"First, the male slaves…"
"Oi, Vito, what the fuck is this?" Spear-Captain Tom couldn't hold it in any longer. "I didn't come here for a headcount! Give us the good stuff! My 'long spear' is already starving!"
"Piss off, Old Tom. All you ever think about is your dick. I heard in the Perfumed Garden you lasted ten breaths on those dancers' bellies before you handed over the coin and tapped out!" Vito shot back. "Shut your hole—this is serious business!"
"First, by household count we've got roughly three hundred families—that's fourteen to fifteen hundred slaves, all ours now!"
"Oh-ho!" The officers cheered.
"That's the raw headcount. Now for the part you animals actually care about!" Vito winked at the crowd. "Women! Bottom line: I walked the place and counted about twenty who'll make your cocks stand at attention. Some young, some already had kids, but every single one is either fresh-faced and juicy or still carrying that mature, fuckable glow. The captain's already moved all of them into the main villa."
"Oh, and one more thing—there's a dancer named Lina. Waist like a fucking snake, knows how to blow… uh, the flute. Real good at it." He waggled his eyebrows and got exactly the dirty laughter he wanted. "I personally tested her for you lot. Yeah, she's very skilled with her mouth. I'd stake my crossbow on it."
"Oh-ho!" Another wave of cheers. "Vito, you shameless bastard, sneaking the first taste!"
"Quiet!" Jules slammed the flat of his longsword against the ground. "You sound like a pack of bandits, not the White Company!"
The room settled fast, but the hungry glances flying between the men said everything.
They weren't just excited about the women. Fifteen hundred slaves was damn near the size of a proper Westerosi barony.
After years riding with Jules they'd always eaten well and never been short-changed, but this… this was real wealth. Enough to feed every brother for life.
"Keep going, Vito," Jules ordered once the noise died down.
"But—like the captain already said—same rules as always. Don't kill anyone, don't fuck up work. And these girls don't just serve you smelly old bastards. If we get important guests, they'll be expected to entertain at night too." Vito added, "The rest of the slave women mostly work the fields and looms. We've got about ten wet-nurses and five midwives—actually useful. You lot ever settle down and start popping out kids, they'll come in handy."
"Alright, you degenerates, now the real numbers." Vito tapped the parchment. "First off, don't imagine some milk-and-honey paradise. The soil's average at best. Big plot, sure, but a lot of it is undeveloped slopes, woodland, and rocky shoreline."
"I did the math. Actual arable land ready for grain… about eight hundred mu. Another two hundred mu of olive groves, but most of the trees are still young—barely starting to fruit. Forget sitting under them waiting for oil money. Flax fields, though? Plenty, and the stuff's growing like crazy. If we clear more slope land we'll be drowning in linseed oil. Down by the foot of the hill there's a seventy-acre vineyard. Not huge, but enough sour wine to keep you drunkards happy till the next nameday—though it'll make your dicks go numb."
"Besides that," Vito kept reading, "we've got a pottery workshop, a smithy, a couple carpenters, fishermen, hunters, and a small quarry—mostly limestone, but good building stone too. Don't expect to get rich selling any of it. Everything except the stone is basically for the estate's own use—maybe a little extra to sell on the side."
"Most important: all three estates are connected, and we've got a proper dock. Not massive, but big enough for our longships and a few merchant vessels. Lysandro didn't cheap out—he threw in the original dock, three small oar-sailors for grain runs, and a handful of fishing skiffs."
"So yeah, you lucky bastards—we're ship-owners now too!"
Low whistles and excited murmurs rippled through the tent.
This haul was way bigger than any of them had expected.
"Don't get too excited yet, brothers—there's more good news!" Vito continued.
"One dye workshop, one pawn-shop storefront, and one olive-oil stall." Vito read it out calmly, then looked up at the men.
"All of it—ours now."
The tent exploded.
The roar of cheers and excited shouting nearly lifted the canvas roof.
These were immediate money-makers. Land took a whole season to pay off, but workshops and shops started spitting coin the second you opened the doors.
"Dye workshop! That's one of Lys's signature businesses!"
"Pawn shop! Haha, no more getting screwed by those bloodsuckers when we fence loot! That's how the Black Lance Company got rich—they had their own pawn shop and never took a haircut on their spoils!"
"Olive-oil stall! We can sell our own estate oil straight to the public—perfect!"
The officers were slapping each other on the back, already dreaming about the future.
"Vito, how much do those shops pull in per quarter?" Old Tom couldn't wait. "Eighty… no, can we count on a hundred gold coins every three months? I don't ask for much—just enough that in the slow season the brothers don't have to hire out as caravan guards to buy bread!"
"Tch, look at you, Old Tom—so little ambition!" Vito snorted, then held up two fingers. "Properly run, those three city businesses bring in over two hundred real gold coins per quarter."
"Two hundred? You serious?"
"Seven gods… no more dragging wagons or humping cargo in the off-season!"
The number blew every expectation out of the water. They'd figured eighty gold would be enough to keep the whole company eating meat every day and maybe get laid once in a while. Two hundred? That meant even without a single contract the White Company could cover wages, maintain gear, and still have fat left over to live better.
"Looks like my 'long spear' never has to take a break again!" Old Tom thrust his hips with a filthy grin.
"Of course, that's if we run them right!" Vito warned quickly. "The olive-oil stall needs more oil from our groves, the flax-seed oil has to move, the pawn shop needs new clerks and appraisers, and the dye workshop needs proper management. All of it has to be handled or the gold stops flowing."
But nobody was listening to the fine print anymore. Every man in the tent had only one number burned into his brain:
Two hundred gold coins every quarter.
After a long moment of pure joy, Red-Hair Garvin finally pushed through the crowd and asked the question on everyone's mind.
"Captain, one last thing—"
He looked straight at Jules.
"Is this estate, the dye workshop, the pawn shop, and the olive-oil stall… yours personally, or does it all go on the White Company books?"