7th day of the 3rd Moon, Year 298 ACKarlon Stark The Sunset Sea was an endless, undulating expanse of icy gray-blue that shimmered under the weak light of the pale northern sun.
Waves crashed against the sleek hull of the Frostfang, sending sprays of salty brine across the deck.
Karlon Stark stood at the prow of the ship, his broad shoulders draped in a thick woolen cloak trimmed with white fur.
The wind tugged at his dark hair, as grey eyes gazed upon the horizon.
The cold felt sharper than usual today, biting through layers of fur and wool to gnaw at his skin.
Yet, Karlon barely noticed.
He was used to the frigid embrace of the sea; it had been his companion since his days being fostered with the Mormont’s of Bear Island.
In many ways, he had never truly left those shores.
The lessons he’d learned among them were etched into him as deeply as the Stark name.
The Frostfang, his personal flagship—named as such after the rigid mountains beyond the wall—cut through the waves like a wolf through a snowdrift, the sails taut against the northern wind.
Behind him, his fleet followed, twenty longships in all, each bearing the modified Stark banner.
A silver direwolf on a sea of blue.
His pale grey eyes were fixed on the waters ahead, scanning for any sign of trouble.
The Greyjoy Rebellion had been crushed years ago, but the Ironborn were like rats; there are always a few stragglers aiming to cause trouble.
Even now, with the North’s fleet rebuilt under his command, the sea demanded vigilance.
Ahead, Frostkeep rose from the jagged cliffs of Sea Dragon Point, a large fortress made of greystone.
The keep was an unyielding structure, built to weather the savage storms that howled in from the west.
Its towers reached skyward like defiant fists, while its banners snapped sharply in the wind.
The silver direwolf was joined by the black bear of House Mormont, a mark of the union that had brought Karlon and Dacey together.
His chest swelled with pride as he took in the sight.
Frostkeep was the symbol of the North’s resurgence.
Once a barren stretch of wilderness, Sea Dragon Point was now a hub of maritime power, its harbor bustling with activity even in the harshest winters.
All of it had been his doing, with Dacey’s help, they had turned the North into a naval powerhouse.
Frostkeep was a holdfast that was refashioned from the remains of Castle Warg, the Castle held by the infamous Warg King all the way back since the age of heroes.
And now it was his, and his children to inherit after him.
“Lord Karlon,” Rickard Liddle’s grizzled voice pulled him from his thoughts.
The first mate was a weathered man with a nose like a broken mast and hands calloused for a decade at sea.
He was the third son of Chief Liddle, called Little Liddle as a jest by the other mountain clansmen of the North.
“Shall I have the crew prepare for docking?” Karlon nodded.
“Aye.
Signal the keep.
Let them know we’ve returned.” Rickard gave a sharp nod, turning to shout orders.
Karlon watched as a plume of black smoke rose from the ship’s signal brazier.
It was answered moments later by a torch lit on the walls of the keep.
The sight brought a small smile to his face.
Home.
The men moved with practiced efficiency, their booted feet thudding against the deck as they secured ropes and stowed sails.
Karlon’s gaze lingered on the crew for a moment.
They were a rough mix—hardened sailors from Bear Island, skilled builders from White Harbor, and fierce warriors from the northern clans.
They were his men, loyal and hardy.
He allowed himself a rare moment of anticipation.
It had been a whole moon since he’d seen his family.
Dacey, his lady wife, and their children.
Alaric, his first son and heir; Lyarra, so much like her mother it was almost uncanny; and little Arella, whose wild spirit reminded him of his sister, Lyanna.
“Land ahead!” called a voice from the crow’s nest.
“Frostkeep in sight!” Karlon turned back to the horizon, his expression steady but his heart lightened.
Soon.
… Dacey Mormont From the walls of Frostkeep, Dacey Mormont watched the fleet approach.
Her sharp green eyes missed nothing: the orderly rows of longships, the modified Stark banner flapping in the wind, the disciplined movements of the sailors.
Karlon’s hand was evident in all of it.
She adjusted the bearskin cloak around her shoulders, the wind biting even through the thick wool.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Her husband had been gone for nearly a moon, patrolling the waters from Sea Dragon Point to Blazewater Bay.
Now, as the fleet drew closer, she felt a sense of pride that outweighed her worry.
Frostkeep had now taken the similar duty that the Manderly’s from White Harbor possess.
To be the main point of naval power for the North’s western coast as White Harbor is to the eastern coast.
Regular patrols are part of the duties for her husband as the Lord of the keep.
Ever since the harbor was built, Bear Island and every other northern settlements from the western coast had found safety due to his efforts.
While there were still cases of pirates harassing some fishing villages by the Stony Shore, the numbers had certainly dwindled.
This was all only possible due to the foolishness of Balon Greyjoy.
The only reason the Starks never bothered on building such a harbor on the Western Coasts was due to the constant harassment of the Ironborn.
Any harbor would be too costly to keep since trade was slow due to the presence of the Iron Islands.
Any ships they made were useless in the face of the Iron Fleet.
But the Greyjoy Rebellion seven years ago had given the North a boon they did not have prior.
A hostage.
Theon Greyjoy was by all accounts, treated as a ward to Lord Eddard, but every single soul in the North knew of his true purpose.
Balon wouldn’t make any aggressive actions with the North, lest he risk the life of his only remaining son and heir.
The fact that her husband and cousin was the first to storm the gates of Pyke also served beneficial—for many of the ships taken as spoils were given to Karlon for his deed—and Jorah Mormont earned himself a wife in Lynesse Hightower.
There were concerns by her mother and sisters regarding the woman’s seeming improvident nature, but the recent rise in trade along with the increased fishing fleet meant that Bear Island was more prosperous than ever.
And Jorah was more than able to keep his new wife happy.
Below, the keep came alive with the news of their lord’s return.
The portcullis creaked open, and servants rushed to prepare for Karlon’s arrival.
The men of the garrison assembled in neat rows, their steel polished and their banners held high.
Dacey’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of the longsword at her hip.
It was a gesture more of habit than necessity, a relic of years spent fighting for her family and home.
While most southorn nobles would choke at the thought of a lady bearing arms, the customs she had brought from Bear Island make it to be a point of pride.
She was lucky to find a husband so understanding and even encouraging for her and her daughters to practice in the field.
Speaking of their children, her gaze flicked downward to the courtyard, where two of her daughters waited.
Lyarra stood straight-backed, her fur-lined cloak fluttering in the wind.
The girl was five and ten with dark hair that framed a face that was an echo of Dacey’s own youth, though her long face and piercing gray eyes marked her as a Stark.
Beside her, Arella shifted from foot to foot, never being able to stand still due to her boundless energy.
The youngest of the Stark children at ten, Arella was a whirlwind of curiosity and mischief.
Her husband had called it the wolf’s blood, and her daughter had it aplenty.
“Hold still, Arella,” Lyarra chided.
“You’ll embarrass us.” “I’m not embarrassing anyone,” Arella shot back, sticking her tongue out.
“Father likes it when I’m myself.” Dacey suppressed a smile as she descended the stone steps.
The banter between the girls was a constant in their lives, one she cherished even as it tested her patience.
She strode into the courtyard just as Alaric appeared, his long strides carrying him across the cobblestones with an air of quiet purpose.
At six and ten, Alaric already had the bearing of a man grown.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair swept back to reveal the features of his Stark heritage.
His expression was calm and composed, but Dacey knew her son well enough to catch the flicker of excitement in his eyes.
He was everything a lord would want in an heir, and Dacey couldn’t be more proud.
“Mother,” he greeted her with a slight bow.
“Father has returned.” “I saw,” Dacey replied, giving him a small smile.
“Your father will be pleased to see you’ve kept everything in order.” Alaric’s back straightened, his pride evident despite his reserved demeanor.
He was much like Karlon in that way—steady, reliable, and always striving to prove himself.
Dacey’s heart swelled with affection as she regarded him.
Karlon might not have shown it now, but he was much wilder in his youth.
Being the third son of a high lord, Karlon had always felt he needed something to prove.
It was the reason why he requested to be fostered in Bear Isle, just when Lord Eddard Stark was fostered in the Vale.
Yet none would expect how the future would turn.
Both Karlon and Eddard had expected their brother Brandon to be the one to rule, and yet when Westeros was aflame with war, they were the ones to lead the Northern banners, all to avenge the injustice that was reaped upon them.
“Let’s go meet him,” she said, motioning for the children to follow.
… AN: Check auxiliary chapter for pictures!