The private parlor on the third floor of the Hall of Order was quiet except for the soft crackle of the hearth. Corleone sat on one side of the long table, the big black cat Balerion curled comfortably in his lap. Across from him sat a Braavosi in his forties wearing an expensive, heavily embroidered robe. His features were sharp, and everything about him — the way he held himself, the slight lift of his chin — radiated arrogance. He looked at Corleone like a man examining something he'd scraped off his boot.
The man hadn't introduced himself yet. He'd just walked in, taken a seat, and started staring down his nose like he owned the room and Corleone was the servant.
Corleone didn't speak. He simply stroked the cat and waited. If the Braavosi wanted to play the superior game, he could play it alone.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, the man finally broke.
"Lord Corleone," he said. His voice was low and smooth, carrying the distinctive Braavosi lilt, but the tone was pure condescension. "My name is Nahor Demitris. Senior steward of the Iron Bank of Braavos."
He didn't stand. He didn't bow. He just sat there looking down at Corleone like he was the one doing the favor.
"I'm here to collect."
Corleone finally lifted his head and met the man's eyes. He still said nothing. He just watched him, calm and unreadable, one hand continuing its slow strokes along the cat's back.
Nahor waited. Five seconds. Ten. A full minute.
Nothing.
His jaw tightened. "Lord Corleone. I am here representing the Iron Bank. The Bank has rules. When money is lent, it must be repaid. When it is not repaid on time… the consequences are severe."
Still nothing from Corleone.
The Braavosi's patience was clearly fraying. He leaned forward slightly. "The Iron Throne owes the Iron Bank one and a half million gold dragons. The loan was taken out ten years ago under Lord Petyr Baelish. I have the contract copy right here if you'd like to review it."
He slid a rolled parchment across the table.
Corleone didn't even glance at it.
Instead, he finally spoke. "How long have you been in King's Landing, Master Demitris?"
Nahor blinked, caught off guard. "Over two months."
"Two months," Corleone repeated, almost thoughtful. "That's a long time to wait."
He gestured lazily. Rolje entered at that moment carrying a tray with fresh tea. Corleone poured himself a cup and took a slow sip before continuing.
"I heard you weren't satisfied with the tea we offered earlier. I had some high-mountain green brought in from the Reach. Much better quality."
Nahor stared at the cup in front of him like it had personally offended him. He was here to collect a fortune, not drink tea. Still, he forced himself to pick it up and take a sip, eyes never leaving Corleone.
"The Iron Throne owes one and a half million gold dragons," he said again, louder this time. "I've already waited long enough. The Bank's patience has limits."
Corleone set his cup down. "You know what the first rule of negotiation is, Master Demitris?"
Nahor didn't answer.
"Honesty."
Corleone leaned back in his chair. "I spent some time after becoming Master of Coin going through the Iron Throne's financial records. Ten years of loans. And I noticed something interesting."
He slid two pieces of parchment across the table.
"This is the Iron Bank's copy of the contract. One and a half million gold dragons, to be paid in three installments."
He tapped the second sheet. "This is the Iron Throne's receipt record. First installment: three hundred thousand. Second: three hundred thousand. Third: four hundred thousand. Total… one million."
He looked Nahor dead in the eye.
"So tell me. Where did the other five hundred thousand go?"
Nahor's face went pale. For the first time since walking in, the arrogant mask slipped.
"I… I don't know anything about that," he said quickly. "I'm only here to collect. The original loan was handled by Lord Baelish. He was Master of Coin at the time."
Corleone smiled faintly. "You and Lord Baelish have worked together for quite a while, haven't you? Every major loan the Iron Bank made to the Iron Throne over the last ten years… your name is on the contracts. His name is on the receipts."
He tilted his head. "Quite the coincidence."
Nahor's hands had started to tremble slightly on the table.
Corleone continued, voice still calm. "What's your salary at the Iron Bank, Master Demitris? One hundred gold dragons a month? Two hundred? Even at two hundred, that's under three thousand a year. Ten years… less than thirty thousand total."
He gestured at Nahor's robe. "That coat you're wearing is worth at least ten thousand just in the jewels stitched into it. Tell me — does the Iron Bank pay so well that a senior steward can afford to spend years of wages on one piece of clothing?"
Nahor's breathing had gone shallow. Sweat beaded at his hairline.
Corleone's voice softened, almost friendly. "I don't actually care how much you and Littlefinger skimmed over the years. That's between you and your conscience. But right now, I can help you."
Nahor stared at him. "Help me?"
"You're in a difficult position," Corleone said. "If you go back to Braavos empty-handed, after ten years of 'service'… people will start asking questions. Your reputation, your position… all of it could disappear."
He smiled. "But what if you didn't go back empty-handed?"
Nahor's eyes narrowed. "You're going to repay the debt?"
"No," Corleone said simply. "I'm going to borrow another five hundred thousand."
Nahor's mouth opened, then closed. He looked like someone had slapped him.
"Another five hundred thousand?" he repeated, voice hoarse. "The Iron Throne already can't pay what it owes. You want to borrow more?"
"Exactly," Corleone said. "You go back with a new contract. The Iron Throne borrows another five hundred thousand. As soon as the money arrives, I use part of it to clear the interest on the original loan. You return with both the interest paid and a fresh, larger loan on the books. That looks like success, doesn't it?"
Nahor sat very still. The calculation was obvious on his face — risk versus reward, reputation versus ruin.
"I need time to think," he said at last.
"Of course," Corleone replied easily. "We have time."
Nahor stood, straightened his expensive robe, and walked to the door. His steps were no longer quite as arrogant as when he'd arrived.
After the door closed, Rolje stepped out from the corner where he'd been waiting.
"My lord," he said quietly. "Want me to have someone teach that arrogant bastard a lesson?"
Corleone kept stroking the cat. "No. Not yet. He's still useful."
Rolje frowned. "He didn't agree to the extra five hundred thousand."
"He will," Corleone said. "Negotiations like this are never finished in one sitting. But they get finished."
Outside the Hall of Order, Nahor Demitris stormed down the steps, face twisted with fury. The arrogant mask was completely gone now. His boots hit the cobblestones hard as he headed straight for his waiting carriage.
"Silk Street," he snapped at the driver. "Now."
He climbed in and slammed the door. The carriage pulled away.
Across the street, in the shadow of a narrow alley, several pairs of eyes watched it go.