Chapter 4: A Ledger of Whispers
264 AC, Month of the Stranger
The passage of another year had seen Damon's influence metastasize within the rarefied air of the nobility. The rivalry he had so carefully engineered between Lady Vance and Lady Rosby had become a source of courtly entertainment, a silent, fragrant war waged at balls and feasts. Seraphina, with her cool, ethereal scents, played the part of the established arbiter of taste. Myra, with her bold, opulent fragrances, was the wealthy challenger, unapologetically flaunting her riches. They were his twin queens on a chessboard of his own design, and their competition had created the one thing he could not manufacture himself: overwhelming demand.
He was now turning away prospective patrons, a move that only fanned the flames of their desire. Lords and ladies, accustomed to acquiring anything they wished with a sack of dragons, were discovering that the city's most sought-after luxury could not be bought, only granted. The waiting list to be considered for a "consultation" with the mysterious Master Damon was becoming a mark of status in itself.
This success, however, brought with it a new set of problems. The fiction of the lone artisan was becoming dangerously thin. He needed to evolve, to build a structure around his operation that would both justify its exclusivity and allow for the expansion he planned. His townhouse on Rhaenys's Hill was no longer sufficient. It was time to build a proper temple to his craft.
He purchased a discreet property on the Street of Silver, a location that was respectable without being ostentatious. It was a tall, narrow building that had once belonged to a Myrish lens grinder. Damon poured a small fortune into its renovation. The ground floor was transformed into an antechamber and a single, stunningly appointed consultation room. There was no shop front, no sign, only a heavy door of polished weirwood and a small, silver lily inlaid into the stone above it. Entry was by engraved invitation only. He named it simply, "The Atelier."
The upper floors were his new, state-of-the-art laboratory and production facility, a world away from his humble beginnings in Flea Bottom. Here, under the loyal supervision of his two silent widows, the base elements of his craft were prepared. But the true sanctum was his personal laboratory, a room secured by a lock of his own intricate design, to which only he held the key. It was here he practiced his alchemy, and here he began the most important project of his new life.
He had gathered too much information. The secrets whispered to him by the minds of the ambitious and the desperate were becoming a torrent, too vast and too valuable to be held in memory alone, even one as ruthlessly organized as his own. He needed a vault for this new form of currency.
He had commissioned a book from the finest leatherworker in the city. It was large and heavy, bound in supple, black dragon-hide with clasps of unadorned silver. To any observer, it was a handsome but empty ledger. To Damon, it was to become his most powerful weapon. He sat at his heavy oak desk, the book open before him, the scent of fresh parchment filling the air. He dipped a quill into a pot of ink, but he did not begin to write in the common tongue, or even in High Valyrian.
He wrote in code. A complex, polyalphabetic substitution cipher of his own creation, cross-referenced with a key based on the financial ledgers of his past life—a system so convoluted and personal that even the most brilliant maester would see nothing but gibberish.
The first entry was under the letter 'V'.
VANCE, S. Asset Class: Influence Vector. Disposition: Ambitious, insecure. Leverage: Status anxiety, marital dissatisfaction. Key Intel: Rykker (House) subservient to Lannister (House) via debt. Mooton (House) shipping expansion threatening Stokeworth (House) revenue streams. Queen Rhaella's growing melancholy and isolation.
He continued, page by page, building his true ledger. Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth, Mooton. Debts, affairs, hidden parentage, commercial vulnerabilities, political leanings. The brothel whispers from Shae's network provided the grime and gossip of the lower nobility and merchant class. The unwitting confessions of Seraphina and Myra provided the higher-level strategic intelligence. He was building a comprehensive psychological and financial map of the ruling class of King's Landing. It was a slow, meticulous process, but Damon was a patient predator. This book was his grimoire, a catalog of souls and their price tags.
As his financial intelligence grew, so did his own fortune. The retainers from Vance and Rosby were a steady stream of income, but it was passive. Damon was a man of action, a believer in making money work for him. He decided it was time for his first true financial play in this new world, a test of his information's worth.
His intel on the Mooton-Stokeworth situation was solid. Lord Stokeworth was proud and over-leveraged, while Lord Mooton's new fleet, funded by his wife's dowry, was aggressively undercutting Stokeworth's shipping rates to the north. Damon saw an opportunity not in the shipping itself, but in the fallout. He began to quietly, through a series of intermediaries and shell names, buy up Stokeworth's outstanding debt from various lenders across the city. It was a risky move; if Stokeworth recovered, the debt would be worth little. But Damon knew something the lenders didn't. He knew the character of the men involved. Stokeworth was too proud to adapt, and Mooton was too hungry to stop.
It was a long-term investment in a predictable collapse, a strategy that had made him billions in his past life. He was short-selling a noble house. The thought brought a cold, familiar thrill.
But even with his two noblewomen and his network in the brothels, his information had gaps. He needed ears inside the great households themselves, not just the observations of visitors. He needed to know what was said over dinner, in the council chambers, in the master's study. He needed to recruit the people who were paid to be invisible.
He found his target in Larys, the head steward for Lord Darklyn of Duskendale, who maintained a residence in the capital. Damon had learned from one of Shae's girls that Larys had a weakness for a particular card game and had recently fallen into debt with a rather unforgiving moneylender. Damon stepped in. He bought the debt for a fraction of its face value, and then he summoned the steward.
They met in a private room at a quiet inn. Larys was a man in his fifties, thin and graying, with the perpetually anxious eyes of one who serves the powerful. He expected a beating, or at the very least, threats. Damon offered him a glass of wine.
"Your debt is settled, Master Larys," Damon began, his voice calm and reasonable. He watched the man's mind, feeling the surge of disbelief and suspicion. A trick. What does he want?
"I don't understand, ser," Larys stammered.
"Consider it a gift. An investment in a potential relationship," Damon said. He leaned forward, his eyes holding the steward's gaze. He didn't need to apply much pressure, just a gentle telepathic nudge of sincerity and reassurance to cut through the man's fear. "I am a man who values information. You are a man who is in a position to hear many things. The mutterings of your Lord, the gossip of visiting envoys, the complaints of the kitchen staff. It is mostly noise, of course. But sometimes, in that noise, there is a signal. A name. A number. A plan."
He let the implication hang in the air. "I do not ask for treason. I do not ask you to betray your lord. I ask only that you listen. And when you hear something you think a man like me might find… interesting… you will let me know. For every valuable piece of information you bring me, your purse will be heavier. Your family will be secure. No one will ever know of our arrangement."
He felt Larys's mind race. The fear was still there, but now it was warring with a desperate hope. The man was trapped between his loyalty and his family's security. Damon knew which would win.
"What sort of information?" Larys whispered, his voice trembling.
"Shipping manifests. The true cost of a lord's new tapestry. The name of the man his daughter is forbidden to see. The seemingly small details that great men overlook," Damon explained. "Think of me as a… scholar of human nature."
Larys left the meeting a new man. He was no longer a debtor, but an asset. A new, more subtle thread in Damon's growing web. Damon had not threatened him; he had empowered him, turned his service into a side business. It was a far more effective method of control.
It was inevitable that an operation like his, which touched the highest levels of the court, would eventually attract the attention of the city's foremost 'scholar of human nature'. The invitation came as he had known it would: a simple, unmarked scroll delivered by a boy who vanished into the crowd the moment the message was in Damon's hand. It requested his presence at a small, unassuming manse in the heart of the city, not far from the Red Keep itself. There was no signature, but none was needed. Only one man in King's Landing communicated with such understated, menacing ambiguity. Varys.
Damon prepared for the meeting as a swordsman prepares for a duel against a master. He wore his usual attire of a prosperous artisan, but he spent a full hour beforehand in deep meditation, fortifying his mental shields. He imagined his mind as a fortress, with smooth, impenetrable walls. He would not allow the Spider to sense his true nature, nor the impossible secret of his powers. His telepathy would be used defensively, as a radar to detect lies and hidden meanings, not as an offensive weapon.
He was shown into a small, warm room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a fire crackled in the hearth. The air smelled of cinnamon and old parchment. And there, sitting in a plush chair, was the Master of Whisperers. Varys was precisely as the books had described him: plump, powdered, and smelling faintly of lilac. He was dressed in soft silks, and his face was a beatific, smiling mask that did not match the unnerving intelligence in his eyes.
"Master Damon," Varys said, his voice as soft as the silk he wore. "So good of you to come. I have heard so much about your… art. Please, sit."
"Lord Varys," Damon replied, his voice even. He gave a slight bow and took the offered chair. He immediately extended his senses, not to read, but to feel. Varys's mind was… strange. It was not the chaotic storm of most people. It was a placid lake, unnaturally calm. But Damon could sense the immense depth beneath the surface, the carefully constructed layers of thought and deception. It was the most disciplined mind he had ever encountered.
"I am but a humble perfumer, my lord," Damon said, beginning the game.
Varys giggled, a high-pitched sound that was deeply unsettling. "Oh, you are far too modest. You are not a perfumer. A perfumer sells his wares to any who can pay. You, on the other hand, have made yourself the gatekeeper to desire itself. You have made two of the most ambitious women at court your willing puppets, and in doing so, you have made every other woman desperate for your favour. It is a masterful work of… social architecture. I am filled with admiration."
Damon kept his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. Varys saw the game. He saw the structure. Damon could feel the probing nature of the eunuch's words, each one a small test. He could also feel a genuine, almost academic, curiosity emanating from the Spider.
"I merely provide a bespoke service, my lord. The desires of highborn ladies are beyond my comprehension. I simply cater to them," Damon demurred.
"You do more than cater," Varys countered, his smile never wavering. "You create. Not just scents. You create envy. And envy, as you well know, is a powerful tool. It can topple houses far more effectively than any army."
This was the heart of it. Varys saw him as a new player, a new source of power and instability in the city. Damon had to convince him he was a businessman, not a politician.
"It is a happy byproduct of good commerce, my lord," Damon said. "My only concern is for the quality of my product and the satisfaction of my patrons. The affairs of the court are far above my station."
He projected a feeling of simple, mercantile ambition. He focused his telepathic 'voice' on this one, singular emotion, hoping to obscure the cold, psychopathic void that lay beneath. He could feel Varys's mental senses brush against his shields, like a spider testing the tension of a web. It was a bizarre sensation, a silent duel being fought in the space between them.
"Is it?" Varys tilted his head. "And your sources for these… unique ingredients? The night-blooming jasmine from the isles of the Jade Sea? The ambergris, which I'm told is of the highest quality? These are not things a simple merchant stumbles upon. You have… resourceful friends."
A direct probe about his supply line. About Ferrego. Damon felt a flicker of genuine anger from Varys's mind, a brief, hot spark of something that felt like… possessiveness. Varys didn't like unknown networks operating in his city.
"A good merchant guards his sources as a knight guards his virtue, Lord Varys," Damon replied smoothly. "To do otherwise would be poor business."
The conversation continued for nearly an hour, a delicate dance of veiled questions and evasive answers. Damon learned much. He felt the depth of Varys's network, a pervasive presence that reached into every corner of the city. He also sensed the eunuch's core motivation, a strange, twisted form of patriotism. Varys truly seemed to believe his machinations were for the good of the 'realm', a stable, prosperous kingdom. It was a delusion, Damon knew, but a powerful one. He also felt Varys's deep suspicion of magic and the Targaryen bloodline's instability, a key piece of psychological data.
In turn, Damon gave away nothing. He was a blank slate, a man driven by profit, nothing more. He let Varys believe he had the measure of him: a clever, ambitious up-jumped merchant, but ultimately, a man who could be understood in terms of gold dragons.
As he was leaving, Varys stopped him at the door. "Be careful, Master Damon," the Spider said, his voice losing its lilting quality for a moment, becoming flat and hard. "In our city, those who create tools of influence often find those same tools turned against them. The currents of power are treacherous. One must be a very strong swimmer."
Damon turned, meeting the eunuch's gaze one last time. "Or," he replied, a hint of his true nature bleeding through, "one must learn to command the tides."
He walked away from the manse, his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm. The meeting had been a success. He had been weighed and measured by the most dangerous man in King's Landing and had been found to be a predictable, manageable quantity. It was the perfect cover.
But the encounter left him with a renewed sense of urgency. Varys was a master of the game as it was played now. But Damon knew the rules were about to change. The Mad King's paranoia was growing, the dragons were long dead, and a storm was gathering in the north. He, Damon, was not just a player. With his knowledge and his impossible, growing power, he was the storm. And he would not just command the tides; he would be the tsunami that washed the old world away.