Tiber awoke to stillness.
Not the comfortable, gentle kind of stillness—the kind that wrapped itself around you like a warm cloak—but the sort that made you feel like you'd missed something. Like the world had moved without you, and you were only now stepping into the aftermath.
He dressed without hurry, pulling on his usual shirt and trousers, lacing his boots as beams of early light filtered through the wooden slats of the shuttered window. His sword, Twilight, rested on the stand beside his bed, but for now he left it. He figured he wouldn't need it to walk downstairs and drink water.
At least, that was the plan.
The common room of The Rose and Falcon looked like the aftermath of a battle. Bodies everywhere—slumped over chairs, collapsed beneath tables, curled up in corners with tankards still in hand. Some snored. One man had fallen asleep face-first in a plate of dried fruit.
Robbie was the only one still upright, polishing mugs behind the bar like this was just another Tuesday.
Tiber blinked. "What in the seven hells happened?"
Robbie didn't even look up. "After Mairon finished his performance, he shouted, 'Free drinks for everyone!' Then they all drank themselves to death—or close to it."
Tiber looked around. "And you didn't stop him?"
"He paid for it with my money," Robbie said dryly. "Didn't really get a say in the matter."
Tiber sighed. "Right."
He paused for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. "You know anyone in Gulltown who works with cloth? Tailors, weavers, anyone good with thread?"
Robbie quirked an eyebrow. "You planning to sew some clothes?"
"I want someone to finish my tabard," Tiber said simply.
Robbie scratched his chin. "Can't help you there. But Mairon might. Look at him—prances around in those bright peacock clothes like he's some Braavosi prince. I don't know where he gets them. Man's got no coin, and this whole damn place is paid for outta my purse."
Tiber glanced over at the far corner, where Mairon lay on a couch, face-down, arms splayed. His silk sleeves were stained with wine. His boots had been removed—likely stolen—and his hair was half-undone.
Tiber walked over and gave him a hard shake.
Mairon groaned, rolled over, and muttered something in a language Tiber didn't recognize.
He didn't respond.
Tiber slapped him, clean across the cheek.
Mairon bolted upright with a gasp, clutching his face. "Gods, my face! What was that for?"
"To wake you up."
"You could've just shaken my shoulder!"
"I could've," Tiber said flatly. "But I wanted to hit your face."
Mairon narrowed his eyes. "You're a cruel man, Septim."
"You get your clothes from somewhere. I want to know where."
Mairon blinked. "Oh. That."
"Yes. That."
"I… can't say."
Tiber stared.
"The person who gave me the clothes made me swear not to tell anyone."
Tiber didn't blink. "Who saved your life at Redfort?"
Mairon winced. "You did."
"So?"
The bard groaned and slumped back. "Fine, fine. Near the ports, there's an alley. Locals call it Whoreson Alley."
Tiber squinted. "Why's it called that?"
"Because," Mairon said, "it was built by a whore's son. Obvious, really."
"…Right. And how do I get in?"
Mairon said, "there is a code."
Mairon hesitated. "Don't laugh."
Tiber didn't say anything.
"The code is… Donkey Fucker."
Tiber blinked slowly. "Of course it is."
"Look, I don't make the codes," Mairon said, hands raised. "I just use them."
Tiber exhaled through his nose. "What's her name?"
"Emma. She's… difficult. But she's the best tailor in the city. Maybe all of the Vale."
Tiber gave a nod, then turned and headed back upstairs. He grabbed his old, weatherworn tabard from the rack. The blue fabric was still rough, the white star slightly crooked. It was Ella's gift, stitched with trembling hands and quiet love.
He almost walked out the door before he paused.
Twilight sat beside the bed. The port was near the poorer districts. Whoreson Alley wasn't on any respectable map.
Tiber buckled on his swordbelt.
---
Pebbles let out a snort as he passed her, tied up outside The Rose and Falcon.
"Not today," Tiber said, running a hand along her mane. "You sleep."
The mare neighed softly, and he set off down the cobbled road. The city was already stirring. Merchants shouted prices, ships unloaded at the harbor, and guardsmen strode past on patrol. He walked for twenty-five minutes, passing through markets and alleys until the sea air grew sharp and briny.
Then he found it: a narrow, crooked alleyway squeezed between a brothel and a spice seller.
A faded wooden sign above read: Whoreson Alley.
Charming.
He knocked on a blue door. A sliding panel opened, revealing a set of small, piggish eyes.
"What's the code?" the man grunted.
Tiber stared him down. "Donkey Fucker."
The panel slid shut. The door creaked open.
The gatekeeper was hideous—balding, bloated, with gums like raw meat and not a tooth in his mouth. He grinned.
"You're a pretty man," he said, eyeing Tiber.
Tiber didn't respond. "I'm looking for a woman named Emma."
The man pointed with a thick finger. "Shop on the left. Queen Clothing. Can't miss it."
Tiber walked past without another word.
The shop was pristine. The name Queen Clothing was engraved in golden letters over the door. As he stepped inside, the scent of lemon and spice filled his nose—sweet, exotic perfume that made him pause. Dozens of women milled about, admiring silks, velvets, and lace.
Many turned to look at him.
Some giggled. A few blushed.
Tiber straightened his shoulders and moved to the counter, where a dark-haired woman was adjusting a mannequin.
"I'm looking for someone named Emma."
She glanced up, then nodded once. "Come to the back."
He followed her through a velvet curtain, past shelves of bolts and measuring tapes, until they reached a carved wooden door. She knocked.
"Who is it?" came a melodic voice from within.
"It's Jaina. A friend of Mairon's is here to see you."
The door opened at once.
Emma was stunning. A little shorter than him, with dyed blue hair that shimmered like sapphires in the light. Her skin was light, her eyes a deep brown. She wore a sleeveless white gown stitched with silver, and looked as though she belonged in a court, not a tailor's workshop.
"You're here for me?" she asked.
Tiber held up his tabard. "Mairon said you could help me finish this."
Emma snorted. "That lying piece of shit. Tell him to—"
She paused. Her eyes drifted to the pommel of Twilight, to the twelve-pointed star.
Her voice softened. "Wait… you're him. The Knight of the Septim Star."
"I am."
"Then you can stay."
She waved Jaina away and closed the door behind her.
"Let me see it."
Tiber handed over the tabard. Emma turned it over in her hands, inspecting the stitching, the coarse fabric, the off-center star.
"This is awful," she said bluntly.
"I know."
"I can't fix this. It's cheap material. It'll fall apart in a month."
"It's special," Tiber said. "Someone made it for me."
Emma looked up. "Would she want you to wear this? Or something worthy of your name?"
Tiber didn't respond.
"You're becoming famous," she went on. "You've killed knights, beaten lords, and saved people. You're the hero of a dozen songs. You need a tabard—and armor—that shows it."
Tiber ran a hand through his hair. "…How long?"
"One week."
"And what do you want in return?"
Emma smiled. "Bring me Mairon."
Tiber frowned. "Why?"
"That's between me and him. Ask him yourself."
He gave a slow nod. "Fine."
He turned to leave, then hesitated. "Thank you."
As he stepped out of the shop and back into the alley, he heard shouting nearby.
A man was beating a child—slapping him, pushing him into the mud.
Tiber strode over without a word.
"Get lost," the man growled.
Tiber didn't speak. He punched the man with all his might. The brute flew backward into a pile of crates and didn't get up.
The boy stared up at him, wide-eyed.
"Here," Tiber said, giving him the old tabard. "Take this. Go to the Rose and Falcon. Find a small man named Robbie. He'll help you."
The boy clutched the cloth. "Thank you, ser."
Tiber nodded and walked off.
---
Back at the Rose and Falcon, Pebbles was awake. She neighed happily as he approached.
Tiber patted her nose. "We'll ride tomorrow."
Inside, the common room was clean. The drunks had been dragged out or sent home. Only Robbie remained, wiping down a table.
"Where's Mairon?" Tiber asked.
"Don't know," Robbie replied. "He left right after you did."
Tiber's expression darkened.
"Fuck."
And with that, he turned and stepped back out into the sun, beginning the hunt.
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