White Harbor is called "the mouth of the North." It is an unfrozen port, open even in the depths of winter.
At the same time, it has rich fishing grounds and is home to many silversmiths.
But now the fishermen cannot put to sea, and most of the silversmiths no longer have homes.
The air is thick with a sharp, briny stench mingled with fish and salt. The broad, straight streets once paved with large cobblestones are sparsely peopled. Now and then a few figures hurry past, glancing left and right.
Some clutch bundles in their arms, or seize a woman by the hair and drag her into an alley, howling with wanton cruelty.
The houses, built of pale stone and roofed with dark gray slate, stand empty. Their wooden doors and windows are long since shattered; some have been reduced to burned-out ruins.
"The letters asking for aid have all been sent. At present, the only ones likely to come to our relief are the knights of the Vale…"
Maester Theomore, of House Lannister of Lannisport, now serves House Manderly of White Harbor.
He held several letters in his hand, reviewing them, and from time to time passed them to Lord Manderly.
He was a red-faced, portly man with thin lips and a head of golden curls. As he looked over the documents, a trace of weariness showed in his eyes.
Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and head of House Manderly, known as "Lord Lamprey."
He was so fat that he sat upon a specially made throne, laboriously taking the letter Maester Theomore handed him.
"The heir of House Stark has been captured by Balon Greyjoy. In such a situation, whether Lord Eddard Stark commands it or not, the lords of the North will gather to rescue him."
Wyman let out a sigh. "By rights, we should have sent men as well. Nine hundred years ago, House Manderly was driven from the Reach and forced to wander for many years."
"It was the Kings of Winter of House Stark who took us in and granted us new lands. Beneath the heart tree of the Wolf's Den, House Manderly swore fealty to the King in the North in the names of the old gods and the new."
"We were meant to resolve the defense of the White Knife for the Starks. Yet now, through our failure, the North is torn apart, caught between enemies before and behind. The other lords must clean up our mess."
"For this failure, House Manderly bears inescapable blame."
As he spoke, Wyman's gaze drifted toward the window.
To seize full control of the harbor, the mercenary companies disguised as merchant ships had sealed every sea route. Nearly half of White Harbor had already fallen.
Hearing Wyman's self-reproach, Maester Theomore raised his head to look at him.
"You have sheltered the smallfolk of the city from slaughter. That mercy still stands."
Maester Theomore offered a word of comfort and continued to go through the letters in his hand.
The pale-faced New Castle stood proudly atop the hill within the thick white city walls. From its towers flew the merman banner of House Manderly. The broad castle stair was a white stone street that ran from the Wolf's Den straight up to the New Castle on the hill.
From the height of the hill where the castle stood, both the inner harbor and the outer harbor could be seen at a glance.
At present, the lands House Manderly could still control were but a small stretch radiating outward from the castle. Fortunately, the population of White Harbor was not large.
The warriors of House Manderly, clad in blue-green wool cloaks and bearing silver tridents, guarded the place.
"I should have kept even this disaster from our gates."
Wyman set down the letter and looked up at the maester with the golden hair.
In the present ruin of the North, Tywin Lannister bore the chief responsibility. And this Maester Theomore of his was from House Lannister of Lannisport.
Though he had lost his surname upon becoming a maester, it could not be denied that he still shared blood with House Lannister of Casterly Rock.
Maester Theomore's hands paused for a moment. He acted as though he had not heard that the lord he served had begun to mistrust him.
The fall of White Harbor had nothing to do with him.
"The knights of the Vale responsible for escorting supplies to the Wall have written that they will guard against wandering rebels along the road. Yet for that reason they cannot aid us further. Thus the only force that can come to our relief is the Vale host that has already reached Moat Cailin."
Maester Theomore shifted the matter back to the war now at White Harbor and handed Lord Wyman two more letters.
The Merman's Court was the great hall of the New Castle of White Harbor, where House Manderly conducted its governance and feasted its guests.
Its walls, floors, and ceilings were all fashioned from thick wooden planks cleverly joined together, the boards painted with every manner of sea creature.
At one end stood the entrance; at the other, a raised dais with a great cushioned throne upon it. Wyman Manderly sat upon that seat.
Yet this time Wyman did not lift his hand to take the letters offered to him.
"Tell me, Maester Theomore—what has happened here has nothing to do with you."
The warriors bearing silver tridents looked over.
At his lord's doubt, Maester Theomore's already flushed face stiffened. He drew a slow breath and said, "A letter has come from Lord Triston Sunderland of Sisterton. When they put in at Littlesister, they slew the lord of House Torrent and many others."
"So, Lord Wyman, I am but a maester. Whatever Tywin Lannister has done has nothing to do with me—nor does the misfortune that has befallen this place."
No sooner had he spoken these solemn words than a sudden clamor rose outside the Merman's Court. A warrior rushed in in haste.
"My lord—there is a dragon outside!"
"Ah…?" Wyman turned his head in confusion. "What did you say?"
"A dragon—a golden dragon! As large as a ship, yet flying in the sky!"
The warrior bearing a silver trident and clad in a blue-green wool cloak, fearing his lord had not heard clearly, described it again in greater detail.
"It is the dragon of King Kal Baratheon—he has come?" Maester Theomore was the first to react. When the king set out for the Citadel, he had received word of it.
Moreover, since the battle at Highgarden, none in the Seven Kingdoms—nor even across the Narrow Sea in Essos—were ignorant that the demon dragon, vanished for a hundred years, had awakened once more.
At this, not only Maester Theomore, but even Wyman Manderly's face flushed red.
"Come—let us go out to receive the king's arrival!"
With his great belly thrust forward and fingers thick as sausages, Wyman tried to rise. Yet he failed at first, and only with the help of a servant did he manage to stand and leave the Merman's Court.
In the sky, the dragon circling low seemed to have noticed Wyman, clad in a blue cloak, his hair graying and his belly round.
Amid a suffocating pressure, the dragon descended and landed in the small square before the Merman's Court.
Before anyone could speak, before the dragon had even fully settled, a man clad in green armor leapt down from its back.
From a height of four or five meters, he landed as though stepping down a single stair, bending his knees slightly and standing firm.
Though none present had ever seen him before, there was no one who did not know that this man was the King upon the Iron Throne.
Wyman Manderly led the crowd, hastening to kneel.
Yet just as he laboriously brought one knee to the ground, a great hand reached out and lifted him up.
Feeling the ironlike strength in that grip, Wyman wondered whether it was not the very throne in the Merman's Court behind him that had raised him.
Before he could offer his greeting, the towering figure, tall as a wall, swept his gaze over him.
"Tell me—who are the enemy?"
In those cold eyes burned a murderous fury that was hard to meet. A voice, equally cold, followed.
As Wyman, his sausage-thick fingers extended, pointed toward the ships floating in the bay beyond White Harbor, the golden dragon, radiating fierce heat, at once spread its wings and leapt toward the direction he indicated.
Only a day earlier, Robert had burned countless ships in the Iron Islands, sealing them off from the world by sheer force. Now, with a turn, he went straight back to work.
Likewise, Kal, who had not slept for two days and had hastened here without pause, suddenly raised his hand. A Valyrian steel greatsword appeared in his grasp.
"Heartsbane," the ancestral blade of House Tarly, now Kal's spoil of war.
"Gather your men. Prepare to retake White Harbor."
When he had circled above the city moments before, Kal had already taken in the general state of White Harbor.
It was that sight which had stirred such fury within him.
Unlike the fishermen or ironborn of the Iron Islands, he would not slaughter them without judgment.
But these foreign mercenaries were different. This was not their land, and they felt no burden in plundering its wealth.
And being sellswords—vermin by trade—it was impossible to expect them to keep discipline.
Thus Kal had rendered his judgment: guilty. Death.
Seeing that the king had arrived without ceremony and radiated killing intent, Lord Wyman Manderly was taken aback for a moment.
Yet he recovered swiftly. Watching the dragon soar away, a smile rose upon his face.
"Permit me to stand beside you, Your Grace!"
"House Manderly awaits your command!"
...
The counterattack of White Harbor began.
The dragon flew over the bay. With blazing blue-white flame, it reduced to ash every ship Wyman's sausage-thick finger had pointed out—whether any still lived aboard them or not.
When that was done, it swept the sea as if calling names, burning down the mercenaries who had leapt into the water in desperate hope of escape. Only then did it wheel and fly back toward White Harbor.
Within the New Castle of House Manderly, Kal led a force down from the hill, splitting into several companies and driving straight into the districts held by the enemy.
Wyman, newly armored, followed at Kal's side. Kal had granted his request.
Though fat, the graying lord was no coward in battle. Sword in hand and helm upon his head, he charged and thrust his iron blade into the gaps of his foes' armor.
Having slain one enemy, Wyman wrenched his sword free. Warm, foul blood burst forth and splattered.
He raised the blade and shouted, "The North remembers!"
With the aid of White Harbor's warriors, he then shouldered down another mercenary as stout as himself, drew the dagger at his waist, mounted him, and cut his throat.
"White Harbor forever!"
The battlefield ever sets the blood aflame—most of all in vengeance.
Then, almost without thinking, he lifted his gaze toward where the king stood.
As for Kal, he had already carved a path of blood through the streets. Severed limbs were dragged for dozens of meters.
The fortunate were cleaved into several pieces, reduced to heaps of ruined flesh.
The unfortunate were cut in half at the waist, still sprawled upon the cobbled streets of White Harbor, dragging their collapsed entrails across the stones as they wailed in agony.
All manner of unnameable matter mixed with dark, filthy blood, smeared across the white cobbles like damp charcoal scrawled upon parchment.
Seeing such a sight, Wyman froze for a moment, then lowered his gaze to the fat man beneath him who had just drawn his last breath.
"Long live King Kal Baratheon!"
"Long live White Harbor!"
"Long live King Kal Baratheon! Long live White Harbor!!!"
His tally had only just reached two to none, yet Wyman was already spent, gasping for breath, his face flushed red. Still, a strange heat and courage surged into his heart.
Shouting the cry, he charged toward Kal.
The king had permitted him to stand beside him.
That was his honor.
The purge was carried out without hesitation. The dragon wheeling in the sky and the ships burned to ash upon the sea—like dry straw—had likewise burned away the mercenaries' courage.
And the man clad in green armor, now stained wholly red with blood, like some god of war, shattered what little resolve remained in them.
Yet Kal accepted no surrender. These mercenaries had already been judged.
The judgment—death. Immediate execution.
For White Harbor and Wyman Manderly, it was the same.
For the North remembers.
The crimes committed in these past days, the plunder and slaughter of smallfolk, were beyond forgiveness.
Thus the counterattack raged from morning until nightfall. Even then, mercenaries still hiding were dragged from corners, hauled to the docks of White Harbor, and pinned down to have their heads cut off.
The people of White Harbor did not grant them the mercy of a single stroke.
They would impale them with fish-spears upon the wharf planks to hold them fast. Then someone would take a fishmonger's knife and slice open their throats, cut by cut.
Their necks were held over the edge of the dock. Once slit, the wound was pried open, and their blood was drained into the sea.
Only after the blood had run dry were their heads severed, cut away piece by piece.
When the small knives could no longer bite through the neck bones, they were twisted or stamped until they snapped.
The severed heads thus gathered were piled facing outward along the docks, forming several mounds, while the bodies were stacked to one side.
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