Jon Connington lost the battle at Stoney Sept.
A Kingsguard captured, half his army dead or wounded—all recorded coldly in the battle report.
Amidst total chaos and rout, Jon Connington had managed to rally the remnants of his forces and conduct an orderly retreat. In the eyes of a true soldier, such an action was a display of valor in defeat.
But Aerys II, sitting in the Red Keep of King's Landing, would never see it that way.
When the report was presented before the Iron Throne, the King's withered fingers clenched the parchment so tightly it seemed he wanted to crush it. His wild eyes saw not a commander's effort to salvage a dire situation, but unforgivable weakness and failure.
"Woman's mercy!" The Mad King's shrill voice echoed in the Throne Room, filled with venomous mockery. "Useless woman's mercy! If he had the resolve, he would have burned the whole town to the ground! Turned Robert the traitor, the smallfolk hiding him, and those filthy houses into ash... The war would be over! Victory should have been mine!"
In his paranoid delusions, a decisive, indiscriminate massacre was the shortcut to victory. Jon Connington's relatively restrained tactics, aimed at minimizing civilian casualties and capturing Robert alive, became the sole, foolish reason for failure in his eyes.
Merit and fault, in the logic of the Mad King, had long been twisted into something else entirely.
Jon Connington received no comfort or understanding. The moment he returned to King's Landing, he was met with a cold decree of exile. Everything he had fought for, his efforts to save his men from defeat, were branded as proof of "woman's mercy" and "incompetence" by the Mad King.
The lord who had just been elevated to Hand of the King lost all titles and lands in an instant after one defeat. Forced to flee across the Narrow Sea to Essos like a stray dog, he exited the game of thrones in disgrace.
Before the Iron Throne, an absurd round of rewards and appointments was underway.
Aerys blamed Jon's "failure" on a lack of "decisiveness" and "ruthlessness." Thus, he chose a courtier known for "loyalty" and "obedience" to take over as Hand—the Master of Coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted. This lord might have been good with ledgers, but in the treacherous currents of war and politics, he appeared mediocre and timid.
Qarlton Chelsted knelt trembling before the jagged Iron Throne, becoming the fourth Hand of the King under Aerys II. The fates of the previous three—burned or exiled—hung over the new Hand's head like a heavy shadow.
The changing of the Hand was like a child's game!
The courtiers knew clearly that under this Mad King, the title of Hand was less an honor and more a death warrant.
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, candles flickered, casting the Iron Throne's monstrous shadow against the stone walls. The newly appointed Hand, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, took a deep breath before stepping forward. He could feel the gaze of the court like needles on his back. He lowered his head and reported in as steady a voice as possible: "Your Grace, the envoy from the Iron Bank... has arrived in King's Landing."
Aerys II, slumped amidst the cold iron spikes, sneered upon hearing this. His voice was sharp and mean. "The Iron Bank? Those stinking Braavosi merchants who only know how to count coppers? What are they here for?"
Qarlton felt his throat tighten. "Your Grace, we... to support the war effort, we previously borrowed a large sum from the Iron Bank. Now, they have come according to the contract... to collect the first repayment."
Aerys frowned impatiently and waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "You are my Master of Coin. You solve these petty matters. Must you bother me with such trifles?"
Qarlton couldn't hide the bitter smile on his face. He braced himself and explained, "Your Grace, the treasury... is empty. We cannot find a single extra gold dragon. Furthermore, pensions for the fallen, rewards for meritorious soldiers... all these urgently require large sums of gold..."
"No money?!" Aerys sat up abruptly. His voice shot up like a screeching owl, echoing through the hall. "No money in the treasury? Qarlton Chelsted! What kind of Master of Coin are you?! You dare ask me what to do?!"
Facing this unreasonable rebuke, Qarlton could only bury his head lower. Silence became his only shield.
Seeing him silent, Aerys's rage grew. He roared, "If there's no money, tell them to get out! Tell those Braavosi mongrels that I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! Their debt—I will pay it when I want to pay it!"
Qarlton felt a chill in his heart. He knew better than anyone the iron rule: "No one can owe the Iron Bank and not pay." But he understood even more clearly that any rational argument now would only invite madder rage. In the end, he bowed deeper and replied in a barely audible voice, "Yes, Your Grace."
All the Free Cities had their own banks, but the Iron Bank was richer and more powerful than all the others combined.
It had a terrifying reputation when collecting debts. When princes or kings defaulted on their debts, or were foolish enough to disrespect their contracts with the Iron Bank, new princes or kings would spring up like mushrooms after rain (funded by the Iron Bank). These new rulers would then have to acknowledge the previous debt and repay it along with the money they borrowed to win the throne, lest they suffer the same fate as their predecessors.
Braavosi have a saying: The Iron Bank will have its due.
Tycho Nestoris, the chief envoy of the Iron Bank, was like an unsheathed cold sword himself. He was tall and gaunt to the point of emaciation, his long legs making him seem to loom over everyone wherever he stood. A thin wisp of a beard hung almost to his waist. He had a narrow, long face that was always expressionless, wearing a signature purple felt three-tiered hat without a brim. Clad in a dark purple robe with a stiff high collar and white ermine trim, he radiated an unapproachable dignity.
He listened quietly to Lord Qarlton Chelsted's statement—the plea regarding their "current inability to repay" and the audacious request to "borrow another three million gold dragons." The air in the hall seemed to freeze.
Tycho Nestoris's cold gaze cut through the hall's shadows, landing on the Hand. His voice was steady, without a single ripple, yet more terrifying than any roar.
"My Lord Hand, the King's army has just lost another battle at Stoney Sept. Now, the rebel blades are almost within sight of King's Landing's walls." He leaned forward slightly, like a vulture inspecting dying prey. "If tomorrow, Robert Baratheon or Eddard Stark breaches this city, may I ask, from whom shall I collect our debt? From a corpse, or from a crown that has changed heads?"
Cold sweat beaded on Qarlton Chelsted's forehead. He answered with difficulty, "Envoy... I can only say, I hope I am still alive on that day. And I hope even more that the ultimate victor remains His Grace the King."
Tycho Nestoris shook his head slowly, almost imperceptibly. The action itself was a verdict. He didn't spare another glance for the embarrassed Hand, nor did he look toward the irrational King on the Iron Throne, as if they were already dust destined to be swept away by history.
He turned, the hem of his dark purple robe drawing a decisive arc, and left the Throne Room silently. He had his answer. The Iron Bank would not waste another copper on a dynasty on the brink of collapse. Now, he needed to sail north to meet the new, more promising "investment"—Robert Baratheon.