"And you actually found them?" Ian asked.
"No, none of the men we sent to scout near Whitewalls found a thing," Wilder said, shaking his head. "The discovery came from my son, Roger. An unexpected bit of fortune."
"It was about ten days ago. He was returning from the Quiet Isle with four of his men. He had gone there to repent," Ser Wilder paused, clearly not wishing to elaborate on his son's need for penance.
Ian knew of the place. Legend told that a saint had visited the island two millennia ago, performing holy miracles. It was now a common destination for pilgrims seeking to atone for their sins or offer up prayers.
"In any case," Ser Wilder continued, "Roger rowed back from the Quiet Isle and made landfall at the abandoned fishing village. As he came ashore, he encountered a group of men there. Their leader was a knight."
"Roger and his men walked past them without incident, but as he did, he noticed something. The knight's right hand was missing its forearm."
"I remember now," Ian said, the detail clicking into place. "During your battle with the Ghost Rider of Whitewalls, you were the one who severed his right forearm, weren't you?"
"That's right! Er—wait, when did I tell you that?" Wilder asked, startled.
"Not important," Ian said, waving it away. "Keep talking."
"Roger was suspicious, but he didn't dare act rashly. He and his men were unarmored, and the other party numbered seven. He knew they stood no chance in a fight."
"After leaving the village, Roger left two of his men to keep watch from a distance while he rode for Ser Willy's manor with all speed. As I said, the village is only six leagues from here. I was here at the time. When we heard Roger's news, we immediately gathered a dozen men and rushed back toward the coast with him."
"But before we arrived, we met one of the men Roger had left behind. He was running toward us, reporting that a caravan of more than twenty people had just entered the fishing village and joined with the group already there."
"What would a normal caravan be doing in an abandoned fishing village?" Ian murmured, starting to believe Ser Wilder's judgment.
"Exactly," Wilder nodded. "I judged then and there that it must be the Ghosts of Whitewalls, and they were using the village to transfer the Blackfyre treasure. It was a perfect opportunity, but we lacked the numbers to attack. We dared not advance in force, for fear of alerting them."
"So, I had Ser Willy wait with the guards while Roger led me alone to the hills overlooking the village. We found a secluded spot and observed them, hoping to find some way to break the situation." After finishing, Wilder looked expectantly at Ian.
"Why are you looking at me? Keep going," Ian said, puzzled.
A small smile touched Wilder's lips. "Oh, forgive me, Ser Lucien. I just thought you might have some unique insight."
"Go on, my friend. Finish the story."
"In the village, between the knight's men and the caravan, they numbered more than thirty. We had no chance in a direct fight. And if they were there, it meant they had at least one ship waiting to transport them. Our odds were even slimmer."
"I was nearly in despair."
"However, just as I thought we had missed our chance, the caravan emerged from the village! They left and headed west, toward the Kingsroad."
"They couldn't transport the entire treasure in one go," was Ian's first reaction.
"Yes. My judgment was the same as yours."
"You said it was a caravan of more than twenty men. How many wagons did they have?"
"Seven? Perhaps eight. It was a large train."
"Then here is the question," Ian said, thinking aloud. "This so-called Blackfyre Treasure wasn't left by Daemon Blackfyre himself, but by Ambrose Butterwell, the Earl of Whitewalls. How much coin could he have left? One hundred thousand gold dragons weighs just over sixteen hundred pounds. It could be carried in two or three chests."
"Seven hells, where would an Earl find one hundred thousand gold dragons?" Ser Wilder scoffed, rolling his eyes. Gods, he sounds just like a Lannister who thinks gold grows on trees. Has the boy never seen a silver stag in his life?
One hundred thousand dragons? The audacity! We'd be blessed by the Seven to find a hoard worth twenty or thirty thousand. One hundred thousand? Why don't you go home and have Lord Tywin shit you a fortune?
"Erm," Ian cleared his throat, a faint blush of embarrassment on his cheeks. The system had simply handed him 3,000 gold dragons, skewing his perspective and making him think of them as common currency.
He quickly recalibrated. If the treasure was mostly in silver stags, or even copper pennies, such a large caravan making multiple trips would indeed be necessary. The exchange rate of gold to silver was an astonishing 1-to-210, after all.
But why do I still feel that something is wrong? he asked himself. The thought nagged at him, but after a moment, he couldn't grasp it. He gave up again. "Go on, Ser."
"Did you just think of something?" Ser Wilder asked, noticing Ian's expression. He was now placing great importance on the young man's opinion, just as he had always valued the counsel of the 'Black Falcon' or Ser Simon.
If a man has a good head on his shoulders, it's wise to listen to what he says. It was a lesson he had learned over a long life.
"No," Ian shook his head. "I just feel that something doesn't add up, but I haven't figured it out yet. Don't worry. If I think of something, I will tell you at once."
"Please, Ser Wilder, finish your story first," Ian urged again.
"Right, right," Wilder nodded. "When I realized they couldn't move the treasure at once, I saw two options. First, we could attack the fishing village immediately and seize the treasure that remained. Second, we could send men to follow the caravan and find where they were hiding the first part of the hoard."
"But you chose neither," Ian stated simply. If he had, they wouldn't still be sitting here talking about it.
Ser Wilder sighed, a look of weary admiration on his face. "You truly know everything. It's like having the Crone herself in the room."
"Believe me, I'd rather be compared to the Warrior," Ian quipped, rolling his eyes. "Go on. I think your story is almost over, isn't it?"
"Yes. As you said, I chose neither option," Wilder admitted. "Because the moment we alerted the enemy, we would lose any chance of recovering the complete treasure."
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Throw some power stones my way it would be appritiated also let me know about any issues ony then it would be fixed
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