"Father, they're not here for the bounty." Lysaro handed over the letter. "They asked me to give you this… and they said…"
"Spit it out!" Lysandro snapped, patience gone.
"They said they've brought exactly what you want."
"…Who delivered it?"
"Captain Vito Coppola of the White Company crossbow troop, and Quartermaster Tiberius Mord."
Lysandro's frown deepened at the names.
Vito he knew—led the crossbows, solid enough.
But Quartermaster Tiberius Mord…?
"Tiberius, your uncle never put you in charge of logistics," Vito warned while they waited in the side courtyard. "Quartermaster is a total lie."
"I know. I made it up on the spot."
"Why?"
Vito was genuinely curious. The kid had never cared about titles. The old Tiberius only ever wanted to earn fame with spear and steel.
"Because on paper, at least, I need to look like your equal. How else am I supposed to convince him?" Tiberius explained. "To a man like Lysandro, a twelve-year-old kid's words and a 'White Company Quartermaster's' words hit completely different—even if he doesn't do the strict Westerosi rank thing."
"Tiberius."
"Yeah?"
Vito looked down at him, half-mocking, half-serious.
"No matter how smart you sound today, you're still a twelve-year-old kid."
"And you were right—Lysandro really does have a grudge against the White Company. Even though we just saved his damn estate from the Ironborn."
Then Vito couldn't help himself. He leaned in and whispered,
"You sure you didn't fuck the Crone in your dreams while you were out cold?"
"Vito."
"Present."
"In my dream the Warrior gave you martial virtue and fighting skills."
"Can I keep my virginity then? So next time I pass out, the Maiden shows up and fills me with innocence and purity."
"I'll teach her what real purity and loyalty feel like!"
They were still bickering when Lysaro returned.
"Tiberius, Captain Vito—my father will see you now."
Both men instantly straightened, wiping the grins off their faces and putting on their most solemn sellsword expressions.
"White Company Quartermaster Tiberius Mord… ha!" Lysandro snorted the moment he finished the letter. "The little shit actually gave himself a fancy title."
He had seen the boy wake up just that afternoon.
Quartermaster? Jules would have to be insane to put a twelve-year-old in charge of anything.
Still… the kid had killed an Ironborn at twelve. That took balls.
If things went well, this boy might actually grow into the next legend. Like his uncle "the Honorable" Jules.
"My lord." Tiberius and Vito bowed deeply the second they stepped into the private wing, then plastered on their brightest smiles.
Big client. Stay humble.
"Tiberius, I'm afraid I have other plans tonight. I won't be attending your little victory feast," Lysandro said. His voice was polite, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that told guests they had overstayed their welcome.
"And this nonsense about 'bringing me what I want'?" His voice dropped to a growl. "Your uncle 'the Honorable' Jules already refused me. You and Vito here heard every word. He chose his precious reputation over helping me find my daughter!"
Lysaro stood silently beside his father, quietly sweating for Tiberius.
He had never seen his father lose control like this in front of outsiders.
[Tiberius, you'd better have a damn good answer,] Lysaro thought. [This level of rage is rare.]
"My lord, what I've brought is exactly what you want," Tiberius said, perfectly courteous. "Please allow me to explain."
Lysandro waved for the steward to bring an hourglass.
"Three minutes. After that I'm meeting the other company captains."
It was a neat little trap: he could be meeting them about his daughter… or about hiring them instead of the White Company.
Fail to convince him in three minutes and they'd be sent packing—with the very real risk that the biggest client in Lys would never sign with them again.
"First question, my lord: what do you believe is the difference between humans and animals?"
Lysaro's brows almost tied themselves in a knot.
Three minutes and you're asking my father a philosophy question?
The man spent his life with ledgers, slave rolls, and the guest list for the Perfumed Garden—he barely touched real books.
"More desires?" Lysandro answered, frowning.
"Extremely close, my lord!" Tiberius kept that gentle, boyish smile. His soft black curls and lingering baby fat somehow melted the banker's hostility without him even realizing it.
"Dignity, my lord. The desire for dignity is what separates men from beasts."
"The White Company just drove off the Ironborn who tried to raid your estate. Tonight's feast is in celebration of that victory."
"I already paid your uncle enough gold," Lysandro sneered. "Besides, what possible reason would I have to attend a sellsword banquet? Your men want whores and wine. I'm just an old man."
"They defended your lands and received your coin—that is fair. It was part of the contract, and the White Company never breaks its word."
"But my lord, sellswords want more than gold. They also crave honor and respect."
"Especially we Westerosi. We've always valued honor over coin more than Essosi do. Look at my uncle 'the Honorable' Jules—he took three arrows to the chest rather than retreat, because the contract had to be fulfilled."
"If you appear at the feast tonight, the men will feel truly honored. Of course they want your gold—you're generous. Right now every soldier in the White Company is calling you 'the Generous' Rogare."
"But if they can also dine at the same table as the richest man in Lys, swap stories with you… they will be overjoyed."
"Still, you are sellswords," Lysandro cut in.
"We are the White Company, my lord," Tiberius corrected gently. "A company that lives and dies by honor and credit. Our captain is 'the Honorable' Jules. That makes us different from every other band of sellswords."
Lysandro fell silent. That much was true.
Tiberius pressed the advantage.
"All you need to do is spend half an hour at the feast. Pat a few young warriors on the shoulder, praise their courage and loyalty. In return you will win the absolute devotion of the entire White Company."
"When the war with Volantis comes—and it is coming—those same men you inspired will fight to the last drop of blood to protect your estates, your slaves, and your fortune."
"Because you, great Lord Lysandro, treated every man in the White Company as a brave warrior, not a cheap sword for hire."
"And the bards will sing of 'Generous Lysandro, friend and protector of heroes.'"
"You will build a legendary name among every sellsword in Essos. They will beg to fight under your banner."
At the climax, Tiberius dropped to one knee, right hand over his heart, eyes clear and shining with nothing but youthful sincerity.
"As for us—the White Company!"
"If you truly grace our feast tonight and toast our courage… then in our eyes there is only one sun in the sky. And that sun is you, Lord Lysandro Rogare."