The boy used his hands when he talked about ships, gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to speak his mind to others who might not catch the meaning the first time.
Karlon was proud, for Alaric had a unique talent for ships since the age of eleven, when Karlon had first taken him out past the harbor mouth and let him feel what the water did beneath the hull.
Maester Edric even said that Alaric had consulted him once or twice regarding books of ship-making.
Apparently, the boy had ambitions even larger than Karlon ever did.
He descended to the dock and walked toward Alaric without hurry.
Alaric noticed him immediately and straightened, dismissing the shipwright with a word.
“Father.” “Walk with me.” They moved along the dock in silence for a time.
Karlon looked out at the fleet, his fleet.
They were formidable.
Lean, and quick longships built for harsh waters and sudden strikes.
They were not the large troop carriers nor were they fast boats, but their strength came from their easy agility to turn and strength to handle heavier storms.
At the center of it all was the Frostfang, his flagship.
A triple-masted war galley, with three ballistae affixed to each side and two smaller ones on the front and back.
It was his prized possession, one that he had sailed when Ned called the banners and marched to Pyke during the Greyjoy Rebellion.
Fifteen smaller longships were docked on the western berths, the patrol galleys on the east, the two larger war galleys almost a similar size to the Frostfang riding at the deep-water moorings beyond.
They were not the entirety of the North’s western fleet, but the ones he had active during peacetime.
All of it built from nothing, or near enough.
All of it his, soon enough, his son’s.
“You took initiative while I was on patrol,” Karlon said.
“The supply discrepancy with the salted fish.
I saw the correction in the harbor ledger.” Alaric glanced at him.
“The factor was shortening the count on every third shipment.
I thought it best to do so.” “You thought correctly.” Karlon said.
“While I’m in Winterfell, you will oversee the fleet.” Alaric blinked, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“I—” “You will not command it,” Karlon continued.
“Not yet.
But you will learn what it means from Ser Donnel.
When I’m gone, you shall be the Stark of Frostkeep.
You shall sit on my throne, take petitions, hear disputes, put the seal to anything worth less than a hundred silver stags.
Anything above that, you wait for me or take it to Ser Donnel or your mother.” Alaric’s throat moved.
“I understand.” “You also watch the weather reports from the harbormaster and you review the patrol logs each morning.
If anything comes in from the Stony Shore that looks like more than the usual raider nuisance, you send a raven to Winterfell immediately.
Don’t wait to be certain.
Send it.” Alaric swallowed audibly, but nodded.
“Yes, Father.” Karlon stopped walking and turned to face him properly.
Alaric was nearly his own height now, another year and the boy would match him.
Seeing that, Karlon’s gaze softened.
“Don’t worry too much, you will have your mother, Ser Donnel, and Maester Edric to advise you in all matters.
When you are uncertain—and you will be, uncertainty is not weakness—you ask.
You do not pretend.” He put a hand on Alaric’s shoulder.
“You are nearly a man grown, and I’ve imparted you with many lessons.
When your cousin Robb eventually takes the paramountcy, it will be you who leads the fleet in my place.
Everything you do here is preparation for that day.” Alaric stood a little straighter at that, in a way that reminded Karlon viscerally of his own father — the way Rickard Stark had stood in his great hall at Winterfell, carrying the north on his back as though it were simply the shape his back had grown into.
He pushed the memory down before it could take hold.
“I won’t fail you,” Alaric said.
“I know you won’t.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder once, firmly, then released it.
“Now come, I shall see for myself what Ser Egran has taught you.” They walked together towards the training yard.
It was busy at this hour, and Karlon eyed Torrhen Karstark going through his forms alongside some of the younger guardsmen.
Ser Egran stood at the yard’s edge with his arms crossed, a dark-haired man of thirty who had been Karlon’s sworn sword for eleven years and Captain of the Guard for eight, and he was the finest swordsman Sea Dragon Point had ever produced.
“Milord,” Ser Egran said.
“A spar with the lordling?” “Aye.” Karlon took the training sword offered to him.
“Fetch one for my son.” Alaric rolled his shoulders as the sword was placed in his hand, settling into the familiar ritual of it.
Karlon watched him take his stance, then attacked without much rambling.
He was good, that’s for certain.
Not yet a match for any of the senior guards, but honest good, the kind that came from years of work rather than gifts of nature.
Karlon had always thought honest good was worth more than natural brilliance in a fight, because brilliance forgot itself under pressure and work did not.
He let the spar run for a quarter of an hour, then stepped back and lowered his blade.
Alaric was breathing hard but not laboring.
He looked at his father and waited.
“Your right elbow,” Karlon said.
“You tend to leave it still when you’re tired.” Alaric’s jaw tightened but nodded at the assessment.
Karlon approved.
He handed the training sword back to Ser Egran before speaking to him.
“We ride to Winterfell tomorrow, Ser.
Prepare the horses and have the men ready at first light.
Torrhen.” The Karstark boy perked up as Karlon continued.
“You’ll be coming with me.
I want my armor shined, and come by my quarters to help me with my armor in the morning.” Torrhen’s eyes widened.
“Yes, my lord!” With that done, he left them to it and went inside to write a letter to Jorah.
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.