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"I don't like beating around the bush. So, Braavosi, state your terms plainly. As it happens, my husband and I are quite interested in hearing what you have to say."
Daenerys pressed her rosy lips together, her tone direct and unwavering.
It was precisely what Tycho Nestoris had been hoping for. He personally despised the courtly rituals so beloved by kings, not because he disliked etiquette itself, but because, to him, only the decorum upheld among the gentlemen of the Iron Bank was truly worthy of the name.
Clearing his throat, Tycho Nestoris straightened the creased edge of his garment. The ever-present smile faded from his face as he withdrew a finely crafted parchment from inside his coat and began to read in a loud, formal tone:
"In the name of His Grace the Sealord, I, Tycho Nestoris, the most humble servant of the Iron Bank of Braavos, hereby extend the following proposal to Daenerys Targaryen of House Targaryen:
"The Iron Bank shall provide financial support to the realm governed by House Targaryen, presently ruled by Daenerys Targaryen and her husband. In return, House Targaryen will assume responsibility for all outstanding debts incurred by Robert Baratheon the First and his descendants.
"The Iron Bank will assist the Targaryen military in converting this financial support into a fair equivalent in arms, armor, warhorses, and other military supplies. Furthermore, should the need arise, the Iron Bank can serve as an intermediary in securing the services of mercenary companies.
"In addition, the Iron Bank shall expect the following: upon House Targaryen's restoration to the Iron Throne, no taxes or tariffs shall be levied upon Braavosi merchant ships docking at any port within Westeros..."
The list went on at some length. Clay, who had been silently countingin his mind, estimated there were ten to twelve clauses in total.
When the immaculately dressed Tycho Nestoris finally finished reading the document in his steady, sonorous voice, Clay gently pressed a hand to Daenerys, whose expression had stiffened, and spoke with a faint smile:
"We are grateful to the emissary of the Iron Bank for offering us such 'generous terms'. But, forgive me, I may be a little slow to grasp some of the finer points. I'd like to discuss these conditions with my council. In the meantime, would you consider staying here in Astapor for a while?"
At Clay's words, the Braavosi envoy's brow twitched ever so slightly. Deep down, he sneered at what he considered the backward ignorance of these provincial rulers—unable to comprehend even such straightforward terms.
Outwardly, however, his courteous smile returned without the slightest crack. He nodded and bowed with practiced grace.
"That sounds excellent. In that case, I shall take a stroll through this city of yours and see for myself what sort of realm you and your wife have built here in Astapor."
"Splendid."
Clay clapped his hands, a cheerful look spreading across his face. Rising slowly to his feet, he gestured toward the stoic figure of Ser Barristan standing like a statue beside him and declared loudly:
"Emissary, please hand your proposal over to this loyal knight. And do feel free to enjoy the city as you please. Any expenses incurred by our honored guest here in Astapor shall be covered entirely by House Targaryen."
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Tycho Nestoris departed, leaving behind nothing but the long sweep of his retreating back. And beyond that vanishing figure, a smirk lingered—one that barely bothered to conceal its disdain.
What he failed to realize was that Clay, the man he had taken for a provincial simpleton, was watching him with the very same mocking smile, his gaze fixed on the envoy until he disappeared completely from sight.
"Everyone else, leave. Ser Barristan, stay a moment."
Clay's voice had turned cold as he issued the command. The Unsullied obeyed at once, pivoting in unison and marching out. The handmaidens exchanged glances before slowly following behind, guided by Missandei, until the great hall once more stood quiet and empty.
With a heavy groan, the towering stone doors drew shut, and the vast palace within the pyramid was swallowed by an eerie silence.
Clay took the finely crafted parchment from Ser Barristan and returned to the throne. He twirled the document slowly in one hand, deep in thought, his brows furrowing.
Beside him, Daenerys remained silent. Though she was certain that Clay would never agree to the Iron Bank's terms, the tone of arrogance and veiled contempt laced throughout the proposal had thoroughly enraged her.
After all, born into the House of the former Dragonlords, she was innately sensitive to such slights. She sensed immediately that something was deeply wrong with the treaty. Yet, lacking any formal education in such matters, she could only feel it—unable to give voice to the unease.
"Let's hear your thoughts," Clay said at last, halting the idle motion of his fingers against the parchment. His eyes fixed on the only two people still present in the hall. His tone was calm, measured, as though he were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. "What do you make of this... 'gesture of goodwill' from Braavos?"
"This treaty must not be signed, Your Grace!" Ser Barristan declared without hesitation.
"Oh?" Clay turned to him, interest lighting in his eyes. "Do explain, Ser Barristan."
He looked at Ser Barristan Selmy, the aging former Kingsguard who now served as a loyal bodyguard. Clay was curious to hear what insight the old knight might offer.
Ser Barristan licked his dry lips and took a moment to gather his thoughts, his voice steady and sincere when he finally spoke.
"Your Grace, I won't presume to speak to the rest of it. But this one clause—asking you to assume the debt owed by King Robert—is something we simply cannot afford. It lies far beyond our means."
"He was a usurper! Mind your words, Ser Barristan!"
Daenerys snapped, her voice sharp with indignation. A dead man though he was, Robert Baratheon still stirred fury in her heart. She was a Targaryen through and through.
Clay gave her shoulder a gentle pat, a soothing gesture meant to calm her. Then he nodded at Ser Barristan, inviting him to continue.
"Go on, Ser Barristan."
"Very well. What I want to say is that I served… the usurper for over ten years. I know exactly how vast that debt is. It is counted in the millions of gold dragons, an amount that could crush even the most prosperous kingdom. I trust Your Grace understands what such a sum means."
Daenerys, having never lived in Westeros, had little concept of what a "million gold dragons" truly represented. She gave Clay a small nudge, her violet eyes silently urging him to explain.
"To put it in perspective," Clay said, "King's Landing, the largest port in the Seven Kingdoms, collects less than two hundred thousand gold dragons in taxes per year."
"And to give you another example," he added with a slightly mischievous grin, "if I went into the city right now to buy a Valyrian-blooded slave girl with silver hair and purple eyes like yours, it'd cost me somewhere between two and five gold dragons in Westerosi coin. Of course, the exact price depends on her... quality. Ow, ow, ow, it hurts—stop, stop!"
Clay winced and sucked in a sharp breath. One hand flew to his waist where Daenerys had pinched him, hard. Daenerys, this woman, truly didn't hold back. No, he thought grimly, tonight he would make her pay for that. He would give her a proper demonstration of his "staff technique" and vent the slow-burning grudge now lodged in his chest.
"So you're saying this is a debt we could never hope to repay?"
Daenerys, though not especially gifted with numbers, had sharp woman's intuition. Her conclusion was spot on.
"Exactly," Barristan confirmed. "And what's worse, it would come with steep interest. The Iron Bank isn't a charitable institution. There's no way they'd lend us money without profit."
Clay nodded, giving the parchment a slight shake before exhaling and leaning back into the throne. His voice came low and steady.
"You know what? If I sign this loan contract, even if we fight tooth and nail, behead every last one of our enemies, and finally claim the Iron Throne in King's Landing… Westeros still wouldn't belong to the Manderlys or the Targaryens at all."
"But the treaty doesn't say anything about their army," Daenerys argued, still not fully understanding. "If we unify the Seven Kingdoms, then at the very least, the black-and-red dragon banners flying across Westeros will prove we're the ones in power, no?"
She was only seeing the surface—an understandable flaw given her sheltered life and lack of experience with economic matters. Clay didn't blame her.
Shaking his head, Clay pulled a cold smile from the corner of his lips and said, "Let me teach you a concept: economic colonization. In layman's terms, it means controlling a country completely—through trade."
"You know what? The part that makes me want to tear this thing up isn't even the few million gold dragons in debt, but their clauses. The loopholes are so big that even Gaelithox could be squeezed in. For instance, have they defined exactly how much gold is in a 'gold dragon'?"
"And more than that," Clay sneered, "they're collecting the debt in Braavosi coin. All they have to do is quietly tweak the exchange rate, and it's all perfectly within their rules."
He laughed, short and scornful, then pointed sharply at one specific clause in the treaty, his voice turning icy.
"This right here—this is their real killing blow."
Daenerys and Barristan leaned closer, eyes following Clay's finger. After carefully rereading the line regarding dock taxes, they both frowned and looked to him for an explanation.
"If we let them trade their goods in Westeros tax-free and without limit… mark my words, within three years, this continent will be in chaos. And honestly, I might as well go hole up in White Harbor and forget the rest."
A mercantile city-state, gaining unrestricted access to dump its goods into Westeros—a land built on subsistence farming and noble manorial economies? That script was all too familiar.
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