The north wind, wrapped in salty, wet sea air, finally blew away the biting chill from the Wall.
When The Cannibal's shadow first swept over the mouth of the White Knife, Daemon looked down—White Harbor lay like white jade embedded in the coastline. Whitewashed stone houses spread along the riverbank; dark grey slate roofs gleamed coldly in the sun. Warships in the Inner Harbor lay like schools of silver fish, resting quietly inside the breakwater, shimmering on seawater that didn't freeze even in deep winter.
"We're at White Harbor!" Brandon Stark rode at the front, black leather armor still stained with morning dew from the journey. He pointed to a towering grey-green rock in the distance. "That's Seal Rock, choking the Outer Harbor channel. Ballistae on top can punch through pirate longships!"
When the retinue reached the Seal Gate, Lord Theomore Manderly was already waiting with his family.
The old Lord wore a dark blue brocade robe, collar embroidered with a white merman sigil—symbol of House Manderly, merman holding a black trident, exceptionally striking in the sunlight.
Servants behind him held silver platters with fresh oysters. The air was filled with fishy smell and sea salt, starkly different from the frozen earth scent of the inland North.
"Prince Daemon, Princess Gael. Have you been well since we parted at King's Landing last year?" Theomore bowed, voice carrying Southern warmth. "Long time no see. Welcome to White Harbor. I've prepared a banquet at New Castle—freshly caught cod, roasted seal steaks, and cutlery forged by our most famous silversmiths; you must try."
Daemon dismounted, gaze sweeping the Fishfoot Yard inside the Seal Gate—in the center of the cobbled square, a fountain sprayed warm water. White Harbor's hot spring water was channeled here. Children chased each other around the fountain; shouts of merchants came from the distant fish market, full of vitality.
"Lord Manderly took trouble." He nodded with a smile. "White Harbor is livelier than imagined."
"After all, White Harbor is the mouth of the North." Theomore led everyone inside, tone proud. "Even in winter, the Inner Harbor doesn't freeze, allowing trade with the South. Look at those stone houses; roof slates are shipped from the South. And the Sept of the Snows, biggest sept in the North. We Manderlys are among the few Andal descendants in the North."
Climbing the Castle Stair, Daemon finally understood why it was famous—dozens of marble mermaid statues stood along the wide white stone steps. Mermaids held bowls of whale oil; flames danced in bowls, illuminating the stairs with warm yellow light.
Looking down from the top, Inner and Outer Harbors were in full view: fishing boats docked successively in the Outer Harbor, fishermen shouting with nets on shoulders;
Over twenty warships lined up neatly in the Inner Harbor, black sails embroidered with Manderly merman sigil;
The old Wolf's Den sat by the water in the distance. Grey stone walls exuded ancient aura. Said to house a godswood of the First Men, now a prison.
The Merman's Court in New Castle was more elegant than imagined. Walls, floor, and ceiling were pieced from thick planks carved with various sea creatures—leaping cod, tail-wagging whales, trident-wielding mermen. Candlelight on wood carvings seemed to bring them to life.
Theomore invited everyone to sit. Servants served golden roasted cod on silver platters, sprinkled with spices from across the Narrow Sea.
"Princes must try this." Theomore handed Daemon a silver fork. "White Harbor cod is ten times fresher than Southern fish. We also have silver mines; this cutlery is forged by our own smiths. If the Prince likes, I'll gift you a set."
Beren Dustin held his notebook again, recording fast: "Lord Earl, was White Harbor built by House Manderly? I read this used to be Wolf's Den territory."
"Correct." Theomore nodded smiling. "A thousand years before the Conquest, we were driven from the Reach. House Stark took us in, granting us this land at the White Knife mouth. We dismantled some stones from the Wolf's Den to build the current White Harbor—look at the Wolf's Den, still there, just became a prison."
He paused, tone full of gratitude. "So we Manderlys are forever loyal to Stark. When Lord Ellard said to support the Wall these days, we responded first. Grain and iron are ready, waiting for Night's Watch to transport."
Hearing this, Daemon couldn't help remembering Brandon's words at parting—at Winterfell, Lord Ellard held Brandon's hand, blue-grey eyes firm: "Prince Daemon did right. Free folk settling in the Gift makes the Wall much safer. Please tell the Prince, the duty of the Warden of the North includes guarding the North with Night's Watch brothers. Grain, men, weapons—Winterfell gives all." Hearing Theomore mention it now, he felt Northern cohesion stronger than imagined.
Halfway through the banquet, Brandon suddenly slapped the table, shouting: "I won't escort you to the Three Sisters tomorrow! After seeing you onto the ship, I must return to Winterfell—Benjen says Bolton men are wandering the border again; I must go back to help patrol."
Gael held Mysaria's hand, reluctance flashing in her eyes: "Not staying a few more days? Haven't seen the Sept of the Snows yet."
"No!" Brandon downed a gulp of ale, liquid flowing into his beard. "This Wild Wolf can't stay in a city! Next time you come North, I'll take you bear hunting in the Wolfswood!"
As he spoke, he unclasped a dagger from his waist, handing it to Daemon—hilt made of direwolf bone, blade gleaming coldly. "This is for you! Makes a pair with the last one. Didn't decide a winner at the tourney last time; next meeting, we spar again!"
Daemon took the dagger. Familiar and warm touch of wolf bone hilt. "Alright, next time I come bear hunting with you."
Theomore watched their interaction, adding with a smile: "Ser Brandon is famous not just in the North but also in White Harbor. Last time he helped us chase off pirates stealing fish; fishermen call him 'Guardian of White Harbor'."
Brandon blushed immediately, muttering "That was what I should do," drawing laughter from everyone.
Larys Strong sat in the corner, black robe sweeping the wooden floor, thoughtful light in black eyes—looking at wood carvings on walls, then at the silver chain at Theomore's waist, clearly calculating Manderly wealth and influence. But with thoughts flowing, he thought of the grand-uncle seen at parting from the Wall.
Jarmen Waters habitually leaned by the window, single eye scanning warships in the harbor, fingers unconsciously rubbing his bow, clearly assessing White Harbor's defensive strength. Ever since that body disposal with Larys, some behaviors of the Clubfoot clearly infected this one-eyed man.
Night deepened; banquet dispersed. Daemon stood on the terrace of New Castle, watching White Harbor's fishing lights.
Lanterns twinkled like stars on warships in the Inner Harbor; scattered lights shone from the fish market direction—fishermen returning late packing nets;
Beside ballistae on Seal Rock, soldiers on watch held torches, figures exceptionally straight in the wind.
"Thinking of what again?" Gael saw Daemon staring at the dark night sky from afar, unaware of his cloak blown by wind. She walked to him lightly and skillfully, teasing with a smile, "What, reluctant to part with Brandon?"
"A bit." Daemon nodded, violet eyes reflecting fishing lights. "He's a good brother." He paused, adding, "But also thinking of the Wall. With Lord Ellard and Manderly support, free folk should settle down in the Gift."
"Definitely will." Gael leaned beside him, pale violet eyes full of trust. "With you, with The Cannibal and Dreamfyre, nothing to fear."
Night bird calls from distant Wolf's Den mixed with waves hitting the shore, exceptionally gentle in White Harbor's night.
Daemon knew after seeing Brandon off tomorrow, they would sail to the Three Sisters, stepping on the tour of the Seven Kingdoms again.
But at this moment, White Harbor's fishing lights, Manderly warmth, and Brandon's candidness were like warm Northern ale, spreading warmth in his heart.
Early next morning, White Harbor's pier was exceptionally lively. Theomore had prepared the ship to the Three Sisters—slender hull, sails embroidered with Manderly merman sigil.
Brandon stood on the pier, black robe snapping in sea breeze. He patted Daemon's shoulder, voice deeper than usual: "Be careful on the road. People of the Three Sisters have strange tempers; don't conflict with them."
"Understood." Daemon nodded smiling. "You be careful of Bolton men too."
When the ship set sail, Brandon still waved on the pier, figure shrinking gradually, finally becoming a black dot.
Daemon watched White Harbor's outline disappear on the sea horizon, then looked at Gael and Mysaria beside him—Beren was still recording White Harbor observations, Larys leaned on the gunwale looking into distance, Jarmen Waters checking his bow.
Sea breeze lifted Daemon's silver hair. He gripped the wolf bone dagger from Brandon, sudden firmness rising in his heart—this Northern trip not only saw the Wall's magnificence and Night's Watch loyalty but gained Northern friendship.
Future Dance of the Dragons or Others threat, with these people, with dragons, he could definitely guard Westeros, guard these warm fireworks.
The ship sailed on the ice-free sea toward the Three Sisters. Behind were White Harbor's fishing lights; ahead was an unknown journey.
But Daemon knew, as long as people beside him remained, as long as dragonfire remained, there was no sea uncrossable, no land unguarded.
---