WARS TO COME, game of thrones

𝐕𝐈. lords

𝟐𝟖𝟑 𝐀𝐂

Seeing Riverfall alive was an unusual experience. Not that Anrir had gathered many memories from the empty Riverfall, but still, the seat of his ancestors was like a rotting corpse that he had been dragging around with him for as long as he could remember.

But now the gates stood wide open, the remaining corpses had been burned, and the fighters and knights of three armies camped in the seemingly endless corridors of Riverfall. Meanwhile, others had been busy distributing armor and weapons to the soldiers who were in need of them since their arrival in the middle of the night. It was an even stranger feeling to see so many people in the colors of his house; black armor with plain silver trim. Of course, they also wore the blue and white of the Vale, the yellow and black of the Stormlands, and so on. But Anrir still felt like the Lord of Riverfall for the first time.

He sat in his parents' chambers, to the singing of the waterfall, while two squires put his armor on him. Someone had cleared most of the dust from the rooms, but the crib still stood at the foot of the bed, looking to Anrir like a tombstone of times past. "Please get up, Lord Riverfall," a squire raised his voice softly and Anrir straightened up so that the finishing touches could be put on the armor.

It was his father's old one, or at least that of the last Riverfall Lord who had gone into battle. At least that was Anrir's assumption, for it had been kept in one of the walk-in closets that adjoined... his chambers.

It was pitch black and surprisingly not bulky, but consisted of many plates of this strange black metal, decorated with an engraving that was partly reminiscent of scales and partly of water. The silver of his house was also found on the armor, in the form of various fittings on the arms and knees. Beast hung from his waist and seemed to be made for this armor.

"My cloak," he ordered the squires from The Vale and thanked them as they placed the pitch-black cloak on him, adorned with a delicate chain of silver that hung across his chest. "The lords will meet in the great hall, my lord." "Go on ahead. I need a moment to myself," Anrir demanded and the two boys left quickly. They couldn't be much younger than himself, he realized, and wondered when he had begun to see himself as a man.

For a few moments he just stood there in silence, staring over the balcony into the roaring waterfall. A sound that seemed as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Anrir thought back to his first visit here, to Ned. And there was that heartache again. Convulsively, he pushed away the memories of gentle kisses and the feel of Ned's hand on his. Soon he would be facing the Loyalists.

And it wasn't just about Lyanna anymore. Aerys Targaryen had gone mad, fallen ever more hopelessly into madness. Now it was also about the future of Westeros, about putting Rob on the throne for all their sakes. And Anrir was fighting for his house, for the value of his name, for the feeling with which the name Riverfall would be pronounced in the future. His fingers tightened around Beast.

Anrir had not been afraid of the Battle of the Bells, as it had come to be called. But now... They would go against the dreaded Dornish forces.  Against Oberyn, which made him more reluctant than he liked to admit. And against the dragon prince. Anrir tried to imagine how knights must have felt, going into a battle where real dragons had fought.

Anrir already wished for the bloodlust of the last battle to take over his body and keep him from thinking. His thoughts felt like a dangerous trap, as if they could quickly pull him into a black hole. His thoughts wanted to slip back to Ned and he saw that as the final reason to get up and leave the chambers.

He walked down the seemingly endless steps on his way to the great hall. To do this, he had to fight his way through the fighters, who seemed to be sitting everywhere. "Look, the beast of the valley," someone called after him with a laugh and a low roar of laughter went up. Anrir pursed his lips and held his chin straight as two soldiers opened the doors to the great hall for him. The other lords sat around a table at the foot of the empty, black throne. Anrir trudged past them and sat down on the throne where his father's body had rested until recently. The black stone was not cold as expected, but warm, as if it were alive. "Let us begin," he spoke to the assembled crowd, who looked at him intently. Rob serious and determined, Lord Tully with mute reluctance and his father with quiet recognition. Only Ned smiled at him with such genuine pleasure and pride that Anrir's heart seemed to stumble. He lowered his gaze slightly to focus on his father, who seemed like a calm rock in the storm  to him.

"Every soldier who is able carries a sword and a shield and we are only a day's ride from the Trident. We ride off now and then I'll wring the dragon's neck," Robert growled harshly. "We'll intercept them if they try to cross the river," Anrir agreed quietly, "They've taken more casualties than we have, they're weakened."

"Do not underestimate them in your youthful exuberance. They still have far more troops," his father raised his voice calmly. "But we are more battle-hardened. Especially the Northmen," Ned pointed out, "They will still underestimate us. That gives us an advantage."

"We are going into battle and we will win, all your musings about advantages and numbers are irrelevant. We are fighting for the right cause and we will win," Robert raised his voice again, "Tell the soldiers to get ready, we leave at moon high." Yielding nods arose between the lords. "Jon, Lord Tully... Leave us for a moment," Robert then ordered and Anrir looked after his father and Hoster Tully. How times had changed. Not long ago, his father had grounded Robert for some mischief. Now Robert was in charge of Jon.

The doors were closed again and the sounds of the soldiers that had briefly reached them were shut out. The waterfall sang its usual song.

Robert put his feet on the table with a groan and exchanged the warlord's mask for that of Anrir's rebellious, grinning friend. "Feet down," Anrir muttered, looking at the table. "Oh, the wood is rotten anyway. When I sit on the throne, I'll buy you 40 new boards," Rob grinned broadly, "Lord of Riverfall... Nice." "What do you want to talk about?" Ned interrupted their banter, causing Rob to sigh.

"Always straight to the point, eh, Ned?" snorted Rob, but then continued, "You're like brothers to me, more than that. And tomorrow we're going into the biggest battle of our lives. We used to dream of something like this." Ned and Anrir exchanged a brief glance. Anrir looked down at his hands. "We will win," Anrir finally murmured, hoping to pick up Rob's confidence. "We'll fight side by side. Of course we'll win," Rob grinned and punched Anrir in the upper arm. "And if not, I couldn't think of a nobler way to die than with a sword in your hand at your side," Ned now spoke quietly.

They fell silent, a meaningful atmosphere had settled over them. Rob finally stood up and Ned and Anrir wanted to follow him, but then found themselves in an embrace. The three of them stood close together and Anrir thought of the last 11 years. Robert and Eddard were his family and although they were completely different, he loved them both. He could not bear to lose either of them and he swore to himself that he would rather die than let that happen.

Finally, they broke away from each other and Anrir felt that they were no longer children. Never again would the three of them play with wooden swords in the Eyrie or secretly taste stolen wine. Never again would they lie on the carpet in Anrir's room in the evening and dream of adventures. Pain gripped his heart with a cold grip.

They were men now. Knights. Lords. Kings.