Chapter 2: Whispers and Gilded Cages
263 AC, Month of the Maiden
A year. Twelve turns of the moon since his arrival in this cesspit of a world. Twelve months of painstakingly building a foundation from filth and desire. From his new vantage point, a modest but well-appointed town house in the Rhaenys's Hill district, Damon could observe the city without being assaulted by its most pungent odours. He had moved up in the world, a small step on a ladder that he intended to climb until his feet touched the clouds and his shadow fell across the Iron Throne itself. But he was a patient man. Empires, he knew, were not built in a day, but brick by brick, secret by secret.
His "Gilded Lily" was a quiet success. The shop, managed by the ever-eager and blissfully ignorant Tommen, a boy he'd plucked from the streets and molded into a presentable shopkeep, was turning a handsome profit. The name was now a whisper in the right circles, a byword for a unique, illicit luxury. The men who frequented Shae's establishment and others like it now considered his soaps a necessary indulgence, a fragrant baptism to wash away the sins of the Street of Silk before returning to their unsuspecting wives.
But this was merely Phase One. Relying on the patronage of whoremongers was profitable, but it was a gilded cage. To truly thrive, to build the empire of commerce and information he envisioned, he needed to break into the most exclusive market in Westeros: the noble houses. He needed their coin, their influence, and most importantly, their secrets. The challenge was immense. The ladies of the court would never deign to purchase a product tainted by its association with brothels. He couldn't sell to them directly; he needed to be invited into their world. He needed a champion, a bellwether whose adoption of his products would make them not just acceptable, but desirable.
His information network, a crude but effective web of street urchins and bed warmers, had been working on this very problem for months. He didn't ask them to find him a patron. He asked for whispers of discontent, of ambition, of debts and desires among the noble ladies of King's Landing. He sat each night in his study, a map of the city spread before him, collating the scraps of information, the emotional echoes he'd gleaned through his burgeoning telepathy. He was a spider, feeling the vibrations on every strand of his web.
Finally, a name began to surface with promising regularity: Lady Seraphina Vance. Wife of Lord Eamon Vance, a minor lord from the Riverlands who held a middling post as a clerk in the Master of Coin's office. Lord Eamon was, by all accounts, a dull but honest man, content with his station. His wife, however, was a different creature entirely. The whispers spoke of a woman consumed by social ambition, one who spent far beyond her husband's modest means to keep up with the Tyrells and Lannisters. They spoke of her frustration, her envy, her desperate desire to be noticed in the glittering, venomous snake pit of the Targaryen court. She was perfect. She was hungry.
Damon began to lay his trap, not with steel, but with silk and scent. He knew he couldn't approach her himself. His persona was that of a common merchant. He needed a more delicate touch. He found it in the form of a seamstress, a woman named Anya, whose services Lady Vance used for her gowns. Anya was a widow with a young son, struggling to make ends meet. A few silver stags and the promise of a steady supply of his finest lavender soap—a scent he'd learned her late husband favored—was enough to secure her loyalty.
The plan was simple. Anya would go to Lady Vance for a fitting, and she would carry with her a small, exquisitely wrapped bar of a new soap Damon had developed. This one was different. He had spent weeks perfecting it, using expensive olive oil imported from Myr instead of animal fat, and infusing it with the delicate, costly essence of night-blooming jasmine. It was a soap fit for a queen, and its cost of production was astronomical. He would be giving it away for free. A calculated loss leader.
"You will not mention me or my shop," Damon instructed Anya in the back room of The Gilded Lily, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. He focused, pushing a gentle wave of reassurance towards her, calming the nervous flutter he could feel emanating from her. "When she asks about the scent on your hands, you will be hesitant. Tell her it was a gift from a distant relative in the Free Cities, a secret family recipe. Speak of its rarity, its quality. Make her believe it is something she cannot have."
He was planting a seed of desire, leveraging the most powerful marketing tool in existence: scarcity.
Anya, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe at the coin in her hand, nodded. "Yes, ser. A gift. A secret."
"Good," Damon said, a cold smile touching his lips. He could feel her resolve solidify under his subtle mental suggestion. She would play her part perfectly.
Two days later, the vibration on his web told him the seed had been planted. An urchin brought him a message. Lady Vance had visited the market near Anya's small shop three times, asking discreetly about rare soaps from the Free Cities. She was hooked. It was time for Phase Two.
Damon knew that to truly capture a client like Seraphina, he needed more than just soap. He needed a complete experience. He had been working tirelessly, expanding his knowledge and his product line. He'd created a silky lotion using almond oil and beeswax, a concoction that soothed the skin and left a lingering, subtle fragrance. He had even managed to create a true perfume, a concentrated essence of jasmine and sandalwood suspended in alcohol, a technique leagues beyond the simple scented oils used in Westeros. These were his crown jewels, products that would make him indispensable to the women of high society.
He arranged the next step through another intermediary, a wine merchant who supplied Lord Vance's household. For a small fee, the merchant passed a message to Lord Eamon, speaking of a remarkable craftsman who had developed a unique preservative for expensive silks and parchments, derived from rare oils. The merchant suggested this craftsman might be of use to a man in the Master of Coin's office, always looking for ways to cut costs for the crown. It was a lie, but a plausible one, designed to get Damon a meeting not with the lady, but with the lord. It was crucial that the introduction to the household came through the man, lending it a veneer of legitimacy.
The meeting was set at the Vance town house, a respectable but far from opulent dwelling near the Street of the Sisters. Damon dressed for the part: the successful but humble artisan. He wore a doublet of dark, well-made wool, clean but unadorned. He carried a simple leather satchel. He projected an aura of quiet competence.
Lord Eamon Vance was exactly as Damon had imagined him: a man in his late forties with a perpetually worried expression, thinning hair, and the soft hands of a man who pushes quills instead of swords. He led Damon to a small, cluttered study.
"The wine merchant, Foss, speaks highly of you, Master Damon," Lord Eamon began, his voice dry as old parchment. "He mentioned a new preservative. The Crown's expenses on protecting important documents from mold and rot are… significant."
Damon inclined his head respectfully. "Lord Vance. You are kind to grant me your time. My work is primarily with fine oils. While their preservative qualities are a welcome side effect, my true craft lies elsewhere."
This was the pivot. He had the meeting under a false pretense; now he had to steer it to his true purpose without raising suspicion. He reached into his satchel and took out a small, polished wooden box. He didn't offer it to the Lord, but to the empty air beside him.
"My apologies, my lord. My true craft is beauty. A subject, I confess, that is likely of more interest to your lady wife."
As if on cue, Lady Seraphina Vance entered the study. Damon hadn't needed his powers to predict her arrival. A woman of her nature would never allow a meeting with an intriguing craftsman to happen in her own home without her presence. He had felt her curiosity and impatience from the moment he had stepped through the door, a sharp, probing spike in the emotional landscape of the house.
Seraphina was a woman sculpted by ambition. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with sharp features and intelligent, calculating eyes. She carried herself with an air of practiced grace that couldn't quite conceal the tension in her shoulders. She was a predator in a cage, and Damon was here to offer her a new, sharper set of claws.
"My dear," Lord Eamon said, flustered. "This is Master Damon, a… craftsman."
Damon turned to her, offering a slight bow. He met her gaze directly, and for a fleeting moment, he let his own mental shields down just a fraction, allowing her to feel a spark of his own immense confidence and intellect. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He wanted her to sense he was no mere shopkeep.
"Lady Vance," he said, his voice smooth as the lotion in his satchel. "Your husband is too kind. I am merely a humble merchant, but one who believes that beauty is not a frivolity, but a form of power."
That line, he knew, would resonate with her. He could feel a flicker of interest, a sharp spike of avarice.
"Power?" she repeated, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised in skepticism.
"Indeed," Damon continued, opening the wooden box. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, were three items: a bar of the jasmine soap, a small ceramic pot of the almond lotion, and a delicate, crystalline bottle of his new perfume. The presentation was as important as the products themselves. It screamed exclusivity.
"Any woman can be beautiful, my lady," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "But to command a room, to turn heads, to be remembered… that requires something more. It requires a signature. An aura. The scent of a rose is pleasant, but it is common. The scent of night-blooming jasmine, captured at the precise moment of its fullest expression… that is a memory. That is a statement."
He was speaking her language. Not the language of coppers and stags, but of status, of one-upmanship, of social warfare. He could feel her skepticism warring with a rising tide of desire. Her surface thoughts were a chaotic whirl: Jasmine… like the stories of the Summer Isles… where did he get it? This is no common merchant… He looks at me as if he knows…
"My lady is a connoisseur of fine things," Damon said, picking up on her unspoken thoughts with the ease of a master musician hearing a single off-key note in an orchestra. "She would recognize that quality is not something that can be mass-produced. What I create is art, not commerce. Each bar of soap, each drop of lotion, is made by my own hands. I create for patrons, not for customers."
Lord Eamon looked utterly bewildered, lost in a conversation whose subtleties were flying far over his head. "But… Foss said you made preservatives…"
"A misunderstanding, my lord, for which I apologize," Damon said smoothly, without taking his eyes off Seraphina. "However, my offer to you is genuine."
He turned his full attention to the lord, now projecting an aura of earnestness and practicality. "The oils I use are of the highest purity. As a side benefit, a small amount of this lotion," he indicated the ceramic pot, "worked into the leather bindings of your books or the seals on your scrolls will indeed protect them from the damp far better than any wax. Consider it a gift for your time."
He had given the husband a practical reason to accept him, a face-saving excuse. But his real negotiation was with the wife.
Seraphina stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the crystal bottle of perfume. "May I?"
"Of course, my lady," Damon said. He opened the bottle and offered her the stopper. The scent filled the small study, a rich, complex fragrance that was utterly alien to the simple perfumes of Westeros. It was intoxicating.
He watched her, his senses extended. He felt the pure, unadulterated want flood through her. He could almost hear her thoughts racing, calculating the impact this would have at the next royal feast. She would be unique. She would be the center of attention.
"This is… extraordinary," she breathed.
"It is yours, my lady," Damon said. "A gift. To introduce myself and my craft."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed. She was no fool. "There is no such thing as a gift without a price, Master Damon."
"The price, my lady, is your discretion," he replied. This was the most critical part of the pitch. "As I said, I create for patrons. I do not have a shop in the traditional sense." He lied effortlessly. "My clients value exclusivity above all else. Were you to do me the honour of becoming a patron, I would create these products for you, and for you alone in King's Landing, for a period of time."
He let that sink in. Exclusivity. The ultimate luxury. He could feel her mind seizing on the offer, the sheer, intoxicating power of it. To have something no one else, not even the Queen, could possess.
"For me alone?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"For a full year, I would supply no one else at court," he promised. "After that, should you wish to continue the arrangement, we can discuss terms. Of course, such a unique service requires a retainer. A sign of commitment, from one artist to another."
He named a price. It was high, high enough to make Lord Eamon choke on his own tongue, but not so high as to be impossible. He had researched their finances. He knew they could afford it, just barely. It would stretch them thin, which was precisely what he wanted. A desperate client was a pliable client.
Lord Eamon began to protest, "A retainer? For soap? This is madness!"
But Damon wasn't looking at the husband. He was focused entirely on Seraphina, pushing a single, powerful thought into the forefront of her mind, a whisper that felt like her own ambition: This is your chance. Seize it. Show them all.
Seraphina turned to her husband, her eyes blazing with a fire he had not seen in years. "Eamon. Be quiet."
The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Lord Eamon, stunned into silence, simply stared at his wife. The power dynamic in the room had irrevocably shifted.
"We accept your terms, Master Damon," Seraphina said, her voice dripping with regal authority. "You will have your retainer by the morrow."
Damon inclined his head, a flicker of a triumphant smile on his lips before he suppressed it. "I am honoured, my lady. I will leave these with you. I will call again in a week's time to discuss your specific preferences for future creations."
He packed his empty box and took his leave, walking out of the Vance town house with the calm, measured steps of a man who had just conquered a city. He could feel Seraphina's elation behind him, a dazzling supernova of triumph and anticipation. He had not just sold her soap and perfume. He had sold her a dream of power, and in doing so, he had made her his puppet.
Walking back towards his own district, Damon allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction. The Jean Grey gene was proving to be the ultimate business tool. It was a lie detector, a focus group, and a tool of hypnotic suggestion all rolled into one. He had guided the entire conversation, anticipated every objection, and played on Seraphina's deepest insecurities and desires as if she were a lute.
In the privacy of his study that night, he practiced his other, cruder gift. He focused on a heavy, iron paperweight on his desk. At first, nothing happened. He gritted his teeth, the strain causing a dull ache behind his eyes. He remembered the feeling of raw power, the surge of telekinetic energy he had read about in the comics of his past life. He reached for that feeling, a deep well of untapped potential within him.
Slowly, agonizingly, the paperweight trembled. It lifted a fraction of an inch off the wood, hovering there for a few seconds before clattering back down. It was a pathetic display compared to what he knew was possible, but it was progress. It was control. One day, he wouldn't just be lifting paperweights. He would be moving mountains, or men.
He smiled. Lady Vance was his key, the key to the gilded cages of the nobility. Through her, his products would enter the court. And once the ladies of King's Landing decided they could not live without his creations, he would have them. Their coin would fill his coffers. Their husbands would become his unwitting sources. And their secrets, whispered in bedchambers and dressing rooms, would become his weapons. The stench of King's Landing was slowly being replaced by the fragrant scent of his ambition. The game was getting more interesting.