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Tiberius walked out of the command tent with a face like thunder.
Vito, who had been waiting outside, fell in step beside him and shook his head, his voice dripping with both mockery and disbelief.
"Kid, did you see the captain's face in there? Ha… it was blacker than if a Volantene war elephant had stomped all over it!"
"Yeah," Tiberius muttered, "Uncle was one second away from carving the words 'I'm not fucking doing this' across his forehead."
He let out a bitter laugh. "I honestly don't understand what Lord Lysandro is thinking. Does he really believe fighting Volantis is one of those Westerosi epic poems his bards sing about? Knights charging, heroic duels, glorious victory?"
Tiberius spat on the ground.
"Maybe all the gold piling up in Lys's harbor and the pretty bed-slaves in the Perfumed Garden finally rotted what was left of his once-sharp brain. He actually thinks throwing his precious son into that meat grinder is some kind of golden opportunity instead of suicide."
Volantis was terrifyingly strong. There was no question—this war between the Three Daughters and Volantis was going to be a bloodbath.
Vito glanced at him and sighed, his tone softening a little.
"Still… not everything you told Young Master Lysaro earlier was a lie. Setting aside the flattery, Lysaro… might actually be the only one among all those spoiled Lysene noble brats who has even a tiny clue about the art of war."
Seeing Tiberius's skeptical look, Vito grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and added the brutal caveat:
"Of course, the word 'only' comes with a big asterisk—the rest of Lys's young lords only play at knightly duels, go hunting with bodyguards, or field pretty little parade armies that couldn't fight their way out of a silk pillow."
"Someone like him—who actually put up real gold, raised a few hundred men, trained them properly, took part in every step of building and leading them, and then fought a real bloody battle—is the only one in all of Lys."
"He's still an idiot, and he listens to you like you're his god, but at least he's not a complete waste. He can endure training and isn't totally useless."
That backhanded "praise" sounded painful, but Tiberius could only smile bitterly.
Because it was the truth. The other second-generation nobles in Lys were even worse than Lysaro.
Tiberius finally stopped walking. He stared toward the harbor where warships were gathering, their masts like a forest. His voice dropped, heavy and suppressed, as he spoke the harshest, most helpless truth:
"Vito, I understand everything you're saying. Uncle's rage, Lord Lysandro's stupidity, Lysaro's naivety… we all see it clearly."
He took a deep breath. Even the sea wind seemed to carry a faint scent of blood now.
"But we can't refuse."
"Lysandro is our paymaster. He's one of the most powerful men in Lys. The price he's offering…" Tiberius paused, as if the number itself carried weight.
"…is so generous that even 'the Honorable' Jules and the entire White Company can't say no. He's not just paying in gold. He's offering post-war privileges in Lys, exclusive trade rights, and even… a fief the size of a Westerosi barony. Our own land. That's something most sellswords could fight their entire lives and never earn."
His gaze drifted slightly toward a certain direction in the estate—where a newly prepared room now housed Lady Johanna Swann.
Tiberius's voice grew even quieter, laced with complicated emotion. "The offer is so generous… that even the captain couldn't help but be moved."
Vito let out a crude, knowing laugh.
"Heh. You might as well just say the price is high enough for the captain to marry that Swann girl in style, spend the rest of his life comfortably with her, and still leave each of his future little Mords their own estate and vineyard!"
Tiberius felt like he had dug his own grave.
Originally, buying Johanna's freedom had two purposes. First, to help his uncle Jules finally settle down—a count's niece was noble enough blood to match him. Second, the girl had been betrayed by her family and sold into slavery, yet she still carried that stubborn fire in her eyes. That kind of spirit was rare and valuable.
And she was smart. Tiberius liked smart people.
At least his uncle wouldn't start making stupid decisions because some vain wife whispered pillow talk in his ear.
Like in the original story, where Ser Jorah Mormont was bled dry by his vain, scheming wife. When the money ran out, she blew in his ear and he lost his mind—selling slaves, breaking Westerosi law, losing everything, and earning a nice green hat in the process.
Tiberius had thought he was helping his uncle find a good wife. Instead, because Jules now wanted to marry Johanna and build a proper future, he had quickly agreed to Lord Lysandro's dangerous request.
If not for Johanna's presence, "the Honorable" Jules would never have allowed Lysaro to go to the front lines. It was basically suicide.
In the end, Tiberius had created his own trap.
"Fuck…" Tiberius cursed under his breath.
He wasn't sure if he was cursing Lord Lysandro's greed, his uncle's sudden "romantic brain," or his own clever schemes that had backfired so spectacularly.
Vito clapped him on the shoulder, his voice returning to the rough, practical tone of an old soldier.
"Alright, kid, stop making that face. This is Essos—everything is settled with gold and steel. Since we can't dodge it, we just have to figure out how to walk through the valley of death and come out the other side alive."
He tried to find something comforting.
"At least Young Master Lysaro listens to you, the captain is still the same tough 'Honorable' bastard he's always been, and the White Company is way more united than most outfits! If we all stick together, we might not end up crushed under a Volantene elephant's foot!"
Tiberius looked up at the flickering flames in the distance. The hesitation and anxiety in his eyes slowly gave way to the familiar, ice-cold calculation.
Yes. Complaining was useless. Since they couldn't refuse, the only choice left was to plan—plan to survive, and plan to win.
At the very least, after the war was over, they should be able to establish themselves properly in Essos without ever having to return to Westeros.