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Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
CaveLeather
"Ser Davos, one million six hundred and thirty thousand gold dragons is no small sum. With the Iron Throne now at war, the Iron Bank has serious concerns about your ability to repay."
In the throne room of the Red Keep, a Braavosi envoy with his beard braided into thin strands and wearing a purple robe negotiated with Davos Seaworth, the acting Hand.
He had come from the Iron Bank of Braavos to assess the Iron Throne's capacity to repay its debts.
Davos sat on the Iron Throne itself. He still could not quite believe that a man born in Flea Bottom was sitting here, in the seat once occupied by Targaryen kings, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon, and now Stannis Baratheon.
The chair was as uncomfortable as the stories claimed. The iron had grown cold with the turning weather, numbing his backside the longer he sat. No cushion was allowed. Aegon the Conqueror had apparently wanted every king who sat here to remember that ruling was never meant to be comfortable.
Maybe that's why Robert spent so much time drinking and whoring, Davos thought. He was not particularly worried about the debt collector in front of him.
"You're right, my lord," Davos said frankly. "The Iron Throne faces challenges unlike any before." He met the envoy's eyes without flinching. "Jon Snow—son or nephew of Eddard Stark, depending on who you believe—is a living legend even in the Free Cities. His record speaks for itself. Even if our army wins in the Riverlands, we still face the Westerlands, which are difficult to conquer. Beyond that lies the wealthy Reach. And even if we ignore the Reach, our enemy commands a powerful fleet. Casterly Rock remains unbroken. Victory is far off."
The envoy frowned. He had come for assurances of repayment, not a lecture on how hopeless the war looked.
Davos continued. "Jon has already swallowed the Iron Islands. The Westerlands are his by conquest. The Reach stands with the Tyrells. Even Winterfell lies in the western half of the North. Do you truly believe he will shift the center of power in Westeros back to the east? If he wins, how much profit will the Free Cities still make trading with us? And do you honestly expect a man who may be a Targaryen to honor the debts of the Baratheon dynasty?"
The envoy's eyes narrowed. He understood the implication. If the Iron Bank pressed too hard and helped bring down Stannis's court, they would likely collect nothing at all.
"The Iron Bank does not tolerate default," the envoy said coldly. "We have our own methods."
"My lord, the Iron Throne has no intention of defaulting," Davos replied. "But our situation is difficult. We hold the Vale—impregnable. We have the loyal Stormlands and the Crownlands that still recognize the rightful king. Maester Aemon Targaryen remains in the Citadel. As long as he does not acknowledge Jon's claim, Jon cannot truly be accepted as a Targaryen. We have solid ground beneath us. What we need is time… and more gold."
The envoy realized Davos was not only refusing to promise a repayment schedule—he was hinting at wanting another loan.
He shifted tactics.
"Very well. The Iron Bank is willing to accept collateral. Ten years of tax revenue from both the Crownlands and the Stormlands."
Davos's expression tightened. The Crownlands and Stormlands were the backbone of Stannis's power. He had already hated the idea of mortgaging just the Crownlands to Salladhor Saan. Giving up both was unthinkable.
"I'm afraid that decision is above my authority, my lord," Davos said carefully. "It concerns too many interests. I will need to consult the king. Please give me a few days. If the terms are reasonable, I believe His Grace will agree."
The envoy left with a cold nod, clearly unsatisfied.
Davos escorted him to the doors. When they opened, a howling snowstorm rushed inside like a beast breaking free. The envoy raised an arm to shield his face and hurried out into the white.
The moment the doors closed, Davos stepped away from the Iron Throne and rubbed his numb backside with a quiet curse.
He had bought a little time with the Iron Bank, but his mind remained uneasy. Stannis was still out in the Riverlands with the army… and so was his youngest son, the boy they all called little Stannis.
After the Battle of the Blackwater, four of Davos's seven sons had died—four grown men. Stannis had tried to make amends by giving comfortable positions to the two older of the three who remained. But Davos's wife had refused. She would not lose six sons out of seven. In the end they had agreed to send only the youngest, little Stannis, to serve as the king's cupbearer. No place was safer than at the king's side.
Davos's wife was a devout follower of the Seven, especially after bearing a seventh son. Yet even she had once told him that the best prayer was simply to work hard and live well. These past two years she had thrown herself into labor to numb the pain of losing four children.
Davos was still lost in thought when a silver-haired, blue-eyed boy of six or seven appeared at his side. The boy was Monford Velaryon's only son, now serving as Davos's page. With war looming and Stannis too busy to watch Dragonstone, the boy had been brought to King's Landing and placed under Davos's care.
"What is it, lad?" Davos asked. He still had trouble remembering the boy's name.
"Ser Davos, Grand Maester Pycelle asks to see you. He says it is urgent."
"Urgent? All right. I'm on my way."
Davos felt a flicker of pity for the boy. His father had died young on the Blackwater. His mother had passed before he could remember her. He was a lonely child, more ward than simple page.
Davos walked the long corridors of the Red Keep. Gold cloaks stepped aside and bowed as he passed. Once, as a smuggler, he would have hidden from them. Everything had changed because he chose to serve Stannis. In a strange way, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms had turned on the choice of one small man from Flea Bottom. If he had not smuggled food into Storm's End, the Tyrell host would have marched north to support Rhaegar. With superior numbers, Rhaegar might have won at the Trident—just as Jon was winning now.
Davos knew Stannis had lost the war in the end, but Jon's terms had been surprisingly generous. The man seemed genuinely worried about the coming winter… and the Long Night beyond it.
Davos was still thinking when a sudden chill ran down his spine—old smuggler's instinct. He had survived twenty years of running cargo past the Redwyne fleet. That kind of survival did not come without sharp instincts.
But what danger could possibly exist inside the Red Keep?
He kept walking. A raven suddenly flew straight at him. Davos raised an arm on reflex, but the bird did not attack. It circled him once, then landed on a railing and dropped a small bronze message tube at his feet.
Jon's raven?
Davos looked around. No gold cloaks or servants were nearby. He picked up the tube and unrolled the tiny strip of parchment inside.
The words hit him like a hammer.
Stannis is dead. The killers are Petyr and Varys. Run.
Davos felt the floor tilt beneath him.