Chapter 2 – The Scent of Power
King's Landing was never quiet.
Even before dawn, the city moaned and whispered — the sea hissing against the cliffs, the street sellers shouting over one another for coins they'd never see again. From his chamber high in the Tower of the Hand, Aden watched the smoke rise from the chimneys, gray ribbons twisting over the rooftops like restless spirits.
The capital was beautiful from a distance.
Up close, it stank of sweat, wine, and desperation.
He'd learned that quickly enough.
In the three weeks since waking in this world, he'd memorized every corridor of the Red Keep, every face that mattered, every whisper worth listening to. His new life as Aden Holt was a careful masquerade: diligent clerk by day, quiet observer by night.
And if the lords noticed how fast he learned, they said nothing.
The King's court was a theatre, and he had front-row seats.
---
That morning, he stood near the back of the Small Council chamber, parchment in hand, pretending to record minutes while the real game unfolded before him.
Lord Varys spoke first — soft and smooth as silk.
"The Master of Coin insists the Iron Bank grows impatient."
At that, Baelish only smiled. "Impatience is the language of men who believe gold gives them power. We'll teach them it only rents it."
Renly chuckled under his breath. Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed some half-forgotten wisdom.
And all the while, Aden's quill moved — but he wasn't writing what they said. He was writing what they meant.
> Varys: measures tone. Information hoarder. Never says more than needed.
Baelish: deflects through charm. Keeps others amused to stay unthreatened.
Pycelle: irrelevant. Loyal to whoever feeds his ego.
Renly: watch him — too confident, too clean.
He noted everything — habits, glances, power plays.
The real currency here wasn't gold. It was understanding.
---
After the meeting, Baelish approached him.
"Still taking notes?" the man asked with that disarming smile.
Aden handed over the parchment. "Of course, my lord."
Baelish's eyes flicked over it — and froze for a fraction of a second.
The notes weren't minutes. They were profiles. Assessments. Precise and unnervingly accurate.
For a heartbeat, the air between them sharpened.
Then Littlefinger laughed — softly, like a cat amused by a mouse's trick.
"Clever boy," he murmured. "But cleverness cuts both ways. Keep your observations… private."
Aden dipped his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "As you wish, my lord."
Baelish lingered. "Tell me something, Aden. Do you find King's Landing as unpleasant as it smells?"
"Smell fades," Aden said. "Rot stays hidden longer."
Baelish's smile widened. "Then perhaps you'll do well here after all."
---
Later, in the ledgers' chamber, Aden leaned over his desk, candlelight dancing across the columns of gold and ink.
He traced his finger down a name — House Rosby. Loyal crown vassals. Wealthy from trade. And owing Baelish an impossible sum.
Aden frowned. "How do you build loyalty out of debt?" he murmured.
Then he remembered Littlefinger's smirk.
By owning the chains they pretend not to wear.
He understood now. Power here wasn't in armies or crowns — it was in the subtle art of dependency.
And for the first time, the thought thrilled him.
He leaned back, staring at the stacks of parchment that governed the kingdom.
Each number, each signature, each lie waiting to be told — all under his control.
It felt intoxicating. Dangerous.
---
That night, he wandered into the lower halls of the Keep, hood drawn low. The guards ignored him; a clerk in dull gray drew no attention.
But his eyes were everywhere — studying, learning.
The servants who whispered in the kitchens.
The soldiers who gambled near the stables.
The maids who carried news faster than ravens.
Every one of them part of a web he could one day weave.
He smiled faintly to himself.
You always wanted to understand the game, he thought. Now you live inside it.
And though he told himself he was only surviving, part of him had already begun to hunger for more.
---
When he returned to his chamber, another parchment waited on his desk — sealed with a mockingbird's sigil.
Inside, a single line in Baelish's neat, elegant hand:
> "Tomorrow, you meet the Spice King. Don't let your tongue write checks your purse can't pay."
Aden laughed quietly, folding the letter.
He had no purse. But he had something better.
A mind sharp enough to cut gold itself.
---
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