The second Tiberius stepped back into his tent, one single thought hit him like a warhammer between the eyes.
[No fucking way! My whole plan from day one was to dodge the draft!]
The realization sank its fangs in and yanked him straight up off the wool blankets.
From the very beginning, his one and only goal had been crystal clear: stay the hell away from the Volantis meat grinder. That wasn't a place for living human beings.
But now… well, let's just say he was about a hundred thousand miles off target.
Look at his track record so far: cracking the Bloodwave Cape case, cutting political deals with Lysandro, handing out the loot like a proper little officer…
Uncle Jules was clearly grooming him as the next captain of the White Company. Why else would he sit him down for long lectures on how to run a violent mercenary outfit and make the old guard start accepting "Lightning" Tiberius as one of their own?
[But Uncle… my endgame is still literally just dodging the war!] Tiberius felt a wave of pure sadness wash over him. [I really appreciate the thought, but I honestly don't want to fight. I don't even know how!]
He knew damn well that even with the "Lightning" title buff on his system panel, the second real heavy cavalry slammed into them on a proper battlefield, all his little tricks would be worth less than spit.
When a Volantene lance turns you into red paste on the grass, you can't just shout, "Hey, I'm a transmigrator, you can't kill me!"
Who the hell actually wants to march to war? Especially a war that has nothing to do with you?
And the cherry on top? He'd been in the Game of Thrones universe for months and still hadn't met a single named character from the books. Zero. He'd spent all his time dealing with random Lysene nobodies, a spoiled rich kid, a mercenary captain, and a foul-mouthed crossbow sergeant who never shut up about pussy.
Targaryen, Lannister, Stark… those legendary names? Still total strangers.
What kind of transmigrator was he? Grinding side quests for reputation while completely ignoring the main storyline?
[Still… that's probably for the best. No need to get dragged into the Dance of the Dragons bloodbath. Dragonfire makes everyone equal, and picking the wrong side is instant game over. Right now, if I can just skip the Volantis front lines, I've already got money, land, and ships. With my future knowledge I can tech-up a proper merchant empire, buy a few beautiful maids, train them nice and slow, build a harem, and live like a proper Lysene fat cat. Way better than being some broke-ass lord in Westeros who might lose his head any week.]
Tiberius smiled, suddenly in a much better mood.
"Zera, heat the water! I want a bath!"
He gave the order cheerfully and had a couple of strong slave boys start hauling pots.
[Time to enjoy this decadent, corrupt, very-Essos landlord lifestyle to the fullest!]
Tiberius sank into the steaming tub, watching Zera drop fragrant herb sachets into the water.
"Young master Tiberius, is the temperature all right?" Zera pulled up a stool and sat right in front of him, voice soft and concerned.
"Perfect." Tiberius slid down until only his head was above the water, the herbal steam making every muscle melt. [At least my first slave girl is properly broken in, right?]
"Master…" Zera asked hesitantly.
"Hm? What is it?" Tiberius cracked one eye open, lazy and content.
"A letter arrived… from Lord Lysandro…" She held out a sealed parchment with both hands.
"Oh…" Tiberius barely glanced at it before closing his eyes again and sinking deeper into the blissful heat. [Probably another boring banquet invite. Or the clever old governor's run into some new problem and wants me to "analyze" it for him.]
"From now on, don't call him Lord Lysandro. He's not your master anymore." As he rose to take the towel from her, Tiberius suddenly turned, a wicked little spark of mischief in his eyes. "From now on, you call me Master Tiberius."
Zera's body gave the tiniest shiver. She lowered her head even further and answered in a voice as soft as a breath but perfectly clear:
"Yes… Master Tiberius."
[Perfect.]
Tiberius grinned inside, wrapped himself in the soft robe, poured a cup of honeyed warm milk, and strolled out of the bath like a man who owned the world.
---
The great hall of the Rogare mansion glittered under crystal chandeliers. The air was thick with spices, sweetwine, and expensive perfume.
Lysandro Rogare was unquestionably the star of the evening, gliding from guest to guest, accepting wave after wave of congratulations. He kept young Tiberius glued to his side, proudly introducing "this brave and clever young man" to every important person in the room.
Of course the story had received the usual "artistic polishing." Tiberius had made sure the bards emphasized Lysandro's brilliant guidance while still giving the White Company proper credit for loyal execution.
Tiberius wore the perfect boyish smile—shy, respectful, exactly what a twelve-year-old hero should look like.
"Vito, how's it feel?" Tiberius asked quietly while Lysandro was busy charming a wealthy sea trader.
"Tch… food's good, wine's excellent. Only problem is this damn silk robe—it's too tight! I can't swing my arms properly!" Vito tugged at the luxurious sleeve with a pained expression.
"Wearing silk is wasted on you," Tiberius rolled his eyes. "And stop eating like you just escaped a famine. People will think the White Company never pays its men and we live on hardtack."
"Relax, Lightning Kid!" Vito grinned, picking up a tiny cup of pale-green Myrish firewine with surprising elegance. "Your uncle and I have been to plenty of these fancy parties. I know exactly how to stuff my face and still look civilized. I'm not some mud-foot sellsword—I've seen the world!"
"Oh, and one more thing." Vito lowered his voice, eyes sliding across the room to the beautifully dressed noblewomen and merchant daughters glittering with jewels. "If any of those highborn daughters or rich wives start making eyes at that pretty face of yours, turn them down flat."
"I know, Vito," Tiberius answered calmly. "That's trouble, not a lucky break. If Uncle Jules found out I slept with a Lysene governor's mistress or wife, he'd castrate me himself."
"I knew you'd get it. Alright, I'm off to the meat table—that veal smells incredible." Vito gave a lazy wave and wandered away. "Mmm, this is gonna be good…"
A moment later, Lysaro Rogare—clearly bored out of his mind—slipped through the crowd and clapped Tiberius on the shoulder.
"Hey, Tiberius! Finally found someone I can actually talk to. This banquet is killing me." He grinned, then dropped his voice and leaned in close. "Seriously, thanks again for saving my sister Seraphys."
He suddenly lowered his head until his lips were almost at Tiberius's ear.
"I wanted to bring her over to meet you properly—young hero and all that—but Father said no. Mainly because… well…" Lysaro winked. "You know how it is. If there was even one 'Governor Mord' in Lys tonight, you'd be having a very private 'accidental meeting' with my freshly sixteen-year-old sister in the garden or on the balcony right about now."