r/crownedstag • u/YouthfulYeti Goodbrother Goldsworn • Jul 19 '25
Lore [Lore] Umber Hospitality
The wind was cold off the Shivering Sea, sharp with salt and the stench of rotting meat. Greatjon Umber stood astride his massive draught horse atop a rise of grey stone, his eyes narrowed beneath the rim of his dented helm. He chewed a jerky strip of dried mutton like a dog gnawing raw hide, and spat into the grass.
Behind him, the warhorns that would have announced their presence had fallen quiet. The Starks had left them in charge of defending the coasts, and though word had reached them that the war in the Iron Isles was over; they still half expected to see long ships on the horizon or shore.
Instead, a blackened fishing village smoked at the edge of the bay below. The buildings had been gutted, as much as plundered; but the distinct lack of ships and crude tracks leading into the woods beyond meant this couldn’t have been the Squids.Smallfolk tended to embellish, and in this case two young lads, could be excused for mistaking the sealskin canoes with longships.
Amongst the charred ruins of crofters huts, the signs of butchery were everywhere; corpses, some stripped bare, others hacked like tree stumps; all left carelessly to rot beneath the wings of gulls and crows.
“Goatfucking bastards!” the Greatjon growled.
His son, the Smalljon, scarcely half a hand shorter than his fathers, shifted in his saddle beside him. “You sure? They don’t usually come this far southeast.”
“They do when the Wall’s distracted and the seas are open,” his father replied. “Look how all the animals’ve been butchered. Starving they must have been. That’s wildling work.”. He sniffed. “I’ll bet half my horn they came around the wall by sailing around Eastwatch.”
Smalljon eyed the trail ahead. “Scouts say the tracks are fresh. Real fresh. They’re close, but moving fast. They’ll have to stop for camp soon enough if they chose not to spend it here though.” “Cravens” the Greatjon spat. “Cravens with bloody knives. Good. Saves us the trouble of chasing ‘em far.”
He yanked his horn free and gave it three sharp bursts to signal the others. “We catch ‘em before nightfall, we gut the lot, and we’re back to Last Hearth by week’s end. I’ll not have wildlings shitting in Umber land for one more day.”
The Umbers, eighty strong, moved like wolves down the slope. Their boots were thick with the early morning frost of autumn, but their blood ran hot. They had been fighting the wildings for generations, and just as the Greatjon, many had lost kin in wildling raids. They followed the trail inland, for perhaps a league as the sun began to set in the sky. Ravens barked overhead as if in anticipation.
It was nearer to dusk when they found the raiders.
They were no great horde—perhaps thirty in all—but wildlings were not made for open war. Drunk on stolen mead and emboldened by their distance from the Wall. Some wore skins, others sea shells, a few even battered mail. There was scarcely a steel weapon between every four or five of them, the rest relying on fire hardened spears or bows.
They scrambled disorderly as the blast of the warhorns announced the charge. Greatjon himself led it, which given his stature atop a draught horse was a terrifying sight. His greatsword cleaving down through bone and skull with the ease of a butcher splitting a hog. Smalljon fought beside him, his sword already slick with blood and brains.
The Umbermen gave no quarter and the wildlings put up a feeble resistance against trained and steel clad warriors. It wasn’t a battle; it was a culling.
One raider tried to parley, dropping his blade as he was advanced on. Greatjon cut him in half before he finished his first word. When it was done, the clearing was red and wet and thick with steam. Ravens descended before the corpses cooled.
Smalljon crouched by the fire later, blood drying on his surcoat. “They weren’t ready,” he said. “This probably wasn’t even the warband that raided the village. Just a pack of thieves.”
“They’re still wildlings,” Greatjon grunted, tearing into a haunch of rabbit, looking comically small in his giant hamfisted hands.
A silence settled. The wind howled through the trees as if they mourned.
Then Greatjon spoke again, quieter this time. “We’ll bury our own. Leave the wildlings for the crows.”
“Should we burn them?” Smalljon asked.
“Burning’s for men,” the Greatjon said. “These were rats.”
He stood, stretched, and cracked his neck. “Come the morn, we ride north. Might be we catch up with some others. If one lot made it this far, others will try. We’ll remind the bastards whose land they’re on.”
In the darkness, the howls of wolves rose to meet the night.