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[b][u]POV:[/u][/b] [color=D22626][b]Lord Paramount Riaon Tully[/b][/color]
[img]http://peterbaxterafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/Page-Divider.png[/img][/center][center][b]|| [i]The Godswood, Riverrun, The Trident[/i] ||[/b][/center]
The solitude of Riverrun’s godswood had been comforting for Riaon Tully, as it had been since he was a small temperamental child. 

A solace that perhaps was indebted to his romanticization of the old texts and the old cultures of his kinsmen. Before the invasion of the Andals, there was only the first men with blades of copper and bronze who defined themselves by a prouder way of life. A way of life before knights, “new” gods, and thrones made of iron and gluttonous, boisterous beliefs. He often wondered what it had been like to have been back in a time before his people had been conquered several times over— before the Valyrians, before the Ironborn, and before the Andals. A time where Westeros only held two proponents of people; the First Men and the Children of the Forest. What a time it must have been. But that time had passed, and Riaon Tully was no fool to presume it could ever return.

The present was empty, insufferable, and full of pointless conclusions— but it was the present. As much as he would’ve liked to lay in the godswood far away from reality and responsibility, he knew that he couldn’t; especially now that he was the Lord Paramount of The Trident following his father’s death to the same loathsome illness that had consumed his beloved wife seven years ago. Being Lord Paramount was something of an inevitability following his brothers deaths, a consequence of the brutality that occurred in the Trident when “Romarn Mudd” declared his right by inheritance to retake the Kingdom of Rivers and Hills from House Tully and bring back true prosperity to The Trident. A sentiment that Riaon might have been ensnared by had he not been the enemy of the overzealous rebellion in the first place. [i]The War of the Four Swords[/i]. He had been a young, aspiring knight then and now here he was as the successor to his father many years before he [i]should[/i] have died of old age. His father did not deserve to writhe in the bed coughing his lungs until he turned over. His wife did not deserve to spasm in pain as she collapsed down a flight of stairs. His child didn’t deserve to die before it even had a chance to breathe.

A heavy breath left Riaon’s lips as he remembered a phrase his uncle, Manrel, used to tell him.

	[i]Few get what they deserve.[/i]

Riaon stood up from his position kneeling before the godswood, lamenting the responsibilities and the losses was something that gave him tranquility but only so for a brief moment of time. 

“You’ve been in the wood since dawn broke, brother.”

Riaon chuckled, he must’ve been in the godswood longer than he thought. How the day consumed him so. The reddish brown-haired man nodded to the appearance of his sibling in the godswood as he pushed himself off the ground and to a standing posture. “I suppose I have.”

He hadn’t just reclused into the godswood to mourn the death of his father in peace and dwell on what his next moves as Lord Paramount could be— but the fact that he had been effectively convinced by his sister to let her leave Riverrun when the call of the Iron Throne beckoned had hung over him like an old crow. He and his sister had been pretty much inseparable since they were born; they learned together, they trained together, and they even fought together. When he became Lord Paramount he thought she’d be there as his second-in-command with her sword sharpened at the ready to do her duty for the betterment of The Trident. But… she had wanderlust and ambitions; a fact that ensnared her when The Iron Throne’s Kingsguard came calling to ask her to be one of the rare exceptions to the rule as a female member of the whitecloaks. Riaon knew Cathryn had no desire to serve and protect insane Targaryen kings and queens, but when it came to it she left. He never thought she would. He misjudged her and he misjudged the cunning of the crown to take something from him he thought was unreachable. 

He would never admit it, but after the loss of his wife and father the loss of his twin made him feel so utterly [i]alone[/i]. Truthfully, while he hated dancing with words and playing games he could never admit his own failings or emotions; it just was something he couldn’t do, especially not while he had to show all of the lords of his realm that he was ready to lead and that he was a strong confident lord in a state of possible crisis.

“I’ve been thinking.” He said as he turned to face his younger sister.

“Oh? Is there anything I can do?”

Riaon nodded as Alyce’s gentle voice left her lips. She had always been the best of his younger siblings and maybe of them all— she lacked the traits that made them all so awful and represented the best of what they could be; or at least that’s how it seemed to him considering he couldn’t read any ulterior motives beneath her kindness, sympathy, and penchant for helping others when they needed it. As far as his opinion went the least desirable thing was that she preferred to be with the gods then with her countrymen or suitors. He was honestly surprised she hadn’t been taken in by the cloth quite yet. 

“You can drag me out of this forest.”

A light giggle. “Of course.”

“So who sent you to remind me I’ve wasted too much time?”

“Ser Damon Paege requested me to see ‘if you were alive’, if the language is appropriate.” 

Not exactly the proper way of speaking, but Ser Damon had been the man who trained himself and Cathryn in the art of the sword and upon his father’s death Riaon had personally elevated him to his personal council to serve as his marshal until he decided that he was unable to do so or was buried and gone. Knowing the old man he had a feeling it would likely be the latter over the former option, a fact that amused Riaon greatly. 

“I see. I guess the council wants to meet to have that discussion about what we are going to do going forward.”

“The succession crisis?”

Riaon nodded as a heavy breath left him as he thought about it as the two walked through the godswood, making for its exit. He had slept on it since it had happened— the whole business with that forsaken archaic throne that had no business ruling over his people and getting fat over its coin and bread. So many people claiming ownership of The Iron Throne and who [i]deserved[/i] it. He had received letters to mull over from House Tyrell, House Targaryen, House Crakehall, The Citadel, and even an unknown author who had scribbled inane subtle threats at his expense. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter if he stayed neutral or not since in his eyes it wasn’t a problem for him or his kinsmen. The last time they marched for or against the damned throne had resulted in a great loss of life and inane subterfuge; how could he allow himself to let that happen again when he didn’t really have a strong opinion of the people involved?

He knew people would come to him, one way or another to try to sway him. But even with that in mind he just wasn’t sure what he should decide; the matter had to be delegated very carefully even if he didn’t truly care about the affairs of his “liege lord”.  

“Well, I hope you come to a decision that is best for our people. I know you’ll make the correct choice.”

By the gods, he sure hoped so.