The Giants of Last Hearth
For the first time, in years and years, a giant trekked across the lands of The North, leaving footprints in the sodden muck large enough for a normal man to lay in. A tremendous thud rocked the ground with every giant step, leaving Jon Stark wondering what other phenomenons had been uncovered since the dragons hatched across the narrow sea, and the White Walkers lurked in the real north beyond the wall once more.
All my life I've wanted to see a dragon…and ride one, and fight atop one, he daydreamed, atop his plain horse, with fur instead of scales, no wings and lacking a fiery breath hot enough to melt stone. Atop a dragon, he could fly to Winterfell before nightfall, root out the traitors living within his halls, and char them to a crisp. But he had his Direwolf, and he'd settle for Ghost over any winged, fire breathing beast.
His plain horse sunk its hooves deep into the mush of snow and wet mud; a stain from the storms that had lashed across the land from the eastern seas. The sky was clear now, like crystal, with a radiant blue painted across the top of the world. But the cold still lingered, battling against the little warmth from the dim sunshine, hanging around like a disease.
Another storm was brewing, Jon sensed. The air reeked of it. A blizzard was readying itself for assault. They were of frequent occurrence since the winds of winter grew stronger in the north, creeping over and around The Wall, gushing south quicker than any dragon could. Jon had seen a few bad snowstorms as a child, but all in the comfort of his warm bed back at Winterfell. Thinking of home only made him sad.
Last Hearth peeped its head over the horizon; a fat, tall and solitary tower, atop a stunted hill, surrounded by grey, modest buildings, that acted as the main keep. As they neared, Jon could see the epic stretch of wall, longing in the distance, surrounding a whole town of working busy. If this place ever fell to a siege, the small folk would fall first. Though, father once said, Umbers would fight for their small folk as if it were their own lives, and defend the entire town until their last breaths. Bold men. Jon had a great deal of respect for the loyalty Umbers had shown his house over the years. The Greatjon himself had been the one to name Robb a King, even after losing two fingers to Grey Wind. Remembering the wolves when they were mere pups forced an oddly woeful smile to his lips.
He looked down at Ghost, padding alongside him and his horse, at the head of the party who'd set off to greet the Umbers. Ghost knew, and looked upon his face almost instantly. Good boy, he thought to himself, but Jon knew Ghost could get into his head somehow; he always understood. The white direwolf's pale muzzle was stained red, a kill from this morning, elk or deer Jon guessed. No man alive could hunt as a wolf could, not even Robert Baratheon in his old days, when he had been tall and built like an ox and not a fat, tamed old drunkard.
Many of the men feared the great beast, but the Wildlings had grown used wolves that size. He didn't recall seeing any however, when he had been beyond The Wall. The Freefolk woman Tormand had acting as peace maker between Stannis and The Wildlings didn't flinch at Ghost even a little. She even dared stroke him one time, though Ghost didn't seem to mind. She rode up alongside the giant that accompanied them to Last Hearth, with a small party of twenty-odd Wildlings. Since the Umbers wore a giant on their sigil, Stannis thought to make a point to them by gracing them with an actual giant, and secretly thought to use the thing as muscle if the proceedings turned sour.
So far the ambassador of the Freefolk had said little to Jon, but she had an odd affection for Tormand, Jon deduced. Her face was pretty enough, only to be tainted by a scar across her brow; a minor wound if anything from the massacre at Hardhome. She was taller than most woman, rather ropey, and strong looking too, a true northern girl. Jon could see Tormand's interest in her, yet to him, she was no Ygritte. Her hair was a mousy brown, washed in with matted locks that lazily swayed with the wind, making her hair look knotted and unattended to. It added to the barbaric look the country likely expected of the Freefolk. It was no surprise they were feared by their more civilised, southern counterparts.
Before Jon could finish his thoughts, Stannis Baratheon hailed for him from the very front of the lines. Jon spurred his mare into a canter, and rode up to meet him, with Ghost shadowing him the whole way. Stannis had changed into clean and smarter boiled leathers, with a green and gold half cape, whipping wildly in the wind behind him. A bronze crown of antlers rested loosely on his head, topping off the look of a King. He wants to make a bold statement to the northerners. The giant alone will do that much.
'Your grace,' Jon respectively hailed as he trotted through the nameless Kingsguards, up alongside his King.
Bluntly, without any small talk, Stannis jumped straight in. 'Why do you want to marry my daughter, Lord Stark?'
In truth, he didn't. After Ygritte's death at The Wall, Jon had no motives to move on with another, let alone marry, partly due to the black. His Nights Watch vowels had forbid it either way, but he hadn't thought much of it when he was pardoned of those vowels. Guilt alone would of suppressed any notions of marriage, for a time, out of respect to those he once called brothers; it would be no less than a betrayal to rub freedom in the faces of men sworn till the death. It makes Mance seem all the more right. Perhaps there is no freedom in bending the knee, and swearing your life away, whatever the cause.
Besides all that, Shereen was just a girl, barely older than Arya, and come of age was an overused term in Westeros. Had Joffrey truly come of age when he became known as 'The most powerful man in Westeros?' He was just a vicious boy, and she is just a scarred girl. They have no place in these games.
'I confess I do not love the girl. Actually I barely know her.' Jon had never had the honour. No one had, not even her mother took a break from staring into flames, like a moth, to visit her. Only Ser Davos saw her, and he'd gained quite a bond with the girl.
Jon spoke on, with a lump in his throat. 'I've never thought about marriage, your grace. The men could only ever dream of anything like that, thanks to the Nights Watch vowels. But she is a sweet girl, and the Lannisters are trying to divide us. We must persist and merge truly as allies. And if a wedding can unite our houses as one, then so be it.' He masked the deeper truth with an obvious one. And you would let the red woman burn her if she wasn't a necessity. If a wedding will save an innocent little girl, then so be it. Perhaps her life will repent my own misdeeds.
Stannis reacted bitterly with mistrust. 'Or you will take her hostage, at my expense, hand her to the Lannisters as a gift for your pardon and stab me in the back. We are at war. Discontent is a given. Bring me these Umber men. Then Lord Stark, I will trust your intentions.' Blunt and brief, Stannis cantered off to the gates, ushering signals for the Giants advance.
For the faintest of moments, when death seemed a certainty at Hardhome, Jon had seen an unguarded Stannis, a version of him that wore no stone masks. His shoulders were unburdened with duty and honour, for a time. Life was the only thing that made sense within all the madness and the slaughter. But the King had long lost that moment of freedom against his duty, and his mind was truly set on whatever he envisioned in the flames.
Jon had seen his own visions, ones of men burning down the Kingsroad, with flaming heart, engulfing a stag banners flying proudly above the black corpses—it was a road Jon found hard to follow. Mance Rayder was just the beginning, Jon had heard stories of Robert's eldest brother murdering his youngest, but many feared to say too much more than that. Others told horrifying tales of the kings own banner men, and brothers by law being burned in sacrifice to R'holler. The prince that was promised has no burdens in building pyres. No, only burdens in seizing the Iron Throne, no matter the consequence. Not many men are so bold to do what they believe is necessary, so oft. Jon pondered whether his black brothers thought something similar of him when he opened his gates to Tormand and his army. Quaking and thudding footsteps woke him from his ponders.
Armed with a white cloth, tied atop a totem taller than the towns walls, the Wildling giant approached Last Hearth, with its signal of peace. Slowly but surely, people flocked to the gates like vultures to a corpse. Archers assembled atop the battlements, with a few noblemen tailing behind them. Jon ordered the small party of under fifty to halt, with a single gesture. Stannis stopped too, clearly to show Jon's importance to the people he would supposedly rule.
Jon rode up to the gate alone. A lord looking man, dressed in cross chain armour, over dark boiled leather, wrapped warm in a wolfskin cloak, advanced to the top of the ramparts, whilst the rest gawked cautiously at the giant, muttering away like morning birds. Jon realised then how shabby he must of looked in his old Nights Watch leathers, black as pitch, crowned by a tattered crows cloak. He was grateful for the cloak against the chill in the air, however. The acting Lord had a crowd at his feet, archers and swords guarding every corner of the only entrance, and an impressive folded steel great-sword sheathed at his back—a big brother to the short-sword hanging from his waste. He thinks it's a siege, Jon realised.
The world fell silent, bar the noisy crows heckling in the distance. Jon waited for an addressing, but loyal to their renowned stubbornness, the Umber man said nought.
He croaked the boy from his voice, speaking loud and deep. 'I am Lord Jon Stark, by the decree of Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of Westeros, I have been named Warden in The North, and therefore the liege lord of this house.' Jon said it like a prayer; a prayer only those atop those battlements could answer. The nobleman didn't even give him a look, his eyes glued to the giant, whose kind fronted the banners draped down the face of gate.
A potent northern voice, that rivalled the Wildlings own tongue, bellowed from above. 'There is no Jon Stark. And last I heard, the Lannister runt was King.' He finally looked down at Jon, with bored black eyes, a rough brown beard and dark whisps of long brunette hair. Jon did not know his name by face, to his mistake, but the man donned the look of an Umber.
'We were invited…' the man's expression didn't change. 'By Mors Crowfood,' Jon said it more like a question.
'Mors Crowfood is a prick. Why have you and your King come here, Jon Stark, or whoever the fuck you are.' The nobleman was disgruntled, a true Umber by reputation at least.
Jon Snow whistled. Ghost prodded along, making his presence known. Everyone in the North knew of the Stark dire wolves, they were as real as the Targaryan Dragons that roamed the skies in the east. Jon thought Ghost would be evidence enough.
'I am the son of Eddard Stark. His last son,' he lied, but Bran and Rickon were part of a bigger picture. 'I was Lord Commander of The Nights Watch, at Castle Black. I came south to root the Boltons out of my family home and avenge your liege Lord and King in the North.' That only yeilded a sly scoff of the throat from Stannis behind him. The King didn't hide his disapproval of Robb's crowning; he considered it thievery, and named Jon's brother a usurper, a word that stung him nearly as hard as bastard had.
'And why would the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch be in the company of those goat fuckers,' the Umber men interrogated, pointing a gloved finger to Karsi and her giant. 'Mors thinks you're here to liberate the North but as far as I'm aware, The Watch is for life, isn't it? Are you a crow turned traitor?' The still unknown nobleman looked down from the walls, distrustfully at The Wildlings, distrustfully at Stannis and no differently to himself.
Jon had kept The Wildlings presence below The Wall a buried secret from the North. The Bolton's could turn the North against him for plaguing the lands with brigands and bandits; at least that's how they'd sell the song. Jon wanted to sell a different song. The Wildlings would pillage and plunder and rape and murder to their hearts content, as long as they did it for his side, he had no mind to stop them. And despite all that, Jon would of loved nothing more than seeing Roose Bolton's face upon hearing he had Giant fighting for him. Ah, that would be a sweeter sight than most. His breeches would be brown quicker than he could read the word Giant. But that was another matter.
'I have aligned the Nights Watch and The Freefolk to fight for a common cause…our very lives. I do not know you, but I assume you have never gone beyond The Wall.' Jon had tried to dress up the ugly wench that was his story at least, but the words sat sour in his mouth. The Watch and Freefolk hadn't really allied per say, but they were no longer fighting each other, and to him, that was something great. He thought it best not to mention the high tensions between him and his Nights Watch.
'If your Wildlings come peacefully then why have we had nothing but reports from the east telling tales of burned villages and slaughtered towns? My father is in a pit at The Twins, and between us and him, the Bolton's strut around like traitorous cunts, ruling the north, my country, as if they own the place. As far as they're concerned, they do own the place, but I'll never fight for that backstabbing cunt.' They hate the Boltons as much as we do. If I can only get his trust. But there's more of a fight looming than the Boltons. 'We had spurred to go south and free him, yet Roose Bolton and his sadistic bastard sit in our stead and Wildlings bang at our doors from The Wall. As I see it, you are responsible for the shit we find ourselves in.' Finally Jon realised he was speaking to Smalljon Umber, heir to Last Hearth, and clearly acting Lord whilst his father rotted in chains. The hostile demeanour and hint of exaggerated self worth should of suggested as much, Jon mused.
Bold, and uncaring of who heard his plans, Jon rung the truth, like a bell. 'The Freefolk have been sent to take Karhold. The Karstark's loyalty to the Stark's has faded into Roose Bolton's hands. They are our enemies and The Wildlings have been sent to kill them. I took great care in directing them away from Umber lands, so they shan't be a problem to you…if you join me,' Jon threatened. Not a way to earn a man's trust, though a Stark should simply have it in The North. A courtesy spared for a bastard it seems.
'You dash threats at a man in his own keep, you best back them if the swords are drawn. When the Wildlings strike, they hit us first. Nay, does it bother me, I've been killing Wildlings all my life. But from what I hear, thousands have leaked through The Wall, at your doing. I should be at the doors of Winterfell with your head demanding they march with us against the ' Smalljon yelled from atop the battlements. Convincing him proved to be no easy task.
The Giant slammed down the totem, planting it like a tree. With two heavy clouts, the totem was set in the ground, white flag fluttering with the breeze. The men on the battlements nearly shit themselves. The Wildling women approached, passing Jon towards the gate. 'My name is Karsi, and I speak for the Freefolk.'
Ever impatient, Smalljon urged her on. 'Then speak woman, what is there south of The Wall that could possibly interest your horde of barbarians?'
Karsi's mouth twisted, but she swallowed her anger at his jape. 'Life, southern Lord. The night is coming, and it will come here first. We aren't here to conquer. We're here to hide our weak behind The Wall, and throw out our strong against the army of the dead. Jon Stark and his kneeler King saved us at Hardhome. Not all of us…but those left owe them their lives. That is why we are here, southern Lord.'
Smalljon eyed Jon, curiously. 'Tis that true, Stark?'
'Aye, it is. They are no less real than you or me. And when they come, death comes with them until they meet an army that can stop them.' Jon was pleading now. The Smalljon's eyes lingered on the very much real giant. 'Trust me, you need us just as we need you. Accept me as your liege, Lord Umber, and I promise to rid the north of the Bolton's, to free your father from the Riverlands and to lead us into the long night against The Others.'
The Umber man wore a flabbergasted look if anything else. His expression melted into hard stone soon after, deep in thought. He clicked his fingers, urging council from his men. Smalljon's posey gathered to him and conferred. After one man huffed off in disagreement, Smalljon spoke in his most respectful Lord's voice, masking his attitude as if it were hidden behind glass. 'Lord Stark. It seems as if I owe you an apology. My castellans have reminded me of my err…courtesies and I would invite you and your companions into our halls for some bread and salt.' Jon was mistrustful, and no one moved when the gate screeched open.
He looked back, to meet Stannis's curious smile. They exchanged discrete nods, but we're still slow to proceed.
The Smalljon guffawed. 'Do I look like a fucking Frey? Come inside before you freeze your balls off.'
Jon did as he was bid, and reluctantly lead his party into Last Hearth. The city watched as they flowed through the gate, fitting three abreast at a time, between the grey stone walls. Hundreds of eyes followed, shining with then same mistrust as Jon. War had done this to them, to everyone, leaving a lingering doubt in the back of everyone from every where's mind. The Giant drew the most looks, but no one dared stare too long out of fear.
Last Hearth was a true northern town behind the walls; hard stone houses with white smoke wafting up into the field of blue above from the chimneys, markets buzzing with trade, selling green sour apples, potatoes in the thousands, bakers hailed their breads to the minor flocks of peasants with spare coin. Winter Town sat a short ride outside of Winterfell, but all the Umbers small folk resided inside of the castle grounds. The keep itself was situated atop a sloped hill towards the rear of the town, guarded with walls of its own. Jon hadn't realised so many occupied Last Hearth. They almost looked untouched by war of any form. They have held back their strength to defend their own, and sit stronger than any other northern house, no doubt. If they are as loyal to the Stark's as they claim to be, they'll make firm allies for sure. Before he could indulge in being Lord of Stark, a voice lingered deep in his head. But you're not a Stark, you're just a bastard playing at one. Jon marshalled on despite his doubts.
The ride was hard up the hill, steep as it was. Jon spotted murder holes dotted all along the lanky walls around the main keep, for archers to ambush any foe who'd be fool enough to march up. If the town fell, this place would stand otherwise. He wondered if this impressively defended keep would host the great battle in the snow the priestess nattered on about. Most of the men remained at the gates, but Jon doubted their lives were at risk; the giant was enough to deter any means of a fight from breaking out.
Two gates of thick, cold rolled steel—thicker than Castle Black's own—would have to be breached if any incoming army were to take the castle, and it appeared to be the only way in or out. The gates creaked heavily, as men grunted with effort, as they opened the crank. Even with a giant and an army, those gates would be a hard budge. And you'd fair no better scaling those walls. It would only earn a long fall to the death.
Inside the main gates, the Umber representatives unhorsed themselves and escorted them through into the Last Hearth till Castle Black. Barely ten men Jon knew acted as his company; respectively Stannis and Ser Davos, four southern lords Jon didn't recall, Karsi and a guard of The Freefolk, and a lieutenant of The Golden Company and three of his escorts. Lady Mellisandre had opted to stay in camp to stare into the flames and head R'holler's will, whilst Sam had urged to stay with his Gillyflower and her bastard babe. Their words had been brief, to Jon's regret, since their last encounter, where Jon had acted the hot headed fool. His council here would have been welcomed by Jon, but his brother seldom left Gilly's side since they departed The Wall.
With his small band on strangers, Jon was accepted into the main hall, but not with the same reception they'd received stood in the shit outside the gates. The Smalljon prompted not to dip his toe in the water, yet to dive in head first. 'Fuck all this Lord bullshit. I want to know why you let thousands of Wildlings through Castle Black, and cut us the lies, Stark. Everyone knows they'll fight no wars for kneelers.' The acting Lord Umber stood forth, towering Jon by a head and a half at least, his dark eyes burning right through him.
'I told you the truth of it at the gate, my Lord. King Stannis has offered the Freefolk whatever lands they can win from the Bolton's, by right of conquest, they make no claims to anything else. I swear it. All the Freefolk want, all they have ever wanted was to hide behind our wall, and when winter finally comes, they will fight by our side against what comes with it.' Jon had raised his voice louder than he knew. Smalljon gave him a curious stare, his mouth twitching as so. He had his doubts, Jon sensed.
He came closer, his mouth only daring to whisper the words. 'The White Walkers? No, they've be dead for thousands of years. The Wall has driven the watch mad. You're all fucking losing it.' Despite him being sceptical, the Smalljon sounded almost as if he were only lying to himself, more than anyone else.
Stannis chimed in, gravel toned. 'Once, when I was a boy, I stopped believing in all that malarkey about Others, dragons, gods. From a young age I grew into this stone faced man who cared only for duty, because that is what is right.' Stannis wore the strangest smirk on his face, one he had never seen. It was a reflection of Mellisandre's own smug face. 'Then I looked into the flames and saw a great battle in the snow, a true clash of blood and ice. But we fought no men in that vision. Only the dead. And now they come for all of us. Just as they did at Hardhome.' Our King, grim as he is, didn't strike me as a preacher, Jon pondered.
Stannis stared into the hearth, it's flickering flames lapping up timber, with a fiery lick. The torches scattered around the great hall dimmed eerily, just has they did when The Red Woman would leave a room. But this was different. It was as if they were fuelled by fireflies, that all flocked from the torches to the hearth, as it grew brighter than any star, igniting its glow onto the Kings smirking face. Jon felt an uneasy pit grow in his belly.
With sour eyes, Smalljon watched, before he finally questioned Stannis's story. 'What happened up there, with the Wildlings? We heard it was a massacre, for both the Nights Watch and the Wildlings?'
'It was,' Stannis replied, his smile never fading. 'When the dead came knocking, we fought, we lost, we ran.' He stopped smiling, finally, like the northern winds had rushed in and stripped it from him. He walk towards Lord Umber with his usual stone like expression. 'I've spent every night since trying to tell myself that what I saw, what I've seen, is all a lie. But all the gods curse if I lie to you now. The Others are more real than you or I. Just like the dragons, just like the gods.' Stannis lifted his head, revealing icy marks, that looked like blue fingers tattooed across his neck from where he'd been in the clutches of an Other. No one said a word. The Smalljon looked at his people for reassurance but found none.
'You're marked. They know which shithole castle you hide in,' Lord Umber finally said.
'I am,' Stannis bluntly replied. 'And if we do not take the north before the long night is upon us, they'll kill everyone, everywhere. I'm not King if all my subjects are dead, am I?'
'Lord Stark…a bastard you may be, but Ned Stark prided himself with his honour. His honour was law in these parts, once. I'll help you win the north, as a small gesture of our loyalty.' The Smalljon was convinced.
'Then kneel, before Gods and men, kneel and swear fealty to your Warden of the North,' Stannis added.
'Nah, fuck kneeling. I don't know you, but my father was the first to support your brother, Stark. The Umbers will only ever fight for the Starks. Doesn't mean I'm going to kiss your arse.'
'Then how can we trust your intentions? How do we know you'll be loyal to us and won't send our corpses to Roose Bolton, like a gift wrapped with a bow?' Stannis's distrust was misplaced, Jon knew.
'Did the Wildlings kneel to you? Do you trust them?' It was a question for Jon, he deduced.
'Yes, oddly. Some are the savages you think them to be, but they are loyal to those who saved them. It took them a lot to trust a crow. I don't care if you kneel. Prove your loyalty by marching, with us, to Winterfell.'
The Smalljon drew his sword and swore to him in his own way. He flung the steel at Jon's feet. 'My sword is yours then, Stark. And to sweeten a deal well struck, I have a gift for you.' The Smalljon clicked his fingers and two of his men escorted in a pair of prisoners. When he pulled the sacks from their heads, it was no clearer who they were. Though the woman was shocking, with matted blonde hair, a broad face, flat nose and broken teeth. Her armour, despite its filthy coating, gleamed slightly against the fire, a mirage of blue and red swirling together. And the other looked to be a young boy, with a nervous face. Upon seeing Stannis, the woman jolted forward, screaming. The King did not flinch. It took four men to hold her down.
'I'll kill you!' She screamed. 'I'll kill you, murderer!' She sang it like a prayer.
Jon heard 'Tarth' murmured behind him. He shrugged at Lord Umber, with not clue in his head as to who they were.
'She had this on her when we found her.' He unsheathed a formidable sword, of Valyrian steel, that looked fresh forged, with a golden lion head acting as a pommel. Jon's burned hand clinched tight around his own wolf head pommel, his leather glove crunching around his hand. She's a Lannister. With expensive armour and a golden sword. 'I'm no smith, but this lovely blade, oddly resembles that of your fathers,' Lord Umber lazily announced as he tilted the blade, letting the fires dance in the majestic ripples of the steel. Ice! Jon puzzled. 'More interestingly, her captive was someone of great value to you. Bring her in,' he clicked his fingers once more. 'I hope you like red heads,' he japed at King Stannis.
As the hooded woman was escorted in, Jon felt his heart start to jump. It can't be her…no, Jon, she's dead and gone. His chest hurt even thinking of her. The voices began to swirl in his head, she doesn't have to be, if you will it so. It was the Red Woman, whispering poison in his ears. Burn them all, Lord Stark he heard Stannis command. You know nothing, Jon Snow, he heard her say. But he was spared a second heartbreak when the girl pulled down her hood and unveiled her long locks of red and brown hair. She donned her hair almost, though her face was not Ygritte's, but another face Jon had buried deep in the past.
He did not know whether he had said it aloud, but her name echoed wherever he could hear. Sansa!