"In the North, a scar teaches better than a sermon." — Old Umber Saying
(Hother 'SmallJon' Umber POV)
It's been two years since I first accompanied my father to the harvest feast, and one year since the harvest festival became the grand affair it is now. Two years since that day—the day I challenged that monster. I still remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
(Flashback)
By the old gods, I was excited! This was my first time leaving Last Hearth, and Father had told me tales of Winterfell—how Brandon the Builder had raised its walls just as he had raised the Wall itself. I'd seen the Wall in all its icy magnificence, and now I wondered if Winterfell would be just as grand. The seat of House Stark, the longest-ruling family in all of Westeros.
"Hother, easy there, lad!" Father's booming laughter rang out across the Kingsroad. "Keep bouncing like that and you'll kill your poor horse before we reach the gates!"
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Forgive me, Father. I'm just eager to see Winterfell."
He laughed again, that great rumbling sound that marked all Umbers. "Aye, I can see that, boy."
When the walls of the winter city finally came into view, my jaw dropped. The sheer number of people bustling about was staggering—far more than Last Hearth had ever seen.
"Hard to believe, isn't it, son?" Father said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Two years past, this place was near a ghost town. Folk only came here during the long winters, seeking shelter. Now look at it—merchants, craftsmen, labourers, all manner of people."
"What changed, Father?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Winter itself, lad. The very thing our people used to dread became our greatest blessing."
I frowned. "I don't understand."
Father's eyes gleamed with something like pride. "It started when Lord Stark decided to sell ice to Braavos and Pentos. Mad idea, most of us thought. But we're loyal Stark bannermen, so we followed his lead. And by the gods, look what came of it."
"But Father, how valuable can ice really be?"
Another booming laugh. "Not valuable to us, boy—we've got more ice than we know what to do with! But to those rich merchants in the Free Cities? It's worth its weight in gold. They use it to keep their wine cold, preserve their fancy foods. Course, that's just the beginning of the tale."
"The beginning?"
"Aye. The profits from the ice trade? Lord Stark used them to build the North its first proper navy in thousands of years. Then came the trading vessels, sailing as far as Volantis. But the real reason for all these people..." He gestured at the crowds around us. "Lord Stark's building a proper winter city. According to our maester, it'll put King's Landing to shame—which, knowing that southern cesspit, isn't saying much. All these folk are here for the free residency Lord Stark's offering."
"Free?" I sputtered. "Why would he do that? Won't it cost him a fortune?"
Father shrugged his massive shoulders. "That's what I aim to find out at this feast. And remember, boy—you show proper respect to Lord Stark, you hear me?"
"Aye, Father."
We'd reached the castle gates by then, where Lord Harrison Karstark was already partaking of bread and salt. The man greeted Father like the old friend he was.
"Harrison! We've timed it well," Father called.
"Jon Umber! Brought your whelp, I see."
"It's an honour to meet you, my lord," I said, giving my best attempt at courtly manners.
He nodded briefly before beckoning Father inside. After we were shown to our chambers and our belongings were settled, Father clapped me on the shoulder.
"Time to greet Lord Stark, son. Remember—respect."
"Aye, Father."
I'd heard the stories of Starks of old—their stone-cold faces, their direwolves, the ice in their blood. As we were ushered to the lord's solar, I wondered what Rickon Stark would be like.
Lord Stark sat behind his desk, ledgers spread before him. Those famous grey eyes lifted to regard us, and his face was indeed as cold and still as winter stone. For a moment, I felt my courage falter.
"This is my son, Hother," Father announced.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark. I am Hother Umber," I managed, finding my voice.
Lord Stark studied me for a long moment. "An Umber without a loud voice? Now that truly is a pleasure, lad. How old are ye?"
Father let out one of his great laughs, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Eight name days, my lord."
"Hmm. Older than my lad, then. Why don't you go find him? He should be in the training yard." He dismissed me with a nod, already turning back to his conversation with Father.
I found my way to the training yard easily enough, expecting to see the Stark heir among the men-at-arms running their drills. Instead, I spotted a boy of perhaps six name days sitting alone on the side-lines, looking... not bored, exactly. More like he found the whole affair beneath his notice.
When I approached, I could see the resemblance to his father immediately—the same grey eyes, though his face held none of the lord's stone coldness. Instead, there was something unsettlingly calculating about his expression.
"You must be Stark. I am—"
"Umber."
I blinked. "What?"
"I said you're an Umber. Son of the Greatjon Umber."
"How did you—"
"Who else would you be?" The dismissive tone in his voice made my blood start to heat. This was not how I'd expected this meeting to go.
"Aye, but let's do proper introductions. I am Hother—"
"Alaric Stark, son of Rickon Stark and Alisa Stark, heir to Winterfell. Six name days old." He rattled off the words like he was reciting a lesson.
"What? I meant my introduction. Let me start over—"
"Hother 'SmallJon' Umber, son of the Great Jon Umber, heir to Last Hearth. Eight name days old."
The casual way he said it made my skin crawl. "How did you know that?"
"I see dead people." He said with a straight face.
I took a step back, my hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Wha... what are you talking about?"
Then the little bastard started laughing. Not the polite chuckle of a lord's son, but genuine, belly-shaking laughter that drew stares from across the yard.
"Your face!" he gasped between laughs. "You should have seen your face!"
Heat rose in my cheeks as I realized I'd been made a fool of. Around us, the training continued as if nothing had happened—apparently, this sort of thing was normal for the Stark heir.
"Forgive me, Umber," he said, though he was still grinning. "I jest. Your father told me about you when he visited last time. Said he'd bring his son next visit, and you look just like him."
That explained how he knew, but it didn't cool my anger. No one made a fool of an Umber—not even a Stark.
"You're offended," he observed, patting the ground beside him. "Come, sit and tell me, how offended you are."
The casual way he said it—like offense was something that could be measured—made my temper finally snap.
"I've had enough of your jests, Stark!" I snarled, my voice finally finding its proper Umber volume. "We settle this here and now. Loser apologizes to the winner."
He looked at me for a long moment, then slowly stood, that infuriating smirk still playing at his lips. By now, every eye in the training yard was on us.
"Very well, Umber. How do we do this?"
"Swords, obviously."
"I cannot allow that, my lords," the master-at-arms interrupted, hurrying over. "You are under guest right, and Lord Alaric has not yet begun proper sword training."
I felt my frustration peak. "Fists, then."
"But my lord, Lord Stark will—" the master-at-arms began again.
"I've already accepted his challenge," Alaric said calmly. "You wouldn't call me a liar, would you, ser?"
The man's protest died in his throat. "No, my lord. But if the fight gets out of hand, I'll stop it."
"You won't get the chance," I growled. I didn't need a sword to show this arrogant whelp his place. Father had only just started my sword training, but I was still bigger and stronger.
"Very well. Take your positions in the centre. Begin when I give the signal."
We were surrounded now—soldiers, servants, even some of Father's own men had gathered to watch. I'd apologize to Lord Stark later for making a scene in his hall.
"Begin!"
I charged immediately, putting all my weight behind the rush. He just stood there, crouched slightly with his arms extended, that same bored expression on his face. The arrogant little—
Suddenly, the sky was where he should be, and my back was screaming in pain.
"Going to lie there all day?" Alaric asked mildly.
What the bloody hell.
What had he done? It was too fast to follow. I scrambled to my feet and charged again.
Same result.
Again and again I attacked, and again and again I found myself on the ground. Not once did any of my strikes land. Not once did he actually attack me—he just... moved, and I ended up flat on my back.
"Enough!" the master-at-arms finally called. "It's over."
I was gasping for breath, but Alaric looked like he'd barely exerted himself. He simply nodded and returned to his spot on the side-lines.
"What did you do?" I demanded, struggling to catch my breath. "How couldn't I land even one hit?"
He shrugged, as if it was obvious. "Do you know the difference between a human and a bull?"
Before I could answer, he continued: "Bulls are straightforward creatures—easily enraged, always charging ahead. Humans have the advantage of thought. You fought like a bull, letting your anger control you. I fought like a human—I never charged at you. I simply used your own strength against you."
He smiled then, but it wasn't mocking. It was almost... educational.
(Flashback End)
Father gave me the tongue-lashing of my life after that display. But I didn't stop. For the rest of our stay at Winterfell, I kept challenging Alaric, and kept losing. The next year, when we were allowed wooden swords, I lost even worse. I wasn't alone—every heir and second son from across the North who attended that first harvest festival lost to him.
But this year would be different. I'd spent every waking moment training, even fought wildlings near our borders just to get better. This year, I'd finally beat that smug bastard.
"What's got you thinking so hard?" my sister Mara asked, riding beside me. "That look doesn't suit you."
"You know exactly what I'm thinking about, Mara. This year, I'm going to beat that Stark whelp."
She made a face. For all her strength, my sister had never understood my obsession with defeating Alaric Stark.
As Winterfell's gates came into view, I saw the winter city in all its flourishing glory. This time would be different. I knew it.
This time, I'm ready for you.
Just you wait,
Alaric Stark.