Chapter 13 - New Trade Deal

The grand solar of Lord Wyman Manderly was well-lit by the glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. It was a chamber built for governance, lined with aged tomes, and adorned with finely woven tapestries of White Harbor's proud history. Seated at the long oaken table, Robb exhaled slowly, steadying himself for what was to come. Across from him, Lord Manderly sat, his large frame nearly dwarfing the chair beneath him, while Jon Snow and Lyanna Mormont remained nearby, watchful as ever. To reward his own success, Theon had departed in search of a good tavern and the pleasurable companionship it would provide.

Robb turned to the Lord of White Harbor and spoke with measured confidence. "I want you to take the lead in these negotiations, my lord. I won't pretend to be a merchant, not when we're dealing with a man whose entire life has been spent in trade. You know the value of our ice, and more importantly, you know how to deal with men like him."

Lord Manderly stroked his thick white beard, considering Robb's words before offering a small nod of approval. "A wise decision, young Stark. There is no shame in knowing where your strengths lie, and more importantly, where they do not."

Jon regarded Robb with quiet respect, recognizing the humility in his choice. "You're learning," he remarked, his voice low but approving. "A lord should know when to lead and when to rely on those he trusts."

Lyanna, standing just beside Robb, gave him a small, knowing smile, one that sent warmth creeping through him despite the gravity of the moment. "You think before you act, Robb. Most men let pride drive them to disaster, but you have the sense to trust those who know better. That's why people follow you—because you're not just strong, you're wise."

Her words, simple yet sincere, struck something deep within him. He looked at her, really looked at her, and found comfort in the unspoken understanding they shared. It was in moments like these that he realized just how much he had come to depend on her presence. She was no mere ally—she was something more, though neither of them dared say it aloud.

Before the conversation could continue, a knock sounded at the door, drawing their attention. A steward stepped in, bowing slightly before announcing, "The Braavosi merchant has arrived, my lords."

"Send him in," Lord Manderly commanded.

Moments later, the door swung open, and a tall, impeccably dressed man stepped into the solar. His dark robes were lined with gold embroidery, his deep purple sash marked with the sigil of the Sealord's personal trading consortium. He moved with practiced elegance, his eyes sharp and discerning as they swept over the gathered company.

"I am Tycho Vhassaros," the merchant introduced himself, his voice rich and smooth like aged wine. "It is a pleasure to finally meet the young Lord Stark whose venture has caught the attention of Braavos."

Robb inclined his head, remaining composed. "The pleasure is ours, Master Vhassaros. I trust your journey was pleasant."

The merchant smiled thinly, taking the seat offered to him. "As pleasant as any voyage can be. But I must say, I am intrigued by what I have heard of your enterprise. Northern ice—pure, untouched by the filth of city streets, lasting longer than any we have seen before—it is truly remarkable. The men in Braavos are already speaking of it in hushed whispers, calling it 'the white gold of the North.'"

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Robb. "I must commend you, Lord Stark. Few men of your station have the foresight to see the true value of such a product. This could change the very nature of trade between the North and the Free Cities. I have been looking forward to discuss a trade deal with you."

Robb, to his credit, did not let the flattery sway him. He merely nodded and spoke evenly. "It is a promising venture, but I am not a merchant, Master Vhassaros. Lord Manderly will take the lead in these negotiations. He has the experience needed to ensure that both of us reach a fair and profitable agreement."

The Braavosi merchant blinked, clearly taken aback for a moment, before a slow smile curled his lips. "A rare quality indeed, for a young lord to know his limits. I believe this will be an interesting discussion after all."

With that, the discussions began. Lord Manderly took the reins as promised, his voice a deep and steady rhythm as he laid out the strengths of their ice trade. He spoke of supply reliability, insulation techniques, and the efficiency of White Harbor's shipping routes. Vhassaros listened intently, nodding occasionally, his fingers steepled in contemplation.

The terms were debated with careful precision. Their was a lot of back and forth. The Braavosi merchant was shrewd, as expected, countering with concerns about the long-term viability of such a trade. But Lord Manderly was equally formidable, countering with the undeniable luxury that Northern ice provided. As they spoke, Robb listened intently, learning from the way each point was pressed and defended.

Lyanna leaned in slightly, her voice low but teasing. "I can see the gears turning in your head, Stark. Planning to become a merchant yourself?"

Robb smirked, keeping his eyes on the negotiations. "If this is what it takes to build something lasting for the North, I'll learn what I must."

After an hour of negotiations, the deal was struck. Vhassaros would place an initial order for a much larger shipment of ice—15,000 blocks, to be distributed across Braavos, Pentos, and Lys. This was fifteen times the volume of their trial run, and the estimated revenue was staggering. With an average selling price of 20 silver stags per block, the shipment would yield around 300,000 silver stags, or 6,000 gold dragons.

Robb did quick calculations in his mind. Factoring in the cost of labor, storage, and transport—which he estimated to be around 6-9 silver stags per block, or 1,800 to 2,700 gold dragons in total—this meant a profit margin between 3,300 and 4,200 gold dragons. More than enough to fund additional shipments, improve storage facilities, and expand the fleet if necessary.

The delivery would be sent in three parts, with 5,000 blocks per shipment. Both parties engaged in further negotiations, going back and forth on the specifics of payment. In the end, the final agreement was that Vhassaros would pay 2,000 gold dragons up front, while the remaining payment would be divided into three equal installments, to be returned with each successive shipment.

Vhassaros leaned back, satisfied. "It seems we have an accord, Lord Manderly. Lord Stark, I look forward to seeing just how far this trade can take you. May this be the beginning of a prosperous and lasting partnership between us."

As the meeting ended and the merchant departed, Robb felt the weight of the moment settle over him. This was no longer an experiment—it was a foundation for something far greater. He turned to Lyanna, who met his gaze with something softer than her usual sharp wit. "You did well," she said.

Robb hesitated for just a moment before reaching for her hand, giving it a brief, firm squeeze. "I had help."

She didn't pull away. Instead, she let the moment linger, a quiet promise of more to come.

*****

Theon Greyjoy leaned back in his chair, a tankard of ale in one hand and an apple in the other, grinning like a fool as the three women around him laughed at one of his tales. The tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the sound of clinking glasses. Theon, ever the center of attention, was in his element.

He slurred, "And then I told Lord Stark, 'Robb, my friend, you've got the wrong idea about the Iron Islands. We don't just sing and swing swords all day, you know. We—'"

 One of the women, a buxom redhead with a mischievous grin, cut him off by playfully rolling her eyes. "Oh, please, tell us more about how you almost single-handedly won the Battle of the Wolfswood," she said, her voice dripping with exaggerated admiration.

 Theon, never one to shy away from a compliment, winked at her. "Well, now, I wouldn't say almost single-handedly... but yes, let's just say the bandits didn't stand a chance against me and my bow." He flexed dramatically, nearly knocking over the apple in his hand.

 The women giggled, and one of them, a petite blonde, reached out to steady the apple. "And what about the time you got lost in the castle for three hours trying to find the kitchens?" she teased.

 Theon's grin faltered for a moment before he Recovered, "Ah, that? That was a strategical maneuver. I was... uh... testing the security of the castle. Yes, that's it. I'm basically the Master of Whisperers in training."

 The third woman, a tall, raven-haired beauty, laughed so hard she almost choked on her drink. "The Master of Whisperers? You can barely whisper your way past the guards without getting caught!"

 Theon mock-offended, placing a hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my lady, but I'll have you know, I've snuck past those guards more times than you've—"

 He was interrupted by a bard in the corner, whose off-key singing about the "glories of the Iron Fleet" made everyone cringe. Theon, ever the opportunist, jumped to his feet and grabbed a lute from an unsuspecting musician. "Allow me to show you how it's done!"

 What followed was a butchered rendition of "The Rains of Castamere," with Theon adding in dramatic hand gestures and over-the-top lyrics about his "many conquests" and "legendary archery skills." The women were in hysterics, and even the bard looked impressed, though more by Theon's audacity than his actual talent.

 The night wore on, and Theon's stories got progressively more ridiculous, involving everything from giant squids to secret treasure hidden in the ruins of Moat Cailin. The women lapped it all up, clearly entertained by his antics.