Gulltown was a maze of sound and stink — gulls crying overhead, sea brine sharp in the nose, the shouts of fishmongers and drunk sailors weaving through every alley. Tiber had walked for hours. His boots were slick with sea-muck, his head throbbed from the sleepless night, and he still hadn't found Mairon.
He'd checked every place the bard might go — the winehouse with the honeyed Dornish, the tavern with the gambling tables and the high stools, even the whorehouse where the girls gave pleasure. Each clue had been a dead end. Either Mairon had vanished, or no one wanted to tell Tiber the truth.
He was about to turn back when he heard it — a man shouting to a group of onlookers outside a pork pie stall:
"A knight's got the bard! Silvertongue! Said he's calling out the Septim Knight to fight for him — down by the port!"
Tiber stopped mid-step. The ache in his legs vanished. He let out a tired sigh, rubbed his jaw, and muttered, "Of course."
Then he ran.
The crowd was thick near the docks — traders, drunks, sailors, beggars, all gathered around a half-rotten platform of crates and barrels. Tiber pushed through them, ignoring the curses and shoves, until he reached the front.
And there he was.
Mairon Silvertongue, his fine green doublet torn, was lying on his back beneath a man's armoured boot. The man was tall and thick of arm, his armour dented and dusty, but still well-wrought. His face was lined with age and bitterness, a red beard. His surcoat bore the faded red tower of House Redfort.
Ser Bernard.
Tiber's eyes narrowed. He remembered the man — Captain of the Redfort guard. A hard fighter. Loyal. Or so it had seemed.
Ser Bernard spotted him.
"Well, well," he called, voice booming over the crowd. "The Septim Knight finally shows himself." He drew his longsword and pointed it toward Tiber, blade catching the light of the lowering sun. "Face me. Right here. Right now."
Mairon struggled beneath his boot. "Tiber! My friend! Save me! I didn't even insult him this time!"
Tiber's only response was a weary sigh. "What's the meaning of this, Bernard?"
The knight's voice turned bitter. "You came to Redfort. You fought Lord Redfort. You won. And then you left — with this little shit — and my honor was dragged through the dirt. They said I let you go. That I was weak. Lord Redfort stripped me of my title, my home. Now I'm nothing but a hedge knight."
His eyes burned.
"But if I bring your head back, maybe I'll be more than a hedge knight. Maybe I'll be Ser Bernard of Redfort again. Or something higher."
Tiber's lip curled. "So you thought you'd take a hostage. Coward's way."
"I've seen you fight," Bernard said, stepping off Mairon and raising his sword. "You'd kill me fair. So I didn't come alone."
Tiber's instincts flared — but too late.
A crack of pain shot through his skull as someone in the crowd slammed a wooden club into the back of his head. He stumbled, eyes blurring, and fell to the stones face-first. Something cracked — his nose. Blood gushed over his lips and chin. Another blow landed, this one to his ribs, and he curled, breathless.
Then they were on him — two, maybe three men. Kicking. Punching. Beating him in front of the crowd. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He tried to roll, to rise — but another boot caught him in the chest.
"Enough," a voice bellowed. "STOP. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW."
Through the ringing in his ears, Tiber looked up. A dozen men had appeared from the crowd, swords drawn. And at their head — Robbie.
The short man's round face was red with fury. "Touch him again and I'll cut your gods-damned hands off myself!"
Bernard and his men froze. The crowd began to scatter, sensing danger. And when Robbie's men surged forward, swords flashing, the Redfort men ran.
Tiber, bloodied and bruised, managed to rise — just barely. He staggered toward Mairon, who was also groaning on the ground.
"You stupid cunt," Tiber growled.
Then he punched him in the face.
Mairon yelped and clutched his cheek. "What was that for?!"
"You almost got me killed. And yourself."
Mairon wiped his nose. "Well, that's kind of your thing now, isn't it?"
"Shut up."
"Let's… talk about this at the Rose and Falcon?"
Tiber muttered something under his breath and nodded. Robbie's men helped them both to their feet, guiding them back through the city.
By the time they got back, the sun was down and the streets lit by lanterns. The Rose and Falcon was mostly empty again, save for the three of them. Robbie poured a glass of water for Tiber, muttering about bloody fools and honorless knights.
"You saved my life," Tiber told him.
Robbie shrugged. "You pay. That makes you my favourite customer."
Mairon nursed a swollen jaw with a chunk of cold meat. He tried to smile. "At least we made a scene. Maybe I'll write a song about it."
"No," Tiber snapped. "No more songs."
He turned to Mairon, arms folded. "Now. Tell me who the fuck Emma is. And why you're scared of her?"
Mairon sighed. "She's… my former lover."
Tiber raised a brow.
"We were lovers," Mairon said. "She made me clothes, let me stay with her, gave me work. Then I — well — I may have fucked another girl. And then I ran off. With all the clothes she made me."
Tiber groaned. "You are such a stupid cunt."
"Look, I regret it now!"
"Well, good," said Tiber. "Because when my tabard's ready, we're going to Whoreson Alley together. And you're going to beg for forgiveness."
"I'm not—"
Robbie kicked him in the shin. "You're doing it. Or you can sleep outside with the rats."
Mairon groaned. "Fine, fine…"
Tiber sat down heavily, breathing hard. "You've had your fun," he muttered. "Time to be better."
Silence passed between them, broken only by the clink of tankards.
Then Tiber winced and touched his face. "My nose is broken."
Robbie gave him a look and disappeared into the back room. He returned a moment later with a bowl, a cloth, and a small jar of some foul-smelling salve.
"This'll sting."
Tiber didn't flinch as Robbie set his nose. He only muttered, "That fucker Bernard… next time, he dies."
Later, in his room, Tiber lay in bed staring at the wooden beams above. Twilight leaned against the wall nearby, and a faint draft came through the shuttered window.
He touched his ribs, still aching. Then his nose.
Then his thoughts drifted.
To Bernard. To the men who helped him. To Mairon. To Emma.
And to the growing number of people who wanted his head.
"Maybe I should've stayed in the mountains," he whispered.
But the wind outside didn't answer.
Only the weight of his blade reminded him of who he'd become.
The Septim Knight.
And tomorrow, he'd need a plan.