The sea was calmer than expected, but the chill in the air deepened with every nautical mile. It was late autumn, and the wind that cut through the rigging of the ships carried the first breath of winter. Paxter, wrapped in a heavy cloak of sable-trimmed wool, leaned over the railing as the tall white towers of White Harbor came into view.
The city emerged like a dream carved in ice. It sat nestled against the silver-blue waves, its high walls and rounded towers coated with frost, glinting faintly in the pale northern sunlight. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys, curling upward into a sky of white-tinged gray. But even before they reached the docks, Paxter saw something else—something far more jarring.
Refugees.
Hundreds—perhaps thousands—crowded the outer piers, their presence a living tide of desperation. Thin women clutching babes, wide-eyed children wrapped in patched furs, old men with blank stares and no shoes. Fires crackled in iron braziers. The air reeked of smoke, sea salt, damp wool, and unwashed bodies.
As the Arbor's Pride glided into the harbor, Paxter's breath hitched. The docks were flooded with desperate eyes. The gangplanks hadn't even been lowered when women began calling out, waving their arms, some crying, others kneeling on the dock.
"Please! Please take him!"
"She's only five—please!"
"Don't leave us here to die!"
A woman tried to toss her child to a sailor. The man barely caught the shivering bundle before the mother collapsed to her knees. A line of guardsmen in Manderly green moved to contain the chaos, but even their halberds could not keep the fear at bay.
Paxter gripped the railing harder than he realized. Grey Worm appeared beside him, silent and composed, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. Even the Unsullied, trained to ignore pain and fear, had begun to shift uncomfortably as they prepared to disembark.
"It's worse than we thought," Paxter muttered.
A sharp gust of wind slapped across the deck. It carried the unmistakable bite of northern winter. He pulled his cloak tighter as the first flakes of snow began to fall, light and scattered but enough to paint the air with dread.
Around him, the sailors fidgeted. They wore thick fur coats, but their southern blood rebelled against the cold. The ship's captain—his face hard and proud—rubbed his hands together and spat onto the deck. Another sailor spat curses at the weather. Paxter understood they hated this place as much as he. Yet, his orders were clear. He had to build and maintain a supply depot.
Ships from the Reach and Dorne would arrive to unload supplies, and it was his responsibility to ensure those supplies reached Winterfell regardless of the frigid temperatures.
Debarking from the ship, he walked onto the dock. White Harbor itself was a fortress of icy beauty. Its walls were thick and pale, carved from the limestone cliffs. The Wolf's Den stood watch like an ancient guardian, half-shrouded in frost, its towers capped with snow. The Manderly banner—a white merman on sea-green—fluttered limply in the wind.
The inner city was still alive. Market stalls had been converted into makeshift relief centers. Wagons loaded with firewood moved down the main thoroughfares. Soldiers in Stark and Manderly colors tried to keep order, but even they looked worn from the endless wave of the displaced.
As the sailors disembarked, crates of weapons, food, fodder, and armor were offloaded with military precision.
Still, the begging never stopped.
One child clung to Paxter's leg as he walked the dock.
"Please m'lord, I'm strong. I can work."
Paxter paused. The child couldn't have been more than seven. Filthy, barefoot, eyes too old for his face. A woman—his mother, maybe—stood nearby, watching with hollow eyes.
Paxter gently removed the boy's hands. "Stay close to the Manderlys," he said, knowing the words were a weak balm. "They'll protect you."
He walked on, jaw clenched, toward the city lord's castle.
Behind him on the docks, his men warmed their fingers by a brazier. He could feel their eyes on his back, silently accusing him of indifference. Paxter knew there was little he could do to ease the weight of their judgment or his own guilt.
Passing through the gates, Paxter was greeted by the sound of horses and wagons, the sharp cries of merchants hawking overpriced food, and soldiers barking orders. He noticed a group of carpenters rapidly erecting additional shelters, their hammers echoing like heartbeats in the freezing air.
The cobblestone streets were icy, treacherous underfoot. Paxter moved carefully, mindful of his footing. Servants bustled past, wrapped tightly in heavy furs, carrying steaming cauldrons of broth toward lines of shivering refugees.
As Paxter entered the courtyard of New Castle, he noticed Lord Wyman Manderly himself, his bulk wrapped in rich sea-green velvet edged with fur. Manderly's tired eyes brightened as Paxter approached.
"Welcome, Lord Redwyne," the portly lord said gravely. "I wish it were under better circumstances."
"So do I, Lord Manderly," Paxter replied quietly, clasping the man's hand firmly. "Winter has finally come for all of us."