Dawn crept in pale and bitter. The fires of the siege camp guttered low, their smoke curling into the gray sky. Frost clung to every scrap of canvas and rusted chainmail. Garran pulled his cloak tighter, his breath misting as he made his way toward the war moot.
The muster grounds sat on a rise overlooking the trenches, a muddy stretch marked by toppled banners and half-sunken carts. Lord Rowe's command tent loomed nearby, its crimson sigil—a crow clutching a severed hand—hanging limp in the still air.
A rough crowd had gathered. Mercenaries, hedge knights, levy captains, and a few grim-faced men in Rowe's colors. Garran spotted Orlec leaning on his spear, Haim hunched beside him, rubbing warmth into his hands.
"You're late," Orlec growled as Garran approached.
"I was hoping to sleep through it."
"Better men than you have tried."
A horn sounded, thin and sharp. The crowd fell to a hush. Lord Halden Rowe stepped forward, tall and lean, his dark cloak lined with fur, a silver dagger hanging from his belt. His beard was neatly kept, his eyes sharp as cut glass.
He spoke with the clipped, careful tone of a noble born to command.
"Men of the March. This siege has dragged too long. Supplies run thin. Morale rots. The walls of Stonegrave defy us still. But no more."
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
"The Bleak Company rides this eve. By my contract and coin, they will break the keep. But their price is steep. If Stonegrave falls, the spoils are theirs to claim."
At that, curses spat out like sparks.
"Bloody crows take 'em!"
"Plague-eaten bastards!"
"They'll strip us bare!"
Rowe raised a hand. The noise ebbed.
"Any man not content to march beneath my banner at dawn may quit this siege. Take your feet and leave these grounds. But know this—the Bleak Company spares no deserters. Nor do I."
A long silence.
Haim spat into the mud. "Well, there's a knife to the gut."
"A noble's way," Orlec muttered.
A figure stepped forward from the line. Garran stiffened. The man wore dark, patchwork mail and a tattered black scarf over his face. Only his eyes showed, pale as frost.
"Speak your name," Rowe called.
"Captain Morrick," the figure rasped. "Bleak Company."
Even the wind seemed to die at that.
"I ride at dusk. None will hinder us."
Without another word, the Bleak captain turned and vanished into the mist like a shadow unmade.
"Good omen," Orlec murmured, rubbing at his beard.
"You think so?"
"No. But if you lie enough, sometimes the gods forget to curse you."
Rowe's men began to disperse, some grumbling, others silent. The mood was heavier than before. Men muttered of debts unpaid and curses earned.
"Dice tonight," Corven called out. "If we're dying tomorrow, let's bleed the fool's purse!"
Garran hesitated as Orlec and Haim turned to leave.
"You coming, Stone?" Haim asked.
"In a bit."
They left him alone near the rise. Garran's gaze drifted to the battered walls of Stonegrave, the banners torn and sagging. He thought of his father's keep, of banners burned, and names struck from rolls.
Once, his house had stood taller than these. The men of Varnholt had claimed marches and roads, controlled trade routes, and held blood debts in every court. Until they didn't.
Until a man like Rowe had come.
A sharp voice broke his thoughts.
"You wear that name poorly, boy."
Garran turned. Ser Varyn Hent, a minor noble in Rowe's service, stood nearby, his mail bright, his sword rich with inlaid silver. His sneer cut sharper than the cold.
"Stone," Hent said, as if tasting it. "Better than Bastard, I suppose. Or Dead."
Garran met his gaze. "We all end dead."
"Not all forgotten."
"Then you'd best make yourself memorable, Ser."
A few nearby soldiers snickered. Hent's eyes narrowed.
"Mind your tongue, mongrel. Men like you forget their place, they find a noose."
"I'll mind it when it's worth something."
Hent's hand drifted to his sword, then thought better. He spat at Garran's feet and stalked away, his cloak snapping behind him.
Garran watched him go, feeling the familiar chill in his gut. Not fear. Not anymore.Fury.Cold, slow, patient as frost.
He pulled his cloak tighter and made for the dice ring.
If he was to ride beneath cursed banners come dusk, he might as well bleed coin from fools while the sun still burned.