Strongsong rose before them like a stone hymn, its towering grey walls climbing high into the pale sky, crowned with the carved bells of House Belmore. After three long days on the road—riding through wooded valleys, mountain passes, and rocky switchbacks—Tiber, Ser Benedar, and Lady Belmore finally arrived.
Tiber's leg throbbed with every heartbeat. Each step Pebbles took sent a jolt of pain through the half-healed wound. But he grit his teeth and bore it, sitting tall in the saddle. They were close now. Close to safety. Or so he hoped.
When the guards atop the battlements spotted them, the great gate of Strongsong creaked open. The guards rushed down, calling for the portcullis to be raised. The moment they recognized Lady Belmore, there was a change in the air—an urgency, a wave of men hurrying forward with worry carved into their features.
A man in fine, polished armour strode across the courtyard, the Purple and silver of House Belmore's bell crest blazing bright on his tabard. Tiber didn't need to be told who he was. The man made straight for Lady Belmore and swept her from Ser Benedar's horse like a knight in a tale, clutching her to his chest.
"Lysa! Gods be good, I thought you were dead!" he said.
She said nothing. She buried her face in his shoulder.
Tiber watched the reunion with a blank expression, his hand resting on Twilight's hilt. Ser Benedar dismounted with care, and Tiber followed him to the stables. There, they handed their reins to squires and servants and began unbuckling their armour.
Tiber glanced sideways. "Who is that?" he asked.
Ser Benedar nodded grimly. "Ser Benedict Belmore. Eldest son and heir of Lord Belmore."
"He doesn't look like much."
"He's called the Bell Knight," Benedar said, wiping the dust from his breastplate. "They say he's one of the finest swordsmen in the Vale."
Tiber gave a snort. "Why? What's he done?"
"At nineteen, he won his first melee. Won six melees since. Took second in the joust at Gulltown. He's undefeated in duels."
"So… a showman," Tiber muttered. "Good with a blunted sword and tourney lances. Never fought in a real war."
"We live in peace, Tiber," Benedar said. "For men like him, that's how you earn fame now. Tourneys and trophies."
"Fame," Tiber says. "I'd rather have skill."
They were summoned to the great hall by a Belmore guardsman in burnished mail and a bell-crested helm. The man's voice was stiff, and his eyes narrowed slightly when they passed. Tiber could feel the eyes of every knight and squire they passed—on his dirty cloak, on his limp, on the sword at his hip.
Strongsong's hall was cold stone and lofty arches, lit by tall windows and a blazing hearth. At the far end sat Lord Belmore himself, gray-haired and stern, his face carved like mountain granite. Beside him stood Ser Benedict, arms folded across his chest, staring with cold contempt.
Lady Belmore stood quietly beside her father. She did not look at Benedar.
Lord Belmore's voice was like thunder. "You dare return to my hall, Ser Benedar, after sullying my daughter and bringing me the words of a traitor?"
"My lord—" Benedar started.
"Silence," Lord Belmore roared. "A son of a lesser knightly house, thinking yourself worthy of my daughter's hand? You forget your station."
"She loves him," Tiber interrupted. "He risked everything to save her. They nearly died for each other. Isn't that enough?"
Lord Belmore scoffed. "And you are? A hedge knight with no name, no house, and no claim? The girl is a daughter of Strongsong. She will marry a lord's heir, not a man with a tumbledown tower and a dream."
The guards stepped forward, hands on hilts.
Tiber stepped between them and Ser Benedar. "You're a coward. Hiding your pride behind honour and your greed behind family duty. You'd rather sell your daughter to the highest bidder than let her marry a good man."
The room froze.
Lord Belmore's face darkened with fury. "Mind your tongue, or I'll have it out."
Tiber pulled Twilight from its sheath. Gasps echoed through the hall.
"I challenge you," he said. "A duel. If I win, you'll let them marry. If I lose—" he held up the blade, Valyrian steel gleaming darkly in the light "—this is yours."
The murmurs in the hall rose like storm winds. Even Lord Belmore faltered, his eyes wide.
"You'd stake a Valyrian steel sword?" he asked.
"I would."
"I could take it," the lord growled.
"Then take it," Tiber said. "But you'll be known across the Vale as the lord who set his dogs on a knight rather than face him in the light of day."
Ser Benedict stepped forward.
"Enough," he said. "Father, let me handle this." His lips curled. "You want a duel? You'll have one. I'll beat you bloody and take your precious sword."
Tiber looked him in the eye. "You can try."
They met in the courtyard, in the arena where House Belmore's sons trained. The ground was packed earth, rimmed by torches and lined with stone benches. Nobles, retainers, knights, and guards all gathered to watch, word of the duel spreading like wildfire.
Tiber stabbed his Valyrian blade into the ground and took the steel sword handed to him by a squire. It was a simple longsword, well-balanced, nothing fancy.
Across from him, Ser Benedict wore a gleaming harness of silvered plate. His purple cloak trailed behind him, and a fine longsword rested easily in his grip.
The judge stepped between them, an old knight in a faded tabard.
"This is a sacred duel, in the sight of gods and men," he declared. "If either man breaks the oaths of combat, he will be cursed by the Seven. Do you understand?"
"I do," Ser Benedict said.
"Aye," Tiber said.
"Then begin."
Ser Benedict moved first, fast and fluid, his blade slashing across with trained precision. Tiber caught it on his own steel sword, the clash ringing through the yard like a struck bell.
Benedict pressed hard, raining blows from left and right. He was strong, fast, trained—but Tiber was no common hedge knight. He ducked low under a swing and kicked Benedict in the knee, forcing him back. The crowd gasped.
They circled.
Benedict came in again, hammering his sword at Tiber's side. Tiber blocked, countered, and drove a blow at Benedict's shoulder. It struck true, denting the plate, staggering the Bell Knight.
Benedict snarled and surged forward. His next blow nearly took Tiber's head off, but Tiber twisted away, slashing at Benedict's flank. Sparks flew. Blood followed—a shallow cut at the gap of his armour.
Cheers rose. Benedict's pride was wounded. He came at Tiber like a bull now, heedless of form. He swung too wide, and Tiber ducked, swept his legs—and Benedict went down.
Tiber put his sword at Benedict's throat.
"Yield."
But Benedict wasn't done. He rolled, grabbed Tiber by the leg, and tackled him to the ground. They tumbled, fists flying, helmets knocked free. Benedict's mailed hand locked around Tiber's throat.
Tiber gasped. His vision blurred.
He reached—fingers brushing the dirt, groping—until he found a sword. His fingers closed around the hilt.
He drove it upward.
Steel slid between plates and into flesh.
Benedict's grip loosened.
Tiber shoved him off and stood, coughing, eyes wild.
The Bell Knight writhed on the ground, blood spilling from his gut.
Tiber raised the blade. "I win," he growled. "Your knight is dead. My friend is free."
Lady Belmore rushed into the yard, her eyes wide with horror. She threw herself over her brother's body, sobbing.
"Get out," she screamed. "You killed him! You monsters, get out!"
"But—" Benedar started.
"Leave! I never want to see you again!"
Tiber grabbed Twilight and then Benedar by the arm and pulled him away. They moved in silence to the stables, threw saddles on their horses, and rode out of Strongsong before the gates could close behind them.
The bells rang low as they left. Not for glory. Not for triumph. But for death.
Image of Tiber