"The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service."
―Tycho Nestoris
…
The chamber smelled of old coin and older ambition, though neither scent was strong enough to mask the faint bitterness of ink drying on parchment. Light slanted through high windows, thin as a miser's smile, casting long shadows across the polished surface of the council table. Here, the fortunes of kings and queens had been measured, weighed, and too often found wanting.
Daemon Targaryen sat with the lazy grace of a man unused to waiting, though he'd possibly done more of it than he liked since setting foot in Braavos. Across from him, Matthos Nestoris sat—his garments tailored but austere, his ink-stained fingers folded neatly atop a ledger thick with debts. There was no sword at his hip, no need for one. The Iron Bank's blade was subtler, and infinitely sharper, its edges in its loans, interests, and in the slow strangling grip of insolvency.
"I trust your journey was not too taxing, Prince Daemon," he greeted as he leaned back in his seat.
Daemon's smile was thin. "I've had worse rides. None ended in as numbing a room."
Matthos let the jab pass without comment, merely adjusting the quill on his ledger by a fraction. His fingers stilled upon the parchment. "You must forgive the cold," he said at last, his voice seeped in polite civility. "The Iron Bank does not keep a hearth in these chambers. Fire may warm the hands, but it has been known to soften the mind. Alas, let us not opine upon the mundane. You have come a long way, Prince Daemon, and I trust not for idle conversation."
Daemon arched a brow. "Surely then, you must know why I am here."
"Of course," Matthos said with an incline of his head. "The Princess of Dragonstone seeks aid in reclaiming what she believes to be hers. You wish to know if Braavos will support her cause."
"You waste no time getting to the marrow of things," Daemon observed with a hint of irritation.
"I simply prefer we dispense with prevarication. The Iron Bank is not in the habit of taking sides in dynastic squabbles—"
"Name your price."
A smile. Matthos steepled his fingers. "The dissolution of the Dragon's Bank," he said.
The words, simple as they were, struck the air like a stone upon still water. A lesser man might have flinched, but Daemon only tilted his head, eyes narrowing fractionally.
"You ask for much," he said at length.
"And offer more." Matthos's tone remained composed. "In exchange, we can guarantee you the support of the Sealord's fleet. Enough gold to hire every mercenary company from Lys to Pentos and even more ships to carry them. But before that, some sacrifices must be made on your part. Braavos cannot stand idle while a rival institution flourishes, least of all one that deals with Volantis and its ilk. It offends our founding principles. It offends our interests. If Braavos is to stand at Queen Rhaenyra's side, it cannot do so with one hand while the other is shackled to such an enterprise."
Daemon's fingers drummed against the table. "And if I refuse?"
A flicker of amusement—or perhaps pity—passed through Matthos's eyes. "Then you shall find us as intractable as the chill of your northern lands, my prince. There is no path forward without the dissolution of the bank. In addition, we will require a formal renunciation of all financial entanglements with Volantis and any other city complicit in the abhorrent trade of human souls. Braavos was founded in defiance of slavery; we will not finance a queen whose court accommodates it."
Silence stretched between them, taut and unyielding. Outside, the wind keened through the narrow streets of the city, and the bells of the Moon Singers echoed faintly over the canals.
After a moment, Daemon exhaled, shaking his head. "You are not wanting for audacity, Nestoris."
Matthos inclined his head. "Nor, my prince, are you."
Daemon's gaze flickered to the cup placed before him, a moment's reflection passing behind his eyes before he straightened once more. "The bank is Aemond's creation, and no boon to Rhaenyra in any case," he conceded. "But Volantis—"
"No," Matthos interrupted, his voice sharper than before. "The Compact of Fire must end. The slaver cities cannot be your allies if Braavos is to be your patron."
Daemon scowled, clearly displeased.
Matthos shrugged elegantly. "I refuse to believe the Iron Bank is demanding an unfair price. Unless, perhaps, you have greater concerns than war."
Daemon's jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with visible reluctance, he inclined his head. "Fine," he said tersely. "But, there exists a few Pentoshi magisters with whom I have maintained most amicable relations, and they, in their generosity, have already pledged a fleet of warships in support of Rhaenyra's claim. I cannot, in good faith, renege on that understanding just to placate you."
Matthos, pausing in reflective consideration, at length offered a measured compromise. "Very well," he said. "Pentos may be indulged, though not without balance. In return, I must insist upon concessions regarding trade, tariffs, and financing between Westeros and Braavos."
Daemon's brow arched slightly, the faintest suggestion of displeasure flickering in his eyes. "Tariffs?"
"Did you think this was charity, my prince?" Matthos's amusement was a subtle thing. "We will require guild privileges in King's Landing, as well as preferential treatment for merchants of our choosing at all ports under the queen's control and a two-thirds reduction in docking fees. Also, we require exclusive rights to manage all the Crown's debts, internal and abroad, for the next fifty years."
Daemon shook his head, but there was no fight left in it. "And what else?" he muttered, as if half-afraid to ask.
"A guarantee that no future Westerosi monarch will move against the interests of the Iron Bank."
Daemon ran a hand through his silver hair, frustration threading through his movements. But he didn't argue. Matthos knew he couldn't. Not with war looming like a dragon's shadow, hungry and vast.
Silence stretched between them, taut as drawn steel, each man measuring the other. Then Daemon stood, his chair scraping against the cold stone floor. "Fine," he said at last, irritation sharp in his voice. "I'll fetch you your pound of flesh."
Matthos rose as well, a thin smile curling his lips. "Tis' a fair price for a kingdom, my prince," he mused. "Shall we put this to parchment?"