Chapter 13: Darklyn's Fury
POV: Corwyn Darke
The letter arrived at sunset, sealed with Darklyn's sigil pressed so hard into the wax that it had cracked.
I broke the seal in my chambers, alone except for the dying fire. The words inside burned hotter than any flame.
Lord Corwyn Darke,
Your theft of my sworn bannerman and your mockery of lawful challenge will not stand. You harbor traitors. You subvert the natural order. You spit upon centuries of tradition.
There will be consequences.
Lord Bryen Darklyn
No specific threat. No declaration of war. Just promise of violence wrapped in plausible deniability.
[ ⚠️ THREAT ASSESSMENT ]
[ DARKLYN RESPONSE: HOSTILE ]
[ FORMAL DECLARATION: NONE ]
[ EXPECTED ACTION: COVERT MILITARY STRIKE ]
[ THREAT LEVEL: 9/10 ]
I set the letter down, watching the parchment curl slightly in the heat from the hearth. Darklyn couldn't attack openly—not with Rykker's defection making this a matter for Crown adjudication. But he could hire men. Anonymous men. Men who might be mistaken for bandits if they wore no colors and left no survivors.
"He's going to hit the mines. Destroy our income, murder our workers, and claim it was random violence."
The door opened without knock. Ser Gareth entered, his expression grim.
"Mira's network just reported in. Darklyn's been seen in King's Landing, meeting with sellsword companies."
"How many?"
"A hundred. Maybe more." Gareth crossed to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. "Professional killers, not levy soldiers. They'll be worth two of ours in straight combat."
"Then we won't give them straight combat."
I rose, moving to the table where maps of our territory spread in overlapping layers. My fingers traced the familiar contours—the mining district, the approach roads, the terrain features I'd memorized over months of surveys.
"When?"
"Two weeks. Maybe less." Gareth turned from the window. "My lord... this isn't going to be like capturing assassins in your bedchamber. This is war."
"I know." I found the spot I was looking for—a narrow valley where the road to the mines squeezed between rocky hillsides. Perfect for an ambush. "Summon Lord Rykker. We have planning to do."
POV: Lord Harras Rykker
The war council convened in Duskhollow's small hall, maps pinned to every available surface and candles burning low in their holders. Rykker studied the terrain charts with a soldier's eye, noting advantages and vulnerabilities.
Lord Corwyn stood at the center, pointing to positions as he spoke. His voice was calm, methodical—the voice of a man who'd already fought this battle a hundred times in his head.
"The sellswords will approach from the east, following the main road. They expect to find miners and minimal guards." Corwyn traced the route with his finger. "Instead, they'll find this."
He tapped the narrow valley—Rykker recognized it, a choke point where twenty men could hold against a hundred.
"Shield wall here, blocking the road. Archers on the hillsides, concealed until the enemy commits. Reserves hidden in the tree line, ready to cut off retreat." Corwyn looked up, meeting their eyes. "They walk into the valley expecting sheep. They find wolves."
Ser Gareth grunted approval. "Terrain favors defenders. But they outnumber us almost two to one."
"Numbers matter less in confined spaces." Corwyn pulled out another chart—this one showing elevation lines and sight angles. "Their advantage is mobility and aggression. Take away room to maneuver, force them into our killing ground, and those advantages disappear."
Rykker studied the plan, looking for flaws. He found few.
"This requires discipline," he said finally. "Men who hold formation under pressure, who don't break when sellswords charge. We have farmers and miners, my lord. Not legionnaires."
"Then we have two weeks to make them legionnaires." Corwyn's jaw tightened. "Or close enough."
"You're asking the impossible."
"I'm asking for survival." Corwyn rolled up the maps, tucking them under his arm. "Training starts at dawn. Every able body. Every hour we can spare."
He left the hall. Rykker and Gareth exchanged glances.
"He's either brilliant or mad," Rykker said.
"Both, I think." Gareth's voice held something that might have been admiration. "Either way, I'm following him."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The intelligence reports came in pieces over the following days.
Mira's network confirmed the sellsword numbers—one hundred and twelve men, veterans of border skirmishes and merchant protection. They were assembling at a waystation three days' ride from our territory, waiting for the signal to move.
[ ENEMY FORCE ANALYSIS ]
[ SELLSWORD COMPANY: "THE RED HANDS" ]
[ STRENGTH: 112 FIGHTERS ]
[ QUALITY: PROFESSIONAL (7/10) ]
[ LEADERSHIP: CAPTAIN VAREK (EXPERIENCED) ]
[ WEAKNESS: OVERCONFIDENCE, POOR DISCIPLINE UNDER PRESSURE ]
The System provided tactical breakdowns I couldn't have gathered through conventional means. Individual fighter assessments, command structure weaknesses, likely deployment patterns. Every piece of data fed into my planning, sharpening the trap I was building.
But data wouldn't win this battle. Men would.
I spent the evening walking the camp where our soldiers drilled, watching Ser Gareth put them through formations for the dozenth time that day. They were exhausted—sweat-soaked, muscle-sore, pushed beyond anything they'd experienced before.
They were also improving.
"Again!" Gareth's voice cracked like a whip. "Lock shields! Step together! You're not individuals anymore—you're a wall! Walls don't have gaps!"
The shield line reformed, tighter than before. Twenty men moving as one unit, their overlapping shields creating a barrier no individual fighter could easily penetrate.
"Two weeks to turn farmers into soldiers. Impossible? Maybe. But impossible is all we have."
I found Edric at the edge of the training ground, notebook in hand, recording observations. The boy had grown over these months—taller, more confident, his eager curiosity tempered by practical experience.
"My lord." He looked up as I approached. "The formation drills are progressing well. Ser Gareth says we might be ready in—"
"In time. Or not." I sat on a fallen log beside him, watching the soldiers work. "How are they really, Edric? Not the numbers. The men."
He considered the question seriously. "Scared. All of them. But..." He hesitated. "They trust you. They've seen what you've built here—the farms, the mines, the way you treat people. They believe you know what you're doing."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we're all dead anyway." Edric's voice was matter-of-fact. "But we'd rather die fighting for something than live under Darklyn."
The words hit harder than they should have. These people—my people—were willing to die on my word. On my plan. On my ability to outthink a man with twice my soldiers and ten times my experience.
"Don't let them down."
I clapped Edric on the shoulder and rose. "Keep taking notes. After this is over, we'll need records of what worked and what didn't."
"Yes, my lord." A pause. "My lord? I want to fight. In the battle."
"No."
"But—"
"You're fifteen. You're smart. You're loyal." I turned to face him fully. "And you're too valuable to risk in a shield wall. When the fighting starts, you stay with Maester Harlan. Protect him. That's your duty."
Edric's jaw clenched, but he nodded. "As you command."
I walked away before he could see the doubt in my eyes.
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