"The sea wind has turned colder."
Gazing out over the endless expanse of water, Wylfyd Manderly swept back the brown hair the wind had tousled and said it with a faint note of regret.
"Because winter is coming, right?"
Behind her stood the port's financial steward—fat, bald, and slick-faced.
"Even if we're closer to the south, this is still the North. And those Stark lot never stop saying the summer's ending and winter's coming…"
"Hm." Wylfyd gave a noncommittal nod.
White Harbor sat in neat order on the eastern bank of the White Knife. Its broad, straight streets were paved with rounded cobbles to make the way easy. The houses were built of whitewashed stone, roofed with dark gray slate.
The city was steeped in the sharp, salty stink of fish and sea.
White Harbor was called "the mouth of the North": a port that did not freeze, one that could remain open even in the heart of winter.
"In winter the currents will interfere with the fleet and delay delivery," Wylfyd instructed. "So while it's still summer, increase our cargo throughput."
"As you wish, my lady. I'll make the arrangements," the steward replied.
Wylfyd turned her head. "How long has my father's fleet been out?"
"One month and three days," the steward said at once. "If nothing goes wrong, Ser Wylis and the others will return to White Harbor in three days."
Wylfyd nodded. "Let's hope all goes smoothly."
The steward watched her composed, elegant profile and felt a surge of admiration.
Wylfyd's long brown hair—braided into many braids—caught threads of light under the sun.
Perhaps from spending so long by the sea, her skin was a touch rougher than the pale softness other noblewomen prized. Yet to the steward, the poise she carried was enough to eclipse any mere prettiness.
Unlike so many noble fools bred from complacency and vanity, Wylfyd was a genuine commercial prodigy. She had a noble's intelligence and pride, but she did not shackle herself to convention; more than anything, she possessed an exceptionally sharp mercantile instinct.
No noble around her had her height of vision. Even Lord Wyman, her grandfather and master of White Harbor, could seem short-sighted when Wylfyd spoke.
White Harbor's current prosperity had been born of the iron trade that began three years ago.
Before the Boltons' Hornwood Hills was even properly established, Wylfyd had already poured in huge sums of gold dragons, supporting mining and forging without hesitation—nearly draining White Harbor's trade income in the process.
And the simple fact that she kept not a single gold dragon "safely" sitting in the vaults was something no miser in her orbit could match.
"Gold dragons have no meaning locked away in a treasury—unused, they're stones. Only when you spend them do they show their value. And spending isn't the same as losing: if you use them well, the return will far exceed the coin itself."
Wylfyd said that often, and it had overturned the steward's old assumptions about money like a revelation.
The iron trade brought White Harbor immense wealth.
Wylfyd did not use it to beautify the city or expand inland routes. She simply poured it back into the shipyards, again and again—building bigger ships, more ships, more capacity.
In a few short years, White Harbor's fleet changed beyond recognition: experienced sailors, trained fighters, ever-larger hulls, and the support of countless smallfolk.
If Wylfyd were no longer allowed to run White Harbor's commerce, the people themselves would not accept it.
That was why the steward had committed himself to her service without reservation, managing her ventures for her.
"Come inside," Wylfyd said, tilting her head. "The wind's rising."
Wylfyd's administrative hall stood at the southern end of White Harbor, above the docks. The tower-like building was like a watchman posted on the coast; at its top was a round terrace with a clear view of the entire bay and the merchant ships that came and went.
After three years of rapid growth, White Harbor's trade had doubled. The fleet's scale swelled by the month, and the shipyards launched a three-masted vessel every month.
Seeing that Wylfyd seemed in good spirits, the steward finally ventured the question that had weighed on him for years.
"My lady Wylfyd, there's something I've long wanted to ask."
He shut the door, sealing out the howl of the sea wind.
"Go on," she said with a smile.
"Why did you choose to work with Ser Domeric Bolton? At the time, Hornwood Hills couldn't possibly have produced fine ironwork. There were only… stones."
"I chose him?" Wylfyd laughed as if he'd said something absurd. "I never imagined a little holding like Hornwood Hills would end up supplying half the iron in the Seven Kingdoms.
To be precise—he came to me with a sheet of parchment, and he convinced me."
"Er, but…" The steward was at a loss. This wasn't what he had believed.
"He sweet-talked me and I lost my head," Wylfyd admitted with an embarrassed look. "In a moment of impulse, I poured nearly all the family's money into him.
I thought if his project failed, we'd be in debt up to our necks… and we might have to run across the Narrow Sea to Essos to make a living. I even had the ship ready for eloping. Pity it never got used—ha!"
What?
In the steward's mind, the brilliant heir with legendary vision had just turned into a girl who'd gambled her house's fortune because she was in love.
His faith wavered.
The steward stared, mouth open. The truth had arrived without warning.
Wylfyd laughed at his expression. "And that line I always repeat? He told me that too."
"Then why did Ser Domeric choose you as his partner among so many noble houses?" the steward pressed, unwilling to let his idol shatter. "You must have had something exceptional for him to pick you."
"That, I don't know," Wylfyd shrugged. "Maybe I was easier to fool back then… I was fifteen. I saw him once, and he was so handsome I forgot how to walk."
"Ah… I see," the steward murmured, lowering his gaze, unsure what to think.
…
"My lady Wylfyd," a servant called as he hurried in, "a raven has brought you a letter."
"From whom?" Wylfyd yawned.
"From Hornwood Hills. From Ser Domeric Bolton."
"Now he remembers to write? What—did he forget I exist?"
A long moment passed.
"Hmph!"
Wylfyd crumpled the parchment into a ball, grinding her teeth in anger.
And then, in the next heartbeat, she laughed—like she'd just remembered something amusing.
"What is it?" the steward asked, watching his lady swing from fury to mirth.
"It's Domeric, of course." Wylfyd tightened her fist around the crushed letter. "He's written to say the iron is going to get more expensive."
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
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