The northern bastion was an onyx behemoth, colored blood of a wound that never truly healed. The castle was ancient, forged long before the iotunnulf had claimed dominion over their ancestral lands. From its small pigeon holes, to the massive drawbridge and old iron spikes that jutted out from its walls over deadly drops it was clear that Svartguard was built for war, perched atop one of the highest mountains, requiring a grand trave up winding streets and beside deadly drops to enter it. The fortress stood like a sentinel over the capitol and ever-blue bay, its massive sloped roofs, intended for snow decorated in carved wolf snarls of old wood and covered in onyx slate. Grand towers jutting seemingly at random in all four directions, keeping a watchful eye over the northrealm. It disappeared behind the massive mountain that cradled it, only to tear through the stone flesh to the valley of evergreens and grand lake on the other side, where it was far newer with paler stone and large, beautiful windows meant to bless its inhabitants with the views of brief spring and bright winter alike.

There the brutal palace poured out into four great tiers, the largest made of royally appointed gardens laden with sweet evergreens, untamed lupin and winter roses, then of a great training grounds with its mighty forge and esteemed armoury, along with the ritualistic ring where challengers of the great king lost their lives and spilled their blood, the final a massive stable of fine northern coursers and small, oddly quaint village that lead into a far grander one surrounded by stone walls still under construction, notably lacking the thick darkness of the fortress above, instead slate and stone as the mountains the walls were broken from.

Slate blue banners, flags and the great silver wolf of the King litter the entire castle, looming over its citizens like a loyal hound and reminder of their lord and his unification of the realm. Some claimed the onyx stone meant that no matter how wild and deadly the snowstorms of the north were, the fortress could be seen, a reminder of the ever watchful eye of the King.

Inside, the castle was at first warm and filled with life, fires burned bright in every corner and the beams were carved in great knotwork of tales of olde, thick pelts lay across wood and stone floors and grand chandeliers hang from sloped ceilings. The higher and deeper within, smallfolk claimed a dragon lived, rumbling its fire and keeping the halls warm even in the coldest of frost, instead old enchantments of long dead creatures and hot springs ran throughout the castle, bringing warmth and nearly boiling water in ancient aqueducts.

The higher within, to where the nobility and royals dwelled the walls became stuccoed and laid in wallpaper and fine dark wood carved as the old ways. It’s decorated in the wealth of nobility, comfortable and warm despite its northern simplicity. It made a fine home for the nobility of the north, functioning as the King’s domain and a great hall for tourneys, balls, festivals and grand meetings alike. The castle was a warm place, Despite its outer brutality, Svartguard - known affectionately the world over as “Castle Black” was a magnificent sight to behold, the grandest castle in all the north.

The true city in the great ever-blue bay known as Golvágnr by the northfolk. It’s a sprawling proper capitol of sprawling high-roofed buildings and a massive gladiatorial arena and even play houses, as well as a grand port rivaled only by the mythical races of the world, attracting nobility and merchants to the great northern city for the first time in known history. Golvangr is a grand trading hub and filled with wealth, and still actively being constructed twenty years into King Fenris’ reign.