Goldmere Hall rose from the mists like a dead man's hand, stone fingers grasping at the sky. The walls were old — older than memory, built by the hands of kings long buried. Once, it had been a fortress on the Empire's western frontier. Now, it was a wolf's den in a land of knives.
The gates stood open, but the guards lining the ramparts watched Garran's company with narrow eyes. Their armor was better than his men's. The spears sharper. The kind of men who killed without pause if their lord gave the word.
Garran rode at the head of his battered company, the Black Harp banner limp in the morning mist. The smell of wet hay, woodsmoke, and horse sweat hung thick in the air.
At the gate, a herald in faded green livery raised a hand.
"Name and intent," the man called.
"Captain Garran Vale," Garran replied, voice steady. "Summoned by Lord Ranmere of Goldmere. Under his seal."
The herald glanced to a squire beside him, who vanished into the courtyard. Moments later, the gates swung wider, and a unit of guards moved to flank the company.
"Your men will quarter outside the north wall," the herald said. "Only you and one chosen man may enter the hall."
Garran cast a look back at his ranks. Jorik was already grinning.
"Of course it's me," the Northman said.
Garran dismounted, handing the reins to a stablehand who eyed his mail shirt like it might crawl off his body. He followed the herald through the courtyard, Jorik close behind.
Goldmere was old, and it showed — cracked stone walls, moss thick between the flagstones, rusted chains hanging from forgotten siege engines. But it still held power. The kind of place where lords plotted over cold wine and men died before the dawn.
They passed beneath an arched gate, into the great hall.
The hall was long, dark, and smelled of smoke, tallow, and old wood. Banners hung from the rafters — the crimson tower of House Ranmere, the faded standards of vassal lords.
At the far end sat a man in a high-backed chair of oak and iron. His hair was streaked with grey, a long scar running from his brow to the corner of his mouth. One eye was cloudy.
Lord Aldric Ranmere.
Beside him sat a younger man, lean, sharp-jawed, his dark eyes appraising Garran like a butcher choosing a pig. Garran guessed this was Ser Edran Ranmere, the lord's bastard son — though some whispered it was Edran who truly ruled these days.
A cluster of minor lords and men-at-arms lounged along the hall's edges. Hired blades. Lesser knights. The kind who gathered when the old ways broke down.
The herald announced them.
"Captain Garran Vale, of the Black Harp Company."
Ranmere's good eye fixed on him. "A mercenary," the old lord rasped. "You don't look like much."
"I'm not, my lord," Garran answered. "But I bury men better than most."
A ripple of cold laughter through the hall. Garran felt Jorik stiffen beside him but kept his own face unreadable.
Ranmere gestured for them to approach.
"You were quick to come. Good. I've work for men without conscience."
The old lord reached for a goblet, drinking deep.
"The High Marches bleed. Halden schemes to take the eastern roads. Brennar is dead. And the High King's men sniff about like dogs." Ranmere's lip curled. "I mean to hold what's mine."
He leaned forward, voice lower.
"I need a company that kills when told and keeps their tongues still after. Are you that man, Vale?"
"I am," Garran said.
"And your price?"
"Coin, land. Men don't follow a captain forever. I mean to be lord one day."
The hall stilled at that. A sellsword daring to speak such words in a lord's house.
But Ranmere only grinned, a wolf's smile.
"Ambition. Good. I pay men, not saints. The task is simple."
He pointed to a small parchment on the table before him. A map of the surrounding villages.
"Three nights past, my cousin's holdfast was taken by a rebel knight, Ser Coren Althred. Calls himself 'Protector of the Marchers'. Talks of justice and old rights."
Spits into the hearth.
"I want his head. And I want his banners burned before the week's end."
Garran considered it. Ser Coren was no fool — a former marcher lord, cast down by the High King's court. He'd have loyal men. Desperate men.
"How many men at his side?"
"Fifty sworn knights, two hundred levy," Ranmere said. "Farmers with pikes."
Jorik chuckled. "Easy meat."
Ranmere grunted. "Take the hall, leave no witnesses. Any man loyal to Althred dies. Any gold's yours."
"And afterward?" Garran asked.
The old lord's good eye gleamed. "Do well, and there'll be land. Titles, even. I make lords of men who bleed for me."
It was madness. A butcher's work. But there were worse ways to carve a place in this world.
Garran nodded. "It'll be done."
Ranmere gestured to a servant. "See the captain fed and quartered. He rides at dawn."
As Garran turned, he felt Ser Edran's gaze lingering, cold and sharp as a drawn dagger.
Jorik muttered under his breath. "Blood in this hall, before long."
Garran Vale smiled. He'd expected nothing less.