"Volantis is a freehold, and all freeborn landholders have a voice in the governance of the city. Three triarchs are elected annually to administer her laws, command her fleets and armies, and share in the day-to-day rule of the city. The election of the triarchs occurs over the course of ten days, in a process that is both festive and tumultuous... partisans of various candidates - and of the two factions - rally on behalf of their chosen leaders, dispensing favours to the populace. All freeborn landholders - even women - are granted a vote. Though the process strikes many outsiders as chaotic to the point of madness, power passes peacefully enough on most occasions."
―World of Ice & Fire, p. 269
…
The candlelight flickered in the chamber, illuminating the spaces between shadows, and Otto Hightower studied the subtle shift in Lady Caswell's expression. Her eyes, rimmed with sleeplessness and grief, darted towards the heavy ledgers and documents arrayed before them. Otto remained poised, a portrait of courtesy and dispassion painted upon his features. The Red Keep had become a place of quiet undertones lately, whispers curling through the halls like tendrils of smoke from those flickering flames, unseen but pervasive. The stirrings of his grandson—Aemond's machinations—were a quiet murmur beneath the courtly discourse, a murmur that Otto suspected, but had yet to fully confirm. He found himself approving of the foresight, even as he took measured steps to become part of it.
The corners of his mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile. Empathy, carefully measured and controlled, was a weapon he wielded as well as any blade. His eyes met Lady Caswell's as he spoke, his voice a blend of sympathy and authority. "You have our deepest sympathies, my lady. The recent months could not have been kind. Bitterbridge has always been loyal, and it is in these difficult times that such loyalty is tested." He allowed the words to hang in the air, heavy with expectation.
Lady Caswell nodded, her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles stark against her pale skin. She was fraying at the edges, her composure stretched to its limits. It was the nature of grief to undo people in subtle ways—ways that left them vulnerable, malleable. Otto knew this well, had seen it many times in many places. She was a woman adrift, given more power than she had ever anticipated, and all the weaker for it.
"The burden is heavy, indeed," she said, her voice a whisper. "With my lord husband gone, I…"
Otto allowed his lips to curve in the barest of understanding smiles. "House Caswell's loyalty is not in question," he said, his tone softening just enough to suggest understanding, "but the realities of the present cannot be ignored. Your lord husband, may his indomitable spirit rest in peace, left behind certain… obligations." He glanced at the sheaf of parchments on the table, and with deliberate slowness, he lifted one into view, unfolding it with a whisper of paper against paper.
"It has come to the attention of the Crown," he continued, letting his eyes drift back to Lady Caswell, "that House Caswell owes a not insignificant debt to the Iron Bank of Braavos. The Iron Bank, as you may know, has become increasingly uncooperative with the Crown's needs as of late, which has complicated things considerably. There exists the real fear that the Braavosi might express their displeasure in a manner unhealthy to the livelihoods of important vassals of the crown."
The Lord Hand watched the emotions flit across her face—fear, uncertainty, confusion. Otto knew that such debts, if leveraged properly, could drown a house like Bitterbridge, especially now, in the wake of the lord's passing. "Prince Aemond," he continued, capitalizing on the moment to lay the weight of significance upon the name, "has seen fit to intervene. He has, through channels of his own best left unnamed, purchased the debt held by the Iron Bank." Otto paused, allowing the moment to stretch, to let Lady Caswell comprehend the full implications of what he was saying. She blinked, her expression slowly shifting from one of despair to something akin to hope, though it was tinged with the uncertainty of the unknown.
"Prince Aemond?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was disbelief there—and, Otto thought, the beginning of gratitude.
"Indeed," he said, inclining his head slightly, an acknowledgement that he was merely a messenger. "He understands the difficulties you face, my lady. In light of your loss, and the burdens you now carry, he wishes to offer you terms that are… far more amenable than those set forth by the Iron Bank. The interest shall be reduced, and the timeline for repayment shall be extended. House Caswell will be granted the breathing room it needs to find its feet once more."
She exhaled, a soft shuddering sound, her grip on the handkerchief loosening. Otto could see the relief washing over her, a tide that threatened to carry away her caution. "I—that is… most generous," she said, the words catching in her throat.
Otto allowed a small smile. "The prince merely seeks to help, my lady."
Lady Caswell's eyes glistened then, and she nodded again, more firmly this time. "Please extend my gratitude to Prince Aemond," she said, her voice steadier now, the hint of hope giving her strength. "House Caswell will not forget this kindness."
Otto rose, the smoothness of his movement conveying a grace that was more calculated than casual. He extended his hand to the Lady, helping her to her feet. "I shall convey your thanks, my lady. And rest assured, you are not alone in these trying times. The Crown stands ready to assist its loyal subjects."
He walked her to the door, his hand light upon her elbow, the epitome of a courteous host. The guards outside straightened as they approached, and Otto gave a nod to the attendant who stepped forward to guide Lady Caswell away.
"May the gods be kind on your journey back to Bitterbridge," Otto said as she stepped through the doorway. Lady Caswell glanced back, her eyes meeting his, gratitude clear in her expression. She offered a small bow of her head, and then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.
Otto closed the door behind her, the latch clicking softly in the silence that followed. He stood there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around him. Another one in the bag, it seemed. This was the fourth house in six months to suddenly find itself indebted to the young Master of Coin, through means as varied as the faces of men.
Had Otto not been paying close attention to these matters, he might have not even noticed. The lad—Aemond—had a gift, he realised. A gift backed by a relentless pursuit of advantage that Otto both admired and found mildly discomforting.
He turned back to the table, his eyes lingering on the documents there as his thoughts drifted to the other princes. Daeron was admirable, in his own modest way at least. Aegon, however…
"If only," he sighed, murmuring to himself in a voice tinged with regret.
"If only…"
***
The sun was low over King's Landing, painting the docks in a diffused orange glow. A fitting palette, she thought. Mysaria stood on the pier with a pair of Red Cloaks at her back, a still figure against the busy scene of sailors, labourers, and city folk. She had become accustomed to this place—its scent of brine and fish, its unpredictable cacophony. Today, however, her eyes were fixed on a singular point: the approaching ships, their sails emblazoned with an unmistakable sigil.
To the casual onlooker, Mysaria appeared serene, her slender frame wrapped in a cloak of black velvet lined with blood-red silk. Yet beneath that surface was the tension of careful preparation, of forethought. She watched the Volantene delegation as they disembarked—five men, their garments bright, richly embroidered, almost decadent against the greying port. These men bore the hedonism of their homeland in their bearing, men used to obedience. They were men from a city that prided itself on old ways—a city of tigers and elephants, a city of slaves and freemen, of strength without mercy. They did not step onto the dock. Instead, they were lifted into the palanquins by their slaves—silent men with their eyes cast downward. The five landowners, freeborn and well-dressed, were hoisted high, their dignity upheld by their bearers. To walk was beneath them—a custom that marked their status as the elite of Volantis.
"Welcome to King's Landing," Mysaria greeted them, her accent lilting, familiar. She inclined her head slightly, enough to acknowledge their stature but not too much—never too much. "I trust the Narrow Sea was kind."
The eldest among them—a silver-haired man whose face was lined like ancient parchment, etched by the sun—smiled in response. "The sea obeyed its nature. It brought us here safely. I trust you received our letters in advance. As promised, we have come to see this Dragon's Bank which stirs whispers even across the seas. Many say it is a place worthy of great interest."
Mysaria allowed a small nod. "It is our hope that it will be worthy of your trust as well. We have heard much of the Iron Bank's stance and of their refusal to engage with Volantis. I suspect it must have made the matter of securing your prodigious wealth… rather troublesome. The Braavosi, for all their talk of free trade and commerce, are a prejudistic people too focused on matters of little significance."
The remark seemed to amuse the eldest Volantene, a soft chuckle escaping him. He looked at her with new consideration, though his eyes still held their habitual haughtiness.
"Partisanship is simply a wall," said the seeming youngest of the five, his tone betraying the sharpness of one unaccustomed to insult. "We are glad to find the dragon has no need for walls. In fact, we were hoping to be able to see the prince in person, and his great Vhagar as well. Many are the tales that are spoken of them abroad."
Mysaria's lips curved faintly at the corners into an apologetic smile. "Unfortunately," she said, "Prince Aemond is away for some important matters and will not be back for some time yet. Regardless, he sends his regards and has tasked me to show you the Bank's offerings. This way, if you please." She gestured for the procession to follow, her stride unhurried yet purposeful. Soon, they passed under the great shadow of the Dragonpit, and there it loomed in the corner—the Banking Hall, a structure as much a symbol as it was a place of business.
Black pillars rose like obsidian sentinels at the entrance, carved into twisting forms that seemed almost alive, their surface reflecting the dying light. Heavy banners of red and black flanked the great gate, which stood reinforced. Two dragon head statues framed the entryway and beside them was a single armoured guard each. Mysaria led the Volantenes in, gesturing gracefully at the edifice.
"This is the public face of the Bank," she said, her voice carrying through the hall as the Volantenes took in their surroundings. "Here, emissaries and clients alike negotiate terms, arrange loans, and secure deposits. The treasurers are trained to handle all manner of business, whether it be mundane transactions or matters of great delicacy." She paused, allowing them a moment to observe. "The security measures are unmatched in Westeros. The men who guard this building are known as the Dragonscale—hand-picked by Prince Aemond himself. Their loyalty is unquestioned, their skill supreme."
Within, the Banking Hall was cool, its air redolent with the smell of polished stone. The vastness of the hall, the dragon-emblazoned marble floor, and the soaring pillars spoke of wealth without need for boastful words. Blue-lipped treasurers behind marble counters lined the end of the hall, attending clients whilst handing strange iron boxes with dials and buttons even Mysaria herself had yet to deduce the function of.
As she led them deeper into the bank one of the Volantenes spoke, his eyes narrowing as they followed the movement of the black-clad treasurers, their garments as immaculate as their demeanour. "Your men here… not all are Westerosi," he remarked.
Mysaria inclined her head. "Knowledge knows no boundaries. Nor does loyalty," she replied. "Prince Aemond has gathered the finest to serve. They are the sentinels of coin, as the Dragonscale are the sentinels of this place."
"Beneath our feet," she continued, her voice lowering slightly, drawing their attention back to her, "intermingled with the lairs of the Targaryen family's dragons, lies the heart of the Dragon's Bank—the vaults. A network of tunnels and chambers that delve deep into the bedrock beneath the Dragonpit. And at the centre, the Grand Hoard. Gold, gems, treasures of Old Valyria… Dragon eggs, ceremonial weapons, garments—wonders that even the Iron Bank cannot boast."
"And besides the dragons themselves, guarding all of this is a system that is near-impervious to infiltration. Fortified entrances before every chamber, on every floor. In times of threat, they may be sealed—closed off, made invulnerable. Reinforced fall gates, hidden killing zones… Only a dragon's wrath could hope to breach them." Her lips twitched. "And the Targaryens command the last of them."
The men shared a look. The eldest nodded slowly, the doubt around his eyes easing, his lips pressing together as if in reluctant approval. "Rumour has it that Prince Aemond designed this bank himself. He must be a man of vision, to consider such foresight."
Mysaria smiled. "Indeed, he is."
She led them down a corridor that grew narrower, more private. The sound of their footsteps against the stone was muffled now, absorbed by the thick tapestries that hung along the corridor walls. They came to a stop before a door of dark wood, adorned with silver fittings.
Mysaria pushed it open, revealing a small, finely appointed room. A long table sat at the centre, and at its head, a treasurer waited. His black robes were immaculately pressed, his eyes—clear and sharp—met each Volantene with a slight inclination of his head. "My lords," he greeted, his voice low, smooth. "Welcome to the Dragon's Bank. I will be serving you this fine afternoon."
The Volantenes settled themselves around the table, their bearing radiating a mixture of curiosity and guarded interest. Mysaria stood near the wall, her presence unobtrusive but watchful, her gaze moving between the men and the treasurer. She was here to observe, to ensure that every word spoken, every agreement forged, aligned with Prince Aemond's intentions.
The treasurer began, his fingers brushing lightly over the surface of the strange iron box set before him—its purpose opaque but its presence deliberate. "We understand you wish to open accounts with the Dragon's Bank. You will find that our terms are more… adaptable than those of the Iron Bank. Prince Aemond recognizes the value of freedom—freedom from restrictions, freedom from outdated traditions that others cling to." He paused, letting the words settle, his eyes on the Volantenes, studying their reactions.
The eldest Volantene gave a slight nod, his expression thoughtful. "The Iron Bank refuses our custom," he said, a trace of disdain in his voice. "They find fault with our ways. But our wealth is as good as any other's."
"We do not judge, my lord," the treasurer replied smoothly. "The Dragon's Bank is built on pragmatism. Gold is gold, and we are here to safeguard it, to ensure that it works in your favour."
Mysaria watched as the treasurer outlined the terms—the security offered by the bank, the guarantees, the interest rates. He spoke again in clearer detail now of the vaults beneath the Dragonpit, the ones that would house whatever treasures the Volantene wished to keep. The slave masters listened, their eyes narrowing, their interest evident. They asked questions—about access, about guarantees, about the protection of their assets. The treasurer answered each query with calm authority, his voice never rising, never betraying anything beyond polite professionalism.
Finally, an agreement was made and a date appointed to ship and store some dozen tons of gold beneath Dragonstone. The treasurer bowed his head, reaching for the iron box, adjusting dials as he completed the formal process of opening their accounts.
The negotiations were a success. Yet, Mysaria felt a hint of unease as the finality of it dawned on her. Why the prince chose to work with these men, she did not know. Despite what the treasurer said, gold was not just merely gold. There were consequences for associating oneself with such a reviled people as the Volantene, and the Bravoosi certainly would not turn a blind eye to this.
But then again, this is Prince Aemond's will. His methods never really seemed to make much sense at first, but Mysaria could hardly remember a time when it didn't all work out in the end.
With this in mind, she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction, her eyes moving over the Volantenes as they signed their pledges, sealing the deal.
***
Rhaenyra sat by the window, her gaze drifting beyond the stone walls of Dragonstone to the restless sea below. The winds were high, the salt carried on the breeze, and she breathed it in deeply, letting the tang of it ground her. She rested her hand on her rounded belly, feeling the gentle shifting of life within. The child was restless today. Why?
Daemon entered without a sound, his presence a shadow that filled the room with an easy, dangerous warmth. He crossed to her side and paused, his fingers brushing a stray strand of her silver hair behind her ear before he sat across from her. Their midday meal had been laid out—a modest spread of bread, cheese, roasted fish, and a pitcher of wine, as red as dragon's fire. Daemon poured them both goblets, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You look troubled," he said, his voice carrying an edge of concern, veiled beneath his usual irreverence.
Rhaenyra took the goblet, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. She gave a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Trouble is my constant companion, my love," she replied. "Nothing unusual there."
Daemon's gaze remained on her, studying her with that unsettling intensity of his. He raised his goblet, and she mirrored him, the room falling into a heavy silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the rocky shores below.
It was Jacaerys who entered then, his steps cautious, his young face unusually sombre. The air seemed to change at once, the heaviness thickening as he approached, a folded parchment in his hand.
"Mother," he said quietly, holding out the letter. There was a gravity in his eyes that made Rhaenyra uneasy. "A raven from the Vale."
She took the letter from his hand, a chill creeping up her spine. She glanced at Daemon—his goblet now set aside, his eyes narrowed. She broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.
The inked words stared back at her, a cold dread settling over her heart.
'Prince Aemond has approached Lady Jeyne Arryn with a marriage proposal. The Lady appears willing to consider the match. The princes Aemond and Daeron took to the sky, headed north shortly thereafter. Their purpose unknown.'
The words blurred as she read them again, and then a third time, each reading more ominous than the last. Aemond—at the Vale, courting Jeyne Arryn. Aemond and Daeron flying north. There was something here that she could not yet fully see, but she felt it, like the chill before a storm. Her fingers tightened on the parchment until her knuckles whitened.
She met Daemon's eyes, and whatever he saw in her expression darkened his features. He leaned forward, reaching across the table to lay his hand over hers, steadying her.
"What is it?" he demanded. She handed him the letter. Daemon took it, his eyes scanning the words, his face growing grim, his jaw setting.
"Jeyne Arryn," he said, his voice tinged with contempt. "That woman would sell her soul if she thought it would buy her a dragon. The boy knows it too and gives her the largest we have. He cannot be allowed to move unchecked."
Rhaenyra frowned, her hand drifting to her belly. "What does he hope to gain from this?" she murmured, almost to herself.
Daemon's face softened, just slightly, his eyes searching hers. He rose then, coming around the table to kneel beside her, taking her hand in his, his grip firm, anchoring her in the tempest of her thoughts. "Regardless of what he hopes to gain we cannot let this happen," he said. "We go to King's Landing. We will speak to the King—demand he annul any arrangement before it can take root."
Rhaenyra closed her eyes, nodding slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle into her bones. "Alright," she whispered before turning to Jace, who still stood at the edge of the room, his face drawn with worry. "Jace, tell the harbour master to get the ship ready. We leave for King's Landing on the morrow."