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After slaughtering everyone in the caravan, Storm-Overlord ordered the battlefield to be swept clean.
The uninjured warhorses and draft horses were led aside. Any weapons on the ground that were still usable were gathered and sorted into two piles.
The high-quality gear was kept for themselves to be distributed later back at base.
The low-quality junk would be sold to new players.
After all, those noobs were so broke they didn't have a pot to piss in. They wouldn't turn their noses up at cheap, affordable starter gear.
"What's in the wagons?"
Storm-Overlord walked over to the cargo, addressing a few players who were taking inventory.
"It's all spices, plus some barrels of wine," one player replied cheerfully, looking up to see the Guild Leader.
"Nice. Pack it all up and haul it back to the nest. Then we move on to the next job. I want the merchants of Braavos to be so scared they won't dare bring their goods out of their warehouses!"
Storm-Overlord nodded, giving instructions before shouting to the assembled players.
The crowd cheered. Although they had died a lot recently and dropped quite a few Kingdom Coins on respawns, they were making money hand over fist.
As the saying goes: The rougher the seas, the higher the price of the fish. High risk, high reward.
---
Braavos. Within the city walls.
This was the third delegation of merchants the Sealord had sent out of the Palace today.
It was humiliating. Braavos might not be the undisputed number one among the Free Cities in terms of raw military power, but with their immense wealth, they could easily take on three other cities at once without breaking a sweat.
But recently, they had been choked to the point of suffocation by a few hundred men sent by the Targaryens. The wealthy merchants and nobles were in a panic, with massive amounts of cargo piling up in warehouses, unable to be sold.
If the Sealord didn't control the maritime trade himself, the angry merchants would have probably torn the roof off the Palace by now.
"Has the envoy from across the Narrow Sea left yet? Tell him I accept King Robert's loan request on behalf of the Iron Bank. We can even defer payments on previous loans.
My only condition is that he must send troops immediately! Join us and crush that annoying Targaryen bug!"
Sealord Ferrego's roar nearly shattered Qarro's eardrums.
It was obvious how furious he was.
Ever since Viserys allied with Lorath and launched an undeclared war on Braavos, Ferrego—who was supposed to be bedridden with grave illness—had been in a state of constant hyper-arousal. Qarro sometimes worried the man might just drop dead from sheer rage.
Ferrego's clenched fists were white knuckled, his nails digging into his palms.
How could he not be angry? He held two aces: the invincible Braavosi fleet and the limitless wealth of the Iron Bank. Yet, he was consistently losing.
It was like having the strength of a giant but being unable to land a punch. It was suffocating.
"We can't drag this out any longer," Ferrego said, calming down slightly as he turned to Qarro. "How many sellswords have we gathered?"
"We have ten thousand men already assembled, with more companies on the way," Qarro answered truthfully.
"We can't wait for them. Assemble the army immediately," Ferrego said slowly.
"And one more thing. Go to the House of Black and White for me. Tell them the time has come. The Sealord of Braavos wishes to use a name: Viserys Targaryen!"
Ferrego beckoned Qarro closer and whispered the order into his ear.
Qarro's pupils constricted sharply, and his face paled. But when he looked up again, he had returned to his usual stony expression. He turned and left the Palace.
---
King's Landing. Across the Narrow Sea.
Flea Bottom.
A group of burly thugs wielding daggers burst into a bakery. The leader pressed his blade against the baker's neck.
"I'm in a bit of a tight spot. I need fifty Silver Stags. You need to help me out, right now!"
"I'm sorry... I... I don't have that much money!" The baker threw his hands up in surrender, his face crumpling into a mask of despair.
Passersby watched with indifferent eyes.
This kind of thing happened too often in Flea Bottom.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Just as the baker accepted his bad luck, a voice rang out from behind the thugs.
The leader and the baker turned to look at the same time.
A man approached wearing a black breastplate adorned with four golden disks and a gold-dyed wool cloak. A longsword hung at his waist. Behind him stood ten soldiers in black armor and gold cloaks.
The City Watch!
"Captain Paro of the Gold Cloaks! A big shot like you cares about how we brothers make a living?"
The thug leader released the baker's collar, looking at the newcomer with a sneer.
"Nobody move! It's good that you know me, but I don't know you. You better put that weapon down! The City Watch doesn't waste breath on scum, as I'm sure you know!"
Paro rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, shouting with righteous authority.
"Teach this Gold Cloak a lesson!" The leader, trying to mask his fear with bluster, ordered his men.
The thugs blocking the bakery entrance exchanged glances, then charged out with their daggers and axes.
The Gold Cloaks behind Paro immediately leveled their spears to engage, but Paro raised a hand to stop them.
Then, under the bewildered gaze of his own men, Paro unhooked a wooden club from his belt and charged in. With a few clean, efficient strikes, he knocked several thugs to the ground.
He hadn't even drawn his sword!
The ten Gold Cloaks were stunned. Was this the same Captain Paro they knew?
"In my district, I will not allow anyone to mock the King's Justice! Now, you scum, either get lost, or I'll take you back to the dungeon and we can have a heart-to-heart!"
Paro's voice was booming and heroic. The passersby, previously numb to the violence, broke into applause.
"We haven't seen such a just Gold Cloak in a long time!"
"Good job! Teach those bastards a lesson!"
"Alright, Paro! We'll remember you! Watch your back on the way home tonight, don't get jumped!"
The thug leader shoved the baker aside, spat viciously on the ground, and fled with his men amidst the jeers of the crowd.
"Are you alright? This is my fault for allowing such lawlessness in my jurisdiction!" Paro walked quickly into the bakery, helping the old man up while his subordinates looked on in even greater shock.
"No... it's okay, My Lord," the baker stammered, feeling like he was looking at a stranger.
"From this day forth, I will lead my brothers on patrol personally. I will protect everyone here!" Paro walked out of the bakery and shouted to the gathering crowd.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
In a dark corner nearby, Rorge looked at Iron-Pumping Superman in confusion.
"This makes money?"
"Of course. Not only does it make money, but they'll thank us for taking it."
Iron-Pumping Superman sipped a pouch of fresh milk, his tone lazy and relaxed.
"Let's go. We have a few more scenes to act out with our Captain Paro today. Tonight, we'll treat his brothers to a nice chat. I think they'll be interested in our business model too."
Rorge looked at Iron-Pumping Superman with a complicated expression.