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The next morning, Garron found Morna in Last Hearth's modest library—really just a room with shelves containing household records, maps, and a few books that had survived generations of practical northern living.
"Looking for something?" she asked, glancing up from the ledger she'd been reviewing.
"Information about my mother," Garron admitted. "You said she was headstrong, that she ran away rather than accept an arranged marriage. I want to understand what drove her, what she was like before I was born."
Morna set aside her ledger, her expression softening with memory. "Lysa was... fierce. That's the word that always comes to mind. Not loud or aggressive, but absolutely unwilling to bend on things she believed in. Your grandfather—her father, my brother—he loved her desperately but never quite knew what to do with that fierce independence."
She moved to a shelf and pulled down a small wooden box, worn smooth by years of handling. "These were hers. Letters, small trinkets, things we kept after she died."
Garron accepted the box carefully, feeling the weight of history in something so simple. Inside were indeed letters—most in a feminine hand he assumed was his mother's, addressed to various people. A few small pieces of jewelry. A ribbon that might have bound her hair. And a small carved wooden horse, the kind given to children.
"That was yours," Morna said, pointing to the horse. "She made it herself—wasn't particularly skilled with carving, but she was determined you'd have something made by her hands rather than bought from a craftsman. You used to carry it everywhere, according to her letters."
Garron picked up the small horse, turning it over in his enhanced hands that could crush stone but held this fragile memento with utmost care. "I don't remember it."
"You were so young," Morna said gently. "But she wrote about you constantly. How you smiled, how curious you were, how you'd try to climb anything vertical despite falling constantly. She worried about you, hoped for you, wanted you to have choices she'd never had."
She pointed to one of the letters. "That one's addressed to you, actually. She wrote it when you were about a year old, meant for you to read when you were older. We never gave it to you because we thought you were dead. But now..."
Garron picked up the indicated letter with hands that weren't quite steady. The seal had never been broken—it had been waiting twenty years for him to read it.
"I'll leave you alone," Morna said quietly. "Take your time with her things. They're yours now, by right and by blood."
She departed, closing the door softly behind her. Garron sat at the library table, his mother's letter in front of him, and carefully broke the seal that had held for two decades.
My dearest Garron,
If you're reading this, you're old enough to ask questions about me, about where you came from, about why things are the way they are. I'm writing this because I want you to hear the truth from me, even if I'm not there to tell you directly.
I ran away from Last Hearth when I was sixteen because my father tried to arrange a marriage I didn't want—to a man twice my age who saw me as property rather than person. I knew if I stayed, I'd be forced to accept that marriage or bring shame on the family by refusing. So I left, determined to find my own path.
I spent two years traveling, learning that the world was larger and stranger than I'd ever imagined from within Last Hearth's walls. I met your father during that time—I won't name him, not because I'm ashamed, but because he's gone now and it would serve no purpose to complicate your life with half-truths and speculation.
What matters is that I loved him, however briefly. And when I discovered I was carrying you, I knew I had to return home. Not because I was ashamed or needed their help, but because I wanted you to know your family, to have the strength and loyalty of House Umber even if your mother was too proud to accept their control.
They took me back. They were angry, disappointed, hurt by my running away—but they loved me despite everything. That's what family means, Garron. Not always agreeing, not always understanding, but choosing to love and support anyway.
I hope you grow up strong like your grandfather. I hope you grow up honest like your great-aunt Morna. I hope you grow up to make your own choices, to refuse anyone who tries to control you, to find your own path even when it's hard.
But most of all, I hope you know that you were wanted. You were loved. Whatever choices I made, whatever mistakes I committed—you were never one of them. You were the best thing I ever did.
Be strong. Be kind. Be yourself.
With all my love,
Your Mother
Garron read the letter twice, then carefully folded it and returned it to the box. His hands were shaking slightly from emotions he hadn't expected to feel about a woman he'd never consciously known.
She'd loved him. She'd wanted him to make his own choices. She'd refused to be controlled, even at great cost.
In some ways, he realized, he'd been living out her wishes without knowing it. Refusing to claim inheritance he hadn't earned. Choosing his own path through cultivation and service to Arthur. Building loyalty based on actions rather than obligation.
Maybe blood did mean something after all. Not in determining who you were, but in showing you where certain qualities came from.
He sat in the library for a long time, surrounded by his mother's belongings and the weight of family history he was only beginning to understand. Outside, Last Hearth went about its daily business—warriors training, servants working, his grandfather managing the countless details that kept a northern fortress functioning.
Eventually, Garron carefully packed his mother's things back into their box, keeping only the letter and the small carved horse. These he would take with him—to the Wall, to wherever his service took him, as reminders of where he came from and the woman who'd wanted him to choose his own path.
He'd chosen Arthur and cultivation. But he could also choose to know his family, to build connections with people who shared his blood even if they didn't share his experiences.
And somehow, he thought his mother would have approved.
Three days later, Garron stood in Last Hearth's courtyard, preparing to depart for the Wall. His time with the Umbers had been... complicated. Not bad, but not simple either. He'd shared meals with family members whose names he was still learning, sparred with warriors curious about his enhanced capabilities, and spent long evenings listening to his grandfather's stories about Lysa, about House Umber's history, about the North's long relationship with the Night's Watch.
It hadn't made him an Umber—not really, not in the way someone raised at Last Hearth would be. But it had given him context, understanding, a foundation he could build on if he chose to.
The Greatjon stood beside him, arms crossed over his massive chest. "You'll come back," he said—statement, not question. "After your job at the Wall, after you've helped the Watch get properly organized. You'll come back to Last Hearth, and we'll continue this... whatever this is we're building."
"I will," Garron confirmed. "I can't promise when, or for how long. But I'll come back."
"Good enough." The Greatjon pulled him into a crushing embrace that would have injured a normal man—Garron returned it with equal force. "You're my grandson. That doesn't change whether you're here or at the Wall or wherever Arthur Snow sends you. Remember that."
"I will," Garron said again, surprised to find he meant it.
Morna pressed a bundle into his hands—food for the journey, carefully wrapped. "The Wall is cold and the Watch's provisions are poor. This won't last forever, but it'll remind you that someone's thinking of you."
"Thank you," Garron said, genuinely touched by the gesture.
Tommen Snow approached, extending his arm in farewell. "Don't let the Black Brothers grind you down with their doom-saying. And if you find any wildling women who can actually tolerate your brooding silences, bring them south—we could use more of that kind around here."
Garron actually laughed, clasping Tommen's arm. "I'll keep that in mind."
He mounted his horse—a sturdy northern-bred gelding the Greatjon had insisted he take, claiming Last Hearth had plenty and the Wall needed decent horseflesh—and looked back at the assembled household one final time.
These were his people. Not the only people, not replacing what he'd built with Arthur and the other Cultivators. But his people nonetheless, connected by blood and history and choices he was still learning to understand.
"The North remembers," the Greatjon called out as Garron prepared to ride. "And House Umber takes care of its own. That includes you now, boy. Don't forget it."
"The North remembers," Garron replied, the old words feeling right in his mouth. "I won't forget."
He turned his horse north, toward the Wall and whatever awaited him there. Behind him, Last Hearth stood solid and strong against the wilderness—a fortress full of people who'd claimed him as family despite decades of separation.
He wasn't sure what that meant yet. But he was willing to find out.
One step at a time. One choice at a time. Building something new without abandoning what he'd already become.
For now, it was enough.