[North - White Harbor]

The Merry Midwife stole into White Harbor on the evening tide, her patched sail rippling with every gust of wind.

The old cog, weathered by time and tides, drifted into the bustling port of White Harbor under the cloak of darkness.

The figurehead of the ship depicted a laughing woman cradling an infant, both marked by the ravages of time, with wormholes poking their features. Layers of drab brown paint concealed the vessel's history, and its sails hung grey and tattered. While not a ship to captivate onlookers, the Merry Midwife held a mystique in White Harbor, where it had plied its humble trade between the city and Sisterton for years.

Davos Seaworth, a seasoned seafarer, had not expected such an arrival when he embarked on a mission with Salla and their fleet. Their original plan had been more straightforward—using Salla's galleas Valyrian, along with the rest of the Lysene fleet, to present a show of strength to Lord Manderly.

Every hull was striped: black and yellow, pink and blue, green and white, purple and gold. The Lyseni loved bright hues, and Salladhor Saan was the most colorful of all.

But fate had other designs. Unforeseen circumstances forced Davos to infiltrate the city discreetly, assuming the guise of a common sailor rather than a noble envoy.

As the walls of White Harbor, gleaming with whitewashed stone, loomed before them, Davos couldn't help but notice the changes in the city's defenses since his last visit half a dozen years ago. The jetty dividing the harbors had been fortified with a formidable stone wall, and smoke wafted from Seal Rock, which was once only ruins.

Despite the tension in the air, Davos harbored a fondness for White Harbor. He recalled his early days as a cabin boy, navigating its clean streets and steep-roofed stone houses. The distinct scent of the city, a blend of salt, fish, and adventure, always welcomed him like an old friend.

Though small in comparison to Oldtown and King's Landing, it was clean and well-ordered, with wide straight cobbled streets that made it easy for a man to find his way.

Roro Uhoris, the Cobblecat's cranky old master, used to claim that he could tell one port from another just by the way they smelled. Cities were like women, he insisted; each one had its own unique scent. Oldtown was as flowery as a perfumed dowager. Lannisport was a milkmaid, fresh and earthy, with woodsmoke in her hair. King's Landing reeked like some unwashed whore. But White Harbor's scent was sharp and salty, and a little fishy too. "She smells the way a mermaid ought to smell," Roro said. "She smells of the sea."

She still does, thought Davos, but he could smell the peat smoke drifting off Seal Rock too.

As Davos pondered the changes in White Harbor, the imposing form of Seal Rock caught his gaze. The massive sea stone, with its ancient circle of weathered stones atop, once serene with sunbathing seals, now bristled with soldiers and weaponry. The absence of the seals, scared away by the looming threat, signaled a shift in the city's fortunes. Contemplating the upheaval, Davos couldn't shake off a sense of foreboding.

The sea stone dominated the approaches to the outer harbor, a massive grey-green upthrust looming fifty feet above the waters. Its top was crowned with a circle of weathered stones, a ringfort of the First Men that had stood desolate and abandoned for hundreds of years. It was not abandoned now. Davos could see scorpions and spitfires behind the standing stones, and crossbowmen peering between them. It must be cold up there, and wet. On all his previous visits, seals could be seen basking on the broken rocks below. The Blind Bastard always made him count them whenever the Cobblecat set sail from White Harbor; the more seals there were, Roro said, the more luck they would have on their voyage. There were no seals now. The smoke and the soldiers had frightened them away. A wiser man would see a caution in that.

If I had a thimble full of sense, I would have gone with Salla.

He could have made his way back south, to Marya and their sons.

I have lost four sons in the king's service, and my fifth serves as his squire. I should have the right to cherish the two boys who still remain. It has been too long since I saw them.

The longing to reunite with his family tugged at his soul, questioning the sacrifices he had made in the name of duty. He mulled over the wisdom of his choices, wondering if he had been guided by folly rather than prudence.

At Eastwatch, the black brothers told him there was no love between the Manderlys of White Harbor and the Boltons of the Dreadfort. The Iron Throne, seeking to assert its dominion over the North, had elevated Roose Bolton to the coveted title of Warden of the North, so it stood to reason that Wyman Manderly should declare for Stannis. White Harbor cannot stand alone. The city needs an ally, a protector. Lord Wyman needs King Stannis as much as Stannis needs him. Or so it seemed at Eastwatch.

However, hopes were shattered when troubling rumors from Sisterton hinted at a potential union between the Manderlys, Boltons, and even the treacherous Freys. Davos, a seasoned sailor and Hand of King Stannis, knew the weight of these rumors. The fate of the North hung in the balance, and he prayed he had not arrived too late to sway the tide of allegiance.

The Merman, the sigil of House Manderly, adorned the city's every corner, a reminder of the family's deep roots in White Harbor. But as Davos navigated the bustling docks and narrow streets, he sensed an undercurrent of tension and uncertainty. The looming presence of the Lionstar, a warship bearing the colors of the boy king on the Iron Throne, sent a chill down his spine.

Her hull was black and gold, her figurehead a lion with an upraised paw. Lionstar, read the letters on her stern, beneath a fluttering banner that bore the arms of the boy king.

The Merry Midwife, the humble vessel that had carried Davos to White Harbor, found its mooring in the outer harbor, a safe distance from the ominous Lionstar. Casso Mogat, the colorful captain with a mysterious past, approached Davos with a question that lingered like a foreboding shadow: "How long will you be gone?"

"A day at least. It may be longer." Davos had found that lords liked to keep you waiting. They did it to make you anxious, he suspected, and to demonstrate their power.

"The Midwife will linger here three days. No longer. They will look for me back in Sisterton."

"If things go well, I could be back by the morrow."

"And if these things go badly?"

I may not be back at all. "You need not wait for me."

There was a good chance things could go very wrong.

Davos was a man of middling height, his shrewd peasant's face weathered by wind and sun, his grizzled beard and brown hair well salted with grey. His garb was plain as well: old boots, brown breeches and blue tunic, a woolen mantle of undyed wool, fastened with a wooden clasp. He wore a pair of salt-stained leather gloves to hide the stubby fingers of the hand that Stannis had shortened, so many years ago. Davos hardly looked a lord, much less a King's Hand. That was all to the good until he knew how matters stood here.

As he made his way through the colorful spectacle, Davos noticed the emblem of House Manderly proudly displayed on the breastplates of two spearmen posted at the Seal Gate. However, their focus seemed to be on a dockside distraction rather than their duty. Taking advantage of their distraction, Davos smoothly passed through the gate as it stood open, the portcullis raised to allow the flow of traffic.

The cobbled square opened up before him, its centerpiece a majestic fountain adorned with a towering stone merman. The statue's weathered features exuded a sense of ancient wisdom, its broken trident a testament to the passage of time.

The locals referred to the fountain as Old Fishfoot, a nod to the city's maritime heritage and the legendary tales of sea creatures that once roamed the waters surrounding White Harbor.

The square, affectionately referred to as Fishfoot Yard, bustled with activity. From women washing clothes in the fountain to peddlers, scribes, and a motley crew of traders, the essence of White Harbor was alive in every corner. Amidst the chaos, Davos observed the doors of the Old Mint, usually shut, now wide open, revealing a sight that stirred his emotions. Within, families sought shelter, huddling together on makeshift bedding, their faces reflecting the hardships they had endured.

Seeking respite, Davos approached an apple seller and inquired about the state of those seeking refuge within the Old Mint.

"Are people living in the Old Mint?" he asked the apple seller.

"Them as have no other place to live. Smallfolk from up the White Knife, most o' them. Hornwood's people too. With that Bastard o' Bolton running loose, they all want to be inside the walls. I don't know what his lordship means to do with all o' them. Most turned up with no more'n the rags on their backs."

Learning of their struggles to survive, his heart weighed heavy with guilt, knowing he unwittingly contributed to their plight by stirring the embers of war.

They came here for refuge, to a city untouched by the fighting, and here I turn up to drag them back into the war.

He took a bite of the apple, though, he felt guilty about that as well. "How do they eat?"

The apple seller shrugged. "Some beg. Some steal. Lots o' young girls taking up the trade, the way girls always do when it's all they got to sell. Any boy stands five feet tall can find a place in his lordship's barracks, long as he can hold a spear."

He's raising men, then. That might be good ... or bad, depending. The apple was dry and mealy, but Davos made himself take another bite. "Does Lord Wyman mean to join the Bastard?"

"Well," said the apple seller, "the next time his lordship comes down here hunkering for an apple, I'll be sure and ask him."

"I heard his daughter was to wed some Frey."

"His granddaughter. I heard that too, but his lordship forgot t' invite me to the wedding. Here, you going to finish that? I'll take the rest back. Them seeds is good."

Davos tossed him back the core. A bad apple, but it was worth half a penny to learn that Manderly is raising men.

Down a narrow alley, where Old Fishfoot's trident pointed, the enticing aroma of fried cod wafted through the air, tempting passersby with its crisp and golden allure. Nearby, a discreet brothel offered solace to weary sailors, a sanctuary where pleasure could be found without fear of danger lurking in the shadows.

Further along, nestled in a corner of the city, stood the Lazy Eel, a winesink hidden beneath a warehouse filled with sheepskins. Inside, time seemed suspended in the smoky air, the dimly lit chamber a haven for those seeking refuge from the harsh realities of the world outside. The ceiling, blackened by soot, loomed overhead, while the hard-packed earth floor exuded a musty scent of smoke and decay.

It was here that Davos found himself seeking solace in a cup of sour, dark wine, his weary eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The tallow candles on the tables flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to dance along the walls. Four whores sat near the door, their laughter mingling with the murmurs of the patrons as they sought solace in drink and companionship.

One gave him a hopeful smile as he entered. When Davos shook his head, the woman said something that made her companions laugh. After that none of them paid him any mind.

Settling into a shadowed alcove, Davos reflected on the shadows of his past that haunted him—the burning ships, the fiery chain, the lingering memory of loss and sacrifice. Raised by chance and war and loyal to Stannis, he bore the weight of grief for his lost sons, their absence a constant ache in his heart.

He did not understand why the gods would take four lads as young and strong as his sons, yet spare their weary father. Some nights he thought he had been left to rescue Edric Storm ... but by now King Robert's bastard boy was safe in the Stepstones, yet Davos still remained. Do the gods have some other task for me? he wondered. If so, White Harbor may be some part of it. He tried the wine, then poured half his cup onto the floor beside his foot.

As dusk descended upon White Harbor, the Lazy Eel began to fill with sailors, their voices rising above the din of the crowded tavern.

Davos signaled for another cup of wine, the liquid swirling in the dim light as the proprietor brought him a flickering candle.

"You want food?" the man asked. "We got meat pies."

"What kind of meat is in them?"

"The usual kind. It's good."

The whores laughed. "It's grey, he means," one said. "Shut your bloody yap. You eat them."

"I eat all kinds o' shit. Don't mean I like it."

Davos blew the candle out as soon as the proprietor moved off, and sat back in the shadows. Seamen were the worst gossips in the world when the wine was flowing, even wine as cheap as this. All he need do was listen.

The salty air mingled with the scent of cheap wine, fueling the gossips that filled the tavern where he sat, a lone figure amidst the boisterous crowd.

As the ale flowed freely, so did the stories - tales of fallen kings, treacherous plots, and looming wars.

As Davos listened, his keen ears caught wind of rumors that echoed the turmoil that plagued the realm. Tales of fallen kings and slain lords danced on the lips of the sailors, painting a grim picture of a world torn asunder by strife. Tywin Lannister, the feared lion of the West, lay dead at the hands of his own kin, his dwarf son, a gruesome end that left a foul stench in the Sept of Baelor. The Eyrie, perched high in the mountains, had been marred by a tragedy as well, its lady betrayed and murdered by a cunning minstrel. Littlefinger now ruled the Eyrie, though, Bronze Yohn Royce had threatened to bring him down.

The whispers carried news of Balon Greyjoy's demise, plunging the Iron Islands into a fierce struggle for power. Sandor Clegane, the once fearsome Hound, now roamed as an outlaw, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake

Amidst the chaos, the name of House Manderly lingered in the whispers that filled the tavern. Lord Manderly, a shrewd and cautious ruler, had turned a deaf ear to the pleas of Robett Glover, a nobleman seeking aid in troubled times. White Harbor, weary from the ravages of war, stood on the brink of uncertainty. The clash of steel and the sound of burning ships echoed from the distant Fever River, where the Ryswells and the Dustins clashed with the ironborn raiders.

But the darkest news came with the mention of the Bastard of Bolton, a figure shrouded in dread and shadow. Riding south with a host of ruthless warriors, including Hother "Whoresbane" Umber, the Bastard sought to lay siege to the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, a key stronghold that guarded the northern lands.

"The Whoresbane his own self," claimed a riverman who'd just brought a load of hides and timber down the White Knife, "with three hundred spear-men and a hundred archers. Some Hornwood men have joined them, and Cerwyns too." That was worst of all.

An attack that had reportedly had been foiled by unknown assailants, who appeared to have arrived first and taken control of the key stronghold.

"Lord Wyman should have sent some men to fight if he knows what's good for him," said the old fellow at the end of the table. "Lord Roose, he's the Warden now. White Harbor's honour bound to answer his summons."

"What did any Bolton ever know o' honour?" said the Eel's proprietor as he filled their cups with more brown wine.

"Lord Wyman won't go no place. He's too bloody fat."

"I heard how he was ailing. All he does is sleep and weep, they say. He's too sick to get out o' his bed most days."

"Too fat, you mean."

"Fat or thin's got naught to do with it," said the Eel's proprietor. "The lions got his son."

No one spoke of King Stannis. No one even seemed to know that His Grace had come north to help defend the Wall. Wildlings and wights and giants had been all the talk at Eastwatch, but here no one seemed to be giving them so much as a thought.

Davos leaned into the firelight. "I thought the Freys killed his son. That's what we heard in Sisterton."

"They killed Ser Wendel," said the proprietor. "His bones are resting in the Snowy Sept with candles all around them, if you want to have a look. Ser Wylis, though, he's still a captive."

Worse and worse. He had known that Lord Wyman had two sons, but he'd thought that both of them were dead. If the Iron Throne has a hostage ... Davos had fathered seven sons himself, and lost four on the Blackwater. He knew he would do whatever gods or men required of him to protect the other three. Steffon and Stannis were thousands of leagues from the fighting and safe from harm, but Devan was at Castle Black, a squire to the king. The king whose cause may rise or fall with White Harbor. His fellow drinkers were talking about dragons now. "You're bloody mad," said an oarsman off Storm Dancer. "The Beggar King's been dead for years. Some Dothraki horselord cut his head off."

"So they tell us," said the old fellow. "Might be they're lying, though. He died half a world away, if he died at all. Who's to say? If a king wanted me dead, might be I'd oblige him and pretend to be a corpse. None of us has ever seen his body."

"I never saw Joffrey's corpse, nor Robert's," growled the Eel's proprietor. "Maybe they're all alive as well. Maybe Baelor the Blessed's just been having him a little nap all these years."

The old fellow made a face. "Prince Viserys weren't the only dragon,were he? Are we sure they killed Prince Rhaegar's son? A babe, he was."

"Wasn't there some princess too?" asked a whore. She was the same one who'd said the meat was grey.

"Two," said the old fellow. "One was Rhaegar's daughter, t'other was his sister."

"Daena," said the riverman. "That was the sister. Daena of Dragon-stone. Or was it Daera?"

"Daena was old King Baelor's wife," said the oarsman. "I rowed on a ship named for her once. The Princess Daena. "

"If she was a king's wife, she'd be a queen."

"Baelor never had a queen. He was holy."

"Don't mean he never wed his sister," said the whore. "He just never bedded her, is all. When they made him king, he locked her up in a tower. His other sisters too. There was three."

"Daenela," the proprietor said loudly. "That was her name. The Mad King's daughter, I mean, not Baelor's bloody wife."

"Daenerys, " Davos said. "She was named for the Daenerys who wed the Prince of Dorne during the reign of Daeron the Second. I don't know what became of her."

"I do," said the man who'd started all the talk of dragons, a Braavosi oarsman in a somber woolen jack. "When we were down to Pentos we moored beside a trader called the Sloe-Eyed Maid, and I got to drinking with her captain's steward. He told me a pretty tale about some slip of a girl who come aboard in Qarth, to try and book passage back to Westeros for her and three dragons. Silver hair she had, and purple eyes. 'I took her to the captain my own self,' this steward swore to me, 'but he wasn't having none of that. There's more profit in cloves and saffron, he tells me, and spices won't set fire to your sails.' "

Laughter swept the cellar. Davos did not join in. He knew what had befallen the Sloe-Eyed Maid. The gods were cruel to let a man sail across half the world, then send him chasing a false light when he was almost home. That captain was a bolder man than me, he thought, as he made his way to the door. One voyage to the east, and a man could live as rich as a lord until the end of his days. When he'd been younger, Davos had dreamed of making such voyages himself, but the years went dancing by like moths around a flame, and somehow the time had never been quite right. One day, he told himself. One day when the war is done and King Stannis sits the Iron Throne and has no more need of onion knights. I' ll take Devan with me. Steff and Stanny too if they' re old enough. We' ll see these dragons and all the wonders of the world.

"Rumour is Rhaegar had another daughter. One that was whisked away to Dorne and raised by her uncles," one of the men stated.

"Aye," another murmured. "Purple eyes and silver eyes like her father, but a complexion similar to her mother, only lighter. Word is she has dragons as well."

"If that's true, they're a far greater threat. They're already in Westeros."

Of course Davos had heard the rumours. They had risen whilst Stannis' brother was still alive.

Naught was to be done.

Not unless they wished to invite the fury of Dorne upon them.

The only kingdom to have resisted the Conquerors and their dragons.

Though, from what they knew, this daughter had no inclinations for the throne.

She had plenty of opportunities to announce heir intentions to claim the throne.

Especially with how quickly "kings" seemed to be dying.

There were still those loyal to the Targaryens who would support her claim.

Plus, she had the kingdom of Dorne. Loyal to her, as they still sought justice for the murder of her mother and siblings.

If it was true, and she did have dragons, it would make her nearly impossible to defeat.

One could only imagine what would happen if she joined forces with her aunt who was said to have three dragons.

Dragons which had not been seen since the reign of Aegon III, or the "Dragonbane".

Now, there were at least three. Possibly more.

Outside the wind was gusting, making the flames shiver in the oil lamps that lit the yard. It had grown colder since the sun went down, but Davos remembered Eastwatch, and how the wind would come screaming off the Wall at night, knifing through even the warmest cloak to freeze a man's blood right in his veins. White Harbor was a warm bath by comparison. There were other places he might get his ears filled: an inn famous for its lamprey pies, the alehouse where the wool factors and the customs men did their drinking, a mummer's hall where bawdy entertainments could be had for a few pennies. But Davos felt that he had heard enough. I' ve come too late. Old instinct made him reach for his chest, where once he'd kept his fingerbones in a little sack on a leather thong. There was nothing there. He had lost his luck in the fires of the Blackwater, when he'd lost his ship and sons.

What must I do now? He pulled his mantle tighter. Do I climb the hill and present myself at the gates of the New Castle, to make a futile plea?

Return to Sisterton? Make my way back to Marya and my boys? Buy a horse and ride the kingsroad, to tell Stannis that he has no friends in White Harbor, and no hope?

Queen Selyse had feasted Salla and his captains, the night before the fleet had set sail. Cotter Pyke had joined them, and four other high officers of the Night's Watch. Princess Shireen had been allowed to attend as well. As the salmon was being served, Ser Axell Florent had entertained the table with the tale of a Targaryen princeling who kept an ape as a pet. This prince liked to dress the creature in his dead son's clothes and pretend he was a child, Ser Axell claimed, and from time to time he would propose marriages for him. The lords so honored always declined politely, but of course they did decline. "Even dressed in silk and velvet, an ape remains an ape," Ser Axell said. "A wiser prince would have known that you cannot send an ape to do a man's work." The queen's men laughed, and several grinned at Davos.

I am no ape, he'd thought. I am as much a lord as you, and a better man. But the memory still stung.

The Seal Gate had been closed for the night. Davos would not be able to return to the Merry Midwife till dawn. He was here for the night. He gazed up at Old Fishfoot with his broken trident.

I have come through rain and wrack and storm. I will not go back without doing what I came for, no matter how hopeless it may seem.

He might have lost his fingers and his luck, but he was no ape in velvet. He was a King's Hand.

Castle Stair was a street with steps, a broad white stone way that led up from the Wolf's Den by the water to the New Castle on its hill. Marble mermaids lit the way as Davos climbed, bowls of burning whale oil cradled in their arms. When he reached the top, he turned to look behind him. From here he could see down into the harbors. Both of them. Behind the jetty wall, the inner harbor was crowded with war galleys. Davos counted twenty-three. Lord Wyman was a fat man, but not an idle one, it seemed.

The gates of the New Castle had been closed, but a postern opened when he shouted, and a guard emerged to ask his business. Davos showed him the black and gold ribbon that bore the royal seals. "I need to see Lord Manderly at once," he said. "My business is with him, and him alone."