The great hall of the Wolf's Den roared with the chaotic energy of a conquered city at feast. The air was thick with the scent of roasted mutton, fresh-baked bread, and a dizzying array of vintages: Myrish firewine, Tyroshi pear brandy, and the sweet summer reds of Dorne.
The herald's voice cut through the din, amplified by the high vaulted ceiling. "Lord Gendry! Regent of Myr, Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Disputed Lands! Guardian to Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys!"
"Princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen!"
The heavy oak doors swung open. They entered hand in hand, drawing every eye in the hall. Gendry wore a long, unadorned coat of deep black velvet, the roaring wolf embroidered subtly over his heart. He needed no crown or heavy gold chains; the sheer physical gravity of his presence commanded the room.
Beside him, Daenerys had finally shed the rough traveler's clothes for the raiment of a true princess. She wore a gown of rich black velvet that clung to her slender frame, a ruby pendant resting at the base of her throat. A delicate silver tiara set with rubies crowned her silver-gold hair, making her violet eyes appear deeper and more luminous than ever.
Gendry led her to the high table, taking their seats at the center of the dais.
Below them sat the architects of the Twin City Alliance: the Treasurer, Captain Spear, Ser Jorah Mormont, Dick Fletch, and Admiral Morosh.
And then there was the uninvited specter of the past. At the edge of the high table sat the Beggar King. Viserys Targaryen was already deeply into his cups, his gaunt face flushed with wine and mounting fury. The herald had not announced him as the rightful King of the Andals, nor had he been given a solitary, elevated seat befitting a monarch. He was forced to rub shoulders with common sellswords and mud-born captains.
As the goblets were raised and the feasting officially commenced, Grey Worm stepped silently to the back of Gendry's chair.
"The bankers of Myr and Tyrosh seek an audience, Commander," the Unsullied murmured.
Gendry's gaze drifted to the far end of the lower tables, where a cluster of men sat apart from the revelry. They were a mix of olive-skinned Myrmen and violently dyed Tyroshi.
In the Free Cities, coin was the truest king. Braavos was built entirely upon banking, trade, and shipping. Myr and Tyrosh were no different, their economies driven by artisans and the ledgers that funded them. The bankers were the only faction largely untouched by the bloody slave uprisings; they had simply locked their iron vaults and waited for the victor to emerge.
"I will return shortly," Gendry whispered to Daenerys.
She offered a tight, nervous nod. She had been a princess all her life, but the reality of a royal court was foreign and terrifying to a girl raised entirely in exile.
Gendry slipped away to a private solar adjacent to the great hall, taking Grey Worm with him. The bankers filed in moments later, their faces plastered with polite, harmless smiles. But Gendry knew better; they were a pack of starving wolves, calculating the exact value of the blood currently pooling in the streets.
"Lord Regent," a Myrish banker murmured, bowing deeply. "We and our Tyroshi colleagues have a small proposal."
"Speak," Gendry said, leaning against the edge of a heavy oak desk.
"Never before has one man truly held the Twin Cities," the olive-skinned banker began, his eyes gleaming. "You control the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. You possess the military strength to do what the Archons and Magisters never could. You could merge the banks of Myr and Tyrosh."
"One unified bank?" Gendry asked, studying their eager faces.
"Yes, my lord. If you are to be a king, you require a royal bank and a unified currency," the Myrish man pressed.
A red-bearded Tyroshi banker stepped forward. "If the Regent sees the wisdom in this, the combined financial houses will throw our full weight behind your new laws, your standing army, and even your eventual claim across the Narrow Sea."
Generations ago, the Three Daughters—Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys—had united to form the Triarchy. But their High Council of thirty-three Magisters had been a bloated, paralyzed beast that eventually tore itself apart. Now, the Twin Cities answered to one man.
They want me to pull the dragon's tail, Gendry thought, a cold warning bell ringing in his mind.
Braavos was currently neutral. But if Gendry merged the eastern banks into a massive, unified institution capable of rivaling the Iron Bank, the Braavosi would not sit idle. He remembered the histories Qyburn had taught him. The Rogare Bank of Lys had once eclipsed the Iron Bank, but their dominance ended abruptly with the sudden, highly suspicious death of Lysandro the Magnificent and the subsequent collapse of his house.
"I will consider your proposal carefully. We will speak of this again when the ashes have truly settled," Gendry said, offering a diplomatic dismissal. It was a gamble he could not afford to take. Not yet.
The bankers bowed, their smiles genuine. Even the promise of consideration was enough to spark their greed. A bank spanning two continents was the ultimate prize.
Gendry returned to the great hall just as the fragile peace shattered.
"You are drunk, Your Grace," Ser Jorah's voice rumbled over the music, cold and hard as northern stone.
Viserys stood swaying at the table, knocking over a goblet of firewine. "I am not drunk!" he slurred, pointing a shaking finger at Jorah. "When does your bastard king sail? Must he breed a litter of mongrels on my sister before he gives me my army?"
Daenerys froze on the dais, her violet eyes wide, tears brimming at the corners.
"I have been patient!" Viserys shrieked, spittle flying from his lips. "I gave him my sister to warm his bed! I demand my ships! I demand my crown!"
Grey Worm stepped forward with terrifying silence. He picked up a heavy flagon of wine, grabbed Viserys by the jaw, and forced the rim against the Beggar King's teeth.
"I am the King!" Viserys howled, thrashing wildly. "You dare touch the Dragon?!"
The wine poured down his chin and up his nose. Viserys choked, coughing and sputtering, his fine black silks stained a deep, bruised purple.
"Filthy eunuch!" Viserys shrieked, tearing himself away. But his boots slipped on the wine-slicked floor, and he crashed down onto the hard stone. He scrambled backward like a crab, his eyes darting frantically. Poison, his paranoid mind supplied. They are poisoning me. He let out a high, pathetic wail.
"The Commander suggests the cold air might clear your head," Grey Worm said flatly, his spear held loosely in one hand.
"Please, do not hurt him," Daenerys said, rushing down the steps of the dais. "Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, enough."
The men stepped back instantly.
Viserys lay on the floor, gasping for air, a wet, purple mess. The entire hall had gone silent. Hundreds of seasoned killers watched the last son of Aerys Targaryen weeping on the stones. They did not laugh; they simply stared in profound, quiet contempt.
Daenerys looked down at her brother. For her entire life, he had been the monster in the dark, the dragon who could wake and burn her to ash. But looking at him now, shivering and soaked in wine, a sudden, overwhelming wave of pity washed over her.
He was pathetic. The nightmare was suddenly, entirely broken.
Gendry stepped out of the shadows and walked to the fallen prince. He offered a hand, pulling Viserys to his feet.
Viserys flinched violently, raising his arms to protect his head. He looked into Gendry's deep blue eyes and saw the gentle, terrifying smile of a man who held the power of life and death.
"You did this," Viserys whimpered, tears cutting tracks through the wine on his face. "Will no one fight for their King? Strike him down!"
"You have had too much wine, Viserys," Gendry said, his voice soft, almost soothing. "Go to your chambers. Before they start calling you the Beggar King to your face."
Viserys looked at Gendry, then at the ring of Unsullied, and finally at his sister. He saw no fear in her eyes anymore. Only pity.
The Beggar King turned and staggered out of the great hall, leaving his pride in a puddle of spilled wine.
He is no true dragon, Daenerys realized, her heart suddenly light. He is terrified of the fire, and he is terrified of the steel.