Chapter 8: The King's Madness and the Lion's Gold

Chapter 8: The King's Madness and the Lion's Gold

278 AC, Month of the Mother

The ashes of Duskendale had cooled, but the fire it had lit in the mind of the King now burned with a cold, clear, and terrifying intensity. The year following the Defiance was one of reckoning. The realm celebrated the swift restoration of order, but in the halls of the Red Keep, a new order was taking hold. King Aerys II, once merely eccentric and volatile, had been reborn in the dungeons of the Dun Fort. He emerged a different creature, a being of pure, distilled paranoia.

He would not be touched. His hair and beard grew into a wild, matted tangle. His fingernails yellowed and curled into claws. And his distrust for his Hand, the man who had argued for storming the fort and sacrificing him for the sake of principle, became a chasm that widened with each passing day. Tywin Lannister had won the battle, but in doing so, had lost the King.

For Damon, this new political ecosystem was ripe with opportunity. The chaos of a failing state was the ideal medium for growth. His plans for Duskendale, a decade in the making, were now being executed with the silent, brutal efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

He sat with Silas in a secure room within The Atelier, reviewing the progress of what the Crown now officially knew as the 'Duskendale Restoration Project'. On paper, it was a royal initiative. In reality, it was a wholly-owned subsidiary of Damon's shadow empire.

"The royal charter has been granted, Master Damon," Silas reported, his voice filled with a reverence that had long ago replaced his fear. He saw Damon not as a man, but as a force of nature. "The Crown grants our company, the 'True Tide Development Group', exclusive rights to all reconstruction contracts. They have even waived the usual taxes for the first five years, in light of our… philanthropic efforts during the siege."

Damon allowed himself a small, internal smile. The 'philanthropy' of his refugee camps had paid its first dividend. He had created a narrative of civic virtue, and the Crown, eager to wash its hands of the messy, unprofitable business of rebuilding, had eagerly accepted it.

"The quarries are operational," Damon stated, pointing to a location on the map. "The lumber mill?"

"Fully staffed, master. Primarily with locals who were… beneficiaries of our generosity. They are loyal and work for half the rate a guild worker from King's Landing would demand."

"Good. Phase One is the port itself. The royal fleet needs a reinforced harbor. Lord Velaryon has provided the schematics. We will rebuild it to his exact specifications. The Crown will pay us to build a stronger cage for their navy," Damon mused. "See that the work is impeccable. Our reputation for quality must be as solid as the stone we lay."

"And the town itself?" Silas asked.

"The town can wait," Damon said coldly. "Let the ruins serve as a reminder. We control the food, the jobs, and the building materials. When we choose to rebuild their homes, they will be grateful for whatever we give them. For now, our focus is on infrastructure that serves the Crown and, by extension, our future shipping interests."

He was building his own private city-state on the ashes of another man's ambition, all with the King's blessing and coin. It was a masterclass in disaster capitalism, a concept he had perfected in a world that no longer existed.

But Duskendale was a regional play. A new, far more delicate and potentially rewarding opportunity had presented itself in the heart of the Red Keep. The King's burgeoning madness was a new market to be cornered.

He requested an audience with Ser Gerold Hightower. The Lord Commander looked older than his years, the burden of guarding a king who was his own greatest enemy etched onto his noble face. They met in a private solar, the air thick with the unspoken tension that now perpetually surrounded the royal family.

"Your balm continues to be a great service, Master Damon," Ser Gerold began, his gratitude a tangible thing. "Many of my brothers now use it."

"I am pleased it brings comfort, Lord Commander," Damon said, his voice soft and respectful. "It is comfort that brings me here today. The King's comfort."

Hightower's eyes narrowed slightly. "Speak plainly."

"I hear the whispers, as everyone does," Damon said, feigning the concern of a loyal subject. "His Grace is… unwell. He suffers from a deep-seated agitation. He shuns contact. The castle soaps are harsh, made with coarse lye. The court perfumes are aggressive. These things must be an agony to a man whose senses are so… heightened."

He could feel the truth of his words resonate in the Lord Commander's mind. He could feel Hightower's own pain and helplessness at watching his king decline.

Damon placed a small, plain wooden box on the table. "I have created something new. A project of personal interest. It is a soap made not from animal tallow, but from the purest olive oil, triple-rendered to remove all impurities. The lye is leached from the ash of weirwood, which is milder. There is no scent, no colour, nothing but the purity of the ingredients themselves. It is gentle enough for a newborn babe."

He opened the box. Inside was a single, smooth, white bar of soap. He also produced a small ceramic pot. "And this is a lotion. A simple emulsion of water, almond oil, and beeswax. It will soothe the skin without leaving a greasy residue or any offending fragrance. It is clean. Nothing more."

Ser Gerold stared at the simple offerings as if they were jewels. Here was a potential solution to a problem no one had dared to address: how to clean a king who believed he was being poisoned, who screamed if a servant's hand brushed his skin.

"A calm king is a stable king, Lord Commander," Damon said softly, telepathically reinforcing the logic and sincerity of the statement. "Perhaps a small measure of physical comfort might soothe the tempest in his mind. I offer these not for profit, but for the good of the realm."

Hightower, a man of simple honour and deep loyalty, was moved. He saw not a shrewd businessman, but a fellow patriot, offering a small service to help a king he was sworn to protect.

"I will… see if His Grace is willing to try them," Ser Gerold said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Damon. You are a good man."

Damon had just secured a beachhead in the most exclusive and dangerous territory in the world: the King's personal space. His products would now be in the royal chambers, a silent, trusted presence. The potential for future influence was immense.

Such moves, however, could not go unnoticed. As he was consolidating his power in Duskendale and ingratiating himself with the King's protectors, he attracted the attention of the man who had been most humiliated by the entire affair.

The summons was not a polite invitation. It was a command. A guardsman in the crimson and gold of House Lannister arrived at The Atelier with a message. The Hand of the King will see you. Now.

Damon was led not to the Tower of the Hand, but to a private, intimidatingly sparse office that Tywin Lannister kept for his own purposes. The room was devoid of all personal effects, furnished only with a massive desk of dark, polished wood and two chairs. It was a room designed to strip a man of his confidence.

And there he was. Tywin Lannister. He was as formidable as the histories claimed, a man who seemed to command the very air in the room, bending it to his will. His gaze was like a physical weight, intense and analytical. He did not rise. He did not offer a greeting. He simply stared, letting the silence stretch, a tactic designed to unnerve and intimidate.

Damon did not flinch. He met the gaze, his own expression one of neutral calm. He clamped down on his telepathy, creating an unbreachable fortress around his mind. Against a will like Tywin's, any active probe would be detected instantly. His power would be used purely as a shield, and to feel the faintest emotional tremors that might escape such an iron-willed man.

Finally, Tywin spoke, his voice a low, dangerous baritone. "You are the perfumer."

"I am a merchant, my lord Hand," Damon replied, his voice steady.

"You are the man who has managed to turn the smoldering ruins of a traitor's folly into a personal fiefdom," Tywin corrected him, his words precise and sharp. "You have acquired the loyalty of the displaced, the cooperation of the Master of Ships, and the exclusive contracts for a Crown project. You have done this in less than a year. Explain to me how."

It was not a question. It was a demand for an accounting.

Damon had prepared for this. He knew he could not appeal to emotion or sentiment. Tywin Lannister was a creature of logic and power.

"I anticipated the market, my lord," Damon began, his explanation delivered in the cold, detached tone of a business report. "The conflict was inevitable, given Lord Darklyn's arrogance. A conflict creates disruption and displacement. Displacement creates need. I invested in fulfilling that need—food, shelter. The loyalty of the workforce was a predictable return on that investment."

He could feel a flicker of something from Tywin—not surprise, but a deep, grudging acknowledgment of the cold calculus. It was a language the Hand understood.

"The contracts," Damon continued, "were a matter of efficiency. The Crown required a swift, stable reconstruction of a key port. My organization was on the ground, with a ready workforce and control of the local supply chain for raw materials. We were the most logical and cost-effective choice. I simply presented the council with a solution, not a problem."

"You presented them with a monopoly you engineered," Tywin countered, his eyes narrowing. "Who are your backers, merchant? This was not done with the profits from selling soap."

This was the critical question. Tywin was searching for a rival—a Tyrell, a Hightower, perhaps even a foreign power—using Damon as a front.

"I have no backers, my lord," Damon said, meeting his gaze without blinking. "I have investors. Men who trust my ability to deliver a profit. Their identities are a private matter of business, but I assure you, they have no political ambitions. Their only desire is for the security and growth of their gold." He was banking on Tywin's inherent respect for wealth and his disdain for the petty politics of lesser men.

For a long moment, Tywin was silent. Damon could feel the immense pressure of his scrutiny, the weighing and measuring. He could sense the Hand's deep frustration with the King, and the anger that someone else was so expertly capitalizing on a situation Tywin felt he, and he alone, should have controlled.

"You are a very ambitious man, Master Damon," Tywin said at last. It was not a compliment.

"I am a businessman, my lord Hand. Ambition is the soul of commerce."

"See that it remains there," Tywin warned, a clear threat in his voice. "The moment your… commerce… interferes with the affairs of my house or the stability of the Crown, I will strip you down to the bone. Your investors will find themselves with nothing but a bad memory."

Damon inclined his head slightly. "I understand perfectly, my lord. My only desire is to see the realm prosper. A prosperous realm is filled with customers."

He left the meeting feeling a cold sweat on his back he hadn't realized was there. He had survived. He had faced the lion in his den and had walked away. He had successfully painted himself as a politically neutral, ruthlessly efficient vulture, interested only in the carrion of commerce. It was a persona Tywin could understand and, for now, tolerate.

Back in the security of his laboratory, Damon allowed himself a moment to process. He had navigated the most dangerous political waters in Westeros. He had the King's guard on his side, and he had stared down the King's Hand. He was becoming a true power.

He sat at his desk, and in a display of the fine control he now possessed, he began his work. Quills lifted from their pots, parchments unrolled themselves, ledgers opened to the correct page. A silent, invisible whirlwind of activity surrounded him as he cross-referenced shipping data from Duskendale with the financial reports from Silas and the latest court intelligence from his networks. His power was no longer just a weapon or a shield; it was an extension of his will, a tool to manage the growing complexity of his empire with supernatural efficiency.

His thoughts drifted back to Tywin. The man was a genius, a true force. But he had a weakness. Damon knew from his future knowledge that the Lannister gold mines, the source of their immense power, were beginning to run dry. It was a secret Tywin guarded more fiercely than his own life.

Damon smiled. He had walked out of the lion's den, but he had left with the knowledge of its one fatal vulnerability. It was a piece of information, another entry for his ledger, whose value was incalculable. One day, when the time was right, he would leverage it. One day, he might just buy the lion's pelt.