Snow fell in slow, heavy flakes across White Harbor's stone walls. From atop the eastern parapet, Paxter Redwyne watched the last of the supply caravans fade into the haze. Dozens of wagons, loaded with crates of grain, firewood, dragon glass weapons, and salted meat, trudged northward under the escort of northmen outriders.
He had spent weeks outfitting a supply depot, organizing supplies, and establishing supply routes to Winterfell despite the raging blizzard. Now, all the supplies he gained from King's Landing and Dragonstone were gone. Except for the scant rations to feed his crew.
The starving refugees in White Harbor were an unstable mob. If not for Paxter sharing food stock with Lord Manderly, the crowd outside would have been more unruly.
The majority of Lord Manderly's army was stationed in Winterfell. Only young, training squires and hired youths from the refugees stood guard. Paxter knew these guards couldn't yet hold their own in a fight. If the refugees decided to overrun the supply depot, he'd be injured or killed, yet he remained, as he was honorbound. Running away now would only harm the credibility he built.
Thankfully, the supply depot sat empty. And with it, Paxter achieved his mission.
"Hopefully, it arrives before the war," Paxter murmured a prayer.
Lord Wyman Manderly stood beside him, his breath fogging the air. "They will," the old man replied. "The gods owe us this much. But even if it doesn't arrive, food has never come by easily for the Northerners. These folks know that, too. Trust me, they're thankful for every scrap. You've done good work, Lord Redwyne."
Paxter nodded, though the weight of it sat poorly in his chest.
"My lord!" A sailor ran up and bowed respectfully to Paxter. "Ships bearing the flags of Reach and Dorne were spotted in the distance. They'll arrive shortly."
"Seven blessings, it seems the gods do answer prayers," Paxter said to Lord Manderly.
Paxter and Lord Manderly walked to the harbor, their boots crunching over frostbitten stone. Behind them, crowds of refugees followed like a tide barely held at bay—silent, shivering, and watchful. One child clutched a bundle of twigs as if it were treasure, while a woman whispered prayers in the tongue of the Summer Isles. A ragged boy offered to carry Paxter's satchel, though he was shooed away by a Manderly guard. Paxter felt their eyes on him—not with hatred, but with expectation. Hope was a dangerous thing, fragile as glass in winter, and the burden of holding it up weighed heavy on his shoulders.
Children clung to mothers, elders leaned on makeshift crutches, and gaunt-eyed men trudged along, hoping to witness something that resembled salvation. Paxter could feel their eyes on him, filled with desperate hope. Hope they won't die of hunger or cold.
When Paxter arrived at the dock, his breath caught in his throat. He had expected five—perhaps ten—supply ships if fortune had been kind. But what met his eyes was an overwhelming sight: an armada stretching across the inlet, sails unfurled like a great bloom of banners.
Over a hundred ships crowded the icy waters, their prows carved in the shapes of lions, grapes, and sunbursts. The Lords of the Reach and Dorne had come not just with supplies, but with fire and steel, ready to risk their lives to fight the dead. The inlet thundered with boots and shouted orders as soldiers disembarked in orderly columns, their house sigils flashing beneath the pale winter sun.
Next to Paxter, Lord Manderly's mouth hung open, awestruck by the scale of the arrival. He muttered under his breath, "The gods have not abandoned us yet." Paxter glanced sideways at the old lord and said quietly, "Let's pray they don't change their minds tomorrow." It was not just a relief force—it was a declaration. Westeros had answered the call.
Columns of soldiers streamed from the ships, their movements sharp and disciplined despite the snow underfoot. Formations snapped into place as each house's men landed—Sun Spears from Dorne, Goldwine archers from the Reach, and bannermen of various minor lords long loyal to House Tyrell.
Their numbers were staggering—enough to defend White Harbor not once, but four times over. The docks pulsed with life, iron boots clanging against wooden planks as commanders barked orders and banners unfurled in the wind. Paxter and Lord Manderly moved among them, clasping forearms, offering warm words and solemn thanks. Each handshake, each nod, was a vow renewed in the face of the dead. The unity of Westeros was not just spoken—it had arrived.
It wasn't lost on Paxter why they had come. Prince Martell had been frank during their correspondence—Daenerys had her father's fire, in both will and wrath. The lords of Dorne and the Reach weren't just sending aid out of fealty; they were sending it as a gesture of insurance, an olive branch veiled in steel.
Prince Martell had promised to write to the Queen personally, assuring her of their loyalty and intentions. In truth, it was a move as much about politics as it was about survival. Paxter understood that. But loyalty, even when born of caution, was still loyalty—and Westeros would need every ounce of it.
The refugees cheered as the soldiers marched into the city and took their positions on the walls, their boots thudding against the stone with measured strength. The crowd's applause grew louder when wagons of food and blankets rolled into view. An old man wept openly at the sight of fresh loaves. A mother covered her child's eyes and whispered, "We're going to be alright now." For the first time in weeks, Paxter allowed himself a flicker of pride—quick, guarded, but real.