Chapter 3: The Illusions of Weakness and the Butcher's Ledger
The human body is an incredibly adaptable machine, but it requires time. Bone density increases over months of heavy load-bearing. Muscle fibers tear and rebuild thicker over weeks of adequate protein synthesis and rest. Calluses form through repeated, agonizing friction. In my previous life, I maintained my physical edge through a grueling, daily regimen that bordered on masochism.
In Westeros, the rules of biology were apparently subject to negotiation.
I woke up the morning after butchering Gyles the Cleaver feeling as though I had been stretched on a rack, beaten with padded clubs, and then submerged in a vat of hot adrenaline. My eyes snapped open, and the immediate, suffocating sensation of my own skin being too tight made me gasp.
Rule Number Nine: An apex predator that cannot camouflage itself will inevitably be hunted by numbers.
I threw off the rough woolen blankets and rolled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the freezing stone floor with a heavy, solid thud that sounded entirely wrong for a boy of sixteen. I moved to the bronze mirror hanging above the washbasin. The light was dim, the sun barely cresting the eastern horizon, but the polished metal reflected enough for me to see the horrifyingly beautiful truth of the assimilation.
Arthor Vane had vanished.
The boy who had ridden out to the Whispering Woods two days ago was scrawny, hollow-chested, with the soft, uncalloused hands of a minor lordling who spent more time with scrolls than swords. The entity staring back at me now was a biological chimera.
The ten percent from Cleos the brawler had given me raw mass. The ten percent from Rennick had given me dense, wiry muscle tone. But the ten percent from Gyles—a massive, veteran mercenary who had survived the Greyjoy Rebellion through sheer, brutal power—was the catalyst that pushed the transformation over the edge.
My shoulders had broadened significantly, stretching the seams of my sleeping tunic. My chest was thick, corded with new muscle. My forearms, previously twigs, now looked like knotted ropes of steel. Even my jawline seemed to have sharpened, the baby fat burned away by the supernatural metabolism required to process the life force of four grown men.
I traced a hand over my abdomen. The fatal knife wound was nothing more than a pale, puckered scar, completely healed over. But the muscles surrounding it were hard as a washboard.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to pierce my cultivated calm.
This was a disaster.
In the modern world, if a hitman suddenly gained thirty pounds of pure muscle overnight, his handler would assume he was on experimental steroids and bench him for being a liability. In Westeros, if the sickly third son suddenly woke up built like a young bull, they wouldn't assume steroids. They would assume blood magic. And in a continent where the Faith of the Seven held sway and the Citadel abhorred the unnatural, blood magic was rewarded with a pyre.
"Think, Silas. Work the problem," I whispered to the empty room, my voice a gravelly rasp that no longer cracked with adolescent awkwardness.
I needed a disguise. Not a mask, but a structural dampener.
I went to my meager wardrobe. Arthor's clothes were mostly fitted doublets and tailored trousers, designed to make him look slightly more imposing than he actually was. Now, they were a liability. I dug past the fine wools and found an old, oversized hunting tunic made of thick, stiff canvas that belonged to Edric, discarded years ago.
Before putting it on, I took a long strip of linen from my medical supplies. I wrapped it tightly around my chest and stomach, compressing the new muscle mass as much as I could without restricting my lung capacity. It was uncomfortable, a constant, binding pressure, but it flattened my silhouette.
I pulled the oversized canvas tunic over my head. It hung loosely, the stiff material hiding the contours of my arms and shoulders. I paired it with my darkest trousers and boots, intentionally slouching my posture. I rounded my shoulders forward, tilted my chin down, and let my hair fall messily over my forehead.
I looked back at the mirror. It wasn't perfect. I still looked broader, healthier. But with the slouch and the oversized clothing, I could pass it off as a sudden, late-stage growth spurt brought on by the trauma of the ambush. It was a flimsy lie, but in a world without understanding of rapid cellular regeneration, it was the most logical conclusion they could reach.
There was a knock at the door. Sharp, impatient.
"Lord Arthor?" A voice called out. It was Maester Corlys. "Lord Cedric has commanded I check your dressings before you break your fast."
I took a deep breath, perfectly regulating my heart rate. I grabbed my walking stick, leaned heavily on it, and limped toward the door, unlatching it.
"Maester," I said, pitching my voice up slightly, injecting a hint of a wince. "Good morning."
The old man bustled in, smelling of dried mint and old parchment. He carried a small wooden tray with fresh bandages, a jar of foul-smelling yellow ointment, and a vial of milk of the poppy.
"Sit, sit, my boy," Corlys instructed, gesturing to the edge of the bed. "Let us see the damage. A gut wound is a treacherous thing. The fever can take you days after the steel has been removed."
I sat down, carefully arranging my posture so my stomach folded, hiding the dense muscle beneath. "I feel no fever, Maester. Merely a dull ache."
"We shall see," Corlys muttered. "Lift your tunic. Carefully now."
I undid the ties of the canvas tunic and lifted it just enough to expose the bandaged area, keeping the compression bindings hidden higher up on my chest. I slowly peeled back the linen dressing.
The Maester leaned in, his watery grey eyes squinting in the dim light. He paused. He blinked. He leaned closer, his nose almost touching my skin.
"By the Seven..." he breathed, his wrinkled fingers hovering over the pale, puckered scar.
I forced myself to flinch, acting as though his proximity hurt. "Is it... is it infected, Maester?"
"Infected?" Corlys shook his head slowly, absolute bewilderment etched across his face. He pressed gently on the tissue. "It's... it's closed. Entirely closed. Yesterday, this was a gaping puncture. Today, it looks like a wound from a month past. The tissue has knitted together with a speed I have never witnessed in all my years at the Citadel."
"The gods were merciful," I offered meekly, casting my eyes downward. "Perhaps the blade did not go as deep as we feared?"
"Not deep?" Corlys scoffed, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. "Boy, I saw the depth of it. It nearly nicked your bowel. But..." He trailed off, running a hand over his bald head. A Maester of the Citadel is trained to find logical explanations. Magic was a myth to them, a relic of a bygone age. He had to rationalize it.
"Perhaps," Corlys murmured, almost to himself, "the cold mud slowed the bleeding... and your youth... yes, youth is a powerful healer. And the blade must have been exceptionally clean, sparing you the rot. Still, it is a medical marvel. You possess a constitution that belies your frame, Lord Arthor."
"I merely wish to be whole again," I said softly.
"You are practically whole now," Corlys said, though he applied a thin layer of the yellow ointment anyway, out of sheer habit. He wrapped a fresh, thinner bandage around my waist. "Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for a week, just to be certain the internal tissue has matched the external. The Stranger brushed past you, my boy. Do not tempt him to return."
"I won't, Maester."
As he packed up his supplies and left the room, I exhaled a long, slow breath. The old man had rationalized it. People always prefer a comforting lie to a terrifying truth. But I couldn't risk another injury like that, not unless I was prepared to explain away a second miracle.
The Great Hall was loud this morning. The fires roared in the massive stone hearths, trying to burn away the damp chill of the Riverlands, while servants scurried about with platters of fried fish, hardboiled eggs, and dark bread.
I entered with my practiced limp, the oversized canvas tunic swallowing my new bulk.
Lord Cedric was already at the head of the table, deep in conversation with Captain Varly. Edric was laughing boisterously at a joke told by one of the household knights. Stevron, as always, sat with perfect, rigid posture, sipping his wine and watching the room with the calculating eyes of a snake.
I took my seat, nodding respectfully to my father.
"Arthor," Cedric grunted, tearing a piece of bread. "The Maester tells me you are healing with unnatural speed. Says you'll be off that stick in a few days."
"The Maester is generous with his praise of my youth, Father," I replied quietly. "But it still pains me to walk."
"Good. Pain reminds you you're alive," Cedric said.
Before I could reach for a hardboiled egg, the heavy oak doors of the hall swung open. A village elder, a nervous man named Cob, practically scurried into the room, twisting his woven cap in his hands.
"My Lord," Cob stammered, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the rushes on the floor. "Forgive the intrusion. The guards said I must bring the news to you directly."
Cedric sighed, clearly annoyed at the interruption of his meal. "What is it, Cob? Did another wolf take one of your sheep?"
"No, my Lord. It's... it's a man, my Lord. Dead."
The hall went silent. Three dead men in the woods was an ambush. A dead man in the village the very next day was a pattern.
Stevron leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Who is dead, Cob?"
"Gyles, my Lord. The Cleaver."
Edric let out a sudden, barking laugh. "The mercenary? The big brute with the branded hand? Ha! Who finally gutted the bastard? I'll buy the man an ale."
"That's... that's the strange part, Lord Edric," Cob said, visibly sweating. "No one gutted him. Well, not exactly."
"Speak plainly, man," Cedric commanded, his voice rumbling with authority.
"It was little Elara, my Lord. The tavern girl. She came screaming to my hut before dawn. Said Gyles had dragged her out back of the Broken Wheel to... to have his way with her. She said he was drunk on cheap cider, blind drunk. Said he drew his knife to threaten her, slipped in the mud, and..." Cob swallowed hard. "She said he fell on his own blade. Drove it right into his own leg, and then tumbled forward and snapped his neck on the tavern wall."
I kept my face perfectly slack, slowly peeling the shell off my hardboiled egg.
"Fell on his own knife?" Edric roared with laughter, slamming his meaty hand on the table. "The great Gyles the Cleaver, terror of the village, bested by a patch of wet mud and his own clumsiness! The gods have a wicked sense of humor!"
Even Lord Cedric allowed a grim, satisfied smirk to cross his face. "A fitting end for a dishonorable dog. I was half-tempted to hang him myself if he caused any more trouble. Have the Silent Sisters take the body, Cob. Throw his gear in the armory."
"Yes, my Lord," Cob bowed and scurried away, immensely relieved that the Lord of Oakhaven didn't care about a dead mercenary.
But I wasn't watching my father or Edric. I was watching Stevron.
Stevron was not laughing. His handsome face was completely still, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Cob had been standing. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head.
Stevron was a schemer. He understood causality. Yesterday, his three assassins wind up dead in a highly improbable mutual slaughter. Today, a massive, veteran mercenary dies in a highly improbable, clumsy accident.
Two impossibilities in forty-eight hours.
Stevron slowly turned his head, his gaze locking onto me across the table. His eyes were cold, filled with a deep, unsettling paranoia. I met his gaze briefly, offering a small, confused blink, before looking down at my egg.
Rule Number Ten: When your enemy begins to suspect you, feed them a narrative that makes them feel superior.
I needed to redirect Stevron's paranoia. If he thought I was a master assassin, he would hire the Faceless Men to deal with me. If he thought I was simply a religious, broken coward, he would dismiss the deaths as bizarre coincidences.
"Father," I said, my voice trembling slightly. I pushed the half-peeled egg away, looking slightly nauseous.
"What is it, Arthor?" Cedric asked, his tone softening slightly.
"The blood," I whispered, loud enough for the table to hear. "The talk of death. Three men in the woods. Now this mercenary in the mud. I... I cannot stomach it. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rennick's dead face."
Edric rolled his eyes in disgust. "By the Seven, Arthor, you're a Vane. Stop weeping like a maiden. Men die. It's the way of the world."
"Edric, hold your tongue," Cedric snapped. He looked at me, a mixture of pity and disappointment in his eyes. A feudal lord needs strong sons to secure his legacy. Edric was a brute, but he was a warrior. I was proving to be a fragile liability.
"What would you have me do, boy?" Cedric asked tiredly.
"I wish to seek solace, Father," I said, bowing my head. "With your permission, I would like to spend my days in the keep's library, and my evenings in the Sept. I need to pray to the Crone for guidance, and to the Father for Rennick's soul. I... I do not belong in the training yard. Not right now."
I chanced a glance at Stevron. The tension in his shoulders visibly relaxed. The suspicion in his eyes was replaced by a familiar, comforting contempt.
A coward hiding behind books and gods, Stevron's expression practically screamed. Just a coincidence. He's exactly the pathetic worm he's always been.
"Very well," Lord Cedric sighed, rubbing his temples. It was a dismissal of my worth as much as a granting of permission. "If the books and the statues give you peace, go to them. But do not think you can hide from the world forever, Arthor. Winter is coming, eventually. And winter does not care if you know how to pray."
"Thank you, Father," I said humbly.
I stood up, gripping my walking stick, and hobbled out of the Great Hall. I had successfully cemented my alibi. I had practically been granted a hall pass to disappear from the family's daily scrutiny.
The library was my sanctuary. But it wasn't going to be a place of prayer. It was going to be my war room.
The library of Oakhaven Keep was a generous term for a dusty, circular room situated in the western tower, filled with rotting wooden shelves and smelling strongly of mildew and mouse droppings. House Vane was not known for its scholars. The collection consisted mostly of tax ledgers spanning three generations, a few tattered histories of the Riverlands, and a heavy, iron-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.
I locked the heavy oaken door behind me, tossing the walking stick onto a dusty reading table.
I stood in the center of the room and stretched, groaning as the tight canvas tunic pulled against my expanding shoulders. I unraveled the linen bindings around my chest, taking a deep, unfettered breath.
With the physical restrictions removed, I could finally process the mental feedback from Gyles the Cleaver. I closed my eyes, sorting through the fragmented memories of the dead mercenary.
It was a treasure trove of ugly, brutal knowledge.
Gyles was not a master swordsman like Ser Barristan Selmy. He was a survivor. His memories taught me how to fight dirty. I learned how to throw sand in a man's eyes before engaging; how to use the heavy pommel of a sword to crush a jaw in a grapple; how to read the subtle shifting of a man's hips to predict a strike.
But more importantly, Gyles had traveled. He had fought in the Westerlands, the Iron Islands, and the Riverlands. He knew the layout of the minor keeps. He knew the bandit camps. He knew which taverns hosted outlaw recruiters and which roads were completely unpatrolled by the local lords.
I walked over to the shelves and began pulling down the old tax ledgers and empty scrolls. I found a pot of dried ink, spat into it to rehydrate it, and procured a decent quill.
I cleared the central reading table and began to draw.
With Pyk the archer's sharp spatial memory, Rennick's geographical knowledge of the Vane lands, and Gyles' extensive mercenary travels, I was able to construct a highly accurate, tactical map of the Riverlands.
I marked Oakhaven Keep in the center. Then, I began to annotate.
About fifteen miles to the northeast, near the bend of the Blue Fork, Gyles had known of a semi-permanent camp of river pirates. They preyed on small merchant skiffs and were led by a Tyroshi exile known for his cruelty.
Target Rich Environment. I marked it with a small, black cross.
To the south, bordering the lands of House Bracken, there was a ruined holdfast called Stonehedge's Shadow. Gyles' memories indicated it was currently occupied by a dozen deserters from a minor skirmish, men who survived by raiding local farms and taking whatever they pleased.
Another black cross.
I spent hours in the dusty silence of the library, cross-referencing my newly acquired geographical knowledge with my memories of the books from my past life.
The timeline was critical. If King Robert was still alive, the realm was relatively stable, meaning large-scale troop movements would be noticed. But Robert's death would plunge the continent into chaos. The Riverlands, centrally located and utterly devoid of natural defenses, would become the primary theater of war. Tywin Lannister would unleash the Mountain to burn this entire region to ash.
I had to be ready before the Mountain arrived. Gregor Clegane was a monster, a physical anomaly who wielded a six-foot greatsword with one hand. If I engaged him with my current stats, even with my mafia tactics, he would cleave me in two. I needed to scale up, rapidly.
I took a fresh piece of parchment. This wouldn't be a map. This would be the Ledger.
In the mafia, the ledger tracked the money. Here, it tracked the blood.
I listed the names of men in the surrounding area whose deaths would not only benefit my stats but also clean up the region without drawing the ire of the ruling lords.
* The River Pirates at the Blue Fork. (Estimated 8-10 men. Assumed skills: naval combat, agility, dirty fighting).
* The Deserters at Stonehedge's Shadow. (Estimated 12 men. Assumed skills: standard infantry tactics, stamina, archery).
* Corlis the Fox. A notorious smuggler and cutthroat who operated out of Fairmarket. Gyles had bought stolen wine from him.
I stared at the list. It was a good start. But getting to them was the problem. I couldn't keep sneaking out of the scullery grate every night and walking fifteen miles. I needed a horse, and I needed an excuse to leave the keep for days at a time.
A heavy, deliberate knock on the library door shattered my concentration.
I quickly threw a large map over my Ledger, grabbed the linen wrappings, and desperately bound my chest again. I pulled the oversized canvas tunic down, grabbed my walking stick, and hobbled to the door.
I unlocked it and pulled it open.
Stevron stood in the corridor, a polite, entirely fake smile plastered on his face. Behind him stood a man-at-arms I didn't recognize. The man was built like a brick wall, wearing a heavy mail hauberk and a sullen expression. His nose had been broken several times, and he rested a hand casually on the pommel of a mace at his belt.
"Arthor," Stevron said smoothly, stepping into the dusty library without an invitation. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of mildew. "Studying the histories, are we? Finding peace among the moths?"
"I am finding quiet, brother," I said, keeping my voice soft and submissive. "What do you want?"
"I come bearing a gift," Stevron said, gesturing to the brute behind him. "This is Boros. He is a newly sworn sword to our house. Came highly recommended from a hedge knight in the Vale."
Boros gave a grunt that might have been a greeting. His eyes swept over me, lingering on my walking stick with a look of pure disdain.
"I don't need a guard inside the keep, Stevron," I said, feeling a cold knot of genuine anger form in my stomach.
"Nonsense," Stevron replied, his voice dripping with false concern. "Father and I have spoken. You survived a horrific ordeal, Arthor. Three brigands in the woods. And now, this mercenary Gyles turns up dead in the village? The Riverlands are growing dangerous. Lawless. I will not have my dear little brother walking the halls unprotected. Boros is to be your personal shadow. He will escort you to the library, to the Sept, and stand guard outside your door at night. To ensure you are... safe."
It was a brilliant, terrifying play.
Stevron wasn't convinced by the "cowardly scholar" routine. He couldn't prove I killed his assassins, and he couldn't prove I killed Gyles, but his paranoia demanded a leash. Boros wasn't a bodyguard. He was a warden. He was a spy placed directly over my shoulder to ensure I couldn't take a piss without Stevron knowing about it.
I was effectively under house arrest.
Rule Number Eleven: When put in a cage, the first step is to evaluate the bars. The second step is to sharpen your teeth on them.
"That is... very thoughtful of you, Stevron," I said, forcing a look of deep, pathetic gratitude onto my face. I looked up at the towering Boros. "Thank you, Boros. I will feel much safer with you nearby."
Boros just grunted again, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
"Excellent," Stevron smiled, a genuine smile this time, victorious and cruel. "I will leave you to your prayers, little brother. Boros will wait outside."
Stevron turned and walked away, his boots echoing down the stone corridor. Boros stepped out, pulling the heavy oak door shut with a loud, definitive thud.
I stood in the silence of the library, the facade of the weak boy melting away instantly. My jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.
I walked over to the table and pulled the map away, staring down at my Ledger.
I needed to hunt to get stronger. I needed to get stronger to survive the coming war and deal with Stevron. But now, a three-hundred-pound guard dog was sitting outside my only door.
I couldn't kill Boros. A dead guard inside the keep, right outside my door, would immediately implicate me. It would destroy my carefully crafted alibi and force a direct confrontation with the entire garrison.
I closed my eyes, accessing the combined knowledge of Silas the hitman, Pyk the poacher, Rennick the guard, and Gyles the mercenary. I needed a blind spot. Every security system has a flaw. Every guard has a weakness.
I spent the next three hours pacing the circular library, ignoring the books, and formulating a plan.
Boros was a brute, hired by Stevron for his muscle and his loyalty to coin. He wasn't a disciplined Kingsguard. He was a thug. Thugs get bored. Thugs have vices.
When the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows through the narrow slit windows of the library, I finally knocked on the heavy oak door.
Boros opened it, looking intensely irritated. "What?"
"I am finished here, Boros," I said, leaning on my stick and adopting a tired, whiny tone. "I wish to go to the Sept to pray before supper."
Boros rolled his eyes but stepped aside, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him.
The Sept of Oakhaven was a small, seven-sided wooden building located in the inner courtyard, near the stables. It smelled of cheap incense and melting beeswax. There were carved wooden statues of the Seven, rudimentary and lacking detail.
I knelt before the altar of the Crone, bowing my head. Boros stood just inside the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, looking incredibly bored. He picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail, completely uninterested in my supposed piety.
I didn't pray. I used the time to calculate distances. The stables were exactly forty paces from the Sept door. The armory was on the opposite side of the courtyard.
After an hour of feigned devotion, I stood up, pretending to wince at the stiffness in my knees. We walked to the Great Hall for supper.
During the meal, I kept up the act. I ate little, stared at my plate, and flinched when Edric laughed too loudly. Stevron watched me with a smug satisfaction. He thought he had won. He thought he had neutralized the anomaly.
After supper, Boros escorted me to my bedchamber.
"I will be sleeping now, Boros," I said, standing in the doorway. "You do not need to stand out here all night. It is cold."
"Lord Stevron pays me to stand here, little lord," Boros sneered. "So I stand here. Go to sleep."
He pulled the door shut in my face. I heard the scrape of a stool being pulled up against the wood outside. He was literally blocking my exit.
I walked over to the scullery grate exit I had used the night before. I knelt down and examined the floorboards.
To my absolute horror, the rusted grate had been replaced. In its stead was a solid iron plate, freshly bolted into the stone. Stevron was thorough. He hadn't just given me a guard; he had ordered the keep inspected for vulnerabilities. My secret exit was gone.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark.
Boros outside the door. A bolted iron plate over the grate. A drop of forty feet from the narrow slit window into the rocky moat below.
I was trapped.
A slow, cold smile spread across my face in the darkness.
In the mafia, when a target locked themselves in a panic room, you didn't try to break down the titanium door. You cut the power, you cut the ventilation, and you waited for them to open the door themselves.
I didn't need to break out of my room. I needed Boros to let me out.
I lay down on the bed, my mind racing through the chemical formulas I had memorized in my previous life. Explosives were out of the question—no sulfur or saltpeter readily available. Poisons were possible, but a dead Boros was a fail state.
I needed a biological incapacitant. A sedative.
I thought back to the Maester's visit that morning. The wooden tray. The bandages. The yellow ointment.
And the small, glass vial of milk of the poppy.
Maester Corlys was an old man. He was creatures of habit. He kept his stores in the rookery tower, relying on the heavy iron lock on his door to keep the servants from stealing his tinctures.
I couldn't leave my room tonight. But tomorrow, during my "prayers," I would need to pay a visit to the Maester's chambers while he was tending to the horses or taking his afternoon nap.
I closed my eyes, visualizing the lock on the Maester's door. A simple warded lock, easily bypassed with two pieces of stiff wire. Gyles' memories provided exactly how to fashion improvised lockpicks from the buckles of a saddle.
The game had evolved. Stevron thought he was playing cyvasse, moving pieces on a board. I was playing a game of chemical warfare and biological assimilation.
"Sleep well, Boros," I whispered to the heavy oak door. "Enjoy the coin Stevron gave you. Tomorrow night, you're going to sleep deeper than you ever have in your life."
I pulled the rough blankets up to my chin, my body thrumming with the suppressed energy of four dead men. I was locked in a medieval cage, surrounded by enemies, with a war looming on the horizon.
It was the most fun I'd had since I died.
I fell asleep, dreaming of the river pirates on the Blue Fork, and exactly how many stats their captain would yield when I finally drove my knife into his throat.