Dume Point Estate, basement study of the Shell Villa.
It was just past six in the morning on Friday, November 3rd. Simon had been up for over two hours already, mainly because of the time difference with the East Coast—New York was nearing market open.
There had simply been too much to deal with recently.
Simon hadn't dwelled on the initial choice for long, but when a cornered Al Gore lashed out in a final desperate move, lifting the veil on everything, Simon had no choice but to respond with caution.
If a last-minute reversal did occur, the Westeros system would certainly have a difficult few years ahead.
Just as he ended a video call with Paul Spatz in Florida, Simon casually picked up a book and leaned back in his leather chair for a brief moment of relaxation. Seeing Janet enter, he patted his thigh. Smiling, Janet stepped forward and nestled into her man's lap.
"What are you reading?" she asked, picking up his large hand and looking at the cover. "A history of World War II? Why this?"
A-Girl, who had been up early as well, walked over from the corner printer with a stack of freshly printed documents, placed them on the desk, and quietly refilled Simon's coffee. Seeing the couple cuddled together, she felt a pang of envy, but also understood how much stress Simon had been under lately. Without interrupting the moment, she offered, "Boss, I'll head upstairs."
Simon nodded, his attention returning to Janet. The two glanced at the book together, and he gestured toward the bookshelf against the wall. "Just opened it at random."
Janet leaned forward and handed him a pencil.
Simon rested the book on Janet's soft thighs and wrote a line in Chinese in the blank space next to a chapter about Germany's surprise attack on the Soviet Union in June 1941: "Those who see great profit and do not pursue it, who hear of calamity and make no preparation, who are shallow in the affairs of war and defense and disguise themselves in righteousness—shall perish."
It was from Han Feizi's Chapter on the Signs of a State's Fall, a passage Simon had read so many times he could recite it.
In recent years, he had come to realize how relevant Han Feizi's Signs of Collapse still was, even millennia later, and across cultures.
Janet, whose Chinese had grown increasingly refined, recognized the quote immediately, having walked in lockstep with her man in many ways. Tracing the freshly written characters with her finger, she commented, "I've also thought Stalin's only correct move was not fleeing Moscow. If he had, the Soviet Union might not have lasted past 1941."
Before Germany invaded, Soviet departments had received countless warnings about an impending attack. They even obtained the precise date. Yet Stalin, convinced the USSR was unprepared and thus unfit for war, adopted an absurd appeasement policy.
For instance, in the months before the war, German planes flew over Soviet airspace almost daily gathering intelligence. The Soviet response: fly as you wish—we won't retaliate. Even when a reconnaissance plane malfunctioned and landed in a Soviet airfield, it was returned intact, pilot and all.
The message was clear: I am a good person; I stand on the moral high ground. As long as I don't treat you as an enemy, no matter how aggressive you are, you will not become one.
But: "Those who hear of calamity and make no preparation, who disguise themselves in righteousness—shall perish."
The result? Stalin's grave error allowed German forces to push deep into Soviet territory. The war cost the Soviet military and civilians over 60 million lives—out of a population of just 180 million.
The elderly leadership that later plagued the USSR, and its eventual collapse, could be traced in part to this war, which devastated a whole generation.
Then, far across the ocean, a power that had profited handsomely from the war—playing both sides—emerged as the righteous victor. Normandy became the turning point of WWII, while the Soviet Union, which bore the brunt of the sacrifice, was eventually portrayed as the evil empire.
Because only victors stand on the moral high ground.
They are the "good guys."
They own the glory.
And the losers? They become the villains—dirty, evil, and incompetent.
Janet didn't mention the current political tension. She simply curled up in Simon's lap, reading with him for a few pages, sharing a cup of coffee, until A-Girl reappeared at the staircase to announce breakfast. At that point, she finally couldn't help but ask, "Are you sure you don't want Jenny and me to delay our trip to Asia?"
Their departure was scheduled for tomorrow morning. They would arrive in Singapore on Sunday afternoon local time, rest for a night, then begin a full week of work.
As for next Tuesday's election, the presence or absence of the two Jennies didn't really matter.
This was the norm in electoral politics.
In Western elections, turnout among eligible voters often didn't exceed 50%. When counting the entire population, it was sometimes under 30%.
Why?
Because for most people, time and again, all the noise ultimately changed nothing.
Simon knew Janet was worried about the election. Her staying would certainly help a little, but he still shook his head. "No need. There won't be any more surprises."
He leaned forward and clicked open the Alia financial software created by B-Girl.
With a three-hour time difference, the East Coast markets had already opened. The curve showed a slight drop after an initial dip—a steady, modest downward trend. There was no repeat of yesterday's dramatic crash.
This stability had come from an entire night of intense coordination across Westeros and countless aligned interests.
Simon himself didn't mind another circuit breaker—but many others couldn't stomach it. So it wasn't just Westeros: many forces had done everything they could to prevent Gore from stirring things up again.
Janet glanced at the market graph on screen. She understood. With just three days to the election, and the markets closed over the weekend, Monday remained the final trading day. Gore had already made extreme statements; if he won Tuesday, the tech bubble would likely burst.
If that happened, few in the U.S. would be spared the fallout.
So, given Bush's existing lead, this disruption had only backfired. Tuesday's vote was now unlikely to surprise anyone.
Janet, reassured, reluctantly left Simon's lap. When Simon stood, she lovingly linked arms with him and teased, "Gore really pissed off the whole world this time. I was wondering—do we still plan to drop the Enron bomb next month?"
Simon replied, deadpan, "What's that got to do with us? Enron gets caught cooking the books, the market crashes, I'm the biggest victim. My net worth drops hundreds of billions."
Janet gave him a sidelong glance, smiling: "Little devil."
After breakfast, Simon arrived early at Malibu's Daenerys Studios.
The past few days had been incredibly risky. After yesterday's circuit breaker, if today's markets hadn't stabilized, the election could've swung wildly again. Even a casual observer would realize yesterday's crash wasn't entirely natural. The hand behind it was obvious.
That's why Simon's ability to both unleash and then rein in a market storm made others wary—and forced them to choose sides.
Had he failed to pull things back, and the Nasdaq collapsed, even if Gore lost the election, there would've been a slew of problems to deal with.
But now, with Simon triggering a crash one day and stabilizing it the next, a potential rebound loomed for Tuesday if Gore lost—potentially erasing the dip entirely.
In that case, all blame would rest on Gore. The Westeros system would remain untainted.
In his studio office, Simon glanced once more at market data. The curve had rebounded slightly, nearly back to yesterday's closing index—stable overall.
He was at ease and got to work.
The first batch of documents A-Girl delivered covered the Halloween box office numbers.
From October 27 to November 2, The Conjuring 4: Death dominated. In its seven-day opening, it earned $79.34 million. Though it narrowly missed the $80 million milestone, it still set a franchise record and beat the second-place film by over $50 million.
That second-place film, Meeting Rome, was a Warner Bros. romantic drama starring Mel Gibson and DC's "Catwoman" Valeria Golino. A butterfly-produced original, it followed a down-on-his-luck American businessman in Rome who finds redemption and love through an Italian woman.
The story was decent, scoring 7.6 from media reviews, but originals couldn't compete with sequels. Despite the stars' fame, neither had strong romantic genre pull. Worse, it went up against The Conjuring 4. With a $45 million budget, its first week pulled in just $26.83 million.
A projected $60 million domestic gross—coupled with overseas and secondary markets—meant it wasn't a failure, but barely passable.
Everything else on the chart lagged even further.
Worth noting was Westeros's own Triangle, which opened the week prior with $14.36 million. Likely due to its smaller scale, it weathered The Conjuring 4's impact well—only dropping 28% in week two and earning another $10.33 million, totaling $24.69 million.
It should break $30 million this week. Whether it reaches $40 million domestically is up to luck.
With a total investment of $22 million, and overseas slightly outperforming domestic with nearly $30 million in revenue, the film had already entered its profit cycle—delivering better returns than Warner's Meeting Rome.
After an hour reviewing documents, 9:00 AM brought a regular executive meeting.
They discussed various tasks. Seeing no further agenda items in the memo, Simon looked up. Around him, Amy Pascal, Mark Belfort, and others stared at him intently. Twirling a pencil in hand, he remembered something and said, "Regardless of everything, Daenerys hitting the trillion-dollar milestone is worth celebrating. Amy, arrange something for the weekend."
Though it hadn't held above the mark for an entire session, Daenerys Entertainment had still become the third U.S. company to cross the trillion-dollar threshold—a historic achievement.
At this, Amy smiled. "Got it."
Still, no one relaxed.
Simon understood why. Before Gore's fallout, everyone had assumed the Westeros system supported the Democrats.
No one had expected such a rapid reversal.
Simon didn't ignore it. After a brief pause, he looked around and said, "There's a story…"
Everyone immediately perked up.
Simon organized his thoughts. "On the African savannah, a herd of wild horses and a herd of wild buffalo are fighting. My question is—if you're a lion, which side do you support?"
What kind of question was that?
Everyone blinked, and Nancy Brill, more comfortable speaking freely, blurted out, "Why would a lion support the horses or the buffalo?"
Simon grinned. "Exactly. Buffalo and horses are food for lions. A lion doesn't need to pick sides—because it's a predator higher up the food chain. Those herbivores are just prey."
Everyone got it.
Their boss was saying: he was the lion. And more broadly, the entire Westeros system was a pride of lions. The Democratic and Republican parties, fighting over seats in Washington, were just buffalo and horses squabbling over turf.
Seeing the dawning realization on their faces, Simon added, "I know you're wondering why I suddenly switched support. That analogy is the reason. As a lion on a different tier of the food chain, if I want beef, I'll eat beef. If I want horse, I'll eat horse. I don't align myself with prey. I hope you understand—we are Westerosians. We have our own position. We don't lower ourselves to align with what we feed on."
Simon's words could easily be nitpicked or criticized.
But no one here was a child. Their boss had explained things in a remarkably simple metaphor. Even if he hadn't directly addressed every question—and even if some of them still hadn't fully adapted to the idea of being "lions"—no one pushed back.
Whatever the case, their boss had his reasons.
And in just over a decade, he had built the vast Westeros system. Purely from a probability standpoint, his judgment was far more likely to be right than theirs.
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