[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 32: JOFFREY VIII (Public) (Patreon)

The wind screaming off the Bite carried the raw, freezing scent of brine, crushed ice, and rotting kelp. Joffrey stood at the prow of the royal galleon, the massive oak timbers groaning a deep, rhythmic protest beneath his heavy, iron-shod boots. The churning waters of the Narrow Sea battered against the deep hull, throwing sheets of freezing spray over the rails. Joffrey let the bitter cold gnaw at his exposed face, feeling the sharp, stinging bite against his skin. It grounded him, washing away the stagnant air of the ship’s cabin.

Before the royal vessel, the grey stone keep of Old Anchor rose from the jagged, frost-shattered shoreline. Its square, unadorned towers stood stark against the bruising, iron-colored sky of the eastern Vale. There was no ornate Andal architecture here, no sweeping marble arches or soaring, fluted spires. It was a fortress built upon the pragmatic, brutal legacy of the First Men, designed solely for surviving winter gales and repelling Sistermen raiders. The walls were thick blocks of dark granite, heavy and unyielding.

The blare of iron horns announced the galleon’s approach as the oarsmen brought the ship alongside the rugged, sea-swept docks. Joffrey disembarked. At his right shoulder strode Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, a vision of martial perfection in gilded plate and a snow-white cloak that snapped violently in the wind. At his left loomed Sandor Clegane. The Hound wore a battered breastplate of soot-darkened steel over a stained leather jerkin, his massive hand resting casually upon the pommel of his broadsword. His ruined face, a horrific canvas of slick, black scars, surveyed the docks with dead, unforgiving eyes.

Lord Gwayne Melcolm waited at the end of the pier. He was a lean, weathered man, his face deeply lined from years of coastal winds, wrapped in a heavy cloak of dyed blue wool pinned with a silver brooch shaped like a rusty anchor.

"Old Anchor is yours, Your Grace," Lord Gwayne declared, dropping to one knee upon the frosted timber of the docks. The lords and retainers behind him followed suit in a great clatter of mail and wool. "We are honored beyond measure by the presence of the Crown Prince."

"Rise, Lord Gwayne," Joffrey commanded, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crash of the surf. He offered a courteous, measured nod. "The Crown values the loyalty of its eastern watchmen. The sea has been harsh. I look forward to the warmth of your hearth."

The business of statecraft in Westeros required the suffocating, necessary veneer of feudal hospitality. Horses were brought forward. Joffrey mounted a massive, heavy-chested roan courser provided by his host, the beast huffing great plumes of steam into the freezing air. The royal retinue embarked on a necessary tour of the holding. They rode along the shoreline, the horses' hooves crunching through the rime ice that coated the pebble beaches.

Joffrey observed the terrain with his hawkish eyes. He noted the steep, sudden drop-off of the seabed near the lower quays, confirming the natural harbor possessed the capacity for incredibly deep drafts. He scanned the northern ridges, marking the thick, unbroken forests of ancient sentinels and ironwoods that blanketed the foothills. Raw, unharvested wealth.

The inspection transitioned seamlessly into a hawking trip. They rode up the treacherous, winding paths of the coastal cliffs, the wind howling around them. Ser Roland Melcolm, the Lord's broad-shouldered eldest son, unhooded a trained gyrfalcon. Joffrey watched the bird spiral upward, a sleek dart of grey and white. It hovered for a breathless moment before folding its wings and dropping like a thrown stone, striking a heron mid-flight. A spray of crimson blood and shattered feathers drifted down to the jagged rocks below.

"A flawless strike, Ser Roland," Joffrey remarked, his gloved hand resting lightly on the pommel of Lamentation. The dark, smoke-rippled Valyrian steel blade hummed a quiet, lethal promise within its scabbard. "Your birds are swift. Your lands are rich in old timber and sturdy stone. A man could build a formidable legacy on such a foundation."

Lord Gwayne bowed from the saddle, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed pride. "House Melcolm lives to serve the Iron Throne, Your Grace. The bounty of Old Anchor belongs to the King."

Joffrey smiled, a terrifyingly serene expression that never reached his sharp, emerald eyes. He stored the pledge away, a weapon to be unsheathed when the sun went down.

The great hall of Old Anchor was a cavern of rough-hewn stone and roaring hearths. The air hung thick with the smell of roasting mutton, charred fat, spilled ale, and damp wool cloaks drying near the fires. Men-at-arms and lesser lords tore into massive trenchers of dark, crusty bread hollowed out and filled with rich, fatty stews of root vegetables and mountain goat. Minstrels plucked out frantic, echoing tunes from the gallery, fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of the feasting Valemen.

Joffrey sat in the high seat at the center of the dais, the flickering firelight casting sharp, golden angles across his face. To his immediate right sat Harrold Hardyng. The young Lord of the Vale looked utterly wretched. His skin held a sickly, greenish pallor, his stomach clearly still churning violently from the Narrow Sea crossing. Harry poked listlessly at a slab of roasted meat, his pride fractured by the relentless, quiet humiliation of serving as the Prince's squire.

Joffrey waited until the ale had flowed freely and the initial hunger of the hall had subsided before turning his attention to his host. He pitched his voice carefully, a low, resonant baritone designed to cut through the din.

"The tour of your shoreline was highly illuminating, Lord Gwayne," Joffrey began, lifting a goblet of heavy, dark Arbor wine. "The depth of the water near your eastern breakwater is quite impressive. The sea carves a deep channel there."

Lord Gwayne puffed up, ripping a chunk of mutton from the bone with his teeth. He swallowed heavily, washing it down with ale. "The deepest natural harbor north of the Bay of Crabs, Your Grace. A safe anchorage for any merchantman fleeing the autumn gales."

Joffrey took a slow, deliberate sip of his wine. He set the goblet down, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the silver rim. "A merchantman, perhaps. A royal war galley is another matter entirely."

He paused, letting his gaze drift over the hall before returning to the Lord of Old Anchor. "I observed the shallows near the lower quays. The new massive, deep-hulled galleys I am commissioning in the capital would run aground trying to supply this keep. A profound pity. The Crown requires secure, fortified naval bases along the eastern seaboard to house the new Royal Fleet. King’s Landing and Dragonstone are too far south to project power into the Bite or protect the northern trade routes from smuggling operations."

Lord Gwayne’s eyes sharpened. The dull glaze of the ale vanished, replaced instantly by the predatory gleam of a lord recognizing an opportunity. Greed warred openly with caution on his face. "Dredging the eastern breakwater and expanding the shipyards requires immense coin, Your Grace. It would demand thousands of tons of quarried stone, endless leagues of timber, and hundreds of skilled shipwrights. The cost would shatter my house."

"The Iron Throne possesses gold in absolute abundance," Joffrey replied smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue with the crushing weight of royal authority. "The Crown requires a loyal, northern harbor. I am prepared to authorize an expansion of your docks, funded entirely by the royal treasury. We will build deep-water shipyards right here beneath your walls. House Melcolm will provide the timber from your northern ridges and the labor of your smallfolk, paid for down to the last copper in King Robert’s gold. Once the infrastructure is complete, Old Anchor will command the respect of every merchant sailing the Narrow Sea."

Joffrey leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Such a sprawling, prosperous port would undoubtedly require a Royal Writ. A Town Charter, to manage its new markets and collect its own tolls."

Lord Gwayne’s goblet paused halfway to his mouth, his knuckles turning white around the cup. A Town Charter. It was the ultimate prize, the single, transformative stroke of parchment capable of elevating Old Anchor from a mere coastal holding to a chartered entity. It was the only weapon capable of breaking the Graftons' suffocating dominion over Vale trade.

"We are your loyal servants," Gwayne breathed, the ambition practically radiating from his pores in the stifling heat of the hall. "House Melcolm will build your fleet, Your Grace. The timber is yours."

Joffrey sat back, his face a mask of genial approval. "An enterprise of this staggering magnitude requires deep, unbreakable integration between our houses. Ser Roland has the strong look of a sailor." Joffrey gestured toward the broad-shouldered knight drinking heavily at the lower tables. "I shall commission him as a Captain of the Royal Fleet, granting him the honor of commanding the first war galley built in these new yards."

Lord Gwayne beamed, his chest swelling with the sudden, dizzying elevation of his bloodline.

"Furthermore," Joffrey continued relentlessly, ensuring the trap closed from every possible angle, "royal investments demand meticulous royal oversight. Your second son, Mathos—he looks to possess a sharp head for numbers. He will accompany my retinue back to King's Landing. He shall serve as a ward under the Crown's new bankers. He will learn the management of ledgers, the flow of credit, and the structuring of tariffs, so he might one day return and run the customs of your newly chartered town with the utmost efficiency."

Lord Gwayne nodded rapidly, blinded entirely by the glare of royal patronage. He saw only the gold; he did not see the chains.

"And your daughter," Joffrey concluded, turning his gaze toward Alys Melcolm, a demure, pretty girl picking quietly at her food further down the high table. "A striking beauty. The Queen, my mother, requires loyal, highborn companions. She will travel south with us to serve as a lady-in-waiting in the Red Keep, representing the honor of Old Anchor at court."

Three children. One bound to the royal military, one indoctrinated by the royal ledger, one held securely as a velvet-draped hostage in the royal apartments. It was an immense honor for a house that had long been neglected by the Eyrie.

"An immense honor, Your Grace," Lord Gwayne proclaimed, rising to his feet and raising his cup high, his voice booming over the hall. "To the Iron Throne! To the Golden Stag!"

The hall erupted in a roaring cheer, tankards clashing together, the local men oblivious to the fact that their lord had just sold his entire family's future for the promise of stone docks.

The galleon cut through the black, churning waters of the Narrow Sea the following dawn, its massive sails snapping sharply as it drove south toward the Bay of Crabs.

Joffrey stood on the aft deck, his heavy crimson cloak whipping fiercely around his armored shoulders. Beside him, Harrold Hardyng gripped the wooden railing with white-knuckled desperation. The boy looked utterly miserable, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sea spray and sweat.

Joffrey allowed the silence to stretch, listening to the rhythmic crash of the hull against the waves. He had laid the groundwork during the departure. Standing before the gathered lords of Old Anchor, Joffrey had publicly declared that the royal gold flowing into the shipyards was a direct result of the counsel and advocacy of their new liege, Harrold Hardyng. He had wrapped Harry in the prestige of the investment, forcing Lord Gwayne to bow deeply to the seasick boy. It was the carrot, expertly applied after weeks of the stick.

"You were exceptionally quiet during the feast, Harry," Joffrey observed, his voice cutting clearly through the howl of the wind.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. He looked up, his eyes wary. "I was observing the negotiations, Your Grace."

"And what conclusions did you draw?"

Harry hesitated, glancing nervously at Ser Jaime and the Hound standing stoically near the mainmast out of earshot. "You gave Lord Gwayne everything he desired. You promised him a charter, royal gold, and positions of high honor for his children."

"I bought a naval base and three highborn hostages," Joffrey corrected, his tone shifting from the genial prince to the cold, calculating sovereign. "I also bought a lever. Tell me, Lord of the Eyrie, what will Lord Gerold Grafton do when he discovers the Crown is building a massive, deep-water port just a few short leagues north of his own city?"

Harry frowned, his mind fighting past the nausea to process the political arithmetic. "He will be furious. He will fear losing his merchants and his tolls."

"He will panic," Joffrey stated, stepping away from the rail. "The Graftons hold an absolute stranglehold over the eastern trade of the Vale. Such supreme dominance breeds arrogance, and arrogance inevitably breeds treason. By enriching Old Anchor, I have forged a rival from the mud. The Graftons will now tear themselves apart to prove their absolute loyalty to the Iron Throne, simply to prevent Old Anchor from usurping their wealth."

Harry looked down at the churning, white-capped water rushing past the hull. "Lord Royce will not understand this. Bronze Yohn despises merchants, tolls, and ledgers. He respects only the strength of the sword, the weight of the lance, and the honor of the First Men."

"Bronze Yohn is a relic," Joffrey said, the words carrying the crushing certainty of a falling anvil. "He believes power is a heavy suit of plate armor and a runed bronze breastplate. Men like Yohn Royce will try to rule through you, Harry. They will look at the Eyrie, see a young boy newly elevated to the high seat, and they will try to guide your hand. They will tell you to ignore counting coppers and focus purely on the tilting yard. They will try to mold you into a weapon they can control."

Joffrey stepped closer, his immense physical bulk looming over the slightly older boy. The sheer, terrifying presence of the Crown Prince cast a long, inescapable shadow on the wooden deck.

"You are betrothed to my sister, Princess Myrcella," Joffrey reminded him, his voice dropping to a low, intense register. "You are family to the Iron Throne now. When the old lords of the Vale try to cage you, the Crown will act as your shield. An insult to your authority is an insult to my house."

Joffrey placed a heavy, leather-clad hand on Harry’s shoulder, the grip firm, anchoring the boy in place. "A lord cannot win a war with parchment. You must know how to command men in the field. You must understand the absolute, brutal weight of a sword. However, you cannot field a host without grain, iron, and remounts. If you control the ports, if you master the flow of gold, you dictate exactly which of your bannermen can afford to buy destriers and armor. Keep your vassals fighting each other for coin, keep them terrified of losing their privileges, and they will never possess the strength or the unity to fight you."

Harry met Joffrey's emerald gaze. The lingering fear in the boy’s eyes mingled with a sudden, sharp clarity. The brutal, unsentimental lesson of Old Anchor sank deep into his mind, rewriting the “chivalric nonsense” he had been fed his entire life.

~~~

Gulltown revealed itself as a sprawling, chaotic leviathan of stone, timber, and slate, choking the hook of the Bay of Crabs. A hundred merchant cogs, elegant swan ships from the Summer Isles, and massive Braavosi trading galleys bobbed in the crowded, deep-water harbor. The air tasted of salt, exotic spices from the East, and the underlying, sour stench of the sea and rotten fish carcass.

The royal retinue processed through the bustling streets toward the heavy, imposing walls of the Grafton keep. Lord Gerold Grafton waited in the main courtyard, surrounded by his household knights and liveried servants. He was a thick-bodied man with cautious, darting eyes, his heavy velvet doublet intricately embroidered with the burning tower of his house.

He offered the traditional bread and salt from a silver platter. Joffrey partook of the guest right, chewing the coarse bread slowly.

"Gulltown welcomes you with open arms, Your Grace," Lord Gerold proclaimed, his voice overly loud in the courtyard. "We have prepared a massive feast in the Great Hall. The finest Arbor gold, roasted swan, and lamprey pie."

"Your hospitality honors the Crown, Lord Gerold," Joffrey replied, dusting the salt from his gloves. "I look forward to the festivities. However, the voyage has delayed urgent royal correspondence. I require a private solar and an hour of your time before we join the hall. There are matters of the King's peace that cannot wait for the merriment."

Grafton bowed, gesturing toward the main keep. "My own solar is yours, Your Grace."

Joffrey entered the high, well-appointed solar accompanied only by the Hound. Lord Gerold Grafton entered a moment later, the heavy oak door shutting firmly behind him.

Grafton stood, his eyes fixed at the young maid in the room, wondering what she was doing in the company of the Prince. Perhaps, the Prince had taken fancy to the demure faced wench for his own carnal pleasures.

"Sit, Lord Gerold," Joffrey commanded, taking the high-backed chair behind the desk.

Grafton took the seat opposite, his movements stiff with an underlying tension.

"Allow me to introduce my mother’s newest lady-in-waiting," Joffrey said, gesturing gracefully toward the hearth. "Lady Alys Melcolm."

Grafton stared at the girl. Confusion rippled across his thick features, rapidly shifting into profound unease. A daughter of a minor, northern house, traveling intimately with the royal entourage.

"Lord Gwayne Melcolm proved a most gracious and accommodating host," Joffrey continued casually, tracing a gloved finger over the heavy grain of the oak desk. "He displayed an unparalleled generosity toward the Crown. He has pledged his entire deep-water harbor to house the new Royal Fleet. Such unwavering loyalty demands an equal measure of royal patronage. I have directed the treasury to fund a massive expansion of his shipyards. It is my belief that the influx of naval infrastructure and royal trade will soon elevate Old Anchor to unprecedented prosperity."

Joffrey let the sentence hang in the quiet air of the solar. He did not mention a Town Charter. He did not threaten Gulltown's trade. He simply laid the facts on the table and let the silence amplify them.

Lord Gerold Grafton stared at the Prince. The horrifying realization struck him with the physical force of a warhammer. The blood drained completely from his face, leaving him a sickly, ashen grey. He saw his total dominion over the eastern trade shattering. He saw merchant ships bypassing his toll gates, sailing north for the newly expanded docks of his bitter rival. He saw the Royal Fleet turning Old Anchor into the true maritime heart of the Vale.

While the lord reeled, entirely off-balance, Joffrey tightened the vise.

"We live in uncertain times, my lord," Joffrey stated, his voice dropping to a low, conversational murmur that demanded absolute attention. "The Crown’s master accountants are currently unspooling the vast, tangled ledgers of the treacherous rat Baelish. A monumental task. The man embezzled millions of golden dragons from the royal treasury before his treason was exposed."

Grafton flinched as if struck. The name Baelish was a poisoned blade in this room.

"A highly disturbing pattern has emerged from the parchments," Joffrey continued relentlessly, picking up a quill and turning it slowly in his hands. "The vast majority of Littlefinger’s fraudulent accounts flow directly through the customs houses of Gulltown. The very customs houses he managed before my father brought him to the capital." Joffrey leaned forward, the emerald eyes locking onto Grafton’s pale, sweating face. "The Iron Throne is left with a deeply troubling question. Was Lord Petyr a solitary thief? Or was House Grafton complicit in stealing from the King?"

"Never, Your Grace!" Grafton blurted out, a heavy bead of sweat breaking out on his forehead and rolling down his cheek. "My house has always been fiercely loyal! Baelish was a snake. He hid his ledgers from us. We knew absolutely nothing of his treachery!"

"Your youngest son, Gyles, squired for this snake," Joffrey pointed out, his tone mild, letting Lord Grafton scramble to offer up his excuses.

Grafton swallowed visibly, his throat clicking in the silence. "A mistake, Your Grace. A foolish, tragic mistake born of misplaced trust."

Joffrey let the silence stretch again, allowing the sheer terror of the situation to fully paralyze the man. Grafton knew his son was currently in King's Landing. He knew Joffrey had executed Baelish, broken Lysa Arryn, and seized every copper the Master of Coin had ever touched.

"I am inclined to believe you, Lord Gerold," Joffrey finally said, leaning back in his heavy chair, letting the tension recede just a fraction. "I wish to formally clear House Grafton of any association with Baelish’s treason. I have no desire to punish a loyal house for the sins of a deceased traitor. Furthermore, I will see young Gyles elevated. He is currently resting under royal protection in the Red Keep. I shall ensure he squires for Ser Lyle Crakehall, the Strongboar. A true, seasoned knight of the Westerlands, to teach the boy honor and martial discipline."

Grafton let out a long, shaky breath, the relief almost buckling his frame. "Your Grace is merciful beyond measure."

"Mercy requires a tangible demonstration of loyalty," Joffrey countered instantly, closing the trap. "The Crown is establishing a branch of the Royal Bank of Westeros right here in Gulltown to centralize our eastern trade. You will waive all royal tariffs on Crown vessels. You will grant severe trade concessions on the export of Vale grain. Moreover, you will physically guard the Royal Vaults with your own city garrison, paying their wages and upkeep entirely from your own pockets."

Grafton blinked, his mind frantically calculating the staggering cost of guarding a bank and waiving his primary tariffs.

"In exchange," Joffrey offered the lifeline, "House Grafton will receive the Liege's Share. A fixed, unalterable cut of every local transaction fee processed by the bank. Secure my gold, protect my ledgers with your steel, and your house shall grow rich off the interest. Fail, or attempt to squeeze the Crown, and I will move my patronage entirely to Old Anchor."

Lord Grafton saw the trap, recognized the heavy, gilded chains, and eagerly locked them around his own wrists. Survival trumped pride. "House Grafton accepts the honor, Your Grace. The bank shall be an impregnable fortress."

"See that it is," Joffrey said, his voice cold and final. "Now, I believe we have a feast to attend."

The welcoming feast in the Grafton hall was a suffocating affair. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted swans, massive wheels of sharp cheese, and flagons of Arbor gold. Minstrels played lively, soaring melodies. Joffrey sat at the high table, projecting the image of a gracious, entertained Crown Prince. Beside him, Lord Gerold Grafton ate little and drank deeply. The Lord of Gulltown forced a wide, strained smile onto his face, acting the part of the honored host before his entire court, all while carrying the sickening knowledge that he had just signed away a massive portion of his city's wealth and leverage in the quiet solar above.

The following morning, Joffrey assembled his Kingsguard and rode out from the heavy stone walls of the Grafton keep.

The royal procession moved through the bustling streets of Gulltown, drawing massive crowds of smallfolk, until they reached the high, gilded iron gates of the Arryn Manse. It was a sprawling, opulent estate, walled off from the noise of the port. Unlike the grim fortress of the Graftons, the manse boasted sweeping gardens, intricate Myrish carpets, and high windows fitted with rare, expensive colored glass from Essos.

Isembard Arryn, the patriarch of the Gulltown branch, waited in his opulent reception hall. He was a completely different breed of man than Gerold Grafton. He lacked the martial stiffness and underlying fear. He wore a doublet of exquisite, fine Myrish silk, his fingers heavy with thick gold rings, the air around him smelling heavily of exotic spices and expensive oils. Beside him stood his son, Osric, a raven-eyed man, that followed his father like a chick following the rooster.

"Your Grace," Isembard bowed smoothly, possessing a dancer's grace. "My house is deeply honored by your presence."

"Lord Isembard," Joffrey acknowledged, a hint of warmth in his voice. He took the offered seat, waving away the servants carrying trays of spiced wine. "The Crown requires the services of men who intimately understand the flow of gold. The Graftons have agreed to provide the physical security for the new Royal Bank branch. They are, however, not men of trade. They lack the refinement and the reach for dabbling in matters of loans and interests. I require factors for the Royal Bank I am aiming to create.”

Isembard’s eyes gleamed with sudden, intense interest. He belonged to a wealthy cadet branch treated with utter, unyielding disdain by the pureblooded, martial knights of the Eyrie. He craved the legitimacy and the untouchable status that only the Iron Throne could bestow.

"The Crown is issuing Royal Bonds," Joffrey explained, signaling for the Hound to place a heavy, iron-bound chest upon the table. Joffrey unlocked it, revealing stacks of crisp, heavy parchment. The seals of the Iron Throne were stamped in dark, blood-red wax at the bottom of each page. "Paper currency, backed by physical gold and guaranteed by the King’s justice. I am offering you the wholesale purchase."

Isembard approached the table, his ringed fingers tracing the edge of the parchment. "You wish for my house to buy the debt of the Iron Throne?"

"I offer you the bonds at a steep discount," Joffrey clarified, laying out the numerical reality of the deal. "You will use your liquid silver to purchase them in bulk at an appointed date. You will then act as the primary factor for the Crown. Utilize your vast web of ship captains, secondary agents, and lesser merchants to sell these bonds across the Vale at face value. You inject the royal bonds into the regional economy, providing a safe harbor for merchant wealth, and your house pockets the massive margin."

The merchant lord did the mental calculation in a matter of seconds. The sheer volume of wealth to be made on the margins was staggering. More importantly, it instantly elevated his house, making them the sole financial proxy for the Crown Prince in the Vale. It was power the Royces and Waynwoods could never match with swords.

"We have the ships, the contacts, and the agents, Your Grace," Isembard purred, his greed fully awakened. "We can distribute the bonds across every port and market town from Sisterton to Runestone."

"In exchange for this exclusive royal charter," Joffrey demanded, enforcing the strictly transactional nature of his rule, ensuring no man received power without bleeding for it, "Osric will be granted a senior managerial seat at the new Royal Bank branch. He will oversee foreign exchange and merchant loans, reporting directly to my Master of Coin in the capital."

Joffrey paused, his expression hardening. "Furthermore, to ensure perfectly balanced competition among the houses of the eastern seaboard, your eldest daughter will travel to King's Landing to serve as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. She will join Lady Alys Melcolm as a Lady-in-Waiting for my mother."

A son embedded within the royal bank, ensuring the Arryns' wealth was permanently tied to Joffrey's success. A daughter embedded within the royal household, guaranteeing their absolute compliance and creating a fierce rivalry with the Melcolms directly under Cersei's watch. Status, wealth, and legitimacy, all bought with the silver currently rotting in their vaults, secured with the blood of their children.

"We accept the Crown's generous offer," Isembard Arryn said, bowing deeply, accepting his own gilded cage with a triumphant smile.

Joffrey walked out of the opulent manse and back into the cold, salty air of Gulltown with the satisfaction of knowing that the dream of the Royal Bank he had commisioned can finally progress beyond the Walls of King’s Landing. Now the gauntlet has been thrown into the Rogares’ court.

~~~