Originally, Ian's plan was to collaborate with Black Hawk, deploying mercenary squads at key inns, ports, and villages along the northern shore of the Gods Eye to hunt players passing through the area.
With such a wide net cast, he naturally didn't dare meddle in the Blackfyre treasure affair—both because he lacked the bandwidth and because he feared ruining his relationship with Black Hawk.
But now, Black Hawk was dead. Without the mercenary company's support, Ian could only set his traps at two locations: this inn and the Kingsroad outside (these were the only critical spots anyway; other places would just be blind luck). This barely required his personal involvement anymore.
Moreover, with the mighty Black Hawk Company now fractured by infighting after their leader's death, why *shouldn't* Ian dip his toes into the Blackfyre treasure hunt?
"However, before we discuss that, I need to assign you all to my original mission," Ian pivoted sharply.
"Ser, what exactly do you require of us?" Granson, now far more proactive, pressed.
"A hunt."
"A hunt?"
"You can explain, Martha." Ian delegated instead of answering directly.
Soon, Martha recounted the tale of "Ser Lucian" and his party pursuing fugitives from King's Landing—conveniently omitting the queen's bounty, perhaps out of self-interest.
"In short, your task is to surveil this inn and the Kingsroad, then covertly apprehend my targets," Ian took over.
"My men lack horses. I can handle operations inside the inn," Denzel volunteered first.
"How many of your men can ride?" Ian amended, "No—how many can fight *mounted*?"
"Three. Me, 'Pickles' Lorn, and 'Breeches' Jim. We were free riders, but times got hard, so we sold our horses."
"Consider yourselves free riders again. I'll supply horses, better weapons, and mail or brigandines to wear under your clothes—all gifts from me." Ian turned to Granson. "You'll get the same."
"Your generosity humbles me," Denzel beamed.
"Later, I'll provide funds for nearby purchases. After that, you and your two riders will join Granson's command, monitoring the Kingsroad and pursuing targets we can't handle discreetly inside."
"I've no issue with Granson leading us, but what of my other men?"
"They stay here under my direct command—though you'll appoint one to liaise with me."
"That undermines my authority, ser," Denzel objected.
"Aren't you angling to be my squire? Why care about mercenary clout?"
"As you wish." Denzel, cornered, yielded.
"Bring your man in now. I want him in this briefing."
Soon, Denzel returned with a grizzled, barrel-chested man.
"Meet 'Bawdy' Erik—a seasoned swordsman, my life mentor, hah!" Denzel clapped the man's shoulder. "I nominate him to lead my company in my stead."
*Pickles. Breeches. Bawdy.* *...I take back what I said about 'Spike' being a lame nickname,* Ian mused.
"Ser, honored to serve," Bawdy grinned, but Ian cut him off.
"First order: no ribald jokes in my presence."
"Seven hells!" Bawdy feigned shock. "I didn't take you for a Warrior's Son, though I'll wager the High Septon's not half as pious—"
"Second order: no cheek." Ian shut him down again.
"Your will be done." Bawdy's smirk didn't budge.
"Every word that follows, memorize," Ian clapped sharply. "My targets are a band of hedge knights and sellswords—some archers, maybe Ironborn. They scattered during pursuit but may regroup here."
"The knights wear full hauberks with mail gloves and chausses, armed with bastard swords. One horse each, no squires."
"Archers wield yew longbows, daggers as sidearms. No armor or mounts."
"Ironborn carry three throwing axes—one oversized for melee."
"The sellswords wear leathers with shortswords and daggers—"
"Pardon, ser," Denzel interrupted. "That describes seven in ten sellswords."
"Hence, that's not all. Patience, friend." Ian smiled. "Focus on *unfamiliar faces, loners*, and *those visibly on edge*."
"Your men split into two groups. Granson commands the cavalry, watching the Kingsroad. If suspicious figures bypass the inn, tail and ambush them. I'll identify captives personally."
"The second group—"
"Question, ser." Denzel cut in again.
"Speak."
"What if we grab the wrong man?"
"Ah." Ian paused. He *hadn't* considered that.
Mistakes were inevitable with such broad criteria. But how to handle false captures? Releasing them later was untenable—so imprison them until the hunt ended?
"You don't plan to free them, do you?" Denzel read his hesitation. "Ser, you're a Lannister—you needn't fret over some hedge knight's bruised pride. But my men and I? We live here."
"Every wrongful capture makes enemies. If you then let them go, *we* suffer the consequences."
**(End of Chapter)**