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Tycho Nestoris was filled with a quiet anticipation as he embarked on this long and distant journey.
He called himself the most humble servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos, yet he had bound every aspect of his life—his past, present, and future—to this great institution, a bank powerful enough to shape the fate of both sides of the Narrow Sea.
The appearance of the Dragonlord in Pentos was no longer a rumor. They had already verified the news through multiple discreet channels.
For Tycho Nestoris and his fellow bankers, the debts owed by the Iron Throne of Westeros were teetering on the brink of default. What had once been manageable now carried the scent of rot.
The authority of the Iron Throne might still carry some weight in Westeros, but in Braavos, across the sea, it meant absolutely nothing. It held no sway, cast no shadow.
The Braavosi had a saying, one spoken not with threats or bravado, but with the calm certainty of immutable truth:
"The Iron Bank will have its due."
It was not a boast, nor a declaration born of fantasy. Every citizen of Braavos would tell you this in an even, measured tone—for this was reality.
Kings were welcome to borrow from the Iron Bank. That had never been a problem. The Bank's coffers were vast, quite possibly richer than the combined treasuries of every other trade city across Essos. They had no fear of monarchs who squandered coin like water.
In fact, the Iron Bank preferred lending to kings. They dealt with smaller clients too, though the profits from those ventures were meager at best.
Small clients defaulted with disturbing regularity. Most never waited patiently for a collector to come knocking. They fled, slipped away in the night, and when that happened, the Bank had no choice but to send the Faceless Men after them.
It was an inelegant solution, and not one the Bankers were fond of. These men in fine suits, these gentlemen with impeccable manners, preferred contracts signed in ink, not blood. The Iron Bank extended its generosity willingly. In return, all it asked was for debts to be repaid on time.
Simple, wasn't it? Why make it messy? Repayment enabled new loans. And new loans brought new opportunities. It was a cycle best left undisturbed.
Tycho Nestoris's colleague, Noho Dimittis, was also one of these elegantly dressed gentlemen—another envoy dispatched by the Iron Bank's powerful inner circle, though his destination differed from Tycho's.
Westeros, that land where the sun set, had grown increasingly unstable. Word had already spread that the Baratheon royal family was seeking to delay repayment of their debts to the Iron Bank.
Noho Dimittis had been sent to confirm whether those rumors were true. If they were, then the Iron Bank would no longer stand idle. It would find someone else—someone with the strength and legitimacy to seize the Iron Throne—and it would fund their campaign.
Of course, such generosity came with strings attached. From Tycho's perspective, the conditions were hardly unreasonable. All the Iron Bank asked for was recognition of the existing debt.
If this new king could not immediately produce the required coin to pay off his debts, the Iron Bank was more than willing to offer its services—namely, financial consultation.
They would dispatch professionals. Experts in wealth extraction. They would devise ways for the king to wring every last copper from his own lands. And if the common folk suffered in the process?
Ahh, but that was hardly the Bank's concern. Their time and energy were not to be squandered worrying about such 'insignificant' details.
Let kings deal with the fallout. And should they find themselves in need once more, well… the Iron Bank's doors were always open.
Once again, the principle remained unchanged:
"The Iron Bank will have its due."
Tycho Nestoris worked with methodical efficiency. It did not take long for him to confirm the rumors of the red dragon banners of House Targaryen being raised over Astapor.
"Hmm… I suppose I'll need to draft a new report. The situation in Slaver's Bay—and with that family—needs a thorough reevaluation. How troublesome."
He muttered to himself, almost like sighing aloud, then reached into the inner pocket of his richly embroidered coat and produced a delicate snuffbox. With practiced ease, he took in a measured breath of the scented powder, letting the sensation wash over him before leaning back into the velvet-cushioned seat of the carriage.
The journey had been long, but he had finally arrived beneath the towering walls of Astapor, a city that had once been familiar to him, though now it felt distant and changed.
And there, fluttering high upon the battlements, he saw it—the black banner emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen.
Once upon a time, the Iron Bank had considered the Targaryens one of their more reliable clients. Although occasional conflicts had arisen over the centuries, for the most part, their loan agreements had generally proven trustworthy and secure.
Now, as Tycho Nestoris sat in his carriage, he allowed it to roll slowly through the gates of this star among the cities of Slaver's Bay.
He had come to see the truth with his own eyes. Only by examining the present state of the city firsthand could he fairly assess the viability of their agreements.
…
By now, Clay and Daenerys had brought Astapor under stable rule. Minor troubles still cropped up now and then, but ever since Clay had guaranteed the vast majority of the slave masters' interests, the entire city had swiftly resumed its operations.
The wealth seized from the great pyramids of the three dead Good Masters had all been funneled by Clay into dealing with the backlog of slaves. The people of Slaver's Bay didn't need such an excess of grain or weapons—but Westeros did.
Inside the grand hall that once belonged to the Good Masters, Clay and Daenerys quietly listened to Ser Barristan Selmy's report on the city's recent public security. When he finished, they gave a nod of approval, signaling that he could take his leave.
Missandei, the little translator, had not managed to escape Daenerys's dragon grasp after all. She had been pulled into service and now acted as one of her regular handmaidens.
Clay stepped down from the high seat and made his way toward the balcony behind the hall. Daenerys followed after him, rising from her cushion and walking beside him.
"Clay, it looks like Ser Barristan has been doing a fine job managing the city," Daenerys said with a pleased tone, sinking her lithe frame into a sun-warmed reclining chair. Her brilliant violet eyes narrowed contentedly as she added, "There haven't been any whispers of resistance from the slave masters recently."
"Maybe," she continued with a soft chuckle. "After all, they don't really have the strength or the justification to turn against us. Once the initial shock and resentment pass, they'll be forced to accept reality."
Clay chuckled as well and settled into the seat beside her. His hand, however, grew restless and began wandering dishonestly—until Daenerys's once steady breathing became subtly uneven.
Before she ended up needing to change clothes again, Daenerys hastily changed the subject.
"Clay, we now have eight thousand Unsullied under our command, and another four thousand still in training. But just staying here and waiting—it feels like we're not making much use of our strength."
She caught his misbehaving hand and held it tightly, speaking in a hushed tone.
"I don't think this city really needs us anymore. Even though they're not rejecting our presence, it's like we've already done all we came here to do."
Clay nodded, agreeing with her assessment. With Gaelithox and the three young dragons patrolling the skies above, any conspiracy was nipped in the bud before it could even take shape.
It could be said that Astapor had become a secure fallback base for the two of them. Still, there were a few lingering problems that needed to be solved.
At the heart of it, their foundation was simply too weak. Had the Targaryens not suffered near-extinction, Clay and Daenerys would now have a whole host of talented people at their disposal.
But as it stood, their newly founded kingdom didn't even have the framework to assemble a proper Small Council, let alone ensure its smooth operation.
They were still desperately short of capable hands. Otherwise, Clay and Daenerys wouldn't need to be personally involved in every single matter.
A king was supposed to chart the course for major affairs—not handle the trivial day-to-day burdens himself.
"When everything here is truly settled, I will take you back to Westeros," Clay said with a smile. "There are many people over there waiting for your return."
Daenerys didn't have time to respond. Clay took advantage of her momentary distraction, slipping free from her grip and boldly advancing toward the dragon's lair.
Just then, a voice rang out that made Clay frown but allowed Daenerys to breathe a quiet sigh of relief. It was Missandei, their ever-reliable little translator.
"Your Grace, there is an envoy from the Iron Bank requesting an audience. He calls himself Tycho Nestoris."
Clay's hand came to a halt. He exchanged a glance with Daenerys, whose cheeks had turned faintly pink. This was... timely, indeed. Clay had been planning to visit the Iron Bank himself, yet now it seemed these bloodsuckers had an even keener nose than he'd imagined.
"Tell him I'll meet him in the palace in half an hour," Clay replied.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Missandei stole a quick glance at the two of them, still caught in a rather compromising pose. A soft, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She gave a graceful nod and slipped out quietly.
Once she was gone, Clay turned toward Daenerys with a glare that was more frustrated than angry. The Queen, trying hard to suppress her laughter, finally gave him a gentle shove and burst out in delight.
"Come on now, King Clay. We ought to make ourselves presentable before we greet our guest from the Iron Bank."
Muttering something obscene under his breath about people who knew just how to ruin a perfectly good moment, Clay shook his head and made his way toward the palace...
…
Half an hour later, Tycho Nestoris stepped into the great pyramid that had once belonged to the Good Masters. His eyes swept across the vast interior, noting that all the guards stationed there wore the dark armor of the Unsullied.
It seemed House Targaryen had indeed taken firm root in this place. With the support of the Unsullied, their hold on the throne would not be easily shaken.
And yet, what intrigued Tycho most was not the presence of Daenerys Targaryen, but the man who stood beside her—this dragonlord who claimed descent from House Belaerys. Why would such a man willingly serve under the Targaryen banner?
Yes, within their own walls, he was merely Clay. But outwardly, he still operated under the identity of a Belaerys heir. After all, if news spread that a dragonriding Westerosi noble had suddenly appeared out of thin air, there would be no hiding it for long.
He could not pretend to be a Targaryen survivor either. The bloodline had all but vanished from Westeros, with only Maester Aemon at the Wall acknowledged as living.
And Clay didn't even bear the Targaryen hallmark traits—no silver hair, no violet eyes. He didn't resemble anyone from the lineage. Pretending would have been impossible from the start.
Upon entering the great hall, Tycho Nestoris's gaze was immediately drawn to the two figures seated high upon the throne. The arrangement itself struck him as curious.
If the man held absolute power, as a true king would, then the queen would not be seated beside him upon the same throne. But here sat Daenerys Targaryen, the supposed last scion of her house, lounging casually beside the man, as if the throne belonged to them both. Clearly, their dynamic was not what he had expected.
"The most humble servant of the Iron Bank, Tycho Nestoris, brings the friendship of Braavos to the rulers of Astapor," he said with a deep bow, voice smooth as polished coin.
"And how much gold does Braavosi friendship cost these days?" came the dry, faintly mocking voice of the man. Clay's laughter echoed faintly through the chamber.
Tycho, of course, heard the barb in the man's words—but chose to ignore it. Such was the trained poise of one who served the most powerful bank in the known world.
He gave a soft smile and bowed again, his tone light and urbane. "Perhaps nothing at all. Or perhaps enough to purchase a kingdom, Your Grace."
"A man with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit," Clay replied, his voice amused. "Well then, Astapor welcomes you, emissary of the Iron Bank."
Daenerys's voice followed, calm and clear. "Now, would you care to tell us exactly what your bank is offering us in real terms?"
"But of course," Tycho said smoothly, bowing once more. "As you wish…"
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[Chapter End's]
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