Two Days Prior to Operation Silver Bracelet Termination

Telephone call between Asset She-Wolf and Subject Pack Foci

File #466580-239C

SW: [redacted], [redacted], are you there?

PF: [redacted]? What in the seven hells are you doing ringing me at two in the morning? Do you have any idea how irritated [redacted] was-

SW: I don't have time [redacted]! Just shut up and listen to me!

PF: [redacted], what is it? Why are you upset?!

SW: I can't tell you little brother. I wish I could but I can't. I called because I want you to promise me something.

PF: [redacted] where are you?! What's happening?! [unintelligible background noise]

SW: I need you to promise me [redacted], that if anything should happen to me, you'll look after my boy.

PF: [redacted]-

SW: PROMISE ME! I WOULDN'T ASK IF IT WASN'T IMPORTANT!

PF: …I promise. I promise I'll look after [redacted] should anything happen.

SW: Thank you [redacted]. I love you little brother. Never forget that.

PF: [redacted], wait-

[call terminated]

The halls were as colorless and drab as he remembered. Not that he could ever expect an agency as supposedly covert as the Blackest Knights to have any sense of aesthetic in place of practicality. But still, he didn't think he was exactly off-base in thinking that the entire facility begged for someone to make it more than a series of endlessly repeating grey boxes.

But he had the distinct feeling these soldiers wouldn't welcome the advice of a declared traitor to Westeros: a man who the government privately held responsible for the bombing of Hardholme. A man who had betrayed the most prestigious military unit in the nation; one that had been founded and continued to be run by his family to this day. A man who had been observed cavorting with the company of insurgents in Yunkish territories, freedom fighters among the Iron Liberation Front and governments declared subversive to the good of the nation as a whole such as Lysonn, Yitien and Sothora.

The funny thing was that for so long he had been on their side. And now he wasn't simply because he had done his job and followed his orders. But that was one of the hazards for one who had earned his codename of 'Ghost' the hard way. You'd think people would learn to express proper respect for a guy with that kind of moniker, especially one who had earned it working in Section 13. But people never quite seemed to respect their enemies as they had back in the days when rams and trebuchets were considered the height of technological warfare and challenges could still be issued to enemies that you met on the battlefield for a one on one duel. Though of course in those days people had also believed in sacrificing victims to bonfires in order to ensure a light snow for the winter so perhaps it was something of a trade-off in the end.

As he pondered all this, the four men that had surrounded him upon his awakening in the facility escorted him down the hall. None of them so much as glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes as far as he could tell, their uniform dark shades concealing their line of sight as their identical black tactical uniforms concealed their body build. Each carried a standard issue Melatna pistol in a holster on their dominant leg, their hands occupied with a loaded Tarlton submachine gun. Though any yabo with the right connections or money could have such weapons, Ghost was more concerned by the fact that he and his escort were being led by the combat instructor for the Knights: Jaime Lannister.

His blonde hair, green eyes and generally dashing good looks had led many to underestimate the veteran solider in the field. Whether they were ally or enemy hadn't seemed to matter, the general consensus was that Lannister was a pretty boy who relied primarily on his family name and connections to the infamous LanTech Corporation to secure his position as a captain than his promotion to major in the army. But the dark haired prisoner knew for a fact that Jaime Lannister had joined the Blackest Knights in an effort to make a name for himself outside of his family and their connections. That he'd gotten sick of being judged by the name of his family and so had elected to join the Blackest Knights when they offered just on the off chance that he could feel like he was being looked at for who he was and what his record rather than his surname said. The dossier Ghost had compiled on his former comrade was fairly thorough despite how briefly they'd worked on the same side.

The dark haired man at the center of this escort, whose alias was whispered and infamous at even the highest levels of the international intelligence communities knew that while his own mother had laid the foundation of his training before her death when he was ten and his extended family had built upon his martial and academic training in the wake of her passing, it had been the recruiter and his future handler from Section 13 that had taught him the most about how to survive and truly see. That meant finding everything, remembering as much as you could, and using it to gain an advantage wherever possible. Basic survival 101 whether your interest lay in espionage or politics. He who could not effectively use intelligence soon found it turned against them in the shadow world of espionage. Or the world of smiling cutthroats that was the political arena.

To date the only person he had not managed to compile any kind of useful dossier on had been his former mentor. How the soft-spoken yet ruthless man had managed to scrub any trace of his existence save the enigmatic moniker of Varys from every system and file he'd attempted to find him in, he'd likely never know. He was after all only his master's student and no matter how he tried, he would never know things his teacher did not intend him to. He had never thought that would be the case when he first started working for the man who had taught his mother before him. But harsh lessons and repeated attempts met with constant failure eventually sunk it into even his stubbornly thick skull that he wasn't going to find that which did not exist any longer.

Varys was gone to ground now. Had been for quite a while. Possibly dead but more likely biding his time from a shadowy safehouse no one would suspect while waiting to see which way the earth shifted. "Any simple creature with a modicum of fear and instinct can flee the earthquake when they feel it shaking the world beneath them. But it takes a truly cunning mind to not only ride out unscathed, but predict the disaster before it falls upon them." That had been his way of looking at the world: with enough wit and quick thinking, intelligence would trump brute force every time. Though it never hurt that intelligence often meant being smart enough to bring a sniper rifle to a knife fight.

He supposed the fact that he was being so heavily guarded even in the face of willingly turning himself over to the Knights was testament to how effectively his handler had trained him. Or perhaps how much of a reputation he had garnered out in the wider world that was not the Blackest Knights or Westeros itself. As they came further and further down the hall, he recalled the first time he had come to this facility. When he had been offered a job from the Knights even as his mission record in Section 13 remained heavily redacted and classified to all but the highest levels of secrecy. He recalled that the fact that they had an unedited and uncensored version of his mission records made him think that perhaps they could be trusted. He recalled how he had such belief in the system he killed for, hardly realizing what his work for the Blackest Knights would lead to.

The saddest part was that even had he known what was planned for him, Ghost aka Jon Snow could not see how his first assignment with the Knights could have turned out any differently even knowing what he knew now. No matter how he looked at it, the experimental nerve gas in Meereen had to be taken care of. The Knights were the only ones who knew of the threat and were actually acting on the intelligence they had instead of sitting around twiddling their thumbs while they were steadily entangled in an ever growing forest of red tape.

As they finally appeared to be reaching their destination, Lannister brought his hand to the keypad outside the nondescript entrance, entering the code before a buzzing noise indicated the door was unlocked for now.

'9167 pound' Jon's grey eyes observed, despite the plastic half cover that attempted to keep the keypad hidden from any overly curious gazes that shouldn't be here. Jon was brought into the room as Jaime Lannister closed the door behind him and the guards. On his right side, what appeared to be a wall of solid television screens lit up as their flashing images spoke and flickered before his eyes. Primarily news programs he noticed, discussing tragedies and focusing mostly on the last few months that had led up to his capture.

"Gunfire erupted at the port city of Hightower this afternoon, as authorities were called-"

"Tensions are escalating in the Jin-Qui region of Yitien after the assassination of providence governor Tao Zieong-"

"Questions have arisen in the wake of a LanTech oil refinery explosion in the Sorthan Sea. A LanTech spokesman was quoted-"

As the soldiers filed out of the door behind a two way mirror on the opposite wall, Jon heard the telltale sign of a remote clicking. As it did, the televisions switched one by one to static displays. Some of it camera footage that appeared to be paused at a seemingly innocuous moment in time, others to three dimensional views of crime scene recreations while still more apparently displayed multiple building schematics.

"You've certainly been busy haven't you Mr. Snow?" Came an imperious female voice from the doorway. Jon didn't need to move his head an inch to recognize the sound of Cersei Lannister, the current Managing Director of LanTech since her father Tywin's ascension to the office of Prime Minister several years ago.

He remained silent. The psychological profile in her dossier indicated that Cersei Lannister didn't like to remain silent long, especially not when she thought that she had the upper hand in a given situation.

"But things didn't quite turn out the way you wanted, did they?" She asked with factious concern, scorn underlying her tone with every click of her heels on the tiled interrogation room floor.

When the door slammed heavily behind her, Jon couldn't help but think of a prison cell shutting for the night. They were bunkmates in this prison the two of them had willingly entered. The only question remaining was who truly had the upper hand. Obviously she thought it was her. But assumptions meant less than an enemy's pleas for mercy in the underbelly of the world. He supposed he would have to wait and see.

Her confidence exuded from every pore as she came into his peripheral vision on the left, dark grey and black blending seamlessly on her suit jacket and pants. The only indications of color he could see outside of her neatly bunned blonde hair were her rich red tie and ruby bearing ring on her left ring finger. All of which fit into what the psych profile indicated: subconscious shame of her gender and almost overwhelming pride in her family name. These subconscious feelings had manifested primarily in her preferred fashion of masculine clothing and unwittingly adopting body language more subtly aligned to what was considered socially acceptable for men. But she couldn't hide her true allegiance to her family wealth and name which had become more muted now that she was reaching her forty third birthday but remained present in her choice of accessory. That and the underlying vanity that underwrote most every appearance and view of herself she allowed.

The carefully applied make-up to hide the crow's feet by her still startlingly green eyes. The faintest hints of mascara meant to draw attention to her imperious gaze. It was the job of a professional, one who knew their subject was used to being looked at and used it to their advantage.

"But still, you gave the Knights a good run Mr. Snow. It just wasn't good enough." She said, crossing her legs as she turned her body halfway to see him while keeping one eye on the displays shown and her right arm relaxed on the table, immaculately manicured nails tapping on the metal with the barest hint of sound.

"I don't know about that." Jon answered easily. "I'd call five years of evading the government that trained me a pretty good run."

He brought his right index and thumb up to hold his chin for a moment as if thinking deeply to himself, posture deliberately relaxed despite the rigid steel chair he sat in.

"Then again, I suppose you wouldn't be familiar with escaping long shadows would you?" He asked softly, tone conciliatory as though he felt sorry for her.

"And what precisely am I to take from that Mr. Snow?" She inquired politely, faux friendly smile firmly in place despite the hardening in her eyes.

Jon's lips quirked upward briefly before shrugging his right shoulder.

"Oh, you can take from it what you wish Miss Lannister." He remarked blandly before continuing. Varys had taught him the value of infuriating an opponent simply by remaining conversationally polite even while you told them the worst thing possible: the truth. "After all, it's only a simple observation isn't it? That until your father Tywin moved on to politics, you never managed to advance up the LanTech corporate ladder as far as one might've thought."

He noticed the slightly deepened breath that filled her lungs when he observed that. She was good, but she was too used to those who looked where she tried to draw their eye. The slight tightening of her smile and the incremental narrowing of her eyes told him she was getting agitated but restraining herself. Apparently she still believed she held the advantage over him.

"Perhaps." She said, inclining her head toward him as though conceding his point. "But then again, I suppose my situation was never drastic enough that it required me to use explosives to get my point across." She answered.

Jon turned slightly toward the television screens, aware that would be construed as weakness to her. He didn't much care since it was the truth. He was ashamed of what had happened at Hardholme. He knew those people had been in danger. But still it had happened. And all because he had foolishly allowed himself to be selfish and chose to save someone dear to his heart at the cost of all those unaware and ultimately doomed civilians.

"I always wondered what kind of man it took to condemn so many innocent people to such a sudden and violent death." She whispered, malicious glee at getting under his skin apparent in her fake sorrowful tone.

"The same sort of man who assassinates world leaders who won't accept the puppet strings I imagine." He responded.

She leaned back in her chair, waving her right hand dismissively at him.

"An odd sentiment for someone trained by Varys himself." She remarked, looking to the televisions as though seeking answers from them.

"What can I say?" He told, leaning back in his chair as well and looking to the televisions in the same way she did even as his eyes saw instead the surprised faces of the dead and the disappointed and heartbroken faces of the living. "I've always been the odd man out."

"Which is why I suppose the Knights choose you for the Meereense operation." She said, her statement one of fact. So she had the records of what had happened in the face of Meereen. Apparently this was to be a debriefing for him before he was executed. Or worse, locked in a pit and the key thrown away somewhere he could never reach it. He had known there was a better than average chance of that outcome when he had contacted Lannister to turn himself in. But there was no going back for him now. The die was cast and he had elected to gamble. All that he could do was hope that his preparations had been enough to see him through to the end.

The alternative was not worth dwelling upon too long least his fear overcome his composure.

"You suppose correctly to the best of my knowledge." He admitted, knowing it would do him no good to deny what was on the record for any with the right connections to read.

"Then tell me your perspective on it." She prompted. "I've heard from just about everyone involved in that operation but you. For the sake of a complete record, we should at least hear from the one affected by it the most." There was no concern in her voice, only professional interest. Which made sense given who had manufactured the neurotoxin.

Jon took a deep breath. This was where things would get tricky. How to predict what the others could know about the mission and what had truly happened. The difference between reality based on misconception and reality based on misinformation.

"Where should I start?" He asked, the question more of an effort to gauge the starting baseline she would use to track his answer.

"Why not where it all began. Why not right here?" She said, her smile as cold and merciless as the northern winters of his childhood.

Jon nodded in acquiescence and opened his mouth to begin telling his story.

A/N: An experimental fic to see if I can write a spy story in a more modern day westeros. Please let me know if you guys think it should be continued and whether or not I'm on the right track! :)