Lyonel wasted no time.

Lyonel spread the maps before the boy, his voice low and urgent.

"Listen carefully," he said, his finger tracing the route to the Dun Fort.

"We shall strike at midnight, three nights from now. My men will scale the walls here—" he tapped a spot on the map, "—while your father’s forces create a distraction at the main gate. Once we’re inside, we take the fort silently. No alarms. No mercy."

Davon’s eyes gleamed in the firelight.

"And then?"

"Then we open the gates of Duskendale," Lyonel said, his voice cold.

"Your father will take the town. But listen to me, Davon—when the Dun Fort falls, Steffon is to show no mercy to the Rykkers. Not the lord, not even the male children. They die. All of them."

Davon’s face paled, but he nodded.

"And the soldiers?"

"Give them a choice," Lyonel said, his voice firm.

"Swear allegiance to Steffon Darklyn, or join the Rykkers in the grave."

Davon swallowed hard, but his expression didn’t waver.

"I’ll tell him."

Lyonel fixed him with a hard look.

"This isn’t a game, boy. This is war. And war isn’t won with kindness."

Davon met his gaze, his jaw set.

"I understand."

"Good." Lyonel rolled up the maps, handing them to the boy.

"Now go. Tell your father. And Davon?"

His voice dropped to a growl.

"If he falters, if he shows even a hint of mercy, the Rykkers will rise again. And next time, they won’t be so easy to kill."

Davon nodded, his young face grim.

"I’ll make sure he knows."

With that, he slipped back into the night, leaving Lyonel alone with the weight of what was to come.

---

Three nights.

That’s all that stood between them and bloodshed.

Lyonel stood by the window, watching the moon cast its pale light over the Red Keep’s battlements.

He thought of the men who would die.

He thought of the Rykkers, of the children who would be slaughtered in their beds.

He thought of Steffon, of Davon, of the Darklyn name rising from the ashes.

And he thought of himself—a bastard turned legitimized lord, a man caught between duty and desire, between the women who wanted him and the wars that demanded him.

---

The raven arrived with the first light of dawn, its black wings ruffled, its talons clutching a roll of parchment sealed with the wax of Tarth.

Lyonel broke the seal, his eyes scanning Maester Unwin’s precise script.

The words hit him like a blow:

"Lord Selwyn Tarth has declared his allegiance to Lord Renly Baratheon. His men, six hundred strong, now march under Renly’s banners. The island of Tarth is lost to King Joffrey’s cause."

Lyonel’s fingers tightened around the parchment, crumpling it in his grip.

Selwyn.

The old fool had played the double game, swearing loyalty to Joffrey only to turn his cloak and bend the knee to Renly.

A smart move, perhaps—but one that left Lyonel exposed.

If Joffrey learned of this, if he suspected Lyonel had known and said nothing… the king’s wrath would be swift and brutal.

But there was more.

A second message, relayed by Maester Unwin from Maester Luwin of Winterfell, lay tucked within the first.

Lyonel unfolded it, his heart pounding as he read:

"Robb Stark has reached Moat Cailin with eighteen thousand Northmen. Lady Catelyn has joined him with fifteen hundred more. They march south, my lord. The war begins in earnest."

Lyonel exhaled sharply.

Eighteen thousand.

The North was on the move.

And Catelyn—his Catelyn—was with them, riding to war with their child left behind at the Eyrie.

The realization settled over him like a shroud.

The realm was tearing itself apart, and he was caught in the middle, his loyalties pulled in every direction.

He couldn’t afford to be seen as a traitor.

Not now.

Not when the Lannisters held the upper hand.

---

The Great Hall was a den of tension when Lyonel arrived, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and iron.

Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, his golden crown gleaming, his face twisted in a petulant scowl.

Cersei stood beside him, her emerald eyes sharp, her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her gaze.

The Small Council was assembled—Varys with his spider’s smile, Littlefinger with his calculating gaze, Pycelle’s rheumy eyes darting between the players on the board.

Sandor Clegane lurked near the dais, his scarred face twisted in something like amusement.

Grand Maester Pycelle was reading from a scroll, his voice trembling but clear.

"The following lords have yet to bend the knee to King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name," he intoned, "and are hereby commanded to present themselves before the Iron Throne to swear fealty or be named traitors to the crown—"

Lyonel didn’t wait for him to finish. He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor as he approached the dais.

The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to him. Joffrey’s scowl deepened, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrests of the throne.

"Ser Lyonel," he sneered. "You dare interrupt my court?"

Lyonel bowed his head, but his voice was steady.

"Your Grace, I bring urgent news. Lord Selwyn Tarth has declared his allegiance to Lord Renly Baratheon. His men now march under Renly’s banners."

The hall erupted.

Gasps rippled through the assembled nobles, while Lannister supporters hissed in outrage.

Joffrey’s face flushed crimson, his fingers clenching into fists.

"Traitor!" he snarled, his voice shrill with rage.

"I’ll have his head!"

Lyonel didn’t flinch.

He kept his gaze fixed on the king, his expression impassive.

"I thought it prudent to inform Your Grace immediately," he said, his voice calm.

"Tarth’s betrayal changes the balance of power in the south."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.

Then—

"Your Grace."

The voice was smooth, measured. Littlefinger stepped forward, his hands clasped before him, his expression one of mild concern.

"Lord Lyonel has done you a service. Knowledge is power, is it not?"

Cersei’s smirk was knowing.

She placed a hand on Joffrey’s arm, her touch light but commanding.

"My son," she murmured, her voice a velvet purr, "Lord Lyonel has shown his loyalty by bringing this to your attention. Punishing him for the mistakes of Selwyn Tarth would be… unwise."

Joffrey’s scowl didn’t fade, but he subsided, his fingers unclenching slightly.

"Fine," he snapped.

"But I want Tarth burned. And Renly’s head on a spike!"

Cersei’s smile deepened.

"In time, my king. In time."

She turned her gaze to Lyonel, her eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

"Lord Lyonel, you have our thanks. Your loyalty does not go unnoticed."

Lyonel bowed his head.

"Your Grace."

---

But Cersei wasn’t done.

Her gaze flickered to the white-cloaked figure of Ser Barristan Selmy, standing stoic near the dais.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice sweet as poison, "now that we’ve dealt with one traitor, perhaps it’s time to address another matter. The position of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is one of great responsibility. And Ser Barristan… well, he is getting old."

Joffrey’s eyes lit up, his rage redirecting like a hound catching a new scent.

"Yes!" he crowed.

"Selmy is a relic! I want Jaime as my Lord Commander!"

A murmur rippled through the hall.

Ser Barristan didn’t react, his face a mask of stoic dignity.

But his eyes—sharp, knowing—flickered to Lyonel for the briefest of moments.

"Ser Barristan," Joffrey sneered, "you’re relieved of your duties. Hand over your cloak."

The hall fell silent.

Ser Barristan stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate.

He unclasped his white cloak, the fabric pooling at his feet like a fallen banner.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice ringing clear, "I have served your house with honor for decades. But I will not serve a boy who thinks honor is a word to be spat upon."

His gaze swept over the assembled court, lingering on Lyonel, on Cersei, on the shocked faces of the Small Council.

"The Kingsguard is meant to protect the realm, not the whims of a spoiled manchild. I suggest you remember that—before it’s too late."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the hall, his back straight, his dignity intact.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Joffrey’s face twisted in fury.

"Seize him!" he shrieked.

But Ser Barristan was already gone.

And the court was left staring after him, stunned into silence.

—

Lyonel stood amidst the chaos, his mind racing.

Selwyn’s betrayal.

Robb’s march.

Barristan’s defiance.

The game was shifting beneath his feet, the pieces moving faster than he could anticipate.

And he was caught in the middle, his loyalties torn, his path unclear.

But one thing was certain:

The war had begun.

And the first blood had been drawn.

---

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, sinister shadows across the Red Keep’s courtyards as Lyonel sat in his chambers, quill in hand, parchment spread before him.

The inkwell was open, the scent of iron and parchment thick in the air.

He had spent the day in the Great Hall, watching the fallout of Ser Barristan’s defiance, the court still abuzz with whispers of the old knight’s departure.

But his mind was elsewhere—on Duskendale, on the men waiting for his command, on the blood that would soon be spilled.

He dipped his quill and began to write, his hand steady, his words precise.

---

To Ser Garmond Forett, Ser Roedrick, and Davon Darklyn,

You will leave King’s Landing in groups of two to four, unseen and unnoticed. Assemble a few miles ahead of Rosby in smaller contingents, then travel in groups of ten and twenty toward Duskendale. Speed and secrecy are paramount.

Four hundred men will infiltrate the Dun Fort in groups of ten, scaling the walls under cover of night. The remaining seven hundred will meet with Ser Steffon Darklyn and his men outside the town. Wait for my signal—a torch lit atop the highest tower of the Dun Fort. That will be your cue to strike.

Remember:

The Rykkers are to be extinguished. No mercy. No male survivors. The women are to be taken captive, but the male line must be erased. This is not a request. This is an order.

Burn this letter after reading.

—Lyonel Baratheon

---

He rolled the parchment tightly, sealing it with a dab of wax, and summoned a trusted servant—a boy no older than fifteen, his face smudged with soot, his eyes sharp with the promise of coin.

"Deliver this to Ser Garmond Forett," Lyonel instructed, pressing the letter into the boy’s hands along with a silver stag.

"No one else is to see it. Understood?"

The boy nodded, his expression grave, and slipped away into the gathering dusk.

---

Over the next three days, the plan unfolded like a shadow given form.

The men left King’s Landing in small groups, slipping through the gates under the cover of darkness or disguised as merchants and sell-swords.

They met at the designated spot near Rosby, their numbers swelling as they moved east, their armor hidden beneath cloaks, their weapons wrapped in oilcloth.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Duskendale, they were a **** of eleven hundred—silent, disciplined, and hungry for vengeance.

---

The infiltration of the Dun Fort was swift and brutal.

The four hundred men Lyonel had chosen for the task scaled the walls like spiders, their blackened armor blending with the night.

The guards were taken unawares, their throats slit before they could raise the alarm.

The Rykkers never stood a chance.

Lord Rykker was dragged from his bed, his protests cut short by a dagger to the throat.

His sons—two boys barely old enough to hold a sword—were slaughtered where they stood.

The male line was extinguished in a single, blood-soaked night.

The women were not so lucky.

Lady Rykker and her daughters were taken captive, their screams muffled by gags, their fate sealed by the cold calculus of war.

---

Ser Steffon Darklyn wasted no time.

With the Dun Fort secured, he moved to consolidate his power.

His son and heir, Denys, was married the very same night to the eldest Rykker daughter, Bethany—a girl of sixteen, her face pale with terror but her chin held high.

The marriage was a brutal reminder of who now held Duskendale, a way to ensure the Darklyn name would endure.

Lyonel’s orders were followed to the letter.

Denelle Darklyn, Steffon’s daughter, was wed to Ser Robar Forett, Garmond’s son, binding the Foretts to Lyonel’s cause.

The alliance was sealed with wine and vows, the young knight’s loyalty now irrevocably tied to the Darklyn restoration.

As for Lady Rykker, she was offered to Ser Roedrick—a reward for his service, a way to ensure his loyalty.

The hedge knight accepted without hesitation, his new bride a trophy of war, a symbol of his rise.

The remaining Rykker daughters were kept under house arrest, their fates left undecided.

For now.

---

The next morning, Ser Steffon Darklyn knelt before the gates of Duskendale, his men arrayed behind him, their armor gleaming in the dawn light.

A raven had already been sent to King’s Landing, bearing the news of the Darklyn victory and Steffon’s pledge of allegiance to King Joffrey.

The message was clear:

---

"Your Grace,

House Darklyn has reclaimed Duskendale. The Rykker line is extinguished, and the town now bends the knee to the Iron Throne. We hail King Joffrey Baratheon as the one true king and swear our swords to his cause.

Long may he reign.

—Lord Steffon Darklyn"

---

The raven reached the Red Keep by midday.

Joffrey, ever eager for victories, was pleased.

The Darklyns had proven their loyalty in blood, and that was something even the young king could respect.

A royal decree was drafted, confirming Steffon Darklyn as the rightful Lord of Duskendale, his claim recognized by the Iron Throne.

Lyonel, watching from the shadows of the court, allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk.

The plan had worked. Duskendale was his—theirs—and the Darklyns were once again a power to be reckoned with.

But the game was far from over.

The war had only just begun.

---

The first two days under Lord Steffon Darklyn’s rule were a whirlwind of oaths, submissions, and the brutal efficiency of a man who had spent a lifetime dreaming of reclaiming what was stolen from his family.

The Rykker men, those who had survived the purge of their lords, knelt one by one before Steffon in the Great Hall of Duskendale.

Some did so willingly, eager to swear allegiance to a lord who had proven his strength.

Others did so with gritted teeth, their pride swallowed beneath the weight of survival.

But all bent the knee.

And all were accepted into Steffon’s service.

The Dun Fort, once a symbol of Rykker dominance, now flew the Darklyn banner— the sigil of a house reborn.

As promised, Steffon agreed to maintain the entire **** until Lyonel recalled them.

"Your men are my men, my lord," Steffon had said, his voice gruff with gratitude.

"Duskendale will not fall again."

Lyonel, though miles away in King’s Landing, allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

The plan had worked.

The Darklyns were restored.

And his men were secure.

---

The court was a viper’s nest of tension when Lyonel encountered Lord Varys in the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep.

The Spider moved like a shadow, his soft slippers making no sound on the stone floors, his voice a velvet murmur as he sidled up to Lyonel.

"Lord Lyonel," Varys said, his hands clasped before him, his pale face unreadable.

"I thought you might find this… interesting."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"The girl the Lannisters claim is Arya Stark? She is not who they say she is."

Lyonel stilled, his mind racing.

"Explain."

Varys’s lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"Jeyne Poole, my lord. A blacksmith’s daughter, passed off as the missing Stark girl. A clever ruse, but a ruse nonetheless."

His eyes, sharp and knowing, locked onto Lyonel’s.

"Arya Stark is still out there. And the Lannisters are still searching for her."

Lyonel didn’t react outwardly, but his fingers twitched at his side.

Why is Varys telling me this?

The Spider was not known for his generosity with information.

There was always a reason, always a game.

But for now, Lyonel decided to keep this knowledge close to his chest.

"Interesting indeed," he said, his voice neutral.

"Though I fail to see how this concerns me."

Varys’s smile deepened, as if he had expected nothing less.

"Of course, my lord," he murmured, before melting back into the shadows.

Lyonel watched him go, his mind churning.

Arya Stark.

Missing.

Alive.

And the Lannisters were lying about it.

He filed the information away, knowing it could be useful—but not yet.

Not until he decided how to play this particular hand.

---

Later that evening, in the privacy of his chambers, Lyonel turned his thoughts to the three remaining Rykker daughters—Marra, Rosalyn, and Joanna.

They were still under house arrest in Duskendale, their fates undecided.

But Lyonel knew they couldn’t stay there forever.

The Rykkers might be broken, but their blood still carried weight.

And three young girls, even daughters of a fallen house, were a liability—or an opportunity.

He considered his options.

The girls couldn’t be left in Duskendale, where their presence might rally the last embers of Rykker loyalty.

But they couldn’t be executed, either—not when their deaths might turn them into martyrs.

No, they needed to be removed.

And Lyonel knew just the place.

Tarth.

Lord Selwyn had marched with Renly’s banners, leaving the island all but unattended.

The castle was still there, still strong, and still under the nominal control of House Tarth.

If the girls were housed there, under the care of a skeleton garrison loyal to him, they would be out of sight, out of mind—and out of trouble.

He decided to draft a letter to Ser Garmond Forett, instructing him to take the girls to Tarth under the guise of "protection."

"They are to be kept under guard, but treated well," he wrote.

"No one is to know where they are. And if Lord Selwyn returns, he is not to be told."

He sealed the letter and kept it on his person, waiting for the right opportunity.

---

But it was the thought of Arya Stark that lingered in his mind, gnawing at him like a persistent itch.

The girl was out there, somewhere.

And if the Lannisters were still searching for her, then she was a prize worth having.

She was a wildcard, a girl with a sharp tongue and a sharper blade, a survivor in a world that had already tried to break her.

And if she was still free, then she was a threat to the Lannisters.

A threat that could be used.

He decided to wait.

---

Davon Darklyn was due to arrive in King’s Landing within the week, bringing with him a small contingent of thirty men—loyal, discreet, and hungry for purpose.

They would be perfect for a quiet search.

Arya Stark was small, but she wasn’t invisible.

And if anyone could find a missing girl in a city as vast as King’s Landing, it was a band of determined men with nothing to lose.

Lyonel would bide his time.

He would watch.

And when the moment was right, he would strike.

---

Cersei no longer came to his chambers.

The war had intensified with the news of Robb Stark marching south with the entire Northern army.

The queen was consumed by strategy, by the need to secure her son’s throne against the young Wolf King.

There was no time for pleasure, no time for the games she had once played with Lyonel.

Or she got her pleasure somewhere else, it mattered not to Lyonel.

He didn’t miss her.

But he noticed her absence.

It was a reminder that the world was changing, that the stakes were higher than ever.

And Lyonel knew he had to be ready.

For the war. For the hunt.

---