RNP Chapter 186 The Circus
Chapter 186 The Circus
Chapter 117 The Circus
"Hey, Tiberius." Vito spat out the weeds from his mouth.
"You call this the damn Targaryen banner?" He frowned, looking at the tattered thing in front of him.
"Is that a dragon or a deformed turkey rolling in the mud?"
"Ahem, Vito," Tibbie coughed lightly. "So what if we don't have black dye and have to use ochre as the base color? So what if the whole army has to rely on Miss Johanna's needlework to sew the flags? Besides, these flags aren't bad at all!"
"Not bad?" Vito spat.
"These three red worms look as ugly as a stomped-flat rooster! Can't you find the black cloth? And what does this khaki color look like?!"
"Well, things are urgent, and besides, do they even know what's going on in Westeros?" Tiberius scoffed.
"If it can scare people, then there's no problem!"
"Next, I'm going to assign tasks—no, roles!" Tiberius looked at all the officers, including the new recruit Sevita, with a wicked smile.
"Believe me, if we're lucky, not only will the Valantis not discover us, these dirty, drunken mercenaries roaming their land, but we'll also be recorded in the history of every city-state!"
Jules' hands trembled slightly as he shakily put down the wine glass.
"This—this is your plan, to make us guys look like actors?" He practically yelled from his throat.
"Do you know what we're doing? We're deep inside enemy territory! Deep inside! I'm not kidding!"
"I know, Uncle!" Tiberius looked at his uncle with a "make a fuss" expression.
"I really don't know what you're worried about! To be honest, judging from the current situation, my initial guess was correct: the enemy's interior is very vulnerable, which gives us an opportunity!"
"Uncle, from today onwards, you are no longer Jules, the Keeper of the Faith of the White Legion. You'll have a new identity!" Tiberius's eyes were burning.
"The Kingsguard! The First Swordsman of Westeros! Commander of the First Targaryen Expeditionary Force! His Majesty Jaehaerys' Number One Lackey! This is your new title!" He pulled out a gleaming full-body plate armor that he had somehow acquired.
"However, you'll most likely need to change your cloak and put on this one!" Tiberius pulled out another bright silver robe, which even had sequins on it.
In Tiberius's eyes, the garment exuded the feel of a cheap product from the industrial age.
But in this era of extremely low productivity, this garment was a miracle in Jules' eyes, something only the most outstanding knights could wear. His weathered face and composed demeanor truly gave him the air of a legendary knight.
"In the name of the Kingsguard, the First Swordsman of Westeros, the Commander of the First Targaryen Expedition, and His Majesty Jaehaerys's Number One General!" Jules, seated on his horse, gazed at the sky and gave an almost commanding order to a manor lord kneeling in the mud.
"Your provisions have been requisitioned by order of the Targaryens and the Iron Throne!"
"The Kingdom and His Majesty thank you for your loyalty and service!"
"The boss's trying not to laugh." Old Tom had thought through all the saddest and most painful things he'd ever done before finally stopping the twitching on his face. "I bet you, Vito!"
"I know, you old gambler, but shut the hell up, I almost burst out laughing!"
"As for you, and Tom," Tiberius tossed a magnificent silk robe to Vito, and then to Tom a gilded breastplate.
"What—what does this mean?" Vito was stunned, still not understanding. "Wearing this robe to the battlefield? Isn't that suicide?"
"Yeah, kid, look at this thing. Is this something you can use on the battlefield?" Old Tom tapped the overly flimsy dome with disdain. "I bet one tap and this pretty little contraption will fall apart!"
"Go to the battlefield? What are you thinking?" Tiberius pulled out another banner embroidered with marigolds from behind him, though it looked more like a deformed gold plate.
"Vito, I remember you wrote a lot of bad poems, right? We'll come in handy this time."
"Night rain taps on the window, night rain taps on the window—" Vito recited the poem, walking from the window to the table, looking at the trembling market lord.
"The rain tonight—is less melancholy than usual—" Vito continued to maintain his composure, as if the night rain outside the window had truly inspired his poetry.
The market lord knew that this "beastly"—well, poetic nobleman—had just beheaded his entire market guard!
"Night rain taps on the window, night rain taps on the window—tonight's melancholy is as long as the refreshing breeze."
Finally, Vito finished reading. Old Tom beside him looked extremely pale, as if he was enduring something.
Seeing the situation, the market lord quickly agreed to Vito's "collection" plan—which, to put it bluntly, was looting.
"I come from the beautiful and pleasant Highgarden." Vito, with an artistic flair he never imagined in his life, pushed a glass of wine toward a trembling city lord with a hint of disdain.
Old Tom, on the other hand, stood tall and proud, his gilded breastplate practically screaming "wealth" on his face.
"This wine—cannot compare to our Highgarden's Green Pavilion wine." Vito raised his pinky finger, which still had mud and small grains of sand on it—thankfully, the person opposite him only saw the gemstone ring on his hand.
"They're only good for washing pots. In the name of the Highgarden Allied Expedition. However, your wealth and provisions do have some flavor, though—they've all been requisitioned!"
"Tiberius, what is my mission? What is my role?" Rissanlo asked excitedly.
"A Dothraki? Or a greyscale vagrant?"
"Hmm, I do have a role here, tailor-made for you." Tiberius's eyes flickered as he looked at the excited Lisandro and pulled out a prison uniform.
"Get out of the way! Get out of the way!" Calvin shouted, riding on his horse and cracking his whip to drive away the civilians who were watching the spectacle. He used the excuse of "military urgency" to drive them away from the national highway.
"Didn't you see? The Tiger Robe Army's latest victory! The captured Risso's rich young master, Mario Ferrero!"
"Valantis, victory! General Marcus, victory! Senate, victory!" Calvin shouted as he "escorted" the procession.
"Tiberius—" Rissanro muttered through gritted teeth, "locked" inside the prison cart. "—I should send you to my father's perfume garden to be a male prostitute!"
However, this easily turned the national highway, which was originally full of merchants and passersby, into an empty space, driving everyone to the sides of the road.
After all, this is the Tiger Robe Army! And they're escorting an important prisoner. Going up now would be asking for trouble, wouldn't it?
"Boss, what about our identities?" Dmitri, Habro, and Lezapo waited anxiously. "Don't assign us any prisoner-of-war identities! That's too embarrassing!"
"Uh, not a prisoner, don't worry, don't be afraid!" Tiberius confidently pulled out a banner embroidered with the black walls of Volantis, smiling broadly.
"I won't give you such a humiliating identity. I'm your leader!"
"Damn it, I'd rather be a prisoner!" Dmitri gritted his teeth, hoisting the black wall flag that symbolized Valantis as he walked along the national highway.
"Come on, make way! Make way! This is the Mil tribal chief who has voluntarily surrendered, the Tyrosi nobleman who is willing to submit to the Valantis Empire, and the mercenary leader who took the initiative to kiss the Valantis Tiger Robe Army!" Calvin did his best to suppress his smile and made everyone leave the national highway.
"They must go to the Black Wall, kneel on the ground to pledge their loyalty, and thank the Senate for sparing their lives!"
"Look, these are the Mir people?"
"Why are the Tyrosi's beards blue? Are they dyed?"
"That mercenary leader is quite imposing."
"Tch, more than anything, I'm curious why they're so arrogant?" A merchant spit on the ground with a disdainful look.
"Look at them, heads held high. What surrender, what submission? Aren't they just puppet troops and lackeys? They probably even killed their own comrades to exchange for their pledge of allegiance!"
"Hey, Leon the henchman, Halwin the Silver Hammer, and Calvin the Red-haired Devil, your tasks are even simpler now—" Tiberius handed each of the three a black scarf.
"You should know what that means—"
"This mountain is mine, these trees are mine, if you want to pass, leave your toll!" Calvin grinned maliciously, holding his blade to his enemy's neck. "Go back and tell your elders that they're about to be robbed by our band of outlaws! We have ten thousand warriors, ten thousand mercenaries, and ten thousand swords! We're waiting for you to wipe us out in this forest!"
"Um, Tiberius, are you sure this will fool them?" Calvin asked skeptically. "What's the point?"
"The meaning? It's simple." Tippi patted his clothes slightly.
"The point is to get the Valantis to send soldiers into this old forest, not to put their troops inside any fortress. Let their forces be dispersed as much as possible, lest we think a fortress is easy prey, only to find it's impregnable!"
"Hey, that's a good analogy! A captain is a captain!" Sevita said excitedly. "So, Captain, what can I do for you?"
"You?" Tippy raised an eyebrow slightly.
"But let me make this clear beforehand: I won't be a prisoner or a lackey!" Sevita said warily, looking at Tiberius's "malicious" face.
"Your task is simpler, but remember to tone it down. Hmm, can you spell Greyjoy?"
No, never mind, it'll look more like it if I can't spell it.
"Damn it, you pathetic bastards, filthy vermin, cowardly eunuchs!" Severta brandished his battle axe, demanding that the captain hand over all the items in the warehouse to them.
"Kneel down, all of you! Who is your captain?"
A pale-faced middle-aged man shakily raised his hand.
No, this is the heart of Volantis! Where did these pirates come from? Or are they Ironborn from Westeros?
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would have thought it was some third-rate masterpiece written by a playwright!
"Alright, listen up. I, Sevita Greyjoy, am the heir to the Iron Islands. The toughest man in all the Iron Islands! I follow the ancient ways, and I sleep with salt concubines at night! I only buy things with iron coins, so—" He grinned maliciously and chopped a rope in half with his axe. "Give me the money! I'll guarantee your safety!"
Although the captain didn't know why there were Iron People here, they chose to pay money for peace of mind when they saw the sharp axe.
"As for me—" Tiberius drawled.
"I have a better plan!"
Soldiers from Westeros under the White Legion and the Lightning were mobilized to draw all sorts of bizarre family crests on the looted cloth, based on memory or imagination—lions, deer, wolves, fish—the authenticity aside, the sheer number and imposing presence were enough to make a strong first impression.
Tiberius assigned roles to everyone in the legion (especially the clever ones): in the morning you might be a gentle Reach knight, and by noon you might be a Dornish spearman skilled in desert warfare.
At night, they would have to impersonate a bastard son of the Starks or a distant relative of the Lannisters. When the changing of the guard took place at midnight, they might have to put on the leather armor of the Volantis auxiliary legion.
The next day, they had to instantly transform into roaring Dothraki warriors. Even during meals, Tiberius required them to address each other by place names and titles from Westeros to enhance the "immersion."
In short, in Jules's army, everyone is an actor, and every dawn is the opening act of a new play.
Tiberius's demands were almost harsh: they had to live in their fictional identities at all times, talk about the customs and culture of Westeros while eating, and follow "family" rules (which were, of course, made up) when setting up camp.
At their most outrageous point, they even claimed to be the legitimate descendants of ancient Valyria, who had come to "reclaim" the homeland of Valantis, which had been occupied by usurpers! It was to "restore Valantis, which had been defiled by usurpers!"
This lie, devised by Tiberius himself, was so audacious that even Sevita felt his cheeks burning.
But its effect was surprisingly good—the common people of Valantis had a natural reverence for their ancient bloodline, while the nobles were confused and disoriented by this absurd claim. Under the threat of swords, they "kindly" handed over gold coins and grain.
Most of these bizarre ideas came from Tiberius’s seemingly tireless mind.
Despite having to constantly remember the complex identities they had created, the soldiers didn't complain much; in fact, they enjoyed it.
The reason is simple: everyone is becoming a millionaire! They plunder wealthy manors and towns, bypassing fortified strongholds, moving with lightning speed. Wealth flows into their pockets like water, so much so that Jules and Tiberius have to repeatedly remind them not to carelessly discard heavy copper coins and low-grade silver coins—on the one hand, they might come in handy in the future; on the other hand, the enemy might discover their whereabouts by tracking these discarded coins.
"Boy—" One evening, Jules looked at Tiberius, who was calculating his wealth, with a complicated expression.
"You've really made each of us a millionaire!"