Armies were heavy, ponderous things. Getting one moving was a slow, difficult task, and bringing one to an ordered stop wasn't any easier. Officers shouted and raged, spurring their men on as tents were broken down and servants dashed to and fro, getting everything packed away. The camp was an absolute hive of activity as word spread of the new Reach army lurking beyond the horizon, over half again as large as the one they had just defeated. By the time the first of the men were ready to march out, it was not yet mid morning, danger lending them haste.

It was not every man who was focused on breaking camp and making distance between them and the looming threat, however. Much of the noble cavalry was mounted and battle ready in case of a probing attack by their opposites, the Reach cavalry regarded warily, and for good reason. Should they be hit on the march, great swathes of the army could be decimated if the foeriders were given free rein. There was little chance that the enemy did not know where they were - even if not for the sightings of distant and canny outriders, there was still the men of the vanquished army to carry word. If nothing was done, they faced a long and arduous march, pursued closely and harried hard, only a single mistake between their escape and being forced to give battle. Something would have to be done.

Thankfully, something was.

X

Steve swayed with the branch he stood on, the only sound to be heard the rustle of leaves. The breeze tugged at his shirt, filtered sunlight playing across his face as he waited. Nearby, a boot scraped across a root.

Quiet as a whisper, he stepped off the branch, falling the short distance to the forest floor. The scout he fell upon never suspected a thing until his hands found his neck and snapped it with a twist.

A grunt and a gurgling rasp came from nearby, as Walt tackled the second scout, dagger finding the man's throat as they fell to the forest floor, blood staining the earth red. His free hand held tight to the man's mouth, holding back any sound from escaping, eyes without mercy.

"There's another pair a short way south," Steve said, climbing back up the tree one handed, holding the dead foe with the other. He wedged the man as high as he could trust him to stay securely, before dropping back down.

"You've got the Stranger's own nose," Walt said, wiping blood from his cheek as he rose. He moved out of the way, letting Steve take up his own foe.

"Just lucky, I guess," Steve said, hiding the second body near the first. With luck, they wouldn't be seen without a dedicated search, something that wouldn't be coming. Not when those most likely to be searching had bigger problems.

"Erik and Willem will be too far away," Walt said, wiping his dagger clean and sheathing it. "We'll have to deal with them."

Faintly, there was the distinctive sound of stone hitting bone, coming from the east. "Willem just got one."

Walt gave him a look. "I'd ask how the fuck you know that-"

"Heard it," Steve said.

"Stranger's own ears, too," Walt grumbled, but it was more for the sake of grumbling than any real complaint. "There more like you, back home?"

"One or two," Steve said. They began to move through the forest after their next quarry, Steve with the quietness of a superhuman, calling on memories of the War, Walt with the skill that came from hard earned experience and a conflict of his own.

"Your kids?" Walt asked.

Steve didn't cough or splutter, but his tongue did trip over itself. "Er, no, I- no."

"Da then?" A songbird watched them go by, but it was silent.

"No, not my Ma either."

"So not something you can pass on," Walt said.

"Why so interested?" Steve said, ducking under a branch.

"Your little show yesterday drew a few eyes," he said. "Noble eyes. Them like that aren't against using their daughters like a prize broodmare."

Steve made a face, even as he started to slow. "You can't be serious."

A raspy chuckle answered that. "They'd do it for coin or an alliance, you think they don't want what you've got?"

"Shame I'm already taken then," Steve said. He wouldn't insult Walt by asking just what it was the man thought he had; he hadn't exactly been trying to hide his gifts even before the battle.

"Like that'd stop 'em," Walt said. "Some just aren't botherin' cause they see Toby and figure you're a freak of nature."

Steve nearly stepped on a branch. "They think Toby is my son?"

"Even odds on if Naerys is the ma or no," Walt said, a smirk audible in his voice. "Gonna earn a shiny few coins off that one."

"No," Steve said, as if making a declaration. He remembered the Vaiths, back at Harrenhal, making a similar assumption, but he had thought it a reach. Toby didn't even have the right colouring to resemble what his and Naerys' kids would loo- he cut himself off. "We're close."

Walt nodded, levity left behind, and readied his dagger. If they wanted to blind the Reach army, there were men that needed to die.

X

"Almost a shame, really," Robert said.

Steve looked over at him, one of several. They stood atop a steep hill, a short way from the edge of the forest, all afoot. The road, nothing impressive, wound around the hill and parallelled the forest, arcing north west. Errol was there, along with a few other lords and knights.

"It's a bloody good spot for it," the man continued, scratching at his beard.

"We have done the work," one lord, thickset with muscle, suggested cautiously.

"Not enough," Errol said, shaking his head. "Not against forty thousand Reachmen."

"But imagine," the lord said, plaintive as he took in the slope and the forest, imagining hidden men and sudden charges, though it was clear in his bearing that he knew better.

Robert sighed. "Leave the imagining to the flowery fucks. They can shit themselves over an ambush that isn't coming, while we get closer to the fight that matters."

"They won't be delayed more than a day, surely," Connington - Ronald, Steve had learned his name was - said.

"Three days is better than two," another man said.

Connington wasn't satisfied. "Reaching the Crownlands or the Riverlands is well, but not if we have that army three days behind us," he said. "Damned thing came out of nowhere, and I'm not convinced we can keep that lead."

"We'll make another one," someone said. "We tricked them once."

"A trick only works so many times," Steve said, "and it's their turf."

There were some grumbles, but none gainsaid him.

"They won't follow us," Robert said. "Not all of them. Maybe not even half."

"How do you figure?" Steve asked. He knew war, but he lacked the knowledge to make that judgement.

"Tarly was rushed," Robert said. "Drawn in from what was near, and what he had. Tyrell couldn't have done the same with his, what, twenty thousand? Twenty five?" he asked, glancing at Samuel.

"A good enough estimate," the older lord said, looking towards the horizon, as if he might see the enemy if he peered hard enough.

"That means they were already on their way. Means they were going somewhere. Dragons to coppers that's the army that Steve fucked about with his raiding," Robert said, nodding to himself. "They're headed to Storm's End. They can't afford to change paths."

"If it is, part of it will come after us," Steve said. "Whoever planned out the approach knew what they were doing. They won't want to take more men along a route that isn't supplied as they wanted."

"The field might be more tempting than a buxom wench, but a fight here suits them, ambush or no," Robert said. He shaded his eyes against the midday sun; it was just beginning to fall. "No, better to make them feel the fools."

"Can we not do something?" the first lord asked. He was almost woeful.

"Well," Steve said. "I could get up to a bit of mischief in their camp tonight."

Eyes flicked to him. Few were doubtful. Saying you were going to break the enemy line and then doing that had a way of shifting opinions. The thickly muscled man was downright eager.

"Mischief," Robert said.

"A few good men, depending on the objective…" Steve said, shrugging.

Robert's eyes lit up, the man unable to help himself.

"No, Lord Robert," Samuel said.

Robert grumbled, but didn't bother to respond. "What do you have in mind?"

"I'll come with you," the enthusiastic lord said. "Ser Thomas Storm of Greenstone, at your service." His shoulders were broad, almost as broad as Steve's own, but he was almost as short as Arland, and he had an open face given to smiling.

There were a few snickers, not mean spirited, in response to his words.

"How are you with horses?" Steve asked the man.

"Love em," Thomas said easily.

"Mules?"

"Prefer dogs," the knight admitted.

"What about donkeys?"

Robert chuckled, but said nothing, looking away.

Thomas grumbled, suddenly grim. "Donkeys aren't right."

"You're not still holding a grudge," the other knight, silent until now, said.

"Don't," Thomas warned, expression closing off on itself, as if remembering some great trauma.

The knight held his hands up in surrender, even as he held back a laugh.

"Well," Steve said, wearing a faint smile at the back and forth, "I was thinking we'd find the biggest animal enclosure, and set whatever is within to stampeding."

"They will set a strong watch," Errol warned . "If they haven't already realised they've been blinded, they soon will."

Steve nodded. "I'd thought about eavesdropping on their command tent, but you're right. Still, with all the men from Tarly's army they picked up, I bet there'll be a bit of untidiness we can slip through."

Slapping his hand to his thigh, Robert gave a decisive nod, turning away from the horizon and to the group proper. "Then I give you leave to make your best attempt, but if you judge it to be too risky, you're to turn back."

"Yes sir," Steve said.

Thomas shifted, but said nothing.

"You want Storm here?" Robert asked, catching it. "He showed his blood ran true enough in the battle."

"You'll follow any orders I give, no arguments?" Steve asked the man.

"Aye my lord," Thomas said, bright blue eyes meeting his own without hesitation.

There was a hint of something familiar to the man, and Steve found himself glancing between him and Robert. Robert tilted his head forward, ever so slightly.

"I'll pick three of my own, and we'll ride out before dusk," Steve said.

"Right then," Robert said. "Let's get back to the army; there's plenty of daylight left to burn and if I have to look at this field any longer I might change my mind."

Laughter was the response, and the lords and knights turned from the field that would make the blinded Reach force fear an ambush, making for the group of squires that watched over their mounts, hidden behind the hill. Robert accepted his reins from Bryn, and Steve did the same from Robin, and then they were mounted and away, cantering north.

X

Robin hissed, shaking out his hand as his borrowed sword was twisted from his grip yet again. "This is starting to get embarrassing," he said.

"Starting?" came the catcall from Lyanna, sitting on a nearby crate.

"I'm sorry," Bryn said, sincere, the tip of his blunt sword lowering. "I can show you again?"

"I don't think it'll be any different than the last five times," Robin said. He glanced over to where Steve stood, arms folded as he observed. "You're sure I need to learn the sword?"

Around them, men hurried this way and that, racing the setting sun to get as much of the camp set up as possible. Soldiers and supplies continued to march in, and the camp slowly grew, stretching out over a row of fields by the road.

"I don't think the sword would suit you," Steve said. He had been watching them spar for the past twenty minutes, after he had put them both through some unarmed combat drills, and he was growing more and more sure in his judgment.

Robin blinked. "Then why have I spent the last hour getting beaten up by a ten year old?!" he asked.

"I'm almost twelve," Bryn protested quietly.

"What?" Robin squawked. "I thought you were fourteen!"

"You've spent the last twenty minutes getting beaten up by a twelve year old because you still need to learn how to defend against a sword," Steve said. "You won't always be able to shoot the enemy before they can get to you."

Robin grumbled to himself, taking up his lost weapon, preparing for another defeat.

"That's enough for today," Steve said. More of the same would just be going through the motions without learning. "Good effort. The rest of the afternoon is yours, but remember you're on wash up duty tonight."

"Right," Robin said, brightening. "Lyanna, do you want- oh."

"Sorry," Lyanna said, already holding the parchment and sketching charcoal that Steve had given her in anticipation of her own lesson. "After?"

"I'll be waiting," Robin said, goofy grin on his face.

Steve turned to Bryn, sparing the two his attention. "Did Robert give you any instructions for afterwards?" he asked the kid.

"No, Lord America," Bryn said, bowing. "And thank you for the instruction."

"Thanks for the help," Steve said. "You're welcome to hang out with Toby if he's free." The warg had drawn Keladry's ire with some mischief earlier in the day, earning a double dose of chores for the fight he had picked with a groomsman.

Bryn hesitated, wavering on the edge of accepting. Steve had noticed that the kid wasn't the most social, not spending much time with the squires close to his age. "I'm not sure," he said.

"I'll show you where he is," Robin offered, letting go of Lyanna's hand. "He should be finished peeling by now."

"Thank you," Bryn said. For all he was reluctant to be social, he never took much persuading.

Steve watched as the two kids scampered off, disappearing into the lanes and bustle of the growing camp, and turned to his next student. "To the tent, I think. We'll lose the light soon anyway. How did you do?"

"It's hard," Lyanna said as they began to walk. She held up the parchment she had been working on for his judgment, sketched as she observed the training.

Two figures were on it, lacking in detail but clearly in motion, the smaller disarming the larger. It was blunt, and the figures had a stiffness to them, but he could see the improvement. "You're getting better," Steve said, approving.

"Thank you," Lyanna said, a small smile on her face and an extra bounce in her step as they walked, servants and soldiers slipping out of their path. "It's still nothing like yours though."

"I've had a lot longer to practice," Steve said. "And that's all it is, practice."

Lyanna made a noise of agreement that said she didn't agree at all.

"You'll see," Steve said, holding back a laugh.

It didn't take them long to reach the tent that he had picked up so long ago in King's Landing. Since joining the army, they had picked up more than the small, easily packed away furniture they had to use during the raid - Walt had appeared with a larger table for the main room one day, offering no explanations - and the two of them settled into the main room of the tent after Steve had ducked into his own to pick up his own materials.

"What are we doing today?" Lyanna asked, sitting on the edge of her chair. She held her stylus poised above the parchment, a fresh piece of charcoal on the end ready to go.

"I think we'll work on expressions," Steve said. "Pick someone you know, and do some quick sketches of three different emotions."

Brown hair was twisted around a finger as she thought, before a little grin appeared, and she leaned forward, quick strokes building the frame of someone's face.

Steve left her to it, taking up his own stylus and fitting a new piece of charcoal to it. The response to his little drawing of Aerys the Donkey the night before had buoyed him, and he had an urge to create. A twist on an old classic occurred to him, and he smirked as he began to draw.

For a time, there was only the scratch of art in progress. A servant brought a jug of very watered down wine and a platter of food, care of Naerys, and they grazed as they continued to draw, too absorbed to talk. The sun continued to set, an orange glow against the tent wall, and Naerys passed through, bringing with her an oil lamp, though she didn't linger, retrieving something from her room and heading back out, purpose in her step. She slowed only enough to trail her hand across Steve's shoulders as she left. He watched as she left, admiring the fine make of her pants, only to be caught in the act by a knowing glance over her shoulder.

"Naerys said my numbers are doing well," Lyanna said, breaking the silence. She didn't look up from her work.

"I know," Steve said, finishing the outline of the last animal. He added some shading to the table they were arrayed around.

"Huh?" Lyanna said.

He looked up at his student. "You don't think Naerys hasn't been telling me how well you're doing? She keeps me in the loop for all three of you." Between himself, Naerys, and Keladry, the kids might even have something approaching a rounded education.

"I thought, I mean, yeah," Lyanna said. She pressed too hard on her next stroke, making a darker line than intended.

"You've almost sped through everything her father's maester taught her, too," Steve said.

"Oh," Lyanna said, disappointment obvious in her sagging shoulders.

"Don't worry, I've been sharing some things I've been taught," he said. "You've got plenty left to learn."

"Oh!" Lyanna said, perking up.

"Good to see you're still enjoying it," he said. Half his attention was on his work, trying to figure out how a stag would hold a hand of cards.

"I like to count my pay," she said, like she was confessing some great secret. "And work out how much I'd have in the time it takes to travel somewhere."

"I did the same," Steve said. "Whenever I managed to sell a piece of art or get a commission, I'd work out how many more I'd need for this real nice set of paints and brushes this store in my neighbourhood had in their window."

"How long did it take?" Lyanna asked.

"You know, I never did," Steve said, stylus pausing for a moment as he remembered. "Things got in the way." A fancy brush kit seemed less important when he was trying to make sure the next enlistment centre didn't have any staff from the last one.

"But you have a nice set now, right?" Lyanna said, looking up. It seemed important to her. "It just took a while longer."

"I guess you're right," Steve said. "Just took a while…" He found his thoughts straying, thinking of things he had wanted and lost only to have fall into his path in this new world.

"Do you think you'll do another painting soon?" Lyanna asked, oblivious to his thoughts.

"I might," Steve said. The battle had given him thoughts on something worth painting. "I've only got enough paint left for one good one, and I don't like my chances of getting more in a hurry."

"I heard Lady Whent talking about the Essosi styles once," Lyanna said, nibbling on the end of her stylus. "Old and New Valyrian, the City styles, and she said Braavos had too many to keep track of, but - what do you call yours?"

Steve glanced down at his work in progress. "In general, or my painting? Because this is just a quick doodle, borrowing from a few styles." He added a dash of impotent rage to the lizard's expression.

"Your painting style," Lyanna said. "It's so real." She sounded wistful.

"Realism?" Steve said, shrugging. Not that it was what the snobs back home would call it, but close enough. It was closer to that than to any of the styles he'd seen in the few castles he'd passed through. "It's influenced by a few styles, but Realism is close enough."

"Realism," Lyanna said to herself. "And, will I…?"

"Yeah, I'll teach you that too," Steve said. "That's what this is, really. Giving you the basics to get to that point."

She smiled, almost bouncing with happiness.

"Now, show me what you've got so far," he said, setting down his stylus.

Lyanna hurriedly finished the bit she was working on, and slid the parchment over to him, trying and failing to hold back a smirk. Steve saw what she had done, and sighed.

His own face looked out at him in triplicate, basic and unfinished, but clearly him. He looked over at her, deadpan, but that only made her smirk grow, and he shook his head. It didn't help that one of the expressions she had chosen was that same look of blank doneness. Another was a normal smile, and the last he was pretty sure was one of annoyance he had pulled earlier in the day when some noble had tried to order Betty and her girls around on some task halfway across camp.

"This is good," Steve said. "You're showing some real progress."

"Thank you," Lyanna said, smirk returning to a look of happiness. Then she glanced down at Steve's own work, and she sighed. "Another year and I might be half as good as you."

"Don't judge yourself against someone with thousands of hours of practice except as a goal," Steve said.

"Yes Steve," she said, teenager voice in full effect. "I did three faces in the time it took you to do half the Great Houses sitting at a table playing-" she squinted at the sketch "-playing what?"

"Cards. Poker," Steve said, handing her work back. "I'd make up a set and teach you all, but Keladry would clean us out in a night."

"It's a gambling game? Like dice?" Lyanna asked, suddenly interested, almost discarding her parchment.

"Yeah, but with less luck involved," Steve said, taking up his stylus again.

Naked interest played out across Lyanna's face. "What would it take to make a set of cards?"

Steve stopped, considering. Did he want to give Lyanna the tools she needed to fleece unsuspecting marks?

Yes, yes he did. She had the smarts not to go overboard, and it would be hilarious. Even so, he was nominally the responsible one here, and she was under his care.

"Naerys is teaching you how to work out what supplies the company needs based on its planned path, right?" Steve asked.

"Yes?" Lyanna said.

"Once you can plan out a month without errors, I'll give you a deck of cards and teach you how to play," he promised. "Just be smart about it. Soldiers aren't going to be happy about being taken for all they're worth."

Lyanna scoffed. "'M not going to waste my time with soldiers," she said. "Nobles are where the coin is at, and it's not even real money to them."

Steve began to reconsider the wisdom of his decision.

"Thanks Steve! I'm going to go practise my numbers," Lyanna said, sliding out of her chair as she gathered up her art materials. She gave a quick curtsey, and then she was gone, the tent flap left aflutter in her wake.

"Well," Steve said to himself. He glanced at the lamp, and the shadows it cast around the tent. At least he could distract himself with a raid on the Reach camp.

X x X

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."

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.