The mournful sound of war horns echoed endlessly through the Wolftail Forest, long and deep, their call rolling across the trees like distant thunder. Soon after, the heavy thud of footsteps rumbled from afar — until one after another, enormous mammoths emerged from the bend of the forest path.
There were five in total. Upon each mammoth's massive saddle sat around five warriors armed with bows, while at the center of each group rode a Shapeshifter Warrior — responsible for communicating with and commanding the beasts. On the largest of the mammoths stood an enormous war drum.
"Dong…"
The slow, deliberate beat of the drum rolled through the air. Marching in rhythm to its thunder, Marco's army advanced step by step.
At the very front were a thousand of Marco's Defender Warriors clearing the way, followed closely by two thousand Marauder Soldiers and five hundred Crossbowmen.
As time passed, the open plain between Last Hearth and Wolftail Forest filled with movement. Three massive "品"-shaped battle formations emerged, perfectly aligned under the glint of morning light. Marco's system soldiers stood at the forefront.
Flanking them on both sides were the allied tribal formations of the wildling clans — two tightly ordered squares of spearmen and archers. The left formation was commanded by Wolf Fang, and the right by Mance Rayder. Though their weapons and armor were crude, their ranks were nonetheless neat and disciplined.
In the very front stood the tallest and strongest warriors of the tribes. Each held a tower shield and a quenched long spear, the massive shields uniformly engraved with Marco's "Holy Sun Crest."
Within the two tribal formations, standard-bearers raised enormous banners — white cloth emblazoned with a golden sun, gleaming brightly beneath the sunlight like divine symbols of faith.
Behind them all, ten towering giants loomed over the rest of the army, fully armored and armed with massive spiked clubs. They looked like living war engines — terrifying and unstoppable.
High above, Marco's Crystal Dragon and Brynden's Green Dragon circled and roared. Though smaller than griffins for now, the pair already showed the majesty of future rulers of the skies.
Thirty-five fierce Royal Griffins surrounded the two dragons in formation, led by Siwang. Marco's aerial division hovered above the army, eyes sharp and vigilant, gazing down upon the distant fortress of Last Hearth.
Then, from the rear ranks, five knights escorted a silver-haired young man forward.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with deep wine-red eyes that glimmered with intelligence. A red wine–colored birthmark streaked across his cheek and jaw, making him look as if a crimson raven had landed upon his face.
"People of House Umber, hear me!" the man's powerful voice boomed across the battlefield. "I am Brynden Bloodraven, Prime Minister of the Valyrian Empire — bearer of the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister, and commander of this host!
I now order you to surrender. We possess dragons and griffins — do not think to resist. The magic of Valyria will tear apart every defense you have. When the sun sets upon your tower spire, I will command the dragons to attack.
Surely, you've all heard the tale of Harrenhal. Dragonfire consumes all. Believe me, you do not wish to experience that fate."
Bloodraven's voice rolled through the air like divine thunder, echoing in the ears of every soul within Last Hearth. The warriors and common folk of House Umber trembled, fear gripping their hearts.
After delivering his ultimatum, Bloodraven ordered the army to make camp. The system soldiers were placed under the command of Ropes Dan Magnar and Hank Crowl. Both men had grown far stronger in their control over the power granted to them.
Ropes Dan, hardened by the wars of the Riverlands, had reached Level 5, while Hank stood at Level 3.
Marco had focused Ropes Dan's growth on Defense and Offense Techniques, while Hank specialized in Logistics. Marco had not yet granted them unique abilities — only strengthened their core skills.
Meanwhile, inside Last Hearth, chaos reigned. Soldiers shouted frantic orders as they prepared for defense, while townsfolk hid in cellars and storerooms, awaiting whatever fate might soon befall them.
Within the castle's council chamber, the two acting lords of House Umber sat deep in thought, surrounded by younger family members. The room was silent — not a single junior dared speak, especially after the last one who did had been sent away to the maester for treatment.
"Brother! What should we do now?"
The younger of the two, Hother Umber — known as "Whoresbane" — turned anxiously toward his elder brother Mors Umber, called "Crowfood." His voice quavered with fear.
"Jon left the stronghold in our care… are we just going to hand it over?"
Hother had studied for a time at the Citadel and knew well the recorded horrors of dragons — the charred ruins, the countless dead, and the terror of dragonfire vividly preserved in ink and parchment.
"Don't be afraid!" Mors bellowed, his pride swelling. "When has House Umber ever known fear? Our ancestors have lived on this land for a thousand years — we've faced every hardship imaginable! We even defeated the giants! So what if dragons come? If need be, we die fighting!"
Though his own heart trembled, Mors refused to show weakness before his brother.
"Brother…" Hother pressed on, voice heavy. "But look around. Everyone here is all that's left of our bloodline. If something happens to Jon's side, and we fall too, what then? Will House Umber end with us?"
The two old men fell silent. Mors looked toward his daughter, Alyse Umber, recently reunited with him after years apart. His throat tightened — he could not speak.
Alyse met her father's eyes, her expression conflicted. She knew the army outside hailed from Skagos Island — she also knew what she must do, though her heart resisted it.
Her son, Elock Stern, had visited her not long ago. He'd told her that Skagos Island would soon march upon the North — and he'd begged her to persuade House Umber to side with Marco.
Just as Alyse opened her mouth to speak, the air above the castle filled with eagle cries and dragon roars. Moments later, a soldier burst into the council chamber, knocking urgently.
"Lords! Lord Elock has arrived!"
The man looked shaken, his voice trembling, eyes wide with fear — as though he'd seen something monstrous.
"What are you trembling for?" Hother barked, irritated.
The soldier flinched. "L-Lord Elock… h-he flew here on a beast! As big as a bear! By the gods… it was terrifying!"
The Umber brothers exchanged a glance, unease flickering in both their eyes. Without delay, they followed the soldier out to the tower walkway.
Though spring had come, the northern wind still bit like knives. A thin layer of snow crusted the stone beneath their boots.
There, surrounded by Umber soldiers, stood a knight in gleaming armor — and beside him, a mighty griffin, its wings folded, lion's body and eagle's head radiating majesty.
As soon as it saw the two lords, the griffin let out a piercing screech, making Elock turn toward it.
Because this campaign was directed at the Umbers, Marco hadn't sent Elock as a soldier — only as a messenger. Marco believed that against such overwhelming power, House Umber could not possibly resist; surrender was the only logical path.
Moreover, after Robb Stark's southern campaign, House Umber had lost most of its able-bodied men. Even after conscripting every male from the surrounding lands, their total strength barely exceeded five thousand — mostly untrained militia, hardly fit for battle.
"Grandfathers! It's been so long — are you well?"
Elock bowed respectfully, his tone light and casual, as if greeting family on an ordinary day.
"You little brat," Mors growled, glaring. "What's the meaning of all this?"
He had half a mind to slap his grandson — but the sight of that griffin gave him pause. He glanced upward at the dragons circling the skies and the griffins flying among them. He dared not provoke such creatures.
"Grandfathers," Elock began calmly, "I'll speak plainly. I know Winterfell has sent you a raven. The king I serve is the Emperor of Valyria. You've likely guessed who he is — Lord Marco, who once visited us himself.
The only reason I'm here today is because Lord Marco values our kinship. If it were the Karstarks instead of us, he wouldn't bother with such courtesy."
Mors snorted. "Do you think we fear him? He's just a—"
"Screech—!"
Before he could finish, the griffin leapt forward, its massive talons slamming into the stone floor with a crack that sent chips flying. Soldiers nearby stumbled back in fright.
The beast's golden eyes fixed coldly on Mors, wings half-spread, ready to strike at any provocation.
"Grandfather!" Elock quickly stepped forward. "Siwang is His Majesty's personal mount. If you show disrespect to its master, it will take offense. And yes — it understands the Common Tongue. In fact, all griffins do."
Mors's face flushed red. He wanted to retort, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd been silenced — by a beast and by his own grandson. Fuming inwardly, he could only express his anger through silence.
Hother, seeing his brother's frustration, nearly laughed, but managed to compose himself.
"Elock," he said gravely, "House Umber has sworn fealty to House Stark for generations. That oath — made before the Old Gods — is the foundation of our rule and our honor. You understand this."
"My dear second grandfather," Elock replied with fervor, "our beloved Emperor doesn't demand you die for him. He only asks that you govern your people well. This is a new era!
You've seen it yourself — His Majesty's soldiers are chosen by the gods. We have dragons, griffins, and magic. There will be more to come. If you seize this chance, House Umber will grow stronger than ever."
Elock's words burned with conviction. He'd seen the grandeur of Griffin Keep, the wonder of Magical Farmlands. If one day Last Hearth could be like that, this harsh northern land could become a heaven on earth.
The two brothers exchanged a long look — hesitation glimmered in their eyes.
Sensing his moment, Elock raised his hand and invoked his spell: Blessing Ritual.
A radiant angelic phantom unfurled behind him, light cascading through the hall. Soldiers froze in awe, their weapons slipping from nerveless hands.
"The gods are with us," Elock declared. "Light and Order have descended. The choice now lies with you, my elders. Everything I do is for our future."
His words, coupled with the divine radiance of his magic, shattered the last traces of the Umber brothers' pride. They looked at each other — then both slowly nodded.
Mors sighed heavily. "Very well. We surrender. House Umber shall pledge loyalty to the Valyrian Empire."
That very night, a grand celebration took place in the small market outside Last Hearth. Soldiers and townsfolk mingled in joy, while within the Godswood of House Umber, a sacred oath ceremony was held.
The Heart Tree's bloody leaves rustled despite the still air. Beneath it stood a Child of the Forest, transformed into a Dryad, softly singing an ancient melody.
Then, before the heart tree, a golden figure appeared — and a gentle woman's voice echoed in the minds of all assembled. Her tone was like song, warm and soothing, filling every heart with reverence.
"Ned Umber," the voice said, "your grandfather and father perished in the Red Wedding. Their souls have returned to the heavens. By the authority of the gods, I name you Lord of House Umber.
From this day forth, the council of Last Hearth shall be formed — three of House Umber, and two from other families."
At her words, three ravens flew down from the heart tree, each carrying a leaf. They dropped them into the palms of the chosen Umbers — and as the leaves touched their skin, they transformed into crimson sigils, glowing upon their hands.