| First Siege |
| Summary: | Patrek gets his wound seen to. |
| Date: | 05/01/289 |
| Related Logs: | Continuation of Sally Forth |
| Players: |
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| Entrance Hall — Four Eagles Tower |
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| The Entrance Hall is more than two dozen feet high with ornate columns hefting the fresco ceiling above all. Plush seating is arranged around one side for visiting nobility while the other has less comfortable slab stone or wood benches for the peasantry. Alcoves dot the walls for more private discussions and sworn Guards patrol this hall at all times and especially during court. Several hallways and doorways lead off to different areas of the castle with a spiral staircase carved neatly into one corner that winds its way up. |
| 05 January 289 |
Jacsen nods once, crisply, to his father's words, and unhooks a waterskin from his belt to offer towards the Lord of the Roost. "I am grateful you are unharmed, my lord," he intones seriously. Another glance is spared the wrapping which contains his uncle's bones. When he speaks again, it is with a softer voice. "What shall I do with the remains?"
Kell and his mount is waiting outside of the stable, waiting for some of the other men and Patrek to finish tending or giving their horses into someone else's care, he finally moves into the stables to secure his own. Making sure that it is checked for wounds, watered and perhaps even fed. That any gear that was with Horse isn't lost and if so, kept in mind to be replaced at the earlier convenience. The Hedge Knight seems to be content with being silent and alone for the moment, despite tonight's successes, his mind not entirely focused.
While he may be 'Squire Patrek' to Lord Jerold, when Gwyllam finally manages to corner the young man outside of the stables, he is "Lord Patrek…please, if you would head inside I would like to take a look at the wound." He gives a thin smile that he hopes is confident in appearance. "I'm sure we'll have you patched up and back in action soon." A hand is lifted in gesture toward the great hall and rooms beyond. It trembles slightly with the excitement of the evening's events.
"Thank you," Anais says simply to the guard, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. Support or no, she doesn't linger by the man or his burden, though. Even she's looking a little pale, and she's soon moving away, only drawing a deep breath once she's clear of the bundle. It's to Jacsen that she moves next, once more silent at his side.
"Oh… yes. Thank you, maester," Patrek replies, quiet and a little meek now the battle's done and reality settles back around him. He glances towards the stables, where Kell sees to his horse, before following after Gwyllam, holding his injured arm a bit closer to his body.
Jacsen offers a few words to the men with Revyn's remains after his father's response, bowing his shoulders to the Lord of the Roost as Jerold heads into the Tower. As the men begin to delicately move the slain Terrick elsewhere, the Young Lord looks over at his wife. "The catapults are destroyed," he relays, in case she did not hear it said before. "We might rest a touch easier tonight."
One of the alcoves close to the kitchen has been comandeered for medical purposes this night, and it is too that place that Gwyllam leads Patrek, his determined stride a stark contrast to the uncertainty and fear on his face. "This way," he murmurs. Thanks to Lady Muirren, a basin of steaming water is already waiting there along with clean clothes and a satchel. "What happened?" One hand gestures toward a bench.
Patrek follows as bidden, settling into a seat in the designated alcove. "A sword got me in the arm, I think," the boy answers, using his one hand to try and get the opposite sleeve of his armor free.
Sensing the difficulty, Gwyllam attempts to help, his fingers trembling as he fumbles for the bindings. Frustration and fear pour off of him in almost palpable waves and for a second his fingers stop. "I can't…." Silence. A deep breath is taken and then his help resumes, the words left unspoken. After a moment more, the piece of armor is carefully pulled free, and the Measter begins to clean up the blood underneath with a clean cloth to better see the wound itself.
"This must be your first siege, too," Patrek supposes as the Maester's hands shake and his voice quavers. "You're doing very well, maester. The advice my father gives me, when I feel overwhelmed, is to think only on the task at hand." He glances down to his arm. It's a deep gash, one that will need stitches to heal properly. "I don't know much about sword wounds, except it's better not to have them," he tosses Gwyllam a playful smile, "so you must tell me, what needs to be done?"
Anais arrives from the Courtyard.
Anais has arrived.
Gwyllam goes still again for a moment, then offers Patrek a weak smile. "It is my first seige," he murmurs quietly to the squire, risking a brief moment of eye contact. He lets it fall away quickly embarrassment written plainly on his face. Still, when he resumes his probe of the wound, he seems a bit more calm and in control. "Your father sounds like a wise man," he says as he works, face pinching in concentration. He and Patrek are in a little alcove near the kitchen that has been converted to a make-shift medical station. "As for the wound…I will need to clean it and sew it shut, then I will give you instructions on how to keep it clean and how to change the dressing. You may do it yourself, assign the job, or come to me, but it is important it gets done."
"He's the best man," Patrek says, his voice rich with pride. "The Ironmen don't know what they've done, trying to take on Seagard and my father, but they soon will." For the instructions, the boy nods. "I understand, maester, thank you. I'll do as you instruct. Um…" this time the smile is a wee bit sheepish, "have you a name?"
Anais returns to the safety of the keep not long after she left it, relief writ in every line of her body, despite her attempts to look strong and confident. She offers smiles as she passes, and encouraging words here and there. She almost goes past Gwyllam and Patrek, but backtracks to join them, glancing over the maester's shoulder. "Do you mind if I watch, Maester? Your first battle wound?" she asks of Patrek, voice soft and smile approving.
"I'm…" Gwyllam blinks and red rises from his neck to suffuse his face. "Pardon me, Lord Patrek. I'm Master Gwyllam, the new Maester assigned here to the keep. I arrived from the citadel just as…" The sound of Annais voice causes him to turn and he gives her a polite bow, blood stained fingers dropping the cloth he holds in a little dish. "Of course, m'lady." Turning to his satchel, he pulls out a mean looking needle and some gut string.
"Pleased to meet you, Maester Gwyllam," Patrek says. He blinks at the needle and swallows a little before looking over at Anais and offering her a smile. "My very first, my lady," he agrees. "I shall be very popular with all the young ladies, now I've a scar and a tale to tell. I think, um…" here, his smile fades though his chin lifts. He's determined to be proud, rather than horrified, "I think I killed one of them."
"Oh, I suspect the ladies will be quite impressed," Anais agrees with Patrek, laughing softly. "I've a brother just about your age. Joseth. And when he survived his first raid, he was the most popular young man in the keep for weeks." She pulls up a stool, settling in to watch the procedure, though she tries not to hover too much. In fact, she seems to be trying to give the impression that she's paying much more attention to the squire than the nervous healer. "If you killed one of them, Patrek, then it was well done," she adds more seriously. "Gods know, they've every intention of doing the same."
"Men who bring war cannot be surprised to find death," Gwyllam mumurs softly, though he looks startled that he's spoken as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He quickly busies himself with threading the needle. When he does, he relinquishes a tiny folded pice of paper, of the size that Maesters use with ravens. It must have been in his hand all evening. Then he approaches with the sewing implements. "This will hurt," he says honestly, kneeling beside the squire.
"Something to look forward to, then," Patrek says of his soon-to-be popularity. He nods for Anais's words. "Aye, my lady, I know. I'm not sorry. I'd do it again and will likely fell more before all this is done. It was just… different. Than I imagined it would be." He turns his head as Gwyllam speaks, blinking down at the tiny bit of paper, though he doesn't move to pick it up. For the warning, the lad sucks in a deep breath and nods. "I'm ready. Do as you must."
<FS3> Gwyllam rolls Chiurgeonry + Mind: Good Success.
Anais does her part to distract Patrek from the needle, even as she watches it herself. She doesn't seem bothered by the action, though, used to seeing the treatment of wounds even if she isn't trained in dealing with them herself. "Most things turn out a bit different than we expect them to be," she agrees with a rueful curve of a smile. "I'm glad to see everybody made it back safely, though." Her grin spreads as she pauses. "I'm also glad that the next time the Ironborn try to taunt the walls, they'll be the ones lacking in balls."
It may be Gwyllam's first seige, too, but it is clearly not the first time he has sewn up a wound. He moves with quick efficiency and though the procedure does hurt, it is made more painless by the steady and practiced movement of needle through flesh. Perhaps most importantly to the young squire, he manages the gut thread so that it does not snag as it is pulled through the skin. In a surpisingly short time, he is cutting and tying off the stiches. "There we are. I'll make a poultice with let's see…sicklewort for clotting and columbine for fighting infection, a touch of honey…" He's gone from talking to Patrek to talking to himself as he busies himself with making an ointment.
It hurts, but save for a few small flinches, Patrek doesn't make it known. He laughs for Anais's final words, nodding in a greement. "They won't be quite so smug and proud tomorrow with their catapults in cinders." As Gwyllam finishes the stitches, he looks back dow to his arm, much tidier and far less red, now. "Agrimony?" Patrek suggests of the herbs going into the poultice, and then his lips quirk in a bemused smile at his own 'joke'.
The talk of herbs and poultices goes right over Anais' head, not that it bothers her. "I think much of the Roost will be glad to sleep safely through the night tonight," she agrees with Patrek. "Speaking of which." With the stitching done, she rises from her stool, smile warm for squire and maester alike. "I think I'm going to try to get some sleep."
Patrek's question pulls Gwyllam away from his poultice-making and he offers what is his first genuine smile since his arrival at the Roost. "Ah! An herbalist! Yes…Agrimony is another name for sicklewort. How did you come to learn about herbs, m'lord?" Smearing the thick substand on the wound, he makes sure there is an even, thin coat, then quickly wraps the arm in a clean strip of linen. When Anais rises to leave, he step back and offers another bow. "Thank you for your company, Lady," he murmurs respectfully.
"Good night, Lady Terrick," Patrek offers as Anais stands. "I apprecaite your… well… distracting me. Rest well." Glancing towards Gwyllam, he shakes his head. "I know little of herbs, maester but I suppose I've become friends with a woman who knows much about them. She told me a little about Agrimony." He lifts his arm a little so that the maester might better wrap it.
"I appreciate your burning the catapaults," Anais winks to Patrek, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. "Maester, I hope we'll have a chance to speak soon. For now, though, I wish you rest when you can get it. And the same for you, Patrek." And with those final words, she turns to make her way up the stairs, guard still trailing at her shoulder.
Anais has left.
Gwyllam finishes with the bandaging then rises. "Well. I would very much like to meet your friend sometime. Herbalism is a great passion of mine." A quick smile and then his face grows more somber. "I know you've already assured me you will change the bandaging, but I want you to swear it again. The wound will be fine…/unless/…it gets infected. Which will not happen if you apply the poltice one per day and change the bandage twice per day." He waits for verbal confirmation again from the young man while preparing him the supplies he will need.
"Aye, maester, I swear it again," Patrek says, sighing softly now like any young lad put upon by the fretting of his betters. "I've no wish for an infected arm, not when I'll need it again, soon. Poltice once a day, bandage changed twice again. You've my word. My friend, you'll be able to find easily. She's here with us, her name is Belle Beckett."
"Belle Beckett," the young Maester repeats the name, committing it to memory, then passes a bag of supplies to the squire. "There you go. And…thank you. For what you did tonight. Please come and see me if there is any trouble with the arm or if you notice the skin getting very white or very red around the wound."
"I did my duty, maester, nothing more," the squire says as he accepts the little bag, peering down inside it. "I will, I promise. I'll take very good care of myself, and I thank you for seeing to my injury. Now, I'd best see to Lord Jerold in case he's need of me." Easing up into a stand, Patrek offers the Maester a small good. "Good night, Maester Gwyllam."
"And to you, m'lord." Gwyllam smiles and then, noticing the little rolled up piece of paper he held in his hand earlier, quickly scoops it back up.
