Rhaenyra took up the thread, her voice firm but not excessive as she said, "We do not seek war, but the laws of succession must be upheld."
"My father, Viserys I, named me his heir, and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms once swore fealty to me."
"But now someone has usurped my throne and seized King's Landing."
"I must correct this wrong, for my father's sake and for the Seven Kingdoms."
She spoke with sincerity, even with a trace of grief and indignation.
Several representatives of the Iron Bank exchanged glances and gave slight nods.
At the very least, this reason sounded legitimate.
But the Iron Bank does not ask whether something is legitimate; it asks only about risk.
"And your ability to repay?" Tomo asked. "At present, the Greens control King's Landing and the royal treasury. What are your sources of income?"
"Dragonstone has abundant mines," Daemon said.
"Production has declined, and extraction costs are high," Liraya replied at once, looking at the information on Dragonstone spread across the table. "And once war breaks out, can the mines operate normally?"
"Driftmark has wealth."
"But war will devastate Driftmark."
"Pirates, blockades, ports burned… after the war, how much tax revenue will remain?"
"We will win," Daemon repeated, his voice growing colder. "If we win, the taxes of the entire Seven Kingdoms will be the source of repayment."
"And if you lose?"
"We will not lose."
"If?"
Silence fell across the hall.
Daemon stared at Liraya for a long time. Then he smiled—not a pleasant smile. "If we lose, we will likely all be dead."
"The dead do not repay debts, do they?"
"But the collateral would remain," Grover interjected. "Your Highness, two million gold dragons is too great a risk."
"We require a more tangible guarantee. For example…"
He licked his lips. "A dragon egg that can hatch?"
Rhaenyra's face went pale at once.
Daemon did not move; his expression turned cold.
He slowly turned his head and looked at Grover.
"Say that again."
Grover swallowed, but did not retreat. "Prince—a dragon egg that can hatch."
"The Iron Bank requires collateral of equal value. A living dragon egg is worth a fortune, and…"
"And what?" Daemon suppressed his anger.
"And… it would ensure that you fulfill the agreement. After all, a dragon egg requires time to hatch, and during that period…"
"During that period, you would hold House Targaryen hostage?" Daemon finished for him. "Using an unborn dragon to threaten House Targaryen?"
He rose to his feet.
The chair scraped across the floor with a harsh sound.
Rhaenyra rose as well, her hand trembling slightly, her eyes blazing with anger.
"We are leaving," Daemon said.
"Prince, and Your Highness the Crown Princess." The Sealord at the head seat finally spoke.
"Dragon eggs are not up for discussion," Daemon cut him off.
"That is the bottom line. Cross that line, and this is no negotiation—it is humiliation."
"Do you mean to humiliate House Targaryen, Your Majesty, Sealord?"
The hall fell deathly silent.
The faces of the representatives showed different expressions.
The Sealord raised a hand.
"Please, be seated, Your Highness."
"Representative Grover misspoke."
"As for dragon eggs, there is no need to mention the matter again. We respect the traditions of House Targaryen."
Daemon remained standing, unmoving.
"Sit," Rhaenyra said softly, touching his arm.
He slowly sat down, but his gaze remained icy.
The negotiations continued, but the atmosphere had changed.
Daemon was no longer courteous; he clung to every figure without yielding.
The representatives of the Iron Bank also cast aside their pretense and calculated risk in the open.
"One million eight hundred thousand," Daemon said.
"An annual interest rate of ten percent."
"Too high."
"The risk is high. Naturally, the interest is high."
"Seven percent."
"Nine percent. No lower."
"Eight percent. That is the final offer."
"Agreed—but the repayment term is shortened to eight years."
"Ten years."
"Nine years."
A tug-of-war—arguments and calculations scratching across parchment with a dry rasp.
Servants carefully brought food, but no one touched it.
Rhaenyra watched as these Braavosi weighed her throne and her children's future against the weight of gold.
But Daemon held firm.
He knew the cost of war, and he knew the greed of these men as well.
At last, as the afternoon sunlight slanted through the colored glass, the agreement was settled:
One million two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons, at eight percent annual interest, a term of ten years, with only interest to be paid for the first three years.
The collateral would be the minerals of Dragonstone, and thirty percent of the Seven Kingdoms' tax revenue for five years after the war.
An additional clause: after a Black victory, Braavos would be granted most-favored trade status and exclusive import rights for certain goods.
The clauses were suspiciously vague, but Daemon signed.
"A wise decision," the Sealord said with a smile, raising his silver cup. "To cooperation."
Daemon clinked cups, but did not drink.
The representatives of the Iron Bank exchanged a glance. Even if the Blacks failed, it would not truly matter.
What they wanted was for this war to begin. So long as the western continent of Westeros fell into war, they would profit.
Most important of all, it was to make House Targaryen slaughter itself.
That was what they had agreed upon from the very beginning.
The wicked Targaryens ought not to exist in this world…
...
When they departed, it was already dusk.
Caraxes and Syrax waited in the courtyard of the Sealord's Palace, snorting sparks in impatience.
The guards of the palace stood far off, their faces somewhat pale, fearful that the irritable great dragons might devour them.
Daemon helped Rhaenyra onto her dragon, then leapt onto Caraxes' back himself.
Dragon wings spread wide. With a beat of those wings, the people on the ground could not help but retreat.
They rose into the air, passed between the legs of the Titan, and flew toward the sea.
...
The high sky was bitterly cold, the wind like knives.
Rhaenyra drew her cloak tight. Only after they had flown far enough from Braavos did she shout, "Daemon! I do not understand!"
"What?"
"Why borrow money? And sign such terms? We have Driftmark, we have Volantis's promise… we are not so short of coin!"
Daemon guided Caraxes closer.
The two dragons flew side by side, the rhythm of their wingbeats nearly in unison.
"Listen, Rhaenyra," his voice came in fragments through the wind, "Braavos… will sooner or later be our enemy."
"What?"
"Think about it. We mean to ally with Volantis and divide the Triarchy together."
"If we win, a new power will rise on the eastern continent—one backed by dragons."
"And it will be Volantis, Braavos's mortal enemy."
"Do you think Braavos would allow that?"
Rhaenyra was stunned. After a moment, she said, "The Braavosi… they fear dragons?"
"They fear House Targaryen returning to the eastern continent?"
"Yes."
The wind was cold. Rhaenyra asked again, "Since they are to be our enemy—"
"Then why are we borrowing money?"
"Because," Daemon turned his head and looked at her across the open air, blinking once, "if we have the ability to borrow it, why should we repay it?"
Rhaenyra's eyes widened.
"Not repay it? But there is an agreement…"
"The Iron Bank will pursue the debt. They will take revenge…"
"Let them come," Daemon sneered.
"By the time we have united the Seven Kingdoms, allied with Volantis and Driftmark, and command dragons and fleets—"
Daemon patted Caraxes on the neck.
"If Braavos learns that we have made fools of them…"
"This is a gamble, Daemon."
"Life is a gamble," Daemon said with a smile, looking at his wife, "and we hold dragons in our hands—the finest stakes in the world."
Beneath them, Blood Wyrm let out a roar, whether in agreement or urging them onward, none could say.
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