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19. The Fate of House Umber
🕑 Added 2025-02-24 19:42:41 +0000 UTC*Daeron Targaryen POV*
"You look like you'll be back to being the finest sword in the realm within a fortnight, Ser," I said, watching Ser Arthur move with ease. His color had returned, and he no longer needed a cane or even a sword to lean on. Though his steps were still measured, his recovery was nothing short of remarkable.
Arthur met my gaze with gratitude and a flicker of wonder in his violet eyes. "Aye, Your Grace. Those potions you gave me taste absolutely vile, but I can’t deny their effects." He grimaced, as if recalling their bitter flavor. Then, his expression softened into something close to pride. "But I must disagree—I may have been the best once, but with your strength and skill now, I doubt even I could best you."
I chuckled at that, shaking my head. "Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure, good Ser."
I dismounted and walked alongside him, keeping our pace slow so he wouldn’t strain himself. We made our way to the courtyard, where the clang of steel and the shouts of sparring warriors filled the air. Men honed their skills with all manner of weapons, from blades to bows. Freefolk and mountain clansmen had taken to competing against one another—sometimes in friendly matches, other times in bloody brawls that needed Northern men to step in before they turned lethal.
It had been over two weeks since I had taken Rickon on Caraxes. In that time, the Lords and Masters of the North had rallied their forces, eager to avenge the Red Wedding and see me crowned on the Iron Throne. Their numbers had swelled beyond my expectations. The North alone had mustered over eleven thousand men, with the mountain clans contributing the most. House Ryswell, Dustin, and Manderly had also answered the call, though not without persuasion. Lady Dustin, in particular, had been reluctant—until she laid eyes on Caraxes. Faced with the wrath of a dragon, she begrudgingly pledged the full strength of her house.
Even the Freefolk had chosen to fight, though I had convinced Wun Wun to stay behind. His role was more important—guarding the few remaining giant children left in the world. Meanwhile, the other Northern houses sent every able-bodied man they could.
Yet my forces were not complete. The Vale army still needed to be secured, and I had no doubt the Reach could still turn to Aegon. If I wanted to sit the Iron Throne with all of Westeros behind me, I would need either the Reach or Daenerys at my side.
King’s Landing could fall to me at any moment—with Caraxes and three kingdoms behind me, the capital was vulnerable. But I had made the North a promise. I would unite the realm before the White Walkers brought down the Wall.
Bran’s warning lingered in the back of my mind. The Long Night was coming. While my focus remained on the Iron Throne, I had not ignored the threat of the Walkers. Bolton deserters had bolstered the Night’s Watch, and every scrap of dragonglass found in the North had been gathered at Winterfell. I had even sent a small band of Freefolk to deliver the obsidian to the Children of the Forest—they knew better than anyone how to forge weapons from it.
"Your Grace?" Arthur’s hand on my shoulder pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to him with a questioning look.
"You seemed lost in thought," he said. "Your cousin Sansa is waiting for you in her chambers. She has something important to discuss."
I nodded. "Forgive me, Ser Arthur. I was thinking of many things. After I freshen up, I will meet with her."
Arthur gave a small nod. "As you will, Your Grace." A mischievous glint flickered in my eyes.
“Ah, of course,” I said with a smirk. “You should be on your way to your own chambers as well. Wouldn't want you to miss your dose of potion, would we?”
His face twisted into a grimace, but he nodded nonetheless. "With your permission, Your Grace."
I waved him off, watching as he turned toward the keep. Then, quickening my pace, I made my way to my chambers. The modest quarters I had once occupied as Jon Snow were far too small for a king, so I had taken a larger suite. As expected, the servants had prepared a steaming bath, just as I had instructed.
Shedding my clothes, I stepped into the water. The heat might have been unbearable for others, but for me, it was perfect.
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I knocked on the heavy black wooden doors of Sansa’s chambers. Ghost stood at my side, his crimson eyes half-lidded in contentment as I scratched behind his ears. His visits had become fewer lately, his duties as the leader of his pack keeping him occupied. And when he did come, his pack usually followed, resting in the kennels or the godswood.
The door creaked open, revealing Sansa clad in fur and leather. Her expression was unreadable at first, but the moment she saw me, a warm smile broke across her face.
"Come in," she said, stepping aside.
I entered and took a seat in one of the chairs set near the hearth. Sansa followed, settling across from me, and poured wine into two cups from a waiting jug. She handed me one before taking a slow sip from her own.
"Why must you always train in the Wolfswood?" she asked, watching the firelight dance in the hearth. "Everyone already knows of your strength. You need not hide it."
"It’s not about secrecy," I replied, swirling the wine in my cup. "The Wolfswood offers solitude. It’s quiet. Peaceful."
Sansa hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip. Then, after a brief silence, she asked, "So you're leaving today?"
She tried to sound indifferent, but I caught the flicker of unease in her posture, the way her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
"Aye." I set my empty cup on the table. "Time is not something we have in abundance." I leaned forward slightly. "I’m naming you regent in Rickon’s stead until he comes of age."
Surprise flashed across her face before gratitude settled in.
"This is your chance to prove yourself, Sansa," I continued, my voice steady and firm. "The North remembers. The lords still recall the whispers of your time in the South. Many of those who could have taken Rickon’s regency are marching with me to avenge the Red Wedding. You must show them you are a Stark of the North—loyal, just, and strong. You know these people. You grew up among them. They ask for little—meat, mead, and the respect they rightfully deserve."
Sansa straightened, the weight of responsibility settling over her, but she met my gaze with quiet determination.
"I will not fail," she promised.
Satisfied, I nodded. "Now, the reason I presumed you asked to see me is to settle the fate of Last Hearth and House Umber."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Many lords have reached out to claim the Umber lands for themselves," she said, a trace of disapproval in her tone.
"They will be disappointed," I said firmly. "I will not grant Last Hearth to anyone other than the house that has ruled that land for thousands of years."
Sansa’s eyes darkened slightly. I knew where she stood on the matter—she did not believe the Umbers should rule Last Hearth any longer.
"Do what you think is right," she said at last. "You already know my thoughts."
"I do."
A pause. Then, I asked, "I presume you’ve already summoned the lords to the Great Hall?"
She nodded.
We spoke for a little longer—Sansa briefed me on our food supplies, detailing how long we could sustain ourselves before hunger became a concern. Before long, a servant arrived, bowing slightly as he announced that the gathered lords were waiting.
Sansa and I rose in unison and made our way toward the Great Hall of Winterfell.
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I strode into the Great Hall of Winterfell, Ghost padding silently beside me, his blood-red eyes scanning the gathered lords. His presence was enough to command respect—and fear. Behind me, Sansa walked with measured grace, her expression poised and unreadable. The assembled lords rose from their seats, bowing as I passed, their eyes brimming with expectation.
Once seated, I raised a hand, signaling for them to do the same. The hall was heavy with tension, the crackling torches casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. My gaze found Ned Umber, the boy standing at the far end of the table, his small frame trembling under the weight of the judgment to come. Fear was written all over his face, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"My lords, I assume you all have an idea why I have called this gathering," I said, my voice ringing clear through the hall.
A chorus of “Aye” answered me, but it was the glances—sharp, accusing—that they sent toward young Ned Umber that spoke the loudest. The boy shrank under their scrutiny, looking as though he wished to be anywhere but here.
"House Umber will not be stripped of their lands or titles," I declared, my tone firm, unwavering. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some in surprise, others in disapproval. "However, there will be punishment. Ned Umber, son of Smalljon Umber, will be fostered here in Winterfell, under my watch. Until he comes of age, a man loyal to House Stark will govern Last Hearth in his stead." My gaze swept over the gathered lords, daring them to challenge my decree. "Furthermore, once this war is won and peace is restored, House Umber will pay fines for several years—a lasting reminder of the cost of betrayal."
The reaction was immediate.
"My King, with all due respect, Smalljon Umber delivered Rickon Stark into the hands of Ramsay Snow," Lord Larence Hornwood protested, his voice hard with conviction. "That is treason. House Umber deserves no mercy!"
A chorus of agreement followed, fists banging against the heavy wooden tables in a show of outrage.
I let them voice their fury, waiting until the echoes of their protests began to fade. Then, I spoke again, my voice cutting through the din like a blade.
“I haven't forgotten what Smalljon Umber did, but we must also remember that House Umber has been loyal to House Stark for many years. Smalljon's father led the vanguard for my brother Robb and served him faithfully until the Freys took his life, just as they did with so many other good men. It's said that Greatjon took all of his able-bodied men to fight alongside my brother, leaving only a handful to protect his keep, knowing that the number of raider attacks was increasing day by day. Such was his loyalty to his liege. He fought alongside my father, Lord Eddard Stark, during the rebellion and played a crucial role in crowning my brother, Robb Stark. Furthermore, Smalljon Umber kept Rickon safe until the Free Folk crossed the Wall.”
I paused, letting my words settle. Some lords still looked unconvinced, but others exchanged thoughtful glances, the weight of history tempering their anger.
"Aye, he made a mistake by going to the Boltons instead of coming to me directly. Because of that decision, he died fighting for the bastards of the Boltons—a meaningless death. Now, here stands Ned Umber, a child by all accounts, awaiting the fate that his father's actions have brought upon him. Should I ignore that he is also the grandson of Greatjon and punish him and his house nonetheless? To strip him of his lands and titles would be a betrayal of Greatjon and his ancestors' loyalty, and I will not do such a thing, my lords."
Silence fell over the hall.
Some lords still bristled, their pride wounded, but one by one, their heads dipped in reluctant acceptance.
Across the table, Ned Umber’s wide eyes glistened with unshed tears, his small hands trembling as he struggled to keep his composure. Then, as if summoning every ounce of strength left in him, he fell to one knee, bowing his head.
"I swear fealty to Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell," he declared, his voice shaking but resolute.
A murmur ran through the gathered lords, but no one voiced further dissent. He had proven himself worthy of the chance I was giving him.
With that settled, I leaned forward, my expression hardening once more. "Now, the second matter I wish to announce."
The lords straightened, awaiting my next words.
"My sister, Sansa Stark, will serve as regent for Rickon," I declared. "As we march to avenge the Red Wedding, we let the realm know—the North remembers."
