Wylis Manderly stood in the anteroom of the Great Hall, a linen handkerchief clutched in his thick hand. He dabbed at his forehead, his neck, and the collar of his teal velvet doublet.
King's Landing was stifling. It was a wet, oppressive heat that clung to the skin and made every breath feel heavy.
Wylis had arrived at the River Gate yesterday evening, after a long and mostly uneventful voyage down the Narrow Sea. He had spent the night in an upscale inn near the docks, securing his cargo and ensuring his men were rested.
Today, he had dressed in his finest clothes to represent his father, Lord Wyman Manderly, and his liege lord, Eddard Stark.
But the Southern climate cared little for Northern finery. Wylis was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick around the middle, and the heat was actively punishing him for it.
He looked around the anteroom. It was crowded with lesser lords, wealthy merchants, and hedge knights, all waiting for a chance to present their petitions to the new King.
The air smelled of sour wine, heavy perfumes, and unwashed bodies.
Wylis missed the crisp, cold air of White Harbor. He missed the smell of the sea salt freezing on the docks. Most of all, he missed the quiet efficiency that had recently taken hold of the North.
Over the past moon, Lord Stark had transformed Winterfell and the surrounding lands. The rumors of his impossible work ethic were not exaggerated.
Wylis had seen the new glassworks with his own eyes. He had tasted the strange, clear spirits that poured from the copper stills. The North was waking up, stretching its limbs, and preparing for the winter with a focused intensity.
Wylis was here to prove that progress to the South.
"Ser Wylis of House Manderly," a herald called out. The voice cut through the murmur of the waiting crowd.
Wylis straightened his posture. He tucked the damp handkerchief into his sleeve. He signaled to the four stout guards from White Harbor who accompanied him. They fell into step behind him, their silver tridents gleaming on their chest plates.
Two massive oaken doors, banded with bronze, were pushed open by guards wearing the golden cloaks of the City Watch.
Wylis stepped through the doorway and into the Throne Room.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was vast. High windows let in shafts of sunlight that illuminated the dust dancing in the air. The dragon skulls that had once lined the walls were gone, replaced by heavy tapestries depicting hunting scenes and the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
At the far end of the hall stood the Iron Throne.
It was a jagged, asymmetrical hazard of melted swords and sharp edges. It looked uncomfortable, dangerous, and completely uninviting.
Sitting upon it was King Robert Baratheon.
Robert did not appear a man who had recently won a kingdom. He looked miserable. He wore a tunic of heavy black cloth embroidered with gold thread, and the crown of Aegon the Conqueror rested somewhat crookedly on his dark hair.
He was shifting his weight constantly, trying to find a comfortable position on the twisted steel blades, and failing. He rubbed his temples, a clear sign of a headache, likely the result of a long night of drinking.
Beside the throne, standing on the dais, was the Queen. Cersei Lannister wore a gown of crimson silk, her golden hair woven into intricate braids. She stood perfectly still, her face drawn in bored superiority. She looked down at the petitioners with cool, detached disdain.
Below the dais, Jon Arryn stood behind a small table. The Hand of the King looked exhausted, holding a stack of parchments and gesturing for the scribes to record the decrees.
A few other lords of the small council and favored courtiers stood along the walls, whispering to each other, playing the endless game of observation and advantage.
Wylis walked the length of the hall. His boots echoed loudly on the polished stone. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring the stares of the Southern lords who judged his size and his Northern attire.
He reached the base of the Iron Throne.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the bottom of the steps. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wore his white enameled armor and a pristine white cloak. He looked sharp, alert, and wholly dedicated to his duty, a stark contrast to the King he guarded.
Wylis lowered himself to the stone floor. It was a slow process, given his bulk, but he executed it with practiced dignity. He knelt, bowing his head.
"Ser Wylis of House Manderly, Your Grace," Jon Arryn announced from his table, reading from a list. "He speaks for White Harbor."
Robert sighed loudly. The sound echoed through the hall. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at Wylis.
"Stand up, man," Robert commanded. His voice was deep, gravelly, and laced with irritation. "I hate it when people grovel on the floor. It takes up too much time. Stand up."
Wylis pushed himself upright, brushing the dust from his knees. He looked up at the King.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Wylis said respectfully.
"White Harbor," Robert grumbled, rubbing his bearded jaw. "What do you want, Ser Wylis? Taxes reduced? A dispute over fishing rights? Make it quick. My head pounds relentlessly today, and this chair is actively trying to stab my back."
Cersei Lannister shifted slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line of disapproval at her husband's lack of royal decorum.
"I have no petitions for myself or my city, Your Grace," Wylis said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet hall. "I am here on an errand."
"An errand?" Robert asked, raising a thick black eyebrow. "For whom?"
"For my liege lord, Your Grace," Wylis said. "I bring a letter and a gift from Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell."
The change in the room was immediate and absolute.
Robert Baratheon sat up straight. The boredom vanished from his eyes. The irritation smoothed away from his face. He actually smiled. It was a wide, genuine expression that transformed his rugged features.
"Ned?" Robert asked, his voice suddenly full of energy. "You bring words from Ned?"
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers. The King's fondness for the Lord of Winterfell was well known. Eddard Stark had marched south, won the war, and then vanished back into the snows, refusing any position in the capital. He was a figure of mystery to the Southern lords, a shadow who held the King's absolute trust.
Cersei's expression darkened considerably. Her jaw clenched. She despised the mention of the Northern lord.
Eddard Stark was a ghost that haunted her marriage, a standard of brotherhood that Robert constantly held above her family.
"I do, Your Grace," Wylis confirmed.
"Well, give it here!" Robert said eagerly, gesturing with his hand. "Don't just stand there making me wait!"
Wylis reached inside his velvet doublet. He withdrew a heavy parchment scroll, sealed with a thick dollop of red wax pressed with the sigil of the direwolf.
He stepped forward and handed the letter to Ser Barristan Selmy.
Barristan took the scroll. He inspected the seal briefly to ensure it was intact, then turned and walked up the steps of the Iron Throne. He offered the letter to the King.
Robert snatched it from the Kingsguard's hand. He broke the wax seal with his thumb, unraveling the parchment.
The court fell silent, watching the King intently.
Robert held the parchment up to catch the light from the high windows. He cleared his throat and began to read silently.
Wylis watched him carefully. Lord Stark had instructed him to deliver the letter directly to the King and to observe his reaction.
Robert's eyes scanned the first few lines.
To His Grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.
Robert's lips moved slightly as he read the formal titles. He rolled his eyes at the greeting.
Then, his eyes hit the next sentence.
If you think that is how I will greet you in private, then you can kindly kiss my ass.
Robert froze. His eyes widened. A sudden, sharp snort escaped his nose, echoing loudly in the quiet hall. He supressd his smile, his shoulders shaking.
Cersei looked at him sharply. "Your Grace?" she asked, her voice dripping with ice. "Is something amiss?"
Robert ignored her. He continued reading.
I hope you are keeping the Iron Throne warm with your massive backside, though I imagine the only thing you have conquered lately is a roasted boar and a few casks of wine. I hear the small council meetings are tedious; try not to sleep through them all.
A loud, booming chuckle erupted from Robert's chest. His face turning red with suppressed amusement.
Jon Arryn stepped closer to the dais, looking concerned. "Robert? What does Ned say? Is there trouble in the North?"
Robert held up a hand, silencing his Hand. He kept reading, his eyes moving rapidly down the parchment.
Jokes apart, I hope you are doing well, Robert. I brewed a new drink in the North. I hope you will enjoy it. Mix it with a few fruit juices or sweet wine, or drink it directly if you feel brave. Be warned, it burns the throat. Try not to set your beard on fire.
Drink until you lose consciousness, Robert. It might make dealing with the Southern lords tolerable.
Robert could not hold it in any longer.
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a massive, unrestrained sound that bounced off the stone walls and the high vaulted ceiling. He slapped his knee, the parchment shaking in his hand. He laughed until tears pricked the corners of his eyes, the sound filling the room with genuine, unadulterated joy.
The court stared in utter confusion. The minor lords exchanged bewildered glances. The scribes stopped writing.
Cersei Lannister looked mortified. She stood rigid, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her face drawn in humiliated fury. A King did not cackle so crudely on the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace!" Cersei hissed, stepping closer to him. "You are making a spectacle of yourself."
Robert waved her off, still laughing hard. He wiped a tear from his eye and looked down at Jon Arryn.
"Jon," Robert wheezed, catching his breath. "The man is a menace. He sits in his freezing castle and writes to me with the same insolence he had when we were boys."
Jon Arryn smiled faintly. He knew the bond between the two men better than anyone. "It is good to hear Lord Stark retains his spirit, Your Grace."
"His spirit!" Robert boomed, looking down at Wylis Manderly. "He says he brewed a new drink! He tells me to drink until I lose consciousness! That is a command I can happily obey!"
Robert leaned forward, his headache apparently forgotten.
"Ser Wylis!" Robert shouted. "Where is this drink? He says he sent a gift. Bring it here immediately!"
Wylis bowed. He turned to the heavy doors of the throne room.
"Bring in the crates!" Wylis commanded his guards.
The four Manderly guards stepped outside the doors for a moment. They returned carrying two heavy wooden crates between them. They walked down the long aisle of the Great Hall and set the crates gently on the stone floor at the base of the dais.
Wylis walked over to the first crate. He took a small iron pry bar from his belt and wedged it under the wooden lid. With a sharp wrench, he popped the lid open.
Inside, packed securely in fragrant pine sawdust, were rows of square bottles.
Wylis reached in and pulled one out.
He held it up by the neck.
A collective gasp swept through the court. The lords closest to the dais leaned forward, straining their necks to get a better look. Even Cersei Lannister broke her mask of indifference, her green eyes widening in surprise.
It was the bottle itself that shocked them.
In the South, glass was a luxury. Windows were made of cloudy, thick material, often yellow or green. Clear glass was incredibly rare, imported at massive expense from the Free City of Myr. When it was used for containers, the bottles were small, delicate things meant for expensive perfumes or rare poisons.
The bottle Wylis Manderly held was massive. It was thick, heavy, and perfectly square.
But more importantly, it was completely, flawlessly clear.
The sunlight streaming through the high windows caught the bottle, passing straight through it without distortion. The liquid inside was entirely transparent, appearing perfectly clear, resembling fresh water.
Jon Arryn walked out from behind his position and approached Wylis. He stared at the bottle.
"By the Seven," Jon murmured. "That glass... it is completely clear. And so thick. How much did Lord Stark pay the Myrish guilds for this?"
Wylis puffed out his chest. He felt a surge of intense Northern pride. Lord Stark had explicitly told him not to explain the manufacturing process, only to state its origin.
"He paid nothing to the Myrish guilds, Lord Arryn," Wylis said loudly, ensuring the entire court heard him. "This glass was made in Winterfell. From Northern sand and Northern fire."
The whispering in the hall intensified into a loud buzz.
Winterfell? The savages in the snow are making clear glass? Impossible.
Cersei Lannister stared at the bottle, her mind racing. Clear glass production required massive infrastructure and skilled artisans. If the North was producing this, it meant they had wealth and technology the South was entirely unaware of.
Robert did not care about the glass. He cared about what was inside it.
"Give it here!" Robert demanded, waving his hand impatiently. "Stop staring at the bottle, Jon, and give me the drink!"
Wylis stepped forward and handed the heavy square bottle to Ser Barristan.
Barristan took it carefully. He noted the weight of the thick glass and the tight wax seal over the cork. He walked up the steps and presented it to the King.
The Fire in the Water
Robert grabbed the bottle. He looked at the clear liquid sloshing inside.
"He says it burns," Robert muttered, a challenging grin on his face.
He drew a hunting dagger from his belt and sliced through the wax seal. He popped the cork out with his thumb.
Robert brought the neck of the bottle to his nose and took a deep sniff.
He jerked his head back slightly, his eyes watering.
"Gods," Robert rasped. "It possesses the sharp, clean scent of an alchemist's workroom."
"Lord Stark advised mixing it with fruit juice, Your Grace," Wylis offered politely from the floor. "Or sweet wine. It is very potent."
"Mix it?" Robert scoffed loudly. "Ned Stark does not know how to drink. You take a gift from a friend straight."
Robert raised the heavy glass bottle to his lips.
"Your Grace, wait!" Cersei Lannister stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the anticipation in the hall. "You cannot simply drink an unknown substance sent from hundreds of miles away. Let your food taster try it first. For all we know, it is poison."
Robert lowered the bottle slightly, turning to glare at his Queen. "Poison? From Ned Stark? You have lost your wits, woman. Ned would sooner cut off his own hand than poison my cup."
"It is basic caution, Robert," Cersei insisted, her green eyes flashing. "Do not be a fool."
"The only fool here is the one questioning my brother's honor," Robert snapped.
He turned his back on her dismissively, tilting his head back and taking a large, confident swallow from the bottle.
Cersei's face flushed with furious heat. She stared at Robert's broad back, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. He had humiliated her before the entire court, choosing his trust in a Northern lord over the counsel of his own Queen.
She looked at the heavy, square bottle in his hand. It was a crude, brutal shape, yet the glass was flawless. It was a direct insult to Southern refinement, a silent declaration that the North possessed wealth and skill she could not comprehend.
The Throne Room watched in complete silence.
Robert swallowed. He lowered the bottle.
For two seconds, he sat perfectly still.
Then, his face turned a deep, vibrant shade of purple. His eyes bulged.
"HURK—KHHH!"
Robert choked violently. He leaned forward, slapping a hand against his massive chest. He coughed, a harsh, wet sound that echoed in the hall. He pounded his breastplate, wheezing for air, his eyes watering profusely.
"Your Grace!" Barristan Selmy stepped forward, reaching out in concern.
"Poison!" one of the minor lords in the back shouted in panic. "The Northman brought poison!"
The Manderly guards immediately gripped the shafts of their tridents, stepping closer to Wylis, ready to defend their lord. The tension in the room spiked instantly.
"Hold!" Jon Arryn shouted, raising his hands.
Robert held up a hand, silencing the hall. He kept coughing, wiping his watering eyes with the back of his sleeve. He took a deep, shuddering breath.
He sat back against the twisted swords of the Iron Throne.
He closed his eyes.
A heavy silence descended again. Everyone watched the King.
Slowly, the purple hue faded from Robert's face, replaced by a healthy, robust flush. He placed a hand over his stomach. He could feel it. The intense, fiery burn traveling down his throat had settled in his gut, radiating an immediate, powerful warmth throughout his entire body. It chased away the dull ache of his hangover and sent a surge of energy through his veins.
Robert opened his eyes. He looked at the clear bottle in his hand.
Then, he looked down at Wylis Manderly.
A massive, booming laugh erupted from Robert's chest. It was louder and more joyous than his reaction to the letter.
"By the gods old and new!" Robert roared, his voice shaking the rafters. "He spoke the truth! It burns going down and strikes with tremendous force!"
He looked at Jon Arryn, his face beaming.
"Jon, you have to try this. It clears the mind instantly! I feel ready to run a mile in full plate!"
Jon Arryn smiled, relieved that the King was not dying. "Perhaps later, Your Grace. I have a long day of decrees ahead of me."
At the edge of the dais, Grand Maester Pycelle stared at the square bottle in the King's hand. His wrinkled hands trembled slightly, rattling his chain of office. Clear glass of that thickness required furnaces burning hotter than any known guild in Westeros possessed, and the liquid itself... to produce a distillate of such purity without poisoning the drinker was advanced alchemy. It surpassed the masters of Myr and Lys. The North was not supposed to have this knowledge.
A few paces away, Varys the Spider stood with his hands tucked into his wide sleeves. He did not look at the bottle; he looked at Wylis Manderly, and then at the political map of the realm in his mind.
Eddard Stark was not simply brooding in the snow. He was building an industry. An industry that generated wealth. And wealth shifted the balance of power away from Casterly Rock and Highgarden. Varys offered a soft, powdered smile. The game had a new player.
Robert turned his attention back to Wylis. The King looked absolutely delighted.
"Ser Wylis!" Robert shouted. "This is magnificent! Tell Ned he is a mad genius. This is the strongest spirit I have ever tasted. It makes Arbor Gold taste utterly dull!"
Wylis bowed deeply, a surge of relief washing over him. The mission was a success.
"I will relay your praise to Lord Stark, Your Grace," Wylis said.
"You will do no such thing," Robert declared.
Wylis froze, confused.
"You will stay right here in King's Landing," Robert commanded, pointing a finger at him. "You are not leaving today. You are going to stay in the Red Keep. I am going to write a letter to Ned myself. A proper letter, telling him exactly what I think of his 'greeting'."
Robert leaned forward, resting his heavy arms on his knees, holding the bottle of vodka securely.
"You and your men will be given the best guest chambers in the castle," Robert announced to the hall. "You will eat from my table. You will drink my wine. You will enjoy the hospitality of the capital until my letter is ready."
He looked at Jon Arryn. "Jon, see to it. Give them the river-view rooms."
"It will be done, Your Grace," Jon Arryn nodded.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Wylis said, bowing low again. "I am honored by your hospitality."
"No, I am honored by the gift," Robert corrected, taking another, much smaller sip from the bottle. He winced slightly at the burn, but smacked his lips in satisfaction. "Clear glass and liquid fire. The North is full of surprises these days."
He looked around the court. The lords were still staring at the crates.
"Council dismissed!" Robert shouted abruptly, waving his free hand. "Petitions are over for the day. The King has received a gift, and the King intends to enjoy it. Get out, all of you!"
The court scrambled to obey. No one argued when Robert Baratheon dismissed them. The minor lords bowed quickly and hurried toward the heavy oak doors.
As the hall erupted into movement, Cersei stepped back into the shadows near the pillars. She caught the eye of a Lannister guardsman wearing a crimson cloak.
She beckoned him close. "The Manderly guards," Cersei whispered, her voice a quiet, sharp tone. "When they are settled in their quarters, find them. Ply them with Arbor wine and gold. I want to know exactly how that glass is forged and what goes into that liquid. Find out, or do not return to my service."
The guardsman bowed stiffly and slipped away into the crowd.
Jon Arryn approached Wylis as the hall emptied.
"Ser Wylis," the Hand of the King said politely. "If you will follow me, I will have the stewards prepare your quarters. And we will have these crates moved to the King's private solar."
"Lead the way, Lord Arryn," Wylis said.
As they walked toward the side doors, Wylis looked back at the Iron Throne.
King Robert Baratheon sat alone on the monstrous chair. He was no longer fidgeting. He was slouched comfortably against the swords, the heavy square bottle resting on his knee. He was looking at the clear glass, a contented smile on his face, lost in thoughts of the North and the brother he missed.
Wylis smiled to himself. Lord Stark had known exactly what he was doing.
The Northern spirit had officially conquered the South.