It was not the cold, nor the height, but the sheer, vertiginous scale of the world as it existed up here.
He had stood on the crow’s nest of the Frostfang in open water with nothing between him and the horizon in any direction, and he had thought he understood largeness.
He had been wrong.
From the deck of even the tallest ship, the sky was a ceiling.
Up here, it was everything — above and below and all around, a sheer vastness that the owl inhabited the way a fish inhabited water, moving through it with the unhurried ease of something that had never once conceived of falling.
He was flying.
No, the owl was flying.
He was in the owl, behind her eyes and inside her mind, feeling what she felt, seeing what she saw.
The world was nothing he had ever experienced or imagined.
The air had texture as well.
There were currents and thermals, pockets of cold and passages of warmth, each one as visible to the owl as a channel was visible to a navigator who knew the waters.
The sea had currents, and he had spent thirty years learning to read them.
Why did he assume differently for the sky, where the wind was stronger and sharper?
Karlon tried to move a wing, and nearly crashed.
The owl’s body was not his, at least not yet.
Her muscles did not respond to his intentions the way arms and legs did.
This would take practice, many moons of it perhaps.
Seven hells, he had only managed to push his mind into the thrice-damned owl after six days of trying.
Six days in the godswood, in the quiet of the early morning trying to do what Benjen suggested, to skinchange while conscious and able of mind rather than when he was asleep.
Each time he had come back to the yard to see Jorah already halfway through the morning practice and Torrhen being beaten black and blue by Robb in the field with nothing to show for it.
And yet this morning he had finally done it, and by the gods it was exhilarating.
One moment the godswood was around him, the red leaves moving in that sourceless way they moved, the carved face on the heart tree watching him.
The next moment he was here, looking at himself from atop a tree before taking to the skies, and the world was not the same that he had known.
Was this how the Targaryens felt like atop their dragons?
Looking down upon the world as Winterfell shrank beneath him — the great grey walls reduced to the size of a child’s model toy, the towers no taller than his thumb, the hundreds of people in the courtyard moving like insects in their small and urgent business.
Karlon was six-and-thirty and had learned many things in those years along with many skills that he was proud of.
And now, suddenly, he found something he was an absolute beginner in again, as helpless and unskilled as a boy of nine aboard his first boat, with the whole of something enormous ahead of him.
And yet all he felt was anticipation and excitement.
So he stopped trying to steer the owl and just…watched.
The owl rode a thermal upward in a long, tilted spiral, and Winterfell spread out below him.
He could see the castle in its entirety, the smoke rising from a dozen chimneys, the movements of the guards on the outer walls, the dogs in the kennels, the blacksmith’s forge throwing orange heat that he could see as a warmer register in the general cold.
The godswood was a pool of deeper darkness in the east quarter, the heart tree’s pale crown and red leaves distinct among the bare branches.
Then the owl dropped and banked, and the Broken Tower swung into view.
He saw Bran halfway down the outer face of the tower, moving with easy confidence as he climbed down the grey stone wall as naturally as Karlon walked on the deck of a ship.
He remembered him boasting to be a great climber, wanting to climb the three great masts of Frostfang when gets to work on the ship.
Looks like it wasn’t such a big boast after all.
The owl did not linger long.
She angled upward again, and the tower fell behind them.
They flew north and east, over the walls of Winterfell and then beyond them, over the Wolfswood that stretched in every direction, over Castle Cerwyn with the White Knife snaking its way southeast beneath it, out over the plain where the Kingsroad ran straight and dark through the frost.
And there — south along the road was a long column of steel.
At least two hundred riders he reckoned, though the estimate was imprecise from this height and this speed.
The banners were distinct even from this high up: the crowned stag of Baratheon, black on gold, prominent at the head of the column; the golden lion of Lannister a half-length behind; and further back, the silver merman of Manderly.
The sight of it was enough of a surprise that he felt his own body jerk, somewhere far below, and the connection snapped.
He was back in the godswood.
He had to blink as the sudden change caused a headache to purse his mind.
The red leaves were above him, moving.
The cold from the ground had come up through his knees and into his back.
He sat still for a moment, breathing.
Then he stood, shaking off the after effects before retrieving his sword from where it leaned against the heart tree’s roots, and walked quickly toward the courtyard, where Winterfell was already busy moving out and about.
It had been a fortnight after the whole debacle in Wintertown when Robb dispensed northern justice.
Karlon was glad to see it.
His nephew had the makings of a proper heir, strong and just, and Karlon could see he’d make a great Lord of Winterfell one day.
Ned was in the courtyard with his children arrayed behind him, and Karlon’s steps paused slightly at the strange sight.
‘Was that Arya with the helmet on her head?’ It had to be, for Arya had procured a guardsman’s helmet from somewhere and placed it on her head, where it sat at an angle that suggested it was three sizes too large.
Ned immediately noticed, grabbed the helm, and handed it to Benjen, who took it with an amused smile.
Karlon had to smile and shake his head.
Arya and Arella were cast from the same mold in that way.
Just like how Lyanna used to be.
As wild as a direwolf and just as fierce as a winter storm.
He had to introduce them soon, especially if Bran would join him soon in Frostkeep.
It wouldn’t take much convincing for Ned and Cat to have Arya visit as well to accompany her brother.
“Good, you’re here.” Ned said, seeing him.
“I was just about to send a servant to fetch you.” “I was in the godswood.” Karlon fell in beside him.
“Robert’s party was seen on the Kingsroad.
Jory’s riding out with an honour guard to escort them.” Ned looked at him.
“Are you ready?” “Are you?” Ned was quiet for a moment.
“It is what it is.” “That’s not an answer, Ned.” Karlon frowned.
“It’s the one I have.
Robert is a friend, Karlon.” Ned sighed.
“I know he is.
I’m not talking about Robert.
I’m talking about the South.” Karlon reiterated.
“House Stark has too many alliances with the south to merely ignore it like you’re suggesting me to do.” Ned turned to face him properly, gesturing towards Catelyn who was busy arranging the children into a neat line.
“Our alliance with House Tully has kept our southern borders secure and our granaries full for fifteen years.
You know this.” “I do.” Karlon turned to watch the children.
Robb standing straight and easy, Jon two steps back in his usual position, Arya already looking sideways at something in the gate passage that had caught her interest, Sansa with her hands properly folded, Bran beside Benjen.
“I just hope what you’re walking into is worth it.” Ned held his gaze for a moment.
“So do I,” he said, quietly, and it was the most honest thing either of them had said to the other about it.
A flap of wings had Karlon looking up.
The owl was on the main gate’s wooden prong, watching him with those amber eyes.
He looked at her for a moment and then looked away.
He would need to name her eventually—it seemed impolite, somehow, to keep occupying a creature’s mind without the courtesy of a name.
But that was a problem for later.
“The Manderlys ride with the king.” Catelyn mentioned finally as Karlon turned to her.
“Ser Wylis is escorting your son’s betrothed.
When is Alaric set to arrive?” “In four days, Cat.” Karlon said, “I’ve already received a raven from Dacey.
He should be in Wolfswood now.” He was glad Alaric would have four days to prepare himself before the formal presentation.
The boy would need them.
A shifting from behind him had him turn to see Torrhen Karstark stand at his shoulder, which was the proper place for a page.
As the sound of hooves on the Kingsroad grew distinct and close, Karlon gave Ned a nod before joining Benjen at the side, letting Ned and his family to be at centre attention.
Not a few seconds later, he was joined by Jorah.
“Looks like it’s time,” Jorah said.
“Aye.” Karlon watched the gate.
“And if it all goes as planned—” “Things rarely do,” Jorah said.
“No.” Karlon felt his mouth curve slightly.
“But we plan anyway.” He said nothing more as riders appeared by the gate, led by Jory Cassell.
The riders, six of them, each one bearing a dark yellow tunic with the crowned stag etched on the front fanned out before pulling out trumpets and blaring them.
The moment the King and his pure black stallion appeared through the gates, Karlon and everyone within Winterfell’s courtyard fell to a knee.
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 17 (long form, which is around chp 32 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.