Work Text:
All rivers assail the memories of men; Riverrun was no different. At the dawn of any boy’s life the currents flowed one way, by the high sun of his middle days those same shores bent anew. The curse of a mapmaker’s toil, the easy give in that red mud, sliced open by deepening blues and summered rains. But Bryndren was no mapmaker; the triune walls he dreamt were long eroded, however well he knew they stood. There, grey skies and gutted trout. There, hauled fishnets, fanning cattails. Here, a final forked flow coursing farther out. All tides slipping free downstream.