"The mad often believe they are the sanest of them all. I cannot hate them for that. For their actions, yes, but not their beliefs."
Three months. Three months he had been regent, and only now did Aemon leave the Red Keep to get a closer look at the city. And by the Seven, he had to admit that King's Landing looked better than it ever had. Mayhaps a touch more crowded than in the past, but there was no denying that the city was doing better than ever before.
The markets, once confined to their squares, now spilled into the streets. Their colorful awnings stretched over even the Prince Regent's head as he rode by on horseback, brilliantly colored patches of red, orange, yellow, and even green, creating a patchwork of color more elaborate than even the court jester's motley. The wares were more of the same, though Aemon had never paid attention to it before.
Granted, he often glanced at the riotous display of colors and the maze of streets from Caraxes' back as he flew, but he had rarely indulged the desire to take a closer look. And it was past time he did so. Thus, after a rare afternoon of making the stifling heat bearable by soaring through the skies, he took a detour. Instead of riding straight for the Red Keep, Aemon decided he would take a ride through the city.
The would-be king slayers had long since been rooted out, and a king-to-be should really know his city.
He had ridden past the Street of Flour, where the bakers plied their trade. Many of the bakeries looked freshly built, with fresh brick walls, free of the endless chipping and cracks that spoke of a long life. Most of the bakeries had swollen grotesquely, having turned into sprawling workshops with footprints now covering ground once occupied by at least half a dozen bakeries back when Aemon had been younger. But despite the seductive scent of fresh bread and cakes, and the calls from the people- his people- to try this or that delicacy, he kept riding.
Soon, he was in what he knew to be Flea Bottom. This had been his destination, the one location he had to visit, but he did not recognize it. Where were the piles of refuse? The beggars? The bleeding and wounded scoundrels that called this place home? He only knew it was Flea Bottom because he knew which way he had ridden, a route he had been told time and time again to avoid. But he was where we wanted to be, at the foot of one of the three great towers rising into the sky. Where once a man could look to the skies and be sure to see the Red Keep, the Dragonpit, and the grand sept, these three towers had joined them. Judging by the state of things, a fourth tower was soon to join their number.
Honestly, Aemon did not understand why anyone would need to avoid this place. Contrary to all the warnings he had received, Aemon did not feel the need to gather a small army of knights to accompany him to deter potential robbers and ne'er-do-wells. It was a rather disconcerting feeling, truth be told. Aemon had been raised on stories of the desperation and low character of the people of Flea Bottom, how they had torn a previous Master of Coin to shreds, but now, this part of the city seemed… normal.
The slums were still there but heavily diminished. But the streets were mostly free of beggars, people walked leisurely and without fear, and even the refuse on the streets seemed lower than in other parts of the city. Had someone told Aemon that he was on the edge of the merchants' row of manses, he would have believed them without a moment of hesitation, though not without a scoff.
But, allegedly, this was Flea Bottom.
"You there," Aemon spoke to a particularly large man in a leather apron standing outside one of the towers. "This is Flea Bottom, yes?"
The man's head turned lazily towards the Prince Regent, only for him to rapidly blink and fall to his knees as he realized who it was upon that horse.
"Y-yes, Your Grace," the man stammered, not daring to lift his head higher than Aemon's boots.
"It is cleaner than I thought it would be," Aemon observed. "It is always good to see rumors prove false."
All around him, the people were beginning to realize that there was a Targaryen in their midst. A Targaryen with a small escort, an escort who would no doubt draw steel the moment someone came too close, but a Targaryen nonetheless. While their mutterings quite quickly grew in size, the people kept their distance.
"There have been efforts to improve the city, Your Grace," the man offered weakly, his gaze still glued firmly to the underside of the Prince Regent's boot.
"Efforts? By whom?" Aemon asked. "I think that man might have deserved some royal gratitude."
"Your Grace does not know?" the large man asked, his head twitching upwards briefly in what had no doubt been an attempt to crane his neck and look him in the eye. "It's the Prince- His Grace the Hand."
"Vaegon? My brother?" he asked in disbelief. His brother, the man who seemed the be at the crossroads of maester, septon, and knight? Now he dabbled in city management? That was nowhere near his domain, no matter how effective his results were.
"Yes, Your Grace,"
"How did he ever manage this?" he asked, as though this random commoner might know. To Aemon's surprise, he did.
"It has been a matter of some years, Your Grace,"
"Elaborate."
"He bought up the slums, Your Grace. Tore them down and built the towers. Hired some tough and honest men to keep the scum out, Your Grace. His Grace the Prince, well, His Grace the Hand, now, brought work to people who had neither. And those workers needed a safe place to stay, Your Grace, so he built the towers."
"Did he now?" Aemon asked nobody in particular, the words almost whispered. Vaegon had built these? Had he bought up the slums? Had he held property within the city? This from the man who publicly disdained becoming a vassal of the crown and the taxes that entailed? For years at a time?
No, that could not be.
Then again, this man had no reason to lie, and would not dare lie to the Prince Regent. Still, Aemon made a note to investigate this.
"Aye, Your Grace," the kneeling man somehow managed to nod, as though he had been asked. "His Grace the Hand has done much to aid the people of King's Landing, Your Grace."
"Elaborate."
"The Drakes, Your Grace?" the large man spoke hesitantly. "Every man in the city knows of the Drakes, Your Grace."
Drakes? The man spoke in riddles!
"My good man, if I must tell you to elaborate one more time, I will be quite cross."
Naturally, the large man took that as an invitation to spill everything. Every last detail about every inn that Vaegon allegedly owned or rented out to others, with names that usually involved the name 'drake'. Come to think of it, Aemon had ridden past at least five of them on the short ride from the Dragonpit.
As might be expected, Aemon rather rapidly found himself at one such establishment which called itself 'the Discordant Drake'. A name which, if the singing and music drifting out onto the street were anything to go by, was entirely accurate. Truth be told, it was quite an odd feeling, to step foot inside such an establishment. Aemon had never been the kind of man to spend his nights drinking in town, preferring to do so in the safety of the Red Keep with Baelon.
Then again, he had never suspected Vaegon of being the type to do so, either.
As he stepped through the curiously small doors that barely covered a third of the doorway and sprang back to the 'closed' position as if on springs, the music in the small establishment died down almost immediately as soon as people recognized who stood amongst them. Or rather, once his escort crowded around him enough to block much of the light drifting into the big room. A raised dais stood in one corner, with a man reciting some vulgar verses about his journeys through the Seven Kingdoms, to no shortage of laughter, though both rapidly drifted off. Small tables ringed the dais, each with a healthy collection of people.
"You may relax," Aemon told the assembled carousers and singers and various other such folk. "I am here out of idle curiosity, not on royal business. Please, continue as usual."
With clear reluctance, and with only a fraction of the previous liveliness, the inn returned to its previous activities.
For a brief moment, Aemon was ready to dismiss this little excursion as a waste of time. Mayhaps this was merely his suspicion flaring up again, as it so often did whenever Vaegon was involved? Mayhaps he was just imagining things?
Like the fact that Vaegon had hidden just how much of the city he owned?
As he was mulling over these details, still standing by the doorway, a small detail caught his attention. At the back of the inn, near the bar, he caught a glimpse of flashing metal. Instead of a blade drawn to open his neck, however, all he saw was a coin of dark metal passed from some man with a lute to the man tending the bar. That alone was odd. There were no coins in Westeros made with dark metal. They used gold, silver, and copper mixed with lesser metals, certainly, but never debased to the point of becoming dark.
"What is that?" Aemon asked after approaching the bar, gesturing towards the dark coin.
"A token," the singer muttered, his gaze glued to the drink in his hands. Briefly, his eyes flickered back to the Prince Regent, and subsequently a few more times before he finished speaking. "Your Grace."
"It looks like a coin," he pointed out, gesturing for the man tending the bar to hand over this alleged token. Upon closer inspection, this 'token' made his heart stop. While it was only marked with a lyre on one side and a number on the other, it was still a metal disk with a stamped design. Creating this 'token' was only a small step from minting false coin. Seven Hells, the only difference was in the choice of metal and the stamp.
"This just reduces the price of bed and board, Your Grace," the man tending the bar said, counting out the other coins the singer had handed over.
And now these tokens had value?
What made these any different from actual coin? Oh right, the fact that they were not minted by the crown.
"His Grace the Hand gives 'em to his singers at the bank, Your Grace," the singer spoke, trying very hard to keep his words from slurring. "In exchange for information."
And now Vaegon was issuing his own coins? He needed to speak with his brother. Evading taxes was bad enough, but this? This bordered on treason! No no no he needed to speak with this brother. He needed to speak with Vaegon. There… there had to be a good explanation for this.
There had to be.
It was only then that Aemon fully realized what the man had said.
"There is a bank in King's Landing?"
Seven Above, if had found this in the city, what would he learn of his brother that was kept locked away outside the keep?
...
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