The holdfast did not look like destiny.
It looked like neglect.
Garen Stormguard stood on a rise overlooking the riverbank east of Riverrun, hands clasped behind his back, and took in the site Edmure had marked on the map. Two squat stone structures hunched near the water like old dogs that had long since learned not to expect food. Their roofs sagged unevenly, slate missing in places, ivy creeping along cracked mortar. Beyond them lay the bones of something older—a low curtain wall half-collapsed, a tower stump blackened by age rather than fire.
No banners flew.
No sentries stood watch.
Wind moved through broken shutters with a low, hollow sound.
"This is it?" Tom asked carefully.
"Yes," Garen replied.
Tom frowned. "I thought it would be… more."
"So did the men who abandoned it," Merrick said dryly, stepping up beside them. "That's why it's available."
Garen nodded. "Availability is a virtue."
They walked the perimeter slowly. The river curved nearby, wide and calm here, deep enough for barges but narrow enough that crossings could be watched. The road passed within bowshot, close enough to matter, far enough that traffic would not choke the yard.
Garen stopped near the remains of the old wall and crouched, running his fingers over the stone. The masonry was crude by modern standards but solid. Whoever had built this had not been thinking about beauty.
They had been thinking about endurance.
"This will do," he said.
Tom blinked. "That's it? No—"
"This will do," Garen repeated.
Behind them, the Dauntless Vanguard waited—nearly a hundred men now, clustered in loose groups, watching their knight assess the place that would define them. No cheers. No complaints. Just attention.
That mattered.
Edmure Tully arrived before noon, riding with a small escort and dismounting without ceremony. He walked the site with Garen, listening more than he spoke, nodding occasionally as Garen pointed out lines of sight, foundation strengths, and where training yards could be cut from brush.
"You think like a builder," Edmure observed.
"I think like someone who has to defend what he builds," Garen replied.
Edmure smiled faintly. "I've ordered funds released. Stone, timber, tools. Not endless, but sufficient."
"It won't be enough," Garen said.
Edmure laughed quietly. "I'd have been disappointed if you said otherwise."
They stood together near the riverbank, watching the men begin to move even before orders were given—some clearing brush, others testing walls, a few already marking ground with stakes.
"You understand what this does," Edmure said, voice low. "Once this place stands, there will be no pretending the Vanguard is temporary."
"Yes."
"And you?" Edmure asked. "No more anonymity. No easy withdrawal."
Garen met his gaze. "I wasn't planning on withdrawing."
Edmure inclined his head. "Good."
He left soon after, trusting Garen to turn stone into structure.
That trust would cost him.
Construction began immediately—and badly.
The first week was chaos disguised as enthusiasm. Men eager to prove themselves overworked tools, collapsed half-cleared walls, and argued about priorities. Supplies arrived late. Timber warped in the damp air. A cart overturned near the river, spilling stone that had to be hauled back by hand.
Garen let it happen.
Within limits.
He intervened only when mistakes threatened lives rather than pride. He corrected quietly, reassigning rather than berating. When tempers flared, he split groups and rotated tasks until friction wore itself smooth.
Merrick took charge of logistics with ruthless efficiency, establishing schedules, rationing work hours, and assigning men who were better with numbers than swords to keep tallies. Lysa oversaw records and supply flow, her calm presence preventing disputes before they began.
Tom found himself pulled in a dozen directions at once.
Men came to him with questions they hadn't asked before. Not how to do something—but whether they should. He approved patrol rotations, mediated arguments over sleeping space, and learned quickly that saying yes to everything meant failing everyone.
One evening, exhausted, he found Garen standing alone atop the half-repaired wall, watching the yard below.
"I don't know if I'm doing this right," Tom admitted.
Garen didn't turn. "You're tired. That means you're doing it."
Tom grimaced. "That's not reassuring."
"It shouldn't be," Garen said. "Leadership isn't reassurance. It's endurance."
Tom leaned against the stone, looking out over the camp. Fires burned in orderly lines now. Tools were stacked, not scattered. Men moved with purpose rather than urgency.
"They listen to me," Tom said quietly.
"Yes."
"And that scares me."
"It should," Garen replied. "Fear keeps you honest."
Tom nodded slowly. "I won't waste it."
The first test of the holdfast came sooner than expected.
Scouts reported movement near the river two nights later—no attack, no challenge, just unfamiliar figures watching from the far bank. Garen ordered lights dimmed, patrols doubled, and no pursuit.
They waited.
Nothing happened.
By morning, the watchers were gone.
But the message was clear.
The holdfast had been noticed.
Garen gathered the men that afternoon, standing atop a crate in the half-cleared yard.
"This place will draw attention," he said plainly. "Some of it friendly. Some of it not."
No murmurs followed.
"We don't answer curiosity with violence," he continued. "We answer it with readiness. If someone wants to know what we are, let them see it clearly."
He gestured around them. "This."
The men nodded.
They worked harder after that—not from fear, but from understanding. The barracks rose first, rough but serviceable. Training yards followed, ground leveled and packed by hand. A small forge was re-lit, sparks dancing at dusk like fireflies.
The Dauntless Vanguard took shape in stone and wood.
So did its culture.
Tom oversaw drills in the mornings now, pushing formations through mud and uneven ground. Mistakes were corrected without shouting. Successes were acknowledged without ceremony. Men learned to trust the rhythm of work and rest, effort and restraint.
One night, as the moon rose over the river, Tom realized he no longer felt like he was pretending.
He was doing the work.
Garen watched it all from a step removed, intervening only when necessary. The system surfaced occasionally, marking progress without comment.
[SYSTEM REVIEW — INFRASTRUCTURE PHASE]
Holdfast: Operational (Partial)
Barracks: Constructed (Basic)
Training Yards: Functional
Force Cohesion: High
Leadership Distribution: Effective
• Merrick — Logistics Stable
• Tom Rivers — Command Load Increasing (Sustained)
External Interest: Observed (Low-Level)
The ledger faded.
Stone set.
Routine established.
The Riverlands adjusted again.
When the first banner was raised—a simple blue field, unmarked, flying above the holdfast wall—it was not announced. It was simply there, catching the wind, visible from the road.
Merchants slowed as they passed.
Villagers nodded.
Minor lords watched.
Garen Stormguard stood beneath it and felt the finality of the moment settle in his chest.
This place was not a reward.
It was an obligation made permanent.
He rested a hand against the stone wall, feeling its roughness, its resistance.
Stone that remained.
Behind him, the Dauntless Vanguard trained, lived, argued, and grew—no longer a force passing through history, but one rooted firmly enough to matter when history arrived.
And somewhere, far beyond the river's bend, the realm continued its slow, inevitable drift toward conflict.
When it came, this place would not be ready because it was strong.
It would be ready because it had endured being built.