Tiber awoke to the smell of smoke and morning dew.
The fire had burned down to glowing coals. A bird called high in the trees. The boy sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Across the dying embers, Ser Rickon stood fully armoured, cinching the last strap on his mail hauberk. His sword hung from his side, his blue tabard flapping slightly in the breeze.
"Up, boy," he said, not unkindly. "We've got packing to do."
Tiber yawned and stood, still bleary. "Alright…"
He began folding the blankets like Ser Rickon had taught him, rolling them tight and tying them with cord. As they worked, Tiber looked over his shoulder.
"Ser Rickon?"
"Hm?"
"You said… you said you could help me get the ones who killed my grandparents. Who were they?"
Rickon didn't look up from where he was tying his saddle bags.
"Mountain clan," he said. "The Burned Men."
Tiber frowned. "Why are they called that?"
Rickon paused. "When their boys come of age, they burn themselves. Scars on their bodies. Chests. Arms. Even faces."
"Why?"
"No one knows for sure. Some say it's to prove they feel no fear. Others think it's some old god they worship." He looked at Tiber. "Whatever the reason, it works. Puts fear in other clans. In villagers too."
Tiber's hands stopped moving. "So… are we going to hunt them?"
Rickon stood and stretched, joints cracking. "No."
"What? Why not?"
"They've gone back into the mountains. Too many places to hide. Too many of them. And I'm too old to charge into caves with madmen."
"But—how will I get revenge?"
Rickon turned, resting a hand on the saddle horn.
"You probably won't."
Tiber's chest tightened. "But I need to."
Rickon walked over and crouched beside him.
"Do you want this to happen to other people?" he asked. "You want other boys to lose their mothers and grandfathers like you did?"
Tiber shook his head, fast. "No."
"Then don't think only of revenge. Think of justice."
Tiber's lips pressed together. He didn't fully understand the difference—but he nodded all the same.
"Good," Rickon said. "Now mount up. We've got a long ride."
---
They rode for days, winding through misty hills and pine-choked valleys. They passed hamlets and rivers, sometimes camping in abandoned shepherd huts, sometimes under the stars. Tiber grew used to the rhythm: ride, eat, rest, ride again.
On the fifth day, they came to a clearing deep in the woods. Nestled between tall birches stood a lonely cottage, stone-walled and moss-covered, with ivy growing over the roof.
Tiber blinked. "What's this?"
"My home," said Rickon.
"You live here?"
"Aye," the knight said, dismounting. "And now, so do you."
---
Four years passed.
It was now 68 AC, and Tiber was eight name days old.
Rickon had turned sixty-eight, and though his beard was silver and his back bent slightly, he still moved with a warrior's grace.
In the time they'd lived in that forest cottage, Rickon had taught Tiber everything he could.
He taught him his letters—slowly, painfully at first—but Tiber was determined. He read about Aegon the Conqueror, about the battles of the First Men, about the kings of old who carved kingdoms out of chaos.
He learned tactics—how a shield wall holds, how cavalry breaks a line, how terrain can turn victory into slaughter.
And every day, he watched Rickon train. Sword drills in the clearing. Stance, footwork, timing. Tiber wanted nothing more than to hold a sword of his own.
One morning, just after breakfast, Rickon strapped on his old sword belt and pulled on his boots.
"Where are you going?" Tiber asked.
"To the holdfast a day north. There's a smith there who owes me a favor."
"Why?"
"To get you what you need. A sword. Practice gear. Things to start real training."
Tiber's eyes lit up. "Truly?"
Rickon gave a dry chuckle. "Truly."
"But how will you get it?"
Rickon grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Don't you worry about that."
He walked to the door and paused.
"One thing."
"What?"
"Don't go into my room."
Tiber blinked. "Why not?"
Rickon just shook his head. "Just don't."
And with that, he mounted his horse and rode off, fading into the green.
---
Tiber sat alone in the house for the first time in years.
He tried not to be nervous, but the silence pressed on him. So he did what he always did when his thoughts got too loud—he read.
He pulled one of the old books from the shelf and sat on the bench near the hearth, mouthing each word carefully. It was hard going, but he got through a page, then another.
This one was about ancient kings and the wars they fought. One chapter spoke of Tristifer IV Mudd, a warrior king from the Riverlands.
"Tristifer, called the Hammer of Justice," the book read. "For he brought swift punishment to the lawless."
Tiber grinned. That was a good name.
The Hammer of Justice.
He imagined himself—grown tall and broad, riding into battle on a black stallion, sword gleaming. Maybe they'd call him the Sword of the Vale, or the Bastard Knight. Maybe even Tiber the Just.
He leaned back, dreaming of battles and glory.
Then his gaze drifted to the door to Ser Rickon's room.
He chewed his lip.
Rickon had said not to go in.
But… why? It was just a room, wasn't it?
Curiosity crept up like ivy.
Slowly, he stood and padded across the house. The door creaked open under his hand.
Inside… was nothing special.
A simple bed. A plain chest. A candle stub on the windowsill. Some old boots.
He walked slowly, half expecting to find a sword or treasure, or maybe something forbidden.
But there was nothing.
He crouched, checked under the bed. Looked in the chest. Blankets. A few parchments. An old leather-bound book, but he didn't understand the writing.
After a while, he sighed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
It was just a room.
He returned to his own bed, curling beneath the furs. He thought of Tristifer Mudd and gleaming swords, of justice and vengeance, and of the old knight who had saved him.
Tomorrow, maybe, Rickon would return.
And when he did, Tiber would be ready.