The hall at Thornholt was colder than the yard. The old hearth, half-choked with soot and cracked stone, barely kept the frost from clinging to the walls. Smoke drifted to the rafters where crows sometimes perched, drawn by the warmth and scent of cooked meat.
That night, the Black Harp's captains, Aldric's men, and the newcomers from Durnfeld gathered in the hall. The benches were crowded, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of cheap wine. A single long table held what remained of Thornholt's silverware — three dented goblets and a brass pitcher of water gone tepid.
At the high seat, Garran sat with Mera on his left and Aldric on his right. Across from them, Ser Bram Ulric and Lady Eira stood side by side, cloaks streaked with road mud, eyes sharp in the firelight.
Jorik pounded the haft of his axe against the floor. The hall quieted.
Garran rose.
"You've come to Thornholt in ruin and hunger," he began, voice steady though the cold gnawed at his throat. "You've seen the road behind you turn to ash. You've no lord to call you. No house to shelter you. Here, you find walls scarred by siege and men with little food to share."
He let the words hang.
"But we hold this ground. By steel and blood, by broken shields and burned fields, Thornholt stands when others fall. If you would have our fire and food, you will earn them."
He gestured to Mera, who stepped forward carrying a weathered sword. The blade had belonged to the old captain of Thornholt's garrison, long dead, his name forgotten. A plain thing, but serviceable.
"Kneel," Garran ordered.
Ser Bram dropped to one knee, his hand upon the hilt of his own battered sword. Beside him, Lady Eira lowered herself, though her shoulders remained square.
"Speak your names and your oaths."
Ser Bram's voice was rough from cold and long days on the road. "I am Bram Ulric, sworn sword of House Grellan, though my lord lies slain. I pledge my steel to Thornholt, to stand its walls, shed blood for its people, and follow its captain's word in war and peace, while strength remains in me."
Garran gave a small nod.
"And you, Lady?"
Eira met his gaze, her voice calm. "I am Eira Grellan, daughter of Durnfeld's last lord. I pledge what men remain to my name, my claim, and my counsel to Thornholt. So long as justice is kept and our blood shed together, I will stand beside you."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered men. Few women swore such oaths before a hall fire, fewer still wielded claim in a war-torn land. Yet none challenged it.
Garran lifted the old sword, resting it lightly upon each of their shoulders.
"Then rise. Thornholt takes your service. In hunger and war, in siege and storm, you'll live by our law, fight by our banners, and share in the fate we carve here."
They stood.
The hall let out a low cheer, boots thudding against the stone floor. It wasn't joy. It was relief. Another promise of strength in a world crumbling by the day.
Jorik drained his cup. "Well enough. Get them to the barracks. Men need sleep before the next frost."
The gathering began to break. Food was shared, thin though it was. Mera leaned in toward Garran.
"Clever move, that."
"How so?"
"Grellan blood might be a tattered name now, but it carried weight in better days. Men on the far side of the river'll remember it. And if you mean to carve out more than a holdfast, you'll need names like hers stitched to your banner."
Garran didn't answer at once. He knew it was true. Kingdoms weren't built on muscle and swords alone. They were shaped by words, marriages, oaths, and bloodlines. Even the dustiest title could open doors to coin, to old alliances, to frightened lords seeking the safety of a stronger hand.
"I'll not wed for a name," he said quietly.
"I didn't say you should. But having her here shifts the board."
Aldric approached, eyes sharp with drink.
"More mouths to feed, Captain. And not a one of them's brought seed for planting or tools for sowing. How do you aim to keep this hold past winter?"
"I'll find a way."
Aldric snorted. "You'll need more than blades and promises. The land's emptying. Men ride for the coast, for the high valleys. This place is a dead man's gamble."
"Then it suits me fine."
Aldric gave a thin smile and wandered back to his men.
Garran remained by the fire long after the others drifted to their pallets. The wood cracked and spat. Above him, the wind rattled the shutters.
Thornholt was growing. Faster than he'd meant it to. Every new hand meant strength, but it also meant danger. Disputes, divided loyalties, old grudges from beyond the walls. The more men swore to him, the more knives he'd feel at his back.
But kingdoms were made like this. One desperate oath at a time.
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.
Tomorrow, he would send word to the nearest hillstead. Another levy to call in. Another hedge knight to bargain with. And perhaps, if the snows held off, a raiding party to cross the river and test the border holds.
Every day was a risk. Every night another chance for the world to crack apart.But for now, Thornholt held.
And the fire still burned.