"What do you mean, Tiberius?" Jules frowned. "Your reasoning checks out, so I'm heading over right now to patch things up—while he's still on the grounds…"
"Uncle!" Tiberius actually looked flustered for once. "Not right now! The timing is terrible, and it doesn't match your reputation at all!"
"Think about it. Every single contract you've ever signed—you always call in proper legal scholars to comb through every line, then you wait three full days before giving your answer, and you swear the deal in the name of the Seven. Every time."
"You just flat-out refused Lord Lysandro. If you flip around and accept two minutes later, he's going to smell something fishy!"
Tiberius's real point boiled down to one sentence: Uncle, this isn't you.
"So…" Jules frowned and slowly sat back down.
"We need a reason. A natural opening."
"Like?"
"Vito." Tiberius turned to the crossbowman. "The cooks said there's a banquet tonight, right? Perfect. I want you to deliver a personal invitation to Lord Lysandro—ask if he'd do us the honor of joining the White Company's feast this evening."
"Tiberius, why the hell would we do that?" Jules asked, brow still furrowed. "What does a banquet have to do with anything?"
To Jules, a contract was sacred business—scholars, three days, divine witnesses.
A Lysene banquet? That was the exact opposite of sacred. It was wine, music, and every kind of sin the Free Cities could invent.
Westerosi sellswords in the company already struggled with Lys's open culture—whorehouses everywhere, bastards on every corner. But Lys took it further: the men here preferred pretty boys over women, and the local pleasure houses catered to that taste with zero shame.
Most of the White Company boys from Westeros flat-out refused to touch the "catamites." The Lyseni mocked them for it, calling them soft, prudish, "too Westerosi." The whores loved spinning dirty jokes about how the Westerosi lads were scared of real pleasure.
In Lys, bedding a boy was just Tuesday.
(Of course, whether the Westerosi boys were genuinely disgusted… or secretly addicted after one taste… was a topic no one discussed too loudly.)
"It's simple," Tiberius explained. "Banquets mean wine. Wine means loose tongues and honest talk. And because everyone knows you're 'the Honorable'—that you never break your word—there's no better moment to seal a contract than when the mood is right and the wine is flowing. Naturally, we won't be ordering any boys…"
"Tch. Even without the boys…" Jules rubbed his temples. "A banquet still feels like I'm treating my reputation like something I can pawn for a night."
[Actually, Uncle, that reputation you've spent decades building? It's time to cash in the check,] Tiberius thought, but kept his mouth shut.
"But you're right," Jules finally said. "Vito, go write the letter. Tell Lord Lysandro I sincerely hope he'll grace our humble feast tonight. Apologize in advance that our fare probably won't compare to what he eats at home every night."
As an old sellsword, Jules lived by one rule: once you decide, move fast.
Tiberius shot Vito a stunned look.
Holy shit, Vito—you can write?
Everyone knew literacy in Westeros was basically non-existent. Most lords couldn't even read their own names. Even Boros Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End during the Dance, needed his maester to read letters aloud to him.
And here was Vito—thick-necked, foul-mouthed Vito—apparently literate?
Seven Hells. The man looked like he'd fail a literacy test with a flat plank.
Vito pointed straight at Tiberius. "Then the kid's coming with me to deliver it."
"Why?"
"Because, Captain," Vito said, dead serious, "ever since that Ironborn cracked him with an oar, this little bastard's tongue has gotten sharper than his throwing spear!"
"I'm shit with words. If Lord Lysandro starts asking details, what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, we're all hungry tonight, so let's eat together'? Tiberius has the silver tongue—we need him."
Jules's stony face cracked for half a second before he got it back under control.
"Fine. Take him." He gave Tiberius a nod. "Good for the boy to see how real wealth lives. When we eventually crawl back to Westeros, he'll have stories to trade for free ale at any tavern."
"Shit, maybe the tavern owner's daughter will take his maidenhead!" Vito's grin turned pure filth—nine-tenths lewd. "With that pretty face of his… they'll probably fight each other to climb into his bed!"
"That reminds me, Vito," Jules said, looking at Tiberius again. "The boy killed an Ironborn. He's got a proper nickname now—'Lightning.' He's a man. We should start thinking about finding him a wife…"
"Enough!" Tiberius cut in fast. "Vito, go write the damn letter before Lord Lysandro starts dinner without us!"
As a former civil engineer who'd spent years dodging his own family's marriage pressure back on Earth, Tiberius had zero interest in getting hit with it again in Westeros 2.0.
Seven fucking Hells.
[But the plan is working,] he thought, hiding a grin.
From the moment he'd woken up in this body, Tiberius had zero desire to march off to the Volantis war. He wasn't ready to die yet.
Problem was, his uncle—the stubborn "Honorable" Jules—would never let him run.
And deserting would be completely out of character for the original hot-headed Tiberius. People would notice.
Lysandro Rogare's crisis had just handed him the perfect exit ramp.
If he could solve the missing-daughter puzzle and make Lysandro notice him… then angle for a cushy position in the man's household—personal retainer, household guard, hell, even a decorative ornament in the villa—anything beat the front lines.
Tiberius already had the speech ready in his head:
Lord Lysandro, I've wandered half my life searching for a worthy master. If you'll have me, I would be honored to call you father.
From this day on, I live and die at your command.
It wasn't cowardice. Swords had no eyes, arrows had no mercy. On a battlefield, even a transmigrator was just another slab of meat once steel found flesh.
Besides, his shiny new system was still a total mystery—he hadn't figured out what the hell it actually did yet. No loyal personal troops. Twelve years old. Just another servant who'd gotten lucky with one kill.
Going to war right now was suicide with extra steps.
Late afternoon, four o'clock. Tiberius and Vito climbed into the company's own carriage and headed for Lysandro Rogare's private estate.
Tiberius stared out the window at the streets of Lys.
The city had once been a Valyrian colony. After the Doom, plenty of dragonlords' descendants settled here. Most locals still had that classic silver-gold hair, pale eyes, and flawless white skin. The buildings were all white, soft gray, and blush pink, dotted with palm trees and tall flowering trees.
But today the streets were noticeably busier—armed men everywhere. Leather jacks, mail shirts, swords on every hip.
"More sellswords pouring in every hour…" Vito muttered, scowling out the window. "Lys is really opening the purse this time. Braavosi water dancers, Qohorik heavy axes… and the fucking Second Sons."
The moment Vito spotted a man wearing the broken sword sigil of the Second Sons on his cloak, he wrinkled his nose in pure disgust.
"What's wrong with them?"
"Scum. Nothing like us. They only care about coin. Take heavy losses and they vanish overnight. Plus they hate our guts."
"Hate us? Why?"
Vito bared his teeth. "The Disputed Lands only have so many big contracts. We eat, they starve."
"Because of Captain 'the Honorable' Jules, some clients will wait weeks—months—just to hire the White Company."
"So they resent us for stealing their business," Tiberius summed up.
"Exactly." Vito gave a grim nod, and there was real wariness in his eyes. "Stay clear of them if you can. They've got numbers and they don't play nice."
"Vito, we're at the side gate of Lord Lysandro's estate," the driver called back. "One silver, thanks for the ride."
"I'll thank your grandmother's leg!" Vito laughed and cursed. "We're the same company, you bastard—next round's on me!"
The moment Tiberius stepped down from the carriage, a slim young man in an exquisite gold-threaded robe came out the side door, ledger tucked under one arm. He stopped short.
"Tiberius? What are you doing here?"