Tiberius watched the whole scene and couldn't help feeling another surge of respect for his uncle's iron grip on the men.
In any normal mercenary company, Garvin's little speech would've been straight-up mutiny. Even after Jules laid out every downside of splitting the land privately, half the room should've been growling for their own plots anyway.
But under Jules's stare they actually agreed to let the big prize stay company property and settle for personal shares and dividends?
That kind of control told Tiberius everything: on raw numbers the White Company was still second-rate at best, but when it came to how tightly the captain held the leash, Jules Mord was top-tier in all of Essos.
He didn't run a mercenary band—he ran a brotherhood. His real talent was welding a bunch of violent, greedy bastards into one unbreakable rope.
With the decision made, the officers started filing out in twos and threes, heading back to wash up and crash.
Vito walked over and gave Tiberius an awkward slap on the shoulder.
"See that, kid? That's the sellsword life." He jerked his chin at Garvin and the others disappearing into the night. "We're all just duckweed floating in a pond—looks steady when the weather's nice, but the second a real storm hits we get ripped up by the roots and smashed to shit. Garvin sounded loud tonight, but he's scared. What he said is every sellsword's nightmare: you fight till you die and you still die a sellsword."
"You don't know how bad we dream about it—a little patch of land, a steady income, enough fat on the belly that we can sit on the porch every day eating cured ham and washing it down with decent wine. Paradise."
Vito sighed again, heavier this time.
"But even that dream is usually just smoke. To the triarchs and fat merchants, paying us coin is fine. Giving us land and steady dividends? Forget it. Remember how Braavos beat Pentos? They handed out land deeds and profit shares to three thousand sellswords. Result? Those three thousand punched straight through the Pentoshi army like a hot knife through butter."
"Still… company property isn't the worst thing in the world," Vito muttered, lowering his voice. "I mean, you know me—I'm the careful, thrifty one in the company."
Tiberius's mouth twitched. He instantly remembered Vito blowing three months' pay in one night at the Perfumed Garden, then shouting "This round's on me!" at the bar like he was made of gold. "Thrifty" was doing some heavy lifting there.
Vito didn't notice. He kept going, voice dropping even lower.
"If they'd dumped that whole estate on me personally? Just thinking about it gives me a headache. Hundreds of slaves to feed, keep in line, watch so the neighbors don't burn us out at night, argue with tax collectors sharper than foxes… I can actually read and do sums, and even I get nauseous. Imagine Garvin and Old Tom—those illiterate bastards."
"And there's another thing…" Vito glanced around to make sure the others were gone, then leaned in like he was sharing state secrets.
"I heard plenty from those maesters back in Oldtown. Westerosi lords and even big landowners fight like cats when they split land between their own sons. 'Why does my plot have all the rocks and yours is river-bottom loam?' 'Why do you get the stone keep and I get three leaky sheds?' Blood brothers act like that. You think our crew would be any better? Give it a few years and the bitching would drown us all. Jules can keep them quiet now because they respect him. But later? That's trouble."
Vito gave a knowing snort, the kind you only get from a man who's known his comrades too long.
"Besides, look at Garvin and Old Tom. You know why Old Tom is so loyal? Because he's a gambling addict. Half a dozen times Jules had to stomp in black-faced and pay off his debts at the casino just to keep him from getting his legs broken.
"Garvin? Drunk and a raging horndog. One night in the Perfumed Garden he'd blow three months' wages, wake up with a head like a split melon, and not remember a damn thing.
"Put it ugly: give those two land today and tomorrow they'd mortgage it to a pawn shop. Then when they're broke and on the street, you think Jules would just watch? Better this way—land stays company property, everyone gets shares and dividends based on merit. Steady money, no one ends up selling the farm."
"And even if they don't gamble or whore it away, running the place is its own nightmare. Like I told you before—all those taxes will skin you alive."
"You just reminded me of something," Tiberius said, eyes narrowing like he'd had a revelation.
"According to everything you said, if we pay strictly by the book the brothers are going to lose a whole layer of skin."
"Exactly!" Vito snorted. "That's why so many small landowners and free farmers cook the books. You don't? Fine. Wait for a bad harvest, or when the market floods, or—worst of all—when the war tax hits. Then you're bankrupt, selling your kids, pawning your wife, and turning into a debt-slave."
Tiberius thought for a moment, then a sly little smile crept across his face.
"I get it now… the key isn't 'follow the rules.' The key is 'handle it flexibly.'"
Vito blinked. "What do you mean?"
Tiberius cut him off, voice sharp and sure. "Vito, remember all those 'ledger fees,' 'parchment fees,' and the 'hospitality money' you pay when the tax collectors come sniffing around? That's our opening. Feed the little devils enough and their books suddenly get… creative."
He kept laying it out. "If the bribe's big enough, the slave count can 'fluctuate.' The mill can be 'seasonally closed for repairs.' Livestock can suffer 'unexpected losses' or 'poor growth.' Land grades and acreage can be adjusted through 'friendly negotiation' and 'natural disasters.' As long as we grease the right palms, all those gray areas become our breathing room."
"So…" Vito grinned, already smelling trouble. "You little bastard, you've got another scheme cooking, don't you?"
"This has to stay quiet. Vito, you know everybody. Find a couple of trustworthy brothers with clean hands. Have them quietly feel out the tax officials who cover our district—what they like, what their families need, where the pressure points are. We need intelligence."
Tiberius's eyes narrowed. "Inside the tax office we need one of our own—someone who knows the law inside out but also knows exactly how to 'reasonably' bend it, maybe even use it against itself. We need a partner… or we need to grow one."
Vito's eyes widened. "Kid… you've got balls the size of melons. But hell, every estate owner in Lys does it!"
"Those taxmen probably won't give a shit about the White Company, or 'the Honorable' Jules, or even 'Lightning' Tiberius…" Tiberius flicked the corner of the gold-threaded handkerchief Lysandro had given him. "But a favor from young master Lysaro Rogare? That they'll have to swallow."