The sun crept slowly through the canopy, painting gold across the forest floor.
Tiber was outside chopping wood when he heard the hoofbeats. He set the axe down and turned toward the trail, heart lifting at the sight of the old gray horse pushing through the trees. Ser Rickon rode slumped in the saddle, beard tangled, eyes rimmed with red from the wind, but he was back—and behind him was a mule-drawn cart, heavy with bundled weapons.
Tiber ran up and took the reins. "You're back!"
Rickon grunted as he swung down from the horse. His legs were stiff, and he leaned heavily on Tiber's shoulder.
"I told you I'd return," the knight rasped. "And I didn't come empty-handed."
They spent the better part of the afternoon unpacking the cart. Tiber's eyes went wide as Rickon unwrapped weapon after weapon. Swords, long and short. A spear, its tip gleaming. A bastard sword, not unlike the one Rickon carried. A heavy axe, chipped from use but solid. Daggers, balanced for throwing. Even a hunting bow with a quiver of black-feathered arrows.
"Where… where did you get all this?" Tiber asked, wide-eyed.
Rickon coughed into his fist, the sound wet and painful. "Some was bought. Some bartered. Some... earned."
He handed Tiber a short steel sword, notched from years of use but still sharp. "Come now. No more playing with sticks. Real training begins today."
Tiber frowned. "Shouldn't I start with a wooden sword?"
Rickon gave a tired chuckle. "You planning to fight battles with a stick?"
"No…"
"Then you'll train with steel."
---
They trained until the light faded.
Tiber's arms ached, his fingers blistered, but he didn't stop. He fell into bed each night bruised and bloodied and smiling. He'd never felt more alive.
And the years passed.
---
By the year 78 AC, Tiber had become a man grown.
He stood five feet and eight inches, not tall, but sturdy and strong, his body honed from a decade of work and war drills. His hair was black as raven's wings, now grown past his shoulders, and his eyes were a piercing blue, cold and sharp as winter skies. His face had lost the softness of boyhood—now there was only sharp cheekbones, a hard jaw, and the quiet intensity of someone who had lived through fire and sorrow.
He was handsome, but there was something haunted in his eyes. Something that never quite left.
Ser Rickon, meanwhile, had withered.
The old knight rarely rose from bed now. His breath rattled in his chest, and his skin clung to his bones. Even sitting up took great effort. Yet his mind remained sharp, and his voice carried the weight of steel.
That morning, Rickon called Tiber to his bedside.
"You're ready."
Tiber sat beside him, saying nothing. He'd known this day would come.
Rickon coughed hard, then wiped his mouth. "You've learned all I could teach. The sword, the bow, the books, the laws of men. You're no longer a boy."
"I've learned because you taught me."
Rickon gave a thin smile. "Maybe. Or maybe the world made you hard before I ever found you."
He shifted slightly. "There's one last test. If you pass… I'll knight you."
Tiber's chest tightened. "And if I don't?"
"Then you'llbe dead."
Silence hung between them like fog.
"What must I do?" Tiber asked.
Rickon met his eyes. "Go to the mountains. Find the Burned Men. Kill their chieftain."
Tiber froze. He hadn't heard that name in years. Not since the screams. The fire. The blood on the floor.
Rickon continued. "The one who led the raid that killed your grandparents still lives. He's led raids since. Dozens dead. Villages burned. If you kill him, it will be justice. For your kin. For many others."
Tiber said nothing for a long time. Then he nodded.
"I'll do it."
He stood and walked to the old weapon rack. Among all the blades Rickon had brought back years ago, one stood out: a castle-forged longsword, gleaming and untouched. The best of the lot. Rickon had always said it was steel fit for a knight.
Tiber unsheathed it. The steel sang softly.
He strapped the blade to his waist, then grabbed the bow and quiver. Rickon watched with tired pride in his eyes.
As Tiber turned to go, he heard Rickon murmur, "Take the horse. Pebbles."
Tiber grinned. "Still think it's a stupid name?"
Rickon snorted weakly. "Dumb name for a horse."
They both laughed, just for a moment.
Then Rickon's hand caught Tiber's wrist.
"Listen. Don't just kill to kill. Remember why you do this."
Tiber nodded, his expression solemn. "For justice."
"For justice," Rickon whispered.
---
Tiber saddled Pebbles, the sturdy gray stallion he'd been given by Henry of Skalitz—a wiry miller who Tiber had once saved from a trio of drunk bandits. Pebbles was no warhorse, but he was strong, fast, and loyal.
As Tiber mounted, he turned back one last time to the little cottage in the woods. Smoke curled from the chimney. A sword stuck in the training stump. The only home he had ever known for the past 14 years.
He would return. Or he wouldn't.
But before he died, the Burned Men's chief would fall.
He kicked Pebbles forward, and they vanished into the trees, toward smoke and steel and blood.
Toward the mountains.