Chapter 53: Assets and Liabilities
Another twenty years flowed by, a quiet river of time carving a deep channel of peace through the lands of men. The rule of Krosis-Krif, the Great Order, was no longer a new regime; it was the foundation of reality, an unquestioned and eternal truth. The children who had been born during the crusade were now parents themselves, raising a new generation that had never known a world that wasn't silent, orderly, and watched over by a living god.
The Dragon's Tithe had become a somber, sacred ritual, the great dragons raised in the yards a symbol not of Targaryen power, but of the realm's devotion and its pact with the divine. The democratic districts of Essos flourished, their economies booming under the stable, low-interest guidance of the Iron Bank, which was now merely the financial services division of the new global faith.
Krosis-Krif, from his throne of fused ruins, observed the perfect, clockwork precision of the world he had built. The river of faith was a vast, placid ocean of energy upon which his consciousness floated. He had achieved his primary goal—survival—on a scale he had never imagined. He had achieved his secondary goal—sustenance—in a way that was eternal and self-perpetuating. But his tertiary need, the one that stemmed from the last, stubborn vestiges of his human soul—the need for a game, for a challenge, for entertainment—was utterly, painfully unfulfilled. His victory was so absolute it had become a form of sensory deprivation.
In his boredom, his vast mind began to scan his perfect creation not for flaws in its function, but for redundancies, for elements that were not fully integrated into the Great Order. He found two. Two ancient, powerful institutions that still operated with a semblance of their old independence, their old chaos.
The first was the cult of the Many-Faced God in Braavos. A god of chaotic, random death, a portfolio that was now rightfully his. The second was their host, the Iron Bank. It had been co-opted, yes, but its inner workings were still a secular mystery of ledgers and contracts. It served him, but it was not of him.
They were loose ends. And the time had come to tidy up the final ledger.
In the House of Black and White, the ancient temple of the Faceless Men, the air was always cool and silent. The current leader of the order, a man with a face he had worn for thirty years but which was not his own, was instructing a new acolyte in the alcove of the Weeping Woman.
"We do not kill," the man said, his voice a dry whisper. "We give the Gift. Death is a mercy, an end to suffering. We are the instruments of that mercy."
"And the god on the hill?" the acolyte asked, a question forbidden but always present. "The one who has ended all wars, and therefore so much suffering? Is he not a greater instrument than we?"
Before the master could answer, a change occurred. The great poisoned pool in the center of the hall, where supplicants came to find their end, began to still. The thousand faces of the dead that flickered and changed upon its surface—the bearded man, the young girl, the smiling crone—all began to merge. The features ran like wax, coalescing into a single, vast, terrifying visage: the burning, golden, reptilian eye of Krosis-Krif.
Every Faceless Man in the temple, from the highest master to the lowest servant, froze, feeling a presence in their minds that dwarfed the quiet, impersonal mystery of their own god.
"YOU SERVE DEATH," the voice of Krosis-Krif echoed in their thoughts, not a shout, but a simple statement of cosmic fact. "A NOBLE CONCEPT. AN ESSENTIAL PART OF ANY ORDERLY SYSTEM. BUT YOUR GOD IS AN IMPERSONAL, CHAOTIC THING. A THOUSAND RANDOM FACES WITH NO TRUE WILL, NO DESIGN. IT IS A REFLECTION OF MORTAL FEAR, NOT A TRUE POWER."
The lead Faceless Man, a being who had shed all identity, found himself trembling. He addressed the eye in the pool with a thought. The Many-Faced God is not a power to be challenged. It is the truth at the end of all things.
"A TRUTH IS ONLY TRUE UNTIL A GREATER TRUTH REPLACES IT," Krosis-Krif replied, a hint of intellectual condescension in his mental voice. "I OFFER A GREATER TRUTH. DEATH UNDER MY ORDER IS NOT A CHAOTIC GIFT DELIVERED BY WHIM AND COIN. IT IS A TIDY, ORDERLY TRANSITION TO MY DOMAIN."
An image flooded their minds. They saw it: the Soul's Pasture. The serene, twilight fields where the souls of the faithful lived in eternal, quiet contentment. They saw the billions of souls already there, existing in a state of perfect, managed peace.
"YOUR GOD IS MERELY A DOOR," Krosis-Krif explained with chilling logic. "I AM THE HOUSE THAT LIES BEYOND IT. I AM THE DESTINATION. SERVING THE DOOR INSTEAD OF THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE IS… INEFFICIENT."
He did not threaten them. He did not issue a command. He simply presented them with an irrefutable, logical argument. Their entire purpose, their sacred duty, was to deliver souls from suffering to the peace of death. He had just shown them that he, and he alone, now owned that final peace. To continue to serve the Many-Faced God was to deliver souls to an empty room, when a furnished palace was now available.
The lead Faceless Man bowed his head, a gesture of submission that was not born of fear, but of pure, undeniable reason. The Gift has a new Giver, he thought, his thought a broadcast to all his brethren. The purpose remains the same, but the management has changed. The new end of all things is Order. Therefore, we serve the Great Order.
The eye in the pool vanished. The faces returned to their chaotic flickering, but they now seemed like quaint, powerless relics. Krosis-Krif had not destroyed their god. He had simply devoured its purpose, absorbing the entire concept of death into his own portfolio. The Faceless Men were now his.
The hostile takeover of the Iron Bank was even simpler. The Sealords and Key-holders were gathered in their great, unadorned hall in Braavos, reviewing the quarterly profits. The returns from their investments in the new, peaceful Essos were astronomical.
The aged envoy, Tycho Melis, was presenting the numbers. "As you can see, gentlemen, the god's peace is the most profitable enterprise the Iron Bank has ever underwritten. The stability is unprecedented."
As she spoke, the ink on the ledger before her began to run, the neat columns of figures dissolving into black puddles. A gasp went through the hall. The Sealords looked down at the coins in their purses, only to see the gold and silver ripple and fade into the dull, worthless gray of lead. Panic began to erupt.
"What is this? Sorcery!" one of the Key-holders cried.
"No," Tycho Melis said, her voice perfectly calm as she looked up at the ceiling. "It is a business negotiation."
The voice of Krosis-Krif filled the room, cold and clear as a flawless diamond.
"YOUR BANK IS AN ADMIRABLE SYSTEM OF ORDER. IT IS BUILT ON A SINGLE, POWERFUL PRINCIPLE: THE DEBT WILL ALWAYS BE PAID. BUT THE ACCRUAL OF DEBT, THE PRESSURE OF INTEREST, CREATES FRICTION IN MY SYSTEM. IT CREATES RESENTMENT. IT IS A FORM OF SERVITUDE. IT IS DISORDERLY."
The bankers stared at their leaden coins in horror. Their entire world, the very concept of wealth, was being unmade before their eyes.
"FROM THIS DAY, THE IRON BANK IS NO LONGER A SECULAR INSTITUTION OF PROFIT. IT IS A SACRED INSTITUTION OF PROVIDENCE. IT IS HEREBY NATIONALIZED AS A SUBSIDIARY OF THE TEMPLE OF THE GREAT ORDER. ITS FUNCTION IS NO LONGER TO GENERATE WEALTH, BUT TO ENSURE STABILITY."
The voice paused.
"ALL OUTSTANDING DEBTS OWED BY THE FREE DISTRICTS OF ESSOS AND THE LORDS OF WESTEROS ARE HEREBY RESTRUCTURED. THE INTEREST RATE IS NOW ZERO. PROSPERITY IS A GIFT FROM THE GOD, NOT A LOAN FROM BANKERS. YOUR ROLE IS NOW TO ADMINISTER THIS GIFT, TO ENSURE THE SMOOTH, ORDERLY FLOW OF COMMERCE THROUGHOUT MY REALM."
With a final thought, the lead turned back to shimmering gold. The ink on the ledgers dried, the numbers restored. Krosis-Krif had not destroyed them. He had acquired them. He had seized their assets, rewritten their mission statement, and appointed himself the new, eternal Chairman of the Board.
Tycho Melis looked at the stunned, terrified faces of her colleagues. She straightened her robes and addressed the silent room. "Gentlemen," she said with a crisp, business-like finality. "It appears we have a new majority shareholder. All in favor of approving the motion?"
There were no dissenting votes.
In King's Landing, the news from Braavos arrived, sending a final, quiet tremor through the court of King Viserys II. He sat in council with his heir, Prince Daemon II, and his brother, the aged Lord Jacaerys of Dragonstone.
"He consumed the God of Death," Viserys said, his voice a marvel of weary disbelief. "And then he nationalized the Iron Bank. In a single afternoon."
Jacaerys gave a short, humorless laugh. It was the laugh of a man who had seen it all and was no longer capable of being surprised. "Of course he did," he said. "Why have rivals when you can have departments? Why have chaos when you can have control? He is an artist of administration, brother. He is simply tidying up the last few messy files on his celestial desk."
"But to forgive the debts…" Daemon II, a prince of the new age, said with wonder. "That is a great blessing. The people of Essos will love him for it. It is an act of immense kindness."
"Yes," Jacaerys said, his old eyes looking distant. "He has taken their last two independent institutions—their assassins and their bankers. And he has done it in a way that makes him look like a savior to millions more." He shook his head. "It is the most ruthless and brilliant act of public relations in the history of the world."
Krosis-Krif observed his work. The final loose ends were tied. The last independent powers were now integrated components of his perfect, global system. The faith of the Faceless Men, a new, cold, sharp flavor of devotion born of pure logic, flowed into him. The gratitude of the millions of Essosi citizens now freed from the burden of debt was a sweet, potent wine.
Every soul, every coin, every birth, every death—it was all now part of the Great Order. The board was clear. The game was won. The story was over. He had achieved a state of absolute, eternal, unchallengeable control.
He looked out over his silent, orderly kingdom. He felt the ceaseless, monotonous river of placid faith flowing into him from a billion souls. He felt the slow, predictable growth of the dragons in his farm. He felt the quiet, efficient turning of the gears of the democracies he had built.
It was perfect. It was eternal. And it was silent.
The human gamer at the core of his being, the soul that had launched this epic quest for survival and power, looked out upon his flawless creation. He had won. And his prize was an eternity of this. An eternity of silence. An eternity of peace. An eternity of boredom.
He had escaped a meaningless death. And his reward, his final, perfect trophy, was a meaningless eternity. The ultimate irony. The perfect, empty room at the end of time. There were no more whispers. There were no more games. There was only the quiet, and the cold, and the endless, silent reign of the god who had won everything, and in doing so, had lost the one thing that had ever truly mattered: a reason to keep playing.