In King's Landing, it seemed as though no one truly held the reins anymore. Moods rose and fell with every scrap of news from the war.
Within the city's brothels, the talk was all of battle—of knightly valor, of the sacrifices of common soldiers. The War of the Ninepenny Kings was unlike anything Westeros had seen before: a coalition war on an unprecedented scale, drawing immense attention.
From the frozen North to blazing Dorne, from the Iron Islands to the Stormlands, warriors answered the Iron Throne's call. Dorne's participation came thanks to the alliance between dragon and sun, while the Iron Islands—rarely so cooperative—were led by an unusually peace-minded king.
Among all the great houses, none contributed more than House Baratheon and House Lannister. Especially the Lannisters: the gold flowing endlessly from their mines allowed them to maintain a large, well-paid army. Perhaps only House Tyrell of the Reach could rival them in such abundance.
Most people saw war as blood and fire, as passion and glory. Yet when the fighting ended, what truly burned was bread, beef, butter—and gold. Gold dragons and silver stags were being consumed in vast quantities by the fires of the Stepstones war.
Within the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys II was still troubled by one thing above all else: the cost.
In a hidden chamber deep within the castle, Rhaegar sat beside his grandfather as they faced an envoy from the Iron Bank. Jaehaerys II had dismissed all others. A king borrowing vast sums was not a dignified sight, and he had no desire to pawn off the last scraps of royal pride.
Young Rhaegar had been given a chair of his own. His reputation as a prodigy had already spread, and over time the king and his council had grown accustomed to the boy's quiet maturity.
In truth, as Rhaegar sat there, he was thinking only one thing:
The game of thrones… add skill points.
That, above all, was why he enjoyed attending meetings with his grandfather.
Firelight flickered, casting the king and the Iron Bank's envoy in deep shadow. A long table of goldenheart wood stood between them, still exuding a faint, pleasant fragrance. It had cost a fortune—Jaehaerys II rarely used it. To do so now was a gesture of sincerity.
The envoy was impeccably polite, yet his appearance betrayed the sharp calculation and cool detachment of a banker. He was tall and thin, his face expressionless—like a fixed playing card. His short red hair was meticulously styled, clearly treated with some substance to hold its shape. Over his clothes he wore a long robe of purple sable, complete with a stiff, tailored collar.
"Your Grace," he said smoothly, "allow me to introduce myself. Tycho Mettys—humble servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos, and an experienced lender."
His accent was fluent. Though not that of King's Landing, it was clear and precise, colored only faintly by Braavosi tones.
"And this delightful child must be Prince Rhaegar," Tycho continued. "Blessed by the gods—Rhaegar the Precocious. A small gift from Braavos, Your Highness. Please accept it."
He reached into his sleeve and produced a small toy: a three-headed dragon carved entirely of gold, its eyes set with tiny rubies. Lifelike—and undeniably charming.
Rhaegar's eyes lit up, yet he did not reach for it. Gifts from Braavos were rarely without hooks. Better to melt it down later and spend it properly.
"You are well-informed, envoy," King Jaehaerys said, his expression easing slightly. "Even you know my grandson's name."
Praising a child before his elders was a tactic that never failed.
"As a lender, Your Grace, I make it my business to know things," Tycho replied calmly. "A merchant must be cautious. One must have many ears."
The Iron Bank's network was vast, and he made no attempt to deny it. Information, too, was a form of intimidation.
"Your pronunciation is excellent," the king noted, taking a sip of tea. "I had not expected such fluency across such distance. It spares us the trouble of a translator."
"Your kindness honors me," Tycho said with a slight bow. "Though seas divide us, trade binds Braavos and Westeros countless times over. Distant kin can be closer than neighbors. Our past cooperation still feels recent—wolf kings have borrowed from us, as have dragon kings."
He smiled faintly.
"And as humble servants of the Iron Bank, we must master many arts. The dangers we face in its service are not easily imagined."
His teeth were white. The goat beard did nothing to soften the smile. Lending money was a dangerous trade; those who survived it were rarely fools.
"Still," Jaehaerys said slowly, "this interest rate seems… excessive."
"Thirty percent is not high," Tycho replied at once. "Especially given Your Grace's excellent reputation. We have full confidence in House Targaryen's ability to raise funds. And in this age—now that the Rogare Bank of Lys has collapsed—who else possesses resources to rival the Iron Bank?"
There was threat and pride alike in his words. The Rogare family, once financiers to kings across two continents, had withered swiftly after the Rogare brothers' deaths. The Iron Bank alone remained resplendent.
Some whispered that the death of Lysene magister-bankers—Lysandro Rogare among them—had involved darker forces. The Faceless Men were infamous, and Braavos had many shadows.
"Even so," the king said, brow furrowed, "repayment through taxes alone will be difficult, even over several years."
Each stroke of the quill would feel like carving a wound into his heart. A fine suit of armor cost four gold dragons—and war devoured far more than steel.
So many levies had been raised. Even without pensions, the army's supply lines could not be neglected. And the Old Kraken's fleet from the Iron Islands had not sailed without gifts of gold.
Three years. Thirty percent interest. Loans totaling more than a million gold dragons.
"Your Grace," Tycho said gently, sensing hesitation, "there is no need for such distress. House Targaryen still possesses the most precious treasures in the world. Should the need arise, dragon eggs would more than suffice as collateral."
A cunning smile curved his lips.
The dragons had been gone for over a century.
Yet the world's fascination with them had never truly faded—least of all the Targaryens'. The Iron Bank did not lack gold. What it desired were things of value. Dragon eggs ranked high among them.
A single egg could purchase a small city in Essos.
And Essos still held scattered traces of Valyrian blood. Half of Lys wore silver hair. Blackfyre pretenders yet lived. Even Daemon Blackfyre's daughter's descendants carried dragon blood.
With enough coin, one could always find dragonseeds. One egg might yet hatch.
"All is business, Your Grace," Tycho concluded calmly. "When you had dragons, gold flowed easily from your lords. Without dragons, it does not. But the Iron Bank endures, always."
"Business," he said softly, "is business."