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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