The second Jon hit the sand, Tiberius snatched up the iron-tipped oar he'd planted earlier.
He circled behind the downed man—well out of grabbing range—then raised the heavy oar high above his head.
CRACK!
The first smash landed square on Jon's bucket helm.
Tiberius was exhausted from the long fight. He knew he could keep poking Jon to death with the spear, slowly bleeding him out.
But that wasn't the kind of victory he wanted.
He didn't just need to win—he needed to be terrifying.
Cleverness and schemes were useful, but in the sellsword world only one thing really mattered:
Raw, bloody strength.
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
Five times he brought the iron-shod oar down with everything he had, each blow ringing like a blacksmith's hammer.
Jon's helmet saved his skull from caving in, but it did nothing to stop the shock. His head rang inside the steel like a bell. Every impact jolted straight through his brain.
And Tiberius poured the last of his Lightning bonus into those five strikes.
To the Second Sons it looked like a fisherman beating a giant tuna to death on the beach—Jon twitching and flopping in the sand with every hit.
"Seven fucking Hells, this kid is vicious," Vito muttered, half laughing, half horrified as Jon danced another round of street-dance spasms.
"How the hell is he doing that, boss?" Vito whispered to Jules.
"Yeah… how is he doing that?" Jules echoed, eyes narrowed in real concern.
As a half-decent swamp witch himself, Jules knew the price of real magic. Shadowbinders lost themselves to darkness. Red priests became slaves to R'hllor. Asshai witches fucked demons.
[Tiberius… where did you learn this?] Jules thought, suddenly worried his nephew had touched something he shouldn't have.
Finally, on the fifth swing, the oar shaft snapped clean in half from the force.
Jon lay there dazed, electrocuted, half-cooked, barely conscious.
His loyal men couldn't take it anymore. Several reached for their swords, glaring at the twelve-year-old standing over their vice-captain.
Tiberius caught the movement from the corner of his eye and smirked coldly inside.
He stepped away from Jon's wheezing body and called out to Jules loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Uncle, trial by combat is judged by the gods themselves, right? The winner is proven righteous. The loser… well."
"Yes," Jules answered, drawing both longswords and staring down the Second Sons. "The gods watch. The victor is favored. The oath-breaker is cursed."
The moment Jules's blades came out, Vito raised his heavy crossbow. Every White Company knight behind them drew steel—swords, axes, warhammers.
"We also respect trial by combat!" one of the Second Sons shouted quickly, hands up. "The gods have spoken!"
They knew the rules. Break them and no one in Essos would ever hire the Second Sons again. Employers could forgive a broken contract. They could not forgive spitting on the gods.
Jon, barely conscious, tried to speak as he fumbled his helmet off. His own men had already abandoned him.
Tiberius didn't give him the chance.
"Jon Starr. When you meet the Stranger in the afterlife, remember this: Tiberius Mord killed you. You're the second man I've ever killed."
He dropped the broken oar, picked up his spear, and drove it straight through Jon's throat.
Jon's hands clamped around the shaft, eyes bulging. Warm blood flooded his chest and neck.
He tried to yank the spear out. Tiberius just twisted the shaft hard, grinding the head through muscle and artery.
Pain. Suffocation. The humiliation of dying at a child's hands.
Tiberius's palms were slick with sweat and blood. Sweat stung his eyes, but he never looked away. He watched Jon's chest rise and fall, felt every desperate twitch through the spear, stared into those wide, disbelieving eyes.
Even at the end, Jon still thought he could turn it around.
Three or four minutes later Jon's eyelids stopped fluttering. His chest went still. The spear felt dead in Tiberius's hands.
But Tiberius didn't relax. He picked up the broken half of the oar and brought it down with every ounce of strength he had left—sideways, the sharp iron edge smashing straight into Jon's temple.
Crunch.
A wet splatter of brain and spinal fluid hit Vito's boot.
"Gods damn it, kid," Vito grumbled, scraping his boot in the sand. "Couldn't you hit a little softer? That's brain matter everywhere."
But his voice was full of awe.
Jon Starr—vice-captain of the Second Sons—had just been killed in honest, face-to-face combat by a twelve-year-old.
Seven Hells. Whatever happened while the kid was unconscious, it had turned him into a monster.
"Gentlemen!" Jules called, swords still out, voice heavy with threat. "The gods have spoken. The righteous side has been proven. So please—go home. As for your 'hard work' out here…" He put heavy, mocking emphasis on the words. "I will personally tell Lord Lysandro how much you contributed. You'll get your share of the reward. I am 'the Honorable' Jules. You know my word is iron."
The Second Sons muttered among themselves for a moment, then reached the same conclusion:
Jon was dead. The big bounty was gone. Might as well take the smaller payout Jules was offering and live to fight another day.
Tiberius was genuinely surprised. These men had been ready to draw steel and fight a minute ago, but the second Jules spoke, not one of them doubted his promise.
[So this is what "the Honorable" reputation is worth,] he thought. [More valuable than ten thousand gold dragons.]
"Then we'll see you on the Volantis battlefield, Captain Jules," a new spokesman said, bowing respectfully. "We trust the word of 'the Honorable.' We'll wait for our gold. And when we get back, we'll explain to our captain… we all saw the gods' judgment today."
The moment the Second Sons marched off down the beach, Vito lowered his crossbow, then suddenly scooped Tiberius up in a bear hug, spinning him around.
Tiberius squirmed, but Vito was too strong.
"Fuck me, Tiberius—you actually killed Jon Starr! Seven gods, you have to tell me everything. What the hell did you hide from us while you were unconscious?!" Vito's spit was flying everywhere as he shook the boy like a rag doll.