"That's a damn good question, Garvin," Jules said, voice calm and steady.
The tent fell silent the instant he spoke.
"The deed is in my name—Jules Mord. Legally, the land is mine. I could fence the whole thing off tomorrow and make it Mord family property, passed down to my sons and grandsons. I could hand out plots to some of you, turn you into my sworn knights, my vassals—just like they do in Westeros."
He let the words sink in. A few eyes lit up brighter than the torches.
But almost every man—including Garvin—held his breath, waiting for the "but."
They knew their captain. He never gave the easy answer.
"But," Jules's voice suddenly rang like steel, "if I do that, the White Company dies tonight."
He looked straight at them.
"Everything we've built—the reason Lysandro hired us, the reason they call me 'the Honorable,' the reason those perfumed whores in the Garden melt into your arms the second you walk through the door—what's it all built on? A thousand battle-hardened brothers at our backs and a name we carved out of blood and shit in the Disputed Lands!"
His gaze pinned Garvin like a spear.
"You said a sellsword who dies a sellsword stays a sellsword. You're right. We look flashy, but we all know the truth: employers with bullshit demands, clipped coins, contracts that vanish if you lose. And if you lose the fight? You lose your life."
"'Bloodsword' Delly—remember him? Peak of his career, nearly eight thousand men, nobody in the Disputed Lands wanted to face the Bloodsword Company alone. Where is he now? Sitting in a gambling den, living off a shitty pension, pawning jewelry to buy medicine."
"'Silverhand' Sothis—second-in-command of the Warhand Company. You all know the stories: twenty lances broken in one tourney, ten knights unhorsed in a single day. A living legend. 96 AC border war—I watched Myr crossbowmen put seventeen bolts in him. They cut his head off and left the rest for the dogs."
"You want land? I want land. I'd love to sit on my ass, drink wine, and collect rent like a fat lord."
"But the more I want it, the more I know we can't split it."
Jules slammed the pommel of his sword into the ground—thud.
"Think about it. If we divide the land, what happens? Everyone rides off to their own little plot and gets comfortable. Great for a while. Then what? The White Company is gone."
He swept his eyes across every face.
"We've made enemies. Plenty of them. Who protects your little farm when they come looking for payback? The White Company dies, and your little plot becomes meat on someone else's table."
"And even if they don't come for blood, they'll fuck with us another way. Vito already told you—this isn't some golden paradise. Average soil, average yield. If our enemies bribe merchants not to buy our wheat, olive oil, or linen—what then? If they buy off the tax collectors and double our levies—what then? Company's gone, and your little plot is just another carcass for the vultures."
"Garvin, can you read ledgers? Leon, do you know every tax the collectors can slap on us?"
The questions landed like hammer blows. The fevered dreams of land and women cooled fast.
Jules let the silence stretch a moment, then softened his tone.
"But I'm not going to screw the brothers who've bled with me either. Every man in this tent has crawled through the same corpse piles with me. Some of you saved my life. I saved some of yours. Ironborn talk about 'iron price.' We pay the blood price. I won't short anyone."
He made the final call, loud and clear so no one could miss it:
"The land and the slaves—I will divide them with every man here. But—"
He drew the word out so it rang in every ear.
"How we divide it will be based on merit and rank. You'll each get a share of the income and ownership of certain slaves—enough for you and your family to live better than any common sellsword ever dreamed. A proper, respectable life."
"But that share is tied to the responsibility you carry and the work you do for the Company. Want more? Earn it—with enemy heads and Company victories. Don't think you can hang up your sword and just collect rent. The White Company stands, your wealth and safety stand."
"So—" he spoke each word like an oath, "after we allocate your personal shares of land and slaves, these three estates—together with every slave on them—will go into the White Company treasury. They do not belong to Jules Mord alone. They belong to every brother in the White Company."
A collective hiss of breath swept the tent, followed by stunned silence.
Jules kept going, voice steady but iron-hard:
"Profits from these businesses—after operating costs, taxes, and what we owe Lysandro—will be split three ways. One part goes into the Company reserve for new gear and horses. One part becomes dividends for every man, paid by rank and years served, so everyone shares in the Company's growth. The last part goes into a dedicated widows-and-orphans fund, so no brother's family ever starves or has to beg. I'm tired of borrowing at ruinous rates just to pay death benefits."
He looked at the captains. "The exact rules, profit splits, and pension standards will be written by me, Vito, and every captain here. Then we'll post them for the whole Company to see. We're building something that lasts."
Jules sat back down, picked up his cup, and took a slow drink. He was done.
The tent stayed quiet for three heartbeats.
Then Old Tom slapped his thigh so hard it cracked like a whip, voice hoarse with emotion. "Captain! That's fair! I'm in!"
Vito let out a long breath and grinned like a man who'd just been saved. "Aye. That's the long play."
Red-Hair Garvin stood there stunned for a second, then scratched his messy red mop and laughed, embarrassed. "Captain… I was being an idiot. You're right. This is better. Now the brothers actually have something worth fighting for—the White Company!"