DEATH of a SEALORD
Bran's eyes rolled backwards into his skull like twin moons, pale and featureless. He twitched. Arched. Straining against the roots which twisted around his wrists, seeking him out before strengthening their hold as Bran gripped the Weirwood tree. Images flashed across his vision chased by sounds which were out of step. A scream before the blade. Ice cracking. Wolves howling at the burnt remnants of a city. Then came the taste of salt as drowned men pulled Bran beneath the waves with their sodden, withered flesh until he was overwhelmed by the suffocating stew of incense. It always ended there – a vision he could not push past. Last time he'd fled the words sinking in the smoke. Now Bran reached forward with his mind, parting the curls of ash to find dancing flames – a bridge through time.
The when and where were beyond his skill but Bran had heard enough stories from the East to guess the who.
A Red Priest from the ancient R'hllor religion towered by the fire. An old man, he was draped in folds of red and ochre silk in some vain attempt to mimic the flames he worshipped. Held captive beneath the pastel sandstone wall behind was a child, cowering at the priest's feet. Tied to a cart, the young boy was terrified. His wild eyes were unable to settle between the fire and the priest while blood stained his tattered tunic centred at his crotch and continued to drip down his leg onto the dirt covering the street.
The priest's words scratched at the air. Their foreign tongue formed a spell – magic from the far edge of the world. Asshai, thought Bran. His maester in Winterfell had said it was the heart of such things. Was this Asshai? No. He looked closer at the pale wall and the shadows dancing across it. All Bran knew of Asshai was its oily, black buildings that sucked fire from the air. Liquid dragons frozen in flame, burned and melted in horror and ash. He longed to see them through the trees if their roots reached that far.
Crawling as far forward as his chains would allow, the child bowed his head before the wall of fire. The heat licked his cheeks as he whispered his own words – asking something of the gods, if they were there.
"Let me live..." The boy murmured, fearful of the priest as the gruesome remains of his parts were tossed into the flame. Blood leaked from his wound. Part of him became ash. The smoke thickened. "Let me live..."
Transfixed by the boy's suffering, Bran found himself replying, "You'll outlive them all."
Hearing words crackle out of the flames, the boy shifted backwards, aghast. The Priest heard only the fire and continued with his rantings.
He can hear me... Bran thought, filled with sudden urgency. He was only a child at the edge of the world but if he could warn at least one soul about the wars to come, they all might be saved. Their fate waiting in the ice felt insurmountable. How could they win, with the Whitewalkers encroaching on The Wall and Winter descending? The Northern armies were scattered or pawns of the South and the Wildlings walked with the dead.
"They're coming!" Bran shouted, overwhelmed with panic. "They're coming with the Winter. Dead men and their king. Burn it all."
Everything vanished. Bran awoke to Bloodraven's cold eyes.
Varys stared at the flames dancing inside one of the metal torches strapped to the wall of the Iron Bank's courtyard. Its lattice prison had blackened with the burden but they could not keep the voices in his head at bay. Like a song, they whispered, over and over. 'They're coming. They're coming. They're coming...' Varys lived his life to that clock, ticking away to some terrible end. All he had to cling to was the promise of fire. What was a dragon but fire formed into flesh...
Eventually he relinquished the corso and its filtered light to return to the Purple Harbour. Their ship lulled against the half-tide, barely brushing the dock.
"Missandei!" he greeted, dipping his head as he approached. She alighted the ship, joining him on the deck with a respective bow, letting her robes pool on the wood.
"Where is Tyrion?" she asked, eyeing the empty dock behind.
"Our new friends have decided to hold him as collateral, in case our mythical queen remains somewhat of a legend." Missandei seemed alarmed by his words but Varys quickly quietened her. "Do not worry. The Iron Bank are perfectly civilised traders. I'd have been insulted if they didn't take something from us as insurance. It shows they are taking our stance seriously. Has there been any word from Grey Worm?"
"None..." she replied. "We've sent many ravens but as yet our messages go unanswered. There are storms in the Southern waters or so I am told. The ravens take shelter."
Missandei leaned against the rail of the ship. Varys thought that there was something different about her until he realised that she had re-braided her hair and donned the more regal of her gowns. It was the colour of cinnamon save for the silver dragon broach holding up one shoulder strap. She waits her queen, Varys smiled lightly.
"What if she does not come?"
"Then the bank will ransom Tyrion to his sister for a great deal of gold, I imagine."
"I'll not let you!" she immediately insisted, railing against the wind to confront him.
"Fear not, child. He's the only Lannister that I've grown fond of. Believe me, they're not easy to garner affection for. Queen or no queen, we still have a dragon. I'd wager by the way he's wriggling around under that sail, he's getting quite restless."
Missandei watched the sheet billow with the wind. Beneath was a dragon the colour of sea-grass. Her eyes lingered on the beast.
"Has he been like that for long?" Varys added, as the creature's tail swished across the front of the boat, knocking free a rain of barnacles. They plopped into the water, tumbling into the depths.
"Since you went in. I was only a few moments behind but the guards would not allow me to pass."
The sun was bothering Varys. Beads of sweat formed on his bare scalp, partnering up before slipping over the curve and running down his neck where they left a dark stain in the silk. He wiped them away but no sooner had he removed them, more fell. "Let's wait for their decision below deck, shall we?"
An old wooden door, dusted in salt with a tangled lemon tree growing up the wall beside. Blood appeared between the cracks, seeping from within. It was thick, dark and smoked as Daenerys pushed against it. More flowed over the stone beneath. She beat the door under her fists were covered in red. Finally, the lock clicked. Willem Darry opened the door. He is dead. Eyes blue. A bear pin on his chest. Pine smoke suffocates her throat, choking her. She stumbles back, falling into the water. Cold hands grabbed her, dragging her below.
In the water there was only one dream. A face waited, frozen as if in ice – except it wasn't. She reached out, pressing her hand against the gnarled folds of skin. Sap. Sticky and wretched as it burned her flesh.
Daenerys flew into consciousness, straining against the saddle. She was high above the world.
"Easy..." A firm hand drew her back. Jorah was there. His sand-coloured hair caught in the sun. "Braavos, Your Grace."
She leaned to the side, catching a glimpse of the shattered harbour below. It looked like a dragon egg had been smashed open in the water and left to its grave.
NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH
Cub lifted his torch. The flames bent away from the Weirwood, repelled by the magic which bound the Black Gate in an eternal scream. In the silence of the tunnel, Cub could hear its wailing in his mind, howling like a wolf to the moon. He didn't trust it. Magic. There were two sides to every sword and magic was a blade freed from its hilt with an invisible hand wrapped around the steel. He preferred to know his enemy – look into their eyes... This pale face, he looked at it, pacing up and down, eyeing it from every angle. Frost gathered on the wood. Winter deepened beyond.
THE IRON BANK BRAAVOS – ESSOS
Varys was right. A few hours later, the dragon's hunger drew it from slumber. Lifting its head, the creature snapped at the sail which was caught in a ridge horns. Rhaegal turned his snout, inspecting the air. He could smell gulls wandering by and the mess of humans, seething between buildings. His nostrils flared. Smoke fizzled from the tear-shaped holes.
The sailors shrieked as the dragon threw the sail off and stretched its wings, unfurling them so that they brushed against the deck. In their secluded Purple Harbour, it was only the bank's guards that saw the monster emerge from the ship's heart like some giant, green jungle plant. Forgetting their duty, the Braavosi men dropped their weapons and fled up the marble steps into the bank, slamming the doors shut.
"Well, now is as good a time as any..." Varys said calmly, appearing on deck. He watched proceedings as though they were his design and not merely a prelude to chaos.
"Time for what?" Missandei asked, standing behind the eunuch as bits of rope were thrown across the deck. The heavy coils smashed at her feet, rousing the rest of the crew.
"To open a trade with the bankers of Braavos. Reality tends to make even the most timid of investors more amenable." Varys had a different view on 'trade'. The free cities were fond of coin, Varys preferred the more valuable commodity of fear.
Predictably Rhaegal launched himself from the craft rather awkwardly. He wasn't the most graceful of beasts but what he lacked in style he made up for in presence. It was as though he'd been torn from the water and granted wings, slithering about in the air with his tail snaking behind. He was lean from a diet of gulls and fish but once they landed in Westeros, gorging on the spoils of battle, Varys was certain that he would grow.
After a few cumbersome tumbles in the air, Varys had to laugh when the dragon chose to perch on the glass dome of the Iron Bank. Sliding down the pinnacle of their architectural refinement, his claws left grooves in the glass and stained the air with an horrendous screech. High enough to attract attention, the Braavosi finally noticed the monster in their skies. Screams followed, spilling through the streets like Wildfire. All Varys could do was smile as panic ensued.
Tyrion hit the floor, lifting his arms above his head in a weak grasp for protection. His guards were cowering on the ground beside, terrified of the dragon dancing above them on the dome. He could hear the glass straining under the weight as the colossus stalked around, trying to find purchase. Cracks expanded, joining up – forming deeper ravines in the glass.
Any moment now...
Like a bubble in the wind, the dome disintegrated. Its glass exploded, raining down over them in a violent hail. Bits of it struck the stone beside Tyrion's head. All he could do was curl into a ball and pray to whatever gods he had left to spare him death.
A cleave of glass went through his forearm, slicing apart his meat. He felt nothing as he stared at his bone, buried in slaughtered flesh. The guards faired worse, as was morbidly demonstrated by a head rolling away to the side and a pool of blood filling the centre of the room. The corpse twitched while Tyrion crawled away from the scarlet tide. Clutching his arm, he managed to avoid Rhaegal landing inside the Iron Bank.
Startled, the dragon shook off a dusting of glass and twisted around, knocking over everything that wasn't part of the wall as his massive wings and tail struggled to fit inside the building. Tyrion collapsed behind a pillar, groaning at a wave of dizziness. He was losing blood fast. His thoughts were consumed by the sound of a dragon panting in succession with his own, failing breath.
"By the gods..." Daenerys pointed to the horror below. Writhing about in the heart of the largest building in Braavos was one of her dragons.
"Rhaegal!" Jorah yelled sharply. His cry was instantly drowned by Drogon whose call split the air, ringing the glass of every window in the city. His brother looked up, catching sight of the shadow in the sky before replying with an excited screech. "We better hang on to something..." Jorah lurched, wrapping his arms around the leather straps. Daenerys did the same and a moment later, Drogon tilted sharply, losing altitude.
Blankets slid off into the wind. Daenerys groaned as her weight made the leather straps bite into her flesh. Drogon tumbled toward the ground, flipping over twice. Jorah had his eyes firmly slammed shut as his stomach turned. Ground. Sky. Water. Sky. The wall of the Iron Bank. Drogon pulled up at the last moment, playing over the destroyed roof. Rhaegal snapped irritably from the ruin, twisting his neck as his brother banked. He opened his throat, coughing up smoke before a torrent of fire smelted the walls on its way to the sky.
"Jorah – look!" Daenerys commanded, as a pillar of fire erupted out of the Iron Bank.
He obeyed, opening his eyes in time to see the small, golden-haired imp slumped behind a pillar, lifeless and drowning in his own blood.
Tycho Nestoris wandered dazed through the rubble. Painted with marble dust, he resembled one of the broken statues which lined the remains of the bank. Writhing behind a half-collapsed wall, he saw the emerald dragon in the flesh. The sound of its claws gouging ruts in the floor drew him closer. A morbid fascination brought him right to the door, forlorn on broken hinges. He stood at the archway with his dead guards in pieces on the floor. A dragon. Twyin's foolish notions of a cat-sized creature were severely misguided. This wasa ghost of Old Valyria. Despite its overwhelming size, the creature was immediately overshadowed by another beast, marauding through the skies of Braavos. Black, with red-tipped wings, Drogon landed on the side of the Iron Bank with such force he nearly knocked the wall through.
With one dragon perched above and the other, devouring the pieces of his guards, Queen Daenerys made her entrance across the ruined hall of the Iron Bank.
Wrapped in Winter rags and trailed by a single, weathered knight, she had no place for false pretence – nor did she require it with the city cowered beneath her dragons.
She is a tiny thing, Tycho remembered thinking of the Silver Queen, as she strolled barefoot on the sacred stones. The Targaryen was in disarray but the rags of battle suited her.
Daenerys' dragons had replaced the Sealord statues. Water flooded one end of the room while Tycho managed to summon his bankers into the hall to host the would be queen. Pale, insipid men, they trembled under the watchful eyes of the beasts as their ancestors had done. Their centuries of freedom balanced on a blade. With a word, this girl from the East could wipe Braavos from the rock as if it had never been.
"Your Grace..." Tycho, who rarely tipped his head in the direction of a monarch, bowed. Her man loomed behind, nearly twice her size with a rough look about him. He reminded Tycho of someone else who shared thosestrange pale eyes.
The chairs laid broken on the ground so Daenerys stood before the council of bankers, a smirk tainting her lips. "I have heard frequent stories of Braavos," she began, memorising their faces. These were the men who'd financed her father's murder. "You've been described as many things across the continent. Shrewd men. Clever men. King makers. Dragon slayers..." Her dragons shifted above, dislodging rubble. The sound was like thunder, rolling in from the sea. "Men." That is all they were. To think that she had feared their wrath. They were small men once pried free of their stone cage. The soft body of a shellfish, defenceless. "There is a saying in this beautiful city, perhaps you know it... Valar Morghulis."
Tycho did not bite at her words.
"My offer is simple," Daenerys continued, stalking across the stones, letting them all get a good look at her. "Support my reign in Westeros. Suffocate the Lannisters from the Iron Throne and the Free Cities of Essos will remain as they are." She paused to wipe a smear of ash from her cheek. "I'll not return to your shores or come begging at your door like the false kings. I have no use for your coin, only your words."
"Legitimacy..."
"You have until tomorrow to decide."
Tycho collapsed into his throne when the queen departed. Her dragons left with her, tearing through the building and into the sky leaving the Iron Bank torn open with bits of its walls crumbling into the street. The beasts fished in the thick waters of the lagoon before perching on the colossus of Braavos, cleaning their wings.
"What do we do?" One of the bankers asked, nursing a bleeding head that had spoiled his robes.
"We make an investment," Tycho replied, coolly.
Tyrion felt the gentle rock of the ship, caressing him from the world of darkness back to that of the living. His moment of peace was torn by sharp stabs of pain as Missandei tightened a bandage around his arm. He railed against it, twisting out of her hold.
"Steady..." she insisted, pressing him back down into the bed.
Tyrion's face transformed into a silent howl as he breathed through the torture. He was on board the queen's ship, tucked safely away in his cabin. Alive. That was a surprise. He'd thought for sure as his head slumped onto the marble that the gods were finally coming for him. Tyrion had even been at peace with the thought of sleep. There were worse deaths. He could have died in a hovel on the Eyrie or been sliced into bits by a blunt Hill Tribe axe with whatever was left mounted on stakes.
"Wine!" Tyrion reached mindlessly for it. His good hand was slapped away.
"No wine," Missandei replied. "You're lucky to be breathing."
"That's why there should be wine," he insisted – and was thoroughly miserable until she relinquished her stance.
"Might I enquire where we are going, Your Grace?" Jorah asked, as Daenerys followed Varys through Braavos. The tiny streets were abandoned. Like ants before a storm, the Braavosi had hidden themselves deep within the buildings as the dragon queen passed. With her monsters standing guard, the city was hers. It was Varys that answered.
"To see an old friend," he slowed so that the three of them could walk abreast. "A very old friend," Varys added, as they came upon a straggling lemon tree, growing in and out of a terrace wall.
Daenerys broke away from the men, striding up to the red door. It was beaten and decayed from its years but as her hands pressed against the wood the warmth of memory flooded through her.
Jorah exchanged a look with Varys as their queen lay against the door. Was this where his father had raised the young Targaryens? It must have been. What else could explain the way Daenreys plucked a lemon from the ground and cupped it in her hands, inhaling the citrus that filled her dreams, haunting her.
When they reached the door, Varys knocked and was greeted by a young usher draped in royal garb.
The stench of death hung around the room, dulling the lanterns. Several windows had been left open allowing withered leaves to collect inside the room, blown against the fireplace. Amongst their skeletons was a raven feather. Incense sticks burned on every surface creating a mist that lingered around their waists. An odd mixture of fire and sunlight turned it pink. Emerging from within was the shape of a chair and folded into its leather – an ancient man. His white beard grew into his lap matched only by a set of eyebrows that had knotted over themselves. Sagging flesh bore a thousand stories, tattooed across every surface so that the old man appeared as an offering to the sea.
Varys, in an unusual display of obedience, knelt at the foot of the chair in reverence.
The old man was a conglomeration of bone, skin and lengths of shell that hung from countless strings around his body. They were braided through his hair and sewn into his clothes.
"May I present Daenerys Targaryen," Varys announced, lifting his head. "My queen, you stand before the Sealord of Braavos – the man who smuggled you out of Dragonstone and saved your life."
The Sealord's features deformed, his shell adornments scratching together as he looked beyond the dragon child to the bear behind and laughed.
Tyrion had his wine, all three bottles of it and sat in a happy stupor on the edge of his bed where the sun was at its strongest. There wasn't much warmth left in the world so he took what he could, lounging in it. His quarters blurred, shifting in and out of focus, exactly as he liked it. The queen lived and from the stories Missandei told, the Iron Bank would be mad to refuse her offer which meant one thing – he'd be returning to Westeros to face his sister. Tyrion closed his eyes and found his brother's face. Yes, Jamie too. Where would he be but at her side? The three of them had been dancing around this confrontation since they were born. Without their father standing guard, one or all of them would die. Lions eating lions and he, the smallest.
He found himself fantasising about the end. Cersei would die first, split on the edge of a blade. The thought of his hand at the other end was ludicrous so he imagined Grey Worm or Daenerys' Northern lapdog pushing it through his sister's poisoned flesh. In a rage, Jamie is the the next to die. Cut down he expires on the same place as the Mad King. Their blood is black, like the ink of a banker's parchment. Or maybe it all ends in fire. The Red Keep aflame. The lovers locked inside.
Ashamed, Tyrion wiped away the tears that had drowned his skin.
There was a certainty to these thoughts that he found difficult to face. Tommen, Tyrion thinks quietly, he'll save the boy.
"I remember you," Daenerys said, seated on the ground in front of the Sealord flanked by Varys and Jorah. "Not your face," she amended, "the sound of your shells. I hear it sometimes, at the edge of sleep. A scratching sound in the wind or amongst the grass."
"You and your brother were very young," the Sealord replied. His voice was that of a creaking ship, rolling in the water. "Babes – all eyes and toothless grins. Viserys used to sit with you by the water, barely big enough to wrap his chubby arms over your swaddle and tell you stories about Dragonstone he could scarce remember."
Daenerys was still holding the lemon. She looked down at its mottled surface, running her fingertips over its imperfections. She didn't want to think about her brother or his golden corpse. "I dream of the house with the red door. Every time I do, I'm wakened by death."
"We are all wakened by death," he assured her. "You like the lemons?" Caught off guard, Daenerys smiled, nodding. "They were a gift to you, from Westeros, to remind you of your true home."
"A gift from whom?" she asked.
A second figure revealed themselves, stepping out from the doorway at the far side of the room. Thick, plain with tanned skin and a mop of unruly black hair – the Martel prince bowed low to the Targaryen queen. "Family, as once was."
"Daenerys, this is Prince Quentyn Martell," the Sealord lifted his frail arm, beckoning the child forward out of the shadows. A few years the dragon's senior, they were both dangerously fresh in the world.
"I sailed across the Narrow Sea to bring greetings of Dorne, Your Grace," Quentyn's tone was even and polite, sculpted by the diplomacy of his father, "and to offer our condolences for your family." He added, in practised Valyrian. Despite his care, the execution was all wrong.
"I thank you for the kindness," she replied in kind. "I have often been told that your Aunt was very fine and well loved."
"She was. Her brother too – for he is with her now, killed in a Lannister pit."
Bound by history and hatred, Varys was right to seek this alliance out.
Marriage Jorah thought, as he brooded in the corner, sword resting against his knee, that is what this prince seeks. Of course he did. Daenerys was a young queen. She had married before and she would again. It should not bother the knight. These things were political not affairs of the heart. It did. It bothered him so much he had taken to fumbling his father's silver pin, warming it in his palm as he flipped it over and over until he dropped it with such force that the conversation in the room died a moment.
Prince Quentyn spent most of his time buried in council with Varys. The spider had taken him to one of the open windows to talk. They lingered in the sunlight with stray, dry leaves catching in the Dornish man's hair.
Daenerys remained knelt on the floor at the Sealord's feet, whispering prayers of some kind. When she was done, he shifted his broken body forward and placed his bony hand on her head, murmuring prayers of his own.
There were touches of his father around the house. The foolish old man had spent years here, guarding the dragons. The more he lingered in those thoughts, he realised he knew nothing at all about his father, the bear who spent his last years stalking about on a barren wall of ice had spent his time playing politics with the world. Jorah shook his head. Without meaning to, he now did the same thing. Even the chair he occupied had once housed Jeor as he read stories by the fire.
A string of shells shattered on the ground.
The room stopped, all eyes upon the queen. Slumped in front of her, the old Sealord had expired. His limbs laid limp, already bone-like in their pale skin. His whispers were finished.
Tyrion stumbled onto the deck. Swaying awkwardly, he made his way from door to rail, falling against each one until his face met the cold wind. It shocked him sober, tearing open his eyes until they settled on the ruin of the Iron Bank. A building that had this morning been an impenetrable fortress to their passage to Westeros had been revealed as nothing more than stone. Daenerys was making good on her promise to break the wheel. He could only hope that whatever emerged from her new world was worth it.
A small figure scrambled over the marble steps. Tyrion leaned closer, tilting dangerously over the rail. "What is that?" he asked.
Missandei, who was always in his shadow, turned her eye on the building. "A child."
Tyrion shook his head. "No..." he muttered, gripping the rail. "No, I know that face."
"Tyrion – wait! Come back! You're – look at the state of you... You can barely walk. Tyrion!"
Tyrion was already on the walkway, gripping the rope as he stumbled down onto the wharf. The child was not far, traversing boulders of marble thrown out from the destruction of the Iron Bank. Older, yes, a little taller with boyish hair and rough clothes but there was no hiding the Stark in her. "M'lady!" Tyrion called after her.
Arya stopped.
"You knew how this would be..." Daenerys perched on the old stone window sill among the dried leaves and cobwebs. Varys and Ser Jorah stood restlessly in front, shoulder to shoulder. Both men wore uneasy expressions. "The path to the throne is paved with suffering and bought not with Braavosi gold but with innocent blood. I must conquer Westeros..." Or all is lost.
"This is not what I had in mind," Varys cautioned. He had asked the Dornish for help himself and now wondered if it was right.
"You are adverse to violence," Daenerys incorrectly assumed, "I understand that but swift victory saves blood."
"Whose lives are you planning to save?" He asked directly. "Certainly not the citizens of King's Landing. The Dornish long for revenge. Your conquest cannot be about settling old scores or the people will reject you."
Daenerys was quiet on the subject, avoiding Jorah's piercing gaze which refused to leave her. He could hear her unsaid words but make no sense of them. "If you have something to say..."
"I do not, Your Grace," Jorah replied.
"Good. Then return to the bank and see if our lords and masters have come to an answer. It is nearly sunset."
"You gave them until tomorrow."
"I know." The dragon was impatient for an answer so Jorah dipped his head and turned, leaving Daenerys alone with Varys. "You, however, have something else to add..."
The Sealord's corpse was stiff behind them, like coral jutting from the seabed. Varys founds his eyes wandering there as he spoke. "I believe he held on through all these years if only to meet you."
Daenerys gave nothing away.
"What did he say?"
She slid off the window sill and moved back into the room. Varys was left with his silence.
It was near dark when Jorah reached the Purple Harbour. The sun set fast in this part of the world. They were further north, with the waters of the Shivering Sea gently brushing against the stone. To his left, Rhaegal and Drogon formed dark shadows on the statue, perching on the giant's shoulders. Activity swarmed over the queen's ship with lanterns setting every window aglow and sailors scurrying up the masts to secure the sails for the night.
Ceremony had been dispatched with. The front doors of the bank lay on the ground. Jorah stepped over them. A hinged snapped off under his weight. Charcoal lay in sad piles beneath the torches that burned as embers. Children swept the floors while larger men averted their eyes, lifting pieces of broken wall out of the walkway.
Tycho cut a disturbing figure in the centre of the hall. One of his bankers lay on the ground, dead with his bald head smashed in with a block of marble still dripping from Tycho's hand. Jorah worried the handle of his sword as he approached.
"No need for that," Tycho assured the knight. "Mormont, right?" he asked, setting the chunk of marble on the table before wiping the blood off on his robes. "Can always spot them," Tycho continued, not waiting for an answer. "They're very awkward in the world. And around money. Legend has it they won their beloved island in a wager. Is this a wager?" His tone turned serious. "I am a betting man myself."
Jorah considered the banker for a long time before replying, "It was a wrestling match."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Not a bet. Bear Island was won and then bestowed on my family as a gift. In the countless years since, we've repaid that gift with honour. Bankers know nothing of honour, only of wagers. Is life a scale to you? Do you weigh men's hearts against their gold? You'll get nowhere with the queen."
"She's not a queen yet."
A rare smile cracked over Jorah's features. "She's the queen."
"We'd be prepared to support that. Upon careful consideration, the Iron Bank will endorse Daenerys Targaryen in her claim in exchange for the monies owed by the Crown. Our harbours will close trade with the Baratheon and Lannister names and cut off all funding to their supporting houses. Loans will be null and void. The kingdom will starve."
"This decision is unanimous?" Jorah asked.
"It is now," Tycho relied, with a nod to the body at his feet. "Your queen has her bridge to Westeros."
