Chapter 9 – The Price of Whispers
Morning broke gray and heavy over King's Landing, the kind of light that dulled even the gold of the Red Keep's spires. From his narrow window in the Tower of Coin, Aden watched the fog crawl across the city rooftops — slow, deliberate, like thought itself.
He hadn't slept.
Baelish's words still lingered in his head: "The board extends far beyond these walls."
So Aden decided to step beyond them.
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The lower levels of the Tower of Coin smelled different from the upper chambers. Here, the air was thick with dust, sweat, and desperation — where clerks argued over shipments, collectors haggled over bribes, and every man tried to carve a larger share of the crown's silver. It was here Aden found the pulse of the city's economy — not in ledgers, but in whispers.
He passed a line of petty accountants before stopping at a familiar face: Myles, a city scribe with ink-stained fingers and an opportunist's smile. Myles handled collection slips from the taverns and gambling dens of Flea Bottom — where money flowed faster than water, and twice as dirty.
"Master Holt," Myles said, glancing around nervously. "Didn't expect to see you down here among the rats."
"Rats have the best view of the kitchen," Aden replied mildly. "Tell me, how's the flow from the tavern district?"
Myles hesitated. "Slower. A new collector's been tightening the ledgers. One of Baelish's men, I think."
Aden's eyes narrowed. "Name?"
"Loryn. Calls himself the King's counter. But everyone knows he pockets a coin from every cask that moves."
Aden smiled faintly. "Then perhaps it's time someone weighed the King's counter."
He slipped a small silver stag across the table — enough to buy silence, not loyalty. "Bring me his records. Quietly."
Myles paled but nodded. "You'll have them before dusk."
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By evening, Aden sat at the corner of a wine cellar beneath the Street of Silk — a place where ledgers were traded like secrets. Around him, merchants murmured in low voices, exchanging figures and favors. Gold talked louder than faith here.
When Myles arrived, the scribe carried a scroll sealed in wax. "He's been altering entries," Myles whispered. "Taking extra from the tavern tax and covering it with falsified export payments. Looks like Loryn's running his own network."
Aden unrolled the parchment slowly. The handwriting was neat — practiced. A man who believed in his own cleverness.
He traced one line with his finger, then smiled.
"Leave this with me," he said. "And forget you ever touched it."
Myles hesitated. "And if Baelish finds out?"
"He won't," Aden said, tucking the scroll into his coat. "Not until I want him to."
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That night, Aden sat alone in his quarters, the candlelight flickering across the stolen record. His thoughts spun — possibilities forming like threads. Loryn's corruption was small, trivial even. But small pieces revealed patterns.
And patterns could be shaped.
He drafted a short report — not to Baelish, but to Ser Meryn Trask, one of the Master of Ships' aides who occasionally sought "financial clarity." A quiet man with ambition far too large for his station. Aden's note was precise, unsigned, and damning.
Within days, Loryn would be questioned by the Master of Ships' men for "misdirected payments." Baelish would hear of it soon after. But by then, the trail would lead not to Aden, but to one of Trask's rivals.
One move.
Three ripples.
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Later that night, Aden stood by the window again. The fog had lifted; the city glittered beneath the moon, sharp and cruel and alive.
He thought of Baelish's smile, the cold amusement behind it.
The board extended far beyond the Tower, yes — but even the smallest player could move unseen if he knew the value of silence.
Below, the bells of the Sept tolled midnight.
Aden watched the lights fade one by one and whispered to himself:
"In this city, whispers are currency. And I've just made my first investment."
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