In the Merman's Court of White Harbor, the air was thick with the smell of roasted seal and the restless aggression of thirty Northern lords. They stood around a massive table where a map of the Sunset Sea was weighed down by daggers.
"It is madness!" Lord Rickard Karstark bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table. "You send your Uncle Ned to Lannisport with half our strength to bow to a Southern King, while we, the true power of the North, sail into the fog to hunt squids alone? You are ten years old, Karlon. You've barely seen a winter, let alone a naval campaign!"
A murmur of assent rippled through the hall. Lord Umber, the Greatjon, loomed like a mountain behind his chair, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his eyes narrowed at the boy standing at the head of the table.
Karlon didn't blink. He stood perfectly still, his violet eyes sharp and alien in the torchlightscanning the faces of his vassals. He waited until the silence became uncomfortable.
"Lord Karstark," Karlon began, his voice quiet but carrying a strange, resonant authority. "You speak of madness. I speak of logistics. If we arrive at Lannisport as one mass, we are merely a segment of the King's tail. We wait for their bread, we wait for their command, and we fight for their scraps."
He stepped toward the map and pointed at Blacktyde and Harlaw.
"The Iron Fleet is a beast of the sea. While Stannis Baratheon and the Royal Navy lure Victarion Greyjoy into a set-piece battle at the Fair Isle, the islands themselves will be stripped of their defenders. They expect a hammer to hit their front door. They do not expect a dagger in their kidneys."
"A dagger?" Lord Glover scoffed. "We are Northmen! We march with the hammer!"
"Then march to your grave, Lord Glover," Karlon snapped, his gaze icy. "The Ironborn thrive on 'Iron Price' heroics. They want to die in a boarding action. My 'New Model' pikes are not built for heroics; they are built for attrition. We will land at night. We scuttle their longships in the harbors before they can launch. We seize their keeps while their men are away at sea. By the time King Robert sees the towers of Pyke, I intend for him to be sailing through a graveyard of conquered islands."
He looked at the Greatjon. "Uncle Ned will provide the King with the Northern face he expects. But we will provide the North with the spoils it deserves. I want their thralls for our canals. I want their silver for our glass gardens. I want their gold for our projects. And I want the blade that belongs to the man who can take it."
"Also I want you to ensure we don't destroy their ships we take them for ourselves for the canal were building we'll need ships for trade." I told them all staring them down.
The Greatjon let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounded like shifting boulders. "The lad speaks like a seasoned reaver. But can your 'disciplined' boys actually hold a breach, Karlon? Or will they piss themselves when the first axe splits a shield?"
Karlon reached into his belt and pulled out a small, heavy iron coin, a marker of his new military pay system. He flipped it onto the map.
"A man who fights for a Lord he loves is a brave man," Karlon said. "A man who is trained to move as a single organism, fed three meals a day, and paid in coin to defend his home is a soldier. My men do not break because they do not have to think. They only have to push. I am going to Blacktyde. Those who wish to see the North grow beyond its borders will follow me. Those who wish to wait for King Robert's permission to breathe... can sail with my Uncle."
The room was silent. Lord Karstark looked at the map, then at the boy with the Dayne eyes. He saw the shadow of Brandon Stark's ferocity mixed with a cold, Southern calculation.
"By the Old Gods," Karstark muttered, reaching for his flagon. "He's either a genius or he's going to get us all drowned. To Blacktyde, then."
Time skip
The salt air of the Sunset Sea bit at Karlon's face as the Manderly war-galley White Knife cut through the swells. Behind them, the smoking ruins of the Blacktyde keep stood as a grim testament to the speed of the "New Model" army.
On the blood-slicked deck, Karlon stood over a map of the archipelago weighted down by a jagged piece of ironwood. Beside him, Lord Eddard Stark looked out at the horizon, his cloak whipping in the wind. The secret understanding between them, forged in the solar of Winterfell was about to be put to the ultimate test.
"Blacktyde is ours," Karlon said, his voice carrying the eerie calm of a man who had seen this war play out in history books before living it. "In three days, Orkmont and Old Wyk will follow. The Ironborn are scattered, looking for a fleet at Lannisport that hasn't even finished assembling."
Ned turned from the sea, his expression heavy with the burden of the deception. "The King's scouts will reach the Westerlands soon, Karlon. Robert will find the Lannister fleet in ashes and his banners uncalled. When he hears the North has already taken three islands without his command... he will call it glory. The Small Council will call it treason."
"Let them call it what they like while we hold the keys to the Sunset Sea," Karlon replied, tapping the map. "Here is how we split, Uncle. You must take the Karstarks , Dreadfort men and the Umber giants. Sail for Lannisport. Meet the King with the 'main' Northern host. Bring Roose Bolton with you, keep him close to your side and far from my supply lines."
Ned nodded slowly. "And the Ryswells?"
"Lord Ryswell and Lord Dustin will remain on the coast," Karlon explained. "Their riders will funnel grain and steel through White Harbor to my positions here. While you play the part of the loyal Warden of the North at Robert's side, I will be the 'rogue' commander securing the flank. By the time the Royal Fleet arrives at Pyke, they won't be coming to start a war, they'll be coming to finish one we've already won."
Karlon looked toward the south, toward the heart of the islands. "Go to Lannisport, Uncle. Give Robert his theater. I'll give him the Iron Islands in chains."
Ned gripped Karlon's shoulder, a flash of Stark pride breaking through his stoic mask. "Be careful, Karlon. The Ironborn are like the sea; they only seem conquered until the tide turns."
Karlon watched as the Manderly knights began transferring to the ships destined for the south. The North was no longer just a frozen kingdom waiting for orders—it was an empire moving in silence.
Karlon turned from the map as a man in burnished bronze-and-gold plate stepped forward. Willam Dustin, Lord of Barrowton, had the look of a man who had spent too much time in the saddle and not enough in the shield wall. His eyes were bright with the prospect of winning glory that didn't involve a cold grave in the South.
"My Lord Karlon," Willam said, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "The Ryswell riders are eager, and my own Barrowton men have the blood of the First Men screaming for a fight. You aren't truly suggesting I sit on the shore and count sacks of grain while you storm the holy ground of Old Wyk?"
Karlon felt a cold prickle of foresight. In the histories he remembered, Willam Dustin was a name carved on a tombstone because he followed a Stark into a fight he couldn't win. If he fell here, the Rills and the Barrowlands would become a nest of vipers for Karlon's future plans.
"Lord Willam," Karlon said, his voice dropping to a tone of practiced respect. "I am not asking you to count grain. I am asking you to be the Shield of the North. If the Ironborn realize we've taken Blacktyde, their first instinct won't be to fight me here it will be to slip past us and burn the Stony Shore and the Rills in retaliation. I need a commander the men fear and the horses follow to patrol the coast."
Willam frowned, his pride bristling. "You have the Glovers for that."
"The Glovers are woodmen," Karlon countered, stepping closer. "I need cavalry. I need the Ryswell horses to move like lightning between the salts and the streams. If you stay with me on these rocks, your strengths are wasted. If you hold the coast, you ensure that while we conquer their homes, they cannot touch ours. You won't be a spectator, Willam, you'll be the reason the North doesn't bleed while we're away."
Karlon looked him in the eye, the violet of House Dayne shimmering. "Go with the supply fleet. Coordinate with your father-in-law, Lord Ryswell. I want the western coast so tightly guarded that a seagull can't land without a Dustin arrow in its neck. I will not have it said that I led the flower of Northern chivalry to die on a salt-stained rock when they were needed to protect our borders."
Willam hesitated, then gave a sharp, reluctant nod. "My lady wife told me you had a silver tongue, Karlon. Very well. I'll keep your back clear. But you owe me the finest longship in the Greyjoy fleet when this is done."
"You have my word," Karlon said, watching as the Lord of Barrowton turned to descend the gangplank.
As Willam walked away, Ned Stark leaned in, his voice a low rasp. "A wise move. You just saved a man's life, and perhaps the loyalty of the West."
"I didn't just save a man, Uncle," Karlon whispered, watching the Dustin banners flutter toward the transports. "I saved us a civil war."