Chapter 8: The Envoy of the Iron Bank
King's Landing had lost its anchor.
With the war raging in the Stepstones, the city's moods shifted as unpredictably as the tides. One day there was confidence, the next unease. Even the air seemed restless.
In the brothels of the city, men no longer spoke only of women and wine. They argued over the progress of the war, praised the valor of knights whose names they barely knew, and mourned common soldiers who would never return. War had become everyone's business.
The War of the Ninepenny Kings was unlike any conflict Westeros had seen in living memory. It was not the quarrel of a single region, but a rare joint effort under the Iron Throne's banner.
From the frozen North to the burning sands of Dorne, from the Iron Islands to the Stormlands, banners were raised and swords answered the call.
Dorne's participation stemmed from its long alliance with House Targaryen. The Iron Islands, for once, did not raid the coasts freely—its Lord had chosen restraint, if only temporarily.
Among all the great houses, none contributed more men and coin than House Baratheon of Storm's End. Close behind them stood House Lannister. The gold of Casterly Rock flowed like a river, sustaining a well-equipped and well-paid host. In sheer financial strength, perhaps only House Tyrell of the Reach could compare.
Most people imagined war as blood, fire, and glory.
Few considered what came after.
Bread, beef, butter—and gold—burned just as fiercely.
Gold Dragons and Silver Stags were devoured in staggering numbers on the distant Stepstones, and every clink of coin echoed back to King's Landing.
Within the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys II Targaryen sat beneath that weight.
In a secluded chamber deep within the Red Keep, the king received a visitor from across the Narrow Sea.
Only a handful were present.
King Jaehaerys II had dismissed the rest of the court. A king borrowing vast sums was not a glorious affair, and he would not expose his dignity to idle tongues.
At his side sat Prince Rhaegar, small enough that his feet did not reach the floor, yet already provided with a chair of his own.
By now, the court had grown accustomed to the child's presence. Rhaegar's quiet nature and uncanny attentiveness had earned him a reputation as a prodigy, and King Jaehaerys himself no longer found it strange to bring his grandson to private audiences.
As Rhaegar settled into his seat, his expression calm and composed, his thoughts moved far more freely.
Game of thrones, he mused inwardly. With a few added points.
It was precisely for this reason that he enjoyed attending such meetings.
The chamber was lit by a low fire, its flickering glow casting long shadows across the stone walls. Between the king and the Braavosi envoy stood a table carved from goldenheart wood, its faint fragrance lingering in the air.
It was an expensive piece, rarely used.
That it had been brought out today was a deliberate signal.
The envoy from the Iron Bank stood opposite the king—tall, slender, and impeccably composed. His face revealed little, the practiced neutrality of a man accustomed to weighing kingdoms in columns of numbers.
His hair, cut short and neatly groomed, bore the reddish hue common among Braavosi. He wore a robe trimmed with dark sable, modest in cut yet unmistakably costly.
"Your Grace," the envoy said smoothly, bowing with exact precision. "Allow me to present myself. I am a humble servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos, entrusted with matters of credit and repayment."
His Westerosi tongue was fluent, touched only lightly by a foreign accent.
His gaze then shifted, briefly, to the child beside the king.
"And this," he said, inclining his head, "must be Prince Rhaegar. Blessed by the gods, and already spoken of across the Narrow Sea."
From within his sleeve, he produced a small object and set it upon the table—a finely wrought golden dragon, three heads intertwined, its eyes set with tiny rubies.
"A modest gift from Braavos," he said. "May it bring good fortune."
Rhaegar's eyes flickered with interest—but he did not reach for it.
Gold from Braavos is rarely without a price, he thought calmly. If nothing else, it can always be melted down.
King Jaehaerys allowed himself a faint smile.
"Your knowledge is thorough," the king said. "Few beyond my court know my grandson so well."
"A banker survives on information, Your Grace," the envoy replied without hesitation. "Coin is deaf and blind. Men are not."
King Jaehaerys took a measured sip of wine before continuing.
"You speak our tongue well. That spares us the need for interpreters."
"We serve across seas and cultures," the envoy said. "The Iron Bank demands competence. Westeros has long been a valuable partner. The kings of the North borrowed from us. So did your ancestors, the Dragonlords."
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"History remembers that cooperation fondly."
The king's expression darkened as a parchment was placed before him.
"Everything else may be discussed," Jaehaerys II said slowly, "but this interest rate—thirty percent—is excessive."
"On the contrary," the envoy replied smoothly. "It reflects confidence. Your Grace's credit is strong, even in wartime. And with the Rogare Bank of Lys fallen, there is no institution left that rivals our reach."
The implication was clear.
The Rogare family—once dominant across both continents—had collapsed within a generation. Some whispered of poison, others of faceless shadows in the night.
Only the Iron Bank endured.
King Jaehaerys frowned deeply.
Even spread over years, repayment would be crushing. Taxes alone could barely sustain the realm, let alone cover millions of Gold Dragons.
Armor, ships, mercenaries, provisions—every line of war expenditure carved another wound into the crown's treasury.
The king hesitated.
Three years.
Thirty percent.
A sum vast enough to choke a kingdom.
The envoy watched patiently before speaking again.
"There are… alternatives," he said mildly. "House Targaryen still possesses treasures beyond price. Dragon eggs, for instance."
The word hung heavily in the chamber.
The dragons had died nearly a century ago.
Yet the world's fascination with them had never truly faded.
A single egg could buy a city in Essos.
And in lands where Valyrian blood still lingered—Lys, Tyrosh, even among the Blackfyre remnants—hope was a currency as valuable as gold.
"When one has dragons," the envoy concluded softly, "gold flows easily. When one does not, gold becomes difficult to gather."
He inclined his head.
"But the Iron Bank endures. Business is business, Your Grace."
The fire crackled.
Rhaegar said nothing.
But he listened to every word.
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