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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