Deadpool in Westeros: Chaos All Around

[MoonyNightShade]

The first thing Wade Wilson noticed was the smell. It was a dense, physical presence, a rancid cocktail of dirty people, stale beer, and something profoundly, anciently shitty. He'd been in some rank places, but this was a masterpiece of stench.

A Sistine Chapel of stink if you will.

He pushed himself up, his red and black suit surprisingly clean against the grime of the alley wall. His head throbbed, a dull ache that even his healing factor was taking its sweet time with.

"Okay, Wade," he muttered, patting himself down. Katanas, check. Pistols… also check, though he had a nagging feeling about the ammo situation. Pouches full of… well, pouches. "New dimension, same old crappy spawn point."

A voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like a 90s cartoon sidekick, piped up. {At least it's not New Jersey!}

A fair point, Boxy, Wade thought back. But Jersey has tacos. This place smells like it eats tacos and then regrets it for a week.

He stumbled out of the alley onto a bustling, muddy street. Wooden carts rumbled past, pulled by tired-looking horses. People in drab tunics and leather jerkins stared at him, their expressions a mix of fear and confusion. A man selling oysters from a bucket gave him a wide berth.

Wade's immediate goal became crystal clear: figure out where the hell he was, and then find something that vaguely resembled a burrito.

He didn't get ten steps before a new problem presented itself in the form of two men wearing gold-colored cloaks and uncomfortable-looking helmets. They carried spears and had the self-important swagger of every city guard in every fantasy movie ever.

"Hold there, you," the taller one grunted, blocking Wade's path with his spear. "What's with the getup? Some mummer's farce?"

Wade struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing dramatically. "Moi? I am but a humble traveler! A purveyor of fine violence and witty repartee. You, my good sir, look like a man who appreciates a firm… spear shaft."

The second guard snickered. The first one's face, already ruddy, darkened. "You got a smart mouth. That's often attached to a light purse. Let's see your coin."

"Ah, a shakedown!" Wade clapped his hands together. "Classic! Love the commitment to the genre. But I'm afraid my wallet is on a spiritual journey of self-discovery right now. It's finding itself in my other pants."

"Empty his pockets," the tall guard ordered his partner.

The second guard stepped forward, reaching for Wade's belt.

Not the pouches, Wade thought. That's where I keep the good snacks.

Wade's hand moved in a blur. He grabbed the guard's outstretched wrist, twisted it with a sickening crack of bone, and used the man's momentum to spin him into his partner. The two Gold Cloaks tumbled into a heap of clanging metal and surprised grunts.

"Now, now, boys," Wade chirped, drawing one of his katanas with a whisper of steel. The blade gleamed, impossibly sharp in the dim light. "Let's not get handsy. I'm spoken for."

The tall guard scrambled up, his spear leveled. "You're dead, freak."

"Honey, if I had a copper for every time I've heard that," Wade said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "I could probably afford to buy this whole crap-smelling city."

The fight was, to be generous, short. The guard lunged. Wade sidestepped, the spearhead scraping uselessly against a brick wall. He brought the flat of his katana down on the back of the man's helmeted head. The CLANG was deeply satisfying. The guard crumpled like a tin can.

The other one, nursing his broken wrist, tried to draw his sword. Wade was already there. A quick pommel strike to the temple, and guard number two was taking a nap in a puddle of something unidentifiable.

Okay, so they're squishy, Wade noted. Good to know.

{And slow! We're like a superhero in a world of LARPers!} the voice in his head added gleefully.

Wade quickly frisked the unconscious guards. He found a small leather pouch on each. He emptied them into his hand: a handful of silver coins stamped with a stag and some coppers.

"Thank you for your contribution to the 'Feed a Merc' fund," he said to the snoring men. "Your sacrifice will be remembered. Probably."

He now had money and a confirmation. The stag coins? The gold cloaks? He'd binged the show three times. He knew exactly where he was.

King's Landing. Well, shit.

His new goal: find an info-dump. Preferably one that served booze. Walking through the crowded streets, he realized his suit was a problem. Everyone stared. He needed a place where being an outlandish weirdo wouldn't get him immediately stabbed.

There was only one logical destination.

He found it on a street lined with silk banners. A high-class establishment, judging by the clean stonework and the very large, very bored-looking man guarding the door. The sign was discreet, but Wade knew the type.

The bouncer, a mountain of a man with a squashed nose, put a hand the size of a dinner plate on Wade's chest. "Not for you."

"Whoa there, Lurch," Wade said, holding up his hands. "Don't judge a book by its incredibly handsome, form-fitting cover. I've got coin." He jangled the pouch of stolen money.

The bouncer's expression didn't change. "No masks."

"It's not a mask, it's my face! Medical condition. You wouldn't make fun of a guy with a… a terrible, disfiguring skin disease, would you? That's not very P.C." Wade leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, the ladies love a man of mystery."

The bouncer grunted, unmoved.

Okay, plan B.

Wade sighed dramatically. "Fine. You win. But my employer won't be happy. He's a very influential man. Short fella. Big nose. Owns about a dozen places like this." Wade made a vague gesture. "Goes by the name… Littlefinger?"

The bouncer's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. He didn't know Petyr Baelish personally, but he knew the name. Everyone who worked in this part of the city knew the name. Causing trouble for one of the Master of Coin's associates, real or imagined, was a bad idea.

"He sent me to… check on the assets," Wade continued, his voice low and serious. "An audit. You wouldn't want to obstruct an official audit, would you? Think of the paperwork."

The bouncer hesitated for a full three seconds. It was long enough. He slowly removed his hand from Wade's chest and stepped aside.

Success! The greatest superpower isn't healing. It's bullshitting.

The inside was all plush velvet, scented oils, and quiet laughter. It was a world away from the stench of the street. A woman with auburn hair and a knowing smile glided over to him.

"An unusual guest," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "What is your pleasure, my lord?"

"Information, a private room, and your finest bottle of 'whatever won't make me go blind'," Wade said, tossing two silver stags onto a nearby table. They landed with a satisfying clink. "And a new friend. You look smart. What's your name?"

The woman, clearly the one in charge here, arched an eyebrow but scooped up the coins. "You may call me Alayna. Follow me."

She led him to a small, comfortable room with a bed and a couple of chairs. A few minutes later, she returned with a decanter of dark red wine and two goblets.

"You've caused quite a stir," Alayna said, pouring the wine. "No one has ever talked their way past Harys with a story that ridiculous."

"I have a very trustworthy face," Wade said, his voice muffled by the mask. He didn't take it off.

"I'll have to take your word for it." She sat opposite him, her gaze sharp and intelligent. "You wanted information. That's a more expensive pleasure than most, stranger."

"I'm good for it." Wade leaned forward, his playful tone gone for a moment. "I need to know two things. Simple things. First, what's today's date?"

Alayna gave him a strange look. "It's the third moon of the year 297, by the count of Aegon's conquest."

Wade's mind raced. 297 AC. The show starts in 298 AC. He felt a giddy, terrifying thrill bubble up in his chest. He was early. He had time.

"Okay. Good. Great." He took a deep breath. "Second question, and this one's the big one… who is the Hand of the King?"

Alayna's smile was practiced, polite. She had no idea the weight her words carried, no idea they were a starting pistol for a race against annihilation.

"Why, that would be Lord Jon Arryn, of course," she said. "A fine and steady hand, these many years."

Wade sat there for a long moment after she left, the wine untouched. The pieces clicked into place with the force of a tectonic plate shift.

He knew the date. He knew the players. And he knew that the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, had about a year left to live. His death would be the first domino to fall, setting off the whole bloody, beautiful, tragic disaster he knew as Game of Thrones. But now, it wasn't a show. It was his reality. Wellll… for the time being atleast.

And he, Deadpool, the Merc with a Mouth, the Regenerating Degenerate, was standing right in the middle of the board before the first move had even been made.

He could change things. He could save them. He could save them. The Starks. Ohhhhh the fanboy in him was electric at the thought.

A slow, wide grin spread across his masked face. This was going to be so much fun.

But now he was broke. Again. The private room and the surprisingly decent wine at Alayna's establishment had cost him nearly all of his recently acquired funds. He was left with a handful of copper pennies and two silver stags that felt very lonely in his pouch.

He sat on a crate in a grimy alley, the overwhelming stench of Flea Bottom making his eyes water. It was a district that made the rest of King's Landing smell like a perfume factory.

"A man can't start a world-saving crusade on an empty stomach," he grumbled to himself. He eyed a nearby stall selling meat pies. A woman with three teeth stirred a bubbling pot. "And I'm not sure I'm brave enough for whatever the hell is in that stew."

{Probably rat. Or that guy who asked too many questions yesterday.}

You're not helping, Boxy.

His goal was painfully simple, a tale as old as time: he needed more money. And in a city without a single decent taco truck, there was only one surefire way for a man of his talents to get it.

Finding the so-called fighting pits was an adventure in itself. Flea Bottom was a tangled knot of narrow streets and leaning shacks. After his third dead end, Wade spotted a potential source of information: a young boy, no older than ten, with a smudged face and eyes that were far too old.

"Hey, kid!" Wade called out, striking a heroic pose. "Your friendly neighborhood… guy in red pajamas needs directions. Know where a fella can watch two other fellas beat the ever-loving snot out of each other for money?"

The boy looked him up and down, unimpressed. "Might. What's it to you?"

"I'm a talent scout," Wade said smoothly. "Looking for the next big thing. The King's Landing Killer. The Flea Bottom Brawler. The…" He trailed off. "Look, I'll give you five coppers if you point the way."

The boy's eyes lit up at the mention of coin. He held out a grimy hand. "Ten."

Wade sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, you little capitalist. Fine. Ten coppers. But you walk me there. No funny business."

The boy, who introduced himself as Lip, snatched the coins and led Wade through a maze of alleys, finally stopping before a dilapidated warehouse. The sounds from within – roars, grunts, and the wet smack of fist on flesh – confirmed they were in the right place.

"Here you go, mister," Lip said, already backing away. "Try not to get killed."

"Kid, 'try not to get killed' is my default setting," Wade called after him. Wise advice, though.

The inside of the warehouse was packed with a sweating, shouting mob of the city's worst. The air was thick with the smell of ale and blood. In the center, a makeshift ring of packed dirt was illuminated by smoking torches. Two shirtless behemoths were currently trying to gouge each other's eyes out.

Wade pushed his way through the crowd toward a rickety table where a bald man with a ledger was taking bets. This had to be the guy in charge.

"I want in," Wade said, his voice cutting through the din.

The bookie, whose name was Tormo, didn't even look up. "Get in line. And you need a fighter."

"Oh, I am the fighter," Wade said cheerfully.

Tormo finally raised his eyes, taking in the skin-tight red and black suit and the mask. He let out a wheezing laugh. "A mummer? You'll last ten seconds. What's your buy-in?"

"How much to fight the winner of this little slap-fest?"

"That's Otho the Ox," Tormo grunted, gesturing to the larger of the two brawlers who had just slammed his opponent's head into the dirt. The crowd roared its approval. "He'll cost you two silvers to fight. Winner takes ten."

A five-to-one payout. Not bad. It was also literally all the money Wade had. The stakes were clear: win, or go back to panhandling.

"You've got a deal, chrome dome," Wade said, placing his last two silver stags on the table.

Tormo grunted, scribbled something in his ledger, and pocketed the coins. "You're next, mummer. Don't bleed on my book."

Wade vaulted over the low rope fence into the pit. Otho the Ox was still catching his breath, his knuckles bloody. He was massive, a wall of muscle and scar tissue with a flat, brutish face. The crowd, smelling fresh blood, immediately started jeering at the newcomer.

"Look at the skinny fool!"

"Otho's gonna tear him in half!"

"I love you all, too!" Wade shouted back, doing a few light stretches. "Remember to tip your wenches!"

Otho charged, a roar ripping from his throat. He was fast for a big man. Wade, however, was faster. He sidestepped the clumsy bull rush, tapping the big man on the back of his head as he lumbered past. "Tag! You're it!"

The big man spun around, enraged. He swung a fist the size of a ham. Wade ducked under it, the wind of its passage ruffling his… mask. He popped up and delivered a series of lightning-fast jabs to Otho's ribs. They felt like hitting a side of beef.

Okay, this guy's durable, Wade thought. Time for Plan B: annoy him into submission.

For the next minute, Wade was a phantom. He dodged, weaved, and slid around every one of Otho's powerful but predictable attacks. All the while, he kept up a running commentary.

"Is that your best bull rush? My grandma rushes bulls better than that, and she's dead! You know, your fighting style reminds me of a poem. 'There once was a brute from Flea Bottom…'"

Otho was getting sloppy, his swings becoming wilder. He finally got lucky, his meaty hand catching Wade's arm and holding him in place. A triumphant, ugly grin spread across his face. He drew back his other fist for a knockout blow.

Instead of trying to pull away, Wade lunged forward, headbutting Otho square on the nose with a sickening crunch. The big man bellowed in pain, his grip loosening as blood streamed down his face.

Seeing his opening, Otho pulled a dirty trick. A small, wicked-looking knife appeared in his hand. He lunged, stabbing Wade deep in the shoulder.

The crowd gasped. Tormo the bookie looked annoyed at the rule-breaking. Wade just looked down at the knife handle sticking out of his suit.

"Hey! No-no," he chided, wagging a finger. "That's against the rules, isn't it? Bad form, Otho. Bad form."

Then, to the utter shock of everyone watching, Wade grabbed the handle, gritted his teeth, and pulled the blade out with a wet schlick. The wound, gushing blood a second ago, smoked and sealed itself shut in less than five seconds. The hole in his suit was the only evidence he'd ever been stabbed.

The warehouse went completely, utterly silent. Otho the Ox stared, his jaw hanging open in disbelief and terror.

"My turn," Wade said.

He moved in, a blur of motion. A spinning back kick caught Otho on the side of the head. The giant staggered, his eyes glazing over. Wade followed up with a sharp elbow to the temple.

Otho the Ox crashed to the packed earth, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Wade stood over the fallen giant, raising his arms in victory. For a moment, the crowd was too stunned to react. Then, a single person started clapping, and soon the entire warehouse erupted in a roar of cheers and disbelief.

He hopped out of the ring and sauntered back to the bookie's table. Tormo was staring at him, his mouth a thin line. He had seen a man get stabbed and then… not be stabbed. It wasn't natural.

"That was… unexpected," Tormo said, his voice a low rasp.

"I aim to please," Wade said, holding out his hand. "Now, about my ten silvers."

Tormo slowly, deliberately counted out ten coins and pushed them across the table. Wade scooped them up, the weight in his pouch a comforting feeling. He had money. He could buy a real meal. Maybe even rent a room that didn't have a family of rats as roommates.

But as he turned to leave, Tormo's voice stopped him.

"Wait. Mummer."

Wade turned back. "The name's Deadpool. And for you, the price is double."

Tormo ignored the jibe. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a new kind of interest – not just a bookie looking at a fighter, but a predator sizing up a new weapon.

"Beating Otho is one thing. What you did with that knife… that's something else. That's a skill that could earn a man more than ten silvers a night. I have clients. Wealthy, important clients, who sometimes need problems solved. Problems that require a man who doesn't… stay wounded. Are you interested in real work?"

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Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Wade celebrated his victory with a meat pie that tasted suspiciously like pigeon and a mug of ale that could strip paint. He sat at a wobbly table in the corner of the grimiest tavern he could find, his ten silver stags feeling heavy and wonderful in his pouch.

{This is the life! Blood, guts, and questionable poultry!}

We're moving up in the world, Boxy, Wade thought, taking another bite. From gutter-napping to gainful employment. The Westerosi dream.

He was halfway through his meal when Tormo slid onto the bench opposite him. The bookie's bald head gleamed in the torchlight, and his eyes were small and sharp.

"Enjoying your winnings, mummer?"

"The name is Deadpool," Wade corrected him again around a mouthful of pie. "And yes, I'm living large. Contemplating buying a second pie. Maybe even a third. Go full hobbit on this place."

Tormo ignored the references. "I have that job for you. If you're still interested in real coin."

Wade's immediate goal was to turn his ten silvers into a hundred. This sounded like the express lane.

"So what's the gig?" Wade asked, leaning forward. "Assassination? Espionage? A daring heist to steal the queen's favorite jewel-encrusted corgi?"

"Nothing so dramatic," Tormo grunted, pushing a small, heavy purse across the table. Wade peeked inside. It was full of silver. "A simple business negotiation."

Wade raised a masked eyebrow. "I don't do PowerPoint presentations."

"There's a silk merchant," Tormo explained, his voice low. "Moreo. His warehouse is on the Street of Silk. My employer has made him a generous offer to sell his business. Moreo has refused."

"So my job is to… convince him?" Wade's grin was audible in his voice.

"You are to deliver a message," Tormo said. "The message is that his current business model is no longer profitable. You are to make his inventory… unsellable. No killing. My employer dislikes loose ends. But Moreo should be thoroughly… discouraged."

"I'm great at discouragement! I was voted Most Likely to Be a Disappointment in my high school yearbook." Wade picked up the purse. "How much discouragement are we talking about?"

"That is half your payment. Twenty-five silver stags," Tormo said. "You'll get the other half when the job is done. Tonight."

Fifty stags. For wrecking some fabric. It was the easiest money he'd ever made.

"Consider your merchant thoroughly discouraged," Wade said, pocketing the money. "I'll send you a gift basket. It'll be full of his tears."

The Street of Silk was a different world from Flea Bottom. The buildings were made of stone, the street was cobbled, and the air smelled of perfume instead of raw sewage. Wade found Moreo's warehouse easily enough – a large, two-story building with iron-barred windows.

The problem, he noted, was the four men standing out front. They weren't Gold Cloaks. They wore boiled leather, carried swords, and had the hard, bored look of professional sellswords.

So, Moreo has security, Wade thought. Tormo conveniently left that part out. This is why you always read the fine print.

{More things to hit! It's a feature, not a bug!}

Wade scaled the building next door with practiced ease, his soft-soled boots finding purchase on the stonework. He crept across the tiled roof, silent as a shadow, until he was directly over the warehouse. A skylight, grimy but unlocked, offered a perfect point of entry.

He dropped down into the cavernous dark of the warehouse, landing in a crouch atop a massive stack of silk bolts. The place was a treasure trove of fine fabrics – rolls of deep blues, vibrant reds, and shimmering golds.

"It's like a rich lady's closet in here," he whispered.

He was about to get to work when he heard voices. Two more guards were inside, playing cards by the light of a single lantern.

"This is a boring watch," one complained.

"Quiet," the other hissed. "Moreo pays well. Just keep your eyes open."

"Too late for that," Wade said loudly.

The guards jumped to their feet, drawing their swords. They squinted into the darkness. "Who's there?"

Wade dropped from the rafters, landing directly between them. Before they could react, he drew his katanas. The left-hand sword's pommel slammed into the first guard's temple. The second guard lunged, and Wade used the flat of his right-hand blade to trip him, sending him sprawling into a stack of crates.

A quick, non-lethal bonk on the head for each, and the two guards were down for the count.

"Nighty-night, fellas. Dream of sheep. Or whatever you count in this place. Dire-sheep?"

The main office door creaked open. A portly man in fine robes, Moreo, stood there, his face pale with fear.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he stammered.

"Delivery!" Wade said, spreading his arms wide. "I have a message from your friendly neighborhood competition. He says, and I quote, 'Your business model is no longer profitable.'"

Moreo's fear turned to defiance. "My guards will…"

"Your guards are taking a nap," Wade interrupted. "They were very tired. It's been a long day. Now, about this silk. It's lovely, really. But the color is all wrong for the fall season."

With a flick of his wrist, Wade sliced the ropes holding a massive display of silk bolts. Dozens of rolls, worth a fortune, tumbled to the floor. He then grabbed a nearby barrel of lamp oil.

Moreo's eyes went wide with horror. "No! Not the Myrish Blue! That's my entire stock!"

"Should've taken the buyout, buddy," Wade said, kicking the barrel over. Oil glugged out, soaking the priceless fabrics. He pulled out a flint and steel from one of his pouches.

He didn't light it. He just held it up, letting the threat hang in the air.

"This is your one and only warning," Wade said, his voice dropping the playful tone. It was cold and flat. "You're out of business. Sell your shop to the man who sent me. Leave King's Landing. If I hear you're still selling silk by the end of the week, I'll be back. And next time, I won't be so concerned about the fire code."

He turned and walked toward the door, leaving the terrified merchant surrounded by his ruined inventory. As he left, he tossed a small, folded note onto a desk.

Wade collected the other half of his payment from Tormo back at the tavern. The bookie counted out the twenty-five stags without a word, his expression unreadable.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Wade said, giving him a little salute.

"My employer was pleased," Tormo said, stopping him. "The message was received. Moreo is already packing his bags."

"See? I'm a communication expert."

Tormo hesitated, then slid a single, pristine gold coin across the table. A Golden Dragon. "He was especially impressed with the… theatricality. And the note you left."

Wade picked up the coin. It was more than he'd made all night. "What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic."

The note had been simple. It read: "Going out of business sale! Everything must go! P.S. This is a hostile takeover. XOXO, Deadpool."

"He wants to meet you," Tormo said, his voice barely a whisper. "A man like that… he finds unique talents useful."

Far away, in a lavish room overlooking the city, Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, listened to a report from a trusted agent. She finished her tale of a masked man in red who ruined a rival and healed from a knife wound in the fighting pits.

Littlefinger picked up a small, mockingbird-shaped pin from his desk, turning it over in his fingers. A slow, calculating smile spread across his face.

"A man who cannot be wounded, who fears nothing, and who has a flair for chaos," he mused. "Find him. Bring him to me. I believe I've just found a most fascinating new piece for the game."

Wade Wilson was officially moving on up. With fifty-five silver stags and one shiny Golden Dragon in his pouch, he felt like a king. Or at least a very minor lord with a penchant for red leather and bad jokes.

He left the filth of Flea Bottom behind, found a room in a slightly-less-filthy inn called The Gilded Flagon, and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu: a whole roasted chicken.

It was greasy, a little dry, and the best thing he'd eaten since he'd arrived in this dimension.

"See, this is what I'm talking about," he said to the chicken leg he was holding. "A little targeted property destruction, and suddenly you can afford poultry that wasn't run over by a cart ten minutes ago."

His immediate goal was simple: enjoy his newfound wealth, lay low for a day, and then decide how to handle the job offer from a man he knew was a master manipulator.

He was halfway through the chicken when a small boy appeared at his table. The kid couldn't have been more than eight, with wide, dark eyes and a disturbingly blank expression. He wasn't begging. He just stood there, waiting.

"Can I help you, small fry?" Wade asked. "If you're here for the chicken, you're out of luck. Henrietta and I are having a moment."

The boy said nothing. He simply placed a small, smooth, grey stone on the table next to Wade's plate and then turned and walked away, disappearing into the common room crowd.

Wade picked up the stone. It was unremarkable. He turned it over in his hand. There was nothing special about it.

Weird kid, Wade thought. Maybe it's a Westerosi thing? Like leaving a mint on a pillow?

{Or maybe it's a trap! Maybe it's a tiny bomb! Or it's poisoned! Lick it and see!}

You lick it.

A man at a nearby table, an old codger with a grey beard, caught Wade's eye. He nodded subtly toward the door the boy had exited, then went back to nursing his ale. Wade looked back at the stone in his hand. It wasn't a random gift. It was a summons.

"Well, Henrietta," Wade sighed, placing the chicken leg back on the plate. "Duty calls. Don't wait up."

Wade followed at a safe distance. The old man led him out of the inn and through the winding streets, heading away from the Red Keep and towards the Great Sept of Baelor. The man never looked back, but he walked with a purpose that told Wade this was no random stroll.

The escalation was clear: he hadn't just gotten the attention of one powerful man, but two. Littlefinger was the Mockingbird. The only other person who played the game at that level was the Spider.

The old man finally stopped in a quiet courtyard near the Sept, where he began scattering breadcrumbs for a flock of pigeons. He still didn't look at Wade.

"A chaotic debut on our city's stage," the old man said, his voice a dry rasp. "The fighting pits, the warehouse… You are a very loud man, for a shadow."

"I prefer the term 'performance artist'," Wade said, leaning against a pillar. "The screaming and property damage are just part of my process."

"Lord Varys appreciates talent," the man continued, his eyes on the birds. "He also appreciates discretion. Something Lord Baelish knows little about. A burning warehouse is… loud."

Wade shrugged. "I didn't actually burn it. That's a common misconception. I'm more of a 'ruin your inventory with oil and existential dread' kind of guy."

The old man finally turned to face him. His eyes were pale and watery, but they held a sharp, unnerving intelligence. "Lord Baelish serves himself. The Master of Whisperers serves the realm."

"Right, the realm," Wade said, making air quotes. "I saw the show. Heard the speeches. Big fan of his work, really. Top-notch eunuch-ing."

The man's composure didn't crack, but a flicker of something – surprise? Interest? – crossed his face. "You are… well-informed. Which is why you should know that a man in Lord Baelish's employ is merely a tool, to be used and discarded. The Spider, however, values his… unique assets."

He took a step closer. "Lord Varys is curious about men who appear from nowhere, with no known past. Men who do not bleed as others do. He believes such a man might have a unique perspective on the future of the realm."

That hit Wade like a ton of bricks. Tormo and the Flea Bottom crowd knew he could heal. But "appearing from nowhere with no past"? That wasn't just street-level gossip. That was high-level intelligence. Varys's little birds really were everywhere.

This was the payoff. He wasn't just a freakish brawler anymore. He was a mystery, an anomaly. And in the Great Game, an anomaly was either a threat or a priceless piece.

"So what does the big bald spider want?" Wade asked, dropping the flippant tone. "An autograph?"

"An alternative," the old man said. "Before you pledge your singular skills to the Mockingbird's cage, the Spider invites you for a conversation. He pays better, his work is more subtle, and his secrets are far more interesting."

He held out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. "Should you wish to accept this invitation, find the Fountain of the Seven Maidens in the Dragonpit's gardens at dusk. Place this bird on the eastern maiden's lap. An escort will find you."

Wade took the wooden bird. It was light in his hand, expertly crafted. He now had two invitations from the most dangerous schemers in King's Landing.

"Thank you for the offer," Wade said. "I'll give it a B-plus. Good presentation, but the cryptic breadcrumb routine is a little cliché."

The old man gave him a thin, bloodless smile. "Lord Varys looks forward to your decision."

And with that, he turned and shuffled away, disappearing into the flow of pilgrims and city folk, leaving Wade alone in the courtyard with a choice.

He could meet with Littlefinger, the man who climbed a ladder of chaos. Or he could meet with Varys, the man who claimed to serve the realm from the shadows. Both were liars. Both were killers. And both of them wanted him.

His grin was sharp and predatory. This was so much better than just saving the Starks. He was going to play the game.

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Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Wade sat in his room at The Gilded Flagon, a gold dragon on the table to his left and a small wooden bird to his right. An angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other. Except in this city, they were both devils. They just wore different outfits.

He could choose one. He could be Littlefinger's muscle or Varys's spook. It was a solid career choice either way.

But Wade Wilson didn't do "either/or." He did "yes, and..."

"Why pick a team when you can be the star player everyone's trying to trade for?" he mused. A bidding war. He loved the sound of that. It had chaos, drama, and the distinct possibility of him getting obscenely rich.

His immediate goal was set: he needed to let one devil know the other was making a play for his soul.

He found Tormo right where he expected to: hunched over his ledger in the back corner of the same foul-smelling tavern near the fighting pits. The bookie looked up as Wade approached, his expression souring.

"You again," Tormo grunted. "Here to break another one of my fighters?"

"Nah, I'm branching out. Today, I'm a messenger boy," Wade said, sliding onto the bench. He casually placed the carved wooden bird on the table between them.

Tormo's eyes flickered to the bird, and a flash of genuine fear crossed his face. He recognized the craftsmanship, or at least what it represented. He quickly looked around the tavern.

"What is that? Get it off my table," he hissed, his voice a low whisper.

"It's a gift," Wade said cheerfully. "From my new pen pal. He's bald, smells faintly of lavender, and has a thing for little birds. Sound like anyone you know?"

Tormo swallowed hard. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," Wade said, leaning in. "See, my new friend made me a very compelling offer. But I'm a loyal guy. I believe in giving my first employer a chance to make a counter-offer. It's just good business etiquette."

He pushed a gold dragon – the one Tormo had given him – across the table. "I want you to take this coin and that little bird back to your boss. Tell him the Spider sends his regards. Tell him the auction for the man who can't die is officially open. And tell him… bidding starts high."

Tormo stared at the coin and the bird as if they were a viper and a scorpion. "You want me to take that to Lord Baelish? He'll have my head."

"No he won't," Wade said with a reassuring pat on the man's shoulder. "He'll be intrigued. Guys like him love this stuff. It's like their version of fantasy football. Now, go on. Shoo. I have an appointment to get to."

Reluctantly, looking like a man marching to his own execution, Tormo scooped up the items and scurried out of the tavern.

Wade grinned. The game was afoot.

The meeting place was a discreet shipping office near the docks. No velvet curtains or scantily clad women here. Just the smell of salt and money. A severe-looking clerk led Wade to a back room, furnished with a simple desk, two chairs, and a large, detailed map of King's Landing.

Petyr Baelish was standing by the window, looking out at the harbor. He wasn't wearing the mockingbird pin, but his quiet, controlled presence filled the room.

"The man of the hour," Littlefinger said, turning. His grey-green eyes were sharp, calculating. "Or should I say, the prize of the season?"

Tormo had clearly delivered the message.

"Call me whatever you want, just don't call me late for dinner," Wade quipped, taking a seat without being invited. "So, you got my RSVP?"

A faint smile touched Littlefinger's lips. "Indeed. A bold move. Forcing a conversation between a spider and a mockingbird. Most insects who find themselves in that position end up eaten."

"Yeah, but I'm not an insect," Wade said. "I'm more of a… honey badger. I just don't give a shit."

Littlefinger glided to the desk and sat opposite him, steepling his fingers. "Varys offers secrets. A place in his web of whispers, serving his vision of 'the realm.' It can be quite intoxicating, for a certain kind of man."

"Sounds like a lot of skulking in hallways," Wade said with a shrug. "I'm more of a 'kick the front door in' kind of guy. Your style seems more… profitable."

"It is," Littlefinger said simply. "I offer something far more tangible than Varys's noble ideals. I offer gold. And opportunity. The opportunity that chaos provides." He leaned forward. "You seem like a man who understands chaos."

"Chaos and I are old drinking buddies. We have a complicated on-again, off-again relationship." Wade used his future-knowledge, taking a calculated risk. "Varys serves what he thinks is the realm. You serve yourself. It's more honest. I find honest greed to be a much more reliable motivator."

For the first time, Littlefinger's mask of calm calculation slipped. A look of genuine surprise, quickly controlled, flashed in his eyes. Wade hadn't just played a card; he'd shown he understood the whole deck.

The move paid off. Littlefinger's smile became genuine, predatory. He saw Wade not as a simple-minded thug, but as something far more interesting: an intelligent, unpredictable weapon.

"You are a very surprising man, Master…?"

"Deadpool. Just Deadpool. One word. Like Cher."

"Master Deadpool," Littlefinger conceded. "Very well. You have my attention. And my offer. You will work exclusively for me. You will be my agent in matters requiring a… direct and un-traceable approach. In return, you will have a permanent retainer of fifty golden dragons a month. And a bonus for every task completed to my satisfaction."

Fifty dragons a month. It was an astronomical sum. More than a knight of the Kingsguard made in a year. Wade felt a thrill shoot through him. This was the big leagues.

"I accept your very attractive offer," Wade said. "So. What's my first mission? Do I get a cool code name? Can I be 'Agent Chimichanga'?"

Littlefinger ignored the last part. He stood and walked to the map on the wall, tapping a finger near the Red Keep.

"Your first task is one of information. Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. He has been acting strangely. Secretive meetings with the Grand Maester. Unannounced visits to blacksmiths on the Street of Steel. Even speaking with a low-born armorer's apprentice."

He turned back to Wade, his eyes sharp. "Lord Arryn is looking for something. Or someone. I want to know what it is. Find out why the Hand of the King is digging through the city's gutters. Report everything you learn. And you report it only to me."

Wade's grin was hidden by his mask, but it was wide and manic. Littlefinger was sending him to investigate the very thing that would kick off the entire war. He wasn't just in the game anymore. He was standing on square one.

And he already knew the answer.

Wade Wilson sat on the lumpy mattress in his inn room, a heavy leather satchel sitting open in front of him. Inside, fifty golden dragons shimmered in the dim candlelight. It was more money than he'd ever seen in one place that wasn't part of a bank heist.

He scooped up a handful of coins and let them run through his fingers. "Look at all this shiny plot armor," he chirped.

{We're rich! We can buy all the chimichangas!}

There are no chimichangas here, Boxy, Wade thought, his good mood deflating slightly. And besides, having money is one thing. Being able to spend it without answering a million questions about why a guy in a red gimp suit is suddenly loaded is another.

He couldn't rent a decent house, hire staff, or bribe officials as "Deadpool." He was a ghost, a weapon. To operate effectively in this city, he needed a public face. His goal was twofold: establish a legitimate front for his operations, and begin his "investigation" for Littlefinger.

His first step was to find a proxy. A believable, slightly pathetic man who could be the face of his new enterprise. He found the perfect candidate nursing a cheap ale in the very same tavern where he'd first met Tormo. The man was in his late thirties, with thinning hair, ink-stained fingers, and the defeated slump of a man whose best days were a distant memory.

Wade slid onto the bench opposite him, placing a single silver stag on the table. "You look like a man who knows how to read."

The man blinked, startled. "I… yes. I was a clerk for a cloth merchant. Before he… before I was let go."

"Perfect! You're hired," Wade announced. "I'm starting a new business venture. I need a manager. A front man. Someone to handle the books and the hand-shaking while I handle the… creative direction."

The clerk, whose name was Mathis, stared at the silver coin, then back at the masked man who had just appeared out of nowhere. "Hired? To do what? For who?"

"You'll be working for… Mr. Wilson," Wade said, pleased with himself. "He's an eccentric foreign investor with a skin condition. A very, very bad skin condition. Hence, the mask. And you'll be managing his new acquisitions. The pay is ten dragons a month. You start now."

Mathis's jaw dropped. Ten dragons a month was a fortune, more than he'd ever made. It was also an offer he was in no position to refuse. "I… yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Wilson. What is our first acquisition?"

"We're going shopping," Wade said, standing up. "For a blacksmith shop on the Street of Steel."

It turned out that Littlefinger's tip was spot on. According to Mathis, who had a surprising knack for city gossip, Jon Arryn had indeed been seen several times on the Street of Steel, visiting various armorers.

After looking at three different forges that were either too small, too expensive, or smelled vaguely of troll, they arrived at their final destination: the shop of Tobho Mott. It was one of the finest establishments on the street, but rumor had it the old master was looking to retire and had no heir to take over.

The problem was Tobho Mott himself. He was a master craftsman with a face like a sour lemon and a temperament to match.

"Sell?" Mott scoffed, not even looking up from the sword he was polishing. "I'm not selling my life's work to some… clerk. I'd sooner melt it all down."

Mathis, trying his best, stammered, "My employer, Mr. Wilson, is prepared to make a most generous offer, Master Mott. He has the highest respect for your craft."

"Does he now?" Mott sneered. "Then let him show his face. I don't deal with shadows and messengers."

The stakes had been raised. To get his base, Wade would have to step out of the shadows, at least for a moment. He gestured for Mathis to step aside and walked into the forge. The heat from the coals washed over him.

"Master Mott," Wade said, his voice calm and even. "My clerk means no offense. My appearance is… unfortunate. I prefer to let my coin speak for me." He placed a heavy purse on a nearby anvil. It landed with a deep, authoritative thud. "Name your price."

Mott finally looked up, his eyes narrowing at the red and black suit. But his gaze was drawn to the twin katanas on Wade's back. They were unlike any blades he had ever seen. The steel seemed to drink the light.

"Fancy swords," Mott grunted. "Where did a man like you get blades like that?"

"They were a gift," Wade said. "From a man who didn't appreciate me killing him with them."

Before Mott could respond, a young man emerged from the back of the forge, carrying a heavy ingot of steel. He was tall and muscular, with thick black hair and a stubborn set to his jaw. He dumped the ingot near the coals, then froze, staring at Wade.

Wade's eyes widened behind his mask. The boy was the spitting image of a young Robert Baratheon. He had found him. He had found Gendry.

The payoff was immediate and immense. He had stumbled right into the heart of the mystery on his very first day of looking. This wasn't just a potential base anymore; it was ground zero.

"The boy is your apprentice?" Wade asked, his tone casual.

"He is," Mott said, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Strong back, stubborn as a mule, but a good hand with a hammer. Why?"

"He has the look of a fighter," Wade said, improvising. "The set of his shoulders. That's the kind of man you want testing your steel." He turned to Gendry. "What's your name, kid?"

"Gendry," the apprentice mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

"Gendry," Wade repeated. He turned back to Mott. "I'll double your asking price for the shop. On one condition."

Mott's eyebrows shot up. "Which is?"

"The boy stays on. And you stay on, as master of the forge, for as long as you wish. I'm not buying a building, I'm investing in talent. You will have unlimited funds for materials. Your only job will be to craft the finest weapons and armor in the Seven Kingdoms. For me."

Tobho Mott stared at the masked man. The offer was insane. It wasn't a sale; it was a patronage. The dream of every master craftsman. He would be free to create, with no worries about coin ever again.

He looked at the purse on the anvil, at the strange, powerful man before him, and at the sullen, hardworking boy who was the closest thing he had to a son.

"You have a deal, Mr. Wilson," Mott said, extending a calloused hand. "Welcome to your new forge."

Wade now owned the very shop Jon Arryn had been visiting. He had the key to the whole mystery working for him. He had his base of operations and a legitimate business front. It was a perfect day's work.

But as he walked back to the inn, a new problem settled in his mind. His report to Littlefinger was due. How much did he tell the most dangerous man in King's Landing? Did he mention the boy with the black hair? Or did he keep his most valuable piece of information – his new apprentice – a secret all his own?

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Lying to Petyr Baelish felt like trying to sneak a sunrise past a rooster. The man's entire career was built on knowing things other people thought were secret. Walking to their meeting, Wade felt a familiar, exhilarating hum of anxiety. It was the same feeling he got before jumping out of a plane without checking his parachute first.

He'd spent the morning mentally drafting his report.

{Plan A: Tell him everything! We found the king's bastard! High five! Promotion!}

And then Littlefinger uses Gendry like a pawn and gets him killed before the opening credits even roll. Bad plan.

{Plan B: Tell him nothing! Say we spent the money on booze and pies! He'll respect our honesty!}

He'll respect his dagger in our kidney. Also a bad plan.

That left Plan C. The Deadpool special. His goal for this meeting was simple: feed Littlefinger just enough truth to be valuable, but keep the most important card – Gendry – tucked firmly up his sleeve.

The shipping office was exactly as he'd left it: smelling of salt, ink, and quiet ambition. Littlefinger was examining a ledger when Wade entered, but he looked up immediately, his grey-green eyes missing nothing.

"Master Deadpool," he began, his voice a smooth purr. "I trust your time has been productive."

"Amazingly so," Wade said, flopping into the chair opposite the desk. "I have investigated your lead with the subtlety of a mongoose on cocaine. And I have a breakthrough to report."

Littlefinger closed the ledger. "I'm listening."

"So, Jon Arryn is sniffing around the Street of Steel. Visiting forges. I thought to myself, 'Wade, how do you find out what a man is looking for in a blacksmith's shop?' Do you hang around outside? Bribe an apprentice? No. That's thinking small."

Wade leaned forward, spreading his hands dramatically. "You think bigger. I figured, why spy on a place when you can own it? So I bought it."

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Littlefinger's face. "You bought… a forge?"

"The best one," Wade confirmed. "Tobho Mott's place. The old master was looking to retire. I made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He stays on as master smith, I provide the operating capital. I now own the single best vantage point for Arryn's entire investigation. He comes to me, not the other way around."

He sat back, letting the audacity of the move sink in.

Littlefinger was silent for a long moment, his steepled fingers hiding his mouth. He was reassessing. This wasn't the work of a simple thug. It was a bold, strategic power play. It was a move he would have made.

"Ingenious," Littlefinger finally said, a hint of real admiration in his tone. "Expensive, but ingenious. And what has your investment revealed so far?"

This was the tricky part. The obstacle. The direct question.

"Mott is tight-lipped, but the apprentices talk," Wade lied smoothly. "Seems Arryn was asking about apprentices. Specifically, ones taken on in the last decade or so. He was looking at eye color, hair color. Compiling a list, maybe. But he wasn't just talking to Mott. He visited half the forges on the street."

"And did you find any apprentices that fit his interest at your new… establishment?" Littlefinger's gaze was sharp as a razor.

"Just one," Wade said with a casual shrug. "Some surly kid with a hammer. Black hair, blue eyes. Quiet type. Mott seems to like him, but the kid's got a vocabulary of two words: 'grunt' and 'clang'. Arryn spoke to him for a minute, then moved on. Seemed like a dead end."

He delivered the lines with perfect indifference. He was dismissing Gendry, painting him as a nobody, a footnote in a wider, more boring investigation.

Littlefinger considered this. "And the boy's name?"

"Dunno. Smudgy? Grumpy? Honestly, I was more focused on the business side of things. Kid's just part of the inventory that came with the shop."

Wade held his breath. He had given Littlefinger a trail of breadcrumbs – Arryn looking for apprentices with specific traits – that was true and verifiable. But he'd made the most important breadcrumb, Gendry, seem stale and worthless.

Littlefinger nodded slowly, apparently satisfied. "Good. That is a promising start. You have proven yourself… proactive." The result of his efforts landed perfectly. Wade hadn't just passed the test, he'd gotten an A-plus. "Your new position gives us a unique opportunity."

He stood and walked to the map of the city. "Jon Arryn does not act alone. His inquiries began shortly after a visit from our man at Dragonstone, Lord Stannis Baratheon."

He tapped a location near the Red Keep. The Master of Ships' manse.

"Lord Stannis is a hard, unyielding man. He and Lord Arryn have been spending a great deal of time together. If Arryn is the hound on the scent, Stannis is the one holding the leash. Your next task is to find out what they discuss. What passes between the Hand and the Master of Ships."

The stakes escalated instantly. Going from the Street of Steel to the King's own brother was a major leap.

"Lord Stannis is not a man who appreciates frivolity," Littlefinger warned. "He is paranoid and observant. And be aware, you are not the only one I have looking into this. You are simply the one with the most… unique approach. Do not fail me."

"Stannis the Mannis. Got it," Wade said, getting to his feet. "Sounds like a real party animal. My favorite."

He walked out of the office, the weight of Littlefinger's gaze on his back. He'd done it. He'd protected his asset and secured his position.

As he stepped out into the bustling street, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A young boy, a street urchin, was watching him from across the way. But this boy was different from the grubby kids in Flea Bottom. His clothes were worn, but clean. His face was smudged, but artfully so. He met Wade's gaze for a split second before darting into an alley.

A little bird.

Wade's grin vanished. The meeting was a success, but he had a new, pressing question. Was the little bird Littlefinger's, a tail to test his new agent's loyalty? Or was it Varys's, a silent reminder that the Spider was always watching, and that no secret – not even the one about a bull-headed boy in a forge – stayed secret for long in King's Landing?

A slow grin reappeared across his face. Most people would have ignored him. A smart person would have pretended not to notice and tried to lose him in the crowd.

Wade was neither of those things.

"Well, well, well," he muttered under his breath. "If it isn't the immediate consequences of my own actions."

He wasn't going to let some prepubescent peeper report back to the Spider without a little chat first. His goal was clear and immediate: catch the little bird and find out exactly who he was singing for.

The moment Wade's posture changed, the moment his casual stroll turned into something predatory, the boy knew the game was up. He tried to lose his position in the alley with the speed and agility of a startled cat.

"Oh, we're doing a chase scene!" Wade cackled, breaking into a full sprint. "I love these! It's my cardio for the day!"

The boy was fast, but Wade was a blur of red and black. He gained on him quickly in the narrow alley. The boy, seeing the dead end approaching, did something unexpected. He scrambled up a stack of old barrels, grabbed the edge of a low roof, and pulled himself up with practiced ease.

"Ooh, a rooftop chase!" Wade cheered. "It's like Assassin's Creed, but with more jokes and less eagle-screeching!"

He didn't bother with the barrels. He took three long strides, ran straight up the brick wall, kicked off, and flipped onto the roof, landing in a perfect three-point superhero pose just as the boy was getting to his feet.

The boy's eyes went wide with terror. He'd been trained to be fast and silent. He hadn't been trained for whatever the hell this was.

He scrambled away, his small feet surprisingly sure on the uneven tiles. This was his turf. He leaped a gap between two buildings that would have made a normal man hesitate. Wade cleared it with a running bound, landing with room to spare.

"Come on, kid, we can talk about this!" Wade called out. "What's your name? What's your favorite color? What's the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

The boy didn't answer. He slid down a steep roof and dropped into a bustling marketplace below, instantly vanishing into the throng of people.

Clever little bastard, Wade thought, perching on the edge of the roof, scanning the crowd. He'd lost visual.

{He's gone! He beat us! We suck!}

Relax, Boxy. Think like a rat. Where does a rat go when it's cornered? Back to its nest.

Wade's eyes scanned the market's exits. He saw a flash of the boy's grey tunic slipping between two buildings and heading for the poorer districts. Wade didn't follow on the ground. He stayed on the rooftops, a silent predator running parallel to his prey. He'd lost the boy, then reacquired him, gaining the tactical advantage of the high ground.

He was about to drop down and cut the kid off when the chase escalated. A woman emptied a bucket of dirty water from a window, aimed squarely where Wade was about to land. He twisted in mid-air, avoiding the foul splash. It wasn't an accident.

Then, a line of wet laundry was suddenly hoisted up between two buildings, directly in his path. He slid under it, his katanas scraping on the rope. A market stall owner rolled a barrel of apples into his path on the street below. The little bird wasn't just a spy; he was part of a network. The whole neighborhood was his alarm system.

"It's a conspiracy!" Wade yelled, vaulting over a chimney. "A conspiracy of well-coordinated street urchins! The worst kind!"

He pushed off, launching himself into a long jump across a wide street. He landed hard on the opposite roof, rolling to absorb the impact. The boy was just ahead, sprinting down a deserted alley. He'd run out of tricks and out of friends.

Wade dropped silently into the alley behind him, blocking the only exit. The boy skidded to a halt, turning to face his pursuer. He was breathing heavily, his small chest heaving, but his eyes held a flicker of defiance.

"Okay," Wade said, panting slightly. "Time out. Truce." He held up his hands. "You're fast, kid. Real fast. You part of a track team? The King's Landing Sprinters?"

The boy just stared, his hand inching toward a small, crude knife tucked in his belt.

"Ah, ah, ah," Wade chided, wagging a finger. "Let's not do that. You've seen what I can do. I promise, your knife is not going to have a good time."

He took a step forward, and the boy flinched. Wade stopped. "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want to talk. Who do you work for? The bald guy with the fancy robes? Lord Varys?"

The boy's silence was all the confirmation he needed.

"Thought so," Wade said. "So what's the deal? He just have you kids follow anyone who looks interesting?"

The boy, whose name was Renn, finally found his voice. It was small but steady. "I was just told to watch. To report who you met with. What you said."

"And could you hear what we said?" Wade asked, tilting his head.

"No. The office was secure."

"Good boy. Honesty. I like that." Wade reached into one of his pouches. Renn tensed, but all Wade pulled out was a gold dragon. He flicked it through the air. The boy caught it out of pure instinct.

He stared at the coin in his hand. It was more money than he'd ever held.

"Here's the deal, Renn," Wade said. "You're going to go back to your boss. And you're going to give him a message for me. A two-part message. Are you listening?"

Renn nodded, his eyes wide.

"Part one: 'He knows.' Just like that. All spooky and mysterious. Varys will love that. Part two…" Wade leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell him Mr. Deadpool appreciates the interest, but he's currently a taken man. However… he's open to being poached if the offer is right. And it had better be a lot more than fifty dragons a month."

He had turned a spy into a messenger. A threat into a negotiation.

This is the way. The Deadpool way.

Renn stared at him, a mix of fear and confusion on his face. He clutched the gold coin and nodded again, speechless.

"Great." Wade gave him a cheerful pat on the shoulder. "Now scram. And use that coin to buy yourself something nice. A new pair of shoes. Or a very, very large meat pie. Your choice."

The boy didn't need to be told twice. He turned and fled down the alley, disappearing as if he'd never been there. Wade was left alone, his point made. He'd let the Spider know that he saw his web. And he was willing to dance on it, for a price.

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Wade Wilson felt something dangerously close to contentment. He was leaning against a workbench in his very own forge, the rhythmic CLANG of hammers on steel a surprisingly pleasant soundtrack. He was the proud owner of a legitimate, money-laundering, spy-hiding, bastard-protecting business.

He watched Gendry, stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat, bring a heavy hammer down on a glowing piece of steel. The kid was a natural.

There was certainly, absolutely, definitely nothing gay about it. Nuh-huh.

"More feeling!" Wade called out. "Imagine that anvil is the face of someone you hate! Like… I don't know, a Lannister!"

Gendry grunted and brought the hammer down even harder.

"That's the spirit!" Wade cheered. His goal for the day was beautifully simple: enjoy being a rich boss and figure out a way to teach a future lord how to fight without revealing he was from another dimension.

The clang of the hammers stopped. Tobho Mott was standing at the entrance of the forge, wiping his hands on a rag. Behind him stood a man in the golden cloak of the City Watch. But this was no street-level thug.

This man was lean and weathered, with a neatly trimmed beard and intelligent eyes. He wore his cloak over a well-maintained suit of ringmail, and his hand rested near the pommel of a longsword. His posture was straight, his gaze direct. He radiated a quiet, professional authority that the two goons Wade had met on his first day couldn't even dream of.

"Mr. Wilson?" the man asked, his voice calm and even. His eyes swept over the forge, taking in every detail. Mathis, Wade's new manager, scurried forward, wringing his hands.

"This is him, Ser," Mathis said nervously. "Mr. Wade Wilson, the new proprietor."

"Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Commander of the Iron Gate," the man introduced himself. "I'm here to welcome you to the neighborhood, Mr. Wilson. And to ask a few routine questions."

This was not a shakedown. This was an audit. And that was somehow much worse.

"A commander! In my humble shop! I'm honored," Wade said, stepping forward. He kept his voice modulated, adopting the persona of the eccentric foreign investor. "What can I do for the City Watch?"

"You've made a significant investment, Mr. Wilson," Bywater said, his eyes lingering on Wade's mask. "You purchased this forge from Master Mott for a very generous sum. Word of such things travels. The City Watch takes an interest in any large, sudden shifts in commerce."

"I'm simply a patron of the arts," Wade said with a grand gesture. "And Master Mott is the greatest artist on this street. I saw a brilliant opportunity and I seized it."

"An opportunity funded with coin from where, exactly?" Bywater's question was polite, but it had an edge of steel. "Merchants from the Free Cities must register with the Royal Guilds. I can find no record of a 'Wade Wilson.'"

The escalation was sharp and unexpected. This wasn't about a fight; it was about paperwork. Littlefinger's bureaucracy was now a direct threat to Littlefinger's secret agent. Wade couldn't exactly say his startup capital came from a slush fund run by the Master of Coin himself.

Oh crap, Wade thought. The one enemy my healing factor can't beat: taxes.

{Just kill him! No witnesses!}

We are trying to be pillars of the community now, Boxy! Pay attention.

Mathis looked like he was about to faint. Gendry had stopped working and was watching the scene with sullen curiosity.

Wade let out a thoughtful hum. "Ah, you see, that's where the confusion lies, Ser Jacelyn. 'Wade Wilson' is merely the… anglified version of my name. Much easier for the locals. My full name is Braavosi. Very long, lots of syllables. The paperwork is being handled by my factors in Pentos. It should arrive on the next tide."

He was spewing pure, high-grade bullshit, layering it with just enough geographic detail to sound plausible.

"I specialize in unique commissions," Wade continued, warming to his theme. "Wealthy clients with… particular tastes. They pay well for discretion. My investment here is simply to secure a reliable artisan for these projects. You understand."

He was painting a picture of a quiet, wealthy foreigner who just wanted to be left alone to conduct his business. It was a picture that Jacelyn Bywater seemed to be considering. The man was honest, but he wasn't naive. He knew how the city worked.

"I see," Bywater said slowly. "Then I trust you will have no objection to filing the proper tax ledgers with the Master of Coin's office by the end of the moon?"

"My manager, Mathis, will handle everything," Wade said, clapping Mathis on the back a little too hard. "He lives for that sort of thing. Don't you, Mathis?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Wilson. Of course," Mathis stammered, nodding vigorously.

Bywater seemed satisfied, for now. He had stated the law and received a promise of compliance. He turned to leave, and Wade felt a wave of relief. He'd survived.

Then, the commander paused at the door.

"One last thing, Mr. Wilson," Bywater said, turning back. His expression was now more curious than official. "It's just… a strange coincidence."

"I love coincidences," Wade said. "They're like God's little inside jokes."

Bywater's gaze was serious. "Just a few weeks past, the Hand of the King himself, Lord Arryn, was standing right where you are, asking Master Mott questions. A terrible tragedy, his sudden illness."

The words hit Wade like a physical blow. Illness. Not suspicion. Not investigation. The official story was already being written.

The fuse wasn't just lit. It was burning down to the bomb.

The two things Wade Wilson hated most in any universe were taxes and prequel spoilers. Ser Jacelyn Bywater had just dropped both in his lap. Jon Arryn was already sick. The clock wasn't just ticking anymore.

But before he could save the world, he had to save his own ass. Bywater was an honest cop in a crooked city, which made him dangerously unpredictable. A bribe wouldn't work. He needed legitimacy.

His immediate goal was to turn his fake identity into a real one, and fast.

As soon as Bywater was gone, Wade grabbed his terrified manager, Mathis, and pulled him into the small office at the back of the forge.

"Okay, emergency meeting of the 'Mr. Wilson Is a Totally Real Person' committee," Wade said, closing the door. "You're the only member. Congratulations."

Mathis was pale, sweating profusely. "He'll be back, Mr. Wilson! The Commander of the Iron Gate, he doesn't forget things! We'll be thrown in the black cells!"

"Relax, you're getting a promotion," Wade said, ignoring the panic. He dropped a purse heavy with gold dragons onto the small desk. It landed with a sound like a king's ambition. "You're no longer just a manager. You are now the Chief Creative Officer of my entire origin story."

Mathis stared at the gold. "I... I don't understand."

"It's simple. We need paperwork," Wade explained. "A history. A legend. I need Braavosi shipping manifests, Pentoshi trade letters, documents showing the transfer of funds through the Iron Bank. I need a paper trail so deep and boring that Ser Bywater would rather audit a brothel's linen supply than look at it twice."

The clerk's eyes widened in horror. "But... but that's forgery! Scribes who do that sort of work, they... they lose their hands if they're caught!"

"Which is why you're going to pay them enough to make it worth the risk," Wade said, pushing the purse forward. "Find the best forgers, the best counterfeit scribes in this entire sewer of a city. Spare no expense. I want my new identity to be more real than you are. You have three days."

Mathis fumbled with the heavy purse, his fear warring with the sheer, unbelievable weight of the gold. This was a death sentence, but it was a well-funded death sentence.

"Go on," Wade urged. "Your side quest awaits."

With his timid manager dispatched on a mission of high-level fraud, Wade was left alone with the bigger problem. Jon Arryn. A sudden illness. He knew exactly what that meant. The Tears of Lys were already in the wine glass.

He had days, maybe a week at most. His mission from Littlefinger was to spy on Stannis. To be a good little tool and report back. That was the smart play.

{Smart is slow! The old guy is dying NOW! You know what this means! Ned comes south! Lady dies! Everything goes to shit!}

The voice in his head was right. He'd come here with a vague idea of changing things, of saving his favorite characters. He was a Stark fanboy to his regenerating core. The whole reason he cared, the whole reason he was playing Littlefinger's game, was to eventually help them. If Jon Arryn died, Ned Stark was as good as dead, just on a longer timeline.

He had to save Ned. And the first step was saving Jon.

He paced the length of the forge, the rhythmic hammering from Gendry and Tobho Mott a counterpoint to his racing thoughts. Spying on Stannis was a dead end. Stannis was already suspicious; he'd never get close. It was a mission designed to keep Littlefinger's new toy busy and out of the way.

He had been hired as a chaos agent. It was time to live up to the job description.

The decision crystalized in his mind, sharp and clear. He wasn't going to follow Littlefinger's orders. He wasn't going to play it safe. He was going to break the game before it even started.

Screw the spies. Screw the mission. He was going to save Jon Arryn.

But how? He couldn't just walk up to the Tower of the Hand and knock on the door. "Excuse me, Mr. Hand Sir, your wife and her boyfriend from the Lannister fan club are trying to poison you. Also, I'm from the future. Tea?" He'd be executed for insanity before he got the words out.

He needed a way in. A way to get a message to the second-most powerful man in the kingdom, a man who was already sick and likely isolated. The Red Keep was a fortress. The Tower of the Hand was a fortress within that fortress. Every guard, every servant, was a potential obstacle or a spy for one of his enemies.

He stood by the roaring heat of the forge, an idea taking shape – an idea so stupid, so reckless, so quintessentially him that it had to work. He couldn't go through the front door. He couldn't be subtle.

So he would have to go over the top.

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Finding a specific servant in King's Landing was like trying to find a single, specific needle in a continent-sized haystack made of other, pointier needles. The Red Keep employed hundreds of people, and Jon Arryn's household in the Tower of the Hand had dozens more. Wade couldn't exactly put an ad in the Westeros Weekly.

He needed an in. A weak link. Someone with access, but who was unimportant enough to be overlooked. Someone overworked, underpaid, and susceptible to a little… flattery.

His goal was clear: find a chink in the Red Keep's armor, a servant in Jon Arryn's household he could turn, bribe, or... charm.

His first attempt was a spectacular failure. He went to a tavern near the Aegonfort, a known watering hole for off-duty guards and castle staff. He'd ditched his suit for a simple traveler's cloak, hood pulled low over his masked face. He sidled up to a group of gossiping kitchen hands.

"Evening, ladies," he said, trying for a suave, mysterious tone. "I hear the wine in the Tower of the Hand is particularly fine this season. Any truth to that?"

Four women turned to stare at him. The biggest one, a woman with arms like baked hams, planted her fists on her hips. "And who's askin'?"

"Just a humble wine connoisseur," Wade said. "An admirer of Lord Arryn's… cellar."

"You a spy?" another one asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Worse," the big one declared. "He's a bloody pervert with a face mask. Shove off before I use you to scrub the privy."

Wade beat a hasty retreat, the sound of their laughter following him out the door.

{Smooth. Real smooth. They totally wanted you.}

Shut up, Boxy. The direct approach isn't working. Time for Plan B: targeted bribery.

He found a wine merchant whose cart was a permanent fixture near the Mud Gate, a man known to supply many of the castle's kitchens. Wade, still cloaked as "Mr. Wilson," approached him not as a spy, but as a customer.

He bought a cask of expensive Arbor Gold, paying with three golden dragons when one would have sufficed. The merchant's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"A vintage year, my lord!" the merchant gushed. "For a man of your clear and obvious taste!"

"I'm looking to secure a larger contract," Wade said smoothly, swirling a sample in a cup. "Perhaps with one of the great houses. Lord Arryn, for example. But I'd need to know the preferences of his household. Specifically, Lady Arryn's ladies-in-waiting. A gift for the right person can open many doors."

The merchant, smelling more gold, leaned in conspiratorially. "The Lady Lysa has several ladies. But her personal handmaiden, the one who brings her her evening wine? That would be Elia. A young thing, from the Riverlands. Pretty, but quiet."

"Elia," Wade repeated. He'd found his needle. "And where might a man 'accidentally' bump into this quiet, pretty Elia?"

"She runs errands in the market square, most mornings," the merchant whispered, pocketing the dragons. "Buys sweet cakes for the Lady Lysa. A foolish expense, if you ask me."

"I'm not asking you," Wade said, tossing the man another silver. "Thanks for the tip."

The next morning, Wade was waiting. He'd positioned himself near the sweet cake stall, once again dressed as the mysterious Mr. Wilson. He didn't have to wait long. He spotted her immediately – a girl of maybe seventeen, with Tully-blue eyes and auburn hair pinned neatly under a servant's cap. She moved with a nervous energy, her eyes darting around the crowded market.

This was his moment. The stakes were Jon Arryn's life. The obstacle was the natural suspicion of a servant girl in a city of wolves.

He waited for her to purchase the cakes. As she turned, he "accidentally" bumped into a boy carrying a basket of oranges, sending them tumbling across the cobblestones. One of them rolled right to Elia's feet. It was a classic meet-cute, orchestrated with merc-like precision.

"Oh, my apologies!" Wade said, his voice full of concern as he helped the boy gather the fruit. He looked up, as if noticing Elia for the first time. "I am so sorry, my lady. Did I startle you?"

"It's… it's alright," she stammered, flustered by the sudden attention from a wealthy-looking man. "No harm done."

"No harm, save to my dignity," he said with a charming, self-deprecating laugh. His voice was warm and rich, a stark contrast to his hidden face. "Allow me to make it up to you. Please, your cakes."

Before she could protest, he'd paid the baker for her purchase, using a gold dragon and telling the man to keep the change. The baker bowed so low his nose nearly touched the counter.

Elia was speechless. "My lord, you mustn't! I cannot accept–"

"Nonsense," Wade said, his voice soft. "A man makes a mess, he should clean it up. Besides," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "it is a small price to pay for the chance to speak with the loveliest flower in this dreary market."

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She was a servant, invisible. This man, with his strange mask and rich clothes, saw her.

He walked with her for a short distance, making easy conversation. He spoke of his travels, painting a vague but romantic picture of the Free Cities. He was charming, witty, and he listened to her – truly listened – when she spoke of her simple life.

"I must return to the Keep," she finally said, her voice full of regret.

"Of course," Wade said. "But I find myself hoping this is not the last time we speak. Might I trouble you for your name?"

"Elia," she whispered.

"Elia," he repeated, tasting the name. "I am Wade. I will be near the fountain tomorrow morning. If you should happen to be running errands again, I would be honored if you would allow me to buy you another sweet cake."

She looked down, clutching the box of cakes to her chest. "I… perhaps."

It was all the promise he needed. He had the in. He had charmed her, disarmed her. She was the key. As she turned to leave, a small detail caught his eye. Pinned to the inside of her simple cloak was a small, crudely embroidered sigil. A tiny, grey mockingbird.

His blood ran cold.

The handmaiden he had just so perfectly charmed, his key to saving Jon Arryn from his wife, was already one of Littlefinger's spies. He wasn't charming a servant. He was walking into a trap.

Of course. Let's play the game.

Littlefinger.

The son of a bitch was everywhere. He didn't just have spies; he had spies spying on his own operations. Wade felt a grudging respect mixed with a boiling rage.

He couldn't back out now. That would signal that he knew. He couldn't confront her. That would show his hand. No, he had to play the part. He had to be the charming, mysterious suitor, all while knowing she was reporting every word back to the man who was paying his salary.

His new goal was a three-layer cake of deception. Layer one: keep the date. Layer two: feed her a tasty lie for Littlefinger to chew on. Layer three, the delicious creamy center: flip her.

He met her by the fountain the next morning as promised. She was even more nervous than before, clutching a small, empty basket. She looked like she hadn't slept.

"Elia," he said, his voice a warm smile. He offered her a small paper-wrapped package. "I hope you'll forgive my forwardness. A sweet cake to start the day."

"My lord… Wade," she corrected herself, blushing as she accepted the gift. "You are too kind. I am only a servant."

"And I'm just a man with a weird face-glove," he said with a laugh. "Let's not get hung up on titles. Walk with me?"

The obstacle was her mission. She was here to pump him for information. He could feel her working up the courage to ask the questions Littlefinger had no doubt supplied her with.

She didn't disappoint. "You said you were a traveler," she began, her voice soft. "What… what sort of business brings you to King's Landing? If you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all," Wade said, steering her toward a quieter garden path. He launched into the cover story he'd concocted. "I'm a treasure hunter, of a sort. I work for wealthy patrons in the Free Cities. They hire me to acquire… rare items. Antiques. Lost art. Things that have a habit of ending up in Westeros."

It was the perfect lie. It explained his money, his secrecy, and his presence in the capital, all while painting him as a romantic rogue instead of a hired thug. It was exactly the kind of story Littlefinger would find intriguing but impossible to immediately verify.

"That sounds… dangerous," she said, her eyes wide.

"It has its moments," he said with a shrug. "But it's worth it, to find something beautiful that was thought to be lost forever." He looked at her. "I find it's a passion of mine."

He saw the shift in her. The spy was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the seventeen-year-old girl captivated by a fairy tale. This was his opening.

He gently took her hand. She flinched, but didn't pull away. He turned it over. Her knuckles were red and chapped, her nails short and worn. The hands of a girl who spent her days scrubbing floors and wringing laundry.

"Your lady works you too hard," he said, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming genuinely soft.

Tears welled in Elia's eyes. She looked away, ashamed. "I am lucky to have a position in the Red Keep."

"Luck shouldn't leave scars," he said quietly. He reached into his cloak and produced a small, expensive-looking ceramic jar. "This is from Volantis. A lotion made from moon-petal oil. It will help."

He pressed it into her hand. It wasn't a bribe of gold. It was a gift of kindness. It was a gesture that had nothing to do with her use to him, and everything to do with her as a person. It was a weapon Littlefinger would never think to use. This was the compassion twist: he wasn't just trying to turn a spy; he was trying to rescue a victim.

She stared at the jar, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "Why are you being so kind to me?"

"Because kindness is the one treasure you can't buy," he said. He decided to press his advantage. "And because you look scared, Elia. You have for two days now. It's not just the city. You're afraid of your work, aren't you?"

She pulled her hand back, clutching the jar. The walls went up again. "I should go. Lady Lysa will be waiting."

"Wait," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I need a favor. Not for me. For a friend. Lord Arryn. I hear he is unwell."

Her face went pale. "He is… very sick, my lord. The Grand Maester sees him every day. We are all praying for him."

Grand Maester Pycelle. The name clicked into place with sickening certainty. Pycelle was a Lannister man. Of course he was the one treating him. He wasn't administering medicine; he was administering the poison.

"I have a message for Lord Arryn," Wade said, his voice low and urgent. "A remedy from the East. Something the maesters here wouldn't know. It must get to him. Not to his wife, not to the maesters. To him. Can you do that, Elia? Can you help me save an old man's life?"

He was asking her to betray her masters. Not just Littlefinger, but Lysa Arryn herself. He was asking her to choose a side. Her terrified silence was the answer. She was too deep in the web, too afraid to move.

He had his payoff. He knew where she stood, and he had confirmed Pycelle's involvement.

"It's alright," Wade said, his voice softening again. He could see she was about to break. He backed off. "Don't worry about it. It was too much to ask." He gave her a sad smile. "Stay safe, Elia. Use the lotion."

He turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the garden, clutching a sweet cake, a jar of expensive lotion, and a terrible choice.

He hadn't flipped her. Not yet. But he had planted the seed. He had shown her that there was another option besides being Littlefinger's pawn. And sometimes, a seed was all you needed.

But he was out of time for gardening. Jon Arryn was being actively poisoned by the Grand Maester. His new target wasn't the Hand's wife or his spies. It was the man with the maester's chain and the vial of poison. He had a new name on his list. Grand Maester Pycelle. And it was time to make a house call.

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Grand Maester Pycelle. The name was a snake pit. The man was old, lecherous, and a dyed-in-the-wool Lannister toady. He was the perfect suspect, the obvious culprit. Wade felt a surge of righteous, world-saving fury. This was it. This was the moment he became a hero.

He stormed back to the Street of Silk, a plan forming in his head. He couldn't get into Pycelle's chambers in the Red Keep, not without an army. So he'd lure the snake out of the pit.

His goal was simple and brutally effective: get the Grand Maester alone, get the truth, and get the antidote – or at least stop the poison from being administered.

He found Alayna in the same plush, velvet-lined establishment as before. She was reviewing an account book, a picture of cool, professional calm.

"We need to talk," Wade said, sliding into the seat opposite her. He placed a purse on the table that was so heavy with gold it didn't jingle, it thudded.

Alayna raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You have my attention, my lord… Deadpool."

"I need to arrange a private consultation with a VIP," Wade said, his voice low. "Grand Maester Pycelle. I know he's a… patron of certain establishments."

"The Grand Maester values his privacy," Alayna said, her eyes flicking to the purse. "And we are the soul of discretion. The price reflects that."

"I'm not just buying his time," Wade clarified. "I'm buying the room. I'm buying your staff's silence. I need him comfortable, relaxed. Drunk enough to get boastful, but not so drunk he passes out. I need him to think he's about to have the night of his life with the most beautiful new girl from Lys you can invent."

Alayna's professional smile didn't falter, but her eyes were sharp. This was more than a simple request. "You're not buying an evening. You are renting my entire establishment for a single performance. And you are asking my girls to put themselves at risk with a man who serves the Queen. That will cost you everything in that purse. And more."

"Done," Wade said without hesitation. He pushed the purse across the table. "Just get him here."

The trap was set.

Two nights later, Wade was hidden in the shadows of a luxurious chamber, concealed behind a heavy tapestry. The room was scented with jasmine and furnished with silks. Alayna had delivered. She'd sent a message to Pycelle about a stunning Lyseni girl, a new arrival too exotic and expensive for anyone but the most discerning connoisseur. The old man's vanity and lust were the bait.

He heard Pycelle's wheezing voice in the hall before he saw him. The old Maester entered the room, looking around with a greedy, self-satisfied smirk. He was followed by a stunning young woman with silver-blonde hair whom Wade had never seen before. She was playing the part of the nervous, exotic beauty perfectly.

"Leave us," Pycelle ordered the attendants, already shrugging off his heavy chain of office and placing it on a nearby table.

The girl, Lyra, poured him a cup of wine. "Is it true, my lord?" she asked, her voice a sultry whisper. "That you are the Grand Maester? The most learned man in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"It is," Pycelle preened, taking a large gulp of wine. "I advise the King himself. Indeed, the health of the entire realm rests in my hands. Even now, I am tending to the Hand of the King himself, Lord Arryn."

"He is very sick, I hear," Lyra said, leaning closer. "It must be a terrible burden."

"A summer fever," Pycelle scoffed, waving a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. "A flux of the bowels. The man is old. His humors are out of balance. Nothing a learned man like myself cannot handle. He complains, but he takes his medicine like a good boy."

Wade tensed behind the tapestry, his hand on the hilt of a katana. Medicine. He means the poison.

"And what medicine does a great lord take?" Lyra asked, tracing a finger along his arm.

"Milk of the poppy for his pain, a drop of nightshade to cool the fever, a potion of my own devising to calm his stomach," Pycelle boasted. He drained his cup and held it out for more. "They are standard treatments, my dear. Simple, effective. He will be right as rain in a fortnight. Or he won't. The Seven decide in the end."

He chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound. Wade had heard enough.

He stepped out from behind the tapestry. "The class is over, doctor."

Pycelle shrieked, spilling wine down his front. Lyra slipped out of the room as silently as she had entered. The Grand Maester stared at the man in the red and black suit, his eyes wide with terror.

"Who… who are you?" he stammered.

"I'm the second opinion," Wade said, advancing on him. "We need to talk about your prescription for Jon Arryn. Specifically, the Tears of Lys you've been mixing in with the 'milk of the poppy'."

Pycelle's face went from pale to ghostly white. He scrambled backward, tripping over a stool. "Tears of Lys? Are you mad? That's poison! I am a Maester of the Citadel! I have sworn an oath!"

"Oaths can be broken," Wade snarled, grabbing the old man's robes and hauling him to his feet. He was furious. This was the villain, right here. "Where is the antidote, you old monster? How do you reverse it?"

"Reverse what?" Pycelle cried, genuine tears of fear streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. "It was a fever! A terrible one, but just a fever! I brought my bag! Look for yourself!" He pointed a trembling finger at a leather satchel near the door.

Wade, never taking his eyes off the Maester, dragged him over to the bag and kicked it open with his foot. Vials and pouches spilled onto the floor. He recognized the milky white of the poppy, the dark tint of nightshade. He saw dried herbs, salves, and bandages. There was no secret compartment, no hidden vial of colorless, odorless poison. It was just the messy, disorganized kit of an arrogant, old-school doctor.

The terrible, embarrassing truth crashed down on him.

Pycelle wasn't a poisoner. Not yet, anyway. He was just an incompetent old fool who was treating a serious illness with outdated methods. Jon Arryn wasn't being murdered. He was dying of natural causes and bad medicine.

Wade had just spent a fortune, terrorized an old man, and risked exposing himself to the entire Red Keep… for nothing. He had jumped the gun, seeing a conspiracy in what was just a sad, mundane tragedy.

He let go of Pycelle's robes. The Grand Maester crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

Wade stood there, the silence of the room punctuated by the old man's whimpers. He had never felt so utterly, completely stupid in his life. He was a Stark fanboy who had gotten his timeline wrong.

The walk back to the forge from the Street of Silk was the longest walk of Wade Wilson's life. Humiliation was a cold, bitter companion. He'd been so sure, so cocky. He'd played the hero, and all he'd done was terrorize a senior citizen and blow a fortune.

{So, just to be clear, the big bad guy we just spent a king's ransom to unmask... is just a quack with a medical license?}

Healer's license, Wade corrected mentally, his head throbbing. And yes. We're idiots.

{Embarrassing. Truly, deeply embarrassing.}

He stormed into the forge, the pre-dawn light just beginning to filter through the grimy windows. Gendry was already up, stoking the coals. The boy grunted a greeting and went back to his work. The simple, honest labor felt like a judgment.

Wade's immediate goal was damage control. He needed to figure out how to salvage this self-inflicted disaster.

The first consequence of his failure arrived just after sunrise. Mathis, his perpetually terrified manager, burst into the forge, looking even more panicked than usual.

"Mr. Wilson! Sir!" he gasped, holding a stack of pristine, officially sealed documents. "The papers! They're done! The forgers worked all night. It's a masterpiece! A complete history of your Braavosi trading concern, all properly aged and stamped!"

Wade took the papers. They were perfect. Mathis had succeeded. Under normal circumstances, this would be a triumph. Today, it felt like putting a fresh coat of paint on a sinking ship.

"Good work, Mathis," Wade said, his voice flat. "Pay the men and tell them to forget they ever met you."

"But sir, there's more," Mathis said, wringing his hands. "There are rumors… all over the city. They're saying a demon attacked the Grand Maester in a brothel last night. That he was raving about poison and the Hand of the King."

Wade's blood ran cold. Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, a terrified Grand Maester Pycelle was kneeling on the floor of Queen Cersei Lannister's solar. He recounted the story, his voice trembling, embellishing every detail to make himself look like a brave victim rather than a man caught with his robes down.

"...and this creature, Your Grace, this demon in red and black, he accused me of poisoning the Hand!" Pycelle wailed. "He held a blade to my throat! He demanded to know about the Tears of Lys!"

Cersei listened, her beautiful face a mask of polite concern. Her twin brother, Jaime, stood by the window, polishing a gauntlet, his expression bored.

"A demon, you say?" Cersei asked, her voice like silk. "How… theatrical."

"It was terrifying, Your Grace! I fear for my life! I fear for the Hand's life!"

When Pycelle had finally been dismissed, still sniveling, Jaime turned from the window. "A demon? In a brothel? Sounds like the old fool drank too much sour wine."

Cersei was silent for a long moment, her green eyes distant. She tapped a single, perfectly manicured finger on the arm of her chair. The thought had been a whisper in the back of her mind for months. Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon, digging into the past. Asking questions. Getting closer to the truth about her children. The truth that would get them all killed.

Pycelle's tale, meant to garner sympathy, had instead planted a seed. A demon accusing the Hand's doctor of poison. It wasn't a report. It was an inspiration.

"Perhaps," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Or perhaps the gods have sent us a sign. The Hand has been a nuisance. And this… demon… has given us a wonderful idea of how to solve the problem. And precisely who to blame when it is done."

Jaime stopped polishing. He looked at his sister, and for the first time, he saw the chilling resolve in her eyes. The game had just changed, and Wade had just accidentally handed the Queen the dagger.

Wade's second consequence arrived that evening. A perfumed note was delivered to the forge by a silent messenger. It contained a single line: "I believe we have business to discuss. Alayna."

He found her not in the main brothel, but in a private, sumptuously decorated apartment above it. The air smelled of wine and sandalwood. She was lounging on a chaise, wearing a silk robe that left very little to the imagination.

She dismissed her attendants, leaving the two of them alone.

"Your performance last night was… expensive," Alayna began, pouring two cups of Dornish Red. "And, from what I gather, unsuccessful."

"He was clean," Wade grunted, accepting the wine. He didn't take off his mask.

"He was," she agreed. "But you are not. No simple 'treasure hunter' throws that kind of gold around to interrogate a Maester about state secrets. You are playing in a very dangerous game, Wade. And right now, you are playing it badly."

She stood and walked toward him, the silk of her robe whispering with every step. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body.

"I have a network," she said, her voice a low, seductive murmur. "Gossip from guards, secrets from lords, pillow talk from the most powerful men in the city. It is a web of information far more reliable than Littlefinger's whispers or Varys's little birds. I can provide you with the truth. For a price, of course."

"And what's the price?" Wade asked, his own voice raspy.

Alayna reached up and slowly, deliberately, traced the outline of his masked jaw with a single finger. Her touch was electric.

"My price is a partnership," she whispered, her eyes locking onto his. "You have the gold and the muscle. I have the information and the access. Together, we could own this city."

She leaned in, her lips hovering just inches from his mask. "But first… I want to know who I'm getting into bed with. Literally. Show me your face, Wade Wilson. Show me the man behind the mask."

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Alayna's words hung in the air, thick as the perfumed smoke from a nearby brazier. "Show me the man behind the mask."

It was a power play. A demand for vulnerability. A test. Wade's mind raced. Was this her own curiosity, or was it a command from one of his invisible employers? Littlefinger testing his new asset's obedience? Varys trying to unmask an anomaly?

He knew one thing for sure: the mask stayed on. But he could still give her what she wanted. Control. Or at least, the illusion of it.

His immediate goal was to flip the script. She wanted to unmask him for information; he would use the seduction to unmask her true allegiances.

Wade let out a low chuckle, a sound that was surprisingly warm through the fabric of his mask. He didn't step back. He stepped closer.

"Where's the fun in that?" he murmured, his voice a low counterpoint to her whisper. "The mystery is half the appeal. You don't ask a magician to reveal his tricks before the grand finale."

He reached up, but not for his own mask. His gloved fingers gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek. "A woman as smart as you knows that a man who hides his face hides his secrets. But a woman who runs the city's secrets from a silk bed… whose secrets is she keeping?"

Alayna's composure was flawless, but he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. He wasn't resisting; he was challenging her. He was turning her test into a game.

"I work for myself," she said, her voice smooth as glass. "The only side I'm on is my own."

"I believe you," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "But I think you've had partners before. And I think you know exactly how to stay on the winning side." He leaned in, his masked lips just beside her ear. "So let's negotiate our partnership. But let's do it somewhere… more comfortable."

He didn't wait for an answer. He took her hand and led her towards the bed. He had seized the momentum. This was no longer her seducing him for answers; it was a mutual interrogation, a dance of two predators sizing each other up.

The progression was in the shifting power dynamic. Every touch, every whispered question was a move on the board.

"You're a confident man," she breathed as he guided her onto the plush mattress, "for someone who won't even show his face."

"Confidence is the only currency that matters in this city," he countered, his hands tracing the silk of her robe. "You should know that better than anyone."

He moved over her, a shadow in red and black. He kissed her, the strange sensation of the fabric of his mask pressing against her lips. It was weird, unsettling, and utterly intoxicating. It was a kiss that gave away nothing and took everything.

In the haze of passion and perfume, the interrogation continued, veiled in pillow talk.

"Your stunt with Pycelle was loud," she murmured later, tracing patterns on his chest. "Varys knew about it before the old man was done crying."

"The Spider has ears everywhere," Wade grunted, testing her.

Alayna let out a soft, knowing laugh. "His little birds see everything," she said, her voice laced with a professional's disdain. "But they don't hear everything. Not the important whispers. For that, you need quality, not quantity. You need a mockingbird, not a flock of sparrows."

There it was. The payoff.

It wasn't a confession. It was a professional opinion, delivered with the casual authority of someone who knew the inner workings of both spy networks intimately. And it revealed a subtle but unmistakable bias. She was comparing the two spymasters, and she was complimenting Littlefinger's methods. She was in Baelish's orbit. At the very least, she was a friendly power, if not a direct subordinate.

And that's where the questions stopped and the night began…

"Wooo-hoooo," he shouted as he rolled away from her, a contented smile on his face.

He had his answer. She worked for herself, yes – but she worked with Petyr Baelish. This whole seduction was almost certainly a loyalty test ordered by his own boss.

He had played the game and won. He had confirmed his suspicions, kept his mask on, and established a new, powerful alliance – even if it was one built on a mountain of lies.

Alayna shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him, a languid, satisfied smile on her own face. Her guard was down, but her mind was as sharp as ever. The game wasn't over.

"So," she purred, her finger tracing the edge of his mask again, this time with a newfound familiarity. "Do we have a partnership, Wade? Are you in bed with me now?"

He looked into her intelligent, calculating eyes. He was in her bed, yes. But her question was much, much deeper. He was Littlefinger's agent. She was Littlefinger's associate. Was this a genuine alliance, or was Baelish just putting his two sharpest toys in the same box to see which one would break the other?

Wade woke to the scent of sandalwood and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Alayna was already awake, sitting in a chair across the room, wrapped in a fresh silk robe and sipping from a cup of tea. She looked less like a woman after a night of passion and more like a general reviewing battlefield reports.

"Good morning," she said, her voice crisp and business-like. "I've had breakfast sent up."

"Right," Wade mumbled, sitting up. "Business and pleasure. Or in our case, business as pleasure." He felt a strange mix of satisfaction and unease. He'd gotten what he wanted, but he knew, with chilling certainty, that he'd just been the subject of a very thorough performance review.

A knock at the door revealed one of Alayna's servants, holding a silver tray. But it wasn't breakfast. It was a single, folded piece of parchment, sealed not with wax, but with a single, pressed pansy.

Alayna took it, her expression unreadable. She handed it to Wade. "For you."

Wade opened it. The note contained a simple charcoal drawing of a mockingbird perched on a forge's anvil. Beneath it was a single word: Now. It was a summons. An urgent one. Littlefinger had received Elia's report.

His goal for the day was suddenly, sharply in focus: he had to sell the performance of a lifetime to the greatest liar in Westeros.

"It seems our new partnership is already bearing fruit," Wade said, showing Alayna the drawing.

"The Master of Coin values timeliness," was all she said, her eyes betraying nothing. "Don't keep him waiting."

The meeting wasn't at the shipping office. This time, a silent guide led Wade to a small, discreet manse in a wealthy part of the city. The opulence was understated but immense. This was where Littlefinger lived, not just where he worked. The air of power was thicker here.

Petyr Baelish was in a walled garden, observing a row of immaculate rose bushes. He didn't turn as Wade approached.

"Pansies," Littlefinger said, his voice calm and pleasant. "A fascinating flower. They represent thought. Memory. A fitting symbol for a man who trades in secrets, wouldn't you agree?" He finally turned, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "I've heard the most charming story, Mr. Wilson. About a mysterious 'treasure hunter' from the Free Cities."

The obstacle was clear. This was not a debriefing. It was an interrogation disguised as a friendly chat.

"Elia is a sweet girl," Littlefinger continued, stroking a rose petal. "But she has a tendency to believe romantic stories. Tell me, this treasure hunter… is he any good at his job?"

"The best," Wade said, leaning against a stone pillar and projecting an air of casual confidence he absolutely did not feel. "My patrons are very specific. They desire items of historical value from Westeros. Old Valyrian steel daggers, dragonbone bows, that sort of thing. I came to King's Landing following a lead on a Targaryen artifact, allegedly lost during the sack of the city."

He was weaving his lie, embellishing it with details that sounded authentic. "I bought the forge to have a secure base of operations. A place to examine and repair my findings without attracting the attention of the Gold Cloaks or… rival collectors."

Littlefinger listened, his head tilted. He seemed to be buying it. Wade had taken the initiative, created a cover, and used Baelish's own money to solidify it. In Littlefinger's world of calculating ambition, this was a sign of a competent, useful tool.

"How wonderfully proactive," Baelish said, and for the first time, Wade felt the compliment was genuine. These were his results. He'd passed the test. "Your cover story is… serviceable. And it has opened a new and exciting opportunity for us."

The stakes were about to go up.

"My other inquiries have hit a wall," Littlefinger said, beginning to stroll down the garden path. Wade fell into step beside him. "Lord Stannis is a stone wall. Impossible to get close to. But a man like you, a 'treasure hunter' with an interest in rare artifacts… you might be able to approach him from a different angle."

He stopped beside a small fountain. "Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis have been spending their time researching history. Genealogy, to be specific. They have become obsessed with one particular book."

Littlefinger locked eyes with Wade, his expression sharp and serious. "It is a massive, dry tome written by a Grand Maester decades ago. It is called The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms."

The title hit Wade like a lightning bolt. That's it! The book! The one with the Baratheon hair colors! He had to physically restrain himself from shouting "Eureka!" and doing a happy dance. He kept his expression neutral, a mask of professional curiosity. This was the payoff, a direct hit on the main plot's bullseye.

"Stannis has requested a copy from the Citadel," Littlefinger continued. "He spends hours with it. I want to know why. I want you to acquire that book, Mr. Wilson. Use your cover. Claim you have a buyer for it in Pentos. Bribe the Citadel's librarians, steal it from Stannis's study, I don't care. Get me that book. I want to read what the Hand of the King is reading."

It was a direct order that aligned perfectly with Wade's own secret mission. He could expose the Lannister secret and deliver a win for Littlefinger at the same time. It was perfect.

"Consider it found," Wade said.

He turned to leave, feeling a surge of triumph. He was ten steps ahead of everyone. He was in control.

"Oh, and Mr. Wilson?" Littlefinger's voice, soft as silk, stopped him dead.

Wade turned back.

"Alayna sends her regards," Baelish said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "She says you make a… compelling business partner. Do try not to damage her inventory. Good help is so hard to find."

The triumphant feeling in Wade's chest evaporated, replaced by an icy chill. The message was unmistakable. I know about last night. I know everything. You are my piece, and you will move where I tell you to move.

He had passed the test, yes. But he had just been firmly reminded who was writing it.

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

The last person Wade Wilson wanted to see standing in his forge was Ser Jacelyn Bywater. The honest cop was back, his face as grim and unreadable as ever. Worse, he had Mathis with him. Wade's timid manager looked like he was being personally escorted to his own execution.

"Mr. Wilson," Bywater said, his voice leaving no room for pleasantries. "A moment of your time."

Gendry stopped hammering, his shoulders tense. Even he could smell the trouble.

Wade's heart did a little tap dance in his chest, but he forced a relaxed posture, leaning against a workbench. His immediate goal was brutally simple: survive the next ten minutes without getting himself or his pet clerk thrown in a dungeon.

"Commander Bywater! Always a pleasure," Wade said, his tone breezy. "Have you come to commission a sword? I can highly recommend our 'City Watch Commander's Discount.' It's a ten percent surcharge for the honor of your patronage."

Bywater was not amused. "I was just having a word with your man Mathis here. He was delivering these to the records office at the Guildhall." He held up the sheaf of pristine documents – Wade's entire fabricated history. "Very thorough. Almost… too thorough."

Mathis looked like he might spontaneously combust from sheer terror.

"I don't believe in half measures, Commander," Wade said smoothly. "When I do something, I do it properly. My business partners in the Free Cities demand meticulous records."

"So I see," Bywater said, pulling one sheet from the stack. "This seal, here. From the Iron Bank of Braavos. It's a perfect copy. I've never seen a forger in King's Landing capable of such detail."

This was the obstacle. A direct challenge. Bywater wasn't just checking the boxes; he was testing the structural integrity of the entire lie.

Wade clapped a hand on Mathis's shoulder. "And you won't, Commander. This is why I have Mathis. He handles my… international correspondence. The seal was affixed in Braavos before the documents were ever sent. Isn't that right, Mathis?"

Mathis, shaking like a leaf, looked at the document. He swallowed hard, but then a flicker of professionalism, the pride of a lifelong clerk, took over. "Y-yes, Mr. Wilson. The seal is pressed into the vellum with a heated die, a mixture of iron dust and squid ink from the northern shoals. A King's Landing forger would use common candle-wax and soot. The difference is… is obvious to the trained eye."

He delivered the lines with a tremor, but the details were impeccable. It was the best kind of lie: one wrapped in a layer of boring, verifiable truth.

Bywater stared at Mathis, then back at Wade. The Commander was sharp, but he was a soldier, not a banker. The explanation, delivered with the terrified certainty of a subject matter expert, was just plausible enough.

"I see," Bywater said finally. He handed the papers back to Mathis. "See that they are filed correctly. I'll be checking." He gave Wade a long, hard look. "A word of advice, Mr. Wilson. Eccentric foreigners with deep pockets tend to attract the wrong sort of attention in this city. Watch your back."

Oh, Bywater had no idea how much trouble he had already gotten into, did he?

With that, he turned and left the forge.

The moment he was gone, Mathis's legs gave out and he slumped onto a crate, gasping for air. Wade let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. They had passed. His cover was, for all intents and purposes, now officially legitimate. A huge step in advancement.

"Mathis," Wade said, grinning. "You are a goddamn artist. I'm giving you a raise."

His relief was short-lived. No sooner had Mathis staggered off to actually file the papers than one of Alayna's messengers appeared at the door. The boy was silent, discreet, and handed Wade a note before vanishing.

It was a summons. She has news.

He found her in her apartment, the scent of their previous encounter still lingering in the air. She was all business.

"I trust your meeting with our mutual friend was productive," she said, pouring wine.

"He wants a book," Wade said. "The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses."

Alayna nodded, unsurprised. "Then you'll have to be quick about it." She pushed a piece of parchment across the table. It was a shipping manifest. "This came to me from a clerk at the harbormaster's office. A man with expensive tastes."

Wade picked it up. It detailed the cargo and passenger list for a ship called The Storm Dancer.

"Lord Stannis Baratheon has booked passage," Alayna said, her voice cool and precise. "He is sailing for Dragonstone. In two days."

The stakes didn't just rise; they launched into orbit. The mission now had a deadline. A hard one.

Wade's mind raced. Two days. Less than forty-eight hours to get the book before Stannis took it with him, potentially forever. He had the what. Now he had the when. The payoff was a ticking clock.

He had two possible targets. The Red Keep's library, where a copy might be stored under lock and key. A fortress of knowledge, guarded by scholars and Gold Cloaks.

Or he could go directly to the source: Stannis's manse. The home of the most paranoid, rigid, and unyielding man in the Seven Kingdoms. It would be less heavily guarded than the Keep itself, but the security would be personal, hand-picked, and fanatically loyal.

Two targets. Two days. One book. He had to choose, and he had to choose now. The success of his entire mission, and Jon Arryn's life, depended on it.

Wade felt a familiar, frantic energy buzzing under his skin. This was his element. Chaos. Impossibility. A deadline.

He stood in Alayna's apartment, the shipping manifest clutched in his hand. "Two targets," he said, thinking aloud. "The Red Keep library, or Stannis's personal study. Fortress A or Fortress B."

Alayna took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. "A frontal assault, or a surgical strike. One has more guards, the other has smarter ones."

"Exactly," Wade said, pacing the room. "Which is why I'm not going in blind." He stopped and looked at her, his masked face intense. "You said you had a network. You said you had information. Prove it. I need layouts. Guard rotations. Weak points. I need blueprints for both."

His goal was clear: leverage his new partnership to get the intel he needed to make the right choice and pull off the impossible.

Alayna's lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. The moment her new partner stopped being a chaotic force and started being a strategic one. The moment he truly started to rely on her.

"Information is my business, Wade," she said, rising from her chaise. "And business is good."

She led him to a heavy, iron-bound chest in the corner of the room. She unlocked it with a small, intricate key she wore on a chain around her neck. The obstacle wasn't a lack of information, but its organization. She wasn't a spymaster with a filing system; she was a collector of secrets.

She lifted the heavy lid. The chest was filled with scrolls, parchments, ledgers, and loose sheets of vellum. It looked like a scholar's nightmare.

"Everything I hear, everything I am paid, everything I learn… it ends up here," she explained, her hands deftly sorting through the pile. "A guard captain complains about a drafty patrol route in the Maegor's Holdfast. A stonemason boasts about the secret passages he built for the Targaryens. A serving girl laments the long walk to the kitchens from the library." She pulled out a rolled-up scroll tied with a faded red ribbon. "It's all just noise, until you know which question to ask."

She unrolled the scroll on a large table. It was a detailed architectural drawing of the Red Keep's main floors, hand-drawn by a master builder decades ago. It had been payment for a week's worth of pleasure from a man long since dead.

"The library," she said, tracing a route with her finger, "is here. Deep in the castle. Only one public entrance, always guarded. The windows are high and narrow. Almost impossible to get in or out unseen."

She then pointed to a thin, almost invisible line on the drawing. "But… there is a dumbwaiter. The librarians use it to send meals up and down from a small service kitchen two floors below. It is old, narrow, and rarely used at night."

Next, she pulled out a smaller, newer piece of parchment. It was a simple floor plan, the kind a nobleman might draw up for a decorator. It showed Stannis Baratheon's manse.

"Lord Stannis is a man of routine," Alayna said, her tone shifting to one of cool analysis. "His security is professional and disciplined. No drunkards, no gossips. They are former soldiers, loyal to him personally." She tapped the largest room on the map. "His study. Ground floor. One door, one window. The window has a new iron grille, installed last month. The door has a lock imported from Myr. They say only three keys exist."

It was an incredible, detailed intelligence briefing. This was the goooood stuff. Alayna had proven her worth ten times over.

Wade studied the two maps, his mind working like a machine.

The library: High risk, high reward. A complex infiltration with many moving parts – guards, servants, the dumbwaiter. If he got caught, he'd be in the heart of the royal castle, a place from which there was no escape.

The manse: A simpler target, but a harder shell. Fewer variables, but each one was tougher. Fanatically loyal guards, a masterwork lock, a paranoid owner. If he got caught, it wouldn't be by a random Gold Cloak, but by Stannis's personal household guard.

"The lock from Myr," Wade mused, tapping the map of the manse. "Can it be picked?"

"Not by any locksmith in King's Landing," Alayna said confidently. "Stannis tested it himself."

"Perfect," Wade said, a wide, manic grin spreading under his mask. He had his micro-payoff. He had his decision.

Alayna looked at him, confused. "Perfect? I just told you it's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," Wade said, rolling up the floor plan of the manse. "You just need the right tool. And I happen to own a forge run by the best master smith in the city."

He looked at Alayna, a new level of respect in his eyes. "You've done your part. Now it's time for me to do mine."

He knew his target. He wasn't going to sneak into the library. He was going to break into the un-breakable study of the most stubborn man in Westeros. It was riskier, crazier, and infinitely more fun.

——————————

Read more at pat reon /MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

With less than thirty-six hours on the clock, Wade Wilson went into mission-prep overdrive. There was no room for error, no time for hesitation. He was about to poke a stick at one of the angriest bears in the Seven Kingdoms. He needed a better stick.

His goal was a triathlon of criminal enterprise: forge the perfect tool, case the damn joint, and create a hell of a distraction. It was time for a montage.

Wade strode into his forge, the morning sun casting long shadows from the anvils. Tobho Mott was already at work, the rhythmic clang of his hammer the forge's heartbeat.

"Mott, my man!" Wade called out, unrolling the floor plan of Stannis's manse on a workbench. "I have a challenge for your genius-level brain."

The old smith grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm a smith, not a bloody architect. What is this?"

"This," Wade said, tapping the drawing of the study door, "is a lock. From Myr. They say it's un-pickable."

Mott squinted at the drawing, then at Wade. "Are you planning on becoming a thief, Mr. Wilson? On top of your other… eccentricities?"

"I'm a treasure hunter, remember?" Wade said smoothly. "Sometimes the treasure is behind a very, very stubborn door. I need a key. Or rather, the things that pretend to be a key. Torsion wrenches, diamond picks, rakes… the whole kit. But made from the best steel you have. Strong enough not to break, fine enough to feel the tumblers."

Tobho Mott looked from the schematic to the pouch of gold Wade placed on the bench. A slow, craftsman's smile spread across his craggy face. A challenge. A real one. "Un-pickable, they say? Bah. The Myrish are good at glass, not steel. Give me six hours."

While Mott and his apprentices (including a very confused Gendry) began the delicate work of crafting masterwork lockpicks, Wade went to work. He found a room to let in a flophouse directly opposite Stannis Baratheon's manse. The view was terrible, the smell was worse, but it gave him a perfect, unobstructed vantage point.

For the next ten hours, he did nothing but watch. He was a statue in the grimy window, his eyes, hidden by the lenses of his mask, absorbing every detail.

He saw the guards. Four on duty at all times. They didn't stand still; they patrolled. Their routes were precise, overlapping. They changed shifts every four hours, a quick, professional process. No chatter, no slouching. Alayna was right. These men were soldiers.

He saw Stannis himself leave once, in a plain carriage, flanked by two guards. He was gone for three hours. The security didn't relax one bit.

He saw the servants. A cook buying vegetables. A maid shaking out a rug. They moved with purpose. No one loitered.

The house was a fortress of discipline. A direct assault was suicide. But he saw one thing. A pattern. Every night, at the eleventh hour, a cart came to collect the refuse from the kitchens. It was the only time the back gate was opened, and for ninety seconds, the two guards on that side were occupied with the carter. It wasn't a weakness. It was a pinhole. But a pinhole was all he needed.

That evening, Wade headed to Flea Bottom. Not to the fighting pits, but to a dingy tavern known as The Rusty Helm, a favored haunt of a local gang of thugs called the Mud Gate Boys. Their leader was a brute named Kegs, a man with more muscle than sense, and a deep love for coin.

Wade, cloaked as Mr. Wilson, found Kegs holding court in a dark corner. He didn't waste time with pleasantries. He dropped a heavy purse of silver on the table.

Kegs eyed the purse, then the masked man. "What's this?"

"A business proposal," Wade said. "Tomorrow night, at the tenth hour, I want you and your boys to start a riot."

Kegs grunted. "We're good at riots. Where?"

"The Street of Sisters. As close to the harbor as you can get." It was half a mile from Stannis's manse – close enough to be heard, far enough not to be an immediate threat to the house itself.

"A riot's expensive," Kegs said, his greedy eyes on the purse. "City Watch cracks heads. Costs me men."

"I don't want a real riot," Wade clarified. "I want a performance. A loud one. I want you to make it look like a turf war with a rival gang. Lots of shouting, lots of overturned carts, maybe one small, easily contained fire. I want you to draw the Gold Cloaks, the big city-wide patrol, to that specific spot. Keep them busy for an hour. Nobody has to get seriously hurt. And for this performance…" He slid a second, even heavier purse onto the table. This one was filled with gold.

Kegs stared at the gold. His eyes widened. For that much money, he'd start a war with the Dothraki.

Well, on second thought… maybe not…

"You got yourself a riot, mister," Kegs rumbled, sweeping the purses into a sack.

Wade returned to his forge just before midnight. The tools, the intel, and the distraction were all in place. The entire plan was a delicate, dangerous machine.

Tobho Mott was waiting for him. On a velvet cloth atop his personal anvil lay a set of the most beautiful, wicked-looking tools Wade had ever seen. They were dark, almost black steel, impossibly thin and brutally strong.

"I call it 'The Master's Key'," Mott said with a proud grin. "If that door can be opened, these will open it."

Wade picked up one of the tension wrenches. The balance was perfect. He had the tools. He had the timing. He had the distraction. All the pieces were on the board.

Now, all he had to do was not get killed while he put them together.

The night air of King's Landing was cool and damp, a welcome relief from the day's oppressive heat. Wade Wilson moved through the shadows of the city like a phantom, a splash of deadly color against the drab grey stone. He was a coiled spring, every muscle thrumming with adrenaline and anticipation. In a pouch at his side, wrapped in soft velvet, lay Tobho Mott's masterpiece: a set of lockpicks so exquisitely crafted they felt more like surgical instruments than a burglar's tools.

In the distance, toward the harbor, a faint uproar was beginning to build. Shouts, the splintering of wood, the collective roar of a mob. Kegs and the Mud Gate Boys were earning their gold. The distraction had begun, right on schedule.

His mission clock was ticking down. Everything was in place. He was in his element, a perfect predator on a perfect hunt. His goal was absolute: get over the wall, open the un-openable lock, grab the book, and melt back into the night before anyone was the wiser.

He turned a corner onto a dark, narrow street that would lead him to the back of Stannis Baratheon's property, when a figure stepped out from the mouth of an alley, blocking his path.

"A bit of a chaotic night to be taking a stroll, wouldn't you say, Mr. Wilson?"

Wade froze. The voice was calm, measured, and utterly unwelcome. He looked up to see Ser Jacelyn Bywater, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression one of weary professionalism. Two grim-faced Gold Cloaks stood behind him, their spears held at the ready.

"Commander Bywater! Fancy meeting you here," Wade said, forcing a casual tone that felt utterly fake even to his own ears. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd take in the local nightlife. Sounds like there's a festival down by the docks."

"It's a gang riot," Bywater corrected him, his eyes sharp and analytical, missing nothing. "The Mud Gate Boys, by the sound of it. We're setting up a perimeter. It's strange, finding you here. This is a quiet street, far from any tavern or brothel. It leads almost nowhere… except to the back of Lord Stannis Baratheon's manse."

The Commander's words were a physical blow. This wasn't a random encounter. Bywater was smart, methodical. He was connecting dots Wade didn't even know he'd left behind. This was the first, and possibly last, obstacle of the night.

"Is that so?" Wade feigned ignorance, glancing around as if just noticing his surroundings. "My sense of direction is terrible. I'm a foreigner, you know. All these winding streets look the same. I was just looking for a shortcut back to the Street of Steel."

"A shortcut," Bywater repeated, his voice flat with disbelief. He took a step forward, the torchlight from his men's lanterns glinting off his ringmail. "Lord Stannis is the King's brother. His residence is afforded a certain level of protection, even on a quiet night. Especially on a night that is suddenly not so quiet."

The commander's gaze dropped to the pouches on Wade's belt. "You are a man of many talents, Mr. Wilson. A new forge owner. An eccentric investor. I'm beginning to wonder what other skills you might possess."

Wade's mind raced. He could fight his way out of this. He could take down these three men in seconds. But the alarm would be raised, his cover would be blown sky-high, and Littlefinger would probably have him killed (well not killed killed, but you know) just for the sheer messiness of it all. He had to talk his way out.

"Look, Commander," Wade said, raising his hands in a gesture of placation. "You're right. This looks suspicious. I get it. The truth is… I had a meeting. A private one. With a lady. Her husband is a merchant who lives on this street. She asked me to use the back entrance to avoid gossip. With this riot, I got nervous and decided to call it a night. That's it. A simple, slightly sordid affair." He gave a theatrical sigh. "The things we do for love, eh?"

It was a flimsy lie, but it was better than nothing. It preyed on the universal understanding of marital infidelity, a crime Bywater was far less interested in than sedition or theft.

Bywater stared at him for a long, silent moment. Wade could practically hear the gears turning in the commander's head. He didn't believe the story, not entirely. But he had no proof of anything else. He had a strange foreigner on a dark street, and a riot a half-mile away that demanded his attention.

Finally, Bywater gave a curt nod. "The city is on edge tonight. I'd advise you to return to your forge, Mr. Wilson. Immediately. Stay off the streets until morning." It was a command disguised as a suggestion.

"Wise words, Commander. I'll do just that," Wade said, giving a small, mock bow.

He turned and walked away, not looking back, the feeling of Bywater's suspicious gaze burning a hole in his back. He had succeeded. He had talked his way out of a disaster. But the encounter had cost him. He'd lost at least ten minutes. The riot wouldn't last forever, and his window of opportunity was shrinking with every passing second.

He didn't go back to the forge. He took a winding, circuitous route, circling the block twice before doubling back, his movements now a silent, fluid dance through the darkest alleys. The distant shouts of the riot were beginning to sound strained. The Gold Cloaks were likely getting things under control. It was now or never.

He reached the high stone wall behind Stannis's manse. Just as his surveillance had shown, a small, sturdy refuse cart was parked by the back gate. Two of Stannis's guards stood impassively as a grimy carter loaded slop buckets onto his wagon.

Wade took a deep breath. Showtime.

Using the noise of the cart and the guards' momentary distraction, he scaled the wall. His gloved fingers found purchase in the weathered stone, his boots silent against the mortar. He moved with an unnatural grace and speed, a red and black spider climbing a web of stone. He crested the wall and dropped into the shadows of the garden below without a sound.

He was in.

He crept through the manicured hedges, the scent of night-blooming jasmine thick in the air. The manse was dark, save for a few torches burning in the courtyard. He reached the study window. Just as Alayna's intel had promised, a new iron grille covered it, the bars thick and menacing. But the window itself, behind the grille, was unlatched. A small concession to the summer heat. If he could get through the grille, he was home free.

He pulled out the tools. Tobho Mott's masterpiece. The steel felt cold and alive in his hands. He examined the lock on the grille. It wasn't the Myrish lock from the door, but it was still a high-quality piece of work. A warm-up.

He slid the tension wrench into the keyhole, applying gentle pressure. He followed it with a rake pick, his touch feather-light. He felt the faint click of the pins aligning. One… two… three… click. The lock popped open with a soft, satisfying snick. He grinned. Mott was a wizard.

He carefully swung the iron grille open, wincing at the faint creak of its hinges. He slid the window up and slipped inside, landing in a silent crouch on a plush Myrish carpet. The study smelled of old books, beeswax, and the faint, bitter aroma of a man who scowled for a living.

He was standing in the lion's den. And the lion wasn't home. Or should it be the stag? But wouldn't Robert be the stag?

He moved to the door, his real target. The Myrish lock. It was a thing of beauty, all polished brass and intricate workings. He knelt, pulling out the finest of Mott's picks. This was the final boss.

He inserted the wrench, applying the barest hint of tension. He slid in the first pick. The inside of the lock felt alien, complex. The tumblers were shaped strangely, designed to catch and trap clumsy tools. But Mott's picks were anything but clumsy. They were extensions of his fingers.

Click. The first pin set.

He felt a surge of triumph. He was going to do it.

Click. The second.

His heart was hammering in his chest. He could practically taste victory.

Cli–

He froze.

A sound. From the hallway, outside the study.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and approaching fast.

No. No, no, no, he thought, his blood turning to ice. He's not supposed to be here. His carriage is gone. He's supposed to be out.

He heard the sound of a key – a real one – sliding into the Myrish lock from the other side. There was no time to escape. No time to hide.

The door swung open.

And Wade Wilson found himself face to face with the grim, granite-like visage of Lord Stannis Baratheon.

For a heartbeat, neither man moved. Stannis's eyes, cold as the winter sea, widened in shock, then narrowed into slits of pure, incandescent fury. He opened his mouth, not to shout for the guards, but to let out a guttural roar of outrage as he drew the sword at his hip.

The mission was a catastrophic failure.

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