Chapter 5 – The Masks of Men
The Tower of the Hand whispered even in silence. The scratch of quills, the shuffle of parchment, the distant murmur of courtiers — all of it wove together into a low hum of ambition. Aden had learned to listen to that hum, to find meaning in what others ignored.
Three weeks had passed since Lord Baelish had first noticed him. Since then, Aden had buried himself in work — ledgers, correspondence, and the thousand minor details that oiled the kingdom's economy. He moved quietly through the offices, unremarkable to the untrained eye. Efficient, polite, and careful never to stand out too much.
To the clerks, he was another faceless man in brown ink-stained robes. To Baelish, he hoped to appear as a useful tool — loyal, modest, predictable. And to himself, Aden was none of those things.
He had seen what ambition looked like when unguarded. Baelish wore it like perfume — sweet and suffocating. Aden would not make the same mistake.
Each morning began the same way: a candle lit before dawn, ink prepared, quill sharpened. While the others dragged in half-asleep, Aden had already studied the ledgers from the night before. He made small corrections — never enough to draw attention, just enough to ensure his hand shaped the flow of the office without being seen.
Information was power. But information in silence was survival.
He learned the clerks' habits, their debts, their petty jealousies. He lent advice sparingly, offered help even less. A kind word here, a subtle correction there. They trusted him because he never asked for anything in return. That was the trick. Everyone wanted something — except the man who already had what he needed.
When Baelish entered the office that morning, conversation died immediately. The air thickened with the scent of perfume and the weight of attention.
"My lord," Aden murmured with a shallow bow, eyes lowered.
Baelish's smile was easy, charming, and dangerous. "Mister Holt. You've been keeping the numbers honest, I trust?"
"As honest as they're meant to be, my lord," Aden replied.
A flicker of amusement crossed Baelish's face — the kind that tested more than it entertained. "You're clever with your words."
"Not clever, my lord. Careful."
Baelish's eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. Then he turned to the others, issuing orders, his tone as smooth as silk over steel. When he left, the room seemed to breathe again.
Aden did not move. His hand rested on the ledger before him, but his mind replayed the look in Baelish's eyes. There was curiosity there. And curiosity was dangerous.
That evening, Aden descended into the archives beneath the Tower — a labyrinth of forgotten records and stale air. Dust floated through the dim candlelight like ash. He liked it here. The silence spoke truths the living did not.
He examined shipment records, tracing faint inconsistencies across multiple ledgers — movements of grain and coin that shifted through names and numbers with deliberate subtlety. He recognized the pattern. Baelish's pattern. Every discrepancy a thread in the web that held half the city by the throat.
Aden smiled faintly. It was a beautiful piece of work — elegant, layered, precise.
But beauty could blind a man.
He memorized what he saw, committing every detail to memory, then replaced the ledgers exactly as he'd found them. He wasn't foolish enough to leave a trace.
Back in his small chamber, he lit a single candle and stared at the reflection in the dull bronze mirror on the wall. His face looked older somehow — not in years, but in expression. The eyes that stared back were no longer those of the frightened clerk who'd first woken in this world.
He was learning to wear masks.
"Men like him," he murmured softly, "trust only mirrors of themselves."
Baelish wanted reflections — smiling, eager, obedient. So Aden would become one. He would polish the surface, mimic the tone, the patience, the soft cruelty that came with power. But beneath that reflection, the mind behind it would remain untouched, observing, waiting.
In the days that followed, his reputation grew quietly. Clerks came to him for help, for advice, for the kind of calm authority that made them feel safe. Aden gave it to them freely, all while saying nothing of substance. Every favor he granted bought silence. Every silence bought security.
By the week's end, Baelish summoned him again — privately.
The chamber overlooked the city, the lights of King's Landing flickering below like a field of dying stars. Baelish poured two cups of wine, his movements unhurried.
"You've been efficient," Baelish said. "Too efficient, perhaps. Others notice."
"I'll slow my hand, if it pleases you, my lord."
"That's not what I said." Baelish smiled — that same polite, predatory curve of the lips. "Tell me, Mister Holt. Do you seek advancement?"
Aden lowered his gaze. "I seek to serve."
The lie passed easily between them.
Baelish sipped his wine, studying him. "You remind me of myself, once. Careful. Observant. But do take care not to vanish into the walls. The city forgets quiet men."
"I'll remember that."
As Aden left, he caught his reflection in the window — candlelight and shadow bending together. The mask held perfectly.
Let Baelish believe he saw a reflection. That was fine. Because reflections, no matter how convincing, were still illusions — and illusions could outlast even the men who cast them.
---
If you enjoy my stories, consider supporting me on Patreon — patreon.com/FireFury