WARS TO COME, game of thrones

𝐈. winterfell

𝟐𝟖𝟔 𝐀𝐂

"When are you leaving?"

"In an hour, at dawn. Then we'll be in Winterfell by evening." Anrir looked over his shoulder at Maester Flynn, a man of about forty who had been serving under Anrir in Riverfall for two years now, rebuilding the library and compiling documents on the existing writings, among other things. He was also trying to restore the damaged records. When Anrir was in the Eyrie to replace his father, Flynn took over his duties in Riverfall.

Three years ago, his father had given him back some of the villages in the Mountains of the Moon that had passed to the Arryns after the fall of his house. Anrir managed them and had begun to gradually rebuild Riverfall over the last three years.

"The horses are being readied," Anrir continued, looking up from his desk where he was bent over a dictionary of Old Valyrian. He had resolved to learn the language in which so many books in the library and the motto of his house were written. Flynn supported him and so Anrir now knew that the nickname Beast of the Vale did not come from somewhere. Beast beneath the bones. He smiled slightly at the thought of those words.

"Enjoy your stay," Flynn inclined his head with a smile and left Anrir alone in the large writing room. Outside, the waterfall sang and Anrir leaned back with a smile. Oh, and how he would enjoy it. The last time he had seen Ned and little Jon was when he had accompanied them to Winterfell after the battle at the Tower of Joy. By then, Ned's firstborn had been in his mother's arms and Anrir had ridden quickly back to the Eyrie. It had been hard for him to see Ned with his new family of his own. Today he would see Catelyn again and even a new Stark offspring. But Ned too. And he could no longer stand the fact that they only sent each other carefully impersonal letters from time to time.

A maid entered after a shy knock and Anrir followed her into his chambers, where she dressed him for the journey and shaved him. She moved the razor carefully over his face and neck so as not to touch the still sensitive scars. It had taken almost a year for the wounds to stop opening up at night and starting to fester again and again. He almost lost his left eye to an infection. But now the scars were uneven and dark, running down the left side of his face from his forehead to his jaw and under his right eye in a shorter cut across his cheekbone. The scar on his throat was paler, better healed. Sometimes, however, Anrir caught himself stroking it thoughtfully with his fingers. He had almost died from the Trident.

"Lord Riverfall?" the maid asked cautiously, snapping him out of his thoughts. Anrir obediently slipped into the black shirt and the matching coat, which was decorated with silver embroidery. Beast hung from his waist and Anrir briefly examined himself in the mirror the maid held out to him. He was no longer ashamed of his vanity and enjoyed being dressed in clothes made especially for him. "Good. Thank you," he finally said and detached himself from the slender man staring at him with black eyes in the mirror. He brushed his hair out of his face and then stepped outside.

Two guards flanked him through Riverfall's corridors and halls, which were no longer deserted and dusty, but full of life. Soldiers of the Vale were always stationed in the castle and Riverfall was often used as a trading post between the Eyrie and the Riverlands. Anrir had recently turned 20 and he was heir to Jon Arryn and Lord of Riverfall. He was esteemed and respected in the valley. He liked to imagine that his ancestors looked at on him with pride.

Even if he would not be his father's heir forever, no one could take him away from Riverfall. He took a deep breath, his head aching at the thought of Lysa Arryn. His father's wife despised him and he was a constant thorn in her side. But Anrir didn't feel comfortable around her either. One day she would give birth to the one who would replace him. Even though he wanted his father to finally have a healthy offspring and would like to spare Lysa and him the agony of stillbirths and miscarriages... He feared that Lysa would banish him from the Vale and his father's life as quickly as possible.

Outside, he said goodbye to the guards and rode north, accompanied by three knights. They were men his age from the surrounding villages whose parents had served his house. He had seen to it that they received training and had found loyal and courageous companions in them.

"I'd like to get to know a northern girl better," mused Harwyn Firn, a 19-year-old boy with broad shoulders and curly hair, leading his chestnut mare alongside Anrir's black stallion. "Desperation is certainly a good tactic with the women," snorted his twin brother Alan, and Harwyn called him a swear word that would probably send any noblewoman into a swoon. Anrir had to grin, but shook his head.

"Behave yourselves. I'm not bringing you to Winterfell to act like wild beasts, but to celebrate the birth of Lord Stark's first daughter with me and the other noble guests," Anrir admonished them, careful to adopt his father's calm tone, with which he always managed to keep tempers calm. He felt a little ridiculous about it and Alan and Harwyn seemed to think so too. He heard them giggling softly, but didn't mind. He knew that they were loyal to him and would always defend his honor.

Erik Lark, the third of his knights, shook his head at them. He was twenty-nine years old and already had gray streaks in his blond hair that matched his serious demeanor.

"Concentration. The mountains are dangerous and it's going to be a long ride. We should cross them in full daylight," he ordered and at his command, silence did indeed fall over his companions. Only the horses' hooves and the wind in the mountains made a sound.

As the hours passed, the landscape became flatter again and the nature around them increasingly barren. The wind grew colder and Anrir was grateful for the heavy, black cloak that lay around his shoulders and shielded him a little. No snow was falling, but they were clearly in the north now. And Anrir immediately felt reminded of the winters of his childhood, when he would leave the Eyrie to spend the cold season with Ned and the Starks.

Back then, a Targaryen still sat on the iron throne and Brandon was the future Lord of Winterfell. Back then, him and Lyanna were still alive and would tease him for his sensitivity to the cold, challenge him to duels with wooden swords and welcome him into their midst like a member of the family rather than the stranger he had been at Winterfell.

Now Robert was King of the Seven Kingdoms and Ned was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Lyanna and Brandon were gone and Anrir was no stranger, but he also doubted that he was still a family member. He loved Ned and he assumed Ned still loved him too. But they were in a strange limbo. They weren't having the affair Ned had always feared, but they weren't just childhood friends either. They loved each other.

Anrir exhaled tensely and his joy evaporated with the cloud of breath that disappeared into the cold air. Of course they still loved each other. He shouldn't doubt that.

"There," Erik snapped him out of his thoughts and pointed into the distance.

Anrir swallowed hard at the sight of the mighty castle with its walls and towers that he knew so well.

"Winterfell."