He had not brought Zevran with him.

The choice had been his to make, whether or not to ask the other elf to accompany him on this, his first visit to the small estate Sebastian had gifted him with – for a gift it was, no matter what the Prince might say about it being a reward for his having saved Sebastian's life twice over – and he had decided that he wished to have some time to think, apart from Zevran and the confusing emotions his presence awoke. The assassin had been... disappointed, he could tell, at his decision to visit his new estate by himself. Or at least as "by himself" as he could be, when he had to bring servants along – servants! – to staff and care for his new home. But now that it was too late to change his mind, with himself and his small retinue two full day's travel to the southwest from Starkhaven, he regretted it, and found himself missing Zevran, as he had never missed anyone else's presence in his life before.

He had changed a lot since Kirkwall. More still since coming to Starkhaven, where his very first act had been to save Sebastian from an ambush by people bent on the Prince's murder. He'd collapsed, afterwards, and awoken to find himself being cared for by one of the last people he would ever have thought to find alive and well in Starkhaven; the mage whose death Sebastian had sworn to see to, Anders.

Anders, too, had changed since Kirkwall. His indwelling spirit had left him. Or so he claimed, and so far it seemed to be the truth; there had been no sign of Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever the demon chose to call itself, and the mage's attitudes had undergone a profound shift as a result. He had, in his loss and grief after events in Kirkwall – the destruction of the chantry, Hawke's abrupt severing of his relationship with the mage – come to Starkhaven of his own free will, seeking an ending. But Sebastian had seen... something... in the man, in the circumstances of his arrival, that had stopped him from executing the mage out of hand on his arrival. He'd stayed his hand out of pity, curiosity perhaps, then further spared Anders' life out of practicality; healers were rare. The mage could be of use. And now...

Fenris smiled slightly. Many things had changed, for all of them. And those two who had been such un-friends in Kirkwall were now, against all probability, a couple, the affection between them palpable even to those as inexperienced in matters of the heart as he himself was. Nor was Sebastian the only one whose attitudes towards Anders had changed; to his lasting surprise, Fenris had also come to see the mage as a friend. A good one; someone he trusted, as he had trusted very few people in his life.

Nor was Anders the only new friend he'd made since arriving in Starkhaven; there were a number of people there he liked enough to spend time with occasionally, and chief among them was a certain elf from Ferelden. Bann Zevran Arainai of Blackmarsh, Blight Companion, ex-Crow. An assassin, and his... he hesitated, not wanting to use the most obvious word. More than a friend. The direction of his thoughts bothered him, reminding him as it did of the reason why he'd chosen to come here without Zevran. Of the need to think, without the other elf's distracting presence.

He clapped his heels to Ari's sides, urging his horse to a faster pace. He had outpaced the waggon-load of servants and supplies some time ago; he'd wanted to reach the estate first, to see his new home without the intrusive presence of others. And wasn't that an odd word to have a use for... home. A place of his own. Not Danarius' mansion or any of his estates. Not the abandoned building Fenris had squatted in for so many years in Kirkwall. Not Isabela's ship, nor Sebastian's castle. A place that was his, the deed for it in his name, the keys to it in his possession.

And as he thought that, the road crested a low hill, and he saw his estate for the first time. The road branched here, the main road curving more sharply to the south and running downhill before turning to the southwest again to follow along the foot of a steep vineyard-covered escarpment. There were fields spreading out across the plains at the base, a tree-lined river, and a small village. A smaller offshoot of the road ran off to west and then turned back south-west, paralleling the top of the escarpment, to where a dry ditch backed by a tall, thick hedge marked out the grounds surrounding a small stone-walled manor house. The estate shared its name with the village down below – Brynhir, or "long hill" in the old mountain tongue. Or so he had been told. He supposed it referred to the lengthy face of the escarpment, which ran beyond sight for some miles to the southwest before eventually petering out in the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains.

He turned Ari's head, taking the western road, and was soon crossing a low stone bridge over the dry ditch. There was a gate; decorative only, a large grill of bronze, there more to keep out livestock than for any real defensive purpose. He dismounted long enough to unlatch and swing open the gate, leading his horse in, then closed it again behind him before swinging back up into the saddle. And stopped, just sitting there for a few minutes, studying what he could see of the building now that he was inside the encircling hedge and had an unobstructed view of it.

The road here was wide – at least twice the width as it had been outside the gate – and rather than the packed earth it had been on the other side of the bridge was formed of large flagstones set in a bed of sand, clumps of low-growing greenery squeezing up here and there in the gaps between them. There was a wide area of grass to either side of it, grazed short, and then a line of tall trees, elms he thought, that neatly framed the view of the house.

It was a wide, low building, in the shape of an L, the foot of it being a one-story wing to his left that contained stables and storage. The lengthier stroke of the L was the main house itself, two stories plus a dormered roof in height, paralleling the edge of the escarpment. There was a large door set in a recessed entryway at the top of a low flight of stairs, the leaves of it made of thick oak planks and iron strapping, that looked fully capable of withstanding a battering ram.

He rode to the edge of the flagstone yard fronting the house, and there dismounted, removing the tack from Ari and leaving the stallion to graze; he had no fear that the horse would run off. He carried the saddle and bridle and his saddlebags over to the stable, setting them down long enough to open the doors there – not as heavily made as those on the house itself, but still quite sturdy – and set the saddle and bridle safely to one side inside the doors. He hesitated, tempted to explore the stables first, then picked up his saddlebags and walked over to the house. His house, he thought again, and smiled as he sorted through the keys on the ring to find the one that would open the door.

It was cool inside, and dim, the only light being the open door behind him, and the faint sunlight making its way through the gaps around the shutters covering all of the windows, the house having been shut up after its inhabitants – a close cousin of Sebastian, and his wife – had been killed by Flint Company mercenaries in the night of slaughter that had almost entirely wiped out the Vael family. The air smelled faintly of dust and mice. He stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, then picked the closest door, and began a slow exploration of the house.

The first room to the right was a sizable sitting room, with a fireplace, all the furniture draped in muslin drop-cloths. He left them covered for now – later, once the servants had arrived and the shutters had been taken down, would be the time for a proper examination of the furnishings.

An open archway led into a second large room, a dining room, beyond which was a plain door leading to a small butler's pantry. Doors leading off from it revealed a sizable kitchen, a largely empty storage pantry, a stairway leading down into the cellars of the house, and a narrow stairway leading upstairs; servants stairs, he supposed, by their placement and plainness. He returned to the front hallway, and explored in the other direction, finding a smaller sitting room, with a small private study off it it, both connecting to a sizable library that ran along the hillside face of the house. There was also a small chamber containing an earth closet and a sink. That seemed to be everything on the ground floor, so he returned to the front hallway again and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The space to the left was clearly the master suite; a sizable bedroom whose windows had a view out over the vine-covered slopes and the village far below. Off of it were several rooms, including a large and very well-appointed bathing chamber, and another sitting room and office. A wide hallway led off to the right from the top of the stairs, lined with doors that proved to lead to additional bedrooms, several with their own bathing chambers; guest bedrooms, children's bedrooms, and at the farthest end of the hallway, what had clearly been meant to be a schoolroom and nursery. There was also a door leading to the servant's staircase he'd first seen down below, and this time he climbed it, up into the attic spaces.

The attics had been divided up into several rooms, the largest of which was a storeroom, still filled with chests, boxes, and muslin-draped furnishings. There was also a bathing chamber, much smaller and more plainly appointed than the ones lower in the house, and a large cistern – currently empty – to supply water to the house, which had a rather surprisingly thorough system of dwarf-made plumbing; someone had spent considerable money on the building of this house.

Perhaps not entirely surprising, given that its owners had been members – however minor – of the ruling family, and that the vineyards that were part of the estate produced several well-regarded wines, including a small amount each year of the rare – and therefor quite profitable – winter wine. A wine whose production was largely limited to the royal estates, Sebastian had explained to him; his gift of Brynhir to Fenris made this only the third vineyard outside royal hands that had royal warrant to produce the wine, whose production was kept very strictly limited to maintain its value, as well as to insure that its quality was maintained at a high standard.

All told, he found himself thinking as he returned to the ground floor, it was a very nice house, rather larger than he actually needed, but not so large that he felt lost in it. Bigger than Danarius' Kirkwall mansion had been, but considerably smaller than his Minrathous household. Larger and finer than the house on Sebastian's own personal estate, but then that building was centuries older and harked back to a time when the Vaels had been little more than well-off land owners, as much farmers as fighters.

As he returned to the ground floor, he heard the sounds of voices outside, hooves and cart-wheels; the servants had arrived. He smiled as he went to the door to see them in. Servants of his own... that was going to take even more getting used to than being Lord Fenris of Brynhir, minor noble of Starkhaven.