The halls of White Harbor were vast and cold, the pale stone warmed only by the occasional brazier. Servants moved about their tasks with quiet efficiency, their eyes flickering toward him as he walked past.
Wylis moved carefully, measuring each step. Every sight, every scent, every sound was foreign yet familiar, a paradox of memories old and new. He had spent days in his chambers, feigning the remnants of illness while sifting through Wylis' past—his childhood lessons, his relationships, his duties as heir.
And now, it was time to play his role.
The Great Hall of White Harbor was alive with murmured conversations. A long table stretched near the raised dais where his father, Lord Wyman Manderly, sat in quiet contemplation. His younger brother, Wendel, lounged beside him, absently picking at a plate of bread and salt.
Wylis took his place at the table, his father's gaze settling on him.
"You are up," Wyman observed, his voice even. "That is good."
Wylis inclined his head. "I am well, Father."
A beat of silence. Then, Wyman leaned forward, studying him intently. "Are you?"
There was weight behind the question, a test wrapped in casual words. Wylis met his father's gaze without flinching. "I was ill, but my mind is clear."
Wyman nodded slowly, though his eyes remained sharp. "Then you will resume your duties tomorrow. White Harbor does not wait for a wayward son to recover."
"Of course."
It was an expected response, but the truth was, Wylis needed more time. Time to understand the scope of his new life, to strategize. White Harbor had resources, trade connections, and an industrious people, yet it had never reached its full potential. If he wanted to shape the North's future, he needed to start here.
But first, he needed his father's trust.
And trust was not given freely in Westeros—it was earned.