Chapter 21 – The Spider's Threads
Morning crept into King's Landing like a thief — quiet, gray, and uninvited. The fog rolled in from the sea, swallowing the harbor masts and turning the lower city into a pale blur.
From his chamber window, Aden Holt watched the mist coil over the rooftops, listening to the faint hum of waking life below. To him, every shout from the docks and clatter from the markets was a word in a language he had learned to read — the language of power.
But today, that language was speaking too loudly.
The rumor he had sown — the Iron Bank's supposed suspicion of Baelish's ledgers — had traveled faster than he expected. It had reached the merchants, the brokers, even a few of the lesser lords who fancied themselves shrewd. And now, it had reached the Tower.
"Three appointments canceled this morning," said Mistress Lareth, Baelish's scribe, her tone clipped as she handed him the day's docket. "Two merchants from Pentos, one from Gulltown. All citing 'financial irregularities.'"
Aden made a soft sound of acknowledgement but didn't look up.
Irregularities. The word tasted like success — and danger.
By noon, the Tower buzzed like a disturbed hive. Clerks whispered over ledgers; messengers moved faster than usual. Even Baelish's calm veneer seemed strained as he emerged from his chambers, his steps measured, his smile faint.
"Strange winds from across the Narrow Sea," Baelish mused as he stopped beside Aden's desk. "The merchants speak of shadows on my coin. Imagine that."
Aden bowed his head slightly. "Superstition, my lord. Traders fear what they cannot count."
Baelish's smile deepened — the kind that saw far more than it revealed.
"Perhaps. But it seems these shadows began near the harbor… not in Myr or Pentos."
For a moment, the silence between them was a blade. Then Baelish turned away, hands clasped behind his back. "See to it that our ledgers shine brighter than truth, Holt. I won't have the Queen's council sniffing through my numbers."
"Yes, my lord."
When Baelish was gone, Aden let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He had expected a reaction — suspicion, perhaps even quiet investigation — but Baelish's words held something else: amusement. As though the master of whispers in coin had found the first spark of something worth keeping an eye on.
By dusk, the fog had lifted, and with it came a visitor.
He was old, dressed in simple gray, his eyes soft but knowing. He entered without a herald, as though the guards had simply let him pass — which told Aden everything he needed to know.
"Lord Varys requests your company," the man said gently. "In the lower archives."
Aden hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding.
The archives beneath the Tower of the Hand were a labyrinth of dust and secrets. Varys stood among them like a ghost in silk, his round face lit by the flame of a single candle.
"You handle whispers like blades," the eunuch said, not turning. "And blades, when thrown carelessly, can find strange throats."
Aden stepped closer, keeping his tone even. "Then I should learn to aim better."
Varys smiled faintly, finally turning to face him. "Oh, you aim well enough. But the Game you've begun to play does not forgive bold hands. Littlefinger plays for coin, I play for peace, and you…"
He let the word hang like a noose.
"…you play for meaning."
That last word struck too close.
Varys placed a scroll on the table between them — a report, written in careful cipher. Aden's cipher.
"This reached the Red Keep this morning. Not through Baelish, but through the Queen's spymaster in waiting. Your whispers travel well."
Aden stared at it, silent.
"What do you want from me?" he asked finally.
Varys's expression softened. "To see whether you are a fire to be fanned… or extinguished."
Then he stepped aside, leaving the scroll between them like an invitation — or a warning.
When Aden returned to his chamber that night, the city below seemed smaller.
But his name — Silent Clerk — felt heavier.
For the first time, he understood what Varys had truly meant.
Every whisper he wove now had a listener