Where the hell am I—
Lake of Dispute? Yeah, that's right. I'm at the Lake of Dispute.
What was I doing before this?
Right—I brought my Ironborn crew and the sailors upriver to get the hell out of the mess downstream.
Then—
"Hey, Leon, that's over a hundred guys right there. How the hell did you grab them without a single casualty?"
"Heh—that's a long story!"
It all came rushing back.
The warehouse was empty when we hit it. First thing we saw? Stacks of rice, salted meat, and barrels of wine everywhere—
Sevita's head was still fuzzy, thinking hurt.
"I get it," Tiberius said, his face weirdly amused.
"While we were busy kicking the shit out of the Volantenes, these bastards slipped into the empty warehouse like rats into a grain bin, stuffed their faces, and then—"
"Then our boys walked in and found a bunch of snoring, drunk assholes," Uncle Jules growled. "Look at what they did to our damn loot!"
"Hey, who's in charge here?" Tiberius asked Leon.
"This little shit right here," Leon said, pointing at the kid wearing the most jewelry.
"Him? A kid running a whole pirate crew?" Tiberius frowned. "You gotta be shitting me."
Old Tom coughed hard.
Then Lysandro—barely holding back a laugh.
Demetrius, Habro, and Lysapo too.
Even stone-faced Jules cracked a grin.
"You guys laughing at—" Tiberius started, scowling.
"Kid, look in a mirror," Vito said, jabbing a thumb at Tiberius then at the Ironborn boy on the ground. "How old are you? He's at least older than you!"
Tiberius shut up.
Yeah. He was only thirteen and already running a seven- or eight-hundred-man mercenary company.
He was the boss too.
"Alright, knock it off," Tiberius said, half-laughing, half-cursing. "Galvin, dump a bucket of cold water on him. Stop pretending to be asleep!"
A full bucket hit the kid square in the face. He jerked awake, shivering.
"Gah! Cold water!"
Tiberius didn't buy it. Ironborn didn't scare easy from cold.
Not at their latitude, swimming in the sea every damn day. Bullshit.
"Hey, kid. You Ironborn lot—what the hell are you doing this far up the Disputed River in the middle of nowhere?"
No answer. Sevita just glared.
Tiberius smiled coldly. "Fine. I like tough guys. Especially when I rip their teeth out—one by one—and then yank your buddies' teeth and shove them into your gums. So talk. What's your name? Why the fuck did an Ironborn crew come all the way to the Lake of Dispute?"
Sevita spat. "Name's Sevita of Old Wyk. Why? What the hell else? Volantis hired us as their navy. Promised iron price—plenty of loot. We were gonna get rich!"
"Vito, what's 'iron price'?" Tiberius asked.
"You forgot already?" Vito looked surprised. "Means raiding. That's what they call getting paid."
"Keep talking, kid."
"But then the Volantene fleet got its ass handed to it. Blame that seaweed-brained admiral—total idiot. Volantis fucked up bad. We figured we'd at least get something out of the trip, so we tried to slip back upriver."
"Guess what? The lower fords were a slaughterhouse. Volantis couldn't hold them either—assuming they even had a navy left. Three Daughters' ships owned the river, but the fords themselves? Total ruin. Bodies stacked higher than the walls, plague, famine, wild dogs everywhere. We came upstream because your big warships couldn't follow in shallow water. That's how we ran straight into you."
"Kill us or whatever—look, we're actually useful. We know the waters. We can row. I swing an axe like a demon. Boarding actions, ransom letters—you name it. Let me serve you! I'm Sevita—take me on!"
Tiberius listened, then gave a slow, knowing smile. He sheathed his sword and waved at the guards.
"Cut them loose. Bring him and his Ironborn 'countrymen' over. I want to talk."
Sevita rubbed his numb wrists, eyeing Tiberius warily. The kid didn't look much older than him. What game was this "general" playing?
Tiberius's smile stayed easy, but his voice carried iron certainty.
"Look at us. We're real fighters—men who live by the blade. Stick with us and I can't promise the world—"
He pulled a fat pouch of gold from his belt, let the coins clink, and weighed a fresh loaf of bread in his other hand.
"—but we pay in real gold. Not empty promises about 'iron price.'"
"And when we deal with enemies?" He patted the hilt of his sword. "We don't use gold. We use this."
Then he pointed at himself and Jules. "You sail the seas, you've heard of 'Jules the Trustworthy.' My uncle. Nearly three thousand men follow him. Reputation, muscle, and brains—that's our currency. So… interested?"
Sevita stared at the gold, then at Jules's steady bulk and the hard, disciplined soldiers around them.
He licked his cracked lips, weighed his options, and finally growled, "You feed us proper? How do we split loot? Captain's gotta set the shares before we sign on, or the crew walks."
Tiberius laughed. "Full bellies. Fair shares by what you put in. Way better than Volantis ever gave you."
"The captain doesn't short his own sailors—especially when they can fight, talk fast, and keep their heads straight," Tiberius added, locking eyes with Sevita's crow-black stare.
Sevita glanced back at his gaunt, hungry crew staring at the gold and bread. He clenched his jaw, then gave a sharp nod.
"Alright, boys! New captain! Say hello to the boss!"
"Kid, these Ironborn are trouble, not help," Jules muttered, grabbing Tiberius's wrist. "Think hard. They only follow coin and they're greedy as hell."
Tiberius shrugged it off.
"Uncle, remember what we said? How do we clear the Volantenes out of the Lake of Dispute the fastest?"
"Use the lake, interior lines, hit them one by one. We need local sailors to row. How many do we have? Most of our guys are land rats."
"But these Ironborn—and their sailors—give them a week's drill and they're a ready-made river crew." Tiberius's eyes lit up.
"We need more boats and more hands. We hit the north end of the lake today, wipe out a watchpost. Tomorrow we're on the south shore ambushing a supply column. Day after that we cross fast to the east bank and take an isolated fort. Because we can't fight a war of attrition!"
Jules nodded, though he still looked sour.
"Listen, our Mord family and Ironborn scum have never mixed. But forcing an Ironborn kid to row for you—ha! Your father Harlen's probably already writing it into the family history!"
In the days that followed, the White Company moved like ghosts across the lake. Volantene garrisons never knew where the next blow would fall and couldn't mass in time.
Thanks to captured maps and quick interrogations, Jules and Tiberius knew every enemy outpost's strength and layout cold.
"With boats to put our men ashore, I could take those shithole forts blindfolded!" Jules roared, twin swords raised, driving his troops like a scalpel into every weak point.
The fights were one-sided.
The Volantene garrisons had padded rosters and soft living. They were no match for these battle-hardened mercenaries.
Watchposts fell. Patrols vanished. Small forts cracked open one by one.
At almost no cost, Jules and Tiberius swept the entire Lake of Dispute clean, grabbed extra supplies and usable boats, and boosted their mobility even more.
Ass clean, rear secure, Jules licked his lips and looked east—toward the real Volantene heartland that now lay wide open and probably empty.
"Alright, you greedy bastards," he told Tiberius and Lysandro. "Time to pay our hosts a house call."
In Jules's makeshift command tent the air was thick enough to cut.
Tiberius's finger stabbed the map at the upper fords. "Uncle, exactly like I said—the old Volantene fox never tried to force the lower river. He knew our navy had it locked. So he smashed straight through the Disputed Lands and came here."
He tapped the ford marker hard. "Right on schedule. Those 'good friends' we left behind? They'll be lucky to last three days—hell, one day if the gods are smiling."
Jules said nothing. He just kept wiping his broadsword with an oily rag, eyes locked on the map. Finally he shook his head.
"We can't fall back west anymore."
His finger swept across the empty western shore—hills, wasteland, unknown tribal lands.
"Pull back to Myr territory across the lake? That was the fallback plan. But look, Tiberius." He circled the blank space west of the lake.
"Any colonies or estates there? Reliable supply points? None."
He tapped the vague markers beyond. "Worse—free folk tribes, broken mercenary bands, runaway slave camps, cutthroat bandits, Dothraki riders, and every defeated dog from the city-state wars."
"Out there those bastards are more dangerous than Volantene regulars. We might not even reach Myr alive."
He pointed at the eastern fords they'd hoped to link up with.
"And those fords on the east bank—maybe some of our people are still holding them. Or maybe Volantenes are waiting. Either way, we'd be walking into a trap."
"Won't happen!" a raspy Ironborn voice cut in.
Sevita had wandered over, grinning with teeth that weren't exactly white.
"Those lower fords are already graveyards. Bodies piled higher than the walls. Outside it's either corpses, siege works, plague, famine, or dogs meaner than the people."
"Your Three Daughters ships own the water but can't hold the shore. Come autumn rains and the whole place turns into one giant mud pit. Even the Seven would sink!"
Tiberius rubbed his temples, headache pounding.
Sevita's ugly truth killed any hope of a western or southern retreat.
Vito gave a bitter laugh and clapped Tiberius on the shoulder. "Hear that, kid? Every road's blocked. Only one way left—just like your craziest idea from the start: straight into Volantis's soft underbelly."
"Now we just pray you're right and the Volantene heartland really is empty as a whore on aphrodisiacs—because every other retreat is sealed tight."
Jules finished polishing his sword and slammed it home with a sharp click.
He looked at Tiberius, then Vito, and finally at Sevita's cocky face. No doubt left—only iron resolve.
"Settled. We cross east over the Disputed River. Target: Volantis heartland. Let the eldest daughter of Old Valyria feel what it's like to get her guts ripped out!"