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"What?!"
Gastor roared and lunged forward, grabbing the messenger by the collar.
"You're lying! This is a lie!"
"My lord, I swear it's true!" the messenger gasped, looking miserable. "Broken Spear City and the Broken Spear Ford are now in our hands!"
Folks, who gets it? Some governors are just built different. They grab you and won't let go—like their brains took a wrong turn at birth!
"The White Company launched a surprise attack and crushed the Volantene garrison in the upper river! They killed over one hundred and twenty super-heavy cavalry, wiped out and routed a Tiger Cloak detachment, and destroyed four war elephants! They captured countless banners!"
"The White Company—will return to Lys proper in the coming days!"
WHOOSH—!!
After one stunned second of silence, the council hall exploded like a rock dropped into a still pond.
Shouts of disbelief, wild cheers, frantic questions, and pure joy crashed together in one deafening wave.
"We won! We actually won!"
"Yeah! The enemy is retreating—we won!"
"Jules the Trustworthy just pulled off something massive!"
Then everyone remembered who had marched north with him—Lysandro Rogare's son, and that terrifying Lightning Company under his command.
Every pair of eyes in the hall snapped toward Lysandro Rogare.
Lysandro's usually calm face flickered with genuine shock for a split second. His fingers tapped the table once, almost imperceptibly.
His son—the spoiled brat who used to spend his days hunting and feasting—had actually gone to war with "Jules the Trustworthy" and delivered a victory this important.
A heartbeat later, that shock melted into deep, complicated pride mixed with pure relief.
Beyond being happy for his boy, Lysandro's mind was already three steps ahead:
This good news wasn't the end of the political war.
It was the beginning.
In peacetime, power came from contracts, marriages, and alliances. Assassination, burning warehouses, or stirring riots? That was crossing the line. Shadow wars existed, but they were rare.
In wartime, there was only one path to power: military merit.
After Stone Crow Town, Lysandro had used that undeniable victory to pull half the governors to his side. Military glory made every negotiation and alliance effortless.
Governor Regar Haen sucked in a sharp breath and announced to the entire hall:
"The upper river crossing at Broken Spear City—that was one of Volantis's possible retreat routes! Controlling it means we've hammered a nail straight into the back of their main army! Lord Lysandro, the White Company didn't just win a battle—this is a strategic masterstroke!"
The same governor who had been screaming about losses and demanding withdrawal a minute earlier now turned red, then white. He opened his mouth, but every word he'd spat earlier about "rout" and "wasted gold" suddenly sounded pathetic in the face of this fresh victory report.
Victory—especially a stunning, against-the-odds capture of a strategic stronghold—was the hardest currency in politics.
Gastor looked like he'd swallowed a live fly. His face had gone the color of spoiled milk. He knew Lysandro's son had just become untouchable. He and First Governor Bambaro were about to face a political hurricane.
Essos wasn't Westeros. Here, once swords left their scabbards, someone was going to die. Political fights had no gentle "noble mercy" option.
The other governors traded lightning-fast glances, mental abacuses clicking.
The shadow of war had been torn open. A sliver of hope had slipped through.
The colonies in the Disputed Lands might be in ruins, but if this victory could turn the tide—if Volantis could actually be pushed back or crippled—then the postwar division of spoils, the new balance of power…
Everything was back on the table.
Truly, a time of vigorous growth and boundless opportunity!
The Lightning Company and White Company were preparing to withdraw.
But before they left, Tiberius decided to do one last thing.
"Lysandro, Uncle—I need you both to help me forge an order from the capital telling those scum mercenary bands to stay here and hold the city," Tiberius said.
"They won't listen to us, Tiberius," Lysandro shook his head. "They're undisciplined cutthroats."
After fighting real battles, Lysandro had finally learned: discipline mattered more than martial skill.
"Exactly. That's why I'm going to sweeten the deal for them," Tiberius said, pointing out the window at the city. "This place is still relatively wealthy. We only bled the rich these past few days. There's plenty left. Those mercenary captains are only behaving because we kept them on a leash. The second we leave, they'll do whatever they want."
"So you're using the city as… bait?" Lysandro asked.
"Yes. Bait for the mercenaries—and for any Volantene forces that might come chasing us later. If they want to catch us, they'll have to take Broken Spear Ford first. And to take the ford—"
"They'll have to waste time crushing those vermin like the lice they are. And crushing lice still takes time! Time we need more than gold!"
Later that night, Jules found the mercenary captains, handed them a carefully forged "order" and a worthless token, and said with a straight face:
"Gentlemen! Urgent military situation! Our main force is fighting Volantis downstream and needs reinforcements! You are ordered to hold this fortress, continue clearing out stragglers, and secure our flank! At the same time, send riders south along the river to find our friendly forces, report the situation here, and request instructions and support!"
Jules stood there looking every inch the loyal commander burdened with heavy responsibility, while giving these scum what looked like an easy, profitable job.
Sure enough, the lie gave them both an important-sounding mission (hold the city and loot it again) and a seemingly safe escape route (head south to link up with friendly forces).
The mercenary captains—still drunk on victory and plunder—didn't suspect a thing. They actually thought they'd gotten the better end of the deal, while Jules and his men were the poor fools marching off to die. They happily agreed and started planning how to squeeze every last coin out of Broken Spear City.
"This city is about to suffer," Lysandro said, looking down from the window as one mercenary dragged a huge bolt of silk out of a shop while the owner could only smile and bow.
"If we stayed, we'd be the ones suffering," Tiberius answered without looking up, still sorting maps. "Stop watching the show and come help me organize these documents!"
The order went out. The White Company and Lightning Company snapped into motion like a well-oiled machine.
This wasn't the careful "tax collection" of before—this was escape preparation. Faster. Meaner. More practical.
Tiberius and Jules ordered every four-legged animal in the city seized or bought at sword-point—warhorses, packhorses, mules, even donkeys. The gold and silver they'd just taken flowed out like water as they stripped every other mercenary band and local resident of anything that could speed up the march.
At the same time, soldiers frantically gathered every floating thing they could find—boats, fishing vessels, ferries, even hastily lashed rafts.
Under cover of night and the gray light before dawn, Jules and Tiberius led their now-lightly-equipped force—driving loaded pack animals and pushing boats and rafts—straight into the river.
They crossed without hesitation.
Enjoy yourselves, you stupid pigs and vermin, Tiberius thought with a cold smile as he looked back at the "garrison" left behind.
Buy your lives with the savage fun you're about to have.