"The sigil of House Grafton of Gulltown," Ian provided the answer.
"You are truly knowledgeable, my lord."
"Heraldry is a noble's compulsory study." *Though I'm no noble.* "So," Ian steered the conversation back, "he arrived at the inn yesterday afternoon and still hasn't left today?"
"Yes, and he didn't order breakfast either."
"Then what kind of 'rush to King's Landing' is that?" Ian glanced out the window. Judging by the sun's height, it was already past nine in the morning. What traveler would still be lazing around at this hour?
"I don't know, ser."
*Of course you don't.* "Go knock on his door. Ask if he wants breakfast, and take the chance to observe his room—see what he's up to. Then report back to me."
Instinct told Ian this knight was unlikely to be a player. If a player had come here to form alliances or hunt, why would he tell the innkeeper he was heading to King's Landing?
But sending Janey to check cost nothing extra.
"Yes." Janey was reluctant—if the knight was still asleep, she might get an earful—but she feared the 'richest man in the world' before her far more.
"Also, have Martha bring our breakfast herself later."
"Yes, my lord."
"When Martha is busy in the kitchen, you may assist by handling some of her duties here. You can ask her for details now. But remember—I am conducting a highly important and *secret* operation. If word leaks—"
"It won't! Never! I swear!" Janey vowed hastily.
Ian waved her off, and she scurried out like a pardoned prisoner.
Before long, a breakfast lavish by this era's standards was delivered to Ian's room: a thick stew of mutton with turnips, barley, carrots, and onions; a plump goose; a bowl of buttered peas; a plate of beetroot salad; three loaves of oat bread; and three cups of ale.
Ian didn't drink in the morning, so he passed his ale to Rore.
"Tell me about Black Hawk," Ian said, accepting the stew Martha ladled for him.
"Apologies, ser. I haven't spoken to Morgan yet."
Ian looked at her, waiting for an explanation.
"It's like this—Morgan hasn't left his room or ordered breakfast. He must still be asleep."
"Your niece just told me some Grafton knight hasn't risen either. What, are the two of them sleeping together?"
"You have quite the sense of humor, ser."
"So you need me to teach you how to knock, is that it?" Ian rolled his eyes. "If he's not up, go wake him!"
"I-I can't! Morgan *hates* being disturbed while sleeping," Martha shook her head frantically, then added quickly upon seeing Ian's displeasure,
"But I've handled the other mercenaries for you! The four freelancers have been sent away—though, as instructed, I left the one who arrived yesterday alone. He's still in the hall."
"And—and," she continued, "'Spike' Denzell and Ser Granson have agreed to serve you. Denzell's company has nine men—I negotiated 3,000 silver stags per moon for them. Ser Granson only has four, but all are mounted. Their rate is 2,500 stags per moon."
"Can they meet me now?" Ian had no issue with the price—triple the market rate had been his idea.
"Yes, they've been waiting for your summons."
"Bring them in first. And keep an eye on Black Hawk—approach him the *moment* he emerges."
"Yes." Martha hurried out.
Soon, a handsome auburn-haired youth and a middle-aged man in chainmail entered together.
The youth wore a Dornish-style robe with a curved dagger and a short sword at his belt. The older man sported a chainmail hauberk with no other armor, a longsword hanging at his hip.
Neither had disarmed before entering—and Ian wouldn't ask them to. That would only make him seem insecure.
Without being ordered, Kess casually stepped forward, positioning himself along the wall between Ian and the mercenaries—close enough not to disrupt conversation but ready to intervene if needed.
"You're younger than I expected, *my lord*," the youth said with a grin.
"I am Ser Lucian Lannister. *Not* 'my lord,'" Ian corrected.
He hadn't bothered fixing Janey's address earlier—commoners didn't fuss over titles. But with a knight present, protocol mattered. As a self-proclaimed knight, accepting "my lord" would be presumptuous. No need to court bad impressions over trifles.
"*Lannister*?"
"Problem?"
"No," the youth shook his head. "I'm Denzell—they call me 'Spike.' Honored to serve."
*What a lame nickname.*
"Ser Granson," the older man introduced himself bluntly. "About the terms Martha mentioned—2,500 stags per moon—"
"That was my instruction. No need to doubt it," Ian cut in, then turned to Denzell. "Same for your 3,000. I'll pay half upfront, the rest upon completion."
"No. We require full payment in advance," Granson refused outright.
"That's not how this business works," Ian smiled.
"For *your* job, it *is* how it works."
"*My* job?" Ian's eyes narrowed. "What did Martha tell you?"
"Nothing. But I assume you need us for something exceptionally dangerous?"
"Why would you think that?"
"You're offering *triple* the standard rate. Who'd pay that unless the work was deadly?"
"*Rich as a Lannister*," Ian quoted the common Westerosi saying. "What I need from you will be *time-consuming*—requiring obedience and execution—but hardly dangerous. As for the triple pay... that stems from an experience I had two years ago."
**(End of Chapter)**