Chapter 40 – The Weight of Allegiance
The morning after Cersei's summons, King's Landing breathed uneasily. The markets were open, the ships still came and went from Blackwater Bay, yet the rhythm of the city felt… expectant. As though the cobblestones themselves were listening.
Word traveled faster than truth in this city — and the rumor was simple:
Baelish had been praised in court.
Which meant that Baelish was already planning his next deception.
He arrived late to the Treasury Hall that day, smiling too much, speaking too sweetly.
"Good tidings, Holt," he said, sliding a sealed scroll onto my desk. "A new directive from the Hand."
I broke the wax and read.
> Lord Baelish is to oversee the revaluation of all Crown lands and their revenues. You will assist him.
— Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King.
Baelish leaned back, studying my face. "He trusts you more than he should," he murmured. "Or perhaps he trusts me less."
"The Hand values results," I replied, returning the scroll.
"Results are easy," he said softly. "Loyalty is rarer."
The next weeks were consumed by parchment and pretense. I was sent through the city's districts to audit Crown properties — granaries, storehouses, toll stations — each one a quiet battlefield between Tywin's order and Baelish's corruption.
Half the ledgers I reviewed were false. The other half were worse — true, but inconvenient. So I rewrote them.
For Baelish, they showed profit.
For Tywin, they showed stability.
And for me… they showed opportunity.
One night, as I worked by candlelight, a knock came at my door.
A girl entered — plain dress, ink-stained fingers, eyes sharp. One of the minor record keepers from the docks.
"You're Holt?" she asked.
"Yes."
She glanced around, lowered her voice. "Your adjustments to the grain tariffs — they saved my brother's contract. The dock inspectors were going to revoke his license, but your signature—"
"I didn't sign it for your brother," I said.
"I know," she replied. "But he owes you now. And so do I."
She left before I could answer.
By morning, I had five such clerks who owed me quiet favors. By the end of the week, nine. None of them knew the others. None of them mattered individually. But together, they began to form something Baelish hadn't noticed yet — a network of obedience born not from fear, but gratitude.
Tywin's next message came two nights later, delivered by a courier with a lion's seal.
> The Queen grows curious about the Treasury's discretion. Manage her attention. Ensure Baelish remains… occupied.
No instructions beyond that. Tywin rarely wasted ink.
I considered the words carefully. Manage her attention.
By morning, I had already arranged for a quiet visit from a "concerned merchant" to Cersei's chambers — a man who would speak of Baelish's growing debts in the Free Cities, carefully exaggerated by my own pen.
That same evening, Baelish confronted me in the Treasury.
"You've been busy," he said, eyes gleaming. "So many rumors. So many whispers. Tell me, Holt — when you spend your nights writing letters, do you ever worry someone might be reading them?"
I looked up from the ledger. "Only if they can understand the language."
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "And what language do you write in?"
"Coin," I said. "Everyone speaks it."
For a moment, silence. Then laughter — light, almost genuine. "Good answer."
He turned, adjusting his cloak. "Careful, though. Languages can die when their speakers do."
When he left, I exhaled slowly. His warning wasn't empty. Baelish had begun to sense something — not proof, but unease. I could use that, or it could destroy me.
That night, I added a new line to my private ledger:
Independent assets: 9.
Baelish's suspicion: growing.
Tywin's approval: implied.
Queen's attention: redirected.
Personal leverage: increasing.
Then, beneath it, a line I hadn't written before:
Objective shift: no longer survival — control.
The candlelight trembled across the ink like it understood.
For the first time since arriving in this world, I realized I wasn't playing their game anymore.
I was writing my own.
---