The cold crossing of the Last River and the wild feast at Last Hearth
The icy blue of Long Lake gradually deepened in the twilight, and the wind on the north shore swirled snowflakes, feeling like countless tiny knives scraping against one's face.
As Daemon reined in the Glutton's dragon saddle, the ice floes on the lake crashed against the waves, making a crisp "crackling" sound—this was the widest lake in the the North, its length far exceeding its width, now resembling a frozen giant python, stretching between Lonely Hills and the Last River.
"Further north is the Last River." Brandon Stark rode at the front, his black leather armor stained with frost and mud from the lakeshore. He pointed to a faint silver line in the distance. "The Kingsroad turns into a complete dirt road here. We have to follow the reeds, or our hooves will sink into the ice."
The group moved along the muddy path by the lake, the surface covered with a thin layer of ice and frozen soil, each step feeling like walking on shattered glass. Gael rode on Dreamfyre, its pale blue dragon wings folded into an arc, protecting it completely. Snowflakes clung to the girl's silver hair, her face red from the cold, yet she still curiously clung to the dragon's neck, watching the ice birds skimming across the lake.
"Does this lake freeze over in the Summer?" Mysaria asked softly, lifting the carriage curtain, her breath condensing into a white mist in the air.
Beren Dustin then took the opportunity to pull out a book about the geography of the the North from the book bag in his bag. "The book says that the deepest part of Long Lake is thirty feet deep, and it only thaws completely in the height of summer; at other times, the shore is frozen solid. My father also told me before that the Umber family comes here to fish in the Summer, using huge nets to catch whitefish from the lake, which they can freeze and eat until winter."
After traveling for about an hour, the moisture from the Last River drifted in with the wind, mixed with the salty taste of the sea—this northernmost river in the the North, much closer to the Winterfell the Wall, was now rushing along with glaciers into the Narrow Sea at its end. The river was wide enough for three boats to sail side by side, and the current was swift, shimmering with azure and pale light.
"We'll reach Last Hearth once we cross the bridge!" Brandon's voice was filled with excitement as he pointed his whip forward—a bridge made of rough wood and stone slabs spanned the river, its surface covered with a thin layer of ice, and dried vines entwined around the railings. Several Umber guards in animal skin coats stood at the bridgehead, weapons in hand, the fiery red Giants emblem on their armor standing out vividly in the twilight.
"It's Targaryen dragon!" The lead guard, recognizing the Glutton and Dreamfyre, immediately knelt on one knee, his voice filled with awe. "The Earl said this morning that His Highnesses would be passing through here!"
As Daemon dismounted, his foot tumbled onto the wooden planks of the Stonebridge. The waters of the Last River crashed against the bridge piers, splashing onto the ice and instantly freezing into frost. He looked across the bridge; the dirt road of Kingsroad stretched into the distance, its end hidden in the snow, like a gray ribbon leading to a dead end.
"Hurry up!" A guard from the Umber family rose to lead the way. "We must reach Last Hearth before dark, or the night wind will freeze us solid!"
That's right, House Umber's Last Hearth is also known as the Last Hearth.
The procession galloped at full speed, the sound of hooves pounding on the muddy road mingling with the low whistling of dragon wings sweeping through the cold wind.
Last River, one can see the wooden houses of Umber's tenants in the woods along the riverbank. The roofs are covered with thick layers of peat and snow, and the black smoke rising from the chimneys tilts in the wind and snow, like a dying black snake.
As dusk fell, the silhouette of Last Hearth finally pierced through the snowstorm—a castle built of rough wood and granite, with the House Umber banner flying atop its tall towers: against a fiery red background, a brown-haired Giants roared and brandished a silver chain that fluttered in the twilight. The castle's wooden doors were exceptionally heavy, their panels etched with countless axe marks, clearly the marks left by generations of battles.
"Finally here!" A booming voice came from inside the city gate, and a burly man strode out. He wore a bearskin cloak, was nearly seven feet tall, and had shoulders so broad they could block half the city gate. His face was covered with a thick beard, and his eyes gleamed with a wild light—it was Jorah Umber, the Earl of Last Hearth.
"Your Highness Daemon! Princess Gael! Welcome to Last Hearth!" Jorah opened his arms wide, his voice booming. "Oh, and where's Brandon, you little rascal? We haven't settled the score for stealing my boy's venison yet!" he said, grabbing Brandon's shoulder with such force that the House Stark "Wild Wolf" grimaced.
Stepping into the castle courtyard, warmth instantly enveloped everyone.
A small mountain of firewood was piled up in the courtyard, the fire pit was burning brightly, and several servants dressed in animal skins were busy roasting meat. The sizzling oil dripped onto the charcoal fire, and the aroma mixed with the richness of the ale dispelled the chill.
The Umber family members, all tall and imposing, gathered around the fire pit, their laughter booming like thunder. Upon seeing Daemon and his party, they raised their glasses and shouted, "The Umber family welcomes the two Targaryen dragon princes!"
The banquet was held in the main hall of the fortress, with long tables stretching from one end to the other, laden with hearty dishes from the the North: roasted wild boar legs, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, slices of frozen venison, rye bread sprinkled with fennel, and a large barrel of steaming ale, its amber liquid topped with fine foam.
Jorah Umber sat in the main seat, with his two younger brothers, Harmund and Jon, on his left, and his three sons on his right, the youngest of whom was fifteen years old and taller than an ordinary knight.
"Try this!" Jorah cut off a piece of wild boar meat with his dagger and handed it to Daemon. "Wild boar from Long Lake, this is the most nourishing and satisfying food to eat in winter!" He then filled Gael with ale. "Your Highness, don't be afraid, this wine was specially made with honey by our servants. This is the kind my father served your mother when she visited. It's not strong, so drink with confidence!"
Brandon, unable to contain himself any longer, grabbed his glass and clinked it against Harmond's. "Old buddy, you lost to me three bowls last time, dare to challenge me again this time?"
"You think you're so tough, kid!" Harmond laughed, tilting his head back and gulping down a mouthful of liquor, the liquid running down his chin and into his bushy beard. "Whoever falls first is a coward!"
Jorah slammed his hand on the table, laughing heartily, "Our House Umber has always fought alongside the House Stark! Three thousand years ago, when those two King Beyond the Wall, Joramun and Gorne, came to raid us with their Wildlings, it was our ancestors who, wielding their great axes, fought alongside the House Stark ancestors and drove them back north of the the Wall!"
He then pointed to the tapestry on the wall, embroidered with a scene of Giants and Direwolf fighting side by side, presumably the work of some Duchess of Winterfell. "And there's the year 58 of the Conquest calendar, when Queen Alysanne rode her Silverwing to us. She not only drank three barrels of our ale, but also praised our roast meat as the best in the the North!"
Rupert Crabb silently watched Brandon, who was drinking with the Earl. This Wild Wolf was indeed wild, making himself, a half- Wildlings from the Crab Peninsula, seem like a fake. Myles Rivers the other hand, stared at the battle axe at Yangra's waist. The blade was so wide that it could split rocks, clearly a heavy axe unique to the the North, and his eyes were full of envy.
"But speaking of which," Jorah's smile faded, he took a sip of ale, and his tone turned somber, "the the North is far from peaceful this year." He pointed to the snow outside the window, "The Long Winter has been too long. It should be summer now, yet it's still snowing. The Wildlings north of the the Wall have gone mad lately, constantly heading south. The Night's Watch has captured several, shouting ' The Long Winter is Coming,' which sends chills down your spine."
Daemon paused, his hand holding the wine glass still, recalling the words of the Leaf on Isle of Faces— the White Walkers wait, wait for the day the dragons are extinct. He looked at Jorah: "South of the the Wall?"
"It's not peaceful either," Jorah's brother Jon interjected, his face grave. "The House Bolton have been making a lot of moves lately. Those freaks from Dreadfort are always hanging around our land, and they even robbed two of our shepherd tenants, claiming it was 'accidental trespassing'—nobody believes that!"
"Those skinners!" Jorah slammed his fist on the table, spilling his wine. "They think they can take over territory just because Duke Ellard is ill! If it weren't for the House Stark holding them back, I would have already raided their Dreadfort!"
Brandon put down his glass, his face darkening. "Benjen has already sent men to warn Bolton, but they're completely ignoring it. I heard they've been in contact with the Stark at White Harbor lately; I wonder what they're up to."
Daemon remained silent, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. The undercurrents in the the North were more turbulent than he had imagined—the Wildlings, the White Walkers, the House Bolton ' ambitions, and the succession crisis brought about by Duke Ellard's illness—all of these were like landmines buried under the snow, ready to explode at any moment.
"But with His Highness here, things are different!" Jorah suddenly grinned, raising his wine glass. "With the Dragonfire of the true dragon present, whether they are Wildlings or skinners, they all have to obey! Come, let's all toast the true dragon!"
Everyone raised their glasses, the clinking of ale echoing through the hall.
Daemon took a sip of his drink, the warmth flowing down his throat, but he couldn't help looking out the window—the wind and snow were intensifying, and the flag of Last Hearth was fluttering in the wind like a burning fire, stubbornly resisting the cold and darkness on this land close to the the Wall.
Alys Rivers sat in the corner, her green dress shimmering with dark patterns in the firelight. She wasn't drinking; she was simply picking at a piece of frozen venison with a silver fork, her eyes filled with a thoughtful light.
Jarman Waters stood at the doorway, his one eye sweeping over the Umber family members in the hall, his hand resting on his bow and arrow—these the North, though warm and welcoming, also possessed a primal wildness that required caution.
Larys Strong leaned against the fire pit, his body wrapped in a black robe, occasionally poking at the embers with a wooden spoon, his dark eyes gleaming with an unfathomable light, as if he were pondering something.
Corlys Celtigar and Lyonel Corbray were getting along very well with Rayford, the House Royce, and the eldest and second sons of the Umber family.
As night deepened, the atmosphere of the banquet grew increasingly intense. Jorah and Brandon, their faces flushed from drinking, embraced each other and sang war songs from the the North.
Jon, noticing the look in Myles's eyes, generously taught Myles how to wield the the North Heavy Axe, its blade gleaming coldly in the firelight;
Beren was still asking Jorah's youngest son about stories from Beyond the Wall; the boy spoke with great enthusiasm, saying he had seen "Direwolf bigger than warhorses."
Daemon stepped out of the hall and onto the terrace. The snowstorm had stopped, the night sky was exceptionally clear, and the Milky Way stretched across the sky like a silver ribbon.
The Glutton and Dreamfyre huddled together in the castle's open space, dragon breath condensing into white vapor in the cold air, mingling with the lights of Last Hearth. The sound of flowing water came from the distant Last River, mingling with the singing in the hall, like a nocturne from the the North.
The singing continued in the hall, Jorah's voice the loudest, singing the First Men's war song, lyrics filled with love for the land and freedom. Last Hearth shone like stars in the night, illuminating this land near the the Wall, and also illuminating their path to despair.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight shone on House Umber's Giants banner, Jorah Umber had already prepared everyone's belongings—thick animal skin cloaks, frozen barley cakes, and several bags of hot ale to ward off the cold.
"When you reach the the Wall, remember to tell the Night's Watch commander that House Umber brought you here! We still have some influence there." He patted Daemon's shoulder, the force so strong that the boy stumbled slightly. "If you run into trouble, head south to the Weapons of Last Hearth. They're always ready to answer your call, Your Highness!"
As the party set off, the Umber family stood by the city gate waving. Daemon looked back, and the Last Hearth gradually faded into the distance, the fiery red Giants banner fluttering in the wind like an inextinguishable flame, guarding the the North.
Kingsroad extends northward, the snow on the road becomes thicker, and the wind becomes stronger.
The Glutton and Dreamfyre spread their wings and flew low, their dragon shadows landing on the snow like two black lightning bolts.
Daemon knew that further north lay the the Gift and the the Wall, the Night's Watch, and that desolate, snow-covered wasteland—where the truth awaited them, and the impending Storm.