The scent of salt and woodsmoke filled the air, carried by the wind of the Bay of Ice.
The only sounds here were the busy working of the dockworkers, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls.
Karlon adjusted the heavy fur cloak around his shoulders as he stepped onto the dock, his eyes scanning the gathering crowd.
“Father!” Arella’s voice rang out, high and clear.
Karlon turned just in time to catch the small figure barreling toward him.
He lifted her with ease, spinning her around before setting her back on her feet.
Lyarra approached with a more measured gait, though there was no hiding the relief in her eyes.
“Welcome home, Father.”.
Karlon fashioned her a small smile.
Finally, his gaze fell on Alaric, who stood a few paces behind his sisters.
The boy’s posture was straight, his expression reserved.
Karlon stepped forward, clasping Alaric’s forearm in a firm grip before pulling him into an embrace.
“You’ve done well,” Karlon said simply.
He knew they were the right words to say as he noticed the subtle relaxation of Alaric’s shoulders.
He never really meant it, but his eldest son had somehow inherited Ned’s penchant for duty, allowing himself little time to let loose and relax.
It was something he had to rectify, going forward.
As the family made their way toward the keep, Karlon’s attention shifted to Dacey.
She waited at the edge of the courtyard, just as beautiful as the day he wed her.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the weight of weeks at sea lifted.
“Dace,” he greeted her with a kiss.
“Welcome back, my love.” Dacey greeted him just as passionately.
“Come, a meal has been prepared in the hall.” He nodded, and together they made for the Great Hall.
The hall itself was a marriage of practicality and slight grandeur, a reflection of its lord and lady.
Built with massive stone blocks, its vaulted ceiling was supported by thick beams of dark pine.
A roaring hearth at the far end cast flickering shadows on the walls, filling the hall with warmth and the scent of burning pine.
Karlon sat at the head of the long oaken table, his family gathered around him.
The servants moved efficiently, placing dishes of roasted venison, bowls of root vegetables, and platters of steaming bread on the table.
Frostkeep might have been isolated, but Dacey’s meticulous stewardship ensured it was never under-provisioned.
Alaric sat to Karlon’s right, Lyarra beside him.
She tried—and failed—to constrain her sister who, by contrast, tore into her meal with unrestrained enthusiasm.
“Alaric,” Karlon said, breaking the gentle murmur of conversation.
“How fares your training with Ser Egran?” The boy smiled.
“Ser Egran has me fight against three guardsmen at once, Father.
It is…difficult, but I’m managing.” “Good,” Karlon replied.
“A Stark must be prepared for any fight, more so for us.
The protection of the entire western coast of the North is our responsibility.
Remember that.” Alaric gave a solemn nod, his expression thoughtful.
His eldest was a capable hand with a blade, but Karlon’s pride stemmed more from Alaric’s talent at sea.
“And what of you, Lyarra?” Karlon asked, turning to his middle child.
“Have you continued your studies with Maester Edric?” Lyarra lifted her chin slightly, her gray eyes meeting her father’s.
“I have, Father.
Maester Edric says I have a sharp mind for history.
We are currently discussing Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt.” “She has a sharp tongue too,” Arella interjected, her mouth full of bread.
“Did you know that she had a big argument with–” “Arella!” Lyarra snapped, eyes wide in panic.
The youngest Stark grinned unapologetically, earning a smirk from Karlon.
“Oh?
Does this have anything to do with a certain Karstark that is learning under our roof?” Karlon chuckled as his daughter’s cheeks darkened slightly.
Torrhen Karstark, the second son of Rickard Karstark was currently a ward in Frostkeep, learning the ways of sailing.
It was part of an agreement that he and Ned had made with the rest of the noble houses.
Any second or third sons who wish to earn merit and honor are free to make their way to Frostkeep, where they will learn their way around a ship and eventually become part of the Northern Fleet.
If any of them show proper skill and possess the right mind for it, they shall have a chance to be captains of their own ship.
It works similarly to how noble sons oft take the black and join with the Night’s Watch.
Only this time, there are no oaths of celibacy needed to be taken.
Every lord was interested when Ned mentioned it in the last Harvest Feast.
After a few years, Ser Donnel Locke, Robin Flint from the Flint’s of Widow’s Watch, and Robett Glover are now proud captains of the Northern Fleet.
“Lyarra,” Karlon continued, ignoring the interruption.
“The history of our ancestors holds valuable lessons for us all.
Do not take your studies lightly.” “I won’t,” Lyarra promised.
“I’ve been reading about Brandon the Builder too.
Maester Edric says he was no older than Alaric when he began work on the Wall.” “The Brandon Stark’s of the North are a point of pride and grief in equal measure.” Dacey smiled.
“From the Builder to the Breaker, the Shipwright and the Burner.
And even more recently…” “My oldest brother and your uncle.” Karlon smiled, before it turned to a frown.
“Brandon was to be Lord of Winterfell, after your grandfather.
But now Eddard was forced to take the seat, and we don’t even have their bones to bury in the crypts.
Remember Alaric, Lyarra, Arella, Starks don’t fare well in the south.” … Dacey Mormont Later that evening, as the children retired to their chambers, Dacey found Karlon in his solar.
The room was modest, with a heavy desk piled with maps and ledgers, a single shelf lined with books on naval strategy and northern history, and a window that overlooked the dark expanse of the Sunset Sea.
Karlon was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out into the night.
She approached quietly, her boots muffled by the thick bearskin rug.
“You’re brooding.” Karlon turned, his expression softening at the sight of her.
“Is it that obvious?” “You’ve had that look since the raven arrived,” Dacey said, taking a step forward towards him.
“What happened?” Karlon hesitated, then reached for the sealed parchment on his desk.
He handed it to her without a word.
Dacey eyed the broken direwolf seal, which told her the letter came from Winterfell itself.
As she scanned the contents, her eyes widened.
Lord Karlon, Jon Arryn is dead.
The King rides North.
Lord Stark requests your presence in Winterfell.
—Maester Luwin Dacey’s brow furrowed as she reread the message.
“The King rides north?” she asked, her voice low.
“Why?” “That’s the question,” Karlon replied.
“The King hasn’t set foot in the North since the rebellion.
For him to come now… he must mean to make my brother the next Hand of the King.” Dacey folded the parchment carefully, placing it back on the desk.
“It could be simple grief.
Jon Arryn was a second father to him.” “Perhaps,” Karlon said, though his tone was unconvinced.
“But he was also a second father to Ned.
Robert would need a new Hand, and my brother is the only one he’d take for the position.
If I know Robert, he’d sooner smash his own skull before making the Old Lion or Stannis as Hand.” Dacey stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm.
“Starks never fare well in the South.
You told me that.” Karlon covered her hand with his own, drawing strength from her unwavering support.
“I know,” he said.
“I must ride to Winterfell and meet him.
Hopefully, we can think of something before the King gets here.” Dacey frowned, before it turned to a loving smile.
She then pulled his arm until they arrived at his chambers.
“Then come.
Relax for the day, my love.
We may start preparations for your departure tomorrow.” She shed off her cloak and small clothes, revealing soft cream skin and a womanly figure that instantly caught the eyes of her husband.
As they lay there together and engaged in their marital activities for the night, Dacey can’t help but relish in the love they have for each other.
Seventeen years of marriage with three children to their name, yet she still never expected this life would be the one she leads.
The women of Bear Island are fierce warriors who were just as capable to wield swords as any man.
While she certainly expected to fulfill the duties to her house as any noble woman would, being married to the Sea Wolf of the North truly did set away any of the expectations she had for her future.
And it all turned out for the better.
As the night stretched on, Karlon and Dacey finally collapsed into the bed, light sweat marring their skin from their nightly activity.
With a tired groan, the Lord of Frostkeep pulled her closer to him until Dacey’s back was flush with his broad, muscular front.
Dacey tiredly wriggled in his arms, attempting to turn herself on her back to look upon her husband’s face.
“I love you, Karlon.” “And you too, Dace.” … AN: Here is the prologue of my Game of Thrones fic, centered around Karlon Stark, third son of Rickard Stark and the Sea Wolf.
Karlon is younger than Ned, but older than Lyanna and Benjen.
More of his youth will be revealed in later chapters through snippets like these.
I hope you enjoyed this one, cheers guys!
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 8 should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.