Night had fallen, and a sliver of a waning moon climbed into the sky, casting a cold, silvered light over the landscape.
Below, Sir Harrison's manor stood with its gates unusually open, a stark invitation in the dead of night. Six guards, fully armed and alert, stood sentinel at the entrance, their armor glinting in the pale moonlight.
Dorian, the old Falcon's 'adopted son,' rode forward. A few brief words with the guards were all it took for them to part, allowing him to pass unhindered.
Ian and his retinue followed close behind, their horses' hooves muffled by the dirt path. They moved through the outer grounds, passing the mercenary barracks—a long, low building blazing with torchlight and echoing with rough laughter—before finally arriving at the heart of the estate: Sir Harrison's castle.
Anyone seeing a proper medieval castle for the first time, one belonging to a landed knight rather than a great lord, is often destined for disappointment. Ian was no exception.
He had, of course, mentally prepared himself. He knew the typical circumstances of an ordinary, if wealthy, knight. Yet, having only ever seen castles in sprawling epics on screen or as grand, historic attractions in Europe, the reality was jarring.
Before him stood Sir Harrison's 'castle,' and it was so small, so… quaint, that Ian had to suppress a laugh.
A story from the old tales surfaced in his mind. When Ygritte, the wildling Kissed by Fire, first traveled south of the Wall, she pointed at a common mill and asked Jon Snow if it was a castle. Jon, in his northern solemnity, had told her it was merely a mill, and that castles were much, much larger.
Ian stared at the modest stone keep before him and couldn't help but wonder. If Jon Snow and his wildling love had stumbled upon this place, would he have still corrected her? Or would he have simply called it a very large mill?
"Tonight is destined to be a sleepless night, Sir," Dorian whispered, his voice tight with anticipation as he drew his horse alongside Ian's.
"Let's go in," Ian said, raising his chin slightly. He motioned with his head. "Call the door."
Dorian nodded, nudging his horse forward a few paces. The guards at the castle door had sharp eyes; one of them recognized him instantly.
"Oh, little Dorian!" the old guard called out, his voice a familiar, gravelly rasp. "What brings you back so late? Deputy Captain Kelvin has been in there for near three hours now, talking with Sir Harrison."
The old guard stepped forward and skillfully took the reins from Dorian's hand, then gestured for a younger sentry to come and lead the horse away.
"My foster father is dead," Dorian stated, the words catching in his throat. Standing before this old man, Kaili, who had watched him grow from a boy, a sudden, sharp grief threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to weep, but he knew he couldn't. Not now.
He had returned to claim leadership. To become the next Black Falcon.
If he broke down and cried here, he would become a joke in the eyes of these mercenaries, a laughingstock—even if the Lannisters' gold eventually bought him the title.
"The deputy captain and the others… they already brought the news back," the old guard said softly. He looked at Dorian's face, saw the tears held fiercely in check, and seemed at a loss for how to offer comfort.
"It's alright, Uncle Kaili. I'm alright," Dorian managed, forcing a brittle smile. "I will avenge my adoptive father myself."
He drew himself up, his voice ringing out like a declaration. "I will become the new 'Black Falcon'!"
"Oh, Dorian…" The old guard, Kaili, could only shake his head, his expression a mixture of pity and surprise at what he clearly saw as youthful folly.
Dorian shifted his focus, gesturing back toward Ian. "You should go in and announce us," he instructed. "This is Ser Lucien Lannister, a friend of mine. He wishes to meet with Sir Harrison and… the Lame." He paused, the derogatory nickname for Kelvin catching on his tongue. "And Uncle Kelvin."
"A knight from House Lannister?" The old guard's eyes flickered to Ian, taking in the armor and bearing. He gave a curt nod, then turned and quickly disappeared inside the castle.
Ian, Dorian, and their men waited. And waited.
The minutes stretched into an unnervingly long silence. The old guard did not return.
"This is taking too long," Dorian finally complained, his impatience getting the better of him. "A simple announcement shouldn't take more than a moment! Sir Harrison must be refusing to see me!"
"Perhaps Sir Harrison and the Lame are discussing something important," offered Sir Grantson, the known opportunist. "They may not wish to be disturbed."
"If that were the case, the guard would have come out to tell us so," Ian countered, shaking his head. He dismissed the idea instantly. "Why would they keep the messenger inside? It makes no sense."
The air grew thick with tension.
"Dorian, should I go in and have a look for you?" another of the manor guards asked, sensing the shift in mood.
"Go," Dorian snapped, suppressing his frustration with a curt nod.
Just as the second guard started for the door, Rohr, who had remained silent for the entire ride, took two quick steps forward to stand beside Ian's horse.
"Ser Lucien," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I just saw a head in the window on the second floor. It ducked back quickly, but someone was watching us."
Rohr's words sent a chill down Ian's spine, crystallizing a vague unease into a sharp premonition of danger. He suddenly remembered a nagging inconsistency, an old problem from his knowledge of this world's future: the Black Falcon Mercenary Group never appeared in the histories.
If the previous leader, Dorian's foster father, was absent because he died at the Crossroads Inn, that was one thing. But what about the company itself? Why was there no mention of a new leader, or the mercenaries, in the wars to come?
A dark possibility bloomed in his mind. What if, in the original timeline, a new 'Black Falcon' was never chosen at all? What if the company tore itself apart with infighting and simply ceased to exist?
A moment later, the second guard emerged from the castle, walking quickly. His expression was stiff, his eyes avoiding theirs.
"Sir Harrison and Deputy Captain Kelvin are in the midst of a very important discussion," the guard announced, his voice carefully neutral. He then turned his attention directly to Ian. "And as it is very late, they hope to meet with you formally on the morrow, Ser."
He gestured vaguely towards the rear of the estate. "Shall I take you to the guest rooms to rest?"
"Arrogant bastards!" Dorian exploded, his face flushing with anger. "This is Ser Luc—"
He was about to invoke the name and power of 'Ser Lucien Lannister,' to remind them just who they were slighting, but Ian cut him off with a raised hand.
"That will be fine," Ian said, his tone disarmingly calm. "We will follow Sir Harrison's arrangement. I confess I am a bit tired. Tomorrow will be a better time to talk."
The guard's shoulders sagged with visible relief. "Please, come this way, Ser. The castle itself is too small for many rooms, but we have a fine guest house in the backyard."
"Don't trouble yourself," Ian replied coolly, raising his chin to indicate Dorian. "He knows the way, doesn't he?"
"Ah? Yes, yes, of course, Ser." The guard nodded, almost stumbling over his words in his haste to agree.
"Of course, Ser Lucien," Dorian added, catching on immediately. Though he was far from brilliant, he wasn't a complete fool. He had no idea why Ian was playing along with this obvious dismissal, but he knew better than to question the man's judgment. "I will escort you there myself."
They bypassed the small castle, their path leading them around to the backyard.
The contrast with the front of the manor was stark. Where the mercenary camp had been ablaze with light and life, the backyard was unnervingly cold and still. This was where important guests were usually housed, yet tonight it was utterly deserted. Not a single guard patrolled the area.
The moment they were shielded from view by the castle walls, Ian reined in his horse. He leaned towards Dorian, his voice a low whisper. "You told me you had two mercenary captains who would side with you. Are they in this manor now?"
"Yes," Dorian confirmed, a hint of confusion in his voice. "Their teams are part of the main garrison here. That's why I know them so well." He couldn't grasp why Ian was asking this now.
"Find them," Ian commanded. "No. Take us to them. Now."
"But… aren't you going to persuade Sir Harrison and the Lame? Why do we need to find them?"
A grim, mirthless sneer touched Ian's lips. "Because I'm worried that Sir Harrison and the Lame are all that's left of the leadership." He paused, then asked sharply, "The old guard who went in first to announce us, Kaili. Who is he loyal to?"
Dorian hesitated, the pieces finally starting to click into place in his mind. A look of dawning horror crossed his face. "He was my father's man… which means his loyalty should now fall to the Lame… or to me." The implications of that uncertainty hung heavy in the air.
Ian's gaze was like ice. "And the second guard? The one who came back out?"
"He's one of Harrison's cronies."
Before another word could be spoken, Rohr's voice cut through the silence, sharp and low.
"Rats."
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