"Why though, Ang?"
"You didn't hear? That king was actually beaten and driven away. He came here to raise an army and reclaim his kingdom. But look at this place—we're dirt poor. How could we possibly feed his soldiers?"
Ang was young and quick on his feet, so he often heard things others didn't.
He'd seen it himself when Ock led a raid on the hideouts of the bandit leaders.
"Are we still going then? There's so much work in the fields right now. This trip will hold up everything."
Hearing complaints, Ang hurried to persuade them:
"That king may have just lost a battle, but he defeated Dirty Ben and Old Punk with his army. We should go at least," Ang suggested.
Even if he didn't fully trust Viserys, the man had just won a fight. Offending someone riding high on victory would be nothing short of courting death.
With such thoughts in mind, over two hundred Andal village chiefs made their way to Gohor.
But when they arrived, the place they once remembered as a ruined wasteland, like a ghost town, was gone.
In its place was a scene bustling with energy.
The foundation for the first city wall was nearly complete.
Cart after cart of earth was being dumped and compacted onto the base. By the looks of it, the average height already reached a grown man's waist.
"Looks like this new king is planning to settle here for the long haul."
The village chiefs couldn't help but mutter in awe. Though, a rammed-earth wall still left much to be desired.
It lacked the grandeur a king ought to show.
Then again, Viserys, this beggar king, didn't even have a place of his own to live.
It was Oberyn who had summoned craftsmen from Norvos to begin building gardens and houses for Elia and her children in the area Viserys had allocated.
But that too was still in the foundation and supply-gathering stage.
And since all of it was behind the earthen wall, the village chiefs couldn't see any of it.
However, the moment they saw soldiers standing straight along both sides of the road, any trace of disdain vanished like snow under the summer sun.
The soldiers' gleaming spears sparkled in the sunlight, almost blinding to look at.
The village chiefs weren't taken to see Viserys directly, but were instead brought to the execution ground to witness judgment.
When Ang and the others arrived, they found none other than those once mighty "big shots" standing before them.
Except now, these so-called "nobles" were dressed in thin shirts, hanging on gallows and shivering in the cold wind.
The man overseeing the execution was Maester Faelor, the most learned man in the realm when it came to law.
Viserys had ordered that each criminal's crimes be read aloud before their execution, so Faelor took on the role of executioner.
He understood well—if you want to win the people, you need both blood and rewards.
Old Punk, Dirty Ben, and their families and followers were essentially the ruling class of those one hundred thousand wanderers.
Now these "nobles" were facing the weight of their sins—and their deaths.
Yet neither Viserys nor Maester Faelor considered them nobility. They were bandits.
And for bandits, there would be no clean death by sword—only the rope.
Faelor sat behind a makeshift high platform, a desk before him.
He announced in a firm voice:
"Punk Morson, for pillaging merchant caravans, abducting women, and taking innocent lives—his crimes are so vile that even the most merciful Mother cannot forgive him.
In the name of Viserys Targaryen the Third, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and in the name of the Father's justice, I sentence you to death!"
As he spoke, he pulled a dark red wooden token from a cup on the desk and tossed it out.
The token had an image of a hanged man painted on it.
A soldier walked up to the gallows and kicked the barrel from under Old Punk.
His body dropped with a sharp snap as the rope tightened.
Seeing it, the village chiefs instinctively flinched, as though the noose had tightened around their own necks.
Old Punk's face turned deep red.
Though aged, he fought against death with desperate, primal instinct. It didn't prolong his life—only made it fade faster.
His eyes bulged, and his tongue slipped out uncontrollably. Before long, his life ebbed away under the silent gaze of the chiefs.
Then the second. Then the third.
One by one, the infamous bandit leaders were hanged.
As for their followers and families, they didn't get individual ceremonies—they were strung up in a row, executed en masse.
A sudden wind blew through, causing the corpses to sway eerily.
Chief Ang swallowed hard.
He was completely overawed by this so-called King Targaryen.
To hang over a hundred people in one go—this man was fiercer than the bandits he'd killed.
And then, in the minds of the villagers, an image formed—of a broad-shouldered man with a huge head, steel-wire beard, and eyes like copper bells.
After all, those bandits had made themselves look as savage as possible.
So what kind of terrifying man must that Targaryen king be to bring them to heel?
.....
After the executions, the village chiefs were led away. Many of them, including Ang, were still stunned by the mass hangings.
Suddenly, Ang felt a soft texture beneath his feet. Looking down, he realized he was walking on a carpet.
"Gods above! They're laying fine cloth on the ground just to be stepped on!" he thought. The plush carpet made him feel like he was floating.
If his wife had ever dared waste cloth like this, he would've beaten her senseless.
Soon, they arrived at a lavish tent.
It was white, with blue and red silk draped along the outside.
The colors dazzled the chiefs' eyes so thoroughly they could barely find their bearings.
"You'll wait inside for His Majesty."
"Yes, yes, of course!"
Heads lowered, shoulders hunched, the village chiefs filed into the tent and took their seats.
Inside, they saw that the ground was also carpeted, the air was warm, and colorful designs adorned the fabric walls.
Their reverence for the king only grew.
In truth, this was exactly what Viserys intended.
With no grand palace to awe them, he had crafted this "farmhouse luxury" tent to display his strength.
If these sixty or seventy thousand Andals could be won over, then at the very least, the food supply would be secured.
To establish royal dignity in their minds, Viserys had gone to great lengths.
He even made them wait.
Not until two hours later did he finally choose to appear.
But it worked—many had already decided that, no matter what, the moment they saw the king, they'd drop to their knees.
"Your Majesty!"
When a tall knight in silver armor emerged, Ang quickly knelt and bowed. The others followed his lead.
They had made a mistake, however.
They were kneeling to Arthur, not Viserys.
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