Chapter 2: The Inheritance
POV: Corwyn Darke
Morning light painted the walls of Duskhollow Keep in shades of gray and gold. The stones were cold beneath my bare feet. The halls smelled of damp and age.
I walked slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. My body—Corwyn's body—was still recovering. Each step cost me something. But staying in bed was not an option.
[ TERRITORY STATUS ]
[ POPULATION: 187 ]
[ TREASURY: 340 GOLD DRAGONS ]
[ DEBT: 2,000 GOLD DRAGONS (CROWN) ]
[ FOOD RESERVES: 47 DAYS ]
The numbers floated in my peripheral vision, overlaying the physical world like a HUD from a strategy game. Dire numbers. Dangerous numbers.
"Negative cash flow, barely two months of food, and owing the Crown more than five times what we have."
I'd managed worse projects. Barely.
Ser Gareth Stone met me at the base of the main stairwell. Forty-something, weathered face, the kind of posture that said "soldier" in any century. His hand rested on the pommel of a notched sword.
"My lord." His voice was gravel over broken glass. "You shouldn't be walking. The maester said—"
"The maester said many things." I kept my tone even. Corwyn's memories gave me the man's measure: bastard knight, loyal but cynical, had served the late lord with quiet competence. "I need to see my domain, Ser Gareth. Show me."
His eyes narrowed. Something shifted behind them—assessment, recalculation. The lord he'd known for twenty years wouldn't have spoken like this. Wouldn't have stood like this.
"Careful. Don't overplay it."
"As you wish," he said finally. "Start with the yard?"
We walked. He talked. I listened.
Twelve guards total. Eight fit for duty. Equipment aging, morale lower. No formal training regimen. The old lord had been more interested in hunting than military preparedness.
[ SER GARETH STONE ]
[ LOYALTY: 65% ]
[ MORALE: 48% ]
[ COMBAT SKILL: EXPERIENCED ]
The stats floated above his head, visible only to me. Sixty-five percent loyalty. Not great, not terrible. Workable.
"Your assessment?" I asked.
Gareth stopped walking. We stood in the courtyard now—mud-packed, surrounded by the keep's gray walls. A few guards practiced sword drills without enthusiasm nearby.
"My assessment, my lord?"
"If Darklyn attacked tomorrow. Could we hold?"
Silence. Then, bluntly: "No."
I appreciated the honesty. "What would it take to change that answer?"
Something flickered across his face. Interest, maybe. Or surprise.
"Men. Equipment. Training. Time." He shook his head. "None of which we have."
"Wrong," I thought. "We have me. And I have the System."
But I didn't say that. Instead: "Start with training. What can be done with what we have?"
Before he could answer, a new voice cut in.
"My lord."
I turned. A woman approached across the courtyard—middle-aged, practical dress, hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was a mask of efficiency, but her eyes were sharp. Taking stock.
[ MIRA WATERS ]
[ LOYALTY: 60% ]
[ HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT: EXPERT ]
[ INTELLIGENCE NETWORK: BASIC ]
"Mira Waters," I said, pulling the name from Corwyn's memories. "Head of household."
She dipped her head. "I bring the morning accounts, my lord. And a meal, if you'll take it."
Behind her, a gangly boy of perhaps fourteen struggled under a tray of bread, cheese, and ale. His face was flushed with effort.
[ EDRIC ]
[ LOYALTY: 71% ]
[ POTENTIAL: HIGH ]
[ ROLE: STABLE BOY ]
"Thank you, Edric," I said.
The boy nearly dropped the tray. His eyes went wide. "M-my lord knows my name?"
"Corwyn never bothered to learn it," I realized. "The servants were furniture to him."
"I know everyone's name," I said. A lie, but one the System could make true with enough time. "Set the tray on the bench there. Join us."
Edric looked to Mira, who looked to Gareth, who looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"My lord," Mira said carefully, "it's not customary for—"
"I almost died three days ago." I walked to the bench, sat, grabbed a hunk of bread. The first bite nearly made my knees weak—hunger I hadn't realized I was carrying. "Custom didn't save me. Knowledge did. Sit. All of you."
They sat. Awkwardly. Gareth with his hand still on his sword. Mira with her hands folded in her lap. Edric perched on the edge of the bench like he expected to be dismissed at any moment.
I ate. Chewed. Thought.
"The accounts," I said to Mira between bites. "Summary."
She didn't need to look at her ledger. "Income: forty-three gold dragons per annum from tenant farms, nine from trade tariffs, eight from fishing rights. Expenses: thirty-two for household wages, eighteen for guard salaries, twelve for maintenance. Net surplus: none. We have been drawing on reserves for three years."
"Three years of bleeding out. No wonder we're dying."
"And the debt?"
"Two thousand gold dragons, my lord. Owed to the Crown since your father's... difficulties." Her voice tightened on the last word.
The Crown. That meant the King. Viserys Targaryen, if I remembered my history. A reasonable man by most accounts, but not a patient creditor.
[ SYSTEM NOTE: CROWN DEBT DUE IN 14 MONTHS ]
[ FAILURE TO PAY MAY RESULT IN SEIZURE OF LANDS ]
Fourteen months. Five hundred thirty-something days to come up with almost six times our annual income.
"Impossible. Unless—"
"What assets aren't being used?" I asked.
Mira blinked. "My lord?"
"Land. Resources. Anything the previous lord overlooked or considered worthless."
Silence. Gareth and Mira exchanged glances. Edric looked at his shoes.
Then Gareth spoke: "The cove. Duskhollow Cove. Deep enough for ships, sheltered from storms. But building a harbor would cost more than the Crown debt."
"A harbor." The word sparked something in my project manager brain. Investment. Returns. Scale.
"What else?"
"The eastern hills." This from Edric, voice small. Everyone looked at him. He flushed. "My—my gran says there were mines there once. Before the old king's grandfather. They closed when the seam ran dry."
"The seam ran dry," Mira agreed. "Or so the maesters wrote. No lord has surveyed those hills in sixty years."
"Sixty years. Technology changes. Knowledge improves. What if they were wrong?"
"I'll need a horse tomorrow," I said. "And a guide who knows those hills."
"My lord, you're still recovering—"
"Tomorrow, Ser Gareth." I stood. The bread sat warm in my stomach. The System hummed quietly at the edge of my awareness, patient and watchful.
Gareth studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw made him nod once, sharp.
"As you command."
POV: Maester Harlan
The new lord was not the old lord.
Harlan had served House Darke for thirty-one years. He had watched Corwyn grow from a sickly infant to a sullen youth. He had treated the boy's fevers, bandaged his scrapes, listened to his complaints about lessons he never wanted to learn.
That Corwyn was gone. Something else wore his face now.
"Nonsense," Harlan told himself, sorting herbs in his chamber. "Near-death changes men. I've seen it before."
But he had never seen it change a man this completely.
The lord's eyes were different. Older somehow. They moved constantly—assessing, calculating, as if measuring everything against some invisible standard. And the questions. Since waking, he had asked about crop yields, guard rotations, trade routes, debt structures. Topics the old Corwyn would have dismissed as "boring peasant matters."
"He knew the antidote," Harlan thought. "Mixed wolfsbane counteragent from memory, in the dark, while dying."
No book in Duskhollow's library contained that formula. Harlan had checked. Twice.
He set down the mortar and pestle, staring at nothing.
"Either my lord is blessed by the gods... or something else entirely."
The old maester had learned, over three decades, when to ask questions and when to simply observe.
This was a time for observation.
POV: Corwyn Darke
Night came cold to Duskhollow.
I stood on the battlements, wrapped in a cloak that smelled of mothballs and old wool. The wind cut through it like the fabric wasn't there. Below, the keep spread out in torchlit patches: the courtyard, the stables, the servant quarters. Beyond the walls, darkness swallowed everything except a faint glitter on the horizon—the sea.
[ TERRITORY MAP ]
I triggered the System function with a thought. The world transformed.
A ghostly overlay spread across my vision. Blue lines traced the boundaries of my domain—perhaps twenty square miles of rocky coastline, thin forest, and struggling farmland. Red markers indicated problem areas: a bridge in need of repair, a well running dry, a section of wall with structural concerns.
Green markers were rarer. The cove Gareth mentioned pulsed invitingly. A question mark hovered over the eastern hills.
[ IRON DEPOSIT (UNCONFIRMED) - EASTERN HILLS ]
[ HARBOR POTENTIAL (HIGH) - DUSKHOLLOW COVE ]
[ AGRICULTURAL ZONE (POOR) - CENTRAL FARMLAND ]
Iron. Harbor. Farms.
In the modern world, these would be basic resources. Here, they might mean survival. Or extinction, if someone like Darklyn decided the territory was worth taking by force.
"First step: survey everything. Second step: prioritize development. Third step: find allies or stay out of sight long enough to build strength."
Simple in theory. Murder to execute.
I dismissed the map and stared out at the darkness. Somewhere out there, Lord Bryen Darklyn was sleeping in a warm bed, confident that his poison had worked or would work soon. He didn't know I'd survived. Didn't know about the System. Didn't know that the terrified boy who'd inherited a dying domain had been replaced by something harder.
"Enjoy your sleep, Lord Darklyn. It won't last."
The wind howled. I pulled the cloak tighter and headed back inside.
Tomorrow, I had a kingdom to build.