Dragonstone, The Harbor.
The Braavosi vessel had docked, and a delegation was disembarking.
Leading them was a man of staggering proportions, at least three hundred pounds, draped in deep blue silk robes embroidered with gold thread.
His belly strained against a tight belt, and his round face was fixed with a smile that squinted his eyes into two thin slits.
Aemond waited in the clearing. The tent was makeshift, made from salvaged sails, but the interior was laid with carpets and fine furniture scavenged from the fortress.
The fat man paused to straighten his robes before entering. His smile broadened.
"Noble Prince Aemond Targaryen!" he bellowed.
"Allow me to introduce myself: Grover Anken, representative of the Iron Bank, and plenipotentiary envoy of His Seelordship of Braavos. Seeing you is a profound honor!"
He spoke the Common Tongue fluently, albeit with a Braavosi lilt.
Aemond remained seated, gesturing toward a chair.
"Mr. Grover, welcome to Dragonstone. You must forgive the lack of hospitality; the fires of war have only just cooled."
"Think nothing of it!" Grover sat, the chair creaking under his weight.
"Gold is forged in fire, after all! Your Grace took Driftmark in a day, fought a flight of dragons, and broke Dragonstone in three. Your fame will soon sweep across Essos!"
Aemond's face remained impassive.
"I assume you didn't travel this far for flattery. Let us be direct: What does Braavos want, and what can you offer me?"
Grover's smile faltered for a heartbeat. He hadn't expected Aemond to be this efficient, bypassing all social pleasantries.
'A merchant likes efficiency, he thought.
"Your Grace is a man of action," Grover said, rubbing his fleshy palms.
"Braavos did indeed have... commercial arrangements with Princess Rhaenyra's faction. But!" He turned indignant.
"Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra have gone too far! They have allied with Volantis to strike at the Triarchy! Volantis! Those madmen in their Black Walls who dream of rebuilding the Valyrian Freehold!"
"Do you know what the Volantenes want? They want to drag the world back to the age of slavery. It is a catastrophe for civilization!"
Aemond waited for the theatrics to subside.
"I hold the philosophy of my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror. Once we settled Westeros, we ceased to meddle in the affairs of the Free Cities. I am a man of tradition; Braavos surely knows this."
"We do! That is why we are here!" Grover's eyes lit up.
"You represent order. Daemon and Rhaenyra have been blinded by ambition, siding with slavers to rebuild an empire that enslaved the world. It is a betrayal of your own lineage!"
Aemond felt a cold amusement. Braavos doesn't care about lineage; it cares about its monopoly on trade.
"And so, Braavos proposes...?"
"Cooperation!" Grover leaned in, his belly hitting the table.
"We need your dragons to maintain the balance. And you need... well, Your Grace, what do you need?"
The probe had arrived. Aemond didn't hesitate.
"Gold. I need gold dragons. A vast quantity."
Grover's smile deepened. Money was the Iron Bank's specialty.
"How much?"
"Two million."
Grover's smile froze. He blinked. "Your Grace... that figure... it is somewhat... beyond the scope of a standard loan."
"It can be in resources," Aemond added.
"Grain, weapons, armor, horses, warships. Two million Gold Dragons' worth. Braavos controls half the world's trade; this should not be difficult for you."
Grover began to sweat. He dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief.
"It is not that we are unwilling... but the Iron Bank requires collateral. What do you offer? Driftmark? Dragonstone? Or...?"
"The Iron Throne," Aemond said.
Grover dropped his handkerchief. The smile vanished, replaced by a mixture of shock and greed.
Collateralizing the Iron Throne? It was unheard of.
"Your Grace... you jest. We wouldn't dare, "
"I do not jest," Aemond cut him off.
"I will not lose. Or does Braavos doubt I can win?"
Grover hesitated. Braavos had no choice. If the Blacks and Volantis won, Braavos would be isolated. Supporting the Greens was the only way to maintain the status quo.
"We believe in you, Your Grace. But... there is the matter of the Blacks. Prince Daemon has already borrowed 1.25 million from the Iron Bank in Tyrosh, and there are... signs of potential default. If we lend you two million, the risk of their 1.25 million bad debt must be shifted to you. After all, they are Targaryens; their debt is the Crown's debt, is it not?"
Aemond nodded. "I accept. Their debt is mine. A total of 3.25 million. But the interest..."
"We can discuss the interest!" Grover's eyes sparkled.
"For our best friend... how does five percent sound? One of the lowest in our history!"
"Too high," Aemond said.
"Four point five?"
"Still high."
Grover gritted his teeth. "Four percent! I cannot go lower! Your Grace, on a principal of 3.25 million, that is 130,000 dragons a year! The Bank has shareholders to satisfy!"
Aemond stared at him.
"Three point five percent," Grover squeezed the words out.
"My absolute floor. If I go lower, the Bank will throw me into the lagoon to feed the eels."
Aemond finally nodded.
"Deal."
The contract was signed then and there, the largest war loan in the history of Westeros.
As the ink dried, the atmosphere shifted to a superficial cordiality.
Aemond hosted a dinner of roast lamb and Arbor Red.
Grover was talkative, spinning yarns of the Narrow Sea, while Aemond listened with a faint smile.
It was a farce. The Braavosi were not friends; they were vultures.
But it didn't matter. Aemond needed their gold and their hundred-ship fleet to hold the Gullet.
Once the war is won, Aemond thought, swirling his wine, if Braavos wants their gold back, they can try and collect it from the mouth of a dragon.
-----
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