Whispers in the Red Keep

Whispers in the Red Keep

The weight of the gold dragons in the pouch at his belt felt strangely reassuring, a tangible symbol of his growing influence. Harlan, the merchant, had been a soft target, though the acquisition of his commercial acumen was a pleasant surprise. Jon, as he still called himself, walked through the bustling streets of King's Landing, the sounds of carts rumbling and vendors hawking their wares a familiar symphony now. He was no longer the disoriented man who had woken in a grimy alleyway just a few weeks prior. His stride was confident, his eyes sharp, constantly scanning, assessing, calculating.

His interactions with 'Lord Petyr' had been, as expected, enlightening. The man, whoever he truly was, possessed a keen mind for intrigue and a web of contacts that spread throughout the city's underbelly. While not the Petyr Baelish he knew from the future, this individual clearly operated in similar circles, a master of whispers in his own right, though perhaps on a smaller, more localized scale. Jon decided to continue cultivating this connection for the time being. Lord Petyr could provide access, information, and more importantly, targets.

His immediate objective, however, remained singular: power. The absorption of the fighting pit veteran's skills had been a revelation. He felt a newfound fluidity in his movements, an instinctive understanding of angles and leverages that had been absent before. He still wielded the rusty dagger, but it felt less like a crude tool and more like an extension of his will. He knew he needed more. He needed to absorb the essence of someone truly skilled, someone who could elevate his combat prowess to a new level.

He began frequenting areas where knights and high-ranking guards might be found – the training yards near the Red Keep, the taverns popular with the City Watch, even the various tourney grounds, though no major tournaments were currently underway. He watched, he learned, he waited. He observed their fighting styles, their strengths, and their weaknesses. He was a predator, patiently stalking his prey.

One evening, as dusk settled over the city, casting long shadows across the narrow streets, Jon found himself near the Street of Steel, where blacksmiths hammered late into the night. He saw a knight, easily identifiable by his ornate armor and the sigil of a rampant lion on his shield, emerging from a smithy. The knight was accompanied by two squires, laden with newly sharpened swords. This was Ser Kaelan Lannister, a distant cousin to the main branch, known for his prowess with a greatsword, though not particularly renowned for his intellect. A perfect target.

Jon's heart quickened. This was a risk, a significant step up from drunkards and merchants, but the potential reward was immense. He shadowed them, keeping to the deeper shadows, his enhanced stealth skills – likely a residual benefit from the merchant's dealings with various illicit traders – serving him well. Ser Kaelan and his squires took a less-traveled route, likely heading towards a more secluded part of the city for their private quarters rather than the crowded barracks.

The perfect opportunity arose when they passed a particularly dark and narrow alleyway. Jon moved with a swift, predatory grace. He darted out, a blur of motion. The squires, young and less experienced, were taken completely by surprise. He struck the first squire with a brutal, precise blow to the temple, sending him sprawling, unconscious. The second squire cried out, fumbling for his dagger. Jon was already on him, a swift slash across the throat silencing him permanently. The boy's eyes widened in shock before glazing over. Jon felt a faint, almost imperceptible surge of something – perhaps rudimentary combat training, or simply the boy's raw vitality. It was barely a whisper compared to the rush he anticipated.

Ser Kaelan, startled by the sudden attack, roared and drew his greatsword, the steel ringing ominously in the night. He was a formidable opponent, his movements fluid despite the heavy armor.

"Who are you, dog?" Ser Kaelan bellowed, his voice echoing in the confined space.

"Just a man with a purpose," Jon replied, his voice calm, betraying none of the adrenaline coursing through him. He moved, not charging head-on, but circling, looking for an opening. The greatsword was powerful, but cumbersome in close quarters.

Ser Kaelan swung the greatsword in a wide arc, forcing Jon to duck beneath it. The wind of the blade brushed his hair. Jon retaliated, darting in, aiming for the joints in the knight's armor, the spaces where the plates met. He wasn't trying to kill him yet, merely to test his defenses, to learn. He slashed at the knight's knee, but the dagger skittered off the hardened steel.

"You're quicker than you look," Ser Kaelan grunted, adjusting his stance. He lunged forward, thrusting the tip of his greatsword at Jon's chest. Jon twisted, narrowly avoiding the thrust, and felt the sharp edge graze his side, tearing a superficial wound in his tunic. Pain, a sharp, biting pain, flared. He ignored it.

He feigned a retreat, drawing the knight further into the narrow alley. Ser Kaelan, confident in his superior reach and armor, pressed his advantage. As the knight lunged again, Jon ducked beneath his guard, sliding impossibly close. He brought his dagger up, aiming for the soft underbelly of the arm where the armor was thinnest. The blade sank in, and Ser Kaelan roared, a sound of pain and rage.

"You'll pay for that, cur!" the knight snarled, but his movements were already slowing, a hint of weakness entering his powerful swings.

This was his chance. Jon didn't allow him to recover. He pressed the attack, a flurry of quick, precise jabs, targeting the few vulnerable spots he had identified. He feinted left, forcing Ser Kaelan to overcommit, then pivoted right, driving his dagger into the knight's exposed neck, just beneath the gorget.

The blow was fatal. Ser Kaelan gasped, his eyes wide, and stumbled backward, dropping his greatsword with a clang. He clutched at his throat, blood gurgling between his fingers, before collapsing in a heap.

The surge that followed was unlike anything he had felt before. It wasn't just vitality and strength; it was the raw, honed essence of a lifetime of martial training. Jon felt his own muscles ripple, a new power flowing through them. His senses sharpened, his reflexes quickened. He knew, instinctively, how to wield a sword, how to block, how to parry, how to find the weak points in an opponent's defense. He even felt a subtle shift in his very bone structure, a faint sensation of increased density and resilience. He had absorbed Ser Kaelan's swordsmanship, his endurance, his physical strength, and even a measure of his discipline.

He took a moment, breathing deeply, letting the new power settle within him. He felt… complete, in a way he hadn't before. This was what he needed. This was the path.

He quickly stripped Ser Kaelan of his gold, and more importantly, his greatsword. It was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, perfectly balanced, and now, infused with the essence of its former wielder, it felt right in his hand. He also took the knight's finely crafted dagger, a much superior weapon to his own rusty one. He dragged the bodies of Ser Kaelan and his squires deeper into the alley, concealing them beneath a pile of refuse and broken crates. He cleaned his hands and the blades on the squires' tunics, then, with a final glance at the macabre scene, melted back into the night.

The acquisition of Ser Kaelan's skills had been a transformative experience. Jon felt an almost insatiable hunger for more. He spent the next few days in a blur of activity, testing his new abilities. He found secluded areas outside the city walls to practice with the greatsword, swinging it with a newfound proficiency that startled even himself. He moved with a speed and grace that belied the sword's size, a testament to the absorbed skills. He also noticed a subtle improvement in his general awareness, a more keen perception of his surroundings, likely from the knight's battlefield vigilance.

He decided it was time to step into the light, albeit cautiously. His goal was godhood, and that required more than lurking in the shadows. It required influence, resources, and access to more powerful individuals. He remembered Lord Petyr's offer.

He returned to the Silk Street brothel, this time with a bag heavier with gold dragons and a more confident demeanor. He found Lord Petyr in his private room, surrounded by scrolls and sipping Arbor gold.

"Jon," Lord Petyr greeted him, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I trust your last assignment went well?"

"It did," Jon replied, his voice firm. He laid the bag of gold on the table. "And I believe I'm ready for more significant work."

Lord Petyr's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of interest in their depths. "Significant work, you say? Your confidence has grown since we last spoke."

"My abilities have grown," Jon corrected, meeting his gaze evenly. "I can be discreet, efficient, and utterly ruthless when required. I've proven that."

Lord Petyr leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Indeed. Tell me, Jon, what is it you truly desire?"

Jon paused, considering his answer carefully. He couldn't reveal his true ambition, not yet. "Power," he stated simply. "Influence. To be a man of consequence in this city. To be free from the whims of others."

Lord Petyr chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "An admirable ambition. Many desire it, few achieve it. But you… you have a certain spark. A lack of scruple that is, dare I say, refreshing." He took a sip of his wine. "I have a new proposition for you, one that requires a man of your unique talents. It involves the Hand of the King, Lord Ambrose Butterwell."

Jon's mind immediately began sifting through his knowledge of Westerosi history. Lord Ambrose Butterwell. A weak, ineffectual Hand appointed by Daeron II, easily manipulated, particularly by Lord Bloodraven. This was a significant opportunity.

"Lord Butterwell?" Jon repeated, feigning casual interest. "What about him?"

"He's a fool, a pompous ass who has overstepped his bounds," Lord Petyr said, his voice laced with disdain. "He has been blocking certain… ventures of mine, and he's also making a nuisance of himself at court. The King is too 'good' to deal with him decisively, and the Small Council is too mired in their own squabbles. But there are whispers, Jon. Whispers that Lord Butterwell is not as loyal as he appears. Whispers of a certain… ledger, hidden within his chambers, detailing his true allegiances and illicit dealings."

Jon's mind raced. A ledger. Information was power, even more so in King's Landing. If he could acquire this ledger, it would not only serve Lord Petyr's purpose but also give him leverage, something he could use to his own ends. And if he had to eliminate Lord Butterwell in the process, the absorption of a high-ranking noble's "essence" could prove invaluable – perhaps political acumen, influence, or even just refined instincts.

"You want me to retrieve this ledger?" Jon asked.

"And, if necessary, ensure Lord Butterwell no longer troubles anyone," Lord Petyr said, his eyes gleaming. "The Red Keep is heavily guarded, as you know. It will require immense cunning and a deft touch. Success would earn you a considerable sum, and more importantly, my continued patronage. Failure… well, failure in the Red Keep is a rather permanent state."

Jon leaned forward. "What makes you think he has such a ledger?"

"Sources," Lord Petyr replied vaguely. "Suffice to say, I have excellent sources within the Red Keep itself. Some are disgruntled servants, others are… more directly motivated. One particular chambermaid, a girl named Elara, is rather fond of trinkets. She can provide you with details on the layout of Lord Butterwell's solar and his general schedule. I'll arrange a meeting for you."

This was it. His first true foray into the heart of power in King's Landing. It was dangerous, but the rewards outweighed the risks.

"I accept," Jon said, his voice resolute.

The meeting with Elara, a nervous but eager girl, took place in a small, out-of-the-way tavern. For a few silver stags and a promise of more, she spilled what she knew. Lord Butterwell was a creature of habit, and his solar was located on the third floor of the Maegor's Holdfast, overlooking the inner courtyard. He kept irregular hours, often staying late with his wine and scrolls, but generally retired to his bedchambers by the second bell after midnight. The ledger, Elara believed, was kept in a locked desk drawer within the solar. She even provided a rough sketch of the layout and the guard rotations she had observed.

Jon spent the next few days preparing. He studied the layout of the Red Keep from various vantage points, using his enhanced senses to observe guard patrols and points of entry. He found a secluded spot overlooking the castle from Aegon's High Hill, spending hours memorizing the patterns of movement, the shifting of lights in windows, the changing of the guard. His acquired discipline from Ser Kaelan aided his patience, allowing him to focus on the minutiae.

He also acquired new clothes: darker, more practical attire that would blend in with the shadows. He honed his stealth, moving with an almost unnatural silence, a skill he felt developing organically with each successful infiltration and assassination. He used the gold dragons to buy a set of lockpicks, practicing with them until he could open simple locks with ease.

He decided on the night of the new moon. The darkness would be his ally. He would enter through a less-guarded servant's entrance he had observed, scale a section of the wall to the third floor, and then attempt to access Lord Butterwell's solar.

The night arrived, a canvas of deep black broken only by the distant glow of torches. Jon moved through the silent streets, a ghost in the shadows. He reached the Red Keep, slipping past a drowsy guard at the chosen servant's entrance, his movements so fluid that the man only blinked, dismissing the fleeting shadow as a trick of the light.

Inside the Red Keep, the air was cooler, permeated with the faint scent of stone, old parchment, and something else – a pervasive scent of underlying tension. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors with practiced ease, relying on Elara's descriptions and his own keen observation. He encountered a few patrolling guards, but his newfound stealth, combined with the dim lighting, allowed him to evade detection. He moved like smoke, his footsteps barely a whisper.

He reached the section of the wall he had chosen for his ascent. It was a sheer climb, but there were enough irregularities in the stone, enough handholds and footholds, for a man of his enhanced strength and agility. He scaled the wall with surprising speed, his muscles burning but holding true. The absorbed stamina from the pit fighter and Ser Kaelan made the strenuous climb manageable. He reached a window on the third floor, just as Elara had described, leading into a deserted antechamber.

The window was latched, but with his lockpicks, it was a simple matter to open it. He slipped inside, silent as a whisper. The antechamber was dark, filled with forgotten furniture draped in white sheets. He moved through it, listening for any sounds. Silence. He crept to the door leading to the main corridor. He peered through a crack, observing a lone guard patrolling in the distance, his footsteps echoing softly.

He waited for the guard to pass, then opened the door, slipping out and quickly closing it behind him. He followed the corridor, finding the door to Lord Butterwell's solar. He pressed his ear against the wood. He heard a faint scratching sound, like a quill on parchment, and the occasional sigh. Lord Butterwell was still awake.

Jon took a deep breath, steeling himself. This was it. He took out his lockpicks and set to work on the sturdy oak door. The tumblers clicked, one by one, until finally, with a soft thud, the lock gave way. He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it silently behind him.

Lord Butterwell sat at a large desk, hunched over a pile of scrolls, a half-empty goblet of wine at his elbow. He was a portly man, his face flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looked up, startled, as Jon entered.

"Who—who are you?" Lord Butterwell stammered, his eyes wide with fear. He fumbled for something on his desk, likely a letter opener, but Jon was already moving.

"Someone with an interest in your affairs, Lord Butterwell," Jon said, his voice low and steady. He moved around the desk, cutting off any escape.

"What do you want?" the Hand pleaded, his voice trembling. "Money? Jewels? Take what you wish, just leave me be!"

"I want the ledger," Jon stated, his eyes fixed on the locked drawer he had seen in Elara's drawing. "The one that details your… ventures."

Lord Butterwell's face paled further. "I don't know what you're talking about! There is no ledger!"

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Don't insult my intelligence, Lord Butterwell. Your lies are as transparent as your ambitions. Where is it?"

"I… I can't," Butterwell stammered, his gaze darting nervously.

Jon pulled out the greatsword, its newly acquired keenness gleaming faintly in the dim candlelight. He held it casually, the tip resting on the desk. "You will tell me, or you will regret it. Your regret will be brief, I assure you."

The sight of the imposing blade, wielded with such effortless control, clearly broke Lord Butterwell. His jowls trembled. "It's… it's in the bottom drawer, under a false bottom! Please, just… just take it and go. I swear I won't tell anyone!"

Jon nodded slowly. "Good. A wise choice." He walked over to the desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and indeed, found a false bottom. He pried it open, revealing a thick, leather-bound ledger. He pulled it out, its weight satisfying in his hands. He flipped through it quickly. It was filled with meticulous entries: names, dates, sums of money, details of illicit trades, bribes, and even coded references to certain individuals at court. This was far more valuable than he had anticipated.

"This is indeed quite… illuminating, Lord Butterwell," Jon said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "You have been a very busy man."

"Now, please," Butterwell pleaded, wringing his hands. "You have what you want. Leave me."

Jon looked at the man, his mind already calculating. Lord Butterwell was a weak link, a potential liability. Leaving him alive, even with a promise, was a risk. And the absorption of his "essence" as Hand of the King would surely provide a boost, even if it was primarily political rather than martial.

"Unfortunately, Lord Butterwell," Jon said, his voice devoid of emotion, "some secrets are best kept in the grave."

Before Lord Butterwell could react, Jon moved. He brought the greatsword down in a swift, powerful arc. The blade cleaved through the air and then through the Hand's neck. Lord Butterwell gurgled, his eyes wide with a final, desperate terror, and then slumped forward onto his desk, his severed head rolling to the floor with a soft thud.

The surge that followed was different from Ser Kaelan's. It wasn't a rush of raw power, but a subtle, pervasive change. He felt a sharpening of his political acumen, an intuitive understanding of courtly intrigue, of leveraging information, of manipulating others. He even felt a faint awareness of bureaucratic processes and the inner workings of the Small Council. It was less about physical might and more about intellectual and social power. This was exactly what he needed for his next steps.

He quickly cleaned the greatsword, wiping the blood on the deceased Hand's tunic. He then returned the ledger to his satchel, making sure it was securely tucked away. He surveyed the scene. The body on the desk, the head on the floor. It would be discovered quickly. He needed to make his exit, and he needed to make it look like an outside job, or perhaps an internal struggle. He rummaged through the drawers, making it look like a search for valuables, and then deliberately knocked over a few objects, creating a semblance of disarray.

He slipped out of the solar, closing the door as silently as he had opened it. He retraced his steps, moving through the silent corridors of the Red Keep. As he reached the servant's entrance, he heard distant shouts, the frantic ringing of a bell. The body had been found. Perfect.

He exited the Red Keep, blending into the predawn gloom. He walked swiftly, putting distance between himself and the castle. He felt exhilarated, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but mixed with a profound sense of satisfaction. He had taken another massive leap forward.

The news of Lord Ambrose Butterwell's assassination sent shockwaves through King's Landing. The city buzzed with rumors – a rogue assassin, a disgruntled noble, a plot from Dorne. The City Watch was in a frenzy, searching for clues, but finding none. Jon, meanwhile, watched from the sidelines, occasionally mingling in taverns to glean information, feigning shock and concern like any other citizen.

He met with Lord Petyr again, delivering the ledger. Lord Petyr's eyes gleamed as he reviewed the contents.

"Remarkable, Jon," he said, a genuine smile on his face. "Truly remarkable. This is far more damning than I had anticipated. You have proven yourself invaluable."

"What will you do with it?" Jon asked, his voice casual.

Lord Petyr chuckled. "Oh, this… this will be quite useful. It will ensure certain individuals are more amenable to my 'suggestions'. And it will certainly clear the path for a more… agreeable Hand of the King." He looked at Jon. "And for you, my friend, there is a new opportunity. The King will be seeking a new Hand, and a new Master of Whispers. While you are not yet suited for the former, the latter… that could be arranged."

Jon feigned surprise. "Master of Whispers? That's a high position."

"Indeed. It requires subtlety, intelligence, and a network of eyes and ears. You have demonstrated all of those qualities. I have… connections within the Small Council. I can put your name forward, and with the removal of Butterwell, there's a void to be filled. You would, of course, be working for me, primarily."

This was an unexpected development, yet a logical progression. The Master of Whispers. It would give him unparalleled access to information, to plots and schemes, to powerful individuals whose essences he could one day absorb. It was a stepping stone, a crucial one.

"What would be my responsibilities?" Jon asked, playing the part of the ambitious newcomer.

"You would report directly to me," Lord Petyr explained. "You would oversee a network of informants, gather intelligence on noble houses, foreign powers, and any dissent within the city. You would ensure that the King, and more importantly, certain members of the Small Council, are kept abreast of information that serves our interests."

"And the King's interests?" Jon probed.

Lord Petyr merely smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Sometimes, they align. Sometimes, they can be… persuaded to align. This is a game of whispers, Jon. A game you are remarkably suited for."

Jon considered it. This was a massive leap. From a common man to a knight, and now, potentially, to a member of the Small Council. His knowledge of future events, combined with the political acumen absorbed from Butterwell, would give him an unparalleled advantage. He could shape events, subtly, to his own ends. He could identify powerful targets, individuals whose unique skills or magical abilities would be invaluable on his path to godhood.

"I accept," Jon said, his voice firm. "But on one condition."

Lord Petyr raised an eyebrow. "A condition? You're in a strong bargaining position, it seems. What is it?"

"I want access," Jon said, meeting his gaze. "Access to the Royal Library, to the archives. I want to learn. About the history of this world, about ancient magic, about anything that might be hidden or forgotten."

Lord Petyr seemed surprised, then a slow smile spread across his face. "Knowledge. An interesting currency. Very well. As Master of Whispers, you would naturally have such access. Consider it part of the deal. The more you know, the more effective you can be."

"Then we have a deal," Jon said, extending his hand.

Lord Petyr clasped it firmly. "Indeed, Jon. Indeed. Welcome to the game."

Jon left the brothel that night, the city lights shimmering like distant stars. He was no longer a man adrift, starting from scratch. He was a player in the game, and a dangerous one at that. He had a seat at the table, and with his unique power, he would not only play the game, he would eventually shatter it and rebuild it in his own image. He thought of the vast, echoing chambers of the Red Keep, the powerful figures within its walls, the secrets it held. They were all just stepping stones. His path to godhood had truly begun. He felt a thrill of anticipation, a cold, ruthless excitement. The gods of Westeros would soon know a new name. His name. And he would not be one they could ignore.

What powerful figures or hidden knowledge might Jon seek out next in his quest for godhood?