StarSerpent
Upjumped Peasant
- Location
- Cowtown, AB
Don't worry it's totally a setup for Robin to cut off his balls in the near future (this is cope)
A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros (ASoIaF/Captain America Quest, Story Only Thread)
- Thread starter TheWiseTomato
- Start date
After what just happened to that guy I'd be surprised if he had the political clout to get his own children to pass him the butter at the breakfast table, let alone cause problems for Steve.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yeah, but successful evil overlords know that you don't leave potential enemies alive just because they are young and weak. They have an annoying habit of finding a crotchety old master, going through a training montage, joining up with a love interest and some comedy relief, and then foiling all your plans.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
It's a good thing, that Steve isn't an evil overlord then.
Eddard Interlude
- Location
- Australia
Eddard watched as the port of White Harbor drew closer, the sight a familiar one as the deck rolled gently beneath his feet, the afternoon sun casting a pleasant glow. Many times now had he travelled between the Eyrie and Winterfell, though it was the first time that his return to his homeland would not bring him joy.
A warm body pressed into his back, arms going around his waist, and he felt his lips twitch into a smile. It was also the first time he would return home with a wife.
"Ashara," he murmured, taking one hand off the ship's rail to place over her clasped hands.
"Ned," she said, affectionate as she rested her head against the fur of his mantle. "You were frowning."
"Was I?" he asked, still looking out over the water.
"I could see it in your shoulders," she said, squeezing him slightly.
His smile grew as he felt the slight bump of her belly against his back. It fell a moment later, however, as he remembered that he would not be present to witness the birth of his first child.
"Ned," Ashara said, chiding now.
He was beginning to suspect that she could read his thoughts. "We should dock and disembark within the hour," Ned said. "House Manderly may follow the Seven, but they are Northerners true. They will host us tonight, and we will depart in the morning."
Ashara nodded. "And your cousins will likely be there. Do we expect them to travel with us to Winterfell?"
"No. They lean to matters of mercantilism, rather than war," Ned said. He did not begrudge them this, and their connections had aided his House in lean times. His foster-father's distaste for his Gulltown relatives was still something that he did not understand.
A cold wind swept over the ship, spilling from the sails, and Ashara shivered. "I will be glad to arrive. The cold is not so bad, but the wind…"
"Are you sure you do not wish to stay in White Harbor?" Ned asked. He turned, taking his wife in his arms. Her head came just up to his chin, and she tucked it underneath. "It is a livelier place than Winterfell, for all that I love my home."
"Yes. I want to meet your mother," Ashara said. She nestled deeper into him. "Perhaps she will share with me the secret of surviving the cold before the next winter arrives."
"We can visit the tailors before we leave," Ned said instantly. "Our craftsmen make many fine outfits of velvet and ermine."
"I won't have my first action in the North be to demand finery," Ashara said. "I know the North is not the richest kingdom. My trousseau is more than enough; I simply have to grow used to the weather."
"We are frugal, not poor," Ned told her. "But you speak sense. There are those who would look for any reason to disdain a southerner."
"They can disdain me all they like," Ashara told him. "I have already won." She looked up at him with a gaze that made Ned again curse the thin walls of their ship cabin.
The captain was starting to give orders to his crew, making the final preparations for their approach, but Ned's mind was elsewhere. There would surely be time to relax before the feast that night, their first time to themselves since their departure from Gulltown.
Ashara tweaked his nose in his distraction, smirking at whatever she read on his face. "And Elia was surprised by the swiftness of our marriage."
Ned gave her a look, silently apportioning her the lion's share of the blame. Just as silently, a brow was raised in response, disagreeing and suggesting the reverse. The second son of Winterfell could not help but smile, one hand going to the swell of his wife's belly, wishing to feel the movement of his child, but knowing that he never would.
X
The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled to bursting, every table full and men lining the walls. Grey light filtered down through the high windows, and low murmurs rose to meet it as the last of the Stark bannermen arrived. A pair of guards worked to close the solid doors of oak and iron at the end of the room, and the heavy thud they made brought about an expectant silence.
Eddard looked over the hall, taking in the crowds of faces that watched him. Some he knew, many he didn't, and as he took their measure he was measured in turn from his position on the dais. The stone seat that had served as the throne for the Kings of Winter was behind him, but he sat on a simple chair of wood before and beside it. The greatsword Ice sat on the throne, edge bared in a silent statement and reminder.
"My lords," he said, his voice quiet but still commanding the attention of the hall. "House Stark has called, and you have answered." It was said as a foregone conclusion, like it was something as certain as the snowfall, but Ned knew well that his family had not ruled the North for eight thousand years by taking loyalty for granted. "We will remember."
Quiet pride, solemn acknowledgement, cocksure eagerness, he saw it all on the faces of his father's bannermen, from lords minor to mighty. There were those he could not read, like large Lord Manderly, who had travelled with them from White Harbor, and slender Lord Bolton, who had slipped into Winterfell amongst the last of the arrivals, but then was not the time to consider two of the more powerful Stark vassals.
"You have heard the news. You know what Aerys has done."
Ill muttering rose, many of the men scowling now. To make hostages of guests was to spit in the eye of guest rights, something that would stir every true Northerner to fury, to say nothing of the slaughter of northern sons and the abduction of a northern daughter.
"The Vale has subdued their royalists, and Lord Arryn's men have entered the Riverlands, giving Lord Tully a decisive advantage over his own disloyal vassals," Ned told the hall. "In the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon marches west into the Reach, but their fields feed many men and should they send an army north, we will be outnumbered. It is upon us to tilt the balance back in our favour."
"We'll do more than that!" came a call from the side. Heads craned to see who had interrupted the Stark, and they saw a face that they should have expected. "By the time we're done, no southern fuck will dare to look twice at any northern girl!"
Ned inclined his head to the man many called the Greatjon, even as fists and hands were pounded and slapped against tables and walls in a cheer. He was larger even than Old Nan's children and grandchildren, although Walder was almost as broad, with growing yet to do.
"What of the Westerlands?" another lord called out. This one was close to the front, and the white sunburst on his back made clear his identity, even half hidden by grey hair as it was. Lord Karstark's lip curled as he spoke. "Do they still hold to the Targaryens?"
"We do not know," Ned told them. "The Lannisters have not declared for either side, but like the Martells, they have family in Aerys' grasp." The Dornish were no allies of the North, and Princess Elia hardly a 'guest' as the others were, but he would not ignore any chance to guide attitudes that might impact his wife.
Karstark made a noise of disgust, and he was not the only one. "Cravens!" someone shouted. "Excuses!" called another. "Self-serving wretches!" "Fuck the Tyrells!"
Ned raised one hand from where it sat on his knee. It was a small gesture, but it allayed much of the shouting, quieting the hall to murmurs once more.
"What do we seek to gain from this rebellion?" The speaker's voice had a way of silencing any who would speak over him, for all he swallowed afterwards, as if making himself heard had taxed him, and pale eyes watched Ned for his answer.
"By my father's word, Lord Bolton, Aerys' reign will not survive the war. Should Lyanna be harmed, neither will he."
Ill temper was replaced by an almost gleeful anticipation. Even now, nearly three hundred years since Aegon's Conquest, there were none in the North who loved the Targaryens, and many who disdained them.
"I presume that as victor, Lord Stark will make arrangements to benefit the North entire," Lord Manderly said, his hands folded over the bulk of his stomach.
"He shall," Ned said, "and I know he will seek the counsel of his lords in doing so."
"What has he told you?" an eager young lord asked. This was not a man like the others to speak, not a man with thousands of spears to his name or who had been hosted in a private audience before the gathering. "Does he mean to make them pay to rebuild Cailin?" His enthusiasm was sincere, for all that he didn't appear to have noted the stature of the other men to speak.
"Moat Cailin was not discussed," Ned said, a touch slower this time, "however…my father did make mention of his regret that the Red Keep lacked a true heart tree."
"Yessss! Red on its face, and red on its boughs!" Greatjon rumbled, and his bassy voice was only the first to rise up. The slow retreat of godswoods in the south was another sore point, and the thought of clawing that back in the same city as Baelor's Sept stirred northern spirits.
Soon, it was clear that the audience had moved beyond announcements, and Ned rose from his seat. "We ride in three days, my lords! For Lyanna, and the North!"
"Lyanna and the North!" was the answering roar, and then they had their heads, discussing and gossiping what they knew and what they thought might come. Ned took the time to meet the gazes of the lords who had asked the questions he needed of them. They had done their parts, even if the Greatjon had brought greater enthusiasm to the task than was needed.
That enthusiasm would be needed when they reached the battles to the south, but as he surveyed the gathering, he had a feeling that it would not be in short supply.
X
The Northern army arrived in a Riverlands at war with itself. At the crossing of the Green Fork they saw remnants of a skirmish, a Frey tabard left tattered in the dirt, and at the crossroads where the king, high, and river roads met there was a village whose marketplace had been touched by fire. The old warriors with them claimed it had not the look of a proper war, but it was clear that there had been conflict nonetheless. After Eddard led the vanguard across the Trident and towards Darry, they caught their first glimpse of the fighting.
Perhaps two thousand men fought and died in a dry riverbed. Ned and the men with him, five hundred cavalry scouting in force, had been drawn by horn calls, and they came to a stop on a nearby rise. The young Stark picked the northmen fighting immediately, and a quick command had the rest of his host hold where they were, still out of sight.
"Who fights?" Theo Wull asked, a big mountain clansman with arms near as thick as most men's thighs. "I see Rivermen, and Kingsmen."
"There are Darry colours on the pike tabards," the old Lord Cerwyn said, "but that's a Buckwell banner."
"And a direwolf," a younger man murmured, Lord Hornwood taking a moment longer to realise what others already had as he squinted at the battle. His eyes widened as he realised who he was looking at. "That's Lord Stark!" Steel rasped free from its sheath, and he levelled it at the battle, his horse almost rearing under him. "We can-"
"No," Ned said, his eyes elsewhere. Many amongst the lead riders looked at him sideways for it.
"No?" Hornwood asked, robbed of his building battle-cheer. "That's your lord father down there!"
"Look to the hill, amongst the trees," Ned said. In the river, the northmen were slowly pushing the royalists back, but there was something they couldn't see. Between the scouting force and the battle there was a small hillock, and on the leeward side there was a force of riders. If the northmen continued to push back their foes, they would be left vulnerable. Had winter not been so recently left behind, perhaps the riders would have been concealed in truth.
"Tight, rocky," Theo said, pulling a piece of jerky from a pouch at his hip. He chewed on it as he stared down at the hillock, apparently uncaring of the battle. "Wouldn't want to fight ahorse there."
"It was the only place to hide themselves," another man said, playing at a scar over his lip. "If they lured Lord Stark into the riverbed…"
There were perhaps one hundred horsemen laying in wait, but Ned found his brow furrowing, his concerns elsewhere. What his father was doing out fighting in such a manner, he could not say. "Ser Mark," he said to the last speaker. "Pick fifty men. We will approach the hill quietly, and then dismount to take the fight to them. As we near, Lord Cerwyn will lead the rest to envelop them and prevent escape." When fighting clansmen in the Vale, Jon had always stressed leaving at least the appearance of a way out to foes, but here and now Ned found himself desiring to deprive the foe not just of their force, but of all news of their fate.
"I will go," Theo said, hand going to check the claymore at his side.
Mark tapped one finger to his helm, turning his fine red mount to head back over the rise, calling out names and low commands.
"Surely we could split, and some of us could ride to Lord Stark," Hornwood said, glancing about at the other lords nearby. He was not the only one who seemed more eager to ride to the battle proper, despite the lay of the land and the opportunity they would miss in doing so.
"No," Ned said. The northmen in the riverbed were pushing the royalists back steadily, and once the ambushing force was defeated or destroyed the battle would be won in any case, but he did not care to take the time to explain the particulars of it to those who did not grasp that.
It did not take long for Ser Ryswell to return with the men, and Ned found himself looking at a touch more than fifty men, but by the eagerness on their faces he judged it could not be helped. Theo placed himself solidly at Ned's left, bulling a young Flint man out of the way with a pat on the shoulder, and a small man in green and bronze slipped into place at his right. He shared a small smile with Howland as the man took his pronged spear from his back. It would be a messy fight, frantic, but he could think of few better to have at his side for it.
"We'll do our part," Lord Cerwyn promised him as they finished forming up.
Ned gave him a nod, expecting no less. "No war cries," he reminded his men, and then they were off.
They kept to a canter as they went, riding down the slope of the rise, and there was only the thud of hooves on dirt and the faint clash of steel to fill the air. The moment stretched out, and at any instant it seemed certain that one of their foes would turn to see them approaching, but all too soon they were only a stone's throw away, and then Ned was raising one fist and pulling his mount to a stop. They dismounted, some few staying with the horses, but the rest following Ned as he led the way towards the trees on the hillock.
A man at the rear of the group turned in his saddle, stretching, and he froze as he saw fifty grim northmen running at him in silence. He wheezed a warning, shock thinning his voice, but then he found it, shouting his alarm. Someone hushed him, but others turned to look, and dismay spread as they tried to react. They were too tightly packed to turn to face them, horses almost shoulder to shoulder where they weren't separated by trees, but they tried all the same, and they suffered for it.
Ned dragged the man to spot them from his saddle, dagger finding his eye, and he was only the first to set about the bloody work. Howland took a man in the throat with his spear, and Theo put his sword through another's spine, as the cavalrymen were set upon by infantry in a reverse of the usual.
A cry went up to ride free, but it was already too late. Fouled by their first reaction, now the rest of the scouting force rode to surround them, taking the sides of the copse and the top of the hillock. A roar went up from the Northmen in the river as they caught sight of Cerwyn banners, and Ned knew the skirmish was as good as won as he killed a man's horse out from under him. Blood splattered his face, but he blinked it away, dragging another man down when they tried to swing at Theo. He might feel the fight won, but someone still had to tell the enemy that.
X
Not a man escaped them that day, though it took some effort on behalf of the riders to catch those few who escaped the cordon, and by the canny mountain clansmen to catch those who tried to hide. Whoever had sent the thousand odd strong host would have only guesses as to what had happened to it, at least for a while.
Such work took precedence over reunions, however, and Ned was not able to do more than share a handful of words with his father before they were on the march. The news that Darry had been taken was welcome, but word that Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had established himself at Harrenhal was less so. Time for a detailed discussion of the war would come later though, and he found himself and his scouting force riding along with his father's cavalry and the handful of noble prisoners. Their smallfolk captives had been sent away with the rest of the foot, towards Harroway's Town to meet with the oncoming northern army, but Rickard was leading them somewhere else.
Their destination was not far. Within an hour of hard riding they reached it, a stretch of woods a short ways off one of the back roads, the kind of place that saw little traffic and that only locals would be aware of. They were not the first to arrive; a cluster of riderless horses had been given leave to graze by the treeline, watched over by squires and soldiers. The direwolf banner he spied said that one belonged to Brandon , but he was nowhere to be seen. Ned and his men took their cues from his father and his retinue, dismounting by the woods and seemingly preparing to enter them. There was some confusion, questions being asked that few seemed willing to answer, but Ned was of a mind to demand some when he was diverted.
"Ned," a familiar voice said.
Ned turned, and almost smiled as he saw Elbert Arryn approaching him, a squire tending to his horse. "Elbert," he began, but then something in his friend's face made him pause.
"You need to talk to your father," Elbert said, grim and quiet. "Your brother won't do it, and he won't listen to anyone else."
Ned did not speak, only frowning with a question in his gaze.
"I understand why, but this can't continue," he said. "What Aerys did was foul, but he is a madman born of incest. If you speak with-"
"What did he do." A chill crawled up his spine as his imagination conjured up fell deeds that might have his father react in such a way as to have Elbert so out of sorts.
"You don't- shit." Elbert closed his eyes for a moment. "You should speak to Lord Rickard. Quickly, before it starts."
Around them, men were already moving deeper into the woods, the prisoners amongst them, many starting to pale and sweat. It was the nobles that led the way, though whatever was about to happen had them of mixed minds, men of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale a mix of eager, solemn, disquieted, and angry.
Ned walked on, angling to catch up before whatever this was could start. The trees grew thicker, causing men to slow as they grew more congested, but every man he made to move past was quick to step aside when they saw the wolf on his breast. Something in their bearing made him think it wasn't because he was Lord Stark's second son. He had just about reached his father when they arrived at their goal.
The sight of a young heart tree amidst a clearing slowed his step, white trunk and red leaves a comforting sight. It could not yet be two centuries old, but it seemed to be thriving here in the south, hidden away as it was, and its face seemed to smirk at them. He almost missed Brandon standing beside it, and another group of men already present with their own small group of prisoners, nobles all, but then the clearing was beginning to fill, men surrounding the heart tree. The usual quiet hush of a godswood was present, but it was not due to respect this time. It was something else, something weightier. He took a spot at the front of the crowd, meeting his brother's gaze briefly, but there were no answers to be found there.
Rickard Stark surveyed the crowd before him. The clearing was packed, save for a space around the heart tree where the Stark lord and his heir stood, and though the watchers spilled out into the woods, space had been found for all their captives.
"A moon's turn ago," Rickard started, looking at the face on the heart tree, "I was sent a message." His voice was as low as it always was, but it could not be called quiet now, not with the tightly leashed embers of rage deep within it. His fist was clenched around the neck of a cloth bag.
Ethan Glover stepped up, newly scarred across his brow, and placed a tall stump by Rickard's side before stepping back. The Stark lord placed his bag upon it, and then undid the knot holding it closed. A ripple went through the crowd as its contents were revealed, some men grimacing as they looked away, others shaking their heads, some silently raging. Brandon was the worst of them, his face a rictus of fury as he snarled, his fists clenching at his sides.
A cushion of black and red sat upon the sump, and on it was a severed foot.
It had been lathered in some concoction to ward off the rot, but still there was an unpleasant stench, though perhaps that was just due to a prisoner pissing his breeches, and Ned's face went blank as he understood what he was looking at. Elbert shifted at his side, but he had no mind for anything but the foot of his sister on display before the heart tree.
"Aerys has forgotten. I mean to remind him," Rickard said. He looked to the nearest of the captives, and the man shrank back, before swallowing, girding himself. He raised his chin in defiance, but it seemed to have no impact on the grim lord before the heart tree, as if he was not truly seeing him. "You will all choose something to give up this day. Your oaths to Aerys, or your foot. I do not care which. But you will choose."
Two Stark men pushed the chosen noble forward, and he almost stumbled before catching his balance. He swallowed, but stood tall.
"Choose," Brandon demanded of him. There was a hatchet in his hand, and he seemed on the verge of making the choice for the man.
The noble swallowed again. He was a Riverlander, and his armour said he was of no great wealth or power, but he stood there all the same. "F-for perverting the laws of hospitality and for abusing a maiden in his care, I renounce my loyalty to King Aerys Targaryen."
Brandon snarled, but a slight gesture from Rickard had him subsiding. A look saw the noble marched off out of sight, and another was pushed forward.
"Choose," Rickard told him.
"I forsake the Targaryens forevermore," he said quickly. "As they have treated their oaths to us, let mine to them be the same."
He too was marched off, and the next noble pushed forward. He was just as quick to deny the king, as was the next man, and the next. A glance at the heart tree saw no evidence of severed feet, save the one on the cushion, and Ned was able to think past the cold anger to wonder if any lords captured before this had been so dedicated to Aerys as to choose the other. Then he remembered Elbert's request, and he knew the answer.
Another noble was pushed forward, but this one did not have the look of the others, and the crowd seemed to lean forward, eager and repulsed in turn. None were so keen as Brandon, his brother wearing a sharp cut of a smile as the lord drew himself up to sneer at all around him.
"You speak of oaths betrayed, and hospitality broken," he said, the scorn on his face belied by the slight tremor in his leg. "But these are pretty lies to tell yourselves that you are not the ones without honour, turning your coat for these cold northern cunts-"
"It's the foot, then?" Brandon asked, uncaring of his speech.
The lord, a Crownlander, did not respond with words, only spitting at Brandon's feet. Brandon's smile grew sharper, and he stepped forward as the two Stark men took the captive's shoulders and forced him to the ground.
"Father," Ned said, interrupting the scene. Elbert straightened beside him, giving an encouraging nod.
"Son," Rickard said, grey eyes unreadable.
"I have a better way," Ned said. He looked to his side, not to Elbert, but to the slight man at his left.
Howland knew what he wanted, and handed it over. The greatsword was taller than he was, but the decision to trust him to carry it was about strength of character, not strength of arm. Ned accepted Ice, and held it out to his lord father.
Rickard accepted his weapon, and Elbert sighed, but for all that he was a close companion, he was a man of the Vale, not the North. He did not understand. Theirs were the ways of Theon, of Cregan, and Aerys had taken a Stark daughter. The Boltons knew well what followed such a thing, and now the Targaryens would too.
There was nothing dignified about the way the defiant noble was stretched out, and he could not hold back the scream that was pried from his lips when Rickard took his foot off above the ankle. Footwear was discarded, and Brandon threw the severed part up into the heart tree, where it lodged between two boughs. Blood clung to the white wood as it trailed down the bark, slowly winding closer to the smirking face upon the trunk.
A gesture from Rickard had the white faced man dragged away, jaw clenched and still forcing back groans of anguish, and another was brought forward. The grim lord set the tip of his sword in the dirt, hands resting on its hilt. The watchers might have been split in their thoughts on what they were witnessing, but they followed his gaze all the same.
"Choose."
X
At the end of the sixth month of the 282nd year after Aegon's Conquest, two pieces of news reached the Starks. The first was that the White Bull had slipped another slew of raiding forces into the Riverlands, continuing his effort to prevent the rebels from consolidating and pushing into the Crownlands. The second was that Lady Lyarra Stark had passed in her sleep. It was a grim host that set out to intercept the raiders, one thousand strong and led by a man eager to drown his grief with the blood of his enemies. They would find their foe, guided by the smoke of a razed village, and Lord Stark was the first man into the fray.
The mood was ill as they returned to camp. Usually, a cunning victory over a tricky foe would have been cause for celebration, but there would be no cheer amongst the northmen while their lord was borne amongst them on a litter, pale and wounded. They had their blood, but there would be no visit to a heart tree until they had seen to the Stark. A swift ride and harsh words had a pimply young maester from a nearby castle brought to their camp, and with the aid of a barber and a serving woman known for her sewing, the bleeding was brought to a halt. Only time would tell if he would keep the leg, but those who had held their breath for him were assured that he would live through the night, and his tent was made ready and comfortable.
It was then that the third piece of news arrived, borne by a man in Tully colours. He carried a letter, and he refused to give it to any but Lord Stark, even after learning of his condition. His sons attended him as he read it, sheer will fending off the effects of the poppy he had been given, slowly making his way through the letter. When he reached the end, his strength fled him and it slipped from limp hands, his breathing slowing as his eyes closed.
Ned's gaze swung to the messenger, and the man froze, but Brandon had already seized the letter and was reading it swiftly. A storm of expressions played out across his face from start to end, and when he was done he threw it at Ned. An angry jerk of his chin had the messenger hurrying from the tent, leaving the sons alone with their comatose father. Ned tilted the parchment to catch the afternoon sun, and read.
'Rickard Stark, Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon,
Lyanna Stark is untouched and unharmed. I have men in place to ensure she remains so, but my father's paranoia is great and I know not where he hides her away. She is not in the Red Keep. From that alone I know the unkingly threat he made was false. In time I hope to gain knowledge of her location, but my father has taken much advice from Varys, and it was all I could do to ensure her guards had amongst them men loyal to me. I fear to act with haste lest I endanger Lady Lyanna further. Time is needed.
I have convinced Lord Tyrell to besiege Storm's End, and to take his time doing so; the might of the Reach will not march north, and those within that redoubtable fortress are in little danger of anything but boredom. The men of Dorne will muster, but hold fast in the Prince's Pass and the Boneway. There is still time for wisdom to temper rage.
I belabour the point. Time, again time. In time I will find her, but if Aerys feels threatened enough to carry out his monstrous deed in truth, I cannot guarantee my men will stop it. I do not presume to ask you to lay down your arms or return home. Instead I will presume to ask you to hold fast, to manoeuvre for the time I need to find Lyanna Stark. I ask for much, I know, but I still hope that this challenge can end in reason, and not in fire and blood.'
Rhaegar Targaryen'
Ned looked to his brother, the parchment crumpling in his fist.
"He is addled," Brandon said, visibly fighting the urge to pace, "if he thinks we will sit and wait for him to make right the crime of his father."
"Hightower still raids the Riverlands," Ned said, his mind elsewhere. "Rhaegar lacks either the power or the desire to stop it."
"You think it a trick? A way to let him cut at us as he holds out for reinforcement?" Brandon asked.
"Maybe," Ned said, "though it does not sit right. He would not be so eager to prevent us from besieging Harrenhal if a Reach army was marching north." If Tyrell were to bring the bulk of his strength to join the fight, the royalist cause would only benefit by having the rebels extended so.
"The last word is still that Baratheon marched into the Reach a month past," Brandon said. "Could be he's giving them some trouble."
Ned sat in one of the chairs on the side of his father's tent, turning the situation over in his mind. He had no doubt that Robert was giving them all sorts of trouble, to say the least. "Hightower is a Kingsguard," he said, leaning on his knees. "A lord might delay or mishear, but a Kingsguard will follow the orders of the king as intended."
"Then we're back to the worth of Rhaegar's word," Brandon said. He gave in to the urge to pace, though each time he turned he did so in such a way as to avoid looking at their father, pale and wan. "These southern schemes…" he grimaced as he trailed off.
"I do not think it matters," Ned said as his thoughts came together. "Hightower and his Riverlords raid the Riverlands so that we are forced to defend it," he said. "He is a skilled leader of men, so it follows that he feels he would be disadvantaged were we to push south. Whether the cause is Rhaegar or a slow muster, his reinforcements must not be near."
"Then true or false, our course is the same," Brandon said. "If Rhaegar desires a Great Council, returning Lyanna to us will serve him better than the threat of that army anyway." His pacing eased, and so did some of the tension in him. "Another month, and we will be on our way."
"So long as our preparations are uninterrupted," Ned reminded him. "By rights, we were to be halfway to King's Landing by now."
Brandon's mood was brought down again. "Fucking Darrys. Fucking Mootons. Fucking disloyal Riverlords."
"Those are your wife's people," Ned said, sitting back in his chair now.
"And when I share a camp with Hoster Tully, I will hold my tongue," Brandon told him, "but while he is perched at Darry, and so long as they keep guiding Crownlanders along goat paths to strike at their neighbours, I will call them all cunts."
Ned only shook his head. He knew well how his brother could fall into a mood. The sun was beginning to set, the light that had lit up the tent walls starting to fade. "You should ride for Riverrun, and try for an heir again." But his words went unheard.
"The sooner we string Aerys up and return to the North, the better," Brandon said. His annoyance was gone, replaced by something more sombre. "I was not made for the south."
The Stark heir looked to their father, and stepped towards the bed, reaching out. But it was not their father he reached for. It was Ice, the blade still unsheathed, yet to be cleaned from the battle and resting against the bed. He took it up, and gave Ned a look.
Ned returned it, nodding once. The war was yet young.
X
The White Bull did not sit and wait as the rebels gathered supplies and consolidated forces. For every small group sent to raid and raze, there were also loyalists who sought to fire grain houses, put holes in river barges, and spy on noble correspondence. It was a war of a kind that had not been seen since before the time of their fathers and grandfathers, since the ambitions of the Blackfyres had near on torn the realm in twain. Even when servants of taken castles were turned out and replaced, there were still those who sought to act in the interests of their royalist overlords. Even so, such things could only delay the rebel push, and Hightower knew it. That did not mean he meant to make it easy on them.
From the top of a hill, Ned watched as a skirmish played out, laying on his belly with a telescope held to his eye. It was borrowed from his brother, but Brandon hardly needed it at the time, hard pressed and surrounded as he was. He watched as his older brother cleaved a man's head from his shoulders, grinning widely as he said something to Walder, even as the giant caught two men upon his tower shield and threw them back. The northmen were apparently pinned against a ridge, hunters turned to hunted.
"You were right," the man laying beside him said. He had no far-eye of his own, and he squinted down at the knot of several hundred men. Once auburn hair was greying, but still thick. "Jon will be at the Saltpans by now, and if my brother isn't dealing with more of this I'll marry a Frey."
The force they had intercepted was only one of several across the lands that the Northmen had been entrusted with, and other lords took men to greet them. There were those who had been sure that such things would begin to slow as Hightower spent more and more men in dribs and drabs to slow them, but Ned was not one of them. When word had come from Wickenden of ships bearing Crownland sigils sailing down the Bay of Crabs, he had counselled Brandon to stand ready. When a fresh wave of raiding groups had sought to slip past their watch, they had not been caught off guard.
"I am surprised he had the numbers," Ned said, still watching the fight. The Northmen were holding, but only that. "They must have stripped the southern garrisons to be able to send and spend so many while maintaining Harrenhal."
"Could be mercenaries," Brynden Tully said, giving up on squinting down. He rubbed at his eyes. "Aerys has rich vaults."
An interruption came before any response could be given. "Lord Ned," said the man on his other side. "Will we not ride to Lord Brandon's aid?"
"Not yet, Lord Mollen," Ned said. He turned his far-eye to a dark line of trees beyond the fight, behind the royalists, checking that all was as it needed to be.
"Your brother is in peril," the middle aged man pressed. A minor lord sworn directly to the Starks, he had been amongst the men to accompany his father to King's Landing.
"He is," Ned said.
"He may be wounded, or worse," Mollen said, as if making sure Ned was aware.
Ned ignored him. His brother had put himself in greater danger on more foolish larks before. Below, the fighting grew fiercer, as Brandon and Walder suddenly began to carve into the dragonmen, threatening a wedge. A bellowing cry went up as his men saw and followed, forming a wedge in truth and beginning to cut their way free of the press. They were almost free when a horn rang out.
From the treeline that Ned had been watching, a group of riders emerged, perhaps fifty strong. They rode hard, swords and axes held ready, as they made to cut off any chance of escape. They were no knights, but they would savage any infantry they came upon all the same.
"Lord Eddard," Mollen said, almost plaintive.
"No," Ned said.
"Even if some escape, the risk-"
"We will hold."
As Ned spoke, there was movement on the ridge that Brandon's men had been pinned against. Men rose up, bows at the ready, and amongst them was a clansman drawing back a goldenheart bow. It had pained him to hand it over, having grown attached to the gift as he practised with it, but his role in the fight was elsewhere.
The archers, hidden all through the skirmish so far, did not fire into the packed foes beneath them. Instead, they loosed at the approaching cavalry, wounding the lightly armoured riders and killing a number of horses. A second volley only added to the blood on the field. Brandon and Walder continued to carve and bull their way free from envelopment.
Another horn blew, and more cavalry emerged from the trees. This time came the knights, fifty of them, as well as another fifty free riders with them. They split, some aiming to support their fellows against the infantry, others seeking to get around the ridge to ride down the archers.
"Now we go," Ned said, collapsing his far-eye and scrambling back from the top of the hill. His companions joined him, and they hurried for their mounts, joining the three hundred riders already mounted and waiting in the lee of the hill. Vale knights in their steel, Riverland outriders in their leathers, and Northern clansmen painted with battle boasts, all fell in behind him as he pointed his sword up and over the hill in an unspoken command. Hooves beat at the dirt as they spilled over the rise in a canter, and then a charge. The enemy cavalry had enough time to realise they had been had, and then they were upon them.
He was not deaf to the mutterings that at times spread amongst lords and men, but he had little time for epithets. If coldness was what saw summer knights outmanoeuvred and overcome as they inched closer to his sister, he would bring all the snows of the North with him.
X
The tent that Brandon had taken for his command was growing crowded now that the demands of the war were changing. The knights and nobles who had been sent to join the Starks tended to the younger side, but that was by design. Their elders weren't about to let a little thing like rebellion and war get in the way of forming bonds between their heirs. For the most part it was working, as hard work and duty forged camaraderie and even cheer. Some days, however, there was no ignoring the grim presence of war.
"Share the news," Brandon ordered his friend, holding court in the crowded tent.
"We've word from Briarwhite," Jeffory Mallister told the room. His face still bore the fading remnants of a bruise from the rim of a shield. "A royal host is marching south around the Gods Eye."
They had no table large enough for all of them, so they sat and stood in a rough circle. With few elder relatives around, there was little ceremony to stand on, and more than a few of them swore at the news.
"How many?" Elbert Arryn asked, arms crossed and one of those seated in a chair.
"Was a shepherd's boy that saw them, and they're moving at night," Jeffory said. "A Ninepenny veteran took a look at the trail and said more than three thousand, less than eight."
"Fuckers," Willam Dustin said, speaking the feelings of many. The Northman had a pair of fresh thin scars on one cheek. "How did the Bull sneak them past our eyes on Harrenhal?"
"Might've pulled something clever with their patrols, leaving a few men each time," Brynden said, blue eyes narrowed. "If it's that, this has been in the works for a while." He was one of the oldest in the tent, and his reputation saw that his words were heeded.
"Forget how, where is he getting the men?," Mark Ryswell said, standing by the side of his good-brother, Willam. "The garrison at Harrenhal must be growing thin, surely."
"More mercenaries? Levies?" Elbert suggested. "Either here, or there."
"Did this shepherd's boy see any banners?" Brynden asked.
"None that he could describe," Jeffory said.
Brynden gave an irritated grunt. Confirmation that the force to sail on the Saltpans had been mercenaries of Essos had sat ill with all to hear it.
"Don't suppose it matters either way," Elbert said. "What are we going to do?"
"We kill them," Brandon said, causing a scattering of dark chuckles.
"Hoster can't pursue without being suckerpunched by Hightower," Brynden said, "and Jon will still be on his way back from Saltpans. It'll have to be us."
"What if Hoster feigned his pursuit, lured Hightower in?" Kyle Royce asked. "If he thinks the way is open to strike him, that we are drawn away…"
Some men liked that idea, but Brynden was shaking his head. "Too many risks. He has men with him who know these lands almost as well as I do."
He was not the only one to mislike it. "Lannister still makes no sign of stirring from his rock," Ned said, "but if we were to shave men from the western garrisons to meet this chevauchée in our place, that would be the time for him to strike."
Jeffory had been frowning in thought as they spoke. "Stoney Sept, do you think?" he asked of Brynden.
"My gut says no," Brynden said, frowning. "They could likely take it, but not easily, and they'll want to burn as much as they can, pulling men away from the assault on Harrenhal, but there are many towns and villages without their walls."
"Aye. They'll split once they round the Gods Eye," Ned said. He did not know the Riverlands as well as he knew the North, or the Vale, but he knew enough. "Split, raid, then regroup to threaten us."
"I'll have their guts decorating the trees before I let them burn my wife's homeland," Brandon said. "Ned, what's to be done?"
Ned glanced at Brynden, but the old soldier only raised a brow at him, a glimmer of amusement in his eye. "Two thousand men to ride south. When they split, we defeat them in detail." They would split into three at the least, and even in the worst case two thousand would be enough.
"Take your pick of men," Brandon said. "I'll follow with another two thousand and catch any fleeing you." He grinned, and there was nothing pleasant about it. "If they're Riverland royalists, I leave their punishment to Brynden. If they're foreign mercenaries, kill them all."
A slow nod was his answer. He would see it done.
Over the next days, Ned chose his men to lead a host of three thousand south. The camp they left behind was not quite the size of the force he had departed Winterfell with, for those men were spread from the tip of the Gods Eye to the Saltpans, but it was still greater than any they had made during the early days of their defence of the Riverlands. It would remain so even after Brandon followed him south. The younger Stark found his mood buoyed to be on the march again after two months of rushing to and fro to respond to raids, even if their task now was the same writ large.
As the seventh month passed into the eighth, Eddard led his host south around the Gods Eye, sweeping west to avoid the feeder rivers. Brynden Tulley rode at his right, and Roose Bolton at his left. Their progress was swift, and morale was high, as were hopes that they would intercept the enemy before they could spread fire and ruin. All was going well, until it was not.
They had been lucky to receive word of the foe's movements at all, even if the estimate of their numbers was unreliable. It was a rude shock to find out just how unreliable, however. An entire extra host had crossed the Gods Eye River heading west, marching under cover of night. Daring scouting revealed thirteen thousand men, a mix of Riverland and Crownlanders, supplemented by mercenaries and angling for the soft underbelly of the Riverlands.
There was no time to cry foul or to find answers as to where the soldiers had come from. Their only advantage was that their presence was unknown to the foe, and Ned meant to wring it for every scrap he could. As expected, they split, but that meant less when each still numbered thousands strong.
The largest turned north towards the lake, their target clear. Three thousand men marched for the town that sat on the lakeshore with violent intent, and Ned did not mean to stand idle. A field was found, an awkward bit of land by the river that would let them take the foe on equal footing. Ned did not like battles of equal footing.
Night marching may have let the foe almost sneak by them, but it also left them sluggish of a morning as they readjusted to daytime travel. Come the chosen day, Ned watched them scramble into formation as his troops bore down on them, his cavalry waiting in the wings. A dozen lords watched with him, waiting for the right moment to join their forces.
"Lord Eddard!"
The scout's call and hurried pace diverted his attention as the battle became inevitable, and a dread came over him.
"Report," Ned told the man. He was one of Brynden's.
"There's another force approaching from the south," the man said, confirming his fears.
"How many?" he demanded. Had they been found out? Was the march on the lake town a lure? If the foe was less than a thousand, he could delay them with cavalry, but if it was more, the battle was already lost.
"Less than five hundred," the scout said, finding his breath. "Cavalry all."
The number jarred at him, both too high and too low. He frowned. "Whose banner?"
"I don't know," he said. "It was a white star on blue, five pointed."
A heartbeat passed, and worry slipped away. Ned found himself smiling, and the scout swallowed.
"Lord Bolton, bring your cavalry about to join the charge from the north," he ordered. "We will drive them to the south."
Roose did as ordered without comment, riding off to join his men and give them their new orders.
"You know the banner?" Willam asked, his red stallion stamping the earth. "Who is it?"
"A friend," Ned said. His men made contact with the enemy, and the crash of battle reached him a moment later. "One that will not like what our foes intended." He drew his sword.
There was little happiness to be found on a battlefield, no joyous day was this, but as he rode to join his lance of riders, he found the smile lingering on his face all the same.
A warm body pressed into his back, arms going around his waist, and he felt his lips twitch into a smile. It was also the first time he would return home with a wife.
"Ashara," he murmured, taking one hand off the ship's rail to place over her clasped hands.
"Ned," she said, affectionate as she rested her head against the fur of his mantle. "You were frowning."
"Was I?" he asked, still looking out over the water.
"I could see it in your shoulders," she said, squeezing him slightly.
His smile grew as he felt the slight bump of her belly against his back. It fell a moment later, however, as he remembered that he would not be present to witness the birth of his first child.
"Ned," Ashara said, chiding now.
He was beginning to suspect that she could read his thoughts. "We should dock and disembark within the hour," Ned said. "House Manderly may follow the Seven, but they are Northerners true. They will host us tonight, and we will depart in the morning."
Ashara nodded. "And your cousins will likely be there. Do we expect them to travel with us to Winterfell?"
"No. They lean to matters of mercantilism, rather than war," Ned said. He did not begrudge them this, and their connections had aided his House in lean times. His foster-father's distaste for his Gulltown relatives was still something that he did not understand.
A cold wind swept over the ship, spilling from the sails, and Ashara shivered. "I will be glad to arrive. The cold is not so bad, but the wind…"
"Are you sure you do not wish to stay in White Harbor?" Ned asked. He turned, taking his wife in his arms. Her head came just up to his chin, and she tucked it underneath. "It is a livelier place than Winterfell, for all that I love my home."
"Yes. I want to meet your mother," Ashara said. She nestled deeper into him. "Perhaps she will share with me the secret of surviving the cold before the next winter arrives."
"We can visit the tailors before we leave," Ned said instantly. "Our craftsmen make many fine outfits of velvet and ermine."
"I won't have my first action in the North be to demand finery," Ashara said. "I know the North is not the richest kingdom. My trousseau is more than enough; I simply have to grow used to the weather."
"We are frugal, not poor," Ned told her. "But you speak sense. There are those who would look for any reason to disdain a southerner."
"They can disdain me all they like," Ashara told him. "I have already won." She looked up at him with a gaze that made Ned again curse the thin walls of their ship cabin.
The captain was starting to give orders to his crew, making the final preparations for their approach, but Ned's mind was elsewhere. There would surely be time to relax before the feast that night, their first time to themselves since their departure from Gulltown.
Ashara tweaked his nose in his distraction, smirking at whatever she read on his face. "And Elia was surprised by the swiftness of our marriage."
Ned gave her a look, silently apportioning her the lion's share of the blame. Just as silently, a brow was raised in response, disagreeing and suggesting the reverse. The second son of Winterfell could not help but smile, one hand going to the swell of his wife's belly, wishing to feel the movement of his child, but knowing that he never would.
X
The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled to bursting, every table full and men lining the walls. Grey light filtered down through the high windows, and low murmurs rose to meet it as the last of the Stark bannermen arrived. A pair of guards worked to close the solid doors of oak and iron at the end of the room, and the heavy thud they made brought about an expectant silence.
Eddard looked over the hall, taking in the crowds of faces that watched him. Some he knew, many he didn't, and as he took their measure he was measured in turn from his position on the dais. The stone seat that had served as the throne for the Kings of Winter was behind him, but he sat on a simple chair of wood before and beside it. The greatsword Ice sat on the throne, edge bared in a silent statement and reminder.
"My lords," he said, his voice quiet but still commanding the attention of the hall. "House Stark has called, and you have answered." It was said as a foregone conclusion, like it was something as certain as the snowfall, but Ned knew well that his family had not ruled the North for eight thousand years by taking loyalty for granted. "We will remember."
Quiet pride, solemn acknowledgement, cocksure eagerness, he saw it all on the faces of his father's bannermen, from lords minor to mighty. There were those he could not read, like large Lord Manderly, who had travelled with them from White Harbor, and slender Lord Bolton, who had slipped into Winterfell amongst the last of the arrivals, but then was not the time to consider two of the more powerful Stark vassals.
"You have heard the news. You know what Aerys has done."
Ill muttering rose, many of the men scowling now. To make hostages of guests was to spit in the eye of guest rights, something that would stir every true Northerner to fury, to say nothing of the slaughter of northern sons and the abduction of a northern daughter.
"The Vale has subdued their royalists, and Lord Arryn's men have entered the Riverlands, giving Lord Tully a decisive advantage over his own disloyal vassals," Ned told the hall. "In the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon marches west into the Reach, but their fields feed many men and should they send an army north, we will be outnumbered. It is upon us to tilt the balance back in our favour."
"We'll do more than that!" came a call from the side. Heads craned to see who had interrupted the Stark, and they saw a face that they should have expected. "By the time we're done, no southern fuck will dare to look twice at any northern girl!"
Ned inclined his head to the man many called the Greatjon, even as fists and hands were pounded and slapped against tables and walls in a cheer. He was larger even than Old Nan's children and grandchildren, although Walder was almost as broad, with growing yet to do.
"What of the Westerlands?" another lord called out. This one was close to the front, and the white sunburst on his back made clear his identity, even half hidden by grey hair as it was. Lord Karstark's lip curled as he spoke. "Do they still hold to the Targaryens?"
"We do not know," Ned told them. "The Lannisters have not declared for either side, but like the Martells, they have family in Aerys' grasp." The Dornish were no allies of the North, and Princess Elia hardly a 'guest' as the others were, but he would not ignore any chance to guide attitudes that might impact his wife.
Karstark made a noise of disgust, and he was not the only one. "Cravens!" someone shouted. "Excuses!" called another. "Self-serving wretches!" "Fuck the Tyrells!"
Ned raised one hand from where it sat on his knee. It was a small gesture, but it allayed much of the shouting, quieting the hall to murmurs once more.
"What do we seek to gain from this rebellion?" The speaker's voice had a way of silencing any who would speak over him, for all he swallowed afterwards, as if making himself heard had taxed him, and pale eyes watched Ned for his answer.
"By my father's word, Lord Bolton, Aerys' reign will not survive the war. Should Lyanna be harmed, neither will he."
Ill temper was replaced by an almost gleeful anticipation. Even now, nearly three hundred years since Aegon's Conquest, there were none in the North who loved the Targaryens, and many who disdained them.
"I presume that as victor, Lord Stark will make arrangements to benefit the North entire," Lord Manderly said, his hands folded over the bulk of his stomach.
"He shall," Ned said, "and I know he will seek the counsel of his lords in doing so."
"What has he told you?" an eager young lord asked. This was not a man like the others to speak, not a man with thousands of spears to his name or who had been hosted in a private audience before the gathering. "Does he mean to make them pay to rebuild Cailin?" His enthusiasm was sincere, for all that he didn't appear to have noted the stature of the other men to speak.
"Moat Cailin was not discussed," Ned said, a touch slower this time, "however…my father did make mention of his regret that the Red Keep lacked a true heart tree."
"Yessss! Red on its face, and red on its boughs!" Greatjon rumbled, and his bassy voice was only the first to rise up. The slow retreat of godswoods in the south was another sore point, and the thought of clawing that back in the same city as Baelor's Sept stirred northern spirits.
Soon, it was clear that the audience had moved beyond announcements, and Ned rose from his seat. "We ride in three days, my lords! For Lyanna, and the North!"
"Lyanna and the North!" was the answering roar, and then they had their heads, discussing and gossiping what they knew and what they thought might come. Ned took the time to meet the gazes of the lords who had asked the questions he needed of them. They had done their parts, even if the Greatjon had brought greater enthusiasm to the task than was needed.
That enthusiasm would be needed when they reached the battles to the south, but as he surveyed the gathering, he had a feeling that it would not be in short supply.
X
The Northern army arrived in a Riverlands at war with itself. At the crossing of the Green Fork they saw remnants of a skirmish, a Frey tabard left tattered in the dirt, and at the crossroads where the king, high, and river roads met there was a village whose marketplace had been touched by fire. The old warriors with them claimed it had not the look of a proper war, but it was clear that there had been conflict nonetheless. After Eddard led the vanguard across the Trident and towards Darry, they caught their first glimpse of the fighting.
Perhaps two thousand men fought and died in a dry riverbed. Ned and the men with him, five hundred cavalry scouting in force, had been drawn by horn calls, and they came to a stop on a nearby rise. The young Stark picked the northmen fighting immediately, and a quick command had the rest of his host hold where they were, still out of sight.
"Who fights?" Theo Wull asked, a big mountain clansman with arms near as thick as most men's thighs. "I see Rivermen, and Kingsmen."
"There are Darry colours on the pike tabards," the old Lord Cerwyn said, "but that's a Buckwell banner."
"And a direwolf," a younger man murmured, Lord Hornwood taking a moment longer to realise what others already had as he squinted at the battle. His eyes widened as he realised who he was looking at. "That's Lord Stark!" Steel rasped free from its sheath, and he levelled it at the battle, his horse almost rearing under him. "We can-"
"No," Ned said, his eyes elsewhere. Many amongst the lead riders looked at him sideways for it.
"No?" Hornwood asked, robbed of his building battle-cheer. "That's your lord father down there!"
"Look to the hill, amongst the trees," Ned said. In the river, the northmen were slowly pushing the royalists back, but there was something they couldn't see. Between the scouting force and the battle there was a small hillock, and on the leeward side there was a force of riders. If the northmen continued to push back their foes, they would be left vulnerable. Had winter not been so recently left behind, perhaps the riders would have been concealed in truth.
"Tight, rocky," Theo said, pulling a piece of jerky from a pouch at his hip. He chewed on it as he stared down at the hillock, apparently uncaring of the battle. "Wouldn't want to fight ahorse there."
"It was the only place to hide themselves," another man said, playing at a scar over his lip. "If they lured Lord Stark into the riverbed…"
There were perhaps one hundred horsemen laying in wait, but Ned found his brow furrowing, his concerns elsewhere. What his father was doing out fighting in such a manner, he could not say. "Ser Mark," he said to the last speaker. "Pick fifty men. We will approach the hill quietly, and then dismount to take the fight to them. As we near, Lord Cerwyn will lead the rest to envelop them and prevent escape." When fighting clansmen in the Vale, Jon had always stressed leaving at least the appearance of a way out to foes, but here and now Ned found himself desiring to deprive the foe not just of their force, but of all news of their fate.
"I will go," Theo said, hand going to check the claymore at his side.
Mark tapped one finger to his helm, turning his fine red mount to head back over the rise, calling out names and low commands.
"Surely we could split, and some of us could ride to Lord Stark," Hornwood said, glancing about at the other lords nearby. He was not the only one who seemed more eager to ride to the battle proper, despite the lay of the land and the opportunity they would miss in doing so.
"No," Ned said. The northmen in the riverbed were pushing the royalists back steadily, and once the ambushing force was defeated or destroyed the battle would be won in any case, but he did not care to take the time to explain the particulars of it to those who did not grasp that.
It did not take long for Ser Ryswell to return with the men, and Ned found himself looking at a touch more than fifty men, but by the eagerness on their faces he judged it could not be helped. Theo placed himself solidly at Ned's left, bulling a young Flint man out of the way with a pat on the shoulder, and a small man in green and bronze slipped into place at his right. He shared a small smile with Howland as the man took his pronged spear from his back. It would be a messy fight, frantic, but he could think of few better to have at his side for it.
"We'll do our part," Lord Cerwyn promised him as they finished forming up.
Ned gave him a nod, expecting no less. "No war cries," he reminded his men, and then they were off.
They kept to a canter as they went, riding down the slope of the rise, and there was only the thud of hooves on dirt and the faint clash of steel to fill the air. The moment stretched out, and at any instant it seemed certain that one of their foes would turn to see them approaching, but all too soon they were only a stone's throw away, and then Ned was raising one fist and pulling his mount to a stop. They dismounted, some few staying with the horses, but the rest following Ned as he led the way towards the trees on the hillock.
A man at the rear of the group turned in his saddle, stretching, and he froze as he saw fifty grim northmen running at him in silence. He wheezed a warning, shock thinning his voice, but then he found it, shouting his alarm. Someone hushed him, but others turned to look, and dismay spread as they tried to react. They were too tightly packed to turn to face them, horses almost shoulder to shoulder where they weren't separated by trees, but they tried all the same, and they suffered for it.
Ned dragged the man to spot them from his saddle, dagger finding his eye, and he was only the first to set about the bloody work. Howland took a man in the throat with his spear, and Theo put his sword through another's spine, as the cavalrymen were set upon by infantry in a reverse of the usual.
A cry went up to ride free, but it was already too late. Fouled by their first reaction, now the rest of the scouting force rode to surround them, taking the sides of the copse and the top of the hillock. A roar went up from the Northmen in the river as they caught sight of Cerwyn banners, and Ned knew the skirmish was as good as won as he killed a man's horse out from under him. Blood splattered his face, but he blinked it away, dragging another man down when they tried to swing at Theo. He might feel the fight won, but someone still had to tell the enemy that.
X
Not a man escaped them that day, though it took some effort on behalf of the riders to catch those few who escaped the cordon, and by the canny mountain clansmen to catch those who tried to hide. Whoever had sent the thousand odd strong host would have only guesses as to what had happened to it, at least for a while.
Such work took precedence over reunions, however, and Ned was not able to do more than share a handful of words with his father before they were on the march. The news that Darry had been taken was welcome, but word that Lord Commander Gerold Hightower had established himself at Harrenhal was less so. Time for a detailed discussion of the war would come later though, and he found himself and his scouting force riding along with his father's cavalry and the handful of noble prisoners. Their smallfolk captives had been sent away with the rest of the foot, towards Harroway's Town to meet with the oncoming northern army, but Rickard was leading them somewhere else.
Their destination was not far. Within an hour of hard riding they reached it, a stretch of woods a short ways off one of the back roads, the kind of place that saw little traffic and that only locals would be aware of. They were not the first to arrive; a cluster of riderless horses had been given leave to graze by the treeline, watched over by squires and soldiers. The direwolf banner he spied said that one belonged to Brandon , but he was nowhere to be seen. Ned and his men took their cues from his father and his retinue, dismounting by the woods and seemingly preparing to enter them. There was some confusion, questions being asked that few seemed willing to answer, but Ned was of a mind to demand some when he was diverted.
"Ned," a familiar voice said.
Ned turned, and almost smiled as he saw Elbert Arryn approaching him, a squire tending to his horse. "Elbert," he began, but then something in his friend's face made him pause.
"You need to talk to your father," Elbert said, grim and quiet. "Your brother won't do it, and he won't listen to anyone else."
Ned did not speak, only frowning with a question in his gaze.
"I understand why, but this can't continue," he said. "What Aerys did was foul, but he is a madman born of incest. If you speak with-"
"What did he do." A chill crawled up his spine as his imagination conjured up fell deeds that might have his father react in such a way as to have Elbert so out of sorts.
"You don't- shit." Elbert closed his eyes for a moment. "You should speak to Lord Rickard. Quickly, before it starts."
Around them, men were already moving deeper into the woods, the prisoners amongst them, many starting to pale and sweat. It was the nobles that led the way, though whatever was about to happen had them of mixed minds, men of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale a mix of eager, solemn, disquieted, and angry.
Ned walked on, angling to catch up before whatever this was could start. The trees grew thicker, causing men to slow as they grew more congested, but every man he made to move past was quick to step aside when they saw the wolf on his breast. Something in their bearing made him think it wasn't because he was Lord Stark's second son. He had just about reached his father when they arrived at their goal.
The sight of a young heart tree amidst a clearing slowed his step, white trunk and red leaves a comforting sight. It could not yet be two centuries old, but it seemed to be thriving here in the south, hidden away as it was, and its face seemed to smirk at them. He almost missed Brandon standing beside it, and another group of men already present with their own small group of prisoners, nobles all, but then the clearing was beginning to fill, men surrounding the heart tree. The usual quiet hush of a godswood was present, but it was not due to respect this time. It was something else, something weightier. He took a spot at the front of the crowd, meeting his brother's gaze briefly, but there were no answers to be found there.
Rickard Stark surveyed the crowd before him. The clearing was packed, save for a space around the heart tree where the Stark lord and his heir stood, and though the watchers spilled out into the woods, space had been found for all their captives.
"A moon's turn ago," Rickard started, looking at the face on the heart tree, "I was sent a message." His voice was as low as it always was, but it could not be called quiet now, not with the tightly leashed embers of rage deep within it. His fist was clenched around the neck of a cloth bag.
Ethan Glover stepped up, newly scarred across his brow, and placed a tall stump by Rickard's side before stepping back. The Stark lord placed his bag upon it, and then undid the knot holding it closed. A ripple went through the crowd as its contents were revealed, some men grimacing as they looked away, others shaking their heads, some silently raging. Brandon was the worst of them, his face a rictus of fury as he snarled, his fists clenching at his sides.
A cushion of black and red sat upon the sump, and on it was a severed foot.
It had been lathered in some concoction to ward off the rot, but still there was an unpleasant stench, though perhaps that was just due to a prisoner pissing his breeches, and Ned's face went blank as he understood what he was looking at. Elbert shifted at his side, but he had no mind for anything but the foot of his sister on display before the heart tree.
"Aerys has forgotten. I mean to remind him," Rickard said. He looked to the nearest of the captives, and the man shrank back, before swallowing, girding himself. He raised his chin in defiance, but it seemed to have no impact on the grim lord before the heart tree, as if he was not truly seeing him. "You will all choose something to give up this day. Your oaths to Aerys, or your foot. I do not care which. But you will choose."
Two Stark men pushed the chosen noble forward, and he almost stumbled before catching his balance. He swallowed, but stood tall.
"Choose," Brandon demanded of him. There was a hatchet in his hand, and he seemed on the verge of making the choice for the man.
The noble swallowed again. He was a Riverlander, and his armour said he was of no great wealth or power, but he stood there all the same. "F-for perverting the laws of hospitality and for abusing a maiden in his care, I renounce my loyalty to King Aerys Targaryen."
Brandon snarled, but a slight gesture from Rickard had him subsiding. A look saw the noble marched off out of sight, and another was pushed forward.
"Choose," Rickard told him.
"I forsake the Targaryens forevermore," he said quickly. "As they have treated their oaths to us, let mine to them be the same."
He too was marched off, and the next noble pushed forward. He was just as quick to deny the king, as was the next man, and the next. A glance at the heart tree saw no evidence of severed feet, save the one on the cushion, and Ned was able to think past the cold anger to wonder if any lords captured before this had been so dedicated to Aerys as to choose the other. Then he remembered Elbert's request, and he knew the answer.
Another noble was pushed forward, but this one did not have the look of the others, and the crowd seemed to lean forward, eager and repulsed in turn. None were so keen as Brandon, his brother wearing a sharp cut of a smile as the lord drew himself up to sneer at all around him.
"You speak of oaths betrayed, and hospitality broken," he said, the scorn on his face belied by the slight tremor in his leg. "But these are pretty lies to tell yourselves that you are not the ones without honour, turning your coat for these cold northern cunts-"
"It's the foot, then?" Brandon asked, uncaring of his speech.
The lord, a Crownlander, did not respond with words, only spitting at Brandon's feet. Brandon's smile grew sharper, and he stepped forward as the two Stark men took the captive's shoulders and forced him to the ground.
"Father," Ned said, interrupting the scene. Elbert straightened beside him, giving an encouraging nod.
"Son," Rickard said, grey eyes unreadable.
"I have a better way," Ned said. He looked to his side, not to Elbert, but to the slight man at his left.
Howland knew what he wanted, and handed it over. The greatsword was taller than he was, but the decision to trust him to carry it was about strength of character, not strength of arm. Ned accepted Ice, and held it out to his lord father.
Rickard accepted his weapon, and Elbert sighed, but for all that he was a close companion, he was a man of the Vale, not the North. He did not understand. Theirs were the ways of Theon, of Cregan, and Aerys had taken a Stark daughter. The Boltons knew well what followed such a thing, and now the Targaryens would too.
There was nothing dignified about the way the defiant noble was stretched out, and he could not hold back the scream that was pried from his lips when Rickard took his foot off above the ankle. Footwear was discarded, and Brandon threw the severed part up into the heart tree, where it lodged between two boughs. Blood clung to the white wood as it trailed down the bark, slowly winding closer to the smirking face upon the trunk.
A gesture from Rickard had the white faced man dragged away, jaw clenched and still forcing back groans of anguish, and another was brought forward. The grim lord set the tip of his sword in the dirt, hands resting on its hilt. The watchers might have been split in their thoughts on what they were witnessing, but they followed his gaze all the same.
"Choose."
X
At the end of the sixth month of the 282nd year after Aegon's Conquest, two pieces of news reached the Starks. The first was that the White Bull had slipped another slew of raiding forces into the Riverlands, continuing his effort to prevent the rebels from consolidating and pushing into the Crownlands. The second was that Lady Lyarra Stark had passed in her sleep. It was a grim host that set out to intercept the raiders, one thousand strong and led by a man eager to drown his grief with the blood of his enemies. They would find their foe, guided by the smoke of a razed village, and Lord Stark was the first man into the fray.
The mood was ill as they returned to camp. Usually, a cunning victory over a tricky foe would have been cause for celebration, but there would be no cheer amongst the northmen while their lord was borne amongst them on a litter, pale and wounded. They had their blood, but there would be no visit to a heart tree until they had seen to the Stark. A swift ride and harsh words had a pimply young maester from a nearby castle brought to their camp, and with the aid of a barber and a serving woman known for her sewing, the bleeding was brought to a halt. Only time would tell if he would keep the leg, but those who had held their breath for him were assured that he would live through the night, and his tent was made ready and comfortable.
It was then that the third piece of news arrived, borne by a man in Tully colours. He carried a letter, and he refused to give it to any but Lord Stark, even after learning of his condition. His sons attended him as he read it, sheer will fending off the effects of the poppy he had been given, slowly making his way through the letter. When he reached the end, his strength fled him and it slipped from limp hands, his breathing slowing as his eyes closed.
Ned's gaze swung to the messenger, and the man froze, but Brandon had already seized the letter and was reading it swiftly. A storm of expressions played out across his face from start to end, and when he was done he threw it at Ned. An angry jerk of his chin had the messenger hurrying from the tent, leaving the sons alone with their comatose father. Ned tilted the parchment to catch the afternoon sun, and read.
'Rickard Stark, Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon,
Lyanna Stark is untouched and unharmed. I have men in place to ensure she remains so, but my father's paranoia is great and I know not where he hides her away. She is not in the Red Keep. From that alone I know the unkingly threat he made was false. In time I hope to gain knowledge of her location, but my father has taken much advice from Varys, and it was all I could do to ensure her guards had amongst them men loyal to me. I fear to act with haste lest I endanger Lady Lyanna further. Time is needed.
I have convinced Lord Tyrell to besiege Storm's End, and to take his time doing so; the might of the Reach will not march north, and those within that redoubtable fortress are in little danger of anything but boredom. The men of Dorne will muster, but hold fast in the Prince's Pass and the Boneway. There is still time for wisdom to temper rage.
I belabour the point. Time, again time. In time I will find her, but if Aerys feels threatened enough to carry out his monstrous deed in truth, I cannot guarantee my men will stop it. I do not presume to ask you to lay down your arms or return home. Instead I will presume to ask you to hold fast, to manoeuvre for the time I need to find Lyanna Stark. I ask for much, I know, but I still hope that this challenge can end in reason, and not in fire and blood.'
Rhaegar Targaryen'
Ned looked to his brother, the parchment crumpling in his fist.
"He is addled," Brandon said, visibly fighting the urge to pace, "if he thinks we will sit and wait for him to make right the crime of his father."
"Hightower still raids the Riverlands," Ned said, his mind elsewhere. "Rhaegar lacks either the power or the desire to stop it."
"You think it a trick? A way to let him cut at us as he holds out for reinforcement?" Brandon asked.
"Maybe," Ned said, "though it does not sit right. He would not be so eager to prevent us from besieging Harrenhal if a Reach army was marching north." If Tyrell were to bring the bulk of his strength to join the fight, the royalist cause would only benefit by having the rebels extended so.
"The last word is still that Baratheon marched into the Reach a month past," Brandon said. "Could be he's giving them some trouble."
Ned sat in one of the chairs on the side of his father's tent, turning the situation over in his mind. He had no doubt that Robert was giving them all sorts of trouble, to say the least. "Hightower is a Kingsguard," he said, leaning on his knees. "A lord might delay or mishear, but a Kingsguard will follow the orders of the king as intended."
"Then we're back to the worth of Rhaegar's word," Brandon said. He gave in to the urge to pace, though each time he turned he did so in such a way as to avoid looking at their father, pale and wan. "These southern schemes…" he grimaced as he trailed off.
"I do not think it matters," Ned said as his thoughts came together. "Hightower and his Riverlords raid the Riverlands so that we are forced to defend it," he said. "He is a skilled leader of men, so it follows that he feels he would be disadvantaged were we to push south. Whether the cause is Rhaegar or a slow muster, his reinforcements must not be near."
"Then true or false, our course is the same," Brandon said. "If Rhaegar desires a Great Council, returning Lyanna to us will serve him better than the threat of that army anyway." His pacing eased, and so did some of the tension in him. "Another month, and we will be on our way."
"So long as our preparations are uninterrupted," Ned reminded him. "By rights, we were to be halfway to King's Landing by now."
Brandon's mood was brought down again. "Fucking Darrys. Fucking Mootons. Fucking disloyal Riverlords."
"Those are your wife's people," Ned said, sitting back in his chair now.
"And when I share a camp with Hoster Tully, I will hold my tongue," Brandon told him, "but while he is perched at Darry, and so long as they keep guiding Crownlanders along goat paths to strike at their neighbours, I will call them all cunts."
Ned only shook his head. He knew well how his brother could fall into a mood. The sun was beginning to set, the light that had lit up the tent walls starting to fade. "You should ride for Riverrun, and try for an heir again." But his words went unheard.
"The sooner we string Aerys up and return to the North, the better," Brandon said. His annoyance was gone, replaced by something more sombre. "I was not made for the south."
The Stark heir looked to their father, and stepped towards the bed, reaching out. But it was not their father he reached for. It was Ice, the blade still unsheathed, yet to be cleaned from the battle and resting against the bed. He took it up, and gave Ned a look.
Ned returned it, nodding once. The war was yet young.
X
The White Bull did not sit and wait as the rebels gathered supplies and consolidated forces. For every small group sent to raid and raze, there were also loyalists who sought to fire grain houses, put holes in river barges, and spy on noble correspondence. It was a war of a kind that had not been seen since before the time of their fathers and grandfathers, since the ambitions of the Blackfyres had near on torn the realm in twain. Even when servants of taken castles were turned out and replaced, there were still those who sought to act in the interests of their royalist overlords. Even so, such things could only delay the rebel push, and Hightower knew it. That did not mean he meant to make it easy on them.
From the top of a hill, Ned watched as a skirmish played out, laying on his belly with a telescope held to his eye. It was borrowed from his brother, but Brandon hardly needed it at the time, hard pressed and surrounded as he was. He watched as his older brother cleaved a man's head from his shoulders, grinning widely as he said something to Walder, even as the giant caught two men upon his tower shield and threw them back. The northmen were apparently pinned against a ridge, hunters turned to hunted.
"You were right," the man laying beside him said. He had no far-eye of his own, and he squinted down at the knot of several hundred men. Once auburn hair was greying, but still thick. "Jon will be at the Saltpans by now, and if my brother isn't dealing with more of this I'll marry a Frey."
The force they had intercepted was only one of several across the lands that the Northmen had been entrusted with, and other lords took men to greet them. There were those who had been sure that such things would begin to slow as Hightower spent more and more men in dribs and drabs to slow them, but Ned was not one of them. When word had come from Wickenden of ships bearing Crownland sigils sailing down the Bay of Crabs, he had counselled Brandon to stand ready. When a fresh wave of raiding groups had sought to slip past their watch, they had not been caught off guard.
"I am surprised he had the numbers," Ned said, still watching the fight. The Northmen were holding, but only that. "They must have stripped the southern garrisons to be able to send and spend so many while maintaining Harrenhal."
"Could be mercenaries," Brynden Tully said, giving up on squinting down. He rubbed at his eyes. "Aerys has rich vaults."
An interruption came before any response could be given. "Lord Ned," said the man on his other side. "Will we not ride to Lord Brandon's aid?"
"Not yet, Lord Mollen," Ned said. He turned his far-eye to a dark line of trees beyond the fight, behind the royalists, checking that all was as it needed to be.
"Your brother is in peril," the middle aged man pressed. A minor lord sworn directly to the Starks, he had been amongst the men to accompany his father to King's Landing.
"He is," Ned said.
"He may be wounded, or worse," Mollen said, as if making sure Ned was aware.
Ned ignored him. His brother had put himself in greater danger on more foolish larks before. Below, the fighting grew fiercer, as Brandon and Walder suddenly began to carve into the dragonmen, threatening a wedge. A bellowing cry went up as his men saw and followed, forming a wedge in truth and beginning to cut their way free of the press. They were almost free when a horn rang out.
From the treeline that Ned had been watching, a group of riders emerged, perhaps fifty strong. They rode hard, swords and axes held ready, as they made to cut off any chance of escape. They were no knights, but they would savage any infantry they came upon all the same.
"Lord Eddard," Mollen said, almost plaintive.
"No," Ned said.
"Even if some escape, the risk-"
"We will hold."
As Ned spoke, there was movement on the ridge that Brandon's men had been pinned against. Men rose up, bows at the ready, and amongst them was a clansman drawing back a goldenheart bow. It had pained him to hand it over, having grown attached to the gift as he practised with it, but his role in the fight was elsewhere.
The archers, hidden all through the skirmish so far, did not fire into the packed foes beneath them. Instead, they loosed at the approaching cavalry, wounding the lightly armoured riders and killing a number of horses. A second volley only added to the blood on the field. Brandon and Walder continued to carve and bull their way free from envelopment.
Another horn blew, and more cavalry emerged from the trees. This time came the knights, fifty of them, as well as another fifty free riders with them. They split, some aiming to support their fellows against the infantry, others seeking to get around the ridge to ride down the archers.
"Now we go," Ned said, collapsing his far-eye and scrambling back from the top of the hill. His companions joined him, and they hurried for their mounts, joining the three hundred riders already mounted and waiting in the lee of the hill. Vale knights in their steel, Riverland outriders in their leathers, and Northern clansmen painted with battle boasts, all fell in behind him as he pointed his sword up and over the hill in an unspoken command. Hooves beat at the dirt as they spilled over the rise in a canter, and then a charge. The enemy cavalry had enough time to realise they had been had, and then they were upon them.
He was not deaf to the mutterings that at times spread amongst lords and men, but he had little time for epithets. If coldness was what saw summer knights outmanoeuvred and overcome as they inched closer to his sister, he would bring all the snows of the North with him.
X
The tent that Brandon had taken for his command was growing crowded now that the demands of the war were changing. The knights and nobles who had been sent to join the Starks tended to the younger side, but that was by design. Their elders weren't about to let a little thing like rebellion and war get in the way of forming bonds between their heirs. For the most part it was working, as hard work and duty forged camaraderie and even cheer. Some days, however, there was no ignoring the grim presence of war.
"Share the news," Brandon ordered his friend, holding court in the crowded tent.
"We've word from Briarwhite," Jeffory Mallister told the room. His face still bore the fading remnants of a bruise from the rim of a shield. "A royal host is marching south around the Gods Eye."
They had no table large enough for all of them, so they sat and stood in a rough circle. With few elder relatives around, there was little ceremony to stand on, and more than a few of them swore at the news.
"How many?" Elbert Arryn asked, arms crossed and one of those seated in a chair.
"Was a shepherd's boy that saw them, and they're moving at night," Jeffory said. "A Ninepenny veteran took a look at the trail and said more than three thousand, less than eight."
"Fuckers," Willam Dustin said, speaking the feelings of many. The Northman had a pair of fresh thin scars on one cheek. "How did the Bull sneak them past our eyes on Harrenhal?"
"Might've pulled something clever with their patrols, leaving a few men each time," Brynden said, blue eyes narrowed. "If it's that, this has been in the works for a while." He was one of the oldest in the tent, and his reputation saw that his words were heeded.
"Forget how, where is he getting the men?," Mark Ryswell said, standing by the side of his good-brother, Willam. "The garrison at Harrenhal must be growing thin, surely."
"More mercenaries? Levies?" Elbert suggested. "Either here, or there."
"Did this shepherd's boy see any banners?" Brynden asked.
"None that he could describe," Jeffory said.
Brynden gave an irritated grunt. Confirmation that the force to sail on the Saltpans had been mercenaries of Essos had sat ill with all to hear it.
"Don't suppose it matters either way," Elbert said. "What are we going to do?"
"We kill them," Brandon said, causing a scattering of dark chuckles.
"Hoster can't pursue without being suckerpunched by Hightower," Brynden said, "and Jon will still be on his way back from Saltpans. It'll have to be us."
"What if Hoster feigned his pursuit, lured Hightower in?" Kyle Royce asked. "If he thinks the way is open to strike him, that we are drawn away…"
Some men liked that idea, but Brynden was shaking his head. "Too many risks. He has men with him who know these lands almost as well as I do."
He was not the only one to mislike it. "Lannister still makes no sign of stirring from his rock," Ned said, "but if we were to shave men from the western garrisons to meet this chevauchée in our place, that would be the time for him to strike."
Jeffory had been frowning in thought as they spoke. "Stoney Sept, do you think?" he asked of Brynden.
"My gut says no," Brynden said, frowning. "They could likely take it, but not easily, and they'll want to burn as much as they can, pulling men away from the assault on Harrenhal, but there are many towns and villages without their walls."
"Aye. They'll split once they round the Gods Eye," Ned said. He did not know the Riverlands as well as he knew the North, or the Vale, but he knew enough. "Split, raid, then regroup to threaten us."
"I'll have their guts decorating the trees before I let them burn my wife's homeland," Brandon said. "Ned, what's to be done?"
Ned glanced at Brynden, but the old soldier only raised a brow at him, a glimmer of amusement in his eye. "Two thousand men to ride south. When they split, we defeat them in detail." They would split into three at the least, and even in the worst case two thousand would be enough.
"Take your pick of men," Brandon said. "I'll follow with another two thousand and catch any fleeing you." He grinned, and there was nothing pleasant about it. "If they're Riverland royalists, I leave their punishment to Brynden. If they're foreign mercenaries, kill them all."
A slow nod was his answer. He would see it done.
Over the next days, Ned chose his men to lead a host of three thousand south. The camp they left behind was not quite the size of the force he had departed Winterfell with, for those men were spread from the tip of the Gods Eye to the Saltpans, but it was still greater than any they had made during the early days of their defence of the Riverlands. It would remain so even after Brandon followed him south. The younger Stark found his mood buoyed to be on the march again after two months of rushing to and fro to respond to raids, even if their task now was the same writ large.
As the seventh month passed into the eighth, Eddard led his host south around the Gods Eye, sweeping west to avoid the feeder rivers. Brynden Tulley rode at his right, and Roose Bolton at his left. Their progress was swift, and morale was high, as were hopes that they would intercept the enemy before they could spread fire and ruin. All was going well, until it was not.
They had been lucky to receive word of the foe's movements at all, even if the estimate of their numbers was unreliable. It was a rude shock to find out just how unreliable, however. An entire extra host had crossed the Gods Eye River heading west, marching under cover of night. Daring scouting revealed thirteen thousand men, a mix of Riverland and Crownlanders, supplemented by mercenaries and angling for the soft underbelly of the Riverlands.
There was no time to cry foul or to find answers as to where the soldiers had come from. Their only advantage was that their presence was unknown to the foe, and Ned meant to wring it for every scrap he could. As expected, they split, but that meant less when each still numbered thousands strong.
The largest turned north towards the lake, their target clear. Three thousand men marched for the town that sat on the lakeshore with violent intent, and Ned did not mean to stand idle. A field was found, an awkward bit of land by the river that would let them take the foe on equal footing. Ned did not like battles of equal footing.
Night marching may have let the foe almost sneak by them, but it also left them sluggish of a morning as they readjusted to daytime travel. Come the chosen day, Ned watched them scramble into formation as his troops bore down on them, his cavalry waiting in the wings. A dozen lords watched with him, waiting for the right moment to join their forces.
"Lord Eddard!"
The scout's call and hurried pace diverted his attention as the battle became inevitable, and a dread came over him.
"Report," Ned told the man. He was one of Brynden's.
"There's another force approaching from the south," the man said, confirming his fears.
"How many?" he demanded. Had they been found out? Was the march on the lake town a lure? If the foe was less than a thousand, he could delay them with cavalry, but if it was more, the battle was already lost.
"Less than five hundred," the scout said, finding his breath. "Cavalry all."
The number jarred at him, both too high and too low. He frowned. "Whose banner?"
"I don't know," he said. "It was a white star on blue, five pointed."
A heartbeat passed, and worry slipped away. Ned found himself smiling, and the scout swallowed.
"Lord Bolton, bring your cavalry about to join the charge from the north," he ordered. "We will drive them to the south."
Roose did as ordered without comment, riding off to join his men and give them their new orders.
"You know the banner?" Willam asked, his red stallion stamping the earth. "Who is it?"
"A friend," Ned said. His men made contact with the enemy, and the crash of battle reached him a moment later. "One that will not like what our foes intended." He drew his sword.
There was little happiness to be found on a battlefield, no joyous day was this, but as he rode to join his lance of riders, he found the smile lingering on his face all the same.
To the Fire 1
- Location
- Australia
Steve cleaned his hammer with a scrap of cloth, working viscera out from between its flanges. He sat atop Fury, watching as the battlefield was swept by the victors for those in need of aid or mercy, the pained cries of the wounded focusing their search. By the river's edge there sat several clusters of defeated men, watched over by crescents of mounted men. The guard was a bit thin, but given how crushing the battle had been, he didn't think they were about to rise up.
"Good day for it," Beron said. Like Steve, he was cleaning his weapon, though the war pick was less gore covered and more simply bloody.
"As these things go, maybe," Steve said. A frown pulled at his lips as he glanced over the bodies that littered the field; there had been a difference in the quarter offered to the foe, and it seemed to be based on what sign of allegiance they wore. Almost all of the men under guard wore tabards with the symbol of their lords upon them.
Beron inclined his head, acknowledging the point, and slipped his pick back into its loop at his hip. "Was there a reason you kept me from patrol with Thomas?" He sounded more curious than offended.
In the month since Mastford, there had been no shortage of those eager to ride and fight with him. Steve was finding that the honour of doing so was giving him a fair bit of leeway when it came to things like high society manners, such as keeping the ranking lord back and giving command of those with him to a bastard knight instead. If he was going to be treated like the belle of the war, he might as well get something out of it at least. "Those are Stark banners," he said, gesturing to them. "If they're around, I thought you might like to see your family."
Beron made a slight sound of surprise. "I had thought it to be something Robert asked for."
"Because he's his cousin? Nah. Robert could do that for himself, couldn't he?" Steve said, before considering. "Or is it about the…" he made a vague gesture with his hand, "...thing coming from someone who isn't family?" His grasp on what kind of nepotism was acceptable and what wasn't was still coming along.
"Aye," Beron said. "If Robert means to elevate him, his way will be easier if it is known that he is held in the esteem of Lord America."
Steve nodded, fighting the urge to look heavenward. He hadn't missed fame. At least the rest of the rebels wouldn't have the same view of him. He deliberately pushed away the memories of his escapades prior to joining the Stormland host.
"Lord America!"
Steve turned to face the call of the approaching messenger. "Yes son?" he asked. Dear Lord, Bucky and Tony could never find out.
"Lord Eddard has returned, and is ready for you," the man said.
"Appreciate it," Steve said. He looked to Beron. "Let's go then."
They were guided on their way, but on an open field there was little need for it once they saw the circular gathering of men to one side of the battle muck, dismounted and in the middle of some discussion. Their horses were held in a group nearby by squires, and the two Rogers added their mounts to it before joining the conversation.
Their arrival caused a pause in the talk. "Ned. Good to see you," Steve said.
"Steve," Ned said, extending a hand to clasp. "And you." He bore a serious look that almost seemed to have set on his face, but there was the faintest touch of a smile to him.
There were just over half a dozen men there, and some shared raised brows at the casual greeting. One of them was taller even than Steve, and just as broad.
"Circumstances could have been better," Steve said, releasing Ned's arm.
"Hah," the big man said. "What could be better than a battle won?"
"A warm beach and an open bar," Steve said, even if the truth was almost anything save a battle lost. It wasn't often he had to look up to meet a man's eye.
It seemed his answer pleased the man, because he snorted in amusement. "Heard a few tales of you at Harrenhal, and something about a Ride. They call me Greatjon. Who's this?"
"This is Be- Lord Beron Rogers," Steve said. "No relation."
"Cousin," Ned said, surprise colouring his voice.
"Cousin," Beron affirmed. "I am pleased to meet you."
"And I you," Ned said. "I have with me Lord Jon Umber," he started, nodding at the big man, "Lord Roose Bolton-" a pale man with paler eyes, "-Lord Howland Reed-" a slight man that Steve tagged as dangerous, "-Lord Willam Dustin-" solid, with a thick beard and a scarred face, "-Lord Kermit Perryn-" tall but slender, with a well broken nose, "-Ser Mark Ryswell-" scarred lip, prone to smiling, "-and Ser Martyn Cassel." Curly haired and stout. "You've met Lord Kyle Royce."
Steve took in the men, meeting their gazes. They seemed like competent sorts. "Pleased to meet you all. Kyle. Nice to see you again."
"We still talk about Gulltown at times, ah, Steve," Kyle said, not quite stumbling over the familiar address. "No doubt you've more achievements from your time in the south."
Steve coughed. "I've just done my part."
A faint huff came from Beron beside him. Time on the march had only made him more familiar with Steve's nature. "We have some stories to share."
The words seemed to focus Ned. "You ride with Robert still? Is he near?"
"Maybe a day and a half's march south," Steve said.
"And the Reach?"
"Not in a position to pursue," Steve said. His words received more raised brows than he really felt was warranted.
"Truly?" Dustin asked, glancing at Beron. "One of those stories you have, by the sounds of it."
"A tale for later," Ned said. "We have four more bands to hunt."
"What's the situation?" Steve asked, all business.
"A chevauchée of perhaps thirteen thousand men - ten thousand, now - was sent by Hightower," Ned said. "Brandon is four days behind us with two thousand men, but we cannot wait for him."
Steve nodded, approving. "How many do you have?"
"Some two thousand, five hundred of them mounted. With your five hundred, we equal any one group of the enemy by numbers," Ned said.
"Are there any villages within a day's travel of them?" Steve asked.
Kermit was the one looked to for answers. "Several," the young man said. He was likely called handsome before his nose had suffered what looked like multiple blunt accidents. "Given where they split, I would say they know well where they are, though one is sworn to House Goodbrook, who remain loyal to the king."
"You've got a plan?" Steve asked of Ned. Young as the kid was, he could still see the respect that the others had for him.
"I do," Ned said. "Our plan was to defeat them in detail, and it remains so. We must simply do so before the day is out."
"A gamble," Kyle said, though his tone was considering.
Ned acknowledged him with a nod. "We must also divide our forces in doing so."
Now there was disagreement.
"Ned, you know we're worth any three of these soft southern pricks, but we're already cutting it fine," Greatjon said, frowning and apparently uncaring of the southerners amidst them.
"Two of the closest villages are not close neighbours," Ned said. He ground his heel into the dirt in the middle of their meeting, marking three points. "If we march first to aid one," he dragged a line from the point on its own, to one of the other two, "then the other," before dragging his heel to the third, "our men will be exhausted come the third battle, nevermind the fourth."
"If we are defeated, more than one village will be razed," Bolton said, breaking his silence. His voice was soft.
"They may have riders, but they lack a true cavalry force," Ned said. "With one thousand of our own, we have the advantage."
"So we split in two, and each marches for a village," Ryswell said, scuffing out the lines Ned had drawn, before making two of his own, each going from the first mark to one of the others. "That's a two to one fight, Ned."
"No," Ned said. "We split the infantry, but not the cavalry. Seven hundred and fifty men to act the anvil, one thousand horse the hammer."
"I've followed riskier plans," Beron said, cocking a brow at Steve.
"If Lord Baratheon is only a day away," Dustin said, frowning as he thought, "could we not harry the foe instead? Prevent their raiding without engaging."
Steve broke off from the 'who, me?' look he was giving Beron. "I sent a rider back before we joined the fight, and another after it was won," he said, "but even if he sends riders right away, they won't get here until late afternoon."
"We could harry them," Ned said to Dustin, "though that removes the chance of an ambush, and risks them forcing a battle at a village."
"Or they could scatter," Steve said, thinking of another poor outcome.
"All the better to let us ride them down," Cassel said.
"You'd never get them all, and even if you got most of the ten thousand, that's still a lot of angry men looking to take out their frustrations on someone," Steve said. He set his jaw. "Prisoners are going to be a handful on top of the rest of it."
"They'll behave if they know what's good for them," Umber said. He thunked one meaty fist into his palm. "We doing this, then?"
"We are," Ned said. "Orders will be given as soon as Lord Brynden returns."
"Brynden from the weddings?" Steve asked. He had seemed a good sort.
"Lord Tully's brother," Kermit said, slightly put out for some reason.
"Yeah, him," Steve said. He might make an attempt at etiquette at times, but not on a battlefield.
"He has charge of my scouts and outriders," Ned said, ignoring the byplay. "Few are those who can match him in such things."
Before they could talk further, a rider approached, no messenger but an old soldier, bristled and ornery. It was not Brynden.
"Walt," Steve said. "Any trouble?"
"None, Captain," Walt said, giving a cursory look over the nobles and dismissing most, though his gaze slowed on Reed and Bolton. "Found one paddling downstream, but he came out after Robin poked him some."
"Good job," Steve said. "Have the troops rest their horses, and tell Thomas to pass on the same to the others. We've got a big day ahead of us."
"More raiders?" he asked, interested now.
"Four groups, and all have to be dealt with today, before they can reach a village," Steve said.
"Who's this?" Umber interrupted.
"He's my drill sergeant," Steve said. Noble etiquette was one thing, but he supposed it had been a bit rude not to introduce him.
"What's a drill sergeant then?" Umber pressed.
"They yell at soldiers when they're doing something dumb," Steve said.
"Ha!" Umber said. He tugged at his beard. "Surprised he has any voice left."
"If your men have joined in the picket," Ned said, "then Brynden should return soon." He turned to the river, eyeing the clusters of prisoners. "We don't have the men to watch them."
"Going to give them the America special?" Walt asked. He earned more than one look for his temerity to speak up at such a gathering, but then his words registered with them.
"'The America special'?" Kyle asked.
"Take their weapons, take their armour, take their food, take their shoes," Walt said, shrugging. "Makes mischief harder."
"But worse for it, if they reach a village," Cassel said.
"Nobles spared a visit to a heart tree may moderate them," Bolton said. "Should the reason for their fortune be made clear."
Steve's gaze sharpened, but Ned gave a considering hum.
"When we are ready to leave, I will offer them a choice," the young lord said. "Until then, they can sit and wait."
A soldier approached at a jog, weathered and bloody but in good cheer. He relayed details of the battle from someone called Buckets to Ned, and the group listened as he dealt with it. He did not linger long, and as he was leaving another man arrived, another ornery old soldier.
"Ned," Brynden said. There was a splash of copper in his hair, standing out against his fading natural colour. "No sign of any riders. If we were seen, it was before the battle."
Walt made a noise of surprise, almost disbelieving, and it drew Brynden's eye.
"Walt," he said, surprised, and his spine straightened in much the same way Steve's would have if he ever met Colonel Phillips again. "You look - well."
"Brynden," Walt said, almost smiling. "See you've not gotten yourself killed yet."
"I take it a day at a time," Brynden said, and it had the ring of a repeated saying. His attention was caught by the newcomers. "Lord America. You have my thanks for getting my niece away from Aerys, late as they are."
"Anyone would have done the same with the opportunity," Steve said, before focusing on more important matters. "You know Walt?"
Brynden glanced around, as if hoping to hear a request to move on, but he was met only by the interested faces of young men. He grumbled to himself. "Walt kept me alive in the early days of the Stepstones, and taught me how to kill a man quick and quiet."
Men took in Walt with fresh eyes, as if trying to equate the hoary soldier with someone who had known Brynden when he was young.
"You've learned some manners since then, at least," Walt said, goading.
"I was always well mannered, just not to grumpy old men," Brynden said.
"I was five and twenty you great shi-"
"You're looking good for your age though, barely changed-"
"What's this Blackfish horseshit I heard about, anyway? Thought you'd know better after the thing with-"
"Oh fuck off Walt," Brynden said. "I bought your silence and you fucking know it."
Despite their words, both men were grinning, well pleased, even if the witnesses to their reunion were a touch shell shocked.
"I see you've met," Steve said.
"He was one of my father's men," Brynden said. "I would have been four, five and ten."
"Lord Tully foisted him on me and mine," Walt said. "Something about making sure he didn't slip and knock his head getting off the ship."
Bryden made a rude gesture, but that only amused their watchers more. Even Ned was smiling faintly.
"I will hound you for tales later, ser," Kyle said to Walt. "I have long since exhausted my father's."
The words sparked a bit of mischief in Steve. "Speaking of tales, you'd have a few about Walt, wouldn't you," he said. "He's always been too shy to share with us."
"Shy-" Brynden said, shaking his head. The Tully suddenly seemed to realise that he was no longer a wet behind the ears youth, and looked to Walt with a smirk. "Is he still picking fights with people he oughtn't to?"
"I've heard whispers of knives and ears," Steve said, never one to miss an opportunity.
Brynden almost choked on his laugh. "No, again?"
Walt growled, but was ignored.
"Again-" Steve said, cutting himself off with a laugh of his own. The others were ping-ponging between them as they followed the conversation. "There's a young man you should meet. He'd be happy to hear some stories about his grandfather here, I think."
"Gods," Brynden said, shaking his head. "You settled down with your Vale girl, then."
Walt nodded, his shoulders hitching down almost imperceptibly. "I did."
Brynden didn't miss it. "We should drink, tonight."
"Aye, we should," Walt said, before looking to Steve. "I'll pass the word to Thomas." He turned his horse and rode off without waiting to be dismissed.
Ned took the chance to give orders of his own, dispatching his commanders to this task or that to spread the word of their task and prepare the men for the day ahead. They were quick to take to their mounts and ride off, and quickly, the young Stark was left alone with Steve and Beron.
"You had concerns?" Ned asked, preempting the foreign lord.
"I noticed that there aren't a lot of prisoners without some House symbol on them," Steve said, neutral.
"Mercenaries," Ned said. "What of it?"
"I'm not used to mercenaries being all that willing to fight to the end," Steve said. "There a reason so few ended up surrendering?"
"When a sellsword comes to raid, they are no better than bandits," Ned said. "The sentence for banditry is death. They know this."
"And that's different to the men-at-arms who came to do the same?" Steve asked.
"They are sworn to their lords," Ned said. "They will pay for their deeds, but they were driven by oaths and loyalty, not greed."
Steve could not help but frown at the explanation, veering so close to excusing the men for following orders as it did. "What're your plans for the captured mercenaries?"
"The same as the rest, this time," Ned said. He had no problem meeting him in the eye. "Had they succeeded in their goal, however, I would see them all hanged."
"But not the rest. The nobles and their soldiers."
Ned considered it for a long moment. "If they betrayed their oaths, or overindulged in excesses, then yes. But otherwise…no. It would be for their overlord to judge them."
Steve drummed his fingers against his thigh as he thought. His time in the Reach had left himself as the highest authority for much of it, for better and for worse. Now that the local authorities were closer to hand, he wasn't sure how much he liked it. "Evil should be punished, no matter who it comes from," he said, meeting Ned's eyes. The kid held his gaze, steady, and it was clear that he had grown up some since their last meeting. "But…I acknowledge that I'm the foreigner here, and it's not my laws that I have to follow." Left unsaid was that when he saw something he couldn't abide, he would do what was right, law or no law.
"I appreciate your position," Ned said. "There are always those who forget their honour in war, but we will not be amongst them."
"Lord America has made a name for himself as one who will go above and beyond to right a wrong, no matter those involved," Beron offered, and it sounded like advice as much as information.
A slow nod was his response. They spoke of less serious things briefly, confirming details and other similar duties, and then both parties went their own way.
Steve's mind lingered on his talk with Ned as they left. He knew all too well the kind of evil men at war could do, turned loose against someone they were told was an enemy. He would follow their laws - he was more likely to see a punishment as too harsh than anything - but he also knew that a law that only applied to some was no law at all. The set of his jaw grew mulish. He had been fortunate so far, in that what was just had gone hand in hand with what was lawful, but it couldn't last forever.
When it changed, he would deal with it, same as he always did.
X
Seven hundred and fifty men marched along a narrow road, followed out of sight by one thousand cavalry. The midmorning sun shone down upon them, and a cool breeze drifted over the meadows on either side of them, carrying away the dust stirred by their passing. Every man was a fighting man, carrying their day's water and some salted meat, and there was not a servant to be seen. They would meet up with the camp followers after their victory, a brief respite before marching on to more battles, but for now, they marched.
Not for much longer. Gossip had passed through the column earlier of an enemy scout spied and let to flee. Their quarry had turned to wait for them, thinking themselves the hunter, but they would be the anvil which they were broken upon. The big man at the front of the column sang songs in a language few spoke, guttural and growling yet melodic all the same. It was enough to inspire those behind him and instil a hint of fear in the foe as they drew near, but that was what happened when you put a big mountain clansman covered in blue battle boasts in charge of such a force.
When the rebels marched around a bend to see the loyalist force waiting for them atop a rise, they did not stutter and slow as had been expected. Calm orders had them forming a wedge, confusing the loyalists. It was not until they saw a second, larger dust cloud that they began to understand.
For a moment, they had hope. They could hold strong in the face of a few hundred horse - but then they glimpsed another cloud, and another, approaching from all sides. Those at the front thought they had it the worst, watching the big painted clansman with the buckets on his blue shield advance, claymore held easily in one hand. Those at the rear thought they had it the worst, harried by sling and javelin and helpless to avoid it. Those on the right thought they had it the worst, seeing the direwolves of the Starks bearing down upon them to cut and carve away at their lines. Those on the left thought they had it the worst, and they were right, watching as a giant in thick plate bore down on them atop a white horse, likewise armoured. Not content to carve away at their ranks, this man rode right at them, hammer drawn back and ready to send a man into the embrace of his gods.
When it was over, the raiders were shattered in form and in spirit, having surrendered in droves after seeing one man too many launched into the air via hammer. To make a daring raid intending to draw the enemy's attention was one thing, to be confronted by what seemed like the Warrior come to express his disapproval in person was quite another. They were stripped of sword, shield, and shoe, then given a choice. Their surviving leaders chose wisely, and by their word bound the rest.
But the day was not over, not nearly, and both foot and horse were heading out as soon as their few dead and wounded were seen to. The infantry north-west, for the camp that would be waiting for them, established by their servants and camp followers, while the cavalry rode north, making for their next target. If all went to plan, they would arrive shortly before the other half of the infantry made contact.
All did not go to plan, but nor did disaster strike. Direwolf banners arrived to see rebel forces facing down raiding loyalists in a meadow, a number of banners planted between the two groups. Before them, the enormous figure of Greatjon Umber was battering a pair of knights around, watched over by the roaring giant on his banner, and cheered on by the roars of his men. A ripple went through the loyalists as they saw the cavalry and realised they had been tricked. Few expected guile from a Northman, but then, the Greatjon had a very particular type of cunning. At the sound of northern horns, he backhanded a knight in a tabard of blue on gold, sending him reeling, before smashing the hilt of his sword into the helm of a knight bearing a white flail on a red background, putting a sudden end to the extended duel.
Even knowing they were tricked, and seeing their chosen champions defeated, the loyalists still chose to fight. It went much the same, and by midday the second of the raiding groups was defeated and defanged. The foot marched to the waiting camp, the horse walking easily beside them and their riders often dismounting to ease their burden. They would rest for a time at the camp, passing the hottest part of the day, and then the entire force would march on their next foe as one. There were only two more on the loose, and many a man dared to hope as they realised they had defeated more than half of those dispatched by Hightower to raid and raze already. Beyond that, the next two were not so far apart as to force them to split their forces again - they could bring their full strength to bear on each. Surely, the worst was already done?
They should have known better.
Mid-afternoon came, and with it came an outrider bearing urgent news. At some point they had been seen, and the remaining foes had quickmarched to join together. Five thousand men awaited them, their backs to a copse of trees. Outnumbered two to one, the rebels had a decision to make.
"If they're offering battle to us, they can't raid," Dustin said, staring over at the foe's lines. "We could hang around, but wait them out."
"Our men are tired," Kyle said. "I would not bet on them maintaining distance. Not without the cavalry engaging."
The commanders were gathered in a line to the side of their infantry, looking over the field of battle. There was a very slight incline favouring their troops, but the trees reduced their options.
"Difficult," Beron said. "Risky."
"Aye," Ryswell said. "What if we refused battle, but harried them should they try to march out? The spare mounts are rested…somewhat."
"Could Lord Umber delay them again?" Reed asked, tapping a finger on the prongs of his spear. "Tomorrow would suit us better."
"Depends on when they knew we were coming," Umber said, scowling. "If they saw my little show, they'll know we want to delay the moment we offer."
"Doesn't have to be an attempt to delay," Steve said. "They won't fight well without their leaders."
"A Whent won't share a duel, and once they lose one would the others accept another?" Perryn asked. Witnessing Steve lead a charge had cleared up much for the young Riverlord as to why no one was too bothered by the foreign lord's lack of niceties.
With the black and yellow of House Whent in pride of place, there was no doubting who was in command, but there were other banners on display as well.
"I wasn't thinking I'd give them a choice," Steve said, only half joking. By the laughter of the others, at least some were considering its merits.
"It will have to be today," Ned said finally. "We have the supply advantage; they won't allow us to delay."
"And they say we're the rude ones," Umber grumbled.
"I got my horn from a Whent," Steve said, rapping his thumb against the instrument tied to his hip. "If I open up with it when I challenge them, do you think they'd accept?"
"They'd be hard pressed not to," Cassel said. "Very prickly about things like that, these southern knights."
"Then I'll toot my horn, walk over there, have a chat with Whent, draw out the fight for a minute or so, then challenge someone else," Steve said. "I reckon I can get a good half hour out of it to give the men a chance to sit and rest."
"If they hold their position, we might be better off fighting afoot," Beron said, considering the field. "We Stormlands knights, that is."
"That would stiffen our line," Ned said, judging the idea and finding it pleasing.
"There are also those amongst us who have experience fighting at Steve's side," Beron said. "Such a group, targeting their centre or flank, could sunder their lines."
"Hang on," Umber said, fixing Beron with a gimlet eye and only half serious, "if anyone is going to crack them open, it'll be the biggest, strongest, meanest Northman here - me."
"Pass the word, cousin," Ned said, almost smiling at Greatjon's jape. "And ready the men you speak of. I have an idea." He inclined his head to Steve. "As you will, Steve."
Word was passed, and preparations were made as Ned detailed his plan, Steve suggesting a change to take best advantage of his own company and their slings, calling Walt over to give orders. Before long all the wheels were in motion, and he made his way forward into the field, Ren at his back with his banner. He took a breath to sound his dire horn - but then he paused. He could hear something, words carried by the wind at the faintest edge of his hearing.
"I might not be the —---- —,
But the sword in my hand is sharp and cold,"
He stilled, listening, straining to hear. A called order got in the way, and he frowned.
"Gonna fight for my land gonna —- me a —---,
Gonna pile up their bodies and raise me a flagon,"
It was growing closer, coming from the south, from the left side of the battlefield, but again something got in the way, a whickering horse this time.
"----- picked a fight that he knows he can't win,
Gonna cut off his head and throw it to the wind,"
His sudden stop as he cocked his head had drawn attention, and the men nearest to him were wondering - loudly - what he was doing. He raised an arm and glanced back, his look politely suggesting that they shut their mouths.
"You feared his fury you wanted his head,
Big Bobby B gonna knock you dead,"
It was close enough now that even other men could hear it, but they could still not make it out. Not like Steve could. He began to grin. He had wondered what Yorick and Willem had been doing all those nights they hadn't been with their men.
"I might not be the Thunder God,
But we fight with the fury of the men of old."
Black stag banners appeared to the south, a wave of cavalry cresting a hill as a thousand throats sang together. Steve raised his horn and blew, its dirge call putting the boot into the sudden morale drop of the loyalists.
He was pretty sure Whent would accept his challenge, but maybe now he would offer his surrender, too.
"Good day for it," Beron said. Like Steve, he was cleaning his weapon, though the war pick was less gore covered and more simply bloody.
"As these things go, maybe," Steve said. A frown pulled at his lips as he glanced over the bodies that littered the field; there had been a difference in the quarter offered to the foe, and it seemed to be based on what sign of allegiance they wore. Almost all of the men under guard wore tabards with the symbol of their lords upon them.
Beron inclined his head, acknowledging the point, and slipped his pick back into its loop at his hip. "Was there a reason you kept me from patrol with Thomas?" He sounded more curious than offended.
In the month since Mastford, there had been no shortage of those eager to ride and fight with him. Steve was finding that the honour of doing so was giving him a fair bit of leeway when it came to things like high society manners, such as keeping the ranking lord back and giving command of those with him to a bastard knight instead. If he was going to be treated like the belle of the war, he might as well get something out of it at least. "Those are Stark banners," he said, gesturing to them. "If they're around, I thought you might like to see your family."
Beron made a slight sound of surprise. "I had thought it to be something Robert asked for."
"Because he's his cousin? Nah. Robert could do that for himself, couldn't he?" Steve said, before considering. "Or is it about the…" he made a vague gesture with his hand, "...thing coming from someone who isn't family?" His grasp on what kind of nepotism was acceptable and what wasn't was still coming along.
"Aye," Beron said. "If Robert means to elevate him, his way will be easier if it is known that he is held in the esteem of Lord America."
Steve nodded, fighting the urge to look heavenward. He hadn't missed fame. At least the rest of the rebels wouldn't have the same view of him. He deliberately pushed away the memories of his escapades prior to joining the Stormland host.
"Lord America!"
Steve turned to face the call of the approaching messenger. "Yes son?" he asked. Dear Lord, Bucky and Tony could never find out.
"Lord Eddard has returned, and is ready for you," the man said.
"Appreciate it," Steve said. He looked to Beron. "Let's go then."
They were guided on their way, but on an open field there was little need for it once they saw the circular gathering of men to one side of the battle muck, dismounted and in the middle of some discussion. Their horses were held in a group nearby by squires, and the two Rogers added their mounts to it before joining the conversation.
Their arrival caused a pause in the talk. "Ned. Good to see you," Steve said.
"Steve," Ned said, extending a hand to clasp. "And you." He bore a serious look that almost seemed to have set on his face, but there was the faintest touch of a smile to him.
There were just over half a dozen men there, and some shared raised brows at the casual greeting. One of them was taller even than Steve, and just as broad.
"Circumstances could have been better," Steve said, releasing Ned's arm.
"Hah," the big man said. "What could be better than a battle won?"
"A warm beach and an open bar," Steve said, even if the truth was almost anything save a battle lost. It wasn't often he had to look up to meet a man's eye.
It seemed his answer pleased the man, because he snorted in amusement. "Heard a few tales of you at Harrenhal, and something about a Ride. They call me Greatjon. Who's this?"
"This is Be- Lord Beron Rogers," Steve said. "No relation."
"Cousin," Ned said, surprise colouring his voice.
"Cousin," Beron affirmed. "I am pleased to meet you."
"And I you," Ned said. "I have with me Lord Jon Umber," he started, nodding at the big man, "Lord Roose Bolton-" a pale man with paler eyes, "-Lord Howland Reed-" a slight man that Steve tagged as dangerous, "-Lord Willam Dustin-" solid, with a thick beard and a scarred face, "-Lord Kermit Perryn-" tall but slender, with a well broken nose, "-Ser Mark Ryswell-" scarred lip, prone to smiling, "-and Ser Martyn Cassel." Curly haired and stout. "You've met Lord Kyle Royce."
Steve took in the men, meeting their gazes. They seemed like competent sorts. "Pleased to meet you all. Kyle. Nice to see you again."
"We still talk about Gulltown at times, ah, Steve," Kyle said, not quite stumbling over the familiar address. "No doubt you've more achievements from your time in the south."
Steve coughed. "I've just done my part."
A faint huff came from Beron beside him. Time on the march had only made him more familiar with Steve's nature. "We have some stories to share."
The words seemed to focus Ned. "You ride with Robert still? Is he near?"
"Maybe a day and a half's march south," Steve said.
"And the Reach?"
"Not in a position to pursue," Steve said. His words received more raised brows than he really felt was warranted.
"Truly?" Dustin asked, glancing at Beron. "One of those stories you have, by the sounds of it."
"A tale for later," Ned said. "We have four more bands to hunt."
"What's the situation?" Steve asked, all business.
"A chevauchée of perhaps thirteen thousand men - ten thousand, now - was sent by Hightower," Ned said. "Brandon is four days behind us with two thousand men, but we cannot wait for him."
Steve nodded, approving. "How many do you have?"
"Some two thousand, five hundred of them mounted. With your five hundred, we equal any one group of the enemy by numbers," Ned said.
"Are there any villages within a day's travel of them?" Steve asked.
Kermit was the one looked to for answers. "Several," the young man said. He was likely called handsome before his nose had suffered what looked like multiple blunt accidents. "Given where they split, I would say they know well where they are, though one is sworn to House Goodbrook, who remain loyal to the king."
"You've got a plan?" Steve asked of Ned. Young as the kid was, he could still see the respect that the others had for him.
"I do," Ned said. "Our plan was to defeat them in detail, and it remains so. We must simply do so before the day is out."
"A gamble," Kyle said, though his tone was considering.
Ned acknowledged him with a nod. "We must also divide our forces in doing so."
Now there was disagreement.
"Ned, you know we're worth any three of these soft southern pricks, but we're already cutting it fine," Greatjon said, frowning and apparently uncaring of the southerners amidst them.
"Two of the closest villages are not close neighbours," Ned said. He ground his heel into the dirt in the middle of their meeting, marking three points. "If we march first to aid one," he dragged a line from the point on its own, to one of the other two, "then the other," before dragging his heel to the third, "our men will be exhausted come the third battle, nevermind the fourth."
"If we are defeated, more than one village will be razed," Bolton said, breaking his silence. His voice was soft.
"They may have riders, but they lack a true cavalry force," Ned said. "With one thousand of our own, we have the advantage."
"So we split in two, and each marches for a village," Ryswell said, scuffing out the lines Ned had drawn, before making two of his own, each going from the first mark to one of the others. "That's a two to one fight, Ned."
"No," Ned said. "We split the infantry, but not the cavalry. Seven hundred and fifty men to act the anvil, one thousand horse the hammer."
"I've followed riskier plans," Beron said, cocking a brow at Steve.
"If Lord Baratheon is only a day away," Dustin said, frowning as he thought, "could we not harry the foe instead? Prevent their raiding without engaging."
Steve broke off from the 'who, me?' look he was giving Beron. "I sent a rider back before we joined the fight, and another after it was won," he said, "but even if he sends riders right away, they won't get here until late afternoon."
"We could harry them," Ned said to Dustin, "though that removes the chance of an ambush, and risks them forcing a battle at a village."
"Or they could scatter," Steve said, thinking of another poor outcome.
"All the better to let us ride them down," Cassel said.
"You'd never get them all, and even if you got most of the ten thousand, that's still a lot of angry men looking to take out their frustrations on someone," Steve said. He set his jaw. "Prisoners are going to be a handful on top of the rest of it."
"They'll behave if they know what's good for them," Umber said. He thunked one meaty fist into his palm. "We doing this, then?"
"We are," Ned said. "Orders will be given as soon as Lord Brynden returns."
"Brynden from the weddings?" Steve asked. He had seemed a good sort.
"Lord Tully's brother," Kermit said, slightly put out for some reason.
"Yeah, him," Steve said. He might make an attempt at etiquette at times, but not on a battlefield.
"He has charge of my scouts and outriders," Ned said, ignoring the byplay. "Few are those who can match him in such things."
Before they could talk further, a rider approached, no messenger but an old soldier, bristled and ornery. It was not Brynden.
"Walt," Steve said. "Any trouble?"
"None, Captain," Walt said, giving a cursory look over the nobles and dismissing most, though his gaze slowed on Reed and Bolton. "Found one paddling downstream, but he came out after Robin poked him some."
"Good job," Steve said. "Have the troops rest their horses, and tell Thomas to pass on the same to the others. We've got a big day ahead of us."
"More raiders?" he asked, interested now.
"Four groups, and all have to be dealt with today, before they can reach a village," Steve said.
"Who's this?" Umber interrupted.
"He's my drill sergeant," Steve said. Noble etiquette was one thing, but he supposed it had been a bit rude not to introduce him.
"What's a drill sergeant then?" Umber pressed.
"They yell at soldiers when they're doing something dumb," Steve said.
"Ha!" Umber said. He tugged at his beard. "Surprised he has any voice left."
"If your men have joined in the picket," Ned said, "then Brynden should return soon." He turned to the river, eyeing the clusters of prisoners. "We don't have the men to watch them."
"Going to give them the America special?" Walt asked. He earned more than one look for his temerity to speak up at such a gathering, but then his words registered with them.
"'The America special'?" Kyle asked.
"Take their weapons, take their armour, take their food, take their shoes," Walt said, shrugging. "Makes mischief harder."
"But worse for it, if they reach a village," Cassel said.
"Nobles spared a visit to a heart tree may moderate them," Bolton said. "Should the reason for their fortune be made clear."
Steve's gaze sharpened, but Ned gave a considering hum.
"When we are ready to leave, I will offer them a choice," the young lord said. "Until then, they can sit and wait."
A soldier approached at a jog, weathered and bloody but in good cheer. He relayed details of the battle from someone called Buckets to Ned, and the group listened as he dealt with it. He did not linger long, and as he was leaving another man arrived, another ornery old soldier.
"Ned," Brynden said. There was a splash of copper in his hair, standing out against his fading natural colour. "No sign of any riders. If we were seen, it was before the battle."
Walt made a noise of surprise, almost disbelieving, and it drew Brynden's eye.
"Walt," he said, surprised, and his spine straightened in much the same way Steve's would have if he ever met Colonel Phillips again. "You look - well."
"Brynden," Walt said, almost smiling. "See you've not gotten yourself killed yet."
"I take it a day at a time," Brynden said, and it had the ring of a repeated saying. His attention was caught by the newcomers. "Lord America. You have my thanks for getting my niece away from Aerys, late as they are."
"Anyone would have done the same with the opportunity," Steve said, before focusing on more important matters. "You know Walt?"
Brynden glanced around, as if hoping to hear a request to move on, but he was met only by the interested faces of young men. He grumbled to himself. "Walt kept me alive in the early days of the Stepstones, and taught me how to kill a man quick and quiet."
Men took in Walt with fresh eyes, as if trying to equate the hoary soldier with someone who had known Brynden when he was young.
"You've learned some manners since then, at least," Walt said, goading.
"I was always well mannered, just not to grumpy old men," Brynden said.
"I was five and twenty you great shi-"
"You're looking good for your age though, barely changed-"
"What's this Blackfish horseshit I heard about, anyway? Thought you'd know better after the thing with-"
"Oh fuck off Walt," Brynden said. "I bought your silence and you fucking know it."
Despite their words, both men were grinning, well pleased, even if the witnesses to their reunion were a touch shell shocked.
"I see you've met," Steve said.
"He was one of my father's men," Brynden said. "I would have been four, five and ten."
"Lord Tully foisted him on me and mine," Walt said. "Something about making sure he didn't slip and knock his head getting off the ship."
Bryden made a rude gesture, but that only amused their watchers more. Even Ned was smiling faintly.
"I will hound you for tales later, ser," Kyle said to Walt. "I have long since exhausted my father's."
The words sparked a bit of mischief in Steve. "Speaking of tales, you'd have a few about Walt, wouldn't you," he said. "He's always been too shy to share with us."
"Shy-" Brynden said, shaking his head. The Tully suddenly seemed to realise that he was no longer a wet behind the ears youth, and looked to Walt with a smirk. "Is he still picking fights with people he oughtn't to?"
"I've heard whispers of knives and ears," Steve said, never one to miss an opportunity.
Brynden almost choked on his laugh. "No, again?"
Walt growled, but was ignored.
"Again-" Steve said, cutting himself off with a laugh of his own. The others were ping-ponging between them as they followed the conversation. "There's a young man you should meet. He'd be happy to hear some stories about his grandfather here, I think."
"Gods," Brynden said, shaking his head. "You settled down with your Vale girl, then."
Walt nodded, his shoulders hitching down almost imperceptibly. "I did."
Brynden didn't miss it. "We should drink, tonight."
"Aye, we should," Walt said, before looking to Steve. "I'll pass the word to Thomas." He turned his horse and rode off without waiting to be dismissed.
Ned took the chance to give orders of his own, dispatching his commanders to this task or that to spread the word of their task and prepare the men for the day ahead. They were quick to take to their mounts and ride off, and quickly, the young Stark was left alone with Steve and Beron.
"You had concerns?" Ned asked, preempting the foreign lord.
"I noticed that there aren't a lot of prisoners without some House symbol on them," Steve said, neutral.
"Mercenaries," Ned said. "What of it?"
"I'm not used to mercenaries being all that willing to fight to the end," Steve said. "There a reason so few ended up surrendering?"
"When a sellsword comes to raid, they are no better than bandits," Ned said. "The sentence for banditry is death. They know this."
"And that's different to the men-at-arms who came to do the same?" Steve asked.
"They are sworn to their lords," Ned said. "They will pay for their deeds, but they were driven by oaths and loyalty, not greed."
Steve could not help but frown at the explanation, veering so close to excusing the men for following orders as it did. "What're your plans for the captured mercenaries?"
"The same as the rest, this time," Ned said. He had no problem meeting him in the eye. "Had they succeeded in their goal, however, I would see them all hanged."
"But not the rest. The nobles and their soldiers."
Ned considered it for a long moment. "If they betrayed their oaths, or overindulged in excesses, then yes. But otherwise…no. It would be for their overlord to judge them."
Steve drummed his fingers against his thigh as he thought. His time in the Reach had left himself as the highest authority for much of it, for better and for worse. Now that the local authorities were closer to hand, he wasn't sure how much he liked it. "Evil should be punished, no matter who it comes from," he said, meeting Ned's eyes. The kid held his gaze, steady, and it was clear that he had grown up some since their last meeting. "But…I acknowledge that I'm the foreigner here, and it's not my laws that I have to follow." Left unsaid was that when he saw something he couldn't abide, he would do what was right, law or no law.
"I appreciate your position," Ned said. "There are always those who forget their honour in war, but we will not be amongst them."
"Lord America has made a name for himself as one who will go above and beyond to right a wrong, no matter those involved," Beron offered, and it sounded like advice as much as information.
A slow nod was his response. They spoke of less serious things briefly, confirming details and other similar duties, and then both parties went their own way.
Steve's mind lingered on his talk with Ned as they left. He knew all too well the kind of evil men at war could do, turned loose against someone they were told was an enemy. He would follow their laws - he was more likely to see a punishment as too harsh than anything - but he also knew that a law that only applied to some was no law at all. The set of his jaw grew mulish. He had been fortunate so far, in that what was just had gone hand in hand with what was lawful, but it couldn't last forever.
When it changed, he would deal with it, same as he always did.
X
Seven hundred and fifty men marched along a narrow road, followed out of sight by one thousand cavalry. The midmorning sun shone down upon them, and a cool breeze drifted over the meadows on either side of them, carrying away the dust stirred by their passing. Every man was a fighting man, carrying their day's water and some salted meat, and there was not a servant to be seen. They would meet up with the camp followers after their victory, a brief respite before marching on to more battles, but for now, they marched.
Not for much longer. Gossip had passed through the column earlier of an enemy scout spied and let to flee. Their quarry had turned to wait for them, thinking themselves the hunter, but they would be the anvil which they were broken upon. The big man at the front of the column sang songs in a language few spoke, guttural and growling yet melodic all the same. It was enough to inspire those behind him and instil a hint of fear in the foe as they drew near, but that was what happened when you put a big mountain clansman covered in blue battle boasts in charge of such a force.
When the rebels marched around a bend to see the loyalist force waiting for them atop a rise, they did not stutter and slow as had been expected. Calm orders had them forming a wedge, confusing the loyalists. It was not until they saw a second, larger dust cloud that they began to understand.
For a moment, they had hope. They could hold strong in the face of a few hundred horse - but then they glimpsed another cloud, and another, approaching from all sides. Those at the front thought they had it the worst, watching the big painted clansman with the buckets on his blue shield advance, claymore held easily in one hand. Those at the rear thought they had it the worst, harried by sling and javelin and helpless to avoid it. Those on the right thought they had it the worst, seeing the direwolves of the Starks bearing down upon them to cut and carve away at their lines. Those on the left thought they had it the worst, and they were right, watching as a giant in thick plate bore down on them atop a white horse, likewise armoured. Not content to carve away at their ranks, this man rode right at them, hammer drawn back and ready to send a man into the embrace of his gods.
When it was over, the raiders were shattered in form and in spirit, having surrendered in droves after seeing one man too many launched into the air via hammer. To make a daring raid intending to draw the enemy's attention was one thing, to be confronted by what seemed like the Warrior come to express his disapproval in person was quite another. They were stripped of sword, shield, and shoe, then given a choice. Their surviving leaders chose wisely, and by their word bound the rest.
But the day was not over, not nearly, and both foot and horse were heading out as soon as their few dead and wounded were seen to. The infantry north-west, for the camp that would be waiting for them, established by their servants and camp followers, while the cavalry rode north, making for their next target. If all went to plan, they would arrive shortly before the other half of the infantry made contact.
All did not go to plan, but nor did disaster strike. Direwolf banners arrived to see rebel forces facing down raiding loyalists in a meadow, a number of banners planted between the two groups. Before them, the enormous figure of Greatjon Umber was battering a pair of knights around, watched over by the roaring giant on his banner, and cheered on by the roars of his men. A ripple went through the loyalists as they saw the cavalry and realised they had been tricked. Few expected guile from a Northman, but then, the Greatjon had a very particular type of cunning. At the sound of northern horns, he backhanded a knight in a tabard of blue on gold, sending him reeling, before smashing the hilt of his sword into the helm of a knight bearing a white flail on a red background, putting a sudden end to the extended duel.
Even knowing they were tricked, and seeing their chosen champions defeated, the loyalists still chose to fight. It went much the same, and by midday the second of the raiding groups was defeated and defanged. The foot marched to the waiting camp, the horse walking easily beside them and their riders often dismounting to ease their burden. They would rest for a time at the camp, passing the hottest part of the day, and then the entire force would march on their next foe as one. There were only two more on the loose, and many a man dared to hope as they realised they had defeated more than half of those dispatched by Hightower to raid and raze already. Beyond that, the next two were not so far apart as to force them to split their forces again - they could bring their full strength to bear on each. Surely, the worst was already done?
They should have known better.
Mid-afternoon came, and with it came an outrider bearing urgent news. At some point they had been seen, and the remaining foes had quickmarched to join together. Five thousand men awaited them, their backs to a copse of trees. Outnumbered two to one, the rebels had a decision to make.
"If they're offering battle to us, they can't raid," Dustin said, staring over at the foe's lines. "We could hang around, but wait them out."
"Our men are tired," Kyle said. "I would not bet on them maintaining distance. Not without the cavalry engaging."
The commanders were gathered in a line to the side of their infantry, looking over the field of battle. There was a very slight incline favouring their troops, but the trees reduced their options.
"Difficult," Beron said. "Risky."
"Aye," Ryswell said. "What if we refused battle, but harried them should they try to march out? The spare mounts are rested…somewhat."
"Could Lord Umber delay them again?" Reed asked, tapping a finger on the prongs of his spear. "Tomorrow would suit us better."
"Depends on when they knew we were coming," Umber said, scowling. "If they saw my little show, they'll know we want to delay the moment we offer."
"Doesn't have to be an attempt to delay," Steve said. "They won't fight well without their leaders."
"A Whent won't share a duel, and once they lose one would the others accept another?" Perryn asked. Witnessing Steve lead a charge had cleared up much for the young Riverlord as to why no one was too bothered by the foreign lord's lack of niceties.
With the black and yellow of House Whent in pride of place, there was no doubting who was in command, but there were other banners on display as well.
"I wasn't thinking I'd give them a choice," Steve said, only half joking. By the laughter of the others, at least some were considering its merits.
"It will have to be today," Ned said finally. "We have the supply advantage; they won't allow us to delay."
"And they say we're the rude ones," Umber grumbled.
"I got my horn from a Whent," Steve said, rapping his thumb against the instrument tied to his hip. "If I open up with it when I challenge them, do you think they'd accept?"
"They'd be hard pressed not to," Cassel said. "Very prickly about things like that, these southern knights."
"Then I'll toot my horn, walk over there, have a chat with Whent, draw out the fight for a minute or so, then challenge someone else," Steve said. "I reckon I can get a good half hour out of it to give the men a chance to sit and rest."
"If they hold their position, we might be better off fighting afoot," Beron said, considering the field. "We Stormlands knights, that is."
"That would stiffen our line," Ned said, judging the idea and finding it pleasing.
"There are also those amongst us who have experience fighting at Steve's side," Beron said. "Such a group, targeting their centre or flank, could sunder their lines."
"Hang on," Umber said, fixing Beron with a gimlet eye and only half serious, "if anyone is going to crack them open, it'll be the biggest, strongest, meanest Northman here - me."
"Pass the word, cousin," Ned said, almost smiling at Greatjon's jape. "And ready the men you speak of. I have an idea." He inclined his head to Steve. "As you will, Steve."
Word was passed, and preparations were made as Ned detailed his plan, Steve suggesting a change to take best advantage of his own company and their slings, calling Walt over to give orders. Before long all the wheels were in motion, and he made his way forward into the field, Ren at his back with his banner. He took a breath to sound his dire horn - but then he paused. He could hear something, words carried by the wind at the faintest edge of his hearing.
"I might not be the —---- —,
But the sword in my hand is sharp and cold,"
He stilled, listening, straining to hear. A called order got in the way, and he frowned.
"Gonna fight for my land gonna —- me a —---,
Gonna pile up their bodies and raise me a flagon,"
It was growing closer, coming from the south, from the left side of the battlefield, but again something got in the way, a whickering horse this time.
"----- picked a fight that he knows he can't win,
Gonna cut off his head and throw it to the wind,"
His sudden stop as he cocked his head had drawn attention, and the men nearest to him were wondering - loudly - what he was doing. He raised an arm and glanced back, his look politely suggesting that they shut their mouths.
"You feared his fury you wanted his head,
Big Bobby B gonna knock you dead,"
It was close enough now that even other men could hear it, but they could still not make it out. Not like Steve could. He began to grin. He had wondered what Yorick and Willem had been doing all those nights they hadn't been with their men.
"I might not be the Thunder God,
But we fight with the fury of the men of old."
Black stag banners appeared to the south, a wave of cavalry cresting a hill as a thousand throats sang together. Steve raised his horn and blew, its dirge call putting the boot into the sudden morale drop of the loyalists.
He was pretty sure Whent would accept his challenge, but maybe now he would offer his surrender, too.
Silveraith
Argent Phantasm
- Location
- Terra Atlantus
I know this is unlikely but I hope Steve marries and has children with Naerys. I hope the current line of House Bar Emmon of Sharp Point is wiped out due to the events of this war. I hope Naerys is able to ride in on the success of Steve to where, upon Robert ascending upon the Iron Throne, she and her descendants are the only viable choice for ruling over the castle and its lands.
The implications of such a butterfly could have Steve's children doing "stuff" while having noble-ish lineage.
I only say this because I find the idea of raising children as part of a sellsword company to be distasteful.
The implications of such a butterfly could have Steve's children doing "stuff" while having noble-ish lineage.
I only say this because I find the idea of raising children as part of a sellsword company to be distasteful.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Why is it unlikely? (I know almost nothing about GOT.)
Silveraith
Argent Phantasm
- Location
- Terra Atlantus
Steve wants to start a Sellsword company to fight slavery in Essos. Not exactly the environment for raising children.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Dumb idea I've had kicking around my head, but:
Captain America, potentially after the war is over, has an occasion to get quite drunk with his friends… The next morning, he wakes up to find that he has apparently introduced a new drinking(?) song: A version of 'Do Your Balls Hang Low?'
Captain America, potentially after the war is over, has an occasion to get quite drunk with his friends… The next morning, he wakes up to find that he has apparently introduced a new drinking(?) song: A version of 'Do Your Balls Hang Low?'
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That would be very funny, but is it possible for Steve to get drunk?
- Location
- Australia
With great effort, yes.
To the Fire 2
- Location
- Australia
That night, camp was a place of raucous cheer. From the lowest page all the way to Eddard Stark, all knew that what they had done that day would be told and retold in songs for years to come, the day that two and a half thousand men brought down a host of thirteen thousand, fought four battles in a day, and foiled the White Bull's gambit, making safe the Riverlands.
Some, though, were more raucous than others.
"NED!"
"Robert."
"NED!!"
Earlier, the Stormlord had ridden to his friend almost before the enemy could finish surrendering, cutting right across what was to be the battlefield and past the site of Steve's duel with the young Whent. The initial reunion had been brief, hastened by the need to police the foe - surrendering as per the terms of the duel - and Ned's duties had kept him busy for hours more. Now though, he was free, free to arrive sober to a party well underway.
"You can put me down now, Robert."
Robert set his friend down, still beaming and ruddy cheeked. "Your man has been telling me all about the war - what's this 'Cold Wolf' business, eh? Don't they know you at all!?"
"I haven't given it much mind," Ned said, accepting the tankard that was thrust into his hand.
There was no tent large enough to hold every man with the status to attend such a gathering, and so they held it under the stars, a bonfire roaring in the middle of it all. It stood tall and made long shadows of the lords and knights who drank and ate around it, treating cheap wine and marching rations like they were fresh from a king's kitchens. It would burn for hours yet; the hands of their many prisoners made light work of gathering wood and water.
"Too busy putting paid to Hightower's schemes, so I hear," Robert said.
"I have done my part," Ned said.
Robert gave him a look of disdain, as if he couldn't believe what was coming out of his friend's mouth. He received a mild look in turn, quietly challenging. The stag lord's gaze narrowed, and he lifted his tankard to his mouth, holding it just short. Ned matched him, waiting.
At some unseen signal, both men tipped their tankards back, racing to the bottom. Robert took huge quaffs, some spilling over his cheeks, but Ned left him in the dust. The northman seemingly poured his drink straight down his throat, head tilted back in one smooth motion, before he righted himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as Robert finished, froth on his cheeks.
"I'll get you one day," the bigger man grumbled.
"But not today," Ned said, before his eyes grew sly. "Or tomorrow."
Steve shook his head and looked away as the two bickered and caught up, refreshing their friendship after months apart. There was no cluster of men around them or retinue waiting on their words, not that night, leaving them as just two more men happy to have lived through the day amongst a crowd of others. There didn't seem to be any others that shared the same kind of long friendship that they did, but nor did anyone let that stop them from engaging in boasting and banter as they drank. He had already heard a stormlord drunkenly teaching 'Rebel Yell' to a northman, and the small group around them was threatening to break into song at any moment.
Still, if they were singing that just meant they weren't asking him for any of the rhymes he had made up for Peake. "Regretting it yet?" Steve asked the person sitting beside him. "I know how much you like parties."
Keladry shook her head, shifting slightly in an attempt to make the log that was their seat more comfortable. "Naerys was insistent," she said. As was her habit, she kept on her gambeson to obscure her form, but she was hardly out of place at the moment.
"She was worried?" Steve asked, misliking the thought. She had never feared over his fights before, but if he had done something to make her fret…
"That you might take it in your head to fight an army alone, perhaps," Keladry said.
"I would nev- well," Steve said, reconsidering. "That might be fair."
"Henry and his squad have all in hand, back with the army," Keladry added. "They will be in no danger, even with my absence."
Steve shook his head. "If one of us needed to be there to make sure our people weren't in danger, we wouldn't be there at all."
"I think the message has been sent, in any case."
A blink-and-you-miss-it smirk crossed Steve's face, but it was completely devoid of humour. "Yeah."
"The tale will spread," Keladry said, glancing away from the fire to look at her lord. "When we link up with the rest of the rebels, you will not have to make another example."
Steve nodded, giving a hum of assent, but his mouth twisted. He wasn't completely convinced; there was always a bigger idiot. "Still," he said, "you don't have to be here." Nearby, an arm wrestling contest had started, both men balancing their drinks on their heads.
"It is no trouble," Keladry said.
"We met a year ago," Steve said, giving her a dry look, "and in all that time you haven't attended a single party you had a choice in."
"This time is different."
"How?"
"If someone approaches, I only have to point them at you," Keladry said, unbothered.
"Didn't we already have this song and dance?" Steve asked, brow rising.
Kel's lips twitched upwards. "Aye, but this time I was only another rider, while you arrived at a key moment to secure victory, and then defeated five thousand men with a single duel."
Steve grumbled, but didn't argue, knowing she was right. His shoulders hunched down and he buried his face in his empty drink. For a time, they simply sat and watched the party going on around them, talking of matters better suited for work than for celebration, but that suited them just fine. Steve heard of Osric's continuing progress with his spear, and spoke of how Humfrey had taken to his lessons with the impressive axe he had been gifted at Mastford.
The night was almost on the verge of a slow wind down when Keladry suddenly grew tense.
"What is it?" Steve asked, casting his gaze around. He heard no shout of alarm, and there was no sign of trouble at any of the other fires or celebrations he could see nearby for the more common men.
For a long moment, Keladry didn't speak, though her back had gone stiff as a board, and her few signs of good cheer had disappeared back behind her imperturbable mask. "Across the fire, behind Ser Connington."
Casually, Steve glanced over. The fire had burned down some, not quite as tall as it was, and he saw Ronald sitting on another log with some friends, swaying drunkenly. Behind them, though, were a trio of men, faces illuminated by the firelight.
"Which one?" Steve asked, his tankard held ready. He could brain him with ease if necessary. "Immediate threat?"
"No," Keladry said. She was staring into the fire, still tense. "The one in the middle is Joren." Were she anyone else, she would be grimacing. "Lord Burchard. My betrothed."
X
"It'll be a mite easier to keep my army fed now that we can count on friendly lords."
Steve's gaze was distant as he thought, fingers threaded over his lap. They had lost a day to recovery after the mammoth effort required to win the four battles, and then another as they waited for the Stormland army to catch up to help police the thousands of prisoners they had taken.
"I've sent word. A raven back to Darry to contact nearby lords, and a rider to meet Brandon on his ride south."
Military matters were a secondary concern to him, though. He had used the time to suss out Joren Burchard, and those he kept company with. He had chatted with nobles, Lyanna had gossiped with servants, and Walt had nosed around household soldiers. What little they found did not set his mind at ease.
"...about the noble prisoners? We have their parole, and there's naught by stumps left of the heart trees down…"
Joren was still unmarried, despite news of his once-betrothed being taken by mountain clansmen almost two years ago. Another Valeman had been happy to recount the rumour of souring relations between the Burchards and the Delnaimns, first over the accusations of a failure to properly man her escort, and then over allegations that the ambush was all a plot to renege on the betrothal agreement, and that they had hidden their daughter away.
"...given the Prince's claim, I think it prudent to hold off on my father's…"
Worse was gossip over how, early in the war, Delnaimn forces had almost been mistakenly ambushed as loyalists. No one was quite sure how word had spread that the force marching to join the rebel cause was instead a royalist band, but those who spoke on it all agreed that it was a good thing for Denys Arryn and his sharp mind for sorting it out before the worst could happen.
"...doesn't matter. What about…could march east, and…right in the arse!"
The worst of it all though, to Steve's mind at least, had come from the celebration at the fire. As Steve had watched Burchard and his pals from the corner of his eye, the handsome young lord had looked very deliberately at Keladry, as if marking her in his mind's eye, and then away. He could feel in his gut that Burchard knew exactly who his second was, and that there was some plan ticking away.
"...while we don't know…a risk…better to…"
Steve felt a frown forming. He didn't know the man. Didn't know what he was like, or what his plan might involve…but he knew what had happened on Kel's journey to marry him, and he knew he didn't give a fig for the whole idea of arranged marriages, especially when the woman involved didn't want it. The fact that he was still unmarried just made him all the more wary, even if they hadn't noticed him or his so much as sniffing in their direction since the night at the fire. Especially since they hadn't.
"...think, Steve? … Steve?"
"Hmm?" Steve said, jerked back to the present. "What was that?"
The dozen or so faces in the tent were turned towards him, waiting on his response to whatever he had been asked. It was the third day since the battles, and they were finally ready to march out in truth, save for a few final details. Those with the stature to be deciding those details had gathered around a table, and Steve had been summoned from a round table of his own to join them.
"Robert suggests we march east, instead of north," Ned said again, patient.
"Success would bring an end to the raiding and the back and forth," Kyle said, cautiously optimistic. He still bore a vibrant purple bruise on one cheek, picked up during the second battle.
"It would," Steve said. He called to mind the map he had memorised at Storm's End; if they marched east and then north they could cut Harrenhal's supply lines, and close a noose around the castle. With the numbers he had heard tossed around spent on raids, and now the thirteen thousand men lost to the failed chevauchée, there could not be that many left to defend the stronghold, even if the enemy general had been making heavy use of mercenaries. He would not bet on Hightower staying in place if given the choice. But even so, it came with unnecessary risks. "But unless you've got spies in the Crownlands it's an awful risk. Peake's army was forced to break up, but that was a month ago. If they made for the capital to regroup…"
"...we'd be the ones with an army up our arse instead," Robert said, almost gloomy, but then his features twisted, a hint of rage coming to them. "Nine fucking months. Every time we are delayed, Lyanna-"
"Lyanna will be rescued," Ned said, tone flat. "Aerys will suffer the consequences of his actions."
There was a pause, and Robert subsided, though his fists clenched under the table.
"If we needed to make the gamble, we could," Brynden said. He was carving slices from an apple, eating it slowly. "But we do not. Once we march south, we won't be stopped, but if we march east and are caught out, it will be a greater delay than joining the others."
"We don't need to march the army in," Greatjon said. "Give me a few hundred, and I could make a right mess of the place. See how they like being on the other side of the raiding."
Steve glanced at the big man, his eyes tightening. He didn't think Greatjon's idea of raiding was as clinical as his own.
"Harrenhal is not a simple castle to supply," Roose said, voice quiet as ever. "Forcing a response would mean a raid prevented."
"The benefits would not be worth your loss," Ned said to Greatjon. "We will march north, and rejoin the bulk of our forces." He glanced at Robert. "By Lord Baratheon's command, of course."
Robert snorted at that. "This is your hunting ground, Ned. My army will follow your lead until you sniff us out another battle. Or four. Heh."
"We will follow the lakeshore then," Ned said, nodding his thanks to his friend. "We will be in a position to threaten Harrenhal within the month."
"And what about…?" Steve prompted, looking to Robert. Every time their scouts had reported a need to change their course for some reason or another since Mastford, he had asked the same question.
From others there was confusion, but Robert understood. Sympathy spread across his face. "I'm sorry, Steve. There are no castles in our path."
Still some of those present did not understand, but now Beron and Samuel found themselves amused.
"What about within a day's ride?" Steve asked, not quite desperate. "There's a family that sided with the monarchy nearby, right? The Goodbrooks? If we took it, they could host us for a night in apology."
Perhaps his desperation was not as hidden as he had thought, for now Robert's lips were twitching.
"What is this about?" Ryswell asked quietly of Beron, though not quiet enough to avoid Steve's ears.
Beron shook his head, pointedly looking up at the tent ceiling.
"Two days, and then a prick of a fight to crack them," Brynden said. He seemed to have cottoned on to Steve's motivation, and he looked like he was caught between amusement and exasperation.
Steve would crack them himself if it came down to it, but after a moment he sighed. It seemed like it wasn't to be.
"I could lend you my tent?" Robert offered. "Gods know I owe you. It's no castle, but it's still plenty fancy."
"I appreciate it, but…it's not the same," Steve said. He shook his head. They would just have to grin and bear it, even if their willpower had been sorely tested.
"I'm sorry, but what…?" Dustin asked of the tent, looking around at his fellow lords. "I feel that I am missing something."
"It's nothing," Steve said, waving him off. "Don't worry about it," he mumbled. Leaving the army to take a castle and spend the night in relative luxury wouldn't be appropriate, not while everyone else still lived on the march, but maybe he could engineer something…no, he was being foolish.
There was little else left to cover, and the meeting soon came to an end. Robert clapped him on the shoulder with a look of deep sympathy as he left, already putting his head together with Ned. Brynden followed him, shaking his head, and Beron spared him a look as he went too. Steve couldn't help but pinch the bridge of his nose. At least none of them were gossips, even if he really was making a mess of it all. He steeled himself, putting all less-than-virtuous thoughts of Naerys from his head, and followed after them, leaving the tent for the servants to break down.
Nat would have gotten a kick out of all this, he was sure.
X
The breeze that swept over them off the lake kept the army cool on the march, and the ready access to water eased at least at least one supply concern. Riders roamed westward to address another, but that was work for outriders and knights, not lords, and Steve found himself riding Brooklyn as midday was left behind.
The ride was made perhaps not easier, but more interesting, by the fruits that had come from the mixing of men with a penchant for trouble and some small musical talent. Someone - Steve wasn't going to point fingers, but he was pretty sure they answered to Willem and Yorick - had not only found their co conspirators in Robert's marching song, but had also connected them with some Northmen of like minds.
"Lame old dragon why weren't you told,
Northerners are mighty bold,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Howlin' time!
We're a comin' we're a marchin' we're a headed down south,
Gonna piss straight down Old Aerys' mouth,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Runnin' time!
Scab King Aerys is a son of a bitch,
Got the Oldtown pox and the Blue Lys Itch,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Huntin' time!
We'll put him on a pike and say listen to me,
Your blood gonna water my new heart tree.
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Killin' time!
Mad King Aerys we're comin' for you,
You'll hang from the tree by the time we're through."
Their efforts seemed to be a hit, going by how quickly it had spread through the men regardless of kingdom. Dodger let out an approving howl as they finished the song - for the fifth time so far - from his position seated on Brooklyn's rump.
Another horseman drew his mount alongside Steve as the howl faded and the song started up again. "Didn't have anything like this in the Stepstones," Walt said, chewing on some jerky.
"Yeah?" Steve asked. "I'd have thought soldiers would be quick to this sort of mischief."
"We had songs, aye," Walt said, "but nothing quite like this." 'Piss straight down' he mouthed to himself.
Steve huffed a laugh, but then grew more serious. "What's the word?"
Walt bit savagely through his snack. "Still little," he said, "but it's there. Someone heard a Vale knight swear by the Seven that the youngest of the Delnaimn brood was a girl, but no one could tell me his name."
"You didn't cut anyone's ear off over it, did you?" Steve asked, only half joking.
"Might do, if this keeps up," Walt said. The look on his face said there was no 'might' about it.
Steve didn't call him on it. The whispers were small things, never spoken openly or turned into accusations, but they were there all the same. They were not something that Steve could address, not without giving legitimacy to them, but if anything that just made him more annoyed with it all. Maybe he'd been spoiled by the idea that punching a punk in the face was a respected way of solving disagreements here.
"Keep an ear to the ground," Steve said at length. About the only benefit to it all was that it was distracting him and Naerys from each other.
Walt gave a grunt, but then he did something unusual. He opened his mouth, only to hesitate, closing it.
"Don't hold back on me now," Steve said. "Speak your mind."
The old soldier glanced around them, disguising the action by leaning forward to rub at his mount's ears. For all that they were part of the column, there was no one close enough to overhear them. "What're you going to do if the whispers don't stay whispers?"
Steve levelled his gaze at his third in command. As far as he was aware, Kel had never confided in him, nor had Naerys or the kids slipped up. "I thought how things at Harrenhal went down would've taught people better. If it hasn't, I figure we'll just settle things for sure," he said, leaving his words open ended.
"Every man who's fought with you knows you won't have Keladry whip his cock out, just for the principle of it," Walt said, chewing on the inside of his scarred cheek. "But what're you gonna do if the whispers grow and that's the only answer they'll take?"
But then, the man had travelled with them for nine months, and for all his coarseness, Walt was no fool. "That's up to Keladry, in the end," Steve said, answering the unspoken question, "but I've had pretty good luck punching the stupid out of people before. Might give that another go."
Walt gave a nod, satisfied. "Don't strike me as a smart thing for them to push, given what you've done, but I'll keep an ear out. Little Hood will do the same."
"That's all I ask," Steve said. "You're a good man, Walt."
A scoff was his answer. "If you really thought that, you wouldn't have me lugging this damn thing around," Walt said, slapping the sheath that hung from his hip.
"I'm told it's a great honour," Steve said, the picture of innocence.
"Fuck off," Walt said, almost groaning. "You know what I mean."
"I do," Steve said, "but consider this: some hoity toity noble is going to cause trouble, and you're going to pull out a Valyrian steel sword in response. Picture their face when they see it."
The old soldier was still scowling, but then Steve's words began to filter in. An almost dreamlike expression stole across his face, before he remembered he was supposed to be unhappy. "I still don't like it."
"It won't be forever," Steve said, more serious now. "I've got plans for the steel. I just don't trust no one to make a try for it if I leave it sitting around."
"Because I'll make the fool big enough to try hesitate," Walt said.
"Think of it like permission to cut someone's ear off," Steve said. "The way people here act about it, someone is bound to try eventually."
"Heh."
Steve shook his head. Maybe he shouldn't be encouraging the man, but he prided himself on keeping his men in high spirits. He was sure it'd be fine.
X
The march north continued, and so did the whispers, but they found no purchase, not in the face of Lord America's spreading deeds and growing legend. It took them the better part of a day to cross one of the major feeder rivers to the Gods Eye lake, and it was judged smarter to make camp early rather than push on. Steve had thoughts of organising some games and leisure time for his men, but before he could put thought to action, a messenger arrived for him, summoning him to Ned's tent. A party of riders had arrived, and he was called to Lord Eddard's personal tent to hear what word they had brought.
Steve was quick to attend, wary of ill news, but when he arrived the mood was not one of worry, but of longsuffering, at least on the part of the host. To his surprise he recognised the two men responsible, newly arrived: Brandon Stark, and his squire whom he had met at Riverrun, Ethan Glover.
"Steve!" Brandon said, rising from his chair at a writing desk to greet him.
"Brandon," Steve said, accepting the offered clasp of his hand. "I heard you were well." And he had - there were many eager to share the exploits of their overlords, even if he could tell there was something that was being glossed over or left out. "Ethan."
"Lord America," Ethan said, from his position standing by the tent wall. His beard had grown in better since the weddings, and a scar on his brow made him look older.
"Been a minute since Gulltown," Steve said. "What brings you here?"
"Ned sent word that he took all the glory that was to be had, so I sent my men back north," Brandon said, taking his seat again. "But I received another message, one addressed to Ned." He gestured to a small roll of parchment that Ned held, not yet opened, as his younger brother sat on his bed.
"You could have just read it if you really needed to know, brother," Ned said, reproachful.
"And deprive you of my company?" Brandon asked. "Besides, I think it's from-"
Another man entered the tent, his size doing little to help the growing sense of smallness to it.
"Brandon!" Robert said. "You raze Harrenhal yet, or are you being lazy?" He took one big step across the tent to clap his arm. "What brings you?"
"I knew you'd complain if I did it without you," Brandon said, grinning. "And I brought Ned a message from his wife."
Ned sharpened, the conversation suddenly less interesting than the message he held. "How do you know?" He started to untie the twine keeping it rolled..
"Who else would send you a raven from Winterfell with a perfumed message?" Brandon asked with a shrug. Despite his easy words, his gaze was fixed on his brother, eager to discover the contents of the message.
"Ned and his Dornish beauty, I still can't believe…," Robert said, before he began to frown. "What is it?"
Ned's jaw had gone slack as he stared at the parchment, almost unseeing.
"Ned?" Brandon asked, wary.
The kid looked up, blinking as his mind was brought back from wherever it had wandered off to. "Twins," he said.
"What?"
"Twins," he said again, struggling to find words. "Ashara, twins."
A grin lit up Robert's face. "Twins! Gods, Ned! Twins!"
"Twins," Ned said, staring blankly at the letter.
"Twins?" Brandon asked, blinking.
Ethan's head was ping ponging between each speaker.
"Twins!" Robert agreed, voice boisterous. He almost bouncing around the small room, a moment from striding right through the canvas walls in his enthusiasm. "Ashara gave birth to two healthy - what are they, Ned?"
"Arya and Alistair," Ned said. "We picked names for both, so she just - twins." It was well that he was seated, for it seemed unlikely that his legs would support him at that moment.
"Arya and Alistair Stark," Brandon said. "A niece and nephew! We have to tell Father; this will restore him. Hopefully Arya has Ashara's looks and not your horse's ass."
"We are brothers," Ned said, the jab penetrating the fog that held him.
"And yet," Brandon said, smirking at him, before it shifted back into a happy grin. "Gods. Twins!"
"Congratulations," Steve said, watching it all with a smile. It was always nice to see a spot of happiness amongst otherwise grim circumstance.
"I, thank you," Ned said, the news really starting to sink in. "They were - oh."
"Come on, tell us," Brandon urged him.
"They were premature, and Ashara held off on sending word, in case…" Ned said, slowly reading the tightly packed writing on the scroll.
"But they are well now, for her to send the message?" Brandon pressed.
"They are well," Ned said. He blinked rapidly. "Mother met them."
"Mother?" Brandon said, the word slowing him for a moment. "She - she knew her grandchildren, before she passed?"
"Aye."
"...good."
There was a moment of quiet as the brothers absorbed the information. It did not last.
"You know what this means, aye?" Robert asked, looking from brother to brother. Both stared blankly at him, still rocked by the news.
"What does it mean?" Ethan asked for them.
"We must celebrate!" Robert said, fairly booming. "Celebrate the birth of Arya and Alistair Stark!"
"With what?" Ned asked. "We used the best of our supplies after the battles."
Steve saw his chance and seized it. "A small group could make a detour as the army continues north," he said, "and prevail upon the closest lord for an evening to celebrate."
"The closest is still Goodbrook Keep, and they'll be buttoned up tight," Robert said, frowning, though he didn't dismiss it out of hand.
"I can take care of that," Steve said swiftly.
"With your hundred alone?" Ned asked. "It is no Winterfell, but it has seen many wars."
"Sure, they can help," Steve said. "Yeah. Quick ride there, stay the night, rejoin the army the next day." He nodded to himself, ignoring Robert's sudden snort as he realised something. Fraying willpower on both his and Naerys' parts had seen them no longer sharing a bedroll, and if they had to wait until they reached some castle north of Harrenhal, he wasn't sure they'd make it if they didn't stop sharing a tent as well. Much as they both desired each other, neither wanted to take that step in a thin tent on the march in the middle of the camp.
"I see no problem with it," Brandon said, looking to the others. "Two new Starks deserve a celebration."
"Aye, let's do it," Robert said.
If the agreement had the air of a group of teenagers making a decision because there was no one more mature around to tell them otherwise, none commented. Steve certainly wasn't going to.
Robert wasn't done. "Very kind of you, Steve, to make the offer. Real, uh, selfless."
"I'll ride out first thing tomorrow," Steve said, ignoring the comment. "Excuse me, I'm going to tell my quartermaster, have them make the needed preparations. Congratulations again, Ned." He ducked out, leaving them behind.
"Preparations?" Brandon asked. "It's only a day's…"
His voice faded as Steve strode away, mind on more important matters. He had a spring in his step.
X
Goodbrook Keep was oddly tall, like someone had taken a normal square keep and stretched it upwards. Even the stone towers at each corner seemed taller than was normal. Situated on a hill by a river, there was little cover on any approach, only fields filled with grass and fodder crops. A moat had been dug around the hill, and it was currently flowing, the river used to keep it full. Where the river sloshed and flowed into the moat, Steve could catch the occasional glimpse of stakes hidden by the water.
There were men on the walls, and by the movement their approach had been seen, riding up in the early afternoon as they had. There was little helping that given the time constraints he was under. Ned and those he had invited to celebrate would only be an hour or three behind him.
"Not the easiest nut to crack," Walt said, standing at his side.
"They seem pretty happy to sit tight," Steve said, agreeing. The crenellations jutted forward from the wall by a good metre, curved stone below interrupting an otherwise flat wall.
"They likely could have sat out the war, if not for you," Keladry said, standing at the other. "Is that smoke coming from above the gatehouse?"
"Yeah," Steve said, mouth twisting. "They're cooking something up. Water, or sand maybe."
Behind his back, the two shared a glance. Walt raised his brows pointedly, but Kel only returned a deliberately blank look. The old soldier pulled a face, but gave in.
"I know you've got your reason for this," Walt said, "but you sure this is worth the injuries we'll pick up on the way?"
"No one's getting injured," Steve said, still scanning the keep. "None of ours, anyway." He caught a glimpse of the tops of bow limbs passing briefly between two merlons, though they didn't reappear. He fixed the spot in his mind as a likely position of an internal staircase.
"You've got a plan then?" Walt pressed.
"Yeah," Steve said, eyeing the gate. The drawbridge was raised, and its underside had some metal cladding, but it was more a lattice than a full covering. The gatehouse above it was fat and squat, murder holes dotted along it in two levels. They were just large enough to make use of, and from there he could reach the roof… "I need ten spears."
"Spears? Not javelins?" Keladry checked.
Steve nodded. "Javelins won't hold the weight." It might've been a smarter move to wear his suit rather than his plate, but he was still leery of exposing the suit to wear and tear when he didn't have to. The day would come where he would need it, but it wasn't today.
Walt and Keladry shared another look. This time Walt won out.
"What orders do you have for us?" Keladry asked. Her fingers drummed on the haft of her glaive where she gripped it.
"Just have the troops ready to police their surrender after I let you in," Steve said. He reached for his hammer, taking it from its harness. "Here, hold on to this for a moment."
Keladry took the hammer, swinging it up to rest on her shoulder with one hand and a grunt.
"Why not leave your shield, too?" Walt asked, voice dry. "Really impress the lads."
"I can't be expected to capture a castle without my shield," Steve said, a feigned injury to his voice that fooled neither of them. "That's asking a bit much, don't you think?"
"Ugh."
A distant horse whinnied as they continued to survey the target, and there was quiet for a moment.
At length, Keladry spoke. "Are you sure?" she asked. "To take it alone…"
Steve glanced at her; her face was calm, but her hold on her glaive was tight. Of all his companions, she was probably the one who had the best idea of just how unnatural his strength was. The others had an inkling, had witnessed him do things beyond most men, but none had fought beside him as she had, or had the same understanding of their own limits. "I want the castle," he said, "but it isn't a military objective, and I'm not going to risk lives getting it. Even if that means showing off a bit."
Walt hadn't fought on the bridge, but he had stalked enemy scouts with him and had front row seats to his bootcamp. He knew enough to twig to what they meant. "The men won't blab if you say so," he said. "Whatever it is you've got-" he cut himself off, grimacing. "They'd charge a dragon for you, and knowing- it won't change that."
"There will come a time where I can't afford to hold back," Steve said. He raised one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm not worried about the reaction of anyone who matters."
"People don't react well to things they judge unnatural," Keladry said, and there was a tone to her words that spoke of anger at a past injustice.
"Other folk like as not think we're just boasting of you again, exaggeratin'," Walt said, almost muttering.
"There is that," Steve acknowledged to both of them. "But people can also surprise you."
Keladry snorted, a mirthless thing full of denial and disgust. So uncharacteristic of her was it that both men found themselves looking to her in surprise. "I think your home was very different to Westeros," she said.
"It could be," Steve said. "But people are still people."
The hidden woman made a sound in her throat that spoke of both acknowledgment and disagreement, and Steve held back a frown. He hadn't realised that she was so pessimistic over her situation - he had thought she was more hopeful. He would have to find the time to speak with her.
"Given the campaign so far," Steve said carefully, "I think the men will be able to look back and let past events colour their perceptions of any shocks." When they had that talk, he'd have to let Kel know that Walt had guessed her secret; maybe it would help. "Even back during training, with the tug of war, I wasn't exactly hiding what I can do," he added.
"As you say," Keladry said. She nodded towards the castle that was still hurriedly preparing for their coming. "When do you mean to attack?"
Steve accepted the redirection. "As soon as I borrow some spears." He readied his shield, looking over the jagged edge that was once more exposed. Peake's gambit had ruined the covering, and it would have been more trouble than it was worth to replace it on the march. Maybe the castle would have a smith capable.
A sigh came from the old soldier to his side. "Let's make it happen then," Walt said. "I'm about out of Arbor." He stalked off, heading towards the bulk of their men where they stood in ranks.
When he was out of earshot, Steve turned to his friend. "Kel," he said.
"I know, Steve," she said, still watching the castle. "It is just…not easy."
"Things worth doing never are," he said. "Whatever you decide, you know I'll back you."
"I know," she said again. "But seeing Joren, hearing the rumours…"
"Not easy," Steve said. "Yeah. But just remember one thing."
"What is that?" Keladry asked, turning to him. She was guarded, warned by something in his tone.
"If worst comes to worst, you can always just prove you have a bigger dick than him," he said, waggling his brows with an eye to her glaive.
Keladry let out a sigh, her poker face not enough to completely hide her moment of exasperation. "Captain. Go and take the castle."
"Yes ser," Steve said, his cheek worn plainly, and she could not help but make a sound of disgust.
When Walt returned with the spears, it was to see a greatly amused Steve and a completely blank Keladry. He shook his head at them. "Go on then. Can't be standing around here all day."
Steve tucked the spears under one arm, and advanced alone towards Goodbrook Keep. He had a date night to make happen.
Some, though, were more raucous than others.
"NED!"
"Robert."
"NED!!"
Earlier, the Stormlord had ridden to his friend almost before the enemy could finish surrendering, cutting right across what was to be the battlefield and past the site of Steve's duel with the young Whent. The initial reunion had been brief, hastened by the need to police the foe - surrendering as per the terms of the duel - and Ned's duties had kept him busy for hours more. Now though, he was free, free to arrive sober to a party well underway.
"You can put me down now, Robert."
Robert set his friend down, still beaming and ruddy cheeked. "Your man has been telling me all about the war - what's this 'Cold Wolf' business, eh? Don't they know you at all!?"
"I haven't given it much mind," Ned said, accepting the tankard that was thrust into his hand.
There was no tent large enough to hold every man with the status to attend such a gathering, and so they held it under the stars, a bonfire roaring in the middle of it all. It stood tall and made long shadows of the lords and knights who drank and ate around it, treating cheap wine and marching rations like they were fresh from a king's kitchens. It would burn for hours yet; the hands of their many prisoners made light work of gathering wood and water.
"Too busy putting paid to Hightower's schemes, so I hear," Robert said.
"I have done my part," Ned said.
Robert gave him a look of disdain, as if he couldn't believe what was coming out of his friend's mouth. He received a mild look in turn, quietly challenging. The stag lord's gaze narrowed, and he lifted his tankard to his mouth, holding it just short. Ned matched him, waiting.
At some unseen signal, both men tipped their tankards back, racing to the bottom. Robert took huge quaffs, some spilling over his cheeks, but Ned left him in the dust. The northman seemingly poured his drink straight down his throat, head tilted back in one smooth motion, before he righted himself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as Robert finished, froth on his cheeks.
"I'll get you one day," the bigger man grumbled.
"But not today," Ned said, before his eyes grew sly. "Or tomorrow."
Steve shook his head and looked away as the two bickered and caught up, refreshing their friendship after months apart. There was no cluster of men around them or retinue waiting on their words, not that night, leaving them as just two more men happy to have lived through the day amongst a crowd of others. There didn't seem to be any others that shared the same kind of long friendship that they did, but nor did anyone let that stop them from engaging in boasting and banter as they drank. He had already heard a stormlord drunkenly teaching 'Rebel Yell' to a northman, and the small group around them was threatening to break into song at any moment.
Still, if they were singing that just meant they weren't asking him for any of the rhymes he had made up for Peake. "Regretting it yet?" Steve asked the person sitting beside him. "I know how much you like parties."
Keladry shook her head, shifting slightly in an attempt to make the log that was their seat more comfortable. "Naerys was insistent," she said. As was her habit, she kept on her gambeson to obscure her form, but she was hardly out of place at the moment.
"She was worried?" Steve asked, misliking the thought. She had never feared over his fights before, but if he had done something to make her fret…
"That you might take it in your head to fight an army alone, perhaps," Keladry said.
"I would nev- well," Steve said, reconsidering. "That might be fair."
"Henry and his squad have all in hand, back with the army," Keladry added. "They will be in no danger, even with my absence."
Steve shook his head. "If one of us needed to be there to make sure our people weren't in danger, we wouldn't be there at all."
"I think the message has been sent, in any case."
A blink-and-you-miss-it smirk crossed Steve's face, but it was completely devoid of humour. "Yeah."
"The tale will spread," Keladry said, glancing away from the fire to look at her lord. "When we link up with the rest of the rebels, you will not have to make another example."
Steve nodded, giving a hum of assent, but his mouth twisted. He wasn't completely convinced; there was always a bigger idiot. "Still," he said, "you don't have to be here." Nearby, an arm wrestling contest had started, both men balancing their drinks on their heads.
"It is no trouble," Keladry said.
"We met a year ago," Steve said, giving her a dry look, "and in all that time you haven't attended a single party you had a choice in."
"This time is different."
"How?"
"If someone approaches, I only have to point them at you," Keladry said, unbothered.
"Didn't we already have this song and dance?" Steve asked, brow rising.
Kel's lips twitched upwards. "Aye, but this time I was only another rider, while you arrived at a key moment to secure victory, and then defeated five thousand men with a single duel."
Steve grumbled, but didn't argue, knowing she was right. His shoulders hunched down and he buried his face in his empty drink. For a time, they simply sat and watched the party going on around them, talking of matters better suited for work than for celebration, but that suited them just fine. Steve heard of Osric's continuing progress with his spear, and spoke of how Humfrey had taken to his lessons with the impressive axe he had been gifted at Mastford.
The night was almost on the verge of a slow wind down when Keladry suddenly grew tense.
"What is it?" Steve asked, casting his gaze around. He heard no shout of alarm, and there was no sign of trouble at any of the other fires or celebrations he could see nearby for the more common men.
For a long moment, Keladry didn't speak, though her back had gone stiff as a board, and her few signs of good cheer had disappeared back behind her imperturbable mask. "Across the fire, behind Ser Connington."
Casually, Steve glanced over. The fire had burned down some, not quite as tall as it was, and he saw Ronald sitting on another log with some friends, swaying drunkenly. Behind them, though, were a trio of men, faces illuminated by the firelight.
"Which one?" Steve asked, his tankard held ready. He could brain him with ease if necessary. "Immediate threat?"
"No," Keladry said. She was staring into the fire, still tense. "The one in the middle is Joren." Were she anyone else, she would be grimacing. "Lord Burchard. My betrothed."
X
"It'll be a mite easier to keep my army fed now that we can count on friendly lords."
Steve's gaze was distant as he thought, fingers threaded over his lap. They had lost a day to recovery after the mammoth effort required to win the four battles, and then another as they waited for the Stormland army to catch up to help police the thousands of prisoners they had taken.
"I've sent word. A raven back to Darry to contact nearby lords, and a rider to meet Brandon on his ride south."
Military matters were a secondary concern to him, though. He had used the time to suss out Joren Burchard, and those he kept company with. He had chatted with nobles, Lyanna had gossiped with servants, and Walt had nosed around household soldiers. What little they found did not set his mind at ease.
"...about the noble prisoners? We have their parole, and there's naught by stumps left of the heart trees down…"
Joren was still unmarried, despite news of his once-betrothed being taken by mountain clansmen almost two years ago. Another Valeman had been happy to recount the rumour of souring relations between the Burchards and the Delnaimns, first over the accusations of a failure to properly man her escort, and then over allegations that the ambush was all a plot to renege on the betrothal agreement, and that they had hidden their daughter away.
"...given the Prince's claim, I think it prudent to hold off on my father's…"
Worse was gossip over how, early in the war, Delnaimn forces had almost been mistakenly ambushed as loyalists. No one was quite sure how word had spread that the force marching to join the rebel cause was instead a royalist band, but those who spoke on it all agreed that it was a good thing for Denys Arryn and his sharp mind for sorting it out before the worst could happen.
"...doesn't matter. What about…could march east, and…right in the arse!"
The worst of it all though, to Steve's mind at least, had come from the celebration at the fire. As Steve had watched Burchard and his pals from the corner of his eye, the handsome young lord had looked very deliberately at Keladry, as if marking her in his mind's eye, and then away. He could feel in his gut that Burchard knew exactly who his second was, and that there was some plan ticking away.
"...while we don't know…a risk…better to…"
Steve felt a frown forming. He didn't know the man. Didn't know what he was like, or what his plan might involve…but he knew what had happened on Kel's journey to marry him, and he knew he didn't give a fig for the whole idea of arranged marriages, especially when the woman involved didn't want it. The fact that he was still unmarried just made him all the more wary, even if they hadn't noticed him or his so much as sniffing in their direction since the night at the fire. Especially since they hadn't.
"...think, Steve? … Steve?"
"Hmm?" Steve said, jerked back to the present. "What was that?"
The dozen or so faces in the tent were turned towards him, waiting on his response to whatever he had been asked. It was the third day since the battles, and they were finally ready to march out in truth, save for a few final details. Those with the stature to be deciding those details had gathered around a table, and Steve had been summoned from a round table of his own to join them.
"Robert suggests we march east, instead of north," Ned said again, patient.
"Success would bring an end to the raiding and the back and forth," Kyle said, cautiously optimistic. He still bore a vibrant purple bruise on one cheek, picked up during the second battle.
"It would," Steve said. He called to mind the map he had memorised at Storm's End; if they marched east and then north they could cut Harrenhal's supply lines, and close a noose around the castle. With the numbers he had heard tossed around spent on raids, and now the thirteen thousand men lost to the failed chevauchée, there could not be that many left to defend the stronghold, even if the enemy general had been making heavy use of mercenaries. He would not bet on Hightower staying in place if given the choice. But even so, it came with unnecessary risks. "But unless you've got spies in the Crownlands it's an awful risk. Peake's army was forced to break up, but that was a month ago. If they made for the capital to regroup…"
"...we'd be the ones with an army up our arse instead," Robert said, almost gloomy, but then his features twisted, a hint of rage coming to them. "Nine fucking months. Every time we are delayed, Lyanna-"
"Lyanna will be rescued," Ned said, tone flat. "Aerys will suffer the consequences of his actions."
There was a pause, and Robert subsided, though his fists clenched under the table.
"If we needed to make the gamble, we could," Brynden said. He was carving slices from an apple, eating it slowly. "But we do not. Once we march south, we won't be stopped, but if we march east and are caught out, it will be a greater delay than joining the others."
"We don't need to march the army in," Greatjon said. "Give me a few hundred, and I could make a right mess of the place. See how they like being on the other side of the raiding."
Steve glanced at the big man, his eyes tightening. He didn't think Greatjon's idea of raiding was as clinical as his own.
"Harrenhal is not a simple castle to supply," Roose said, voice quiet as ever. "Forcing a response would mean a raid prevented."
"The benefits would not be worth your loss," Ned said to Greatjon. "We will march north, and rejoin the bulk of our forces." He glanced at Robert. "By Lord Baratheon's command, of course."
Robert snorted at that. "This is your hunting ground, Ned. My army will follow your lead until you sniff us out another battle. Or four. Heh."
"We will follow the lakeshore then," Ned said, nodding his thanks to his friend. "We will be in a position to threaten Harrenhal within the month."
"And what about…?" Steve prompted, looking to Robert. Every time their scouts had reported a need to change their course for some reason or another since Mastford, he had asked the same question.
From others there was confusion, but Robert understood. Sympathy spread across his face. "I'm sorry, Steve. There are no castles in our path."
Still some of those present did not understand, but now Beron and Samuel found themselves amused.
"What about within a day's ride?" Steve asked, not quite desperate. "There's a family that sided with the monarchy nearby, right? The Goodbrooks? If we took it, they could host us for a night in apology."
Perhaps his desperation was not as hidden as he had thought, for now Robert's lips were twitching.
"What is this about?" Ryswell asked quietly of Beron, though not quiet enough to avoid Steve's ears.
Beron shook his head, pointedly looking up at the tent ceiling.
"Two days, and then a prick of a fight to crack them," Brynden said. He seemed to have cottoned on to Steve's motivation, and he looked like he was caught between amusement and exasperation.
Steve would crack them himself if it came down to it, but after a moment he sighed. It seemed like it wasn't to be.
"I could lend you my tent?" Robert offered. "Gods know I owe you. It's no castle, but it's still plenty fancy."
"I appreciate it, but…it's not the same," Steve said. He shook his head. They would just have to grin and bear it, even if their willpower had been sorely tested.
"I'm sorry, but what…?" Dustin asked of the tent, looking around at his fellow lords. "I feel that I am missing something."
"It's nothing," Steve said, waving him off. "Don't worry about it," he mumbled. Leaving the army to take a castle and spend the night in relative luxury wouldn't be appropriate, not while everyone else still lived on the march, but maybe he could engineer something…no, he was being foolish.
There was little else left to cover, and the meeting soon came to an end. Robert clapped him on the shoulder with a look of deep sympathy as he left, already putting his head together with Ned. Brynden followed him, shaking his head, and Beron spared him a look as he went too. Steve couldn't help but pinch the bridge of his nose. At least none of them were gossips, even if he really was making a mess of it all. He steeled himself, putting all less-than-virtuous thoughts of Naerys from his head, and followed after them, leaving the tent for the servants to break down.
Nat would have gotten a kick out of all this, he was sure.
X
The breeze that swept over them off the lake kept the army cool on the march, and the ready access to water eased at least at least one supply concern. Riders roamed westward to address another, but that was work for outriders and knights, not lords, and Steve found himself riding Brooklyn as midday was left behind.
The ride was made perhaps not easier, but more interesting, by the fruits that had come from the mixing of men with a penchant for trouble and some small musical talent. Someone - Steve wasn't going to point fingers, but he was pretty sure they answered to Willem and Yorick - had not only found their co conspirators in Robert's marching song, but had also connected them with some Northmen of like minds.
"Lame old dragon why weren't you told,
Northerners are mighty bold,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Howlin' time!
We're a comin' we're a marchin' we're a headed down south,
Gonna piss straight down Old Aerys' mouth,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Runnin' time!
Scab King Aerys is a son of a bitch,
Got the Oldtown pox and the Blue Lys Itch,
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Huntin' time!
We'll put him on a pike and say listen to me,
Your blood gonna water my new heart tree.
What's the time?
Wolf time!
What's the time?
Killin' time!
Mad King Aerys we're comin' for you,
You'll hang from the tree by the time we're through."
Their efforts seemed to be a hit, going by how quickly it had spread through the men regardless of kingdom. Dodger let out an approving howl as they finished the song - for the fifth time so far - from his position seated on Brooklyn's rump.
Another horseman drew his mount alongside Steve as the howl faded and the song started up again. "Didn't have anything like this in the Stepstones," Walt said, chewing on some jerky.
"Yeah?" Steve asked. "I'd have thought soldiers would be quick to this sort of mischief."
"We had songs, aye," Walt said, "but nothing quite like this." 'Piss straight down' he mouthed to himself.
Steve huffed a laugh, but then grew more serious. "What's the word?"
Walt bit savagely through his snack. "Still little," he said, "but it's there. Someone heard a Vale knight swear by the Seven that the youngest of the Delnaimn brood was a girl, but no one could tell me his name."
"You didn't cut anyone's ear off over it, did you?" Steve asked, only half joking.
"Might do, if this keeps up," Walt said. The look on his face said there was no 'might' about it.
Steve didn't call him on it. The whispers were small things, never spoken openly or turned into accusations, but they were there all the same. They were not something that Steve could address, not without giving legitimacy to them, but if anything that just made him more annoyed with it all. Maybe he'd been spoiled by the idea that punching a punk in the face was a respected way of solving disagreements here.
"Keep an ear to the ground," Steve said at length. About the only benefit to it all was that it was distracting him and Naerys from each other.
Walt gave a grunt, but then he did something unusual. He opened his mouth, only to hesitate, closing it.
"Don't hold back on me now," Steve said. "Speak your mind."
The old soldier glanced around them, disguising the action by leaning forward to rub at his mount's ears. For all that they were part of the column, there was no one close enough to overhear them. "What're you going to do if the whispers don't stay whispers?"
Steve levelled his gaze at his third in command. As far as he was aware, Kel had never confided in him, nor had Naerys or the kids slipped up. "I thought how things at Harrenhal went down would've taught people better. If it hasn't, I figure we'll just settle things for sure," he said, leaving his words open ended.
"Every man who's fought with you knows you won't have Keladry whip his cock out, just for the principle of it," Walt said, chewing on the inside of his scarred cheek. "But what're you gonna do if the whispers grow and that's the only answer they'll take?"
But then, the man had travelled with them for nine months, and for all his coarseness, Walt was no fool. "That's up to Keladry, in the end," Steve said, answering the unspoken question, "but I've had pretty good luck punching the stupid out of people before. Might give that another go."
Walt gave a nod, satisfied. "Don't strike me as a smart thing for them to push, given what you've done, but I'll keep an ear out. Little Hood will do the same."
"That's all I ask," Steve said. "You're a good man, Walt."
A scoff was his answer. "If you really thought that, you wouldn't have me lugging this damn thing around," Walt said, slapping the sheath that hung from his hip.
"I'm told it's a great honour," Steve said, the picture of innocence.
"Fuck off," Walt said, almost groaning. "You know what I mean."
"I do," Steve said, "but consider this: some hoity toity noble is going to cause trouble, and you're going to pull out a Valyrian steel sword in response. Picture their face when they see it."
The old soldier was still scowling, but then Steve's words began to filter in. An almost dreamlike expression stole across his face, before he remembered he was supposed to be unhappy. "I still don't like it."
"It won't be forever," Steve said, more serious now. "I've got plans for the steel. I just don't trust no one to make a try for it if I leave it sitting around."
"Because I'll make the fool big enough to try hesitate," Walt said.
"Think of it like permission to cut someone's ear off," Steve said. "The way people here act about it, someone is bound to try eventually."
"Heh."
Steve shook his head. Maybe he shouldn't be encouraging the man, but he prided himself on keeping his men in high spirits. He was sure it'd be fine.
X
The march north continued, and so did the whispers, but they found no purchase, not in the face of Lord America's spreading deeds and growing legend. It took them the better part of a day to cross one of the major feeder rivers to the Gods Eye lake, and it was judged smarter to make camp early rather than push on. Steve had thoughts of organising some games and leisure time for his men, but before he could put thought to action, a messenger arrived for him, summoning him to Ned's tent. A party of riders had arrived, and he was called to Lord Eddard's personal tent to hear what word they had brought.
Steve was quick to attend, wary of ill news, but when he arrived the mood was not one of worry, but of longsuffering, at least on the part of the host. To his surprise he recognised the two men responsible, newly arrived: Brandon Stark, and his squire whom he had met at Riverrun, Ethan Glover.
"Steve!" Brandon said, rising from his chair at a writing desk to greet him.
"Brandon," Steve said, accepting the offered clasp of his hand. "I heard you were well." And he had - there were many eager to share the exploits of their overlords, even if he could tell there was something that was being glossed over or left out. "Ethan."
"Lord America," Ethan said, from his position standing by the tent wall. His beard had grown in better since the weddings, and a scar on his brow made him look older.
"Been a minute since Gulltown," Steve said. "What brings you here?"
"Ned sent word that he took all the glory that was to be had, so I sent my men back north," Brandon said, taking his seat again. "But I received another message, one addressed to Ned." He gestured to a small roll of parchment that Ned held, not yet opened, as his younger brother sat on his bed.
"You could have just read it if you really needed to know, brother," Ned said, reproachful.
"And deprive you of my company?" Brandon asked. "Besides, I think it's from-"
Another man entered the tent, his size doing little to help the growing sense of smallness to it.
"Brandon!" Robert said. "You raze Harrenhal yet, or are you being lazy?" He took one big step across the tent to clap his arm. "What brings you?"
"I knew you'd complain if I did it without you," Brandon said, grinning. "And I brought Ned a message from his wife."
Ned sharpened, the conversation suddenly less interesting than the message he held. "How do you know?" He started to untie the twine keeping it rolled..
"Who else would send you a raven from Winterfell with a perfumed message?" Brandon asked with a shrug. Despite his easy words, his gaze was fixed on his brother, eager to discover the contents of the message.
"Ned and his Dornish beauty, I still can't believe…," Robert said, before he began to frown. "What is it?"
Ned's jaw had gone slack as he stared at the parchment, almost unseeing.
"Ned?" Brandon asked, wary.
The kid looked up, blinking as his mind was brought back from wherever it had wandered off to. "Twins," he said.
"What?"
"Twins," he said again, struggling to find words. "Ashara, twins."
A grin lit up Robert's face. "Twins! Gods, Ned! Twins!"
"Twins," Ned said, staring blankly at the letter.
"Twins?" Brandon asked, blinking.
Ethan's head was ping ponging between each speaker.
"Twins!" Robert agreed, voice boisterous. He almost bouncing around the small room, a moment from striding right through the canvas walls in his enthusiasm. "Ashara gave birth to two healthy - what are they, Ned?"
"Arya and Alistair," Ned said. "We picked names for both, so she just - twins." It was well that he was seated, for it seemed unlikely that his legs would support him at that moment.
"Arya and Alistair Stark," Brandon said. "A niece and nephew! We have to tell Father; this will restore him. Hopefully Arya has Ashara's looks and not your horse's ass."
"We are brothers," Ned said, the jab penetrating the fog that held him.
"And yet," Brandon said, smirking at him, before it shifted back into a happy grin. "Gods. Twins!"
"Congratulations," Steve said, watching it all with a smile. It was always nice to see a spot of happiness amongst otherwise grim circumstance.
"I, thank you," Ned said, the news really starting to sink in. "They were - oh."
"Come on, tell us," Brandon urged him.
"They were premature, and Ashara held off on sending word, in case…" Ned said, slowly reading the tightly packed writing on the scroll.
"But they are well now, for her to send the message?" Brandon pressed.
"They are well," Ned said. He blinked rapidly. "Mother met them."
"Mother?" Brandon said, the word slowing him for a moment. "She - she knew her grandchildren, before she passed?"
"Aye."
"...good."
There was a moment of quiet as the brothers absorbed the information. It did not last.
"You know what this means, aye?" Robert asked, looking from brother to brother. Both stared blankly at him, still rocked by the news.
"What does it mean?" Ethan asked for them.
"We must celebrate!" Robert said, fairly booming. "Celebrate the birth of Arya and Alistair Stark!"
"With what?" Ned asked. "We used the best of our supplies after the battles."
Steve saw his chance and seized it. "A small group could make a detour as the army continues north," he said, "and prevail upon the closest lord for an evening to celebrate."
"The closest is still Goodbrook Keep, and they'll be buttoned up tight," Robert said, frowning, though he didn't dismiss it out of hand.
"I can take care of that," Steve said swiftly.
"With your hundred alone?" Ned asked. "It is no Winterfell, but it has seen many wars."
"Sure, they can help," Steve said. "Yeah. Quick ride there, stay the night, rejoin the army the next day." He nodded to himself, ignoring Robert's sudden snort as he realised something. Fraying willpower on both his and Naerys' parts had seen them no longer sharing a bedroll, and if they had to wait until they reached some castle north of Harrenhal, he wasn't sure they'd make it if they didn't stop sharing a tent as well. Much as they both desired each other, neither wanted to take that step in a thin tent on the march in the middle of the camp.
"I see no problem with it," Brandon said, looking to the others. "Two new Starks deserve a celebration."
"Aye, let's do it," Robert said.
If the agreement had the air of a group of teenagers making a decision because there was no one more mature around to tell them otherwise, none commented. Steve certainly wasn't going to.
Robert wasn't done. "Very kind of you, Steve, to make the offer. Real, uh, selfless."
"I'll ride out first thing tomorrow," Steve said, ignoring the comment. "Excuse me, I'm going to tell my quartermaster, have them make the needed preparations. Congratulations again, Ned." He ducked out, leaving them behind.
"Preparations?" Brandon asked. "It's only a day's…"
His voice faded as Steve strode away, mind on more important matters. He had a spring in his step.
X
Goodbrook Keep was oddly tall, like someone had taken a normal square keep and stretched it upwards. Even the stone towers at each corner seemed taller than was normal. Situated on a hill by a river, there was little cover on any approach, only fields filled with grass and fodder crops. A moat had been dug around the hill, and it was currently flowing, the river used to keep it full. Where the river sloshed and flowed into the moat, Steve could catch the occasional glimpse of stakes hidden by the water.
There were men on the walls, and by the movement their approach had been seen, riding up in the early afternoon as they had. There was little helping that given the time constraints he was under. Ned and those he had invited to celebrate would only be an hour or three behind him.
"Not the easiest nut to crack," Walt said, standing at his side.
"They seem pretty happy to sit tight," Steve said, agreeing. The crenellations jutted forward from the wall by a good metre, curved stone below interrupting an otherwise flat wall.
"They likely could have sat out the war, if not for you," Keladry said, standing at the other. "Is that smoke coming from above the gatehouse?"
"Yeah," Steve said, mouth twisting. "They're cooking something up. Water, or sand maybe."
Behind his back, the two shared a glance. Walt raised his brows pointedly, but Kel only returned a deliberately blank look. The old soldier pulled a face, but gave in.
"I know you've got your reason for this," Walt said, "but you sure this is worth the injuries we'll pick up on the way?"
"No one's getting injured," Steve said, still scanning the keep. "None of ours, anyway." He caught a glimpse of the tops of bow limbs passing briefly between two merlons, though they didn't reappear. He fixed the spot in his mind as a likely position of an internal staircase.
"You've got a plan then?" Walt pressed.
"Yeah," Steve said, eyeing the gate. The drawbridge was raised, and its underside had some metal cladding, but it was more a lattice than a full covering. The gatehouse above it was fat and squat, murder holes dotted along it in two levels. They were just large enough to make use of, and from there he could reach the roof… "I need ten spears."
"Spears? Not javelins?" Keladry checked.
Steve nodded. "Javelins won't hold the weight." It might've been a smarter move to wear his suit rather than his plate, but he was still leery of exposing the suit to wear and tear when he didn't have to. The day would come where he would need it, but it wasn't today.
Walt and Keladry shared another look. This time Walt won out.
"What orders do you have for us?" Keladry asked. Her fingers drummed on the haft of her glaive where she gripped it.
"Just have the troops ready to police their surrender after I let you in," Steve said. He reached for his hammer, taking it from its harness. "Here, hold on to this for a moment."
Keladry took the hammer, swinging it up to rest on her shoulder with one hand and a grunt.
"Why not leave your shield, too?" Walt asked, voice dry. "Really impress the lads."
"I can't be expected to capture a castle without my shield," Steve said, a feigned injury to his voice that fooled neither of them. "That's asking a bit much, don't you think?"
"Ugh."
A distant horse whinnied as they continued to survey the target, and there was quiet for a moment.
At length, Keladry spoke. "Are you sure?" she asked. "To take it alone…"
Steve glanced at her; her face was calm, but her hold on her glaive was tight. Of all his companions, she was probably the one who had the best idea of just how unnatural his strength was. The others had an inkling, had witnessed him do things beyond most men, but none had fought beside him as she had, or had the same understanding of their own limits. "I want the castle," he said, "but it isn't a military objective, and I'm not going to risk lives getting it. Even if that means showing off a bit."
Walt hadn't fought on the bridge, but he had stalked enemy scouts with him and had front row seats to his bootcamp. He knew enough to twig to what they meant. "The men won't blab if you say so," he said. "Whatever it is you've got-" he cut himself off, grimacing. "They'd charge a dragon for you, and knowing- it won't change that."
"There will come a time where I can't afford to hold back," Steve said. He raised one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm not worried about the reaction of anyone who matters."
"People don't react well to things they judge unnatural," Keladry said, and there was a tone to her words that spoke of anger at a past injustice.
"Other folk like as not think we're just boasting of you again, exaggeratin'," Walt said, almost muttering.
"There is that," Steve acknowledged to both of them. "But people can also surprise you."
Keladry snorted, a mirthless thing full of denial and disgust. So uncharacteristic of her was it that both men found themselves looking to her in surprise. "I think your home was very different to Westeros," she said.
"It could be," Steve said. "But people are still people."
The hidden woman made a sound in her throat that spoke of both acknowledgment and disagreement, and Steve held back a frown. He hadn't realised that she was so pessimistic over her situation - he had thought she was more hopeful. He would have to find the time to speak with her.
"Given the campaign so far," Steve said carefully, "I think the men will be able to look back and let past events colour their perceptions of any shocks." When they had that talk, he'd have to let Kel know that Walt had guessed her secret; maybe it would help. "Even back during training, with the tug of war, I wasn't exactly hiding what I can do," he added.
"As you say," Keladry said. She nodded towards the castle that was still hurriedly preparing for their coming. "When do you mean to attack?"
Steve accepted the redirection. "As soon as I borrow some spears." He readied his shield, looking over the jagged edge that was once more exposed. Peake's gambit had ruined the covering, and it would have been more trouble than it was worth to replace it on the march. Maybe the castle would have a smith capable.
A sigh came from the old soldier to his side. "Let's make it happen then," Walt said. "I'm about out of Arbor." He stalked off, heading towards the bulk of their men where they stood in ranks.
When he was out of earshot, Steve turned to his friend. "Kel," he said.
"I know, Steve," she said, still watching the castle. "It is just…not easy."
"Things worth doing never are," he said. "Whatever you decide, you know I'll back you."
"I know," she said again. "But seeing Joren, hearing the rumours…"
"Not easy," Steve said. "Yeah. But just remember one thing."
"What is that?" Keladry asked, turning to him. She was guarded, warned by something in his tone.
"If worst comes to worst, you can always just prove you have a bigger dick than him," he said, waggling his brows with an eye to her glaive.
Keladry let out a sigh, her poker face not enough to completely hide her moment of exasperation. "Captain. Go and take the castle."
"Yes ser," Steve said, his cheek worn plainly, and she could not help but make a sound of disgust.
When Walt returned with the spears, it was to see a greatly amused Steve and a completely blank Keladry. He shook his head at them. "Go on then. Can't be standing around here all day."
Steve tucked the spears under one arm, and advanced alone towards Goodbrook Keep. He had a date night to make happen.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
One can only imagine how many westerosi ladies (and at least a few lords) have fantasies about Captain America…captain America? no lad, the one taking this castle is Lieutenant Lusty
To the Fire 3
- Location
- Australia
From the walls of Goodbrook Keep, defenders watched as a man approached alone. An old knight called a calm command, steadying the untested men-at-arms and young men who had been pressed into service. The walls were thick, but walls were only as strong as the men who held them, and the lord's sons and his best men were absent, sent away to join up with the White Bull as he held off the faithless rebels from Harrenhal. The approaching foe might have been alone, but he was large enough to give any man pause. More than that, there was something about the way he walked as he entered bowrange, something that pricked at the mind of the few atop the walls who had seen war before.
The old knight frowned as he glimpsed the white star on the man's broken shield, a half heard bit of gossip trying to surface in his memory, but his attention was drawn to the bundle of wood - spears? - that he held under one arm. He certainly wasn't making his intent to parley clear, but what else could such an approach be? All of his men were left gathered out of range, still preparing for their attack. Seven Above, he had hoped they would be left alone after Lord Goodbrook had sent his forces away and bunkered down. The approaching knight began to slow a stone's throw from the moat, but made no move to call for parley or shout any demands.
Instead, those atop the wall watched with growing bemusement as he began to jab his bundle of spears into the ground, each one a step closer to the moat.
"What is he doing?" the master-at-arms asked, a short way down the wall.
Once all the spears were stuck into the ground, the man returned to the first, taking it up and hefting it as if to throw it. But that was a fool's move; even from the wall the old knight could tell it was a thrusting spear, not a throwing spear.
"Is this some sort of…?" the old knight's squire asked, trailing off, clearly unsure of what it could possibly be.
The old knight opened his mouth to reply, only for the first spear to be thrown. The heavy impact and the deep thrumming that followed echoed off the walls, cutting off whatever thought he had been about to express. He was not alone in leaning out past the merlons to confirm what his mind was telling him.
The spear had pierced the seasoned oak of the drawbridge, somehow finding a gap in the metal lattice that covered its underside. It still quivered in place, such was its force, and as they watched, another spear joined it, this one slightly higher. The old knight suddenly remembered why the white star had pricked at his memory, and a pit formed in his stomach. Another spear pierced the drawbridge, sending another ominous crack and thrumming up over the walls. None had ever heard anything like it.
"Go and warn the Lord," the old knight said to his squire, pulling his head back behind the safety of the crenellations. "Tell him Lord America leads the foe."
"Who?" the squire asked. "Wait, the foreigner from Harrenhal?"
Amongst other things, but there was a reason Lord Goodbrook hadn't seen fit to share the gossip from King's Landing with the men. "Go," he snapped. Another spear hit its target, and every man on the wall found themselves double checking they were covered by the merlons.
By the time the squire made it down the stairs to the bailey, Lord America had only a single spear left, but that too soon joined its fellows. The horrid sound of its impact faded away, and the old knight peered over the wall once more. "What're you doing, you bastard," he muttered to himself. He had no weapon now, only a shield - was it all just meant to intimidate them before the assault? "You can't tell me-" he stopped, refusing to believe what he was seeing.
Lord America had broken into a sudden sprint, showing no signs of slowing as he reached the moat. Any thoughts as to the swiftness of his pace were forgotten as the man leapt, seemingly launching himself into the water and sure death, but it was not to be. There was a thud as the heavily armoured knight collided with the drawbridge, catching himself with the lowest of the spears. Then, he began to climb.
"What's going on?" the master-at-arms demanded.
"He's climbing the gate," the old knight said, still staring in disbelief.
"He's what?"
"He's using the spears to climb up the gate."
"...what?"
The bastard was already halfway up the wall.
"Ready crossbows!" the old knight shouted, turning for the door that led into the gatehouse proper. "Ready!" His gut was telling him what the mad foeman intended, but even as his mind was telling him it was impossible he knew it was true.
"What?" came the shout from the men in the gatehouse. "They're still out of range!"
"The arrow slit, watch the slits!"
"What do you meaaah buggering fuck!"
There was the sound of steel rasping across stone, and the old knight feared it was almost too late. "To the gatehouse!" he roared, a sudden vigour filling him. "You lot, on me! To the winch! Now!"
Seeing the old knight, a fixture around Goodbrook lands for decades now, so concerned and moving so quickly, lit a fire under those he had bellowed at. They followed him into the gatehouse, rushing for the control of the drawbridge.
One of the crossbowmen already stationed within looked their way, face pale with shock. "Ser, someone climbed up-"
"Quiet," the old knight barked, hand raised in warning. "Bar the doors." The rumours said Lord America had fought through a dozen knights to open the gates at Gulltown, but even if it had only been city men-at-arms that was still a tougher challenge than what they could muster. If the foreigner meant to do the same thing there, they'd need to take him by surprise as he entered.
Timber creaked above them - but it wasn't the other defenders on the walkway on the second level. It came from the wooden roof of the gatehouse itself.
"Be ready," the old knight whispered as he looked up, drawing his warpick.
They waited, listening as creaking timber marked the steps of the intruder, waiting for the moment he would make his attack. Would he drop down the side to come in through one of the doors? Would he somehow crash down through the ceiling? They waited, palms growing sweaty, the old knight's wariness well and truly spread to the rest of the men. They waited.
They waited, but as the moments stretched out, long heartbeats with no sign of the foe, the old knight began to doubt himself. It was an absurd thing to think, but no, he knew what news they had received, and he knew what he had seen. Any man who could leap the moat and climb the drawbridge with spears he had thrown deeply into its old timbers was not one worried with what was reasonable.
There was a shout of alarm from outside, and the old knight readied himself, but then he heard what was being called, and he realised with a horrible certainty that he had gotten it wrong. A racket rose in the distance, and he raced for the door, wrestling the bar off and emerging from the gatehouse. He looked not out over the walls, but back across the bailey, to the keep, and saw that his fears were true.
Lord America's target had never been the gatehouse to open the way. He had made directly for the keep, and the thick doors that were its main entrance were subject to a one man assault, visibly bowing and splintering as he beat on them with his shield.
A cry to defend the keep was bitten off at the last moment, the old knight remembering the enemy force still waiting patiently out of bow range. He hesitated, torn between two needs. The loud whump of the keep doors being slammed open made his decision for him, and he looked to the master-at-arms.
"The wall is yours," he said grimly. "Spread the men out. The rest of you, with me! We defend the keep!" He put word to action, racing down the inner staircase, panic lending him a speed he had lacked for years.
Maybe he was overreacting. But he knew what he had seen, and he knew what he had heard, and he didn't want to think about the consequences of leaving America to have free reign over the inhabitants of the keep.
X
He was being ridiculous, he knew. There was nothing militarily important about what he was doing. No benefit would come of taking the castle. No gain to be had. But goddamit, he and his girl had been ready to take the next step since before Mastford, and if he didn't take this castle, he was pretty sure she would.
The keep wasn't as large or winding as the Red Keep, but it was still an unknown structure. He strode down its halls, building a map in his mind's eye as he searched for its lord. He hadn't seen the man on the walls as he had hoped - a repeat of Grassfield Keep was not to be - so now he had to track him down. Tapestries lined the walls, and most halls were carpeted, candles spaced along those halls that lacked natural light, but he didn't have time to stop to admire the decorations. He did feel bad about tracking dirt inside though.
Steve turned a corner, and almost bowled over a young lady. She took in a startled breath, visibly holding back a shriek of surprise as she fought to keep her balance. He caught her, steadying her in place.
"Sorry, excuse me miss," Steve said. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes, I - apologies, I wasn't watching where I was going," the young lady said, regathering herself.
"No, it was my fault," Steve said, releasing her shoulder now that she was well. "Say, do you know where Lord Goodbrook is? I need to have a word with him."
"Uncle is in the receiving hall," the girl said, stepping to the side, as if out of his way. She frowned, taking a moment to look him over now that her surprise was fading. "Have we met? I am not familiar with you, Ser…?" Her gaze lingered on his shield, but there was no recognition in her eyes.
"I'm just visiting. Don't worry, I left my weapons in the door," Steve said. He gave a slight bow. "Thanks for your help."
Without another word he was making his way down the hall, following the girl's unspoken directions. He could feel her uncertain stare following him, but unless her title started with Black and ended with Widow, there was nothing she could do to stop him.
One wrong turn and a backtrack later, the receiving hall turned out to be on the second floor of the keep. When he found it he found not only Lord Goodbrook but two others, a knight and a squire, the three of them at the base of a dais that held the lord's chair. All three looked up at his entrance, and the squire's eyes bugged.
"That's him! That's Lord America!"
Lord Goodbrook was on the wrong side of middle-aged, but hardly incapable. All three were armed and armoured, and the lord and knight shared a glance before drawing their swords.
Seems they'd need some persuading.
Steve let them approach, making no move to prevent himself being surrounded. His lack of action seemed to unnerve them, and they hesitated at the last moment. It cost them. He dropped to the floor, spinning, and swept their legs out from under them. All three collapsed, completely unprepared for the move, and by the time they could comprehend their new positions, Steve was already back on his feet, staring down at them.
"Lord Goodbrook," Steve said, speaking for the first time as he stepped towards him.
The knight couldn't bring his sword to bear on that ground as he was, but that didn't stop him from pulling a rondel knife and attempting to drive it through Steve's ankle. Absently, Steve stomped hard on the dagger, careful to avoid the man's fingers but neutering his attack all the same.
"Lord Goodbrook," Steve said again, hunkering down beside him. "You would like to surrender."
Goodbrook pulled wide eyes away from his knight to look at Steve. Light brown hair was thinning, and he was missing a tooth, but otherwise he was in good health. "I - yes," he said. The squire groaned behind them as he sucked in a breath, winded from the fall. "I would like to surrender."
"That's swell," Steve said, all smiles. He rose, and he pulled Goodbrook up with him. "Now, there's some things you need to know."
Taking a deep breath, Goodbrook steeled himself. "I understand. I only ask that you treat my people-"
"You've got nothing to worry about there," Steve said, making a cutting gesture with his hand. "You and yours will be treated with all the respect owed by guests to their host."
Goodbrook blinked as he absorbed the words. "Then - what?"
"You're going to be hosting Ned and Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, and a dozen or so other lords," Steve told him. "Ned just got word that his wife gave birth to twins, and we're looking to celebrate his good fortune."
"What?"
The knight had risen to his feet, watching Steve cautiously, and was helping the squire do the same. Both had very carefully left their weapons on the floor.
"The war is over for you, of course, but that's something you can think over later," Steve said.
There was a sudden commotion at the entry door as a group of armed men all tried to enter at once. They saw Steve standing next to their lord and made to charge, worsening their attempts to enter.
Steve turned for them.
"Stop!" Goodbrook commanded, confusion banished. "Stop. I have surrendered, and received Lord America's guarantee."
The old knight at their head slid to a stop, sagging. "Aye, my lord." He was breathing heavily.
"You should take a seat," Steve told the greybeard, concerned. "There won't be any fighting today, and I figure you'll need to talk to my second to organise the handover."
A glower was his answer, but Goodbrook gave the man a stiff nod.
Steve brought them back to more important matters. "Now, there's a couple of things we need to discuss about tonight," like organising a private room and the possibility of silk sheets, "but we'll need to include whoever it is that oversees that sort of thing. Is that your wife, your niece?"
"My niece?" Goodbrook asked, sharpness entering his tone.
He received an approving nod. "I passed her in the hall on my way here but I'm not sure where she went after that," Steve said. "Is she in charge of your social functions?"
"My - no, she assists my wife…"
It was clear that the suddenness of the situation was starting to overwhelm the man. "I'll give you a moment to open the gates and get out of your armour, and then we can talk. My quartermaster can help out," Steve said. He glanced at the cluster of men who were still standing uncertainly at the entrance to the hall. He raised his brows at them, expectant.
It took a moment to get things moving, and several reassurances that yes, this was how things were going to be and one whispered conversation they didn't think he could hear that no, they wouldn't and couldn't turn the tables on the invader to take him hostage, but in the end Steve had his way. He made small talk with Goodbrook - Glendon Goodbrook - and asked idle questions about the guest rooms of his castle. The defenders were stood down, the drawbridge lowered and gates opened, and then his soldiers were riding in.
For once, it was not Keladry leading the way in his absence. Naerys led the way, clad in the armour he had bought for her and shadowed by the banner she had made for him, looking like a conquering general. He had to remind himself that the others could arrive any time in the next hours, and that stealing away with his girl was not an option. They had waited this long. They could wait until evening.
Naerys came to a stop beside Steve in the bailey, and the look in her eyes said she was struggling with the same dilemma. He reached up to take her gently by the waist, lifting her up and off Swiftstride. If he held onto her for a touch longer than was needed, and if her stumble into him as she was placed down was less than believable, none commented.
"Well?" Naerys asked, laying a hand on his chest.
"We've got three options," Steve told her. His hands twitched, instinctively wanting to lower from her waist, and she smirked at him. He took a breath, focusing. "There's a room in one of the corner turrets with access to the roof, a room with a permanent heated bath on the upper level, or a room on the second level that looks over a private garden."
Naerys considered them, biting her lip. "I can think of benefits to all of them. What do you think?"
"As much as I like the idea of you and a blanket on top of the turret, that bath is convincing," Steve murmured. He wasn't sure if the idea of a hot relaxing bath or getting Naerys in that bath was more compelling. No, that was a lie, he knew damn well which.
"The bath it is," Naerys said. Her eyes darkened. "I would hate to go to bed sweaty."
Steve clenched his jaw, warning her with his eyes, but her smirk only deepened at the look. She stepped back from him.
"Would you introduce me to our hosts, my lord?" she asked, innocent as the breeze. "If we are to help them make ready for the celebrations tonight, we mustn't dally."
Another thread of his self-control frayed, but it still didn't snap. "Yes. Of course," he said. Glendon was waiting by the main doors, clearly smashed in but propped open as best they could be, and he had been joined by a younger woman who must be his wife.
Toby appeared from nowhere to lead Swiftstride off, making for the stables where the bulk of the troops were dealing with their own mounts, but Keladry had all that under control. Steve and Naerys approached their hosts, arm in arm, and began to go through the dance of niceties that were expected in such situations.
Later, Steve couldn't have related the details of what they spoke. All he knew was that the upper level room was theirs, and that the Goodbrooks indeed had a set of silk sheets that they were happy to afford to them as a luxury after long months on campaign.
X
That night, there was a celebration at Goodbrook Keep. The dining hall was not the largest, and the fare not the finest, but that had little impact on the moods of the men who had come together to mark the births of Arya and Alistair Stark. Cheer could be found all the way down the long table that ran the hall, and quick work had seen the head table done away with for the night, leaving all seated together. For all that the Goodbrooks themselves were ostensibly the foes of those they hosted, one would not know it. Though pride of place had gone to the new father, the hosts found themselves charmed by his brother, unburdening the troubles that came with siding against one's liege lord, and sympathising with the uncertain fate of his sister.
Three big men were doing their best to ensure their hosts would be left with not a drop of alcohol the next day, and it was a tossup as to whether Robert, Greatjon, or Buckets Wull would be the last man standing. Nearby, a mix of Northmen and Stormlanders listened with incredulity as an old knight told the tale of how Lord America had taken the castle. Disbelief was answered with an invitation to check the underside of the drawbridge when they left, and the only one to believe him was the Stormlands bastard who had seen with his own eyes what the foreigner was capable of.
Few kept to their seats as the night went on. Ned spent time teaching his cousin a Northern drinking song, and Beron returned the favour. Dustin told a joke of such filth and with such a straight face that his victim had to be rescued, near choking on his ale, and the young Royce found himself unable to so much as look at the northman for long minutes after without turning red. Those who called the castle home left all concerns of occupation behind as thoughts of the war disappeared, and by the raucous singing that sometimes drifted in through the hall shutters, the common men outside had done the same. Even Keladry had found an opportunity to share in the good cheer without fear, engaged in deep conversation with Mark Ryswell on the topic of horseflesh.
Of the few who kept to themselves, two of them were a couple near the middle of the table, not quite part of any one group. They had spent the night with their heads close together, almost sitting in each other's laps. Those around them had been quick to realise that there would be little conversation to be had from either of them.
"...ate the whole thing," Steve said to his girl.
"No!" Naerys said, pushing at his side. "The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
"How did you get away with it?"
"The owner's daughter was sweet on Bucky, and she hid the box behind all the others," Steve said, catching her lingering hand. He pulled it up for a stolen kiss. "We spent the next week scrounging for money to pay for it, and then we came in and 'bought' it."
She laughed, shaking her head at the misadventure. "I can't believe you - well," she said, correcting herself. "You are trouble."
"Me?" Steve asked, pulling a face as innocent as apple pie. "I'd never cause trouble. You must be thinking of someone else."
"You wouldn't?" Naerys asked, leaning into him. There was nothing innocent about her expression, or the way her hand trailed down his chest. "So it was someone else who left my copy of A Caution for me to find, open on the page where the warlock and the handmaid-"
"It seemed well thumbed is all, I just wanted to see what you liked to read," Steve said.
"So it wasn't a hint?" Her hand trailed lower, beneath the table, sending frissons of sensation over his lower belly. "A shame. I had a jar of honey sent to our room, too." Her touch skipped over to his thigh, settling there.
Steve felt the balance tilting back in her favour, and casually slipped his hand to her shoulder, ghosting a touch at the spot on the back of her neck that always made her squirm. "Mostly I needed to know what it was about so I could illustrate it properly for you."
"Illus- oh," Naerys said. Her imagination distracted her briefly, before her hand began to make slow circles back up his thigh and he knew he'd miscalculated. Her voice dipped lower. "But why would I want them when we could just recreate the scene ourselves?"
The super soldier tried to mask a dry swallow with a sip of his wine, playing for time, but there was no hiding his reaction from her, not when her hand was damn near playing with his belt buckle.
"You know what I think, my lord?" she asked, leaning in even further, breath tickling at his ear. "I think that I am going to step out to refresh myself."
It took a moment for Steve to understand the turn things had taken, and by then her hand had already retreated as she eased back, his hand slipping from her shoulder. He twitched to take advantage as she rose and turned away, but from the corner of his eye he could see Ned's friend, Howland, watching with a faint but clearly incredulous amusement, and his chance to tweak her rear in revenge passed. He let out a breath as she sashayed away, yet again judging if they'd spent enough time at the feast to be polite. He cursed internally; not yet, but soon.
The feast continued in Naerys' brief absence, and Steve took the chance to regather himself, determined to win the war even if he'd just lost a battle. A furor down the table had him sit up and pay attention, but it was just Ethan and the squire he'd swept over earlier having an arm wrestle. When he eased back, Howland was leaning towards him from across the table.
"It was well of you to do this," the crannogman said, a certain look in his eye.
"I just wanted to help a friend," Steve said, his best 'I Don't Even Know How to Spell Guile, Now Let's Have Some Apple Pie!' smile on display.
"How selfless," Howland said, glancing over to the door that Naerys had departed from. "Thank you," he said, more serious now. "Lord Stark's injury and Lady Stark's passing have been weighing on him."
Steve raised his wine to the small man. He hadn't spoken with him much, but he had twigged quickly to the way he tended to lurk at Ned's side, and he couldn't help but remember the way he had once done the same with Bucky. "Everyone needs downtime," he said. War in Westeros wasn't anything like frontline or behind enemy line fighting in Europe had been, but it took a toll all the same.
"Is that why you hold those games with your men?" Howland asked. "They seemed…unusual."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "You're welcome to join in next time, if you'd like." All the local games he'd seen so far seemed to focus on strength to some degree, so he'd done his best to introduce some variety for those with other talents. Finger dancing like he'd played during his infiltration of Gulltown was an exception, but for obvious reasons he wasn't going to encourage that.
Howland nodded, not committing either way. He glanced down the table, and a sudden scowl took his features. Steve followed his gaze, and saw what it was that had fouled his mood so.
Robert had left off from Greatjon and Buckets, distracted and drawn into conversation by one of their hosts. It was not the Lord or Lady, but the niece, and as they watched he said something with a grin that caused her to laugh, one hand playing with her hair. They were not quite so close to each other as Steve and Naerys had been, but it was quite clear that their attention was firmly upon one another.
Steve frowned.
Combat honed a person's instincts, taught them to be aware of threats, and it only took a moment for Robert's head to come up, swivelling around as he searched for whatever it was that had pricked at him. A moment later he found Steve, and he stilled.
Slowly, an unamused brow was raised, and Steve looked from Robert to the girl he was flirting with and back. He knew that his marriage with Lyanna was an arranged one, but from what he had seen they weren't exactly uninterested in each other. Not to mention the pitfalls that came from flirting with a woman whose home you had occupied by force.
Robert flushed, and not just from the wine that he busied himself with for a moment. He looked back up and gave Steve a jerky nod, leaning back in his seat and away from the young lady. Steve raised his cup to him in turn.
"That was…Ned's tales made him seem more stubborn," Howland said.
"We're all dumb when we're young," Steve said, shrugging. "Young, dumb, and full of…well."
Howland's mouth twitched, guessing where the phrase was going. "Lyanna is a friend," he said, abrupt. "I know how things are at war, and it isn't my place to speak on such things to a Lord Paramount, but even so. Thank you."
Steve shook his head. "I know that people look up to me. Least I can do is be a good example."
A contemplative look was his answer, but any further conversation was cut off as Steve caught a swish of lilac from the corner of his eye. Naerys had come around to reenter the hall from the other door, trying to approach him without being seen. He drained the last of his cup as he made a decision. It was just about time to retire for the evening.
It took an iron will to remain calm as Naerys approached, but knowing how close the finish line was made it bearable. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and then slipped forward to brush at his chest as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his head.
"I am starting to tire, my lord," Naerys said, speaking directly into his ear. "Will you escort me to our chamber?"
Steve held back a shiver. She knew exactly how it affected him to hear her call him that. He rose, and also got up from his chair. "My lady," he said, looking down at her. She had stepped aside to let him get out of his chair, but only that, and now they stood toe to toe. "I'd love to."
Naerys took his arm, and they made their way from the chamber at a dignified pace, drifting past Ned with a deliberate slowness where they paused to congratulate him one last time. They soon left the hall behind, slipping out a side door.
If anyone noticed the way that Lord America's lady was almost pulling him along, they chose not to mention it.
It was with an expression of supreme self-satisfaction that Naerys led Steve towards their room. The halls were deserted, all either on duty or celebrating, leaving them to feel like they had the castle to themselves. They came to the stairs, and Naerys slipped up ahead of him. He wasn't sure if letting her do so was a mistake or an act of genius, but as he watched her tight rear sway with every step he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
When they reached their floor, Naerys slipped her arm in his once again only to set a maddeningly slow pace. Steve strangled the urge to throw her over his shoulder and dash the rest of the way, but he had decided to let her take the lead and he would stick to it. Something must have given him away all the same, for she glanced up at him from under coy eyelashes.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
Steve made a sound in his throat that while unintelligible, perfectly conveyed his feelings. Naerys only smiled wider. She was playing with fire, and the look of anticipation in her eyes said she knew it.
The remainder of the walk passed by torturously slowly, and by the end even Naerys' patience was running out. They didn't quite rush through the door, but they passed through it quickly, and the loud thud of the door shutting set their hearts, already racing, to even higher heights. The sound of the bar setting into place had a finality to it.
The room was not over large, but it was comfortable, with a thick rug before the fireplace and a large bed in one corner. There were wooden shutters on the outside wall across from it, and below them was the bath, a metal tub placed in a stone brick frame. The water in it was steaming, and there was a jar of honey on its edge.
Naerys had sauntered towards the bath, and she looked over her shoulder at him. With a shrug, the shoulders of her dress fell from their places. "Help me with my ties?"
The old knight frowned as he glimpsed the white star on the man's broken shield, a half heard bit of gossip trying to surface in his memory, but his attention was drawn to the bundle of wood - spears? - that he held under one arm. He certainly wasn't making his intent to parley clear, but what else could such an approach be? All of his men were left gathered out of range, still preparing for their attack. Seven Above, he had hoped they would be left alone after Lord Goodbrook had sent his forces away and bunkered down. The approaching knight began to slow a stone's throw from the moat, but made no move to call for parley or shout any demands.
Instead, those atop the wall watched with growing bemusement as he began to jab his bundle of spears into the ground, each one a step closer to the moat.
"What is he doing?" the master-at-arms asked, a short way down the wall.
Once all the spears were stuck into the ground, the man returned to the first, taking it up and hefting it as if to throw it. But that was a fool's move; even from the wall the old knight could tell it was a thrusting spear, not a throwing spear.
"Is this some sort of…?" the old knight's squire asked, trailing off, clearly unsure of what it could possibly be.
The old knight opened his mouth to reply, only for the first spear to be thrown. The heavy impact and the deep thrumming that followed echoed off the walls, cutting off whatever thought he had been about to express. He was not alone in leaning out past the merlons to confirm what his mind was telling him.
The spear had pierced the seasoned oak of the drawbridge, somehow finding a gap in the metal lattice that covered its underside. It still quivered in place, such was its force, and as they watched, another spear joined it, this one slightly higher. The old knight suddenly remembered why the white star had pricked at his memory, and a pit formed in his stomach. Another spear pierced the drawbridge, sending another ominous crack and thrumming up over the walls. None had ever heard anything like it.
"Go and warn the Lord," the old knight said to his squire, pulling his head back behind the safety of the crenellations. "Tell him Lord America leads the foe."
"Who?" the squire asked. "Wait, the foreigner from Harrenhal?"
Amongst other things, but there was a reason Lord Goodbrook hadn't seen fit to share the gossip from King's Landing with the men. "Go," he snapped. Another spear hit its target, and every man on the wall found themselves double checking they were covered by the merlons.
By the time the squire made it down the stairs to the bailey, Lord America had only a single spear left, but that too soon joined its fellows. The horrid sound of its impact faded away, and the old knight peered over the wall once more. "What're you doing, you bastard," he muttered to himself. He had no weapon now, only a shield - was it all just meant to intimidate them before the assault? "You can't tell me-" he stopped, refusing to believe what he was seeing.
Lord America had broken into a sudden sprint, showing no signs of slowing as he reached the moat. Any thoughts as to the swiftness of his pace were forgotten as the man leapt, seemingly launching himself into the water and sure death, but it was not to be. There was a thud as the heavily armoured knight collided with the drawbridge, catching himself with the lowest of the spears. Then, he began to climb.
"What's going on?" the master-at-arms demanded.
"He's climbing the gate," the old knight said, still staring in disbelief.
"He's what?"
"He's using the spears to climb up the gate."
"...what?"
The bastard was already halfway up the wall.
"Ready crossbows!" the old knight shouted, turning for the door that led into the gatehouse proper. "Ready!" His gut was telling him what the mad foeman intended, but even as his mind was telling him it was impossible he knew it was true.
"What?" came the shout from the men in the gatehouse. "They're still out of range!"
"The arrow slit, watch the slits!"
"What do you meaaah buggering fuck!"
There was the sound of steel rasping across stone, and the old knight feared it was almost too late. "To the gatehouse!" he roared, a sudden vigour filling him. "You lot, on me! To the winch! Now!"
Seeing the old knight, a fixture around Goodbrook lands for decades now, so concerned and moving so quickly, lit a fire under those he had bellowed at. They followed him into the gatehouse, rushing for the control of the drawbridge.
One of the crossbowmen already stationed within looked their way, face pale with shock. "Ser, someone climbed up-"
"Quiet," the old knight barked, hand raised in warning. "Bar the doors." The rumours said Lord America had fought through a dozen knights to open the gates at Gulltown, but even if it had only been city men-at-arms that was still a tougher challenge than what they could muster. If the foreigner meant to do the same thing there, they'd need to take him by surprise as he entered.
Timber creaked above them - but it wasn't the other defenders on the walkway on the second level. It came from the wooden roof of the gatehouse itself.
"Be ready," the old knight whispered as he looked up, drawing his warpick.
They waited, listening as creaking timber marked the steps of the intruder, waiting for the moment he would make his attack. Would he drop down the side to come in through one of the doors? Would he somehow crash down through the ceiling? They waited, palms growing sweaty, the old knight's wariness well and truly spread to the rest of the men. They waited.
They waited, but as the moments stretched out, long heartbeats with no sign of the foe, the old knight began to doubt himself. It was an absurd thing to think, but no, he knew what news they had received, and he knew what he had seen. Any man who could leap the moat and climb the drawbridge with spears he had thrown deeply into its old timbers was not one worried with what was reasonable.
There was a shout of alarm from outside, and the old knight readied himself, but then he heard what was being called, and he realised with a horrible certainty that he had gotten it wrong. A racket rose in the distance, and he raced for the door, wrestling the bar off and emerging from the gatehouse. He looked not out over the walls, but back across the bailey, to the keep, and saw that his fears were true.
Lord America's target had never been the gatehouse to open the way. He had made directly for the keep, and the thick doors that were its main entrance were subject to a one man assault, visibly bowing and splintering as he beat on them with his shield.
A cry to defend the keep was bitten off at the last moment, the old knight remembering the enemy force still waiting patiently out of bow range. He hesitated, torn between two needs. The loud whump of the keep doors being slammed open made his decision for him, and he looked to the master-at-arms.
"The wall is yours," he said grimly. "Spread the men out. The rest of you, with me! We defend the keep!" He put word to action, racing down the inner staircase, panic lending him a speed he had lacked for years.
Maybe he was overreacting. But he knew what he had seen, and he knew what he had heard, and he didn't want to think about the consequences of leaving America to have free reign over the inhabitants of the keep.
X
He was being ridiculous, he knew. There was nothing militarily important about what he was doing. No benefit would come of taking the castle. No gain to be had. But goddamit, he and his girl had been ready to take the next step since before Mastford, and if he didn't take this castle, he was pretty sure she would.
The keep wasn't as large or winding as the Red Keep, but it was still an unknown structure. He strode down its halls, building a map in his mind's eye as he searched for its lord. He hadn't seen the man on the walls as he had hoped - a repeat of Grassfield Keep was not to be - so now he had to track him down. Tapestries lined the walls, and most halls were carpeted, candles spaced along those halls that lacked natural light, but he didn't have time to stop to admire the decorations. He did feel bad about tracking dirt inside though.
Steve turned a corner, and almost bowled over a young lady. She took in a startled breath, visibly holding back a shriek of surprise as she fought to keep her balance. He caught her, steadying her in place.
"Sorry, excuse me miss," Steve said. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes, I - apologies, I wasn't watching where I was going," the young lady said, regathering herself.
"No, it was my fault," Steve said, releasing her shoulder now that she was well. "Say, do you know where Lord Goodbrook is? I need to have a word with him."
"Uncle is in the receiving hall," the girl said, stepping to the side, as if out of his way. She frowned, taking a moment to look him over now that her surprise was fading. "Have we met? I am not familiar with you, Ser…?" Her gaze lingered on his shield, but there was no recognition in her eyes.
"I'm just visiting. Don't worry, I left my weapons in the door," Steve said. He gave a slight bow. "Thanks for your help."
Without another word he was making his way down the hall, following the girl's unspoken directions. He could feel her uncertain stare following him, but unless her title started with Black and ended with Widow, there was nothing she could do to stop him.
One wrong turn and a backtrack later, the receiving hall turned out to be on the second floor of the keep. When he found it he found not only Lord Goodbrook but two others, a knight and a squire, the three of them at the base of a dais that held the lord's chair. All three looked up at his entrance, and the squire's eyes bugged.
"That's him! That's Lord America!"
Lord Goodbrook was on the wrong side of middle-aged, but hardly incapable. All three were armed and armoured, and the lord and knight shared a glance before drawing their swords.
Seems they'd need some persuading.
Steve let them approach, making no move to prevent himself being surrounded. His lack of action seemed to unnerve them, and they hesitated at the last moment. It cost them. He dropped to the floor, spinning, and swept their legs out from under them. All three collapsed, completely unprepared for the move, and by the time they could comprehend their new positions, Steve was already back on his feet, staring down at them.
"Lord Goodbrook," Steve said, speaking for the first time as he stepped towards him.
The knight couldn't bring his sword to bear on that ground as he was, but that didn't stop him from pulling a rondel knife and attempting to drive it through Steve's ankle. Absently, Steve stomped hard on the dagger, careful to avoid the man's fingers but neutering his attack all the same.
"Lord Goodbrook," Steve said again, hunkering down beside him. "You would like to surrender."
Goodbrook pulled wide eyes away from his knight to look at Steve. Light brown hair was thinning, and he was missing a tooth, but otherwise he was in good health. "I - yes," he said. The squire groaned behind them as he sucked in a breath, winded from the fall. "I would like to surrender."
"That's swell," Steve said, all smiles. He rose, and he pulled Goodbrook up with him. "Now, there's some things you need to know."
Taking a deep breath, Goodbrook steeled himself. "I understand. I only ask that you treat my people-"
"You've got nothing to worry about there," Steve said, making a cutting gesture with his hand. "You and yours will be treated with all the respect owed by guests to their host."
Goodbrook blinked as he absorbed the words. "Then - what?"
"You're going to be hosting Ned and Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, and a dozen or so other lords," Steve told him. "Ned just got word that his wife gave birth to twins, and we're looking to celebrate his good fortune."
"What?"
The knight had risen to his feet, watching Steve cautiously, and was helping the squire do the same. Both had very carefully left their weapons on the floor.
"The war is over for you, of course, but that's something you can think over later," Steve said.
There was a sudden commotion at the entry door as a group of armed men all tried to enter at once. They saw Steve standing next to their lord and made to charge, worsening their attempts to enter.
Steve turned for them.
"Stop!" Goodbrook commanded, confusion banished. "Stop. I have surrendered, and received Lord America's guarantee."
The old knight at their head slid to a stop, sagging. "Aye, my lord." He was breathing heavily.
"You should take a seat," Steve told the greybeard, concerned. "There won't be any fighting today, and I figure you'll need to talk to my second to organise the handover."
A glower was his answer, but Goodbrook gave the man a stiff nod.
Steve brought them back to more important matters. "Now, there's a couple of things we need to discuss about tonight," like organising a private room and the possibility of silk sheets, "but we'll need to include whoever it is that oversees that sort of thing. Is that your wife, your niece?"
"My niece?" Goodbrook asked, sharpness entering his tone.
He received an approving nod. "I passed her in the hall on my way here but I'm not sure where she went after that," Steve said. "Is she in charge of your social functions?"
"My - no, she assists my wife…"
It was clear that the suddenness of the situation was starting to overwhelm the man. "I'll give you a moment to open the gates and get out of your armour, and then we can talk. My quartermaster can help out," Steve said. He glanced at the cluster of men who were still standing uncertainly at the entrance to the hall. He raised his brows at them, expectant.
It took a moment to get things moving, and several reassurances that yes, this was how things were going to be and one whispered conversation they didn't think he could hear that no, they wouldn't and couldn't turn the tables on the invader to take him hostage, but in the end Steve had his way. He made small talk with Goodbrook - Glendon Goodbrook - and asked idle questions about the guest rooms of his castle. The defenders were stood down, the drawbridge lowered and gates opened, and then his soldiers were riding in.
For once, it was not Keladry leading the way in his absence. Naerys led the way, clad in the armour he had bought for her and shadowed by the banner she had made for him, looking like a conquering general. He had to remind himself that the others could arrive any time in the next hours, and that stealing away with his girl was not an option. They had waited this long. They could wait until evening.
Naerys came to a stop beside Steve in the bailey, and the look in her eyes said she was struggling with the same dilemma. He reached up to take her gently by the waist, lifting her up and off Swiftstride. If he held onto her for a touch longer than was needed, and if her stumble into him as she was placed down was less than believable, none commented.
"Well?" Naerys asked, laying a hand on his chest.
"We've got three options," Steve told her. His hands twitched, instinctively wanting to lower from her waist, and she smirked at him. He took a breath, focusing. "There's a room in one of the corner turrets with access to the roof, a room with a permanent heated bath on the upper level, or a room on the second level that looks over a private garden."
Naerys considered them, biting her lip. "I can think of benefits to all of them. What do you think?"
"As much as I like the idea of you and a blanket on top of the turret, that bath is convincing," Steve murmured. He wasn't sure if the idea of a hot relaxing bath or getting Naerys in that bath was more compelling. No, that was a lie, he knew damn well which.
"The bath it is," Naerys said. Her eyes darkened. "I would hate to go to bed sweaty."
Steve clenched his jaw, warning her with his eyes, but her smirk only deepened at the look. She stepped back from him.
"Would you introduce me to our hosts, my lord?" she asked, innocent as the breeze. "If we are to help them make ready for the celebrations tonight, we mustn't dally."
Another thread of his self-control frayed, but it still didn't snap. "Yes. Of course," he said. Glendon was waiting by the main doors, clearly smashed in but propped open as best they could be, and he had been joined by a younger woman who must be his wife.
Toby appeared from nowhere to lead Swiftstride off, making for the stables where the bulk of the troops were dealing with their own mounts, but Keladry had all that under control. Steve and Naerys approached their hosts, arm in arm, and began to go through the dance of niceties that were expected in such situations.
Later, Steve couldn't have related the details of what they spoke. All he knew was that the upper level room was theirs, and that the Goodbrooks indeed had a set of silk sheets that they were happy to afford to them as a luxury after long months on campaign.
X
That night, there was a celebration at Goodbrook Keep. The dining hall was not the largest, and the fare not the finest, but that had little impact on the moods of the men who had come together to mark the births of Arya and Alistair Stark. Cheer could be found all the way down the long table that ran the hall, and quick work had seen the head table done away with for the night, leaving all seated together. For all that the Goodbrooks themselves were ostensibly the foes of those they hosted, one would not know it. Though pride of place had gone to the new father, the hosts found themselves charmed by his brother, unburdening the troubles that came with siding against one's liege lord, and sympathising with the uncertain fate of his sister.
Three big men were doing their best to ensure their hosts would be left with not a drop of alcohol the next day, and it was a tossup as to whether Robert, Greatjon, or Buckets Wull would be the last man standing. Nearby, a mix of Northmen and Stormlanders listened with incredulity as an old knight told the tale of how Lord America had taken the castle. Disbelief was answered with an invitation to check the underside of the drawbridge when they left, and the only one to believe him was the Stormlands bastard who had seen with his own eyes what the foreigner was capable of.
Few kept to their seats as the night went on. Ned spent time teaching his cousin a Northern drinking song, and Beron returned the favour. Dustin told a joke of such filth and with such a straight face that his victim had to be rescued, near choking on his ale, and the young Royce found himself unable to so much as look at the northman for long minutes after without turning red. Those who called the castle home left all concerns of occupation behind as thoughts of the war disappeared, and by the raucous singing that sometimes drifted in through the hall shutters, the common men outside had done the same. Even Keladry had found an opportunity to share in the good cheer without fear, engaged in deep conversation with Mark Ryswell on the topic of horseflesh.
Of the few who kept to themselves, two of them were a couple near the middle of the table, not quite part of any one group. They had spent the night with their heads close together, almost sitting in each other's laps. Those around them had been quick to realise that there would be little conversation to be had from either of them.
"...ate the whole thing," Steve said to his girl.
"No!" Naerys said, pushing at his side. "The whole thing?"
"The whole thing."
"How did you get away with it?"
"The owner's daughter was sweet on Bucky, and she hid the box behind all the others," Steve said, catching her lingering hand. He pulled it up for a stolen kiss. "We spent the next week scrounging for money to pay for it, and then we came in and 'bought' it."
She laughed, shaking her head at the misadventure. "I can't believe you - well," she said, correcting herself. "You are trouble."
"Me?" Steve asked, pulling a face as innocent as apple pie. "I'd never cause trouble. You must be thinking of someone else."
"You wouldn't?" Naerys asked, leaning into him. There was nothing innocent about her expression, or the way her hand trailed down his chest. "So it was someone else who left my copy of A Caution for me to find, open on the page where the warlock and the handmaid-"
"It seemed well thumbed is all, I just wanted to see what you liked to read," Steve said.
"So it wasn't a hint?" Her hand trailed lower, beneath the table, sending frissons of sensation over his lower belly. "A shame. I had a jar of honey sent to our room, too." Her touch skipped over to his thigh, settling there.
Steve felt the balance tilting back in her favour, and casually slipped his hand to her shoulder, ghosting a touch at the spot on the back of her neck that always made her squirm. "Mostly I needed to know what it was about so I could illustrate it properly for you."
"Illus- oh," Naerys said. Her imagination distracted her briefly, before her hand began to make slow circles back up his thigh and he knew he'd miscalculated. Her voice dipped lower. "But why would I want them when we could just recreate the scene ourselves?"
The super soldier tried to mask a dry swallow with a sip of his wine, playing for time, but there was no hiding his reaction from her, not when her hand was damn near playing with his belt buckle.
"You know what I think, my lord?" she asked, leaning in even further, breath tickling at his ear. "I think that I am going to step out to refresh myself."
It took a moment for Steve to understand the turn things had taken, and by then her hand had already retreated as she eased back, his hand slipping from her shoulder. He twitched to take advantage as she rose and turned away, but from the corner of his eye he could see Ned's friend, Howland, watching with a faint but clearly incredulous amusement, and his chance to tweak her rear in revenge passed. He let out a breath as she sashayed away, yet again judging if they'd spent enough time at the feast to be polite. He cursed internally; not yet, but soon.
The feast continued in Naerys' brief absence, and Steve took the chance to regather himself, determined to win the war even if he'd just lost a battle. A furor down the table had him sit up and pay attention, but it was just Ethan and the squire he'd swept over earlier having an arm wrestle. When he eased back, Howland was leaning towards him from across the table.
"It was well of you to do this," the crannogman said, a certain look in his eye.
"I just wanted to help a friend," Steve said, his best 'I Don't Even Know How to Spell Guile, Now Let's Have Some Apple Pie!' smile on display.
"How selfless," Howland said, glancing over to the door that Naerys had departed from. "Thank you," he said, more serious now. "Lord Stark's injury and Lady Stark's passing have been weighing on him."
Steve raised his wine to the small man. He hadn't spoken with him much, but he had twigged quickly to the way he tended to lurk at Ned's side, and he couldn't help but remember the way he had once done the same with Bucky. "Everyone needs downtime," he said. War in Westeros wasn't anything like frontline or behind enemy line fighting in Europe had been, but it took a toll all the same.
"Is that why you hold those games with your men?" Howland asked. "They seemed…unusual."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "You're welcome to join in next time, if you'd like." All the local games he'd seen so far seemed to focus on strength to some degree, so he'd done his best to introduce some variety for those with other talents. Finger dancing like he'd played during his infiltration of Gulltown was an exception, but for obvious reasons he wasn't going to encourage that.
Howland nodded, not committing either way. He glanced down the table, and a sudden scowl took his features. Steve followed his gaze, and saw what it was that had fouled his mood so.
Robert had left off from Greatjon and Buckets, distracted and drawn into conversation by one of their hosts. It was not the Lord or Lady, but the niece, and as they watched he said something with a grin that caused her to laugh, one hand playing with her hair. They were not quite so close to each other as Steve and Naerys had been, but it was quite clear that their attention was firmly upon one another.
Steve frowned.
Combat honed a person's instincts, taught them to be aware of threats, and it only took a moment for Robert's head to come up, swivelling around as he searched for whatever it was that had pricked at him. A moment later he found Steve, and he stilled.
Slowly, an unamused brow was raised, and Steve looked from Robert to the girl he was flirting with and back. He knew that his marriage with Lyanna was an arranged one, but from what he had seen they weren't exactly uninterested in each other. Not to mention the pitfalls that came from flirting with a woman whose home you had occupied by force.
Robert flushed, and not just from the wine that he busied himself with for a moment. He looked back up and gave Steve a jerky nod, leaning back in his seat and away from the young lady. Steve raised his cup to him in turn.
"That was…Ned's tales made him seem more stubborn," Howland said.
"We're all dumb when we're young," Steve said, shrugging. "Young, dumb, and full of…well."
Howland's mouth twitched, guessing where the phrase was going. "Lyanna is a friend," he said, abrupt. "I know how things are at war, and it isn't my place to speak on such things to a Lord Paramount, but even so. Thank you."
Steve shook his head. "I know that people look up to me. Least I can do is be a good example."
A contemplative look was his answer, but any further conversation was cut off as Steve caught a swish of lilac from the corner of his eye. Naerys had come around to reenter the hall from the other door, trying to approach him without being seen. He drained the last of his cup as he made a decision. It was just about time to retire for the evening.
It took an iron will to remain calm as Naerys approached, but knowing how close the finish line was made it bearable. Her hands settled on his shoulders, and then slipped forward to brush at his chest as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts into his head.
"I am starting to tire, my lord," Naerys said, speaking directly into his ear. "Will you escort me to our chamber?"
Steve held back a shiver. She knew exactly how it affected him to hear her call him that. He rose, and also got up from his chair. "My lady," he said, looking down at her. She had stepped aside to let him get out of his chair, but only that, and now they stood toe to toe. "I'd love to."
Naerys took his arm, and they made their way from the chamber at a dignified pace, drifting past Ned with a deliberate slowness where they paused to congratulate him one last time. They soon left the hall behind, slipping out a side door.
If anyone noticed the way that Lord America's lady was almost pulling him along, they chose not to mention it.
It was with an expression of supreme self-satisfaction that Naerys led Steve towards their room. The halls were deserted, all either on duty or celebrating, leaving them to feel like they had the castle to themselves. They came to the stairs, and Naerys slipped up ahead of him. He wasn't sure if letting her do so was a mistake or an act of genius, but as he watched her tight rear sway with every step he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
When they reached their floor, Naerys slipped her arm in his once again only to set a maddeningly slow pace. Steve strangled the urge to throw her over his shoulder and dash the rest of the way, but he had decided to let her take the lead and he would stick to it. Something must have given him away all the same, for she glanced up at him from under coy eyelashes.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
Steve made a sound in his throat that while unintelligible, perfectly conveyed his feelings. Naerys only smiled wider. She was playing with fire, and the look of anticipation in her eyes said she knew it.
The remainder of the walk passed by torturously slowly, and by the end even Naerys' patience was running out. They didn't quite rush through the door, but they passed through it quickly, and the loud thud of the door shutting set their hearts, already racing, to even higher heights. The sound of the bar setting into place had a finality to it.
The room was not over large, but it was comfortable, with a thick rug before the fireplace and a large bed in one corner. There were wooden shutters on the outside wall across from it, and below them was the bath, a metal tub placed in a stone brick frame. The water in it was steaming, and there was a jar of honey on its edge.
Naerys had sauntered towards the bath, and she looked over her shoulder at him. With a shrug, the shoulders of her dress fell from their places. "Help me with my ties?"
Steve took a step towards her, and something in his face made her teasing mien falter.
"Steve?"
Another step, and she turned, hands coming up as if to ward him off, recognising the look on his face. It was one she knew well from when he would torment her with his knowledge of all her most ticklish spots, but this time there was something more to it. Her movement made her dress slip, further revealing the generous swell of her breasts.
"Don't you dare, the water will ruin-"
It was too late, and he was upon her. Strong hands took her by the cheeks and lifted her up, and he laid a bruising kiss on her, one that was answered enthusiastically as she locked her legs around his waist. He turned and walked, dumping her not into the bath, but onto the bed, where she bounced, blinking at the sudden release.
"But what about the bath?"
Steve pulled his top off in one motion. Something tore audibly, and Naerys licked her lips as his sculpted torso was revealed. "The bath is for after we're sweaty," he said, and then he took her by one ankle and dragged her towards himself.
"Oh," she said, finding her bottom almost hanging off the edge of the mattress. "What are you-"
Steve went to his knees. His hands dragged up along her legs to find her smallclothes, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulled them down and threw them away, and then he was pushing her dress up to reveal his prize. Trimmed silver hair dusted her mound, and it was his turn to lick his lips.
"Oh," she said again, before gasping as she felt his tongue on her. "Oh, oh!"
Steve wasn't the most experienced man, but he was an enthusiastic learner, and Naerys was more than willing to help him.
"Steve?"
Another step, and she turned, hands coming up as if to ward him off, recognising the look on his face. It was one she knew well from when he would torment her with his knowledge of all her most ticklish spots, but this time there was something more to it. Her movement made her dress slip, further revealing the generous swell of her breasts.
"Don't you dare, the water will ruin-"
It was too late, and he was upon her. Strong hands took her by the cheeks and lifted her up, and he laid a bruising kiss on her, one that was answered enthusiastically as she locked her legs around his waist. He turned and walked, dumping her not into the bath, but onto the bed, where she bounced, blinking at the sudden release.
"But what about the bath?"
Steve pulled his top off in one motion. Something tore audibly, and Naerys licked her lips as his sculpted torso was revealed. "The bath is for after we're sweaty," he said, and then he took her by one ankle and dragged her towards himself.
"Oh," she said, finding her bottom almost hanging off the edge of the mattress. "What are you-"
Steve went to his knees. His hands dragged up along her legs to find her smallclothes, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulled them down and threw them away, and then he was pushing her dress up to reveal his prize. Trimmed silver hair dusted her mound, and it was his turn to lick his lips.
"Oh," she said again, before gasping as she felt his tongue on her. "Oh, oh!"
Steve wasn't the most experienced man, but he was an enthusiastic learner, and Naerys was more than willing to help him.
