Heart's Home loomed in the afternoon haze as the men rode through its gates. The castle's cold grey stones offered little comfort. Smoke curled gently from its towers, and banners bearing the three red hearts on black flapped in the wind. Tiber rode through the bailey, exhausted, blood still dried on his armor and skin. Pebbles whinnied, eager to rest.
Tiber dismounted and limped toward the maester's tower.
Inside, the aged Maester furrowed his brow as he examined Tiber's bloodied leg. "You shouldn't be standing," he muttered, unwrapping the makeshift bandage. "Deep, but not crippling. Missed the bone, gods be good. You'll live."
"Will I fight?"
Maester Willen scowled. "You can fight. But it'll burn like wildfire every time you move."
Tiber nodded. "Then I'll burn."
As the maester stitched and cleaned his wound, Ser Benedar entered the chamber. His right arm, still bound in a leather sling, twitched as he paced.
"There's something you should know," Tiber said, looking up. "We scouted ahead before the last fight. The bandits—they're holed up in a place called Heartree. A forgotten castle."
Benegar's jaw tightened. "Then we march. I'll be in the vanguard."
"You're still wounded," the maester said sharply.
"I have another arm, don't I?" Benedar snapped. "That's all I need."
Tiber smiled grimly. "You'll get yourself killed."
"I'll die with a sword in hand. Better that than waiting in a tower."
---
Tiber left the tower, stomach growling, and made his way to the kitchens. He found a hunk of bread, some salted pork, and a cup of watered wine. It wasn't a feast, but it tasted like one.
Later, in his small chamber, he sat on the edge of the bed and drew Twilight from its scabbard.
The blade shimmered even in the dim candlelight, a dark, smoky gleam to its Valyrian steel. It was a weapon of legends, and he was a bastard hedge knight. Yet here it was, in his hand.
He pressed the cold flat of the sword to his forehead, closed his eyes, and whispered, "Let the souls who fall to you find peace. May I kill only those who deserve death."
A knock broke his prayer. A man-at-arms entered. "They're ready to ride, ser."
Tiber stood, sheathed Twilight, and followed.
---
In the courtyard, Ser Willam and Ser Benedar sat atop their horses, clad in full armor. Tiber mounted Pebbles once more and took his place beside the column of riders.
Seventy men-at-arms. Fifteen knights. Eighty-five strong.
A small force—but good enough.
They rode through the Vale, hills turning to forest. After nearly an hour, they reached the outskirts of Heartree.
The castle wasn't much—stone walls just tall enough to be a problem, a central tower, and a crumbling outer wall—but it sat on a rise, with a river curling along its edge. Defensible. Tricky.
"We need eyes," Ser Willam said.
"I'll go," said Benedar immediately.
Tiber nodded. "Then I go too."
---
They left their horses tied and crept through the underbrush toward the keep. A cold wind blew through the trees, stirring ash and dead leaves.
At last, they reached the edge of the tree line. From there, they watched.
Tents. Fires. Men.
Dozens of them.
But what struck Tiber most was how foreign they looked. Many were brown-skinned, with accents from Essos. Others looked like Vale outlaws. Not a unified army—just mercenaries and killers.
Then they saw her.
A young woman, chained and guarded by two men. Red hair. Hazel eyes. Lady Belmore.
"She's alive," Benedar said. "Thank the gods."
"She'll die if we rush in blind," Tiber replied. "We scout, then we act."
But Benedar was already shaking his head. "If there's a battle, she's the first they'll kill. Or worse. I'm going now."
Tiber hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. You go to her. I'll map the defenses."
They split.
---
Tiber circled the castle, eyes scanning for any weakness. Then he saw it—a stone outcrop beneath a side tower. One slab looked out of place. His mind turned.
Could it be climbed?
He limped closer, gritting his teeth as pain flared in his leg. He began to climb—stone to stone, hand over hand—but halfway up, agony screamed through his muscles. His leg buckled.
Cursing, he dropped down and stared at the wall.
There had to be another way.
His eyes fell on Twilight. Could it?
He drew the sword. "Show me what you are," he whispered.
The blade cut through the stone like cheese. One slice. Two. Three. Four.
Soon, a square hole stood open. Tiber pushed and the block slid free.
He breathed, and kissed the flat of the blade. "Thank you."
He slipped through the hole, dragging the stone back behind him.
Now inside the castle, he moved like a shadow. Past crates, wagons, and tents. He noted guard posts, weapons stockpiles, tents packed with armor and blades.
Then—shouting.
A body tumbled from the tower.
He looked up.
Benedar.
And Lady Belmore.
They were in the open. Every eye turned toward them.
Tiber's heart sank. "Shit."
The camp roared as bandits rushed for the tower. Tiber didn't hesitate.
He drew Twilight.
---
The first man never saw him. One clean stroke took off his head. Blood fountained. Tiber spun, parried a curved blade, and buried his sword in a gut. Another bandit screamed, slashed at him—Tiber caught the blade, twisted, disarmed the man, and drove Twilight through his chest.
He took the stairs two at a time, killing anyone who came down.
Steel rang. Blood sprayed the walls.
At the top, he found them—Benedar and Belmore, locked in a kiss.
Tiber blinked. "You picked now for that?"
Benedar grinned. "I thought I might die."
"Good. Then die holding a sword."
Tiber tossed a blade to Belmore. She caught it.
"You know how to use that?"
"I know enough."
Benedar protested. "She's a lady!"
"She's a fighter," Belmore snapped. "Now let's kill them."
---
They made their stand in the tower.
Bandits poured up the stairs.
Tiber killed four—his blade slicing through armor, severing limbs, spilling entrails. Blood painted the walls. A scream echoed down the hall.
Benedar fought with one arm, his left hand swinging wild and savage. Lady Belmore stabbed a man in the neck, then ducked a blow.
But they were too many.
"Back!" Tiber shouted.
They retreated to the top, wind howling around them. Below was the river—cold, dark, and deep.
Benedar looked down. "We'll die."
"Then die now, or die with a chance," Tiber said. "She will be raped if they catch her."
Belmore's face was pale, but steady. "He's right."
Tiber raised Twilight, stepped to the edge of the tower. He looked at the sky, let out a long breath.
Then jumped.
---
The water hit like a hammer.
Darkness.
Cold.
Pain.
But he surfaced, gasping. The river carried him away—downstream, away from the screams and blood.
He didn't know if Benedar or Belmore followed.
He only knew he was alive.
And that this was far from over.