Last Hearth.
This was House Umber's ancestral castle in the North. Apart from the strongholds of the Night's Watch, Last Hearth was the northernmost castle in the Seven Kingdoms, and the closest to the Wall.
Unlike Winterfell, where the snow and ice were almost melting, Last Hearth stood farther north, leaving its snow unmelted all year round.
As northerners put it, if delicate southerners suddenly came here, they would probably be enchanted by the scenery, yet find the bitter cold unbearable-this was the true north.
Inside a bustling tavern.
Unlike the cold outside, the selfless burning of charcoal kept this place perpetually warm.
Men drank and made merry without restraint, occasionally bursting into coarse laughter.
Now and then, two drunks would argue over some trivial matter until their faces turned red, then pick up their weapons and begin a duel.
Once one man's head had been smashed to a pulp, everyone would raise their cups and cheer for the victor, while the long-starved women would eagerly press close, hoping for some physical comfort.
Of course, it would be even better if they could get him to part with a few more Silver Stags.
In the uninhibited North, the sounds of primal violence and mating were everywhere, and the law of the strong devouring the weak was all the more straightforward.
Smalljon Umber was a regular here.
As the heir to Last Hearth and the son of Greatjon Umber, he had perfectly inherited his father's massive build. He even stood a head taller than his father, reaching an astonishing height of over two meters.
The burly Smalljon had always been the center of attention here, not because of his birth, but because he was strong enough.
A believer in strength above all, he never used his status to bully others, preferring to let his fists do the talking.
Over the years, Smalljon had lost count of how many men who dared challenge him he had beaten here, or how many respectable and less-than-respectable women he had bedded.
But he never paid, and no one had ever asked him to.
Just as the tavern was at its liveliest, someone suddenly opened the door. A tall figure appeared in the doorway, and snow blew through the gaps between him and the frame, drawing a torrent of curses.
"You little shit, what the fuck!"
Under Smalljon's displeased gaze, Seth, the tavern keeper, roared and strode toward the door.
Everyone in Last Hearth knew that anyone entering the tavern at night had to carefully open the door a crack and slip inside. Otherwise, the snow that blew in would melt and leave a great deal of water that was difficult to clean up.
Bang!
Just as Seth was about to teach this fellow with no manners a lesson, the tall figure slammed the door shut.
Then he took a pouch from his waist, pulled out a round, glittering gold object, and tossed it over.
Hastily catching the Gold Dragon in both hands, Seth cautiously bit it. Only after seeing a clear tooth mark did he put on a fawning smile and hurriedly greet the visitor:
"Oh, my dear friend, please come in and sit down. We have excellent strong liquor!"
"No liquor. Meat."
The tall figure strode forward, the golden lion on his chest gleaming in the lamplight.
Walking straight over to sit beside Smalljon, Daven set his sword on the table. He paid no attention to the giant of a man, merely giving Seth his orders:
"Venison, wolf meat, anything. If it's meat, bring it."
Once he had a clear look at the sigil on the man's chest, Seth knew he had found a big spender.
Though somewhat puzzled as to why a Lannister would come to the North alone, for the Gold Dragon's sake, he quickly brought Daven several plates of freshly roasted meat.
As though he had been starving for a long time, Daven grabbed the meat with his hands and took great bites-Death Knights needed to eat too...
After receiving Arthas's orders, this Lannister, who had already dedicated his soul to the Lich King, had headed north, riding three horses to death and reaching Last Hearth in just two days.
I should probably be beyond the Wall tomorrow.
As he ate the roast meat, Daven calculated the journey ahead.
"Hey, Lannister boy."
Smalljon leaned over and slapped a large hand onto Daven's shoulder. Looking at his gray-white hair, he asked in a deep, muffled voice:
"What's a Lannister doing up in the North?"
"And I've never heard of a Lannister with hair that color."
The implication was that he suspected this fellow was impersonating a Lannister to get free food and drink.
Ignoring Smalljon's questions, Daven simply enjoyed the food on his plate. Smalljon was considerate enough not to interrupt him again, merely staying where he was and staring at him.
After all, with Daven so close, he was quite confident he could smash his head with a single slap.
Three to five minutes later, the food on the plates had been completely devoured. Daven closed his eyes and exhaled in satisfaction, then lifted his eyelids slightly and gave the menacing Smalljon a somewhat casual glance.
Slowly reaching out, he gripped the wrist resting on his shoulder. Smalljon immediately felt an irresistible force.
Under his incredulous gaze, his hand was pressed straight down onto the table by Daven, without the slightest ability to resist.
Something's wrong with this fellow!
For the first time in his life, Smalljon had lost a contest of pure strength, and lost utterly.
Daven saw nothing remarkable about it. He merely turned his head calmly toward a black-clad man in the corner who was embracing a prostitute, and asked in an even voice:
"That fellow is a member of the Night's Watch, isn't he?"
Recovering from his shock, Smalljon looked at Daven with uncertainty in his eyes and answered honestly:
"That's right. His name is Raggy Stone East. He's a craftsman in the Night's Watch."
"As I recall, the Night's Watch's vows don't allow them to fool around with prostitutes."
Watching Raggy's hand slip between the woman's legs, making her face flush, Daven asked in some puzzlement.
"Ah, what's the big deal?"
Out of respect for the strong, Smalljon answered every one of Daven's questions.
He waved a hand, utterly unsurprised:
"These men of the Night's Watch are either bastards or fellows like thieves and rapists."
"You'd have better luck expecting every whore in the world to go straight than expecting them to keep their vows!"
"Hahaha!"
Smalljon laughed scornfully, his hearty laughter carrying throughout the tavern.
Nodding, Daven silently rose, took his sword, and strode up to Raggy, who was just about to get down to business.
"Raggy Stone East of the Night's Watch?"
Deeply annoyed at having his fun interrupted, Raggy turned and glared at Daven. He was about to curse when a cold blade suddenly pressed against his throat.
"Y-yes, my lord!"
The prostitute on his lap had fled the instant Daven drew his sword. Raggy, who had only managed to sneak out of Castle Black with considerable difficulty, looked miserable as he hurriedly stammered his answer.
"Have you ever seen White Walkers?"
"!!!"
At these words, everyone in the tavern turned an incredulous gaze on Daven.
In the North, and particularly the closer one came to the Wall, "White Walkers" was a term that must not be spoken.
"No, my lord, I've never seen White Walkers!"
Hearing Daven ask about White Walkers without any hesitation, Raggy first denied it outright. Then his brow furrowed and his eyes flickered, as though he had remembered something.
Noticing his changing expression, Daven merely pushed his greatsword a little farther forward.
Feeling the sharp tip gradually press harder, Raggy hurriedly drew his head back against the chair and hastily explained:
"Though I've never seen White Walkers, someone may have seen them a few days ago!"
The cold pressure of the blade eased slightly, and Raggy let out a long breath after his narrow escape from death.
Only then did he make out Daven's cold, gray-white eyes and long hair in the lamplight, and he could not help shivering.
"Go on..."
At the sound of that hoarse voice, Raggy trembled all over in fear, but still obediently spoke:
"A while ago, a newly arrived noble ranger, Ser Waymar, took it upon himself to lead Gared and Will deep beyond the Wall to investigate. They never came back."
"I heard some of the brothers in black say Gared survived and even fled as far as the vicinity of Winterfell, but Lord Eddard Stark, the Duke of Winterfell, caught him and sentenced him to death."
"They say that before Gared died, he told Lord Stark they'd encountered White Walkers beyond the Wall!"
Everyone in the tavern was stunned by these words, and they loudly questioned Raggy:
"What!"
"Raggy, is what you're saying true?"
Smalljon was even less able to contain himself. After all, the discovery of White Walkers was a matter of enormous importance, yet he, the heir to the lordship closest to the Wall, had known nothing about it.
Reaching past Daven, he hoisted Raggy high into the air, his thunderous voice exploding beside the man's ears:
"Raggy, did you make that up to trick this lord into sparing your life?"
"If I find out you're lying, I'll crush your head to pieces right now!"
Suspended in midair by his neck, Raggy's face reddened as he struggled and answered loudly:
"In the name of the Old Gods and the Seven, if I, Raggy Stone East, have spoken so much as half a lie, may my soul be banished beyond the Wall forever and never know peace!"
Hearing Raggy swear such a resolute and terrible oath, Smalljon no longer doubted him. He silently lowered him to the ground, his eyes grave, his thoughts unknown.
Suddenly, he turned to look beside him, only to discover that Daven had already walked to the door with his sword at some point.
"Who exactly are you, and why are you asking about White Walkers?"
Calling loudly for Daven to stop, Smalljon looked at his gray-white hair, and a thought arose in his mind that even he could scarcely believe.
"Relax, big man."
Pushing the door open a crack, Daven stepped one foot into the snow and looked back at him with white eyes that seemed devoid of all feeling, a slightly strained smile appearing on his face:
"I'm just like you."
"An enemy of the White Walkers."
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