Tiber awoke with a start.
He sat up on the rough straw mattress, breath steadying as he took in his surroundings—stone walls, flickering morning light seeping through the narrow window. The sword, Twilight, leaned where he left it, against the frame of the bed like a sleeping beast.
He reached for it, fingers brushing the familiar hilt, and for a moment, everything else faded.
Then hunger came.
The kitchen was near the servant's quarters, its heat and smells drawing him like a moth to a flame. He stepped inside to find a rotund cook elbow-deep in dough, face flushed from the ovens.
"Got anything to eat?" Tiber asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
The cook grunted. "Aye. Ser William told us to feed you when you woke. Here." He handed Tiber a hunk of crusty bread still warm from the oven.
Tiber didn't wait. He tore into it like a starving wolf, crumbs falling onto his tunic. When he was done, he nodded his thanks and slipped back out into the open air.
The courtyard of Heart's Home was already alive with activity. Guards marched in pairs. A few stableboys dragged buckets across the cobbles. Tiber spotted a man in a gray cloak and asked, "Where's Ser Benedar resting?"
"In the maester's quarters," the guard replied.
"Where's that?"
"North wing of the castle."
"Thanks."
The northern wing was colder, quieter. The air smelled of herbs and smoke. Tiber knocked once on a carved wooden door before stepping inside. A thin, balding man with ink-stained fingers and a chain around his neck looked up from his work.
"I'm here to see Ser Benedar," Tiber said.
"You're the boy with him? The one who tied that sorry excuse for a bandage?" the maester asked, arching a brow.
Tiber blinked. "I… did what I could."
"Didn't kill him, I'll grant you that. Barely helped either. You're lucky the dagger hit nothing important." He waved a hand. "He's through there."
Tiber stepped into the adjoining chamber. Ser Benedar lay beneath a thin blanket, eyes closed. His breathing was slow but even.
Tiber approached quietly and touched his arm.
The knight stirred. "Mmm… Tiber?"
"You all right?"
"As well as a man with a hole in his arm can be," Benedar muttered, then opened his eyes. "You did good. I'd be dead if not for you."
Tiber hesitated. "You didn't tell anyone, did you? About… the sword."
A slow smile spread across Benedar's face. "I'm no fool. Nor a thief. I swore to Lord Belmore. That means something to me. And I swear to you now, by the Seven—I won't say a word without your leave."
Relief washed over Tiber like a warm wind. "Thanks."
Benegar shifted slightly, grimacing at the pain. "Now listen. You need to find Ser Willam Corbray. Tell him what happened. Ask for help—men, swords. We'll need them to finish this and get Lady Belmore back."
Tiber nodded. "I'll go now."
He left the room and turned back to Maester Arnold. "Do you know where Ser Willam is?"
"Training yard," the maester said without looking up. "Middle of the castle, outside the lord's quarters."
Tiber thanked him and headed out once more.
The training yard rang with the sound of steel and sweat. Sunlight shone down on hard-packed dirt, glinting off polished armor. Ser Willam Corbray moved through a circle of guards like a storm through dry leaves—every blow measured, every strike a lesson in control and power.
Tiber stopped to watch, watching in admiration. Willam was fast. Unrelenting. Graceful. The man moved like he'd been born with a sword in hand. One by one, the other knights fell away, panting and beaten.
Then Ser Willam turned and saw him.
"You Tiber!" he called. "Come, lad. Let's see what you're made of."
He tossed a wooden practice sword toward him. Tiber caught it, adjusting to the balance, nodding in reply.
They stepped into the circle. The crowd quieted.
Ser Willam raised his blade in salute. "Ready?"
Tiber lifted his own. "Ready."
They came together like lightning and thunder.
William tested him first, light strikes, a dancer's rhythm. Tiber matched him, meeting each swing with a parry or a step back, his footwork crisp. Then William pressed harder—his blade a blur, strikes raining like hail.
Tiber gritted his teeth, fighting back with controlled aggression. He ducked a high blow and answered with a low cut that made Willam shift his stance.
The crowd began to murmur.
"Gods," one muttered. "The lad's holding his own."
"He's a boy!"
"Ser Willam hasn't had a proper fight since Lord Corbray last sparred with him."
Sweat beaded on Tiber's brow. He shifted, feinted, cut—forcing Willam back two steps.
Willam grinned. "You've got fire."
They clashed again, wood biting wood, the ring of each blow echoing through the yard. But Willam's experience began to show—he anticipated Tiber's moves, forced him off balance, then finally swept his feet out from under him.
Tiber landed hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. Willam leveled his blade at his throat.
"Yield?"
Tiber coughed. "Yield."
William stepped back and offered a hand. Tiber took it, pulled to his feet.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Eighteen name days."
William blinked. "Seven save us. At that age, I could barely fight knights. You fight like you've been training your whole life. Who taught you?"
"An old hedge knight. Ser Rickon Stone."
William's brow rose. "A bastard?"
"Aye. Same as me," Tiber replied. "He said bastards should learn to fight better than any trueborn man. Said the world gives us nothing else."
Willam clapped his shoulder. "I'd like to meet him one day. You're good. Are you from a knightly house like Benedar?"
"No. Born to smallfolk. Nothing but mud and sweat in my blood."
William glanced at the other knights. Tiber heard the whispers. "Mud-born whelp. Lucky brat."
He ignored them.
"I don't care who your parents were," William said. "You saved Ser Benedar's life. That's all that matters. Now, what do you want?"
Tiber told him everything—the bandits, the attack, the rescue, and the suspicion that they were part of the group that had taken Lady Belmore.
Willam listened, nodding. "We'll ride out. I'll take a few good men. We'll track them down and kill every last one of them."
Tiber thought. "The men who attacked us by the lake. Could be theirs. We should check their bodies. Maybe they carried something."
William smiled. "Good thinking. Come on. But first—you need better armor. Go to the armory. Tell them I sent you."
The armory was dim and smelled of oil and leather. Tiber told the smith who sent him. They outfitted him with cheap plate over mail, dented but functional. It hung a bit loose on his shoulders, but he felt safer already.
When he returned to the training yard, Willam was waiting.
"We spoke to Benedar," Willam said. "He doesn't know the numbers of men they have, but it's more than a handful. We'll have to be ready."
They mounted their horses and rode out along the lake path once more.
When they arrived, the bodies were still there—buzzing with flies, twisted in the underbrush.
Willam knelt by one and examined the wound. "This… this is no ordinary blade," he muttered. "Cuts clean through mail. Only Valyrian steel does that."
He turned to Tiber, eyes narrowing. "Did you do this?"
Tiber hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
"Show me your sword."
Tiber sighed, knowing he couldn't avoid it. He drew Twilight, the Valyrian steel glinting in the noon sun.
Willam stared, jaw slightly slack. "Seven hells… I've only seen two blades like that in my life. Don't worry," he said, reading Tiber's face. "I'm no thief. I don't covet what's not mine. But you'd best keep that hidden. From now on, use the castle-forged steel I give you. Only draw that in the dark—or when your life depends on it."
Tiber nodded. "Yes, Ser."
They searched the corpses thoroughly.
Eventually, Willam found a folded parchment tucked into one man's boot. He opened it.
Orders. Written in poor script, but clear. "Ambush those tracking us. Leave no survivors."
At the bottom, a stamped mark: a tree, stylized.
William frowned. "I know this. A shipment of parchment was taken from a shipment to Guiltown. Raiders struck a caravan bound north… to Heartwood. That tree—it's the mark of the Heartwood mill."
He looked up. "That's where they are. Or near it."
Tiber's grip tightened on the reins. "Then we ride?"
"We ride. Back to the castle, then out again with steel in hand."
Back at Heart's Home, a plain steel longsword was handed to Tiber—a sharp, reliable blade. Nothing special, but it would do.
Tiber took one last look at the keep behind them before they turned and galloped north—toward Heartwood, toward danger, toward the bandits.
Toward the next battle.