[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 38: KEVAN (Public) (Patreon)

Kevan Lannister had spent his life marching in his brother’s shadow, managing the grueling rear guard of Tywin’s hosts. He knew the true cost of power. It was not found in the songs of bards or the flutter of silk banners. Power was counted in horseshoes, casks of hard-salted beef, and the staggering wagons of silver required to keep a spear-line from turning into a pillaging mob. A man who understood how to feed twenty thousand men in the autumn mud did not trust bankers who promised gold from thin air.

He looked around the main hall of the Royal Bank of Westeros. The institution occupied the sprawling, seized manse of an executed Antler Man on the Street of Silver. The floors were covered in thick Myrish carpets that swallowed the sound of heavy boots. Polished mahogany counters stretched across the vast floor, illuminated by the steady light of heavy brass chandeliers.

A dozen veteran men-at-arms stood against the walls. They wore ringmail and iron half-helms, their gauntleted hands resting on the hafts of their spears. The staggering wealth on display lured the merchants through the doors. The steel ensured they remembered their manners once inside.

To Kevan's left, Garth Tyrell wheezed. The Lord Seneschal of Highgarden’s massive girth strained the seams of his green velvet doublet. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a lace kerchief, his small eyes scanning the armed guards. Septon Luceon stood nearby, clutching a crystal star suspended from a heavy silver chain, his soft, uncalloused hands betraying a life spent in the comfortable sanctuaries of the Great Sept of Baelor.

Kevan kept his face unreadable. He was playing a part today, a carefully constructed farce orchestrated by his nephew Tyrion. Casterly Rock had already agreed to the terms in secret. Tywin had seen the proposal for the Royal Bank, weighed the risks, and given his quiet consent to Joffrey’s schemes. Kevan was here merely to play the reluctant lion. He needed to offer a false sense of solidarity so the Tyrells and the Faith would swallow the hook without realizing the line was already pulled taut.

They were escorted up the winding stone stairs to the master solar. Joffrey sat behind a massive table of dark oak. At fifteen, the King's son possessed a frame that reminded Kevan of a young King Robert. He wore a silk doublet in the Baratheon colors, his thick forearms resting on the parchment before him, keeping them from flying away. Moredo Rogare was seated near the hearth, draped in silken robes, his violet eyes making contact with the entrants.

"Sit," Joffrey commanded.

Garth lowered his bulk into a chair, the wood groaning in protest. His face soured at the blatant lack of a cupbearer. Luceon took the seat beside him, smoothing his cloth-of-silver vestments. Kevan sat, folding his gloved hands upon the oak.

The silence stretched. It was a deliberate, suffocating pause that reminded Kevan of his brother’s plays at intimidating his lords. Joffrey let them sit in the quiet of the room, forcing them to feel the sheer weight of his authority

"The Crown owes a vast sum," Luceon murmured finally, unable to bear the silence. "The Faith has always stood behind the Iron Throne. We are the shepherds of the realm's soul, but even shepherds require wool for the winter. The sudden demise of the traitor Baelish leaves the High Septon fearful for the solvency of the Crown. The ledgers must be balanced, Your Grace. The gods demand order."

"The rat Baelish has been dealt with according to the laws of the realm, Septon," Joffrey replied, “and we have recovered most of the stolen gold.You need not worry about the Crown’s finances, my lord.”

Joffrey reached out and nudged a single coin across the oak table.

Kevan picked it up. A silver stag, newly designed and minted. He rubbed his thumb along the edge. It was deeply milled, ridged with tiny grooves. A man could not shave a sliver of silver from this without destroying the ridges entirely. It was undoubtedly a superior coin than the ones in circulation.

"We pay the workers exclusively with the newly minted coins," Moredo Rogare explained, standing up from his seat. "When the ditch-diggers and the shipwrights buy bread, the new silver and copper coins flood the capital. The merchants hoard it immediately. To conduct their daily trade, they are forced to bring the old, mutilated coins of previous reigns to our counters. We secure the debased silver and copper, loading it into guarded wagons bound for Aegon's High Hill. The Royal Mint melts it down and strikes the new stags, taking a seigniorage fee for the King's treasury."

Kevan stared at the milled edge, turning the coin over in his palm. Joffrey was aggressively flushing the debased currency out of the city's veins, drawing raw bullion straight back into the Red Keep. The good money was flushing out the bad, as the maesters say.

Garth Tyrell snorted at the Lyseni copper counter, "You flush out the bad coin. A neat trick for a copper-counter. Silver does not fill a belly when the winter comes, my Prince. The capital survives because Highgarden allows the carts to roll up the Roseroad. My brother feeds this city, Prince Joffrey. You can mill all the edges you desire, but men cannot eat metal."

Joffrey did not blink. He pulled a thick, heavy-bound ledger from the stack and flipped it open, the heavy parchment crackling in the quiet solar.

"The red bricks baking in the Rosby claypits are currently building granaries near the Mud Gate," Joffrey said. "We are preparing for the winter."

"Empty stone towers," Garth mocked, a smug grin pulling at his fleshy cheeks. "Towers waiting for Reach grain."

"Towers we are filling regardless," Joffrey countered. "The bank has opened a branch in Gulltown. My factors are using the Crown's silver to buy the Vale's winter wheat right now, locking in the prices before the autumn yields drop. The merchant cogs are already sailing into Blackwater Bay to fill those new granaries from the Free Cities. We are securing the Riverlands harvests. The capital will eat regardless of the wheat from the Roseroad."

Kevan knew his cue. He forced his jaw to tighten. He leveled a harsh, performative glare at his nephew, ensuring the Tyrells and the Faith believed the Lannisters were on their side.

Kevan watched Garth Tyrell from the corner of his eye. The Lord Seneschal of Highgarden shifted uncomfortably, a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out on his wide forehead. Joffrey reached for a stack of vellum resting at the edge of the desk. The sheets were stamped with the royal seal in dark, heavy wax.

"The Crown owes six million dragons," Joffrey said, pushing the vellum forward. "I am establishing the Council of the Royal Bank. I offer Houses Lannister, Tyrell and the Faith permanent seats upon its board. You will oversee the wealth flowing from these new trade routes."

Garth’s eyes narrowed. The raw greed of the Reach surfaced, warring with his inherent suspicion. A seat overseeing the Crown's new wealth, managing the flow of silver from all over the Realm, was exactly the prize Mace Tyrell craved.

"There is a single condition," Joffrey said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register. "To claim these seats, your existing physical debt will be converted into Royal Bonds. Promissory notes backed by the Crown's tax yields and the bank's revenue. You will receive a guaranteed, compounded yield, paid out in silver at the end of every autumn."

Kevan sat entirely still. He watched the silence settle over the room. If the Tyrells and the Faith traded their legitimate rights to gold for paper bonds, their leverage is gone. Their wealth would be tied entirely to Joffrey's survival. If the Crown fell, their paper became worthless. They would be forced to defend the Baratheon dynasty with their own swords just to protect their own purses.

Garth the Gross stared at the vellum. His face flushed a deep, mottled purple. The pride of Highgarden violently rejected the leash. To surrender the King's debt for painted vellum was an insult to the wealth of the Mander.

"You ask us to trade the King's heavy gold for your worthless parchment?" Garth sneered, his voice rising in heavy, labored breaths. He pointed a fat, trembling finger at the Lyseni banker. "You ask us to surrender our claims for the promises of a boy and an Essosi coin-clipper?"

Garth slammed a meaty fist against the oak table, rattling the ink horns and sending a spare quill flying across the wood.

"You forget yourself, Prince Joffrey," Garth snarled, abandoning all courtly pretense. "The Tyrells are not your mud-diggers. We are not some minor house begging for coppers. If my brother Mace decides to call his banners, he can march seventy thousand lances up the Roseroad. He can smash this counting-house to splinters and take his gold back from your vaults by force! You rely on our goodwill. Do not test the patience of the Reach."

"A marching force of seventy thousand lances requires absolute unity, Lord Garth," Joffrey said. He did not raise his voice. He simply leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table, his emerald eyes locking onto the fat man.

"If Mace Tyrell summons his banners against the Iron Throne, I will sign a royal decree," Joffrey stated. "I will permanently sever the Northern Reach. I will grant the title of Lord Paramount of the Northern Marches to Mathis Rowan."

Garth’s bluster faltered. The blood drained from his face, leaving his cheeks a sickly, pale grey.

"For the South," Joffrey continued, his voice relentless, hammering the nails into the coffin. "I will carve out a realm for Oldtown and its vassals. Leyton Hightower will answer only to the Iron Throne. He will never send another copper of Oldtown's taxes to Highgarden. You rely on your marriage to House Hightower, Lord Garth. Tell me. Will Lord Leyton march his men to die against my walls to protect his son-in-law's pride? Or will he join my side, accept the royal writ, and seize a kingdom for himself?"

Silence crashed down upon the solar. Kevan watched Garth’s mouth open and close, searching for a defense that did not exist. Kevan’s own mind raced, mapping out the reality of the threat. The Reach was vast, fertile, and obscenely wealthy, but it was held together by fragile alliances. The Rowans were descended from the Gardener Kings; they possessed the bloodline to claim dominance. The Hightowers were wealthier and more prestigious than House Tyrell; older than the Iron Throne itself.

Joffrey did not need to field an army to defeat Mace Tyrell. He only needed to offer the Reach lords the crown's legitimacy, and they would tear each other to bloody pieces fighting over the scraps. Garth knew Lord Leyton would never refuse autonomy. Blood ties are not absolute, they can be traded for autonomy and power.

"In a year's time, the other branches will have accumulated enough silver," Joffrey delivered the final blow, leaning back in his heavy chair. "I will have the gold to pay Highgarden back every single dragon. If you refuse to convert your debt into Royal Bonds today, I will pay you off next autumn. When I do, I will decree that no Tyrell will ever hold a seat on the Small Council. No Tyrell will ever step foot in King’s Landing. No Tyrell will ever wear a white cloak so long as a Baratheon rules."

Garth stared at the dark oak table. The breath sawed in and out of his chest. Mace Tyrell desperately wanted to see his blood in the Red Keep. He wanted his son Loras in a white cloak. He wanted his daughter wearing a crown. If Garth walked away today, Mace would never forgive him. The gold was meaningless if it bought them nothing but banishment from the royal court.

Slowly, the Lord from Highgarden reached out with a trembling hand. He took up the quill.

Septon Luceon, pale and entirely cowed by the show, reached for his own quill a moment later.

Kevan Lannister watched the ink dry on the heavy vellum. He knew that the balance of power has shifted; in a way no lord of the Realm was ready for.

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P.S.- Last chapter before the return of Robert to KL.