"Care for a cod pie, Master Poole?"
Wyman Manderly nudged the pastry across his desk, appreciating the wafting smell of butter and white fish. He would have preferred lamprey, but alas, the first harvest would not be for several moons, and the best batches were even farther off.
His old mentor shook his head, "I must decline. My memory is not what it used to be, but I recall enjoying a rather substantial supper."
Wyman gave a loud, full-bellied laugh. Needing no prompting, the Lord of New Castle helped himself to the tasty morsel, "Nothing like a small snack to settle the stomach before bed. Just as Maester Walys used to say."
"How strange. You would think I would remember such an important lesson."
"As you said yourself, perhaps your memory is starting to go."
"Perhaps it is," the steward chuckled as he passed a hand through his beard, "It gladdens me to see we imparted such lasting lessons during your fosterage."
The two men indulged in idle talk, laughing and jesting louder than most would under the sway of thrice-watered ale. They continued to discuss nothing of import until four knocks at the door signaled the changing of the guard and the stationing of his cousin Marlon's most-trusted men.
The Lord of New Castle refilled Fane's goblet with well-watered ale, "We were told to expect a rider from Winterfell. Here I thought Rickard would have more sense than to send a man of your age."
Wyman was a proud man with well-founded pride. The first Manderly in generations to foster at Winterfell, he had watched White Harbor prosper under his careful rule. He regarded his former mentor with the same care: Rickard sending his personal steward–a man of sixty name days–spoke to the gravity of the situation; Fane's arrival mere days after the raven further betrayed a need for urgency. Now they were speaking in secret, under every layer of security House Manderly could afford. Wyman eyed the well-wrapped 'gift' currently leaning against the wall of his study and found himself yearning for another pie.
The greybeard smiled, "Our lord still trusts this old man with matters of import."
Wyman reached for his own drink, "Is he well? The children?"
"We had five Starks when winter began. Thank the Old Gods and the New we have five at winter's end."
The Lord of New Castle nodded but noted his mentor's nonanswer, "What brings you here, Fane?"
"Tax discrepancies."
Wyman snorted into his cup, "If Rickard thought I was dodging taxes, he would have come in person, Ice in hand. I would be talking to Lord Edwyle's ghost right now." He laughed heartily but shot the greybeard a glare that left no room for further jests, "What happened?"
The aged steward rose, "It would be easier to show you."
His guest walked over to Rickard's supposed gift. Aged hands removed the canvas cover with care, revealing a tall pane of glass so clear Wyman would have thought it was ice. He was on his feet in an instant and standing before the pane moments later. He marveled at the sight of his reflection, staring back at him without a single warp or flaw, and barely resisted the urge to reach out and mark the glass with his hands. The Lord of New Castle turned to the steward.
"Who made this?"
"Here I thought your first question would be the cost."
"You cannot purchase something that does not–cannot–exist." Wyman countered, "Unless the Free Cities have been trading us their scraps, this is beyond what I have known Myr to make."
His old mentor was slow to answer, "Would you believe me if I said Lord Stark found it in the crypts?"
Wyman scoffed, "If Rickard had time to explore his family's crypt while the rest of us were weathering the longest winter in living memory, it will not be the Boltons leading the next rebellion."
The aged steward hardly batted an eye at Wyman's retort. If anything, the man appeared far more preoccupied with his own response, as if his story were hard to tell and harder to believe, "A man approached Lord Stark some time ago asking to take up residence in the Wolfswoods." The greybeard inclined his head towards the glass pane, "This was his offered price."
"A man." Wyman doubted his voice could have sounded more flat.
His mentor nodded in affirmation, "A young one of noble bearing. Bookish, yet capable with a blade. He was accompanied by a woman with the coloring of Old Valyria whom he claimed to be his wife. Her dress had fine Myrish lace, and Maester Luwin believes her to be one of Volantis' Old Blood."
The Lord of New Castle made for his chair with his guest not far behind and poured them both a proper drink of Arbor Red. Wyman said nothing for a time, mulling over Fane's well-chosen words: The books indicated an intelligent man, one that was no fool; the blade was a warning that said man was martially inclined, not to be underestimated despite his maesterly pursuits. And he was Myrish, else Fane would not have mentioned his wife's dress. The story made sense, given the glass, but it reeked of craftsmanship and artifice.
"You claimed the woman had Valyrian coloring. Any chance she hails from Lys?"
He did not miss the look of panic in his mentor's eye, "None. Lady Evetta carries herself as well as her husband, perhaps better."
Wyman allowed himself a smile. So this was not a lordling who ran off with a Lysi slave, and Fane dared not imply such. But Evetta was not a Volantene name, and Wyman would wager a ship her husband's was not Myrish. A picture was forming in his mind, a patchwork of false assumptions, misdirection, and half-truths.
"This is a strange tale," he said instead, "An interesting one, but I wonder why Rickard had not sent a raven and been done with it."
Therein lay the question: Why the urgency? A glassmaker in the North was no doubt a headache and a half, but it hardly warranted Rickard sending an aged steward to his strongest vassal with utmost haste: A hundred leagues in eight days was a hard ride for anyone.
Fane answered by handing over a scroll marked with Rickard's personal seal. Wyman unfurled the scroll, revealing an inventory of goods not unlike countless others he had inspected during his tenure, but the numbers were wrong. The scroll listed quantities Wyman only knew in concept, figures he could not conceive any more than a beggar from Fleabottom could grasp the worth of gold. He looked to Fane in disbelief.
"Surely you jest."
"If I wanted to deceive you, I would have fabricated a more believable sum," the steward snapped, the lines on his face growing deep as he rubbed his brow, "Six shipments of glass arrived in Wintertown a sennight ago. Between the household and conscripted smallfolk, I had sixty men working in shifts transporting glass to Winterfell. I will be impressed if the work is a third done when I return."
Fane Poole fixed Wyman with a stern gaze, "On my honor as the steward of Winterfell, these are the best figures we have on hand."
The Lord of New Castle gave no reply.
"I understand this is an outrageous sum–"
Wyman held up a hand.
"Fane, this is more glass than Myr has ever produced. Do you expect me to truly believe a young scion from one of Myr's glass-forging families eloped with a daughter of Volantis' Old Blood and offered Rickard more glass than the Lannisters have gold in exchange for shelter? Gods, the Redwynes could not ferry this much glass!" Wyman was not done, "And you said it was delivered to Wintertown. How? Is there an army of Unsullied occupying Winterfell I should know about?"
Fane sighed, "I can assure you Lord Fairchild has no Unsullied under his employ."
"Fairchild?" Wyman breathed, repeating a name that sounded about as Myrish as Hightower and Blackwood, "The whores on Bloodstone had smallclothes with more substance than the story you are trying to sell me."
"You are not the intended customer."
The Head of House Manderly paused at that, sipping wine to compose himself. He swirled the goblet once, twice, then locked eyes with Fane after the third, "Young Ned," he realized, "You hope to seed this story in White Harbor, and have it make its way south with the boy when he returns to the Vale."
He was rewarded with a nod, "Rumors will make their way south without our help. We cannot keep the smallfolk from talking, merely influence what they say. The story I offer would be the most convenient truth."
"And the inconvenient one?"
Fane sighed, "If Lord Stark thought it safe to share, he would have given me permission to say."
Wyman set his wine aside and regarded his mentor with steepled hands. The picture was coming together, but questions remained. Why the secrecy? Why the urgency and lies? "Most of the merchants here hail from Braavos, and most make for Essos come winter. Few enough stay that I would have heard word if a Myrman was making his way to Winterfell," he pondered aloud, "If he had been traveling with a woman as you described, it would have fueled enough gossip to warm us through winter."
Wyman's eyes grew wide. The Fairchilds had not fled Essos, else it would not have mattered if they hailed from Myr or Leng. They did not come up from the South, otherwise his old mentor would not be here, trying to plant a rumor meant to travel down the Neck. The far North did not bear mentioning. The picture in his mind shifted, becoming something greater and more dangerous by far. For the second time that night, Wyman stared at his mentor, asking him to confirm the impossible.
The steward met his eye, "Given the route they took to reach the North, I am honestly surprised the Lord and Lady Fairchild were not beset by Ironborn."
"Fane–"
It was the steward's turn to hold up a hand.
"They are not emissaries, merely visitors, eccentrics from a family of clear import."
"Who else knows?" Still stunned, there was little else he could say.
"Let it rest, Wyman," Fane pressed, tired but insistent, "Lord Stark has the matter well at hand. He will divulge more when safe to do so. Trust that he will do right by you and the North, as he always has."
Falling back into his chair, the Lord of New Castle brimmed with questions, objections, and protests. By law, Rickard was well within his rights to treat with these foreigners, particularly on matters of trade. Hells, even political and military alliances were not out of the question if they came with marriage: betrothals between the houses of Westeros and Free Cities were hardly new. Jaehaerys II would have found the whole affair entertaining, at most sending an emissary to protect the interests of the Crown, but Aerys II was not his father.
This was a dangerous game. Knowing his foster brother, the Lord of Winterfell undoubtedly thought he was shielding his bannermen from culpability, but other houses might accuse the Starks of cornering the attention of a foreign kingdom and monopolizing new markets at their expense. Yet there was little Wyman could do. Inserting himself into talks without invitation would only weaken Rickard's position and paint Wyman as the grasping, copper-counting Lord of White Harbor. He would have to trust the steward's judgment. Thankfully, Winterfell was as much Fane's legacy as Rickard's in many regards.
"Better the Realm think Rickard is capitalizing on a Myrman's love affair than courting a foreign power," he summarized, downing the last dregs of his wine, "Very well, I leave the matter in your hands. Rickard knows where my loyalties lie, but remind him that I only command the fourth largest fleet on this side of the sea."
'We are not prepared to challenge the Crown.'
"You need not ask," Fane replied with an appreciative nod, "Now, the other matter at hand: House Stark has received enough glass for six gardens. Our lord means to construct one at Winterfell and gift five onto loyal Northern houses. Not all at once, of course."
"So four loyal houses and the Boltons."
"You disapprove."
Wyman dipped his head, "But I do not disagree." The Manderlys shared strange history with the Boltons. Had the Red Kings not persuaded the Greystarks to betray their kin, his ancestors would never have found themselves masters of the Wolf's Den and later White Harbor. He had long considered the continued survival of House Bolton to be a great misstep by the old Winter Kings, but he understood the need to check the powers of the Umbers whose vast holdings once encompassed the New Gift and the Karstarks who held nominal claim to Winterfell. Furthermore, the Boltons had proven themselves capable if cold bannerman for the last thousand-odd years, serving no worse than his own house. The current arrangement was…convenient. Spurning them so openly would upset the balance of power and invite civil war.
A cruel part of him considered urging just that, spurring the Boltons to rebellion and giving his foster brother every reason to end the legacy of the Red Kings. War, however, was not what the North needed, not after winter. He would not leave fields to fallow and men to starve on account of ambition.
"Who else?"
"Yourself, the Umbers, Dustins, and Karstarks."
Wyman grimaced, "I trust you convinced him overwise?"
"I half suspect he proposed such a disastrous plan to get a rise out of you." A smile returned to Fane's lips. This was well-trodden ground, "The Glovers were sincerely considered."
"A sound choice."
"Our lord would appreciate your council."
"Of course he would," Engaging with foreigners from beyond the Sunset Sea lay well beyond his purview, but navigating the intricacies–and lack thereof–of Northern politics was a familiar friend.
"These glass gardens are as much a bane as they are a boon. Rickard may as well be passing out Valyrian swords." Indeed, the glass gardens were a projection of the Stark's power. The only family able to grow food in the dead of winter, House Stark has always weathered the cold better than any other, living up to their legacy as the Kings of Winter.
"Umber, Glover, Dustin, Karstark, and Bolton," Wyman repeated the names of friends and foes alike, "The Umbers have long been loyal beyond question. The same could be said of the Dustins and Glovers. A means to grow food during winter would especially help Deepwood Motte, and I can see Bear Island benefiting from the arrangement, given Jorah's recent betrothal. A glass garden could mend Rickard's relationship with the Karstarks, but that is no sure thing."
The Lord of Karhold was a disagreeable man, like many Karstarks before him. The man's overtures to the Flints and Hornwoods alongside increasingly bold demands of Winterfell had soured relations of late. Empowering both the Karstarks and Boltons would not serve his brother well.
"To speak plainly, House Manderly has the least need for the food a glass garden would provide. But the same could not be said of the prestige: If my family learned I passed up the opportunity for a garden in White Harbor, I would be tied to a cog and used as an anchor."
Fane nodded in approval of Wyman's assessment and candor, "Worry not, if Lord Stark was seen snubbing his sworn brother, fosterage at Winterfell would quickly lose its worth."
Pouring himself more wine, the Lord of New Castle swirled his goblet, allowing the smooth, steady motion to settle his thoughts, "A man with a gold dragon is infinitely richer than one without, yet a man with two dragons is only twice as rich as a man with one. If Rickard has enough glass for six gardens, two should remain at Winterfell. Power must stay with the Starks, for all of our sakes."
"And the other four?"
"Myself, Umber, Dustin, and Bolton," he spoke with as much certainty as he could muster, "It will be a matter of practicality: White Harbor is the largest settlement in the North by far with Wintertown a distant second and Barrowton a distant third. The volcanic soil in Bolton land will ensure a bountiful harvest. As for the Umbers, they have long served as the North's vanguard against the wildlings. Much of the New Gift once belonged to them. House Stark will show the lengths it will go to right old wrongs, even ones they did not instigate."
Fane considered the plan, "The Karstarks will take offense."
"The Karstarks have been drawing away from Winterfell for generations, and a glass garden may only embolden their demands. Rickard Karstark will grumble, but his hands will be tied. Keeping the Boltons and Karstarks from forming a power block will be difficult, but that is work for another day. The North has a long memory, and none have forgotten what happened the last time the Red Kings turned a cadet house against their kin."
Wyman was under no illusion that he provided impartial council: His proposal would elevate House Manderly, Dustin, Umber, and Bolton well above other houses. It was a far cry from perfect: The Glovers were loyal men who would benefit greatly from a glass garden, but they suffered from frequent Ironborn raids despite Quellon's reforms, and their lands remained some of the most sparsely populated as a result. But the balance would be maintained with power resting soundly with the Starks. Three loyal houses would be honored and poised to staunch Bolton ambition.
Fane raised his cup, toasting his former charge, "Were you not needed here, these old bones would drag you back to Winterfell. Lord Stark will hear your words as they were spoken." The two men drank to a task well-done. "There remains one last matter to discuss," the steward said at length, "If the rumors travel south, they will also travel east."
Wyman soured, "Myr will not be pleased."
"Are the magisters liable to interfere?"
"Eventually," he admitted, "A merchant once told me more men have died in the silk trade than in Dothraki raids. I am inclined to believe him."
"Then this may be necessary," Fane produced another scroll and passed it over. Again, Wyman spied Rickard's personal seal.
"Explain."
"A warning for the magisters of Myr," the steward's voice took on a hard edge, "The North has found itself a man with the means to make glass, glass that will never leave the North. That man is Lord Stark's guest, and should they intend him harm, the North is prepared to sell timber to Braavos at a loss."
Once again, Wyman found himself short for words. Braavos remained White Harbor's most significant foreign trading partner, which suited the Merman just fine. Like all Northerners, he had a low opinion of the slave-owning Free Cities. Myr sat well outside the North's sphere of influence, but the same could not be said of Braavos. Their victory over Pentos and the city's subsequent cessation from the slave trade remained fresh in the minds of the Three Daughters. Braavos was a naval power without peer; the shipwrights of the Arsenal constructed a new galley a day, the growth of their fleet stymied only by the city's access to timber and raw goods, something the Warden of the North was threatening to change.
"A dangerous declaration. It is unlike Rickard to be so bold," Wyman noted, though he approved. Trade with Myr was nominal at best. Whoever this Lord Fairchild was, he had given the North more in gifts than the Myrish traded in goods. It made good sense to see the man safe.
"I leave the letter in your capable hands."
Wyman sighed, resigned but unsurprised, "The captain brave enough to deliver this letter will have to be promised a knighthood if he returns alive and a lordship for his son if he does not."
"As our lord's most loyal supporter, I am sure you will see it done."
"Perhaps White Harbor needs two glass gardens."
The greybeard practically cackled in reply.
TBC
Author's Note:
This was supposed to be a short intermission but grew more complex as I went along. Let it not be said the North is without its intrigue. Hope Wyman comes off as sharp as his reputation implies. There is no mention of him fostering at Winterfell in canon, but he and Rickard are close in age, and I thought it would add some color to the story.
