#jon umber

Barbrey was starting to tire of these secret meetings, holed up in a Weirwood grove in some section of the North in the lands of Winterfell. Harald Karstark was present, as were Lords Flint, Lord Reed, who was praying to a Heart tree, and her father Lord Ryswell.

“No Mormonts?” Asked the Smalljon, in lieu of announcing his presence, “Cerwyn, Glover, and Manderly are keeping their heads down, given the Ramsey Snow did.”

Barbrey felt herself bristle at the mention of the bastard that murdered her nephew, “Why have you called on us?”

Umber coughed, “Snow let the Wildlings through the Wall.”

Lord Reed turned his gaze away from the Heart tree he was praying to, “Has he given a reason why?”

“He’s not responding to any of our missives,” Said the Smalljon, looking around, “but… there is something else that is more concerning.”

“What?” Asked Lord Ryswell, getting an impatient sigh from Barbrey.

“My men have found Rickon Stark.” Said the Smalljon, an angry look passing over his face, “And they are taking him to the Boltons.”

“What?!” Barbrey blurted, shock filling her, “You called us here to tell us that you’re declaring for the Boltons?!”

“No!” Snapped The Smalljon, “My men heard his brother let the Wildlings through the Wall and disobeyed my orders. His wolf was able to escape when they turned on him.”

“Coupled with the Lord Baelish selling them Sansa Stark,” Said Lord Reed, quietly, “the future of House Stark is in Bolton hands, unless we crown Jon Snow.”

Barbrey and the other Lords looked at Lord Reed.

“When the fuck was Sansa Stark brought back north?” Demanded Lord Umber, asking the question that everyone was thinking.

“I sent some of my house staff to Winterfell,” Said Lord Reed, looking around them, “I told them to hide themselves as small folk, Sansa Stark was seen fleeing Winterfell with the aid of Theon Greyjoy.”

He was a mountain in a man’s skin—broad as a barn door, loud as a warhorn, and twice as stubborn. Jon Umber, called the Greatjon, ruled the Last Hearth with a voice like thunder and a sword that looked more like a slab of iron than a blade. He was not a subtle man. He drank like a river, fought like a bear, and spoke like a storm. But when the banners were called and the North stirred to war, it was the Greatjon who brought his men to Winterfell, grumbling, growling, and ready to test the mettle of the boy who would lead them.

He did not kneel easily. When Robb Stark placed others ahead of him in the march south, the Greatjon rose in fury, drew steel at the feast, and found himself disarmed—literally—by a direwolf. Grey Wind took two fingers, and the Greatjon took it with a laugh. “Your meat is bloody tough,” he said, and from that moment on, he was Robb’s loudest voice and fiercest sword.

He fought at the Whispering Wood, where Jaime Lannister was taken. He stood at Robb’s side in council and in camp, offering blunt truths and brutal loyalty. And when the lords of the North gathered to decide their fate, it was the Greatjon who rose first, slammed his sword into the floor, and declared what others dared not: “There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to—the King in the North!” The cry spread like fire. Robb Stark was crowned, and the Greatjon’s voice was the wind that carried it.

He was not a man of politics. He did not scheme. He did not flatter. But he followed Robb into the heart of the storm, through victories and betrayals, through hope and ruin. And when the Red Wedding came, the Greatjon was not there—captured, imprisoned, spared the slaughter. Some say he still lives, chained in a cell, roaring defiance at stone walls. Others say he died later, quietly, a relic of a rebellion that burned too bright.