"What do you mean?" The Lord of Winterfell frowned.
"He was supposed to be following Varys's orders, lurking beside those two Targaryen remnants, waiting for the perfect moment to slip a knife into them." The King looked into Ned's eyes.
He knew how Ned would react to this topic. It was only the bond of friendship and his status as King that kept Ned from turning his back and walking away right then.
"But Varys told me his informant is dead. Jorah has gone silent. Varys only recently got his network back up and running, and that's when he found out." A flicker of murderous intent flashed in the King's eyes.
"Jorah the Slaver has accepted a knighthood from that little whelp Viserys. His crimes have been unilaterally pardoned, and he's now a Kingsguard for the boy! I heard he's even the Lord Commander of some bullshit 'White Cloaks'!" The King said indignantly.
"So what? A criminal knight and a beggar king. Are they going to swim across the sea to reclaim the throne?" Ned didn't understand why his friend was acting as if facing a formidable enemy.
"He has an army, Ned!" The King's voice rose suddenly, startling his horse.
But Lord Stark remained unmoved, simply looking at the King calmly.
"Varys says the little whelp somehow got himself a bunch of vassals. He controls Pentos now. He has an army of several thousand, and he's inherited the Pentos fleet intact!" The King looked at the Duke.
"We can raise tens of thousands. We can assemble a fleet of hundreds of ships at any time. They are no threat!" The Duke replied.
"Those two whelps will mate sooner or later and spawn a little bastard!" The King brought it up again.
"And then what? Shall we send a gift to congratulate them on their child?" The Duke said scornfully.
"Damn it, I said I want to send a knife to them! Do you not remember your King's command?" The King cursed under his breath.
"Besides, the realm has no money! No money to send a fleet across the sea, to defeat that whelp's ragged army in open battle, and then kill him!" As the King said this, a strange look crossed his face.
How can a kingdom this vast have no money?
The Duke didn't say it out loud. He didn't think Robert was lying, just confused. He knew Jon Arryn; the man was capable of governing a realm and would never have left Robert with such a mess.
"We need to avoid total war," Robert said, avoiding the direct question. His tone softened.
"Ned, honestly, sending a spy with a knife... that's a coward's work. Ten years ago, if Varys suggested this, I swear I would have smashed his head in!"
Ned didn't refute him immediately, waiting for him to continue.
"But as Jon said—ah, damn it, I mentioned him again—we carry the weight of a kingdom. Do you really want to see two sides at war, the people suffering?" Robert stared into Ned's eyes.
"If it means acting like a craven, I would rather face war. At least that is something I know. But if you want me to be an assassin Hand, then Your Grace should find someone else." Ned's stubbornness was infuriating.
"Seven Hells! This is a royal command!" Robert's hatred for the Targaryens hadn't faded even after decades.
"Your Grace, we cannot act like the Lannisters did back then, slaughtering innocent women and children. If that is what you ask, please find someone else."
Ned knew he shouldn't contradict the King while he was angry, but he would not allow himself to issue such a heinous order as Hand.
"The Targaryens all deserve to die! You think I'm a cruel king? Look at what those madmen did! They are worse than lions!" The King roared in anger.
Sigh. Ned said nothing, using his silence to express his opinion.
Ultimately, the man before him was the King. Ned wasn't as rash as he was in his youth. He remained silent, stubbornly turning his head away.
If this were ten years ago—no, five years ago—he would have turned his horse and ridden back to the North to be his Lord of Winterfell. To hell with the King, to hell with his despicable, dishonorable orders.
But he was thirty now.
"Fine! Go on playing the kind, benevolent lord then! Who cares! I am the King, I am the tyrant who treats life like grass!
"I'll issue the order when I get back, whether you, my damn Hand, agree or not! Who do you think you are! You stubborn northern fool!"
Like two children in a huff, the King of the realm and the Hand of the King turned their horses and rode back to the column separately.
---
Earth.
Having finished a "hard day's work," Nine_Thousand_Years logged off and immediately posted his intel into the "Group 1" chat, where all the veteran players gathered.
That's right, he posted it directly. Nine_Thousand_Years didn't intend to make money the first time; he wanted to build his reputation.
After all, talk is cheap. Without proof, no one would believe him.
The intelligence about the King's plan to fully occupy the Ghoyan Drohe region instantly blew up the chat.
"Holy crap, for real? I was just discussing with the boys today whether to go back to the Flatlands to see if there were any leftover bandits to farm. We almost missed the main course for scraps!"
Pineapple_Pizza_Lover expressed his shock.
Nine_Thousand_Years: "Boss, look at my job title. Would I lie to you?"
Nebula_Breaker: "[Red Packet for Nine_Thousand_Years] Thanks, brother. I was planning to take the guild back to sweep the Flatlands in a few days, but it looks like we have a massive raid coming up. Almost wasted our resurrection resources."
Storm_Dominator: "[Red Packet for Nine_Thousand_Years] Say no more. Take this for pocket money, brother."
This information was indeed useful to these big shots. Although the game's population was nearing four thousand, Kingdom Coins—vital for resurrection—were still in short supply.
Plus, the top guilds were currently trying to buy up Kingdom Coins in bulk to equip their members with intermediate skill scrolls, like Intermediate Swordsmanship. This made every single Kingdom Coin precious.
While the Flatlands and the Velvet Hills were technically under Targaryen control (loose reign), going back to sweep the area would inevitably lead to casualties.
And the guild leaders had to cover those costs. If you want ordinary players to listen to you, you have to at least cover their welfare and expenses.
It would have been a waste. The big shots didn't lack real-world money, but Kingdom Coins were finite—spend one, and it's gone.
If they ran out of resurrection coins for the upcoming raid and failed to secure enough loot for their subordinates, they would be flamed to death by their own members.
So, Nine_Thousand_Years's intel was actually crucial.
Seeing the two red packets—one for 10,000, one for 15,000—the corners of Nine_Thousand_Years's mouth slowly curled up.
I told you, I didn't cut it off for nothing!