#anya 002

it had only been a few moments since the lord of karhold had emerged from the thickness of the woods on the edge of barrowtown, where prince adam stark of winterfell had been the one to tell him some crucial news of the river king's disappearance. it had sent brandon's head into a frenzied state that was uncharacteristic of him, his minding racing likes the harsh winter winds that felt like a whip upon the skin, thinking if they would do such things to two kings, what would they attempt upon his own sister? barrowtown had only ever meant to be a pitstop to gather men from house dustin before continuing north on his venture; time seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and the tightness in his chest only suggested that time was seemingly running out.

the horses had been watered, his men had been sent to accompany the volunteers from house dustin; his boots crunched against the sticks of the woods below him, footprints imprinted upon the snow heavily set. winter was coming, and it seemed as though it had already dawned upon them, as though the darkest of days was coming. he would leave within the hour if time was on their side, and thus he could ride further north and meet with cassana within the next three days should all go according to plan. how often did that happen?

he continued pacing, walking through the hustling bustle of the market that was barrowtown, the trees long since changing to faces both familiar, strange and distasteful. he wanted them all gone from the north, foe and friend alike; they needed to look after their own at the end of the day, and even their friends had put some of them in jeopardy. a familiar head of raven hair seemed to cross by him in the distance beneath a stone archway, and her name seemed to slip from him casually.

it hadn’t been long since mathis rowan returned to highgarden from standfast, and yet already, the place had begun to wrap itself around him again, like the ivy curling up the old stone columns, steady and patient. at first, the gardens had felt quieter than he remembered, their greens dulled by the weight he’d carried back with him. but in the weeks since, with time to think and breathe and simply be, things had begun to shift. the green had returned to his eyes, not just around him but within him, and he knew better now than to take that clarity for granted. it was a rare gift in a world that moved too fast and asked too much.

he lingered at the edge of the crowd gathered for one of the more impassioned lectures of the day, something to do with moral obligation and mechanized plows, maybe both. it was hard to tell over the overlapping debates and half-snide responses dressed in civility. mathis had always found these kinds of talks a bit exhausting when they were too public. there was something almost indecent, he thought, about sharing your deepest ideas with a hundred strangers at once. he preferred the quieter corners, where talk could turn honest and names and publicity didn’t matter so much.