ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 12: The Shipyards of White Harbor
POV: Wyman Manderly (289 AC)
The aroma of steaming lamprey pies, oak-smoked salmon, and honey-crusted roasted boar filled the Great Hall of the New Castle, but for the first time in many years, my legendary appetite was not the morning's protagonist. I found myself sitting at the head of the massive table, drumming my thick fingers against the polished wood, unable to contain the anxiety that made my enormous stomach churn. My fat, watchful eyes moved constantly toward the hall's great oak doors, waiting for the entrance of the one who was redefining the destiny of the entire continent.
Today was no ordinary day in White Harbor. Today, the icy waters of the Knife would witness the culmination of years of massive investments, the sweat of naval engineers, and the dark mysticism that the Winter Throne had breathed into the North. We were about to test the new warships of the Northern fleet—vessels modified and blessed (or cursed, depending on who looked at them) by the runic magic of our monarch.
I adjusted my heavy turquoise velvet cloak, its edges adorned with white fox fur, and let out a heavy sigh. Looking at the empty seat reserved for the King, I smiled faintly. I knew perfectly well that young Arawyn Stark might be late for breakfast this morning. After all, the lad was now fourteen years old. To most smallfolk and minor lords of the South, fourteen was just the age of a prickly squire; but in the North, and especially in the lineage of the Winter Wolves, it was an age where the blood boiled with dangerous intensity. Many men of this land already led battalions or sired their own heirs at this stage of life.
Arawyn's own father and uncle had been living proof that lethargy did not mix with Stark blood. Thinking of this brought to mind the delicious gossip my beloved wife had whispered into my ear the previous night, sharing the secrets that circulated among the handmaidens from Highgarden to Winterfell. According to the letters and court rumors, Lady Cersei Stark—once a proud lioness of Casterly Rock, now perfectly integrated into the Northern cold—did not skimp on praise when it came to the performance of her husband, Eddard Stark, between the fur sheets of the lord's bedchamber.
I always felt an irresistible urge to laugh out loud whenever I thought about it. No one in Westeros, from the Wall to the Water Gardens of Dorne, would ever expect such vigor and carnal appetite from the infamous "Quiet Wolf." Ned Stark had always been the epitome of restraint, moral rigidity, and austere duty—a man who seemed to feed on honor and breathe responsibility. However, the practical results of his private life were on display for anyone to see: he was already on his way to his seventh legitimate child. When I commented on this impressive fertility to my young King a few moons ago, Arawyn merely offered an enigmatic, typically Stark smile and uttered a phrase that made me choke on my radish beer:
— The one who eats in silence, Lord Wyman, eats both lunch and dinner.
The boy's worldly wisdom was as sharp as the steel he forged. Hahahahaha! And the most impressive part of that branch's love web was that the rumors blowing from the crypts and sacred godswoods did not lie: Ned Stark had not only tamed the fury and pride of Cersei Lannister, but he also maintained under the same roof—and presumably under the same sheets—the stunning and enigmatic Lady Ashara Dayne. A quiet man, indeed, but one of such luck and capacity that he made any southern lord look like a gelded youth.
My thoughts were interrupted by the heavy sound of doors swinging open. I straightened my posture in my chair, making the wood groan under my monumental weight, and watched the King enter.
Arawyn Stark crossed the threshold of the hall with the natural imposing presence of a veteran sovereign, despite his features still holding the youth of his fourteen years. His grey eyes pierced the room with the icy depth of the Greenseer, and his posture was erect and firm. But the detail that made me open a malicious, knowing smile was the fact that right behind him, slipping out from the corridors leading to the royal chambers, three beautiful maidens of White Harbor walked with hesitant steps, their faces flushed with crimson and their hair slightly disheveled, quickly slipping away through the side exits.
Yes, I thought to myself, feeling a surge of patriotic pride inflate my ample chest, talent and carnal vigor definitely run with full force in the blood of House Stark. The boy has barely turned fourteen and he already hunts like a famished wolf.
— My King — I greeted, bowing my head with as much respect as my thick neck allowed as he approached the table. — I hope your accommodations in the New Castle were to your total liking and that the night was... invigorating.
Arawyn sat in the oak chair beside me, grabbing a roasted boar leg without the slightest ceremony. A subtle, sharp smile, carrying the malice of someone who knew exactly what I was implying, crossed his lips.
— The lodgings of White Harbor are always exceptional, Lord Manderly. The warmth of your people's hospitality contrasts perfectly with the cold of our sea — he replied, taking a generous bite of the meat and chewing with determination. — How are the preparations at the docks?
— Everything is ready, Your Grace. The naval engineers, the shipwrights, and the Runemaster you sent from Winterfell worked day and night without ceasing. The garrisons have been isolated, and the most private docks of the eastern harbor are under total guard by my most loyal men. No one besides us will witness what happens today.
— Excellent — the King said, swallowing the piece of meat and wiping his fingers on a pure linen napkin. — After a quick breakfast, we shall go. The Northern sea is in a hurry to meet its new masters.
The journey to the reserved docks was conducted under implacable security. Rows of soldiers from the regular Northern army, wearing their runic leather doublets and bearing spears with tips of icy steel, formed a human wall against the curiosity of the merchants and smallfolk who bustled through the realm's largest trading hub.
When we finally entered the complex of White Harbor's secret shipyards, the scent of sea salt mingled with the characteristic odor of boiled weirwood sap, charcoal, and the static ozone I had learned to associate with the sorcery of the Winter Throne. Standing on the wooden pier that advanced over the water, I lost my breath for a moment at the sight that opened before us.
Anchored there were the new warships of the North.
At first glance, the general shape of those vessels recalled traditional longships and war galleys, but they held slightly larger proportions, with wider and more imposing hulls. However, what truly captured the eyes and made the spine tingle were the intricate details. The entire extension of the dark wood of the vessels had been carved with deep runic lines that glowed subtly with a celestial-blue luminescence, as if the ship's own veins were filled with blood made of melted ice.
On the critical parts of the structure—at the prow, the rudder, and the flanks—massive plates of icy steel had been riveted and fused to the wood through runic processes that defied the laws of ordinary naval carpentry. The icy steel reflected the pale sunlight with a sharp, silvery gleam, making the vessels look like true marine predators, monsters sculpted from the heart of an ancestral glacier.
The naval engineers and chief shipwrights approached quickly, bending their knees before Arawyn. The King made a brief gesture with his hand, permitting them to rise, and immediately engaged in a technical, whispered conversation with the Runemaster in charge of the project—a lean man from Winterfell whose hands were entirely covered by runic scars from magical burns.
— Board the vessel — the King ordered, his voice echoing with an authority that belied his age. — Let us see how our steel behaves in the embrace of the waters.
Boarding that modified galley was a strange experience for a man of my size. Normally, when my massive feet stepped onto the timber of a ship, I could feel the structure sway slightly under my monumental weight, the hull creaking in protest. But here? The ship felt as steady as if it were anchored to the most solid rock on earth.
We set sail without fanfare. We had not advanced even two miles from the coast when I began to notice the overwhelming differences of runic engineering. The galley's speed was something that defied any nautical logic. There were no oarsmen in the lower deck working to exhaustion; the sails, though open, did not receive a wind strong enough to justify the sheer swiftness with which the vessel sliced through the frigid waters.
I looked over the sides and saw the waves parting down the middle with terrifying ease. It was as if the wind were perpetually in our favor, blowing directly into the mystical inscriptions carved upon the masts, and the hull of wood and icy steel seemed to weigh absolutely nothing. The runes of Silver Lightness and Wind Anchoring, combined with the refinement of the icy steel, caused that massive engine of war to glide over the water as if it were a dry leaf floating on a calm stream. The sea offered no resistance; it bowed to the passage of the Northern ship.
Upon reaching the designated testing area in the open sea—an isolated zone flanked by grey cliffs and deep waters—I spotted the target we had prepared for the demonstration: an old, condemned merchant galley of standard southern size, floating solitary a few hundred yards away.
The most important and tense moment of the journey had arrived.
My King walked to the prow of the test ship, turning to the small group of nobles who had been invited to witness this military miracle. Among us, besides my own sons and naval commanders, stood Lord General Rickard Karstark. The old Lord of Karhold was there as the official representative of the regular army, for the Supreme General, Eddard Stark, was entirely absent from court affairs, having just completed the massive reconstruction and refortification of Moat Cailin. Ned was currently preparing to relocate permanently to the legendary fortress with his family. The mention of Ned Stark made me smile inwardly once more; the advance of Lady Cersei's pregnancy had transformed the once-proud lioness into an extremely clingy and doting creature, refusing to leave her husband's side for even a few hours amidst the newly restored stone towers. Ned truly was a lucky man.
Surrounding us on the deck were also the lesser lords and landed knights who resided in the court of White Harbor—men of Houses Woolfield, Lock, and Flint of Widow's Watch—all whispering eagerly among themselves.
At a gesture from the monarch, four robust sailors emerged from the lower deck, pushing a heavy structure mounted on reinforced wheels of bronze and icy steel. When they pulled away the waxed canvas tarp covering the object, the assembled lords let out gasps of surprise and astonishment.
Before us stood a large object of raw iron and icy steel, perfectly cylindrical and elongated, with a dark, circular muzzle facing the side of the ship. Its entire outer surface was covered in intricate geometric carvings—runes that pulsed with a menacing, deep-blue hue.
— This, my lords, is what we call a Cannon — Arawyn continued, walking to the weapon and resting his hand on the cold metal. — Forged entirely from icy steel reinforced in the depths of our thermal forges. It is a purely magical engine; it does not utilize black powder, fire, or any mundane propellant. Instead, it has been enchanted with macro-runes of Linear Propulsion and Absolute Precision, alongside dozens of auxiliary cooling inscriptions to ensure the structure never collapses under the raw arcane energy released during activation.
Two strong sailors stepped forward next, carrying between them a heavy wooden box whose rope handles seemed strained to the limit by the weight of the contents. They thudded the box onto the deck. Inside lay a perfect sphere of black stone, the size of an adult man's head, entirely covered in deeply engraved runes that glowed with a sinister, fiery-red hue.
Before any of us could ask a question about the mechanics of the object, we witnessed a scene that left the lesser nobles—who had little daily interaction with the monarch—completely dumbfounded.
Arawyn Stark leaned down casually and, using only his left hand, gripped the heavy black stone sphere and hoisted it into the air with the same ease a common man would pluck a ripe apple from a tree. There was no tremor in his muscles, no sign of strain on his youthful face. The supernatural physical strength that combat runes had granted the boy was something bordering the divine; seeing a fourteen-year-old youth lift effortlessly what two burly sailors had sweated to carry was a shocking visual reminder that our King was not entirely human.
— This is the ammunition — the King explained, keeping the sphere held high so all could see the red carvings. — It possesses many mystical anchoring inscriptions, but the two most important you must understand are the runes of Amplified Piercing and Kinetic Explosion. The mechanics are purely arcane: upon activation, the cannon's propulsion runes will hurl this stone across the horizon with a force and velocity that no southern catapult or scorpion could ever dream of matching. Upon striking the enemy vessel, the impact will instantly trigger the inscriptions on the stone. The piercing rune ensures the ball tears through the sturdiest oak hull as if it were wet parchment, penetrating the very bowels of the ship. And then, a fraction of a heartbeat later... the explosion rune is unleashed.
The King slid the black sphere into the muzzle of the icy steel cylinder with a smooth, precise motion.
— It will detonate from the inside out, unleashing thousands of fragments of shattered stone and metal in all directions. And each of these fragments will carry the same destructive properties. If everything goes according to our theoretical calculations, a single well-placed shot is enough to strike any ship in the world from the maps. Now, let us see if our theory holds in practice.
The Roar of Winter and the Fate of Fools
Arawyn stepped back from the weapon, and the sailors—who had been exhaustively trained in the previous weeks on land—began the final activation sequence. I was amazed by the speed and efficiency of the process. One of the men channeled a spark of minor runic energy into the activation matrix at the base of the cylinder, linking it to the kinetic reserves of the ship.
Using bronze levers and runic gears installed on the mobile base, the sailors aimed the dark maw of the cannon directly against the side of the condemned merchant galley in the distance.
— My lords — the King warned, covering his own ears with his gauntlets. — I recommend you prepare for the noise. Winter does not whisper when it strikes.
I imitated the monarch, pressing my immense hands against my ears, as did Rickard Karstark, my sons, and the lesser nobles of the court.
The primary master of the weapon pressed his hand against the activation rune at the rear of the cannon.
What followed was not a sound that belonged to this world.
An apocalyptic boom, as if a thousand thunderclaps were crashing simultaneously over the sea, echoed through the Knife, causing the very water around our galley to vibrate violently. A flash of brilliant blue light and a thick cloud of white arcane vapor erupted from the muzzle of the cannon with terrifying force. The weapon's magical recoil was immense, but the anchoring runes engraved onto the deck and the cannon's base absorbed the kinetic shock perfectly, preventing the ship from rocking or sustaining structural damage.
My eyes, wide with shock, fixed on the horizon. Thanks to the superhuman speed of the runic propulsion, I could barely follow the trajectory of the black stone ball. I saw only a dark blur crossing the sky in a tight, perfect arc, leaving a trail of static vapor in the frigid air.
The ball struck the target galley dead center in the hull, just above the waterline. As the King had predicted, there was no resistance. The black stone pierced the heavy wooden planks of the vessel with surgical ease, vanishing into the ship's hold.
And then, the world seemed to freeze for a fraction of a heartbeat.
A blinding red flash erupted from within the merchant galley. The sound of the subsequent explosion was even more devastating than the firing of the cannon itself. The target ship did not merely begin to sink; it simply ceased to exist. The sheer force of the runic explosion tore the oak structure apart from the inside out, transforming masts, sails, deck, and hull into a violent storm of incandescent wood splinters and stone shards that flew dozens of feet into the air, raining down into the water as a shower of lethal debris. In less than ten seconds, all that remained of the once-proud merchant vessel was a slick of burning oil on the sea's surface and a few charred pieces of wreckage drifting aimlessly.
An absolute, deathly silence reigned on the deck of our ship. The sailors stood frozen, trembling, staring at the empty void where the target had been moments before. Lord Rickard Karstark had his mouth slightly open, his veteran warrior eyes gleaming with a mixture of reverence and a deep dread he rarely showed. My own sons and the lesser lords exchanged terrified glances, realizing that the nature of warfare in the world had changed forever at that exact second.
I looked down at my own fat hands, feeling an involuntary shiver run through every inch of my skin. That weapon... that runic artillery was capable of turning the greatest fleet in the world into ash and floating timber in a matter of hours. No armor, no coastal castle, no traditional southern warship could withstand such concentrated destructive power.
King Arawyn Stark turned back to us, lowering his hands from his ears with a calmness that contrasted terribly with the devastation he had just wrought. His fourteen-year-old features carried the coldness of an old god molded from ice.
— This, my lords... is the future — he declared, his words falling upon the deck like death sentences.
I wiped the cold sweat that had broken out on my brow and forced a wide smile, trying to dispel the tension that had frozen my chest. I stepped closer to the monarch, letting my hearty, booming laugh echo out to break the silence.
— By the gods of sea and stone, Your Grace! — I exclaimed, clapping my hands with enthusiasm. — The power of the ocean now belongs entirely to the North! I rejoice deeply knowing that these iron beasts belong to our banner and not to our enemies. But fortunately for the rest of Westeros, I imagine these destructive marvels will not be put into practical use anytime soon. The realm is at peace, Robert Baratheon is far too drunk in King's Landing to bother us, and no lord would be foolish enough to test the borders of a North that walks alongside magic. These weapons can rest and be refined at leisure in our shipyards for many long years before the world ever feels their fury.
The King looked at me, an enigmatic and somber glint passing through his grey eyes, but he did not dispute my words. He merely nodded in affirmation and ordered our return to White Harbor.
As the runic galley sailed back toward the harbor with its supernatural speed, I savored the feeling of security and military superiority that the morning had provided. Little did I know, in my proud and comfortable ignorance as a lord, that I was completely, absolutely, and tragically mistaken about the peaceful times that awaited us. I had failed to calculate one of the greatest constants in human history. After all, gold mines may run dry, harvests may fail, and kingdoms may fall, but the only thing that never, under any circumstances, diminishes or ceases to exist in this world... is the staggering amount of foolish, arrogant men.
And in the Iron Islands, the grey krakens and ironborn captains were already beginning to sharpen their stupid claws, preparing to test the patience of Winter.