Finding a specific servant in King's Landing was like trying to find a single, specific needle in a continent-sized haystack made of other, pointier needles. The Red Keep employed hundreds of people, and Jon Arryn's household in the Tower of the Hand had dozens more. Wade couldn't exactly put an ad in the Westeros Weekly.
He needed an in. A weak link. Someone with access, but who was unimportant enough to be overlooked. Someone overworked, underpaid, and susceptible to a little… flattery.
His goal was clear: find a chink in the Red Keep's armor, a servant in Jon Arryn's household he could turn, bribe, or... charm.
His first attempt was a spectacular failure. He went to a tavern near the Aegonfort, a known watering hole for off-duty guards and castle staff. He'd ditched his suit for a simple traveler's cloak, hood pulled low over his masked face. He sidled up to a group of gossiping kitchen hands.
"Evening, ladies," he said, trying for a suave, mysterious tone. "I hear the wine in the Tower of the Hand is particularly fine this season. Any truth to that?"
Four women turned to stare at him. The biggest one, a woman with arms like baked hams, planted her fists on her hips. "And who's askin'?"
"Just a humble wine connoisseur," Wade said. "An admirer of Lord Arryn's… cellar."
"You a spy?" another one asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Worse," the big one declared. "He's a bloody pervert with a face mask. Shove off before I use you to scrub the privy."
Wade beat a hasty retreat, the sound of their laughter following him out the door.
{Smooth. Real smooth. They totally wanted you.}
Shut up, Boxy. The direct approach isn't working. Time for Plan B: targeted bribery.
He found a wine merchant whose cart was a permanent fixture near the Mud Gate, a man known to supply many of the castle's kitchens. Wade, still cloaked as "Mr. Wilson," approached him not as a spy, but as a customer.
He bought a cask of expensive Arbor Gold, paying with three golden dragons when one would have sufficed. The merchant's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"A vintage year, my lord!" the merchant gushed. "For a man of your clear and obvious taste!"
"I'm looking to secure a larger contract," Wade said smoothly, swirling a sample in a cup. "Perhaps with one of the great houses. Lord Arryn, for example. But I'd need to know the preferences of his household. Specifically, Lady Arryn's ladies-in-waiting. A gift for the right person can open many doors."
The merchant, smelling more gold, leaned in conspiratorially. "The Lady Lysa has several ladies. But her personal handmaiden, the one who brings her her evening wine? That would be Elia. A young thing, from the Riverlands. Pretty, but quiet."
"Elia," Wade repeated. He'd found his needle. "And where might a man 'accidentally' bump into this quiet, pretty Elia?"
"She runs errands in the market square, most mornings," the merchant whispered, pocketing the dragons. "Buys sweet cakes for the Lady Lysa. A foolish expense, if you ask me."
"I'm not asking you," Wade said, tossing the man another silver. "Thanks for the tip."
The next morning, Wade was waiting. He'd positioned himself near the sweet cake stall, once again dressed as the mysterious Mr. Wilson. He didn't have to wait long. He spotted her immediately – a girl of maybe seventeen, with Tully-blue eyes and auburn hair pinned neatly under a servant's cap. She moved with a nervous energy, her eyes darting around the crowded market.
This was his moment. The stakes were Jon Arryn's life. The obstacle was the natural suspicion of a servant girl in a city of wolves.
He waited for her to purchase the cakes. As she turned, he "accidentally" bumped into a boy carrying a basket of oranges, sending them tumbling across the cobblestones. One of them rolled right to Elia's feet. It was a classic meet-cute, orchestrated with merc-like precision.
"Oh, my apologies!" Wade said, his voice full of concern as he helped the boy gather the fruit. He looked up, as if noticing Elia for the first time. "I am so sorry, my lady. Did I startle you?"
"It's… it's alright," she stammered, flustered by the sudden attention from a wealthy-looking man. "No harm done."
"No harm, save to my dignity," he said with a charming, self-deprecating laugh. His voice was warm and rich, a stark contrast to his hidden face. "Allow me to make it up to you. Please, your cakes."
Before she could protest, he'd paid the baker for her purchase, using a gold dragon and telling the man to keep the change. The baker bowed so low his nose nearly touched the counter.
Elia was speechless. "My lord, you mustn't! I cannot accept–"
"Nonsense," Wade said, his voice soft. "A man makes a mess, he should clean it up. Besides," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "it is a small price to pay for the chance to speak with the loveliest flower in this dreary market."
Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She was a servant, invisible. This man, with his strange mask and rich clothes, saw her.
He walked with her for a short distance, making easy conversation. He spoke of his travels, painting a vague but romantic picture of the Free Cities. He was charming, witty, and he listened to her – truly listened – when she spoke of her simple life.
"I must return to the Keep," she finally said, her voice full of regret.
"Of course," Wade said. "But I find myself hoping this is not the last time we speak. Might I trouble you for your name?"
"Elia," she whispered.
"Elia," he repeated, tasting the name. "I am Wade. I will be near the fountain tomorrow morning. If you should happen to be running errands again, I would be honored if you would allow me to buy you another sweet cake."
She looked down, clutching the box of cakes to her chest. "I… perhaps."
It was all the promise he needed. He had the in. He had charmed her, disarmed her. She was the key. As she turned to leave, a small detail caught his eye. Pinned to the inside of her simple cloak was a small, crudely embroidered sigil. A tiny, grey mockingbird.
His blood ran cold.
The handmaiden he had just so perfectly charmed, his key to saving Jon Arryn from his wife, was already one of Littlefinger's spies. He wasn't charming a servant. He was walking into a trap.
Of course. Let's play the game.
Littlefinger.
The son of a bitch was everywhere. He didn't just have spies; he had spies spying on his own operations. Wade felt a grudging respect mixed with a boiling rage.
He couldn't back out now. That would signal that he knew. He couldn't confront her. That would show his hand. No, he had to play the part. He had to be the charming, mysterious suitor, all while knowing she was reporting every word back to the man who was paying his salary.
His new goal was a three-layer cake of deception. Layer one: keep the date. Layer two: feed her a tasty lie for Littlefinger to chew on. Layer three, the delicious creamy center: flip her.
He met her by the fountain the next morning as promised. She was even more nervous than before, clutching a small, empty basket. She looked like she hadn't slept.
"Elia," he said, his voice a warm smile. He offered her a small paper-wrapped package. "I hope you'll forgive my forwardness. A sweet cake to start the day."
"My lord… Wade," she corrected herself, blushing as she accepted the gift. "You are too kind. I am only a servant."
"And I'm just a man with a weird face-glove," he said with a laugh. "Let's not get hung up on titles. Walk with me?"
The obstacle was her mission. She was here to pump him for information. He could feel her working up the courage to ask the questions Littlefinger had no doubt supplied her with.
She didn't disappoint. "You said you were a traveler," she began, her voice soft. "What… what sort of business brings you to King's Landing? If you don't mind my asking."
"Not at all," Wade said, steering her toward a quieter garden path. He launched into the cover story he'd concocted. "I'm a treasure hunter, of a sort. I work for wealthy patrons in the Free Cities. They hire me to acquire… rare items. Antiques. Lost art. Things that have a habit of ending up in Westeros."
It was the perfect lie. It explained his money, his secrecy, and his presence in the capital, all while painting him as a romantic rogue instead of a hired thug. It was exactly the kind of story Littlefinger would find intriguing but impossible to immediately verify.
"That sounds… dangerous," she said, her eyes wide.
"It has its moments," he said with a shrug. "But it's worth it, to find something beautiful that was thought to be lost forever." He looked at her. "I find it's a passion of mine."
He saw the shift in her. The spy was momentarily forgotten, replaced by the seventeen-year-old girl captivated by a fairy tale. This was his opening.
He gently took her hand. She flinched, but didn't pull away. He turned it over. Her knuckles were red and chapped, her nails short and worn. The hands of a girl who spent her days scrubbing floors and wringing laundry.
"Your lady works you too hard," he said, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming genuinely soft.
Tears welled in Elia's eyes. She looked away, ashamed. "I am lucky to have a position in the Red Keep."
"Luck shouldn't leave scars," he said quietly. He reached into his cloak and produced a small, expensive-looking ceramic jar. "This is from Volantis. A lotion made from moon-petal oil. It will help."
He pressed it into her hand. It wasn't a bribe of gold. It was a gift of kindness. It was a gesture that had nothing to do with her use to him, and everything to do with her as a person. It was a weapon Littlefinger would never think to use. This was the compassion twist: he wasn't just trying to turn a spy; he was trying to rescue a victim.
She stared at the jar, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
"Because kindness is the one treasure you can't buy," he said. He decided to press his advantage. "And because you look scared, Elia. You have for two days now. It's not just the city. You're afraid of your work, aren't you?"
She pulled her hand back, clutching the jar. The walls went up again. "I should go. Lady Lysa will be waiting."
"Wait," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "I need a favor. Not for me. For a friend. Lord Arryn. I hear he is unwell."
Her face went pale. "He is… very sick, my lord. The Grand Maester sees him every day. We are all praying for him."
Grand Maester Pycelle. The name clicked into place with sickening certainty. Pycelle was a Lannister man. Of course he was the one treating him. He wasn't administering medicine; he was administering the poison.
"I have a message for Lord Arryn," Wade said, his voice low and urgent. "A remedy from the East. Something the maesters here wouldn't know. It must get to him. Not to his wife, not to the maesters. To him. Can you do that, Elia? Can you help me save an old man's life?"
He was asking her to betray her masters. Not just Littlefinger, but Lysa Arryn herself. He was asking her to choose a side. Her terrified silence was the answer. She was too deep in the web, too afraid to move.
He had his payoff. He knew where she stood, and he had confirmed Pycelle's involvement.
"It's alright," Wade said, his voice softening again. He could see she was about to break. He backed off. "Don't worry about it. It was too much to ask." He gave her a sad smile. "Stay safe, Elia. Use the lotion."
He turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the garden, clutching a sweet cake, a jar of expensive lotion, and a terrible choice.
He hadn't flipped her. Not yet. But he had planted the seed. He had shown her that there was another option besides being Littlefinger's pawn. And sometimes, a seed was all you needed.
But he was out of time for gardening. Jon Arryn was being actively poisoned by the Grand Maester. His new target wasn't the Hand's wife or his spies. It was the man with the maester's chain and the vial of poison. He had a new name on his list. Grand Maester Pycelle. And it was time to make a house call.
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