Chapter 21: The Crippled Wolf, The Golden Lion, and The Coming Debt

Chapter 21: The Crippled Wolf, The Golden Lion, and The Coming Debt

298 AC

From the serene heart of the Braavosi canals, Damon watched Westeros begin to cannibalize itself. The news of Lord Eddard Stark's arrest and King Robert's death had been the twin lightning strikes; now came the thunder, the roar of five self-proclaimed kings calling their banners to war. The long, rotting peace was over, and the brutal, frenzied, and exquisitely profitable chaos had begun. Damon's life in his secluded manse had taken on a rhythm of placid observation and ruthless, remote execution. He was a playwright in the final week of production, watching from the quiet of the empty theatre as his actors, on a stage a thousand miles away, moved towards their tragic, pre-written fates.

His mornings were spent overseeing the expansion of his legitimate Braavosi interests. He met with shipwrights and merchants, discussing the establishment of new trade routes to the Jade Sea. These conversations, full of the mundane details of tariffs and tonnage, were his cover and his pleasure. He was, at his core, a builder of enterprises, and his new shipping fleet, the 'Silent Serpent Line', was a masterpiece of efficiency, its swift, dark-hulled ships already dominating the trade lanes of the Narrow Sea.

But his afternoons belonged to Westeros. He would retreat to his study, the world outside silenced by thick walls and thicker magic—subtle telekinetic dampeners he had learned to weave into the very structure of the room, preventing any sound from getting in or out. Here, he would close his eyes and project his consciousness across the sea, a phantom presence in the Red Keep.

He 'attended' the first small council meeting of the new king, Joffrey Baratheon. He watched the petulant, cruel boy-king on the Iron Throne, a puppet whose strings were held by his mother. He felt the tension between the council members: the smug triumph of Cersei, the oily maneuvering of Littlefinger, the weary gravitas of Grand Maester Pycelle, and the simmering, impotent fury of Lord Renly before he fled the city.

Most importantly, he observed the fall of his greatest piece, Eddard Stark. He watched, unseen, as the honorable Lord of Winterfell confronted Queen Cersei in the godswood, armed with the truth of her incest. Damon felt the raw, cold fury of a cornered lioness radiate from Cersei, and the noble, fatal naivety of the wolf who warned his prey before he struck. He is going to die, Damon thought with the dispassionate clarity of a physician diagnosing a terminal illness. He is too honorable for this world. And his death will be the foundation of my greatest profits.

Damon knew Stannis Baratheon, the true heir by law, was sequestered on Dragonstone. He also knew Ned's letter proclaiming Stannis's right would be the legal basis for his claim. Its delivery was paramount to ensuring the war had at least three sides, maximizing the chaos. From his study in Braavos, he focused his mind on the Red Keep's rookery. Through the eyes of a stableboy on his payroll, he watched as the maester handed Ned's letter to a raven. A moment later, a second, stronger bird, released by one of Damon's agents from a nearby rooftop, intercepted the first. The original raven, now harried and flying off course, would surely be caught by Cersei's spies. The second bird, bearing a perfect copy of Ned's letter, flew swift and true towards Dragonstone. Cersei would believe she had intercepted the only message. Stannis would get his call to arms. Damon had controlled the flow of information at its most critical juncture.

His gaze then turned to Littlefinger. He was present, a ghost in the room, when Lord Baelish promised Ned the support of the City Watch. He felt the slick, greasy feel of Littlefinger's mind, a place of twisting corridors and false mirrors. He felt the man's soaring ambition and his complete lack of any guiding principle beyond his own advancement. Damon listened to the promises made to Ned, while simultaneously feeling the undercurrent of triumphant betrayal in Littlefinger's heart. He mapped the entire betrayal in his mind, noting which captains of the Gold Cloaks were in Baelish's pocket, a piece of data he filed away for future leverage. He let the mockingbird sing his treacherous song, content to simply record the tune for a later performance.

And then came the day of reckoning in the throne room. Robert was dead. Joffrey was king. Ned Stark, armed with Robert's will and Littlefinger's promise, made his play. And was, as Damon knew he would be, betrayed.

The war began. The War of the Five Kings.

Damon immediately convened a remote meeting of the Bank of Westeros. Projecting his consciousness into the boardroom, he found the directors in a state of utter panic.

"The realm is at war with itself!" cried the Hightower director. "Stark has been arrested for treason! His son marches on the Lannisters! This is ruin!"

This is a market correction, Damon projected into Silas's mind, who then spoke the words aloud, his voice imbued with a confidence that was not his own. "Gentlemen, a state of war is a state of accelerated economic activity. The Bank of Westeros will not be a casualty of this conflict. It will be its primary beneficiary. We will be a pillar of stability in a time of chaos."

His instructions were swift and absolute, a multi-pronged strategy of financial domination.

"First, the Iron Throne," he directed Silas. "King Joffrey and the Lannisters will require vast sums to field their armies. We will grant them a massive emergency loan. The interest rates will be… significant. The collateral will be the tax revenues from the Westerlands for the next fifty years. Lord Tywin will agree. He has no choice."

"Simultaneously," he continued, "we will activate our pre-existing lines of credit to the rebels. Lord Stark's son, Robb, will need funds to pay his northern host. Our agents in White Harbor will ensure he has it. Lord Hoster Tully, our partner in the Riverlands, will find his war chest miraculously full."

"Lord Stannis Baratheon, the lawful heir, is isolated on Dragonstone. He has a fleet but no army and little gold. An envoy from our Braavosi branch will visit him. We will offer to finance the hiring of sellsword companies and the needs of his fleet. In return, he will sign over the rights to the royal timber in the Kingswood."

"And Lord Renly," Damon smiled to himself. "The young stag has fled to Highgarden, where he will undoubtedly win the support of House Tyrell and declare himself king. Our existing loans to the Tyrells give us leverage. We will send a message to Lord Mace Tyrell, offering him a deal: if he backs Renly's claim, the Bank of Westeros will back him, providing the gold to field the combined armies of the Reach and the Stormlands, the largest army in Westeros. In return, the Bank requires a controlling interest in the Arbor's wine trade."

It was a breathtakingly complete strategy. He was now the primary creditor and financier to all four major combatants. Joffrey, Robb, Stannis, and Renly. Each would march to war flying their own banner, but they would all be marching on his gold. Their victories and defeats would be measured in the shifting numbers of his ledgers. He had created a perfect, contained ecosystem of conflict, and he was the only one with a key to the cage.

In the chaos of Ned's arrest, Damon saw one more opportunity, a small, personal investment for the future. He knew Arya Stark, Ned's fierce, wild daughter, had escaped the Red Keep. He knew she had been saved, briefly, by his own employee, Syrio Forel. Her path, he knew from the histories, would be one of hardship and murder, eventually leading her to the House of Black and White. He decided to alter her curriculum.

He sent a coded message to Syrio Forel in Braavos. He knew the First Sword had likely fled King's Landing after his confrontation with Ser Meryn Trant. Damon's agents had standing orders to find him. The message was simple: Find the wolf cub. She is lost in the city. Protect her. Train her. Your expenses will be covered for a lifetime. She is an investment in the future.

He did not want Arya to become a Faceless Man, a servant of a death cult. He wanted her to become a weapon, forged by the finest swordsman in the world, but with her identity intact, her loyalties shaped, from a young, impressionable age, by the benevolent, mysterious patron who had saved her. An Arya Stark indebted to him was an asset of incalculable future value.

The reports began to pour into his Braavosi sanctuary. Eddard Stark was dead, beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor on the whim of King Joffrey. The North had exploded in fury. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, had smashed a Lannister army at the Whispering Wood and captured the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister. The great lords of the North and the Trident had declared him King in the North.

Damon stood before his grand map of Westeros. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight. He placed a new marker on the board, a crowned direwolf for King Robb. He placed another, a crowned stag in a field of green, for King Renly. Another, a stag within a fiery heart, for King Stannis. And the last, the crowned golden lion, for King Joffrey. Five kings. Five armies. All moving, all fighting, all bleeding.

He took a sip of chilled pear brandy, the sweet liquid a stark contrast to the bitterness consuming the continent across the water. The game he had set in motion so many years ago, the game he had remotely guided and patiently nurtured, had finally begun in earnest. The great houses of Westeros were locked in a death spiral, their honor and their fury driving them towards mutual annihilation. They were playing the game of thrones. But Damon was playing a different game entirely, a game of numbers and ledgers and rates of return. And in his game, he had already won.