Jules laid his freshly polished twin longswords side by side on the table. The steel reflected his tired face under the lantern light.
He looked at Tiberius, eyes deep and heavy with the weight of command.
"Truth is, Tiberius," he sighed, setting the second blade down with a soft clink, "I know exactly how bitter the brothers feel. They follow Jules Mord into the White Company, heads tied to their belts, living on the road, licking blood off their blades their whole damn lives. What for? So when they're old and broken they'll have a roof that doesn't leak, a patch of dirt that grows food, a wife, a kid, and maybe—gods willing—a life that doesn't end with them bleeding out in some ditch."
His fingers traced the cold edge of a sword. His voice sounded older than his years.
"But handing out the land like candy in Westeros? Making them proper landed knights?" Jules shook his head and gave a short, bitter laugh.
He stood, walked to the tent flap, lifted one corner, and stared out at the noisy White Company camp—men sharpening blades, cursing, laughing, patrolling in pairs.
"Look around, Tiberius. This isn't Westeros. There's no thousand-year-old feudal law or knightly honor to hold it together. Here it's gold dragons and sharp steel. Today's ally is tomorrow's backstabber. If I split the land tomorrow like it's nothing, you think the White Company would still exist the day after? Hell no."
"Why? Because of human nature. Today I give Garvin a plot, Tom a plot, Vito a plot. Tomorrow they start calculating: 'Is Jules's order still worth me leaving my harvest, risking my own slaves, picking up a sword again?' If my neighbor's slave sneaks into my woods to steal firewood, do I draw steel or look the other way?"
"And loyalty? I don't doubt they'd die for me on the battlefield. But not being afraid to die isn't enough to win wars."
Tiberius picked up the thread smoothly.
"Exactly, Uncle. Essos doesn't have Westeros's neat little rule: 'My vassal's vassal is not my vassal.' Here loyalty is rawer and a lot more fragile. The second you give them real land, that 'this is mine' feeling kicks in. Who's still going to bleed for the Company like before? They'll swear to their own fields first, then maybe to the Company—if they feel like it."
Jules's mouth twisted into a crooked smile, half mocking, half tired.
"Spot on. And if I play the generous lord today, give it five or ten years and some of the old boys will be broke—bad management, drinking it away, gambling like Old Tom. They'll sell the land back to me… or worse, to outsiders. Then they'll end up as tenants on Company ground, looking at my face every harvest just to eat. That'd hurt worse than killing them. No matter how thick the brotherhood blood runs, it ends right there."
He walked back to his chair.
"So this way is best. Give them a taste, give them hope, but keep the real heartbeat in the Company's hands. And honestly, it's better for them too—keeps them from turning into complete idiots who piss away everything they own."
Jules changed the subject. "Cough—one more thing. That Silver Feather Badge Lysandro gave you… handle it however you want. My advice—"
His voice dropped, warning clear. "Don't hand it to the old guard, especially not Garvin or Tom."
Seeing Tiberius's confused look, he explained, "Give it to them and either they treat it like cheap tin and lose it—slapping Lysandro in the face—or they suddenly think they're real 'honored soldiers' and start throwing their weight around in Lys, causing trouble we'll have to clean up."
"Keep it yourself. Use it when you need doors to open. Or give it to someone with brains and timing—like Vito. He runs his mouth and chases tail, but when it counts he knows where the line is."
"And…" Jules pointed at his own face and the twin swords on the table.
"Remember this, Tiberius. Right now they follow my old face and the blood we've spilled together, not the White Company banner. You want them to obey you the way they obey me?"
He paused, then gave the cold, honest truth.
"Spend another five years in the shit. Stack real victories, real fairness, real beatings. Make them respect you in their bones."
"Unless…" Tiberius tried.
"Unless what?" Jules snorted. "Unless you turn into some once-in-a-generation military genius, lead these old killers straight into Volantis, stuff their pockets with gold and jewels, then march them home rich and famous. Oh, and win a couple real battles so the whole of Essos knows the name 'Lightning' Tiberius. Then, yeah—maybe you can take my seat."
He laughed at his own words.
Like that was ever going to happen.
"Anyway, Tiberius," Jules's tone softened, "the rewards from this job—the estates, workshops, shops—those are for the whole Company to run and share. But these…" He tapped the villa deed and the ship papers. "These are written in the Mord family name. Private property, separate from Company books."
"That little villa outside Lys, the gardens, the private dock for skiffs, the woods and hill behind it… and most importantly, that hot-spring pool. Plus the deeds for those old oar-sailors. All mine—ours."
"Keep them safe. Who knows—maybe one day Vito runs out of places to crash and has to come beg me for a job keeping the books and a hot meal." Jules grinned.
Then his voice turned serious again. "Tomorrow bring Vito. We need to nail down the exact rules for the Company properties fast. Let the brothers see real money in their hands. That's what keeps them believing the White Company flag and my orders are worth more than a few private acres."