Tywin Lannister POV
The city stank.
Even from this distance, Tywin Lannister could smell it—the unmistakable stench of piss, rot, sweat, and too many men packed together in too small a space. The summer heat only worsened it. King's Landing had always reeked, but after too many years at Casterly Rock, returning to this place felt like lowering himself into a latrine.
He kept his face still, regal and unmoved, but he could hear Ser Gregor Clegane grunt beside him—loud, guttural, like a boar echoing in a deep cavern. The men behind them fell into a stiff silence. Even the horses seemed uneasy when the Mountain grunted.
Tywin did not look at him. He didn't need to. He knew the sound well enough. Gregor had grown more beast than man these past months. Always a brute, but now—wounded, brooding, unpredictable—he was veering closer to a mad dog than hunting hound.
Once, Tywin had valued him. A creature of violence, utterly without hesitation or mercy. Useful. Effective. Fearsome. But now? The linen wraps still bound half his lefthand, and the stories of his screaming fits at night had reached even the Rock.
Tywin had learned of the ambush a full week after it had happened. Clegane had been riding east along the Gold Road, towards Deep Den, to root out some pathetic splinter of rebels—idealistic fools calling themselves a Brotherhood, shouting about bread and justice and dignity for the common folk. As if the world had room for such things.
The attack came in the hills, somewhere between Deep Den and Hollow Hill. Clegane had survived, barely, thanks to the dozen knights riding with him. Three dead. Five wounded. And half a hand burned black as coal.
Tywin had not flinched at the news. Blood and rebellion were old companions, and he had always known how to deal with both. Still, the loss of good men over some backwater idealism grated him.
"They'll have to be made examples," he had said then, and still believed now. "No roots must be allowed to grow. They are the most powerful and the proudest house in the Seven Kingdoms—they cannot be allowed to look weak. Not even for a moment."
The banners of House Lannister flapped proudly behind him, crimson and gold, roaring in the wind. At their head, the Lion himself, unbowed and eternal. He knew what this journey meant. The court would see it as a mere appearance for his grandson's nameday. A gesture. A grandfather honoring blood.
Let them think it.
The truth was deeper. The King was a drunk, the Hand overburdened, and the realm rotting from the inside. His grandson—Joffrey, small as he was—must be shown the weight and pride of House Lannister.
Tywin's true purpose was not celebration. It was presence. To remind the capital who still held the gold, who was the power behind the crown.
He broke from his thoughts as the gates of King's Landing neared. Even now, the guards scrambled in disarray, caught between reverence and panic. He raised a gloved hand.
"Send Ser Addam forward," he ordered, calm but iron.
His captain obeyed without a word. The riders surged ahead, demanding the gates be opened and cleared before the Lord of Casterly Rock reached them.
Tywin waited, always composed. He would not ride into the capital like some errant hedge knight eager for notice. The gates would be secure. The guards would line in place. The people would watch.
And they would remember.
Within the hour, he would be through those gates, and the real work would begin. For now, there was a nameday to endure, courtiers to observe, whispers to record. The boy would get his feast. And in those crowded halls, beneath chandeliers of candlelight and shallow toasts, Tywin Lannister would remind every man in the capital that the lion did not sleep.
He hunted.
And he had returned.
Time Skip---
Three days passed. The feasts had ended, the banners folded away, the entertainments done with. The wine-stained nobles had staggered back to their manses, their bellies full and their memories short. Now, the city returned to its decay, and Tywin to his purpose.
He stepped through the thick oak doors of the Tower of the Hand. The chamber beyond was spartan, clean, and suffused with the midday sun—an uncharacteristically modest seat of power. Jon Arryn sat behind his desk, his pale blue eyes lifting slowly from the parchment as Tywin entered.
"Lord Tywin," the Hand said, rising with the stiffness of age. "It is good to see you in the again."
They clasped hands briefly. Jon's grip was firm, but Tywin noted the tiredness behind the man's eyes, the sallow undertones of sleepless nights and too much ink-stained thought. Overworked, Tywin thought, and under-supported. That was how rot began.
"Lord Arryn," he replied with a nod. "You look older."
Jon managed a weary smile. "And you do not. Perhaps the gods play favorites."
"Perhaps," Tywin said.
There was a pause as the older man gestured toward a chair opposite his desk. Tywin seated himself, refusing the offered wine with a curt shake of his head. He did not come here for pleasantries.
"Allow me first," Jon began, tone measured, "to congratulate you on young Joffrey's nameday."
Tywin said nothing.
The silence lingered just long enough to grow uncomfortable. Jon moved past it.
"I trust your stay has been comfortable?"
"It was sufficient."
"Good. Then let us speak plainly."
What followed was a precise, pointed exchange on the affairs of the realm. Jon explained the grain shortages in the Riverlands, the unrest in the Reach spilling into open brawls, and Dorne's continued silence on court missives. He said nothing of the King's absence, though his expression tightened slightly when Tywin mentioned the crown.
Jon reassured him instead, deflecting concerns with talk of efforts being made, reforms under way, and new appointments soon to be confirmed. But Tywin was no fool. He had his own sources—whispers that told him the King had not attended a council meeting in three moons. Jon knew this too, of course.
They were both men who dealt in truths left unspoken. And so Jon kept talking, carefully laying out the pieces, but never once acknowledging the biggest absence in the realm.
Tywin listened, impassive. He offered neither complaint nor comfort. The problems of the realm were not new. What mattered was the solution—and who had the stomach to see it through.
"The realm needs gold," Jon said finally. "And order. If not from the King, then from those still strong enough to impose it."
Tywin raised a single brow. "Then let it be imposed."
Jon sighed. "I'm trying."
The conversation shifted, inevitably, to the melee.
"I was sorry to hear of Ser Gregor's injury," Jon said, voice carefully diplomatic. "And the Reach lad—Ser Talbert Flowers, was it?—such a shame."
"An accident," Tywin replied flatly. "Those who place themselves in a melee must accept the consequences."
"His neck was crushed."
"Then he was unfit."
Jon said nothing.
Tywin did not care for the boy, nor for the soft sentiments Jon laid before him like offerings. If the Reach wanted to weep over their bastards, let them. What concerned him was the whisper he'd heard just this morning: the North was growing richer.
"You've seen the ledgers," Tywin said. "The trade from the North. Furs, timber, even there new goods like glassware and drinks—they've grown fat under the snows."
Jon nodded slowly. "White Harbor is expanding. Ships come and go at a pace we've not seen in generations."
"And yet trade to the South has slowed. Dramatically."
"Aye."
Jon hesitated, then folded his hands atop the desk. "You're not wrong to notice it. The northern flow down the Neck has thinned to a trickle."
Tywin's stare was sharp. "And yet your ledgers still show the coin flowing."
"It does. Just not through the southern roads." Jon leaned back slightly. "The northern lords, especially Manderly of White Harbor, have turned their sails eastward. Almost exclusively. Their trade with Braavos, Pentos, even Lorath—it's risen steeply these past moons."
Tywin's jaw clenched. "And why is that, I wonder?"
Jon gave a mild shrug, but the meaning behind his words was clear. "His Grace's new tariffs have not helped. The added duties on timber, furs, salted meats and other goods—it made southern trade unprofitable for the North."
Tywin said nothing, but the silence grew colder.
"No wagons come through the Neck anymore," Jon continued. "At least none bearing northern goods. What does arrive is routed to Gulltown or even to Maidenpool, and from there, put to ship."
Tywin tapped one finger against the arm of his chair. A steady, rhythmic beat.
"So they sell to Essos," he murmured. "They bypass the Crown."
"It is legal," Jon replied, though without warmth. "And smart."
"Legal," Tywin echoed, the word curdling in his mouth. "But damaging nonetheless. This shift weakens the unity of the realm."
Jon's expression remained calm, if resigned. "The Crown cannot dictate to the North whom they may trade with, nor bind their goods by geography. It would spark more trouble than it would solve."
Tywin leaned forward. "Then you must make them see reason. Raise duties on Essosi ports, grant waivers to southern tariffs, and incentivize the road trade again. Let them bleed coin if they refuse to move through the Crown's roads."
Jon shook his head faintly. "You speak of leverage the Crown no longer possesses. There is unrest in the Reach, famine in parts of the Riverlands, and Dorne grows quieter by the day. The North trades abroad because it can."
"Then make it costly," Tywin snapped. "Gold moves men. Raise the price of turning away."
There was a silence between them, and then Jon offered a slower nod, though whether it was an agreement or mere acknowledgment, Tywin could not say.
The pause was broken as Jon shifted to another matter. "There is... one thing more."
Tywin said nothing.
"A loan. From House Lannister. Half a million in gold."
Tywin's brows lifted a fraction. "A considerable request."
"The Crown's coffers are strained. Though we still bask in the long summer, the scars of the rebellion against the dragons linger. The lords feel it in their levies, the smallfolk in their purses. If we are to keep the peace and secure harvests, this would buy us time."
After a moment's thought, Tywin gave a single nod. "You'll have your gold. But understand, Jon—debts come with expectations."
"As do titles," Jon said quietly. "And the burdens they carry."
They spoke no further on it, but the balance in the room had shifted.
Scene Change--
Later that evening, Tywin left the Tower of the Hand and made his way to the Queen's chambers. The Lannister guards stepped aside without a word. As he entered, the scent of sweet wine hung in the air, cloying and strong.
The room was lavish—almost ostentatious. But what struck him most was the glassware—all of it Northern-made, goblets, fluted vases, perfume jars,—bearing the stylized hammer-and-flame sigil of a guild he had only recently learned of. It was not lost on him that even here, in the Queen's rooms, the North was encroaching quietly.
Cersei looked up from her seat by the open balcony, her golden hair unbraided, a goblet half-empty in her hand. Her smile faltered the instant she saw who entered.
"Father," she said, rising unsteadily. "To what do I owe—"
"Sit," Tywin commanded, his voice iron. "And listen."
She did, more out of habit than obedience.
"You are a queen, not a common whore drunk at dusk," he said coldly. "You disgrace your station every time you let wine speak louder than your wits."
Her eyes flared, but Tywin raised a hand. "You will not speak. You will hear. The realm is not a stable thing. It requires management, appearances, and loyalty. Your husband is a liability. Your son is too young. And you—"
He gestured to the northern glass on the table. "Even your chambers whisper of other powers rising."
Cersei's jaw tightened.
"You will behave like a queen. You will be seen as a queen. And you will remember whose name made you one."
Cersei's eyes did not lower. They burned with fury, a slow and seething defiance bubbling just beneath her carefully controlled expression. Her nails dug slightly into the armrest as she clenched her fingers.
In her mind, she was the Queen. The mother of the future king. The daughter of Tywin Lannister. How dare he speak to her like a disobedient child? Like some servant to be chastised? She had bled for her position—endured a drunken oaf, sleepless nights, and constant whispers. And yet here stood her father, blind to all that, talking of shame as if she were a stain on his name.
"Is that all, Father?" she asked coldly. "Or have you more commands to bark before you vanish back to your Rock?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Your pride blinds you. And your tongue will make widows if you do not learn to temper it."
She rose then, slowly, the wine sloshing in her cup. "You taught me pride. You raised me on it. And now you fault me for wearing it like armor?"
Tywin moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to look back at her. "Pride without discipline is vanity."
She did not follow. She turned her face back to the balcony, watching the last rays of sunset bleed into the city's haze.
He left without another word, his cloak snapping behind him.
And Cersei drank.
Tywin left the Queen's chambers with his mood blackened further. The capital, the court, even his own blood—it all soured the air he breathed. The city was a cauldron of rot. Behind the perfumes and painted faces, everything festered.
By dawn the next day, his men were ready. He did not bid farewell to the King, nor seek another word with Jon Arryn. He left a note of formal departure and to fix the northern trade issur and soon, nothing more.
He was done with the city, for now.
The realm bled while courtiers drank and whispered. Bandits plagued the Riverlands, the grain roads were under constant threat, and only recently had the worst of the raiding been pushed back. Tywin had learned of a new twist before departing—Walder Frey, dead. but his heir was also dead now, one of the elder sons, was found dead as well under suspicious circumstances. Some bastard now ruled the Twins—Wywen Frey, a name few in the West had even heard until now. It reeked of chaos.
It disgusted him.
The Riverlands needed to be stabilized. Their goods still moved—barely—but it was better than nothing. Especially now that northern ships no longer traveled down the Sunset Sea to Lannisport. No more timber. No more salted meats. No more coin. And not just those—Tywin had heard word of new northern wares filling the halls of nobles and merchantmen alike. Glassware finer than anything south of the Neck, etched and polished with strange precision. Woolen cloaks softer, warmer, dyed in northern greens and dusk-grays, selling better than the famed Myrish silks in parts of the Westerlands. And then there was the whiskey—rich, sharp, —becoming a household name among lesser lords and even some knights of the Rock.
The North was retreating into itself or turning eastward. Either way, it was slipping from the Crown's grip. Tywin needed the Riverlands secured, profitable, and under influence. And if the Twins could not hold their bridges with honor, then they would hold them with fear.
Even his own kin had turned blind. His daughter chose pride and wine over poise. She should have been the realm's iron spine—Robert's counterbalance—but she behaved like a tavern girl pretending at court.
He did not say farewell to her either.
As the gates of King's Landing closed behind him, Tywin Lannister did not look back. His red and gold banners rode west and northward, toward Harrenhal and beyond. The Riverlands waited.
And the lion, tired of snarling behind stone, would roar again where it mattered most.
............…
Harwin Cassel – Northbound
The morning air bit through Harwin's cloak, sharp and clear as only the North could be. He rode out from Winterfell at first light, tasked by Lord Nhilux himself to travel down the Kingsroad and inspect the progress of their newest endeavor—the canal and roadworks being constructed toward the Moat Cailin region. His ultimate destination was Fever, but along the way, he would stop at the site near the newly restored keep gifted to a House Cassel, Harwin's father, elevated after the rebellion in reward for loyalty and service.
With him rode a small escort—six men-at-arms and three engineers. These latter men were not warriors, though they carried short blades at their belts more out of necessity than confidence. They were, as Lord Nhilux called them, "site men," men who oversaw measurements, water levels, earthwork, and stone placement. Lord Nhilux had written to Maester Luwin that no progress could be trusted without independent verification. These three would handle most of the detailed surveying, reports, and coordination with the foremen on site. Harwin was there to represent Winterfell's authority—and to look, listen, and report.
He was glad for the assignment. Winterfell had grown too crowded lately. The sudden flurry of activity, of building and visiting dignitaries, of plans and parchments and porters, had left him feeling more like a house servant than a swordsman. This, at least, was a duty he understood: riding, watching, thinking.
Their first day of travel took them past the lands of House Cerwyn. Harwin noted how the road beneath their horses had changed since he'd last ridden it. The old pitted trail had been widened and smoothed, and though work was still underway, the packed gravel and drainage ditches promised a long-lasting path once complete. Wagons now rolled more easily along its length, and inns and rest posts had begun springing up near key junctions.
"They'll have it done by the turn of the next year" one of the engineers said beside him, nodding in approval. The man's name was Yorrick, a balding fellow with a quiet way and a passion for stone grades.
Harwin glanced around. "Aye. That'll be in time for the convoys. Good planning."
"Not ours," Yorrick replied. "That was Lord Nhilux. He said to stagger the work north to south so the crews could shift forward as supplies cleared."
Of course he did, Harwin thought. Nothing Nhilux did was by chance. The man had a mind like a loom—weaving threads most people hadn't yet seen.
By nightfall they reached a timber hall that served as a waystation. The fires inside were warm, the bread soft, and the stew passable. Harwin shared a table with two guards from Cerwyn, who spoke of bandit troubles diminishing, and of riverfolk traders moving more freely.
"Saw one from Maidenpool last week," a guard said, sipping his ale. "Selling pickled fish and soapstone carvings. Said he'd heard tell of the North's new glass."
Harwin gave a slight smile. "It's not just glass."
The next day they rode through the Barrowlands. Wide, open plains of rolling earth spread before them, dotted by barrows and lonely trees. The Kingsroad dipped and climbed with the land, its edges still under work but steadily improving.
Here, the soil grew dark and thick, and Harwin could see where new drainage ditches were being carved. Earthworks to the east suggested a planned water branch—perhaps a channel from the canal to irrigate nearby fields.
A raven passed overhead, and Harwin's eyes followed it to the horizon. He thought briefly of Maella again, unbidden. Her words, her laugh, how she'd brushed his hand at the so casually. She'd written once since, a short letter that said little—but even that had stirred something inside him.
Duty, he reminded himself.
They camped under stars that night, the men sharing quiet talk around the fire while the engineers hunched over parchment maps and field ledgers. Harwin watched them a while before laying back against his pack, listening to the wind.
The following day, they passed the remnants of an old holdfast, broken and overgrown. A work team was gathered there, reshaping stone and trench. One of the engineers rode ahead to speak with their foreman—a lean, gray-bearded man who offered a nod to Harwin.
"Winterfell sent you, then?"
"Aye," Harwin replied. "We're checking the pace and supplies."
"Pace is fine. Supplies could be better. There's delays from the White Knife—ice is slowing the barges. But we're managing."
Harwin made a note to include that in his return report.
The road improved even more as they neared the edge of the highlands. Here, stones had been set more firmly, and wooden guardrails lined the steepest curves. New mile markers in carved granite bore the sigil of House Stark and a smaller, newer symbol: a stylized eye within a ring.
They would reach Fever by the next day. From there, the canal would be less than a 3-hour's ride.
............…
Time Skip
They arrived in Fever to a scene of half-built docks, muddy workyards, and the roar of water being channeled into temporary gates. Harwin oversaw the meetings with the foremen and watched the engineers pore over timber lists and water tables. It was all as expected—slow in the cold, but steady.
By the third morning, as they packed to return, Yorrick approached Harwin while he was tightening his saddle straps.
"I won't be heading straight back," the man said casually.
Harwin frowned. "No?"
"I'll be going to White Harbor for a few days," Yorrick added. "Need to verify the shipping logs for the next quarter. Especially the deliveries from Gulltown and the glass shipments meant for the southern stretches."
Harwin stared at him. "You're going where?"
"White Harbor," the engineer repeated, entirely unbothered. "It's already cleared. Lord Nhilux gave me leave in writing before we even left Winterfell. It should be in your saddlebag."
Harwin blinked. He rifled through the scrolls in his bag, and sure enough, there it was—a short, precise note in Nhilux's hand, authorizing Yorrick to split off for shipment audit purposes.
He snorted and shook his head. "Of course he did."
Yorrick raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"No," Harwin replied, already smirking. "Just wondering how long Nhilux knew I'd find a reason to go with you."
Yorrick grinned. "It's a long ride north. Easier if there's two of us."
Harwin mounted his horse. "Aye," he said. "And if I recall right, the road to White Harbor goes through the coastlands. Wouldn't want you getting turned around."
They turned eastward, toward the rising sun, the white cliffs distant but visible in the pale morning light.
Harwin didn't say it aloud, but the thought was already forming clearly in his mind.
He would see her again.
............…
Two days later, Harwin was beginning to almost regret agreeing to accompany Yorrick.
They sat in a cramped office above a shipping warehouse in White Harbor, a weak fire flickering in the hearth and the smell of salt and smoked fish clinging to everything. The merchant before them—a lanky man in too-fine silks for this weather—rubbed his forehead in confusion.
"I don't see what the problem is," the merchant mumbled. "I delivered what I had."
"Aye, but what you brought isn't what you were paid to deliver," Harwin said, clearly exasperated. "You were meant to bring black granite from Griffin's Roost and storm-hardened pine fit for castle rafters. Instead, you showed up with cheap softwood and chipped slate roofing tiles."
"Well, someone must've swapped the crates," the merchant said with a shrug. "Accidents happen."
"Accidents don't usually come with a trail of receipts signed in your own hand," Yorrick muttered.
Harwin leaned forward. "You want me to believe you crossed half the realm with no idea what was in your cargo hold?"
The merchant blinked. "I'm a big picture man. I delegate."
"You're a bleeding idiot is what you are," Harwin snapped.
Yorrick gave him a quick sideways look, warning but amused. "Let's just confirm what can be salvaged from this mess. Then we send the rest back."
"At whose expense?" the merchant asked, alarmed.
"Yours," Harwin and Yorrick said in unison.
The man blanched.
As the merchant left in a huff, Yorrick leaned back with a groan. "Stormlanders. Gods help us all."
Harwin shook his head, tapping his fingers on the table. "I should be riding patrols in the snow, not untangling seaweed-brained trade knots."
"You wanted to come," Yorrick said, smirking.
"I wanted to stretch my legs..... maybe see a familiar face," Harwin replied, but the frustration in his voice had already ebbed. He looked out the window, where the masts of ships swayed in the bay.
"You'll get your familiar face soon enough," Yorrick said, already gathering his parchments. "And in the meantime, I suggest we get a drink."
Harwin nodded slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye. But not anywhere that smells like squid."
"Deal."
...........................
Later that afternoon, Harwin stepped out into the chilly air of White Harbor's upper docks, hoping the wind might blow the staleness of ledgers and complaints from his lungs. He didn't get far.
He spotted her near the fishmarket stairs, laughing softly with two of her cousins as they emerged from a clothier's shop. Lady Maella Manderly. Her cloak was a soft blue-gray, embroidered with silver waves, and her hair was braided back in a way that made her look older, surer.
She turned—and saw him.
Her smile widened, and Harwin suddenly felt like a boy with snow down his collar.
"Ser Harwin," she said, stepping closer, her voice as steady and warm as he remembered.
"My lady," he replied with a slight bow. "White Harbor suits you."
"And mud suits you, apparently," she teased, glancing at the dried splash across his boots. "Canal work, I assume?"
"Some. Merchants and their… creative record keeping."
Maella laughed. "My condolences. I'm sure the fishmongers behind you smells better."
Harwin smiled, brushing off the road dust from his sleeve. "The fishmonger at least knows what's in his crates. Not like the merchant who thought chipped slate counted as black granite."
"Stormlander, wasn't he?" Maella asked with mock sympathy. "Always so confident, even when they've packed roofing tiles for a glassworks."
Harwin shook his head. "Confident and clueless—the most dangerous kind."
"The very worst sort," Harwin said. "But I might recover if you're free for supper."
Before she could answer, a voice called out from across the square.
"Ser Harwin Cassel!"
Lord Wyman Manderly was a massive presence even when not speaking, but his voice carried like a herald's trumpet. He was dressed in fur-lined velvets and flanked by two guards, though his expression was all jovial welcome.
"My lord," Harwin said, bowing low.
"I heard rumors you were in my city," Wyman boomed, striding forward. "It would've been most impolite not to say hello. And look, here you are already bothering my second daughter."
Harwin stiffened, unsure whether to smile or squirm.
"Harwin isn't bothering me at all, Father," Maella said sweetly, stepping back just enough to hide her expression from her father.
She looked at him and smirked.
But Lord Wyman caught the motion just as Harwin did. "Mm-hmm," he rumbled, then turned to Harwin. "Walk with me, ser. A moment in private."
Maella offered a polite farewell, though her eyes sparkled.
Inside the Merman's Keep, the halls were warm and tastefully adorned. Wyman led Harwin to a solar lined with books and tapestries. A servant brought mulled wine, and once the door shut, the lord of White Harbor turned serious.
"Sit."
Harwin did.
"You're not a fool, Harwin Cassel," Wyman said. "So I'll ask plainly—what are your intentions toward my second daughter?"
Harwin blinked. "My lord, I—"
Wyman raised a hand. "Don't waste my time with deflections. You've visited twice. She's written you once that I know of. You ride the long way home just to pass through here, and your face just now looked like a lad glimpsing his first love."
Harwin exhaled slowly. "I respect her. I admire her. And I think of her often."
"Good," Wyman said. "Then know this: Maella is my second daughter, and a lady of Manderly blood, and I will not have her made a convenience for a northern knight, no matter how loyal."
Harwin straightened. "I would never."
Wyman leaned back, watching him. "I believe you. But still—if you mean something, mean it. Because she's clever enough to know the difference."
There was a long silence between them, filled only by the crackle of the hearth.
"Now," Wyman said at last, refilling both their cups. "Tell me what Nhilux is building out there. And why I've had four ships request more stone than the ledger allows."
Harwin leaned back slightly, thoughtful. "I can only speak to what I've seen in the manifests, my lord. The stone and timber shipments you're referring to weren't bound for the canal itself, at least not directly. They were directed east—toward the coast near Ramsgate. Just south of Widow's Watch."
Wyman frowned. "That far east? Ships? Why there?"
Harwin shrugged. "I don't know, my lord. I've heard talk. Nothing certain. Some say there's plans to develop that shoreline—to deepen the harbor, build dry docks, storage sheds, cranes. Piers that can take deep-hulled ships. Maybe even a lighthouse. But that's just chatter from foremen and boatmen."
Wyman narrowed his eyes. "Sounds like more than just a fishing village."
"Perhaps a new town," Harwin offered. "Or perhaps... something else. I'm not privy to all of lord Nhilux's aims. Few are."
Wyman grunted thoughtfully but didn't press. Instead, he shifted the conversation with a slower sip of his mulled wine.
"And what of your own lands? The new keep—how fares the progress?"
Harwin smiled faintly. "Coming along well, my lord. The outer wall is complete, and the roof beams were raised just before the snows set in. It's still half a skeleton, but the foundations are firm."
"And the land around it?"
"Cleared and terraced for fields, with timber outposts along the hills. There's a stream being redirected too. Lord Nhilux had one of his men survey the area for waterworks. Once it's done, we'll have irrigation in spring and a defensive channel soon."
Wyman nodded slowly, impressed. "You'll do more than just hold that end of the canal, Harwin. You'll anchor it. And once Mount Catlin is rebuilt, your house will serve as its sworn shield. A place of weight, not just duty."
Harwin met the older lord's gaze. "We won't fail the North."
Wyman smiled, broader this time. "No. I don't believe you will."
They sat in a companionable silence for a short while, sipping their wine as the fire crackled. The mood softened, and Wyman's voice shifted again to something lighter.
"Well then," he said, setting down his cup. "It's decided. You'll dine with us tonight. My family would enjoy the company of a Cassel knight not covered in mud and snow."
Harwin raised his eyebrows. "My lord, I don't wish to intrude. I am here on duty, not as a guest."
"Duty demands supper, too," Wyman said with a chuckle. "And Maella will be in attendance."
Harwin hesitated.
Wyman gave him a knowing look. "You've answered one question already, ser. Don't falter now."
Harwin dipped his head. "Then I would be honored to join you."
"Excellent," Wyman said, rising from his chair. "And do try to arrive before the meat cools. Manderly hospitality loses none of its flavor, but Maella's temper might."
Author Notes-------
the update schedule so far is anywhere from 2-6 days. maybe 2 days if i have time, or later in 6 days if i get busy.
Well not much happened in this chanpter, ORIGINNALY i wanted to show more bandit conflist happening in the riverlands and the three sisters also wannted to hint about things that will happening near the stepstones(the martells are getting mad in the future). and some scehemes by the martell family in the dorne since the canal near catlin is very bad for there trade driven economy but i decided to hold off on that for a little while.
So i showes harwin more. since i really like there house they have always been loyal to the starks generation after generation.