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A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros (ASoIaF/Captain America Quest, Story Only Thread)

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From the Pan 2
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    • Arrangements were made quickly, and then Steve went looking for the men he had decided would join him. Walt was a lock, the old soldier exactly the kind of calm the job required, and he had accepted Thomas Storm's offer. The man might be an unknown, but he had Robert's support and he had the kind of manner that reminded Steve of old Monty Falsworth. He just needed one or two more. Erik would have been suitable, another old soldier blooded in the last war here, but Steve was looking to the future, and that meant giving up and comers the chance to gain new skills.

    "Henry," Steve said, finding the man he was looking for.

    The young hedge knight looked up, the small gathering he was part of quieting down with the arrival of a noble. Of the dozen or so there, only half were Steve's people. Yorick and Harwin were amongst them, and he gave them a nod of greeting. The rest were strangers, though they looked to be knights of varying fortunes. Dodger was with them, begging for scraps of the stew they were eating with sad eyes and a droopy ear, as if his belly wasn't already visibly full.

    "Ser?" Henry asked.

    "How're you feeling? Up for a ride and a bit of mischief?" Steve asked.

    Something about his tone had Henry straightening, the mostly empty bowl in his hands put to the side. "Mischief? Like the supply camp, or Pentos?"

    "Pentos," Steve said. "In and out, no fighting, back in time for dessert."

    "Didn't you burn down a manor hou-" he started, cutting himself off. "Will I need my armour?"

    "No need," Steve said. "Those clothes will do."

    Henry looked down at the travel stained trousers and tunic he wore.

    "Bring that wineskin, too," Steve added.

    "I thought he meant to raid?" one of the unknown knights whispered to another, low enough that a normal man couldn't have heard.

    "I heard the Dothraki drink before they raid," was the whispered reply. "But he said no fighting, so-"

    "Aye ser," Henry said, rising to his feet. "How many others are coming?"

    "Walt, Thomas Storm," Steve said.

    "Lord Robert's bastard cousin?" Harwin asked, looking up from the soup he was sipping at carefully. The blow to the face he had taken during the battle was a spread of yellows and purples, though he could still see out from the affected eye, even if it seemed that eating was a pain.

    "Second cousin," one of the strangers said, voice not quite sharp.

    "Of Greenstone, if that's him," Steve said, not particularly invested in the politics of bastardry. "One or two more, too. Have you seen Osric?"

    "I have," Henry said. "I can take you to him."

    "Lead on," Steve said. "Fellas," he said to the rest. He received a chorus of 'Captain' and then they were picking their way through the surrounding tents, heading towards the nearest camp lane.

    A low conversation started back at the fire, its owner expecting Steve to be out of earshot. "He's not what I expected," the man said. "The size is right, but I thought he was a noble…"

    Anything further was blocked by the noise of the camp traffic and the tents in the way, and Henry led the way along the narrow lane. What had been a grassy field was now well stamped flat, and if they were to spend more than a night there it would soon turn to mud.

    "Making new friends?" Steve asked.

    "We've been popular, after the battle," Henry said. Strong shoulders shrugged. "They were happy to share wine in return for stories."

    Suspicion pricked in Steve's hindbrain. "Eager to hear of our adventures, are they?"

    "Anything, really," Henry said. A pair of squires ran past them, quick to get out of the way as they jostled each other, grinning. "Some of them are definitely trying to see what it would take to join, but Yorick had to set one straight about what happened with the Reach camp followers."

    "I see," Steve said. The very last of the sun was slipping below the horizon, and darkness arrived in truth, held back only by the torches staked into the ground along the lanes of the camp and the scattered campfires within it.

    Something in his tone made the hedge knight glance over to him. "We're not standing for any gossip," Henry said. "Someone was speaking ill of - well, we sorted it."

    "Speaking ill," Steve said, feeling a frown coming on.

    "We saw to it," Henry assured him. "Hugo carried him off and dumped him in a laundry barrel."

    "Well, so long as you followed the proper procedures," Steve said lightly. It sounded pretty typical of soldiers and their talk, but he made plans to check in with his people all the same.

    Henry laughed, and conversation turned to the running of the company, and the small troubles that came with integrating it with the army. The small luxuries they had commandeered from Grassfield Keep were on their last legs, only the carefully rationed remnants of dried fruits remaining, and the stores of Tarly's force had been ransacked by others. They would have to be faster if they wanted to resupply on treats, but at least their stock of wine was still holding steady.

    "How did your talk with Osric go?" Steve asked as they stopped at an intersection of lanes, waiting for a trio of wagons to roll through, bearing water and firewood.

    Round face frowning, Henry nodded all the same. "It's still fresh, but he's holding well enough." After the battle, he had been asked to speak with the ex-goat herder, checking on him after the loss of one of his squad members. "I got the feeling it wasn't his first loss."

    Steve nodded. He didn't know what exactly had driven Osric and his group to the Vale muster, but he knew it had something to do with a family conflict, and that they had perhaps left their home in a hurry. "I appreciate you doing that."

    "Happy to, Captain," Henry said, a small grin on his face. "Osric should be just up here, too." The wagons passed, the way clear, and they set off again.

    Henry was right, their target not much further along the lane. He was one of several gathered around a water cart, a torch set by the driver's seat, in a group that was mostly Steve's men, but the identity of one of the others made Steve's brow rise as he saw the man and Osric talking and joking together.

    Osric had made great strides in the months since Steve had first stumbled across him and his friends, off to have some fun with their slings. The training he had been put through had given him strength, but it was the leading of men in combat that had changed him the most - no longer did he duck away from attention, or find his words tripping over themselves when he spoke to knights and nobles. Now he carried with him a quiet confidence, taking pride in more than just his skill with a sling, and it was something shared by all his friends. Six months ago, the slinger never would have dared to talk easily with a lord like Beron Rogers as he was then.

    "Osric, Ser Rogers," Steve said, stepping into a lull in their conversation.

    "Ser Rogers," Beron said, inclining his head with a faint smile.

    "Captain," Osric said. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, one shared by the rest of Steve's men that were there - all were members of Osric's squad. "We were just getting some practice in." He gave a nod to Henry, and received one in turn.

    "Good," Steve said, looking them over with approval. "Not pushing yourselves too hard?" They had a water keg opened, and were using a ladle to refill their waterskins as they drained them.

    "No ser," Osric said, blond hair set to shaking with his head. "Just enough to stay in practice. Some spear work, too."

    Steve spared a moment to wonder if Jaime had kept up with the hand to hand he'd shown him. "How's that coming?"

    Osric grimaced, but it was a put upon thing. "Talbert thrashed me again."

    There was amusement from the listening squad, and the few strangers. Apparently they had witnessed the training.

    "When you can best me, you should challenge Walt," Talbert said, not quite rolling his eyes. He was one of the men who had joined Steve to steal away the horses of the bandit hunters, and his nose was still as squashed as ever. "Then if you best him, challenge Keladry."

    Mock groans came from the group. "And then the Captain himself, while you're at it!" someone said.

    "I would not have called it a thrashing," Beron said to Steve. "Nor would I have believed your man here to have been a mere goatherd six moons past." He paused, a considering look in his grey-blue eyes. "Your training must be something, for your men to be so at ease with night fighting. I see why Robert gave you leave to train his squire."

    "It's the trainees who do the work," Steve said, though his thoughts were arrested by the rest of the comment. His training with Bryn had only been that same afternoon, but already it seemed word had spread of it. "Would you like to see it in action?"

    "At the next battle?" Beron asked, seemingly open to the idea. "You would have us ride together?"

    "Tonight," Steve said. "I'm here to collect Osric, and then we're picking up Walt and Ser Thomas Storm. See if we can't stir up some trouble at the Reach camp." Osric perked up, his youth shining through.

    Beron's brows rose slightly, and the two men - his knights, likely - exchanged a look behind him. "I had heard about that. I cannot claim disinterest." He glanced between Henry at Steve's back and Osric, both men clearly eager.

    "Well, we're leaving as soon as we find the others," Steve said. "You'd need your worst clothes and a skin of wine you wouldn't mind losing."

    "Wine and- how do you mean to slip past their watch?" Beron asked, bemused and amused.

    "I figure we'll walk right up to them," Steve said. "What do you say?"

    A glimmer of realisation appeared in Beron's eyes, and he let out a breath. "With such a foolproof plan, how can I decline?"

    "That's the spirit," Steve said.

    One of the knights was less enthused. "Beron, perhaps one of us should go in your place."

    Beron sighed, shaking his head. "That will not be necessary."

    "My lord, without an heir-"

    "Thank you, Tyrek," Beron said, and for all that his tone was still mild, his knight subsided.

    "I'll keep him in one piece," Steve said to the man, sympathetic, as if he'd never given anyone a heart attack by going off into danger. He received a grudging nod in return, and clapped his hands together. "Well, time's wasting. I'll fetch Walt and Thomas, and we'll all meet up at the second corral."

    "Aye ser," Osric said, almost bouncing on his heels, though he turned to speak with his squad before leaving. Henry was already jogging away, back the way they had come.

    "Remember, bad clothes and worse wine," Steve said to Beron. The lord nodded seriously as he left, even as the enthusiasm of the others began to infect him. Osric was still speaking with his squad, so he only clapped him on the shoulder as he left, leaving him to it. It was good to see him growing.

    X

    The Reach camp was less a camp and more a cluster of them, almost bulging out in four spikes from the central field it was arranged in, only a short distance from a small stream. Each camp seemed to be dominated by one faction or another, though the 'spike' to the east was more motley and ill defined. Steve being Steve, he chose to approach from the east, but only because that seemed to be the easiest way to reach the most central camp, dominated by green banners that bore roses of gold.

    It was edging into late evening when six men stumbled out from a small gulley between two low hills to the south of the camps, their path lit by the moon. The stench of booze wafted from them, and if anyone had been watching, they would have seen them horsing around, shoving and joking before silencing themselves poorly. No one would suspect that they had just spent an hour threading around the outer scouting picket that was on high alert for approaching Stormland formations.

    "I can't believe you wasted that wine, Beron," Thomas said, lamenting the great crime.

    "Steve said to bring wine I wouldn't mind losing," Beron said. Formality hadn't lasted long into the sweeping ride they made to make their approach from the correct direction, even if they still took amusement in 'Ser Rogers'-ing each other.

    Thomas made a noise of disgust. "And you brought a Dornish Red to bathe under while I drink sweet Riverlands."

    "It was a poor year. I thought you were forbidden Dornish Red after you- the thing during our squiring," Beron said.

    Thomas grumbled to himself, but he couldn't hide the amusement on his face. He rubbed at his beard and short hair, sticky from wine. "I can still appreciate it."

    "I want to hear more about the squiring thing," Steve said, from where he led the way, glancing back. "And whatever dirt Thomas has on you that keeps you quiet about it."

    Now it was Beron's turn to grumble, and the low laughs from Henry and Osric drifted off into the night. Walt only shook his head.

    The shift of boots on dirt caught Steve's ear. "So long as yez shut up when we get near the camp," he said, putting on an accent similar to that he had heard in the villages they had passed through in their raids. "We'll be back in bed 'afore we're missed."

    "Bit late for that one," a voice called from ahead, rising from the long grass of the hill they were rounding.

    The six of them jolted at the sudden words, freezing in place.

    "The sers will have your hides for this," the man said, and it was clear he was a sentry, the moonlight illuminating the glare on his face. "Come on then."

    Steve began to move again, glancing between his apparent co-conspirators and the sentry with wariness in his shoulders. They hunched in on themselves, hunted, crowding together behind him like naughty schoolboys. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he turned back to the sentry. Wordlessly, he raised his half empty wineskin, jiggling it with a meaningful look.

    "...fuck," the sentry said, sighing. "Fine, but be quick about it, and if you get caught and mention me I'll cut your fucking noses off." He took the skin, pointedly looking away as the six of them hurried past.

    Henry couldn't help but snigger as they passed, earning a shove from Walt, but that only seemed to add to the image they were portraying, and then they were leaving him behind, nothing else between them and the Reach camp.

    When they reached their destination, there were no hails, no questions, just the occasional apathetic glance from those making their camp on the outskirts of it. There was little organisation to the layout of the tents and the paths, just the bare minimum to prevent a mess, and if there was anyone of authority there, they kept to themselves. Barefoot, clad in old or ragged clothes and with only daggers for weapons, they did not look like they posed any threat as they walked deeper. Here and there they passed men rolled up in bedrolls by guttering fires, or in small tents if they were lucky. Some drank quietly, others stared at nothing, and Steve realised that some of these men were those that had escaped the field of battle, now rallied and folded into this new army. They did not have the look of men eager to fight.

    The further they went, however, the more the mood of the camp changed. Tents became more common, lanes straighter, and fewer were the battle-tired soldiers. Where before they had fit in, soon they would start to do less so, if only because they would seem to have wandered beyond their station. They were nearing the edge of the central camp, and in the distance, Steve could hear singing.

    Stopping to mug some poor soldier or soldiers likely carried more risk than looking slightly out of place, and so they continued on. The singing drifted from a large tent at the heart of the camp, more a marquee, and it seemed that a feast was in progress. The corral they sought was past it, apparently located for protection and quick access rather than swift egress, but they drew closer with each step, kept from rushing by Steve's swaying lead.

    "Oi, Warrick," Steve said as they passed a group of men holding spears and shields rather than wineskins. "Harry reckons he can take you in an arm wrestle."

    "Does he now," Walt said, turning a glower on the younger man.

    "Hang on, I never said that," Henry said, still bearing a healthy wariness of the old man who had harried and harangued the company through their training despite being twice the age of most of them.

    "Yeah he did, I heard him say it," Osric piped up.

    "No, wait-"

    Walt growled. "Listen here you little shit-"

    The others snorted as they continued on, arguing and mocking as they went, just another group of soldiers searching for some mirth to stave off the reality of war, even if only for a night.

    They were not the only ones walking the camp looking to avoid attention as they pursued their fun, though there seemed to be some agreement between them and those on duty not to see each other, as the sounds of the noble feasting grew louder against the quietness of the night.

    Things changed when one of the men they passed glanced up at Steve as he neared and froze, moustache quivering as his mouth fell open. Steve stilled in turn as familiarity nagged at him, and it took only a heartbeat to recognise where from - it was the man in charge of the supply caravan that they had captured between Ser Haighsley's holdfast and Lord Sestor's keep. He was holding a pair of boots, and when Steve's gaze dipped to them, the man clutched them tight to his chest.

    His moment of warranted trauma cost him, as Steve reached out to seize him, one hand clasping his mouth shut, the other taking him by the arm and dragging him into a nearby tent that seemed empty. The others reacted smartly, following him in and leaving a deserted lane behind them.

    "Who's this?" Thomas asked, brusque.

    Whatever levity had shrouded them was gone, and now they were all business.

    "A knight who recognised me," Steve said. The tent was empty, but only for now, a pair of bedrolls waiting for their owners, and he set the man down in the centre, keeping him muzzled. "He was leading a supply caravan we captured a couple of months ago."

    They surrounded the captive, forced by the size of the tent to crowd close. The poor man looked up at them, eyes growing wild as they roved from face to face, and he clutched his boots even tighter to his chest.

    "What's to do with him then?" Walt asked. One thumb was tapping against the hilt of his rondel dagger at his hip.

    Steve glanced down at the man. "That's up to him."

    He began to make pleading sounds, trying to speak past the hand across his mouth.

    "I'm going to take my hand away," Steve said, "but if you look like you're going to scream, I will have to break your neck. Do you understand?"

    Frantic nods were his answer.

    The others tensed as Steve started to remove his hand, but the captive only sucked in a breath.

    "So," Steve said, hands held easily at his sides, but clearly still a threat. "I didn't get your name last time." That was because he was interrogating them and they didn't want to give him an inch, but still.

    The man swallowed, steadying himself. "I am Ser Omar Stackhouse, of House Stackhouse." He let out a breath through his nose, rustling his finely trimmed moustache. It was unfortunately narrow, but not so much as to make Steve itch to start punching.

    "Right. Omar, do you mind if I call you Omar? Omar, we have a bit of a problem here. I'm obviously not supposed to be here, and if word got out, me and my boys here would be in a bit of trouble," Steve said, not giving him the chance to respond. "I'm not fond of killing captives, but if it comes down to your life and the lives of my men, well. You see my dilemma."

    Omar was looking overwhelmed, but he managed a jerky nod. "No, I understand Lord America."

    "That's great news Omar," Steve said, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. The others exchanged looks as Steve spoke, some disbelieving, others on the verge of laughter. "I'm going to tie you up and gag you of course, but do I have your word that you won't try to escape for at least half an hour?"

    Bewildered, there was nothing for Omar to do but nod, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

    "That's great Omar," Steve said again. "There's just one more thing." His gaze went to the shoes the man still held tight.

    "Oh, please no," Omar said, like he had suffered great trials and tribulations to get his hands on the boots. They were a nice pair, so perhaps he had.

    Steve felt a little mean, but he also felt like he owed the man for making him think he was digging his grave in front of him. Maybe this would give him a new memory to drown out the old. "A nice pair of leather boots like this, you want to take care of them. Get some water and vinegar, about ten to one mix, and you'll be able to keep them supple and clean. Nothing worse than water-logged feet on campaign."

    Confusion reigned across Omar's face, even as Osric started shaking silently behind him. There was a tearing sound as Walt began to repurpose a sheet he had found for bindings, and in short order, the Reachman was bound and gagged, thoroughly trussed up.

    "Don't go anywhere," Henry said as they left, unable to help himself.

    Omar gave an indignant noise, not completely cowed, or perhaps just braver now that he knew his boots were safe. Osric slipped a pillow under his head as they filed out, back into the night and back on the path to their objective.

    "That is not how I would have expected such a thing to go," Beron said.

    "I was expecting blood," Thomas said.

    "Not him," Walt said, almost grunting.

    "Captain doesn't kill if he doesn't have to," Osric said.

    "You made quite a showing during the battle," Beron observed, non judgemental.

    "I'll do it again, too," Steve said, the small amusement he had been feeling fading at the thought. "But not unless I have to."

    Beron made a considering sound, and spoke no more, turning introspective.

    They continued on, unable to muster the same mood of cheer as before, but none stopped them. Now they just seemed another group of tired soldiers, trudging through the camp as the scent of fine food drifted through the air. No more familiar faces were stumbled across, and they neared their goal unaccosted, though they were not alone, and a small number of servants and grooms could be seen going about their tasks. They followed a small group of men and boys carrying brushes and feed bags at a distance.

    When they reached the large corral, it was to find a large herd of mostly quiescent horses. From the looks of them, these were not the mounts of the higher nobility, but they were still fine enough to likely grab Toby's interest. Here and there guards could be seen around the large enclosure. At a glance, there were maybe two thousand horses, and this corral was only one of several.

    "Well, we're here," Walt said, spitting over the rail as they stopped against it. "What now?"

    "Now," Steve said slowly, taking it all in, "I think we'll start a fire."

    Walt chortled, setting Henry and Osric to shivering as they remembered the last time he had been so gleeful, back in the early days of training when someone had complained.

    "Those servants are bringing fodder from nearby," Beron said, tilting his head towards them, then the direction they came from. "Likely still in their wagons."

    Surreptitiously, the others attempted to glance the same way as one. It wasn't very surreptitious.

    "Walt, Thomas, Henry," Steve said. "Up for a bit of light arson?"

    "Always," Walt said. The others nodded.

    "Beron and Osric, you'll stay with me then," Steve said. "As soon as we see fire, we'll spook the horses."

    "Seems like they'd stampede down the road," Thomas said, eyeing it. It seemed designed to funnel the cavalry out of the camp and into the field where they could organise themselves as quickly as possible, mitigating the downside of a more protected corral.

    "If we're lucky, they'll do that and then keep going," Steve said.

    "Don't want to set them to charging through the camp?" Thomas asked.

    "We could," Steve said, "but I don't know the Reach commanders, or how they might react to that. I don't think Robert wants to bait them all into following him north."

    Thomas hummed, nodding.

    "Any questions?" Steve asked. There were none. "Then let's cause some mischief."
     
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    • Oh poor Omar, I really felt for him with how dearly he protected his boots.

    I get the feeling that if he survives the war he'll be notorious for emphasising the importance of good footwear and how to care for them.
     
    From the Pan 3
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    • The details of their escape took only a moment to iron out, and then they split, each group doing their best to look like they belonged. One of the groomsmen - more a groomsboy - slowed as he passed, eyeing the three of them as they leaned against the corral. Steve raised his hand in a casual wave, smiling, and after a moment the kid continued on with his empty sack of fodder.

    Minutes stretched out with anxiety inducing sluggishness, Osric unable to help shifting from foot to foot. Beron was better, though stiffness was clear in his shoulders, and he stared out over the herd of horseflesh, gaze hardly shifting.

    Both men found their attention drawn to Steve when he began to hum the tune to some ditty, tapping a beat on the rail they waited against. He raised a brow at their looks.

    "Something on your minds?" Steve asked. His tone was concerned, but the twitch of his lip told the true story.

    Acclimated to Steve's understated shithousery, Osric only sighed. Beron was more disbelieving, but he had no time to voice his thoughts - a shout came from nearby, and an orange glow appeared in the same direction.

    "That's it," Beron said, focus replacing anxiety as he looked back to the horses. His hand strayed to his dagger. "Mind the kick."

    "That won't be necessary," Steve said. Toby would kill him. He rubbed his hands together quickly, then spread his arms wide and clashed them together with a mighty clap.

    He was no Hulk, no Thor, but it still sounded like the crack of thunder.

    Amongst the herd, instinct and fear triumphed over training. A whinnying scream pierced the night as those nearest turned to flee, and like a wave, panic took the entire herd. Slowly at first, then faster, thousands of hoofbeats began to drum in the night as the horses ran to escape the sudden fright and the growing glow of fire, and they took the path of least resistance away from that which scared them - out through the main gate of the corral.

    "STAMPEDE!" Steve bellowed, putting further fear into the animals. "After them quick, before they get away!"

    Under the rails the three of them ducked, pursuing the herd across the rapidly emptying corral. They were not alone, groomsmen and squires brought running at the sudden commotion, but the panicked pursuit of the men in the face of the stampede did nothing to calm the animals down, and then it was too late. There was no stopping the tide of horseflesh as they thundered down the lane and towards the camp exit, towards the empty night.

    Steve led the way down the lane after them, bravely pursuing the noble mounts, but he did not do so for long. A young squire zipped past, almost leaving them in the dust. Another man running nearby managed a scoff, pacing himself, but still they increased their speed. Walt, Henry, and Thomas caught up with the group of a dozen or so in the next moment, and Walt gave Steve a nod. There was a smear of blood on the hilt of his dagger.

    The young squire flagged and slowed, the rest of the group passing him as he sucked in heavy breaths, running doggedly onwards. Had the situation been less serious, some of the men might have laughed or spurred him on, but there was no time for such thoughts. There was only the mix of panic that came from something going wrong in a war camp, and knowing that afterwards there would be nobles wanting answers. Onwards they ran, the camp on either side starting to buzz with activity. No man could hope to catch a horse on the gallop, but still they had to try.

    As they neared the end of the lane, however, it narrowed, forcing the animals to slow as they surged and stamped, snapping and pushing at each other. A second wind took the pursuers, dangling hope before them - but then there was the sound of splintering wood, and the milling horses flowed out from the lane, past the last obstacle and into the night.

    They followed after them for a hopeless minute, clearing the camp themselves, but reason and endurance soon caught up with them.

    "Fuck me," a man nearby swore, stumbling to a stop. The group stopped with him, Steve and his companions following suit. "We'll never get them all back."

    "We have to try," Steve said, staring grimly after the disappearing horses. "Lords will have our heads elsewise."

    "Hang on, fuck's that?" another man said, looking back into the camp. The glow of the fire had expanded, and with their pursuit stopped, there was no ignoring it.

    "Bet that's what spooked 'em," Henry said, putting on a Reach accent as best he could. "Torch falling into the feed."

    "Them back there can deal with that," Steve argued. "We ought ta split in two, try to keep with the horses. They'll stop running once they calm, and we can guide them back."

    The first man blew out a breath, breathing still harsh, but nodded. "You're right." It was the one who had scoffed at the squire that had sped past them.

    "You lot come with me then," Steve said, happening to gesture to his five men. "We'll swing around to the right."

    "I'll go along with yez," the man said, scratching at a shadowed cheek. He looked more like a hedge knight than a servant. "Keep the numbers even. Could be Stormlanders hiding out there."

    "Smart," Steve said. "They're a squirrely lot, them Stormlanders," he said, looking to Beron and Thomas, as if commiserating.

    Both men grumbled agreements, or perhaps just grumbled, and then the group split in two, taking off at a slow jog. Darkness pressed down around them, broken only by a partly shrouded moon and the glow from the camp behind them. Whatever was burning had grown into a blaze, even if it didn't seem to be spreading through the camp.

    Steve led the group on a wide arc, as if to swing around to come at the escaped horses from the east, but in truth to bring them closer to the location where they had stashed their mounts before infiltrating the camp. There was no conversation, each man saving their breath, though several meaningful glances were exchanged behind the back of their extra man. When the Reach camp was far behind them, and the time was right, Steve made his move.

    "I'm awful sorry about this," Steve said, falling in beside the man.

    The man with them slowed, puzzled. Then his eyes widened in understanding. "Oh you absolute cad-"

    A stern blow sent him stumbling, dazed, and quick hands went about rendering his tunic down for bindings, lashing him hand and foot. They wasted no time, and were quickly away, sniggering like schoolboys at the night's work as they vanished into the night.

    By the time the unfortunate man had his senses about himself once more, he was alone in the dark and barely able to do more than roll or hop. He cursed to himself; that blond haired, blue eyed bastard would rue the day. He didn't know how, or when, but the day would come.

    First, though, he had to get free and carry word back to the camp. He brought his wrists to his mouth and began to gnaw at the bindings that had been his clothing.

    X x X

    The next morning saw a high mood spread through the army despite the early rise and the hurried breaking of camp. Gossip had already spread of Lord America's planned raid on the Reachmen, and now word came of its success, of the dozens - nay hundreds - of enemies slain, of the huge swathes of the camp that he had burnt down, backed by proper Stormlanders like Lord Rogers and Ser Storm of Greenstone. Even in the bustle that came with the stowing of tents and saddling of mounts, lords and knights found the time to pass by Steve's section, angling for word of the raid. Most found themselves settling for one of his officers instead, the man himself busy with more important matters.

    "Thank you for coming," Steve said to the dozen smallfolk women before him, arrayed in a crescent in what had been a sparring circle. Around them, his men continued to pack their possessions and ready themselves for the day's march.

    The women said nothing, only watching with a mix of apprehension and cautious optimism. It was only the second day since they had found themselves under the care of the foreign lord's company, but what they had witnessed in that time was enough to allay their worst fears.

    "I meant to have this conversation with you yesterday, but the arrival of the Reach army got in the way," Steve said, moving on smoothly. "Betty tells me that there have been some concerns over my intentions for you."

    Nervous eyes flicked to Betty, standing at his side, but she gave them an encouraging nod. She was not the only one of his people standing in on the meeting; Naerys stood at his right, and Lyanna stood at hers. Both were openly armed.

    "I want to reassure you that I don't mean to press you into service," Steve said, meeting their eyes as best he could. "So I've got two options for you. One, you take a job with me, working under Betty for the same pay and with the same responsibilities as the rest of her girls. Two, we drop you off at the first castle or village we pass where it is safe to do so."

    Looks were exchanged amongst the women, a silent conversation occurring under his gaze.

    "Lord America is a good lord," Lyanna spoke up, drawing their attention. "What you saw - that's how it always is. There's no bad days."

    "Do we - must we choose now?" one woman asked. Her jaw was almost a rainbow of bruises, evidence of the blow she had suffered from a knight's gauntlet, though the small cuts had scabbed over. She watched him like a rabbit might a fox.

    "No," Steve said. "You can choose to leave at any point, and I'll pay you for your work until then."

    "If you have any questions, you can ask them of me, or Betty," Naerys said. The sun played on her hair, giving it a shine that was usually absent, and Steve strangled the urge to run his fingers through it. "Or you might get the gossip from the other girls on the march." She offered them a faint smile.

    More looks were shared, but no consensus seemed to be reached.

    "We will let you know when we decide, milord," the bruised woman said, apparently nominated as their spokeswoman. She swallowed, watching him.

    "Take your time," Steve said. He turned to Betty. "You can fold them into our order again today?"

    "I'll see to it, milord," Betty said. "Come on," she said to the women, clucking her tongue. "We'll find something better than making you sit ahorse today."

    More than one poorly hidden sigh of relief answered her as she led them away, off into the dissolving camp to join in the work.

    Lyanna was frowning. "I thought they'd jump on it."

    "They're still wary," Naerys said, thumb tapping on her sword hilt.

    "But - you don't pass up a chance like this," Lyanna said, frustration colouring her tone. "There's folks that do so much to - and they're just offered it, but they're not sure?"

    "It can be scary, making a choice that will have such different consequences," Steve said.

    Lyanna said nothing as she stared towards the lane the woman had disappeared down, lips pressed together so tightly they went white.

    A glance was shared between Steve and Naerys, and she placed a hand at the girl's elbow. "Lyanna?"

    She twitched her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. "Ma tried so hard to find a place with any lord that would have her, child and all, but the only places that would take us both were-" she cut herself off.

    Steve found himself grimacing. Lyanna hadn't shared much of her childhood, and they hadn't pressed. Old pains often hurt the worst, more because there was little to be done to heal them but time.

    "She earned you a place at Harrenhal, did she not?" Naerys asked.

    "Cause she died, and wrangled a promise from the steward," Lyanna said. Her voice was wet, and she would not look back towards the two of them. One fist came up to rub at her face.

    Naerys stepped closer, the hand on her elbow becoming an arm around her shoulders. "It's alright," she murmured. She glanced to Steve, giving him a slight nod. She would take care of things.

    "Dodger could help," Steve said quietly.

    Her free hand found his and gave a quick squeeze, one he returned, but her focus was on more important things. He stepped away, leaving Naerys to comfort Lyanna, and turned his attention to simpler matters. There was still a company to get moving.

    X

    Unlike the previous day, the Reach were not content to remain an unseen threat lurking over the horizon. Scouts and outriders rode hard to bring warning of approaching cavalry, of shining plate and billowing banners, as the chivalry of the Reach sallied forth to pursue them. Whether it was simply an attempt to claw back the distance the Stormlanders had gained, or in answer for the insult of the raid the night before, none could say, though that hardly mattered in the face of many lances of heavy cavalry seeking to slip past the knights of the Stormlands to wreak havoc on their marching columns. To march on was to risk much, but to stop was to play into the Reachmen's hands, and none had ever accused the Stormlands of being the home of cowards. As noon approached, the first blood of the day was spilt, and the men under Lord Baratheon prepared themselves for a slog.

    Steve was quick to have his soldiers take up position near the vulnerable baggage train. Though they could have contributed to the screening force, he did not like the thought of putting his light force up against heavy Reach cavalry, even if it would more likely be a battle of manoeuvres than an open fight. The servants and camp followers closest to the white star banner were thankful, its presence a reassuring one as distant horns sounded and responded. The day stretched on, the unseen menace wearing on the nerves of the men as they marched, but they could do little but trust in the knights to shield them, and so they did.

    It was near to sunset when word came that the Reach forces had finally relented. Tales of their attempts to draw the screening forces out of position, to slip past to decimate the army while it was on the march, spread through the camp that night. Cheerful talk of the raid the night before was forgotten, and thoughts turned to the next day when the Reachmen would surely return.

    They did, much earlier, before the sun had even finished rising. It was only the skill of the scouts that gave them warning, and another long, tense day began. For all that the Stormlands army was unusually cavalry heavy, the Reach force had more still, and the defence began to grind on knight and noble alike, forced to rotate out over the slow, grinding day.

    Two more days passed the same, and for all that there were few casualties, it was becoming apparent that they could not maintain their defence. Sooner or later the enemy would slip through. The only unknown was how many, and how much damage they would do before they could be driven off.

    On the fourth day of the harrying, that question was answered.

    Steve was riding on the left flank of his chosen position, half the company with him, while Keladry led the other half on the right. Low grassy hills surrounded them, for all that the worn dirt road was wide as it twisted and turned between them, and the morning sun was warm, almost too warm in their armour. Then came the familiar horn blasts warning of approaching foe, but something was different. This time they were close. More horn blasts, urgency in their core, and a ripple of panic went along the columns on the road.

    From over a nearby hill they came, half a lance strong. Near fifty riders at a steady canter, and for a moment they seemed as surprised to see the column as they were to see them. Then an order was shouted, and their lances came down. The speed of their canter began to increase.

    They were not fresh, Steve's keen eyes picking out sweat on the flanks of their horses, and scuff marks on their armour. This was a group that had already tangled with the screening force, but that was less important in the moment. He watched as the foeriders split into two groups, a pair of arrows descending on the column, and then he began to call orders, projecting his voice calm and sure.

    "Artys, Hugo, Gerold, Talbert, Arland, Jakob, Ren," Steve said, not looking away from the nearing foe. Those named, some from his squad, some not, looked to him in anticipation. "You're with me. We're hitting the left group. Yorick, you'll lead everyone else at the right. Hit them from both sides; don't challenge their wedge."

    "Aye ser!" came the answer, none questioning him.

    Steve risked a glance behind him and saw Keladry directing Walt and Erik's squads to join them. The column would not be left undefended. "Robin, stay here. I want three horses dead before we hit them, their leader's first. You'll join Walt's squad and charge with him if necessary."

    "Aye ser," Robin said, arrow already nocked and ready. His hands were steady.

    The Reachmen drew nearer still.

    "On me," Steve said, hammer coming free from its harness, "we take them head on. Charge. Charge!"

    The men roared their response, and their mounts surged forwards, clods of dirt kicked up in their wake. Steve's group formed a wedge with him at the head, Ren in the middle of it with the white star banner held proud. Cheers came from the column behind them, soldiers and servants alike raising their voices for them, but they were quickly left behind. The Reachmen were charging now, the steepest section of the hill behind them. The leader of the left group couched his lance, visor slits intent on Steve as they neared.

    An arrow sprouted from his horse's mouth, and it collapsed without a sound, launching the knight from his saddle as it tumbled and rolled forward. Another arrow followed a heartbeat later, skimming over Steve's shoulder just as the first one had, but bad luck saw its target toss its head and the arrow skittered off its barding. They were close enough to make out the whites of the foe's eyes.

    Another man slumped from his saddle, an arrow sticking from his visor, and then they collided with a brutal clash. Steve swept out with his hammer, taking a man in the chest and knocking him clear from his saddle, breastplate cratered. He did not stop there, the broken point of the enemy's formation giving him leave to continue down one wing, hammer outstretched and cleaning up knights as he went, catching some few scant attempts at reply on his shield. Within a handful of heartbeats, half the wedge had been knocked from their horses or killed, and they had blown out the rear of the formation.

    They slowed as best they could, stopping to turn and re engage, but there was no need. What was left of the group had dissolved into a single ragged line, and their shellshocked attempts to reform and hit their ultimate target were foiled by Walt's squad planting themselves squarely in the way. Robin fired another arrow, hitting the front knight square in the forehead. The man's head snapped back, even if his helm saved his life, and that was enough to make them think twice. A quick look over at what was left of the other group, pincered and set upon by Yorick and the men, had them thinking a third time, and that was enough. They turned their once dangerous charge down the line, fleeing, hurried on by the jeers and taunts of those that they had sought to run down.

    "Injuries, report," Steve ordered.

    A chorus of answers came in the positive, but then Gerold spoke. "Bastard got me in the shoulder," he said, holding his arm gingerly.

    "You're off to Corivo then," Steve said, eyeing the other fight as it came to an end, the surrounded and pinned knights dropping their weapons and raising their arms in surrender. "Jakob, with him. Rest of you, on me."

    The excitement was over, but the day was not yet done, and enemies yet lurked beyond the hills. There were bodies and wounded to police, horses to add to the herd, and a guard to reset. The burdens of success.

    Later, with the benefit of hindsight, Steve would look back at that moment and kick himself for assuming that it would be the most troublesome part of his day.

    X

    "You're not serious," Steve said, voice flat and unamused. The afternoon sun shaded the tent walls a dull orange.

    "They are dead weight," Cafferen said, just as unamused. "Need I remind you, Ser Rogers, that we have forty thousand Reachmen angry chasing us, and every minute counts!"

    Another meeting had been called in Robert's command tent, and another argument with the Lord of Fawnton had ensued once the biggest concern had been tabled for discussion. Lords still wore their armour, many still bearing evidence of the day's work upon them as they sat and drank.

    "They are our captives," Steve said. His hands were laid out before him on the long table they sat at, still as the grave, the look on his face just as serious. "Wounded captives under our care. If you give an order to have them 'dealt with', it won't just be angry Reachmen you have to worry about."

    "Ser Rogers, please," Cafferen said, scornful now. "I am not some savage from beyond the sea. I would not even think to dishonour myself so." He gave a crocodile's smile. "The only Essosi in the camp is in your employ, and he is the very man caring for them, is he not?"

    Steve narrowed his eyes at the man, wise to his game. There had been the start of displeased rumblings in the tent at the 'savage' comment, though they had subsided once he said his piece.

    "My lords, we set the uninjured captives loose at the start of our march north, knowing we could not feasibly bring them with us," Cafferen said, turning now to his fellow lords. "It is simply time to do the same with the wounded. We cannot afford to have them continue to slow us down any longer."

    Murmurings of agreement rose. Robert was nodding, though his mouth was hidden behind his hands, one fist in a palm. Samuel met Steve's eyes across the table, giving a slight shrug and a nod. Steve rolled his eyes slightly, hiding very real irritation. He wasn't so blind as to miss the stench of politics when it entered a room.

    "In that case, I volunteer to oversee the handover," Steve said. He gave Cafferen a look completely lacking in guile. "What, you weren't going to leave a group of wounded men alone in the wilderness, were you?"

    "No," Cafferen said, taking care to avoid clenching his jaw. "Of course not."

    "Aye, that'll work," Robert said, setting his fist down on the table with a thump. "How many men do you want?"

    "I appreciate the offer, but I'll manage with my own," Steve said, ignoring the angry flush that settled on Cafferen's face. "We'll probably come into contact with someone of note. Did you want me to pass a message on?"

    "Tell them they're a bunch of cunts," Robert said, almost reflexively.

    The appraising look that Samuel had been giving Steve turned to one of weary resignation as a laugh rose around the tent.

    "I'll be polite about it," Steve said to the old lord.

    Robert groaned, running a hand down the heavy afternoon shadow of his beard. "Tell them that my fight is with Aerys, not them, but it'll be my boot up their arse if they keep pushing. Again." He glanced at Samuel. "Happy?"

    "Very," the old lord said, dry as a desert.

    A soft sound came from beneath the table, too quiet to be heard by normal ears, but Steve heard it, and he saw the man sitting next to Cafferen shift, like someone had tapped his boot out of sight.

    "Not to volunteer you, Lord Errol," Ser Fell, the one known as Silveraxe, said, "but would it not be best for someone of your…stature to carry Lord Baratheon's words?" He glanced at Steve. "Lord America is a formidable warrior, but they may take your words more seriously coming from a Stormlord."

    "It'll be fine, Silveraxe," Robert said, waving a hand in dismissal. "After the trouble he's given them I'd say they know Steve's name as well as any of us here, and I want Samuel on hand to make sure things run smooth."

    "As you say, my lord," Silveraxe said, unbothered.

    "Right then, that's sorted," Robert said. "What's next? Any word from outriders on the next waterway?"

    There was more business to see to as the sun continued to set, more demands that came with directing an army in the field, but that was just business, nothing to stir the ire of any lord as much as the start of the meeting had. If Lord America and Lord Cafferen chose to ignore one another, that was their concern, and certainly not something noted by those present with the eyes to see it.

    X

    It was midmorning when a force of cavalry, five hundred strong, came trotting around the last bend in the road. It was an intimidating sight, banners of powerful Houses flapping proudly in the wind, announcing the coming of the lords in elaborate armour that rode before them. The column was ten horses wide, sprawling off the dirt path on either side, and they did not seem to be slowing as they approached the lonely banner before them that bore a single white star. The thunder of hoofbeats grew louder, filling the air and drowning out what little conversation there had been amongst those they neared.

    It would perhaps have been more intimidating if Steve's own scouts hadn't noticed the enemy outriders carrying word of their presence back to the harrying forces earlier, but then, there was little point in trying to hide the collection of tarps and tent poles straddling the road. He watched as they waited until they were almost upon them to slow, a slight gesture from the leader causing a trumpet to sound the command.

    Steve watched as the mass of cavalry came to a halt, sitting in the shade at the front of his little camp. He had a small table before him, a jug and two goblets upon it, and a single chair sitting empty across from him. The lords at the front of the cavalry force regarded him for a long moment, letting it stretch out. He took a sip from his goblet and regarded them in turn.

    The leader dismounted smoothly, the large green and gold plume atop his helm waggling with the motion. He possessed a powerful frame, accentuated by the gilded and decorated armour he wore, and had a sword on one hip and a war pick on the other. His gaze, shadowed by his helm, turned to sweep over the wounded occupants laid out behind him, seen to by Corivo and his assistant Ed and assisted by a handful of women, before turning to the stone-faced soldiers standing watch in neat lines around them. Finally, he reached up to doff his helm, setting it in the crook of his elbow. A handsome faced man was revealed, the brown moustache atop his lip curling at the ends. He looked to be of an age with Naerys.

    "That banner," the man said. "You must be Lord America." He regarded him for a moment, taking in his casual posture and heavy armour. "You've made quite a mess of my supply lines."

    "Thanks," Steve said, inclining his head but making no move to rise. "You must be Lord Tyrell."

    "I am," he said. "Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Warden of the South, etcetera, etcetera." He waved the titles off, as if dismissing their consequence, before nodding to the empty chair. "May I?"

    "Please," Steve said. "Would you like a drink?"

    "I would," Mace said, sitting carefully on the wooden chair.

    Steve poured, knowing the chair would hold - it was one of his own, after all - and offered the goblet of wine to the man.

    "My thanks," Mace said, sampling it. "Oh, this is quite good. I imagine you took it from Lord Tarly's supplies?"

    One of the men, still mounted behind him in the front row, shifted minutely, a familiar banner just behind him.

    "Yours, actually," Steve said. "From the camp at the head of the Blueburn."

    Mace paused mid sip, but only for a moment. "Well, clearly I have excellent taste." He set the goblet down, watching Steve closely. "I have heard some interesting things about you, Lord America."

    "That sounds like a polite way of saying something impolite," Steve said. He took another sip from his own goblet, letting the moment drag out. He could hear the shifting of his men behind him, a groan of pain from a patient, and the soft whicker of a horse. "Who'd you hear it from?"

    "Lord Tarly, Lord Meadows, even a Lord Sestor out by the border - although perhaps that was his uncle," Mace mused. "Never had I heard such complimentary things about someone from those who were beaten so handily by them."

    "I guess they're just swell sorts," Steve said.

    "Quite," Mace said. He shifted in his armour. "You realise that this discussion does not delay my army, nor does it prevent my knights from harassing yours?"

    "I figured," Steve said, shrugging slightly. "That's not why I'm here."

    "You do not mean to ambush me, surely," Mace said, lips pursed and looking at him like an indulgent teacher might a student.

    "With the men I have waiting behind the next hill? No," Steve said.

    "You're quick to admit to that," Mace said.

    "Well, your scouts finally noticed them as you approached, so," Steve said, shrugging as he lied. The Reach scouts hadn't missed them the first time, because they hadn't been called forward yet.

    Mace gave a small 'hmm', intent as he watched him. "Then we might as well get down to business," he said.

    "Might as well," Steve said. His gaze went to the row of lords still mounted, memorising their armour and banners even if he couldn't see their faces.

    "What would you have of the Lord of Highgarden in exchange for the return of his troops?" Mace asked, near slapping his hand on his knee with a clatter.

    "Nothing," Steve said.

    "Nothing?"

    "I may not know how this ransom business works," Steve said, putting on his 'aw shucks I'm really not sure mister but I'll do my best' expression of earnestness, "but I figure the captive has to be at least a knight to be worth anything."

    "You are not incorrect," Mace said. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple, armour hot even in the shade.

    "So let's call this a good faith gesture, and treat each other's captive and wounded as we'd hope for our own to be treated," Steve said. "I've had my man Corivo - he's a doctor from Myr - seeing to your people as much as mine."

    "The quality of your character lives up to what I have been told," Mace said, taking another sip of his wine. "A fine suggestion. I agree."

    "The ladies helping out are your people, too," Steve said.

    "Oh?" Mace said, gaze going back to them, more intent now.

    "They were servants in Lord Tarly's camp, but I took them in after some less scrupulous folk came across them," Steve said. "They've asked to return to working for their home kingdom rather than for me." Not all had - only about half - but Steve wasn't going to mention that.

    "Ah," Mace said, interest dimming. "How chivalrous." He jiggled a leg under the table. "Is that to be our business concluded?"

    "There was one more thing," Steve said, as if just remembering. "Robert - Lord Baratheon, I mean - wanted me to tell you that his fight is with Aerys, not you…" he sighed, "but if you keep pushing, it'll be his boot up your arse."

    Mace tittered, even as his bannermen stirred in their saddles. "That does match what I know of Lord Baratheon." He took a long sip of his wine, finishing the goblet, and set it down. "I will keep that in mind, with the consideration it deserves."

    "That's all I can ask," Steve said, acting like the double meaning had flown over his head.

    Mace rose, inclining his head and turning away without another word. For a moment it appeared that was it, but then the man paused, as if remembering something. "Actually, there was just one more thing, Lord America."

    "Yeah, what's that?"

    "I am actually quite annoyed with you, Lord America," Mace said, still with his back turned, speaking over his shoulder. "I went to great time and effort to personally arrange the timetables of harvesting and shipping to ease the way of my armies, and you ruined one of them." His easy manner fell away, as did his faint smile. "There is no guest right here, pleasant as this little meeting was. You are a potent threat to my forces. I could give the order."

    "What would you like me to tell your family?"

    Mace blinked. "Excuse me?"

    "You could give the order," Steve said, acknowledging the threat. "But then you would die. So, what would you like me to tell your family?"

    The Reach lord turned now, facing him fully. "You are very confident for a man facing the flower of Reach chivalry."

    "You're the man who put himself within grabbing distance," Steve said. He put his goblet down, not blinking.

    Lords and soldiers close enough to hear began to shift in their saddles, uneasy, while Steve's men were near as still as statues. Mace took a step forward, closing the gap between them. He stared, meeting Steve's gaze without flinching.

    "You mean it," Mace said, more intrigued than fearful. "You would throw your life away rather than surrender."

    "I would survive," Steve said, one side of his mouth turning down, "but many of my soldiers would not."

    "I see," Mace said, gaze flitting over to them. He seemed to come to a decision. "That is…admirable, I suppose."

    Steve said nothing, only waiting.

    "Then, in thanks for preserving the life of loyal Reachmen, and for fostering the bonds of honour even in a time of rebellion," Mace began, raising his voice slightly, letting it be heard by more than just those closest, "I grant you safe passage, so long as you return directly to Baratheon forces and raise no hand against my own in that time."

    "That's mighty kind of you, Lord Tyrell," Steve said, still almost lounging in his chair. "I accept."

    Mace gave him one last look, before turning again and making for his horse. "My lords, we have reached an accord! Now let us make for the Stormland army, and show them the mistake they made in venturing into a field of thorns!"

    A cheer went up in answer, and Steve rose to see to his own business, ignoring the Reach lord as he continued to give orders. He had men to organise and a second in command to placate.

    "-Lord Peake, have your man see to the wou-"

    Steve turned back, gaze fixed on the lord that Mace was speaking with. His banner had fallen behind another, hiding it until now, but now he saw it, three black castles on a field of orange. The man himself only glanced at Steve, hardly sparing him a moment, but it was enough, and now Steve knew his face. He looked away, focusing on the matter at hand. His business with Peake would come later.

    Under his direction, Steve's men were quick to depart, leaving the parley point behind, and he paused only to accept a hurried, whispered thanks from one of the women that his men had saved. He did not notice the considering gaze of one of the Reach lords, one who had seen his reaction to Peake, and was soon on his way, returning to his own army.

    The man considered what he had seen, and what it might mean. At length, he smiled, hidden under his helm as he followed his lord. Opportunity knocked.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • The Battle of Mastford Bridge 1
  • Threadmarks
    • The men of the Reach hunted and harried them from sunrise to sunset, nipping and worrying at their march like a street mongrel at a long dried bone. With their advantage in numbers, they could afford to rotate their riders, pressuring them without respite. The Stormland cavalry found themselves sorely tested, and three times an enemy lance made it through their protective screen. Twice the white star banner saw them off, once through outmanoeuvring the foe and giving them no choice but to break off their attack, and once when Lord America shattered them with hammer and shield. Some claimed to have seen the foreign lord throw one knight at another, horse and all, but that was clearly exaggeration.

    The third time, the enemy found an undefended section of the march, and killed dozens before being driven off. Half a day was lost in recovery, and all the while horns sounded from the countryside around them, telling of the ongoing conflict. The pressure was beginning to tell, but onwards they marched, pushing man and beast as best they could. The only other option was to stop and offer battle, and that was no option at all.

    Then, after a long week of pursuit and running battles, it stopped. A cautious hope spread through the army, but worry went with it, and Lord Baratheon dispatched scouts in force to find the cause of their relief.

    That was a secondary concern to Steve in that moment, however, as he stitched closed a hole in the cheek of one of his men. Sitting at his side in the wagon as it trundled along, Ed watched with morbid curiosity as the gash was slowly closed.

    "...want to be careful with the tightness," Steve told the man who had been working as Corivo's assistant ever since the raid on the Blueburn depot. "Too tight is as bad as too loose, especially with the wound in a location like that."

    "How do you tell?" Ed asked. He had abandoned his blond beard after getting blood in it one time too many, working in his new role, but was taking well to the job.

    "Experience," Steve said, pulling the needle through skin carefully. Working in the back of a moving wagon as he was, it took more than a surgeon's steady hands to do the job properly. "But we'll get you that on simpler injuries, on firm ground."

    The patient, a middle aged man-at-arms from the Vale by the name of Marron, grunted as if voicing his agreement. He was scowling heavily.

    "You alright there Marron?" Steve asked.

    "Bandits, no Walt, no wound. Ninepenny, Walt, wound. Clans, no Walt, no wound," he said, very carefully, talking out the uninjured side of his mouth. "Reach, Walt - wound."

    "That's some bad luck," Steve said, tying off the last of the stitching with a delicate pair of needle nose pliers. "What was the other injury?"

    "Cheek."

    Steve glanced at the other cheek, but it was unmarred by anything but the sun. "Wh- oh."

    Ed was a moment slower, but he coughed when he understood, hiding a laugh. "I've done a few cuts and gashes," he said to Steve, "but I didn't think we could do the same to an injury like this."

    "It's a tricky one," Steve said. Carefully, he stowed the pliers and the needle in the satchel they came from, borrowed from Corivo. "And Marron, you'll be on soups and mashed roots for a bit, but I'll slip you some Arbor to make it bearable."

    Marron brightened, before bringing his fist to his heart.

    "You're good to go," Steve told him. "I'll be telling Osric that you'll be in the fallback squad until you can respond to orders though."

    The Valeman hopped carefully from the wagon, going on his way, and the two of them began to tidy up the wagon for the walking wounded they had temporarily evicted to return.

    "He's lucky," Ed said, gathering up used bandages. "I saw a man who got half his jaw cut through…" he trailed off, shuddering .

    "There's no good way to be injured in war," Steve acknowledged, "except maybe slipping and breaking your ankle the morning the commander orders a suicide charge."

    Ed snorted, and they made short work of the wagon bed. Something was clearly on his mind however, and it was only when they were finishing up that he asked. "How come you went with the open faced helms, with what face wounds are like? I know it wasn't coin."

    "Perception," Steve said, happy that Ed had felt able to ask. "A closed face helm offers more cover, but you can't see doodly, and what you can't see will kill you. If I ever need to outfit a heavier force, that's what I'd go with, but for us…?"

    A look of understanding came over Ed's face. "Right. Thank you ser."

    "No worries," Steve said. He handed over the satchel of medical tools. "Clean the tools we used, and any that you think could use it, before you return it."

    "Yes Captain," Ed said, stepping off the wagon carefully, mindful of his mostly healed leg injury, and going on his way in search of a water wagon.

    Steve had no urgent duties calling him, and the men were under the watchful eyes of Kel and Walt as they kept watch over their section of the march. He took the time to simply walk, thankful for the cool weather of a sluggish Spring. He still found the seasonal cycles of this world a strange thing to wrap his head around, but Spring was Spring, no matter how long it took to arrive.

    Despite the fine weather, the tramping of thousands of men still had a way of stirring dust into the air, and Steve found himself leaving the main of the column behind, taking up position on a small hill. Under the shade of a lone tree, he watched the army march by, soldiers, servants, wagons, strings of horses, nobles - they all marched north, fleeing from a fight they didn't want to get to a fight they did. His fingers itched for a brush.

    A rider broke off from the road, heading towards him. They wore the rough garb of a soldier on their day off, but Steve knew that moustache, and he frowned in thought as he watched Corivo approach. It did not take him long to join him atop the hill.

    "Corivo," Steve said. "How are you?"

    "I am well, Steve," Corivo said. He dismounted, tying his reins off at the tree, leaving his mount to chew placidly at the long grass. The doctor took a seat on another protruding root, joining Steve in looking down at the passing army. "How was the cheek wound?"

    "He'll have trouble eating for a bit, but it should heal without too much of a scar," Steve said. He eyed the Myrman for a moment. There was always work for a doctor, even days after a battle, and he would not have ridden up here idly.

    "I have just been bribed," Corivo said, like he had been offered lunch, "by a man very interested in your feats."

    Deliberately, Steve looked away from him, back towards the army. "Yeah? What'd you tell him?"

    "That his price was far too low for a man of my stature, and that he would have to double it," Corivo said.

    "How'd that go?"

    "He gave me thirty five silver stags," Corivo said, tapping a pocket that jingled with the sound of coin. He tsked. "A paltry figure to be sure, but he had no more on him, and the pouch was not his to begin with."

    Steve gave a hmm, considering. "What did he look like?"

    "Young. A knight, but a poor one. Hedge knights, I think they are called," Corivo said, shrugging. "I would know him if I saw him again."

    A poor hedge knight could work for anyone, and he could think of a few interests off hand that would want to know more about him in this army alone. "What did he want to know?" Steve asked.

    "He asked after your exploits," Corivo said. "Some I had heard only in passing - is it true you killed a man with a single punch? - but I was more than happy to tell him that such things were of course great exaggerations, or the product of luck."

    "Good," Steve said, habit keeping his face blank as he thought. Someone was looking into him, trying to find out - what, if the stories of his deeds were true? How much of a threat he was? If he was worth offering a daughter to? "Was that all they asked?"

    "For now," Corivo said. "The knight seemed to think it a waste of his time, but…"

    "Yeah," Steve agreed. It wasn't the knight who would be making decisions. "Something to keep an eye on."

    "I have handled the matter to your satisfaction, then?" Corivo asked, dark eyes watching him. "Things are handled differently here in Westeros, but you are not Westerosi."

    "No, you did right," Steve said. "I hadn't thought to tell the company how to handle these things, but you handled it as well as you could have."

    "You need not worry about them approaching another," Corivo said.

    "Why, you think they're happy with what they got from you?"

    "No, because we would have heard the commotion when your men set upon him for the insult," Corivo said, the white of his smile bright against his olive skin.

    Steve shook his head, a faint smirk ghosting across his face. "If you're approached again," he said, serious now, "then ask for more money, and see how much they're willing to pay."

    "I will do so," Corivo said, apparently at ease with the idea. "What of the coin?"

    "Give half of it to Naerys, and have her add it to the company pot," Steve said after a moment.

    "Effective," Corivo said, nodding. "I will have to make myself open to bribery more often."

    "That's the plan," Steve said. A thought occurred to him, and he frowned. "Did you come straight here after the knight left?"

    "All know that the Essosi wear strange fabrics and stranger colours," Corivo said, dismissive. "If one watches to see if their informant has rushed off to his master, they will not see the dull Westerosi, no matter how fine his moustache."

    "You've dealt with this sort of thing before," Steve said, appraising. Accepting the bribe and reporting it was one thing, but this was another.

    "The politicking of a sellsword company pales next to that of a trade consortium," Corivo said.

    "A trade consortium," Steve said, prompting. The doctor had made the odd comment here and there, implying things about the life he had left behind in Myr, but did not care to speak much about it.

    "There is a reason I left the family business to my little sister to inherit," he said. His knee bounced as he looked up at the boughs of the tree shading them. "When companies work together, a doctor may be wooed like a comely maiden, but profit sharing negotiations between trading partners can be cutthroat."

    "I don't doubt it," Steve said, even as he filed the little tidbit of information away. Corivo's knee kept bouncing, but he didn't answer. "How's Gerold's arm doing?"

    "Good," Corivo said, his bearing easing. "Another few days, and he will have full movement…"

    They spoke for a short while more, catching up on medical matters for the company and making plans for the stretcher bearer squads that Robert had decreed would be formed. The army continued to snake by, so many men that even at a quick march there was no risk of being left behind. It was only the return of the scouting force that brought an end to their conversation, the men riding along the line with purpose in their spines.

    Despite their hurry, there was no panic to them, nor any evidence of fighting, and Steve shared an optimistic look with Corivo. Perhaps the news would be good.

    X

    The news was good. Fully half of the Reach army had broken off their pursuit, turning east, led by banners of green and gold. Those that remained were led by banners of orange, three black castles upon them - House Peake. When Steve heard the news, he did not smile, but something about the look on his face still made those who saw it nervous. When he spoke with his squire, telling of the lord he had seen, he was answered with ghoulish glee.

    With their forces halved, no longer could the Reachmen hound them so. Instead, their tactics changed to a more insidious harassment, clashes between heavy cavalry turning into struggles in the dirt between scouts and outriders. Foraging became a thing to do in force, even as Lord Baratheon gave orders to strip the land bare as they passed, denying what they could to their pursuers. It was an empty country that they rode through, the few villages they came across newly empty and abandoned. Some were puzzled at how word of their coming had arrived in time for them to flee, but Lord Errol was not one of them. It was a small thing easily done to ensure that a man like Lord America had no reasons to take issue with the behaviour of soldiers on a march through enemy territory.

    A full month passed as their march north continued. The men were not pushed to their limits, but nor was it an easy journey, and slowly but surely their lead grew. Some scoffed at the sluggishness of the Reachmen, but those with keener minds or the weight of experience saw the truth. A battle was no longer in the Reachmen's interest, not when they could join with the foes surely waiting for them in the Crownlands and Riverlands. By the time they crossed the Roseroad and grew close to the Mander, Lord Peake was nearly a week behind them.

    The best crossing of the river, Bitterbridge, was far to the southwest and would require a fight to cross besides, and had long been dismissed as an option. Instead, scouts rode out to confirm the presence of this or that bridge remembered by anyone who had ever had cause to pass through the area. Some were found to have been washed away by Spring melts coming down from the Tumbleton hills, others were in disrepair, some had never existed at all, but some few were found to be promising.

    Of those few, Lord Baratheon chose a bridge by a small town known by its residents as Mastford, and one cool morning, he sent Lord America out to scout the way.

    X

    When Steve and his band rode up to the town of Mastford, they did so casually, without haste and with their weapons stowed. The town boasted a palisade wall, and even a tower to one side of the main gate. There was a man with a bow within it, and he watched uncertainly as they approached, shading his eyes against the midday sun.

    "Hello there," Steve called, bringing his column to a stop before the open gate. The road was dirt, but hard packed as it entered the town, and the buildings he could see were tidy and well made. "I am Lord America. I'd like to speak to whoever is in charge here." He kept a pleasant look on his face, no matter how much it pained him to introduce himself in such a way.

    The man in the tower half turned his head, but didn't take his eyes off the soldiers outside his home. "....Seeeeeeb?"

    "What?" came the answering call from beyond the wall, out of sight.

    "Get the elder! There's a buncha soldiers here."

    Another pale face peered out from behind the wall. The man's eyes widened as he saw what waited outside his home, a figure in gleaming plate, a navy banner bearing a white star at his back, and dozens and dozens of dangerous looking men following. He disappeared swiftly, running off to fetch the elder.

    It did not take long for a grizzled older man to come stumping out. He had a face like a bulldog, and a green tunic that could almost be called fine. "Milord America? I'm Elder Morgan," he said, coming to a stop just inside the walls. "How can we serve?"

    "I'm here to give you a warning," Steve said, pretending he couldn't hear the faint uptick of activity from within the town, hurried footsteps and the clunk of a cellar door being barred. "Lord Baratheon approaches with his army, and he means to pass by your home."

    Morgan paled, but he rallied quickly. "Here?!" How? Why-" he cut himself short. "How long do we have?"

    "If not tomorrow, then the day after," Steve said. He leaned forward to scratch Brooklyn behind the ears, and his mount whickered.

    "Can you - are you able to stop them?" the elder asked, concern sharpening him.

    Steve looked over his shoulder at his men, confused for a moment. "Stop the army?"

    "If you have even a thousand, you could hold them at the bridge for a time," the elder continued. "The meltwaters might not have arrived yet, but the ford by the bridge isn't an easy one. If this is your vanguard, you could hold long enough for Lord Tyrell to catch them." He spoke like a man who had once been a fighter, and the thought drew Steve's eye to the bow calluses on his hands.

    "I'm sorry, there's been a misunderstanding," Steve said, raising a hand to him. "I'm not a Reach scout. I'm part of the Stormlands army."

    Morgan blinked at him. "Oh. Oh, shit."

    "I am personally guaranteeing the safety of your town and your people," Steve said, cutting off any panic at the knees, and the conviction clear in his tone had the elder believing it.

    Only for a moment, though. "We all know what armies do to the lands they pass," he said, jaw set.

    "Those armies don't have me in it," Steve said. "Now, you can evacuate if you want. You have at least a day, and I can't guarantee your safety from the Reach army that comes after us."

    A complicated expression crossed his face. "We can't outrun cavalry. They'd run us down like dogs."

    Steve found himself scowling at the thought. If the townspeople fled and were set upon he would see justice done, but that would be poor comfort after the fact. He couldn't be everywhere. "Do you have a place you could hide?"

    "Not since the floods last summer's end," Morgan said. One fist clenched and unclenched as his worry rose.

    "If you stay, you will be safe from the Stormland troops," Steve said. There was not a drop of uncertainty in his voice. "I'll hold the gate myself if I have to."

    Morgan stared at him, a reluctant will to believe worn clearly. "I can't make this decision for my neighbours."

    "You've got time, but not much," Steve said.

    The elder grunted an acknowledgement, staring at nothing. He shook himself. "By your leave, milord?"

    "Yes, but before you go, may we enter your town?" Steve asked politely.

    "What?" Morgan asked, barked really, all pretence at formality gone. "You - what?"

    "I paid my men yesterday, knowing we'd be heading here," Steve explained, like this was a perfectly normal situation. "They've got a bit of coin burning holes in their pockets."

    For a long moment, Morgan stared at him. The sound of a horse's stamp and the cry of a bird were the only sounds. Finally, the elder closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. "The town is yours, milord," he said as he opened them. Without another word, he turned and stomped away, heading down the lane.

    "He seems nice," Steve said to himself. Behind him, Ren coughed, and he grinned at the unspoken suffering. "Mounts against the wall men, and I want them checked before you even think of heading in!"

    An orderly rush broke out, and Steve nudged Brooklyn around to supervise it. There was nowhere to tie them off to, but the mounts of Lord America's company were uncannily well behaved, and happy to graze as their riders checked them over quickly. Rather than join them, Walt rode over to stop at Steve's side, a sour look on his weathered face.

    "You'll want to have a watch on the town before the army arrives," he said without pause.

    "You reckon so?" Steve said.

    "First men to see it will swarm the place like locusts, even if they're not right cunts," Walt said. "And you'll want to borrow some authority from Baratheon for it."

    "It'd head off any disagreements from the nobles," Steve said, nodding. "Who would you pick to lead a watch like that?"

    "That Beron Rogers would be a good pick for the job, or Baratheon's bastard cousin," Walt added. "Errol at a pinch, but he's too high up, and busy wrangling lords for Baratheon besides."

    For a moment, Steve considered making Walt take responsibility for his idea, and perhaps his smirk was a little too telling, for Walt was already shaking his head.

    "Don't even fucking think about it," the veteran warned. "I'll cut someone's ear off, don't think I won't."

    "Alright, alright," Steve said, raising a hand as if to ward him off. "But having responsible ideas like this - well, that's downright knightly of you."

    Walt made a noise of pure disgust and nudged his horse on, leaving Steve to chuckle in his wake. His fun over, he returned to keeping an eye on the horses. Yorick caught his eye as he led his squad through the town gates, giving him a nod, one that he returned. For all that his men had earned the closest thing to leave he could give them, they still had a job to do.

    The men swept through the town like a very orderly and polite pack of wolves, and more than one shopkeep found themselves short of stock in their wake. The town of not quite one thousand souls found themselves bewildered in the aftermath, having barely received the fearsome word of an oncoming army. By the time Steve had finished reassuring a passing merchant that yes, he wanted to buy his stock, not commandeer it, the residents had mostly decided that to flee would see them left unprotected, and that they would put their hopes in the word of the man with the white star banner.

    Things began to move very quickly after that, or so it felt. They returned to the army, Steve bringing word of the town and its surrounds to Robert, gathered by the men during their short leave. With Lord Errol's counsel, he was more than happy to agree with Steve's suggested town watch, and Lord Rogers found himself voluntold for the position, riding ahead with his men to secure the town. After giving his report, Steve turned to more important matters, like giving the book he had purchased from the merchant to Naerys, and accepting her amorous appreciation.

    When the army arrived at Mastford three days later, the small town found itself gradually swallowed by their encampment, tents and bedrolls filling up their fields and forests. The effort to gather water from the Mander each day took more man hours than a week of seeding during the planting season, but the details of the camp were not what the townspeople would remember. When they spoke of the day the Rebellion had come to their doorstep, they would speak of moment that Lord Baratheon came to their simple wooden gates, clad in horned plate worth more than their entire town, under a banner made of fabric finer than any they had ever held, and asked politely for entry.

    "I am Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End," the man said, voice near booming as he made himself heard by every noble and knight who had ridden with him at his demand. "I ask for entry to your town of Mastford. In return, I swear that no harm will come to those within, whether by my hand or by the hands of those sworn to me."

    He was not alone, the highest lords sworn to him at his side. It was a statement, an allowance, and a boast all in one.

    Elder Morgan could hardly match the voice of the Lord of the Stormlands, but he tried all the same. "With your word, and by your honour, be welcome in our walls!"

    The gates were opened, not by some strong townsman, but by Lord Beron Rogers, cousin to the betrothed of the Lord Paramount. The message was clear. The town would be untouched, and though its residents would still not dare to venture out, nor did they fear some band of rapacious soldiers battering down their doors.

    Later, once he had inspected the town and paid a nervous blacksmith a single gold dragon to replace a thrown horseshoe, he rode out with those whose counsel he valued, and inspected the bridge he meant to use to cross the Mander. When he did, he began to smile, a slow, dark thing that promised nothing good for those it was aimed at. Perhaps they would linger longer than first planned.

    X

    Urgent councils were held that night and the following day as plans were adjusted and changed, opportunity rising, but that was not Steve's concern. When battle came, he would fight, but until then, he would spar and train and do his best to help those in his care improve, even if that meant making them regret ever signing on with him. That was getting harder and harder these days, however.

    Steve bent over backwards to avoid being whacked in the face by Ren, turning it into a flip to punish Yorick when the man tried to take advantage - and his knees. A swift kick knocked the spear shaft from his hands, and then Steve was on his feet again, turning to sweep Willem's from under him. The redhead cursed as he fell, and then cursed some more as Steve grabbed him and spun, throwing him into Ren as she came in for another attack. Yorick made one last desperate attempt, rushing forward to tackle his commander bodily, only to feel like he had tackled a castle wall. He stilled when he felt a hand grasp him by the arm and leg.

    A cry went up from the small crowd around the sparring circle when Yorick hit the ground outside it with an audible oof. There were grumbles, but no money changed hands, none foolish enough to bet against their Captain no matter how many entered the circle against him at a time.

    "The pool is now one hundred and three gold dragons," Naerys announced happily from her perch on an empty keg. She made a note on the parchment she held, using her new book as support. She had only set it down to eat ever since Steve had given it to her, and when she had first thanked him for it, leaving his lips thoroughly swollen.

    "And you all owe me one hundred and three pushups by tomorrow," Steve reminded them, helping Willem to his feet. The rest of their group had already limped or been thrown from the circle.

    Groans answered him, but they were well used to his demands now. One day, someone would land a lucky blow on the Captain and wrangle a victory from it, and the pool would be theirs, but until that day they would suffer beneath his cruel attentions.

    "Any other volunteers today?" Steve asked. He accepted a waterskin from Robin, the water cool under the heat of the morning sun.

    Those present took stock of themselves. Most had already stepped into the circle once already, and those eager enough to do it a second time already had.

    "Walt hasn't yet," someone sounding suspiciously like a child trying to sound like an adult called out.

    "Neither have you Toby," Walt called back, not looking up from the block of wood he was carving away at.

    A tall figure joined the gathering, those closest stepping aside in respect. "What has he done now?" they asked, weary.

    "Didn't do nothin'," Toby insisted from where he sat in the dirt, Dodger in his lap.

    "Keladry," Steve said, smiling. "Just who I wanted to see."

    Keladry stilled, sensing danger. Her gambeson was sweaty from her glaivework, but she was still fresh enough, just warmed up nicely. "Me?"

    "Get in the ring," Steve ordered. "We haven't had a good spar since Pentos."

    She did not hesitate to obey, glaive at rest on her shoulder, and an air of anticipation fell over the crowd. To their dismay, most had missed the duel between their Captain and his second in command, out drinking as they were, and had been forced to settle for a glimpse of the end or of second hand tales.

    Ever so slightly, Keladry lifted her chin in challenge.

    "Robin," Steve said, "fetch my hammer."
     
  • Threadmarks
    • another awesome chapter.
    I'm curious what Robert's plan will be.
    Hold the bridge as a chokepoint? Destroy the bridge behind his army? Sabotage the bridge so it will collapse as soon as the enemy army starts crossing with them upon it? Or turn it into an ambush, by hiding and letting a portion (up to half) of the Reach army cross before engaging them with his full force and thus defeating part of the Reach force in detail?
     
    ja.b.n. said:
    another awesome chapter.
    I'm curious what Robert's plan will be.
    Hold the bridge as a chokepoint? Destroy the bridge behind his army? Sabotage the bridge so it will collapse as soon as the enemy army starts crossing with them upon it? Or turn it into an ambush, by hiding and letting a portion (up to half) of the Reach army cross before engaging them with his full force and thus defeating part of the Reach force in detail?
    Click to expand...
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    Ambush is likely not really possible. It's too obvious. Any army would extensively scout the other side of a chokepoint like a bridge before committing. Holding it as a choke point, sure, but it's going to be obvious what you are doing.
     
    Fouredged Sword said:
    Ambush is likely not really possible. It's too obvious. Any army would extensively scout the other side of a chokepoint like a bridge before committing. Holding it as a choke point, sure, but it's going to be obvious what you are doing.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    rule number 1 of warfare. know your enemy and know yourself.
    I agree that any smart and competent army would send in extensive scouts. But, we have a number of examples both in real history and within ASOIAF of army commanders not doing what should be obvious.
    Like, for 1 example, Jaimie Lannister's force besieging Riverrun and not posting adequate sentries, leading to the Battle of the Camps.
    The Reach army, if it's being lead by a bunch of glory-hungry knights, could possibly be provoked into making a stupid mistake
    See also some of the battles of the 100 years war, where English armies got French knightly armies to make similar kind of bad decisions.
     
    Yet another beautiful update. I love (what I imagine to be) the expression on the mayor's face when Steve rocks up and says "Hey, there's a giant army coming, but it's cool. I'll defend your gates myself if necessary. Also, can my guys come in and give you lots of money in exchange for goods and services, as opposed to gaining those goods and services via rape and theft?"


    ja.b.n. said:
    rule number 1 of warfare. know your enemy and know yourself.
    Click to expand...
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    I agree with everything else you said in this post and think it's insightful, but I'm feeling puckish.

    *pushes up glasses* Um, akshewally, that quote is from The Art of War by Sun Tzu, but the first rule according to him was "The art of war is of vital importance to the State." (Chapter 1, rule 1.) Your quote is rule 18 from chapter three. </obnoxiousness> :>
     
    eaglejarl said:
    I agree with everything else you said in this post and think it's insightful, but I'm feeling puckish.

    *pushes up glasses* Um, akshewally, that quote is from The Art of War by Sun Tzu, but the first rule according to him was "The art of war is of vital importance to the State." (Chapter 1, rule 1.) Your quote is rule 18 from chapter three. </obnoxiousness> :>
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    thank you, this made me laugh and I learned something. thanks!
     
    The Battle of Mastford Bridge 2
  • Threadmarks
    • Excitement fluttered around the circle, and the hammer was swiftly retrieved, the audience falling quiet, those behind silently jostling for a better angle.

    "You're about to fight a stronger enemy, but you have the edge in speed," Steve said, taking a wide stance in the centre of the ring. "You can't or won't retreat, and they're coming at you with intent to kill. Defend yourself." He stepped forward, hammer raised overhead for a punishing blow.

    Keladry didn't hesitate, whipping her glaive around - not to slash at him, but to bring the iron shod butt sweeping into his temple. Steve was forced to lean back, feeling the breeze from the blow brush across the bridge of his nose, his line of attack swept aside in the same motion. He throttled the urge to jump and kick her in the face, keeping his strong stance, even as the business end of the glaive fell upon him from above.

    Even controlling his speed, he still caught the blow with the haft of his weapon, catching the glaive just below its blade. Keladry sought to push down on him, instinct and muscle memory demanding it, and he smirked at her over their crossed weapons. She realised her mistake just as he flexed and pushed, near launching her backwards. Quick footwork was all that saved her from a tumble in the dirt, glaive planted like a staff at the edge of the ring, and then she was lancing out with it like a spear, warding off his advance.

    It was for naught, the weapon swept aside by a casual strike that would have knocked a man's head clean off. Long practice saw her keep her grip on the glaive, even as she was battered to the side with it. The hammer was already sweeping back the other way, and Kel was forced to bend over backwards to avoid it, turning the move into a flip that had her glaive spinning with her, arcing up to take him in the groin. Gasps and exclamations rose around them.

    But they were distant, unimportant, and Steve grinned to see the familiar move even as he narrowly avoided a delicate injury. He struck again, not with the head, but with his haft, seeking to strike her head. Her own haft met it, not to block but to deflect, and she spun with the motion, turning into another strike. His grin widened.

    For long minutes, Steve stalked her around the ring, implacable, heavy blows setting the air to thrumming with their passage and leaving great divots in the ground. Only once more did she try to block an attack outright, an underhanded rising swing of his hammer. He punished her for it, letting her catch it for a moment before lifting her clear into the air and into the watching crowd. Men scrambled out of the way with amused squawks, but poor Ren ended up half squashed, unable to move in time. Willem and Osric hauled her off their friend, giving her a boost back into the ring and Steve's waiting hammer, and that was the last time she made that mistake.

    Through it all, her form hardly wavered, even as he forced her to dodge and deflect again and again, months of personal training from Captain America paying off. Her short brown hair was soaked with sweat, muscles trembling as they found it harder and harder to meet the demands she was making of them, but meet them they did. Steve's grin never wavered as they fought. Even when she feinted a heavy overhead strike, baiting punishment to make an opening to punch him in the face, it only grew wider. Still, there was only so long a warrior could keep it up, even one so fit as her.

    "Get 'im Kel!" Toby hooted from the sidelines. "Hit him again!"

    The words seemed to invigorate her, giving her access to some untapped reserve, and a duck and step turning into the opening of a sequence that Steve had seen practised many times on the road. He was moving before he could properly think, his grip on his speed slipping as he was forced to catch the strike on the spike of his hammer, then shift his leg to block a knee to his groin, only to feel the butt of her weapon coming for his side.

    His hand snapped out to catch it, locking it in place, and Keladry sagged, spent. He released it, just in time for her to plant it in the ground as she staggered, catching herself. Their audience groaned as one.

    Steve shook his head, rueful. "Well done," he said. There was a light sheen of sweat across his brow, and a red mark on his cheek. Around them, men slapped their thighs or beat their fists on wood, already discussing the bout with enthusiasm.

    Exhausted, she could only muster the energy to shake her head at him as she sucked in huge, steady breaths.

    "I mean it," Steve said. He set his hammer down, spike first. "You made me move faster than I meant to at the end there."

    The look she gave him was tinged with disgust, prying a snort of amusement from him.

    Robin made his way to them, waterskins in hand, and handed them over; he had a look of awe on his face as he looked between the two of them. Keladry popped her cork out with a thumb and began to take small, steady sips, while Steve took a long, slow pull of his own skin.

    "Did you have to throw me into the crowd?" she asked, once her throat was soothed.

    "Have to? No," Steve said. "Want to…?" His grin returned.

    Kel took another sip, standing straighter, though still she leaned on her glaive. Her blank expression was returning, but still she looked on him with disapproval. "You are a bad man, Captain."

    "I think we'll do this again sometime," Steve said, pouring some of his water over his head. "It'll be good for you."

    Despite the weariness weighing her down, there was a spark of eager determination in her hazel eyes. "I look forward to it."

    A mop of blond hair ducked under her arm, silently demanding she use him for support. "Got water for a bath comin' to the tent," Toby reported.

    "Thank you, Tobias," Keladry said, leaning slightly on him, but mostly on her glaive. They began to make their way from the circle, a path opening for them quickly. A drumming beat spread amongst the troops, acclaiming her effort and achievement.

    "I wish I was that good," Robin said, staring after her.

    "One day you will be," Steve said, clapping a hand on his squire's shoulder. "So long as you keep up your training."

    Robin was quick to nod his agreement

    New movement caught Steve's eye, a group of men stepping forward. "Oh?" he asked. "Volunteers?"

    "We're going to get you this time, Captain," Hugo called. His was a face made for smiling, but there was a fire in his eyes as he rolled his broad shoulders.

    "That so."

    "That pool is getting paid out today," Henry swore, cracking his knuckles. He was joined by Artys and Ortys, the twins looming at each side, as well as Kraus, a blue eyed Vale knight who was always quick with a joke, one of Yorick's squad.

    Steve couldn't help but note that they were all members of the tug of war team that had tried so hard to best him, back in their early days of training, and he smirked. "Well, I am pretty tired," he said, "so if you want to do this, after I win I'm going to need one hundred and four situps, too."

    Cries of mock offence ran out. "Don't you dare lose, you great shit!" Yorick hollered, finger levelled at Henry.

    The group hesitated, but only for a moment. They knew the strength of their Captain well, had seen him do things that no ordinary man could hope to achieve - but they had also just seen a spar that surely equalled any he had fought at the great tournament at Harrenhal. Their resolve firmed and they stepped forward, surrounding him; they could do this.

    Steve handed off his hammer to Robin, and the kid hurried out of the way as best he could with the heavy burden. He had never been so glad to be excluded from the pool and the price paid for chasing it.

    A short time later, after the men had dispersed, resigned to their owed pushups and situps, Steve found his injuries being tended to by a gentle hand and a teasing tongue.

    "Ouch," Steve said. "Careful." The sounds of the camp drifted by in the background, men going about their days.

    "Poor Lord America," Naerys said, wiping his cheek with a damp cloth. She was still perched on her seat, but now he knelt before her, sitting on his heels. "Treated so harshly by his men."

    Steve grumbled to himself. "Henry's been spending too much time with Walt," he said. "I'm pretty sure he tried to bite me when I put him in that headlock."

    "You would have deserved it," Naerys said. Her free hand scratched lightly at his scalp as she worked.

    "Cruel words from a gorgeous dame," Steve said, sighing and woebegone. Taking advantage of his position, he began to stealthily unlace her boot.

    "You'll live," she said, merciless. Then her expression changed as she felt her boot slipping from her foot. "No don't you da-aahhh!"

    Steve held her leg firmly in place as he tickled the arch of her foot, leaving her to squirm in a vain attempt to escape. "What's that?" he asked, utterly without mercy. "I'll what?"

    "Don't - stop," Naerys pleaded, putting her other foot on his chest and pushing, but to no avail.

    "Don't stop?" Steve asked, tilting his head as if confused.

    "Stop you cad!" she managed, breathless, before strangling a squeal. She jerked, trying to pull back, but all she could do was flop backwards, and her leg was still in his grasp. "Or I'll-"

    Steve paused, fingers resting on her ankle in unspoken threat. "Or you'll…?"

    "Or," Naerys said, taking a shaky breath as she recovered, sitting back up, "I'll stop doing that thing you like."

    Possibilities flashed across his mind, paralysing him. "Which, which one?" His throat was suddenly dry.

    Naerys booped him on the nose. "That's for me to know, and you to worry over," she said.

    "Cruel, cruel words," Steve said, shaking his head. His grip loosened, the threat of further tickling falling as his hands trailed upwards to massage her calf over her breeches.

    For a few moments, there was only the sound of the camp, someone rummaging in a nearby tent and cursing faintly, distant jeers and the slow progression of clouds overhead. Naerys' hands returned to his head, cleaning it of the grime of the ring. She swallowed, clearing her throat.

    "I thought, perhaps, that we might do something different this night," she said, suggesting rather than stating.

    Steve opened his eyes, having near dozed off to the sensation of her nails on his scalp. "What did you have in mind?"

    "Mastford has an inn, and rooms with large beds and walls thicker than any a tent has," she said. Her free hand came to a rest on his head. "Perhaps we could rent one for the night."

    He wasn't fool enough to doubt and ask if she was sure. They had stolen small moments together and taken advantage of others in quiet mornings as they woke, but each had firm opinions on how certain things ought to be done, for the first time at least.

    "I woul- perhaps we sh- yes," Steve said, tongue clumsy all of a sudden. She had a way of making him feel like he had in the early days on tour, right after he had gotten the serum.

    "Good! Good," Naerys said, like she hadn't been sure of his answer.

    "We could take a walk by the river," Steve suggested. "Before- this afternoon."

    "It's still cool; I'll find some mulled wine," Naerys said, smiling down at him. The faint purple in her eyes almost seemed to glitter.

    Steve returned her smile, reminding himself that out in the open in the middle of a busy camp was not the place to take her in his arms and show her how he felt. She seemed to read something in his look, however, and she began to lean in, hand falling to his cheek.

    "Milord America?"

    Two pairs of eyes glared daggers at the unfortunate servant who had interrupted them, and he swallowed, fighting the urge to step back.

    Steve centred himself as Naerys' hand fell away. "Yes?" he asked, voice terse.

    "Lord Baratheon invites you to his war council this afternoon," the young man said, swallowing again.

    "Just this afternoon?" Steve asked, his tone implying that it had better be.

    The servant wilted. "I, I think it is to be a long meeting, milord," he said.

    "...I understand," Steve said. "Thank you for the message."

    The servant bowed and hurried off without a glance back, eager to escape.

    "Shit," Steve said shortly. "Tomorrow? No-"

    "Robin's birthday," Naerys said, just as disgruntled.

    "And we march out the day after," Steve said. They shared a look.

    "Shit," Naerys agreed.

    There was a pause as both tried in vain to come up with a solution.

    "I could seize a castle," Steve offered. "We're bound to pass one."

    "Aren't we making right for the other rebel armies?" Naerys asked. "Avoiding sieges?"

    "It wouldn't take long," Steve said. "I could make a quick detour, or head off track for a bit." Even as he made the suggestion, he knew it was a non-starter.

    Naerys let out a long sigh. "I suppose we'll just have to wait."

    "You know," Steve said, his hands trailing slowly up her legs, coming to a rest on toned thighs. "With everyone busy, the tent section should be about empty. We could find a little time for ourselves."

    "Just a little time?" Naerys asked, tone lowering. She leaned forward, tongue brushing over her lips.

    "A little," Steve agreed, tilting his head up.

    Abruptly, Naerys drew back. "I have a book to finish, actually. Some handsome man gave it to me, and I wouldn't want him to think I don't appreciate it." She slipped her foot back into her boot, before rising from her seat and letting his hands slip from her legs. Her touch lingered on his shoulder as she left.

    Steve twisted to watch her go. "Cruel," he called after her, earning nothing but an extra sashay for his troubles. He stared until she slipped from sight, then stared a little longer.

    Eventually, he got to his feet. He had some tension to work out, and soldiers in need of training.

    X

    When afternoon came, Steve left the squad leaders in charge of the cool down stretches and pretended not to hear the good natured complaining that sprang up in his wake. He took advantage of the barrel bathtub in his tent to freshen up - Naerys tried to pretend to remain engrossed in her book, but that only lasted until he started subtly flexing - and then he was on his way to the nearby hill that hosted Lord Baratheon's tents at its top.

    He had managed to avoid many of the meetings in recent days, but all good things had to end sometime, and he girded himself for a few hours stuck in a room full of nobles when he could have been wooing Naerys in anticipation of a night together at the inn. Guards tipped their heads to him as he passed, his face all that was needed as he approached their lord, and then he was being waved into the meeting tent.

    When he entered, however, there were only two men in the tent, bent over a roll of parchment. Samuel broke off from highlighting something, grey brows creased, while Robert's look of frustration broke into an easy grin. He looked young in that moment, regardless of his powerful frame and air of authority, and Steve was reminded that in his world, he would barely be out of high school.

    "I'm not early, am I?" Steve said, pausing just inside the tent doorway. The usual long table ran the length of the room. It seemed larger without lords crowded around it.

    Robert waved him off. "No. Even if you were, I'd be happy for the rescue."

    Samuel's lips twitched like they wanted to purse, but he kept his thoughts mostly from his face. "We asked you to come early so we might speak with you before the other lords arrive."

    "They unhappy with me?" Steve asked, stepping up to the table across from them. "Making complaints?"

    "No more than usual," Samuel said. "It is not their place to say to whom their lord should show his favour."

    "Bloody politics," Robert grumbled. "When they can pick any point in the enemy line and break it they can piss and moan about who I give leave to train my squire."

    Steve had included Bryn in his lessons for his own kids a few times during the march north, more so they would make friends than anything. He hadn't considered it might inspire envy.

    "But I didn't call you here to talk about that drivel," Robert continued, and at his side Samuel briefly despaired. He sank into one of the chairs, and they followed suit. The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak - but then he closed it. He frowned, thinking.

    Steve and Samuel shared a glance, the older lord verging on alarmed.

    "When we fought, at Harrenhal," Robert started slowly, looking Steve in the eye, "did you fight as you did by the Blueburn?"

    A steady gaze and a single shake of the head was his answer.

    Robert sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I knew there were warriors who could press me, but in truth I did not think there was anyone who could outmatch me."

    "There's always a bigger fish," Steve said. "Assumptions kill." He had never truly shaken off the sense that there could be someone around the corner who could beat him black and blue, and that had saved him from an unpleasant surprise a time or two.

    "That is harder to imagine of some," Samuel said, eyeing him pointedly.

    "I've met people who could break me in half with one hand," Steve said. He clenched his jaw, remembering how he had strained himself beyond any effort he had made before or since, all to keep a single hand from closing.

    "Bullshit," Robert said, but then he saw the expression on Steve's face. "...what happened?"

    "We killed him." The tone left no room for questions, and the look in his eye was forbidding.

    Robert's hand twitched, as if for a drink to busy it, but there was none to be had. "Right. My point - where was I going with this, Sam?"

    "You are the greatest warrior in this army," Samuel said bluntly, blue eyes watching Steve keenly. "And you can take risks that Robert cannot."

    "Oh a pox on that," Robert said.

    "Lord Rob-"

    "No, Samuel," Robert said, setting a heavy fist on the table. "I wouldn't let Jon keep me from doing this, and I won't let you."

    Samuel bowed his head. "As you say, my lord."

    "You had something you wanted to ask," Steve said.

    "Aye. You've seen the river," Robert said, refocusing himself. "You've seen the bridge. Could you hold it?"

    His instinct was to say yes, but still he considered it. Made mostly of stone, several spans across and six men wide, it was an old bridge, and low, close to the river. A span near the middle had been washed out in years past and replaced with solid timber, but the river itself was not wild, growing wide instead of deep, and in parts was barely knee deep. The town elder had said it could be forded, if not easily, and the land on either side was low and empty of large trees, becoming part of the river when the winter snows in the mountains upstream melted.

    "If the river was too deep to cross, I could hold it for two days before I needed to be relieved," Steve said slowly. "As it is..."

    Samuel coughed, then cleared his throat. "That is - no."

    Less restrained was Robert. "Ha!" the big man said, slapping his hand on the table with a crack. "Gods, that would be a tale. No, we mean - could you really?" he asked, unable to help himself.

    "I've had longer fights, and harder fights, but not like that would be," Steve said. He regretted answering. "I mistook your meaning. It wouldn't work, anyway, not with the riverbed being fordable. They'd just ignore the bridge and come at me from both sides."

    Samuel was watching him, not uncomfortably, but like he was finally coming to an understanding of something he had known academically.

    "That aside - and I want to talk more about it after - we mean to give battle to the Reachmen at the river," Robert said. "They've hounded us long enough, and I warned them where my boot was going if they kept it up."

    "I see," Steve said. That made more sense than a delaying action alone or with a small force. "You want to deal with them now rather than let them link up with the loyalists in the Crownlands."

    Robert nodded. "It's time. I don't want to worry about what they're doing as we march to the fighting in the north."

    "Nor can we risk advancing into an ambush coordinated with royal forces," Samuel added. "Not while we have no grasp of the lay of the land in the Riverlands."

    "The river being what it is…they won't want to take that fight," Steve said, brow furrowing in thought. "And Peake has been happy to let us gain distance on him."

    "He'll need some encouragement," Robert said, nodding, "but I figure if I call him a cunt enough times in front of his men, he'll take the bait."

    Samuel sighed, a weary, well worn thing. "The men of the Reach are not cowards, and the hotheadedness of youth can be a useful thing. Peake may have command, but he lacks the authority that even a Tyrell would have."

    "I remember Stannis saying the Reach was argumentative," Steve said. "Is it that bad?" If their enemy was that divided, that suggested…possibilities.

    "Truly, no," Samuel said. Absently, he smoothed over the salt and pepper stubble on his upper lip. "There are no Hightowers or Redwynes with him, or even Florents, and House Peake is an old and storied House. Lord Peake will only have to contend with young knights hungry for battle."

    "So you're saying we have to leave him no choice but to give battle," Steve said, cracking a faint smile.

    Samuel returned it. "Just so."

    Robert drummed his hand on the table, drawing their attention back to him. "We've a powerful advantage, but not so powerful that to attack would be a fool's gambit, and they've still got the edge in numbers. The ford isn't as much trouble as it looks either - I took a dip earlier, it's mostly flat rock - so I want to be sure of this."

    "So, the bridge," Steve said.

    "So the bridge," Robert agreed. "I can think of three ways to break it or avoid it, but if you're the one leading its defence…"

    "I can think of five ways to make it impassable," Steve said, "but if we do that-"

    "-then they'll sit on their arses until someone's food runs out, and that's not a field I want to challenge them in," Robert said. He gave Steve a long, serious look. "We need them to attack, and we need them to fail. Can you hold it?"

    Steve gave a short nod. "None shall pass," he said. Thinking of the slaughter to come was more than unpleasant, so he cast his mind elsewhere, but then he found himself thinking on what Tony would say if he ever got even the barest details of his time here. It didn't bear thinking about.

    "The instant I can swing it, I'll be joining you on that bridge," Robert said, a wide grin stretching across his face. An unseen tension eased in him, turning into boyish glee. "You won't be holding it with your company, they're too light for that, but I say your knights would suit."

    "I'll summon your lords," Samuel said, rising from his chair. "There are still details to hammer out now that you've made your choice."

    "This was my favourite anyway," Robert said to Steve, as if confiding in him. "And send in my squire!" he called after Samuel as the man left.

    "My lord?" Bryn asked, popping up at the far end of the room, out from under the table.

    "Seven fucking hells fuck me," Robert said, jerking to face his squire. "What were you doing down there?"

    "You told me to wait out of sight in case you needed something," Bryn said, bright blue eyes suddenly wary that he had made a mistake.

    "I meant nearby, outside the tent," Robert said, trying to settle himself, "not hiding under the damned table."

    "Sorry, my lord."

    "Just, have the servants ready a wine service, to bring it in shortly," Robert ordered. The boy was quick to bow and scamper off. "Fuck me," Robert sighed, once he was gone.

    "I didn't hear a thing either," Steve admitted. He hadn't quite had Robert's reaction, but his pulse had skipped half a beat.

    "Not the first time he's done it," Robert said. "Did I tell you about the time…"

    They passed the time sharing tales of the mischief those in their care had gotten up to, the afternoon sun slowly starting to orange against the tent walls as it began its trek towards the horizon in truth. It did not take long for lords to begin arriving, quick to answer when their Lord Paramount called. Soon, the tent was packed with the usual figures, a handful of which were less than pleased to see Steve talking and drinking with their liege like they were close friends. A dozen quiet conversations built to fill the tent with a dull murmur.

    When the time came, Robert rose from his seat to lean over the table as silence fell, looking up and down its length to look each of his lords in the eye. "I have made my decision," he announced, voice like iron, a lord's voice, like he hadn't five minutes prior confessed to once coating himself in broken eggs and chicken feathers as a youth. "You have each offered worthy counsel, and I have heard you, but there can only be one path." He paused, letting the moment build as his lords couldn't help but lean in, invested in hearing if the plan they had championed had won out. "We will fight them at the Mander, and break them of the hubris that would have them think themselves our match!"

    An approving roar rang out in response, no matter the result they may have argued for personally. Battle was in the offing, and after a month of flight before a powerful foe, they were finally turning to meet them.

    "As usual, Lord Errol will command the rear, and see to the disposition of orders delicate and vital," Robert said, raising his cup to the older lord.

    Samuel raised his in turn, silently accepting the task and praise.

    "Lord Rogers, you will have the right, and Lord Ronald, you will command the cavalry in support…"

    On it went, Robert distributing plum commands and positions to his eager lords, many sitting so eagerly still as to near vibrate in their seats. Some roles went to the same men that had held them from the start, while others seemed to rotate. Each was greeted by congratulations and thanks. By the time he was done, almost every man present had been called upon.

    "Right, did I forget anyone?" Robert asked the room, glancing to Samuel.

    "What of the bridge?" Silveraxe Fell called. "Unless you mean to keep the best wine and the best spot for yourself!"

    Jeers came, some at Silveraxe, some at Robert, the flow of wine doing much to strip any semblance of military formality from the room.

    "Blow it out your arse, Fell!" Robert said, grinning. He sobered, looking to Steve. He raised his cup. "Lord America will hold the bridge, and worthy knights will have his back."

    Again came the approbation, but this time there was an undercurrent of discussion.

    Down the table a short way, conflict warred visibly on Lord Cafferen's stern face. "A man well suited to the task," he admitted, grudging.

    Much as it seemed the compliment had pained him, it had still been given, and so Steve inclined his head in turn. That only seemed to pain the man further, and Steve strangled the smirk that threatened to form.

    "Peake is three or four days away," Robert said, dragging them back on track. "Scouts tell me that about when he would have seen our camp here, he began to slow, so tomorrow is our last day…"

    While the broad strokes of the council of war were done, there were still dozens of details to cover, and many an opinion to be given and heard or ignored on them. Steve settled in for the long haul, trying not to think of what else he could have been doing as the sun continued to set and lamps were brought for their work. His will was iron, and his thoughts would remain on the order of crossing and scouting schedules, not on mulled wine and soft skin and the scent of Naer- he cursed to himself, pinching hard on the web of skin between forefinger and thumb. His will was iron. He would endure.

    X

    The final day they spent camped on the southern bank of the Mander passed by all too quickly. Steve finally had the chance to run his chosen stretcher bearers through a full gear exercise, making them carry volunteers away from the field of 'battle', load them up on horses, and then take them carefully to the designated medical tent. It wasn't much, but it would save lives that would otherwise be lost, and that was enough for him. The stretcher bearers complained when the 'wounded' didn't cooperate, but a quick reminder of their likely state come the real thing had them being grateful that their patient was only a foul mouthed old guardsman who kept trying to bounce off his stretcher.

    Walt was not impressed, but then, he rarely was.

    That afternoon, Lyanna somehow produced a workable football from a craftsman in Mastford, and Westeros saw another game of football played on its fields. Word of the planned battle on the river had spread quickly through the army, bringing to mind thoughts of mortality, but for a few hours, Steve's men found respite, and even some entertainment when Lyanna kissed Robin squarely on the lips in front of any who cared to see, only to use it as a distraction to steal the ball. The score of the game no one could say, but all went their ways wearing a small smile, reassured of their place and their faith in the choices that had led them to that point.

    That night, Steve's tent was host to a small gathering. Precious ingredients were sourced from the town, and a cake was baked. Seven people (and one dog) from vastly different walks of life sat and spoke, laughing and teasing, as they remembered what had brought them together and celebrated Robin Longstride's sixteenth birthday. Steve was mocked for his inability (refusal, he insisted) to accept that it was instead his six and tenth nameday, but he was outnumbered, and was forced to distract his foes with the announcement that it was time for the gift giving.

    It wasn't easy finding such things on the march, but they had managed. From Walt there was a fine silver ring whose origins he refused to explain, and from Kel and Toby a quiver of fine arrows they had made for him themselves. Naerys had given him a book she had been carrying for him since Pentos, and Steve a pair of boots, but not just any boots. They were soft and supple, yet strong enough to last a thousand leagues on the march, and then a thousand more after being resoled. They were fit for a Lord Paramount, or perhaps even a king - but still they were not the gift that was clearly loved the most.

    That honour went to the roll of parchment that Lyanna presented to him shyly. Steve had guided her in its creation, but the work was her own, and for a long moment, Robin could only stare at it. Staring back at him in blacks and greys were two figures, familiar, yet not. They were older, more seasoned, but still clearly Robin and Lyanna, and just as clearly happy in each other's arms. There was a shield at Robin's foot, a white star embossed upon it, and if the drawing of Lyanna had her hair in the braid that Naerys so preferred, Steve wasn't going to be the one to mention it.

    Robin's voice was choked as he thanked her, Lyanna's eyes suspiciously bright, and neither showed any sign of letting the hand of the other escape them for the rest of the night. Steve counted it a birthday well spent, and he had a feeling Robin did the same. Their time at Mastford had come to an end.

    Three days later, Steve waited on Mastford Bridge, watching as some twenty thousand men approached the Stormland position on the northern side. By the time he could make out their faces, their footsteps could be felt rumbling through the stone. Battle was in the offing - now they just had to make sure it was accepted.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Great update, I love how all the interactions feel earned and genuine. I also really hope part 3 has the whole battle, cliffs during the action would feel terrible.
     
    Lovely update. Steve and Naerys getting blocked had me wincing in sympathetic pain, but they dealt with it well. The birthday was delightful; Robin and Lyanna are adorable together.


    TheWiseTomato said:
    "I could seize a castle," Steve offered. "We're bound to pass one."
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    Click to shrink...
    Haha, that's funny. I like it when Steve shows his sense of humor.

    TheWiseTomato said:
    "Aren't we making right for the other rebel armies?" Naerys asked. "Avoiding sieges?"

    "It wouldn't take long," Steve said. "I could make a quick detour, or head off track for a bit." Even as he made the suggestion, he knew it was a non-starter.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Oh, wait...that wasn't a joke.

    ...Yeah, that's even more hilarious.
     
    Truly, the greatest pain Steve have endured so far has been the blue-balling. You can feel their desire.
    It's only a matter of time before a Mister/Miss Rogers Jr is conceived.
     
    The Battle of Mastford Bridge 3
  • Threadmarks
    • "Look at them," Robert said, scoffing. "You'd think this was a tourney ground." His mount stamped a foot on the stone of the bridge, mirroring the mood of its rider.

    Well out of bowshot, the Reach army had come to a stop, arranged in neat blocks under the midmorning sun. A pleasant breeze set the banners they carried to fluttering, even as the last notes of the trumpets that had called for their halt faded. Within their formation, lances of cavalry trotted neatly down the gaps between blocks and into position on the wings and at the rear. They had come from the rear in the first place; the only reason to ride through the formation was to show off their skill.

    "Don't be so harsh on them," Beron said at Robert's left, earning a side eye or two from the party. "It's all they'll be good for on this field." Low laughter and snorts answered, a faint smile on his long face.

    "Aye, let's see them ride across that," Robert said, glancing to the river, bubbling merrily below them. For all the bed was remarkably smooth in patches and shallow, it was still a riverbed, treacherous and just waiting to ruin the footing of those that crossed it in haste.

    "I pray that they try," Cafferen said, one of several lords behind them. "Watching the attempt would be a balm after the last month."

    The group sobered, well aware of the skill and threat of the Reach cavalry, for all they disdained the airs they put on.

    "Well, they can prance and trot all they want," Robert said. His hand gripped tight at the haft of his warhammer, a heavy thing of metal and leather. "They'll be cut down if they try the river, and smashed if they try the bridge. Eh, Steve?"

    "They won't like how it goes for them," Steve said, leaning forward in his saddle as he inspected the Reach army. He had been given pride of place at Robert's right, something that had caused a quiet flutter amongst the lords for one reason or another, but he was past caring.

    "That's if we can bait them into attacking," Ronald Connington said, from near the rear of the group. Behind him, a small cluster of squires listened to their talk, nerves and excitement splashed across their faces.

    "We'll manage," Robert said, and that was that.

    The Reach cavalry had finished primping and settling, and a group of a dozen odd riders emerged from the main, heading for the bridge. Peake's banner flew above them, three black castles on orange.

    Robert nudged his horse forward, and his retinue followed. A banner was raised behind them by Cafferen's squire, a rearing black stag on yellow, proclaiming Baratheon's presence as they rode across the bridge. Hooves clattered on stone, briefly rattling over the wood that branched the missing span, and then they were on the south bank, riding to meet the Reach party.

    Last time the Stormland army had faced off with the Reach, Steve had watched the parlay from the front ranks, well removed from the discussion. This time he found himself with a front row seat, but he had little mind to enjoy the new experience. Not with more pressing matters on hand. It did not take them long to draw near to the other party, and they began to slow. They were close enough to make out their faces clearly.

    Steve turned to glance back at his squire, riding with his fellows, and tilted his head in question. Robin nodded once, face set in harsh lines, a far cry from his usual friendly expression. His knuckles were white on his reins, and his eyes were fixed on the leader of the Reach party. The super soldier turned back just as they came to a stop, thoughts hidden behind a calm expression.

    For a moment, no one spoke, each group taking in the other. There were more Stormlanders, but only due to their squires, and the armour of the Reachmen was polished brighter.

    "Lord Peake," Robert said, patience quickly running thin.

    "Lord Baratheon," Peake said, smiling thinly. He had a sharp face, and sharper eyes that took in the group before him, faint lines about their corners. A narrow chin was bare of even the hint of stubble, and short dark hair was neatly combed, no helm on hand to muss it. He lacked the bulk that many Westerosi lords seemed to share, but there was a strength to him, his plate armour worn easily.

    "Took you long enough," Robert said, blue eyes looking him over. "You stop for a picnic?"

    Peake ignored the goading words. "Say your piece."

    Both sides shifted and scowled, neither happy with the lack of respect from the other. Steve was the exception, watching the enemy general without blinking.

    Robert spat to the side, his opinion clear. "Right then. I warned you what would happen if you kept pushing, and you have, so now it's my boot up your arse. We can do this here and now, or you can send your men at me to die first."

    An unimpressed brow was raised in response. "Why would I give battle when I can simply watch you starve?" Peake asked. "You are not the one fighting in the heart of your homeland, surrounded by fertile fields and men eager to supply you with their bounty."

    "Not sure what else I expected from a Reachman," Robert said, lip curling in contempt.

    "Just like a Stormlander to think so simply," Peake said. "What will you do when I refuse to send my men single file over that bridge for you? Scream and cry, demanding single combat?"

    Robert's face reddened in anger, a rumble of anger growing in his chest.

    "Or perhaps you will send your pet sellsword after me," Peake said, smiling, like he'd told a quiet joke. "It seems that you owe him mo-"

    "I've had bowel movements with more fibre than you."

    There was a moment of shocked silence as all present looked to the 'pet sellsword' that had dared to interrupt the parlay.

    "Your Lord Paramount was bolder, but I suppose that's a given when you can't even grow facial hair," Steve continued, warming to his subject. "Tell me, have you even drawn your weapon this past month, or do you prefer to lead from the rear?"

    Disbelieving grins, poorly hidden, began to grow over the faces of the Stormlanders, while the Reachmen grew outraged. Peake's face was a study in stone.

    "What about when you're not on campaign? Do you get someone else to do the work in the bedroom, too? " Steve asked. There was a kernel within himself, one he didn't like to feed, that always tempted him to treat bullies as they treated others. Bucky had always loved it when he let it out. "What do his kids look like?" Steve asked, addressing the other Reachmen.

    "You yap in the presence of your betters," Peake said, even voice betrayed by the whiteness of his lips. "Your base insults will not see me charge into battle like a rabid Stormlord."

    "That's a good excuse," Steve said, sounding impressed. "Now when you refuse to respond to my insults, you can just say you're being smart, not cowardly."

    Peake paled with fury, turning deliberately to Robert. "Have you anything worth hearing to say?" he asked.

    "Bitch," Steve said softly, hardly moving his lips.

    Robert gave a pained wheeze, struggling mightily to keep a straight face. He shook his head, lips pressed together for fear of losing control.

    "Hey, how come you've got three castles on your banner?" Steve asked. "Are you compensating for something, or do you just have trouble counting?"

    A snigger came from someone behind him, and that was the last straw. Robert lost control, breaking into huge, heaving guffaws, slapping his knee, and the rest of the Stormlanders followed him.

    Peake whirled his horse around, bulling his way through his party without a word and forcing them to turn after him, following him back towards their army with hooting Stormlords at their backs.

    Weakly, Robert gave a wave, gesturing for his lords to turn and make for the river, but there was little order to their party as they did so. As they rode, the air about them seemed more suited for a pub crawl than a party out to parlay.

    "You said you would aim to goad him, America," Silveraxe said, still chortling, "but I was not expecting that!"

    "'Bitch'," Robert said to himself, almost giggling.

    "I just wanted to make sure he understood where I was coming from," Steve said, shrugging. "We do insults a little differently back home."

    "That tale will spread through their army like a pox," Beron said, shaking his head as he smiled. "What did he do to deserve such vitriol?"

    Steve frowned. "He's done things that I find very hard to forgive. I don't like- well, it's not my story to share, but he's on my shitlist."

    The mood fell somewhat, laughter fading as they neared the bridge.

    "A dangerous place to be," Beron remarked. By the nods in response, he was not the only one thinking it.

    "If all goes well, you'll have the chance to take your pound of flesh," Robert said, voice raised to be heard. "So long as Peake doesn't act like a bitch."

    His words buoyed the mood somewhat, and then conversation was cut off by the clatter of hooves on stone as they reached the bridge. When they reached the other side, the group paused, as Robert began to give orders.

    Steve directed Fury over towards his squire. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

    Robin nodded, his expression torn between smile and frown. "What you said - his face - but then I remember," he said.

    "It's beyond my power to make him face true justice for what he did," Steve said, "but I can certainly make him pay the price for his actions."

    There was no humour in the smile Robin mustered. "I think I prefer that," he said, teeth bared. "Make him hurt."

    "Steve," Robert cut in, putting an end to their talk. "You've seen him now, and his approach. Your thoughts?"

    They had brainstormed a number of approaches to goad the enemy into attacking, most dependent on circumstance. The foe was well out of bowshot, arrayed across the full stretch of the fords, and their camp was nowhere to be seen. Some approaches were riskier than others, and some were bloodier or more insulting, but now that he had the lay of the land, they could make an informed decision.

    "I think…he didn't appreciate what I had to say to him," Steve said. "How do you think he'd react to a bit more of that?"

    Robert gave him a look. He knew exactly which suggestion Steve was alluding to, and it couldn't be described as 'a bit more'. "You think you can get them all following along?"

    Steve had snuck into a few games in his time, and been given the royal treatment at a few more on Tony's dime. If there was anything a crowd liked, it was a good chant. "Yeah. I'll manage."

    "Right. We'll try that first then," Robert said. "We've got supplies to spare yet."

    "Yes sir," Steve said, before turning back to Robin. "Pass the word to Keladry, and then join Walt. I don't expect they'll charge today, but best be ready."

    "Aye Captain," Robin said, ducking his head. He spurred his horse over to where Keladry stood at the head of a score of knights, waiting near the end of the bridge.

    Steve nudged Fury over towards the centre of the army. Rather than being at the middle of the fords, the bridge was perhaps a third of the way from their start, and he wanted to ensure his little ditty spread quickly.

    X

    The Reach army was perhaps half again outside the range of the Stormland longbows, but they were not out of earshot. Not when thousands upon thousands of men were speaking as one, making themselves heard over the river and the grassy fields. It had started with one voice, but it had spread swiftly, more and more common men lending their voices as they heard the lyrics and joined in with wide grins.

    "Luke Peake, Luke Peake
    He's meeker than a sheep
    Luke Peake, Luke Peake
    His armour must be cheap
    Luke Peake, Luke Peake
    Born on midden heap
    Luke Peake, Luke Peake
    Listen to him weep!"

    Their foe was distant, but not so distant that the impact of their words could not be seen. Those with keener eyes could see the disbelief in them, the rising outrage, even the amusement of some. Messages were run to the command on their right wing, but when they carried their response back to those that sent them, no action was forthcoming.

    The men sang with a gusto, tickled pink to insult an enemy noble so. In time however, the first hints of fatigue crept in, and Steve signalled for a horn to be blown, bringing the chant to an end before it could peter out. There was much clashing of steel and hooting in response, morale greatly lifted. It was early afternoon.

    Standing in formation for hours on end with the threat of battle looming over the field was not an easy task, but Steve did his best to bolster the men. As the sun began to fall towards the horizon, a new chant spread through the Stormlands army.

    "Whose gut is yellow like daffodil?
    Peake, Peake, Peake!
    Who lays with pigs till he's had his fill?
    Peake, Peake, Peake!
    He's a gutless coward, yes it's true.
    Peake, Peake, Peake!
    And now it seems the Reach is too!
    Weak, Weak, Weak!"

    On and off they raised the new chant, carrying through until the sun turned orange and began to set in truth. A contagious glee had beset the army, mirrored by a not quite despondent mood amongst the Reachmen as each army retired for the day. Steve heard more than one earnest discussion amongst the soldiers over Peake's fondness for sexual relations with goats, or of the likely equine parentage of his children, and how best to set such ideas to a tune, but that was none of his business. The first day of the standoff was almost over, but there were more to come, and they wouldn't goad their foe into attacking with more of the same.

    When the moon began to rise, shining down on men sitting around fires as they ate and japed with a strong watch set, Steve was checking his gear and passing word to the watch commanders. The first day might have been over, but the first night was just beginning.

    When Lord America crept from the Stormlands camp, clad not in heavy plate likely to glint in the moonlight but in a strange blue outfit, even their own sentries hardly spied him. When he disappeared into the darkness across the river, those same sentries could not help but feel a glimmer of pity for the Reachmen.

    Slow hours passed, and the moon sat high overhead, half hidden by clouds.. The third shift of four was about to start when the serenity of the night was broken by a distant horn call, mournful and sinister. Though it was heard only faintly at the Stormlands camp, it was surely a sudden, startling thing at the far off Reach camp. The Stormlanders had come to know the distinctive horn of Lord America well, and now it seemed the Reachmen were too, as scant minutes later the horn rang out again, sounding its dirge into the night. This time though, it came to the sentries ever so slightly differently, echoing over the land from another angle.

    Shift change came, but rather than hurrying to their beds, the men of the second shift lingered to speak with their replacements, wondering what the formidable warrior could be up to. They had been warned that Lord America was up to something, but not what, and the horn sounding and sounding again gave little hint. It wasn't until the third, then fourth, and then fifth sounding, all reaching them differently, that some began to realise.

    "Imagine trying to get a wink with that going off all around the camp," one man said to another.

    "You'd never," the man replied, scoffing.

    "They've got to be riding out to hunt him down."

    "What are they gonna do? It's Lord America. He prolly kills them that find him, then goes off to do it again."

    Again the horn sounded, and the relieved sentry shook his head, a vindictive smirk on his face as he made for his tent. Lord Baratheon was truly a lord of lords, getting a man like that America on their side.

    X

    In the quietness of his large tent, Steve and Naerys sat across the table from each other, legs entwined as they enjoyed a simple breakfast in the central room. The sounds of the waking camp rose outside, and the rising sun played on the walls. He had crept back in during the early hours of the morning to return to sleep, and had woken rested. The same couldn't be said for the soldiers he had spent his night disturbing.

    "I think it's been a year," Naerys said, breaking the comfortable silence.

    "Hmm?" Steve asked, not looking up from the sketch he was working at, finishing off a cheese drizzled bread with his free hand.

    "A year since you washed ashore at Sharp Point," Naerys said.

    Now he looked up, charcoal stylus pausing. "Huh." His gaze went distant as he flicked through memories. Waking up in a strange land, the Kingswood Brotherhood, getting his shield back, the tourney at Harrenhal, Braavos and the Iron Bank, the weddings at Riverrun, the rescue raid in the Mountains of the Moon, spiriting the hostages out from the Red Keep, building his company, taking Gulltown, the voyage south, months on campaign in the Reach - it had all sped by so quickly. "It feels shorter," he said, looking back to her. "But, longer, in some ways."

    For a long moment, Naerys didn't answer, only circling one finger on the table they sat at. "Living in Sharp Point feels a blur. I remember names, faces, but…I've lived more since I met you than I did in all the years since my father died."

    Steve set his stylus down and placed his hand over Naerys'. She rarely spoke of her father, and almost never about his death, only of his exploits or things he had taught her.

    "No matter what happens," she said, flipping her hand over to take his, "I am glad I found you."

    "Pretty sure I found you," Steve said, squeezing her hand.

    "Remind me which of us washed up on a foreign shore?" she asked pointedly.

    "Yeah," Steve said, nodding, "and if I'd never done that, I never would have found you."

    "Impossible man," Naerys said, but her voice was fond.

    "I'm glad I found you too," Steve said, more serious. "After the way my life went, I didn't think I'd ever…I didn't expect to ever have anything like this."

    "Well you do," Naerys said, tapping his foot with her own. "And you'll keep it, so long as you come back in one piece today, and every day to come."

    "They don't have enough soldiers to stop me."

    Something about the way he said it had her eyes darkening with desire, and she leaned forward, about two seconds from climbing over the table to get at him. Then there were footsteps from outside, and the sound of the tent flap entrancing being pulled aside.

    Lyanna entered a moment later, carrying with her parchment and charcoal, sketching materials that had come to be hers. "Morning Steve, Naerys," the girl said, smiling as she saw them sitting across from each other, each absorbed in their own business. "Robin said you wanted to see me?"

    "That's right," Steve said, cursing his earlier decision as he set his stylus down again, as if he hadn't just snatched it up in a hurry. "Have a look at this." He slid the sketch he had been working on over towards her.

    She approached the table eagerly, setting her equipment down. "Is this another practi…" she trailed off as she took in the sketch, jaw going slack. After a long moment, scandalised delight began to creep across her face. "Is that Pea- with a donkey?!"

    The bride cloak that Peake was menacing the donkey with was his favourite part of it. "Yep." He slid another scrap of parchment over to her.

    Eyes already alight with glee, she took up the new sketch. On it was a line of men, all in line for the privy. Most were dressed casually, save one, who clutched at a sword and wore full plate armour that just happened to resemble the set Peake had worn during the parlay. A vicious smirk appeared. "Has Robin seen these yet? Let me show him, please," she almost begged.

    "You can show him," Steve said, lips twitching. He shared a look with Naerys; she too had found joy in Lyanna's amusement. "Do you think you could do some more like this?"

    It took a moment for the question to sink in, but when it did Lyanna almost began to dance in place. "You want me to - oh yes, I can," she said, nodding quickly, but then she glanced between the two sketches, nibbling on her lip as she thought. "Not as good, and the perspective on the second one isn't easy - what are they for?" Her words were almost falling over themselves in her eagerness.

    "I'm going to leave them around the Reach camp when I steal Peake's banner later tonight," Steve said.

    Naerys' head snapped back to him at that. "Steve."

    "What?" Steve asked. "It's me."

    That didn't help matters.

    "I'm not even going to be sneaking into his tent," Steve said. "I'm stealing a flag from his baggage, not assassinating a general."

    "Hmm," Naerys said, only partially satisfied.

    Steve would take it, and he looked back to Lyanna to see her on the verge of doing tippy taps.

    "You're going to leave these for the nobles to find?" Lyanna asked.

    "That's the plan," Steve said.

    She took a breath, steadying herself. "I can do a bunch before nightfall. I bet Robin has some ideas too."

    "Appreciate it," Steve said. "I'll do some more this afternoon, once I finish poking the Reach knights." A thought occurred to him. "Oh, don't forget to sign the ones you do." He took up his stylus again and scribbled a quick 'America' in the corner of each sketch.

    Some of her enthusiasm calmed. "Should I just sign it as Lyanna? I don't have a family name, um, yet." A blush stole across her face.

    "You should choose one," Naerys said firmly.

    "Even though I'm just-"

    "Just what?" Naerys asked, levelling her gaze at her.

    Lyanna ducked her head, but she was smiling.

    "You're more than a few years away from getting a family name that way, anyway," Steve said. "I don't need to sit down with you again, do I?"

    Panic flashed in her eyes now. "No Steve there's no need for that," she said quickly.

    Naerys pretended to scratch the bridge of her nose, hiding a smile.

    "Then have a think, and if you come up with one before tonight, sign it to your work," he said. "If not, just use your first name."

    "I will," Lyanna said. She glanced at her supplies, hand twitching towards her stylus. "May I…?"

    "Make yourself comfortable," Steve said, rising from his chair. "I've gotta go spank some knights."

    Naerys tilted her head, expectant, and he stepped around the table to give her a quick kiss. It stayed quick due to their company, and then he was on his way with a bounce to his step, ready to face the new day.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Lord America has certainly accelerated the development of insult culture in Westeros.

    Those soldiers are definitely going to be taking a tradition of mocking chants back to the Stormlands, which will probably mesh with their relatively rambunctious culture very well.

    Poor Robert is likely to be the first Lord to perish from laughter.
     
    I just realized, Lyanna's name might actually have massive propaganda value if she signs her own name on the paintings. Like, in large part this war is being fought over Lyanna Stark, and here's a bunch of insults being flung to those siding with her abductors in her name (because who'd assume it was a smallfolk doing this?)
     
    XenonPrime said:
    Lord America has certainly accelerated the development of insult culture in Westeros.

    Those soldiers are definitely going to be taking a tradition of mocking chants back to the Stormlands, which will probably mesh with their relatively rambunctious culture very well.

    Poor Robert is likely to be the first Lord to perish from laughter.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    this reminded me of a fun story I once read, in which there was some kind of spirit advisor from our world to the Lord of Winterfell.
    The North's armies were famous for chanting a modified version of 'We Will Rock You' by Queen, whenever they were marching into battle. The effect was not unlike a Maori Haka done by 20.000 men at the same time.
    very, very intimidating
     
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