The ice blue of Long Lake deepened in the twilight. The wind on the north bank carried snow particles, scraping faces like countless small knives.
When Daemon pulled on The Cannibal's reins, the broken ice on the lake surface collided with waves, making crisp clack-clack sounds—this was the widest lake in the North, length far exceeding width, now lying like a frozen giant python between the Lonely Hills and the Last River.
"Further north is the Last River." Brandon Stark rode at the front, black leather armor stained with frost and mud from the lake shore. He pointed to a faint silver line in the distance. "The Kingsroad turns completely to mud here. We must follow the reed clusters, or horse hooves will sink into ice holes."
The retinue moved along the muddy path by the lake shore. The road was covered with thin ice and frozen earth; every step felt like stepping on shattered glass. Gael rode Dreamfyre, pale blue dragon wings folded into an arc, shielding herself tightly. Snow particles clung to the girl's silver hair, face flushed red with cold, yet she still curiously held onto the dragon's neck, watching ice birds skimming over the lake.
"Does this lake freeze in summer too?" Mysaria lifted the carriage curtain, whispering. Her breath condensed into white mist in the air.
Beren Dustin seized the chance to pull a book on Northern geography from his saddlebag: "The book says Long Lake is thirty feet deep at the deepest point, thawing completely only in midsummer; shores are frozen otherwise. My father told me House Umber people come here to fish in summer, using giant nets to catch whitefish, which can be frozen and eaten until winter."
After about an hour, moisture from the Last River drifted on the wind, mixed with salty sea smell—this northernmost river of the North was much closer to the Wall than Winterfell. Now carrying glaciers, it rushed to merge into the Narrow Sea at its end. The river surface was wide enough for three ships abreast, current turbulent, gleaming azure and pale white.
"Past the bridge ahead is Last Hearth!" Brandon's voice held excitement, whip pointing forward—a bridge of rough logs and stone slabs spanned the river, covered in thin ice, railings wrapped in wind-dried vines. Several Umber guards in fur coats stood at the bridgehead holding weapons, the fiery red giant sigil on their armor exceptionally striking in the twilight.
"True dragons of Targaryen!" Seeing the shadows of The Cannibal and Dreamfyre, the lead guard knelt on one knee immediately, voice full of awe. "The Lord said this morning the Princes would pass here!"
Daemon dismounted, boots stepping on the stone bridge planks with a creak. The Last River's current hit the piers; splashing water froze instantly into frost flowers on the ice. He looked across the bridge. The mud road of the Kingsroad extended into the distance, ending hidden in wind and snow, like a grey ribbon leading to the ultimate end.
"Let's move quickly!" The Umber guard rose to guide. "Must reach Last Hearth before dark, or the night wind can freeze men into ice sculptures!"
Indeed, House Umber's castle was also called Last Hearth.
The retinue spurred horses. The sound of hooves on mud mixed with the low hum of dragon wings sweeping the cold wind.
In the woods along the Last River, wooden huts of Umber tenants were occasionally visible, roofs covered with thick peat and snow. Black smoke from chimneys tilted in the wind and snow like dying black snakes.
At dusk, the silhouette of Last Hearth finally pierced the wind and snow—a castle built of rough timber and granite. Banners of House Umber flew from tall towers: on a flame-red field, a roaring brown-haired giant wielding broken silver chains snapped in the twilight. The castle's wooden gates were exceptionally heavy, scarred with countless axe marks, clearly traces of past battles.
"Finally here!" A resonant voice came from inside the gate. A burly giant strode out, wearing a bearskin cloak, nearly seven feet tall, shoulders wide enough to block half the gate. Face full of beard, eyes shining with wild light—Lord Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth.
"Prince Daemon! Princess Gael! Welcome to our Last Hearth!" Jon opened his arms, voice shaking eardrums. "Yo, and you rascal Brandon? Haven't settled the score for stealing my boy's venison last time!" He grabbed Brandon's shoulder, force making the Stark "Wild Wolf" grimace.
Entering the castle courtyard, warmth wrapped around everyone instantly.
Wood piled like hills in the yard. The hearth burned vigorously. Servants in furs were roasting meat. Sizzling grease dripped onto charcoal; aroma mixed with ale mellowness dispelled the cold.
Umber sons gathered around the hearth, all tall and sturdy, laughter like thunder. Seeing Daemon's retinue, they raised cups shouting: "House Umber welcomes the two True Dragon Princes of Targaryen!"
The banquet was in the main hall. Long tables stretched from end to end, filled with hard Northern dishes: roast boar leg crispy outside tender inside, sliced frozen venison, rye cakes with fennel, and a large barrel of steaming ale, amber liquid foaming finely.
Jon Umber sat at the head. To his left were his brothers Harmond and Rickard; to his right were three sons, the youngest fifteen but taller than ordinary knights.
"Try this!" Jon cut a piece of boar meat with a dagger, handing it to Daemon. "Long Lake boar, eating this in winter is most nourishing and satisfying!" He filled Gael's ale. "Princess don't be afraid; our servants added honey specifically. When your mother visited, my father served this; not strong, drink at ease!"
Brandon couldn't hold back, grabbing a cup to clink with Harmond. "Old pal, you lost three bowls last time, dare to compete again?"
"Afraid of you, kid?" Harmond laughed, downing a large gulp, ale flowing down his chin into his beard. "Whoever falls first is a coward!"
Jon slapped the table, laughing heartily. "Our House Umber has always fought hard battles with House Stark! Three thousand years ago, Gendel and Gorne, those two Kings-Beyond-the-Wall, brought wildlings to raid. Our ancestors took giant axes and chopped them back north of the Wall with Stark ancestors!"
He pointed to a tapestry on the wall depicting a giant fighting alongside a direwolf, likely the work of a Winterfell Lady. "And in 58 AC, Queen Alysanne rode Silverwing here. Not only drank three barrels of our ale but praised our roast meat as the most fragrant in the North!"
Rupert Crabb watched silently as Brandon drank with the Earl. This Wild Wolf was truly wild; his own semi-wildman status from Crackclaw Point seemed fake in comparison. Mycah Rivers stared at the battle axe at Jon's waist—blade wide enough to split rocks, clearly a heavy Northern axe, envy in his eyes.
"But speaking of which," Jon's smile faded, drinking ale, tone sinking, "the North isn't peaceful this year." He pointed to the wind and snow outside. "The long winter is too long. It should be summer now, yet it's snowing. Wildlings north of the Wall are crazy lately, always breaking south. Night's Watch caught several, shouting 'Winter is Coming,' making hair stand on end."
Daemon's hand holding the cup paused, remembering Leaf's words on the Isle of Faces—the Others were waiting, waiting for the day dragons went extinct. He looked at Jon: "What about south of the Wall?"
"Not peaceful either." Jon's brother Rickard interjected, face solemn. "House Bolton is active lately. Those flayers from the Dreadfort always wander our lands, even snatched two of our herding tenants, claiming 'accidental trespass.' Ghosts believe them!"
"Those flayers!" Jon slapped the table hard, spilling ale. "Relying on Lord Ellard being bedridden to grab territory! If not for House Stark suppressing, I'd have taken men to raid their Dreadfort long ago!"
Brandon put down his cup, face darkening too. "Benjen already sent men to warn Bolton, but they don't care. Heard they communicate with the Starks of White Harbor lately; don't know what they're plotting."
Daemon fell silent, fingers rubbing the cup rim. Northern undercurrents were more turbulent than he imagined—wildlings, Others, Bolton ambition, and succession crisis from Ellard's illness. All like mines buried under snow, ready to explode anytime.
"But it's different with the Prince here!" Jon grinned suddenly, raising his cup. "With true dragonfire, whether wildlings or flayers, they must behave! Come, let's toast the True Dragon together!"
Everyone raised cups; clinking sounds echoed in the hall.
Daemon drank, warmth flowing down his throat, but couldn't help looking out the window—wind and snow tighter. Last Hearth's banner snapped in the wind, like a burning fire stubbornly resisting cold and darkness on this land close to the Wall.
Alys Rivers sat in the corner, green dress showing dark patterns in the firelight. She didn't drink, just picking at frozen venison with a silver fork, eyes thoughtful.
Jarmen Waters stood at the door, single eye scanning Umber sons in the hall, hand on bow—these Northmen were enthusiastic but carried primitive wildness; guard was necessary.
Larys Strong leaned by the hearth, wrapped in black robe, occasionally poking charcoal with a wooden spoon, black eyes flashing indecipherable light, plotting something unknown.
Corlin Celtigar and Leowyn Corbray got along famously with Rayford, the Royce twins, and Umber sons.
Night deepened; banquet atmosphere intensified. Jon and Brandon drank till faces red, arms around each other singing Northern war songs;
Rickard saw Mycah's gaze, generously teaching the boy how to wield a Northern heavy axe, blade gleaming in firelight;
Beren asked Jon's youngest son about stories beyond the Wall. The boy spoke vividly of seeing "direwolves bigger than horses."
Daemon walked out to the terrace. Wind and snow stopped. Night sky exceptionally clear; Milky Way spanning like a silver ribbon.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre curled in the castle clearing. Breath condensed into white steam, echoing Last Hearth's lights. Water sound from distant Last River mixed with singing in the hall like a Northern nocturne.
Singing in the hall continued. Jon's voice loudest, singing First Men war songs full of love for land and freedom. Last Hearth's lights shone like a star in the night, illuminating this land near the Wall and their road to the ultimate end.
Early next morning, when the first sunlight hit the Umber giant banner, Jon Umber had prepared gear for everyone—thick fur cloaks, frozen oatcakes, and bags of spicy ale to drive out cold.
"At the Wall, tell the Night's Watch Lord Commander sent by House Umber! We have some face there." He patted Daemon's shoulder, force making the boy stumble slightly. "If trouble, run south—Last Hearth's weapons await your call anytime!"
When the retinue departed, Umber family waved by the gate. Daemon looked back. Outline of Last Hearth receded. Fiery red giant banner fluttered in the wind, like an unextinguishable fire guarding the Northern frontier.
The Kingsroad extended north. Snow deeper, wind fiercer.
The Cannibal and Dreamfyre spread wings, flying low. Dragon shadows on snow looked like two black lightning bolts.
Daemon knew further north lay the Gift and the Wall, the Night's Watch, and that ice-covered desperate land—there, truth awaited them, and the coming storm.
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