Chapter 41: The Ghost of Whitewalls (Part II)
"The traveling caravan brought word that they'd encountered survivors from a merchant train out of Maidenpool that had been attacked by bandits. They wanted to hire some of our men to escort them safely to King's Landing.
My adoptive father's first reaction was to wonder if our own people had done it. Ser, you may not realize this, but there hasn't been any banditry along the northeastern shore of the Gods Eye in years." As long as the caravans passing through paid us protection money, Dorian added silently.
"So when my adoptive father heard the news, his first thought was whether one of our companies had gotten greedy and overstepped. He assigned a twelve-man team to that caravan and ordered a thorough investigation." Dorian continued.
"We got word again two days later. Our internal investigation hadn't turned up anything yet, and then we learned the caravan had been slaughtered and our men nearly wiped out. Twelve men—four mounted, six swordsmen, and two longbowmen. Only one rider escaped alive."
"What happened?" Ian asked with genuine interest. It wasn't normal for sellswords to be annihilated—they wouldn't fight to the death. Once things turned bad, sellswords would cut and run. To still be wiped out meant the enemy had either ambushed them or fielded a powerful cavalry force.
"He said they were hit by mounted raiders. Twenty to thirty riders, maybe more, coming from all directions at once. They were caught completely off guard—no time to circle the wagons or form up. The enemy scattered them in the first charge. He managed to reach a horse in the chaos and fled."
"The enemy didn't pursue?" Ian asked.
"I asked him the same thing. He said someone chased him initially."
"But they didn't catch him?"
"No. He was terrified—rode his horse at full gallop. They gave up after a while. He didn't stop until his mount dropped dead from exhaustion. Then he walked the rest of the way back to our base."
Ian considered this for a moment. "Where were they attacked?"
"On the Kingsroad near the Whitewalls ruins. Most of the later attacks happened there too, so we figured Whitewalls must be where the bandits are holed up."
"I think it's the opposite." Ian shook his head. "I think their camp is nowhere near the Whitewalls ruins."
"Why?" Dorian looked skeptical.
"If their camp was near Whitewalls, why would they abandon the chase? Obviously, if they let someone escape, your first move would be to search that area. If their camp was actually there, wouldn't they need to hunt down that fleeing rider?
But if their camp is far away, letting one man escape doesn't matter much. Besides, they're bandits—they don't have the extensive remount system a proper army has. If they're far from their base, they might choose to conserve their horses rather than chase a man riding for his life."
"We never thought of that. Whitewalls is the only heavily forested area between the eastern shore of the Gods Eye and the Crownlands. Further east is open plains. They'd have nowhere to hide out there, so this is the only place they could base themselves," Dorian explained.
"Another contradiction." Contradictions are good. Problems need to be puzzling before they can be solved. Too simple and there's nothing to work with. "Continue your story."
"Right, ser." Dorian paused, collecting his thoughts. "After that rider brought back the news, my adoptive father immediately recalled all our scattered companies.
You understand, Westeros hasn't seen war in years. Unlike Essos, where you can hire whole companies at once, our sellswords have always operated in small, independent groups.
After the captains who could return had gathered, we held council at Ser Harrison's castle. We discussed it for hours, but no one could offer any useful insight. It was as if this bandit company had simply materialized out of thin air."
If this weren't the second day after launch, but the second month, I'd suspect a player's work, Ian thought to himself.
"You don't understand how terrifying this was for us—for those who claim to control the northeastern shores of the Gods Eye."
"Control the northeastern shores of the Gods Eye? A small sellsword company like yours—you don't think the great lords take you seriously, do you?" Ian couldn't help but laugh, interrupting Dorian.
"Oh? Then, ser, can you tell me who the lord of these lands is?" Dorian asked with a smile, showing no offense.
"The lord here is..." Ian suddenly faltered, finding himself unable to name the region's lord. Not because he'd forgotten or didn't know the area.
On the contrary, he knew it all too well.
The three major houses of this region... had all fallen.
The first was House Butterwell of Whitewalls. This family was once immensely powerful and wealthy—their magnificent castle proved that. Unfortunately, they backed the Blackfyres twice during the Blackfyre Rebellions and were ultimately destroyed by Brynden Rivers, the Bloodraven. Whitewalls wasn't just torn down—salt was sown over its ruins.
The second was House Whent of Harrenhal. Ian had already recalled their decline when he'd bought hunting clothes at Harrenhal. They'd fallen into ruin after siding with the Targaryens during Robert's Rebellion.
The third was House Darry of Castle Darry. Once a very powerful family whose lineage stretched back to when the Andals defeated the First Men and conquered Westeros—over six thousand years of history.
They were the Targaryens' most stalwart loyalists. During the Blackfyre Rebellions, they supported the Targaryen kings on the Iron Throne. After House Butterwell fell, they gained nearly half the eastern shore of the Gods Eye, becoming one of the Riverlands' premier houses.
During Robert's Rebellion, they sided with the Targaryens again, even rebelling against House Tully for it.
(End of Chapter)
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