The salty air carried the sound of sawing wood and hammering nails as Wylis Manderly stepped onto the docks of White Harbor. The early morning sun cast long shadows over the shipyard, where laborers bustled between stacks of timber, barrels of tar, and freshly forged nails.
Despite the cold northern breeze, the docks were alive—a symphony of sailors, carpenters, and merchants, all moving with a purpose.
And today, that purpose belonged to him.
"They are waiting for you," Odin's voice hummed in Wylis's mind. "Make them see the future you are building."
Wylis adjusted his cloak, then strode forward.
The Lord and the Shipwrights
At the heart of the shipyard, a group of men stood in hushed conversation. Lord Wyman Manderly was at the center, his massive frame a stark contrast to the wiry shipbuilders flanking him.
Standing beside him was Master Lothor Greaves, White Harbor's chief shipwright—a man with a face as weathered as the sea and hands permanently stained with sawdust.
As Wylis approached, Lothor frowned. "I won't lie, my lord. I've built cogs and fishing boats my whole life. Even a galley or two. But what you're asking…" He shook his head. "It's never been done in the North."
Wylis clasped his hands behind his back. "Then let's be the first."
Lothor exhaled, exchanging a glance with Lord Wyman. "This ship—this carrack you describe—it's larger than any vessel in Westeros. More complex to build. We'd need bigger docks, stronger beams, and men trained to work timber like never before."
Wyman turned to Wylis, his expression unreadable. "You understand the risk? If we start and fail, it'll be coin wasted. We'll look like fools to the Starks, the merchants, and worse—our enemies."
"They do not see the full picture yet," Odin advised. "Show them what's at stake."
Wylis nodded, then knelt beside a stack of planks, picking up a piece of timber.
"This is pine," he said, holding it up. "It's soft, easy to shape, but weak. A storm will crack it, a warship will splinter it." He tossed the piece aside and picked up another.
"This is oak. Stronger, more durable, but heavy. Slows a ship down."
Finally, he gestured toward a freshly cut log resting on the dock—ironwood from the Wolfswood.
"This… this is what we need. Mixed with iron ribs from our new forges, we'll create a ship that can sail through any storm, fight off pirates, and carry more cargo than any trader in the Narrow Sea."
Lothor's lips pressed into a thin line. "It sounds good in words, my lord. But ships are not built with words."
Wylis smiled. "Then let's build one and see."
The First Keel
The decision was made.
By mid-afternoon, the shipyard was abuzz with movement. Orders were shouted, tools were gathered, and the first beams were laid.
Wylis stood atop a small wooden platform, watching as his vision came to life.
Wyman Manderly joined him, arms crossed over his chest. "You believe in this," he murmured. It wasn't a question.
Wylis turned to his father. "I do."
Wyman studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then let's make sure it's done right."
Odin's Caution
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Wylis sat in his private chambers, reviewing shipyard ledgers. The numbers were staggering—the cost of ironwood, iron reinforcement, specialized labor.
"Ambition is costly," Odin reminded him. "And not everyone will celebrate your success."
Wylis exhaled. "I know."
"Do you?"
Wylis frowned. "You think someone will try to stop us?"
"Not yet. But power shifts like the tide. Today, they cheer for you. Tomorrow, they may not."
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"My lord," a steward said, bowing. "A Ravener Guild representative is here. He wishes to speak with you… about your new ships."
Wylis felt a slow smile creep onto his lips.
"And so it begins," Odin murmured.