read full story inpatreon
CaveLeather
The great hall of the Sealord's Palace glittered under a thousand candles. Black dragon banners hung from every pillar, their embroidered wings seeming to flutter in the warm breeze that drifted through the tall windows. Viserys Targaryen sat upon the stolen throne—not the Iron Throne, but close enough for now. His white cloak was spotless, his Valyrian steel sword resting across his knees like a scepter. Before him knelt the last wave of meritorious subjects.
"Rise, Ser Teflon," Viserys commanded, voice ringing clear. "Baron of the Braavos Archipelago. Your fief shall be the Six Flame Isles. Build your workshops there. Let wildfire light the way for House Targaryen."
Teflon—once a guild leader who spent more time mixing potions than swinging swords—stood with tears in his eyes. The Pyromancers Guild behind him erupted in cheers. Six separate islands, each with its own harbor. Enough space to turn the entire chain into a fortress-factory. He could already picture the forges belching green flame.
Next came the guild heavyweights.
"Storm-Cloud-Split, Storm-Overlord, Loves-Eating-Pineapple, Squatting-Grass—approach."
The four guild leaders stepped forward together, armor still dented from the island assaults. Viserys tapped each shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"Barons all. You shall divide the central cluster of the Braavos island chain. Storm-Cloud-Split, the Titan's Watch Isles are yours. Storm-Overlord, the Whalebone Reefs. The rest—Pineapple and Squatting-Grass—take the Singing Bridges and the Ragman's Chain. These lands are now yours to hold, tax, and defend in my name."
The hall exploded. Players who had fought as cannon fodder for months roared until their voices cracked. Some fell to their knees right there on the marble floor. Others punched the air so hard their gauntlets clanged against breastplates. A few even started chanting "Brother Wei! Brother Wei!" until the White Cloaks had to hush them with stern Roman salutes.
Viserys allowed the celebration. He understood. These men had died by the hundreds—sometimes by the thousands—respawning only to charge again. Now they were no longer nameless fodder. They were landed nobility. In a single afternoon they had leaped from Earth salarymen to medieval lords with private islands, serfs, and tax rights.
Jiang Gan stood slightly apart, already wearing the fresh baron's ring on his finger. He had received his islands earlier—private holdings that no guild could touch. The former intelligence operative smiled like a man who had just bought the entire server. Viserys caught his eye and gave the smallest nod. Well done, lobbyist. You earned every acre.
Beside the throne, Jorah Mormont cleared his throat. "Your Grace, the Lorathi representatives have departed."
Viserys's smile sharpened. "Good. Let the three of them fight over two peaches. By the time they reach Lorath, one will be dead, one exiled, and the Fisher Prince will be begging me for protection. Pacha will return within a fortnight bearing the keys to the entire island chain. Mark my words."
Bloodbeard—now Baron Bloodbeard, with two Rhoynar villages already granted—laughed so hard his red-dyed beard shook. "Two peaches kill three warriors. Classic. I almost feel sorry for them."
"You shouldn't," Viserys replied coolly. "They chose ambition over freedom the moment they left this hall with hands on their swords. Small men always do."
A ripple of dark laughter swept the room. The new lords understood. Mercy was for those who knelt willingly. Everyone else received exactly what they earned.
Viserys rose. The hall fell silent at once.
"Listen well, my barons, my knights, my dragons. Braavos is ours. The fleet flies the black banner. The Iron Bank's vaults are under our guard—untouched, for now. We will not loot them like common pirates. We will own them. The merchants will pay their taxes to House Targaryen or find their ships burned at anchor."
He let the words sink in.
"But Westeros still writhes under the Usurper. Robert Baratheon drinks and rages while his Hand lies cold in the ground. The lions gather at Casterly Rock. The wolves howl in the North. They think us weak. They think us beggars."
Viserys's violet eyes flashed.
"They are wrong."
He raised his sword high. Sunlight from the high windows caught the Valyrian steel and threw a blood-red gleam across every face.
"We have ten thousand veterans, a fleet of two hundred and thirty-six warships, and the Fourth Scourge itself—players who cannot truly die. We have barons who command islands, guilds that field armies, and a secret police that already walks the streets of King's Landing. The time of hiding is over."
A single heartbeat of silence.
Then the roar that answered shook the crystal chandeliers.
"FOR THE DRAGONS!"
"FOR THE TRUE KING!"
"VISERYS! VISERYS! VISERYS!"
The chant rolled out the windows and across the canals of Braavos. Citizens hiding behind shuttered windows heard it and shivered. Mercenaries who had switched sides only yesterday joined in, because it was safer. Even the Lorathi soldiers still camped outside the city walls picked up the cry—those who had already decided which side their bread would be buttered on.
Viserys let the sound wash over him. For the first time since waking in this broken body, he felt something close to true power. Not borrowed from players. Not granted by the System. His.
When the cheering finally ebbed, he lowered the sword.
"Tonight we feast. Tomorrow we consolidate. The Penal Battalion will begin clearing the outer islands of any lingering resistance. The Braavos Legion will occupy every harbor. And my new lords—" he swept his gaze across the grinning players "—will begin building. Castles. Farms. Barracks. Let every island become a fortress that answers only to the black dragon."
He paused, then added with a small, dangerous smile:
"And send ravens to Pentos. Tell them their king is coming home soon—with an armada at his back."
The players erupted again. Some were already arguing over who would get the best fishing villages, who would build the first player-run tavern chain, who would start taxing the silk merchants. Others whispered about "offline red packets" and how many RMB a decent island fief might be worth on the black market forums.
Viserys watched them with quiet amusement. Let them dream of manor life and village wars. As long as they kept dying for him, they could play whatever game they wanted on their private islands.
Only one man stood apart, staring at the black banners with something like religious awe—Roland, the White Cloak centurion who had helped capture the Faceless Man. He caught Viserys's eye and slammed a fist over his heart in perfect legionary salute.
"The Fourth Scourge marches with you, Caesar," he murmured.
Viserys almost laughed. Caesar. These rednecks really were turning him into something more than a Targaryen. Something bigger.
He raised a hand for silence once more.
"One final decree before the feast. Every player who took part in the Braavos campaign—every single one who died at least once—shall receive a Silver Treasure Chest from the royal stores. Those who scaled the walls first or captured enemy commanders will receive Gold. Let no man say Viserys Targaryen forgets his soldiers."
The roar that followed was deafening.
As the new lords streamed out to prepare for the night's revelry, Viserys turned to Jorah.
"Any word from across the Narrow Sea?"
Jorah hesitated, then spoke low. "A raven arrived an hour ago, Your Grace. From our agents in Flea Bottom. King Robert… is not taking Lord Eddard's death well. He has struck his own squire twice today. And the boy—Lancel Lannister—is missing. Vanished somewhere in the alleys."
Viserys's smile thinned to a razor edge.
"Missing? How convenient."
He glanced toward the open windows where the evening sun painted the canals gold.
"Keep watching, old bear. The lions are turning on each other. Soon the wolves will join them. And when the Stag finally falls…"
He sheathed his sword with a soft click.
"…we will be ready to take what is ours."
Outside, the black dragon banners snapped in the wind. Inside, the new lords of Braavos raised their cups to the True Dragon.
A thousand miles away, in a stinking underground fighting pit, a terrified young Lannister was about to learn exactly how dangerous the Fourth Scourge could be.