Morning light spilled through the shuttered windows, painting the wooden floorboards gold. Tiber stirred where he lay curled near the hearth, wrapped in a scratchy inn blanket. His back ached, his leg pulsed with dull pain, and his throat was dry. But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was dying. He opened his eyes.
The bed creaked slightly as he looked up. Ser Benedar was still asleep on the far side, sprawled awkwardly with his sword belt draped over the edge. Lady Belmore lay beside him, her face turned to the wall, a blanket wrapped tight around her slender form.
Tiber sat up slowly and winced. The wound in his leg was still raw, the skin around the cauterized burn crusted and bruised, but it held. He rose with effort and limped over to the pile of armour he'd discarded the night before.
His gear looked like it had crawled through the Seven Hells.
Dried blood smeared the padding, the chainmail was crusted and grimy, and his plate was mottled with rust-colored stains and streaks of filth. He'd worn it for too long without rest, without cleaning. No knight worth the name would ride into another day in such a state.
There was no stream or river nearby, but the bathwater was still here.
He hauled each piece, one by one, to the tub. He washed the padded undercoat first, scrubbing the sweat and blood from its fibres with rough lye soap he found beneath the washstand. Then the chainmail—a miserable task, but necessary. He dunked it and worked out the grime, link by link, until his fingers were raw. Then the plates: Cuirass, pauldrons, greaves. The water turned red with blood.
By the time he was done and dressed again, the sun was well above the trees. He donned his armour, the weight of it settling like an old friend across his shoulders. Over it, he cinched his sword belt and slid Twilight into its scabbard at his side, the Valyrian steel blade glinting with quiet menace.
When he came down the stairs, the innkeeper was tending the fire.
"Water," Tiber said, voice hoarse. "And food."
The man nodded without a word and disappeared into the back.
Tiber settled at a table in the corner and let himself sink into the chair. His stomach ached with hunger, his body sore in every place it could be sore. When the food came—bread, cheese, and a slice of salted pork—he ate like a man starved.
He was halfway through when the door above creaked open.
Ser Benedar descended the stairs in full armour, yawning and stretching his back. Lady Belmore followed behind, dressed in a travel gown of grey wool, her hair pulled back in a simple braid.
Benedar sat across from him, grinning. Lady Belmore didn't say a word—she simply snatched Tiber's half-finished plate and began eating without even looking at him.
Tiber blinked. "That was mine."
Benegar held up a hand, chuckling. "Once we get to Strongsong, you'll eat like a lord. Until then, share your crumbs."
Tiber exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair. "How far?"
"Three, maybe four days," Benegar said. "With good weather. We'll ride light and fast. No stopping unless we must."
Tiber nodded. "Let's go soon, then."
They rose to ready their horses. As Tiber stepped out the front door into the sunlight, the innkeeper called out to him.
"Wait!"
Tiber turned, one hand instinctively dropping to his sword hilt.
"My daughter," the man said, wiping his hands on his apron. "She has something for you. For what you did last night."
Tiber followed him back inside. In the hallway, a girl stepped out from the kitchen door. She was young—sixteen, perhaps. Brown hair tied back. She stood stiffly, avoiding his eyes, her hands twisting a folded cloth.
"Thank you," she said, barely a whisper.
She stepped forward and held something out. A piece of cloth—blue, roughly sewn. It was a tabard, large enough to go over his armour. In the center, stitched with care but little skill, was a twelve-pointed white star.
"I saw you didn't have a sigil," she said quietly, looking at the floor. "Knights always have sigils. Eagles. Falcons. Dragons. You didn't have one, so… I made one."
Tiber blinked, speechless for a moment.
"A star?" he asked softly. "Why twelve points?"
The girl, lifted her eyes briefly. "My mother used to tell me stories. About the Septim Star. It was said to shine in the heavens—twelve points. Four white, four red, and four gold. A sign of hope. Of light. But one day, it vanished."
She looked down again. "I couldn't do the colours. But… I thought maybe, if you ever meet someone who could, you'd ask them."
Tiber was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled.
"It's beautiful."
She flushed and turned red. "I-I didn't…"
He reached out and took the tabard gently from her hands. "Thank you, truly."
He pulled off his sword belt and draped the cloth over his armour. Then, he cinched the sword belt back over it, pulling it tight around his waist. The twelve-pointed white star rested proudly over his chest.
He nodded once more. "What is your name?"
She says "Elle"
"A beautiful name," he said.
She squeaked something he didn't hear and dashed off back toward the kitchen, face burning.
Tiber stepped out into the sunlight, feeling a little taller, despite the ache in his bones.
Benedar turned to look—and choked back a laugh.
"By The Seven," he said, "what in seven hells is that?"
Tiber narrowed his eyes.
Benedar smirked and held up a hand. "I didn't say it was ugly."
Tiber stared at him a moment longer, then mounted Pebbles. "You laugh again, and I'll shove Twilight down your throat point-first."
Benedar chuckled and swung up onto his own horse, helping Lady Belmore onto the saddle behind him.
The morning was cool and crisp. The road ahead curved into green hills, fading into mountains beyond. Strongsong lay to the West, beyond rivers and woods and old roads. But it waited.
The knight with no name, no title, and no lord, rode now with a sigil stitched by a grateful girl. A forgotten star, lost in time.
Perhaps it was foolish.
Perhaps it was childish.
But perhaps not.
He rode on, silent, the wind tugging at his new tabard, the white star gleaming in the Vale sun.