"Trial by combat," Jon Starr declared, voice dripping with arrogance. "I demand a trial by combat!"
"Against who?" Jules asked.
"Him!" Jon thrust a finger straight at Tiberius.
"Hey, Jon, did the rotten fish and shrimp at Bloodwave Cape glue your eyes shut? Need a maester to check that?" Vito flipped straight into full mockery mode. "Take a good look—this is a twelve-year-old kid! You, some old bastard, fighting a boy? Have you no shame at all?"
"But you just said he's a man now," Jon shot back with a nasty grin. "What happened? 'The Honorable' Jules's word suddenly not worth shit?"
"Or is the little shit actually here selling his ass?" Jon tossed out another crude joke, but nobody on the White Company side laughed.
"You—" Vito started, face flushing with rage, but Jules stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"I'll stand as my nephew's champion," Jules said coldly. "What about you? You fighting yourself, or you sending some poor bastard so your fancy sword doesn't get stained with your own blood?"
"Of course I'll do it myself!" Jon snarled, already drawing his longsword.
Jon hadn't suggested trial by combat on a whim. It was the only play he had left in a shit situation.
[That girl might not really be Lysandro's mistress, but what if she is? Even if she's just a favored slave, she still came out to this cursed place. Killing her here would be a nightmare—especially with Seraphys watching the whole thing.] Jon's mind raced. [And if we actually fight right now, sure we outnumber them, but Jules's men are all veterans. Even if we win, it'd be a bloody mess, and these are my best lads. Lose too many and my "vice-captain" title is finished.]
That was exactly why he'd thrown out the challenge. Trial by combat was an old, respected custom—winner takes all. Even if Zera and Seraphys told Lysandro the truth later, the banker couldn't dock the bounty over it.
"Uncle, don't fight him," Tiberius tugged Jules's sleeve.
"What?" Jules frowned. "If I don't, are you planning to?"
Tiberius nodded.
"Yeah, Uncle. Me. Look, even if you beat Jon Starr, his men will still hound us for a cut. They won't let it go."
"That's not a reason for you to step in," Jules snapped, almost shouting. "You're twelve years old. How the hell are you supposed to fight him? You're smart, Tiberius—gods know you are—and you've killed a man. But the gap between you and Jon in the fighting pit is night and day. Out there it's all skill and raw strength."
"Uncle, listen. He only suggested trial by combat because he knows he can't win any other way. I guarantee he'll cheat. His men will never let the prize slip away."
"So…" Jules's brows knitted tighter.
"So even if you win, they'll deny it and probably attack anyway. And if you're wounded, how do you lead the White Company? With you healthy we might still win, but if you're hurt… we're probably all dead. So let me go. Me getting hurt is better than you getting hurt."
"Shut your mouth, boy. Your father left you in my care so I could keep you alive, not so you could die in some stupid duel!"
"And my father wouldn't want to see his brother die in a pointless fight while his son watches."
Jules looked down, then let out a low chuckle.
"Sharp-tongued little shit… you really do keep surprising me. Don't worry—I'll have Vito ready. If things go south, Jon's eye socket is getting a new crossbow bolt."
"I thought you'd care about your 'Honorable' name…" Tiberius said, genuinely surprised.
"'Honorable'…" Jules gave a cold snort, the corner of his mouth curling. "Just a fucking title. Let it burn. When it's your blood kin on the line, all that honor shit comes second. No family, no one left to sing your songs or tell your legends—even the bad ones."
"So relax." Jules clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on. I'll make sure Vito's strung up and ready. Fight clean—and don't embarrass us."
"Got it."
Tiberius stepped forward and called out loud and clear.
"I'll fight you, Vice-Captain Jon." He put heavy, mocking emphasis on vice-captain.
"You? Little shit, you must've lost your mind." Jon laughed out loud. "Have your uncle fight for you! Go back to selling that pretty ass of yours!"
"You scared?" Tiberius fired back.
"Scared? I'm scared your tight little hole won't hold your shit in when you die!" Jon's face flushed crimson with rage. He ripped his sword free.
"Since you're so eager to die, boy… come on! But don't worry—" A vicious grin split his face. "After I kill you, I'll let my brothers warm up that virgin ass of yours a few times. Make sure your trip to the afterlife isn't lonely!"
---
"You want a countdown?" Tiberius hefted a throwing spear, testing its weight, then planted it in the sand beside two more.
He looked eerily calm—like he was asking what Jon wanted for breakfast. The White Company knights nodded in open approval.
Our young lieutenant isn't just clever—he's got balls too.
The question only pissed Jon Starr off more. He watched Tiberius plant the third spear next to a heavy iron-tipped oar and another spear, all standing upright in the sand. Jon sneered as his squire helped him into a thick breastplate and lowered the bucket helm.
"Save the chatter, boy." Jon's voice boomed from inside the helm. "Better say goodbye to that pretty head of yours—because in a minute my sword's taking it clean off!"
In his mind the fight was already over. Tiberius was clever, sneaky, and had somehow solved the Bloodwave Cape mystery with that fishing trick. Jules even claimed the kid had killed a man.
But at the end of the day he was still just a twelve-year-old boy.
Jon Starr? A veteran who'd crawled through blood and shit across half of Essos to become vice-captain of the Second Sons.
Unless a Targaryen dragon suddenly appeared behind him, this was the easiest win of Jon's life.
"You sure you don't want a countdown?" Tiberius asked one last time, dead serious.
"Shut up, you little—"
Before Jon could finish, the first spear was already flying straight at his face!
[Fuck—this little shit doesn't fight fair!] Jon cursed inside and jerked his shield up.
As a seasoned mercenary he instantly recognized how vicious that throw was. If he hadn't raised the shield in time the spear would've punched straight through his throat and probably torn the mail gorget apart.
Thunk!
The spearhead slammed into the wood-and-hide shield with a heavy thud.
"You little bastard—wait till I get my hands on you!" Jon ripped the impaled shield off his arm and hurled it into the sand. He wasn't happy he'd blocked it—he was furious.
Mostly he was faking the rage to scare the boy. Old sellswords knew green kids like Tiberius usually folded when someone roared at them.
But Tiberius didn't flinch. His face stayed stone-cold. He simply picked up the second spear and hurled it straight at Jon's torso.
Jon saw the motion through the narrow eye-slit of his bucket helm and dropped into a crouch.
But the helm cut his vision. The spear slammed straight into the top of his helmet with a deafening clang.
[Plan working!] A cold little smile flashed across Tiberius's lips.
On that throw he'd used his new title bonus—Lightning.
Yes. I put lightning on the spear.