Chapter 4: The Darklyn Envoy
POV: Corwyn Darke
Two weeks changed things.
My sword arm stopped shaking after the fifth day of Gareth's brutal dawn training. The bruises faded from purple to yellow to nothing. The poison-weakness that had plagued my first days finally released its grip, leaving behind a body that was lean, young, and surprisingly capable once I stopped fighting against it.
The keep changed too. Small things at first—guards standing straighter when I passed, servants meeting my eyes instead of staring at floors. The morning meetings became actual discussions rather than Mira reading numbers while everyone else waited to leave.
[ TERRITORY STATUS UPDATE ]
[ POPULATION: 195 (+8) ]
[ TREASURY: 380 GOLD DRAGONS (+40) ]
[ LOYALTY INDEX: 67% (+4%) ]
Eight new souls. Families from neighboring lands who'd heard rumors of a lord offering fair treatment and steady work. The gold came from trimming waste—canceled orders for wine Corwyn never should have been drinking, reduced spending on decorative nonsense. Small gains, but gains nonetheless.
The Great Hall felt larger in the morning light. Stone pillars marched toward the raised dais where the lord's seat waited—a heavy oak chair that had held Darke lords for three generations. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes lined the walls, their colors faded but still recognizable. Ravens. Stags. A boar being brought down by hounds.
I settled into the chair, adjusting the formal doublet Mira had insisted I wear. Black wool with silver threading. The Darke colors.
"They're at the gate," Gareth said from his position at my right hand. His sword hung loose in its scabbard—easy to draw. "Three riders. The envoy and two guards."
"Weapons?"
"Swords. No bows."
Maester Harlan stood at my left, hands folded into his gray sleeves. "Lord Darklyn sends Ser Damon, my lord. A knight of some reputation. Known for... persuasive diplomacy."
"Persuasive diplomacy. That's a nice way to say threats."
"Let them in."
The doors groaned open. Footsteps echoed on stone—confident, measured. A man in his thirties strode down the hall, flanked by two soldiers in Darklyn colors. Dark hair, trimmed beard, the kind of face that smiled easily and meant none of it.
[ SER DAMON ]
[ LOYALTY: 0% (ENEMY) ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE ]
[ HIDDEN INTENTION: CONQUEST PRETEXT ]
The System painted warnings across my vision. I kept my expression neutral, settling deeper into the chair.
"Lord Corwyn." Ser Damon stopped at the prescribed distance, offering a bow that managed to be both correct and somehow mocking. "My lord Bryen Darklyn sends his warmest regards and deepest relief at your miraculous recovery."
"Miraculous. Because you expected me dead."
"His lordship's concern touches me deeply," I said. "Please, rise. We are all friends here."
Damon straightened. His smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind his eyes. Assessment. Recalculation.
"Indeed we are, my lord. Which is precisely why Lord Darklyn has sent me with a most generous offer." He produced a scroll from his belt, holding it out. One of my guards stepped forward to take it, passing it to Harlan.
The maester's face remained carefully blank as he read. But his fingers tightened on the parchment.
"A proposal," Damon continued smoothly, "for formal alliance. House Darke would swear fealty to House Darklyn, gaining the protection of Lord Bryen's considerable forces. In exchange, a modest annual tribute and... certain territorial concessions."
"There it is. Vassalage dressed up in pretty words."
I held out my hand. Harlan passed me the scroll.
The terms were exactly what I'd expected. Swear fealty. Pay tribute. Cede control of the eastern hills—the same hills where I'd found iron deposits. Allow Darklyn troops to garrison Duskhollow "for protection."
In exchange, Darklyn would graciously refrain from crushing us like insects.
[ QUEST ALERT ]
[ DIPLOMATIC CONFRONTATION: DARKLYN ENVOY ]
[ OBJECTIVE: DECLINE VASSALAGE WITHOUT TRIGGERING WAR ]
[ REWARD: +10 REPUTATION (INDEPENDENCE), TIME GAINED ]
[ ACCEPT? Y/N ]
I accepted the quest with a thought, keeping my eyes on the scroll.
"This is... comprehensive," I said finally. "Lord Darklyn has given considerable thought to our situation."
"He has your best interests at heart, my lord." Damon's smile widened. "These are dangerous times. A young lord, alone, with enemies on all sides... accidents happen. Tragedies occur. Lord Darklyn wishes only to prevent such unfortunate events."
Gareth's hand moved toward his sword. I caught his eye with a slight shake of my head.
"He's testing us. Seeing if we'll react to threats with violence."
"Indeed they do," I agreed. "My own father's hunting accident. My mother's sudden illness. My own... recent difficulties." I let the words hang. "So many tragedies. One might almost think someone was engineering them."
The temperature in the hall dropped. Damon's smile froze.
"My lord suggests—"
"I suggest nothing." I set the scroll aside, leaning forward. "I merely observe that House Darke has suffered greatly these past years. And I wonder—quite naturally—who might benefit from our misfortune."
Silence stretched between us. Damon's mask slipped for half a heartbeat—surprise, then anger, then smooth composure again.
"Lord Darklyn would be... disappointed... to hear such implications."
"Then let us not disappoint him with implications." I stood, spreading my hands. "Let us speak plainly instead. House Darke values House Darklyn's friendship deeply. We welcome trade agreements, mutual defense pacts, shared investment in regional prosperity."
I walked down from the dais, stopping an arm's length from Damon. Close enough to see the pulse in his throat.
"But vassalage? Tribute? Territorial concession?" I shook my head slowly. "House Darke holds its lands directly from the Crown. Our oaths are to King Viserys. To break faith with His Grace would be... complicated. Legally. Spiritually. In ways that might draw unwanted attention from King's Landing."
Damon's jaw tightened. This wasn't the script he'd prepared for. A twenty-year-old lordling, recently poisoned, should have been desperate for any protection offered.
"My lord speaks of the Crown," he said carefully. "But the Crown is far away. Lord Darklyn is... considerably closer."
"And there's the threat."
"Indeed he is." I smiled—the first genuine smile I'd shown him. "Which is why I propose an alternative. Rather than the formalities of vassalage, let us establish a trading partnership. Your lord's roads, our harbor access once we develop it. Your markets, our agricultural surplus once our reforms take hold. Mutual benefit without entangling legal obligations."
"My lord, I don't think—"
"Think on it." I gestured to Mira, who appeared with wine and bread. "Please, enjoy our hospitality while you consider. Duskhollow may be modest, but we treat guests well. Far better than enemies."
I held his gaze on that last word.
Damon took the wine. He had no choice—refusing hospitality would be an insult that even Darklyn couldn't excuse.
"I will... convey your counter-proposal to Lord Darklyn."
"Please do. And convey my personal regards as well. I look forward to a long and... mutually respectful... relationship between our houses."
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
The envoy and his guards rode out at midday. Gareth watched from the battlements until they disappeared over the eastern ridge, then descended to find his lord in the maester's study.
Cole—he'd started thinking of him as Cole, though he didn't know why—stood over a map of the region, marking positions with small stones.
"They'll be back," Gareth said. "Or worse will come in their place."
"I know."
"You provoked him. That talk about accidents and tragedies. He knows we know."
"He suspected we knew already." Cole didn't look up from the map. "Now he's certain. That changes his calculations."
"Changes them how?"
"Darklyn planned to make my death look natural. Illness, accident, something that wouldn't attract Crown attention. Now he knows I'm watching. He has to either accelerate his timeline or find a new approach."
Gareth crossed his arms. "And which do you think he'll choose?"
"Both." Cole placed a final stone on the map—right over Duskhollow Keep. "He'll try assassination again, but faster and messier. And he'll start building legal justifications for seizure in case the assassination fails."
"Then we prepare for both."
"We do." Cole finally looked up. Something hard lived in those young eyes—something that hadn't been there three weeks ago. "I've been recruiting quietly. Families from Darklyn's own lands, people tired of his taxes and conscriptions. Our population is growing."
"I noticed."
"I've also been training with you. Learning the sword, understanding combat. Not because I expect to fight personally, but because I need to understand what our soldiers face."
"You're improving," Gareth admitted. High praise, coming from him.
"And I've been studying our defenses. The walls are weak in three places—the north gate, the servants' entrance, and the drainage culvert behind the kitchens. Perfect entry points for assassins."
Gareth stiffened. He'd identified those vulnerabilities years ago, reported them to the old lord, been ignored.
"You knew about the drainage culvert?"
"I walked every inch of this keep in the first week. I needed to know what I was defending." Cole tapped the map. "Tonight, I want guards posted at all three points. Hidden. Not obvious patrols—concealed positions with crossbows."
"You expect them tonight?"
"I expect them within five days. Darklyn will want to strike before we have time to strengthen further." Cole met his eyes. "When they come, Ser Gareth, I want them taken alive if possible. Dead men don't talk. Living prisoners provide intelligence."
"He thinks like a commander," Gareth realized. "Not like a boy. Not like the lord I knew."
"As you command, my lord."
POV: Corwyn Darke
Night came cold and dark.
I lay in my chambers, fully dressed beneath the blankets, a dagger strapped to my forearm. The bed was positioned wrong—pulled away from the window, angled so anyone entering through the door would have to cross my line of sight.
Sleep came in fragments. Every creak of settling wood brought me to full alertness. Every whisper of wind against the shutters made my hand twitch toward the blade.
[ LOYALTY NETWORK ACTIVE ]
[ MONITORING HOUSEHOLD ANOMALIES ]
The System had grown more sophisticated as I used it. The Loyalty Network was new—a passive scan that flagged unusual behavior patterns in people around me. Not mind-reading. Just analysis of movement, expression, consistency of story.
Three new servants had been hired two days ago.
Their loyalty ratings read zero.
"Darklyn's people. Has to be."
I'd confirmed it with Mira quietly—the steward who hired them had left that same night, claiming family emergency. Convenient timing.
Now I waited.
Gareth had men positioned at all three entry points. I'd instructed them to let the assassins pass the first checkpoint, funnel them toward my chambers, then close the trap behind. Risky. But capturing them alive required letting them commit to the attempt.
Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub.
Then—
A soft scrape at the door. Metal on wood. Someone testing the lock.
I kept my breathing slow and even. The dagger slid free of its sheath without a sound.
The door opened. Three shadows slipped through, moving with practiced silence. Moonlight caught the gleam of drawn steel.
They approached the bed. The lead figure raised his blade over what should have been my sleeping form.
"Now," I said.
The word was barely a whisper, but it carried. Guards exploded from concealed positions—behind the tapestry, inside the wardrobe, beneath the table by the window. Gareth came through the doorway like a charging bull, sword already swinging.
The fight lasted seconds. One assassin went down under Gareth's blade, not dead but disabled—a precise cut across the back of his knee. The second tried to run and found the doorway blocked by two guards with crossbows. The third—
The third dove through the window.
Glass shattered. I heard a grunt, a thud, then running footsteps fading into darkness.
"Let him go. One messenger is useful."
"Secure the prisoners," I ordered, stepping over broken glass. "Gareth, bind their wounds. I need them alive for questioning."
The captured assassins glared at me with hatred and—underneath it—fear. They'd expected an easy kill. A soft young lord, alone and vulnerable.
They'd found something else entirely.
[ QUEST COMPLETE: SURVIVE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ]
[ REWARD: +1 COMBAT AWARENESS, LOYALTY NETWORK UPGRADE ]
[ NEW QUEST AVAILABLE: INTERROGATION ]
"Take them to the dungeons," I said. "Make them comfortable. Not too comfortable. I'll speak with them at dawn."
Gareth nodded, something approaching respect in his eyes. "My lord."
The guards dragged the wounded assassins away. I stood alone in my ruined chamber, glass crunching beneath my boots, and allowed myself a small smile.
"Your move, Darklyn."
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