Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I'm only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.
AN: This story diverges from canon in that after a troubling and barely remembered dream, Wyman Manderly visits Winterfell and asks Ned if he can take Jon as a ward and possible husband for Wynafryd. In other words, this is my effort at a pseudo-time travel story.
I'm simultaneously writing a similar story, called the Wolf and the Bear, but Maege Mormont is the character possessing vague knowledge of future events. I wanted to use the same premise, but plot the similarities and differences in outcomes between loyal, rich Manderly with less time and a loyal, poor Mormont with more time.
In both AUs, Robert's visit to Winterfell will occur when Jon and Robb are about 17/18 (300 AC). All dates after Robert's Rebellion can be pushed back about roughly 3 years, such as the Greyjoy Rebellion which is now occurring 292/293 AC, not 289 AC. This AU starts about 6 years before Robert's visit, so they are roughly 11/12 years old.
The above is for those who care about dates. I don't really. I'm just writing a story.
Keep in mind that the Wolf and the Mermaid and the Wolf and the Bear are not in the same AU. They are separate.
Cover Art: La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse (1893).
W&M W&M W&M
Wyman Manderly woke with a start, his eyes suddenly open, startled, fearful. His skin was clammy and he was covered in a cold sweat. His breathing was hoarse and rasping. His blood pounded in his ears.
It took a moment for him to orient himself. He was not lying in a deep field of snow, bleeding out after a pale, inhuman creature with ice blue eyes had driven a freezing sword deep into his gut. He was lying in the dark, in a bed covered in furs. His bed. In his room in the Merman's Court.
He was warm, he reassured himself desperately, remembering the bitter, bone cutting cold. He was safe. He was alive. He wiggled his fingers and toes to test that theory. He almost laughed in relief when his body responded.
It had been a dream. A bloody, terrifying nightmare, he corrected as his mind flashed back to barely half remembered terrors. His son, Wendel, killed by the bloody Freys and Boltons. His granddaughters betrothed to his murderers. After some initial victories, his men were decimated, in battle after battle due to treachery.
Then he remembered fragments of dragons. His limbs trembled at even those dim, broken recollections. Dragons of fire and dragons of ice. He was embarrassed to have to struggle a moment in controlling his bowels. Tears covered his face as he disjointedly remembered flames consuming entire armies.
He drew a horrified breath. The Starks, dead. Ned, killed for treason in the far south. Robb, betrayed at a wedding. Bran and Rickon murdered by the Boltons or the iron born, he couldn't remember which, the memory already becoming hazy. Ned's daughters gone missing, Arya likely murdered and Sansa vanished after being forced into a marriage with the Imp of the Lannisters.
And his bastard, Jon Snow, declared king. Or maybe that was Robb. As panicked as he was, the details were already draining away like water through a sieve.
The king leading one last, forlorn and impossible charge against an army of the dead. Probably the bastard, he thought, remembering the king's dark curls. A charge he participated in, together with his cousin, Marlon. The charge that resulted in his death, though he could already feel the vision slipping away, though the phantom pain in his gut lingered.
For the life of him he couldn't remember what had happened to his son, Wyllas. Or his granddaughters after their betrothal. Nothing was more important to him than family, but he could not dredge up the memory of their fates.
He laughed weakly. Their fates in a nonsense dream. He was being an old fool to worry about it. His laughter turned into a hacking cough that took minutes for him to control.
He laid still for many minutes thereafter, collecting his gasping breath, slowing his heart beat. He noticed he was clutching his furs, like a child seeking protection from night terrors. He despised himself for the weakness, though it took time to eventually convince himself to let go of the furs.
Once he felt able, he heaved his considerable bulk out of his bed. He could not deny that he was a large man, an excessively large man. His four chins attested to that immutable fact. He knew his bulk was the result of his overfondness of lamprey pie and Arbor gold, coupled with a complete lack of physical activity. He watched the fat jiggle as he stood. He couldn't stop the thought that he needed to lose weight if what he dreamt was real, if he was to be ready to fight.
He snorted. It wasn't real. It was obviously just a dream. Ned Stark executed for treason? No one in their right mind would believe it. It was just a horrible nightmare, brought on by too much ale and a bad pie.
Or three, he amended, thinking of the number of courses he'd consumed. He really should cut back.
He stumbled over to his wash basin, a large bronze bowl crafted in the shape of a seashell, and splashed water onto his face. His large, sausage size fingers were clumsy and awkward.
That wasn't normal, he thought, freezing. Despite his size, he was known for his grace, his ability to move his body well. He was never uncoordinated. Something was wrong.
He stopped and looked at his hands. They were still shaking. He laughed again, a long shuddering thing. He was unmanned by night terrors. He almost cried in frustration, but didn't. He knew if he started, he'd not be able to stop.
He stood erect as he could and breathed deeply. He stayed there, still, for minutes, thinking, collecting himself. Everything about the nightmare was turning to cobwebs in his mind, which pleased him to no end. Some things are best forgotten, especially fantastical nightmares, he reassured himself.
Finally, he clad his bulk in a large, food stained, ermine robe and exited his room. A household knight stood guard outside of it. Ser Ondrew, he remembered. A good, loyal man. A feeble light shone in the stone corridor of the castle, cast by a lone torch.
"I'm headed to my solar," he said quietly, his normally jovial voice subdued. "After the sun rises, find my sons and cousin. Ask them to join me."
It was just a dream, a nightmare, he knew. Nothing to be concerned with, just a childish, irrational fear. He couldn't even remember most of it, and those parts he did were broken, hazy fragments. Certainly nothing to share with his family. They'd think he'd taken leave of his senses.
He'd simply decided to approve Marlon's long requested improvements to White Harbor's defenses. They were long overdue, he convinced himself. Seal Rock was a disgrace, with its crumbled walls and towers. They were a merchant ship's first view of White Harbor and they were incredibly unsightly. They certainly didn't impress or inspire fear. They needed to be repaired and improved, if only to protect the House's reputation.
As well as the defensive towers set along the mile long wall separating the outer and inner harbors. It was important that their trading partners feel secure when visiting White Harbor, after all.
His decision had nothing to do with an overly vivid nightmare. That would be childish. Wyman Manderly was no child to be unmanned by a dream.
He also thought it was probably time to acquiesce to his sons' requests to increase the number of warships and men in service. Wendel had long been complaining of the lack of a reliable force of archers. He claimed the House relied too much on crossbowmen. Wyman agreed with him, now. A dedicated company or two of archers would serve the House well, which would make his second son happy.
Maybe even more companies would be well advised. After all, more men would be needed to man Marlon's restored and improved fortifications.
Wyllas had long desired more ships. Wyman decided his eldest deserved a chance to prove himself as an independent leader. Giving him command of a new fleet and expanded shipyard would allow him to develop critical leadership and management skills while at the same time preserving the current fleet for existing commitments. Skills his heir would doubtless need in the future. It would be coin well spent, he decided decisively.
Though it might be wiser to focus on building more trading cogs, fishing sloops and whaling schooners instead of warships, he mused. Raising a warfleet would certainly cause consternation amongst his neighbors. Even Lord Stark might take a dim view.
But they'd understand the desire for more trade. It was in the blood of every Manderly. Wyllas would not complain as certain cog, sloop and schooner designs could be easily converted to war, if need be. He would certainly appreciate the opportunity to expand the shipyards.
In the meantime, the ships could be put to productive use. They'd be manned, with good, reliable men, and held in service. Their catches, especially of whale and seal, could be converted to more silver. The fish could be dried, salted and sent down the ice pits for later use.
Years later, even. There was no shame in preparing an excessive, even an obsessive, amount for the next winter. No one ever complained of an overprepared lord when true winter arrived, he thought smugly.
He was already feeling better now that he was able to plan. Coin was not wasted building more ships, improving walls, training men, and forging more arms and armor. The value in silver would still pass through generations, just in another form, he reassured himself.
Wyman Manderly had silver aplenty. He only had two sons and two granddaughters. Nightmare or not, he'd consider the coin well spent if they and future generations of Manderlys were better protected.
W&M W&M W&M
Wyman's ornate wagon slowly approached Winterfell's gatehouse. He'd left White Harbor weeks ago with an escort of a hundred mounted knights, but his progress had been slow. Both because he took care to avoid Bolton lands and, he admitted, because he was too heavy to sit a horse and had to be pulled in a wagon with frequent stops.
His inability to ride caused him some personal grief. As a young man he'd been an excellent horseman and a fair hand with a lance. Now he was mocked. Once, he was a tourney champion. Now, they called him Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse.
He knew his enemies considered him foolish due to his extreme obesity. His inability to ride was the subject of mockery and scorn. They thought him weak and, therefore, craven.
Let them think that, he sighed contentedly as he took a drink from his flagon, only to grimace. Cold lemon water, he thought disgusted. He'd much rather be drinking Arbor gold.
But he was a man of strong will, no matter the inane ramblings of his enemies. He knew he needed to reduce his girth and add some muscle. If the near forgotten nightmare was false, then he'd be healthier and would better enjoy his twilight years. Maybe he'd live long enough to see great-grandchildren. If true, he'd be better prepared for the troubles to come.
As a Manderly, he was well versed in calculating cost in comparison to reward. On this issue, unlike many others, he benefited no matter what was true and what was not, so he'd set his mind to seeing it through.
No matter how wonderful an extra slice of pie might be, it was not worth the lives of his progeny.
When they arrived at Winterfell proper, Lady Catelyn was standing at the gate, ready to greet his party. She was flanked by a boy he recognized as Robb Stark and a girl he thought must be Sansa Stark based on how closely she resembled the Lady of Winterfell. There was no sign of Jon, or the younger two Stark children.
Behind them stood Winterfell's staff. Ser Rodrick, the Master of Arms, and his grandson, Jorey who served as Captain of the Guard. Behind the two Cassels stood a large number of stewards and grooms who would assist in accommodating the Manderlys once they were made welcome by the Lady.
Another boy, a tall teenager with a mocking expression, stood somewhat apart from the Starks. The hostage, Wyman recognized. A sense of revulsion permeated his body. He didn't remember what he did in the dream, but it was bad, he knew. He'd see this boy dead at first opportunity, despite not knowing why.
He did not make the best impression on any of them. The wagon only had a narrow cut out for an entrance. He found it difficult to maneuver his bulk through it. He struggled. He only succeeded when finally assisted by two of his stronger men. He could only imagine what Lady Stark and her children were thinking.
But Catelyn Stark had been raised well by Hoster Tully. She waited patiently, with a welcoming smile painted on her face, taking no obvious notice of the fumbling and cursing that accompanied his leaving his wagon.
Her two children did fidget while waiting, but that was only to be expected of children of their young age. If he were to guess, the boy was only eleven and the girl about nine. Everything considered, he was impressed with their good manners.
Not so much with the hostage. A smirk was added to the mocking cast of his face. Wyman wondered if he could arrange for a long fall from a tall tower. Reluctantly, he put those thoughts aside. The Iron Born would take it amiss if their heir was accidentally killed in Lord Stark's care. Maybe if the accident was arranged elsewhere, it might be possible, he mused. The thought alone of killing Theon Greyjoy caused a warmth to permeate his body.
Finally, he was clear of the infernal wagon. Wyman approached Lady Stark and the children, taking a deep breath, both to expand his lungs and to collect his thoughts. She spoke before he could, obviously thinking he was out of breath.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Manderly," she said graciously. As she spoke she handed him a small bronze bowl containing a small bit of bread and some salt. "We would be pleased to have you and your party as our guests."
He gratefully took the salt and bread. His greedy stomach demanded more than the mere nibble offered. He ignored its rumblings, as did Lady Stark. She really was a jewel.
"Thank you, Lady Stark," he said as he half mimicked a bow. "It is good to be here, among friends." He cast his eyes over the crowd. "Is Lord Stark not available?"
He'd sent a raven ahead seeking an audience with the Lord of the North. He probably should have waited for a return message before setting out, he knew, but he was not one for dithering when he set his mind on something.
A look of regret passed over his host's face. "I am sorry, Lord Manderly," she said sincerely. "Lord Stark was called out to Bear Island a sennight ago. I do expect him back any day, however." She hesitated. "I don't want to overstep my bounds, but perhaps I can be of assistance?"
He almost declined her offer, but then he stopped himself. A large portion of what he wished to address did touch on domestic issues. At least that was the excuse he was using to disguise the true reasons for his proposals. Lady Stark could be a valuable ally, especially as his sources were of the opinion she disliked Snow.
He nodded, pleased. "I would be happy to discuss my business with Lord Stark with you, my lady. Your input would be invaluable. Perhaps someplace more private?"
"Of course, my lord. Please follow me," she said as she gestured to the children that they were released.
The children looked relieved and ran off to do whatever children did in Winterfell. The hostage walked off in the direction of Wintertown, doubtless to indulge himself in some tavern unless Wyman missed his guess. The grooms and stewards began to gather the reins of horses and escort his men to their barracks. Wyman's troops appeared to be in good hands.
Lady Stark led him into her solar. It was a small space, but open and airy. A septa sat along one wall, engaged in embroidery, an obvious chaperone. Tully and Stark tapestries decorated the walls above open windows. When she invited him to sit, he took a seat on a cushioned bench, not a wooden chair.
"Now what brings you to Winterfell, my lord?" she asked politely.
"The natural son of Lord Stark, Jon Snow, and other items of interest for my House," he responded amiably. He was not entirely surprised to see her eyes narrow. It was an open secret in the North that Lady Stark did not approve of Snow's presence at Winterfell.
"What is your concern with the boy?" Her tone was considerably more frigid than her initial greeting.
Wyman smiled politely. "Peace, Lady Stark," he said quietly. "I believe we have similar interests. I would like to take the boy to White Harbor. He would serve as my cousin's squire. When he's off age, I'd see him knighted and married to my eldest granddaughter, Wynafryd."
He knew that his offer would surprise her. He did not expect the stunned silence. "Jon being fostered elsewhere is in everyone's interests, though my lord husband does not agree. But why would you want to give your granddaughter a bastard husband?"
"I would prefer to give her Robb Stark," he said, spreading his hands wide. Flattery never hurt during negotiations, he knew. "But I suspect that Lord Stark has grander plans for him." Seeing her nod in affirmation, he lifted his shoulders with a regretful sigh. "The only other boy with Stark blood within a few years of her is Jon Snow. While Robb is far preferable as a match, the Snow boy has one distinct advantage. He's highborn with no name."
Lady Stark looked at a loss for a moment, before a dawning understanding appeared on her face. "You'd have him take the Manderly name."
He smiled jovially. "Yes. It would allow my line to continue even in the absence of a male heir. Wynafryd would rule as the Lady of White Harbor and Jon would be her consort."
Catelyn frowned. "He would be her lord husband. He would rule in her right." Wyman had the distinct impression that she very much disapproved of Jon exercising the power of White Harbor. Overprotective mothers are so predictable, he mentally sighed.
"Not if the betrothal agreement said otherwise," he disputed. Now to set the hook. "Plus there is a distinct benefit to your children, Lady Stark. Neither he nor his heirs would ever bear the Stark name. They'd forever more be Manderlys."
That, he saw, appealed to her very much. He eased back to let her consider matters. No need to appear needy. He was doing the Starks a favor, not the other way around. But that did remind him of the other issue.
"There is another item I wanted to address with Lord Stark," he said, interrupting her thoughts.
"That is?" she asked, her thoughts still clearly on Jon Snow and the trouble he represented.
"I would like to build two holdfasts, both on the Fever River. One at the mouth, one at the headwaters." He saw her stiffen in protest. No lord liked a vassal growing too powerful, and the Manderlys were powerful enough by any estimation. "One each to be granted to my cousin' sons, but sworn directly to Winterfell." Lady Stark relaxed at that, he was pleased to see. "If Jon weds Wynafryd, Marlon might turn bitter. He and his sons have doubtless been entertaining the possibility that they would someday serve as Lord of White Harbor. This would do much to draw the sting."
And, he added, protect the southern approach into the North. Two strong keeps in the deep south would go a long way to secure the North, even if Moat Cailin was never improved.
Lord Stark would never give him command of Moat Cailin, even if he offered to pay for construction of new defenses. It was far too powerful a fortress. It had never fallen from an attack from the south in thousands of years. Keeping it in Stark hands was vital to the interests of the North.
He doubted he'd even consider awarding it to a natural son, like Jon. Any man with sense would realize that ties of affection would dissipate in a few generations. Wyman did not want to raise the issue for fear the Starks interpreted it as a greedy grasp for more power. If Lord Stark awarded Moat Cailin to anyone, Wyman thought, it would be Bran, the infant second son.
Much better that it be seen that he merely wanted holdings for his cousin's sons, and a husband with Stark blood for Wynafryd. Keeping Lord Stark's trust was vital in the coming years and asking too much would only sow mistrust.
"What if one of your sons gives you a grandson?" she asked, her eyes glinting with curiosity. Wyman was actually pleased with this question. It allowed him to reduce the possibility that Jon would ever actually rule White Harbor, in Lady Stark's mind, and would make her more likely to support the proposal.
"Then my son's son inherits," he replied happily. "My hope is that I am given many grandsons. My sons are still young, after all. There is plenty of time," he lied. Leonore, Wyllas's wife, was incapable of bearing more children, according to the maester. And Wendel's preferences laid elsewhere. Wynafryd and Wylla were the only two grandchildren he'd have. But Lady Stark had no need to know that. "If so, I'll settle a small but rich holding on Wynafryd. She and Jon will be well provided for, I assure you."
That appeared to please Lady Stark greatly. After that, they spent a delightful afternoon hammering out the details. Lord Stark couldn't possibly refuse, he thought later that evening.
W&M W&M W&M
AN: Don't expect fast updates on this. I know where it's going but I have a lot of story ideas in my head and like writing wherever my fingers take me. My focus for the moment is Ser Jon, Lord of Castamere.