"Fifteen percent," King Jaehaerys II said firmly. "This is a transaction worth more than a million gold dragons. Even the Iron Bank would find it difficult to swallow such a sum. Besides, I could always seek a loan from Casterly Rock."
He tried to summon the dignity of a king. He knew well enough that forcing the Iron Bank to lower its rate—or extend its terms—was no easy thing. Still, bargaining was a duty owed to the realm.
When he finished speaking, Jaehaerys adjusted the crown upon his head.
Black iron inlaid with red gold, its rim adorned with short golden points—it had once belonged to Maekar I, his grandfather, a king who had been a true warrior.
The warrior's descendants, however, no longer possessed such strength.
"Great King," Tycho said with a thin smile, "no one escapes the eyes and ears of the Iron Bank."
He had come prepared—armed with information, leverage, and patience. This was a loan worth enormous returns. Every act of lending was a test of wisdom, ambition, and nerve. Above all else, it was a contest of information.
Tycho knew the truth.
A weakened dragon king had launched a clumsy war and desperately needed gold. The Targaryens still had decent credit, after all—seven kingdoms stood as collateral. And if all else failed, there might yet be dragon eggs to claim. That would be an unexpected delight.
Rhaegar studied the envoy's face. There was a reason moneylenders had been hated since the dawn of time.
Compared to Braavos, the Dragonlords held very few cards.
The knights of House Targaryen were dead.
Their dragons had vanished long ago.
"Borrowing from House Lannister would not be enough," Tycho continued calmly.
"As I understand it, before the tragedy at Summerhall, you had no intention of borrowing at all. Prince Duncan even mocked the Ninepenny Kings, saying they were worth no more than nine copper coins."
"If Prince Duncan or Ser Duncan the Tall had led this campaign, their names alone would have drawn hedge knights, second sons, and smallfolk in numbers enough to drown Maelys Blackfyre's Golden Company."
"But Summerhall changed everything."
"To summon large, disciplined armies, the crown requires gold. Vast amounts of it."
"Lord Tytos Lannister is hesitant by nature. He cannot raise such a sum in the short term. And Your Grace—your army at the front needs coin now. Not later."
"What, then, are you waiting for?"
Tycho spread his hands slightly.
"Only we—the Iron Bank—can satisfy all your needs."
Jaehaerys II fell silent.
The envoy's words struck true.
The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been expected to end easily. Optimism had been universal. No one had foreseen that a single blaze would destroy everything—that Summerhall would consume not just lives, but the realm's future commanders.
There was no Prince Duncan.
No Ser Duncan the Tall.
Not even a Bloodraven.
Ink and parchment could not win wars. Civilization still required warriors to guard it.
After Summerhall, this carefully prepared war became a gold-devouring dragon.
Without gold, war could not continue. Armor, food, medicine—none of it endured without coin. Without gold, the Ironborn would sail west in fury, or even strike at King's Landing itself. Without gold, crippled veterans would turn into the most terrifying kind of bandits, venting their rage upon the smallfolk.
As for the Laughing Lion of Casterly Rock—hesitant, ruled by his lady wife, incapable of even managing his own household. Rumors claimed that after marrying his daughter to the upstart Freys, his son Tywin had struck him across the face.
Such a man could never raise vast sums swiftly. Worse still, he could not keep secrets. If borrowing from the lions became public knowledge, the king's authority would suffer another blow.
That left only the Iron Bank.
Stronger.
Quieter.
More discreet.
"Then tell me this," Jaehaerys said at last, fatigue seeping into his voice. "Why did you not lend to the Blackfyres instead?"
He was truly tired now. Without Duke Mormont—no, Duke Manderly—by his side, making such decisions alone felt like being crushed beneath the Wall itself. In his mind, he could almost hear the Sea Kings laughing, mocking him as an unworthy descendant of dragons.
Still, the terms before him were acceptable. They matched what he and Duke Manderly had calculated.
"Business is much like war," Tycho replied smoothly.
"We have already assessed Maelys Blackfyre's chances of victory."
"They are negligible."
"The previous Blackfyre rebellions all failed. Why should this one succeed? It is only a matter of time. Even if Daemon Blackfyre himself were reborn, he could not seize the Iron Throne."
"And Maelys Blackfyre has neither wife nor child. A vagrant with no heir—he cannot even provide a guarantor."
"You, however, are different."
"You possess the Seven Kingdoms. You can allow your sons and grandsons to repay the debt."
"We hate the Ninepenny Kings as much as you do. They disrupt order and prevent us from collecting our loans."
Tycho laughed.
It was the laughter of a man savoring fine wine.
If this transaction succeeded, he would gain an enormous share of the profits—and his standing within the Iron Bank would rise sharply. More than that, forcing a dragon king—even a weakened one—into submission filled him with delight.
Damn you dragons, he thought. Your days of squeezing Braavos are long over.
In the end, the contract was settled.
Interest: 20 percent
Principal: Two million Iron Bank gold coins
Term: Three years
Tycho produced the prepared documents. Upon the parchment was the faint watermark of a Titan—fearless and towering.
The moment King Jaehaerys signed his name, Rhaegar felt as though his grandfather had aged several years.
"Game of Thrones System Notification:
Small Player, congratulations on witnessing a major historical event. Player Aptitude Increased."
Rhaegar blinked in surprise. His achievements panel had advanced once more.
The pact between Jaehaerys and the Iron Bank was another cog in the turning wheel of history.
Behind the rise and fall of kings, behind wars and alliances, Braavos was always there.
Watching from the shadows—
like a colossal beast lurking beneath the sea, revealing its fangs only when necessary.
They possessed the world's finest warships.
An Iron Bank of unmatched wealth.
And the dreaded Faceless Men.
The Targaryens ruled the land.
Braavos ruled the sea.
After the dragons died… who could truly oppose them?
The Blue Titan.
Lord of the Waves.
They were content with their dominance—and uninterested in direct challenge.
The legendary Lysene banker Lysandro Rogare's death… perhaps even that bore the mark of the Faceless Men.
In Essos and Westeros alike, Braavos tolerated no defiance.
Braavos.
Braavos.
Rhaegar repeated the name silently.
In the long run, every Free City of Essos deserved caution.
Lys produced poisons—Tears of Lys, the Strangler.
Myr produced crossbows—the devil's weapons.
But the greatest threat of all was Braavos.
Its shadow loomed long over Westeros—especially over House Targaryen.
Braavos, the Secret City.
The City of the Sea.
Founded by slaves fleeing Valyria itself.
Between it and the ancient Dragonlords lay not merely old grudges, but blood-soaked history.
After Valyria's fall, Braavos rose to become the greatest power upon the continents.
The Targaryens would borrow from the Iron Bank—
Yet fear still lingered deep in their hearts.