Tiber awoke to a scream.
It was sharp and ragged, like a blade across skin, and it tore through the warmth of his dreams like fire through straw. He sat up fast, blinking in the dark, the soft shape of his stuffed hound falling from his arms.
Then came the sound of steel. The clang of metal on metal. A grunt. Another scream—this one closer.
"Grandma?" he whispered.
The door burst open. Robert stood there, wild-eyed, wearing nothing but his old wool tunic and boots. His face was red with sweat, his beard streaked with ash, and he held a woodcutting axe in both hands.
"Tiber," he snapped. "Under the bed. Now."
"I—"
"Don't speak. Hide!"
Tiber scrambled across the straw mattress and ducked beneath the bed just as Robert slammed the door shut. From under the wooden slats, the boy could see only flickers of torchlight and shadow from the hall. Then came the noise—feet pounding, things breaking, the thump of bodies falling.
His grandfather's voice shouted something—then cut off, fast.
Then silence.
It stretched for what felt like hours. Tiber stayed where he was, arms around his knees, the scent of dust and blood creeping in through the floorboards.
Finally, the silence broke.
Cautiously, he crawled out, bare feet padding across the cold floor. The hallway was darker now, smoke in the air. He stepped past the broken door and turned the corner into the main room.
They were there.
His grandfather, lying on his back, axe fallen beside him, his chest torn open.
His grandmother, crumpled near the hearth, one hand outstretched toward the kitchen knife she hadn't reached in time.
Tiber froze. His breath hitched.
"No…" He staggered forward, dropping to his knees. "No, no, no…"
He grabbed Robert's arm. It was still warm. He shook him, gently at first, then harder. "Wake up. Please wake up."
He moved to Emma. Her eyes were closed. She looked asleep, almost. He pressed his head to her chest, listening for something—anything. But there was only the sound of the wind outside and the crackling of fire, now burning somewhere down the road.
He stayed there for hours.
The night turned to dawn. The cottage grew colder.
When the door creaked open again, he didn't move.
A man stepped inside.
He was tall and broad, wearing dented mail and a blue tabard with a white swan, stars circling it like a halo. His boots crunched over blood and ash. He took one look at the bodies and the boy kneeling between them and let out a quiet breath.
"I'm sorry, lad," the man said, voice deep and coarse.
Tiber didn't look up. When the man reached to touch his shoulder, Tiber kicked him—hard.
"Leave me alone!"
The man didn't flinch. "Easy now. I'm not here to hurt you."
"I don't want to go! They're not dead—they're not!"
"I know it's hard. I know."
The man crouched beside him. He didn't force the boy to move, just let the silence settle.
After a time, he said, "Do you want revenge, boy? For what they did to your kin?"
Tiber looked up through tear-blurred eyes.
"Yes," he whispered. "I want to kill them."
The man nodded, solemn.
"Then come with me."
They buried Robert and Emma in the same spot where Ella had been laid to rest, years before. The wind blew sharp down the valley as the man dug. Tiber watched, arms wrapped around his knees.
The stranger's body moved like iron bending—slow, steady, unyielding.
When it was done, and the graves were filled, Tiber finally spoke.
"You're old."
The man gave a faint snort. "Aye."
"How old?"
"Sixty-four name days."
Tiber's brow furrowed. "You're the same age as my grandpa. How can you still wear all that armour?"
The man looked at the boy. For a moment, he almost smiled.
"You'll learn."
He stood, wiped his hands, and gestured toward the road. "Come. We've a long ride ahead."
They mounted his horse—a big, patient gelding with a gray mane and one ear torn. Tiber sat in front, small hands clutching the saddle. As they rode away from the ruins of the village, he looked back one last time.
His home was ash and smoke, nothing left but stone and memory.
He didn't cry again.
They stopped riding at dusk and made a small camp by a stream. The man built a fire, stripped off his mail, and shared hard bread and dried meat with Tiber.
"Who are you?" Tiber asked, mouth full.
"A knight."
"What's your name?"
"Rickon. Rickon Stone."
"Stone?" Tiber tilted his head. "That's a bastard name."
Rickon raised a brow. "That bother you?"
"No," Tiber said. "I'm a bastard too."
Rickon nodded once, like that explained something.
"Who's your lord?" Tiber asked. "My grandpa said knights serve great lords."
"I serve no one," Rickon replied. "I'm a hedge knight."
"What's that?"
"A knight with no master. No castle. I go where I will. Fight when I must. Sleep under trees more often than roofs."
Tiber looked at him, small brow furrowed. "Then… why'd you take me with you? You could've left."
Rickon didn't answer at first. He stared into the fire, jaw working slowly.
"You remind me of someone," he said at last.
"Who?"
Rickon shook his head. "Sleep, boy. We ride again at dawn."
Tiber lay down on the blanket, but sleep didn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood. Emma's hand reaching. Robert's eyes, empty. Smoke and screams and silence.
"Ser Rickon?" he whispered.
"Hm?"
"Can I sleep next to you?"
Rickon looked over. "Aye. Come here."
Tiber shuffled over and curled beside the older man's back, feeling the warmth of him through layers of cloth and old wool. After a while, his breathing slowed.
"What's your name again?" Rickon asked.
"Tiber."
Rickon grunted. "Never heard that one before."
"It was my father's name."
Rickon said nothing more.
Tiber didn't know when he finally fell asleep. Only that, for the first time that day, the world felt a little less broken.