"Ha! Did you see that throw?" Lysaro pointed triumphantly at the twitching leopard on the ground, chest puffed out like he'd just conquered Valyria. "What do you think, brothers? Perfect shot—right through the bastard's neck!"
The big mountain leopard lay bleeding in the dirt, a light throwing spear buried clean in its throat.
The young men around Lysaro were all sons of Lysene merchant princes and lesser governors—rich, but nowhere near House Rogare's level. Their fathers were either Lysandro's political allies or weaker partners who knew better than to cross him.
"Look at that! One smooth motion—hips, wrist flick—whoosh! Dead center!" Lysaro waved his arms, reenacting the throw for his buddies, completely forgetting that Tiberius had directed the beaters and hounds to drive the leopard into that exact killing spot. He also conveniently forgot that the entire spear technique had been taught to him by Tiberius in the first place.
Tiberius, meanwhile, was already barking orders at the slaves. "Skin the leopard carefully—don't damage the pelt! It's going to be Young Master's new cloak!"
"Gods, it's hot as the Seven Hells today," one minor noble's second son grumbled, wiping sweat with a silk handkerchief.
"Tell me about it," another agreed, snapping his fingers for a slave to bring more chilled wine.
"Let's move," Lysaro said, pointing toward a shady grove ahead. "Plenty of shade under the trees, and my stomach's growling. Come on!"
The group relocated. Slaves quickly spread blankets, laid out food, and uncorked more iced wine.
"Ahhh, this is the life!" Lysaro flopped down, grabbed a cold chicken platter from his personal slave, took a long pull of sweet chilled wine, then kicked off his muddy boots and tossed them to the servant without a second thought.
[Easy for you to say, dear Rogare young master,] the other rich kids thought sourly.
Lysandro's new "Special War Tax" had already carved a fat slice out of every wealthy house in Lys. Then he and the bankers from Tyrosh and Myr quietly agreed to ram through "War Bonds" in their respective councils.
Of course, the Rogare Bank was the one issuing Lys's bonds.
And you couldn't exactly sell those to common citizens—they could barely afford one bond if three families pooled their coin.
So naturally… Lysandro had gone to his allies and "suggested" they buy big as a show of support.
Couldn't very well expect Gastor Ferrero to volunteer, could he?
"Tiberius, sit!" Lysaro waved him over. "Out here in the hunting grounds we're all equals—no ranks, no titles!"
Tiberius didn't argue. He dropped onto the blanket, tore off a chunk of white bread, and started eating. He was starving after spending the whole morning babysitting these spoiled brats and trying not to laugh at their pathetic hunting skills.
Even the leopard had been bought from the market, starved for a few days, and released that morning. The damn thing had nearly eaten one of the slaves before they got it into position.
The other young lords glanced at Tiberius sitting with them. Their faces stayed polite, but none of them made any effort to include him in the conversation.
After all, there was a very thick, very real wall between them.
Tiberius didn't mind in the slightest. If being ignored by these rich kids was the price of skipping the Volantis front lines and living like a proper little landlord—eating, drinking, and fucking in peace—he'd happily be invisible for the rest of his life.
"Cough—have you heard?" one of the young lords suddenly said. "Mario Ferrero is putting together a new mercenary company!"
"What for?" Lysaro set his wine cup down, frowning.
"Ugh, Lysaro, you've been locked away writing poems and stories about your father—you missed it!" A noble son put his glass down and started venting. "That crude upstart Mario Ferrero! He's forming the 'Golden Shield Company' and bragging that he's going to show 'real martial virtue' in the upcoming tournament—not 'cheap detective tricks' for attention. He says his company will actually fight in the Volantis war and win glory for Lys with honest steel!"
"Hmph! What does he know about glory?" Lysaro sneered. "His grandfather was just a ship's book-keeper. How can the Ferrero family compare to the ancient Rogare bloodline that goes all the way back to the Valyrian fortress days?"
"Besides, who was it that had to sneak into my father's house at night during the Shadow War, begging for a truce because their vaults were empty?"
"Yeah, yeah…" the others murmured agreement, but inside they were all thinking the same thing:
Those were your ancestors' and your father's achievements—what do they have to do with you? And Mario just threw down the gauntlet. You really planning to hide, Lysaro?
That was when Tiberius spoke up.
He took his time, voice calm. "Lysaro, he's clearly looking down on us… Think about it—he just issued you a challenge. You're going to let him walk all over your father's head?"
The words were pure gasoline, but Lysaro didn't notice. The grudge between House Rogare and House Ferrero ran deep. To him, Tiberius wasn't stirring shit—he was picking a side.
Tiberius kept going, sounding both worried and righteously angry. "Young Master Lysaro, Mario's move is obviously meant to humiliate you and House Rogare in front of everyone. If his 'Golden Shield Company' steals the show, what will people say? They'll think the Ferreros are the real military power of Lys, while the Rogares… well, our achievements will be forgotten. Lord Lysandro won't look very strong in the Triarch's Council."
"But…" Tiberius frowned at exactly the right moment. "Why suddenly form a mercenary company? Gastor Ferrero would never let his son actually go to the front lines. Can any of you explain what's really going on?"
One of the merchant sons jumped in immediately. "Tiberius, you're a foreigner, so you wouldn't know. The Triarch's Council is organizing a 'New Rising Mercenary Companies Tournament'—supposedly to 'select elites and boost morale.' Really it's just an excuse for us rich young lords to blow money and show off. It also ties into our fathers' faces in the Council and the upcoming election for Chief Administrator."
Another added, "Exactly. The Chief Administrator seat is a big stepping stone toward First Triarch. Whoever puts on the best show—meaning whoever's mercenary company looks the richest and most impressive—gives their father extra 'martial' talking points and political achievements. More money means better-equipped troops, which looks stronger. That's why Mario's rushing to form the Golden Shield. His upstart father wants to prove to his allies: 'House Ferrero still has mountains of gold. Our wealth and power are unmatched!'"
"I see!" Tiberius put on a perfect "sudden realization" face. "So this isn't just petty rivalry—it's a political fight that could decide Lord Lysandro's future power!"
[Perfect. Intel collected.] Tiberius thought with quiet glee. [A rich-kid "play house" tournament that actually decides real power and huge money flows. This is literally made for me—an escape route!]
He turned straight to Lysaro.
"Lysaro, your father Lysandro has been kind to me. Without him there would be no 'Lightning Kid' Tiberius Mord. So if you trust me, give me the authority and the gold—I'll train a company for you and crush Mario Ferrero's little show!"
"Tiberius…" Lysaro hesitated.
He knew his friend was an excellent warrior—killed Jon Starr with a spear, great at hunting and fishing, and sharp as a razor. The Bloodwave Cape case and the story-crafting proved Tiberius was brilliant.
But… could he actually train soldiers?
"Tiberius, it's not that I doubt your courage or skill—you really did kill Jon Starr. And I don't doubt your brains. It's just…" Lysaro hesitated, then said, "Training a company that can actually fight and win tournaments takes experience—formations, commands, coordination… Are you sure you can do that?"
He finished with, "You've never actually trained mercenaries before. I think I should hire an experienced captain. Of course—you'll be his second-in-command! No matter what, in that company you'll be the undisputed number two!"
Tiberius smiled politely on the outside.
Inside, his mind was already racing ten steps ahead.
Second-in-command? Perfect. That's exactly where I want to be.