Chapter 12: The First Defection - Part 2
POV: Corwyn Darke
Day five brought answers.
Rykker's verification team—three men including his guard captain—had spent two days examining everything. They'd walked the fields with Torren, toured the mines with Willem, reviewed accounts with Maester Harlan. They'd eaten meals in the common hall, slept in the guest quarters, and asked questions of anyone willing to talk.
Now they rode back toward Ironwood, carrying their report.
I watched them go from the battlements, Edric beside me with his ever-present notebook.
"Do you think they believed it?" he asked.
"They believed what they saw." I turned from the view. "The question is whether seeing will translate to action."
[ VERIFICATION TEAM DEPARTED ]
[ ESTIMATED RETURN TIME: 6 HOURS ]
[ RYKKER DECISION: PENDING ]
[ COUNTDOWN TO DARKLYN DEADLINE: 38 HOURS ]
The waiting was the hardest part. Everything hung on decisions made by people I couldn't influence—Rykker weighing his options, his advisors debating costs and benefits, his family considering what defection might mean for their future.
"In the corporate world, this was the pitch waiting period. The silence after you've given your best presentation, hoping the client calls back."
I spent the hours productively. Training with Gareth, reviewing accounts with Harlan, drilling contingency plans in case everything fell apart. The keep hummed with nervous energy—everyone knew something was happening, even if they didn't know what.
Sunset brought a rider.
POV: Maester Harlan
The message arrived sealed with Lord Rykker's personal sigil—a twisted oak over crossed swords.
Harlan carried it to the great hall, where Lord Corwyn waited with Ser Gareth and Mira. The young lord's composure was impressive, but Harlan had learned to read the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands when he thought no one was watching.
"My lord. From Ironwood."
Cole took the letter. For a long moment, he simply held it, staring at the unbroken seal.
Then he opened it.
His expression didn't change as he read. That, more than anything, told Harlan the contents were significant. A lesser man would have shown reaction—joy or despair, relief or fear. Cole simply... absorbed.
"He's coming," Cole said finally. "Tomorrow morning. With his household and all fifty soldiers."
Silence. Then Gareth: "He's defecting? Publicly?"
"He's swearing vassalage. To me." Cole set down the letter, and Harlan caught a glimpse of the text—formal language, binding commitments, the framework of feudal obligation rendered in ink and parchment. "Lord Harras Rykker of Ironwood will kneel to House Darke before Darklyn's deadline expires."
The implications cascaded through Harlan's mind. A sworn bannerman changed everything—legal status, political standing, military capacity. Darklyn's trial by combat challenge couldn't apply to a lord commanding vassals. Crown involvement became mandatory.
"You've done it," Harlan breathed. "You've actually done it."
"We've done the first part." Cole's voice was steady but his eyes burned with something fierce and focused. "Rykker is one domino. We need more before this is over."
"But for now—"
"For now, we prepare." Cole turned to Mira. "I want the great hall spotless by dawn. Gareth, have our soldiers in their best equipment. Harlan, prepare the formal oaths and contracts." He paused at the doorway, looking back at them. "Tomorrow, House Darke stops being a minor holding fighting for survival. Tomorrow, we become something more."
POV: Corwyn Darke
Morning came cold and bright.
I stood in the great hall wearing the finest clothes Mira had been able to assemble—black doublet with silver threading, Darke sigil embroidered on the chest, a ceremonial sword I'd never used at my hip. The hall itself had been transformed overnight: fresh rushes on the floor, banners hung from the rafters, torches burning despite the daylight streaming through cleaned windows.
Fifty of our people lined the walls as witnesses. Miners, farmers, servants—anyone who could be spared from essential duties. They deserved to see this moment. They'd helped build it.
The doors opened.
Lord Harras Rykker entered at the head of his column—fifty soldiers in formation, his household knights flanking him, his banner carried high. They marched with the precision of men who knew their actions would be remembered.
[ VASSALAGE CEREMONY INITIATED ]
[ LORD RYKKER: COMMITMENT VERIFIED ]
[ POLITICAL STATUS: ELEVATING ]
Rykker stopped at the prescribed distance from my seat—ten paces, the traditional measure for formal oaths. He was dressed in his own finest: green and brown of House Rykker, the twisted oak prominent on his surcoat.
"Lord Corwyn Darke of Duskhollow." His voice carried through the hall, strong and clear. "I come to offer my sword, my lands, and my service to your House. Will you accept my oath?"
The formal words, unchanged for centuries. I rose from my chair, descending to meet him.
"I will hear your oath, Lord Rykker. Speak it freely."
He knelt—a lord kneeling to a younger lord, in front of witnesses who would spread the story across the Crownlands. The weight of the moment pressed down on both of us.
"I, Harras of House Rykker, Lord of Ironwood, do hereby pledge my loyalty and service to House Darke. I will defend your lands as my own, counsel you in wisdom, and stand beside you against all enemies. My sword is your sword. My men are your men. From this day until my last day, I am your faithful bannerman."
The traditional oath, with one addition I'd requested.
"And in return," Rykker continued, "I accept your pledge: to rule with fairness, to tax with moderation, to protect my house as you protect your own. Let these terms stand written and witnessed, binding both our houses in mutual obligation."
I drew my ceremonial sword—first time I'd ever touched it—and laid the flat of the blade on his shoulder.
"Rise, Lord Rykker. Your oath is accepted, your terms agreed. House Darke welcomes House Rykker as true and loyal bannermen."
He rose. We clasped arms in the warrior's grip, his eyes meeting mine.
"You've given me hope, Lord Corwyn," he said quietly, too low for others to hear. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
[ 🎊 VASSALAGE COMPLETE ]
[ NEW VASSAL: LORD HARRAS RYKKER ]
[ TERRITORY EXPANDED: +1 HOLDING ]
[ MILITARY STRENGTH: +50 SOLDIERS ]
[ POPULATION: 375 (COMBINED) ]
[ POLITICAL STATUS: MINOR LORD → REGIONAL POWER ]
The cheering started from our people and spread to Rykker's—soldiers who'd been enemies last week now standing shoulder to shoulder, united under a new banner. The sound filled the hall, shaking dust from the rafters, drowning out everything else.
I let it wash over me, allowing myself a moment of pure satisfaction before the next crisis demanded attention.
"One domino down. But the game isn't over."
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
The feast that followed was modest by noble standards but extravagant by Duskhollow's. Every table groaned with food—the agricultural improvements paying dividends—and ale flowed freely. Rykker's soldiers mingled with Cole's household, initial wariness giving way to camaraderie as cups were emptied and refilled.
Gareth stood apart, watching the integration happen in real time.
The young lord had done it. Through cunning and courage and sheer bloody-minded determination, he'd transformed a death sentence into an opportunity. One moment they were facing two hundred soldiers with fifteen; now they commanded sixty-five, with a defensible position and legitimate political standing.
"And this is just the beginning," Gareth realized. "He's not going to stop here."
Cole appeared beside him, two cups of ale in hand. He offered one to Gareth without speaking.
"You disapprove?"
"I'm impressed." Gareth accepted the cup. "Six months ago, you couldn't hold a sword. Now you're assembling a coalition."
"Different skills for different battles." Cole sipped his ale, watching the celebration. "Darklyn will respond to this. Probably violently. We need to be ready."
"The soldiers are integrating well. Give me a week to drill combined formations."
"You have four days. Darklyn's deadline expired this morning—we sent our response with news of Rykker's defection." Cole's voice hardened. "He won't wait long before escalating."
"Then we won't waste time."
They stood together, lord and knight, watching their people celebrate a victory that was really just the opening move in a much larger game.
Somewhere to the east, Lord Bryen Darklyn was receiving news that would shatter his carefully laid plans.
The war hadn't ended. It had just begun.
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