Chapter 20: The Hand's Game, The Banker's Board

Chapter 20: The Hand's Game, The Banker's Board

298 AC

The long, lazy peace of King Robert's reign had curdled. The death of Jon Arryn had been the catalyst, a stone dropped into a stagnant pond, its ripples now spreading to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. From the serene, canalside seclusion of his Braavosi manse, Damon watched the chaos unfold with the detached interest of a god observing a flawed, but fascinating, experiment. He had moved his body, his physical presence, from the board. But his mind, his will, and his vast, invisible empire remained, its tendrils more deeply embedded than ever.

His new life was one of studied, tranquil luxury. He would spend his mornings in quiet contemplation on a balcony overlooking the misty lagoon, the boisterous shouts of Braavosi watermen a pleasant, distant music. He would consult with his new sword master, Syrio Forel, not to learn the water dance himself, but to appreciate the philosophy of its deadly precision. To any observer, he was Lord Elyas, a fabulously wealthy and eccentric Essosi merchant who had retired to a life of quiet pleasure.

But in the afternoons, the true work would begin. He would retreat to his silent, shielded study, dismiss his servants, and close his eyes. The world of Braavos would fade, replaced by the familiar, fetid stink and chaotic energy of King's Landing. His power, honed over years of relentless practice, now allowed for a true and sustained projection of his consciousness. He did not see the city with his eyes; he experienced it, a phantom presence moving through the halls of power he had abandoned.

He 'attended' the weekly board meeting of the Bank of Westeros from a thousand miles away. He was an invisible ghost in the room, watching as Silas, now sweating more than ever under his new responsibilities, addressed the other directors.

"The new Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, has made inquiries," Silas announced, his voice betraying his nervousness. "He finds the Crown's debts… incomprehensible. He wishes for a full, transparent accounting."

Damon, a silent observer, could feel the panic ripple through the board members. He focused his will, sending a calming, authoritative pulse of thought directly into Silas's mind. You are the Chairman of the most powerful institution in the world. He is a provincial lord who counts his pennies in a cold castle. Project confidence. We have nothing to hide.

Silas straightened, his demeanor shifting as the telepathic suggestion took hold. "And we shall provide it to him," Silas declared, his voice suddenly firm. "The Bank of Westeros prides itself on its transparency. We will open our ledgers to the Hand. We will show him every loan, every interest payment. We will assist Lord Stark in his duties in any way we can."

Damon watched, satisfied. The ledgers were, of course, entirely accurate. But they were also a labyrinth of financial instruments, of compounded interest, of securitized debt and international letters of credit that would make a seasoned Braavosi banker's head spin. To a straightforward, honorable man like Eddard Stark, it would be a nightmare of ink and numbers, a horror story that would serve only to deepen his disgust for the southern court and his distrust of the Lannisters, whose extravagant spending was meticulously, if legally, detailed within.

Eddard Stark's investigation was the central drama of King's Landing, and Damon knew the script by heart. He knew Ned would follow the trail of Jon Arryn's last days, a trail that would lead him to the truth about Queen Cersei's children. Damon had no intention of saving the honorable Hand; Ned Stark's death was the primary catalyst for the coming war, a war that would be spectacularly profitable. But he could, and would, nudge the investigation along to ensure it stayed on its proper, tragic course.

He knew Ned was searching for King Robert's bastards, a living testament to the king's potent, dark-haired seed. From his intelligence files, Damon knew the location of all of them, including the most important one: Gendry, the armorer's apprentice at Tobho Mott's smithy.

Damon did not act directly. Instead, he put a plan in motion through his local network, now managed by the spymaster Kael. He had one of his agents, a man posing as a minor functionary at the Guildhall, approach Ser Hue, Jon Arryn's former squire. The agent, in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, spoke of a 'debt of gratitude' he owed the late Lord Arryn.

"My Lord Arryn once spoke to me of a matter of some… delicacy," the agent whispered to the eager young squire. "A smith's apprentice. A boy with a look of the King about him. In a great forge, run by a master from Qohor. I thought perhaps… in his memory… someone should know."

The agent provided the name of the forge, then vanished into the crowd. The information was delivered. The trail was laid. Ned Stark would find his proof, not through a stroke of luck, but because Damon's invisible hand had placed it directly in his path.

As Ned Stark waded deeper into the financial and political sewer of the capital, he inevitably clashed with its most slippery resident: Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish. Damon observed the Master of Coin with immense interest. Littlefinger was a brilliant, chaotic agent of change, a man whose philosophy of using chaos as a ladder was both dangerous and, to Damon, amateurish. Littlefinger wanted to climb the ladder. Damon already owned the ladder, the ground it stood on, and the sky above it.

Damon had his agents map Littlefinger's entire enterprise: his network of brothels, his smuggling operations, his spies in the customs house. He could have crushed the man with a single, well-placed financial maneuver. But why destroy a useful tool?

He chose to co-opt him. He identified a key merchant in the Tyroshi shipping trade, a man whose fortunes were inextricably linked to Littlefinger's smuggling of luxury goods. Using a Braavosi shell company, the Bank of Westeros quietly bought up the entirety of the merchant's outstanding debt from a dozen smaller lenders. The merchant now had a single, anonymous creditor. A creditor who could ruin him with a word.

Damon sent a single, simple message to the Tyroshi merchant. Continue your business as usual. But your first loyalty is now to us. You will provide a full accounting of all shipments, all routes, and all partners. And you will cede to us a ten percent share of all profits.

Littlefinger would never know. His smuggling operations would continue, his profits would flow, but now, a portion of that flow was being diverted into Damon's coffers. And more importantly, Damon now had a complete, real-time intelligence feed on Littlefinger's entire supply chain. He had placed a silent, invisible leash on the mockingbird.

While manipulating the great game, Damon did not neglect the smaller, more personal touches. He knew the Stark children were now pieces in that game, and he began to cultivate them. For Sansa Stark, the beautiful, naive elder daughter, he arranged a gift. He had The Atelier craft a magnificent gown of shimmering, ice-blue silk, a color that perfectly matched her northern eyes. It was delivered to her chambers, presented as a personal gift from Queen Cersei, a gesture of welcome to her future daughter-in-law. The Queen was happy to take the credit, and Sansa was overwhelmed by the gesture, a small act of kindness in a city that terrified her. The seed of goodwill was planted.

With Tyrion Lannister, now in the capital with his family, Damon continued their intellectual correspondence. He sent the dwarf a rare translation of a Volantene history of the Rhoynish wars, a text that was not available anywhere in Westeros. Tucked inside was a letter, written in their now-familiar coded language, discussing the economic factors that led to the fall of the Rhoynar civilization.

A people who value water magic over sound currency are doomed to wash away, Damon wrote. Their failure was not one of courage, but of logistics. They could not finance their own survival.

It was a lesson, a continuation of Tyrion's unconventional education. He was shaping the dwarf's already brilliant mind, molding him into a man who understood that battles were won not with swords, but with well-managed supply lines and superior economic theory.

To ensure the security of this sensitive correspondence, Damon employed his evolved powers. While writing the letter, he used his micro-telekinetic abilities to alter the very ink he was using. He infused it with a specific, inert biological protein of his own design. The protein was invisible, untraceable by any maester. But Damon, with his senses, could detect its presence from miles away. If the seal on the letter was broken and the ink exposed to the air, the protein would begin to degrade in a predictable way. By the time it reached Tyrion, Damon would be able to know, telepathically, if anyone else had read it. It was a level of paranoid security that bordered on the divine.

The Hand's Tourney, the event Robert had demanded in Ned's honor, arrived. It was a spectacle of violence and waste that horrified the new Hand and further drained the treasury. From his peaceful study in Braavos, Damon projected his consciousness, becoming a ghost at the feast. He watched as Ser Gregor Clegane brutally killed Ser Hugh of the Vale, the very squire his agent had tipped off. He felt Ned's horror and suspicion grow. He saw Littlefinger whispering his poisons in the Hand's ear, pointing him towards the truth.

And he felt the tension finally snap when news arrived that Catelyn Stark, in a fit of grief-stricken rage, had taken Tyrion Lannister captive at the Crossroads Inn. The last fragile thread of peace was broken. Tywin Lannister would call his banners. War was no longer a possibility; it was a certainty.

Damon withdrew his consciousness, the sounds of the feast fading, replaced by the gentle lapping of the Braavosi canals against the stone of his manse. He took a sip of chilled wine. His pieces were all in place. His anonymous tip had borne fruit. The Bank's 'transparent' accounting had successfully alienated Stark from the Lannisters. His leash on Littlefinger was secure. His future king, Tommen, was learning about the virtues of a balanced budget. His future Targaryen assets were safe in Pentos. His future CEO, Tyrion, was about to become the catalyst for a war.

It was all proceeding perfectly. The honorable Hand, a man so out of his depth he might as well have been trying to swim in sand, was stumbling towards his own execution. The great houses were choosing their sides, sharpening their swords, and borrowing his money to do it. The game was afoot, a tragic, bloody affair. And from his safe, distant perch, he was the only one who could see the entire board, the only one who truly understood the rules. He was ready for the chaos. He had, after all, financed it.