Thus Karlon spent the morning walking the grounds of his castle, overseeing everything.
Men stood straighter when they knew they were being watched for the last time in a while.
Captains who had grown comfortable in their routines suddenly remembered details they’d been meaning to address.
Frostkeep was not a large castle, but it was certainly defensible.
Erupting from the edge of a chalk cliff of Sea Dragon Point, Frostkeep’s seaward face faces a sheer drop of two hundred feet to the rocks below.
The castle itself was compact and ruthlessly practical — a squat round tower of dark grey limestone with ironwood support beams that anchored the promontory, where one could even see Bear Island should they stand at the highest balcony.
It was connected directly to the keep, defended by curtain walls that were in two rings.
The outer ring was thirty-feet tall and fifteen-feet thick made of solid grey stone stone, with a proper moat outside, and the inner wall was forty-feet tall and twenty-feet wide, with a spring inside to feed said moat.
The tower’s cap was crowned with an iron crow-cage, once used to display enemies by the Warg King, now pressed into service as a signal lantern post for incoming ships.
A secondary structure clung to the clifftop behind the keep — a long, low barrack hall and a covered granary — both roofed in dark slate that blends into the headland from the sea.
The walls connected to a broader gatehouse that controls the single road descending to the small port town of Greypool below, where merchant ships bobbed gently against the moorings.
A pair of trading cogs out of Lannisport rode at anchor in the outer harbor, waiting for the day’s business to begin.
[Frostkeep Image] Karlon had plans for Greypool, and the sight of those southern ships was one of the reasons.
When Ned had first given him the charter for the harbor, the only vessels that called here were fishing boats and the longships of their own fleet.
Now there were traders from as far as Oldtown making the western run.
One day, if the gods were willing, there would be a proper city here.
He would need to be alive to see it.
Which meant he would need to come back from Winterfell in one piece, which meant he would need to keep his brother from walking into whatever trap the south had set for him this time.
Looking at it all now, Karlon remembered a time when he did not love this place.
When Rickard Stark had first brought him north to see the site, he was only a boy of nine, still sulking about being fostered away from Winterfell while his brother went south to the Eyrie.
Karlon had looked at the sheer chalk cliffs and the raw grey sky and thought it was the loneliest place in all the world.
He understood now that he had been wrong.
The view of the sea was magnificent, a sight one could get nowhere else.
Not to mention that the nearby hills had an abundance of iron, one previously untapped until his father thought to look closer after he hired the Braavosi landscapers.
Castle Warg had stood here once, in the age before the Kings of Winter had broken the Warg King and swept his line from the earth.
The foundations of the old fortification were still visible in the rock if you knew where to look.
But Karlon’s builders had set Frostkeep atop those bones and made something new of them, and now it was all his and his children’s to inherit.
With a garrison of two hundred and fifty archers, Frostkeep could hold off a thousand attackers.
Something that had been proven during the Greyjoy’s Rebellion, when Victarion Greyjoy stormed the Keep with nearly two thousand reavers.
Karlon remembered that day vividly.
They had prior warning from the scouting vessels that Karlon had stationed twenty miles into the surrounding waters of the keep.
The bells had rung, and Karlon hastily put on his armor as Ser Egran rushed the men to the walls.
At the time, Dacey was heavily pregnant with Arella and was in no shape to join the fighting.
So he had her stationed within their rooms, along with Alaric and Lyarra and twenty of their best armed men-at-arms.
His fleet at the time were only ten longships and twice as much whaler cogs.
He knew they stood no chance against the Iron Fleet and had them moored half a mile away from the keep.
The fight that came later was bloody.
But their defenses were strong, and it held.
Ser Donnel Locke, who held the gate, managed to kill Maron Greyjoy with an arrow during their retreat, which was the feat that made Karlon make him a captain of his own ship.
Two hundred and fifty was enough back then, and Karlon had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work now.
It was mid-morning when he found himself atop the battlements, his fur-lined cloak snapping behind him like a banner.
Below, waves crashed against the jagged rocks, sending up plumes of icy mist.
The sea was restless today, its shifting colors an interplay of steel-gray and sapphire, mirroring the turmoil in his thoughts.
Winter’s grasp was never far from Sea Dragon Point, even in the heart of summer.
Karlon often found solace in the sea’s unending rhythm, but today, it felt more like a taunt, a reminder of how little control he truly had.
He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Dacey was climbing the path to join him, her own cloak pulled tight against the wind.
“A last sight before you leave?” Dacey asked, her voice carrying over the sound of the sea.
“You know the fleet will still be here when you get back.” “I know.” He exhaled, his breath misting in the cold.
“I didn’t think something like this would happen again.
Not yet.
Starks don’t fare well in the south.” “As you’ve told me numerous times, husband.” Her hand found his.
He took it.
“I’ll be taking Rickard Liddle, Robett Glover, and Ser Egran with me.” Karlon announced.
“As my brother often says, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, or Frostkeep in this case.
Alaric will hold it in my stead, Ser Donnel Locke will act as Castellan.” Dacey nodded, already expecting as such.
“A fine choice.” It was indeed, for it was not one he made lightly.
The Castellan of Frostkeep will also have the de jure position of admiral of the western fleet, which meant not just any man could hold it.
In the end, he decided on Ser Donnel Locke.
A captain of a ship in his own right, Karlon’s duties of patrolling the Bay of Ice to the Stony Shore will be fine under the eyes of the senior knight.
When Alaric grew older, he would be the one to do it in Karlon’s stead.
“Thirty men-at-arms should be enough of an escort from here to Winterfell.” Karlon continued.
“I’ve had Ser Egran pick the best swords to accompany me.” “Alaric won’t be happy with you taking his teacher.” Dacey teased with a smile.
“He’ll have to live with it, then.” Karlon replied back.
Ser Egran was Captain of the Guard in Frostkeep and Karlon’s own sworn shield.
A title given to him when Ser Egran proved to be the best swordsman in Sea Dragon Point.
He had saved Karlon’s life half-a-dozen times back during the Greyjoy’s Rebellion.
Dacey nodded.
“Alaric will be fine.
He’s ready.” “Readier than I was at six-and-ten.” Karlon glanced at her.
“I’m also taking Torrhen Karstark.
He’s still technically my page, and the boy needs to see what riding under a Stark lord looks like before he’s given a ship of his own.” Below them, the harbor moved through its morning routines.
The Frostfang sat at her mooring, her triple masts bare.
He would not be taking her south — there was no sea route to Winterfell, only roads — and leaving her behind always produced a particular, irrational discomfort.
He would have to ride.
Fourteen days, perhaps fifteen if the road through the Wolfswood had not been cleared from the last storm.
He was not a poor rider — a northern lord who could not sit a horse was no lord at all — but he had always felt more comfortable on a deck than in a saddle.
Karlon exhaled a breath as he watched the long gray line in the distance where water met sky.
It was days like this that memories of his father, brother, and sister would come unbidden.
He was a little bit younger than Alaric now was when it all happened, and now again, the Kingdom would have them march south where it wasn’t safe.
Beyond the Neck, House Stark reigned supreme, but below it?
Karlon didn’t trust the southerners that much.
Seeing his expression, Dacey spoke.
“You’re brooding again.” He just sighed.
“Is it that obvious?” “To me it is.
I understand your qualms, husband.” Dacey said.
“Write to Bear Island then.
Have Jorah meet you in the Wolfswood.
Or Deepwood Motte, if the timing works.” “Jorah has a wife and a son to care for.” “So do you, but that’s not stopping you, is it?” She raised a brow, “Write to him.
My mother would be more than capable of watching over the Lady of Bear Island and his son.” Karlon looked at the water.
She was right of course, and having Jorah ride into Winterfell alongside him would be worth more than an extra ten swords.
Having more northern houses present in Winterfell when the King visits would also show a look of unity.
“I’ll write to him tonight,” he said.
“Perhaps he’ll bring little Leyton.
The boy should be eight or nine now.” “Eight, and growing to be a fierce warrior if my mother’s letters are to be believed.” She paused.
“He’ll go, if you ask.
He always goes, when you ask.” That had always been true of Jorah Mormont.
It had been true since they were boys on Bear Island, running the shoreline until Lord Jeor came to shout them in.
There was no one else in Westeros Karlon trusted more completely, with the exception of his brothers and the woman standing beside him.
He turned away from the water at last.
“Where are the children?” “Alaric is at the harbor.
Lyarra is in her lessons with Maester Edric.” Dacey’s expression shifted slightly, the way it did when she was suppressing amusement.
“Arella is out with my sister.
She’s learning to ride.” “Well enough, then.” He moved back toward the castle.
“Come.
I want to speak with Alaric before I deal with the supplies.” …
Check it out if you’re interested, at least chapter 8 (long form, which is around chp 14 in webnovel) should be available by the time this chapter was uploaded.