Back when I was just a two-bit fleet commander in Pentos, that savage Khal Drogo used to drag his beggar army up to the old governors and shake them down for food like a pack of starving dogs.
Those spineless bastards not only paid the toll but built the horse-lord a fucking palace. I told my boys it was a goddamn disgrace to every decent Pentoshi.
Now I'm High Admiral of the Royal Targaryen Fleet, still sitting in Pentos, and Drogo's still the same filthy khal with his forty thousand half-naked beggars dreaming they can squeeze another handout out of our lands.
Well, this time Panbeier's looking that wild son of a bitch dead in the eye and telling him straight: Fuck off. We don't feed savages anymore.
The night camp feast exploded into noise the second Admiral Panbeier and his sea dogs showed up.
Face red as a baboon's ass and swaying like a mast in a storm, Panbeier still managed to raise his cup and bellow, "To the True Dragon Viserys!"
Bevos and the brown-skinned deputy roared it back with him.
Then Panbeier slurred, "And to me becoming Minister of the Navy!"
Bevos just laughed and kept drinking. The brown man shot Panbeier a look that mixed pure jealousy with straight-up contempt.
If we're keeping score, both of them had flipped sides, but Panbeier had the brains to surrender on the battlefield. The brown one had run like a coward and only crawled back later. How the hell does a knee-bending traitor get handed a top job while I'm still stuck commanding a legion? The brown man stewed in silence and drank harder.
The native officers and soldiers soaked up the rare break from fighting, but inside Pentos a hundred-plus hardcore players who lived for chaos weren't feeling the chill vibe at all.
They wanted war. More war. Nothing but war.
So they pooled cash, bought twenty firelances from the Grenadiers at a brutal markup, grabbed a shitload of new Thunder Bombs, and slipped out the gates like they were pulling the biggest commando raid in history.
Of course they walked straight out the front gate. The night watch was a thousand players, and when players decide to rob their own side, they do it right.
The giant iron gates groaned shut behind them. One player hit the lever and the old drawbridge rose with a creak.
"Alright, boys, no turning back. Tonight we either come home legends or we come home broke as hell. Let's make it count."
Firebug—chainmail under leather, massive two-handed axe slung over one shoulder—fired the crew up.
"Risk it all, turn that bicycle into a Harley!"
Newbies desperate to escape the "poor, weak, and broke" starter trap and grizzled vets with real gear were both in their fighting prime. They'd chew broken glass if it meant looting the horse-lords tonight.
They started out joking, but the chatter died fast. Most logged out to grab real sleep while the outer scouts kept watch. Marching still sucks, even in a game.
One scout up front suddenly froze. The AFK player behind him bumped into his back and mumbled, "What?"
Hoofbeats. Thunderous. The scout's face went white. He spun around and yelled, "Cavalry incoming—big!"
The whole group bolted for the back side of a low hill.
By the time the hoofbeats got loud they were hidden. AFK players got the helmet ping and logged back in.
"Kill every torch!"
Firebug lay flat on the sand and hissed the order.
He wasn't about to waste the night fighting horse-lords out here.
The last sparks winked out in the dark.
"Boss, this ain't right. I thought it was scouts, but there's gotta be two thousand of these fuckers. Torches lit up like a parade. They're headed straight for the city."
As the Dothraki crested the rise, no attempt at stealth, the players got a clear count.
One muttered, "Well shit. Looks like we ran into fellow raiders."
"Goddamn timing," Firebug growled, watching the noisy horde thunder past like bandits hitting a village.
"Boss, what now? We hit their rear or what?" A player drew his sword, itching for blood.
"Hit them? Listen—I'm giving you a special mission. We stick to the plan and raid their camp. You go down there and solo these two thousand by yourself."
Firebug clapped the guy on the shoulder.
"Are you high? If I had that kind of power I'd already be your daddy…" the player shook his head.
"Fuck that. Ignore them. They can do whatever the hell they want. We do our thing."
Firebug rolled his eyes and gave the final order.
"Two thousand horse-fuckers ain't taking the city. As long as the walls hold, whatever they do is just noise. We stick to the plan!"
Everyone was here to get rich quick, so they nodded.
Over two thousand Dothraki thundered past right in front of them. The players stayed dead silent on the hillside, watching coldly.
Only when the last rider's torch was nothing but pinpricks in the distance did Firebug stand up, wave his hand, and lead the crew onward toward the Dothraki camp.
The Dothraki cavalry hit Pentos like a storm, led by Haggo—the same bloodrider who'd gotten his ass kicked earlier that day.
They made zero effort to be sneaky. Torches everywhere. The players on the walls spotted them from eight hundred yards out and sounded the alarm. Someone sprinted to wake the camp.
The deep horn blasted through the night.
Inside the camp, soldiers scrambled into armor, grabbed weapons, and formed up in squads.
Bevos and the brown-skinned deputy shouted themselves hoarse, ordering squad by squad assembly, terrified someone would spark a panic.