Chapter 5: The Currency of Secrets

Chapter 5: The Currency of Secrets

265 AC, Month of the Harvest

Another year, another layer of polish on the glittering cage of King's Landing. To the casual observer, the city was prosperous, the court a vibrant pageant of feasts and tourneys under the increasingly erratic eye of King Aerys II. But Damon, a man who traded in the unseen, could feel the foundations groaning. The King's paranoia was a low-grade fever infecting the Red Keep, and the great houses jostled for position with a sharper, more desperate edge. It was a perfect climate for his business, and an even better one for his true work.

The seeds of financial ruin he had planted in the Stokeworth lands a year prior were now bearing fruit. As he had predicted, Lord Stokeworth's pride and antiquated business practices had rendered him incapable of competing with the aggressive expansion of House Mooton. His coffers were dry, his income dwindling, and he was now bleeding land and pride in equal measure.

Damon sat across from a man named Silas, a discreet moneylender from the Street of Coin who served as the public face of Damon's burgeoning financial interests. Silas was a sharp, avaricious man whose own greed was tempered only by his fear of the quiet, unassuming artisan who was his secret master.

"Lord Stokeworth has made another inquiry," Silas reported, his voice a low rasp. He slid a piece of parchment across the polished mahogany of the table in the back room of his office. "He offers the deed to his southern sheep-lands as collateral for a new loan."

Damon picked up the parchment, his eyes scanning the terms. He didn't need to read the words. He could feel the desperation clinging to the document like a bad smell, the ghost of Lord Stokeworth's sweaty, trembling hand. Damon was now the holder of more than sixty percent of House Stokeworth's debt. He owned the man, his lands, his future—he just hadn't seen fit to inform him of that fact yet.

"The interest rate seems… generous," Damon noted, his voice flat. Silas had proposed a rate that would cripple the noble house within a year. It was a predator's move, but a short-sighted one.

"He is a desperate man, Master Damon. He will agree to anything."

"And a man who has nothing left to lose becomes unpredictable," Damon countered, his gaze cold. "That is not our goal. We are not sharks, Silas. We are farmers. We cultivate our assets." He pushed the parchment back. "Lower the rate. Give him a term he believes he can meet. We want him compliant, not cornered. We want him to continue to believe he can trade his land for our coin. By the time he realizes he is a tenant on his own estate, he will be too deeply entangled to resist."

Silas stared, his expression a mixture of confusion and awe. He saw only the lost profit from a higher interest rate. He couldn't see the long game: the acquisition of a voting bloc, the control of trade access, the slow, methodical absorption of a noble house's power without a single drop of blood being shed. Damon was not just buying debt; he was buying a seat at the table of the great game, and he was doing it anonymously.

"As you wish, master," Silas said, bowing his head. He felt the cold, unassailable logic in Damon's command, a business acumen that was as terrifying as it was brilliant.

With his financial ventures growing, it was time to test the other side of his enterprise. His ledger, now thick with the transcribed sins and secrets of the court, was burning a hole in his consciousness. It was an arsenal, and it was time for a test firing.

His chosen target was Lord Rykker, the Lannister sycophant Seraphina Vance had so carelessly mentioned. Damon's own sources, primarily his new asset Larys, had confirmed that Lord Rykker was being considered by the King's council for the position of Harbour Master of the Fishmarket, a minor-sounding role with significant control over tariffs and trade inspections. It was a post Tywin Lannister undoubtedly wanted one of his men to hold.

Damon had no particular animosity towards Rykker, nor any love for his rivals. The man was simply a piece on the board. The goal was to move him without ever showing his own hand. Crude exposure of the debt was out of the question; it would lead back to its source, Lannister, and create chaos. Damon preferred precision.

He penned a note. The script was an elegant, flowing hand, copied from a sample of a scribe known to work for several Reach lords. The parchment was of a type favoured by House Hightower. The note was addressed to the Master of Coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, a man known for his diligence and suspicion.

The note was a masterpiece of misdirection. It didn't accuse Rykker of anything. Instead, it congratulated Lord Chelsted on the clever selection of Lord Rykker, praising Rykker's 'newfound financial independence' and his 'astute leveraging of assets from a silent partner in the Westerlands, which has freed him from prior obligations and will allow him to serve the Crown without distraction.'

It was a poisoned compliment. It suggested Rykker had found a way out of Tywin's debt, which would infuriate the Lannisters. It hinted at a secret source of wealth, which would make the ever-suspicious King Aerys view Rykker not as a puppet, but as a potential plotter. And it gave Lord Chelsted, who disliked Lannister influence, the perfect excuse to reconsider the appointment on the grounds of 'uncertain financial entanglements'.

Damon sealed the note with a blob of wax, leaving it smooth and unadorned. He gave it to one of his street urchins, a boy named Finn who could move through the Red Keep like a ghost. "Leave this on the desk of the Master of Coin's chief clerk. Make sure no one sees you enter or leave."

Two days later, the whispers from court reached him. Lord Rykker's appointment had been indefinitely postponed. The official reason was a need for further review. The unofficial result was that a Lannister piece had been blocked, and a ripple of confusion and suspicion had spread through the court. No one knew who had sent the note or why. It was a ghost's move. Damon felt a deep, psychopathic satisfaction. This was true power. Not the brutish smashing of a battle-axe, but the silent, invisible manipulation of events from miles away.

Meanwhile, the demand for his products had reached a fever pitch. He summoned his two primary patrons, Lady Vance and Lady Rosby, to The Atelier for separate meetings. He explained his new business model.

"The demand for my work has become… overwhelming," he told a preening Seraphina. "To ensure the quality and, more importantly, the exclusivity that you deserve, I am restructuring. From now on, The Atelier will produce four 'collections' a year, one for each season. Each collection will feature a central, signature fragrance and accompanying products, produced in a strictly limited quantity. As my founding patron, you will, of course, have the right of first refusal on each collection."

He was turning them from exclusive clients into members of an even more exclusive club. He could feel Seraphina's mind light up at the concept. It meant she remained at the top of the pyramid, but it also meant others would now be allowed in, creating a new level of social competition she would be desperate to win.

To further cement their loyalty, he unveiled his latest creation. He presented her with a small, mother-of-pearl pot.

"What is this?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"A youth restorative cream," Damon said. "Made with crushed pearl dust for luminosity, and oils that encourage the skin to retain its… vitality. A secret of the Valyrian Freehold, I'm told."

He had, of course, invented it himself, drawing on knowledge of exfoliants and moisturizers from his past life. The 'pearl dust' was little more than a fine abrasive, but combined with the rich, nourishing cream, the effect on the skin was immediate and noticeable.

Seraphina touched a small amount to the back of her hand, her gasp of delight echoing in the quiet room. He had just sold her the one thing every noblewoman, no matter her age, craved: a defense against the ravages of time.

His innovations were not limited to the ladies of the court. His reputation for bespoke creations had reached a new, unexpected quarter. One evening, a man arrived at The Atelier, unannounced. He was not a lord, but his bearing was more noble than most. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and weary, intelligent eyes. He wore the simple, unadorned traveling cloak of a man who did not need to advertise his station. But beneath it, Damon could see the gleam of pristine, white-enameled steel. He was a knight of the Kingsguard.

"I am Ser Gerold Hightower," the man said, his voice a low baritone. The White Bull. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. One of the most respected and dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Master Damon," Hightower continued, his eyes sweeping the room, taking in every detail. "I am told you are a man who solves… unique problems."

"I am a craftsman, Ser," Damon replied calmly, his mental shields clamped down tight. Reading a man like this would be foolish and dangerous. Instead, he simply observed.

"I have a problem that cannot be solved by a maester's poppy milk or a knight's bravado," Ser Gerold said. He flexed his left hand, a grimace of pain flashing across his face for a bare instant. "An old wound from the Stepstones. A mace-blow that shattered the bone. It healed poorly. In the cold, or after a long day in the saddle, the ache… it is distracting. A distraction is something a man in my position cannot afford."

He was coming to a perfumer for chronic pain relief. It was a testament to the myth Damon had built around himself.

Damon nodded slowly. "I am not a maester, Ser. I do not deal in medicine."

"I know. I am told you deal in results," Hightower countered.

This was a new, critical opportunity. To have the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard indebted to him, even for something minor, was a coup of unimaginable proportions.

"Perhaps I can create something to… soothe the area," Damon said carefully. He drew on his twenty-first-century knowledge of pharmacology. He couldn't create a modern painkiller, but he knew the principles. He could create a potent topical analgesic.

"I use a combination of wintergreen oil, for its warming properties, and an extract of willow bark, which contains salicin," Damon explained, deliberately using arcane-sounding terms. "When combined with oils that penetrate the skin, it can provide temporary relief to deep muscle and bone aches."

He met with Ser Gerold again two days later, presenting him with a simple, unmarked pot of a thick, pungent-smelling balm. The Lord Commander applied a small amount to his hand, rubbing it in. Damon watched as the knight's stony expression softened, a look of profound surprise and relief washing over him. The ache that had plagued him for years was fading into a dull, warm thrum.

"By the Seven…" Hightower whispered, flexing his hand freely for the first time in years. "What is this magic?"

"It is not magic, Ser. It is simply chemistry," Damon said. "A craft, like sword-making." He had just opened an entirely new market.

That night, as he recorded the day's events in his coded ledger, a sudden, violent wave of frustration washed over him. He was thinking of King Aerys, of the delicate, maddeningly slow dance of manipulation he was forced to perform. He knew what was coming—the Defiance of Duskendale, the burning of lords, the descent into true madness—and his own progress felt glacial. He wanted to reach out and shove events forward, to force the pieces into place.

In his mind's eye, he pictured his ledger, sitting on the far side of his study. The frustration boiled over into a white-hot spike of pure, impatient rage.

CRACK!

The heavy, dragon-hide-bound book flew across the room as if kicked by an invisible horse, slamming into the stone wall with enough force to shake the foundations of the building. The silver clasps shattered, and pages of coded secrets fluttered to the floor.

Damon froze, his rage vanishing as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold, sharp shock. He stared at the book, then at his own hands. He hadn't moved. He had been sitting in his chair, ten feet away.

The raw, instinctual power he had been so carefully, so clinically practicing had just exploded out of him, triggered by a simple flash of emotion. It was a terrifying, exhilarating moment. He had known, intellectually, that the potential was there. He had read the comics. He knew Jean Grey's power was tied to her passions. But feeling it, that untamed surge, was something else entirely. It was a wild dragon living inside his skull, and he had just learned it could breathe fire whether he commanded it to or not.

He stood up, his legs unsteady, and walked over to the wreckage of his most valuable possession. He knelt, gathering the scattered pages. His mind, ever the psychopath's, was already moving past the shock and onto analysis. This changed things. His power was not just a tool to be honed. It was a part of him, an extension of his will that was more potent when he wasn't consciously throttling it. He would have to learn a new kind of control, the control of a rider on a dragon's back, guiding its fury rather than trying to chain it.

He looked at one of the pages in his hand. It was the entry for House Darklyn. He had recruited the steward Larys for a reason. He knew that Lord Denys Darklyn was a proud, foolish man. He knew that the Defiance of Duskendale was only a few years away in the timeline. It would be the first major spasm of the King's madness, the event that would truly set the stage for Robert's Rebellion.

And now, Damon realized, he was perfectly positioned. He had a source inside the house that would soon become the epicenter of the realm's politics. He had the growing, untamed power of a mutant god bubbling just beneath his skin. He had the ear of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and the secrets of half the court were written in a code no man could break.

He smiled, a slow, predatory expression spreading across his face in the flickering candlelight. The game was far grander than he had imagined. He wasn't just playing to win. He was playing to rewrite the board itself.