Chapter 10: Messages in Shadow
POV: Geralt
The servant quarters of Harrenhal reeked of unwashed bodies and desperation, but tonight they carried something else—the metallic tang of fear that preceded violence. I lay on my straw pallet, listening to the whispered conversations that drifted through the thin walls, when the system's cheerful notification appeared in my peripheral vision.
[Daily Quest Available: Mentorship Protocol]
[Guide target without direct contact]
[Maintain plausible deniability at all costs]
[Reward: Enhanced Document Forgery capabilities]
"Right on schedule," I thought, rolling silently off the pallet. Three days had passed since the Mountain's humiliation, and Arya would be arriving tomorrow with Yoren's party. Time to ensure her path through this nightmare was as survivable as possible.
The castle slept fitfully around me as I moved through servant passages like a ghost. Enhanced reflexes made navigation effortless—I could anticipate where floorboards would creak, predict which corridors would be patrolled, stay invisible in shadows that shouldn't have provided adequate cover.
My first stop was the cache I'd prepared near the kitchens, where a small wolf carved from weirwood waited beneath loose stones. The symbol would mean nothing to most people, but to a Stark girl far from home, it would be a message that the North remembered.
I placed it where Arya would find it during her first kitchen duties, along with a rolled parchment that looked like discarded notes but contained carefully coded information.
Guard changes at dawn and dusk. Kitchen staff rotates weekly. Safest routes: servant stairs behind hearth, passage through old maester's tower. Trust no one wearing three dogs. Water tastes better from the well near the godswood.
Simple advice disguised as rambling observations, but information that could save her life a dozen times over.
[Mentorship Protocol: Phase 1 Complete]
[Target Guidance: Covert operational advice deployed]
[Detection Risk: Minimal - appears random]
My second cache was hidden in the old maester's tower, where dust-covered books made perfect camouflage for additional supplies. Here I left a leather pouch containing Northern coins—enough to buy passage if she needed to flee—along with a small eating knife that looked unremarkable but held an edge sharp enough to cut through rope or leather.
More importantly, I left a list written in the flowing script of a maester's assistant, as if someone had been practicing their letters. But the names on that list would mean everything to a girl whose father had just been executed.
Polliver - drinks heavy, sleeps deep, keys on left hip
The Tickler - afraid of rats, superstitious about weirwood
Raff the Sweetling - takes gold to look the other way
Chiswyck - boasts when drunk, reveals patrol times
The names from her nightly prayers, paired with weaknesses that a clever girl could exploit. Information that might help her survive, or better yet, take revenge.
[Intelligence Package: Deployed]
[Target Assessment: High-value assassination data provided]
[Plausible Source: Maester's training exercises]
The third cache was the most dangerous to place.
Lord Tywin's solar occupied the highest tower of Harrenhal, where he held court and conducted the business of war. Getting close enough to plant anything required passing through multiple checkpoints, avoiding patrols that had been tripled since the armor incident, and somehow accessing chambers where discovery meant immediate execution.
But Tywin received dozens of ravens daily, and ravens meant messages that needed to be sorted, decoded, and filed. Messages that a clever servant might accidentally misplace or incorrectly deliver.
I slipped into the rookery through a window that looked impossible to reach, my enhanced reflexes making the climb effortless. The ravens stirred restlessly in their cages, but they were accustomed to nocturnal visitors—maesters often sent urgent messages after dark.
The message I prepared looked identical to legitimate military intelligence—proper parchment, authentic seals, writing that matched the style of Lannister field commanders. But the information it contained was carefully distorted.
Lord Tywin - Stannis Baratheon's fleet larger than reported. Estimate 400 ships, not 200. Northern cavalry movements suggest Robb Stark planning eastern offensive. Recommend strengthening Harrenhal garrison, reducing King's Landing reinforcements.
Not lies, exactly, but exaggerations that would make Tywin more paranoid about threats to his own position. Information that would keep him focused on protecting his rear rather than crushing Stannis at Blackwater Bay.
I mixed the false intelligence in with legitimate reports, ensuring it would be discovered naturally during the morning's correspondence review. By the time anyone questioned its authenticity, events would have moved beyond verification.
[Document Forgery: Advanced Intelligence Manipulation]
[Target: Strategic misdirection of enemy resources]
[Effect: Reduced pressure on primary timeline events]
I was preparing to leave when footsteps echoed in the tower below—someone climbing the stairs with deliberate, measured steps. Too late to escape the way I'd entered, I pressed myself against the wall behind a shelf of message scrolls, trying to become one with the shadows.
The door opened to reveal a figure that made my blood freeze.
Jaqen H'ghar entered the rookery like he owned it, moving with the liquid grace that marked him as something far more dangerous than a common prisoner. In the moonlight filtering through the windows, his unremarkable face seemed to shift and blur, as if the features couldn't quite decide what they wanted to be.
"A man works late," he said conversationally, not looking in my direction but somehow speaking directly to me. "A man leaves messages where messages should not be."
I remained perfectly still, barely breathing, but Jaqen's head turned toward my hiding place with predatory precision.
"A man can see in shadows that should hide. A man can smell fear that should be odorless." He stepped closer, and I could see the ancient intelligence in his eyes. "A man wonders what game is being played, and by whom."
There was no point in maintaining the pretense. He'd found me, and whatever happened next would depend on how I handled the next few minutes.
I stepped out from behind the shelf, keeping my hands visible and my posture non-threatening. "Just trying to help some people survive what's coming."
"Survival." Jaqen smiled, and the expression was both beautiful and terrifying. "A man knows many kinds of survival. The body's survival. The soul's survival. The survival of secrets that should stay buried."
"I'm not here to expose anyone's secrets."
"No?" His head tilted with bird-like curiosity. "A man serves the Many-Faced God, who sees all faces, knows all names. A man recognizes when someone wears a face that does not belong to them."
My throat went dry. The Faceless Men were masters of disguise and deception, trained to see through any pretense. If anyone could detect that I wasn't who I appeared to be, it would be Jaqen.
"A man also recognizes," he continued, "when someone serves a purpose that aligns with his own. Death comes for the cruel. Justice finds those who escape earthly law. Sometimes these purposes run parallel, like rivers flowing toward the same sea."
He moved closer, close enough that I could see the details of his constantly shifting features. Up close, his face was even more unsettling—not quite human, as if it had been assembled from memories of humanity rather than born from it.
"A man offers a bargain," Jaqen said softly. "Continue your work. Help those who deserve help. But remember—a man is watching. A man will know if noble purposes become selfish ones. And a man serves a god who values balance above all else."
"What kind of balance?"
"For every life saved, a life must be taken. For every act of mercy, an act of justice. The girl will arrive tomorrow, and she will have need of both protection and purpose." His smile grew wider, revealing teeth too sharp to be entirely human. "A man suggests she be given both, in appropriate measure."
The threat was clear. Help Arya survive, but ensure she also fulfilled her purpose as an instrument of justice. Guide her toward safety, but not away from the violence that would forge her into a weapon.
"A man thinks this conversation has been... educational," Jaqen said, turning toward the door. "Perhaps the next conversation will be even more so."
He paused at the threshold, not looking back. "A man offers advice. There are other watchers in this place. Watchers with pale eyes and long memories. A servant should remember that some masters see more than others, and remember longer than stone."
Then he was gone, leaving only the scent of exotic spices and the feeling that I'd just negotiated with something far older and more dangerous than it appeared.
[Supernatural Encounter: Jaqen H'ghar]
[Threat Assessment: Aligned but monitoring]
[Agreement Status: Conditional cooperation established]
[Warning: Bolton surveillance network detected]
I completed my work quickly after that, placing the final caches and ensuring everything appeared undisturbed. But Jaqen's words echoed in my mind as I made my way back to the servant quarters.
Other watchers. Pale eyes. Long memories.
Roose Bolton's network was already in place, which meant my activities here weren't as secret as I'd hoped. The Leech Lord was patient, methodical, and absolutely ruthless. He would watch, analyze, and eventually act when he understood what I was really doing.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, I'd given Arya the tools she would need to survive Harrenhal. Hidden messages that would guide her steps, weapons
POV: Arya Stark
The small wolf carving fit perfectly in Arya's palm, its weirwood surface smooth as silk and warm as if it had been touched by living hands. She'd found it tucked beneath a loose stone near the kitchen hearth, along with a scrap of parchment that looked like kitchen notes but read like salvation.
Water tastes better from the well near the godswood.
Kitchen staff rotates weekly.
Trust no one wearing three dogs.
Simple words that made her heart race. Someone knew she was here. Someone from the North, someone who remembered her father's words about the old gods and the safety found in their shadows.
"Arry!" Hot Pie's voice cut through her thoughts like a dull blade. "Stop staring at scraps and help with these turnips!"
She tucked the carving into her boot, feeling its weight like an anchor. Around her, the kitchen churned with its usual chaos—servants hauling water, cooks shouting orders, the constant clatter of preparation for a castle full of killers.
But now she had something they didn't know about. A sign that she wasn't alone.
"Got it," she mumbled, grabbing a knife and attacking the turnips with more violence than they deserved. Each cut reminded her of other cuts she wanted to make, other names on her list that needed crossing off.
Joffrey. Cersei. The Mountain. Polliver. The Tickler.
She whispered the names silently as she worked, a prayer to whatever gods still listened. But now, for the first time since Father's death, she felt like those prayers might actually be heard.
The second message came three days later.
Arya was scrubbing pots in the kitchen when she noticed writing scratched into the stone wall behind the washbasin—letters so faint they might have been accident marks, except they formed words that made her breath catch.
First sword of Braavos stance: Left foot forward, blade high, guard position six. Practice when alone. The dead cannot teach the living.
Water dancing. Someone knew about Syrio's lessons, knew about the training that had been cut short when gold cloaks came for her father. The writing was in a different hand than the first message, as if multiple people were watching, helping, remembering who she really was.
She practiced that night in the godswood, moving through the forms Syrio had taught her with a stick instead of Needle. The heart tree watched with its carved face, red sap weeping from wooden eyes that seemed to approve of her dedication.
Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water.
The words felt like coming home.
[System Notification: Mentorship Protocol Active]
[Target Skill Development: Enhanced combat training]
[Morale Improvement: Significant psychological benefit detected]
[Network Effect: Trust in hidden allies established]
POV: Geralt
I watched from the shadows of the godswood as Arya moved through her water dancing forms, her stick cutting precise arcs in the moonlight. The messages were working perfectly—giving her hope without revealing their source, teaching her skills while maintaining plausible deniability.
But tonight's mission was more dangerous than leaving encouraging notes.
Lord Tywin's solar burned with candlelight as ravens arrived with reports from across the realm. The Old Lion read each message with the focused intensity of a predator analyzing prey, his green eyes reflecting calculation that could reshape kingdoms.
I needed to see those reports. More importantly, I needed to alter them.
The servants' entrance to the tower was guarded by a single man whose attention was focused on a dice game with his replacement. I slipped past them like smoke, my enhanced reflexes making every step silent, every movement perfectly timed to avoid detection.
[Stealth Mastery: Advanced Infiltration]
[Guard Awareness: Zero detection probability]
[Objective: Intelligence gathering and manipulation]
[Risk Assessment: Extreme but manageable]
Tywin's solar was a study in controlled power. Maps covered the walls, marked with colored pins showing troop movements, supply lines, and strategic objectives. The great table was buried under correspondence—reports from spies, intelligence from scouts, diplomatic messages that could reshape alliances.
And there, in a pile of unread ravens, was exactly what I needed.
The report from King's Landing detailed Stannis Baratheon's naval preparations—ship counts, commander assignments, and most importantly, preliminary intelligence about Tyrion's wildfire preparations. Information that, in the right hands, could change the course of the Battle of Blackwater.
I selected three key messages and began my work.
The first report claimed Stannis had two hundred warships. I carefully altered the number to four hundred, making the threat appear far larger than it actually was. The change was subtle—a single character modification that would make Tywin more cautious about leaving King's Landing vulnerable.
[Document Forgery: Military Intelligence Modification]
[Alteration Success: 99.7% authenticity maintained]
[Strategic Impact: Enemy resource allocation disrupted]
The second message detailed Northern troop movements. I added references to fictional cavalry units massing near the Neck, suggesting Robb Stark was preparing a southern offensive toward Harrenhal itself. Another lie that would keep Tywin focused on protecting his own position rather than supporting King's Landing.
[False Intelligence: Northern Threat Amplification]
[Psychological Warfare: Paranoia enhancement protocol active]
[Effect Duration: Estimated 2-3 weeks until verification]
The third alteration was the most delicate. A report about wildfire production in King's Landing mentioned specific quantities and storage locations. I modified the numbers downward, making the weapon seem less dangerous than it actually was, while adding notes about "storage instability" and "transportation difficulties."
Information that would make Tywin less likely to request wildfire shipments for his own use, keeping the weapon concentrated in King's Landing where Tyrion could use it most effectively.
[Chemical Warfare Intelligence: Quantity and Risk Assessment Modified]
[Target Outcome: Reduced enemy adoption of advanced weapons]
[Collateral Benefit: Enhanced ally weapons advantage]
I was sealing the last modified message when footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy boots, moving with purpose, heading directly for the solar.
"Shit," I thought, scanning the room for hiding places. The solar was designed for meetings and map study, not concealment. No tapestries large enough to hide behind, no furniture that offered cover, nowhere to—
The door opened.
Tywin Lannister entered alone, carrying a fresh batch of correspondence. His green eyes swept the room with predatory intensity, cataloguing every detail, noting any changes from when he'd left.
I pressed myself against the wall behind an open armoire, trying to become one with the shadows. Enhanced reflexes kept me perfectly still, controlling even my breathing to avoid detection.
But Tywin was no ordinary lord. He was a man who had spent decades surviving in a world where trust meant death and paranoia was the price of power. His gaze lingered on the pile of messages I'd just finished altering, and I saw something shift in his expression.
Suspicion.
He moved to the table with deliberate steps, lifting each message and examining it closely. Not reading the contents—checking the physical condition of the parchment, looking for signs of tampering.
For a moment, our eyes met across the room.
Time stretched like molten glass. Tywin's gaze was ice-cold and utterly merciless, the look of a man who had ordered the deaths of entire families without losing sleep. I could see him calculating options, weighing possibilities, deciding whether I was a threat worth eliminating.
Then his attention shifted to something behind me, and his expression changed to mild irritation.
"Come out, cat," he said conversationally. "Your hunting disturbs my work."
I turned slowly to see a large tom cat slinking out from behind another piece of furniture, its fur standing on end from proximity to so much human tension. The cat looked at Tywin with feline disdain, then stalked out of the room with dignity intact.
Tywin's attention followed the cat, and in that moment of distraction, I slipped through the door like a ghost made of shadow and desperation.
[Close Encounter: Tywin Lannister]
[Detection Status: Unconfirmed but suspected]
[Cover Story: Feline misdirection successful]
[Threat Level: Significantly elevated]
I made it back to the servant quarters with my heart hammering against my ribs, but also with the satisfaction of a mission accomplished. The altered intelligence would take days to filter through Tywin's command structure, and by then the false information would be embedded so deeply in his strategic thinking that correcting it would be nearly impossible.
But as I settled onto my straw pallet, I couldn't shake the feeling that those ice-green eyes had seen more than they revealed.
POV: Jaqen H'ghar
A man finds the servant quarters of Harrenhal even less interesting than most dungeons, but tonight they hold a particular fascination. A man has been watching the comings and goings of certain individuals, noting patterns that speak of purposes beyond the obvious.
The young wolf-child sleeps fitfully, her dreams filled with names that taste of death and vengeance. She will learn what a man can teach, in time, but first she must learn to survive what is coming.
More interesting is the other one.
The servant who is not a servant, who moves through shadows like a man trained in the arts that few living masters remember. A man has watched him work, seen the careful placement of gifts and guidance, observed the subtle alterations to documents that could reshape wars.
A man approaches the straw pallet where the servant pretends to sleep.
"A man thinks sleep comes difficultly when the mind is busy with great works," Jaqen says softly, settling onto the adjacent pallet with fluid grace.
The servant's eyes open—alert, calculating, but not surprised. A man appreciates when his quarry shows proper wariness.
"Hard to sleep in a place like this," the servant replies carefully. "Too much suffering soaked into the stones."
"Suffering, yes. But also purpose. A man finds purpose in strange places, serves strange masters for strange reasons." Jaqen tilts his head with bird-like curiosity. "A man wonders what purpose brings a servant to alter the correspondence of lions."
The servant's tension is almost visible in the darkness, but he does not deny the accusation. A man respects honesty, even when it is dangerous.
"Just trying to help some people survive what's coming."
"Survival. A man knows many kinds of survival. The body's survival, which requires food and shelter and the avoidance of sharp objects. The soul's survival, which requires purpose and the satisfaction of debts." Jaqen leans closer, and his voice drops to a whisper that carries the weight of ancient promises. "And the survival of secrets, which requires that certain truths remain unspoken."
"I'm not here to expose anyone's secrets."
"No? A man serves the Many-Faced God, who sees all faces, knows all names. A man recognizes when someone wears a face that does not belong to them." The statement hangs in the air like a blade waiting to fall. "A man also recognizes when someone serves a purpose that aligns with his own."
The servant says nothing, but his breathing has changed—still controlled, but carrying the rhythm of someone who has just realized how deep the water has become.
"A man offers a bargain," Jaqen continues, his voice carrying the weight of binding oaths. "Continue your work. Help those who deserve help. Guide the young wolf toward the justice she seeks. But remember—a man is watching. A man will know if noble purposes become selfish ones."
"What kind of balance are you talking about?"
"For every life saved, a life must be taken. For every act of mercy, an act of justice. The girl will have need of both protection and purpose." Jaqen's smile is beautiful and terrible in the darkness. "A man suggests she be given both, in appropriate measure."
The threat is clear, but so is the offer of alliance. A man finds it satisfying when his proposals are understood completely.
"A man thinks this conversation has been... educational," Jaqen says, rising with liquid grace. "Perhaps we will speak again when circumstances become more interesting."
He pauses at the edge of the straw, not looking back. "A man offers advice. There are other watchers in this place. Watchers with pale eyes and long memories. A servant should remember that some masters see more than others, and forget less than stone."
Then he melts back into the shadows, leaving only the scent of exotic spices and the knowledge that the game has just become infinitely more complex.
[Supernatural Alliance: Conditional Agreement Established]
[Threat Assessment: Monitored but not hostile]
[Warning Delivered: Bolton surveillance network confirmed]
[Strategic Adjustment: Increased operational security required]
POV: Geralt
I lay on my straw pallet for a long time after Jaqen vanished, staring at the ceiling and processing what had just happened. The Faceless Man knew I wasn't who I appeared to be, but he was offering alliance rather than elimination. That was either very good news or a trap so subtle I couldn't see its edges.
Either way, the message was clear: help Arya survive and grow stronger, but don't try to turn her away from the path of vengeance that would forge her into a weapon.
I could live with that bargain. In fact, it aligned perfectly with my own plans.
The next morning brought news that changed everything.
I was hauling water to the kitchens when the ravens began arriving in rapid succession—black wings carrying messages that made the castle guards tense with anticipation. By midday, the news was spreading through the servant quarters like wildfire.
Stannis Baratheon was sailing for King's Landing with the largest fleet anyone had seen since the conquest. The Battle of Blackwater was approaching, and with it, the opportunity I'd been waiting for since my arrival in this world.
Time to see how much I could really change, and what it would cost me.
[Major Event Trigger: Blackwater Bay Campaign Initiated]
[Strategic Opportunity: Maximum intervention potential]
[Timeline Status: Critical phase approaching]
[Appa Summoning: Preparation sequence required]
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