Chapter 9: Golden Veins, Iron Debts

Chapter 9: Golden Veins, Iron Debts

280 AC, Month of the Dragon

Two more years had bled into the chronicles of the Seven Kingdoms, and with them, the stability of the realm had continued its slow, inexorable decay. The chasm between the King and his Hand had become a canyon of silent, bitter resentment. Aerys, sequestered in the Red Keep, had become a ghost at his own court, his presence felt only through his mad decrees and the palpable terror of his attendants. Tywin Lannister, in turn, ruled from the Tower of the Hand with grim, iron-willed efficiency, a king in all but name, yet one whose authority was perpetually undermined by the man on the throne.

For Damon, this dysfunctional symbiosis was the perfect cover. His own power had solidified in the shadows of their conflict. He had become a quiet institution. The success of the "Duskendale Restoration Project" was a marvel of logistics and private enterprise, hailed by the lesser lords of the council as a model for future Crown projects. It had made Damon's shell corporations fantastically wealthy and had given him effective control over a key port and its surrounding lands.

More importantly, his gambit with the King had paid dividends beyond his wildest expectations. Damon's "Royal Purity" line of products—the unscented soaps, the calming lotions, the softest linens imported from Lys—were the only articles of comfort the paranoid King would allow to touch his body. This singular fact had elevated Damon to a position of near-mythical influence. He was "the Purveyor," a man whose name was associated with the King's personal trust, a commodity more precious and rarer than Valyrian steel.

This status manifested in practical, profitable ways. One afternoon, a frantic message arrived from one of his trade convoy captains. Lord Leo Lefford, a notoriously petty Lannister vassal, had impounded a caravan of his finest Myrish silks at a border crossing, demanding a punitive 'trade tariff'. It was a shakedown, a minor lord attempting to extort a man he believed to be a mere merchant.

Damon did not even deign to respond himself. He sent a brief, unsigned note to the Lord Commander's office at the White Sword Tower. The note contained only the name of the convoy captain and the location.

Two days later, the caravan was released. The captain's report was illuminating. Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard had personally ridden to the checkpoint. He had not drawn his sword. He had not raised his voice. He had simply looked at Lord Lefford and said, "The contents of this caravan are for the King's comfort. See that they are not delayed again."

Lord Lefford had nearly soiled his breeches. The message was sent, not just to Lefford, but to every lord and customs officer in the Seven Kingdoms: Damon's business was the King's business. He was untouchable.

With his operations secure and his reputation gilded with royal favour, it was time to turn his attention to the single greatest secret he possessed, the knowledge he had carried with him from another world. It was time to confirm the health of the lions.

He knew he could not go to the Westerlands himself. His presence would be noted instantly. This required a delicate touch, a team of deniable assets. He began his recruitment. His first target was a man named Maester Arlan, a brilliant geologist who had been stripped of his chain and exiled from the Citadel for publishing papers that questioned the "seven-year" cycle of the seasons, branding them a chaotic and unpredictable system. He was a man of science in a world of faith, and he was disgraced and desperate.

Damon met him in a dusty, book-lined room in the back of an Oldtown tavern. Arlan was a thin, stooped man with eyes that still held a fire of intellectual curiosity. He was wary, expecting a proposition of a sordid nature.

"I am not interested in your past, Maester Arlan," Damon began, his voice calm and direct. He could feel the man's intellectual pride warring with his poverty and shame. "I am interested in your knowledge of stratigraphy and mineralogy."

"My knowledge is worth less than a beggar's bowl in this kingdom," Arlan said bitterly.

"To the Citadel, perhaps. To me, it is invaluable," Damon countered. "I am funding a geological survey of the eastern slopes of the Westerlands. I am looking for new deposits of iron ore and, perhaps, tin. I require a man of your expertise to lead the expedition, to analyze the rock formations and provide a comprehensive report on the region's mineral wealth."

Arlan's eyes lit up. It was a chance to practice his craft again, a chance at redemption. "The Westerlands? That is Lannister territory. They do not take kindly to outsiders prospecting on their land."

"The expedition will be licensed under a charter from House Broom, a minor vassal of the Lannisters whose lord owes me a considerable favour," Damon explained, a seamless lie. "Your official purpose will be to assess the viability of a new quarry. Your true purpose," he leaned forward, lowering his voice, "is to survey the regions adjacent to the Golden Tooth and Casterly Rock. I am particularly interested in the quartz lodes and the deep-seam geology of those areas."

He was guiding the maester, pointing him directly at the Lannister gold mines without ever mentioning the word 'gold'. He used his telepathy to gently probe Arlan's mind, confirming the man's genuine expertise and feeling his desperate hunger for this opportunity. He knew Arlan would be meticulous, his scientific curiosity far outweighing any political caution.

"It will be dangerous work," Arlan murmured, already seeing the rock charts in his mind.

"It will be well-compensated," Damon replied, placing a heavy bag of gold on the table. It was more money than the maester had seen in twenty years. "You will lead a team of miners I am hiring from Essos. They are professionals, concerned only with their work. Your loyalty will be to the survey, and to me. Is that understood?"

Arlan, his eyes locked on the gold, nodded eagerly. Damon had just bought himself a brilliant scientific mind and a team of deniable foreign grunts to execute the most sensitive intelligence operation of his life.

While this long-term plan was set in motion, the political landscape of King's Landing continued to evolve. Prince Rhaegar, the Dragon Prince, the silver-haired hope of the Seven Kingdoms, had returned to court. He was a figure of intense fascination for Damon. Aerys was a known quantity, a madman to be managed. Tywin was a predator to be respected and eventually declawed. But Rhaegar was an enigma, a man driven by prophecy and melancholy, and his actions at the coming Tourney at Harrenhal would be the true catalyst for the war. Damon needed a read on him.

His network of street urchins, now young men who managed entire districts for him, tracked the prince's movements. Rhaegar, as the histories said, had a habit of slipping away from his Kingsguard escort, donning the simple clothes of a commoner, and wandering the city with his harp, a silent, brooding observer.

Damon orchestrated his encounter with the precision of a theatrical play. He learned that Rhaegar often visited a small, quiet bookshop near the Cobbler's Square. Damon arrived an hour before the prince, dressed in the simple, dark wool of a scholar. He browsed, running his fingers over old tomes, his senses extended, feeling the emotional rhythms of the street outside.

Then, he felt it. A presence entered the shop, a mind that felt like a sad, beautiful song. It was a consciousness steeped in an ancient sorrow, a profound sense of duty, and a burning, desperate search for something. Damon didn't turn. He remained focused on a book, a history of the Rhoynish wars.

The prince, believing himself to be just another musician, moved through the shop, his eyes scanning the titles. Damon waited until Rhaegar was just a few feet away, then spoke to the elderly shopkeeper, his voice pitched just loud enough to be overheard.

"It is fascinating," Damon mused, "how often a single, well-intentioned act can lead to a cataclysm. Nymeria burned her ships to give her people a new home, an act of courage. Yet it led to a century of war. It seems that destiny is a current that drags even the noblest of swimmers to a predetermined sea."

He felt a sharp spike of interest from the prince. He had chosen his words carefully, weaving in themes of destiny, action, and consequence that he knew would resonate with a man obsessed with prophecy.

Rhaegar stepped closer. "A bleak view, ser," the prince said, his voice quiet and melodic. "Cannot a man forge a new current?"

Damon turned, his expression one of mild surprise, as if noticing the musician for the first time. "Perhaps," he replied, looking into the prince's indigo eyes. "But the river of time is deep, and its banks are littered with the wreckage of those who tried." He offered a small, polite smile. "My apologies, I was lost in my thoughts. I am merely a student of history."

He did not need to say more. In those few seconds of eye contact, he had opened his senses fully to the Dragon Prince. What he felt was staggering. He felt the weight of the "prince that was promised" prophecy, a burden that was physically crushing the man. He felt Rhaegar's deep love for his people and his profound disappointment in his own father. But most clearly, he felt a singular, obsessive focus on a particular passage of prophecy, a need for three heads of the dragon, and a desperate, internal conflict about how to achieve it. It was not the mind of a callous womanizer or a reckless fool. It was the mind of a tragic hero, a man who would willingly set the world on fire if he believed it was the only way to save it from the dark.

Damon gave a slight bow and moved away, leaving the prince to ponder his words. He had his reading. Rhaegar was not a man who could be manipulated with gold or threats. He was a man who could only be steered by playing to his sense of destiny.

With his major intelligence operation underway, Damon turned to expanding his financial dominion. His untouchable status made him the perfect alternative to the Iron Bank. He was discreet, efficient, and—unlike the Braavosi—he lived in Westeros. He decided to aim high.

He sent an envoy to Highgarden to open negotiations for a loan to House Tyrell. Mace Tyrell, the oafish lord of the Reach, was a man whose ambition and vanity far outstripped his treasury. Damon's agent, a silver-tongued man from a minor branch of House Florent, carried the offer.

The negotiations were held through intermediaries. Damon sat in his study in King's Landing while his agent met with the Tyrell stewards. During one particularly frustrating session, where the Tyrells were haggling over a quarter-percent of interest, Damon felt a flash of irritation. He focused his mind on the negotiating room hundreds of miles away, on the arrogant Tyrell steward who was preening and posturing. He imagined the man's ornate wine goblet, imported from Myr. He focused on a single point on its crystalline surface.

Miles away, in Highgarden, the steward raised his goblet for a triumphant sip. Just as it touched his lips, it shattered, a network of cracks appearing instantly, drenching the man in expensive Arbor Gold. The room went silent. The steward, shocked and humiliated, lost his composure. Damon's agent, seizing the moment, secured their original terms. Damon smiled. His telekinesis was now a tool of long-range negotiation.

Weeks later, the deal was struck. Damon had loaned a staggering sum to House Tyrell. In return, he had not just secured a profitable interest rate, but also preferential pricing on all grain shipments from the Reach for the next decade and a private commitment of Tyrell intelligence on the movements and finances of their rivals. He was now the hidden banker to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

The chapter of his life was closing on a high note, but the climax was yet to come. A rider, exhausted and caked in the dust of the road from the Westerlands, arrived with a sealed package. It was the first report from Maester Arlan.

Damon dismissed everyone and broke the seal in the privacy of his laboratory. It was a detailed geological survey, filled with charts, rock samples, and meticulous notes. Most of it was mundane data on iron deposits. But on the final page, in a separate, coded addendum that only Damon could decipher, was the information he had spent a fortune to acquire.

Arlan had done his work well. The report was unequivocal. The primary gold seams of Casterly Rock were nearly exhausted. The mines at the Golden Tooth were producing less than a tenth of what they had a generation ago. The vast, inexhaustible wealth of House Lannister was a myth. They were maintaining their opulent lifestyle and their iron grip on the realm's finances through reputation, leverage, and massive, cleverly hidden debts. The lion was not sleeping. It was bleeding out, quietly, in the dark.

Damon held the parchment in his hand, the most dangerous weapon in all of Westeros. It was the key to the Lannister vaults, the lever that could topple the proudest house. He would not use it to expose them; that would be a crude act of destruction that would destabilize the entire economy.

No, he would use it. He would use it to become their silent partner, their creditor, their master. Tywin Lannister thought he was the one holding the debts that controlled the kingdom. He had no idea that soon, Damon would be the one to own his.

The Tourney at Harrenhal was only a year away. It would be a gathering of all the great lords and ladies, a pageant of chivalry and intrigue. And Damon would attend, not as a participant, but as an observer, holding the secret that could bring the lions of the Rock to their knees.