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Clay had no intention of explaining to Daenerys or Barristan what impact cheap, mass-produced goods could have on Westeros's tiny and fragile economy.
The overwhelming majority of Westeros's population were peasants. Their only surplus income came from selling either the food they managed to save or the crude goods they made themselves in exchange for other basic necessities at local markets.
If Clay truly agreed to this so-called tariff-free free trade, the sheer volume of goods transported by sea would utterly crush that meager market space the peasants relied on to survive.
Take King's Landing for example. With a population nearing one million, it could never feed itself using only the land in the Crownlands. As a result, the Reach had always borne the burden of feeding the capital. Beyond the obligatory taxes, most of the food was actually purchased from peasant farmers.
However, due to a complex web of factors—such as terrain restrictions, security concerns, transport limitations, and more—the cost of moving grain from the Reach to King's Landing had become several times higher than it ought to be.
The only reason this deficit-ridden grain supply chain hadn't collapsed already was because the royal family had stubbornly shouldered the loss.
Now, if a tariff-free sea trade route were established, the lords of the Reach would suddenly be forced to confront a horrifying reality: it would become cheaper to buy grain shipped from Braavos than to transport it from their own lands.
And once that happened, who do you think the royal family would choose to buy from?
The moment they began purchasing grain from Braavos and established long-term reliance on foreign imports, a serious issue would emerge—grain painstakingly harvested by farmers in the Reach would no longer sell.
You have to understand, the Reach's only major strength lay in agriculture. If their grain stopped selling on a large scale, it would not take a genius to predict the catastrophic consequences.
And this logic didn't stop at agriculture. As long as there was any difference in price between the two sides, this dynamic could be extrapolated endlessly, devouring every domestic industry it managed to sink its teeth into.
Before long, once the local economy of Westeros had been completely drained by these vampire-like Free Cities, what awaited Clay and Daenerys would be the large-scale collapse of the entire national economy.
In over three centuries of Targaryen rule, peasant uprisings had been few and far between. But under the rule of Clay and Daenerys, they just might live to witness one firsthand. How to put it—this sense of déjà vu was uncomfortably strong.
And this wasn't just alarmism. In fact, every previous ruler of Westeros had categorically rejected proposals like the one from Braavos, assuming such proposals had ever been made.
This was clearly a trap, laid for Daenerys and Clay because their council lacked structure and expertise—especially in matters of the economy. Hidden within that treaty was a colossal pitfall, just waiting for the two naïve rulers to step into it hand-in-hand.
"In short, signing this thing would mean we're letting the Braavosi conquer Westeros through us. Everything else can be negotiated, but not this clause. No way in hell!"
Clay slapped the armrest, making his final judgment. Now that he and Daenerys were bonded in every conceivable sense, and she had come to trust his capabilities, she never second-guessed him on major decisions.
Therefore, his words were effectively a death sentence for the loan treaty brought by Tycho Nestoris.
"Then, Your Grace, shall I go inform that Tycho fellow of our refusal of their so-called 'goodwill'? Tell him to go back where he came from?" Barristan asked.
"But Clay," Daenerys interjected, "we need the Iron Bank's gold. Don't forget what you told me before. Without enough gold, this city cannot function."
She, more than anyone else, understood Clay's true thoughts.
"Yes, you're right," Clay said. "So here's what we'll do. Ser Barristan, let him wait three days. Then inform him that we're willing to accept the terms of the agreement, but only on one condition. The amount of gold must be doubled. And we will not accept it in staggered shipments—we want it all at once."
"And for any clauses requiring immediate repayment or obligations on our end, go negotiate those down. If you can reduce them, do so. If you can waive them altogether, even better. I doubt they actually care about those parts anyway."
"But Your Grace… what about everything you just said…"
"Just do as I say, Ser Barristan. You're the executor, not the one making the decisions."
"…Forgive my insolence, Your Grace."
"Go now…"
Once the throne room had emptied, leaving only Clay and Daenerys, she immediately turned to him and asked,
"Clay, are you planning to never repay the Iron Bank at all?"
"Smack! "
"…!"
Before she could even finish, Clay slapped her ass—and bolted out of the room without a word.
Her cheeks reddened at once. Though her teeth clenched in indignation, she didn't chase after him. That single move of his had already confirmed the suspicion gnawing at her heart.
"That bastard… just wait, tomorrow you won't be able to get out of bed."
Daenerys fumed, muttering to herself, her expression a mix of fury and flustered disbelief.
Clay, of course, knew just how ruthless the Iron Bank could be when it came to collecting debts. But the real question was—what if the Iron Bank ceased to exist?
That towering institution standing tall in Braavos was nothing more than a giant bullseye. Its true power lay in its team of collectors, the infamous Faceless Men.
But even they only served the bank because the money made it worthwhile. If, one day, a sudden firestorm and a coordinated assault were to wipe Braavos from the map, would the Faceless Men still offer their blades freely for these elegantly dressed moneylenders?
Banks, in the end, function best when bound to the will of a state or a nation. And Braavos? Braavos lacked the strength to sustain anything on the scale of a true nation.
Therefore, even if Clay didn't act now, someone else would come along in a few years and seize the chance to bring the Iron Bank to ruin. Sooner or later, someone was going to do it.
At the moment, however, Clay lacked the power to challenge either the Iron Bank or Braavos directly.
Dragons weren't all-powerful. If they truly were, the Freehold of Valyria would have long since conquered the entire known world. Westeros wouldn't have been left a fractured mess, still reeling from endless turmoil.
So for now, Clay's approach toward the Iron Bank of Braavos was simple—borrow as much as possible, and don't pay back a single coin.
Only when he had ascended the Iron Throne, and truly claimed the full sovereignty of Westeros as his own, would he be in a position to deal with Braavos once and for all.
Conveniently, most of the repayment terms in the loan agreement didn't even begin until after that point.
…
Three days later, after being left to stew in silence, Tycho Nestoris was finally summoned again. He stepped once more into the grand hall, its high walls draped with banners bearing the red dragon of House Targaryen against a field of black.
Unlike last time, the throne was occupied by only one person—Clay. He sat there lazily, reclining against the throne, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest. He looked completely at ease, radiating confidence and control.
Though contempt and disdain clinked in his heart like scattered coins in a shaken coffer, Tycho Nestoris wore the same carefully composed mask of civility. With a graceful hand over his chest, he offered a courteous bow.
"It is an honor to see you again, Your Grace. I trust that these three days of contemplation have brought us closer to a favorable outcome."
Clay gave a silent nod, his gaze shifting briefly to Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood to the side clad once more in the ceremonial steel of the Kingsguard.
The old knight felt his king's gaze upon him and gave a slight nod. Reaching into his cloak, he produced a fresh scroll and stepped forward to present it to Tycho Nestoris, who looked momentarily perplexed.
"Your Grace, may I ask…?"
"Open it and see. This is our revised proposal, based on the terms you initially presented. His Grace believes this version to be more reasonable. You would do well to read it carefully."
Clay remained silent, leaving Barristan to respond on his behalf.
Tycho's brow creased deeply. In that moment, it dawned on him that these people were not so easily manipulated. The smile on his face stiffened, twisting slightly into a look of displeasure that unsettled his otherwise polite demeanor.
He unrolled the scroll and began to read carefully. Tycho knew the original agreement by heart, so as he scanned the document, he instinctively compared each line to the prior terms.
It became clear almost immediately: every clause that required immediate compensation had been forcefully pared down, demanding significant concessions from the Iron Bank. On the other hand, the stipulations that would take effect only after the Targaryen restoration remained largely untouched.
To Tycho Nestoris, a man who prided himself on understanding the nature of wealth better than most, this confirmed one thing—the financial state of this so-called Targaryen dynasty must be dire. They were evidently unwilling to commit to any terms involving present payments.
Yet the true power of the Iron Bank lay in those postwar clauses, the ones designed to place Braavos in control of Westeros's reborn economy. And these arrogant people had barely altered a single one of them.
After just a few seconds of internal weighing, Tycho made his decision. As the appointed envoy, he had the authority to accept the revised agreement.
As long as the core terms—the true weapons of the Iron Bank—were acknowledged, it was a complete victory. He could return to Braavos with his head held high, bringing news that would please even the most cautious of the Bank's senior bigshots.
But outwardly, he put on a very different face.
His expression turned severe, and his tone chilled with rehearsed outrage.
"Your Grace, is this proposal meant to insult the Iron Bank? I cannot accept such terms."
Clay didn't bother entertaining the protest. He answered plainly:
"If you don't agree, that's fine. Then take some time to reconsider in my dragon's mouth. I'm sure the Iron Bank will send someone better suited to negotiation afterward."
He glanced to the side. "Ser Barristan, kindly escort our guest to meet my dragon. I imagine it must be hungry."
This wasn't part of the plan Clay and Barristan had rehearsed, but the old knight reacted quickly. He instantly realized His Grace was putting on another performance, and so, as the supporting actor, he had no choice but to step into the role.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Steel rang as Barristan drew his sword, and with a single smooth motion, the blade's cold edge settled against Tycho Nestoris's throat.
"This way, envoy."
Tycho was completely speechless. He had not expected these barbarians to flip the table so suddenly. Wasn't this the part where both sides went back and forth for a few more rounds, each yielding a little, until they reached a respectable compromise?
Was it really necessary to get this aggressive? Feed him to a dragon? Were they not even planning to return his bones?
Savages, the lot of them. They didn't even understand basic diplomacy!
Lifting both hands in surrender, Tycho sighed in defeat.
"Very well. You win, Your Grace. Perhaps your dragon can find a different meal today. I doubt I would suit its tastes anyway."
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[Chapter End's]
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