Lysandro Rogare struck without mercy.
The moment Gastor Ferrero tried to stir trouble, the richest banker in Lys flipped the script and went straight for the throat.
"Lord Ferrero," Lysandro's voice rang through the council chamber, loud and cutting, "when one side demands trial by combat, the other accepts, and the duel is fought in front of dozens of witnesses—can that possibly be called 'murder'?"
"When a battle-hardened vice-captain, fully armed and armored, challenges a twelve-year-old boy to a fight to the death and loses because he was simply outmatched and exhausted—can that be called 'slaughter'?"
"Twenty of my men had just rescued my daughter and Lady Haen. They stepped out of that nightmare cave carrying vital evidence and two terrified girls, only to face fifty armed Second Sons thugs spoiling for a fight. Why, Lord Ferrero, did you not condemn the Second Sons? Why did you single out a twelve-year-old guest of House Rogare?"
He let the question hang, then delivered the killing blow with a perfect edge of mockery.
"Or is it that, in Lord Ferrero's eyes, the sacred right of trial by combat only matters when you win—or when it lets you play the merciful saint? The moment you lose, the gods' judgment suddenly becomes 'brutal murder'?"
"Must even the will of the gods be rewritten to suit Lord Ferrero's personal tastes?"
Behind Lysandro, Regar Haen clapped loudly, slow and deliberate, the sound echoing like hammer blows.
Gastor's face went slick with cold sweat. He stammered that he had been misunderstood. Lysandro didn't let up—he hammered the man again and again, wringing every drop of satisfaction from the public humiliation.
First Triarch Bambarro Bazanne watched the drama unfold, eyes narrowed, weighing every angle.
He hated the Rogare-Haen alliance with a passion, but he loved watching the two sides chew each other alive even more. As long as it didn't threaten his own power.
Right now he had zero interest in defending a dead mercenary vice-captain, especially not by insulting the sacred custom of trial by combat and pissing off the rising Rogare-Haen bloc.
Besides… Bambarro's gaze slid to Gastor.
Did the fool really have secret dealings with the Second Sons?
He made his decision. The gavel cracked down—THUD.
"Enough!" Bambarro's voice cracked like a whip. "This chamber is not a fish market. Trial by combat is an ancient and holy tradition. It was fought, witnessed, and vouched for by 'the Honorable' Jules Mord himself. The result stands."
He let the silence stretch, then delivered his ruling on Jon Starr.
"The matter of Jon Starr is closed. He demanded the combat. He received the combat. The gods saw who was righteous. Now—let us return to the true business at hand: the final judgment on these cannibal abominations…"
Bambarro paused, clearly reluctant, but he had no choice.
"Everything will proceed exactly as Lord Lysandro Rogare has proposed. I will speak with the High Priest of R'hllor myself to arrange the purification."
---
Three days later, in the great square before Lys's largest temple of R'hllor.
The captured cannibals were dragged forward in chains, their twisted faces and grotesque necklaces of human finger bones drawing horrified gasps and retching from the crowd.
"Seven Hells, these ugly fucks are the reason people kept vanishing on Bloodwave Cape?"
"Yeah—heard they dragged victims into caves and turned 'em into salted meat!"
"R'hllor save us—let the flames burn their sins away!"
Under the Red Priests' questioning, Sonny Bane broke. Stuttering, drooling, he confessed everything: the kidnappings, the murders, the black sorcery, the cannibal feasts, the endless incest.
When he described treating living people as "two-legged sheep," the square erupted.
"Kill them! Kill these vermin!"
The roar was so loud the flames on the altar seemed to shrink. "They don't deserve to be called men!"
Lysandro Rogare stood in solemn black robes trimmed with golden Myrish lace. His face was grave as he pronounced sentence: the priests would take their heads with the greatsword, then cast the bodies into the sacred flames. This, he declared, was the defense of civilization itself—the manifest power of the Lord of Light.
The High Priest, bald and robed in crimson, ran a finger along the massive blade. A single drop of blood touched the steel.
Flames exploded along the sword.
One by one the cannibals were forced onto the block. The blade flashed. Heads rolled. Dirty blood sprayed across cold stone. Every time a head hit the ground the crowd roared in savage joy.
These people had lived in terror of Bloodwave Cape for decades. Today the souls of the lost could finally rest.
After every cannibal except Sonny Bane had been beheaded, the priests lashed the corpses to stakes, poured oil, and lit the pyres. Red-robed monks sat cross-legged, chanting the names and scriptures of R'hllor as the flames climbed higher.
At the climax, the severed heads, the bone altar, the witch's staff, and every cursed relic were hurled into the inferno.
Then came the true finale.
Sonny Bane—the patriarch, the first to fall—was dragged to the judgment platform.
The High Priest looked at him with open disgust. "This one's soul is stained by the Great Other. His blood is unclean. He is not worthy to be a simple offering to R'hllor. His sins demand a longer, slower cleansing."
Lysandro's face flickered with surprise, then settled into cold understanding. He inclined his head. "As you command, Holy One."
No quick sword for Sonny.
The priests filled a heavy wooden tub with seawater—just deep enough to cover his neck—bound him hand and foot, and dropped him in. They left him there to drown slowly.
The old cannibal thrashed and screamed, but the thumb-thick ropes held. Age and years underground had left his body weak. There was no escape.
Everyone knew what would come next: once he finally stopped moving, his head would be cut off, stuck on a spear, and planted at the entrance to Bloodwave Cape Road as a warning.
---
The next morning, in a seaside villa on the outskirts of Lys.
Vito sat at a marble table, one hand clutching a sheet of parchment, the other a quill, carefully logging every coin and gift.
"Boss, we hit the fucking jackpot this time!" Vito grinned as he set the quill down and rolled his wrist. He picked up another parchment and started reading the tally to Jules.
"First, the Rogare bounty: the twelve thousand gold dragons Lysandro promised. Plus three estates in the Disputed Lands colonies. Together they're damn near the size of a Westerosi barony. Soil's decent—middle grade, not the best. A lot of it's hilly and sloped. But we get the slaves, the olive press, the bakery, the looms, the mill, and all the buildings. Only catch…" He shrugged.
"Fifteen percent of the harvest as 'compensation' for the first three years, plus another fifteen percent 'slave transfer tax' for the same period."
Jules kept polishing one of his twin longswords. "Doesn't matter. Land is land. At least our wounded brothers will have somewhere to go when they can't fight anymore. And we finally have our own training grounds—no more begging some fat slave-owner for field space."
"Exactly, boss!" Vito nodded hard. "Renting training fields costs a fortune. Every time I hand over those silver stacks to those greedy bastards it makes my blood boil!"
"Plus these estates are real bait for recruits—actual land, steady income. The White Company's going to look a hell of a lot more attractive from now on."
Jules added, "It'll cut down on how often we have to buy grain too. When contracts are slow the boys won't have to go hustling for food money every week. They can actually save a little."
"Boss, you save some for me, yeah?" Vito flashed a filthy grin. "You know I can't keep coin in my purse. The girls at the Perfumed Garden are all waiting for Vito's 'heavy crossbow'! My gold always ends up between their legs!"
"Piss off!"
Vito set down the land deeds and picked up the next parchment. "Two city shops. One pawn shop, one olive-oil stall. I checked 'em—both on the outskirts, of course." He snorted. "And Lysandro took the clerks and apprentices with him. We'll have to run 'em ourselves. I'll need to hit the slave market for a couple book-keepers and maybe hire a few freeborn apprentices."
"Lysandro would never give us prime real estate in the city center," Jules said, not surprised. "Too valuable. A pawn shop's still useful—somewhere to fence our loot and keep cash flowing. The olive-oil stall… we'll see if it's worth keeping. If not, sell it."
"Most important thing is the pawn shop's royal license," Jules asked. "He didn't take that, right?"
"Nope, but we still have to transfer it. Won't be in our hands for a few days."
"Good enough. If we lose the license the whole thing's worthless."
Vito shrugged. "Sell the shop as-is and we get maybe a thousand gold. Tiny place, shit location. But with the license? Could easily triple that—maybe more."
He moved on, voice turning almost reverent. "Then there's this villa we're sitting in right now." Vito gazed up at the marble columns covered in intricate carvings, edges gilded with real gold. "Suburban, sea view, backed by hills. Main house sits on a full acre—inner and outer courtyards, everything a noble estate should have: columned garden, great hall, front yard, stables, underground wine cellar, mill house, bakery. There's a deep-water pool behind the hill with a proper bathhouse next to it, and a private dock out front big enough for several small ships…"
He paused for effect. "Inside the dock are two five-year-old single-mast oar-sailors and one proper 'pleasure barge' plus a handful of flat-bottom skiffs. Boss, if you want you can go fishing every single day."
"What the hell's a 'pleasure barge'?" Tiberius asked, genuinely curious.
"Think of it as a floating private negotiation room," Vito explained. "Fast single-mast sailboat, tries not to rely on slave rowers. The one Lysandro gave us is only average quality. Sometimes these barges get used as… floating Perfumed Gardens." Vito waggled his eyebrows at Tiberius. "Perfect for you and Miss Zera if you ever want somewhere really private and romantic. Just gotta ask your uncle nicely if he'll lend it out."
"…Vito, can you keep your mind out of the gutter for five minutes instead of between some girl's legs?" Jules shot him a flat look. "Stop corrupting my nephew!"
"Can't help it, boss. And how am I supposed to corrupt him?" Vito spread his hands innocently. "With scams? Kid opens his mouth and Lysandro starts laughing and throwing gold at him!"
"Chasing tail? Boss, you don't even know—Zera's practically glued to the little shit's bed already and he still says he's 'too young' and turns her down!"
"Killing? Boss, when did you make your first kill? Who was it? This kid's first was an Ironborn, second was Jon Starr—vice-captain of the fucking Second Sons. I'd love to teach him some bad habits!"
Jules just grunted and went back to polishing his swords. Because, damn it, Vito wasn't wrong.
Vito flipped another page. "House Haen was generous too. Gave us a small dye workshop—basically half-retired. Produces maybe ten bolts of dyed silk a year plus seven vats of dye. Threw in three master craftsmen, their apprentices, and the laborers—twelve people total. Plus three thousand five hundred gold dragons, three thousand mediocre silver rings, and three thousand bolts of cotton as a sweetener."
He picked up one of the rings, bounced it in his palm, and sneered. "These rings are absolute shit—poor purity, light weight. Haen owns silver mines and they give us this? Each one's worth maybe four silver coins, tops. I guarantee if we melt 'em the silver we get back will be clipped to hell. Treating us like beggars."
He tossed the ring to Tiberius. "But the cotton? Top quality. Several brothers already asked when they're getting new clothes. If you want, boss, we can cut shirts for the whole company—save a fortune."
"Give the boys new clothes in a few days," Jules decided. "We made good coin this time—let them enjoy it. Hand out the silver rings to everyone too. They're cheap anyway."
Vito looked at the shop deeds, the chests of gold, and finally let out a long, resentful sigh.
"Still… (ˉ▽￣～) tch… that old fox Lysandro stood up in the square acting like he personally stormed the cannibal nest. Stole every bit of the glory for himself."
He turned to Tiberius. "Kid, why the hell did you hand over all the credit? Imagine it—killing Jon Starr already made your name ring in every mercenary company. Add solving the Bloodwave Cape case on top of that…"
Vito's voice grew dead serious. "Listen, Lightning—I thought the bullshit legends I wrote were ridiculous. But your real story makes my tales look like dogshit. If any of this gets out you'd be the youngest living mercenary legend in history!"
He kept muttering. "Should've sold Jules as 'the Wise' instead of 'the Honorable'… wait, no—'the Wise' Jules sounds like a scheming bastard…"
"And those little side stories? Could've written a couple dumb villain chapters just like Jon Starr so readers don't get bored halfway through. Never let a minor villain last more than two chapters, that's the rule…"
Tiberius just smiled quietly.
He knew exactly why he'd done it. Right now, too much fame would do him far more harm than good.
Jules kept polishing his beloved twin swords without looking up.
"Doesn't matter. We got the things that actually count: gold, land, ships, and the friendship of both House Rogare and House Haen. Those are the things that matter."
He added, "Besides, we're a sellsword company. We make our living with steel at our throats. What good is a detective's reputation? You want us to start solving cheating husbands, runaway wives, lost cats, and bastard-child drama next?"
"Seven Hells, no!" Vito barked a laugh. "I'd rather die!"
"So the kid made the smart play," Jules said, finally looking up, voice heavy with hard-earned wisdom. "Let Lysandro bask in the cheers and adoration. We take the real rewards. That's what counts."
Jules's eyes moved over the gleaming chests of gold and the parchment deeds.
"Better gear for the brothers, better pay, more recruits, safer lives after they're crippled… that's what matters. Because…" He met Vito's eyes. "The war between the Three Daughters and Volantis is coming any day now."
Vito shrugged, took a long pull of fine Lysene wine, and silently agreed.
After all, sellswords sold their lives for coin. Fame was nice—only if it could be turned into cold, hard gold.