Family stewards and caravan leaders, holding procurement lists stamped with the crest of House Whent of Harrenhal—nine black bats on a yellow field—set out like generals marching to war. They led wagons loaded with gold dragons to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.
Their convoys rolled down the Kingsroad into the fertile farmlands of the Riverlands, purchasing mountains of grain, flour, and hundreds of cattle, sheep, pigs, and poultry. They ventured deep into the Kingswood, buying licensed game and premium charcoal from the royal huntsmen. They even sourced rare spices from Dorne and ordered exquisite gold and silver plate and extra tent fabric from Lannisport.
Then, they headed to the Arbor to buy red wine.
In their minds, Arbor wine was the best in all of Westeros. The red vintages produced there were extraordinary, and the signature golden wines were sweeter than even the best Dornish reds.
But that was before the Battle of the Arbor!
The Arbor, which once flowed with golden nectar, was now filled with a sour, pungent smell that made one frown. The procurement envoys sent by House Whent to prepare for the tourney hit a solid wall here.
They had expected to purchase large quantities of the famous vintages to entertain guests from all over the realm. Instead, reality dealt them a heavy blow.
The island's historic, rich, and fragrant cellar reserves had long been looted clean by Ironborn longships—not a single drop remained. Looking around, the massive cellars were empty, leaving only cold stone walls and a faint, lingering scent of past glory in the air.
Helpless, they pinned their hopes on the newly produced wine. However, the situation was even worse.
Most of the high-quality local vines had been destroyed in the fires of war. Grapes for the new batch had to be purchased at high prices from the Stormlands or other regions of the Reach, resulting in uneven quality from the start.
More critically, the master winemakers who held the core techniques and the overseers who controlled every step of fermentation had all been taken by Euron Greyjoy as "the most precious spoils of war," along with their tools and tomes, back to the Iron Islands.
Those left on the Arbor to brew the red wine now were mostly former apprentices and assistants.
They had enthusiasm but severely lacked experience. Their masters hadn't had time to teach them many crucial formulas, secrets of temperature control, or techniques for handling unexpected issues during fermentation. The new wine they brewed was either sour and harsh or bland and tasteless. Some even had an indescribable, strange odor that a hot-tempered knight of House Whent denounced as "tasting like horse piss."
Such wine... let alone serving it to the lords and nobles at the tourney, even providing it to their own soldiers would likely provoke complaints. The procurement officer of House Whent looked at the barrels of cloudy new wine, his face even uglier than the liquid inside.
The procurement envoys of House Whent left the Arbor, which reeked of failed fermentation, with dark expressions.
Staring at their empty wagons, they could almost see the nobles at the feast frowning at the inferior wine. Currently, the only option was to turn their procurement target to distant Oldtown or Dorne. This meant a longer journey, higher prices, and unpredictable risks. The cost of this already extravagant event would climb to a new, painful height.
The silence in the team was broken by a caravan leader who traveled extensively and whose skin was roughened by sea wind. He hesitated, then rode closer to the family steward and suggested cautiously, "My Lord, why don't we... try the Iron Islands?"
"..."
A strange silence fell over the squad. Everyone who heard this looked at him as if he were mad.
Buy from the Ironborn? Buy the very things they just looted from the Arbor?
The caravan leader felt a bit unnerved by the stares, but he braced himself and explained with the pragmatism of a traveler. "My Lord, think about it. The wine stocks accumulated over a century on the Arbor were massive. Even if the Ironborn drink like fish, it's been less than half an year since the battle. They definitely still have plenty of stock! And that... is the real, high-quality wine we desperately need."
The steward frowned deeply, his tone filled with distrust and ingrained prejudice. "The Iron Islands? Those pirates? Who knows what tricks they'll play? I fear we might have the life to go buy it, but not the life to bring it back!"
But the caravan leader shook his head, trying to describe the changes he had seen with his own eyes. "My Lord, that's old history. Except for the Arbor incident—well, that was a war—they really haven't raided merchant ships or nobles of the Seven Kingdoms for many years. Especially recently... they've changed a lot. Pyke has opened a trade port, welcoming merchants from all over, and even set up arbitrators to handle disputes. I've done a few deals with them for iron and timber. Their prices are fair, they deliver on time, and the whole process... uh, they actually follow rules better than some lords in the Reach. None of that rumored 'pay the iron price or feed the fish' pirate style."
The steward of House Whent pondered, his gaze sweeping over the long line of empty wagons behind him. Every meaningless rotation of the wheels seemed to mock his incompetence. He could almost imagine the thunderous rage on Lord Whent's face if he returned empty-handed, and the whispers and disdain of the guests at the feast having no fine wine to drink.
Finally, the desperate need for high-quality wine barely outweighed the bone-deep traditional fear of the Ironborn. He gritted his teeth, as if deciding to touch a reportedly venomous sea snake.
"Fine," he finally exhaled a breath of turbid air, his tone filled with cautious compromise. "The Iron Islands... can be a backup option. But..." He pivoted, trying to grab a safer straw. "Going north from here, we have to pass through Oldtown and Lannisport anyway. Try to buy everything we can in those two places first! Oldtown is full of scholars and merchants, and Lannisport is backed by the wealth of the West. Maybe there's enough good stock there to save us from taking that risk."
The caravan leader beside him immediately put on an ingratiating smile and nodded repeatedly. "My Lord is wise! Safety first! Since we're on the way, naturally we should check the situation in those two great ports first."
That night, the caravan stopped at a noisy roadside inn. Once everyone was asleep, the caravan leader who had suggested going to the Iron Islands quietly slipped into the stable in the backyard.
In the darkness, he skillfully grabbed a raven that had been prepared in advance. He stuffed a small scroll of parchment with a coded message into the tube on its leg. He looked around, then raised his hand and tossed the raven into the night sky. The black bird flapped its wings silently, flying unwaveringly toward the northwest—straight for the Iron Islands.
When the procurement team arrived in prosperous Oldtown full of hope, they received devastating news: All decent wine stocks in the city had long been snapped up by keen-nosed merchants from the Vale and foresighted traders from the North, reportedly to hedge against the coming wine shortage and price spikes.
Unwilling to give up, they rushed to wealthy Lannisport, hoping the gold of the West had kept some nectar.
But the reply was equally cold: Since the paralysis of the Arbor's wine production and supply, the flow of high-end red wine had been completely cut off. You couldn't buy it even with gold dragons. Let alone commoners or ordinary nobles, even the table of Lord Tywin Lannister himself, Lord of Casterly Rock, reportedly lacked the usual Arbor Gold. It was a market with prices but no goods; the port warehouses were empty.
It was as if an invisible, giant net had sucked dry all possible sources before they even arrived. The steward stood on the noisy docks of Lannisport, looking at the thousands of ships, yet feeling an unprecedented sense of isolation and helplessness.
At this moment, the Iron Islands had become the last, and only, option.