Chapter 72

After Arya departed, the room was left with just the bond-issuing duo. Aegor glanced at Tyrion and asked, "What arrangements did you make for that papermaker?"

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than you might think. The papermaker isn’t just one person—it’s a family of weavers, more specifically, the youngest brother and sister in the household,” Tyrion explained. “The sister noticed that the tools used to wash fabric would accumulate little paper-like scraps over time. That gave her the idea to boil, mash, and dry a piece of cloth to create a full sheet of ‘paper.’”

“A remarkable young woman,” Aegor remarked, intrigued. “And then she and her brother started experimenting with other materials?”

“Exactly, though the results are... less than impressive. What they’ve produced isn’t really paper—it’s more like hardened cloth. Honestly, the quality’s so poor it wouldn’t even make decent toilet paper. And since the cloth they weave is barely enough to make clothes to sell and feed the family, there’s no way they could divert more resources into making paper. The weaving trade hasn’t been doing well recently, so their family barely scrapes by. While their relatives don’t oppose their experiments outright, they don’t have the means to support them either. That’s when the brother went to a paper merchant for funding, only to be rejected—and then, luckily for us, I found them.”

So it wasn’t that the people of Westeros lacked ingenuity—it was that their inventions were stifled by short-sighted resource holders.

“You brought them back?” Aegor asked.

“Yes. I told them to stop weaving altogether and move their entire family to the city. I’ve rented them a large courtyard in a cheaper part of town. I’ll cover their living expenses and the costs of their experiments. All they need to do is focus on producing usable paper as quickly as possible.”

“That’s a good approach.”

“What about the confidentiality agreement you mentioned? How does that work?”

“It’s nothing groundbreaking, just an agreement. Explain it to them clearly: we’ll support their family financially, reimburse all their experimental costs, and offer a bonus when they create functional paper. But once they achieve a breakthrough, they cannot disclose the method or seek other backers. If they do, the Lannisters, the Night’s Watch, and even the Hand of the King will hold them accountable.”

“That sounds dramatic. How exactly are the Watch or the Hand of the King going to enforce this?”

“They’re commoners. Show them official documents signed by the Lord Commander and the Hand, plus your own reputation, and they’ll be too intimidated to cross us,” Aegor replied with a shrug. “But the best way to ensure loyalty is to treat them well. Feed our inventors, support them, and keep them content. For now, provide them with better tools and equipment. Have them produce a batch of paper as soon as possible so we can assess its quality and decide the next steps.”

“Understood. I’ll handle it,” Tyrion agreed. “You’re staying here tonight? It doesn’t look like your office has much going on for now.”

“I still have some minor tasks to finish. Go ahead and head back. Don’t go to bed too early—we need to discuss recruitment tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Also, take the money with you—it’s your responsibility.”

“Got it.”
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With Tyrion, Arya, and the attendants gone, Aegor was left alone in the office. It was nearly dusk, and he had something important to do—something that had to be carried out under the cover of darkness. While Aegor lacked manpower, this particular task was one he wouldn’t trust anyone else to handle, no matter how many subordinates he had.

Summer nights lingered, and twilight was slow to descend. To pass the time, Aegor ate dinner at a small restaurant near the garrison camp and then waited patiently in his office until the sky turned pitch black.

The moment had arrived.

He locked up the office like any ordinary merchant closing up for the day, mounted his horse, and began riding toward the Albatross Inn. The streets were dark, with no lanterns to illuminate the way. Unlike Silk Street, this area didn’t bustle with nighttime activity; the shops had long since closed, and the roads were almost deserted. Sitting tall on his horse, Aegor glanced left and right, ensuring no living soul was within several dozen yards.

Only then did he carefully reach into his bag, withdraw a tightly rolled piece of paper, and release it from his hand.

In the still night, the paper fell from his fingers, rolled off the horse’s flank, and tumbled to the cobblestone road below. A hoof nudged it further, sending it spinning into a shadowed corner. Silent and unobtrusive, the small slip vanished into the darkness, waiting to be discovered.

Without encountering any Gold Cloaks on patrol, Aegor took a circuitous route, scattering dozens of similar slips at intervals. When his supply was finally exhausted, he returned to the inn.
----


The paper slips bore a simple yet explosive story, written in the voice of a young knight from the Vale:
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My name is Ser Shuff. I served as a squire to the late Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, for many years. By the time anyone reads this, I will likely be dead.

Months ago, I stumbled upon an affair between Lady Lysa Arryn and Lord Petyr Baelish. Lady Lysa threatened to kill me if I revealed what I saw, while Lord Baelish promised me wealth and knighthood if I kept quiet. Caught between fear and greed, I said nothing—until Lord Jon suddenly “fell ill” and died.

Though Jon Arryn was old, his death seemed natural enough. Yet I noticed that after his passing, Lady Lysa and Lord Baelish met more frequently in secret. I began to suspect that Lord Baelish had persuaded Lady Lysa to poison her husband.

I have no hard evidence, but I wrote this account in case of my untimely death. If I die under mysterious circumstances, it will confirm my suspicions. I may be insignificant, but the truth must be known. The guilty must face justice.
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The slips of paper contained little truth beyond Jon Arryn’s death, but that was the beauty of a well-crafted rumor. As long as parts of it were believable—Lysa and Baelish’s closeness, Jon’s sudden demise, Shuff’s death in a tourney—it would sow doubt and chaos.

Aegor’s work done, he hoped for dry weather and a curious, literate public to spread the seeds of discord.

Baelish’s strength lay in being underestimated. Many powerful figures viewed him as a mere upjumped brothel-keeper, useful but unthreatening. That underestimation had allowed him to play chaos to his advantage and rise. But now, someone who understood him had entered the game.

Petyr Baelish’s reign of unchecked scheming was about to come to an end.