Snow fell in fits and starts through the next days, dusting Thornholt's yard and clinging to the jagged stones of the broken wall. The wind came bitter off the hills, carrying the scent of pine smoke and frozen earth. The land had fallen silent. No birds sang. No carts moved along the old roads.
Within the hold, the work never stopped.
The men hauled timber from the east woods, dragging saplings through snow-slick paths to mend palisades and patch crumbling battlements. Fires were kept low to conserve fuel. Garran allowed one main hearth in the hall and two small braziers in the barracks. Every other chamber in the old hold stood dark and empty, filled with the cold.
He made a habit of walking the yard twice a day. At dawn, when the frost lay heavy, and again before nightfall. Men needed to see their captain's face when things grew lean. And Garran needed to see them — the weariness in their eyes, the dull hunger in their movements, the way conversations stopped when a captain passed.
Jorik met him by the east gate one morning, his beard dusted with rime.
"Wood pile's low," Jorik said without ceremony. "If we burn at this pace, we'll be down to felling the orchard come next thaw."
"Send men to the ravine. Plenty of dry deadfall under the overhang. Keep a watch though. Fog's thick as wool down there."
Jorik grunted. "Aye. And food?"
Garran glanced toward the storehouse. Its heavy door sagged on rusted hinges. Inside, the grain bins held little more than what they'd taken from Wynmere and Durnfeld's stragglers.
"We stretch what we have. Root cellars in the village might still hold something. I'll send Mera to check."
"I'll go," Jorik offered.
Garran shook his head. "No. She moves quieter than you. And she knows what to look for."
The big man gave a crooked grin. "Aye, that she does."
They shared a look. In times like this, it was small things that held a company together — dry humor, a shared curse against the cold, a nod at the right moment.
By noon, Mera was gone, three men with her. Garran watched them vanish into the trees, the snow falling heavier now, thick flakes settling on the ground.
The afternoon dragged. Garran spent it with Aldric along the north wall, marking which sections could hold weight and which would have to be pulled down come spring. A thankless task, but one that kept men sharp. Idle soldiers, Garran knew, grew restless. Restless men started trouble.
As the light failed, the men gathered in the hall, the single hearth casting long shadows against the old stone walls. The meal was thin — a watery stew of barley and turnip, with a scrap of salt pork in each cup. No one complained aloud. Complaining didn't fill a belly.
Ser Bram sat apart with Lady Eira at a side table. Garran noticed how the Grellan men clustered close, still watching Thornholt's veterans with guarded eyes. It would take time to bleed them into the rest. If it could be done at all.
After the meal, Garran called his captains together.
"Snow'll get worse," he said, leaning over the table where a crude map lay. "By week's end, we'll be iced in. No foraging, no hunting. If we're to take anything before then, it's now."
Aldric spoke first. "There's a steading east, past the pine ridge. Barely twenty souls, last I heard, but they've livestock. Goats, maybe pigs. Enough to stretch our stores a month."
"And you'd raid them?" Bram asked.
"They're outside any lord's reach. No one'll miss them."
Garran ran a hand over his beard. "I'll not have us known as cutthroats. Not yet. If we take it, we take it by levy. Like Wynmere. A tenth, no more."
Aldric looked sour. "You give them the choice, they'll refuse."
"Then they refuse," Garran said. "But we ask first."
It wasn't mercy. It was strategy. He'd fought long enough to know that fear earned a man's silence, but respect earned him allies when the tides turned.
Mera returned near nightfall, snow caked to her cloak, cheeks red with cold.
"Two cellars found," she reported. "Onions, salted beans, a cask of cider frozen near solid. Not much else."
"It'll help," Garran said. "Well done."
She shrugged, stripping off her gloves. "We'll need more."
"I know."
The meeting broke soon after. Men drifted off to sleep by the dying hearth. Garran remained, staring into the embers.
This was how it went. Day by day. A fence mended, a goat taken, a levy bargained. No kings crowned. No battles won. Just the grinding, hungry labor of survival. The weight of men's lives on his shoulders.
And still, the snow fell.