Tiberius had never in his life expected to get asked about his sexual preferences.
He just looked at Vito sideways and kept his mouth shut.
"Okay, okay!" Vito grinned and dropped the subject, giving Tiberius a friendly slap on the shoulder.
"Let's eat first, then go see the captain—Jules Mord. That's the real business. We can talk about the Lys pleasure-house team-building later!"
"Speaking of which, Vito…"
The moment Tiberius stepped out of the hallway into the main living area and saw the elegantly dressed servants, he couldn't hold back the question.
Beautiful slave girls and muscular male attendants moved through the courtyard, carrying glass goblets of Lysene sweet wine that caught the light like liquid gold.
Most wore silk or the finest linen. Some of the girls had gold earrings; the men's tunics were trimmed with Myrish lace.
Without the "S" brand or tattoo on their collarbones, you'd never guess they were slaves at all.
Compared to them, Vito and Tiberius looked like the actual servants.
"Vito, we only beat back one Ironborn raid. How much did our employer actually pay the White Company that my uncle would rent us a place like this? Silk-clad slave girls waiting on us?"
In his borrowed memories, the White Company was strictly second-tier in the Essos sellsword world. Fifteen hundred veteran fighters, plus four hundred Westerosi knights—including a hundred and twenty heavy cavalry that were Captain Jules's pride and joy, the ones who cracked open battle lines.
Another three hundred support staff who could grab weapons in a pinch. For the really big jobs they'd hire extra slaves or freemen, sometimes subcontract from other companies.
So even after a glorious victory or a fat payday, Jules never blew the budget on luxury villas for the men to relax in.
A captain's first job was wages, death benefits, and keeping a war chest full.
Lys was stupidly expensive; just living here was a luxury.
In Tiberius's memories they usually rented cramped "insulae" tenements in the common districts—tiny rooms, bad air, paper-thin walls. At night you could hear your bunkmate next door making some whore scream.
Even those cheap apartments weren't guaranteed after every win. Only after the nastiest contracts or the biggest payouts would Uncle Jules rent them for three whole months so the boys could taste the "City of Desire."
Most of the time they camped out in the countryside or cheap edge-town inns—better for the horses, way cheaper.
Living in Lys ain't easy.
And now here they were in a goddamn mansion. Tiberius couldn't hide his shock.
"Tiberius, relax—this is just the side courtyard!" Vito laughed. "There's a whole massive estate outside that's ours right now!"
"Our employer is Lysandro Rogare—the richest banker and plantation lord in all Lys, maybe the whole Three Daughters. This villa is pocket change to him!"
"He also owns the best pleasure house in the city, the Perfumed Garden. That's why I said you could join us… boss is paying. Though word is the boys there are prettier than the girls, and some of the girls look like men!"
Vito's grin turned downright filthy.
"Girls who look like men? Haha! Those wild mares need a real rider!"
At the kitchen doorway Vito leaned in and bellowed, "Cook, you fat lazy bastard! Get out here—the captain's nephew Tiberius is awake! Got any food?"
Half a cold salad, oat bread, a pot of steaming red-wine braised beef, lemon water with ice, and silver cutlery all appeared on snow-white linen in seconds.
The rich smell hit Tiberius like a hammer. He'd been unconscious a whole day—he was starving.
"Hey, cook," Vito growled, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to make the pot jump. "This little lordling is only twelve but he personally pinned a filthy Ironborn to the deck with a throwing spear, and this is what you serve? Where's the roast chicken? The lamb leg? The famous Lys sturgeon pie?"
The cook bowed and scraped with a servile smile. "It's already three in the afternoon, my lords. This is all that's left in the kitchen right now."
"But our twenty-eight cooks are already preparing tonight's grand feast for everyone. Tonight the young master and Lord Vito will enjoy a proper Lysene banquet!"
"Please forgive us, young master, Lord Vito—just make do for now."
Tiberius tugged Vito's sleeve so he'd stop bullying the poor man.
Why bother? They were busy.
Once the cook scurried back inside, Vito leaned in and whispered, "Tsk, you don't get it, Tiberius. These are Rogare's slaves. You gotta be hard on them or they won't listen—bunch of lowborn curs. Rogare's whip is 'master's mercy' to them. Get soft and they'll walk all over your face. They're slaves at heart, understand? In their eyes we're just paid killers, while they…"
Vito snorted.
"…think they're the favored servants of rich, merciful Lord Lysandro. One step above us."
"Alright… but Vito, this contract is a big one, isn't it?" Tiberius asked, mouth full of bread.
"Otherwise Lord Lysandro Rogare wouldn't be spending this kind of coin—putting us in a palace, feeding us like kings, letting the boys loose in his pleasure house with the bed slaves."
"Not to mention," Tiberius swallowed with a gulp of lemon water and pointed at the beef pot, "could our company eat like this every single day when we're not fighting? Come on, who are we really fighting? Three Daughters civil war? Pentos hitting Myr? Volantis invasion? Or are the Three Daughters dumb enough to poke the sleeping dragon in King's Landing for the Iron Throne? Just so you know—if it's invading Westeros, I'm disappearing first."
Vito's grin froze into pure shock.
"Tiberius… how the hell did you guess we're fighting Volantis?"
[Okay, now I know,] Tiberius thought.
"But you're right," Vito lowered his voice. "Volantis—eldest daughter of Valyria, Queen of the Rhoyne, Mistress of the Summer Sea… and the nightmare of the Three Daughters."
He ticked the titles off on his fingers. "Their recent moves on the border have the triarchs of the Three Daughters shitting themselves, so the cities are teaming up to hit first."
"Ever since the 96 AC Border War when the Three Daughters kicked Volantis out of the Disputed Lands, they've been quiet. But after three years of licking their wounds they're stirring again—drilling troops, hiring every sellsword they can find. Even the Tiger and Elephant parties in their council actually agreed on something. They passed the 'war tax' unanimously."
"That Ironborn raid we just fought? Their work. We found Volantene gold in the ship's hold."
"Problem is, Lys has a strong fleet but almost no army. Yet we still have colonies right in the Disputed Lands—exactly where Volantis's vanguard will hit first. So they need us as 'defenders of wealth and freedom.' Pretty words for cannon fodder!"
Vito's voice turned high and whiny, perfectly mimicking fat merchants. "Real translation: Go die for my olive groves and wine estates… and my painted little catamites! I owe you three months' pay, but in the name of the Lord of Light, fight to the death for the city's freedom!"
"I've been a sellsword eight years," Vito finished. "Conclusion: every employer is a cheap bastard who thinks his few coins buy our lives…"
Listening to the rant, Tiberius felt his stomach drop.
He'd just transmigrated and he was already getting thrown into a major war?
"So… do I have to go to the battlefield?" he asked weakly.
I'm a kid—they wouldn't actually send me, right?
"Of course!" Vito stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"Weren't you always bragging that every sellsword in the Disputed Lands would know the name Tiberius someday? What, did that oar actually scramble your brains?"
[Of course not. The original edgy little shit Tiberius is dead,] Tiberius thought.
"Plus you killed a man—you're a man now, not a boy!" Vito added.
"But I'm only twelve. I can throw a spear, but…" Tiberius trailed off.
Sellsword companies don't use child soldiers… right?
"But what?" Vito looked genuinely confused. "Twelve? I joined at nine, same as you—ran errands, but when it was time to fight, I fought. My first kill was at fifteen…"
"And in the contract with Rogare, you're listed as a full member of the White Company. He paid the captain for you!" Vito said seriously.
"Contract's signed—we fulfill it. Period. Listen, you know your uncle, Captain Jules. The White Company he built is only second-rate, but it's still standing. You know why?"
"Honor," Tiberius answered quietly.
Yes. Honor.
The White Company always finished every job on the contract (as long as they got paid). If even one man failed to show, it was shame on Jules.
"In the 96 AC war, one knight snuck off to Lys to see his old flame and missed muster. Captain didn't say a word—just chopped off one of the guy's fingers as compensation to the employer…"
"In 94 AC, protecting a Tyroshi lord's fields from Dothraki, Jules took three arrows himself just to keep the contract."
Tiberius understood—he wasn't getting out of this war.
Like Vito said, Uncle "Honorable" Jules valued his reputation more than anything.
According to the signed contract, Tiberius was already a member.
If he ran, the memories in his head told him Uncle Jules might actually enforce "justice over family."
[Don't panic, Tiberius,] he told himself. [It's just a Free Cities brawl… How many troops can city-states even field? A few thousand mercenaries and a couple hundred cavalry, tops.]
"How many troops did both sides bring to the last Volantis vs Three Daughters border war?" he asked.
"The 96 AC Border War?"
"Yeah."
"Volantis brought five thousand war elephants, almost three hundred warships, and hired half the sellswords in Essos. The other half went to the Three Daughters. Each side had around thirty thousand mercenaries…" Vito said it like he was talking about the weather, completely missing how Tiberius's eyes had gone wide as dinner plates.
"You know how it is—sellswords are all family. News travels. Sometimes we just shoot arrows at the sky and bang drums to earn our pay. Only when the real money and good terms come out does it mean we actually have to bleed."
Tiberius's vision went black.
Sellsword status. Twelve-year-old body. Full-scale war on the horizon.
What the hell was that shiny new system even good for now?