The feast at Wolf's Den was lively and unrestrained, the banquet hall rich with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. The tables glittered with fine drink: Myrish firewine and green wine, Tyroshi pear brandy, and Dornish Summerwine.
"The Triarch of Myr, the Triarch of Tyrosh, the Triarch of the Narrow Sea, the Triarch of the Stepstones, guardian of Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, Lord Gendry."
"The Triarch's betrothed, Princess of Dragonstone, 'Stormborn' Daenerys."
Hand in hand, they entered the hall as though starlight had gathered upon them, the true power of the Narrow Sea made flesh.
Gendry wore a light black velvet tunic fastened with a Wolf Pack emblem, leather boots, and a broad belt with silver-plated buckles. He required little ornament to stand apart from the crowd.
Daenerys had changed into her princely attire: a black velvet gown, a ruby pendant resting at her throat, and a crown set with red gems framing her long hair. Her silver-gold hair and violet eyes made her beauty almost unreal in that moment.
Gendry led Daenerys up the dais, and they took their seats.
After them came the Triarch's trusted men: the Handsome Man with the Longspear, Ser Jorah, the white-haired fletcher Dick, Morosh, commander of the Myrish fleet, and others.
There was also a guest heavy with drink, the gaunt-cheeked "Beggar King," Viserys, who reeked of wine.
With silent understanding, the others guided Viserys to the high table. The anger on his face deepened. He was the "rightful" king, yet the cursed master of ceremonies had not announced any seat befitting him. Even by rank, he should have stood apart, not been placed alongside these crude soldiers.
Once all the honored guests were seated, cups were raised, blessings and congratulations exchanged, and the feast began in earnest.
"The bankers from Myr and Tyrosh wish to see you," Greywolf murmured at Gendry's side.
"Bankers?"
Gendry glanced toward a section below the dais. The bankers were watching him eagerly—olive-skinned men of Myr, and Tyroshi with their brightly colored hair and beards.
Banking carried immense weight in the Free Cities. In Braavos, for example, banking, trade, and fishing formed the three pillars of its prosperity.
The bankers of Myr and Tyrosh were no less influential. As a relatively high-end trade, banking had suffered little during the emancipation turmoil, and they had kept their posture modest. The economies of Myr and Tyrosh rested largely on fishing, banking, and handicrafts.
Though the tables groaned under heaps of delicacies, few present were truly focused on the food. The feast was merely a pretext to gather everyone together.
Goblets struck goblets, ringing out in crisp succession.
"I'll return shortly," Gendry said to Daenerys.
She nodded, uneasy. Though born a Princess, exile had filled most of her life, and scenes like this were unfamiliar to her.
Within the banquet hall was a hidden private chamber. After murmuring a few more instructions to Greywolf, Gendry rose and withdrew.
The bankers from Myr and Tyrosh descended upon him like flies, smiles plastered across their faces, appearing harmless enough. But Gendry knew better. These were wolves who stripped flesh to the bone, men who counted every last coin.
He stood to greet them, exchanging polite words.
"My Lord Triarch," a banker from Myr said in a lowered voice, "our colleagues from Tyrosh and we have a small proposal."
Gendry's interest stirred. He gestured for them to continue.
"No one has ever truly ruled the Twin Cities. Now you are the master of the Twin Cities Alliance, and you hold the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands as well. You have the power to merge the banks of Myr and Tyrosh." The olive-skinned banker from Myr spoke first.
"One bank, you say. Is that the will of your entire banking trade?" Gendry's gaze swept across the men before him.
"Yes, my lord. If you are to become king, there should be one unified bank and one unified currency," the Myr banker said, bracing himself.
"If the Triarch is willing to consider the needs of our banking trade, we will fully support your new policies, your army, even the crown you seek," added a red-haired banker from Tyrosh.
The Three Daughters had once formed the Triarchy, but the High Council of thirty-three Magisters had made the realm bloated, sluggish, and divided. Now the Twin Cities Alliance had a single ruler and a single army. It had the makings of a true state.
They're trying to set me over the fire, Gendry thought. Braavos was still only a tentative friend. If he rushed to consolidate the banks into one and openly challenge the Iron Bank's business, the consequences could be severe.
"This matter can wait. I will give your proposal careful thought."
At present, the risk was too great. Years ago, only the Rogare Bank had briefly risen to rival the Iron Bank, but the price had come swiftly. The tyrant Lysandro Rogare died suddenly, and House Rogare fell into decline.
The bankers' faces brightened at once. Consideration meant possibility. With the Twin Cities' vast territories and the chance of one day landing in Westeros, the prospect of founding a grand bank spanning two continents was irresistible.
Fortune favored the bold, and profit fed their greed.
"My lord, to these prosperous years."
"To your great achievements," the bankers chorused.
Gendry watched them as they raised their cups together. Since the Triarchy's collapse, the Three Daughters had grown hostile toward one another. To see their bankers standing side by side like this was no small thing.
As they exchanged pleasantries, a commotion suddenly broke out in the hall.
"You are drunk, Prince." Ser Jorah rose, his eyes cold as they fixed on Viserys.
"I am not drunk," Viserys muttered. "When will your king march? Must we wait until he beds my sister and fathers a bastard on her?"
"I have been generous. I let that bastard sleep with my sister. All I ask is that he send soldiers to escort me back to Westeros."
Daenerys stood on the dais, staring at her brother as tears welled in her eyes.
"It seems you truly are drunk." Greywolf stepped up beside Viserys, filled his cup to the brim, and forced it against his lips.
"I am the king! How dare you treat a king this way?" Viserys shouted, furious.
Wine splashed down his ornate black garments as he choked, his nose burning and eyes watering.
"You filthy eunuch! I am the king! How dare you treat a king this way?"
The Unsullied looked on without expression. They poured more wine and forced it into his mouth again.
"No! I won't drink!"
Struggling, Viserys toppled to the floor. A darker fear seized him. What if the wine was poisoned? He let out a hoarse, broken cry, like a fish thrashing helplessly on shore.
"Greywolf believes you should slap him a few times to clear his head," Maester Qyburn said softly.
"I don't want him hurt." Daenerys hurried down from the dais and looked at Viserys, his face flushed and swollen.
"Enough. Ser Jorah, Greywolf."
They stopped at once. Viserys lay on the floor, gasping, utterly miserable. The guests had all seen it. Some wanted to laugh, but none dared.
"He's pitiful," Daenerys thought suddenly. He had always been pitiful. Only now did she truly see it. The nightmare that had shadowed her for years seemed to dissolve.
"You've had too much to drink." Gendry stepped forward and hauled Viserys to his feet.
Viserys shrank back, clutching his head, staring at Gendry's smile. It was mild, almost gentle. It terrified him.
"It's you. It's all your fault!" Viserys screamed. "Will no one help a poor king? Beat him! Beat his dogs!"
"You are drunk," Gendry said quietly. "If you do not return to your chambers now, you will soon be a beggar in truth."
Viserys shot him a humiliated look, then glanced at Daenerys. He wanted to resist. But he saw the watchful eyes around him, the strong guards, the Unsullied standing like iron.
Stumbling, he fled the banquet hall.
He had finally lost everything.
He is no true dragon, Daenerys thought. A true dragon does not fear fire, nor steel.