The night after the raven-bannered envoy left, the wind howled down from the hills, rattling loose shutters and sending sparks from the cookfires spiraling into the black sky. The men of Thornholt huddled closer to the flames, wary and sharp-eyed.
Garran sat alone in the old ruined hall, what remained of the timber rafters blackened and split from age. A single oil lamp guttered on the stone table before him. The letter from Ser Kestrel lay open at his elbow.
He'd read it twice. It didn't take long.
Promises. Threats dressed as invitations.He'd seen that kind of talk before, in mercenary camps and lords' councils alike. Men like Harrowmont thought themselves clever, spinning words like silk nets. Garran preferred iron.
Footsteps scraped across the stone behind him.
Jorik. The Northman tossed a skin of wine onto the table and pulled up a stool.
"Well?"
Garran didn't look up. "He thinks he can buy us. Threaten us if he can't."
"He's not wrong," Jorik grunted, pouring a measure. "We've no title, no claim, no great banner. A place like Thornholt's a bone in a jackal's mouth. Sooner or later someone bigger comes to take it."
"That so?"
"Been that way since men first learned to swing a sword."
A long moment passed between them. The wind moaned through the rafters like some old, wounded thing.
Then Garran spoke.
"Fetch the envoy."
The raven-bannered rider returned at dawn, weary from a night spent camped beyond the walls. He was led before Garran in the courtyard, flanked by a half-dozen Black Harp men. The ground was still wet from the storm.
Garran stood with arms folded, sword on his hip.
"You have your answer," he said.
The envoy straightened, expectation flickering in his pale eyes. "And?"
Garran gestured. Two of his men stepped forward. One carried a rough sack. The other held something long and wrapped in blood-spattered cloth.
The envoy's face paled.
Garran spoke, his voice like stone grinding against stone.
"Tell Ser Kestrel Harrowmont that Thornholt bows to no man who sends cowards to speak his words. If he wishes parley, he comes himself. And when he does—"
He nodded to his men.
The sack was upended, and a severed head tumbled out onto the muddy ground. It wasn't one of Garran's. A bandit chieftain from the Dagger Hills, still wearing a crude iron torque around his neck.
"this is what we offer our enemies."
Then, the bundle was unwrapped. A single black-feathered arrow, broken in half.
A message older than any written letter.
The envoy swallowed, pale as milk.
"Y-you'll be at war with him."
"We already are," Garran said, turning away. "Now ride, before my men grow hungry."
The man fled without another word.
Jorik let out a sharp bark of laughter as the rider disappeared down the southern road. "You've a gift for diplomacy, you do."
"Better a clear message than a clever one," Garran said.
The men gathered in the yard raised a rough cheer. Even Dannic, sour as curdled milk, cracked a crooked grin.
The storm was coming.
But it would come on Garran's terms.
And Thornholt's stake had just been driven deep into the ground.