Two Sennight Later (5th Moon of 296 AC)
***
White Harbor stank of fish and salt and commerce.
Castor stood on the docks watching ships unload cargo—spices from the Summer Isles, wine from the Arbor, silk from the Free Cities. Wealth flowing through the North's only major port, controlled by the Manderlys who'd grown fat on trade taxes and merchant fees.
Time to get a piece of that.
Jeren stood beside him, looking uncomfortable in merchant's clothes instead of his usual armor. "The gathering's arranged, m'lord. Three of them—Harrold Stout, Medger Cerwyn, and a Braavosi named Caggo who's been trading in White Harbor for years. They're waiting at the Merman's Court."
"What do they know?"
"That a Bolton representative wants to discuss trade arrangements. Nothing specific. Caggo's curious because Braavosi coin was mentioned. The other two came because Lord Manderly suggested it might be worth their time."
Wyman set this up. Good. Means he's already thinking of Bolton as a legitimate trading partner rather than just a bannerman.
They walked through the harbor district, past warehouses and chandlers and brothels that catered to sailors.
White Harbor was different from the rest of the North—louder, dirtier, more alive with the energy of commerce. Money changed hands on every corner. Deals were made in doorways and taverns and on ship decks.
This is what prosperity looks like. Not honor and ancient bloodlines, but goods moving and coins flowing and people making profits.
The Merman's Court was a tavern near the docks, nicer than most but still rough around the edges. Inside, three men sat at a corner table with cups of wine and expressions ranging from curious to skeptical.
Harrold Stout was older, maybe sixty, with the weathered face of someone who'd spent decades moving goods across the North.
Medger Cerwyn was younger, thirties, dressed well but not ostentatiously.
And Caggo—the Braavosi was immediately recognizable by his forked beard and the way he watched everything with calculating eyes.
"Lord Bolton." Harrold stood, bowing respectfully. "We were told to expect a representative, not the lord himself."
"I prefer to handle important matters personally." Castor took the offered seat. Jeren remained standing behind him, silent and alert.
Medger leaned forward. "Lord Manderly said you had a proposal. Something about trade routes and foreign currency?"
"I'm expanding Bolton production capabilities. Weapons, glass, soap, other goods. Quality items that can compete with Southern manufactures. I need distribution networks to move volume."
Caggo's eyebrows rose. "Bolton lands produce glass? Since when?"
"Since I hired craftsmen who know what they're doing. You want to see samples?"
Jeren produced a cloth-wrapped bundle, setting it on the table. Inside were three items—a pane of perfectly clear glass, a well-forged sword with a leather-wrapped hilt, and several cakes of soap that smelled of lavender and didn't look like rendered pig fat.
Harrold picked up the glass, holding it to the light. His expression shifted from skeptical to impressed. "This is Myrish quality."
"Better than Myrish. No green tint, no bubbles, uniform thickness." Castor let them examine the goods. "And I can produce volume. Not one-off luxury items, but consistent output at scale."
"At what price?" Medger asked, ever practical.
"Competitive with imports. Slightly lower, actually, since there's no shipping costs from across the Narrow Sea."
Caggo set down the soap he'd been sniffing. "You're trying to undercut established trade routes. The Myrish won't like that. Neither will the merchants who've built businesses importing their goods."
"The Myrish are three thousand miles away. By the time they notice, I'll have established market presence they can't dislodge." Castor met his eyes. "And the merchants who adapt early—who start carrying Bolton goods alongside their imports—they'll profit. The ones who resist will lose market share."
"Threats?" Harrold's voice was careful.
"Economics. I'm offering better prices on quality goods. Merchants can either take advantage or watch their competitors do it." Castor leaned back. "I'm not asking for charity. I'm offering a business arrangement that benefits everyone involved."
Medger examined the sword, testing the balance. "Let's say we're interested. What exactly are you proposing?"
"You three become primary distributors for Bolton goods in White Harbor and surrounding territories. I provide consistent supply at negotiated prices. You handle distribution, sales, customer relationships. Profits get split—you keep your standard merchant margins, I get volume sales."
"And the foreign coinage part?" Caggo asked.
Here was the delicate part. The lie wrapped in truth.
"Bolton lands have been expanding trade with White Harbor merchants for months now. Small scale, testing quality. We've been paid in mixed currency—Northern coin, some Braavosi honors, even a few Pentoshi marks from traders passing through." Castor gestured at Jeren. "My man has records if you want to see them."
Jeren produced a ledger—printed on the press, filled with false transactions that looked absolutely legitimate. Dates, quantities, prices, all in neat columns that would satisfy any accountant.
Caggo leafed through the pages, his expression unreadable. "These transactions... I don't recognize some of these merchant names."
"Small traders, mostly. Some have already moved on to other ports. That's why I want to establish relationships with established merchants like yourselves—more stability, more trust."
It was bullshit. The merchants named in that ledger were mostly fictional, a few were real but had never traded with Bolton, and the Braavosi coin came from the hydraulic press in the Dreadfort's basement.
But the documentation looked perfect, the numbers were plausible, and most importantly, nobody could easily verify or disprove any of it.
Harrold frowned. "I know most of the merchants trading in White Harbor. I don't recognize half these names."
"You know the established houses. These are smaller operations—independent traders, ship captains dealing in mixed cargo, opportunists moving goods wherever they find margins." Castor kept his voice level.
"The kind of people who don't leave much paper trail because they're working on thin margins and can't afford scribes."
Medger nodded slowly. "True enough. I've dealt with plenty of traders like that. Here one month, gone the next, always chasing the next deal."
Good
Medger's confirming the cover story without realizing it. Social proof—one person validates, others are more likely to accept.
Caggo set the ledger down.
"Let's say I believe these records. Let's say Bolton goods are as good as these samples suggest. What's the actual proposal? Specific terms."
"I supply goods at twenty percent below import prices for equivalent quality. You distribute and sell at market rates. Your margins increase because you're paying less for supply. My volume increases because you're incentivized to push Bolton goods over imports."
"Twenty percent below?" Harrold looked skeptical. "How are you making profit at those prices?"
"Volume and overhead. I don't pay shipping from Essos. I don't pay harbor fees in foreign ports. I don't pay Manderly taxes on imports—only on domestic trade, which is lower. My costs are structurally cheaper, so I can charge less and still profit."
It was partially true. The gold mine meant his actual costs were minimal—he was basically converting free gold into goods through intermediate steps. But they didn't need to know that.
Medger did calculations in his head. "If we're selling at market rates but paying twenty percent less... that's significant margin improvement. Could increase profits by thirty, maybe forty percent depending on volume."
"Exactly. And as Bolton production scales up, I can offer even better prices on larger orders. This is just the beginning."
Caggo leaned back, studying Castor with those calculating eyes. "You're very confident for such a young lord. Most Northern houses barely manage their own lands, let alone try to compete with international trade."
"Most Northern houses are stuck in the past. I'm not." Castor met his gaze without flinching. "The North is the largest kingdom in Westeros but the poorest. That's going to change. With or without your help. I'm offering you the chance to profit from that change rather than be disrupted by it."
Silence around the table. The three merchants exchanged glances, having entire conversations in looks and subtle gestures.
Finally Harrold spoke. "I'd want to see your production facilities. Verify you can actually deliver volume consistently."
"Agreed. Visit the Dreadfort anytime. I'll show you the forges, the glass workshops, everything. Transparency builds trust."
Carefully controlled transparency. They'll see the production facilities, not the gold mine or the coin press or the printing press. Show them enough to verify the cover story, hide everything that would expose the real operation.
"And payments?" Caggo asked. "You want Braavosi coin specifically?"
"I want whatever's most liquid in White Harbor markets. If that's Braavosi honors, fine. If it's Northern silver or Pentoshi marks, also fine. I'm not particular about currency denomination—just that it's real coin I can use for ongoing expenses."
Because I'm minting most of it anyway. Accept payment in my own forged currency, use it to pay for more production materials, create a circular flow that looks like legitimate commerce.
Perfect system
Medger stood, extending his hand. "I'll take a small trial order. Say... fifty swords, twenty glass panes, hundred cakes of soap. If the quality holds up and delivery is reliable, we'll talk larger volumes."
Castor shook his hand. "Fair enough. Jeren will arrange delivery details."
Harrold stood as well. "I'm interested, but I want that facility tour first. Need to see this isn't just clever talk backed by nothing."
"Understandable. Send word when you want to visit."
That left Caggo, still sitting, still watching with those shrewd eyes. "I'll be honest, Lord Bolton. Something about this feels... calculated. Like you're playing a deeper game than just selling soap and swords."
Perceptive bastard. Braavosi. They learn economics and intrigue from birth in that city.
"I'm playing the only game that matters," Castor said. "Making House Bolton wealthy enough that we can't be ignored, can't be pushed around, can't be treated like backwater bannermen who exist only to provide troops when the Starks call. If that's calculating, then yes, I'm calculating. Is that a problem?"
Caggo smiled—sharp, knowing. "Not a problem. Just want to know what I'm getting into." He stood, extending his hand. "I'll take a trial order as well. And I'll introduce you to some other Braavosi merchants I know. If your goods are truly competitive, there's markets across the Narrow Sea that might be interested."
Perfect. Exactly what I need. Braavosi connections to legitimize the whole operation, make it look like Bolton's actually trading internationally.
"Appreciated." Castor shook his hand.
After they left, Jeren exhaled slowly. "That went better than expected."
"They're merchants. Show them profit margins and they forget to ask harder questions." Castor stood, looking out the tavern window at ships in the harbor. "How much actual product do we have ready?"
"Enough to fill their trial orders and some extra. The workshops have been building inventory for two weeks."
"Good. Deliver everything on time, quality exactly as promised. First impressions matter—we need them going back to their networks saying Bolton goods are legitimate."
"And when they want larger orders?"
"We scale up. Hire more workers, build more workshops, expand production. The gold can fund whatever infrastructure we need." Castor turned from the window.
"This is just the beginning. Within six months, I want Bolton goods in every major market in the North.
Within a year, I want traders in White Harbor automatically thinking of us when they need quality manufactures."
Jeren nodded, making mental notes. "What about the Manderlys? Wyman's going to notice we're building significant trade presence. He might see it as competition."
"Let him. The Manderlys make money on harbor fees and shipping. We're actually increasing trade volume through White Harbor, which means more fees for them. They should thank us for generating business."
Plus, Wyman's smart enough to recognize mutually beneficial arrangements. He's not going to fight us over this when there's profit for everyone.
They left the tavern and headed back toward the docks where horses waited.
White Harbor was busier now, midday crowds filling streets with noise and motion. Castor watched it all—
merchants haggling, sailors hauling cargo, money changing hands in countless small transactions.
This is the real power. Not armies or castles or noble bloodlines. This. Commerce, trade, the flow of goods and currency that keeps civilization running. Control this and you control everything else.
A commotion ahead—raised voices, shouting. Castor and Jeren pushed through the crowd to see what was happening.
Two merchants arguing over a shipment, one accusing the other of delivering short weight. A crowd had gathered, taking sides, the argument escalating toward violence.
Then a City Watchman arrived—Manderly guards in blue and green—and the crowd dispersed immediately.
The watchman took statements, examined the disputed cargo, and made a ruling. The merchant who'd been shorting weight paid a fine and slunk away, reputation damaged.
Law and order. That's the foundation of commerce.
Without enforcement, without trust that contracts will be honored and disputes resolved fairly, trade breaks down.
The Manderlys understand that. It's why White Harbor thrives while other Northern towns barely scrape by.
"We need that at the Dreadfort," Castor said as they resumed walking.
"What, m'lord?"
"Enforcement. Not just fear and flaying—actual systems for resolving disputes, enforcing contracts, making sure merchants know they'll be treated fairly. If we want to build a real economic hub, we need the infrastructure to support it."
Jeren looked thoughtful. "That's... not very Bolton, m'lord."
"The old Bolton way was rule through terror and nothing else. It worked for keeping the lands, but it didn't build anything. I want to build." Castor mounted his horse.
"Terror has its place. But you can't terrorize people into prosperity. For that, you need them to believe doing business with you is profitable and safe."
They rode back toward the Dreadfort as afternoon sun slanted across the bay. Behind them, White Harbor continued its endless commerce, unaware that it had just helped legitimize an economic operation built on forged documents and minted currency.
Three merchants. Three trial orders. Small numbers, but it's the beginning. Once they go back satisfied, once word spreads that Bolton goods are quality and delivery is reliable, more merchants will come.
Then the system becomes self-sustaining—real trade mixed with forged documentation mixed with minted currency, all flowing together until nobody can tell where legitimate business ends and fraud begins.
That's the beauty of it.
Hide the lie inside so much truth that they become indistinguishable.
The ride north took three days. By the time they reached the Dreadfort, Jeren had already composed letters to the workshops—orders to fulfill, production schedules to adjust, inventory to prepare for delivery.
Castor went straight to the solar where ledgers waited. The real ledgers, not the printed fakes. Numbers tracking actual production, actual costs, actual revenues from legitimate sales mixed with the fictional profits from documented-but-nonexistent trades.
It's working. The whole system is working. Gold from the mine converted to goods in the workshops, goods sold through merchants generating real revenue, forged documents covering the gaps, minted currency circulating through White Harbor markets.
Each piece supporting the others, creating an economic engine that grows stronger every day.
He sat there as evening fell, reviewing numbers by candlelight, planning next month's expansion, calculating how long until Bolton's economic power matched its military reputation.
Not long.
Mabey until a year we're actually wealthy enough to matter on a regional scale. By the time the War of Five Kings starts, we'll have resources that can tip balances, buy armies, fund campaigns.
And nobody will see it coming until it's too late.
***
CHAPTER END