Chapter 3: The Scent of Envy
263 AC, Month of the Smith
Envy, Damon mused as he swirled a blood-red Arbor Gold in his goblet, was the most potent catalyst in the crucible of human society. It was a more powerful motivator than love, a more reliable driver than loyalty, and infinitely more profitable than fear. Fear made men compliant, but envy made them spend. In the three months since he had secured Lady Seraphina Vance as his unwilling standard-bearer, he had watched the seeds of envy he'd planted begin to sprout throughout the fertile, fetid soil of the royal court.
The reports came to him through his carefully cultivated channels. From Anya, the seamstress, who overheard the bitter whispers of her other noble clients as they complained about the "Vance woman's" sudden, inexplicable aura of sophistication. From Shae, the brothel madam, whose clients now spoke not just of the clean girls, but of the intoxicating, unique scent that clung to Lady Vance at a recent feast hosted by Lord Staunton. They spoke of how Queen Rhaella herself had inquired about the fragrance, a query Seraphina had deflected with a practiced, infuriating smile, speaking vaguely of a "family secret from the Reach."
It was perfect. Seraphina, fueled by her newfound status, was playing her part with a theatrical flair that exceeded his most optimistic projections. She was a walking, talking advertisement for the one thing the wealthy and powerful could not stand: something they couldn't have.
Damon's life had settled into a rhythm of meticulous, controlled growth. His townhouse on Rhaenys's Hill was both his sanctuary and his laboratory. He had hired two silent, grim-faced women, war widows from the Stepstones, to handle the laborious initial stages of his production. They rendered the fats, prepared the lye, and handled the basic saponification process in a secured workshop in the cellar, their loyalty ensured by exorbitant wages and the implicit understanding that their tongues were worth more to them inside their heads. They knew nothing of the final, delicate stages—the infusion of costly oils, the precise blending of fragrances, the final touch that transformed a block of soap into an object of desire. That alchemy was his alone.
His mornings were for business. He reviewed the meticulous accounts kept by young Tommen, who managed The Gilded Lily with a devotion that bordered on worship. The shop's profits had plateaued, as expected. Its purpose was now less about revenue and more about misdirection, a public face for a far more clandestine operation. He managed his supply chain, meeting with his smuggler contact, a gruff Tyroshi named Ferrego, in the dead of night at deserted piers. Ferrego, with his web of contacts in the Free Cities, procured the rare botanicals and oils Damon required—Myrish olive oil, Lysene flower essences, Volantene ambergris—at prices that would make a Master of Coin weep, but the return on investment was more than justified.
His afternoons were for his true work. He would sit in his study, the city's emotional hum a constant background noise, and piece together the mosaic of secrets he was assembling. The information was flowing, a steady stream that he was learning to navigate and dam for his own purposes. A lord's gambling debts, a knight's affair with a squire, a merchant's scheme to short-change the Guilds. Each was a piece of a puzzle he was slowly solving, a map of the city's hidden levers of power.
Today's work was a meeting with his prize asset. Lady Seraphina Vance arrived at his townhouse, veiled and cloaked, for her scheduled 'consultation'. She was no longer the tense, caged creature he had first met. She was radiant, exuding a confidence that was almost palpable. He didn't need his powers to see it, but with them, he could feel the vibrant thrum of her self-satisfaction, a symphony of smugness that was music to his ears.
"Master Damon," she said, her voice a purr as she swept into his private parlour, a room decorated with a minimalist elegance that was both impressive and difficult to place. "The city is abuzz."
"I trust my work has been satisfactory, my lady," Damon replied, pouring her a small glass of sweetened iced wine, a novelty he had introduced that she had become quite fond of.
"Satisfactory?" She laughed, a sound like tiny, silver bells. "It has been transformative. Lady Myra Rosby nearly tore her own gown in frustration at the Queen's ball last week. She cornered me by the reflecting pool, demanding to know my secret. I thought her face might crack from the sheer force of her jealousy."
Damon gave a small, appreciative smile. He focused his senses, gently probing the surface of her mind as she spoke. It was becoming easier, less like eavesdropping on a storm and more like reading the headlines of a newspaper. Beneath her gloating, he could sense the names and connections she was making. Myra Rosby… her father, Lord Gyles, just bought that hideous estate… they say he paid in gold, must be flush… unlike the Darklyns, poor things, had to sell their prize stallion…
"Jealousy is a coarse emotion, my lady," Damon said smoothly, steering the conversation. "It is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius. And you, my lady, have proven to be a genius of social maneuvering."
Her pride swelled at the compliment, a warm wave of emotion he could feel washing over him. It made her mind more pliant, her thoughts less guarded.
"Tell me," he continued, his tone one of genuine curiosity, "who else has taken notice? It is important for my… art… to understand the canvas upon which it is displayed."
Seraphina, flattered and eager to impress him with her importance, began to recount the recent events at court in vivid detail. As she spoke of lords and ladies, Damon listened with two sets of ears. With his physical ears, he heard the gossip. With his mental senses, he sifted through the emotional undercurrents and the fleeting thoughts that accompanied her words.
She mentioned Lord Rykker's boorish behaviour, and Damon felt her disdain, but also caught a flicker of a thought: …drunk again… everyone knows Tywin Lannister holds his debts… a puppet for the Golden Lion.
She complained about the ostentatious display of the new Lady Mooton, and he sifted through Seraphina's envious thoughts to find a nugget of pure data: …her dowry was a fleet of ships… her father controls the northern trade route now… a threat to the Stokeworths…
This was the true gold. Not the soap, not the perfumes, but this. The intricate, invisible web of debt, ambition, and rivalry that held the nobility together and simultaneously threatened to tear it apart. He was mapping the fault lines of Westerosi society, knowledge that would be invaluable when the tremors he knew were coming finally began to shake the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms.
"It seems a new signature is required for the upcoming tourney for the King's nameday," Seraphina was saying, oblivious to the mental theft he was perpetrating. "The jasmine is my trademark now, but for the day's events, I want something… bolder. Something that smells of victory."
"I have been working on a new accord," Damon replied, his mind seamlessly switching back to his cover. "Based on a rare orchid I've sourced from the Jade Sea. It has notes of spice and leather. Very… commanding. I believe you will find it suitable."
He was creating a monster, a creature of pure ego, and he controlled its leash absolutely. He sent her away with promises of a new, even more exclusive fragrance, feeling her renewed sense of purpose, her burning desire to once again be the sole object of envy. As she left, he had a complete list of at least five noble houses experiencing financial strain, two simmering political rivalries, and one major new commercial threat to an established house. The price of a few ounces of scented oil was a bargain.
That evening, in the quiet solitude of his cellar workshop, Damon turned his attention to the other aspect of his 'cheat'. His telekinesis. The strain of the mental gymnastics he performed during his meeting with Seraphina had left him drained, but he knew that, like a muscle, his power would only grow through exertion.
He had moved on from solid objects. They were too simple, too binary. You either lifted them or you didn't. Liquids were a greater challenge. They required finesse, control, a deeper connection to the substance itself.
On a heavy oak table stood two glass beakers. One contained water, the other, a viscous, golden olive oil. His goal was to lift the oil from its beaker and suspend it in a sphere in the air between them. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing, his mind sinking into a state of deep concentration. He reached out with his senses, not his hands. He tried to feel the very nature of the oil, its density, the way its molecules clung to one another, distinct from the water.
He focused his will, a pinpoint of pure mental force. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The surface of the oil trembled, then bulged upwards, fighting the pull of gravity. It was like trying to lift a chain, one link at a time. A thin, shimmering tendril of gold lifted from the beaker, wavering precariously in the air. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw aching with the strain. The tendril stretched, thinned, and then snapped, the oil splashing back into the beaker.
He opened his eyes, breathing heavily. Failure. But it was a more spectacular failure than last time. The tendril had held for almost five seconds. He had lifted more of the liquid than ever before. He felt the familiar, cold burn of his own psychopathic determination. He was not frustrated. He was analyzing. He had applied too much force at the base, not enough to sustain the tip. It was a problem of leverage, of physics, just on a different plane of existence. He would solve it. He would practice until he could juggle knives of pure energy if he had to. This power was his sword, and he would sharpen it until it could cut gods.
A week later, the fish took the bait. It was not Lady Rosby who came to him directly. She was too proud. Instead, she sent her husband, Lord Gyles Rosby, a portly man with a booming voice and small, shrewd eyes that belied his oafish exterior. The Rosbys were old money, their wealth derived from vast tracts of fertile land just outside King's Landing. They were rich, but they were considered second-tier, country lords who lacked the polished sophistication of the court's inner circle. Myra Rosby's desperation to climb that ladder was, Damon knew, her husband's as well.
Lord Rosby did not come to his townhouse. Instead, he sent a message, summoning 'the artisan' to his own manse. It was a power play. Damon, understanding the nuance perfectly, refused. He sent a polite message back via the same servant, stating that "Master Damon's schedule is pre-booked by his current patron, but he may have an opening for a preliminary consultation at his own workshop in two days' time." He was asserting his own value, turning Rosby's power play back on him. To get the prize, the lord would have to come to him.
Lord Rosby arrived, his face a mask of thunderous impatience. He was clearly a man unaccustomed to being dictated to by a commoner. Damon received him not in the elegant parlour he used for Seraphina, but in a plainer, more functional receiving room adjacent to his workshop. The air was faintly scented with raw, clean ingredients—beeswax, lavender, olive oil. It smelled of craft, not luxury.
"I am Lord Rosby," the man boomed, forgoing any pleasantries. "My wife has an interest in your… trinkets."
Damon met his gaze, his expression placid. He could feel the lord's irritation, but beneath it, a current of genuine curiosity and the heavy weight of his wife's insistence. Lord Rosby was here against his better judgment, but he was here.
"My lord," Damon said calmly. "I do not sell trinkets. I offer a bespoke service to a single, exclusive patron. I believe you may have been misinformed."
"Don't play games with me, boy," Rosby blustered, his face turning a shade redder. "I know you're the one supplying Lady Vance. Name your price. My wife wants what she has."
Here it was. The crucial moment. Damon let the silence stretch, allowing Lord Rosby's impatience to fester. He subtly projected a feeling of calm indifference, a silent declaration that he held all the cards.
"That, my lord, is impossible," Damon said finally. "The signature I have created for Lady Vance is hers exclusively. To replicate it would be a violation of my artistic integrity and my word. It would render my service, and the very concept of the exclusivity I offer, meaningless."
Rosby stared, momentarily dumbfounded. He had clearly expected to simply throw a bag of gold on the table and walk away with what he wanted.
"However," Damon continued, seeing the lord's frustration reach its peak, "that is not to say I cannot be of service to your own esteemed house. Lady Vance has a signature that is uniquely hers. It speaks of jasmine, of intrigue, of the moon. Lady Rosby, I am sure, has a very different character. She would not want to be a mere echo of another, would she?"
He could see the gears turning in Rosby's head. He was reframing the situation from a simple purchase to a matter of status and identity.
"Lady Rosby," Damon went on, his voice weaving a spell of commercial poetry, "deserves her own statement. Something that speaks not of the moon, but of the sun. Of gold. Of the rich earth of your lands. I can create a fragrance for her, and for her alone. A signature built around a heart of warm amber and saffron, with top notes of blood orange and a base of cedarwood. A scent of wealth and power, undeniable and unapologetic."
He was selling them an identity, a story in a bottle. He was appealing to their pride of house, their desire to be seen as not just rich, but powerful and unique. He could feel Lord Rosby's avarice and pride stirring, warring with his indignation.
"An exclusive scent… for my wife?" Rosby asked, his tone shifting from demanding to intrigued.
"As I said, I only take one patron at a time," Damon lied smoothly. "My arrangement with Lady Vance is for her particular signature. Were I to take on Lady Rosby as a patron, it would be for a new, equally exclusive line. Of course, my time and the rarity of the ingredients for such a creation would require a significant commitment. A retainer, to secure my services."
He named a price. It was thirty percent higher than the one he had quoted Seraphina. He felt a jolt of outrage from the Lord, a mental recoil at the sheer audacity of the sum. But he also felt the man's calculating mind weighing the cost against the prize: his wife's happiness, and the social victory over Seraphina Vance.
"Thirty percent," Damon added, as if reading his mind, "is the premium for initiating a new commission while another is in progress. It is a matter of… capacity."
Lord Gyles Rosby stared at him for a long time, his small eyes narrowed. Damon stood his ground, a pillar of calm certainty. He had created the demand, controlled the supply, and was now dictating the terms. It was the purest form of business, a game he had played on a much larger scale in his past life, but one that was infinitely more satisfying here, in this world of steel and stone.
Finally, with a grunt that was equal parts surrender and grudging respect, Lord Rosby nodded. "Fine. You'll have your retainer. But by the Seven, if my wife is not the envy of every woman in this city, I'll have your head."
Damon allowed himself a small, cold smile. "My lord, I assure you. They will not simply envy her. They will want to be her."
As the heavy-set lord departed, Damon felt a profound sense of victory. He had done it. He had secured his second high-profile client, and in doing so, had transformed his business model. He wasn't just a merchant anymore. He was a luxury brand. He sold status, exclusivity, and identity. He had two of the most ambitious women in court vying for his favour, each believing they were his sole focus, each a fountain of priceless information.
The Gilded Lily was a soap shop. But Damon was building an empire of whispers and gilded cages, and its foundations were stronger than any castle wall.