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"Kid, what the hell are you doing?" Jules stared at his nephew like he'd grown a second head. "You already killed the prisoners and cost everyone their ransoms. Now you're banning looting too?"
He couldn't wrap his mind around the "Five Articles" Tiberius had just laid down.
"It's simple, Uncle," Tiberius said confidently. "This way we make more money."
"If you trust me, I can have ten thousand gold coins ready this afternoon to pay the troops. Letting them run wild and loot everything is just stupid and inefficient."
"You sure about that, kid?" Jules still looked skeptical. "Divvying up plunder isn't easier than fighting a battle. This is about whether they'll still follow you."
"I know, Uncle. Just trust me once. If it flops, we go back to the old rules—no harm done." Tiberius shrugged.
So when the mercenaries howled and charged toward the city gates ready for the traditional three-day sack—burn, rape, steal everything in sight—a single cold order stopped them dead.
The order came from Tiberius Mord, backed by the disciplined ranks of the Lightning Company and the White Company veterans.
"The Five Articles!" Tiberius's voice rang out through the criers.
"One—no looting private homes!
Two—no killing without cause!
Three—no arson!
Four—no rape!
Five—no breaking into noble mansions or temples!"
"The fuck?!" a scar-faced mercenary captain roared. "We won the damn battle! This is our due! You already killed the prisoners—I swallowed that—but now you're telling us we can't loot either?!"
Tiberius didn't even bother answering him personally. Old Tom simply raised his spear. Vito cocked his crossbow and aimed it straight at the man's skull.
Behind Tiberius, the much larger, perfectly formed spear blocks and crossbowmen took one synchronized step forward. The sheer killing intent made the scar-faced captain's face twitch. He muttered curses and backed off.
"You're only inside this city because my uncle and I brought you here," Tiberius said coldly. "So shut your mouths. If you don't, I don't mind adding your heads to the ones already on the walls."
Of course Tiberius wasn't trying to play saint. His method was simply colder and far more efficient.
He didn't let the army scatter like locusts into every house. Instead he sent troops to seize the city granaries, treasuries, official buildings, and every wealthy family's estate.
Then, under the polite name of "war reparations," the systematic stripping began.
Squads of soldiers, assisted by terrified local clerks and scholars (invited at sword-point and paid in gold), inventoried every sack of grain, barrel of wine, bolt of cloth, and ingot of metal. Chests of gold and silver were carried out by the wagonload.
For the rich nobles, soldiers "politely" demanded "protection taxes" with blades at their throats. The prices were sky-high, but Tiberius had zero sympathy for bloodsuckers. He simply told his men to keep the knives ready until the bills were paid.
The whole operation ran like a ruthless business takeover instead of a traditional sack.
Tiberius himself couldn't read much, but he leaned hard on the forced scholars and accountants to make sure every single coin and asset was recorded. Maximum profit, zero waste.
Lysandro and Lysapo—the two logistics and valuation geniuses—were practically vibrating with joy. Their job was the hardest, but they looked like kids in a candy store.
The only one quietly grumbling was Vito. Between calculating supplies in the morning and breaking up near-brawls in the afternoon, the old crossbowman was run ragged.
When the first batch of tallied loot and gold lists finally landed in front of them, even Jules went speechless.
"Ten… ten thousand gold coins?!" he stammered. "And that's just the first wave?! Kid, how the hell did you squeeze this much out of them?"
"Simple, Uncle." Tiberius tossed him a heavy pouch of gold. "I only rob the rich. The poor have nothing worth taking, and there's way too many of them. Steal their last copper and sack of wheat and they'll riot eventually."
"Plus, the locals know the city better than we ever could. Give them a few gold pieces and a silk robe and they'll happily lead us straight to every fat merchant's house in town."
"As for the money—that's exactly why I made the clerks and scholars work for us first. They know who the real big fish are, who owns what estates, whose businesses are booming, and who's all show. With their help, we know Broken Spear City better than the damn mayor."
"Cough… fair point, Tiberius," Lysandro said, sliding the parchment and wine cup aside. "But I still don't get the Five Articles. The victors get to do whatever they want to the defeated, right?"
"Yes, Lysandro, the victors can do whatever they want," Tiberius answered calmly. "But if it hurts the victors themselves, then it's better not to."
"How does this hurt us?" Lysandro looked genuinely confused. "Letting the men loot after victory is tradition—it's part of the big promise we made them."
"Simple. The backbone of the Lightning Company is still those three hundred slave-soldiers I started with. They're the ones who keep the whole machine running."
"I spent years turning them into a disciplined force that obeys only the top command—that's us. But the second I let them pick up the habits of regular mercenaries—random looting, rape, drinking themselves stupid—they stop being an army I can control."
"If I lose control of those core troops, do you really think Habro, Demetrius, and the rest will keep listening to me?"
"Of course not! The moment they make enough money or get pissed at me over something small, they'll bail. And then the Lightning Company becomes just another third-rate mercenary band—same as the scum we're stuck with right now."
"An army is like training dogs, Lysandro," Tiberius finished. "You don't let them feed themselves. Every scrap of loot has to come through your hand first so they understand the only place money and food ever come from… is you."
During the "tax collection," Tiberius also quietly ordered his men to grab something special: books and music scrolls.
"Oh right!" Lysandro suddenly perked up, eyes twinkling. "Captain Jules, Tiberius and I prepared a little gift for you."
A squad of guards hauled in heavy chests full of books and elegant music rolls.
Jules stared at them, baffled. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this crap? Can't eat it, can't wear it—too stiff even to wipe my ass with!"
Tiberius kept a straight face. "Lady Johanna will like them. She's well-educated. These will keep her entertained."
Jules froze for a second, mouth half-open, then thought about the quiet blonde girl currently helping manage records back at camp. In the end he just scratched his nose and walked away without another word.
Whenever Johanna Swann came up, the hard-as-nails captain always seemed to… lose his edge.
Yes, Johanna Swann was with them. Both Tiberius and Jules had tried to leave her safe on Lys, but the girl was far more stubborn than they expected. She'd insisted on marching with the White Company.
As Vito put it: "One sentence from her and the boss was done for."
Tiberius had to admit it was useful having another person who actually knew numbers.
Inside a requisitioned luxury manor in Broken Spear City, Lysandro Rogare yawned, still in a loose silk robe, hair messy from last night's excess. He stepped out onto the second-floor balcony and saw Tiberius standing there, staring into the distance, a half-opened letter in his hand and a faint frown on his face.
Lysandro rubbed his temples and wandered over, voice lazy. "Up early, Tiberius? So where are we heading next?" He was still riding the high of their northern victory.
Tiberius didn't turn around. He simply handed over the letter, voice carrying a trace of exhaustion. "Lysandro… I'm afraid our war is just about over."
"Over?" Lysandro blinked, confused. "What are you talking about? Volantis's main army is still in Rhaesh!"
"The Flank Corridor has fallen. The Volantenes have already pushed deep into the heart of the Disputed Lands!"
Tiberius turned, finger tracing the map spread on the balcony railing along the winding Disputed River. "See? Volantis is ferocious, and our 'hundred-battles-hundred-defeats' Myr commander has, predictably, lost another one. Even with the Corridor's natural defenses, the damage he's caused is catastrophic."
He gave a cold little smile. "The one piece of good luck? He somehow managed not to let them reach Myr city or the Stepstones coast. Tyrosh and Myr have borrowed insane amounts from the Iron Bank of Braavos just to keep this war going."
His finger moved to the river mouth and sea lanes. "On land we're still getting hammered, but the real turning point is here—our navy finally did its job. They smashed the Volantene fleet at sea."
"Our ships and the pirates working for us aren't just blockading the coast anymore. They're sailing up the Disputed River, raiding supply lines, cutting off every grain shipment from Volantis."
Tiberius sighed. "We won at sea, but unfortunately we still can't kill their main land army. It's still huge. One more tactical win and decent supplies and they'll be unstoppable again."
"The only bright side is that the Disputed Lands don't have many big cities or strong fortresses for them to use as bases—just our plantations, granaries, and estates."
"Volantis can loot and get rich there, but they can't actually put down roots."
He looked at Lysandro, eyes complicated. "So the new strategy is simple: starve them. As long as our land forces stay behind the walls, scorch the earth, and our navy keeps choking their supply lines, time will do the rest. An ugly victory… but a victory."
Lysandro finally caught on. "So… that's good, right? We win?"
Tiberius gave a bitter, mocking smile. "Win? Maybe. But Lysandro, think about it. Every time we 'lure them deeper' or do another 'strategic retreat,' whose land gets burned?"
"Ours. Lys's colonies in the Disputed Lands. The scorched earth, the looting, the losses—all of it lands on Lys. Tyrosh and Myr lose way less."
He tapped the letter. "Word has reached Lys. The merchants and governors who paid the most ships and lost the most colonies are furious. They feel betrayed by their allies and screwed by incompetent command. They bled, they went broke, and now the glory seems to be going to Myr and Tyrosh, who kept their homelands safe?"
"Protests are exploding in Lys. They're demanding the removal of First Governor Bambaro."
Tiberius folded the letter and stared out over the Disputed Lands, voice calm but final. "So yes, Lysandro… the war is over. At least for the Lysene governors and rich merchants who control the money and the votes. They've decided it's time to quit. They refuse to spend one more copper on a war that costs them everything while their allies reap the benefits."
"They want out of the game."
Lysandro stood frozen, the lazy post-victory glow draining from his face as cold political reality set in. He finally understood that battlefield wins weren't the real ending.
The setting sun painted the piles of loot in the temporary camp with a dull golden light.
Among all that treasure, Tiberius had specifically ordered his men to collect books, maps, and scrolls.
To him those were worth more than gold.
Right now he was personally supervising Johanna Swann and a few clerks and maesters as they catalogued everything.
He was still daydreaming about retiring after the war to become a lazy little landlord, living the decadent feudal life, when his eyes happened to land on one of the captured large-scale maps.
At first it was just a glance.
Then a thought hit him like lightning.
His pupils shrank. His body locked up. The next second he lunged at the map, fingers trembling as they traced lines across it.
"No… no!" he whispered, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He shot upright like he'd been burned, shoved the nearest maester out of the way, and sprinted toward Jules's command tent.
"UNCLE!" Tiberius burst through the tent flap, voice cracking with panic.
"Retreat! Order a full retreat right now—immediately!"