Tiberius slid three silver cups filled with deep-red wine across the table, then leaned back in his chair. His eyes moved over the three men tearing into roast lamb, chicken soup, and seared fish fillets. Candlelight danced across his young face, but there wasn't a trace of childish softness left in it.
Damn, Jules really hit the jackpot with this nephew, Habro thought, staring at Tiberius's calm, confident expression. A twelve-year-old who'd already won a real battle and knew how to lead? It still felt like something out of a tavern tall tale.
"All right, friends," Tiberius said, warmth in his voice exactly where it needed to be. "I respect your talent. But more than that—" he paused, the corner of his mouth curving in quiet understanding "—I respect your brains and your eyes. You chose the Lightning Company. You chose me. That means you chose the future."
He turned first to the weathered Habro.
"Brother Habro, I know what's eating at you. Death benefits, back pay, and that fat loan hanging over your head. Plus your patron's still trapped inside Three-Tax Gate, so the final installment is probably gone. Am I right?"
Habro nodded, embarrassed but honest. He was on the edge of bankruptcy—the ugly kind. Merchants had goods to pawn, nobles had land and slaves. A mercenary's only collateral was his sword arm, and that didn't sell for much once you were broke.
Tiberius clapped once. Two servants carried in a heavy wooden chest and set it down with a solid thump.
"Inside are one thousand Lysene gold coins—fresh-minted, full weight. Take it. Pay the families of your fallen men first, then settle the rest of the wages you owe."
When the lid opened, the golden gleam lit Tiberius's smiling eyes and the sudden tears in Habro's.
"As for your personal debts… stick with me and you won't come out behind. This war between the Three Daughters and Volantis still has a long way to run."
Perfect, Tiberius thought, watching the relief flood Habro's face. Debt collectors and desperate soldiers can break any commander.
Of course Tiberius had his own angle: he wasn't clearing Habro's debts outright. That meant Habro would keep fighting for him, and the Volantene spoils would eventually wipe the slate clean. In short, Habro wasn't just joining the Lightning Company—he was tying his future to Tiberius's orders.
Next, Tiberius looked at the straight-backed Demetrius.
"Demetrius, I know the Myr pay scale: centurion's wage plus the land grant you're supposed to get after retirement." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, nodding toward the camp outside. "I'm giving you thousand-man commander pay—you've earned it. I also know that with your record and Myr's current shortage of mid-level officers, you'd go back as a thousand-man anyway. As for the land—" he made a writing motion with his hand "—I'm not as stingy as the Myr. You don't have to wait until retirement. Pick any plot you like when the war ends, bring me the deed, and I'll pay for it."
Demetrius's tight jaw softened. He raised his cup in a solemn toast. "To your recognition."
Tiberius relaxed inside. Good. Hook set.
For a man like Demetrius, respect and a stable future mattered more than pure gold. He was regular army through and through. Stability was his soft spot.
Finally Tiberius turned to the fidgeting Lysapo, who was nervously rubbing his hands together.
"We all know quartermaster is a sweet post," Tiberius said calmly. "Moving supplies, handling accounts… the grease on your fingers can get pretty thick."
Lysapo almost jumped out of his chair. Before he could protest, Tiberius raised a hand, stopping him with an understanding smile.
"Anyone handling that much material is going to get a little shine on their fingers. It's human. I'm not stupid."
"Your pay goes up twenty-five percent from your old rate. And—" he met Lysapo's flickering gaze "—I'll allow you a cut, as long as the quality stays good. Shoddy armor kills my soldiers. Bad grain starts riots. Want to keep skimming? Fine. But first make sure the company stays alive—and stays strong. If you ever let the army down…"
Tiberius set his cup down without finishing the sentence. Lysapo was already sweating.
For Lysapo, that blunt deal hit harder than any lecture on honor.
After the three men had sworn their loyalty oaths, Tiberius raised his cup. Candlelight rippled along the rim as he smiled at them.
"Gentlemen, a toast to wise choices. Because—" his smile sharpened "—only smart men get to sit at this table."
---
When the three had eaten and drunk their fill, Tiberius walked them out.
The tent flap fell shut behind them, cutting off the lamplight and the smell of wine, sealing away the heady world of promises and gold.
Outside under the night sky, the three men stopped without a word, needing a moment to adjust to the cool air and the storm still raging inside their chests.
Habro moved first. He wiped his face hard, blew out a long breath that turned to white mist in the chill.
"Fuck…" he muttered, staring at the dark sky. "I've gambled my whole life, but this one… my palms are still sweating!" He clenched his fists, as if to prove it was real.
"One thousand gold coins! Didn't even blink! This kid—no, our captain—has real balls and real money!" His scarred face split into a fierce grin. "Following a man like that, at least I won't worry about getting stiffed after the fight or tossed aside like trash. Worth it!"
Demetrius was quieter. He stood ramrod straight, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth and the shine in his eyes gave him away. He didn't look back at the tent. He stared at the distant campfires—his new soldiers.
"Thousand-man pay… land…" he whispered the words like they were fragile. For a Myr officer with no connections, those had once been impossible dreams.
He turned to Habro and Lysapo, voice steady again but full of new resolve. "He gave us dignity and a future. We repay him with absolute loyalty and victory. From today there is no more Myr officer Demetrius—only Lightning Company Demetrius." He thumped his fist against his chest.
"Let that idiot Mitridas go to hell. I've found a commander worth following!"
Lysapo looked the most shaken. He kept rubbing his fingers, as if still feeling phantom grease. Sweat beaded on his temples—nerves, relief, and excitement all at once.
"He… he actually allowed…" he murmured, face stunned.
"He knew everything. Saw clearer than I did myself…" Being read so completely sent a chill down his neck, but the permission that followed felt like a pardon, freeing him from both moral chains and real-world traps.
"Twenty-five percent raise… and… that tolerated cut…" He started calculating under his breath, eyes shifting from panic to sharp focus, then to something close to zeal. "Just do the job right… yes, do it right!" He clutched the new rules like a lifeline.
Compared to Habro's blunt relief and Demetrius's steadfast loyalty, Lysapo felt a strange new security: a safe space inside strict boundaries, and a clear road to use his "talents" openly.
After all, he'd rather work for a commander who openly tolerated the grease than for the ones who preached honesty, took their cut in secret, then fed the quartermaster to the wolves when things went wrong.
The three men looked at each other. No more words needed. Habro clapped Lysapo on his still-stiff shoulder. Demetrius gave him a small nod.
One driven by money and brotherhood, one by honor and trust, one by profit and safety—different reasons, same young leader, same chariot now rolling forward.
---
The moment the tent flap dropped, Tiberius's straight spine collapsed like someone had cut the strings. He slid halfway down the chair, head resting against the leather backrest, and let out a long breath. Exhaustion finally showed at the corners of his eyes.
Fuck me, I'm only twelve years old and I just bought three veteran hardasses who all have their own agendas and definitely won't obey me completely! Seven gods, what kind of pressure-cooker bullshit is this?
After everything he'd been through, the confused kid who first woke up in Essos was long gone. In his place stood a cold-blooded, decisive commander.
It still felt like a dream sometimes.
Am I actually built for this?
"Uncle…" Tiberius looked up as Jules stepped in. "Did I do all right?"
Jules walked out of the shadows, armor plates whispering. He stopped beside his nephew and laid a callused hand on the boy's narrow shoulder.
"More than all right!" Jules's normally hard voice was thick with pride. "You made three old campaigners sit in front of a twelve-year-old and willingly offer their swords and their loyalty. At your age I wouldn't have dared dream of that."
Tiberius grinned. "I acted the part pretty well, right? I think I outdid the Lysene actresses and courtesans."
Jules didn't answer right away. He poured a cup of plain water and slid it over, then glanced at the three empty silver cups before looking back at Tiberius.
"It wasn't acting," Jules said, voice steady as bedrock. "Remember this, kid—when you sit in the commander's chair, 'acting' becomes 'being.' Never let anyone doubt your authority, and never let them see weakness. Taming men is like taming horses. The horse tests the new rider. Men do the same. Show softness and they push. Show strength and self-interest, and they fold."
He patted Tiberius on the back.
"Kid, remember how this feels right now—the thrill of breaking a wild horse and the burn of the reins cutting into your palms. That's what command is. You've still got a lot to learn."
"Tired? Good. Handling hearts wears you out more than swinging a sword. But remember this feeling. That's the price of growing."
"Uncle… you ever try that speech on Lady Johanna Swann?" Tiberius deadpanned.
"When you lecture me it sounds so inspiring my blood catches fire. But when you talk to her, it's like you're trying to train a female general! Who discusses battle formations and logistics on a date?"
"Cough… she seemed interested…"
"That's because she's in love! Otherwise what lady wants to hear military theory over wine?"
"Exactly—proves my charm works!" Jules said, completely serious.
"Ugh…" Tiberius slumped even lower, letting out a long, theatrical sigh.
He didn't really want to be a "commander." His real goal was simple: stay alive, and live well.
But right now a different thought flickered through his mind:
I wonder how many wild horses these reins can break?