Knighthood did not end with the ceremony.
It began there.
Riverrun learned the name Stormguard in a single morning, but it took only hours for that name to acquire weight, texture, and expectation. The courtyard emptied slowly after the last echoes of steel and oath faded, but the tension did not leave with it. It seeped into corridors, into whispered conversations behind tapestries, into the careful way stewards watched Garen Stormguard pass as if measuring how much space he would now claim by habit alone.
He claimed none.
That restraint unsettled people more than ambition ever could.
By midmorning, the first wave arrived.
They came as congratulations.
Well-wishers. Courteous nods. Men who had never spoken more than a sentence to him before suddenly found reason to remark on the weather, the river's health, the cleanliness of the roads. Minor lords whose banners had blocked patrols weeks earlier now praised the Dauntless Vanguard's "efficiency" with smiles just a shade too tight to be genuine.
Garen accepted it all with the same measured courtesy he had used before he bore a sword at his shoulder by right.
He listened more than he spoke.
That alone marked the shift.
A lesser man might have mistaken attention for influence. Garen recognized it for what it was: reconnaissance. Every word he spoke now would be weighed. Every refusal remembered.
The testing came quietly.
One lord—an elderly man with a fine cloak and a sharp gaze—complimented the Vanguard's discipline and then asked, casually, whether Garen planned to "expand patrols westward" in the coming weeks. It was framed as concern for shared borders.
Garen smiled faintly and replied that patrols would remain where Riverrun deemed them necessary.
The lord nodded, unoffended on the surface, and took careful note of the phrasing.
Another came later with an offer of grain at reduced cost—generous, on its face. Garen accepted the terms, then clarified that the grain would be distributed to villages along the southern road first, not stockpiled.
The offer was not repeated.
By noon, the more obvious probes began.
"You'll need allies now," said a young knight with soft hands and a practiced laugh. "Men of standing."
"Men of standing tend to need less protection," Garen replied mildly.
The knight laughed a little too loudly and drifted away.
Marriage was inevitable.
It began as speculation, then as suggestion, and finally as outright proposition—though never crudely, never without ceremony. A cousin's daughter. A widowed niece. A quiet girl from a house that needed stability more than prestige. Each offer carried a different implication: alliance, legitimacy, leverage.
Garen declined them all.
Politely. Firmly. Without explanation.
That refusal traveled faster than acceptance would have.
Some took it as insult. Others as caution. A few—more perceptive—understood it as something else entirely: a man who knew that marriage, like banners, could become a leash.
Inside the Dauntless Vanguard, the reaction was quieter—and deeper.
They did not cheer.
They adjusted.
Men stood straighter when Garen approached, not from fear, but from an instinctive recalibration of distance. Where once they had spoken freely around him, now there was a pause—a half-second where they measured tone, formality, title.
Tom felt it keenly.
He noticed it first when a recruit addressed Garen as my lord and then flushed red when corrected gently to Ser. He noticed it when Merrick deferred in public more often, even on matters where his authority was unquestioned. He noticed it when a joke died halfway through because Garen had entered the firelight.
Tom hated that.
Not because he resented Garen's rise—but because he feared what distance did to trust.
That night, he stood watch longer than assigned, pacing the edge of camp with the restless energy of a man trying to reconcile two truths at once. Garen had not changed. And yet, everything had.
When Garen finally approached, boots soft on the grass, Tom straightened instinctively—then stopped himself.
"Don't," Garen said quietly.
Tom exhaled. "Sorry."
"For what?" Garen asked.
"For… treating you like something you weren't yesterday."
Garen studied him for a long moment. "Yesterday, I was already this. The realm just caught up."
Tom frowned. "It's different now."
"Yes," Garen agreed. "That's why you're here."
They stood in silence for a few breaths.
"Men are watching you," Garen continued. "Not because you're my protégé. Because you command them."
Tom's jaw tightened. "I'm still learning."
"So am I," Garen said.
That surprised him.
"You're a knight," Tom said before he could stop himself.
"And you're an officer," Garen replied. "Neither of us asked for it. Both of us carry it."
Tom absorbed that slowly, the weight settling in places he hadn't expected—behind the eyes, in the chest.
"What changes?" he asked.
"Responsibility," Garen said. "Not loyalty."
Tom nodded once. "Then I'll make sure they understand that."
He meant the men.
He meant himself.
The next days proved that understanding would be tested.
Minor lords shifted tactics. Those who had failed to provoke now attempted to entangle. Invitations arrived—dinners, hunts, councils framed as courtesy. Garen accepted some, declined others, always with the same measured restraint. When he attended, he spoke little. When pressed for opinion, he deferred to Riverrun's authority.
It frustrated them.
Good.
The most dangerous test came from a lord who pretended not to test at all.
Ser Mallin Riversedge arrived unannounced at a patrol point along the Tumblestone road with a small retinue and an easy smile. He praised the Vanguard, offered wine, and spoke warmly of cooperation. Then, as casually as discussing the weather, he mentioned that bandit activity might be increasing near his lands—and wondered aloud whether Garen could spare men.
Garen declined.
Not brusquely.
Decisively.
"Riverrun will decide redeployment," he said. "Not me."
Riversedge's smile never faltered. But his eyes cooled.
That night, Tom handled the fallout when a few men grumbled about the missed opportunity for favor.
"We don't trade duty for gratitude," Tom told them. "And we don't move because someone smiles at us."
The words sounded like Garen's.
That was when Tom realized the weight had shifted—not just onto him, but through him.
The Dauntless Vanguard was changing shape around its knight, and Tom stood at the point where intention became habit.
Edmure Tully waited three days before summoning Garen again.
When the invitation came, it was simple and unmistakable: a private audience, no witnesses, no ceremony.
Garen arrived alone.
The chamber overlooked the river, sunlight broken by the slow movement of water. Edmure stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a man measuring consequences rather than avoiding them.
"You're being courted," Edmure said without turning.
"Yes," Garen replied.
"You're being tested."
"Yes."
"You're being resented."
Garen allowed himself a faint smile. "That's familiar."
Edmure turned then, studying him carefully. "You've handled it well."
"So far."
Edmure nodded. "So far."
He gestured toward the river. "The Riverlands don't lack for brave men. Or noble ones. What we lack are anchors."
Garen listened.
"You've created something permanent," Edmure continued. "Whether you intended to or not. A force with identity, loyalty, and momentum."
"Yes," Garen said.
"And that force cannot remain unmoored," Edmure said. "Not without becoming the very thing your detractors accuse it of being."
Garen met his gaze. "You're offering land."
"I'm stating necessity," Edmure corrected. "Reward follows function. This is function."
He crossed to the table and unrolled a map—not of the Riverlands at large, but of Riverrun itself. He pointed to a cluster of stone buildings along the riverbank, half-forgotten remnants of older defenses and storehouses.
"A holdfast," Edmure said. "Modest. Defensible. Close enough to Riverrun to remain under my authority, far enough to give you space."
Garen studied the map.
"And these?" he asked, indicating the surrounding structures.
"Barracks," Edmure said. "Training yards. Supply depots. Some will need rebuilding. I'll see it funded."
Silence stretched.
"This will make you unavoidable," Edmure said quietly. "Your enemies will call it favoritism. Your allies will call it wisdom. Neither will be entirely wrong."
Garen folded his hands behind his back. "You're tying me here."
"Yes," Edmure said. "Because the Riverlands need you tied—to something that can't be quietly cut loose."
Garen nodded slowly. "And if I refuse?"
Edmure did not hesitate. "Then someone else will force the issue later. Less cleanly."
That settled it.
"I'll accept," Garen said. "On one condition."
Edmure raised an eyebrow.
"The holdfast serves the Vanguard," Garen said. "Not me. It trains them. Houses them. Grounds them. I don't want a court."
Edmure smiled, sharp and approving. "Good. Courts rot men faster than battle."
He extended a hand.
Garen took it.
The agreement was not sealed with wax or proclamation—those would come later—but with understanding. This was not a gift.
It was an anchor.
When Garen returned to camp that evening, the news traveled quickly. Not with cheers. With quiet purpose.
Men gathered in small groups, discussing logistics rather than glory. Tom found himself answering questions he hadn't expected to be asked—about training schedules, rotation, recruitment. Merrick began drafting lists before being told to.
The Vanguard adjusted again.
Stormguard had given them legitimacy.
The holdfast would give them roots.
As night fell, Garen stood at the edge of the camp and watched the blue cloth stir in the breeze, men settling into routines that were becoming second nature.
The system surfaced one last time that night, heavy and final.
[SYSTEM UPDATE — FOUNDATION ESTABLISHED]
Title: Knight (Active)
Name: Garen Stormguard
Holdings: Holdfast (Granted — Pending Construction)
Force Status: Permanent (Sanctioned)
Infrastructure: Barracks & Training Yards (Approved)
Political Pressure: Ongoing (Managed)
Leadership Burden: Distributed (Effective)
Garen let it fade and looked toward Riverrun's walls, solid and ancient, reflecting moonlight like a promise and a warning in equal measure.
The river flowed on.
But now, it flowed past a stone that would not be easily moved.