Chapter 6 – The Threads of the City
The quills in the Treasury never stopped scratching.
Ink bled like a heartbeat across parchment, carrying the pulse of King's Landing — taxes, debts, dowries, and bribes, each line a secret waiting to be bought. Aden sat at the edge of the long desk, sleeves rolled, copying figures that told stories only he could truly read.
To the clerks, he was unremarkable — another quiet scribe in Littlefinger's service, a man with ink-stained fingers and little else. But Aden had learned something they hadn't: power was not in the numbers themselves, but in knowing who they damned.
He had begun cataloging patterns no one else noticed — merchants whose debts suddenly vanished, soldiers paid twice in the same month, noble households that donated to "repairs" which never took place. Every discrepancy was a thread, and he pulled them gently, carefully, to see where they led.
Most ended somewhere in Littlefinger's net. But not all.
That morning, he found one that didn't.
A shipment from Gulltown — supposed to fund the expansion of the city's lower docks — had vanished from the ledgers three weeks ago. Its coin should have passed through Baelish's channels, yet no record bore his mark. Aden leaned closer, reading the faded name of the handler: Ser Darnel Vyce, a minor knight in service to House Redwyne.
Baelish's smile had always been too knowing to allow such sloppiness. Which meant this was either a test… or someone else's hand in the pot.
Aden folded the parchment, slipped it inside his sleeve, and rose.
He didn't go to Littlefinger immediately — no man stayed alive long by rushing to offer half-truths. Instead, he walked the narrow hallways leading to the Tower of Coin, listening. The courtiers whispered about the Hand's council, about grain shortages, about Lannister ships seen off the coast. The city was hungry, and hunger bred desperation — a fine season for men like him.
"Master Holt," a voice called.
It was Larys, one of the senior scribes — plump, polite, and incurious, the perfect cover for anyone with sense. "The Master of Coin requests the daily balance sheet."
Aden handed over a blank scroll. "Tell him I'm reconciling discrepancies in the Gulltown entries."
Larys blinked. "Gulltown? That shipment was cleared weeks ago."
"I'm aware," Aden said softly. "That's the problem."
Larys's mouth twitched — confusion, curiosity, maybe even fear. Good. Let the old man wonder.
---
Later that afternoon, Littlefinger's office was heavy with the scent of lilac oil and parchment. Petyr Baelish sat behind his desk, smiling as if every conversation were a private jest.
"You've been busy," he said. "Half the scribes fear you'll have their jobs next."
Aden bowed slightly. "Fear is a useful motivator, my lord."
"Indeed." Baelish leaned back, studying him. "Tell me about Gulltown."
So it was a test.
"The funds were rerouted through a secondary merchant house — one not registered under your authority. Ser Darnel Vyce approved the transfer, but the gold never reached the docks. It's likely hidden in a private account in the Sept's treasury."
Baelish chuckled. "You've a sharp eye, Master Holt. And a sharper instinct for when to stay silent."
"I thought it wiser to confirm before bringing it to you."
"Wise men live longer," Baelish said. "Foolish ones fill the cells beneath the Keep."
Aden inclined his head, suppressing the flicker of irritation that rose whenever Baelish spoke in riddles. "Shall I recover the funds?"
"No," Baelish said, smiling. "Let it be. A man's greed tells you more than his honesty ever could. I prefer to know who's feeding on crumbs before I bake the next loaf."
Aden nodded — though the answer unsettled him.
In his old world, corruption had been something to expose. Here, it was currency. Every act of theft revealed a buyer, every lie a seller. The system thrived on rot, and those who understood it learned to trade decay for gold.
He returned to his desk that evening with the knowledge sitting heavy in his chest. He now controlled access to half the ledgers in the Tower of Coin — the arteries of the city's wealth.
Littlefinger had given him that access not out of trust, but to see what he would do with it.
And Aden intended to use it.
He wrote until candlelight turned the ink to shadow, adjusting figures, cross-referencing names, crafting a secondary set of accounts that only he could decipher.
When he was done, he locked the pages in a chest beneath his desk — his own private ledger.
Not of debts.
But of power.