"At the time, I was still a squire. During a hunt, my horse tripped over a branch, throwing me off and leaving me injured and separated from the group," Ian spun a new tale effortlessly.
He loved storytelling—it made his persona more concrete in others' minds, allowing him to convey his intended message more effectively.
"I got lost in the woods, wandering aimlessly through the indistinguishable trees until dusk. I was terrified—that forest was full of dangerous beasts, and I had no strength to fend them off at night."
"Luckily, before nightfall, a band of outlaws passing by spotted me. The moment they saw the golden lion on my surcoat, they seized me without hesitation, planning to ransom me for 30 gold dragons."
"I agreed. At the time, I was secretly relieved—money could buy my life."
"But soon, from their conversations, I learned they were remnants of a bandit group my family had wiped out. They'd been planning to flee back to their homeland but chanced upon me and decided to take this last score."
"They never intended to let you go after getting the ransom," Denzell grasped Ian's implication. Returning home with a living witness was just begging for retribution.
"Exactly. So that night, I told the outlaw guarding me: spare me, and I'd give him more," Ian nodded.
"And he believed you'd pay instead of hanging him later?"
"He's right here." Ian rapped his knuckles against Rore's breastplate.
"*This* knight?!" Denzell and Ser Granson gaped in unison.
Rore froze for a split second, but remembering 'Old Dog's' precedent, he kept his composure.
"These two aren't knights—just my squires," Ian pointed at Rore. "And this one? The very bandit who guarded me that night. He was strong—*exceptionally* strong—and had no desire to go home and till fields with the others. He named his price: 100 gold dragons to let me go."
"I agreed. That night, he ambushed the other four outlaws and slaughtered them all. I was stunned—and immediately offered him a position as my squire."
"How could you trust someone who betrayed his own comrades?" Ser Granson frowned.
"Why did he betray them?" Ian countered.
"Money."
"*Whose* money?"
Granson choked on his reply.
"100 gold dragons—nearly triple my ransom. Since then, three became my lucky number. Anyone who works for me gets triple pay. And I tell them: if anyone ever offers to buy their loyalty, come to me first. My bid will *always* be triple theirs."
This was Tyrion's tactic with Bronn—Ian found it brilliant and even upped the ante.
"I have no further objections. Half upfront, the rest in a moon's time," Granson bowed slightly, signaling his submission.
Denzel took a deep breath, then flashed an awkward grin. "So, uh... Ser Lucian, you wouldn't happen to need *another* squire, would you?"
(⊙ˍ⊙)
"Hey now, no need for *that* look," Denzel chuckled nervously at Granson's glare. "Can you honestly say being Ser Lucian's squire isn't more lucrative than mercenary work?"
"I just never thought you'd be so..." Granson trailed off, lacking the right word.
"If you distinguish yourself in this mission, I'll consider it. I've been planning to knight 'Old Dog' here soon anyway—that'll leave a squire's position open," Ian tossed out another carrot.
"You'll never find a sharper sword than mine," Denzel beamed.
*Every sellsword says that,* Ian thought dryly.
Watching this, Granson felt a bizarre pang of envy—if only he weren't already a knight, he'd vie for that squireship too.
Clearing his throat, he steered the conversation back: "With all due respect, ser, you still haven't told us what the job *is*."
"No rush. Once Martha convinces Black Hawk, I'll brief everyone together."
"Black Hawk? Wait—you're not here for the Ghosts of Whitewalls, are you?" Denzel blurted.
"Oh? So Black Hawk *is* tied to that bandit group?" Ian's interest spiked.
"Not exactly," Denzel shook his head. "He's been hunting them too."
"*Too*? Then why not work with that landed knights' alliance?"
"They *did*. Several joint operations failed—each time, the bandits vanished before they arrived. They accused each other of harboring spies and split," Denzel explained.
"After the split, the knights continuing their crusade makes sense. But why would a mercenary captain like Black Hawk keep chasing them? Surely not just to clear his name?" *That'd be laughably naive.*
"You... don't know?" Granson sounded puzzled.
"Know *what*?" Ian mirrored his confusion.
Granson hesitated, but Denzel cut in eagerly: "The *Blackfyre restoration treasure*! We thought that's why you were here."
"The *what* now?" *Holy shit—Blackfyre treasure?!* Ian's mind raced. "Explain. Now."
"Er, well," Denzel scratched his head. "I don't have all the details. My company only joined their first raid. Ser Wylde and Black Hawk gathered nearly 500 men to crush the Whitewalls bandits—but when we reached their camp, it was *empty*. Not a soul in sight."
"So you got blamed?"
"Right. Ser Wylde suspected moles and dismissed all hired swords. But even after purging us, they kept failing—which caused their own ranks to fracture."
"Now they hunt separately, still finding nothing. So rumors spread that these bandits are *ghosts* of the Blackfyre loyalists—you can't find them unless they want to be found."
"*Ghosts of the Blackfyres*," Ian's lips twitched. "The 'ghost' part I get. But how does this connect to *Blackfyre's treasure*? Where did that rumor even come from? Just because they're near Whitewalls?"
Whitewalls—once the seat of House Butterwell—stood on the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, between the lake and the Kingsroad.
Known as the "Milky Castle," its walls, keeps, and towers were built from pristine white stone quarried in the Vale and hauled over mountains to the lakeshore.
According to *The Mystery Knight*, its floors and pillars were veined milk-white marble, its roof beams carved from bone-white weirwood. The castle sounded almost fantastical.
So why "once"?
Because Whitewalls was gone—destroyed in the farcical Second Blackfyre Rebellion.
**(End of Chapter)**