Last Hearth.
This is the family seat of House Umber in The North. Aside from the fortresses of the Nights Watch, Last Hearth is the northernmost castle in The Seven Kingdoms and the one closest to The Wall.
Unlike Winterfell, where the ice and snow are on the verge of melting, Last Hearth is further north, causing its snow to remain frozen year-round.
In the words of the Northmen, if a delicate Southerner were to suddenly arrive here, they might be captivated by the scenery, but they would also find the biting cold unbearable—this is the true North.
Inside a bustling tavern.
In contrast to the cold outside, the selfless burning of charcoal kept the place perpetually warm.
Men drank and made merry here without restraint, their coarse laughter erupting from time to time.
Occasionally, two drunks would argue until they were red in the Face over some trivial matter, picking up their weapons to duel.
By the time one of them had their head smashed to a pulp, everyone would raise their mugs to 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 the man to pull out a few more Silver Stags.
In the informal North, the air was filled with the sounds of primal violence and mating; the Law of the jungle was simpler and clearer here.
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 burly physique—he was even a head taller than his father, reaching a staggering height of over two meters.
The burly Smalljon had always been the most eye-catching star here, not because of his birth, but because he was strong enough.
Valuing martial prowess above all else, 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 he had defeated here for daring to challenge him, or how many women—respectable or otherwise—he had bedded.
But he never paid, and no one ever asked him to.
Just as the tavern was at its liveliest, the door was suddenly flung open. A tall figure appeared at the entrance, and snow blew in through the gap between him and the doorframe, drawing a chorus of angry curses from the crowd.
"You brat, damn you!"
Under Smalljon's displeased gaze, the tavern owner, Seth, roared as he walked toward the door.
Anyone from Last Hearth knew that to enter the tavern at night, one had to carefully open the door just a crack and slip inside; otherwise, the melting snow would leave behind difficult-to-clean water stains.
"Bang!"
Just as Seth was about to teach this rule-breaker a lesson, the tall figure slammed the door shut.
He then took a pouch from his waist, pulled out a glittering golden circular object, and tossed it over.
Hurriedly catching the Gold Dragon with both hands, Seth cautiously bit down on it. Seeing the clear teeth marks, he immediately switched to a fawning smile and greeted the newcomer warmly.
"Oh, dear friend, please come in and sit for a while! We have the finest spirits here!"
"No wine. Meat."
The tall figure strode forward. Under the light, the golden lion on his chest shone brilliantly.
Walking straight to Smalljon's side, he sat down and placed his sword on the table. Davon paid no mind to this giant of a man, simply instructing Seth on his own.
"Venison, wolf meat, anything. As long as it's meat, bring it to me."
Seeing the sigil on the man's chest clearly, Seth realized he had a big customer.
Although he was puzzled as to why a Lannister would come to The North alone, for the sake of the Gold Dragon, he quickly served Davon several plates of fresh roasted meat.
As if he had been starving for a long time, Davon grabbed the roasted meat with his hands and began to devour it—Death Knights had to eat too... Since receiving Arthas's orders, this Lannister, who had already dedicated his Soul to the lich king, had traveled north. He had ridden three horses to death and reached Last Hearth in just two days.
"I should be able to head beyond The Wall tomorrow."
While eating the meat, Davon calculated his progress in his mind.
"Hey, Lannister boy."
At that moment, Smalljon leaned in from the side, slapping a large hand onto Davon's shoulder. Looking at his ashen hair, he asked in a booming voice:
"What is a Lannister like you doing in The North?"
"Besides, I've never heard of a Lannister with hair color like yours."
The implication was that he suspected the man was an impostor using the Lannister name to get free food and drink.
Ignoring Smalljon's questioning, Davon simply enjoyed the food on his plate. Smalljon, surprisingly considerate, did not disturb him further, but stayed right there, staring at him.
After all, Davon was so close that Smalljon was confident he could crush the man's head with a single slap.
Three or five minutes later, the food on the plate was completely gone. Davon closed his eyes in satisfaction and exhaled. Then, his eyelids fluttered slightly as he gave the aggressive Smalljon a nonchalant glance, his Aura shifting.
Slowly reaching out, he gripped the wrist resting on his shoulder. Smalljon suddenly felt an irresistible, massive force.
To his disbelief, his hand offered no resistance as Davon pinned it directly onto the table.
"Something's wrong with this guy!"
For the first time in his life, Smalljon had lost in a pure contest of strength, and he had lost so decisively.
Davon didn't think much of it. He calmly turned his head and looked at a man in black in the corner, who was cuddling intimately with a prostitute. He asked in a flat tone:
"That fellow... he should be a man of the Nights Watch, right?"
Recovering from his shock, Smalljon looked at Davon with a hint of suspicion and answered honestly:
"That's right. His name is Rast Stonehead, a Builder of the Nights Watch."
"I recall that the Nights Watch vows do not permit them to mess around with prostitutes."
Seeing that Raci's hand had already reached between the woman's legs, making her Face flush, Davon asked with some confusion.
"Bah, it's nothing."
Facing Davon's question, Smalljon answered everything out of respect for the strong.
He waved his hand dismissively:
"These Nights Watchmen are either bastards, thieves, or rapists."
"Expecting them to keep their vows is like expecting all the prostitutes in the world to go straight!"
"Hahaha~"
Smalljon laughed disdainfully, his hearty laughter echoing throughout the tavern.
Nodding, Davon stood up silently. Carrying his sword, he strode over to Raci, who was just about to get down to business.
"Rast Stonehead of the Nights Watch?"
Raci, his mood ruined, was very annoyed. He turned back to glare at Davon, about to curse him out, when he was suddenly silenced by a cold blade pressed against his throat.
"Y-Yes, my lord!"
The prostitute on his lap had fled the moment Davon drew his sword. Raci, who had finally managed to sneak out of Castle Black, wore a woeful expression and hurriedly replied.
"Have you ever seen a White Walker?"
"!!!"
As soon as those words were spoken, everyone in the tavern cast looks of disbelief at Davon.
In The North, especially the closer one got to the Wall, the term "White Walker" was something that was not to be mentioned.
"No, my lord, I've never seen a White Walker!"
Hearing Davon ask about White Walkers so bluntly, Raci first denied it flatly, then frowned, his eyes flickering as if he had remembered something.
Noticing the change in his expression, Davon simply nudged his greatsword forward slightly.
Feeling the sharp tip of the sword gradually pressing harder, Raci hurriedly pulled his head back against the chair and explained in a panic:
"While I haven't seen one, someone might have seen them a few days ago!"
The cold sensation from the blade eased slightly, and Raci, having narrowly escaped death, breathed a long sigh of relief.
Only then, by the light, did he clearly see Davon's cold, ashen eyes and long hair, and he couldn't help but shudder.
"Go on..."
A raspy voice spoke. Raci was trembling all over with fear, but he still spoke honestly:
"Some time ago, a new noble Ranger, Ser Waymar, took it upon himself to lead Gared and Will deep beyond The Wall to scout. They never returned."
"I heard from some of the Brothers in Black that Gared survived and fled to the vicinity of Winterfell, but he was caught and sentenced to death by Lord Eddard Stark, the lord of winterfell."
"Supposedly, before he died, Gared told Lord Stark that they had encountered White Walkers beyond The Wall!"
At these words, everyone in the tavern was shocked, and they all began to question Raci loudly:
"What!"
"Raci, you bastard, is that true?"
Smalljon was even more restless; after all, he, the heir to the lands closest to The Wall, was completely unaware of such a major event as the discovery of White Walkers.
He reached past Davon and hoisted Raci high into the air, his voice booming like thunder in the man's ears:
"Raci, did you make that up just to save your life and trick this lord?"
"If I find out you're lying, I'll crush your head to pieces right now!"
Held mid-air by his throat, Raci's Face turned red as he struggled and shouted back:
"In the name of the old gods and The Seven, if I, Rast Stonehead, have told a single lie, let my Soul be exiled beyond The Wall forever, never to know peace!"
Hearing Raci swear such a desperate oath, Smalljon no longer doubted him. He silently set him down, his expression grave as he pondered.
Suddenly, he turned to look beside him, only to find that Davon had already walked to the door with his sword at some point.
"Who exactly are you? And what is your purpose in asking about the White Walkers?"
Calling out loudly to stop Davon, Smalljon looked at his ashen hair, and a thought he could hardly believe himself surfaced in his mind.
"Relax, big guy."
Pushing the door open a crack, Davon stepped one foot into the snow. He looked back at him with white eyes that seemed devoid of any emotion, a faint, strained smile appearing on his Face:
"I am the same as you."
"We are all enemies of the White Walkers."
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