"How exactly do I get a firm grip on the tax revenue?"
Viserys paced the room, his mind racing.
"Should I start granting titles to the players right now? Just let those murder-hobos loose on their new lands and let them brawl it out with the local landed gentry?"
It wasn't impossible. But if he started handing out land this early, what would he use as a reward later? Viserys was counting on those parcels of land to keep the players hungry—carrot on a stick to make them conquer the world for him.
He picked up the intelligence report submitted by the player named Duck-Pointer and read it over again.
Contractors pay a fixed tax quota; any excess collected belongs to the contractor...
"Ugh." Viserys let out a long, heavy sigh. He tried to recall how historical empires back on Earth dealt with this nonsense.
"Come to think of it, the Romans used publicani—private tax farmers. And didn't medieval monarchies have the same problem? How did they fix it?"
Viserys closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. "Right. The solution was usually to abolish tax farming entirely and establish a Royal Exchequer—a centralized Ministry of Revenue to collect taxes directly."
But that brought him right back to square one. Abolishing the system was easy; the hard part was that he didn't have a legion of literate, loyal civil servants to staff an Exchequer.
"Damn it. I hate to give away land, I really do... but in the end, I have to use the players."
The reality was simple: having the countryside's finances controlled by a central government just didn't fit the current state of House Targaryen.
Viserys hadn't planned on setting up some modern, centralized absolute monarchy in this world anyway. He needed the feudal system. He needed to dangle titles and fiefdoms in front of the players to keep them fighting. After all, if he didn't let the players act like Lords and Ladies, they certainly wouldn't let him treat them like grunts.
Once he accepted that, Viserys stopped hesitating. He abandoned the idea of merely reforming the tax farming system. Instead, he decided to replace the people running it.
He would throw the players into the ring and let them go a few rounds with the local "tyrants."
If the players won, he'd grant them the land. From then on, they'd pay a cut to the Iron Throne and manage the rest themselves.
Sure, the players would skim off the top for themselves. But what Lord in Westeros didn't? Even with corruption, players were better than these audacious tax farmers who dared to take a seventy-percent cut and leave him with the scraps.
Motherfucker, do they think I'm the Beggar King here to plead for copper stars?
A native tax farmer is a leech. A player tax farmer is also a leech. But at least the players are my leeches—the little cabbages I raised myself.
"Guards!" Viserys called out.
The door pushed open, and a player clad in the white cloak of the Kingsguard stepped in.
"Your Grace."
"Go see if the Assistant Master of Whisperers is resting," Viserys ordered.
"At once, Your Grace."
The White Cloak retreated.
Moments later, Duck-Pointer walked in.
"Your Grace, may the Seven bless you."
Duck-Pointer sounded much more sincere than usual. He had only been the "Intelligence Assistant" for a few days, but looking at him, Viserys felt that if he actually promoted the guy to Master of Whisperers, he'd probably be even more loyal than the original.
"I have an important mission for you," Viserys said, cutting to the chase. "If you pull this off, I intend to knight you and grant you a lordship with your own lands. Your officers who distinguish themselves will be rewarded similarly."
Viserys finally threw out the bait that no player could resist.
What? I'm going to be a landed Lord?
Duck-Pointer stood there, stunned. He wished someone could translate this feeling—was this what they called hitting the jackpot?
Even though he was a trust-fund kid back on Earth, being a feudal lord was something else entirely. He wouldn't trade a Lordship for his rich-kid status in a million years.
I knew it! I'm the Boss's favorite! He always saves the good stuff for me!
"Gather up your boys—your 'Secret Police' unit. Spread them out. I want you to investigate the corruption among the tax farmers," Viserys said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "You don't need to look too hard. You know how this works. If you can't find evidence... manufacture it."
Duck-Pointer nodded furiously, looking like the ultimate henchman. His mind was already drifting off to fantasies of living the high life as a Lord.
"Rest assured, Your Grace! My brothers are experts at this kind of work!" Duck-Pointer thumped his chest, promising success before the job had even started.
Hah, experts indeed, Viserys thought, suppressing a smirk as he looked at his spy chief.
He knew exactly what kind of players made up this 4,000-strong force. This "Secret Police" unit was the most unhinged group on the server. They acted like they had just been released from a cage—hazing NPCs, chasing skirts, causing chaos, and pulling every dirty trick in the book.
There wasn't a low-blow or underhanded tactic these guys didn't know.
"Good. I trust you to handle it," Viserys said, sitting up straight. He handed back the hit list Duck-Pointer had submitted earlier. "Do this well, and you'll find yourself very wealthy, both on and off the books."
Duck-Pointer took the list, tucked it away, and slowly backed out of the room.
---
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen.
The Secret Police assembled.
The hierarchy, from captains to squad leaders, was buzzing with activity. They held stacks of parchment—the hit lists—and distributed them to their team members.
Duck-Pointer stood on a wooden crate, shouting instructions to his brothers over and over:
"Listen up, boys! This is about our future wealth and glory! Do not give those slippery tax farmers a chance to argue. If you have no evidence, create evidence! If they dare to resist, kill them on the spot!
This is the will of House Targaryen! This is a direct command from the King!"
Clutching their lists, the players marched out of the garrison in groups of three or five.
On the streets, the players from the City Watch patrol looked on in confusion, watching the "Gestapo" rush toward the city gates like a pack of wolves.
---
Meanwhile, in a manor on the flatlands outside the city.
Over twenty powerful tax farmers were gathered.
Just a short while ago, seeing that the chaos in the city had settled and Viserys had established a foothold in Pentos, they had jointly submitted a proposal for the new year's tax adjustments.
In their eyes, they were different from those merchants who were helpless against a sword.
As the saying went: Kings flow like water; tax farmers stand like stone.
It didn't matter to them who ruled Pentos.
To them, the rulers were just glorified beggars kneeling at their feet for coin.
This Targaryen boy was just another man, no matter how many dragons he had.
"People across the Narrow Sea often say that every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin," a distinctively obese tax farmer said, raising his goblet to toast the group. He downed the fine Arbor Gold in one gulp. "To be honest, I despise dealing with madmen."
"Lord Ulys, you worry too much," said a tax farmer with a goatee, slowly chewing on a slice of pigeon pie. His tone was lazy and dismissive. "Madman or fool, it makes no difference. No one can rule Pentos without us. Not even the Gods."
"If the gentlemen in this room joined hands, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say we could snap the neck of Pentos's economy," said a tax farmer sitting at the far end of the table. He looked like he had lower status than the rest, standing up to offer a fawning toast.
"Ah, hahaha! Lord Valon, you are such a jester!"
At the head of the table, a middle-aged man with hair slicked back with oil covered his mouth, letting out a laugh that smelled of old money.
As they joked and drank, they treated Viserys as if he didn't even exist.