Chapter 19: The Braavosi Calculation

Chapter 19: The Braavosi Calculation

297 AC

The long summer, a decade of golden harvests and gilded peace, was finally ending. An autumn chill was beginning to creep into the air of King's Landing, a chill that had nothing to do with the changing of the seasons. It was the cold breath of impending chaos. Damon felt it in the very bones of the city. He felt it in the tightening of the political web, the subtle shift in alliances, the growing desperation in the Red Keep.

Five years had passed since the Greyjoy Rebellion, five years of consolidating his power until it was as integral and invisible as the air the lords and ladies breathed. The Bank of Westeros was the heart of the realm, pumping gold and debt through the arteries of the Seven Kingdoms. King Robert's court, a glittering façade of strength, was rotten with decay, its foundations eaten away by profligacy and financed by Damon's patient, calculating generosity.

But now, the final act of this generation was approaching. Damon's intelligence network, a finely woven net of spies, informants, and unwitting patrons, had brought him the final, critical piece of information. Lord Jon Arryn, the honorable Hand of the King, had discovered the truth of Queen Cersei's children. He had been quietly gathering proof of their incestuous parentage, sharing his suspicions with Lord Stannis Baratheon.

Damon knew what this meant. Jon Arryn was a dead man. His death would be the spark, the event that would bring Eddard Stark south and set the War of the Five Kings in motion. And King's Landing, his base of operations, the center of his empire, would become the epicenter of the slaughter.

For all his power, for all his wealth, Damon was still, in the end, a man of flesh and blood. A man who could be caught in a collapsing building or get a knife in his back during a riot. His personal presence in the city was no longer a strategic advantage; it was an unacceptable risk. It was time to relocate the nerve center of his empire. It was time to move to Braavos.

He convened a secret meeting in the deepest vault of his bank, a place shielded by stone and steel. His most trusted lieutenants were there: Silas, the public face of the Bank; Kael, his spymaster; and Maester Arlan, his chief engineer, now a man of wealth and influence himself.

"The political climate in Westeros is about to enter a period of extreme volatility," Damon began, his voice echoing in the cold, still air. "The King's Peace is over. A war of succession is coming, one that will be far more chaotic and destructive than the last. Our interests are secure, but my personal safety, and the security of our central command, is not. We are moving our headquarters."

He unrolled a map, not of Westeros, but of the Free Cities. His finger tapped the sprawling lagoon city at the top. "Braavos."

"Braavos?" Kael asked, surprised. "It is the home of our greatest rival, the Iron Bank."

"Precisely," Damon said. "It is the one city in the world that does not kneel to dragons, that scorns the faith of the Seven, and whose entire existence is predicated on financial stability and naval supremacy. It is the only place that will remain untouched by the coming wars. We will not be rivals with the Iron Bank. We will be their partners."

The plan he laid out was as audacious as the creation of the bank itself. He would establish a new, formidable presence in Braavos. Publicly, it would be the 'Braavosi Branch' of the Bank of Westeros, a subsidiary focused on financing the immense trade that flowed through the city. Secretly, it would become the new heart of his entire operation. He had already used a shell company to purchase a grand, secluded manse on one of the city's quieter canals, complete with its own docks and fortified warehouses. His gem reserves and, most importantly, his coded ledgers, would be moved there under the cover of a shipment of 'Myrish tapestries'.

His greatest challenge, and greatest opportunity, lay in dealing with the Iron Bank. They were the established power, ancient and notoriously ruthless. To set up a major operation on their home turf without their consent was to invite financial ruin.

Damon did not ask for their consent. He demanded a meeting. As Lord Elyas, the mysterious power behind the Bank of Westeros, he sent an envoy to the Keyholders of the Iron Bank. The meeting was granted, held in a windowless chamber of black stone within their legendary vaults. The Keyholders were a collection of grim, ageless men whose names were unknown but whose collective power could make kingdoms rise and fall.

Damon, flanked by Silas, faced them alone. He could feel their minds—disciplined, cold, and sharp as Valyrian steel. They were calculators, men who saw the world in terms of profit, loss, and risk.

"Gentlemen," Damon began, forgoing any pleasantry. "I am here to discuss our mutual problem: the Iron Throne of Westeros."

One of the Keyholders spoke, his voice dry as dust. "The Iron Throne is a notoriously poor investment. They have owed the Iron Bank a considerable sum for decades."

"And under the reign of King Robert, that debt has grown, has it not?" Damon countered. "He is a spendthrift, and his Hand, Lord Arryn, can barely keep the treasury from defaulting. You are faced with a choice: call in your debt, triggering a collapse and a war that will make your investment worthless, or continue to carry a non-performing asset. Neither is a profitable option."

He had their attention. He had diagnosed their problem perfectly.

"I am the solution," Damon stated, his voice radiating absolute confidence. "My institution, the Bank of Westeros, now controls the royal treasury. We are the guarantors of the Crown's finances. I am offering you a partnership. A financial cartel to manage our collective interests in the Seven Kingdoms."

He laid out his proposal. The Bank of Westeros would handle all internal Westerosi financing. The Iron Bank would have a monopoly on all external financing—loans to Westeros from any other power. They would share intelligence on the debts and assets of every major house. When a lord defaulted, they would act in concert to collect, one applying pressure from within, the other from without.

"I will personally guarantee the Iron Throne's debt to you," Damon said, his final, shocking offer. "My bank will assume the payments. In return, you will recognize our sphere of influence and work with us, not against us. I am offering you what you have always wanted: a secure, reliable, and profitable investment in Westeros. I am offering you an end to your uncertainty."

The Keyholders were silent, but Damon could feel their minds racing, the cold calculus of their thoughts. He was offering them an unprecedented deal. He was a rival, yes, but he was also the ultimate insider, a man who could guarantee their returns. Greed, he knew, was a more powerful motivator than rivalry. The deal was struck. He had neutralized his greatest competitor by making them his junior partner.

With the financial landscape of his new home secured, Damon began cultivating local assets. He found one in the form of Syrio Forel, the former First Sword of Braavos. The swordsman had recently lost his position due to a political shift and was now without patronage. Damon, through a proxy, offered him a lucrative contract to become the 'security consultant' for his new manse and to train his personal guard. He now had the finest blade in Braavos on his payroll.

He also began to push the boundaries of his own power, preparing for the reality of remote management. His telepathy, once a tool for reading minds, was becoming something more. He spent long hours in meditation, focusing his consciousness, trying to project it across the vast distance of the Narrow Sea.

His first success was a fleeting, disorienting experience. For a few seconds, he was no longer in his Braavosi study, but was standing as an invisible, silent observer in the boardroom of his bank in King's Landing. He saw Silas conducting a meeting, heard the words, felt the emotions in the room. Then the connection snapped. It was mentally exhausting, but it was possible. He had a pathway. With practice, he could be present at any meeting, any conversation, his influence and awareness unbound by physical distance.

His telekinesis also evolved. His most vital secrets—the truth of Jon Snow's parentage, the reality of the Lannister gold—could not be trusted to paper and ink. He procured two small plates of Valyrian steel, their surfaces dark and rippling. In the privacy of his new, shielded vault, he focused his will. He used his telekinesis on a microscopic level, etching the entire, detailed account of the Tower of Joy, and the complete geological data from Maester Arlan, directly onto the plates. To the naked eye, they remained smooth, polished steel. But under a powerful lens, or to a mind that knew where to look, they were the most damning documents in the world, inscribed in a code that could not be copied or destroyed.

His preparations were complete. His new headquarters was a fortress. His greatest rival was now his partner. His powers had evolved to meet the demands of his new, remote reign. He stood on the marble balcony of his Braavosi manse, the scent of the sea a clean, sharp contrast to the familiar stench of King's Landing. The city of a hundred isles was a testament to order, logic, and commerce. It was a worthy capital for his empire.

A swift, unmarked ship arrived at his private dock. A messenger brought him a single, coded scroll. He broke the seal. The message was short and stark.

The Hand is dead. The King rides north.

It had begun. Jon Arryn had been poisoned. Robert was riding to Winterfell to name Eddard Stark as his new Hand, the one honorable man who was certain to uncover the truth and plunge the realm into war.

Damon looked out across the peaceful canals of Braavos. He felt a profound sense of detachment, of sitting atop a high mountain and watching a storm gather in a distant valley. The chaos was coming. The War of the Five Kings would tear Westeros apart, brother against brother, house against house. There would be heroes and villains, tragedies and triumphs.

And he would be there for all of it, watching from afar, his hand on the golden levers that controlled it all. He was safe. He was untouchable. And he was ready to profit from the fall of a kingdom.