The last time Jon saw White Harbor, was when he returned from Dragonstone with Daenerys, the dragons, the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Needless to say, the reception, accompanied by Arya, was likely to be received with far more courtesy and warmth, as Lord Stark had already written to Lord Manderly, telling him of their arrival.

Jon and Arya made their way up the hill towards New Castle, in a litter provided by Lord Manderly himself. They peered out of the lattice-work windows to get a better look at their surroundings. The white walls and grey roofs of the White Harbor buildings, looked far more in-keeping with a warmer clime than it did when he arrived last time, where the building were white with snow.

The seat of Lord Wyman Manderly was called New Castle. A keep which rose boldly along the Bite's shores. Its white stone walls, adorned with mermaid and trident motifs. Towers with mythical sea creature gargoyles overlooked courtyards with lush gardens. Stained glass windows in the keep depict House Manderly's naval prowess.

Lord Wyman Manderly was a man Jon was already familiar with from his previous life. Him having once called Jon, King in the North. The Lord was nearing his sixtieth year, with a massive belly and sausage-like fingers. Pale blue eyes and the beard which framed his face, accentuating the illusion of four chins. The man had become so heavy that horses were a distant memory; now he moved about in a carried litter, earning him the nickname Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse.

His amiable nature, punctuated by a loud, booming laugh, painted a stark contrast to the mockery he endured from his own people. To many, his physical appearance was a beacon of perceived cravenness and foolishness, a cleverly crafted illusion, which Wyman seemed content to maintain. Yet, beneath the layers of jest and self-deprecation, there lay a shrewd, calculating, and intelligent mind.

In Jon's previous life, and he hoped this one too, Lord Manderly's loyalty to House Stark remained unwavering, a steadfast commitment that belied the assumptions made about the man based on his outward appearance.

The corridors of New Castle were adorned with the relics of bygone victories—faded banners, shattered shields, and rusted swords, each telling a tale of ancient triumphs. Wooden figures, once proud prows of ships, adorned the walls, standing as silent witnesses to the castle's storied past. Two marble mermen, guardians of what locals called Merman's Court, stood sentinel outside the grand hall.

As Jon and Arya approached, the familiar figure of Lord Manderly awaited them within. Jon offered a respectful smile and a nod. "Lord Manderly, I presume."

Lord Manderly squinted, his gaze assessing Jon. "You must be Lord Whitestark." Extending his hand, he added, "Seven hells, you remind me of Ned."

Jon accepted the hand offered, shaking it firmly. "I've heard that comparison often. Thank you for extending your hospitality to us in your magnificent home."

Turning his attention to Arya, Lord Manderly acknowledged her presence. "And you must be Lady Arya."

Jon noticed Arya's struggle to suppress any sign of displeasure at the formal address. With a composed demeanour, she responded, "My lord," executing a curtsey that would make both Sansa and Lady Stark proud.

A young woman with vibrant green hair approached, introduced as Wylla, Lord Manderly's younger granddaughter. Jon watched as Arya shot him a pointed look before disappearing with Wylla to her chambers. The brief exchange hinted at Arya's disdain for being left uninformed, a sentiment Jon knew well. In the realm of many lords, women were often overlooked in matters of politics or trade, a reality Sansa had skilfully navigated to her advantage.

As Arya navigated the mysterious corridors, Jon found himself in Lord Manderly's company, guided to a lavish solar. The room boasted white walls adorned with tapestries depicting battles, a Myrish rug gracing the white marble floor, and a hearth crafted from the same material. An ironwood desk occupied the room's centre, flanked by two inviting chairs—one of them notably oversized, accommodating Lord Manderly's substantial figure.

Lord Manderly offered hospitality in the form of beer, extending a pewter tankard toward Jon. "Beer?" he inquired.

Jon accepted with a grateful smile, taking the tankard. "How can I refuse the famous White Harbor ale?" He sipped the bitter brew and nodded appreciatively. "This is excellent. Would you be interested in a trade for some Queenscrown cider? I've brought a barrel for you to sample."

Lord Manderly chuckled heartily. "If it's half as good as they say, I'd be more than willing to arrange a trade."

Jon expressed his confidence in the quality of Queenscrown cider. "We have an abundance of apple trees up there. Cider is practically flowing from every barrel. It would be a pleasant change to savour some fine beer," he remarked, nodding in agreement. The taste of the beer had indeed left a favourable impression on him.

Lord Manderly, ever inquisitive, inquired about the cider's production. "And who will produce the cider, Lord Whitestark? Will it be the wildlings?"

Jon insisted, "Please, call me Jon." He continued, "Yes, the wildlings will craft it. Although not just yet. I'm uncertain if they've made their way south of the Wall."

Lord Manderly assured him, "They have. I received a raven this morning, a missive from Castle Black." He extended a scroll towards Jon. "This one is for you."

Jon accepted the scroll, noting the red wax seal imprinted with the wolf sigil of House Whitestark. Breaking the seal, he unfurled the letter and read its contents, absorbing the words on the parchment in Sansa's perfect handwriting.

Dearest Jon,

Thank you for your letter. It has made my day.

I am intrigued by what Bran has to say.

Practice makes perfect, although I think we are already close.

I have been looking through the ledgers. We need Arya to find the corresponding business ledgers. I will explain all when you return. If you have to stay a little longer, so be it. You won't be recognised, even by my former husband.

Tell Arya I miss her.

I miss you terribly. My bed is cold without you. Write to me as soon as possible.

All my love,

Sansa

Jon smiled. "Good news, my lord?" Lord Manderly asked.

Jon grinned slightly at Lord Manderly's inquiry. "Not good news, I'm afraid. My lady wife finds her bed too cold, and I've barely returned when news of the turmoil in King's Landing and Dragonstone reached us. The urgency to move our men to safety with the dragonglass demands my attention. Once again, I've had to part from her. We've shared two years in marriage, but only a handful of moons together." He sighed, taking a contemplative sip of his beer.

Lord Manderly, sensing the weight of Jon's words, inquired about Jon's wife. "Is she a fine woman?"

Jon nodded, a hint of longing in his eyes. "The finest. I miss her dearly. Yet, duty calls, and we sacrifice our personal joys for the greater good. In a different world, we'd be tending to an orchard, sipping cider, surrounded by a loyal staff, growing old together. Unfortunately, such dreams seem elusive in our current reality." Another sigh escaped him.

Lord Manderly empathised, reminiscing about his own lost love. "Ah, there's nothing like having a good woman by your side. I still miss my Nelly, gone nearly nine years now. I remember it vividly—sickness in the chest, years of coughing that only worsened. Then she left me alone. Since then, no woman has warmed my bed. I couldn't do that to her." Jon saw a hint of sorrow in the lord's eyes. "Take care of your pretty wife. She's Lord Eddard's daughter, isn't she?"

Jon nodded in acknowledgment of Lord Manderly's initial remark about his wife. "She's beautiful," Jon admitted. "But we aren't here to discuss the charms of my wife, are we? You wished to talk about the Freefolk."

Lord Manderly, shifting the conversation to the topic at hand, queried about Jon's choice of terminology. "Wildlings, we call them. Interesting, you call them Freefolk. Why is that?"

"Because that is what they call themselves. I'm merely respecting their culture," Jon explained.

Lord Manderly acknowledged with a nod. "Some of the lords have... concerns."

Jon furrowed his brow. "Weren't these concerns addressed by Lord Robb?"

"Aye," Wyman confirmed. "The northern lords agreed, perhaps swayed by his status as the future Lord Stark. But let me be plain, my lord. Lord Stark isn't the one leading the wildlings south of the Wall; you are. Lord Robb presented reasons, reasons I'm certain were given to him by you."

Curious, Jon inquired, "What did Lord Robb say?"

Lord Manderly leaned back, adjusting in his seat. "Something about offering us tax relief. No longer having to fund or feed the Wall. Utilising the extra workforce to farm the lands in the Gift, helping us better prepare for winter." He paused, a sombre tone entering his voice. "He spoke of the impending long night."

Jon recognized the gravity of the situation. Proof was essential, and without it, convincing the northern lords to rally behind him would be an uphill battle. If they wouldn't fight for Jon as Brandon Stark's bastard, and they most certainly wouldn't fight for the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. They needed a wight to show the northern lords.

"Aye, my lord. The long night is coming, and the dead come with it. Would you prefer to fight against the Freefolk, or have them fight by your side?" Jon posed the question, seeking Lord Manderly's perspective.

Lord Manderly responded, his tone almost playful. "Depends on how good they are at fighting." Yet, Jon knew this was no jest.

With a solemn demeanour, Jon laid bare the grim reality. "I have seen the army of the dead. I have faced the Night King himself. The only weapons that can kill the wights are fire. For the whitewalkers, only dragonglass and Valyrian steel suffice." Jon unsheathed Longclaw, placing it in Lord Manderly's hands. "I killed a wight, using fire, saving Lord Commander Mormont's life. He rewarded me with this sword, Longclaw. As you can see, it is Valyrian steel. I fought and destroyed a whitewalker with it. Regular steel shatters against them like glass. Whitewalkers can walk through fire. The wights and whitewalkers kill, and the dead rise again, ready to fight for the Night King and his army—the army of the dead."

Lord Manderly, though intrigued, remained sceptical. "And how can you prove that?" he pressed.

Jon, feeling the weight of doubt, countered, "Are you insinuating I am lying?"

"Of course not," Lord Manderly quickly assured. "But others might. I am the only lord who can speak with you before all these wildlings, or Freefolk, as you call them, come through the wall."

Realising the need for irrefutable evidence, Jon pondered the challenge. "I'll write to Mance Rayder. You'll get your proof if I am right, Lord Manderly. Consider this: would you prefer a hundred thousand wildlings fighting for you, including mammoths and giants? Or would you rather face them on the battlefield when they do not tire or relent? They simply kill," Jon emphasised.

Lord Manderly, visibly uneasy, inquired, "How do you know this?"

"I have the greensight, as do my cousins," Jon explained. "We have seen it. Not only that, I have encountered them in the flesh north of the wall. The Night's Watch is deserting out of fear of the Others. If the Freefolk remain north of the wall, we have five years to prepare. If they come south, his army will be diminished, and our numbers will swell. It might take him longer to breach the wall, or it might not. But at least we have more people to stand against the army of the dead. Even then, it might not be enough."

Lord Manderly, grasping the gravity of Jon's warnings, questioned further. "Say I believe you. How many does he have?"

Jon, lacking a precise number, provided a historical context. "It has been eight thousand years since the last long night."

"Or so they say." Lord Manderly interjected.

"Or so they say," Jon acknowledged. "The Night King can raise every corpse from the ground, be it man or animal. Bears, dogs, cattle—everything. From now on, people must burn their dead, just in case he breaches the wall."

"I thought there were spells to stop him."

Jon, acknowledging the uncertainty, explained, "How can we be certain? He can freeze water, and where the wall ends, ice can be made. Even if they can't climb it, they will find a way around it. And if it takes years, we'll be dead by then. The cold will kill us all. Unless we can escape or stop him."

Lord Manderly, connecting the dots, questioned Jon's need for ships. "Is that why you need the ships? To evacuate the north?"

"Let us hope it doesn't come to that. But it's best we prepare. We can't go south if he crosses the wall. He'll just add our dead to his army," Jon explained.

Deep in thought, Lord Manderly supped on his beer, his expression pensive. "Bring your proof. I'll deal with the lords in these parts. It's probably best you have a few of these dead men to show the northerners. Ask Lord Stark to call a northern council. Show us the proof." The gravity of the situation was sinking in.

Jon sought clarification on the apparent lack of scepticism toward Robb's warnings. "Why did nobody say anything to Robb? I mean, that they didn't believe him. Why didn't they ask for proof?"

Lord Manderly sighed. "He will one day be Warden of the North. People would prefer to stab you in the back, rather than him. A word of warning, the northern lords still won't like it."

"They'll like the army of the dead even less," Jon replied, understanding the political intricacies at play. The challenges ahead were becoming clearer, and Jon prepared himself for the arduous task ahead. "If I may be excused, my lord. It has been a long journey, and I need a bath and some sleep."

Lord Manderly agreed. "Of course, Lord Whitestark." As Jon rose, Lord Manderly added, "I'll send some food up for you."

Before departing, Jon made a request. "Is it possible you could let Lady Arya know I need to speak with her? And on the morrow, I would like to have a look at these ships you are building for Lord Stark. I believe he told you I was to see how work was going on them."

"You'll get a personal tour from me," Lord Manderly assured, smiling. They exchanged a handshake before Jon left for his chambers, escorted by one of Lord Manderly's awaiting guards.

Guided by one of Lord Manderly's guards, Jon was led to his chambers, passing by Arya's room on the way. He noted the ravens in her quarters; reaching Bran would be essential to relay a message to Sansa. It was time to put their communication plan to the test. However, before delving into that, Jon wanted to write letters — to Sansa and Lord Commander Mormont.

The Night's Watch needed proof of the army of the dead, and Jon recognized the scepticism surrounding his tale. The Starks, with their ancient lineage and ties to the first men, were known for their unique abilities like greensight and skin-changing. Even Jon questioned the reality of his experiences, pondering if they were a green dream rather than a genuine past life. A question he might ask Arya later.

Entering his chambers, Jon was struck by the opulence of the room, a stark contrast to his relatively humble status as a lord. The lavish quarters were a testament to the pretence that he was the son of Brandon Stark, affording him privileges he would not have as Jon Snow.

The walls, like the rest of New Castle, were adorned in white, adorned with rich tapestries depicting mermen engaged in battles beneath the sea. A grand ironwood four-poster bed dominated the room, its opulence emphasised by green curtains for privacy. The white marble hearth housed a roaring fire, casting an orange glow across the room as the outside skies darkened. Two chairs and a small table were positioned near the hearth, featuring a pitcher of what appeared to be ale or mead, and two pewter tankards.

Exploring further, Jon discovered a door next to the hearth, revealing a garderobe. As he continued to inspect the room, a sudden knock at the door caught him off guard.

"Come in," Jon called out, and a flurry of maids entered, carrying a copper bath along with buckets of steaming hot water. Another maid brought soaps and oils. Uncomfortably aware of their glances and blushes, Jon hoped none of them harboured expectations of warming his bed that night, as such hopes would undoubtedly be in vain.

As Jon soaked in the hot bath, his thoughts swirled around the pressing matters at hand. His conversation with Lord Manderly had highlighted the urgency of acquiring a wight to prove the existence of the army of the dead. A northern council needed to be convened, and Jon realised the timeline was limited, especially considering his upcoming journey to King's Landing.

Estimating a return after the royal wedding, Jon calculated they had approximately two to three moons to capture a wight and transport it to Winterfell for the council. This crucial period, and the council, would also mark the time for Jon to reveal his true identity as Aegon Targaryen upon his return.

In the shadows of these pressing concerns loomed the political machinations of Roose Bolton, the puppeteer orchestrating the campaign against House Stark. Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran would need to strategise on dismantling House Bolton without direct involvement from the Starks. Roose Bolton would need to be declared a traitor for justice to be served.

The following morning, Jon and Arya received a guided tour of the shipyard. Lord Manderly explained each ship took around nine moons to build, a frustratingly lengthy process. Considering the urgency of their situation, Jon questioned the feasibility of purchasing ageing merchant vessels and refurbishing them, a quicker but potentially costlier alternative.

Lord Manderly clarified each ship would be unique, with an average construction time of four moons. Recognising the need for a concentrated naval shipyard, Jon understood the importance of ousting the Boltons sooner rather than later, allowing Theon to establish the shipyard near the Dreadfort, a strategic location, and eventually developing it into a port. The urgency of their situation was becoming increasingly apparent.

As the afternoon unfolded, the time for Jon and Arya's departure approached. Lord Manderly had returned to New Castle, leaving them at the port as their belongings were loaded onto the ship. The first vessel, painstakingly crafted for Jon, was a dromond—a massive, multi-decked ship with a distinctive prow adorned with an intricate carving of a white wolf with red eyes. The ship bore the name "The Ghost of the Seas."

Aboard the ship, Jon was watching on as the ropes were being untied for the ship to sail south. Arya, who had been watching something else, nudged Jon. Frowning, he turned to Arya. "What is it?"

"Over there," Arya replied, cocking her head toward a group of people. "Which one?" Jon inquired, realising Arya had spotted someone.

"The one in the brown cloak, with the hood. The fat one," Arya specified. Intrigued, Jon followed Arya's gaze to the individual she had identified.

Jon strained his eyes, focusing on the person Arya had identified. Stooped, the hooded figure appeared to be conversing with a little girl, handing her something before she scampered away. Initially perplexed, Jon couldn't discern the reason for Arya's intense interest until the figure stood upright. The person was facing the other way, but once the hood was lowered, revealing a bald head. It was clear who the man was, even from the back.

"I wonder what Varys is doing here," Jon muttered, his heart quickening.

"I don't know," Arya replied, her tone uneasy. "But whatever it is, it's not good. And there's nothing we can do about it now." She added.