Chapter 17: A Feast for Crows, A Net for Spiders 289 AC

Chapter 17: A Feast for Crows, A Net for Spiders

289 AC

Six years of the King's Peace had passed. Six years of King Robert Baratheon hunting, drinking, and whoring his way into an early grave, while his Hand, the venerable Jon Arryn, struggled to hold the Seven Kingdoms together with parchment and sealing wax. It was a peace that felt more like a long, slow exhale after a near-fatal choking fit. The realm was stable, but beneath the surface, the debts were mounting, the resentments were simmering, and the new world order was quietly, firmly, taking root.

For Damon, these six years had been the most profitable of his life. His empire, nurtured in the shadows of war, now flourished in the sunshine of peace. The Bank of Westeros was no longer a novelty; it was the foundation upon which the entire economy of the realm was built. Its white marble façade was as much a symbol of power as the Red Keep itself. The Crown, thanks to Robert's lavish tournaments and Cersei's extravagant tastes, was now breathtakingly indebted to it. The annual interest payments alone were enough to fund a small army.

Damon sat with Silas in the bank's governor's chamber, a room of quiet, intimidating opulence. Silas, now portly and dressed in fine velvets, was no longer just a moneylender; he was the respected—and entirely puppet—Chairman of the Bank of Westeros. He presented the annual report with the reverence of a priest laying a sacrifice before his god.

"The Duskendale Restoration is complete, Lord Elyas," Silas reported, using Damon's public honorific. "Our shipping concern, the True Tide Development Group, now controls eighty percent of the trade flowing through its new harbor. The profits are… substantial."

"The Lannister mining venture, the Golden Lion Corporation, has exceeded all projections," Silas continued, a bead of sweat on his brow. "Lord Tywin sends his regards and a cask of his finest vintage."

Damon inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips. The new mines were indeed profitable, but only because he was subsidizing the entire operation with his own capital, creating a convincing illusion of success that kept Tywin Lannister placated and dependent. The Lord of Casterly Rock believed he was a partner in a thriving enterprise; in reality, he was a pensioner in a gilded cage.

"And Queen Cersei's Royal Commission for the Beautification of the Red Keep?" Damon inquired.

"Her Majesty has spared no expense," Silas confirmed. "The Atelier has sold more gold-infused cosmetics and Lysene silks in the past year than in the previous five combined. The Queen is, by a significant margin, our most valued client."

Everything was proceeding as designed. The realm was at peace, and at peace, the lords and ladies spent. They spent on silks, on tourneys, on castles, and they borrowed from his bank to do it. He had created a perfect ecosystem of debt and desire. But Damon knew that peace, like any market bubble, was a temporary condition. And he had made his own preparations for the coming correction.

The news arrived, as he had known it would for five years, like a debt coming due. Lord Balon Greyjoy, styling himself King of the Iron Islands, had declared his independence. Using the formidable new fleet that the Bank of Westeros had so generously funded, the Ironborn had attacked the mainland, burning the Lannister fleet at Lannisport and raiding the coast of the North. The King's Peace was shattered.

Damon called an emergency meeting of the bank's board. He entered the room to find a collection of panicked, ashen-faced men.

"This is a disaster!" cried the Hightower director. "Our loan to Greyjoy… we've funded the King's enemies! The Crown will hold us responsible!"

Damon let their panic crest, a small, cruel part of him enjoying their terror. When he finally spoke, his voice was a pool of absolute calm in their storm of fear.

"Gentlemen," he said, his eyes sweeping across the table. "This is not a disaster. It is the maturation of a long-term investment. And it is an opportunity for this institution to prove its indispensable value to the Iron Throne."

He laid out his plan. It was swift, comprehensive, and utterly ruthless.

"First," he announced, "the Bank of Westeros will issue the first-ever 'Royal War Bonds'. We will call upon the patriotism of the lords and common folk alike to invest in the war effort. For a small price, they can buy a stake in the realm's victory. It will be a massive source of public capital, which the bank will, of course, administer on behalf of the Crown." He was proposing to get the public to pay for the war, while his bank collected a fee for managing the funds.

"Second," he continued, "our associated companies will be at the forefront of the supply effort. The Royal Navy, under the command of Lord Stannis, will need to be rebuilt. Our timber mills in the wolfswood and our shipyards in Duskendale will provide the materials. Lord Stark and King Robert will need to march an army to the Iron Islands. Our grain stores will feed them, and our ironworks will shoe their horses. We will be the forge and the pantry of this war."

He was, in effect, proposing that his own companies be given the exclusive, no-bid contracts to supply the war against the man he had funded to start it. It was a closed loop of profit so perfect it was almost art. The board, cowed and desperate, unanimously approved every measure.

But Damon knew that such grand, profitable machinations would inevitably attract the attention of the one man in King's Landing whose intelligence network rivaled his own. Lord Varys had been suspiciously quiet for years, but this rebellion, with the bank's fingerprints all over it, would be a puzzle he could not ignore.

The attack came not as a summons, but as a subtle infiltration. Damon's passive telepathy, a constant, silent security net over his entire operation, felt it almost immediately. A new clerk in the bank's records office, a quiet, observant boy named Perrin. His mind was different. It was disciplined, his surface thoughts deliberately mundane, but beneath them was a layer of sharp, focused observation and a clear mental pathway leading back to a single, powerful controller. The boy was a little bird.

Damon did not expose him. He observed the observer. He watched as Perrin dutifully copied ledgers, noting the boy's surprise at the sheer scale of the bank's assets and his confusion at the complex web of shell companies.

After a week, Damon summoned the boy to his private office. Perrin entered, his face a mask of polite deference, but Damon could feel the terror hammering in his chest.

"Perrin," Damon began, his voice gentle. "You are a very diligent worker. Your handwriting is excellent."

"Thank you, Lord Elyas," the boy stammered.

"Tell me," Damon said, his eyes locking onto the boy's. "Does Lord Varys pay you well for your reports?"

The boy froze, his face draining of all color. He was caught. His mind screamed with pure, unadulterated panic. Damon held up a hand, and with his telepathy, pushed a wave of calm towards the boy, forcing his racing heart to slow.

"Do not be afraid," Damon said, his voice a hypnotic whisper. "You have not failed. In fact, you have been promoted."

He slid a small, heavy purse of gold across the desk. It was more money than the boy had ever seen. "Lord Varys pays you in silver to be his eyes. I will pay you in gold to be my voice. You will continue to send him your reports. But now, they will be the reports that I write. You will tell him about our logistical challenges, our 'concerns' about the war's cost. You will paint a picture of a bank stretched thin, a loyal institution struggling under the weight of its patriotic duty. You will become my personal channel into the Spider's web. Do you understand?"

The boy, trapped between terror and a fortune, could only nod. Damon had not just neutralized a spy; he had hijacked an intelligence asset, turning the Spider's own weapon back on him.

With Varys's network compromised, Damon turned his attention to a more domestic threat. Queen Cersei, with Robert away at the war, was acting as unofficial Regent, and her arrogance had grown with her power. She had attempted to use the war as leverage to demand the Bank forgive some of the Crown's more extravagant debts.

Damon granted her a private audience at The Atelier. She swept into the room, a vision of Lannister gold and righteous fury.

"Master Damon," she began, dispensing with any pleasantry. "The King is at war. The Crown requires every resource. It is time for your bank to show its loyalty. These frivolous debts… they will be forgiven."

Damon smiled, a thin, cold expression. "Your Grace, the Bank of Westeros is the bedrock of the realm's economy. Its stability is paramount. To simply 'forgive' the Crown's debts would be to signal to every lender from here to the Jade Sea that the Iron Throne's word is worthless. It would trigger a financial collapse that would make this Greyjoy rebellion seem a minor squabble."

"I am not interested in your lectures on economics, merchant!" she snapped, her voice rising. "I am the Queen! I am telling you to do this!"

"And I, Your Grace," Damon said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "am telling you that it is impossible."

As he spoke, he focused his will. He did not look at her. He looked at the deep red wine in the Myrish glass goblet she held. The wine began to bubble, very faintly, as if it were coming to a boil.

Cersei stopped, her eyes widening as she felt the heat through the glass. "What is this sorcery?" she hissed, setting the goblet down with a clatter.

"Merely a warm day, Your Grace," Damon said serenely. He shifted his focus. The magnificent golden lion pendant that rested in the valley of her cleavage suddenly felt… heavier. Tighter. An unnerving, constricting pressure against her throat. She reached up, her fingers fumbling at the clasp.

"One must be careful not to overextend oneself, Your Grace," Damon said, his eyes still locked on hers. "The pressures of leadership can be… immense. It can make a room feel quite… close. It can make it difficult to breathe."

He wasn't threatening her. He was demonstrating. He was showing her a power she could not comprehend, an influence that defied guards and titles. He could feel her mind recoil, not in anger, but in a sudden, cold, superstitious dread. He was no longer just a merchant to her. He was something else, something unknown and dangerous. She left the meeting without another word, her face pale, the issue of the debts forgotten.

The war ended as swiftly and brutally as Damon had predicted. Stannis Baratheon's newly built fleet crushed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle. Robert and Ned Stark stormed the island of Pyke. Lord Balon Greyjoy, his sons dead or taken hostage, bent the knee once more.

The rebellion was over. It had been a brief, contained, and spectacularly profitable exercise. The Royal War Bonds had been a massive success, further enriching the bank and indebting the Crown for a generation. The Iron Islands were economically shattered, their assets and debts now almost entirely owned by Damon's shell corporations. He had successfully tested his ability to control and profit from a regional conflict.

He sat in his study, a single candle burning, reviewing the final reports. His double agent was now firmly embedded in Varys's network. The Queen had been cowed into submission. And another Great House had effectively become a subsidiary of his enterprise.

He looked at the map of Westeros on his wall. He had financed a rebellion, then financed the war to crush it. He had played both sides against the middle, and his own power had grown exponentially. He was learning that wars were simply the most aggressive and profitable form of corporate restructuring. The King's Peace had returned, but it was a peace bought with his gold, on his terms. And as the realm celebrated its victory, he was already planning his investments for the next, inevitable conflict.