Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day - Chapter 662: Bankruptcy of Oldtown

The Twins, the Great Bridge.

“Your Grace.”

Lord Forrest of The Twins greeted Rhaegar Frey of House Frey, his handsome, middle-aged face betraying his excitement. A noblewoman with sharp cheekbones and a stern expression followed closely behind, bowing slightly.

“Lord Forrest, I have tens of thousands of troops behind me, so I’ll be depending on you,” Rhaegar said, walking across the bridge over the rushing waters, gladly accepting Lord Forrest’s hospitality.

House Frey was a relatively new house, its wealth built through control of the traffic on the Green Fork of the Trident. Its members were often known for their character flaws and lack of manners, but they had been loyal advisers to House Targaryen since the time of the Old King.

“Don’t worry, I’ve already instructed my men to slaughter the pigs and sheep,” Forrest said, his voice generous as he promised, “In response to your call, I will personally lead 600 cavalry and 800 archers north with you.”

Forrest knew well that raising this many troops already pushed the limits of what was needed to safeguard House Frey.

Rhaegar smiled slightly but did not immediately agree. “Not yet,” he replied. “There are still many who haven’t arrived.”

Forrest looked puzzled and glanced behind the king at the military lords of Riverrun. Soldiers from the Crownlands, including those from House Rook’s Rest and House Rosby, were also present. As his eyes scanned the gathering, they fell on a yellow-jade dragon slowly descending onto the bridge.

“Your Grace!” Forrest’s eyes lit up as he called out from afar.

Rhaenyra, dressed in black dragon-rider attire, her silver hair tied back, stepped onto the bridge with a confident stride. Forrest, eager to impress, quickly ordered his men to fetch wine and fruit, fawning over the still youthful and striking Queen.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Forrest,” Rhaenyra said as she graciously accepted, picking up a plump red grape and placing it in her mouth. After a brief pause, she picked up another and fed it to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar smiled wordlessly, enjoying the sweet, syrupy pulp.

“Your Grace, please come and rest at the castle,” Forrest said, his smile growing more sincere as he led the way with a light step.

“Don’t lose your composure, Forrest,” the noblewoman beside him muttered, clearly unable to bear his obsequiousness, casting him a fierce glare. Forrest immediately straightened up, his face turning red with embarrassment.

The noblewoman snorted, then turned to Rhaegar and Rhaenyra with a smile that barely hid her disdain. “Please come, the Freys have prepared the finest banquet for you.”

“Thank you, Lady Sabitha,” Rhaegar replied, the corner of his mouth curving up as he took Rhaenyra’s hand and led her toward the other end of the bridge.

Rhaenyra nodded slightly, glancing at her brother. Rhaegar turned just in time to catch her gaze. The next moment, the two siblings exchanged knowing smiles.

It was well-known that Lord Forrest of House Frey had once been one of Rhaenyra’s most ardent suitors. During Rhaenyra’s maiden years, known as the Realm’s Delight, she and her dragon Syrax had been the most dazzling figures in the Seven Kingdoms. The Lannister brothers, Jason and Tyland, had nearly come to blows over their courtship of her, but Forrest Frey had been even more determined, willing to do whatever it took to win her favor.

Legend had it that on the night of Rhaenyra’s wedding, Forrest failed to arrive at Dragonstone as promised, too devastated to attend. Instead, he hid in The Twins, weeping for an entire night, and regretted it for half a year. His eventual wife, Lady Sabitha, though neither beautiful nor particularly kind, was clever and avaricious.

It was whispered that she did not care much for men.

“A bit miserable,” Rhaegar whispered in Rhaenyra’s ear, feeling a hint of pity for the lovestruck man.

“Then go comfort him,” she teased.

Rhaegar let out a breath, leaning closer as he playfully brushed his lips against her ear. Rhaenyra’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she shot him a sharp glare.

When she had still been heir to the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra was most adored by the nobles of the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Both House Blackwood and the now-destroyed House Bracken had hosted her and her dragon, Syrax, with great honor. Even after her marriage, the Riverlands remained her preferred destination for receiving guests.

The one place she dreaded visiting was The Twins, seat of House Frey. Not only was Forrest Frey overzealous in his affections, but his wife, Lady Sabitha, had also made her desire for Rhaenyra quite clear.

The couple, it seemed, shared the same obsession. A perfect match indeed.

…

Night had fallen.

Ten thousand troops made camp, cooking their meals over fires that lit up half the sky. Inside the castle, the hall was packed. Though not particularly spacious, it was filled with tables, chairs, and benches, and the best dishes were served to the guests.

Up on the second floor, Rhaegar sat, clutching a raven in his hands.

“Quack, quack…”

He gently removed the small letter tied to the bird’s leg, and the raven flew off in a panic. As Rhaegar read the letter, the pleasant look on his face gradually faded, replaced by a cold expression.

“Your Grace, is something wrong?”

Forrest, who was nibbling on a crab, asked anxiously.

“It’s those lords who still haven’t arrived,” Rhaegar muttered darkly, handing the letter over in frustration. “The Reach and the Westerlands aren’t that far apart, yet they’re dragging their feet on sending troops.”

“What? How dare they neglect you!”

Forrest exclaimed, his eyes widening as he skimmed the letter. It explained that Lord Jason of Casterly Rock had fallen ill since his return from Slaver’s Bay, leaving the Westerlands without leadership and delaying their military response.

The situation in the Reach was somewhat better—Highgarden had sent 1,000 cavalry and 2,000 infantry, while House Rowan had provided 800 cavalry and 1,200 archers. Together, they had raised a force of 5,000 soldiers and were marching north through Bitterbridge.

However, other houses had contributed fewer troops, and the Oldtown faction, along with House Tarly, had outright refused to send any.

When Rhaenyra took the letter, she exclaimed, surprised, “The merchants from Qarth entered Oldtown and used loans to bankrupt the Oldtown Bank?”

Earlier that year, young Lord Lyonel Hightower, supported by his uncle Otto and cousin Queen Alicent, had married the daughter of House Tarly—a shrewd woman named Samantha Tarly.

Ambitious and driven, Samantha had championed the creation of the Oldtown Bank to bolster the Hightower family’s wealth. Her plan had succeeded, with many nobles and merchants from the Reach depositing large sums of money at high interest rates.

Yet the bank had gone under so swiftly.

“The merchants of Qarth raised the interest rates and drove the Oldtown Bank into bankruptcy,” Rhaenyra said gravely, her tone laced with frustration. “Those damned vampires—they want to drain the Reach dry.”

Bankers were often seen as shameless. With the nobles of the Reach now financially tied to Qarth, the entire region was dependent on the foreign bankers. Whether that would prove a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

“The Oldtown Bank has collapsed, and House Hightower is already expelling the Qarth merchants,” Rhaegar added in a low voice. “But the merchants refuse to leave, so Lady Samantha has called on her brother, Lord Alan Tarly, to muster troops and rally the Oldtown nobles for war.”

Oldtown’s power was not to be underestimated. Many wealthy families in the region were vassals of House Hightower. For example, House Beesbury of Honeyholt, where the current Master of Coin, Lyman Beesbury, hailed from, was nearly as influential as some of the great houses.

“The merchants of Qarth are refusing to leave,” Rhaenyra said in disbelief, scanning the letter again. “And it says here that they produced… your personal agreement, allowing them to dock in any port?”

Rhaegar stiffened, momentarily lost for words. Of course, he had signed that agreement. He’d anticipated Qarth causing trouble, but not to the extent of bankrupting the Oldtown Bank and forcing Lady Samantha to turn against them.

“What should we do?” Rhaenyra asked softly, her voice cautious. “Should we notify Oldtown to halt the fighting and honor the agreement?”

“No,” Rhaegar replied, shaking his head. That would mean oppressing Oldtown. He won’t do that to his vassals.

“Then what should we do?”

Rhaenyra asked, her purple eyes flickering with uncertainty. She was out of ideas. After all, not abiding by the agreement could be a solution in itself.

“Whoever causes trouble will be burned to death,” Aemond, who had been quietly observing the situation, suddenly spoke up. His voice was cold as he added, “Qarth is just a city full of greedy bastards. I can crush them in two weeks, riding them down like Sheepstealers.”

“The royal family cannot take the lead in breaking promises,” Rhaegar replied, maintaining a sense of dignity.

Aemond’s face darkened with displeasure. “This isn’t allowed, that’s not allowed either,” he scoffed. “Are you going to let the Qarth vermin do whatever they please?”

“That’s an idea…” Rhaegar murmured, his mind racing.

He couldn’t break his word, nor did he want to pressure Oldtown too much. But perhaps letting them handle Qarth themselves would serve both purposes—stall Qarth while allowing Oldtown to manage the problem. Once the North was dealt with, he could address this matter properly.

“Qarth is not a strong city, brother,” Aemond said, his one eye gleaming coldly as he drew his dagger and began to toy with it. His preference for a swift, decisive solution was clear.

Qarth’s origins were shrouded in mystery, but its people had a long history of arrogance. As descendants of ancient Valyria, they looked down on all other races and cultures, none more so than the merchants of Qarth—a trade hub where multiple cultures intersected. To Aemond, they deserved to burn for meddling in Targaryen affairs.

“We’ll wait a bit longer,” Rhaegar decided. “Send a letter to Oldtown soon, offering some form of conciliation.” He glanced at Aemond, already considering the letter’s content. It would explain that the royal family was in a difficult position, subtly hinting that Oldtown should take matters into its own hands. If Qarth continued to be unkind, they shouldn’t be surprised if the Targaryens responded in kind.

“I heard Lord Alan Tarly is a capable man—he fought in the defense of Prince’s Pass at a young age, didn’t he?” Rhaegar shifted the conversation smoothly.

“Yes, Alan is skilled in martial arts and wields his house sword, Heartsbane,” Rhaenyra added softly. “Lord Lyman’s grandson is also named Arlan; he’ll likely join forces with Oldtown’s army.”

Rhaegar smiled slightly, then burned the letter over the candle’s flame. “It’s a pity about Oldtown’s forces. Otherwise, The Reach would have had thousands more troops.”

“And what about the Westerlands?” Aemond asked, his thirst for battle evident as his gaze shifted toward House Lannister, who had continually stalled.

“Lord Jason is unwell,” Forrest interjected, his tone skeptical. “That man’s always been greedy and miserly. Could it be that he’s using this illness as an excuse to avoid sending troops?”

House Lannister was a cunning one. Its ancestors had seized Casterly Rock through deception, and it wouldn’t be surprising if they withheld aid unless they saw some profit in it—especially when the help was intended for the North.

“Send word to Tyland,” Rhaegar ordered after a moment of reflection. “Tell him to urge Lord Jason.”

The Westerlands were crucial, but they had always been a somewhat independent region within the Seven Kingdoms, less susceptible to royal commands. Westeros itself was divided into eight parts, with the North, Westerlands, and Dorne functioning as the most autonomous. Even royal decrees struggled to hold sway in these lands. Since the Conquest, to stabilize the realm and curb potential rebellion, marriages had been arranged with the Vale and Stormlands, and alliances formed with the Riverlands and Reach to balance power between the regions. Now, while helping the weak North and volatile Dorne was necessary, the prosperous and powerful Westerlands posed a greater concern.

“Why don’t I go to Casterly Rock and take a good look at Jason myself?” Aemond smirked as he stabbed his dagger into the table, his eye gleaming with menace. To him, the Lannisters were no different from the merchants of Qarth—both deserving of death for defying the king’s will.

“Give Jason one month,” Rhaegar commanded. “Let Tyland deliver the message. If he’s still unwell by then, I’ll send Daemon to ‘cure’ him personally.”