The Great Hall of Winterfell was a storm of warmth and sound. Firelight danced off the stone walls, chasing shadows across the old timber beams. Goblets clinked, hounds barked, and the laughter of men—seasoned lords and southern knights alike—rose like song above the music of harp and pipe.
At the high table, Wylis Manderly sat among the northern lords, his seat near Lord Stark and the King a quiet signal of White Harbor's rising influence. He wore a cloak of deep sea-green, trimmed in white fur, and kept his goblet untouched. Every word spoken tonight could shape the North's future.
Across from him, Robert Baratheon was already deep into his cups, one hand wrapped around a silver goblet, the other slapping Ned Stark's shoulder hard enough to rock the lord in his seat.
"Seven hells, Ned!" the King bellowed, eyes bright with drink and memory. "Do you remember that night on Stannis's flagship? When the Ironborn nearly took our heads off?"
"I remember," Ned said mildly, though his voice was distant. "You nearly fell overboard trying to swing your hammer in the rain."
Robert roared with laughter. "Aye! And Stannis nearly had me keelhauled for wasting the ship's best wine!"
He turned toward Wylis with a broad grin. "What say you, Lord Manderly? Ever had to fight drunk on a ship's deck?"
Wylis met the King's gaze evenly. "My father always said that the sea respects steel, not spirits. I've tried to honor that wisdom."
Robert grinned wider. "Spoken like a man raised by sailors and stewards. Tell me, though—your ships, I hear they're something to behold. Stronger than even the Greyjoys' longships?"
Some of the northern lords turned at that, their interest piqued—or threatened.
"They are built to endure more than the Ironborn ever dreamed," Wylis said, his tone calm. "Steel-ribbed, cold-forged, and fast even against the wind. The North will never be caught unready again."
Robert gave an approving nod. "Good. Gods, I should've burned Pyke to ash when I had the chance. That Greyjoy pup is biding his time."
Wylis sipped his wine, saying nothing. He agreed—but Balon Greyjoy was not the threat that kept him awake at night.
Quiet Questions
As the feast wore on, Wylis noticed Lord Stark watching him with growing intensity. Ned's expression rarely changed, but his eyes revealed the burden of decisions not yet made.
When the talk at the high table turned to hawking and horseflesh, Ned leaned toward him.
"You still wish to lead that expedition?"
Wylis answered without hesitation. "More than ever."
Ned studied him. "We'll speak in private tomorrow. For tonight… keep your blade sheathed and your cup half-full."
Wylis inclined his head. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no. And in the North, that was often the only kind of answer that mattered.
The Queen's Gaze
A chill passed through him. He looked across the hall, down the rows of lords, knights, and smallfolk.
Queen Cersei Lannister watched him from her place beside the King. Her eyes were sharp, green as wildfire, and fixed directly on him. She held her goblet lightly, her lips curved in a smile too deliberate to be idle.
Wylis met her gaze.
She didn't look away.
He forced himself to break eye contact first, his mind already spinning. The Queen's curiosity was dangerous. Her interest—deadly.
Stone and Steel
Later, under moonlight, Wylis stood atop the outer wall of Winterfell. Below, the clash of steel echoed in the training yard as Stark men drilled beneath Ser Rodrik's watchful eye. Beyond the walls, the Wolfswood whispered in the dark, and in that rustling hush, he imagined he could still hear Odin's voice.
But there was nothing. No counsel. No warnings. Only memory.
He closed his eyes.
Valyria took more than it gave.
Still, the fire had not left him. Without Odin, he was slower, more cautious. But the vision remained. The dead marched, and the realm dallied with hunts, feasts, and petty crowns.
A Stark Decision
By candlelight, a private council had gathered in the Great Hall's solar. Lord Eddard sat at its head, flanked by Lady Catelyn and their eldest son. Wylis stood across from them, maps and letters spread before him.
"You ask for a dangerous thing," Ned said. "The Watch is failing, that I do not doubt. But to lead an armed force beyond the Wall… that is no small matter."
"I ask not for an army," Wylis replied. "Only a chance. Let me take my best men north. If there is nothing, I will return and say so. But if there is something… the North must be ready."
Robb leaned forward, frowning. "Do you really believe these stories? Walking corpses? Ice demons?"
"I believe what I've seen, and what I've heard from those who've fled them," Wylis said. "The Free Folk don't abandon their homes without cause."
Lady Stark watched him with narrowed eyes. "Even if it's true, what good will a dozen men do against such a threat?"
"None—if we do nothing," Wylis said. "But proof will move men. Proof will bring swords to bear before it's too late."
Ned's fingers tapped the edge of the table. Then, at last: "If Lord Commander Mormont gives his leave, you'll have your chance. But this expedition will be discreet. No banners. No proclamations. If you fail, I cannot protect you."
Wylis inclined his head. "I do not need protection. Only permission."
The Night Ahead
He stepped out into the night, the wind biting and sharp. In the sky above Winterfell, the stars were hard and cold as iron.
One step closer.
The King was distracted. The Queen was watching. The Starks were wary.
But the North was stirring.
And soon, the Wall would open.