[center][color=SkyBlue][h1]House Tully[/h1][/color][/center]

“Sister.”

Ravella stopped in the corridor, the tiny voice squeaking in the silence, reverberating off the damp, cold walls. Her heart jumped to her throat at being found; it thudded still at being called [i]sister[/i]. It took a moment to clear the pain from her face, even after all these years. 

“Yes, Ronn?” The petite brunette turned, dark and sensible navy woolen skirts brushed against the stone walls. Her face was poised, emotionless, though her muscles twitched at the effort. 

“Where are you going?” The little boy peaked out from the doorway of his chambers and rubbed at his eyes. It was late, far too late for the little heir to be awake. Ravella had snuck in to watch him sleep for a few minutes but, it seemed, she had awakened the boy. 

“To bed, which is where you should be, little one.” She returned to his side and knelt, her hand cupped to his plump cheek. There was sleep in his eyes; she gently cleared it away with her other hand. His hair was much like hers, though tightly curled, his eyes though were a deep blue unlike her own, unlike their mother’s. Rhialta would admonish her for trekking to her brother’s room like this yet again. [i]What servants see they wag their tongue about.[/i] The constant reminder echoed in her mind. But there were no servants here, not now. The corridor was quiet enough to hear vermin scurrying behind the walls. 

“Tell me a story.” He whined through a yawn as he yanked his head away from her ministrations. 

“Once upon a time a little boy went to bed without complaining.” She smiled softly, her hand moving to his shoulder to pat and turn him back towards his bed. 

“Not that one.” He grew defiant, his eyes fluttering with only half-feigned contempt. The defiance was short lived as he took a stumbling step forward. 

Ravella giggled quietly as she rose to follow him back towards his bed, her hand on his back to guide him forward. “This little boy knew that one day, he would rule the Riverlands. He had to grow big and strong to sit the high seat, to pass wise and fair judgements. But to grow big and strong, he knew he had to go to bed and sleep sweet dreams each night.” Ronnel climbed into bed and she tucked him in beneath layers of blankets and furs. “Good night…brother.” She bent to brush her lips against his forehead with a sigh. She could hear his soft snores before she had taken two steps away from his bed. 

[hr]
Medgar’s muffled groans signaled that the lord had risen for the day. A servant outside the door inhaled deeply, as if to savor the final moment before attending to his lord. Within Riverrun’s Lord’s chambers, the large bed dominated the room. Massive trouts leapt from the bedposts. With each shift the current lord made, the entire bed trembled and groaned in response. Medgar struggled to pull himself up to a seated position, thin but grubby lips pressed tightly in the effort. His eyes were crusted shut. From the servant’s perspective it was as it a giant catfish flailed about on land. Then the smell hit, a few more steps in. A rancid, sulfuric,stomach turning scent. The Lord Tully had shit the bed, again.

The servant stopped midstep. “Have the tub readied, milord will need a bath this morning before breakfast. Find fresh linens as well, and some scented oils for sevens’ sake.” He whispered the sharp commands to the small boy at his side. A little lad from some pissant Riverlands’ house who had the great misfortune of serving as a page in the Tully household. 

It took four men to lift Medgar from his soiled bed and into the readied tub. No matter that he was cleansed, a sickly sweet smell clung to the man. The exertion of the morning was too much for the lord and breakfast instead was brought to the rooms. A dozen soft boiled eggs - peeled as Medgar would eat the shells in his haste, rashers of soft cooked bacon, fat greasy sausages, crispy fried trout, pureed turnip with a massive lump of butter, honey cakes and cream cakes. All was washed down with copious amounts of ale. Medgar rarely appeared drunk, whether due to his size or the amount of food to soak up the alcohol was a running discussion amongst Riverruns’ inhabitants. 

Lord Tully belched loudly. “No guests today.” The first words he had formed, several hours after waking. His steward had joined him at the end of breaking his fast. Few could stomach watching the man eat for long. 

“My lord, there is one matter most pressing. Unless you would like the council to address it?” He asked a question he was certain of the answer to. Yet it was only proper to maintain the charade. Rumors swirled, even with half the realm removed to Summerhall. In Kermit’s long rule he had made few errors and done much to mend together the disparate houses of the Riverlands after so much destruction. In just a few years, the foundation was cracked and flooded. The steward knew it, the council knew it. House Tully, now like trout in an ever-evaporating pond, flailing for breath. 

Medgar made a small movement with his flabby hand, waving off the suggestion. “Not today. Handle it.” He moaned suddenly, both hands pressing into the rolls of his abdomen. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat formed at his receding hairline before dripping down his face. “Send in the servants, I have need of them again.” 

The steward bowed his head and quickly backtracked from the room. The servant from the morning stood waiting outside the doorway. “Lord Medgar has need of a chamber pot, make haste.”

The Maester met him at the end of the corridor. “A shame our lord cannot join us. You’ve seen the messages, what shall we tell the rest of the council?” His concern was unconvincing, but it needn’t be. 

“That it is just rumors. Have we had any word from Merrett or does he continue to evade us?” He spoke quietly. Merrett had disappeared from the Riverlands years ago and refused all contact. They thought he was perhaps married with children, with sons. The heir was but a small boy with questionable parentage, Merrett was a solution or a threat. The steward and maester were not sure which, yet. 

“None, though we believe him to be in the Crownlands now, a guest of House Stokeworth.” 

The steward mulled it over briefly. “Too far, he will be gone before we get anyone in place. It would have been too easy had he gone to Summerhall, damn the man.” The pair made their way to the council chambers, a nest of intrigue and shifting alliances without anyone to keep them in line or focused. The Riverlands bent beneath the weight of its incompetent lord.