The morning air was crisp, laced with the briny scent of the sea. From the high windows of his chamber, Wylis Manderly could see the masts of ships bobbing in the harbor, their sails furled as dockworkers unloaded goods from Essos, the Reach, and even the Iron Islands. White Harbor was awake and alive, a vital artery of trade in the North—yet it was still a shadow of what it could be.
For days now, Wylis had been careful. He had moved through the halls of New Castle with measured steps, answering questions with just enough of his old self to avoid suspicion. The fever had given him an excuse—an illness severe enough to alter a man's perspective, make him quieter, more contemplative. It was a convenient shield, but it would not last forever.
If he wanted to bring change, he first needed knowledge.
His gaze drifted back to the harbor. Odin's voice hummed in his mind.
"White Harbor processes an estimated seventy ships per season, with the majority being small cogs and knarrs. Port infrastructure is rudimentary. No drydocks. No dedicated shipyards. Timber and iron imports inefficient. Projected expansion potential: significant."
A wasted opportunity. The North was rich in timber, iron, and manpower, yet it relied on ships from the South. The Manderlys were the only northern house with a true fleet, but it was nothing compared to the Greyjoys or the Redwynes. That had to change.
A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter," he called.
The door swung open, revealing his younger brother, Wendel. At sixteen, Wendel was broader than Wylis, with a round, boyish face and the same pale Manderly complexion. He grinned, stepping inside without waiting for permission.
"I see you're still alive," Wendel said, dropping onto a bench by the hearth. "I was starting to think the Stranger had claimed you."
Wylis smirked. "It will take more than a fever to put me in the grave."
"Good. I'd hate to be heir." Wendel stretched, popping his joints. "Father wants you in the yard. He says it's time you remind the men that the Manderlys aren't all fat merchants."
A test. Wylis had been avoiding the yard, knowing that physical skill was one area where his new body's instincts wouldn't align with his modern knowledge. Wylis Manderly had trained, but he had never been an exceptional fighter.
Still, refusing would raise suspicion.
"Then I suppose I should make an appearance."
The courtyard of New Castle was alive with the sounds of sparring. Steel rang against steel as men-at-arms drilled in formation, their boots crunching against the hard-packed dirt. A few knights in Manderly colors oversaw the training, their expressions watchful.
Wylis approached, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men. He recognized some of them—Ser Marlon, his father's household knight, and Ser Bartimos, a grizzled veteran with more scars than hair.
His father stood on the training platform, his massive frame casting a long shadow. Wyman Manderly was not a warrior, but his presence commanded respect. He turned as Wylis approached, his sharp eyes assessing.
"You look stronger," Wyman said. "That is good. A weak lord leads to a weak house."
Wylis inclined his head. "A strong mind is just as important as a strong arm."
"True," Wyman allowed. "But a mind alone will not hold a sword when the enemy is at your gate."
He gestured to the yard. "You will spar today. The men must see that their lord's son is not just a thinker but a fighter."
Wylis exhaled slowly. He had no illusions—he was not the strongest swordsman. He had the memories of his past self, but memories were not muscle memory.
"Analysis: Your opponent's most likely attack pattern will be high swings followed by low counters. Defensive stance recommended."
Odin's voice was steady in his mind. It was something, at least.
His opponent stepped forward—Ser Marlon, a seasoned knight with over a decade of experience. He wore a training gambeson and held a blunted longsword with practiced ease.
Wylis took his position, gripping his own training sword. It was heavier than he expected.
Ser Marlon gave a small nod. "Ready?"
No.
"Yes."
The knight moved first, striking high. Wylis barely parried, the force of the blow jolting through his arms. Marlon pressed forward, his strikes fluid and relentless. Wylis backpedaled, focusing on defense.
"Maintain distance. Let him tire."
Wylis sidestepped a downward swing, feeling the rush of air as the sword barely missed his shoulder. He wasn't winning—he was surviving.
Marlon's next strike came from below. Wylis saw it a heartbeat before impact. He twisted, catching the blow on his blade, but the force knocked him off balance. He hit the ground hard, dust rising around him.
Silence filled the yard.
Then, a chuckle. Wyman shook his head. "You lasted longer than I expected."
Wylis pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his tunic. "Perhaps I need more practice."
"Indeed." Wyman's gaze was thoughtful. "But you think before you move. That is a warrior's trait as much as a swordsman's skill."
It was not outright praise, but it was something.
That night, Wylis sat in his chambers, a candle flickering beside him. His muscles ached, his pride stung, but his mind was clear.
The North respected warriors, but Wylis would not be remembered for his sword. If he wanted to secure his future, he needed to prove himself in another way.
His fingers tapped against the wooden table. He needed a starting point—something to gain his father's trust, to show him that Wylis Manderly was more than just a wayward heir.
"Strategic recommendation: Begin with trade expansion. Economic strength secures military strength. White Harbor's potential is underutilized."
Wylis nodded slowly. Trade was the key. And he had just the idea to begin.
Vodka.
Strong, profitable, and unlike anything Westeros had ever seen.
A slow smile curled his lips.
Let the game begin.