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.
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