The decision to name the force did not begin with ceremony.
It began with argument.
It happened around cookfires and water barrels, in the low hour before sleep and the dull ache after drills, when men spoke more freely because they were too tired to posture. Suggestions surfaced half-jokingly at first, then with increasing seriousness as the realization spread that this thing they had become no longer fit the shape of temporary.
Tom Rivers heard the first one while cleaning his spear.
"Storm's Own," someone muttered.
"Sounds like a lord's vanity," another replied immediately.
"What about River Wardens?" Hugh offered, chewing on a crust of bread. "We keep the crossings."
"Too official," Orren said. "And half the river lords would claim it."
Lysa, passing with a ledger tucked under her arm, paused. "Names matter," she said calmly. "They tell people who you are when you're not there to explain."
That quieted them.
By morning, the discussion had spread to the entire camp.
Garen Storm did not interfere.
That restraint was intentional.
He watched from a distance as men argued, discarded, refined. He listened when Merrick brought him fragments of conversations—not gossip, but temperature.
"They don't want a name that belongs to you," Merrick said at midday, as they walked the perimeter. "They want one that belongs to all of them."
"That's the point," Garen replied.
"And they're circling the same idea," Merrick added. "Different words. Same spine."
Garen nodded. "Let it form."
The opportunity came sooner than expected.
A runner arrived in the afternoon, breathless but controlled—a boy from a village near the southern forks.
"Captain—Ser—" the boy corrected himself quickly. "Three wagons stuck near Blackwillow Ford. Merchants. No attack yet, but armed men watching from the treeline."
Testing.
Again.
Garen didn't hesitate. "Form up."
This time, nearly a hundred men moved.
Not with urgency.
With precision.
They advanced in layered elements—scouts forward, main body visible but unprovocative, rear security tight. No banners flew, but the blue cloth stitched onto armor and cloaks marked them clearly enough.
The armed men watching from the treeline melted away without confrontation.
The merchants crossed.
No steel was drawn.
No blood spilled.
When the force returned to camp at dusk, something had shifted.
Not relief.
Recognition.
That night, Garen called them together.
Not in the yard.
On the open ground beyond it, where the land sloped gently toward the river. Torches were planted in a wide arc, firelight reflecting off mail and worn leather. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, some nervous, some eager, all attentive.
Garen stepped forward alone.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not pace.
"We've reached a point," he said, and the quiet carried his words. "Where what we are can no longer be explained away as temporary."
No argument.
"You patrol roads that were abandoned," he continued. "You stand where others would not. Villages act because they believe you'll answer. That belief is a responsibility."
He let that settle.
"I won't give you a name," Garen said. "Because whatever you are, you became it together."
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
Tom felt his pulse quicken. He hadn't expected this—not like this.
Garen stepped back.
"Choose."
Silence followed. Not awkward. Considered.
Men looked at one another. At Merrick. At Tom. At the blue stitched onto their gear.
Finally, Hugh cleared his throat.
"We're not the biggest," he said gruffly. "And we don't have the best steel."
A few chuckles.
"But we don't run," Hugh continued. "We don't break. And when we stand somewhere, trouble moves on."
Orren nodded. "Dauntless," he said slowly. "That's what the merchants called us today."
The word moved through the formation like a current.
Dauntless.
Unyielding.
Tom felt it land in his chest.
Lysa spoke next, voice calm but firm. "And Vanguard," she added. "Because you're always ahead of where safety should be."
That did it.
The murmurs grew louder, coalescing, no longer questioning.
Dauntless Vanguard.
Garen watched their faces as the name took hold. Pride, yes—but also weight. Names carried expectations. Names could be challenged.
He stepped forward again.
"Then hear this," he said. "If you take that name, you answer to it. You don't hide behind it. You don't abuse it."
Silence fell again.
"You don't use it to take from the people you protect," Garen continued. "And you don't abandon one another because it's inconvenient."
Tom found himself speaking without planning to. "We won't."
Others echoed it.
"We won't."
Garen nodded once. "Then it's done."
No cheer followed.
No shout.
The acceptance was quieter—and stronger for it.
Merrick stepped forward next, voice carrying easily. "By custom, a named force requires structure," he said. "Command is not ceremony. It's clarity."
He looked at Garen, who inclined his head.
"Ser Garen Storm commands," Merrick said. No argument followed. "I serve as vice-captain. Discipline and logistics."
A beat.
"Tom Rivers," Merrick continued, turning, "commands the third element."
Tom's breath caught.
Twenty-five pairs of eyes turned toward him.
He swallowed, then nodded once. "I'll do my best."
"You'll do better than that," Merrick said mildly. "You'll learn."
The men dispersed slowly after that, conversations muted, thoughtful. The name was already being tested on tongues, spoken carefully, as if to see whether it fit.
Dauntless Vanguard.
Garen walked alone toward the river afterward, boots crunching softly on gravel. The water moved steadily, uncaring, ancient.
The system surfaced with the weight of a seal pressed into wax.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — FORCE FORMALIZED]
Force Name: Dauntless Vanguard
Command Structure: Established
• Commander: Garen Storm
• Vice-Captain: Merrick
• Sub-Unit Commander: Tom Rivers
Force Strength: 96 (Active)
Identity Cohesion: High
Discipline Source: Cultural (Reinforced)
Regional Influence: Significant (Riverlands Core)
The ledger faded.
Garen remained by the river for a long time, watching the current catch moonlight and break it apart.
This was the point of no return.
Not because of enemies.
Because of obligation.
A named force attracted attention like iron drew lightning. Edmure would have to acknowledge it formally now. Minor lords would push harder. Great houses would begin to remember the name instead of the man.
And that was fine.
Because names endured longer than men.
Behind him, the camp settled into sleep beneath blue cloth and shared purpose. Tom stood watch with his unit, posture straight, voice calm as he corrected a sentry's stance without raising it.
The Dauntless Vanguard held.
And in holding, it became something the Riverlands had not seen in years—a force that did not need chaos to justify its existence.
Author's Note:
Boom! The Dauntless Vanguard has formed again! Yes I used my writing power to make it so that they decided on the name not Garen, but I figured it would add weight behind the name, and group cohesion. Always loved a good army, and the scene in Warriors Season 2020 Cinematic where the Dauntless form up after Galio drops in always gives me chills. MAY THE DAUNTLESS VANGUARD NEVER FALL!!!