Chapter 11 – The Myrish Envoy
The council chamber of the Tower of Coin was rarely silent. Even in moments meant for diplomacy, the sound of quills and whispers filled the air like the hum of flies. Today, though, there was an edge beneath the quiet — the kind that came when too many clever men gathered in one room.
Aden Holt stood beside the long oak table, parchment ready, ink steady. His role was simple: record the proceedings, nothing more. But in King's Landing, even silence had consequence.
The Myrish envoy arrived draped in silk the color of old wine. His name was Ser Varyn Myrel, though no one truly believed the "Ser." He carried himself like a merchant, not a knight — smooth, assured, and with eyes that measured every man's worth in coin.
At Baelish's right sat Lord Tregar Thorne, Master of Ships, his jaw tight from the scandal still smoldering in his offices. On Baelish's left, a lean, severe man in black robes watched with the stillness of a snake. Aden had heard his name whispered before — Maester Rendal, a quiet advisor tied to the Crown's deeper coffers.
Baelish broke the silence first.
"Ser Varyn," he said, voice like velvet, "the Crown appreciates Myr's offer of trade. Though," he smiled thinly, "we both know generosity rarely sails without profit in her wake."
The envoy returned the smile. "And yet, Lord Baelish, generosity builds bridges where armies cannot. We ask only for fair passage of Myrish goods — spices, glass, silk — through your ports. A modest tariff, naturally."
Lord Thorne snorted. "Modest, he says. Ten percent is robbery under a prettier name."
Varyn's lips curved. "Then call it what you wish, my lord. In Myr, we say the man who haggles loudest has the most to hide."
Aden's quill paused for a heartbeat. The jab hit its mark — Thorne's scandal still fresh, the smell of burned ledgers not forgotten. Baelish's smile didn't falter, but his eyes flicked to Aden for the briefest moment — a silent reminder: observe everything.
The discussion turned sharp. Tariffs, ship rights, control of the Blackwater trade routes — beneath the numbers, Aden could hear the true argument: who controlled the flow of power.
Rendal spoke at last, his tone mild but dangerous. "Perhaps a compromise. Myr's goods pass freely, but the Tower of Coin oversees valuation. Transparency benefits all."
A clever trap. Baelish's domain was influence, not oversight. To hand control to the Crown's auditors would be to let another hand on his purse strings. Aden saw it immediately — and knew Baelish did too.
"My dear Maester," Baelish said smoothly, "transparency is the virtue of the poor. I prefer efficiency. The Tower of Coin will manage collection, as always. The realm profits when the clever are left to their work."
Varyn raised a brow, sipping his wine. "Then perhaps the realm has too many clever men."
The chamber fell quiet.
Aden wrote, but his thoughts churned. Beneath the politeness, he could feel the tension webbing tighter — Thorne's resentment, Rendal's quiet hunger for leverage, and Baelish's patience thinning behind that practiced charm.
When the meeting finally ended, Baelish rose, exchanging pleasantries like daggers disguised as smiles. "Master Holt," he said softly as the others left, "you watched well today. What did you see?"
Aden met his gaze. "Three men, my lord. One who fears losing his coin. One who covets yours. And one who sells peace for a higher price."
Baelish laughed quietly. "Then you saw clearly. Never forget — trade is just politics with better manners."
He clasped Aden's shoulder, an approving gesture that felt like both reward and warning. "You'll prepare a report. And, Master Holt…" Baelish's voice dropped lower. "Find out what our Myrish friend truly wants. No merchant crosses the Narrow Sea for silk alone."
As Baelish left, Aden glanced down at his notes. The ink shimmered faintly under the candlelight, the words neat and precise. Yet between every line, he saw what the Game truly traded in — not coin, not power, but secrets.
And today, a new one had just arrived from across the sea.
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