The wind howled against Thornholt's walls that night, carrying a cold so deep it set the old stones to cracking. Ice hung thick along the battlements and drifted in thin sheets beneath the gates. No one worked the yard after dusk. Even the crows had taken shelter.
Inside the hall, a fire blazed in the hearth, brighter than most nights. Garran had ordered extra timber thrown on, not for warmth alone but for what was to be spoken around it.
The captains gathered one by one. Jorik came first, his great frame hunched in a patched wool cloak. Mera followed, her hair damp from the snow, face drawn but watchful. Ser Bram arrived with two of his Grellan men, carrying what remained of their wine stock. Aldric, last of all, stepped in from the cold, shaking the ice from his beard.
They took places around the long table, near enough to feel the heat but not so close as to grow complacent. Garran poured himself a cup of weak cider and spoke without ceremony.
"We're not through winter yet. Supplies won't carry us to thaw. The levies help, but they'll turn thin before the month is out."
Aldric raised a brow. "Unless we turn our blades outward."
"I'll not bleed these hills dry," Garran said. "Every steading we raid is one less throat to swear when spring comes. I mean to rule land, not ash."
Jorik grunted, leaning forward. "Then what? The roads south are choked with snow. Nothing comes from the coast till ice breaks."
Mera spoke next. "There's a way. Two days ride north, near the old valley road. A stockade still stands. Small, but it held a market road in better years. If it's abandoned, we take what's left. If it holds folk, we levy them."
Ser Bram nodded. "I know the place. Grellan men wintered there seasons past. Good timber walls. An ice spring nearby. If it stands, it could be ours."
Aldric snorted. "Another ruin. Another handful of peasants. It buys us what? A week?"
"It buys ground," Garran said. "And men remember who holds ground when the thaw comes."
They fell to silence for a time. The fire crackled. Outside, wind screamed through the watch gaps.
At last, Jorik spoke. "If we ride, it should be soon. Before snows trap the ridge. We leave it too long, we'll lose men to the drifts."
"I'll send a scouting party at dawn," Garran said. "Six men. Light kit. If it holds, we march after."
Ser Bram looked across the flames. "And if it belongs to another lord?"
"Then he can come and name himself," Garran answered.
They shared a low, grim laugh at that. In Eldralore, a man without a sword to hold his claim had no name worth speaking.
The council broke after that. Men left in pairs, shoulders hunched, thoughts heavy with what was to come. Garran remained by the fire.
Mera lingered a moment longer. "It's no small thing, what you do here."
"I know."
"Men follow you because you hold this place. Because you speak plainly. You give them ground to die on."
"I give them a cold wall and a sword."
"Sometimes that's enough."
She left him then, her steps light across the stone.
Garran stared into the embers until they blurred, the weight of the land settling on his shoulders. There would be no rescue, no sudden tide to sweep away the hunger and blood. It would be ground out, inch by inch. A levy here, a palisade there. Oaths bought in firelight, men bound to a name not yet written in the old books.
And when spring came, he would see who still stood.
For now, Thornholt held.