Kassarock — Roleplayer Guild

The Bastard of Tarrow

Raymun felt like death. His head was splitting and throbbing in the quiet darkness of his chambers as the bed rolled beneath him as if upon the deck of galley. He fought back the urge to spew the contents of his stomach the night before back up onto the rush strewn floor. His great bear like chest rising and falling like unsteady and pained breathes. He had been drinking again. Others take the son of the whore who had coerced him into it.

The evening had started innocently enough he supposed, he had gone down into the village below Castle Tarrow in search of fletchers to order more crossbow quarrels for the garrison. Reports were that Clegane and his dogs had turned back North and were making for the Ruby Ford. With most of the Young Wolf's strength in the west, they would have to rely on their own strength if he made the crossing. And besides them there were outlaws and broken men in the Riverlands these days, as well as this Brotherhood Without Banners. 

He hadn't meant to stop in the old half stone and timbered inn that leaned drunkenly on the market square of the village. But it at had been a long day, and the men he had brought with him wouldn't stop talking about how nice it would be to enjoy a refreshing horn of dark, foaming ale. So he had gone inside. One horn of ale easily turned to two and two horns of ale easily turned to five. By the time they had staggered up the motte to the gates of the outer ward the sun had set and his purse was significantly lighter.

After that they had sat around the fire in the guardsroom drinking sour wine and rolling dice until the hour of the wolf came and went and Ser Raymun had climbed the steps to find his bed. Fucking wine. What had he been thinking? He would struggle to rise for hours yet and when he did he would feel sick as a dog for the coming day. Responsible steward that he proved to be.

To tell the truth he had been surprised when his Lordly brother had named him Castellan to Tarrow Raymun had always considered himself more a warrior than an administrator. He would have rather saddled his horse and donned steel to join the levies in the battle than sit on his arse here while there was killing to be done. But he had nodded and smiled as best he could and accepted the position as if pleased him, at least it showed how dear brother Leoric was coming to trust him. It gave the wretches and serfs a chance to get used to him as Lord, something Raymun suspected they would have to get used to in the near future.  His brother had no heirs, and people have a habit of dying in wars. He smiled at that.

That was when someone knocked upon his door. Who the fuck wanted him at this hour?

He threw back the covers and stumbled into his small clothes and breeches, muttering and cursing as he did so. Most of the servants knew not to disturb Ser Raymun before he woke of his own accord, a lesson they had been quick in learning. He rubbed his face down with stale water that sat in the old pewter wash stand and donned a jerkin of cracked dark leather. 

He almost went to the door before remembering he was yet to put his eye back into its socket. He found it in his pocket and jammed it back into its rightful place.  It had been almost a year since he had lost his eye to Black Walder Frey, murderous shit that he was, and he still sometimes forgot that it had happened in the morning. 

He wrenched open the door to look upon the face of Illric, the Maester. Raymun scowled. 

“What in Seven Hells do you want?"
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