The Braavosi ship had docked. The gangplank descended, and a party of men began to disembark.
The fat man at their head was impossible to miss. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, wrapped in a dark blue silk robe embroidered with golden thread, a belt straining to contain his vast belly. His round face was creased with smiles, his eyes squeezed into two slits.
Aemond awaited them in a clearing near the harbor. A large pavilion had been erected—canvas hastily taken from a supply ship, but the floor was carpeted, and tables and chairs had been set out in proper fashion.
The fat man approached the pavilion. He paused at the entrance, straightened his robes, and entered.
His smile widened until it seemed it might split his face.
«His Royal Highness Prince Aemond Targaryen!» the fat man boomed. He beamed.
«Allow me to introduce myself: Grover Ankharel, representative of the Iron Bank, and duly appointed plenipotentiary envoy of the Most Serene Republic of Braavos.»
«It is an honor to finally meet you in person!»
He spoke the Common Tongue with a slight Braavosi accent, but fluently.
Aemond sat in the pavilion's place of honor. He did not rise. He raised a hand, gesturing to the seat across from him.
«Master Grover. Welcome to Dragonstone.»
«As you can see, we have just endured a siege. Our hospitality is… lacking. I hope you will forgive the accommodations.»
«Not at all, not at all!» Grover settled into the offered chair; it creaked alarmingly under his weight. «War reveals a man's true metal, does it not?»
«Your Highness took Driftmark in a single day, fought a dragon battle and won, and reduced the dragonhold in three. They say you use soldiers like the gods use thunder. Your reputation will soon be known across all Essos!»
Aemond's face showed nothing. He waited for Grover to finish.
«Master Grover has traveled a long way,» he said. «I doubt it was merely to sing my praises.»
«Let us speak plainly. What does Braavos want, and what can Braavos give me?»
Grover's smile froze for an instant—then returned, as if nothing had happened.
He had not expected such directness. No pleasantries, no dancing. Just… straight to the heart of it.
Well, he thought, businessmen like efficiency.
«Your Highness is refreshingly direct,» Grover said, rubbing his thick palms together.
«Then I shall be equally plain.»
«Braavos has… a commercial relationship with the blacks. With Princess Rhaenyra, that is.»
He watched Aemond's face. Saw nothing.
«But!» Grover's tone shifted. He managed to look indignant, an impressive feat for a man of his girth.
«Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra have gone too far!»
«It is outrageous! They have allied themselves with Volantis! They have attacked the Triarchy!»
«Volantis! That city of slavers! Those madmen who still dream of restoring the Valyrian Freehold!»
«Your Highness, do you know what the Volantenes want?»
«They want to restore the old order. They want to drag all of Essos back into the age of slavery!»
«It is a regression of civilization! A catastrophe for both continents!»
He spoke with passion; the flesh of his face quivered with each syllable.
Aemond waited for him to finish. Then he spoke, slowly.
«I have always agreed with the policy of my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.»
«When the Targaryens took the Seven Kingdoms, they settled in Westeros. They did not return to Essos to meddle in the affairs of the Free Cities.»
«I am a keeper of traditions. I believe Braavos knows this.»
«We do! Of course we do!» Grover's eyes lit up, as if he had found a kindred spirit. «That is precisely why we have come to you, Your Highness! You and your faction represent order, tradition, civilization!»
«Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra, on the other hand—they have been blinded by ambition! They would ally with the slavers of Volantis to rebuild an empire that once enslaved all of humanity!»
«It is a betrayal of everything your Targaryen ancestors stood for!»
Aemond smiled inwardly. His face remained still.
«So,» he said. «Braavos proposes…?»
«An alliance!» Grover leaned forward, his belly pressing against the table's edge. His eyes were fixed on Aemond.
«We need you, Your Highness. More precisely, we need your dragons.»
«If Volantis and the blacks join forces, the balance of power in Essos will be shattered. Braavos cannot allow that.»
«And you…» He spread his hands. «Well. What does Your Highness need? Name it.»
The temptation, Aemond thought.
He did not hesitate.
«Gold,» he said. «I need golden dragons. Many of them.»
Grover's smile deepened.
Gold. Good. Gold is what Braavos does best.
«How… how much?» he asked carefully.
«Two million.»
Grover's smile… stopped.
He blinked. He must have misheard. Two million golden dragons?
He swallowed.
«That… that number is… well, beyond ordinary lending…»
«It can be in materials,» Aemond said. «Food. Weapons. Armor. Warhorses. Warships.»
«Two million golden dragons' worth of materials. You Braavosi control most of the trade in the Narrow Sea. That should not be difficult for you, should it?»
Grover's brow was damp. He produced a silk handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat.
«Your Highness, it is not that we are unwilling to lend… but this sum is vast. The Iron Bank is wealthy, yes, but every loan must be reviewed, must have sufficient collateral, must show a capacity for repayment… Two million is nearly the Bank's total lending for an entire year.»
«You fear we cannot repay?» Aemond asked.
«I would never presume—!» Grover waved his hands hastily. «But… the process requires collateral. What would Your Highness offer as security? Driftmark? Dragonstone? Or…»
«The Iron Throne,» said Aemond.
Grover's hand jerked. The handkerchief fell to the floor.
He stared at Aemond. The smile had vanished entirely, replaced by an expression that was part shock, part fear, and part… greed.
The Iron Throne?
As collateral?
If Aemond defaults, Braavos could, in theory, claim the Iron Throne—though in practice, of course, that is impossible.
«Your Highness…» Grover's voice was dry. «Surely you jest. The Iron Throne… we would never dare…»
«I do not jest,» Aemond cut him off. «I do not intend to lose.»
He paused. His eye met Grover's.
«Does Braavos doubt that I will win?»
Grover hesitated.
Braavos has no choice, he thought. If Volantis allies with the blacks, Essos will be reshaped. Braavos will suffer a blow from which it may never recover.
Supporting the greens—supporting Aemond—is the only way to maintain the balance.
He drew a deep breath. The smile returned.
«Your Highness, of course we believe in you. But… two million is a great sum. And as I understand it, the blacks—Prince Daemon—has already borrowed one and a quarter million from the Iron Bank's Pentoshi branch. And there are… signs of difficulty in repayment.»
He watched Aemond's face. Saw nothing.
«If we lend you two million, that debt must be considered as well. The blacks are also Targaryens. Their debt is a debt of the Seven Kingdoms, is it not?»
Aemond nodded. «Yes.»
«Their debt is our debt. Three and a quarter million total. I acknowledge it.»
«But—the interest—»
«The interest we can discuss!» Grover's eyes gleamed again. «Your Highness is Braavos's dearest friend in Westeros. Between friends, we offer the most favorable rates.»
«What would you say to… five percent? That is among the lowest in the Bank's history!»
«Too high,» Aemond said.
«Four and a half?»
«Still too high.»
Grover gritted his teeth. «Four percent. I cannot go lower!»
«Your Highness, the principal is three and a quarter million! At four percent, that is one hundred thirty thousand golden dragons per year! The Bank must see a return—we have investors, we have responsibilities—if we go lower, I cannot explain it!»
Aemond said nothing. He only looked at Grover.
«…Three point five,» Grover said through clenched teeth. «Your Highness, this is my final offer.»
«If I go lower, the Iron Bank will feed me to the crabs when I return home.»
Aemond nodded.
«Agreed.»
Grover exhaled. The tension drained from his shoulders.
«Then…» He took a deep breath. «In addition to the loan, we require a defensive alliance.»
«If Volantis and the blacks attack Braavosi interests, we have the right to call upon you for aid. And vice versa. Military expenses to be calculated separately, of course.»
«Agreed,» Aemond said. «But Braavos must commit at least one hundred warships to support my naval operations when called upon.»
Grover hesitated. Then: «…Agreed.»
«Then we have a bargain.»
---
«Now?» Grover blinked.
Aemond called out, «William! Bring pen and parchment!»
Grover stared. Now? Here?
But Aemond's expression brooked no argument.
William hurried in with a scroll of parchment, quills, and ink. Grover's own attendants produced the Iron Bank's official seal and a ledger book.
In that humble pavilion, with the smoke of a conquered fortress still rising in the distance, the two parties signed the largest war loan in the history of Westeros.
When the last stroke of ink had dried, Grover sighed and smiled.
«Well, Your Highness. A pleasure doing business.»
Aemond nodded. At last, he smiled.
«The pleasure is mine, Master Grover.»
«Will you stay for a simple meal? We have only roast mutton and poor wine, but it is fresh.»
«I would be honored!» Grover laughed. «I have always loved fresh mutton!»
---
The feast was quickly laid.
Roast mutton. Grilled fish. A few pickled cucumbers, some hard cheese, and a bottle of summer red from the Arbor.
Aemond sat with Grover. William and a few officers joined them. Grover proved a talkative companion, spinning tales of Braavos and the commerce of the Narrow Sea. The atmosphere was almost… friendly.
Almost.
Aemond knew the truth. The Braavosi were not friends. They were vultures. The alliance was temporary, a marriage of convenience.
But that did not matter.
He raised his glass. Clinked it against Grover's.
I need their gold. Their supplies. Their ships. When the war is won…
…the Iron Bank can send its bill to my dragons.
---
Let me know when you are ready to continue.