King Jaehaerys signed the loan agreement with the Iron Bank and sealed it with the three-headed red-and-black dragon, the emblem of Targaryen authority.
The seal was affixed; the loan agreement was formally concluded.
Three years from today, the Iron Bank would arrive with the demand for repayment.
Finance, too, is a form of war.
Some wars demand blood and fire; others require only paper and pen.
Tycho Nestoris's smile already shone, as if he had drained many casks of wine or received countless declarations from maidens. He recalled sailing to King's Landing: oars cleaving the sea, salt wind scattering the clouds, carefree and content—a fine omen.
The Dragonlord's signature and seal were in place; this loan had been a complete success. He had secured for the Iron Bank a loyal borrower who would not default. Perhaps he had also won the friendship of two generations of dragon kings, and within the Iron Bank his own star would rise.
Across the goldenheart-wood table, Jaehaerys felt his strength drain away. Borrowing from the Iron Bank was merely drinking poison to quench thirst, yet he had no choice. No doubt the day would come when new loans would be taken simply to service the old.
The folk and nobles of King's Landing were not to be trifled with; let their taxes rise and they would truly storm the Red Keep. Every city in Westeros had its mobs. When their interests went unprotected they became wildfire gone mad—over famine, over faith. The Red Keep had long experience of such assaults.
Rhaegar studied Tycho: a proud and seasoned Braavosi lender of the Iron Bank, about forty—prime age for a money-man. No trace of grey in his hair, his eyes alive with contracts, coin, and ambition. His vigor and résumé would let him serve the Iron Bank to perfection.
"Raise your cups—to our splendid partnership, and to the friendship between the Sea King and the Dragonlords." Tycho lifted his goblet of fine Arbor red.
Jaehaerys II and Rhaegar drank as well; Rhaegar took milk, the king plain boiled water. The king's health was poor, and he avoided wine whenever possible. He had been frail from birth, and the burdens of rule had only worsened it.
"Dear prince, should you ever wish to travel in Essos when you are older, you may contact me. Here is my card; if ever you need, I shall provide you the finest service." Tycho Nestoris set a card on the table—a golden plaque etched with the titan of braavos and his own name and address.
Many Westerosi nobles toured Essos; Targaryens, Lannisters, and others all had adventurers among them. The sturdy little prince brimmed with energy—clearly a spirited child—very likely to meet again in Braavos. In his mind Tycho already saw another client to cultivate.
Keeping high-value clients pampered is a lender's instinct; he would ply the prince with fine wine, fair women, swift horses, pleasure-boats, and feasts.
In Rhaegar's mind, too, thoughts of buying Tycho had already sprouted. For grasping the politics of both continents and gathering intelligence, these Iron Bank lenders were unrivaled—veritable spies without peer.
The Iron Bank's corner is hard to chip, yet not impossible—especially when one appears merely as a client, and the Sea Kings have no inkling how deep he plays the game of thrones. On the battlefield of power, a good actor survives longer. Braavos had no idea how profound his wariness of them ran.
Jaehaerys paid the interlude no heed; his thoughts were already leagues away on distant battlefields.
With these gold dragons, most of the soldiers' worries could be eased.
May the Seven grant the war end swiftly… Flames now raged across the Stepstones and the seas between the isles.
The royalist army, after grievous sacrifice, had landed; the war had sunk into a meat-grinder of flesh and blood.
On Bloodstone, Maris Blackfyre and Lord Monder Baratheon met upon a low ridge.
Time itself seemed to slow; the butchery between Royalistss and Golden Company endured, yet both sides instinctively cleared a path for their commanders.
Westerosi knightly culture had made single combat to the death a fashion: trial by combat, jousts—each feeding the craze. Generals often charged one another on the field, victory or ruin in a single clash. A knight who disliked such duels was no true Westerosi warrior.
Save for the North, most southern nobles and knights were obsessed with this culture of headlong, fatal charges, even deeming death in single combat an honor. The North worshipped different gods, endured harsher climes and sparse folk, and had no patience for such flowery knightly display.
History held many such duels: in the Dance of the Dragons, one-eyed Aemond and his uncle Daemon the Rogue Prince at Gods Eye Lake; the Conquest saw Orys Baratheon slay the last Storm King—each tale famous.
Knights and lords prided themselves on single combat, believing the truest knight faced his foe alone to the death.
Privately many scoffed at Bloodraven's victories: he won with longbowmen and spies, broke his word, loved deceit, slew his own kin—no true knight.
Black Dragon and Stag: their armor blinding in the sun, ornate and flamboyant—trappings only the wealthy and mighty could afford, studded with gold, gems, and jade.
Lord Monder wore gilded plate and carried a war-hammer. His golden shield and breastplate bore the Stag; his helm was a Stag's head crowned with antlers.
Maris Blackfyre wore silver armor and bore a meteor-hammer. Over his mail he wore a red surcoat blazoned with a black dragon on red.
"Yield to me, my lord, and I will still name you hand of the king," Maris Blackfyre called, meteor-hammer in hand, eyes on Lord Monder. The huge wen at his neck only made him more hideous; his hair and beard were white, yet his massive frame and arms still gave him the look of a Titan. Maris Blackfyre had been monstrously strong, once twisting off his cousin's head. Any who saw him knew him for a fury in battle.
"A Stag does not kneel to a bastard. Bloodstone shall be the Blackfyre's grave," Lord Monder roared.
Maris Blackfyre spoke no more; spurring his charger, he charged, the meteor-hammer alive like a writhing dragon.
Lord Monder raised his own hammer and thundered to meet him.
Flowing fire seemed to blaze: a black dragon and a Stag locked in mortal combat.
The chaotic, bloody field grew hushed around their duel.
Warriors nearest them held breath, watching the contest. White Bull, fearless Barristan Selmy.
Fearless Barristan itched to charge, yet he had no right to interfere now.
single combat was a privilege reserved for commanders.
But I am here; I must keep my lord safe. Barristan watched with every fiber as black dragon and Stag crashed together.