Chapter 8: A Foundation of Lies

Chapter 8: A Foundation of Lies

The essence of the spy, Damon Cryss, had rewired Kaelen's perception of the world. Before, he saw men as vessels of skill and strength, a collection of physical assets. Now, he saw the invisible currents that flowed between them: the subtle shifts in posture, the flicker of an eye, the pregnant pause in a conversation. King's Landing, once a mere labyrinth of stone and humanity, was now a grand tapestry of secrets, and for the first time, he could see the individual threads.

He could walk through the Great Bazaar and not just see the chaos of commerce, but identify the urchins who served as Varys's 'little birds,' the merchants who paid bribes to the City Watch, and the quiet men in corners who were observing it all for their own masters. The city was no longer just a place; it was a living organism of information, and he was learning its language. This new sense was intoxicating, a power far more nuanced and, in this new arena, far more potent than the brute force of a thousand warriors.

But seeing the web was not enough. He needed to be able to pull its strings. His authority as Master of Laws was his foundation, but he needed his own network, an intelligence apparatus loyal only to him, utterly separate from the Crown's. Varys had his birds, Littlefinger had his ledgers and brothels. Kaelen would have the law itself.

His chosen instrument was a man named Rennifer, a captain of the City Watch. Rennifer was a hard-bitten veteran of the war, a competent man who knew the city's guts like the back of his hand. He had fought for the loyalists until the Battle of the Trident, and with the pragmatism of a true survivor, had seamlessly switched allegiances when the outcome became clear. Kaelen knew this type of man: his loyalty was not to a crown or a cause, but to himself. He was also deeply, hopelessly corrupt. Kaelen, using his new skills of observation, had spent a week watching the man, noting the fine clothes his captain's salary could not afford, the late-night visits to gambling dens, the discreet payments he received from smugglers down by the Mud Gate.

One night, Kaelen summoned Captain Rennifer to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. The captain arrived, his face a mask of professional deference, but his eyes wary.

"Captain," Kaelen began, pouring two glasses of wine, his movements smooth and disarming. "Your command of the Dragon Gate precinct is exemplary. Crime is down. Order is maintained. The King is pleased."

"I serve the King's Justice, my lord," Rennifer said, relaxing slightly at the praise.

"Indeed you do," Kaelen replied, his voice still pleasant. He slid a small, leather-bound ledger across the table. "You also serve the justice of the 'Flying Boar' gambling den, the justice of the Tyroshi smugglers who operate from the 'Siren's Kiss,' and the justice of the brothel owner who pays you to look the other way when his girls are beaten. Your personal justice appears to be far more profitable."

The color drained from Rennifer's face. The ledger contained a meticulous, damning account of every bribe, every protection fee, every crime the captain had committed for the past five years. It was a level of detail no one should have been able to acquire.

"I… I don't know what you mean, my lord," Rennifer stammered, his hand trembling.

Kaelen's friendly demeanor evaporated, replaced by the chilling stillness of a predator. "Do not lie to me, Captain. It is an insult to my intelligence, and I am not a man who suffers insults gladly. I could have you hanging from the Dragon Gate by sunrise. Your fine clothes would be stripped, your possessions seized, and your name would be a curse. Everyone would know you for what you are."

He let the threat hang in the air, a palpable thing. He watched the man break, the fear in his eyes absolute.

"Alternatively," Kaelen continued, his voice now a soft, conspiratorial whisper, "your crimes could be forgotten. Your career could flourish. Your pockets could grow heavier than you ever dreamed. All that is required is a change in allegiance. You no longer serve the city, or your own greed. You serve me. Your network of informants, your knowledge of the smugglers and thieves… it all belongs to me now. You will be my eyes and ears in the city's gutters. You will be the foundation of a new order."

Rennifer, trapped and terrified, saw no choice. "What do you want me to do?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"For now," Kaelen said, a thin smile touching his lips, "you will simply watch. And you will listen."

With his own nascent intelligence network in place, Kaelen turned his attention to his primary rival: Varys. Littlefinger was a threat, but a comprehensible one, driven by greed and ambition. Varys was an enigma, his motives shrouded in layers of deception. To attack the Spider, Kaelen first needed to understand his web. He needed to harvest another piece of it.

Through Rennifer's terrified diligence, Kaelen began to receive a steady stream of information from the city's underbelly. He learned of a master weaver named Eregar, a man whose shop in the Street of Silk was renowned for its magnificent tapestries depicting scenes from history and legend. Eregar was a respected artisan, a quiet man who kept to himself. He was also, according to Rennifer's informants, a major node in Varys's intelligence network. His apprentices were spies, his suppliers were cut-outs, and his clients included some of the most powerful people in the city.

Kaelen tasked Rennifer with placing the weaver's shop under constant, covert surveillance. Soon, they intercepted a tapestry being delivered to a merchant known to have ties to the Free Cities. Kaelen had the tapestry brought to him. To the untrained eye, it was a beautiful depiction of the Battle of the Trident. But Kaelen, now possessing the mind of a spy, saw more. He saw the subtle variations in the color of the thread, the specific number of soldiers in a given rank, the placement of birds in the sky. It was a code, fiendishly complex and woven into the very fabric of the art.

He spent two nights in his chambers, the massive tapestry spread out on his floor. He applied the knowledge of ciphers he had taken from Damon Cryss, cross-referencing it with the nascent magical intuition he'd absorbed from Rhaegar. On the third night, he broke it. The tapestry was a detailed report on the new king's court, his moods, his drinking habits, and most disturbingly, a profile of Kaelen himself, detailing his ruthless efficiency and speculating on his ambitions.

Varys was not just observing; he was analyzing, reporting to some unknown entity beyond the Narrow Sea. The threat was far greater than he had imagined. Eregar was not just an agent; he was a spymaster, a vital organ in Varys's vast body. He had to be cut out.

The plan required absolute secrecy and precision. He could not afford for the kill to be traced back to him. An accident was the only solution. Eregar's workshop was filled with heavy looms, massive weights, and sharp tools. It was a perfect stage for a tragedy.

On a moonless night, Kaelen moved through the city. He wore the dark, nondescript clothing of a common laborer, his face shadowed by a hood. He did not use the main streets. Guided by the city's secret map now imprinted in his mind, he used the rooftops and hidden alleys, moving with the silent grace of a hunting cat. He arrived at the back of the weaver's shop and, using a set of lockpicks he now knew how to handle with an expert's touch, he slipped inside.

The workshop was a cavern of shadows, dominated by the hulking skeletons of massive looms. The air smelled of wool, dye, and oil. He found Eregar in a small back room, working late by candlelight, meticulously sketching out a new design. The spymaster was so focused on his craft, he didn't hear the Master of Laws approach until Kaelen was standing directly behind him.

"A beautiful design," Kaelen said softly.

Eregar let out a choked gasp and spun around, his eyes wide with terror. He instantly recognized the shadowed face of the one man in the city he had identified as a mortal threat.

"Lord Vyrwel," he breathed, his composure shattering. "What are you doing here?"

"Appreciating your art," Kaelen said, circling the man slowly. "And the messages hidden within it. A report on the king's court, I believe? Sent to a merchant with ties to Pentos. One must wonder who the intended recipient is. Illyrio Mopatis, perhaps?"

The weaver turned deathly pale. He had been utterly exposed. The predator he had been watching had turned and fixed its gaze upon him.

"I… I am just a humble artisan, my lord," Eregar stammered, backing away.

"You are a traitor," Kaelen stated, his voice flat and cold. "And traitors meet unfortunate ends."

Eregar, seeing death in Kaelen's eyes, made a desperate move. He grabbed a heavy spindle from a workbench and lunged. It was a clumsy, terrified attack. Kaelen sidestepped with contemptuous ease, his hand shooting out to grab the weaver's wrist, twisting it until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. Eregar screamed, a sound that was abruptly cut off as Kaelen's other hand clamped over his mouth.

He didn't kill him immediately. He dragged the whimpering, broken man to the base of the largest loom, a monstrous contraption used for weaving baronial banners. Above them, a massive counterweight, a block of solid iron the size of a man's torso, was held in place by a thick, fraying rope on a pulley system.

Kaelen had studied the mechanism earlier. He now forced Eregar to watch as he produced a small, sharp knife and began to meticulously slice through the final strands of the rope, leaving it hanging by a thread.

"A tragic accident," Kaelen whispered, the words a cold caress against the terrified weaver's ear. "A master craftsman, working late into the night, undone by his own faulty equipment. The city will mourn."

He looked into Eregar's eyes, saw the absolute comprehension of his fate, the utter despair. Then, with the same dirk that had tasted the blood of princes and Kingsguards, he slit the weaver's throat.

The absorption rushed in as the man's life bled out onto the dusty floor. It was a cascade of refined, delicate knowledge. He felt the decade of Eregar's craft flow into him—the feel of different threads, the eye for color and pattern, the patient, intricate muscle memory of a master artisan. It was a strange, almost useless skill for a warrior-lord, but Kaelen's mind immediately cataloged its potential for creating his own ciphers, his own hidden messages.

But beneath the artisan's skill was the real prize: the mind of the spymaster. He didn't gain memories, but he gained the methodology. He absorbed the knowledge of how to build and manage a network of spies. The principles of compartmentalization, of using dead drops and cut-outs, the psychological tricks used to ensure loyalty and silence. He had just stolen a chapter from Varys's own playbook.

With the kill done, he hoisted the body and positioned it directly beneath the teetering iron weight. With a final, precise cut, he severed the last thread of the rope. The weight crashed down with a deafening boom, crushing Eregar's head and torso in a horrific spray of blood and bone, obliterating the true cause of death. The scene was perfect.

The next day, the news of the master weaver's death spread through the court. In the Small Council meeting, Varys reported it, his voice filled with a perfect, measured sorrow.

"It seems the city has claimed another of its fine artists, my lords. Master Eregar, the weaver, was found in his workshop this morning, the victim of a most tragic industrial accident." The eunuch's dark, raisin-like eyes found Kaelen's. There was no accusation, but there was a chilling, bottomless ocean of knowledge in that gaze. He knew.

"A great loss to the city," Kaelen replied, his own face a mask of polite regret. "His craft was unparalleled. I have commissioned a full report from the City Watch. We must ensure such faulty equipment does not endanger any other honest craftsmen."

The silent war had been declared and answered. A major piece had been swept from the board, and both players knew who had done it.

The game, however, was about to gain a new player. After the council meeting, as Kaelen was returning to his chambers, a voice, smooth as oiled silk, called out to him.

"Lord Vyrwel. A moment, if you please."

It was Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger leaned against the wall, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.

"A sad day," Littlefinger said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "First Ser Damon, now Master Eregar. It seems men of… unique talents… are prone to accidents in this city. It makes one worry for one's own health."

He was testing him, showing Kaelen that he, too, saw the truth behind the lies.

"The city is a dangerous place, Lord Baelish," Kaelen responded evenly. "One must take care."

"Indeed." Littlefinger pushed himself off the wall and fell into step beside him. "Speaking of which, the Crown's coffers are in a rather dangerous state themselves. The war was expensive. Robert's coronation will be even more so. I have been exploring certain… creative financial instruments to secure new lines of credit. It involves leveraging future tariffs against loans from certain parties in the Free Cities. It is a complex, delicate business, but potentially very profitable for those who are not afraid of a little risk."

He paused, looking at Kaelen shrewdly. "I thought a man of your talents, a man who appreciates a well-executed plan, might enjoy the artistry of it. Perhaps you would care to review my proposal?"

Kaelen understood immediately. This was not a simple financial matter. It was a test. It was an invitation. Littlefinger was probing him, trying to gauge his intelligence, his ambition, his ruthlessness in an arena that had nothing to do with spies or swords, but with numbers and coin. The Spider was testing his defenses. Now the Mockingbird was testing his offense.

A cold smile touched Kaelen's lips. He had just begun to master the game of whispers. Now, a new game was being offered. The game of coin.

"I would be delighted to review your proposal, Lord Baelish," Kaelen said. "I do so enjoy fine artistry."

The hunt, he realized with a fresh surge of hunger, was more varied and more delicious than he had ever imagined.