WARS TO COME, game of thrones

𝐈. eyes

𝟐𝟗𝟖 𝐀𝐂

"I'll leave you alone for a moment," Robert patted his shoulder amicably and although he was no longer as muscular and lean as he used to be, he was still strong and rough in everything he did. Anrir winced and murmured a silent thanks.

Robert left the room where Anrir's father was laid out with heavy steps and Anrir continued to stare down at his father. There were pebbles on his face with open eyes painted on them.

"I can't believe you're not here anymore," he whispered to the corpse that had once been his father. In the past, he would probably have cried, but in recent years he had carefully killed off this emotional side. The grief was there nonetheless and he pressed a hand to his chest. An agonized gasp escaped his lips and echoed in the sept. "I'm sorry I wasn't here... I didn't make it here from the Eyrie in time... I'm so incredibly sorry, father. Lord Royce is representing me there though... It's all going to pass to little Robert now anyway, isn't it?"

Silence was his only answer, of course. "I'm not ready to be without you yet..." he whispered, having brought his rapid breathing under control. He couldn't believe his father was dead. He had been old, of course. But healthy. He had been robust and healthy and within two days had been carried off by a disease that the maesters had been unable to defeat. "I- why do you leave me alone? It's not fair."

Anrir knelt down and bowed his head in respect for the man who had raised him and to whom he owed everything. "I will never forget you, father. Without you I would be nothing, I would have nothing. I love you," he whispered softly before picking himself up and rubbing his mouth.

The last time he had seen his father was a few months ago, when he had visited the Eyrie briefly. Anrir and Jon had brought each other up to date, but had hardly said a word about personal matters. And now his father was gone. He wished he could relive that day. To tell his father how much he loved him and how grateful he was for his childhood. He would like to hug him one last time, to be a child for one last moment; safe and secure in the arms of the man who had not fathered him, but who was still more of a father to him than any other person. The man who had never let him doubt that he was loved.

He straightened his shoulders and turned away from the dead man, following Robert outside. Outside the sept, Robert's guards had gathered and escorted them to the carriage that would take them back to the red keep.

"He said nothing in his last hours that mattered in any way. He was..." Robert interrupted himself and frowned as if he realized that there was nothing he could say that would comfort Anrir in any way. "I understand," Anrir murmured and then looked at his king in silence. Over the last few years, he had watched Robert grow from a young, gifted warrior to a fat, old drunkard. Anrir didn't even know if they were really friends anymore and not just carrying on out of habit.

"I'm going to travel to Winterfell and ask Eddard to be Jon's successor. I figured you wouldn't-"

"I wouldn't want to be Hand of the King, Rob," Anrir sighed wearily. The journey to Kings Landing had been a long one. "You're still second choice," Rob continued and Anrir laughed wanly.

"Will you accompany me?" Robert shifted his weight with a groan and Anrir moved a little to the side to make room for him. Although he was taller than most men, he was still small and slender next to his king. Displeasure welled up inside him. No, he didn't want to go to Winterfell. He wanted to go to Riverfall, to go home. But he also knew Rob wasn't really asking him to. It was an order. "Of course," he said calmly.

His gaze swept over the passing streets and the people watching them with wide eyes. "Are Lysa and her son still in the city?" he suddenly remembered when he caught a glimpse of a child watching the carriage with beaming eyes.

"They're probably back in the Eyrie already," Robert said, sounding rather bored. Anrir laughed softly. Of course they were. Lysa was now Warden of the East until Robert was old enough to take on this role. He would probably never be wanted in the Eyrie again, unless Lord Royce remained loyal to him.

When the carriage stopped, Anrir followed Robert into the courtyard outside the throne room, brushing dust from the black tunic he wore. It was embroidered with silver falcons and moons and made Anrir suddenly feel ridiculous. He was no Arryn. Not without his father. "Escort Lord Riverfall to his chambers and help him get ready for a journey soon. We are traveling to Winterfell!"

Robert's booming order caused a flurry of activity among his staff, reminding Anrir back to the Battle of the Trident. At least Robert had kept his commanding tone. He bowed his head in farewell and then followed Ser Erik Lark, who had accompanied him to Kings Landing while Harwyn and Alan had remained in Riverfall.

"You are not comfortable here," Lark stated after ordering a stable boy to prepare their horses. A maid was to prepare their other belongings for the journey.

"No," Anrir agreed with him and listened to the sound of their boots on the stone of the long corridors they had to pass until they finally reached Anrir's chambers. "I miss the mountains and the waterfall. But admittedly, I like inspecting the fashions at court. Gather inspiration for the tailors in Riverfall." Lark laughed and Anrir smiled slightly, grateful for his knight's reassuring company.

Lark held the door to his chambers open for him, bowing his head politely. "I'll keep watch." With that, he closed the door and Anrir eased himself onto the chaise lounge in the antechamber. Beast fell clanking from his belt and he lay laboriously on his side, feeling the scar on his throat with trembling fingers. He lay there like that until the urge to sob had passed. It wasn't the best tactic, but it was enough for the moment. It had been a long time since he had had to fight such an attack and he felt haggard and tired when he sat up again.

In the evening he would be invited to dinner by Robert, but he doubted that he would be able to attend it. And who would blame him? After all, he was grieving. He was entitled to that grief.

He took off his tunic so that he was only wearing his cloth pants, boots and an open-buttoned shirt. This time he placed Beast more carefully on a side table with rich decorations. Then he trotted out into the hallway and returned Lark's questioning look with a calm, "Make sure no one waits forme at dinner, Lark." "Of course, my lord," Lark inclined his head and looked at Anrir attentively. Anrir let his eyes wander over the tall, muscular man, who looked extremely handsome in his black armor adorned with silver. Anrir ran his fingers over the knight's breastplate, feeling the imprint of the winged tower of his house.

"My lord...", Lark's voice was calm but firm and Anrir withdrew his hand. He wondered if the knight knew of his proclivities. Maester Flynn knew, and presumably his unattached lifestyle gave rise to rumors. But he hadn't had anyone for a long time... "Go now," Anrir ordered a little roughly and closed the door behind him again.

Now and then a traveler in Riverfall, now and then a member of one of the houses of the Vale, whom Anrir received as a representative of his father. Only men who made the first move, who risked losing a reputation themselves. He was no fool, after all.

Oh, but how lonely he was. How incredibly lonely. At least here in Kings Landing he had Rob and his family. And he liked Myrcella and Tommen, they were sweet and lovely children. And he could even warm to Joffrey, even if he made it difficult sometimes. He had no blood family, but Robert welcomed him into his with open arms.

He laid his head on the pillow in his wide bed in the spacious bedroom and stared at the ceiling until it blurred before his eyes and he fell asleep. Sleep was dark and lonely, but it was a moment of release from all the terrible things that awaited him in the waking world. He wished he could sleep forever.