The Sum of All Men

The Sum of All Men

Part I: The Forging of a Weapon (270 AC – 272 AC)

The following table tracks the protagonist's cumulative acquisitions. It serves as a summary of his growth and a reference for the capabilities he possesses at the start of this narrative arc.

| Target Identity | Key Skills/Knowledge Acquired | Physical/Vitality Index | Psychological Integration Notes |

|---|---|---|---|

| "No One" (The original host body, a young boy) | Faceless Man Training (Complete): Mastery of poisons, infiltration, disguise (mummer's arts, glamors), stealth, observation, multilingualism (Braavosi, High Valyrian), lie detection, emotional control, philosophy of the Many-Faced God. | Baseline: A young boy's physique, honed by rigorous but not superhuman training. Peak human agility for his age, but low strength and stamina. | Initial State: The protagonist's original psychopathic consciousness is fully dominant. The host's original identity is suppressed/non-existent. He views the Faceless Man training not as a religious calling but as a perfect toolkit for his predatory nature. |

CHAPTER 1: 270 AC – A GIFT OF FACES

The first sensation was not one of panic, but of cold. It was a deep, seeping cold that emanated from the stone slab beneath him and the damp, still air around him. Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a switch being flipped in a dark, silent room. One moment, there was nothing—a void, a memory of fading red and blue lights, of a life lived in calculated, predatory detachment. The next, there was this: a small body, the scent of wet stone and burnt-out candles, and a silence so profound it felt like a presence.

Analysis. The thought was immediate, instinctual. Data acquisition required.

He did not move. He lay on the hard stone bed, a thin wool blanket his only comfort, and let the information flow. It wasn't his information. It belonged to the body, to the boy. Memories, skills, sensations—a lifetime's worth of data, neatly packaged and accessible. He saw through the boy's eyes, felt with the boy's skin. He remembered years of grueling, relentless training within these very walls. The House of Black and White.

He sifted through the boy's memories with the dispassionate focus of a coroner examining a corpse. He saw the "kindly man," his face a mask of gentle patience that hid a core of absolute conviction. He felt the sting of the waif's staff during blind training, the burn of unfamiliar poisons on his tongue, the mental gymnastics of the lying game. He recalled the philosophy, the core tenet of their faith: the Many-Faced God, the final gift of death. He learned the phrases, valar morghulis and valar dohaeris, not as a prayer, but as a key and a password. He understood, with a clarity that bordered on contempt, that this boy, this vessel, had just completed his training. He was now an acolyte, a servant. He was "no one."

A slow, cold smile, a ghost of an expression he hadn't felt in this new body, threatened to form on his lips. No one. The irony was exquisite. The Faceless Men stripped themselves of identity to become perfect, selfless instruments of their god. They erased the self to serve a higher purpose. He, on the other hand, had always known the self was merely a construct, a tool to be shaped and wielded. He had no higher purpose beyond the accumulation of power and the elegant execution of his will. They had spent years turning this boy into a weapon for their god. Now, that weapon belonged to him.

And he had another weapon, one they could never comprehend. He remembered a world of steel and glass, of information flowing in rivers of light. A world where the history of this one, of Westeros and Essos, was written in books and debated on forums by fanatics like himself. He knew of Aerys and his madness, of Rhaegar and his prophecy, of the rebellion that would shatter a dynasty. He possessed a map of the future, a detailed psychological profile of every major player in the game. They were all just characters, predictable and flawed, their arcs already written. And he, the reader, was now on the page.

But there was one more thing. The reason for this… transmigration. A new variable. A power that the boy's memories did not contain, a power that was uniquely his. He needed to test it. He needed to confirm its parameters. He needed a subject.

He rose from the stone bed, the movements fluid, practiced. The boy's body was small, perhaps ten or eleven years of age, but it was a well-honed tool. Lithe, quiet, disciplined. He wore the simple, undyed wool tunic and breeches of a servant of the House. He moved through the silent, winding passages of the temple's lower levels, his bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. The architecture was a maze of vaults and tunnels, a place of secrets and death.

He emerged into the main sanctuary. It was a vast, dim space, lit by the flickering red glow of candles placed before the altars of thirty different gods of death. The Black Goat of Qohor, the Lion of Night from Yi Ti, the Weeping Woman of Lys, and even the familiar, seven-faced Stranger of the Westerosi Faith. To the faithful, they were all faces of the one true god. To him, they were monuments to human fear, a collection of morbid art he could appreciate on an aesthetic level.

In the center of the sanctuary was the pool. A perfect circle of black, still water, its surface reflecting the candlelight like a shattered sky. This was where the suffering came to find their end. They would drink from a stone cup, the water a sweet, painless poison, and then lie down in one of the stone alcoves lining the walls to await "the gift".

He saw his target immediately. An old man, his face a roadmap of grief and pain, kneeling before the statue of the Hooded Wayfarer, a god for the poor and the lost. The man was weeping silently, his shoulders shaking. He was a perfect candidate: willing, close to death, and his passing here would be not only expected but sanctioned. A clean, low-risk experiment.

He watched. For hours, he became a shadow among shadows, using the observational skills drilled into him by the Faceless Men. He saw the man finally rise, his movements stiff with age and sorrow. He watched him shuffle to the pool, dip the stone cup, and drink deeply. Then, the old man made his way to an empty alcove, lay down, and closed his eyes.

The routine of the House was precise. A body would not be collected until it was certain the gift had been fully received. He waited. He saw one of the older serving men check on the old man, a light touch to the neck, a nod, and then a departure to fetch a cart. This was his window.

He slipped into the alcove. The old man's face was peaceful, the lines of grief smoothed away by the ultimate release. The body was still warm. He placed his small hands on the man's chest. He focused his will, the strange, new intent that had awoken with him in this world. Mine.

The world dissolved into a psychic torrent. It was not a gentle transfer of information. It was a violent, brutal flood, a lifetime of memories and sensations crashing into his consciousness in a single, deafening roar.

He is a boy, running along the canals of Braavos, laughing as he steals a fish from a vendor's cart. He is a young man, feeling the warmth of a woman's hand in his for the first time, the scent of her hair, the taste of cheap wine on her lips. He is a fisherman, his hands raw and calloused from a lifetime of mending nets, his back aching from the pull of the sea. He knows the currents of the lagoon, the best spots for catching silver eels, the names of every tavern in Ragman's Harbor. He feels the crushing grief of losing his wife to a fever, the hollow ache of outliving his children, the bitter loneliness of old age. He feels the gnawing pain of the cancer in his belly, the weariness that seeps into his bones, the desperate prayer for an end to it all. He feels the cold water on his tongue, the sweet taste of oblivion, the final, fading terror as the darkness takes him.

The protagonist gasped, stumbling back, his own small heart hammering against his ribs. His mind, a fortress of cold logic, was besieged by the emotional refuse of another man's life. Grief, love, fear, joy—a chaotic storm of useless sentiment. He felt a phantom ache in his own belly, the ghost of the man's pain.

For a moment, he felt a flicker of something alien: empathy. A sliver of the old man's sorrow pierced his own armor. He recoiled from it instantly, violently. He was a psychopath. Empathy was a weakness, a disease. He began to compartmentalize, to analyze, to process. The emotions were chaff, irrelevant data points to be discarded. The memories, however… the memories were gold. He now knew Braavos not as a map, but as a home. He knew its secrets, its rhythms, its people.

And then he felt it. A subtle warmth spreading through his limbs. A faint but undeniable current of vitality flowing from the corpse into his own small frame. It was the man's life force, his remaining vitality, his lifespan. It was a pittance, the dregs of a life already spent, but it was real. The power was confirmed.

1+1=2. The equation was simple, brutal, and perfect. The skills of a Faceless Man plus the life experience of a Braavosi fisherman. He was now more than he was a moment ago.

He heard the rumble of the cart approaching. He slipped away, melting back into the shadows of the temple. He retreated to his cell, his mind a whirlwind of new data. He had to process, to integrate, to master this new input without letting it dilute his own identity. He was not this old man. He was not the boy whose body he wore. He was something new. He was the sum of his victims.

He looked at his hands, small and pale in the darkness of the cell. They were the hands of a boy. But he knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as the stone around him, that they would soon hold the power of a god. A god of his own making. The Many-Faced God was a fiction, a comforting lie for the weak. He would become the One-Faced God, and all other faces would be his.

CHAPTER 2: 270 AC – THE CURRENCY OF SECRETS

The House of Black and White was a sanctuary, a school, and a weapon. But for him, it was merely a chrysalis. And he was done with it. Within a week of his first, successful experiment, he took his leave. There was no ceremony, no farewell. To the priests and acolytes, he was simply one of the many nameless, faceless servants who came and went. He walked out of the temple's imposing doors—one half weirwood, the other ebony—and did not look back. He was "no one," and "no one" had business to attend to.

Braavos unfolded before him, a sprawling labyrinth of canals and bridges, a city of stone and secrets. He saw it now through two sets of eyes: the boy's, trained to see threats and escape routes in every shadow, and the old fisherman's, who saw the familiar landmarks of a lifetime. The combination was potent. He navigated the city not as a stranger, but as a native ghost, unseen and unheard. He possessed the skills of a master of infiltration, and now, the perfect cover: a ten-year-old orphan, easily overlooked, easily dismissed.

He needed resources. Power, in this world as in his last, required capital. His meta-knowledge was priceless, but it could not buy him a ship or a spy. For that, he needed gold. And to acquire gold, he needed to make a strategic investment of his unique talents.

His internal monologue was a cold, constant stream of calculation, an efficiency algorithm for predation. Objective: Establish a secure, independent operational base and acquire significant liquid assets. Constraints: Minimize risk of exposure. Maximize return on investment per acquisition. Initial targets must not be high-profile. Warriors, sellswords, bravos—all are poor investments. Their skills are common, their deaths are messy and attract attention. Their assets are meager. The ideal target is wealthy, secretive, isolated, and possesses knowledge I lack.

He spent weeks in observation, a small, silent predator stalking his new hunting ground. He was Cat of the Canals, a persona he adopted from his knowledge of the books, a nod to a future that would now never happen for its intended character. He sold oysters and clams, his ears open, his eyes missing nothing. He used the fisherman's knowledge to navigate the wharf-side society and the Faceless Man's training to read the tells of the men who frequented the taverns and brothels.

He found his target in the upper echelons of the city's merchant class. A man named Orlo, a dealer in rare silks and Myrish lace, whose tapestries were said to be worth their weight in spice. Orlo was old, a widower with no children, and known for his paranoia. He lived in a tall, narrow house overlooking a quiet canal, a fortress of solitude. He was, by all accounts, immensely wealthy, and trusted no one, not even the Iron Bank. He was perfect.

The acquisition was a masterpiece of the art he had inherited. It was not a crude breaking and entering. It was a study in patience and precision. For a fortnight, he observed Orlo's routines. The delivery of food, the weekly visit from his factor, the movements of the guards in the neighboring manors. He learned the house as if it were his own. He found a weakness not in the locks or the walls, but in the man's own habits. Orlo had a fondness for a particular vintage of pale green nectar wine from Myr, delivered every new moon.

Using a small portion of the coins he'd taken from the dead fisherman, he acquired a dose of a subtle, tasteless poison from a back-alley apothecary—a substance the waif had once shown him, one that mimicked the symptoms of a sudden, fatal stroke. It was a simple matter to intercept the wine delivery, to poison one bottle with a masterfully crafted syringe of his own design, and to ensure it was the first one the old merchant would open.

He did not enter the house until two days later. He used the boy's agility to scale the walls and slip through a high window left unlatched for ventilation. He found Orlo slumped in his high-backed chair, a spilled goblet of green wine staining the priceless Lysene carpet at his feet. The city watch, when they were eventually summoned by the concerned factor, would rule it a death by natural causes. A lonely old man, gone in his sleep. A precise, clean kill, just as the Faceless Men taught. The only one "marked and chosen" by the god he served: himself.

He placed his hands on the cold flesh. The torrent came again, stronger this time, richer. Orlo's life was one of numbers and ledgers, of shrewd deals and ruthless competition. He absorbed a lifetime of mercantile genius: the art of the bargain, the complexities of international trade, the secret language of finance. He learned the names of every corrupt harbormaster from Oldtown to Qarth, the weaknesses of his rivals, the precise location of the hidden vault beneath the hearthstone where Orlo kept the bulk of his fortune in gold and jewels. He also absorbed the cloying loneliness, the bitter regrets, the gnawing fear of poverty that had driven the man his entire life. He filed it all away. The fear was a useful insight into the motivation of others. The rest was noise.

He now had wealth. He had a secure, well-appointed base of operations. But he needed more than gold. He needed information. Raw, actionable intelligence.

His new memories provided the key. Orlo, in his dealings, had occasionally used information brokers to gain an edge over his rivals. One such network was run by a Pentoshi magister, a minor player in the grand scheme of things, but one with eyes and ears in several of the Free Cities. Orlo had known the identity of one of the magister's agents in Braavos—a humble bookkeeper named Tregar.

Tregar was a far more challenging target. He was not isolated. He was young, vigilant, and trained in the arts of counter-surveillance. Killing him would require a different approach. It required the application of his newly acquired resources.

He used Orlo's identity, writing a letter in the dead merchant's perfect script, requesting a clandestine meeting with Tregar to discuss a sensitive matter of trade espionage. He set the meeting in a deserted warehouse in the Ragman's Harbor, a place the fisherman's memories told him was rarely patrolled.

Tregar was cautious. He arrived early, circling the location, observing. But he could not anticipate being stalked by a ghost. The protagonist, using his small size and the skills of a Faceless Man, was already inside, hidden in the rafters, a shadow among shadows. When Tregar entered, a single, poisoned dart from a blowgun—a weapon he had crafted himself—found his neck. The death was silent, instantaneous.

The absorption was different. It was a chaotic flood of whispers and codes, of dead-drop locations and secret handshakes. He learned of the political tensions between the tigers and the elephants in Volantis. He learned of the constant, simmering conflict between Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh over the Disputed Lands. He saw the world of Essos not as a trader, but as a spymaster, a web of intrigue and betrayal. He now possessed the foundation of an intelligence network. He knew the names of other agents, their methods, their masters. He could feed them misinformation, or he could eliminate them and absorb their knowledge as well.

The chapter ends with him back in Orlo's study. The fire is crackling in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls. He is no longer dressed as a street urchin. He wears a fine silk robe, the boy's body looking absurdly small in the large, ornate chair. On the table before him is a map of the known world. He has gold. He has a secret base. He has the beginnings of an intelligence network. He has the skills of an assassin, a fisherman, a merchant, and a spy. He is four men in one small body.

He traces a finger across the map, from Braavos, across the Narrow Sea, to a place marked King's Landing. The initial phase of his plan was complete. He had forged himself into a multifaceted weapon in the shadows of Essos. Now, it was time to point that weapon at the heart of Westeros.

CHAPTER 3: 271 AC – THE WESTEROSI GAMBIT

A year is a lifetime, or several, depending on one's methods. By 271 AC, the entity that wore the face of a young boy had become a quiet, cancerous presence in the heart of Braavos. From the dead merchant's manse, he managed a small but growing financial empire, using Orlo's knowledge to play the markets of the Free Cities. Through the ghost network of the dead Pentoshi agent, he gathered whispers and rumors, a spider listening to the vibrations on a vast and intricate web. He had made two more "acquisitions" since Tregar. A master forger, whose skills in replicating seals and signatures were now his. And an old, bitter clerk from the Iron Bank, whose knowledge of their ledgers and loan structures was a weapon in itself. He was now the sum of six souls, his own cold consciousness the nexus point for a wealth of disparate knowledge.

His nights were spent in his study, the grand chessboard of Westeros laid out in his mind. This was where his true power lay—not in the poisons or the gold, but in the perfect, omniscient clarity of his meta-knowledge, now cross-referenced and sharpened by the intelligence he gathered. His internal monologue was no longer just analysis; it was a war council with himself.

The state of play, 271 AC, he would think, staring into the flames of the hearth. The center piece, the King. Aerys II Targaryen. He pictured the man, not as the shrieking, filthy creature of the end, but as he was now: handsome, charming, but with the rot of paranoia already taking root. The stillbirths and miscarriages of Queen Rhaella—one just last year, in 270 AC—were feeding his suspicions. He was convinced she was unfaithful, that the dead princes were not his. His grand pronouncements—a new Wall, a white city, a war with Braavos—were the flailings of a man desperate to carve a legacy, yet lacking the focus to see any project through. Aerys was a frayed rope, holding the realm together by a thread. A strong tug in the right place, and he would snap.

The primary counter-piece: the Hand, Tywin Lannister. The man who truly ruled the Seven Kingdoms. The realm prospered under his stern, efficient administration. He built roads, punished criminals, and filled the crown's coffers, all while Aerys indulged his whims. But this very competence was his vulnerability. Aerys's jealousy grew with every passing day, every whisper that the lion, not the dragon, was the real power on the throne. Tywin was proud, brilliant, and utterly predictable. His love for his legacy was a handle, his pride a lever. He could be played. He would be played.

The emergent threat: the Southron Ambitions bloc. This was the most fascinating development, a conspiracy of the great lords that the histories of his world had only hinted at. He saw the web of alliances being woven. Lord Rickard Stark, the quiet wolf, with his "southron ambitions," betrothing his heir Brandon to Catelyn Tully and his daughter Lyanna to Robert Baratheon. Lord Hoster Tully, the ambitious trout, securing his house's future with advantageous marriages, even dangling his other daughter, Lysa, before the Lannisters. And the lynchpin, Lord Jon Arryn, the old falcon, fostering the hot-headed Baratheon heir and the solemn Stark boy, creating a bond of brotherhood that would one day shake the throne. They believed they were creating a check on the Mad King's power, a political bloc to force his hand or perhaps even replace him with his son, Rhaegar. They saw it as a necessary measure to preserve the realm. He saw it as the perfect kindling for the fire he intended to start.

The secondary pieces. He dismissed them with cold efficiency. The Reach, under the bumbling Lord Luthor Tyrell, was a green giant, powerful but slow, its strength easily misdirected. The Martells of Dorne were nursing their pride after Tywin's insult, but they were isolated, a viper coiled in the south, dangerous only if stepped on. The Iron Islands under Lord Quellon Greyjoy were a non-factor. Quellon was a reformer, trying to integrate his people with the mainland, a fool trying to tame krakens. His sons, Balon and Euron, were the true threat, but their time had not yet come.

His plan crystallized. He could not yet act as a king or a lord. His power was in the shadows. His form, that of a boy, was his greatest camouflage. He needed to be close to the center of power, to be in a position to whisper in the right ear, to place the right document on the right desk, to remove the right person at the right time. He needed to get inside the Red Keep. Not as a lord, not as a knight, but as something far more insidious. A servant. A page. A "little bird," as the Master of Whisperers would say.

To do that, he needed a Westerosi identity. A legitimate one. His intelligence network, fed by the memories of the Pentoshi agent, brought him the perfect target. Ser Damon Vikary, the third son of a minor house from the Westerlands, sworn to the Leffords. House Vikary was impoverished, their name meaning little. Damon was in Braavos, having squandered his meager inheritance, trying to find work as a sellsword. He was a man with no future, no one to miss him, and, most importantly, a documented lineage that could withstand scrutiny.

The acquisition was almost insultingly easy. Damon Vikary was a drunkard and a braggart. A shared bottle of wine in a tavern, a tale of a lucrative contract, a walk down a dark alley. It was over in seconds.

The absorption was thin, watery. A life of mediocrity, of resentment for his elder brothers, of failures in the tourney yard and the bedroom. But it contained what he needed: the flawless accent of the Westerlands, the ingrained mannerisms of a petty noble, the muscle memory of riding a horse and holding a sword (poorly), and the name. The name was the key.

He liquidated his assets in Braavos, converting a significant portion of Orlo's fortune into easily transportable diamonds, sewn into the lining of his new, well-made traveler's clothes. The rest he entrusted to the Iron Bank, using the dead clerk's knowledge to set up accounts under several different names, a financial safety net for the future. He left the merchant's manse as he had found it, a place for the city to eventually discover and reclaim. His time in Essos was over.

The final scene of this chapter of his life took place on the deck of the Sea Serpent, a merchant cog bound for King's Landing. The sea air was sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the humid canals of Braavos. He wore the face of the young boy, but he carried himself with the subtle, learned posture of the Westerosi noble he now was in name. He was a paradox, a creature of impossible composition. A ten-year-old boy with the mind of a modern psychopath, the skills of a master assassin, the wealth of a merchant prince, the secrets of a spy, the craft of a forger, the knowledge of a banker, and the memories of a drunken knight.

He looked west, toward the continent that was his birthright in one life and his playground in this one. He knew the secrets of every player in the game. He knew Tywin's shame over his father, Tytos the Laughing Lion, and his desperate need for his house to be seen as perfect. He knew Aerys's terror of being usurped, a fear that would curdle into the madness that led him to see betrayal in his own son's eyes. He knew Hoster Tully's rigid adherence to "Family, Duty, Honor" was a cage of his own making, one that could be used to trap him. This knowledge was more powerful than any army. It was the ability to craft the perfect lie, the perfect rumor, the perfect provocation, tailored to the specific psychological weaknesses of his targets.

He was not merely going to watch the story unfold. He was going to rewrite it. Robert's Rebellion would still happen. The Targaryens would still fall. But the outcome would not be a drunken king on the Iron Throne and a realm torn apart. The outcome would be his. He would orchestrate the chaos, fuel the flames, and from the ashes, he would build his own throne.

A cold, predatory smile touched his lips, the first genuine expression of his true nature to grace this young face. He was no longer just a reader. He was the author now. And the first chapter of his masterpiece was about to begin.