AN :
Next goal for another extra chapter is 600 power stones.
In the Game of Stones, you either win or you wait. The more Power Stones you offer, the faster the chapters come.
...
( Lyman POV )
Lyman shuddered as the wind off of Ironman's bay cut through the wagon. Cold and damp, while it wasn't quite freezing, the bitter gale still made him shudder, even kept mostly warm by his thick wool coat.
The winter march was near enough to the hells as they went easy overland, a column of a little more than 200 men spread across two dozen wagons tugged by mules and horses. There was no good route in this kind of weather. Soft dirt and grasslands became muddy morasses in the chilly downpour, while rocky uplands were often coated in sleet, rendering them treacherous and unnavigable.
The wagons, of course, hated both with an equal passion, and often more than once a day one of their number would lose a wheel or some other key component, but that needed to be replaced. All while the winds bit at their skin and the damned Ironborn raped the coastline with their wanton fleet of robbers.
It was utter misery for the men involved, but Lord Tygett kept them moving. Up and down the column he would ride, albeit not always on the same horse. He would check in on every group of men, seemingly undaunted by the sleet through which he rode.
"Do you need anything?" He would ask, and each time they would all say no, and he would nod, but he would look them over, and if a man looked sickened or freezing, he would come back a minute later with blankets, or hot stew that was always kept warm on the lead cart in a small pot.
Lyman thought it was probably dangerous to keep a fire going all the time on a wooden cart on slushy ground, but he'd take the black before he ever admitted that with a bowl of warm stew in his hands.
In the evenings, when the sun set over the western horizon, they would find rocky, broken ground and pressed their tents close together in circles to act as windbreaks. They'd build lean-tos out of wood pulled from the forests on the coast, allowing campfires to stay lit despite the sleet. It was a harsh and bitter march, though it only dropped below freezing occasionally, the truth of the matter was that nearly everything ended up soaking and cold, and if their gear hadn't been good sheep's wool they all would have fallen ill from the chill.
"Damn the Ironborn…" Egbert, one of the other men in Lyman's group grumbled. "Damn them for making us fight in this weather." The man scooted a little closer to the fire, almost on the edge of the firepit, sticking his hands in his armpits to keep them warm. "We could have been safe in the keep, all holed up for winter.
Lyman nodded, roasting a bit of beef on a skewer over the fire as it sizzled and spattered when occasional bits of sleet managed to make it past the edges of their shelter. "This weather favors ducks, not men." he grumbled, "but at least the Ironborn can't make much headway in it either. They won't be able to unfurl the sails on their longships in this sort of sleet." Lyman sighed, "It might actually work out better for us in the long term."
"That's provided we don't all slip and fall and die in a ditch before we even get to fight them," Egbert commented. "This is miserable."
"I tend to *cough*-tend to agree." Lyman blinked as another voice joined the group, looking out the side of the shelter, he saw that young Lord Callum had joined them under their lean-to, looking a bit miserable and soaked to the bone, his young voice stood out like a sore thumb amongst the grumbling soldiers. "Still, it's necessary, we can't simply let the Ironborn burn the whole coast just because the weather is bad for marching or riding." the slender boy coughed a couple more times, shaking his head.
"Are you alright milord?" Lyman asked with concern, but Callum just waved him off.
"It's only a small cold, and we've got Qyburn with us. I doubt it'll hamper me for long." the blond squire gave him a small smile. "That man is the best or second best healer in Westeros, and I trust him more than anything with my health, much as I wouldn't trust him with hardly anything else." Callum laughed a bit, then coughed again.
Lyman shared a glance with Egbert, and they both nodded. This wasn't something to take casually. Callum wasn't just any squire, he was Lord Tywin's son, and Lyman was loyal to him besides. "Does Lord Tygett know?"
"...not yet, I'll tell him in a bit," Callum answered.
"You should tell him now," Lyman said, standing up and pulling his cloak over his shoulders. "Come on."
"I'm fine." Callum stared at him defiantly for a moment, before he suddenly coughed again.
"You're young and small still, Milord." Lyman said, "no need to put on a brave face for us. You'll be little use sick if we have to fight the Ironborn."
"I said I'm fine," Callum said, frowning before he sighed. "Alright, we can *cough* we can go tell my uncle."
"Very good milord." Lyman decided it probably wouldn't be within his rights to pat the boy on the shoulder, so he tried to give that impression with his voice, before he walked over towards the command tent, standing in colors of red and gold, separate and up the slope away from the rest of the men huddling around their fires in the cold air. It was fairly imposing, but Lyman was determined to make sure that Lord Tygett knew of his nephew's condition. He glanced down at Callum, who seemed resigned to his fate.
"I'm coming in Uncle," Callum said, gesturing that Lyman could follow him in, out of the cold rain, which was a blessing.
Lord Tygett's tent was barer than Lyman would have imagined, but on second thought it did fit his character, and the furniture and equipment inside were all clearly of the highest standard, despite there being not much more than a bed, a few chests, and a fireplace and cookpot sitting in the center. Lord Tygett looked to have been studying a map on the tent's only table. The grizzled Lannister looked up at them as they entered. "Callum, what is it."
"I've *cough* caught a small cold uncle," Callum answered. "It's really nothing too dangerous, but Lyman insisted I tell-" the boy fell into a fit of coughs, and Lyman saw Lord Tygett's expression change.
The taciturn man stared at his nephew for a long moment as Callum tried to catch his breath, then slowly nodded. "Right." He said grimly. "Have you spoken to Qyburn about it?"
"Not yet." Callum shook his head. "Its really not a big deal Uncle. I'm sure I'll be better by the time we reach Reddinghall."
Lord Tygget shook his head. "Be that as it may." He said slowly. "This weather is worse than I feared, for you, the wagons, and the men. I will take no chances. Once we reach Reddinghall we will hold until these storms break and we are safe to ride once more. If we fought the Ironborn as we are now, we would simply die."
"...Yes, Uncle. May I go speak to Qyburn now?"
"Yes. And Callum." Tygett paused. "Do not hide such things from me in the future. I need all information to make good decisions."
"Yes, Uncle." Callum nodded heading for the door quickly. Lyman, realizing that he was only here for Callum's safety, followed after him quickly, though Callum soon enough asked to speak to Qyburn alone, and Lyman had to return to his tent. Soon enough, between the biting wind, the soaking rain, and the cramped space of his tent, Lyman stopped worrying about Callum.
This was a mistake despite what were apparently Qyburns best efforts. Young Lord Callum's conditions only worsened over the next pair of days. He was hardly the only one to fall sick on their march to Reddinghall, and when, after days of miserable travel, they finally arrived at the small castle, they soon overcrowded its walls. Through it all though, Lyman had to admit that he had developed something of a grudging respect for Qyburn. The Black Maester was a grudging healer at times, but faced with so many patients the man proved surprisingly able.
Throughout the barracks of the keep, Qyburn stalked like a thundercloud. By some mystical sight Lyman didn't understand the man could sort the sick from the healthy at a mere glance, and shuffle them all off into a separate hall, where they would not carry their illness to any of the other men. How Qyburn avoided being himself sickened Lyman could only guess at, but no one in the fortress could deny his aptitude as he treated so many with little to no help. At last, Lyman could see why Lord Callum put such faith in the man.
Callum himself though was another matter. Lyman had only gotten to see him a few times, ensconced as he was in Lord Tygett's chambers, resting by the fire, and doing little more than read, write, and sleep. He looked sickly, and had even lost his ability to speak above a whisper. He was clearly suffering through it and seemed more angry to be sick than anything.
That anger was redoubled when, on the third day after arriving at Reddinghall, the sleet storms finally broke, and the sky turned blue with fluffy white clouds, warm enough to need little more than a jacket. Lyman was glad for it, while he had made it through healthy enough, he was long tired of dreary skies, bitter winds and rain. Callum was less pleased, still unable to speak much and coughing his lungs out. Though despite that he'd still sent well over two dozen letters in those two days.
Unfortunately for the boy, no amount of paper or ink would see Lord Tygett let Callum ride out to fight the Ironborn in his current condition.
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