Chapter 7 – The Quiet Feast
The next morning smelled of roasted goose and deceit.
King's Landing was never truly quiet, but the hum around the Red Keep carried a sharper tension than usual — the King's nameday feast was to be held that night, and every lord and leech in the capital would attend. For most, it was a chance to flatter or be noticed. For Aden Holt, it was an opportunity to listen.
He had learned that power in King's Landing didn't move in proclamations or speeches; it whispered in corners, between goblets and glances. The feast would draw those whispers into one room. And Aden intended to hear them all.
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By the time the first casks were rolled into the Great Hall, Aden stood behind the scribes' dais near the servants' entry, where he could observe unseen. The chandeliers burned bright, dripping with wax. Minstrels tuned their lutes, and the smell of honeyed wine mingled with perfume and sweat.
He had no seat among the great, of course — scribes rarely did — but he had something more valuable: the ear of the man who paid them.
Petyr Baelish moved through the hall like a cat through tall grass, smiling at everyone and trusting no one. Aden watched him exchange pleasantries with Lord Tyrell, murmur to a Lannister envoy, and whisper something that made Grand Maester Pycelle flush and nod.
When Baelish's gaze flicked briefly toward the servants' side, Aden caught the glance. It was not warmth — it was permission.
That was enough.
He spent the evening moving through the shadows, speaking to cooks, servers, and errand boys — the invisible veins through which every rumor in the Keep flowed. From a wine steward, he learned that House Redwyne had sent new shipments into the city through back channels, bypassing the Master of Coin's tariffs. From a maid who cleaned the sept's guest quarters, he heard that Ser Darnel Vyce — the same knight from the Gulltown ledger — had been seen in quiet council with a Tyrell squire two nights prior.
Coin, wine, and whispers. The same pattern again. But this time, the threads were tightening.
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Later in the night, the feast gave way to drunken boasting. The King laughed too loudly, the Hound scowled, and the courtiers bled secrets with every toast.
Aden slipped into the side corridor behind the Hall and waited. Footsteps echoed — light, precise. Baelish.
"Enjoying the festivities, Master Holt?" Petyr asked, his smile half-hidden by the torchlight.
"I enjoy the silence that follows them, my lord," Aden replied. "People talk too freely when wine does the thinking."
Baelish chuckled. "Then you must be drunk on information by now."
"I might have found something worth sobering for. The Gulltown gold wasn't the end — the Redwynes are moving shipments through the sept's accounts, using temple donations as fronts. Ser Darnel's their handler."
"Ah," Baelish murmured. "And who profits?"
"House Tyrell," Aden said quietly. "If I'm right, they're financing favors in the court — buying grain rights, positioning for control over the Reach's trade routes."
Baelish's smile deepened, though his eyes remained flat. "And yet you tell me this, instead of selling it to them."
"Information only grows in value when it's well-placed," Aden said. "And I prefer to live long enough to spend it."
That earned a genuine laugh. "A practical man. You'll go far, Master Holt. Perhaps further than I planned."
Baelish stepped closer, voice lowering. "Continue your observations. Quietly. And should you uncover who the sept answers to, you'll find yourself well-rewarded."
He left as quickly as he'd come, disappearing into the torchlight like a ghost.
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When the hall finally emptied, Aden returned to his desk in the Tower of Coin. The night's noise still echoed faintly in his ears — laughter, lies, the scraping of knives against silver. He took out his private ledger and added three new names beneath the column he'd titled Those Who Feed the Fire.
Ser Darnel Vyce.
The Redwyne merchants.
High Septon — possible intermediary.
The ink gleamed wet for a moment before fading to black.
He leaned back, exhausted but alive with purpose. For the first time since awakening in this world, Aden felt the pulse of the Game beating in time with his own. He wasn't merely surviving in King's Landing anymore.
He was learning to dine at its quietest feasts — the ones no one saw, where power was carved, not served.
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