Chapter 5

My chest was heaving, sweat dripping down my brow, and my breathing ragged. I desperately tried to catch my breath as Mors Umber stalked around Ned and I, glaring and scowling at us both.

Three months of this. Every day. All day. Sometimes it felt like all there was to do in Last Hearth was fight, eat, and sleep.

"Hopeless. How you can spend so much time practicing and still be so useless?" I largely tuned out Mors' words. Three months experience had taught me he rarely had anything positive to say about anyone in the yard. I'd even watched him curse and mock the Greatjon.

Not that he was wrong, I was still useless, but even I could see the improvement since I first started. Even if most of that improvement was being better at taking a hit.

"Well?" His breath, reeking of sour ale, wafted between us. "You ladies rested enough?"

And that was our cue. Ned was moving towards me, the practice sword raised in his hand. I darted forward, sword meeting his in a wooden clang, muscles straining.

And, as always, I inevitably felt myself being pushed back. My sword being forced down. Ned was just too strong. The difference in our size too big.

Reflexively, I took a step back to try and clear some space. Then I realized what I had done. I felt my eyes widen. No. Not again. Damn it, not again. Desperately I tried to surge forward against Ned, but it was too late. I was off balance. Then he was inside my guard.

I felt the clang as he whacked me on knee, on side, and finally on the shoulder as I tripped and fell to the ground.

And just like that it was over. As always, with the fight done, Ned took a step back and offered me a hand.

Mors was stomping towards us, an angry scowl on his face. "What was that, boy? Tell me Eyron? What was that?"

I matched him scowl for scowl, but mostly I was angry at myself. "I messed up."

He sneered down at me. "Obviously you 'messed up' if you were sitting on the ground. What have I told you?"

I glowered, avoiding his eyes. "Always move forwards."

"Don't mumble boy. Are you some Southron maid? Say it again."

My scowl deepened. A few months in this backwater had brought home that there was no worse insult in Last Hearth than to be called Southron. Of course I knew there was nothing wrong about being from the south. Intellectually. But I had to admit after only a few months here, being called Southron was starting to grate on my nerves. I'd be damned if I was going to let them keep implying I was some summer-born fool.

Gathering my anger, I looked up, meeting the man's eyes. "Always move forwards."

His large bear-like hand gripped my shoulder. "Always. Move. Forwards." Each word was punctuated with a tug on my shoulder that had my whole body shaking like a rag doll.

The old man turned his eyes to rest on Ned. "Stand still?"

Ned obediently parroted the line drilled into us every day. "You're dead."

His eyes shifted to me. "Move backwards?"

I glumly resisted the urge to sigh. "You're dead."

And back to Ned. "The best defense?"

"Offense."

Back to me. "Dodging about?"

"Southron foolery."

He nodded, satisfied we remembered the mantra he drilled into us every day. "Eyron. You lost that fight the moment you stepped back. Ned had the momentum and you were dead."

Despite my better judgment, my frustration bubbled up and I couldn't help but argue. "But he's bigger than me! I needed to get some space. Ser Rodrick says…"

Mors cut me off with a raised hand. "I don't care what some 'Ser' says. I'm teaching you to fight like a man, not some Southron tourney fighter." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his description of Ser Rodrick, whom he clearly had never met.

Hesitantly Ned came to my defense. "I am bigger uncle Mors…"

The man crossed his arms and sneered at us both. "Bigger and stronger. So what? You think you won't ever fight someone bigger or stronger? The minute you back down you've lost. Dodging around? Getting 'space'? That's only putting off the inevitable."

I felt that frustration bubbling up again. "But if he's stronger…"

Mors cut me off. "No. Its momentum, not strength. You move forwards and you will win, no matter who is stronger."

He must have seen my disbelief, because for once he didn't urge us back to the fight. Instead he glanced across the yard, searching for something. Finally, his eyes landed on the massive form of the Smalljon. "Boy!"

Somehow the Smalljon knew that 'boy' referred to him and he lumbered over to us, a knowing half smile on his face. "Uncle?"

Mors grunted. "Boy. We need a demonstration."

Smalljon, whom I'd learned was surprisingly good natured and calm compared to most of the Umbers I has met, gave a wry head shake. "And why am I always the one picked on for these demonstrations?"

Mors face softened. Everyone had a soft spot for the Smalljon. "'Cause you're a giant lummox is why."

"Boy…" and this time I somehow knew the 'boy' was me. "Who is stronger. Me or Jon?"

I eyed them warily, sensing there was a trap in this. But the answer was obvious. "Jon." No one in Last Hearth was bigger or stronger than Smalljon Umber, excepting maybe the Greatjon himself.

Mors gave a slow nod. "Right. He's bigger. Stronger. Younger too. Just like Ned is to you. Remember that."

I was still puzzling out what Mors was driving at as he turned away from Ned and I to face the Smalljon, drawing the blunted sword the Umber men most commonly used in practice. His nephew gave his uncle a semi-resigned look and drew his own blade.

Just as it dawned on me that I was about to get to see Smalljon pound my taskmaster into the ground, they were both moving.

Almost too fast to watch they blurred across the yard. Steel clashed on steel in a resounding boom as they met in the middle.

For a long moment both men's swords were crossed, and I could see their muscles straining and their bodies heaving at each other. The Smalljon's superior strength was showing as he slowly forced his uncle's sword back.

Then Mors moved. Somehow. His body twisting forwards and suddenly he was inside the Smalljon's guard.

The Smalljon brought the pommel of his sword down on the old man's back, but the angle was clearly awkward and Mors took another step forward, his elbow flying out even as he brought the sword down again.

There was a resounding crack. And then I could see blood flying from the Smalljon's nose.

Jon stumbled back, desperately trying to keep his feet, but Mors was on him again, tourney sword swinging viscously. A few seconds later and Mors was standing over a prone Smalljon, looking down on the giant.

There was a moment of silence before the Smalljon let out a booming laugh, taking his uncle's proffered hand and hauling himself to his feet.

The giant gave his head a shake, blood and sweat flying everywhere. "You're slowing down old man. I almost had you there."

Mors grunted, but a small smile was on his face as he handed his nephew a rag to wipe the blood from his face. "Almost isn't worth shit."

Mors slapped the Smalljon on the back companionably one more time, before the big-man lumbered off towards the keep. Hopefully to do something about his nose.

He watched his nephew walk off wearing a proud half smile on his face, before turning back to us. Stale breath wafted across me again as he leaned in. "Well?"

I gave my shoulders a shrug, trying to act nonchalant. However, some of my awe at the fight must have shown on my face because that half smile came back. "Not bad for an old man, huh lads?"

Ned didn't even try to play it cool like I was, a huge grin on his face. "That was amazing uncle Mors! I can't believe you sent Jon flying."

Mors let a large hand rest on Ned's head, ruffling the hair slightly. "There's a lesson there for both of you. Strength helps. But it won't win you the fight on its own." He looked from Ned to me. "Or cost you the fight."

He paused for a long moment before addressing us both. "When did Jon lose that fight?"

Ned jumped in, still excited from the spectacle. "You smashed his nose! There was blood everywhere! It was amazing."

But I knew what the man was driving at, and quietly corrected Ned. "When you got in his guard. And then he stumbled. Moved backwards."

Mors gave a sharp nod of agreement. "Exactly. He was bigger and stronger. But the minute he stopped moving forwards I had him. Strength didn't matter then."

Mors gave us a moment to let that sink in before focusing in on me. "You take that to heart boy. In this yard you'll win some and you'll lose some. But you're never going to back down again."

I gave a slow nod. He was right. Clearly. Ser Rodrik had always stressed a balance of offense and defense. Parry and counter, flowing forwards and backwards. But really, what did he know? Ser Rodrik was of an age with Mors Umber, but somehow I couldn't see him sending the Smalljon flying. And there was no doubt I'd improved more in a few months with the Umbers, frozen wasteland that it was, then I had in years at Winterfell.

Silently I resolved, win or lose, I'd never lose the momentum again. If moving forwards let you send a man like the Smalljon flying, I'd never back down in a fight again. No matter what.

Mors must have seen something on my face. He gave a low grunt. "Good. We're done for the day."

Done and the sun still in the sky? Wow, the old bastard was feeling generous.

At my side Ned let out a whoop. "Yes! C'mon Eyron!"

Ned took off at a run, pausing only long enough to deposit his armor and sword back in the armory as I trailed after him.

I knew we were heading towards the Godswood. While at Winterfell worship was left to individual preference and I had mostly avoided the Godswood, in Last Hearth expectations were different. You did *not* finish your day without spending a few minutes before a heart tree. It wasn't that the gods were taken lightly in Winterfell, so much as the Umbers had much more specific expectations. I still remembered the Greatjon's scandalized look when he first realized I tended to avoid the Weirwood forest.

Though truth be told, I didn't mind the Godswood so much these days. I still felt faintly ridiculous sitting in front of a carved tree, but it was also the only moment of real solitude I got at Last Hearth. Unlike Winterfell, there was no private library or silent nooks and crannies. Other than when I was sleeping in my cold, narrow, little room… every minute of the day was spent in the practice yard or the chaotic noise of the Hearth. About the only time I had with my own thoughts was in the Godswood. So perhaps it wasn't surprising that the Godswood had grown on me slightly.

My musings were interrupted by Ned shoving an elbow in my side to get my attention. "Could you believe that, Eyron? Uncle Mors treated Jon like a rag-doll!"

I shot him a grin, more comfortable after the last few months in bantering with my friend. "Yeah. Can't wait until I'm doing that to you!"

"Hah!" Ned matched my grin. "In your dreams Stark!"

Our joking was cut off as we entered the clearing where the Heart Tree stood, both of us falling appropriately silent. The Heart Tree at Last Heart was carved in a similar 'style' to the one in Winterfell, but yet looked completely different. Unlike the more sombre face at Winterfell, the tree of Last Hearth always seemed to have a certain fierceness to it. A look of anger and pride in its' eyes.

Or that could just be my imagination I supposed. I certainly had spent enough hours staring at the carving for my imagination to be acting up.

I pushed all these thoughts from my head, just trying to relax. To enjoy the silence in the woods after the chaos and noise of the yard.

I wasn't sure how much time passed. Finally though, Ned looked up getting my attention. A pensive thought on his face. "Eyron. You think the gods can hear us? And answer our prayers?"

I eyed him. No I didn't think the trees could hear us. But that didn't seem like a smart thing to say. Instead I gave a shrug. "I don't know. Why ask me?"

He flashed me a quick smile. "You're smart! I bet you've read more than uncle Hother even."

I felt myself flush slightly at his easy compliment. "Books don't talk much about the old gods." Which was true, most books on religion in Westeros tended to focus on the Seven.

Ned considered that a moment. "Uncle Hother says the gods talk to us if we know how to listen. That's why you always feel different in the Godswood. But they don't always answer our prayers."

I gave a small shrug. Ned was right that the Godswood always had a different feel from a regular Forrest. Heavier. More solemn. But I always figured that was just conditioning based on how everyone in the North treated them. "Maybe. What were you praying for?"

It was Ned's turn to look embarrassed, and I realized that was probably a pretty personal question. "Nothing special. Just. Well."

I gave a head shake and let him off the hook. "It's alright."

Another long moment of silence. "Hey Eyron, Uncle Hother is taking me with him to visit some trapper friends of his tomorrow. Want to come?"

I hesitated. Normally nothing would appeal to me less than traipsing through a forest wilderness. But I had to admit after the last few months the thought of taking a break from all the sword play and the long days in Last Hearth actually sounded appealing. "How long?"

Ned smirked, sensing I was considering it. "Just a couple of days. C'mon. It will be lots of fun Eyron."

I hesitated, hoping I wouldn't regret this. But the thought of seeing something besides the practice yard and my narrow room was appealing. Besides, a couple of days couldn't be too bad. "Alright."

—

It took me only a few hours to regret my decision. Our small company had set out on foot from Last Hearth at dawn, and from the beginning it was off to a bad start. The few times I had ventured out of Winterfell, we'd always had plenty of servants and men-at-arms accompanying us. I'd never really thought about it, but with hindsight they had clearly handled many of the more mundane tasks of these trips.

At Last Hearth, Hother Umber had unceremoniously started our trip off by shoving a pack that felt like it weighed half as much as I did on to my back. Apparently Ned and I were to be the manual labour. It had gone downhill from there.

About the only positive I could say about the whole thing, was at least the effort of lugging the giant pack kept me warm. It also kept me too focused on just putting one foot in front of the other to even appreciate the trip. I vaguely recognized that the majestic pine trees and oaks were impressive, but honestly I was too focused on not keeling over from exhaustion to appreciate them.

When we finally stopped for the night, I collapsed in a heap at the camp. I could feel the sweat freezing on me as I waited for the fire to be started, but I was too exhausted to care. Ned, somehow, still had energy, and was filtering about chatting and helping the men set things up.

Finally, my friend plopped down besides me as the fire came to life. "Eyron, Is it true that the trees are even bigger in the Wolfswood? Uncle Hother said the trees there can grow hundreds of feet tall! You have to take me next time you go to Winterfell. And then I can take you to the Bay! I only got to go once, because Father says the Wildling scum raid too much. I have to be older. Eyron? Eyron?"

I gave an exhausted groan as he poked me. How did he still have energy!

I was saved from answering by Hother Umber joining us at the fire, sending me a level look. "Clearly my brother is slacking if you're that exhausted just from a days walk. I'll have to talk to him about increasing your training…"

No! Desperately I struggled into a sitting position and a semblance of awareness.

He snorted, running a hand through his long beard. "Well. You boys hungry?"

Almost as though his words triggered it, I realized I was in fact starving, my stomach giving out a low rumble. A moment later Ned's echoed me.

Hother's usually harsh face lightened in amusement as he gave a low chuckle. "I'll take that as a yes. The gods are with us as well. One of the men had the luck to stumble across a rabbit. It'll be stew tonight."

One of the men-at-arms with us gave a nod at that, bringing forwards his catch. Despite myself I averted my eyes at that. Intellectually I knew of course where the meat came from. But in my previous life I'd never had to actually deal with a dead animal. Even in Winterfell, the food was always cooked for us.

Hother noticed that of course, flinty eyes narrowing with suspicion as they focused in on me. "Eyron. I think it's a good thing you came with us here. We might have to make your company a regular occurrence."

Gods no! I sent Ned a scowl. What had my friend gotten me into?

Ned snickered slightly at my look, and Hother gave a nod. "Yes. Definitely we will be doing this again. Every week I think. Till you can do a day's walk without fainting like a Southron Lady."

He paused before continuing. "You're hungry?"

I nodded my head warily. I'd been around the man enough to sense some sort of trap in his words.

"Good. I'll start the stew. You skin it." And with that he tossed the dead rabbit right into my lap.

I sent the dead thing a horrified look. Averting my eyes.

He grunted. "As I thought."

He pulled out a long wicked looking knife, and reversed his grip. Offering it to me handle first. "Well, get to it boy."

Yeah. No. I took the knife automatically, but that was it. I could barely sit with the dead animal in my lap. It made my skin crawl whenever I looked at it. No way I was sticking a knife in it and skinning it.

Hother gave an exaggerated shrug as I ignored him. "Well. Suit yourself, boy. But that there is our dinner. You don't skin it, we go hungry."

"Eeeeyron!" Ned moaned, clutching his stomach. When I ignored him, he turned to Hother. "Uncle Hother! I'm starving!"

Hother raised an eyebrow. "We all are. But that's our dinner in your friend's lap."

"Eyron doesn't have to, I can skin it…" Ned made to reach for the rabbit but his uncle stopped him with a stern look.

"No."

I felt a surge of anger. I was tired. Hungry. Grossed out. All at once. "But. Why? Let Ned do it."

Hother leveled his flinty gaze on me. "No. You'll do it if you want to eat. And you'll do it again tomorrow night. And every night until I say otherwise. And you're going to come with Ned and me. Every week. If you can't skin a damn rabbit, how are you going to kill a man?"

I shot him an incredulous look. Kill a man? I knew Westeros was violent. And obviously I knew why we were training with swords. But who talked to kids about killing people?

Hother was unmoved by my look. Arms crossed. "Makes no matter to me. Not the first time I've gone hungry. When the cold wind blows, plenty of men will go hungry."

Ned sent me another exasperated look. "Eyron! C'mon!"

I hesitated. Damn peer pressure. But between Ned's hungry moans and Hother's steady gaze I reluctantly picked up the knife.

And a moment later promptly dropped it, as I had to turn away gagging the first time I stuck the blade into the rabbit's flesh.

But under the old man's directions and instructions I picked it up again. And again.

A/N: Well there you have it. A lesson in Umber style fighting and a little bit of culture shock/adaptation for Eyron. Hopefully you noticed that in some things Eyron is getting better… and some he has a long way to go. On the dead animal bit; that is the reaction of a lot (though I'm sure not all) of sheltered kids, or those who aren't really exposed to nature, the first time they come across any dead animal. Also, not sure this needs saying, but obviously I don't actually think Mors' assessment of the best way to fight is actually *correct* so much as his specific biased view. As is Eyron's thoughts on Rodrik. That is him slowly being influenced by the Umber way of thinking. But I did like the idea that its not just coincidence that all the Umbers we meet seem to fight in the same mold in the books. Its clearly not just 'natural selection' so much as how they are specifically taught at Last Hearth.

Anyway next chapter will time skip a few years (though still well before the Prologue of Game of Thrones).