"It... it..." The stablehand stared in the direction Ian was pointing and started to stammer. "Oh, Ser, that is Lady Whent's personal mount! It's a high-quality destrier, bred from a massive Riverlands draft horse and a Dornish sand steed known for its endurance. It's worth twice the price of a standard warhorse!"
A warhorse costs about twenty times as much as a farm horse, ten times a draft horse, and three times a riding horse. In other words, the horse Ian wanted to "borrow" was worth roughly six times the value of the one he was leaving behind.
"Sounds perfect for me, doesn't it?" Ian chuckled. "You know, I can't show up to a hunt without a proper mount. I'm aiming to win the favor of Lady Eleanor this time."
"Ser, oh, I really can't. I don't have the authority to make that decision. I would need to ask the Master of Horse." The stablehand shook his head frantically.
His voice was loud enough to alert a younger stablehand working at a trough on the other side of the barn. The young man jogged over but didn't speak immediately, just looking between the two of them, trying to gauge the situation.
"It's just borrowing a horse. What is there to ask about?" Ian frowned. "And Lady Whent's personal mount? How old is she now? Can she even ride anymore? Especially a beast this size?"
At her age, she'd probably fall off a stationary bike, let alone a warhorse, Ian thought.
"That..." Lady Whent certainly couldn't ride. This particular horse had been selected for her years ago and she hadn't ridden it once before it died of old age. But just because she didn't ride it didn't mean it shouldn't be there! It was about the prestige of the Countess of Harrenhal!
"I'm only borrowing it for a week. I'll return it immediately after the hunt. If anything happens to the horse in that time, I'll compensate you for the full price. Haven't you heard the saying? A Lannister always pays his debts."
"Ser, please don't make this difficult..."
"Besides, isn't my horse still here with you? That horse has been with me for years. You don't honestly think I'm trying to steal your horse, do you?"
Well, you guessed right.
"Fine, I won't make things hard for you. You can go report to the Master of Horse right now. I'll wait here," Ian said, pulling out a Gold Dragon. "And tell him this is my fee for borrowing the horse."
The young stablehand, who had been standing silently by the side, seemed to finally snap out of it. He stepped right in front of Ian.
"Ser, the Master of Horse isn't in Harrenhal at the moment, but I'm sure if he knew you needed a horse, he would agree immediately. So, why don't I let you test the horse first, and we can report to him later?" He smiled fawningly at Ian.
The older stablehand looked at him in confusion.
"Leave it to me, Father. Don't worry about it," the young man said, shaking his head at his father.
Lady Whent was old and had no heirs. Harrenhal hadn't hosted a tourney or a hunt in years. The horses in this stable were almost never used.
Because the lord didn't care, the Master of Horse hadn't even bothered with routine inspections in recent years. It had just been him and his father doing all the work.
This knight would return the horse in a week. Who would notice in such a short time?
And as for the knight not returning it? Impossible! A Lannister always pays his debts! Even a three-year-old knew that!
A Gold Dragon? What Gold Dragon? I'm just doing this to make things convenient for this noble knight. The money has nothing to do with it!
"As you wish," Ian said with feigned indifference, though he breathed a sigh of relief internally. If they had actually gone to fetch the Master of Horse, he probably would have had to give up on the white stallion and settle for a standard warhorse.
That wouldn't have blown his cover as "some Lannister knight," but it wouldn't have been as perfect.
Ian flipped the gold coin into the air. The young stablehand caught it deftly, inspected it closely, and shoved it into his pocket.
"Right this way, my lord." The young man grinned from ear to ear as he led Lady Whent's horse out.
Since it had already been gelded, its temperament was relatively docile. With his Intermediate Horsemanship skill, Ian tamed the non-resistant horse in barely a minute.
"My old friend," Ian said from atop the white stallion, looking back at the still-anxious older stablehand. "I promise you, if I am lucky enough to win Lady Eleanor's favor and marry the heiress of Maidenpool, I'll hire you to be the Master of Horse at Maidenpool. Hahaha!"
With that, Ian rode out of the stables with a swagger.
The guards at the gate simply glanced at him and stepped aside without asking a single question.
Only after Ian had disappeared from their view did one guard suddenly speak to his companion. "Did you feel like that knight got taller when he left?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" His companion didn't understand.
"No, nothing," the guard scratched his head. "Must have been my imagination."
Ian, of course, was oblivious to the guard's confusion. He doubled back to the inn where he started, bought two flagons of ale and some dry rations, and then left Harrenhal through the north gate, embarking on the journey to Saltpans.
North of Harrenhal lay a vast expanse of fertile farmland. It was because of this rich soil that the owners of Harrenhal were once considered among the wealthiest in Westeros.
If not for the curse, this would have been the ideal fiefdom in the entire realm.
Passing winding streams and sun-drenched fields, Ian soon saw rolling hills and low shrubs appearing before him. He slowed his pace slightly, continuing toward the Kingsroad.
According to his original estimate, it would take him three days to reach Saltpans. But with this new horse, if he pushed hard, he could cut the trip down to a day and a half.
Of course, he wasn't going to do that.
Even the horse with the best endurance couldn't match its own burst speed for long.
A horse with a top speed of 40 km/h could indeed run 40 km in one hour, but over two hours, it would probably cover less than 60 km. To cover 100 km would take five to seven hours, and that was for a highly trained horse.
If a horse lived a leisurely life, it would be running on fumes by that point. Push it another 20 km, and you might just kill it.
Although Lady Whent's horse had a superior bloodline and ate the best feed, Ian didn't dare overestimate its actual fitness.
Therefore, his best option was to trot at a speed of about 10 km/h with plenty of rest stops, aiming to reach Saltpans before sunset tomorrow.
Since Saltpans was a port town without city walls, he didn't have to worry about arriving in the middle of the night and getting locked out.
At noon, Ian rested for a while in a small grove by the Kingsroad, eating a piece of white bread for lunch. He wet his throat with ale twice but didn't drink heavily.
He didn't want his judgment clouded by alcohol in a world where combat could happen at any moment.
What? You ask why he didn't drink water?
In an era where people didn't habitually boil water before drinking, he preferred the low-alcohol ale. At least he could be sure it was clean.
After his brief midday rest, Ian set off again.
With no mind to enjoy the scenery, he simply rode silently northward.
Suddenly, Ian yanked the reins hard, staring dead ahead down the road, muttering under his breath, "Where the hell are we?"