Chapter 9: The Shadow of Braavos
"Fifteen percent… this is a massive contract, worth millions of Gold Dragons. Even the Iron Bank would tread carefully with such a deal," King Jaehaerys II muttered. He straightened the crown atop his head—a piece of black iron and red gold, with golden horns rising from its circlet, once worn by his ancestor, Maekar I. Though Maekar had been a bold warrior, the blood of heroes seemed weaker in his descendants. Still, Jaehaerys had to show authority.
Before him, the Braavosi envoy remained calm, unreadable. His posture, his voice, all conveyed the quiet power of the Iron Bank. "Your Grace, no one escapes the eyes and ears of Braavos," he said smoothly.
The envoy had arrived with careful preparation, armed with intelligence and financial insight. Every loan he brokered was not just about coin, but about strategy, timing, and foresight.
He knew the Targaryens were desperate. The Dragonlords had suffered a series of setbacks, their forces depleted. Their dragons were extinct, their knights few and scattered. In this moment, the Iron Bank held all the leverage.
Rhaegar, seated quietly nearby, studied the envoy. There was a reason moneylenders had always been feared. Cold, precise, and unyielding, they wielded a power few swords could match.
"Borrowing from the Lannisters would not suffice," the envoy continued. "Before the tragedy at Summerhall, the Crown had options. Prince Duncan could have rallied men and knights to overwhelm any threat. But with the loss of key commanders, the treasury alone cannot sustain a full army. To raise troops now requires Gold Dragons—armor, provisions, wages, gifts to mercenaries. Everything demands coin."
Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed. The envoy's words were accurate. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had begun under optimistic assumptions, yet after Summerhall, the kingdom's position was fragile. Experienced commanders were gone. Dragons were gone. Without gold, the war would stall; without gold, angry Ironborn might strike the coasts; without gold, disgruntled veterans could turn to banditry.
"The Lannisters, the Laughing Lion of Casterly Rock… indecisive and guided by counsel rather than action, cannot produce these sums quickly," the envoy continued. "Moreover, the secrecy of a large loan cannot be guaranteed through them. If the city knew the King borrowed from them, his authority would be weakened. That leaves only the Iron Bank—discreet, patient, and capable."
Jaehaerys rubbed his temples. "Then why not lend to Blackfyre? Maris?"
The envoy smiled faintly, as if amused by the question. "Business is like war, Your Grace. We assess risk. Maris Blackfyre's chances are negligible. The prior Blackfyre Rebellions all failed. Even if Daemon Blackfyre himself returned, seizing the Iron Throne would be impossible. Maris has no heirs, no guarantors. He cannot command loyalty as you can. You, Your Grace, possess the realm, your sons and grandsons, your legacies—all security enough for repayment."
The envoy's tone shifted subtly. "We despise the Ninepenny Band as much as you. They disrupt our order, making our other loans harder to recover. A loan to the Crown is far safer—and far more profitable."
Jaehaerys finally nodded, realizing the depth of the Iron Bank's influence. Their reach was vast, silent, and unyielding. They watched from the shadows, controlling seas, coin, and secrets alike. Dragons may be gone, but the shadow of Braavos remained.
The contract was drawn. The interest rate was set at twenty percent, the principal at two million Iron Bank gold coins, repayable over three years. The envoy produced the prepared documents, each stamped with the unmistakable seal of Braavos—a titan rising from the waves.
As the King signed, Rhaegar felt the gravity of the moment settle on him. History was moving around him, and even a child could sense it.
Small player in a grand game, he thought, aware that this single contract could shape kingdoms.
Braavos, the hidden city of the sea, was more than a lender. Its influence spanned continents. Its fleets dominated trade routes. Its wealth dictated the fates of kings and lords alike. And behind every decision, every coin, lay a quiet, unyielding power, waiting patiently for the right moment.
The Targaryens might rule the land, but Braavos ruled the shadows.
Rhaegar whispered the city's name under his breath. Braavos… the unseen hand.
In that quiet chamber, the wheels of history turned once more, and the shadow of Braavos stretched across Westeros, long and cold.
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