King Jaehaerys II signed his name upon the Iron Bank's loan agreement and pressed down the seal of the three-headed black-and-red dragon, the symbol of House Targaryen's authority.
The seal fell.
The contract was complete.
Three years from this day, the Iron Bank would return—with parchment in hand—to demand repayment.
Finance, too, was a form of war.
Some wars required blood and fire.
Others were fought with ink and paper.
Tycho Myttys's smile finally bloomed, rich and satisfied—like a man who had drained several casks of fine wine, or received countless confessions of love. He recalled his voyage to King's Landing: oars cutting through the sea, the wind scattering clouds from the sky, the journey smooth and effortless.
An excellent omen.
The Dragon King's signature and seal were now secured. This loan was a resounding success. He had won the Iron Bank a loyal debtor—one who would not dare default. Perhaps he had even gained the favor of two generations of dragon kings. Within the Iron Bank itself, his ascent was all but guaranteed.
Across the goldenheart table, Jaehaerys felt his strength drain away all at once.
Borrowing from the Iron Bank was nothing more than drinking poison to quench thirst—but he had no other choice. In time, he would likely be forced to borrow again just to repay the first debt.
The citizens and nobles of King's Landing were not gentle folk. Raise taxes too sharply, and they truly might storm the Red Keep. No city in Westeros lacked mobs. When their interests were threatened, the smallfolk could become wildfire—whether driven by famine or faith.
The Red Keep itself had a long history of being besieged from within.
Rhaegar studied Tycho—the proud, seasoned Braavosi moneylender. He appeared to be in his early forties, the golden age for a lender of coin. His hair showed no trace of gray, and his eyes gleamed with contracts, gold, and ambition. His energy and experience made him perfectly suited to the Iron Bank's work.
"Let us drink," Tycho said, raising his cup, "to our fruitful cooperation—and to the friendship between the Sea Kings and the Dragon Kings."
He drank Arbor gold.
Jaehaerys raised his cup as well, though his held only warm water. His health had long since deteriorated; he avoided wine whenever possible. He had never been strong, and the burdens of rule had only worsened his condition.
Rhaegar lifted a cup of milk.
"Dear Prince," Tycho added pleasantly, "should you ever travel to Essos when you are older, you may contact me directly. This is my card. I would be honored to provide you with the finest services."
He placed a thin golden card upon the table. Upon it was engraved the Titan of Braavos, along with Tycho Myttys's name and residence.
Many Westerosi nobles journeyed to Essos. The Targaryens and Lannisters alike had produced countless adventurers. The young prince before him was brimming with vitality—clearly energetic, clearly destined to cross the Narrow Sea one day.
Tycho, already, was cultivating a future client.
Lavish hospitality was a lender's instinct. Wine, women, fine horses, pleasure barges, feasts—he would corrode the prince gently, patiently.
Rhaegar, meanwhile, was already contemplating something else entirely.
Among all factions on the two continents, these Iron Bank lenders possessed unparalleled insight and intelligence. They were, in truth, information elites.
The Iron Bank's walls were difficult to undermine—but not impossible.
And he approached them not as an enemy, but as a client.
The Sea Kings had no idea how deeply he understood the game of power. On the battlefield of politics, the finest actors lived the longest. Braavos did not yet realize how profound his wariness of them truly was.
Jaehaerys noticed none of this.
His thoughts had already flown a thousand leagues away—to the battlefield.
With this gold, the soldiers' burdens could finally be eased.
Seven save us.
May the war end soon.
The fires of war raged across the Stepstones and the surrounding seas.
After paying an enormous price, the royalist forces had finally secured their landing. The war had entered its most brutal phase—a grinding mill of flesh and steel.
On Bloodstone Isle, Maelys Blackfyre and Ormund Baratheon met upon a low hill.
Time itself seemed to slow.
Though the struggle between the royal army and the Golden Company remained savage, both sides instinctively cleared a path for their commanders.
Westerosi knightly culture revered single combat. Trial by combat, jousts, and decisive duels were woven deeply into its traditions. On the battlefield, it was common for commanders to charge one another, seeking to decide victory in a single clash.
A knight who shunned such duels was no true knight at all.
With the exception of the North, most southern lords and knights were obsessed with this culture. Many even believed that dying in single combat was a form of glory. The North, with its harsher land and different gods, had little patience for such ornamented chivalry.
History was filled with such duels.
Aemond One-Eye and Prince Daemon's battle above the God's Eye.
Orys Baratheon's clash with the Last Storm King during the Conquest.
Knights took pride in such contests, believing only these death duels embodied true chivalry.
Even Bloodraven's victories were privately scorned by many. He won wars with archers and spies, with deceit and betrayal—kinslaying included. To many, he was no knight at all.
A black dragon.
A crowned stag.
Their armor gleamed beneath the sky, ornate and radiant—the privilege of the powerful. Gold, gemstones, jade—only nobles could afford such splendor.
Ormund Baratheon wore golden armor and wielded a warhammer. His shield and breastplate bore the crowned stag, and upon his helm rose antlered adornments.
Maelys Blackfyre wore silver armor and carried a spiked mace of meteoric iron. A red surcoat flowed over his plate, emblazoned with the black dragon upon crimson.
"Yield," Maelys Blackfyre said, studying Ormund coldly. "And I will still name you my Hand of the King."
The massive tumor at his neck bulged grotesquely, lending him a monstrous air. His hair and beard were pale, yet his immense frame made him seem like a living titan. Born with unnatural strength, Maelys had once twisted a cousin's head from his shoulders with his bare hands.
Anyone who saw him knew—this was a savage warrior.
"The stag does not kneel to a bastard," Ormund roared.
"Bloodstone Isle will be the Blackfyres' grave!"
Maelys said no more.
He spurred his horse forward. The spiked mace came alive in his grip, writhing like a dragon in flight.
Ormund raised his warhammer and charged.
Fire seemed to surge between them.
A black dragon and a crowned stag rushed toward a battle to the death.
The battlefield—chaotic and soaked in blood—fell strangely quiet.
Nearby soldiers held their breath, watching the clash that would decide the war.
The White Bull.
Ser Barristan the Bold.
Barristan longed to charge forward—but he had no right.
A duel to the death was the commanders' honor.
But I am here, he thought. I must protect the duke.
His eyes never left the field as dragon and stag collided at last.