**
"Black Hawk wore a coat of plates—his chest protected by a two-millimeter iron layer, equivalent to standard wrought iron armor. This steel crossbow bolt pierced both layers straight into his heart." *That required over 200 joules of energy—point-blank armor-piercing shot from a military-grade windlass.*
"His thigh took another bolt—no armor there. Blood pools at the doorway, then drag marks leading to the body. He was ambushed the moment he pushed the door open."
Ian reenacted the door push.
"Based on bolt trajectories, one attacker stood directly opposite the door, the other crouched in that corner—both wielding military crossbows, waiting."
Lifting the corpse's eyelids, Ian noted:
"Pupils clouded, lividity congealing, full rigor mortis—dead over six hours. Time of death between the Witching Hour and the Hour of the Wolf."
Turning to Dorian, Black Hawk's foster son:
"Here's what happened: Last night, Black Hawk came alone, armed, to this supposed Grafton knight's room. The instant he opened the door, they fired. No chance to cry out—just *dead*. Then they dragged his body inside, locked the door, and fled under cover of darkness."
"My confusion: Why come alone when he brought ten men? And if this was a prearranged meeting, why the immediate attack? The scene shows no conversation—just cold-blooded murder."
"Black Hawk wore armor, so he distrusted them. Then why meet alone? What vendetta warranted this? It's bizarre."
"How do you *know* all this? I saw none of it!" Dorian gaped.
(*These foreign names are cumbersome*, Ian mentally nicknamed them: Dorian became "Foster," Granson "Turncloak Knight," and Denzel "Beaten-Down Dornishman.")
"You see, but I observe," Ian quoted Holmes.
"Who the *hells* are you?" Foster finally snapped, rounding on Granson. "New master, *ser*?"
"Morgan himself never used that tone with me, *boy*," Granson fired back.
That "boy" ignited Foster's rage—earlier, when seeking support from Black Hawk's lieutenants "Knife-Face" and "Limp," they'd scorned him with the same word before leaving.
As Foster reached for his sword, Ian intervened:
"You misjudge Granson. He's the only captain who stayed to avenge your father while the others raced back to vie for leadership."
Foster's hand froze on the hilt.
"At Granson's request, I'm assisting," Ian shot Granson a warning glance. "Or do you think your handful can exact vengeance alone?"
"I..."
"I'm your only path to justice. Share everything, and I'll help." Ian rinsed his hands in the basin Janey offered.
"Truly?" Foster wavered, glancing between Ian and Turncloak.
"Aye," Granson grudgingly played along.
"Then apologize to Granson. We're allies now—unity matters."
"Right." Foster, oblivious to being co-opted, bowed stiffly. "Forgive my outburst, ser."
"And I shouldn't have called you 'boy.' You're a fine warrior—you'll lead like Morgan one day." *Never, you green pup*, Granson seethed inwardly.
"Now, resolve my doubts—it's key to finding who ordered this." Ian gestured outward. "Shall we talk over drinks elsewhere?"
Soon, they relocated to Ian's suite.
"Your poison?" Janey asked.
"Arbor gold," Ian named Westeros' finest vintage.
"Ser! We've only Dornish summerwine and local swill."
*Dornish horse piss*, Ian recalled the books' quip. "Summerwine, then." He turned to Foster. "Shall we begin now or wait for libations?"
"Who *are* you, ser?"
"Ser Lucian Lannister."
"*Lannister*? Here for the Blackfyre treasure?" Foster tensed.
"'Did he kill my father?' That just crossed your mind, didn't it?" Ian teased theatrically.
Foster recoiled, hand flying to his sword.
"Peace! I never knew your father. I'm hunting fugitives from King's Landing—they'll vouch for that."
Foster scanned the room—Granson and Janey nodded confirmation.
**Footnote:**
1. *Witching Hour (midnight) & Hour of the Wolf (3 AM)*: Westerosi timekeeping terms.
**(End of Chapter)**