Chapter 140: Assassination
"Bloody hell, the Wall is freezing!"
...
Mormar's muffled complaints drifted over from nearby. Turning his head, Rafe saw the big man standing beside a cargo-laden wagon, rubbing his hands together with an impatient scowl.
If Rafe remembered correctly, this was already the seventh time Mormar had said that.
Born in Braavos, Mormar was a new recruit Rafe had taken on not long ago. Big frame, plenty of strength—so he'd been brought along with the transport team.
Now his face was red from the cold.
It really was cold. Rafe thought so too. In fact, he was pretty sure this place had to be the coldest spot in the entire world.
The leader of the group—the Manderly lord, so fat he looked almost square from every angle—and his entourage had already run off to the main keep to warm themselves by the fire. That left the laborers behind, stuck waiting here for the wizard's inspection.
No one knew when the wizard would arrive, so sneaking off to "rest" wasn't an option. If the wizard showed up and they weren't present, the consequences wouldn't be pleasant.
Bored out of his mind, Mormar asked casually,
"Boss Rafe, what does this legendary wizard even look like?"
"Two eyes, one nose, one mouth," Rafe replied flatly. "What else would he look like?"
"You've met him before?"
"More or less." Rafe's expression didn't change at all—making it impossible to tell whether he was lying.
Mormar found that a little odd. After all, this was Rafe's first time here too. Still, the man had sailed the world for decades. It wasn't impossible that he'd crossed paths with the wizard before.
"Fat Peter's been bragging nonstop since his last trip back," Mormar muttered. "Says the wizard looks like a god walking among men. I'd really like to see what a god actually looks like."
Breathing warm air into his hands, Mormar stomped his feet and scanned the area.
They were standing in a training yard near the edge of Castle Black, uncomfortably close to the Wall itself. The cold was sharper here, and since they couldn't move around much while waiting, their bodies were starting to stiffen.
He couldn't help complaining again.
"The Wall is fucking freezing. Once we're done seeing this wizard, I never want to come back."
...
Mormar seemed quite eager about meeting the wizard—but instead of the man they were waiting for, someone else entirely appeared.
Staring at the short figure approaching across the courtyard, Mormar's eyes widened.
"Boss Rafe—look! That, that's not the Lannister imp, is it?"
"I think it is," Rafe replied, watching the newcomer with an unreadable expression.
Mormar opened his mouth to say more, but the man had already drawn close, swallowing his words. Still, his eyes never left the newcomer.
Ugly features. Short stature. Deformed legs that gave him a slight limp. One black eye, one green—unnervingly mismatched.
Mormar stared so long that the man finally glanced back at him.
"If you've never seen a dwarf before," the man said dryly, "I suggest you visit Oldtown. Their dwarf troupes are the finest entertainment in all of Westeros."
Embarrassed, Mormar hurriedly looked away. By then, the Lannister had already lost interest in him and turned his gaze toward Rafe.
"The envoy will arrive shortly. If that thing really is golden ghost grass, I doubt he'll be stingy with your reward."
"Thank you for passing on the message, my lord," Rafe replied respectfully.
"Save it," the man waved him off. "If you really want to thank me, next time tell your men not to make such a fuss. I'm usually the one stuck dealing with you lot."
"Yes, yes—next time, for sure," Rafe said quickly, then glanced around and asked, puzzled, "Did you not bring any guards with you, my lord?"
"No one here would dare lay a hand on me," the man replied, then shrugged.
"Besides, northerners don't care for coin. I've offered generous pay, and not a single one was interested. I'm planning to suggest to my young superior that he assign someone to protect his personal errand runner."
Rafe kept silent, but the talkative Lannister clearly had no intention of stopping. Instead, he turned his attention to Mormar at the side.
"Hey, big fellow," he called. "How about staying here as my bodyguard? One gold dragon a month."
"It's too damn cold. Not interested," Mormar replied without hesitation.
"Two gold dragons a month. How about that?"
"Well…" Mormar cast a cautious glance at Rafe and answered reflexively, "I'll think about it."
"Three gold dragons."
"Deal!" Mormar nodded furiously. He didn't bother checking Rafe's expression anymore and immediately jogged to stand behind the Lannister.
That actually made Tyrion feel a bit sheepish. He fished out a gold coin and tossed it to Rafe.
"Poached your man. Call it compensation. Take this and hire another from White Harbor—you'll probably find someone better."
Rafe had just opened his mouth to thank him when the dwarf suddenly trotted off. Startled, Rafe followed the direction of his movement and saw a young man approaching—dressed in black robes, a hoodless snow-bear cloak draped over his shoulders, flanked by a group of guards.
"That's the wizard, right?" Mormar craned his neck, staring. "Boss Rafe, that's gotta be him."
He didn't follow his new employer forward, instead gawking from a distance. The legendary figure whose name echoed across all of Westeros had stirred his curiosity—but actually going up to greet him was another matter entirely.
"Yes," Rafe replied, narrowing his eyes. "That's him."
At the edge of the training yard, the young wizard walked in while conversing with the Lannister. Rafe's right hand tightened around the dagger hidden inside his sleeve. He lifted his head slightly, waiting—waiting for the distance to close enough for him to strike.
Then the light changed.
No—exploded.
A sudden brilliance flooded the yard, blinding and searing, like staring straight into the sun. Rafe's vision turned stark white, pain stabbing into his eyes as a burning sensation flared.
Caught completely off guard, he hissed and staggered back a step.
But Rafe's composure was exceptional. Even now, he showed no outward panic. Yet as he struggled to remain steady, a voice reached his ears.
"It's you. Seize him!"
Clear, resonant, tinged with surprise.
The wizard.
Something had gone wrong—he didn't know what—but Rafe knew one thing for certain: he had been exposed.
Ignoring the pain and the blindness, he moved. His feet shot forward, body darting along the path he remembered, fleeing at full speed.
Unfortunately, there was only one exit.
And far too many guards.
Two swords were drawn at once, blocking his path. Behind them, two more guards stationed near the wizard yanked crossbows from their belts and took aim.
Though his sight was still compromised, danger screamed in his instincts. As the bolts flew, Rafe twisted mid-stride—his sprint bending at an impossible angle—barely slipping past the lethal shots.
But before he could push off again, something caught his foot.
The ground vanished beneath him.
The seasoned assassin crashed face-first into the dirt.
"There was nothing there—!"
Pain exploded as his mouth struck the hard earth, blood filling his mouth. His vision still hadn't recovered. He didn't dare move.
The guards were on him instantly.
He was slammed into the ground, a heavy fist smashing into his face. Dizziness flooded his mind. A northern soldier straddled him, cursing as he drew a dagger, clearly intent on finishing the job.
But the blade never fell.
"Don't kill him yet."
The words barely reached Rafe's ears, but they sparked a realization. He tried to struggle, to rise—
Too late.
The blow to his head dragged his thoughts into a suffocating haze, and darkness swallowed him whole.
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