A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

by WiseTomato

The Infinity Stones are not to be wielded lightly, as Steve Rogers discovers when he washes up on the shores of Westeros. In a world of swords and spears, what difference can one shield make?

35. The Battle of Mastford Bridge 1

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."

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.

X x X

"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.

X

Wariness and confusion flickered through the front ranks of the Reach soldiers as they watched the man who could only be Lord America approach, alone but for his white horse and his proud banner. Again they waited outside of bowshot, but they could see the Stormland army across the river, the foe waiting but showing no concern that such a formidable knight was so exposed. He came to a stop closer than some men were comfortable with, but most knew better - it was clear that the tales of the defeated at the Battle at Blueburn were exaggerated, no matter the stature of the man. They readied themselves for whatever he could possibly want, spears gripped tight.

Steve inspected the men before him, keeping an easy smile on his face as he read the thoughts and worries and reassurances worn plainly. He said nothing, letting his presence speak for itself as the moments ticked by. Someone coughed, and he could see necks craning to get a look at him from further down the line. Finally, at length, he swung himself free of Fury and dismounted. His banner was driven into the ground, standing defiant before an army of thousands. He took his horn from where it dangled at his hip, drew a breath, and blew.

The mournful note had not yet faded before he started to receive disgruntled and upset looks, the Reachmen well familiar with the sound from the night before. When it did fade, he spoke. "I'm here to beat down anyone who doesn't lack the balls to face me, man to man," Steve said. "Any takers?"

Incredulous silence answered him.

"Come on now," Steve said, crossing his arms. "I don't expect Peake to have the courage to come out without being forced to, but there must be a few in this army that are here to do more than sightsee."

Glances were exchanged, not a man seeming to know how to deal with the situation. But then, it probably wasn't every day they found themselves faced with such a thing.

Slowly, Steve began to tap a finger against his arm, the tink of metal on metal loud even against the shifting and murmuring of the ranks of men he stood before. Each tink seemed to press on them more and more, or perhaps it was the slowly fading smile on Steve's face as he feigned a steadily building annoyance.

"I will face you!"

There was a waver in the words at the start, but it grew stronger by the end, and then a man was nudging his way through the ranks, much-repaired plate armour marking him apart from the typical troops around him in their more piecemeal gear, for all that their red and gold surcoats lent an air of uniformity.

Steve looked over the one to step forward as he came to a stop between him and the front ranks. Worried brown eyes looked up at him from under the raised visor of his sallet helm, though he was determined still. The helm itself was as well used as the rest of his armour, and the shield he bore on his right arm had a yellow apple on it.

"What's your name, Ser?" Steve asked.

"I'm just Harold. No ser," the man said, a swallow noticeable even beneath his chain gorget. "Wasn't knighted before my master passed."

"Well Harold, you've shown the courage of a knight if nothing else," Steve said. At the back of the block of men he had come from, someone finally hustled off, hopefully carrying a message to someone in charge. He was starting to feel a touch of real annoyance that none of the actual nobles had stepped up.

Harold didn't answer, only flicking his visor down and pulling a war pick free from the loop of leather it sat in at his left hip. Nervous tension was clear in his shoulders as he set himself as if preparing to receive a charge.

A weapon was hardly needed, certainly not when his own shield already rested on his arm, but Steve wasn't about to shame the man who had stepped forward when no one else had. He pulled his hammer free from its harness on his back, and gave it a spin. The air thrummed with its passing, and the nearby men still standing in ranks looked to Harold as one, visibly pitying him.

With a yell, Harold rushed forward, pick raised high, and Steve was struck by how young he was - he couldn't yet be out of his teens, certainly younger than Keladry. The super soldier turned side on as the pick came down and it met only air. The brave young squire did not let that stop him, lashing out with his shield in an attempt to foul any return blow Steve might be readying.

The shield bash found only another shield, and there was a tinny ring as steel boss met vibranium. Harold had time to peer through his visor, eyes widening at the complete lack of give to his blow, before Steve responded in kind.

Harold was sent flying, hurled back towards the line. He landed heavily and skidded to a stop on the grass before them, shield splintered and body still. A moment later, he groaned.

"Good fight," Steve said, setting his unused hammer back in its harness. Fury chewed loudly on the grass behind him. "Who's next?"

The ranks didn't come close to shrinking back, but there was a distinct lack of eye contact to be had. Thankfully for Steve's patience and the Reachmen's nerves, the thud of approaching hoofbeats heralded the arrival of the ones who should have been responding to his challenge all along.

Peake was not amongst them, living down to Steve's expectations. He was still disappointed, but the small group of knights and nobles would serve his purposes well enough. He recognised none of them, but the foremost among them was preceded by a banner that bore a red apple on gold. Steve glanced from it to the surcoats worn by the troops, two of whom were even then helping Harold to his feet. Someone of stature then. He'd do.

The group rode along the front ranks until they neared, having reached the front after filtering through the gaps between blocks of men, and they stopped, dismounting a short distance away. They made the final approach on foot, and it had the air of some bit of manners about it.

"Lord America," the leader of the group called out, light brown hair bouncing as he stepped forward eagerly, helm tucked under one arm. "Even if not for your banner, I would know you by your shield work."

"That so," Steve said, eyeing the man. He wore fine plate, unmarred by battle, but he still wore it easily, and the sword at his hip had a hilt that saw much use. Something about his fair face was familiar, though stubble hid the lines of his cheeks, and there were faint lines about his eyes.

"My sons fell afoul of it at Harrenhal," the man said. "I must admit to thinking poorly of them at first, for falling to an unknighted foe, but I was quickly corrected." He laughed, like they were on that same tourney field and not the field of battle, and his good mood was mirrored by smiles from the men with him.

"Owen and Raymun Fossoway," Steve said, realising where the familiarity came from even as he held back a frown. "They were skilled riders. Polite, too."

"You remember them," the man said, seeming pleased. "I am Lord Taron Fossoway." He affected a slight bow.

"Steve Rogers, Lord America," Steve said, but that was the limit of the pleasantries he was willing to engage with. "I'm here to beat down any man who faces me until Peake stops being such a coward."

The abrupt change in tone stymied Taron, but only for a moment. "Yes, well…there was some disagreement over the merit of your challenge, but it is my men you have presented yourself to, and it is I who will decide how to respond to such a thing - though I see one of my good men has already risen to the occasion."

They glanced over at where Harold was being helped away, still groggy and in no state to be standing in formation.

"He was brave," Steve said. "Stepped up as a knight should, even if he was only ever a squire."

"I see," Taron said. He glanced over his shoulder, and a man who looked to be a relative lifted one shoulder in a shrug, shaking his head slightly. "I will speak with him after, to get his measure."

Steve only nodded, and began to tap a finger on his arm again. Some of the men standing in ranks winced.

"But first we must answer your challenge," Taron said, his smile taking on a sharper edge now. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "I w-"

"Brother, let me," another man said, stepping forward. Again he had the Fossoway look, but he was a shorter man, stockier, and he wore similarly fine plate. It stood out in contrast to the armour the men in ranks wore.

Taron sighed, but it was a put upon thing. "Mother was right to say I spoil you, Edgar," he said, and he stepped aside.

"Tales are told of your prowess, Lord America!" Edgar said as he advanced, even as the rest of his fellows stepped back. He pulled his visor down, keeping eye contact through the grill, and readied his mace. "But you have not fa-"

Steve stepped forward without bothering to draw his hammer, grabbing Edgar's weapon hand before he could do more than begin his attack. He headbutted the knight in the face, crumpling the thinner visor, and then he threw the man into the air by his arm - not far, only a foot or two, but with the blow to the face it was enough to leave him reeling and unbalanced, and he came down heavily, landing with a clatter of steel. Before he could do more than try to regain his bearings, Steve put his boot on his chest.

"Yield?" the super soldier asked.

"Yield," the knight said, confusion underneath the pain in his voice.

Steve took his boot off his chest, and looked to the rest. They were not smiling now, shock and befuddlement replacing humour. "Who's next?" he asked again.

There was a moment of silence before Taron mustered a response, glancing quickly at his soldiers, silent witnesses to it all. "Perhaps I should have been praising my sons from the start," he said, managing a brief smile.

An incline of Steve's head was his only answer, no words coming, only a silent expectation for the next challenger to step forward.

Another knight did once the first was helped up and away, but he was dispatched just as quickly as Edgar, charging forward like a bull only to be clotheslined and dumped on his back. The next managed a short exchange of blows, cautious and keeping his distance, but he too fell when Steve booted him square in the chest and sent him flying. Another did away with his shield in hopes of outpacing him, only to discover that Steve was no slow brute when he was punched three times in half a second, crumpling plate and leaving him struggling to breathe.

Throughout it all, the men nearby watched, steadily more agog at the scene playing out before them. They watched as knights they had seen trounce bandits were trounced the same in turn, as their overlords were dismissed as threats and smacked around like unruly children. Finally only Taron was left, his sworn knights spread about them in various states of pain and disarray, each having stepped forward before he had the chance.

"What are - I have never…" he said, struggling to comprehend what he had seen. "When word spread that you defeated Ser Barristan in a single blow, we thought it rumour, boasts."

Steve had little interest in discussing the particulars of his second duel with Barristan then and there. "Are you ready?" he asked instead.

Taron gathered himself. "I am," he said, drawing his sword and setting his stance. "But first - why?" He didn't need to explain.

"If Peake is going to be a bitch about things," Steve said, making no attempt to keep his words from the spectators, "I'm going to make sure everyone knows it. At least the Fossoways had the balls to step forward."

Realisation dawned on Taron's face, and he glanced to his men, grimacing as he realised Steve's ploy. Leading an army was problematic when the common soldiery thought their general to be a coward. "Well played, Lord America."

Lord Fossoway lasted no longer than his men, though Steve took pity on him and let him land a blow on his shield before dispatching him in the same way he had his son, knocking him from his feet and breaking at least one bone with a shield bash.

Steve lowered his shield and looked around. Some knights were in better condition than others, but none would find it easy to remove themselves from the field. "You there," he said, pointing at a man in the front rank. The man froze, looking from Steve to the fallen knights and back. "Help these men to their horses."

A look of relief crossed the man's face, and he went about it, working with the less battered knights to get the rest up and moving. None were crippled or even severely wounded, but no man could be manhandled by a super soldier and walk it off easily.

For a moment, the Reachmen hoped that perhaps it was over, but then they watched as the fearsome foreign lord with the strength of ten men only returned to his planted banner, showing every intention of waiting for more challengers. They could only avoid eye contact, and hope that his challenge was answered quickly.

Their hopes were not answered, and soon the impatient tapping began once more. Five minutes passed, then ten, twenty - still there was no response to the silent challenge of his presence. The tapping continued throughout, never speeding or slowing, for all that Lord America's face was slowly overtaken by a frown.

Finally, at length, Lord America shifted, the tapping suddenly stopping. "Funny, isn't it," he remarked, in a tone that said it was anything but, "how Peake expects you all to fight and die for him, but he won't even step up when challenged man to man."

The men of the Reach were left to consider those parting words as the blond giant took up his banner and mounted his white horse, ambling casually back towards his own lines. He was a small figure at the bridge by the time more Reach knights arrived in belated answer to his challenge. Whether it was due to fear, or that word had been slow to be passed, none could say, nor did it matter - the damage had already been done. Lord America, the man who had raided deep into the Reach and insulted Lord Peake with apparent impunity, had come and gone, and his words would spread amongst the men quickly.

It was a poor day for Lord Peake's reputation, but the next would be even poorer.

X

That night, men lay in wait around the Reach camp, hiding in the dark as they sought to ambush the scoundrel that had so disturbed their sleep the night prior. They would wait in vain, as their target slipped by them without a sound, tired men relying on the light of the moon little threat compared to cameras and thermal vision.

Even in the camp few saw him, and those that did paid him no mind, clearly just another weary sentry seeking his bed, or a servant carrying a message, or a quartermaster's assistant holding a report. The slips of parchment he left about the place seemed unobtrusive things, but they would certainly cause a stir when discovered and inspected under the light of day, mirthful and wrathful both. Lord America was already a target of Lord Peake's ire, but whoever this 'Hood' was would earn their own measure of it too.

When it came time for him to leave, he did not do so empty handed, a thick bundle of cloth under his arm. Those who noticed the bare banner pole by Peake's tent would only assume a servant had taken it down for cleaning, or something similar - until they were corrected by the sight that awaited them at the river the next morning.

X

"There once was a lord from the Reach
Who thought he was quite the peach
His name was Luke
His face made men puke
And the ladies all shudder and screech!"

Lord America's martial prowess was well known, for all that it surely grew in the telling. His strategic daring had spread amongst the Reachmen, spurred on by accounts of those who had witnessed his raiding. His personal skill was likewise well known, retold by those lucky enough to be at Harrenhal or blessed enough to survive his passing at the Battle at Blueburn. Even lords of good stature were speaking of it, though of course they exaggerated his ability to ease the sting of defeat before their men.

"Brave Ser Peak he held the line
As manly courage, they did malign
He has no fear
Not at the rear
Where he can see the battle just fine!"

What was becoming equally well known of him, however, was his sheer cheek.

"I know a man named Peake
He lusts after horse and sheep
A chase through the grass
To claim hairy ass
Til they turn and he lets out a shriek!"

The gathered Reach army looked on as the man paraded before them, as if he had not a care in the world. Such a man certainly felt no fear, not with thousands of foes before him and his allies too far away across the river to respond should they take offence to what he was doing. And there were some who did, for his words were only half of the insult he had dared to level. The childish rhymes some might have found it in them to ignore as below their dignity to notice, but the banner? The banner was too much.

Once proudly displayed in the heart of the Reach camp, now it fluttered over Lord America's shoulder, trailing behind him. The cloth banner was made of finer materials than some lesser lords would wear, and the dyes came all the way from Tyrosh, but that only made the sight of it dragging in the dirt more painful for certain spectators.

Up and down the Reach line Lord America trotted along, his full voice ensuring that his rhymes were heard by many, and those too far back to hear clearly would have them ferried back in chortling whispers, the common men unable to pretend a lack of amusement. They were the sort of thing that a fool or a child would think up as a taunt, but that didn't make them any easier to bear. It only made them worse.

It was a very silent party that watched the field from a nearby vantage point, though each man's reasons for being so varied. Some were mortified, some furious, some just trying not to draw the notice of the party leader. Some few were amused, though they kept it to themselves. At the head of the group, Lord Peake gripped his reins tight, lips pressed together in a thin line. Even removed from the spectacle, he could make out the insolent foreigner's taunts faintly.

They watched as the would-be knight stopped, for what reason they could not divine. Then he let the stolen banner fall, and it became clear. The tail of his mount rose, and someone choked as it loosed its bowels all over the once proud symbol of House Peake's status. A piercing whinny rose up mockingly after it was done, and then Lord America was trotting away, heading back for his own line.

Noble men looked to the man who had been granted command over their host, expectant and waiting. Fewer than half of them owed him any fealty, and their clear interest was perhaps less than benevolent.

He did not speak, but something creaked in Lord Peake's gauntlet as his grip tightened even further.

X

Steve wore a faint smile as he cantered across the bridge, Fury's hoofbeats filling the cool morning air. Near the middle a dozen knights stood guard, just short of the span replaced by wood, but they stepped aside as he approached, all grinning and smirking like schoolboys. He gave them a nod in turn, and then he was past them, approaching the small party waiting for him on the north bank. Naerys was amongst them, drawing his eye, and she was inspecting him for any injury. He quirked an eye at her, wishing they were alone so she could do more than just a sight check. She must have recognised the look in his eye, because she quirked an eye in turn.

"Well?" Robert demanded, thumb drumming a beat on his thigh, the small moment enough to see his patience run dry. He stood at the head of the group, a mix of lords and Steve's own companions. "How went it?" For all that he was comparable in stature to Steve, sometimes his enthusiasm reminded people that he had only barely escaped his teens.

"I think I've well and truly introduced the limerick to Westeros," Steve said, dismounting, and rubbing Fury behind the ears as he went. "It should catch on."

Robert rolled his eyes, knowing well that Steve was deliberately misunderstanding him. "How did Peake react? Did you see him?" The other lords, mostly middling nobles that Robert got on well with personally, were almost leaning past him with eager impatience.

"He wasn't particularly happy," Steve said, handing Fury's reins off to Robin as he came forward, the squire whisking his mount away to be seen to. "I've seen charging bulls more sanguine than he was." Even as far away as he was, the expression on his face had been easy to read.

"How did he react to the sheepfucking one?" Robert asked. That particular limerick had been born of a meeting that grew into social drinking, as most planning sessions involving the lords tended to.

"I think if we had the time, we could probably kill him via stroke if we kept at it," Steve said.

"Heh," Robert said, but then his amusement faded. Time was not their ally in this, and they knew it. "If he doesn't attack tomorrow, he never will."

"From what I know of him, he will," Steve said. A smart commander would have ignored the taunts, would have placed the good of the war effort above his ego, but this was Westeros, not Earth. If Peake did not attack, his reputation would never recover, and he would be followed by the same taunts for the rest of his life. "I insulted him before his lords, made his soldiers think he feared to face me, and disrespected his banner. If he doesn't attack, that army will have a new leader within days."

"You think they'd go so far?" Silveraxe Fell asked, standing to Robert's side. He was frowning, but not in disagreement.

"They're not loyal to Peake the way you all are to Robert," Steve said. "He's a peer for some, not a superior."

"Half of them think they ought to have been given the Reach instead of the Tyrells," another lord opined. "They lack the blood of kings in their leaders that we have."

"Their loss," Robert said, cocky, and there was laughter from his lords. His gaze went beyond their talk, over the river and towards the enemy, glancing up at the sun. The day was yet young. "Rotate the men. If Peake finds his balls, I want them fresh." There was some quick talk amongst the lords, discussing details and the likelihood of an imminent attack.

Personally, Steve reckoned that the attack would come the next day, once Peake had time to boil over or be prodded into action by his fellows, but keeping the men fresh was still wise. Even just standing at the ready was tiring, especially in armour, surcoats to shield the metal from the sun or not. At least the bizarre seasons had not long left winter behind.

When Robert finished with his men and they were going off on their tasks, he turned to Steve again. Naerys had stepped up to his side to ghost her shoulder against his, and with Bryn now visible in Robert's shadow in the absence of the group, it was just the four of them. The nearest blocks of men ready to hold the river were out of casual earshot.

"Are you going out again tonight?" Robert asked him.

"I think I'll stay on this side of the river, where it's safe," Steve joked.

Robert grunted. "Good. Let them stew in it."

After the previous two nights, they'd likely be more paranoid about finding no trace of him than if he'd pulled some more mischief. "That's the plan."

"You…I find myself owing you more and more," Robert said, the big man shifting his shoulders, grimacing awkwardly. "This goading would not have worked so well from a Stormlander."

"I'm not here to profit," Steve said, glancing at Naerys. She gave him a reassuring nod. "I see the games of influence your lords play, but I want no part of it."

"Aye, but it is ill to let de- favours go unreturned," Robert said, his grimace deepening. This was not a field in which he was comfortable. "I have been counselled that I should repay you, before they grow too heavy, or reflect on me."

"Samuel is a good advisor," Steve said, taking a stab in the dark.

Robert snorted. "He is. I've needed his advice and experience here, but he has told me plainly what he needs of me in turn. His granddau-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "I can't grant you greater privileges, or a sinecure to family, but you perform deeds that would see my loyal lords rewarded greatly, asking for nothing in turn, and my lords notice."

"Cafferen," Steve said, a note of aggravation in his voice.

"That's part of it," Robert said, nodding. "Some are envious, others don't like that you seem to be gathering favour, some just don't like that you're foreign." He glanced at Naerys. "Then there are some that take offence to your woman going about armed and armoured, or-"

"If they have a problem with that they can stand up and be heard," Steve said flatly.

"I know," Robert said, raising a hand to placate him. Behind him, his squire shifted. "I don't - I hate this part of it," he said, sighing. "Give me a good battle any day."

It was something Steve had noticed of the Stormlord. For all that he was charismatic and boisterous, he had a distaste for the subtler and underhanded side of ruling. "Samuel put you up to this too, didn't he."

Robert let out another gusty sigh. "Aye. As if we don't have more important business to see to."

"These things matter," Steve said, his mind far away. He had felt the same way for a long time, content to busy himself with Strike, but that just left him reliant on others to fight those battles. That was how you had agreements - accords - forced on you.

The look on Robert's face said he disagreed, but he didn't voice his thoughts. "Think on it," he said. "If you can ask for something and I can reward you, maybe everyone will calm down."

Steve found himself sharing a look with Naerys, their thoughts clearly aligning. Robert was young though. He would learn that there was no ignoring politics. "I'll do that," Steve said.

"Good," Robert said, already turning away, as if fleeing the topic. "Come on squire, I want to see that footwork I showed you."

Steve watched them go, but felt his lips pursing as he came to realise that he had been guilty of the same avoidance that the Stormlord was. He had seen the unhappiness of certain lords and machinations playing out, but he had done the minimum to blunt them. A sigh escaped him. He really did not want to get involved in them more than he already was.

"Such a burden, to be owed by a Lord Paramount," Naerys said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. There were far too many potential eyes on them for anything more.

"It's not easy, but someone has to do it," Steve said, playing along. His armour prevented him from feeling the warmth of her hand, so he shook off a gauntlet and threaded his fingers through hers instead, squeezing gently.

She returned it, smiling, but then her mien grew serious. "There is another reason for lords to be unhappy with you, Steve," she said, looking him in the eye. "There are those that don't like that you expect them to live up to their oaths, but what they hate most is that you can force consequences on them should they not. Those are the ones most dangerous, not the lords jealous of Robert's attention or who look down on anyone not born in the Stormlands."

Steve felt his jaw set, mulish. "They can hate it all they like. They don't have a choice in the matter."

Naerys bit her lip, eyes darkening as she looked up at him. "There is not a man in this army or that who can best you, but some are foolish enough to try."

"Let them," Steve said. He felt something savage twist in his heart as a thought occurred to him. "Remind Lyanna, and Betty and her girls not to wander through the camp alone."

"They won't need the reminder, but I'll speak with them," Naerys said. She tugged at his arm. "Let's get you out of that armour. You deserve a rest, and a…massage."

Steve couldn't help but react, and Naerys smirked as she caught it. He allowed himself to be pulled along, both determined to take advantage of the final moment of calm, one way or another. They began to make for the camp, past the defensive lines and beyond.

The next day, the battle of Mastford Bridge would finally begin.