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.
...
( Tygett Lannister POV )
"Yes milord" Ludo nodded. "Though the men will be disappointed we aren't trying to stop the raids."
"Let them be, they'll be happy enough with squid blood on their swords soon enough." Tygett nodded. "Give the order."
"Aye Milord."
...
And so the men set to work, dragging stones off the hillsides or logs from the patchy groves near the swampy riverside, the flat-bottomed fords we're turned into a morass of swirling water as the artificial rapids churned the river. The water turned and twisted between the Stones and logs. Most would probably be washed away eventually if simply left there, but the Ironborn would leave long before then, fleeing from the response that instead now waited in ambush on their escape route.
It was just before dusk, with the white clouds cast in pink light by the setting sun, that the small longship came loping back down the river, its wide hull sat low with stolen livestock and whatever lucre the farmers possessed, not to mention the farmers themselves. With his far-eye, he could see them on the deck from the thicket where his horsemen lay in hiding. Men and women, children even, tied up against the rear edge of the raiding vessel.
In the twilight, the Ironborn never saw the Rapids that had sprung up in the river since they traversed it last night. Not until their ship's prow struck into a large stone with a crack that Tygett could here from the shore, and the ship lurched sideways with the force of the river churning through the clutter beneath the water.
That was when Tyget sounded his warhorn and like carrion birds on a beached whale, his horsemen poured from thickets on both sides of the river. They charged across the upstream part of the ford, which hadn't been changed, and in the shallow water, they found a fat ship full of terrified Ironborn and began to hew it apart.
The fighting was quick and brutal- these Ironborn had helmets and shields, but only a couple had proper chainmail armor, their thickened cloths and hides were fine for terrorizing farmers with cooking knives, but they couldn't stop a lance or a sword. One man, the captain perhaps, tried to rally the rest. He grabbed hold of the serpent figurehead at the front of the ship and began to bellow orders. Seeing him, Tygett spurred Darnella on, kicking into her sides as he rode her hard in a charge, planting his lance into the man's stomach. His chainmail twisted and broke as the force of the charge hit home, and Tygett ran straight through his guts and out the other side, knocking him off of the longship and into the wash below.
The fighting was done soon after that, and Tygett's men took no prisoners and showed no mercy to the Ironborn scum. Twenty-three men had come to raid the Westerlands and twenty-three corpses stained the Greywater red that evening. Within the hour the damaged longboat had been hauled to the shore, and the Westerlanders set free. He offered the would-have-been thralls and salt wives to stay with his men at camp for one night and be returned to their farms on the morrow. After that, they'd spent another day dredging the ford and returning it to navigable condition. (Westerlanders used it too after all.)
The best prize was the longboat, small as it was, it was still a better ship than the fishing vessels that his own villages made. It was the first one he had captured (mostly) intact. The last three raids he'd stopped by burning the longboats on the shore while the raiders were inland, but this was a complete victory.
Tygett rather enjoyed the feeling.
...
( Lyman POV )
There weren't too many men left at Eagle's Nest once Lord Lannister rode off to go kill the bloody Ironborn, and not a one of them that was left were happy about it. No man signed up for Lord Lannister's host to be told they were too green, too unskilled with spear and sword and crossbow and horse to ride into battle and kill the raiding bastards that killed or enslaved their families. They joined to ride out and cut the still living flesh from the Ironborn's bellies and watch their guts spill out on the fine Westerlands grass, to cut their balls off and hang them from weirwood trees like the first men of old. But the Lord's orders were the Lord's orders, and he wanted only the experienced men to ride with him, save Ser Klimmeth, who was left in charge of the castle.
The men left behind felt craven for being left behind and stewed in their anger. There were more injuries in the training yard than usual as they beat each other blue and bloody, and had to be hauled off to the Black Maester who had forced everyone out of the building next to the stables, taken it, and made it a house of healing.
It had a stone floor, which was washed three times a day by the men who had annoyed their betters the most, and thick wooden walls with open shutters, through which you could hear at times, the shouts of the wounded men as he applied their treatment.
The Black Maester was growing a strange reputation at the fort. None could deny that the wounds he treated healed faster than most, but his ways were queer and his manner dark as if he hardly cared for the men he treated. It was a far cry from the village women who had made herbal remedies for Lyman as a child.
Lyman was under his tender care today for a dislocated shoulder, having managed to twist himself in a terrible way while batting with wooden rods against one of the other men. He could see why people disliked the Black Maester, for he had set Lyman's shoulder forcefully, without a drop of Milk of Poppy, and had ordered him to not participate in training or hard labor for two days to let it recover.
Having given that order, he had stalked off like a vulture to some notes or books he had against one wall. In total, he had perhaps looked at Lyman for half a minute, wrenched his arm back into place, very painfully, and then walked off as if nothing had happened.
Lyman's shoulder still ached, though it felt like it was in the right place now, so he stumbled outside and collapsed down onto the wooden bench in front of the building, holding his aching shoulder and groaning as he leaned against the wall.
"Excuse me." Lyman blinked, looking around, he had to crane his head down slightly to see a boy with soft but instantly recognizable features looking up at him. It was lord Lannister's son!-or maybe daughter dressed up as a son? He'd heard of that happening in stories, but probably a son. He looked like a son right now. "Is Qyburn in at the moment?"
"Qyburn? Oh, the Black Maester? Yes, he's inside." Lyman answered, tilting his head back. "He just got done setting my arm-then went right back to his books."
"That does sound like Qyburn thank you… what's your name?" the probably boy tilted his head, leaning his cheek on his fist.
"Lyman ser" the future horseman replied, then paused a moment. "Erm- if you don't mind me asking, I've got a question for you as well ser."
The little noble nodded. "I'm not a Ser yet, Lyman, but feel free to ask. I've got time at the moment since Uncle Tygget's run off to kill the Ironborn, and Ser Klimmeth hardly has time to put me through my paces."
Lyman chuckled awkwardly, the question had actually been burning a hole in his thoughts for the past few days. He reached down into his satchel and pulled out the seven-pointed star. Wincing as his shoulder stung, he set it down on his left elbow and opened the first page, pointing out the pictures on the front. "I've been meaning to ask you about this milord, but is this a picture of you on the front page of the star?" Lyman honestly didn't know what to make of it. "Yasee I noticed your face looks just like it milord, but that's a girl, and you're a squire."
The boy's face tightened a bit, his lips in a forced-looking smile. "That is a picture of me, but I'm not and have never been a girl. I simply inherited my mother's features quite strongly." the boy leaned over, putting his finger on the page.
"It says right here, Callum Lannister, second son of Lord Tywin Lannister, whose vision and drive provided these books to the children of the Seven."
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