The Great Hall of White Harbor was alive with the warmth of candlelight and the scent of roasted salmon, spiced venison, and fresh-baked bread. Laughter rang through the air as lords, knights, and merchants feasted beneath the banners of House Manderly, the silver merman glistening in the firelight.
Seated at the high table beside his father, Wylis Manderly fought to keep his expression composed. Tonight was the moment of truth. Weeks of work, secrecy, and careful preparation had led to this single feast—where the North would taste White Fire for the first time.
The bottles had been prepared in advance, their clear liquid glinting like starlight. The lords expected the usual ale and mead, but tonight, they would drink the future.
His brother, Wendel Manderly, leaned over, his lips still sticky from honeyed pastries. "You look like you're about to go into battle."
"In a way, I am," Wylis muttered, his hands tightening around his goblet.
At the center of the table, Lord Wyman Manderly raised a hand, and the hall quieted. "My lords and honored guests, tonight we celebrate the prosperity of White Harbor, the North's greatest city. But prosperity is not just measured in gold or grain—it is measured in innovation."
Curious murmurs spread through the crowd. Lords exchanged glances. Innovation was not a word often spoken in the North.
"My son," Wyman continued, "has created something new. A drink unlike any other. A drink that will not only warm your bones on the coldest nights but will bring great fortune to White Harbor."
With a nod, Wyman signaled the servants.
Silver trays were carried through the hall, each bearing small glass goblets filled with clear liquid. Lords peered at them suspiciously, some lifting them to the firelight as if searching for trickery.
Lord Roger Ryswell, a grizzled man with a thick, gray beard, snorted. "What in the name of the Seven is this? Water?"
A few chuckles echoed through the room.
Wylis smirked. "Not quite, my lord. This is White Fire."
Ser Barthogan Stout, a broad-shouldered knight known for his drinking habits, swirled his goblet. "White Fire, eh? Sounds like something the alchemists would cook up."
Wylis remained calm. "The Reach has its Arbor Gold. The Riverlands have their ale. But the North? We have nothing to call our own. Until now."
Some lords hummed in thought, but Ryswell scoffed. "Bold words, boy. But words don't fill a man's cup."
Wylis gave a small bow. "Then let the drink speak for itself."
Lord Wyman lifted his own goblet. "To White Harbor! To House Manderly!"
The hall echoed his toast, and then—they drank.
At first, silence.
Then—coughing. Some men sputtered, their eyes widening as the fire spread through their throats and warmed their chests. A few slammed their goblets down in surprise. Others laughed, exhaling sharply as the burn settled.
"Seven bloody hells!" Ryswell bellowed, his face red. "That burns hotter than a Dornish summer!"
Ser Barthogan wheezed and wiped his lips. "Are you trying to kill us, Manderly? That drink could set a man's guts aflame!"
A ripple of laughter spread through the hall. But then—something changed.
Some men, still coughing, licked their lips. Their expressions shifted from shock to curiosity. Then—one by one—they drank again.
Ser Marlon Locke, a man rarely impressed by anything south of the Neck, smacked his lips. "Seven take me… this is good."
"Aye," grunted another knight, holding his goblet up for a refill. "Warms a man better than a cloak."
Wylis hid his relief behind a casual sip of his own drink. The first hurdle was passed—they didn't hate it.
Lord Ryswell leaned forward, eyeing Wylis with a shrewd gaze. "And what do you intend to do with this, boy? Sell it like Arbor Gold?"
Wylis was ready for this. He met the older lord's eyes with confidence.
"No, my lord. I intend to make White Harbor the heart of the strongest trade in the North. This drink will not just be served at feasts. It will be sold in every hall, from Winterfell to the Wall. And beyond."
The lords exchanged glances. Some thoughtful. Some skeptical.
Wyman steepled his fingers. "And the price?"
Wylis turned back to the assembled men. "Tell me, my lords—would you rather drink another barrel of sour ale… or this?"
There were chuckles. The murmurs shifted.
Lord Ryswell smirked, lifting his cup once more. "If the price is fair, I'd keep a cask of this in my hall."
Ser Barthogan grunted. "Aye. A man could fight a whole battle after drinking this."
Wyman nodded thoughtfully. "Then it seems we have something worth selling."
Wylis inclined his head, but deep down, he knew—this was only the beginning.