In the days after Julian's brief visit, Lewis threw himself into training with his sword, the worries his brother carried now etched deeply upon his countenance. Each morning as the sun peered over the parapets, Lewis dueled vigorously with Ser Green in Witton's cobbled courtyard. Though the horde's unceasing assaults had been stemmed, a heavy pall of disquiet hung over the restored fortress.
Nearly a week passed before Lewis received a letter in his father's hurried script. It echoed Julian's tidings - tensions in the capital simmered while the king's ears were poisoned against once-trusted advisors. There were whispers of threats and accusations. His family would take shelter under Witton's stones, Gus excepted as he carried out his own covert instructions. Lewis was to gird himself for turbulent political storms swiftly brewing on the horizon.
Lewis was to gird himself for turbulent political storms swiftly brewing on the horizon. Distracted by the missive's ill contents, Lewis narrowly sidestepped a sweeping blow from Ser Green's blunted longsword. The grizzled knight chided him to keep focus in their bout. Lewis steeled his nerves and charged back into the sparring match. But cold unease continued gnawing at lewis's thoughts.
As their sparring stretched toward midday, a light sheen of sweat coated Lewis' brow underneath the beating sun. Ser Green maintained an economy of movement - deflecting and sidestepping Lewis' increasingly measured swings rather than matching them outright.
"Conserve your strength; let the opponent's exertions sap their own," Ser Green instructed. "Align your movements to break the rhythm of their dance rather than be drawn into it."
Lewis absorbed the wisdom, adjusting his footwork and watching for gaps in Ser Green's defense rather than hammering straight ahead. When he overcommitted to a slash at shoulder level, the grizzled knight swept low, hooking Lewis ankle with his own to deposit the young lord unceremoniously on his back in the dust.
"And never drive so hard into an attack you cannot adapt your trajectory," Ser Green added, offering a gloved hand to help Lewis up which he ruefully accepted. No matter the years, Ser Green had proven fundamentals to impart from battles won and lost. Through the afternoon they continued exchanging ringing blows at various paces, Lewis's reactions smoothing as concentration solidified. Gradually finesse came to the fore, conscious heat of emotions cooling to patience and discipline's patient grindstone.
Just as Lewis finally settled into the rhythms of training, a royal messenger abruptly galloped into Witton's inner courtyard, interrupting the sparring session. Lewis held up a hand, halting Ser Green mid-swing as their blades crossed. Both eyed the messenger bearing the king's insignia as he dismounted and waited for the pair to approach.
His boots dusty from hard riding, the courier stood straight backed with a grim expression as Lewis sheathed his training weapon and walked over. "My Lord Lewis sawbridge, I bring an official declaration from his Royal Majesty, the king."
Unfurling a scroll bearing the royal seal, the messenger loudly proclaimed: "You are hereby directed to surrender governance of Witton Fortress to His Majesty's appointed emissary. Refusal will constitute treason, as it did for your traitorous sire."
Lewis' brow furrowed in shock, then outrage at the pronouncement. Ser Green placed a firm, steadying hand upon his shoulder before an outburst, nodding to the messenger who rolled up the scroll.
"In one week's, time the king's men shall arrive to claim Witton by force if necessary. I suggest you heed this one chance to comply, my Lord," the messenger warned. Whirling his horse about, he galloped off, leaving naught but a cloud of dust in the sudden heaviness of his wake.
Ser Green studied Lewis' tense visage. "Dark tidings indeed. Yet come, let us withdraw to chambers more private - we have plans to forge and alliances to sound out if Witton shall stand defiant."
After the royal herald departed, Lewis retreated to his private chambers with Ser Green. "Witton's walls yet stand unbreached, so here shall we make our stand," Lewis affirmed. "For honor and blood both, I cannot yield this fortress so fecklessly."
Ser Green nodded. "Then we must rally the garrison and ready what defenses we can before the king's forces arrive." They soon emerged, bellowing orders to confused men-at-arms now bustling to brace the fortress's already scarred ramparts for renewed siege. The clangor of preparation and trepidation both filled Witton's courtyards.
That evening as Lewis outlined battle plans, another messenger arrived bearing missives from his father. Breaking the hasty letter's seal, Lewis paled reading the contents by dying firelight. "It is worse than we reckoned - the king officially named Father chief architect of the shadow hordes' attacks as pretense for branding him traitor and usurping control of our family's ancestral land!"
He continued scanning the strained writing. "And in his stead on the royal council sits none other than that vixen Vaela Alyn who has hounded our family at court for years!" Lewis cursed and tossed the message into the flames.
Ser Green's expression remained stoic. "Then it seems these attacks both within and without the castle walls harbor deeper purpose than we perceived," he rumbled. "We are now all of us pieces moved in a ruthless game of thrones."
Huddled in Lewis' chartroom, he and Ser Green poured grimly over a wrinkled map of the kingdom by candlelight. Witton Fortress lay perilously close to Ansdell's northern border abutting the Death Mountains - ancestral lands controlled by House Alyn and now strongholds for their forces.
Meanwhile the Sawbridge family's historic domains were nearly 400 miles south, deep in the realm's interior and surrounded by factions either openly hostile to them or neutral lords too cowardly to lend aid. Enemies now hemmed them in on fronts both north and south.
Ser Green scratched his grizzled beard. "Witton commands a well-fortified position, but with potential attacks from multiple fronts and no hope of relief or escape..."
His voice trailed off as Lewis traced a finger down possible assault routes. "A lion surrounded on all sides soon finds itself with naught but corner to fight from or die within," Lewis concluded bitterly, seeing scant options for his garrison if simultaneously beset by armies closing pincers around their position.
"We shall sell our lives dearly then my young master," the old knight rasped. "Let the kingdom see the injustice sown this night!" He clapped Lewis' back who managed a rueful smile at the macabre jest. Grim resolve settled across both men's faces as they looked to shield, strategy, and prayer in the looming trials ahead.
Soon Dell and Sickwid came in. Seriously they asked Lewis to let them go so they could avoid getting dragged into the upcoming war. Lewis hesitated, then hugged his friends and said they could leave if they promised not to spill any of Witton's secrets.
As the pair gathered their stuff, Ser Green objected angrily. "If those rats run off, how do we know they won't sell everything they know about us to our enemies for money?"
But Lewis just tapped his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry my friend. I still hold some power plays unknown to all here. Without that info, the enemy gains nothing."
Ser Green's eyes narrowed but he stopped arguing, still trusting his lord's schemes fully. Together they watched Dell and Sickwid quickly ride off into the dusk. When shadows swallowed them up, Lewis turned slowly back to the strategy room now covered in defense plans and scout maps.
"Right then Ser, let's figure out how Witton's walls can best draw blood and crack bone when the King's men arrive to take this place from our cold dead grip..." The two put their heads together, preparing for the attack as outside a wolf howled into the deepening night.