Year 60 AC
It had been sixty years since Aegon the Conqueror first set foot on Blackwater Bay and made the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee. But in the high valleys of the Vale, tucked far from thrones and dragons, life still rose and fell like it always had—with blood, pain, and silence.
The girl screamed.
The sound echoed through the wooden walls of the cottage, muffled by the thick stone of the mountain pass. Wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, but inside the world narrowed to the girl on the straw-stuffed bed, legs parted, hair slicked with sweat.
Her name was Ella, and she was no more than sixteen.
Her mother, Emma, wiped the sweat from her brow with a damp cloth. Her father, Robert, held her hand as if he could share the pain through his calloused grip. But the girl only screamed harder, eyes wide with fear and fire.
"You're strong, love," Emma whispered, pressing her forehead to Ella's. "Just a little more. He's almost here."
With one final push and a sound torn from her throat, the baby came into the world. A boy. Pale as new snow, streaked with blood, with a shock of black hair already curling damp on his scalp. His cries came sharp and angry, like he already knew the world was cruel.
Ella held him once. Just once.
"Tiber," she whispered, her voice cracking. "His name is Tiber. Like his father."
And then she was gone.
The light in her eyes faded as her breath slowed and her body stilled. Her parents didn't weep at first. Robert just sat down, heavily, on the floor beside the bed. Emma kissed her daughter's cooling forehead, over and over, as the babe cried and cried.
They buried Ella behind the house, beneath the hill where the sheep grazed in summer. Robert dug the grave himself, refusing to let Emma help. He drove the spade into frozen ground, again and again, until blisters opened on his palms and his breath steamed in the cold air. When he was done, he said nothing. Just stared at the stones.
Inside, the baby wailed.
Emma held him gently, but her old breasts were dry. Her milk had gone years ago. "He needs to feed," she said, rocking him. "He won't last long without it."
Robert stood in the doorway, dirt on his boots, grief in his bones. "What do we do?"
"Lucy," Emma said quietly. "Next door. She gave birth two moons ago. Her boy's still feeding. She might take him."
Robert nodded. He left, and when he came back, Lucy came too. She was young and soft-spoken and her eyes welled when she saw the babe.
"He's beautiful," she whispered, cradling Tiber to her chest. "Poor little thing."
Four years later – 64 AC
The boy stirred beneath a patched wool blanket. He blinked up at the ceiling as golden morning light crept through the cracks in the shuttered window. Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle hissed and clanked.
Tiber sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
His feet hit the cold stone floor with a small slap. The room still smelled of smoke and bread—his grandmother always baked early, and she always baked on his nameday.
Before he could cross the doorway, a great pair of arms swept him off the floor with a laugh.
"There's my little man!"
"Grandpa!" Tiber squealed, giggling as Robert spun him once and set him down. "I'm four now!"
"Seven hells," Robert grunted, ruffling the boy's hair. "Big enough to start swinging a hammer."
"No hammers," came Emma's voice from the hearth. "Not till he's taller than the table."
Tiber ran to her next, burying his face in her skirts as she turned and knelt. Her arms were warm and flour-dusted. Her hair had gone all silver, and her hands shook a little when she worked, but her smile never faded.
"I made you something," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "A pie. Apple and honey. Just like you love."
Tiber's eyes lit up.
The rest of the day passed like a dream. They didn't have gold, but they had enough—enough to roast a hen, enough to drink spiced wine with Lucy and her boy (who was now a year older than Tiber), and enough to laugh. Robert played the old harp he hadn't touched in years. Emma told stories of Ella, her voice strong even when her eyes were not.
No one spoke of the father. Tiber didn't ask. Not yet.
That night, as the fire crackled low, Emma tucked the boy into bed. His little hands clutched a stuffed rag-hound he'd had since he could remember. The night wind moaned against the cottage wall.
"Sing it," he whispered.
She did.
Her voice, thin but steady, sang the lullaby Ella had always loved. A Vale song, soft and sad, of birds flying west and spring never coming. Tiber didn't understand the words, not really. But the sound made his eyes close, and his little chest rise and fall slow and even.
Emma sat beside him until sleep took him. Then she stayed, just a little longer, her hand resting on his hair.