Vito smacked his lips, still savoring the way every slave had dropped to their knees the second the White Company officers rode up.
"Shit, so this is what being a lord feels like? Not bad at all." He grinned wide. "Heard some parts of Westeros still keep the Right of First Night. If you're a big duke or proper lord, does that mean you're banging a fresh bride every single damn night?"
Tiberius couldn't help asking, "Vito, where the hell did that idea come from?"
"Kid, your Uncle Vito's from Oldtown—you know Oldtown? Place is crawling with ships and wagons hauling in everything under the sun. But what Oldtown never runs out of is two things: proper chained maesters… and about ten times as many sorry bastards in black robes who'll never earn a chain. Failed acolytes, washed-up maesters, all of 'em. Plenty got kicked back to the Citadel by some new lord who wanted their land or their daughter. Those old fucks got nothing in their bellies but ink and a lifetime of noble dirt. I heard the juiciest First Night stories sitting in some cheap Oldtown dive, slurping salty fish soup while they bitched about their former masters. 'Legal right of the lord,' they called it. Fuck me, sounded sweet."
"You're dreaming, Vito," Jules said flatly from horseback, popping the fantasy like a soap bubble. "Every night a new bride? Please. Most high lords would rather visit a top-shelf whore who actually knows what she's doing, or keep a skilled, willing mistress in their own bed. Way cleaner than rolling around with some stinking peasant girl who spent the morning knee-deep in mud cutting wheat."
"But boss…"
"I know what you're about to say. Just remember this: in Westeros history, plenty of lords who pushed their smallfolk too hard, too greedy, ended up with a pitchfork through the gut or drowned in their own shit in the privy. Push people far enough and even mud-feet will fight back." Jules's voice turned serious. "Besides, Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys already abolished the Right of First Night across the Seven Kingdoms. It's law. Vito, instead of jerking off to fairy tales about virgin rights, you should be thinking about how we actually run this land like proper lords."
"'Cause this estate isn't just my personal toy. It belongs to the whole White Company. Every brother can eat off this soil and put coin in his purse. One day it'll pull in good men who want a steady life after the fighting's done. Wounded brothers, married brothers—they'll have somewhere real to retire. So we have to govern it right. Not treat it like a whip-and-screw playground."
"Tch, but boss… we're slave-owners," Vito grumbled, clearly disappointed. "Don't all slave-masters just use the lash and loans to keep 'em in line?"
"Which is exactly why we do it better," Jules shot back. "They're slaves. We're free men. The gods picked us to rule because we're supposed to be wiser and more decent. Being a lord isn't just a license to fuck and flog—it's a duty. Use the brains and strength the gods gave you to guide them, make them work willingly instead of hating every breath they take."
"Plus, anyone stupid enough to whip slaves to death or cripple them is just burning his own money. Dead men don't harvest. New slaves cost coin. Healing them costs coin. Make them obey out of loyalty instead of fear—that only helps us."
"Still, boss… they really abolished it everywhere?" Vito clearly wasn't ready to let the juicy topic die.
Jules coughed, suddenly looking a little shifty, eyes sliding sideways.
"…Don't go spreading this around, alright? Truth is, plenty of places still keep it on the quiet. The North, for starters—Winterfell under the Starks is strict, but outside? Bolton of the Dreadfort, Umber of Last Hearth… even inside those great houses they still practice it, especially if the peasant wife is pretty. Northerners don't give a shit what their liege or King's Landing says; it's 'tradition.' White Harbor Manderlys do it too. Some of the really remote Vale holdings—Fingers, nothing but goats and rocks—lords out there figure a farmwife beats a goat. Parts of the Riverlands near the Neck… right around our own Mord lands…" Jules caught Tiberius perking up and immediately changed course.
"Anyway, up near the Freys, that salty marsh stretch—who's gonna ride out and stop them? And the Dornish Marches—lords there do it all the time. Sky's high, king's far away. When the Targaryens finally march on Dorne they'll need those Marcher lords as vanguard. Dragonfire doesn't reach everywhere."
"What's there to be shy about, boss?" Vito asked, loving every filthy detail.
Jules lowered his voice even more.
"…The place that does it hardest is Dragonstone."
"Seven fucking hells!" Vito burst out laughing.
"Keep your mouth shut!" Jules warned. "Targaryens are dragon-blooded. They marry brother and sister—why the hell would they care about First Night? It's just another Tuesday for them."
"Got it, boss!" Vito grinned. "My lips are tighter than the Rogare family vault, I swear."
---
"Cough. So that's the situation."
Back at the main hall after the full tour, Vito unrolled a fresh sheet of parchment and read the estate breakdown to every senior officer of the White Company.
"First, location. Brothers, don't get excited thinking we scored prime land on the Lys islands or one of those fancy villa-packed satellite isles. Those spots—even the pebbles on the beach—are worth their weight in gold. The fat triarchs and governors already claimed every inch. So forget the daydream of drilling by day and banging Lysene whores by night. That ain't happening."
"Then where the hell is it, Vito?" Red-Hair Garvin asked. "We'll take a Lysene colony in the Disputed Lands, but don't tell me they stuck us on some rock with no fresh water. The boys will start cursing Lysandro's mother before the first week's out."
"Not that bad. You all know Lys is an island city-state, but they've got holdings on the mainland too. So our estate's in the Disputed Lands." Vito shrugged. "Sailing time: from our dock to Lys harbor, fair wind and no trouble—about a day and a half."
"Now, population. Ha! I know this is the part you horny bastards care about most!" Vito drew the word out, wearing the exact lecherous grin every man in the room understood.
He waited for the chuckles to die down, then kept reading from the parchment.