Chapter 10: Darklyn's Patience Ends
POV: Corwyn Darke
The messenger wore Darklyn colors like a challenge.
He stood in my great hall, flanked by two armored guards, a scroll clutched in his gloved hand. Young, perhaps twenty, with the smug expression of someone who believed himself untouchable. Behind me, Ser Gareth's hand rested on his sword pommel. Mira had positioned herself near the servants' entrance, ready to signal the hidden crossbowmen if needed.
"Four months of building. Four months of progress. And now this."
"Lord Corwyn Darke." The messenger's voice rang through the hall with practiced authority. "I bear formal communication from Lord Bryen Darklyn, Warden of the Eastern Crownlands, demanding response within seven days."
He extended the scroll. I made him hold it for a long moment—petty, perhaps, but satisfying—before nodding to Maester Harlan. The old man took the document, breaking the seal with careful precision.
His face went pale as he read.
"My lord... this is a formal accusation. Lord Darklyn claims you harbor bandits responsible for attacks on his lands. He demands either trial by combat or immediate surrender of your territory to Crown custody."
[ ⚠️ DIPLOMATIC CRISIS ]
[ DARKLYN ULTIMATUM RECEIVED ]
[ ACCUSATION: HARBORING BANDITS ]
[ OPTIONS: TRIAL BY COMBAT / SURRENDER / ALTERNATIVE ]
[ TIME LIMIT: 7 DAYS ]
The "bandits" were the assassins I'd captured—the ones Darklyn himself had sent to kill me. Now he was using their presence as legal pretext for conquest.
"Clever. Twisted, but clever."
"The bandits Lord Darklyn mentions," I said, keeping my voice level. "Would these be the armed men who infiltrated my keep three months ago, attempting to murder me in my sleep?"
The messenger's expression flickered. He hadn't expected me to address the accusation directly.
"I'm certain I don't know the details, my lord. I merely deliver—"
"You deliver a challenge built on lies." I stood, descending from the dais. The messenger took an involuntary step back. "Return to Lord Darklyn with this message: I will consider his communication and respond within the seven days allotted. Until then, I expect his forces to remain on his side of our mutual border."
"Lord Darklyn's troops are positioned for—"
"For invasion. Yes, I'm aware." I stopped an arm's length from him, close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. "Tell your master that if his soldiers cross into my territory before I've given formal response, I will consider it an act of war and respond accordingly. Am I understood?"
The messenger swallowed. "Perfectly, my lord."
"Good. Mira, see our guests fed before they depart. We may be adversaries, but we're not savages."
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
The messenger and his guards left within the hour, provisions packed, horses fresh. Gareth watched from the battlements until they disappeared over the eastern ridge.
"He'll attack regardless," Gareth said when Cole joined him. "Seven days or seven minutes—Darklyn wants this territory and he won't stop until he has it."
"Probably." Cole leaned against the parapet, staring at the distant horizon. The sunset painted the sky in shades of blood. "How many capable fighters do we have?"
"Fifteen trained soldiers. Another twenty miners who've been drilling with spears. The Rykker troops—" Gareth stopped, remembering those hadn't arrived yet. "We have nothing, my lord. Not compared to two hundred."
"Then we don't fight two hundred." Cole's voice was thoughtful, not defeated. "We change the equation."
"How? Darklyn's bannermen are bound by oath. His soldiers are paid and equipped. We have farmers with pointed sticks."
"His bannermen are bound by oaths they didn't choose." Cole turned to face him, something calculating in his eyes. "Oaths sworn to a lord who takes everything and gives nothing. How loyal would you be to someone who crushed you with taxes and threats?"
Gareth frowned. "You're talking about subversion."
"I'm talking about offering a better deal." Cole pushed off from the parapet, heading toward the stairs. "Come. We have planning to do."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The war room—really just the maester's study pressed into service—felt cramped with four people and a dozen maps. Harlan spread charts across every available surface while Mira compiled intelligence reports from her network of contacts.
"Three bannermen serve Darklyn directly," Harlan explained, pointing to marked locations. "Lord Harras Rykker of Ironwood, Ser Marcus Trant of Stonegate, and Lady Denna Wells of the Western Ford. Each commands between forty and seventy soldiers."
[ DARKLYN COALITION ANALYSIS ]
[ LORD RYKKER: DISCONTENT (HIGH) ]
[ SER TRANT: DISCONTENT (MODERATE) ]
[ LADY WELLS: LOYAL (MODERATE) ]
[ OPPORTUNITY: COALITION DISRUPTION ]
The System confirmed what my instincts suggested. Darklyn's power rested on pillars that could be knocked away.
"What do we know about their grievances?"
Mira stepped forward, her intelligence network finally proving its worth. "Rykker is being taxed into poverty—thirty-five percent of everything his lands produce goes to Darklyn. His people are starving while Darklyn builds a new hall for his household knights."
"And Trant?"
"His daughter was promised to Darklyn's nephew, then rejected when a better match appeared. The insult still burns." Mira consulted her notes. "Lady Wells is different—she's genuinely loyal. Her family has served Darklyn's for three generations."
"Then we focus on Rykker and Trant." I studied the map, calculating distances and travel times. "If even one of them defects before the deadline, the entire political situation changes."
Gareth crossed his arms. "You're proposing to steal Darklyn's bannermen. In five days."
"I'm proposing to offer them something better than what they have." I met his skeptical gaze. "Lower taxes. Fair treatment. Written contracts protecting their rights. The same terms that have brought three hundred people to Duskhollow in four months."
"They're nobility. They won't respond to farmer incentives."
"They're human. They respond to self-interest." I tapped Rykker's position on the map. "Mira, can you get a message to Lord Rykker requesting a private meeting? Somewhere neutral, outside both our territories?"
"The border woods. There's an old hunting lodge no one uses anymore." She thought for a moment. "I can have word to him by tomorrow evening."
"Do it. And send similar inquiries to Ser Trant." I turned to Harlan. "Draft a formal response to Darklyn—accepting investigation of his claims while requesting Crown mediation. Make it sound cooperative. Buy us time."
"And if Darklyn doesn't wait for the deadline?"
"Then Gareth's farmers with pointed sticks earn their keep." I allowed myself a grim smile. "But I don't think he will. Darklyn wants this to look legal. A premature attack undermines his entire strategy."
POV: Mira Waters
The messages went out that night—carried by runners Mira had cultivated over months, people who knew the back roads and hidden paths between territories.
She stood in the keep's small courtyard, watching the last messenger disappear into darkness, and allowed herself a moment of professional satisfaction. Building an intelligence network from nothing was difficult work. Seeing it function smoothly was reward enough.
"Mistress Waters."
Lord Corwyn emerged from the keep, wrapped in a traveling cloak despite the late hour. His expression was calm, but Mira had learned to read the tension in his shoulders.
"My lord. The messages are away. We should have responses within two days."
"Good." He stopped beside her, looking up at the stars. "Mira, I need to ask you something. Honestly."
"Of course."
"Do you believe this will work? The defections, the political maneuvering. Or am I chasing shadows while real soldiers march toward us?"
The question surprised her. Lords didn't ask servants for strategic advice—not sincerely. But Lord Corwyn had proven he wasn't like other lords.
"I believe," she said carefully, "that you've done more with nothing than most men do with everything. The farms are producing. The mines are paying. The people are loyal—genuinely loyal, not just afraid." She met his eyes. "If anyone can pull off the impossible, my lord, it's you."
Something eased in his expression. "Thank you, Mira. That means more than you know."
He returned to the keep. She stayed in the courtyard a while longer, listening to the night sounds and thinking about impossible things.
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