Chapter 26 – The Weight of a Crown
The ravens came before dawn.
Three, in total.
One sealed in gold, another in black, and the third in white.
Each bore a different hand.
Each carried a different kind of danger.
Aden Holt stared at them in silence, the flicker of candlelight dancing over the letters like small fires. Sleep had abandoned him; reason lingered just long enough to whisper that this — this exact moment — was when clever men began to fall.
He opened the gold seal first.
"You are summoned to the Queen's council at midday. Bring your records of the Crown's trade with Braavos."
— By order of Her Grace, Queen Cersei Lannister.
His fingers tightened on the parchment. The Queen. Not Baelish. Not Varys. The Queen.
Visibility was poison wrapped in silk.
He set it aside and broke the black seal next.
Baelish's handwriting flowed like water across the page.
"Be charming. Be cautious. But remember — gold shines brighter when polished by loyalty. I will expect your report after."
A smile without warmth flickered on Aden's lips. Of course Baelish knew. He always knew.
The last letter — the white seal — smelled faintly of lilac and parchment dust.
Varys.
"The Queen's gaze burns through her own mirrors. Let her see what you wish her to see."
No signature. No mark. Only the faintest trace of red ink on the lower edge — a code Aden recognized. Observe, but do not speak first.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples. Three masters, three leashes. And he was expected to walk as though none existed.
The sun crept higher, throwing pale light across the ink-stained floorboards. The city outside was already stirring — merchants shouting, bells tolling, life moving as though the Game itself didn't tremble on its strings.
Aden dressed with deliberate care — plain doublet, clean parchment-colored sleeves, a ring on his finger he did not own but had borrowed to look important. Perception, he'd learned, often outweighed truth.
When he entered the Tower's council chamber, the air felt thinner, sharper. The Queen sat high upon her seat, gold threads glinting through her gown. Her eyes — cold, bright, and assessing — fixed on him the way a cat watches a mouse that has learned to stand upright.
"Ah, the clerk from the vaults," she said. "The one Lord Baelish praises so fondly."
Aden bowed low. "Your Grace flatters me."
"I doubt that," she replied, with the ghost of a smile. "Men who hide in ink and paper seldom need flattery. They prefer leverage."
Her words struck closer than he liked.
Baelish was there too, leaning against the marble column, his expression unreadable. His presence was a performance — silent, watchful, weighing every breath Aden took.
"The Braavosi manifest," she said, extending her hand. Aden stepped forward and placed the scroll upon the table. She unrolled it halfway, eyes flicking over the symbols.
"You've annotated them."
"Yes, Your Grace. I marked the discrepancies between the Iron Bank's ledgers and the port declarations."
"And?"
"They suggest an account being siphoned — not by the Bank, but by one of our collectors."
The Queen's gaze sharpened. "Whose?"
He hesitated. His instincts screamed to speak truth. His training warned him to choose which truth.
"Lord Baelish's men uncovered the name, Your Grace," Aden said smoothly. "I thought it proper to let him present it."
A silence cut the air. Cersei's eyes slid toward Baelish. He smiled, thin and approving. "Indeed. Holt acts wisely. The name will reach you by evening, my Queen."
She seemed satisfied, but her tone dripped with challenge. "See that it does. And ensure your clerk doesn't forget who commands the Coin."
The meeting dissolved into murmurs and parchment rustles. As Aden turned to leave, Baelish's voice followed him, quiet enough for only him to hear.
"Clever," he murmured. "You gave her a truth that wasn't yours to give."
"I gave her a delay," Aden replied softly. "And time, my lord, is more valuable than gold."
Baelish's smirk lingered. "Perhaps. But delays can become debts."
By the time Aden returned to his chamber, the exhaustion had set in. His thoughts looped like chains — every move calculated, every word measured, every breath another layer of deception.
He sat down, hands trembling faintly.
For the first time, he admitted it — not aloud, but in the privacy of thought: he was overwhelmed.
Too many eyes, too many tests, too many unseen traps.
He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow. He needed clarity. Pattern. Control.
So he began to map it.
A parchment spread before him — names, arrows, connections. Cersei at the center, Baelish to the right, Varys to the left. Between them, the currents of rumor and gold.
He circled himself in ink.
Then drew smaller circles — couriers, merchants, minor scribes. Invisible threads he could pull without being seen.
If the masters wished to test him, he thought, then let them learn what it meant to test a man who learned from them all.
The candles burned low as he worked, his fear slowly transforming into focus. Every instinct sharpened into purpose, every tremor of doubt hardened into calculation.
By the time dawn brushed the sky again, Aden Holt was ready.
He had a plan — small, invisible, and devastating.
If they would use him as a piece, he would become the hand that moved the board.
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