Chapter 11: Last Hearth

Orys Targaryen

Last Hearth

Cold crept into his bones as he and his men patiently waited for nightfall, inching forward through the snow toward the western side of Last Hearth. 'The beginning of the downfall of the damned Boltons.' Orys mused inwardly.

They wore light armor beneath white furs, some painted to blend into the snow, others skinned from snow bears and sheep. The castle loomed ahead; its walls were high, but compared to the Wall itself, they were nothing. On the battlements, the flickering torches of the guards stood out against the darkness, but there were fewer than he had expected.

"Slowly. We can't afford to lay siege to the castle," he whispered.

Tormund grinned, nodding as he passed the order along.

They crept across the frozen fields, moving like shadows in the night. At the moat, they found the ice solid beneath their boots. Winter had done them a favor. They crossed in pairs, moving with practiced silence. Behind them, twenty men remained skilled archers under Howland Reed's command.

Orys glanced toward the spotter as the man took hold of the grappling hook. A nod signaled the way was clear. The hook sailed through the air, catching firm. Without hesitation, Orys gripped the rope and began to climb. Five more followed on other ropes, scaling the twenty-meter wall in practiced silence.

He breathed heavily by the time he reached the end and crossed onto the battlements. He stared and saw a guard, and the man was looking toward him. "Fuck," he hissed. Yet, before the man could react. An arrow pierced through the man's throat, and a silent cry escaped the man before he fell limp on the battlements. On the other end of the wall, one of the freefolk ambushed a guard, slicing his throat.

'We will do this as bloodless as possible.' He ordered the night before, in the camp. 'These are fellow northmen, and they only follow them because of the fact their lord is emeny hands.' He sighed at the thought before walking to the closet's guardtower, unsheathing Longclaw. He opened the door and another guard, yet before he could react.

Orys lunged at the man, tackling him to the ground before swiftly slitting his throat with Longclaw. His free hand clamped over the man's mouth, muffling any final sound as the body convulsed beneath him. Warm blood seeped into the wooden floor, steaming in the cold air.

"You alright?" Mudin asked as Orys rose to his feet.

"I am," Orys replied, wiping the blade clean on the dead man's cloak. "Just... killing them doesn't feel right."

"Indeed," Mudin agreed with a nod. "But it's the only way we all live through what's to come."

Orys exhaled but said nothing. He knew Mudin was right. The Boltons had to fall, and hesitation would only get them killed.

They moved swiftly down the narrow stairwell. At the base, another guard stood at the entrance of a door, oblivious to the death creeping toward him. Orys sighed as he wrapped an arm around the man's mouth and throat, silencing him before driving Longclaw deep into his back. The body went limp in his grasp.

Stepping over the corpse, Orys made his way toward the outer bailey. Eight summers... It had been that long since he was last here. He remembered riding through these very gates with his uncle and Robb Stark, never imagining that one day, he would return as an attacker in the dead of night.

The bailey was eerily empty. No stable hands, no patrolling guards, no movement save for the flickering torchlight. Only four men stood watch at the gatehouse, with two more on the eastern wall.

He looked toward the wall and saw the archers, with Howland had climbed the wall. He sighed. "Archers, take them down." The guards looked at him. Yet, at the same moment, the bowstrings sang in unison, arrows slicing through the cold air. The guards barely had time to register their deaths before they crumpled where they stood. Silence fell once more.

"Open the gate." He ordered.

Atop the gatehouse, Tormund grinned as he found the release lever. Before pulling it, he grabbed a torch and waved it in broad arcs, signaling the forces waiting outside.

With a groan of iron and wood, the gates swung open.

Tormund descended and clapped Orys on the shoulder. "Mmm, King Crow, you don't look happy."

Orys' gaze lingered on the fallen men. "I'm killing my fellow Northmen," he said, voice steady but heavy with meaning. "These men, they don't want to fight for the Boltons. Just look at the number of guards. I suspect the rest are holed up inside the inner bailey's guardhouse, sleeping peacefully." He gestured toward the smaller wall ahead.

Tormund scratched his beard. "Aye. Makes sense. Ain't much fight left in 'em."

The outer bailey had fallen without a scream or a clash of steel. No alarm had been raised.

As they marched forward, the climbers were already scaling the second wall. There were no sentries posted above. 'How many men had the Umbers taken with them?' He wondered.

The Umbers had marched out three times, once with Greatjon to join Robb Stark's war and twice more with Mors and Hother Umber. If most of their strength had left with them, then the Last Hearth garrison was little more than a hollow shell.

The heavy groan of iron and wood filled the air as the gate to the inner bailey swung open. For a moment, Orys simply stood there, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Praise the Old Gods," he muttered under his breath.

"Tormund," he said, turning to the wildling leader. "Organize the men. Search every building in the outer bailey. Do not kill anyone else; restrain them. If I find out there's been looting or, gods forbid, raping, I'll have the bastards hanged with their own guts."

Tormund's grin faded. He gave a sharp nod, his tone serious. "As you command, King Crow." Without hesitation, he turned and began barking orders to the men.

Orys stepped through the open gate and into the inner bailey. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he surveyed the courtyard.

"No guards?" he asked one of the climbers waiting for him.

"Two by the door into the inner keep," the man answered. "But our archers took care of them before they could raise the alarm."

Orys nodded, letting out a slow sigh. His gaze swept the bailey, finally landing on a squat stone building at the far end.

"That's the guardhouse and the armory," he murmured. 'As he remembered the layout.' The remaining guard would be inside there.

He turned as Baldin approached. "I want thirty men surrounding that building. No one goes in or out unless I say so."

"As you command, my King," Mudin replied before moving off to relay the orders.

Within moments, the guardhouse was encircled, warriors gripping weapons, waiting for what would come next. The weight of silence pressed against Orys' ears.

He felt Howland Reed step up beside him. The crannogman was smaller, slighter than the rest, but there was no doubting the sharpness in his green eyes. "It's time to parley," Orys murmured.

Howland glanced at him. "Or we could storm the inner keep. We have the keys now."

Orys considered it. A quick strike, overwhelming force. It would end this swiftly.

He flexed his fingers around Longclaw's hilt, then exhaled.

"No," Orys decided. "Let's see if they'll surrender first. Enough blood has been spilled tonight. If this were the Dreadfort, I'd be in a different mood, but it isn't. We wait. Soon enough, the sounds from the outer bailey will wake them."

His words proved true. Moments later, distant screams and shouts echoed through the night. The chaos outside was spreading, reaching ears that had been deaf to their quiet advance.

"For the good of the realm," he muttered to himself, gripping Longclaw tighter.

As he had predicted, lights flickered to life within the Chain Keep. Murmurs turned to hurried voices, and then the creak of an upper balcony door opening shattered the tense silence.

A woman stepped onto the balcony, framed by the warm glow of torchlight. She was broad-shouldered and tall, draped in a heavy nightgown. On either side of her stood two small boys, their eyes wide with fear.

Orys took a step forward, his voice carrying across the bailey. "My lady, my name is Jon Stark. I was legitimized by my brother, Robb Stark, King in the North. I ask you to surrender. You have my word as a Stark. No more of your people will die. I am here only to free the North from the Boltons."

The woman stared down at him for a long moment before lifting her chin. "I am Unda Umber, eldest daughter of Lord Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth," she declared, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. "We have no quarrel with you. My eldest brother died fighting for your brother. My uncles were fools, each choosing different sides in the war and paying the price for it. Although Hother still resides in Winterfell."

Her gaze flickered to the fallen bodies in the bailey before she continued. "In the name of my father and my younger brothers, I surrender Last Hearth. But only if you hold to your word. Enough of many of my people have died in these past years."

Orys nodded solemnly. "You have my word." Unda exhaled, her shoulders dropping slightly as the weight of her decision settled over her.

"Open the doors," she called to the guards within. Then, turning back to Orys, she met his gaze and added with a sharp edge, "I will be down in a moment… Jon Stark."

She spat his name like an accusation. Not he could blame her. He had just invaded her home and killed part of her people.

Not much later, Tormund arrived back. "The outer bailey is secure. No other people of the castle died, although I threw one ours over of the wall and cut man's balls off after he was found raping a woman." Tormund grumbled.

"Well deserved. Is the woman taken care of?" He asked. "Yes, she was taken to see one of our own wise women. The fallen have been gathered and laid inside the center of the outer bailey." Tormund replied.

Soon Unda arrived, cloth in gambeson. She was holding hands with younger boys, and beside her was standing a just as tall woman. "Jon Stark, Last Hearth is yours," Unda replied with a small snarl.

"Lady Unda. I'm sorry for the deaths that have taken place this night. My only wish is to unite the North for what is to come. We both know those darkhearted Boltons will never be able to do it." He proclaimed. "Who are these people beside you."

"These are my younger siblings. Ned Umber, Heir to Last hearth. My other brother Osric Umber, and my younger sister Danela," Unda declared proudly. His heart gave out a small pang at his name. As I looked at the boy Ned. The boy was perhaps ten nameday old, yet was already quite tall. 'Giantsblood,'

"Well, it's an honor to meet you all. I hope that we can start anew from here on out. House Umber has stood beside House Stark for thousands of years. Know that today's losses will not be forgotten. " He added.

Then, to his surprise. Ned Umber stepped forward and knelt. "King Jon." He began. "I, Lord Ned Umber, heir to the Last Hearth, renew my fealty to House Stark and to you, King Jon Stark. I promise to be faithful and defend him against all enemies in good faith and without deceit." The boy muttered.

Orys regarded him with steady eyes. "I accept your fealty. I swear, by old gods and the new, to ask you no service of you that will bring dishonor, protect you in your hour of need, and bring you justice if I'm called upon to do so. When the war with the Boltons is over, your oaths will be reaffirmed so that all the North may rise as one."

"Indeed, my King. I wish for nothing more than to avenge my brother and free my father." The young boy growled. "In that, we are aligned," He replied.

"Let's now honor the dead. In the morning, I shall tell you more about why I'm doing what I did tonight." He added.

"Very well, Your Grace." Unda nodded.

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