Chapter 23: Military Expansion - Part 1
POV: Corwyn Darke
Crackclaw Point was exactly as miserable as its reputation suggested.
Rocky hills, dense forests, and settlements that barely qualified as villages scattered across terrain that discouraged casual visitors. The clans that lived here had resisted Targaryen rule longer than anyone, bending the knee only to Aegon himself, and they'd never quite accepted integration into the mainland's social order.
They were also some of the fiercest fighters in the Crownlands.
I rode into the largest settlement—a collection of wooden structures clustered around a crude hall—with Ser Gareth and ten soldiers at my back. Not enough to threaten, but enough to project seriousness.
The clan chief met us in the muddy square, a scarred man named Brune who'd killed more men than he could count and buried three of his own sons in feuds that had accomplished nothing.
"Lord Darke." His voice was gravel and contempt. "Come to tax us? Extract tribute? Take our young men for your wars?"
"Come to offer employment." I dismounted, meeting his hostile gaze without flinching. "Fair wages, quality equipment, honest treatment. No feudal obligations beyond the contract term. Your men fight for me, they get paid. Simple."
[ 💼 RECRUITMENT NEGOTIATION ]
[ CLAN BRUNE ]
[ FIGHTERS AVAILABLE: 40-50 ]
[ CLAN CHIEF INTEREST: SKEPTICAL ]
"Pretty words." Brune spat into the mud. "Lords say many things. Then the wages are late, the equipment is garbage, and our men die in causes they don't understand."
"Ask around about me. Ask the miners who work my iron deposits—paid their share before I paid myself. Ask the farmers who adopted my agricultural methods—eating better than they have in decades. Ask Lord Rykker, who defected from Darklyn because I offered better terms and actually delivered."
Brune's expression flickered—something like interest beneath the hostility.
"We don't serve southern lords," he said, but the absolute rejection had softened to negotiation.
"Then don't serve. Contract. Six-month terms, renewable by mutual agreement. Your men maintain clan identity, follow clan customs, but train and fight under unified command." I pulled a document from my belt—the contract I'd prepared with Maester Harlan's help. "The terms are written. Read them. Have your wise-woman read them. Take a week to decide."
Brune took the document, his calloused fingers handling the parchment with unexpected care.
"And if our boys don't like your 'unified command'?"
"Then they can leave when their contract expires. No punishment, no pursuit. But I think they'll stay." I allowed myself a slight smile. "Good pay tends to encourage loyalty. So does winning."
POV: Clan Fighter Jorgen
Jorgen had killed his first man at fourteen.
A border dispute with the Hardgrove clan—the details didn't matter anymore, lost in the endless cycle of feuds that defined Crackclaw Point life. He'd put a knife in the man's throat and felt... nothing. Not triumph, not guilt. Just the cold acceptance that this was how life worked.
Twenty years later, he stood in a training yard at Duskhollow, learning that everything he knew about fighting was wrong.
"Formation! Hold formation!" The grizzled knight—Ser Gareth, they called him—bellowed commands while walking among the recruits. "You're not alone anymore! Your shield protects the man beside you! His shield protects you!"
Jorgen gritted his teeth and held position. The shield was heavier than he preferred, the formation more restrictive than his instincts demanded. Every part of him wanted to break ranks, find individual glory in personal combat.
The drill continued. Formation movements, shield coordination, the precise mechanics of fighting as part of a wall rather than as a lone warrior.
By the end of the first week, three Crackclaw men had quit—unable or unwilling to subordinate their pride to discipline. Jorgen had considered joining them more than once.
Then came the mock battle.
Thirty Crackclaw recruits, fighting individually as they'd always fought, against twenty Duskhollow soldiers in formation. The veterans moved as one unit, shields interlocked, spears coordinated. The Crackclaw attack shattered against their discipline like waves against rock.
"Again!" Ser Gareth ordered. "This time, you fight in formation!"
The second engagement was different. Jorgen locked shields with men he'd have feuded against in the old days, moved in concert with warriors from rival clans. They advanced together, retreated together, struck as a single organism.
The mock battle ended in stalemate—but a stalemate against superior numbers was victory in itself.
[ 🎖️ TRAINING PROGRESS ]
[ CRACKCLAW INTEGRATION: 67% ]
[ DISCIPLINE ADOPTION: MODERATE ]
[ COMBAT EFFECTIVENESS: IMPROVING ]
"You felt it," Lord Darke said afterward, addressing the assembled recruits. "The difference between chaos and coordination. Alone, you're dangerous. Together, you're unstoppable."
Jorgen found himself nodding despite old instincts screaming against it. The southern lord was right. The formation worked.
"Maybe this isn't so bad after all."
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
The Crackclaw fighters were, against all expectation, becoming soldiers.
Gareth watched them drill—rough men from rough lands, learning discipline that contradicted everything their upbringing had taught them. The process wasn't pretty. There were fights, insubordination incidents, moments when the whole experiment seemed about to collapse.
But gradually, grudgingly, they adapted.
"The key is competition," Lord Corwyn observed during one of their evening reviews. "Pit clans against each other in formation drills, give recognition to the best performers. They redirect their competitive instincts from individual glory to unit excellence."
"Psychology," Gareth grunted. "You're manipulating them."
"I'm channeling them. There's a difference." Lord Corwyn marked notes on the training roster. "These men have fought their whole lives. They know combat. What they don't know is coordination. We're adding a skill, not replacing their identity."
It was working. The Crackclaw recruits brought ferocity that the original Duskhollow soldiers lacked—a willingness to close with the enemy, to accept casualties for objectives, to fight until physically unable to continue. Combined with disciplined training, that ferocity became devastating.
"Mixed units," Gareth suggested. "Put one Crackclaw fighter in every five-man team. Their aggression balances our veterans' caution."
"Do it. And promote the best performers—Crackclaw and original equally. Merit matters more than origin."
[ ⚔️ ARMY COMPOSITION UPDATE ]
[ TOTAL STRENGTH: 80 SOLDIERS ]
[ CRACKCLAW INTEGRATED: 27 ]
[ AVERAGE COMBAT RATING: 7.5/10 ]
[ UNIT COHESION: IMPROVING ]
A month into integration, Gareth had to admit the experiment was succeeding. The combined force was stronger than either component alone—disciplined but aggressive, coordinated but fierce.
"We need more," he told Lord Corwyn. "Eighty isn't enough for the territory we're protecting. Harbor, mines, agricultural districts, two settlements. We're spread thin."
"I know. Recruitment continues—another twenty from Crackclaw, plus local volunteers attracted by our reputation." Lord Corwyn's expression was calculating. "Target is one hundred fifty by year's end. After that, we reassess based on economic capacity."
"One fifty." Gareth considered the number. "That's a proper army. Not household guard—army."
"That's the point."
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