Chapter 19 – The Fire Beneath the Ledger
The summons arrived sealed with crimson wax — the mark of the Crown's finance council. Aden read it twice before setting it down. A summons, not an invitation.
Baelish had moved faster than expected.
By midmorning, the Tower of Coin was alive with tension. Rendal and two senior lords were already seated when Aden entered the council chamber. Baelish stood at the head of the table, smiling that disarming, serpentine smile.
"My lords," Baelish began, "it seems discrepancies have emerged in the Crown's foreign trade records. Master Holt will clarify them."
Aden bowed slightly, expression calm. "Of course."
He laid out his ledgers — carefully curated, every number prepared. He spoke of missing manifests, delays in Braavosi payments, and recent disturbances caused by the envoy's death. Each word was measured, each truth wrapped around a lie.
Rendal narrowed his eyes. "You imply the Iron Bank interferes in the Crown's trade?"
"I imply nothing," Aden said smoothly. "But debts have a way of dictating politics, my lord. Even royal ones."
A murmur rippled across the table. Baelish's smile faltered for the briefest moment — then returned, thinner, colder.
When the meeting adjourned, Baelish lingered by the window. Aden remained silent, waiting.
"You handled yourself well," Baelish said finally. "Too well, perhaps."
Aden met his gaze. "I learned from the best."
"Flattery doesn't suit you." Baelish poured wine into two cups and passed one to him. "Remember, Master Holt — fire is a fine servant. But it does not care who it burns."
Aden took the cup but did not drink. "Then perhaps it's time someone learned to hold it properly."
Baelish's eyes glimmered with amusement — and warning. "Careful. You're beginning to sound like me."
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That night, Aden stood at his desk, quill poised over parchment. The silver-sealed letter from the Iron Bank lay beside him.
He wrote a new message — unsigned, untraceable.
To the Bank of Braavos: The Crown delays its payments. Baelish conceals your interests. Consider alternative agents.
He sanded the ink, sealed it, and sent it through a foreign courier before dawn.
For the first time, Aden Holt had struck directly at Petyr Baelish.
And though the city still slept, he could already feel it — the slow, inevitable heat rising beneath the ledgers.
The fire had begun.
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