"After a month of preparation, we assembled a 400-strong force, plus four light cavalry units for scouting and support. Oh—" Foster suddenly turned to Granson. "Wasn't that the day you returned from your Northern contract?"
"Aye," the turncloak knight nodded. "I barely dismounted before being drafted into formation. Had the pay not been good, I'd have wrung Ser Harrison's neck for ordering me about."
Ian waved for silence, urging Foster onward.
"We found a temporary camp south of Whitewalls—enough for fifty men—but it was abandoned when we arrived."
"After scouring the area fruitlessly, we disbanded in disgrace. Yet the moment we did, the bandits resumed raids like ghosts materializing."
"Regrouping, we purged unreliable mercenaries and switched tactics—disguising elites as a silk-and-velvet merchant train to lure them into an ambush."
"Solid plan," Ian approved. "Yet you failed again?"
"Utterly. They never bit. We revised the scheme repeatedly, but they only attacked real caravans—uncannily avoiding every trap."
"That screams *mole*," Ian said. No wonder Black Hawk and the knights turned on each other—this wasn't coincidence.
"Father and Ser Wylde agreed, but blamed opposite sides. With no proof, our alliance shattered. Afterwards, we hunted the Blackfyre treasure separately—both failing."
"Wait," Ian interrupted. "You skipped something crucial."
"Huh?"
"The *treasure*. Your story mentions bandits, but where does 'Blackfyre's restoration hoard' come from? What connects them?"
"Ah! Ser Simon proposed that during our second operation."
"Ser *Simon*?" *Which bloody knight is this now?* Ian screamed internally.
"Ser Simon Rivers—Darry's sworn knight, their sole contribution."
*Darry's bastard knight. Gods forgive me, but that's how I'll remember him.* "What basis did he have?"
"The Second Blackfyre Rebellion died prematurely. Lord Butterwell must've stockpiled resources, yet histories mention no seizures by Bloodraven. That wealth was likely hidden."
"So this bastard—*ahem*—Ser Simon is a maester too? How'd he know?"
Foster blinked. "We didn't ask. He sounded certain."
Ian frowned. While he recalled the farcical rebellion, its aftermath was hazy.
A Butterwell cache was plausible—but hardly "Blackfyre restoration treasure" tier. Still...
"You've hunted this 'treasure' for months based purely on *speculation*? No evidence whatsoever?" Ian's eye twitched with the urge to slap Foster.
"Those bandits haunting Whitewalls must be after it! Why else base there? If rebelling, they'd choose elsewhere!"
"But wouldn't treasure hunters operate *covertly*? Why such blatant raids?"
"Father wondered that too," Foster rushed to explain. "He concluded they'd searched fruitlessly for so long that raiding became both supply runs and venting frustration."
*That tracks. Black Hawk was sharper than your average brute... Wait, focus!*
"So your 'proof' is... *this*? No leads, no artifacts—just wild guessing?" Ian barely restrained his facepalm.
"I don't know! But if Father and Ser Wylde believed it, they must've had clues they didn't share." Foster reddened, having earlier boasted of Black Hawk's openness.
Rolling his eyes, Ian changed tack: "Any progress this past month?"
"None. Post-split, we avoided confronting the 'ghosts,' just quietly searching. They likewise never attacked our base, sticking to caravans."
"So no one stopped them?"
"Meaning?"
"This level of banditry warrants involving your liege lord. If you can't handle it, report to Riverrun—the Tullys would send troops."
*As a Lannister, I needn't mince words about those trout.*
"Ser Wylde feared involving House Tully would cost us any treasure claims."
**(End of Chapter)**