The river was cold. So cold that Tiber could feel it in his bones even after he dragged himself onto the muddy bank, coughing and shivering, his body battered and half-drowned. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the trees. He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, staring up at the sky.
And then he looked at his hand.
Twilight.
Still there. Still clutched in his fist like a lover's hand in the dark.
He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. "Thank the Seven," he whispered.
But the relief was short-lived. As he tried to rise, pain shot through his leg like fire. He fell hard, face-first into the muck. He gritted his teeth and looked down. His wounded leg was worse now—bruised and swelling, the gash reopened, and the bandage from the maester torn to rags. Blood was pouring freely again.
"Fuck," he hissed.
He had to get back to Ser Willam. He had information—vital information. The strength of the bandits, the layout of the ruined keep, their numbers, the weapons they had. But at this rate, he wouldn't survive the walk. He'd bleed out under a tree before ever reaching a road.
There was only one way.
Cauterize the wound.
He dragged himself through the underbrush, found a dry patch beneath an old elm, and began working. He cut down a sapling with his steel longsword, snapping and splintering branches. Then he found rocks hit them together, and sparked a fire.
Smoke rose in spirals. The flames licked the edge of the sword as he laid it across the heat, watching the steel glow red… then orange.
He bared his leg and clenched a stick between his teeth.
Then pressed the blade to the wound.
The scream that came from his mouth wasn't human. It was the sound of a dying animal, of pain too deep for words. The smell of burning flesh filled the forest, sickly and thick.
When it was done, he collapsed back, panting. Trembling. Alive.
That's when he heard them.
Branches cracking. Voices.
He turned, groaning, and reached for his sword.
Three of them. Bandits. Trackers, maybe. Coming toward him with blades drawn.
The first rushed him with a spear, and Tiber, weakened but not broken, sidestepped the thrust and buried his longsword in the man's gut. The second swung an axe—Tiber raised his blade to block.
Snap.
The steel broke clean in two.
The third man laughed. "No more steel, bastard."
Tiber's lips curled. "Not true."
He drew Twilight.
The black Valyrian steel flashed in the firelight—he swung once and cleaved through the axe, and the man behind it. Blood sprayed the trees. Another slash, and the last bandit's head was rolling into the underbrush.
Panting, shaking, Tiber turned and ran.
He didn't know how far he ran. Minutes? Hours? But the pain in his leg was unbearable, and the forest seemed to stretch on forever. Then, through the trees—he saw him.
Ser Robar.
Alone.
Tiber limped toward him. "I need help. I found the camp. I know their defenses—"
But Ser Robar wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Twilight.
"A bastard," he said softly. "With a Valyrian blade. Knighted by another bastard."
Tiber frowned. "You want to die today, Robar?"
Robar drew his sword. "You don't deserve that sword."
Tiber sighed. "Then I'll be burying it in your skull."
Robar charged. He was fast—trained—but arrogant. Tiber deflected the first blow, twisted, and drove his boot into Robar's gut. Pain flared in his own leg, but he didn't stop. Robar swung again—Tiber ducked and came up with Twilight.
The blade split Robar's skull with a wet crack. Blood sprayed his face. The knight collapsed in a twitching heap.
Tiber spat on the corpse. "Cunt."
He heard hooves.
Voices.
Steel.
He turned.
Ser Willam. With knights behind him.
They saw Tiber standing over the corpse of a noble knight.
Swords were drawn.
"Tiber!" Ser Willam shouted. "Put down your weapon!"
"I haven't done anything wrong!"
"You slew a knight of House Corbray!"
"He tried to kill me! I returned with the information you asked for—and he tried to kill me!"
Ser Willam narrowed his eyes. "He was a knight. You are a hedge-born bastard. You have no right."
That cut deeper than any sword. Tiber's jaw clenched.
"I risked my life for you," he said. "I warned you about the bandits. I fought your battles. And you still treat me like filth."
Ser Willam rode forward, sword in hand. "You should be grateful I let you in my father castle. I could've taken that Valyrian steel for myself."
Tiber's fury boiled over. "You're all the same. Hiding behind titles and honor while the blood of good men soaks the dirt. You call yourselves knights. You're nothing but butchers in silk."
Then the horn blew.
A low, warlike note.
Everyone froze.
The bandits had come.
Ser Willam turned sharply. "Form ranks!"
Steel clashed. Arrows flew from the trees. Bandits rushed out of the underbrush, screaming war cries in strange tongues. Tiber recognized some of their faces—those he'd seen in Heartree Keep. There were sellswords from the Free Cities, Dornish raiders, and worse.
The Corbray knights met them head-on, but they were outnumbered.
Tiber turned, his heart pounding. He wanted to run—but Pebbles. His horse. She was tied near the battlefield.
He sprinted through the chaos, dodging spears and arrows. A knight lunged at him—Tiber parried, kicked the man in the knee, and drove Twilight through his throat.
Blood sprayed his chest. He didn't stop.
He found Pebbles tied to a tree, spooked but alive. Tiber mounted her, blood soaking his leg.
He looked back.
The battlefield was a nightmare of steel and screaming. Ser Willam's men were holding the line, but just barely. Fires were starting. Bodies everywhere.
He could ride in and fight.
He could die for men who would never call him brother.
Or he could ride.
He turned Pebbles. Spurred her forward.
And rode into the woods, leaving the battlefield behind.