Tiber rose early.
The morning air still held the bite of spring as the sun began to stretch its gold across the treetops. He dressed in silence, pulling on his worn tunic and trousers, then fastened his sword belt. The black scabbard of Twilight gleamed softly as he sheathed the Valyrian steel blade. He gave it a small nod—almost like a salute—before stepping out into the day.
He walked down the path past the house and made for the small lake, nestled under the arms of tall oaks and firs. Mist curled above its surface, and the water was cool, clear, and still.
Tiber stripped down and stepped into the lake.
The water hit his skin like a thousand tiny needles, but soon the cold became a balm. He lowered himself in fully, letting the aches in his ribs, arms, and legs ease. He floated on his back, eyes closed, thinking of nothing, for the first time in weeks.
Time passed, unmeasured.
When he emerged, his skin wrinkled and his thoughts quiet, he dried himself with his shirt and redressed. Sword belt, then Twilight.
He turned back toward the house.
That's when he saw it.
Smoke.
A dark plume, thick and rising. From the trees, it looked like a wound on the sky. Tiber's stomach twisted. His legs moved on their own, feet slamming the dirt path. He ran, heart pounding, wind roaring in his ears.
The house was on fire.
Flames danced from the thatched roof. Smoke bellowed from every window. Tiber burst through the back door, coughing, shielding his face with his sleeve.
"Ser Rickon!" he bellowed.
He charged down the hall, through the thick smoke and heat. Then he saw him.
Ser Rickon, slumped against the wall of his room, a growing pool of blood beneath him. A dead man lay nearby, his throat slit. The flames were licking the rafters now.
Tiber dropped beside him. "Ser Rickon—"
Rickon's hand reached out weakly. "Stop."
"You're hurt—"
"I'm dying, Tiber." Rickon's voice was hoarse, but calm. "Let it happen."
"No. No—dammit, no—" Tiber tried to lift him, but Rickon groaned.
"I've lived long. Too long. Every day my bones ache. Every step hurts. This… this is my peace."
Tiber's hands shook. "You're like a father to me. I can't—"
Rickon grabbed his wrist, strength still in his grip. "Listen to me. Always protect the people. Even from the lords. Especially from lords. Follow justice. Follow righteousness. Don't… don't be like me."
Tiber blinked. "What does that mean?"
Rickon didn't answer.
He exhaled once—long, slow—and then fell still.
The house groaned above them.
Tiber stayed there for a moment, numb, cradling Rickon's body as the heat pressed in. Then a ceiling beam cracked and fell, smashing through a table.
He stood, staggered to the door. Just before leaving, he glanced back at the dead man.
On the corpse's blackened surcoat was a symbol—a red three-headed dragon.
House Targaryen.
The royal house.
Why?
Tiber didn't have time for questions. The building began to collapse. He ran out into the clearing, smoke and tears streaking his face. The house that had sheltered him, trained him, healed him—his home—was gone.
He fell to his knees and screamed—a cry of grief and rage, carried into the woods.
One week later.
Tiber sat on a tree stump beside his small campfire. The woods near the southern edge of the Vale were quiet save for the pop of the fire and the soft hiss of cooking rabbit.
He wore cheap, rust-stained chainmail, scavenged from a bandit he'd killed two days ago. It pinched in the shoulders and hung a bit long, but it was better than nothing. Twilight was sheathed at his side, as always.
He turned the rabbit on the spit, eyes distant.
Then he heard hooves.
He stood, hand on Twilight's hilt.
Out of the trees came a knight—tall, with a golden cloak and shining plate armor that glimmered even in the twilight. The man rode a massive black warhorse and stopped at the edge of the fire's glow.
He dismounted with the smooth ease of a man trained for war. "Are you a warrior?"
"I'm a knight," Tiber said, brushing ash from his sleeve.
The man's eyebrows lifted. "A hedge knight, then."
"You could say that."
The man approached, his voice lighter now. "Good. I need your help."
Tiber tilted his head. "With what?"
"A maiden," the knight said. "The daughter of my lord, Lord Belmore of Strongsong. She was travelling back from a visit to her cousins at the Redfort when she was taken. Robber knights. Scum."
Tiber frowned. "Where were they last seen?"
"Two days ago. Still trying to ransom her, but my lord wouldn't meet their price. They left, headed east—toward Heart's Home, I think."
Tiber looked down at his rabbit. It was nearly done.
"You have a name?" he asked.
"Ser Benedar Hunt. My house is sworn to Belmore."
"I'm Tiber."
Ser Benedar blinked. "Just Tiber?"
Tiber nodded. "Bastard born. Smallfolk on both sides. I don't get one of the fancy names like 'Stone' or 'Snow.'"
Benedar chuckled. "Then make your own. Tiber Strongblade. Tiber Frost. Something with bite."
Tiber laughed. "I need no surname. Just the sword."
Benedar smiled. "Fair enough."
They ate the rabbit, passing a wineskin back and forth. The fire crackled between them as the stars began to peek through the canopy.
When they finished, Benedar stood. "We should go. If they're headed east, they'll be close to Heart's Home by now."
Tiber nodded and stamped out the fire. "Then let's ride."
They mounted up—Tiber on Pebbles, Benedar on his black destrier—and rode into the night, toward danger, toward honour, toward Heart's Home.