Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Last Hearth was the ancestral castle of House Umber, the northernmost stronghold of the Seven Kingdoms apart from the Night's Watch fortresses along the Wall.

"The lord will see you now, bastard."

The sneering tone of the Umber knight did not faze Jon Snow. He stepped into the great hall with steady strides.

In the past, the term "bastard" had stung deeply, but ever since Jon had learned the truth of his parentage, such jabs no longer bothered him.

Besides, the urgency of the current situation left no room for petty grievances with House Umber.

The hall's walls, floors, and ceiling were constructed from thick wooden planks, decorated with images of the icy northern wilderness. The most striking of these was the sigil of House Umber: a roaring brown giant, clad in gray pelts, clutching silver chains, exuding a palpable aura of power.

At the center of the hall, on a raised dais, sat a large, muscular old man. His ruddy face was framed by an unruly beard, and his left eye socket held a jagged piece of dragonglass, giving him a fearsome appearance.

Jon knew this man to be Crowfood Ser Mors Umber, the acting lord of Last Hearth.

With the true lord, Jon Umber, currently leading troops in King's Landing, Ser Mors had taken charge of managing the castle's affairs.

Having spent his childhood by Eddard Stark's side, Jon Snow was familiar with the key figures of every northern house. Yet, being scrutinized by Mors Umber's peculiar eyes made him deeply uncomfortable.

"Bastard," Mors said gruffly, "did you desert?"

"Of course not," Jon replied immediately, his voice firm. "Lord Mors, haven't you received any ravens from the Wall?"

"Ravens?" Mors grumbled, his jaw twitching. "I hate ravens! The damned things are only good for roasting!"

Jon suppressed a sigh.

He knew the story: years ago, while Mors was sleeping in the snow, a raven mistook him for a corpse and pecked out his left eye. Mors woke up mid-peck, caught the bird, and bit its head off, earning his infamous nickname.

"Lord Mors," Jon said patiently, "the Wall has fallen. The White Walkers are coming. You must evacuate your people south as soon as possible—"

"What nonsense are you spouting, bastard?" Mors barked. "The Wall's fallen? White Walkers are coming? And you want us to abandon our lands and flee south? Ha! You want to leave it all for the wildlings, don't you?"

"That's not—"

"Not a damned word of it!" Mors interrupted, his voice rising. "I know all about you, boy. Last Hearth is just south of the Gift; we've seen enough of you Night's Watch types to know what you've been up to. You've taken up with a wildling woman, haven't you? Speak! Is this all some scheme to hand over our lands to those savages?"

Jon gritted his teeth, swallowing his anger.

"Lord Mors, I know your only daughter was taken by wildlings thirty years ago, but you cannot let personal grievances cloud your judgment. If you don't believe me, you can ask other brothers of the Night's Watch. They've all seen the Wall collapse and the tidal wave of wights coming south with their own eyes."

"I'll get to the bottom of this," Mors said dismissively, waving his hand as if to shoo away a fly.

"Lord Mors, you must act quickly. The wights are close behind us," Jon warned before leaving the hall.

He knew convincing northern lords to abandon their lands and evacuate south was an uphill battle.

People clung to hope, reluctant to believe in catastrophe until it stood at their doorstep.

Jon returned to the camp outside the castle, where his companions cursed furiously upon hearing of the Umber lord's disbelief.

After some heated discussion, they decided to press on southward, regardless of the castle lords' decisions.

They would spread the word of the White Walkers' advance along the way, taking any villagers who wished to flee with them.

It wasn't as effective as having the local lords issue evacuation orders, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances.

Jon hesitated for a moment before calling one of the Night's Watch brothers over.

"Grenn, you'll lead the group south. I'll stay and try again with Mors."

"Alright," Grenn said reluctantly. "Be careful, Jon. Crowfood Mors is a notoriously temperamental old coot."

"I know."

However, when the group departed the next morning, Mors Umber's suspicion only deepened.

Summoning Jon to the hall, the old knight thundered,

"Bastard, why did your people flee? Are you hiding something?"

Jon tried his best to explain, but Mors was too stubborn to listen.

In the end, Jon found himself thrown into the castle's dungeon.

However, retribution comes quickly.

That night, as Jon lay in the cold, dark cell, the sounds of fierce combat reached his ears.

The wights had arrived at Last Hearth.

There was nothing Jon could do but pray silently to the gods.

The gods, as usual, did not respond.

Fortunately, Mors Umber wasn't entirely unreasonable. The old knight sent men to release Jon from the dungeon.

By the time Jon reached the walls, the sight that greeted him was a sea of wights surging against the defenses.

"Damn it all!" Mors, clad in armor and swinging a longsword, shouted orders from the parapet. Spotting Jon, he bellowed,

"Bast—Jon! Why won't these things stay dead?"

"Fire," Jon answered. "They fear fire."

"You heard him!" Mors roared at his men. "Fetch the fire oil!"

"On it!"

Jon sighed inwardly, then said,

"Lord Mors, you won't be able to hold them off with just your forces. Evacuating south is the only—"

"Boy!" Mors cut him off, his wild beard bristling. "If you're scared, then run! I'd rather die here on Last Hearth's soil! Move faster, you useless lot! Even an old man can outpace you!"

Though obstinate, Mors fought with ferocity, inspiring his men to unleash every ounce of strength they had against the tide of wights.

Barrels of fire oil were poured from the walls, ignited by flaming arrows, creating a ring of fire around the castle.

The flames consumed countless wights, reducing them to ash.

But the fire oil didn't last forever, and the wights were seemingly endless. As the fires died out, the dead climbed over the smoldering remains of their fallen comrades, scaling the walls with relentless determination.

By night's end, the northern and eastern gates had fallen, and the wights surged into the castle.

As street-by-street combat erupted, Mors Umber finally realized the battle was lost.

"Jon Snow," the old knight said, his bloodstained armor glinting faintly in the firelight. "Take the Umbers and go."

"What about you, my lord?"

"Someone needs to hold them off."

Jon looked at the grizzled knight, his heart heavy with conflicted emotions.

"Why are you still standing here?" Mors barked. "Get the Umbers out of here and don't look back!"

Jon bowed deeply, then turned to leave.

As he led the Umbers through the southern gate, he heard Mors' booming voice one last time:

"Remember, lads! One day, you'll come back and take back our lands!"

Jon turned his head, glancing back.

Snow whipped through the air, stinging his eyes.

"Go!"

The southern gate opened, and Jon led a group of Umber family members southward in their escape.

No one knew how long they had been fleeing when the horizon began to lighten with the pale gray of dawn.

Dawn had arrived.

Jon, familiar with the behavior of wights, knew that these creatures were especially active in darkness but abhorred light and warmth.

When the sun rose, the wights would retreat into dormancy.

"Let's rest for a while," Jon said, though his heart urged him to continue moving. The group included many elderly, women, and children, and if they didn't pause, someone might fall behind.

They had reached the banks of the Last River.

What was once a rushing torrent of water was now frozen solid under the extreme cold.

Fortunately, the snowfall had temporarily ceased. Along the riverbank, fires were lit, their warmth offering a brief reprieve as the group cooked meals and rested.

Jon leaned against the trunk of a pine tree, his gaze distant and unfocused.

Beyond the Last River lay the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton.

Compared to the Umbers, the Boltons harbored an even deeper animosity toward House Stark.

And Jon, as the infamous Stark bastard, would face even greater rejection.

Jon didn't need to imagine how the events would unfold—he knew it would be a repetition of the same story.

At that moment, regret surged in his heart.

He should have let his father, Lord Eddard Stark, personally travel south. Only Eddard's presence could have persuaded the northern lords to abandon their lands and migrate southward.

But now, it was too late to change anything.

He didn't even know if his father was still alive.

As Jon stood lost in thought, a sudden shadow spread across the sky.

Gasps and shouts erupted from the camp.

"A dragon!"

"It's King Caesar's dragon!"

"The king has come to save us! We're saved!"

Jon's heart leaped, and he immediately stood.

The white dragon descended slowly outside the camp, its powerful heatwaves dispelling the bitter cold and easing the fear and unease in the hearts of the people.

Samwell leapt down from the dragon's back, where the Umber family survivors immediately rushed toward him, falling to their knees with tears in their eyes. They begged him to save Last Hearth.

"I'm sorry," Samwell said gravely, "I've just come from Last Hearth. It has already been overrun by the wights…"

The hope in the Umber family's eyes dimmed, replaced by despair.

"Rest assured, we will retake it one day," Samwell said, comforting them. He then turned to Jon Snow, who had stepped forward.

"Your Majesty," Jon said urgently, "what of Castle Black? My father—"

"Lord Eddard is safe," Samwell replied. "At Castle Black, we managed to repel the wights for now. But it's no longer defensible, so your father has already led everyone to retreat southward."

"That's a relief," Jon said, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "I must apologize, Your Majesty. I failed my father's mission. The northern lords refuse to believe that the Wall has fallen or that the Others are invading. I… I am merely a lowborn bastard, unworthy of their respect. Perhaps someone with more authority could take up this task."

"I think you are perfectly suited for it," Samwell said calmly.

"But, Your Majesty, I am just a bastard. I have no power or influence…"

"I can give you power," Samwell interrupted. "As King of the Seven Kingdoms, I hereby appoint you as the Iron Throne's special envoy, tasked with urging the northern lords to organize their people and migrate south. If anyone refuses to obey, you are authorized to execute them on the spot."

As he spoke, Samwell unslung the greatsword from his back and handed it to Jon.

"Take Dawn," he said. "For now, it is yours. From this moment, you are my special envoy. If anyone dares question you, draw the sword."

Jon stared at the greatsword in front of him, completely stunned.

Though he had spent most of his life at Castle Black, he had heard countless legends about this sword.

Once wielded by the Dayne's and known as the "Sword of the Morning," Dawn was now Samwell's weapon—a blade that had helped him dominate the Seven Kingdoms.

Many believed it to be the very sword carried by Azor Ahai, the hero who had defeated the Others thousands of years ago.

A blade forged to bring light against the darkness.

The Lightbringer

With the Others once again threatening the world, many believed that with Dawn in his hand, Samwell would repeat Azor Ahai's triumph and banish the Long Night.

"Your Majesty," Jon said, his voice trembling with uncertainty, "I… I am unworthy of this sword. You are the only one who can save the world. You need it more than I do."

Samwell laughed heartily. "Saving the world has never depended on a single sword."

"Then what does it depend on?" Jon asked.

"It depends on brave souls like you, unafraid to make sacrifices," Samwell replied. "It depends on the unity of the Seven Kingdoms' nobles. On all the people of Westeros—and even the whole world—standing together.

Without that, no single hero or legendary sword could ever end this calamity."

Jon fell silent, the weight of the king's words sinking into his heart.

Finally, he knelt on one knee, holding out both hands to receive the sword. His voice rang out clearly:

"I, Jon Snow, in the sight of the Old Gods and the New, swear my loyalty to the great King of the Seven Kingdoms, Caesar!

From this moment, I will fight for you, until my dying breath!"

"I accept your loyalty," Samwell said, helping Jon to his feet. He placed a firm hand on Jon's shoulder and said, "Go now. Take this sword and deliver my commands to every castle in the North."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

Jon gripped the hilt of Dawn, feeling a warm current spread from the sword into his body.

At that moment, he felt a surge of unshakable confidence, as though he could cleave through any obstacle in his path with a single swing of the blade.

Without lingering further, Samwell mounted his dragon and soared southward once more.

Jon bid farewell to the Umbers and set off alone, riding toward his next destination.

The wind howled, and the snowstorm raged, veiling the world in an endless expanse of white.

(End of Chapter)