He had left Winterfell at nine years old, only returning a handful of times at five-and-ten then later during Robert’s Rebellion.
Everytime, he would return and find that the streets he used to think were labyrinthian were instead merely three broad lanes, with a handful of narrower ones connecting them.
He still knew the streets, remembered running past them a hundred times in the past.
Benjen walked beside him, and Ser Egran a half-step behind with Desmond and Pollen flanking them.
It was enough of an escort to discourage certain kinds of attention, not enough to draw different kinds.
The afternoon had turned cold and clear, the sky the deep blue-white of a northern winter’s afternoon, the smoke from the cookfires rising straight up in the still air.
“I remember that time when Brandon took us to the Three Wolves.
Gave us our first drinks when we were barely children.” Karlon started, melancholy in his tone.
“I remember,” Benjen looked at the street ahead, lips turning to a smile.
“Lyanna was wroth that she didn’t chance a sip before Ser Rodrik found us.
Brought us straight to father, and Brandon had to clean the gurneys for a week.” Karlon laughed at the memory and felt something settle in him.
They were passing the alehouse at the corner of the main lane when Rickard Liddle appeared in the doorway of the establishment beside it, which Karlon recognized as the brothel.
The man was grinning wide, which told Karlon he must’ve gotten his money’s worth.
Clad in his armour that depicted the pinecones of Clan Liddle, Rickard was two steps into the street before he noticed them.
“Milord Stark,” he said, with complete equanimity.
“Rickard,” Karlon said, eyeing the man up and down.
“Your fourth visit in three days, I believe.” “A man gets a thirst,” Rickard said, his grin widening.
“A man gets thirsty for the ale at the alehouse,” Karlon said.
“What you’re entering is not an alehouse.” “The ale’s worse here, aye,” Rickard agreed cheerfully, “but the conversation is better.” He gave Benjen a look, sizing him up the way a warrior ought to do before looking back at Karlon.
“Don’t wait up, milord.” He disappeared inside.
Karlon watched the door swing shut behind him.
“These mountain clansmen could certainly last.
And the women sure are enjoying him from the sounds of it.” “It’s either him or his gold.” Benjen chuckled.
“He is your first mate, yes?” “Aye,” Karlon nodded.
“Rickard was among the first boys sent to Frostkeep for sailor’s training.
Has a talent for it too, sharp eye for command as well, and mighty dangerous with an axe.
When I offered him a ship, he declined, said he would rather continue to serve me on Frostfang.” “And you let him.” “Couldn’t say no to that, could I?” Karlon shook his head.
“A leal and capable man who’d rather serve than command, when he has the capacity for both.
That’s worth more than Arbor Gold.
I’ll keep him as long as he’ll stay.” The town continued to move around them as he and Benjen resumed walking.
A woman carrying a washing basin, a smith’s boy running some errand, two old men deep in an argument outside the local stables.
Karlon had missed this.
It made him even more determined to make sure Greypool thrived just as much as Wintertown.
“How are the children?” Benjen asked, when they had been walking long enough for the question to arrive naturally.
“They are well.” Karlon replied with a smile.
“Alaric is officially betrothed to Wynafryd Manderly.
I had a raven from Wyman three days ago, and he agreed.
He’s sending Wynafryd to Winterfell in a fortnight so the two can meet before anything is formally sealed, along with Ser Wylis.” Benjen raised an eyebrow.
“The Merman Lord wasted no time.” “He knew a good offer when he read it.
Catelyn helped frame it, she’s a shrewder political mind than either of us will ever be, don’t tell Ned I said so.” He watched a pair of children race across the lane ahead of them, screaming something at each other that might have been an argument and might have been a game.
“With Catelyn thinking about Robb’s prospects as well, you’ll be drowning in grandnephews and grandnieces before long, Benjen.” “Considering I won’t have any of my own,” Benjen said, “I’m glad to have children I can spoil.” The lane opened ahead of them into the town’s square, where an old oak spread its bare winter branches over the frozen ground around it.
It was the heart of the town before anyone in Winterfell could remember, over eighty feet tall and older than his grandfather at least.
The roots of the tree had broken and resettled the paving stones around it twice over, and the newer ones had simply been reset around the roots rather than the other way around.
Hearing a hoot, Karlon looked up to see the damn owl settling in the upper branches.
White against the brown bark and the grey sky, its amber eyes finding him once again.
Karlon stopped walking and looked at it for a long moment.
“Oh by the Old Gods above.” He shook his head, “I need to talk to you about something, Benjen.” He turned and gave Ser Egran a nod, and the captain immediately barked out an order before the three men spread out, creating a perimeter that gave them some semblance of privacy.
Seeing this, Benjen would raise a brow and tense slightly.
“What ails you, brother?” Karlon looked at the owl.
“I’ve been having dreams, Benjen.
Odd dreams, like I’m flying through the skies, watching the ground from above, and…hunting.” He paused.
“Not how a man hunts, but as a bird.” The square was quiet around them.
A few townspeople moved through it at a distance, wrapped in their cloaks, paying no mind.
Benjen widened his eyes.
“Do you wake up with the taste of iron?
As if your mouth had been filled with blood?” Karlon looked at him.
“Yes.
How did you know that?” “Skinchanging.” Benjen said, the words coming out in a grimace.
“I’ve heard of it from other rangers.
Fought men who had it.
Wildlings, mostly.
The ability to enter the mind of an animal.
To see through its eyes and move through its body as though it were your own.” He looked at the owl in the branches above them.
“That bird has been following you?” “Since the Wolfswood,” Karlon said.
“Before, maybe.
I’m not certain when it started.” He watched it look at him with those amber eyes.
“Old Nan’s stories keep running through my head, and not to mention the books of the Warg King I’ve read in Frostkeep’s library.
Seven Hells, I live in his damn castle.” “Not his castle anymore,” Benjen mused.
“Why didn’t you say any of this to Ned?” “You damn well know why,” Karlon shook his head.
He loved Ned, truly, but the man could certainly be stubborn at times regarding certain things.
“You saw the look in his eyes, all those rumors of Others are probably tall tales to him.” “His fostering in the Eyrie has certainly made him more doubtful about certain things, despite many chronicles regarding what the Stark Kings of the past have faced.” Benjen shook his head.
“He’s not wrong to want proof, Karl.
He’s just wrong to think proof is impossible.
I’ll speak with the Old Bear when I return.
If the Others walk the Lands of Always Winter again, if they’ve truly returned, then someone needs to go far enough to see it.
That’s what rangers do.
It’s what the Watch was made for.” “Aye, but the watch is far from being what it was after the Conqueror’s time.
If you need a different approach, send word,” Karlon said.
“I can plan a voyage up the Frozen Shore, land a camp somewhere past Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, work inland from there.
Bring Jorah.
Between the two of us we could cover—” “Don’t.” Benjen said firmly.
“Not yet at least.
Let me try the proper way first.” He looked at Karlon.
“And the dreams, have you tried to make it deliberate?
To go into it awake, instead of falling into it asleep?” “No,” Karlon said.
The thought had not occurred to him.
“I wouldn’t know how.” “I don’t either,” Benjen admitted.
“But if the tales are true, it can be learned.
Some of the wildlings warged their animals while sitting quiet, in broad daylight.” He looked at the owl again.
“It seems to have chosen you, whatever that means.
Old Nan would say the gods send what they send and it’s not for us to refuse it.” “Old Nan would also say that magic is real and Hodor really was a half giant—” His words were interrupted as a commotion erupted from a nearby inn.
It was the one at the square’s far edge, a swell of voices that carried alarm before a scream came that was cut short.
Karlon’s hand went to his sword hilt.
Beside him, Benjen had done the same two seconds earlier.
“Desmond.
Pollen.” Ser Egran’s voice, flat and immediate.
“Find out what’s happening.” The two men were moved immediately at the order.
Karlon only had to wait for a minute before they returned.
“A raper, milord,” Desmond said, his face scurrying with disgust.
“Caught at the inn.
Winterfell’s guards are already on him.” He and Benjen glanced at one another before moving.
Above them, the white owl called once from the branches of the old oak, and then spread its wings and lifted into the cold afternoon air and was gone.
… AN: In case it wasn’t obvious yet, the three Stark siblings are the genuine main characters of this fic.
They will be who the main storyline focuses on (despite the occasional POV on other characters).
Most of the plot I’ve in mind will be centered on Karlon, Ned, and Benjen, who will have the most POV’s in this fic.
I hope you enjoyed this one, cheers guys!
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 14 (long form, which is around chp 27 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.