TBOV: Chapter Eleven: Merger

Chapter Eleven: Merger

“Clever, craven Lyseni.”

―Andrey Dalt to Sylva Santagar

…

Lysandro Rogare had always believed that power was a thing one could hold in one’s hands, like a piece of fine glass—fragile yet stunningly beautiful, if treated with care. His family’s wealth, built over generations from the fine silk threads of Lys’s trade, the shipwrights’ skilled hands, and the precision of its bankers, had always allowed him to believe that he was untouchable. And for a time, it had been so. But now, as the late afternoon sun beat down on the weathered streets of the city, the ever-present heat of defeat seemed to settle into his bones.

The once-proud city of Lys had bowed to Westeros’s unrelenting pressure. After months of being slowly starved of supplies, the markets had grown barren, and the great ships that had once sailed in and out of its busy harbor were nowhere to be seen. He and his fellow Magisters, brought to heel by the threat of revolt, had capitulated to the demands of the Butcher. Prince Aemond had no patience for diplomacy or pleasantries. The moment the gates had opened to his forces, Lys had been his.

Now Lysandro, the patriarch of the Rogare family, stood in the chambers of his family’s bank, the grand building that had been the heart of the family’s wealth and influence. The silence of the day, the dull murmur of the city outside, wrapped around him like a shroud. He had never felt smaller, more insignificant, than he did now, in the shadow of the dragon’s wings.

Inside, in the midst of his father’s life’s work, dozens of figures in stiff black tunics—the reowned blue-lipped bankers of the Dragon’s Bank—were rummaging through the ledgers, the contracts, and the records. Crates were being filled, stacked high with parchment. Lysandro’s fingers clenched involuntarily as he saw one particularly heavy chest being carried from the chamber, sealed with the Rogare family crest.

And there, in the corner, sat Aemond, languid and at ease in a chair too short for his stature, his pale, silvery hair catching the light of the torches that flickered on the walls. His violet eye, the infamous eye, glinted in the half-darkness as he toyed idly with a paperweight, spinning it between his fingers, his expression distant, as if the fate of a thousand men did not lie in his palm.

The prince did not acknowledge his presence immediately. There was no need for pleasantries between a conqueror and his subject. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, no louder than it needed to be.

“Sit.”

Lysandro stiffened but obeyed. He lowered himself into the chair opposite Aemond, feeling his every movement scrutinized, though the prince had yet to look him in the eye. Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

The Butcher finally set the paperweight down with a small click, his single eye flicking up to meet Lysandro’s gaze. There was no malice there—at least, not in the conventional sense.

“The Rogare Bank will undergo a merger,” Aemond said without much emotion. “It will become a subsidiary of the Dragon’s Bank. I trust you understand the implications of that.”

Lysandro did. He had seen the signs and feared it for some days now. His heart hammered in his chest, and a cold sweat slicked his palms. Facing it—hearing it spoken aloud, in such a final, definitive way—made the reality of his situation all the more suffocating.

“Please,” Lysandro whispered, panic creeping into his voice, “you cannot—do not impoverished my House. We have done all you asked of us and will continue to do so. I beg of you, do not do this—”

“Quiet,” Aemond interrupted, his voice like ice. “Your family will not be impoverished,” he said. “That is not my intention. The Dragon’s Bank will, however, take control of much of your operations. On the face of it, nothing will change. As I still have use for it, your house’s name will remain at the top of the ledger. But make no mistake—this is merely so the bank can serve as a vehicle to manage my interests in Lys without any unneeded associations.”

“You ought to be grateful, in fact,” the prince went on. “This merger alone will increase your bank’s liquidity and scale in ways you can’t fathom and grant you access to the resource pools previously exclusive to the Crown and the Merchant Guild. And this is not even considering the political leverage that comes with such relations.”

Lysandro’s breath caught in his throat. What? He thought dumbly.

“You will help me,” Aemond continued, his attention flicking back to the paperweight as he spun it on the table. “I need a man who understands Lys; its politics, its culture, its undercurrents. Help me pacify this city. Help me control its undercurrents, its dissenters, the ones who would rise up against me. Your connections—your influence—are invaluable, which is why I am willing to raise you back to a position of prominence. You will help me root out the threats that would destabilize my reign here, and I will make you untouchable again.”

Lysandro froze, his mind racing as the weight of the decision pressed down upon him. The allure was undeniable. His house’s future, the very fate of Lys, his own life—it all hung in the balance of this single choice. He was no fool. He knew the dangers of such a proposal. Even now, he could remember the stares of the other magisters, simmering with anger and resentment at the prince who had barged into their city and stripped them of the power they’d long enjoyed. Siding with the Butcher was a sure way to make himself a target, to draw the hatred of men who had once been his peers, his allies.

But then, again, the tides were turning.

The Targaryen Gonfaloniere and First Magister seemed keen on keeping his newly-won prize. With the Conclave of Magisters now infested with obscure bureaucrats from the Dragon’s Bank and Merchant Guild, and the City’s Walls now manned by Westerosi men-at-arms and rehired Essosi sellswords, any hope of unseating him seemed increasingly absurd.

Lysandro exhaled heavily, his resolve hardening. He understood now. This was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to turn away from.

“I accept,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue. “I will help you.”

Opposite him, the prince nodded. “Good,” he said, voice as flat as ever. “We have an understanding then. Let us begin.”

✥✥✥​

The great hall of the Triarchs was a tumult of sound and motion, the air thick with the tang of sea salt and heated arguments. Faint sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, casting vivid patterns of red, gold, and violet upon the smooth stone floors. The colors seemed to shift and sway with the arguments, as though the very light of Volantis was caught in the winds of ambition.

The Triarchs of Volantis had been called to council, summoned by the rising pressure of the empire's growing anxieties. At the center of the hall, an immense map of the known world stretched across a polished table—each corner marked with the sigil of one of the great cities, but the most pressing concerns lay along the narrow strait between the Stepstones and the coasts of Westeros.

To the east, the Free Cities of Essos stretched out in a web of power and trade, but to the west, the rising shadow of the Targaryen dynasty loomed like a dark cloud, and the Stepstones—a small, rocky archipelago—had become the dividing line between the two worlds.

"I say we do nothing," said Triarch Liraenos, his voice smooth as polished marble but with an edge that hinted at his frustration. His eyes flicked over to the other Triarchs, his lips curling into a faint sneer. He was a man of sharp intellect, but it was the practicality of his vision that made him dangerous. "Westeros has shown us where their priorities lie,” he continued. “They have no immediate need for hostile entanglements with us. Let them gorge themselves on their enemies; they would soon come to regret it."

Triarch Aethon, the youngest of the council, shifted uneasily in his chair. He had not been in power long, but his family’s influence was considerable and he believed himself worthy of his seat.

Liraenos would beg to disagree.

"We cannot be so lax, Triarch Liraenos," Aethon said quietly. His voice was the whisper of a wind that had not yet become a storm, but his words carried the weight of many years spent in the shadow of his predecessors. "The Stepstones are more than a mere rock pile. They are a vital trade route—have been for centuries. Without them, our ships cannot reach the Narrow Sea, and the very heart of our commerce begins to wither. To abandon them—even temporarily—would be madness."

Liraenos' lip curled in a mixture of disdain and amusement. "And what would you propose? To go to war with dragonlords? Have you not read the history books? Have you seen the way they’ve slaughtered through their enemies? They’ve shown their hand, and it is as iron as their dragons' scales."

"It is not madness," Triarch Agon added from the far side of the room, his voice deep and resonant, an anchor amid the churn of voices. He had the bearing of a soldier who had weathered many storms, his lined face speaking to his years of experience. "It is common sense. If we choose to follow in the footsteps of Braavos and the Daughter, do not be surprised when we suffer misfortunes similar to them. I do not see this as a hill to die upon; if our trade in the Narrow Sea is crippled, we must find other alternatives."

The room fell silent for a moment. The Triarchs turned their eyes to one another, weighing the truth in Agon’s words. The murmurs of dissent still hung in the air, but they could not deny the reality of the situation. The dragons had proven themselves an unstoppable force, and Westeros had no qualms about enforcing its will on the cities of Essos.

Finally, Meros, an old but influential member of the Elephants, leaned forward. He had been silent until now, listening closely, and his voice was low, almost a whisper. "Triarchs," he said, "perhaps it is time to admit that the old ways have changed. Westeros is not some distant power we can ignore. It has arrived at our doorstep, and it will not go away."

The room was still again.

Liraenos scowled, but he did not interrupt. Aethon’s brow furrowed in thought, his mind no doubt racing, weighing the possibilities.

Finally, Agon spoke again, his voice firm, resolute. "We send emissaries to the Iron Throne, and we offer the Butcher and his King a deal—I believe the path forward is negotiation."

Liraenos nodded. Aethon opened his mouth to protest, but Agon raised his hand, silencing him. "The vote is in my favour; Triarch Liraenos agrees."

Aethon scowled but didn’t contest the matter further. With that, the decision was made. The Triarchs of Volantis had chosen to send delegates to the Iron Throne to attempt to negotiate peace, to reopen trade. And in the shadows of the great hall, as the Triarchs rose from their seats, there was a single question that lingered in the air: What would the Targaryens do with their offer?