The smoke from Harrowmont's shattered camp lingered for days, a dull gray smear against the sky. Crows circled above the dead fields. The stink of charred canvas and spoiled grain hung thick over Thornholt's walls.
Within the holdfast, the mood was cautious. The men bled and buried their dead in shallow graves near the stream. The wounded lay on straw pallets, their bandages foul, the air heavy with the rank tang of rot and sour wine.
Garran walked the yard in the early light. His left shoulder throbbed with every step. The wound was healing poorly. Mera had told him it would fester if he didn't rest. There was no time for that.
He passed Jorik at the gate, who leaned on a rough-hewn spear, face lined from days without proper sleep.
"Riders coming from the east," Jorik said without looking up.
"How many?"
"A dozen, maybe more. No banners yet. Could be stragglers. Could be worse."
Garran's jaw tightened. "Get the men to arms. Quietly."
He made for the gate tower, boots crunching through the frost-hardened mud.
From the tower's edge, the eastern road curled through the hills like a pale scar. And there, approaching at a steady pace, rode fifteen mounted men. No helmets. No visible mail. The leader rode beneath a simple weathered pennon, a faded white stag on green.
Garran recognized the sigil.
House Othren. Minor landed knights, barely worth mention in the old order of Eldralore. Men who'd paid lip service to their betters, scraped out a living in narrow valleys and borderland steadings. Their small keeps were the sort left to rot or be taken by raiders when a lord's power waned.
Yet here they came.
Garran turned to Jorik. "Hold the gate. Let them enter on foot, unarmed."
Jorik grunted. "If they mean trouble, it won't be enough."
"If they meant trouble, they'd have brought more men."
The gates swung open with a groan. The horsemen rode forward, wary but without weapons drawn. Mud clung to their boots and cloaks. A few of their mounts limped, half-starved nags. These weren't the company of a strong house.
The leader dismounted, pulling back his hood.
Ser Aldric Othren. Garran had met the man once, years ago, when both had fought in service to Lord Veylen at the siege of Marnholt. A cautious man. Unremarkable in battle but no fool.
Aldric's eyes were drawn, sunken from hunger and long days in the saddle.
"Garran Vale," Aldric said, his voice rough from cold. "I would speak with you under truce."
Garran stepped forward, his own cloak hanging wet and heavy about his shoulders.
"Then speak."
Aldric glanced at the ruined walls, the fresh graves, the signs of men hard at work repairing what could be salvaged. He took a breath.
"My lord cousin is dead. Cut down by Harrowmont's men after refusing to pay coin for protection. My holdings are gone. My men scattered. Word reached us of what happened here."
He paused, eyes fixed on Garran's.
"You broke Harrowmont's army. Not by luck. Not by numbers. By your own hand and the steel of your men. Some say you mean to hold this place. Others say you'll be run down before spring."
Garran's face remained still.
"I don't hold to rumors," Aldric went on. "I see what's plain. Thornholt still stands, and there's blood in your soil now. Blood men will remember."
He knelt then, in the muck and ash of the yard.
"I would swear to you, Garran Vale. For my life, for my men. If you'll have us."
Around them, Thornholt's men watched in silence. Faces pale, weary, but wary.
Jorik spat into the mud. "He comes when the fight's done and the smoke's settled."
"Better a man who bends the knee late than one who never does," Garran replied quietly.
He stepped forward, his sword unsheathed, tip resting against Aldric's shoulder.
"Rise, Ser Aldric Othren. You'll have Thornholt's protection, and you'll hold what ground you can in my name."
Aldric stood, mud streaking his cloak, and his men followed suit.
A flicker passed through the crowd. Thornholt was no longer a nameless ruin held by mercenaries alone. It was the root of something larger.
And men would speak of that in alehouses, in steadings, and on cold hill roads.
That evening, Garran sat in the ruined hall with his captains. The fire spat and hissed in the old hearth. A jug of rough wine passed between them. Mera, her hair half-singed from the last assault, spoke first.
"One man won't build a kingdom."
Garran nodded. "It's a start."
Jorik grunted approval. "A start's better than an end."
They drank in silence after that, while the wind rattled the battered shutters.