. Ser Rodrik had spent a lifetime in service, and now they had a keep to their name—real stone, real land. A future. It still felt strange, but good. Just as he'd told him.
His father had been hinting lately that it was time Harwin began thinking of marriage. A wife. Children. Roots. Harwin didn't know what to make of it. He'd never had the time, never felt the need. But now… now there was land to pass on. And maybe someone to share it with wouldn't be so bad.
A soft voice broke the quiet.
"Ser Harwin?"
He turned, surprised. A young woman stood not far down the wall walk, her cloak catching the sea breeze. She held a handkerchief embroidered with the leaping merman of House Manderly.
"My lady?" Harwin offered a respectful bow.
She stepped closer, her smile warm. "You're Ser Rodrik's son, aren't you? Ser Harwin Cassel?"
"I am, my lady," he replied. "Forgive me, I don't believe we've been introduced."
"I'm Maella Manderly," she said, her voice lilting and bright. "Second daughter of Lord Wyman."
Harwin straightened. "An honor, my lady."
She gave a soft laugh. "You're very polite. Too polite for a knight who will escort gold across half the North."
He grinned slightly. "I try not to let the road wear down my manners."
"I saw you earlier," she said, folding the handkerchief into her sleeve. "At the counting table. You looked like you were dying of boredom."
"I was," Harwin admitted. "If I hear the word 'ledger' one more time, I may throw myself into the harbor."
She laughed again, eyes sparkling. "Well then, I suppose I've come to rescue you from such a fate."
"That's very kind of you, my lady."
They walked slowly along the battlements, side by side. Her presence was graceful, unforced. Harwin found himself sneaking the occasional glance. She was lovely—hair like spun silver, and a smile that made the cold night feel warmer.
"You've been to Winterfell?" he asked.
"A few times," she said. "I remember the old gods' wood. And the wolves—the statues in the Great Keep always gave me chills when I was little."
"You should see it now," Harwin said. "The castle's growing, the town too. Lord Nhilux has ideas for everything."
She tilted her head. "You trust him?"
Harwin paused. "I don't understand him. But I trust what he's built. And my father trusts him. That's enough for me."
"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "He always seemed mysterious. But I suppose even shadows can be warm, if they shelter you from the storm."
Harwin smiled. "That's… a poetic way to put it."
"I like poetry," Maella said, brushing her hair from her face. "And strong knights who look too serious for their own good."
He flushed a little, caught off guard. "Well, I suppose that's me."
They reached the corner tower and looked out over the moonlit harbor. The water shimmered. Somewhere below, sailors sang softly.
"My lady—"
"Maella," she said gently.
He inclined his head. "Maella. I hope this isn't too bold… but I'm glad you found me tonight."
She looked up at him. "So am I, Ser Harwin."
And they stood together in the quiet, while the world carried on beneath them.
———
The next morning, Ser Harwin woke before the sun crested the city's walls. The faint blue of dawn painted the eastern sky, and the sea air carried a damp chill. Without wasting time, he found his second-in-command—Ser Wendel, a squat man with a knack for drills—and shook him awake.
"Rise," Harwin ordered, nudging him with a boot. "We've got dragons to guard and barrels to count."
Ser Wendel groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Gods, you're worse than the ravens."
Harwin said with a stoic face, then burst into a short laugh. "Hah! You're lucky—I'll take that as a compliment. Get the men ready. Full check of our formation. We depart in hours."
Wendel muttered curses as he stumbled off to gather the morning watch.
Harwin's next stop was the guest chambers, where Maeron Rusk—Nhilux's chosen 'Logistics and Financial Compliance Officer'—was surely still buried under parchment.
Harwin didn't knock. He pushed the door open to find Maeron already awake, squinting at a ledger by candlelight, pen moving in quick strokes.
"You sleep in that chair?" Harwin asked.
Maeron blinked at him. "If I did, it would be the most productive rest of my week. Everything is triple-verified. What do you want?"
"To make sure nothing explodes under my feet when we march," Harwin replied. "Double-check every wagon. Confirm every seal. I want it locked tighter than a Lannister vault… or a whore's cunt in Oldtown."
"Already done," Maeron replied. "But I'll check again. Because clearly I'm not neurotic enough for you yet."
"Damn right," Harwin said with a grin. "I'm not leaving anything to chance."
Maeron grumbled something about 'commanding maniacs' and started gathering his scrolls.
Harwin left satisfied. Everything was in order—or would be. And that meant he could take the last hour of the morning for something far more pleasant.
He made his way through the castle halls and toward the garden balconies, where he hoped, perhaps, to find the silver-haired Lady Maella waiting again in the morning light.
———
An hour later, the time had come. Ser Harwin stood at the front of the departing column, the barrels of gold secured tightly in the wagons behind him. Two hundred of his own men stood ready, joined now by an additional one hundred and forty Manderly guards gifted by Lord Wylis for added protection.
As Harwin gave orders and ran his final checks, he caught sight of Maeron Rusk in the courtyard, speaking quickly with Lord Wylis Manderly.
"Your signature here," Maeron said, pointing to his ledger. "And your seal below. If these aren't confirmed before departure, we'll have a nightmare reconciling the shipment logs with the White Knife manifest."
Lord Wylis chuckled as he pressed his ring to wax. "You worry like a banker, Maeron."
"And we still have the gold," Maeron quipped. "Coin moves faster than trust."
Their voices faded as Harwin turned back to his men. Then something made him glance up.
There she was.
Lady Maella stood along the high wall near the gate, framed in sunlight, her pale cloak fluttering in the wind. She held no banner, said no words. Only smiled.
Harwin smiled back.
He reached to his arm where, tied beside his own crest of House Cassel, was her handkerchief—the leaping merman delicately embroidered in blue thread. He lifted his arm just slightly, letting her see.
Her smile widened.
And then the gates opened, and the convoy rolled forward.
Author notes -
i was bored so ended up writing this chapter early and almost done with chapter 4 as well.
might release the next chapter tomorrow.