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?
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