Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – Karlon Stark
7th day of the 3rd Moon, Year 298 AC
Karlon Stark
The Sunset Sea was an endless, undulating expanse of icy gray-blue that shimmered under the weak light of the pale northern sun. Waves crashed against the sleek hull of the Frostfang, sending sprays of salty brine across the deck.
Karlon Stark stood at the prow of the ship, his broad shoulders draped in a thick woolen cloak trimmed with white fur. The wind tugged at his dark hair, as grey eyes gazed upon the horizon.
The cold felt sharper than usual today, biting through layers of fur and wool to gnaw at his skin. Yet, Karlon barely noticed. He was used to the frigid embrace of the sea; it had been his companion since his days being fostered with the Mormont’s of Bear Island.
In many ways, he had never truly left those shores. The lessons he’d learned among them were etched into him as deeply as the Stark name.
The Frostfang, his personal flagship—named as such after the rigid mountains beyond the wall—cut through the waves like a wolf through a snowdrift, the sails taut against the northern wind. Behind him, his fleet followed, twenty longships in all, each bearing the modified Stark banner. A silver direwolf on a sea of blue.
His pale grey eyes were fixed on the waters ahead, scanning for any sign of trouble. The Greyjoy Rebellion had been crushed years ago, but the Ironborn were like rats; there are always a few stragglers aiming to cause trouble. Even now, with the North’s fleet rebuilt under his command, the sea demanded vigilance.
Ahead, Frostkeep rose from the jagged cliffs of Sea Dragon Point, a large fortress made of greystone.
The keep was an unyielding structure, built to weather the savage storms that howled in from the west. Its towers reached skyward like defiant fists, while its banners snapped sharply in the wind. The silver direwolf was joined by the black bear of House Mormont, a mark of the union that had brought Karlon and Dacey together.
His chest swelled with pride as he took in the sight. Frostkeep was the symbol of the North’s resurgence. Once a barren stretch of wilderness, Sea Dragon Point was now a hub of maritime power, its harbor bustling with activity even in the harshest winters. All of it had been his doing, with Dacey’s help, they had turned the North into a naval powerhouse.
Frostkeep was a holdfast that was refashioned from the remains of Castle Warg, the Castle held by the infamous Warg King all the way back since the age of heroes. And now it was his, and his children to inherit after him.
“Lord Karlon,” Rickard Liddle's grizzled voice pulled him from his thoughts. The first mate was a weathered man with a nose like a broken mast and hands calloused for a decade at sea. He was the third son of Chief Liddle, called Little Liddle as a jest by the other mountain clansmen of the North. “Shall I have the crew prepare for docking?”
Karlon nodded. “Aye. Signal the keep. Let them know we’ve returned.”
Rickard gave a sharp nod, turning to shout orders. Karlon watched as a plume of black smoke rose from the ship’s signal brazier. It was answered moments later by a torch lit on the walls of the keep. The sight brought a small smile to his face. Home.
The men moved with practiced efficiency, their booted feet thudding against the deck as they secured ropes and stowed sails. Karlon’s gaze lingered on the crew for a moment. They were a rough mix—hardened sailors from Bear Island, skilled builders from White Harbor, and fierce warriors from the northern clans. They were his men, loyal and hardy.
He allowed himself a rare moment of anticipation. It had been a whole moon since he’d seen his family. Dacey, his lady wife, and their children. Alaric, his first son and heir; Lyarra, so much like her mother it was almost uncanny; and little Arella, whose wild spirit reminded him of his sister, Lyanna.
“Land ahead!” called a voice from the crow’s nest. “Frostkeep in sight!”
Karlon turned back to the horizon, his expression steady but his heart lightened. Soon.
…
Dacey Mormont
From the walls of Frostkeep, Dacey Mormont watched the fleet approach. Her sharp green eyes missed nothing: the orderly rows of longships, the modified Stark banner flapping in the wind, the disciplined movements of the sailors. Karlon’s hand was evident in all of it.
She adjusted the bearskin cloak around her shoulders, the wind biting even through the thick wool. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her husband had been gone for nearly a moon, patrolling the waters from Sea Dragon Point to Blazewater Bay. Now, as the fleet drew closer, she felt a sense of pride that outweighed her worry.
Frostkeep had now taken the similar duty that the Manderly’s from White Harbor possess. To be the main point of naval power for the North’s western coast as White Harbor is to the eastern coast. Regular patrols are part of the duties for her husband as the Lord of the keep. Ever since the harbor was built, Bear Island and every other northern settlements from the western coast had found safety due to his efforts.
While there were still cases of pirates harassing some fishing villages by the Stony Shore, the numbers had certainly dwindled.
This was all only possible due to the foolishness of Balon Greyjoy. The only reason the Starks never bothered on building such a harbor on the Western Coasts was due to the constant harassment of the Ironborn.
Any harbor would be too costly to keep since trade was slow due to the presence of the Iron Islands. Any ships they made were useless in the face of the Iron Fleet.
But the Greyjoy Rebellion seven years ago had given the North a boon they did not have prior. A hostage.
Theon Greyjoy was by all accounts, treated as a ward to Lord Eddard, but every single soul in the North knew of his true purpose. Balon wouldn’t make any aggressive actions with the North, lest he risk the life of his only remaining son and heir.
The fact that her husband and cousin was the first to storm the gates of Pyke also served beneficial—for many of the ships taken as spoils were given to Karlon for his deed—and Jorah Mormont earned himself a wife in Lynesse Hightower.
There were concerns by her mother and sisters regarding the woman’s seeming improvident nature, but the recent rise in trade along with the increased fishing fleet meant that Bear Island was more prosperous than ever. And Jorah was more than able to keep his new wife happy.
Below, the keep came alive with the news of their lord’s return. The portcullis creaked open, and servants rushed to prepare for Karlon’s arrival. The men of the garrison assembled in neat rows, their steel polished and their banners held high. Dacey’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of the longsword at her hip. It was a gesture more of habit than necessity, a relic of years spent fighting for her family and home.
While most southorn nobles would choke at the thought of a lady bearing arms, the customs she had brought from Bear Island make it to be a point of pride. She was lucky to find a husband so understanding and even encouraging for her and her daughters to practice in the field.
Speaking of their children, her gaze flicked downward to the courtyard, where two of her daughters waited. Lyarra stood straight-backed, her fur-lined cloak fluttering in the wind. The girl was five and ten with dark hair that framed a face that was an echo of Dacey’s own youth, though her long face and piercing gray eyes marked her as a Stark.
Beside her, Arella shifted from foot to foot, never being able to stand still due to her boundless energy. The youngest of the Stark children at ten, Arella was a whirlwind of curiosity and mischief. Her husband had called it the wolf’s blood, and her daughter had it aplenty.
“Hold still, Arella,” Lyarra chided. “You’ll embarrass us.”
“I’m not embarrassing anyone,” Arella shot back, sticking her tongue out. “Father likes it when I’m myself.”
Dacey suppressed a smile as she descended the stone steps. The banter between the girls was a constant in their lives, one she cherished even as it tested her patience. She strode into the courtyard just as Alaric appeared, his long strides carrying him across the cobblestones with an air of quiet purpose.
At six and ten, Alaric already had the bearing of a man grown. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair swept back to reveal the features of his Stark heritage. His expression was calm and composed, but Dacey knew her son well enough to catch the flicker of excitement in his eyes. He was everything a lord would want in an heir, and Dacey couldn’t be more proud.
“Mother,” he greeted her with a slight bow. “Father has returned.”
“I saw,” Dacey replied, giving him a small smile. “Your father will be pleased to see you’ve kept everything in order.”
Alaric’s back straightened, his pride evident despite his reserved demeanor. He was much like Karlon in that way—steady, reliable, and always striving to prove himself. Dacey’s heart swelled with affection as she regarded him.
Karlon might not have shown it now, but he was much wilder in his youth. Being the third son of a high lord, Karlon had always felt he needed something to prove. It was the reason why he requested to be fostered in Bear Isle, just when Lord Eddard Stark was fostered in the Vale.
Yet none would expect how the future would turn. Both Karlon and Eddard had expected their brother Brandon to be the one to rule, and yet when Westeros was aflame with war, they were the ones to lead the Northern banners, all to avenge the injustice that was reaped upon them.
“Let’s go meet him,” she said, motioning for the children to follow.
…
Karlon Stark
The cold stones of Frostkeep’s dock felt familiar beneath Karlon’s boots as he disembarked from Frostfang.
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!