Chapter 4: A Leash of Silk and Steel

Chapter 4: A Leash of Silk and Steel

Year: 296 AC

The air in Malko's office was thick with the scent of ambition, a far more intoxicating aroma than the spiced wine he kept pouring. The proposition hung between us, a bridge from the squalid world of the pit to the far more dangerous, and rewarding, world of high-stakes murder. This was the moment my growth accelerated, the moment I transitioned from a caged beast to a weapon for hire. A weapon that would one day turn on its masters.

Malko, sweating with a mixture of fear and excitement, explained the arrangement. The client's agent would meet us. Not here, but at a more discreet location—a private room in a wine sink near the docks called 'The Salty Wench'. The choice of venue was telling. It was neutral ground, away from both the filth of Flea Bottom and the gilded cages of the wealthy, a place where different strata of the city's underworld could intersect.

An hour later, we were there. Malko had tried to make himself presentable, wearing a new, garish vest of purple silk, but he still looked like a pig dressed for a feast. I wore simple, dark breeches and a worn leather jerkin provided by Malko—practical and anonymous. My body was the only adornment I needed. The power thrumming beneath my skin was a constant, comforting pressure, a reservoir of violence waiting to be unleashed. The agility of the Myrish bravo had settled into my muscles, making me feel light on my feet, a predator capable of both explosive force and silent grace.

The private room was small and smoky. A single candle cast long, dancing shadows. The man waiting for us was the antithesis of Malko. He was slender and of average height, dressed in the unassuming grey robes of a scribe or a minor functionary. His face was plain, forgettable, the kind of face you would pass in a crowd and instantly dismiss. But his eyes… his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and utterly devoid of emotion. They were the eyes of a man who observed everything and revealed nothing. This was no scribe. This was a professional. His life-force, a tightly controlled, cold blue flame, told me he was disciplined and dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical strength.

He did not introduce himself, nor did he offer us a seat. He simply got down to business. "You are the one they call Void," he stated, his voice a dry, flat monotone. His gaze swept over me, analytical and appraising. "Malko has sung your praises. He claims you are… unique."

"I am effective," I replied, my voice low and steady. I met his gaze without flinching, projecting an aura of calm, lethal confidence. I would not be intimidated by this ghost.

"Effectiveness is what my patron requires," the man said with a slight nod. He placed a small, heavy pouch on the table. The clink of coins was unmistakable. "This is half. The other half upon completion of the task."

Malko's eyes practically bulged out of his head, his hand twitching as if he wanted to snatch the pouch immediately. I ignored it. The money was a tool, nothing more. The prize was the kill itself.

"The task," I prompted, keeping my tone even.

The agent slid a rolled piece of parchment across the table. I picked it up and unfurled it. Inside was a charcoal sketch of a man's face. He was middle-aged, with a square jaw, a thick neck, and the hard, uncompromising eyes of a veteran soldier. A thick, grey-streaked mustache adorned his upper lip.

"His name is Ser Emerett. A hedge knight, formerly in the service of House Tarly before a… disagreement," the agent explained. "He now serves as the master-at-arms for a Pentoshi magister named Ilyo who has taken up residence in the city. He lives in a manse on the Street of Silk."

My mind raced, processing the information, cross-referencing it with the vast repository of lore from the books. The Street of Silk was where the wealthy merchants and foreign dignitaries lived. A well-patrolled, high-class area, a world away from Flea Bottom. House Tarly was the house of Randyll Tarly, Samwell's brutal father, one of the most brilliant and ruthless military commanders in Westeros. A hedge knight trained by him would be no mere brawler. He would be a disciplined, skilled, and dangerous opponent.

"Why?" I asked. The question was a test. A common killer for hire wouldn't ask why. But I needed to know the context, to understand the forces I was brushing up against.

The agent's face remained impassive. "My patron's reasons are his own. Ser Emerett has become an obstacle to certain… business interests. His removal is required. Cleanly. Quietly. No witnesses." He paused, his cold eyes locking onto mine. "And the body must be unmistakable. Proof of the deed is essential."

This was not a simple hit. The requirement of a clean, quiet job coupled with an identifiable body suggested a political motive. They didn't just want him dead; they wanted it known that he was dead, likely to destabilize his employer, the Pentoshi magister. Who in King's Landing would have interests that conflicted with a Pentoshi? The possibilities were tantalizing and terrifying. Littlefinger, who saw every foreign merchant as a rival or a pawn? Varys, manipulating events from the shadows for his own inscrutable ends? Or even the Lannisters, who had their fingers in every profitable pie in the capital?

I was no longer just fighting for survival. I was stepping onto the board.

"The manse is well-guarded," I stated, thinking aloud. "Gold Cloaks patrol the Street of Silk. He will have men of his own."

"Ser Emerett is a man of routine," the agent replied, anticipating my line of thought. "He dismisses the household guard at the tenth hour, trusting in the City Watch and his own prowess. He drinks a bottle of Dornish red every night before bed. He sleeps alone in the master's solar on the top floor. His discipline is his weakness. He does not expect a threat to come from inside his own walls."

The agent was providing me with a precise infiltration window and the target's exact location. They had done their homework. This only confirmed the professional nature of the operation.

"The price is acceptable," I said, my gaze shifting from the parchment to the agent. "Consider it done."

Malko, who had been silent throughout the exchange, let out a relieved sigh. The agent gave another curt nod, then turned and left the room as silently as he had appeared, leaving the pouch of coin and the scent of conspiracy behind.

As soon as the door closed, Malko snatched the pouch, his hands trembling as he loosened the drawstring and stared at the gold dragons within. "Gods be good," he whispered. "This is a fortune. You see, Void? You see what you are worth?"

"I see that your leash is now made of silk," I replied coldly, my eyes still on the door through which the agent had departed. "Remember that silk is easily cut."

I left him cooing over his gold and returned to my chamber. The real work was just beginning.

For the next two days, I did not rest. I planned. The assassination was a puzzle, a multi-layered problem, and I approached it with the logical precision of my former life as a programmer, now augmented by the predatory cunning of my new existence.

First, reconnaissance. I couldn't risk going to the Street of Silk myself. My face, or at least the description of the "Husk," was becoming too well-known in the city's underbelly. Instead, I used Malko. I gave him specific instructions, questions to ask his network of informants. The layout of the manse's exterior. The patrol routes of the Gold Cloaks. The number of servants. Every piece of data was a weapon.

The information he brought back, combined with the agent's intelligence, allowed me to construct a detailed three-dimensional map in my mind. The manse was a three-story building, opulent and walled. The weak point, as the agent had hinted, was the vertical approach. The rooftops.

Second, preparation. I needed equipment. Not armor, which was noisy and cumbersome, but tools. A length of good, strong rope. A grappling hook. A new knife, perfectly balanced, its blade coated in black dye to prevent reflections. I made Malko procure them, his greed now making him my willing quartermaster.

Third, mental synthesis. I spent hours in a state of deep concentration, merging the disparate skill sets I had absorbed. I was no longer just accessing Gurn's strength or Lyren's speed; I was weaving them together. I practiced moving silently, every footstep placed with the Myrish bravo's grace, but with my weight grounded by the brawler's stability. I visualized the climb, feeling the pull in my powerful arms and the sure grip of my calloused hands. I rehearsed the kill in my mind a hundred times, a silent dance of speed and overwhelming force.

On the night of the third day, I was ready. I dressed in dark, close-fitting clothes. I left my sword and buckler behind. This was not a pit fight. This was an execution. The only weapon I carried was the new, blackened knife tucked into my belt.

Navigating the labyrinthine streets of King's Landing at night was an education in itself. Flea Bottom was a chaotic, torchlit world of its own, but as I moved towards the wealthier districts, the city changed. The streets grew wider and cleaner. The oppressive stench of poverty was replaced by the smell of night-blooming flowers and clean sea air. The patrols of the City Watch, the Gold Cloaks, became more frequent.

Here, Lyren's agility was invaluable. I moved through the shadows, a ghost in the alleys. More than once, I heard the heavy tread of a patrol approaching and melted into a darkened doorway or scaled a low wall to bypass them, my movements silent and fluid. The strength in my arms and legs made climbing effortless. I was a spider, crawling through the web of the city.

I reached the Street of Silk an hour before my window. The manse was exactly as described—a miniature fortress of wealth and paranoia. I found a dark alley across the street and waited, my senses on high alert. I watched the Gold Cloak patrol pass, their armor gleaming in the moonlight. I counted the seconds until they were gone, memorizing their timing.

When the street was clear, I moved. I sprinted across the cobblestones, a fleeting shadow, and reached the base of the manse's wall. The grappling hook, expertly thrown, caught hold on the rooftop's crenelated edge with a soft scraping sound that was lost in the city's low hum.

The climb was physically trivial. Gurn's power made a mockery of the wall's height. The challenge was silence. I moved hand over hand, my bare feet finding purchase on the ornate stonework, careful not to dislodge any loose mortar or make a single sound.

I slipped over the edge onto the tiled roof, my heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. The air was cool and clean up here, the city spread out below me like a blanket of twinkling lights, the Red Keep a brooding silhouette against the starry sky. For a moment, the sheer beauty of it, the impossible reality of my situation, struck me. Then, the cold focus returned.

I located the master's solar. It was the only room on the top floor with a balcony, just as the agent had said. I crept across the roof, my feet making no sound on the tiles, and peered over the edge. The balcony doors were made of glass and wood, and they were closed.

This was the first real obstacle. I could smash the glass, but the noise would bring the whole house down on me. I needed another way. I scanned the balcony, the wall, the window frame. And I saw it. One of the glass panes in the door was slightly ajar, left open just a crack to let in the night air. It was a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect defense.

I lowered myself onto the balcony, a silent drop of a few feet. I pressed my ear to the glass, listening. Faintly, I could hear the slow, rhythmic breathing of a man in a deep sleep. He was there.

I pulled out my new knife. Using the tip, I carefully, painstakingly, worked at the latch of the glass pane. It was a delicate operation, requiring a surgeon's touch. The skills I had absorbed were for killing, not for lock-picking, but the preternatural control I now had over my own body allowed me to perform the task with exacting precision. After what felt like an eternity, the latch lifted with a soft click.

I slid the pane open just enough to fit my hand and arm through and unlocked the door from the inside. The air in the room was stale, thick with the smell of wine and sleep. I slipped inside, a phantom of vengeance.

Ser Emerett was asleep in a large, four-poster bed. The moonlight streaming through the open door illuminated his face. It was the man from the sketch. A half-empty bottle of Dornish red and a cup stood on his bedside table. His sword belt was hung on the bedpost, his longsword resting in its scabbard, within easy reach. Foolish. He was disciplined, but he was also arrogant in his security.

I could have killed him in his sleep. Slit his throat and been gone before his body was even cold. It would have been the smart, efficient thing to do. But something inside me, a cold, predatory pride, refused that option. I did not want to be a simple assassin who killed men in their beds. I was a consumer of power. I wanted to face him, to dominate him, to take his strength and skill from him in the crucible of combat. It was an unnecessary risk, a moment of hubris, but it was a risk I felt compelled to take. The quality of the meal depended on the struggle.

I reached out and gently nudged the wine bottle on his nightstand. It teetered, then fell, shattering on the stone floor with a loud crash.

Ser Emerett exploded out of his sleep. There was no grogginess, no confusion. In one fluid motion, he rolled off the bed, his hand grabbing the hilt of his longsword, pulling it free of its scabbard as he came to his feet. He was a warrior, through and through. The years of Tarly's training were etched into his very being.

"Who's there?" he snarled, his eyes, now wide awake and sharp, scanning the shadows of the room. "Show yourself!"

I stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight. I held no weapon. I simply stood there, letting him see me.

He was momentarily taken aback. He had probably expected a common thief or a cloaked assassin. He saw a bare-chested man, powerfully built, radiating an aura of absolute calm.

"I have no quarrel with you, boy," he growled, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. "Walk away now, and I may let you live."

"My quarrel is with what you are," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "And what you are is about to become mine."

His eyes narrowed, and he lunged. He was fast, faster than I had anticipated. His longsword was not a clumsy weapon; it was an extension of his will, a flashing arc of deadly steel. The Tarly training was evident in his perfect form, the sheer ruthless efficiency of his attack.

I sidestepped, the tip of his blade grazing my ribs. The agility of the bravo saved me from being impaled. I used the momentum to close the distance, smashing my fist into his sword arm. Gurn's power met his trained muscle. I felt the bones in his forearm groan under the impact, and his sword wavered.

He grunted in pain and surprise, but he was no pit fighter. He recovered instantly, shoving me back with his shoulder and creating space, his swordsmanship a formidable barrier.

The fight was a silent, deadly dance in the moonlit room. His practiced, orthodox style against my monstrous, hybrid abilities. He was all technique and discipline. I was raw power and preternatural speed. His sword was a blur, forcing me onto the defensive. But every block, every dodge, every impact I absorbed with my body told me more about him. I was analyzing his rhythm, the patterns of his attacks, the slight hesitation before a powerful thrust.

He feinted a cut to my head, then dropped low, sweeping his blade towards my legs. It was a classic, effective maneuver. But I had the muscle memory of three fighters and the inhuman reflexes of a fourth. I didn't dodge. I leaped. I jumped straight up, landing on top of his bed, the mattress groaning under my weight.

From this higher vantage point, I saw my opening. Before he could recover from his sweep and raise his sword, I launched myself from the bed, a flying projectile of muscle and hate. I crashed into him with the force of a battering ram.

We both went down in a tangle of limbs, his sword clattering away across the floor. He was strong, his arms like iron bands, but I was stronger. We wrestled on the floor, a primal struggle for dominance. He tried to gouge my eyes, and I smashed his hand against the stone. He tried to headbutt me, and I twisted, his forehead glancing off my shoulder.

I finally gained the upper hand, pinning his arms with my knees. I was straddling his chest, looking down into his snarling, hate-filled face. He was defeated, and he knew it.

I leaned in close, my face inches from his. "Thank you for the lesson," I whispered.

Then I slammed the heel of my palm into his nose, driving the cartilage up into his brain. It was a brutal, ugly way to die. His body convulsed once, and then went still.

The moment the light left his eyes, the absorption began.

This was the richest feast yet. The power that flooded me was immense, dwarfing all the previous kills combined. It was a refined, disciplined strength, the vitality of a lifelong, professional warrior. But the skills… Gods, the skills.

I didn't just get his knowledge of the longsword. I got the art of it. I understood the Tarly war doctrine. I knew drills, formations, and tactics for commanding men in battle. I absorbed a professional soldier's discipline, the ability to stand unflinching in the face of death, to compartmentalize fear and pain. It was a mental fortitude that layered itself over my own cold intellect, making me even more formidable. Faint, ghost-like echoes of knowledge—the sigils of minor Stormland houses, the proper way to address a lord, the taste of Arbor gold—flashed through my mind before vanishing, leaving only the pure, applicable skill behind.

When it was over, I felt… transformed. I was no longer just a collection of parts. I was a cohesive whole. A warrior.

I stood up, leaving the hollowed corpse on the floor. I retrieved his longsword. As my fingers wrapped around the leather-bound hilt, it felt like it belonged there. My body knew its weight, its balance, its deadly purpose.

On a chain around his neck, I found a small, iron key. Not a key for a door, but for a chest. My eyes scanned the room and found it—a heavy, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. The agent had said nothing about this.

Driven by a sudden, powerful curiosity, I used the key. The lock opened with a soft click. Inside, beneath a few changes of clothes, was a small, leather-bound ledger.

I opened it. The pages were filled with neat, precise script. It wasn't a record of expenses. It was a coded list of names, dates, and shipments. Shipments of weapons. Large quantities. And the names… many were known sellsword captains, but one name, near the end, made my blood run cold.

Jon Arryn.

The entry was recent. It detailed a clandestine meeting and a transfer of information. Ser Emerett wasn't just the master-at-arms for a Pentoshi magister. He was an informant. And he had been feeding information to the Hand of the King about illicit arms dealing connected to foreign powers.

My assassination was not a simple business dispute. I had just killed an agent of the Hand of the King.

And the client, the man whose agent had hired me, was someone who desperately wanted to stop Arryn's investigation. Someone like Littlefinger. Or Varys. Or the Lannisters.

I hadn't just stepped onto the board. I had been used as a pawn to remove a key piece in the opening moves of the game that would soon drown the world in blood. My leash of silk was attached to one of the most powerful and dangerous players in Westeros.

I closed the ledger, a cold smile spreading across my face. This was not a complication. This was an opportunity. This ledger was leverage. It was my first secret, my first weapon in the real game. I tucked it safely inside my jerkin, a far more valuable prize than the pouch of gold waiting for me with Malko. The game had just begun, and I had already taken a piece that no one even knew was in play.