Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 43: The Iron Bank
"Hold to hate and it will shape you."
– Captain Edward Vosstark
His father was shouting orders atop his lungs for all to hear. Sailors scrambled up and down the masts and moved along the rigging at his commands, reefing the heavy white-and-silver trimmed sails. Below, the crew rushed around every deck as the Shipwright approached the Free City of Braavos.
Two lights burned in the sky ahead, low on the horizon, shining through the sea mists as they neared closer to the city.
"The stars of home," Ezio had called the sight when asked, he'd smiled and pointed them out with glee – speaking of titans.
Prince Darion stood at the prow, one hand resting on the railing above the silver-gilded figurehead, a great direwolf snarling at its prey.
The last of the night's stars had vanished but for the pair dead ahead.
Two stars, burning brightly against the dark; luring them ahead.
"Two eyes," said Darion muttered in awe. "The Titan…"
The Titan of Braavos. Uncle Cregan had told them of it, but he'd scarcely believe him. A giant as tall as a mountain, waking with fire in his eyes whenever Braavos stood in danger, its rocky limbs likely to grind and groan as the titan would wade out into the sea to smash the cities enemies under its stone feet. Such was the story.
"We Braavosi feed the titan on the juicy pink flesh of little highborn Princes," Ezio had jested and earned himself many a warning stare for the jest.
"I hope this Titan isn't hungry," came Brandon's voice from behind.
"Stone sinks," Darion countered with a hum of thought. "I wouldn't threat…"
"Think they worship it, cousin?"
"Perhaps," he wagered. Ezio told them of how all gods were honoured in Braavos, though the Moonsingers boasted the greatest of the temples; beside the Father of Waters. Darion wondered whether there was a godswood too, with a weirwood at its heart. "Or perhaps not, you'd have to ask the Braavosi about that Bran…"
"Gods no," Prince Brandon groaned. "He talks enough as it is – loves the sound of his own voice, that one…"
"There's the death god of theirs too," Darion mused as they sailed closer to the giant. "Some kind of Many-Faced-God…"
The Titan's eyes burnt brighter now, and farther apart as the mists gave way before them, ragged grey curtains parted by their prow. The Shipwright cleaved through the grey-green waters on billowing silver-white wings. Darion could hear the cries of seabirds overhead. Aline of stony ridges rose sudden from the sea, their steep slopes covered with soldier pines and black spruce. Ahead the sea had broken, and above the open water the Titan towered, with his eyes blazing in defiance.
Its legs bestrode the gap, one foot planted on each mountain, his shoulders looming tall above the jagged crests. Its legs were carved of solid stone, the same black granite as the sea mounts on which he stood, though around his hips he wore an armoured skirt of greenish bronze. His breastplate was bronze as well, and his head in his crested halfhelm. His blowing hair was made of hempen ropes dyed green, and huge fires burned in the caves that were his eyes blazing fiercely against the darkness.
One hand rested atop the ridge to its left, bronze fingers coiled about a knob of stone; the other thrust up into the air, clasping the hilt of a broken sword.
Up in the rigging men brought in the sails. Darion could see arrow slits between the Titan's legs, in the great bronze breastplate, and stains and speckles on the Titan's arms and shoulders where the seabirds nested. Any man looking would need to crane their neck upward to see, so great was the titan's height.
Then the Titan gave a mighty roar, the sound as huge as it was tall, a terrible groaning and grinding, so loud it drowned out all else.
A thousand seabirds took to the air at once, and Darion thought how ill-fated any attack on this city might prove.
"He warns the Arsenal of our coming, that is all," Ezio's voice came from behind them. "You must not be afraid, Princes."
"Fear is good," Darion countered with a scowl for the man. "Keeps you alive…"
"It is an impressive sight," Brandon added easily.
Ezio clasped both Princes on their shoulders as he exclaimed, "welcome to Braavos, young wolves!"
Wind and wave had The Shipwright hard in hand now, driving them swiftly toward the channel. More arrow slits dotted the insides of those great stone thighs, and when Darion craned his neck around to watch the crow's nest slip through with a good ten yards to spare, he spied murder holes beneath the Titan's armoured skirts.
"Pity the fools that sail here as foes," Darion made a point to say in the Old Tongue.
He wasn't so proud as to not admit that much, the sight was impressive; only a fool could deny it.
The titan's shadow lifted, the pine-clad ridges fell away to either side, the winds dwindled as the Shipwright moved through a great lagoon. Ahead rose another sea mont, a knob of rock that pushed up from the water like a spiked fist, its stony battlements bristling with scorpions, spitfires, and trebuchets.
"The Arsenal of Braavos," Ezio named it, as proud as if he'd built it. "Here we can build a war galley each day."
There was a dozen galleys tied up at quays and perched on launching slips. The painted prows of others poked from innumerable wooden sheds along the stony shores, like hounds in a kennel, lean and mean and hungry, waiting for a hunter's horn to call them forth. Too many to count, and more docks where the shoreline curved away.
Two galleys had come out to meet them. They seemed to skim upon the water like dragonflies, with pale oars flashing. Ezio shouted to them in his native tongue and the galley captains shouted back, in words Darion simply didn't know. A great horn sounded. The galleys passed to either side of them, close in some attempt to show off.
The sound of drums came from within their purple hulls, bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom, like the beat of living hearts; giving rhythm to their oars.
Then the galleys were behind them, and the Arsenal as well. Ahead stretched a broad expanse of pea-green water rippled like a sheet of coloured glass. From its wet heart arose the city proper, a great sprawl of domes and towers and bridges, grey and gold and red. The hundred Isles of Braavos in the sea.
It was a flat city, one could see that even from afar, not like any city Darion had seen before. The only hills here were the ones that men had raised of brick and granite, bronze and marble. Something else was missing as well, a glaring lacking that went unnoticed at first. The city has no walls at all…
"Our walls are made of wood and painted purple," Ezio had told them with pride. "Our galleys are our walls, Prince. We need no others."
"And where is our destination to be," King Rodrik had asked him with some hint of suspicion.
"We'd make for the Chequy Port normally, where my father's customs officers would come aboard to inspect your holds," the Sealord's Son explained smoothly, all smiles when he spoke. "We'd be stuck there for half a day at best though, so there's is no need for that – our friends shall dock at the Purple Harbor!"
The wind tugged at Darion's white-silver cloak, insistent as a ghost. It was time to go ashore…
Masts rose like a forest from the Purple Harbor when they docked at a section of the harbour that was far quieter than the rest.
The Chequy Port was by comparison – from the glimpse they'd gotten – far busy and dirtier, a tangle of piers and quays crowded with big-bellied whalers, galleys and enough sails to coverer the horizon in an array of colour. Darion had always thought Wrightport to be the grandest harbour in the world… but it seemed it wasn't…
He wondered if the docks of the Empire were so vast as this. The world just kept growing bigger with each day.
The city itself had seemed like one big island from where the Titan stood, but as they docked it was many small islands close together, linked by arched stone bridges that spanned innumerable canals. Beyond the harbor were streets of grey stone houses, built so close they leaned one upon the other, four and five stories tall and very skinny, with sharp-peaked tile roofs like pointed hats. There was no thatch, and only a few timbered houses of the sort she knew in Westeros.
Braavos was a city stone, a grey city in a green sea, lacking the patches of green that Wrightport boasted.
"Ugly place," Brandon commented low.
A wash of grey stone and purple sails for as far as the eye could see.
"Not a tree within it," Darion agreed with a frown.
"Missing home, cousin?"
"Aye," Darion supposed he was.
Wrightport was vast too – true enough – but it held a beauty to it; with its Godswood and white stone.
A row of mighty statues greeted them once they disembarked, solemn stone men in long bronze robes, spattered with the droppings of the seabirds. Some held books, some daggers, some hammers. One clutched a golden star in his upraised hand. Another was upending a stone flagon to send an endless stream of water splashing.
"Sealords," said Ezio told them, drifting into thought; the man's face turned sour. "My father will have his own, on the day he passes…"
"Lively docks," Brandon noted as he stepped onto the pier.
"It's not every day a fleet of warships visits our fair city," the reply came from a newcomer.
The Braavosi was a tall slender one with a slender blade, dressed in colourful finery with an air of flamboyance about him that was oh so Braavosi.
"Fregar," Ezio named him with a blank look and none of his usual charm.
"Antaryon," Tormo Fregar's smile was a wicked thing. "You return – with new friends, is it?"
"You know full well who they are," Ezio scoffed at the man.
"I do," Tormo nodded, all smiles. "Some of us remember our courtesies, though; do we not?"
Ezio hadn't ever looked like a dangerous man, but in the moment something fierce burnt behind his eyes.
"This is why you shan't succeed your poor father dear Ezio," Tormo continued, shaking his head as if disappointed.
"Enough," King Rodrik snapped at the two men, frowning deeply.
"Your Grace," the newcomer bowed. The Bravo's at his rear all eyed the wolves with caution.
"You've a purpose here Lord Fregar?"
The man's smile grew. "Oh, Lord is it? I like your new friends Ezio…"
"If we're to be friends if why we're here and not out in the bay, tearing down that statue of yours…"
Fregar's smile died with the swords drawn from his Bravo's at the rear. These men did not take threats lightly.
"If you draw steel, you best be prepared to use it," Rodrik told them as the Greycloaks as his back all stood at the ready.
"And this," Ezio held his arms out wide, motioning to everything around him. "Is why Fregar wasn't sent to treat with you, King Stark – the man lacks decorum…"
Tormo Fregar shrugged, uncaring for the insult, signalling his men to sheath their blades.
"The Bank awaits," he told them without any pomp. "Your father is present also Antaryon…"
"Why is the Bank involving themselves…"
"Curiosity," Tormo rolled his hazel eyes. "Ignorance is bad for business, didn't you know?"
The Iron Bank ruled the city in all but name – officially speaking – while the Sealord ruled in name but hardly in practice.
"Lead the way then," Ezio fought the urge to sigh over it all.
"Oh gladly," Lord Fregar's smile had resurfaced, turning on his heels with a wave.
"Lord Towers," King Rodrik turned to the giant of a man. "Fetch one of the chests – you know the ones…"
"Your Grace," the giant hummed, turning without another word back towards the Shipwright to fetch a chest.
It was a short walk from the Purple Harbour to the offices of the Iron Bank; more a fortress than a bank by its look.
Inside, past thick black-iron gates, the Hall of the Iron Bank was beyond vast with its tall stone pillars and dark marble floors, so spotless that they shoved a man's reflection – while one stood patiently awaiting them behind a large carved table littered with papers and coins hailing from every corner of the world known to the bankers.
The banker didn't so much as glance up at them as their party entered the hall, with swords and shields and wolves all. The banker didn't look up.
"In the high chamber," he told them, counting coins of gold and silver and copper – weighing them on his scales.
"Talkative as always," Ezio wasted no time as he walked forward.
It didn't seem these bankers had time for pleasantries.
The chambers were as vast as they were tall, held aloft by great stone pillars.
"Father," Ezio moved over first, ignoring the glances of the bankers by the Sealord's side.
"My son," Ferrego Antaryon was beaming at his only child, dressed in grey-silver finery and looking healthier than they'd been told to expect. "You're a sight for these old eyes Ezio, we feared you'd lost your way – or that our new…. friends… would not so forthcoming?"
"The wolves aren't so ferocious father," he replied with a smirk.
"Not without cause," King Rodrik declared, one hand resting on the pommel of is steel.
"I fetched them as requested most esteemed ban-"
"That will be all Lord Fregar…"
The man blinked, frowning at the dismissal.
"I thought tha-"
"Careful now Fregar," Ezio's smile grew tenfold with malice. "Think too hard, you'll hurt yourself…"
The bankers and the sealord didn't speak a word when the lordling looked to them for support. They sat in their chairs, uncaring, impatient.
"I think this is the part when you fuck off boy," Lord Towers told him, his voice gruff, staring down at the short man.
"You dare!" Fregar looked ready to draw steel on the giant.
The growls of wolves greeted him from every corner of the room.
One by one they circled Fregar, the Sealord, the Bankers all; though the latter seemed unphased.
"I-" Fregar backed off one step, two, three for luck…
"Piss off little man," Towers told him with a huff, towering over the little man.
Ezio Antaryon could only laugh heartily as Lord Fregar fled the hall in a furious huff.
"Dreadfully troublesome young man," one of the bankers said aloud with a sigh.
"Too much self-importance," another agreed with a shake of his head.
"He's a bastard," Ezio scoffed. "Thinks he'll be Sealord after father…"
The bankers all shared a glance between themselves and the Sealord in question,
"That is not his decision to make," Lord Antaryon struggled not to cough.
Ezio frowned at his father's health.
"Your Grace," Antaryon managed, catching his breath.
"Lord," Rodrik nodded to the man. "And… what do I call these men?"
"Noho Dimittis," one introduced himself with a level tone, with some hint of emotion he sought to hide.
"I am Bessaro Reyaan," the second spoke, his voice velvety to the point of sounding almost feminine, the man himself so fat that his chair was three times the size of the others. "Keyholder and head of House Reyaan. On behalf of the Iron Bank, we welcome you to our fair city King Brandon…"
The Northmen's party all shared glances at that name.
"My father is dead," Rodrik declared bluntly with a sharp look.
"Oh," Bessaro blinked, frowning. "A shame…"
"We were not made aware of this," the third banker seemed upset by the news.
"No matter Tycho," the one named Noho waved it away.
"You speak to his grace King Rodrik Stark," Lord Greystark told them with a stern look plastered on his face. "Lord of Winterhold, the King of Winter and Protector of Wrightport. You should speak with more respect, banker, least you-"
"It's quite alright my lord," Rodrik halted the man with a look.
"As you say Your Grace…"
The wolves had all quieted.
"My esteemed colleague meant no offence," Bessaro vowed, all smiles above his multiple chins.
"Quite so," Noho hummed. "Our information was frustrating outdated. This is not a mistake we are tolerant of Your Grace…"
"The fault does not lay with you of course King Rodrik," the third banker smiled at them.
Rodrik eyed the third one. He was tall, thin and gaunt with a narrow face and fark eyes.
Tycho, the others had named him…
"Your family name is, Lord?"
"Nestoris," the man's bravvosi accent was faint. "A humble representative of the Bank."
This one was courteous to the point of almost feeling too polite.
"We have accepted your invitation," King Rodrik got straight to the meat of things.
"And we are glad for it Your Grace," the fat one said.
The Sealord looked out of sorts as he spoke up.
"I welcome you," Antaryon bid him easily. "A pleasure, King Rodrik; last I only spoke to your brother Prince Cregan…"
"Your Lordship," Cregan nodded towards the man at his mention.
Antaryon only sent him a swift glance in reply.
"Forgive me," Rodrik pried. "We are not a people for flowery words my lords – what is it you wished to discuss?"
It was Bessaro Reyaan to answer, heartily laughing as he spoke – his multiple chins appeared to jiggle.
"A man of action!" He declared gladly.
"Straight to business then," Noho seemed pleased. "This is good."
The glance shared between them lasted only a moment. The fat one spoke…
"The Iron Bank invites His Grace the King of Winterhold and the Sunset Islands branch of House Stark to join the esteemed clients within our establishment in the possession of accounts with the Bank of Braavos – with a generous interest rate of two percent per year – negotiable of course…"
Rodrik Stark blinked, having lost the man's words after the spewing of his titles…
"Interest huh," it was Lord Fisher to speak, earning a nod from his nephew. "How'd that work?"
Rodrik made a mental note to thank his uncle later for taking the blow to his pride.
The bankers shared an amused look.
"Forgive my esteemed colleague of Reyaan," Tycho was beaming at them. "Our invitation is one of business, Your Grace, we would be fools to not see an opportunity when it presents itself. The Iron Bank did not become the world's greatest depository of wealth by burying our heads in sand, after all…"
"As for your rates," Noho added. "The exact numbers will depend on the size of one's account…"
"If you are an aspiring merchant, you come to us to buy ships and goods." Tycho explained happily. "If you are an aspiring shopkeeper, you come to us to buy your shop. Whatever you need in this world, we are the conduit. A throne can even be yours if you were an aspiring king, or stay yours if you are a sitting one…
"Just ask House Lannister of Westeros," Noho practically growled out that, his distaste for the Iron Throne all too clear.
"We are not the only bank in this world – every Free City has its own – but when those banks need gold, they come to Us." Tycho continued with a wide smile. "We lend coin to princes, kings, merchants and tradesmen. If a prince or king cannot pay us back, well... the world lacks for loyal men, not ambitious ones…"
The threat went without saying. If one failed to pay their debts, the Iron Bank could fund the rise of new princes and kings to pay the debt instead.
"One way or another," the Sealord broke his relative silence. "The bank will have its due…"
"And you'd give us a loan…"
Rodrik frowned at the notion.
"We'd invite you to open an account with us Your Grace," Tycho seemed all too eager.
"As for a loan," Noho spared a glance. "This is another matter – most pressing, that we believe you may hold some wish to fulfil…"
Bloody flowery words. Rodrik could feel a splitting headache coming along if these bankers kept talking.
"Forgive us," he told them with a weary sigh. "You assume we are in need of coin?"
Tycho's smile didn't falter in the slightest.
"You intend to wage war upon House Lannister…"
Rodrik didn't grace his with an answer. He didn't need to.
"As is your right," Tycho nodded sagely. "The Bank has its own share of rights, however…"
"Rights that align with your own," Bessaro hummed in agreement.
Noho Dimittis clinked a stack of coins on the table that laid before him.
"Kingdoms and Cities do not use any singular coinage," he processed to speak as he brought out a golden scale with silver chains. "All use precious metals such as gold, silver, or copper; exchanged by merchants and nobles through to the poorest of people – of different sizes and marking – but all share a similarity…"
"Weight," Bessaro smirked at his own choice of words.
"Purity," Tycho added helpfully.
"The value of currency is ascertained by its quality, its weight, its purity…"
On the scales Noho placed ten gold coins of similar shape on either side, but it was not balanced.
"Westeros uses a variety of coinage," he continued with a scowl on his features.
"Not all of equal value," once more Tycho helped his fellow banker.
"Quite so," Noho seemed to brew with annoyance. "Tell us, these coins, are they the same Your Grace?"
Rodrik was handed two gold coins, one graced by a golden stag and the face of a crowned man. The name "Robert Baratheon" was along the coin's edges.
"One's heavier," Rodrik noticed easily enough.
"What one," Noho pried, asking the obvious.
Rodrik frowned. It was the… bigger coin? Why was that…
"It is larger by a small margin," Noho snarled. "And yet, it weighs half; can you feel it?"
"Indeed," Rodrik returned the coin to the banker's hands.
"No doubt someone fought that bigger was better," the Sealord jested with a cough.
"Father," Ezio pried, with a worried look on his face. "What is this about…"
"Patience young Antaryon…"
"In the reign of the late King Aerys the weight of a silver stag had five grams of pure silver," Noho continued, taking the coins and placing them back on the scale as if to make his point – the older of the piles being heavier by a margin. "Today, it is less than half. Today, a golden stag is a third less pure than Targaryen dragons…"
"A hundred golden dragons can become a hundred and fifty golden stags," Bessaro frowned at the notion.
"This is not uncommon in of itself," Noho explained with his scowl. "However…"
"The Iron Throne believes us fools," Tycho added, still wielding his friendly kind smile.
"At present their accounts are in debt an amount of two million thirty-five thousand seven hundred and twelve…"
Rodrik glanced to his uncle, who was looking awed at the sheer amount of debt.
"How in the gods does one spend so much," he asked the bankers.
"Foolishly," Noho answered sharply.
"More the fool for their mummery," Bessaro huffed.
"Tywin Lannister pays us a portion of his king's debt as a show of good will," Noho tossed one of the golden stags aside in his frustration. "Five thousand seven hundred twelve in good faith, his messengers say; as if we are fools so blind to our own accounts! The man will rue this decision!"
"The bank will have its due Dimittis," Tycho promised with a smile.
"Forgive me again," Rodrik looked lost. "How does this affect us, my lords?"
Tycho Nestoris was all smiles and courtesy when he answered.
"When a king refuses to pay his debts, the bank will have its due; as it always does – one way or another – the debt will be paid."
"I shall be blunt as is your preference King Rodrik," the banker Noho declared.
There was one moment of pause, as if the man expected some denial.
"The Iron Bank offers you an arrangement; should you enforce the debt owed to us by the Iron Throne."
"We would provide sellswords and sellsails," Bessaro informed merrily. "In return, you would enforce payment of the debt in full; minus what value Lord Tywin has provided with his false offering of course – no meagre sum – but we trust you will not make the mistakes of House Lannister?"
"You want us to force them to pay their debt," Lord Greystark scoffed at the notion.
"Think of it as an investment on their part," the Sealord told them steadily.
"And if we fail?" Rodrik wondered aloud. "My people are fighters, we've no shortage of men; but we cannot conquer Westeros for you…"
"We would not expect such a thing of you," Noho dismissed the notion swiftly.
"Your fleet is vastly impressive however," Bessaro praised. "We know the worth of naval strength, as you do, no doubt?"
"No doubt," Lord Fisher could admit that much.
"As a show of good faith – free of charge – there is news that may be of value to you…"
"That is?" Rodrik asked, equal parts curious and cautious.
"The Redwyne Fleet has been sighted passing beyond Dorne."
"House Reyne's fleet," Cregan muttered from behind, earning all eyes on him in a flash.
"The very same," Tycho confirmed with a nod.
"If you were to defeat this fleet," the Sealord supposed aloud. "Westeros would have nothing to prevent you blockading their ports…"
"And if done in our name the lions would have no choice but to submit," Noho Dimittis proposed boldly.
It was an interesting proposal, but it came with a whole shipload of questions.
"What's stopping us from doing this alone?"
The bankers didn't seem concerned by the notion.
"Nothing at all," Tycho admitted easily. "However, with our help you may do so with far greater ease…"
"We can provide many ships and men to sail them," Bessaro offered with a smile of his own.
"The safe release of what captives you wish to free would also, quite naturally, be well within your rights."
"Captives?" Rodrik asked, confusion on his face.
"Father?" Ezio asked, apparently as clueless as the rest of them.
"That is the other news I'm afraid," the Sealord sighed. "Willam Stark is a captive of the Iron Throne at present; your brother, correct?"
"He's a prisoner," Rodrik growled at the news.
The wolves in the room all shifted and started pacing.
"Alive," the Sealord assured. "At least, by all our reports – the Prince is quite alive."
"And unharmed?"
"Ah," Tycho answered. "That much we cannot say…"
The northern lords present all grumbled and spat curses.
"There must be blood for this," Lord Towers insisted with an anger to him.
"If we act against them in your name," Rodrik spoke, one hand raised to silence his lords. "What's to stop them executing my brother?"
"Our word," Noho Dimittis declared simply. "In our decree, we will demand the safe release of the Prince along with full repayment of the debt."
"They would not dare harm him," Tycho seemed so very sure.
"And if we refuse," Rodrik's eyes narrowed. "If we go it alone?"
The bankers shared another glance between themselves.
"No such assurances could be given," Noho answered for them. "You would be alone, as you say..."
"Father," Prince Darion spoke, breaking his silence on the matter.
Rodrik gave the boy a glance. It was all he needed to speak his mind.
"We came west to bring Uncle Will home, did we not?"
"Aye lad," Rodrik confirmed plainly.
"These bankers word holds great weight here… while ours does not…"
"Our sails and swords would hold plenty weight young wolf," Lord Greystark counselled.
"We cannot conquer them," Darion shook his head. "This isn't Ibben or the Islands my lord – their numbers on land vastly outmatch our own."
The boy's words held merit, Rodrik knew, there would be no grand conquest to be had. Not without powerful friends at least.
"If we sail with these men," Darion eyed the bankers. "Uncle Will would be safe…"
"This is your vow?"
King Rodrik eyed the bankers and the sealord coldly.
"This is business," Noho replied. "Your ships for our ends tied with the return of your lost Prince…"
"A fair trade for both parties," Tycho gave his agreement.
"Far better than the lions deserve," Noho huffed in annoyance.
Willam was their reason for coming. Was there any reason to deny them?
They were using them - that much was true - though the bankers made no effort to hide the fact.
"What's the downside father?" Darion asked, seeing none from where he stood.
"None I can see," Rodrik supposed aloud. Just because one couldn't see a threat didn't prove it didn't exist, however.
"You know our ends," Noho Dimittis spoke plainly.
"It is as we say, simply business," Bessaro was smiling at them.
"What say you Your Grace?" Tycho asked finally. "Have we reached an accord?"
All things considered there weren't truly any downsides to the arrangement, beside how the banks sails would abandon them the moment the debt was paid; but it seemed the Lannister's weren't in any rush to pay… though if they could tie Willam's life and the lives of their people to the Banks debt? Would the lions dare harm him?
"Lord Towers," Rodrik turned to the man in an instant. "The chest…"
The giant of a man was still holding it, all wood and silver. He dropped it to the floor with a THUD at the king's word.
"What is this?" Bessaro leaned forward on his great wide chair.
"Your answer my lords…"
Lord Towers took from his belt a set of keys and knelt by the chest to open it.
As it opened the banker's all leaned closer, their eyes glued to the open chest and what laid inside…
They laid eyes on gleaming and shining golden bars stacked to the brim, freshly marked with snarling wolves.
"The God-Kings of Ibben sat a great throne of solid gold," King Rodrik told the bankers and the sealord as he picked up one of the gold bars in hand and smiled at the looks on their faces. "It was a terribly uncomfortable thing, I'll tell you that, while my brother now rules from its port; we had no use for lofty uncomfortable seats of gold…"
"Melting it down was quite the undertaking," Lord Greystark commented at the sight as one of the bankers stood up to inspect the chest.
"And all their statues," Darion added with a warm smile of his own. "Wasteful people, but rich; beyond reason…"
"The cursed gold of Ibben is in our hands," Noho named it, holding one of the bars in apparent awe.
"Gold like any other," Rodrik scoffed at the notion of curses. "Tales made by pretender gods to keep greedy fingers from their treasure…"
"We put no stock in childish superstition here Your Grace," Tycho said as he too picked up a gold bar to admire it.
"Such purity," Noho mumbled in awe. "I simply must see to testing its value…"
"You spoke of accounts before," Rodrik pried from the bankers.
Noho Dimittis had never looked so happy as he did in this moment.
"The Iron Bank welcomes you with open arms," the man beamed, his smile turning hungry.
"We must toast," Tycho had gotten a fine clear-glass bottle of red wine from somewhere. "To our partnership, my Lords?"
Rodrik couldn't help but admire the glass chalice as he was handed one filled with blood-red wine. It was nearly as clear as Imperial Glass…
"To good business," Noho raised his glass up high, seeming thrilled by the promising turn of events.
The Stark's raised their glasses and signed their contracts. Winter would have its due.
Lord Antaryon had followed up with a boon of his own, once they'd signed a truly ludicrous number of papers; the ailing Sealord tasked his son with leaning them across the city. The Isle of the Gods, Ezio named it, with one great building a mighty mass of snow-white marble topped by a silvered dome whose milk glass widows showed all the phases of the moons passing. A pair of marble maidens flanked its gates, tall as the sealord statues they'd seen before; these supporting a crescent-shaped lintel.
Beyond the Temple of the Moonsingers stood another temple, a red stone edifice as stern as any fortress. Atop its great square tower, a fire blazed in an iron brazier twenty feet across, whilst smaller fires flanked its brazen doors. "The red priests love their fires," Ezio told them. "The Lord of Light is their god, red R'hllor..."
Next came a huge brick structure festooned with lichen. Arya might have taken it for a storehouse had not Yorko said, "That is the Holy Refuge, where we honor the small gods the world has forgotten. You will hear it called the Warren too." A small canal ran between the Warren's looming lichen-covered walls, and there he swung them right. They passed through a tunnel and out again into the light. More shrines loomed up to either side.
"So many gods," Brandon muttered as they passed. "How does one know which is false?"
"You don't," Ezio shrugged. "None, or all, whoever claimed the world wasn't big enough for them all? Many believe the gods are all one and the same…"
On their left across a stretch of water appeared a rocky knoll with a windowless temple of dark grey stone at its top.
A flight of stone steps led from its doors down to a covered dock…
"You don't want to go there," Ezio noticed young Brandon looking over curiously.
"Why not?" Brandon asked, looking over at the building.
The temple's black tile roof came to a sharp peak, just like all the houses along the canals.
"The House of Black and White," said Ezio as if it were a curse to speak its name.
From a distance the temple held a set of carved wooden doors some twelve feet high.
"The left-hand door is made of weirwood," Ezio told them quietly. "The right of ebony…"
In their centre was a carved moon face; ebony on the weirwood side, weirwood on the ebony.
"Remove it from your thoughts my friends," Ezio strongly suggested.
"Where are we headed?"
"Not far now," Ezio hummed, turning his eyes away from the strange temple to faceless gods.
The Godswood was a mumble thing on the horizon, at the Isle of Gods highest point; it was nestled between the buildings – one of the few areas of the city that was untouched – they were led to the very edge of the greenery to a long building carved of ironwood and white stone and rusted iron…
"The Rose Hall," Ezio introduce the building, seeming far happier to see these doors than the ones before.
The doors were oaken and twice the hight of Lord Towers.
Music played inside, along with the familiar sound of drunk men and women singing aloud.
"Your kinsmen await," Ezio pushed open the doors to the sound of half-drunken singing.
"-all you lost wolves," one man sang above the others. "Listen to me! I'll sing yee a song of our sails on the sea!"
He was up on one of the halls long wide tables, moving nimbly between cups and plates of food without a care.
"It's windy weather boys, stormy weather!"
The hall sang in unison, a chorus of drunk fools. It reminded Darion of home…
"When the winds blow, then we're all together! Boys blow ye winds eastward, blow ye winds blow!"
"Out on the eastwinds," the man on the table held his tankard up.
"How far could we go!?" The entire hall shouted in time.
The man on the table eyed their entry only briefly, continuing his song with a gulp of ale.
"Up came the Dragon in search of our throne!"
There were a number of shouted "Booo"'s and one very drunk man scramed "Fucking Lizzzsardsss" in a drunken slurry.
"Through ice unto fire to these shores unknown…"
The man's eyes had darted to them, trying to focus past his drunken haze.
He seemed the only one to have noticed them, the wolves at their side, the crown on Darion's father's head…
"And it's windy weather boy's stormy weather," the rest of the hall kept singing obviously.
"When the wind blows, then we're all together! Blow ye winds, blow! Out on the eassstwinds, seady we go!"
Darion was smirking at it all, as many in the hall were slurring their speech – it made for quite the showing.
Looking at the man on the table – who had halted his song entirely to stare blankly at them – his hair was short yet flowing; braided in a strictly Braavosi fashion, but his ice-grey eyes looked almost Stark in colour. "Now come the colds winds, to take us so far, all through the long night and back to our hearths!"
"Who the fuck are you lot…"
The hall didn't seem to notice the man had spoken.
"Ands is windsy weathers boys, stormsy weather," one drunk stumbled over to their party and wrapped one arm around Darion as he sung aloud.
The wolves growled something fierce. None of them had seemingly noticed the bloody wolves…
"Now blow ye winds northward," the drunk was laughing as he sang, nudging the prince he'd put his arm around.
"Comes on lad ye know the words!"
"I'm afraid I don't…"
"Ye-" The drunk blinked, his eyes narrowed.
"Richard," The man on the table seemed surprising sober all of a sudden.
"Aye broter!?"
Gods he was drunk…
"Step away from the strange bastards with the pack of wolves…"
"Wolves?" Richard chuckled. "Ain't no f-"
Fenrir growled at the stranger, while Sol and the Greystark wolves looked on curiously.
"-ecking SHIT!"
The drunk known as Richard stumbled away from the strangers.
"Greetings," Darion said, all smiles at the man as he scared himself sober.
"W- W- What the fuck!?"
Ezio began to laugh so very loud at the man.
The hall had fallen quiet, the bards ceased their playing, every man and woman had put down their drinks in favour of nursing their steel instead.
"Antaryon," the man from the table as stepped down, now all too sober.
"Captain," Ezio bowed ever so theatrically.
"Explain," he demanded of him. "Now. Quickly."
"Captain Edward," Ezio named him. "This is my fathers honoured guest and newest account holder from the Iron Bank of B-"
"Fuck the titles Ezio," Edward snarled at the man.
Ezio merely rolled his eyes.
"His Grace," he motioned to Rodrik, standing tall with his father's crown atop his head, eyeing the hall for some threat. "King Rodrik of the House Stark, the Lord of Winterhold and well I do know how you northmen despise fancy titles, so I'll wave the rest, if it's all the same to you Your Grace?"
"Fuck em," Rodrik dismissed with a sigh.
"Quite so," Ezio smirked. "As the King says you may 'fuck' the titles…"
A wave of hushed whispers passed over the hall.
"His son also, the Prince Darion and nephew Prince Brandon…"
"Starks," Edward eyed them all. "Is this a fucking jest Antaryon?"
"No jest Captain I assure you-"
"If it is, your father isn't here to save you..."
"Now now," Ezio didn't seem worried. "No need for violence Edward…"
"You," the captain eyed Rodrik like he expected the man to be some kind of ghost sent to haunt them.
"Aye," Rodrik didn't bulk for even a moment.
"Who the hell are you…"
"He's the King boy," Lord Greystark snarled from behind them. "You should treat your betters with some damn respect!"
Captain Edward smirked at that notion as the whole hall seemed to tense.
"This is Braavos old man," he told them with a smirk. "We're all free men here – now and always…"
"I-" Edward's brother had since retreated closer to kin.
"Speak brother…"
"If he's really-"
"Of course he bloody isn't," Edward waved the notion away, turning around to-
He blinked. Who in the name of the damn gods was sitting in HIS chair!?
"Lovely hall you have here Captain," her voice was sweet as honey and full of mischief, with a shit eating smirk on her lips.
"You!" Edward's eyes burnt with fury. "Who- how the fuck did you-"
"Get here on this comfy seat?"
Lyarra Stark's smile was innocence incarnate.
"I sat," she explained with a shrug and a wink. "How else?"
"The witch has you there, brother…"
"Shut it Rich!"
"Captain," Lyarra leant forward on the man's seat.
"Get off my damn chair," Edward stormed over the hall.
Lyarra blinked, then shrugged uncaring.
"Very well," she vowed, but made no effort to move.
"My sister is quite the trickster Captain…"
Edward turned back to his uninvited guests.
"She's sitting in my fucking… chair…"
The woman was gone when he turned back around to yell at her. Where the fuck had she-
"It really is a comfy chair," she told Rodrik, standing beside him now as if nothing was astray.
The hall was awash with whispers and confusion. Rodrik's party seemed oddly used to the woman's strangeness.
"Gods," Captain Edward pointed at her. "You! How the fuck did you do that!?"
Princess Lyarra merely smiled, leaning on her kingly brother and putting on her best 'innocent child' impression.
It wasn't quite convincing on a woman well into her twenties…
Darion found it rather unsettling as a matter of fact.
"Your Grace," Ezio was smiling like an idiot at the confused look on the captain's face.
"Antaryon," Rodrik eyed the man with a look that demanded answers.
"I introduce you to the brave Captain Edward Vosstark, of the Rose Company."
"A gods damn pleasure," Edward mumbled, eyes not leaving Lyarra – confused as all hell by the woman.
"You're really a Stark…"
Rodrik eyed the one called Richard.
"Last I checked," he told him plainly. "Who are you?"
"Richard Vosstark," the man replied. "I um- we, that is…"
"We've not seen a Stark here since…"
Edward didn't know actually when if ever they'd seen one…
"Fuck me," he cursed in the Old Tongue. "I don't know. Ever?"
"Well now you see several," Rodrik told them plainly, eyeing the hall and those gathered for drinks and food.
"And others with our fleet," Darion added for the man's knowledge.
"Others," Edward hummed. "Fuck me…"
"A tempting offer," Lyarra smiled innocent.
Edward blinked, as ever the woman's brother seemed surprise by that.
"That one," Edward nodded at her smiling innocent face.
"What about her?"
"Keep her the hell away from me," he practically begged.
"I'm afraid not even the gods could keep her in check…"
"I'll have to ask every god in this damn city then," the captain scoffed. "One ought to keep me safe…"
Lyarra merely held her innocent smile throughout.
"What-" Edward shook his head, feeling a splitting ache coming.
They'd gone generations without a damn word from the Starks and now they seemed to be raining from the sky…
"What did you come here for?"
Rodrik wasn't sure. It had been the Sealords idea.
"I was told of your company's history," he answered honesty. "You fled, when King Torrhen bent the knee?"
Edwyn gave the man a nod, moving to pour himself another tankard of mead.
"Want some?"
"Gladly," Rodrik agreed.
"Come," Edward motioned for them. "Sit – this'll take a damn while I suppose…"
"Move you seadogs!" Richard barked at the table. "Make room!"
Once they were seated, with some mead down them things seemed to calm.
"You;ve heard the stories I'm sure," Edward began his tale. "Brandon Snow?"
"The King's brother," Ezio nodded and sipped his mead.
"Aye," Edward drowned his tankard.
"Only the truth isn't so simple," Richard revealed with a frown.
"King Torrhen's decision was met with anger among the lords it's said – this was so long ago you understand, time pisses away the finer details – but my father and his father before them and so on all held to the tale; our roots grow as strong as a weirwood it's said. That's what we were taught at least…"
"Brandon Snow was tasked by his king to lead men and women into exile," Richard refilled his brother's tankard.
"It was by the king's orders," Edward revealed. "That's the part the history books leave out – how it wasn't truly a punishment, but a duty…"
"The Dragon was led to believe Brandon and Torrhen had fallen out over the matter," Richard hummed in thought.
"It was bullshit," Edward drank deep.
"King Torrhen felt there would come a time when the dragons would die…"
"And he was right," Edward agreed with his brother. "Not that it mattered – dragons all died, but the North still bends to stags and lions…"
"Not us Captain," Darion noted with a firm look.
"Not you," Edward agreed. "Fascinating tale… we're alike, it seems…"
"How so?" Rodrik pried, drinking only enough to not appear rude towards his hosts.
"Our ancestors left the North of their own will as free men," Edward thought how his father would've been so proud if he were alive to be here today. "Mine hoped to return some day, when the dragons were gone; the day would come when we'd accept the call and reclaim our throne, our freedom…"
"The call never came?" Rodrik asked of him. The man's look seemed to take a turn for the worst.
"Gods no," Edward frowned. "My father hoped it might – when Aerys Targaryen was overthrown, he was thrilled – hoped against hope that a raven would come their way calling them home to kneel before a King in the North just as Brandon had done so long ago. He'd spoken to Lord Rickard before the rebellion, you see, by raven..."
Edward's father had been in contact with Lord Rickard Stark once, but those plans died with him.
"No word came after the war or during," Richard added with a forlorn look. "Father was furious at Winterfell for it…"
"Stags," Edward scoffed. "You believe that? Dragons were one thing, but fucking STAGS!? Who kneels before their dinner?"
The notion was a silly one. Wolves hunted stags; they didn't bow to them for god's sake.
"I kneel to no one," Rodrik told them clearly.
"Aye," Edward hummed in thought. "It appears not, Your Grace… but the North remains under the heel of- lions now, was it?"
"Tommen Baratheon," Rodrik named the boy. Or was it Waters? Lannister? Who cared, really?
"Lannister you mean," Edward scowled at the name. "We've heard the stories, a lion cub born of incest…"
"Imagine the look on the conquerors face of he could see his precious throne now eh," Richard could only laugh at that.
Aegon Targaryen was rolling in his grave no doubt to see how far into the shit his once mighty kingdom had fallen.
"Serves em right," Edward supposed aloud. "I can't say I share my fathers hate for the dragons, it's an old thing, but still…"
"The Targaryen's stole much from our ancestors," Rodrik commented, testing the waters somewhat.
"Hold to hate and it will shape you," Edward countered.
He paused at that, taking a gulp of his honeyed mead.
"I'm my own man, Your Grace, ain't my father…"
"Pops was a great man," Richard nursed his own tankard.
"That he was brother, but bitter – we all know it – he was consumed by hatred. That's not Us."
"No," Richard agreed easily. The man had more to say, Rodrik could see it in his eyes, but for whatever reason he kept silent.
The gold bar placed on the table threw a wave of silence over the entire hall.
"What's that?" Edward eyed the gold like it was a severed head spoiling his dinner.
"Payment," Prince Darion answered for his father.
The Captain of the Roses eyed the gold bar warily, as if it would leap out and bite.
His arms reached out – Rodrik's eyes on him judgingly – only for the man to push the bar away.
"Keep your gold," he told the King with a fire in his eyes. "I'll take payment in words alone, Your Grace."
"What words would you have of me, Captain?"
"The same oath King Torrhen made his brother swear…"
Edward and Richard shared a glance only briefly, as if to confer with each other. They agreed it seemed.
"Swear that you will never kneel," Edward told the King. "Give me your word as our blood – as a Stark – that you will kneel to no man or beast."
"I have come to free my brother and protect my family," Rodrik told the man and his brother.
"Then swear," Edward repeated himself boldly.
"I swear," Rodrik vowed easily. "I will die before I bend."
"So be it," Edward Vosstark could see no lie in the king's eyes.
The Company of the Rose would fight for House Stark. They were going home.
My Note(s): Sorry for the delay on this chapter, it appears that Winter is Here and I've been freezing my arse off for a while now. The heating took ages to get working again and I had to panic-buy some portable radiators to keep my pet snakes warm while I stomached the cold :( so been busy, didn't get much spare time to write even if it's one of the "filler/worldbuilding" chapters that I do on occasion. I much prefer to give a PoV of these events as opposed to revealing them via ravens/news/hearsay etc.
I did however throw together a new story 'cover' image! Like it? I did one for Long and Sharp too (my House Reyne fic) in prep for re-writing that at some stage.
+ I have updated the prologue for Long and Sharp & Dragon Age: Cataclysm if anyone hasn't seen, they're up for anyone interested.
246vili: Suko's rather in his element when it comes to court intrigue from having grown up back home in the Imperial court with his scheming siblings and his father's boot-lickers, so he was the obvious choice (still is for future chapters) to use in King's Landing. The man can spin a fable with the best of them even if he's prone to theatrics.
Force Smuggler: Suko was easily the best choice, aye, perfect character for bullshittery in KL :) I'm enjoying writing with Suko alongside Oberyn ha
FractiousDay: You mean the old version of this story? It was dreadfully worse and not remotely similar (I think you forget how bad the old one actually was :P but I still have a copy so trust me it's FAR worse) the word count alone was tiny compared to what I upload nowadays; with 23 Chapters & only 80k words in the old version – while by comparison, we're at 43 Chapters & 370k+ words in the new version. That's a BIG difference even if you ignore the story and character differences.
As for the pacing, I'm quite content with it, character development & world building is an important factor that the old story was severely lacking.