Tiber heard his name before he even opened his eyes.
It came softly at first, a faint hum beneath the sound of the morning gulls and the creak of wooden beams. Then louder—clear words drifting through the window of his chamber at The Rose and Falcon.
"…with a star on his chest and a blade forged of night,
He met the Bell Knight 'neath moon's silver light…"
Tiber sat up in bed, groaning. He knew that voice. Knew that damned song. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards cold under his feet.
Another verse rang out, louder now.
"…Twelve times the bells rang, and twelve times they clashed,
But 'twas the Septim Star whose fury flashed!"
Tiber sighed.
He pulled on a tunic and trousers, not bothering with boots or cloak, and padded barefoot out the door and down the creaking stairs of the inn. The common room below was packed—farmers, merchants, guards, and even a few well-dressed travelers packed around tables, mugs in hand, eyes bright.
At the front of the room stood Mairon, a harp slung over one shoulder, his silver-blond hair tied back, his green-and-gold doublet immaculate. He strummed once more.
"…With a howl and a crash, the Bell Knight fell,
To the Knight of the Star, whom the bards now tell!"
The room erupted in applause.
Tiber leaned against a beam near the stairs and crossed his arms. Mairon gave a theatrical bow, soaking in the cheers and laughter. Then he held up a hand, calling for silence.
"My friends! That was only the first part of the tale of Ser Tiber Septim," Mairon cried. "But there is more! A week ago, this very knight bested a monster amongst men, the Red Giant of the Redfort—Lord Ryan himself! All to save the most precious treasure of the Vale—my own humble self!"
The crowd roared again.
And then Mairon saw him.
His words caught in his throat. "Uh—please, my friends. Wait one moment."
He slipped off the makeshift stage and made his way to Tiber, who watched him approach with the weariness of a man who'd already fought two battles this morning.
"You're awake," Mairon said sheepishly.
Tiber gave him a look. "I heard my name. And then my name again. And then some poetry about moons and bells and flashing fury. That pulled me out of bed."
Mairon scratched the back of his neck. "You didn't like it?"
Tiber shrugged. "It's not about liking it. It's... the way you sing it. It makes death sound like a game. Like it's all glory and light. Benedict died screaming."
The bard's smile faded.
"I know," Mairon said quietly. "But songs aren't meant to carry the screams, Tiber. They're meant to carry hope. A story. Something that gives people joy."
Tiber looked away. "You make me into something I'm not."
"You are that," Mairon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're the Knight of the Septim Star. You've defeated two of the Vale's finest warriors. People need heroes. Maybe you don't want the songs—but they do."
Tiber exhaled slowly. The weight of those words settled on him like a second swordbelt.
"…You think people outside the Vale might've heard them?" he asked.
Mairon smiled. "The North, the Reach, even the capital, maybe. Travelers come through Gulltown. Sailors carry songs as far as Braavos. You're already known."
Tiber grimaced. "Seven hells."
"So… may I keep singing?"
Tiber nodded, reluctantly. "Do whatever you want."
Mairon beamed. "Thank you, Tiber!"
He turned and darted back toward the crowd, who welcomed him with another round of applause.
Tiber shook his head and made his way to the bar.
Robbie was polishing mugs behind the counter. When he saw Tiber, his brow went up. "Well, look who's up before midday."
"I heard a song."
"Aye, and half of Gulltown heard it too."
Tiber slumped onto a stool. "Ale."
Robbie blinked. "Ale? You? You always drink water like a septa."
Tiber glanced at him. "Never tried it before. Heard it helps with stress and headaches."
Robbie let out a deep, rolling laugh and poured a mug. "That it does. It also makes you forget a woman's name and where you buried your boots."
He slid the mug over. Tiber took a tentative sip.
And immediately spat it back into the cup.
"Gods," he coughed. "Why do people drink this? It tastes like dog piss!"
Robbie gasped, as though personally insulted. "How dare you. That's fine Gulltown ale! Brewed in the cellars of House Grafton! It's the nectar of the gods!"
Tiber shook his head. "Nectar of the Seven Hells, maybe."
"Bah!" Robbie grunted. "If you want something fancy, try Arbor Gold. Or better yet, go drink water with the horses."
Tiber pushed the mug back. "Just give me water."
Robbie sighed theatrically and picked up the mug, drinking the rest of the ale himself. Then he poured cool water into the cup and slid it back.
Tiber drank gratefully. "Thanks."
He stayed there for a while, listening to Mairon's voice drift through the room again, and then made his way back upstairs. His room was quiet. Simple. The window let in the golden rays of the late afternoon sun.
In the corner, his armor stood on its rack. Plate, mail, gambeson. His swordbelt hung on a peg. And above it, draped neatly over a wooden chest, lay his tabard.
The blue cloth shimmered faintly in the light, and in the center was stitched the white twelve-pointed star. He walked over to it, picked it up, and studied it.
He remembered Ella's voice, soft and nervous:
"It's not finished yet. The twelve points… four are supposed to be white. Four red. Four gold."
He traced the white threads with his thumb.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought, he could find someone in Gulltown to finish it. He owed her that, at least. A full star. A finished gift.
He set the tabard down and climbed into bed, stretching out beneath the woolen sheets.
Outside, Mairon sang another verse.
And Tiber, the reluctant hero, closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, the words of the bard fading like waves on the shore.