The wind that swept through New Castle was cold and clean, smelling faintly of the sea and the faint sweetness of the city's white stone below. From the solar window, Arthur could see the harbor, his harbor, gleaming beneath the pale morning sun. Gulls wheeled over the masts, and the tide hissed softly against the piers. The bells of the Snowy sept were tolling for morning prayers.
For as long as he could remember, Arthur had felt the pull of gods older than those he was born to. They whispered in his dreams, in lost words and memories. He could still recall the stillness of the air, kneeling before the red leaves of the heart tree of Winterfell. The bitter taste of the bloody sap on his tongue, and then the dream, so vivid he could smell the frost in it.
The Wall of ice raised by hands that both bled and broke. First Men driving blades of bronze into earthen children. Pale shapes of ice watching from the darken beyond. And in the end, he saw a man, faceless, nameless, sealing a small chest with his blood and lowering it into the still black water of Winterfell's godswood lake.
He had nearly drowned trying to reach it. Five times he had plunged beneath those freezing waters, his limbs turning to lead, his chest burning. On the fifth, he surfaced gasping, the chest bound to him with rope. Lord Stark had found him there, near blue with cold.
The chest was old, older than the castle, older perhaps than men's memory. Maester Luwin had said the symbols carved upon it were of a forgotten tongue. It was beyond translation, he said. Yet Arthur had understood them as if they had been whispered to him.
"Zhoub Dena, Zhoub Nabir, Mi Sora, Mi Shar, Sanasant Alep Gerna Mohra"
"Earth song, Earth fire, My life, My blood, Knowledge for Those Who Sing The Song of The Earth."
He had told Lord Eddard what was written, and he became curious to know more. But then Lady Catelyn interrupted and called it a thing of black magic. Maester Luwin also counseled that it was best forgotten. Lord Stark had frowned at their words, yet complied with their request. He ordered Arthur to return the chest to where it belonged.
Arthur had obeyed, outwardly. Yet in the darkness of the woods, he had the chest replaced with another and sent the true one to New Castle. There in the solitude of his solar, Arthur had opened it using his own blood, as he saw blood bind it in the dreams. The chest had glowed as if lit by a forge within. Inside were scrolls, pale and ancient. Runes of making and breaking, of binding and offering. Spells to raise stone, shape earth, and turn blood to power.
The moon hung heavy that night, a pale and pitiless eye peering through the drifting fog over White Harbor. The godswood within the Wolf's Den was smaller than Winterfell's, yet stronger somehow, stronger in spirit, stronger in the quiet dread that lingered beneath its boughs.
Arthur stood before it, his breath misting in the chill. The roots beneath his feet pulsed faintly, as though the tree itself were alive. He had come to it many times before, with his runes and his failed hopes. Chickens, goats, even rams, all had been offered, all in vain. The gods had remained silent, their faces turned away from him.
Blood alone can find the way, he remembered reading in the runes. Blood freely given.
Arthur knelt upon the cold earth, drew the knife from his belt, the steel shone, sharp and bright. Arthur pressed it against his palm, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated.
The pain was sharp, clean. The blood welled up, dark and thick, and dripped upon the roots.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then the air shifted. A wind rose from nowhere, soft and sighing, rustling through the leaves like a voice too old for words. Arthur's head swam, and he fell to one knee.
He saw again the visions, a thousand faces within the tree, their eyes red as blood and dark as twilight. He saw fire dancing upon ice, saw crows flying endlessly, saw shadows creeping through the halls. And at the center of it all, a whisper, the weight of it heavy against his will. More, it said, you must give more.
Arthur gasped, and the vision broke. The weirwood's red eyes fixed upon him.
The next moonrise, he brought Bartimus into the godswood. The old one-eyed gaoler had been his family's obedient servant since before Arthur was born. He had once saved Lord Wyman's life. Arthur remembered that well. He also remembered how easily the one-legged man obeyed when he asked him to kneel.
"Forgive me," Arthur muttered softly and whispered the words, words he had never thought to utter.
The runes he carved upon the ground glowed faintly blue, the air thick with the scent of snow and blood. The symbols of binding, words of the forgotten tongue. Bartimus looked upon them with fear.
"My lord," he said, voice trembling, "what is this sorcery?"
The runes flared, and Bartimus screamed. For a moment, his eyes turned white as milk. Then they stilled. Arthur's stomach turned as he stepped back, trembling. The old man rose, stiff as a corpse, and knelt again.
Bartimus bowed his head. "Your will is mine, my lord."
Arthur had to look away. He could not bear the emptiness in the man's eyes. Yet he couldn't stop, not after he came this far.
After Bartimus came others. The guards who grew too curious, the smugglers caught in the harbor, the slaves he had freed from southern ships, broken men, empty men. He bound them all, one by one. The runes took hold easily in those shattered spirits. They became the first of the red-robed men, silent, obedient, faceless.
The cells beneath the Wolf's Den were never empty. Thieves, murderers, smugglers, all condemned men. Came and went, unseen by the good folk of White Harbor. Few were missed. None were mourned.
Arthur told himself he was giving them a purpose, an end to their suffering. As if it would make the sacrifices more bearable. Every life he gave to the roots of the heart tree deepened his understanding and his damnation. Arthur saw new symbols within his dreams. When he woke, he found his hand moving of its own accord, drawing those runes upon parchment. He understood them without knowing how.
And he kept on going. One prisoner became ten, then twenty, then a hundred. Sacrifices that taught him to draw the heart's power into his blood, to find what was forgotten, and to do what was needed.
On the outskirts of the old city, where the hills met the Knife, he carved symbols deep into the soil. When his blood touched the seals, the ground trembled, and the smell of sulfur rose. The next morning, his miners found veins of silver glinting through the rock, then gold, soft and pure, where none had ever been before.
From that wealth, he built everything. New walls for his city, raising it stone by stone beside the White Knife, lined with runes only he could read. He remade the city in the image of his will, his bank, his ships in the harbor, his trade routes through the Narrow Sea, and his industries, all flourishing under the merman's banners. White Harbor gleamed brighter than ever before, its people feasting on prosperity they did not understand.
He let everyone believe it was a fortune. A blessing. He even let himself believe it was for White Harbor. To protect, to strengthen, to prepare. For his house. For legacy.
Yet as he stood before the heart again under the full moon, he could not escape the truth that pressed like a knife against his throat. The gods had not demanded these things of him. He had sought it himself. A curse is what it was and what it will remain.
Arthur had drawn a symbol on his pale, scarred, trembling hand. He cut his palm once more and whispered the spells. The wounds of his body closed before his eyes, the flesh knitting together, leaving no scar. He looked down at his hands, unmarred, perfect, strong. Stronger than any man's should be.
The wind rustled through the leaves, soft as breath. Arthur turned his gaze upward. The heart tree stared back, its carved eyes deep and knowing, its mouth curved in what might have been sorrow, or something far colder.
"Forgive me," he whispered, though whether to the gods or to himself, he could not say. For if Wolf's Den had been a forge, he was her smith. If it had been a temple, he was the priest. Yetthe Den wasaprison,andnowhe,too, was forever condemned toit.
A knock pulled him from the depths of his horrors.
Ser Thomas More entered first, followed by Anthony Medici of the Merlin Bank. Behind them came two scribes bearing ledgers.
"My lord," Thomas began with his usual measured tone, "our engineers report they've found new veins in the mines to the west. They believe the vein runs deep and true."
Anthony smiled thinly, eyes gleaming. "Excellent tidings, my lord. That means more coin for the bank, and for the city."
Arthur turned his gaze back to the harbor, watching a line of ships gliding into the docks. "No," he said softly. "The production will remain as it is. Let the ore rest. There are more than enough coin already."
The two men bowed slightly, chastened. "As you say, my lord,"
"The rents from the northern lands have been collected," Thomas went on, consulting his parchment. "The king's tithe has been set aside. The rest of the tithes arrives soon. We shall hand the full levy to the crown then. Lord Baelish's collectors grow impatient."
"Good," Arthur nodded. "When Winterfell sends the last of it, keep the grain here. The Mockingbird hungers for gold more than corn. So, we will send coin instead."
"As you command, my lord."
The oaken doors of the solar creaked open once more. There strode forth his uncles, Wylis and Wendel, followed by Beron Harstark, Lord Admiral of the Manderly Fleet, and Harrison Wells, master-at-arms of New Castle. Each offered Arthur their greetings, and with a soft courtesy, he inclined his head, beckoning them to be seated.
Arthur began, his tone measured, "Lord Admiral, has Commodore Alyn sent word?"
Beron shifted, drawing a sealed parchment from his cloak before setting it down. "Aye, my lord. Commodore Storm has taken his post at Morne's harbor. The winds favor him, he writes. He and Aurane Waters have begun patrolling the stepstone routes. Several pirate galleys they have driven off, and more put to the torch. Lord Monford awaits but your signal to commence the invasion."
Arthur nodded, fingers drumming lightly upon the table. "And our allies?"
Anthony spoke next, "The offers were well received, my lord. Contracts have been drawn with Lord Yronwood, Lord Redwyne, and the Free City of Myr. We await, yet, the word of Storm's End, Lys, and Tyrosh."
Wendel shifted, glancing toward Arthur. "This invasion, nephew, are we certain we wish to wade into these treacherous lands? The stepstones have drowned a hundred fleets before ours."
"The Stepstones are a graveyard, aye," Arthur said softly. "But they are also a gate, and every gate must have a keeper. Better it be us than some sellsails with a hunger for coin and chaos."
There was a murmur of reluctant agreement around the table.
Arthur walked in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, the echo of his boots steady against the marble. Donnel Locke followed at his shoulder, the knight's presence as constant as his shadow.
Donnel spoke, his voice low. "Have you decided yet?"
Arthur did not answer at once. "Aye," he said finally, softly. "I have."
Donnel nodded, though there was something like pity in his gaze. "Good. I'm proud of you."
Arthur smirked, "Are you now?"
"Aye," Donnel replied, "It was a hard choice for you, perhaps, yet it was also needed."
Arthur's mouth curved faintly, "Most choices worth making usually are."
They reached the end of the corridor where two guards flanked a great oaken door bound in iron. Inside, warmth and the scent of honeyed wine filled the air. A fire roared in the hearth, casting gold light across shelves of books, scrolls, and the heavy map-strewn table where Lord Wyman Manderly held court even in his old age.
"Arthur, my boy!" Wyman called his tone as hearty as ever. "You've come at last. I was beginning to think the council had swallowed you whole."
Arthur bowed his head. "Forgive me, grandfather. Matters of the state took longer than I'd hoped."
"No matter, no matter." Wyman waved a hand. "Come, sit. We've cause for cheer tonight."
Wynafryd was already present, seated near the hearth. "Cousin," she greeted, her smile bright. "You come just in time to hear our grandsire's good tidings."
Arthur inclined his head. "So I've heard."
Wyman's chest swelled with pride as he gestured toward her. "Our sweet Wynafryd has chosen her match. Lord Helman Tallhart's son, Benfred. The betrothal is sealed, and I've sent word to Torrhen's Square. A fine lad, stalwart and true. The Tallharts have ever been loyal friends."
Arthur smiled warmly and stepped forward to take Wynafryd's hand. "Then I offer my joy, Wyn. May your union bring happiness to you and honor to our house."
Her eyes softened. "And may yours do the same, when the time comes."
Arthur hesitated, then turned to face his grandsire fully. "It has come, my lord."
Wyman's brows rose, his ruddy face brightening. "Oh? Then speak, lad! Don't keep an old man waiting."
Arthur drew a slow breath. "I have given thought to your counsel and to my duty. I've decided to pursue a match with House Royce. A daughter of Lord Yohn, if the lord of Runestone agrees."
At that, Wyman leaned forward, delight kindling in his eyes. "Royce of Runestone! The blood of the First Men, proud and ancient. You choose well, Arthur, very well. Their line has honor, and strength besides."
Arthur inclined his head. "If that union should not be possible, then I would seek Desmera Redwyne of the Arbor. The Redwynes are old and powerful, kin to the Tyrells. Both matches serve our house and the realm."
Wyman clapped his hands together, his laughter rolling through the chamber. "Ha! You've made your grandsire proud tonight, Arthur. We'll send our ravens come the morrow and begin the talks at once. We will see Manderly rise to its rightful place yet."
Arthur smiled faintly, "You will, my lord."
His grandfather leaned forward in his great chair, the wood creaking under his girth, and said, "Now then, my boy, there's more yet to discuss. Word came from King's Landing. His Grace will call for a tourney, a grand one, to honor his new Hand. Knights from all corners of the realm will be there."
Arthur straightened slightly, his expression unreadable.
Wyman's smile broadened. "You must go, Arthur. Bring glory to our house once again."
Arthur's brow furrowed faintly. "Grandfather," he began, his voice calm but edged with restraint, "I need to stay at White Harbor now. There is still much to be done—"
Wyman waved a broad hand, dismissing his words like smoke. "Bah! You've built a realm within a city, lad. It will stand a few weeks without you. Go and win the tourney. Let the people see our banner fly among the lions and roses. The north grows richer by your hand, but power, true power, lies in the eyes that watch you. You also need to seek the crown's favor, don't you?"
Arthur replied, "Favor earned through coin and counsel is stronger than that won on the tiltyard, grandfather."
"Ah, my foolish, stubborn boy," Wyman chuckled, "Glory blinds better than gold, and men love a hero more than a steward."
Wynafryd rose from her chair then, her voice soft but steady. "Grandfather is right, Arthur. Though it aches my heart to see you go from home again, you must attend the court."
Wyman's mirth softened then, "Your cousin speaks wisely, Arthur."
Arthur's eyes met hers, "Aye….. Perhaps too wisely for my liking."
She smiled brightly. "Well, I am older than you."
He exhaled slowly. "Very well. I will go."
Wyman's face split into a broad grin. "Ha! I knew the lad had sense beneath that stubborn brow. Splendid! Lord Royce will surely be there as well, a perfect opportunity to speak of the match. I'll send Wendel with you. He'll speak to Lord Yohn on my behalf, and likely eat half the city while he's at it."
Wynafryd smiled at that. "If any man can charm Yohn Royce, it would be Uncle Wendel."
"That's my gallant Wendel!" Wyman laughed deep and loud, shaking the table with his mirth. "And this time, you'll not ride south as a humble envoy. Take a sizeable retinue with you, knights, banners, men-at-arms. Let the realm see the strength of White Harbor, not mere whispers of its wealth."
Arthur inclined his head. "As you command, my lord."
"Good lad." Wyman leaned back, satisfied. "Then it's settled! We'll make the preparations at once."
Wynafryd tilted her head, studying him, as if she might glimpse what stirred behind his measured tone. But she said nothing. Arthur took his leave soon after, the warmth of the fire fading as the heavy doors closed behind him.
The corridor beyond was cool and dim once more. Donnel waited there, silent. Arthur walked beside him without a word. To the south again, he thought. To the court, to the game.... toMarie. No laughter had been softer than hers, no touch warmer. Yet that warmth had no place in his life any longer.
Donnel glanced at him, as if sensing the turn of his thoughts. "You'll be fine, Arthur," he said quietly.
Arthur gave a faint, almost wistful smile. "Aye... I will."
The harbor of White Harbor was alive that morning, a swell of banners and shouts rolling over the salt-bitten air. The Merman's fleet rocked gently in their berths, pennants fluttering bright against a grey sky. Dockhands and guardsmen hurried about with crates and barrels bound for King's Landing.
Arthur stood upon the stone quay beside Ser Donnel, his cloak pulled close against the sea-wind. Around them, a dozen landed knights of their house, each with their own retainers and squires.
One of them, a broad-shouldered knight with a boyish grin beneath a trimmed beard, strode up to them with easy confidence. "Ser Donnel!" he called. "By the gods, it is wonderful to see you again, commander."
"Robert, you brat," Donnel said, breaking into a grin as he clasped the man in a fierce embrace. "All grown up now, are you?" Ser Robert Gale. Donnel's former squire, and once one of the youngest swords of his guards.
"Some would say so, ser," Gale laughed, pulling back with a mock bow. His eyes shifted to Arthur then, and his tone grew more formal. "Ser Arthur, it is an honor to meet you again. I do not know if you remember me."
Arthur smiled. "I remember you well, Ser. How could I forget the famed Robert Ironside?"
The knight chuckled, ducking his head modestly. "An undeserved title, my lord."
"Definitely undeserved," Donnel cut in, grinning. "It should have been Ser Gale Laughs-a-lot."
"Aye, perhaps. Better that than Gale Dropped-His-Sword-in-the-Mud." The younger knight replied with a grin.
That earned a hearty laugh from the men. Before more could be said, a herald's horn blew from the quay gates. His uncle Wylis approached in company with his wife, Lady Leona. Behind them came Wynafryd and Wylla, the younger trailing her sister like a restless shadow. Several ladies in waiting followed close.
"Your fleet looks ready enough to conquer cities, nephew," Wylis said, his voice warm but weary. "Seven hells, half the realm could mistake it for a war host."
Arthur smiled, the faintest curve of his lips. "Merely to reach King's Landing in one piece, uncle," he said lightly. "The seas are less forgiving than cities."
Lady Leona's voice was soft, but it carried the kind of weight only a mother's worry could bear. "Do not jest so grimly, Arthur," she said, the wind tugging at her veil. "You'll anger the gods if you mock their mercy."
Arthur smiled faintly, though his heart was elsewhere. "I beg pardon, Aunt Leona," he said softly. "They've been merciful thus far. I'll not tempt them further."
Wylla, standing just beside her mother, "Please take me with you," she pleaded, her voice small yet bold.
"Hush now, Wylla, my love," Lady Leona said quickly, resting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I will not have you trailing Arthur halfway to the realm, alone. Besides, he sails for duty, not for pleasure."
"I won't be alone!" Wylla protested, stamping her slippered foot, "Arthur will be with me. He'll keep me safe, won't you, Arthur?"
Arthur could not help but laugh, "If you were coming, little mermaid, I'd have to bring a thousand guards to keep the city safe from you. Even that would fall short." Wylla glared at him while everyone laughed.
"Arthur will be very busy, dear sister," Wynafryd said softly, ever the calm between tempests. "Perhaps next time."
"Next time!" Wylla huffed, cheeks pink, lips in a pout. "You always say next time!"
Wylis barked out a hearty laugh. "Gods save the man who ever tries to win your favor, Wylla," he said.
Arthur chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow. "Then hold me to my oath, Wylla. I'll bring you gifts from the capital. Will that do?"
Wylla crossed her arms, feigning indignation. "Only if you bring something for everyone else, too. I don't want others to be envious of my gifts."
Arthur laughed at that and replied, "You have my word, cousin."
Leona sighed, though affection softened her features. "Off with you now, girl. Let your cousin breathe before you talk him into staying."
Wylis laughed heartily, his great belly shaking as he clapped Arthur's shoulder. "You spoil her nephew. Seven save the man who will wed her."
"Aye, may the gods have mercy on him," Arthur replied with a grin.
The air was thick with salt and farewells. The docks below rang with the calls of sailors and gulls, ropes creaking, sails being drawn.
Amid the bustle, Wynafryd moved closer, her words meant for his ear alone. "Arthur," she murmured, her tone low and careful. "Lady Catelyn has arrived."