The courtyard was a flurry of activity, horses neighing, the rhythmic clatter of spears against shields, and the low murmurs of men facing a winter march. Karlon stepped out into the cold air, his boots crunching on the frost, and found Lord Eddard Stark waiting by the mounting block.
Ned looked at the boy, his son in name, though the violet eyes and the sudden, tall frame spoke of a different destiny. There was a profound heaviness in Ned's gaze. He had fought through a rebellion to find peace, and now he was watching a ten-year-old step into the same cycle of blood.
At the gate
"You are certain of this, Karlon?" Ned asked, his voice low and raspy. He placed a heavy, gloved hand on Karlon's shoulder. "The Iron born are not like the knights of the Reach. There is no chivalry in their axes. They are as cold and relentless as the sea."
"I am certain, Uncle," Karlon replied, using the title with a respectful nod. "The North must see that its Lord does not hide behind the Neck while others bleed for his shores. I have spent a year drilling the levies in the new formations; I must be there to see they hold."
Ned sighed, a plume of white breath escaping into the morning air. He turned to Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms, whose great white whiskers were stiff with frost.
"Ser Rodrik," Ned commanded. "You will remain here. The garrison is yours. You are to be the shield of Winterfell while we are its sword. Watch over my wife, the children, and especially Robb and Jon. They are young and headstrong; do not let them ride out searching for glory that isn't theirs to find."
"By my life, My Lord," Ser Rodrik bowed deeply, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Winterfell will be a tomb for any Ironborn who dares set foot on Stark land. I shall guard your kin as if they were my own."
Ned turned back to Karlon, his expression softening for a brief, rare moment. "Listen to your Uncle. Listen to the Greatjon. And Karlon... keep your shield up. Valor is a fine thing, but a living Lord is better for the North than a fallen hero."
"I will return, Uncle," Karlon promised. "And I will not return empty-handed."
Before the final horn blast signalled the march, Karlon pulled Maester Luwin aside near the gatehouse. The transition from the warmth of the library to the freezing courtyard had turned the maester's knuckles blue, but his eyes remained sharp as they settled on Karlon's armored form.
"Maester Luwin," Karlon began, his voice low and private against the din of stomping hooves. "While I am at sea, the work must not falter. The North cannot wait for the war to end to prepare for the winter that follows."
Luwin adjusted his chain, nodding gravely. "The Winter City, my lord? The foundations are already being laid."
"More than just foundations," Karlon corrected, pointing toward the eastern expanse where the Great Spring fed into the earth. "The Winter City project must be the priority. I want the masonry for the new districts completed before the first frost. And specifically, the area where the river canal will terminate, the basin must be dredged and the stone wharves reinforced. If that canal is to bring trade from the White Knife, the hub must be ready to receive it."
Luwin looked surprised. "A massive undertaking in your absence, my lord. It will require nearly all the remaining coin and labor."
"Spend it," Karlon said firmly. "And the glass gardens. I want the new 'Winter-Glass' structures expanded along the canal's edge. If we can use the geothermal runoff from the hot springs to heat those gardens, we can feed the North even when the snows are ten feet deep. Use the Myrish techniques I showed you. Do not let the builders cut corners."
Maester Luwin's gaze softened with a mix of pride and caution. "You are building a city of the future, Karlon. Some will call it folly to build while the Ironborn burn the coasts."
"Let them call it what they like," Karlon replied, mounting his horse. "While they focus on the fire, we will focus on the harvest. Ensure the glass is thick and the canal is deep. I expect to see the skyline changed when I return."
"By your command, my lord," Luwin bowed.
With a final nod, Karlon mounted his destrier. The Great Gate of Winterfell groaned open, and the column began to move, leaving the ancestral home of the Starks behind.
The march to the sea was a showcase of Karlon's "New Model" army. His five hundred infantry moved with a rhythmic, disciplined stride that unsettled the traditional Northern lords watching from the battlements. They didn't march like feudal levies bound by seasonal duty; they marched like a professional legion, boots hitting the hard-packed earth in a single, haunting pulse.
When they reached the Seal Gate of White Harbor, the air was thick with the scent of salt and tar. Lord Wyman Manderly, the "Lord of the Lamp," stood atop the white stone battlements, his massive frame draped in sea-green velvet, looking down at the strange, orderly formation below.
As Karlon rode in, the Manderly knights parted. Wyman descended the stairs, his many chins wobbling as he offered a deep, laborious bow.
"My Lord Karlon! The Wolf of Starfall!" Manderly bellowed, his jovial voice echoing off the white stone walls. "Winterfell has sent us a commander who looks more like a King than a boy of ten. My kitchens are ready to burst with a feast in your honor!"
"There is no time for feasting, Lord Manderly," Karlon said, dismounting with a grace that clearly showed the Dayne blood in his veins. His violet eyes were hard, fixed on the masts in the harbor. "The Greyjoys have dared to blood the North. Bear Island has been raided, and the Mormonts deserve more than a letter of sympathy. I mean to ensure the Ironborn learn that the North's reach is long."
Wyman's smile thinned into a businessman's calculation. "A noble sentiment, my lord. The Mormont women are fierce, but even they cannot hold against a surprise reaving. But... you move with such haste. Are you not waiting for the King's summons? Surely Robert Baratheon will call the banners soon."
Karlon didn't blink. As a transmigrator, he knew the script: the burning of the Lannister fleet, the call to meet at Lannisport, and the slow, grinding mobilization of the Seven Kingdoms. But he also knew that being first to the Iron Islands meant control of the narrative—and the spoils.
"My uncle, Lord Eddard, will wait for the King's word. I will not," Karlon said, his voice cold. "While the rest of the realm discusses logistics at Lannisport, the North will already be at their gates. How many ships have you readied?"
"Twenty war-galleys, my lord, and fifty transports," Wyman answered, his voice dropping to a respectful murmur. "The Manderly fleet is the largest in the North, but we have heard no word of the Royal Fleet or the Lannisters moving yet. You would be sailing into the teeth of the Ironborn alone."
Karlon looked out at the harbor, where his disciplined pikes were already beginning to board the ships in silence. "The Ironborn expect a slow, bumbling response from a feudal king. They do not expect a professional vanguard to strike while they are still celebrating their 'victory' at the Bay of Ice. I want my men on the water by sunset."
Wyman looked at the boy's violet eyes and saw the chilling foresight of someone who wasn't just guessing at the future, but commanding it. "The knights of White Harbor are eager for squid, My Lord. If you wish to bypass the King's assembly and strike the first blow for the North... we are with you."
Karlon looked out at the churning grey waters of the Bite. "I have brought the future of the North, Lord Manderly. Now, show me the ships that will take us to Blacktyde."