"Please allow me to offer my belated loyalty to you, His Grace, Viserys III, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Admiral Pymber, looking a bit worse for wear, tried his best to maintain the dignified image of the Commander of the Pentos Fleet in front of Viserys.
"Are you also a 'Late Lord Frey'?" Viserys looked Admiral Pymber up and down.
Ser Jorah, standing behind the King, couldn't help but chuckle. He then explained to the confused Princess Daenerys beside him:
"His Grace is referring to Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing. A man who looks like a weasel. During Robert's Rebellion, he only answered his liege lord's call to arms after the battle was already decided. Thus, people call him 'The Late Lord Frey'."
"But doesn't that sound like he eventually remained loyal?" Daenerys still struggled to understand the joke.
"You mean by eventually supporting the Usurper? No, no. He never stood by his liege lord or the True Dragon. He only stood by himself. In His Grace's words, he helps whoever wins. That's all."
Ser Jorah always had infinite patience for the beautiful Princess.
Admiral Pymber lowered his head in shame. What could he say at a time like this?
"Rise, Admiral Pymber." Viserys waved his hand, signaling the man to stand.
"You know I lack a capable captain to command a fleet and train sailors. Therefore, I allow you to retain your title as Fleet Admiral. I will even add the name 'Targaryen' before it."
Viserys couldn't find anyone suitable to command a navy at the moment, so he had to make do with this "Late" Pymber for now.
"I thought he would order him killed."
The players lining both sides watched with interest as Pymber stood up excitedly, heaping praises and flattery upon Viserys.
Dawn looked at Laws_Cannot_Touch_Me, who had spoken, and said calmly:
"Even Cao Cao needed Zhang Yun and Cai Mao to train his navy. The principle is the same. It's not like he can pick one of us to be the Fleet Admiral."
Pymber stepped forward excitedly, attempting to kiss the ring on Viserys's hand to express his feelings and offer his loyalty.
Clang!
A bearded knight stepped in front of the King, staring ferociously at the "Late" Admiral Pymber.
"That is very rude of you, unknown Ser." The Admiral smiled awkwardly.
"My name is Roland. And I have reason to doubt your loyalty, my Lord."
"Whoa, this foreigner is really roleplaying."
"Hey, don't knock it. Some rednecks really dig the whole chivalry thing."
Viserys ignored the whispering players on both sides. He cast an approving glance at the back of Roland—also a player—then waved his hand casually at Pymber:
"Alright, I have received your loyalty. Now you may go back, gather your sailors, and return to your post."
"Uh, as you command, Your Grace." Pymber turned and left the room, slightly embarrassed.
Now, everyone left in the room was one of his own.
Viserys switched to a warm smile and faced all the players present:
"Mouse_Is_Duck, step forward."
"Your Grace."
Mouse_Is_Duck stepped out of the line, scratching his head. In his memory, aside from the dungeon exploration last time, weren't most rewards sent directly to the Fire Sprite's shop like a delivery for players to claim?
Why was an NPC handing them out today?
"I bestow this sword upon you as a reward for your meritorious service in protecting the King."
Viserys drew the Valyrian steel longsword from his waist—the one he had previously promised as a reward to the players.
Since it had been hanging at his waist, drawing it now didn't seem out of place in front of Jorah and Daenerys.
"Thank you, Your Grace!" Mouse_Is_Duck reached out and took the longsword. Honestly, the sword looked fantastic—imposing and majestic. It hit him right in the feels.
"Damn, that guy got lucky." Minister_of_Excuses (Teflon) was a bit jealous.
"Hey, Boss, the only reason we lost to them was because our reputation is too fierce. Those natives were too scared to fight us. Otherwise, would it be these assassins' turn to pick the fruit?"
King_of_Femboys whispered comfortingly from the side.
"Mouse_Is_Duck, in recognition of your repeated contributions, I, in the name of the rightful heir of the Targaryen Dynasty, the rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men...
"Appoint you as Intelligence Assistant. Until a Master of Whisperers appears, you shall act as proxy and oversee all intelligence matters.
"Your Brotherhood Without Banners shall also receive a legitimate title from the Targaryen Dynasty: The Royal Secret Police."
Say what?
I'm a spy chief now?
Mouse_Is_Duck blinked. Family, who understands this? I grew up under the red flag, and now I'm a spy chief in a game!
Even if it's just an assistant.
Teflon was even more jealous now.
The title of "Commander of the Grenadier Corps" suddenly didn't seem so sweet anymore.
"Uh, thank you for your trust, Your Grace."
Recovering from his daze, Mouse_Is_Duck finally accepted the title of Intelligence Assistant and Director of the Secret Police with a look of "reluctance."
"In addition, you will receive a manor or an orchard from the properties of those Magisters who have gone to hell to reflect on their sins, to serve as the Secret Police's estate."
Just when Mouse_Is_Duck thought his rewards were over, Viserys spoke again.
"Minister_of_Excuses, step forward."
Mouse_Is_Duck was still stunned.
Viserys had already turned his gaze to the head pyromancer.
"Your Grace!"
There's something for me too? Teflon stepped out of the line excitedly, looking very respectfully at the King.
"The Grenadier Corps will also receive a share of the Magisters' properties. Orchards and land on the plains, or shops in the city—you may choose one." Viserys spoke slowly.
Before the King even finished speaking, the members of the Grenadier Corps began to cheer.
Finally! The farming system is unlocked!
---
Dawn broke. The weather in the North remained cold.
Summer seemed to be ending soon, as the days grew colder.
Winter is coming, Bran thought.
Bran Stark, son of the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was a boy of only seven.
But as his father said, he wouldn't be a child forever.
Therefore, despite the fear in his heart, he kept his eyes wide open, watching the "deserter" being slowly dragged before his father by the guards.
It was a man of the Night's Watch. A deserter. Father said he broke his vows, so he would uphold the law. According to the King's Justice, this deserter had to be executed.
Mother had tried her best to stop it, but she couldn't sway Father.
Truth be told, this was the first time he was allowed to attend such a ceremony. So, in his heart, it wasn't just fear; there was a faint excitement.
Bran thought to himself.
When the head was severed by the ancestral greatsword, Ice, Bran bravely did not close his eyes.
And so, he received an approving glance from his brother, Robb.
"The fourth deserter this year," Lord Eddard thought grimly.
The situation was getting worse. Perhaps the time had truly come when he had no choice but to call his bannermen and march north beyond the Wall to fight the Wildlings to the death.
Lord Eddard handed Ice to his captain of the guards, Jory Cassel, and gazed deeply toward the North.