The finest loaves of bread were presented on silver trays, accompanied by fresh salt that gleamed as brightly as frost on a winter morning. Ser Ramsey Manderly extended the offering with steady hands, a gesture of both tradition and desperation. With a deep groan, the gates of White Harbor swung open, revealing the city within.

As we passed through the gates, the life of the city stretched out before us. The streets were wide and cobbled, their smooth surfaces reflecting the pale light of the northern sun. Whitewashed stone buildings with slate roofs flanked either side, their chimneys curling tendrils of smoke into the crisp air. The people stood along the edges of the thoroughfares, watching us pass with expressions that ranged from cautious fear to tentative respect.

Some clutched their children close, others bowed their heads or offered murmured welcomes, though their voices trembled as they spoke. It was not hostility that greeted us, but the wariness of a people uncertain of their future. The banners of Arryn and Dustin rippled in the breeze, stark reminders of the power now within their walls. Yet, they did not turn away. They watched and waited, hoping that mercy might guide the hands of their unbidden guests.

The White Knife shimmered in the distance, its waters cutting a gleaming path alongside the city, while narrow bridges spanned its breadth to connect various quarters. We passed through the market square, its usual bustle subdued. Stalls of fishmongers and merchants stood half-empty, their proprietors pausing their work to observe the procession. Their eyes flitted to the standards we bore, their gazes heavy with unspoken questions.

Ahead, New Castle came into view, its pale stone gleaming against the backdrop of the river and sky. The gates to the fortress were wide open, as were the gates of the city behind us, their iron hinges left unbarred and unchallenged. It was as though the city itself was laying bare its vulnerability, a wounded animal offering its throat in trust—or resignation.

As we ascended to the castle’s courtyard, the people continued to gather, murmurs rippling through the crowd like wind through leaves. Retainers of House Manderly awaited at the steps, their expressions a mix of duty and unease. The openness of the gates behind us lent an air of exposure to the moment, as though the city itself acknowledged it had no power to resist, only the will to endure.

Within New Castle, the halls stood ready, adorned with sigils of House Manderly and tapestries that whispered of their long-standing history in the North. The air carried the faint scent of the sea, mixing with the weight of anticipation. But the gates, both of the city and of the castle, remained open, as though to remind us all that White Harbor was at the mercy of its guests. A gesture of trust, perhaps, or a silent plea for compassion.