Through the heavy, frigid fog, the shapes of White Harbor begin to emerge as the powerful oars of the Harbor Watch longship pull the Grey Ghost in from open water. They steer clear of the jetty jutting out a mile into the mouth of the bay, separating the outer harbor from the inner, marked in the haze by the flickering torches dancing atop each of the watchtowers along its length. The blurry shapes of guards at attention waver to and fro beneath the lights; sending echoes of soft, nervous voices as they watch the passing ships, a lonely, rusted bell tolling to announce their passage into the inner harbor.
At the bow of the Grey Ghost, direwolves at their side, Sansa and Arya Stark keep their eyes pried open for their first glimpse of the greatest city of the North. Were it not for the countless torches still burning from the night before, the whole of White Harbor would be all but invisible. As it stands, it looms like a dark beast crouched on the horizon, watching the sisters' approach with a million blazing eyes.
"It's haunted," Arya murmurs under her breath. "I don't like it."
"I promise you, my lady, it's all quite solid once the sun gets to shining on it," Lord Baelish assures her from behind them, but it does little to dissuade the girl's trepidation. She wraps her arm around Nymeria's neck a little tighter. Noticing, Sansa takes her sister's hand.
"There's nothing to fear here," she swears. "Mother's waiting for us, remember."
Arya nods furtively, and the oars carry them further. The long piers and piled-up shops of the inner harbor are beginning to take shape now. And behind them – towering, strong and unmistakable – the fortifications. To the left – the city walls of White Harbor itself. To the right, the hulking outline of a huge but crumbling fortress, teetering precariously on the shoreline, while houses clutch to its landward walls like oversized barnacles.
"That looks like Winterfell," Arya pulls herself up on the edge of the railing to get a better look as they glide past. The wolves' heads turn as well, drawn somehow to the darkness of the ancient castle. "Is that where Mother is?"
"That's the Wolf Den," Sansa answers before Lord Baelish can chime in, remembering her history lessons. "King Jon built it thousands of years ago. But the Manderlys don't live there, not anymore." And I can't blame them, she thinks as they pass by. The city may not be, but there's no doubt that place is haunted.
"The Manderlys live within the city now," Baelish adds. "New Castle, the finest keep in the North. Besides Winterfell, of course. You shall enjoy it, I think."
"Have you been here before, Lord Baelish?" Arya asks.
"Please, remember, just Petyr," he insists once again. "And yes, I've had the honor of visiting Lord Manderly on several occasions. I am sure he has kept your lady mother quite comfortable."
At the very least it can't be less comfortable than this boat, Sansa thinks, sighing with relief as their guiding vessel reaches its place at the dock. She can hear the men at arms shouting orders to their comrades on the land, swinging heavy ropes up and down as they dock. The Grey Ghost comes to a slow halt, resting listlessly on the waveless water, awaiting further orders. Sansa finally allows herself to relax, watching the men scurry about their duties to secure the ship. One, in particular, catches her eye – a boy about Robb's age, a squire perhaps, standing at the end of the pier, watching them. He wears dark green, the color of seaweed, his puffy shirt and trousers covered with a slick black seal-skin vest and chaps to keep out the water. A wave of brown hair is combed loosely back on his head. There was something about the way he stood – inactive but not idle, poised to leap into command of whatever order he waited upon – that tells her at once he must be of high birth. She almost calls to him. But first, the order comes.
"Mycah! Where's your father?" Ser Duncan's voice bellows from the deck of the longship. The boy's head snaps away from the Ghost and towards the knight.
"Still in the barracks, ser!" His answer comes quick, his voice crisp as the cold air.
"Ride fast back to New Castle, then! Tell him to tell Lord Wyman! We've found the Starks!"
Sansa watches the boy turn at once, running swiftly back off the pier and out of sight to wherever his horse must be waiting. And then Jory's hand drops down on her shoulders.
"Come on, m'ladies," the captain turns them back to the cabin. "Get your things. Your mother's waited long enough. Let's not keep her any longer."
The New Castle sits atop a hill at the heart of the city, walls of white stone mirroring the white-plastered houses packed densely throughout its domain, only set to a grand scale. Unlike any stronghold in the North, it harkens back to the elegant halls of the lords of the South, from whence House Manderly had been banished centuries ago. But while its carefully crafted towers and parapets would look more at home on the green fields of the Reach than the frigid plains of the North, it is the undisputed pride of the family that calls it home, every last detail finely tuned to the vision of the Manderlys. And the most prized jewel of it all is the Merman's Court.
Even compared to Winterfell and the Red Keep, the Merman's Court is unlike anything Sansa has ever seen as she and Arya stand in the doorway. Jory and Lord Baelish usher them inside, doors swung open by knights in glistening armor, blue-green capes and scallop helms, silver tridents clutched in hand. Within, the stone of the castle gives way to huge planks of wood forming the floor, walls and ceiling, and every inch is painted. Beneath their feet, the ocean floor – scattered with crabs, clams, starfish and the bones of drowned sailors bound up in dark tangles of seaweed. On the walls, sharks prowl the blue-green waters in pursuit of the shoals of fish weaving in between the tall, arched windows. And above, on the ceiling, lies the surface – calm and pristine, sun rising in the east, promising smooth sailing to a mighty war galley while a storm brews in the west, chasing down a battered fisherman's cog. Huge nets droop down from the highest posts, forming a rough-hewn nautical canopy.
Sansa and Arya stay frozen, eyes wide as they take it all in until finally their gaze lowers to the far end of the hall. There, beneath the grand mural of a leviathan and kraken locked in mortal combat, atop a huge white stone throne covered in teal pillows, reclines Lord Wyman Manderly himself. Years have passed since the lord of White Harbor last visited Winterfell. Sansa remembered him as old and fat then, and he seems to have grown even older and fatter since. A massive man, Wyman sits, hands folded over his prodigious stomach, in a flowing deep blue tunic with silver trim and an explosion of white fur around the collar, overshadowed by a massive white beard that swallows up most of his numerous chins.
"My young ladies!" he bellows, his booming voice immediately dispelling any presumptions of weakness as it echoes across the hall to reach the girls. "Praise the Seven, our prayers are answered! Beg my pardon I do not run to greet you myself, such exertions have been left long past in my youth! Come, come!"
His fat hands beckon them forward eagerly, and the girls slowly follow. But a scowl grows on Arya's face with each step. "Where's Mother? They said Mother would be here!"
"Arya, wait," Sansa hisses, moving to calm her sister's hand before it flits to Needle at her hip.
"What have you done with her?!"
Before Lord Manderly can answer, a side door to the hall flings open. Through it, without pause, runs Lady Catelyn Stark, her long grey dress flapping behind her like a bird in flight. Sansa thinks, for a moment, that she has never seen her mother run before. And then she is running too, feet trampling over painted clams as she and Arya collide into a wide embrace.
"My girls, my girls!" Catelyn crashes to her knees, tears streaming down her face, pulling them closer and tighter with an unresistable strength. Never has her embrace felt so large or so warm. For a moment, the three Starks stay still, only quivering as together they fight back tears to look upon each other with clear eyes.
"Mother," Arya finally speaks, fierceness gone. "They said that Father…"
"I know, I know my dears," Catelyn stops her from speaking it, choking back another sob as the reminder seems to steel her spirit. She leaves a gentle kiss on Arya's head as she pulls back to look at them better. As she does, Sansa sees her face for the first time. She's older, too, she thinks, looking at unfamiliar wrinkles behind the mess of auburn hair uncombed in the rush to the hall. And seeing them, she feels a twist of guilt for resisting the call home so fiercely.
"Wait," Catelyn slowly stands, looking back at Jory, Jeyne, Lord Baelish and the others, then at the two wolves watching her carefully, as if their memories are slowly returning. Her face darkens. "Where's Edward?"
"He was on a ship!" Arya blurts out.
"Petyr, where is he?" She turns to Baelish, her joy souring in an instant. He moves quickly to her side, but she steps back, her eyes narrowing into an accusing glare. "Where is my son?"
"Did Lord Eddard, may the Father preserve his spirit, not tell you? The betrothal?"
"He said something of the matter…" Catelyn remains on edge, her stance wavering as she parses through weeks of panicked, fractured memories.
"He was pledged to Heleana Hightower. Given the state of matters at court, we all agreed it would be best for him to sail to Oldtown." Cautiously, Baelish shuffles nearer, slowly, gingerly clasping Catelyn's wavering right hand in his own. "He set sail with the girl under the protection of her uncle Ser Gunthor and Prince Jalabar Xo, who Lord Eddard swore into his protection. Shortly after they left, news arrived of the… incident at Stone Hedge. I have no doubt he is in safe hands, on a peaceful course south, unaware that any of this has transpired."
"And you trust these Hightowers?" This time, she does not pull away.
"Your lord husband did. And none judged a man more true than he."
"Heleana's very kind, mother," Sansa raises a comforting hand to her shoulder. "Edward really likes her. And Ser Gunthor and Prince Jalabar can protect him. And Tessarrion."
"Oh, yes," Catelyn smiles, turning to face the wolves, her face slowly softening into acceptance. As her composure returns, she carefully brushes her long hair free from her face as her gaze comes to rest upon the direwolves. Lady and Nymeria look up at her expectantly. "We will have to find a place for these."
"They're staying with us!" Arya shouts, rushing to her wolf's side.
"Arya…" Catelyn sighs, the familiar disappointed sigh creeping back into her voice.
"I can't leave Lady, either, Mother," Sansa insists, firmly. Hearing her name, the grey wolf hurries to her side, curling around her feet as if daring anyone to pry her away. Sansa gives an approving scratch behind the ears in return.
"My dear ladies, I understand," Lord Manderly inserts himself, having carefully listened to all. "But this castle is no place for such wild creatures. Let them go to the Wolf's Den instead. They will be much happier there, where they can run free in the godswood and sleep beneath the hands of the weirwood tree. And you may visit them there, of course."
Sansa and Arya exchange a quick, contemplative glance at each other and their wolves before nodding affirmatively. It will make a better home than the Dragonpit, at least, Sansa thinks.
"Very good," Catelyn smiles, drawing her daughters back beneath her arms. "You see, we have everything you need here. Not like that horrid city." She leans down to kiss them, only now noticing the lingering stench of the Grey Ghost's moldering cabin. "And first, long baths for the both of you."
Steam fills the luxurious guest chambers as Sansa lies deep within her bath, only her pale face emerging from the surface, floating amidst a wreath of her auburn hair. She lets herself go weightless, sinking to the bottom of the tub, feeling its warmth as the grime and stench of too many days at sea are washed away by the aromatic water. Rising back to the surface, she breathes deeply, taking in the smells of rose and lavender, replacing the lingering taste of rotten wood and seasick vomit.
How long has it been? She tries to remember. Mother had said the noon meal would be served soon, and she knows she must not be late, not if she means to prove herself no longer a little girl in need of constant herding from place to place. Better to be safe and be early. With a sigh, she pulls herself up, out of the tub, brushing off stray flower petals that cling tight to her skin and shiver with her in the chill of the bare room. Carefully, she swings her legs up and over the edge with the slightest splash.
Ignoring the cold stone, she walks across the room to the foggy looking glass, wiping away its ephemeral foam coating to reveal her reflection. I'm a queen, she tells herself, as she has time and again since first being carried away from the capital, a mantra so dear it seems burned into the back of her eyelids, murmured even in her sleep. But I don't look like one now. Her face stares back at her, disappointed, as she determinedly scrawls the shape of a crown wrapping around her head on the cold surface of the mirror.
She imagines what it would feel like – a real crown of gold and jewels, not the weightless thing already fading away before her eyes. She pictures her place by the throne, and remembers Joffrey – all his charms and all his crassness. The good days and the bad. Above all, all the work she had done to win back his affections. The hunts, the threats, the secrets… What was it worth if she never returned?
If I was a little older, just old enough to have my moonblood, she thinks, then we'd be married already. But I'm not a woman, I'm just a girl. And never is it more obvious than standing here, every apparent flaw jarringly obvious. She closes her eyes, refusing to look any longer, and letting the rest of her disappear as the still-steaming tub shrouds the mirror once more.
"My lady!" The bustling old maid servant pokes her mousy face back into the room, her younger helper peeking out behind her. "Your dress is on the bed. Your lady mother picked it out herself."
"Thank you," Sansa answers half-heartedly, turning to the bed. There, a simple grey dress awaits her – the drab colors of House Stark. But it is beautiful in its own way – the bodice layered with delicate black lace. Lifting it up into her arms, she stops for a moment, feeling the softness against her body. Proper clothes at last, not like the horrid, rough and scratchy rags from the Grey Ghost. What it lacks in color, it makes up for in comfort, she decides as she slips it over her head. Nearly a perfect fit.
Thinking again of the time, she hurries to finish dressing, pulling on the rest of her layers until she is left grunting, struggling to reach the laces running up her back. She glances away to the side door, knowing the maidservants must be hovering on the other side, waiting to be called in, though she dreads the thought of it. For all their persistent offers of aid, they were still strangers. She'd only begun to get used to the servants of the Red Keep, after a lifetime of familiar faces in Winterfell.
She hears a knock at the door. "My lady?" A girl's voice calls. "It's Wynafryd."
Wynafryd. Sansa remembers a tall, thin blonde girl from the Manderlys' last visit to Winterfell. Robb's age, or a little older. The quiet sort; they had never talked much, and she had left little impression. "Come in!"
"Oh, you poor dear!" The voice gasps the moment the door opens. Sansa turns, and is at once taken aback. Somewhere in the years since their last parting, the diminutive girl she remembered had disappeared. Wynafryd Manderly now stands in the door a woman, a head or more taller than her, long brown hair in a thick braid around her pale, pointed face. A bright teal dress with silver trim clings tightly to a heavy bosom highlighted by thin white lace and stretches taught over the curve of her hips, swinging back and forth as she hurries into the room. Sansa quickly turns away, hiding a blush first of shock, then of envy. "Let me help you with that," the older girl insists, quickly cinching up the dress with a few quick, strong tugs that yank the remaining air out of Sansa's lungs.
"This really is a lovely dress," Wynafryd turns her around to look it up and down, straightening out the wrinkles. "A lovely dress for a lovely lady. My you've grown so! Do you remember me at all?" Sansa manages a nod in reply. "Of course, you always were a smart one. Though I must say, I've changed quite a bit since we last met." She spins about, showing off her figure. "We're surely going to have a wonderful time here. I simply must show you around the castle! And you must tell me all about your escape! You are so brave!"
"It was a trial, to be sure," Sansa struggles to reassert herself as Wynafryd shoos her toward the door. "But we mustn't be late…"
"Wait!" Wynafyrd shouts, freezing Sansa in the doorway. She follows her pointing finger down to her bare feet, the cold from the stone beginning to seep through her stockings. "Even wolfmaidens must have shoes, or so I'm told." She hurries about the room until she finds a pair of elegant silver slippers, tossing them to Sansa. She rushes back through the door and into the hall, slamming it behind her as Sansa teeters on one foot to squeeze into the too-small shoes. "Come on now! Weren't you just saying we shan't be late?"
It's no wonder Lord Manderly is so fat, Sansa thinks, if this is how they eat here every day. But as the platters of food continue to pile up on the table in the lord's dining room, underneath the starved eyes of a leviathan's bleached skull, Sansa can't complain. It has been far too long since she has had a proper meal, and she is happy to oblige herself to as much of the warm rolls, tangy cheese, ripe fruit and fresh seafood that she can fit onto her plate within the limits of reasonable manners. Not that any such constraints bothered Arya beside her, eagerly cramming food into her mouth to erase the memory of salted herring and stale rinds from their passage across the sea. Her antics earn more than one swift warning from Lady Catelyn, whose head pivots constantly between monitoring her daughter's manners and prying information from Lord Wyman, able to expound a shocking amount of conversation in between inhaling enough food for three men.
While her mouth remains full of whatever delicious dish has most recently been dropped in front of her, Sansa strives to keep her ears open, taking in as much of the cacophony of voices filling up the family table as she can. Lord Wyman is apologizing once again for the Grey Ghost's difficulty entering the harbor. It appears that raiders from the Three Sisters have been pirating trading throughout The Bite and pillaging on land as well – which explains the empty seat at his right hand, reserved for his eldest son, Ser Wylis, gone to lead a hunt for the raiders.
Beside the empty seat, Wynafryd's eager conversation overpowers her mother, Lady Leonna and younger sister Wylla, offering up the latest gossip about the escapades of the long line of suitors attempting to out-woo each other for her hand, though marriage is the last thing Sansa wants to be thinking of now. Further around the table, Wyman's second son, Wendel, boasts of his latest catch of a great fish on the bay. Beside him, a cousin, Ser Marlon, fends off an endless stream of questions from Lord Baelish about how the Sistermen raiders are affecting the local economy. His young twins, Mycroft and Melody, prattle back and forth about a queer-looking bird that crashed into their chamber window that morning.
And at the far end of the table, offering the least conversation, yet in his silence drawing her attention time and again, is the handsome squire from the dock that morning – Marlon's eldest, Mycah. He sits, quietly, eating his small helpings in peace, overshadowed by the noise around him. Up close, Sansa can see his face is tanned and weathered from long days in the sun, his hands large, calloused and scarred, his jaw cut sharp like one of the marble mermen guarding the walls of the keep. And his eyes – deep green with a touch of blue, like the sea. Eyes that seem to say that he too is watching, listening and waiting. Waiting for something…
"Sansa, you will never believe what Robin Flint said to me before he rode south with your brother!" Wynafryd snaps Sansa's attention back to the center of the table. She smiles, welcoming the latest story as she takes another bite of a piping clam tart. A new shred of information, each conversation yielding new clues to understand these people and this place. She remembers what Cersei had told her back in the capital. It's all a game, and every piece of knowledge is a tool to win it. White Harbor is just another playing field, she tells herself, the image of the crown returning to her, hovering high above the table, just out of reach. New players. New pieces. Same prize.
