Wyman I
296 - AC
The New Castle of White Harbor loomed over the bustling port like a sentinel carved from the sea itself. Its walls, white as the foam on crashing waves, gleamed under the weak northern sun, a rare visitor in the depths of winter.
Lord Wyman Manderly sat in his solar, a vast chamber overlooking the harbor where ships from across the Narrow Sea bobbed like eager hounds at the leash.
The air was thick with the scent of salt and tar, mingled with the rich aroma of mulled wine steaming in a silver goblet at his elbow.
His girth filled the high-backed chair, his velvet robes straining against his ample frame, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, missed nothing of the activity below.
A maester entered quietly, his chain clinking softly like distant bells. "My lord, a raven from Winterfell."
Wyman extended a bejeweled hand, his fingers thick as sausages but steady. He broke the direwolf seal with a thumbnail and unrolled the parchment. As he read, his bushy brows furrowed, then rose in surprise. A low chuckle escaped his lips, though it carried a note of something bittersweet.
"Robb Stark betrothed to Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne," the maester murmured, setting the message down. "Well, well. The Young Wolf takes a viper to wife."
Wyman nodded in silence, his jowly face impassive at first, though his small eyes narrowed as the implications sank in.
When the maester heard it, he asked. "Shall I prepare a reply, my lord?"
"Aye, but give me a moment. Summon my sons and granddaughters. This news warrants family counsel."
As the maester departed, Wyman leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight.
Slightly surprised? Yes, that was the word for it.
The Starks were cold but honorable, ever tied to the old ways, and Dorne was as far from the North as the Summer Isles from the Wall.
Yet pleasantly disappointed, Aye, that too, like biting into a honeyed cake only to find a touch of salt beneath the sweetness
He had harbored hopes, quiet ones, of binding House Manderly closer to Winterfell through marriage. His granddaughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, were of an age with young Robb, and the lad had left an impression during his last visit to White Harbor.
Wyman gazed out the window, memories flooding back like the tide. It had been two years past, when Robb had come south with a small retinue of Winter Sons to inspect the harbor defenses and discuss trade routes.
The young man, no, a boy then, had been all of two and ten, his Tully-red hair catching the sea breeze, his Stark eyes keen and curious.
They had walked the docks together, Wyman's ponderous steps matched by Robb's eager stride.
"Lord Manderly, how do these Braavosi galleys differ from our northern longships?" Robb had asked, pointing to a sleek vessel unloading crates of spice.
Wyman had laughed then, a booming sound that turned heads. "Ah, the longships are wolves of the sea, swift and fierce for raiding. But these? Cats, sly and enduring, built for the long haul across stormy waters. They carry more cargo, see? Wider beams, deeper holds. Good for filling coffers."
Robb had nodded, absorbing every word, his questions tumbling out like waves: How many tons could a cog carry? What tariffs applied to Essosi silks? How did the harbor masters track smuggling? The boy had a keen mind for coin, sharper than many twice his age.
And brave too, the tales of the Young Wolf had already begun to spread.
Whispers from the Wolfswood spoke of Robb leading charges against cutthroats and wildling raiders, his sword singing as he defended the North's borders.
Honorable, yes, with a heart forged in the Stark mold.
"Curious as a merling," Wyman had thought then, watching Robb's face light up at the sight of a Volantene trader unloading crates of lemons and olives. Brave heart, sharp wits, the kind of husband who could lead men to victory and keep a household prosperous.
"He would have made a fine match," Wyman muttered to himself now, sipping his wine. As a lord, he could see the wisdom in Ned Stark's choice.
Dorne was a powerhouse in the south, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, as their words went.
Prince Doran's alliance would secure the North's southern flank. And trade... ah, the trade.
Northern timber, furs, and iron would flow through new channels to Sunspear's ports, exchanged for Dornish wines, olives, spices, and horses.
White Harbor, as the North's gateway to the world, would be the linchpin. Ships from Dorne would dock here, tariffs filling Manderly coffers, markets bustling with southern goods to stockpile against the long winters.
"A good move," Wyman conceded aloud, his voice echoing in the empty solar. "Lord Stark plays the game well. The Northern trades will swell like the Bite in spring flood. Our warehouses will groan with wealth, and when the snows come deep, House Manderly will feast while others hunger."
Yet as a father, and grandfather, his heart twisted.
Wyman had been mulling it over for moons now, turning the idea in his mind like a captain charting a new course.
A betrothal proposal to Lord Stark, offering one of his granddaughters, Wynafryd, steady and clever, or Wylla, with her wild green hair and fiercer spirit.
Either would make a fine Lady of Winterfell, binding House Manderly closer to the Starks, ensuring White Harbor's influence in northern councils. The Manderlys were loyal, aye, but ambition ran in their southern blood, a remnant of their exile from the Reach long ago.
But the Dornish vipers had slithered in first, striking swift and sure.
The door opened, admitting his kin. Wylis, his eldest son, broad-shouldered and solemn, entered first, followed by Wendel, ever the warrior with his mace at his belt. Then came Wynafryd and Wylla, the former in a gown of sea-blue silk, the latter with her hair a vivid emerald cascade that matched House Manderly's merman sigil.
"Grandfather," Wynafryd said, curtsying gracefully. "You summoned us?"
"Aye, sit. News from Winterfell that touches us all."
Wyman passed the parchment to Wylis, who read it aloud in his steady voice. When he finished, a hush fell over the room.
Wylla broke it first, her eyes wide. "Robb Stark to wed a Dornish princess? But... why not someone from the North?"
Wendel chuckled. "Because politics, little sister. Dorne's spears number in the thousands, and their deepened hatred for the King and his kin is all known but this binds them to the Throne once more."
Wylis nodded thoughtfully. "A strategic alliance, Lord Stark secures his borders too."
Wyman watched his granddaughters' faces. Wynafryd's expression was composed, but he caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Wylla, less guarded, pouted openly.
"I thought... perhaps..." Wylla trailed off, twisting a lock of green hair.
Wyman sighed, his vast belly rising and falling. "As did I, child. I had half a mind to propose one of you to Lord Stark. Robb is a fine lad, honorable, brave, with a mind sharp as a Valyrian blade for matters of trade and war."
He leaned forward, his chair protesting. "I remember his visit here as if it were yesterday. The boy peppered me with questions about the ships, how the cogs from Pentos unloaded their holds, what routes the whalers took to the Shivering Sea. He even asked about the tariffs on Ibbanese ivory! Laughed when I told him how we caught a smuggler hiding it in barrels of salted cod."
Wendel grinned. "Aye, and he sparred with me in the yard. Quick as a cat, that one. Dodged my blade like it was a feather."
"But now," Wyman continued, his tone shifting to resignation, "the Dornish have him. Princess Arianne is a beauty. And her house brings alliances away from North
Wynafryd spoke softly. "As a lord, you approve, Grandfather?"
He set down his goblet with a thud, his jovial mask slipping into a frown. He understood Lord Stark's reasoning.
Wyman nodded, his multiple chins quivering. "As a lord, yes. I'm happy in that sense. This betrothal opens doors, nay, floodgates. Imagine Dornish merchants sailing north with holds full of lemons, peppers, and fine sandsilk. Our timber goes south, our furs to adorn Dornish lords. White Harbor will thrive, our coffers swelling like a maiden's belly with a child. When winter comes, and it always does, we'll have stores to last years, not moons."
He gestured to the window, where a Dornish galley, ironically, had just docked, its sails emblazoned with the sun-and-spear. "See there? Already the winds shift. This alliance will make such sights common. Northern trades flowing through new channels, bypassing the treacherous southern roads plagued by bandits and tolls. Secure ports, shared navies against ironborn reavers. Aye, Lord Stark's a canny one. I see why he accepted. It's a masterstroke against the uncertainties."
Wylla crossed her arms. "But as a grandfather?"
Wyman's smile faded. "As a father and grandfather, I'm not happy. Not at all, you girls... you deserve such a match. Wynafryd, with your ledgers and calm wisdom, you'd have been a lady to make any lord proud. Wylla, your spirit would have kindled his Stark blood into something fierce."
He imagined Robb at the docks again, that eager boy asking about rigging and winds. A good lad, wasted on a desert flower who might wilt in the North's harsh embrace.
Wynafryd or Wylla would have understood the cold, the long nights, the unyielding of House Stark.
His girls deserved better than to be overlooked, and Robb deserved a wife who knew the taste of snow on her tongue.
He paused, sipping his wine to mask the lump in his throat. "But the gods and the Starks have chosen otherwise."
He turned to the maester, who had returned quietly. "Draft a reply, House Manderly extends its warmest congratulations to Lord Robb Stark and Princess Arianne Martell. We pledge our full support to this union and offer White Harbor as a venue for any celebrations, with feasts to rival the greatest in the realm. May the alliance bring prosperity to North and South alike."
As the maester scribbled, Wyman addressed his family. "We'll not sulk. Instead, we'll prepare. Wylis, increase patrols on the trade roads—more goods will flow soon. Wendel, drill the men; alliances bring peace, but peace is fragile. Girls, chin up. There are other wolves in the pack, and finer fish in the sea."
Wylla managed a smile. "Like Theon Greyjoy? I'd sooner wed a kraken."
Laughter filled the solar, easing the tension. But as his kin departed, Wyman remained, staring at the harbor and doubts nagged at him, persistent as gulls at low tide.
—--
Arryn I
296 - AC
The raven arrived at dawn, its black wings slicing through the mist that clung to the Blackwater Rush like a shroud.
In the Tower of the Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, broke the direwolf seal with fingers gnarled by age and duty.
The parchment was crisp, inked in Ned Stark's steady hand: a formal announcement of the betrothal between Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell, and Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne.
An alliance to bind North and South.
Jon set the scroll down, a faint smile creasing his weathered face.
Good, he thought. Very good.
For too long, Dorne had simmered on the periphery, its spears unbowed but its loyalties fractured by the ghosts of the Rebellion.
Elia Martell's murder still haunted Sunspear's halls, a wound that festered under Prince Doran's patient facade.
This match could heal it, bring the Martells back into the fold, strengthen the Seven Kingdoms against whatever storms brewed beyond the Narrow Sea or within the scheming courts.
Ned had always been the honorable one, but this showed diligence too. Jon nodded to himself, rising from his desk. The small council must know.
By midday, the council chamber in the Red Keep hummed with the low murmur of voices.
The room was a cavern of stone and shadow, its long table scarred from years of heated debates, flanked by high-backed chairs beneath tapestries of dragons and stags locked in eternal combat.
Jon sat at the left, his blue eyes sharp despite the aches that plagued his old bones.
To his right slouched King Robert, the once-mighty warrior now bloated with wine and excess, his black beard streaked with gray and his crown askew on his sweaty brow.
Across from him, Grand Maester Pycelle dozed in his robes, his chain of many metals glinting in the torchlight.
Lord Renly Baratheon, the king's youngest brother, lounged with easy grace, his peacock finery a splash of color in the drab room.
Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, toyed with a quill, his mockingbird sigil pinned to his velvet doublet, while Varys, the Spider, sat silent and powdered, his soft hands folded like a eunuch's prayer.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood vigil at the door, his white cloak immaculate.
"Men of the council," Jon began, his voice steady as the Vale's mountains, "I have news from Winterfell. Lord Eddard Stark has betrothed his heir, Robb, to Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne."
Silence fell, thick as fog. Then Robert exploded.
"What?!" The king's roar shook the goblets on the table, wine sloshing over the rims like blood. He slammed his massive fist down, cracking the wood. "Ned's gone mad! A Dornish whore for his boy? By the gods, has the North truly frozen his bloody brains?"
Jon winced inwardly but kept his composure. "Your Grace, this is no folly. It's a strategic—"
"Strategic my arse!" Robert bellowed, his face purpling like overripe grapes. He lurched to his feet, his chair scraping back with a screech. "Dornish! The same snakes who hid behind their sands while we bled for the throne! The Red Viper and his scheming brother, And now Ned binds his house to them? That girl's probably bedded half of Sunspear! A whore, I tell you, with sand in her veins and poison on her lips!"
Renly raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smirk. "Brother, surely not all Dornishwomen are—"
"Shut your mouth, Renly!" Robert whirled on him, spittle flying. "Ned, my friend, my brother in arms, sells his son to them? He's lost his mind! I'll break this betrothal myself. Send a raven, tell Ned to end it, or by the Seven, I'll march north and drag the boy back myself!"
The chamber erupted in a cacophony of voices. Pycelle stirred, feigning surprise. "Your Grace, such unions... they require careful consideration..."
Littlefinger leaned forward, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. "Indeed, Majesty. But consider the benefits–"
"Benefits?" Robert snarled, pacing like a caged boar. "What benefits? Dorne's never bent the knee properly. They're waiting for a chance to stick a knife in our backs, Ned's a fool to trust them!"
Jon Arryn watched the king's tirade, his mind racing.
Robert's rage was as predictable as it was destructive, a remnant of old wounds, the loss of Lyanna Stark twisted into hatred for all things Targaryen and Dornish. But Jon saw clearer. This alliance was a godsend.
For years, he'd labored to knit the realm together, patching the rifts left by the Rebellion.
The Lannisters grew too bold, their gold buying influence while their lioness queen whispered into the court.
The Targaryen exiles across the sea whispered of return and Dorne, isolated, vengeful, had been a thorn waiting to prick.
Now, with Arianne in Winterfell, the Martells would have skin in the game. Their spears would march for the throne, not against it.
Even if they did, the throne would have a loyal ally and a princess as hostage.
Trade would flow: northern furs and timber for Dornish wines and silks, enriching the crown's coffers. Politically, it isolated the southern houses further, countering their ambitions with a North-South axis.
No, this was absolutely good. Jon cleared his throat, raising a hand for silence. "Your Grace, if I may."
Robert spun, his eyes wild. "What, Jon? You agree with this madness?"
"On the contrary," Jon said calmly, meeting the king's gaze. "I believe this is one of the wisest moves Lord Stark has made."
The room hushed. Robert's jaw dropped. "Wise? Have you gone soft in your old age, Jon?"
Jon leaned forward, his voice measured. "Hear me, your grace, Dorne has stood apart since the Rebellion, understandably so, after the tragedies that befell Princess Elia and her children. But this betrothal brings them back into the fold. Princess Arianne is heir to Sunspear; her marriage to Robb ties the Martells' fortunes to ours. Their ten thousand spears become our spears. Should Viserys Targaryen or his sister stir trouble from Essos, Dorne will stand with us, not harbor sympathies for the dragons."
Robert grunted, but Jon pressed on.
"Think of the realm's stability. The North gains southern allies, Dorne gains northern strength. Trade routes open, the Northern ports will bustle with Dornish goods, filling the royal treasury. And politically..." He glanced at the council, choosing his words carefully. "It counters any... overreaching influences from the South." He didn't name the Lannisters, but the implication hung in the air.
Varys nodded subtly, his powdered face impassive. "The Hand speaks wisdom, Your Grace. Whispers from my little birds suggest Prince Doran has long sought reconciliation but the Princess had a bold fit about her paramours, this match achieves it without bloodshed."
Littlefinger twirled his quill. "And economically, it's a boon. Dornish gold flowing north means more taxes for the crown. Lord Stark's choice strengthens the kingdom and your rule."
Renly chuckled lightly. "Besides, brother, young Robb could do worse than a beautiful Dornish princess. From what I've heard, Arianne Martell is no shrinking violet. She'll keep the boy on his toes."
Pycelle cleared his throat, his voice quavering. "The histories show that such unions have forged lasting peace."
Barristan Selmy, ever the knight, added from the door: "Honor binds them, Your Grace. Lord Stark would not propose this lightly."
Robert stared at them, his chest heaving. The small council, united for once, agreed with Jon.
He could see it in their eyes: no dissent, only calculated support. Even Varys and Littlefinger, those slippery eels, saw the advantage. But Robert's rage burned hot, fueled by old hatreds.
"You're all mad," he muttered, but the fire was dimming, replaced by a sullen glow. "Ned... binding his house to those vipers. It's a mistake."
Jon rose, placing a fatherly hand on Robert's arm. "It's progress,The Rebellion is over. We won. Now we build. Let this be a bridge, not a barrier. For the realm's sake."
Robert shook him off, but the fight had ebbed. He grabbed his goblet, draining it in one gulp.
"Fine but if this blows up, if that Dornish whore brings trouble, it's on his head." He slammed the goblet down, shattering it.
Without another word, he stormed out, his boots thundering on the stone floor, the door banging shut behind him.
The chamber fell silent again. Jon sighed, sinking back into his chair. Robert would harbor this rage, nursing it like a favorite grudge. It would fester, perhaps erupt in some drunken tirade later. But for now, the betrothal stood.
The small council dispersed quietly.
Alone with his thoughts, Jon stared at the broken goblet. The realm was fragile, held together by threads like this alliance.
Robert's fury was a storm, but Jon had weathered worse.
This was good. Dorne back in the fold meant unity, and unity meant survival. He penned a reply to Ned: congratulations, and the king's... reluctant blessing.
Outside, the sun dipped toward the Blackwater, casting long shadows over King's Landing.
In the throne room, Robert brooded on the Iron Throne, his mind a whirl of old battles and fresh betrayals. Ned had lost his mind, he thought, clenching his fists.