Chapter 10 – The Smell of Smoke
The Tower of Coin buzzed with tension. Not the loud, panicked kind that comes with open scandal — this was subtler, a murmur running beneath polished civility. Pages hurried faster. Quills scratched harder. And the clerks avoided looking one another in the eye.
Rumor said one of Baelish's collectors had been dragged from his home before dawn — accused of altering accounts, accused of theft. The city loved a scandal; the Tower loved pretending it didn't.
Aden listened to the whispers without speaking. He sat at his desk, hands folded neatly over a blank page, the image of quiet diligence. But inside, his pulse ticked like a clock.
Loryn had fallen.
The first piece had moved.
---
By midday, the smell of smoke reached the Tower — faint, acrid, the trace of burning paper. The rumor spread faster than the flames: the Master of Ships had ordered a purge of false ledgers in his offices. Dozens of records burned before anyone could cross-check them.
Aden didn't need to ask why. He knew exactly what they were destroying. Evidence. The same evidence he'd seeded into their hands.
He allowed himself a small, private smile. A whisper had turned into a fire.
---
That afternoon, Petyr Baelish summoned him.
The chamber was warm, perfumed faintly with lemon oil and wine. Baelish stood by the window, watching the city below as if it were a chessboard.
"So," he began softly, "our dear Loryn met an unfortunate end."
Aden bowed slightly. "The ledgers caught up with him, my lord."
Baelish chuckled. "Ledgers rarely do that on their own. Tell me, Master Holt — what do you see when you look at King's Landing?"
Aden hesitated. "A city of debt and desire."
"Mm. A poet's answer." Baelish turned, his expression unreadable. "Do you know what I see? Kindling. Every man, every woman, every secret — waiting for a spark."
He stepped closer. "Someone started a small fire this week. A clever one. Not enough to burn the house, but enough to make me notice the smoke."
Aden kept his eyes steady. "Then the city's alive, my lord. Better a city that burns than one that rots."
Baelish studied him for a moment that stretched too long. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"You have an instinct for consequence, Master Holt. Dangerous in excess… but useful in moderation."
He turned back to his desk and opened a folded parchment. "The Crown is negotiating a trade concession with the merchants of Myr. Their envoy arrives in two days. I'll need someone discreet to record the proceedings."
A test — or a reward. Possibly both.
"I'll be ready," Aden said quietly.
Baelish poured two cups of wine and offered one across the table. "To ambition," he said.
Aden took it. "To survival."
Their eyes met above the rims of the cups — the faintest acknowledgment of the Game between them.
---
That night, Aden walked home through the lower city, the air still carrying the faint scent of ash from the burned ledgers. The streets glowed with torchlight and rain, the gutters filled with the day's runoff.
He thought of Baelish's words — kindling.
Every whisper, every rumor, every hidden entry was fuel. But once you started a fire, you couldn't choose what burned.
For now, he was safe. For now, the Game smiled on him. But the smell of smoke lingered, stubborn and sweet, clinging to his hands.
---
If you enjoy my stories, consider supporting me on Patreon — patreon.com/FireFury