Ser Jorah Mormont and Commander Roland exchanged a glance before Jorah turned to the Tattered Prince, offering a solemn assurance.
"My King rewards every warrior who serves him with justice."
"If His Grace can grant me a piece of land—a hereditary fiefdom—after we conquer Braavos, I will pledge my life to him," the Tattered Prince replied, his voice still booming with vitality.
After about the time it takes to bake a batch of bread, Jorah's party returned to the main army.
"Your Grace, the force camped in the road is indeed the Windblown, two thousand strong."
Jorah placed a hand over his heart in salute.
"Friend or foe?" Viserys asked.
"The commander of the Windblown, the Tattered Prince, wishes to pledge allegiance to Your Grace. He asks to serve as the vanguard in the conquest of Braavos. His only condition is that Your Grace treats his warriors well and grants him a title and land after the war," Jorah reported faithfully.
"Excellent. Tell the Tattered Prince that a Targaryen King never mistreats his vassals. The Windblown are hereby reorganized into the Windblown Legion. All personnel and ranks remain unchanged. They shall be the vanguard of the Grand Army!"
As long as they were willing to fight for him, Viserys didn't mind giving them the trappings of nobility.
As a transmigrator, he didn't care much for the sanctity of feudal titles; he only cared about power he could use.
The Dragon Army began to move again, but this time, the slow-moving serpent of troops had gained an extra two thousand infantry and cavalry at its head.
As the column marched, the Tattered Prince, accompanied by his trusted lieutenants, rode up to meet the King.
"I offer my loyalty to the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the Great Viserys III Targaryen!
The three hundred cavalry and one thousand seven hundred infantry of the Windblown are willing to become the sword in your hand, to cut down all who refuse to kneel! The Gods bear witness!"
The Tattered Prince sat atop his white horse, his voice resonating like a great bell, showing no sign of his sixty-plus years.
"I, in the name of House Targaryen, accept your allegiance. From this day forth, your sword swings for me, and your shield defends me. I grant you the promise of a fief, a title, and honor and peace within my Kingdom.
If you are loyal, Dragonfire will burn for you. If you betray me, Dragonfire will burn you.
Rise, Tattered Prince of the Windblown."
Viserys accepted the formal vow from atop his horse.
The Tattered Prince drew the longsword at his waist, turned back, and gazed at his legion.
"Fight for the True Dragon!"
"Fight for the True Dragon!"
Everyone around Viserys—the Kingsguard, Jorah, and the soldiers of the legions—drew their swords and roared in unison.
---
Meanwhile, on a small hillside not far from Braavos.
Storm-Overlord sat astride a Unicorn, with hundreds of fully armed players standing behind him, clutching spears and pikes.
"Boss, they're coming!"
The scout captain, a player with the ID Sister-in-Law, galloped back up the slope, reporting urgently.
"Tell the brothers to get ready. Same rules as always: loot is distributed based on DKP contribution!"
Storm-Overlord pulled his reins, leading his men back behind the crest of the hill to lie in wait for the fat sheep to arrive.
Dust rose into the air as hooves pounded the earth.
A merchant caravan, guarded by over a hundred freelance riders, was speeding toward the hill.
In the player archery squad, the captain Robin Hood and vice-captain Hawkeye began ordering their brothers to string their bows.
"Ready!"
As the targets drew closer, Robin Hood and Hawkeye drew their bows, each aiming at a knight on horseback.
"Light 'em up!"
Both players were sharpshooters who could hit a coin from a hundred yards away. Their arrows tore through the air, and two of the galloping riders at the front of the caravan instantly took shafts to the neck, tumbling from their saddles.
Behind them, dozens of players in the archery squad drew and loosed, sending a rain of arrows flying.
Realizing they had been ambushed but unable to stop their momentum, more riders were struck and fell.
"Ambush!"
"Form up! Defensive formation!"
The caravan captain screamed, his voice cracking with strain.
The infantry guards immediately began pulling the wagons and oxcarts together, trying to form a circle to fortify their position.
"Cavalry, with me!"
To buy time for the infantry, the captain roared. His personal guard shouted in unison, and together they hastily rallied about forty riders, charging toward the hillside to meet the threat.
"Show them some color!"
At the same time, Storm-Overlord crested the hill, leading about thirty or forty mounted players.
As a major guild, they not only possessed precious warhorses, but every mounted player had at least [Basic Riding] skills, with most having used [Intermediate Riding] scrolls.
Even if they couldn't compare to the Dothraki who grew up in the saddle, they were a cavalry force to be reckoned with.
"It's over, Anakin! We have the high ground! Kill these noobs!"
Storm-Overlord shouted a meme-filled war cry, lowered his visor, couched his lance, and led the charge down the slope.
The players behind him gripped their weapons, spurred their horses to maximum speed, and slammed toward the enemy rushing up to meet them.
Just as the two torrents of steel were about to collide, the players pulled out short spears and throwing axes, hurling them into the enemy ranks.
Before the lines even met, the front row of the caravan guards suffered heavy casualties.
"Trample them!"
A cavalry charge must never stop; to stop is to die. The caravan captain, riding at the very front, screamed at his men.
The players opposite him needed no reminder from Storm-Overlord. They mercilessly trampled over the corpses (and the respawning bodies) of the fallen players without hesitation.
"Kill!"
A cavalry clash isn't a literal head-on collision of two walls; the riders instinctively veered slightly, slashing at each other as they passed.
Crash!
Storm-Overlord's lance shattered on impact. The massive recoil nearly threw him backward off his mount.
His opponent wasn't so lucky. Unable to dodge, the mercenary was sent flying by the force of the lance combined with the momentum of the Unicorn charge. He landed heavily, only to be crushed into paste by the hooves of the following horses.
The melee was brutal and bloody. Relying on their fearless, "I can just respawn" aggression, the players instantly suppressed the caravan cavalry.
By the time the two groups passed each other and wheeled their horses around for a second pass, Storm-Overlord still had about twenty or thirty riders.
The caravan captain had fewer than ten.
"Charge again!"
Storm-Overlord raised his blood-stained sword and took the lead.
The Unicorn beneath him reared up, letting out a roar and brandishing its gore-covered horn. In the previous clash, the beast had gored an enemy warhorse through the neck.
The players behind Storm-Overlord didn't hesitate for a second, their eyes glowing green with greed as they spurred their mounts forward.
The caravan guards, however, had lost all morale. They were mercenaries fighting for coin, not zealots. After suffering such horrific casualties, who would want to keep fighting? Seeing the ferocious enemy charging again, they scattered like rats.
No matter how the captain shouted, they didn't look back.
Storm-Overlord rode up, taking the captain's head with a single swing of his sword. He then wheeled around, pointing his blade at the caravan's defensive circle.
By now, the caravan's infantry had already been shattered by the wolf-like players charging down from the hill on foot.
A mercenary speared a player, watching blood spray from the wound, only to see the "dying" man stand right back up and stab him through the heart.
Scenes like this played out everywhere. The mercenaries, already low on morale, collapsed completely the moment they saw Storm-Overlord return with the cavalry.
The battle turned into a massacre.