The campfire crackled in the night, throwing flickering light across Lysandro Rogare's uneasy face. When no one was looking, he slipped over to Tiberius and pressed a sealed letter into his hand, voice barely above a whisper.
"Tiberius, you need to know this." His eyes darted around the camp. "Find a moment to warn Captain Jules… back in Lys, the Governor's Council is getting very unhappy with the 'Trustworthy' and the White Company."
"What's their problem?" Tiberius frowned. "We just won a real battle. We're holding the Flank Corridor solid. What more do they want? It's not like they expect us to kick the Volantenes all the way back across the Disputed River, is it?"
"Besides, if we hadn't been here, the Myr and Tyroshi survivors from Three-Tax Gate would've been ground into paste by Volantene super-heavy cavalry. Have the Lysene lords lost their minds?"
True enough. A few days earlier they had escorted the battered remnants fleeing Three-Tax Gate back into the core of the Flank Corridor.
Three-Tax Gate had finally fallen. The entire left bank of the Disputed River—Rhaesh—was now firmly in Volantene hands.
The only silver lining was that the Tyroshi-Myr relief force hadn't been completely wiped out. Their main strength had been saved, which at least let the Myr and Tyroshi governors breathe a little easier.
"Anyway, Governor Lysandro would never agree to that, right?" Tiberius asked, puzzled. "He's been on the front line. He knows better than anyone that until the next wave of mercenaries arrives, any reckless offensive is suicide. We should be holding the Flank Corridor, using our solid defenses and rear supplies to bleed the Volantenes, wait for the right moment, and blunt their spearhead."
Lysandro's face twisted even more.
"Don't even start. My father's prestige is sky-high right now. In theory the Rogare family should be running Lys. But because of his injury he can't seize full military and political power immediately. The Administrator title sounds all-powerful, but he's still blocked at every turn. Right now he's pushing hard to mobilize Lysene citizens from the home island into the Flank Corridor defenses and the colonial garrisons."
"I bet that's going over like a lead balloon," Tiberius muttered, no sympathy in his voice. He saw exactly what Lysandro Senior was doing.
"Instead of conscripting debt-ridden merchants who've never held a spear in their lives, your father and the other governors are really just trying to squeeze gold out of the middle and upper classes. Am I wrong?"
"How did you know?" Lysandro looked genuinely shocked.
He knew his father's second proposal was selling "exemption certificates"—a polite way to make rich families pay up to hire more mercenaries or beg Westerosi knights to join the fight.
Tiberius thought privately: Seriously expecting those soft, calculating, debt-saddled Lysene citizens to fight? Seven gods, any frontline commander who sees those "recruits" will probably have a stroke.
"Actually, the real killer is something else…" Lysandro lowered his voice even more.
"My father says the pressure on the Lysene governors is insane. The Tyroshi and Myr are terrified. They don't even want to hold the Flank Corridor anymore. They're demanding Lys make the sacrifice!"
"Father is still fighting it, trying to keep those voices down, but…" Lysandro gave him the look that said you know how this goes.
"But if we refuse to abandon the entire Flank Corridor and still want Myr and Tyrosh support, it means we have to deliver a big strategic victory—fast. Ideally recapture Three-Tax Gate, retake Watchfort, push on to Swordbreak Fort, then ride the current down to the delta. With sea and land forces working together we seize New Volantis Port and the Tax-Farmer's Isle. Then we parade Marcus's head and the captured Tiger Cloak banners in front of our allies, right?" Tiberius gave a bitter laugh. "Lysandro, that's insane. Either you pray the Warrior himself comes down from heaven, or you hope a meteor lands square in the Volantene command tent!"
Lysandro looked embarrassed but kept going. "The governors' attitude is simple: the White Company is now one of the few allied units still at full strength with an intact field force. We're too visible. If the Council orders us into battle, what then?"
He took a deep breath and spoke the words that mattered most. "Lys needs to see results. They need a victory that shuts everyone up. Not another small tactical win like Stone Crow Town. A real, honest-to-gods strategic victory. In short," he stared straight into Tiberius's eyes, "we have to show them victory doesn't have to come at the cost of abandoning Lysene colonies. We have to break this strategic deadlock!"
Tiberius weighed the heavy letter in his hand, then found Jules bent over the map, brow furrowed. Combining Lysandro's warning with his own read of the situation, he laid out an extremely bold plan.
"Uncle, we can't just sit here and wait to die," Tiberius said bluntly. "The message from Lys is crystal clear: if we don't deliver a major strategic victory on the Flank Corridor immediately, our 'allies' Tyrosh and Myr will cut off all support. They'll 'advise' Lys to abandon the corridor and every colony in the Disputed Lands and start the so-called scorched-earth retreat."
"And when that happens, we'll be the ones holding the bag! Lysene governors don't believe in gratitude. They won't care about our past achievements—they'll pin the entire loss of the corridor and the destruction of Lys's colonies on us. We'll be the scapegoats for Mitridas and their own cowardice!"
Jules's head snapped up, eyes bloodshot. He growled, "I know we can't sit still. We can't count on the Volantenes politely smashing themselves against our walls. But what the hell can we do?! Losing Rhaesh already cut off our legs! We're in full retreat! We're short on fresh troops to plug the line and we've got no room to maneuver!"
He gave a cold, humorless laugh.
"And those Lysene governors are the stupidest of the stupid, the absolute worst! They're ready to throw away a perfectly good defensive position just because our 'allies' won't help? When I heard that I wanted to shove Vito's crossbow down their shit-spewing mouths!"
After Jules finished venting, he slumped back down, exhausted.
"But if we actually listen to that Myr idiot Mitridas and do this 'strategic repositioning'—" he mimicked the governors' pompous tone "—and fall all the way back to Lys… hmph. The lords might not make me drink the 'Tears of Lys' for a dignified exit. But from then on, 'Jules the Trustworthy' and the White Company will never hold their heads up again in the Essos mercenary world. The blame for losing the Flank Corridor will land on me—not on the people who actually caused it!"
Tiberius waited until Jules had blown off steam, then calmly stepped to the map. His finger didn't point at the bloody stalemate in Rhaesh. Instead it swept north and stabbed hard at a stretch of the upper Disputed River.
"Uncle, yes—we stay here and we're dead, either pushed forward to die by Mitridas's stupid orders or made the scapegoat by Lys. If we retreat, they'll neatly hang the loss of the corridor on us. So my suggestion is—go north!"
Jules's brows knotted like twisted ropes.
"North?"
Yes. North.
The upper reaches of the Disputed River were high plateau country. Its source, the Lake of Dispute, shared the same highland hills with the Lake of Myr—one river flowed eventually to the Summer Sea, the other to the Bay of Myr.
Tiberius spoke faster. "We march along the west side of the Broken Arm Mountains, take the main road, travel by night, and strike straight for the upper fords!" He met Jules's eyes. "It's our only chance! Stay here and we're either cannon fodder for Mitridas or the fall guys for Lys. North gives us the most freedom!"
He laid it out. "Besides, the upper region isn't the main battlefield. Volantis won't have many troops there. Even if there's a garrison, it'll be small. The terrain is rough, the fords are poor—nowhere near as good as downstream. Not suitable for large formations, war elephants, or heavy cavalry. Going north lets us escape the death trap, avoids being used as meat shields, and shuts the Lysene mouths that call us 'passive'!"
His eyes shone with risk and ambition. "This is an opportunity, Uncle! A chance to seize the initiative, break out of the death game they've set for us, and maybe… win real glory!"
Jules stared at the map, at the spot Tiberius had marked on the upper river. His face was grave. He didn't agree at once. Slowly he spoke, voice low.
"But… kid, think this through. The risk is enormous. What if—what if Marcus isn't as greedy or short-sighted as you think? What if he isn't blinded by victory and plunder? Instead of throwing everything west at the corridor, he pretends to advance, actually solidifies his lines, then secretly sends his main force north, sweeps the entire Rhaesh region, seizes every ford…"
He looked up, eyes sharp as a hawk. "Then our lone army deep in the north becomes a turtle in a jar—no escape, completely surrounded and crushed by overwhelming force!"
Tiberius held his uncle's gaze without flinching. Instead his confidence only grew.
"It won't happen, Uncle!" His voice was rock-solid.
He stepped to the map again and slammed his finger down on the colonial territories behind the Flank Corridor, almost reaching the Stepstones coastline. His tone carried the weight of history.
"Marcus can't afford to be cautious. If he can break through the Flank Corridor in one push… then the Volantene legions might actually set foot on the shores of the Stepstones! Because after the corridor there are no more natural barriers left!"
"This is the moment Volantis has dreamed of since the Conquest Wars—wipe the Three Daughters off the map, make Lys, Tyrosh, Myr… every splintered city-state kneel once more at the feet of the eldest daughter of Old Valyria!"
"The last time they failed, it was because Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons stopped them. But this time…" Tiberius spread his hands, voice like iron.
"…there are no dragons! This is a once-in-a-thousand-years chance to write their names in the history books forever. He will not pass it up! He will throw his main force west at the Flank Corridor, break the line, and pour into the entire colonial heartland of the Three Daughters!"
Finally he pointed again at the upper river region. "So that's where we go! Better than staying here as doomed cannon fodder or carrying out suicidal counter-attacks. North, into the weak spot of the enemy line, gives us the best chance to survive, to win, and to control our own fate!"
Jules stared at the map for a long time, then at his nephew—eyes burning, analysis razor-sharp.
The tent fell into heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of torches and the distant footsteps of night patrols.
At last Jules drew a deep breath. The old campaigner's eyes flashed with decision. He slowly raised his hand and slammed it down on the map, right on the upper Disputed River.
"…Pass the word," his voice was hoarse but iron-hard. "Whole army prepare in secret. Discard all non-essential baggage. Hand the line over to other units. We… are marching north!"