They rode hard into the fading afternoon light, the air crisp with the scent of pine and wet moss.
The lake near Heart's Home spread out before them, dark and still, reflecting the last light of the sun like a pane of smoked glass. Beyond it rose the ancient fortress of House Corbray— stone towers perched upon a steep cliff like a crown atop a weathered brow.
Tiber sat on Pebbles and stared in quiet awe. "It's beautiful."
Ser Benedar Hunt nodded. "Aye. Heart's Home is a fine seat. But so is Strongsong. Towering walls, a great hall that can hold hundreds. Lord Belmore says a man feels small inside it—and that's how it should be."
Tiber gave a half-smile. "I'd like to see it one day."
"You will," Benedar replied. "When this is done."
They rode down the path that curled along the lake's edge, hoofbeats muffled by the soft earth. After a few minutes, they reached the outer gate of Heart's Home. Atop the wall stood three guards in gray cloaks bearing the three black ravens in flight holding three red hearts sigil of House Corbray.
Ser Benedar called up, voice formal. "I am Ser Benedar Hunt of Strongsong, sworn to Lord Belmore. I seek hospitality and aid—we are on a mission to rescue his daughter from a band of robber knights. We would be grateful for rest and assistance."
The guards peered down, unmoved.
"Lord Corbray ain't here," one of them said. "He's ridden to Runestone. Left orders—no outsiders."
Benedar frowned. "This is the daughter of a noble lord we're speaking of. Surely you can—"
"Orders are orders. Turn back."
Ser Benedar tried again, his voice hardening. "When Lord Corbray returns, he will not be pleased to hear his sworn men turned away an ally in need."
The guards exchanged a look. Then one of them lifted a wooden bucket—flies buzzed lazily around its rim—and dumped the contents over the wall.
The filth splattered across Benedar's armor, thick, wet, and reeking of piss and dung.
Tiber choked on a laugh, caught between laughter and disbelief. Ser Benedar sat frozen for a moment, then wiped his face with the back of his hand, eyes burning with humiliation.
"You'll regret that," he muttered.
They turned and rode back toward the lake.
When they reached the shoreline again, Ser Benedar said nothing. He simply dismounted, stripped off his armor piece by piece, and walked straight into the water, still in his breeches and tunic. Tiber watched him kneel in the shallows, scrubbing the metal plates with wet handfuls of sand and cursing under his breath.
Tiber sat nearby for a moment, then stood and wandered off into the trees.
He found a secluded spot not far from the lake—a small glade surrounded by firs. There, where no one could see him, he unsheathed Twilight.
The Valyrian steel blade shimmered faintly in the dying light, its rippled pattern catching the sun's last gleam like silver veins in obsidian.
Tiber took a deep breath.
He moved with purpose—measured stances, clean cuts. The sword was unbelievably light, fast as thought, and bit through air with a hiss. He practiced alone because he did not trust the world yet—not even Benedar. A blade like Twilight could tempt even good men.
He was in the middle of a downward cut when he heard it:
Clash. Steel on steel. A grunt. A cry.
Tiber froze, heart leaping. He sheathed Twilight and sprinted back toward the lake, dodging low branches, boots thudding against soft dirt.
He burst into the clearing just in time to see Ser Benedar fall to one knee, a dagger embedded in his arm. Three men surrounded him—bandits, likely the same scum who had kidnapped the noble girl. They wore piecemeal armor: chainmail patched with leather, one in cheap, dented plate that didn't match the rest.
Benedar swung wildly, barely holding them off.
Tiber roared and charged.
One of the bandits turned in time to see Twilight flash in the moonlight.
Tiber's first stroke took the man's arm clean off, from shoulder to mid-chest. Blood fountained as the man collapsed with a gurgling scream. The others turned, startled. The second raised a rusted longsword and charged.
Tiber stepped into the blow, caught it on his chain mail—pain shot through him, but he didn't stop. Twilight sang through the air and cut the man from hip to neck, shearing through mail, bone, and flesh. The man's body split open like a fish, intestines steaming in the cool air.
The last one turned to run.
Tiber didn't let him.
He caught him with a downward slash to the back, the Valyrian steel slicing through the man's spine like soft wood. He crumpled to the ground twitching, eyes wide and mouth working silently.
Tiber stood, chest heaving, surrounded by blood, twitching limbs, and death.
He turned to Ser Benedar.
The knight was sitting against a tree, pale and sweating, the dagger still embedded in his arm. "Gods," he muttered. "That sword…"
"Don't move," Tiber said.
He knelt by one of the corpses, tugged loose a strip of clean cloth from under the man's tunic, then went to Benedar. "This'll hurt."
He gripped the dagger.
Benedar gritted his teeth. "Do it."
Tiber yanked the blade free—Benedar let out a raw scream. Blood poured freely, but Tiber wrapped the cloth tight around the wound, tying it off with practiced hands.
"You'll need a maester."
Benedar nodded, breath ragged. "Heart's Home…"
"They have one. I'll get us in."
The gates of Heart's Home loomed once more.
Tiber stood at the base, hands raised, voice hoarse from shouting. "Please! Ser Benedar Hunt is wounded. He needs a maester. If you have any honor—"
The same guards began to shout back when a voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Enough! Open the gates!"
The guards froze. A man strode into view atop the wall—tall, lean, clad in a fine black tunic trimmed in silver. His eyes were cold, his hair cut short, his bearing noble.
He pointed down. "Bring them in. Now."
The gates creaked open.
Benedar was helped off his horse and onto a stretcher. Several guards hurried him away toward the inner keep.
Tiber stood by Pebbles, breathing heavily, covered in blood.
The nobleman approached him. "That was bold," he said.
Tiber bowed his head. "Thank you. You saved his life."
The man gave a curt nod. "I am Ser Willam Corbray, second son of Lord Corbray. My father will hear of what those fools at the gate did."
"I am Ser Tiber," he said simply. "
"You've got steel in your eyes," William said. "And on your hip. That's an expensive gemstone on that pommel of yours ?"
Tiber gave a slow nod but said nothing more.
William studied him, then gestured. "Come. You've earned a bed."
He led Tiber through the stone halls, past storerooms and side chambers, until they reached a small, bare room tucked near the kitchens. A servant's quarters, plainly furnished with only a straw mattress and a stool.
Tiber stepped inside. William nodded and left.
Tiber leaned Twilight against the wall, pulled off his boots, and lay down.
His body hurt.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, surrounded by stone and silence.