Varhold

Varhold stands broken in the northern wind, half fortress and half accusation. Its high seat remains empty, not from humility, but because no claimant has dared make the ruin obey him. Melted seals lie in display cases. Court stones are cracked by fire. Charred charter chests are guarded like relics. Snow blows through arrow slits into halls where dead law still seems to listen. Camps gather outside its walls whenever restoration is spoken aloud: nobles with polished lineage, rangers with mud on their cloaks, townsmen demanding roads before crowns. Varhold offers history to anyone who can survive the cost of claiming it.