Chapter 217: The Umbers’ Choice

Chapter 217: Chapter 217: The Umbers’ Choice

The next morning, Allison, Victoria, Brienne, Osha, Meera, and the Starks—Sansa, Arya, Jon, Bran, Rickon, and Benjen—rode toward Last Hearth.

The castle rose from the snow-covered plains like a grey stone fist, its walls thick and weathered by centuries of northern winters. Towers squatted defensively against the horizon, and smoke rose from countless chimneys, carrying the distant sounds of blacksmiths and soldiers across the snowy fields.

As they approached the gate, a party of Umber guards emerged to meet them. The guards’ faces were wary as they took in the giant horses and the three direwolves. But then their eyes landed on Rickon, and something shifted in their expressions—recognition, surprise, and a flicker of relief.

Benjen urged his horse forward, his voice carrying authority. "I’m Benjen Stark, and these are my nephews and nieces. Go tell your lord that we are here to talk to him."

One of the guards nodded and hurried inside. The others remained, their eyes still wary but their weapons lowered. After a few tense minutes, the guard returned and gestured for them to enter.

---

Smalljon Umber was waiting in the great hall.

He was a man in his early forties, with a wild beard and cold, calculating eyes. He sat in the high seat, his hand resting on the pommel of a greatsword, surrounded by a dozen of his most loyal guards. The hall was vast and cold; the stone walls hung with faded banners and weapons.

He did not rise when they entered.

"Starks," he said, his voice flat and unwelcoming. "And strangers." His eyes flicked to Allison and Victoria, assessing them, before returning to Sansa. "I heard you were dead. All of you."

Sansa stepped forward, her voice calm and steady. "As you can see, we’re not. And first, I want to thank you for taking care of my brother."

Smalljon snorted, his expression twisting with contempt. "He didn’t seem grateful. After all, he ran away with his wildling whore without us knowing and didn’t even thank us for taking care of him and protecting him."

Arya’s hand moved to her dagger, her eyes flashing. "My sister is thanking you now."

Jon placed a calming hand on Arya’s shoulder. "Calm down, Arya."

Arya snorted and didn’t say anything else.

Smalljon ignored her completely, his attention fixed on Sansa. "Why are you here?"

Sansa got directly to business. "We’ve come to invite you and your house to join us."

Smalljon’s eyes narrowed. "Join you? Join what?"

Benjen stepped forward. "There is a new rising king in the North, and House Stark is willing to follow him. His name is King Jacob of House Alexandre. He has defeated Stannis Baratheon and his army. He has conquered the Free Folk and brought them south of the Wall. He offers you a place in his kingdom."

Smalljon’s face twisted with barely contained rage. "The Free Folk? You brought wildlings south of the Wall?" He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound. "You expect me to fight alongside savages? To share my lands with wildlings?"

Jon spoke, his voice calm but firm. "They are our people now. King Jacob has made them part of his kingdom. They will follow his laws, just as we will."

Smalljon laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that echoed through the hall. "I will never follow a king who brings wildlings into the North. And I will never bend the knee to some southern stranger." He looked at the Starks with open contempt. "You’ve all lost your minds. Or your honor. Or both."

Arya’s hand moved to her dagger again. "Careful, Smalljon."

Smalljon ignored her completely. He looked at his guards, his voice sharp with command. "Seize them. Lock them in the dungeons. We’ll send word to the Boltons—they’ll pay handsomely for Starks."

The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

Benjen took a heavy step forward. "Smalljon! House Umber has stood by House Stark for thousands of years. Your family swore a sacred oath of loyalty to our family. You owe your allegiance to the Starks, and we are telling you that King Jacob is the future of the North. Remember your oath!"

Smalljon’s eyes flashed with anger. He spat on the stone floor, the gesture deliberate and insulting. "The Starks are broken, Benjen. I deny your oath, and my house owes your dead house nothing!" He glared fiercely at his guards. "Seize them. Now!"

A dozen Umber guards charged.

Arya moved first. She was a blur of motion. Three guards fell unconscious before they could even draw their swords.

Brienne’s sword was already in her hand, her movements precise and deadly. She disarmed two guards with a single swing, then knocked them unconscious with the flat of her blade.

Arya sent four other guards flying, their bodies hitting the walls with sickening thuds before sliding to the ground, unconscious.

She drew her Valyrian steel dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. Her voice was cold. "This was a warning. If anyone attacks us again, I will show no mercy."

The remaining guards backed away, their eyes wide with fear, their weapons shaking in their hands.

Smalljon stared at his unconscious men, then at Arya and Brienne, his face pale. His hand tightened on his greatsword, but he didn’t draw it.

Allison stepped forward. She had been silent until now, watching the exchange with cold, patient eyes. When she spoke, her voice was calm and measured.

"Smalljon Umber. You have two choices."

She raised one finger.

"First: you and anyone who refuses to join King Jacob’s kingdom will leave Last Hearth. You will take your family, your loyal guards, and whatever you can carry. You will go south. I don’t care where you go, as long as you leave the North."

She raised a second finger.

"Second: you stay. You fight. And you die."

Smalljon’s face contorted with rage. "You think you can threaten me in my own hall?"

Allison’s expression didn’t change. "I’m not threatening you. I’m giving you a choice."

Smalljon turned and stormed out of the hall, his boots echoing on the stone floor. His surviving guards followed him.

"He’s going to attack us," Arya said.

Allison nodded. "I know."

They stayed in the hall for a few minutes until they heard a commotion outside.

Allison said, "Let’s go."

They walked out of the great hall and into the courtyard.

---

Six hundred Umber soldiers surrounded them—armed, armored, and ready to fight. They formed a ring of steel around the Starks and their companions, their faces hard, their weapons drawn.

Smalljon stood at the front, his greatsword drawn, his face twisted with fury. His voice rang out across the courtyard. "Do you think it’s so easy to chase me out of my home? I will show you the strength of House Umber. Today, none of you are leaving Last Hearth! I swear it!"

Allison looked at the six hundred soldiers, then back at Smalljon. Her expression didn’t change.

She stepped forward and stomped her foot on the snow-covered ground.

The snow around her began to move, expanding, taking shape. Sixty ice golems grew from the frozen ground—each one ten feet tall, their bodies gleaming like frozen glass and their eyes glowing with cold blue light. They stood in perfect formation around Allison and her companions.

The Umber soldiers stumbled back, their faces pale with fear.

Allison’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and absolute. "Leave, Smalljon. Take your family and your loyal men. Go south to the Boltons, or go into exile. I don’t care which. But if you attack, I will kill every last one of you."

Smalljon stared at the ice golems. His hand trembled on his sword. His men looked at him, their eyes wide with terror, their weapons shaking in their hands.

Just then, two old men pushed through the crowd of soldiers.

Mors Umber was an old man with a grizzled beard and a missing eye. He leaned on a gnarled walking staff, but his gaze was sharp and clear, carrying the wisdom of decades.

Hother Umber was nearly as old, with a bald head and a scarred face. He carried a battleaxe over his shoulder.

"What is going on here?" Mors demanded, his voice rough and rasping.

Smalljon turned to his uncles, his face red with anger. "These traitors brought wildlings south of the Wall! They want us to kneel to some southern king who calls himself King Jacob Alexandre!"

Mors and Hother ignored him completely. Their eyes landed on Benjen.

Mors’s good eye widened in recognition. "Benjen Stark? Is that really you?"

Hother’s gruff voice was filled with disbelief. "We heard you died beyond the Wall years ago."

Benjen stepped forward, his face softening into a genuine smile. "Mors. Hother. It’s good to see you two old men still alive."

Hother laughed heartily. "Who are you calling an old man? I’m going to take a new wife in a few days and have a few strong babies with her."

Benjen laughed, the tension in the courtyard easing slightly. "Then congratulations in advance, Hother."

Mors looked at the ice golems, then at Allison, then back at Benjen. "Benjen, what is going on here?"

Benjen’s expression grew serious. "There is a new king in the North, and House Stark has decided to follow him and join his kingdom. He is not from the South or the North—he is not even from Westeros. He has defeated Stannis Baratheon, conquered the Free Folk, and brought them south of the Wall."

Mors and Hother exchanged a glance, their faces unreadable.

Benjen continued, "He has an army of thirty-five thousand men. He has giants. He has mammoths. And he has dragons. He has warriors who can control fire and lightning. He has come to unite the North and all of Westeros under a single banner."

Hother’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And what does he want from us?"

Benjen’s voice was steady. "He wants your allegiance. He wants Last Hearth to join his kingdom. He will not take your lands, your titles, or your people. With his strength and his large army and dragons, he can take Last Hearth with ease—but he doesn’t want to kill if it’s not necessary. That’s why he sent us to you and to the northern houses that are loyal to our house. He sent us to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."

Mors looked at Smalljon, his one eye cold. "And what does my nephew say?"

Smalljon spat on the ground, his contempt clear. "I say we should kill them all and send their heads to the Boltons!"

Mors’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "You would betray the Starks? The family we’ve sworn to protect for thousands of years?"

Smalljon’s voice rose, his face reddening with rage. "The Starks are dead! They’ve been dead for years! These are just pretenders and their wildling-loving friends!"

Mors took a step toward him, his voice low and dangerous. "You are a fool, Smalljon. And a traitor."

Hother stepped forward, his voice cold. "You would throw away our honor for the Boltons? The family that murdered Robb Stark at the Red Wedding?"

Smalljon’s face twisted. "Honor? Honor is what got the Starks killed! I’ll take the Boltons over wildlings any day!"

Mors turned to his brother. "Hother, we’ve heard enough."

Hother nodded grimly. "Aye."

Mors looked at Smalljon, his voice carrying the finality of judgment. "You are no longer Lord of Last Hearth. You are banished. Take your family and your loyal men—those who share your hatred for the Free Folk—and leave. If you ever set foot in these lands again, you will be executed as a traitor."

Smalljon’s face went pale. "You can’t do this! I am the Lord of Last Hearth! I am—"

"You are a traitor," Hother cut him off sharply. "And I will not have you dragging our house into ruin because of your pride." ℯℯ𝑙.

Mors added, "The Umbers have stood with the Starks for thousands of years. We will not break that oath for a boy who would rather bend the knee to Roose Bolton than protect his own people."

Smalljon looked at the two old men, his face pale with shock and rage. Then he looked at the soldiers around him—the same soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, who had been ready to attack the Starks and their allies.

Now, they looked at him with uncertainty. Some of them looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

Smalljon knew he had lost.

"Fine," he spat, his voice bitter. "I’ll leave. But you’ll regret this. When the Boltons come, you’ll all burn."

He turned to his soldiers, his voice sharp with command. "Anyone who wants to leave with me, gather your families and pack your things. We’re going south."

About a hundred soldiers hesitated, then stepped forward. They were the ones who shared Smalljon’s hatred for the Free Folk—the ones who would rather fight alongside the Boltons than live under a king who welcomed wildlings into the North.

Smalljon led them out of the courtyard.

Allison dismissed the ice golems, and they crumbled into harmless snow.

Within an hour, Smalljon Umber and his household—his family, his loyal guards, their families, and about a hundred die-hard supporters—had packed their belongings and left Last Hearth.

They rode south toward Winterfell, their heads hung low, their futures uncertain.

---

Inside the great hall, Mors and Hother Umber began to kneel before Sansa, their old bones creaking as they prepared to swear fealty.

Sansa quickly stopped them. "Don’t do that. My husband doesn’t like people kneeling. And wait until you meet him before you swear your allegiance to him."

Mors straightened, his good eye crinkling with curiosity. "Alright. But when do we meet him?"

Sansa’s expression was thoughtful. "We still need to visit all the houses that are loyal to our house first. That will take some time. You will meet him with all the houses that agreed to join his kingdom after our journey ends. We will let you know when the time comes."

Hother looked at Allison, his scarred face curious. "Are you the wife of King Jacob too?"

Allison smiled. "Yes. Besides me and Sansa, he has three other wives. He plans to legalize polygamy in his kingdom—as long as a man can support and care for multiple wives, he’ll be permitted to marry them."

Hother laughed heartily, slapping his knee. "I like this king already!"

Allison asked, "How many people do you have here? And how many soldiers?"

Mors’s expression grew serious. "There are roughly two thousand people living inside the castle walls and its immediate outer settlement. If you include the entire surrounding Umber territory—farmers, mountain clansmen, and smallholdings—the total population stretches closer to thirty-five thousand people."

Hother added, "If we’re talking about soldiers, we don’t have many. Most of our soldiers and elite warriors died south fighting for Robb Stark. Right now we have roughly about a thousand men, and if we add the mountain clansmen, we can get another two hundred." He paused, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Do you need men? Is there a war coming?"

Allison nodded. "We’re marching to war against the Boltons—to take Winterfell and unite the North. But I was just asking about the population here. We still need to speak with my husband and father to see how many men they will ask from House Umber to join our army."

Mors leaned forward. "Your grace, does His Majesty really have dragons?"

Allison said, "Yes. And you actually might have heard of one of them. The Cannibal."

Hother’s eyes widened. "The Cannibal?"

Sansa nodded. "She is from the Dance of the Dragons era, and she is massive. You will see her soon."

Mors’s face broke into a wide grin. "Okay. Let’s have a feast and tell us more about our new king."

---

The feast was grand—the great hall of Last Hearth filled with the sounds of laughter. Roasted meats, fresh bread, and hearty stews were served in abundance, and the fire crackled warmly in the massive hearth.

Allison, Sansa, and the others told the Umbers about Jacob—some of his powers and the kingdom he wanted to build. They spoke of the battle at Hardhome, the army of the dead, the demon R’hllor, and the Jubokko.

Mors and Hother listened, captivated—their eyes bright with a mixture of fascination, fear, and hope.

By the time the feast ended, the Umbers were fully committed to the new kingdom. They promised to send their best fighters to join the army when the call came.

As the evening drew to a close, Allison, Sansa, Victoria, and Arya teleported back to Serendell, leaving the others to spend the night at Last Hearth.

---

Serendell — Evening

Jacob had spent the day playing video games with Stiles, Malia, and Kitty. They had been at it for hours—shouting, laughing, and trash-talking each other. They didn’t stop until Cogman called them for dinner.

They made their way to the dining room, joining Allison, Sansa, Melissa, Lydia, Erica, Chris, Victoria, Shireen, and Arya. The table was laden with food, and the fire crackled warmly in the hearth.

Allison, Sansa, and Arya recounted the events at Last Hearth—the confrontation with Smalljon, the intervention of his uncles, and the banishment.

Jacob nodded approvingly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. At least the Umbers aren’t all fools like Smalljon."

Lydia took a bite of her food before asking, "Where are you going next?"

Sansa’s expression grew thoughtful. "We will start our journey tomorrow to House Karstark of Karhold."

Jacob shook his head. "Forget about the Karstarks. They’re loyal to the Boltons and hate the Starks because your brother Robb executed their lord, Rickard Karstark."

Sansa sighed. "I know. But I thought maybe we could convince them to join us."

Lydia asked, "Why did Robb execute their lord?"

Jacob said, "Because Rickard Karstark murdered two teenage Lannister prisoners out of revenge for his own sons dying at the hands of Jaime Lannister. Because this act undermined Robb’s military command and violated the laws of war, Robb executed Rickard Karstark for treason." He took a bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully. "In response to their lord’s execution, the Karstark forces abandoned Robb’s army. They later defected and pledged their allegiance to House Bolton."

Victoria nodded. "Then, like Jacob said, let’s not bother going to them."

Sansa nodded. "Okay. Then we will head south to House Glover of Deepwood Motte."

Jacob shook his head again. "Forget about them too. They hate wildlings, and they’re allied with House Bolton."

Sansa said, "But they are pledged to our house and might choose to swear allegiance to you if they know that House Stark is still alive and has sworn allegiance to you."

Jacob’s expression was skeptical. "I doubt that. After the Boltons took control of the North, they assisted the Glovers in retaking Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn."

Chris said, "That means the Glovers owe the Boltons and probably will not join us."

Jacob nodded. "Right. So forget about them. If they choose to join the Boltons and fight against us, then they are our enemies."

Sansa said, "I’m still going to visit them. Even if they don’t want to join our kingdom right now, at least I’ll warn them not to help the Boltons fight against us. If they ignore that warning and still join the Boltons, then they will be treated like them—and we will show them no mercy."

Jacob’s expression softened slightly. "Then let’s hope they aren’t stupid."

Sansa nodded, her voice brightening slightly. "After that, we will head to House Mormont of Bear Island, and then lastly we will visit Meera’s house—House Reed of Greywater Watch."

Jacob said, "Then you should teleport to Moat Cailin after you visit House Mormont. If you go on horses, it will take you three to four weeks to arrive there."

Sansa nodded. "I will teleport everyone to Moat Cailin, then use your map to find Greywater Watch."

Jacob’s voice was thoughtful. "Alright. And tell the Mormonts to come meet me at the Wall. And bring the Reeds with you to the Wall to meet me—if both houses accept joining my kingdom, of course."

Sansa smiled. "I will."

Lydia said, "Alright, hurry up and eat. We need to go attend Kai’s and Mika’s wedding in an hour."

They finished their meal quickly, then they changed and made their way to the temporary village Jacob had constructed—a settlement for the samurai, their families, and the villagers who had come with them.

The village was alive with celebration. Lanterns hung from every building, casting warm golden light across the streets. Music filled the air—traditional Japanese instruments playing a joyful melody. The guests were dressed in their finest kimonos and ceremonial robes, their faces bright with happiness.

Kai and Mika stood at the center of it all, their hands clasped, their eyes locked on each other. Mika was radiant in her white kimono, her hair adorned with delicate ornaments. Kai looked handsome in his formal attire, his posture proud and his smile wide.

The ceremony was beautiful. Jacob watched with a warm smile, surrounded by his family.

After the ceremony, the celebration began. There was food and drink, music and dancing, laughter and joy. Jacob spent the evening talking with Ōishi and the other samurai, learning about their traditions and sharing stories of his own adventures.

Hours later, when the celebration began to wind down, Jacob and his family returned to the palace.

Jacob walked with Allison to his room, their hands intertwined, the warmth of the evening still lingering between them.

To be continued... 😊

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Author’s Note: I won’t be writing about Allison and her group visiting the other houses; that would be too boring to cover in detail. I wasn’t even planning to write about the Umbers, but I figured I should include at least one Chapter showing what the recruitment process looks like for these northern houses.

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