Chapter 12 – The Shadow of Silk
King's Landing changed at night.
The merchants' laughter turned to whispers, the brothels' music to murmurs of business, and the streets to rivers of quiet intent.
Aden moved through them like smoke — a scribe by title, an observer by trade. Baelish's words still echoed in his mind: Find out what our Myrish friend truly wants.
The trail led him first to the Docks of Flea Bottom, where Myrish sailors drank their pay away before dawn. He found one willing to talk — for a coin and the illusion of trust.
"Varyn?" the sailor rasped. "He's no merchant. He buys information, not silk. Came with letters marked with the seal of the Iron Bank, though he hides them deep. Man deals in debts, not goods."
Aden's pulse quickened. The Iron Bank meddling in Crown trade meant one thing — leverage. If Myr was acting as an intermediary, then this "envoy" had come not to sell but to collect.
By the time he returned to his quarters, the city was asleep, but his mind wasn't. He lit a candle, unfolding his notes with methodical care. Names, connections, whispers — all laid out like threads in a tapestry.
Varyn Myrel – debt agent? Ties to Braavos. Rendal's proposal – access to Tower accounts. Thorne – compromised, could be exploited.
He paused at that last line. Exploitation was the language of survival here, but part of him still hesitated at how easily he used it now. A few months ago, he might have flinched. Now, it felt like breathing.
A knock broke his thought.
When he opened the door, a figure stood cloaked in gray.
"You're being watched," the stranger said softly.
"Who are you?" Aden asked.
"Someone who prefers debts unpaid," the voice replied — female, calm, too confident to be a messenger. "Tell your master the envoy's interest is not in gold, but in names. And if he keeps digging, he'll find his own among them."
Then she was gone, swallowed by the fog of the lower city.
Aden stood in the doorway for a long moment, heart steady but thoughts racing. A warning, or an invitation? In this city, they were often the same thing.
He closed the door, sat back down, and dipped his quill in ink.
This time, his note was only one line long:
The Myrish Envoy hunts debtors of flesh, not coin.