Chapter 13: The Sinews of War

Chapter 13: The Sinews of War

282 AC, Month of the Maiden

War, once a distant rumor, had descended upon the Seven Kingdoms like a hawk on the dove. The calling of the banners was complete. In the North, the houses swore fealty to the new wolf lord, Eddard Stark. In the Vale, the knights answered the call of the Falcon. And in the Stormlands, the belligerent stag of House Baratheon became the sigil of open rebellion. Armies were on the move, and the land held its breath, waiting for the first taste of blood.

For Damon, the war was not a matter of banners and oaths. It was a matter of logistics. From his silent, insulated study in King's Landing, he conducted a symphony of commerce, its notes the clatter of steel, the rustle of grain, and the clink of coin. The reports that flowed to his desk were not tales of glory, but balance sheets of conflict.

Silas, his face now perpetually etched with a mixture of awe and terror, presented the weekly summary. "My lord… Master Damon," he corrected himself, a slip that was becoming more frequent. "As you predicted, the price of iron ore from the Red Mountains has tripled. The Stormlords are paying our agents whatever they ask. The first shipment of our 'donated' steel reached Storm's End last week."

"And Lord Fell?" Damon asked, his eyes not leaving the ledger before him.

"His levy was poorly equipped," Silas reported, a slight tremor in his voice. Lord Fell was a Targaryen loyalist. "He was forced to sell the rights to the Fellwood to our timber concern at a seventy percent loss on its estimated value just to afford spearheads and helmets for his men. He rode to war a proud lord and left a tenant."

Damon nodded, a flicker of cold satisfaction in his mind. The strategy was working perfectly. He was exsanguinating the Targaryen loyalists through a thousand small cuts, draining their wealth and resources before they even met the enemy. At the same time, he was becoming the sole proprietor of the rebellion's supply chain. He sold the rebels the swords, and then he would sell the loyalists the shovels to dig the graves.

"Our acquisitions in the Reach are complete," Silas continued. "We control nearly forty percent of the grain surplus. Lord Tyrell believes he has secured a premium price. He has no idea he has sold the contents of his barns to the man who is also funding his future enemies."

"Tyrell is a fool whose ambition is matched only by his vanity," Damon stated. "Ensure our caravans are secure. The roads will be thick with bandits and broken men. Hire more guards. Double their pay. A lost shipment is a loss of profit and reputation. We cannot afford either."

The war economy was thriving, and Damon was its only true citizen. But controlling the flow of resources was only one part of the equation. The war's initial, chaotic phase would be decided in the Riverlands, a land of divided loyalties, ruled by the proud, cautious, and notoriously prickly Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Damon knew, from the histories of his past life, that the marriage of Catelyn and Lysa Tully to Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn respectively would be the glue that cemented the rebel alliance. He decided it was time to add his own cement to the mixture.

He traveled to the Riverlands under the guise of 'Master Elyas,' a wealthy merchant from Duskendale representing the 'True Tide Development Group'. His cover was that he was seeking to establish new, secure trade routes up the Trident, a plausible and necessary venture for any man of commerce in these uncertain times. His entourage was small but heavily armed, and his papers, secured through his contacts at court, were impeccable.

Riverrun was a fortress preparing for a siege, its red stone walls bristling with archers, its yards filled with the clang of hammers on anvils. Lord Hoster Tully was a formidable man, tall and broad, with a flowing auburn beard and eyes that missed nothing. He was a man besieged, not just by armies, but by the weight of a kingdom-altering decision.

Damon was granted an audience in Lord Hoster's private solar, a room that overlooked the churning waters of the Tumblestone. The Lord of Riverrun was flanked by his brother, the famed knight Ser Brynden 'Blackfish' Tully.

"Master Elyas," Hoster Tully began, his voice a low rumble. "You are a bold man to be speaking of trade when the realm is tearing itself apart."

"It is precisely when the realm tears itself apart, my lord, that bold men of commerce are most needed," Damon replied, his voice calm and steady. He met the lord's gaze, and with his telepathy, he gently skimmed the surface of the man's mind. He felt a storm of conflicting emotions: a father's fierce, protective love for his daughters; a deep, abiding rage at the Targaryens for the murder of Rickard and Brandon Stark, his son's friends; and the shrewd, calculating mind of a political realist, weighing the odds, terrified of choosing the losing side.

"The war will be costly," Damon continued, his words chosen to resonate with the anxieties he could feel from the man. "Armies must be paid. Fortifications must be strengthened. And when it is over, the victor will need to rebuild. I am here not just to speak of trade, but of investment. An investment in the future of House Tully and the stability of the Riverlands."

The Blackfish, his arms crossed, let out a cynical snort. "An investment? Or a vulture's speculation?"

Damon turned his gaze to Ser Brynden, feeling the man's deep skepticism and unwavering loyalty to his brother. "A vulture picks at the dead, Ser Brynden. I am here to ensure the living have the strength to prevail."

He laid his proposition on the table. It was not a simple loan. He offered House Tully a massive, immediate, and entirely discreet infusion of gold, enough to fund their army for two years. There would be no interest for the duration of the conflict.

Hoster Tully stared at him, his eyes narrowed. "No interest? What sort of lender are you, merchant?"

"The sort who understands that his own prosperity is tied to the stability of the great houses," Damon said smoothly. "My only terms are these: should you secure a victorious peace, my trading company will be granted exclusive rights to river-trade tariffs on the Trident for a period of twenty years. And… I would have your word that you will remember who aided you in your time of greatest need."

He was offering a deal that was almost too good to be true. He was playing on Hoster's pride, offering him the means to not only defend his lands but to project strength, to secure the powerful marital alliances that Damon knew he craved for his daughters. He was selling Hoster Tully the army he needed to become a kingmaker.

"This is a king's ransom," Hoster murmured, his mind racing through the possibilities. He could feel victory within his grasp.

"It is the price of ensuring the right side wins," Damon said, his telepathic sense telling him the proud lord was on the hook. "And I am a man who only backs winners, my lord."

While the deal was being considered, news of the war's first major movements reached them. Lord Jon Connington, the new Hand of the King, a man known for his vanity and his fierce loyalty to Prince Rhaegar, was marching a royalist army into the Riverlands. His target: Robert Baratheon, who had been separated from his main force and was rumored to be hiding, wounded, in the town of Stoney Sept.

Damon knew this was a pivotal moment. The Battle of the Bells. Robert's survival was critical to the rebellion's future, and thus, to Damon's investments. He could not leave it to chance.

He activated his local assets, a network of spies and scouts disguised as hunters and fishermen. They shadowed Connington's army, their reports flowing back to Damon daily. He knew the Hand's numbers, his route, and his speed. It was intelligence that the scattered rebel forces desperately needed.

Getting the information to them required a delicate touch. He couldn't simply send a messenger. He arranged for a small convoy of his own goods, traveling under his merchant cover, to move towards Stoney Sept. They were soon overtaken by a group of mounted bandits. Or so it would seem.

The "bandits" were Damon's own men, heavily armed and disciplined. The ensuing "skirmish" was a piece of theater. In the middle of it, a lone figure—one of Damon's men dressed in the livery of a Targaryen outrider—was to be seen "escaping" the chaos, riding frantically north, directly towards the known location of Eddard Stark's approaching army. This "escaped" scout carried a satchel with detailed, and slightly exaggerated, reports of Connington's strength and his plan to burn Stoney Sept to the ground to get at Robert. The information would be seen as a panicked soldier's report, utterly credible.

As this play unfolded, Damon himself was making his way back towards the Crownlands. His convoy was ambushed, this time for real. They were a handful of desperate men, likely deserters, their eyes wild with hunger and fear. Damon's guards were well-trained, but the attack was sudden and vicious.

A hulking man with a scarred face and a rusty axe broke through the line, his eyes locking on the richly dressed "merchant" at the center. He charged, a roar of triumph in his throat.

Damon's guards moved to intercept him, but Damon held up a hand, his expression one of utter, chilling calm. He looked at the charging man. He didn't move a muscle. He simply focused his will, the world slowing to a crawl in his perception. He reached out with his mind, not to the man, but to the muddy ground beneath his feet.

The soft earth of the kingsroad suddenly gave way. The bandit's triumphant roar turned into a shriek of surprise as his legs plunged into a sinkhole of thick, grasping mud that wasn't there a second before. He was trapped, his momentum gone, his axe falling uselessly to his side. Before he could even process what had happened, Damon's guards dispatched him and the rest of the attackers with brutal efficiency.

To his men, it was a one-in-a-million stroke of luck, a patch of treacherous ground that had saved their master's life. They saw it as an omen. Damon knew it was a reminder. A reminder of the awesome, lethal power he held in reserve, a power far greater than any army or any bag of gold.

He returned to his study in King's Landing just as the news from the Riverlands arrived. The Battle of the Bells had been a resounding victory for the rebels. Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully, armed with timely intelligence about Connington's advance, had smashed the royalist army and saved Robert Baratheon. Lord Connington, his reputation shattered, had been defeated and sent into exile by a furious King Aerys. The momentum of the war had shifted decisively.

A raven from Riverrun arrived the same day. It contained Lord Hoster Tully's formal acceptance of his terms. The alliance was cemented. The loan was his.

Damon stood before his map. He removed the marker for Jon Connington's army. He placed a small, golden marker of his own beside Riverrun, a symbol of his new influence. The sinews of war that he had so carefully woven had held. He had saved the life of a future king, secured the loyalty of a great house, and crippled his enemies, all without anyone ever knowing his name. The war was young, and the blood was only just beginning to flow. For Damon, business was booming.