286 AC, Castamere
Tygett POV
As per the command of my nephew I take 100 men with me toward mines Castamere. House Reyne also has a gold mine inside the castle. Like House Lannister, That was the reason for their arrogance and demise.
"Ser Tygett, it seems someone is inside the mines." A red cloak said to me.
I turned toward the Lannister soldiers." Everyone prepare yourself and don't make any sound."
As the soldiers start entering the mine I ordered a red cloak to take 10 men and guard the entrance.
The air inside the mine was stale and cold, carrying the metallic scent of damp earth and old ghosts. I left ten men at the entrance as ordered—a sensible precaution from Cerion, I'll grant him that. A leader must always secure his line of retreat. The rest of us pushed forward, our chainmail muffled by the thick silence of the tunnels. It was a silence that felt unnatural, a place that should have been echoing with the ring of pickaxes for a century. The Reynes built their pride on this gold, and Tywin drowned them in it.
We moved deeper, following a tunnel that sloped gently downward. The darkness was absolute, broken only by the single hooded lantern one of my soldier carried. Then, a sound reached us—a rhythmic chink... chink... chink of metal on rock, followed by the crack of a whip and a low groan of pain. Up ahead, a faint orange glow flickered, casting dancing shadows against the tunnel walls.
I held up a fist, and my men froze behind me, their discipline absolute. I crept forward to the edge of the tunnel's bend and peered around the corner.
The passage opened into a wider cavern, lit by a dozen sputtering torches. What I saw made the blood boil in my veins. A score of bandits, filthy and clad in mismatched leather and rusted steel, were overseeing a mining operation. But the miners were not their own. They were captives, perhaps a dozen of them, gaunt-faced and draped in rags, with heavy iron chains shackled to their ankles. They hacked weakly at the rock face with worn-out tools while the bandits drank and laughed, their leader a hulking brute with a scarred face, lounging on a crate like he was a lord on his throne.
So, this was their game. Not just hiding, but profiting from the carcass of a dead house. The arrogance was astounding. They were squatting in a lion's den, thinking the beast was gone for good.
My mind raced, formulating a plan. A frontal assault was an option—we outnumbered them nearly five to one—but it would be chaotic. The bandits could use the chained men as shields, or a stray sword-swing in the dim light could kill a man we were here to save. No. This needed to be swift, clean, and brutal.
I gestured my lieutenant forward and spoke in a whisper that was barely a breath. "Ten men," I ordered, pointing to a narrow, secondary tunnel branching off to the left. "Follow that passage. It looks like it curves back around to their flank. When you hear my signal, you hit them from the side. The rest of you, with me."
I turned to my lead archers, their crossbows already at the ready. "Four of you. See the guards posted at the edges? The ones with bows?" I pointed them out. "On my signal, you take them down. Silently. The rest of the crossbowmen will fire a volley into the main group. Aim for the ones with swords already drawn. Sow chaos."
My men nodded, their faces grim and determined in the lantern light. This was what they were trained for. Not marching in parades, but the bloody work of cleansing the realm.
I drew my own sword, its polished steel seeming to drink the meager light. I would lead the charge myself. The brute on the crate was mine.
"Wait for the sound of the whip again," I murmured. "It will cover the sound of the bowstrings."
We waited. The air was thick with tension. The chink... chink of the pickaxes continued. Then came the sharp crack of the whip, followed by a cry.
"Now," I commanded.
Four crossbow bolts hissed through the air, and the two bandit archers slumped to the ground without a sound. A moment later, a full volley slammed into the central group. Shouts of shock and pain erupted as three more bandits fell, arrows sprouting from their chests and throats.
Before they could even register what was happening, I gave the signal.
"FOR THE LANNISTER!" I roared, the war cry of my House echoing through the ancient mine. We charged from the darkness into the torchlight, a wave of red and gold. From the side tunnel, my other men burst forth, completing the encirclement. The bandits, caught between two fronts, scrambled for their weapons, their drunken laughter replaced with screams of terror.
My eyes were locked on their leader. He had kicked over his crate and drawn a crude, heavy axe, his face a mask of fury. He would not die quickly. I would grant him the honor of facing a true Lannister before I sent him to the seven hells.
The ghosts of Castamere would have their due.
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