[center][h1]Illric The Brawn[/h1][/center]
[center][img]https://img0.etsystatic.com/149/0/7907634/il_570xN.1130268576_athh.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][i]Castle Tarrow, The Bastard's Quarters[/i][/center]
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After an age, the iron door swung open with a squeal and a wafting scent of drink assaulted Illric. He tried not to flinch, and only mostly succeeded. The bastard, fake eye looking comically in the opposite direction, scowled out at him. [i]He must not have checked in the mirror. I should... But I'm not going to.[/i] [b][color=9e0b0f]"What in the Seven Hells do you want?"[/color][/b] The Bastard asked grumpily.

Illric drew himself up, staring at Raymun with disapproval. [b]"While you've been on your drunken carouse, I've received a letter from your Lord brother, that he is returning to Tarrow. Has returned in fact, and Lord Cade will most likely be here in a span of hours, not days. Given your current state, I suppose you will have to pull yourself together. The affairs of the Castle require tending to Castellan. I'm but a maester, and I've gotten the smallfolk up and working. You should see to it that they do the work properly, and to the benefit of the House. I have other errands to tend to, good morning Ser Raymun."[/b] Illric's disapproval softened, if only slightly. His thoughts had turned, as they so often did, to matters other might consider irrelevant. He found himself guessing at what might prompt a man to turn so strongly to drink. The problem being, it could just a easily be the man's fancy, as it could be his nightmares that had him seeking ale. They were of a height, the Bastard, and he. Illric nodded to the man, and then turned and left.

[i]The Bastard,[/i] Illric pondered, climbing back up to his quarters. [i]He is certainly older than me, but he acts like a child. Has he ever been taught how to behave? Bastards are seldom the most favoured of children, at the best of times.[/i] Though Illric was nominally trueborn, the Brackens had never really seen him as their child, what with the concerns of elder children taking up their time. It was a thing to keep him up at nights, back when he'd been living in the Citadel. Had his parents shipped him off as though he were an afterthought? Was the decision painstaking? Did they regret their actions now? Or had they forgotten he'd ever even existed? A maddening trail to follow, but one that Illric chose to walk when he felt he had the ability to, in case he ever found a way to resolve it. 

[i]The way this war is going, I might actually be grateful to my parents for sending me away to Oldtown. Though perhaps the true person to thank would be the Arch-maester who chose a replacement for Castle Tarrow's maester.[/i] Illric couldn't imagine anybody ever really having a valid reason to take the castle, for strategy's purposes. Mostly as an issue of size, Tarrow was in a sweet spot of sorts. Too large to assault with a cursory force, but not large enough to justify devoting one's entire effort towards taking. To Illric's knowledge, the Castle had never been captured during its existence, and was more in danger of abandonment than of siege.

Illric opened his door and stepped into his quarters. Not extravagant the way Lord Leoric or Lady Sarisa's chambers, or even Ser Raymun's might be, and somewhat merged with the rookery to boot. Still, it felt cosy to Illric. Bookshelves lined the walls, scattered with volumes half-read and a menagerie of odd things. Dried ink bottled strewn here, blunted quills tossed there. Illric set about putting his bed in order, which was still damp from his sweat-fraught sleep of earlier that night. He also tidied the shelves, setting markers into pages he intended to read again, while closing up books he'd set aside from boredom. His chamberpot, merely recessed into the space over one of the tower's corbels, needed emptying. Tarrow was no King's Landing, and though Illric despised the task, he very carefully began the process of ejecting the contents.

***

Illric's errands were complete. He felt more awake now, even more than since his morning exertion. Skipping down to the lower levels of the castle, Illric found his way into the dining hall. The maester hurried up to the kitchens, hearing a promising din of clanging dishes and boiling pots. The cookfires were burning too, and Illric was sweating by the time he'd brought out his chosen breakfast. Eggs, coupled with a few rashers of bacon and a slice of fresh-baked bread. He'd even decided to treat himself to a glass of Dornish red, since it came from the private stores, and Illric had noticed that Lord Leoric abstained from alcohol entirely. This meant that Tarrow's cellars possessed finely aged wines of rare and delightful breeds. No doubt the Bastard might notice, should he get the same idea as Illric had, however even the bold Ser Raymun wouldn't be dull enough to miss the fact that his exposure of the maester would lead to uncomfortable questions for him as well.

Illric sipped at the wine, and decided he didn't care about people asking inconvenient questions. As he had reflected earlier, this [i]wasn't[/i] King's Landing, and the maester was surely entitled to at least a glass of fine wine once and a while was he not? The Seven protect him, but he would enjoy his breakfast for the short amount of time he allowed himself. Soon enough Illric presumed, the Lord would have a host of tasks for his maester to tend to, and Illric would need to be in his best form to serve.

Illric decided that his best form had a lovely buzzing in the back of his head, like a sweet note of music playing to accompany his excellent discipline and sense of duty. The breakfast was excellent.