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297 AC
King's Landing
The Red Keep
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Varys had always known that coin spoke more truth than men ever did.
Men lied for pride, men lied for fear, for loyalty, for love. Coin lied only when it was clipped and even then, the lie was measurable.
You could weigh it. Test it. Track where it came from and, more importantly, where it was going.
And since lately, far too much of it was flowing north.
The Master of Whisperers stood before a lattice window overlooking the Blackwater, his silk slippers silent upon the stone.
Far below, numerous ships came and went in their endless procession. Braavosi galleys, Pentoshi cogs, fat-bellied Dornish ships heavy with citrus and wine. It was the same dance he had watched for decades.
Yet the ballroom now had a different dancer, things have changed ad they normally do.
Steel from the North arrived in large amounts, not raw ingots, but finished goods. Furs, soft , dressed and cut to southern tastes.
Sugar was another expensive export from the northern kingdom. It was a substance that was crystalline in texture and brown as old stones, this substance had displaced honey in noble kitchens from Oldtown to Gulltown. From Dorne back to the wall for all those that could afford it.
Even Ice, absurd as it sounded, arriving insulated and intact, sold as luxury novelty to southern lords who wished to impress dinner guests.
'And now….'
Varys remembered .
Now there was talk of a new drink. Not rum. Not sour northern swill. Something refined. A grain spirit aged in wood, commanding prices that made Arbor gold and Dornish wine look common.
Fifteen gold dragons a barrel, according to the discreet conversation he had with a acquaintance of his who had acquired one "as a gift."
The Small Council did not yet grasp the pattern. Or perhaps they did not wish to. Lords were remarkably adept at ignoring threats that did not arrive with banners and swords.
Yet Lord Bolton's threat came wrapped in silks and many could not see it.
Domeric Bolton.
Varys had never seen the young lord but he had taken note of him years ago. And from what he was told, lord bolton was observant, quiet sometimes, but he had shown his cordiality often to the lower rungs of society, and that in and of its self was good sign of a leader.
Domeric Bolton also did not drink excessively, nor does he take to whores like some young fellows he knew, he did not boast of honor or ancestry. That alone had marked him as dangerous. Nor had he ever boasted of cruelty and violence.
He was very skilled with a sword yes and some said he was the greatest warrior in the lands , but every hovel had its own greatest swordsman so that was not something to outright believe.
A soft knock echoed behind him.
"Enter," Varys said, without turning.
A slim man in gray entered, head bowed. One of the many little birds, this one grown, trained, and paid in silver rather than sweets.
"The port logs, my lord," the man said. "And reports from White Harbor, Redport, and ….ah , Acanon." He pronounced
Varys turned then, folding his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robes. "Acanon," he repeated lightly as if tasting the word.
'Still amusing that the North has seen fit to invent cities.'
'Charming' , he thought.
Varys accepted the parchments and waved the man away. Now alone again, he settled into a cushioned chair and began to read.
The South-East Trade and Shipping Company appeared everywhere, it now had its finger in every pie, it reminded him cautiously of bravos.
'See here.'
Chartered vessels. Privateer licenses. Warehouses leased by the dozens rather than rented. Insurance contracts, insurance, in Westeros, against piracy and storm loss, underwritten by northern coin and Braavosi guarantees.
The founders for this conglomerate weren't listed on the pages, at least not all. His little birds had scrounged up whatever information they could but this was not enough on the trading company. Domeric Bolton and Wyman Manderly were among the founders but the rest remained a mystery and that was dangerous.
Nevertheless who ever they were , it could be said that they were now kings in all but name.
And what made him most curious, especially of the bolton lord was not the wealth. But it was the restraint.
No sudden influx of gold into King's Landing. No ostentatious feasts. No attempt to buy titles or marriages, yet. The coin moved and recirculated back into his coffers and lands, infrastructure, roads, bridges , mills, houses, towns and now cities.
It was a concerning affair, the power balance was being tipped in the favor of Domeric Bolton and Lord Stark for all his honor could not ignore the wolf at his gates.
"How very un-Northern," he murmured as he turned another page.
More Slaves, imported. No surprise there, he remembered the first time hearing about such a situation.
Or former slaves he should say.
These enslaved were freed upon docking in Westeros, bound instead by term-limited servitude, this contract was renewable only by consent. And through this process accommodations were provided. Wages deferred and their legal status was protected.
Varys leaned back, fingertips pressed together.
'Quite Brilliant.Well Played Domeric Bolton.'
It placated Westerosi law. It avoided the Faith's wrath. It siphoned labor from Essos while presenting the North as magnanimous rather than predatory.
And more importantly it created loyalty.
Freed men remembered who freed them.
And he now just realized the meaning behind these policies and gestures. A good lord he was but he was pragmatic and a business oriented man, profits meant more to him than just freeing slaves to use as laborers and there was a reason.
'It occurred to him now that the young Lord Bolton was not only building up his lands he was also building up its population.'
Moves within moves.
The Lannisters with all their arrogance would scoff. The Tyrells would definitely underestimate. And the Starks would continually hesitate.
And hesitation would cost them everything.
He rose from his seat and crossed the chamber, selecting a small wooden box from a shelf. Within lay a cube of sugar, wrapped in linen. He dropped it into a cup of watered wine before giving it a swig
It dissolved almost instantly.
"Displacement," he whispered.
Some Honey farmers were already complaining.
Beekeepers petitioned guilds. A Reach merchant consortium had quietly approached the Iron Bank regarding northern price manipulation.
Braavos, ever pragmatic, had sided with profit.
Allies were not chosen by legacy or banners there. They were chosen by balance sheets.
There was a time when the North was poor. Isolated. A land of honor and hardship.
Domeric Bolton had changed that narrative without once raising a rebel flag or even whispered about rebelling against his rival house and liege lord.
Perhaps the boltons have truly changed now. One could hope.
Varys allowed himself a thin smile.
How deliciously subversive.
A different knock sounded—sharper, more formal.
"Lord Varys," came the voice of a goldcloak officer. "The Hand requests your presence."
"Of course," Varys replied pleasantly.
"I would not wish to keep him waiting." He say's tersely as he prepares himself to leave in relative haste.
As he walked the corridors of the Red Keep, Varys considered what he would say….and what he would not.
He would speak of trade. Of coin. Of opportunity. But would not speak of his opinion and the inevitability he saw.
In the council chamber, Lord Hand sat rigid he looked paler than last time, his fingers resting on a book. The other members spoke amongst themselves awaiting for him to sit. Stannis's face was sour as usual and he sat besides the king's grim brother.
"My Lords"
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